hot beer and memories

The beer in my backseat was starting to get hot. I knew it. Having stopped at the grocery store 20 miles from home turned out to not be the best of decisions. But it’s a sunk cost, as my econ professors used to say. Well, just that one guy, who I found out was jailed for shady practices many years later.

When I pulled in front of my house, I got angrier, and it wasn’t because Faster Pussycat was playing on my radio. That actually put me in a better mood for a few seconds.

It’s apparently hall of fame shagging night at the “shag bar” that I live across from. I tolerate their presence, and they mine. I laugh at them. They mock me.

It’s a healthy relationship.

Until tonight.

I pulled up to my house and a fucking brand new Lexus is parked in my driveway. I just got off work, want to cook some food, drink some beers and I can't even pull up to my house. I park in the yard and go straight over. I hear "The Ballad of The Hurricane" by Bob Dylan playing as I push the doors open (like in “Dazed and Confused” when Waterson does the same).

Instantly, the awful stench of White Shoulders -- the old-lady perfume -- overwhelms me. I’m unshaven, in dirty jeans and my old ass ASU hat. I’m full of stink and bile. They must love me. I poke a guy on the shoulder then a woman, saying excuse me, I need to go in.

"Wait in line.' one person says.

"The nerve," another does as I keep going forward. I’ve got a purpose, and it ain’t a special one. I got up to another old lady, writing names on badges. I guess, correctly, that she’s got some pull in this joint.

"I need you to make an announcement to move a car."

"Huh?"

"Someone's Lexus is in my driveway across the street. It must be moved. If not, it's going bye-bye. It’s getting towed."

She looks at me horrified. A kind of, who the hell does this guy think he is look comes across her face. It vaporizes when I don’t change the expression on mine. She then finds a guy in the background.

"Help this young man," she says with a point of the finger and a roll of the eyes.

It’s the best look a woman has given me in weeks. I’ll take it.

"What do you need?" he asks.

"I need someone in here, to move their car out of my driveway across the street. It's a grey Lexus."

"Uh, um."

My disdain felt towards the people I’m surrounded by must be showing in spades by now. This guy might even see devil horns growing out of my head. I don’t know. And I don’t care.

"Get the DJ to announce it. You've got 10 minutes."

"Till what," he asks.

"Till the car is on the back of a tow truck."

I leave. hearing Hurricane once again.

Don't think I made any friends. Been living here almost a year, finally went inside this place, and now I have to think I’ve made at least three anti-friends.

Five minutes later, the car is started up and moved.

Mission, as they say, accomplished.

I then realize that I didn’t take in the atmosphere of the club. I have no idea what goes on in there. Well, a vague picture of old folks shagging like it’s 1956, but that’s from public access television. I could have taken notes. Hell, I just crashed their biggest party of the year. And I don’t remember anything but a little waiting area and the sad smoking area -- outside with plastic wrap around it. Hell, I didn’t even notice what awful song was playing. Maybe I shouldn’t have my own private soundtrack going on? Nah. Fuck all that.

These are the times that I wonder about myself. When the mind starts to race and I become very one-dimensional in thought and action. Almost Hulkesque, if something can be Hulkesque.