Garrett Harris 5 p.m., Feb. 6
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Monday Night Football. Turf Club. Intently watching the game while I chug guinness. I am avoiding eye contact in order not miss a play or a sip. During the third quarter, a guido sits down next to me. He asks the bartender to check his credit card to see if there is any money on it. Nope, no money...he leaves. Fifteen minutes later, he struts back in and announces he placed a call, and the card is good. He tries to start a conversation, but I am curt with my answers. He announces he wants to buy me a shot. I tell him I am a bourbon man, so he buys me a knob shot.
His name is Jack. He is from New Jersey. He buys me two more shots. I like Jack. He proudly shows me his new iphone. Being a man of integrity, I buy us two more knob shots. I absorb Jack’s life story, but reveal little details. Jack invites me out to a party with some girls in Golden Hill. We first stop by my pad, so I can take care of the dog. Jack asks me if I am poor. Jack doesn’t like my dog. I don’t like Jack. Jack lives in that corporate housing complex on Broadway and 27th/26th. I plop down on his futon as he primps himself for the women. He plays a counting crowes album. I don’t like Jack. Cristi and Misti arrive. They are strippers at Deja Vu. They have weed that has a first name and a last name. We smoke, and Kristi and Jack drift into the kitchen. I sit in silence with Misti on the futon. I rack my brain for something to say. The silence continues on the futon. Kristi enters with a full tray of kamikaze shots, and Misti leaps from the futon. We collect ourselves and migrate to a party
hosted by BeeOne.
The party is in the abandon house across the street from the post office. Standing outside the 7 foot wire fence, I suggest they are mistaken, because I hear no noise. Misti informs me the party is in the cellar. Jack and I help Cristi and Misti over the fence. I help Jack over the fence. As I struggle to climb over the fence, Jack tells me to follow the glow sticks, and he enters the dark house. Sure enough, I spot glow sticks every six feet as I enter. They lead me downstairs to a skinny bald tattooed punk sitting in front of a closed door. I notice he has a stamp in his hand, so I stick out my wrist. He shakes his head and sticks his tongue out. I stick my tongue out for anything I put on my tongue in the past has always been fun. He stamps my tongue and I enter.
Darkness and the sound of squarepusher surrounds me. Before I can study the environment, Jack hands me a MM on the rocks and grabs the nape of my neck directing me to two hispanic women. The gods smile upon me, and I am coupled with the hot one. Her name is Patty. As we chat niceties, she talks with her hands, which repeatly caress me causing my neurons to fire. She explains to me how cool she is. My neurons become silent. Are you normal, Patty whispers in my ear. I whisper No. What is “not normal” she hits back. My brain decides telling this chica the truth would crush her world. I recoil and mutter a cliche. Patty asks if I am into her, and I respond surprisingly with the truth this time. As always, the truth hurts. She retreats, and I hit the bar ( plywood sitting on top of concrete blocks in front of an army of bottles).The vibe is very fluid. I remember the stamp on my tongue while the room dances to a sick frank zappa mix.
Jack materializes next to me. He pounds on the plywood for bourbon, and the bartender obliges. We quarrel amusingly over guitarists and swap fables of our best concerts ever. Misti descends upon us for more shots. She grabs our butts in laughter and directs us down a dark hallway splattered with neon graffiti. Misti swings around and scolds “Behave!..Be Cool...You are going to meet BeeOne!” Jack and I giggle uncontrollably, which meets a harsh arm pinch via Misti. We enter a room with a circle of lawn chairs orbiting a table holding those mexican glass jesus candles.
The people in the room are flickering like flames. Misti and Jack silently slide into chairs. I clumsily and noisily clop down into a chair next to BeeOne, who is holding court. I impress his majesty with my knowledge of the Pink Floyd Obscure album blasting. He blesses me with a three foot glass bong with sparkling weed. In a cloud of smoke, I spy Patty in the circle, but I chuckle to myself, because at closer inspection it is a fat white chick. I am not even close. I am floating in Golden Hill. BeeOne brings me back by whispering in my ear. "What did the blind and deaf child get for christmas?" While I ponder this question, BeeOne spits the punchline in my ear. "Cancer!!!." Uncontrollable laughter builds within me like a tsunami. I am on my feet rocking in hysteria, which is apparently contagious for BeeOne is rolling on the floor. In a one jerk, my head slams into the majesty’s bong on the table of fire causing the bong to shatter. The music stops. The laughter stops. Jack diffuses the situation by declaring, who brought the cool kid?
More like this:
- In P.B. the hotter you are the easier it is not to care — April 17, 2013
- Noon — Dec. 26, 2012
- Earthless — April 5, 2009
- Valentines — Feb. 15, 2009
- Revenge High — Nov. 12, 2008