The old Lincoln Continental caught some air as its wheels barely grazed over a construction site. We heard the sickening sound of metal grinding asphalt.
"Just so I get the details right when I tell this story tomorrow," I said, death-gripping the oh-shit strap, "What year is this pimpmobile?"
"1989," said the man driving.
"Okay. And who are you, again?"
I was in L.A. over the weekend. Among the matters to which I attended was checking in with old buddy Grady, whom I last saw in Columbus last year. We had not parted amicably. We'd exchanged angry words about the circumstances of Mason's death. We both felt bad about it. When I told d'Pam that I was going to L.A., she suggested I do a little fence-mending. Fence-painting, anyway. And thus did I end up driving my rental car to Compton.
I found the address I'd been given, but it sure didn't look like a bar. It looked like a strip club—mason blocks, no windows, no sign of any kind. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I walked in and was soon smothered by Grady's embrace. Like me, he seldom connects with anyone he knew over ten years ago. Fence: painted. Let the ball-busting begin.
"You moved 3000 miles to fucking Compton?" I asked incredulously.
"Oh, I don't live here," he said, twinkling evilly. "I just wanted to make you come here. I live in Woodland Hills."
I stared at him. He read my mind. "No, there are other brothers in Woodland Hills. I can just, you know, name them all."
I have no idea how to describe the establishment where I would spend the next 10 hours. It was my kind of place: sticky booths, dank, no lighting to speak of. There were no servers. No money exchanged hands. There were four kinds of alcohol served: tequila, whiskey, rum, and beer. There was an owner, but he seemed more like a host than a proprietor. I have no idea what was going on. I do know that I ate my body weight in buffalo wings and drank a Monterrey Bay of whiskey. The evening was a blur. What follows are random reminiscences bubbling up through the drunken fog.
I ordered a huge amount of whiskey on the rocks.
"Easy, there. You don't really drink," Grady said.
"I, um, gave that up a while back."
These were good people. No one was under 30, which doubtlessly helped. The drunker they got, the more sickening their professions of love for their absent women became. The setting notwithstanding, it was sweet. And everyone had an origin story worthy of a film and two sequels. Everyone except me. I'm quite used to eyes glazing over when I'm asked what I do and I explain that I write software documentation, but this was special. I might as well have said "I make margaritas in my carburetor." They simply could not believe that someone makes a living doing such a purposeless thing, and in a rare moment of clarity, I was right there with them. My job is a joke. A painfully unfunny joke. A Carrot Top joke.
At one point, Grady introduced me as "the conscience" of our old neighborhood. "What?" he said of the look on my face.
"That giant sucking sound you'll hear Monday morning will be the collective gasp of a bunch of women reading that at once," I said.
I talked a bit about being the polka dot. I told the d'Andre "bald friends" story, to much table pounding delight.
"Let's shoot some H.O.R.S.E.," Grady suddenly said. I knew what he was doing. He was baiting me. My standard retort back in the day was that we'd have to play P.I.G. instead, as I was the only one present who'd mastered the complexities of spelling five-letter words. I declined to reprise the joke.
But shoot horse we did, around 4am. Did I mention this was in fucking Compton? No one had a basketball, so we lived off the land. One would think that a wadded up cotton gym bag would snag on a chain basketball net, and one would be correct. That I would lose was certain.
"Do you know the last time I played hoops?"
Grady looked me up and down, his eyes wide and eyebrows arched. "I'm guessing four score and eighty pounds ago."
We awoke around 6am in our booth. A woman was very, very pissed about...something...she'd done with...someone...the night before. The details were hazy, probably because she didn't want to come right out and admit that she didn't know which one of us she'd slept with. She glared at me, but I don't think I was a serious suspect. No, she would probably remember that.
I'm glad she started shrieking, because my plane left at 7. Compton is about 20 awkward miles from LAX. I might make the flight, security willing, but there was no way I was getting the rental car back. And thus was a plan devised where Grady would return my car and Door Number Three would drive me to the airport on two wheels.
Remember Issac Hayes in "Escape from New York?" I'm just sayin.'
• • •
Epilogue
Unbathed for two days and smelling like, well, like I'd just spent the night in a bar where I'd smoked cigars and drank a quart of vinegar, I nestled into my seat on the plane. This is who sat next to me.
Hey, God, thanks for the jaunty "Fuck you, John." As always.
"Just so I get the details right when I tell this story tomorrow, you're a model, right?"
That's from her portfolio.