An urban fable based on absolute truths

By Mark Whittaker

Authors Note

Everything in this book is true…the rest is totally made up.

Because of the nature of the story I changed a lot of names and sought, or got, permission to use real ones. Plus I omitted whole relationships and jobs to keep the story moving along; apologies to those who didn’t make it in.

Other than that this is a true account of my life in San Francisco around 2004-06 taken from over a dozen notebooks, mostly written by the front window in The Crowbar (rip).

Thanks to those who were my friends during that time and all of the cool people I met and helped me along. You know who you are.

Enjoy!

- Mark Whittaker, summer 2008

This book is dedicated to my Dad, who not only encouraged me to read as a kid but also made the suggestion for the title.

And Timothy Haag, my 7th grade English teacher, who not only encouraged me to write but also had a bad ass moustache.

Prologue

“Come all ye losers don’t you know you’re the children of life?
Follow me now and we can burn down the pillars of time!”
- High On Fire, Hung, Drawn and Quartered

When I woke up I realized I was still in Palm Springs. The ceiling fan was the first clue. Plus I was wrapped up under the heavy quilted bedspread my Dads always favored. Even in a place that reaches 120+ degrees these guys still insist on Arctic ready covers.

My Dad’s house has a specific smell too. The Freon scent from the constantly working central air, mixed with cabinets of antique curios and furniture from musty estate sales houses, combined with a coffee maker always on and sometimes burned and my real Dad having to smoke outside that, still, somehow manages to leak through closed patio doors makes for a familiar yet totally unfamiliar smell. I don’t own many antiques. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life. And my old life back in San Francisco only required the occasional use of a fan. Still, this was home #2 so to speak.

The carpeting is strange too, almost like the floor covering you find in offices. Utilitarian I think they call it. They used to have a small dog, a skiperdee, Lily, but she died a few years back so the non-shaggy “carpet” that helped her move around easily and didn’t leave any traces of that soft black fur she had is a curious addition. My eyes still thick with sleep crust squints a bit as I twist the dark brown bamboo looking stick to open the sun shadowing blinds. These things make the room almost pitch black when in operation. Many a day I have taken a nap, usually from the heat or after a few afternoon cocktails, and have woken up thinking it was midnight; only to discover it was barely dinner time. I guess when you’re retired gay men
living in the desert you want very little reminder that the sun bleaches out almost anything it burns on. Even
Edwardian bureaus and relics from elegant pomposity past.

The room I was staying in is my Dad’s room. My real dad. He was married once, back in the early 70s, to my mom, obviously, when being an out of the closet homosexual wasn’t so revered an accepted as it is now. He came out to me when I was 13, which freaked me out to no degree but then when I got
involved with community theater and realized almost everyone is gay in one way or another I relaxed and just let it be. He is my Dad for craps sake. How many Star Wars toys and video game systems did this guy get me for Christmas and birthdays? C’mon.

His room is actually separate from the rest of the house which is nice. First off, it is filled with posters and artifacts from B-movies of the 50s and 60s. Images of bridge eating dinosaurs from movies like
Reptilicus and 3-D glasses with the words House Of Wax on them fill the counter tops and walls of his room. Plus his tiny personal stereo is always equipped with CDs of new wave classics so many a night, after many a beer, I have put on the headphones and blasted away one hit wonders like The Vapors, Wall
of Voodoo, Bow Wow Wow, Icicle Works, etc. It’s almost a room that I would have if I were gay, retired and living in Palm Springs. Which is odd to think about.

Second, his room is way down the hall, a few clicks from Dad #2′s room, next to the bathroom with patio accessibility. Dad 2 has a finely decorated yet kind of sterile room with the only item of quirky flair is a large cardboard cutout of Joe Montana, a longtime object of lust for him, standing proud and toothy behind
the door. The separate rooms came a while back, actually when they moved into this place from their old humongous pad in Monterey, CA, as they both snore and have completely different sleeping patterns. My Dad gets up at like 5 am, everyday, has some coffee, smokes, reads the paper, then goes back to bed at around 7 or 8 only to get up a few hours later. Dad 2, who has sleep apnea, that horrible “are you dead from not breathing?” snoring, gets up at 7 am sharp and stays awake only to complain that he’s tired for most of the day. They are complete opposites that have found and need each other. Plus my Dad is a skinny little short guy who was a wild artist actor hippie married once and had a kid. Dad 2 stretches over 6 ½ feet and practiced medicine and was a socialite and medical board member for years. Never been married, always been outspoken about his sexuality. They are two in-proportioned peas in a happy pod of two different worlds.

Eventually I emerged from the room and headed for the kitchen. A check from the ornate and supposedly owned by W. Randolph Hearst grandfather clock said it’s just past 10 am. I could hear the TV babbling on in the den and smell the coffee, half charred, but always a welcome treat.

“Good morning!” my dad yells from across the room. I hear canned laughter so I know he’s either watching Will and Grace or Becker. “Nice of you to join us.”

My Dad actually buys decent coffee. He used to be a specific Folgers with that flavor crystals crap drinker but after Oprah praised the taste and company of Peet’s Coffee he’s been hooked. Funny thing is I actually worked as a barista for Peet’s many years ago, right after I had quit doing film production. It was honestly an awesome job and I always brought bags of the stuff when I visited back then. “It’s too strong” he would say. Now look at him.

I joined my Dad in the tight quarters known as the TV room. It’s equipped with two expensive leather recliners, a TV the size of most multi-plex movie screens, surround sound and, of course, antique

lamps and tables. Something that I have adopted from my Dad’s home life is the use of ambient light. These guys live in almost relative darkness, using amber lights and hidden light sources to make the house look even more like a show room at night. That or an old movie house which is what my dad is going for. As you sit on one of the recliners you are treated to a widescreen TV that is so immense and close the foot rest that pops out and up could almost hit it. I sit in Dad 2′s chair and am treated to, I knew it, Will and Grace with Debra Messing near enough that her boobs actually look sort of big.

“How’d you sleep?” my dad asked.

“Good. I had some dream that Gary Coleman was my boss and he wanted me to carry a big bag of
animal fat across the street to some house that involved Mexican gangs and pornography. I wasn’t wearing any pants, as usual, so I don’t know if I was the star of the movie, like some weird fetish thing involving animal blubber, or I was being jumped into some gang but in a kinky way. Either or it was cool to see Gary
Coleman.”

“Uh huh,” he uttered, only half listening as the antics of Jack and Karen were taking precedence.
“Well…you always did have bizarre dreams.”

It was true. And voices too. Not bad ones that seem to always say “Kill the president’s dog” but
more along the lines of wouldn’t a picnic be good right now…who needs this job…go outside…put on a puppet show…Slayer rules. The “voices” are one of the main reasons I never got into drugs. I couldn’t imagine them being any louder or actually taking shape. Beer always seemed to keep them at bay though.

“How’s the book coming along?” he asks.

“Umm…okay. Good. Actually, no. I hate it. It’s going in a weird direction.”

“Uh huh.”

Again, Jack and Karen, this time with Harry Connick Jr. Something involving white wine spritzers or whatever. My Dad erupts in laughter.

When I moved here a few weeks back I told myself I would try to write an actual book. For years I had been a contributing writer for a dozen or so underground and heavy metal magazines. It started as a fluke, a favor for a friend really who had become an editor for a small magazine based out of Chico, CA that seemingly blossomed during that whole ‘dot com’ boom of the late 90s. I still penned for a few, mainly the big glossy metal mags like Metal Rage, Mosh and Terror Reign, but I wanted to see if I could actually be a “real” writer. I had started an almost fictional tale of my experiences with all of the random jobs I had worked throughout the years. The book, almost 100 pages in, had U-turned into a blathering mockery of not only the English language but of my own life. I didn’t tell him it had been three days since last I opened the file marked “Das Book” and typed. I really didn’t know what I was doing at this point.

As we sat there watching back to back episodes of Will and Grace I sipped strong burnt coffee
sifting through the vapid and conservative Palm Spring’s Sun Times listening to my dad laugh and make
idle conversation, the phone rang. My dad got up, walked into the kitchen where the cordless phone lay charging and answered. It was a commercial and my dad always muted the commercials, so I could hear him talking.

“Hello?…Oh yes…hello Amanda…how are you?…that’s good, that’s good…uh-huh…oh really?…oh!…oh, okay…well he’s finally awake and sitting right here….hold on.”

My dad walks into the TV room cupping the receiver and boldly mouthing the word “Amanda” as he hands it to me. Amanda was my sort of girlfriend I had left behind in San Francisco. We talked here and there, emailed often enough and sometimes even phone sexed when the mood hit. Things had taken a left
turn for me back in San Francisco, my home for almost 10 years, and when the opportunity to stay with my Dad as Dad #2 was off taking care of ailing friends in Nevada, I put stuff in storage and drove all day with my necessities in the back of the truck to hang out with my father and try to become a novelist. I wasn’t
sure what I should do next or where I should actually be. But Amanda was always a welcoming voice.

“Hi baby,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. Amanda had actually been propositioned to do
phone sex once but her status as an art teacher would be sullied. It was one of her regular customers at the bar she worked at part time, where we met actually, and she thought about it briefly in times of economic crisis. You think an art teacher can keep a large apartment like she had in San Francisco on that salary? Almost every teacher, artist and musician I knew had a second or third job to keep their lifestyle and home in the city. Amanda was no exception.

“Hey darlin’”, I said. “What’s up?’

“Um…look….” Amanda sounded upset. I could hear the sniffles and tears.

“Oh my god. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Yeah. I’m fine,: she said weepily. “It’s my dad. He’s…um…”

“Oh no. Is he dead?”, I said with general concern. Her dad had contracted some kind of stomach cancer a while back and was slowly on his way out. During the months that we were dating there had been many a phone call from her sister and mom regarding her dad’s health. I even drove her and picked her up from the airport when she had to fly to Tucson, AZ to visit and help the family once or twice. This didn’t sound good.

“No, he’s not dead. Uh…,” she paused to sob and blow her nose, “not yet.”

My dad shot me a “what’s going on” look and I gave him the ‘just a second’ finger extension before going back to his room to talk in private.

“Oh man,” I said closing the door behind me. “I’m so sorry. What’s going on?”

“Um…,” she said with a hesitancy. I felt as if something was up and something big and bad was about to happen. “Look…I need to go back home and take care of things.”

“Uh, back to San Francisco?” I asked. “Where are you now?”

“No, no, I’m in San Francisco. I’m at the apartment. I took the day off. I need to go to Tucson and help my family. They need me. My mom and sister can’t handle all of the finances and shit and my dad by
themselves. They need my help. I need to be there. I’m going to leave next week.”

“Wait a second,” I said a little too loudly, “what about your apartment? You’re giving that place up? I
mean, you need to give your landlord like at least a month before you…”

“That’s why I’m calling you.” She sniffled and paused. “Um…how are things going in Palm Springs?”

Amanda had that voice indicating something was up. She was a great manipulator. If she couldn’t do it with her deep brown eyes or DD chest her voice could get you to do almost anything. Maybe that’s how we started dating in the first place. I don’t remember.

“Um, okay. I guess. Fine.”

“You and your dad doing okay?”

“Uh…yeah. Fine. Great. No worries.”

“Have you ever thought of moving back here?”

There it was! I knew it. Yes I had thought a myriad of times about moving back to San Francisco, picking up where I left off and getting back into that heady kinetic groove that the city insists on. I had also
considered Los Angeles, which is where I grew up in Glendale. I had friends in LA, good friends, old college buddies. Of course they were scattered all over the place and rarely saw each other and I knew I’d wind up working at a Tower Records and living in a craphole somewhere in Hollywood but, hey, that was an option.
So was Austin, TX. And Hollywood, FL where an old pal had a photography business and said I could go work for him. And Delaware where my mom and her side of the family lived. Or Seattle. Or even Dorset, UK where I could be the road manager and technician for Electric Wizard, one of my favorite metal bands. There were loads of options.

“Yeah,” I said a bit craggy, “of course I have considered moving back. Yeah…uh…”

“Well, I kind of need your help.”

I knew what she was going to ask me, and when she asked if I could “take care of the apartment” a
thousand voices piped up and shouted a variety of pros and cons at me. Her place was central, Columbus and Union, overlooking Washington Square park, in the heart of North Beach, just up from Fisherman’s Wharf, near everything, thousands of bars and restaurants just a few steps away. It’s the kind of place most people dream about finding when they first move to the city.

But the apartment was dark and angular and cluttered with almost two decades of her living there. Plus she rented out the small extra room to random art students going to the academy a few blocks away. Sure I had some savings and a tiny unemployment check coming every other week but that was it.

Her place was noisy too. The bedroom window overlooking the main drag of Columbus Ave, a busy street stretching all the way from the wharf to downtown, was also over a popular restaurant too. The racket ranged from a dull din at night to outright madness on some days. It was also very old, so the walls were cracked, although some bad art hung covered some of the damage. Cockroaches made appearances on occasion. Did I mention it was noisy?

On the other hand, it was an option, and the only really solid one I had at the moment. It would be easy to slip back into the San Francisco routine. I know I could get a job right off the bat and get my old
gigs back too. Sure. Why not? The important this is I’d be helping a friend out who really needed it.
Still, the city reminded me of…”her”. Not Amanda but the biggest heartbreak I had ever experienced and the main reason for wanting to move away. That would be something I’d have to deal
with.
“Yeah, okay,” I said with a deep sigh, a million scattered thoughts, hesitancies and emotions all racing at once. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. For how long?”

“Oh thank you!” Amanda said with general relief and glee. “I’d say a few months, no more than six at most. If that. First months rent is free. That’s taken care of by my family.”

“Well thank you family.”

“When can you come back?”

“I’m thinking the day after tomorrow.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

After I hung up I retreated back to the kitchen where I found my dad outside smoking. I opened the sliding glass door and sat on the already hot lawn chair.

“Is everything alright?” my dad asked nervously under mirror shaded glasses. He liked Amanda, better than…”her” he told me and judging by the conversation knew that something was amiss.

“Her dad is dying,” I said. “She needs to be with her family in Tucson Arizona.”

“Oh no. Poor thing.”

“Yeah”. I sipped my coffee and was about to say something that would get the ball rolling and send me into survival and change mode once again. Even in my man-boy uncertainty and general laziness I was always pretty good at adapting and getting back on my feet. At least to a basic minimum where I could go back to my books, beer and movie watching with the hopes of going on a date now and then. My joy and happiness requires very little but are of high difficulty and maintenance.

“She wants me to move back to San Francisco and take care of her place while she’s gone.”

My dad exhaled a deep drag and nodded. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” is said in absolute truth. I didn’t know. But I couldn’t stay with my dad much longer, dad 2 was coming back in a few weeks. I had barely scraped what contacts and options I have in LA. Austin? Seattle? Come on, those were towns I had only visited briefly and liked. Delaware? Are you kidding me? Sure it would be great to see my mom on a regular basis as visits are rare due to finances and my absolute hatred of airplanes. So really, in a way, Amanda’s phone call and request had been a blessing.

“So when do you need to leave? If you leave.”

“Day after tomorrow. And yes,” this was the final decision, there was no turning back now, “I am leaving. It’s what needs to happen.”

“Well alright,” my dad said.

I got up and we hugged. I went inside, put on my shorts, vintage bowling shirt with the name “Earl” on the right breast pocket and laced up my shabby Vans skateboard shoes. I needed to take a long walk.

The voices just wouldn’t shut up!

Part One: Spring

“If you run away. If you run away. If you run away…
Speak up! Please speak up!”
-KARP, Spelling Trouble

I.

Even though it was barely March, the weather outside was frightful. I had visited my Dads on many occasion in the depths of summer and have been treated to an alarming state of hot weather. This was mild compared to afternoons bathed in 115, 120 degree heat. It was maybe in the high-90s somewhere; still just a little too warm for this kid at the time and thick with a curious stickiness.

I needed to take a walk though. No matter the heat and humidity, I always do my best thinking when my feet are moving and I have no particular place to be. I packed my big black backpack with a few necessities I may need: a bottle of water, notebook, a book (I was reading Jim Knipfel’s Ruining It For Everybody at the time), an apple, sunscreen, Tylenol and a sweatshirt just in case. I always over pack, even for walks, it’s kind of the boy scout in me…even though I was only a cub scout for a month back when I was 9. Always come prepared I say. You never know what you might need and come across on the mean streets of suburban Palm Springs.

It was around 1 pm and my dad decided to take a nap while I was out. We had made loose plans to go out that night and sort of “celebrate” me leaving. In a way, I think he was glad that I was going back to San Francisco. Not that he minded my extended visit it’s just that it had been almost a month and I arrived the day after dad 2 left for Nevada. I think he needed some time alone. Smoke in the house. Accidently smash one of the precious Lladros. Play the soundtrack to Valley Girl and dance around naked and crazy. Who knows? Point is by Sunday, two days from now, I would be loading up the truck early and driving that long dull highway 5 back to San Francisco to make it before nightfall.

My Dad’s house is in the middle of nowhere, blocks from any kind of shopping area or anything. Just homes and fields. Perfect landscape to think about what happened, what is happening and what might happen.

Let me bring you up to speed here. What did happen is this…

Back in 2002 my good friend Jose and I were roommates in a large two bedroom apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco. If you’re not familiar with the certain areas of San Francisco, the “Mission” is a few blocks centered around Mission Street that is essentially the Latino area of town. It is also home to many a starving artist and musician, as the rents are slightly cheaper and the bars have $1 cans of PBR. But mostly it is the Latino district and a lot of upwardly mobile yuppies are afraid to call that area home. But people with a high tolerance for homelessness, noise, trash, underground culture, heavy hip hop bass booming from cars, taquerias, dive bars, thrift stores, bad art and a ratio of 1 honky to 10 Mexicans think that it’s the best part of the city.

After a bad break up on my end and Jose living in an unsavory situation in a cramped duplex with up to six or seven people, we decided to house hunt. An ad in the paper and on Craigslist caught our eye:

2 Bedroom Flat. Central Mission district. Near everything!
Large kitchen, pantry, den.
Move in immediately.
$1,200 month. W/ $500 deposit.

For San Francisco that was a steal. We had our reservations though. $1200 for a two bedroom flat with a den AND pantry? No way. But when we arrived we saw the reason it was so cheap. Bums lay on the stoop, it was sandwiched between and across other buildings so there was no view; it was right at the corner of 16th and Mission which meant noise and possible gunfire and it was down a small “street” which would require walking home at a fast clip at night to avoid any possible stabbings coming your way. On a bright note it was right next to the 16th Street BART station, near every decent liquor store and bar and food was everywhere served up cheap and at all hours.

When we walked inside we were sold. The place was huge. It was a long cavernous apartment, freshly painted with enough room for Jose to do his jewelry work and a space to set up an office for me. I’ve always wanted an office. Hate working in them. Just like having one.

Somehow we gathered up the cash and moved in the end of the month. Through savings, loans from parents, him selling an antique camera and me getting rid of some old toys on eBay we were able to come up with the almost two grand. Sure our bedrooms were small and right next to each other, but after that first night of celebrating, bar hopping and grabbing late night burritos the size of our legs before coming back and watching Tommy Boy and The Jerk we knew we were home.

At the time I was working for a prominent bookstore, The Bookshelf, on upper Haight Street and contributing to several magazines. Money was coming in but not a lot. Just enough to keep things flowing. This kind of lifestyle allowed me to basically look however I wanted to look, facial tattoos and extreme piercing being the exception. Having thick brown hair with twinges of gray (something I have had to deal with since I was 16, gray hair runs in the family, both sides) and being a lifetime Heavy Metal maniac I usually wear my hair kind of long. Not too long, shoulder length at best. But after a few months of not being taken care of it was becoming quite brambly. So I started looking for a decent place to get it taken care of.

A rather hip lady bartender at one of our favorite hangouts back then, a place just called BAR which is right on Mission Street and used to be a Chicano gang hangout before it went under and hipsters bought it turning into a more “ethnically diverse” watering hole, suggested a salon. At this time in San Francisco history the Mission was being overrun with hipsters sending most of the Latinos to the darker outer avenues, places basically no honky would be seen. Still, roving bands of mariachi minstrels strolled into restaurants and bars and played a few jaunty tunes for a few bucks, usually extremely drunk and out of tune. The salon she suggested was a place I had heard of, The Glam Slam, a salon that was always winning local awards for “Coolest Place to Get Your Hair Did” and stuff like that. I told her I just wanted a basic cut with some layering and didn’t want to go above 30 bucks. She told me her guy friend with similar hair got a cut for $25, so I decided “why not” and the next day I walked the few blocks to get there.

The Glam Slam from the outside doesn’t look like anything really. In fact, a year before even considering coming in and asking for a cut, I thought it was a boutique for drag queens. It doesn’t say The Glam Slam Beauty salon it just says The Glam Slam and is decorated with pink poodles and wigs. In fact the front door is always closed and the front window is blocked out. I was kind of nervous before walking in, but, hey, the mop was teetering toward “homeless caveman” so something had to be done.

Entering the Glam Slam calmed any kind of nerves I may of had. Sure it was hip and decorated as if the B-52s jerked off all over the walls but none the less it was just a salon. I walked up to the front desk where a chubby and bald gay guy in thick glasses was talking to a thin cute gothy looking girl with long bright red hair.

“Hi, yeah,” I started, “I don’t have an appointment but, um…”

“Would you like to make one?” the guy asked as if I was inconveniencing him. By the look of me I’m sure I wasn’t a regular client. With the exception of my vintage Hawaiian shirt, I was pretty un-cool looking and obviously didn’t have a lot of cash to blow on a ‘do.

“Well, uh…is someone available now?”

The guy started to flip through a ledger book filled with pen and pencil marks. This place was popular. Why did I even consider coming here in the first place?

“What do you need done?” the cute gothy girl asked.

“Just a trim. With layers. I wanna keep it long I just don’t wanna have the sideshow wild man look anymore.”

The girl flipped a page in the ledger, ran her fingers down the list of names scribbled in and returned her gaze to me.

“I have a half hour before my next client comes in,” she said. “If he comes in. I swear if I had the fifty bucks it costs him to get his ratty hair done for everytime he’s cancelled I’d be able to fix my motorcycle already.”

“Fifty bucks?” I choked. “Oh man. I was hoping for like twenty or thirty or something.”

The chubby gay guy laughed a little, signifying my uncoolness to have my hair done in such a kitschy palace of hip at a discount price. Excuse me for being poor and goofy and preferring Masters of the Universe to retro Barbies mister man. Gosh.

“Let’s say twenty five,” the girl said. “Call it an introductory offer. If I do a good job, maybe you’ll come back.”

I found myself smiling a bit as the guy tried to look busy flipping through the ledger and ignoring the good deed this lady was doing for such a piteous sot such as myself. She tilted her head indicating “follow me” and I did so. The salon was really big and cavernous and looked like the Jestons had hired Dolly Parton to decorate. Hip stylists of all shapes and genders busily teased and trimmed the dos of clients ranging from punk rock princesses to matronly housewives. It was actually pretty cool.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Mark.”

“I’m Malory,” she said extending a thin right hand. We shook and when she smiled back I kind of got that knot in your stomach from finding someone attractive that is way out of your league yet still have to deal with on a professional manner. Malory was a bit short, rather thin, with sharp features and visible dark tattoos on her arms under a black t-shirt with a cartoonish skull and crossbones on it over black Dickie’s work pants. Something about her goodhearted and laid back demeanor, along with that amazing hair and toothy smile, made me giddy. I really couldn’t place it.

“Here we are.”

Her station matched her look to a T. The mirror was lined with glued on nuts and bolts, an Edward Scissorhands doll, a noose, Ring Wraiths from Lord of the Rings and a sticker of a cute bunny with the words “You Suck” underneath it. It stood out from the other stations in the place, most of which were decorated with pink feathery boas, Tiki lounge artifacts, pictures of drag icons The Lady Bunny and Divine, roller derby jerseys and the like. Malory was definitely the black sheep of the Glam Slam.

She played with my hair as I told her what I wanted. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “Man, you have fantastic hair. I don’t even want to cut it. Just play with it.”

“Um, thanks,” I uttered. “You can just play with it too. Is that extra?”

“Maybe,” she said with obvious sarcasm. “Did anyone ever tell you you look sort of like Bam Margera?”

For those of you that don’t know who Bam Margera is, he is a professional skateboarder and one of the Jackass cast members who became famous for torturing his obese dad and easily freaked out mother. It’s true though, several people have told me I do resemble him. One kid at the bookstore asked me if I was ripping off Bam’s look. I told him I got ten years on the guy, a fraction of his salary and I’ll keep the parental torment to their prospective mates, thank you very much. .

“Yes,” I said. “But I gave up skateboarding years ago after an accident took out my lower back. Fell straight on it attempting an easy trick on my friend’s half pipe. Why?”

Her hands were still working through my hair, catching the occasional snag. “I don’t know. I think Bam is kind of cute. Except that he’s a pompous retard with a speech impediment. Otherwise…not bad.”

The entire time she washed my hair, got ready and started cutting, our conversation never ceased. Sure I’ve had “conversations” with hairstylists but never about old school cartoons, bad movies, idiot celebrities, roller coasters and Burning Man. Again, if you don’t know what Burning Man is look it up. It’s this huge art and music festival that started on Baker Beach in San Francisco in the early 90s then grew so big they had to move it to the center of the Nevada desert. I went three years in a row until it got too crowded and too expensive.

“I used to camp with The Aqua Temple,” I told her. “It was this big…”

“The guy in the rubber suit filled with water?” Malory interrupted. “Who squirted people with water was they walked by or bowed before him?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh my god how funny. The guys I used to camp with, Raven Guild, was right next door to…”

“No way! You camped with Raven Guild? The ‘Thunderdome’ guys?”

The camp in question, Raven Guild, was actually run by owners of a popular goth and industrial dance club near downtown by the same name. Once my buddy Mike and I went to their anniversary party a few years back as I was sent to cover it for a small Northern California music magazine called Zilch. Before we walked in, Mike and I consumed a six pack of Rainier tall boys and came dressed as truckers; puffy vests, Budweiser caps, jeans, boots, the works. We stayed for a few bleak songs, watching pasty urban “vampires” dance poorly and slowly to the vocal drones and throbbing cold beats and feeling quite unwelcome. We were getting looks from a gang of multicolored braided haired biker industro-goths who obviously didn’t find our little joke all that funny. We quickly left after we finished our beers.

Ravens Guild every year at Burning Man puts on an elaborate show featuring a huge dome, perfectly imitating the same one used in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. They had folks come in and do battle with each other (using padded weapons of course) while blasting the same kind of music from their club.

Turns out the camp I used to stay with, the guys that put on the Aqua Temple, whom I met from an ex girlfriend that used to live beneath the artist couple that started the project, one year was camped right next door to Ravens Guild.

“I was with the Aqua Temple. Do you remember a guy dressed up like a Viking on vacation?”

The three years I went to Burning Man I had a character, Ragnar, who was, like I said, a Viking on vacation. I had the big horned helmet, ugly thrift store Hawaiian shirts, black socks, white shoes, brasiers and a cup I made to look like a large horn. Plus I always had my small cassette player constantly playing metal, since Burning Man is usually associated with techno music and drum circles, I felt I needed to dole out a little rock to the drugged out mass all wearing body paint and sarongs.

“Wait,” Malory said, “the drunk guy in the Viking helmet?”

“Probably.”

“Didn’t you try and make it to the DJ booth to have them play Peter Cetera songs instead of industrial?”

“Yeah. But that was only because I was going to fight my buddy Bill in the dome. We both have a thing for the Cetera.”

“Jesus Christ. I know who you are.”

An odd factuality about San Francisco is that although it is a large city, it is still a small town. What, 800,000 people all nestled into a five square mile metropolis? You tend to run into people now and then, even if it is the middle of the desert the next state over.

Malory and I continued to chat as she slowly cut my hair; pulling my long strands between her thin fingers and chopping off just a slight amount saying she felt bad cutting off any more of my hair. It felt like we were kind of hitting it off. Then her other client arrived.

“Malory,” said the chubby gay guy from the front counter, “Jello is here.”

“Okay. Thanks,” she replied back.

“Jello?” I said. “Why would anybody call themselves Jello? That’s such an obvious rip off.”

“No,” said Malory. “It’s him.”

I quickly spun around and saw the ex lead singer of the Dead Kennedy’s, Jello Biafra, standing in the foyer of the salon, with a few other people surrounding him.

“Holy crap,” I said. “This is the coolest thing ever.”

“He’s a totally cool guy,” she said. “A little strange but cool.” She then leaned down, cupped her hand around my ear and whispered “He’s got hair plugs” from the side of her mouth. I laughed.

After finishing up, Malory escorted me back to the front desk, extended her hand again and said “Well, it was nice meeting you. Come back so we can talk and I’ll pretend to cut your hair.” She then greeted Jello Biafra and told him she would be right with him. He slowly meandered over to her station, with a middle aged punk rock looking assistant or whatever in tow.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was fun.”

We then said our goodbyes as I got out my check book and wrote a fifty dollar check to Malory which I handed to the front desk guy.

“Oh, that’s a hundred percent tip,” he said in that snide voice of his. “She must have done a great job.”

I just nodded a bit. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah she did.”

Exiting the salon just found me back into the fog and traffic, when something snapped in me. Feeling impetuous and a little smitten, I was about to do was something I’ve only seen in bad romantic comedies, but I felt it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

I walked back into the salon, told the receptionist guy “Sorry, forgot something,” and proceeded back to Malory’s station, who was prepping Jello for his cut.

“Excuse me…Malory,” I said standing there with my backpack on and overcome with nerves. “Sorry Mr. Biafra. This will only take a second.”

Malory spun around and Jello Biafra just shrugged.

“I’m sorry. Malory, um…would you like to go out sometime? I, uh, never do this. It’s just…”

“Hold on,” Malory said smiling. She then opened a drawer at her station, produced a business card, wrote something on the back and handed it to me.

“That’s my cell number on the back. I’m usually done by 6 or 7, depending on the day. And I have Monday and Tuesdays off.”

She then looked at me as if I had done the absolute right thing. I smiled back totally relieved.

“Awesome,” I said shaking a bit. “I have Monday’s off too.”

“Monday it is then,” she said, flashing a toothy grin before going back to Jello’s hair.

“OK. Uh…see you then.” I was then in that awkward place of how do I exit properly without prattling on and acting like a total nerd. Obviously, I didn’t know.

“Thanks. Thanks Malory. Oh and thank you Mr. Biafra. I’m a big fan of Lard too.”

Everyone in the salon laughed but I took it as if they knew where I was coming from with my nerves and excitement, rather than laughing because I was a big idiot. Maybe it was both. Regardless I hightailed it out of there, jumped on a bus and caught some movie. I don’t even remember what I saw. It didn’t matter. I had a date in four days.

Malory and I spoke on the phone twice before Monday, both conversations lasting well over an hour. Jose would pop his bald head into the office, his bespectacled and bearded face quizzing as he would quietly protest “Are you still on the phone?”

“Yes darling. But you know you’ll always be my number one right?”

Monday finally arrived and we had decided to meet at a neutral and public place. Hey, I could be a crazed master of the chainsaw lookin’ to hack and grill up my next victim. She could be some super goth nerd that smokes clove cigarettes, likes bad poetry, hangs out in graveyards and has friends with names like Malice and Lestat. Either or, she was cool and cute and I was willing to take a chance..

We met at a café near the salon and my place, a kind of organic almost hippie establishment that gets all sorts of punk rockers and wackos coming in and out drinking their strong coffee and vegan pastries. The kind of café that has couches everywhere where people stay all day reading the free books that line the walls or click away on their laptops writing that great American alternative piece that no one will read but is done with intense aplomb anyway.

I got there first. We had made plans to hang out during the day (again, it could be because graveyards are spookier at night which could take up a lot of her free time) so it was close to noon when I ordered my coffee and grabbed a table by the window. The place was almost empty, let for a dirty homeless looking guy snoozing on a couch and some Asian art students chatting excitedly away, no doubt about art I figured. I leafed through a free newspaper called Trans Minded, some rag with bad drawings, political commentary and reviews for uber underground bands that I didn’t even know existed. It was then, a little after 12, Malory walked in.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Parking.”

“Oh, you don’t live around here?”

“Oh no. I live across town. In the Sunset. 18th Avenue.”

“Oh man,” I said, “I thought for sure you lived in this neighborhood. Being all kind of, you know…hip and kinda spooky.”

Malory sat down with a perplexed grimace. She then informed me that she was none of the above and that she was a “recovering goth”. The Glam Slam was simply the best salon in town and that was that. She had nothing to do with the hipsters, drag queens, art heads, scene makers and beautiful disasters that traipse through those doors on a regular basis.

“I don’t even go to the Raven Guild anymore,” she told me as she stirred her soy chai she ordered. “Really I just like to work and be at home. I’m kind of a homebody if you wanna know. Although I do go hiking once a week and am a red belt in Tae Kuan Do.”

Malory was becoming more and more interesting as that first “date” wore on. We went to see The Two Towers for the twilight show; my second time seeing it, her third. Later we grabbed dinner at a small Italian place near Pacific Heights, one of those tucked away deals that you have to basically know about to find, otherwise you just drive by it or walk by thinking it’s a closed florist shop or something. I was having a strangely good time. Malory was nothing like the usual girls I have dated or been with, who were usually more Rubanesque or artfully inclined. She was just a really cool, really cute and funny lady. I got serious knots in my stomach when she grabbed my hand after dinner to escort me back to her car.

There in the orange yellow glow of a street lamp on Fillmore Street, her back on the passenger door and me dripping pools of nervous sweat on my palms, we kissed. It was perfect and warm and I got flutters all over. She then drove me home, one more smooch and I went up to the apartment feeling as if I had taken some weird drug, one that makes your heart flutter, brain switch off and causes slight drooling.

We continued to see each other on a regular basis and were soon considered a couple. We both had Mondays off and the city was ours. We hit every museum, music venue, tourist trap, restaurant, movie and event we could on those Mondays. Even though San Francisco is a bulging metropolis with a huge tourist and service industry population, it is still relatively empty on Mondays. Everything is cheaper and less crowded. It was amazing. Although some days were spent hiking around Muir Woods or Mount Tamalpais (which almost killed me since she was the athletic type and I got short of breath going to the fridge) our Mondays together solidified that we were quite smitten with each other. Soon enough though, there were certain obstacles that were coming up and starting to get in the way.

Turns out that Malory’s extended family is littered with alcoholism. Her two older brothers, mom and dad all drink to uncomfortable levels. She would hang out in bars as a kid while her folks drank and just play video games, which explains why she always kicked my ass when we went to the super arcade on Broadway or played her X Box or games on her computer. So she was totally sober. No drugs or alcohol at all. Me, I had to basically lie about my own alcohol consumption to her and nights that we weren’t together was spent in a drunken brawl because when we were together (which was often) I was sober too. Nights spent apart meant meandering the bars of my neighborhood and drinking too much to get it out of my system, so when we hung out I wouldn’t miss it so much. Except when we went to nice restaurants. It was then that I craved a glass of wine or beer. It was tough watch other couples enjoy a nice bottle of pinot noir while I’m sucking down root beer and water. Which was fine, but still.

One day Jose and I get a letter in the mail. It was our lease renewal. Turns out our jerkoff landlord wanted to raise the rent by $400. That’s over $800 we would have had to shell out every month to stay in that dump. Yeah, it was a big and centrally located, but it was a dump none the less. Every day we would have to step over drunks passed out on the stoop, listen to sirens roar and squeal every day and night, see needles and crack pipes on the sidewalks, avoid getting home too late as to not get mugged and listen to our upstairs neighbors blast Tejano music every Sunday through overstretched and crackling speakers. One night Jose was on a date which ended up back at the apartment. I was at Malory’s a lot since she wasn’t a big fan of our place and I was a huge fan of the quiet she had at night, which worked out great for Jose. He and his date were on the couch, getting snuggly and kissy when all of the sudden, crash!, an empty 40 oz malt liquor bottle careens through the front window. We were on the second floor. Were they aiming for us or our thuggish upstairs neighbors and had bad aim? Either way, we knew we had had enough when that happened and our rent increase was the clincher.

Jose wanted to get his own place. He had found a decent studio apartment in the Tenderloin (not much of an upgrade in neighborhoods mind you) but hadn’t signed the lease. Jose was more of a loner than I was. A good 5 years older then me, he had grown up in a fairly large family and at an early age sought out seclusion. Me being an only child brought up by, basically, one parent gave me the predisposed notion to hide out and horde my stuff. I guess it was time to grow up and move on. I guess.

I had a buddy, Jeremy, who lived out in the Presidio and had an extra bedroom he wanted to rent out since his film editing business wasn’t as lucrative as he had planned. Within a week we were moved out, Jose in his studio, me with Jeremy in an apartment a block away from Baker Beach, among the pine trees and where the Zodiac killer once roamed.

Malory and I were doing great. That is until the Tahoe Trip.

I I.

My good friend Jason Vogel hails from a fairly wealthy family. His dad is basically the best OBGYN for the Monterey Peninsula, where I and a lot of my closest friends come from. Jason’s family has a huge cabin up in Lake Tahoe; a chalet actually, one that can sleep over 30 people at a time. The Vogel’s are an incredibly large family unit. Every summer a group of us make the trek to the Vogel’s cabin for a few days to drink, gamble, drink, bar be que, drink, sail, drink and drink. That cabin to me is the slosh hut to end all beer sheds of debauchery. One summer, we took a picture of the beer cases we were throwing away after a long weekend there. There were six of us, Jason, Mike, Kevin, Greg, Jen and myself and we counted eighteen cases of beer. For three days. How we do it we don’t know. Regardless those cabin trips mean an excursion into intoxicated bliss.

I get a phone call one day from Jason saying he and his fiancee Molly, along with Mike, Greg, Kevin, Jen , etc, were all going to the cabin in a week and I should come. Bring Malory along he said. I hung up and made immediate plans to go.

Getting the time off work was easy but convincing Malory to go to Tahoe for a few days with my friends was a tough one.

“What do you guys usually do there?” she asked.

“Oh, uh…well, you know. Hang out, eat, go swimming, maybe go gambling…things like that.”

It took some convincing, but after a few days Malory caved in and decided to go. That made me both happy and completely nervous. Actually when I asked her I thought I would get a resounding ‘no’ and that would be that. So when she showed apprehension at the invitation I knew I was in the clear. But when she called and said ‘yes’ my stomach sank a bit. How was I going to not drink at that cabin? It’s physically impossible I thought. It’s like a starving man going into a all you can eat buffet and having a glass of water. It just wont happen. I know I am going to drink beer there. But how?

I figured maybe I can slip one in when Malory goes to the bathroom or if she takes a nap or something. Thing is she hates naps, I’m the one that likes naps, so that’s out. What about pouring rum or something into my soda when she’s not looking? Naw, she’d smell it. She’s too in tune with that stuff. So I decided right then and there that I would not drink on the trip, that it would be a time to relax and have fun without getting completely blotto.

Early Saturday we loaded up Malory’s old Volvo and drove up. The drive from San Francisco to Tahoe takes about six hours so we arrived close to dinner time. Jason and Molly were already there as they had driven up the day before. Mike had arrived an hour before us. Kevin, Greg, Jen and her new boyfriend Jay were on their way. We all hugged and settled in. Then Jason asked the obvious question.

“You need a beer?”

Feeling a bit like a junkie being offered a fresh and full needle I could feel the sweat bead up on my forehead and stomach churn as the Pavlovian situation sent my body in beer mode.

“Uh…no thanks,” I said shakily. “I’m good for now.”

Like a record scratching sound effect from a bad comedy when something goes awry, scrrrrrowwwtch, everybody stopped and looked at me as if I had just turned down a million dollars.

“Are you sure?” Molly asked totally perplexed.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.” I was tensing up. I could feel my fingers dig into my palm, upper lip curl into my teeth, eyes bulge trying to psychically tell my friends: Want beer…not my fault…Malory’s fault…sex good…beer better…please help.

Mike walks in from the patio, scruffy and shirtless. Wearing cop shades, cut off jeans and a belt with a buckle that says MIKE on it, he pats me on the shoulder.

“Good for you man,” he says. “More beer for us. Yow!”

With that the three of them sip deep and heavy from their High Life bottles. I can feel myself drooling like a dog being teased with a steak. But when Malory smiles and rubs me on the back it subsides. Turned out, I was madly in love with this girl.

The next day we made plans to inner tube down a nearby river. At this time the snow melting from the mountains meant a rushing stream to which we would load up an inflatable raft with beer as we slowly drifted, ending up at a big outside restaurant and bar where we would stay until just sober enough to drive back to the cabin. Greg, Kevin, Jen Jay were all there too. It was the first time all of them had met Malory. They all seemed happy for me and to like her while at the same time befuddled why we were together. An athletic, straight edge ex goth dating a beer swilling, chubby Metal head? It didn’t compute to them.

The river rafting trip was fun. As they drank beer and all, Malory and I just lazily splashed along admiring the scenery and made out. I decided then that if they were really my friends they would have to accept me for my decision and Malory as well. In fact, after a while, they didn’t even notice that I wasn’t drinking. These were after all smart and awesome people, my friends, so I could see that they would just let it be and let me be happy, beer’d up or not.

We landed at the restaurant sometime in the early evening, just as things were hopping on the huge patio. We loaded the raft and inner tubes into Jason’s Explorer before heading back to the restaurant for post rafting snacks and drinks.  We got a table overlooking the river and they ordered a couple of pitchers of beer while Malory and I got lemonade. Two dozen hot wings and poppers were on their way too.

As we sat there chatting, eating and drinking Malory got up to use the bathroom.

“Give me a beer,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Jen asked.

“Yeah. I’m dying here.”

Jen handed me a plastic cup filled with ice cold frothy goodness. I slammed half of it down in no time. It was heaven.

“Dude, why are you with someone that wont allow you to drink?” asked Kevin, who is a big guy, 6′ 5″ and at least 250lbs. He is so big that he played football in high school but has nothing to do with sports at all. A gentle giant of sorts.

“I don’t know,” was my reply. “I just love her is all. She’s nothing like I have ever dated before. It’s weird. But, nevermind. Beer.”

We were all laughing at the situation and as I raised the plastic cup to finish it off Malory returned. I plopped the cup onto the table and with a mouth full of pale ale did a serious double take. The table got silent.

Malory was silent too. She didn’t say a word. She just sat next to me in quiet protest.  It was a highly and massively uncomfortable situation. We didn’t speak the entire time we were on that patio.

Back at the cabin Malory finally spoke up.

“Look, if you wanna drink beer why did you bring me here?”

“Because,” I said not knowing really what to say, “I wanted you to meet my friends. But, yeah, when we get together we drink. A lot. I’m sorry, but that’s what this cabin means to us. To me.”

In the background I could hear them all laughing and having fun. The karaoke machine had been brung out and Jen and Molly were warbling to Olivia Newton John’s “Magic”. I was stuck in our room defending my right to drink beer with my friends to a girl I fell for way too fast for, not knowing the absolute truth about her deep abhorrence to alcohol.

“Fine,” she said both testing and not caring, “if you wanna drink beer…go ahead. I wont stop you.”

Her voice and body language really told me nothing. Me being an idiot and thinking that was an invitation to drink with my friends, I said “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”
With that we joined the rest out in the living room. I cracked open a beer and sang “I’m Alright” by Kenny Loggins. Malory just sat there watching us. I really didn’t know what exactly was going on. But I was finally having some fun. And the beer tasted great.

The next morning I was awoken early by Malory getting dressed.

“Hey babe,” I said with a slight hangover, “what’s going on? You going jogging?”

“Can you get a ride back with one of your friends?” Malory sounded stern and upset. I could see her bag was packed on the large chair across the room.

“Wh…what do you mean?”, I asked fully aware of what she meant but still didn’t want to hear it. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going back. Now.” Her voice was packed with both rage and tears. She grabbed her bag and stood by the door. “I knew it was mistake to come here.”

With that she opened the door and left. I followed her out to her car trying to catch up.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said as my bare feet were being jabbed by craggy rocks on the driveway, cold morning air hitting my boxer short and tee-shirted body. “What does this mean? I mean, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. It’s just my friends. It’s just…beer.”

“Well, it’s obvious you have made your choice,” Malory said as she got in the drivers seat with a slam. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

I wasn’t sure if my apologies were going to help or if I should lean in and give her a kiss. To tell you the truth I was stunned. Sure I loved this crazy girl more than I have any other from before but, wow, if this is how she is going to react over a few beers with close friends during a weekend Tahoe getaway then I wasn’t too sure what to think. So I stood there looking for words. They didn’t come.

She gave me one last sad and disappointed look before screeching off. I watched her old white Volvo putter off into the distance. Once she was gone, I went back into the cabin and went back to sleep, still confused as to what actually just happened.

When I woke up I had to explain what happened to which I got a mix of perplexities, concern, relief and consoling. Mike grabbed me by the shoulder and, quoting a line from Animal House, said, “My advice to you is to start drinking heavily.”

Which I did. That night we ended up at some casinos in Tahoe to which I barely remember getting back to the cabin. The next day, in a total haze, I got a ride back to San Francisco with Greg, a seriously nice person with an upper management job at Wells Fargo, one of those ex rockers who can shred guitar like no other but gave it up for a corporate job. Still, after a few cold ones and bongs hits, he’d phone me up and play Metallica riffs late at night when the wife was asleep. I loved this guy.

“She just wasn’t the one for you,” he said. “She’s cool, but…we knew it wouldn’t work out.”

“What do you mean?” I quipped, still shaken by the situation. “When I get back home everything’ll be fine. Watch. You watch.”

Greg got me back to my apartment as the sun was going down. I went upstairs to find Jeremy watching Death Wish 3 in the living room.

“Hey, Malory called and she wants you to call her immediately,” he said among the gunshots and squinty glares from Charles Bronson.

I went into my room, called Malory who said she would be right over. See, I knew things were going to be fine. It’s just not her cup of tea to be with me when I’m with my old friends in Tahoe. As long as I don’t drink in front of her, everything is okay. This was just a test. And I’m getting a second chance.

When Malory came over she was carrying a grocery bag. I knew it, she wanted to come over and cook dinner with me. I met her at the front door ready to give her a big hug and kiss. She just handed me the bag.

“That’s all your stuff from my house,” she said extremely straightforward and cross. I looked in and saw my old pyjamas, copy of Pee Wees Big Adventure, some CDs, a toothbrush and photos of us.

“Are you serious,” I said completely taken back at what was happening. “Can’t we…can’t we talk about this?”

She didn’t even give me a response. She just walked away, gave me one last choleric look as she descended the stairs, got in her car and drove away. I just stood there in shock. Eventually I went back inside holding that bag under an open yet voiceless mouth and tearing eyes.

“Dude, what happened?” Jeremy asked.

“I…I just got dumped by the woman I love.” I couldn’t move. I just held the bag and tried to take it all in.
“Oh shit. That’s a bummer,” Jeremy said. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t say anything. I just went into my room and lay on my bed, listening to the ocean crash off in the distance mixed with echoes from Jeremy’s movie. I didn’t really cry. I was too confused and startled to feel anything. I just laid there. I just stared at the ceiling and laid there.

After a week of self loathing and pity I finally came out of my deep depressed shell to take up Jose’s offer to go out and do what all guys do when they get dumped; get loaded.

Since it was my night to be cheered up he took me to my favorite bar, the Crowbar, which was across town in the North Beach area. The Crowbar was a large dark bar with loads of punk and metal on the jukebox that catered to a rougher and rocker crowd. Because of its sheer size and fact that most barhoppers don’t want to hear the Exploited or Slayer blasting as they sip their fruity cocktails, the Crowbar was usually pretty empty. Which I loved. We sat by the window, looking out at the bustle on Broadway street, across from an upscale “gentleman’s club”, watching tourists and locals alike shuffle by, drinking whiskey and trying to not talk about my recent heartbreak. Which didn’t work.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said sipping on a tall icy glass of Makers. “I thought she could be the one.”
“No way. Think about this,” Jose said, “what if your family was killed by a hairdresser. Like stabbed with fancy scissors. Every time Malory went to work you were traumatized. Same thing. Her family are alcoholics…she doesn’t like drinking. At all.”

I just laughed.

“My family killed by a hairdresser? Yeah, no…not the same thing.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jose then told me that some work friends of his were meeting at a popular bar called Vesuvios, which is right down the street from the Crowbar and made popular since it was the former hangout for Jack Kerouac. In fact, Vesuvios is at the corner of Columbus Ave and Jack Kerouac Way. It is a neat bar, a little too packed and popular for my taste but still, after we finished our drinks we walked over.

At the time Jose was managing a motion picture camera and equipment rental house, Shutterbug Studios, which was fairly lucrative seeing as almost all car commercials, romantic comedies and TV dramas are filmed in San Francisco. Once a week his co-workers and owner of the place met at Vesuvios to drink. Jose preferred the darker low end bars in his neighborhood to the hip noise of Vesuvios, as did I, but since we were in the neighborhood we figured we might as well pop over. The owner of Shutterbug, a failed film maker and known stoner named Mel Terback, usually flipped for the bill, which was always welcome.

When we arrived the place was full. It was, after all, a Friday night, so it was a mix of Beat culture loving locals, hipsters, downtown business types, tourists and us. We found the group at a table in the back so we wove through the crowd and sat down. As we said our hellos and chatted a bit a server arrived.

“What can I get you guys?” she said.

I looked up and was immediately stricken. She had long dark wavy hair, deep set eyes under librarian glasses and a low cut shirt revealing a rather full chest. As a kid of 10, as my dad was off doing a play back in Los Angeles, I was treated to a movie late one night called Up! by a film maker named Russ Meyer. It was on a cable movie channel as part of the “Night Owl Theater”, which featured soft core porn movies. My dad didn’t care if I watched those movies or not. Usually I didn’t because the movies were totally boring featuring skinny women being slobbered on by hairy unattractive men with moustaches. But this movie was different. It featured women with proportions and looks I didn’t know existed. One of the main actresses in the movie, Raven De La Croix, was one of the most stunningly beautiful women I had ever seen in my ripe tender age. When she did this exotic dance in some bar, wearing a super low cut black dress showing off gravity defying cleavage I knew right then and there I was heterosexual. It was also the first time I became aroused and began playing with myself. So ever since then I have had a taste for dark haired and busty women. Our server was definitely that.

Malory was definitely not.

As we stat there chatting and drinking I found myself drifting off and watching our server. She had a dynamic way of moving around the crowded bar, hovering a tray full of drinks above her head using her husky voice and chest to get people to move. To tell you the truth, she was really turning me on.

By the end of the night, when we all were dissipating and going back to our homes I got the courage to ask the barmaid what her name was.

“Amanda,” she said.

“I’m Mark.”

“Good to meet you Mark.”

That was all that was said. I went back home and watched clips of Russ Meyer movies online.  Then masturbated and fell asleep.

A week later I joined Jose and his work friends back at Vesuvios. Amanda was there, this time in a white turtleneck with her hair up. She still looked sexy. I really wanted to ask her out.

I tried sparking up bits of conversation every time she came to the table, trying hard not to sound like some drunk creep hitting on her, because I’m sure that happens often. In fact I knew that I would get straight shot down if I did indeed get the courage to ask her out. At the end of the night, after many beers and shots, I got that courage.

“Well, I don’t know,” Amanda said, not sounding as if she was going to say no which surprised me. “What do you like to do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I would just really like to take you out. I’m a nice guy. Honest. And you’re obviously a very attractive woman. But are you nice? That I’d like to find out.”

She gave me a look of flattery with a coy smile. She twitched a little, giggling, scratching her head and looking around. I couldn’t believe my corny drunken come on was working.

“OK. Um, do you know the bar Specs down the street?”

Specs was a hidden bar that only locals knew of. It was dark and funky and had a sort of dangerous feel to it. Story was that the mob owned it and there was once a massive shootout there. It didn’t matter though. Amanda had agreed to meet me for drinks. I told her I knew where it was and we made plans for Tuesday night. We exchanged phone numbers before I left.

Was it too soon, I thought? Should I still be in mourning? So many feelings and thoughts raced through my mind. But then when I calmed down and looked at it realistically, going on a date with a cute and busty barmaid does not equal a relationship in the making. If I got lucky, great. If not, that’s fine too. I was just sick of feeling sick about Malory and Amanda was the distraction I needed.

* * *

Tuesday came and after I finished my shift at the bookstore I raced over to Specs to find Amanda sitting at a far table under some large moose antlers. She had her hair down and wasn’t wearing glasses, which, for some reason, made her look a little older. I said hello, grabbed a drink and sat down.

Amanda, turns out, was quite an interesting person. She has the job at Vesuvios because her art teaching job at a prominent girls college in Oakland just doesn’t pay enough. She had a double masters in art and art history and is a featured sculptor for a fancy gallery down in Los Angeles called Creation. Turns out her stuff is rather racy, like she used tampons as flowers for this large motif piece and had a show called “Sex Bombs” which featured a bunch of dildo looking weapons and 70s inspired erotica. I was starting to feel a little out of place. When I told her that I wrote for a bunch of heavy metal magazines, volunteered at the library and worked at the Bookshelf I felt a little dweeby. Here’s this voluptuous artist that works at one of the most famous bars in San Francisco and, turns out, has a big apartment right up the street on Columbus and Union, with me, the complete opposite.

“You can see Washington Square park and St. Peters church from my bedroom window,” she said. “It’s a wild place. I’ve been there for over 13 years.”

This made me wonder about her age. She looked my age, maybe a little older, but at 33 years old I hadn’t lived anywhere for 13 years, let alone one apartment. She told me it was huge and old and was seriously rent controlled. For a big one bedroom apartment in central North beach she only paid $1,200, and that was a steal.

“But I have to rent out the small extra bedroom,” she told me. “When I broke up with my ex a few years back I just couldn’t handle all that rent. That’s why I work at Vesuvios. That’s why I have to rent out the room.”

Amanda told me she rents the small room out to art students that attend the academy just up the street.

“They have rich parents, they can afford it,” she said with a shrug. Apparently she charges these poor kids a lot to stay in that place, which gives her a big break on expenses. She also told me about her huge art studio in Oakland that she pays for as well. It’s not cheap, apparently, to be a struggling artist in San Francisco. It’s not cheap to do anything in San Francisco.

As date wore on, I kept thinking about Malory. Everywhere I went, it seems, I was reminded of her. Shops we went to, theaters, comedy clubs, book stores, restaurants, they all seemed to remind me of Malory. As Amanda and I walked up to the Crowbar I felt a twinge of guilt and regret. This date with Amanda was indeed too early. Too late now. We had already had a lengthy “gettin’ to know you” conversation and now we were going to my favorite bar to do more of the same. I just gritted my teeth, thought about how hot Amanda was and tried to get into it.

We eventually ended up at Amanda’s apartment. The front entrance is right on Columbus, next to an Italian restaurant. For those of you that don’t know, the North beach neighborhood in San Francisco is also known as “Little Italy.” The neighborhood is riddled with Italian restaurants; some good, most are feeble at best serving dopey midwest tourists bland pasta at astronomical prices. I’ve never been a big fan of North Beach. I lived there once a few years back, briefly, but it was always too noisy and crowded. Plus the hills there almost killed me. Like I said before, not the athletic type.

We ascended the creaky stairs with blue paint peeling off and rounded into her front door. The stairs continue to another apartment upstairs.

“Those people are crazy,” Amanda said with a whisper as she struggled her key into the lock. “Like really old and really loud sometimes. I think he beats his wife. I don’t know. They’re just…weird.”

The door opens up to reveal a long hallway to the right and a spacious kitchen just a few steps from the entrance. She flips the hall light on to reveal paintings hung on the walls, a split bathroom and two doors at the end of the hall. The place is rather angular and smells of old apartment. You know what I mean? That dense nasal taste from people that have lived a while, and quite fully, in a cramped space. There were cracks in the walls and the hardwood floor was littered with paint splatters, burns and dust bunnies.

Amanda walked into the kitchen which was little more than a huge open arena with an ancient gas stove pressed up against the north wall and absolutely no counter space. What could be used for counter space was taken up by two huge bookshelves all lined with thick art books, books on ancient eroticism, women’s studies, poetry books and collections from authors I had never heard of.

To the left was an area with a sink and cabinet. The window over the sink, which was filled with dishes, overlooked a parking lot, right across the street from a funeral home. The green tile floor was speckled, erratic and well used. On the walls hung more art, some pictures and a high end mountain bike.

“That belongs to my room mate Max,” she said. “He’s gone for a few days hiking in Oregon. So we have the place to ourselves.”

Amanda grabbed a bottle of Oban scotch from the cabinet and poured two glasses. We clinked and sipped. I was getting a little drunk and wasn’t too sure where this date was heading. To be honest with you I kind of wanted to leave and go home. I was nervous, her place was kind of unsettling and, I know it sounds crazy, but I felt as if I was “cheating” on Malory. But the scotch was good and I didn’t want to blow it or seem like a jerk. So I followed her to her room down the hall.

The door on the right from hers was the extra space she rented out. She opened the door to reveal a tiny space, just enough for a bed, desk, small closet and TV perched on a boom box. The windows were curved and looked right over Columbus Ave and the upscale restaurants and cafes across the street. I noticed a fire escape as well which I thought was cool. I’ve always wanted to live in a place with a fire escape. It’s so new York. Although I never wanted to live in New York.

Eventually we get to her room, which, turns out, used to be the living room when she lived with her ex boyfriend.

“Fiancee actually,” Amanda informed me. “He just freaked out and…uh…I don’t wanna talk about it.”

It looked as if we both had emotional baggage to deal with. In a way that made me feel better. It showed me she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, which I had no interest in becoming, if indeed it even turned out that way. Maybe she was just looking for a friend. Friend with benefits perhaps? That made me even more distressed.

Her room was huge and sprawled with all sorts of stuff. It was longer than it was wide and packed with old bureaus, tables littered with art supplies, clothes and whatnot. At the far end I could see a huge chair next to one of the many windows. Just like the small bedroom, her room overlooked the hustle and noise of Columbus but with two at the end that viewed out over the park and famous church. Even for a Tuesday night it was noisy. Car lights shined through the windows, busses whizzed by every few minutes, horns honked, people whistled and blared conversation . Even with the windows closed and thick red drapes shut it was still too loud for me. Even louder than the place Jose and I shared. And that’s saying something!

We sat on her poofy queen sized bed and chatted. This time more about me. She seemed perplexed that I “dabbled” in college rather than get a full degree, that I have worked a thousand different jobs rather than focus on one career, that I loved heavy metal but hated Metallica’s new album, that I was an only child brought up by a gay man with a costume designer mom that I hadn’t seen in years and I wasn’t gay myself but did know all the lyrics to the “Xanadu” soundtrack. Not to mention I wasn’t too sure what my next move in life was going to be.

“But are you happy?” Amanda asked.

I sipped my scotch and thought about it. It was an easy answer.

“Yes. That’s just it,” I said, “I’m extremely happy. I don’t know why. I just…I just usually am.”

With that Amanda leaned in and gave me a kiss. A sweet and short one at first. When she pulled away to see that I was smiling and approved she moved in with a bigger one. We made out on the bed for a while. It was exhilarating and scary at the same time. Amanda got up and tuned off the overhead light, which was fine by me because I have always hated overhead lighting. We proceeded to make out more. Soon shoes were kicked off, then shirts taken off, then pants and zippers being fuddled with. Pretty soon we were naked and I was ecstatic to find her breasts very large and spectacular, which I could only really see with a faint streetlight beaming through the curtains or if a car went by with high beams on. The kissing turned to other parts of the body. Soon enough Amanda fished through her nightstand, produced a condom, rolled in on and invited me in.

Outside the cars honked and the world spun, but I wasn’t paying attention.

* * *

At this time in the story, two things were happening unexpectedly; Amanda and I were seeing each other on a regular basis and my job at the Bookshelf was taking a strange turn.

My history with jobs had never been lucrative or even that comfortable. To put it lightly, I am always looking for a steady income for a while before the hammer comes down and I am typing up resumes again and taking the next temporary means. The Bookshelf was no different.

In the post “dot com” era of San Francisco, where I once served as a freelance writer and copy assistant for a variety of start ups and whatnots, jobs just stopped coming. I was a gardener for a spell after a bad breakup and a house fire so hanging out in gardens and mowing lawns seemed like a decent respite. When the idea to move into a place with Jose I knew I had to make more cash. The Bookshelf was hiring and started me at a decent wage.

The job there had been going fine, a little quiet and boring at times, marred with the occasional insane customer to keep things interesting. Think now, the Bookshelf is located in the heart of the Haight/Ashbury district where runaways, burnouts and tourists are rampant. At least once a day we had to throw someone out for sleeping, attempting to steal (usually a Grateful Dead biography), shouting and, at one time, urinating in the Fantasy/Sci-Fi section. That at least kept us on our toes.

My boss was a man that had been in the retail book business a long time and was looking for a way out. The store was up for sale on a regular basis but no takers had even come close to what he was asking for. On many occasion you could see it in his eyes that he was done with the business and with us, which was a group of struggling writers and artists, students, weirdos and layabouts. I fit into a few of those categories, which didn’t sit well with my boss.

One afternoon myself and some of my co-workers were left alone to run the store, which was a rarity. My boss, a middle aged Jewish man that couldn’t sit still for one second and had seen and done it all apparently, who ironically wanted to sell the place, was always there. He opened the store, more often than not would close it as well. But on this afternoon he had a family function to attend and was gone.

There were two computers set up with internet in the store, one up front by the registers and one in the back for ordering and what have you. The rest were hooked up to what seemed like an ancient DOS system that was wired in for booksellers and knew every ISBN number on the planet. It worked great but the small thick monitors with glowing green icons made it look more like “Wargames” than a hip bookstore in the 20th century on one of the most famous streets on the planet.

It was a slow afternoon. One of my co-workers, a cartoonist and musician named Jon, who was even more baby faced than I and could drink me under the table, were up by the registers looking at Lowrider magazines and making fun of people as they walked by, which was always the torrent of folks I described earlier.

As the day wore on I took a chance and decided to surf the internet. This was a big no-no with our boss. The internet was only to be used for book ordering, looking up titles and authors or to access Amazon.com to obtain rare titles. That was it. Our boss really scorned at the idea that we might use it for other things, like checking email or watching videos on it, which we all did in secret with a lookout on “boss watch”. But this day I knew I was safe and logged onto a website called Homestarrunner.com, a site with a bunch of goofy cartoons and characters and clicked on a recent one featuring a character called Strong Bad, who wore a wrestling mask and boxing gloves, that answered viewers emails with skits and was my favorite waste of time.

A few seconds into the cartoon I heard a “What are you doing?” behind me. I quickly clicked the site off and turned around. I knew that voice. It was my boss.

Jon had gone to the back to do some work and I was left alone up front. I didn’t even hear him coming in or see him in my peripheral. He was a wizard, my boss, with invisibility powers I was sure of it. At the time, Harry Potter was becoming quite the sensation and I’m sure he got a few tips from those books. He must have some kind of cloak or something, I thought.

“Um, nothing,” I said knowing darn well I had been caught and would be punished. It’s a strange feeling that, and I tend to wrestle with a myriad of thoughts such as ‘no, everything’s okay’, ‘what job could I do next?’, ‘how do I get out of this one?’ and ‘screw you buddy, this job sucks anyway!’

My boss made that face of absolute disappointment and confusion as to what action to take. I had already had the reputation of being the “class clown” so to speak, always joking with customers and being quite lighthearted or being extremely easy going about my duties. I did a fairly good job it’s just that he didn’t know what to do with me. And, honestly, I didn’t know what to do with me either. So he just tried to find some words, which never came, and he quickly walked to the backroom. I stood there and rung up an occasional sale not knowing if I would have a job tomorrow. Or in 5 minutes.

The only thing that was my safety at that moment was the fact that it was late November which meant Christmas was just around the corner and he would need all the help he could get.

Amanda and I were doing okay, better than I had thought. She was a little nutty though, which sometimes set me at ill ease. In her nightstand she had a huge collection of sex toys and vibrators. One such toy was a small mouth made out of a strange rubber that fit over your thumb and index finger. It was pretty weird looking, sort of like the lips of a gnome or something set in latex to give you “oral” pleasure. Plus she hung out with a variety of pretentious artists, all of which were heavily into drugs and open relationships it seemed, which didn’t make me feel secure at all. I mean, there were plenty of nights that we were apart. Was she screwing other guys or “at work” like she always said? It’s true, if she wasn’t at Vesuvios or teaching art, she was sometimes in her studio out in Oakland working on stuff. Her free time was spent with me, which was good. Sex with Amanda was sort of like being in a porn, which I had always wanted. She had huge boobs, she screamed and talked dirty, she had all those sex toys and she would sometimes get “dressed up” for me and even a few times we had scenarios and games. That was pretty much a first for me.

Amanda was sweet though. Very loving and caring and made great risotto. We also got a lot of looks from people when we went out. Usually her 70s inspired outfits included fur lined jackets, knee high boots, long curly chestnut hair reaching her usually low cut shirts garnered second glances from both guys and girls alike. I felt like things were going pretty good with me.

The Bookshelf in December is a crazy mess of business. After Thanksgiving there isn’t a day that goes by that we aren’t hustling from the time it opens to when it closes. I am scheduled almost everyday and am usually too exhausted after my shift but to have a few beers and watch a movie. Amanda is the same with the bar. Union Square, the retail hub of San Francisco, is just a few blocks down and when folks are done shopping they come to North Beach for dinner and drinks. We both at this time and very busy but making a decent amount of money and spend our days off in bed.

The holidays roll around and Amanda takes a few days off to visit her family in Arizona. I decide to stay in San Francisco since I not only have Amanda’s apartment to myself, seeing as the room mate at the time, some tall painter guy who drinks cheap whiskey out of plastic bottles and blasts hip hop early in the morning, is gone as well but my apartment as well seeing as Jeremy was off visiting family in Minnesota. The bookstore closes on Christmas and I spend the day talking on the phone to friends and family, riding my bike on the near empty streets and eating dinner, Christmas Story style, in one of my favorite Chinese restaurants.

The day after Christmas I arrive at the Bookshelf. I’m scheduled to open and stand by the door waiting for my boss to arrive to let us both in. No one has a key but him and you have to wait for him to show up or come from the backroom to unlock the front door. This day was different. One of the assistant managers, Casey, a tall lanky lady that resembles Carole King, opens the front door.

“Hey Casey,” I say a bit surprised. “What are you doing here?”

She rarely opens the store. It’s usually me and one other person that opens the place with our boss. The rest come throughout the day and to relieve us at night.

“Hi Mark. Yeah,” she says with a serious voice, “he wants to see you in the back.”

This confuses me a bit. I walk in, head for the back room and find my boss sitting at his desk looking upset.

“Hey there,” I say trying to sound lighthearted. “What’s up?”

“Sit down.”

I take my backpack off and do so.

“Look,” he says with his hands clasped in front of his mouth, “it’s just not working out. The issue with the internet, the customer complaints, the complaints from your co-workers…I just don’t know what to do. I’m going to have to let you go.”

And there it was. My boss wanted to get rid of me, obviously, before Christmas but with the rush he needed all able bodied employees on deck. It would be too much to try and train someone as lines are cued from the front register all the way back to the children’s section. I knew about the internet, but customer and employee complaints? That was news to me. When I tried to confront him on that he just brushed it away and told me my check with a small bonus would be arriving soon. Knowing there was nothing I could do I grabbed my backpack, stood up and walked out. Casey said nothing to me as I passed and gave her a shrug. I opened the front door and walked home.

Amanda was very supportive about me being unemployed. With a little bit of savings I had from my dot com days and house fire settlement, along with that last check, I cruised for about a month. Basically I just hung out at Amanda’s waiting for her to get home, watching cable and writing in my notebook and hanging out at the Crowbar and the 540 Club.

The 540 Club was near my apartment, on Clement Street which was mainly filled with Asian markets and restaurants but also boasted a lot of hip restaurants and Irish bars. The 540 Club used to be a rundown old man bum bar a few years ago. When it shut down none of us were even slightly surprised. A few months later is reopens and is run by a bunch of rock and roll hipsters and the once dive bar is transformed into a clean upscale space with art on the walls, a DJ booth, crazy movies projected on a screen above the bar and a definitely younger crowd. When I wasn’t at Amanda’s or the Crowbar I was at the 540 Club.

I had gotten to know the owner of the 540, a soft talking guy with heavy lidded eyes and iron liver named Jamie and the manager and head bartender, Brooks, who was a thin girl with more energy and good nature than a magic hyperactive squirrel. A few of my buddies hung out at the 540 so I was there more and more.

One night at the 540 Club, a bunch of us, including Jamie and Brooks, were at the bar, drinking silently as the DJ spun a collection of lazy indie rock, minimalist electro and whatever it took to get us yawning. It had always been a dream of mine to be a DJ, but a dork like me with a gigantic Metal collection couldn’t exactly land a prime job at a hot club or radio station. But it was something I knew I could do and was a bit envious of the skinny guy manning the decks and putting us all to sleep.

“The things I do for friends,” Jamie said making light of the dull music wafting over the almost empty bar.

“Yeah, I thought you said this guy had the best music collection ever,” said Thor, another Metal loving buddy of mine who is an amateur skateboader and covered in tattoos.

“He does. He’s just not playing them!”
With that Jamie orders us a round of Kamikaze shots. We shoot them and chase it with our drinks, mine being a tall glass of PBR. I don’t know what possessed me, maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the boredom, maybe it was because I needed a job and needed something to happen in my life, but as I sat there listening to the wilted sounds of blah I got a brilliant idea.

“Hey,” I said getting the attention of everyone, “have you even considered doing a Metal night here?”

That question definitely woke everyone up. Thor nodded his head in approval and uttered a “Yeah.” The couple of other guys, some of Jamie’s friends, all laughed and said “yes!” and “awesome!” Brooks jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Jamie hit his hand on the bar and said, “Absolutely ! That’s a great idea. When can you make this happen?”

I had never done any kind of self promotion before, so I wasn’t sure. My reputation for being the resident “Metal guy” had given me an opportunity, seemingly, to DJ in one of my favorite bars. I wrote for metal magazines so I always had new stuff coming in the mail for free. Plus I was the San Francisco street team organizer for Relapse Records, one of the greatest independent metal record labels ever, so even more stuff came from that. Combined with my already bulging collection I knew I could pull it off. Best thing too is that the 540 Club was equipped with CD players seeing as all of my records burned in the house fire. So within an hour we had set a date, two weeks from then, a Saturday night, and Jamie would take care of all newspaper advertising and promotion. All I would have to do is put up a few flyers and show up. I went home that night too excited to sleep. I stayed up all night drinking beer and blasting CDs and writing down ideas. I was in Metal Nerd heaven!

* * *

The next two weeks went by pretty fast. My savings was growing pretty thin and since I had gotten fired I was denied unemployment. This meant I had to get a job.

The landscaping company I used to garden for, Ground Breakers, hired me back. The day after I called I was back in my jeans and boots and driving around the nicer neighborhoods of San Francisco clipping hedges, mowing lawns, planting perennials and the best part of all using the leaf blower. Before I got paid to do garden work I always hated those guys walking around the streets blasting hot air and dead leaves around with some kind of noisy Ghostbusters tool. But after your first leaf blow you get hooked. I did anyway. Sort of a sick “man over nature” thing. It’s complicated.

Amanda and I were doing alright too. Although at this point I was kind of over her weird friends, odd work hours and overly demanding sexual needs. She was insatiable, which should be a good thing, but sometimes after a long day I can only go so far. After three times I’m usually so drained, in all aspects, that all I want to do is grab a bite to eat and collapse. Most times that was just a warm up. Amanda was very particular when it came to her orgasms and sometimes, if the mood just wasn’t right or I wasn’t aggressive enough or hard enough it just wouldn’t happen. A cow can only give so much milk before it has to rest, eat and fill its utters back up. You see where I’m going with this, right?

Sometimes I would wake up with her going down on me.

“Good, I thought this would wake you up,” she might say. If I failed to become aroused she would get upset, sometimes to the level of going through her sex toy archive and pleasing herself as I pretend to be falling asleep. It’s not that I didn’t find her unattractive or that I didn’t want to do it with her it was just…well… See I love pastrami sandwiches but if I had them several times everyday I would get a little bored. That mixed with her pseudo bohemian attitude and pretentious art buddies that literally shat on canvases and wrote poetry about “my lovers skin” and crap I was beginning to back away a bit.

It also occurred to me that I was still not fully over Malory. I just couldn’t get her out of my head. The city was a beacon of reminders of all the good times we had together. Not to mention the fact that I had lived in San Francisco for ten years and was ready to move on. In a way, I sort of planned on my metal night at the 540 Club to be a send off for me. It was time to get into something new.

The Saturday of my 540 show arrived with me waking up full of butterflies of excitement. In a few short hours I would be spinning rock and metal in one of the best bars in the city and I had no idea how it was going to turn out or what I was doing.

Jamie had put ads in the local papers and called the night “Run To The Hills”, after the Iron Maiden song. He had a picture of a classic SS Chevy with a hot 70s looking girl with long straight hair and bell bottoms leaning up against it with the words “with DJ Metal Mark” along with the location, times and all that. Jamie had called me up as he was making the ad and asked me if I wanted to use just my name or a DJ name. As I sat there eating dinner and watching Roller Boogie in my room the only thing I could think of was DJ Metal Mark.

“That works,” he said and hung up. Two days later the ad was in the big free weeklies, the Chronicle and all over the internet. I myself put flyers up at all the major record and music stores, tattoo parlors, skate shops, hipster hangouts and every available lamp post and wall space downtown. Sure it was a strange concept for a cool bar like the 540 to hold a “Metal Night” but we were all banking on it being fun and unique enough for folks to come out and check it out. It was also on a Saturday night and we had to contend with the rest of San Francisco for some business. I didn’t really care to tell you the truth. My friends said they would show up with a bunch of people and that was enough for me.

I had also purchased a fog machine from a guy that was selling all of his old DJ equipment. When I tested it out his entire garage was soon filled with a thick white fog which meant the 540 would be engulfed. I also bought a black light and strobe at a head shop, some skull candle holders at a thrift store left over from Halloween, a headstone from a theater supply place and painted my name “DJ Metal Mark” in florescent red paint (dripping like blood of course) and dusted off my old Iron Maiden “Piece of Mind” banner and Castle Grayskull playset. I was ready. I mean, hey, if you’re going to be spinning metal all night at a popular nightspot you might as well go all the way.

I was set to play from 10pm to 2am. But not knowing how everything was going to look or how to even operate the DJ equipment I got to the 540 Club at 8. At the time I had an old Toyota truck that I kept parked in an abandoned garage near the beach that was used by others for the same, seeing as I hated parking tickets, gas prices, traffic and trying to find a parking spot with that thing. Jeremy had hipped me to it as some of his friends use the garage to store old dunebuggies and motorcycles and said that as long as I occupied a spot way in the back and promised not to touch any of the other vehicles that I could park there. I used my truck only when I was going out of town.

But now I was using it to haul all of my DJ stuff and props. I double parked outside of the bar and started loading in my stuff. On the front door was a big poster of the same ad Jamie had designed. I suddenly felt really cool.
Inside there was a smattering of people, some of which I knew, who all cheered and yelled “Metal Mark!” as I brought in all the stuff. Brooks and Jamie just laughed when they saw all of the goofy props. They were totally amazed at the extent I went to try and put on a show.

“Is that…,” this regular Matt said to me as I was unloading. “Is that…fucking Castle Grayskull?”

As a kid I was a huge Masters Of The Universe collector but as time went by most of my figures had disappeared. For some reason Castle Grayskull survived and I thought it appropriate to bring it along, for both kitsch and the fact that it’s-a-castle-that-looks-like-a-skull purposes. After unloading I parked the truck, which took almost a half hour, and went back inside.

After Jamie gave me a quick tutorial on the equipment I set up. I put the fog machine inside Castle Grayskull, opened the “jaw bridge” and aimed it out so it looks like the castle is spewing fog. I lit the candles, put up the Iron Maiden banner, turned on the black light and strobe and put out some CDs that came in the mail for review that I didn’t want for people to take home. That’s right…I had giveaways too.

I found my playlist and began organizing my CDs. Jamie arrived with some people in tow with a beer and a shot of Jagermeister.

“Here’s to Metal Mark and the first metal night at the 540! Cheers!”

With that we all did a shot followed by shouts and applause and death metal growls, the kind where you sound a bit like Cookie Monster. Pretty soon the house lights went down and with a check of my watch I saw that it was time to start.

First song up was Sammy Hagar’s “Heavy Metal”, followed by Quiet Riot and “Bang Your Head”. Because of my vast knowledge of the music and skill with sound equipment from film and theater work past I found that I was pretty good with mixing. Once I had mastered the crossfader and sound levels I was soon in the throes of the show. It all came so easy to me. I knew that the end of this Neurosis song would perfectly segue into a Saxon tune; Melvins into Slayer; Ratt into Thin Lizzie; Metallica into Krokus and so forth. People were coming up to me and making requests, most of which I could comply. The fog machine was working so well all I saw before me was a darkened bar and some moving figures through a cloud of artificial brume. The strobe would click on and off with a touch of my foot, usually when some double kick drums would machine gun through the house system. People were buying me beers and shots. Some were hanging out watching me work. With my head down usually trying to find the next disc and looking at my playlist, it felt as if I was some kind of professional. I moved from disc to disc with ease. Some songs got a loud response while others got a “Hey who is this?” from a curious patron. Maybe I had found my calling? Maybe this was the opportunity I had been looking for.
After about two hours of playing Jamie approached me. As Queensryche’s “Jet City Woman” blasted he said into my ear: “I just want to let you know we are at maximum capacity! There are people outside waiting to get in! You’re doing a great fucking job! This is awesome!”

My heart swooned right then and there. A silly idea I had was actually working. Maybe if this worked out I would have to stay in San Francisco.

A little after midnight Amanda showed up with some friends. She was a big Cream and Led Zepplin fan so I cued up “I’m So Glad” and “Whole Lotta Love” especially for her. That got me another free beer and some kisses. Her friends looked as if they had stepped into a torture dungeon. This was loud heavy metal and alcohol, not folk music and organic chai tea. So for them I played Venom’s “Black Metal” and Napalm Death’s “Twist the Knife Slowly”. Just to throw a little more salt on their wounded souls.

Before long Brooks ran up to me and said “Last call” which meant I had to start wrapping it up. I played a last few requests and finished up with Europe’s “Final Countdown” which I always thought would be an appropriate last song.

As Europe played at half volume and I began to gather up my things the house lights came up. From the last stream of fog I shot out at the beginning of the song, the 540 Club looked like a warzone. Tables were scrambled and thrown everywhere, chairs were overturned, people stumbled around throwing the metal horns and screaming the obligatory “wooo!” The floor was slick with beer and sweat. Amanda sat alone at one of the tables sipping a cocktail.

“What happened?” I said sitting down next to her.
.
“Oh my god baby…this place was crazy,” she said a little impressed and afraid at the same time. “This place was totally full. The fire department had to come.”

“The fire department?” I shrieked. “That’s awesome!”

“Yeah. This place was a madhouse, “ she said. “You’re either going to be in big trouble or you have a new job.”

Eventually “The Final Countdown” ended and the bar was quiet, let for a few loud talkers and clinking glasses from the frantic bartender and her barback, a skinny punk rock looking kid I had never met before, as they attempted to clean the mountain of dirty dishes. I stood up on the chair.

“Thank you everybody!” I shouted to the bar. “I just wanted to say cheers for showing up! This was a major blast! I hope to do it again for you soon! Again, thanks and…metal rules!”

A few people applauded, some weren’t listening but for the most part I felt as if most people had a good time.

Amanda left and I started to clean and pack up. A couple of regulars and metal heads that made the trek out to see me came up and chatted about music, what my plans were for other shows and to thank me. It made me feel really good.

That’s when Jamie came up and handed me a stack of 20s.

“No wait,” I told him. “I just did this for fun man. I got to play metal and drink for free. This is like therapy for me.”

Jamie put his hand on my shoulder and looked me deep in the eyes.

“Dude, Mark,” he said. “We broke records tonight. Other than our theme parties a DJ has never had people to be turned away or on a wait. You earned this. Lets make this a regular thing.”

He then hugged me and I could tell he was a drunk as me. As he walked away I quickly counted a hundred dollars. I pocketed it and finished packing up.

After another shot and beer I left the 540 Club feeling higher than I have in my whole life. Even the times when I smoked weed and did mushrooms those few times have I ever come close to how I felt then. My neck hurt, my ears were numb and I couldn’t be happier. I loaded up the truck, popped a few breath mints and drove home. Once I had everything unloaded I crashed hard on the bed and slept. In dreamtime, I thanked the almighty gods of Metal. Thanks guys!

* * *

At the same time, Amanda and I were growing farther and farther apart, but this was entirely due to me. She seemed blissful in our relationship and didn’t care that I was “busy” a lot and couldn’t get aroused as much because I “was so tired”. Here I was with a beautiful and busty lady, a talented artist, someone that I actively pursued, but for some reason just wasn’t into it anymore. I kept a stiff upper lip though and smiled and held hands in public and made dinner plans and bought flowers on occasion and the whole bit. It just started to feel forced is all.

The gardening gig was wearing me down too. The late winter months were filled with rain and fog so most days I came home wet only to take a hot shower and put my clothes in the dryer everyday. Business was slow too so the money wasn’t coming in as it once did.

I had also come across a few pages of a book I had meant to write. It was a fictionalized account of my adventures during the dot com boom where I worked a variety of jobs, had a variety of room mates and a strange variety of relationships. Reading the outline and some text I had almost forgotten that I had “dated” a upper management yuppie girl that had a huge apartment in Pacific Heights that took me to some of the most exclusive spots in the city for a two weeks. How did I manage that? The book had a lot of promise and I wondered if a freelance heavy metal journalist and now DJ could pull off an actual novel. How does one go about writing a book?

That’s when the phone rang.

It was my Dad. He and I had a very strong relationship since he was the one that brought me up. My parents divorced when I was four and my mom, still a rather unstable fashion student at the time, couldn’t handle me so the court handed the rights over to my dad, who was a fairly unstable artist and actor. He took various jobs to get a steady income in but eventually had to take a job with the phone company to make ends meet. Back then we lived in Los Angeles but when I turned 12 he moved us back to my hometown of Carmel where he got a job managing a high end art gallery and doing regional theater. Mom worked for Bob Mackie for years until he filed for bankruptcy sending her back home to Wilmington Delaware to take care of her ailing mom and to do costumes for the opera society there. Visits with mom were rare but my dad and I were very close. Even when he came out to me that he was gay when I was at the peak of my puberty and masturbating to Russ Meyer movies I didn’t care. He’s my dad. What are you gonna do?

“Hi honey,” he said. “How are things?”

“Oh good I guess. It’s raining a lot. No big news to report.”

“Well the reason I am calling is this. Next month Richard is leaving for a few months to take care of a very sick friend up in Montana and I was wondering if you wanted to come by for a while and visit?”

My dad met his partner, Richard, a once prominent doctor in Monterey, CA who recently retired, about a year after he came out to me. Richard was my dad’s first gay relationship and, as it turns out, his only. They were complete opposites, which makes it work I suppose. And I knew the friend he was talking about. An old college buddy and ex boyfriend of Richard’s, Miles, was sick with HIV. Being a substitute teacher in Belt Montana didn’t mean huge paychecks so Richard was essentially his main source for medical care.

“Oh man. I’d love to. Let’s definitely plan on that,” I answered.

MY Dads (as I like to call them) moved from fog strewn Monterey to Palm Springs where all good gay retired men seem to end up a few  years ago. They had a pretty big place with a pool and Jacuzzi and an always stocked bar. When I was in school in Santa Barbara I would as often as possible take the long drive out to see them as often as I could to drink good booze and eat food that didn’t come in ramen or burrito form.

“How’s Amanda,” he asked.

“Oh she’s great. You know…sexy and crazy as ever.”

“You guys doing okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine. You know…we’re fine.”

“That’s good.”

My dad knew about my metal night at the 540 but really didn’t say too much except “oh that’s exciting.” He always tolerated my metal madness somehow, even in high school with the bad hair, worse grades and the fact that I hid albums such as Slayer’s “Hell Awaits” and Venom’s “Possessed” so he didn’t think I was going all psycho Satan worshiping on him. I just liked the music is all. Plus I played a lot of Dungeons & Dragons back then and metal was the only music to incorporate swords and sorcery in their lyrics. Man I’m a dork.

We talked for a bit before hanging up, with no real solid plans for me to come and stay with him. As I walked into the kitchen to retrieve my work clothes Jeremy comes out of his room and approaches me.

“Hey man. What’s up?” he says grabbing some juice from the refrigerator.

“Not much. Dryin’ the old work clothes again. What’s going on?”

Jeremy was just standing there leaning against the wall sipping his juice. He looked perplexed about something.

“Hey, uh…I just wanted to tell you that, um…I might be moving out of here soon.”

I stopped folding my permanently dirty work jeans and looked at him.

“Really,” I said. “Like…when are you going to move out?”

“End of next month. I’m actually moving into the small apartment above my studio. It’s kind of shitty but its cheap and I can work twice as much without having to constantly drive back here.”

Jeremy’s editing studio was in the middle of nowheres-ville in South San Francisco. I went there once to help edit this bad movie I made with Jose for this 48 hour film challenge where you had to make a 10 minute movie in two days with the given genre and characters provided by the festival committee. It was really a stupid film. Something involving stoners and UFOs (seeing as we got sci fi and some character named Jacksauce) that got laughs but no real accolades. Literally there were no stores, no scenery, no nothing where his studio is located. Just abandoned homes and empty lots. It would be like living in some post nuclear holocaust town.

“Wow,” I said. “It seems as if something is trying to give me a sign perhaps.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh nothing. So what’s going to happen to the apartment?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess you could get a room mate or whatever. Is that what you want to do?”

Right then and there I decided that was not something I wanted to do. The apartment was fine but it was in the Presidio which meant it was part of the old military base and run by ultra conservative twats that did credit checks every six months and had extreme noise ordinances along with military police patrolling of the complexes. Sure we were right on Baker Beach but we were in the middle of the forest with nothing nearby and I couldn’t play my stereo loud when Jeremy was gone.

I found it very strange that just a few moments ago my dad called and offered an extended visit because his partner was going to be gone for a few months. It then came to me:

It was time to leave.

After ten years in San Francisco I had lived in almost every neighbor hood, dated every kind of girl, worked too many jobs, bounced from one room to the next and had a stalled career as a writer. It felt as if San Francisco and the great magnet of the universe was sending me a message: “It was fun, but it’s time to get out while the gettin’ is good!”

Honestly the only thing making me hesitate was DJing at the 540 Club. That was something I was going to miss the most. But, hey, it was just one night, a fluke and maybe something else will open up for me out there. I’m sure Palm Springs needs DJs and freelance journalists. Maybe I’ll move back to LA. I grew up there, I have friends there. Sure, why not?

I actually became excited at the notion of dropping everything to move away, stay rent free and reinvent myself. I had never done anything like that before. I always followed a path. College then a big city for opportunities; never had I risked everything to follow a dream. Yes, this is a sign! And I took that sign to mean “your potential has yet to be achieved.” Or something corny like that.

The obvious big factor was Amanda. How would she take this? I wasn’t “breaking up” with her so to speak, but in the abstraction of the situation I was. After the breakup with Malory I seriously considered moving away. How could I live in a city where every single street and neighborhood reminds me in some way of that time with her? Amanda was just a bonus round before the final challenge it seemed.

The next night I took Amanda out for dinner and drinks. As we sat there in the Crowbar I told her my plans.

“What? I’m sorry…what?!”

“Please darling,” I said trying to hush Amanda’s increasing volume. “Try to understand…”

“Don’t call me darling right now Mark,” she fumed. “This is bullshit. You’re fucking moving away to fucking ‘find yourself’?”

“No…it’s not really like that, it’s…”

“Oh shit. You’re an asshole.” Amanda then began to cry. I quickly got up, paid our tab and asked that we continue chatting back at her place. She angrily got up, stormed out and walked quickly a few paces ahead of me. I followed behind, not looking forward to the conversation ahead.

In her bedroom there was a collision of emotions. Sometimes screaming, sometimes weeping, all coming out of Amanda. I just sat there on the bed trying to explain what my intentions were.

“It’s just too weird that all this happened at once,” I said. “Plus the job sucks and we’re, I mean, you and I…”

“What?”, she sputtered angrily though tears. “You and I are what?”

“I just think we should, you know…take a break. It got too heavy too fast. You have your friends and art and I have one friend and a talent I barely use. I just need to get away for awhile. That’s all.”

I stood up and held her upper arms, looking deep into her now red but still very brown eyes. “That’s all.”

I could feel Amanda calming down a bit. After a few more reassurances that it wasn’t the end of us, just a pause, she finally relaxed and we ended up falling asleep with our arms around one another. Still, somewhere inside, I knew that something was going to happen and I just didn’t know what to make of all this.

* * *

By the end of January I had all my stuff in boxes and was ready to spend an undisclosed amount of time with my dad. The notion of me hanging out with him for a long time kind of made me nervous. We hadn’t lived together for over fifteen years and we had both changed dramatically. He was thrilled to have me stay for a while. Even though I visited as much as I could and called once a week he still always said how much he misses me and all that. Plus being alone in that big stale house with thousands of curios and antiques could make anyone feel like they’re living in a museum and can’t touch anything. Very clean and sterile their home. I could see having a 35 year old struggling writer metal head living with you after years of bunking with an older professional, rather proper retired doctor could be a breath of fresh air. Still, at my age and current condition, I was worried that we would be at each others throats within a week.

The situation with Amanda was fine yet marred with an overall tension. We still went out, had sex, did “couple things” but her mood changed from supportive girlfriend to “in a few days I will essentially be single”. She was more aloof, didn’t care what my plans were that day and sometimes went out without telling me what she was up to. I tried to be strong and assure her that everything was going to be okay but realistically I was moving away for who knows how long with the chance that I might not come back.

One thing that Amanda did to insure my return was to provide a free storage space for my stuff. Her studio out in Oakland was a cavernous space in one of those live/work buildings in some industrial wasteland. She actually rented out a quarter of her studio (just like her home which I always found interesting) to another artist that painted and didn’t need much space. Amanda did huge installations and had materials strewn all over the large concrete room. There was a corner behind a shelf of her stuff that she said I could use. There I stuffed my antique writing desk, office chair, full sized mattress, stereo, TV, box of clothes and books I knew I wouldn’t need and bins of toys ranging from my childhood Star Wars collection to bits and pieces of crap that would someday have value but now just came with a happy meal.

The Star Wars collection was the big one. My retirement fund as I called it. I had boxes of figures from all three original movies, the Millennium Falcon, X Wing and TIE fighters, various pieces from playsets and an original lightsabre. I hid those boxes way in the back and covered them with a thick blanket to try and thwart any thievery.

It was rough getting it all in since I could only take so much in my truck and the elevator leading up to the fifth floor where her studio lay could only handle so much weight. But after a day or two it was all in there, outside of the storage bins that I had purchased to hold the necessities I was taking with me to Palm Springs back at my apartment. It was all really happening, and it was happening quite fast.

My bosses at the landscaping company, a nice middle aged hippie-ish couple, told me that there would always be work for me if I decide to return. My last job with them was sort of like something out of a bad comedy. The housewife left alone kept offering me lemonade and actually offered her shower if I felt inclined to do so.

“Since you get so dirty and sweaty,” she actually said. As far as fifty year old, fake tan and nails with enough cosmetic surgery on her face and chest lady goes I guess she wasn’t too bad looking. But on the other hand, I just couldn’t stop laughing.

As the time of my departure got closer, Amanda got even more needy and strange. Her extremes of “do whatever you want” and “please don’t go I need you” started to really weigh on me. To tell you the truth, the days before I left I was struggling internally to the level of almost sheer panic. What the heck was I doing? Moving in with my gay dad in Palm Springs to look for a new place in LA or something while attempting to pen my first novel about all the stupid jobs I had in the 90s while also looking for some kind of job to support me? Totally insane. No way. There were some nights that I just lay awake, drinking beer and listening to stuff like Dead Can Dance and Cocteau Twins, watching the sun come up because of the internal panic wouldn’t let up.

My last night in San Francisco I had drinks with some friends at the Crowbar. Amanda was there, of course, along with Jose, Sean and a few others from the bookstore, some of their friends and even Thor from the 540 showed up with some of his stoner skateboard buddies. It occurred to me that I had, really, only one close friend in San Francisco: Jose. The rest were work buddies and their friends. Amanda was a different case. I really wasn’t sure what she was at this juncture. All my old best friends from college who moved to San Francisco around the same time have all moved away. All married, all working on families, all of them scattered around California and parts of New York.

It was now my turn.

That night I slept over at Amanda’s since my room was totally empty. When the alarm went off at 5am she insisted we do it one last time. It was rough since I am not an early morning person but with some persuasion, I managed. It was bizarre because she had tears in her eyes the whole time. At the end she even sobbed a bit. That’s a first. I always wanted to make a girl cry from sex because she would know right then and there that it would never get any better than that, or better than me. This was different. This wasn’t crying from being overcome with emotions. This was just bummed out.

Afterwards I called a cab and we both rode over to my place, the whole time sitting in silence with her hand gripping mine like a vice. The morning fog was thick and the heat from the drivers vents was almost unbearable; so was his music which was like some kind of east Asian disco. Eventually we made it to my apartment and went in.

Jeremy was awake and on his way to the studio. We said our goodbyes, hugged and he left. The three big bins on my bedroom floor, filled with clothes, toiletries, notebooks, some essential CDs, a new book and various personal items, were soon loaded into the back of the truck. I locked the front door behind me, stuck the key under the mat, walked downstairs to meet Amanda and I drove her home.

“Call me as soon as you get there,” she said. “No, fucking call me from the road.”

“I will.” I didn’t have a cell phone, I didn’t want one, in fact I absolutely hate phones. It’s a long story, but I figured when I fuel up or grab food I’d give her a ring.

When we got back to her place there was nowhere to park. I double parked on the busy street and we kissed and hugged outside of her front entrance, that black ancient doorway next to the Italian restaurant. Cars and busses all honked in protest of my parking decision, but I didn’t care. As we kissed and said goodbye and “I love you” I knew that there was no turning back. Here I was, an insecure grown man-child leaving one of the best cities in the world, a DJ opportunity, my quiet place by the beach, my best friend and a woman who was essentially a fantasy of mine come to life. It was madness. But something inside me was trying to punch it’s way out.

I got back in the truck and drove off, waving to Amanda and trying not to get into an accident from all of the morning traffic on Columbus. I soon made it to the freeway, then on to the I-80 which leads me to the I-5, which is a straight lonely shot South to LA and Palm Springs. I stuck in a mix tape of power ballads and blasted it.

I I I.

Let me tell you, that drive is long and boring. I stopped at every rest stop to call Amanda and my dad using a phone card I had purchased right before leaving San Francisco. Rest stops scare the living crap out of me. Have you seen the level of humanity that goes there? I am always convinced that one day, as I urinate into those stainless steel piss troughs that some guy is gonna side up next to me, watch me do my business then stab me after he, I don’t know, ‘fondles’ me or something. It’s just a phobia. Too many bad late night horror movies I guess.

I reach my dad’s place afer 10 hours of driving. Their house is located in the middle of some kind of gay suburbia of Palm Springs. Not that my dads are anywhere near the level of stereotypical homosexuals, in fact they are quite the opposite looking very normal and not involved with “the scene” at all, it’s just that the houses are so well kept and I did pass a few rainbow flags. That’s all.

My dad and Richard welcomed me with open arms and excitement. I could see in the living room Richard’s bags all packed and piled up. We all went outside to get my stuff from the back of the truck.

“Oh dear,” my dad said, “you shouldn’t leave your stuff exposed out here like this.”

“Yeah dad,” I said, “like this neighborhood is a high crime area. Your neighbors just cant wait to get a hold of my Hawaiian shirts and doom metal CDs.”

“Oh lord,” he said with a roll of the eyes. “‘Doom metal’? Really Mark. When are you going to get over that stuff?”

“Never!”

The three of us unloaded the bins and set them on the back patio, seeing as the living room was full of Richard’s stuff and I couldn’t move into the other bedroom till he left tomorrow. I always found it funny that they slept in separate rooms, but after hearing Richard snore one night when I was visiting from school I understood. It was like that crappy movie Earthquake with surround sound and buzzers under your seat to make it feel like the whole theater was rumbling. That boy could cause an avalanche. For real.

It didn’t take long for the cocktails came out. About 8pm we went out for dinner and when we got home I just collapsed on the couch, which was all sheeted up and ready for me. The nagging voice that kept repeating “call Amanda” wouldn’t shut up. But as I crawled into deep slumber the other voice said, “eh, just call first thing in the morning.”

Around 7am I was awoken with the phone ringing. My dad being a seriously early riser answered. Barely being awake I couldn’t make out what was said, but before I knew it I heard my name and the phone receiver was in my face.

“Hey dorkus,” my dad said in an almost whisper. “It’s Amanda. You forgot to call her last night.”

I buried my head in the pillow and grabbed the phone. Through the corner of my mouth I let out a regretful “Hello?”

“Fucking asshole! Why didn’t you call me last night?”

She sounded upset. Here I was 700 miles away, basically broken up with her and still she insists on me calling and checking in. Then I thought “did we break up? Not really…” and remembered that all my stuff and toys are taking up a corner in her art studio. I felt kind of bad.

“Sorry,” I said perking up. “I was so tired I just forgot and crashed. It was a long drive.”

That seemed to sort of do the trick. I told her about my trip and what’s going on and she told me how much she missed me and all that. Apparently she hadn’t been to bed. I was wondering why she called so early.

“What were you doing?” I had to ask.

“Oh, Benji and the guys had a get together last night at their place which turned into some kind of raging booze and blow party. Before I knew it was six o’ clock in the morning and I came home. Then I realized that you hadn’t called. I just got worried is all.”
That was it! I knew something was strange about her voice. She was drunk and probably high. She told me she did cocaine now and then, which always worried me. I couldn’t even smoke weed anymore. I’m already tired, hungry and paranoid, why do I need a drug to enhance that? But coke? There’s no way.

“Well everything is fine,” I said trying not to sound put off by her art friend’s drug party. “Let me call you later after we drive Richard to the airport.”

“OK. I love you.”

I wanted to say that too with some conviction but I honestly had to fake it.

“I love you too.” I then hung up and lay there, realizing that I had a hangover.

* * *

Later that afternoon the house was abuzz with activity. Last minute packing and checking the house. Making sure Richard’s medical supplies were in order. Making sure his ticket was secure. Was everyone wearing the right shoes? What about the credit card…has that been paid? All sorts of manic panic from two middle aged gay men, so I sat in the TV room watching Reading Rainbow and sipping coffee until we were ready to go.

Eventually all was well and we loaded up the awaiting taxi with five huge suitcases, a overstuffed duffle bag, a medical kit and a fancy carry on bag. The poor cab driver was sweating in the noontime desert heat. But I helped what I could to which the man’s eyes thanked me in spades.

Then there were kisses and hugs and I love you’s and call me’s and I miss you already’s. Pretty soon, Richard, who towers over my dad at a good 6 ½ feet tall, scrunched into the backseat and was off to the airport. My dad got kind of weepy.

“He’s such a good guy,” he said. “Oh well. It’s for a good cause.”

“Yeah man,” I said. “The best.”

We watched the cab drive off, waving the whole time. Then we just stood there looking at the empty road and lonely facade of other sun bleached cookie cutter homes.

“Well…what time is it?” My dad asked checking his watch. “It’s one thirty. Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“I could use a drink too. C’mon.”

With that we got dressed and headed off to some dark air cooled gay friendly restaurant where we ate expensive sandwiches and I got drunk on late afternoon margaritas. This was going to be interesting, my time in Palm Springs.

My dad took to sleeping in Richard’s room since his room was equipped with the computer. My plan was to write at least ten to twenty pages a day. But as my dad took a nap and I was supposed to get started on my book, my fingers went to the internet and various sites with ladies exposing large breasts and I knocked one off in my father’s bedroom. This made me giggle and blush all at the same time. I quickly deleted any links and files from my soft core porn journey and crawled into bed. His bed.

Too much change at once. Too many goodbyes. I couldn’t even begin to think how to start the book. So I laid there in stillness and let my mind do all of the activity.

IV.

The days in Palm Springs quickly became routine. My dad would wake up at the crack of dawn, something he has always done, even when I was a kid, a carry over from his time in the Army I believe, and make coffee and smoke. He would then go back to bed a few hours later after reading the paper. That’s when I usually got up, somewhere close to 9 or 10 in the morning. I would drink coffee, flip through the dull and conservative Desert Times trying to find some kind of activity for the day to distract me from me writing a book or looking for a place to live or find a job. Usually there was nothing so I would watch bad daytime TV on their huge flat screen, sipping coffee and waiting for my dad to get up.

When he did we usually went to lunch or something then back to the house where I would nap only to wake up and email friends and sort of look at apartments in LA and sort of look for jobs there and in Palm Springs. I had some money saved, but not a lot. My dads have some money, but not a lot. Now that I was in my 30s I felt weird mooching off my retired dad, but since he was so happy to have me around and as long as I helped around the house and did chores and errands nothing was said about my financial assistance. But still…you understand where I’m coming from here.

The book was a series of notes and ideas jotted down in a journal I purchased for a dollar at a local drug store. And I always wrote in pencil. I don’t know why. It’s not that I ever really erased anything I think I just like the feel and weight of a good #2 pencil. Plus ink always got on the side of my right palm. How that happens, I’ll never know.

Nights were usually filled with movie watching, me making or going out to dinner and drinking. My dad seemed almost relieved when I started drinking at age 21. Up until then I was what you would call “straight edge”. No drugs, no drinking and definitely no smoking, something I still haven’t done to this day. I was a huge fan of bands like 7 Seconds and Minor Threat that preached the idea of a punk rock life without the weight of drugs and drink. But midway through my 21st year I had a bad breakup with a girl that moved from Monterey to Austin, TX to try and become some kind of alterno-country singer. My best pal at the time, David, had already been sneaking his parents booze for sometime and even drank in front of me as I sat there not caring and laughing when he got stupid. Seeing that I was distraught over the breakup, David took me to a 7-11 where he bought two magnums of Andre champagne and we sat drinking in his then brokedown apartment in a seedy part of Seaside, CA. Halfway through my bottle I began to see what all of the hype was about booze. I felt amazing. As David stumbled around and acted dumb I felt as if I had taken a million happy pills. I danced around his place, playing his old school thrash metal and hardcore punk records. I was even lucid enough to go out and get more champagne. While he passed out I stayed up all night listening to music and enjoying this new sensation.

My dad and I always had a very open relationship so I told him that I had gotten drunk.

“Oh thank god,” he said. “Now we can share almost everything.”

In the early days of my dad dating Richard we went out quite a lot, especially if I was involved with some sort of play at the time where all of the actors and techies went out to one place in Monterey, The Clock Garden, and got loaded. After they moved to Palm Springs around the time I turned 25 my dad insisted that he “turn me into a Scotch man.” That night changed everything. I went from sucking down cheap champagne, cheap beer and sweet sticky cocktails to actually enjoying quality and seriously strong booze.

Now that my dad is a bit older he has dramatically slowed down on his alcohol intake. It must have been the first night or two of having me around that he threw a few back. After the first week it was just me that raided the liquor cabinet or went out after he went off to bed.

And that was pretty much how the days went in Palm Springs. Richard would call everyday to check in and tell us that their friend was doing fine and acclimating to the new HIV medication well. I would talk to Amanda now and then and get emails from Jamie asking when I was coming back since he really wanted to do another metal night. Jose would email as well saying he was thinking of moving back to New Orleans to be with his family. My mom would email as well sometimes. So would the old crew of Mike and Jason and them. But that was it. Otherwise, I took naps, watched TV, pooped around on the computer and drank.
Around week two I started to get antsy.

* * *

I woke up early one day feeling possessed.  My dad was up, still in his pre “going back to bed” mode and I made a fresh pot of coffee and decided to get on with my life. I sat at the computer and busted out 10 pages of the book. I literally forced myself to start it. I then made a resume with all of my past writing and journalism jobs and planned to send it out to the local papers and even to a bunch in Los Angeles. I also looked at rooms, studios and apartments in the surrounding LA area and emailed all of my friends there to “keep and eye out” and asked them if they had a couch for me to crash on if that time did actually come around. By dinner time my fingers were sore, my eyes bleary, my back stiff and brain empty. My dad ordered a pizza and I nodded off and on in the easy chair watching some bad sitcom my dad was into.

“Good for you,” my dad said as I drifted off to sleep. “I’m so proud of you. See I knew this trip was good. I just know something big is about to happen.”

“Yeah,” I muttered drowsily. “Something…big…”

The next few days I did the same. More pages of the book, more house hunting, more job searching and I sent out my resume to a few publications, publishing houses and even book stores everyday. It was laborious and kind of dull but things were finally getting done.

The phone rings one day. Thinking its either Richard or Amanda, my dad answers it and immediately gets a professional tone to his voice.

“Well yes he is. Let me get him on the phone for you,” he says. At the time I was on the back patio reading a book called Superstud by Paul Feig, so he walks out and hands me the receiver with a shrug.

“Hello?”

“Hi yes, is this Mark Whittaker?” the voice on the other end asked. It was a man’s voice, middle aged maybe and very relaxed.

“Yeah hi. That’s me.”

“Mark my name is Gary Turner. I am the music editor of the Palm Desert Saguaro. You sent us a resume.”

The Saguaro was a free local weekly covering all of the “happenings” in the surrounding desert areas. It was a much more laid back and liberal paper and very gay friendly to boot. In one issue they actually did an interview with the Reverend Horton Heat when he played a local casino recently. It seemed cool so why not send them a resume.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Hi Gary. How’s it going?”

“Good. Listen, we would like to give you an assignment, a tryout if you will.”

“That’s great,” I said trying to keep my excitement down a bit.

“Yeah.” Gary was so calm and collected he almost sounded stoned. Another plus I figured. “Look we have something right up your alley since you’re a big rock guy.”

In the resume I also mentioned all of the alternative magazines I wrote for and even my one night at the 540 Club which I stretched out to a full year stating that I was the “house DJ”. The rest were all of the dot coms I worked for to sound more professional, even though writing about punk and metal bands were my speciality.

“It’s an all girl Led Zeppelin cover band,” Gary explained, “called Oh So Zoso.”

I laughed at the name.

“This band features members from other girl rock bands such as Girls School, The Leotards and Flamejob.”

To be honest I really wasn’t familiar with any of those bands except Girls School. That is if it was the same 80s metal band of the same name. But I acted as if I knew all of the bands intimately and owned all of their albums.

“They are playing the Insider Club in Palm Springs this Saturday,” Gary went on. “How about an interview and a 600 word piece?”
“
Yeah, that sounds great,” I said. “Sure.”

He then got all of my information down and after chatting a bit on why I was in Palm Springs and his back story that involved running a rock magazine out of Baltimore after he graduated college but then somehow ended up in the desert running a small weekly newspaper to which he sounded a bit confused on, we hung up and I told my dad.

“See,” he said. “Things are looking up.”

I then got on the computer and researched all of the ladies in the band and their other bands including the one in question. After an hour or so I had printed up a dozen pages of info and was ready for my first assignment in my post San Francisco phase. Things were indeed looking up.

Around 7pm on Saturday night I drove out to the Insider Club, which is located just off of the main tourist drag Palm Canyon, and parked in some lot. There were a few people outside smoking and a couple of vans with large hitches attached were parked on the street. I approached the front door and told the beefy bearded security guy there who I was and what I was there for. He then walked inside and came back followed by an attractive rocker looking lady with long blonde hair, denim vest with patches all over it, tight black belly tee, tighter shredded jeans and a huge belt buckle with a skull on it.

“Hey Mark,” she said shaking my hand. “I’m Tracy. I’m in Oh So Zoso. C’mon in.”

She lead me into the decently sized club where soundchecks were going on, guys carrying equipment were roaming around and the bar staff stocking and cleaning.

Tracy told me the other girls were around, knew that I was coming and that she played lead guitar.

“Oh wow,” I said. “That’s quite an undertaking. You know…following in Jimmy Page’s footsteps.”

“Oh man,” Tracy said with a laugh, “I’ve been playing Zeppelin tunes since I was a little girl. This is just fun for me.”

It seemed that Tracy felt as if the interview had already started. A thick girl with long dark hair was on stage messing with a bass guitar. Another, this one more petite with blonde and pink highlights, was hanging around the drums. I figured they were in the band as well.

“Hey Betty,” Tracy said getting the bass guitarists attention. “Where’s Emily?”

“I think she’s downstairs,” she said. “Is this our interview?”

“Yeah. His name is Mark.”

I waved at the Betty the bassist, who then got the attention of the petite drummer. They dropped what they were doing and came offstage to meet me. We then all went downstairs to the dank dressing room area of the club and found Emily who was a very tall woman with poofy blonde hair and drinking beer. The petite drummer, who’s name was Ariel, opened a large cooler and produced cans of PBR, one of which were handed to me. Here I was, backstage drinking free PBR with four red hot rocker mamas. Man I loved this job sometime.

The interview was more of us just drinking and chatting rather than a boring Q&A session, something I usually did seeing as interviews sucked and just hanging out got the real stories coming. Turns out they have been playing Zeppelin tunes together for years and just recently decided to go on tour doing it. The other bands were a priority but the four of them had been close friends forever and saw Oh So Zoso as a vacation.

“What could be better,” said Betty, who strangely reminded me of Amanda, “than hanging out with your best friends, drinking beer and playing Zeppelin tunes? I mean..really?”

After a good 45 minutes of conversation there was a knock at the door. A middle aged man in drab jeans and tee shirt said the doors were opened and said if they wanted food they should do so now. The four of them all acknowledged him and it was time to wrap up the interview. Turns out we all knew similar people back in San Francisco and they have been featured, with their other bands, in some of the magazines I wrote for.

I shook their hands and told them to have a great show.

“Meet us after,” Betty said. “We’ll all have beers together.”

With that I went upstairs and sat at the bar waiting for the show to start.

There was an opening band, some weird AC/DC cover band called the Bon Scotts that looked more like a Devo cover band than AC/DC. White jumpsuits and black Rayban glasses were the outfits offsetting their janky covers of “Hells Bells”, “Highway to Hell” and “For Those About To Rock”. Eventually they ended and pretty soon the girls were on stage.

If I was slightly turned on from us chilling backstage together I was fully aroused when they started playing. They opened up to a really fast and heavy version of “Rock and Roll”, which was more metal than classic rock. Emily swung her blonde hair around like an airplane propeller and sounded almost creepily like Robert Plant. The only time they stopped was to drink beers and thank the crowd, which it seemed was at maximum capacity. I managed to get close to the stage, right where Tracy was playing, during a thudding version of “When the Levee Breaks”. With a few beers in me I found myself banging my head. Those girls rocked.

They ended the show with a hybrid of “Stairway to Heaven” and “The Immigrant Song” which I thought was absolutely brilliant. After thanking everyone the house lights came up. The crowd dissipated a bit but a lot stuck around to drink. My ears were numb from being so close to Tracy’s monitor and the fact that I forgot to bring plugs.

Pretty soon the girls made their way into the club. Ariel found me at the bar and invited me to hang out, which I quickly accepted. The four girls and their entourage of techs, managers and roadies were a fun but motley bunch of middle aged rocker types. I sat with Betty and Emily and a few others on the stage talking and drinking. It was then that Betty asked me if I wanted to come out to the van with her.

We walked outside and there were a group of guys and girls all hanging out and smoking.

“So what do we got?” Betty asked some rail thin guy with stringy hair and a scarf around his neck.

“It’s all inside,” he said with a wispy voice. “Have fun.”

Betty, who was followed by Ariel, Tracy and two other guys all went into the van.

“You coming?” she asked. A little nervous, I soon stepped into the cramped and rather smelly van.

The door shut and I was crammed against it and Ariel. From the front seat Betty produced a very large sack of weed and proceeded to fill a glass pipe with it. She lit it and took a huge hit filling the van with intense and pungent pot smoke. Like I said, I have nothing against weed, in fact I am a little jealous of people that can handle it. For me though it just makes me completely implode and all I do is eat and freak out. So when the pipe came to me I pretended to take a hit and passed it back. I was already getting a serious contact high.

After they had gotten massively baked we exited the van and I realized that I too was pretty hammered. We made our way back into the club where it was last call.

I stood by the bar talking to Betty, who seemed to take some kind of strange liking to me. Like when we walked anywhere together she held my hand, or she put her arm around me when we talked, even did a shot together with interlocked arms, things like that. But as we stood at the bar while the others were loading up the van having one last beer Betty leaned in and started kissing me. Drunk, half stoned and pretty turned on by an older rocker version of Amanda I quickly reciprocated. This wasn’t just a little peck, Betty threw her arms around my head and pulled me in close to get all lips and all tongue into it. Our teeth were gnashing together. Her hips were grinding into mine. I think the bassist for Oh So Zoso wanted to do it with me. I was seriously freaking out. But in the best way possible.

After a few minutes of amazing and furious making out, Betty broke it off.

“Thanks Mark,” she said. “You’re awesome.” She then walked away leaving me at the bar with an enormous erection and bigger confusion. Not knowing what to do I finished my beer and walked outside. She and the other girls, along with the van, were gone. Then, an amazing realization washed over me: I had been used as a makeout boy toy by a foxy rock starlet in a Led Zeppelin cover band. Maybe it was the beer and weed but I think the eye of God winked at me and the sky opened up to reveal a small hint of what heaven was like. I got in the truck, made my way home, stumbled into the house, took off my clothes, jumped into the pool, got out, jerked off into the bushes, went back inside, poured myself a Scotch, took a sip and fell asleep naked on the bed. The smile never waning from my flushed face.

* * *

Nothing got done the following day as I was deep in a hangover fog for the duration. Come Monday I had the Oh So Zoso piece completed and in the hands of Gary by 4pm. Tuesday he said he loved it, was going to make a few changes but otherwise I would be assigned another job. Wednesday it ran in the paper and my dad put the full page article on the fridge. I decided to leave out the tongue dance session with Betty. I’m sure I was one of a million other guys that she stakes out as makeout material. Still, I felt honored.

That Friday I got a call from my good friend Kevin who lives in Sherman Oaks.

“What’s up Mark,” he said boisterously. “I hear you’re moving to LA.”

“Yeah I’m thinking about it,” I told him. “Not too sure where I want to go. I can’t stay here that’s for sure and I really don’t want to go back to San Francisco.”

“Check this out,” he said. “As you know Sandi is in realty development, that’s how we got this sweet ass deal on our place.”

Sandi is Kevin’s wife and, it’s true, they had an amazing place for super cheap in a quiet part of Sherman Oaks.

“Anyway she came across this deal near Van Nuys, sort of a favor to her from the property manager.”

“What is it?”

“Dude, a fucking one bedroom apartment with all utilities paid for $500 a month.”

“What?” I said with both surprise and apprehension. “You’re kidding me. I mean…is it like on the corner of Stab Street and Murder Avenue?”

“No,” Kevin insisted. “Dude it’s a condo setting where no one is moving in. Basically they need people to live there to get other people to move in. It’s complicated but this happens all the time. Sort of a time share but without all of the bullshit.”

“Are you serious?” I asked still unsure what he was officially getting at. “So you’re saying I would have to move out after a while even if I’m not ready to make room for people that want to move in? I’m confused.”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” Kevin explained. “The ground units are left open for friends and family of the property manager. But since he doesn’t have any friends he offered a few apartments to Sandi and some co-workers when they closed the deal on two other places he owns. This guy is loaded. He’s also a total weirdo. If he wanted to put up friends and family he’d do it at like his estate or some four star hotel. Sandi told him she had a friend in need and he essentially told her he’d help you move in.”

I sat there stunned, not knowing what to make of the proposition, or of anything at that moment. I had a new writing job, I had a book on the way and now I had an amazing apartment offered to me for dirt cheap in a great part of Los Angeles. But was I ready to move back to LA? Was I ready for all the traffic and smog and phoniness of that city? It really didn’t matter. I took everything that was happening as a sign.

“I’m gonna have to think about it Kev,” I said. “Is there a time limit on this offer?”

“Not that I know of. I doubt it,” he said. “It’s just out there. We’re just trying to help.”

That made me feel amazing. Kevin and Sandi were probably two of the nicest people I ever met. Kevin is what you would call a “gentle giant” seeing that he stands a good 6 feet and weighs well over 250. In high school they made him play football because of his size. Not that he cared for the sport but it got him into a great college and he got to skip almost all of his senior year classes.

Kevin and I talked for a bit more before hanging up and I sat there contemplating my next move. I went online and looked into the area he was talking about. It was nice. There were all sorts of markets, cafes and a major book and record store nearby. I knew I could get a job right off the bat just to help with rent. So I started seriously planning my possible move to Los Angeles.

Then, one morning, I got a phone call from Amanda.

And that’s when everything went kerplunk.

V.

When I got back from my walk I had realized something. Not only was it getting dark and my dad was asking me what I wanted to do for dinner, but I hadn’t noticed that my feet were hurting.

After telling my dad “Anything is fine with me” as far as the dinner question was concerned, I limped into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and removed my sneakers.

I guess it was because of the length of my walk or maybe because the sidewalks and asphalt were extremely hot, but the bottoms of my feet were covered in large blood filled blisters. They were huge dark balloons on the pads of my feet and when I saw them and touched them a bit I let out a muffled wail of pain.

Then a knock at the door. “Is everything alright in there?” my dad asked.

“Oh…yeah…” I lied. “Just, um…got a cramp.”

One thing about my dad is the fact that he still worries about me like I was still a little boy. Sure I was always some sort of sensi-child but I was now in my 30s and had fallen down many times and been hurt in various manners along the way that he never knew about. My days of eating it while trying to attempt jumps on my Mongoose bike or even that one day where I seriously hurt my back trying to pull a judo air with my skateboard on my buddy Rick’s ramp in high school were pretty much over. Now I get blisters on my tender feet after a long walk on hot concrete and I go into a panic.

I ran the tub and turned on the small portable radio to mask the sounds of me scouring the drawers for some kind of sharp implement. Luckily for me, and my dad, Richard was a retired doctor so I stumbled across a bag full of scalpels and scissors and such. I found one scalpel that was so small I wondered what it could possibly be used for. A child? A gnome? Whatever it was it was my surgical tool of choice right then.

I turned the water off and sat on the edge of the large sunken tub and dipped my feet in there. Again, another soft groan of grief.

Again, my dad was concerned. “Are you taking a bath?” he asked.

“Um…yeah…” I said trying to sound as normal and non blistered as possible. “Just a little sweaty is all. And, you know…got a cramp.”

“Well okay,” he said. “How does Chinese sound?”

When he asked me my opinion on dinner options I bumped my left foot against the tub stopper causing it to scrape against the jutting ringed top on the big blister. Pus and blood soon oozed out of the nasty sore.

“AH!”

“Is that a yes?”

“Uh…yes. Yes. Sounds…ugh…good!”

“Okay then.”

With my dad safely gone and the small radio crackling out Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” from the one decent classic rock station I found, I set to work on my feet. The bad blister on my left foot on the left side under the small toe was already open. The water was turning a sick yellowing brown from the open wound. I lifted it up and slowly cut open the big blood bag on the main pad under the big toe. As I sliced around the edge a light Kool Aid red liquid poured out, deflating the blister a bit and easing some of the pain. The blistering was exactly the same on the right and I did similar amateur surgery there as well. Pretty soon the blisters were empty but the pain from them filling up as I walked in a dream fog for what must have been miles was starting to set in.

As I soaked my feet in the tub the water took on a swampy hue to it. So I drained it and turned on the shower and let the cool water flush away the blood and pus on my feet. With that I took off the rest of my clothes and washed off, balancing on the sides of my feet to avoid touching the injuries, which were throbbing. After cleaning up I turned the shower off and proceeded to get ready for dinner.

After getting dressed and ready I met my dad in the TV room where he was having a drink and watching the local news. I tried my hardest to walk and look like I wasn’t in foot addled pain.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said with a grunt sitting on the other easy chair. “Just a little…sore.”

“Well you must have walked miles. You were gone all day,” my dad said. “But I’m sure you needed it to clear your head. You got a lot going on kiddo. A lot has happened to you in a short amount of time.”

“Yeah,” I uttered pretending to watch the sports report. “Too much.”

We went to this amazing Chinese restaurant, Chang’s, in Cathedral City, which is a few miles from where they live. Again, it was very gay friendly and rather dark but the food was incredible and they serve a Chinese beer that I had never heard of, which I consumed mass quantities of. Afterwards we went to one of his favorite bars and had a drink.

“Here’s to you and your many adventures,” my dad said in a toast. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

We clinked glasses and I took a hard swallow of the 15 year old Scotch. That night, after my dad went to sleep, I wrapped up my feet in gauze after I had stuck them in a large bowl filled with ice. I sat there watching the late night movie, which was the crappy old horror movie “The Screaming Skull” and drank until I fell asleep. I just wanted my feet and brain to shut off. The Scotch and rotten movie almost worked.

* * *

The next day I reluctantly started packing. I kept asking myself if I was making the right decision. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure. In a way, going back to San Francisco was easy. I knew the city, I had a few friends there, a DJ gig waiting to restart, I could probably get a job pretty quick, I knew the streets and bus schedules. LA was only a place I grew up as a kid and visited now and then. It was big, smoggy, I’d have to drive everywhere, the people I knew there were scattered miles apart, I didn’t have a job lined up, I didn’t even know where I was (possibly) going to be moving into, I had reservations, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to live there. Or Palm Springs. Sure I had a small writing job here but that’s it. And do I want to live this close to my dad? Really there’s nothing but golf courses, old people and gays in Palm Springs it seems. Plus it’s too hot.

So what the heck was I going to do?

I slowly folded my clothes and packed them tightly into the storage tubs I had brought.  I put my CDs, notebooks, book, some odds and ends in another bin and closed it up. I left my clothes out for the next day on the chair in the bedroom. I guess I had made my decision: I was moving back to San Francisco. The bins and next day outfit proved it.

That night I called Amanda. I wanted to make sure that she was only going to be gone a few months, 6 at the most, and that I had space in her room and closet to put my stuff.

“Baby,” she said, “I cleared out the whole back of my room for you. There are drawers, that hanging rack, and tons of space for you. I also cleared out a shelf in my closet. You have plenty of room. And I’ll give you a key to the studio to get more of your stuff or put more of your stuff in there. I don’t care.”

In a way, it sounded as if “my stuff” was a burden. To be honest, other than the toys and books and that old desk I really didn’t have much stuff. My clothes consisted of a few vintage bowling and Hawaiian shirts, some baggy Ben Davis shorts and pants, one pair of boot cut jeans, a few hoodies from my favorite bands like High On Fire and SUNN, socks and boxers and I never had more than one pair of Vans or Converse and my black dress shoes. That’s it. I was doing Amanda a favor. But knowing that she was under stress herself and unsure about the outcome of her father’s health I let it go.

“OK well…I should be there by 10pm tomorrow,” I said. As those words came out my heart sputtered and my stomach got a bit queasy. “I’ll call from the road. But be sure to be home around that time.”

“I will,” she said. “I love you baby. I really can’t wait to see you again and hold you.”

My eyes couldn’t help but roll a bit. “Yeah, me too,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

We then hung up and I did last minute house checking and preparation for the drive in the morning. My dad was strangely silent knowing that we had a good almost month together but it was time for me to go and get on with things. That night, not knowing what we wanted to do or eat I just boiled some pasta, made a basic marinara, some garlic bread and salad and we ate watching TV. I don’t even remember what we watched. My mind and eyes were focused far beyond the glowing screen in front of me.

* * *

Not too excited to be driving back to San Francisco, I decided against the use of an alarm clock. I figure I would just get up when I wanted, have some breakfast at my leisure and start driving whenever. But that didn’t happen.

My dad got me up at around 7am. He gently knocked at the door and came in whispering “Time to get up.” I barely heard him over the white noise machine I had going. During college I lived beneath the bass player for a rock band called Sod Hauler, one of those pseudo post-grunge college rock bands that sang about how life sucks and how great getting high is. The guy would come home late at night and practice. His chugging bass lines through a high wattage Marshall stack kept me up on many a night. When I confronted him he always said he used headphones or that “Dude it wasn’t even past like fucking 2 on the knob.” He was an idiot.

After complaining on the phone to my dads when they called one day he sent me this “Sleep Mate” machine that gently purrs out a wind sound much like a well operating air conditioner. At first I thought it was stupid but after using it just once I was hooked. I hadn’t slept that hard and uninterrupted in a very long time. Probably since my younger days in LA when I would look forward to the time when we had to use an air conditioner and I slept soundly under the whooshing hum of the machine. Since that time I have not gone a night without it. Unless I’m camping. Wait…I don’t go camping.

I opened my eyes and protested a bit. He reminded me of the super long drive and that I didn’t want to look for parking late at night. Oh god, I thought, I have to worry about where I am going to park now. That sent a tremble of worries and concerns my way and soon I was up in a mild panic at what lie ahead of me.

By 8:30am I was showered, fed, dressed and ready to load the truck. We secured the three bins with some bungee cord he had laying around the garage and pretty soon I was ready to go.

My dad and I hugged for a while and he got a bit teary. To tell you the truth I too got a bit teary eyed. Not only did I love and miss my dad very much but I wasn’t sure if this is what I really wanted to do. I felt almost trapped into going back to San Francisco. Not that I blamed it on Amanda, it was just too weird that when things were pushing me into new directions, my past came back to pull me back in. But, whatever. I’m helping out a friend and living, temporarily, in a decent apartment on a popular street which I was curious about doing on my own for a few months. Plus my DJ gig at the 540 Club was something I looked forward to. The rest was just familiarity wrapped up in a mystery.

Eventually all the goodbyes and hugs were out of the way and I got in the truck. I promised to call on the road and when I got to Amanda’s. I started the rig, backed out of the driveway, gave one last wave and headed off.

* * *

The drive to San Francisco that day was rotten. It rained the whole way. Dark clouds machine gunned heavy drops along most of highway 5. About an hour into the storm I pulled off into a truck stop and supply store and bought a large blue tarp. In the pouring rain I covered the bins in the back cab and secured it as best I could with my dad’s ancient bungee cords.

A few hours later, about 150 miles or so from San Francisco, the tarp blew off and went flying behind me. The car following me a few lengths back went swerving to avoid it. All I could do was cower a bit and wave that “Sorry about that” hand gesture while looking in the rear view. Luckily the bins were covered and had that plastic locking device on the handles so my stuff was okay. At a rest stop I examined the damage only to find the cab full of water and the bungee cords long gone. When I called my dad and Amanda I didn’t even mention the tarp. To them I was just driving carefully in the rain and everything was hunky dory.

About 7pm I reached the Bay Bridge, took the second exit into North Beach, made my way through the familiar labyrinth of downtown San Francisco and eventually made it on to Columbus Ave. Just a few blocks up and a U-turn on Union I was right outside of Amanda’s apartment. That black doorway looked ominous and conversant in the early evening drizzle.

Again, I had to double park and, again, the busses and cabs all honked in protest. I got out and rang the doorbell to her apartment, which sounded like a old game show buzzer when you got an answer incorrect. Pretty soon the black door swung open and there stood Amanda, in jeans, a sweater and those librarian glasses that always turned me on for some reason. We hugged and kissed briefly before going out to the truck and quickly unloading it. We set the bins in the foyer and I left in search of parking. Luckily for me Amanda was friends with the guy that ran the parking lot that could be viewed from her kitchen window and told me that I could use a spot there as long as I promised to leave by noon the next day. I rounded the corner at Greet Street, turned into the long and cramped parking lot, found a spot in the back, got out and ran back to her apartment.

Once inside we heaved the bins up the crooked stairs to her place. It had only been a month but I had forgotten how oddly odd her apartment was. It was almost like a house of mystery where brooms stand on a lean and balls roll uphill, yet smelling of acrylic paint, the musk of age, the cooking from the restaurant below and the exhaust from the busy street outside. The long hallway to her bedroom, with the weird thin slanted door leading to the small bedroom next to it, felt like that scene in “Poltergeist” where Jobeth Williams is running down the hall as it continues to grow longer and longer as she tries to save her kids. The wide open kitchen seemed sparse and bizarre with those shelves filled with art and sex books. The split bathroom even seemed off putting. Maybe it was the long drive. Maybe I had made a big mistake.

After all of my bins were safely in her bedroom, Amanda approached me and gave me a long and tight hug.

“Thank you Mark,” she said with her head buried in my neck. “Thank you for helping me. I mean it…you don’t now how much this means to me.”

She looked up at me with a pout and weepy eyes. It was then that I noticed behind her huge duffel bags and suitcases piled up and ready to be packed.

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“My flight leaves Thursday,” she said, it was Monday. “It’s out of Oakland airport. Do you mind driving?”

“No. Not at all. What time?”

“Like 5am.”

“Yikes.”

That night we went to Vesuvios for drinks. It was a strange feeling to be back in a familiar setting when you weren’t too sure if you would actually be returning. After a few cocktails we grabbed pizza slices from a place up the street, took it back to her apartment and had a couple bites before the kissing began and the clothes came off. If anything, this was worth the drive back for. I had almost forgotten how wild she was in bed and, my god, had almost forgotten how big and perfect her boobs were. In a way, it was good to be back.

* * *

The following two days were spent helping Amanda pack, cleaning her apartment, making room for my stuff for the next few months and interviewing potential sublets for the small extra room. This was the hard part. I didn’t really want to share this bizarre space with anyone so I had a few conditions of my own for the new renter.

Condition 1: That he had to be a he. Since this was basically “my place” for a while and already stuffed with girly things I wanted a guy around to man it up a bit and to possibly share a beer with on occasion. Plus I just didn’t want to be tempted if the girl was foxy. And what if I bring home a date? I’d rather get a male nod of approval than a female look saying “you pig”. Condition 2: That they were gone a lot. School, work and activities were priority, not hanging around the apartment in your underwear, taking long showers and having friends over to use the kitchen for some kind of weird baking party. No way. I basically wanted someone invisible. And Condition 3: that they owned headphones. I’ve had it with room mates that blast bad music or, even worse, play their bass guitar at all hours. The apartment was already loud enough with the people and street traffic hullaballoing below.

Amanda, pre occupied with the trip and dealing with family drama, left most of the interviews up to me. She had posted the room on Craigslist, a few student websites and on the community boards at the art academy. Most of the candidates came in the late afternoon on Wednesday as Amanda was working her last shift at Vesuvios. They were a conglomerate of shabbily dressed poor rich kids attending the academy on either their parents dime or some kind of scholarship. It was mostly guys since Amanda’s post said “male preferred but open” but a few girls showed up as hopefuls. One was a seriously handicapped lady that was palsied beyond repair. Seriously, when I went downstairs to open the front door I was met with a young girl that looked as if she had barely survived a stroke. Her hands were gnarled, her face stuck in a grimace and her limbs were almost totally useless. I tell you, it was really difficult for me to walk behind her and watch her slowly descend those twisty old stairs. But I made light of it by talking to her on the way up about what she is looking for and all that. Turns out she is a sculptor. Imagine that.

I settled on a guy named Khamish, who was a Hindi exchange student from New Zealand and spoke with a wild kiwi meets New York accent since he had spent the last three years at NYU studying film. He was in San Francisco working on a film and told me: “I leave first thing in the morning, I am gone all day and I just need a place to sleep and use the internet.” Khamish was perfect. Plus, the guy had style. He wore a turban and had a thick black beard but dressed like some kind of slick club kid gone metro guy. And that accent. I was really quite smitten with Khamish; on a business level mind you.

That night the gang from Vesuvios all gave Amanda a toast after her shift and we stuck around till about midnight drinking with her friends and some customers. Like I said, I really didn’t care for her stupid art fart friends. They looked disappointed that she chose me to watch and care for her place and not one of them. Plus the idea of me writing a book about my past jobs in the dot com era and having a gig as a heavy metal DJ was just totally beneath them it seemed. I might as well have said “I’m really into kiddie porn and Kandinsky can suck it!” Either or, same reaction.

Afterwards we went back to the apartment, double checked all of her stuff and flight information, laid down on the bed where we barely said anything to each other. No kissing, no sexy time, just arms around each other until we fell asleep. I wasn’t really sure what to make of it.

The alarm went off at 3am and I sprung to life after what was officially a brief nap. Amanda groggily got up and flicked on the lights as I dashed out to get my truck from the lot. I circled around the block, got an actual parking spot out front since the street cleaner was due at 6am and nobody wants that ridiculous $80 ticket, and ran back inside to help Amanda with her bags. In no time we were loaded up and on the road. For some reason I was in an extremely good mood, which I had to hide because I should have been upset that we were going to be apart again. Plus her dad was on the brink of death. That too was heavy. But on the inside I was churning with wild emotions. I was back in one of the greatest cities in the world, I had a large apartment basically to myself in the hub of North Beach for dirt cheap, I was a DJ, I had a book on the way…I was just nervous and excited all at once for what lay ahead of me. Or maybe it was just madness. I was, after all, not supposed to be here. I was, as you know, making other plans.

About a half hour before her flight was to take off we got to the Oakland airport. Even though the east bay is always a few degrees warmer than San Francisco it was still drizzling and chilly. A skycap came and helped us with the bags which were loaded on golf cart looking thing with a flatbed. Then we hugged.

“You got your ticket?” I asked trying to motivate her to get on her plane.

“Yes,” she said with a sob. “God I can’t believe this. We’re separating again. What does this mean?”

That was a good question. In all honesty I really didn’t consider us an official “couple”, rather two people that can’t seem to get rid of one another. After a long and melancholic kiss we said goodbye and she was off into the airport and soon off to her family and ailing father in Tucson.

When I got back to the apartment I walked around the place for the first time as a temporary resident. Except for the occasional bus going by it was quiet. It was an odd feeling to be in her apartment alone and that this was going to be my temporary home. That tiny toilet room would be where I would do my business. That shower room that opened up to two stairs leading to an ancient and dank sink and tub area would be where I would get clean. The cavernous kitchen with no counter space and lined with weird books would be where I would cook and store food. The small bedroom would soon be occupied by a sharp dressed Hindu film maker with a crazy accent. And the bedroom, that is where I would be sleeping and watching movies and jerking off in. It was a moment that I held for a while. Soon the reality of getting about two hours sleep after drinking cocktails hit and I laid down on her overly soft and creaky queen size bed. The pillows smelled like her. I drifted off with a smile on my face.

VI.

A balance inquiry with my bank account revealed that I was broke.

The tiny bit of savings I had, along with the severance check from the bookstore, the meager one from the Saguaro and some cash my dad slipped me without knowing it before leaving was essentially gone. Gassing up the truck, buying food, beer and some basic necessities for my stay in Amanda’s apartment had literally drained me of any excess cash. I was down to the wire and since I hated asking to “borrow” cash from folks, especially parents, seeing that I was in my 30s now and should be financially independent, I made the decision that is inevitable for anyone with no money and no way of making it without petty robbery:

I had to get a job!

The surrounding area of Amanda’s apartment is filled with all sorts of shops and restaurants. Mainly rip off Italian joints that serve up thirty dollar plates of spaghetti that you could make at home for three bucks using Ragu and hard noodles. Knowing that “fine dining” was not in my future, I narrowed it down. There was a video rental store across the park, Head Cleaner Video, that seemed cool so I went in there and handed them my resume. The chubby disenfranchised girl behind the counter with Betty Page bangs and ruby red lipstick took a look at my resume and kind of laughed.

“You know you’re gonna start at eight bucks an hour, right?” she said with a swagger. “You’ve got a lot of professional experience here.”

“Yeah, I know but…”, I shrugged, “I just moved back and don’t have anything lined up at present, so…you know.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll let Derrick know,” she said sitting down and going back to her laptop computer. “He’s the owner.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

I walked down Columbus toward the wharf to avoid any “upscale” restaurants or serious tourist traps the other way. The area between Union and Market on Columbus is a bevy of those restaurants I told you about, crummy knick knack shops that have seashells with the words “San Francisco” on it or snow globes with the Golden Gate bridge in it, porn shops and strip joints down on Broadway (where my favorite bar, the Crowbar, was, which made me excited and nervous to live near) and Chinatown which features eateries that display newly slain ducks in the windows all covered in orange sauce and fish still wriggling in buckets of chum water. So I figured the best locale for the time being would be North bound Columbus which is really nothing until you get to the hub of tourist slathered banality, Fisherman’s Wharf.

There was a comedy club, Cobb’s, that was pretty big and I figured maybe I could work the door or box office. It was closed due to it being the middle of the afternoon, but I told myself I would come back later that night. The famed club Bimbo’s was next door and I kind of figured I could do the same. Hey, I mean, I was a DJ now (sort of) so perhaps they needed someone with music knowledge and theater experience, which I did. Mind you I hadn’t done theater in years and my music speciality was heavy metal so I figured I’d take what I could get. There was also a couple of low end eateries, a café, a hip toy store, a copy center and a few bars, all of which accepted my resume and said “they’d get back to me”.

By late afternoon I was getting desperate. One of the worst things anybody can do is walk around in nice clothes and hand out resumes all day. I didn’t want to say “may I help you” or serve coffee or sell tickets or rewind videos but it looked like I might have to for a while. At this point I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. All I knew is that at the first of the month I had to mail a $800 check to Amanda for rent and bills. And that was in three weeks.

I turned left on Bay Street and headed up to Ghiradelli Square which is a nightmare of crappy shops and some god awful restaurant. You’ve seen Ghiradelli Square. Anyone that’s watched some travel expo on San Francisco or watched an episode of “Nash Bridges” or “Monk” has seen Ghiradelli Square. It’s just as famous as Coit Tower (which I could almost see from my bedroom window), the Transamerica Building (which was right down the street) or the super twisted Lombard Street (again, just a few blocks down and to the left). It’s the retail outlet for the famous chocolate company and, like everything else in the North Beach area, is geared toward the tourist trade. As I walked around looking for a place to drop off another resume into a seething bland miasma I immediately became depressed looking at all of the lumbering masses, all going for that tiny free sample of chocolate or to buy some sweatshirt with the words Ghiradelli Square on it because folks visiting San Francisco think that it’s warm because, hey, it’s in California, but then get the grim reality of daily fog and drizzly nights. For real, the day must have been in the high 50s to low 60s and here were German tourists in sandals and black socks and obese midwest zombies all shuffling around, shivering, in shorts and tee shirts. I was fine in my khakis and blue dress shirt only because I was used to and actually embraced the chilly fog.

Ghiradelli Square proved fruitless. I walked into the crowded restaurant and turned right around when the lobotomized hostess asked me in a much too perky voice “How many in your party” and seeing the crawling aggregation of travel logged suckers ingesting bland and overpriced burgers and shakes. I quickly walked away and out of Ghiradelli Square promising to never return again. It was a black hole to avoid much to close to where I lay my head at night.

By 4pm I was getting weary and depressed. I had scoured the immediate area and came up dry. As I walked around the outskirts of Fisherman’s Wharf I knew I was done for. If central Columbus Avenue is a teeming hub of flashy yet vapid Italian restaurants, Fisherman’s Wharf is the uttermost collection of scurvy fish frys and souvenir shops to make any true San Franciscan turn and run to find the nearest sewer to vomit and then die in. I couldn’t take it. I needed to get drunk. But the Crowbar was seven long city blocks away.

As I made my way back I discovered a place I had never heard of or even seen. Maybe it was because I rarely, if ever, came down to Fisherman’s Wharf, but something this large and obvious had never caught my eye. It was a big red bricked building called The Cannery and housed a series of restaurants, shops and an outside bar. There was a huge courtyard with what looked like an upscale seafood restaurant on one side and another restaurant across the way, both of which had tables and chairs outside. As I walked in I saw that the place across from the seafood joint was equipped with a large concrete bar with barstools at the ready and surrounded by café style tables and chairs. In the center of the courtyard there was some guy on a small wooden stage singing and playing guitar. When I sat down on one of the barstools I realized he was playing “Fire and Rain”. He was kind of butchering it but it was good to sit down and wait for a bartender to come and take my order for a well deserved beer.

I sat there for a while without anyone coming out to take my order. Maybe it was because I was the only one sitting at the bar, or anywhere really, that made me figure that the bartender was either inside staying warm or non existent.

There was a door open behind the bar and lead to, what looked like, a kitchen of some sort. I got up from my stool, looked in and saw no one. I even let out a timid “Hello” before giving up. But I had become curious about the place. For some reason it struck me odd that a centrally located bar / restaurant thing would be deserted of both customers and staff. It was then that I looked above the door and saw a sign.

“Bill’s Bar and Grill” it said. Stepping away from the bar I noticed a side door which I assumed lead into Bill’s Bar. I opened it and walked in.

The first room I stepped in was some kind of pirate cove, Polynesian themed area. The walls were painted sea blue and green  with images of mermaids swimming about and adorned with ship steering wheels, Tiki heads and the like. There was also another bar that was set up and empty and, again, loads of tables and chairs, this time with salt and pepper shakers and ketchup bottles, all silent and unused. Walking through the Tiki room I then found myself in what must be the main area of Bill’s. It was a yawning oaken restaurant and bar area with what appeared to be a small bar across the way and a main bar which was immediately to my right. There was a smattering of faces sitting at the main bar, either staring dimly into their drinks or at the crackling Zenith television with some kind of game zig zagging across it. To be honest with you I became quite uneasy being in this place. It felt old and haunted and a bit un-welcoming at the same time. That was all cleared when the spry bartender in a Red Sox cap walked over to me.

“Can I get you something?” he said. He was a sharp faced guy with narrow eyes but was a friendly face in an open spaced wooded tomb.

“Uh yeah,” I said with some hesitancy. “I’ll have, uh… Well what kind of beer do you have here?”

The bartender just laughed. “Take you pick,” he said. He then gestured to the tap wall which was literally lined with an uncountable amount of beer taps. Stepping deeper into the bar I suddenly became overwhelmed by the amount of beer choices they had. The line of taps was a good 20 feet long at the least.

“Jeeze,” I said slowly going over all of the taps, some basic and average while others were more exotic and even others were carved out like bear heads and sharks. I then came across my favorite beer, an IPA from a local brewery that a friend actually worked for and who I volunteered with during the San Francisco Beer Festival. It was an easy gig, you just hang out and pour sample cups of their beer for festival goers and drink for free. Usually halfway through the festival I was so hammered all I could do was snack on the free pretzels and steal bottle opener keychains from the other visiting breweries. “I’ll have the Mack Daddy IPA.” I told him.

The bartender poured it and I noticed a large surly man sitting in the far corner next to the silent jukebox watching me. I nodded with a smile and he just kept looking at me as if I owed him money or something. Feeling a little uneasy I took the beer.

“Say, is it okay if I drink this outside?”

“No that’s fine,” the bartender said. “I just have to put it in a plastic cup is all. Is that okay?”

“Fine with me,” I said. “But why a plastic cup?”

The bartender took my glass and began pouring it into a red plastic party cup. “Oh, you know…house rules.”

“Because glasses break outside,” shouted the surly man in the corner. “When glasses break, glass gets everywhere and people step on it and they get hurt. It’s just common sense is all. Common sense.”

I took my plastic cup of beer from the bartender and gave him a “oh…kay” glance. He returned with a similar look.

“Um, look,” I started, “if it’s a problem…”

“Oh no, no,” the bartender said. “It’s no problem at all. I’ll just take my smoke breaks out by the bar to check on you.”

With that I thanked him and smiled. As I walked back out I avoided looking at the old man in the corner. This was probably the creepiest place I had been to in quite some time. There was that one bar in Las Vegas with the man sleeping in an easy chair who kept getting up to play Charlie Pride songs on the jukebox and going over to brush the hair of some ancient ex-showgirl barfly before walking back to the chair and going back to sleep that was fairly god awful yet entertaining. Bill’s was different. Bill’s was just down the street.
I
sat outside sipping the hoppy goodness of that IPA, listening to poorly executed cover songs by the guy on stage and watching the occasional couple walk through the courtyard. At dusk the courtyard was alight with white Christmas lights and people actually flooded in to go to the fancy seafood restaurant and another restaurant on the other side near a stairwell leading to Columbus. Sure I was broke and rather cold but the beer went down too well and I needed a little distancing from Amanda’s apartment and the nagging pain of having to get a job.

As I was about to finish my beer the bartender emerged from the kitchen door and sat down on a stool behind the bar. He lit up a cigarette and offered one to me.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

“You’re smart,” he said.

“Now and then.”

The bartender and I made small talk and I told him the Readers Digest version of my story, which lead up to me being at Bill’s drinking beer after a disastrous day of job hunting.

“You know what,” the bartender said, “I think we’re hiring. We’re a little understaffed and with summer coming up we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

“Why,” I asked a bit cautious to actually apply for a job at this place, “does it get busy here in the summer?”

“Busy?” he said exhaling smoke with a giggle. “This place gets insane. We have at least four servers and a bartender out here everyday. If you play your cards right you can make a lot of money here.”

I liked the idea of making a lot of money just a few blocks away from the apartment. All I needed was something temporary while I waited for Amanda to come back and I wrote my book and DJ’d at night. “But what about now?” I asked.

“It’s kinda slow now,” he said, “but this is a Tuesday. Come Thursday this place is packed. Saturday nights are unreal.”

I sat there and finished my beer. I had some experience in restaurants and bartending, I was sure I could handle a place like Bill’s, but I was hesitant. I kind of didn’t like the place. The interior was too open and cold, too dank and warped. It felt like the galley of an old ship that sunk many years ago killing the crew and passengers and resurfaced as a bar and grill on San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. But I liked the outside area, the bartender was cool and I needed cash asap.

“Well, here’s my resume,” I said to the bartender. “There’s not a lot of bar and restaurant work but I can type up one of those tomorrow.”

The bartender took my resume and looked it over. “Don’t worry about it. The owner is insane. All you have to do is impress him in the interview and you’ll probably have a job.” he then looked at the heading and spotted my name.  “Mark. Hello Mark my name is Hal.”

We shook hands and chatted a little bit before I headed home. After a long hot shower, which was near impossible because of the almost non-existent water pressure in that antiquated bathroom, I dressed in my comfy clothes and walked down to the Crowbar. I ordered an IPA and a shot of Jagermeister and sat at the big window facing Broadway slowly sipping my drinks and watching the world go by in the glow of sputtering neon from the strip clubs and the pulse of headlights. It was good to be back home, but my fate and future were still very very unsure. So I ordered another shot and switched off.

* * *

The phone rang much too early. I heard the digital bleeping from Amanda’s phone in my dream, which cut through some kind of action involving Charo and a roller disco contest. Sometimes I wish I just had falling, flying or sex dreams. Mine usually involve characters from the pop culture vault and some kind of forgotten fad in a cartoonish landscape. Come to think of it, I’ve always liked my dreams.

The phone lay on the night stand, which was still cluttered with some of Amanda’s stuff. Cleaning and organizing her place had proven to be a serious undertaking. I don’t think she threw anything away. I mean, what’s with all the boots and vibrators?

After half blindly reaching for the phone, I let out a groggy, “Hello?”

There was a pause. If nobody answers me within 5 seconds, for the most part, I just hang up, figuring it to be some kind of salesman or telemarketer that can’t pronounce my last name. I usually get a “Hello, Mister Whit…Wha…Whit-takker?” Because there are 2 T’s in my last name it always throws people off. Guys like Forest Whitaker are lucky. One T in then name gets it pronounced correctly. Two and I sound like I have some kind of stuttering inducing sur name, which is good because only people I care to speak to know how to pronounce it. Otherwise, phones are the devil.

“Yes,” said a guttural and stammering mans voice, “is this Mark Whit-takk-er?”

“Oh jeeze,” I said. “I knew it. What are you trying to sell me? If it’s not some coffee or aspirin then go die.”
Another pause. Just as I was about to hang up the man came back.

“My name is Jack Roth and I’m the owner of Bill’s bar. You, uh, submitted a resume?”

I shot up and cleared my throat.

“Oh yes, hello mister Roth. Thanks for calling me back. I, um…”

“Yes I realize that’s it’s early,” he said sounding as if he didn’t care that I told him to go die, “but I was wondering if you could come in today for an interview?”

“Oh. Today? Uh, yeah, sure. No problem. What, uh, what time is good for you?”

“Let’s say after lunch,” said Mr. Roth with a weird sputter in his voice. “You can’t come anytime before or during lunch because we get busy. And I need to be here and ready if anything gets out of hand. Understand?”

This guy sounded wacko. But, according to Hal, the owner was indeed a nut job. It didn’t matter, I definitely needed some kind of income coming in. So I gave him a “yes, of course I understand.”

“Good. Let’s say 2 o’clock. Is that good for you?”

I looked at the clock which read 9:45. “Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll be there at two.”

“Oh and if you have any references please bring them,” he said sounding a bit irked. “You forgot to include them on this, well…what’s the word I’m looking for here? Interesting resume.”

He then let out a weird breathy laugh. Not really knowing what to do I just laughed right along.

“Ha ha,” I said. “Yeah, well, no problem. I have references. In fact, I have…”

“Have you ever bartended before?” he interrupted.

“Um, yeah…I…”

“Good. We can talk about that when you come in.”

Click.

I sat there in bed holding the phone for a while. Slowly I set the receiver down and wondered what just happened. Coming back to San Francisco and taking care of an estranged girlfriends apartment is one thing. Possibly bartending in a huge ghost ship of a place with Captain Crazy Britches at the helm really began to worry me. So I just laid back down and tried to go back to sleep, which never came.

About ten minutes to 2:00 I strolled into Bill’s. The place was deserted except for a few grubby guys at the bar sucking down light beers and watching some kind of sport on that ancient television. The bartender on duty was an attractive thin blonde girl who looked totally out of place here. Hal was alright, a bit young, but better suited to serve smelly beer guzzlers in a spooky wharf side establishment than a good looking blonde in a clean white tank top. Maybe I had this place figured out all wrong. There must be an undercurrent of cash and coolness that I just wasn’t picking up on.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a strange accent. British, I wondered. Australian? Jersey?

“Yeah, my name is Mark I have an interview with Jack.”

“Oh right,” she said coming around the bar. “My name is Mindy.” She stuck out her right hand which I shook. She had a stronger grip than I did. “Jack is right inside there.”

She pointed to a door directly under the TV and to the left of the bar. Mindy walked up and knocked on it. I heard a muffled “What?” to which she opened the door and told him I was here. Mindy then gestured for me to go inside, which I did.

And, wouldn’t you know it, the crazy guy in the corner talking about broken glass was the owner. That both totally amused me and sent me almost running away screaming at the same time.

“Come in,” he grumbled. “Sit down.”

His office was no bigger than a broom closet and just as cluttered. Shelves on either side of his muddled desk with a smaller, black and white TV on it showing the exact same game as in the main bar, was crammed with all sorts of old bar taps, tools, holiday decorations, invoices, pest control cans, whatnots, gewgaws, this and that and a coffee mug that said “I’m so horny even the crack of dawn looks good.” Looking around I saw that there was no place to sit, except for an old milk crate which he gestured toward and I hunkered down on. It smelled too, like a combination of stale work boot and old man fart. Mindy shut the door behind me and I felt as if she had sealed my coffin.

“So, tell me a little about yourself,” Jack said. He had this rumbling voice that indicated a combination of age, madness, alcohol abuse and yelling at the television when his team fumbled a ball. Plus his eyes were sunken, yellow and appeared to be leaking a bit. He was unshaven, he had a huge gut protruding from a cheap flannel under a puffy work vest. Even sitting down I could see that he was extremely tall. Jack frightened me. Almost as much as being broke.

“Well, let’s see,” I began. “I just moved back from Palm Springs…”

“What the hell were you doing there?” he demanded.

“Um, well, I was living with my dad and writing for this local paper.”

“Is that what you do,” he asked almost inquisitory. “You a writer?”

“Well, sort of, I’m also a DJ…”

“Says here you write a lot,” Jack said picking up my resume that was perched to his left. “I don’t need a goddam writer. What I need is a bartender.”

Before walking down to Bill’s I had made a quicky bar resume with some “references”. Basically the few restaurants and one bar I worked at briefly became year long endeavors and the references were Jose and Kevin and a few made up ones with fake phone numbers. If this guy actually calls any of my references I’d be shocked. But, you never know. By the look of it, Jack was just wacky enough to do so. And probably in the middle of the night. So I gave him some speech about how my “writing gigs” were in-between my real jobs, which were being a server and bartender, as I handed him the new resume.

“Why the hell didn’t you hand this one to me in the first place?”

He had a good question and, in a way, he got me. I then came up with a quick and brilliant explanation which involved me just coming back from an interview with a publishing house down the street and, you know, they might offer me a job so better nab me up quick buddy.

“What publishing house?” he asked, again, sounding totally incriminating.

“Uh, Fields & Cohen,” I said. For some reason Mindy Cohen and Kim Fields of “Facts of Life” came to mind. Maybe it was because the bartender was named Mindy. Maybe it was due to the fact that I always had a crush on Jo. Then why not call it “Polniaczek Press”? I couldn’t figure out either of them.

“Never heard of it,” Jack said.

“It’s small. It’s…new.”

“Here’s the thing,” he started, adjusting his lumbering body in a squeaky chair holding on for dear life, “the outside bar is getting more popular. They got bands and singers and all sorts of acts on that new stage of theirs outside. Have you seen the stage yet?”

“Oh yes,” I said trying to get an angle in. “In fact, that’s how I…”

“Good, because I can’t have a one bartender doing both bars. It’s…it’s just not possible. They just can’t. This place is too big. Have…have you seen this place?”

“Yes, I…”

“It’s just not possible.”

I sat there nodding holding back tears and giggles while at the same time trying not to breath through my nose. What were those other smells? Embalming fluid? Forgotten underwear left for dead under heaping mounds of boxes filled with staining account statements from the Carter administration? Or was it just Jack? He looked like a man that would forget to bathe after giving himself several beer ties and swallowing a slat of chili cheese dogs. Whatever it was it was thick and grim and I wished that Mindy would come back and open the door to release some of the heavy old guy musk stench. But she never did.

“Well,” I began waiting to be interrupted again. “Uh…I’m available. I live right up the street and can…”

“You live right up the street?” Jack almost shouted in surprise. “Where?”

“Columbus and Union.”

“When can you start?”

Jack and I settled on the day after to get me trained and acclimated to the place. As I walked back up Columbus to the apartment I felt a twinge of fear enter my body. I don’t know why, but it felt as if I had sold my soul in some weird way. Then I kept repeating to myself “Its just a job, it’s only temporary” and that seemed to calm me a little. If anything I would walk away with a new experience and some stories. I already knew I could write a whole novella on just Jack alone. That guy was a mess. What threw me off was why he agreed to hire me on the fact that I lived just up the street. That gave me pause and made me shudder a bit.

When I got back to the apartment I saw Khamish walking out of his room. He had the turban, along with an expensive looking tee shirt, some super stiff and hip jeans on and holding onto an expensive looking laptop computer.

“Oh hi.” he said. “I’m just on my way out.”

“I’m just coming in,” I said meeting him midway through the hall.

“Well…see ya,” he said leaving in a hurry.

“Yeah. Okay. See ya.”

Khamish closed the door behind him and was gone. I then found it weird to be living in a place where a guy like Khamish came and went as he pleased. It wasn’t the turban or Hindu thing, far from it. I just found it odd that someone actually did in fact “live” in a tiny room right next to me. Someone that I never saw. Sure I had room mates before, lots of them, but usually I either knew them or I saw them on a regular basis. Life was becoming quite psychedelic at this point.

That night as I readied myself to go to the Crowbar for a few congratulatory beers and shots the phone rang. Usually I don’t pick up but now that I had a new job and invited Jose to meet me I answered.

“Dude, you’re back in San Francisco?”

It was Kevin. It struck me then, quite hard, that I failed to inform him that I was moving back to take care of Amanda’s place for a while. He sounded kind of disappointed.

“Yeah man. Sorry. Things just got nutty is all. I forgot to tell you.”

“Dude,” he said sounding a little flustered. “We were keeping that place open for you. Now Sandi has to go explain to the owner that no one is going to occupy it. We thought you were a sure thing.”

I told Kevin the whole story and the main reason to why I moved back. Being the awesome guy he is he totally understood and left it at that. Even though I felt like an absolute turd.

“Well what are you going to do when Amanda comes back?” he asked.

“Just keep that place open,” I said, “if that’s possible. Or your couch. I’m open.”

* * *

The next day I made the trek over to the 540 Club to discuss further metal nights with Jamie. He, along with the other regulars and bartenders there, were just happy to see me come back. Jamie wanted to do another Saturday night, in fact, now that I was back for a while, the first Saturday of every month was to be my night.

“There’s something else too,” Jamie said after we did a shot of Fernet which sent serious shivers down my body causing me to wiggle around and produce massive goose flesh, “we have a new night we introduced while you were gone. It’s called White Trash Wednesdays and we have two other guys that are involved but I want you to be a part of as well.”

White Trash Wednesdays entailed DJs spinning a collection of bad country, southern rock, rockabilly and the like while the bar sold dollar PBRs and projected movies like “Smokey and the Bandit” or “Road House” on the small screen above the DJ area. My contribution was to be the 80s hair metal and butt rock guy, which was no problem since I had acres of Ted Nugent and Poison collections. I quickly accepted. We then got on to talking about the next metal night which would be in a week and a half and I once again became excited to be back in San Francisco.

* * *

I found it kind of odd that my training at Bill’s was to start at 8 o clock in the morning. When the alarm jangled on at 7 I thought that I had made a mistake of turning the alarm on before going to bed or setting it too early due to the fact that Jose and I had many drinks at a dive bar near his new studio apartment. The Tenderloin area of San Francisco is essentially the skid row of the city with various divey bars, low end strip joints, half way houses, methadone clinics, markets written in middle eastern languages and bums sleeping in gutters. Still, it’s kind of cool because no uptight tourist or scene going club hopper would even step foot in the Tenderloin, so the crappy bars and exotic eateries are for residents of the area and those with iron wills and stomachs. The bar that we went to literally had no name and was just a door cut into the side of a building with a small bar, few stools, an aging jukebox with nothing but the Eagles on it and characters that Charles Bukowski immortalized in his books. It was so low end that when I ordered a Johnny Walker on the rocks and the tab was $5 the guy sitting in front of me turned around and shouted “Five dollars? Jeez…wha…what’s the occasion?”, as if five dollars for a drink is an expensive concept.

Eventually I gathered my senses and made it to the shower, only to find Khamish walking out of it. He had his turban off so I finally saw his real hair. It was long and bound into a tight bun and matched his bushy black beard. He had boxer shorts on and a towel draped across his shoulder.

“Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” I said with a yawn and a little creeped out that we were both half naked, “I start a new job today. Looks like I’m going to be a bartender.”

“Bartender?” Khamish said with a shock. “At 8 o clock in the morning?”

“Hey, I guess folks have to get a little nip in them before hitting the office. Something. I don’t know.”

I then took a shower which took almost 15 minutes because of the ridiculously low water pressure. I was sure that each day the pressure gets worse and worse. On a day where I actually have to be somewhere the water trickled out of the shower head like a leaky faucet. I had to wash my hair sitting on my knees because it just wasn’t doing anything. It was silly.

Around 8 I made it to Bill’s and found the side door locked. Looking inside I noticed that it was dark and unoccupied. I tried the front entrance by the wharf. Same thing. Locked. Not knowing what to do I just waited.

And waited…and waited…

About 8:30 an attractive lady showed up. I was sitting by the front entrance sure that at any moment some one would arrive and open the place. Either that or this was a test to see if I had the guts to wait it out for a long time or leave. Luckily I had bought a coffee at a café up the street and grabbed the Guardian to read. So, in a way, I was alright to just sit by the front door of a possible new job and sip coffee and read.

“Are you waiting to get in?” the lady said. She had a British accent and was quite tall and comely. Her long blonde hair was pulled back and her arms were crossed as she looked down at me.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” I said. “I, uh, I think I’m getting trained today.”

“Oh right,” she said. “Siobhan said that there was a new person starting. I take it thats you.”

“Who’s Siobhan?” I asked.

“The manager here. She’s a nutter. You’ll meet her. You’ll like her.”

“I met Jack. He’s kinda nutty.”

“Nutty isn’t the word,” the lady said looking around. “He’s down right fucking daft.”

“Great.”

“I’m Emma by the way,” she said still clutching her handbag with her arms crossed.

“Hi. I’m Mark. So, is this place cool or what? It seems a little…strange. Is strange a good word?”

“You don’t know half of it,” Emma said with a laugh. “This place is the weirdest bloody place I have ever worked in. And, believe me, I’ve worked in some dodgy places in my time. But, it’s quite easy and you can’t complain about the money.”

“The money, yeah,” I said. “The few times I’ve been here there’s been just me and a few grubby guys at the bar. Do they tip silly or what?”

“No. It gets busy. You’ll see.”

A few minutes later a cab pulled up. In the backseat I could see Jack.

“He takes a cab to work?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. He can barely drive. The bastard owns like 20 Studebakers. He’s fucking loaded.”

“Really?” I said with a feeling that perhaps I stumbled across something quite interesting here.

Jack got out and greeted us with a muffled “Morning” and shuffled over to unlock the front door. Emma and I stepped in and the place was even creepier with the lights off and completely silent and empty. I followed her through the small bar area into the main bar area and into the back employee region. A flick of the lights revealed a hallway filled with all kinds of boxes, an enormous liquor cabinet, various bar necessities and a wall with employee schedules, notes, information and the like. Then suddenly something caught my eye.

It looked like a small cat had just ran past me and under the liquor cabinet. I jumped for a second.

“Is there a house cat here?” I asked Emma.

“A what?” she said.

“I just…I don’t know. I thought I saw something.”

“Oh. Watch this.”

As Emma turned on another light leading into the kitchen what I had saw was one of many scattering mice, all of which were dashing into tiny holes in the walls and under cabinets. Some of which were just running across the floor and out the door. That sent me into a mild state of shock.

“You’re kidding me?” I said standing there stiff as a board.
“
They go away after a while. They won’t hurt you.” Emma said this as if it was no big deal. This was indeed some kind of haunted house, I was convinced, and it was too early to be dealing with a mouse plague.

The rest of the day actually went by fine. I followed Emma around as she set up for breakfast service in that bizarre Tiki room and told me some of the rules and expectations. It was nothing unusual. In fact if there had been anyone else but someone like Emma I’m sure I would have ran away and just gotten a job with the landscaping company again. Or McDonalds. Anything.

About 9 o clock a cook showed up. He was young Latino guy named Ignacio. Emma said that everyone called him “Iggy” but I figured I should get to know him better before calling him that. He seemed a little thuggish but was nice just the same. When folks arrived for breakfast the place filled up and Ignacio and Emma were off and running. I helped when I could but Emma insisted that I basically stand back and take notes, probably for fear of snaking some of her tips.

Around 11 the place emptied again and it was time to set up for lunch. Beforehand I was sent outside to unlock the tables and chairs in the courtyard and set them up around the bar. There were a lot of them and the property lines for Bill’s was pretty big. The place must get business to have this many tables and chairs and such a large service area.

Hal strolled in around this time and showed me the ropes of the main bar. I really didn’t know what I was doing but I did know how to pour a beer, pour a shot and I made killer Bloody Mary’s. The rest was just learning how to ring up sales on the antique cash register. It was one of those huge bulky old timey cash registers with huge round keys, a crank on the side and made “ding” sounds every time the drawer opened. All money counts and ledgers were done by hand and handled by Jack. I soon began to see where one could skim off the top and pocket extra cash for themselves. These attractive and seemingly cool people weren’t working in a freakshow like Bill’s for altruistic reasons. There must be a way to make serious money here.

Around noon Siobhan arrived. She was a skinny shaky woman with an almost unintelligible Irish accent and looked as if she was mid way through a speed bender. She held an unlit cigarette between her fingers and talked in a wild tangent way. Still, she was very nice and laid back and was happy to have me on board.

“How’d ya end up here?” she asked me as we set up the outside bar.

“That’s a good question,” I said. “How did any of you end up here?”

That sent Siobhan laughing, which was s series of twitters with her head bent down.

“Darlin, I don’t know the answer ta that one. This place is like a fuckin’ vacuum it is. Sucks ya in and you can’t get out.”

In a way, I kind of liked Bill’s, mainly because I couldn’t figure it out. The staff was friendly enough. A bit odd but still very comforting and helpful. Jack was out of my hair as all he did was sit in his office or at the end of the bar watching. Plus the customers were mainly tourists and it was fun to chat with people visiting about what to do in San Francisco. At 5 o clock I was sent home after Emma handing me $20 and Siobhan making sure I was going to return.

“Yeah,” I told her. “This seems alright. It’s weird but…that’s kind of what I like about it.”

“Darlin’”, Siobhan said getting closer to my ear, holding on to my sleeve, “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

* * *

Before I knew it, it was Saturday and I was loading up the truck with the stuff for my metal night at the 540 Club. The equipment took up a dark corner in the bedroom and I freaked Khamish out one night playing with the fog machine. He stormed in my room thinking it was on fire only to find me half drunk in my pajamas with the headphones on blasting Sleep’s “Holy Mountain”. I told him what it was for and he was taken aback that I was a DJ.

“You don’t play dance music or nothing?” he asked completely confused on the concept.

“Unless you consider banging your head or moshing dancing, then sure!”

Again, like last time, Jamie ran adds in all of the major newspapers and made a new poster, this time saying “Run To The Hills, featuring DJ Metal Mark, every first Saturday of the month, 10pm to 2am”. That made me feel really good. I was now an official regular DJ at a popular bar. Who knew?

This metal night was a little different. Same set up, same time slot yet this time I had a slew of new songs and decided to keep it more popular with familiar songs and recognizable bands. But this night, as the show rumbled on, offered up about half of the crowd that had shown up the first time. Even though the thick fog I could see only a few bodies walking around. It was still a decent group but this time there was far from a wait to get it.

As I threw on Accept’s “Balls to the Wall” after AC/DC’s “Inject the Venom” I walked up to the bar where Brooks was messing around on a laptop with Jamie.

“Oh man,” I said, “where is everybody?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jamie said. “Things will pick up. It’s a give and take with theme nights. Sometimes they work. Other times, well…you just gotta roll with it.”

I grabbed a beer and went back to the DJ booth and ruminated about how I got into metal in the first place.

Growing up my dad always had some kind of rock music playing. He being a diehard beatles and Rolling Stones fan, my dad also had albums by Cream, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix and Black Sabbath which I used to listen to quite loudly when he was at work or doing a show. When KISS released “Destroyer” in 1976 I was 5 years old and a year later I was a certified member of the KISS Army. My dad just saw four guys in kabuki makeup playing hard rock and didn’t want to be the boring parent and say that his kid couldn’t listen to rock and roll music. My dad had been a hippie, did his fair share of drugs and almost went to Altamont to see the Stones play for free but was delayed when a ride didn’t turn up. He encouraged me to listen to his music and explore other music that I might find interesting. Just as long as I didn’t set the house on fire or anything.

As a kid in Los Angeles in the 70s and 80s I listened to a lot of KROQ which played the absolute best in new wave and punk. On Friday nights that had a show that featured a band playing live at a place called Madam Wongs. One night I caught a band called The Misfits and was blown away. They were just so fast and so weird that I became an instant fan. I then knew that I had a thing for extremely heavy and fast music.

It wasn’t until we moved from LA to a little town called Salinas near my hometown of Carmel that I became a serious Metalhead. Raging hormones, zits, confusion, displacement, youthful rage and an obsession with Dungeons and Dragons lead me to the darker side of music. By my freshman year of high school I had shoulder length hair, an earring and a walkman that was always filled with Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” or “Kill ‘Em All” and Slayer’s “Show No Mercy” or “Hell Awaits”.  Plus at that time the whole hardcore punk and metal crossover was happening so bands like DRI, Excel, Anthrax, Septic Death, Suicidal Tendencies and the like were constantly being blasted in my ears as I pretended to pay attention in math class or suffering through detention for skateboarding on school property.

The thing is, I’m not an angry person or seriously depressed. Heavy Metal always made me feel extremely happy. The lyrics are one thing, but when I hear a ultra heavy riff and thundering drums I can’t help but smile. Sure a lot of the Death and Black Metal stuff is a bit much for me, along with Grindcore which just makes me shrug because it’s so fast and insane I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do with it, but for the most part Metal is like watching a puppet show or dressing up like a Viking on Halloween; sure it’s stupid, but man, it’s a whole lot of fun.

Although when my dad found my collection of “Satanic” bands such as Venom, Celtic Frost, Possessed and Hellhammer under my bed, I did have a lot of explaining to do. Those chicken bones next to them weren’t a sacrifice. I just wanted a midnight snack.

Now, here I was, a guy in his mid 30′s, with a cooler full of some of his metal CDs playing it for patrons to one of the best bars in town with a fog machine and Castle Grayskull to boot. It was all too surreal. Even if nobody showed up, I was having a pretty good time. That’s when I noticed a bunch of guys approach me.

They weren’t the typical 540 Club types, I’m not too sure if there really is one, but they weren’t the hipster punky art looking guys that frequent the place. Sure on Metal Night an occasional unwashed drunkard will stumble in and demand I play “Cherry Pie” at full volume so he can, and I quote “Get the bitches to dance on the bar for him”, but these four guys were a little more menacing, yet totally put together. Does that make sense? They looked intimidating yet at the same time had on stylish clothes. Anyway,I cued up some doom and black metal just in case they wanted to hear something other than Bang Tango.

“Are you Metal Mark?” asked one of them. He was shorter than the rest, had an almost completely shaved head and had on an expensive leather jacket and a classic Deicide tee shirt on.

“I am yes,” I said, trying to hear him over the din of Ratt’s “Lay It Down” which I was about to mix into Black Sabbath’s “Zero The Hero”. “What do you guys wanna hear?”

The guys just looked around at all of my stuff, all holding beers and flipping through the new lot of free CDs I had laid out. Some of the PR firms I used to be in heavy contact with during my reigning time as a serious freelance journalist still sent me promo CDs. Most of it wasn’t metal. In fact, most of it was crap. I had an R&B boy band in the mix. I think that’s what the big guy was laughing at.

“We just came to see you in action,” the short guy said with a shrug. “My name’s Rusty. Rusty Trombone.”

He held out his hand and I shook it with a laugh. It just struck me funny that a well put together guy such as he had a name like that. He introduced me to the other guys. The big one was called El Douche, a skittish younger looking fellow with poofy hair was simply called Kyle and a thick dark featured guy with a scowl was called Neckbrace. All of them said hello as they sipped beers and looked at my set up in the DJ area.

“Have you ever heard of Reckless Radio?”

I had indeed heard of Reckless Radio. It then struck me that Rusty Trombone was the Rusty Trombone of Reckless Radio. I quickly perked up and felt as if I was at an audition or something.

Reckless Radio was an all night extreme music show on the local college based radio station KUSF. Every Sunday from 2am to 8 am the DJs played a variety of music ranging from the most extreme metal to the most obscure weirdness. It was mainly a Metal show but sometimes they would slip in some comedy record or twittering sound effect laden noise scape just to throw you off. Plus they had a few guys that played punk. But for the most part Reckless Radio was a metal format. The best part about the show, that I had remembered, was the round table discussions with the DJs and guests. Sometimes members of bands would drop by but usually it was just friends of the Djs talking about the most outlandish stuff. There were no taboos. Mind you, they never swore because it was a public radio station and, ironically enough, based out of USF which is a Jesuit campus. I always found it funny that after a set of Satanic speed metal the guys would talk about bizarre sexual fetishes and atrocities across the globe while being broadcast from a well known university with a huge Catholic church on campus and priests roaming around.

I told Rusty that I loved Reckless Radio and was a big fan.

“Maybe you should drop by sometime,” he said. “How about next Saturday?”
I had no plans on Saturday night. My next DJ gig is in a week and that’s on a Wednesday. Unless I have to work late at the bar. But the outside closes at midnight at the latest. I said I would drop by and they all walked away and headed back to the bar.

By 1:30am I got on the mic and announced “Last call” and started to wrap it up. As usual, I had Europe’s “Final Countdown” at the ready as my last song as the house lights came up and the fog machine shuts down.

As I’m organizing my CDs and packing up my giveaways, Thor shows up with a buddy in tow. He asks me if I want a shot and, of course, I accept. They both go to the bar and return with a round of some green concoction. I down it, shiver and ask them what’s up.

“Nothing,” he says. Thor and his buddy look a little wrecked so I figured they were drinking and possibly doing something else. “Some of us are gonna be at Jerrod’s house right now. Have you met him?”

The guy standing next to Thor was Jerrod I assumed. I had seen him before but was never fully introduced. He was obviously into skateboarding since that’s all the clothes he wore. A Thrasher hoodie here, half Cab Vans there, ripped jeans, Skull Skates ballcap, etc. He seemed like a cool guy, very laid back, with lazy set eyes and a Cheshire cat grin. I shook his hand and he asked if I could play some Isis. I told him I would love to but at 2am as the barstaff was trying to get everyone out it wasn’t a good idea to play thudding hardcore doom metal. He smiled and said it was worth a shot.

Thor gave me Jerrod’s address which interestingly enough was just a few blocks away. Figuring I was still flying from playing metal for four hours and that on Sunday’s I requested closing shifts so I could sleep in, I told them I would be there. They finished their beers and took off.

This Metal Night was far from as successful as the first one, which made me worry. I was sure Jamie was going to pull the plug on the whole idea. But, when he handed me two 20s and another beer he assured me that Metal Night was here to stay. So then and there I promised myself that I would double my efforts to get people to come out on the first Saturday of every month to see and hear me DJ. It was like therapy for me. Staying in Amanda’s weird apartment, dealing with a strange new job, being back in a city I was so desperate to leave had me thinking that I needed to get professional help. There were some days that I just couldn’t wake up. I had no one to talk to, no one to hang out with. Jose had become almost non existent since he made manager at his job and was focusing on his jewelry making business. I mean, hey, I barely even saw that supposed room mate of mine. All there was it seemed was my spot by the big window at the Crowbar and renting bad roller disco or breakdancing movies to keep me happy. Now that I had a regular DJ spot, I could get my pent up aggression out and bang my head for a few hours.

I packed up the truck and drove the few blocks to Jerrod’s place. He lived in a dark area on 8th Avenue right off of Clement Street. The address given was actually a gate that lead under a house to a basement apartment. As I approached the front door I could hear music playing and people talking.

There were tons of garbage and old skateboard material scattered everywhere. In the dim porch light I could make out a broken down quarter pipe ramp, old hashed out decks, piles of wood and ply, a sea of beer cans and random toys and trash that I really couldn’t make out. This was indeed the crash pad for a 20 something skater with a penchant for booze and most likely bongs.

Not bothering to knock, I opened the front door and walked in. The apartment was just a long series of rooms. At the end was where all the people were and noise was coming from. I waded through the mess of a kitchen, through a cluttered hallway and made my way into the main room. I was greeted with a general “Hey!” and was told that beer was in the fridge. After retrieving a PBR I went back to join the group.

There was Jerrod sitting on his bed with a skinny and very young looking punk rock girl, with jet black hair and piercings. Thor was on the floor looking through CDs that were just scattered by the stereo. There was one other guy, another skateboarder with buzzed dark hair and massive tattoos, and two other girls, both of which looked mildly similar to the girl next to Jerrod. They all had “dates” it seemed. So I cracked my beer and sat on a an easy chair that must have been found on the side of the road.

“So Jerrod tells me that you DJ and stuff,” one of the girls on the floor said. They all looked really high. I could smell the weed, I could see the bongs but there was no way I was going to get stoned. I was already feeling out of place. Further acceleration of paranoia and displacement needn’t apply.

“That’s true,” I said with sense of coolness. It was the first time someone, especially a young cute girl, had asked me that. “I just finished up at the 540 Club.”

“The 540!” the other floor girl shrieked. “That place is so cool. I can’t wait to go there.”

“Why don’t you?” I asked.

“Cause I’m only 19,” she said. The other floor girl was the same age it turned out. Bed girl had just recently turned 21 and told them about the awesomeness that is the 540 Club. It was then that I felt really old and really strange.

Jerrod offered me the bong as he packed it and took a huge hit. I told them my history with weed. I was good on it for years and then one day, blam!, I just couldn’t do it anymore. Unless they wanted me cowering under a table and eating his collection of Spawn toys then no. I’ll stick with the beer.

“Then…do you wanna try this?”

Thor turned to me and held out a small baggy. In it was a white powder. Obviously cocaine. I was always curious to try it but was always nervous. Years ago my dad’s doctor said I had a heart palpitation after a checkup when I was visiting from college. Plus my grandpa, my dad’s dad, died from complications after several bypasses. And did you ever see “Scarface” or “Goodfellas”? It just seemed so serious. Tempting, but too serious.

To be nice I said “Maybe later” and turned it down. Jerrod then got out a large mirror from under his bed and laid it on the coffee table, first pushing aside ashtrays, junk, skateboard wheels and whatnots that littered the top. Thor went over and tapped out a good pile of the stuff, which he then crushed with a credit card and thinned out into several long lines. Thor grabbed a half cut straw from his pocket and went in, consuming a line in one swift snort. The girls all took their turn, then Jerrod. The other skateboarder guy, whose name turned out to be Tommy, did not partake. Rather he just inhaled vast amounts of bong hits and said that coke just made him jittery and something called “coke dick”. I chose to go through some of the CDs as they inhaled drug.

Being a bit drunk and getting a contact high I chose to throw on Fu Manchu’s “The Action Is Go” which nestled over me like a familiar fuzzy blanket. We all chatted for a while and consumed more PBR. Then something came over me.

I wanted to try the coke.

After opening another can of PBR and listening to the chugging guitars and vapid conversation I sat next to Thor and asked if he could lay out a line for me.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yeah. I’m a little drunk. I just need a pick me up or…something.”

With that he produced the baggy and shook out another big pile. I looked up and through the cigarette stained window blinds I could see the early morning sunlight break through the night like a deep blue wine. I was sure, somewhere, a bird was chirping madly and my dad was waking up for the first time before going back to sleep again to read the paper and drink some coffee. Here I was, about to do cocaine for the first time in a dirty basement apartment with people I have never hung out with before along with some underage girls. What the hell was going on?

Pretty soon the lines were laid out and Thor handed me the straw. I took it, cleaned off the ends and leaned in. I put the straw in my right nostril, held the other one closed and sucked in heavily while moving my head going down the rail.
The drug immediately hit my brain and went cascading down my throat like I had just sucked down chalk dust. I held my head back and let the drug take hold, just like I had seen in all of those movies. The drip down made me gag a bit but I refused to cough. For some reason, I wasn’t satisfied so I bent down and did the same thing but with my left nostril. I took it all in and there was no going back…I had officially done cocaine.

As the others tucked in to do the same a feeling came over me. My heart started to race, my head began to feel light, my palms sweated a bit and I felt as if I was being lifted up. This was it, I was high. And it felt unbelievably fantastic!

The hours of beer drinking had all but disappeared. I wasn’t drunk anymore. I felt like Superman. My already spasmodic energy began to take the helm and I found myself dancing and air guitaring to Fu Manchu. I wanted to go jogging. Or better yet, I wanted to break through walls and fly through the air. I felt invincible. Pretty soon, the stupid conversations from stoned skaters and underage girls was all too interesting. I laughed at their lame jokes. I told stories about dopey stuff that I had done. I was in the spotlight. I was the super most awesome funny guy making these almost strangers laugh at my ridiculous stories. I couldn’t sit still. I played more music. I was the king of the universe.

Around 7am Tommy, Thor and the floor girls (nope, never got their names) took off. Thor put a little bit of the blow in a torn out page from a skateboarding mag and handed it to me.

“If you ever need some,” he said before leaving, “I got the hookup.”

Seeing that Jarrod and bed girl were getting cozy I took that as a cue for me to split. I was wide awake and wasn’t ready to end the party.

After saying goodbye I went back to my truck, took out my DJ stuff from the cab I had loaded in for safe keeping, put it in the back and drove off. The sun was up, I was, assumably, drunk but so high I had no idea where I wanted to go. I should have been hungry but food was the last thing on my mind. In a haze of booze and blow I went to one of the dive bars near Jose’s apartment that open up at 6am and ordered a beer and shot of whiskey. After throwing the whiskey back I almost totally vomited on the bar. I wasn’t used to doing cocaine and the drip back factor had taken a vile turn. But I held it in, swallowed my beer and took off for home. Even in my insane state of mind then, I knew it was the right thing to do.

I parked the truck in front, unloaded into the foyer, found a parking spot a block away and walked back to the apartment. Once inside I closed the bedroom door, opened the paper filled with blow and did a few bumps. I went to the fridge, opened a Sierra Nevada and sat on the fire escape watching the sun rise and the early Sunday morning hustle and bustle below me.

It was the best I had felt in a really long time.

* * *

Bill’s was beginning to get busy. As the spring time end of tourism approached, the summer heads were about to kick in and were slowly making their presence known. I had almost nothing to do with the inside goings on. The only time I ever really went inside was to get food or make drinks. The outside bar was just that, a concrete bar, but everything had to be made inside and then delivered outside. In plastic cups and plates no less. This pissed some people off when their $7 martini arrives in a cheap plastic high ball tumbler. But the attraction of being able to smoke and catch some guitar playing singer on the small stage in the courtyard made me actually busy at times. There were some nights that I had to keep the bar open past 10, closing time for all outside service, because folks were getting hammered and wanted to smoke. As the thick evening fog rolled in and they sat there shivering and chattering their teeth, more drinks were ordered because, hey, they were from Europe or something and they were not used to this American “bool-sheet”.

I was also getting to know the staff a bit more too. Hal was a really cool guy and didn’t mind if I did a quick shot if Jack wasn’t around. In fact he would join me. Come to think of it, we all did shots when Jack wasn’t sitting at the end of the bar staring at us or in his office with eyes in the back of his head. Mindy was from South Africa, hence the accent and had a little boy, Joshua. Emma was a career man-stalker and was on a different date almost every other night with a new guy. There was also a kitchen manager, Hector, who was a wiry and dexterous middle aged man from El Salvador and another part time cook, Rodrigo, who was a slight and very quiet Mexican man but always had something to say to the girls when they flitted by putting up tickets. There was also another girl, Danika, that worked part time when she wasn’t studying ancient cultures at UCSF. She was a funny girl that reminded me of a quirky side kick in some 80s sit com or comedy. She smoked a lot and always had a wry comment to customers that were difficult or didn’t tip.

“Why thank you sir. I’ve always wanted to try out those new fangled video games those kids have been talking about. Now I have the fifty cents to do so. Have a nice day,” she said once to an old man that ordered several scotches, was rather unpleasant and left her a rotten tip. We got along just fine Danika and I.

The best thing about Bill’s was the fact that I got to meet people from all over the world. San Francisco being a popular vacation spot and Fisherman’s Wharf being where they all come to first and, seemingly, never leave, I regularly served folks that just pointed to the Budweiser sign in our window to order a beer because they couldn’t speak English. For the most part though it was just Brits and Germans. It was cool when Emma got customers from England because she would remind them with sugary sweet venom that “here in the States, we tip.” Still, for the most part, they would either stiff us or leave a smattering of coins on the bill tray that glisten in coppery goodness under the heaving afternoon sun.

The Germans were the worst though. First off, they all dressed the same. If stereotypes happen for a reason, it is most likely because of the German tourist trade. For real. Black socks in Birkenstock sandals, huge fanny packs, an opened map, blonde hair, sharp features, cargo shorts, ugly windbreakers and their Aryan youth in tow. Now, I am not making a generalization of a people here, but after a few shifts that was what came to my bar, sat down and asked in a thick accent, “yes, please to have the Budweiser beer please.” Second, they were kind of rude in the sense that they always seemed displeased with our fair city and always wanted something more than just crab shacks, gift stores and boats going out to Alcatraz.

“Well,” I usually told them, “Fisherman’s Wharf is a good place to start but…it is not the city at all. Far from it. Locals don’t go here. You need to explore.” I would then point out cool places to go on the map and hope that they would take my advice and check out the city. Usually they got as far as Ghirardelli Square or North Beach and turn around and come right back. If I saw them again, which I sometimes did, they said they “went to the Union Square” and that was it. I guess to those unfamiliar to certain parts of San Francisco, the surrounding areas to major tourist spots are kind of suspicious. Just a few blocks up from Union Square, where the big Macy’s is and all that haute couture shopping is, lies bum bars and bodegas on Geary. Van Ness is just a huge stretch connecting the wharf to the inner city and lined with boring buildings, expensive restaurants and the opera house, which is actually pretty cool. Market Street between downtown and the Castro is basically a gutter. Broken down sex shops, prostitutes, weird stereo and shoes stores and countless victims of mind rot, drug and drinking addictions litter the sidewalks like dirty hairy bags filled with trash and sorrow. And the Castro! If you have any slight infinitesimal aversion to homosexuality this is the place that they always avoid. For just three blocks it is the gay district in the gayest city on the world. My dads even have a problem with it. “It’s just…too much,” they said once on a visit years ago. Sure it has the best theater in town, the best cookie shop and the only patio restaurant that I know of, but it is a parade of very proud and openly gay men with shops and boutiques that cater to such. I totally love the Castro but tourist customers of mine usually give me the quick hand wave signaling “No” when I mention it as a destination spot. It’s reputation precedes it even across the globe.

So, I guess, if you’re a boring person no matter where you’re from, San Francisco is kind of an intimidating city. I just never thought of it like that. Made me appreciate being back a little more.

The way I made any kind of cash was to play up my “California dude” side. Jack didn’t care what you wore as long as it was clean and, I quote, “doesn’t say shit like Fuck or Cunt on them.”  I was lucky then. For the most part I had a collection of vintage Hawaiian and bowling shirts and baggy shorts, plus my brown salt and pepper thick wavy hair almost touched my shoulders so I sort of looked like a surfer or whatever. After a few shots of Jager during a shift I usually became a sort of character and really laid on the “yeah dude” attitude and accent. As long as I brought the food and booze, kept them laughing and made decent chit chat they would most likely leave a decent tip. In a sense, I was sort of singing for my supper.

“You’re such a ham,” Emma would say watching me with customers. I didn’t care. I was a pudgy struggling writer with a new found hobby of heavy metal DJing; I knew what I was working with. Emma and Mindy had it easy, they were attractive girls. Me? I just put Bill Murray in “Meatballs” together with Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and usually made at least $100 in tips by the end of the day. That combined with my $10 and hour paycheck I was doing alright.

Maybe I did make the right decision on coming back. I was actually having some fun.

One thing that was a problem was my relationship with Amanda. She would call almost every night and give me sad details about her dying father and remind me that she still loved me.

“I love you too,” I would always say but internally mean ‘you’re a sweet kid and it sucks that you’re old man in about to keel over’. I would then have to tell her what’s going on with the apartment and Khamish, whom I never saw and relay stories about work and the club.

“That sounds so awesome baby,” she said. “I really wish I could be there.”

One night after having a few beers and shots at the Crowbar, picking up a burrito at the corner taqueria and renting “Beat Street” and “Krush Groove” I got a phone call. It was Amanda.

“Hi baby,” she said. “How are you?”

She always sounded kind of down and whispering but this night she was in rare form. After I told her that everything was fine, just getting ready to do my visit at Rampage Radio and White Trash Wednesday, etc, there was a pause.

“Mark…I have something to tell you.”

Mark? She never called me Mark. Amanda saying Mark was like one of my parents saying my full name; it either indicated some ‘I need your full attention’ seriousness or that they were mad at me. I then got the sinking feeling that she was coming back to San Francisco early and that I had to look for a place of my own, which I hadn’t even thought about. Or maybe her father finally died. Or both. Either or, she didn’t sound good.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I, uh… I haven’t been exactly honest with you about something.”

I knew it! She secretly has a man in Tucson. Either that or she met someone in Arizona and finally wants to officially break it off with me. Maybe its that dorky art fart knocker buddy of her’s that she’s in love with. Maybe that art dork is there in Tucson with her. Anyway, when an estranged girlfriend starts a conversation with “I haven’t been honest with you” can only mean a few things: She is not a she at all, she has some incurable disease, she enjoys bestiality or she is in love with someone else. I went to the fridge, popped open a beer and asked.

“What haven’t you been honest with me about?”

A deep sigh, then another pause on the other end. Oh man, this is going to be big I thought.

“Remember how I said that… Okay, you know how I don’t like you looking at my drivers licence?”

That was the first time I heard that. Trying to grasp where she was coming from I vaguely let in a memory of me wanting to see her licence because I was so proud of mine. The photo on my license was me grinning the biggest toothy dumbass grin that I have ever done and the lady behind the camera let me get away with it. It was just an awesome day. I was on my way to see Malory, I had the day off, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and I decided to just pop into the DMV to get my licence renewed because I had at least 3 hours to kill. After filling out some papers, doing a quick eye exam and waiting for a few minutes, my number was called and I was standing in line to have my photo taken in less than a half hour. It was incredible. Last time I went to the DMV without an appointment my whole day was shot. But that time was different. And to show my scintillating glee I smiled like a Cheshire cat in a toothpaste commercial, to which the lady taking the picture and the folks standing behind me in line all laughed. It then occurred to me that most people are boring and it takes a jolly little idiot like me to make their day.

Plus at the time I was madly in love. I took a long pull from my beer.

“I guess,” I said giving her some kind of understanding what she was talking about, which I didn’t. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, remember when I told you that I was 35?”

It’s true. One of the things that brought us together was the fact that we were the same age. It then came to me that she did freak out once when I found her licence lying on the floor and I made a comment about her picture, which was fine. But that’s all I saw. She quickly ran from the kitchen to snap it out of my hands and gave me the story that “it’s the worst picture of me ever”. It’s the DMV. That’s why I took a picture of me looking like a beaming moron. I mean, if you’re going to look bad you might as well be happy about it.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, what…are you younger?”

“No,” she said with some trepidation. Then, after another breathy pause she said, “I’m 40.”

At first those words “I’m 40″ freaked me out, only because I was expecting something wholly worse. But I really didn’t know what to say. So I just sat there and thinking about the fact that I had been sleeping with an older woman. A 40 year old. Big whoop.

“Oh…kay,” I finally said.

“Oh! So you’re not mad? You don’t care?”
S
he sounded as if she had just told me that she had been giving the pool boy handjobs all this time and was caught embezzling money from my grandfather. I didn’t care. She was 5 years older. In a way, it kind of turned me on.

“No, that’s…cool.”

“Oh my god. I am so relieved. I thought you were going to hate me.”

At that moment when she breathed an unnecessary sigh of relief I knew that our relationship was pretty much, officially, really this time, over. This chick was nuts.

“Can you do me a favor,” Amanda said coyly.

“Sure.”

“Go to my dresser, in the bottom drawer, way in the back, on the left, you should find a box.”

I got up from the bed and did what she told. There, in the back, was an old shoebox. A big one. Probably from one of her many knee high boot collection.

“Open it,” she said.

I opened the box and found that it contained a lot of pictures, pictures of her and her ex and their friends when this apartment used to be a one bedroom place for a couple, not a sublet for me and some film guy from New Zealand that I rarely see. She looked happy. Younger, thinner and just as beautiful. Her ex was an attractive guy too. Locks of short light brown hair, denim shirts, big smile, made me wonder what really happened between them. The small room where Khamish sometimes resides was their bedroom and my room was the living room. It was a pretty cool pad back then. Now, it just feels cluttered and haunted.

“Is there a small manilla envelope under all the photos?”

I dug through the drug store processed photos and did indeed find a small manila envelope.

“Open it.”

I opened the well worn and slightly dusty envelope and was thrown to find a small stack of pictures of Amanda in the nude. It was during that time with her ex and her thinner frame calmed down her heaving chest, but still…the photos were quite erotic and very tantalizing.

“Holy crap,” I said, almost spilling my beer from surprise. “What the…?”

“Now take your pants off.”

It didn’t take long for me to do so. What happened next was the first time I ever had phone sex with a photo reference. Amanda was quite good and precise with her dirty talk. Knowing I had a fetish for her boobs she kept going on about them, how big and round they were, and what she wanted me to do with them that, within a few minutes, just as she was getting to the nitty gritty, I shot across the bed and onto the television screen, almost dead center. My first thought was that it was going to be weird for me to watch some old school breakdancing movies knowing I had just ejaculated all over the TV. But no matter. I fell back on the bed not knowing what to make of this situation or relationship at all. Luckily her mom came home and she said she had to go, so we said goodbye and hung up.

I ate my burrito and blushed a bit during the big battle scene in Beat Street. In a strange way, I was part of the movie, so to speak. Even after wiping it down and using Windex.

VIII.

The White Trash Wednesday show went off without a hitch. The crowd was bigger since it’s not just me blasting Metal all night, but rather me playing Journey, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Ted Nugent, ToTo and the like with some hair bands and 80′s metal thrown in to keep it interesting. The beers and shots kept coming for free.

The set up wasn’t as dorky or elaborate as my “Run to the Hills” gigs. All I brought was the fog machine (you gotta have a fog machine when you’re blasting stadium rock or some Deep Purple, it’s just not the same without it) and my collection of bad music. The crowd ate it up. I was happy to see heads bopping and even some dancing to the music I was playing. At the end of the night I walked with three 20s and a serious beer buzz. Somehow I made it home with my ears ringing and liver complaining.

That Saturday I worked my day shift at Bill’s and prepared to visit the guys at Rampage Radio. Since it started at 2am and I was done bartending at 6, I had almost a full evening to myself. So I power napped, grabbed a burger at this amazing burger joint called Burgermeister that I discovered down the street and hung out at the Crowbar till they closed. I didn’t bring any music with me because I figured that I was just a guest and would stay for maybe an hour or two then leave. I had no idea what to expect at the radio station.

The bartender, Genea, an extremely cute punk rock type girl with loads of colorful tattoos and ever changing hair, let me stay after they locked the doors and did shots with her and the other bartender, Jake, who was a tall punk rock type guy with tattoos and slicked back black hair. Afterwards I called a cab, got in and headed to KUSF.

The radio station, as told to me by friends that used to work there, is in the humanities building on the USF campus. I told the cab driver where I was going, but since he barely spoke English and was totally new to the city I just asked him to drop me off “somewhere around central campus” and I’d find it on a map or something. He did so, I left him a lousy tip and got out.

The USF campus is quite large but not large enough where you aren’t met by some building or kiosk within a few steps. It was dark too. Just a few lampposts lit my blind way around the windy path that I had found. Luckily I located a campus map but couldn’t make any sense of it. It was too dark and the thick plastic glass protecting it was fogged up. But I discovered a ‘You Are Here’ dot and a building that I assumed said “Humanities”. So I lit out for that area and hoped for the best.

As I’m shuffling along the paved walkway, enjoying the cool night air and my heady buzz, a guy in a golf cart pulls up just inches away. Literally, the stout rig came from out of nowhere and it scared the living crap out of me. The man driving it was a big fellow, a chubby white guy with a bad moustache holding a squalking walkie-talkie. He looked as if he took his graveyard rent a cop shift much too seriously.

“Can I help you sir?” he said with a nerdy commanding voice. Because of the beer and shots in me and the fact that I was on a Jesuit campus looking for a guy named Rusty Trombone who ran an all night extreme music show combined with this low budget John Candy looking security doofus, I laughed a little.

“Yeah,” I said, still startled and giggling. “I”m looking for the humanities building.”

He repositioned his fat hiney and pushed up his thick glasses.

“Well that building is closed for the night sir,” he said. “What is your business going to the humanities building at 3am?”

“Actually I’m looking for KUSF. I, uh, was invited…”

The security guy let out a deep painful sigh as he lowered his massive head. I stopped talking because what I had just said was an obvious displeasure for this man. Since I didn’t know what was going on or what I had actually said I just stood there in silence waiting for him to respond.

“You’re not one of those Reckless people are you?”

He asked me as if I was mentally challenged or possibly disappointed him immensely. As he shook his head waiting for me to say something he indicated that he was all too familiar with the show. I guess they have given this guy some grief in the past. It was, after all, a bunch of severe metal heads and punks staying up all night playing obnoxious music and talking about outlandish things. I then felt rather proud to have been invited.

“Why…yes,” I said sticking my chin up. “I suppose I am.”

“Get in.”

The guy begrudgingly moves his fat butt to the left to make room for me. He sat there waiting for me to get in like a heavy hearted parent taking their kid to pick up their squashed cat in the road. But, to tell you the truth, I had no idea where I was and didn’t want to walk around and lose my buzz so I climbed in and we sped off.

“What would you wanna do with those Recklass fellows?” he asks me.

“Well…I don’t know. Some of the guys came to see me DJ the other night and invited me to hang out with them.”

“Oh,” he said perking up. “So you’re a DJ?”

“Um. Sort of. Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Well what kind of music do you DJ?”

“Heavy Metal.”

“Oh my lord,” he said throwing his head back. “How can you be a heavy metal DJ? How does one become a heavy metal DJ?”

“I…don’t know. It just kind of, you know, happened.”

“WHY would you want to be a heavy metal DJ?”

As we rolled along the windy path I felt as if I was getting some kind of scolding. Sure I was happy to be getting a ride but at the same time I was growing more and more uncomfortable. Was this guy some kind of Jesus freak and hated the Reckless Radio boys for their metal and shock value exploits? Or did he just hate DJs? I wasn’t too sure. But I was on his golf cart, on his campus, during his shift so I just played it nice and said that I was really a writer and heavy metal was just a hobby of mine.

“Well it’s just all garbage,” he said. “It’s just noise.” He then started to try and imitate some metal music which was just a series of him going “Blah blah blah, the devil the devil…” and making fart noises. I stifled a laugh. “That’s all I hear,” he said.

Eventually we made it to the humanities building and he stopped the cart by the front door.

“It’s right inside and to the left,” he said. “By the way, who was it that invited you here tonight?”

“Uh, his name was Rusty Trombone.”

“Oh my lord,” he said again, throwing his head back in disgust, again. “What kind of name is that? Dear Jesus. I just really miss the days when Christopher Cross was on the radio. Do you know who Christopher Cross is? Have you ever heard of Christopher Cross?”

“Yes sir I have,” I said halfway at the entrance door. “I love Christopher Cross. Yacht Rock is my favorite.”

“I thought heavy metal was your favorite,” he asked in a punishing voice.

“Well, it is. I love both.”

“How in the heck can you love heavy metal and Christopher Cross?” The guy was obviously dumbfounded that I had an eclectic taste in music. I also love Schubert and the Spice Girls. But I decided to leave that alone.

“It’s all just music sir,” I said opening the door.

“Crap. It’s all just crap!”

With that the guy put the cart in gear and sped off. So far, the evening was magic.

* * *

The lobby of the USF humanities building is just a big open space with a circular couch in the center, some bulletin boards, a bookstore and some bathrooms. The entrance to KUSF is a big glass door, which was locked, with a studio phone on the left. Above it read “Press 11 to access KUSF”, so I picked up the handset and dialed.

“KUSF,” said a guy’s voice on the other end.

“Yeah, my name is Metal Mark and I was…”

“Heeeey! Metal Mark! Come on in!”

There was a muffled buzzing and a click. I returned the handset and opened the door.

A long walk down a typical college hallway eventually lead me to the station. I could hear people inside talking loudly and some heavy music was playing. The area around KUSF was littered with photos of bands that have dropped by; Primus, Lemmy of Motorhead, Kirk from Metallica, etc, along with a slew of stickers of bands that were both familiar and totally obscure. I opened the door to the station and walked in.

Immediately I was met with walls filled with CDs and albums. It just hit me in the face like a choco-holic walking into Willy Wonka’s factory. To my left was the station, which was still lined with walls of CDs, and a group of people were gathered in a big room.

I walked down and was met by Kyle, one of the guys that came to my show. He was wearing a dirty white tee shirt, ripped jeans and appeared to be drunk or high or both.

“What’s up man,” he slurred. “You’re Matt right?”

“No. Mark. You guys came to my show at the 540 Club.”

“Right. Mark. Metal Mark! Welcome.”

To my immediate right was the DJ booth. It was small, cramped, full of brand new and old style equipment. At the helm, wearing thick headphones and manipulating the board, was Rusty Trombone. With his leather jacket off I could see that he had thick black tribal tattoos over both arms. Since he was busy I decided to say hello later. We then walked into the main room.

“Hey everyone,” announced Kyle, “this is Metal Mark!”

I was then recipient to a smattering of ‘hellos’, ‘what’s ups’, ‘heys’ and the like. The room was about as big as a large office space, with one long wood paneled table in the center, some chairs and three microphones hovering over. There was also an old yellow push button office phone on the table. The strains of some grinding metal with growling vocals sputtered over a small ancient house speaker. In the corner was about five 12 packs of beer. Kyle said to grab one, so I did, and was introduced to the others.

There was El Duce, who came to the 540, sitting by the phone and drinking a beer. There was also a spastic crusty punk rock guy named Boom with a myriad of tattoos, thick glasses, tattered ballcap and spoke in a series of agitated stammers. There was also his bother, Bob, who was in charge of answering the phone whenever it rang. He was a tangled mess of wiry hair, slurs, cackling laughs and a pint of plain wrap whiskey. And there was one girl.

“I’m Porkchop,” she said.

This girl was a husky build and dangerous looking. She looked to be more into the Black Metal stuff and wore nothing but dark clothing. Piercings dotted her face, tattoos wove around her arms and knuckles and she sucked on a tall boy Mickey’s like a dying man’s last breath.

“So, so, so, so….Metal Mark,” started Boom with a rattle of words, “Rusty tells me that you’re a DJ at some club.”

“Yeah, sometimes,” I said, a little intimidated and feeling a bit out of place. “The 540 Club on Clement Street. First Saturday of the month and every other Wednesday. You should stop by.”

“Yeah, I, I, I, I, I….I’m never in that neighborhood. I live way down in the Mission”, Boom said.

“The 540 is just across the park from where we are now,” I said.

“Fuck Clement Street,” Bob said teetering his head on slumped shoulders. “If I want a piece of shit picture that lights up and makes noise like a fucking river or some shit or get puking sick at some shit hole Chinese restaurant, maybe I’ll go there. Otherwise…fuck that place.”

“Good work Bob,” said El Duce sarcastically. “Way to bring it on home buddy.”

“Do you know Thor?” Porkchop asked.

“Ah, yes I do. We just hung out the other night in fact.”

“I fucked him,” she said. “Tell him I said hello and that he has a small cock.”

“Um…okay.”

“Metal Mark!”

Finally Rusty Trombone emerged from the DJ booth. He came over, shook my hand, told me he was happy that I dropped by and grabbed a beer. As some muttering thudding bleak sludge metal thundered over the old speaker, we all chatted a while about this and that and nothing in particular. In a way, I quickly became comfortable sitting there listening to heavy music, talking about things with weird strangers over beer. I was a lot cleaner than these guys, except for El Duce who seemed to have it together, in more ways than one. They all threw F bombs around and talked about sex and atrocities like it was nothing. It was fun to see but I didn’t know if I would really fit in here. That’s when Porkchop reached into her pants pocket and retrieved something.

“You guys ready for more?” she said.

In her hand was a sandwich baggie filled with cocaine. At first I thought it was confectioners sugar and they were ready to do more baking because it was so much. She dumped a bunch right there on the table, cracked it down with her drivers licence, divvied up a collection of long thick lines and did the first nose dive. She came up holding her nostril and inhaling deep. She then let out a “Fuckin’ shit” and invited us all to join in.

“You guys ready for a round table?”, asked Rusty. Everyone said a resounding “yeah” and he went back in the booth. Turns out the “round table” is when everyone at the table gets to chat for a bit, usually about nutty stuff like people putting light bulbs in their ass or the effects of a long career in golden showers can have on the body, etc. I always took it as very tongue in cheek, but after hanging out with these guys for a while, I could see that it wasn’t really a joke.

After Boom and Kyle did their lines I nervously bellied up to it and got ready to inhale. I paused for a second. What the heck was I doing, I thought. Was I becoming a coke head? Sure it was only my second time, but still. It made me incredibly nervous.

“Don’t worry,” Porkchop said. “It’s almost totally uncut. It wont make you fucking puke. I got the best hook up.”

My last experience with the stuff had been amazing; almost too amazing. Plus, what the heck, I had Sunday’s off and had nothing better to do. So I took the rolled up 20 dollar bill and snorted.

The line I did must have been about 2 or 3 inches long. By the end of it I was almost winded. But I copied Porkchop (still a total amateur of the stuff) and let the drug sink in.

Sure I had a minimal knowledge of cocaine, but Porkchop wasn’t kidding. The stuff ran down my throat like bitter sea salt and immediately hit my brain. My heart pattered and my eyes watered. I could feel the slight sting of a gag reflex, but seeing as I was now hanging with a new group of people that were obviously extremely experienced at this I choked it back and let the effects take hold.

“Dear god,” I said. “That’s incredible.”

The others were in agreement. Except Bob.

“What is this…the fucking 80s? I didn’t know we were at fucking Club 54. Hey look, there’s Danny Terrio!” He then produced a small bottle of unmarked whiskey and took a huge swig off of it.

It was then that I noticed El Duce crushing up some of his own. The stuff looked different but was still a powder. He inhaled two lines and sniffled wildly after.

“Brought your own supply I see,” I said starting to feel extremely good and chatty.

“Oh yeah”, he said. “I hate coke. Makes me sick.”

It then occurred to me that he was into something else. I had never seen crystal up close but it was as far as I was going to get. Doing blow was one thing, that stuff was almost as scary as heroin to me. But I didn’t say anything and let it go.

“Alright, you are listening to Reckless Radio here on KUSF,“ said Rusty through the speaker. Boom got up and turned the volume all the way it would go. At full blast it was still a muffled haze of sound.

“In the studio tonight we have as always the Boom King!”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey…w-w-w-w-what’s up everyone?” Boom sputtered into his microphone. “Is there anybody out there? If so go to bed. Or call us. I, I, I, I, I don’t care!”

“We also have the lovely Porkchop.”

“What’s up tweakers and losers?”

“El Duce.”

“Hello. Yeah, hi. It’s me.”

“Bob! What’s up Bob?”

Bob then grabs a mic a holds it close to his face as if trying to choke the thing to death.

“I just have one thing to say. All of you listening out there if you’re not buck naked and jerking it right now I will personally come over and wrap my cock around your neck and strangle you until you beg me to crap in your mouth and let me knock up your dog!”

This got a lot of laughs. I was horrified and confused.

“Kyle…you have anything to say tonight?”

“Uh, no not really. Hi everyone. Come see my band play Tuesday at the Parkside. We’re on at 10. The Blast Doors. That’s us.”

“Alright,” said Rusty, sure that he was done announcing the group. “And tonight we have a guest with us, mister Metal Mark.”

The gang all shouted and applauded. El Duce eased over his mic for me to talk in.

“Hey everyone!,” I said kind of nervously. “Thanks for inviting me. This is awesome.”

“Metal Mark is a DJ over at the 540 Club,” Rusty said. “When are your shows Mark?”

“I do the real metal stuff every first Saturday of the month from 10pm to 2am. I also DJ their White Trash Wednesdays every other, you guessed it, Wednesdays. It’s all on their website, 540 Club dot com.”

“It’s on Clement Street,” Bob angrily warbled into his microphone. “That place reeks of piss and MSG.”

“Sort of like you,” El Duce said. “So you feel right at home.”

“No Bob reeks of piss and MGD,” said Porkchop.

“You smell like piss and STD’s”, Bob snorted to Porkchop.

This went on for a while. I just sat there sipping my beer and feeling extremely high. I wanted to butt in and do my bit since the bravado of the drug was taking hold but I was a guest and felt as if I should just sit back and watch.

“Metal Mark,” said Bob. “Would you care to let everyone know what you smell like?”

I leaned in, grabbed a mic and said, “Bob, I smell of rainbows and sunshine. Maybe someday you can ride my unicorn over a sparkly rainbow to my island of happy gnomes where we all dance and sing and crotchet magic hearts for the children of the world.”

The group was silent for a spell. El Duce broke in.

“Take that Bob. Your gnome fetish can finally come true.”

“Screw gnomes!”

“That’s the whole idea.”

The rest of the roundtable went on for another 10 minutes. As Rusty played moderator with some old Judas Priest lightly playing in the background, I was soon a part of the group. Porkchop played it slutty, Bob played it dirty, El Duce played it snarky, Boom played it spazzy and I played it like Sesame Street. The only way, I thought, to be ‘shocking’ with this group was to be so un-shocking and play up my love for Muppets and libraries. It seemed to work.

“So have you guys heard about this?”, Rusty asked. “I swear to god it must be a joke, but some guy in Philadelphia has claimed to the first US citizen to successfully make bonzai kittens.”

We all butted in with a resounding “What?”

“Yeah. This guy has taken the ancient practice of bonzai, you know like to make small trees and such, and actually applied it to cats.”

We all laughed and began asking how.

“Apparently the bones of kittens are real quaggy so what he does is places them in small strangely shaped bottles, raises them until they can’t move anymore, gently breaks the bottle and the kitten comes out shaped like the bottle.”

“No way!” I yell.

“I want a bonzai kitten,” said Porkchop. “I’d name it Mr. Miyagi.”

“Do they stay that weird shape forever?” asked El Duce.

“I don’t know,” replied Rusty. “But I think it’s like the ladies that stretch their necks or bind their feet. They just kind of stay like that.”

“Is, is, is, is, is there photos of them?” asked Boom.

“No. No photos. I just got this off the web this morning.”

“Th-th-th-then I don’t believe it!”

“Bonzai kittens!” shouted Bob. “I wanna get one shaped like an hourglass and shove it up my ass and have Porky here eat it out.”

“That sounds like a date to me,” said Porkchop.

“What’s your take on this Metal Mark,” asked El Duce.

To be honest with you I was a little upset about the whole topic. I love cats. Always have. If that story were true I kind of wanted to go out to Philly and beat the guy up, or at least alert the local authorities that some maniac is placing poor defenseless kittens into bottles and raising them so they come out all crazy looking. Plus I was their guest. Not to mention I was a little drunk and extremely high off of the coke. So I just leaned into the mic and said:

“Well, if a cat is brought up in a long bottle I guess he could fit into mouse holes better. So…there’s an advantage.”

“See! Now that’s thinking!,” announced Bob. “Fit up my butt too.”

The rest of the evening went kind of the same. At one point, members of a local crusty hardcore band, Carlos, stopped by with a suitcase of Bud, bottle of Jameson and weed. Everyone except El Duce, Rusty and myself went outside to get stoned. So I partook of some remaining blow on the table and drank more beer.

“Hey Mark,” said Rusty coming out of the booth, “I wanna show you something.”

I got up and followed him into the booth. El Duce was busy taking requests from someone on the phone. Apparently they wanted us to play John Tesh or they threatened to burn the station down. “We get shit like this all the time,” El Duce said. “Tweekers call all night doing this. It’s…amusing.”

“So this is the booth,” Rusty said spreading his arms wide, which almost touch the walls. “If you wanna DJ or sub some night I gotta show you a few things. Are you…interested in that at all?”

Not only was it strange for me to even be considered a DJ, let alone one that specialized in metal, but now I was being shown how to run the booth at KUSF so I could host my own segment. Or better yet, have my own show. Mind you, I’ve known plenty of people, including old room mates, that have DJ’d here, all of them saying it’s no big deal and, of course, there’s no pay. Still though, I told Rusty I was extremely interested and he lead me through the routine.

It was really quite a simple set up, the hard part being running PSA’s every hour and making sure there’s no dead air.

“Like if you have to go to the bathroom, make sure you put on a fairly long song and make it quick,” Dirty said. “Otherwise, you come back and…” He moved his hand slowly indicating silence and switched off the sound. “You don’t want that.”

I watched as he did some mixing and crossfading which was, to be honest, almost identical to what I did at the 540 Club. I got the gist pretty fast.

“Do you wanna try it out?”

“Sure,” I said.

Rusty then sent me out to the walls of CDs to find something. I quickly went to the ‘S’ section and found Slayer’s Show No Mercy and SOD’s Speak English or Die. Then to the ‘N’ area where I found Napalm Death’s Harmony Corruption and above it Metallica’s Garage Days Re-Revisited. I was also lucky to find Godflesh’s Selfless and Sleep’s Holy Mountain. I returned with the CDs and Rusty looked relieved.

“OK,” he said, “after this next song you’re on. I need a break anyway. Any questions?”

“Um…no. I don’t think so.”

He told he he was going out to have a smoke then he’d be right back just in case. He then left the booth and I was standing there all alone.

I didn’t recognize the song he had on, but luckily the CD players had counters on them so I saw that I had less than a minute. So I threw in Slayer, went to track 2, “The Antichrist”, and got ready. Pretty soon Dirty’s song ended and I eased the crossfader over to my song and it mixed without any problems. Looking out to the other room (which I was told was called “Studio 2″) I could see El Duce, Kyle and Bob talking to one of the guys from Carlos. El Duce looked up and saw that it was me in the booth. He nodded his head in approval and gave me the thumbs up. I then went into SOD’s “Freddy Kreuger”, Napalm Death’s “Suffer the Children”, Metallica’s “Breadfan”, Godflesh’s “Crush My Soul” and then finally Sleep’s “Dragonaut”. As the last song droned on in stoner metal bliss I came out of the booth to find everyone sitting around the table all looking quite intoxicated. I informed Rusty that was my last song so he slowly got up and made his way back.

“Good job man,” he said patting me on the shoulder. “You played all the hits. You sounded good. Good mixing.”

“Thanks,” I said cracking open a beer.

I sat down next to one of the Carlos guys, who wore a denim vest full of rock and metal patches, had a thick black beard that matched his scraggy hair and held onto the half consumed bottle of Jameson.

“What’s yer name,” he slurred.

“I’m Metal Mark. This is my first night here.”

“No shit. Next time play some real music, not that…fuckin’…whatever you just played. This is Reckless fucking Radio man. You need to dig deep!” And he indicated ‘deep’ with his hand balled up, clenching, and making a terse face.

“Sorry,” I said. “I know they were all standards. It’s just…”

“You did good man,” El Duce said. “Rob, you can fuck off. You try going in there and mixing.”

“Fuck you El Douchebag,” the Carlos guy, who’s name is Rob I take it, said. “I can’t even tie my own fucking shoes right now. Fucking wasted. Hey Pork, you have any more of that…you know.”

Porkchop then fished for her bag of blow, laid out a pile and offered up several huge lines. This lady didn’t fool around.

“Hey Metal Mark,” Porkchop said. “Like I said, I have the hook up. You got twenty bucks?”

I’m not exactly sure what came over me. Feeling that high and full of simple pride that I could man the DJ booth at KUSF, I didn’t ask questions. Feeling like mister Coolguy, I fuddled for my wallet, produced a 20 and handed it to Porkchop. She then produced a small baggie from her backpack, which was twisted up with a tight knot, and handed it to me.

It was official. I had just purchased cocaine.

It then struck me what I had done and I quickly put the baggie in the coin pocket of my shorts and sobered up a bit. I was shaking a little as I sipped my beer. The others dove into the lines of coke. I then noticed that the sun was creeping through the half drawn shades of the window. I stood up, peeked through the edge of the curtain to see the beautiful morning sun light up the trees and well manicured campus outside in a fierce orange glare. In the background, someone burped and Rusty threw on Motorhead’s “Killed By Death”. I found everything to be rather prophetic.

At 7:30 am Boom announced that we had to quickly clean up the studio before the next show arrives.

“What is the next show?” I asked.

“Fucking Asian Catholic Radio. They, they, they, they throw a fit if there’s any trash or smells of smoke. So…let’s go.

I jumped in to help. We gathered up the empty boxes of beer and tossed the bottles and cans inside them. We also had to get rid of the overflowing trashbin which was stuffed with bottles and potato chip bags. Bob opened up the window to let fresh air in. Mind you no one smoked in the studio but the Carlos guys did stink a bit. That’s when I noticed that they were gone. Typical.

We also had to get rid of any evidence of cocaine use, so we all ran our fingers across the table, got a good sum on the edges and put them on our tongues and gums. I had seen it done countless times in bad cop movies. It made my mouth completely numb which freaked me out a bit. Boom then lead me down to a large garbage bin and we tossed the crap in. After throwing away countless cans and bottles and listening to them crash to the bottom, I looked up to see a bright blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Afterwards we went back in, stuffed whatever remaining cans of beer in our pockets and backpacks and waited for Rusty to finish up. Kyle had left. El Duce put on his leather jacket, shook my hand and said goodbye. Porkchop did the same.

“Good, good, good, good show tonight Metal Mark,” Boom said. “So…what do you think? Think you wanna come back?”

“What are you kidding?” I said in a full haze of being up all night drinking cheap beer and doing blow. “I’d love to.”

“Cool. You don’t need an appointment. Just, just, just stop on by. You did a good job.”

“Hey. Thanks.”

The main door opened and in walked in a small Asian lady in a bland white dress, looking very demure and carrying a banker’s box followed by a stern looking Asian man in a suit that held a briefcase in one hand and a bible in the other. They looked like they knew the routine with the Reckless crew.

“Hello there,” Rusty said sounding very cordial to the couple. “It’s all yours. Have a good show!”

The Asian couple said nothing. In fact, they looked as if they were trying to avoid the gaze of us. Bob just made faces at them as he walked by. Boom followed him and they said goodbye. I helped Rusty Trombone with his boxes of records and CDs and left the station.

“You’ll get the hang of it man,” said Rusty as we loaded his stuff into his car. “Main thing is crowd control. Sometimes it gets out of hand. But mainly it’s just playing awesome music and doing the PSA’s and making sure there’s no dead air. That’s really important.”

“Why is that so important?” I asked curious.

“Because the station and the university don’t like us at all,” he said. “They want any excuse to toss us out. You think a Christian based college wants a show that plays satanic metal by a bunch of idiots that talk about bonzai kittens and shit? Uh huh. They are just waiting for us to screw up so they can pull the plug.”

“Hence the massive clean up and being sweet to the nice Catholic radio people.”

“Exactly. And no swearing. Bob teeters but…he’s usually pretty good about it.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “I wont let you down.”

“Good,” Rusty said slamming the trunk door down. “You need a ride?”

“No,” I said looking up at the sky and feeling extremely good. “I’ll take a cab. I think I wanna walk a bit.”

With that Rusty held out his hand and we shook. He told me he was really looking forward to seeing me at the next show. I told him I would be there. He then started the car, put it in gear and drove off.

There I was, super drunk and extremely high, listening to the birds sing and chirp, walking with a smile on my face to the main road in hopes of a cab.

“So how’d it go?”

I turned around to see the chubby security guard, sitting in his cart looking at me, right arm draped on the passenger back rest.

“Oh it was great man. I had a blast.”

“Yeah I bet you did,” he said. It then occurred to me that the front pockets of my shorts were jammed with beer cans along with a small baggie of cocaine and my eyes must have been bright red from no sleep and nothing but intoxicants. “I listened to the show tonight for a while.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “What’d you think?”

He slammed the forward lever on the cart and began to putter off.

“Crap!” he said.

All I could do was smile.

It was going to be a bitchin’ summer…

Part 2: SUMMER

“Black steed carries him across the astral sand.
Rides alone is the man from the magic caravan.”
- Sleep, Holy Mountain

IX.

I was awakened by a parade going on outside. In my deep slumber I could hear the applause of people, marching bands, police sirens, laughter, random squeals and various of noise all inclusive to watching people walk down a major thoroughfare waving dully and celebrating something. I shot out of the bed, totally ignoring my hangover, and ran to a window. There, just a few feet below me, on Columbus Ave, was a huge parade. The streets sidewalks were packed with people and the street was a cavalcade of local public figures, high school spirit, cops and such.

Then it hit me. It was July 4.

Luckily the parade started early so it woke me up. I had an afternoon shift at Bill’s, which started in an hour and had forgotten to set the alarm. Thanks random Independence Day parade!

It was now well into summer and business at Bill’s was exploding. Everyday the outside was filled to capacity from opening to close and I ran around the area like a squirrel chasing an acorn that had acquired running shoes…or something like that. Needless to say, I was busy everyday and was making ridiculous amounts of money.

The folks who ran the complex where Bill’s resided had acts on the small stage from noon to 10pm everyday. Usually musical acts, mainly guys with guitars that played Neil Diamond or Bob Dylan covers. Still, folks from all over the globe packed tight into the small tables and saddled up to the bar. It was crazy but I was really enjoying the cash.

Jack had hired some new summer help, most of which were exchange students from England and Ireland. They were a young saucy bunch that enjoyed boozing after work (and most times during) and were solid workers. They didn’t make as much as the seasoned servers or bartenders since they were generally upscale busboys but were allowed to take the occasional table inside the main room, weird Tiki area or outside table if we were just too darn swamped, which is what we usually were.

Jack had also hired someone I immediate got a serious crush on. Her name was Jacqueline and she was a beautiful blonde girl that was at both time completely innocent yet reeked of Catholic school girl naughtiness. Hal and I were both taken by her when we met her. I knew there would be no chance in heck at getting a date with Jacqueline. Not only was I a good 10 years older but was also the scruffy comic relief around Bill’s and her complete opposite. When she told me that she was a singer and songwriter I told her about my DJ shows at the 540 and KUSF. I might as well have told her I hunt dolphins. But she was sweet and I made her laugh so we got along swimmingly.

Siobhan had also put her boyfriend to work. Eric was a tall troublemaker from Bristol England and talked loud, said what was on his mind, did every drug in the book and had the heartiest laugh I had ever heard. He both totally annoyed and amused me. He was great at serving and stocking beers along with running ice, getting cups and bussing tables. When he quieted up and got to work Eric was fantastic. Otherwise you might hear “Fuck Jack! That man’s just a sodding cock,” from across the patio. And it was something that we all heard on a regular basis.

It was during these times that I got to know the real Jack. The man was a complete mental case and a raving drunk. All day long he would sit outside, in the corner, at my bar, and drink acres of Busch beer with his very friendly yet totally unwashed buddy Don (or Sargent Smelly as we all called him since they both served in Vietnam together) watching us run around like chickens. The more he drank the worse he got. If we made any kind of obtuse or minor mistake he wouldn’t think twice to yell at us like we were 5 year old children.

“God damn it Mark,” he said to me once during the lunch rush. “This table over hear needs to be cleaned. Get your long hair from behind that bar and clean the bugger. Jesus Christ!”

Even though the bar was two deep of customers and one of the summer help kids was off taking a leak, I just stopped what I was doing, ran to the table, cleaned it off and sat an awaiting couple from Spain. When I returned, a group of all day drinkers from Wisconsin whispered to me “God, how do you put up with that shit?”

“It’s easy if you reward each outburst with a shot,” I said. They all laughed and Jack just sat there brooding.

That was another thing, my consumption of booze throughout the day was, at times, amazing. Because Siobhan was happy to have folks from her home country, as was Eric, visiting and working there, usually she had shots of Jagermeister waiting for us in the beer cooler, a place that Jack rarely visited. Her code was “I need help with a keg” to which we all jogged to the beer cooler, found large shots of the heavy black liquor, said “cheers” and knocked them back. Plus I sometimes had a beer hidden somewhere deep in the cooler, usually behind the Moosehead keg because almost nobody ordered that beer. Not even the Canadians.

“It’s not even real Canadian beer,” one Canuck told me. “If we want real Canadian beer, we’ll drink real Canadian beer. But we’re in the states. Give me a Bud.”

Budweiser was the all consuming beer that almost everyone drank. Mainly it was because it was fairly cheap and for those that couldn’t speak much English, they could just point to our vast beer menu, find the Bud logo and point. I was also introduced to the “Shandy” which was half Bud, half 7-Up. Australians and the Brits drank them by the gallon. I tried one. I spit it out.

In San Francisco there are two local breweries that I am a huge fan of, Anchor Steam and Speakeasy. Anchor Steam is the big one that loads of folks know about. For the adventurous tourist they would order a Steam beer  and pretend to like it. Most people were used to their Millers and Coors and of course the king of beers, but once in a while you’d get a “when in Rome” couple that would lightly sip the hearty beer then immediately order a Bud Light or something afterwards. Probably to dull the taste of an actual flavorful beer with more that 3% alcohol.

Speakeasy was my favorite because it was run by a group of rockers and drunks, one of which was a good pal of mine, who was the one to invite me volunteer with them every year at the San Francisco Beer Festival. The Speakeasy beers were a hard sell since no one had really heard of them, but I was addicted to their Big Daddy IPA which is what I usually had stored behind the Moosehead keg.

After showering I got dressed and headed down to Bill’s. It was tough maneuvering through the thicket of parade onlookers but eventually I made it to the bar and got ready.

At the start of every shift Jack issues a stack of 10 order tickets. If we need more, we have to ask him. At the end of your shift you need to tally up the total amount of food sales, put the cash in an envelope and hand it to him. The excess was your tips. Well, I had quickly found a way to scrape off cash from the surface.

It was quite easy actually. When I was in Jack’s office, as he turned around to count the tickets, I would simply grab a stack of my own since he had them sitting in an old shoebox on a shelf near the door. While he was busy counting, I just jammed as many tickets into my back pocket or under my belt as possible and take the allotted 10 from him. After a while, I had so many tickets stored up that I had to start taking them home, giving me a supply that I just always brought with me. If I had maybe 20 or so food orders that day, I would hand in maybe 9 or 10. I mean, hey, I was working the bar and, you know, not a lot of food orders, I’d explain. This usually garnered me an extra $100 bucks or so. On top of the $200 I usually made at the bar, and the $10 and hour I made hourly, I was doing okay. I made rent and bills in about a week or two.

The rest of the cash usually went to the Crowbar or parking tickets. Some of it went to my new found friend, cocaine.

I didn’t actually purchase it in bulk but I was using it on a regular basis. When Thor or Jerrod stopped by my shows at the 540 Club they always had some with them and usually gave me a little extra. At the radio show, Porkchop, Kyle and various visitors usually had a large supply, and was the same situation: they always shared and sold or gave me a small bag..

It wasn’t until the last Reckless Radio show that I got Porkchop’s phone number and asked if she could hook me up for the 4th of July, since I knew it would be crazy and I had a party to go to that night. She told me no problem and that she would probably have to call me and let me know if and when it happens.

Midway through my shift at Bill’s I realized that I had actually made the move to buy some coke. I wasn’t too sure if I was making the right decision. In fact, I knew I wasn’t.

But it was only a back thought since the 4th of July on Fisherman’s Wharf was where half of the universe seemed to be. Myself and Siobhan ran the outside bar while Hal and Mindy were busy inside. Since there wasn’t an actual “bar” outside we were running back and forth from the main bar inside like wild jackrabbbits carrying trays.. The Irish and British kids ran around the outside tables, serving food and drinks and doing most of the bussing and seating. Iggy and Hector were busy in the tiny kitchen, slopping up frozen hamburgers and “fisherman’s catch” plates at breakneck speed. Emma and Jacqueline worked the main areas while smiling and thwarting off advances from drunk ugly men.

The only unfortunate one was Danika.

Jack had this brilliant idea to sell hotdogs at the perimeter of our area to passers by. She stood there and watched us run around like maniacs, making gobs of money, while she stood by an ancient hot dog cart filled with dirty steamy water and CostCo purchased bulk wieners. She got the occasional customer but it was more than a fruitless endeavor. If Danika even strayed from her post, Jack would scream, “Get back there! Look, you just missed a customer! What’s wrong with you? Sell those dogs Danika!”

When Jack went inside to retrieve a beer or use the toilet, I would slip her a shot of Jager in a tall plastic cup.

“Here’s that soda you requested”, I would say. The booze helped ease the pain of too many people, too much bad music, too much sun and too much Jack.

At 5pm the crowed thinned out a bit and I was able to count my cash and be cut. Eric came in to take over my shift at the outside bar.

“You alright mate?”, he said in his usual loud manner. “Enough cunts to fill a fucking football stadium eh?”

I threw away more than half of my food order tickets, replaced them with the ones I had jammed in my shorts, counted up the cash owed and the cash I made for myself. My front pockets and ticket book were bulging with money. After all was said and done I walked with over $400.

“Bullshit,” Jack screamed when I presented him with my food order cash. “I know you made lots more than this.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. Knowing he was drunk and tired from being in the sun all day yelling at us I knew I could do some easy cover up. “Emma had all the food orders. I had nothing but those Brits that didn’t tip and that group from Madison. It was all beer. I was lucky to get those.”

Jack looked at me with those sunken drippy old man eyes in mild disbelief. It was common knowledge that he didn’t like me much. Sure I was great with customers, got along with everyone at work, was always on time and basically very flexible, but it came down to one simple fact:

I had long hair.

Not even that long really. Shoulder length at best when it was wet. But it was my signature, my pride and Metal Mark would look dumb headbanging with short hair. He was an old conservative curmudgeon that frowned on anything outside of the level of some 50′s educational film. He also suffered from typical male pattern balding but then professed his love for Steven Segal films. I told him I loved Segal too and would wear my hair in some douchebag ponytail style, as long as I could chop people in the throat if they tipped poorly. He just balked and sipped his Busch.

Not to mention that I was vastly smarter than Jack. Sure he was my boss and had loads of money, but I always had an answer to anything related to film, pop culture, art, music, theater and the like. He knew about running a bar and collecting Studebakers. I was the young pompous long haired punk in his eyes. But since I was making lots of cash and getting drunk for free I kept it going with loads of “no sirs” and “yes sirs”. That seemed to usually clam him up for a spell.

Jack eventually accepted the fact that I turned in less than a dozen food tickets when I had brought in close to thirty. I quickly clocked out, said goodbye to the remaining servers and Siobhan and split.

* * *

About a week prior I had gotten an email from my pal Shane. We used to work together at this popular restaurant called The Que which was an upscale bar-be-que restaurant run by a guy that used to cook for the Grateful Dead and the Rolling Stones. Since the place was well known and kind of trendy, The Que would get a good amount of famous customers coming in to eat Bob’s (that would be the owner) famous ribs and chicken. Chris Issak was a regular, and so were certain members of the Dead. Usually it’d the family of Bob Weir or Phil Lesh and the like but sometimes they too would grace us with their presence and tip rotten. The guitarist for the Jefferson Airplane ate there once in a while. Stuff like that.

The Que was a part time gig that I did before the bookstore when there wasn’t enough hours doing gardening. It was a cool place, played lots of great rock music and the money was decent. All I did was host and sometimes bartend, and seeing that The Que was just beer and wine, it was kind of easy. Sure it got busy, but after a while manning the five taps and various wine bottles, which was vast since the wine list was thicker than the actual menu, it became easy.

I lost the job when I inadvertently insulted the wife of Phil Lesh. It was a tame night, not too crazy, when she and a bunch of other ex hippie, mountain folk people walked in. To be honest with you I was totally taken back when they proved to be really needy and kind of rude. I thought that the Dead represented togetherness and love and all that jive. These cats were stuffy and demanding and Bob literally bowed at their feet when they arrived or needed something. For some reason I was taking a while with their wine order. Backed up or something, I kind of forget. Anyway, Ms. Lesh comes up to the bar and asks where her bottle of wine is. I tell her it’s on the way.

“Don’t you know who I am,” she asks. I tell her yes. And for some reason she asked me what I thought about the Grateful Dead. All I did was give the raspberry, the Bronx cheer, as I handed her the bottle of wine. I was gone within a week.

But since Bob really liked me and I still hung out with most of the crew at The Que, seeing as it is just a few blocks away from the 540 Club (which is how I became a regular at that bar in the first place) I was always invited to parties they threw.

When I got back to the apartment I kicked off my Vans and checked my voice mail. There was a call.

“Hey…Metal Mark. It’s Porkchop. What’s up? Yeah. Hey…I got that, um “order” for you. Just give me a call back and it’s a done deal.” She left her number and hung up.

I called her right back. She answered the phone and sounded really loaded. I guess she had been partying all day since it was the 4th of July.

“I’m going to set fireworks out of Neckbrace’s ass” she said.

She told me where she was and what the plan was to pick up the blow.

“My guy lives in the Mission. Let’s meet there.”

For some obvious reason this gave me pause. I wrote down the address, planned to meet her there in a half hour and hung up. When I did I felt a waterfall of fear and hesitancy wash over me. I had never actually purchased a serious drug like cocaine before, at least not in bulk, from a stranger. Sure I smoked pot during and after college, but that was just like buying a six pack of beer from friends. I was on my way to a “Drug Dealer”, not just a buddy with a pound of weed he wants to get rid of. My palms immediately started to bead up and drip and my heart raced.

After another agonizing, pressure free shower, I chugged down a Sierra Nevada, got dressed and headed out.

The guys house was deep, deep in the Mission which means that I was in Latino gang territory, where all the billboards were in Spanish and graffiti was sprayed on every available wall. I waited across the street waiting for Porkchop to arrive, trying no to look like I was waiting to buy drugs. So I leaned back, listened to the stoner rock mixtape I had in the truck and kept an eye out. It was an old truck. Just cassettes. Give me a break.

After about ten minutes of waiting a black Pontiac drove up. Emerging from the drivers seat was Porkchop, followed by Neckbrace and some other guy I didn’t recognize. They walked up to the guys house and Porkchop was obviously craning her neck around looking for me. After a deep breath I shut the cassette off and got out.

“There you are,” she said sounding incredibly stoned. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said nervously. “What….what’s up with you guys?”

“Chillin’”, said the guy I didn’t know. He had long straight black hair, wore a denim vest over a leather jacket and was smoking a cigarette. He looked Native American or Latino. His skin was brown. That’s what I knew.

“What’s up man,” said Neckbrace extending a hand. We shook and I waited for the next move.

“Alright. Let’s do this,” said Porkchop.

The four of us walked up to a front door that was actually a stylized cage. This was common in certain parts of the Mission. Bars on the windows too. Porkchop rang the doorbell and after a few moments we heard a loud “bzzzzt” to which she opened the door and we all followed.

“You guys better wait here,” Porkchop said stopping us before we all enter the house. She walked in and I could hear her shout “What’s up?” to somebody. So the three of us stood in this cage, between the cage door and the real door, waiting.

“I heard you’re part of the Reckless crew,” the guy said. “Right on.”

“Yeah,” I said, almost audibly shaking from nerves. “It’s cool. Fun. It’s both cool and fun.”

Neckbrace just stood there with his arms crossed, looking like some kind of bodyguard. Maybe he was getting ready for some kind of altercation. A shiver ran up my spine.

“It’s cool guys. You can come in.”

Porkchop opened the door to reveal a place that was painted black with posters of both metal bands and rappers. Ice Cube was next to Pantera, Cypress Hill next to Marilyn Manson, that sort of thing. The windows were covered with thick black shades just opened enough to let some light in. It smelled of greasy Mexican cooking and sulphur. I took it all in. I was in a real drug dealers pad.

“What’s up everyone,” came a voice. Walking out of a doorway, presumably the hallway, was a tall dark Latino man. He had his long black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, he wore well pleated black baggy shorts, a black tank top with the number 13 on it and old school Adidas sneakers. “What can I do for you?”

He sounded friendly enough. Porkchop then answered with a “I’ll take two eight balls.”

Neckbrace followed with “Whatever forty bucks can get me.”

The other guy said, “Yeah, forty for me too.”

The dealer then looked over to me. The others slowly moved their head in my direction as well. I was taking a while to give my order. Since I was totally unfamiliar with the practice I just copied Porkchop, like always.

“Yeah, an eight ball. That…that should be good.”

The guy smiled and asked us to make ourselves at home. I sat on an easy chair that had seen better days. The others gathered around a huge bong laying on the coffee table.

“Hey Rascon,” Porkchop shouted. “Is this thing loaded?”

“Help yourself,” the dealer said down the hall. With that she lit it up, took a huge pull and exhaled a cloud of purply smoke. The other two did the same. They offered me a hit and I politely turned them down.

“That’s right, he doesn’t get stoned,” Porkchop said. “Just the devil’s dandruff eh?”

I just shrugged. I really didn’t want to be labeled a coke head. Not this early into trying it.

Pretty soon Rascon came back holding a few baggies filled with pure white powder. He handed the orders off to the others, who in turn handed him money, and then came my way.

“What’s your name loco?” he asked me, trying a bit to sound intimidating, which worked. I was terrified..

“Uh, Mark,” I uttered.

“Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Dude, that’s Metal Mark,” said Porkchop. “The guy I told you about. The guy from the radio show.”

Rascon then knelt down to meet me eye to eye. Honestly, he looked like a nice guy, but gave me a gaze that indicated he was probably trying to read my brain. He was really boring into my sockets.

“Mark…can I trust you?”

Those words hung in my ear for a long while, bouncing back and forth in a deliberate attempt to make sure I wasn’t a narc. It occurred to me that I had seen this move in so many bad cop shows and movies. Then I realized that maybe this is what real drug dealers do to new clients. I gulped hard.

“You can trust me mister Rascon sir,” I said. “I’m new at this and Porkchop said you were the best. I mean, if I’m gonna do blow I wanna get my money’s worth. In a way…can I trust you?”

I have no idea why I said that. It was probably that I was feeling a little down on myself for wanting to purchase cocaine and the fact that a tough metal loving cholo dealer was asking me if I could be trusted. I was freaking Santa Claus compared to everyone ion the room with me. C’mon. It’s me! If you’re going to sell me a drug that may kill me I wanna know if it’s at least worth the trip to the grave. Rascon stood up and looked at me coldly from above.

“Mark,” he started, “I don’t think anyone ever has asked me that.”

I began to sweat. The others just sat and watched.

“I had never thought about that,” Rascon said. “Can I be trusted? And the answer is…I don’t know.”

He then went to the coffee table, opened up a ornate and shiny box, produced a large bag of cocaine, heaped some up on the table, laid out a few lines and handed me a straw. Without thinking, but rather slowly, I walked over to the table, did a line, snuffed it back and felt the effects. For what I could tell, it was the same stuff that Porkchop had on a regular basis. Pure and perfection.

“Now you tell me Mark,” Rascon said, “can I be trusted?”

After jiggling my nostrils for a moment, letting all the drug seep in, all I could say was, “Holy mackerel Rascon. I’d trust you with my sister on prom night. That is…if I had a sister.”

Rascon then began to laugh a hearty belly laugh that infected the others who were watching us through silent stoned eyes. Rascon then patted me on the back, handed me the eight ball and said, “This is a first timers charge. That ball for fifty.”

I produced three 20s from my wallet.

“Keep it,” I said. “That’s ten bucks trust money.”

Rascon gripped the cash and never let up his gaze on me. He just smiled and shook my shoulder.

“Porkchop has my number,” he told me. “I do business from 5pm to 5am. And I don’t answer the phone on Sundays. Okay?”

“Okay.”

After we finished up the free lines he laid out and they smoked the last of the weed in the huge glass bong, we left.

“Thanks Rascon,” I said leaving. “Happy 4th of July.”

“Yeah, when your people killed my people for land,” he said standing by the door.

“I mean…happy, um…Thursday!”

Rascon laughed again and closed the door.

“Well that guy is interesting,” I said.

“Metal Mark you are a fucking nerd,” Porkchop said. ”I’m surprised you made it out of there alive.”

“What? He seems nice.”

The guys just laughed. We then said goodbye, see you in a few days and made our separate ways.

I sat in the truck for a while, looking at the stuffed baggie. There was no going back now. I had just bought my first real bag of cocaine.

* * *

The party at The Que started at 8pm. It was 7ish when I drove up, parked and walked down to the 540 for a few pre party beers. Thursday night at 7pm meant that it was fairly quiet. I said ‘hello’ to a few people I knew and sat at the bar. After a beer and shot I went into the men’s room, locked myself in the stall and pulled out the baggie. I jammed my truck key into the bag, teetered a small pyramid of coke on the end and inhaled deep. I did the same to the other nostril. I was starting to feel really good.

I ended up staying at the 540 well past 9 and after a few rounds with regulars and some Metal Night fans I decided to walk down to The Que and see what was going on.

Usually when I go to a party by myself I either A) know a lot of people there so it doesn’t really matter or B) don’t. As I was sitting and drinking at the 540 I kind of didn’t want to go to The Que’s 4th of July shindig. But something got me off of that barstool and made me walk down. It could of been the coke. It was effecting me in so many different ways. I felt good, I even felt cocky, and for some reason I wanted to storm that party and show those ex co workers of mine that I was the master of disaster. And if Phil Lesh’s wife was there I’d fart on her and say “Now that’s what I think about the Grateful Dead!”

When I arrived the place was packed and full of people I knew and didn’t. Luckily, right off the bat, I saw Shane and a few more of my old co-workers. I really didn’t want to walk around my old job looking for a familiar face so I relaxed a little when I joined up with them. I really hate crowds and especially hate parties where I don’t know anyone. I’ve been known to just show up, make a quick walk through then leave. I’d rather be at home watching Silver Spoons re-runs and getting loaded alone. Most people bug the crap out of me.

Shane is a tall good looking blonde guy that plays bass is a pop punk ska band called The Social Army. I think they are trying to be political or something. There was also Niles, the manager of The Que who is short, skittish and last I heard was a film student. Some of the girls were there too, Shelby, Katie, Erin and Vanessa, all fo whom gave me a big hug when they saw me.

Eventually I saw Bob at a table talking to some folks. Luckily, none of them looked like a family member of the Grateful Dead so I eased up. Bob just stuck out his hand, we shook, told me it was good to see me and to grab a drink. I told him the same and went to the bar.

Ernie was manning the bar. Ernie was the head server and was like Pan Asian or something. He was really cool, a bit too direct and terse in his approach to people at times but I blame that on his experience in the military. I went behind the bar and we hugged.

“Beer or wine?” Ernie said.

“Let’s make it beer. Isn’t it beer before wine you’re dyin’?”

“I thought it was ‘beer before wine, doin’ fine.’”

“Whatever. I’ve been drinking at the 540. All beer. Some shots. None of it wine. Beer me up captain.”

Ernie poured a hearty glass of amber ale and we chatted a bit. He then got distracted by his volunteer bartending duties so I left to mingle and get food. Mainly to get food. My plan was to eat, chit chat and get out. I wanted to make it back to the Crowbar in time to watch the fireworks over the wharf on their roof. Looking at my watch I saw that it was already 9:30. Show starts at 10. Oh well. I still wanted to eat and leave.

After plating myself up with some ribs, cornbread, wedge cut fries and a salad, I found a table where Vanessa, Shelby and some other girls were sitting. They waved me over and I sat down.

“Sorry about my mess of food here ladies,” I said, noticing that I was the only one with a plate of food. “I’m a…gettin’ a bit tipsy here. Need fuel.”

We all caught up with one another as I daintily ate my food. Usually at parties like this I gorge on the grub to get it out of the way, but seeing as I was at a table with half a dozen good looking ladies, two of which were old co-workers, I ate on my best manners. I told them some stories, mainly me moving back and my job and DJ crap, made them laugh and finished my food.

I got up, put my plate away, said hello to some of the kitchen guys I knew, used the bathroom and was planing on one last beer before I left. That’s when I was stopped by one of the girls I didn’t know at the table. I had seen her before, Vanessa’s friend, and she appeared to be rather drunk.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Um. Beer.”

“Me too. Let’s go.”

She then put her arm through mine and lead me to the bar. She ordered a pinot grigio and I got the same beer.

“I thought you said you wanted beer,” I said.

“Oh I thought you said ‘bar’. And I thought that it was a good idea,” she half slurred and shouted over the din of talking and loud classic rock music.

“Whatever. Cheers!”

We clinked glasses and drank.

She was a pretty cute girl, definitely not my type seeing as she had her hair sprayed up kind of big, wore shiny lip gloss, had gold necklaces, a club friendly dress, heels and appeared to be into modern R&B and hip hop. If she was Vanessa’s friend then, yeah, she was. She was shorter than me, could be Latina, could be a tanned honky, but definitely a “yo that’s my jam” girl. It didn’t matter. I was a little drunk and high and a girl wanted to talk to me.

“I’m Nicole,” she said.

“I’m Mark.”

“You used to work here, right?”

“Right.”

“Where do you work now?”

Since it was a party and I didn’t want to go all into it, I decided to drive down the cool route.

“I’m a DJ.”

“No shit!”, she said spraying some wine. “Where?”
“
Down the street at the 540 Club and on KUSF.”

“No shit. What kind of DJ are you?”

“Heavy Metal.”

“No shit?”

She was obviously hammered but she seemed to be into me. Some little voice in the back of my paranoid, beer and blow soaked brain said “go for it.” I wasn’t sure what it meant but then it clicked. If this girl wanted to make out with me I would. If she wanted to take me home with her I’d let her. If sex was to happen, I wouldn’t mind. Why not? It was the 4th of July, I was drunk, I had an 8 ball of coke with me, I was single and I had $140 in my pocket. Let’s get it on!

The night wore on and about 11pm a group of us left to go to this Irish bar over on Geary. One of the reasons the 540 gets a lot of business is because the area surrounding it is a popular pub crawl district. On lower Clement and on Geary (the next street over, a major thoroughfare) between 3rd and 8th Ave has about a dozen or so bars, mainly Irish ones; the 540 being the little hip club that could. On a few Saturday nights we would get crowds of pub crawlers who were mortified to find that they had stumbled into a bar with a Metal DJ or even worse, indie rock. More than one occasion, drunken fraternal douchebags have come up to me and requested 311, Sublime or worst yet, Creed. I always said “I’ll see what I can do” then switch on some Nile or Burning Witch just to piss them off. As long as they heard a familiar song such as “Round and Round” or “We’re Not Gonna Take It” they usually stayed for a bit and actually tipped. Otherwise, they are worthless.

The bar was called Ireland 23 and it’s a place I have been to when I used to live on 4th Ave and Geary. It’s not bad but it’s not great. I would have preferred to go back to the 540 but since there was at least a dozen or so of us the mob ruled and they wanted a bigger venue that didn’t mind loud drunkards that wanted pitchers of beer served to them repeatedly. A spacious Irish bar is just the place to do such debauchery.

Pitchers came, shots came and we threw on obnoxious rock and dance music on the jukebox. Locals and regulars looked at us with some contempt. This was acceptable behavior on a Friday or Saturday night but rare for a Thursday.

“Thursdays the new Friday,” I yelled at some dart players that asked us politely not to play any more Bobby Brown and Def Leppard. “And, sorry, you can get the Clash and Pogues at any bar. I haven’t heard “Every Little Step” in years! Let’s all dance to the new jack swing man!”

My drunken bravado was only shadowed by the fact that I continually went to the men’s room and did bumps of the magic dust. I would never say anything like that to guys that could pummel me in an instant. Blow combined with beer was a sorcerer’s combo. Alcohol loosens me up, coke makes me bulletproof. It was fantastic.

Nicole and I were sitting side by side the whole time. At one point when she went to go potty Vanessa leaned in and said “Are you into my friend?”

“Nicole is cool,” I said. “And cute. What more do you want?”

We clinked glasses and she just smiled.

At one point Nicole and I went to the bar to get another round. When we were there, after we had placed our order, Nicole leaned in close and whispered “You’re cute. I wanna kiss you.”

It didn’t take a second thought for me. I bent my head down and met her lips. We started making out right there at the bar. In the background I could hear Vanessa and some of the others hooting and hollering at us. The pitchers arrived and I handed the guy money with my lips still locked on hers. If there was anything in this world that I loved more than air and food, it’s a first kiss. And Nicole was quite good at it.

We finally made it back to the table just as Ernie and Shane got up to order a round of elaborate shots, something called Sex With An Alligator. They came back with them, we knocked them back, I shook from the wild flavor and alcohol content and after we finished the last pitcher we all left.

As we stood outside, shivering in the cold night air, everyone came to the decision to call it a night. Nicole locked arms with me and slurred a breathy “You’re coming home with me.” I was ready to go. I hadn’t been properly laid in quite some time. Months I figured. Having a sort of girlfriend talk dirty to you over the phone isn’t exactly a physical relationship, even if the end results are what I was looking for right then and there. So everyone hugged, said goodbye and split.

“C’mon,” Nicole said pulling at my arm. “I live right down the street.”

It seemed very strange to me that so many people I knew lived in a few block radius of each other. The Richmond District, just like it’s sister district, the Sunset on the other side of the park, is mainly residential and not very hip so a lot of people end up there if they’re looking for a decent place at a reasonable price. I lived in the Richmond for years and had a great time. After partying in other hipper, louder neighborhoods I would just hop a cab or bus to my quiet little room on 4th Ave. Now that I was spending so much time here, I kind of missed it. At least parades don’t go by your window early in the morning in the Richmond.

She lived two blocks away from where Jerrod lived, just up the street for The Que and down from the 540 Club. Her place was kind of similar to mine, except she lived over a Chinese restaurant. We walked up the narrow stairwell and entered her apartment.

Nicole insisted that we be very quiet as her roommate might be asleep. She clicked on a light and I could see the place was a mess. Clothes and crap were strewn everywhere. It also had absolutely no personality to it. Just standard furniture, a big TV, an Xbox, and lots of stuff thrown around.

“Sorry it’s kind of a mess,” she whispered. “Cleaning lady has the week off.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “My plumbers out of town so I’ve been pooping in my bedroom all week.”

We walked across the obstacle course living room, stepping over video game boxes, panties and beer bottles and eventually made it to her room. With a click of a bright overhead light, something that I have always hated since it made everything look like a police interrogation room, I could see that Nicole was indeed someone I wouldn’t regularly hook up with. She had a poster of Mariah Carey on the wall along with harlequin masks, a large white doily cross, lots of photos of her friends and family in multicolored plastic frames, a huge mirror with tons of makeup littered on top and a picture of a butterfly with the words “Live your dream” on it. I would never, regularly, date a person like this, let alone have a relationship. But drunken sex is one thing.

Nicole asked me to get comfortable as she closed the door behind her. I took off my hoodie and laid it on a chair, that, of course, was piled with clothes and the like. I went to the bed and pushed down it. Soft yet firm. Then I noticed some kind of machine next to it on a table near the window. It looked like some kind of recorder or something, almost like an old school reel to reel jobber. I went over to check it out and it seemed to have some kind of aviators mask attached to it. Nervous that it might be some kind of sexual torture device, I just poked at it to see what it would do. But when Nicole came back I sprung up and smiled like everything was okay.

She had two bottles of Budweiser with her and we clinked bottles and sipped. She then leaned into me and we started to kiss. The kiss got bigger and deeper. Pretty soon her left hand was on my butt and the other one was fondling my crotch. I reciprocated by putting one hand on her butt and the other on a boob. She had half the breast that Amanda did but whatever. It was time to get it on.

Nicole broke the kiss to turn off the light. That’s when she took off her top and skirt, leaving her in a bra and panties. I did the same. Well, you know, I stripped down to my boxers.

It must have been the booze and blow because I didn’t care that I was standing in front of an almost total stranger half naked. Usually I have panic attacks when I go shirtless in front of a girl for the first time. During puberty I started to develop man-boobs which was highly embarrassing. A gym coach suggested weight training and that just made them rounder. In college, during a doctors visit, he said that I had something called gynomastia, aka, man-boobs. They’re not bad, just kind of pointy and annoying. Exercise will sort of calm them down, the doctor said, but it would take surgery to fully get them taken care of. So until I can afford that, it’s baggy Hawaiian and bowling shirts all the way to keep them at bay.

Nicole didn’t even flinch or say anything about my chest, but rather just came over and pushed me onto the bed. We wrestled around, lip locked and groping, to which I started noticing something.

I wasn’t getting hard at all.

This is strange since I have never suffered from what is known as “whiskey dick”. In fact, I’ve always been the opposite. Booze just seems to hit Mr. Happy in a good way and I’ve usually been successful in gettin’ it up after drinking. Maybe it was because I was nervous about being naked in front of this girl. Maybe it was because Mariah Carey was staring at us, with pouty lips and a short glittery dress. Or maybe it was the fact that some kind of mystery device was laying next to the bed and I kept wondering when it was going to be implemented. Regardless, as the boxers came off and Nicole started working at me, I got half mast at best. Taking that as a cue that it was going to be as good as it got, I slipped her panties off and got on top.

I was pretty soft but it didn’t seem to matter. Nicole screamed and moaned like I was a human power drill digging for diamonds. She flipped me over, rode on top and I struggled to keep it in. What the heck was going on, I wondered. Sure I was drunk but I still felt really good. Why is Dr. Winky not doing too hot? Who cares if she has harlequin masks above her bed. Get up! You’re getting laid for craps sake!

She must have had a good orgasm because after a yelp and long pause she flopped down next to me. I then thought that she had passed out, which would be a first. One of my favorite movies was Animal House and I always wondered what I would do if I was Pinto when that girl passes out on him. It then occurred to me that I had already felt her up and did the deed. So that was out.

“Did you come?” she asked me. I then realized that I was nowhere near having an orgasm. What was happening? It doesn’t take much for me to have Thing 1 and Thing 2 to spill the milk during sex. I reached down and felt him. Almost totally limp. I then had to give some excuse.

“Oh man, I’m just pretty drunk. This happens. Don’t worry about me.”

“Bullshit,” she said and went right down and started working him orally. It felt good, there was no doubt about that, it’s just that I couldn’t get it going. As I stared at Mariah who was illuminated by a yellow hued streetlight peeking through half closed blinds, I just knew that it wasn’t going to happen. When she came up for air to ask if everything was okay I just stopped her and said it wasn’t going to happen. As long as she got satisfied I was okay. If need be I’ll just go and jackoff into her bathroom sink or something later.

“Do you want me to leave or stay?” I asked.

“You can stay if you want,” Nicole said drowsily. “We’ll go out for breakfast.”

“Okay.”

Within seconds Nicole was breathing heavy, indicating that she was out. I got up, put on my boxers, found my beer and finished it. Found her’s, did the same. I lay there next to her and tried to sleep. My heart was still racing and my head was swimming with questions and concerns. Somehow, I drifted off, under the watchful eye of Mariah Carey in that strange yellow light.

* * *

The next day I woke up to a very strange noise. All I heard was something like “beeesh-zoooot-beeeesh-zoooot”. It was like some kind of cyborg breathing, yet with a gurgling too. At first I thought the toilet was backed up and making odd sounds. Maybe it was my stomach because after a night of boozing I am usually famished by morning, that is if I didn’t stop somewhere to get a late night burrito or pizza slice. Which I didn’t.

I then realized I was laying next to a naked girl I barely knew. Looking over at her, I made a startling discovery.

Nicole had that aviator mask thing on her face and the machine was activated. I could see the little pumps I thought was the reel to reel tapes bopping up and down. She was on her back, chest exposed, while the other half was under her stark white sheet, with this mask on her making her look like some kind of Sex Vader. I shot up and surveyed the scene.

First thing I noted was that I wasn’t turned on. If some random girl wearing a breathing apparatus with her boobs out made me tingly in any way I would make an appointment with a therapist. But it didn’t. Actually, if the mask was a full blown Darth style I might be inclined to mount her and do my business. But the sound of the machine, that sloshing, compressed air sound, made me a little queasy. So I looked around her room, found my undershirt, shorts, shirt and hoodie, gathered them up and began to look for my shoes and socks. That’s when she woke up.

“Good morning,” she said completely muffled by the mask and whooshing sounds. I could barely make out what she was saying.

“Uh, hi,” I said holding my clothes in a tight ball. “Morning. I uh… Ready for breakfast?”

Nicole then took of the mask and turned the machine off.

“Are you freaked out by this?” she asked. By my deer caught in the headlights expression and stance it was apparent that I was. “Sorry. I have sleep apnea. It’s either this or I don’t breath at night.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Whatever. You think I’m a freak.”

“No. It’s cool. I just…I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said. “My dad’s husband has sleep apnea and he…”
“Your dad’s gay?” she said sounding a little perturbed.

“Uh, yeah. They both are.”

“That’s weird.”

I always found it funny that people that live in San Francisco can still be homophobic. I’ve come across it so many times and it still makes me scratch my head and think ‘why don’t you move to Kansas or something?’ They live in the gayest city in the world with a famous gay district making it the Gay Vortex for all other things that are labeled “gay”. San Francisco is queen of Homo Mountian. Stand proud!

It was then that I noticed something on the ground. My bag of blow had fallen out and was sitting in the middle of the floor. Nicole got up, put on a big tee shirt, a long one with Tweety bird on it for craps sake, and started toward the door. She walked by me, tickled my tummy and yawned off to the bathroom. The whole time I moved my body so that she wouldn’t see the bag. When she as gone I quickly retrieved it and stuffed it in my wallet. I then got dressed, found my socks and shoes, which were scattered all over the room, without a clue how that happened, and put them on.

When Nicole came back I was tying my shoe.

“You’re in a big hurry huh?” she said. “I thought maybe we could have another quicky before we go out.”

Actually, the last thing on my mind right then was sex. I was hungover, the coke had made me feel chemically dazed and, to be honest with you, I was a little turned off by the whole breathing mask thing and the whole situation.

“I, uh…don’t have another condom,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t used one when we sort of did it. That made me nervous too.

“That’s okay,” she said opening up a drawer on her night stand. “I’ve come prepared.” She lifted out a long row of condoms and wore a sinister smile.

“Can I take a raincheck?” I said. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I have to be at work in an hour.”

She put the condoms back in the drawer. “That’s fine,” she said. “What about breakfast?”

“I don’t think we’ll have time.”

“Whatever.”

Sensing that she was a little upset with me I tried to make some light conversation.

“I see you’re into Mariah Carey,” I said.

“Fuck yeah,” Nicole said with all seriousness. “Mimi is the bomb yo.”

“Yeah,” I uttered. “I had this poster of Lita Ford when I was a kid on the ceiling above my bed. You know, the one where she’s topless, looking at you over her shoulder, in uber tight leather pants and holding that white pointy guitar with fog in the background? It was awesome.”

“Who’s Lita Ford?” she asked.

“I gotta go.”

I didn’t have to work that day but I needed to split. We kissed goodbye, exchanged numbers and I left. It was late afternoon on a Friday so I walked up to the 540, ordered a Bloody Mary, drank it while talking to the daytime bartender Richie who called me a cab when I was finished. I went back to the apartment to find camera equipment all over the place.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked.

There was a bunch of people I didn’t know scurrying around the place. There was a big digital camera pointed down the hall, with lights, flags, cables on the ground and Khamish coming out of his room.

“Is this okay,” he asked. “We need a quick scene of a girl coming out of a bedroom. I didn’t know when you were coming home so…is this okay?”

I actually didn’t care at all. Khamish was never around and for that I rewarded him with letting his film crew do some shooting in the place. Turns out he wanted the girl coming out Amanda’s bedroom, looking distressed, and then walking past the camera.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’ll be done in a few hours.”

“That’s cool man,” I said. “I’ll go catch a movie or something. What’s playing?”

Most of the crew just shrugged. But they took a half hour break to let me shower, change and get my stuff together. I needed to see some big dumb movies anyway. My brain had turned to mush.

X.

Here’s the thing: I have made sneaking into movies an art form. A couple of years ago I discovered the big multi leveled cineplex on Geary, the AMC 1000, was a haven for it. Since it held 5 or 6 different screens each on its 5 separate floors, it was easy to move around and confuse the staff, which were mainly zitty teenagers or overweight geeks that made minimum wage and could give two cruds. There was always one security guard during the day and he was more concerned with loud kids making mischief rather than some lone quiet guy with a backpack who seemingly has been in the complex all day long. In a way, I am sort of invisible at the AMC 1000.

This is what I do.

I show up to the theater, look at all the showtimes (I usually do this online but since I was literally thrown out of the apartment I had do it manually), jot down the movies, times and screens they are playing at and make a schedule. This day there were four movies I wanted to check out; Batman Begins, Cinderella Man, War of the Worlds and Bewitched. The big ones were Batman and War of the Worlds. The other two were throwaways. See, not all films start and begin at the same time, but knowing that Batman starts at 2pm that means I can make the 6:30pm showing of War of the Worlds which allows me to see most of Bewitched which starts at 4:45 and if I wanted to see Cinderella Man that begins at 8:15 promising I would be out by 10pm or so just in time to hit the Crowbar before going back to the apartment and getting a decent night’s rest because I open the bar on Saturdays.

And this is what I do to make the cinematic experience even more enjoyable.

A year ago I had purchased a very large black Independent Trucks backpack from the skateshop Tommy works at. I’ve taken this bag on trips and it holds a weeks worth of clothes, toiletries and a book. Near the AMC 1000 is a plethora of great take out but I usually opt for this one fantastic taqueria. I get a large super pollo burrito and a big bag of chips. That should last me all night seeing as the burrito is the size of my leg, which is pretty beefy from all that walking and skateboarding I used to do. Across the stree from the taqueria is a liquor store. I purchase a six pack of IPA beer and ask the clerk to triple bag it. I put the beer at the bottom of my backpack, set the food on top and head back to the theater. I buy my ticket to Batman (at matinee discount price no less), walk by the stoned looking teenage boy who rips my ticket, tells me the theater its in before I find myself on the escalator leading up to the main area. Before entering my show, I ask for a cup of ice at a snack bar which I then splay on the beer when I find a seat. The triple bagging holds the ice in. See where I’m going here?

I make Batman just in time for the previews. I pop open my first beer, eat some of the burrito and kick back. That movie was amazing. Afterwards I slip into the mens room, do a few bumps of the blow, clean up, take my hoodie off to look “slightly different” and walk right into the theater where Bewitched is playing. That movie was atrocious and I down two beers in the short time I am waiting to see War of the Worlds to ease my suffering.

During Bewitched though, a strange occurrence took place. When I walked in, the theater was virtually empty and had been playing for almost a half hour. Trust me, with a movie like that you just need a few seconds to catch up, get the gist and hate it. I usually sit kind of close and in the center in movies because of my slight nearsightedness. The other smattering of people were way behind me and scattered, which meant I had the lower floor all to myself. As I am opening a beer, some guy sits RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I mean, for real, we were almost sharing an armrest. I use my backpack and hoodie to shield away any people that might want to sit next to me; backpack on one seat, my hoodie on the other. This guy sat immediately next to my backpack, which is where the food and beer was. I looked at him. He was older and appeared normal so I didn’t suspect him of being some kind of undercover security guy. Then I thought he was some kind of perv looking to snuggle next to a smelly metal head drinking beer and sneaking into movies.

One thing you gotta know about me is that I have serious space issues. Maybe it’s because I am an only child raised by a single parent, but when people sit next to me in empty theaters and restaurants, or stand right behind me in line at the bank or store, or worse yet, park right next to me in an empty parking lot, I go nuts. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep, I was on my 3rd beer, I was halfway done with my 8 ball of blow and I couldn’t take it. I grabbed my stuff, walked down half an aisle, threw my stuff into the next row over and plopped down with a protest. I mean, really, are people that dumb and desperate that you have to sit right freakin’ next to me in an empty place? I guess so.

I hated War of the Worlds too. Being a big fan of the original and loving most of what Spielburg does I was really disappointed. At one point to keep me awake I actually hunkered down in my seat and stuck a straw that I had taken from the snack bar, cut it in half and jammed it into the bag and did a wallop of a hit. It perked me right up but made me rather vocal in my distaste for the movie.

“Why are you running from the aliens Cruise?” I said. “Isn’t Xenu your homeboy? Aren’t you gearing up for the mothership?”

“I know right,” said some guy behind me.

I turned around and said, “This movie sucks.”

“You’re smart,” he said. “You brought beer.”

I tipped my bottle to him and took a big slug.
Cinderella Man was okay but by then I had had it. The food was eaten up, the beer was gone, I had done too much of the drug left and I was spent, more mentally than anything. I left the AMC 1000, walked into the chilly night air which was shocking since it was sunny when I started, got on a direct line bus to North Beach and went to the Crowbar. I had a beer and a shot and called it a night. I stumbled home, opened the door to find the film crew was long gone. I filled a glass up with water, got undressed and went to bed. I slept hard and dreamt about that guy sitting next to me. Except that it wasn’t that guy. It was Jack.

* * *

One afternoon as I was tying my shoes to go to work the phone rang. I had ten minutes to run down to Bill’s and take over the outside bar, but for some reason I picked up.

“Hello?”
“
Yeah, hi. Can I speak to Mark Whittaker please?”

It was a friendly sounding girl and she actually pronounced my last name correctly.

“I’m Mark.”

“Oh hi Mark, this is Kathy over at Relapse Records.”

Relapse was my absolute favorite Metal label and I had done some street team stuff after High On Fire’s Surrounded By Thieves came out. I was so blown away by that album that I had to get involved with the label somehow, so I started doing local promo stuff for Relapse bands when they came to San Francisco. I hadn’t done anything with Relapse in quite some time so I was curious about the call.

“Oh hello Kathy. What’s up?”

“Not much. Say…I got word that you’re a DJ and that you co-host Rampage Radio.”

That was the first time I had heard the term “co-host”. All I did was show up, drink beer, do coke, play a few songs and hang out. Never really thought about the whole “co-hosting” thing.

“Yeah,” I said, “and at the 540 Club. I do the first Saturday of every month, all metal. Then every other Wednesday which is more butt rock and cheesy stuff.”

“That’s awesome. Let me ask you this. How would you like to be sponsored by Relapse?”

“What?”

I was a bit flabbergasted by what she said. I had never been sponsored before. The only sponsoring I thought I would ever get was if I went into AA, or now that I was doing cocaine now and then, NA.

“Yeah,” Kathy said. “Here’s the deal. We send you new releases every month and you play them at the station and clubs and get the word out about Relapse bands. Plus there’s going to be posters and stickers to giveaway. Sound good?”

“That sounds awesome.”

As Kathy and I ironed out details of what I would have to do, I began to feel a sense of self esteem that I hadn’t felt in a while. It was apparent that coming back to San Francisco was indeed a good thing. Who knew? But as she got all my information and we hung up, I trotted down to Bill’s with a spring in my step.

That night when I got back, ready to clean up and head to the Crowbar, I checked my mail to discover a letter that wasn’t a bill or something addressed to Amanda. When I got inside, I sat on the bed and opened it.

It was an invitation. To a baby shower. My good buddy Mike and his wife Amy were expecting their first child in September and wanted a big reunion party up at the Vogel’s cabin in Tahoe. Wow, I thought. Adulthood was finally starting to sink in. Sure all of my old friends from college were married and some even had kids, but when someone like Mike, who was the lone wolf of the bunch, the painter, the enigma, whom we all thought was going to live in a shack somewhere and drink his Rainier and paint his amazing oil paintings in hermit like solitude, finally got married and was now having a child I reeled. I couldn’t have been farther from any or all of that at the stage that I was in. It made me incredibly happy to see my friends married and having families. But in a way it really got me down. All I had was a crappy bar job, some DJ gigs, this strange apartment filled with a sort of girlfriends stuff and a book that has yet to be finished.

Plus I was using cocaine. What the heck is wrong with me?

* * *

Nicole and I had become random drunken bed buddies. We honestly had nothing in common except getting trashed and attempting sex at her place. There were times, more often than not, that I just didn’t want to go up to her apartment. Those crazy masks, and Mariah staring at me? I couldn’t bear it after a night of beer drinking. The more we hung out, which was maybe three or four times since the first hookup, Nicole became less and less cute. She was an attractive girl, it’s just that she wore too much makeup, was way into the R&B, Hip Hop club scene and was kind of a bitch. When we would hang out she pretended that she basically didn’t know me, but after a few cocktails and hits off of the weed pipe she kept in her gaudy faux designer purse, she started to warm up to me. Not so much as “we’re sort of together and the more I drink the cuter you become” way, but more like “if I don’t hook up with another guy tonight you’re coming home with me.” Seeing as I had no other friends around except Jose, who was usually preoccupied or too tired to go out, I took whatever chance I could to hang out with people and possibly get laid. Even though I knew I had to sneak out once she fell asleep or I’d be witness to that scary mask assisted breathing contraption. Talk about bone-kill.

One night I was invited to go out with Nicole as my old co-worker Vanessa was getting married to her longtime boyfriend Manny in September. It consisted of Vanessa and Manny’s friends, all of whom I didn’t know and seemed like people I only met either dancing in or working the door at low end strip clubs. They were mainly Latino and Italian folks that looked at me curiously when they saw Nicole and I were an “item”. Nicole fit right in with them. The girls all wore faux couture knock off short dresses and the guys had on trendy shirts, shiny sport jackets and baggy stiff jeans, almost all of them with close cropped hair and constantly talking on their cell phones, each with an obnoxious ringtone of whatever hip hop single they were into that week.

I had on a Mastodon hoodie over a blue bowling shirt, baggy olive drab shorts, argyle socks and new Converse skate shoes. Plus my hair was almost to my shoulders. I had no idea what I was doing with those people and I’m sure they thought the same.

It was a split bachelor/bachelorette party that wasn’t a party at all, but rather a bar hop cruise with a full stretch limo to take us all around the hip downtown and SoMa clubs and bars to get completely wasted. For that I was happy to go. Luckily, Ernie, Shane and some of the other Que folks were there so I didn’t stick out as much. I at least had someone to talk to until Nicole started to get hammered and horny.

The club cruise started around 7pm and the dozen or so of us were crammed into the limo and started drinking after picking us up at a shoddy bar called the Low End on Market Street. Nicole sat on my lap which I thought was kind of odd but whatever. It shielded me from the “It’s all good” banter from her friends. Shane, Ernie, Niles and Shelby were on the other end so I had to sit there and listen to Manny and his dopey buddies reminisce about past drunken escapades and sports.

Knowing that this night was going to happen I hit up Rascon for another 8 ball earlier. I couldn’t wait for the first stop so I could race into the bathroom and do some. I was feeling really out of place. Cocaine is good for guys like me; it not only puts up a shield but it makes everyone seem a little more interesting. Put some booze on that and I’m Master of the Universe.

Hopefully more He-Man than Skeletor. The night was still young.

Our first stop is a big club called Bounce which is about as far from where I ever wanted to be at any time. It’s one of those abhorrent, red velvet rope, you gotta stand in line to hear thumping dance music and pay $20 for a beer while getting harassed by huge bald bulky bouncers with ear pieces as you slip on the vomit of drunk barely legal twits clubs. I rolled my eyes and Manny laughed.

“I know this isn’t your scene,” he said as we exited the limo, “but the drinks are taken care of. I know you like that!’

He then slapped me on the back and we entered. I actually liked Manny a lot. He was a really good, down to Earth guy that was marrying a great girl but surrounded himself with Guido morons. I decided to turn the other cheek and just enjoy myself. I mean, hey, I would never come to a place like Bounce so I just sucked it up and prepared myself for the worst.

And I got it.

“You can’t wear shorts in the club,” one of the hulking door guys said to me.

“Wait, what?” I yelled back over the bass heavy dance music blaring from inside.

“Shorts! You can’t wear shorts!”

“No, it’s okay. I’m German.”

“What?”

Manny then came back to my rescue.

“It’s cool man. He’s with us. George said it was okay. We’re only here for one drink then we’re gone. Plus he’s a DJ!”

The door goon looked at me with utter duress. After a long and painful conversation between him and Manny he clicked open the velvet rope and set me loose inside.

“Who’s George?” I yelled into Manny’s ear. You gotta understand, Bounce is not a place for conversation. The music was deafening.

“He’s the manager,” he screamed into my ear. “We used to work together. He owes me plenty so…you’re cool!”

With that I followed Manny to the bar, which was like hacking your way through a sweaty booty jungle. It was packed, full of bridge and tunnel people no less, but eventually we made it to the huge sprawling bar with a waterfall going down the back wall all of which was illuminated with laser blue light. I stuck out like a hairy uninvited thumb. As everyone around me was dancing and grinding up on one another like a standing room only, clothing required orgy, I politely hid in the confines of our little group. Nicole was dancing with Vanessa and the other girls on the packed dance floor. My testicles literally shook from the power of the bass heavy dance music. That was actually quite enjoyable.

A large shot came my way along with a tall glass of some green looking liquid. I asked one of Manny’s buddies what it was.

“The shot is a mind eraser and the drink is called a Panty Hamster.”

“A Panty Hamster?” I giggled loudly. “What the heck is in it?”

“Fuck if I know,” he said. “But it gets you fucked up!”

Pretty soon we were all huddled in a circle, Manny said something that I couldn’t hear, we raised our shot glasses and drank. I didn’t even taste mine. I threw it back so hard and fast that it didn’t have time to tickle a single taste bud. I needed to get drunk, fast.

Immediately I ran and found the men’s room, which was a huge stadium like stretch of urinals and stalls with an attendant sitting by the sinks. There were a smattering of guys in there, all looking exactly the same with designer shirts untucked over expensive jeans, thick leather shoes and frosted spiky hair. Like there was some kind of uniform. I wish I had gotten the memo.

After finding an empty and remote stallI closed and locked the door, set my drink down on the back of the toilet and got my bag of blow out. It was a little rocky so I had to crush some up on the toilet paper dispenser. Once I was satisfied with the consistency, I balanced bump after bump, snorted deeply and drank half of my Panty Hamster. It tasted like a singed asshole. Nearly gagging from the taste and alcohol content of the drink, along with the back drip of the drug, I put the remaining 8 ball in my breast pocket, flushed and walked out.

There have only been a number of times that I have had the pleasure of dealing with bathroom attendants. The famed club Bimbo’s, which is right down the street from the apartment on Columbus, always has one. It was funny because when Helmet played there once a few years back, and we were all headbanging and thrashing like idiots, we went to the bathroom to see a well dressed and calm older black gentleman handing out towels and mints to shirtless sweaty rockers. Because of that, I left the nice man a tip as I took a breath mint before going back to mosh.

I set the drink down on the counter and washed my hands.

“You have something on your face sir,” the attendant said. He was similar to the guy I had seen at Bimbo’s; older, black, well dressed and impeccably mannered.  How do they stay so calm in a stinky bathroom surrounded by smelly man-idiots? My admiration and curiosity ran deep just then.

“Huh? Oh, what is it?”

“It’s on your nose sir.”

I then looked in the mirror to see that I had white powder all over my right nostril and some in my goatee. I quickly brushed it off and felt like a loser. There was no way of getting around it. In a loud nefarious dance club like Bounce, it was obvious what I had been doing.

“It’s going to be one of those nights my friend,” I said. “Need all the help I can get.”

“By the way your dressed you’re gonna need more than that.”

He didn’t crack a smile when he said that and I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. But feeling totally out of place and beginning to get high I just nodded, wiped my hands off on the towel he handed me, put a dollar in his basket and walked off.

Most of the guys were still by the bar while the girls and Manny were on the dance floor. Bounce was a huge warehouse of a place with lights flashing everywhere, beautiful half dressed table servers walking around, crowds of well dressed dancers and boozers standing elbow to elbow and music that was so loud I could barely hear my thoughts, which were starting to be “you better get out while the gettin’ is good!” But as another strangely colored shot came my way I dismissed those thoughts and just tried to have fun.

After about an hour at Bounce, Vanessa and Manny rallied the troops to leave and get into the waiting limo. As I exited, starting to feel loopy from the booze and towering from the cocaine, I noticed a huge line of people waiting to get in, all looking at us from behind that velvet rope. The bouncer that gave me grief earlier looked at me sternly and said “Next time wear pants.” I just nodded knowing there would never be a next time. I was also feeling really cool for some reason. I had never come out of a popular dance club after drinking for free and stepping into an awaiting limousine before. It felt weird. I didn’t envy those paparazzi’d stars at all. But I ate it up.

“Thank you. And goodnight!” I said waving to the line of people before getting into the limo.

More tequila shots were had in the back and Nicole still insisted on sitting on my lap, this time she actually put an arm around me. Nobody said anything. I was sure one of her pals would peep up and say “Oh you guys look cute together” or “What the hell are you doing with him?” Maybe they already said that in the club. Perhaps Nicole said “Whatever, he’s a back up plan if nothing else goes right tonight.”

I didn’t care. I was half drunk and riding in a limo around San Francisco. Tomorrow I had laundry to do and had to close the bar. It’s the little things in life that get me.

The other places we stopped at were nothing like Bounce. They were just sterile and overpriced bars with “lightly in the background” music and filled with boring out to be seen types. I can’t even remember the names because they all sounded the same: Chance, Optic, Notorious…that kind of crap. Some of which gave me grief about my metal hoodie and shorts but always caved in when the others said I “was cool” and somehow knew the manager or owner. Maybe Manny was some kind of mob guy. That would be awesome.

“Why did you dress like that?” Shane asked me. He being a bass player in a pop punk ska band I thought he would have dressed down too. Nuh huh. He had on a shiny suit with a razor thin tie and even wore a derby hat. Ernie just had a black untucked dress shirt with a white tie. Everyone was so dressed up.

“Hey, I’m that mysterious bad boy everyone has been talking about” I said. “Plus my zoot suit is at the cleaners.”

The limo started to make its way into North Beach. Before long we were turning right onto Broadway.

“Oh cool,” I yelled. “Are we going to the Crowbar?”

Everyone just laughed.

“No man,” one of the guys said. “Who goes to the Crowbar? We’re going to the place across the street. You know what I’m talking about.”

Oh no, I thought. I always sat and watched the guys saunter into that place as I sat in my usual spot by the window and drank. Sometimes limousines would show up and well dressed parties would be escorted in. I also liked watching the dancers arrive because they looked either two ways. One was wearing baggy pants and a sweatshirt, the other was a tiny top and smaller skirt, and always carrying a big bag or toting a case with wheels. Sometimes they ran and were usually cradling a cell phone on their shoulder. The guys that worked the door were cookie cutters from the rest of the places we were just at: Big, beefy and bald, all in black suits and donning ear pieces.

The limo pulled up and I could see the Crowbar from the tinted window inside the car. That voice came back: “There’s the Crowbar…now’s your chance!”, but I was already in too deep. Drunk, blown out, spinning from the various clubs and bars and riding in the back of an oversized car, I got out and entered Playthings with the rest of the gang.

The girls were more excited than that guys. Nicole, Vanessa and the others all hooted and hollered because not only do they not have to pay an entrance fee (which was 20 frikkin dollars) but they also drank for free till midnight. It was a little past 11 when we arrived.

Playthings was a plush maze of rooms and pictures of incredibly seductive women on the walls. It looked like a well carpeted brothel and stank of oxygenated air and plastic. To be quite honest with you, I was a little nervous finally going in.

I’m not one to procure a love of strip clubs let alone pornography. I always thought it was weird that men would go to places like this, pay an exorbitant amount of cash to have girls sit on their lap without being able to touch them or get some kind of “relief”. I sincerely try to avoid the conflict of blue balls whenever possible. It’s just not my bag. But the idea of having one last drink while looking at gorgeous naked women didn’t seem so bad. I just wouldn’t get a lapdance is all.

We entered the main room which was a cavernous area with a main stage, smaller stages on either side, a VIP section, bar and lined with huge television screens showing sports and pictures of the dancers, all of which had names like “Amber”, “Scarlett”, “Fantasy” and “Peppermint.” We all collected in an area next to one of the side stages and ordered drinks from a scantily clad waitress. A topless lady was cavorting on the main stage to Poison’s “Unskinny Bop”. I sang along to it which put me at ease a little.

That’s when dancers started coming up to us and asking if we wanted a lap dance. One girl came up to me, who was blonde and mildly attractive with an average body, and I politely refused saying it’s against my religion. The other guys accepted immediately and pretty soon Manny, Shane, Ernie, some of the other guys and even Vanessa and Nicole had half dressed strippers gyrating on their laps and pushing their cleavage into their faces. It looked appealing but I knew it would rile me up to the point of explosion. So I sat there and watched, trying to ignore my shorts turning into a tent..

After a beer and shot I went to the men’s room to do a few more bumps and cool off. Even with heavily oxygenated central air I was sweating in that place. A combination of booze, blow and boobs was starting to make me dizzy. So I walked in and found another attendant.

“Hello sir,” he said. The attendant was, yes, black, middle aged, wearing a nice suit and amazingly well groomed and poised. There must be some kind of club or service for these guys.

The difference about this bathroom was that it was stone silent. It was upstairs and to the back of the club so the plodding music was long gone and hidden. And, outside of the attendant, I was the only guy in there. So I went to a stall, locked the door, sat down and waited.

I got the bag out, had my key at the ready and anticipated a cough from the man or another customer walking in. I really didn’t want to be the only guy in a stall and making loud snorting sounds followed by the ubiquitous exhalation of breath when it hits because it was not only embarrassing but also totally illegal. What if I did a bump, he catches me and they throw me out after confiscating my baggie or, worse yet, ratting on me to the cops. What the heck had I become? Look at me. Sitting on the toilet in a strip club with my truck key in a bag of cocaine waiting for some kind of noise so I can snort it up and go back to my group of “friends” of ex co workers and possible mobsters to watch siliconed girls dance for our pleasure so they can pay for college or child support. Fantastic.

A guy walked in. I jammed the drug into my nose. They make light conversation. I do it again. I wipe my nostrils, flush and walk out.

“How are you tonight sir?” the attendant asked me.

“Just dandy my friend,” I said in a overtly jaunty tone. “I’m losing my mind but having fun doing it.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said with an approving fist wave. I took a mint, sprayed some kind of god awful cologne from the 70s on me and tipped him a 5.

When I went back down Vanessa was on the stage with Manny, sitting on chairs with a bunch of girls cavorting around them. Turns out one of the guys paid for the stage dance of pre marital embarrassment and I ran up and started applauding madly. Nicole joined me.

“You know, I live right up the street,” I half yelled to her.

“Oh yeah?,” she said with intoxicated eyes. “Maybe after this we can leave together.”

We both started throwing dollar bills on the stage and egging them on. One of the dancers got Manny’s shirt off while another was jiggling Vanessa’s boobs under her dress. I got kind of abashed then for some reason and went back to my seat with Nicole in tow.

That’s when I got approached by another dancer.

My eyes literally popped out of my head with this one. My heart raced and my brain blew up. This girl had the biggest fake boobs I had ever seen up close. Not mind-bendingly huge like you see in bad porn or the Guinness Book of World Records, but they were extremely big and jutting out of a tight low cut top. She looked Eurasian, with long straight brown hair with blonde streaks and was carrying a small purse.

“Can I sit here?” she asked.

“Jesus Lord of pancakes!” I yelled. “Uh, yes please.”

She sat down and I was traumatized by the event of not staring directly at her cleavage at all times. I could see them in my lower peripheral and that seemed to suffice. When she averted her gaze I immediately looked down to get a quick look. Dear god, I think I started drooling.

“My name’s Misty,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Um…Mark.”

“So, Mark, what’s the occasion?”

Without looking away from her I pointed to the stage. “Those two are getting married.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Mark would you like a private dance?”

“Oh gee. Uh…not right now. Okay? I, er, I need to take a break.”

“How about a drink?”

“Yes please.”

“I’ll have a double martini.”

“Oh…you want a drink? Oh. Okay. That’s cool too.”

I waved over a waitress, gave her our order and returned to Misty.

“Let me ask you something Misty,” I said, “How the heck can you walk in those shoes?”

She giggled and looked down. Misty was wearing clear stiletto heeled shoes that were platformed at least by 5 inches. They were intense. And with a chest like hers I would imagine gravity was the enemy. Maybe she’s a physicist moonlighting as a stripper? That would be awesome.

“You get used to them after a while. Takes a little balance but…now they’re kind of comfy.”

“Uh huh. So, do they treat you well here?”

Misty tiled her head and gave me a puzzling look.

“You know nobody has ever asked me that. Um, yeah. I guess so. They’re pretty fair around here.”

“So the money’s good then?”

“Not bad. On a busy Friday or Saturday night I can walk with close to a grand.”

“Holy moley,” I said. “Maybe I should be a stripper.”

Misty leaned into me. “Dancer. I’m a dancer.”

“Oh right. Sorry.”

“So what do you do?,” she asked.

“I’m a writer and a DJ.”

She nodded her head in seeming approval. “Good money in that?”

“Ah…no. Not a thousand dollars a night good.”

“Maybe if you get some work done on your boobs you can audition here.”

That made me self conscious. Could she see my man boobs under the bowling shirt? I hoped not. Regardless, I laughed and adjusted my shirt just to make sure.

“That’s a good idea.” The drinks arrived. I paid and went back to the dancer. “Uh Misty, can I ask you something? Just, you know, because it’s obvious and I want to get it over with…”

“My bust size is 36 double F.”

“Oh my god!”

I took a huge pull off of my beer and ran back upstairs to the mens room. I quickly went into a stall, pulled my pants down and almost started masterbating. I immediately stopped when I remembered that Nicole was going to come back to the apartment with me. This is great! Not only will I get laid but I will have a visual reference to help me get over the fact that Nicole doesn’t really do it for me. In the dark, I can just place Misty under me and go to town. Yeah.

After doing a few more bumps and cleaning up, along with tipping the attendant again, I went back down to find Misty standing and waiting.

Manny and Vanessa walked up to me.

“Dude,” said Manny, “we got you a present. We saw you talking to that stripper…”

“Dancer,” I said.

“Whatever. So a bunch of us chipped in and got you a private dance.”

Vanessa was laughing wildly, Manny just smiled and gripped my shoulder, everyone else was applauding and encouraging me. I didn’t think these guys even liked me. I guess my comic sidekick routine and the fact that I am boinking their good friend made them lighten up to me. I felt good. Completely and utterly nervous and wrought with lust shattered anxiety, but good. So with mild apprehension I let Misty take me by the hand and lead me to a private room.

It was a cozy plush room with sleazy red interior and a curtain she closed behind her. She set her bag down and told me to sit on the rich red couch.

“So you get two songs and there’s no touching.”

“Is that extra?” I asked.

“It’s actually not an option.”

After some rap song ended, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” began and that’s when Misty sprung into action.

She slithered around seductively, held onto my legs and looked at me with smouldering eyes. She grinded into my crotch, played with the little fireman with her knee and best of all, shoved her enormous breasts onto my face. It was the first time I had actually felt large silicone boobs before. They were really firm, like mildly deflated basketballs, and my cheeks concaved from the weight of them. I don’t remember being happier yet at the same time a little disenchanted. Sure as a young boy watching that Russ Meyer movie on late night cable I discovered a wonderment for big boobs but this was different. It just felt kind of seedy is all. A security guy would peek in every now and then to make sure I wasn’t grabbing her or cutting off her head or something, so that took a bit of the intimate illusion away. Plus Misty looked sort of bored. She went through the getting-a-man-hot dance routine like I make coffee in the morning. Not to mention, I hate porn. It’s not that I object to it, it’s just that it frustrates me. I wanna be the guy in that movie. I wanna be the plumber or pool boy that gets the lonely housewife or whatever. In the deepest realms of my sex crazed imagination hairy guys with bad accents that get the surgically enhanced women don’t exist. I do. But this would have to do.

Def Leppard ended and MC Hammer’s “Pumps and a Bump” came on. That’s when Misty spun around, grabbed the front of her top, unlatched it and revealed her two reasons she makes a grand every night.

I shot up like a coiled spring in a minefield.

“I gotta go!” I yelled. I ran past Misty, past the security guy, through the main room where the group was, down the long plush hall, out the door, down Broadway, then down Columbus Avenue, opened the front door to the apartment, ran inside, fled into the bathroom, took off my clothes, started the shower, got in and let the cold water rush all over me.

It was all just too much. I should have listened to that stupid voice from the get go.

XI.

Nicole called two days later to say just three things. They were, “What happened?”, “You’re a dick” and “Don’t ever call me again.” My answers were, “Umm…”, “Hey!,” and “Alright.”

It didn’t bother me in the least that it was over with her. It was a lark relationship at best anyway and went on a little too long and awkward in my opinion. Although now I had no options for getting some. But those masks and Mariah Carey and that whole breathing apparatus business made me wonder if it was all worth it.

The first package arrived from Relapse Records which was filled with merchandise for bands like Dysrythmia, Coldworker, Mastodon, Nile, Dying Fetus and, of course, High On Fire. There were new CDs by a bunch of bands and even a Relapse tee shirt for me. Knowing I don’t wear tee shirts in public, I had just been sent a new favorite house shirt.

That Saturday at the radio show, when it was my turn to play some songs, I pretty much stuck to the CDs that Kathy sent. Afterwards I relayed the song list and told everyone that they were all on the Relapse label and to check out relapse dot com and so forth.

When I returned to the table in studio 2, the other hosts Boom, El Duce, Bob, Porkchop and even some random kids that Rusty knew that had brought bags of BBQ chips and vodka, started asking me about the Relapse thing.

“So…you got sponsored by Relapse Records?” Porkchop asked.

“I guess so,” I said. “That’s what my contact said.”

“How, how, how, how did that happen?” asked Boom.

“I don’t know. They just called up, asked me if I wanted to be sponsored, told me what I had to do and that was it. I did some street team stuff for them before so I guess that’s how they found out about me.”

“So what you have to do,” El Duce said, “is play nothing but Relapse bands and they send you free stuff? Is that all you’re going to play from now on?”

“Oh no,” I insisted. “But I will do like a Relapse block or something. I mean, they’re the best metal label around so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What about Century Media?” Porkchop said.

“Or Metal Blade?” one of Dirty’s pals suggested.

“I like Nuclear Blast,” said El Duce.

“Fuck all you guys,” slurred Bob. “And fuck all that metal shit. Fuckin’ Punkcore is the best. Maybe Alternative Tentacles…”

“I like Punkcore,” interjected Boom.

“OK,” I said. “If it’s a problem I wont do it. I’ll just keep it for my club dates. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

In a way it wasn’t a big deal at all, but rather a “who do you think you are” factor from guys that have been doing this show for years. I was just supposed to be a one time guest two months back and now here I was co-hosting every show and got sponsorship from a record label. It wasn’t that the others were jealous of me, they just didn’t want a new guy popping in and doing promotions. That’s not what Reckless Radio was all about. It was more controlled anarchy and play whatever obscure band or extreme song that you could. So I decided to just play it by ear for upcoming shows. I didn’t want to get thrown out. I was having too much fun.

* * *

Getting a week off from work was a tough one. It was summer, we were busy, and Jack liked to keep his employees on an extremely short leash. It came down to the fact that he had no life outside of his business, so why should we? I was working almost 6 days a week now, with just Sundays off. The money was great and finding out that Hal and Iggy did blow it made it even easier. There was always a fresh line in the kitchen or prep area for us during the busy times, which was almost always.

After some grief from Jack and Siobhan pulling a few strings with him I got the time off to go to Tahoe for Mike and Amy’s baby shower.

“You gonna get your hair cut while you’re there?” Jack grumpily joked., yet twinged with nothing but seriousness.

“Maybe,” I said as I did my check out with him. Twelve food orders, I handed in three, need all the extra cash I could get. “Or maybe I’ll just shave it all off and get a neck tattoo of a swastika.”

Jack just looked at me. I couldn’t tell if he was offended or actually thought it was a good idea. It didn’t matter. I was now free for a week to spend time with my best friends in a big cabin up away from all this.

Knowing that, I made an appointment to see Racson before leaving. So that night, sometime around midnight I called him up.

“Yes,” he said in a deep low voice.

“Hey Rascon, what’s up? It’s Me. Metal Mark.”

“Let me call you back in like 5 minutes, okay?” he said with some urgency, and hung up.

About a minute later the phone rang. I picked it up and it was Rascon.

“Just making sure everything’s cool,” he said. “You know, because you’re still a pretty new client.”

“No problem. Say, I got a hundred I can spend. What does that get me?”

“I got two fat fifty bags sitting right here with you’re name on it loco. You coming by tonight?”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You know where I’m at?”

“I’ve been there twice before.”

“Oh yeah. I see you soon.”

I got in my truck and started it up. I had been using the small parking lot run by this guy named Geoff that was right outside of the kitchen window now and then on off nights. I had been collecting parking tickets like crazy. If I came home late from the club or radio station the only place to park was right in front and meant that streetcleaning came by at the crack of dawn, meaning another good $50 would go down the drain. Plus I had to double park sometimes to unload my equipment and that got me popped a few times. Not to mention just the usual ‘there’s absolutely no place to park’ situation that permeates the city has gotten me in trouble and almost towed. So I found myself using cabs and Muni more and more. In a way, I really didn’t need this rig anymore.

For now I had some drugs to obtain and a Tahoe trip to attend.

Parking in Rascon’s neighborhood was easy though. It was almost a graveyard, it was so empty and quiet, which always set me at ill ease. Like the last time, I parked down the street and took that extended walk to his place, so as to cover my tracks or something. I was still really new at this and quite skittish. I liked the drug, it made me feel really good and I could drink five times the amount that I used to (which was what I was planning on doing in Tahoe with those guys) but it was still a very illegal and, supposedly, dangerous substance. There were pot clubs all over San Francisco. I had yet to see one legal Cocaine Shack where “patients” come in complaining about ‘oh I have a test to cram for’ or ‘I have to drive eighteen hours to visit my dying grandma’ or whatever. That will never happen.

I rang the doorbell and after a few seconds Rascon answered. He buzzed me in and I entered.

Rascon was shirtless, playing some kind of hardcore rap in Spanish and looked extremely stoned. His place was half lit by dim bulbs in various lamps and the smell of skunk weed filled the air.

“Sit down homie,” he said. So I sat down on the same chair I did the first time I was there. “You smoke?”

Rascon gestured toward the large glass bong on the table.

“Oh, no thank you,” I said. “I used to but not anymore.”

“Just sticking to the yayo eh?”

I didn’t know what ‘yayo’ was but I quickly assumed it was coke. So I just sheepishly nodded.

“So, Metal Mark,” he said lighting up a cigarette, “you’re a heavy metal DJ right? What kind of bands you listening to right now homes?”

“Oh, um… Well, High On Fire is probably my favorite band.”

“I don’t know them.”

“They’re actually from here. Oakland actually. They’re fantastic. I don’t even know how to describe them. Like…”war metal” or something. Just the kind of metal you want playing if you’re storming a castle on your black war steed with battle axe held high cleaving the skulls of the hapless victims that lay in your wake.”

Rascon exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“That sounds pretty intense,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I’m an old D&D nerd.”

Rascon knelt down by the bong where that ornate box was. He got out a large bag of blow, laid some out, offered me some to which I hesitantly did knowing I had to get up early to drive to Tahoe. He did a line and took a hit off of that immense bong.

“Dude I used to run with all the Venice beach thrash bands,” he said blowing a throng of blue tinged smoke out. “I’m from there. Like I used to run with all of the Venice Cycos like Excel, Beowulf, Los Cycos and shit. I was a fuckin’ roadie for Suicidal’s Join The Army tour man. It was fuckin’ crazy eh.”

“Are you kidding me,” I exclaimed. “Those are some of my all time favorite bands. I was, well, still might be, a member of the Excel fan club.”

“I knew the guy that drew that skull with a wizard’s hat holding a crystal ball.”

“I had that shirt!”

“No shit?”

The doorbell rang. Rascon quickly got up, looked through the peephole and turned back to me.

“Stay right here alright?” he half whispered. He then buzzed the door and I could hear some quiet conversation in Spanish as Rascon had the door ajar. He then closed the door, ran to the back of the house, returned with a bag of weed and blow (at least I think it was) and cracked the door open. The exchange was made, some more words in Spanish and he then closed the door. Rascon stood in front of me counting a huge roll of 20s.

“You didn’t let them in?” I asked.

“No, I don’t trust those locos man,” he said flicking 20s from his left hand to right, counting. “They’re fucking gangsters man. Run with those 13 locos man. Fuck that shit. I just sell to them man. I don’t get involved with no gang shit man.”

I was a little uncomfortable and wanted desperately to leave. Looking over I saw there was still a few more lines. I asked Rascon if I could have more to which he gestured “be my guest” and I snorted up a good amount in hopes it would make me feel a little more bulletproof than I actually was. It just made me shakier.

“Hey Rascon, I have to get going,” I said. “Um, I gotta get up early and drive to Tahoe.”

“You going to Lake Tahoe tomorrow?” he asked. “That’s bad ass man. Going there to gamble or what?”

“No it’s my good friends baby shower. Kind of a reunion of sorts for all of my friends now that’s they’re all married and having kids and moved away. I’m the last one to stay in San Francisco.”

He went to the ornate box, produced two full baggies of coke. I handed him two fifties. Done deal.

“I wish I could go with you man,” Rascon said looking at me with red but slightly earnest eyes. “I’ve never been to Tahoe man. Must be nice to be a gringo sometimes eh?”

“Sometimes.”

As I was leaving I turned to him and thanked him for letting me hang out a bit.

“It’s cool man,” he said. “You don’t look like the others man. You look…okay. Something about you says that I can trust you.”

“You can trust me Rascon,” I said. I then waved goodbye and got in the truck and drove off.

I hit the Crowbar before going home and tried to drink myself asleep. Those two lines had made me quite awake and I wanted to get at least a few hours sleep before the four hour drive to Tahoe. I ended up closing the place and having one more beer at home. By 3am I was finally out.

* * *

The alarm was set for 8am, which would get me to the cabin at around noon when most of the group was expected to arrived. I re-set it for 10am and decided to be “fashionably late.”

By 11:00 I was fully packed, showered and out the door. I left a note for Khamish saying that if he needed the big bedroom for anything go ahead and use it. I didn’t care if people slept over or used Amanda’s bed. It wasn’t my place to begin with. Go crazy.

In my backpack I had an extra pair of shorts, three Hawaiian shirts, a blue short sleeved dress shirt (just in case), underwear, sandals, swimming trunks, toiletry case, and my High On Fire hoodie. I loved that backpack.

I also had the blow hidden in a velcro pocket on the inside, tucked in a empty playing cards holder. This was the first time transporting the drug outside of the city limits. That’s the first time I felt a little like an addict.

Swerving through the city, I soon found myself on the Bay Bridge, on the I-80, took the I-50 highway and was on my way.
Three hours later I was in the ear popping maze of Tahoe and found the turnoff for Serene Lake where the Vogel’s cabin was. I followed Jason’s exact directions and made it by 4pm. There were a lot of cars parked in and around the cabin.

“Hey! What’s up!”

As I got out of the truck I saw Jason on the porch looking down at me, waving and holding a beer. I said hello back and entered the cabin from the main door downstairs.

One thing you have to understand here is kids; the Vogel’s cabin is more like a chalet. It’s all wood, has a downstairs play room with pool table, karaoke machine, huge closet of board games and a few rooms and bathroom. Once you ascend the metal spiral staircase you come to a huge open living space with couches, oak dining room table, jumbo kitchen and even more rooms and bathrooms. Upstairs is essentially a sleeping hall with about a good dozen or so beds laid out and there’s even a small loft to which you have to climb up a steep ladder to get to. That was where I always liked to sleep. The “cabin” can literally accommodate a good 20 to 30 people at one time. And it was party central for us when it wasn’t in use by the rest of the extensive Vogel clan.

Everyone was there already: Mike and his very pregnant wife Amy, big daddy Kevin and Sandi, Greg and his wife Sen who was now, apparently, expecting, my ex girlfriend Jen and her husband James and, of course, Jason and Molly to whom this cabin basically belongs to. We all hugged, said our hellos, I said my “sorry about being late” bit and grabbed my first beer. It went down like sparkly magic.

There were also some other people there that I didn’t know. Turns out they are Amy’s friends from her work, which she is a supervisor on the school board of Los Angeles.

They were three nice enough girls with their prospective boyfriends but I got the impression that this week was going to be split in two: Amy’s white wine, gotta turn in by 10pm pals and us, the beer dill dawn, blasting Kyuss and making much mess in the process group. We all stood around, got to know one another or caught up, drinking beers and listening to the classic rock station.

It didn’t take long for me to feel a bit out of place which was new. I was the only single one, I wasn’t married, heck, I didn’t even have a real girlfriend. I was also a bartender and heavy metal DJ while most of these guys had real jobs. Mike was a successful painter and boat builder, Kevin was a teacher, Sandi did property management, Greg was a financial advisor for Wells Fargo, Sen was a nurse, Jen co-owned an interior design company, James did music production, Jason was a stock trader, Molly was a family therapist and the others I didn’t know. I knew they worked with Amy so I assumed they were in education somehow. I was the unattached bachelor slob with a crappy job, weird living situation and a new found fondness for cocaine. Instead of feeling bad or singled out, I just decided to suck it up. These were, after all, my old a dear friends.

That first night was spent drinking tons of cheap beer and Bar-be-quing frozen burgers that were discovered in the immense freezer in the garage. Just to give you a brief history of my relationship with this group, here goes:

I met Jen back in 1991 when my good buddy Scott and I used to frequent this café in Pacific Grove, CA called Tilly Gorts. Pacific Grove lays between Carmel and Monterey and is where I last lived with my dad until he met Richard and I met Jen. Jen was a server at Tilly Gorts and, ironically enough, I was the only one in my small group of friends not to have an immediate crush on her. She was cute, there’s no doubt about that, but at the time I was involved with this “singer” that eventually broke up with me when she moved to Austin, TX to make it in the alterno-country scene. Last I heard she managed a bakery in Berkeley. Anyway, Scott and I became quite chummy with Jen and one night she invited us to some house party. We went, we drank and Scott ended up sucking on the boobs of an engaged girl. I ended up chatting with Jen and really got to know and like her. After then we became quite close and, eventually, best friends.

One evening at my house alone with her, as my dad had essentially moved out to be with Richard, Jen and I were discussing cooking dinner. For some odd reason I leaned over and kissed her. That kiss became a make out session. We fell asleep kissing. I would wake up and start kissing her until she woke up. Vice versa. It was really amazing.

Thing is we were best friends and were planning to be “roommates” in Santa Barbara as she was going to UCSB to study art and I, well, uh…I just needed to move out. So, a bit hastily, we ended up finding a great one bedroom place near downtown and decided to take our chances. It worked, for the most part, that is until we tried it when we moved to San Francisco and it all just went kaplooie. She is still one of my closest friends though.

While in Santa Barbara I was introduced to her group of friends all hailing (again, quite ironically) from Carmel who were going to UCSB. Mike and Jason being the first two. They were best pals with Kevin and Greg, who were going to other schools but still came back to Carmel for the holidays and so forth. It was during that time in Santa Barbara that I really struck up a friendship with Mike and Jason, who also moved to San Francisco post college. It was like this mass caravan of friends going from Carmel to Santa Barbara to San Francisco. Very strange. But also very cool. In the last year or so everyone has moved away and gotten married and now children are on their way. Jason and Molly have one boy already so, the race is on!

I am the last one not to have this happen to. Maybe it’s because I am the late comer, the friend of a friend sort of thing. It didn’t matter. In a way, because we all got so close so fast, it was like I went to high school with them. Which I wish I did. My high school sucked and I was invisible.

“So how’s the DJ thing going?” Kevin asked.

“Not bad,” I said. “It’s weird though. It’s something that I never really saw myself doing. It’s kind of surreal. It’s fun though.”

“Do you get paid?” Greg asked.

“Um, sorta. The club pays a little. The radio station is volunteer but I get loads of free stuff.”

“And that’s all you do,” Mike said, “is play metal? That’s so rad.”

“It is kinda. Every time I play Kyuss or something off of Kill ‘Em All I can’t help think of you guys and drinking beer and getting high back in my old room on 4th Avenue playing the Atari.”

“Warlords!” cried Kevin in a guttural growl.

“Those were some good times,” Mike said.

“Things change”, muttered Greg.

It was kind of strange to be in a place where the men were all outside on the patio, sitting in lawn chairs drinking beer while the ladies were inside talking about, I don’t know, baby clothes or something. Even the three guys we didn’t know were hanging out with us. They were okay, not very engaging or amusing, just kind of normal dudes, but we tried to get them involved with our conversations. It didn’t really work. The three guys, Phillip, Craig and Brett, usually huddled together and talked sports or something to one another. I didn’t even care. I was too happy to be back with my old friends to even notice them.

“You guys wanna do a shot?”

Jason, seemingly out of nowhere, stood up, shirtless and pasty, with a deviant look in his eye.

“What kind of shot?” James asked.

“Shit…Mark brought a huge bottle of Jagermeister,” Jason said. “I think it’s time for a social.”

I forgot to mention that outside of the few clothes, toiletries and drug, I had also brought with me a case of Sierra Nevada and a 2 liter bottle of Jager. Plus I got Mike and Amy a Guns N Roses onesie and a bottle that said “Suck It” for their upcoming bundle of joy. The practical stuff will come from their parents and their responsible friends. I’m not exactly a baby shower kind of guy.

The nine of us walked into the cabin where the girls were sitting around, drinking wine and beer, looking at photo albums and discussing the fineries of mommy-hood. It felt odd to see this kind of division in the old group. Usually we were all together, boys and girls, drinking and doing bad karaoke, but this trip had a different feel to it. It felt “grown up” in a way. More subdued; formal. It just had an air of lets-just-keep-it-down-a-bit, probably because Amy couldn’t drink and we didn’t want to scare off the newcomers. Of course, we were about to ingest a heavy alcoholic beverage. I’ll take what I can get.

“No Jager for me,” said Philip. “That stuff makes me gag.”

“Just a little one for me,” Craig said.

“Yeah man. I’m out. I will have another beer though,” informed Brett.

“Fine,” Jason announced. “More for us. Ladies. Jager social going on here.”
Most of them declined with a face of revulsion. But Sandi and Jen got up which didn’t surprise me. Sandi was just a trooper and Jen is the one who taught me how to fully booze. Before her it was cheap champagne and super light beer. Our first evening hanging out as “friends” we made blender after blender full of Midori, vodka and orange juice. We then filled a thermos with the stuff and went to see the Kid n Play movie “Class Act” where we incessantly heckled it getting the other three people in the theater to join in. It would become the keystone to our relationship; fun and intoxicated and completely doomed from the get go.

Jason went to the pantry and pulled out a row of small Dixie cups, poured in small amounts of the black devil liquid and proposed a toast.

“To Mike and Amy and the mystery guest who will most likely have to be the designated driver when he…or she…turns 16.”

We all raised our cups and proclaimed “To Mike and Amy!” before launching the stuff down.

Most people shuttered or slightly gagged when they shot the Jager, but I was an expert at the stuff by this point and just felt its velvety smooth death grip take hold. It felt good to be back at the cabin and actually drink.

I then, for some bizarre reason, started to miss Malory.

“Hey guys,” I said finishing my beer, “I’m gonna get set up in the little attic before I get too loopy.” So I grabbed my backpack, went upstairs, found one of the many inflatable mattresses, a blanket and pillow, climbed the steep ladder and was in the cozy sleeper alcove that overlooked everything in the main room of the cabin. I set up my stuff, plugged in the little air machine and began filling up the twin sized air mattress. While it slowly puffed up, I grabbed one of the bags of blow and snorted up a couple good bumps. I had cut up a bendy straw I took from Bill’s as that was my new found favorite way of doing the drug. Key bumps were too precarious and was never enough. Rolled dollar bills were just gross and usually got wet from snot. Beverage straws cut up into inch long tubes was the way I went. And by the time the mattress was full, I had inhaled a good amount. I wiped my nose and checked my shirt for possible dribbles. As I descended the ladder I made sure to quickly duck into a bathroom before joining the others.

While I was in there the effects of the drug were really taking hold. I hadn’t done any in a few days and it was really good stuff. I should have only done one bump but because of my excitement and knowledge that I was going to be drinking I did a bit more, and they were pretty hearty. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating. The last thing I ever wanted to happen was for my friends to discover that I was doing cocaine. It would kill me. I already felt incredibly guilty for bringing some and doing it here at the cabin but for someone to call me out and find that I was high would be the worst. So I peed what little pee I could, rechecked my face and shirt and went back out.

I quickly grabbed a Sierra and downed half the bottle. I was really high. I felt as if I could run down to the lake, swim out the little island, build a hut, catch some fish with my teeth and start a war with the mainlanders. I was that flying off of it. It was incredible. As my mind and body were reeling from the drug, I noticed my hushed surroundings. Classic rock played softly in the background, girls chatting about babies and marriage, guys talking about the good ol’ days. I wanted Morbid Angel to crash through the walls and help me set the cabin on fire as we banged our heads to some massively loud satanic speed metal.

That was the challenge I had to face right then and there. Act normal.

“So Mark,” Jen said coming into the kitchen to get a beer for her and Smith, “you’re like a big time DJ now huh?”

“Me? Oh heck no. Just some shows here and there and the radio station every other week. It’s nothing. It’s fun.”

I was restless and unbelievably jittery. “You guys wanna play a game or do karaoke or something?” I asked the room.

The resounding answer I got was ‘not really’. Everybody was just relaxing and enjoying a quiet night with old friends. Screw that! Let’s go find some batting cages.

“You okay man?” Mike asked coming into the kitchen for a beer. “You seem a little…tense.”

Suddenly, a side effect that I had only heard about but had never really witnesses set in: Paranoia. That was the main reason I stopped smoking pot. Last time I got really high was with some friends a while back and we went to some movie premiere during the San Francisco film festival. There were so many people in line and news cameras, spotlights, limos, all sorts of crap. I freaked out to such a degree that I ran up the street, found a cab and went straight home where I hyperventilated for an hour before falling asleep. I don’t know what happened but my brain essentially said “Welp, enough of that. I’m through with this. Let me introduce you to a full blown mental breakdown.”

Three years later I’m doing bumps of blow in my good friend’s cabin surrounded by all of my best buddies. I have no idea what is wrong with me.

“I’m fine,” I said, “just happy to be here I guess. Plus that long drive on tiny windy roads in a spooky old forest. Makes me a little skittish I suppose.”

“Yeah right,” Mike said. I gulped hard. “You’re just happy to be here drinkin’ again. No ball and chain tellin’ you what not to do. Ol’ beer face is back in action!” He slapped my shoulder with a grin.

With that we all cracked or popped open our beers and clinked cans and bottles together.

That night wore on in a pleasant haze. We drank, talked, ate cold bar-be-que burgers and dogs that were sitting on the kitchen counter and the first few couples, Amy’s friends, turned in around 11. Amy and Mike soon followed along with Sen, Greg and Molly. The rest of us stayed up till early morning finishing the beer and Jager. I was buzzed but far from drunk. I shouldn’t of done any of coke. And why did I bring two 50 bags? What was I thinking? That we were going to have a balls out cocaine fiesta some night? I then decided I needed to get the habit under control.

I was the last one, for obvious reasons, to sleep. I stayed out on the porch and watched the sun rise over the lake. Birds were singing, early morning cyclists whizzed by, it was nice. But I knew I had to get some sleep or suspicions would grow among the milder set.

Here’s one thing I discovered in the short time I have used blow. You can sleep on it but it’s a half and fitful sleep and usually chocked full of bad dreams. Drinking helps, but only as an assistant to get you to settle down. Once your body begins to try and rest your mind kicks in and you muscles twitch. I would sleep maybe for a half hour, wake up from some bad dream, turn over, sort of sleep, so the same, repeat, until finally the drug is out of your system and you crash for 10 hours. I knew that wasn’t an option so I decided to fake insomnia or something in case I look like stoned death warmed over in the morning.

Around 7am I could hear some clatter in the kitchen. The normal 9 to 5ers were up and ready to make coffee and maybe hit the gym, or so I assumed. Jen, James, Kevin and Sandi were asleep under me in the big communal bedroom. The others had their own private rooms. Kevin, bless his heart, was snoring so loudly that the sleep machine that I had pressed right next to my head was blanked out from his thunderous rumblings. There! I could blame my sleepiness and red glassy eyes on him. The others were sound asleep it seemed, which kind of amazed me. But I laid there until everyone was awake because I needed all my friends around seeing as I had little or nothing in common with Philip, Brett and Craig and their ladies, whom I barely even said ‘hello’ to.

I drifted in and out of sleep until finally boom, I was out. When I woke up it was nearly noon. Oh great. They’re gonna know I’m on some kind of drug.

“Was it my snoring?” Kevin asked when I finally walked downstairs. They were all eating lunch. I needed coffee, bad.

“Oh man, um…yeah,” I grumbled. “That and, uh, I just wasn’t used to that little bed. It, um, kept deflating. What time is it?”

“Twelve thirty,” Jen said.

“Jeeze. So what’s the plan?”

The plan for the day was to inner tube down that stream I told you about earlier and to end up at that huge outside bar to drink and eat. Sounded perfect. So I microwaved some leftover coffee and jammed some toast in my grubby maw.

The plan, as always, was to lazily drift down the rushing river, stay as close to the inflatable raft that holds the large cooler full of beer, drink the beer, eventually wind up at that patio restaurant and continue to booze along with ordering vast amounts of jalapeno poppers and hot wings to fuel you up for further damage. It wasn’t a big surprise that Amy’s friends bailed out to do some tanning and volleyball down at the beach, which was okay by me since I didn’t want them infringing on our beer supply in the first place.

Knowing that drinking was in order and it was going to be a long day I brought some of the blow with me. Because of the possibility of me getting totally drenched I triple bagged it in plastic sandwich bags I lifted from the kitchen and dug it deep in my wallet, which was also bagged up. That is after I did a big bump.

We caravanned in two cars, Mike’s bus and Jason’s Cherokee and after about a half hour of swervy driving on uneasy roads we arrived at the top of the stream and began inflating the vast amounts of inner tubes, rafts and securing the cooler on the canoe that was to be manned by Amy and Mike seeing as she can’t handle the unsureness of a raft and he just wants complete access to the beer.

After preparation we begin to slide our tubes into the river and begin to float down. Seeing as my inner tube had a mesh bottom I grabbed two beers for safe keeping knowing the cold melted mountain snow water would keep them chilly. Before I knew it we were all on the water and the great afternoon drift had begun.

About an hour into it I noticed something not quite right. Every time we got into some rapids (rapids meaning that the stream pick up the pace a little and some light splashing happened) my butt kept hitting some jagged rocks and even the bottom of the stream. It occurred to me that it was quite late in the summer, usually we do this in June, and the water has evaporated quite a bit. At one point I slammed pretty hard into a jutting rock which actually made me cry out in pain a little.

“Is anybody else getting these rocks?” I announced.

The mob ruled “No”.

A theory I had was that I was slightly weighed down by the beer in my undercarriage, so, being the trooper that I am, I quickly drank them to lighten the load.

Another rock…bam! The water gets a bit shallow…scrape!

“What the heck is going on here?” I then noticed that Kevin was doing fine. As you know, Kev is a big dude and I was only 190 something lbs at the time. “Kevin, are you hitting rocks?”

He just laughed. “No man. You’re just doing it wrong. The river gods hate you.”

“Yeah man,” said Mike paddling, “way to screw up the art of floatin’ on a lazy river.”

So I decided to ignore it and just suck it up. My ass was killing me though.

About midway down the stream you come across a lane of gorgeous summer rentals that, at one time, invited us to join them in their backyard BBQ party. Sure they were kinda douchy college ilk but the beer was cold and the bikini clad sorositutes were mighty hot so we ended up having a good time.

This lot was different. Instead of having a roaring BBQ going and being congenial, these vacationing collegiate ass nuggets had blasting hardcore hip hop and had engaged an enormous water canon and were squirting those on the other side of the shore and anyone that happened to drift by. The river wasn’t exclusive to us by any means, there were people in front and behind us, yet far enough where it still felt like we were alone. All of us about to get soaked.

The water projectile weapon was massive and probably some kind of class experiment. A giggling evil looking girl was holding it and was mercilessly blasting anyone that drifted by. I wasn’t looking forward to that.
“
Hey not over here okay,” Mike shouted. “The lady here is pregnant.”

That fell on deaf ears. With the music that loud and them being that loaded, it seemed, Mike and Amy’s raft was belted with the ropey stream of doom. Everyone got pelted, some, like James and Jen, were actually amused by it. Kevin just didn’t seem to care, Greg and Sen were wily and had quickly paddled their way on the other side and were mildly hidden behind Mike and Amy.

Then it was my turn.

Now I’ve seen footage of riot police hitting angry mobs with power hoses and always though “how bad can water hurt?” Let me tell you something, when that weapon aimed at me and that first blast slugged me square in the face I thought for sure a tooth was knocked loose and my skin had been flayed off. It was like being punched by someone holding a jellyfish because it stung like mad as well. I got pretty pissed.

“Jesus Christ! That really hurt you moron! Thanks a lot! Stupid bitch!”

A guy on the shore standing next to the girl, who was shirtless and gym manicured, shouted indignantly to me “What?”

“I said that hurt! What’s wrong with you?”

“Fuck you man,” he yelled as other gathered behind him. “What did you call her?”

“Nevermind. Everything’s fine. Hope you don’t get AIDS after you date rape her.”

“Why don’t you come back here and let’s discuss this face to face!”

“I’m fine thanks! Seen enough shit before I flushed this morning!”

“What!?”

By then we were out of range and far enough that it would take some serious effort to run after me or swim to kick my soggy butt. I was glad because he easily could have pummeled me into pasty beer soaked dust.

“Whoa, Mark,” Jen said to me, “are you okay?”

“I guess so. It’s just between getting my rumpus rumbled on the rocks down here and that bikini wearing she-turd blasting a million pounds of water in my face, I’m fine.”

“This will help!” Mike said as he tossed me a beer. I missed and it sunk to the bottom.

Luckily right after that incident we came to a severely shallow area where we all got out for a little bit, stretched, re-sunscreened up and re-packed our rafts and tubes with beer.

“How far are we to the bar?” I asked Jason.

“Not far,” he said. “Half a mile maybe.”

It was then that I noticed a trail to the right that an occasional jogger or cyclist zoomed by.

“I’m gonna walk from here,” I said. “I’m done with getting pelted by rocks from below and water from above.”

The group kind of looked at me with some disappointment. I just couldn’t take it anymore. This wasn’t fun. This was tail bone smashing. This was Jackass worshiping idiots ruining my good time by fire-hosing my face. So I tied my tube to Mike and Amy’s canoe, grabbed a beer and walked over to the trail.

Getting on the trail was like trudging through a thicket of knives. Some kind of devil brush protected the stream from the dangers of the road with razor sharp thorns over cutting rocks that dug deep into my flip-flopped feet. By the time I had gotten to the trail I was nicked and scratched as if I had been lost in the needle skein without any clothes on. The group were long gone down the stream.

I walk at a pretty good click so I knew I would beat them to the patio bar. I downed my beer by the time I found a port-o-potty. I tossed the can into the dingy black hole of waste and peed on it. Once finished, I got my wallet out (which was mercifully dry), retrieved the baggie, did two sizeable bumps and continued on.

With the beer and blow in me I began to feel good again. The anger I had about those frat-tastic jerkoffs were gone, but the pain on my lower back and butt were still throbbing. That would take more beer.

What I did from here on was genius. I would walk down the trail, sit by a river side clearing, wait for the group, wave to them as they went by, had someone toss me a beer and continue on. It was actually a lot of fun. The best part was sitting and waiting for them. It was a beautiful day. Flowers in bloom, about 80 degrees, trickling clear water dancing in front of me. It was so peaceful and pastoral that I nearly meditated my way out of butt pain.

“I’m with you pal.”

It was Jason. Apparently he had enough of the rocks and water and joined me on the trail. Luckily he jammed two cans of beer in his sagging shorts and we drank them and finished them just as we made it to the end where the patio bar lay.

And it was teeming with people.

Remember when I told you that I had space issues and don’t like crowds of people at all? Yeah, when I saw the heaping throngs of summer vacationing college kids and middle aged golfers my stomach nearly cinched up and my head began to clang like a bell. I was not in the mood for such legion.

Jason and I swarmed through the hoi polloi like we were racing to the emergency room or something.

“We’ve got to get a table!” he demanded.

“Screw the table. Just quickly insert a beer into my face!”

Jason, in all of the years that I have known him, as always been a ‘never give up’ give of super trooper. His “it’s not the right way, it’s the only way” mantra for living has always been a catalyst for me trying to be more persuasive and commanding when it comes to dealing with the public and life for that matter. Somehow he weaves a kind of nice guy meets I could give two rotted bungholes about you aura that usually gets a response. Jason zeroed in on a table of housewives sucking down fruity cocktails with umbrellas and junk protruding out and convinced them, in some “you’ve been here long enough and leave so the serious drinkers can commence”, way to move. After a few shrugs and smiles they left. I stood there in awe.

“How the heck did you do that?” I asked.

“Shit man,” he said puffing his chest out a bit, “if you’re gonna go, you go all the way. We need a table, and we need some beers!”

The best thing about the table was that it was close enough to the river that we could actually see our group slowly arrive one by one. Mike and Amy were first, followed by the rest, and after putting the gear into the nearby parked van, we were all together again on dry land and familiar territory.

“Mark are you okay?” Greg asked me. “You got a little pissed off back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry everybody. The combo of rocks slamming into my backside and those idiots with a water bazooka kind of got to me. I feel better now.”

We sat and ate piles of hot wings and jalapeno poppers until the sun started to sink. Then it was time to head back to the cabin.

Beforehand though we stopped at the local grocery store to pick up meat and veggies for the grill and more beer. I grabbed my usual case of Sierra Nevada and another big bottle of Jager.

“Jeeze, more?” James said. “Did we already go through that first bottle?”

“I think so,” I said. “If not, we’re gonna need backup.”

“Man you can really put it away after your breakup with Malory,” said Kevin with a laugh.

“Yeah. I guess I can.”

What they didn’t know is that Every time I went to the toilet at the patio restaurant I did a bump. I should be half passed hammer smashed drunk. I felt like the Incredible Hulk instead.

Back at the cabin it was time to open all the gifts that we got Mike and Amy for the baby. There was the usual lot of cozy blankets, booties, jumpers, toys, diapers, all that stuff. My gifts were, as expected, the novelty ones. It was really strange to see Mike surrounded by all sorts of baby necessities. He looked both euphoric and completely stunned.

Afterwards the girls had organized a sort of evening of baby games. The first one being charades that were all based around kids and babies and whatnot. Jen was the first to go up and pick a topic out of the big sombrero that filled with bits of paper.

She gave us the sign: 1 word, 3 syllables.

She then cupped both hands on her head.

“A tumor!” I yelled.

“It is not a tumor,” Kevin replied in his spot on Arnold Swartzenegger voice.

“Balls on your head,” James cried out.

“Princess Leia,” said Mike. “A really drunk Princess Leia.”

Jen then started dancing around like an idiot which sent her in fits of uncontrollable laughter. Still holding her hands on her head like two C’s.

“The Special Olympics,” cried out Greg.

“Balls on your head,” I said.

“I already said that,” James said.

“Oh okay. Um…teabagging!”

We were laughing so hard and having such a good time until Brett uttered with a straight face, “is it Disneyland?”

Jen touched her nose with her finger indicating that he got it right, but just barely because she was dying of laughter. I’m pretty sure we knew what it was from the beginning, duh, Mickey ears, but we wanted to torture the moment a little longer.

One of the other girls got up, Craig’s girlfriend, or wife or whatever, picked a piece of paper, got ready then held out her hands as if she was gripping something and started walking around. It was obviously a ‘stroller’.

“Drive by shooting!” Jason said.

“Frankenstein holding a grocery bag!” said Kevin.

“Old lady with a walker looking for sex.” I said.

We were totally messing with them and their dopey game. Finally one of the girls said “stroller” and that was that. Jen and Molly were in tears laughing.

During this whole time Kevin, James and myself were doing copious amounts of Jager. These guys, without the drug, were on fire. Jason joined now and then as did Molly and Jen, but the three of us has finished that bottle in no time flat. We were way beyond the limit.

The others just drank beer except Sen who doesn’t drink and, of course, Amy. Amy’s pals were sipping white wine and light beer. I was halfway through my case of Sierra, on my 10th shot of Jager and was almost done with my first bag of coke. I just couldn’t get enough.

“Mark you’re up,” said one of the girls.

I went up, reached into the sombrero, picked a piece of paper with “Barney” written on it, chuckled and began.

Instead of doing something boring like have me drink in a “Bar” and point to my “Knee”, I decided to go the abstract route.

I started mimicking an excruciating bowel movement, bent over with a grimace and all.

“Diapers,” someone said.

“Mike on poop duty,” another said.

“Toilet training,” said another.

“Baby’s first exploding diarrhea,” someone said.

I shook my head no and started acting like I was the devil or something. My index fingers were horns, I stuck out my tongue, danced around like I was on hot coals and frowning.

“Satan!” yelled Phillip. I gave him props for joining in.

“Mister Rogers!” James said. “Mister Rogers burning in hell.”

“My old shop teacher, Mister Hannigan,” said Greg.

I stopped doing that and began feigning masturbation.

“That hot chick on Sesame Street!” yelled Jason.

“Bugs Bunny dressed up in drag,” Molly said.

“The bukakke tsunami!” yelled Greg.

I pointed to him to which everyone started laughing and going “No way!” I indicated to Greg to shorten the word.

“Buk. Charles Bukowski. No? Um. B.”

I touched the tip of my nose.

“B?” Greg thought for a second.

Finally one of the girls spoke up and said quietly, “Barney?”

I started applauding her and the room erupted in laughter.

The same girl asked me, “Why did you have Barney taking a shit?”

“Because,” I said, “he earned it.”

Amy’s friends that organized this didn’t seem too pleased and the night wore on with more tamer results.

About midnight almost everyone was asleep. James, Kevin, Jason and I were on the porch drinking our last beers slowly and slurring about life in general.

“When are you gonna have kids Mark?” James asked.

“Probably never,” I said. “I’m all the child I can handle. Thing is I love kids, that’s why I don’t wanna have them. It’s like working at Disneyland or something. If you’re there everyday the magic is gone. At the end of the day I can just clock out and be myself. With kids you can’t do that. Then they turn 16 and hate you.”

The others just chuckled a bit and didn’t say much. They were all married and planning to have, or already had, children. I almost felt as if I had to play a role with my friends. The eternal “strange uncle” Mark.

Not to mention I needed a girl to have a baby with. That was out.

* * *

Early the next day Amy’s friends were all packed and got into cab to go to the airport and back to LA. I stayed on the porch drinking coffee, nursing a killer hangover, and gave them a “okay, bye” wave.

That day was spent recovering and eating. That night, we decided to go into town and hit up some casinos.

The thing is, I hate gambling. All the times spent in Vegas I rarely sat at a card table or even a slot machine. It might be because I usually don’t have any money to gamble with. Mainly it’s because I watched a documentary on how Las Vegas operates on the History Channel years ago and discovered that even though you win, you lose. It’s a whole mathematical system that still to this day I do not understand. Much like the stock market. I have no idea how Jason makes money or what he actually does.

If Reno is Vegas’ spunky younger brother, then downtown Lake Tahoe is it’s one legged mentally deficient second cousin twice removed. There’s a smattering of casinos but they are all drab and stuccoed with a few twinkling lights and just as many hoary old people clicking along behind walkers or manning those Rascal scooters as there is drunk frat heads and their tanorexic bimbos walking in and out of those places. I’ve only been to downtown Tahoe once and it was a mess. I’ve had episodes of abject terror in Vegas and even caused a problem in Reno when a comedian started doing dirty jokes about the Muppets that resulted in me kicking over a table and threatening him with axe wielding violence. I am a huge Jim Henson fan and after several beers and tequila shots, that rat scum of a comedian was saved by the two enormous security guards that nabbed me and escorted me out. My friends were sympathetic and when the comedian started doing “Kermit going porkin’” and “Miss Piggy has ham flaps” gags they all looked at me in distress. I did not disappoint.

The Tahoe gambling circuit is just a few blocks of lit up perversity and this night it was bumper to bumper traffic.

“Holy crap,” I yelled. “What is this, convention week?”

“It might be,” said Greg. “Or it could be spring break.”

“It’s the last weekend in July,” I sputtered.

“Then it’s summer…break.”

Eventually we all settled on a casino called The Lakes which almost looked like a Denny’s disguised as a hotel/casino venture. I saw why Jason decided on this place. A digital marquee outside said: “2 4 1 Coors on tap, $3 you call it shots”

“Holy mother love boner,” I said. “We’re in trouble.”

We valeted the Cherokee and entered the seeping realm of despair and stale well alcohol. The Lakes looks as it had been created as an afterthought to a hotel as the main game room was a grotesque maze of cheap slot machines, a few dead looking dealers behind yellowed and well scored blackjack tables and a craps game that might as well be a Wal-Mart greeters support group. It was depressing. But since we were, well, us, we all sucked it up, had a good laugh, aimed straight for the bar and started boozing again.

After a round of “you call it” Red Headed Slut shots, the boys headed off to play blackjack, which meant I was stuck with the ladies. Not a bad thing at all.

“So, tell me,” Jen said, “are you seeing anyone?”

I told the torrid tale of Nicole and how it ended which made them break out in hysterics. I honestly had no idea how funny it actually was. Dear god I’m pathetic.

“Whatever happened to Malory?” Sen asked.

“Don’t know,” I said. “She dropped off my stuff and that was it.”

“Weren’t you seeing someone after that?”

Again, I regaled the girls with the story of Amanda, which brought both laughs and sympathy. It was then that I realized that I was a career searcher for the perfect girl or at least a competent relationship and had yet to seal the deal with any of them. It was also odd that my longtime ex, Jen, was grilling me about my love life. I didn’t mind, I love her as a friend as much as I love James as her husband but it was still a little awkward. I ordered another round of shots and the 2-4-1 Coors for me.

Coors tastes like rocky mountain hillbilly urine. But they were served in 18 ounce plastic jugs and I was getting silly so I didn’t mind. By the time we left The Lakes at 10pm I was pretty beerafied. The shots didn’t help either.

The lot of us headed down the main drag and ended up in a karaoke bar called Whiskey Jim’s. It was a large hollow tavern, dimly lit, with a collection of tables and booths all occupied by drunken, eager would be singers all waiting to get their chance to embarrass themselves in front of us or try and woo their prospective date or mate.

It was then that I remembered that I had a little blow left in my wallet. After ordering a beer and shot, I ran off to the men’s room, which was no more than a folly of piss troughs and doorless stalls. The last stall, the handicapped one, had a door so I entered that and retrieved the bag. I was smart enough to put the small straw in with the drug and I inhaled the last few snorts with eager aplomb. I quickly sobered up a little, the venom hit my heart and brain sending up all necessary shields. I was ready for anything.

When I exited I noticed Mike and Greg peeing in the trough.

“What are you doing in there?” Greg asked.

“Not a good idea to go number 2 in a joint like this,” Mike said. “Unless of course you have that ability to ‘hover’.”

Feeling as if I had been caught I had to use the only explanation I could.

“You know how I feel about public urination,” I said. “Plus the handicapped stall has handlebars. Kinda makes a sport of the act.”

They finished and we all washed up together then left seemingly satisfied with my demure manner in public restrooms.

Here is a definite point of interest: We have a long sordid history with karaoke.

It all started with a karaoke bar in San Francisco called The Mint on Market street. The Mint is what you would call a “serious” karaoke club. Folks that show up there are there to show off and impress. The occasional drunken lout belting out Backstreet Boys or Frank Sinatra was usually frowned upon by the regulars that filled the place night after night. One night, after boozing at Mike’s old studio and hitting up a bar that served $1 PBRs, we congregated to The Mint and decidedly tore up the place with our horrible renditions of songs. Jen laughed and warbled her way through “Forever in Blue Jeans” while Jason screamed and whispered through U2′s “One”. The highlight was Mike and I doing a duet of Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” to which we were so smashed drunk that I couldn’t see the lyrics flashing before me on the small TV screen and Mike just decided to start singing David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance”. Halfway through, during the bridge, a group of disgusted gay men decided to start booing us. Mike, knowing better, said “thank you and goodnight” and left. Me, being way past reasonable, started egging them on.

“Oh yeah! You guys think you’re so cool! Look at us, we do karaoke every night! Look how sad and pathetic our lives are! Blah blah blah!”

With that I threw my mic down, told the group it’s time to get out and we all left in quite the hurry. We returned a week later to do the same. That time, Mike and I warbled though “Summer Breeze”, which, as expected, wasn’t received warmly at all.

Thing is, nobody was picking out songs. Everyone just drank their beers and watched others destroy Pasty Cline, Johnny Cash and Dire Straits. One brave lady did a “in your face” version of the Dixie Chick’s “Goodbye Earl” to which every time the music halted and she belted “and Earl had to DIE!” I screamed right along with her.

“C’mon guys,” I said. “Who’s gonna sing?”

There was a book in front of us which garnered some flipping through but that was about it. That’s when I grabbed it, flipped through it, found a decent song, jotted the info down on the small piece of paper provided and handed it to the DJ. If we were in a karaoke bar in Lake Tahoe and I was this drunk and high you better believe I was going to carry the torch and embarrass myself to a whole new academy of people.

Finally, after another round and some convincing, Molly Jen and Kevin picked out songs and handed them in. The DJ was a brusk hairy gentleman that looked as if he should be manning the pumps at a truck stop rather than host a fruity karaoke night at a bar filled with tourists in lovely Lake Tahoe. Then that long nervous waiting began until he announced our names. I was ready to tear the place apart.
Almost everyone that got up to sing was middle aged, a bit low rent and all they did was ballads. Except for the “Goodbye Earl” lady, the night was sunk deep in the reek of “The Summer Wind”, “Just Can’t Help Falling in Love”, “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” and so forth. I was starting to get really antsy and really annoyed. An upbeat country song would be okay right then. Alcohol in middle of the road worshiping middle aged married people on vacation turns them into instant saps. Screw that, I wanted anarchy.

After some lady twittered through “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” the DJ guy got on the mic.

“Okay…Mark! Mark you’re up!”

My friends all started cheering and carking as I went up, stood up on the small stage, grabbed the mic and stared at the TV screen waiting for the words to appear.

“Iron Man” – Black Sabbath

The group erupted into hoots and laughter and pretty soon the opening “thump thump thump” beat began followed by an elevator music version of Tony Iommi’s famous guitar riff. Pretty soon the lyrics appeared on the small TV screen which I didn’t even have to look at. I knew this song by heart.

“Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind?”

Just to let you know, I can’t sing at all. So my “singing” is a series of terse grunts and guttural howls. When the mood hits me I even break out the famous death metal Cookie Monster growl, which I did once doing “Hanging Tough” by New Kids On The Block at The Mint. That, of course didn’t go over very well at all.

“He was turned to steel, in the great magnetic field!”

I was singing loudly and to my friends who were all singing along and giving me the metal horns of approval. The rest of the place just looked at me as if I was naked and raping a nun. So I turned my attention to them.

“Nobody wants him! They just turn their heads!”

Even in the dim light of the bar I could see the faces of the bottom barrel crooners that indicated a tight rectum and a handless cupping of the ears. That just fueled the fire.

“Now the time is here! For Iron Man to spread fear!”

I got off the stage and started walking around with the wireless microphone, acting as if I was some kind of possessed Vegas lounge singer that’s only intention was to wake the living dead by scaring and annoying the piss out of them. In my peripheral I could see the group laughing and rocking out, but the sour faces of the rest of the bar patrons were similar to those at a funeral. Some even looked angry. This one guy, who must have weighed 300 lbs and had his Tommy Bahama print shirt tucked tightly into his khaki pleated shorts, had his arms crossed and shook his head in furrowed brow disapproval. His dolting wife, or whatever she was, leaned into him for some kind of protection. Unless you need shade from the sun lady, he isn’t going to save you now. It’s about to get stupid up in here.

“Nobody wants him!”

I find an empty table in the center of the bar.

“They just turn their heads!”

I climb up on a chair next to the table.

“Nobody helps him!”

I step onto the table and scream as if trying to exorcize the demons that have obviously taken over.

“NOW HE HAS HIS REVENGE!”

The music stops. The house lights come up. From over the karaoke PA the DJ guy starts talking.

“Sir, get down off the table. Now!”

I still had my microphone, so I turned to him and said “What?”

“Get down,” he said with absolute venom. The bartender came over, who was a beefy guy that looked like an ex gym coach, was waiting for me by the table and grabbing my leg to encourage me to get off the table. “In fact, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Fine,” I said. I jumped off and landed with a defiant thud. I stood upright, put the mic to my mouth and started shouting at the hapless vacationers.

“What’s wrong with you people?,” I started. “I mean really. Is this any way to go through life? Half asleep? I’m just trying to have a little fun here. You all should definitely try and do the same. It’s karaoke for craps sake. You guys just look kind of…sick.”

“Alright, that’s it,” the bartender said nabbing the microphone from my hand and literally shoving me out the door. I could hear some people yelling back at me but I had no idea what they were saying. Once outside the bartender and DJ guy stood blocking the door waiting for me to leave.

“You want us to call the gawdam cops?” the bartender said.

“I was just singing,” I said. “There’s no law against Black Sabbath in Tahoe is there?”

“There’s a law against being a gawdam shit for brains and scaring my customers by standing on the table and yellin’ at them there is!”

“I was singing.”

“That don’t sound like no singin’ I never head of,” chided DJ guy.

“I guess you’re not a metal fan.”

“I guess not.”

The group slowly collected themselves outside with me, all looking rather shocked and appalled. Thing is, I didn’t know if it was because of me or them.

We drove back to the cabin in relative silence. I apologized and blamed it on the booze. Not used to drinking like this, I explained. Something inside twinged with worry.

Up in the little sleeping nook I laid there and silently cried. Something was wrong with me, but I just couldn’t figure it out. Was it my friends all growing up and moving on? Maybe it was the fact that most people are like those that scorned me in the bar; bland and frightened. Perhaps my obvious alcohol dependency and new found cocaine use gave me serious pause. One thing was for sure, karaoke seemed to turn me into a scathing lunatic, so I knew it was time to stop poorly crooning over canned music in public for a while.

The next morning I awoke to find most people packing up and readying themselves for the long drive home or to be dropped off at the airport.

“You okay man?” asked Mike.

“Yeah I’m fine,” I said getting a mug to fill with coffee. “I didn’t realize I was that hammered. I just…I don’t know.”

“It was pretty stupid,” informed Jen as she folded some pants to make room in an already stuffed bag. “You could have gotten us in trouble. But those guys overreacted anyway.”

“It was pretty awesome though,” James said laughing. “That is until you got kicked out.”

“Mark’s angry table dance,” Kevin said. “You sure like to yell at people in karaoke bars.”

“I know. Something about karaoke turns me into a foaming scream beast. Maybe it’s because I can’t sing. Maybe it’s the beer.”

“I think it’s both,” Molly said.

“Yeah.”

After all of us cleaned up and packed our cars and trucks it was time to clean the cabin. The big rule of the Vogel’s cabin is if you use it you have to return it to it’s original state of cleanliness. This trip was easy since it was a relatively calm affair, just some towel laundry, vacuuming, bed making and the like. Other trips were different. One cabin excursion was so twisted with filth and party mess that the cleanup turned into a two day chore. We literally woke up, cleaned all day in a whirlpool of severe hangovers, slept, woke up and finished. I think that was the trip we set fire to the little island in the lake.

By late afternoon we were all ready and out the door. All of us hugged and said goodbye but I couldn’t get over the air of me being the instigating showoff, still single for obvious reasons and too immature to accept adulthood. The others hugged and traded stories while I got little pats on the back and “take care’s”, like I was an estranged cousin or something. It made me kind of sad. I guess I really screwed it up this time.

After leaving Tahoe proper and getting onto the long highway back to San Francisco a deep and intense realization came over.

That it would be the last time I would see “The Group” again for a long, long time.

XII.

Even in the depths of my early morning dreamtime I could hear something. As my mind wandered through abstract images and memories I had collected from the past, a noise was breaking through. A thudding of some kind. Was someone knocking at my door?

By now I was used to the convex noise that permeated from Columbus Avenue. Sirens, busses, honking, religious freaks with megaphones, brakes slamming, late night drunken hollering, early morning delivery trucks, streetcleaners, bands performing in the park and the occasional parade were nothing new to me. By now it had all become white noise, much like the sleep machine I use every night. In a strange way, it was almost comforting. Now I can attest to those in rural states that insist it doesn’t bother them that the train goes by their house several times a day. You just plain get used to it.

I woke up to a new sound though. Khamish never played music loud and if he did it wouldn’t be this early in the morning. A check of the clock said 8:15. No, it wasn’t him. But just to be sure I sprung out of bed to see. His door was closed so I gently knocked. No response. I quietly opened the door to see his room, pleasantly messy as always, but no Khamish. This guy was the best roommate ever.

Pretty soon I noticed the noise was coming from upstairs. I always knew there were people living above Amanda but I never saw them. Up until today, I never even heard them. Once in a while I would hear the upstairs door close but that was about it. Whoever was up there was sure playing some bass heavy music.

Walking halfway down the hall I found the hotspot, the area where it was booming the loudest. The big painting on the wall was even shaking a bit. This person had their music cranked. And at eight in the morning! This person likes to party.

It was then I deciphered the song. It was Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight”. I could hear that chiming beat with Phil lightly singing “I can feel it…coming in the air tonight…oh lord.” Then that famous and very distinctive heavy drum beat, boom boom-boom boom-boom boom-boom-boom boom boom! and the apartment nearly shook from it’s foundation, which didn’t take much as it was 100+ years old and above a just as ancient Italian restaurant so I often got rattled when a large truck would idle outside.

For real, the music was deafening. I was tired. I closed out the Crowbar that night and didn’t get to sleep till four. Not that I was doing the drug, it was the fact that I caught Black Belt Jones on the late-late movie when I came home. Jim Kelly is my hero.

So half asleep and cowering from the loudness that only Phil Collins could provide, I opened the front door, walked upstairs and knocked.

The music was thundering. So I knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. I started pounding on the door. Still nothing. Maybe this guy offed himself and wanted Phil to be the last thing he heard as he exited this world. It’s a good song to do it to. Pretty cathartic and rather symbolic. Still though, I wanted to go back to sleep.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! I was hammering the door.

Finally the music cut out. I heard footsteps which stopped right on the other side of the door. A sort of shuffling.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice. “Who is it?”

“Um, hi. My name is Mark and I live downstairs.”

A lock unhinged, a chain slid loose. The door opened and standing before me was a frail old man, maybe in his 70s, in a light blue, rather unwashed, terrycloth bathrobe and house slippers. He was taller than me and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a while.

“You know Amanda?” he asked.

“Uh, yes. Yes I do.”

“You her boyfriend?”

That stumped me. “At this point…I couldn’t say.”

The old man then gave me the once over as I stood there kind of speechless.

“Well,” he grunted, “what do you want?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your, um, music…time…but, uh, it’s pretty early sir and it’s really really loud.”

He just looked at me as I stood there in my boxers and Skeletor tee shirt rubbing my hands in solicitude.

“I thought kids your age liked loud rock music,” he said with no air of humor at all. It was almost like he was challenging me.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, “but I’m actually thirty five and need to get some sleep.”

“Thirty five!” the old man shouted. He seemed drunk. “You don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Well, thank you. That’s…that’s nice of you to say.”

The old man leaned in real close and whispered. “What’s your secret?”

“Um, well,” I stammered caught a bit off guard, “I drink a lot of water and moisturize every day.”

“Moisturize huh?”, he said with suspicion. “Aren’t ladies and fags the only ones to do that?”

“No. Not at all. In fact ladies and, uh…homosexuals…have nice skin so why can’t I?”

“Point taken.”

“Plus I don’t smoke. Oh, and heavy metal will set you free!”

“Say again?”

“Never mind.”

The old man leaned his head back and looked around his apartment and the hallway. I really didn’t know if this guy was high on those awesome old people meds that deviant grandchildren always steal or he was a nutbag filled with a shovelful of crazy.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll turn it down but just remember…”

He was pointing a finger at me and paused.

“Um…yes sir,” I uttered.

“The wife is out of town for a few days and Phil Collins rocks my shit.”

I blurted out a puff of a laugh, to which I quickly crossed my arms and held my lips as if I was pontificating what he had just said.

“Uh huh,” I twittered. “Well, you know, I was a fan of Miami Vice when I was a kid and this song…”

Slam! The door shut right in my face.

All I could do at that point was go backdown stairs and go back to bed. I lay there in perfect silence and perfect stillness. But sleep didn’t come. I was in too much awe to do so.

* * *

Ouch! Jesus Christ! What the heck is that?

I was at work when I noticed this sharp pain running through my lower left jaw. It was as if I had been punched or had a zit on my gum line. It was really weird.

When I got home that night I inspected the area. Everything looked normal. Teeth white from virtually no sweets and brushing twice a day and flossing regularly. That’s right kids, I’m boasting about my dental health here.

There is, of course, just one little problem.

When I was twelve years old I developed a serious cavity on my lower left molar. There was literally a black hole in the side of it and when it hit the nerve the pain was beyond belief. Since I don’t like making a fuss and knowing my dad had limited insurance and cash to spend on a tooth, I kept quiet. That is until I started crying one night from the misery in my mouth. My dad took one look at it, freaked out and made an emergency dentist’s appointment.

The next day I didn’t have to go to school but I did have to endure hours of mouth surgery. The dentist removed every strand of nerve in that area, shaved the tooth down to a solid black nubbin, fit a permanent over it and that was that. My mouth was good again.

Skip to a decade later. I’m in Santa Barbara, I’m home eating spaghetti and watching TV when, crunch!, I bit down on something hard. Fishing through my mouth full of noodles and Ragu I removed what looked like a white shell. It was my tooth! My fake tooth. So I put it in a glass of water and planned to get it re-set someday.

Thing is, the permanent was just for looks. I knew this. The dead tooth was way in the back of my mouth and I rarely, if ever, saw it. If I smiled real wide and tilted my head to the right you can see it, but still. It was just a black stump and since I couldn’t afford to get it fixed I put it off.

And I kept putting it off.

Cut to 2005, San Francisco, the present,  and I was experiencing what seemed to be sharp pain coming from that area. It’s impossible I thought. My teeth are fine and that dead lump is, well…dead. How can I feel pain when there’s no nerves to help induce it?

OW! God, it really hurts.

I walked down to the local drug store and purchased a small toothache kit and some maximum strength Advil. I went home, brushed, flossed and applied the soothing agent and numbing balm to the area and that seemed to work pretty quick. Some beer with the Advil made everything feel alright. Must be an ingrown pimple or maybe even a wart coming in. That would suck.

After finally falling asleep by midnight, I woke up around 6am with excruciating pain. That tooth was on fire. Jabs of needle hot torture ruptured through my lower jaw. Oh my god, I thought. What the heck is going on?

I ran back to the bathroom and got the kit out of the medicine cabinet. When I saw myself in the mirror I noticed something quite distressing. My left lower jaw was puffing out. It looked like I had been slugged by a baseball bat. It wasn’t that big, but it was big enough to give me grave concern. I don’t deal well with stuff like this. I’m a bit of a wuss and hypochondriac. Plus I just didn’t understand why that tooth was acting up like this. In over twenty years the tooth hasn’t given me any grief, even after the permanent fell out. But here it was, puffy and wrought with almost unbearable pain.

I applied more of the numbing solution and took four Advil. I laid back down and tried to relax. Somehow I fell asleep. Luckily I made it to the alarm.

The digital clock bleeped at 9am, seeing as I had to open the bar. When I reached over to slam the off button, I was hit with that newfound pain. It grinded into my jaw like a soldering dagger set for kill. I woke up and considered calling in sick.

When I got to the bathroom I noticed my jaw had ballooned to the size of a baseball. It was huge. I was really sick. Something was definitely wrong here.

But I sucked it up. I put on the numbing stuff, took more Advil, both of which I stored in my backpack, and left for work.

The walking shook my tooth around like a hate magnet hovering in a hole filled with razors. As I passed by people on the street, I tried to divert my gaze since I knew I had a hideous lump on my face. Maybe they’ll think it’s a sport injury or something. Yeah right. Look at me. I felt as if I should be wearing one of those big bandages tied around my head like I saw in so many old cartoons and Laurel and Hardy shorts when someone got a toothache. In fact, I do believe little bolts of lighting were emitting from my injury and the word “Yowtch!” kept coming to mind.

When I got to work and got my tickets from Jack I tried to hide my face. It seemed to work since he didn’t like looking at me as much as I didn’t like looking at him. He was watching some race car thing on his little befuddled TV anyway, which made it easier for me to sneak more tickets in my pocket.

As I was walking through the kitchen I ran into Siobhan and we exchanged “Good mornings.” That’s when she grabbed me and looked at me with immediate concern.

“Good lord darlin’,” she said, “what in fucks sake happened to your face?”

“I don’t know,” I said. It was then I noticed that my speech was mildly impaired. It sounded as if the Elephant Man was sucking on a jawbreaker. “It started last night. I have no idea how this happened.”

“Well does it hurt love?”

It took some acceptance and bravery on my part, but I finally gave in and said, “Yeah. It really hurts.”

“Well off to home with you then,” she said. “I got Fiona coming in at noon and I can handle it from here.”

Those words were like magic dust. The pain actually subsided a bit. It was true, there was no way in heck I could work. The bar patrons would run in terror from my deformity or, even worse, ask questions about it all day. Plus the pain. Holy crap for crap. It was almost debilitating.

When I got home I was met with Khamish in the hall.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Did you get hit with a rock or something?”

“No,” I slurped. “Toothache. I don’t know how. Lotta pain. Gotta go.”

Back in the bedroom I grabbed the yellow pages and researched cheap dentistry. Let me tell you, there was a lot to choose from. Being on the USF campus on a regular basis because of the radio show I knew they had a decent and affordable clinic. So I called them up and told the receptionist my tale of tooth woe.

“Well, we can’t fit you in today,” she said rather bored like, “but if it is an emergency you can come to the emergency room or I can schedule you for an afternoon appointment tomorrow.”

Emergency rooms scare the pee out of me. I was in one once when a good friend got pummeled by a fleeing convict from the cops after seeing Electric Wizard at the old Covered Wagon saloon. She was thrown to the ground and knocked out for a second. We took her to the emergency unit at the county hospital and were met with the absolute dregs of the dregs. Human waste just sitting around, sleeping on the floor and chairs, all wailing and insisting that they were in dire medical assistance. All the staff did was move them from one side to the next so the janitors could continue mopping.

Plus I didn’t have the cash nor the insurance to cover the cost. I didn’t want to ask my dad for help either. I was in my mid 30s. I should be able to handle this.

“Tomorrow will be fine,” I garbled into the phone. So I made my appointment at 12:30 the next day and prayed that my tooth would just relax a bit and everything would be okay.

It did the exact opposite. By the time midnight hit I was almost out of Advil and that numbing goo. The searing hell knife just kept digging deeper and deeper into my jaw. Braving the torment and protruding face orb, I got dressed and ran down to the corner liquor store where I bought two six packs of Big Daddy IPA and a 2 liter bottle of Jager, along with an industrial sized bottle of Ibuprofen. I would just drink myself into slumber and a state of benumb.

After a beer and extra large shot I felt better but not great. I raced through the beer and another shot and started to feel buzzed but the pain cut through that. More Ibuprofen.

Back in the bedroom I put on Pee Wees Big Adventure hoping that it would sooth me into a state of harmonious bliss. I laughed but I was also tearing up because of the tooth.

Another beer. Another shot.

About halfway through the movie something dawned on me. A few times doing blow I actually rubbed the inside of the bag to get the last remaining dust and rubbed it on my tongue and upper gums. I saw it done in movies all the time so I figured I’d do the same. It worked, but it also numbed the crap out of my mouth. That’s it, I thought.

I went to my little stash box, which was a case my Iron Maiden “The Trooper” watch came in from my birthday that my editor at Metal Madness magazine had sent (I hadn’t seen a check in months but I got a cool watch) and retrieved that remaining fifty bag I got before the Tahoe trip. Yes, at this point of my coke use I actually had a “stash box”. It was a little disconcerting.

I put my pinky into the bag, rolled it around and put the stuff right on my tooth and gum. It worked. I then got the craving to do some so I started doing bumps from one of the mini straws I had in the box. I started to feel better. In agonizing pain, but better.

More beer, more shots. By 1am I was done with a six pack and halfway through the Jager. I was loaded but I could still feel the stinging affliction deep within my jaw.

Then, suddenly, I got an idea. Only a man in this much pain, this drunk and this high would think of such an idiotic plan:

I was going to yank the tooth out myself.

Amanda kept a large toolbox under the sink that was filled with every necessity one could need for home repair. I found a pair of pliers, started boiling some hot water and threw them claw side down.

After about 5 minutes of the pliers being half submerged in boiling water, I was able to finish off another beer, shot and bumps. I was ready, I think.

I walked back to the bedroom, got on the bed and gentle put the piping hot pliers on my dead tooth. I figured that it was just a rank facade over an empty maw so I really didn’t need it anyway. Sure it would suck pulling it out but with this much beer and blow in me I figured it couldn’t be too bad.

After numbing the bloated area with more coke I slowly tightened the claw onto the tooth. It burned my tongue and cheek a bit but it didn’t matter. This was extreme dentistry at its finest.

I jiggled the tooth back and forth and pulled up a bit but to no avail. The nub was locked in and wouldn’t budge. I figured I needed more force. So I put the pliers back in, started twisting the tooth, yanking it back and forth and pulling harder. Nothing.

Maybe I just need some inspiration. Leafing through my collection of metal CDs I came across Cannibal Corpse’s Tomb Of The Mutilated, threw it on the stereo, plugged in my headphones, put them on and pressed play.
As the opening track of “Hammer Smashed Face” roars on I shut my eyes and returned the pliers to my tooth again. The guttural and awful lyrics spew forth which I draw inspiration from as I try, once again, to set the thing free.
“There’s something inside me
It’s coming out
I feel like killing you
Let loose the anger, held back too long
My blood runs cold”

I pull and pull and pull and pull until finally… I give up.

The headphones are thrown off, the pliers tossed to the ground and I collapse on the bed in a series of weeps and moans. All I could do at that point was lay there in the darkness and just keep the area numb as much as possible. More Ibuprofen, another beer, another shot. Somehow, I fell asleep around dawn.

11:30 the next day I get into a cab and go to the USF dentistry center. It’s a big sterile place with a huge desk filled with nurses in multi printed scrubs and people waiting to get in. Since this is a “low cost” dentist facility there were poor looking people sitting around with various kids playing and making noise. After checking in I was asked to wait for a bit, so I sat down and leafed through an ancient edition of People magazine. The Simple Life was just starting to air and Pam Anderson was on her first divorce. It was pretty old.

After about twenty minutes of waiting a small Asian girl called out my name. I responded by standing up and walking to her.

“Hello Mister Wit-tack-er,” she said.

“It’s Whittaker,” I mumbled. “There’s just two T’s is all.”

She didn’t seem to give a rat’s patootie how it was pronounced. “Follow me,” she said.

She lead me to a large very white open space filled with cubicles and large dentist equipment hovering over hapless patients. It then dawned on me that I was going to be examined by medical students and not a real doctor. Whatever, I thought. Just yank the thing and give me pills. You don’t really need a PHD to do that. I mean you do but….you know what I mean.

“Hi Mark, my name is Grace,” she said. “And it is rather obvious why you are here. Are you in a lot of pain.”

I nodded. “Very much so.”

She then jotted down information on some information sheet held by the large clipboard in her hand. I told her the history of the tooth, that it should be dead and hadn’t given me any problems until just now. She then asked if I had engaged in any unusual activity lately. I didn’t want to tell her I had been using an highly addictive stimulant on a regular basis for the past few months, so the only thing I could think of was being in a high elevated resort town and drinking vast amounts of booze and consuming about 20 lbs of meat.

“Do you use any drugs?” she asked.

I gulped. I really didn’t want to say anything but maybe if I did she would have an answer. Perhaps cocaine is bad on the gums. I’ve heard of “meth mouth”. But “coke tooth”? Plus I’ve only been using it for a pretty short time, and not everyday. Maybe I’m allergic to the stuff. That would be good. That would force me to stop and get my act together.

“Well,” I started, “I did some cocaine at a party recently and some at a party before that.” I was lying but at least I owned up to using the stuff. “I do drink on a regular basis.”

“How much cocaine did you use?”

Grace was really stern and straight forward. I guess working in a low rent dental service helping those that can’t afford to help themselves I guess you run into a few drug addicts here and there. Not that I was a drug addict. I just liked to use it now and then.

“Not much,” I fibbed. “A few lines here and there just to keep me going.”

Grace scribbled down something, flipped the page over and continued writing. Maybe I was in trouble.

“Okay, I’m going to take your blood pressure now.”

I really hate those squeeze ball tourniquets but, whatever. Last time I had a check up my blood pressure was fine. 118 or 119 I think the doctor said.

She wrapped the bulky black band around my arm and velcroed it shut. She then began squeezing the thing tight and listening to my beat with her ice cold stethoscope. She let the pressure out and did it again.

“You’re blood pressure is a little high Mark,” she said. “You’re about 135 right now.”

“What?” I muttered loudly. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what it says. Are you nervous at all?”

“Yeah,” I easily admitted. “I really don’t like doctor offices and this tooth thing is really driving me crazy. I mean, look, my palms are sweating.”

“That might be it. Let’s try again.”

Grace did the same thing and it still came up high. I got really upset and concerned.

After more scribbling and flipping, she lead me to the x-ray room. I sat down on the Star Trek looking chair and was left alone. Finally a doctor came in. At least, I assumed he was a doctor. He was older and looked like he enjoyed golf.

“Hello…” he checks the chart, “Mark. How are we feeling today?”

“I’m fine. This tooth is being a bit naughty though.”

The doctor guy leans in and starts pressing against my cheek with his thumbs.

“Does that hurt?”

I winced in agony. “Yes,” I slurped.

“Well let’s get you checked out here and see what’s going on.”

The doctor guy then moved a long thin camera thing against my face, got behind a thick wall that could take on a bazooka shot and started taking x-rays. Little high pitched buzzes filled the room with every click of the button.

Eventually the doctor guy left and I sat there wondering what the heck was going on. It was then that I saw something only a full on drug addict would kill for: The doctors prescription booklet.

It was right there, right on the little table with the butchers paper stretched over it. It wouldn’t even take me more than a grab and quick shove down the back of my shorts to steal it. But there was no way. I mean, what am I going to prescribe myself? Viagra? Don’t I need a partner for that to actually be effective?

After a few minutes the doctor guy came back. He never did fully introduce himself.

“Mark my guesstimate is that you have an impacted tooth. It says here that you recently went to Lake Tahoe, which is high elevation, and ate lots of meat. Probably just a piece of bar-be-que spare ribs lodged in your gum.”

“I didn’t eat ribs,” I said. “Just burgers and dogs.”

“It also says here,” he said checking the chart Grace was writing in, “that you recently used cocaine.”

I swallowed hard again. Maybe this guy was going to turn me in. Not that I had any on me or was selling, but it still made me uneasy.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Now Mark a drug like cocaine can break down the immune system. If you continue to use it your immune system will weaken and weaken. And you need all the help you can to get healthy again.”

It was almost as if doctor guy was talking to a high school drop out meth head. Yeah, and I shouldn’t drink beer either. Because my belly will get bigger and bigger. I know the drill doc.

“You do want to get healthy don’t you?”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Good.” He then wrote something down and handed it to me along with a small packet. “That’s a little penicillin to take when you get home Mark. If you have any problems, just give us a call.” Doctor guy then ripped off a large piece of paper and handed it to me. It was my bill.

“You can pay at the front desk,” he said.

The bill was $85 and I paid without blinking. It was worth it just to have a little piece of mind. Not that they actually helped me or got rid of the thing because that would cost extra. About $500 extra.

Two days later my tooth was back to normal and the big ball in my cheek was gone. I was back to work and even regaled my painful story on the radio show that week. One caller called my attempt at pulling the tooth out with pliers while listening to Cannibal Corpse “very metal.”

Very stupid was more like it.

* * *

Late summer in San Francisco pretty much sucks balls, weather wise that is. Sure we had a few days that reached 80+ degrees and the bar was swarmed with drinkers from all over the globe, but come late July, early August the city is enveloped in fog.

After my incident with the tooth I pretty much started to hunker down and get a little healthier. I didn’t go to the Crowbar as much, I minimized my booze intake at the club and radio station and I hadn’t been to see Rascon in a week. Plus I started taking these heavy duty vitamins that turn my urine electric yellow and even started eating raw organic kale. That stuff tastes like Oscar the Grouch’s mossy taint but is good for you apparently.

One day I finally get a phone call from Jose inviting me out. I literally hadn’t seen this guy in almost a month. With all the stuff I’ve been through and busy with I just hid out in the apartment on my free time and tried to read, write and watch bad movies. Jose was still really busy with his film equipment job and making jewelry. It was nice to actually have a chance to hang out again.

Jose knew a few guys that were entries in the Zeitgeist Film Festival. It’s not what you think. The Zeitgeist is a fantastic bar on the corner of 14th and Mission with a huge outside patio and is the hangout for most bike messengers and punk rock enthusiasts. They have probably one of the greatest jukebox this side of the Crowbar, with the exception of no Slayer or early Metallica, and from 5pm to midnight served up burgers and sausages that were to die for. Plus they let you smoke weed outside so a good contact high was always nice.

The Zeitgeist Film Festival is just a series of short films projected on the big back wall outside, with entries mostly from the Bay Area. Some have come all the way from Brittan and New York but it’s pretty much a Northern California thing.

I met Jose at his studio apartment where we had a few glasses of Makers and caught up on what was going on with one another. He told me about his new line of jewelry, some of which was hanging in a local art gallery and some made it to LA to be in a friend’s fashion show. I told him about Tahoe, the karaoke incident, the tooth, the job, the club and so forth. After about an hour or so chatting, we hopped in a cab and headed out.

The Zeitgeist was packed that night and they actually were charging at the door. Since Jose knew a lot of people involved he got in for free. Me, I had to shell out $5 even after telling the door guy I was Jose’s personal assistant. The big guy just stared at me like I was a stick of gum on the sidewalk.

After grabbing a pitcher of beer, we head out to the back lot and try to find a seat. Again, it was good to be with a person that helped out and rented equipment to a bunch of people involved so we got great seats almost up front with some of the film makers. Mind you, they were the usual large benches and not chairs but still it was cool to not have to sit way in the back next to the outdoor port-a-potties. Stink-y!

“Metal Mark? Is that you?”

Since Jose and his buddies were the center of attention, I found it odd to be recognized, especially in a popular underground bar during a hip underground film festival. I turned around and saw that it was Kyle, the guy that sometimes shows up to Reckless Radio. We shake hands, say “what’s up” and all that. Turns out he played bass on one of the soundtracks to a film, something about a love triangle that ends up with a girl eating laundry detergent and killing herself.

“That’s my bassline as she slowly dies,” Kyle informed.

“Awesome.”

“Say, uh…do you need to go to the bathroom?”

I wasn’t too sure what Kyle was getting at but when I saw him pat his jacket pocket I knew right then he was holding. My first reaction was to say “no” but seeing as I already had a beer in me, I hadn’t done it in a week, was taking loads of vitamins and even eating my organic leafy greens (blorp!) regularly I figured why not.

The Zeitgeist has three unisex bathrooms inside and about five disgusting port-a-potties outside. Guess which ones Kyle wanted to use? Yeah. So we trudged through the crowd, all drinking and getting stoned watching bizarre short films about who-knows-what and made it to the back of the lot and waited for a port-a-john to open. It was really packed and it took a really long time till one finally became free.

Kyle went first. He was in there for a few minutes with me waiting right outside. Other johns opened up to which I had to politely refuse and say “go ahead” to others waiting in line. Eventually Kyle was done, told me the bag was on the ledge over the towels and I went in.

It stunk like a gorilla cage left unscrubbed for a week. The vile poo smell left behind by drunken bike messengers and bad film makers hung like rancid puke soup in the small compact area. Plus it was pitch dark. A dim light from a nearby street lamp was my only guide. I felt along the ledge above the towels, found a bag and grabbed it.

Kyle had one of those experienced drug takers knots that only a qualified sailor or cub scout could figure out. It was wound so tight I had to use the very tips of my nails to pry it loose. Being the smart guy that I am I did this as far from the open crap cavity and pee crusted “urinal”. Eventually I worked it loose and folded it open. Not having a straw and not wanting to risk the stuff falling off of my key or credit card I did something else. I had a punch card from a local deli, simply called The Sandwich Shop, in my wallet. It was basically thick paper in a credit card shape. I got it out, made a crease length wise on it, poured a good amount of the drug in it, tilted my head back and just slid the stuff into my nostril like a mini avalanche coming down a trench. It worked. I did it again with the other nostril. When I was done, I realized that I had done two of the largest bumps in my short career as a cocaine user. I gagged a little bit and was immediately flush with the amazing effects of the stuff. I then peed, brushed my face and hoodie for any trace of the stuff and walked out.

“How was it?” Kyle asked.

“Frikkin’ amazing,” I said. “Dear god. Is this from Rascon?”

“No, my buddy brought it down from Canada the other day. I didn’t know they made blow in Canada.”

“I didn’t either. But wowzer…those canucks sure know their snow.”

I thanked Kyle and we both returned to our respective groups.

My table with Jose and his buddies had grown by a few more heads. Most of Jose’s film buddies were pretty normal and nerdy, but the new group to join us looked as if they had just gotten back from camping for a month. They were two guys, rather thin and gaunt, with  one sporting a close shaved head while the other donned long yarny dreads. There were three more girls too, a cute bubbly Asian girl that looked like she was much too cool and smart to even come close to, a drab art house looking girl with short black hair, facial piercings and appeared to hate men and another who looked to be either Persian or Latino and wore a sock cap over her long brown hair. I was immediately taken with sock cap girl. She was pretty foxy.

Here’s the thing. Jose and I are very different in many ways but when it comes to drinking and getting downright silly we become an obnoxious version of Abbott and Costello. The more he drinks, the louder he gets. The more I drink, the more fearless I become. Put us together and we’re heckling poor direction, giving critique to bad acting, wishing that a song from Xanadu would magically appear, all rather vocal so everyone in our immediate group and those nearby can hear.

“Nice moustache lady,” I said about one lesbian love film that featured an actress that was one clitoris away from being a man. “Sure I hate men, but I wanna look just like them! Grrr! Look at me. I called in sick for a week after they cancelled the Lilith Faire.”

“What is this about anyway?” Jose asked about an abstract art short that basically caused people to get up, go to the bar and order more beer. “A guy on a bicycle picking up rainbow colored hats around town? Is this a comedy or a documentary about the local sad kid with down syndrome?”

We had most of our group laughing with us. Frowny black haired girl didn’t like us and kept indicating that she wanted to leave by looking at her friends, who were all drinking and having fun, and giving them the serious “can’t we just go to a miserable coffee house and sit silently hating everything while reading depressing poetry from suicide cases” look. Cute Asian and sock cap were into us.

After more beers I decided to get closer to sock cap to chat. She had been giving me glances all night and now that I had the power of the Peruvian marching powder floating through me I decided I had enough phoney bravery to talk to her.

“Hi. I’m Mark by the way.”

“I know,” she said smiling.

“How do you know?”

“Because Jose keeps calling you ‘Mark’.”

“Oh right.”

“I’m Frieda.”

“Frieda?”, I said with some surprise. I mean, it’s kind of an unusual name these days. Especially for a very cute hippie / rocker / beer drinker / some kind of middle eastern ethnicity / whatever girl. But because she was giving me the eye all night, I found it rather charming.

“My parents are huge Frieda Khalo fans.”

“Oh,” I said. “Makes sense.”

“You guys are cracking my shit up,” she said flashing that amazing smile.

“Yeah well…beer just unleashes the inner jerk in Jose.”

“I heard that,” he said.

“For me, I like to party. I’m a party kind of guy. Yessir. Party, party, party. I loooove to party. You party?”

“I guess so,” she said laughing.

“Oh yeah. I loooove party girls. Mm-mmm. Let’s party baby. I wanna party wit ‘chu!”

The rest of the night continued on in the same fashion. We drank, we heckled, we made everyone laugh, we were the center of attention, we were awesome. By midnight the film festival was over and everyone was walking around shaking hands, thanking one another, asking people “hey, what’dya think”; that sort of thing.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jose proclaimed loudly.

“Lets!” I agreed. “Where are we going?”

“Doc’s Clock?” he suggested.

“Doc’s Clock it is!”

Doc’s Clock is a pretty happening bar on Mission street and it just so happens our buddy Maria, an old roommate of Jose’s, was bartending that night. It’s basically just a long hall type of place with a great stocked bar with some tables in the back and serve $1 PBRs and $3 whiskey shots. When I’m with Jose I drink whiskey. Jager takes the night off when we’re together.

Most of Jose’s film buddies take off but a few remain like a tall nervous looking guy, a stout laughs at almost anything guy, a should have been a librarian if she weren’t so hip and crafty girl and Dennis, Jose’s co-worker who is a funny, smart Chinese kid that has a hatred of long pants just like I do. I liked Dennis.

Luckily dreads and shaved head are Dennis’ roommates so cute Asian, sad black hair and Frieda come along. We all decide to walk since Doc’s Clock is close enough and we all couldn’t fit into one cab. I made an extra effort to walk close to Frieda.

That didn’t work too well because cute Asian and sad black hair had their arms locked on either side of her. So I just stayed close to Jose and his bunch and pretended to like the movies they were all involved in.

Doc’s Clock was pretty packed and there were two bartenders on, Maria and some skinny tattooed rockabilly chick. We made our way down the bar to Maria where we were greeted with a “Yay! What’s up guys!” from her. Maria immediately put two cans of PBR in from of Jose and myself. Unopened. That meant only one thing…we had to shotgun those beers.

“I’ll do it Maria if you play some Fu Manchu,” I yelled.

“You got it!”

Maria and I became good friends from our mutual love of stoner rock legends Fu Manchu. They are the only band that I know of to have songs about boogie vans, urethane skateboard wheels and Sleestaks all in one album. Maria goes to the stereo, puts on a CD and pretty soon the bar is filled with Fu Manchu’s “Hell On Wheels” which makes me smile and bang my head at the same time.

We shotgun the beers, I order two more with Makers back. They come and we go back to the group and me getting to know Frieda.

Frieda, it turns out, was some kind of web designer and frequented Burning Man. I told her my history with the event and working dot com jobs. She seemed rather interested in me. Despite her fleece jacket and hiking boots I thought she was extremely cute and put together rather nicely.

We stay at Doc’s Clock till last call to which tall nervous and stout laughs at anything get up to finally leave. Dennis and his two roommates decide to get a cab back to their place. That leaves me with the girls and Jose.

“Do you guys wanna come back to my place?” Frieda asks. “It’s just a few blocks from here and I got tons of beer in the fridge left from a party recently.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Jose?”

“Mister Mark,” he said thumping his hand drunkenly on my shoulder, “I will have to politely refuse as I cannot drink anymore. Last call is at my place where my sweet sweet pillow awaits.”

Cute Asian and sad black hair give Frieda that “what do we do, do we come over or…what?” glance to which Frieda just raised her eyebrows. Ninja girl body language always fascinated me.

“No, we gotta go,” said cute Asian. “I have work in the morning. But, uh…thanks anyway!”

Sad black hair didn’t say anything. They just went outside with Jose and hailed cabs. Pretty soon it was just Frieda and myself out in the sidewalk in the chilly night air.

“You wanna watch Starship Troopers?” Frieda asked.

“Do roughnecks love to kill giant bugs?”

She just smiled. It was a pretty nerdy moment.

Frieda’s place was literally smack dab between Rascon’s apartment and the Glam Slam. It was really awkward to walk past the salon. I still wasn’t sure if I was over Malory or not. But going back to a cute girl’s apartment always helped with “moving on”.

Her apartment was one of those really large and hollow Victorian flats with dark wood, various cupboards and shelves and hardwood floors that creak with every step. Turns out, like most people in San Francisco, she has roommates.

“So we gotta keep it down,” she whispered. “I don’t know if they’re asleep or what.”

Frieda retrieves two beers from the fridge and leads me to the living room, which is sparsely furnished yet littered with magazines, CDs, bike parts and dishes. She tells me that Starship Troopers is her favorite “I’m drunk and might pass out” movie to which I take as an invitation to stay over.

The movie starts and she has the volume down so low I can barely make out what Casper Van Dien and Denise Richards are saying, which I take as a good thing. After a few sips of beer she leans in and starts kissing me. It is soft and sweet so I reciprocate. Pretty soon we are full on making out on the couch. As the movie flickers along in dopey recourse, I have my tongue down her throat and hand up her shirt. I then notice my lil buddy waking up to see what all the commotion is about. Frieda notices too.

“Let’s go to my room,” she breathlessly murmurs.

I am lead down the hall to her room which is really nothing more than a bed, a desk with a laptop and PC computer on it and clothes piled all around. She tosses me on the bed and the kissing continues. Shoes are then kicked off, belts unbuckled, shirts removed, underwear torn off, bras unlatched. Pretty soon I am stark raving nude on some strange girls bed with her just as exposed. A small nightlight is the only illumination and I can see through the dimness that Frieda has an amazing body. Luckily for me the coke didn’t affect my lil soldier and after she retrieves a condom from her drawer and slides it on she climbs aboard and we go at it.

“OH SHIT! OH FUCKING SHIT! OH GOD! FUCK ME HARD!”

Frieda was wailing at the top of her lungs, which were buried under perfect C cup boobs mercilessly flopping up and down. I thought we had to keep it quiet. This girl was yelling as if she was sinking in quicksand and her friends were in the next camp over.

“JESUS CHRIST! OH THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!!! OH RIGHT THERE! OH FUCK!”

There was no way that someone walking by, even across the street, couldn’t hear her. I was starting to freak out. In a way it was a turn on and, yes, I was even laughing a little, but give me a break. It was like I was penetrating this girl with a magic orgasm stick during a hog calling contest.

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!!! UH,,,,OHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

She came harder than I ever knew imaginable. I wasn’t even doing anything except providing an erection. I was just laying there watching the amazing sex action trying to clasp my ears shut and pretend that it didn’t bother me, which it didn’t. Was I that good or was this my first experience with a nymphomaniac screamer? It didn’t matter. The room was quiet again and I had just satisfied a hot girl I had met a mere few hours ago.

Instead of continuing she stood up, knelt down and started working on me orally. It didn’t take long for my lil starship trooper to superlazer all over her. Oh my god, I thought. I sure hope there wasn’t a webcam on that computer of hers. Better yet, maybe there was.

Afterwards, buck naked, she walks out, goes to the fridge, retrieves two more beers and returns. She hands one to me and we drink.

“Thanks,” she said after a long pull from the bottle. “I needed that.”

“I thought you said we had to keep it down?”, I coyly whispered.

“Fuck that,” she said slipping over a long white tee shirt. “When I cum I’m dropping atom bombs bitch. There’s no stopping me when I get started.”

In both horror and arousal I drank my beer. I fell asleep next to her with those screams still ringing in my ears. I felt like He-Man or something.

* * *

Between work, the club and the radio show, not to mention my own need to hide either in the corner by the big window at the Crowbar or back at the apartment reading, writing and watching bad movies, I really didn’t see much of Frieda. That first night together really freaked me out but when she said she wanted to see me and “do something” together I figured Amanda’s place would be best. I found a night where I didn’t work and Khamish was gone for a few days filming in Oakland.

Frieda came over and looked as cute and sexy as ever. Even knowing what I knew then and her showing up in a multicolored sock cap and North Face jacket, it was good to see her. Although apprehension was looking over my shoulder along with carnal curiosity.

After I took her out for some amazing Thai food and drinks after at the Crowbar, we ended up back at the apartment. There was some kissing, some drinking and me trying to get the vibe if she wanted to do it or not. She didn’t seem all that interested but she did suggest something else.

“Look,” she said, “there’s something I want to do with you but I don’t know if you’ll be into it.”

“What is it?”

She unzipped her jacket that was lying on the floor and produced a tiny ziplock baggie with two large white pills inside.

“It’s X. Have you ever done it?”

I almost did once, ironically, at Burning Man, but warnings from friends and camp mates made me too hesitant to go through with it. They said it would “make me feel good” and make that god forsaken trance music seem more tolerable while at the same time comparing some basic effects to mushrooms and acid. After trying mushrooms once I decided that hallucinogens, even mild ones, are no good for me. I already have enough voices and phantasmagoria in my head thank you, I don’t need some drug to accelerate it and turn me into a drooling buffoon throwing rocks at the moon.

“Will I freak out?” I ask.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” she said. Frieda could even quote Animal House. If I wasn’t so afraid of her, I just might fall for her.

To be quite honest I had been curious about Ecstacy since the early days when it came out and I was exposed to it either at work or in clubs. San Francisco in the late 90s was weird man. All these down and out bars were turned into “lounges” and rock clubs got shut down because dot commie millionaires bought “live work lofts” above and couldn’t take the full throttle of pseudo bohemian living. I had co-workers, roommates and even bosses that did it. They all claimed it was the bees knees.

So, why not? If it’ll make sex with Frieda even more exciting it’ll make up for all the dry spells I’ve had post Malory and Amanda. Well, except for Nicole but…I didn’t want to think about that.

She handed me a pill. We stood there with those big white aspirin looking things in our palms.

“Are you ready?” she said. “Go.”

Frieda plopped hers in her mouth and after a split second of hesitation I did the same.

“When…um…when does it take effect?”, I asked feeling the chalky horse pill race down my gullet.
“About fifteen or twenty minutes,” she assured “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Well don’t be,” Frieda said. “My friend said this was really pure stuff and it’ll just make you feel really really good.”

“That’s what they say.”

So we sat in the bedroom talking, drinking while listening to Portishead and Cocteau Twins when something started happening. My body began to get really warm, as if a fever was taking hold. My vision started to blur, my perception started to give out, my knees started to buckle and my head started to swim as if I was immersed in a pool of tepid water.

“Something is happening,” I said. “Oh yeah…something is definitely happening!”

Pretty soon the bedroom was awash in a red glaze and I started spinning as the music foamed around me and the lights started to mold and throb. I wasn’t feeling good. I was just tripping balls.

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “You gave me acid. This is acid right? Oh my god. Is X supposed to feel like this?”
Frieda was watching me with concern and confusion while at the same time giggling.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I don’t even feel anything yet. You’re just being a freak. It can’t hit you that hard that fast.”

Her words spun through my ears and I could take in the information but I could not comprehend. My body was on fire and I felt as if I was on some air pressured submarine. Everything had gotten angular and my extremities twinkled with fairy magic.

“Well…whatever,” I grumbled. “This is…uh…well…this is here. This is…what is this?”

Frieda was on the bed looking up at me. Suddenly her head bobbed down and she slowly craned back up with her eyes shut.

“Oh boy,” she said. “Um…wow. Yeah, this is really good stuff.”

“Is that…good?”

Frieda was silent for a while, what seemed like an eternity. Finally she spoke up.

“OK, Mark,” she began, “this is about as close to an acid trip as I had ever experienced without being on acid.”

“Oh jeeze!” I yelled. “This is not good. My brain is eroding.”

I was so hot that I stripped down to my boxers and started running around the apartment. Everything was crystal clear but had totally changed. The apartment looked more like a maze from Dr. Caligari than a space I was taking care of for Amanda. I started to get into it, but it was too much. I honestly had to have Frieda talk me down.

“Mark, it’s okay. You’re with me.”
Y
ou? Who are you? I barely know you! You’re trying to kill me! You’re the devil itself! I’ve heard you scream! No angel would make a ruckus like that!

“It’s just a drug. Just a powerful, wonderful, heavy ass drug.”

That’s right! You’re trying to poison me! That’s it! Lobotomize me with cheap pharmaceuticals and turn me into your sex slave! That actually doesn’t sound too bad except for the lobotomy part!

“Just calm down. Shhhh…”

Frieda then cradled me in her chest and I actually relaxed a bit. For some reason, be it the drug or the fact that I was attracted to her, I was actually thrown into a more peaceful state.

“Maybe we should go outside and do stuff,” I warbled.

“Uh…no!

For the next few hours I rode out the effects of that super potent hit of Ecstasy and learned to enjoy it. Music was fun, dancing around was fun and Frieda’s shrill screams of abject lascivious voracity was actually quite lovely. In fact, she wasn’t loud enough.

Take that Phil Collins! Let’s see you drum your way past this chick!

* * *

Frieda and I pretty much had opposite schedules. If she worked during the day, I had to close the bar, if she had the day free I had to open the bar, if she went out on weekends I was either DJing or hiding because she liked to go to rotten house music or trance clubs. So we emailed, talked on the phone and even had lunch on occasion.

One night our schedules matched up. It was a Thursday and we decided to go on an official “date”. I wore long pants and a dress shirt and bought a brand new pair of Converse. When I picked her up she was wearing a black just above the knees skirt, low cut top, dress shoes and actually had some makeup on. She looked really foxy.

I made reservations at a place called Firefly, which was a pretty hidden hot spot in Noe Valley. We ordered wine, two selections off of the specials menu, ate creme brulee and gazed at each other over a flickering candle while gently holding hands.

Afterwards I took her to a play downtown, The Black Rider, a sort of cabaret musical co-written by Tom Waits. It was amazing. Later we got cocktails up the street at the Red Room and were soon delicately, if not lovingly, smooching at our table. We finished our drinks and left.

Back at her house the kissing continued. The clothes came off, this time quite slowly and more erotically. We began playing with each other, teasing. Maybe this time she would keep her screams to a minimum and we can actually have a cordial yet sweaty and fantastic romp. We kissed, sucked and embraced. Maybe I was kind of falling for Frieda.

When she noticed I was ready to go she got up. Thinking that she was going to her drawer to get another condom, she instead came back with a thick brown towel. She laid the towel on the edge of the bed, sat on it then looked up at me. I guess I had gotten her even more excited than I had thought.

“Well?” she said.

I was a little stumped. “What?”, I idiotically asked.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me?”

Those words kind of broke the moment.

“Well, yeah. Sure. Say, um, what’s the towel for?”

Thinking that she was going to say I made her gush like Old Faithful, Frieda returned with:

”I’m on my period. I don’t want to get blood on the comforter.”

Immediately I froze up. Yes, I am a bit of a hypochondriac, but more so I am a hemophobe. The sight of blood, real blood, makes me queasy. I once had sex, unknowingly, with a girl on her period and I nearly died. ‘Gosh, you must really like me,’ I thought. When I retracted I saw that my penis was pink with blood. I almost fainted.

“I’m sorry…” I said. “Um…but I kind of…can’t…”

“You can’t what?” Frieda said with some conviction. “Fuck me because I’m on my period?”

“Well…uh…”

“Screw that!” she said increasing her volume. “Don’t be a fucking wimp and come fuck me now!”

“Look,” I said trying to heal the already damaged moment, “can’t we just kiss and, you know, do other things?”

“Like what? Watch fucking Starship Troopers? No way. I’m ready.”

I looked down and saw that the lil guy was less than half mast. He sure left in a hurry.

“You’ve got like the weirdest dick. How does something so small get so big?”

It’s true. Not being circumcised, when I’m normal I’m maybe 3 inches. It’s great. All day I have a compact package that doesn’t waddle around or force me to wear briefs. Blecch. I hate tighty whiteys. But when it’s time to get down, my man goes from peanut to penis in no time flat, about 2 or 3 times his size. That was a relief because in gym I always hid because I didn’t think I was going to be a Rock Manhammer of wiener size. I’m not, but there haven’t been any complaints. In fact, I think I’ve been blessed with the best of both worlds.

“Yeah, it’s um…”

“It’s going away is what it is!”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just have a big problem with blood is all.”

Frieda stood up, looked me dead in the eye and crossed her arms.

“I just have one thing to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

A million things ran through my mind. I could just close my eyes and pretend. I could just think “wow, she sure is turned on by me, yessir, she’s real moist she is.” Afterwards I’ll just take a shower while staring at the ceiling because the tub would most likely look like that scene from Psycho, which didn’t help the moment much.

“I’m sorry, but…I just can’t,” I said.

“Then get out.”

The words hung there for a second. Did I just hear what I thought I heard?

“Wha…? Are you serious?”

“Get your shit, get dressed and get out!”

“But we were having such a nice night. Dinner, the play, the kissing…”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m in this to get laid. Thanks but no thanks. Buh bye!”

It didn’t take me a second to act. I got dressed really quick while she put on pajamas, all of this in total silence.

“Gosh, you know,” I said. “I was just getting to like you. What the heck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong is that I can’t get you to fuck me because I have a little blood in my pussy. That’s bullshit! Fucking grow up.”

Right then I became so nauseated and regretful that I started tearing up a bit. Here’s your big man lady! Crying because he spent half his rent money tonight on you thinking that a romance might be in the works. What the heck was wrong with me? So I quietly gathered up my clothes, slowly put them on while she stomped around her room and the house after putting on jogging pants and a tank top while huffing and putting her hair in a bun.

Eventually I began my exit. I kept waiting for some kind of apology or even a negotiation, but it didn’t happen. So I gave one last defeated look before descending the stairs.

“Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice your little man tits.”

I was halfway down when she said this. I spun around and yelled, not able to take it anymore.

“Jesus Christ!  Why did you have to say that? It’s not my fault. I mean…man. Why are you suddenly so mean to me?”

She just stood at the top of the stairs waving “bye bye” at me with a condescending grin. Sure I’ve seen some uber drama with girls on their period but this was one for the record books.

I stormed out, got in the truck and headed over to Rascon’s. Luckily he was home and liked me enough to accept my visit without a call. I scored an 8 ball, went to the Crowbar, drank myself silly while doing massive bumps in the bathroom. I went home and did the same.

I watched the sun come up.

It was another day.

XIII.

On August 23rd, 2005, hurricane Katrina hit. This was devastating to me for two main reasons: 1) I had yet to really go to New Orleans. Driven through and hung out for a bit, but I never got to fully experience it like so many others had.

And 2) Jose’s family lives there.

Communication with Jose basically ended that day. He was now working and saving money to get himself back to Louisiana to help his family out. Apparently they weren’t as destroyed as the others but their house was still damaged and lost a lot of property and personal items. Not to mention his mother is quite ill with an acute form of lung cancer so Jose’s help was needed even more.

When I spoke to him I asked what I could do but, really, what could I do? So I just offered my friendship and someone to talk to or get drunk with if needed. After that, I didn’t really hear from him.

Life at work was slowing down. The tourists were thinning out, the weather was unpredictable and Jack was in rare form.

During the summer months the man essentially stayed away from us and let us do our thing. As long as we were helping customers and taking in money, he shut up. That is until after a few Busch beers he might get ornery and yell at you for not cleaning a table quick enough or spilling something, but he was tolerable. Even though he didn’t like me as much as I was grossed out by him he let me be because I was great with customers. Which pissed him off even more.

One night I was closing the bar. Siobhan and Mindy were inside and Hector was in the kitchen. One thing I learned about Hector, that man loved to do blow. He always had some laid out near the back prep table and as long as I sneaked tequila shots or got him a Corona from the beer cooler he kept the drug lined up. This night was no exception.

The bar inside was busier than the outside since it was windy and old. There was some guy on the little stage singing and playing his guitar but it wasn’t enough to keep customers coming or even staying. Sure I had folks that were drinking inside come outside to smoke but that was really about it. Some nice folks from the Midwest braved the chill seeing as their winters are brutal and one lady noted, “I like the fog”. Nick, the stoner pastry chef at the seafood restaurant across the way was officially my only regular. He would sit almost nightly and drink himself to a stupor on Kiltlifter, which is a powerful Scottish ale, before biking home. I was always amazed that he showed up the next day unharmed or, for that matter, alive.

“Mark!”

It was Jack. He was standing in the doorway looking at me with drunk raged eyes. This guy would get upset at the drop of a hat if he had a few too many Busch’s in him, which was bascially a nightly occurrence.

“Yes Jack?” I said knowing I was in for some crap.

“How many times have I told you? You need to cut your hair!”

I looked over at Dean and laughed. Dean had shoulder length blonde hair while mine was neck length at best.

“Well,” I said, “would you like me to start wearing a hairnet? Because that would be awesome.”

Jack started to get flustered beyond recognition. It was as if he was just looking for some reason to explode. I had Dean and a few others from inside, nice mid west middle aged people in town for a good time, but upset you can’t smoke indoors at a bar.

“No!,” Jack shrieked. “People don’t respect men that have long hair. Nobody wants to be served by some beatnik.”

Okay, you do know this guy is pretty old right? I told you that. He is so stuck in the 50s and 60s (not the “free love” let your hair grow long 60s) that it’s kind of silly and sad. I mean, he’s a bar owner in San Francisco, one that let’s me wear almost whatever I want, but my neck length hair is a problem? Unbelievable.

“I like his hair,” a lady said. “It’s more shaggy than long.”

“Mark, if you don’t start cutting your hair we are going to have a problem.” With that Jack shuffled away with us all silently stunned.

“Is that your boss?” one of the men asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “He is the strangest and saddest man I have ever seen in my life.”

The night continued in relative silence and non-profit. Luckily I took a few tables indoors, which goes way beyond the rules of what Jack laid down. I was simply the outdoor bartender and I was never to come inside and wait tables or get behind the main bar. But seeing as a few stragglers from touring Alcatraz and the wharf all day were sitting in the Tiki area I served them and actually made a few bucks. Of course, Jack not knowing I just tore up the tickets and pocketed every cent.

Around 10:30pm I started packing up the outside, which included locking up the tables and chairs and serving the last few heads that braved the cold. At the bar was a sleeping Nick, the guy that was singing on stage and those Midwesterners. From inside the kitchen I could hear a clamor, some raised voices maybe. It sounded like a shouting match. Suddenly Siobhan and Mindy stormed out saying “Fuck you Jack!” and “See you later you crazy old cunt!” They just took off and were gone around the corner.

Slowly Jack emerged from the kitchen looking as if he had been drinking since the Reagan administration. His already haggard face was sunken and blurred, his heavy baggage, doleful turtle eyes were bleary and wonky. He just stood there in the doorway, silent, looking around as we all looked back in frightful inquisitiveness.

I didn’t say a word, but rather just shake my head in despair knowing I had stumbled upon a job that was a combination money pit, drug emporium, tourist ripoff joint and halfway house for the insane. Jack was the Nurse Ratchett in a collection of the sane gone mad from his terrifying abuse and wanton alcoholism.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the male tourists said. “What happened?”

Jack just continued to stand there, almost drooling and shaking; his mouth gobbling for words. It was probably one of the scariest moments of my life.

“That’s none of your concern sir,” Jack mumbled to the man with objectionable venom. “Those girls are liars, they are stealing and I wont put up with it!”

Jack’s words stuck in the chilly night air like dead flies on a strip stick. Without hesitation the tourists got up, thanked me and left. The singer guy walked by me, put some cash in my hoodie pocket and took off. The bar was now empty and silent, let for a snoring Dean.

“Mark!”, he screamed. “I don’t want you coming in here to bartend. Just lock up and hand in your tickets.”

“Whatever,” I uttered, walking by him to get out as quickly as possible.

“And another thing,” he spit. “This is between you and me. Got it? I don’t want anyone to find out about this.”

“What about the people at the bar?”

He looked out to the empty bar and then back to me. “Fuck them,” he said.

As I sat in the window of the Crowbar I still couldn’t figure out what had happened. I didn’t even know if I had a job anymore. I didn’t care. I was pretty much over everything.

* * *

The few things that kept me sane were my nights at the 540 Club, the radio show and my new found reliance on cocaine. That stuff combined with beer was like a taking a warm bath in a meadow with dancing happy bunnies scurrying about, singing and making me mayor of the Magic Forest. When I wasn’t using it the world collapsed into a dreg of monotony and loneliness. I was beginning to really hate Amanda’s apartment and the fact that she hadn’t given me a solid date as to when she was returning. My writing had become a stilted exercise in jotting down thoughts and daily stories in notebooks with nothing solid to create some kind of narrative; just scribbles and scratches. Plus my job at Bill’s was becoming unbearable. I had forgotten how much I detested working with the public. Add on a hell born boss who hates me and you pretty much have a recipe for gloom and an appetite for self implosion. I was starting to sink. But I didn’t know how to start swimming back to the surface, back to the light.

That Saturday I did my show at the 540 to maybe, um, let’s say, ten people. The place was virtually empty all night.

Here’s what would happen, which was actually a common occurrence.

People would walk into the club, hear the metal, see the fog machine, black lights and strobe, order a drink, walk up and ask me “what’s going on” to which I always said “It’s Metal Night, any requests?” to which I usually got a few “you got any Sublime” or maybe some old school hair band songs but there’s only so much Ratt and Twisted Sister I can play in a night and, no, I haven’t got any Sublime. After a while they would leave because mixing Poison with Mastodon doesn’t always go over well. Continue that throughout what should be a fun and successful Saturday night is just me spinning Metal in a hipster bar for the staff, a few regulars and myself. The novelty was starting to fade.

At one point in the night, Jamie walked up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in.

“So, what exactly does your sponsorship do?”

After explaining, again, of the perks and pros, Jamie just kind of looked at me and nodded with leery understanding.

“Well, that’s cool but I guess it’s not enough,” Jamie said. “Just do me a favor, unless anyone makes a request, just stick with the familiar stuff.”

With that I heralded out the evening with all too acquainted rock and metal songs and left that night with $20.

Seeing as I had to go directly to the radio station, I just packed my stuff neatly in the corner behind the DJ booth, saying I would pick it up tomorrow afternoon. I hopped in my truck and drove to KUSF.

I got to the station around 3am and the place was filled with all kinds of people. Rusty Trombone was there, of course, so was Boom, Bob, El Duce and Porkchop. There was also a gaggle of dirty rocker types and their dirty entourage, all drinking beer and doing lines off the table. After saying hello to everyone and introducing myself to the dirty people, whom it turned out was a band called The Shit Blisters (friends of Boom) and their buddies and girlfriends. Studio 2 was pretty smelly that night. These guys were crusty punk, sludge rockers galore and looked as if they hadn’t slept or bathed in a week.. One guy had a tee shirt on that simply said:

“Smoking Weed and Eating Pussy”

In a strange way, that made me smile.

Rusty got on the mic with the opening strains of the Scorpions “Rock You Like A Hurricane” blaring behind him. I grabbed a beer, did a line and sat down.

“OK, you are listening to Reckless Radio’s rock you like a hurricane special in honor of our pal Katrina making a little house call recently to the folks of New Orleans.”

The room erupted in laughter and applause.

“What do you think guys? Is this some kind of biblical prophecy or what?”
Bob grabbed a mic and started wailing into it.

“You know what Rusty?”, he said. “I heard the new official state bird of Louisiana is the vulture.”

“You know that movie ‘White Men Can’t Jump’?,” asked El Duce. “Well they’re making a sequel called ‘Black Men Can’t Swim’.”

“It’s kind of cool in a way,” started Porkchop, “because now we have our own Venice Italy right here in the USA.”

“Wait, wait,” one for the Shit Blisters said, “I heard they’re changing the street name of Bourbon to Bourbon and Water.”

Every quip and joke was getting a load of approval. They cachinnated wildly with each cheap gag and even I, not really knowing what to do, did the same. I was a little drunk and high and was in the company of punk rock and heavy metal pranksters whose job, albeit with no pay, was to be as sick and wrong as possible. I didn’t say anything. I just drank my beer and pretended to be amused.

“Metal Mark,” said Rusty, “what’s your take on this?”

I was silent for a second. Should I come to defend my best friends home state and city, show compassion for those who lost their homes and lives or should I just play the part and continue with the theme?

“Well,” I began, “um, what I gathered is that there was a huge crack in the levee.”

Everyone just looked at me.

“Yeah?” said El Duce.

“Well, uh…when they heard that the folks of New Orleans bum rushed the levee in hopes of scoring some rocks which I guess caused it to break because they kept chipping away at it and stuffing it in their pipes.”

The group groaned from my horrible joke. I even got a little nauseous from how bad it was. But, I told a joke about the tragedy none the less and was a part of the group again.

“Well, this year for Mardi Gras I heard there is going to be a record number of floats,” Rusty said. Again, the studio erupted in laughter.

“You know what you get when you fill the Superdome with milk?” another Shit Blister asked. “Coco puffs!”

Dear god, I thought, it sure didn’t take long to get truly tasteless jokes book out about Hurricane Katrina. I sat there in mock amusement, drinking my beer, thinking about Jose. I was really pretty down on myself then.

“OK, in the studio with us are members of the local sludge, punk…what the hell do you call your band?” asked Rusty.

“We call it Cunt Rock!” spewed a Shit Blister.

“Yeah. Anyway, we have the Shit Blisters here in the studio with us and, what song are we about to hear?”
“This one’s called,” another said, “‘Crash Course In Anal Sodomy’.”

“Right,” Rusty said. “Let’s give a listen to the Shit Blisters and their family friendly hit ‘Crash Course In Anal Sodomy’. You are listening to Reckless Radio here on 91.5, KUSF!”

What sounded like a drumkit being set on fire with squelching guitars and a bass with maybe one string being tortured to death filled the studio. Words were being said by a man that obviously had bowel issues. I couldn’t make out one lyric. In fact, I didn’t want to.

The members of the band were singing along as they talked to Boom and Bob. Porkchop and the other girls were chatting about something. El Duce was doing his usual large amount of crystal that was crushed to a fine silt in front of him. I’m not to sure what came over me right then, but I walked over to him and sat down.

“You think maybe I could have a go at this?” I asked.

“Be my guest buddy,” he said. “Plenty of that to go around.”

I grabbed one of my mini straws from my shirt pocket, which were kept neatly next to my own full bag of coke, and leaned in. Nervous about doing a serious narcotic made from decimated pharmaceuticals and house hold cleaning products, I did a quick and small line. It shot up like a trail of Pixie Stix napalm. Immediately my head rushed from the drug. My heart pounded and a contagion of bliss and super human puissance filled me like an adrenaline bottle rocket. I went down for another, this time bigger and the same feeling overcame me tenfold. It was frightening. I knew right then that if I didn’t watch it I would be seriously hooked on the stuff. It was bad enough I was using cocaine, but that stuff compared to crystal is like comparing a firecracker to a scud missile. Cocaine had a retro appeal to it for me; very 70s and 80s. Meth just rotted your teeth and made white trash morons eat their own faces.

The evening degenerated into the Shit Blisters and their lot daring Porkchop to stick a bottle of High Life up her butt and having Bob drink it after. Bob was up for it. Porkchop showed some hesitancy.

About 5am, after more beer and more drugs, Porkchop gave in and accepted the challenge. So right there, on the air, with whomever or whatever was listening, right in front of my eyes, Porkchop dropped her jeans and black panties, grabbed an unopened bottle of High Life and slowly began inserting it into her rectum. It was both thrilling and just plain awful.

She got it in good too. The neck was all the way in and she stood up with it sticking out. She even danced around as we all were yelling and laughing, the bottle swaying from her hip moves and flapping bum cheeks. She was not an attractive person in the first place and having as bottle of beer shoved up her pooper sure didn’t make me swoon. In fact, it just made me clench up even more.

After a while one of the Shit Blister girls got behind Porkchop and started to remove the bottle. Porkchop’s face showed a combination of arousal and pain. I mean, it still had the bottle cap on. That’s gotta chafe a bit.

Once the bottle was removed, to a round of overwhelming applause, it was handed over to Bob. As we all screamed “Drink! Drink! Drink!”, Bob, with very little pause, picked up the bottle, opened it and took a big swallow, consuming more than half the beer. The studio roared with screams of approval and disgust. I had hit a new low.

At 7:30, as usual, the studio was empty except for Rusty, Boom and myself, who were the designated cleanup men usually. By 8 the place had no trace of the trauma and debauchery that had occurred. When the Catholic radio people walked in we just scooted by, nodded and then busted out laughing. If they only knew!

I went back to the apartment, still swimming from the crystal and the memory of a large punk rock girl shoving a beer bottle up her arse and a degenerate man-gopher drinking from it. Combined with my situation at work, tension at the club and feelings about the apartment I was pretty down.

Once my shoes were off, backpack unloaded and new beer opened, I prepared for my tradition of watching the sun rise on the fire escape. Passing by the phone, I noticed the voicemail message button was flashing. I picked up the receiver and dialed in.

It was Jose.

“Hey Mark. How you doin’ little buddy? Well, it looks like I leave for New Orleans tomorrow so when you get this I will probably be gone. Sorry for not calling or anything but I’ve been real busy with packing and work and all that. So…I don’t know when or if I am coming back to San Francisco. It sucks but…my family needs me. I’ll keep in touch and send you my new address and information when I get settled. Hope your shows went well tonight. You metal maniac! OK. Talk to you soon.”

Click

That was it. I was officially close-friend-free in San Francisco. Everyone else was gone. I had no girlfriend. I didn’t even have my own place. Maybe all this really was a huge mistake.

Feeling discontent and high I went around the corner to the Irish bar, O’Reilly’s, sat outside, ordered a Bloody Mary and a plate of eggs and hash. The sun was rising, the people just walked by and I just picked at the food.

I was numb.

Part 3: FALL

-Godflesh, Christbait Rising

XIV.

“Hello?”

I picked up the phone to hear a weeping woman on the other end. It was Amanda.

“Amanda?” I said. “Wha…what’s wrong?”

She was sobbing, almost uncontrollably, until finally gaining some breath and composure and was able to speak. Just barely.

“It’s my dad,” she bawled. “He…he died last night.”

After an overwhelming feeling of grief for her, only one thought came to mind:

She is not coming back anytime soon.

“Oh my god,” I said consoling. “I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Amanda was beyond repair with her sorrow. Essentially I just held the receiver to my ear and listened to her cry, with an occasional “sorry” on her end for not saying anything and just making noise.

“It’s okay,” I said. “So, um, what does this mean…exactly?”

She blew her nose, cleared her throat and coughed.

“Well, now we have his will and all of his debts and property deals to go through,” she said. Her dad was involved with real estate in New Mexico and, apparently, was quite well off. I didn’t know about the debt thing. “So I’m going to be here for a little longer.”

I slammed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth. The spoiled brat in me was coming out and he was silently protesting. I really didn’t want to babysit that apartment anymore. It was starting to get to me.

“Okay,” I uttered.

“How is the place by the way?”

Cold. Dank. Noisy. Crazy neighbor. Occasional cockroach. Water pressure that’s akin to a spunky drool. Filled with all of your stuff. Dust bunnies galore. Night table stuffed with sex toys and lubricant. Bad art on the walls. No counter space. Did I mention it was cold, dank and noisy? If it wasn’t for an obligation to a friend and the fact that the roommate is nearly invisible I would have burned this place down weeks ago.

“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s just…fine.”

“I really appreciate you taking care of the place while I’m gone,” she said. “But you’re comfortable? Job is good? How’s the DJ stuff?”

“Yeah, no. Everything’s swell. Peachy. Couldn’t be happier. No problem.”

“Okay.”

We chatted a bit more about apartment stuff and personal whatnots. She then asked a curious question.

“So…are you seeing anyone?”

I wasn’t too sure what to say. I’ve seen two people, not including the wacky punk rock lady with a bottle up her rump, but that’s different.

“No,” I said. “Not even close. And you?”

There was a beat. “Um…no.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing.”

“No. There’s no one. I’ve been too busy with family stuff to get involved.”

For some deep rooted reason I didn’t buy it. What I knew about Amanda told me that she was hiding something. Already upset about her loss and the fact that I was stuck in her place for god knows how long I let it slide.

“Alright,” I quipped.

After hanging up the phone I just sat on the bed. I didn’t know what to do. What was I going to do? There was nothing I could do.

* * *

As I’ve mentioned before I really have a problem with talking on the telephone. At this point in the 21st century everyone I know has a cell phone. Except me. I honestly hate cell phones almost as much as having a real one by the bed. What I think it comes down to is the fact that I don’t have anything to say, especially at that moment the phone rings and the person on the other end has a conversation in mind and has picked a topic. Me, I’m usually watching a bad movie or reading or napping and just plain don’t want to be bothered. So usually I just let it ring and listen to the message later. After I have heard your message and have gathered a proper response and topical pieces I will call you back. That’s when I get your voicemail which turns me into a blathering uber dork.

“Um…hi…it’s me…Mark…um…yeah…just, uh…calling you back, because…um…you called me…earlier…so, uh…yeah…just like…call me back…or…something…”

The phone rang one night and, as usual, I was parked in front of the TV, watching Gymkata, eating a Bugermeister burger and drinking beer. I was in heaven and was not going to answer it.

When the movie was done and the burger long gone I decided to step out to the Crowbar from some beers and bathroom bumps. Sitting in a public place while reading my book and listening to Slayer and Minor Threat just sounded tasty. Before I left I decided to check the message to see who it was. When I listened I was not expecting to what I was listening to.

“Hello Mark? It’s me. You’re old pal David. Uh…yeah, it’s been a while. (He nervously laughs). Look, I got your number from your dad after looking him up because I couldn’t find you. You are one tough guy to track down. (More laughing). I have some important news to tell you. So…um…call me back!”

David Wilmot was my best friend all through junior and senior high. When my dad and I moved from Los Angeles to Salinas, CA when I was 13, he was the first kid to sit next to me on the bus. He was also the first kid I knew outside of LA who played Dungeons and Dragons. We got into bands like SOD, Descendants and Suicidal tendencies together. We rode our bikes and skateboarded all over that town. We were best friends.
After high school we had a big falling out. I got involved with theater and planned on going to college. He got way into drugs and lost about 20 pounds. David is a big guy. Not Big Daddy Kevin big but thick with huge paws and a lock of dark red curly hair on top. When he kicked drugs we became friends again only in time for me to move to Santa Barbara and he being a little jealous of Jen and my relationship. He was one of the guys to have a big crush on her before I, somehow, got lucky and nabbed her. David came to visit us in Santa Barbara when we first moved in 1992, but all he did was drink and complain. His five day stay turned into three as one day returning from class I found him loading up his truck to leave.

That was over 12 years ago. We haven’t spoken since.

Now, out of nowhere, he calls me. Knowing he was involved with computers long before computers were, well, everywhere, I kept looking up his name to see if he was some kind of dot com millionaire or ran his won business at least. Nothing. Apparently a David Wilmot of Newcastle, IL broke the world record for putting the most light bulbs in his mouth. That’s as far as I got.

I got to the Crowbar and Genea was working. I ordered my usual IPA and Jager shot and told her the strange news.

“Twelve years?” she said. “You think he’s all fat and bald now?”

“Probably. I am. Well, except the bald part.”

So I sat there drinking with an occasional bathroom blow break and didn’t read a word of my book. I couldn’t. I just kept thinking how odd it was that my last good friend in SF moved away and now my best friend from way back when just called.

Sometimes I just want to punch Life right in the face.

* * *

The next day before work I decided to call David back. When I did I was almost frightened when he answered.

“Hello?”

“Dude! David! It’s me! Mark!”

“What’s up man!”

I wont bore you with the catch up conversation here but essentially I told him my story (which you know all about) and he told me his. Apparently he has a bad back from working on computers for so long and is on disability. He lives at his grandmother’s house in Pacific Grove, taking care of her after his granddad died a few years ago and just wanted to reconnect with me now that he’s bored “scratching his balls” as he put it.

“So…what’s the big news?” I asked.

“Oh man,” David said exhaling. “Um…I’m getting married dude.”

“No way!” I shouted. Oh great. Another friend, another marriage. I bet I wont be best man at his wedding either. Nobody wants me to be a groomsman. As long as I’m not boozing and singing karaoke I’m okay. I shine up like a new penny in a fancy tux.

He told me how he met his lady, Shannon. She was a receptionist at a business that he was doing consulting for and after a few days of elongated glances and flirtation they went out. Two years later he pops the question and she said yes. Stupid, lucky jerkoff.

“Say,” David said, “do you ever come to Monterey for a visit?”

“Oh man. I haven’t been back in years. Not even to see Alexander.”

Alexander Groder was my best friend after high school when David was off doing drugs and listening to goth music. When my dad and I moved from Salinas to Pacific Grove I got a job in a local coffee house where a lot of the cool high school kids hung out. A regular and Pacific Grove High School alum, Alex, was one of them. He was a quirky, wiry dude who wore a “Beetlejuice” tee-shirt (which spawned our first conversation) and was more of a movie geek than I was. Again, moving to Santa Barbara and then to San Francisco put a damper on our buddyship. This might all seem complicated, but it all comes together in the end.

“We should meet up sometime,” David said.

“Dude, I can take time off whenever. You just let me know and I’ll just drive down.”

We made plans to reunite two weeks from that day. So I went to work and asked for the time off, which was easy since it was slow and Jack wanted to see as little of me as possible. What an asshole.

I spent the next week and a half mentally preparing myself for the reunion of a lifetime. One thing I have always wanted but never seemed to bag officially was a friend for life. Jose was close but the last few months have been skittish at best and now that he was off aiding his family in a flood soaked New Orleans I rarely heard from him. I really had no one close to me anymore. “The Group” emailed funny links to funny videos or stories but that was about it. Mike and Amy had a beautiful little girl.

David was an odd choice for a “best friend” but since I knew him when we were 13, both of us now in our mid thirties, I clung to the idea that all was well and our lives would be intertwined once again. The only roadblock factor was the fact that he was now with a woman that he would be (supposedly) forever. No more late night thrash music jams over cheap booze or playing D&D till our eyes fell out. Not that rekindling the hot torch of our commemorative youth was something I wanted or was even comfortable with, but having someone in my life that I knew for twenty plus years, give or take a few absent ones blamed on distance, college, girls and or even drug dependency, was appealing..

I spent a lot of time going to comedy clubs at this juncture. Beer and blow could only do so much and the release of heavy metal once a week, headbanging and moshing around in public that is, only gave me a scant release that was held tight to the internal rage I was suppressing. Comedy clubs were nearby, cheap and made me laugh out loud which was exactly what I needed. Luckily for me, an old roommate, Jessica, worked for the accounting firm that did the books for the Punch Line comedy club near the Embarcadero and she had sent me a manilla envelope thick with free passes. Mind you, they were for off nights but still I attended the “locals only” shows and “new faces” features. I was soon recognized at the club and even had my own seat that I was escorted to; a small two seat table, toward the back, stage left, near the bathrooms. I could see the whole club and had easy access to the men’s room when my nose needed powdering.

One night, a semi-famous comedian Jake Lannigan was in town and I actually paid the $10 to see him on a Friday night. He killed, and after the show asked me for some “heavy metal advice” as I walked by him sitting at the bar thanking him for a great show. He had long hair, was a bit of a rocker, and was honing a routine about metal. My scruffy hair, Godflesh hoodie and beer drunk must have given me away as a metalhead. I sat and drank with him telling him why I liked metal, what I was listening to and funny stories from shows and my club dates. The ones about me throwing mayonnaise packets on stage during a Cannibal Corpse show and the lead singer picking them up and screaming “Whoever is throwing these goddam things on stage is fucking dead! If you see anyone throwing these on stage, fucking kill him!” Or when I was sent to interview Motorhead and was sitting on a couch backstage with Lemmy as he watched a very explicit porno was another knee slapper.

I was a little drunk and had to go pee and when I ducked into the stall to do a post urination bump Jake walked in and heard me. He joined me in the stall followed by another comedian that opened the show. There I was, crammed in a tiny smelly stall in the men’s room of the Punch Line, doing massive key bumps with one of my favorite “underground” comedians and some other guy that did a bit about upper decking at a funeral home. (For those that don’t know what “upper decking” is it is the act of removing the cover of the toilet tank, balancing over it and taking a crap in the tank, not the bowl, to which you return the cover and casually walk out as if nothing had happened. The next day when the smell is unbearable, hilarity ensues.)

The next day I drove down to Monterey which was unbelievably beautiful, so instead of taking the boring and straight shot 101, I took the much longer but amazingly scenic Highway 1. This was the vacation I had needed, even though it wasn’t an official “vacation” but after the times I have had with the job, club, radio show and apartment I really needed to get away for a week.

I brought with me a small bag of coke but decided to only use it in emergencies since Dave had used drugs before and could probably tell if I was high or not. Plus I didn’t want to blow it with him and if he found out I was using that would be the last I would see of him. At this stage, I needed all the friends I could get.

After a good three hour cruise down the coast I made it to Dave’s grandmother’s house in Pacific Grove around 3pm. I hadn’t been back to PG in quite some time, but it looked and smelled exactly the same. With nervous excitement I got out of the truck and knocked on the front door. Nothing. I knocked again. Knowing there was a back side door they often used I decided to go there. When I did, I noticed the garage door was open.

There, sitting behind a skeletal model train set and railway was Dave. Dave looks like a taller, older and more world weary version of the comedic actor Seth Rogan. Unshaven, ruddy curly hair, goofy, those two could almost be brothers.

“What’s up dude?” Dave said getting up from the train set to greet me. “It’s been too long.”

When he got to me we shook hands which then turned into an awkward hug. Sure, Dave and I were close at one point but we did have a few grades of constrained moments between us. Plus we’re two very non affectionate guys when it comes to showing your feelings to another male friend. Being the spawn of a gay man and a woman who spent most her life sewing sequins on fabulous gowns for fabulous celebrities you’d think I would be more touchy-feely. I’m not. It’s an only child, ‘can’t trust you as far as you can put one of my Star Wars figures in your pocket’ kind of thing I suppose.

Dave was brought up in the complete opposite. His one step in the trailer park father and chain smoking, always dissatisfied mother gave Dave quite the hard front and carrying a burdensome shield. He has one sibiling, a younger sister, Misty, who went missing her junior year of high school and was last heard of living in Oakland with some drug dealer boyfriend and was bone skinny from drug addiction. I was always admirable of Dave’s ability to move on and be a funny person even in the trials of his upbringing and surrounding family haplessness.

When I stepped back to talk to Dave and get a glimpse of him, he looked older and quite haggard. He had put on some weight and was obviously still smoking as the cramped garage with electrical train gizmos reeked of cigarette smoke. The full ashtray filled with Marlboro butts next to where he was sitting as another big clue.

I sat down on a stool and waited for the magic spark I was looking forward to and almost expecting to re-kindle. All Dave did was go back to his train set and smoke.

“So,” I excitedly uttered, “when’s the big day?”

“Next summer,” he quietly informed, not seeming thrilled about it at all. “It’s just close family and friends. Very small.”

When Dave said that I immediately knew I was not invited. Here I was, not just ten minutes into our reunion, driving almost 300 miles to see him and I’m given the “you can’t come to my wedding” brush off. I was beginning to dread the next few days.

I then asked what he was up to, other than preparing for the small wedding that I would only be a part of if they upload photos onto the internet or something. Dave told me about this computer consulting firm he was a partner in but had to leave over a year ago because of his Sciatica, which apparently debilitated him as both of his legs seized up and he couldn’t walk. Out on disability, he occasionally does some consulting work from home but mainly he spends his days “tinkering with the trains”.

“You’re like Gary Coleman,” I said. “He has a big thing for trains.”

We spent the next hour or so talking and catching up with me trying my darndest to get him to be funny or see if there is any kind of connection between us like there used to be. Dave seemed tired and somber, far from the upbeat certitude he expressed two weeks ago on the phone and I wondered if he was as nervous about our reconciliation. Maybe my hopes were way too high. Perhaps I should just relax and see what happens. It has been over a decade. Let’s not rush into things. I mean, hey, I was just as nervous as he was. That is, if he was at all.

“So Shannon gets off work in an hour,” Dave said toiling with some wiring. “I don’t really drink anymore but sometimes we meet at the Blue Anchor downtown. Does that sound good?”

The Blue Anchor is a divey kind of bar that catered to fisherman and failed artists during the day and soldiers and students at night. Fort Ord is a major base and a huge financial boon to the Monterey Peninsula, even though I always hated the drunken bar fights and random girl ass slapping the soldiers did on a regular basis downtown on their days off. The students came from the technical institute and community college and were usually pretty cool. Mix brains with brawn and on more than a few occasions I have heard the word “Fag” and “Pussy” coming from the G.I.’s when well mannered nerds come in for post study session pints. The Blue Anchor is the petri dish where this spectacle seems to be the de rigeur.

I unloaded my stuff into Dave’s “office” which is no more than a tiny spare bedroom with an old TV, dusty VCR, unused DVD player, cluttered desk, a computer and an easy chair, which actually looked inviting. The computer was at least ten years old. Huge bulky monitor, DOS system tower a and Commodore 64 looking keyboard. I thought this guy was like a computer whiz bang or something.

“That chair goes all the way back or you can sleep on the couch,” Dave told me. Since his grandma’s house, which was technically his too now, was a tidy collection of figurines, doilies and macrame blankets over a rococo inspired couch, I chose the chair. Plus, grandma gets up at 6am and likes to do the crosswords at the kitchen table, Dave informed me, which was in ear and eye shot of the couch. So I figured with enough beer in me I could sleep on the train table out in the garage and use that fake mountain as a headrest, I joked. In the end, I chose the easy chair.

Before heading out to the Blue Anchor, I decided to give Alexander a call. Him being a lot like me, never answering the phone,  I left him message saying we were going to the Blue Anchor for drinks. Seeing as Alex used to like going there, in fact it was him that introduced me to the place, I figured it might be fun to have us all together again…for the first time. Alex and Dave never really got along. Before going to Santa Barbara I fundamentally had two friendships going; one with Dave and the other with Alex, both of which had very little to say when we all were together on those rare occasions. I was always in the middle playing moderator and trying to have that “isn’t this fun?” demeanor about me.

Whatever sun that followed me down to Monterey was now long gone. The late afternoon fog had rolled in and covered the sky, blanketing us with that all too familiar white-gray veil. That was the thing about Monterey that always drove me batty; there was rarely, if ever, a full blown full day of absolute sunshine. Sure, the afternoon might be bright and warm but around dinnertime the fog returned to cool off what little heat the daytime sun had gifted us with. “Natural air conditioning” my dad called it. It was more like ‘how the heck do I dress for days like this?’ Pants? Jacket? Shorts? T-shirt? Come to think of it, San Francisco was really rather similar.

We arrive at the Blue Anchor around 4:30, which is filled with blank faced businessmen and soccer fans. Being a knock-off “British pub”, the TVs all have some kind of soccer game on (ne, “Football” as it is officially called) and dart boards line the back area. Seeing as Dave and Shannon are both smokers we have to sit out on the back patio to drink our beers. Even me being from this place and now living in San Francisco, I was shivering from the low cloud fog drizzle. Luckily after a few sips from my stout ale I was starting to warm up. That bump I did in the bathroom earlier seemed to help too.

About a quarter after 5pm Shannon arrives and she is nothing like I expected. Dave usually dated blondes, like ex-cheerleader blondes or slutty party girl blondes. Shannon was as far from that as possible. She was tall and lanky with wispy deep black hair over a thin face. She wore a black tee shirt, a silver low slung necklace with some kind of crystal dangling on the end of it, black jeans and boots. Attractive, but her nerdy bearing she gave off when she introduced herself made me curious. What the heck was Dave doing with a weirdo like this? She must be sweet as pie then and a coital cyclone in the sack to get Dave’s affection and engagement ring. She looked like someone that plans their year around Ren-Faires, ComicCons and They Might Be Giants reunion shows.

“Dave tells me you’re a DJ,” Shannon said after kissing Dave then lighting up a smoke.

“Uh yeah,” I returned. “Here and there. Sometimes. Not really though.”

“Like what? You do house music? Trance? Electro? What?”, she asked before exhaling. That’s another thing that really gets under my skin, people that talk to me while holding cigarette smoke in. They always sound like some asphyxiated gerbil who just happens to be teaching a class in how to be gross in spite of your pretentiousness. I don’t take a sip of beer and gargle “So, where ya from?” before swallowing. Same thing.

“Oh gosh no. I’m a heavy metal DJ.”

Another deep inhale, a quizzical look and then, “How does become a heavy metal DJ?” Then exhaled.

“Oh, it just sorta happened. I do a radio show every other week. You can live stream it on KUSF.org.”

“Unfortunately,” Dave said, “I don’t have speakers hooked up to the computer right now. Kinda…workin’ on that.”

OK, this is the guy that got straight A’s in math and science and was the first friend, that I knew of, to get a job right out of high school selling and working on computers. We used to make character record sheets on his old green screened PC way back when. I didn’t get a computer till my second year of college. It was all word processor up until then baby. In 2005, I was light years ahead of this guy as far as computer stuff went, and I studied film and drama. I didn’t even see a printer in his “office”. What gives?

“Hey, hey, hey!”

I looked over and saw Alexander walk out onto the patio. He hadn’t changed a bit since last I saw him. Long blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony tail, suede shirt coat jacket, western jeans over clunky cowboy boots and still carrying around his saddle bags slung over his shoulder filled with random notebooks and business proposals. Alex and I hugged. I was quite relieved to see him.

Alex and I went inside to get another round of beers, while sneaking in shots of rye, which was always a favorite of his. Alex had all sorts of great stuff going on; his greeting card line, his publishing company and he was even thinking about opening up a café / oddball toy store in the near future.

“But I still have to do contracting and construction to keep the money coming in,” he said.
“
Dude, I have to bartend at the strangest place on earth, run by Satan’s alcoholic uncle and staffed by immigrants, drug addicts, and beautiful blonde women.”

“What category do you fall under?” Alex asked.

“I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

Back on the patio, the conversation was brisk and lively, except between Dave and myself. He chose to put his attention to his future bride while Alex and I cracked jokes and dug up mischief from the past.

“Remember you drank so much coffee at Tillie Gorts that you ended up tap dancing in the middle of the street for ten minutes after they closed?” I recounted.

“Or the time we went to that strip club in San Francisco and you got that mysterious stain on your pants after that ugly crackwhore lapdanced on you?” said Alex.

“Dude,” I said, “I now live three blocks from that same strip joint. Every time I walk by it I think about that night. Good times.”

The importance of this gathering was the fact that I was here to reconnect with Dave and see if after a decade we were still pals. Turns out the guy I saw just a year ago, Alex, and keep in semi-contact with, was far more engaging. Shannon seemed to dominate the conversation anyway seeing as Dave just went along with what she said or wanted to do. To be witness to that made me a bit uneasy. Dave used to be tough, a fighter, and extremely funny. The few hours I had been there made it apparent that he gave into the disability of both his back and this girl.

About 8 o’clock the Blue Anchor was jumping and filled with people Alex knew. I was a little drunk but feeling great thanks to reuniting, that familiar smell and feel of my old hometown and an occasional helping hand from my powdery friend. I made sure to do it in small increments, just to keep me going and interested. The last time I did blow with old friends the result was ugly and I sure as heck didn’t want to revive that embarrassing juncture.

Dave and Shannon said they had to get going but would leave a key under the backdoor mat for me. I hugged them both, told them I would see them either in a few hours or in the morning and I would be silent as silent could be when coming in. We said our goodbyes and I returned to the little patio party that Alex seemed to have organized.

We ended up bar-hopping around downtown Monterey and I actually kissed one of Alex’s lady friends after last call. She was a very cute and slightly portly girl so my raging drunk and hormones kicked in allowing me to pin her to the wall outside the bar and make out. It didn’t last very long as Alex pulled me away and drove me to Dave’s grandma’s place.

“Who was that girl?” I slurred heavily.

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I think she was friends with Jessica.”

“Who’s Jessica?”

“A friend.”

“The one with the face or the one with the boobs?”

“They all had faces and boobs.”

“I like…boobs.”

Alex dropped me off around 2am to which I immediately had to switch into “I’m really drunk but I have to be really quiet” mode. We silently said our goodnights and goodbyes to each other and had a good laugh about the situation and the fact I had forced some random girl to make out with me. Alex drove off and I stood in the bleak chill trying to gather enough chutzpah to enter a house I had only been through once and now had to navigate in total silence, murkiness and abject booze-itude.

Pacific Grove at 2am is a mausoleum. Cold, dark, silent and dead. In fact, the silence was so loud I felt as if that mild squeak in my left Vans were echoing down the street as I approached the backdoor. The house was pitch black. This was going to take some experienced drunk guy ninja artistry.

The key was, thankfully, under the mat and I gently put it in the lock and slowly turned it which made a distinct “clack” that resonated in eternity. Once inside, I stood there getting my eyes adjusted to the dark, standing wobbly in the kitchen. Eventually I began my tip toe creep-fest to the “office”, which was a few steps to the left if memory served me. I found the room, opened the door, located the light switch on the wall and clicked it on.

From underneath the desk a swift white furry animal darted out which scared the living crap out of me.

“JESUS DONKEY BALLS!,” I cried. “WHAT THE HOLY CHRIST WAS THAT!?”

Obviously it was a cat but having it shoot past me like a fuzzy banshee out of a slingshot gave me quite the start. It was then that I realized that I screamed much too loudly as my intoxication and fear of dark grandma houses took hold. As I sat on the easy chair to regain a normal heart rate, I heard a shuffling from the room next door.

“What the fuck,” whispered Dave coming into the office with nothing but boxer briefs on. Chalk up another phobia: Thick and hearty man junk wobbling in my face at 2am. No bueno!

“I’m sorry man,” I said breathless and whispering. “It was the cat. It was…under the desk… Scarred me man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Dave said. “Are you just getting in?”

“Yeah. We went barhopping. You should have been there. It was fun. I made out with some chick.”

Dave just looked at me despairingly. He had a hairy chest, which I always knew about, but the newly formed man-gut over those briefs with what looked like a taco shell shoved down the front made me long for the safety of the garage and comfort of the model train table and foamy mountain that would be my pillow.

“Just keep it down alright?,” Dave murmured. “Don’t wanna wake grandma up.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t wanna wake grandma.”

Dave and I said goodnight and he closed the door. Next door, in their bedroom apparently, I could hear Shannon ask what was going on and Dave saying that I was drunk and got scared by the cat. She didn’t sound pleased. Nor did Dave.

The next day I was happy to find Dave busy with various things, such as a doctors visit and a meeting with his business partners about, something. This was all described to me as I stood in the sterile kitchen drinking his grandma’s horrible coffee shaking from an intense hangover.

“Mark, I hear you made quite the ruckus last night,” his grandma said. She was a nice old lady that looked much older after a decade or so of not seeing her and I’m sure the trauma of losing her husband of fifty years put on some age. She was sitting on the couch doing a crossword.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your cat gave me quite a start. I didn’t mean to yell like that.”

“Oh I didn’t hear you dear,” she said. “I’m on so many pills that I could sleep through a bomb if it dropped right here in the living room.”

“That’s awesome.”

After a shower and getting dressed I headed out with Dave. He got in his car, which was a tired Buick of some kind, probably his grandfather’s, and left for his appointments. I had the day to myself so I went exploring.

Being back on my home turf felt great. I took highway 68 over to Carmel and walked around that once quaint little town that is now a spread of tourist hot spots and bad art galleries. I even visited the game store that I used to work at and was amazed to find the same guys still working there. That was probably the best job I had ever had. It was pure geek heaven. Not only did I get to demonstrate new board games to potential buyers, but the role playing section was the best on the peninsula and furthered my quest into nerd fueled imaginary oblivion.

I walked on the beach with it’s white sand and grabbed lunch at a quaint deli that looked like a Hobbit hole. Then I drove back to Monterey and visited the campus of the community college where I spent way too much time at the drama department and writing bad stories in the creative writing department. If there is anything that will kill creativity in writing is a creative writing class.

Back in Pacific Grove I grabbed some coffee and a snack at Tillie Gorts which had gone from bohemian shabby to upscale chic. I didn’t stay long there. I went by the old place at 8th and Laurel, the last place I lived in with my dad, happy to find that the current residents had a knack for gardening much like my dad and I. Then I drove along Asilomar, probably one of the prettiest stretches of ocean side road that there is, and recounted fond memories. Such as the beach where I received my first BJ from Sarah Grossman just a few feet away from the massive bonfire her high school buddies had made and were partying around. It was all so intimate and acquainted, just as beautiful and innocent as when I left it back in 1992.

I was then ravaged by a sinking feeling of shame and discontent. Seeing all of these familiar sights, smelling the familiar scent of the ocean and pine trees, being back in the fog, revisiting places I had worked, lived, played, studied, frequented and had sex, combined with a reunion with Dave, a guy I hadn’t had any connection with for way too long made me realize something:

I was officially a grown man and there was obviously no going back.

Even in the throes of my loneliness and humbled existence at that point, I felt as if I had made some kind of grave mistake; a error in better judgement, following others on their path while not really starting mine. At 35 years old I was a despondent citizen, a lover of life but timid from its continued voracious appetite on my well being and bliss. I gave in too easily, I let others make strong decisions to which now I find myself at risk of desperation or even worse, addiction. Love comes easy but when commitment grasps me by the scruff and asks my whole attention I back down and lose what I once held so sacred. I didn’t know what I was looking for or how to find it, but now that an obvious severance has been displayed between a once best pal and myself I knew that I had to grow up somehow and move on.

But I still had a few days off and money saved up for the trip so I decided I better make the most of it.

That night, Dave, Shannon, Alex and myself all met at this Mediterranean restaurant called Bob Kabob’s and had another still night among feelings of possibly reconnecting and good ‘ol days tale weaving.

“Whatever happened to that old orange truck of yours?” I asked Dave. “You know…”

“Fred?” he said.

“Yeah man! I loved that truck. Huge winch in the front. I loved riding in it, blasting Corrosion of Conformity and doing donuts on Main street. Whatever happened to that thing?”

“Sold it. Bought a pickup. Which I sold to buy an SUV. Which I sold when I went on disability. Now I drive grandpa’s old Buick.”

“I knew it! I knew that was your granddad’s car.”

“How’d you know?” asked Shannon.

“I don’t know. Just looks like a grandpa car is all.”

For some reason, my new found realization I had earlier mixed with stilted conversation made me go a little batty. I started ordering this Mediterranean beer called Shaba like every five minutes. I couldn’t get enough. I wasn’t even high and I couldn’t get buzzed fast enough.

“This stuff is great!,” I proclaimed. “What are we gonna do afterwards?”

“I’m going to bed,” announced Shannon. “Gotta be at work early. Lots of invoices to take care of, faxes to send. Then we have to…”

“Great!,” I blatantly interrupted. “Alex?”

“Well, I have plenty of space and booze at my place. If you want beer we need to stop off and pick some…”

“Great idea!,” I said. “Dave. You in?”

Dave played with his fork and was silent for a second. He looked over at Shannon who was giving him that “go head, see if I care, you aint gettin’ any when you get home” look. I was bobbing my head up and down and grinning like a madman.

“C’mon,” I fostered.

After a bit he perked up. “Yeah okay,” Dave said. “I’ll do it. For a little bit. Remember, I really don’t drink anymore.”

“I don’t drink any less,” I said. I slapped my knee in spite of myself.

After dinner, Shannon took Dave’s car and went home and the three of us scrunched into the cab of my truck and drove to the corner liquor store where I picked up a 12 pack of Anchor Steam and a bottle of Jager. As I reached into my wallet I felt the plastic bag hidden deep within the confines of the business card holder area and looked forward to my first real blast after a long and strange day.

Alex, being the eccentric and consummate business man, along with knowing everyone on the Monterey Peninsula it seemed, found himself a killer pad. It was actually two live/work spaces right above a laundromat and travel agency; two separate doors leading into two separate areas. One side was his office which was crammed with greeting cards, computers, art, books, ledgers, filing cabinets, etc. It looked right over Lighthouse Avenue which was no comparison to my Columbus Ave view. At 10pm, Columbus is a noisy byway of bustling metropolis mayhem. Lighthouse Ave in Pacific Grove at 10pm, might have the occasional cat running safely across it under a dim fog shrouded streetlight. I wasn’t too sure which one I preferred right then.

The other space was his apartment, a cramped studio with a bed, kitchenette, piles of movies on VHS and a bar. It didn’t take long for the beers and shots to come out. I was the only one who liked Jager so the bottle was mine. Alex poured his rye. Dave declined both. We then all clinked beer bottles and saluted a man night out.

Here’s the thing. Alex’s bathroom, in his apartment had no door, so doing the drug there would be tricky. I went in, walked up to the toilet, pretending to pee only to discover that a large mirror that reflected everything that was going on in the main room. There was no way I could do it there and get away with it. So, pretending to be shy, I mocked frustration and went to the office’s bathroom, which not only had a door but was far away from any snorting sounds I would make. With Alex playing music, the Monkees for crying out loud, in his apartment, I was free to make as much noise as possible.

I retrieved the small bag, dug the straw deep inside and with a quick inhale got a feisty bump. It hit hard and immediate. I did it again with the other nostril and soon the large amounts of Mediterranean beer was soon squashed by the purity of Rascon’s blow.

Returning to the guys I found them talking about local issues such as who should run for water board and the like. I found politics boring so I played DJ with Alex’s bizarre collection of records. The guy has the strangest taste in music I have ever seen. Barry Manilow, Pink Floyd, Portishead, Moody Blues, Harry Connick Jr., Pearl Jam and of course the ever present Monkees were the mainstay of his collection. So I tried to make a party atmosphere for three men, who, at one time all lived in close proximity and hung out on a regular occasion. Time had taken care of the rest.

Since we were in Alex’s domain we were given the grand tour of his latest endeavors. We went through mounds of art, some good some not so much, for upcoming greeting cards, weird outsider poetry for book projects, layouts and plans for a possible café and toy store and legions of brik-a-brak leading all the way back to when we first met.

Alex had also turned into quite the weed connoisseur and was pretty much a stoner. He rolled up a couple of fat joints to which Dave nervously took part in. Me on the other hand, I just went to the office bathroom a lot.

At about midnight Dave called it a night. Since I actually had a space of my own to sleep in, the office, and a sleeper sofa, which trumped that lumpy easy chair, I decided to stay at Alex’s for the night. The idea of creeping around that aspirin scented house of his didn’t sit too well with me.  So we called Dave a cab and waited for it over one last beer.

Before Dave left I made one more bathroom visit since the Jager and Anchor Steam were starting to hit. When I returned Dave was putting on his jacket and giving me a stern look.

“Are you doing cocaine?” he asked quietly as Alex was in the other bathroom going number 1.

That was it. I was caught. One of my worst fears had come true. A friend discovering me doing blow. Knowing that I didn’t have a trace on my face or shirt I played it off.

“What? Me? Cocaine? Are you crazy? I have a heart murmur. That stuff would kill me.”

“Okay,” he said unconvinced. “It’s just that you keep going to the office bathroom a lot. Why not just use this one?”

“Because…uh…I told you. I have issues. Can’t pee or poo fully exposed. The office bathroom is far away where I can close the door and do my business.”

“And not do cocaine?”

“Dude…”, I struggled to find truth and explanation in my own deception. “I am not doing coke. I swear. I just have to pee…a lot. And that Mediterranean food. Oof. Hard on the ol’ stomach if you know what I mean.”

A honk outside indicated that the cab was here. Dave said goodbye and took off. Watching him drive away I felt really horrible for lying to him. But what was I to do? If I said yes would he relapse and do it with me or would he freak out and vow never to speak to me ever again? I couldn’t take that chance. I was thin on friends as it was.

Soon after, from the beer and weed, Alex passed out. I stayed up much too late, finishing the 12 pack and putting on Escape From New York on video in the office. The sun was up by the time I dozed off.

Like I mentioned before, I tend to sleep in a static haze after doing a decent amount of coke, so when Alex woke up around 10am, maybe 4 hours after I drifted off, I woke up with him.

“Breakfast,” he gurgled.

“Definitely.”

I rang up Dave and asked him to meet us at a place called The First Watch, a popular breakfast and lunch spot near Cannery Row. He agreed and soon Alex and I were in my truck, bleary and giggly, on our way to some well needed food.

We had already grabbed a seat on the large patio and had some coffee, almost ordering food since the heads were pounding and stomachs growling, when Dave finally showed up.

“How you guys feeling?” Dave asked.

“Awesome,” I said. And I kind of was for some reason.

“Dead,” sputtered Alex.

“Good.”

I could tell that Dave was on edge. He seemed like he arrived to breakfast with an agenda; to be short and disproving of us and everything that we do or at least did. It became clear as the steam rising from my third cup of hot coffee on a crisp Monterey afternoon, Dave had moved on and our reunion was a failure.

Admittedly I do drink to excess on more than a few occasions, but when there is no connection or decent communication between people, especially those who used to be inseparable and at one time promised to be “friends forever”, I figure booze would help lighten and relax the situation. Sometimes, this theory works. Apparently Dave’s former addictions were probably worse than I had thought. It occurred to me that he did get a little stoned and I’m sure his new lady was rather disapproving knowing his history with intoxicants.

“So,” I started, “what’s on the agenda today?”

“I have to be at the print shop in an hour,” laughed Alex. “Oh man. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this one.”

“And you?”

“Well,” started Dave, “I should go into the office and get some work done. Those guys are pretty backed up. You know…with school back in session and all.”

Looking at Dave I realized that he was stretching the truth. In fact, he might have been just outright lying. I leaned back in my big plastic chair and wondered why Dave would call me up out of nowhere, ask me to drop everything and come down to Monterey, not fully participate in this “reunion” and now lie about having to do things just to avoid hanging out with me. Am I that repugnant? The only reason I started drinking is because there was nothing to talk about and he had nothing planned. What the heck was he expecting? Better yet, what was I expecting? I couldn’t find the answer to that, so I decided that I should just pack up and leave.

“That’s cool man,” I said. “I should get back anyway. The club emailed me asking if I could sub tonight. I didn’t say yes yet but if you’re busy I should take it.”

The table was silent. Except for happier tables, chatting and bubbling, and the occasional seagull squawking overhead, we sat in an absolute mute.

“I thought you were staying for a week,” Alex said.

“Yeah well.”

“When did you check your email?” Dave asked, letting me know that his computer isn’t even hooked up to the internet. Gee whiz.

“Last night after you left. I was up for a while.”

“Yeah…I bet you were.”

When Dave said that I knew darn well he had somehow caught me doing blow. But you know what, I didn’t care. I was done. He had morphed into some kind of simpleton. That fire I loved about him was long gone. He has a bad back. He’s getting married. He lives at his grandma’s house. He works on model trains. In a way, I think he wanted me to come down and sink to his level, or at least see if I was as life crushed as him.

On the other hand, maybe he wanted me to come down and give him support. It’s obvious that he doesn’t have any friends, not that I did either really, and I guess he saw me as some sort of rock or at least a helping hand. I was conflicted and started to feel rotten. I just wanted to leave.

After breakfast I drove Alex back to his apartment. We shook hands, promised to keep in touch and then he left and disappeared through the main doorway. Back at Dave’s, he was already there, in the garage, messing with some wires.

“Look man,” I said, “I’m sorry this didn’t work out. We’ll try again later. It’s just bad timing. I’m going through some personal poop right now and it’s starting to get to me. I don’t know. Don’t hate me okay? I’m still the same Mark except…well…just going through a strange time.”

Dave didn’t look at me. He just fiddled with those wires.

“What you need is to sober up,” he said. “You drink too much. I wont mention the other thing, but…you better watch it. You know what I went through. I thought you were different. Smarter.”

I was leaning on the garage door with my head slung low. He was right, but he was too far away. If I sobered up now amongst the turmoil that was everything I would implode and possibly go mad. Without a light at the end of the tunnel or a solid support system, all I had was me. The beer and the blow helped by giving me a temporary shield and release, which was frightening.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I went a little overboard here. Just not good at reunions I guess.”

Dave put down the wires. “Me either.”

I stayed and talked to Dave for another hour. It turned out he did indeed have a real doctors appointment so I stuffed my backpack with what few things I brought and threw it on the shotgun seat.

“It was good seeing you again,” I said.

“Just be you,” Dave said curiously. “Be Mark. Be that happy guy I knew a long time ago. The world needs it. I need it. I know you’ll get through whatever it is your dealing with just fine.”

I shook his hand and smiled. The handshake turned into a hug, a real, comfortable hug. Man Dave got big. He was like embracing a shaved down grizzly.

After telling him to thank his grandma for the hospitality and congratulations to Shannon, I waved goodbye, drove off and hit the highway.

Knowing I still had some time off and cash left, I drove to Santa Cruz, found a cheap motel room, The Wavecrashers Inn, and hid out for two days. I went to the beach and the boardwalk where I rode the stupid rides and played the ancient arcade games. That night I caught a Nashville Pussy concert downtown, drank margaritas with some rocker guys at some hidden away bar on the beach and had the best fish tacos I ever had at 3am. The next day I just read a book and napped. It was exactly what I needed.

But I still felt bad about Dave.

XV.

Problems at work continued to mount and I was often found looking for jobs online but nothing came close to what I could do or what I was making. The fact that I loved everyone that I worked with and the money was still pretty good kept me there. I even hung out with Hal and Danika on a few occasions and hid my intense crush on Jacqueline, whom actually started to be one of the featured singers on the courtyard stage. She played guitar and had a rather melodious voice, doing mainly Sarah McLachlan covers with a few original tunes of her own thrown in, she wooed the male onlookers with her songbird approach and stunning looks. I loved working the bar when she played because guys would tip rather well when I told her she was a friend of mine.

The problem, of course, was Jack. The man was a lunatic and the further I continued to work there the more intense his mania became. You never knew if he was going to be in a good mood, which was rare but did happen, or if he was going to yell at the top of his lungs at you about the dumbest things. I once got scolded like a little child for letting a person drink from a glass pint and not one of his red party cups at the outside bar. The person came from the inside to smoke, was very careful and pleasant, but when Jack shuffled out and saw the glass pint he berated me as a drill sergeant would a back talking new recruit. It was humiliating.

The free beer and occasional cocaine party in the prep room kept me there as well. Bill’s Bar just had that appeal; you hate it, you want to leave but something just grabs you and keeps you showing up day after day. On slow days I even started to do some “shopping”, meaning I would fill my backpack full of veggies, eggs, milk, hand soap, yogurt, coffee and sometimes even meat when I knew I was going to fry up a burger for my late night, post Crowbar snack. I even walked out of there with a 10oz sirloin steak that was part of the “steak special” he was advertising for a week. No one was biting since the meat was low grade and he was charging $15 for it. But 24 hours in this amazing marinade, a recipe I found online, made it rendered and tasty. I had to do what I had to do.

Outside of the $800 I was mailing to Amanda every month, I also had gas to buy groceries, pay off parking tickets, then there were movies, bands, clothes, shoes and of course my regular visits to the Crowbar that added up. Between Bill’s and the 540 I was maybe bringing in around $1500-2000 a month. I was okay but cutting it close.

What was costing me even more was my cocaine habit. I was giving Rascon maybe $100 to $200 a week for the stuff. It was amazing blow, it brought me up when I was feeling down (which was almost always) and made my shows go by in a glorious trance rather than focus on the fact that my Saturday nights were pretty much empty and Reckless Radio had become more of a chore than an enjoyable event. The weekly all-night booze and blow fest while trying to host a show and mix music well was beginning to wear on me.

To make extra cash I would sell my extra CDs that came in the mail, sent from various record companies and PR firms because of my ties with the radio show and magazines I used to or still wrote for on a very rare occasion. I also considered selling the truck but then how would I get my equipment to the club and back? I was utilizing cabs more and more seeing as parking in most locations I was working in and living in was a nightmare. Parking tickets were just a weekly occurrence. Money was being siphoned out of me. I had to do something.

One of the magazines I still wrote for, Ziltch, tapped me for a show review on a band called The Heavenly States, who were playing a CD release party at the awesome club Café Du Nord. I had seen and interviewed these guys before (for a different magazine) and was casual friends with them.

It always felt cool to have your name on a list and get into a show for free. Even a fairly small one like the Café Du Nord show. I’ve always liked walking up to the door guy and saying “I’m on the list” then getting that feeling of superiority when they stamp your hand and let you in. Café Du Nord is a very hip and established place, one where you have to descend plush stairs to a lush and red velvet curtained club. After grabbing a beer I found the guys and girl in Heavenly States, chatted with them for a while before they had to go and get ready to play. Their melodic indie rock sound is something I actually like and listed to on a regular basis. I was happy to be there.

Thing is I had just been to Rascon’s and he had some friends over and the living room table was filled with blow. I was high as a mofo when I arrived at the show. To keep the feeling going, I made several bathroom breaks.

The show went on and was going great. I kept ordering beers with an occasional shot and kept running to the men’s room to keep me from getting too drunk. Everything was going fine until… whammo!

I woke up in bed.

Laying there, fully dressed, I realized that I had no idea how I got home. Last thing I remember is the Heavenly States playing a song I recognized and then waking up in Amanda’s bed. I was incredibly foggy. I must have had way more to drink than I thought I did.

Oh my god! Where’s the truck?

There’s nothing like the horror of thinking your truck was parked in a tow away zone on Market Street or is plowed into a tree nearby to immediately sober you up. I shot up, put on my shoes, which I did manage to get off somehow when I made it back to the apartment, and ran outside. In the hustle and bustle of Columbus Ave on a beautiful Thursday afternoon, I searched in a panic for the truck. Sometimes, even in the gravest of blackouts, I can recall certain items if I do that “retracing your steps” deal. As I walked around the block I thought in my head: Okay, you left the club obviously…did you get into a cab? Did you drive? Did you freakin’ drive in a blackout? There’s no way! The truck is either in the side of a building or towed away. Either way, you’re screwed.

I rounded the corner at Green Street to find my Toyota truck safe and parked in a metered zone. I didn’t care about a measly $50 expired meter ticket. I was happy to see it uncrashed and non-towed away.

Luckily I got to it before noon so there was no ticket. Man, I really escaped this one. Someone or something was watching out for me. When I opened the drivers door I saw something that made me gasp with shock. It was the bag of coke, just sitting there square in the middle of the seat.

After nabbing it and pushing it into my pocket, I put the key in the ignition and drove around looking for a spot. After about a half hour of circling the neighborhood, I found one way up at the top of Larkin, which was a steep climb down the hill and would be even harder to get to going back up. Whatever. When I inched and eased my way into the cramped parking spot, one thing came to mind as I did the walk of shame all the way to the apartment.

I am selling that thing.

* * *

After doing some research I realized that my little pickup wasn’t worth a lot. I bought it used for eight grand after trading in my piece of crap Corolla that had gone through way too many road trips and abuse.  It’s a 1995 model pickup, had almost 80,000 miles on it, but was in good shape. Still, I knew I had to seel it for a fraction of what I originally paid.

I borrowed a digital camera from Khamish and took some shots of it, after giving it a wash and wax. It made me feel sad to be doing what I was doing but it had to be done. More money was coming out of me than going in because of this thing but after me driving from the Castro to North Beach and actually finding a parking spot in a blackout made me weary of my driving safety. Plus, where was I going to go? Tahoe? Monterey? Exactly. I was stuck in San Francisco for a while which meant I really didn’t need a car anymore.

The price I was offering was $3000 and that seemed fair. I posted it on several websites and almost immediately got some offers. In fact two days after I posted it on a San Francisco car sell site I had a guy ring the doorbell asking to see it. He was my age, going back to business school and needed a reliable ride. I assured him that was exactly what it was. He seemed very interested.

Two weeks went by with interested parties, but most of them wanting to pay far too less.

“How about five hundred bucks?” one guy said on the phone. I just plain hung up.

One day I get an email from the first guy to see it.

“Is it sold?” he asked. I typed back “No…but I have lots of offers”.

The next day I got another email from him.

“How about $2000?”

I called him up saying that it was his.

This was the first time I ever sold a car to somebody and the paper work was a real drag. But once it was all said and done and that cashiers check for two grand was in my hand I relaxed a bit.

As the guy, Thomas Logan as it said on the check, drove off in it I felt both sad and relieved. But there was one gnawing realization that I could not escape.

I was now totally reliant on public transportation now.

That first show at the 540 was really weird without my truck. Instead of just throwing the boxes of stuff, fog machine and props in the back, I had to call a cab and stuff all the equipment in the trunk.

“What is all these things?” the man from who knows where asked.

“I’m a heavy metal DJ,” I explained. “And that is Castle Grayskull.”

It was also strange to have to wait for a cab to arrive and pick me up from the club after my show. As I waited, Brooks and Jamie just let me drink, knowing I would get home safe, so arriving right in front of the apartment door and not having to look for parking was great Actually, I started to enjoy it. I could get used to this, I thought.

One morning while checking my email over coffee and a bagel I got a curious message. It was from this guy Lars,  a close friend of Mike and Kevin’s and a casual one of mine, who was a dentist that actually gave me a free check ups and teeth cleaning when I took him as my +1 to Slayer concerts at the Warfield. We got along fairly well but weren’t close enough to elicit a random email. I clicked on it and read.

< Mark. What up? This is Lars. Dude, looks like me and my crew are going to be in your neighborhood this Friday. Bachelor party. Getting married next month. Meeting at Hooters on the wharf at 7pm. Debauchery to follow. Hope you can make it. Lates. >

How totally odd. How did Lars know I was living in North Beach? Better yet, how did he know I was even living in San Francisco? I hadn’t spoken to the guy in like two years. He must have gotten my info from Mike or Kevin. But I hadn’t heard from either of those guys since Tahoe. I don’t blame them.

I switched my Friday night closing with Fiona, who protested at first but then gave in knowing she could make some decent cash.. She was spunky, cute and very Irish so, of course, I had a crush on her too.

That Friday night I walked down to the wharf and a Hooters that I didn’t even know existed. There were parts of my own city, current neighborhood and work area that I had yet to explore. Fisherman’s Wharf is just something I walk through to get to work or to go to Trader Joe’s for supplies. Otherwise, the place is a sports bar ridden, tourist trap, god awful nightmare and smells of fish.

I had been in a Hooters once, with Jose, on my birthday. After telling our busty server that it was my birthday, the girl dragged me to the center of the restaurant, had other girls put two balloons under my shirt and made me stand on a table while they sang the Hooters version of “Happy Birthday”. It was both enticing and absolutely humiliating.

To my surprise there was a waiting list to get in. For real, there were families, families!, standing in the front area waiting to get a table at a Hooters. This came as a complete shock to me. As hot girls in tight shirts and shorty shorts jiggled by, little Timmy and Dakota waited patiently with their drab and dead looking parents to eat hot wings and beans. I thought this place was a novelty, not a go-to family hot spot. Horny businessmen and drunken bachelor party attendants are Hooters core customers right? I didn’t get it. I just didn’t get it.

After telling the moderately dressed hostess that I was with Lars’ bachelor party group she let me in and told me that they were in the bar. Duh. Where else would they be? So I scooted by Asian tourists and children, all of which looked totally blank at the fact that they are in a place called Hooters and the servers are wearing thin tee-shirts to accentuate their protruding young bosoms. This is just a few steps down from what I experienced at Playthings, except without the hot wings. These kids are lucky. My dad only took me to Burger KIng.

Walking into the hanger sized “bar” was more like stumbling into a pantheon of men tucked deep into oily hot wings and chugging large pitchers of golden hued beer. I found the group, located Lars and approached.

“Hey! What’s up man?” cried Lars when he saw me. Lars is a big guy, about 6′ 5″, with rockabilly chops and an almost pompadour. He wears a tight fitting leather jacket, retro shirt, tight slacks and expensive shoes. We shake hands, he hands me a glass and fills it with much needed beer and then introduces me to the group. Lars tells them that I am the guy that took him to see Slayer for free and that I write for magazines and am a DJ and so forth. So even though those cats made a ton of more bread than I do, by the looks of them, I still felt cool. Not so much in the way that I was dressed, but the fact that I don’t slave in an office or a medical facility everyday. And, yeah, I got to see Slayer for free.

One guy actually asked me if there was good money in what I do. My “loving the craft, hating the money” routine made me feel like a bit of a liar. I didn’t want to mention Bill’s. This group seemed like the kind of urban money hip that someone of my caliber had to impress to make face.

One guy, Gary I think his name was, approached me and sat dawn.

“I love your sweatshirt,” he said. “I have Sunn amps at home. They’re awesome. Great sound.”

He was talking about my ever present and extremely cozy SUNN 0))) hoodie which rarely leaves my body when the temp is below 70. I had to explain.

“Actually this is the band SUNN, that, ironically uses Sunn amps, towers of them, so they just named themselves after their amplification. These guys are amazing.”

“What kind of music?”

“Drone metal. Very heavy, very slow. No drums. Just deafening power riffs. I blew a speaker because of these guys once. My bowels quiver when I see them live. Incredible. ”

Gary looked at me quizzing, probably not really getting what I was saying or, most likely, not caring. He looked as if he had a great collection of classic Kinks and Husker Du records at home and worked at some flashy web design company. As I talked to him more, I was proven right.

We sat and drank and talked and did shots and ate piles of hot wings. We had like three very hot and ample servers catering to our needs. This was the “man night” I needed after my debacle with Dave. I just needed a reason to be loud and drunky pants in public. Having a posse of like-minded fellows made it easy for me to have some fun and be stupid. Best part is, if I embarrass myself, I really didn’t know anyone so I was safe to run free and cry havoc in the streets.

One thing I couldn’t stop noticing was the strange crowd that drew itself to Hooters. Maybe because it was a Friday night, I don’t know, but what I saw astounded me.

Outside of the middle aged, mid west tourists and their children, for craps sake, there was a young Filipino couple, that looked as if they were on a date. The girl had on a nice dress and overcoat and the guy had on a tie, dress shirt and pressed slacks. The hostess sat them at a table near the bar, where other beer soaked goons were watching “the game” and gawking at barely legal tits, while the guy escorts her to her chair, takes her coat, pulls out the chair, a greasy looking “captains chair”, all very prim and proper for an elegant night out…at Hooters! Who takes a date to stupid Hooters?! Are you kidding me? This place is a disaster. I’m getting drunk, I am half erect and there’s extreme fighting on the tube with men wrestling on the ground teabagging the crap out of each others faces. And these guys are on a date. Unbelievable.

“Excuse me Steve, can you please pass the salt?”

“Why yes Lorna. You look ravishing. How’s your soggy chili burger and lite beer served in a goblet the size of a kiddie pool? Excellent. I love you.”

Luckily the beer flowed like a magic rainbow waterfall, hitting our tables at breakneck speed from the over attentive servers. I was mercifully getting plowed and finding myself hiding from the rest of the establishment, engaging in conversation and laughing at everyones jokes.

Finally, after ten thousand hot wings were eaten and about half of Milwaukee consumed, Lars announced that it was time to go. The idea was to bar hop all the way to Broadway where, you guessed it, we would hit a strip club. Dear god, I thought, give me the strength to handle big boobs in my face again. At least fully exposed ones that aren’t slightly hidden under a thin stretch of tee shirt. Amen.

The bar scene on lower Columbus is scarce at best. We hit a divey looking place, one that I always walk past but have yet to give patronage to, drank a pint each and headed out. It was playing Grateful Dead music and the patrons looked as if they hadn’t really survived the 60s or 70s and groaned at our youth and exuberance. Then it was a long walk where nothing was available. Just closed stores, dark restaurants and some bum peeing on his face.

“I have an idea,” I shouted to the gang. “Lets pick up some beer, head back to my place for a bit then go to the Crowbar which is in the middle of Broadway before we put dollar bills in g strings.”

“You live near here?” one guy asked.

“Yeah. Right up there. C’mon!”

We picked up two 12 packs of cheap beer, a bottle of Jack and headed over to the apartment. I also assured them that there was a pipe (Amanda’s, which I found in her sex toy emporium drawer) if they wanted to get high, which seemed to go over quite well.

The dozen or so of us entered the apartment and, luckily, no Khamish.

“Man, I love this guy,” I said.

We all cram into the bedroom and start drinking. Some guys bust out weed and start smoking. I remember that I have half an 8 ball left and retrieve it from the stash case, secretly, behind the TV and done with dexterity in my hoodie pocket. I head to the toilet room, do a few bumps, come back to life and return to the party.

I rifle through my massive CD collection and find Slayer’s Reign In Blood, which I throw on and pretty soon the apartment is filled with the opening thrash lick to “Angel of Death”. When Tom Araya’s signature high pitched demon howl wails on, the room is filled with guys screaming along. I start to feel so giddy I was about to burst.

The bedroom is filled with pot smoke so to make matters worse I bust out the fog machine and fill the space with ambient mist. Everyone laughs and gets into it.

The drinking continues, the music gets louder and pretty soon the beer is gone and the bottle of Jack is half consumed. I grab a flask I found in the kitchen and fill it with the whiskey. The group is more than ready for a strip joint or two and I prepare for the worst. I take a deep breath before locking the door behind us.

As we exit the door I am met with the old man from upstairs. He is standing right outside and looking upset.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he yelps.

I check my Iron Maiden watch. “It says 11:00 sir.”

“That’s right! What the hell is going on?”

With a throng of intoxicated bachelor party attendees behind me, followed by a waft of weed smoke, I explain the evenings itinerary to which he seems satisfied.

“Well, okay,” he says. “Just not that loud at this hour anymore. Okay?”

“Okee dokee.”

We then file out and I tell the story of Phil Collins being blasted from his place early one morning. That tale garnered many a laugh.

The group of guys were in that overly giddy loud talking, wobbling, feeling much too good mode. Even though I didn’t really know anyone, they took to me like a close buddy, especially post apartment rest stop. After Tahoe and Monterey, combined with everything else, this night was a needed expulsion of what little testosterone fueled idiocy I have crawling in my sensi-man child system. It was good to beat my chest with wild men again.

We hit Broadway which was twinkling along in it’s usual seedy way. The guys all stopped at the Garden Of Eden, which looked as if it needed to be sprayed for bugs. Some of the flashing lights were out, trash lined the entrance and a skinny tired looking girl with eyebrow piercings stood outside trying to “seduce” people to come in. She was smoking and looked at us like “oh great, another group of dumb drunk guys.” Yep, that’s us.
“
Dude,” I said, “let’s go to the Crowbar first. Drinks in here are probably ten dollars for a dixie cup of beer. I’m not ready for this yet.”

Some guys just wanted to go in and others agreed with me. Lars announced that it was “one beer, one shot” at the Crowbar and then into the depths of the Garden Of Eden we go. Why they wanted to go to that outlet of venereal critters lying in wait was beyond me.

It was a Friday night so both Casey and Genea were working the bar. When they saw me come in with a dozen guys, Casey said “What are you, Jesus now or something?” I took that as a high compliment. Being an absolute regular there Genea poured me an IPA and a Jager shot and sat them in front of me.

“Man,” Gary said, “Come here often?”

“Now and then,” I warbled.

The other guys all ordered beers and whiskey shots and when all was said and poured we raised our glasses to Lars and drank. It was strange to be in my local hangout with a big group of people. Genea and Casey knew me as the quiet guy that sits by the window, occasionally talking up my shows or engaging in social shots, but that was it. Luckily the guys were well behaved so I didn’t feel the need to go in the following day and apologize for their actions. Sure they were loud and drunk but that’s what the Crowbar is good for.

The one beer, one shot rule applied and after we paid and tipped generously we stumbled down to the Garden Of Eden.

There are a few “adult cabarets” on Broadway Street as mentioned before. There’s the upscale Playthings, which you are familiar with, Centerfolds, another high end titty bar, the Roaring 20s,  the Hungry-I where the Smother’s Brothers and other big acts from the 60 and 70s performed, long before it became a den of nipple depravity, and the Lusty Lady, which is down the street on Kearney and the first strip joint to go unionized. All of the above mentioned are either clean classy or a combo of the two. The Garden Of Eden looks as if the dark alley of Reno pooped out some flashing lights and put a front door on it inviting people in.

“Ten dollars each,” the haggard woman said as we approached the door.

“Ten bucks?” Lars yelled. “Why, because it’s Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Does that include two free drink tickets?”

“No.”

Begrudgingly we all forked over the cash to the girl, got our hands stamped and walked inside.

“It’s a good life, isn’t it?” I said as she stamped my lower wrist. She just raised her heavy eyes at me and creaked a sarcastic grin. I gave her the thumbs up and followed the boys.

What little knowledge and appreciation I have for strip clubs gave me warning for what I was about to be witness to again. The Roaring 20s (what I remember about it) was dark and casual and the girls were pleasant and attractive if not a little leaky. Playthings was the grand poobah of upscale, let for those clubs you read about rock stars and movie actors spending gobs of cash in. The place was clean, well lit, strong drinks and the girls were amazingly hot. Too hot in fact.

When I stepped into the Garden Of Eden I was immediately hit with what I thought was a cafeteria. The place was glowingly illuminated by intense florescent lights that tracked along the dirty ceiling above. At first I thought it was that bright because I was really drunk and rather coked up, but no. A car showroom has more restraint for flooding the product with lighting than this place.

Not to mention, it was set up like a cheap restaurant. There was a stage, sure, but it was really low to the ground with the saddest twinkling Christmas lights I had ever seen draped around it. There was just a smattering of chairs and tables, all of which must have came with the place when they turned it to a strip club from a deli. Sitting there were thuggish gang looking guys, none of whom seemed to be having fun, but rather had the expressions of students watching a film about the history of dirt in science class. The place was packed too. Loud bass driven hip hop boomed through crackling speakers. It was indeed Hell’s antechamber.

On the other hand, there was a downside. The girls were hideous. Lit from rows of cylindrical spotlights, they were a yawning, gyrating clutter of skeletal ghetto trash, most of which were either Black or Latino, all of which were stowaways on the SS Skankycrotch. Ribs stuck out from under droopy post nursing boobs and all of them wearing cheap thongs with the label visible and huge clear heeled shoes. I feared not only for my life but for my health and groin region.

“Hi baby,” one of the dancers said to us. She was a crooked tooth grinning black lady with yarny braids and a pot belly. “How y’all doin’ tonight?”

“Friggin’ awful,” I uttered. No one heard me, the music was too loud. We all converged to a table near the back, away from the gang guys and the swagger they gave us when a group of drunk white guys walked in. Most of the guys were brown and bald, wearing football jerseys and low brimmed baseball caps. It was about as far from a location that I ever wanted to even consider stepping foot in. It wasn’t a racial thing, far from it, but rather a “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your party fellas. Here, let me get up before the crabs set in” thing.

When I sat down I looked like a debutante riding the public bus for the first time. I did it slow, I made a grossed out face and didn’t touch a thing. Some guys were talking to servers to hopefully send over much needed alcohol. Or some morphine. A can of Lysol would have been welcome.

“Hi there,” said a dancer to me. She was white but still fit on with the others. Skinny, worked over with visible bruises and rocking a jacked up grill with random gold fillings.

“Hi,” I said back. She’s still a person you know, I am polite.

“How about a private dance sugar?”

I put both my hands in front of me and began waving them back and forth. “Oh no,” I said. “Oh, no no no! Not me. It’s him! He wants a dance!”

I pointed to Lars and explained that he was getting married then said I was a member of a secular religious group that allowed looking at nakedness but could not to in direct contact. It’s a metaphor for our Heaven, I said. Beautiful, just stay of the grass.

She walked away in a huff and hit up other members of the group. Soon, a tiny glass of beer was set in front of me. I took a sip. Flat. The Spanish Inquisition was a joyful barn dance compared to the Garden Of Eden.

Needing something to take the edge of, I went back to the men’s room to inhale some happiness. When I pushed the door open, I noticed the men’s room was packed with guys, all gangster looking, who glanced at me as if I had walked in on them doing something illegal. They were in a way, the room was heavy with pot smoke so I opted to go to the ladies room, after I smiled in fear and apologized.

I’ve done it before, going to the ladies room, usually at gay bars for their beer busts when I didn’t feel like walking in on some, um, “action”, so it’s no big deal. It’s just like a men’s room except no urinals and sometimes there’s a chair in the foyer. I opened the door, empty. So I went to a stall and locked the door behind me. After peeing I got my bag out, opened it and did a mighty snort. Bliss overcame me. So I went to do the other nostril.

“You gunna share that wit me ‘er what?”

It was a woman’s voice coming from the stall next to me. I didn’t check for legs or shoes when I walked in. I just figured the dancers had their own bathroom backstage in the kennel.

“Um…do what?” I said.

“I wunna hit of that good Columbian shit. Can I share it wif you?”

I didn’t know what to do, but one thing was for sure, I was caught. She could rat me out to one of the guards, who I couldn’t tell from the clientele, and have it taken away. I know that’s what they would do. I mean, I would.

Giving into the moment and panic, I relented and said I would. I exited the stall and waited for the lady to exit hers. There was a flush and emerging from the stall was a very tall black lady, not ugly like the others, but still “exotic”, with huge tight afro puffs, bikini top, short shorts and those ubiquitous clear heeled shoes. She also was the proud owner of some of the longest finger nails I had ever seen up close and not in some record book. All of them different colors. All of them could poke my eyes out with the precision of a cub scout at a marshmallow roast.

“What’s yo name?” she asked.

“Uh…Jim.” It’s all I could think of.

“Hi Jim, I’m Dream Baby.”

We shook hands. “Dream Baby?” I said. “That’s the coolest name I ever heard.”

“Now, what you doin’ in the ladies john Jim?”

“Um…” I searched for an answer, I found my bag. “This!”

Dream Baby extended her right pinky nail, which was at least four inches long and turned it over indicating she wanted me to pour some cocaine into it. Nervously I tapped in a good amount to which she purred before rasing it to her nose and sniffing it up. She closed her eyes and after a moment of silence Dream Baby let out a wild “Woo!”

“It’s good huh?” I said.

“Damn baby. Did you jus’ git back from Canada ‘cause this shit’s the shit?”

What is it with Canada and cocaine? “Uh no. I just have a good…”

“Hey!” a man’s voice echoed through the bathroom. “What are you doing in here?”

I turned around to see a very large, very thick Latino man, dressed all in black, standing in the doorway looking at me rather cross.

“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just that the men’s room was full so I thought I’d just…”

“Manny,” said Dream Baby, “this man wanted ta watch me pee.”

I turned to Dream Baby with a very surprised expression I’m sure. I just gave her drugs and now she was lying about me, basically turning me in. I quickly pocketed the bag knowing I would be either thrashed or searched. Most likely both.

“Sir,” said Manny, “you are going to have to leave the premises.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. I nodded my head, walked quickly to the door but then stopped before exiting.

“Why Dream Baby? Why?” I just had to ask.

“You look jus’ like my parole officer,” she said. “Fuck my parole officer!”

I ran out.

When I approached the area with the group I stopped, extended both of my arms and announced loudly, “Well guys it’s been fun! Gotta go!”.

Some of them were getting lapdances, others were just drinking and watching the spectacle, all of them turned to me as I made my announcement.

“Dude, what’s up?” Lars said as he stood.

Manny quickly came into the picture and put a thudding meaty hand on my shoulder.

“Can’t explain,” I said. I grabbed Lars’ arms and let out a twittering “Congratulations!” before Manny moved me in the direction of the door. Pretty soon I was back outside on Broadway.

“I don’t wanna ever see your face here again,” Manny demanded by pointing at me.

“Best news I’ve heard all day!” I said with a smile. I bowed deep and then briskly jaunted over back to the Crowbar, almost skipping.

“Where’s that group of guys?” Genea asked.

“Getting meningitis,” I said.

* * *

It was a strange October night at Bill’s. Jack had left early for undisclosed reason, Hal was the closing bartender, Danika was the server and I was manning the outside. The inside crowd was lively and fun, most of them pretty young mixed in with the usual lot of drunken fishermen and tourbook scanning visitors. Since the outside was chilly and sparse with business, I hung out inside and chatted with Hal and Danika. Hal even let me take a few customers when he and Danika went outside to smoke. Iggy was working the kitchen which meant the beer and cocaine flowed freely. All of us were in uncommonly good spirits while working.

As I stood behind the inside bar, talking to customers and putting on my funny bartender routine to earn more tips, a girl walked in.

Appearing to be in her late 20s, the girl had shoulder length brown hair, brand new, vintage looking sweater and skirt and was extremely cute. I think I did a double take when she walked in.

“Hi,” I said as she sat down. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she cooed. Most guys at the bar stopped what they were doing and sat upright or cleared their throats when she entered and sat down. This girl just had that effect. “Wow,” she said, “you certainly have a lot of beers on tap.”

“Eighty,” I replied. “Just, uh, please don’t ask me to name them all. Because well…just pick the prettiest tap.”

She smiled a toothy smile which made my knees buckle a bit. I am not kidding you, they sort of gave out. She was this pretty and the smile didn’t help.

“I’ll take the one with the big shark on it,” she said. “Is it good?”

“It’s a white ale,” I said. “Kinda like a pale ale meets a stout. In fact it’s called Great White…hence the big shark. Clever huh?”

The girl decided to try it without a sample. I poured it and she took the first sip like a seasoned professional, which wasn’t a sip at all but rather a deep long pull. Had my future wife just stepped into the bar?

When Hal and Danika got back Hal nudged me away after seeing the girl.

“There’s, uh, customers outside,” he said.

I went back outside, into the cold, where a few evening strollers were taking in the sights and the music coming from the small stage. Dale was at the bar, almost falling asleep, along with an older German couple.

“Is so cold,” the lady said. “But it is California. Where is sun and beach?”

“Los Angeles,” I said.

“You just missed it,” came a voice. It was the girl. She came and sat at the outside bar. “We just had an amazing Indian summer. Eighty degrees everyday. Next time you visit plan your trip around that.”

The couple just nodded and drank their Budweiser.

“Do you work around here?” I asked. I had to say something, you know, make polite conversation before I jumped over the bar, picked her up and took her back to the apartment to make sweet, sweet love to her.

“Yeah, just around the corner. The John Deere store. I’m Leah by the way.”

“The John Deere store?” I asked. “Like, you sell tractors and lawnmowers and such? You don’t seem the type.”

“No silly,” she said as one hand rummaged through her purse, “it’s like a John Deere gift store. All things John Deere. Tee shirts, wall clocks, little tractor replicas. Stuff like that.”

“Awesome.”

“Say, you don’t smoke do you?” she asked. Rats! The perfect woman had my least favorite habit. Oh well. I like heavy metal and do cocaine so…I’ll call it even.

“I do,” grumbled Nick. He shakily retrieved a pack of Camels from his jacket pocket, got out two and handed the girl one. He put the other between his lips and lit both cigarettes with a lighter.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. I’m Nick by the way. I’m the pastry chef at that place over there.” He pointed to the seafood restaurant.

“Cool,” Leah said. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Huh?”, I snapped. “Oh, it’s Mark.”

“That’s Metal Mark to you,” joked Nick. “This guys a DJ on the radio and everything.”

Acting humble on the outside I couldn’t thank NIck enough on the inside inside. Maybe Leah thinks DJs are cool. Heck, everyone thinks DJs are cool, right? I do. When I was a kid my hero was Dr. Johnny Fever on WKRP In Cincinnati. Now I’m like him…sort of. Except for the beard and sunglasses bit. I don’t even think if I own a pair of sunglasses.

“Oh yeah?” said Leah. “Where do you DJ?”

“Um, up at the 540 Club on Clement a few times a month and on KUSF every Saturday. Well, officially it’s Sunday since we’re on from 2am to 8am.”

“Wow, that’s pretty tough,” she said as she smoked. To be honest with you, I was kinda turned on by her smoking. I hate that habit more than creepy people standing next to me in line at the bank, but something about her allowed me to let it slide and just admire the view. “Do you do a lot of drugs?”

“Ah ha,” I nervously muttered. “Uh, no. Just a lot of Red Bull and beer.”

Leah stayed at Bill’s for a while. In fact, when I was done and clocked out, she was still at the bar inside. A collection of guys had circumvented her and she looked a little tipsy. Her perfect apple cheeks were rosy and glowing. So, not having anything to do that night, I bellied up to the bar and grabbed a beer.

“Metal Mark!” Leah shouted as I sat next to her. “Come join us. This guy is about to do a stuntman shot!”

Hal told me about these things but I hadn’t seen one actually done yet. A younger guy, fairly normal and fraternal looking, took the challenge of the stuntman shot. What it involves is you snorting salt, shooting the shot of tequila and squeezing the lime into your eye. I had a feeling that Hal brought up the challenge, which usually gets flat out turned down, and all Leah had to do was bat her eyes and get the drunkest single guy to do it.

The man stood up, he snorted the bump of salt on his hand, shot back the tequila before squeezing lime juice into his right eyeball, which was really a series of eye lid flutters and screams of pain. When it was over, the bar erupted in applause and the guy smiled with a drippy red eye to show for it.

After Leah was done clapping she turned to me and we clinked glasses which was kind of odd. After taking a big sip she set her empty glass down and looked at me.

“Come with me,” she said. “I wanna show you something.”

Leah then grabbed my right arm and lead me out of the bar. I turned back to look at Hal and smile roguishly. He just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The John Deere store was literally right around the corner from Bill’s in the Cannery. The place had a sign out front that I had never noticed before and the store was filled with boxes and building material that could be seen from the large front window. We went to the main entrance door, Leah unlocked it and we stepped inside.

“This is it,” she said with arms outstretched. “My life from now on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that as manager I am in charge of everything. I eat, sleep and shit John Deere right now.” Leah then turned and gave me a pouty look. “I know you’re jealous.”

“I am actually. I’d rather have you as a boss than the demon that owns Bill’s”

“Let me guess,” she said. Leah was obviously giddily lit up. “His name is…Bill,” she said poking me in the chest.

“Nope. Jack.”

Leah then snorted out a laugh and doubled over. “Then why not just call the place ‘Jack’s’?”

“Because,” I explained, “Jack is the devil and Bill’s is the strangest place I have ever received a paycheck from. Hang out long enough and you’ll see.”

Not knowing Leah at all, she seemed like she was in a particularly woozy and playful mood. I didn’t mind at all. In fact, she was making me a bit woozy. As I perused the vast collection of John Deere doohickeys and whatnots, Leah approached me and put a children’s book in my face.

“Check this out,” she said. “It’s called Timmy’s Tiny Tractor. Isn’t that the cutest thing you have ever seen?”

It kinda was. It was new but illustrated as if it were from the 50s. I don’t know how she zoned in on me and somehow found my deep love for kids literature but something about me must say big kid trapped in lumbering adult body, here read this children’s book.

Leah then lead me to the back area where some chairs were set up around a small table with to-go coffee cups, brown lunch bags and invoices scattered on.

“I want you to read it to me,” she said.

“Um. Okay.”

I held the book up like teachers did in kindergarten when it was story time; book opened so she could see the pictures while I leaned in and read the story. It was a happy tale of a farmer’s kid, Timmy, and how he desperately wanted a tractor of his own. His dad, being the mechanical wizard that he is, built Timmy a, you guessed it, tiny tractor. One day Timmy was off playing by the brook when, whoops!, the tractor fell in. It took all of Timmy’s might and will to get it out and when he finally did, the tractor didn’t work. He wheeled it back, fixed it himself and discovered that he too was a mechanical whiz. Years later, Timmy took the farm over and had a son of his own. Yup, he gave his tiny tractor to his son and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Leah clapped. “That was awesome. You’re a good storyteller. Little voices and everything.”

“Yeah,” I said closing the book. “Little voices. I used to work in children’s publishing. Briefly. Long time ago. Guess I picked up a knack for it.”

Leah was silent for a moment just looking at me. I let her. Mainly because I was looking back. Through half drunken and still searching eyes, Leah was one of the most attractive girls I had hung out with in a while. I as if something was going on.

“How about another beer and shot before I head home?,” she said.

“I couldn’t think of anything better,” I announced with a big grin.

We went back to Jack’s and ordered up a round of red headed slut shots and two more beers. We talked the whole time about our jobs, the music we like, our time in San Francisco and so forth, vacillating between the inside and out so she could smoke. I didn’t even notice her lighting up. I was just concentrating on how to ask her out.

About 1am she asked for a reliable cab service and dialed up the number.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“In Hayes Valley,” Leah answered.

“Um…do you think I could hitch a ride up the street to my place? It’s kind of on the way.”

As Leah gave directions to the person on the other end she gave me a whispered “Sure”. Hey, I wanted to make the moment last as long as I could.

About a half hour later (and another round of shots) a cabbie comes in looking for us. We climb in the back, tell him where we are going and he starts driving up Columbus to the apartment.

“You’re a really cool guy Mark,” Leah said, “and fucking funny. I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

“Well thanks,” I said. “You have nice elbows. And have all of your teeth from what I gather. Not bad.”

Leah started laughing then leaned in and kissed me. It was a small peck but it sent a fireball up my body. I wanted more. I leaned into her and kissed her, this one lasting a bit longer. Afterwards, she rested her head on my shoulder.

When we got to the apartment I handed her ten bucks which she refused saying that it was because of me we got so many free drinks. I pocketed the bill and said goodnight. Leah then grabbed my face, pulled me in and we kissed again. I was about to ask her out but I was so speechless and dizzy all I could do was mumble something like “You…have…safe…” and exit. The cab drove off and I stood there watching it head down the street.

I laid on the bed thinking that perhaps I had finally met someone I could be not only fully attracted to but hang out and share similar interests with. That was a rare emotion. I didn’t really know what to do with it. So I just let it lull me to sleep with a dopey grin on my blushing face.

* * *

The next day I left the apartment a little early to give Leah a visit. If she greeted me warmly and with a smile I’d ask her out. If she cursed me for being her drinking buddy because she woke up with a stinging hangover, I’d ask her out. Basically, I wanted to ask Leah out on a date. That was that.

When I got to the John Deere store she was busy inside with guys still building shelves and what looked like training two girls to work the register. I knocked on the big window and waved.

Leah looked back and gave me a small wave, looking as if I had interrupted her. I began to walk away not wanting to intrude when she gave me the “one second” finger gesture. So I waited by the door for her to come out.

“Hi,” she said opening the door.

“Hello yourself.”

“Look,” Leah began closing the door behind her, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

Oh boy, I thought. She doesn’t waste time. She is going to ask me out. Oh happy day!

“Yeah sure.”

“Uh, last night,” she started, “was a bit of a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Oh that’s okay. I didn’t mind. I rather liked it actually.”

“No it’s just…” Leah slumped her head for a bit before bringing it back up and looking at me apologetically. “I have a boy friend.”

My heart sunk. My head began to hurt. I turned cold. Crap!

“What?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s actually moving out here to be with me. I mean, move in with me. It’s complicated. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

Well you did lady. Thanks a lot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will now go hang myself with the rope of lonely geeky sensi-boy romantics. I knew she was too good to be true. I just had high hopes is all. Sucks.

“It’s okay. I understand,” I lied. “We can still be pals right? Hang out now and then?”

“Of course,” she said perking up. “Don’t hate me okay?”

“No way,” I said backing away. “I gotta go. If you have a chance swing by and say hi. You know where to find me.”

Feeling as if I had played it off pretty well I walked over to Jack’s and silently set up the bar. Even though business was brusk, I barely spoke a word to anyone. Your jolly metalhead comic relief bartender is on vacation people. Meet Mr. Poopypants. I’ll be here all day, sighing and wanting to go back to bed and pull the covers over his face.

XVI.

Halloween was approaching and I wanted to do something special at the club. Seeing as the 540 Club was holding a “Zombie Prom” on the 31st and I didn’t have a show till November 3rd, I began making flyers and ads for that day.

My idea was to have a night of nothing but Doom Metal. If you are unfamiliar with Doom Metal just think of the slowest and heaviest metal you can imagine and there you go. Bands like Electric Wizard, Neurosis, Isis, Goatsnake, Boris, Unearthly Trance, Khanate, Burning Witch and so on was going to be on my agenda, along with classic Sabbath, Trouble, St. Vitus and the like. Look these guys up to get an idea of what I was planning, if you don’t know already. It was a risky endeavor but since the grey clouds and bitter fall cold was the everyday norm I figured I’d give it a shot.

One thing I wanted to do was get a second fog machine. The one I was working with was great but I wanted a second smaller one to put behind me to create a wall of fog. I purchased a smaller version of the big one I had at a Halloween shop downtown and it seemed to work pretty well. I also doubled up on skull candle holders, creepy props and got a black hooded robe. Like Jason Vogel said, if you’re gonna go, go all the way!

Outside of Reckless Radio, Rusty Trombone also was an accomplished graphic designer and he agreed to make some flyers for me. Taking images from old Italian witchfinder films, Rusty produced a few amazing flyers for me which I printed out and copied well over 1,000. My plan was to hit the city with these things and to distribute them at the SUNN 0))) concert on Halloween at Slim’s.

SUNN 0))) is probably the zenith of Doom Metal. No drums, just dueling ultra heavy and vibratory guitars, methodically churning out the slowest and densest riffs I have ever heard. Power, ambient, drone Doom Metal that only a chosen few can appreciate and understand. I am fortunate to be one of them. A speaker once gave out because of SUNN 0))) on my stereo. It was a proud moment.

Jerrod stopped by the club on one of my “White Trash Wednesdays” shows, a show right before Halloween. I hadn’t seen him in a while.

“Dude,” he said leaning into me as I blasted Grim Reaper’s “See You In Hell”, probably one of the funniest songs that had ever been written, “are you going to the SUNN show?”

“Of course,” I yelled back. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Good. We should go together. I know of a killer party up in the Castro that night. Epic!”

We made tentative plans for Halloween before ducking down behind the booth and doing loads of heavy duty bumps.

Being a total Halloween fanatic (second only to my obsession with Christmas) I usually have my costume planned and ready by early October. This year was different. Seeing as I didn’t have a girlfriend or a steady group of friends to go out with, I really didn’t plan anything. Since I had the hooded robe I decided to go with that. I mean, I was going to a SUNN 0))) concert and promoting a Doom Metal night so I figured I’d better play the part. I bought some black and white makeup and wanted to do my face like the guys in Black Metal bands do. “Corpse paint” as they like to call it. Just…look it up.

The days leading up to Halloween were spent trying to promote my Doom Metal night. I hit up every record store, alternative café, rock and roll bar, hip clothing store, music store, head shop, occult and “magick” shop, tattoo parlors and internet community boards across San Francisco. By the 31st, I had maybe 150 flyers left out of 1,000. Plus I put up ads on every free event web site and chatted about it on the radio show. I did all I could, now it was up to Jamie to do his part.

Every Wednesday the Guardian and The Weekly come out, the two big San Francisco free newspapers. The 540 Club has ads in both of them and when I flipped through both I was shocked to not see my night being promoted. I took that as both a hint that Jamie was done with my Metal Nights and wanted to see if I could bring a draw in on my own. If what I did with the flyers and internet wasn’t enough I wouldn’t blame him for axing my Saturday nights. It was a strange concept that demanded stranger methods for getting people in.

Jerrod and I had made plans to meet up at the bar across from Slim’s for a pre show beer. By the time he arrived I was on number three.

“Dude it is fucking madness out there,” he said, “sorry I’m late.”

San Francisco is huge on Halloween and every year the city tries to shut down the annual costumed sardine mash that is the Castro. If Halloween is an excuse for girls to dress slutty then it is also an excuse for gay men to don fetish gear and dress in drag. The Castro teems with people every Halloween and I stopped going a few years back. Last time I went I witnessed a beating, vomiting, out of town and inexperienced girls crying, a group of frat boys walking through yelling “Fag!” and a guy giving head to another guy in a doorway, all while being huddled together and slowly moving like drunken cattle. I was done with it.

“So where’s this party?” I asked.

“Like at Castro and Market. Like right in the middle of all that bullshit .”

Oh no.

I hit up Rascon’s the day before and was fully stocked. Jerrod too had his own. Before going to Slim’s we ducked into the men’s room at the bar, sat side by side in stalls and snorted our stuff while I told the sordid tale of Leah. Ah togetherness.

“That sucks dude,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”

“No, she’s cool man. It’s just…I don’t know. Maybe I should be a monk.”

Jerrod was costumed fairly similar to me. He had a white kabuki looking mask on but worn upside down, dressed all in black and wore black gloves with bones on them. We were as doomy as doomy could be.

There was a huge crowd outside Slim’s and I began to hand out flyers to anyone that looked mildly interested. Doom Metal fans are in that “everyday is Halloween” faction, so there wasn’t a lot of costumes. One guy though was dressed as Bert with an Ernie doll attached to his crotch in feigned oral copulation. That was interesting.

The SUNN 0))) show was beautiful and deafening but made me realize something. Doom Metal is not good company with cocaine. If I was stoned out of my mind, tripping on some kind of hallucinogen or even just drunk I’m sure the experience would be heightened, but seeing as Jerrod and I made bathroom visits after every opening band I was wired and ready to party. An hour of heavy droning guitars slowly plodding over my twittering body made me a bit antsy. You can’t even really headbang to SUNN 0))). You just stand there and take it in.

Afterwards Jerrod and I stood outside handing out the last bit of flyers to exiting concert goers. Within minutes I was out.

“Well,” I said, “that’s it. No more flyers. Now we just have to wait and see who bites.”

Getting a cab at midnight on Halloween around 11th Street in San Francisco was impossible. Other venues such as the Transmission Theater, Butter, DNA lounge and so forth also had big shows and events going on and all of them within mere feet of one another. Jerrod and I, fueled by ear numbing Doom Metal, began to walk to the Castro figuring we would somehow be saved by a cab or at least a passing Muni train. None came. So by the time we hit 16th Street, knowing we were near the party, we hit up a liquor store, bought two 40 oz bottles of Lazer and drank on our way to the big party he kept talking about.

“Should be off the hook man,” Jerrod said. “This dude is like a trust fund kid but then struck it rich during the dot com thing. Fucker has more money than he knows what to do with.”

“Sounds perfect. How do you know him?”

“He’s the one I buy my coke from.”

“Ah.”

By the time we neared Castro Street we were becoming two floating turds in a sea of elaborate costumes and ravaging party goers. The neighborhood was a screaming forest of Halloween enthusiasts, or at least those who came out wearing exotic clothes looking for excuses to run wild in the streets and seek out abject intoxication. When we hit Castro we were met with police barricades and cops in riot gear, all holding back the hypnotic throng of wandering outfitted looky-loos and outrageous show offs.

At first some cop told us we couldn’t go in but after we explained that our party was on Castro and we were running late…he still didn’t let us in. Jerrod showed him the invite with the address and after some bargaining and telling him we would be on the street for “just a second” he finally gave in and moved a barricade aside for us.
Moving around the Castro Street Halloween conclave, one has to be either a slithery snake maneuvering among the throng like raindrops or just give in and let the mob rules slow motion shuffle take hold. This is no turf for barreling thugs looking to break through the wall of participants. 7 foot tall trannys can take down any muscle headed galoot with a swift chop of their faux Manolo pump.  Jerrod and I were on a mission. Rather drunk and high, we opted for the slithery snake move and soon, hunkering down and contorting, we wriggled through the party goers as if dodging rain drops.

The guy’s house, literally, is in the heart of the Castro. I mean, right at Market and Castro. A huge two level Victorian home where trannys and trouble makers convened on the stoop.

“Is this guy gay?” I asked.

“Who cares? Fucker is loaded, “ Jerrod answered. “I doubt it because last time I was here there was a bunch of hot chicks out back in the Jacuzzi. But…they could have been dudes.”

“Could have been. What’s his name?”

“Terry.”

We showed the big guy guarding the door the invite, told him who we were and after he called up someone to confirm (the guard looked like one of the door dudes from Bounce; black clothes, headset and all, this guy must be wealthy) we were finally let in.

I can’t tell you what Terry’s place looked like because it was crawling with people, all done up in clever and elaborate costumes. Loud dance music boomed from a DJ set up in the huge living room, which was decorated like a disco; mirrorball, flashing lights and everything. We made our way down the long hall, maneuvering past people much like those that were on the street, and found our way into the kitchen. A self serve bar was set up in the corner and Jerrod and I made a concoction of tequila, rum and cranberry juice. We decided to call it Satan’s Nutcluster. Why? I have no idea, but it tasted terrible and kept us on that level of naughty drunk.

Outside, in the sprawling backyard, were even more people, another DJ and a bar with two bartenders running back and forth and pouring drinks at breakneck speed.

“This party must have cost your friend a fortune,” I shouted over the din. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Let’s try and find Terry.”

Even though the drinks were strong and gross, we downed them and poured two more. Afterwards, we went in search of the famous Terry.

Upstairs was roped off with yet another guard standing by it. Jerrod told him who he was, who I was, then another call on the headset and we were soon allowed to go up.

The second floor was calmer yet still cluttered with people. This was the VIP lounge, if you will, of the party. People up here were composed and polite, all done up in flashy outfits and fur and partying on a more refined manner. It was really surreal.

“Jerrod! What’s up man?” cried some guy. Dressed up as a doctor in scrubs and a lab coat with a nametag that read “Dr. Howie Feltersnatch”, he approached Jerrod and gave him a hug.

“What’s up Terry,” said Jerrod. “This is my buddy Metal Mark.”

“Metal Mark!”, shouted Terry in excitement. “What’s up? Welcome to the party!”

“Thanks Terry. Beautiful home you have here.”

We shook hands and he took the compliment in stride. “C’mon in,” he said leading us to a door, “the real party is in here.”

Terry opened the door to reveal a large bedroom with a few people, mostly attractive girls, sitting on the bed and on the floor. In the center of the room, on a large round table, was a bong, bags of weed and a large square mirror with fat lines of blow on it. I shuttered a bit and started to salivate.

“Help yourselves,” said Terry.

Immediately Jerrod and I sat close to the coke, talked up some of the girls politely before diving right in. I did two huge lines right away. That put me further into the ether, making me feel like the king of the universe.

I just found it strange that Jerrod knew a guy like Terry. Here we were, in some rich coke dealers house, on Halloween, in the center of the Castro, doing lines of premium blow surrounded by half dressed hot girls. Yeah, there were a few guys in the room but they were in drag or wearing leather bondage gear. Terry, it seemed, like to float both ways.

“So what do you do?” asked an attractive dark skinned girl dressed up like a cat. A hot cat that is.

“I’m a DJ,” I said. “And I write for magazines.”

“That’s awesome,” she said in fraudulent approval. “I work down at Mister S’s leather shop. You should come by for a fitting.”

“Like what? A codpiece? Yeah, here’s my fitting: extra small. Do you have a juniors department?”

“A what? No. We only cater to adults.”

This girl was dumb and really loaded. She wasn’t getting my joke.

“So you’re saying there is a place here in the city that does leather work for kids?” I asked.

“Huh? Why would kids wear leather outfits?”

“Gee, you know, start ‘em early. I know I would. I’d name him ‘Daddy’ too just to facilitate the process.”

The girl just stared at me with glassy unfocused eyes then went to talk to some girls next to her.

“You were close,” Jerrod said leaning in, “but I don’t think girls like her appreciate ironic humor.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Oh well. Happy Halloween!”

We hung out upstairs until we had our fill with idiotic conversation and cocaine. I was wired. I could feel the hair on my body growing. Getting to the point of having to move around and party, I got Jerrod to come with me and participate, somehow, in the elaborate house soiree.

When we got downstairs the party was in such full swing we could barely manage moving our way through the wall of bodies. If they weren’t dancing they were standing in thick groups, smoking and carrying on. The place was really loud with intense techno dance music and really beginning to stink of sweaty bodies and drugs. I screamed into Jerrod’s ears that we should make our way outside for air and the bar.

“There’s a hot tub too!” he shouted.

“No thanks! I’ve had crabs once and I don’t want anything that’s been cooking in there all night! Plus I left my trunks and snorkel at home!”

The outside area was just as packed as the inside. People dressed up in all sorts of costumes, some good, some thrown together at the last minute and a lot of men in drag. We literally climbed over people on the stairs to reach the bar on the large patio. Terry’s place continued to amaze me. I had been to this area of the Castro many times and never knew this existed. Guy must be the king of the Castro or something.

We got to the bar and found ourselves standing behind a couple of normal looking girls. Well, normal being that they were in costume and didn’t look like men trying to look like girls or a gaggle of freaky goth chicks or lesbians dressed as men. They appeared to be our age, one was dressed as a Smurf, another a spider lady (with four spider arms attached to hers and moved with her movements), Princess Leia in the gold slave girl outfit and Ponch from “CHiPs”. I had to say something.

“I don’t see the skirt so which Smurf are you?”

The girl lifted an enormous fake joint, bigger than any Cheech and Chong routine and said “I’m Stoney Smurf.”
“Awesome.”

“And what are you? The Kabuki Reaper?”

“I guess. This is the first year I just threw something together. We were at a doom metal show earlier so…going as a Fraggle would be frowned upon. Although I wish I had gone as Gargamel now.”

The girl just smiled.

Jerrod was talking to the other girls and had spider lady next to him with her left arms, all four of them, holding his back. This guy was amazing. And fast too.

“How’d you get in?” Stoney Smurf asked.

“Uh, my buddy Jerrod knows Terry.”

“Who’s Terry?”

“The guy that owns this house. The guy that is throwing the party.”

“Oh. I don’t know him. Cherie knows like the DJ so we just got in. I don’t know anyone. Except you now.”

“Which one is Cherie?”

“Ponch.”

“Cool.”

After grabbing drinks and doing a social shot of something called a Rabid Monkey, we all went to the lawn area to hang out and chat. Stoney Smurf girl was actually really cool and, what I could muster from the thick blue paint, pretty cute too.

“So what’s your name?” she asked.

“Mark. Metal Mark. I’m a DJ at KUSF and at the 540 Club on Clement.”

“Cool. What kind of music?”

“Um, Metal. Heavy Metal.”

She let out a laugh that almost had her spit her drink at me. “No way,” she said. “That’s bad ass man.”

“What’s your name?”

“Pilar.”

The six of us were all chatting and getting to know one another, especially Pilar and myself, when suddenly Cherie, aka Ponch, made a suggestion.

“Do you guys wanna take this party upstairs? I hear they have all kinds of party favors up there.”

Oh no, I thought. I just came from that bedroom den of drug profusion. But there I was, walking up the stairs, over the bodies, through the tangled mess in the house, going back upstairs and back into Terry’s bedroom. The room had grown thick with people and the reek of pot smoke gave me an immediate contact high.
“All right,” said Pilar. “Stoney Smurf is in the mutha fuckin’ house!”

The five of them go right for the large communal bong on the table. I, on the other hand, go right for the blow that some guy, dressed as a pimp or 70s dirtbag or something, was crushing and lining up.

“Hey there death man,” he said. “Help yourself. Might as well because, shit…you’re already dead!”

The guys and girls around him started laughing like crazy. It wasn’t that funny. At all. But seeing as I was about to do lines of his supply I giggled too before leaning in and snorting it up.

After the second line I knew something was wrong. This stuff went down like baking powder and tasted like gasoline. I immediately held back a gag and felt as if I was going to be sick. I sat there, pretending to be having fun while dying on the inside. Maybe this isn’t coke, I thought. Maybe I had just inhaled something worse. Heroin? No, that can’t be it. I thought heroin made you feel euphoric and dreamy. I was definitely feeling buzzed. Almost too much. I knew then I had done too much and I tried drinking to calm the effects.

That only made it worse. When the alcohol went down I was hit with a feeling of such nausea all I could do was stand up and prepare for the worst.

“What’s wrong death man?” asked the guy. “Did somebody die down in that hot tub? Or maybe…”

I didn’t hear what he had to say. Seeing an open window I ran to it, stuck my head out and started violently vomiting. I mean I think I saw my shoes come out. It was incredibly forceful and it just wouldn’t stop. Midway through my second heave I made a horrible discovery.

The window was directly over the stairwell and I was puking on a lot of people. By the third heave I had created a panic wave of evacuating party goers, all trying to leap over one another to avoid getting waterfalled by my sick. I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t move. It was far worse than having to stop mid stream peeing; this was the motherload kids. After five successful, open flood gates vomiting, I stopped and sat down under the window.

The room was a mess of people looking at me in disgust and others trying to get out. People outside the room were looking in. I felt better while at the same time just plain awful.

“Dude,” Jerrod said, “are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I sputtered. “Sittin’ on a rainbow man. Jiminy Crickets. What happened?”

“Too much man. You over did it. Shit…those people are pissed.”

Outside I could hear screams and yells of protest from my bile offering. Not only was I incredibly ill but I was now the most hated man at the party and would most likely get my butt pummeled. That’s when Terry, followed by a group of people, came storming in.

“Who the fuck just puked?” he yelled. “What fucking asshole just puked all over my fucking party?”

Everyone was silent, which I thought was strange, so I raised my arm slowly.

“It was me Terry,” I said. “I think it was the pate.”

“Get up and get the fuck out!”

I didn’t have to get up. Two big guys ran over to me, grabbed me by the arms, stood me up, carried me down the stairs and to the front door. On the way there some people were shouting “fucking ass hole” and the like as I went by. Before I knew it I was on the stoop and the door slammed behind me. The big security man outside must have gotten word about me.

“You gotta leave buddy,” he said. “And you can’t ever come back.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “But can you do me a favor? Can you get Pilar’s phone number for me? She’s the one dressed like a Smurf. Okay. Thanks.”

He just stared and slowly shook his head.

I made my way back onto the Castro, where the crowds were beginning to thin from police threats and a curfew. I started walking down Market Street, toward North Beach, not looking forward to the long trek home. Feeling optimistic, I held out my left arm as I walked in hopes for a cab. By the time I got to Geary, a good half mile, a cab stopped.

“Thank you sir,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You are most welcome,” he said in some unrecognizable accent. “Crazy night huh?”

“You could say that,” I uttered.
Soon I was back at the apartment and after a lengthy shower I collapsed on the bed, listening to the waning gasps of Halloween debauchery down on the street. I turned on the TV and caught the last half of The Exorcist.

Linda Blair had nothing on me.

XVII.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect for my Doom Metal show. The fog in early November was thicker than triple steeped Earl Grey tea, just damper and colder. I figured since it was a Saturday night and being so chilly, grim and right after Halloween, that it should bring the people to my show and bask in all things slow and heavy. Or maybe I was just kidding myself.

To go along with the music I rented a bunch of bizarre Italian witchfinder films to be projected above the DJ area. Sometimes I bring in old bad movies from the 80s and 70s to go along with my show that coincides with the season or holiday. Around St. Patrick’s Day I brought in “Darby O’ Gill and the Little People” and “Leprechaun in the Hood”, for summer I played loads of bad beach and camp fare like “The Van”, “Blood Beach”, “Up the Creek”, “Roller Boogie”, “Joysticks” and the like. For my back to school special I screened “3 o’ Clock High”, “Real Genius” and “Revenge of the Nerds”. You get the picture.

After setting large black candles on each table, warming up both fog machines and placing the black light in front of a foam headstone with DJ Metal Mark written in dripping blood-like florescent paint, I was set.  At 10pm I turned all the lights off in the booth and Brooks lowered the house lights as much as possible which was fine since the bar and tables were lit up by tea lights in small skull holders. She was always a good sport about my dumb shows. Wearing that black cloak and with the right mood going, I started off with SUNN 0)))’s “Richard”, which is a throbbing heavy ambient piece and blasted the fog machines. Soon the bar was filled with the same atmosphere as the outside provided and the half filled club hooted and hollered in approval.

Under SUNN 0)))’s riff torture I mixed in Ralph Stanley’s “O Death” from the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack and it worked perfectly. Afterwards I faded into Electric Wizard’s “Return Trip” and my doom show was officially underway.

“You gonna play any Saxon tonight?”

OK, Metal Mark had a part fan / part heckler in a regular. He was a normal looking guy, 30 something, usually in some kind of dress shirt and couture leather jacket, with short cropped hair and rather tall. This guy loved the metal band Saxon and would request them all the time. Luckily I had their greatest hits and some random CDs of theirs so when he requested them I would play a tune to which he would come back mid song and say something like “This isn’t the song I wanted to hear” or “Why are you playing this one?” So it was good to have an excuse to not play them, even though I like Saxon a lot.

“Doubt it,” I said. “It’s my Doom show tonight. If you know of any heavy doom or stoner rock you wanna hear I’ll play it. But, I kind of have a playlist going so…”

“You got any Hell-O-Ween?”

“I do. But not with me. Not slow and heavy enough.”

“Are you telling me Hell-O-Ween isn’t heavy enough?”

“No, it’s not that…it’s just…you know, this is a concept show.”

The guy seemed satisfied with my answer but not amused. He took a few Relapse stickers I had laid out and left with a frowny face.

Luckily most of the songs were quite long so bathroom blow breaks were easy. When Jerrod showed up with some friends we would go en masse to the john and do the stuff. Like I said before, doom metal and cocaine are not a great match, but seeing as I had to hold up for four hours playing dirge like metal and the fact that I was drinking it came in handy.

“Just don’t puke on me,” Jerrod said. Ha ha, very funny.

Close to 1am the club was full. Jamie came up to me and said that people were actually into it, albeit a little confused. He just explained to those who inquired that it was our “post Halloween metal show” and that got most of them to accept the low lights, candles, fog, stark movies and heavy music. I thought the place looked and sounded great. I was having fun.

That’s when the club got bombarded by a very large and very feisty club crawl. As I mentioned earlier, the 540 Club is smack dab in the middle of a stretch of popular Irish and dive bars and the inner Richmond is prone to large groups of pub crawlers. This lot actually had laminates with names of each bar (including ours) with boxes next to them to be checked off after the visit.

In a matter of seconds the 540 went from sort of full to ridiculously busy. At least 30 to 40 pub crawlers descended on the place which had a maximum capacity of maybe 90 to 100 patrons at once. Remember my first show? Yeah, the fire department said there was close to 150 people crammed inside. Awesome. Even through the thick fog and loud music, I could see them clamor around the bar and hear their boisterous banter.

Then, I got hit.

Running into the DJ area and crowding around me were at least a dozen young and attractive girls, all very drunk and looking as if they had just been initiated at a high ranking sorority.

“Oh my god,” one of them said, “do you have any Black Eyed Peas?”

“Uh…no,” I said.

“Disco! Can you play some disco at least?” another demanded.

“Um…”

“If I don’t hear some funk right now I’m swear I will kill someone,” another threatened.

“What about Michael Jackson?”

You have to see the hilarity of this moment. Here they were, fresh faced and privileged, all in little cute skirts and expensive tops jumping around like drunken and bubbly squirrels, demanding to hear top 40 dance fare while I was dressed in a black hooded cloak, surrounded by black tallow candles, engulfed in fog and playing extremely heavy music with dour Italian cult horror flickering above me. It was a moment I will always treasure.

“Ladies,” I explained, “this is our doom metal show. I don’t have Michael Jackson with me. I left it at home. Sorry but…I didn’t bring the funk.”

Sure they were disappointed and, sure, they tried to get me to stop so they could put money in the jukebox and dance, which didn’t work, but they were so lit up and giddy that they just huddled around the bar, did their requisite drink and shot and were soon gone. The place was once again veiled in dark and bleakness after being quickly invaded by hot barely legal Fraggles.

“Well that was interesting,” Jerrod noted.

“Man,” I said, “I really wish I had brought Off The Wall.”

The rest of the night went by without any incident or invasion. At 2am the club was a coughing haze from the duel fog machines and reeked of blown out tallow candles. A success as far as I was concerned.

“So how’d you do?” I asked Brooks.

“Fine,” she said. “People were into it. A few complaints but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“That’s just it,” Jamie said. “You’re the only DJ that actually gets complaints and makes people leave.”

“Oh. I’m…sorry.”

“We’re gonna have to work on your shows. Rethink a few things.”

Brooks poured me a shot and beer, handed me two twenties and a ten and called a cab. I packed up my stuff and put it near the front door. I sat and silently sipped my beer. It felt as if I had played myself out at the 540 Club. I was out of ideas and repeating myself. When the cab arrived I said goodbye to Brooks and Jamie, loaded my stuff in and went back to the apartment.

It felt as if I had come to the end of the road. My time in San Francisco was already overkill and now, it seemed, I had exhausted even the smallest of opportunities. Feeling more lost and alone than ever, I laid on the bed and drifted to sleep wondering how such a good smart kid could grow up and be such a desolate wreck.

Bad thoughts started coming to mind.

* * *

The rain just didn’t stop. Even if it let up a bit the weather was so cold and wet that nobody would come and sit at the outside bar. Being the evil jerk that he was, Jack insisted that I sit out there and wait for the occasional customer. They rarely came. One shift, I sat inside the doorway on a barstool, all set up and ready to go, watching the rain pour down with not one single customer. Luckily I still had my $10 paychecks and could steal food from the kitchen. If it wasn’t for my savings from the truck I would have been on the streets.

Still, my drug use didn’t wane. Cocaine and beer were my only allies on fighting a deep depression. One afternoon while shopping for toiletries at Walgreens I stopped and perused the sleeping pills wondering if ending it all would be the best option. I read the backs of the boxes, all of which said ‘do not exceed 4 pills in a day’ and started planning my exit.

It would be easy. I would get a burger from Burgermeister, a six pack of Big Daddy IPA, watch Star Wars one last time as I popped the sleeping pills until I was out and hopefully gone. Sure, one last metal show and visit to the Crowbar was in order and, yeah, I’d have to call my parents and friends beforehand just to say hi and goodbye, but still. I had made a plan if things got any worse than they were. Which would have to be literally losing a limb or getting cancer.

It was the horror of being alive and the terror of not living that was getting to me.

One evening while at Rascon’s I couldn’t help but put on the guise of ‘sad guy’. So much in fact that Rascon actually had to say something, which was rare.

“Hey homie,” he said, “you look down man. What’s up?”

“Oh I don’t know,” I sighed. “It’s personal. It’s just…ah man. I just think that it was a mistake to move back here.”

“Why do you say that?” Rascon asked while handing me an 8 ball.

“It’s complicated. I live in a dark ramshackle apartment that belongs to a sort of girlfriend, surrounded by all off her stuff and sex toys in the night stand…”

“That sounds okay,” he said smiling.

“I work a horrible job with the devil as a boss, my shows at the club are going downhill, the radio show is okay but becoming a bit of a chore. All of my close friends are gone. I sold my truck. I have no money. I have no options and to make matters worse I’m sort of just stuck here having to deal with all of this crap. And I don’t even wanna be here anymore really. I just thought things were going to be different for me when I grew up. That’s all. It’s just… Man!”

Rascon sat down on the couch next to me, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.

“Remember when I told you I used to run with the whole Venice Cyco crew?” Rascon asked.

“Oh yeah. Like you knew the guys in Beowulf and Suicidal and all that.”

“Right. Well…do you know why I had to leave and move up here?”

“Nuh uh.”

“It’s because of that shit you’re holding in your hands right now.”

I looked down at the bag. I didn’t know what he meant.

“That stuff took over my life homes,” he continued, “and it took over the lives of a lot of my homies back in LA. When I started selling dude, I was making all kinds of mad money yo, a lot more then being a roadie for Los Cycos and shit. I was selling to all of those guys and their homies. Pretty soon the shit was everywhere and a lot of bands broke up because of it. Worse part was that some of my homies were fucking dying because of it. They sold their cars, guitars, drums, furniture, you name it just to get fucking high man. Some dudes even stopped taking care of their families to get high. It got too personal so I made a few calls to some connections up here and in like two weeks I was dealing in Oakland. More money was to be made over here so I got this place. I’ve made my choice homes. I’m a drug dealer. You though? You seem like you got your shit together man. You still have a chance.”

As I sat there taking in Rascon’s words, which were quadruple the amount he has ever spoken to me ever, I started to feel a bit of internal focus. When your drug dealer is giving you lessons in morality and saying you have potential, it’s time to straighten up and get moving. That good kid inside was starting to peek out and tell me that I was going to be okay. But I had to believe and had to try and little harder.

On the other hand I still had a brand new 8 ball in my grip and why not have one last hurrah? Besides I had to be at the radio station in a few hours and would need all the help I could get.

“Thanks man,” I said. “This stuff is great and a lot of fun but it has become quite the habit.”

“Shit man,” he said standing up and patting me on the shoulder, “you’re my best customer!”

I hung out at the Crowbar till about one, then went back to the apartment, collected a few CDs I wanted to play and called a cab.

While waiting for the taxi I decided to do a few lines to get me going. To be honest I wasn’t really in the mood to stay up all night and play metal and gab about gross stuff but I had an obligation so I shoved the CDs, beer and a sandwich I made earlier into my huge backpack.

The phone rang. It was the cabbie and he was downstairs waiting. I told him I’d be right there and hung up. I did two lines that I had laid out, thinking that he was going to be a while, and grabbed my backpack and ran downstairs.

After getting in the cab and telling the guy, some old stinky hippie looking dude, where I was going a peculiar feeling overtook me. As he turned the corner to get onto Geary, my heart started racing like it was about to explode from my chest. This was it, I thought. I did too much. I overdosed. That heart murmur a doctor said I had when I was 12 has come back due to my intense cocaine use and is now failing. I was certain I was having a heart attack. My palms were sweating and I couldn’t stop fidgeting.

Knowing that the radio station is on a campus with a hospital I was about to ask the driver to pull into the emergency ward so I could get some help. I was seriously nervous that my heart was freaking out and that I was going to die. Right there, in the back of some smelly cab at 2am on Geary Boulevard.

Having taken yoga in the past and being someone that meditated on a regular basis, I calmed down, closed my eyes and started to breath slowly in and out. It seemed to help.

“You okay buddy?” the cabbie asked.

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Just a little too much, uh…caffeine. Did a triple shot before I got in your cab.”

“Oh man,” the cabbie grumbled. “You’re heart must be jumpin’ like a goddam rabbit on crack.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

When I got to the station I ran in and quickly guzzled two bottles of beer thinking the alcoholic water would sooth my machine gunning chest.

“Holy fuck,” Boom uttered. “You, you, you, you must be really fucking thirsty.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

The show that night was the usual group, Dirty, Boom, Bob, El Duce, Porkchop and one of her friends, some roller derby girl named Lola Smegma. She looked a lot like Porkchop but had long blonde dreads and was skinny. Tattoos and piercings covered her.

After two hours or so of music we had our round table. The heart thing subsided after a few beers and shots of Bob’s rot gut whiskey, so I did some lines of El Duce’s crystal which made me feel as if my head was going to lift off like a balloon. The girls and Boom did the same.

“So guys,” Rusty says to us from the DJ booth, “have you ever heard of ‘glugging’?”

All of us leaned into our respective microphones and gave a quizzing ‘No’.

“Is that like when a girl is sucking you off and does a shot?” asked Bob.

“I think that’s called something else,” El Duce said.

“Yeah. It’s called Awesome!” Lola screamed.

“It’s called Thursday,” added Porkchop.

“No no,” Rusty started, “Glugging started in prisons. It’s, get this, the whoring out of a recent tracheotomy or organ removal patients and letting some guy have sex with the hole.”

All of us laughed, recoiled in horror and cried out in disbelief at once.

“Yeah. It says here,” Rusty said holding up a piece of paper, “that in Joliet prison some guys were caught screwing some guys throat after he underwent surgery. Like, literally, sticking their dick in his windpipe hole and going off.”

“Gives a new meaning to deep throat,” El Duce said.

“Well that’s complicated,” I said, “because how do you know if the guy likes it or not. He can’t use his voice box or anything.” Then in my best voice box imitation I hummed “Oooh baby. Give it to me. That’s it. Right there. You’re a stallion.”

The group laughs. Then Bob adds “You better start reading lips!”

“But didn’t you also say,” El Duce noted, “that they would also, um, penetrate a guys spleen hole?”

“Spleen Hole,” I shouted. “I love that band.”

“They’re opening up for Throat Cock,” Porkchop added.

“Yeah,” Rusty said, “guys just out of surgery, with recently sutured wounds, would open them up so some other guy could rape it. I mean…I just don’t get it.”

“Hey,” Lola said, “don’t knock it till you tried it.”

We all laughed and made our snippy retorts but inside I was feeling queasy. The idea of having some man having sex with another mans tracheotomy hole sent riggers down my spine. The drugs and warm beer didn’t help either. But I put on my best Metal Mark performance and trudged through it.

As I did my set, close to about 5am, Rusty came into the booth.

“Hey man,” he said, “what are you doing for thanksgiving?”

“Oh, gee. I hadn’t thought about it. Um…I don’t know.”

“Well I usually have a few people over to my place, like everybody brings something, so if you wanna come you’re more than welcome.”

The sentiment really meant a lot to me. Thanksgiving to me was the hearty snack you had between Halloween and Christmas. I was never a huge fan of the day and since my family and friends are scattered I was probably just get a turkey sandwich and watch Charlie Brown specials all night.

“That sounds great,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Plus,” Rusty said, “there’s something I wanna ask you.”

“What?”

“We’ll talk about it at thanksgiving.”

* * *

Since Rusty lived over in Oakland, I had to take a cab down to the BART station on Market Street and take a second cab to get to his place from the Oakland station all of which was eating up what little cash I had made that week at Bill’s. I could have walked to and from the stations but since I made a huge ambrosia salad I had to hoof it as little as possible.

When I got to Rusty’s apartment the place was already filled with people. Luckily they looked more like coworkers at his graphic design job than gristly gutter punks and roller-sluts, so I made the rounds of introductions and grabbed a drink.

Being the kind of guy that I am, I have a really hard time being around people that I don’t know that obviously have a kinship. I tend to look through people’s record collection, library and kitchen to pass the time until I hit it off with someone. The folks at Rusty’s thanksgiving were a combo of rock and roll cool and graphic design, downtown hip. Since I was neither I’d have to rely on my humor to break in.

The dinner was actually really good as Rusty and a few others attempted a large turkey, stuffing, potatoes and green beans. Others brought salad, veggies, bread, canned good and, of course, booze. A table set up near the kitchen was overflowing with large bottles of alcohol which was good for me because after a few cocktails I can relax enough and strike up conversation. Which didn’t really happen. I just interjected here and there on other people’s topics and helped a lot with the setting and clearing of the table.

As Rusty and I started on the dishes he asked me a question.

“Having fun?”

“Oh yeah,” I said scraping muck off of plates. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I know you don’t know anybody and, honestly, they can be a little clique-ish.”

“That’s cool. I’m just a little quiet around crowds is all.”

“What I wanted to ask you,” Rusty started, “is something kind of important.”

“Oh right. Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Well…” he said trying to find the right words it seemed, “I’m not going to do Reckless forever. I mean, I love it and I love the music and the people it’s just…well…I’m gonna move on to other things soon.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool.”

“Thing is, we’re going to have to get someone to take over the show.”

That got me wondering. I guess Boom could do it. Or maybe El Duce. Porkchop wasn’t always there so I wondered if she was a choice.

“I was hoping you’d want to take over the show when I leave.”

I stopped scraping and looked him right in the eye. “What?”

“Yeah. I mean…you’re cool. You’re smart. Boom would just play punk all night and turn it into something else. Something…” he shuddered, “I don’t wanna think about it.”

“Okay.”

“El Duce lives in San Jose and can’t make it all the time. Porkchop doesn’t wanna do it and she’d turn it into some kind of freak show.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m talking like in February or March of next year. Not right now. You’d be great. You’d give the show a certain lightheartedness that is missing. Plus you love metal and that’s the main thing.”

“What about the round table topics?”

“There’s a few websites that I go to for weird shit. I’ll show you later.”

I felt like Charlie getting the secrets from Willy Wonka. Except, instead of chocolate I’d be privy to shocking tales of poo fetishes, animal buggery and self flagellation with common household utensils. To be honest with you, I felt pretty honored.

“What do you say?”, Dirty asked.

A million things crossed my mind. Most importantly my recent displeasure with the whole DJ bit. It was a gas, while at the same time a thankless chore. Being a dance club DJ is one thing, they get all the attention and girls. But metal? My shows at the club and the radio station were so underground that even seasoned headbangers across the Bay Area were unfamiliar with them. Sure I had a small (very small) following and the radio show had regular listeners but, c’mon, being a successful heavy metal DJ? That was impossible. You can’t really dance to it and the dance you can do to it involves full body contact and diving into the crowd. Not good for repeat business. Still, I always take opportunities when they come my way.

“That sounds awesome,” I said. “Sure.”

“That’s great, “ Rusty said. “You’ll give Rampage a certain air of dignity.”

* * *

Dignity? Me giving the radio show some “dignity” would be like Leatherface being hired as the new Skillsaw spokesman. Sure I was the Muppets loving, library supporting and admitted to weeping openly at the end of Whale Rider  co-host of an all night extreme music show but, c’mon. I drank incessantly, I did rails of cocaine on the studio table, I was secretly considering suicide and had become somebody I never even thought possible; a thirty something lonely loser holding on for dear life. Dignity. Give me a break.

I wasn’t even sure what “dignified” meant at that stage. So, after I read a story about how some guy in Cleveland was arrested for sodomizing chimps in his basement while wearing silly party hats before playing songs by Prostitute Disfigurement, Impaled Nazarene and Anal Cunt I’m supposed to dignify the show somehow? I didn’t get it.

Still, the offer was something I seriously considered. Maybe I could use the experience to get me a real radio job, something that actually paid. But did I really want to spend every other Saturday night (and Sunday morning) to that kind of obligation?? That was another thing to take into consideration. I just didn’t know.

One thing I did know is that the days and nights were extremely long and cold. Mix that with a severe loneliness and a bleak perspective on yourself and your life and you have the recipe for overindulgence in drugs and alcohol. I didn’t take “days off” anymore. My drinking and cocaine use was daily. And I could feel it taking it’s toll.

The walls of Amanda’s apartment were literally closing in. The large cracks and peeling paint were really getting to me. I felt as if I was living in some kind of dingy halfway house. The noise outside wasn’t comforting anymore. It was a cacophony of gibberish, squeals and yelps that aided in my self inflicted madness. Nothing seemed to make sense and I really wanted out.

One night after a dismal day at Bill’s, I came back to the apartment, cracked open a beer and sat by the window watching the masses and vehicles whiz along in a chilly mist. It was a great city and I was lucky to have been here for so long but it was starting to eat me alive. That’s when the phone rang.

It was Amanda.

“Hi baby,” she said. I still found it odd that Amanda still referred to me as “baby”. We barely spoke, we hadn’t seen each other in almost a year and we definitely weren’t really a “couple” anymore. But I was living in her apartment surrounded by her stuff with my stuff in storage in her art space in the East Bay so I guess there was still an air of togetherness that was necessary and odd. It still made me uncomfortable though.

“Oh hey,” I said, “what’s up?”

“How are you doing?”

“Um…okay I guess,” I lied. “Weather’s cold and business is slow but…alright I suppose.”

“That’s good.”

Then there was that long pause. She called me. I wasn’t in the mood for light conversation. I was on the brink of a personal meltdown and just wanted to drink while watching a light silvery rain splash on the people and pavement below. So I just waited and sipped my beer.

“Um,” Amanda broke in eventually, “I kind of have something to say.”

“Alrighty. Shoot.”

Amanda was doing that searching for the right words thing she always did. I could hear her breathy stammering and sighing. Eventually she spoke.

“I…I don’t think I’m going to come back,” she said.

When she said the obvious I was both angry and unsurprised at the same time. I had a deep gut feeling she wasn’t coming back.

“Who is he?” I said.

“What? Who’s who?”

“I know you’ve met someone Amanda. You’re too hot and back on familiar territory to not have found someone. Please…just tell me the truth.”

Another pause. Another sip of beer.

“His name is Wade. He’s…an old friend. He was supporting me during this crisis and is just here for me. I didn’t mean for anything to happen. It just…did.”

Amanda started to cry and I let her. Not out of spite but out of not being told the whole truth. Here I was, babysitting her crappy apartment and going completely mad while doing it, all the while she was getting together with another man. Sure, her father just died and I felt horrible about that, but he was old and fading for years. When my dad is 80 and sick I will prepare myself for the worst. Until then, I had to make some serious decisions.

“So…where does that leave me?” I asked.

“You can stay in the apartment for as long as you like,” she bargained. “I’ll be up in a few months to get my things. Please, just hold out for a little while. Okay? For me. For us.”

“For who? You and Wayne?”

“Wade.”

“Whatever. I was under the assumption that my stay here was going to be brief. Now you’re telling me that not only am I stuck here but you’re also with another guy? Is that right? Am I reading this loud and clear?”

Amanda was sobbing. I didn’t mean to hurt her but, give me a break. I was crushed. I had only returned to San Francisco on the idea that I was going to be helping her out for a little while until she came back before I could, finallly, move on. To where and what, I had no idea. But I hated her apartment. If it wasn’t for the occasional hallway run in with Khamish, who was still gone doing location shooting somewhere near Santa Cruz, I was completely alone in a dank space filled with what is now and official ex-girlfriends stuff. The bad art on the walls, no water pressure, exceeding outside noise and neighbors that blast Phil Collins in the wee hours of the morning, I felt like I was in some kind of bad David Lynch movie. And I like David Lynch. I just don’t wanna live in one of his movies is all.

“I’m so sorry,” she wept. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t know what to do. I can’t change what happened. Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just hate…this. I just don’t know how to deal with “this” anymore. But I have to. So…there you go.”

Amanda blew her nose and I sat looking out at the grey clouds looming above. I just wanted to get off the phone and into the Crowbar. I had some serious thinking to do.

“Are you going to be alright?” she asked timidly.

“Yeah. Great. Awesome. I’ll be swell. Don’t worry about me none. I got it all under control.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

How come I can’t believe you?

“I’m fine. Really. Everything is going to be okay. I promise. We’ll…get through this.”
A million thoughts and solutions raced. Sure I felt like a grown up when I left home to study film in Santa Barbara, but that was a different and more innocent time. At 35, I found myself having to really grow up and take responsibility for my own life. It was the most frightening moment I had ever experienced.

Amanda and I chatted a bit longer, assuring each other everything was going to work out just peachy before hanging up. It didn’t take me but a second to tie my shoes, throw on my hoodie and grab a bag of blow before heading to the Crowbar. I laid out two nice lines and snorted them up right before walking out and locking the door. The stuff went down like a golden harness, gripping me tight an supporting me. It was the only thing keeping me from madness. It was, of course, driving me mad.

The Crowbar was my oasis, my dark cavernous home away from whatever that apartment was. My usual spot, by the window, was open and waiting. Casey was working and he greeted me with a hearty handshake and hearty Jager pour. I slammed the chilled black warming intoxicant down and followed it with a deep swallow from my IPA. My head was feeling light and airy. My heart was racing from the drug and the drama. I took my place in the corner by the big window and looked out. It was a beautiful city. It really was. Having been born in a foggy hamlet, Carmel, the weather was actually something I admired and looked forward to. Being a chunky guy with pointy man-boobs, wearing layers and a thick hoodie was my savior. I still wore the baggy olive drab shorts though, but that’s only to let the tourists know that this is my town, my fog and I frickin love it.

Every time I ordered another beer I went to the john and did a bump. I was feeling good. The horror of having to deal with Amanda and that place of hers was vanishing. Not to mention the abject dark tunnel of unknown that was my immediate future. Something brought me back to San Francisco. I just couldn’t figure it out was all.

On the jukebox I played a merry selection of Slayer, Minor Threat, Joy Division, Cocteau Twins, My Bloody Valentine, Tom Waits and Exploited. It was good to just sit there and stare out, singing along to familiar tunes, gazing at the swaddled masses passing by along with the neon glimmer from the strip club across the street.

After a couple of hours doing this I was both hammered and extremely high. Not only was I drunk but I was buzzing with a solicitous hyperactivity that was both exhilarating and worrisome. After one last shot I bid Casey and the Crowbar and farewell and waddled back to the apartment.

Knowing how drunk I was I stopped by and grabbed two slices of pizza, yet the drug was in control as well so food was unnecessary. After composing myself long enough to pay the nice lady, I left the restaurant and continued back to the place.

The black door leading to the stairs looked like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. As I struggled with the keyhole I laughed and thought about those apes and how they began to kill one another when they discovered the power of the bone. Maybe this door would finally give way and open up to another dimension, one without horrible bosses, cheating ex-girlfriends, alcohol and drug addiction. But when the door finally creaked open all I was met with were those stairs bending upward, barely lit by the streetlight outside.

When I entered the apartment I was immediately taken back to when I first entered the place. How I was so hot and heavy over Amanda and how I was thrown off by the apartment’s age and grubbiness. The vacant kitchen lined with bookshelves filled with feminist art tomes and erotica. The split bathroom with ageless mold and dust. The strange extra bedroom occupied by god knows who or what. And the main bedroom, her room, a long attrition piled high with fading antiques, student level art, clothes and sex toys. This place was as far away from who I am and what I want to be. It was now my prison and I desperately wanted to escape.

I stood there in the bedroom, wobbling to and fro, staring at the mess and listening to the traffic outside. I walked over to the table next to the window. I stared at the piles of crap she had left behind. Art supplies, bills, nick-knacks, and a card she sent me for Easter saying how much she loved me. I picked up the card and read it. Those words scribbled next to the “Hoppy Easter!” began to sting. Then something broke. Something inside of me crashed down and crumbled. Before I knew it I was in a sort of blackout because I don’t fully recall what actually happened.

What I do know is that I ripped the right front leg of the table off and began beating the thing with it. I heard glass break, but I didn’t care. I threw the leg across the room penetrating a painting that was sitting against the back wall. I walked over and ripped and kicked the painting to shreds. Afterwards, I picked up the huge chair in the back and chucked it at her antique dresser, making a huge crashing noise and destroying everything that sat on top. I went to her bureau and swiped off all of her antique perfume bottles and dusty stuffed toys, crashing them to the floor and spreading glass everywhere. I then went to the night stand and kicked it hard, breaking it in two, sending her sex toys everywhere and destroying the lamp that lay behind it. I was now shrouded in darkness but I continued my rampage.

In the hallway, I tore down the two paintings hanging there and put my foot through both. I then threw them into the bedroom and continued kicking the flotsam and jetsam of my apparent caged-in rage. Bottles flew, vibrators were stomped, art supplies smashed, lamps pulverized, canvases torn apart, chairs used as wrecking balls; all of it happening in a blacked out red flash over just as quick.

There I stood, in darkness and in rubble, drunk and high on cocaine, spinning on what I had just done. I couldn’t believe it. All I could do was sit on the bed and reel from my fury. It all happened way too fast. The apartment was in shambles. Knowing what I had done all I could do was shake my head before falling back. So I laid down and eventually passed out. All I could hear was some cars honking outside.

XVIII.

There was a knocking at the door. It woke me up from my stupor but I decided to ignore it. I was still much too drunk and dumbstruck as to what I had done. Plus I knew it was the upstairs neighbor guy. What did he care? For all he knew I was redecorating.

More knocking. Then the knocking became pounding. Still, I laid there and let him pound away. Screw you, I thought. Just play your Phil Collins and everything will be fine.

Then, something curious happened. A light. It looked as if the light had come back on. Oh good, I thought. I hadn’t fully destroyed the lamp after all. But the light was twinkling, dancing around the room. It was a flashlight. That jerk!

A heavy rapping came over the window. I looked up and saw shadowy figures on the fire escape. What the hell? Am I getting robbed right now?

“Open up! This is the San Francisco Police!”

Panic washed over me. I knew I was done for. This is it. I had reached the absolute bottom of the bottom. Not only did I destroy Amanda’s apartment in a beer and blow rage but now I was going to go to jail for it.

I walked up to the window, still blurry from the booze, and opened the window. Immediately I was rushed by officers, one on each arm, and before I knew it, I was in handcuffs.

“What happened here tonight?”, the officer asked. “What are you, squatting?”

They lead me to Khamish’s room and sat me down on his small wooden desk chair. I was so scared and drunk I could barely speak.

“What’s going on sir? Are you drunk?”

Finally I was able to speak.

“Yes. Very drunk. I’m so sorry. Bad news from home. My dad…”

One thing about being a smart person with theater training was the ability to think quickly on my feet. Even as police officers were walking around the apartment, beaming their flashlights everywhere with two or three of them interrogating me, I still had the capacity to cover up what I had done. I couldn’t tell this guy, the one with the gun and badge, that I was a drunk and a drug addict and furious at my ex-girlfriend for sticking me in this hell hole. Extremely loaded and in disbelief, I held on to whatever lucidity I could muster while preparing for the worse.

“What about your dad?”, the officer interrogated. “What’s going on?”

“He’s…very sick.” I muttered “I just… I just couldn’t take it.”

I then gave him all of my personal info, told him I was a sublet and the neighbor upstairs knew who I was.
“That’s who called us,” the cop said. “He thought this place was being burglarized.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m just so scared. I got drunk and when I came home I got this phone call about ym dad and…”

Then suddenly, a terrorfying realization came to me. On the windowsill next to the bed was the plate I did lines off of with at least two baggies sitting on it. I was planning to do some when I got back but, well…I got a little sidetracked.

That’s it. I knew I was doomed. The officers that were searching the place would obviously find the stuff and I would be convicted of not only destroying property, but drug possession as well. I knew it was coming. That’s when I began to see my crummy life as not so bad at all. Being in prison is far worse than this apartment and working at Bill’s. I immediately felt like a spoiled child and nodded my head when the idea of me being prosecuted became a reality.

Some of the cops began to leave. I heard radio squalks and officers responding telling the operator where they were and what they were doing.

“I need a check on a Mark Whittaker,” he said and gave the operator more info. As he waited for my criminal record to pop up (man I hope that time I got popped with my friends when we were skating that federal property drainage ditch didn’t come back to haunt me) he bent down and talked to me.

“We all get upset Mark,” the officer said in a surprisingly mellow tone, “but that’s no reason to wreck your apartment.”

“It’s not my apartment,” I slurred. “It’s my ex-girlfriend’s. Even worse.”

“Exactly. Things happen. What you need to do is be strong for your dad…”

The cocaine. Did they find the cocaine?

“…and visit him when you can. Where does your father live?”

“Palm Springs.”

Please don’t send me to jail. I’m a good person. I’m just not cut out for this real stuff.

“That’s a great place. I once…”

The officer stopped to take a call from headquarters or whatever. I could hear the squeltching voice say “No criminal record” and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was only 16 when I got caught with my friends. I didn’t think that would give me an official record.

“Well Mark,” the officer said, “looks like you’re clean. But let this be a warning to you…”

He uncuffed my hands.

The drugs. Please don’t find the drugs. I don’t want to let this nice police guy down. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!

“I want you to sleep this off and take full responsibility for what you did. You have a lot of explaining and cleaning up to do. You owe it to your dad and your ex to stand up and come clean. Alright?”

I sat there dizzy from what was happening and what was going on. I could barely process the abstract disaster that was occurring. It was like a bad dream or something. But it looked as if I was being let go.

“Okay,” I uttered. “I’m so sorry officer. My dad, we’re just…it’s so…”

“I know,” he said. He then patted me on the shoulder and gave me his card. Before I knew it I was left alone and all was quiet, except for a streetcleaner shooshing and beeping outside. It must be early. I peeked through Khamish’s blinds and saw that the sky was a deep blue wine. 5am. I’m calling in sick.

* * *

Luckily Siobhan never answers her cell so when I called, mildly surprised that the phone line was working, I told her a tale of vomiting and fever and there was no way I could come in. When I thought about it, it was the first time I called in sick. Heck, at this stage, I earned it.

Afterwards I had to call PG&E because I had somehow blacked out the entire apartment. It most likely happened when the lamp went crashing to the ground, breaking the bulb and probably snapping the ancient fuse in half. The bored sounding lady told me a truck would be by sometime in the early evening to fix it. Funny thing is, the fuse box, apparently, lies in the bathroom in the restaurant below. I never once stepped foot in that place. Now I had to show the PG&E guy the result of my drunk and drug addled fury, in the bathroom of some pricy Italian meat specialty place. Everything was so screwy I couldn’t get a hold of any pinpoint reality. So I just laid on the bed and waited.

Drifting in and out of slumber, I couldn’t help but reflect on my life up to that point. Essentially I was so gravely disappointed in myself that disbelief was the engine and shame was it’s caboose. The first thing that came to mind was me as a small boy growing up in Glendale, CA. I remembered me being so excited to see Santa Claus every year that I dressed up as one of his elves, which was usually my red turtleneck, a table decoration I used as a belt and a metal rod I found in an empty lot playing “Army” with my friends which I attached bells on that once belonged to some plastic mistletoe my dad was going to throw away one year. It wasn’t so much the presents that made me a lunatic every December, but more so the pomp and circumstance of it all. The Rankin/Bass animated specials on TV, Linus telling us the real meaning of Christmas, the twinkling lights my dad put around the big window of our apartment, the smell of the tree in our living room, the taste of powdered ginger cookies that made a white circle around my mouth and the fact that the presents I got were so amazing because my dad didn’t have a lot of cash but he managed to get me every Star Wars, Masters Of The Universe and video game I ever asked for. That feeling still carries over today. Except this year, it seemed, I would be alone and watching those animated specials in this apartment, on a, ex-girlfriend’s bed with no presents or friends around.

Then I thought about how at 15 I discovered bands like Youth Brigade, Minor Threat and 7 Seconds, all of which preached a positive outlook on life and a straight edge philosophy; meaning no drugs and no alcohol to control your life. Having been brought up with a dad that had a beer or wine occasionally and even smoked pot now and then, he was up front and open with its effects and that I was a smart kid that could make smart choices. Plus every Thanksgiving, my dad’s old theater friends threw a big dinner and they would drink and smoke copious amounts of weed. I’m pretty sure I was born stoned or at least the contact highs I experienced made me rather uninterested in doing drugs. Of course, drinking came at 21, pot came mid 20′s and coke just a few months ago. Slow learner I guess.

All these memories, all these images of me skateboarding, getting good grades, doing plays, making dumb home movies with my friends, playing D&D, explaining to my dad that I was not a Satanist when he discovered Slayer and Venom records under my bed, taking film classes in Santa Barbara, all the jobs I had in San Francisco and all of the girls I had sex with and the few that said they loved me just swam in my head like a time slip whirlpool. In a sense, my life was flashing before me. I took it as a sign. Then the shock of the cops not finding the drugs really hit me. Something was apparently looking out for me.

I couldn’t eat. I didn’t want to endure taking a shower. I brushed my teeth to get the fleecy dank off of my tongue, but that’s it. I just laid there, feeling awful and waiting.

As the sun started to drift off into dark the phone rang. As always I hesitated, thinking it would be Amanda, my dad, even my mom whom I hadn’t spoken to in a while, or, worse yet, it could be the police saying they have evidence against me and wanted me to go downtown for booking and butt rape in the prison showers. Still, that Pavlovian instinct kicked in and I picked it up.

“Hello?” I grumbled.

“Yeah, hi. This is Jim of PG&E,” said a terse and nasally voice.

“Um…okay.”

“I’m downstairs and need you to show me where the fuse box is.”

Amanda told me once, before she moved, where the fuse box was but I honestly had no idea. In the bathroom in the restaurant below is all I knew. I’ve never seen it before and I only walked by the restaurant knowing they charged like way too much for what I thought was basic bland Italian fare for the tourists. But I told the guy I’d be right there and hung up.

After slipping on shorts, a hoodie and sneakers I shuffled downstairs to meet Jim. When I opened the main door downstairs I was met with a large PG&E truck, flashing lights and all, with a wiry man donning a bushy moustache talking on the phone.

“You Mark?” he said directly. Yes, Tarzan.

“I am.”

“So I hear the fuse box is in the men’s room here. Is this correct?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Mind you, I am still reeling from the overload of drinking and cocaine I did earlier and rather freaked out that I was almost arrested. Words just didn’t seem to take precedence.

“Alright,” said Jim, “well let’s see what we can find and get you back in the light.” Jim then winked and smiled thinking his comment was funny. It wasn’t, but I was just grateful to be living in the 21st century where services like this are available 24/7. Thank you Jim, you are my savior.

The restaurant, Il Pollaio, was actually quite cozy and small. I had only seen it’s interior from the big window on Columbus but that was it. It smelled wonderful and was packed with upper crust locals and almost stereotypical Italians. Maybe I had this place figured out wrong all along.

Jim spoke to one of the servers who then rolled his eyes and showed him where the fuse box was. Turns out, the men’s room was “occupato” so we had to wait until it was free.

“So what happened?” Jim asked, seeming a bit put off that he had to wait for someone to finish crapping so he could fix the fuse. I wasn’t too thrilled either.

“Oh. I tripped on a wire sending a big lamp crashing down. I guess that broke the fuse…thingy. I guess that’s what happened,” I said sheepishly, my head pounding and brain oozing out of my nose.

“Yeah, well…this building is real old my friend,” said Jim as if he was leading a tour of some kind, “at least a hundred years I’d figure.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m sure the wiring is just as antiquated.” That made Jim laugh. I joined in only to be nice but honestly I just wanted to go back upstairs and hide.

Eventually we heard a flush, the sink running and then a short middle aged man emerged. He looked a bit embarrassed that two guys were standing there waiting.

“Hold yer nose,” Jim said.

Jim walked in and, lo and behold, a very large and very old fuse box lay just beyond the toilet. Jim opened it up and started doing electrician stuff. I watched for a moment but then got bored of looking at the back of his head (which was balding), his stained PG&E shirt and tool belt, so I started gazing around Il Pollaio, mainly to locate the amazing smell of chicken and meat cooking.

The kitchen was small, smaller than the one in Amanda’s apartment, but there was three Italian men back there cheerfully flipping whole chickens and sides of beef over roaring fires. I got extremely jealous of them. It was probably a family owned place, handed down to like the third or fourth generation of restaurant owners, and it looked like they were generally enjoying themselves; singing and laughing as more orders came in which were shouts from the older stout lady at the front counter.

Above the counter I noticed the menu, which was basically a selection of chicken and meat fare, written in Italian, with a few pasta and salad options. Next to that was the specials board. For some odd reason, one offering made me cock my head and smile, just because of the simple poetics of it, which read:

Rabbit every Tuesday!

For some bizarre reason, be it the moment, my progress into personal maltreatment and descent into madness, yet still filled with an overflowing wonderment, curiosity and joy for life, that hand written plaque with those three simple words made me smile wide. That’s when the tears came. The words meant nothing than advertising a special they had once a week, but they resonated with a simple pleasure and homespun comfort that I clung to for dear life. As restaurant patrons ate merrily and the heart staff cooked and joked, I stood leaning against that bathroom jamb giggling in spite of me crying. I don’t know why, but it felt as if I had just been given another chance, like passing, just barely, some insane test. The dirty muck of my immediate past began to wash away and I felt as if life was winking back and telling me that everything was going to be alright.

“Well, that should do ‘er”, Jim said emerging from the men’s room. “Yeah I guess you did something to make that old coiled fuse blow. But I got it all rewired and you should be all good to go my friend.”

“Thank you so much,” I said extremely relieved and excited, wiping my face. “Can I buy you a chicken or rabbit or something?”

Jim just laughed. “I’ll take a raincheck on that buddy. My wife made me quite the sandwich and soup for my dinner break.”

For some bizarre reason, I almost started to cry again.

“That sounds nice,” I said.

Jim grabbed his large phone, made a call saying where he was and then told the person on the other end he was on his way to another job. Pretty soon he got back in his truck and  was off. I stood there, shivering and drained, watching the lazy hustle of Columbus avenue on a weekday night and his truck drive off into the distance. I guess things could be worse. It was a great city and the neighborhood is pretty cool. Now if only I could find a good job and decent woman. Baby steps I told myself. Baby steps.

Back in the apartment I replaced the lightbulb in the lamp and surveyed the damage. The place was a mess. Broken window, destroyed table, ripped apart paintings, tossed around clothes, shattered kick knacks and plastic multi-colored pieces of dildos littered the floor. I felt so ashamed of myself I couldn’t even handle it, so I flopped down on the bed and sighed.

Right then I heard the front door open with the jingle of some keys. I didn’t care who it was. The cops, the landlord, the upstairs neighbor or Amanda; if they wanted me they could just haul me away and I would let them. I was too exhausted and disgusted to even care.

“Hello.” It was Khamish peeking in from the hall.

“Hey man. What’s shaking?”

He was silent for a moment. I looked over and I noticed he was scanning the place.

“Um…did I miss something?”, he asked.

The combination of laughter and weeping came over me again. With hands over my eyes, all I could muster was, “You could say that. An earthquake hit while I was trying to redecorate.”

“Oh,” he said. “Bummer.”

“Yeah.”

Khamish said he was tired and had some work to do so we said goodnight and that was that. Eventually I slipped into slumber and dreamed about a happy bunny picnic. Life was indeed, and obviously, nudging me somehow.

* * *

Early December is actually quite magical in San Francisco. The weather is cool and crisp yet the sun is usually shining. Christmas lights are pinned up all around town, windows tinted with fake snow and wreaths hang on doors making the big metropolis seems like the small town that it really is. Plus there’s always some kind of holiday fiesta in the park and sometimes random caroling is to be had. The usual retail mess that is Union Square is now a fussy ant farm of shoppers and sales. Having missed black Friday I was now looking forward to my favorite tradition; walking around Macy’s and the mall on the 24th, with headphones on, trying to make my way through the crowds and watching the manic faces of last minute shoppers. Then it’s off to Lefty O’ Doul’s on Geary for beers while sitting in the piano bar area singing holiday favorites with middle aged locals as the insanity of the shopped out hoards scurry by the fogged up window.

Trying hard to make amends with what had just happened to me and the reasons why I let that happen, my mood around work, the club and station were obviously humble. I showed up, I did my job, I left. That was about it. With a deep feeling of regret and disorientation, I meandered through the days in a haze of “Sorry about that” and “Now what?”.

On a bright chilly afternoon at Bill’s I was doing my usual bit. Serving the tourists and shoppers well needed drinks and enjoying the music coming from the stage. This time around a string quartet was playing traditional Christmas tunes to the delight of everyone, especially me, although Jack saw it as a waste since classical music means less business. He actually thinks the music makes people sleepy or sad so they don’t want to have a beer. The guy is the Grinch, I swear.

As I’m standing there minding the bar and listening to the music, a young couple sits down. I walk over and ask them what they want.

“A pint please,” said the guy with a British accent. He wore a big crooked smile and had locks of twirly ginger hair.

“Same for me please,” said the girl. Same, British, demurely cute with long dark hair and shivering from the chill. Both of them were wearing those San Francisco pullovers that everyone buys when they realize that it’s a city surrounded by water and gets to maybe 60 something in the afternoon. That day was no exception.

“What kind of beer do you want?” I asked. I then showed them the beer menu which reads like a short novel. Both of them just looked on in shock and laughed.

“You have all these beers here?” the guy asked.

“Ninety on tap. Twenty more in bottles.”

“Oh my god.”

“Oh look,” the girl said, “they have Boddington’s. Fantastic.”

“Sold mate. We’ll have two Boddington’s”

After checking their passports to see that they were over 21, which they were,  barely, I walked inside, poured two Bodddington’s and returned. They raised their cups at me and each took a big sip.

“That’s about as good as it can get I reckon,” the guy said.

“Where you two from?”

“Birmingham,” the girl answered.

“Oh cool,” I said. “The birth place of heavy metal.”

“That’s right mate,” he said. “Fucking boring is what it is. Not really much else to do but drink and play the guitar rather loudly.”

“Sounds great.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Mark.”

`    “I’m Ellie. Cheers,” she said.

“I’m Ross. Cheers mate!”

The two took big slugs off of their beers and I wished that I was sitting next to them doing the same. Knowing that Jack was lurking around and in a usual bad mood, I knew that sneaking a beer wasn’t in the cards.

Turns out that Ellie and Ross are on an extended holiday, first traveling through California then off to Australia and New Zealand. San Francisco was their last stop before getting on a plane and heading down under.

“How much longer are you two going to be in town?” I asked.

“A day and a half,” Ross said. “Just blitzkrieging through before Australia. Wish we had more time.”

“It’s a lovely city,” Ellie stated. “We’re just not sure what to see first or last.”

It was then that I gave my 12 year experience of the city to the couple, relaying all of my favorite spots and the real local areas, trying to stray them away from getting stuck on Fisherman’s Wharf for the next 36 hours. They seemed generally interested and even got out their well worn city map and scribbled notes on it. After a few more beers I was relieved by Danika at 5pm for her closing shift.

“You guys wanna see some of North Beach and hit some cool bars?” I asked. Ross and Ellie were more than happy to take me up on my offer. So after clocking out, handing in my tickets and saying goodbye to Hal and Danika, I lead two strangers from Brittan on a North Beach bar crawl.

The area, like most in San Francisco, is littered with Irish pubs and we hit a few up the way on Columbus. Passing by the apartment, we hit Vesuvio’s, Specs and of course Tosca for those famous yet hideous Italian coffees which Ellie and Ross enjoyed but I have always found bitter and overpriced.

Then, yes, we ended up at the Crowbar, ordered a round and sat in my usual spot. I think this was the first time I came in with friends other than Jose or Lars’ haphazard bachelor party, which was good. I was sure the bar staff thought I was just some weird loner drunkard who jotted notes in a book all night and played nothing but Slayer and Metallica on the juke. Which is, well, basically the truth.

“This is fucking great Mark,” slurred Ross. “San Francisco is amazing.”

After taking a sip of my IPA I leaned in.

“Say…what are you guys doing tomorrow?”

They both looked at each other, shrugged and said they weren’t sure.

“I have an idea. I’ll take you on a guided tour of the city. We’ll get an all day Muni pass and just hit as many must-see spots as possible. What do you say?”

The two seemed excited at the prospect. So after another round we called it a night to get some rest before the big day.

We agreed to meet at the apartment at 10am, seeing as they were staying at a hostel right down the street. Even with a slight beer hangover, I was actually looking forward to showing off San Francisco to absolute newcomers. There’s really nothing like appreciating where you live than to play tour guide to actual tourists. Having to do it on a daily basis might get dull but this being my first time and right after realizing that I was staying here for as long as the almighty magnet decrees, plus the fact that we would be drinking throughout the day, I powered through and stuffed my backpack full of necessities. Yes, I even brought a small bag of blow. I didn’t want to but keeping up with two ambitious tourists ten years younger than me I figured I needed all the help I could get. But only in an emergency. Like if I was fall down drunk or something.

Ellie and Ross ringed the downstairs bell and I came rushing to greet them. There they stood, looking like dictionary definitions of UK students on holiday in the States with their fleece pullovers, cargo shorts, Teva sandals and backpacks. Sure I had a backpack, but my hoodie read High On Fire, my shorts were baggy Ben Davis’, socks argyle and shoes old school Vans. We were ready. It was time to get down with this town.

We walked down to the Muni station on Market. First stop, the Haight. I figured it’d be a good place to begin seeing as it is at the opposite end of where we were all staying and could just maze our way back through all of the necessary points.

“So what do you guys do in Birmingham?” I asked as we traipsed down Columbus.

“Go to school mainly,” Ellie said. “We finished our exams early so we thought we’d spend Christmas and New Years abroad.”

“Plus another Christmas with her family might drive me fucking mad man,” Ross said laughing. “I mean, how many sweaters can one bloke own I ask you?”

“I don’t know,” I retorted. “You’re kind of like Ron Weasley.”

“Same daft ginger hair too yeah?”

“Do you own a wand?”

“Well…sort of.”

We all giggled as we descended the stairs to the station, bought our day passes and got on.

We exited at Cole street and made the quick jaunt down to Haight. There I took them through all the basics like Amoeba Records, the bookstore I used to work at, the Anarchist bookstore and, of course, I took their picture at the corner of Haight/Ashbury.

“Where are all the hippies man?” Ross asked.

“The real ones moved on. Now all we have are teenage runaways and bums. That and expensive boutique shops and thrift shops. It aint what it used to be.”

We headed into a bar called Club Deluxe, where I had experienced the greatest Bloody Mary I had ever had. We ordered three. Spicy, strong and incredibly requisite to get us started, we moved on down the trail.

Lower Haight street is a collection of awesome pubs, DJ equipment shops and kooky restaurants. We went into the Toronado, which features a mind spinning collection of beers from around the world, and we each ordered one that we had never heard of. Ellie got some Jamaican ale while Ross got a cream stout from Germany. Me, I ordered something called “Shaved Dog” from Scotland and it tasted just as it sounded.

From there we trekked up to the Castro and took in the two full blocks of absolute gay heaven. I thought maybe the two might be put off by the blatant display of homosexual freedom but they were into it. We each grabbed a chocolate chip cookie at a place called Hot Cookie and got back on the train.

We rode the thing all the way along the Embarcadero to Giants stadium, where, once again, I played photographer as they stood next to the statue of Willie Mays. Spotting a sports bar across the way, we ducked in, ordered a round of cheap beer and a basket of fries, excuse me…”chips”, and chatted about the Giants and 49ers with a group of old men that just got back from motorcycling up the coast. Afterwards we found a bus going to Union Street which took us through Pacific Heights and over some hills that made the couple a bit woozy.

Union Street, it’s across Lombard companion street, Chestnut, and the whole Marina district, didn’t impress the two.

“It’s like fucking Notting Hill,” Ross stated. “Snobs that lunch and shop all day.”

“That’s about it,” I said.

“Still,” Ellie noted, “it’s rather clean.”

We zig zagged through designer stores and boutiques trying not to touch a thing. Here we were, three fairly grubby and slightly drunk wanderers with huge backpacks walking through the Armani and Z Gallerie crowd as the seemingly wealthy dorks tried to avoid eye contact or even coming close to us. At the end of Union, on Divisadero, we came across a sandwich shop where we ate large meaty sandwiches on the curb watching the traffic and world go by.

We needed the energy because the hike up Lombard to snake down the windiest street in the world was quite a chore. Well, it was for me anyway. They were fine. But we reached the top and walked down the steep embankment along the windy street.

“I once went down this street in a shopping cart,” I told them. “I used to live right down the street.”

“How was that?” asked Ellie.

“Good. Until the place burned down.”

“No, the shopping cart ride down this street?”

“Oh. I made it about ten feet before crashing and falling out. So, stupid.”

We continued our walk up another super steep hill to Coit Tower. It was getting dark and they weren’t doing tours anymore so instead we took in the amazing sunset from that hill and I showed them a trick.

See, Coit Tower was built, or should I say “erected”, by a wealthy woman to honor the firefighters that braved the 1908 earthquake. On the lawn outside of the cylindrical tower is a statue of a fireman. There’s nothing really significant about the statue, but if you stand at a certain angle, the fireman’s right hand thumb, which is hanging down as the left one is stretched out and pointing outward, appears to be the fireman’s little fireman. It’s pretty amazing.

“Apparently this whole area is one big phallus,” I said. “So it’s no mistake that the fire guy here is packing heat.”

“Rich horny old broad eh?” Ross said.

“That about sums it up.”

From there we scooted along Grant Street, drank a beer at the divey Lost And Found Saloon then headed down to Grant and Green where we caught some awful blues band then continued on until we hit the Crowbar.

As we sat by the big window, we all raised our pints and clinked.

“Cheers Mark,” Ross said. “Thank you so much for showing us around mate. Best day ever.”

“Yes thank you,” Ellie added. “This is quite and amazing city. You are very lucky to live here.”

As I sipped my Big Daddy IPA I took in what Ellie had just said. Yes, I was lucky. Incredibly lucky to live and work in such a great city. Maybe what had happened to me, or should I say made happen, was a trial. I now accepted my fate as a San Franciscan and would try my best to make things better. Because I knew something good was waiting for me.

Somehow…somewhere.

Oh, and I never even thought about using the drug. Things were starting to change for the better already.

Part 4: Winter

“Rise Aviator; Sun will follow.”
-OM, At Giza

XIX.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

When I was a kid I had this peanuts book called It Was A Dark And Stormy Night which was mainly about Snoopy trying to write the perfect novel. In his brilliant dog head, Snoopy figured the perfect book would begin with those words. The story deviated into something about pirates and a small boy growing up on a farm. Genius.

Those words kept echoing through my head as I tended the bar on a drizzly and dreary December night. On the stage that Neil Diamond sounding guy plucked away classics from Crosby, Stills and Nash, Tom Petty, Neil Young and, yes, the D-man. At the bar was just two guys, Nick from the seafood restaurant, stoned and getting wasted on Smithwick’s and some guy I had never seen before. He was skinny with a shaved head and darted around nervously as if looking for something.

“Waiting on a date?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, no,” he answered. “Just been working a lot and haven’t had much time to relax I guess.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a DEA agent.”

Nick and myself looked at each other with incredulous faces. He was a known stoner and part time dealer of weed. I was a waning, but still using, coke head. I knew he was holding and if he knew me he knew that I was holding. We both coughed and looked at the ground saying “That’s cool”.

There was absolutely nothing going on. It was cold. It threatening to rain. People were shopping downtown and eating and drinking there; they weren’t on Fisherman’s Wharf that night. I was growing concerned about how to pay rent without dipping too hard into my savings. Plus I was bored and just wanted to close up so I could head to the Crowbar then back to the apartment to watch A Christmas Story and Santa Clause vs. The Martians which I had rented earlier.

Not to mention, my neck was itchy.

Relapse had sent me a new hoodie that day, this one for the band Mastodon which featured a flaming white stallion on the front. I literally took it out of the box, put it on and headed to work. Something was amiss. I was scratching my neck like I was a crackhead itching to score another rock.

Jack was nestled deep inside, bothering Mindy, watching some game and getting stinko on Busch. When it was this cold and slow he always stayed away from the outside bar and, most importantly, me, one of the good things about not making any money at Bill’s.

That’s when a light of hope appeared on the courtyard. Four young good looking girls walked in, all talking rather loudly, and stopped to read our menu we had posted by the tables. Please, I thought, please come and sit at my bar. I am bored, I am broke. Please come and sit and drink and let me look at you and joke around with you…please!

The girls read the menu, talked amongst themselves then continued on their way. Rats, I thought. Oh well. I’ll just sit here and listen to the guy play 70′s AM classics with a wasteoid pastry chef and DEA agent to keep me company. It just wasn’t meant to be I guess.

As the girls made their way across the courtyard, they stopped. What looked like a change of mind or at least some kind of conference, they stood there and chatted near the stage. In some weird way, I tried to get a mind trick going with them. As I sat there, shivering and itchy, I looked at them intensely cerebrating:

Come! Come and sit down! Have a beer! Everything else sucks! Bill’s is the best! Ooooh! You are under my spell! Come to me now pretty ladies…

Before I knew it, the four girls doubled back and sat right at my bar.

“Oh thank god,” I said aloud. “For a second I thought I was going to be stuck with these two studs all night. All to myself.”

The two guys looked up not knowing what to say.

The girls laughed and made some jokes about starting an orgy.

“Well I am off the market boys,” said the short one with red hair, “because I am getting married in the spring! Woo!”

“Hey, I’m already married,” said the one with dark hair and long features. “So I’m off the market too you know.”

“So I guess that just leaves the two of us,” said the girl with blonde hair and an eyebrow piercing.

“Nope, I’m taking them all,” announced the girl with big hoop earrings, glasses and sweater vest. “You bitches can have that guy on stage. Who is that? Neil Diamond?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“So, what’s the deal here?” asked sweater vest.

I showed them the beer and food menu. The girls liked the idea of 90 beers on tap. Food didn’t seem to really interest them. My kind of ladies. They each ordered something they had never heard of. Eyebrow piercing actually ordered a Chimay, which is brewed by Trappist monks, and is $9 a pint. They also ordered a few appetizers and our disgusting shrimp cocktail, which is no more than tiny frozen shrimps clumped together next to a splooge of bland cocktail sauce. I tried to warn them about it but they insisted. I guess it’s that “Well, we are on Fisherman’s Wharf so it’s gotta be good” mentality. Sure, and the Fillet O’Fish down the street is so much more fresh then the billion others served out there.

Back inside, Iggy had taken a 12 pack of Corona out of the beer locker and had laid out some lines. Even though I was hesitant, I did one. Afterwards I chugged a beer and got to the ladies orders. When I arrived back outside with their beers and shrimp cocktail, the ladies were talking to DEA guy and Nick, who was loudly babbling he was so lit up. The girls cheers and drank.

“So are you gals local?” I had to ask.

“No,” said red hair. “I live in the East Bay and these bitches are from Arizona.”

“We’re all from Arizona,” said dark hair, “I live in the South Bay. I never come to Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “Why would you?”

“Because this one insisted on it.”

“What?”, said sweater vest, “I wanted to play tourist. Big fucking deal. You got to do what you wanted to do now let me do mine. Drink your beer whore.”

“Beer Whore,” I said. “I like that.”

They laughed and drank their beers but I had to ask where in Arizona they were from.

“Phoenix,” said eyebrow piercing.

“Tucson,” said sweater vest.

“No way. I have a, uh, friend that just moved to Tucson. Is it nice?”

“No way,” said red hair, obviously the ‘sassy’ one of the bunch, “Tucson is fucking ghetto. You get like raped there.”

“Tucson is awesome,” insisted sweater vest, “it’s Phoenix that sucks ass. If you like LA douchebags who golf and give girls the crabs when they date rape them then I guess Phoenix is the shit.”

“Phoenix isn’t that bad,” said eyebrow piercing. “It’s nice. You’re just a reverse snob.”

“I’m just smart is what I am.”

DEA tried to get in on the action but was too stiff and normal for this lot of ladies. Nick just laughed. They started talking to them, asking them questions about their jobs and relationships, but when DEA told them what he did the girls just laughed.

“Dude, I just bought a bag of weed yesterday,” laughed red hair. “Are you gonna arrest me? It’s back at the hotel.”

“No,” said DEA demurely. “In fact I think it should be totally legal.”

“Totally!” shouted Nick.

“It’s the hard stuff that we focus on. Like just last week we caught a boat with over a hundred kilos of coke.”

My eyes shut and I swallowed hard.

“What do you do with all of it?,” asked sweater vest. “Party? Sell it to orphans?”

“No. It goes to a special holding facility.”

“What’s the address?” I asked.

Their hearty slop of fried food was delivered by Iggy himself. It was a slow night for food so he just hung out with us, smoking and pretending to understand most of the conversation. Around 8pm the bar was actually quite busy. Neil Diamond sounding guy was bringing in the business. The girls continued to order more beer and become louder and louder. As we continued with our joking around and laughing at the guy on stage, I began to size up the two single ones. Eyebrow piercing was attractive and looked a lot like that chick on “Gray’s Anatomy”. Sweater vest was boisterous and obviously kind of nerdy but extremely cute. The only thing is that sweater vest was essentially chain smoking. I’ve met girls like that: too smart and too cool for their own good and when the booze flows, so does the cigarettes. Red hair was probably the best looking but engaged and was growing more and more obnoxious with each beer that came her way. Dark hair (married) kind of kept to herself but was still witty. When she grabbed for a beer I noticed that some of her fingers were missing on her right hand. So instead of referring to her as “Dark Hair” in my head, I decided to call her “Fingers”.

“So what’s your name?” demanded red hair.

“I’m Mark.”

“That’s Metal Mark!” wheezed Nick. “He’s a fucking DJ and shit. On the radio and shit. Hell yeah. Metal!”

“Oh really?” cited sweater vest. “What do you think you’re cool or something?”

“Yeah. Far from it. Look I have to tend bar at the wharf listening to a Neil Diamond impersonator cover Bob Denver songs. I’m so cool it’s disgusting.”

Sweater vest and me regarded each other for a second, which was nice. She then changed her expression to concern.

“Oh honey,” she said to me, “your neck is really red. You’re like breaking out.”

“Really?” I said. I ran into the kitchen and glanced in the small mirror the girls use to spruce themselves up with when it’s too busy for bathroom breaks and saw that my neck was bright red and bumpy. Stupid new hoodie. Unfortunately I had to take it off and put on my blue jacket I had packed in my backpack. By midnight during this time, temps dropped to about the high 40s so layering was key. Sure it was cold, but the beer and blow was keeping me warm.

“Thanks,” I said returning.

The girls had finished their appetizer basket and (of course) bread bowl of clam chowder. I told them that the bread bowl was the bane of my existence as a bartender at Bill’s. They didn’t care. They wanted the full on tourist experience of San Francisco.

One thing that kept reoccurring was the shrimp cocktail. They barely touched it and every time I came back with beers they had it hidden behind a menu. Not getting the hint, I kept taking it out from behind the menu and placing back in front of them. After doing this two or three times, sweater vest finally spoke up.

“Yeah, no,” she said. “Just throw that away. It’s um…not very good. Sorry.”

As I chucked it into the garbage I said, “Sorry? Please. It’s vile. Blecch!”

“You’re not a very good bartender are you?” said red hair.

I sat down on the small stool behind the bar.

“No,” I said. “I sure am not.”

About 9:30pm the girls were hammered. Neil Diamond guy pressed on even with the four of them shouting “Freebird!” and “Show us your tits!” At one point the singer busted out a version of “I Am I Said” which got a big round of applause. And giggles.

“I should be up on that stage right now,” said sweater vest.

“Why don’t you?” I asked. “Can you sing.”

“Oh no. But I can play one hell of a kazoo.”

The minute she said that I remembered that I had a kazoo in my backpack. Like I said, always come prepared. I also had a yo-yo, talking Mr. T toy, crayons, sidewalk chalk, a Chewbacca PEZ dispenser, dental floss, a Swiss army knife, pens, playing cards, a bird whistle, sunglasses, a lighter, eye drops, loose change and some fake teeth that makes me look like a hillbilly. Like I said, you never know.

When I came back out with the kazoo the girls nearly fell over. Sweater vest laughed so hard she almost plopped backwards. Nick and DEA just gave me that “no way” look.

“Okay,” sputtered red hair, “you have got to come out with us before we leave on Monday.”

“Um…okay,” I said.

“You know that place Lefty O’Douls?”

“Do I? Oh man, every Christmas eve I…”

“We are going to be there on Sunday around 7:00. If you’re there…cool. If not, you’re missing out on hanging out with some sexy bitches.”

“Great.”

“Er…you guys can come to,” said sweater vest. Even though I knew what she was doing I was kind of disappointed. Sure red hair was talking to just me since I was cracking jokes and talking to them while DEA and Nick just basically sat there and laughed. It was a bit awkward to only invite me since all of us were drinking (me on the sly of course) and conversing. Why not I thought. I always have Sundays off and had absolutely nothing better to do.

“So are you planning on coming to Tucson at all?” sweater vest asked.

“Well…gosh. I hadn’t thought about it. Um, I’m not too sure.”
She then asked for a pen and paper, I handed her one of my tickets since I wasn’t going to be turning in any of this food. She scribbled something down and handed it to me. It was an address of some place called The Chicago Way, a phone number and her name:

Sherra.

With first glance prejudiced eyes and a lifetime love of Masters of the Universe, I failed to see the first R. All I read was “She-Ra.” I did a double take straight out of a bad Three Stooges short and gasped.

“Wha…? You’re name is She-Ra?”

“Yeah,” she said shrugging. “Sherra actually. But, yeah…that’s me.”

Suddenly sweater vest, I mean Sherra, looked a lot different to me. Sure she was drunk and loud and smoking constantly and, dammit, if she would just cut it out with that cursed kazoo she just kept making noise with, but meeting a cute girl from, ironically enough, Tucson Arizona and named She-Ra just slapped me hard in the face. My mouth hung open.

“This is so weird,” I said. “And to think you guys were almost not going to sit here.”

“Yeah,” interjected red hair, “we were going to go to a nice place but Sherra made us stop here.”

“This is a nice place,” dark hair observed.

“No it’s not,” I said. “My boss is a complete,” I stopped to look around just to make sure he wasn’t lurking in the doorway, “asshole. He hates me. I don’t know why but he does. I think he’s the devil.”

Eyebrow piercing then grabbed another ticket, got out a pen and began scribbling something down.

“That’s the address of the place where I work,” Sherra said. “If you decide to move there I can probably get you a job.”

“Like bartending?”

“I am a bartender there.”

“I don’t think I like bartending.”

“Good. Because you stink.”

Eyebrow piercing then handed me the ticket, on it she had written:

To the boss: We love Mark!
He’s the best server ever.
Love, 4 hot chicks

“Hey thanks,” I said. “I’ll show him this and he’ll probably burn it in front of me and then cackle with evil glee. But I appreciate it. That’s awesome.”

“No problem,” she said.

DEA took off around 10 and said he’d try and make Lefty O’Douls. That gave me hope. When a guy says “I’ll try and make it” after getting a loose invite to something that usually means he wont show up, instead he’ll stay home, watch the “game” or whatever and masturbate to online porn. Nick soon followed, weaving his way to his bike and peddling off with his head bobbing up and down.

“Should we be concerned?” asked Sherra.

“Eh,” I said. “He does it all the time.”

The girls stayed past midnight, drinking one last beer as I closed up. I finally got the names of the other girls. Eyebrow piercing was Alicia, fingers was Laura and red hair was Erin. I told them I would see them on Sunday and waved as they stumbled and cackled their way back to Columbus. All was quiet when they were gone past the stairs and got into a cab.

She-Ra, I thought. No way.

* * *

The radio show on Saturday went fine. A few drop ins from Rusty’s friends, one of which had a laptop and had videoed an actual Tijuana donkey show. If you don’t know what it is look it up, I don’t feel like writing about it. The thing was hard enough to watch as it was. Of course, through habit, I did my fair share of blow and even did a line of El Duce’s crystal, so at 8:30am, when I finally got back to the apartment, I was wide awake. Luckily I had discovered a greasy spoon diner on Powell street and ate breakfast while perusing the Chronicle at the counter. I felt like an old man, or rather a regular person doing something normal like that. After six hours of metal, punk, beer and drugs it was nice to come down like a human. It was something I was craving more and more.

After sleeping all day I decided to give Amanda a call. I felt like such a jerk for not telling her that I ripped her apartment into multi-media confetti.. The conversation was tense and she berated me for not calling right after it happened. I told her I’d get the window fixed and get her a new table. The rest of the stuff just needed to be dusted off and put back on dressers and shelves.

“But what about the fucking paintings?” she screamed.

“Oh, those,” I said. “Um…yeah. Sorry. Were they yours?”

“No!”

“Oh. Well then. They were ugly anyway.”

“Fuck you!”

The apartment was actually looking quite nice after I cleaned it up post freak out. That huge ugly table was now gone and I actually had loads of open space which was nice. I stored the broken paintings in the back behind the dresser she let me use and the hallway walls were now decorated with cracks instead of whatever post minimalist crap that she had up there. The only thing ghetto was the broken window, but it was small enough that a white foam board I found in her art supplies covered it up. I just didn’t feel like shelling out the some odd hundreds of dollars to get it fixed. So I put a picture of Jim Henson on it to make it not so terrible.

As I was leaving the apartment to meet those girls, I ran into a lady in the stairwell.

“Hello,” she said ascending. “Are you the one that got robbed the other night?”

“Robbed?” I thought. Oh right, the night of destruction. I guess she must have heard it. “Um, I wasn’t robbed. I, uh, I just had a really bad day.”
“Goodness. We heard such a commotion. My husband and I were sure that someone was breaking in and vandalizing your apartment. So we called the police.

That was you huh? “No. Sorry. I had been drinking then came home to discover bad news about my dad,” I lied openly to a nice old lady, except about the drinking part, “so I vented by breaking this big ugly table that I was meaning to get rid of anyway.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “It sounded like a lot more than that.”

“No that was…that was pretty much it.”

She stood there looking at me with an arm full of groceries, with a rather curious gaze.

“I don’t think I’ve ver seen you here before,” she said. “Are you friends with Amanda?”

“Yes. I’m subletting the place. She’s in Arizona taking care of some family matters.”

“Oh. Well when will she be back?”

Good question. “I’m not sure. Soon I hope.”

She smiled and continued her way up. As I started walking down the stairs I stopped and looked back at her.

“Wait. So you’re the wife of the guy upstairs?” I asked.

“Yes. My name’s Helen. His name is John.”

“Does your husband love Phil Collins or what?”

Helen winced. “Oh no,” she said. “He hates that rock and roll business.”

I nodded and smiled. “Right.”

Lefty O’Douls isn’t exactly down the street from the apartment. In fact it’s a good 14 or 15 big city blocks to get there. A cab would be easy and a bus would be cheap, but after a hearty breakfast and a long day sleeping, I was in the mood for a brisk jaunt. Not to mention the air was starting to get that crisp wintery smell to it and checking out the Christmas decorations was a top priority.

I arrived at Lefty O’Douls sometime after 8pm. It was pretty packed. Holiday shoppers and regulars were everywhere, so I glanced around the place to find those girls.

It didn’t take long to find their table. They were pretty close, right next to the bar and near the meat carving station. Did I fail to mention that Lefty’s is basically an old timey cafeteria with a piano lounge and full stocked bar? Oh yeah. The place is a lil’ slice of heaven.

But, wouldn’t you know it, DEA guy and Nick were at their table too. Drats! Regardless, I put on a smiley face as I waved to them and walked over.

Sherra was sitting closest and when she turned around and saw that I was there she stood up to give me a hug. First thing I noticed was that she looked far different from the first night I saw her. She was in jeans, had her hair down and was wearing a Converse All Stars tee-shirt. Under that shirt, however, were two very large bosoms that made me gulp hard as I tried hard not to stare. Oh boy, I thought. This is going to be rough.

Alicia, Erin and Laura were also a bit different. They were quiet. It looked as if they had been partying the last two days and their last night in San Francisco was a liver endurance test to which they were all getting a D-.

“How’s everyone doing?” I said as I sat down.

“Good” was the consensus. DEA guy and Nick looked a bit awkward. Maybe they thought they were going to get some ‘last night in the big city’ tourist girl tail and I was c-blocking their chances. I honestly really didn’t care. It was the holiday season, I knew my place in life and now I was going to start changing for the better. Not to mention right smack between Christmas and New Years was my birthday, so getting one year closer to 40 meant having to grow up and get on with it.

I asked the table if they needed anything, to which the boys had fresh beers and the girls were nursing theirs, so I got up and walked to the bar. Sherra followed.

“What’s wrong with your friends?” I asked. “They look a little bedraggled.”

“Oh god,” she said. “It’s been non stop boozing for three days and it’s just now catching up. I had to drag them out of the hotel to come here. They almost didn’t make it. Plus I think they’re a little freaked out that you guys actually showed up.”

“I know right. Nick is cool but that DEA guy kind of freaks me out.” Not just because I had a 50 bag in my shirt pocket, but his buzzed haircut and rigid intensity made him look a little like Psycho from Stripes, and not in a good way. “Did you ever get his name?”

Sherra chortled. “Nick.”

“Bloody hell.”

After grabbing beers we returned to the table, chatted a bit before the smell of all that awesome old man cafeteria food got to me. I raced up to the front, grabbed a tray, filled it with turkey, mashed potatoes, hot rolls and a salad. I felt weird going back to the table with a tray full of steamy badassness but, hey, when at Lefty’s, do as the seasoned regulars do and stuff your face.

“So Mark,” Erin said, “are you thinking about moving to Tucson or what?”

That was an odd question. With a mouth full of food I pondered. Did I mention something about moving to Tucson? Why would I move to Tucson? Amanda is the only thing I know in Tucson and we’re broken up. What the heck is in Tucson anyway? I didn’t even know where it was really.

“Um…no,” I said. “I have a friend there but that’s about it. Did I say something about moving to Tucson?”

The girls just smiled. “No,” said Erin. “It’s just…you know.”

With suspicion cocked eyebrows I raised my beer and took a sip. Tucson. Oh yeah, I drove through it once to get gas and a burger on my way to Austin, TX for South By Southwest but that was it. Yeah. Tucson. Um…no.

After another round of beers the girls loosened up and were spry again. Nothing like fighting a hangover with more booze I always say.

Stoner Nick relayed stories about Christmas where he grew up, somewhere in Memphis, and unraveled tales of how he got into the culinary arts. Mainly because he had nothing better to do and was informed that most high end kitchens were a hot bed of drinking a drug use. DEA Nick laughed uneasily.

After finishing my food and more beer we decided to move on. I suggested we go to the Crowbar (big surprise) and everyone agreed. I told them that the bars in North Beach are far better than the faux swanky crap that downtown has to offer. Even though the idea of drinking in high end twenty dollars a cocktail downtown lounges appealed to Alicia, Erin and Laura, Sherra wanted cheap beer and big shots. She was definitely someone I could consider dating. That is, if she didn’t live in another state in a town that I had only driven through once. I think there’s a university in Tucson. Not sure.

The girls, half lit up, stood on the corner looking for a cab.

“Are we taking two cabs or just one?” Sherra asked.

“Girls in one, boys in the other,” Erin suggested.

“Actually I’m taking off,” DEA Nick said. “It was good to meet you all.”

Stoner Nick and I shook his hand and the girls gave him a hug.

“Now you go catch those bad drug people!” Erin said. Nick and I just laughed.

Luckily for us a Handi-cab rolled up. A Handi-cab, as we call it, is a cab designed for wheelchairs and look like a yellow checkered short bus. The guy driving didn’t seem to mind that none of us were handicapped and let us in.

“That’s not true,” Sherra said. “Erin is fucking retarded.”

“You’re retarded bitch.”

“I only have three fingers on my right hand,” Laura said.

“I stubbed my toe last night,” said Alicia.

“I think I have a conjoined fetal twin growing out of my ass,” informed Nick.

“What about you Mark?” Alicia asked. “Are you handicapped?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I got twelve nipples. And when you connect them, it looks like the liberty bell.”

I seemed to be sort of on a friend roll when it came to me arriving at the Crowbar with people. First Jose, then Lars’ bachelor party, then Ellie and Ross and now four cute girls and a wily young stoner. I wont lie to you, I felt popular. How sad is that?

Strangely enough, the bar was kind of jumping. There looked to be some kind of gathering of young hipster upstarts, most likely from what is referred to as “design row” down on Pacific Street. In a two block radius there is more than a few dozen interior design stores and businesses. Sometimes the lot comes into the Crowbar to get their monthly dose of “slumming” but tonight it appears that an actual party is going on. Casey was working and I asked what was going on?

“I don’t know,” he said pouring our beers. “It looks like the fraternal order of fucking douchemongers is having their holiday party here. They are fucking obnoxious and don’t tip for shit.”

“Great,” Sherra said and gave him a 50% tip.

The group opted for a table next to the holiday party goers, all dressed impeccably slick and being loud. I was fine not to sit in my usual spot. It was, after all, “my” spot. Taking a whole group there would negate ownership.

“So this is your favorite bar huh?” Alicia said. “Interesting.”

“Yeah it’s usually not this loud and packed. It’s usually just me, the barstaff and a few punks and metalheads. This is, “ I paused surveying the unusual crowd, “I don’t know what this is.”

One in particular, a young Asian guy, was being lousy. Maybe it was his birthday. I mean, there were presents everywhere, but this guy was being silly rotten. He was so drunk, so loud and absolutely detestable that I almost wanted to say something to Casey. But I’m sure he already had an eye on him and ready to kick him out with another outburst or no tip.

“That guy sucks,” Sherra noted.

“They all do,” I said. “They think they can come here and just be jerkoffs. I mean, it’s true, but still. I don’t think there’s a Slayer fan in the bunch.”

Sherra and me were conversing as if we had been pals for years. I was just so comfortable with her it almost made me uneasy. The other girls were fine, very cool in fact, but it looked as if I had met a female version of myself. Except she smokes and has bigger boobs than me.

Then it happened. The drunk Asian guy fell over, hit Nick and got up wanting to fight. It was ridiculous. The guy’s friends grabbed him by the arms and escorted him out. Before we knew it, the place was quiet again as the lot massed outside regaining control and talking on cell phones, except for Reverend Horton Heat blasting away on the juke. They left behind a pile of boxes and tissue paper. And a brand new skateboard.

“Awesome!” I said picking it up. “Just what I always wanted.”

We helped Casey clean up to which he gave us a free round of shots. Sherra and I both ordered Jagermeister, another strange similarity, and knocked them back. We even did the same “shot grenade” reaction. Usually, after I do a shot, about five seconds later my body riggers from the alcohol and I usually make some sound like “bbrrrah-ha!” or something. Sherra just grimaced and then took a drink of her beer. I was kind of falling for her.

But I let it go. She’s leaving, she lives in another state and I was no good for anybody at that particular juncture in my life. So I sat next to her, talking and cracking jokes, not thinking about how hot I think she is and wanting to go to Vegas and get hitched.

As the evening wore on, however, our apparent clicking and coupling had become obvious. The more beers and shots were consumed, the more Sherra and I got closer and closer. Not in some bad romantic comedy movie kind of way, there was no cute but scruffy dog pairing us up and Nick was far from being the wacky sidekick who somehow knits us closer, mainly because he was halfway to passed-out-ville, but rather we had an honest and bizarre link.

Turns out we are both big Star Wars nerds, have seen Titanic over what fingers and toes we can count on, read too many books, hate idiotic douchebags that ruin a good holiday party at a popular dive bar and have a soft spot for power ballads and yacht rock. Not to mention, we were almost finishing each others sentences and were back-and-forthing with jibes and gags to which brought us both looking at each other with mild bewilderment.

“I, um, have to go out for a smoke,” she said.

“Yeah. Okay,” I uttered. “I, uh…am gonna stay in here and blow my knees out with a ratchet.”

“Let me know how that turns out.”

“Ten four.”

When Sherra walked out Erin and Alicia leaned in.

“If you don’t marry Sherra I will fucking kill you,” Erin threatened.

“What do you mean?” I asked coyly. “I’m not interested. I mean…well…what do you mean?”

“We told Sherra,” Alicia started, “that you two were perfect for each other.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” agreed Erin. “And we don’t even know you. You’re just some bartender with a neck rash. But I’ve never seen her interact with anyone like that. It’s obvious. Just get fucking married.”

“But I hardly know her. I mean…I live here and she lives…where?”

“Tucson,” the girls said in unison.

“Right. I mean, as much as I want to move out of that stinky apartment I have no idea what I’d do in Tucson.”

“They have bars there,” Alicia informed. “But they’re pretty grimy.”

“Perfect,” I said.

As the girls went on about the future of Sherra and myself, I looked out the side window by the pool tables and saw her standing out there by the bus stop, smoking, shivering in the blustery cold of a San Francisco December night. Maybe it was the beer, or the Jager, or the bump I recently did as the booze was starting to take hold, but she looked absolutely beautiful. Even under the oppressive yellow haze of the streetlight, I suddenly felt impulsive to go out there and kiss her.

“Excuse me,” I said, and I got up and walked out.

As I did I knew that this was just a one time fling, a pan flash moment of reckless lustful abandon. It didn’t matter. Having had many long term relationships and, recently, a handful of dating disasters I figured one kiss on a cold night wouldn’t do any harm. And nothing would come of it.

“Hey there,” Sherra said.

“Hey. Um…I was wondering. Can I…uh…is it alright if I…um…”

“What?” she asked.

“Can I kiss you?”

Sherra blew out some smoke that mingled with the frigid air causing a mighty gust of white cloud emitting from her mouth. I didn’t care. Just one kiss. That’s all I wanted.

“Um. Okay.”

With that I quickly and nervously moved in, pecked her mouth and retreated.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think you’re neat.”

Sherra just stood there and smiled. “Shut up,” she said.

“I’m gonna go back in. Because, you know, it’s cold.”

“Hold on.” Sherra took one more drag, flicked it into the street and followed me in, wrapping her arm around my elbow. I got warm twinges and felt stupidly giddy. All I kept thinking about was “this girl is amazing…I can’t get involved.”

Back inside the girls were playing pool with some guys while Nick was asleep on a chair.

“Should we get him a cab?” Laura asked.

“Eventually,” I said. “He’ll wake up and figure it out.”

We all played pool, we were joking around with Casey and the others, we cued up bad music on the jukebox and wrote “Man Whore” on Nick’s forehead, all the while Sherra and myself flirting and playing off one another. I was cautious, but I was becoming quite smitten.

Then  a slapdash notion came to mind. After losing to Erin and some guy with a popped collar, I reached into my pocket and got out my keychain. At the time I had this “Mr. T in a pocket” devise that, when you press one of the six buttons, Mr T’s voice crackles on and says stuff like “I pity the fool”, “Don’t make me mad, grrr!” and “Don’t give me no back talk sucka”. It was pure brilliance I assure you. Anyway, I twisted off the ring that connected it to the rest of my keys, grabbed Sherra’s hand and slipped it on her ring finger.

“Sherra,” I said, “it isn’t much but…will you marry me?”

Sherra, drunk and probably thinking I was kidding laughed and accepted.

“You’ve made me the happiest man in town,” I shouted. “Hey everyone…she said yes!”

The girls and the rest of the bar all cheered and applauded. Casey gave us a round on the house for the occasion and seeing as I was kind of broke at that point I didn’t want to tell him that it was all a joke.

In reality though, I would have gone to Vegas and married her. It just felt like the thing to do.

At 1:30 Casey announced that it was ‘last call’ and we all agreed that we had had enough and it was time to go. We stepped outside and the girls waited for a cab.

“So where do you live Mark?” Alicia asked.

“Just up the street. A few blocks. Not far.”

“Well, it was good meeting you Mark,” Erin said sticking her hand out. “Maybe we will cross paths again.”

We shook. “I’m sure we will.”

A cab arrived, and as the girls got in Sherra continued to stand next to me.

“Hey guys,” she said. “I’m gonna hang out with this guy tonight.”

We were all silenced. Both excited and distressed, the shock of Sherra’s plan took hold. The girls looked out at her and started to giggle.

“Are you sure?” Erin asked. “Mark, you’re not some crazy rapist maniac are you?”

“Acquitted,“ I answered.

“So what about tomorrow?” Alicia asked.

“I’ll be back at the hotel by noon. Just call my cell. I’ll be fine.”

The girls, looking both drunk and amused all accepted what Sherra had decided on and said goodbye. The cab drove off and there I was, standing with a girl I barely knew but had sort of kissed and recently proposed to.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Starving.”

We grabbed slices at that pizza place, took them back to the apartment and ate them as we watched A Nightmare Before Christmas. Afterwards, showing off a bit, I plugged in the fog machine and threw on my power ballads CD I made. As Winger’s “Heading for a Heartbreak” boomed on, Sherra and I started kissing. Gently at first which then grew heavier and heavier. My heart was racing so fast. Not because of the drinking, pizza or even that tiny taste of the drug a few hours ago, but because I actually felt enraptured by this girl. She seemed perfect. Cute, busty, funny, nerdy, can hold her booze, can hold her own and, most importantly, seemed to like me.

“I know this is crazy,” I said coming up for air, “but…I think I kind of love you.”

Those words coming out singed my heart and brain. They just popped out, there was no stopping them. It felt as if I had just came out to my parents or telling the world I wanted to be a dancer. Those words felt honest and pure. And I don’t even know why. I guess when you know, you know.

“I know right,” she said. “Like I’m totally falling for you.”

“So…what do we do?”

“I don’t know. This.”

She pulled me back onto her lips and we began kissing again. Somewhere in the deep morning hours we passed out, still clinging to one another, fog still hovering in the stale room air and Cinderella’s “Nobody’s Fool” lightly pounding in the distance.

* * *

The alarm goes off at 9am. Oh man, I forgot I had to open the bar that day.

Luckily for Sherra, she too had to get up early and go back to the hotel to meet the girls, pack and return to Arizona. We were groggy, but the excitement of the previous night’s fun and happenstance engagement gave us enough energy to muster up the gall to put shoes on and consider doing our duties.

“It’s funny,” I said, “I barely know you. But I don’t want you to go.”

“You know what’s funnier?” Sherra asked.

“What?”

“I don’t wanna go.”

Slowly and rather silently we walked down to Bill’s together. She didn’t have to come but she said she wanted to hang out as humanly possible. The girls phoned and made sure she was okay and meeting them at noon. Sherra said yes. Well, that’s that I thought.

As I set up the outside tables and got the bar ready, Sherra was walking around the wharf one last time. Emma showed up around 11 to start the lunch shift. After saying hello she stopped and looked at me.

“You alright?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I think so. Why?”

“You look…pale,” she said squinting to get a better look. “Are you sick?”

“Oh. No. I don’t think so. Well maybe. Why?”

“Well I don’t know why. You just look as if something’s wrong.”

“That’s just it,” I grumbled. “Something is wrong. Only because something is terribly right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hey nerd face!” It was Sherra and she was sitting at the bar. “I have a present for you.”

“That,” I said and walked over.

She had a Walgreens bag and from it she produced a Maxim magazine.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You idiot. Look who’s on the cover.”

There, on this particular issue, was Shakira, the Columbian songstress that can move her hips in the most holy of unholy ways. I remembered, vaguely, telling Sherra of my new found obsession for Shakira after watching her video for “Hips Don’t Lie” on VH1 one night. After that, Iggy and myself both came out as Shakira admirers and I even posted a very sexy picture of her in the kitchen so we can both drool as we pretended to work. Jack found it and immediately took it down. Rumor has it that the picture lies deep in his desk and comes out when the door is closed so he can “make some phone calls.” Yeah, “Ring ring. Hello, penis? It’s Harry Palm and my five little buddies. Wanna wrestle?”

“Oh my god,” I said, “a girl has never given me a Maxim with a hot Latina on it. Wow. Thanks.”

“Call it a going away present.”

When Sherra said that my heart sunk. It was true. She was leaving. She lived in another state. In Tucson. And, once again, I’d be all alone with this stupid job in that stinky apartment for who knows how long. It just isn’t fair. I’m a good person, screwed up and lost, but still, I deserve a little happiness.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’ll walk you up to get a cab.”

Emma agreed to watch the bar until I got back. Sherra and I walked through the courtyard, up the stairs and back onto the roundabout on Columbus. A cab pulled right up as she extended a hand.

“Call me when you get back,” I said. “It, uh…it was really nice meeting you.”

Sherra smiled, grabbed my shoulders, brought me closer and kissed me.

“It was good to meet you too,” she said. “Come and visit. Tucson is kind of fun.”

“Is it?” I said. “Alright. Now I know two people there. I’ll see what I can do.”

Sherra got in and rolled down the window.

“Or maybe we’ll meet up in Vegas.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “The drive through chapel. Then we can honeymoon in beautiful Laughlin. I hear dreams come true there.”

Sherra waved a somber goodbye. One last time, I leaned down and kissed her. I knew I had found the girl of my dreams. And here she was, driving away for good.

“I know it’s weird,” she said, “but I already miss you.”

“And I don’t even know who you are.”

We both smiled, kissed once again before she sped off, down the street, off into the distance, disappearing behind a hill.

Well, I thought, that was that.

When I returned back to Bill’s I was clearly shaken. All I could do was sit down and silently mutter to myself. I tried to put what I was feeling into words but when I started to tear up Emma said that she could handle the bar and tables on her own. Siobhan agreed.

“Fuck Jack,” she said. “I’m sendin’ ya home love. You got some t’ings to figure out. I’ll tell ‘im you gots the crabs or somethin’”

It didn’t even take that much. I grabbed my stuff, walked back to the apartment, laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I had never felt like that ever before in my life. How could I be in love with someone I barely knew? Did it matter? What the heck would I do in Tucson? Maybe she could move to San Francisco. And live where, in this dump? Surrounded by my ex’s crap? No way.

Time passed and I never moved. Sleep overtook me and I tried my hardest not to wake up.

But then the phone rang.

OK, we’ve been over my two rules about the phone. 1) Don’t answer it. If it rings and you’re not expecting anyone to call, it’s either your boss, some salesman, some idiot, some telemarketer, your landlord, your ex, your parents or a derelict cousin who’s in town and needs a place to “crash” and “a few bucks to tie me over for a while”. It’s just not worth it. And 2) See rule one.

But, of course, the first thing on my mind was Sherra and the fact that I asked her to call me. I picked up and, thankfully, it was her.

“Hi there,” she said. “I’m in my car on the way to Tucson.”

“Oh good,” I said. “So the flight was relatively crash free.”

“Yeah, no crashes you dork. Still alive.”

“Well thats good.”

Then we hit a snag. What do we say to each other? Is this real? Or is it just some freak infatuation that will cool off once she’s back in town and I am back, um, well…you know?

“So…” I started, “you’re driving to Tucson. Where, uh, where did you fly into?”

“Phoenix. I stayed with my parents until I left for San Francisco. I just parked near the airport so, you know, it’s easier like that.”

“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”

I wanted to confirm what had exchanged between us, but instead the small talk took precedence. Was there food on the flight? What are you going to do when you get back? What kind of car do you drive? Blah blah blah. The answers were: No, just peanuts; I have to work tomorrow; Chevy Impala.

“Cool.”

“You know,” Sherra said, “it’s my birthday on the 18th.”

“What? That’s, what…three days from now. That’s amazing. Mine is on the 28th.”

“Ah ha. Capricorn.”

“With Aquarius rising.”

“Shut up you California shit bag.”

“What? It’s true.”

“Whatever,” she said. “So maybe you should come down sometime and visit for my…”

BLAM!

“Holy shit,” Sherra said. “I just had a fucking blow out!”

“No way.”

“Way. And…I’m in the middle of BF nowhere. Like serious hillbillies with chainsaws country.”

She hung up to call Triple A and then called back. After making sure she was alright I got her address so I could send her a birthday card.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I’m going to.”

We chatted non-stop until a tow truck arrived, a good hour or so later. The conversation just flowed and I was convinced I had met Ms. Right.

“Look darlin,” she said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow okay?”

“You just called me ‘darlin’.”

“Shut up!”

The next day I went out and found the lamest birthday card I could find. It was actually a “With Sympathy” card and full of woe-is-me sad crap. I think I wrote something like “I hope your cat feels better!” In the card though, I put in something special, something that I have never done before. In a plain white envelope I stuck a hundred dollar bill, one that had been sitting around waiting to go into the hands of Rascon, and on the envelope I wrote:

“Birthday fun or gas money to get you back to me.”

Mailing it was a hassle because I didn’t know if I was making the right decision or not. But after a few moments of dangling it on the lip of the mailbox, I closed my eyes and slipped it in. That was that. I just sent a girl I hardly knew but was somehow immensely smitten with a $100 bill. Was I a complete moron or a hapless romantic? Is there a difference? Really?

XX.

The phone calls from either Sherra or myself never faltered. It was a daily occurrence. And it wasn’t one of those lame “Oh, I guess I gotta call this chick ‘cause maybe I’ll get some if I see her again” type of obligation. This was easy. My usual stance on regular phone calls that aren’t to my drug dealer (which at this point were few and far between) had been usurped by a foxy girl living in Tucson Arizona, a place I only had driven through once and had no idea it carried a major university.

“Yeah dumbass,” Sherra exclaimed. “U of A is here. I went there. I have three worthless degrees from that place.”

“Is it hard to get into?”

“Not really,” she explained. “Basically if you have some cash and a valid I.D. they let you in.”

“Man, maybe I should have gone there.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Uh…no. Lets say I ‘dabbled’ in college,” I said. “Lots of film and drama classes. I really had no interest in college. Especially after high school…which sucked.”

“You graduated high school right?”

I had to explain that I was going to be held back a year due to my horrible grades and the fact that I preferred to skateboard or play D&D than deal with my hick, athletic pumping, no art classes what so ever school in Salinas, CA on a daily basis. Luckily it was my English teacher, Mrs. Favalora, who told me to just graduate early with a proficiency test and get out. I did and I haven’t thanked her enough because of it.

I also told Sherra to listen to the radio show on Saturday. I gave her the live stream URL and when I showed up to the station that night I was pleasantly pleased when she called up.

“Hey, Metal Mark,” Rusty called from the booth, “phone’s for you.”

I walked in and picked up the receiver, plugging the right ear with my finger as the horrid strains of Norwegian black metal sliced away through the dismal early morning.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello nerd. When do you go on?”

“Oh, uh…soon.” I gave Rusty a glance as if I had been caught. He didn’t understand.

“Well, I’m at my friend Tim’s house and we have your show on the computer. They seem to like the music. I think there’s not enough Celine Dion.”

“Oh man,” I said. “I think I have ‘My Heart Will Go On’ somewhere in the studio. But I think it’s by Cradle Of Filth. Is that okay?”

“Get off my phone you idiot and go be a DJ or whatever.”

“OK. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I hung up and gave Rusty the Reader’s Digest version of the story between Sherra and myself. Plus I asked if I could take over for a while.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I am tired as shit. You and Boom can take control all you want.”

Rusty had one more song cued up, luckily it was High On Fire so I didn’t protest. I cued up a few songs of my own. When ‘Cometh Down Hessian’ ended I got on the mic and did my spiel.

“Alright, this is Metal Mark coming at you here on Reckless Radio. The next few songs are dedicated to a lady I just met. You know who you are She-Ra! It was her birthday yesterday so everyone wish She-Ra a happy birthday!”

Boom and El Duce got on a mic in studio B and yelled “Happy birthday!” Rusty and a few of his friends were oblivious, drinking beers and chatting.

“OK,” I said, “I hope you got my card lady because I meant every word. Now sit back and enjoy She-Ra’s birthday mix everyone. I think I kinda like this girl.”

First song up was Andrew WK’s “She is Beautiful” followed by Motley Crue’s “Looks That Kill”, Death From Above 1979′s “Romantic Rights”, Crowbar’s version of “Dreamweaver” and so on. The kids in the studio were pointing and laughing and making fun of me but I didn’t care. When Sherra called to thank me and tell me she’d call tomorrow, I felt as if I was alone in the studio. Just Sherra and me, the rest of those guys faded away. Pretty soon Boom stumbled in wanting to play a fine selection of crusty punk.

About two hours before the show was over everyone wanted to leave.

“Is that okay?” Rusty asked. “We’re all just beat. You know how to close up right?”

“Oh yeah,” I assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

Everyone said goodbye and pretty soon I was left alone in the KUSF studio. After playing a giddy selection of old school hardcore and thrash I signed off with one last song, mainly because I knew no one was listening but hoping that Sherra would wake up and hear it.

It was Celine Dion. I found the Titanic CD some where in the cast collection of the station. I laughed as I finished my beer, took out the trash and cleaned the table off of any residue.

* * *

The following Wednesday I did my “white trash” show at the 540 which always went over well, much better than the first of the month stuff. Afterwards, while sipping beer with Brooks, Jamie and a few others, something occurred to me: My birthday was in a week and I had absolutely no plans. Having your birthday smack dab between Christmas and New Years was a tough one. It’s not easy on a kid when they receive a “Merry Christmas / Happy Birthday” present from their grandparents, which usually consisted of a sweater or bunch of socks. Plus I was never able to celebrate my birthday at school which always pissed me off because one thing that made me jealous was kids having cake and getting cards instead of doing schoolwork because their birthday fell on a Tuesday in March or Friday in October or some crap. So, through the years, I learned to accept the notion of celebrating my birthday with close friends (that is if they were in town), the girl I was seeing at the time (which, officially, was no one at that time) or myself. I was turning 35, I wanted to do something.

“Hey Jamie,” I said to him as he counted the drawer behind the bar, “you guys got anything going on the 28th?”

Brooks and Jamie both thought for a moment that came back with a resounding “No.”

“Well check this out,” I started, “that day is my birthday and I was wondering if I could DJ?”

After being surprised that my birthday was so close they both smiled and said sure, after wishing me a pre-happy birthday.

“Thing is, “ I said, “ I don’t wanna do just metal. In fact, I really don’t want to play much of that at all. I wanna play whatever I wanna play. I’ll keep it real interesting. I promise.”

Jamie then said that the ad for the papers hadn’t gone out yet. With a few few twists and add-ons, he said, my birthday bash would be announced on the advertisements going out to all the major publications. Awesome, I thought. Maybe someone will actually show up.

The days leading up to Christmas Eve were gloomy at best. Work had been really slow and I actually had taken up serving tables inside which freaked me out. One reason is because Jack was always somewhere nearby leering and judging and the more he drank the more he was apt to yell at me for stupid reasons. One night I dropped a bowl of clam chowder which spilled all over the main bar area and he called me a “hippie retard” in front of everyone. It was also tough to tear up tickets and replace them with blank ones since he was right there watching my every move and every table I took. Luckily there was a break in the chill and I got some tables and bar customers outside so I was able to make a little stash before Christmas. But not much.

And, two, Christmas was my absolute favorite time of the year and I had no one to share it with. Sure I went to the Crowbar’s and 540 Club’s Christmas parties and, yeah, I was talking daily and nightly to a girl that I was rapidly falling deeper and deeper in whatever for, but still. Being in that cold and ancient apartment, still half destroyed and emptier because of it, made being there all the more lonely. Sure I put up lights in the windows and decorated the place as humanly possible, but the fact that I hated that place along with most everything else at that stage in my life made it fairly oppressive. But I trudged on. I went to all of the holiday festivals around town including seeing Peter Cetera playing Christmas songs at a Border’s Books near Pac Bell park. I arrived a little late, with beer bottles clinking in my backpack, only to hear the last few tunes from the Chicago ex-frontman. Apparently he had put out a Christmas album of original tunes so that’s why I didn’t recognize any of the ditties. At one point I almost shouted out “Play ‘If You leave Me Now’!” but luckily that part of my brain that signifies “restraint” was still operating. So I had him sign my VHS copy of The Karate Kid that I thankfully remembered to bring and left.

San Francisco, much like New York but without the snow, is amazing around the holidays. Downtown is done up like a twinkling retail North Pole, the smell in the air, even around Market Street, is frosty and sweet and even the bums don Santa hats. Bell ringers are everywhere, random carolers make their way through neighborhoods and the food and beer seem to have a special bit of extra magic in them. On December 24th, I set out for Union Square, equipped with beer and a small baggie, and walked briskly with the frantic shoppers as they feverishly purchased that absolutely last minute gift. As the drones of SUNN 0))) lay waste to my ears, I circumvented with the teeming horde of wild-eyed consumers, as I meander from floor to floor at Macy’s, through the maze of the malls, in and out of upscale boutiques until finally winding up at the Gold Dust Room, another dive bar favorite on the square. I couldn’t go to Lefty’s. Even though I only knew her for two days in the flesh, I was really missing Sherra, and I know that place would remind me of her.

That night when I got back we chatted for quite a while as she was dealing with her family in Scottsdale. Her sister, brother in law and niece and nephew who lived in San Diego were there too. It sounded like chaos.

“I wish you were here,” she said.

“I wish I was there too.” Even though it sounded like family hell madness in the distance, I really wanted to be with her. “Say, are those dogs?”

“Yeah, my parents Dane’s don’t get along too well with my dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“Yeah. Deacon. He’s a Husky. I named him after Brad Dorff’s character in Blade.”

“Wow…you really are a nerd.”

The rest of the night was spent getting drunk and watching every Rankin/Bass tv special I could get on video and DVD. Around midnight the phone rang. For some reason, I picked it up.

“Hello?” I garbled.

“I just wanted to say goodnight. Everyone’s asleep and I’m about to as well. I am all tuckered out.”

“Oh wow,” I said, really touched at what she had done, calling to say goodnight on Christmas eve. “Yeah…goodnight.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you.”

There was a pause.

“I love you,” she said.

My heart boomed and my eyes welled up. “I…love you too.”

* * *

When I woke up it was Christmas. Khamish was out of town for a while visiting friends in Los Angeles so the dingy apartment was all mine. After starting some coffee I called my dad.

“Merry Christmas honey,” he said.

“Merry Christmas Mark!” Richard said on the other line.

“Hey guys. Merry Christmas.”

They both had gotten themselves a plethora of old man gifts, like sweaters and socks, and asked if I had gotten their card. I did, I said, and there was a nice check in there as well.

“Thanks guys,” I said.

After a bit of catching up I had to tell them about Sherra. The two dads, obviously, knew about my history with girls. They had seen my ups and downs with long term relationships, my stint with online dating, random hook ups, near misses and even a set up one summer when I was visiting them. The receptionist at their local doctors office had a daughter, Kim, and wanted to set me up on a date with her. Very bizarre. Anyway, the girl turned out to be quite the boozer, who briefly dated John Garcia of Kyuss and, yes, had huge boobs. Our second “date” ended up in my dad’s hot tub with a bottle of their nicest scotch. You can take the rest from there.

So as I went on explaining how I felt about this girl and the conversations we’ve been having and all the things we have in common and whatnot, they seemed hard pressed to be convinced.

“Well,” my dad started, “that sounds…wonderful. I guess. But she lives, where?”

“Tucson?”

“Tucson!” Richard blurted. “Now that’s quite a…place.”

“Yeah.”

Not wanting to get into it any further since really no one could understand what was happening between us except for Sherra and myself I told them that I loved them and hung up.

Then I rang my mom. Now, I know I haven’t gotten into the relationship with my mom, it’s because it’s always been quite a long distance one. After the divorce, when I was four, my mom started fashion school, so I rarely saw her as a kid. When my dad and I moved to Salinas when I was thirteen, she was still in Los Angeles then working for Bob Mackie until he filed for bankruptcy. When I moved to Santa Barbara to fiddle around with college and not be living with my dad, she moved back home to Delaware. I visited once when grandmother died and a random visit to New York two years after the funeral. I haven’t seen her since.

So conversations now with my mom are long and explanatory. We literally know very little about our immediate doings. I tell her about mine, which you already know, and she goes into how her third husband is driving her crazy and drinks too much Old Milwaukee; that she has quite smoking (again) but taken up smoking weed to help alleviate some pain from a recent back injury she got on the job; about her new job managing a gift store in Wilmington and the hand bags she makes for them along with costuming for the opera society that grandfather still sings with and about how grandfather is driving her crazy because he’s lonely and going senile and tales of my cousins and their wives and brood and how precious her dog Bear is and so on and so forth.

In a way, I have the perfect relationship with my mom. We’re both busy, we’re both self absorbed, we’re both a little screwed up and yet we are still family.

“I love you mom.”

“I love you too Mark.”

“I’ve met someone.”

“That’s nice.”

The rest of the day I walked around the neighborhood, grabbing a hot chocolate from a café that was open, listening to the silence and enjoying the Christmas sun that tried hard to burn through the breath vaporizing chill and brewing cloud but lost. Christmas always has some sort of charm blanket thrown over the day. Maybe it’s the eternal child in me that still sees the holiday as a perfect and sacred event in suburban history, but I am convinced that every December 25th something special happens to the world. I’m not a Christian, but I love Christmas. I don’t even need gifts, I just like the look and feel of the day. Plus elves are cool.

That night I got Indian food and drank beer in a crappy dive bar that announce “Where Friends and Girls Meet” on the awning. I talked to Sherra as her family went to sleep after a grueling day of setting up toys and trying not to burn the pot roast. We said those three words again. This time, I was starting to believe them.

XXI.

Luckily for me I had a full week off, Christmas eve till the 30th, knowing I had to work New years and then go directly to the radio station and do a show all by myself. Rusty and some of his pals would be in Vegas that night and Boom was hosting some rock show at a local venue. It would be my first excursion as a solo DJ. I actually couldn’t wait.

The days leading up to my birthday, more cards arrived with more checks, so the time off I had requested (I told Jack that I was going to be on the other side of the planet, to which he responded “well don’t come back with any disease…you work the thirty first!”) was okay. I still had to scrimp since rent was due and the fact that I had sent Sherra that money. It was all to worth it though. Her not being able to string words together when she received it was all the thanks I needed. She called on her birthday and said she blew the cash at some bar in Tucson called Danny’s with her friends, all of which yelled into the cell phone asking me to come visit. That was another thing I was sort of saving up for, a visit to Tucson. So cash was tight.

The day of my birthday, more phone calls came in including one from Amanda, which was brief and uncomfortable. Because it was my birthday I didn’t want to hear about how my ex was now doing editing for some porno website and that her and her boyfriend were in an open relationship, but I listened anyway and didn’t even mention Sherra.

When I arrived at the 540 that night the place was pretty packed. As I walked in with my stuff the room erupted into cheers and birthday wishes. I smiled and thanked everyone and accepted every beer and shot that came my way.

See, being a sort of DJ and music geek, my collection is pretty diverse. That whole day I spent it filling up my big red cooler full of all the things I have ever wanted to play for people. The thing brimmed with rock, metal, disco, exotica, new wave, drum n’ bass, cowboy swing, TV show theme songs, movie quote soundbites, big band, old scratchy Delta blues, shoegaze, industrial and even some showtunes. It would be a night of musical blenderings that hopefully no one would forget.

When I started my set at 10 the club was filled but not full. By midnight, when I started my jungle and drum n bass portion, the place was jammed. I suddenly got images from the first night I DJ’d at the 540, with Amanda filming and taking pictures, how the fire department had to come because it was filled beyond capacity and how the club looked after, fog still looming in the air, as if a vicious battle had just been fought. People were coming up and requesting songs and, for the most part, I actually had them. We raised our lighters to all the cheesy power ballads and stadium rock songs, girls packed the DJ area when I did my disco and funk set, guys banged their heads to the classic rock and metal, I got whiskey shots when Sons of the Pioneers crooned on and, that’s right, I even had Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall. I didn’t want to stop and I just couldn’t get enough.

Jamie and Brooks hugged me after and said that if I did more shows like the one I had just produced, perhaps something could be salvaged. Drunk, sweaty and high off of the energy of the night, and not the drug, they handed me two fifties before getting in a cab with ears ringing and heart singing.

* * *

The next day the phone rang and I completely ignored it. The hangover was too strong. Even if it was Sherra or the California lottery calling to say that I won the jackpot, even though I never played, they would have to wait until the pounding stopped and I got at least twelve hours of post birthday bash rest. When I finally did come to around 2 or 3pm I checked voicemail. It was from Rusty.

“Hey Metal Mark, Rusty Trombone here. Hey, just wanted to remind you that I will be gone for New Years so it’s gonna be just you and Boom. I know you can handle it. You know the routine. Just think of this as a sort of jump in the fire audition for when you take over. I’ll try and call to see how you’re doing but…I’ll be in Vegas so…I doubt that. OK, thanks man. Have fun.”

The next couple of days were dismal at best. I barely made any cash at Bill’s so what little savings and cash I got inside Christmas and birthday cards almost all went to rent and survival. I had to cut down my beer intake to cheap 12 packs of PBR and I hadn’t called Rascon in almost a week. Luckily Iggy was generous with what he had and Jerrod even came through one night. Still, I did very little and saved up for New Years.

On the bright side, regular calls to and from Sherra were routine and our growing long distance romance was blossoming. It was getting more and more difficult though, knowing she was so far away and having to deal with some intense emotions for her. I’ve had long distance relationships before but not like this and they always ended badly.

“I pretty much tell everyone that I’m engaged now,” Sherra said.

“What? That’s crazy talk!”

“I know. But…whatever.”

On New Years around midnight, I called a cab knowing it would take forever to get one, moments after watching the big ball descend in New York. New Years was actually my third least favorite holiday. First one being Valentines Day, because of all the hearts and teddy bears holding hearts and heart shaped candies filled with red mush and blecch, it’s just awful. Second goes to St. Patrick’s Day. After living in an area filled with Irish bars I dreaded the holiday due to the large amount of amateur drinkers and idiots that use the day as a means to puke and destroy. Just not my thing.

Same thing, pretty much, goes for New Years. The day after makes the city look like a garbage heap and hearing drunken yuppies go “Woo!” all night tends to make me cramp up a bit.

About a quarter to 2 a cab finally arrived. The driver was already sick and tired of the night and when I said “Step on it chief! There’s an extra 10 in it for you,” he did so with aplomb. To be honest with you, I’ve always wanted to say that.

When I arrived at the station, the show before Reckless, which seemed to involve two French people and sex toys, were clearing out.

“Hallo,” the lady said in a thick accent, “are you of the Rock Show people?”

“Uh yeah,” I answered. “Am I the only one here?”

“Zo far,” the guy said. “Happy new year to you.”

“Yeah. Happy new years.”

I jumped into the booth and started setting up. My huge backpack was crammed with CDs. I figured that if no one showed up I would just play all of my favorite stuff and a lot of Relapse bands. Turns out, I was the only one that made it that night. And you know what? I did pretty good if I do say so myself.

The phone didn’t ring once that night. I just played a lot of music, chatted briefly about my thoughts on New Years and how my year had gone and drank the beer and did the blow I brought. The phone did ring once though. About 7am, when I was cleaning up and selecting the last few bands of the night, the light next to the phone began to light up indicating I had a call.

“Reckless Radio. This is Metal Mark.”

“Hi Metal Mark.” It was Sherra.

“Hey. What are you doing up?”

“I’m crashing at Alicia’s after last night and their dogs woke me up. Thought I’d call and say happy new years.”

“Hey thanks. Same to you.”

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m going to come visit you in two weeks. I got five days off of work and the girls bought me a cheap flight to San Francisco. They just told me last night.”

“What? That’s…that’s awesome!”

“I was hoping you would say that. I really want to see you again.”

“Oh my god,” I bursted out, “that’s all I’ve been thinking about. I can’t believe this. Are you serious? You’re going to come see me? Alone? Just you and me?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

After the show, I went back to the apartment too excited to sleep. Sure I had done a decent amount of cocaine but that was irrelevant. I was actually going to be reunited with the girl I had seemingly fallen in love with in the time frame of maybe an hour. Maybe true love did exist. At least I thought I wanted it to.

XXII.

On January 12th, 2006, I took BART out to the Oakland airport at 11:35am. It was a bright sunny day, filled with lazy promise and peppered with my heart thudding deep inside my chest. The days preceding were filled with a mire of thoughts and emotions. What if this is all wrong? What if this girl is a complete lunatic? What if we can’t make a real connection? What if I’m not attracted to her after all this time? What if?

It really didn’t matter. At 12:15 her plane would arrive from Tucson International and we would be standing face to face once again. It had been a month since we had originally met. I felt like I was in some dopey romantic comedy. Maybe I was. That would be awesome.

A week prior Sherra had sent me a picture of herself. It was her in a short black wig, holding a beer and taken from the side. She was giving the camera a sly smile and was wearing a very tight shirt. Her boobs were a lot bigger than I had remembered. Holy crap, I thought. I hit the motherload!

As I stood waiting by Gate 3 I could feel my palms sweating. As people started to flood out of the gate I began to get extremely nervous and excited. It took forever. Why is it every time I wait for someone at the airport they are the last person to get off? Even if they fly first class, the person I am there to meet always saunters off at least an hour after everyone has departed. It’s weird.

Then suddenly, from behind a large black guy talking on his cell phone, I recognized her. Sherra’s hair was pulled back and she was wearing a zip up jacket with racing stripes and glasses. My heart boomed.

“Hi there,” she said approaching me with a wide smile. “Miss me?”

“Hi there. Um…yeah.”

Not knowing what to really do, the two of us just kind of twittered anxiously and sort of hugged. Our lips met but we were laughing too hard to get through it.

On the train back to the city, conversation was sporadic at best. Not in a bad way. We were just frozen with nerves about the whole situation and couldn’t stop laughing and looking at one another.

“Um…so…was there a movie?” I asked.

“Uh, no. It was an hour and a half flight,” she said.

“I see. So, um… Did you get peanuts?”

“There were nuts yes. But not peanuts. Macadamia.”

“Ah,” I uttered. “So you got that international flavor of the islands. Very chic.”

“Yes. Very.”

Back in the apartment the same thing occurred, only this time I tried to address it.

“So,” I started, “wha…what’s going on here?”

Sherra sat on the bed, took a deep breath and looked at me.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me.”

After assembling the words in my head, as scattered and numerous that they were, I finally put enough together to try and explain my viewpoint.

“Well…I think that this is an amazing thing. I’ve never met anyone like you. That time with you at Lefty’s and the Crowbar then back here was incredible. And, to be honest with you, I don’t know why. We really didn’t do anything. It just…was.”

“I know,” she replied. “I went back to Tucson and told everyone that I was engaged. I was kind of seeing this guy but when he heard about you and me being engaged, even if it was with a keyring, he sort of flipped out. But I didn’t care. He was kind of boring anyway.”

I leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. That soon became more kisses. Before long we were full on making out. Even though we had been talking almost daily, for hours on end at some point, cementing our feelings and seeming love for one another, I still wanted to take it slow. Although the little soldier was ready for battle. Totally standing at attention.

That night we went out to dinner at this Thai place on Broadway and I introduced her to Thai curry. Sherra hated it. Then we went to the Punch Line which was showcasing local comedians and sat at my usual spot in the back by the restrooms. The comedians were okay at best so Sherra and I silently heckled them cracking ourselves up far more than they were. Then, of course, it was off to the Crowbar and we sat in my spot.

“Do you have any tattoos?” Sherra asked.

“One,” I said. I put my left foot on the booth and pulled down my sock revealing my tattoo. Okay, you have to know A Charlie Brown Christmas right? I have tattooed on my left side left leg, going from the ankle to the calf is the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. No, not the one where he puts a red ball on it and the thing droops, but the first image you see of it when Charlie Brown and Linus enter the Christmas tree lot.

“What made you get that?” she asked laughing.

“Oh man. It was during film school. My friends and I were having this holiday party and I had looped together on tape like all of my favorite Christmas specials, which I had playing on the TV. Just as background stuff. Anyway, I was walking by the TV when that scene hit and for some reason, right then and there, the idea hit me. I don’t know if it was the beer or pot but when I saw that innocent little tree, that singular image that as a kid I absolutely clung to, I hit the pause button. I don’t know why. When the camera pans across the fake trees and stops on the little guy  I announced, ‘If I ever get a tattoo, it’ll be of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree’. When I turned 30 I was dating a girl that had a lot of tattoos so when she asked me what I wanted for my birthday I knew right then and there I wanted that tattoo. Now I have a few ideas for others. Apparently the guy across the street is amazing so I may go to him.”

Between the high end strip joint and a headshop lies a tiny tattoo parlor, Golden Gate Tattoos. Some of the artists come into the Crowbar after a log day and has even done some work on the barstaff. One night I asked Genea if she knew of a good tattooist and she mentioned Jake at Golden Gate.

“What other tattoo do you wanna get?,” Sherra asked. “Hermey from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?”

“No. Although that would be awesome. I really wanna get the typewriter guy from Sesame Street.”

“The who?”

“My favorite TV show, hands down, is Sesame Street. Always has been. As a big Muppets fan I still watch it here and there. One of my favorite segments was this cartoon typewriter guy who would roll onto the screen saying ‘nu-ne-nu-ne-nu’ and then hit a button and say ‘X’! Then he would type ‘X Ray’. And then there’d be a little skit where he would be x-rayed and something funny would happen and…yeah.”

Sherra sipped at her beer looking at me incredulously.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

Back at the apartment it didn’t take long for us to start kissing again. It began in the kitchen as we were getting beer and we ended up on the counter next to the sink. Before long, buttons were being unbuttoned and zippers unzipped. Right there, on the counter, overlooking the parking lot, in my ex’s kitchen next to the sink, Sherra and I started having sex. It was amazing. I guess she was into it too because she was hitting the tiles so hard they were falling off. We eventually took it to the bedroom and afterwards both laid motionless. Breathless and in awe, I knew right then and there I had met the perfect girl.

What amazed me was the fact that Sherra and her friends almost didn’t stop at the bar. They were halfway across the courtyard before coming to the conclusion of back tracking and saddling up. What if they had just continued on? I never would have met Sherra. I never would have thought that ‘love at first sight’ actually existed. Well, actually, it was the second time I saw her when I started to have feelings for her. That first night she was obnoxious, chain smoking and dressed like a slutty librarian. Which, in retrospect, was kind of a turn on.

* * *

When I woke up in the morning I found Sherra at the computer.

“Good morning sleepy head,” she cheerfully chaffed.

“Hey,” I garbled. “Good morning. What are you doing there?”

Sherra laughed. “Is this the thing from Sesame Street you’re talking about?”

After rubbing my eyes and adjusting to the waking state, I clambered out of the bed and walked over to the desk. There, on the monitor, was an image of the Typewriter Guy. She had Googled it.

“That’s him,” I said. “Pretty cool huh?”

“Um…not really. Pretty nerdy,” she said. “But I’ll tell you something, since you sent me a hundred bucks for my birthday I’ll help you get this thing for yours. How’s that sound?”

Wow. Either I was a serious idiot or the luckiest guy alive. Girls giving me tattoos for my birthday? Who woulda thunk?

“Yeah,” I proclaimed. “That sounds awesome. Let’s print this out and then go down to the tattoo shop and talk to Jake.”

After a morning romp and breakfast at O’Reilly’s, we walked over to Golden Gate Tattoos and met with Jake. Jake was a laid back guy with a shaved head, glasses, thin frame and covered in bright ornate tattoos. I showed him the image of the Typewriter Guy to which he showed absolute glee over.

“This is fantastic,” he gushed. “Let me draw up a stencil of it and we can take it from there. Come back in, say, two hours?”

“Sounds good,” I said.

As Sherra and I headed down Grant Street where I wanted to show her the beauty and horror that is Chinatown her cell phone rang.

“Hello? Oh hey. What’s up? Oh yeah, still in San Francisco. What’s that?” Sherra started laughing. “Um yeah,” she said, “the cow is good.”

As we strode into the Buddha Bar she finished her conversation.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“My friend Kelly. One of the bartenders at The Chicago Way and a big fan of yours.”

“Oh yeah? She listens to the show?”

“What? No. She just thinks our story is the cutest thing ever.”

Our story, I thought. That made it all sound so official. Best thing was I was entirely comfortable with it. We ordered two beers from a middle aged Asian lady with way too much makeup and trying to get us to eat deep fried shrimp balls. No, they were shrimp rolled up into little balls. C’mon.

“So,” I started, “you said something about the cow being good. What does that mean?”

“Um…” Sherra said, showing some obvious embarrassment, “basically she said that you have to fuck the cow before buying it. If the cow is bad, you move on. But if it’s good…”

“Uh huh,” I said. “So I’m a good cow?”

Sherra sipped her beer and nodded sheepishly. “Uh…yeah. The cow is definitely good.”

After bopping around Chinatown and downtown for a while we walked back to the tattoo parlor to see what Jake had done. Basically he had taken the exact image we had printed out and stenciled it. The tattoo was perfect.

“So what do you think?” Jake asked.

“It’s amazing. Um, when can we do this?”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“How’s two o’ clock sound?”

I swallowed hard. Was I really going to get the Typewriter Guy from Sesame Street tattooed on my right shoulder? I guess so.

“Two is perfect,” I said.

* * *

I’ll be totally honest with you, I really didn’t sleep at all that night. It wasn’t because I was with Sherra and the fact that we couldn’t keep our hands off of one another along with uttering those 3 big words every now and then, but also that I was going to get another tattoo on me. This is a big deal for a guy like me. Sure I like metal and all the trappings that go with it, it’s just that tattoos are so permanent. I don’t wanna be one of those 50 year old goofballs hanging out by the pool with a tank top on and a mess of rotten tattoos. I mean, if I had started getting tattoos when I was 18 or even 21 I would have had stuff like logos from my favorite bands on me, Chewbacca playing Colecovision, my old D&D characters or even the portrait of Gary Coleman eternally inked on my pasty flesh. My theory is that if you think about an image long enough and have a cute girl pay for it then go ahead. Plus I hate tank tops. If I wore Oakly Blade sunglasses I’d look like a Monster Truck rally parking lot rapist with those things on. No thanks.

At 2pm Sherra and I walked into Golden Gate Tattoo to find Jake eagerly awaiting my arrival.

“You ready man?” he said. “Because I am. This is going to be badass.”

Luckily, Sherra had some friends to hang out with she was meeting that were coming in from the East Bay. Jake said the tattoo would take maybe three hours so she stayed to watch him put the purple-blue stencil on my upper right shoulder, get my approval and start prepping.

“Have fun,” she said leaning down to kiss me. “I’ll be back at 5. If you’re not here I’ll assume you’ll be at the Crowbar.”

“I kinda wish I was there now,” I said. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“Oh you’ll be fine,” Jake assured. “You’re a tough guy. Right?”

Sherra and I just looked at him.

“Um, you’re talking to a man about to get a Sesame Street character tattooed on him and owns every Muppets movie there is,” Sherra informed.

“So the answer is…no?”

“I called in sick to work once because I stubbed my toe,” I said.

By now the process of getting a tattoo is commonplace so I wont bore you with details. But my experience with this one was similar to my first one. The black outline hurt like a mofo, only this time I got really light headed. Once the pain subsided the shoulder just went numb and when he started in with the color, all it felt like was a hot vibrating pen dragging on the skin. Then it became kind of fun.

Jake and I chatted about music, art, movies we like and our favorite drinks and before long Sherra arrived.

“Not done yet?” she asked.

“Uh, no,” Jake said with a grin. “I’m kind of taking my time with this one. It’s weird. I just love this image.”

“Thanks man,” I said.

“Well I want you to meet my friends. Mark this is Robin and her husband Daniel.”

I couldn’t turn around, so I craned my neck as far as I could to say hello. Her friends seemed nice enough and Daniel showed interest in getting a tattoo, which was immediately nixed by Robin. They said they would be across the street at the Crowbar waiting.

5 o’ clock turned into 6, 6 turned into 7. By 8:30 I was finally done. MY simple dumb cartoon tattoo that was supposed to take only three hours now took six and a half. But it was beautiful, bright and perfect. The cost was $150. Sherra handed him two fifties and I handed him five twenties. We wanted to buy him drinks but he had another client waiting.

“He looks a little pissed,” Jake whispered. “I told him six but…oh well. You got one awesome tattoo.”

“Thanks Jake. You’ve made a super nerd super happy.”

As we had celebratory shots and beers, plus showing it off to Genea and Casey, Sherra informed me that she tried to transfer a shot of Jager in her mouth to me around 7pm but swallowed it when she almost got hit on Broadway. I kissed her and told her she was the coolest and dorkiest girl I had ever met. Which was true.

* * *

Here’s the thing: The next couple of days with Sherra were amazing. Not that we really did anything, it’s just that when you meet that certain person, your other half basically, every event, even sneaking into dumb post holiday movies, getting burritos at 3am, staying in bed all day, looking at bad art at alternative galleries, sitting on the beach watching the waves or even just hanging out in some bar talking about nothing is something special. Those five days went by way too fast. When the time came to gather her things, pack up and take her to the airport I literally started crying.

I just couldn’t take it. Here she was, the perfect girl for me. Someone I had met by pure chance, pure dumb luck of the fates and gods, and I had to let her go again. I just couldn’t do it. My life was now filled with promise and joy, not drugs and loneliness, and the idea of not being with her all day every day was killing me.

“I could move to San Francisco,” she said after packing up. “It’s nice here. I’m sure I could get a job bartending. And, I hope you’d let me stay with you until I got a place of my own.”

That last comment made me chuckle.

“You could stay as long as you wanted. I’d follow you with getting a place of my own. I hate it here. This apartment sucks. My job sucks. The only thing keeping me in San Francisco is my DJ gigs, and those are even taking a toll on me. I mean, I’ve turned into a total coke head, something I never ever thought would happen to me. I’m sorry to spring that on you but…look.”

I grabbed the Iron Maiden case and opened it revealing two large baggies filled with cocaine.

“Holy shit,” Sherra cried. “That’s the most blow I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah. And this I consider a light supply. I can’t do it anymore. I need a serious change darling. Meeting you has been the greatest thing since…since ever. I honestly can’t believe that I am sitting here with you watching you pack up and go back to Tucson. Because I can’t believe I actually met you. And to think you were halfway across the courtyard. You just walked past me, not interested in the food or whatever at Bill’s.”

“That shrimp cocktail was disgusting,” she added.

“Point is, you came back and here we are. But I really think we met for a reason. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen everyday. But it did happen. Something drew us together. And I don’t want to ignore that. I can’t.”

Sherra sat next to me, gave me a kiss and put her hand on my knee.

“You could move to Tucson,” she said.

“Tucson? What the heck would I do in Tucson?’‘

“Uh…”

A cab arrived at noon which took us to the Market Street BART. Around 12:30 we climbed onto the Oakland BART train, sat down and blasted off. We didn’t say much. Just rested our heads on one another.

By 1:00 we were at the airport station, got on the tram which took us directly to her gate. Sherra checked in her bag, got her seat assignment and turned to me. Her plane was set to take off at 2.

“Well,” she said quietly with eyes growing red from tears, “I guess this is goodbye for now.”

I started welling up to.

“Just for now. We’ll be together again soon. I promise.”

“You come visit me next time.”

“I will. As soon as I make some cash and get some Valium to get me on one of those death tubes I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”

Sherra and I then stood there looking at one another through teary eyes, smiling from the pain of new love and forced separation. We hugged, we kissed.

“I love you,” she said.

“Oh my god, I love you too.”

She then slowly walked into the terminal, looked back one last time to wave goodbye and disappeared into the tunnels and crowd of a busy afternoon at the Oakland airport.

I rode the train back to San Francisco in absolute shock and silence. There was only one thing on my mind. It wouldn’t let up. It was heavy and definitive.

When the train stopped at Market Street I walked the long city blocks uphill back to the apartment. The walk did me good. My heart was breaking yet filled to capacity and my brain was overloaded with decisions and considerations.

I opened the front door, walked into the bedroom, picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello…Amanda? Yeah, it’s Mark. Um…I have something to tell you. I’m moving to Tucson. I’ll be out by the end of the month.”

XXIII.

“What?”

At first, Amanda seemed pleasantly surprised to hear my announcement, mainly because she thought that I was moving to Tucson to be closer to her. But when I told her the whole story about Sherra and myself she immediately became so enraged and upset that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear because she was screaming so loud.

“You fucking asshole!”, she yelled. “You told me that you would give me at least two months notice before moving out. Now that the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Amanda started to cry. I felt bad, which was my usual whipped and insecure side coming out. But I had had enough and now I had met someone that seemingly changed my world.

“I’m sorry about the short notice but…you have to understand.”

“Understand what?” Amanda asked sobbing. “That now I’m going to lose the apartment and have to deal with all that shit? I can’t do this now! My dad left us with so much shit to get through. This is not a good time.”

I heard the words but my gut overtook what my ears were letting in. That roiling bile, that trapped rage was coming out again. This time I was sober and able to rope it in enough to make some cognizant sense finally. Before I knew what I was saying, my mouth took command.

“Not a good time?” I blurted loudly, then I reeled it in just a smidge. “Well when is it a good time? You kept me in this god awful dungeon of an apartment of yours saying that you’d come back someday. Well…you haven’t! I’m sorry your dad died but that doesn’t mean you have to stick a friend with the responsibility of taking care of this place and your crap while you go off and find another relationship and have me babysit a life you left behind but don’t want to let go of. I hate it here Amanda! Never in my life did I ever think about suicide or becoming an alcoholic or, worse yet, a freakin’ drug addict. Never! After all of these years I have officially fallen in love and I’m not going to let that get away from me. I’ve sacrificed way too much for other people. Now it’s my turn. I’m sorry but this is something that we both have to deal with.”

She was silent on the other end. A sob here and there but nothing else.

“Like I said, you can keep all of my stuff I have in storage. Sell it. I’m sure my toy collection is worth something.”

“So what you’re saying,” Amanda wept, “is that you weren’t in love with me?”

“Oh man. I did love you. I do love you. But I was never in love with you. We had a great time and did a lot of cool things but…you moved away and met someone else. And here I am surrounded by your stuff and going crazy. I have to leave Amanda. I’ll do what I can to help but I’ll be out of here by the first week of February.”

I took a deep breath and Amanda blew her nose. After a while of start and stops, she finally gave me some understanding.

“I’m sorry you were suicidal,” she said. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Well, actually…I just looked at some sleeping pill bottles one night. That’s as far as it got. But still!”

I reiterated that some of the stuff I had stored in her art space was kind of valuable. Not just the Star Wars toys and out of print records but I also had that writing desk from the Carmel mission that was dated back in the late 19th century. Richard, dad 2, used to deal in antiques. I think all middle aged gay men do at some point.

Eventually the boil simmered down to a low heat and we hung up on fairly agreeable terms. The pushover in me felt guilty for leaving so soon without much warning. But the strong man, an actual adult, I know that dwells somewhere deep inside my pasty outer shell was madly in love and was demanding to do the right thing and make that little kid sitting right next to him happy once again.

That Saturday at the radio show during our round table discussion, something about a website where two girls vomit and defecate all over each other and eat it all up (blorp!), I announced that I was moving away and would be leaving Reckless Radio. The guys and Porkchop all gasped and were a little shocked to hear the news. It seems that Rusty had already decreed his successor to the others and now the man who would be king of Reckless Radio was now moving away to be with a girl he had known for a little over a week in the flesh.

Once the roundtable was over and he threw on a CD, Rusty came out of the booth and sat next to me.

“Dude. Is this true?” he asked with an obvious gloom about him.

“Yeah man,” I said shrugging. “Sorry about this. It happened so suddenly. I really wanted to run the show but…what can I do? I can do one more show and then I’m gone.”

Rusty looked extremely disappointed yet at the same time he congratulated me and completely understood.

“I guess I can stay on a few more months,” Rusty explained. “Who knows, maybe Bob will step up and take control. That is, if he can remain sober and sane long enough.”

We both look over to find Bob chugging cheap name brand whiskey down his rotted gullet. He then let out an earsplitting belch before rattling off some long winded expletive to some of the visiting kids huddled in the corner, stoned out of their minds and looking horrified.

“Yeah well,” I began, “good luck with that.”

Same went for the 540 Club. After setting up for my Wednesday gig I told Jamie I’d do one more Metal Mark show and then I would be gone. He was sad to see me go yet at the same time relieved that the first Saturday night of the month now had an opening. I’m sure he had been planning my replacement for a while. It just wasn’t doing as well as we thought it would.  Yeah, we liked each other and, sure, playing rock and metal all night is fun, but when you are staring out to a half packed bar and receiving more complaints than accolades I knew it was time to give in and give up.

“Still,” Jamie said patting me on the shoulder, “it’s just not going to be the same without you here. In a weird way, I’m gonna miss Metal Saturdays.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Me too.”

Things at Bill’s were easier. Essentially, after the holidays, I was barely on the schedule anymore. It was just so slow and Jack had had it with me and my antics and, more importantly, my hair. I told Siobhan not to worry about it and just take me off the schedule but call if she really needed me. After my shift one Friday night, one that Jack had scurried away from drunk and grouchy after a full days inhaling Busch beer, Hal, Mindy, Danika, Siobhan and myself all did shots and said our goodbyes. Even Leah stopped by and had a few drinks before going home to her boyfriend. When I left that night, sometime around 3am, I walked back to the apartment not realizing that would be the last time I would step foot in Bill’s Bar. And to be honest with you, it’s a happy memory of that non-realization as the idea of stepping into new and unfamiliar territory is a far better account than seeing the red tyrannical face of Jack once again and hearing his snorting calls of detestation all because I had shoulder length hair and was happy go lucky. In retrospect my heart goes out to that sad man. Yet in reality, that guy can suck it!

* * *

One afternoon as I was divvying up what clothes I should take and what I should toss I saw Khamish walk into his room.

“Hey man,” I yelled. “Come here for a minute.”

Khamish walked into the room and I laid down the whole story and that I would be gone in two weeks.

“Holy crap,” he said, “this is quite sudden.”

“I know, I know. But it has to be done. I met the perfect woman. And I gotta get outta here!”

“Yeah,” he uttered with a grin. “This place kind of sucks. I mean, what’s up with that water pressure?”

“What water pressure?”

“Exactly.”

We chatted for a while about my plans and the progress of the movie he’d been working on.

“Oh it’s done,” Khamish said. “In fact I’ll probably be moving out soon too as well.”

“See. Everything works out for a reason.”

As Khamish was leaving he stopped and turned around.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. Is that your skateboard in the kitchen?”

I was storing that lifted skateboard on one of the shelves next to the stove not knowing what to do with it exactly. I used to skate a lot but after a bad accident on a half-pipe that nearly broke my back I didn’t really have the desire to get back on one again. Still, I was tempted but never followed through.

“Sort of,” I said.

“Well, I was wondering. Could I take it out one day? I’ve always meant to take up skateboarding but never had the opportunity.”

I stepped over the two piles of clothes, walked down the hall, grabbed the board, walked back and presented it to Khamish.

“It’s yours buddy. Have fun. Keep your trucks loose and watch out for rocks.”

Khamish just smiled as he accepted it.

“Are you sure?” he said. “Thank you.”

“Naw man…thank you. This whole crazy time that I’ve been here you’ve always been the nicest guy. I know we never hung out but I just gotta say, you’re like the best room mate I ever had.”

“It’s because I was gone a lot.”

“Probably,” I said with a head tilt, “but mainly because you were clean and quiet and never complained.”

“Until now,” he said. “That toilet scares me as well.”

“Me too buddy. Me too.”

* * *

Renting a U-Haul or any kind of moving van going one way from San Francisco to Tucson would run me almost a grand. There was no way. So figuring I didn’t have that much stuff anyway I decided to check out a full size car. After calling almost every car rental agency in town, I found one that had a 2002 Lincoln going for less than $200. I booked it and gave the guy my Visa number.

The days leading up to my move was both surreal and rapturous. Sherra and I talked everyday, sometimes two or three times, just to make sure that we were both making the right decision.

“My place is pretty small,” she said, “but there is a garden and the water pressure here is the hizzy.”

“That’s all I need. And, uh…what about the bed.”

“I have one.”

“OK. Good.”

The more and more we talked the more and more I realized I had made the right decision. In a way, I felt as if I was in the middle of some kind of urban fairy tale. People just don’t go from lonely desperation and drug addiction to meeting the perfect person and dropping everything to be with them everyday, right? We’re both smart people and constantly questioning this rather big decision and life change. But seeing as we call each other back right after we hang up and can’t stop thinking about each other solidifies that what we have is unique and cannot be ignored.

My dad’s were a bit skeptical seeing as I have been in relationships before and all of them have failed miserably, but when I went on about how woebegone I was and how happy Sherra made me they clammed up and encouraged me to follow my heart. My mom was the same, even though she was upset that she hadn’t met my last two girlfriends and here I was packing up and giving up my life in San Francisco to be with a girl I only really got to know through the phone.

“Have you been to Tucson?” my mom asked. “It’s not that great. I’ve been there once and had my hubcaps stolen. It’s way too hot.”

“But it’s a dry heat.”

“Keep telling yourself that when it gets to 120 degrees.”

“Holy crap,” I said. “That’s like muffin baking hot.”

“Yeah. You’re lucky you like to wear shorts.”

It was then that I decided to do some serious research on the town to which I would soon call home. Turns out, Tucson wasn’t so bad at all, at least that’s what the few webpages I could find on it said. Not only was there a major university but a lot of cool clubs, loads of dive bars, Revenge of the Nerds was filmed there, tons of museums, an actual art and music scene with a symphony orchestra, an annual Day of the Dead festival, street fairs, decent public transportation, an independent movie theater, alternative publications and something called a “Sonoran hot dog”. This all piqued my interest and curiosity as I had just seen Tucson as a hot and bleached out wasteland of motorcycle bandits, border jumpers, red neck cowboys and sand. It had all that too, but that only added more color to the picture. As I continued to read on about the city I actually became excited of the notion of being an Arizona resident and a “Tucsonan”. Or is it “Tucsonian”? I couldn’t figure out which. That or why Tucson was called “The Old Pueblo”. Like, the old house? I didn’t get it.

Yet the idea of blazing hot summers, being nowhere close to a beach, which meant no more fog, and shacking up with an almost stranger gave me serious tummy knots. Then I would look at the picture Sherra sent me, look around at the apartment and listen to the never ending din harmony of San Francisco’s celerity, those knots loosened. Plus she had a garden and a cat, something most renters only dream about here.

My last show at the 540 went by fairly unnoticed. They didn’t put an ad in the paper but several regulars stopped by to say their goodbyes and buy me a shot. The night was quiet, except for the metal madness blaring for 4 hours, and after I collected my fifty bucks, drank a few beers and then called it a night. I hugged Brooks and Jamie and gave my last 20 bag to Jerrod. I think he was the saddest to see me go. Coke heads have that bond I guess.

The radio show was similar yet wrought with taunts and jeers about my decision.

“Is this chick hot?” Bob garbled into the mic.

“Smokin’ hot,” I said. “With big boobs. And three college degrees.”

“Jesus Christ,” said El Duce. “What the hell is she doing with you?”

“Good question buddy. And the answer is…I don’t know.”

“I bet, I bet, I bet, I bet, I bet she has some kind of a, a, a, a, a, a torture dungeon or something,” informed Boom. “Like maybe she wants you to be her sex slave.”

“That’s exactly why he’s moving there,” said Rusty.

We all drank beers, played our obnoxious music and talked about shocking things and at the end, as we were taking out the garbage, a sinking feeling came over me. This was it. This was my last obligation in San Francisco. In two days I would be in a rental car and driving, all day, to Tucson Arizona to be with the girl I had fallen in love with. It all hit heavy and hard. The beer and blow didn’t help ease the sensation, just made it more susceptible to massive heart palpitations and silent freak outs.

The day before I was to get the rental car I came to a conclusion: Just get rid of everything! I got my huge collection of movies, both on VHS and DVD, a ton of CDs that had come in the mail and were never listened to along with a slew of albums that I hadn’t even thought of putting on the stereo. My idea was that if I hadn’t watched a movie or listened to an album in over a year, it was game for tossing. So I ended up filling six shopping bags of unusable entertainment, called a cab which took me to upper Haight Street and the majesty that is Amoeba Records. If you’re not familiar with Amoeba you’re missing out on quite the experience. The place used to be a bowling alley and was now stocked to the rafters of every imaginable band and style of music. There’s even a movie room. Best thing is that they buy your movies and CDs. Not a lot of cash but at least it’ll be more than just chucking the stuff into a bin and leaving it for someone else to find and sell back.

It took the guy at the counter almost an hour to go through all my stuff, so I just meandered through the aisles and forced myself not to buy anything. But when I found Phil Collin’s Greatest Hits for five bucks I caved in.

In the end, the guy offered me a little over a hundred dollars for my extensive lot of crap. I didn’t even blink. I took it and got on Muni back to the apartment.

My clothes and some other odds and ends would just have to be sacrificed to the happenstance of fate. It took a few trips, but eventually I got it all down on the street. San Francisco is famous for having people just leave the remainder of a life meant to be left behind on the curb for others to pick up and take care of, so it’s no big crime to have a pile of your junk laying in wait to be picked over. After the heap was nestled nicely against the tree out front, I grabbed a piece of white cardboard and in bold black Sharpie wrote TAKE! and taped it to the peak of the clothes mountain.

That night I had one last beer and shot at the Crowbar. It was funny because I was served by a new bartender I hadn’t seen before and my usual spot by the window was occupied by a group of Asian college kids. So instead of getting bummed out about not having one last beer in my usual spot with my favorite bartenders, I took it as a sign. Even my local hangout had moved on from me. So I just had the one shot and beer and went to grab one last Burgermeister burger. Back in the apartment, I sat and ate it while watching Spice World, one of the movies I decided to keep. Just because.

With the alarm set for 7am it was lights out by 11. There, in the glow of the streetlight, I looked at my small pile of stuff; my life, as it was and would be for the next adventure. Some shirts, some pants, one pair of Vans, a jacket, three hoodies, a couple of movies, a cooler filled with CDs, six books, my bike, computer, Castle Grayskull, Mr. T doll, Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo poster, fog machine and a coffee mug. It was all I needed to get me started.

You think I was going to get rid of the fog machine? Everyone needs one of those.

XXIV.

I barely slept, just too excited about the journey ahead.

After “showering” and getting dressed, I walked down to Columbus and easily got a cab which took me to the car rental agency near SoMa. I exited the cab, walked through the front door of the Express Rental Company and told the guy who I was.

“You got the full size Lincoln,” he said in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Yes sir.”

“One way it says. To Tucson?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why you go to Tucson?”

“I have no idea.”

Everything seemed to be in order but when I gave the man my credit card, there was a problem.

“This is debit,” he said. “We don’t take debit.”

Shocked, upset and completely flabbergasted, I tried to bargain with the guy. It didn’t work. He just kept telling me “No debit” and continued to tinker on his computer. I didn’t know what to do. I guess the city had won. It wanted me to stay there. There was nothing I could do.

Then, suddenly, and idea came.

“Sir,” I said, “may I use your phone?”

“Local call?”

“Of course.”

I dialed familiar numbers praying that he still had his California account. When I heard that beautiful word “Hello?” I knew that I had a chance.

“Jose,” I said, “It’s Mark.”

“Hey. What’s up little buddy?”

“Look…I need your help.”

It was then that I gave Jose the short version of my dilemma. He knew all about Sherra and me moving to Tucson since email was always in fashion, but the fact that I didn’t have a real credit card was an issue.

“They wont charge your card,” I tried to explain. “I have cash. I’ll pay once I drop it off in Tucson.”

“Are you sure?” Jose asked. “Because if I see a two hundred dollar thingy on my bill, I’m gonna…”

“You’re gonna what? Dude, It’s me. You can trust me.”

There was a pause on the phone.

“No I can’t”, he said.

“Okay, you can’t. But look, you can trust me this once. If I fail you, you can have my first born.”

“Can I name it Carlos?”

“You can name is Clamsauce if you wish!”

With that I handed the phone to the guy. Nervously, I waited for the outcome. The guy talked to Jose and was typing stuff while looking bored and unimpressed. After a few minutes of negotiations and stipulations, the guy appeared to be satisfied and handed the phone back to me.

“You’re all set little buddy,” Jose said. “Have a good trip.”

“Thank you so much Jose. You’ll always be my favorite cabana boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

After signing some papers the guy told me to wait out by the lot. It was a rainy morning, a typical San Francisco send off. The air was still and silent too; a welcome meditation from the usual noise and hustle that I had dealt with the last twelve years of living there. The past year wove through my memory much like a searing blackout with images and experiences that could only be met with a “Really?” sort of questioning and expression. When the rather large and boat-like white Lincoln full size car rolled out I knew it was all just a dream, or at least felt like one. That seemed the most effective way to handle my San Francisco life up to that point.

The keys were then handed to me. After climbing into the lofty drivers seat, I plugged the keys into the ignition. With mighty “whoomf” the vehicle started up and sent me rumbling out of the rental car parking lot.

I was on my way.

Epilogue

“I know that I’m too young.
My life had just begun!”
- Phil Collins, Sussudio

In another glorious last minute handout from San Francisco there was parking in front of the apartment. Just moments before I arrived the streetcleaner had growled through and soaked the already fog damp curbside and distributed trash around the sidewalk and my pile of stuff, which was now visibly shorter.

I walked upstairs and began to bring my stuff down. Khamish was still asleep so I tip toed through the apartment. After a few trips, my stuff, my life, was in that rented car.

Going back in to double check that I had everything only made me more excited to be going. The apartment looked shabby and done with. The leaky toilet, the moldy and almost unusable shower room, the book shelves in the kitchen, the cracks in the walls and ceiling, the car noise outside, the bedroom filled with somebody else’s belongings all just made me shake my head and wonder how I did it. Or, better yet, why.

I left my key on the counter top and gently closed the door behind me.

The car started with a congenial hum and soon I was speeding off down Columbus, past Broadway where I waved goodbye to a closed and locked Crowbar, past the Transamerica building, through downtown, onto the Bay Bridge and eventually on highway 80 which would take me to Interstate 5 and to Tucson Arizona, where a new life, a true love and new adventures await.

But that’s a different story….

The End

Enjoy!

* * *

“Hey, hey, hey!”

I looked over and saw Alexander walk out onto the patio. He hadn’t changed a bit since last I saw him. Long blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony tail, suede shirt coat jacket, western jeans over clunky cowboy boots and still carrying around his saddle bags slung over his shoulder filled with random notebooks and business proposals. Alex and I hugged. I was quite relieved to see him.

Alex and I went inside to get another round of beers, while sneaking in shots of rye, which was always a favorite of his. Alex had all sorts of great stuff going on; his greeting card line, his publishing company and he was even thinking about opening up a café / oddball toy store in the near future.

“But I still have to do contracting and construction to keep the money coming in,” he said.

“Dude, I have to bartend at the strangest place on earth, run by Satan’s alcoholic uncle and staffed by immigrants, drug fiends and beautiful blonde women.”

“What category do you fall under?” Alex asked.

“I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

Back on the patio, the conversation was brisk and lively, except between Dave and myself. He chose to put his attention in his future bride while Alex and I cracked jokes and dug up mischief from the past.

“Remember you drank so much coffee at Tillie Gorts that you ended up tap dancing in the middle of the street for ten minutes after they closed?” I recounted.

“Or the time we went to that strip club in San Francisco and you got that mysterious stain on your pants after that ugly crackwhore lapdanced on you?” said Alex.

“Dude,” I said, “I now live three blocks from that same strip joint. Every time I walk by it I think about that night. Good times.”

The importance of this gathering was the fact that I was here to reconnect with Dave and see if after a decade we were still pals. Turns out the guy I saw just a year ago and keep in semi-contact with, Alex, was far more engaging. Shannon seemed to dominate the conversation anyway, seeing as Dave just went along with what she said or wanted to do. To be witness to that made me a bit uneasy. Dave used to be tough, a fighter, and extremely funny. The few hours I had been there made it apparent that he gave into the disability of both his back and this girl.

About 8pm the Blue Anchor was jumping and filled with people Alex knew. I was a little drunk but feeling great thanks to the energy of reuniting, that familiar smell and feel of my old hometown and an occasional helping hand from my powdery friend. I made sure to do it in small increments, just to keep me going and coherent. Last time I did blow with old friends the result was ugly and I sure as heck didn’t want to revive that embarrassing juncture. So I kept it at a bare minimum.

Dave and Shannon said they had to get going but would leave a key under the backdoor mat for me. I hugged them both, told them I would see them either in a few hours or in the morning and I would be silent as silent could be when coming in. We said our goodbyes and I returned to the little patio party that Alex seemed to have organized.

We ended up bar-hopping later that night around downtown Monterey and I actually started kissing one of Alex’s lady friends around last call. She was a very cute and slightly portly girl, who seemed willing when my hormone fueled drunkenness kicked in, allowing me to pin her to the wall outside some bar and make out with her. It didn’t last very long as Alex pulled me away and drove me to Dave’s grandma’s place.

“Who was that girl?” I slurred heavily.

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I think she was friends with Jessica.”

“Who’s Jessica?”

“A friend.”

“The one with the face or the one with the boobs?”

“They all had faces and boobs.”

“I like…boobs.”

Alex dropped me off around 2am to which I immediately had to switch into “I’m really drunk but I have to be really quiet” mode. We silently said our goodnights and goodbyes to each other and had a good laugh about the situation and the fact I had forced some random girl to make out with me, which I had never done. Well, at least not in front of him. Alex then drove off and I stood in the bleak chill trying to gather enough chutzpah to enter a house I had only been through once and now had to navigate in total stealth, in abject darkness, hastened by a staggering beer plowed body.

Pacific Grove in the dark early morning hours is a mausoleum. Cold, quiet, tenebrific and dead. In fact, the silence was so loud I felt as if that mild squeak in my left Vans were echoing down the street as I approached the backdoor. The house was pitch black. This was going to take some experienced drunk guy ninja artistry.

The key was, thankfully, under the mat and I gently slid it in the lock and slowly turned the knob which made a distinct “clack” that resonated in eternity. Once inside, I stood wobbly in the kitchen trying to get my eyes adjusted to the dark. Eventually I began my tip toe creep-fest to the “office”, which was a few steps to the left and to the right down the hall if memory served me correctly. I found the room, slowly opened the door to avoid any unwelcome creaks or clicks, located the light switch on the wall and switched it on.

From underneath the desk a swift white furry animal darted out that caused me to scream out in abject terror.

“JESUS DONKEY BALLS!” I cried. “WHAT THE HOLY CHRIST WAS THAT!?”

Obviously it was a cat, but having it shoot past me like a fuzzy banshee out of a slingshot gave me quite the scare. It was then that I realized that I screamed much too loudly as my intoxication and fear of dark grandma houses took hold. As I sat on the easy chair, trying to regain a normal heart rate, I heard a shuffling from the room next door.

“What the fuck,” whispered Dave coming into the office with nothing but boxer briefs on. Chalk up another phobia: Thick and hearty man junk wobbling in my face at 2am. No bueno

“I’m sorry man,” I said breathless and whispering. “It was the cat. It was…under the desk… Scared me man. I’m sorry.”

“Are you just getting in?”, Dave asked perturbed.

“Yeah. We went barhopping. You should have been there. It was fun. I made out with some chick.”

Dave looked at me despairingly. He had a hairy chest, which I always knew about, but the newly formed man-gut over those briefs with what looked like a taco shell shoved down the front made me long for the safety of the garage and comfort of the model train table. Foamy toy mountains make great pillows I bet.

“Just keep it down alright?,” Dave murmured. “Don’t wanna wake grandma up.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t wanna wake grandma.”

Dave and I said goodnight and he closed the door. Through the wall, in their bedroom, apparently, I could hear Shannon ask what was going on and Dave saying that I was drunk and got scared by the cat. She didn’t sound pleased. Nor did Dave.

The next day I was happy to find Dave busy with various things, such as a doctors visit and a meeting with his business partners about, something. This was all described to me as I stood in the sterile kitchen drinking his grandma’s horrible coffee shaking from an intense hangover.

“Mark, I hear you made quite the ruckus last night,” his grandma said. She was a nice old lady that looked much older after almost two decades or so of not seeing her. I’m sure the trauma of losing her husband of fifty years recently put on some age. She was sitting on the couch doing a crossword.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your cat gave me quite a start. I didn’t mean to yell like that.”

“Oh I didn’t hear you dear,” she said. “I’m on so many pills that I could sleep through a bomb if it dropped right here in the living room.”

“That’s awesome.”

A girl that I was “sort of” dating decides she wants to do ecstasy with me, not knowing my aversion to psychotropic drugs. The result was pretty interesting.

Enjoy!

* * *

Between work, the club and the radio show, not to mention my own need to hide either in the corner by the big window at the Crowbar or back at the apartment reading, writing and watching bad movies, I really didn’t see much of Frieda. That first night together really freaked me out but when she said she wanted to see me and “do something” together I figured Amanda’s place would be best. I found a night where I didn’t work and Khamish was gone for a few days filming in Oakland.

Frieda came over and looked as cute and sexy as ever. Even knowing what I knew then and her showing up in a multicolored sock cap and North Face jacket, it was good to see her. Although apprehension was looking over my shoulder along with carnal curiosity.

After I took her out for some amazing Thai food and drinks after at the Crowbar, we ended up back at the apartment. There was some kissing, some drinking and me trying to get the vibe if she wanted to do it or not. She didn’t seem all that interested but she did suggest something else.

“Look,” she said, “there’s something I want to do with you but I don’t know if you’ll be into it.”

“What is it?”

She unzipped her jacket that was lying on the floor and produced a tiny ziplock baggie with two large white pills inside.

“It’s X. Have you ever done it?”

I almost did once, ironically, at Burning Man, but warnings from friends and camp mates made me too hesitant to go through with it. They said it would “make me feel good” and make that god forsaken trance music seem more tolerable while at the same time comparing some basic effects to mushrooms and acid. After trying mushrooms once I decided that hallucinogens, even mild ones, are no good for me. I already have enough voices and phantasmagoria in my head thank you, I don’t need some drug to accelerate it and turn me into a drooling buffoon throwing rocks at the moon.

“Will I freak out?” I ask.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” she said. Frieda could even quote Animal House. If I wasn’t so afraid of her, I just might fall for her.

To be quite honest I had been curious about Ecstacy since the early days when it came out and I was exposed to it either at work or in clubs. San Francisco in the late 90s was weird man. All these down and out bars were turned into “lounges” and rock clubs got shut down because dot commie millionaires bought “live work lofts” above them and couldn’t take the full throttle of pseudo bohemian living. I had co-workers, roommates and even bosses that did it. They all claimed it was the bees knees.

So, why not? If it’ll make sex with Frieda even more exciting it’ll make up for all the dry spells I’ve had post Malory and Amanda. Well, except for Nicole but…I didn’t want to think about that.

She handed me a pill. We stood there with those big white aspirin looking things in our palms.

“Are you ready?” she said. “Go.”

Frieda plopped hers in her mouth and after a split second of hesitation I did the same.

“When…um…when does it take effect?”, I asked feeling the chalky horse pill race down my gullet.

“About fifteen or twenty minutes,” she assured “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Well don’t be,” Frieda said. “My friend said this was really pure stuff and it’ll just make you feel really really good.”

“That’s what they say.”

So we sat in the bedroom talking, drinking while listening to Portishead and Cocteau Twins when something started happening. After just ten minutes of swallowing the X pill, my body began to get really warm, as if a fever was taking hold. My vision started to blur, my perception began to give out, my knees  buckled and my head swam as if I was immersed in a pool of tepid water.

“Something is happening,” I said. “Oh yeah…something is definitely happening! ”

Pretty soon the bedroom was awash in a red glaze and I started spinning as the music foamed around me and the lights started to mold and throb. I wasn’t feeling good. I was just tripping balls.

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “You gave me acid. This is acid right? Oh my god. Is X supposed to feel like this?”

Frieda was watching me with concern and confusion while at the same time giggling.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I don’t even feel anything yet. You’re just being a freak. It can’t hit you that hard that fast.”

Her words spun through my ears and I could take in the information but I could not comprehend. My body was on fire and I felt as if I was in some air pressured submarine. Everything had gotten angular and my extremities twinkled with fairy magic.

“Well…whatever,” I grumbled. “This is…uh…well…this is here. This is…what is this?”

Frieda was on the bed looking up at me. Suddenly her head bobbed down and she slowly craned back up with her eyes shut.

“Oh boy,” she said. “Um…wow. Yeah, this is really good stuff.”

“Is that…good?”

Frieda was silent for a while, what seemed like an eternity. Finally she spoke up.

“OK, Mark,” she began, “this is about as close to an acid trip as I had ever experienced without being on acid.”

“Oh jeeze!” I yelled. “This is not good. My brain is eroding.”

I was so hot that I stripped down to my boxers and started running around the apartment. Everything was crystal clear but had totally changed. The apartment looked more like a maze from Dr. Caligari than a space I was taking care of for Amanda. I started to get into it, but it was too much. I honestly had to have Frieda talk me down.

“Mark, it’s okay. You’re with me.”

You? Who are you? I barely know you!  You’re trying to kill me!  You’re the devil itself!  I’ve heard you scream!  No angel would make a ruckus like that!

“It’s just a drug. Just a powerful, wonderful, heavy ass drug.”

That’s right!  You’re trying to poison me!  That’s it!  Lobotomize me with cheap pharmaceuticals and turn me into your sex slave!  That actually doesn’t sound too bad except for the lobotomy part!

“Just calm down. Shhhh…”

Frieda then cradled me in her chest and I actually started to relax a bit. For some reason, be it the drug or the fact that I was attracted to her, I was thrown into a more reasonable state for the moment. Still reeling from the psychedelia that surrounded and gripped me, I was actually able to clasp into a brief twinkle of clarity.

“Maybe we should go outside and do stuff,” I warbled.

“Uh…no!”

For the next few hours I rode out the effects of that super potent hit of Ecstasy and learned to enjoy it. Music was fun, dancing around was fun and Frieda’s shrill screams of abject lascivious voracity later was actually quite lovely. In fact, she wasn’t loud enough. I do believe I threw the window open and announced to the world of our post orgasmic beatitude.

Take that Phil Collins!  Let’s see you drum your way past this chick.

Even in the depths of my early morning dreamtime I could hear something. As my mind wandered through abstract images and memories I had collected from the past, a noise was breaking through. A thudding of some kind. Was someone knocking at my door?

By now I was used to the convex noise that permeated from Columbus Avenue. Sirens, busses, honking, religious freaks with megaphones, brakes slamming, late night drunken hollering, early morning delivery trucks, streetcleaners, bands performing in the park and the occasional parade were nothing new to me. By now it had all become white noise, much like the sleep machine I use every night. In a strange way, that constant cacophony was almost comforting. Now I can attest to those in rural states that insist it doesn’t bother them that the train goes by their house several times a day. You just plain get used to it.

I woke up to a new sound though. Khamish never played music loud and if he did it wouldn’t be this early in the morning. A check of the clock said 8:15. No, it wasn’t him. But just to be sure I sprung out of bed to see. His door was closed so I gently knocked. No response. I quietly opened the door to see his room, pleasantly messy as always, but no Khamish. This guy was the best roommate ever.

Pretty soon I noticed the noise was coming from upstairs. I always knew there were people living above Amanda but I never saw them. Up until today, I never really heard them. Once in a while I would hear the upstairs door close but that was about it. Whoever was up there was sure playing some bass heavy music.

Walking halfway down the hall I found the hotspot; the area where it was booming the loudest. The big painting on the wall was even shaking a bit. This person had their music cranked. And at eight in the morning. Made me kind of sad to not be invited to the party.

It was then I deciphered the song. It was Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight”. I could hear that chiming beat with Phil lightly singing “I can feel it…coming in the air tonight…oh lord.” Then that famous and very distinctive heavy drum beat, boom boom-boom boom-boom boom-boom-boom boom boom!,  and the apartment nearly shook from it’s foundation, which didn’t take much as it was 100+ years old and rickety so I often got rattled when a large truck would idle outside.

For real, the music was deafening. I was tired. I closed out the Crowbar that night and didn’t get to sleep till four. Not that I was doing the drug, it was the fact that I caught Black Belt Jones on the late-late movie when I came home. Jim Kelly is my hero and I just had to make it to the end.

So half asleep and cowering from the loudness that only Phil Collins could provide, I opened the front door, walked upstairs and knocked.

The music was thundering. So I knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. I started pounding on the door. Still nothing. Maybe this dude offed himself and wanted Phil to be the last thing he heard as he exited this world. It’s a good song to do it to. Pretty cathartic and rather symbolic. Still though, I wanted to go back to sleep.

BLAM!  BLAM!  BLAM! I was hammering the door.

Finally the music cut out. I heard footsteps which stopped right on the other side of the door. A sort of shuffling really.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice. “Who is it?”

“Um, hi. My name is Mark and I live downstairs.”

A lock unhinged, a chain slid loose. The door opened and standing before me was a frail old man, maybe in his 70s, in a light blue, rather unwashed, terrycloth bathrobe and house slippers. He was taller than me and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a while.

“You know Amanda?” he asked.

“Uh, yes. Yes I do.”

“You her boyfriend?”

That stumped me. “It’s too early to give you an honest response,” I said.

The old man then gave me the once over as I stood there kind of not knowing what should happen next.

“Well,” he grunted, “what do you want?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your, um, music…time…but, uh, it’s pretty early sir and it’s really really loud.”

He just looked at me as I stood there in my boxers and Skeletor tee shirt rubbing my hands in solicitude.

“I thought kids your age liked loud rock music,” he said with no air of humor at all. It was almost like he was challenging me.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, “but I’m actually thirty five and need to get some sleep.”

“Thirty five?” the old man shouted. He seemed drunk. “You don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Well, thank you. That’s…that’s nice of you to say.”

The old man leaned in real close and whispered. “What’s your secret?”

“Um, well,” I stammered, caught a bit off guard, “I drink a lot of water and moisturize every day.”

“Moisturize huh?”, he said with suspicion. “Aren’t ladies and fags the only ones to do that?”

“No. Not at all. In fact ladies and, uh…homosexuals…have great skin so why can’t I?”

“Point taken.”

“Plus I don’t smoke. Oh, and heavy metal will set you free! ”

“Say again?”

“Never mind.”

The old man leaned his head back and looked around his apartment and the hallway. I really didn’t know if this guy was high on those awesome old people meds that deviant grandchildren always steal or just a nutbag filled with a shovelful of crazy.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll turn it down, but just remember…”

He was pointing a finger at me and paused.

“Um…yes sir,” I uttered.

“The wife is out of town for a few days and Phil Collins rocks my shit.”

I blurted out a puff of a laugh, to which I quickly crossed my arms and held my lips as if I was pontificating what he had just said.

“Uh huh,” I twittered. “Well, you know, I was a fan of Miami Vice when I was a kid and this song…”

Slam!  The door shut right in my face.

All I could do at that point was go back downstairs and climb into bed. I lay there in stone silence and perfect stillness. Sleep didn’t come. I was in too much awe to do so.

Enjoy!

* * *

The next day I woke up to a very strange noise. All I heard was something like “beeesh-zoooot-beeeesh-zoooot”. It was like some kind of cyborg breathing, yet with a gurgling too. At first I thought the toilet was backed up and making odd sounds. Maybe it was my stomach because after a night of boozing I am usually famished by morning, that is if I don’t stop somewhere to get a late night burrito or pizza slice. Which I didn’t.

I then realized I was laying next to a naked girl I barely knew. Looking over at her, I made a startling discovery.

Nicole had that aviator mask thing on her face and the machine was activated. I could see the little pumps I thought was the reel to reel tapes bopping up and down. She was on her back, chest exposed, while the other half was under her stark white sheet, with this mask on her making her look like some kind of Sex Vader. I shot up and surveyed the scene.

First thing I noted was that I wasn’t turned on. If some random girl wearing a breathing apparatus with her boobs out made me tingly in any way I would make an appointment with a therapist. But it didn’t. Actually, if the mask was a full blown Darth style I might be inclined to mount her and do my business. But the sound of the machine, that sloshing, compressed air sound, made me a little queasy. So I looked around her room, found my undershirt, shorts, shirt and hoodie, gathered them up and began to look for my shoes and socks. That’s when she woke up.

“Good morning,” she said completely muffled by the mask and whooshing sounds. I could barely make out what she was saying.

“Uh, hi,” I said holding my clothes in a tight ball. “Morning. I uh… Ready for breakfast?”

Nicole then removed the mask and turned the machine off.

“Are you freaked out by this?” she asked. By my deer caught in the headlights expression and stance it was apparent that I was. “Sorry. I have sleep apnea. It’s either this or I don’t breath at night.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Whatever. You think I’m a freak.”

“No. It’s cool. I just…I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said. “My dad’s husband has sleep apnea and he…”

“Your dad’s gay?” she said sounding a little perturbed.

“Uh, yeah. They both are.”

“That’s weird.”

I always found it funny that people that live in San Francisco can still be homophobic. I’ve come across it so many times and it still makes me scratch my head and think ‘why don’t you move to Kansas or something?’ They live in the gayest city in the world with a famous gay district making it the Gay Vortex for all other things that are labeled “gay”. San Francisco is queen of Homo Mountian. Stand proud!

It was then that I noticed something on the ground. My bag of blow had fallen out and was sitting in the middle of the floor. Nicole got up, put on a big tee shirt, a long one with Tweety bird on it for craps sake, and started toward the door. She walked by me, tickled my tummy and yawned off to the bathroom. The whole time I moved my body so that she wouldn’t see the bag. When she was gone I quickly retrieved it and stuffed it in my wallet. I then got dressed, found my socks and shoes, which were scattered all over the room, without a clue how that happened, and put them on.

When Nicole came back I was tying my shoe.

“You’re in a big hurry huh?” she said. “I thought maybe we could have another quicky before we go out.”

Actually, the last thing on my mind right then was sex. I was hungover, the coke had made me feel chemically dazed and, to be honest with you, I was a little turned off by the whole breathing mask thing and the whole situation.

“I, uh…don’t have another condom,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t used one when we sort of did it. That made me nervous too.

“That’s okay,” she said opening up a drawer on her night stand. “I’ve come prepared.” She lifted out a long row of condoms and wore a sinister smile.

“Can I take a raincheck?” I said. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I have to be at work in an hour.”

She put the condoms back in the drawer. “That’s fine,” she said. “What about breakfast?”

“I don’t think we’ll have time.”

“Whatever.”

Sensing that she was a little upset with me I tried to make some light conversation.

“I see you’re into Mariah Carey,” I said.

“Fuck yeah,” Nicole said with all seriousness. “Mimi is the bomb yo.”

“Yeah,” I uttered. “I had this poster of Lita Ford when I was a kid on the ceiling above my bed. You know, the one where she’s topless, looking at you over her shoulder, in uber tight leather pants and holding that white pointy guitar with fog in the background? It was awesome.”

“Who’s Lita Ford?” she asked.

“I gotta go.”

I didn’t have to work that day but I needed to split. We kissed goodbye, exchanged numbers and I left. It was late afternoon on a Friday so I walked up to the 540, ordered a Bloody Mary, drank it while talking to the daytime bartender Richie who called me a cab when I was finished. I went back to the apartment to find camera equipment all over the place.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked.

There was a bunch of people I didn’t know scurrying around the place. There was a big digital camera pointed down the hall, with lights, flags, cables on the ground and Khamish coming out of his room.

“Is this okay,” he asked. “We need a quick scene of a girl coming out of a bedroom. I didn’t know when you were coming home so…is this okay?”

I actually didn’t care at all. Khamish was never around and for that I rewarded him with letting his film crew do some shooting in the place. Turns out he wanted the girl coming out Amanda’s bedroom, looking distressed, and then walking past the camera.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’ll be done in a few hours.”

“That’s cool man,” I said. “I’ll go catch a movie or something. What’s playing?”

Most of the crew just shrugged. But they took a half hour break to let me shower, change and get my stuff together. I needed to see some big dumb movies anyway. My brain had turned to mush.

The phone lay on the night stand, which was still cluttered with some of Amanda’s stuff. Cleaning and organizing her place had proven to be a serious undertaking. I don’t think she threw anything away. I mean, what’s with all the boots and vibrators?

After half blindly reaching for the phone, I let out a groggy, “Hello?”

There was a pause. If nobody answers me within 5 seconds, for the most part, I just hang up, figuring it to be some kind of salesman or telemarketer that can’t pronounce my last name. I usually get a “Hello, Mister Whit…Wha…Whit-takker?” Because there are 2 T’s in my last name it always throws people off. Guys like Forest Whitaker are lucky. One T in the name and it gets it pronounced correctly. Two and I sound like I have some kind of stuttering inducing sur name, which is good because only people I care to speak to know how to pronounce it. Otherwise, phones are the devil.

“Yes,” said a guttural and stammering mans voice, “is this Mark Whit-takk-er?”

“Oh jeeze,” I said. “I knew it. What are you trying to sell me? If it’s not some coffee or aspirin then go die.”

Another pause. Just as I was about to hang up the man came back.

“My name is Jack Roth and I’m the owner of Bill’s bar. You, uh, submitted a resume?”

I shot up and cleared my throat.

“Oh yes, hello mister Roth. Thanks for calling me back. I, um…”

“Yes I realize that’s it’s early,” he said sounding as if he didn’t care that I told him to go die, “but I was wondering if you could come in today for an interview?”

“Oh. Today? Uh, yeah, sure. No problem. What, uh, what time is good for you?”

“Let’s say after lunch,” said Mr. Roth with a weird sputter in his voice. “You can’t come anytime before or during lunch because we get busy. And I need to be here and ready if anything gets out of hand. Understand?”

This guy sounded wacko. But, according to Hal, the owner was indeed a nut job. It didn’t matter, I definitely needed some kind of income coming in. So I gave him a “yes, of course I understand.”

“Good. Let’s say 2 o’clock. Is that good for you?”

I looked at the clock which read 9:45. “Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll be there at two.”

“Oh and if you have any references please bring them,” he said sounding a bit irked. “You forgot to include them on this, well…what’s the word I’m looking for here? Interesting resume.”

He then let out a weird breathy laugh. Not really knowing what to do I just laughed right along.

“Ha ha,” I said. “Yeah, well, no problem. I have references. In fact, I have…”

“Have you ever bartended before?” he interrupted.
“Um, yeah…I…”

“Good. We can talk about that when you come in.”

Click.

I sat there in bed holding the phone for a while. Slowly I set the receiver down and wondered what just happened. Coming back to San Francisco and taking care of an estranged girlfriends apartment is one thing. Possibly bartending in a huge ghost ship of a place with Captain Crazy Britches at the helm really began to worry me. So I just laid back down and tried to go back to sleep, which never came.

About ten minutes to 2:00 I strolled into Bill’s. The place was deserted except for a few grubby guys at the bar sucking down light beers and watching some kind of sport on that ancient television. The bartender on duty was an attractive thin blonde girl who looked totally out of place here. Hal was alright, a bit young, but better suited to serve smelly beer guzzlers in a spooky wharf side establishment than a good looking blonde in a clean white tank top. Maybe I had this place figured out all wrong. There must be an undercurrent of cash and coolness that I just wasn’t picking up on.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a strange accent. British, I wondered. Australian? Jersey?

“Yeah, my name is Mark I have an interview with Jack.”

“Oh right,” she said coming around the bar. “My name is Mindy.” She stuck out her right hand which I shook. She had a stronger grip than I did. “Jack is right inside there.”

She pointed to a door directly under the TV and to the left of the bar. Mindy walked up and knocked on it. I heard a muffled “What?” to which she opened the door and told him I was here. Mindy then gestured for me to go inside, which I did.

And, wouldn’t you know it, the crazy guy in the corner talking about broken glass was the owner. That both totally amused me and sent me almost running away screaming at the same time.

“Come in,” he grumbled. “Sit down.”

His office was no bigger than a broom closet and just as cluttered. Shelves on either side of his muddled desk with a smaller, black and white TV on it showing the exact same game as in the main bar, was crammed with all sorts of old bar taps, tools, holiday decorations, invoices, pest control cans, whatnots, gewgaws, this and that and a coffee mug that said “I’m so horny even the crack of dawn looks good.” Looking around I saw that there was no place to sit, except for an old milk crate which he gestured toward and I hunkered down on. It smelled too, like a combination of stale work boot and old man fart. Mindy shut the door behind me and I felt as if she had sealed my coffin.

“So, tell me a little about yourself,” Jack said. He had this rumbling voice that indicated a combination of age, madness, alcohol abuse and yelling at the television when his team fumbled a ball. Plus his eyes were sunken, yellow and appeared to be leaking a bit. He was unshaven, he had a huge gut protruding from a cheap flannel under a puffy work vest. Even sitting down I could see that he was extremely tall. Jack frightened me. Almost as much as being broke.

“Well, let’s see,” I began. “I just moved back from Palm Springs…”

“What the hell were you doing there?” he demanded.

“Um, well, I was living with my dad and writing for this local paper.”

“Is that what you do,” he asked almost inquisitory. “You a writer?”
“Well, sort of, I’m also a DJ…”

“Says here you write a lot,” Jack said picking up my resume that was perched to his left. “I don’t need a goddam writer. What I need is a bartender.”

Before walking down to Bill’s I had made a quicky bar resume with some “references”. Basically the few restaurants and one bar I worked at briefly became year long endeavors and the references were Jose and Kevin and a few made up ones with fake phone numbers. If this guy actually calls any of my references I’d be shocked. But, you never know. By the look of it, Jack was just wacky enough to do so. And probably in the middle of the night. So I gave him some speech about how my “writing gigs” were in-between my real jobs, which were being a server and bartender, as I handed him the new resume.

“Why the hell didn’t you hand this one to me in the first place?”

He had a good question and, in a way, he got me. I then came up with a quick and brilliant explanation which involved me just coming back from an interview with a publishing house down the street and, you know, they might offer me a job so better nab me up quick buddy.

“What publishing house?” he asked, again, sounding totally incriminating.

“Uh, Fields & Cohen,” I said. For some reason Mindy Cohen and Kim Fields of “Facts of Life” came to mind. Maybe it was because the bartender was named Mindy. Maybe it was due to the fact that I always had a crush on Jo. Then why not call it “Polniaczek Press”? I couldn’t figure out either of them.

“Never heard of it,” Jack said.

“It’s small. It’s…new.”

“Here’s the thing,” he started, adjusting his lumbering body in a squeaky chair holding on for dear life, “the outside bar is getting more popular. They got bands and singers and all sorts of acts on that new stage of theirs outside. Have you seen the stage yet?”

“Oh yes,” I said trying to get an angle in. “In fact, that’s how I…”

“Good, because I can’t have a one bartender doing both bars. It’s…it’s just not possible. They just can’t. This place is too big. Have…have you seen this place?”

“Yes, I…”

“It’s just not possible.”

I sat there nodding holding back tears and giggles while at the same time trying not to breath through my nose. What were those other smells? Embalming fluid? Forgotten underwear left for dead under heaping mounds of boxes filled with staining account statements from the Carter administration? Or was it just Jack? He looked like a man that would forget to bathe after giving himself several beer ties and swallowing a slat of chili cheese dogs. Whatever it was it was thick and grim and I wished that Mindy would come back and open the door to release some of the heavy old guy musk stench. But she never did.

“Well,” I began waiting to be interrupted again. “Uh…I’m available. I live right up the street and can…”

“You live right up the street?” Jack almost shouted in surprise. “Where?”

“Columbus and Union.”

“When can you start?”

Jack and I settled on the day after to get me trained and acclimated to the place. As I walked back up Columbus to the apartment I felt a twinge of fear enter my body. I don’t know why, but it felt as if I had sold my soul in some weird way. Then I kept repeating to myself “Its just a job, it’s only temporary” and that seemed to calm me a little. If anything I would walk away with a new experience and some stories. I already knew I could write a whole novella on just Jack alone. That guy was a mess. What threw me off was why he agreed to hire me on the fact that I lived just up the street. That gave me pause and made me shudder a bit.

When I got back to the apartment I saw Khamish walking out of his room. He had the turban, along with an expensive looking tee shirt, some super stiff and hip jeans on and holding onto an expensive looking laptop computer.

“Oh hi.” he said. “I’m just on my way out.”

“I’m just coming in,” I said meeting him midway through the hall.

“Well…see ya,” he said leaving in a hurry.

“Yeah. Okay. See ya.”

Khamish closed the door behind him and was gone. I then found it weird to be living in a place where a guy like Khamish came and went as he pleased. It wasn’t the turban or Hindu thing, far from it. I just found it odd that someone actually did in fact “live” in a tiny room right next to me. Someone that I never saw. Sure I had room mates before, lots of them, but usually I either knew them or I saw them on a regular basis.

Life was becoming quite psychedelic at this point.

“Come all ye losers don’t you know you’re the children of life?
Follow me now and we can burn down the pillars of time ”
- High On Fire, Hung, Drawn and Quartered

When I woke up I realized I was still in Palm Springs. The ceiling fan was the first clue. Plus I was wrapped up under the heavy quilted bedspread my Dads always favored. Even in a place that reaches 120+ degrees these guys still insist on Arctic ready covers.

My Dad’s house has a specific smell too. The Freon scent from the constantly working central air, mixed with cabinets of antique curios and furniture from musty estate sales houses, combined with a coffee maker always on and sometimes burned and my real Dad having to smoke outside that, still, somehow manages to leak through closed patio doors makes for a familiar yet totally unfamiliar smell. I don’t own many antiques. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life. And my old life back in San Francisco only required the occasional use of a fan. Still, this was home #2 so to speak.

The carpeting is strange too, almost like the floor covering you find in offices. Utilitarian I think they call it. They used to have a small dog, a skiperdee, Lily, but she died a few years back so the non-shaggy “carpet” that helped her move around easily and didn’t leave any traces of that soft black fur she had is a curious addition. My eyes still thick with sleep crust squints a bit as I twist the dark brown bamboo looking stick to open the sun shadowing blinds. These things make the room almost pitch black when in operation. Many a day I have taken a nap, usually from the heat or after a few afternoon cocktails, and have woken up thinking it was midnight; only to discover it was barely dinner time. I guess when you’re retired gay men living in the desert you want very little reminder that the sun bleaches out almost anything it burns on. Even Edwardian bureaus and relics from elegant pomposity past.

The room I was staying in is my Dad’s room. My real dad. He was married once, back in the early 70s, to my mom, obviously, when being an out of the closet homosexual wasn’t so revered an accepted as it is now. He came out to me when I was 13, which freaked me out to no degree but then when I got involved with community theater and realized almost everyone is gay in one way or another I relaxed and just let it be. He is my Dad for craps sake. How many Star Wars toys and video game systems did this guy get me for Christmas and birthdays? C’mon.

First off, his room is actually separate from the rest of the house which is nice and filled with posters and artifacts from B-movies of the 50s and 60s. Images of bridge eating dinosaurs from movies like Reptilicus and 3-D glasses with the words House Of Wax on them fill the counter tops and walls of his room. Plus his tiny personal stereo is always equipped with CDs of new wave classics so many a night, after many a beer, I have put on the headphones and blasted away one hit wonders like The Vapors, Wall of Voodoo, Bow Wow Wow, Icicle Works, etc. It’s almost a room that I would have if I were gay, retired and living in Palm Springs. Which is odd to think about.

Second, his room is way down the hall, a few clicks from Dad #2′s room, next to the bathroom with patio accessibility. Dad 2 has a finely decorated yet kind of sterile room with the only item of quirky flair is a large cardboard cutout of Joe Montana, a longtime object of lust for him, standing proud and toothy behind the door. The separate rooms came a while back, actually when they moved into this place from their old humongous pad in Monterey, CA, as they both snore and have completely different sleeping patterns. My Dad gets up at like 5 am, everyday, has some coffee, smokes, reads the paper, then goes back to bed at around 7 or 8 only to get up a few hours later. Dad 2, who has sleep apnea, that horrible “are you dead from not breathing?” snoring, gets up at 7 am sharp and stays awake only to complain that he’s tired for most of the day. They are complete opposites that have found and need each other. Plus my Dad is a skinny little short guy who was a wild artist actor hippie married once and had a kid. Dad 2 stretches over 6 ½ feet and practiced medicine and was a socialite and medical board member for years. Never been married, always been outspoken about his sexuality. They are two in-proportioned peas in a happy pod of two different worlds.

Eventually I emerged from the room and headed for the kitchen. A check from the ornate and supposedly owned by W. Randolph Hearst grandfather clock said it’s just past 10 am. I could hear the TV babbling on in the den and smell the coffee, half charred, but always a welcome treat.

“Good morning ” my dad yells from across the room. I hear canned laughter so I know he’s wither watching Will and Grace or Becker. “Nice of you to join us.”

My Dad actually buys decent coffee. He used to be a specific Folgers with that flavor crystals crap drinker but after Oprah praised the taste and company of Peet’s Coffee he’s been hooked. Funny thing is I actually worked as a barista for Peet’s many years ago, right after I had quit doing film production. It was honestly an awesome job and I always brought bags of the stuff when I visited back then. “It’s too strong” he would say. Now look at him.

I joined my Dad in the tight quarters known as the TV room. It’s equipped with two expensive leather recliners, a TV the size of most multi-plex movie screens, surround sound and, of course, antique lamps and tables. Something that I have adopted from my Dad’s home life is the use of ambient light. These guys live in almost relative darkness, using amber lights and hidden light sources to make the house look even more like a show room at night. That or an old movie house which is what my dad is going for. As you sit on one of the recliners you are treated to a widescreen TV that is so immense and close the foot rest that pops out and up could almost hit it. I sit in Dad 2′s chair and am treated to, I knew it, Will and Grace with Debra Messing near enough that her boobs actually look sort of big.

“How’d you sleep?” my dad asked.

“Good. I had some dream that Gary Coleman was my boss and he wanted me to carry a big bag of animal fat across the street to some house that involved Mexican gangs and pornography. I wasn’t wearing any pants, as usual, so I don’t know if I was the star of the movie, like some weird fetish thing involving animal blubber, or I was being jumped into some gang but in a kinky way. Either or it was cool to see Gary Coleman.”

“Uh huh,” he uttered, only half listening as the antics of Jack and Karen were taking precedence. “Well…you always did have bizarre dreams.”

It was true. And voices too. Not bad ones that seem to always say “Kill the president’s dog” but more along the lines of wouldn’t a picnic be good right now…who needs this job…go outside…put on a puppet show…Slayer rules. The “voices” are one of the main reasons I never got into drugs. I couldn’t imagine them being any louder or actually taking shape. Beer always seemed to keep them at bay though.

“How’s the book coming along?” he asks.

“Umm…okay. Good. Actually, no. I hate it. It’s going in a weird direction.”

“Uh huh.”

Again, Jack and Karen, this time with Harry Connick Jr. Something involving white wine spritzers or whatever. My Dad erupts in laughter.
When I moved here a few weeks back I told myself I would try to write an actual book. For years I had been a contributing writer for a dozen or so underground and heavy metal magazines. It started as a fluke, a favor for a friend really who had become an editor for a small magazine based out of Chico, CA that seemingly blossomed during that whole ‘dot com’ boom of the late 90s. I still penned for a few, mainly the big glossy metal mags like Metal Rage, Mosh and Terror Reign, but I wanted to see if I could actually be a “real” writer. I had started an almost fictional tale of my experiences with all of the random jobs I had worked throughout the years. The book, almost 100 pages in, had U-turned into a blathering mockery of not only the English language but of my own life. I didn’t tell him it had been three days since last I opened the file marked “Das Book” and typed. I really didn’t know what I was doing at this point.

As we sat there watching back to back episodes of Will and Grace I sipped strong burnt coffee sifting through the vapid and conservative Palm Spring’s Sun Times listening to my dad laugh and make idle conversation, the phone rang. My dad got up, walked into the kitchen where the cordless phone lay charging and answered. It was during a commercial and seeing my dad always muted the commercials, so I could hear him talking.

“Hello?…Oh yes…hello Amanda…how are you?…that’s good, that’s good…uh-huh…oh really?…oh …oh, okay…well he’s finally awake and sitting right here….hold on.”

My dad walks into the TV room cupping the receiver and boldly mouthing the word “Amanda” as he hands it to me. Amanda was my sort of girlfriend I had left behind in San Francisco. We talked here and there, emailed often enough and sometimes even phone sexed when the mood hit. Things had taken a left turn for me back in San Francisco, my home for almost 10 years, and when the opportunity to stay with my Dad as Dad #2 was off taking care of ailing friends in Nevada, I put stuff in storage and drove all day with my necessities in the back of the truck to hang out with my father and try to become a novelist. I wasn’t sure what I should do next or where I should actually be. But Amanda was always a welcoming voice.

“Hi baby,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. Amanda had actually been propositioned to do phone sex once but her status as an art teacher would be sullied. It was one of her regular customers at the bar she worked at part time, where we met actually, and she thought about it briefly in times of economic crisis. You think an art teacher can keep a large apartment like she had in San Francisco on that salary? Almost every teacher, artist and musician I knew had a second or third job to keep their lifestyle and home in the city. Amanda was no exception.

“Hey darlin’”, I said. “What’s up?’

“Um…look….” Amanda sounded upset. I could hear the sniffles and tears.

“Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Yeah. I’m fine,: she said weepily. “It’s my dad. He’s…um…”

“Oh no. Is he dead?”, I said with general concern. Her dad had contracted some kind of stomach cancer a while back and was slowly on his way out. During the months that we were dating there had been many a phone call from her sister and mom regarding her dad’s health. I even drove her and picked her up from the airport when she had to fly to Tucson, AZ to visit and help the family once or twice. This didn’t sound good.

“No, he’s not dead. Uh…,” she paused to sob and blow her nose, “not yet.”

My dad shot me a “what’s going on” look and I gave him the ‘just a second’ finger extension before going back to his room to talk in private.

“Oh man,” I said closing the door behind me. “I’m so sorry. What’s going on?”

“Um…,” she said with a hesitancy. I felt as if something was up and something big and bad was about to happen. “Look…I need to go back home and take care of things.”

“Uh, back to San Francisco?” I asked. “Where are you now?”

“No, no, I’m in San Francisco. I’m at the apartment. I took the day off. I need to go to Tucson and help my family. They need me. My mom and sister can’t handle all of the finances and shit and my dad by themselves. They need my help. I need to be there. I’m going to leave next week.”

“Wait a second,” I said a little too loudly, “what about your apartment? You’re giving that place up? I mean, you need to give your landlord like at least a month before you…”

“That’s why I’m calling you.” She sniffled and paused. “Um…how are things going in Palm Springs?”

Amanda had that voice indicating something was up. She was a great manipulator. If she couldn’t do it with her deep brown eyes or DD chest her voice could get you to do almost anything. Maybe that’s how we started dating in the first place. I don’t remember.

“Um, okay. I guess. Fine.”

“You and your dad doing okay?”

“Uh…yeah. Fine. Great. No worries.”

“Have you ever thought of moving back here?”

There it was I knew it. Yes I had thought a myriad of times about moving back to San Francisco, picking up where I left off and getting back into that heady kinetic groove that the city insists on. I had also considered Los Angeles, which is where I grew up, in Glendale. I had friends in LA, good friends, old college buddies. Of course they were scattered all over the place and rarely saw each other and I knew I’d wind up working at a Tower Records and living in a craphole somewhere in Hollywood but, hey, that was an option. So was Austin, TX. And Hollywood, FL where an old pal had a photography business and said I could go work for him. And Delaware where my mom and her side of the family lived. Or Seattle. Or even Dorset, UK where I could be the road manager and technician for Electric Wizard, one of my favorite metal bands. There were loads of options.

“Yeah,” I said a bit craggy, “of course I have considered moving back. Yeah…uh…”

“Well, I kind of need your help.”

I knew what she was going to ask me, and when she asked if I could “take care of the apartment” a thousand voices piped up and shouted a variety of pros and cons at me. Her place was central, Columbus and Union, overlooking Washington Square park, in the heart of North Beach, just up from Fisherman’s Wharf, near everything, thousands of bars and restaurants just a few steps away. It’s the kind of place most people dream about finding when they first move to the city.

But the apartment was dark and angular and cluttered with almost two decades of her living there. Plus she rented out the small extra room to random art students going to the academy a few blocks away. Sure I had some savings and a tiny unemployment check coming every other week but that was it.

Her place was noisy too. The bedroom window overlooking the main drag of Columbus Ave, a busy street stretching all the way from the wharf to downtown, was also over a popular restaurant too. The racket ranged from a dull din at night to outright madness on some days. It was also very old, so the walls were cracked, although some bad art hung covered some of the damage. Cockroaches made appearances on occasion. Did I mention it was noisy?

On the other hand, it was an option, and the only really solid one I had at the moment. It would be easy to slip back into the San Francisco routine. I know I could get a job right off the bat and get my old gigs back too. Sure. Why not? The important this is I’d be helping a friend out who really needed it.
Still, the city reminded me of…”her”. Not Amanda but the biggest heartbreak I had ever experienced and the main reason for wanting to move away. That would be something I’d have to deal with.

“Yeah, okay,” I said with a deep sigh, a million scattered thoughts, hesitancies and emotions all racing at once. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. For how long?”

“Oh thank you ” Amanda said with general relief and glee. “I’d say a few months, no more than six at most. If that. First months rent is free. That’s taken care of by my family.”

“Well thank you family.”

“When can you come back?”

“I’m thinking the day after tomorrow.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

After I hung up I retreated back to the kitchen where I found my dad outside smoking. I opened the sliding glass door and sat on the already hot lawn chair.

“Is everything alright?” my dad asked nervously under mirror shaded glasses. He liked Amanda, better than…”her” he told me and judging by the conversation knew that something was amiss.

“Her dad is dying,” I said. “She needs to be with her family in Tucson Arizona.”

“Oh no. Poor thing.”

“Yeah”. I sipped my coffee and was about to say something that would get the ball rolling and send me into survival and change mode once again. Even in my man-boy uncertainty and general laziness I was always pretty good at adapting and getting back on my feet. At least to a basic minimum where I could go back to my books, beer and movie watching with the hopes of going on a date now and then. My joy and happiness requires very little but are of high difficulty and maintenance.

“She wants me to move back to San Francisco and take care of her place while she’s gone.”

My dad exhaled a deep drag and nodded. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” is said in absolute truth. I didn’t know. But I couldn’t stay with my dad much longer, dad 2 was coming back in a few weeks. I had barely scraped what contacts and options I have in LA. Austin? Seattle? Come on, those were towns I had only visited briefly and liked. Delaware? Are you kidding me? Sure it would be great to see my mom on a regular basis as visits are rare due to finances and my absolute hatred of airplanes,but…I’d be in Delaware. So really, in a way, Amanda’s phone call and request had been a blessing.

“So when do you need to leave? If you leave.”

“Day after tomorrow. And yes,” this was the final decision, there was no turning back now, “I am leaving. It’s what needs to happen.”

“Well alright,” my dad said.

I got up and we hugged. I went inside, put on my shorts, vintage bowling shirt with the name “Earl” on the right breast pocket and laced up my shabby Vans skateboard shoes. I needed to take a long walk.

The voices just wouldn’t shut up!