The following will appear in the November issue of the "The Arts District Citizen" in Los Angeles. A monthly arts & culture magazine.
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Another Night in Downtown L.A.
by Jim Marquez
I forget which bar I was at. Things for me usually start at a bar then slowly roll out of kilter from there as the evening progresses. People always ask me, 'Dude, so, like, where do you get your stories?'
I merely have what most people don't: patience. I'll sit or lean at a bar for hours, drinking up, because my first goal is to drink, but, if you hang out long enough, keep it in your pants for more than 10 minutes, not 'Text' somebody looking for another place to party, then, well, hell, buddy, the shit just happens. Not the healthiest or coolest of things to do, but, obviously it works for me.
Anyway, oddly enough, this night didn't end or start at a bar, but, appropriately as some stories about L.A., in Chinatown, in front of a restaurant. I was smashed, giggling, saw some woman sitting on a fire hydrant as I sped past then parked out front. Needed the greasy, yummy sustenance that Mongolian Beef can give me to make it home.
The guard here knows me and he says out loud, 'You drinking tonight, my friend?' and half the sidewalk filled with club goers staggering toward the bistro's front door look up and snarl then see me clambering out of my car then quickly look away.
'I'm excellent!' I slur, light a smoke.
'I don't think I've ever seen you sober, man!'
'Yeah, I get that a lot.'
'Hey, sweet cheeks! You have extra cigarette for lady?' I think is what the-inebriated-and-falling-over-woman-slipping-off-the-hydrant babbled to me. Body of 25 but her face says add on a 12pk of years. Tank top, no bra, nipples piercing, jeans, but no bag, jacket, keys, nor wallet. Done up to go out but sitting alone at nearly 3am.
'I'm cold,' she says.
'Well come here, baby.' I put my arm around her. The guard chuckles, tries to whisper something in my ear but I shake him off. She wraps her arms around me. 'My girlfriend leave me. She go off with boy. Stupid girl! She has my purse.'
'That's too bad, sweetie. You hungry?'
'I no have money.'
'Come on, it'll be my treat.'
'Really? You so sweet.'
'I know. Let's go.'
The boys know me in here too. They raise eyebrows and nudge each other as we shuffle in, me holding her up by her tiny and warm waist and we flop into a booth by the window. It's not the first time I've brought a woman here, but those have usually been under their own power.
'I love calamari!' she shouts.
'Yeah, I bet you do, all $25 a plate of it, but I love the beef and steamed rice. They serve enough for two. You can have half of mine,' I say.
We order, take the house tea. Total? $9.40.
FUCK YEAH!
Throughout dinner there is banal & indifferent chatter about the husband she's separated from (must there always such trauma?), my roots in the city, how long she's been in the country, how L.A. is not the place she thought it would be. 'People bad here, so mean.'
'Bunch of fuckin' freaks too!'
We leer at each other and I hold her hand across the table and the light is hazy and she whispers 'so handsome' and I volley with 'so beautiful' and she says, 'Sweet, man, can you take me home?'
'Where do you live, baby?'
'Korea Town.'
So we bop down Hill Street, make a left on College, then a right on Broadway and stay the course out of Chinatown, across Chavez, my right hand rubbing her inner leg as I drive up and over the 101, past where that pig waits to get you for speeding, or worse, but he's not there tonight, then, it's the familiar litany of apocalyptic streets you know: Temple, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, fuck, this is tiring, and then 5th, and finally 6th: 'Right here, make right,' she says and her head falls back and downtown's deserted.
What the hell happened to all the homeless? Through the tunnel, and, 'Hey,' I say, 'There's the 'Miguel Contreras School', I read there opening day, for the kids.' I chuckle at that one.
'That's nice,' she mumbles distantly.
'Keep going then?'
'All the way.'
The scenery gets dicier. Baghdad-ish. I begin to sober up. Dammit! We're sitting ducks for the pigs! This is taking too long. 'Keep going'¦' She belches, laughs, closes her eyes. Tires groan over shabby asphalt. We're the only action in town.
Forever, then, 'Here'¦make'¦left.'
Dark corner, apartment building, parking behind: 'Not here, drug dealers; go across street.' I see shadows take defensive stances and I dart over to the mini-mart lot with a tea house just closing for the night. Oh my: Korean girls. Make mental note: get here early next week!
We park my crap car. Only Am radio though. Listen to gospel music. 'You know, I have no keys,' she whispers, head hanging low.
'Get the manager.'
'At this time?'
'We can use the laundry room.'
'Crazy man'¦Stay here'¦.Relax...Give me massage.'
'Lean back, baby'
Touch, kiss, grope, undo straps; God, I love the foreplay!
Those drunken, scattered few leaving the tea house take a peek into the car, a guard happily makes his rounds, and I think one of the zombies strolled by, but fuck it, the doors were locked. You can actually smell the booze expunging from our bodies into the stuffiness of the car. 4 Β½ sweaty minutes later I'm finished.
'So tired,' she says.
'Me too.'
'You want to go now?' She gives me the out.
'You want me to go?'
'Yes, I think I better go in.' Where & how I have no clue.
She fixes herself up, opens the door, gives her back to me: 'I'll call you,' she says and doesn't mean even though I never gave her my name or a number, and if I had it would have been something like 'Jonathan'.
As I left I could see her in my rearview mirror scampering across the street and the long shadows of the dealers & the aimless, looking like the Morlocks in that old movie, descend upon her en masse. I don't even know if she made it to the front door.
Cruising down 6th Street I think I remember this leads to Highland, then down and up some other route all the way to the 10 East and safety motherfucker!
A Highway Pat trails me for about Β½ mile then breaks off. That's right you bastard, there's nothing here you can light me up for: tags, tails, seatbelt, speed, staying in lanes, no rap music blaring. Go hassle some other homeboy who needs the beating his father was never there to give him.
A blissfully uneventful drive home wraps its arms around me.
Visit Jim & his books @ www.LuLu.Com/JimMarquez
Also, Jim's birthday is November 16. He's a Scorpio! Oh, so that explains it.
