By Joe Speaker © 2008
I reach for her hand, probing, touching it delicately. We don't form a fist when we come together, nothing like the taut intertwine of fingers you see lovers form, those Gordian knots, unwieldy like a stone fortress. Our fingers hang off each other's loosely, three of mine, two of hers, vice-versa, and they dangle. Spider webs in the wind. Tenuous connection.
"Are you cold?" she asks.
"A little."
We drift over the crunching leaves, fall's blanket covering the moist Earth for the coming winter. The cycle. She steps lightly, as if she doesn't want disturb the ground. I drag my feet through the layers, kicking up little storms. The sky is a monotonous gray and the air is misty, dense.
"Want to go back inside?"
I move closer, shoulder to shoulder. "Not at all."
The day is darkening, invisible sun. Stealing light, these final moments before I go home. Time hangs over us, pressing down, thick as the rolling fog drifting in over the treetops on the south edge of the orchard.
She lurches in front of me, separating our hands. I goad her into a picture to pull her back. To capture her so I don't forget. We're different that way, like men and women are. I pretend I'm a fashion photographer, kneeling and whirring. Snap, shutter, click and there she is, arms out like the bare branches above her. Behold. She throws her head back, the sharp air slashing her cheeks and she blooms red and gold like the leaves at her feet. Jesus Christ Pose. And lo, I am with you always, even until the end of the Earth.
We circle around the orchard, the apples gone for the season. It's high on a plateau, one edge looming like a storm over the swirling Willamette River. This is her refuge, her beating heart. Her voice cracks when she talks of it, shudders and halts, like the silent hills surrounding us. We could disappear. Hour upon Day upon Week upon Infinity, happily stuck in this sealed-off daydream. Just the two of us. Timeless. We see a family of deer up peek from the tree line, as quiet as we are heedless, as still as we are fluid.
Ours is an unlikely affair, a confluence of chance and timing conducted from nearly opposite ends of the Pacific Coast. We danced apart, guarded, like adolescent smiles across a darkened gym. Thrust and parry. Talking around the desire we felt, until falling furiously into each other, atoms colliding, all shackled energy and recognizing only then the fuse of loneliness that had burned inside of us, waiting to detonate. We conspired to find each other in strange beds, neutral ground, and I rode jet streams to clandestine spots, my blood boiling like a wild mustang, forgetting the anxiety of wind-slapped takeoffs and constipated landings, dreaming of her high above the earth, un-tethered and out of control, overcoming my fear for her lightning touch. And now, she's brought me to her home.
Whenever I see her, in those first few moments, she looks bewildered, arrhythmic, as if she can't quite place me. It's hard to talk initially, for both of us. I feel this sensation of wanting to burst, but the words are senseless drabs until I can get my balance. We talk of others, our sons mostly, safe ground. The trials of single parenthood, our adoration unrestrained, those emotions we can betray, if not yet for each other. The boys are more entertaining, free to say whatever their brains conjure. We cut and paste, our silences like a swamp, heavy and absorbing sound.
Finally, I'll reach for her, she for me, bridging that temporary canyon with an electric caress across the table. She always seems to find my pinkie. The right one. I broke the finger playing basketball in college and it never healed right. It's misshapen, jutting out like a craven idol. She moves along the length of it. It doesn't bend right. Deformed like an injured bird, she cradles it in her palm.
“What do you think?” she asks, her face earnest, the answer is important to her. Lingering, tenacious leaves fall, brush her shoulders, like she's posing for a postcard, a sales brochure.
"It's beautiful, baby," I say, sweeping my arms, all I survey. "Really."
The limbs form a tunnel, shelter, the trunks in perfect rows. "They're dying," she says.
The trees. Rooted here for generations, it doesn't seem possible. They stand so solid, impeccable posture, a contrast to our temporary state. We are aimless, chasing scents on the breeze. Not like at home, where life crashes, demands. Cars, factories, deadlines, alarm clocks. Outside my bedroom window, I see slate roofs, nothing like the unbroken expanse here. My days are mandated, like the other homes on the street, like my neighbors, uniform and complying beneath the summer heat. The lawns are a mirage of imported relief. Brown air covers everything, except when it is pushed away by hot winds, revealing a snatch of the mountains in the distance, with their bald and threatening high peaks. It's briefly beautiful, in those two winter weeks when topped with snow, white as a straitjacket. Otherwise, a foreboding and jagged callous.
She breaks away from me again, bored by my silence. She spins around a tree, her fingers dragging across the trunk. It's a childish gesture, a game around the maypole that reminds me of my son, who purposefully makes himself dizzy, but her face betrays none of his cheery delight. Her lips are set and her eyes far away. She hates me. The distance. This fantasy we perpetuate, 48 hours at a time. Around she goes then lists away. She needs a couple steps to regain her balance and looks back at me when she rights herself. I smile into the wind, encouraging her, thinking I'd like to stay. I want to tell her that. Shout it. Knowing I have to go home. To my life. My son.
There's a park two blocks from home where he likes to play. We walk past the muffled voices of my neighbors behind their castle walls. It's always a crooked trip. He slithers like a snake, four years old and on the hunt, curls back when he sees a flower, a bug, trash. New discoveries. Questions rattle from his mouth like machine gun fire.
"What's that, Daddy? Are you taller than a gorilla? How come you and Mommy don't live together any more? Did you know a spider web is as strong as steel?"
On the cracked cement of the playground is a faded map of the United States. We talk about the places I've been. He points them out, proud smile on his face. Florida, Texas. I've shown him Oregon, the state 892 miles from us.
"What if we lived in North Dakota?" he says, and I joke with him about having to get warmer clothes. "Los Angeles is right here," he says, stamping his foot confidently in Southern California. "It's only four steps to North Dakota."
I laugh, which I know he wants, and he beams back at me.
"Look Daddy! I'm running to Maine!"
"Wish it was that easy," I say and he sprints off toward the monkey bars. I sit on a swing and watch him attack the playground, scrambling impatiently. His tongue protrudes with concentration when he climbs, his legs twisted like putty. My mouth turns dry when he leans back, eight feet up, or when his foot slips on the ladder. I tell him to be careful, small tremors in my throat, and I'm on the balls of my feet. He protests when I pull him away. We start to walk home and he willingly reaches out. I cover his hand in mine and we swing our arms back and forth like a jump rope.
She walks to the edge of the orchard and looks down the craggy precipice toward the river. The breeze is stronger here and I stay a few steps back. I jam my hands into my pockets. They are raw from the cold. Inside the sprawling farmhouse, there is coffee and I think about wrapping my fingers around a steaming cup, blowing into the dark, glassy surface. She turns and looks at me in that way, seeing me again for the first time. Visual inspection, a poker player looking for tells. There's a curious bend in her smile. I don't know if it's amusement or consternation.
"Oh, I forgot," she says, noting the safe yardage between me and the edge. "Heights."
"Yeah," I say. The drop. Recent rain has left the cliff muddy. Brackish rivulets roll near my feet and vanish over the side.
"I'm afraid of falling," I say a few beats later.
She nods, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. I could tell her about the dreams, the ones that came night after night when I was a child. How they'd always end the same. I'd jump, from my top bunk, a staircase, showing-off, tricks of bravado like my son on the monkey bars, the same laughter. Then the floor would recede, the world with it. Every night plummeting into a beckoning abyss, an endless crypt, and feeling final, blatant terror.
A car barrels down the road behind us. The noise is an intrusion, tears me from my memory. I snap my head around and, sensing the cliff, instinctively take a step away. The car pulls into a gravel driveway at the other end of the orchard, crunching, spinning waves of pebbles at a solid strand of pines. The trees are nearly uniform in height, stacked like a barrier. I'm suddenly angry. I resist the urge to chase the car, throw rocks, shoot out the tires.
My eyes follow the car and stop on the tree house. Her son is holed up in there. The man of the house, older than my boy, an adult before his time. Wise, yet still a boy, from the pictures. He is mostly an image to me, as I'm a threat to him. He's quiet, like his mother, wary eyes through the slits in the boards of the tree house. She sings his name.
"Do you want to come down and say 'hello'," she asked her son when we walked by earlier.
"No." Keeping a safe distance. He is watchful underneath that mop of hair. Eyes on us as we walk away. I hear him and his friend giggle nervously, scuffle around inside their lair.
The car quiet and forgotten, we turn and walk along the cliff, me at a slow, safe distance. She moves naively, not feeling the moisture of the leaves sopping her pant legs. Her arms are crossed, but not against the chill. She holds tight. Everything she sees and thinks. She loves the beauty, the physical charge, of the orchard. Out here, just her and the boy, away from the cruel city she mistrusts, insulation from the wounds she absorbed. She sits on the porch and stares out at the trees even when they're shed of color, massages the places where the sutures were, can't hurt her now, not here. She feels this place, becomes the orchard and everything around it. The way the earth plunges to the green valley, the sheer leap to the river beyond. When the wind whips the water and the waves go white on top, briefly.
Her arms are bare, half-sleeves underneath a vest, and her pearly skin glows crimson. She takes on color, like a chameleon, her arms red like the leaves and the end of summer. Blue in her midnight bedroom from the gurgling glow of the aquarium. White this morning, her splayed, pale body offset by black curls. I watched while she cherished those last minutes of sleep. I traced her imperfect scars with my fingertips, re-lived my lips on her, how her blood rose to greet my kiss. Curves like rolling hills and the sad sighs just before waking. The picture I wish I'd taken.
The fog is coming fast, descending from every direction. I pick up my pace and close the distance between us. She turns back toward the farmhouse, less a structure from this distance than a shape in the dying light, a long, low rock. She hears them before I do and lifts her head to see a flock of crows alight from the pine trees. They fly in tacit circles over the orchard, stark and black, forbidding as a nun's habit. Suddenly, they explode into high-pitched chatter. The cacophony sounds like a taunt to my ears and I instinctively dip my shoulders. I feel, abruptly and keenly, useless.
"I'm not afraid of dying," I say, the words out of my mouth involuntarily, paired with an urgent need to be at her side.
The leaves crunch and break underneath my heavy, impatient steps. I try to ignore the panic in my head, the unwelcome strain nesting here, in this peaceful place, this important place. I hope my face doesn't betray me. She sees me coming, and in hers, I see no alarm. She smiles, that guileless smile, and extends her hand. I'm almost running, quickly covering the last yards. I reach out for her. She takes my hand and pulls me close.
"I'm afraid of the certainty," I say.
"What?"
"Not dying, just falling, or crashing. Knowing that's it, the end, right here, right now. What I would think..."
My voice trails off and she pins my thoughts there with a kiss. I lean into her, a stalk arching toward the sun. Her lips are hot and I wrap my arms around her like a vine. So often, I feel a million miles away from her, forgetting what this is like, right now. We are weighty, tangible. My flight home is in two hours.
Pulling back, she calls out to her son and his friend, chipmunks in the tree. There is hot chocolate inside the farmhouse. The boys sprint across the orchard trailing laughter while we slalom around the trees together, stepping over roots, thick cords plunged deep and resolute into the soil. They guide our way, sturdy and sure.
"They're dying," she'd said. The trees. That can't be true. I envy them.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
Showing posts with label Joe Speaker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe Speaker. Show all posts
January 05, 2009
March 02, 2008
Today's Special
By Joe Speaker © 2008
Brad's last night on Planet Los Angeles started at El Caballo, clutching his beer like a dog eared paperback. Starched white shirt glowing red in the bloody lights of the place, same color as the naugahyde booths behind him jammed against the textured and cracked yellow walls. Still an early spring night out on Melrose, calm and clear like every other day in the city where its more generous inhabitants think of it as only slightly bigger than the universe.
"I'm an actor," Kirk said on the stool next to him and the buck-toothed blonde girl leaned in with her shoulders and parted her mouth just enough so he could see the glistening tongue stud.
"Awesome," she said, with a practiced awe and Brad almost spit out his chicken taco, retrieving it before making a scene, but he still mumbled a mouthful under his breath. Brad grabbed his Dos Equis and washed down his disbelief. "Dude, you're a waiter," he said to Kirk later as they walked the four blocks to work.
"She didn't know that."
"She will."
"Not before she takes her clothes off."
They'd known each other a few years, worked the same circuit and always caught up, even after Brad retreated to those bursts of motivation, climbing the food service ladder: steakhouses, chain joints, then up to the noveau boutique restaurants opening up everywhere. Wine bars with scant, overpriced appetizers, or the latest dischordant, harshly-lit sushi joint, standing over the tourists and massaging the industry types, spouting rote come hithers, and power verbs describing the latest Riesling or Pinot Noir and yes, the bruschetta is excellent, especially drizzled in the red pepper-infused olive oil.
"You're even dressed like a waiter," Brad said. "Might as well be wearing an apron."
"I look good."
"But you're not."
Brad shoved a garlic triangle into his mouth on the way to the kitchen. The dining room was nearly empty. Tuesday night crowd. He felt the two beers numbing him a little and leaned against the banquette in the alcove, out of sight from the sparse customers, but with a good look at the backside of Amy, the new hostess, 19, and filled with the dreamy nonchalance of someone certain life would fall at her feet. Brad felt pity for her. He thought about slipping a couple fingers of Glenlivet out the backdoor during his smoke break. Maybe take a bump. Just a little one. Fuck he was tired.
"Bonsoir monsieur, mademoiselle," Kirk said as he walked up to Table 14. He was as French as the Kaiser. His thing. All those acting classes and accents ("Dialects!" Kirk'd always correct). He had a horrible cockney one that made Brad laugh. The French one was just okay, though. At bars, he called himself Jean-Claude when he used it. Jean-Claude from Nice. Last night, he fucked some junior college girl from The Valley and she spent the night screaming "Jean-Claude!" like she had mashed potatoes stuck in her throat. The drunken gurgling kept Brad up most of the night.
He'd been sleeping on Kirk's couch for a month now, eating his dinners down at El Caballo during Happy Hour. Dos por uno cervezas and free chicken tacos. Elaine had kicked him out, finally, three years of disappointment in him, breathing down his neck, falling in love with a writer and ending up with a waiter. Kirk was letting him crash until he got enough cash for another security deposit. Probably would have had it already but for the coke. That's the thing about being a waiter, daily cash, easy to dump at the bar after work, easy to take out of his pocket if there was a lot in there. Kirk knew how it was. He didn’t seem to mind.
"Fucking Kansas motherfuckers," Kirk said as he barged through the kitchen door, which swung like a dagger behind him. "They don't have math in fucking Kansas? Fifteen percent of eighty bucks is not seven..." he counted the coins in his hand, "sixty-three." He sounded like he was from Brooklyn. Angry voice. A little Rocky Balboa in there, too. He really was a shitty actor.
"How do you know they’re from Kansas?" Brad asked, looking up from The Times sports section, flecks of garlic in the corners of his mouth.
"Wichita," Kirk said. "Out here visiting their boy at UCLA. Brought the young'un some new overalls."
"Probably should have went with something twangy instead of that bogus French shit. They probably hate you."
"Some people just have no class."
"Or the upper midwest. I can teach you to flatten your vowels."
"You have a table."
Brad mumbled his way through the specials, same as yesterday, ingredients on the verge of spoiling touted as inspiration, mixed together in slightly different ways, but still the same, like weekday traffic. The young couple (fourth date, probably the sex date, Brad guessed, from the way they reached across the table at each other) was etched out of marble, so perfect and envied, platinum card and a 5-series no doubt. He brought them two over-priced glasses of wine and a plate of olives.
He was agitated, bored. He wanted to scream, leave, go off on a three-day bender, wake up from this sunny, repetitive nightmare. He had come to L.A. ten years ago, dreamy and stupid, like Amy, and it didn't take long for him to hate everything about the city. He used that, however, avoided people and wrote, furious sharp language, holed up in that studio on Franklin. Months on end, only going out to watch, to note the frayed rituals of the locals which he turned into venomous stories and people who never got near happy Hollywood endings. And now, he was one of them.
Kirk glided by ("behind, behind") and ordered a round of drinks from the bartender in a surfer's dazed cadence. Brad laughed. Kirk was whoever he wanted to be. Brad couldn’t remember himself.
Brad stumbled out of El Caballo later, needing three reeling steps to right himself after barging through the padded door. He instinctively walked toward La Brea and the short hill to Kirk's apartment hoping against the drugs throbbing in his veins to fall asleep before Kirk got home with whichever of the three Mexican girls he had thrilled the most with his Tony Montana imitation.
Kirk had pissed him off, wanted him to wingman one of the girls, but Brad wasn't up for it. Ever. Small talk and the vacuous threads that vanished so you were left staring past each other waiting for the next drip of pretention. Kirk called him out in front of the other waiters and Brad slammed his beer on the bar, splashing something, throwing back the insult, and retreated to the corner where he switched to tequila and brooded, saw his face on the stained and plain linoleum that would never be clean again.
Outside, his mind spun him toward despair, alone again, unforgiven. From somewhere faraway, he heard kids, too young to be out this late, laughing at his uneven gait. Everyone artificially sweetened and shading their black stomachs here in Sodom, where he'd lost everything and he felt hollow, felt it acutely, like something taken from him, something important, his first bike, stolen off the porch when he was eight and back in Indiana, that little town he couldn't wait to leave, but which never left the acid taste he felt now. He quickened his pace in shame. Getting inside, away from the jackals. At the bottom of the hill, he was practically running, his exaggerated hips twisting up the sidewalk, unconsciously dodging tin cans and jacaranda branches on his way.
He crashed through the door of the apartment, ragged gasps of breath and spittle flying. He felt hot, molten, in his chest and his pulse raced past the redline. Sweating, he flopped on the couch and tried to breathe, but every attempt to pull air made his chest feel like an invisible hand had his heart in a clench, an impenetrable grip, and the pain radiated down his arms and legs. "I'm going to die," Brad thought, the idea coming from the clouds, and the emptiness rushed at him like a movie playing at the wrong speed. He struggled to his feet and lurched to the balcony, ripping the sliding glass open and jamming his head into the night. The sky glowed orange, its eternal shade, all the lights from the city mocking blackness and shrouding the stars, like some hackneyed symbolism. The stars are in Los Angeles, not the heavens. So fucking stupid. His heart skipped, little, little, thump, and the last made his arms flutter uselessly to his sides. He was looking at the end, off this balcony, and remembered things long past. Regret, sweet debilitating regret, seized him, choked him, like the heart he felt was ready stop.
Brad prayed, pleaded for relief, a litany of empty promises he'd keep for a few weeks but settle again into the familiar pattern. He knew who he was, deep down, who he’d become and would never be again and it paralyzed him, like this panic attack paralyzed him, and he briefly thought death would be preferable. He fell back into the apartment, sat and pulled his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth. "Please, please, please," he chanted, examining every beat, thinking it was his last. He sat for an hour, his rhythm gradually slowing as he tried to block out all the guilt and gloom, fucking Kirk, that asshole, his Mom, who will be happy and disappointed at the same time. He fell asleep there on the floor listening to the sounds outside, horns, shouts and spinning rubber, all coming to him distinctly, discordant notes from a sinister song. The sweat was cold on his brow, like a sheet of ice, but he was breathing.
Brad ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, looking in the rear-view mirror at his sallow eyes, unrecognizable. It was hot already, barely 10 a.m. in the always perfect blue sky, and he chuckled to himself as he tried to remember the last time he’d been up this early.
She answered before he finished knocking.
"I saw you sitting out there," Elaine said, regarding him, her head tilted.
"Hi."
She led him in and offered some coffee. "Black, right?" and disappeared into the kitchen. Brad stood shifting his weight on the hardwood floor, hands jammed into his pockets.
"You look like shit, Brad," she said, offering the steaming cup. She sat on the overstuffed couch, pulling her legs underneath her and wrapping her red hair with one hand so it gathered on her right shoulder. Her face was expectant.
"I need my stuff," he said. She waved her hand. Go ahead.
She'd boxed up most of it, even labeled them in her easy script. He moved slowly through the room, their room, looking for his things and facing ghosts, the ashtray they'd bought in Ensenada and the way the moon cast a beam on the water that night they walked along the ocean’s edge and breathed the same salty air, tasted it on each other’s lips.
She came through the doorway behind him, holding a stack of legal pads, yellowed and frayed. "Don't forget these," she said. He cautiously grabbed them, five or six, he couldn't recall, and laid them atop one of the boxes. "Remember when you let me read those?" she asked. And he did, what he wrote in that studio apartment when he couldn't sleep, 4 a.m. and a spare bulb and the words ran out of him, blood from a gaping wound. He nodded.
"I read them again," she said. "They're still brilliant," and he nodded again. "I always believed in you, Brad."
"It's not your fault," he said.
"What?"
"I'm leaving," Brad said. "Going home."
He started carrying boxes out to the car, heaving from the effort, the sweat rotten on his body. She watched him, impassive, from her spot on the couch. When he’d nearly finished, he stood in the doorway with the final box, looking around, finally resting his eyes on her face.
"I'm sorry, Elaine," he said.
"No," shaking her head. "No you're not." The color rose in her cheeks and she stood, crossing the room until she was inches from him. "That's just what you think you're supposed to say."
"I won't miss you," she said. "Not the way you are now." Her voice was defiant, but shaky. She pointed at the box in his hands, the one with the legal pads on top. "I'll miss that!" she spat.
"Here," he said. "Keep 'em," and he let the pads drop to the floor where they landed flat, echoing in the room, one final clap before he turned and headed down the walk. Elaine stared after him for a moment, then closed the door and left him for dead.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
Brad's last night on Planet Los Angeles started at El Caballo, clutching his beer like a dog eared paperback. Starched white shirt glowing red in the bloody lights of the place, same color as the naugahyde booths behind him jammed against the textured and cracked yellow walls. Still an early spring night out on Melrose, calm and clear like every other day in the city where its more generous inhabitants think of it as only slightly bigger than the universe.
"I'm an actor," Kirk said on the stool next to him and the buck-toothed blonde girl leaned in with her shoulders and parted her mouth just enough so he could see the glistening tongue stud.
"Awesome," she said, with a practiced awe and Brad almost spit out his chicken taco, retrieving it before making a scene, but he still mumbled a mouthful under his breath. Brad grabbed his Dos Equis and washed down his disbelief. "Dude, you're a waiter," he said to Kirk later as they walked the four blocks to work.
"She didn't know that."
"She will."
"Not before she takes her clothes off."
They'd known each other a few years, worked the same circuit and always caught up, even after Brad retreated to those bursts of motivation, climbing the food service ladder: steakhouses, chain joints, then up to the noveau boutique restaurants opening up everywhere. Wine bars with scant, overpriced appetizers, or the latest dischordant, harshly-lit sushi joint, standing over the tourists and massaging the industry types, spouting rote come hithers, and power verbs describing the latest Riesling or Pinot Noir and yes, the bruschetta is excellent, especially drizzled in the red pepper-infused olive oil.
"You're even dressed like a waiter," Brad said. "Might as well be wearing an apron."
"I look good."
"But you're not."
Brad shoved a garlic triangle into his mouth on the way to the kitchen. The dining room was nearly empty. Tuesday night crowd. He felt the two beers numbing him a little and leaned against the banquette in the alcove, out of sight from the sparse customers, but with a good look at the backside of Amy, the new hostess, 19, and filled with the dreamy nonchalance of someone certain life would fall at her feet. Brad felt pity for her. He thought about slipping a couple fingers of Glenlivet out the backdoor during his smoke break. Maybe take a bump. Just a little one. Fuck he was tired.
"Bonsoir monsieur, mademoiselle," Kirk said as he walked up to Table 14. He was as French as the Kaiser. His thing. All those acting classes and accents ("Dialects!" Kirk'd always correct). He had a horrible cockney one that made Brad laugh. The French one was just okay, though. At bars, he called himself Jean-Claude when he used it. Jean-Claude from Nice. Last night, he fucked some junior college girl from The Valley and she spent the night screaming "Jean-Claude!" like she had mashed potatoes stuck in her throat. The drunken gurgling kept Brad up most of the night.
He'd been sleeping on Kirk's couch for a month now, eating his dinners down at El Caballo during Happy Hour. Dos por uno cervezas and free chicken tacos. Elaine had kicked him out, finally, three years of disappointment in him, breathing down his neck, falling in love with a writer and ending up with a waiter. Kirk was letting him crash until he got enough cash for another security deposit. Probably would have had it already but for the coke. That's the thing about being a waiter, daily cash, easy to dump at the bar after work, easy to take out of his pocket if there was a lot in there. Kirk knew how it was. He didn’t seem to mind.
"Fucking Kansas motherfuckers," Kirk said as he barged through the kitchen door, which swung like a dagger behind him. "They don't have math in fucking Kansas? Fifteen percent of eighty bucks is not seven..." he counted the coins in his hand, "sixty-three." He sounded like he was from Brooklyn. Angry voice. A little Rocky Balboa in there, too. He really was a shitty actor.
"How do you know they’re from Kansas?" Brad asked, looking up from The Times sports section, flecks of garlic in the corners of his mouth.
"Wichita," Kirk said. "Out here visiting their boy at UCLA. Brought the young'un some new overalls."
"Probably should have went with something twangy instead of that bogus French shit. They probably hate you."
"Some people just have no class."
"Or the upper midwest. I can teach you to flatten your vowels."
"You have a table."
Brad mumbled his way through the specials, same as yesterday, ingredients on the verge of spoiling touted as inspiration, mixed together in slightly different ways, but still the same, like weekday traffic. The young couple (fourth date, probably the sex date, Brad guessed, from the way they reached across the table at each other) was etched out of marble, so perfect and envied, platinum card and a 5-series no doubt. He brought them two over-priced glasses of wine and a plate of olives.
He was agitated, bored. He wanted to scream, leave, go off on a three-day bender, wake up from this sunny, repetitive nightmare. He had come to L.A. ten years ago, dreamy and stupid, like Amy, and it didn't take long for him to hate everything about the city. He used that, however, avoided people and wrote, furious sharp language, holed up in that studio on Franklin. Months on end, only going out to watch, to note the frayed rituals of the locals which he turned into venomous stories and people who never got near happy Hollywood endings. And now, he was one of them.
Kirk glided by ("behind, behind") and ordered a round of drinks from the bartender in a surfer's dazed cadence. Brad laughed. Kirk was whoever he wanted to be. Brad couldn’t remember himself.
Brad stumbled out of El Caballo later, needing three reeling steps to right himself after barging through the padded door. He instinctively walked toward La Brea and the short hill to Kirk's apartment hoping against the drugs throbbing in his veins to fall asleep before Kirk got home with whichever of the three Mexican girls he had thrilled the most with his Tony Montana imitation.
Kirk had pissed him off, wanted him to wingman one of the girls, but Brad wasn't up for it. Ever. Small talk and the vacuous threads that vanished so you were left staring past each other waiting for the next drip of pretention. Kirk called him out in front of the other waiters and Brad slammed his beer on the bar, splashing something, throwing back the insult, and retreated to the corner where he switched to tequila and brooded, saw his face on the stained and plain linoleum that would never be clean again.
Outside, his mind spun him toward despair, alone again, unforgiven. From somewhere faraway, he heard kids, too young to be out this late, laughing at his uneven gait. Everyone artificially sweetened and shading their black stomachs here in Sodom, where he'd lost everything and he felt hollow, felt it acutely, like something taken from him, something important, his first bike, stolen off the porch when he was eight and back in Indiana, that little town he couldn't wait to leave, but which never left the acid taste he felt now. He quickened his pace in shame. Getting inside, away from the jackals. At the bottom of the hill, he was practically running, his exaggerated hips twisting up the sidewalk, unconsciously dodging tin cans and jacaranda branches on his way.
He crashed through the door of the apartment, ragged gasps of breath and spittle flying. He felt hot, molten, in his chest and his pulse raced past the redline. Sweating, he flopped on the couch and tried to breathe, but every attempt to pull air made his chest feel like an invisible hand had his heart in a clench, an impenetrable grip, and the pain radiated down his arms and legs. "I'm going to die," Brad thought, the idea coming from the clouds, and the emptiness rushed at him like a movie playing at the wrong speed. He struggled to his feet and lurched to the balcony, ripping the sliding glass open and jamming his head into the night. The sky glowed orange, its eternal shade, all the lights from the city mocking blackness and shrouding the stars, like some hackneyed symbolism. The stars are in Los Angeles, not the heavens. So fucking stupid. His heart skipped, little, little, thump, and the last made his arms flutter uselessly to his sides. He was looking at the end, off this balcony, and remembered things long past. Regret, sweet debilitating regret, seized him, choked him, like the heart he felt was ready stop.
Brad prayed, pleaded for relief, a litany of empty promises he'd keep for a few weeks but settle again into the familiar pattern. He knew who he was, deep down, who he’d become and would never be again and it paralyzed him, like this panic attack paralyzed him, and he briefly thought death would be preferable. He fell back into the apartment, sat and pulled his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth. "Please, please, please," he chanted, examining every beat, thinking it was his last. He sat for an hour, his rhythm gradually slowing as he tried to block out all the guilt and gloom, fucking Kirk, that asshole, his Mom, who will be happy and disappointed at the same time. He fell asleep there on the floor listening to the sounds outside, horns, shouts and spinning rubber, all coming to him distinctly, discordant notes from a sinister song. The sweat was cold on his brow, like a sheet of ice, but he was breathing.
Brad ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, looking in the rear-view mirror at his sallow eyes, unrecognizable. It was hot already, barely 10 a.m. in the always perfect blue sky, and he chuckled to himself as he tried to remember the last time he’d been up this early.
She answered before he finished knocking.
"I saw you sitting out there," Elaine said, regarding him, her head tilted.
"Hi."
She led him in and offered some coffee. "Black, right?" and disappeared into the kitchen. Brad stood shifting his weight on the hardwood floor, hands jammed into his pockets.
"You look like shit, Brad," she said, offering the steaming cup. She sat on the overstuffed couch, pulling her legs underneath her and wrapping her red hair with one hand so it gathered on her right shoulder. Her face was expectant.
"I need my stuff," he said. She waved her hand. Go ahead.
She'd boxed up most of it, even labeled them in her easy script. He moved slowly through the room, their room, looking for his things and facing ghosts, the ashtray they'd bought in Ensenada and the way the moon cast a beam on the water that night they walked along the ocean’s edge and breathed the same salty air, tasted it on each other’s lips.
She came through the doorway behind him, holding a stack of legal pads, yellowed and frayed. "Don't forget these," she said. He cautiously grabbed them, five or six, he couldn't recall, and laid them atop one of the boxes. "Remember when you let me read those?" she asked. And he did, what he wrote in that studio apartment when he couldn't sleep, 4 a.m. and a spare bulb and the words ran out of him, blood from a gaping wound. He nodded.
"I read them again," she said. "They're still brilliant," and he nodded again. "I always believed in you, Brad."
"It's not your fault," he said.
"What?"
"I'm leaving," Brad said. "Going home."
He started carrying boxes out to the car, heaving from the effort, the sweat rotten on his body. She watched him, impassive, from her spot on the couch. When he’d nearly finished, he stood in the doorway with the final box, looking around, finally resting his eyes on her face.
"I'm sorry, Elaine," he said.
"No," shaking her head. "No you're not." The color rose in her cheeks and she stood, crossing the room until she was inches from him. "That's just what you think you're supposed to say."
"I won't miss you," she said. "Not the way you are now." Her voice was defiant, but shaky. She pointed at the box in his hands, the one with the legal pads on top. "I'll miss that!" she spat.
"Here," he said. "Keep 'em," and he let the pads drop to the floor where they landed flat, echoing in the room, one final clap before he turned and headed down the walk. Elaine stared after him for a moment, then closed the door and left him for dead.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
June 13, 2007
Desperados
By Joe Speaker © 2007
Per tradition, we always left Los Angeles at midnight. My friends and I took a yearly trip to San Felipe, Mexico, a once-sleepy fishing village on the eastern shore of Baja California that, toward the end, was blossoming with the trappings of tourism.
The start time was pragmatic. We didn't want to be traversing the Mexican desert in mid-day, especially in our unreliable cars. This way, we'd arrive shortly after dawn, being treated to a spectacular sunrise the last hundred miles or so. There are always trade-offs, though, and our schedule dictated we'd drive through the border town of Mexicali in the dead of night.
We were stopped by the federalis one year. Four gringos with a big bag of weed stashed under a rear speaker. Alone with a snarling puto on a dark and deserted street. Unaccountably, he let us go. Free of charge. That was a long five minutes, though.
Another time, we'd not even gotten out of The Valley before Enza got pulled over. The CHP officer was even less friendly than his Mexican counterpart, but he let her - and us in two other cars - go just the same, as Enza's explanation for her erratic driving was convincing: she'd dropped a muffin on the floor board and was reaching for it, causing her to swerve.
It's about a seven-hour trip, south to San Diego, east through the Cleveland National Forest and south again into the desert heart of desolate Baja. Nothing but burned out cars and lizards between Mexicali and San Felipe. In fact, the road literally ends at the village's downtown, a square block of bars and taco stands.
Not surprisingly, owing to the large college-aged clientele that converges most spring weekends, the beer stores are open early. That's the first stop and major calculations are done. Will a case apiece be enough for today? How long do you think the ice will hold? A case, only 20 beers, not 24, runs about ten bucks, three of which you get back if you return the bottles, a crucial injection of funds at the end of the weekend. It was a cheap weekend, perfect for our unimpressive wallets.
Stocked, we'd head to the campground, which abuts the beach, as does the entire city. The cost is $25 per vehicle. For the whole weekend. We never pay anyway. The "gate" is nothing but a rope that is pulled taut when the guardhouse is occupied. At that early hour, it never was. More pragmatic strategy. The only problem was getting out on Sunday.
We'd pitch our tents directly on the sand and the early arrival gives us a pick of the litter. It was already hot at that hour, not even a whiff of a breeze, and once camp is set up, we'd settle into our chairs for breakfast: oranges, beef jerky and beer.
And that's mostly what San Felipe was all about. You sit on the beach and drink. During the morning and afternoon, the sun coats you in rays as you stare eastward at the Sea of Cortez. When it passed overhead, the tide would draw away from the shore, revealing scattered sand bars, rounded islands we'd conquer with coolers and beach chairs, turning to face the sun as it traveled west. In the meantime, the beers flowed like water, the music reflected the wide range of tastes and we'd try to ward off the sales pitches en espanol from kids hawking jewelry and Mexican blankets.
We'd watch people arrive in droves and battle lines get drawn. San Felipe draws an equal mix of Spring Breakers and Weekend Warriors, with the latter infringing on peaceful and quiet alcohol consumption. A 60-foot sand dune encloses the west end of the campground and by mid-afternoon it would be peppered with quads and motorcycles and red-necked whoops of adrenaline. The goddamn RV set, folks who eschew beach livin' for reserved campsites and water hook-ups. The smell of gas and roar of engines drifted to the water's edge and the volume button would go up on the boom boxes in vain attempts to muffle the sound. By nightfall, the destruction of the hill would be exchanged for fireworks, legal south of the border, completely unsafe and insane, adding an element of danger to the serenity of the moonlit sand bars. Because the bottle rockets were aimed right at us. Salk likes to tell of the year I emerged from the shore, shrouded in the smoke of the fireworks, appearing like a Messiah, which I sorta was considering I was bringing beer.
"Don't kill Ed!" he shouted, as flaming projectiles landed all about me.
Somewhere in there we'd eat, though that act was often an afterthought. Two fish tacos for a dollar, the pescado pulled from the local waters only hours earlier. The price and delicacy forcing cries of "Dos mas!" up and down the boulevard.
In the beginning, aka 1986, the only watering hole in town was the infamous Club Bar Miramar, a spare den with all the luxury of an airplane hanger. Red naugahyde booths, a linoleum floor littered with fallen shards of Pacifico bottles. By our final year, it stood largely empty most nights, with the two multi-storied discotecas erected nearby, tacky testaments to garishness and American investment dollars. We couldn't stand to hang in those for too long, though the DJ and his broken English provided some hilarity, like his admonition when a mosh pit broke out.
"Don't slamming!" he cried.
Some nights, we never even made it into town, forgoing the mile or so trek for quiet reflection. By which I mean hallucinogens. 'Shrooms one year and the perfection of a pitch black night broken only by the moon sparkling on the water. LSD another, where we engaged in a surprisingly high-level whiffle ball game complete with diving catches and a wandering outfielder named Donny who basically left his post every time a bikini came within 15 feet of him.
By Sunday, we'd all be ready to leave, burnt by the sun and the last drops of water wrung from our dehydrated bodies. There was an excitement in leaving, for a Double Whopper and coke at the Burger King just across the border, for the long, hot shower back in L.A. But we had to get out first.
Every year but one, we had no trouble. Evading the cost of the campground was not just easy, but also some twisted badge of honor, thumbing our noses at El Hombre. But that last year, they cracked down. The rope was up and attended by menacing faces. We were asked about our pass. I said we must have lost it. Not good enough and the cost was up to $40 now since we'd flouted the fee. We didn't have the cash. On the ruse of going back to find the pass (nice bluff), we u-turned and tried to find a gap in the fence, hoping to overland it to freedom. No such luck, though I made a valiant effort to bulldoze a rickety-looking fence post with my Nissan Stanza, nearly stalling the car in the deepening sand. Left with no alternative but to suck it up beg for mercy, we chose to make a run for it anyway. We caught them unawares and darted from the campground at 45 mph, giving them no time to impede our exit. I saw them in the rearview shouting and gesticulating, then running into the guardhouse to likely phone the federalis.
The idea of a chase gave us energy we didn't know we had and I sped out of town at breakneck speed. Almost. First we had to stop and return our bottles.
We needed money for Double Whoopers.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
Per tradition, we always left Los Angeles at midnight. My friends and I took a yearly trip to San Felipe, Mexico, a once-sleepy fishing village on the eastern shore of Baja California that, toward the end, was blossoming with the trappings of tourism.
The start time was pragmatic. We didn't want to be traversing the Mexican desert in mid-day, especially in our unreliable cars. This way, we'd arrive shortly after dawn, being treated to a spectacular sunrise the last hundred miles or so. There are always trade-offs, though, and our schedule dictated we'd drive through the border town of Mexicali in the dead of night.
We were stopped by the federalis one year. Four gringos with a big bag of weed stashed under a rear speaker. Alone with a snarling puto on a dark and deserted street. Unaccountably, he let us go. Free of charge. That was a long five minutes, though.
Another time, we'd not even gotten out of The Valley before Enza got pulled over. The CHP officer was even less friendly than his Mexican counterpart, but he let her - and us in two other cars - go just the same, as Enza's explanation for her erratic driving was convincing: she'd dropped a muffin on the floor board and was reaching for it, causing her to swerve.
It's about a seven-hour trip, south to San Diego, east through the Cleveland National Forest and south again into the desert heart of desolate Baja. Nothing but burned out cars and lizards between Mexicali and San Felipe. In fact, the road literally ends at the village's downtown, a square block of bars and taco stands.
Not surprisingly, owing to the large college-aged clientele that converges most spring weekends, the beer stores are open early. That's the first stop and major calculations are done. Will a case apiece be enough for today? How long do you think the ice will hold? A case, only 20 beers, not 24, runs about ten bucks, three of which you get back if you return the bottles, a crucial injection of funds at the end of the weekend. It was a cheap weekend, perfect for our unimpressive wallets.
Stocked, we'd head to the campground, which abuts the beach, as does the entire city. The cost is $25 per vehicle. For the whole weekend. We never pay anyway. The "gate" is nothing but a rope that is pulled taut when the guardhouse is occupied. At that early hour, it never was. More pragmatic strategy. The only problem was getting out on Sunday.
We'd pitch our tents directly on the sand and the early arrival gives us a pick of the litter. It was already hot at that hour, not even a whiff of a breeze, and once camp is set up, we'd settle into our chairs for breakfast: oranges, beef jerky and beer.
And that's mostly what San Felipe was all about. You sit on the beach and drink. During the morning and afternoon, the sun coats you in rays as you stare eastward at the Sea of Cortez. When it passed overhead, the tide would draw away from the shore, revealing scattered sand bars, rounded islands we'd conquer with coolers and beach chairs, turning to face the sun as it traveled west. In the meantime, the beers flowed like water, the music reflected the wide range of tastes and we'd try to ward off the sales pitches en espanol from kids hawking jewelry and Mexican blankets.
We'd watch people arrive in droves and battle lines get drawn. San Felipe draws an equal mix of Spring Breakers and Weekend Warriors, with the latter infringing on peaceful and quiet alcohol consumption. A 60-foot sand dune encloses the west end of the campground and by mid-afternoon it would be peppered with quads and motorcycles and red-necked whoops of adrenaline. The goddamn RV set, folks who eschew beach livin' for reserved campsites and water hook-ups. The smell of gas and roar of engines drifted to the water's edge and the volume button would go up on the boom boxes in vain attempts to muffle the sound. By nightfall, the destruction of the hill would be exchanged for fireworks, legal south of the border, completely unsafe and insane, adding an element of danger to the serenity of the moonlit sand bars. Because the bottle rockets were aimed right at us. Salk likes to tell of the year I emerged from the shore, shrouded in the smoke of the fireworks, appearing like a Messiah, which I sorta was considering I was bringing beer.
"Don't kill Ed!" he shouted, as flaming projectiles landed all about me.
Somewhere in there we'd eat, though that act was often an afterthought. Two fish tacos for a dollar, the pescado pulled from the local waters only hours earlier. The price and delicacy forcing cries of "Dos mas!" up and down the boulevard.
In the beginning, aka 1986, the only watering hole in town was the infamous Club Bar Miramar, a spare den with all the luxury of an airplane hanger. Red naugahyde booths, a linoleum floor littered with fallen shards of Pacifico bottles. By our final year, it stood largely empty most nights, with the two multi-storied discotecas erected nearby, tacky testaments to garishness and American investment dollars. We couldn't stand to hang in those for too long, though the DJ and his broken English provided some hilarity, like his admonition when a mosh pit broke out.
"Don't slamming!" he cried.
Some nights, we never even made it into town, forgoing the mile or so trek for quiet reflection. By which I mean hallucinogens. 'Shrooms one year and the perfection of a pitch black night broken only by the moon sparkling on the water. LSD another, where we engaged in a surprisingly high-level whiffle ball game complete with diving catches and a wandering outfielder named Donny who basically left his post every time a bikini came within 15 feet of him.
By Sunday, we'd all be ready to leave, burnt by the sun and the last drops of water wrung from our dehydrated bodies. There was an excitement in leaving, for a Double Whopper and coke at the Burger King just across the border, for the long, hot shower back in L.A. But we had to get out first.
Every year but one, we had no trouble. Evading the cost of the campground was not just easy, but also some twisted badge of honor, thumbing our noses at El Hombre. But that last year, they cracked down. The rope was up and attended by menacing faces. We were asked about our pass. I said we must have lost it. Not good enough and the cost was up to $40 now since we'd flouted the fee. We didn't have the cash. On the ruse of going back to find the pass (nice bluff), we u-turned and tried to find a gap in the fence, hoping to overland it to freedom. No such luck, though I made a valiant effort to bulldoze a rickety-looking fence post with my Nissan Stanza, nearly stalling the car in the deepening sand. Left with no alternative but to suck it up beg for mercy, we chose to make a run for it anyway. We caught them unawares and darted from the campground at 45 mph, giving them no time to impede our exit. I saw them in the rearview shouting and gesticulating, then running into the guardhouse to likely phone the federalis.
The idea of a chase gave us energy we didn't know we had and I sped out of town at breakneck speed. Almost. First we had to stop and return our bottles.
We needed money for Double Whoopers.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
March 06, 2007
The Next Block
By Joe Speaker © 2007
"Can you take me home?" the Princess asked, sitting up on my threadbare futon mattress and groping for her bra.
"Sure," I said through closed lids and spent lips. "I am a professional." A lame joke owing to my day job as a messenger.
We fumbled around for our clothes, thrown haphazardly on the grimy floor, not speaking in the hazy dark. The streetlight tossed spare light through the cheesecloth curtains as I watched her lithe body picking and pulling. The little rich girl from up the hill slumming here in my shack, happy to lay down with the lead guitarist, but anxious to get back home, if only to flaunt her Bad Side to her friends and entertainment lawyer Daddy.
We pulled out of the yard still in silence. I turned my sputtering Ford Escort south on Topanga Canyon Blvd., the early hour reflected in the dark of the shabby and gated storefronts looking forlorn in their emptiness. Past Sherman Way and its donut vendors and head shops. Past the crumbling mall, two of its three anchors now vacant, and the solitary figures of shuffling homeless. She stared straight ahead, oblivious to the socio-economic ruin in the periphery. Straight ahead, past Ventura Blvd. and up the hill where the street gets narrower and better tended. Leafy and exclusive, fewer cars and no convenience marts. The houses erupt in size and hide behind manicured walls of green. Only four miles from my fading crash pad, I pulled to a
stop.
"That's John Stamos' house," she said, off-handedly, tilting her head at the gated mass of Spanish hacienda. "Good night." And with a quick kiss, she scampered next door to her hearth, sprawling and warm.
Los Angeles is a patchwork quilt of neighborhoods, jammed against each other with little reason. When I'm not hammering power cords in dank nightclubs, I'm guiding my Escort through every nook of this sprawling city, delivering subpoenas to cheating suburban husbands and immigration documents to families of eight living in garages off Pico. The view can change in an instant.
The next morning, I drove to Koreatown, east of Hoover, south of Wilshire, to deliver some business documents to a small import-export business. The only sign of the English language is on the street signs. Garbage litters abandoned doorways where aggressive bums jump out and demand money with closed fists, crazed looks and menace. Dirty-faced kids block the sidewalks in packs, taunting passersby. Mothers hurriedly shoving infants homeward, pulling frantically on the arms of the older siblings who cast admiring glances at the young toughs, sporting puffed chests and spiked hair. The stench of urine pervades the whole area and the blocky tenements blot out the sun. Just north is Hollywood, city of illusions. No less seedy, its imperfections are absorbed by better lighting and the masses of camera-toting tourists, too busy looking down at the stars on the sidewalk to notice the decay, like an aging starlet. But, if you go west from Koreatown, the city's dichotomy reveals itself.
Westwood was my next stop and just a few blocks into the trip down Wilshire, the scenery changes, like leaving an adult movie theater and walking next door into the Disney Concert Hall. Hancock Park appears improbably out of the ruin. At one moment, your eyes notice only blight, exposed wires and fading paint; the next, you're marveling at turn of the century craftsman homes, their expansive porches bordering on all sides. The air loses its sepia taint and greenery whistles in the calm breeze. Harry Warner, the oldest of the Warner Bros., built a house here. It's Old Hollywood, stately and lush. There's Wilshire Country Club, a well-struck three-iron from a collapsing carniceria. Poverty and prosperity separated by mere yards. Rampant crime to Neighborhood Watch. Barred front doors to silent alarms. In the blink of an eye.
The pattern repeats itself throughout the Basin. The working-class concrete city of Alhambra gives way, north of Huntington Blvd., to majestic San Marino, blocks and blocks of sloping lawns, roman columns and servants' quarters. Van Nuys, the barrio of the Valley, withers in the shadow of elevated Encino and Sherman Oaks, the modernist hillside dotted with formidable fortresses of gravity-defying steel and glass. Silverlake, once a bohemian enclave bordering drug- and gang-infested Echo Park, is now the funky and gentrified playground of New Money, conspicuous in their consumption.
That's where I found myself that evening, at a too hip for its own britches nightclub, invited by a perky secretary in the office where I pick up my daily deliveries. The crowd was a stew of unwashed urchins. My kind of people: musicians, writers and hustlers. Feast or famine in this town; the middle class doesn't pass the velvet rope, or lead the newscasts. Sally from Chatsworth is home making fucking meatloaf. We dug in our pockets for beer money, sneered arrogantly at everything and pretended we didn't want to live behind those invisible gilded barriers we unexpectedly pass every day.
The secretary met up with a couple of friends, one of them producing jaw-dropping stares from every male in attendance, breaking each facade of ennui with a simple bump of her hip. She was insanely gorgeous, auburn-haired and fresh, with flawless legs on display beneath her short, black dress. She, like the ostentatious neighborhoods that rise on the outskirts of slums, shockingly out of place. But she was hustling her own product, just like the rest of us.
"Close your mouth," my friend chastised. "She doesn't date musicians."
"Why?"
"No money."
Another one trying to move a few blocks over. Mar Vista to Marina del Rey. Lawndale to Manhattan Beach. People want the other thing. The Princess from up the hill corrupting herself, taking ecstasy and jamming that silver spoon into the eyes of her intolerant parents. This girl, striving the opposite direction, trading on superior genetics and demanding to be raised up.
"What's she doing here?" I wondered. “This group could maybe manage a single mortgage between 'em."
"She dances," my friend said. "There's a bikini contest later."
"And she's hoping to be spotted by Richie Rich?"
"No. $150 for first place."
I laughed. Bikini dancing for grocery money. Dreams and skills on divergent paths. "I think she needs a better venue for finding a rich husband," I mocked, sure in my cultivated superiority. I'm not wealthy, but I am ironic.
"Maybe," the secretary said, trumping me. "But she did fuck John Stamos once."
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
"Can you take me home?" the Princess asked, sitting up on my threadbare futon mattress and groping for her bra.
"Sure," I said through closed lids and spent lips. "I am a professional." A lame joke owing to my day job as a messenger.
We fumbled around for our clothes, thrown haphazardly on the grimy floor, not speaking in the hazy dark. The streetlight tossed spare light through the cheesecloth curtains as I watched her lithe body picking and pulling. The little rich girl from up the hill slumming here in my shack, happy to lay down with the lead guitarist, but anxious to get back home, if only to flaunt her Bad Side to her friends and entertainment lawyer Daddy.
We pulled out of the yard still in silence. I turned my sputtering Ford Escort south on Topanga Canyon Blvd., the early hour reflected in the dark of the shabby and gated storefronts looking forlorn in their emptiness. Past Sherman Way and its donut vendors and head shops. Past the crumbling mall, two of its three anchors now vacant, and the solitary figures of shuffling homeless. She stared straight ahead, oblivious to the socio-economic ruin in the periphery. Straight ahead, past Ventura Blvd. and up the hill where the street gets narrower and better tended. Leafy and exclusive, fewer cars and no convenience marts. The houses erupt in size and hide behind manicured walls of green. Only four miles from my fading crash pad, I pulled to a
stop.
"That's John Stamos' house," she said, off-handedly, tilting her head at the gated mass of Spanish hacienda. "Good night." And with a quick kiss, she scampered next door to her hearth, sprawling and warm.
Los Angeles is a patchwork quilt of neighborhoods, jammed against each other with little reason. When I'm not hammering power cords in dank nightclubs, I'm guiding my Escort through every nook of this sprawling city, delivering subpoenas to cheating suburban husbands and immigration documents to families of eight living in garages off Pico. The view can change in an instant.
The next morning, I drove to Koreatown, east of Hoover, south of Wilshire, to deliver some business documents to a small import-export business. The only sign of the English language is on the street signs. Garbage litters abandoned doorways where aggressive bums jump out and demand money with closed fists, crazed looks and menace. Dirty-faced kids block the sidewalks in packs, taunting passersby. Mothers hurriedly shoving infants homeward, pulling frantically on the arms of the older siblings who cast admiring glances at the young toughs, sporting puffed chests and spiked hair. The stench of urine pervades the whole area and the blocky tenements blot out the sun. Just north is Hollywood, city of illusions. No less seedy, its imperfections are absorbed by better lighting and the masses of camera-toting tourists, too busy looking down at the stars on the sidewalk to notice the decay, like an aging starlet. But, if you go west from Koreatown, the city's dichotomy reveals itself.
Westwood was my next stop and just a few blocks into the trip down Wilshire, the scenery changes, like leaving an adult movie theater and walking next door into the Disney Concert Hall. Hancock Park appears improbably out of the ruin. At one moment, your eyes notice only blight, exposed wires and fading paint; the next, you're marveling at turn of the century craftsman homes, their expansive porches bordering on all sides. The air loses its sepia taint and greenery whistles in the calm breeze. Harry Warner, the oldest of the Warner Bros., built a house here. It's Old Hollywood, stately and lush. There's Wilshire Country Club, a well-struck three-iron from a collapsing carniceria. Poverty and prosperity separated by mere yards. Rampant crime to Neighborhood Watch. Barred front doors to silent alarms. In the blink of an eye.
The pattern repeats itself throughout the Basin. The working-class concrete city of Alhambra gives way, north of Huntington Blvd., to majestic San Marino, blocks and blocks of sloping lawns, roman columns and servants' quarters. Van Nuys, the barrio of the Valley, withers in the shadow of elevated Encino and Sherman Oaks, the modernist hillside dotted with formidable fortresses of gravity-defying steel and glass. Silverlake, once a bohemian enclave bordering drug- and gang-infested Echo Park, is now the funky and gentrified playground of New Money, conspicuous in their consumption.
That's where I found myself that evening, at a too hip for its own britches nightclub, invited by a perky secretary in the office where I pick up my daily deliveries. The crowd was a stew of unwashed urchins. My kind of people: musicians, writers and hustlers. Feast or famine in this town; the middle class doesn't pass the velvet rope, or lead the newscasts. Sally from Chatsworth is home making fucking meatloaf. We dug in our pockets for beer money, sneered arrogantly at everything and pretended we didn't want to live behind those invisible gilded barriers we unexpectedly pass every day.
The secretary met up with a couple of friends, one of them producing jaw-dropping stares from every male in attendance, breaking each facade of ennui with a simple bump of her hip. She was insanely gorgeous, auburn-haired and fresh, with flawless legs on display beneath her short, black dress. She, like the ostentatious neighborhoods that rise on the outskirts of slums, shockingly out of place. But she was hustling her own product, just like the rest of us.
"Close your mouth," my friend chastised. "She doesn't date musicians."
"Why?"
"No money."
Another one trying to move a few blocks over. Mar Vista to Marina del Rey. Lawndale to Manhattan Beach. People want the other thing. The Princess from up the hill corrupting herself, taking ecstasy and jamming that silver spoon into the eyes of her intolerant parents. This girl, striving the opposite direction, trading on superior genetics and demanding to be raised up.
"What's she doing here?" I wondered. “This group could maybe manage a single mortgage between 'em."
"She dances," my friend said. "There's a bikini contest later."
"And she's hoping to be spotted by Richie Rich?"
"No. $150 for first place."
I laughed. Bikini dancing for grocery money. Dreams and skills on divergent paths. "I think she needs a better venue for finding a rich husband," I mocked, sure in my cultivated superiority. I'm not wealthy, but I am ironic.
"Maybe," the secretary said, trumping me. "But she did fuck John Stamos once."
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
October 14, 2006
Total Recall
By Joe Speaker © 2006
She thought I was a jerk, she told me later. The first time she saw me, I was leaning on my right arm, which was pressed against the paneled walls of my fraternity’s rec room. I was grilling another young co-ed, flirtatious pressure amidst the stench of spilled beer and rampaging testosterone. The scene was cliched, she said, and she marked me down as a typical frat boy, interested only in getting drunk and getting naked. I never did remember who that girl against the wall was, but before the night was over, I'd met someone I can't forget.
I was introduced by her friend Kelly, a chirpy blonde sorority pledge whom I'd met briefly at another party. Emma was her contrast, dark hair, petite (five-foot-two..."and three-quarters!" she'd always add), her slim waist giving way to inviting hips. Taken separately, her features would seem odd, a walking Picasso. Her nose was long, with a unique extension on the end, as if it had been placed there later. Her teeth were adorably crooked with a slight overbite. Her eyes turned to gleeful slits when she laughed. But together, they fit her face, framed with high cheekbones and a strong chin.
We danced, and the way she moved stirred me, forcing heat through the keg-induced haze and sharpening my senses. Her hips seemed to bend every which way, effortlessly, the enticing curve of her backside rotating, thumping.
I thought I was doing well with her. We laughed, we drank, subtle touches and probing questions. She was leaving, she said, and I offered to walk her and Kelly back to their apartment just a block away. She demurred, shook my hand and walked out of my life.
**********************
Durazo was a pledge brother, a couple years older than I, more confident, more strident. "I thought of you because you won't make an ass out of yourself," he said, by way of explaining why he'd invited me to join he and his latest lady friend--and her roommates--on a Friday night trip to Tijuana. "And you won't try to hit on my girl...like Alter or Rich." I laughed.
"No problem," I said. "What about the friends?"
"All cute. One's annoying as hell, but she's got a boyfriend. Then there's this Hawaiian chick, a little stuck up. The third, I think you'll like her."
"Cool."
We knocked on the door and Kelly answered. We were both startled to see each other and my heart started jackhammering in my chest. Recovering, she kissed Durazo and invited us in before adjourning to the bedroom. We shot the shit with the other boyfriend, a guy in a wheelchair whose name now escapes me but who I saw many years later on a short-lived primetime soap opera. When Emma emerged from the bedroom, confidently, my stomach did a little flip.
"Hi!" I blurted too loudly, rising from the couch and giving her an awkward hug. It had been six weeks since that first meeting and she had crossed my mind on several occasions. There and then, the night grew in promise and we immediately set about reconnecting.
***********************
Margarita's Village was a staple on the SDSU Underage Drinking Circuit, but this was the first time I'd made it to the underground lair on the always festive Avenida de Revolucion. The seven of us sat around a table drinking swiftly, like kids hell-bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their first day of summer vacation. Emma sat to my left and because of the noise, I was forced to talk close into her ear, a frequent act which made me feverish. We danced some more, those hips beckoning.
Ever had a tequila popper in Mexico? I hadn't either, so when I was seized from behind and involuntarily forced to consume alcohol in a hailstorm of whistles, complete with the requisite neck-snapping by the waiter, I briefly thought I was being jumped. The guy nearly tore my head off, relishing the act and the shocked gringo response. My tablemates laughed at my naivete, which I took good-naturedly, but every time I hear a whistle in Tijuana—to this day--I instinctively assume the duck and cover position.
The popper took my drunkeness to new heights and with it, my boldness. Soon, my hand was lingering on Emma's thigh. Our dancing became more overt, closer. At one point, leaning into her again to speak, I turned her chin toward me and kissed her softly, momentarily. For years after she would term any resemblance to that moment's tenderness a "Mexico Kiss."
We spent that night together and with one other before the Winter Break commenced. We both went to our respective homes at different ends of the state and had just limited phone contact those five weeks. For my part, I was looking forward to seeing her again, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I would soon find out her anticipation was considerably less.
That first night back in San Diego, she was distant. I stayed at her apartment because the dorms didn't open until the next morning and all I got was stilted conversation and a buddy hug. Days later, she'd admit that she had gotten back together with her high school boyfriend over the break and that she was trying to figure out what she wanted. I was able to slough off this news, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I was at San Diego State, where 70% of the student population had an STD. They didn't get that way from being chaste.
**********************
About a month later, I was again at the Frat House, talking outside with a dirty blonde sporting a nice rack (though I would find out many months later, after she gave it up for my roommate, that she had hairy nipples). It was going well and as midnight approached, I began to seal the deal. All at once, the lights went out, plunging the patio into darkness and eliciting drunken whoops from the masses. Laughing, I rubbed Karen (yes, I remember this one's name) on the shoulder and said I was going to go find out what happened. As I carefully strode away, the lights returned and I was staring face-to-face at Emma.
She greeted me enthusiastically, a tight hug, a kiss on the cheek, those crooked teeth grinning wide. Karen became an afterthought and, for the next couple of hours, Emma and I caught up. She was different, more open, than the last time I'd seen her and while she didn't take me home (or let me walk her home), she did agree to join me the next afternoon at a picnic with people from my dorm room floor.
It was early March and the weather in American's Finest City was postcard perfect. Emma showed up at my room in a yellow sundress. The thin straps clung invitingly to her wintry white shoulders. The hem came down to her mid-thigh and seemed to float there, a willowy destination, a secret promise. I hugged her and was enveloped by her scent, fresh and reassuring, like spring itself. I never left her side all afternoon, so intoxicated was I by her presence. She had an easy manner about her, comfortably meeting all my friends, joining the conversations and laughing gaily. I couldn't keep my hands off her and she accepted my touches, reciprocating with caresses of her own. Suddenly, in the midst of it all, she leaned into me and whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."
My roommate, a foul, sloppy young man named Chris was out of town for the weekend, so we were alone. The expiring afternoon light forced its way through our tattered curtains as Emma sat on my thin mattress, her delicate calves crossed, feet hovering over the pock-marked linoleum floor. I leaned over and kissed her, using one hand to steady myself, the other to run my hand up her thigh, brushing the hem of her sundress, cautiously moving it aside. She fairly pulled me into her and we crashed unconsciously onto the lumpy bed. But this was not an assault. It was a dance, a tango. We took our time with each other's bodies, pausing to breathe, examining every inch. The sundress remained, though folded and pulled and hiked, its cotton arousing to the touch, tickling like a feather. The heat of our coupling caused perspiration, tangy and sweet, like morning dew, and it mixed with her perfume in an alluring potion, a unique aroma I've not smelled since, nor ever forgotten.
We spent the rest of the day there, napping from pure spent emotion, waking again to explore. Dusk fell and still we held each other, our bodies slick and mingling. I never wanted her to leave, telling her so as darkness surrounded us. Neither of us moved for a light or a candle, only lay there, seeing by touch, by memory. She said she'd stay and she did, even as the whole experience took on a hazy, dream-like quality, endorphins retreating, leaving behind only indelible recall, footprints in my memory.
She left in the morning, but only physically. Her touches lingered on my skin, her kisses resonated into the pit of my stomach. I fell in love with Emma that day, deeply, unassailably. It was a reckless love, the hard-headed and cocksure belief of two young people not really ready for the demands of the emotion. We thought we were, but when we were married less than six months later, we doomed ourselves to hard lessons. Still, that afternoon, that sundress, that woman. Nobody since has touched the part of me she did that day. I suppose that's one of the reasons I can recall it so vividly, more than 20 years later. It rustles some leaves, this recall, sweeps the cover off some other dormant memories. Makes me wonder how she's doing. Makes me wonder if she remembers, too.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
She thought I was a jerk, she told me later. The first time she saw me, I was leaning on my right arm, which was pressed against the paneled walls of my fraternity’s rec room. I was grilling another young co-ed, flirtatious pressure amidst the stench of spilled beer and rampaging testosterone. The scene was cliched, she said, and she marked me down as a typical frat boy, interested only in getting drunk and getting naked. I never did remember who that girl against the wall was, but before the night was over, I'd met someone I can't forget.
I was introduced by her friend Kelly, a chirpy blonde sorority pledge whom I'd met briefly at another party. Emma was her contrast, dark hair, petite (five-foot-two..."and three-quarters!" she'd always add), her slim waist giving way to inviting hips. Taken separately, her features would seem odd, a walking Picasso. Her nose was long, with a unique extension on the end, as if it had been placed there later. Her teeth were adorably crooked with a slight overbite. Her eyes turned to gleeful slits when she laughed. But together, they fit her face, framed with high cheekbones and a strong chin.
We danced, and the way she moved stirred me, forcing heat through the keg-induced haze and sharpening my senses. Her hips seemed to bend every which way, effortlessly, the enticing curve of her backside rotating, thumping.
I thought I was doing well with her. We laughed, we drank, subtle touches and probing questions. She was leaving, she said, and I offered to walk her and Kelly back to their apartment just a block away. She demurred, shook my hand and walked out of my life.
**********************
Durazo was a pledge brother, a couple years older than I, more confident, more strident. "I thought of you because you won't make an ass out of yourself," he said, by way of explaining why he'd invited me to join he and his latest lady friend--and her roommates--on a Friday night trip to Tijuana. "And you won't try to hit on my girl...like Alter or Rich." I laughed.
"No problem," I said. "What about the friends?"
"All cute. One's annoying as hell, but she's got a boyfriend. Then there's this Hawaiian chick, a little stuck up. The third, I think you'll like her."
"Cool."
We knocked on the door and Kelly answered. We were both startled to see each other and my heart started jackhammering in my chest. Recovering, she kissed Durazo and invited us in before adjourning to the bedroom. We shot the shit with the other boyfriend, a guy in a wheelchair whose name now escapes me but who I saw many years later on a short-lived primetime soap opera. When Emma emerged from the bedroom, confidently, my stomach did a little flip.
"Hi!" I blurted too loudly, rising from the couch and giving her an awkward hug. It had been six weeks since that first meeting and she had crossed my mind on several occasions. There and then, the night grew in promise and we immediately set about reconnecting.
***********************
Margarita's Village was a staple on the SDSU Underage Drinking Circuit, but this was the first time I'd made it to the underground lair on the always festive Avenida de Revolucion. The seven of us sat around a table drinking swiftly, like kids hell-bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their first day of summer vacation. Emma sat to my left and because of the noise, I was forced to talk close into her ear, a frequent act which made me feverish. We danced some more, those hips beckoning.
Ever had a tequila popper in Mexico? I hadn't either, so when I was seized from behind and involuntarily forced to consume alcohol in a hailstorm of whistles, complete with the requisite neck-snapping by the waiter, I briefly thought I was being jumped. The guy nearly tore my head off, relishing the act and the shocked gringo response. My tablemates laughed at my naivete, which I took good-naturedly, but every time I hear a whistle in Tijuana—to this day--I instinctively assume the duck and cover position.
The popper took my drunkeness to new heights and with it, my boldness. Soon, my hand was lingering on Emma's thigh. Our dancing became more overt, closer. At one point, leaning into her again to speak, I turned her chin toward me and kissed her softly, momentarily. For years after she would term any resemblance to that moment's tenderness a "Mexico Kiss."
We spent that night together and with one other before the Winter Break commenced. We both went to our respective homes at different ends of the state and had just limited phone contact those five weeks. For my part, I was looking forward to seeing her again, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I would soon find out her anticipation was considerably less.
That first night back in San Diego, she was distant. I stayed at her apartment because the dorms didn't open until the next morning and all I got was stilted conversation and a buddy hug. Days later, she'd admit that she had gotten back together with her high school boyfriend over the break and that she was trying to figure out what she wanted. I was able to slough off this news, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I was at San Diego State, where 70% of the student population had an STD. They didn't get that way from being chaste.
**********************
About a month later, I was again at the Frat House, talking outside with a dirty blonde sporting a nice rack (though I would find out many months later, after she gave it up for my roommate, that she had hairy nipples). It was going well and as midnight approached, I began to seal the deal. All at once, the lights went out, plunging the patio into darkness and eliciting drunken whoops from the masses. Laughing, I rubbed Karen (yes, I remember this one's name) on the shoulder and said I was going to go find out what happened. As I carefully strode away, the lights returned and I was staring face-to-face at Emma.
She greeted me enthusiastically, a tight hug, a kiss on the cheek, those crooked teeth grinning wide. Karen became an afterthought and, for the next couple of hours, Emma and I caught up. She was different, more open, than the last time I'd seen her and while she didn't take me home (or let me walk her home), she did agree to join me the next afternoon at a picnic with people from my dorm room floor.
It was early March and the weather in American's Finest City was postcard perfect. Emma showed up at my room in a yellow sundress. The thin straps clung invitingly to her wintry white shoulders. The hem came down to her mid-thigh and seemed to float there, a willowy destination, a secret promise. I hugged her and was enveloped by her scent, fresh and reassuring, like spring itself. I never left her side all afternoon, so intoxicated was I by her presence. She had an easy manner about her, comfortably meeting all my friends, joining the conversations and laughing gaily. I couldn't keep my hands off her and she accepted my touches, reciprocating with caresses of her own. Suddenly, in the midst of it all, she leaned into me and whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."
My roommate, a foul, sloppy young man named Chris was out of town for the weekend, so we were alone. The expiring afternoon light forced its way through our tattered curtains as Emma sat on my thin mattress, her delicate calves crossed, feet hovering over the pock-marked linoleum floor. I leaned over and kissed her, using one hand to steady myself, the other to run my hand up her thigh, brushing the hem of her sundress, cautiously moving it aside. She fairly pulled me into her and we crashed unconsciously onto the lumpy bed. But this was not an assault. It was a dance, a tango. We took our time with each other's bodies, pausing to breathe, examining every inch. The sundress remained, though folded and pulled and hiked, its cotton arousing to the touch, tickling like a feather. The heat of our coupling caused perspiration, tangy and sweet, like morning dew, and it mixed with her perfume in an alluring potion, a unique aroma I've not smelled since, nor ever forgotten.
We spent the rest of the day there, napping from pure spent emotion, waking again to explore. Dusk fell and still we held each other, our bodies slick and mingling. I never wanted her to leave, telling her so as darkness surrounded us. Neither of us moved for a light or a candle, only lay there, seeing by touch, by memory. She said she'd stay and she did, even as the whole experience took on a hazy, dream-like quality, endorphins retreating, leaving behind only indelible recall, footprints in my memory.
She left in the morning, but only physically. Her touches lingered on my skin, her kisses resonated into the pit of my stomach. I fell in love with Emma that day, deeply, unassailably. It was a reckless love, the hard-headed and cocksure belief of two young people not really ready for the demands of the emotion. We thought we were, but when we were married less than six months later, we doomed ourselves to hard lessons. Still, that afternoon, that sundress, that woman. Nobody since has touched the part of me she did that day. I suppose that's one of the reasons I can recall it so vividly, more than 20 years later. It rustles some leaves, this recall, sweeps the cover off some other dormant memories. Makes me wonder how she's doing. Makes me wonder if she remembers, too.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
June 21, 2006
Truffles
By Joe Speaker © 2006
"You'd better go up first," said River.
"Why?"
"'Cause you're dressed nice. They won't let just anybody in."
"Great," I thought to myself. "I'm a continent and an ocean away from Los Angeles and I still can't escape the velvet rope."
Sure enough, the bouncer - sporting the requisite black clothes, bald head and condescending sneer - looked us up and down before waving us in.
We had come from a tapas bar, which was preceded by a little poker at a Glasgow club. Okay, it was a lot of poker. Five hours worth that took us past our dinner reservation. Damn short stacks wouldn't die. I was the honored, but not honorable, guest of House who introduced me and my 40 pounds to his fellow Scottish degenerates. Their easy manner and mocking table talk made me feel right at home. River took most of my money, and everyone else's, with his undeniable skill at spiking a card right at the last.
Razz had mysteriously gotten us a table right away at the packed tapas bar, the Big Man striding in as if he were a majority investor and directing the waitress to fill the table with a wide array of culinary enticement: anchovies in olive oil, charred kabobs of pork, meatballs dripping with tomatillo sauce. We fought like famished cavemen over the small plates, arms criss-crossing the table like a cat's cradle. I washed it all down with Sangria, dusky, fruity, perfect.
"Let's go to Truffles," somebody said and all agreed with eager nods and knowing smiles. Being the guest here, I acceded to the local knowledge.
Granted passage into Truffles by our bald judge of acceptable appearance, I ascended a couple flights of stairs with the anticipation of a man facing an unknown adventure. The place looked posh, sconces and scarlet lighting pointing toward a trim, demure blonde awaiting our cover charge. She smiled as she took our money, the same smile I'd just seen on the faces of my guides. Shrugging off the coincidence, I headed for the double doors with nary a glance back to see if the rest followed.
I could hear the rhythmic pulse and as I opened the doors, I saw the lights, haze and ambiance of the nightclub I expected. Except it was only a quarter full and darker than the types of spots I'm used to, all black corners and shaded glances. I turned around, the realization dawning, and my new Scottish friends stood there in a pack, knowing smiles finally blooming into hearty laughter. Another bouncer force-led us to a round table. And the strippers followed.
Chloe was first, joining our circle while Tank, on my right, ordered a round of drinks. She sat between me and House, smelling of jacaranda. She aimlessly draped a languid arm around my shoulder, bathing me in her scent, her hot breath on my neck. She seemed fresh, a polar opposite to the few hard-ridden dancers I've encountered in the City of Angels, who emit an odor of cynical boredom.
Soon Chloe was leading me across the room, expertly dodging barely discernable chairs, toward a black shroud I hadn't previously noticed. She pulled back the curtain and helped me into a leather chair. I could sense activity around me, but I held my eyes on hers, gauging her commitment to this erotic facade. People don't like being looked at, not in the eyes. Even these exhibitionist entrepreneurs would prefer you ogle their curves, proven by their overt - and often impossible - positions. She whipped her brown hair at me, stretched this leg and that one, running her own hands along the gentle swale of her hip, peering at me over her shoulder. Her eyes never betrayed a hint of deception, never pulled from mine when I held them a few beats past comfortable. Her eyes said nothing but the simple fact that she wanted to be there, in that moment.
She was good, that Chloe. Damn good.
I sauntered back to the table, a little rubbery. The others watched me intently, without comment. I noticed they had ordered champagne and began to laugh at the image of the five of us sitting there, sipping from flutes, five veterans of the pub and club wars - guys with names like Tank and River and Razz - enjoying a refined beverage in a titty bar. Before I had a chance to scoff, however, House leaned in for details on Chloe.
"Did you re-buy?" he said.
"That I did," I said, nodding and holding up one finger.
"One re-buy!" he announced to the table, which erupted in back-slaps and applause.
Jazzmyne had a lot to live up to when she sat down, her open smile in the lead, her wild black hair flying out in dozens of directions. She, too, had an alluring smell about her, hints of cocoa and honey, sweet and brazen. She was Asian, born in Malaysia of Chinese descent she said, studying her way toward a Finance degree at the local university, working her way through balance sheets and income statements in a black thong. I kept her in conversation, veering elsewhere when she asked if I wanted a dance. I did, but I wanted her to hang out some more, keep laughing, even if was only at me, the silly Yank.
By this time, the table had become a revolving cast of dancers and disappearing Scots and even a few strangers. There wasn't much of a crowd any more and we pretty much had a 2-1 dancer ratio in our favor. Tank came back from a dance with a statuesque black woman, a spent grin plastered on his mug. "I asked her name," he said. "She said, 'We don't need names.'"
House and River took turns with Chloe, leaving Razz a little flustered.
"I couldn't beat 'em into the pot," he complained.
The time had come for me to head off with Jazzmyne and she didn't disappoint. Where Chloe was all light brushes and enticement, Jazzmyne knew just where and when to apply the right kind of pressure. She curled around me like a serpent, her tanned limbs nimble and active, her hair lingering on my chest. I penetrated her almond-shaped eyes, larger than a typical Chinese and set wide apart. Again, nothing but pleasure there, no trace of dissemblance. Maybe these strippers got some sort of training. From a hypnotist, or a poker player. She punctuated the dance with a kiss on my cheek.
I was hot. No-doubt-about-it worked up. Back at the table, I fidgeted as House asked me how it was in the curtained room.
"I limped in," I said. "But I was soon raised."
I bought a round of lagers, enough of this prissy sparkling wine shit, and the night began to wind down. We were satisfied, leaned back in our comfortable chairs, pints raised permanently to our lips. I took another turn with Jazzmyne, because I had to. The final night cap.
We stumbled/skipped down the stairs and into the early morning Glasgow streets. I got an ambling drunk to take a picture of us in front of the club. In a perfect bit of symbolism, the photo is totally out of focus, our faces blurred as they most certainly were to our entertainers on the evening. Just anonymous customers in an endless queue to them, but I see their faces clearly; Chloe, Jazzmyne, even the nameless black girl.
We walked off, back-slaps and brotherhood. I turned to River and said, "I still think it's weird that we had to pass some kind of dress code to get into a strip club."
"It's a classy place, mate," he said. "It's a classy place."
I nodded, flashed him a knowing smile, and brushed the glitter from my shirt.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Los Angeles.
"You'd better go up first," said River.
"Why?"
"'Cause you're dressed nice. They won't let just anybody in."
"Great," I thought to myself. "I'm a continent and an ocean away from Los Angeles and I still can't escape the velvet rope."
Sure enough, the bouncer - sporting the requisite black clothes, bald head and condescending sneer - looked us up and down before waving us in.
We had come from a tapas bar, which was preceded by a little poker at a Glasgow club. Okay, it was a lot of poker. Five hours worth that took us past our dinner reservation. Damn short stacks wouldn't die. I was the honored, but not honorable, guest of House who introduced me and my 40 pounds to his fellow Scottish degenerates. Their easy manner and mocking table talk made me feel right at home. River took most of my money, and everyone else's, with his undeniable skill at spiking a card right at the last.
Razz had mysteriously gotten us a table right away at the packed tapas bar, the Big Man striding in as if he were a majority investor and directing the waitress to fill the table with a wide array of culinary enticement: anchovies in olive oil, charred kabobs of pork, meatballs dripping with tomatillo sauce. We fought like famished cavemen over the small plates, arms criss-crossing the table like a cat's cradle. I washed it all down with Sangria, dusky, fruity, perfect.
"Let's go to Truffles," somebody said and all agreed with eager nods and knowing smiles. Being the guest here, I acceded to the local knowledge.
Granted passage into Truffles by our bald judge of acceptable appearance, I ascended a couple flights of stairs with the anticipation of a man facing an unknown adventure. The place looked posh, sconces and scarlet lighting pointing toward a trim, demure blonde awaiting our cover charge. She smiled as she took our money, the same smile I'd just seen on the faces of my guides. Shrugging off the coincidence, I headed for the double doors with nary a glance back to see if the rest followed.
I could hear the rhythmic pulse and as I opened the doors, I saw the lights, haze and ambiance of the nightclub I expected. Except it was only a quarter full and darker than the types of spots I'm used to, all black corners and shaded glances. I turned around, the realization dawning, and my new Scottish friends stood there in a pack, knowing smiles finally blooming into hearty laughter. Another bouncer force-led us to a round table. And the strippers followed.
Chloe was first, joining our circle while Tank, on my right, ordered a round of drinks. She sat between me and House, smelling of jacaranda. She aimlessly draped a languid arm around my shoulder, bathing me in her scent, her hot breath on my neck. She seemed fresh, a polar opposite to the few hard-ridden dancers I've encountered in the City of Angels, who emit an odor of cynical boredom.
Soon Chloe was leading me across the room, expertly dodging barely discernable chairs, toward a black shroud I hadn't previously noticed. She pulled back the curtain and helped me into a leather chair. I could sense activity around me, but I held my eyes on hers, gauging her commitment to this erotic facade. People don't like being looked at, not in the eyes. Even these exhibitionist entrepreneurs would prefer you ogle their curves, proven by their overt - and often impossible - positions. She whipped her brown hair at me, stretched this leg and that one, running her own hands along the gentle swale of her hip, peering at me over her shoulder. Her eyes never betrayed a hint of deception, never pulled from mine when I held them a few beats past comfortable. Her eyes said nothing but the simple fact that she wanted to be there, in that moment.
She was good, that Chloe. Damn good.
I sauntered back to the table, a little rubbery. The others watched me intently, without comment. I noticed they had ordered champagne and began to laugh at the image of the five of us sitting there, sipping from flutes, five veterans of the pub and club wars - guys with names like Tank and River and Razz - enjoying a refined beverage in a titty bar. Before I had a chance to scoff, however, House leaned in for details on Chloe.
"Did you re-buy?" he said.
"That I did," I said, nodding and holding up one finger.
"One re-buy!" he announced to the table, which erupted in back-slaps and applause.
Jazzmyne had a lot to live up to when she sat down, her open smile in the lead, her wild black hair flying out in dozens of directions. She, too, had an alluring smell about her, hints of cocoa and honey, sweet and brazen. She was Asian, born in Malaysia of Chinese descent she said, studying her way toward a Finance degree at the local university, working her way through balance sheets and income statements in a black thong. I kept her in conversation, veering elsewhere when she asked if I wanted a dance. I did, but I wanted her to hang out some more, keep laughing, even if was only at me, the silly Yank.
By this time, the table had become a revolving cast of dancers and disappearing Scots and even a few strangers. There wasn't much of a crowd any more and we pretty much had a 2-1 dancer ratio in our favor. Tank came back from a dance with a statuesque black woman, a spent grin plastered on his mug. "I asked her name," he said. "She said, 'We don't need names.'"
House and River took turns with Chloe, leaving Razz a little flustered.
"I couldn't beat 'em into the pot," he complained.
The time had come for me to head off with Jazzmyne and she didn't disappoint. Where Chloe was all light brushes and enticement, Jazzmyne knew just where and when to apply the right kind of pressure. She curled around me like a serpent, her tanned limbs nimble and active, her hair lingering on my chest. I penetrated her almond-shaped eyes, larger than a typical Chinese and set wide apart. Again, nothing but pleasure there, no trace of dissemblance. Maybe these strippers got some sort of training. From a hypnotist, or a poker player. She punctuated the dance with a kiss on my cheek.
I was hot. No-doubt-about-it worked up. Back at the table, I fidgeted as House asked me how it was in the curtained room.
"I limped in," I said. "But I was soon raised."
I bought a round of lagers, enough of this prissy sparkling wine shit, and the night began to wind down. We were satisfied, leaned back in our comfortable chairs, pints raised permanently to our lips. I took another turn with Jazzmyne, because I had to. The final night cap.
We stumbled/skipped down the stairs and into the early morning Glasgow streets. I got an ambling drunk to take a picture of us in front of the club. In a perfect bit of symbolism, the photo is totally out of focus, our faces blurred as they most certainly were to our entertainers on the evening. Just anonymous customers in an endless queue to them, but I see their faces clearly; Chloe, Jazzmyne, even the nameless black girl.
We walked off, back-slaps and brotherhood. I turned to River and said, "I still think it's weird that we had to pass some kind of dress code to get into a strip club."
"It's a classy place, mate," he said. "It's a classy place."
I nodded, flashed him a knowing smile, and brushed the glitter from my shirt.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Los Angeles.
March 20, 2006
For Sale
By Joe Speaker © 2006
He stood in the open doorway facing the long, empty hallway. Ironically, Marshall couldn't remember doing that before. Maybe the first day. Maybe not. The house looked much the same as when he entered it for the first time nearly two years ago. Back then, it was love at first sight, the adrenaline blitz of a new crush. He remembered the reflections off the impossibly white walls, like perfect porcelain skin, the smell of fresh paint and gloss, the subtle, intoxicating scent of sandalwood drifting from the polished floors. He wandered the house for many minutes in something resembling a stupor that day, not believing he had been so lucky to land the prize. Today, he-and the house-felt different.
The hallway runs the length of the house, a seemingly endless expanse of hardwood floor, interlocking shades of blonde and amber, stretching to the backyard. It gleamed under the sun pouring in from the French doors, set ajar at the hallway's rough mid-point. Those doors, so rarely used, never decorated, opened onto a bare cement slab, the foundation for a supposed courtyard, another plan unfulfilled. The glass itself was spotless, buffed to a high shine by the hired help, the first time anyone had bent to clean them since Marshall and his family had moved in.
He walked tentatively down the hall toward the kitchen, unknowingly avoiding spots where furniture used to be, like dodging phantom memories. He glanced inside the den, which had been Owen's play room. The carpet still showed shadowy spots where his juice had been carelessly dropped. One slat of the wooden blinds had been snapped off in some long forgotten horseplay. Once pristine, the house had picked up its share of nicks, pilot holes drilled in the drywall that remain unfilled, attempts to hang a bookshelf or a curtain rod that fell victim to laziness and Marshall's own failings as a handyman. Owen's artwork, the mad genius of a three-year old, remained visible on some of the walls, though fainter now, blurred by the hours of scrubbing. Absent those signs, it was like nobody had ever lived here at all.
Marshall hated waiting. Always prompt and forever impatient, he glanced again at his watch. The agent and prospective buyers were already minutes late. He muttered a curse under his breath, pausing to lean on the kitchen island. The blinds were all open, afternoon light shining off the white countertop like a blizzard, but the agent said to make sure the house was as bright as possible, while also admonishing Marshall for the dark colors he and his wife Carrie had used to paint the dining and family rooms. The former was a blood red, striking and perfect for their espresso-hued table. She loved that room, he reminded himself with a sigh. It was everything she was: soulful, daring, passionate. Now cleared of its fixtures, it looked sad and conflicted.
The family room was a flat brown, a glazed brunette, the kind you see in every seasonal Pottery Barn catalog that appears with the regularity of a winter’s flu, luring housewives and aspiring craftsmen into the vague idea they can turn their homes into show pieces with these oddly named pigments of some marketer's imagination. Marshall vaguely thought the shade was named "potato skin" or "corduroy fleece" or something similarly insipid. But he was still taken by the lustrous images and his own desire to prove his homeowning mettle. Marshall's father who could scarcely wield a hammer and his own attempts at simple renovation confirmed that he had inherited those traits. They wanted to accent the family room with white ledges and elaborate sconces, built-in shelves and hidden compartments for the stereo and compact discs. He and Carrie never got that far. Not even close, really.
Southern California real estate, the dream of homeownership. They were so happy that day they got the house, lucking into a neglected floor plan, beating the crowds that regularly overwhelmed the new developments during that time of buying frenzy. A hundred people, at least, walked away disappointed that day. The waiting list seemed impossibly long and Marshall's name sat unthreateningly low. He was out of his league. But some on the list didn't show, others had their first, second and third choices claimed and with one lot remaining, the honor fell to him and Carrie. Half an hour later, all their dreams seemed to have come true. Like opportunistic lovers, they had fallen into fantasy.
Before they even moved in seven months later, the price had nearly doubled, giving them unearned cache, like an aspiring starlet fresh off plastic surgery. But they weren't investors, they were a family, a family marking an important milestone: their first house. Not that all was clean and rosy. Even the starlet had scars. The down payment wiped out their savings. The house was three times as far from Michael's job and Carrie was going to have to work outside the home for the first time, meaning daycare for Owen. Changes, always changes, but they had a home to call their own and promised to nurture it, build it into something greater and more meaningful than a simple dwelling.
The house is a classic southwestern style, though spared the pink tile roof for one in a more dignified cocoa. Two stories, four bedrooms plus the den, four baths. Too big for the three of them, but they planned to live there a long while, growing both family, possessions and equity. Of the three, they only managed the last and that was nothing but serendipity.
The real estate agent priced it at over a half million dollars, a laughable sum even in this delirious market. "You're getting out at the right time," she told them and they could both only respond with grim smiles. It didn't seem that way. It seemed all over in too short a time, projects left unfinished or not even begun. The backyard, dirt when they moved in, sits neglected, over-achieving milkweeds the only sustained growth. They paid a professional to design it, fussed over the details for months, but barely broke ground before enthusiasm and commitment waned. Owen's bedroom, where at the end he never slept anyway, remained a blank canvas despite almost feverish drawing of plans.
"We're too tired," they told themselves. The house became a nuisance, a costly albatross that thinned their financial advantage. It was further away, from jobs, from friends, from the bustle of the city center or the laid-back bacchanalia of the beach cities. It was inland, land-locked, desert winds and dust banging against the craggy hills surrounding them. No longer a destination, no longer a long-realized goal, the house became a place where they barely saw each other, passing here and there on the way to another workday, another responsibility. Without time or effort, the house began to decay. Dishes piled up, clothes went unlaundered, floors unpolished. They saw this, recognized it, but couldn't bring themselves to reverse the slide. "Too much effort," they said. "We'll get around to it," they promised. And the problems simply multiplied, some overt, some hidden, but all finally exposed when the house was stripped bare.
Marshall checked his watch again. "Time," he said to himself, to the departed Carrie. "I thought I'd get more time."
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
He stood in the open doorway facing the long, empty hallway. Ironically, Marshall couldn't remember doing that before. Maybe the first day. Maybe not. The house looked much the same as when he entered it for the first time nearly two years ago. Back then, it was love at first sight, the adrenaline blitz of a new crush. He remembered the reflections off the impossibly white walls, like perfect porcelain skin, the smell of fresh paint and gloss, the subtle, intoxicating scent of sandalwood drifting from the polished floors. He wandered the house for many minutes in something resembling a stupor that day, not believing he had been so lucky to land the prize. Today, he-and the house-felt different.
The hallway runs the length of the house, a seemingly endless expanse of hardwood floor, interlocking shades of blonde and amber, stretching to the backyard. It gleamed under the sun pouring in from the French doors, set ajar at the hallway's rough mid-point. Those doors, so rarely used, never decorated, opened onto a bare cement slab, the foundation for a supposed courtyard, another plan unfulfilled. The glass itself was spotless, buffed to a high shine by the hired help, the first time anyone had bent to clean them since Marshall and his family had moved in.
He walked tentatively down the hall toward the kitchen, unknowingly avoiding spots where furniture used to be, like dodging phantom memories. He glanced inside the den, which had been Owen's play room. The carpet still showed shadowy spots where his juice had been carelessly dropped. One slat of the wooden blinds had been snapped off in some long forgotten horseplay. Once pristine, the house had picked up its share of nicks, pilot holes drilled in the drywall that remain unfilled, attempts to hang a bookshelf or a curtain rod that fell victim to laziness and Marshall's own failings as a handyman. Owen's artwork, the mad genius of a three-year old, remained visible on some of the walls, though fainter now, blurred by the hours of scrubbing. Absent those signs, it was like nobody had ever lived here at all.
Marshall hated waiting. Always prompt and forever impatient, he glanced again at his watch. The agent and prospective buyers were already minutes late. He muttered a curse under his breath, pausing to lean on the kitchen island. The blinds were all open, afternoon light shining off the white countertop like a blizzard, but the agent said to make sure the house was as bright as possible, while also admonishing Marshall for the dark colors he and his wife Carrie had used to paint the dining and family rooms. The former was a blood red, striking and perfect for their espresso-hued table. She loved that room, he reminded himself with a sigh. It was everything she was: soulful, daring, passionate. Now cleared of its fixtures, it looked sad and conflicted.
The family room was a flat brown, a glazed brunette, the kind you see in every seasonal Pottery Barn catalog that appears with the regularity of a winter’s flu, luring housewives and aspiring craftsmen into the vague idea they can turn their homes into show pieces with these oddly named pigments of some marketer's imagination. Marshall vaguely thought the shade was named "potato skin" or "corduroy fleece" or something similarly insipid. But he was still taken by the lustrous images and his own desire to prove his homeowning mettle. Marshall's father who could scarcely wield a hammer and his own attempts at simple renovation confirmed that he had inherited those traits. They wanted to accent the family room with white ledges and elaborate sconces, built-in shelves and hidden compartments for the stereo and compact discs. He and Carrie never got that far. Not even close, really.
Southern California real estate, the dream of homeownership. They were so happy that day they got the house, lucking into a neglected floor plan, beating the crowds that regularly overwhelmed the new developments during that time of buying frenzy. A hundred people, at least, walked away disappointed that day. The waiting list seemed impossibly long and Marshall's name sat unthreateningly low. He was out of his league. But some on the list didn't show, others had their first, second and third choices claimed and with one lot remaining, the honor fell to him and Carrie. Half an hour later, all their dreams seemed to have come true. Like opportunistic lovers, they had fallen into fantasy.
Before they even moved in seven months later, the price had nearly doubled, giving them unearned cache, like an aspiring starlet fresh off plastic surgery. But they weren't investors, they were a family, a family marking an important milestone: their first house. Not that all was clean and rosy. Even the starlet had scars. The down payment wiped out their savings. The house was three times as far from Michael's job and Carrie was going to have to work outside the home for the first time, meaning daycare for Owen. Changes, always changes, but they had a home to call their own and promised to nurture it, build it into something greater and more meaningful than a simple dwelling.
The house is a classic southwestern style, though spared the pink tile roof for one in a more dignified cocoa. Two stories, four bedrooms plus the den, four baths. Too big for the three of them, but they planned to live there a long while, growing both family, possessions and equity. Of the three, they only managed the last and that was nothing but serendipity.
The real estate agent priced it at over a half million dollars, a laughable sum even in this delirious market. "You're getting out at the right time," she told them and they could both only respond with grim smiles. It didn't seem that way. It seemed all over in too short a time, projects left unfinished or not even begun. The backyard, dirt when they moved in, sits neglected, over-achieving milkweeds the only sustained growth. They paid a professional to design it, fussed over the details for months, but barely broke ground before enthusiasm and commitment waned. Owen's bedroom, where at the end he never slept anyway, remained a blank canvas despite almost feverish drawing of plans.
"We're too tired," they told themselves. The house became a nuisance, a costly albatross that thinned their financial advantage. It was further away, from jobs, from friends, from the bustle of the city center or the laid-back bacchanalia of the beach cities. It was inland, land-locked, desert winds and dust banging against the craggy hills surrounding them. No longer a destination, no longer a long-realized goal, the house became a place where they barely saw each other, passing here and there on the way to another workday, another responsibility. Without time or effort, the house began to decay. Dishes piled up, clothes went unlaundered, floors unpolished. They saw this, recognized it, but couldn't bring themselves to reverse the slide. "Too much effort," they said. "We'll get around to it," they promised. And the problems simply multiplied, some overt, some hidden, but all finally exposed when the house was stripped bare.
Marshall checked his watch again. "Time," he said to himself, to the departed Carrie. "I thought I'd get more time."
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
November 24, 2005
Dead of Night
By Joe Speaker © 2005
The kitchen light is harsh and I shade my night eyes toward the floor, groping with my left hand for the chair I know is there somewhere, cradling my pen and pad in my right. Sleep has eluded me again, pushed aside by the wall of thoughts stacking impenetrably in my head.
I begin to focus, idly noticing how filthy the kitchen is. The single bulb illuminates the dull, hospital green linoleum splattered with all manner of grime; onion husks here, a puddle of godknowswhat there. This evening's party isn't any excuse, either. This is always how I find it when I sneak out of bed to write. The tiny house was once someone's home, I imagine, but to us--myself, my roommates and the revolving cast of overnight characters--it's a purgatory with no discernable exit.
We've lived here far longer than the four months we were promised. Our landlord planned to raze the house and build apartments on the huge lot. A recession nullified that plan and so we continue to live in a squalor we’ve created for ourselves, no longer giddy that our actions held no consequences. We've pushed this house to its limits. Graffiti on the walls, holes where none should be, a forever-clogged bathtub and dirt. Everywhere, dirt.
Like usual, the kitchen this early morning is the only room in the house without a sleeping body, the only place for a conscientious insomniac with demons to confront and apologies to make. One of my roommates secured himself some female companionship. The other with whom I share a room, both of us flopped on the floor in our $49 futon mattresses, doesn't miss me. I can hear Riv snoring from the living room couch, Critter wheezing in his sleeping bag. The regulars, drinking and smoking themselves into oblivion, into easy sleep. I could not envy them any more at this moment.
I start to write, never knowing where to start, sure that it will come out long and circular and meaningless. Life before becoming trapped in this adolescent nightmare, this ritualistic avoidance of adulthood, of responsibility. Like the house, we push ourselves to our very limits. But only in search of escape, never improvement. I've lost my sense of perspective, of past mistakes. In fact, the past continually blurs together, with only bare snatches of recall available. I've been numbing myself for years. My inability to sleep suggests it's not working.
I don't do this to find order. It's dreadful purge. I'd rather the thoughts visited me at noon, exposed to the light. In the silent dark, alone, the hurt is magnified, stumbling upon self-truths, announcing themselves without warning. Sure, they exist inside my head, but until they become tangible words, they're easily dismissed. Instead of searching for a beginning, I tap a random moment, the one that pulled me from my feckless search for slumber.
An afternoon picnic, a cramped dorm room, the two of us heaving, pleasantly perspiring in the dusky light. It was the ecstasy of youth, of discovery, that first connection, form, content, heaven, hell, every mystery suddenly and forever revealed, stripping us raw so we were left only with naked truth split wide-open. There was a soft nature to it all, a slow-motion disbelief that lasted until we could no longer accept each others' gifts and collapsed in exhaustion.
I can't see her face, nor hear her voice, nor imagine her breath upon my skin. Not any longer. But the way she smelled, her strawberry hair mixed with the sweet sweat of passion, tossed with spring's ascension. I can conjure it at will and am transported.
I suppose I'm talking about loss. Of the details. Of the girl. More ceaseless regret. How very fucking unique. "Life has wounded me and I am unable to cope so here I sit with my pen looking for salvation." Very deep, idiot. Honestly, I'd rather just be able to find regular sleep than look for answers. I'd rather the self-flagellation gene were excised and I could go about living again, removed of the weight of all my failure. It's so heavy. Riv rumbles deep in his throat from the other room. It sounds like mockery. This stinking kitchen. This aimless walking through day and tortured endurance of night.
I'll never capture that scent again. Nor anything like it. For a time, all I did was chase that moment, that buzz, too often in the early morning hours. I wish I'd never lived it, never knew an experience that lifted me above common existence. All the events of my life pale beside that afternoon. I've given up my fruitless bids to recapture that feeling, that impossible place. I've been sapped of any motivation to strive beyond the usual, the soul-kicking mundane.
So I write. To remember. To forget. To work my brain to the point where it will shut down, invite sleep. Because I'm so tired.
Joe Speaker is a writer and poker player from Southern California.
The kitchen light is harsh and I shade my night eyes toward the floor, groping with my left hand for the chair I know is there somewhere, cradling my pen and pad in my right. Sleep has eluded me again, pushed aside by the wall of thoughts stacking impenetrably in my head.
I begin to focus, idly noticing how filthy the kitchen is. The single bulb illuminates the dull, hospital green linoleum splattered with all manner of grime; onion husks here, a puddle of godknowswhat there. This evening's party isn't any excuse, either. This is always how I find it when I sneak out of bed to write. The tiny house was once someone's home, I imagine, but to us--myself, my roommates and the revolving cast of overnight characters--it's a purgatory with no discernable exit.
We've lived here far longer than the four months we were promised. Our landlord planned to raze the house and build apartments on the huge lot. A recession nullified that plan and so we continue to live in a squalor we’ve created for ourselves, no longer giddy that our actions held no consequences. We've pushed this house to its limits. Graffiti on the walls, holes where none should be, a forever-clogged bathtub and dirt. Everywhere, dirt.
Like usual, the kitchen this early morning is the only room in the house without a sleeping body, the only place for a conscientious insomniac with demons to confront and apologies to make. One of my roommates secured himself some female companionship. The other with whom I share a room, both of us flopped on the floor in our $49 futon mattresses, doesn't miss me. I can hear Riv snoring from the living room couch, Critter wheezing in his sleeping bag. The regulars, drinking and smoking themselves into oblivion, into easy sleep. I could not envy them any more at this moment.
I start to write, never knowing where to start, sure that it will come out long and circular and meaningless. Life before becoming trapped in this adolescent nightmare, this ritualistic avoidance of adulthood, of responsibility. Like the house, we push ourselves to our very limits. But only in search of escape, never improvement. I've lost my sense of perspective, of past mistakes. In fact, the past continually blurs together, with only bare snatches of recall available. I've been numbing myself for years. My inability to sleep suggests it's not working.
I don't do this to find order. It's dreadful purge. I'd rather the thoughts visited me at noon, exposed to the light. In the silent dark, alone, the hurt is magnified, stumbling upon self-truths, announcing themselves without warning. Sure, they exist inside my head, but until they become tangible words, they're easily dismissed. Instead of searching for a beginning, I tap a random moment, the one that pulled me from my feckless search for slumber.
An afternoon picnic, a cramped dorm room, the two of us heaving, pleasantly perspiring in the dusky light. It was the ecstasy of youth, of discovery, that first connection, form, content, heaven, hell, every mystery suddenly and forever revealed, stripping us raw so we were left only with naked truth split wide-open. There was a soft nature to it all, a slow-motion disbelief that lasted until we could no longer accept each others' gifts and collapsed in exhaustion.
I can't see her face, nor hear her voice, nor imagine her breath upon my skin. Not any longer. But the way she smelled, her strawberry hair mixed with the sweet sweat of passion, tossed with spring's ascension. I can conjure it at will and am transported.
I suppose I'm talking about loss. Of the details. Of the girl. More ceaseless regret. How very fucking unique. "Life has wounded me and I am unable to cope so here I sit with my pen looking for salvation." Very deep, idiot. Honestly, I'd rather just be able to find regular sleep than look for answers. I'd rather the self-flagellation gene were excised and I could go about living again, removed of the weight of all my failure. It's so heavy. Riv rumbles deep in his throat from the other room. It sounds like mockery. This stinking kitchen. This aimless walking through day and tortured endurance of night.
I'll never capture that scent again. Nor anything like it. For a time, all I did was chase that moment, that buzz, too often in the early morning hours. I wish I'd never lived it, never knew an experience that lifted me above common existence. All the events of my life pale beside that afternoon. I've given up my fruitless bids to recapture that feeling, that impossible place. I've been sapped of any motivation to strive beyond the usual, the soul-kicking mundane.
So I write. To remember. To forget. To work my brain to the point where it will shut down, invite sleep. Because I'm so tired.
Joe Speaker is a writer and poker player from Southern California.
September 28, 2005
With the Lights Out
By Joe Speaker © 2005
We were just entering that age, Donny and I, when the opinions of your peers start to matter. A lot. Rebukes begin to sting more, camaraderie can uplift you for days. The last thing you want is to be thought "different," so you check your childhood impulses and guard your secrets.
I'd known Donny for a couple years, knew who he was anyway. In a small town like ours, you run across pretty much everyone your own age on the athletic fields. But this was my first year in the new school, the new neighborhood. When that first bell signaled the start of 5th grade, I saw some familiar faces. Donny's was in the chair next to me. Partners.
He was a squinty-eyed towhead, a direct contrast to my dark skin and features. But in almost every other way, we were identical. We both appeared as though a strong breeze would topple us, bony from our ankles to our wrists. We had braces. We'd discovered the lure of girls, mysteries that demanded investigation beyond the ritualistic playground taunting. We played the same sports-baseball and soccer-with similar results and worshiped the Oakland A's, despite their abject record. We both shone in the classroom. We fell into an easy friendship.
It wasn't long before he invited me to a sleep-over, that time-honored rite of pre-adolescent independence. I'd never spent the night at someone else's house before, not completely anyway. The closest I ever came was the time I had to summon my parents to fetch me from Jamie Hedley's house after an early morning nightmare.
Donny's parents fixed us some burgers and left us to a competitive game of Monopoly. Each of us wanted to win, but remained respectful of each other and, above all, mindful of our actions and how they would be perceived. I wanted to be invited back and didn't want to jeopardize that possibility.
Shortly, it was time for bed. With the lights out, we conspired to take over the world someday. Partners.
His Mom interrupted our reverie. "Donny," she said, turning on the bulb. "Don't forget to put on your headgear." I saw his face drop. The headgear, that awful contraption of orthodontic torture, scourge of every bucktooth kid's existence, a fate every bit as horrifying as a medieval punishment. Donny was mortified. He raised his head to protest, but his mother cut him off.
As she did, I slid my hand across my sleeping bag and into my overnight bag. "That's okay Donny," I said, pulling it out. "I should probably wear mine, too."
We strapped them on, bands, hooks and all. Then we slept silently, comforted by our shared shame.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
We were just entering that age, Donny and I, when the opinions of your peers start to matter. A lot. Rebukes begin to sting more, camaraderie can uplift you for days. The last thing you want is to be thought "different," so you check your childhood impulses and guard your secrets.
I'd known Donny for a couple years, knew who he was anyway. In a small town like ours, you run across pretty much everyone your own age on the athletic fields. But this was my first year in the new school, the new neighborhood. When that first bell signaled the start of 5th grade, I saw some familiar faces. Donny's was in the chair next to me. Partners.
He was a squinty-eyed towhead, a direct contrast to my dark skin and features. But in almost every other way, we were identical. We both appeared as though a strong breeze would topple us, bony from our ankles to our wrists. We had braces. We'd discovered the lure of girls, mysteries that demanded investigation beyond the ritualistic playground taunting. We played the same sports-baseball and soccer-with similar results and worshiped the Oakland A's, despite their abject record. We both shone in the classroom. We fell into an easy friendship.
It wasn't long before he invited me to a sleep-over, that time-honored rite of pre-adolescent independence. I'd never spent the night at someone else's house before, not completely anyway. The closest I ever came was the time I had to summon my parents to fetch me from Jamie Hedley's house after an early morning nightmare.
Donny's parents fixed us some burgers and left us to a competitive game of Monopoly. Each of us wanted to win, but remained respectful of each other and, above all, mindful of our actions and how they would be perceived. I wanted to be invited back and didn't want to jeopardize that possibility.
Shortly, it was time for bed. With the lights out, we conspired to take over the world someday. Partners.
His Mom interrupted our reverie. "Donny," she said, turning on the bulb. "Don't forget to put on your headgear." I saw his face drop. The headgear, that awful contraption of orthodontic torture, scourge of every bucktooth kid's existence, a fate every bit as horrifying as a medieval punishment. Donny was mortified. He raised his head to protest, but his mother cut him off.
As she did, I slid my hand across my sleeping bag and into my overnight bag. "That's okay Donny," I said, pulling it out. "I should probably wear mine, too."
We strapped them on, bands, hooks and all. Then we slept silently, comforted by our shared shame.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
August 27, 2005
I'll Do Anyone
By Joe Speaker © 2005
My roommate Barry is something of a slut, as evidenced by his recent proclamation:
"I've had sex with over 50 women. Some of them were even good-looking."
We had a laugh about that, mostly because it's true. He's brought some real pigs into the house, like the black chick from a couple months back who was rather...uh...toned. She had huge, muscular tree trunks for legs and we immediately nicknamed her "Newhouse," after the former Cowboys running back well-known for his massive thighs. To let you know how things have been going around here lately, I asked if she had any single friends.
Barry is out tonight on another in a consistent line of blind dates, culled mostly from the personal ads in our local alternative weekly. I tried that route myself, but I don't seem to have an adequate phone/voicemail rap. Barry's must be sensational. This is his third blind date this week.
He came home earlier than I figured, which is usually bad news.
"No luck, huh?" I asked.
"She looked a bit mannish," he confirmed. "Too tall and she had a rough case of acne."
"But a nice personality, I'm sure."
"Oh God. I tell you Ned, you have never met a more annoying broad in your whole life. One of those high-pitched giggles that makes you want to thrust your head through the nearest window. And about as bright as swamp grass."
"Sorry, buddy. I know you were lookin' for some action tonight."
"Oh, I fucked her," he replied.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
My roommate Barry is something of a slut, as evidenced by his recent proclamation:
"I've had sex with over 50 women. Some of them were even good-looking."
We had a laugh about that, mostly because it's true. He's brought some real pigs into the house, like the black chick from a couple months back who was rather...uh...toned. She had huge, muscular tree trunks for legs and we immediately nicknamed her "Newhouse," after the former Cowboys running back well-known for his massive thighs. To let you know how things have been going around here lately, I asked if she had any single friends.
Barry is out tonight on another in a consistent line of blind dates, culled mostly from the personal ads in our local alternative weekly. I tried that route myself, but I don't seem to have an adequate phone/voicemail rap. Barry's must be sensational. This is his third blind date this week.
He came home earlier than I figured, which is usually bad news.
"No luck, huh?" I asked.
"She looked a bit mannish," he confirmed. "Too tall and she had a rough case of acne."
"But a nice personality, I'm sure."
"Oh God. I tell you Ned, you have never met a more annoying broad in your whole life. One of those high-pitched giggles that makes you want to thrust your head through the nearest window. And about as bright as swamp grass."
"Sorry, buddy. I know you were lookin' for some action tonight."
"Oh, I fucked her," he replied.
Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.
July 27, 2005
Observation Deck
By Joe Speaker © 2005
I enjoy observing people. Much more than I like talking to them. For example, when I was younger, my friends and I liked to sit in trees (I swear), drink beer and watch the local adult softball leagues. We'd pick a player or three and discuss what we thought their life was like based on their body language. Being up in that tree was like being invisible. We could spy without notice, divine their deepest desires and insecurities while our subjects remained completely unaware.
Like the guy on the train this morning. He's a semi-regular who bears more than a passing resemblance to a red-haired Tarantino. By the looks of his clothes and demeanor, he's a back-room guy somewhere, probably a civil servant. Clean, but basic. Doesn't appear to get out much, his face a waxen pallor. And he's balding, a diminishing wisp of curl floating like an island at the top of his forehead, the rest of his coastline receding to reveal ribbons of pinkish flesh. He's in his mid-30s, hasn't had a date in a while, a fact that doesn't make him unhappy. He's not giving up yet.
This guy is clearly smitten with a blue-eyed brunette who sits in the same spot every day, as do I. She's cute, in an off-hand way. Not the type that makes you sit straighter in your chair, but there's a uniqueness to her look. Her freckled nose is too small, too delicate, and is overwhelmed by her other features. A regular scent of cocoa butter trails behind her when she takes her seat. She reads, though perhaps only on the train, considering how long it's taking her to get through that Grafton novel. She's young, no older than 25. Probably has a boyfriend somewhere who works construction and drives a truck. She works in retail or attends a trade school based on her causal look, today's jean shorts and tie-dyed tank top a typical summer ensemble.
Tarantino brusquely chats her up every time he sees her, makes an obvious presentation of himself. I can't hear what he's saying (iPod, you know), but he's eager, bordering on over-bearing, punctuating every sentence with a toothy grin and forced guffaw. She's responds nicely enough, smiles and nods her head, but it's only courtesy. She'll eventually marry the boyfriend, sacrificing adventure for comfort.
Today, he couldn't get near her. No open seat, not even a direct sight line. He was clearly perturbed as he barged his way into my bank of seats, lips set in a firm line. He obviously snapped open his Wall Street Journal, his eyes darting around the car. I stared across at him from behind my sunglasses, poker-faced, but amused. His paper was open, but he wasn't reading. He was scanning the windows to his left, hoping to find her in a reflection. The rising color in his cheeks gave away his failure and distress.
I continued my surreptitious surveillance, forgoing a quick nap for the drama unfolding before me, fixed by this pure human interaction on a subtle, but unmistakable, scale.
He's only on board for two stops, but, his lucky day, a couple of folks disembarked halfway into his journey, opening up seats nearer his intended. Buoyed by this development, he leaned forward, probing for eye contact. Her gaze remained rooted on the lines before her, however, and with an extended sigh, he slumped back in resignation.
She seemed to feel his attention on her and slyly glanced his direction a couple times. Just as quickly, she returned to her book, apparently relieved to miss his stare. She shifted away, toward the side of the car, and showed him only her shoulder.
At his stop, he stood abruptly, not caring that he whacked me on the knee with his backpack. He worked his way purposefully into the aisle, all overt movement. He searched her as he departed, eyes pleading for her attention, a simple smile.
I intently watched the scene unfold. She never looked up, never flinched, until he was gone. At which point she raised her head, fixed me with a stone glare and said,
"What the fuck are you staring at?"
I shifted toward the side of the car and showed her only my shoulder.
Joe Speaker is a writer and poker player from Southern California.
I enjoy observing people. Much more than I like talking to them. For example, when I was younger, my friends and I liked to sit in trees (I swear), drink beer and watch the local adult softball leagues. We'd pick a player or three and discuss what we thought their life was like based on their body language. Being up in that tree was like being invisible. We could spy without notice, divine their deepest desires and insecurities while our subjects remained completely unaware.
Like the guy on the train this morning. He's a semi-regular who bears more than a passing resemblance to a red-haired Tarantino. By the looks of his clothes and demeanor, he's a back-room guy somewhere, probably a civil servant. Clean, but basic. Doesn't appear to get out much, his face a waxen pallor. And he's balding, a diminishing wisp of curl floating like an island at the top of his forehead, the rest of his coastline receding to reveal ribbons of pinkish flesh. He's in his mid-30s, hasn't had a date in a while, a fact that doesn't make him unhappy. He's not giving up yet.
This guy is clearly smitten with a blue-eyed brunette who sits in the same spot every day, as do I. She's cute, in an off-hand way. Not the type that makes you sit straighter in your chair, but there's a uniqueness to her look. Her freckled nose is too small, too delicate, and is overwhelmed by her other features. A regular scent of cocoa butter trails behind her when she takes her seat. She reads, though perhaps only on the train, considering how long it's taking her to get through that Grafton novel. She's young, no older than 25. Probably has a boyfriend somewhere who works construction and drives a truck. She works in retail or attends a trade school based on her causal look, today's jean shorts and tie-dyed tank top a typical summer ensemble.
Tarantino brusquely chats her up every time he sees her, makes an obvious presentation of himself. I can't hear what he's saying (iPod, you know), but he's eager, bordering on over-bearing, punctuating every sentence with a toothy grin and forced guffaw. She's responds nicely enough, smiles and nods her head, but it's only courtesy. She'll eventually marry the boyfriend, sacrificing adventure for comfort.
Today, he couldn't get near her. No open seat, not even a direct sight line. He was clearly perturbed as he barged his way into my bank of seats, lips set in a firm line. He obviously snapped open his Wall Street Journal, his eyes darting around the car. I stared across at him from behind my sunglasses, poker-faced, but amused. His paper was open, but he wasn't reading. He was scanning the windows to his left, hoping to find her in a reflection. The rising color in his cheeks gave away his failure and distress.
I continued my surreptitious surveillance, forgoing a quick nap for the drama unfolding before me, fixed by this pure human interaction on a subtle, but unmistakable, scale.
He's only on board for two stops, but, his lucky day, a couple of folks disembarked halfway into his journey, opening up seats nearer his intended. Buoyed by this development, he leaned forward, probing for eye contact. Her gaze remained rooted on the lines before her, however, and with an extended sigh, he slumped back in resignation.
She seemed to feel his attention on her and slyly glanced his direction a couple times. Just as quickly, she returned to her book, apparently relieved to miss his stare. She shifted away, toward the side of the car, and showed him only her shoulder.
At his stop, he stood abruptly, not caring that he whacked me on the knee with his backpack. He worked his way purposefully into the aisle, all overt movement. He searched her as he departed, eyes pleading for her attention, a simple smile.
I intently watched the scene unfold. She never looked up, never flinched, until he was gone. At which point she raised her head, fixed me with a stone glare and said,
"What the fuck are you staring at?"
I shifted toward the side of the car and showed her only my shoulder.
Joe Speaker is a writer and poker player from Southern California.
May 18, 2005
The Conquering Hero
By Joe Speaker © 2005
"You promised," Mari said, fixing me with an attempt at a stern gaze, the mirth at the corners of her mouth giving her away.
"I know. I know," I replied. "But I think I need another shot first."
Of course I promised, I thought to myself. We're dating. I'd agree to a naked lambada with an unruly cactus to get in your pants. I am brave. I am intrepid. I am a gallant conquistador willing to explore the world's crannies to impress you. I will not be defeated in my quest.
That's how we find ourselves on our first adventure together, midway through a two-week trek across France. For several intensive months, we'd been planning, trying to reconcile our occasionally competing desires. I wanted history. She wanted cuisine. Here in La Rochelle, we found both.
La Rochelle is a strategically situated port town on the southwest coast of France. Since the 14th century, La Tour de La Chaine, essentially a massive chain stretched between two towers to ward off enemy ships, has guarded the entrance to its harbor. The towers later housed prisoners whose jailhouse graffiti, some of it remarkably artistic, remains to this day.
La Rochelle adopted reformist ideas during the Renaissance, becoming a center of innovation and prosperity. At least until Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis XIII blockaded the city in the 17th Century as part of a crackdown on independent factions within France. The city's inhabitants were literally starved into obedience.
Sounds like a good place to eat.
The region is well known for a certain delicacy. An aphrodisiac, some say, which neither of us had ever eaten. Our search brought us to this crowded restaurant, where we found them. Splashed all over the menu.
Huitres. Oysters.
Mari lives for food. She can recall every good meal she's ever had with startling clarity. Some mediocre ones, too. She favors exotic dishes, experimental and pungent. For my part, I'm a bit more conservative in my culinary tastes, refined, no doubt, by growing up with parents reared in the Midwest. Kill it, cut it, deep-fry it. Not a lot of sushi in my childhood home. My palate has not noticeably expanded since.
This is a vacation, however. A time for experimentation. For proving my explorer's heart to the fair damsel. It's beautiful here. Nothing can befall us. It had rained all afternoon, the wetness only adding to the town's charm. All gray slate and glistening, the buildings looked somehow older, more authentic. Now nightfall, the rain had given way to a heavy mist, softening the light from the iron streetlamps, dusting the cobblestone streets. I could imagine us later strolling through the fog, posed like a lover's postcard, frozen in that romantic moment forever.
We ordered a half-dozen oysters from the affable waiter, the smallest of the ten or so varieties they featured. When they arrived, he suggested we eat the first one au naturale, without any of the condiments he'd brought along.
"It is traditional," he assured us. To this day, I don't know if he was jerking our chain. Regardless, bring on the bounty. I am ready. I am Magellan. I am Pizarro.
"Go ahead," I challenged Mari when the oysters arrived. She pulled a shell from the leaf-covered plate and split it open. There it was, gray and milky white and nebulous, about the size of a marble. I was relieved to see how tiny it was, just an itty bitty little oyster. Nothing to a man of my purported stature.
Mari quickly threw back the oyster, salty seawater running down her chin. I stared for her reaction.
"It's okay," she said. "I don't see what the big deal is. It doesn't really taste like anything."
"Well, honey," I answered with a smile. "The big deal is that it's an oyster. It looks like something I hock up after a two-pack-of-cigs night at the pub. The big deal is that it's raw. And there's no ketchup."
"You're so boring," she laughed.
"Yes, I am. But here I am, on this expedition, prepared to conquer this mollusk. Just for you."
I grabbed for a shell and cracked it open.
Before I could even react, Mari crumbled in a fit of laughter. Oh. My. God. The oyster I'd chosen was quite a bit bigger than her's had been. As long as a man's thumb. A big man's thumb. Andre the Fucking Giant's thumb. Mari buried her face in her napkin, her giggles beyond control. I could only sigh and tip the shell to my mouth. All hands on deck.
"RHURK!" my throat protested. Above the napkin, Mari's eyes widened in surprise. Instantly, she scanned the cafe, seeing startled faces turn our way. Her laugher died abruptly and her forehead reddened in mortification.
The damn thing got stuck on the way down. I choked it back up, only slightly, and tried to gulp it down again.
"RHHUUURRRK!"
Holy shit. The sound came involuntarily, a spasm from deep within my diaphragm, with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Everyone is looking at us. Some laughing, some pointing, some horrified. Tears are welling in my eyes.
"RHHHHHUUUUUUURRRRRRRK!"
Just like that, all drawn out and sharp. I'm panicking. I'm desperate. I vaguely think I'm about to die. This thing, this fucking oyster, is trapped in my gullet, salt and metal drowning my taste buds. This can't happen to me! I am a swashbuckler, a hero! An oyster cannot fell me!
I turn to Mari, pleading with my eyes, but she's gone cold. It's obvious she hates me right now. Hates me like she's never hated anything in her entire life. She wants to crawl away and hide from these people forever. Never see me again. Murder me in my sleep. For infinite seconds she only stares at me, her face narrow and caustic.
She reaches back as if to punch me and I brace myself for the blow. She catches me square between the shoulder blades, as hard a smack as I've ever received. I can feel the anger--the purpose--in the impact, which sends the oyster flying back out of me and onto the carpet.
It lands near the waiter, who is striding angrily towards us. He retrieves the regurgitated bi-valve without slowing. He arrives at our table, stone-faced.
"There is no charge," he says, pulling the remaining oysters away. "Bon soir."
"Bon soir," we mutter timidly, and hurry out into the misty night, defeated.
Joe Speaker is a poker- and soccer-playing ne'er-do-well from the godforsaken desert east of Los Angeles. He is universally unpublished and generally pissed off about that fact. He enjoys long walks on the beach and seeing the sun come up through the front doors of the local Indian casino. He's married and has a three-year-old son. You can visit him at The Obituarium.
"You promised," Mari said, fixing me with an attempt at a stern gaze, the mirth at the corners of her mouth giving her away.
"I know. I know," I replied. "But I think I need another shot first."
Of course I promised, I thought to myself. We're dating. I'd agree to a naked lambada with an unruly cactus to get in your pants. I am brave. I am intrepid. I am a gallant conquistador willing to explore the world's crannies to impress you. I will not be defeated in my quest.
That's how we find ourselves on our first adventure together, midway through a two-week trek across France. For several intensive months, we'd been planning, trying to reconcile our occasionally competing desires. I wanted history. She wanted cuisine. Here in La Rochelle, we found both.
La Rochelle is a strategically situated port town on the southwest coast of France. Since the 14th century, La Tour de La Chaine, essentially a massive chain stretched between two towers to ward off enemy ships, has guarded the entrance to its harbor. The towers later housed prisoners whose jailhouse graffiti, some of it remarkably artistic, remains to this day.
La Rochelle adopted reformist ideas during the Renaissance, becoming a center of innovation and prosperity. At least until Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis XIII blockaded the city in the 17th Century as part of a crackdown on independent factions within France. The city's inhabitants were literally starved into obedience.
Sounds like a good place to eat.
The region is well known for a certain delicacy. An aphrodisiac, some say, which neither of us had ever eaten. Our search brought us to this crowded restaurant, where we found them. Splashed all over the menu.
Huitres. Oysters.
Mari lives for food. She can recall every good meal she's ever had with startling clarity. Some mediocre ones, too. She favors exotic dishes, experimental and pungent. For my part, I'm a bit more conservative in my culinary tastes, refined, no doubt, by growing up with parents reared in the Midwest. Kill it, cut it, deep-fry it. Not a lot of sushi in my childhood home. My palate has not noticeably expanded since.
This is a vacation, however. A time for experimentation. For proving my explorer's heart to the fair damsel. It's beautiful here. Nothing can befall us. It had rained all afternoon, the wetness only adding to the town's charm. All gray slate and glistening, the buildings looked somehow older, more authentic. Now nightfall, the rain had given way to a heavy mist, softening the light from the iron streetlamps, dusting the cobblestone streets. I could imagine us later strolling through the fog, posed like a lover's postcard, frozen in that romantic moment forever.
We ordered a half-dozen oysters from the affable waiter, the smallest of the ten or so varieties they featured. When they arrived, he suggested we eat the first one au naturale, without any of the condiments he'd brought along.
"It is traditional," he assured us. To this day, I don't know if he was jerking our chain. Regardless, bring on the bounty. I am ready. I am Magellan. I am Pizarro.
"Go ahead," I challenged Mari when the oysters arrived. She pulled a shell from the leaf-covered plate and split it open. There it was, gray and milky white and nebulous, about the size of a marble. I was relieved to see how tiny it was, just an itty bitty little oyster. Nothing to a man of my purported stature.
Mari quickly threw back the oyster, salty seawater running down her chin. I stared for her reaction.
"It's okay," she said. "I don't see what the big deal is. It doesn't really taste like anything."
"Well, honey," I answered with a smile. "The big deal is that it's an oyster. It looks like something I hock up after a two-pack-of-cigs night at the pub. The big deal is that it's raw. And there's no ketchup."
"You're so boring," she laughed.
"Yes, I am. But here I am, on this expedition, prepared to conquer this mollusk. Just for you."
I grabbed for a shell and cracked it open.
Before I could even react, Mari crumbled in a fit of laughter. Oh. My. God. The oyster I'd chosen was quite a bit bigger than her's had been. As long as a man's thumb. A big man's thumb. Andre the Fucking Giant's thumb. Mari buried her face in her napkin, her giggles beyond control. I could only sigh and tip the shell to my mouth. All hands on deck.
"RHURK!" my throat protested. Above the napkin, Mari's eyes widened in surprise. Instantly, she scanned the cafe, seeing startled faces turn our way. Her laugher died abruptly and her forehead reddened in mortification.
The damn thing got stuck on the way down. I choked it back up, only slightly, and tried to gulp it down again.
"RHHUUURRRK!"
Holy shit. The sound came involuntarily, a spasm from deep within my diaphragm, with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Everyone is looking at us. Some laughing, some pointing, some horrified. Tears are welling in my eyes.
"RHHHHHUUUUUUURRRRRRRK!"
Just like that, all drawn out and sharp. I'm panicking. I'm desperate. I vaguely think I'm about to die. This thing, this fucking oyster, is trapped in my gullet, salt and metal drowning my taste buds. This can't happen to me! I am a swashbuckler, a hero! An oyster cannot fell me!
I turn to Mari, pleading with my eyes, but she's gone cold. It's obvious she hates me right now. Hates me like she's never hated anything in her entire life. She wants to crawl away and hide from these people forever. Never see me again. Murder me in my sleep. For infinite seconds she only stares at me, her face narrow and caustic.
She reaches back as if to punch me and I brace myself for the blow. She catches me square between the shoulder blades, as hard a smack as I've ever received. I can feel the anger--the purpose--in the impact, which sends the oyster flying back out of me and onto the carpet.
It lands near the waiter, who is striding angrily towards us. He retrieves the regurgitated bi-valve without slowing. He arrives at our table, stone-faced.
"There is no charge," he says, pulling the remaining oysters away. "Bon soir."
"Bon soir," we mutter timidly, and hurry out into the misty night, defeated.
Joe Speaker is a poker- and soccer-playing ne'er-do-well from the godforsaken desert east of Los Angeles. He is universally unpublished and generally pissed off about that fact. He enjoys long walks on the beach and seeing the sun come up through the front doors of the local Indian casino. He's married and has a three-year-old son. You can visit him at The Obituarium.
April 16, 2005
The Jack
By Joe Speaker © 2005
A thick haze hung over the Las Vegas like a shroud. Dank brown, almost black, it obscured even the gaudiest of the city's iconic buildings. "Looks like the Apocalypse is early," I muttered to myself as I descended into its heart.
As I drove, I could feel its weight pressing down on me, even as the skyline came slowly into focus. It was forbidding, negating the usual promise of action, the standard rush of adrenaline. Normally, my anticipation would rise to critical mass as I neared the city limits. This time, that excitement was crowded out. Something else rushed in.
Fear.
I could feel it coagulating in my bones.
*
Trepidation remained an hour later. I sensed a similar haze lingering over the Excalibur poker room. I had selected the eight seat in a $2-$6 spread limit game, wedged between a pair of players. To my right, an older, genial gentleman with towers of chips, ascending in height like bars on a cell phone. He was fully charged. On my left, a dead ringer for actor Nick Stahl, though he said his name was Kevin. Nick/Kevin was sullen and unkempt, bent over his chips and mumbling derisively. I sat uncomfortably – claustrophobic - with my shoulders and elbows jammed inward, never moving except to throw another hand away. A practice I continued for 15 minutes.
*
When I first arrived at the hotel, I lugged my doubt over to the poker room. I leaned self-consciously on the rail, looking for signs. What exactly, I couldn't say. I saw nothing to lift me from my gloom.
I had lay awake several nights in the past two weeks, eager for this moment. I envisioned a boisterous bacchanal, chips flying, ice cubes clinking, laughter and despair in equal measure. Instead, I saw serious faces and rigid spines. Skepticism greeted every movement. Every bet spawned a silent and thorough interrogation.
As I walked away, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. How could I think that I, someone so new to the game, someone who had usually played against the endless and faceless online, had any business being here. In real life. In a Las Vegas poker room. I chastised myself inside my head.
*
I peeked at my cards almost hoping to again throw them away. "I'm not ready for this," I thought. "I'm in over my head. I need more study."
My hand revealed ace and jack of spades. On my action, I recklessly pulled a pair of chips from my stack, nearly toppling it in the process.
"I call."
"Why are you shaking?" Nick/Kevin sneered. He eyed me contemptuously from below, hunched over his chips like a squirrel guarding his acorns. I ignored him. Not that there was sufficient saliva in my mouth to croak a response. I know why I'm shaking. He doesn't have to. I pressed my fingertips against the felt in a vague attempt to quiet the tremors.
"Four players," the dealer declares, and turns the flop: Ace of hearts, king of spades, five of diamonds. I exhale, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath, and immediately hope it wasn't audible. Two players check to me and I can barely remain inside my skin.
"I bet. Six dollars."
I throw the blue chips out there quickly, one stack of three and sliding three more toward the pot in a nice straight line. Hey, good form.
Nick/Kevin punctuates his call: "You're still shaking."
*
In all honesty, I had played live Hold 'Em before, back when I first caught the itch for the game. But I really didn't have a concept of the game then. I was having fun, like a golf game with your drinking buddies. But this...this was something different. I have something at stake now. Hours of reading poker books. Tens of thousands of online hands. A reputation to uphold, even if it's merely a reputation I've hung on myself. This is for me. Can I play this game? For a couple months, I've been of the firm belief that I can. What if I'm wrong?
*
Only three of us now, and the dealer flips the turn card: Jack of diamonds. My heart starts thundering in my chest. I look down, almost expecting to see it visibly fluttering my shirt. I belatedly realize I've just made a mistake, exposed a tell.
"You like that jack, huh?" Nick/Kevin says. It's not really a question. Checked to me and I bet again. He nods to himself, "Yep, you like that jack," and folds.
The three seat, to this point only existing on the periphery of my universe, calls the bet. I finally fixate on him, Nick/Kevin's mumbling fading into the background. He's older, probably his 50s, with the deep tan of a man who works outdoors. He's wearing huge mirrored sunglasses and is far too bald to try salvaging a hairdo, which hasn't stopped him from trying. I stare straight at him with what I hope appears to be confidence. In fact, I can almost convince myself that it is. My gut churns, but for the first time, my mind is calm.
"Two players," the dealer notes and drops a meaningless 4 of spades on the river. My mind flashes, "No flush for ..."
My thought is interrupted as he reaches for chips. I take a momentary pause. Two check-calls and then he bets into me with a seeming rag on the river? What the hell is this? Could he have just check-called Broadway on the turn? Sat quietly on his Big Slick waiting to pounce?
I'm knocked off stride. My vision of how this hand ends has just been corrupted. It's all I can do to keep from shaking my head and showing my confusion. I can't solve this riddle, so I throw out my six chips and ask for the answer.
"Pair of Kings," the man says and I'm certain I'm not hearing him clearly. I lean over the table for a closer look at his cards.
King. Two. Off.
I hurriedly grab my cards and hurl them at the felt. "Two pair," the dealer says from far away. "Aces and jacks." He pushes the pot my way as my head swims. I can't suppress the grin. I don't even think I want to.
"I knew you liked that jack," someone says.
Joe Speaker is a poker- and soccer-playing ne'er-do-well from the godforsaken desert east of Los Angeles. He is universally unpublished and generally pissed off about that fact. He enjoys long walks on the beach and seeing the sun come up through the front doors of the local Indian casino. He's married and has a three-year-old son. You can visit him at The Obituarium.
A thick haze hung over the Las Vegas like a shroud. Dank brown, almost black, it obscured even the gaudiest of the city's iconic buildings. "Looks like the Apocalypse is early," I muttered to myself as I descended into its heart.
As I drove, I could feel its weight pressing down on me, even as the skyline came slowly into focus. It was forbidding, negating the usual promise of action, the standard rush of adrenaline. Normally, my anticipation would rise to critical mass as I neared the city limits. This time, that excitement was crowded out. Something else rushed in.
Fear.
I could feel it coagulating in my bones.
*
Trepidation remained an hour later. I sensed a similar haze lingering over the Excalibur poker room. I had selected the eight seat in a $2-$6 spread limit game, wedged between a pair of players. To my right, an older, genial gentleman with towers of chips, ascending in height like bars on a cell phone. He was fully charged. On my left, a dead ringer for actor Nick Stahl, though he said his name was Kevin. Nick/Kevin was sullen and unkempt, bent over his chips and mumbling derisively. I sat uncomfortably – claustrophobic - with my shoulders and elbows jammed inward, never moving except to throw another hand away. A practice I continued for 15 minutes.
*
When I first arrived at the hotel, I lugged my doubt over to the poker room. I leaned self-consciously on the rail, looking for signs. What exactly, I couldn't say. I saw nothing to lift me from my gloom.
I had lay awake several nights in the past two weeks, eager for this moment. I envisioned a boisterous bacchanal, chips flying, ice cubes clinking, laughter and despair in equal measure. Instead, I saw serious faces and rigid spines. Skepticism greeted every movement. Every bet spawned a silent and thorough interrogation.
As I walked away, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. How could I think that I, someone so new to the game, someone who had usually played against the endless and faceless online, had any business being here. In real life. In a Las Vegas poker room. I chastised myself inside my head.
*
I peeked at my cards almost hoping to again throw them away. "I'm not ready for this," I thought. "I'm in over my head. I need more study."
My hand revealed ace and jack of spades. On my action, I recklessly pulled a pair of chips from my stack, nearly toppling it in the process.
"I call."
"Why are you shaking?" Nick/Kevin sneered. He eyed me contemptuously from below, hunched over his chips like a squirrel guarding his acorns. I ignored him. Not that there was sufficient saliva in my mouth to croak a response. I know why I'm shaking. He doesn't have to. I pressed my fingertips against the felt in a vague attempt to quiet the tremors.
"Four players," the dealer declares, and turns the flop: Ace of hearts, king of spades, five of diamonds. I exhale, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath, and immediately hope it wasn't audible. Two players check to me and I can barely remain inside my skin.
"I bet. Six dollars."
I throw the blue chips out there quickly, one stack of three and sliding three more toward the pot in a nice straight line. Hey, good form.
Nick/Kevin punctuates his call: "You're still shaking."
*
In all honesty, I had played live Hold 'Em before, back when I first caught the itch for the game. But I really didn't have a concept of the game then. I was having fun, like a golf game with your drinking buddies. But this...this was something different. I have something at stake now. Hours of reading poker books. Tens of thousands of online hands. A reputation to uphold, even if it's merely a reputation I've hung on myself. This is for me. Can I play this game? For a couple months, I've been of the firm belief that I can. What if I'm wrong?
*
Only three of us now, and the dealer flips the turn card: Jack of diamonds. My heart starts thundering in my chest. I look down, almost expecting to see it visibly fluttering my shirt. I belatedly realize I've just made a mistake, exposed a tell.
"You like that jack, huh?" Nick/Kevin says. It's not really a question. Checked to me and I bet again. He nods to himself, "Yep, you like that jack," and folds.
The three seat, to this point only existing on the periphery of my universe, calls the bet. I finally fixate on him, Nick/Kevin's mumbling fading into the background. He's older, probably his 50s, with the deep tan of a man who works outdoors. He's wearing huge mirrored sunglasses and is far too bald to try salvaging a hairdo, which hasn't stopped him from trying. I stare straight at him with what I hope appears to be confidence. In fact, I can almost convince myself that it is. My gut churns, but for the first time, my mind is calm.
"Two players," the dealer notes and drops a meaningless 4 of spades on the river. My mind flashes, "No flush for ..."
My thought is interrupted as he reaches for chips. I take a momentary pause. Two check-calls and then he bets into me with a seeming rag on the river? What the hell is this? Could he have just check-called Broadway on the turn? Sat quietly on his Big Slick waiting to pounce?
I'm knocked off stride. My vision of how this hand ends has just been corrupted. It's all I can do to keep from shaking my head and showing my confusion. I can't solve this riddle, so I throw out my six chips and ask for the answer.
"Pair of Kings," the man says and I'm certain I'm not hearing him clearly. I lean over the table for a closer look at his cards.
King. Two. Off.
I hurriedly grab my cards and hurl them at the felt. "Two pair," the dealer says from far away. "Aces and jacks." He pushes the pot my way as my head swims. I can't suppress the grin. I don't even think I want to.
"I knew you liked that jack," someone says.
Joe Speaker is a poker- and soccer-playing ne'er-do-well from the godforsaken desert east of Los Angeles. He is universally unpublished and generally pissed off about that fact. He enjoys long walks on the beach and seeing the sun come up through the front doors of the local Indian casino. He's married and has a three-year-old son. You can visit him at The Obituarium.
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