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 ever happened.

This never happened. 

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

None of this Ever happened.

If anyone says it did, that any of this is fact, they are lying. 

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 not 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 courses with bottles, enventing driving drinking games, 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, disappering briefly, 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.

Seconds passed like hours, 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. 

It seeme unusually loud. 

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...

I stared over the guardrail at the pool area.

A million thoughts began to flood my beer adled brain.

The whole pool lounging area, seemingly a place of respite and soaking in the sun on a beautiful summer day was now a minefield of jagged shards of glass.

And the fact that the pool would need to be completely drained and scrubbed and swept, taking it off-line for who knows how many days, and all the disappointment of the people who would go there expecting some nice down time, but now could only look down at the empty pit of a destroyed pool.

Caution tape basically telling them that if they expected a nice dip, they were fucked…

"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. people were honking, swerving, but we just flipped them off and continued along. 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.

It ended the way it had started.

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