Derby

 So, this was it huh?.

 It made sense. 

I turned the object over in my hands a couple times and attempted to think back. 

The day (and night) before we had our 6th annual Kentucky Derby party, complete with Horse racing, Cucumber sandwiches and enough Bourbon to float a Pony. 

   We were mostly drinking Mint Juleps, which, when made correctly, are hard to beat on a hot summers day. Later when we retreated to the lounge, I was well lit, but I thought a few Negronis might sharpen me up a bit.
  We drank, talked, and drank some more. 

in our conversation, It came up that possibly, one of our usual crowd was absent because, "last he was here time you made him drink a shot at gun point" 

True, but, because he wouldnt drink Potchine, it was justifiable in my opinion.

 My friend went on. "I mean, the big knife is one thing, but guns, I don't know..." 

The big knife. 

Yep. Knives and drinking had a long running partnership in this crowd. 

From playing "Mumblty peg" with a switch blades to "five Finger Fillet" with an 18' Scottish dirk, We all had scars. The "big knife" was an oversize Crocodile Dundee monstrosity that I used for carving up the late night grapefruit. People liked the big knife because, usually, by the time it came out we were lit, and just as usually, it meant it was time for grapefruit. Not the same with a .38 caliber revolver. "Ok," I said "Tell you what. I'm going to let you in on something" I drew the .38 from its spot under the bar, and held it up, letting it glint in the electric Tiki torch light. "That's not loaded is it?" asked one guest nervously. "well" I said "Let me check...I swung the cylinder out and gave it a spin... nope"...

"C'mon, you guys think I would pull a loaded gun on you in my drunken stupor?" 

A few guests shrugged, but said nothing. I guess it did not seem out of the question. Sometimes things got crazy, and you just went with it. Another night at the 821.  I put the gun away, and shook up another Negroni. We needed something to liven things up. I needed either more or less booze, something to set my mind straight.
"I'll be right back" I said.
I left my station behind the bar and headed up stairs.
 But, I never made it back. My 10 or so Mint Juleps topped off with so many double Negronis had found me. I was told that when everyone came up from the lounge some hours later they found me on the couch leaning slightly to one side, squinting vaguely towards the television.
All I would say was "I'm Done"
In the morning I could remember that I had left the lounge on a quest. We needed something, something important, and I had gone to get it. 

But what was it? 

Not a clue. 

My wife offered some help
"When we found you up here you had that..."
She pointed at an object on the coffee table.
"you were cradling it like a baby"
"Ahh...it's all clear to me now.." I said, as I rolled the object back and forth in my hands.
It was important after all.
It was a grapefruit.

None of this never happened.

This never happened. 

We made a pact. No one would talk about it. 

None of this Ever happened.

But, just for the sake of argument, and to perhaps tell a tale, if such a thing did happen, It might have gone something like this.

And, I confess I am not sure if I could say exactly how such a thing might have started. 

And, I can't say specific dates, other than it was probably sometime around 30 years ago?

But at that time, it probably started like it always did...

Drinking beer at my friend Pete’s house.

This was before cell phones, so how the hell we all found each other on a Saturday night, was luck, and usually a combination of calling around to see who was where, or knowing that so and so might be at this bar, or so and so is having a party, or any other number of pre-arranged clues. But this night, after making some calls, and weighing some options, we left Pete’s house and went to a place called “Vesuvio”  A bar in San Francisco’s North Beach area that had been there since the fourty’s. A tiny cramped place that had been the home of the beat poets.

So...

I should also explain. Back then I was what some ( including myself) would have called a "scooter boy" We rode Vespas and lambrettas, belonged to clubs, had events. 

 It was a "thing". 

But, back to it being before cell phones, what that also meant was that if you saw a scooter, or scooters, parked outside of some establishment, more than likely, you had friends inside, weather old or about to be...

And so it was this night. 

I don't remember why exactly, but like I said we had gone to Vesuvios. We were drinking beer, and the occasional shot of Ouzo, because, well, I deemed it necessary. After a while, other friends showed up. We had a few more beers, and then they said knew of a house party not far away, so we headed there. 

We hung out there for a bit, but as it was getting close to midnight, and we knew liquor sales cut off time was eminent, we began making plans. 

Maybe this is where the madness began.

Fun Fact: So, in 1989 there was a pretty big earthquake. It was centered in the Santa Cruz Mountains, but it caused destruction all through the bay area. One of the many casualties of this earthquake was the Embarcadero freeway. Several miles of elevated concrete running from one side of San Francisco to the other, the idea being to connect the golden gate bridge with the bay bridge. It has it's own story. People loved it, people hated it, people loved to hate it. Like I said, it had its own story.

But after the earthquake, it was condemned. 

However, it was several years before it was actually torn down.

 I guess this is where the madness truly began.

There were five of us, if memory serves. 

We left the dwindling party, went to a liquor store and bought several cases of beer. We strapped them on the backs of our Scooters, and then lingered outside on the curb, trying to decide where to consume said beer. 

Sure, sitting on a comfy couch and pounding beer after beer had a certain attraction, but it was typical. We did it at home, we did it at parties, and we had just been doing that very activity. 

Now, I can’t say for sure that stimulants were involved, but, they usually were, and the thought of couching it seemed to hold little interest. We wanted adventure. We were feeling mischievous. We needed something to sooth our jittering souls. 

We considered many destinations, and eventually I mentioned the abandoned Embarcadero freeway.

 

Several lanes of empty elevated concrete, spanning several miles far above and along the San Francisco waterfront. 

"Yeah, but how?" it was a good question, but lucky for me, I already knew.

"Follow me"

Now, I don't remember who originally told me, but I happened to know that all the "on" ramps to said abandoned freeway were not accessible. Barricaded and fenced. But for some reason, at least one of the off ramps was only partially barricaded. But on a scooter, if one was foolish enough to drive the wrong way down a one-way street, and "up" the "off" ramp, you could fairly easily get around the barricades. 

From there, the freeway was yours, and that particular night (or technically morning) it was.

It was a surreal thing. We rode up and onto the freeway, at first staying in the appropriate lanes. The first time we stopped, we pulled off the shoulder, parking our scooters as though traffic might need to get by. We started in on the beers. After a couple beers it hit me. I went and got on my scooter and rode it out aways, then came back at full thottle, screeching to a stop in the middle of the freeway, parked it, and walked back over to continue drinking. At first the group seemed confused. But then realized, at this moment, we owned this entire freeway. 

Pretty soon we were racing along in the wrong lanes, setting up obstacle course with bottles, and just generally enjoying the fact that at that moment, there were no rules. Just us, our scooters, miles of empty freeway, and a lot of beer.

We eventually settled down on the side of the freeway to drink and just talk. 

Just bullshit about life and what not. Trading stories, boasting about our sexual exploits, the typical things a bunch of drinking guys will talk about.

Maybe this is where the madness truly began.

I finished a beer, let out a loud belch, and then, rather than put the empty back in the box, I tossed it up over my shoulder. 

It went up over the guardrail, and disappeared into the darkness. There was enough time for my compatriots to give me a look of disbelief before we heard it shatter somewhere below.

"Ha! Holy shit!" someone said, but soon others followed suit.

It was a random act, but apparently, it wasn't enough to soothe desire of some to create mischief.  Eventually, someone in the group decided to see if they could make the shot into the pool of a hotel that was basically some 25+ yards out, and maybe 50 feet below us. They took a run up to the guardrail and launched the bottle.

We all held our breath. 

It sailed through the dark sky and eventually splashed down in the pool. We let out a collective whoop, there were some high fives, and "oh yeah"s... 

Now the exact sequence of events over the next several minutes is a bit fuzzy, but it probably went something like this:

I said, "I can do that" I finished the beer I was drinking, took a few steps back, ran up to the guardrail and launched my bottle. It sailed end over end through the darkness, getting smaller and smaller, I lost sight of it until it splashed in the pool. I did a little arms up victory dance, and cracked another beer. 

Another member of the group followed suit. 

Sort of.

There is a reason I say “sort of” 

It seemed like it happened in slow motion. The bottle went off into the darkness until it disappeared. But, then it landed several feet short of the water, and shattered on the pool deck. To my ears it was like a bomb. 

Someone, and it might have been me, said "Oh Fuck!"

We all ducked down and hid behind the guardrail motionless. 

But nothing happened.

Until another member of the group, who had yet to attempt the throw, decided to. This one also missed the mark. Another Bomb. They tried again, but same result. Another member of the group made one into the pool, but at this point, lights came on in the Hotel grounds that had previously been dark.

There was yelling and commotion...

"We gotta get the fuck out of here" I said. 

A couple of the others seemed unconcerned. "No one knows we are up here,” someone said. 

A few minutes later we heard sirens. 

"I am getting the fuck out of here" I grabbed what was left of one of the cases of beer, strapped it on the back of my scooter, and pushed off. I coasted a while then started up my scoot. I was probably a mile away when Pete caught up with me. We pulled off to the side of the freeway, hunkered down and cracked a beer.

 "fuck" I said, 

" I know" Pete said, "The other guys went back the way we came. I saw flashing cop lights down by the hotel, but…"

"Holy shit"

We finished our beers (stowed the bottles near the side of the road this time) got back on our scooters and continued along. We went through another barrier, but really didn't know where we were.  Suddenly it became apparent that we were not where we were supposed to be. We were on the freeway, but going the wrong way. We were dodging cars like a giant game of asteroids. Eventually, we ended up exiting the freeway on an "on" ramp. 

Lucky for us it was about 5:00 am, and there were not that many other people on the road. We made our way onto surface streets, and eventually went back to Pete’s house.

We sat on the couch and opened the last beers in the growing morning sun.

We clinked our bottles together.

"Holy Shit" I said.

"This never happened" Pete said.

I agreed...

None of this ever happened.

 

 

 

The Crazy Door

 “Is it open?”

It was CJ asking.

He was wild-eyed, and partly slumped on his bar stool, 

“Is the door open?” he asked. He had mischiviouse smile

It was open all right. 

It was evening, and it was morning, in Vegas.  

 

We arrived in Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon.

The morning started off rough enough, the night before we worked on a bottle of of Laphroig and a 12 pack at Aaron's place before heading to the Big Foot Lodge, a rustic Cabin themed bar a few blocks away. A national forest where the trees are swizzle sticks, and the streams run deep with beer and high proof cider. Later we went back to Aarons place and watched “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”. 

 I say watched, but it was mostly trying to focus well enough to grab the bottle of Jameson we were swigging from. Last thing I remember was cutting into a grapefruit, and then waking up on the floor in my "day" clothes. 

So I dozed in the van until Barstow, where we stopped for lunch.  

If you have never been to Barstow, here is the deal: 

Barstow is a shithole.  

If you are from Barstow, my apologies. 

I am sorry you live in a shithole.  

It was hot. 

Not like, “hey, it sure is warm” hot, but more like a thick wet fucking wool blanket of everything in the world being crappy hot. 

Thompson called it bat country, and although I wasn’t seeing any at the moment, my head was certainly swooping around like a blind rodent, perhaps just exercising, getting used to what was to come. 

    As we continued our trek across the desert, Aaron amused us with a dramatic reading. Today’s selection, Thompson’s "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved". It predates Fear and Loathing, and is a little less extreme, but it helps set the mood. Vegas appears on the horizon, and now, just as every time we cross this desert, I look out into the sand and scrub, and can’t help but wonder how many bodies are out there? How much of the grit is bone dust? Gambling debts unpaid, mob deals gone bad. Drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers, all in the eternal sleep. I always think that if you could scream “Last Call!” loud enough, and the ghosts all stood up, my guess is it would look like an army. 

    We roll into Vegas and set about getting our hotel sorted. I decide to sign in as “Raoul Duke”. We dump our suitcases and head off for the Thomas and Mack center, where the international Drum and Bagpipe tattoo will be held. This was one of the reasons we were here, to participate in a grand spectacle, touted by an ex-congressman to be a “uniquely inspiring event” The place is a cavern, seating for 18,000 people. Hundreds of pipers and drummers roam to an fro, talking, farting, practicing, all of them appear uniquely inspired to get this shit done with and start drinking.

      I turn to Aaron, “By Saturday night, this place could well be a Bellagio of vomit”  

Aaron looks around, considering the sheer potential, and chuckles “I think you may be right”   

  We finish our duties, grab a bite to eat and then set off for Frankie’s.   

Frankie’s Baby!

A couple times a year, Frankie’s is our home away from home in the neon hell of Vegas. 

Frankie’s.

Fuckin' A...

The First time we spent an evening at Frankie’s, it taught us things. 

Our friend Lauren took us there. Seemed innocent enough. A couple tropical drinks in a bamboo paradise... We got a round, then another... I pulled out my ukulele and struggled through a few tunes. More drinks were ordered. We moved to a bigger table, more drinks, then to a booth in the back.  Dark and beautiful, a relaxing oasis... We had a few more drinks, and then a few more. At some point we noticed that we were the only ones there, and that one of the bartenders was vacuuming the floors. 

    It must be getting close to Last call, I thought.

Maybe I said it out loud, because Aaron said, “What the fuck time is it?” 

It was 4 am.

Turns out there is no last call in Vegas. 

We were fucked. 

We had to be up and at the venue in a few hours, so, at our guides’ advice, we pushed on through.

Went to the White cross diner. I remember I got a patty melt. I don’t remember much else. Except that we saw a drunken Viking, marching along the road with a yard long margarita, and a necklace of Mardi gra beads. Somewhere there are pictures...

     But I digress...

 Frankie’s is a Tiki bar tucked away off the strip and far from the clutter. A fantastic oasis of strong tropical drinks and sixties strippers on the wide screen.  A place where it would take a hell of a lot to get tossed out, and believe me, we have since tested the parameters. (but thoses are other stories) A place filled with bamboo, thatch, Tikis, and a sense of ease. We were OK there. We were us. However, I should probably mention that we were a bit of a sight, Leather Jackets and Kilts in a sea of Hawaiian Shirts. The Bartender is a friend of ours, and many of the rounds were on the house. We took advantage of that fact. I have a vague memory of explaining to Jim the intensity that sometimes accompanies the perfect buzz, the sharpness, the sense of possibility, but he just stared with a goofy and slightly confused looking grin. I remember snapping my fingers at him and saying “stay with me, this is important” But the next day he insisted that I was just laughing and muttering gibberish as I zoomed in and out of his focal plain like a weird foreign film through a fish eye lens.  But I think it was more the effect that the Kahiki Kai’s had on him, because frankly, I knew what I was talking about, and goddamn it, it was important.

Eventually we knew it was time to go back to the hotel, as morning would come early, and it would be a long day. Show in the morning, set up in the afternoon, tear down, set up again, and show at night. 

 But our friend Jay had a plan. He said he knew of a place where you could get the perfect nightcap.

A Bacon Martini

I recoiled with delight, “Yes!” I shouted, “YES!” 

So with a promise that we would just grab one, and then go back to the hotel, CJ, and I poured ourselves into Jay’s truck and headed across town to “The Double Down”, a punk rock dive bar famous for the previously mentioned meat cocktail. 

    It was indeed a dive, but an odd Vegas style dive. A place that had been calculatedly thrashed. It looked old, but it really wasn’t. Signs advertising drink specials adorned the walls, most done in sharpie on cardboard. 

   One advertised that if you puke, you clean. Another offered puke insurance for $20. And yet another was for the “graveyard trifecta” , a Schlitz, “ass juice” and a Twinkie for $5.  A wall mural advised patrons to “shut up and drink”.  Good advice and we took it.  We sidled up to the bar and Jay ordered a couple bacon martinis and three plastic cups of the “ass juice”.  Aptly named, as it was nasty lookingand tasting stuff. My first guess was mix of Jagermister and red bull. Comparatively, the bacon Martini was pleasant. Jay decided we needed one more stop, so we drained the drinks and went around the corner to “Buffalo's” 

 After posing for photos with the security guards outside, we went in and ensconsed ourselves at the bar. The place had a noticeable, and apparently quite intentional, lack of females. The few we saw wanted pictures with us. Men in skirts, I guess...

We ordered rum and cokes, downed those and ordered more. The big screen TV assaulted us with bubble gum pop, lip-synced by an army of girls who all seemed to resemble Brittany spears. 

    At this point, I didn’t much care where we were.

We had a few drinks.

I was in a mood. The scene was sharpening. Canted slightly sideways, perhaps, but everything was becoming very clear. Probably the red bull kicking in?. A smooth young man approached me, “whatcha drinkin?” he asked. 

He seemed overly friendly. 

I swiveled on my bar stool, with eyes wide and gritted teeth “Adrenochrome” I shouted, hoisting my glass, “Fresh squeezed pineal gland”  

His smile faltered. The corner of his mouth twitched. 

I laughed, but it came out a stuttering hiss through my clenched teeth

“What?” he asked, his smile seemed to show discomfort. 

He looked confused, scared, and began backing away slowly.

“GODDAMNED RAW FUCKING ADRENAL!”, I yelled. 

Then I turned to CJ. “I'M GOING UP!”

“Is it open” he asked, “Is the door open?”

The door he was referring to was the crazy door, and It was indeed open.  

“I'M GOING UP!” I repeated, and then climbed my barstool up on to the bar, arms waving wildly in the air, gyrating to some blonde in a mini kilt on the big screen singing “Param Pam Pam” 

 

The crazy door is a funny thing. 

   Most people can’t see it when they’re sober. Even if they do, It’s there with a sign that says, “Do not open”. And you obey the sign, because it must be there for a reason. But after enough drinks the sign is gone, and the knocking starts. Some times you open it up, see who's out there, and invite a few in. Usually a beautiful hostess, who knows where there is a party, just up around the next drink. “Come play” she says, and she does look like she knows a good time. Sometimes it is far less eloquent. Sometimes you kick that fucker open and barge on through without looking, and party with whoever, or whatever, is on the other side. 

But it is a tricky thing. The more you open it, the easier it opens.

The longer it is open, the harder it is to close. 

   Thompson was well acquainted with the crazy door. Eventually his was kicked in too many times, and would never close again.  A shattered frame on bent hinges. That may have been what finally did him in. 

Like I said, It’s tricky.

Going crazy for entertainment is an animal all to itself. It cannot be tamed; it cannot be made to do tricks in the hope that someone will toss a coin. 

No, most times the way it works is you grab hold and ride it until it throws you to the ground, or eats you. 

Sometimes both. 

   Then there is the rare occasion that it just swerves toward the curb and tells you to get the fuck off its bus. Tonight was such a night. The bus was Jays truck, but he pretty much just swung into the parking lot and said “get out”

A good thing too. We had work in the morning, and now that was only a few hours off. 

I had to catch some sleep before it all started up again.  

Back at the hotel, CJ was in a sorry state.

 “What are you...What are you going to do?” he asked. He looked like he could barely focus, slowly weaving back and forth as if on the deck of some unseen ship.

“I’m going to try and get some fucking sleep. You should do the same”

“I ...I was thinking about going to the Casino, you wanna...” 

“No” I said, opening my room door and stepping inside.

“I’m kinda hungry. You want to get something to eat?” He asked. 

He looked sad, pleading.

I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.

I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.

     In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out. 

But if it's not closed long enough, after a while, it just stops closing. Why bother? They just put up a velvet rope, and the crazy lines up. And that's ok, because they look like a fine bunch, at least through the thick bottom of a rocks glass. So at the end of the night you wave them off and tune out as much as possible, and hope that some sleep comes before the daylight

    But, when that daylight comes, they look different.

Your hostess is still there, but now she is a bloated, rotten, leather teddy bear with an eel’s head. “Come play,” she hisses, sending out a fine mist that reeks of whisky, sweat and bad breath. A smell you know well because you spent the night with it. Tossing and turning in it, marinating, unable to go completely to sleep because of the constant gibbering of the denizens behind the rope. Paranoia begins top creep in as well. Sending out wispy tentacles like a fog machine filled with cheap bacon flavored vodka.

I concentrate on the hum of the air conditioner, and a few fitful hours of sleep later was at the breakfast buffet, and then back in the van. 

   CJ was missing. 

   We called his cell phone several times, but he didn’t answer. Finally I went up to his room and pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again, and gave it a few kicks, but again, nothing. I was going to start screaming under the door, but maid service was a couple rooms away, and starting to take notice, and the last thing we needed was the cops. I called the front desk and had them ring his room. I could hear the phone ringing through the door. The clerk came back on, “sir, no one is picking up, would...” I hung up. 

“I think he’s dead,” I said as I climbed into the van. Lucky for him, and us, that morning’s gig was more of a dress rehearsal, a warm up performance for local school kids, so CJ going missing was more of an annoyance than tragedy. But if he was dead, that was certainly going to put a twist on the weekend.  We speculated on what could have become of him. One thought was that he went back to the casino and got in over his head. Maybe bet too big, couldn’t pay, and was now part of the ghost army of the desert. Another thought was that he found some early morning companionship, got rolled and was now naked and probably dead in a dumpster somewhere. Or a dozen other scenarios, all of which ended up with him dead, because we could think of no other reason to miss the gig. 

There was another option, which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case. He had just slept in. dozing peacefully, dead only to the world, his alarm, the phone calls, pounding on his door. As I learned later, about six minutes before they were slated to go on, he called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:

Aaron: “Yeah?”

CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”

Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)

 

 So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare. 

We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.

After set up at the next gig, CJ and I commandeered Keith’s rental car and went on a supply run, just a few essentials we were running low on.

The cashier checked out our bounty. Four twelve packs of beer, a dozen grapefruit, and a bag of pretzels, and then gave us an expressionless stare over her glasses, but made no remarks.  

Vegas baby!

Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith. 

“You didn’t wreck it did you?”

“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”

“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”

“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”

“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”

“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”

I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and we headed off with our spoils.

Our room had developed a rich patina. Weapons, beer and whisky bottles covered most surfaces, clothing and grapefruit peels littered the floor. The sink was filled with ice and beer, with cases in reserve underneath. I grabbed a Grapefruit from a bag on the night stand and made quick work with a switchblade, hacking it into sixths and handing it out 

 “No quarter given” I say, tearing into the dripping fruit.

We knew where we were going, but discussed other possible destinations anyway. Maybe more as an excuse to hang out, pound a few beers and a shot or two before heading to Frankie’s. 

Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel paper cup, and set himself up on the dresser. Pretty soon he was on the floor, with an empty cup and a big grin. We decide it was well time to head for Frankie’s, but Jim begs off and whacks himself into a spin on the door frame then Ping-Pongs down the hall, apparently feeling the full effect of a half a cup of good Irish Whisky. 

“Amateur” Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket  “Let’s go” 

       At Frankie’s we grab a table, and then migrate to one of the Hut / booths and settle in. We make a spectacle of ourselves and soon the next table over joins us. Our feeble promise to not stay out too late is crushed beneath the growing pile of swizzle sticks, and again, morning comes too early. My alarm is a screech that pretty much just tells me I am fucked. I take a shower, but keep hearing someone talking. Whispers. Hissing eel whispers. The goddamn denizens behind the crazy door. Fuck.

The physical aspect of the hangover is manageable, but something else is going on. There are dark shapes in the corners, and enemies are everywhere…Weird clouds of paranoia induced shadows that flutter just outside my vision. People walk by oblivious to the growing under current, but I know it’s there. 

I can see it, even if they can’t

Holy shit, did that guy have a tail?

What the hell... 

   I try and look nonchalant, but I can feel the eyes. 

The eyes, the god damn eyes, weird alien insects, boring into my mind like whisky seeking ticks...

    CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?” 

I duck down slightly, “They’re going to fuck us” I tell him, “They’re gonna fuck us and leave us in the desert”

He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”

“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper. You never know who might be listening. “we need to get out of here, I got to get my head on straight, or this thing is gonna go to hell real quick”

“Your right, “ he says, “We need some booze” 

Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get ourselves in order. He seems to understand the threat. There are plenty of weapons available, those fuckers wouldn't stand a chance in an open fight. But maybe we just some strong drink, regroup. Figure out a plan to deal with these bastards. Aaron mentions that we have a couple bottles of high-end single malt in the van, but that seems a bit chewy at the moment. We decide to see if we can scam a couple of drink tickets from the organizer of the event, Just get a couple beers in the mix before we launch the assault.

But, she does us one better in the form of all access passes to the VIP tent.  Breakfast buffet, full bar... I grab a tall cup of coffee, and fix it up long pour of Jameson.  I chug it down and repeat the process several times.

The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again. 

Navigating the next few mornings ended up easy, what with the free bar.

 

After the last show of the trip, we head back to the hotel.

Again we dig into the booze and grapefruit as the troops amass. This time there is no talk of possible destinations. This will be our last night in Vegas and there was nowhere better to spend it than Frankie’s.

Jim hems and haws, but decides to take it easy. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stupor, said some things without his filter on. He said it was like he was watching himself on the phone but was unable to intervene. I guess it scared him.

“Amateur” Aaron mutters, and we gear up for our last night in paradise.

 

And it was evening, and it was morning, In Vegas

 

 

 

The Bottle Mojo

 Mojo: Noun.

1. A magical or "good luck" item, or talisman. An object of power.

I Think it was about 1986.

I went to visit my mother, who at that time lived in a tiny village in the Trinity Alps called "Hyampom"

It was about 90 miles inland from Redding, Ca. 

About 9 hours from where I lived at the time.

There was not much there. A grocery store, that also served as a small cafe and bar, 

a post office, a school, and about 200 full time residents.

Suffice to say, again, there was not a lot to do there. 

Unless you liked to hike. There was as much of that as you could ever want, and at that time I was pretty young, and could hike a fair distance. 

Now, here is the thing. I am not particularly good at being idle, but like I said, there was nothing to do there, so in some ways, it forced you to relax. 

Lay in the hammock, carve sticks into little tiki's. drink beer, throw rocks into the river...There was nothing important. Nothing that needed your imediate attention. This was before internet, before cell phones. At that time, you could let it all go, because really, there was no other choice. 

My sister was also there. One morning we decided to hike down the river. Again, there was really nothing to do, so we loaded up a backpack with beer, and wadded of down stream. 

But,  just before we left, I decided to bring some crafting supplies with me. The idea being to make a necklace from things I found along the hike. so I brought an old shoe lace, that would serve as the main string, and I brought a spool of thick thread to tie things to the shoelace, which I in fact did. 

We would hike a bit, stick a few beers in the river to chill, enjoy, and move on. 

That evening when we returned home, I had a necklace made of the bits and baubles that I had gathered on our excursion. We were sitting on the porch when my sister produced a bottle of Jameson (my favorite Irish Whiskey) And we spent the evening drinking shots and talking about life. 

I hung my "necklace" around the neck of that bottle. It has become known as the bottle Mojo. and it has graced pretty much every bottle of Jameson in my house since. 

These are things that happen, and this is how traditions are made. It seemed important at the time, 

and it 

still does. 

4th of July

The written word can be a powerful tool. 
It can inspire, or frighten, cause smiles, or sadness, or none of these, or some of these, sometimes maybe all of them, all at once. 
It can justify, or condemn actions. It can be honesty or lies. Break hearts, begin (or end) love affairs...
Powerful.
Sometimes I don't know which stories I should put to print, and which should stay safely tucked away in my brain until such time that nature erases my grey matter hard drive and they disappear forever, little pops of transferring energy, gone into the eathers, a sad loss, or perhaps, a good riddance. 
Here is the thing. A tale told can be redacted, embellished, or denied, re-told and changed, made to suit the narrative of the time.
But once it is created in a tangible form, committed to print, it becomes "solid"
It is there, to be shared and scrutinized... 
Sometimes I wonder if I should be naming names in my tales. If I should ask permission, or forgiveness, for making a memory into a solid thing, Especially now in this “everything goes on forever” digital age. 
I used to write in notebooks, actual ink on paper. 

Some of this writing I still have stored in boxes in my basement, some I have given away.
Some I have transcribed saved forever in the digital realm. 
Some I destroyed, hoping to wipe away all traces of the story, to dissolve the experience, only to find that it doesn’t always work out that way.
Just so you know: The stories I destroyed were not necessarily bad, just uncomfortable, or in some cases were just words that, at the time that match met paper, were in desperate need of being forgotten.

As if their written presence could destroy me.

But as I said, it doesn’t always work that way.
This was one of those times.

This was the 4th of July.

 The evening started out quiet. 
Too quiet, in fact. 
I had been calling around to see who was doing what, to see if anyone wanted to come over, or go out, but so far it seemed everyone who would go out, was already out. 
As luck, good or bad, would have it, I got a call from my friend Liz, who said she was hanging out at The McCray, and invited me to join her. 
“The McCray” was the Hotel McCray, a dilapidated and mostly abandoned hotel perched up on beach hill at the intersection of third and Front Street in my hometown of Santa Cruz. It was rumored to be haunted. It was rumored to have been the inspiration for the Bates house in “Psycho”. It was rumored to have been built on ancient Indian burial ground. 
It was rumored to be evil.
It had many stories. 
This is one of them.

But here is the thing... right now, there was one truth.
Right Here, Right Now.
And right here, right now I was, sitting in the dark, in my Datsun B210, out in front of this monstrosity, trying desperately to figure out what to do next.

But, lets back up a bit... so as I said, I got the call.

I hoped in my Datsun B210 and drove over.  It wasn't far, probably 8 or so blocks...
I parked out on the street in the front and walked around back to the entrance we used at the time. I met up with my friend Liz, and we hung out a bit, just shooting the breeze, wandering the halls of this abandoned place. At some point we were all in on room. This is where details might get a little fuzzy. There were some other people there, two or three, and one of them, I don’t remember who, said they had some tabs of acid. 
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
They said it was really strong, and I said, ok, then just give me a half.
What could happen?
They handed me a tiny piece of paper, and I stuck it under my tongue...
It went that way around the room until it came to my friend Liz, who decided, to my surprise, to decline. She said she had been called into work, and couldn't afford to be out all night. 
It was too late for me at that point. I remember thinking, "fuck"
But it was only a half, right?
That was also at that point that they told me they gave me a whole hit, because they said the squares were so small, they didn't really know how to divide it...
Fuck. fuc, fuk...
The thing is, Liz was the only one I knew there, at that point.

 Here is the other thing, back then Liz and I were supposed to be "Constants".
That meant that no matter how weird it got, no matter what the situations, no matter the time or distance, or problem, we were there for each other.  Midnight phone calls, arrangements to come get one of us who had gone too deep, went too far... its what we did. Sometimes I would get a call that simply said, "help" and I would know what to do. I would track her down, get her safe, and fix it. She did the same for me.
We knew each other, we found each other, and we saved each other.
Usually.
But now, she was leaving, and the acid was just starting to kick in. 

I remember saying I understood, and walking her out to the road, I gave her a hug, I asked her to stay, but she didn't. The truth was, I really didn't understand. I was in an altered state, and just reacted.  I remember going back inside, a strange alien box of unease. Then things started to get weird, really weird. I remember getting lost at one point. The McCray had gone through many adaptations. Hotels, residential homes, old folks homes. It was a maze of rooms and corridors, now all glowing and swirling with a light that I cannot fully describe. I remember standing in front of a lager window on the third floor, just leaning out and feeling the breeze, 

At least until I realized the widow was not actually open. 

And It may not have even been a window, possibly just a closet door.

The halls stretched on forever, every door seeming to have the same room number. Some locked, some open, In one room full of boxes, I found a "Boy Scouts" neck-kerchief. I tied it around my neck. It was a sign. it was purpose. I left that room, fully intent to do my best to do my duty, but there was no one to assist. There were distorted whispering voices that seemed to be everywhere, but belong to no one, I looked, but could not find the source

 I remember finding the grand stairway, and as I floated down, I saw that there was some sort of panic in the rest of the group. 

The mood changed suddenly. 

Someone told me to hide. I slipped into a closet of some sort, and closed the door. I say it was a closet, but I really do not know. 

I crouched down. The tiny room seemed to be breathing. 
I could hear something was happening, but could not see it. 
People were yelling.
I remember trying to be as small as I could. 
I was dust, 
I was a crack in the paint.
Maybe I was the paint?
My bones were wood, my skin, tobacco stained wallpaper...
I thought I might disappear entirely, maybe become the dark walls... but then the door opened.

There stood a man, 20 feet tall, wild eyed and clutching a large hunting knife. 
The weapon was huge...maybe a machete, or a sword...
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he shouted, his voice had too much bass and reverb. 
"You're not supposed to be here! You need to get the fuck out of here!"
"Ok" I whispered" I was still trying to be paint.
"You have no idea what I am”, he said, his eyes narrowed, "or what I could do,” 

He was brandishing the giant blade, it glinted in the dim light.

I believed him.

His eyes widened, "I could kill you!" he said. It seemed too calm...
not like a threat, just an observation. 

I said something like, "please don't"

But like I said, it was a little fuzzy at this point.
I remember running, ducking, making my way through dark passages...
The next thing I really remember, I was out in my car.
Just sitting there.
I sat for what seemed a long time. Maybe hours. Maybe seconds.

It seemed like I had been there for ages, maybe days,  At the same time, I may have just gotten in the car.
I was trying to make sense of the whole thing, what to do next, but the acid was hitting hard. 
I needed to go somewhere. 
I knew I needed to not be here, 

but where? 
At that point I really had no idea where I was, or what was supposed to happen.
I was just in my car.

I took inventory, 

windows, gear shift, e-brake, tape player... 
I knew "the car" was the way I got there, but where was "there"? And how did that all work?
I didn't know where "here" was, or where I was supposed to go.

Just then a City Transit Bus went by.
That triggered something.  
I remembered thinking, "wait,"it was an epehany, it was a clue, just maybe, it was a solution... 

I knew that the busses went by my house on their way back to the bus yard, so it made sense that if I followed the bus, it would eventually go by my house.
So that’s what I did.
I don't know if it was minutes, or hours, blocks, or miles, but I followed that bus.
The whole time I was listening to "Rockin' Rockin' Leprechauns" by Jonathan Richman and the modern lovers on my tape player. it would play, I would rewind it, and play it again. It seemed important, like it was somehow the key to getting to wherever I was supposed to go. I have no idea how long this went on, but eventually the bus did actually did go by my house.
I pulled in next to the curb. I remember being so happy, because I was home, and all my friends would be there, everything was alright, and the night would only get better.
I made my way inside, but there was no one there. 
Just a note on the couch that said,
"Hey, we came by, hung out for a but, but then left"
I looked at the clock, it was 11:50

My friends, all of them, were here, but now they were gone.

Why were my friends gone?
Were they coming back?
Did I still have friends?
What should I do?
Why did they leave?
Apparently these last things I was saying out loud, too loud, because my housemate came out of her room

"What’s going on? She asked
"I don't know, “ I said. I was frantic. “I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she added, and went back to her room.

I still don't know why she was walking backward.

I sat down on the couch.

The room was too big, but claustrophobicly small at the same time.

the walls were breathing...

I decided to call my sister. I thought she might know what to do. 
She mostly just messed with me, telling me I was in terrible trouble, that this was not a thing that happened, but finally offered some advice.
That advice was to drink heavily.
But I had no booze, and currently, no way of getting any.
I sat on the couch trying to figure out what to do next.
I kept having to move further and further down the couch because the hair on my arm was growing so fast and it was taking up all the space between me and the arm of the couch, which might have been my arm to begin with. How was I supposed to know which arm was which?
I thought maybe I should write it all down.
If I could just keep track of it, it might make sense. I went and found a pen and opened my notebook to a blank page.
But, as I set pen to paper, I realized that it was already half covered in my own scribbling. At the top, in bold letters, "WRITE IT ALL DOWN" then, under that, my complaint about my arm hair. 
So, I thought. This all happened before I thought of writing it down, which was actually after I had written it down.
How do I know what happened when?
 I looked at the clock. 11:52

how could that be? I had been home for what seemed like hours. something wasn't right.
I watched it carefully, recording each sweep of the second hand...
11:53
11:54
11:55
11:56
11:57
11:58
11:59...
Then to my utter horror, the hands went backwards to 11:40...
I could almost hear the record scratch sound...
Time no longer counted.
Time no longer was moving as it should...
I suddenly realized I could be stuck here forever...

What if time had stopped passing?

What if time wasn't even a real thing?
Outside I could hear laughter, it echoed over and over, slowly fading out...
Who was out there, and what did they want?
I peered out the window, and suddenly there was a series of explosions. These also echoed over and over, fading out with to much bass and reverb.
What the fuck? Why are they blowing things up?

Was it the end times? were we at war?
Then I realized, at probably a bad time, that this was the 4th of July. 
Still, why are people trying to blow up my house at two in the morning..?
I looked at the clock.
11:50...
Wait...did I just now get home?
Just then there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my friend Kurt.
"Hey, Hey, Hey! What’s going on?"
"Get inside" I shouted, ducking and weaving, "Everyone is blowing up out there..."
He came inside, "what are you talking about?" he asked.
"Where were you?" I shouted, "You were supposed to be here! You were all supposed to be here! Why did you leave?"

Suddenly my housemate appeared. "What’s going on? She asked,
"I don't know, " I said, "I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she said, and went back into her room.
I asked Kurt, "did this already happen?" 
"Did what already happen" he asked, his head seeming to bob unnaturally on his unusually long neck.
His eyes were too big.
"Maybe we should go to Dennys" I said. "I need... I need a milkshake...."
"What? What? No, it’s to late" 
I looked at the clock, it was 3:35am. That didn’t make sense...
"Maybe" he went on, "if you hadn't spent the last couple hours talking about the McCray, and your arm hair exploding... I'm going to bed man, I'm tired"
"Ok" I said, “but you have to promise me something"
"Ok" he said
"Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
"No" he said" "no. I can't do that"
"You have to promise me... Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
This went on for a while... maybe... it could have been minutes, or hours...
Finally he agreed, and then added, "Can I go to bed now?"
"Yes" I said "and kill me in the morning..."
"No"
"You have too" I said, "you promised"
(And again, it might have gone on for a while, or not at all )
"Fine, " he said finally, "Fine...I'll kill you" 

He went out to the porch, which was the other "Bedroom"
"Thank you" I said. "Thank you... kill me...You will kill me?"
"Oh my god. Yes I will kill you, now, go the fuck to sleep!"

I decided to stay up a bit and write down some observations. It was daunting, because some of it was already there, already on the page, in my writing. Sometimes in better detail than I was about to write.

one thing,
At that time I was a smoker. And at that particular moment I was smoking a lot. I realized that every time I blew out the smoke, my pants would take on a three-dimensional sort of heavy tapestry quality, like thick exotic embossed drapes. I referred to this as my smoke/drape/pants, and It figured heavily in the writing. Also, if I closed my eyes, I saw strange M.C. Escher like neon dragons folding in on themselves. Imploding, Exploding. Folding, over and over...
But none of this was good.
I know it sounds like it could be entertaining, but it was not.
It scared me. 
Because as far as I knew, it might never end
I don't know that I really slept at all. 
I am fairly certain I didn't.
But I do remember that Kurt and I got up at some point and went to breakfast with our friend Jeff.
The place Jeff recommended was not far from the house, and we decided to walk. I remember thinking, is this real? Is this real life? Bright light, too much sun, too much noise, too many things, stuff, too much trucks, cars, people, sounds...
Every thing was too loud, but at the same time I couldn’t hear anything but gibberish... 
We got to the breakfast place, and after a short wait (I think) we were seated.
I ordered coffee, or at least tried to,  I seem to remember saying it extremely slow, like a question.
The waitress blinked a few times and left.
I knew I needed food, I tried to read the menu but it made no sense. 
"Moist beets"
"900 eggs"
"Your own toast"
"The one"
I looked at it over and over. I didn't know what to do exactly. 
The waitress reappeared.
I tried to get it together, to somehow seem normal. but It was a challenge
Finally, after the waitress stared at me for what seemed like way too long, I ordered, it was mostly guessing, and mumbling " uh, only two eggs, Bacon meat, and the toast I didn't bring."
She blinked way to many times, but then left, and soon enough we were served.
But the food tasted like metal dust, the water and coffee like chemicals...
I remember thinking, We were all fooled, we thought life was one thing, delicious food, savory drinks... but in reality life was noise and metal, trucks, battery acid and chemicals...
We ate this "breakfast", then walked home. I don't remember anything about that. I do know that after we got back to our house on River Street, Kurt had to leave. 

He said he had things to do, but he may have just had enough of me at that point

So I settled in on the couch to just ride it out. 
He never brought up killing me, for better or worse.
Even so, none of this was good.
At least time seemed to have regained control, seemingly moving only forward.

I stared at the TV. 

It wasn't on, but at that time and place, it might have been a blessing.
Then I got a phone call
It was one of my friends. Apparently I had promised to take her to San Francisco for her birthday.
Which was today...
Which was now...
So I climbed into my Datsun b210 and drove across town to pick her up.

We jumped on highway 1 North towards San Francisco. 
As we were driving, huge sinkholes would open up in the road, sucking everything down into the depths. The road, other cars, nearby trees, everything...
The first time, I slammed on the breaks, not wanting to fall into the abyss.
We skidded slightly sideways to a stop a car behind us honking their horn...
"What the fuck!!" my friend asked

I looked at the road. Nothing. No holes, nothing...
"I thought... I thought I saw something...something in the road..." 
"Holy shit! Like what?
I thought about it for a few seconds, but I didn't think I could really explain...
"Nothing..."
After that, I didn't stop.
I didn't slow down.
I just drove towards the abyss, and waited to be swallowed up, 
But thankfully, it never happened.
We went to San Francisco and drove around. She was more interested in Haight Street, "Mod" things, being in the "Mod scene" as she was at the time.

 I was more interested in things most people didn't experience. I had heard of another party, some friends of mine from a band called "Spot 1019" were having a get together, and I convinced her to go there.  I don't remember a lot of it, but I do remember drinking Jeagermeister. 
This was 1985? Back before it was banned.
When it still contained the later to be banned ingredients.
We may have also partaken in some other substances, 
But we sipped it, like fine liquor.
It was good...at least I thought so.
We drank, we discussed life...
We met new people...
That’s as far as this part of the memory goes...

I assume we got home. 
I don't remember anything to the contrary...
But the whole thing stayed with me in a bad way.
Many years later I asked if my friend remembered that night, but she didn't. 
Not much, at least. Bits and pieces...
She said, "I think we did some kind of drugs, I think. Drank weird stuff"
That summed up those last few days.
So there it is. 
I suppose I should probably add, the original six, seven, or so pages that I wrote that night, I later burned...
I thought I could purge the memory. 
It scared me. 
It taunted me.
Sometimes I thought it's mere existence in the written form, Ink on paper, kept me from moving on, from being sane...
I thought that its destruction would heal me.
But it didn't.
It was a study of madness. 
Awful, confusing, disjointed, beautiful, honest...
But also bad scary madness. 

Still, 
There are times that I wish I still had them, those pages. 

But it turns out, the written word is a powerful thing.

Sometimes it won’t stay gone.
Even when it no longer exists.

 Addendum.

 I have been writing this story for years. Literally a few sentences and paragraphs at a time. 
It scarred me. 
It was written, deleted, re-written. 
Yeah, it scared me, and for some reason it still scares me.
Probably because I made a friend promise to kill me. 
Could be.
I finished it last night at about one in the morning, and today I got Chinese food. 
What was in my fortune Cookie?

Check, and mate.