Nonsensical Nostalgia, part 2

… Much to my amazement and surprise, the gentleman’s club known as Dames ‘n’ Games was exactly as described by Turk: one half sports bar, one half strip club. After having our IDs checked at the front door, we made our way through the cavernous interior, lit only by orange and violet neon lights. An elevated runway stage was in the middle of the room, with two highly polished brass poles jutting up towards the ceiling, and there were enough rolling comfy chairs around the stage to host two professional football teams; several black and white lithographs of provocatively posing, semi-nude women were posted around the main room.

            The second half of the club, however, was a stark counterpart. A long, onyx-polymer bar top ran the length of the room with corresponding stools perched before it. After the bar, there were three rows of countertops and seats, all facing towards the bar. Ten enormous flat screen televisions were hung around the bar, offering a view of sports from anywhere in the room. The only way you could tell you weren’t in a traditional sports bar was the DJ/MC calling the dancers up to the stage.

            As Turk and I walked towards the bar, we were surprised to find the stage area empty. Sure, it might have been early on a Saturday afternoon… but still. Once in the bar section, the scene became even weirder: there were about a dozen other patrons, split up into small groups of twos and threes, spread around the room. Each one of these packs were accompanied by a pair of dancers, scantily clad and beyond conversational. From the look of familiarity between patrons and professionals… most of these guys were regular customers.

            I lead the way to the bar with Turk in tow, his attention clearly elsewhere. The bartender, a short blonde-haired woman with an exasperated disposition, looked up at us, turning her attention away from a copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast.

            “Afternoon fellas,” she said nonchalantly, her eyes seeming somewhat tired. “Welcome to Dames and Games. What can I get for you?”

            “I’ll take a Bud,” said Turk as he meticulously surveyed the room.

            “Could I get a Corona,” I said.

            “Bud and Corona,” the bartender parroted. “Just so you know, we actually have a special going on right now. It’s a burger and a small beer for $3.”

            “Damn,” I replied. “That’s not bad. In fact, I’ll take one of those.”

            “Alright. That’ll be out in a few minutes, and I’ll be right back with your beers.”

            “What do you mean right back,” Turk asked, actually looking at the bartender for the first time. “This is the bar, right?”

            “Yes, this is the main bar,” she retorted, “but our keg tap is at the smaller bar in the other room.”

            “That seems horribly inefficient,” I chimed.

            “Oh… I am well aware.” The bartender slung a dishtowel over her shoulder and rolled her eyes as she walked out from behind the bar. “You guys can take a seat… I’ll bring your beers right over.”

            “Thanks,” I tried to say but it fell on deaf ears as she walked away.

            “Cheerful gal,” Turk murmured as we found a seat at the end of the bar; I chose the spot in order to watch the Harvard game.

            “Can you blame her? This place is like an even more sordid Buffalo Wild Wings that reeks of brass polish and sweat. And that’s not even taking the clientele into account.”

            “It’s not that bad,” replied Turk. “However, I gotta say bro… I’m surprised you’re eating food at a strip club.”

            “Two points: first, I’m in the sports bar side. Second, it’s a burger… so it’s not that easy to completely fail. And I’m starving, damn it. I’m not used to just sitting around drinking all day anymore.”

            “That sucks, bro. Honestly, you seem like you don’t have as much fun anymore Strat.”

            “I have plenty of fun,” I countered. “But guess what… sitting around boozing can only do so much. These days I’d rather actually do something instead of just wasting time.”

            “Jesus Christ. When did you become such a prude?”

            “I’m at a strip club in the middle of the day waiting for a beer. How is that the behavior of a prude?”

            “Eh,” Turk grunted, turning his attention back to the strippers, “it’s still up in the air.”

           

            An hour later, I found myself sitting alone at the bar watching college football. The minute my food had arrived, Turk sprinted into the other room, taking a seat in front of the stage. He had started talking to a group of rowdy Texans who had sat nearby. Within a matter of minutes, he had joined their group… downing drinks faster than a brick sinks.

            Frustrated and, admittedly, annoyed, I had opened my notebook and was doing a bit of work when I noticed someone take a seat right next to me at the bar. I found this a bit perplexing as there were plenty of open spots available and yet this stranger had to crowd my space. I glowered at him from the corner of my eye for a moment before finishing my beer and going back to writing.

            “You believe this shit? Goddamn UCLA is screwin’ me over again!” The stranger nudged my arm then motioned up at one of the tv screens. I looked up, gunpowder and battery acid coursing through my veins, and surveyed him. He was a lean, gangly fellow with long, dark brown hair and a matching beard. He was wearing a pair of knock off Ray Bans, white Tommy Bahama shorts, and a lime green tank top; a pair of dilapidated flip-flops dangled off his feet. I was furious and was about to explode when the bartender came by.

            “Need another,” she asked, more cheerfully than earlier.

            “Sure,” I grumbled.

            “Corona, right?” I nodded affirmative. She then turned her attention to my intrusive neighbor. “Hey Patrick! What are you doing in today?”

            “What else do I have to do?”

“How are you, sweetie?”

            “You know me Lisa,” he replied with a lackluster shrug. “Everything’s always pretty groovy. Just livin’ life, you know?”

            “Honestly I’m not too sure. What are you drinking today?”

            “Just pour me a cold one,” he replied. “And throw this guy’s beer on my tab. I think I disturbed him and ought to make amends!”

            “Sure thing,” the bartender Lisa replied with a smile as she headed towards the poorly placed beer tap.

            “Thanks,” I apprehensively said. “But it’s not necessary.”

            “Hey man… I know I bumped your arm and I noticed the look I got for it. So this is my peace offering.”

            “You noticed that, huh?”

            “It was actually pretty hard to miss,” the guy replied with a chuckle. “But I dig it. I tend to bother folks involuntarily so I try to make up for it as much as I can.”

            “Honestly,” I said, leaning back in my chair and backing up at an angle, “it really wasn’t that big of a deal. I was just sort of in a rhythm with something so losing focus annoyed me. And frankly, I don’t even want to be here right now.”

            “Then how come you’re here?”

            “Because an old friend showed up abruptly and conned me into joining him.”

            “Hmmm,” the guy mused, pulling at his beard theatrically. “There are worse places a friend could take you, that’s for sure. But I guess you don’t seem the type to be at a strip club in the middle of the day. What with the writing in a notebook and all… plus your general isolation from everyone else.”

            “I guess so. But anyways, thanks for the beer but don’t worry about it.”

            “Come on, man… lighten up. It’s not gonna cost a thing.”

            “How’s that? Do you work here or something?”

            “Me work here,” the guy said with a chuckle, “no no. I just live across the street and this is the closest bar to me. Nah… I’m an actor.”

            “I see,” I replied coolly. “Anything major?”

            “Not really. I’m more like a specialty actor. I’m a Jesus impersonator for film.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “A Jesus impersonator,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You know, the dude from the Bible… did miracles and shit? Water to wine and what have you?”

            “Yeah, I’m familiar with him. I guess I’m just surprised: I didn’t think there’d be much work as a Jesus impersonator.”

            “Man you’ve got no idea,” the mock messiah replied with a smile. “Sometimes its simple gigs like church plays and whatnot. But most of my work comes from crazy fundamentalists doing bible movies. Christ you should see how crazy these people are! But they have shit loads of money and pay up the wazoo, so who am I to complain?”

            The bartender returned with the beers and planted them on the counter before us, the glasses frothing and dripping with condensation. She then grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses. She filled them and handed one to Patrick the Jesus Impersonator.

            “One for this guy too,” he said with an authoritative nod. The bartender Lisa complied, pouring out another shot and sliding it down to me. She raised her glass, clinked it against ours, and downed it before heading to the other end of the bar.

            “Cheers,” I said. I threw back the contents, feeling fire and kerosene sliding down my esophagus, flooding my stomach and diffusing into my bloodstream.

            “Hey man,” Patrick murmured after taking his shot. “Mind if I ask you something?”           

            “Why not?”

            “You said you were here with your buddy, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well where is he? And how come you’re up here brooding instead of hangin’ with him?”

            “See that group by the stage,” I asked, pointed towards the other room. “He’s the guy in the Mets cap.”

            “The one doing the belly dance on the chair?”

            “Yup… that’s him.”

            “I take it the other folks ain’t with ya,” Patrick inquired.

            “Nope.”

            “Okay then. So back to my question: why are you over here?”

            “Honestly,” I said with a sigh, “we used to be friends years ago in New York. I moved out here and we lost touch. All day he’s talked about things happening back in the city which I have no frame of reference to. It’s like he’s telling me an inside joke when I’m not in on it. And I’ve also changed a lot: I’ve calmed down, whereas he seems like the same degenerate I knew in college. I think our friendship has dwindled to mere acquaintanceship at this point.”

            “Whoa… that’s a bummer, man.”

            “You can say that again.”

            “But what about your buddy? How does he feel?”           

            “He hasn’t changed a bit,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.

            “How can you be so sure,” asked Patrick. This drew my attention. “Maybe he’s just pullin’ the same old routine because he doesn’t know how to act. You’ve changed, but he probably has too. He’s probably just resorting to familiar behavior in an attempt to act like no time has passed and keep the friendship kicking.” Patrick picked up his beer and began chugging.

            “That’s a shockingly insightful bit of psychology,” I stammered, shocked by the statement. Patrick finished his beer without interruption, then slammed the glass on the bar and belched deeply.

            “Fuckin’ right, man. But unfortunately, it’s time for me to bail.”

            “More advice to distribute at another strip club,” I asked sarcastically.

            “Hell no,” he replied as he waved to the bartender. “That was my quota for the month. Nah… I’m heading home to smoke a blunt and watch Loony Toons. Lates, man.” And without a word, Patrick the Jesus Impersonator got up and sauntered off towards the exit. I was left speechless, dumbfounded by the interactions with the bizarre philosopher. The bartender approached and cleared his glass.

            “Did he forget to pay his tab,” I inquired tentatively.

            “Oh no, Patrick’s got an open-ended tab,” she replied. “I think the owner knows him or something, because no one else has that privilege. Plus he’ll most likely be back in later tonight with no memory of being here just now.” She shrugged and wandered off once again.

            “Where the hell am I,” I asked myself. I pondered the events of the past few hours for a moment, thinking about what Patrick had to say. After a moment of contemplation, I ordered two more beers and walked into the stage room. Turk was, much to my surprise, alone… the Texans nowhere to be seen.

            “What happened to your impromptu entourage,” I asked, taking a seat beside him and handing him one of the beers.
            “Oh they’re still here. Some of them are getting dances, the rest are probably out smoking. I tell ya, bro… those guys are nuts! Turns out they’re a bunch of professional rodeo clowns! You believe that shit?”

            “How does a group of Texan rodeo clowns end up at a sports bar strip club south of downtown Los Angeles?”

            “The mysteries of the universe, bro!” We both went silent as an iconic Def Leppard song began blasting from the speakers.

            “And now, fellas,” the MC announced from an unseen vantage point, “I’d like to welcome Olivia to the stage. Lovely Olivia to the stage. Guys, welcome Olivia to the stage!”

            A long-legged, voluptuous woman climbed aboard the walkway. Her raven black hair fell against her shoulders gracefully, delicately, and her coffee colored skin shimmered under the neon lights. Turk and I both froze in place, jaws agape. He looked at me after gaining composure and grinned.

            “Houston, we have lift off.”

            “Christ you’re messed up in the head, Turk.”

            “I’ll give you that one,” he chuckled dementedly, “but can you blame me? This woman is beyond gorgeous!”

            “Yeah… you’re right about that.”

            “And tell you what,” said Turk, throwing his arm around my shoulders in comradeship, “I’m buying you a dance, bro!”

            “Okay, what have you done with Turk,” I jokingly asked. “You bought breakfast, offering to pay for a lap dance? Clearly you’re a doppelganger who’s trying to execute some nefarious plan!”

            “I gotta say, Strat. Your illogical, delusional rants and conspiracy theories have been missed back east.”

            “Hopefully it won’t be too long before the prodigal son returns.”

            “We’ve all missed that, too.”

            “Missed what,” I inquired.

            “That inflated sense of importance and the absence of self-doubt, professionally at least.” Turk grinned, clearly trying to goad me into frustration. But that is a game I had long since learned to play.

            “Someone needs to come back and teach you filthy BK kids how to read.”

            “Whatever, bro.” By now, the dancer Olivia had descended from the stage and was making her way round when Turk did all but jump up and down to get her attention.

            “Hi guys,” she said, her voice mellifluous and lilting. “Welcome! My name is Olivia.”

            “Hey Olivia,” said Turk, taking her hand gently in his as if he were Don Juan. “I’m Turk, and this wretched lout here is Stratton.”

            “A pleasure,” I chirped, standing and nodding slightly. Hell, even strippers deserve chivalry!

            “A pleasure indeed,” she replied with a wink. Turning to Turk, she said, “I’m sorry Turk but I don’t see the whole wretched lout thing. Your friend seems like a proper gentleman.”

            “Ehh, that’s debatable,” I admitted. “But I try.”

            “That’s all you can do, right?”

            “Well, despite his cynical state of being,” Turk said, fishing for his wallet, “I’m buying my friend here a dance. Hopefully you can cheer him up.” He handed her two $20 bills.

            “That’s my specialty, sweetie,” replied Olivia with a wink. “Looks like you have a really nice friend here,” she said to me.

            “Looks can be deceiving,” I retorted. She smiled and took my hand, guiding me off to the nearest corner where, obscured behind a curtain, were three leather wall booths. I dropped down, tossing my notebook to my side and sighing loudly; Cherry Pie began playing.

            “Long week,” asked Olivia, her arms raised above her head and her hips gyrating like a merry-go-round.

            “I guess you could say that,” I mumbled, my head spinning in synchronicity with her pelvis. “More of a long, unexpected day.”

            “Well how bad can it possibly be,” she whispered, her full, pouting lips beside my ear, while straddling my leg.

            “Okay, not that much. Suffice it to say, I don’t know how to be friends again with a former buddy who I lost touch with.” She moved from my left leg to my right, her back now rubbing against me. “We’re both different now and it seems forced. Like we don’t get along anymore but still try to act like pals.”

            “You’re thinking about it too much,” Olivia replied nonchalantly, grinding her ass into my lap. “Of course you’ve changed: everybody does! Just stop trying to be anything. You were friends before, so you’ve got the groundwork. Now just catch up, exchange stories that neither of you will understand, and then go crazy and have fun. That way you’re not clinging to the past, because you’re causing trouble in the present!”

            “Mmmmmhmahmm… hmmmmrmrmmm,” I mumbled, mostly because my face was muffled by her breasts. Not that I was inclined to complain…

           

            “You know, I think that was really good advice,” I said to her as we walked back to the stage. Turk, now reunited with his Texan rodeo clown compatriots, was standing on his chair with a $5 bill between his teeth. A lithe, tattooed Asian woman in hot-rod red lace plucked it away and caressed his chin for a moment.

            “It’s my pleasure sweetie,” replied Olivia as she clung to my arm. It was almost a scene from a high school prom… save for her being ¾ naked and having dollar bills dangling from her G-string. “As I said, I’m all about cheering folks up!”

            “In that you were a roaring success,” I said with a grin.
            “Well, my shift is about to end, sweetie,” said Olivia. She leaned in, planted a friendly peck of a kiss on my cheek, and winked again. “Remember what I said: don’t over think it. Friends that last are hard to come by, and besides… he seems like a character.”

            “You can say that again” I replied, looking at my buddy with a mixture of amusement and constant shock. “Thanks again.”

            “Anytime, sweetie. Come back soon!” And just like that she strode off, her intoxicating legs slicing their way through the room. I stood there for a moment, a pubescent grin on my face, as I pondered the joys of the strip club: in my experience, they’ve always proven to be a combination of psychiatry, sexual frustration, and an entire culture of pure, unrepentant lunatic characters. Characters exactly like my wayward friend Turk. Despite their flaws and inadequacies and social deficiencies… they are the graceful animals that make life interesting. They are the people who jump first and then completely forget to even ask questions later… spontaneous bhikku-monks that they be. And that mindset, the unrestricted freedom and disregard for societal standards… isn’t that the life I’ve chased after for so long?

            “Hey Strat! Shake a leg!” I shook my head, trying to collect my thoughts. I then realized I’d been standing still for a few minutes, most likely a disconcerting sight to the rest of the establishment. I then looked towards the door: moving at the rear of a human herd, Turk was waving towards me. “The Texans got a party bus and we’re invited!”

            So that’s how it’s gonna go, I thought to myself. Then I realized something: maybe Olivia the stripper was right. Turk and I had been as thick as thieves in the past, and all that had really changed was the date on the calendar and my address. Screw being too mature for the idiot, I thought strongly. Time inevitably brings change, which can be a good thing. But just because we’re always moving forward… doesn’t mean we can’t look back now and then.

            “Wait up you degenerate fool,” I hollered, jogging after him and stepping out into the waking night…

Nonsensical Nostalgia, part 1

            “Well this certainly is a new one,” I said to myself.

            It was just after two on a Saturday afternoon and I found myself sitting in a plush armchair with wheels… in the darkened, neon confines of a sports themed strip club. To my right sat Turk, an old and sordid friend from my tawdry days in New York City. He was rotating his whiskey-filled rocks glass as he gazed up at a topless Aphrodite spun around a pole faster than a centrifuge. Another dancer, perfectly shaped and beyond breathless, was sitting next to Turk… caressing his forearm and engaging in trivial, scripted conversation.

            I took a sip from a beer and looked back down at my notebook. I knew that this day was going to be one worth remembering…

            It was just before 8am when I heard a pounding at my front door. Rolling out of bed, I put on my Boston Bruins pajamas and a Bruins zip up hoodie and then stumbled into the living room. The pounding on the door resumed, prompting me to grunt in frustration. My brain was still shut down and I struggled to operate the locks. I finally managed to get the door open.

“Surprise you son of a bitch,” Turk yelled, stepping forward and jabbing me in the gut. I doubled over, unprepared for my associate’s standard greeting. “Christ, bro… looks like you’ve gone soft living out here!”

            “Turk,” I said in shock, righting myself. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

            “Visiting an old friend, idiot! You used to be smart: what happened… the Cali sun fry your brain?”

            “You’ll have to forgive me, but I tend to be sluggish when I first wake up.”

            “Ehh whatever,” Turk replied. “Well, are you gonna leave me standing here or you gonna invite me in?” Without waiting for an answer Turk walked passed me, made a quick survey of the place, then went straight to the kitchen. He re-emerged with a beer in hand.

            “Just like old times,” I said. “Glad to see you’re still comfortable enough to make yourself at home.”

            “Better believe it. Nice digs you got going on here.” Turk slumped down onto the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

            “Thanks,” I said as I went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. “So, what are you doing in California, Turk?”
            “Here on business, bro.”

            “Business? Turk… last I heard you were still bartending. I fail to see how that brings you cross country.”

            “I’m not a bartender anymore you jackass,” he replied after a gluttonous gulp from his beer. “A couple of months after you left I got a job working at NBC. I’m now in production, bro. I have a meeting on Monday at the NBC offices in Burbank, but I figured I’d fly out a couple of days early and see what it’s like out here.”

            “And… how exactly did you get my address?”

            “I was talking to Cabbie a few days ago and he gave it to me. Planning on hanging out with him tomorrow.”

            “Great,” I said, barely masking my apprehension.

            “What’s crawled up your ass,” grunted Turk. He then chugged the remainder of his beer.

            “You mean aside from being woken up by a Bronx degenerate? Clearly I’m worried about the economic situation in Portugal.”

            “What?”

            “Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. “Are you looking for a place to stay, Turk?”

            “No you douche. I already told you, I’m not the same guy I used to be. I’ve got a room up at the Hotel Roosevelt. I even got my dream rental car.”

            “Oh Christ… you don’t mean…”

            “That’s right,” Turk interrupted with a deviant smile, “a white mustang convertible.”

            “Your obsession with Miami Vice never ceased to disturb, Turk.”

            “Whatever. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m freakin’ starving. How about we catch up over some breakfast? My treat?”

            “You’re offering to pay for a meal,” I gasped. “I’m in… let me get dressed.”

            Turk and I caught up over breakfast at the Griddle Café on Sunset. The crazed fiend friend of mine talked nonstop as always, recounting the anecdotes and exploits of the past two years. While he droned on about mutual friends and nocturnal misadventures, I couldn’t help but drift off into my own thoughts.

            How has it been two years since I left New York? Every day, I find myself consumed by memories of a place I once called home, a place full of animosity and camaraderie; a place of persecution and complete acceptance; a place of constant strife and endless inspiration; a place where one can feel completely alone and never without a friend simultaneously. It seems like yesterday that I moved into my first apartment in the West Village… an apartment that was home for almost five years. And yet, the longer I stay in the land of the lotus-eaters, that life seems more and more distant. It feels as if my days in New York were part of another lifetime: a raw, unrefined, exhilarating existence that was the defining period of my life.

            “Hey,” Turk barked, pounding the table, “are you listening?”

            “Not really,” I replied. I took a sip of coffee, trying to purge the evocative cobwebs of memory. “But that’s nothing new. I guess I haven’t changed much,” I said with a shrug.

            “That’s not what I hear,” Turk countered. “From everything I’ve heard from the other NY-LA folks, you’ve calmed down quite a bit. All professional these days.”

            “I guess I’ve lost my Peter Pan complex.”

            “What about writing? You still trying to be some great novelist or shit like that?”

            “In a way,” I reply while cradling my coffee cup. “I still write a lot, I still want to write for a career and hopefully for the rest of my life. The difference is I take it seriously these days. No more sitting at my typewriter all night, blasting Miles Davis, chugging whiskey, and frantically writing whatever came to mind. I’m much more organized and focused these days.”

            “Sucks bro,” Turk said abruptly. “I remember those nights. You could literally have a party goin’ on at your place and there you were… completely oblivious. It was mad funny.” He shoveled a forkful of egg into his gullet then looked up. “Frankly, that was the best part of your whole writing nonsense. How many times have I told you that books are a dead end? Nobody reads anymore, especially an actual book. Everything is digital and how many people do audio books?”

            “Aren’t you a ray of encouraging sunshine,” I retort, somewhat bitterly.

            “I’m trying to help, bro! You’re mad talented, sure. You just need to refocus your efforts.”

            “Nonetheless I’m not quite ready to throw in the towel.” I finished my coffee, wiped my face with a napkin, and leaned back. “Well, thanks for breakfast Turk. It was good catching up.”

            “Excuse me?” Turk dropped his fork loudly, giving me a less than amicable look. “What, you planning on dinin’ and dashing? That’s some fine how do you do! An old friend of yours is in town, takes you for breakfast, and you just bail?”

            “Turk… I haven’t heard a word from you in two years. Forgive me if I’m not ready to rock the town.”

            “That’ ain’t fair and you know it, Strat. You know how it is in New York: everything moves so damned fast. Once you’re outta the loop, it’s easy to fall between the cracks.”

            “How endearing,” I countered. “That’s not much more comforting to hear. I’d like to think after seven years hangin’ with the same group of people… I wouldn’t be forgotten so easily.”

            “Quit bein’ such a damned drama queen already, okay? You know that’s not what I mean. You of all people should appreciate what I mean: you were the goddamn embodiment of chaos with an excessively short-term memory.”

            “I’ll give you that one,” I concede, bobbing my head side to side. “Alright alright… I give up. I’ll show you around town: we’ll tear it up like the old days.”

            “Now that’s more like it!” Turk made a fist and pounded the table intently, drawing disdainful looks from a table of four next to us. “What are you looking at,” he growled at them; they quickly returned to their meals.

            “Before you start bustin’ skulls, why don’t you tell me what you wanna do? Do you wanna hit Venice Beach, walk around? We can drive around Beverly Hills and ridicule tourists and rich people. What do you say?”

            “To hell with the touristy shit, bro. And before we do anything, I need a damned cocktail! Someplace ritzy, with chicks in bikinis and shit. That’s what women do out here, right?”

            “I guess.” I checked my watch then thought for a moment. “It’s still a bit early, but I think I know where to head.”

            “Fuckin’ right,” chimed Turk. He paid the check and we started walking back to my apartment.

            We spent the next few hours drinking poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Being yet another beautiful day in the self-accredited Shangri LA, it wasn’t long before Turk’s request was granted: droves of glamorous, nubile women in designer swimwear and more diamonds than a conflict mine flocked to the patio to soak up the sun. The serving staff of the hotel, wearing pristine white shorts and polo shirts, moved about the pool carrying champagne flutes, pitchers of artesian water, and $40 side salads. I couldn’t help but sneer at the blatant, unrepentant decadence.

            “This is some way to live,” Turk cheerfully grunted after finishing his cocktail. “I can see why you’ve stayed out here so long.”

            “It’s not that simple,” I replied, stirring my drink with a straw. “And trust me… this is not my type of stomping ground. I prefer things a bit more… plebeian.”

            “Yeah, you’ve always had that resentment towards the social elite.”

            “It’s not resentment. I know plenty of people that come from that world. They manage to be affluent and still down to earth and genuinely fun to be around. These people are mannequins, only good for being seen. And what’s worse, they love that attention. It’s their personal methamphetamine: keeps them up while slowly corroding their interior.”

            “Wow, that’s a bleak outlook,” said Turk while flagging down the bartender for another drink. “I guess you were right about not changing that much. I forgot how much I’ve missed your aggressive cynicism.”

            “I like to think of it as playfully vitriolic satire.”

            “Whatever.” He shook his head in frustration. “Look at this. The bartender sees I’ve been waiting, and yet he serves that fat old guy with the mullet wearing the lady sunglasses.”

            “I told you… out here God is in the dollar sign and flashiness draws attention. Plus you look like you just crawled out of the goddamn subway tunnels! If you’re workin’ at NBC, why don’t you get some clean clothes?”

            “Eat it, punk. Just ‘cause I’m a workin’ man doesn’t mean I have to look like a chump.”

            “Point taken,” I agreed. I looked back towards the pool once more: lying on a chaise lounge was a young woman, no older than 25, with amber skin and midnight black hair that cascaded down her slender shoulders. In an instant I was in love, drawn to Aphrodite as she leisured languorously. I’ve always found it so easy to be captivated in a moment, only to ramble on the next.

            “Screw this place,” Turk said loudly, backhanding my arm. “I’ve got our next destination.”

            “Why do I find that disconcerting,” I asked, my attention still drawn to the sunning beauty.

            “Because you’re an ass, that’s why.”

            “True. But my hesitation lingers: how do you have a place for us to go? From what I remember, you’ve never been to Los Angeles before.”

            “Don’t worry. Cabbie told me about this place.”

            “That’s not any more reassuring, Turk. You two always brought me to the strangest places in New York so I doubt this will be much different.”

            “Chill, bro,” Turk said, hopping off his barstool and grabbing my shoulder conspiratorially.  “You’ll like this place. It’s a sports bar, after all.”

            “A sports bar? I guess it can’t be that bad.”

            Nearly an hour after leaving the Beverly Hills Hotel and an insufferable amount of traffic, we were driving east on Washington Boulevard south of Downtown; my car was the only vehicle on the street.

            “What sort of shit are you getting us into Turk,” I hissed through gritted teeth, ready to kick him out of the car.

            “It’s coming up,” he said as he looked at his smart-phone, “I swear, we’re close.”

            “I’m gonan kill you.”

            “There it is! Turn left into that parking lot.” I complied bitterly, steering into a nearly abandoned parking lot beside a two-storied beige building. The only other car in the lot was a Landrover, so I pulled up behind it. A display sign advertised valet service… but I figured it wasn’t quite necessary.

            “Where in the name of God and the ’72 B’s have you brought us,” I said as we got out of the car. Across the lot there was a set of ornately carved wooden doors with velvet ropes on each side. A large, blood red marquee was perched above the door: Dames ‘n’ Games.

            “Here we are,” Turk announced nonchalantly as he walked towards the entrance.

            “You son of a bitch,” I grumbled as I jogged after him. “This isn’t a sports bar… it’s a damned strip club!”

            “Correction. It’s a sports bar that just happens to have strippers. Or the other way around, I guess. Now shut up and let’s enjoy ourselves, bro!” Like a conquering general returning from battle, he pushed open both doors and marched into the darkness beyond.

            “I really need to get new friends…”

American Frontier

“We spend our time searching for security and hate it when we get it.”

-John Steinbeck

            For a long while now, I’ve had this burning obsession in regards to writing and the literary world in general. The ability to manipulate and remold the physical world around me is a high no drug can even compare with. But my love affair with the word goes far past the concept of intentional self-deception. This is evident by my taste in literature and, to a degree, music. I gravitate towards prolific iconoclasts such as Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas Wolfe. Pioneers not only of American literature, these cultural legends were drawn to a windward existence… always seeking the raw truth.

            This methodology and approach to life was rooted in the concept of the American Frontier. We, even as a young fledgling nation, have been emboldened by a restless spirit… constantly driven to wander and discover and explore. Our origin, as an American people, stems from the pilgrimage and exodus. The insatiable fire that burns in our collective soul has provided the spark for the creative minds to rise over the past two centuries. It was the impetus for Hemingway to trek the roads of Europe and sail the coasts of Cuba. It provided the drive for Wolfe to write one of the most explicitly American novels in Look Homeward, Angel. And it was the fevering madness that pursued Kerouac from coast to coast.

            Yet, sadly… the American Frontier is no more. The sense of adventure and exploration is not only defunct, it is openly antagonized these days in our culture. Hitchhiking is an illicit act reserved for foreigners, the impoverished, drug addicts, and serial killers. The network of cross-country buses and trains are now unaffordable for the impecunious pilgrim seeking God on the road. In essence, our entire culture has hardened and become isolated in itself, fearful of the unknown and the wild yonder.

            Sadly, I think it is an epidemic ravaging most of the world. The digital revolution might be the source. In global networking and rapidly advancing technology… the world has become a smaller place.  But that narrowing of the map means there is less room to wander. And as such, the drive to roam and wander diminishes: why drive cross country to see the American continent when Google Earth/Maps can give you any view your demented heart could ever ask for?

            As I sit here, pontificating my distaste towards the apathy-driven, slothful generation I find myself a part of… I suppose I must be, as my father always tells me, ‘intellectually honest.’ Even the greats whom I’ve mentioned previously were not the defining bastions of their generations. No, they too were social pariahs… passively ostracized by the masses for daring to seek more, to inquire continuously, and to dream. Given the choice between ridicule and a constant change of scenery… who wouldn’t journey?

            All of this, my sanctimonious little social analysis, begs a question: were the great literary figures drawn to the extraordinary life because they were artists… or were they artists because of the life? Yep… see what I did there? One of those preposterous and completely portentous questions that really can’t be answered and are only asked by the most naïve and arrogant amateurs! How disgraceful: if I had a semblance of honor left, I’d isolate myself in the mountains… forcing myself to read Jodie Picoult or Nicholas Sparks in torturous penitence. But alas, for now I’ll have to just learn to stick the ol’ rhetorical foot in the hypothetical mouth.

            Even if tritely pious, I do feel that it is a much less imaginative world these days. Of course I write this on a laptop in order to present it in an exclusively digital reality, which makes me a hypocrite. But nonetheless… in restless nights and anxiety-filled days I have discussed this with peers and compatriots. And, in the end, we tend to reach a common consensus on the matter. To chase a life like this, be it writing or painting or music or photography or any other goddamn form of art that I overlooked, one has to be mad and anxious and fearful of mediocrity and repetition. Life is but road: the ones called crazy are the only ones who sanely traverse it.

“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

-Jack Kerouac

Resume (part 3 of 3)

… I decide I’ve lingered on the couch long enough. Despite my aching head and general languor, I realize I need to get out into the world. I head into my room and grab the closest articles of clothing, opting for casual and comfort over fashion and style… a concept nearly nonexistent in the city of angels. Dressed and ready to go, I grab a couple of pens and my little black Moleskine notebook and step outside. Turn the key, lock the door, and I’m off to my car.

            Heading east on Sunset Boulevard, I find myself driving leisurely… watching the abandoned streets of early morning Los Angeles. For a city that makes claim to a nonstop lifestyle and inexhaustible culture, LA sure struggles with early hours on a weekend. But it’s really no surprise: a people as narcissistic as these denizens need their beauty sleep! Content to have the iconic road to myself, I hit play on my stereo and tap my fingers on the steering wheel along to the haunting riffs of Lightning Slim.

            I drive for about twenty minutes, the standard timeframe of driving in LA, and wind up in Los Feliz. The street is empty, abundant with parking spaces, which I give immediate thanks for. After locking my car, I quickly sprint across Vermont Avenue and approach my destination. It is a low-leveled building, oddly painted lime green and electric pumpkin orange, with circular metal tables arranged around its exterior: the marquee above the front door says ‘Fred 62’ in 1960’s-esque science fiction font. Fred 62… the best semblance of a diner in Los Angeles and a good place to lay low and recover on a Saturday morning.

            I walk in, my Converse scuffling against the black Formica floor, and I’m bombarded by the magnificent aroma of breakfast: eggs frying and scrambling, coffee slowly gathering in the percolator, bacon and sausage sizzling like an inmate in the electric chair, and toast slowly burning. Ahhh… breakfast, the best part of mornings.

            “Back again,” says a familiar waitress from behind the counter. She’s busy serving a slice of key-lime pie to an old man, just like every other Saturday I’ve been there. She is young and beautiful and still full of verve and naivety. Her flaxen hair is bundled up into an uncontrollable mass atop her head and her cobalt eyes, though still vaguely glazed over from sleep deprivation, betray an enthusiasm and cheerfulness.

            “I’m a creature of habit,” I reply with my typical mediocre shrug.

            “You don’t say,” she replies with a smile. “I’ve got some bad news for you though. Your usual booth is taken.”

            “Go figure.” I peek my head into the other room and survey my favorite booth. A couple, clearly tourists from some European destination, have set up shop in my spot. What’s worse is that they’re acting the part of clichéd tourists: the wife is holding a piece of pancake up on her fork, knife in the other hand, as she poses for a photograph. Why in the name of Bobby Orr are they taking pictures of eating, I ponder. What depraved, tyrant-controlled nation do they hail from that drives them to capture eating pancakes with a camera? Utterly baffling. I step back into the main room, shaking my head.

            “Taking pictures again,” the waitress asked, her thin eyebrows rising like question marks.

            “Yeah… shots of them eating.”

            “I guess some people want to remember every detail of their vacations.”

            “No kidding,” I ask, walking around the pie case and take a seat at the counter. As I sit, the waitress arrives with a cup of coffee and plants it down in front of me.

            “The usual,” she asks, hands on her hips and head tilted to the side.

            “You know it.”

            “Cool. Let me know if you need anything.” She smiles, genuine cheerfulness seeping from her crinkled features, before disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my hands around the ceramic mug, feeling the heat radiating from within; the bittersweet aroma is like perfume. I take a tentative sip then open my notebook to the ribbon marker: the pages are littered with ink scratches… a nearly indecipherable maze of gibberish and nonsense. I take another sip of coffee and start trying to make sense of it all…

            …”Are you sure it’s cool for us to show up,” I asked as I turned off of La Brea into some neighborhood in Mid City. Louie was in the passenger seat, pouring rum from a Bacardi hipflask into a half empty Gatorade bottle.

            “Of course,” he replied nonchalantly. “It’s a house party, and I know one of the hosts.”

            “Were you invited?”

            “Well… not exactly,” Louie replied, cocking his head. “But he told me about it. Hell, he asked me for a few numbers of mutual friends! So that’s essentially an invite.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense,” I replied wryly. “Didn’t you ever seen that episode of Seinfeld?”

            “Just saying ‘that episode of Seinfeld’ isn’t very specific, Strat. Unlike you, most people don’t have every episode memorizes and thus, can’t follow your reference.”

            “Whatever. Point is, I don’t think it’s cool to just show up unannounced. Especially toting a friend.”

            “You worry too much,” replied Louie with a grin.

            “What’s to worry about? Showing up at some random party with a psychotic Canadian who is not even invited? Yeah… perfect.”

            “Oh don’t worry. Most people there will probably be Canadian.”

            “Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to be surrounded by Montreal fans all night. Where is my incentive to even show?’

            “I don’t expect there to be many Montrealers,” Louie countered. He closed the lid of the Gatorade bottle and gave it a quick, vigorous shake. “I think most of them are from British Colombia.”

            “God help me,” I gasped as I parked the car. Across the street, a bacchanalian horde was flowing in and out of a single-story house and the uninspired, auto-tuned music of today was blasting at decibels that would have put Noreaga at a loss for words. “I’m going into a room full of Canucks fans. You goddamn sociopath. Do you know how much I hate the Canucks and, by affiliation, their belligerent fans?”

            “Yes,” Louie answered, a malevolent expression of hilarity on his face. “Should be interesting, no?”…

            …”Need a warm up?” I look up, jarred from my introspective odyssey. The waitress is standing before me, coffee pot hovering above my mug, and she’s smiling yet again.

            “Why not,” I shrug. I close my notebook and lean back.

            “Mind if I ask you a question,” she asks as she pours the dark brown elixir.

            “Shoot.”

            “What’s with the notebook? You come in pretty much the same time every weekend, sit by yourself, and have your nose buried in that little black book.”

            “True,” I reply after she goes silent.

            “So what are you doing? Are you a writer or something? Am I watching the next great American novel being written before my very eyes?”

            “Hardly,” I answer, laughing slightly. “No… this is just a way for me to keep track of things. I get distracted easily and tend to forget details, so I jot them down. That way I can look back on the past with a fair amount of ease. When I can actually read my handwriting, that is. Because when I’m out socially or such… it tends to look like chicken scratch.”

            “I guess that makes sense,” she replies. She angles her head, clearly trying to get a read on my sincerity. “Alright… you write things down to remember them. But what’s the importance of remembering? I mean, you’ll recall major events, right? What is so important about the details?”

            “For me… it’s the seemingly innocuous details that matter most,” I say. I grin, amused at my apparent sanctimony. “Everyone can give a synopsis. But to truly tell a story, you gotta include the details!”

            “So you are writing, then?” The look on her face is one of satisfied vindication.

            “Guilty as charged,” I reply, shrugging once more. I find myself doing that more and more as of late. Either it’s a symptom of growing apathy or a general sense of nonchalance: I still can’t decide which it is.

            “How exciting,” she retorts dryly, playfully. She looks around the room then turns her attention back to me. “To be continued.” The waitress winked and sauntered off, back to her duties. I chuckle then take a sip of coffee and delve back into the scribbled world…

            … Sure enough, our entry to the party was an unexpected and, to a certain degree, an unappreciated intrusion. Instead of a straight up house party, we had crashed an unofficial USC party, pregaming before the Trojans hosted a division rival the following afternoon. Clearly out of place in business casual threads, we wove our way through a thicket of crimson and gold bodies… making our way into the house and towards the kitchen.

            “This is a goddamn college party,” I growled to Louie as I followed, carrying a case of Corona. “Half these people look like they’re under twenty!”

            “Relax,” Louie confidently replied over his shoulder. “Like you didn’t drink underage? And besides… college kids know how to party.”

            “Yeah, because their bodies have yet to feel the mileage and they haven’t the slightest semblance of responsibility or consequence.”

            “And you do?”

            “Point taken,” I admitted after a moment’s consideration. “Fine, we might still be animals, but at least we know how to handle our drink.”

            “What do you mean?” At that exact moment, as we were entering the kitchen, a thunderous crash came from an unseen room: the unmistakable shriek of breaking glass, the groan of splintered wood, and the general hush that immediately follows a catastrophe. The silent vigil lasted a mere second before the clamor restarted.

            “Connor,” I heard Louie call across the kitchen. A tall, gangly young man with disheveled black hair looked around before noticing Louie. He was shirtless, with his upper body painted half yellow gold, half crimson.

            “Christ,” I muttered. “It’s like I’m back in upstate New York.”

            “Can it you lout,” Louie countered. The host-apparent navigated the corridors of people and greeted us as we deposited our alcoholic loot on the kitchen counter.

            “Louie,” he replied… a mixture of cordiality and surprise in his voice. “Holy shit, it’s been a long time man.” He raised his fist, which Louie promptly bumped.

            “No kidding, Connor. Last time I saw you was when Darrel came to visit.”

            “Whoa.”

            “Yeah,” Louie replied, nodding solemnly. He glanced at me and shook his head abruptly. “Where are my manner? Connor… this is my friend Stratton. Strat, Connor. Connor’s brother Darrel was my roommate at university.”

            “Ahh, nice to meet ya,” I gruffly said, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

            “So…,” said Connor, drawing out the vowel. “What  are… well, what are you doing here, Louie?”

            “I saw on Facebook you were having a party, so I decided to drop by and say hello! And as I was busy killing martinis with my associate here, it would have been rude not to include him.”

            Despite the deafening hip-hop/house music blasting from a nearby room and the vociferous conversation throughout the house, an awkward silence lingered amongst the three of us for a moment: I lowered my head and shook it in disbelief, Louie maintained a plucky grin and expectantly perched eyebrows, and Connor merely looked back and forth at us.

            “Uh, ohh…” stammered Connor, clearly at a loss.

            “Don’t worry,” Louie cut in, assuring. “We come bearing gifts!” He then proudly displayed the case of beer and the bottle of tequila he’d been carrying.

            “Okay,” Connor replied, nodding his approval. Clearly we met his price of admission. “Right on. Grab a drink and make yourselves at home.”

            “Don’t mind if I do,” Louie said with a sly smile and nod.

            “Ah shit,” I said to myself…

            …”And here you go,” the waitress says, lowering a plate laden with food to my left. She then produces a fork and knife, expertly wrapped in a napkin, and sets it beside the dish. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Writer?”

            “I think that’s it,” I reply, closing my book and moving it aside. I meet her eyes, those ravenous orbs of cerulean, and hold the gaze. She reverts to a familiar mannerism, cocking her head to the side and ever so slightly squinting her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak but notices a customer waving at the other end of the restaurant. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, smiling, before heading off.

            I pull the plate closer to me, unfold the napkin, and open my book and lay it beside the dish. As I start to cut into the perfectly scrambled eggs, I begin reading again…

            …Hours had passed. What had started off as an odd, semi-violent night quickly devolved into sheer anarchy… the likes of which only stampeding animals ought be capable of. In an act of shockingly responsible decision-making, I managed to step back from the fray and nurse a single beer. I was the driver, after all, and there is nothing more terrifying than the random sobriety checkpoints throughout Los Angeles on a Friday night. So, I played the part of the narrator and watched in reserved horror as the collegiate youths and future forerunners delved deeper into madness. And there, smack dab in the eye of the hurricane, was Louie.

            With baited breath I watched as he moved through the house like a tidal wave… some primordial force of nature beyond logic and comprehension. Immediately after speaking with Connor he inundated himself with tequila shots, inviting a contingent of scantily clad coeds to partake.

            “Let’s go do a slip and slide,” he howled maniacally after a round of shots.

            “I don’t think there’s one,” a blonde cheerleader type replied after biting a lime wedge. Her eyes were watery from the shot, clearly indicating she was still unaccustomed to the hard stuff. Which, as it were, made me question her age even more.

            “Screw it,” Louie replied. He grabbed the bottle of tequila and took a long pull before slamming it back down on the countertop. “We’ll make our own! Allons!” Grabbing the bottle once more, he sprinted towards the nearest exit… followed by a group of giggling college girls. I shook my head, unable to hold in laughter, then found an open arm chair and slouched down into it. I pulled my notebook from my back pocket, flipped open the cover, and began scribbling away.

            An indeterminate period of time passed as I continued to pen down my thoughts, observations, sensations, and notable quotations of the people around me. The unrelenting joviality and festivity throughout the building reminded me of times long past… memories I avoid recalling due to their pyrrhic fondness. Winter nights in New York City… hurrying up Greenwich Avenue towards 8^th to join the boys at Justin’s. It brought to mind sitting on the fire escape with Glen and Neil and a bottle of whiskey… watching their cigarette butts fall to the ground like immolated angels. Summer afternoons, perched at a table outside the Four Faced Liar… talking tunes over beers with John Paul and watching the sun sink behind the pre-war neighborhood of the West Village. Late night pool games at the Fat Cat, burgers and house beers at the Corner Bistro, dinner partiers with Geordie and Leslie and the Syracuse cabal. Lounging in the Washington Square Park fountain on an idyllic spring day, sprawled beside the Hudson during summer’s oppressive presence, the scent of burning wood and feel of sawdust beneath foot in winter at Molly’s. In the cheerfulness and ignorance of these younger folk… I’m reminded of a time I cling to with each breath.

            “Excuse me.” I looked up, startled, and found myself staring at a petite girl with hair the color of glowing embers, cynical jade eyes, and a general disposition that doesn’t seem suited to the collective ra-ra mentality of the pack.

            “Hmmm,” I murmured, still caught half on the page.

            “What are you supposed to be, some sort of chaperone?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “The get up,” the red headed vixen retorted. “You look like you’re here making sure nobody dies. That or you’re a Jehovah’s witness or some shit like that.”

            “Afraid not,” I replied, snapping my book shut and standing. I noticed that, despite her aggressive personality, she was tiny. Her lithe shoulders partially covered by a red, sleeveless t-shirt bearing a faded image of Jimmy Hendrix and her intoxicatingly sleek legs were obscured by skin-tight black jeans. “No, I’m here pretty much by mistake.”

            “Pretty much by mistake,” she asked, crossing her arms and gave me a defiantly quizzical look. “Explain how that works.”

            “Let’s just say I was brought here by a friend under false pretenses. Actually, make that obstructed pretenses.”

            “And so instead of mingling, you go all wallflower and write poetry or something like that?”

            “Not particularly,” I protested meekly, “but in that’s close enough to stick.” I took the final sip of my beer, now warm and acidic tasting. I swirled the remaining foam idly.

            “Wow, aren’t you the master of social etiquette,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Forgive me for interrupting your genius!”

            “You’re forgiven,” I replied with a shrug. She cracked, smiling ever so slightly. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just been a while since I’ve been to a college party, and my buddy conned me into coming after we got off work.”

            “So you’re an old person crashing a college party,” she said wryly. “Eew.”

            “Hey… I’m just the driver. But I have to say… you’re one to criticize my sense of socializing. You willingly hit the sidelines and approached me. Also, you don’t seem like one for this kind of party.”

            “Why, because I’m not a platinum blonde and… like, you know, um, ditzy?”

            “Well that and the lack of school colors gave you away,” I answered with a shrug.

            “You’ve got me,” she said, throwing her hands up. “I’m basically in the same boat. My roommate is screwing one of the guys who lives here, and she talked me into coming. Frankly I’d rather have snuck into some shit hole bar and drank peacefully.”

            “I remember those days,” I replied with a slight chuckle.

            “The golden years, huh?”

            “In a manner.” I went quiet, involuntarily recalling my own sordid entry into adulthood.

            “I’m Juliette, by the way,” she abruptly said. “Figure if we’re going to talk this long, you might as well know my name.”

            “Point taken,” I agreed, “and it’s a pleasure. I’m Stratton.”

            “Stratton? Wow… what are you, some fifth generation blue blood WASP from Connecticut?”

            “Not even close. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Juliette replied with a razorblade smile. “And what about your friend? Where is he?”

            As if prompted, Louie ran back into the house at that instant. He was stripped down to his boxers, which seemed to be the Canadian flag, and he was dripping wet. His red necktie was now around his head as if it were an Apache headband, and he had war paint drawn on his face in red and hot pink lipstick. He was waving one of his shoes above his head by the laces.

            “That’s him,” I said, motioning by a nod of the head.

            “Beware the coming of la chasse-galerie,” he howled before charging into another room. A moment later, his cheerleader train entered the house as well, half of them stripped down to their bras and panties. They squealed with forbidden glee as they followed the mad Canadian.

            “He certainly seems comfortable partaking in a college party,” Juliette said, her cold demeanor broken for the first time.

            “I think he drank bleach as a kid.”

            “That would probably explain a few things. I’m just glad I don’t have to drive him home. That’s going to be a messy car ride.”

            “Probably not,” I retorted. “He’s not doing that because he’s drunk. He’s just a raving lunatic.”

            “Oh,” said Juliette, “that’s good.”

            Before either of us could speak again, there was a violent sounding cacophony of breaking noises from the other room, culminating in the abrupt silencing of music.

            “What the fuck,” someone boomed from the source of chaos.

            “Shit,” I said suddenly. “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure that was my cue to get outta here!”

            “What do you mean,” Juliette asked, obviously confused. Several voices could not be heard in the slice, pugilistic in nature and growing increasingly vicious.

            “I’m pretty sure that whatever destruction transpire… my buddy was behind it. So I should probably get him out of here before these frat boys kill him.”

            “Of course,” she countered, crossing her arms again, “run off just as things are getting interesting!”

            “Sorry,” I said before taking off towards the source of disaster. “It was nice meeting you,” I hollered over my shoulder.

            Sure enough, Louie and his coterie of coeds had been the cause of chaos. He was nonchalantly trying to explain himself while five brutish, Polo-toting partygoers yelled at him; on the floor nearby, I noticed a very large and, most likely, expensive stereo set.

            “Listen boys,” Louie petitioned. “Accidents happen! In this case I think it was a mild tremor. We should contact the city, see if they cover damages!” And just like that, one of the brothers punched Louie in the face. The nearly naked Canadian went down instantly.

            I looked around, desperate for an idea to help Louie. With no time and limited resources, I grabbed a nearby bottle of booze and looked at the label: Bacardi 151. I took a large swig, keeping the corrosive alcohol in my cheeks. I then walked up behind one of the four fraternity fiends, tapped him on the shoulder, and spat the combustible liquor in his face… making sure to get his eyes. I then tackled the closest one from behind, distracting the other two. This gave Louie the chance to get up and, with a knee-to-groin/fist-to-face combination, gave us momentary respite.

            “I’d say it’s time we boogie, don’t you,” I said as we sprinted towards the door. I could hear the growing fury of the masses as their shock dissipated and their rage became unchecked.

            “Yeah, seems right,” Louie replied with a grin. We bolted out the door and were heading towards the car when Louie veered off. “I need to get my clothes!”

            “Oh great,” I said to myself as I watched him run around the perimeter of the house. I ran over to my car and tried to remain as inconspicuous as I could. From inside, I could hear the sounds of music once more, which was probably the only thing preventing us from being killed by college kids.

            “That was certainly an exit!” Spooked, I looked right and noticed Juliette approaching.

            “We like to leave in a memorable manner,” I replied with my usual grin. “You know, leave the masses with a story to tell.”

            “I can tell.” She crossed her feet and buried her hands in her back pockets.

            “So what brings you out here,” I asked.

            “Well you forgot this on the chair,” she replied, drawing my notebook from her back pocket. “I figured you’d want it back, and I have a feeling those troglodytes would have just thrown it out tomorrow morning.”

            “Holy hell,” I said, walking towards her. She offered it but, when I took hold of it, refused to let go. She looked at me, I her, and a matching grin spread on our faces.

            “Allons, mon ami,” Louie cried, approaching the car from behind in a full sprint. “I think they saw me getting my clothes, so we should leave now!” Louie practically shoved the two of us aside while opening the passenger door.

            “Thank you,” I said with a smile and wink. She looked at her feet and released the notebook.

            “Don’t mention it,” she replied. She looked back at the house then said, “good luck in the escape!”

            I chuckled a bit and get into my car. I started the engine, shifted into gear, and peeled out… just as a beer can sailed across my hood. I stepped down on the accelerator and let the turbo system lurch us forward. In the rearview mirror, I could still make out the figure of Juliette, alone in the street.

            We ended the night pulled over on the side of Mulholland Drive, sitting on the hood of my car and overlooking the city. From this angle and at this hour, the city looked like a giant circuit board, lit up and buzzing in the frenzy of divine computation. On the way north, at Louie’s request, we stopped at a 7-Eleven. I waited in my car while he sauntered inside, only to reemerge with two cheap cigars and an even cheaper bottle of champagne.

            “You know you’re a real nutcase,” I said after puffing out a smoke ring. In the still night air, I watched it drift out over the orchard of light.

            “What did I do this time,” Louie asked after taking a pull on the champagne bottle. He then handed it to me and I did the same.

            “What did you do? You’ve got to be kidding me, Lou. You managed to start shit at every place we went to since work! And don’t get me started on crashing a USC party.”

            “Hey… I didn’t know it was a college thing. I just saw house party. But it was fun, no?”

            “For you, sure,” I spat back, handing him the bottle. “But I couldn’t go wild cause I was driving you around, you degenerate.”

            “You worry too much,” Louie said as he took a long drag from his Macanudo cigar.”

            “I think you’ve said that already today.”

            “Have you ever heard the expression that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission?”

            “Yeah, I’m familiar,” I replied, sending out another ring.

            “Well I say that’s bullshit. I don’t believe in asking for permission or forgiveness! I live life on my terms, damn it. There’s so much fucked up nonsense in the world, in our daily lives, that we have absolutely no control over. So I’m exercising whatever goddamn freedoms I have to do as I please… despite what anyone thinks.”

            “I repeat… you’re a psychopath.”

            “Meh!”

            “But you might also be a genius,” I said. “Now give me that bottle…”

            … I finish my breakfast just as I finish the last page of notes from the night before. My headache has disappeared and I feel like my weird old self again. I push the plate forward, silverware stacked atop it, and finish my coffee. I go to close my notebook when I notice a dog-eared page in the middle of the book. I open to the page with an inquiring expression. There, printed in ghastly blue ink and with cursive, stylized handwriting is a telephone number. Beneath it, a single word: Juliette.

            I close the book and chuckle to myself. Maybe Louie is right. Maybe every problem I face is a result of my own self-doubt, of squandering time and opportunity. Lately I find myself feeling bored and uninspired, which I blame on the world. But what if, in the end, it is just me overlooking those fleeting moments of the bizarre and the exceptional? Louie, the mad Canadian philosopher… preaching self-help from the rim of a martini glass.

            I notice the waitress out of the corner of my eye. I see her approach, coffee pot in hand. Without even asking, she knows to refill the mug no matter what. She then takes the plate back into the kitchen. Just as she reemerges from the kitchen, my cell phone starts wringing.

            “Hello,” I say.

            “Strat, what’s up bro?” It’s my friend Rob, better known by his moniker Cabbie. We know each other from the New York days, but he’s a recent transplant in Santa Monica.

            “What’s goin’ on, Cabbie?”

            “Not much, not much. What are you up to today?”

            “I’m just finishing breakfast,” I reply. I instantly become suspicious. “Why, what’s up?”

            “Marshal and I are meeting up with some buddies for Mai Tais at Hop Louie’s downtown in a bit, then we’re going to crash a chili cook-off and hotdog eating contest at a Pentecostal church in Crenshaw! You totally need to join!”

            “Jesus Christ you guys are absurd,” I reply, laughing aloud. I look up and meet the waitress’s eyes before she quickly averts her gaze and moves to another customer.

            “No kidding. So what’s the deal? You coming?” I pause momentarily, weighing my options.

            “Count me in. I’m heading your way now. But I’m not driving!”

            At the cash register next to the front door, the waitress hands me back change with a cordial, sincere smile… not the standard issue customer service smile.

            “Exciting plans for the day,” she asks.

            “In a manner of speaking,” I reply. “Not sure you’d believe me if I told you. Probably because I don’t quite believe it myself.”

            “But aren’t those the best kinds of plans?”

            “I guess we’ll see.” I take a toothpick and bite down on it as I put on my sunglasses. “Thanks for everything… as always.”

            “Absolutely,” she replied, her nose crinkling with her smile. “See you next weekend?”

            “You know it,” I reply, nodding my farewell. I turn towards the door and I’m about to push it open when she speaks again.

            “Oh… and by the way, my name is Sarah.” She angles her head ever so slightly, holding her glowing smirk.

            “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Sarah” I say. “I’m Stratton.”           

            “Nice to meet you too, Stratton. I’ll see you next time.” And with that, she walks towards another table. I remain standing at the door for a moment before pushing my way out into the rapidly waking streets…