Posts
I’m having drinks at the Dresdan on a Wednesday night. Sitting to my right is an old tattoo artist that wants to take me home and molest me. Sitting to my left is a plain Jane girl with a British accent, can’t understand a single word she says. Hot. I think she has a boyfriend. Fuck it. This place is dead anyway. I slurp down the last of my Makers and Ginger, give the tattoo artist a friendly tap on the shoulder, kiss the British girl on the cheek. Outside the Dresdan, lighter, smokes, coughing. Walking now.
I see a lone figure on the corner of Vermount and Fred 62’s. Great someone famous. I’m staring now. Quentin Tarantino? Holy shit. I’m about ten feet away now, still staring. He glances my way. For the briefest of moments I become distinctly aware of my facial expression, smiling slightly, mocking, staring. My face betrays me constantly.
“What the fuck are you looking at asshole?” his voice is gruff and mean, but smells like cheap wine and fruit. Sangria? Really QT?
“Hey, I’m Bapu Griscom,” I extend my hand, Jesus I must be drunk.
“What was that?”
“Bapu Griscom,” I say it slow and loud.
“So fucking what? fuck off.” He is smiling as he says this. I decide that it’s time to put this cocky motherfucker in his place. Whiskey cocktails.
“Watch your fucking mouth QT,” I smile as I say his nickname, “You are in SF now, North Cali motherfucker, and you see this Giants hat? This is my town.”
I dramatically point at the ground, and check his eyes for a reaction. For a moment the look of befuddlement on his face confuses me, then I hear someone yell from a passing car, “Go Doyers!” fuck. I’m in East Los Angeles. I hear him laughing. Not sure what to do, I light another cigarette and shrug it off.
“Are you always this animated?” he asks still laughing.
“Pretty much,” I say with a small grin. I grab hold of the last remnants of my whiskey courage and ask, “I’m heading to Jumbo’s Clown Room; you want to come with?” He stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and nods his head. The rest of the night. Cheap beers. Strippers. Smokes. More beers. More strippers. Banged up and stumbling. Hotel room. More strippers. Drugs. The cold tile of the bathroom floor. Puking. Black out. Fuck.
I wake up and grab my iphone, the time reads 3:33 PM. Some how by the grace of god I’m home. Wallet, phone, keys, shoes (still attached), glasses, Giants hat, Zeppo lighter? I have three missed calls from a collection service and one text message with a 310 area code. The text reads: Hey asshole I want my lighter back. Jesus.
