October 15, 2006, 7:42am: Back at the Jockey Club, where the Missing Digits crew were staying, Buddha and I were still awake and watching The Cable Guy on TV.
Roy was passed out in the room where Buddha had slept the night before. They'd made an arrangement to trade off every other night.
JJ and Carrie had the master bedroom to themselves.
Mack was passed out on the living room floor, mumbling to himself now and then. JJ would emerge from the bedroom every half an hour and ask us if Mack was OK. After getting humorous reassurances from us that Mack was in good hands, JJ would return to the room.
Buddha and I joked about laying cruel jokes on Mack, such a giving him a Hot Nickel (heating up a coin and placing it on the skin of the passed out person) or placing his hand in water to induce urination (something that would be a tad bizarre, given Mack's missing index finger and all) or possibly writing on his face with a Sharpie.
However, Buddha and I were not feeling that prankish. Even though we were both wide awake, we were also beaten from the night's activities. Buddha did not roll on E but he'd had a few drinks and went the distance with the rest of us.
We would both glance over at Mack whenever an audible groan arose, and we'd laugh. But it wasn't in us to escalate the madness any further. It had nothing to do with being nice guys or feeling bad for Mack: It was simply a matter of knowing that he would get us back for it one day, and then a full-on war would have to be waged, a never-ending battle of pranks that would only stop when both side messed each other up in a near-catastrophic manner.
You see, Mack and JJ liked playing jokes too. But having been a witness to Mack's dark side, having had only the slightest glimpse into his chaotic soul, I thought better of it. Not that I thought Mack would ever try to beat me up or retaliate in an unkind fashion-- it had more to do with knowing my own dark side, and also knowing that if someone pulled a prank on me while I was wasted and passed out, I would not react well due to my composure being stripped away. I would lose my cool and end up having to apologize to whoever wanted to have a little fun at my expense.
I've got a short fuse, what can I say?
*/*
October 15, 2006, 6:20am: Carrie and I returned from the rental car and found the boys exactly where we last left them: In the casino, standing around and talking to a guy that JJ knew from Los Angeles.
Buddha and JJ were chatting it up. As their conversation partner went on at length about his weekend, JJ saw Carrie and I. His face was lit up from the E. He looked like someone had taken the face of a newborn baby from a photograph and Photoshopped it onto the body of a pro wrestler.
"There you guys are," JJ exclaimed, his aura betraying no negativity. I sensed no jealousy or doubt, even though his girlfriend and I were gone for close to an hour. He was glad to see us.
"You take care of what you had to do?" JJ asked Carrie. She smiled and nodded her head. Then he walked away from the conversation (as Buddha was speaking to the other guy) and came up to me and said, "How you feelin'? That E kickin' your ass?"
I responded, "Yeah, but it's not pure E. It's cut. Still, I'm mad fucked up. I took two."
"Mack and I took five each!" JJ said, his crystal blue eyes dilated and pinging beyond belief.
"It's funny to see you guys in this state," I said. "I'm the one who is always torked on something, but I guess you guys like to indulge from time to time."
"Man, I used to be a big-time smoker and drinker. I couldn't take it after a while, especially the drinking. You're lucky you don't have that problem, Mr. Alcohol Allergy."
"Yeah, well, I have to be extra careful due to being allergic. Maybe I won't get addicted to it, but I could die from alcohol poisoning."
"That's true... but hey, anyway, it's great to be hanging with you and the guys in Vegas! You know, James, ever since you joined this band, I feel like it's just improved so much. You're a huge part of that. You brought in Wolf Man when we needed a drummer, and when he left you brought in Buddha, you know all the songs, you write songs as well, you play bass and help arrange the songs, you sing back-up, you bring people to the shows... What do you not do for us? I can't thank you enough, man."
I could blame JJ's effusiveness on the E, but he's expressed such sentiments to me when he was sober. The E merely allowed him to say it without the fear of me doubting him wafting into my consciousness.
"Hey man, thank you for giving me the opportunity to play with some great musicians who actually care about doing it right." I felt the love from all around.
JJ and Carrie went back over to the conversation. I turned around and saw Roy and Mack, sitting in front of some slot machines. Roy was staring at the machine in front of him, his eyes glazed over; Mack was dropping endless dollar bills into the one-armed bandit, alternating between pulling the lever and hitting the "SPIN" button.
I sat down next to them and before I could try my luck Mack handed me a dollar.
"Here, bro, play it. I think you're gonna win something."
I looked at the misshapen bill. "I don't think I can even get this one to slide in, Mack."
"Just try it," Mack barked. He was surly, wasted, completely out of his gourd.
I was so fucked up that I actually tried to force the dollar into the bill slot. The machine kept spitting it out. I tried three times before I handed it back to Mack.
Mack grabbed it back angrily, and mumbled something to himself that was inaudible, sounding like a third-rate Elvis impersonator.
My head was like a carousel by this time, awash in the dazzling lights and the gaudy ambiance of the casino. The non-stop drone of slot machines ringing and clanging meshed together seamlessly like some Bengali raga in an East Asian marketplace.
I looked at Mack, his face twisted from drink and chemicals, mechanically pulling the lever, absent-mindedly gambling and grunting. He was so happy at the Cooler Lounge when his mother showed up. Not even the tardiness of the preceding band nor the minor annoyances of the evening in general had made a dent in his careful facade but now here he was, misery and turmoil etched into his grinding jaw, with eyes that seemed vacant and faraway.
I was going to try and say something to him, but as if he could read my mind he turned to me and started speaking with a nervous stutter, struggling to find coherence with words that he could barely pronounce in the state he was in.
"James, man... I just wanna say, bro... you know, I think that you're... you know, you're a great musician, man... and... and... and you're always on point... you never even blink when the shit hits the fan... solid... you're solid, man... I respect you a lot... I really do... and... man, every time JJ and I have tried to get this group off the ground... you know... shit happens... we've never had a chance to grow with it 'cuz... people left the band... they had 'creative differences'... whatever that means..."
He turned his eyes back to the slot machine, and as he spoke it seemed like he was having a hard time speaking and gambling at the same time. If he pulled the lever or hit the button to add a credit, it rendered him unable to say what he wanted to say, causing him to wait for the machine to spin. Sometimes he would pause to see the results and react accordingly, all the while still trying to say what was on his frazzled, drug-laced mind.
"Anyway," he continued, "I really really hope... I hope... shit, I just won it all back! Anyway, like I was saying... we... that is, JJ and Buddha and me... we want you to stay in this band... I know you have other projects, other bands, a whole other life... but we need you here, man... it's where you belong... fuck, another one... I think I'm gonna cash out soon..."
"You're gonna crash out?" I asked, mishearing him.
"No, cash out," Mack said. Then he started to laugh with a low roar. "Crash out... That's funny. No, I'm not ready for that yet, but when I am... I'll be out like a light... anyway..."
"Mack", I said, not wishing him to speak any further out of fear he would have an aneurysm trying to articulate his feelings, "I'm not going anywhere. I've been in this band for over a year. Yeah, I do other projects, but that's because I need to constantly do something creative or else I'll go nuts. But believe me, Mack, I'm giving this all I've got every time I hook up with you guys, and if it weren't for the fact that I have other pursuits and hobbies I'd probably be bugging you guys to death. You wouldn't be able to get rid of me if that were the case. You'd be sick of me you guys would probably even say 'Damn, James is cool and all but he's getting on my nerves' and you'd be correct in that assessment."
Then, without any cause or reason, I started singing that Tom Petty song with the lyrics about getting to the point and rolling another joint. It popped into my head and the drugs impelled me to croon it aloud.
Mack smiled and sang along. He knew the song, since he was a big Tom Petty fan since he was a kid.
When we got to the part where Petty goes, "You don't know how it feels to be me," I understood why that song hit me so suddenly: Mack's vibe was one of frustration, stemming from his disfigurement. Most of the time, on the surface he seems happy-go-lucky and energetic, but there is that bitter realization that he's not getting that finger back no matter what becomes of him.
It's something we all take for granted. You don't miss it until it's gone, and a physical quirk such as Mack's instantly separates a person from the rest of the crowd, leaving him isolated and alone.
In short, no one knows how it feels to be him, just as no one knows how it feels to be me, or Tom Petty, or anyone else out there. We try our best, but we can only get so close before we realize we have to step back or else get swallowed up by someone else's excess baggage.
Unlike my talk with Carrie, I knew that Mack would not be opening up to me about anything of that nature for a long time. This was the closest he could get before retreating behind his mask. Of course, when the time comes I will be eager to listen to him and share my own demons with him, because I can do that-- but only if someone has been brave enough to share their demons with me openly.
"We have a lot in common," I said to Mack after our impromptu chorus ended. "More than you know, Mack."
"No, I know what you mean," he said. "I can see it in your eyes, man. I don't know what it is exactly, but I see it. I recognize it. Maybe one day we'll get a drink, shoot the shit, and nail it to the wall."
He was far more coherent than he was five minutes prior. I guessed that perhaps he had been in the throes of an Exstasy wave rushing through his bloodstream, and now the wave was ebbing away, poising itself to return shortly.
Roy was sitting next to Mack the whole time, listening but not commenting. Finally, he chimed in with, "Man, I'm hungry. No shit, I'm fuckin' hungry now!"
Mack, Roy's childhood friend and confidante, switched gears and humorously pretended to be irritated by his blanket statement. "Hungry? You gotta be kidding. How much E did I give you? There's no way you're hungry right now."
"I know, I agree," Roy said plainly, his Ray Liotta resemblance more startling than ever. "But my stomach doesn't lie. I need food, water, anything."
"There's still some food back at the Jockey Club," Mack said. "I think we're done here anyway. Just wait it out-- we'll go back to the room and you can pig out there. You're not hungry hungry, are you?"
"Naw, I'm not starving," Ray retorted. "I just need a little something in my gut. And I don't want to eat at a buffet, so I'll wait until we get back."
"That's the spirit," Mack said, all smiles now. The demon was gone for now. "Patience is a virtue." Then he turned to me and started doing his version of my Tony Montana impression. "Ay mang, choo not fokkin' hongree too, eh? 'Cuz if choo iz, choo ain't gettin' not-teen brum me, choo caca roach!"
I responded in kind. "Whaddon choo try steekin' choo head opp choo ass an' see eef eet feets, mang..."
Just then, JJ and the others approached us, after bidding his friend farewell.
"Y'all ready to split?" JJ asked, his unflinching blue eyes locked and loaded.
"Yeah, man, we're more than ready," Mack said. "Roy's hungry too. Anyone else?"
The rest of us shook our heads and declined any food requests.
"You OK to drive?" Mack said to me.
"Fuck yeah," I said defiantly. It was true: I was feeling better after the last E wave, and figured if we could make out the door quickly I could get to wherever I was going next without any trouble.
"You going back to your hotel?" JJ asked.
"Not right now. They're all asleep and I think I'd have to crash on the floor. I'll follow you guys and kick it until the sun comes up... if you guys don't mind."
"Listen to this guy," Mack said, incredulous. "If we don't mind? Dude, you were supposed to be in that room with us, remember? You're more than welcome-- there's plenty of space for all of us."
"OK, I'll follow you guys. I passed by it a few times before the show, so I know where it's at."
Buddha spoke up and said, "I know James is able to drive, but as for the rest of you I'm going to get behind the wheel. I'm pretty straight right now."
"Man," JJ said, "Where did we find this guy anyway? So fucking cool, so fucking mellow... Oh, that's right, James brought him in."
I smiled. It always feels good to be acknowledged for positive things.
As we all walked to the parking garage, JJ talked about a new arrangement for our version of The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy For The Devil".
"The way we do it is great, but I had an idea for the intro. When we get back to L.A. I'll elaborate a little more, but I think it will make the song even better than it already is. God, I'm so psyched about our band! We're finally gelling-- we're a team!"
For the first time since I started playing bass for Missing Digits, I didn't feel awkward hearing JJ gush enthusiastically about the band. I didn't cringe at the naked sentiment behind his words. I didn't feel like I was just sitting in with a band until the right opportunity came along.
I realized that the opportunity was right there in front of me, or under my nose, or however one wants to phrase it. I felt like I bonded with the band in a way that I never anticipated.
Or maybe it was just the E working its magic... I don't know.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
E
October 15, 2006, 2:57am: I found myself out on the Strip, at a pay phone, using my calling card to call Mack. His phone was still utterly lacking in the reception department, so once again I called Buddha.
He picked up.
"Hey man, what's up? How was the strip club?" Buddha, as always, sounded chipper and happy and upbeat.
"We didn't go. The guys wanted to go to sleep! Can you believe that?"
"Aw man, that sucks. Isn't it supposed to be a bachelor party?"
"Yeah, but I guess they partied so hard during the day that they blew their wad, so to speak. But then again, I had a feeling that Down Low wasn't really interested in going to a strip club..."
My gut feeling was based not upon the fact that Low was loyal to his wife-to-be, even though he is faithful to her (as far as I know). My instinct was based upon the knowledge that if we had gotten him a hooker instead, he may just as well taken us up on the offer.
Maybe I suck as a bachelor party host. Maybe it's some time-honored secret tradition that the Best Man and the groomsmen pool their resources and give the groom one last chance to fuck some pussy other than his fiancee's, and maybe thousands of marriages continue to this day without the subject having ever come up.
Maybe.
Call me old-fashioned. Call me square. Call me whatever, but Low was not interested in getting teased at his bachelor party. A stripper would've been nice but now I think that maybe he thought, for a split second, that we'd arranged a rendezvous with some mid-priced skank we found in the LV Yellow Pages. And as I look back on it, maybe that's why he and the others called it quits for the evening.
Either that, or they were still paranoid about getting kicked out of the hotel.
I tried to hype them up one last time before heading out to the MGM, where the Missing Digits crew said they were headed after the show. Mack had the E, and my night was far from over.
My efforts were met with tired indifference. Low insisted that he was having fun, but the cocaine, the endless alcohol and the seemingly endless weed dulled their collective edge. Low had done well in the casinos with the money we all threw at him, so he was content to call it a night.
Plus, I think they were all apprehensive about riding with me in the rental, since the tags were missing. They probably thought I was a madman, driving around Vegas in that car, with coke on my person and in my system.
I didn't care. The minute they started figuring out who would sleep on which bed, I piled the last of my coke on the hotel coffee table and invited whomever to help me kill it off.
Wolf and Fornicati indulged, but everyone else politely declined.
"All right," I said, pinching my nostrils. "I'll be at the MGM. I will probably just kick it at the Jockey Club with the band until the morning. I'll be OK. Good night guys."
Within a quarter of an hour, I was on the street talking to Buddha on a public phone. Stragglers and hangers-on were drifting like litter in the near-empty, brightly lit streets. I did not look out of place.
Buddha said to me, "Mack says that we'll be at Studio 54, in the VIP Lounge."
"Will I be able to get in?"
"Call us when you're in the casino. Mack will come out to get you."
They assumed I had a cel phone. But with my calling card, I could use a phone from the lobby... Or better yet, sweet-talk a receptionist into letting me use the concierge's phone. I could pretend I was calling someone's room or something like that.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 3:28am: A dusty black mechanic's jacket; Torn jeans that used to be black but turned a curious grey over the passage of time; Ankle-high boots made by Sketchers; and a black pajama top that could pass for a long-sleeved collar-and-button-less shirt... These are the things I was wearing when I pulled up to the MGM and parked the rental car.
I had a change of clothes in the trunk, but all I did was swap the nylon-cotton jacket for the leather jacket and take off the sweat-soaked pajama top, replacing it with a stylish (and more traditional) dress shirt. I rolled up the sleeves, popped the collar and left the top button undone.
I found a phone next to the MGM main lobby elevator and contacted Buddha. He had to shout over the loud techno music blaring in the background. He assured me that Mack would be waiting for me outside of 54.
It seemed to take forever to get through the casino to where 54 was located. After a while, the inside of every single casino in Las Vegas begins to look the same. Running on coke fumes and spent adrenaline, I began to make perceptual mistakes, such as making a left at a corner then realizing that I was thinking of another casino I'd been to earlier in the day.
That's how they get you in Sin City. You get worn down until you cannot trust your own judgment anymore. If I was spending money instead of searching for my friends, I probably would have lost it all at a Blackjack table.
I spied Mack in the distance. He was grinding his jaw, scanning the throngs for any sign of me. Then he spotted me and tilted his head quickly, motioning for me to get my ass over to him.
I raised my hand upon approaching him, ready to high-five him and give him props on his smoldering performance during our gig. As my hand came into contact with his, I felt a strange sensation, as if his missing index finger wasn't enough to unnerve me for the brief instances when we shook hands.
"Take it," he said. No greeting, no 'hello' or 'ayyy mengh' or anything-- just a command. The tablet was in my palm, and he wanted me to take it.
I didn't hesitate. I popped it in my mouth after entering the club, but before I swallowed it I inspected it. Most likely it was cut with something-- it probably wasn't pure E. The only time I'd ever had pure E was the first time, up in San Francisco, at the one and only true rave I ever attended.
That MDMA was in a capsule, with tiny numbers on the side. Since then, all the E I've ever done has been in pill or tablet form. Sometimes they have funny shapes and colors. But none of them were as pure as that first time in SF. The stuff that the majority of people purchase is combined with speed or heroin.
I placed it on my tongue and immediately grimaced: This shit tasted awful! Salty, vinegary, bitter and plastic.
"This is good shit," Mack said to me. I could tell he was already gone.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Trust me, I know..."
I saw that dark side of him making an appearance. It was in his eyes. It's the darkness that is always in my own eyes. I look at myself in the mirror enough to know it, and often times people looking at me mistake it for intensity or moodiness or annoyance.
When we sat down in the lounge next to JJ, Buddha, Roy and Carrie, Mack handed me another.
"Dude, I just barely took one." I didn't object to the generous offering so much as I objected to having to endure that nasty taste again.
"Take another. I took five. So did JJ."
"Five? You're fucking crazy!"
But really, it made sense: These guys are tall and their respective physiques are solid. One or two of these babies would barely get them buzzing.
"How about the others?"
"Roy took four. Buddha and Carrie aren't rolling though."
JJ saw me and gave me a spine-crushing bear hug. He was flying like a squirrel in the trees. He smiled and patted me on the back in that brutal, painful way that big guys like him so often do, without meaning any harm.
On the E, JJ was like a big kid, in awe of everything and wide-eyed. Roy, on the other hand, was a complete mess, staring off into space with that Ray Liotta look on his face. Mack was slurring his words like Elvis in the early Sun Records years.
Buddha had a beer, so he wasn't completely sober. Carrie was drinking too, but as soon as she saw me she started hinting that we should go smoke somewhere.
I told her to wait until the E kicked in.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 5:17am: "How strong is it?" Carrie asked me as she packed a bowl into her pipe.
I was fiddling with the stereo controls, trying to turn the music down so that I could hear if any security personnel approached us.
"It's cut with heroin."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I can still feel the E. It's pretty good. I took two, so I am FUCKED UP right now..."
"Will you be OK to drive?"
"Oh yeah, sure... No problem."
Carrie searched for her lighter. I pulled out mine-- a red Bic.
"Oh no," she said, nervously. "Not a red lighter."
"Oh, that's right. You hate red lighters."
"I don't hate them. It's an irrational fear. And not just lighters. Anything red."
"That's so silly, Carrie."
"I know. I have a lot of irrational fears." She finally found her lighter, a baby blue Bic, the same size as mine but with a butterfly sticker pasted onto it to designate her ownership.
As she smoked, I felt a euphoric wave of Exstacy wash over me. "I'm just messing with you. I have a weird phobia of my own."
She was too busy trying to hold in the rich marijuana smoke to answer, so I continued.
"I'm afraid of snails."
She almost coughed up a lung from laughing. The smoke exited her mouth in brief puffs. Finally, after a minute of gagging, she regained her composure.
"Dude, that's way worse than mine. You're joking, right?"
"I wish I were."
"I can see how someone could be disgusted by them. They're gross. Icky. But afraid?"
"Hey, at least I have an excuse. Snails are weird. They look like nothing else on earth. They could be alien beings for all we know. They're just... abnormal." I shuddered at the thought of it.
She passed the glass pipe to me and I toked from it. I coughed out an ungodly cloud of hazy smoke and passed it right back to her.
As I choked and struggled to tame the tingling in my throat, Carrie said, "You guys played so well tonight."
"Thank you. We couldn't do it without your support."
She smiled. She began searching my eyes for any telltale sign of how high I was at the moment. She hit the pipe, this time without calamitous hacking from her chest. Then she said, "Ever since you joined the band, the music has gotten so much better. And I mean that. The Digits were around for three years before you joined. I was there for half of that, and even though I supported and encouraged JJ to keep on going I always hoped that there'd be... progress."
"Progress?"
"Yes, progress. Improvement. The other guys in the band, the drummer and the bass player... They had bad attitudes. They were always negative. You and Buddha, though-- You guys are positive, and it shows in the music you guys make."
The E wave that overtook me subsided along with my coughing fit. "I appreciate your kind words, Carrie, but at the same time I have to disagree on one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm not a positive person. I'm not overly negative either, but I can't say that I am a positive person. I guess I'm more of a pragmatist."
"What's a pragmatist?"
"Someone who goes with whatever works the best. I'm a realist, I guess you can say. Sometimes I'm idealistic, but then reality brings me down to the ground. Other times I'm a pessimist, but then my life reveals something to me that takes me out of my funk and cheers me up."
"What gets you down?" She studied my body language. She was curious as to what I could possibly be down about, and she adjusted herself in the shotgun seat so that she could take all of it in.
"The reality of my situation. Knowing that I can never be a normal person like everyone else."
"Oh, come on, James. What's normal nowadays? There's no such thing."
"I've heard that argument a million times, Carrie, and it doesn't help me at all. What I think of as 'normal' really means 'ordinary'. I wish sometimes that I could be an ordinary person. I wish I had the ability to conform instead of going against the grain all the time."
"That's terrible," she said, as she placed the pipe in my hand. "Why would you wish for that? You're a unique person. You're an individual. So am I. We all are. How could you entertain the thought of wanting to throw your personality away just to fit in?"
"The reason why I wish for it sometimes is because I am so tired of being different. It may seem like fun to people on the outside looking in, but it can be a pain in the ass. I can't turn it off. It's not a costume or an affectation. This is who I really am. I can't help it. Just once, I'd like to do the usual, not the unusual."
"But you'd get sick of it. You'd want to be different once you became like everyone else."
"I suppose... But what about you? Do you feel like you are like everyone else, or do you feel like you are different?"
Carrie paused. No one had ever asked her that question before. "I don't know. I can fit in if I have to, but I can be a big weirdo too. I definitely feel, though, that I have been marked."
"Marked?"
"Yeah. Tagged, tainted, set apart from others."
"What makes you feel like that?"
"Things."
She wasn't ready to open up like that yet, at that particular moment.
I wanted to tell her about the "things" that set me apart from others, such as my issues with my father. Normally I am not shy about bringing it up, but the E had me feeling emotional and I was afraid of opening up too much.
There is such a thing as opening up too much, right?
"I know what you mean. Believe me, I do. I believe that being a woman nowadays is tough. I often feel marginalized like a woman, but since I'm a man I can do something about it. Women have to take so much crap from this world, and they seem to do it in stride."
I took a pipe hit and passed it back to her.
"That's what we do. We're real good at it, I guess."
A moment of silence. She smoked. I clenched my jaws together. The E was starting to rise up inside me again, another euphoric wave.
"That's why I think I'm so hung up on Eve," I blurted out.
Carrie knew about Eve. When Eve and I were dating and she would show up at the shows, Carrie met her. They never really talked to each other-- I don't think Eve wanted to know who Carrie was, even if she was dating JJ and therefore not a threat.
"What's up with you two anyway? I've been meaning to ask."
"She dumped me. Again. She made up a bunch of excuses, but I know why she left me."
"Why?"
"Because she doesn't love me as much as she loves her ex. All she ever does is talk about him. She won't shut up about him. She claims she is past it, but she's not. And he was an asshole to her, too. He beat her up, guilt-tripped her into giving up her acting career, played mind games with her... and then to top it all off, he cheated on her. She gave him a decade of her life to him. And I try to respect her, treat her well, encourage her, and all she can give me is a few months before she decides that I'm beneath her and moves on."
"How long have you known her?"
"Since high school. Then we broke up, and shortly after that..."
I told Carrie about what happened to Eve after we broke up, and how it sent her spiraling downward into drugs and depression.
"James, she's got issues. When something like that happens to you, it fucks everything up. Don't blame her for it."
"I don't blame her for it," I said. "It'd be so much easier to bear if I was able to say 'well she's like this for a reason' but instead I keep thinking that somehow I can make it all better for her... and I can't. I can't save her, or anyone... not even myself. What kind of fucking world is this anyway, where women like Eve get screwed over so badly that they can't even tell that someone loves them?"
"James, stop saying that."
"Why do I care? Why do I even give a fuck? She left me. She's with some guy who has money and good looks and a future... What do I have? Nothing. I don't have shit. Why should she settle for shit? Why did I ever think that she could have ever loved me more than she loves her fucking ex? I think she should just drop the charade and go back to him-- break up with the guy she's with now and just go back to that fucking prick, because she fucking deserves him!"
"James, listen to yourself--"
"I wish I never met her..."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes I do. I am so fucking miserable. I have been miserable since April. I can't do anything to make it better. Nothing I do seems to work."
"You have to give her time, James. She's hurting. I know. I was raped three times by three different guys."
I froze. The shock was heavy, like weights at a gym. I looked at Carrie, trying to see if this was some sick joke she was pulling off. She was serious.
She turned around and exposed her lower back. "See this tattoo?"
It was a Japanese character. I'd seen it before, and thought nothing of it because she is Japanese after all.
"This letter means 'survivor' in Japanese. I am a survivor. I'm fucked up. That's why I smoke so much fucking weed. But I won't give up. I won't let it take me down. I survived those times, and I'll survive any more that are headed my way."
I was still speechless.
"Eve is a survivor too, and that's why she is doing what she's doing. It's fucked up, yes, but it's what she has to do. It has nothing to do with you."
I finally managed to eke out the words, "I'm sorry... I didn't know..."
"So am I, James. So am I. Not a day goes by when I don't think to myself, 'God, why me?' But I'm lucky-- I have JJ. He understands. He knows. He accepts it. He has such patience. I can't believe he is still with me after all this time. I don't know how he does it, because I know I must drive him crazy."
And suddenly everything fit into place: Carrie's seemingly flirtatious nature, JJ's detachment and reticence, his occasional frustration and vocal displeasure with Carrie's quirks and eccentricities.
After I let her words sink in, I decided to confide in her about my father, and the things he did, and how it has fucked me up, and how I am dealing with it.
We sat in my car and smoked pot and talked for almost an hour. Then, he both realized that the rest of the crew was probably wondering where we were, so we finished the bowl and exited the vehicle.
My head began to spin, from another euphoric wave of E in my system, jarred loose by my body movement. I looked at Carrie, whose face throughout the entire conversation had not wavered an inch. She possessed excellent Asian repose.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the tinted window of a parked Lexus. I looked like hell, with my hair disheveled and my face as pale as a tan boy's face can get.
She and I did not say a word to each other as we walked back into the casino.
He picked up.
"Hey man, what's up? How was the strip club?" Buddha, as always, sounded chipper and happy and upbeat.
"We didn't go. The guys wanted to go to sleep! Can you believe that?"
"Aw man, that sucks. Isn't it supposed to be a bachelor party?"
"Yeah, but I guess they partied so hard during the day that they blew their wad, so to speak. But then again, I had a feeling that Down Low wasn't really interested in going to a strip club..."
My gut feeling was based not upon the fact that Low was loyal to his wife-to-be, even though he is faithful to her (as far as I know). My instinct was based upon the knowledge that if we had gotten him a hooker instead, he may just as well taken us up on the offer.
Maybe I suck as a bachelor party host. Maybe it's some time-honored secret tradition that the Best Man and the groomsmen pool their resources and give the groom one last chance to fuck some pussy other than his fiancee's, and maybe thousands of marriages continue to this day without the subject having ever come up.
Maybe.
Call me old-fashioned. Call me square. Call me whatever, but Low was not interested in getting teased at his bachelor party. A stripper would've been nice but now I think that maybe he thought, for a split second, that we'd arranged a rendezvous with some mid-priced skank we found in the LV Yellow Pages. And as I look back on it, maybe that's why he and the others called it quits for the evening.
Either that, or they were still paranoid about getting kicked out of the hotel.
I tried to hype them up one last time before heading out to the MGM, where the Missing Digits crew said they were headed after the show. Mack had the E, and my night was far from over.
My efforts were met with tired indifference. Low insisted that he was having fun, but the cocaine, the endless alcohol and the seemingly endless weed dulled their collective edge. Low had done well in the casinos with the money we all threw at him, so he was content to call it a night.
Plus, I think they were all apprehensive about riding with me in the rental, since the tags were missing. They probably thought I was a madman, driving around Vegas in that car, with coke on my person and in my system.
I didn't care. The minute they started figuring out who would sleep on which bed, I piled the last of my coke on the hotel coffee table and invited whomever to help me kill it off.
Wolf and Fornicati indulged, but everyone else politely declined.
"All right," I said, pinching my nostrils. "I'll be at the MGM. I will probably just kick it at the Jockey Club with the band until the morning. I'll be OK. Good night guys."
Within a quarter of an hour, I was on the street talking to Buddha on a public phone. Stragglers and hangers-on were drifting like litter in the near-empty, brightly lit streets. I did not look out of place.
Buddha said to me, "Mack says that we'll be at Studio 54, in the VIP Lounge."
"Will I be able to get in?"
"Call us when you're in the casino. Mack will come out to get you."
They assumed I had a cel phone. But with my calling card, I could use a phone from the lobby... Or better yet, sweet-talk a receptionist into letting me use the concierge's phone. I could pretend I was calling someone's room or something like that.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 3:28am: A dusty black mechanic's jacket; Torn jeans that used to be black but turned a curious grey over the passage of time; Ankle-high boots made by Sketchers; and a black pajama top that could pass for a long-sleeved collar-and-button-less shirt... These are the things I was wearing when I pulled up to the MGM and parked the rental car.
I had a change of clothes in the trunk, but all I did was swap the nylon-cotton jacket for the leather jacket and take off the sweat-soaked pajama top, replacing it with a stylish (and more traditional) dress shirt. I rolled up the sleeves, popped the collar and left the top button undone.
I found a phone next to the MGM main lobby elevator and contacted Buddha. He had to shout over the loud techno music blaring in the background. He assured me that Mack would be waiting for me outside of 54.
It seemed to take forever to get through the casino to where 54 was located. After a while, the inside of every single casino in Las Vegas begins to look the same. Running on coke fumes and spent adrenaline, I began to make perceptual mistakes, such as making a left at a corner then realizing that I was thinking of another casino I'd been to earlier in the day.
That's how they get you in Sin City. You get worn down until you cannot trust your own judgment anymore. If I was spending money instead of searching for my friends, I probably would have lost it all at a Blackjack table.
I spied Mack in the distance. He was grinding his jaw, scanning the throngs for any sign of me. Then he spotted me and tilted his head quickly, motioning for me to get my ass over to him.
I raised my hand upon approaching him, ready to high-five him and give him props on his smoldering performance during our gig. As my hand came into contact with his, I felt a strange sensation, as if his missing index finger wasn't enough to unnerve me for the brief instances when we shook hands.
"Take it," he said. No greeting, no 'hello' or 'ayyy mengh' or anything-- just a command. The tablet was in my palm, and he wanted me to take it.
I didn't hesitate. I popped it in my mouth after entering the club, but before I swallowed it I inspected it. Most likely it was cut with something-- it probably wasn't pure E. The only time I'd ever had pure E was the first time, up in San Francisco, at the one and only true rave I ever attended.
That MDMA was in a capsule, with tiny numbers on the side. Since then, all the E I've ever done has been in pill or tablet form. Sometimes they have funny shapes and colors. But none of them were as pure as that first time in SF. The stuff that the majority of people purchase is combined with speed or heroin.
I placed it on my tongue and immediately grimaced: This shit tasted awful! Salty, vinegary, bitter and plastic.
"This is good shit," Mack said to me. I could tell he was already gone.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Trust me, I know..."
I saw that dark side of him making an appearance. It was in his eyes. It's the darkness that is always in my own eyes. I look at myself in the mirror enough to know it, and often times people looking at me mistake it for intensity or moodiness or annoyance.
When we sat down in the lounge next to JJ, Buddha, Roy and Carrie, Mack handed me another.
"Dude, I just barely took one." I didn't object to the generous offering so much as I objected to having to endure that nasty taste again.
"Take another. I took five. So did JJ."
"Five? You're fucking crazy!"
But really, it made sense: These guys are tall and their respective physiques are solid. One or two of these babies would barely get them buzzing.
"How about the others?"
"Roy took four. Buddha and Carrie aren't rolling though."
JJ saw me and gave me a spine-crushing bear hug. He was flying like a squirrel in the trees. He smiled and patted me on the back in that brutal, painful way that big guys like him so often do, without meaning any harm.
On the E, JJ was like a big kid, in awe of everything and wide-eyed. Roy, on the other hand, was a complete mess, staring off into space with that Ray Liotta look on his face. Mack was slurring his words like Elvis in the early Sun Records years.
Buddha had a beer, so he wasn't completely sober. Carrie was drinking too, but as soon as she saw me she started hinting that we should go smoke somewhere.
I told her to wait until the E kicked in.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 5:17am: "How strong is it?" Carrie asked me as she packed a bowl into her pipe.
I was fiddling with the stereo controls, trying to turn the music down so that I could hear if any security personnel approached us.
"It's cut with heroin."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I can still feel the E. It's pretty good. I took two, so I am FUCKED UP right now..."
"Will you be OK to drive?"
"Oh yeah, sure... No problem."
Carrie searched for her lighter. I pulled out mine-- a red Bic.
"Oh no," she said, nervously. "Not a red lighter."
"Oh, that's right. You hate red lighters."
"I don't hate them. It's an irrational fear. And not just lighters. Anything red."
"That's so silly, Carrie."
"I know. I have a lot of irrational fears." She finally found her lighter, a baby blue Bic, the same size as mine but with a butterfly sticker pasted onto it to designate her ownership.
As she smoked, I felt a euphoric wave of Exstacy wash over me. "I'm just messing with you. I have a weird phobia of my own."
She was too busy trying to hold in the rich marijuana smoke to answer, so I continued.
"I'm afraid of snails."
She almost coughed up a lung from laughing. The smoke exited her mouth in brief puffs. Finally, after a minute of gagging, she regained her composure.
"Dude, that's way worse than mine. You're joking, right?"
"I wish I were."
"I can see how someone could be disgusted by them. They're gross. Icky. But afraid?"
"Hey, at least I have an excuse. Snails are weird. They look like nothing else on earth. They could be alien beings for all we know. They're just... abnormal." I shuddered at the thought of it.
She passed the glass pipe to me and I toked from it. I coughed out an ungodly cloud of hazy smoke and passed it right back to her.
As I choked and struggled to tame the tingling in my throat, Carrie said, "You guys played so well tonight."
"Thank you. We couldn't do it without your support."
She smiled. She began searching my eyes for any telltale sign of how high I was at the moment. She hit the pipe, this time without calamitous hacking from her chest. Then she said, "Ever since you joined the band, the music has gotten so much better. And I mean that. The Digits were around for three years before you joined. I was there for half of that, and even though I supported and encouraged JJ to keep on going I always hoped that there'd be... progress."
"Progress?"
"Yes, progress. Improvement. The other guys in the band, the drummer and the bass player... They had bad attitudes. They were always negative. You and Buddha, though-- You guys are positive, and it shows in the music you guys make."
The E wave that overtook me subsided along with my coughing fit. "I appreciate your kind words, Carrie, but at the same time I have to disagree on one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm not a positive person. I'm not overly negative either, but I can't say that I am a positive person. I guess I'm more of a pragmatist."
"What's a pragmatist?"
"Someone who goes with whatever works the best. I'm a realist, I guess you can say. Sometimes I'm idealistic, but then reality brings me down to the ground. Other times I'm a pessimist, but then my life reveals something to me that takes me out of my funk and cheers me up."
"What gets you down?" She studied my body language. She was curious as to what I could possibly be down about, and she adjusted herself in the shotgun seat so that she could take all of it in.
"The reality of my situation. Knowing that I can never be a normal person like everyone else."
"Oh, come on, James. What's normal nowadays? There's no such thing."
"I've heard that argument a million times, Carrie, and it doesn't help me at all. What I think of as 'normal' really means 'ordinary'. I wish sometimes that I could be an ordinary person. I wish I had the ability to conform instead of going against the grain all the time."
"That's terrible," she said, as she placed the pipe in my hand. "Why would you wish for that? You're a unique person. You're an individual. So am I. We all are. How could you entertain the thought of wanting to throw your personality away just to fit in?"
"The reason why I wish for it sometimes is because I am so tired of being different. It may seem like fun to people on the outside looking in, but it can be a pain in the ass. I can't turn it off. It's not a costume or an affectation. This is who I really am. I can't help it. Just once, I'd like to do the usual, not the unusual."
"But you'd get sick of it. You'd want to be different once you became like everyone else."
"I suppose... But what about you? Do you feel like you are like everyone else, or do you feel like you are different?"
Carrie paused. No one had ever asked her that question before. "I don't know. I can fit in if I have to, but I can be a big weirdo too. I definitely feel, though, that I have been marked."
"Marked?"
"Yeah. Tagged, tainted, set apart from others."
"What makes you feel like that?"
"Things."
She wasn't ready to open up like that yet, at that particular moment.
I wanted to tell her about the "things" that set me apart from others, such as my issues with my father. Normally I am not shy about bringing it up, but the E had me feeling emotional and I was afraid of opening up too much.
There is such a thing as opening up too much, right?
"I know what you mean. Believe me, I do. I believe that being a woman nowadays is tough. I often feel marginalized like a woman, but since I'm a man I can do something about it. Women have to take so much crap from this world, and they seem to do it in stride."
I took a pipe hit and passed it back to her.
"That's what we do. We're real good at it, I guess."
A moment of silence. She smoked. I clenched my jaws together. The E was starting to rise up inside me again, another euphoric wave.
"That's why I think I'm so hung up on Eve," I blurted out.
Carrie knew about Eve. When Eve and I were dating and she would show up at the shows, Carrie met her. They never really talked to each other-- I don't think Eve wanted to know who Carrie was, even if she was dating JJ and therefore not a threat.
"What's up with you two anyway? I've been meaning to ask."
"She dumped me. Again. She made up a bunch of excuses, but I know why she left me."
"Why?"
"Because she doesn't love me as much as she loves her ex. All she ever does is talk about him. She won't shut up about him. She claims she is past it, but she's not. And he was an asshole to her, too. He beat her up, guilt-tripped her into giving up her acting career, played mind games with her... and then to top it all off, he cheated on her. She gave him a decade of her life to him. And I try to respect her, treat her well, encourage her, and all she can give me is a few months before she decides that I'm beneath her and moves on."
"How long have you known her?"
"Since high school. Then we broke up, and shortly after that..."
I told Carrie about what happened to Eve after we broke up, and how it sent her spiraling downward into drugs and depression.
"James, she's got issues. When something like that happens to you, it fucks everything up. Don't blame her for it."
"I don't blame her for it," I said. "It'd be so much easier to bear if I was able to say 'well she's like this for a reason' but instead I keep thinking that somehow I can make it all better for her... and I can't. I can't save her, or anyone... not even myself. What kind of fucking world is this anyway, where women like Eve get screwed over so badly that they can't even tell that someone loves them?"
"James, stop saying that."
"Why do I care? Why do I even give a fuck? She left me. She's with some guy who has money and good looks and a future... What do I have? Nothing. I don't have shit. Why should she settle for shit? Why did I ever think that she could have ever loved me more than she loves her fucking ex? I think she should just drop the charade and go back to him-- break up with the guy she's with now and just go back to that fucking prick, because she fucking deserves him!"
"James, listen to yourself--"
"I wish I never met her..."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes I do. I am so fucking miserable. I have been miserable since April. I can't do anything to make it better. Nothing I do seems to work."
"You have to give her time, James. She's hurting. I know. I was raped three times by three different guys."
I froze. The shock was heavy, like weights at a gym. I looked at Carrie, trying to see if this was some sick joke she was pulling off. She was serious.
She turned around and exposed her lower back. "See this tattoo?"
It was a Japanese character. I'd seen it before, and thought nothing of it because she is Japanese after all.
"This letter means 'survivor' in Japanese. I am a survivor. I'm fucked up. That's why I smoke so much fucking weed. But I won't give up. I won't let it take me down. I survived those times, and I'll survive any more that are headed my way."
I was still speechless.
"Eve is a survivor too, and that's why she is doing what she's doing. It's fucked up, yes, but it's what she has to do. It has nothing to do with you."
I finally managed to eke out the words, "I'm sorry... I didn't know..."
"So am I, James. So am I. Not a day goes by when I don't think to myself, 'God, why me?' But I'm lucky-- I have JJ. He understands. He knows. He accepts it. He has such patience. I can't believe he is still with me after all this time. I don't know how he does it, because I know I must drive him crazy."
And suddenly everything fit into place: Carrie's seemingly flirtatious nature, JJ's detachment and reticence, his occasional frustration and vocal displeasure with Carrie's quirks and eccentricities.
After I let her words sink in, I decided to confide in her about my father, and the things he did, and how it has fucked me up, and how I am dealing with it.
We sat in my car and smoked pot and talked for almost an hour. Then, he both realized that the rest of the crew was probably wondering where we were, so we finished the bowl and exited the vehicle.
My head began to spin, from another euphoric wave of E in my system, jarred loose by my body movement. I looked at Carrie, whose face throughout the entire conversation had not wavered an inch. She possessed excellent Asian repose.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the tinted window of a parked Lexus. I looked like hell, with my hair disheveled and my face as pale as a tan boy's face can get.
She and I did not say a word to each other as we walked back into the casino.
Friday, November 17, 2006
I Couldn't Resist This One (it was just too funny to not take the time and post it for the rest of you)
| What Race Were You Born To Be | |
 Clear You're clear!! Some might say you're having an identity crisis, others would argu you got it all figured out. For once you're someone who wont let themselves be stereotyped, and you're open to all kinds of new things. Usually you don't go by your culture, you do what comes natural. Also you if you're like me get really pissed-off and confused when someone tells you to Hang with ur own people! because you really don't have people but that's good cause all people are YOUR people. Live clear baby, live clear!! | |
| Take The Quiz Now! | Quizzes by myYearbook.com |
Thursday, November 16, 2006
TAKING NOTICE
October 15, 2006, 12:05am: It was well past the time we were slated to play. The preceding band took almost as long to strike their set as it took them to load up.
My rig took no time at all: an old 75-watt Peavey amplifier, a Boss Guitar Distortion pedal, and an old Fender P-Bass with glitter pasted onto the scratchguard by a previous owner. The entire set-up costed me $200, which was how much I bought the amp for-- the rest was free or donated to me by friends.
The DJ turntables in the previous band cost about as much as my entire bass rig, if not more.
We would've gone on sooner, but the Cooler Lounge's sound guy was trying to mic Buddha's drums.
I stole one last gagger in the men's room before going on stage.
Rose had placed a beer next to my set-up. I'd asked her in a hurry and she complied. She was standing next to her dude, but she had a camera in her hand.
My brain pulsed as the chemical drip in the back of my throat numbed my windpipe. I snorted, gulped, and started to sweat under the searing stage lights. I took a swig of the Newcastle as I tuned up.
Then, I realized I could smoke on stage. It was OK in Nevada to smoke in clubs... anywhere, for that matter!
I put my sunglasses on and lit a cigarette. "Hello folks," I intoned into the microphone for a sound check, "We're The Missing Digits, and we're from Hollywood."
"Hollywood?" An older man in the crowd stood up and walked over to me. "Didja jess say y'all was from Holly-wood?"
"Yes sir, I did," I replied, off-mic.
"Y'all can't smoke in the clubs out there, can ya?"
"No sir." The cigarette tasted soooooo good.
"I bet you're jess in hawg haven o'er here then!"
Yes, he did really pronounce it like 'haven'.
"You bet, " I said, then added into the mic, "I'd like to take this time to thank the entire city of Las Vegas for letting me smoke anywhere I want."
The crowd cheered. They probably figured all Californians and Angelenos to be Tai-Bo-taking, vegetarian fitness freaks who disdain tobacco.
"The proceeds to this show go to my cancer surgery in the future." A laugh from the audience.
Then I said, "You know, there's a ban in Santa Monica and Calabasas... So maybe I'll just move out here."
The crowd clapped and hooted, and then I shut my mouth, for fear that people would suspect I was coked to the max.
Mack was ready. Buddha was ready. Josh was almost done tuning. I looked at Mack and nodded. I looked at Buddha and smiled.
Then JJ gave us the signal, and we started playing.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 12:25am: I could hear everything.
Normally on stage I can't hear anything except myself and the drums. Even on the best stages, the guitar is so far away from me (on the opposite side of the stage) that I can barely make out what's going on with JJ.
The three best stages we've played so far, in terms of sound fidelity, are:
--The Viper Room on the Sunset Strip
--Linda's Doll Hut in Anaheim
--Cooler Lounge in Las Vegas
All three of those venues are tiny, although the VR stage is wide and contained the best backline as well as the most thorough sound check I'd ever encountered. The other two places were small but acoustically sound.
But at the Cooler Lounge, I could also hear the crowd very well. I could hear their shouts, their yelps, I could hear their hands clapping as if they were in front of my face...
I could hear them whisper. I could hear the compliments and insults.
I could hear, after the first song, the derisive comments of the first band. But I could also tell that they were scared.
Jealous.
Pissed off and yet blown away.
Finally, their timbre changed to grudging respect. By the end of the second song, we'd brought an unholy thunder to this small club that shook them to their core.
I was tweaking so hard.
I looked over at Mack, a Jack O' Lantern grinned etched into his rugged face, his hair jumbling about and releasing streams of sweat into the mob.
I saw local girls swooning in the front row. I sensed their panties dampening.
At one point, the bass guitarist for the previous band was standing in front of me. I thought he was trying to mean-mug me. Then, I took off my shades and saw that he wasn't looking at me-- he was staring at my bass gear.
He looked at my feet, shocked that I was getting such a raucous roar from one pedal, a shitty old amp, and a bass guitar that looked like a toy instrument.
His gear, I'd noticed earlier, cost about three times as much as mine.
But he didn't impress me. His sound was like every other bass player out there. When you buy a lot of gear to sound like everyone else, you succeed in that regard.
I ignored him and smoked my cigarette while turning and lashing on stage, a man possessed.
Buddha was so precise that night. His drums boomed like marching soldiers walking on dead local bands and their know-nothing followers. We were taking the club by storm like Nazi stormtroopers, like the Gestapo, like renegade SS officers, like rogue KGB agents tearing up the Kremlin.
My energy only intesified. I hopped in the air, daring to fall backward. I pulled out every trick in the cock-rock lexicon: windmill arm flourishes; backwards bending, almost as if I was doing rock and roll yoga; pained facial expressions followed by closed-eye open-mouth tongue-lolling manifestations of bliss.
Mack has to catch me sometimes when I careen and carom so recklessly that I might actually fall into the drum kit or off the stage. But this time, Mack was in the zone like I'd never seen him before. With his mother watching and his mood elevated, he dripped confidence and danger and charisma.
The biggest surpise was JJ, normally reserved and passive. I could hear his guitar quite clearly, and there was a relaxed inflection to his playing. He commanded that guitar and strangled virtuoso solos from it, wringing its neck and making it cry in pain and agony...
We left that club-- and the people in it --in ruins by the time we were finished.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 1:15am: After the show, I was actually a bit crazed for a second. Like an animal released from a cage, I stalked around and made sure that I wasn't going to keel over dead.
First thing I noticed was that Rose and her party crew had left without saying a word.
Second thing I noticed was Carrie, telling me to retrieve her when it was time to smoke more pot.
Third thing I noticed was Down Low and the bachelor party ensemble. They were really impressed and congratulatory.
Fourth thing I noticed was the previous band jocking JJ and Buddha, kissing their asses and telling us we rocked.
Fifth thing I noticed was Mack introducing me to a girl who looked 17 but had to be at least 21-- she wore braces, but lots of adult women do that nowadays. Maybe she had a fake ID, I don't know. What I do know is that she was transfixed by me-- she held on to my hand and asked me what my name was again and thanked me for putting on such a great show and she was going to come and see us again as soon as she could...
Then I noticed that the rest of the guys were striking down their gear, so I made sure to go get mine before it got stolen, tossed, or damaged.
I thanked the girl, whose name was Michelle, and discovered that she was one of Mack's friends from neighboring AZ. I resolved to talk to her later on.
Once the pandemonium died down, I found myself outside with a pipe in my hand, smoking weed with Carrie and Low and anyone else who wanted to partake in this sacrament.
I asked Low if he still wanted to do the strip clubs. He said he'd think about it back at the hotel.
Mack secretly asked me if I still wanted to take the Exstasy. I said I'd get back to him on it. I talked with Michelle some more and asked her if she wanted to hang out with us, but she and her friends were leaving town early the next morning.
"Next time you guys play out here," she said with a smile, "I'll definitely come see you."
"It was a pleasure meeting you," I said. "Have a safe drive home."
I packed my gear up in the rental, mingled for a spell, then finished the last of my cocaine and drove over to the Palace Station.
My rig took no time at all: an old 75-watt Peavey amplifier, a Boss Guitar Distortion pedal, and an old Fender P-Bass with glitter pasted onto the scratchguard by a previous owner. The entire set-up costed me $200, which was how much I bought the amp for-- the rest was free or donated to me by friends.
The DJ turntables in the previous band cost about as much as my entire bass rig, if not more.
We would've gone on sooner, but the Cooler Lounge's sound guy was trying to mic Buddha's drums.
I stole one last gagger in the men's room before going on stage.
Rose had placed a beer next to my set-up. I'd asked her in a hurry and she complied. She was standing next to her dude, but she had a camera in her hand.
My brain pulsed as the chemical drip in the back of my throat numbed my windpipe. I snorted, gulped, and started to sweat under the searing stage lights. I took a swig of the Newcastle as I tuned up.
Then, I realized I could smoke on stage. It was OK in Nevada to smoke in clubs... anywhere, for that matter!
I put my sunglasses on and lit a cigarette. "Hello folks," I intoned into the microphone for a sound check, "We're The Missing Digits, and we're from Hollywood."
"Hollywood?" An older man in the crowd stood up and walked over to me. "Didja jess say y'all was from Holly-wood?"
"Yes sir, I did," I replied, off-mic.
"Y'all can't smoke in the clubs out there, can ya?"
"No sir." The cigarette tasted soooooo good.
"I bet you're jess in hawg haven o'er here then!"
Yes, he did really pronounce it like 'haven'.
"You bet, " I said, then added into the mic, "I'd like to take this time to thank the entire city of Las Vegas for letting me smoke anywhere I want."
The crowd cheered. They probably figured all Californians and Angelenos to be Tai-Bo-taking, vegetarian fitness freaks who disdain tobacco.
"The proceeds to this show go to my cancer surgery in the future." A laugh from the audience.
Then I said, "You know, there's a ban in Santa Monica and Calabasas... So maybe I'll just move out here."
The crowd clapped and hooted, and then I shut my mouth, for fear that people would suspect I was coked to the max.
Mack was ready. Buddha was ready. Josh was almost done tuning. I looked at Mack and nodded. I looked at Buddha and smiled.
Then JJ gave us the signal, and we started playing.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 12:25am: I could hear everything.
Normally on stage I can't hear anything except myself and the drums. Even on the best stages, the guitar is so far away from me (on the opposite side of the stage) that I can barely make out what's going on with JJ.
The three best stages we've played so far, in terms of sound fidelity, are:
--The Viper Room on the Sunset Strip
--Linda's Doll Hut in Anaheim
--Cooler Lounge in Las Vegas
All three of those venues are tiny, although the VR stage is wide and contained the best backline as well as the most thorough sound check I'd ever encountered. The other two places were small but acoustically sound.
But at the Cooler Lounge, I could also hear the crowd very well. I could hear their shouts, their yelps, I could hear their hands clapping as if they were in front of my face...
I could hear them whisper. I could hear the compliments and insults.
I could hear, after the first song, the derisive comments of the first band. But I could also tell that they were scared.
Jealous.
Pissed off and yet blown away.
Finally, their timbre changed to grudging respect. By the end of the second song, we'd brought an unholy thunder to this small club that shook them to their core.
I was tweaking so hard.
I looked over at Mack, a Jack O' Lantern grinned etched into his rugged face, his hair jumbling about and releasing streams of sweat into the mob.
I saw local girls swooning in the front row. I sensed their panties dampening.
At one point, the bass guitarist for the previous band was standing in front of me. I thought he was trying to mean-mug me. Then, I took off my shades and saw that he wasn't looking at me-- he was staring at my bass gear.
He looked at my feet, shocked that I was getting such a raucous roar from one pedal, a shitty old amp, and a bass guitar that looked like a toy instrument.
His gear, I'd noticed earlier, cost about three times as much as mine.
But he didn't impress me. His sound was like every other bass player out there. When you buy a lot of gear to sound like everyone else, you succeed in that regard.
I ignored him and smoked my cigarette while turning and lashing on stage, a man possessed.
Buddha was so precise that night. His drums boomed like marching soldiers walking on dead local bands and their know-nothing followers. We were taking the club by storm like Nazi stormtroopers, like the Gestapo, like renegade SS officers, like rogue KGB agents tearing up the Kremlin.
My energy only intesified. I hopped in the air, daring to fall backward. I pulled out every trick in the cock-rock lexicon: windmill arm flourishes; backwards bending, almost as if I was doing rock and roll yoga; pained facial expressions followed by closed-eye open-mouth tongue-lolling manifestations of bliss.
Mack has to catch me sometimes when I careen and carom so recklessly that I might actually fall into the drum kit or off the stage. But this time, Mack was in the zone like I'd never seen him before. With his mother watching and his mood elevated, he dripped confidence and danger and charisma.
The biggest surpise was JJ, normally reserved and passive. I could hear his guitar quite clearly, and there was a relaxed inflection to his playing. He commanded that guitar and strangled virtuoso solos from it, wringing its neck and making it cry in pain and agony...
We left that club-- and the people in it --in ruins by the time we were finished.
*/*
October 15, 2006, 1:15am: After the show, I was actually a bit crazed for a second. Like an animal released from a cage, I stalked around and made sure that I wasn't going to keel over dead.
First thing I noticed was that Rose and her party crew had left without saying a word.
Second thing I noticed was Carrie, telling me to retrieve her when it was time to smoke more pot.
Third thing I noticed was Down Low and the bachelor party ensemble. They were really impressed and congratulatory.
Fourth thing I noticed was the previous band jocking JJ and Buddha, kissing their asses and telling us we rocked.
Fifth thing I noticed was Mack introducing me to a girl who looked 17 but had to be at least 21-- she wore braces, but lots of adult women do that nowadays. Maybe she had a fake ID, I don't know. What I do know is that she was transfixed by me-- she held on to my hand and asked me what my name was again and thanked me for putting on such a great show and she was going to come and see us again as soon as she could...
Then I noticed that the rest of the guys were striking down their gear, so I made sure to go get mine before it got stolen, tossed, or damaged.
I thanked the girl, whose name was Michelle, and discovered that she was one of Mack's friends from neighboring AZ. I resolved to talk to her later on.
Once the pandemonium died down, I found myself outside with a pipe in my hand, smoking weed with Carrie and Low and anyone else who wanted to partake in this sacrament.
I asked Low if he still wanted to do the strip clubs. He said he'd think about it back at the hotel.
Mack secretly asked me if I still wanted to take the Exstasy. I said I'd get back to him on it. I talked with Michelle some more and asked her if she wanted to hang out with us, but she and her friends were leaving town early the next morning.
"Next time you guys play out here," she said with a smile, "I'll definitely come see you."
"It was a pleasure meeting you," I said. "Have a safe drive home."
I packed my gear up in the rental, mingled for a spell, then finished the last of my cocaine and drove over to the Palace Station.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
VIBES
October 14, 2006, 9:15pm: I was fifteen minutes late but I was still earlier than the rest of the band. Apparently, I was earlier than everybody else because other than a black man and a white woman nursing spirits at the bar, the Cooler Lounge was empty.
JJ was worried I wouldn't like the place, but I found it to be a change of pace from the blinding garishness of Las Vegas: Located nowhere near the main glut of the strip, the Cooler Lounge resided in a strip mall but was situated near the street-- it wasn't tucked away, it didn't look like a hole in the wall. The interior reminded me of a place called The Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, due to its pool tables and jukebox and an old school furnace with seats circling it.
The stage was big, with a curious foot-high barrier erected at the edge of the stage-- a singer could step on it with one leg for maximum rock and roll posturing; the beers would not fall off the edge if placed at our feet; and it seemed like an effective deterrent to unruly stage divers and drunken fans trying to commandeer the microphone mid-set.
The bartender was an impossibly gorgeous punk rock chick, with jet black hair in Betty Page bangs, alabaster white porcelain skin, and a crimson red push-up bra that elevated her already-ample cleavage to lusty heights. She dripped with raw attitude, so I made my approach carefully.
"Newcastle, please," I asked politely.
I then noticed the band line-up on a chalkboard behind her. We were listed second.
When she served me, I tipped her and asked, "I'm with the second band listed. Is that the order we go on tonight?"
"No," she said, icily, wondering if I was trying to hit on her. "We wait until all the bands arrive, then we decide who goes on when."
"Oh," I said, befuddled. That's not how it's done in Los Angeles, for sure. I guessed that they must get a lot of cancellations. "Thank you."
At that moment, Rose walked in the door with three of her friends.
Rose was my latest crush. I met her at a show in August and was taken by her wit, her intelligence, her warmth, her humor. I know now that, although she likes me, she is not attracted to me-- she didn't have to tell me, I guessed it after many failed attempts to get her to go out with me alone without any friends or chaperones.
I knew that one of the people she brought with her was her "boyfriend", a college friend of hers who lived in Nevada just outside of Vegas. I put quotes on the label of "boyfriend" because they're really just fuck-buddies.
I can't see how anyone could have a long-distance relationship these days. Most likely, it was her way of keeping guys like me from making fools of themselves by asking her out.
"James!" she exclaimed when she saw me, and ran to me and gave me a great big hug that lasted longer than I expected. Then, she introduced her man, who went by the initials PG... and she definitely made it a point to say he was her "boyfriend".
I barely blinked as I shook his hand. I'd been through this drill many times before. It never changes-- I am excellent at not showing any disappointment when I put my mind to it. In fact, I keep getting better at it because I've had so much practice.
She introduced her friends, a couple who were engaged to be married next year. The woman, named Catherine, looked semi-attractive but carried herself in a manner that clued me in to her obnoxiousness; the man, going by the handle KC (what's up with guys using initials in Vegas?), shook my hand and immediately turned his attention to the barmaid, hoping to get a drink in him as soon as possible.
Rose and I sat and chatted. She regaled me with the nightmarish account of her trip to Sin City: a plane flight that arrived on time to McCarran Airport, only to turn around and go back to Burbank Airport due to inclement weather; an impromptu drive with two men she met on the plane who needed to be in Las Vegas as badly as she did; a joyless sojourn with the men as they smoked too much weed and got lost on their way...
"I'm sorry," I said, not really meaning it. I was peeved about PG. I tried not to let my disappointment show, even as I was glad to see her.
"Yeah, well, I'm here now, and I'm ready to watch you guys play!"
Rose turned to her friends and asked if they had been served yet. KC, proving to be more immediately obnoxious than his wife-to-be, said within earshot of the hot barmaid, "I haven't gotten a drink yet... if only the bartender would serve me, then I can start getting my drink on!"
The barmaid did not turn her head or let on that she heard him. She was busy counting the money in the register while talking on the phone to someone who wanted directions.
After about a minute, KC repeated his passive-aggressive request, this time slightly louder. "I'd love to get a drink, if only the bartender would hurry up and serve me."
Without turning her back, the barmaid tartly shot back: "That's nice."
I almost did a spit-take worthy of the classic slapstick comedies of the '30s. KC and Catherine looked at each other in amazement, then looked at Rose and PG, who both turned to me as if I had the power to do anything about it.
I smiled, raised my Newcastle, shrugged, and said nothing. Then, I took a swig and continued to talk to Rose, who listened as I rapped on about my weekend so far.
*/*
October 14, 2006, 10:39pm: By the time the other bands arrived and our place in the evening's line-up was determined, I was well on my way to mental oblivion.
I realized that I was almost out of coke, and yet I still kept going to the bathroom to powder my nose every half hour. I drank as many $3 Newcastles as I could-- the club offered the band free pitchers of Bud Lite, but I preferred the taste of Newcastle... and $3 was a good price to pay for a quality ale.
When the Missing Digits crew showed up, the first thing I did was apologize to Buddha for being so short with him on the phone earlier. He thought nothing of it, humble as usual. Then he informed me that they'd almost gotten into a car accident on the way to the gig.
I thought of the curse hanging over the weekend and then patted him on the back. "Dude, seriously?"
"Oh yeah. It was close. We were a bit shaken up by that."
I tried to spin it for him, still repentant for my rudeness on the phone. "Well, at least you guys are OK and made it here in one piece. We're gonna rock tonight, man, I just know it!"
"Oh, hell yeah!" Buddha replied, all smiles and radiating a Zen-like calm.
It was around the time that the first band started to set up on stage when Mack's mother and stepfather arrived at the club. It was a surprise, and it worked its magic: Mack was jazzed to see them. None of his family had ever seen him perform, being that they all lived in Arizona. When they discovered that Mack would be playing in Las Vegas, they called the Cooler Lounge and asked the barmaid for directions, then made the drive.
The effect on Mack set him floating on air. Always an agreeable sort, Mack was now fueled with superhuman excitement and anticipation. I believe that this small but significant show of support from his family contributed to his searing performance later on that night.
Shortly afterward, I watched in awe as Mack charmed the icy barmaid. She was putty in his hands, and he wasn't even trying to lay any lines on her.
"I can't believe my mom's here!" Mack said to the barmaid as he picked up another pitcher. "Did you know about this?"
"Yeah," she said, girlishly, twirling her hair with her fingers and giggling like a teeny-bopper. "They called earlier and asked me to keep it a secret."
Mack sensed her vibe, smiled politely, and took the pitcher in his hands. He turned around and saw me standing behind him, waiting for another beer.
"Ayyy mengh!" Mack shouted, doing his impression of my well-known Tony Montana impersonation. Then he leaned in to whisper to me.
"Got some E. Good shit. You down?"
"E?"
I was a bit shocked, because I always believed the guys in the band were not heads at all.
"Sure, I'm down. Might come in handy for the strip club later. You wanna come with us?" I figured having a stud-bull like Mack in attendance would strengthen our odds of attracting women in Sin City.
"Maybe," he said. I was feeling a bit of the darkness I detected in Mack-- he was a red-blooded American male tried and true, but that sinister edge I picked up from him was slowly creeping its way out into the open. Most likely it was emerging due to the first band's endless delays in setting up.
The first band took half an hour to get ready. They were a local LV band, taking their cue from groups like Slipknot and Korn: Goth make-up, gruesome stage props and visuals, massive equipment flourishes like drum cages, Marshall stacks, and a DJ with vinyl turntables who couldn't seem to figure out how to ground them so that they wouldn't hum mechanically.
We were getting impatient. I was running back and forth between the men's room and my place at the bar, keeping my nose packed with clean cocaine bursts. I was also wondering if Low and the bachelor party crew were going to make it out here or just flake on me.
I saw Rose standing with PG at the billiards table. They were hanging out with KC and Catherine, keeping to themselves. Every now and then she would look over at me, wondering if I was going to stand still for one milliscond.
Finally, she caught me as I was making another trip to the bathroom.
"James," she said nervously, under her breath, not moving her lips, as if she were trying to keep her voice down. "Why are you guys not hanging out with us?"
"What?" I was blazing from countless coke rips, sweating and agitated.
"It's like, you guys are over there, and we're over here... like you're ashamed of us or something."
From previous conversations with Rose, I knew she had a strange fear of being treated badly by unsigned bands she lent her support to, and I was getting a similar vibe from her tone.
"Well, it's not like you all can't come over to where we are," I explained rationally. "We're just mingling, trying to court everybody who came out. Some of Mack's family is here, JJ and Mack's friends are here, JJ's girlfriend is here, my friends are on their way, you guys are here... We're not trying to shut you out. And plus, this band is taking forever to set up..."
Rose was wise enough to use this last comment as an out. "Yeah, what's up with that? it's almost 11, and they're just dicking around up there!"
"I know... Well, when we take the stage, we'll show them how it's done."
"That's the spirit!" Rose said, smiling. I liked her enthusiasm. It made me feel special.
When the opening band finally started up, their fans were in attendance. Their crowd consisted of barely-21 misfits and outcasts who'd rather spend their weekend nights watching loud nu-metal bands kick out the jams than wander aimlessly on the Strip. They were locals, and they wanted no part of the excess of Vegas-- they had to live with it every day, and a place like Cooler Lounge was a refreshing respite for them.
Unfortunately, I didn't think much of the band's music. It was typical detuned noise metal, and while the players were tight and the singer had a hell of a scream on him, their songs were simplistic, brutal riffs that led nowhere. They had energy and spark, but I didn't think it was worth the long wait.
Carrie, JJ's girlfriend, grabbed me as I laid on a couch near the stage. She wanted to smoke weed with me in the car.
This was our routine, our pre-show ritual. Carrie could smoke me under the table but no one else in the Missing Digits circle was as ready as I was when it came to last-minute impromptu smoke-out sessions.
"Let's go," I said to her. We had time before the first band was done with their set, and I needed something other than alcohol to offset the effects of the coke.
*/*
October 14, 2006, 11:15pm: Carrie and I smoked in the rental, making small talk and not getting too deep. She described the near-accident that she and the rest of the crew had almost gotten into, and felt that it was a good enough excuse to smoke herself silly.
I still wondered what her deal was, why she put out this vibe like she wanted me, like she would cheat on JJ if only I'd make a move. Maybe it was the coke intensifying my ego's whimsies, or maybe it was more apparent than in previous smoke-out sessions, but I couldn't escape the awkwardness of Carrie pulling me away, while JJ was standing not too far away, to get high.
As we finished, I saw the bachelor party guys pull up in the parking lot in A-Team's car. Carrie and I piled out of the smoke-filled car, and I motioned for her to walk with me to greet the boys.
They were already shit-faced beyond belief, especially Wolf, who stood out by virtue of his aviator sunglasses covering his eyes when there was no sun out. They stumbled out of the vehicle like circus clowns and greeted me drunkenly.
I introduced Carrie to the rest of the crew.
"This is Down Low, the groom-to-be," I said, "and this is A-Team, Low's brother." Carrie shook their hands and smiled.
I continued. "This is KD Long, and you already know Wolfie... and this is BJ Fornicati."
BJ shook Carrie's hand, and a fiendish look swept over his face. "I know you," he stated. "I've met you before."
"I don't think so," Carrie said, unsure of Fornicati's gist.
The rest of us looked at each other and giggled slightly: Was BJ trying to make moves on JJ's girlfriend?
"I'm positive." BJ contemplated her for a spell, then he brightened and almost shouted, "I remember now! Valley College! We had a class together!"
Suddenly, it all came rushing back to Carrie. "Oh yeeeeaaahhhhh," she crowed. "But that was so long ago, before I met JJ."
The last part of her statement led the rest of us to believe that maybe, just maybe, she and BJ had hooked up.
With Fornicati, anything was possible.
He was a semi-legend in our circle of friends for being an unabashed flirter, oblivious to his lackluster aura and bland appearance. Anything in a skirt was fair game for BJ, and although he didn't always bag the girl, you could never fault him for at least trying.
It turned out that years ago Carrie scored weed from Fornicati after class, and they both ended up going out together to a hip-hop club later that night. That evening ended with Carrie getting pushed to the floor by a rude clubgoer while Fornicati stepped in to defuse the situation. No fight erupted, but Carrie getting knocked down soured the event for everyone involved.
I laughed, the combination of chemicals in my bloodstream elevating my euphoria to heretofore-unseen levels.
"Small world, ain't it?" I cackled aloud to no one in particular.
JJ was worried I wouldn't like the place, but I found it to be a change of pace from the blinding garishness of Las Vegas: Located nowhere near the main glut of the strip, the Cooler Lounge resided in a strip mall but was situated near the street-- it wasn't tucked away, it didn't look like a hole in the wall. The interior reminded me of a place called The Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, due to its pool tables and jukebox and an old school furnace with seats circling it.
The stage was big, with a curious foot-high barrier erected at the edge of the stage-- a singer could step on it with one leg for maximum rock and roll posturing; the beers would not fall off the edge if placed at our feet; and it seemed like an effective deterrent to unruly stage divers and drunken fans trying to commandeer the microphone mid-set.
The bartender was an impossibly gorgeous punk rock chick, with jet black hair in Betty Page bangs, alabaster white porcelain skin, and a crimson red push-up bra that elevated her already-ample cleavage to lusty heights. She dripped with raw attitude, so I made my approach carefully.
"Newcastle, please," I asked politely.
I then noticed the band line-up on a chalkboard behind her. We were listed second.
When she served me, I tipped her and asked, "I'm with the second band listed. Is that the order we go on tonight?"
"No," she said, icily, wondering if I was trying to hit on her. "We wait until all the bands arrive, then we decide who goes on when."
"Oh," I said, befuddled. That's not how it's done in Los Angeles, for sure. I guessed that they must get a lot of cancellations. "Thank you."
At that moment, Rose walked in the door with three of her friends.
Rose was my latest crush. I met her at a show in August and was taken by her wit, her intelligence, her warmth, her humor. I know now that, although she likes me, she is not attracted to me-- she didn't have to tell me, I guessed it after many failed attempts to get her to go out with me alone without any friends or chaperones.
I knew that one of the people she brought with her was her "boyfriend", a college friend of hers who lived in Nevada just outside of Vegas. I put quotes on the label of "boyfriend" because they're really just fuck-buddies.
I can't see how anyone could have a long-distance relationship these days. Most likely, it was her way of keeping guys like me from making fools of themselves by asking her out.
"James!" she exclaimed when she saw me, and ran to me and gave me a great big hug that lasted longer than I expected. Then, she introduced her man, who went by the initials PG... and she definitely made it a point to say he was her "boyfriend".
I barely blinked as I shook his hand. I'd been through this drill many times before. It never changes-- I am excellent at not showing any disappointment when I put my mind to it. In fact, I keep getting better at it because I've had so much practice.
She introduced her friends, a couple who were engaged to be married next year. The woman, named Catherine, looked semi-attractive but carried herself in a manner that clued me in to her obnoxiousness; the man, going by the handle KC (what's up with guys using initials in Vegas?), shook my hand and immediately turned his attention to the barmaid, hoping to get a drink in him as soon as possible.
Rose and I sat and chatted. She regaled me with the nightmarish account of her trip to Sin City: a plane flight that arrived on time to McCarran Airport, only to turn around and go back to Burbank Airport due to inclement weather; an impromptu drive with two men she met on the plane who needed to be in Las Vegas as badly as she did; a joyless sojourn with the men as they smoked too much weed and got lost on their way...
"I'm sorry," I said, not really meaning it. I was peeved about PG. I tried not to let my disappointment show, even as I was glad to see her.
"Yeah, well, I'm here now, and I'm ready to watch you guys play!"
Rose turned to her friends and asked if they had been served yet. KC, proving to be more immediately obnoxious than his wife-to-be, said within earshot of the hot barmaid, "I haven't gotten a drink yet... if only the bartender would serve me, then I can start getting my drink on!"
The barmaid did not turn her head or let on that she heard him. She was busy counting the money in the register while talking on the phone to someone who wanted directions.
After about a minute, KC repeated his passive-aggressive request, this time slightly louder. "I'd love to get a drink, if only the bartender would hurry up and serve me."
Without turning her back, the barmaid tartly shot back: "That's nice."
I almost did a spit-take worthy of the classic slapstick comedies of the '30s. KC and Catherine looked at each other in amazement, then looked at Rose and PG, who both turned to me as if I had the power to do anything about it.
I smiled, raised my Newcastle, shrugged, and said nothing. Then, I took a swig and continued to talk to Rose, who listened as I rapped on about my weekend so far.
*/*
October 14, 2006, 10:39pm: By the time the other bands arrived and our place in the evening's line-up was determined, I was well on my way to mental oblivion.
I realized that I was almost out of coke, and yet I still kept going to the bathroom to powder my nose every half hour. I drank as many $3 Newcastles as I could-- the club offered the band free pitchers of Bud Lite, but I preferred the taste of Newcastle... and $3 was a good price to pay for a quality ale.
When the Missing Digits crew showed up, the first thing I did was apologize to Buddha for being so short with him on the phone earlier. He thought nothing of it, humble as usual. Then he informed me that they'd almost gotten into a car accident on the way to the gig.
I thought of the curse hanging over the weekend and then patted him on the back. "Dude, seriously?"
"Oh yeah. It was close. We were a bit shaken up by that."
I tried to spin it for him, still repentant for my rudeness on the phone. "Well, at least you guys are OK and made it here in one piece. We're gonna rock tonight, man, I just know it!"
"Oh, hell yeah!" Buddha replied, all smiles and radiating a Zen-like calm.
It was around the time that the first band started to set up on stage when Mack's mother and stepfather arrived at the club. It was a surprise, and it worked its magic: Mack was jazzed to see them. None of his family had ever seen him perform, being that they all lived in Arizona. When they discovered that Mack would be playing in Las Vegas, they called the Cooler Lounge and asked the barmaid for directions, then made the drive.
The effect on Mack set him floating on air. Always an agreeable sort, Mack was now fueled with superhuman excitement and anticipation. I believe that this small but significant show of support from his family contributed to his searing performance later on that night.
Shortly afterward, I watched in awe as Mack charmed the icy barmaid. She was putty in his hands, and he wasn't even trying to lay any lines on her.
"I can't believe my mom's here!" Mack said to the barmaid as he picked up another pitcher. "Did you know about this?"
"Yeah," she said, girlishly, twirling her hair with her fingers and giggling like a teeny-bopper. "They called earlier and asked me to keep it a secret."
Mack sensed her vibe, smiled politely, and took the pitcher in his hands. He turned around and saw me standing behind him, waiting for another beer.
"Ayyy mengh!" Mack shouted, doing his impression of my well-known Tony Montana impersonation. Then he leaned in to whisper to me.
"Got some E. Good shit. You down?"
"E?"
I was a bit shocked, because I always believed the guys in the band were not heads at all.
"Sure, I'm down. Might come in handy for the strip club later. You wanna come with us?" I figured having a stud-bull like Mack in attendance would strengthen our odds of attracting women in Sin City.
"Maybe," he said. I was feeling a bit of the darkness I detected in Mack-- he was a red-blooded American male tried and true, but that sinister edge I picked up from him was slowly creeping its way out into the open. Most likely it was emerging due to the first band's endless delays in setting up.
The first band took half an hour to get ready. They were a local LV band, taking their cue from groups like Slipknot and Korn: Goth make-up, gruesome stage props and visuals, massive equipment flourishes like drum cages, Marshall stacks, and a DJ with vinyl turntables who couldn't seem to figure out how to ground them so that they wouldn't hum mechanically.
We were getting impatient. I was running back and forth between the men's room and my place at the bar, keeping my nose packed with clean cocaine bursts. I was also wondering if Low and the bachelor party crew were going to make it out here or just flake on me.
I saw Rose standing with PG at the billiards table. They were hanging out with KC and Catherine, keeping to themselves. Every now and then she would look over at me, wondering if I was going to stand still for one milliscond.
Finally, she caught me as I was making another trip to the bathroom.
"James," she said nervously, under her breath, not moving her lips, as if she were trying to keep her voice down. "Why are you guys not hanging out with us?"
"What?" I was blazing from countless coke rips, sweating and agitated.
"It's like, you guys are over there, and we're over here... like you're ashamed of us or something."
From previous conversations with Rose, I knew she had a strange fear of being treated badly by unsigned bands she lent her support to, and I was getting a similar vibe from her tone.
"Well, it's not like you all can't come over to where we are," I explained rationally. "We're just mingling, trying to court everybody who came out. Some of Mack's family is here, JJ and Mack's friends are here, JJ's girlfriend is here, my friends are on their way, you guys are here... We're not trying to shut you out. And plus, this band is taking forever to set up..."
Rose was wise enough to use this last comment as an out. "Yeah, what's up with that? it's almost 11, and they're just dicking around up there!"
"I know... Well, when we take the stage, we'll show them how it's done."
"That's the spirit!" Rose said, smiling. I liked her enthusiasm. It made me feel special.
When the opening band finally started up, their fans were in attendance. Their crowd consisted of barely-21 misfits and outcasts who'd rather spend their weekend nights watching loud nu-metal bands kick out the jams than wander aimlessly on the Strip. They were locals, and they wanted no part of the excess of Vegas-- they had to live with it every day, and a place like Cooler Lounge was a refreshing respite for them.
Unfortunately, I didn't think much of the band's music. It was typical detuned noise metal, and while the players were tight and the singer had a hell of a scream on him, their songs were simplistic, brutal riffs that led nowhere. They had energy and spark, but I didn't think it was worth the long wait.
Carrie, JJ's girlfriend, grabbed me as I laid on a couch near the stage. She wanted to smoke weed with me in the car.
This was our routine, our pre-show ritual. Carrie could smoke me under the table but no one else in the Missing Digits circle was as ready as I was when it came to last-minute impromptu smoke-out sessions.
"Let's go," I said to her. We had time before the first band was done with their set, and I needed something other than alcohol to offset the effects of the coke.
*/*
October 14, 2006, 11:15pm: Carrie and I smoked in the rental, making small talk and not getting too deep. She described the near-accident that she and the rest of the crew had almost gotten into, and felt that it was a good enough excuse to smoke herself silly.
I still wondered what her deal was, why she put out this vibe like she wanted me, like she would cheat on JJ if only I'd make a move. Maybe it was the coke intensifying my ego's whimsies, or maybe it was more apparent than in previous smoke-out sessions, but I couldn't escape the awkwardness of Carrie pulling me away, while JJ was standing not too far away, to get high.
As we finished, I saw the bachelor party guys pull up in the parking lot in A-Team's car. Carrie and I piled out of the smoke-filled car, and I motioned for her to walk with me to greet the boys.
They were already shit-faced beyond belief, especially Wolf, who stood out by virtue of his aviator sunglasses covering his eyes when there was no sun out. They stumbled out of the vehicle like circus clowns and greeted me drunkenly.
I introduced Carrie to the rest of the crew.
"This is Down Low, the groom-to-be," I said, "and this is A-Team, Low's brother." Carrie shook their hands and smiled.
I continued. "This is KD Long, and you already know Wolfie... and this is BJ Fornicati."
BJ shook Carrie's hand, and a fiendish look swept over his face. "I know you," he stated. "I've met you before."
"I don't think so," Carrie said, unsure of Fornicati's gist.
The rest of us looked at each other and giggled slightly: Was BJ trying to make moves on JJ's girlfriend?
"I'm positive." BJ contemplated her for a spell, then he brightened and almost shouted, "I remember now! Valley College! We had a class together!"
Suddenly, it all came rushing back to Carrie. "Oh yeeeeaaahhhhh," she crowed. "But that was so long ago, before I met JJ."
The last part of her statement led the rest of us to believe that maybe, just maybe, she and BJ had hooked up.
With Fornicati, anything was possible.
He was a semi-legend in our circle of friends for being an unabashed flirter, oblivious to his lackluster aura and bland appearance. Anything in a skirt was fair game for BJ, and although he didn't always bag the girl, you could never fault him for at least trying.
It turned out that years ago Carrie scored weed from Fornicati after class, and they both ended up going out together to a hip-hop club later that night. That evening ended with Carrie getting pushed to the floor by a rude clubgoer while Fornicati stepped in to defuse the situation. No fight erupted, but Carrie getting knocked down soured the event for everyone involved.
I laughed, the combination of chemicals in my bloodstream elevating my euphoria to heretofore-unseen levels.
"Small world, ain't it?" I cackled aloud to no one in particular.
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