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…”