Nasty’s had a little tournament going in the back room, a dozen guys chalking their sticks and pulling on beers around ten o’clock. Boris had staked out end seats at the bar.
“Polish sausage is on special,” Boris said when I walked up. We did the knuckle-fist touch. “Fries, pickles. Pretty good last time I had it.”
“Ate already.” Leaning in to the bar, I caught Slash’s eye. “Arnold Palmer, please.” He nodded. “Hey, Slash, put in some of those lemon wedges, okay?” Slash tapped the bar with his finger and went to the refrigerator. Nasty’s used real iced tea and homemade lemonade. Arnie would be proud. The pool balls at Nasty’s clicked in a rhythm sometimes all at once, four tables in back, a wooden thunk-click, balls in the pockets. A shout, a groan, a clink of beer glasses.
“So what is this place you got in mind?” I said. “Where is it, at the end of a dirt road?”
“We can get a game with some of these guys,” Boris said, nodding towards the pool tables. “Couple of guys we could take real easy.”
“Don’t want to waste karma. Got it all stored up where I need it. Pull it down like beer from a keg.”
“Jesus Christ. All right. Fuckin’ pool game, man. I could use the money.”
“Karma is like cash, dude, spiritual currency, to be used wisely and for the greater good and the enlightenment of the species.”
“And I thought you were off the medication. What’d you do, switch up to meth?”
“Hey, I’m not laughing, man. I spent three fuckin’ months at county getting shit together. Three months. Mia said I didn’t even know I was there half the time. In and out. Still got some work to do, though, dude. You’re going to help? Or no, you’re chickening out. Hmm?” The Arnold slid across the bar. “Thanks, Slash.” Slapped a five down next to the coaster.
Skinny long-haired freak at the front table snapped up a twenty from the rail, spun his cue stick like hands of a clock going twelve to six, then back the other way, Tom Cruise-style; ‘Color of Money’. Paul Newman was awesome in that movie. He and Jason Robards, Nicholson. Old dudes could play characters, defining the archetypes, cultural heroes we could depend on. Over and over. That was the cool thing about DVD’s. Lock in to something real, you watch it over and over, perfect it, learn it, master it. Sat there in my smoking jacket all day for a couple of weeks, ‘resting’, but I don’t waste time. Don’t waste time, don’t waste karma. Eventually, it all runs out. Just a matter of when.
Boris wanted that long haired freak, I could tell. Smelled money on the table, that was his problem. Couldn’t grasp the real issues, the bigger picture.
“Boris, tune your frequency, dude, I need you, man. Dial it down.” Boris turned from the pool tables back to the bar, put his finger up. Slash pulled a draft and set it down.
“One game man,” he said. “Just one game.”
“Where is this place, man? Where is this happening?”
“So you sat around all day watching ‘X-Files’?” Boris had foam around the top of his lip. “Got all pumped up nominating yourself for ‘alien abduction of the year’?”
“Uh, no. That’s not it dude.”
“Well this place, I’m telling you, nobody goes up there. We pop a tire or something, this time of year, morning comes, we fry.”
“You ever heard of a spare tire?”
“Why do you think I want to get a game here? Unlike you, Mr. Employed Truck Driver, I don’t have unlimited domestic funding.”
“And I don’t have unlimited time. I almost found that out. I did find that out.”
“Congratulations. Welcome to the human race.”
“Yeah, I’m alive. Great.” I leaned closer. “But how alive am I?”
“What are you, mixing shit now? Little meth, Arnie Palmers, what else? Splash of Karma on the rocks?”
Boris’s teeth were so fucking ugly, I really wanted him to consider an orthodontic-surgical approach, or a good pool cue to the jaw. That could be arranged.
“Thanks, Slash.” I slid the tall glass across the bar. Stood up.
“Sit down, man.” Boris pulled an index card out of his front shirt pocket. “Okay, okay. Come on.” He handed the card to me. It was yellow, light blue lines. In black ink; a time, a date, a GPS coordinate.
“I don’t have GPS,” I said. “That’s what this is?”
“Can you borrow one?”
I nodded. If I had to. They could locate us, then, I thought. GPS worked both ways. At least in this town. I didn’t say anything. Filed it away, kept it in my head. Go home, write everything out, dispose of the yellow index card, take a shower, clean off, wipe down. Jump in bed with Mia, lay my head on her beautiful thigh, the two of us arranged like a ‘T’.
8.20.2009
8.12.2009
Close Calls
The eggs popped in the pan when the water boiled down and the kitchen was billowing smoke and it smelled. It was a while before the house cleared out, windows all opened and the fan blowing. I'd been on the computer writing and forgot about the eggs boiling. I threw everything out in the trash.
Later, after working out in the gym and reading a few pages of my story I fell asleep. My eyes felt heavy and I slipped into a dream with a dark figure looking at me. She smiled. This happened very fast, so when I woke up it seemed like it was only a few seconds. The next thing, it was a half an hour later, and time to get dressed and get down to pick up Carlos.
Driving my Jeep, I hear Carlos yelling at me; 'Watch out, watch out,' and the brakes slammed on and chattered, the ABS system worked, and I was an inch short of running into a road sign in the median. We were going to Hollywood, and I wondered if accidents happened in threes.
At Hollywood and Highland the chairs were all taken. We found a table. People came up to us saying this was their table, and I said no, we'd been there for an hour. The guy grinned and pointed to something he'd left at the table to mark it as his. I said, no, no way. But join us anyway.
Carlos from Peru and Ivonne and Eliezer join us after a while. My friend Carlos is from Columbia and has been here for eight years. Carlos, numero dos, es de Peru and is an actor. Eliezer is an actor, via Puerto Rico and New York. Ivonne is an actor, Carlos' acting coach and well known in Latino cinema.
The music is beautiful, Francisco Aquabella on congas, very precise and strong band. The wonderful horn section plays the breaks with strength and style. Francisco sings in his wavering voice. He will play forever, I think. He will always play.
Carlos from Peru is amazed that this great music is free. The summer in Los Angeles has so much to do, with free music, wonderful beaches and weather, the city celebrates this, embraces it as ours, our gifts to enjoy. It is why we are here. The KJAZ summer series draws music fans and locals and great musicians together in a setting where we all feel together, people meeting new people, talking and joined by great rhythm and sound.
After the music, Carlos and Eliezer and I have dinner upstairs at the Grille, and talk about coffee and cinema and not much about politics, but a little.
Later, after working out in the gym and reading a few pages of my story I fell asleep. My eyes felt heavy and I slipped into a dream with a dark figure looking at me. She smiled. This happened very fast, so when I woke up it seemed like it was only a few seconds. The next thing, it was a half an hour later, and time to get dressed and get down to pick up Carlos.
Driving my Jeep, I hear Carlos yelling at me; 'Watch out, watch out,' and the brakes slammed on and chattered, the ABS system worked, and I was an inch short of running into a road sign in the median. We were going to Hollywood, and I wondered if accidents happened in threes.
At Hollywood and Highland the chairs were all taken. We found a table. People came up to us saying this was their table, and I said no, we'd been there for an hour. The guy grinned and pointed to something he'd left at the table to mark it as his. I said, no, no way. But join us anyway.
Carlos from Peru and Ivonne and Eliezer join us after a while. My friend Carlos is from Columbia and has been here for eight years. Carlos, numero dos, es de Peru and is an actor. Eliezer is an actor, via Puerto Rico and New York. Ivonne is an actor, Carlos' acting coach and well known in Latino cinema.
The music is beautiful, Francisco Aquabella on congas, very precise and strong band. The wonderful horn section plays the breaks with strength and style. Francisco sings in his wavering voice. He will play forever, I think. He will always play.
Carlos from Peru is amazed that this great music is free. The summer in Los Angeles has so much to do, with free music, wonderful beaches and weather, the city celebrates this, embraces it as ours, our gifts to enjoy. It is why we are here. The KJAZ summer series draws music fans and locals and great musicians together in a setting where we all feel together, people meeting new people, talking and joined by great rhythm and sound.
After the music, Carlos and Eliezer and I have dinner upstairs at the Grille, and talk about coffee and cinema and not much about politics, but a little.
8.10.2009
Shangri La
Jerry's dead. His widow runs the place now, the Hardyville Trailer Park and The Shangri La. Both popped up on the radar on my first mission to Bullhead, couple of weeks ago. Sitting at the front end of a dusty gravel drive that passes by trailers stacked against the river. Old ones, rusty and held up it seems by plywood panels, shaded with groves of palm. I couldn't tell if the roots poking up were from trees or trailers, they'd both been there so long. Grime covered motorcycles huddling in shade--no plates; broken barbecues; mis-matched chairs and gray wooden planter boxes sprouting flowers and dried up withered stuff that couldn't stand the heat.
The Shangri La is the motel wing of this riverside lean-to.
Didn't catch her name but she showed me a furnished room. Upstairs. Introduced me to Morris, but Morris didn't say anything. He grins at me when I say hello, sitting in the sun next to the vacant studio suite. He'd be my next door neighbor if I moved in there. Doubt if he'd make much noise.
600 a month includes cable, no internet. Furnished with a kitchen.
'Kathleen lives down here," she said, pointing down the second story hall. "Works at the Riverside. Most people here are full-time residents. Mary sold her place in San Diego, couldn't afford it no more. Moved in here."
600 a month moves just about anybody in. Me? Couple of months, play like I'm on the run or something, hole up, sketch out a few scenes, see what pops.
She took my card, but said she didn't have much use for them.
"In case I call you up, later," I said. "Maybe you'll remember me."
Up the road a few blocks I stop in to the Longhorn Gun Shop, just as my friend texts a message about buying jeans and shirts. My fashion advisor, she has the scoop on what guys need. Turns me on to some cheap shopping at Sam's.
The Longhorn has an old time rough wooden plank door, big brass handle, chimes that sound when you walk in the cool dark room. Glass cases hold turquoise jewelry. Rifles and automatic weapons line up against the walls.
The biggest guy I'll see in three days walks out from the back.
"Ammo?" he says. "We've got ammo."
I pick up a couple of boxes of 9mm and .45. I ask him about shooting ranges in Bullhead City.
"We just shoot in the desert," he says. He gives me directions to a road heading east, to a deserted hillside where locals fire away.
"Targets?" he says. "No. There's old cars out there, though."
I didn't bring any guns, but I want to check out the local shooting spot but get a bad feeling when I spot two police cars positioned at the beginning of the dirt part of the road. Some other time.
After cruising the waterfront looking for fixers on the river I end up at Lazy Harry's Bar and Grille, overlooking the curve of the Colorado River.
'Music Food Cocktails Darts'. Old boys inside complaining about the heat.
"Ten weeks in a row", the guy next to me explains, "been over 110 F. 117 today." Men compare the temps at their houses, everybody agreeing it's hot, even for Bullhead. I drink an American Ale. Seemed like the thing to do, with four boxes of pistol ammo sitting in the back of my Jeep parked up against the river where I could keep an eye on it.
Later on I pull up at the Castle for a salad and a beer. The waitresses seem nice when I ask a few questions about winter rentals.
"Winter time this place is packed at night," the older one says. The younger one is cute and spotless, bright eyed. "Pretty much an older crowd," she continues.
I tell her I had a drink at Lazy Harry's.
"How'd you find that place?"
"Cruising some property, came up on it," I say.
"That's the place for gossip and gathering," she says.
I know now what she means by 'older'. Older than me.
Brand new homes up on the hill sell for just over $200K. Not many left, but they're nice. I could hang out here, I think. Check out the river scene for a couple of months in a rental, before I decide to pack up and leave California for good. Could happen.
Next day, I'll get my first major rejection email on my novel. But first, I'll have a round or two at the tables, see if my luck has dried up like the rustling stalks hanging on in the weathered planter boxes down the path from the Shangri La.
The Shangri La is the motel wing of this riverside lean-to.
Didn't catch her name but she showed me a furnished room. Upstairs. Introduced me to Morris, but Morris didn't say anything. He grins at me when I say hello, sitting in the sun next to the vacant studio suite. He'd be my next door neighbor if I moved in there. Doubt if he'd make much noise.
600 a month includes cable, no internet. Furnished with a kitchen.
'Kathleen lives down here," she said, pointing down the second story hall. "Works at the Riverside. Most people here are full-time residents. Mary sold her place in San Diego, couldn't afford it no more. Moved in here."
600 a month moves just about anybody in. Me? Couple of months, play like I'm on the run or something, hole up, sketch out a few scenes, see what pops.
She took my card, but said she didn't have much use for them.
"In case I call you up, later," I said. "Maybe you'll remember me."
Up the road a few blocks I stop in to the Longhorn Gun Shop, just as my friend texts a message about buying jeans and shirts. My fashion advisor, she has the scoop on what guys need. Turns me on to some cheap shopping at Sam's.
The Longhorn has an old time rough wooden plank door, big brass handle, chimes that sound when you walk in the cool dark room. Glass cases hold turquoise jewelry. Rifles and automatic weapons line up against the walls.
The biggest guy I'll see in three days walks out from the back.
"Ammo?" he says. "We've got ammo."
I pick up a couple of boxes of 9mm and .45. I ask him about shooting ranges in Bullhead City.
"We just shoot in the desert," he says. He gives me directions to a road heading east, to a deserted hillside where locals fire away.
"Targets?" he says. "No. There's old cars out there, though."
I didn't bring any guns, but I want to check out the local shooting spot but get a bad feeling when I spot two police cars positioned at the beginning of the dirt part of the road. Some other time.
After cruising the waterfront looking for fixers on the river I end up at Lazy Harry's Bar and Grille, overlooking the curve of the Colorado River.
'Music Food Cocktails Darts'. Old boys inside complaining about the heat.
"Ten weeks in a row", the guy next to me explains, "been over 110 F. 117 today." Men compare the temps at their houses, everybody agreeing it's hot, even for Bullhead. I drink an American Ale. Seemed like the thing to do, with four boxes of pistol ammo sitting in the back of my Jeep parked up against the river where I could keep an eye on it.
Later on I pull up at the Castle for a salad and a beer. The waitresses seem nice when I ask a few questions about winter rentals.
"Winter time this place is packed at night," the older one says. The younger one is cute and spotless, bright eyed. "Pretty much an older crowd," she continues.
I tell her I had a drink at Lazy Harry's.
"How'd you find that place?"
"Cruising some property, came up on it," I say.
"That's the place for gossip and gathering," she says.
I know now what she means by 'older'. Older than me.
Brand new homes up on the hill sell for just over $200K. Not many left, but they're nice. I could hang out here, I think. Check out the river scene for a couple of months in a rental, before I decide to pack up and leave California for good. Could happen.
Next day, I'll get my first major rejection email on my novel. But first, I'll have a round or two at the tables, see if my luck has dried up like the rustling stalks hanging on in the weathered planter boxes down the path from the Shangri La.
8.09.2009
Bullhead
River run, I-10 to Blythe. Who lives in Blythe? The question isn't who, it's why. Not a bad place, just not mainstream. Now, a freeway rest stop. Gas up, water, head north along the Colorado to Parker. Fields of green crops dot the landscape accepting searing sunlight and blistering heat, water from the river to keep things lush. They are. Trailer havens cluster along the river banks; Ranchos Not So Grandes, the best name I found. Vidal junction, not like any other. Two highways, barely a truck stop, the cafe closed for almost a year now. Economic bad times? Maybe. More like these are the way things are in Vidal. Slow moving.
Move on, cross the river, enter Arizona and the Parker Strip. Ahhh...
The north side of the river hosts a few trailer villages, boat houses, semi-retirement or worse on the semi-quiet no-way-out drive skirting the Colorado. It's the one-way street, the slow lane, 'don't bother me I'm out of the way, out of sight' folks that mean, well. . .they just mean well.
Across the water it's condos and upscale, as up-scale as the river gets. Not much, it turns out. The river drive runs along the east side of the river along campgrounds and winter retreats, and, as it turns out, some river bars that are too loose with their cooking temperatures. As in undercooked food; as in, get your money back, get your water back, along with a shot to go to kill the bacteria and hope I get to where I'm going and stay alive. That kind of undercooked.
I live. I drive, I arrive in Laughlin via Bullhead City. Joe's Crab Shack has good ale, good service, and cooked food. The moron from Boron is nowhere to be seen. It's been a year since I've been here, so I don't really expect to see him.
Tomorrow, checking out the Shangri La. Furnished rooms by the month. Let's make a deal.
Move on, cross the river, enter Arizona and the Parker Strip. Ahhh...
The north side of the river hosts a few trailer villages, boat houses, semi-retirement or worse on the semi-quiet no-way-out drive skirting the Colorado. It's the one-way street, the slow lane, 'don't bother me I'm out of the way, out of sight' folks that mean, well. . .they just mean well.
Across the water it's condos and upscale, as up-scale as the river gets. Not much, it turns out. The river drive runs along the east side of the river along campgrounds and winter retreats, and, as it turns out, some river bars that are too loose with their cooking temperatures. As in undercooked food; as in, get your money back, get your water back, along with a shot to go to kill the bacteria and hope I get to where I'm going and stay alive. That kind of undercooked.
I live. I drive, I arrive in Laughlin via Bullhead City. Joe's Crab Shack has good ale, good service, and cooked food. The moron from Boron is nowhere to be seen. It's been a year since I've been here, so I don't really expect to see him.
Tomorrow, checking out the Shangri La. Furnished rooms by the month. Let's make a deal.
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