…
“Has anyone ever told you that you take things too seriously,” Louie asked, now
handling a pint glass full of gin and tonic. We were planted at our usual spots
beside the jukebox at the Frolic Room, a classic Hollywood dive bar with a
celebrity list of alcoholic regulars. It was just before 8pm, so the Frolic had
yet to fill up with the sordid regulars and tourist patrons from the nearby
Pantages Theater, hoping for a cocktail before their garish musical began.
“Yeah,
I think I’ve heard that before,” I said, peeling away the label from a bottle
of Sam Adams. “But then again, I’ve also heard that I am a depraved lunatic
hell bent on self-destruction.”
“Oh,
that’s good too.”
“It
isn’t too shabby, actually.”
“I
imagine. But really, Strat… you need to lighten up, my friend. Things could be
a lot worse, no?”
“That’s
a loaded question,” I replied. “Of course things could be worse. Being abducted
and forced to be an opium addicted sex slave on a sheik’s pleasure yacht isn’t
too appealing and definitely a few steps down from my lot in life.”
“Well
sure, there is that. I was simply going to say you could be working as a
fluffer in Van Nuys.”
“As
awful as that job is, I’m sure it pays a lot better than my job!”
“Do
you think they have a union,” asked Louie, his face contorted in contemplation.
“This
is Hollywood, man… of course they have a union.”
“I
wonder what they petition for… you know, as a union.”
“Probably
a high concentration of injured wrists,” I offered with a smirk.
“Clearly
they’d be in need of a good medical plan, one that includes physical therapy
sessions,” Louie countered proudly. Satisfied with the notion, he raised his
glass and downed the remainder of his cocktail. At that precise moment, the
oversized analogue clock on the wall above us struck eight. At the far end of
the room, the afternoon bartender departed… replaced by a more familiar face.
“Back
again I see, gents.” Wearing a starched white dress shirt, black vest, and
perfectly straight black bowtie, he was the epitome of old school bartender.
“Holmesy,”
Louie nearly cried, standing up on the cross bar supports of his bar stool and
opening his arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen! You are privileged to be
receiving drinks tonight from one of the finest bartenders on this fair planet
of ours!”
“Hey
shut up,” someone yelled from the back.
“Eh
go fist yourself,” Louie yelled back as he took his seat. “I’m just paying
tribute to a great individual you filthy swine!” Just as he sat down, and empty
beer can sailed past Louie’s face.
“My
my,” Holmes said, shaking his head in amazement, “that is most certainly your
personal best. I’ve been on duty for less than a minute and someone haas
already thrown something at your head.”
“That’s
already the second can of the day,” I added with a shrug.
“What,”
protested Louie, “I can’t help it if people don’t like hearing the truth. This
town is full of unappreciative savages.”
“Right,”
replied Holmes. “Well, let me know when you’re ready for another.” With that,
Holmes knocked twice on the bar and went about his duties.
“How
is it you claim I take things too seriously when you nearly get in fights every
bar we go to,” I asked.
“I
don’t get into fights. I am merely too much of a jovial person for this city to
stomach. All the miserable lepers are wallowing in a stew of their failures and
can’t stand to see someone appreciating their life. So don’t blame me, blame
the bitter husks that make up the populace.”
“Leave
it to me to become friends with the craziest of the crazies,” I replied,
chuckling to myself.
“You
have some nerve to say that, my friend,” retorted Louie. “It’s not a hard sell
for you to take that title over me. I may just be a boisterous personality, but
you’re flat out nuts.”
“That’s
absurd. Trust me… living in California has, strangely enough, negated a good
portion of my insanity. You should have seen me back in New York.”
“Frightening
as that is, Strat… my point remains the same. You’re two bolts short of a nut
house! Oh, and you’re not nearly as rational and level headed as you think. The
minute you step into a damned tiki bar, you become a sub-human deviant without
limitation.”
“I’ll
give you the tiki part,” I consented, “but what do you expect? Strong rum
drinks, fake palm trees, and Hawaiian shirts? How can that not be thoroughly
embraced?”
“Sure,
whatever you say?”
“Screw
you. Back to the main point, how can you
call me nuts? You’re a maniac!”
“As
I said, I just happen to be very hyper and outgoing,” Louie said matter-of-factly.
“Point in case… how many times, when you’re suffering from writer’s block, do
you say your ‘little voices inside your head aren’t talking’?”
“Hey
now… you’re taking that out of context. All I mean is that when I’m on a roll
writing, I can hear the characters talking in my head. Which makes the dialogue
a whole lot easier to write.”
“There
you have it. You hear voices in your head. That, my friend, is schizophrenia!”
“Drop
the theatrics, you maple leaf loving twit,” I shot back. I then downed my beer
and signaled Holmes for another. “Don’t go throwing schizophrenia around,
because it’s a serious thing, man.”
“No
need to get so distressed,” replied Louie, propitiating. “I speak in jest…
mostly. But you’re still absurd and crazy.”
“I
guess it takes one to know one, eh?”
“Indeed.”
We raised our drinks and clinked them then took gratuitous sips. “Ahhh…
excellent. Alright, mon ami… what’s the plan for the night?’
“Isn’t
this good enough,” I asked.
“Nonsense!
What did we talk about earlier?”
“That
we both agree Swedish hockey players are a bunch of whiney bitches?”
“Obviously,”
Louie replied, nodding vigorously. “But that’s not the point! I meant the whole
deal about doing things out of the ordinary. Breaking the cycle, being
unpredictable. Recall that?”
“Yeah
yeah,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “Okay, I get it. So what’s the
plan, then?”
“I
have no idea.”
At
a standstill, we sat in silence as the Frolic Room began to fill with the first
wave of a Friday night. Well-dressed individuals, most of them from out of town
and ignorant to the atmosphere in this narrow, disreputable dive bar, flooded
the bar… ordering drinks unheard of in this place: martinis and Manhattans,
Gibsons and gimlets.
A
duo of wrinkled socialite couples posted up unnecessarily close to us; at one
point, one of the old men elbowed Louie, causing him to spill his gin and tonic
on his hockey jersey. The rich bastard merely looked at us with contempt, then
returned his attention back to the pack.
“Excuse
me,” Louie said loudly, wringing his hands dry. The interloper didn’t even
turn, causing Louie to go red with consternation.
“Easy,
big fella,” I said, noticing my compatriot’s rising rage. “The old bastard
isn’t worth the effort.”
“Do
you have a dollar,” Louie asked, turning slowly. His jaw was locked, teeth
clenched, and his eyes were narrowed to the point of daggers.
“Yeah,
I think so.” I dug into my pockets and pulled out a crumpled, mangled dollar
bill. Louie snatched it aggressively and stormed over to the jukebox. He
quickly made his selection, returned to his seat, and ordered another cocktail.
A moment later, Eat the Rich by
Aerosmith began blasting over the speakers. It was instantly clear who was who
in the Frolic Room: the regulars all began to nod their heads in tune while the
outsiders looked around, appalled at the vulgarity around them.
“There…
much better,” Louie replied, a lunatic smile spreading over his face. He took a
sip from his cocktail and nodded towards Holmes.
“Glad
to see you’ve calmed down a bit,” I said. “I was worried we’d be brawling a
couple of silverbacks.”
“No
no… that would just be cruel. We’ll brawl someone later. For now, it’s time for
the Grey Poupon treatment!”
“What?
No… come on, Louie, let it go!”
“Absolutely
not! You, sir, of all people should not stand for an unapologetically spilt
cocktail. It is our moral obligation.” Louie looked at me as if he were making
a great declaration: his face was set and his eyes radiated with demented
conviction.
“Alright,”
I acquiesced. “When you’re right you’re right. Holmes!” The ever-stalwart bartender
promptly arrived at our end of the bar.
“Gentlemen,”
he said cheerfully. “Stratton, I’m glad you managed to stop Louie from breaking
a glass over another customer’s head. I hate having to replace glassware.”
“My
pleasure, Holmes.”
“So
what can I do for you two? Another round?”
“Of
course,” Louie replied, grinning like a hyena. “But that’s not all. I need the
mustard.”
“Mustard?
Good heavens, what sick habit have you developed, Louie?”
“It’s
not for me,” Louie replied. He tilted his head to his right. “It’s Grey Poupon
time.”
“Come
on Louie,” Holmes pleaded. “Please don’t. Every time one of you regulars pulls
a prank like that we lose business. Do you want to hurt the bar?”
“Holmes,
you and I both know that this place doesn’t survive because of chumps like him.
It’s from the character and shenanigans of people like us!”
“Damn
it… alright.” Holmes shook his head, walked to the other end of the bar, and
returned carrying a squeeze bottle of mustard. He subtly placed it on the bar
and said, “Just please be subtle.”
“When
am I not,” Louie asked with a smile. Holmes shook his head again and walked
off. Better he remain as far as possible.
“Seriously,
Louie… you are dangerously crazy.” I was sincere in my judgment yet I couldn’t
help laughing at my absurd friend.
“Granted.
Now do me a favor: go the far corner and keep an eye out. If he starts turning,
make a ruckus… keep his back turned to me.”
“Alright.”
I grabbed my drink and walked towards the back of the bar. Standing in the
corner, looming before a tall circular table, was another regular I had known
for some time. Standing well over six feet tall and a frame roughly the size of
a Volkswagon Golf, was George… better known as Moose.
“Hey
Moose,” I said, extending my hand in a greeting.
“Hey
brother,” Moose bellowed, engulfing my hand with his baseball mit-sized hands
and squeezed like a vice. “Been a while.”
“Way
of the world,” I relied with a shrug. “Where’s the missus?”
“In
Texas for some medical conference. Gone a whole week.”
“No
offense, Moose… but I still can’t grasp how you ended up with a
neuroscientist.”
“Don’t
I know it man,” he said, slapping me on the back; I nearly went sailing across
the room. “I guess it has to do with my golden personality.”
“A
neuroscientist and a roadie walk into a bar,” I mused aloud. Moose heard this
and chuckled.
“Lisa
might be smart as a whip, but don’t let that fool you… that woman can go buck
ass wild.”
“That
a fact?”
“Oh
yeah,” Moose grunted. “That’s how I met her. I was workin’ a Van Halen show and
there she was, front row, flashing the band. I knew right there… I wanted to
marry that chick.”
“Real
love at first sight then, eh?”
“Better
believe it man. Anyone that tells me it don’t happen, I’d happily knock some
sense into.”
“That
is a lesson I’d prefer to learn on my own,” I replied. Back at the bar, I
noticed Louie giving me the thumbs up. “Hey Moose, just wanted to swing by and
say hi. I’m over in the corner with Louie if you feel like joining.”
“I’m
good brother. Take it easy.”
I
sauntered back to the front of the bar and resumed my post at the counter.
Louie was on the verge of hysterical laughter, and I wasn’t far behind. On the
rude old man’s back, Louie had used the mustard to write ‘DICK’ across the
back. This was a skill I’d seen Louie utilize several times and I never quite
understood how he pulled it off.
“You’re
an idiot,” I said, barely able to keep a straight face.
“Proud
to be, if it means fighting the good fight.”
Just
then, and quite abruptly, the wealthy old geezer got up to use the restroom. He
took only two steps before his companions noticed the condiment graffiti and
called it to his attention. The murmuring sniggers of locals permeated
throughout the bar as the stranger removed his jacket and surveyed the damage.
“You,”
he said, looking up at Louie. “You did this, you fucking little shit!”
“Oh
so now you acknowledge me,” Louie
retorted. “I’m no existent when you spill my drink, but now that you’re
affected… “
Louie
couldn’t finish his thoughts because the older gentleman lunged at him and
tried choking him out. Despite his apparent age, the fellow seemed remarkably
strong. Louie, however, had the advantage. He managed to pry the man’s hands
loose then spit in his eye. This just enraged the guy further, and he took a
full haymaker swing… connecting with Louie’s eye.
“Hey
Moose,” I yelled across the bar. “This guy just said Agnus Young was pussy!”
“Nobody
fucks with Angus,” Moose bellowed. It was like a foghorn erupting within the
bar. And without warning, the big fellow charged across the room and, like a
tsunami engulfing a sparrow, crashed down upon the two fancily dressed older
gentlemen.
I
was frozen in place, watching this mayhem, when Louie appeared at my side and
grabbed my shoulder.
“I
think that’s our cue,” he said, his left eye already swelling. “You drive… I’ll
pick up my car later.”
And
so we bound out of the bar and into the early stages of the night. The sounds
of chaos could be heard emanating from within the Frolic Room and Hollywood
Boulevard had become a nexus of activity. We certainly had gotten ourselves off
to a less than ordinary beginning…
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