Nonculture

 Chevy and I settle in to our temporary coffins on Houlihan’s patio.  Process of elimination has made this patio our haunt.  The thin metal chairs are our caskets, and we fall into them willingly, despite the fact that we are sick to death of them, of it – of all of it.  We’re sick of the bad music from the wall speakers, the ineffective cover from the elements, sick of the overpriced drinks.  But we have been kicked out of so many establishments that we are stuck here.  Most would say we come here by choice – that there is always a choice – but as far as I’m concerned, this is all predestined.  It’s meant to be that we will sit here, our rum glasses creating streaks on the table, our ashes floating like fireflies that burn tiny holes in our clothes.  It’s meant to be that the waitresses will come out for a smoke and sit with us and chat, until they either cut Chevy or myself off of liquor.  Chevy and I do not care either way; each evening holds its own destiny.  We’re just along for the ride.

 

“Two double Captains,” I tell Gina, who has come out to get our order.  The order is rote, having been long established by now.  We chat for a moment, and she shows us a new tattoo that she’s gotten: a Boba Fett who stands sternly on the rest of the Star Wars ink running up her forearms.  Chevy nods with approval, and Gina takes her pretty face and sizeable chest back inside.

“She gets better looking every time,” he says to me.

“Still trying to get me in bed with that?  What’s in it for you?”

“I just want to know what it’s like.  I have to live vicariously through you since I’m married.  So hurry up and hit it already.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him with the least amount of commitment I can muster.

I look off of the patio and into the empty parking lot.  We are on the edge of a suburban sprawl at the end of Florida winter.  A streetlight goes through its color motions, alone and slightly waving in the post-winter, pre-spring breeze.  The trees are curling up without their leaves, and there are no birds in them to swoop down and take food off the table.  Even the drinks taste bland, thinning our tropical blood, subjecting us to the chill. 

 

I can smell fried food from the Chik-Fil-Et fast food joint across the abandoned parking lot, and looking over I notice that an employee is leaning out of the drive thru window, staring back in our direction.  So here we are; this employee and Chevy and I, with our own span of silent asphalt.  Most would say by choice, but who chooses to remain alone in a gulf of concrete?  Who stays back to watch the stoplights go from green to red by choice, while the rest of the world slumbers?  Chevy and I are free and drinking but freezing; our companion across the lot is working, but warm.  How can that not be a destiny we have all just fluttered into, like tumbleweeds? The drive thru operator shuts the glass partition, and disappears into the restaurant to be actively productive.  Chevy and I take another sip of our dinks to be passively destructive.

 

Gina brings the drinks out and pulls up a chair.  We’ve learned over the course of the years that she is an avid occult and sci-fi fan.  She is also well read and into independent arts; it gives us all something in common.

She’s brought a shot for herself, which she downs immediately then brings her tattooed arms up to light a smoke.  After we’ve all lit up and have leaned back in our chairs, Gina asks us what we are doing later.

“If I can still walk by the time we’re done here, I’m going to be fixing that issue at home,” Chevy says, instinctively taking a sip to punctuate his meaning.

“You’d better be able to walk,” I tell him, “you drove here.”

“Well if you guys want to do something besides pass out, I’m going out with Maya later.  She’s new and hasn’t been downtown, so I’m taking her to Chillers.  You guys are welcome to come.”

“Crowd’s a bit young for me,” Chevy says.

Gina looks over at me.

“I’ll keep that option open.”

“I’ve got a mountain of pills,” she says, winking at me.

“In that case, I’ll keep that option a little more open.”

She smiles.  “Fresh round?”

“Dumb question,” Chevy says.

 

 

After Gina has dropped off the next round and a complimentary shot for us both, Maya the new waitress pops out for a cigarette.  It seems Gina has filled her in on us.  It makes me wonder what her description of two men sitting in their metal coffins staring off into nothing sounds like.

“You must be Chevy,” she says, introducing herself with a handshake.

“Hello Maya,” I say to her, taking her small and noticeably soft hand.  She’s pretty; blonde hair, green eyes, petite with large breasts.  I make a mental note to buy the Houlihan’s hiring manager a shot someday.  I like his style.

“So what do you guys do?” she asks.

“Hold these chairs down and dirty your glasses,” Chevy says with only the slightest discernable sarcasm.

To her credit, she chuckles.  To move things in a friendlier direction, I ask her,

“So you’re new here?  New to Houli’s, or new to Florida?”

“I just moved down here from Jersey,” she says, “me and my kid.  I’m staying with my grandparents for a while.”

Chevy and I don’t say anything for a long ten seconds as we do the math, counting the numerous red flags in her statements.  Residents of this state are all running from something, and it is better not to ask for more details than you are willing to learn.

“Well, how do you like it so far?” I ask her to break the silence.

She smiles, exhaling, “Not bad!  We went over to Daytona last weekend.  Kyle – my kid – had never seen the beach, believe it or not.  And, you know, this job isn’t the greatest, but I’ve had much worse.  Believe me.”

There was no need to respond to that; we believed her.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I’m looking forward to getting out with Gina tonight.  I haven’t been out in forever!”

“Downtown is fun, you’ll have a good time,” Chevy says.  “Hey, can you grab us two more drinks?’

Maya puts out her smoke and says, “Yep!  Be right back.”

Once she is inside, Chevy and I both look at each other.

“Very cute.”

“Very cute.  Possibly crazy.”

“Possibly crazy and on the run.”

“Possibly ex-stripper.”

“Possibly crazy ex-husband baby daddy hunting her down.”

“Possibly a real party girl.  I mean, single Jersey mom at twenty?  And just moved to the Sunshine State?  Put the line of coke on the tip of your cock right now.  It’s spring break in February.”

“Possibly.”

“Probably.”

“Yeah, probably.” 

And with that, we are content that we have fully dissected Maya.

 

She comes through the patio door with our drinks.  “Here you go, guys,” she says, smiling an extra second at me.

“Thanks,” I say with a wry smile.

“Hey, why don’t you pull up a chair for a minute, have another cigarette,” Chevy says, sliding a metal chair over to the table; it makes a screeching sound across the concrete.  “We’ll leave this other one open in case Gina comes out,” he says.  I’ve never understood his fascination, or maybe it was infatuation, with Gina.  But he made no effort to disguise it, so I saw no fun in fucking with him about it.

Maya shrugs her shoulders and sits down next to me.  She shivers, so I offer my flannel shirt; she takes it and wraps it around her petite shoulders.  Though the alcohol has thinned my already sun-sheer blood, it has also started to warm me from the inside; our rum keeps the chill at bay.

“One of you got a light?” she asks.  I light my Zippo and hold it up for her.

“So,” Chevy says, leaning in towards the table, “we were just talking about religion.  Like, whether it really matters.  Or – not that, exactly – but, does it matter when it comes to  – what’s the word I’m looking for?  Vices.  Stuff like that.”

“Yeah?” she says.  “Religion is a touchy subject.  Plus, I imagine it would matter what religion it was, wouldn’t it?”

Already seeing where he is going with this, I have to nod to myself that sometimes, Chevy can be a clever motherfucker.

“Well,” Chevy says, exhaling smoke, “I don’t think any of it makes a fucking damn bit of difference at all.  I mean, if you live a good life you live a good life.  And going to church doesn’t matter.  And who’s to say what a good life is anyway?  Am I bad because I drink and smoke?  Or, if I was single, because I sleep with too many people?  Who’s to say, who’s to tell me?  Know what I mean?  That was our take on it.”  He winks over at me as he says this but Maya misses it.

“My parents and grandparents would say you are a bad person,” she laughs.  “They’re Baptist.  Like, hardcore Baptist.”

Chevy fakes a laugh.  “Yeah!  Like that, that’s what I mean.”  He takes a gulp of his drink, “but what about you?  Are you into all that?  I mean – you’re smoking out here with us and you work in a bar.  Restaurant-bar, whatever.”

Maya gets quiet for just a tick, but it’s an eon of a tick, like waiting for a train to pass.  I can see boxcar after boxcar roll behind her eyes in those few seconds.

“Well, I was raised Baptist, if that’s what you mean.  We don’t believe in abortion.  Sinners don’t go to heaven.  I believe in god and all that, and I try to live a good life.  I haven’t been perfect – who is – but I think it matters.  It matters if you go to church and believe the bible and not follow the godless people.”

“Godless people?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Yeah, like, scientists.  Y’know, like evolution and all that.  Things that go against the bible.”

Somehow Chevy doesn’t miss a beat, “Right.  Like, you have to believe.  But do you have to follow all of their rules?”

“Rules like what?” Maya asks Chevy.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Like, drinking, drugs, sex.  What kinds of music they say you should listen to – stuff like that.  Y’know?”

Maya laughs.  “No, I guess some of religions’ rules are stupid.”

I know that at this second, Chevy is going to ask this girl which rules, specifically, are stupid, and this girl is going to open up like a porn star’s mouth during a facial.  But, the patio door opens and the bartender turtles his head through.  He tells Maya to get off of her ass and take care of her tables.

“Sorry guys, I’ll be back out later,” she says, handing me back my shirt.

Once she is back inside, Chevy smiles.

“Damn I’m good.”

“You’re good.”

“She’s definitely crazy.  But that crazy can also be good, if it’s turned bad.”

“That I even understand what you just said worries me.”

“Spring break in February.”

“I might downtown.”  Sex with crazy Maya was starting to sound like an enjoyable possibility.

“You’d better.”

 

Another hour passes with Gina bringing our drinks.  There’s no sign of Maya.  Gina tells us that it’s gotten busy inside and it is the first time in months, so they are understaffed.

I ask Gina what the deal is with Maya’s whole Baptist anti-Darwin thing.

“Trust me,” she says, “she likes to have a good time.  Even if her family is batshit crazy and she’s partly brainwashed.  Shit, she had a kid out of wedlock; that alone should tell you about her commitment to religion.”

“Good enough for me,” Chevy says, as if it were something that would benefit him. 

After a few more, Gina tells us they are getting ready to close up, so we pay our tab and Gina and I exchange phone numbers.

“I live downtown, so just tell me when you’re heading there,” I tell her.

“I’ll pick you up on the way.  According to this guy -”she points at Chevy “-you might pass out before you can walk out of your place.”

“Damn, she’s dedicated to getting you downtown,” Chevy says.  His point isn’t lost on me, though again, I’m sure the comment is for his benefit only.

“Alright fine, pick me up.  Here’s my address, call when you are leaving here.”

Chevy and I rise out of our coffins, and with a little bit of swerving, he manages to get me home in one piece.

“Remember,” he tells me as I get out of the passenger seat, “I want details.  Or call me; I’ll come over and watch through the window if you get both of them back to your place and get them to make out with each other.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I mumble, and shut the car door.

 

At home, I stand at the stove and pretend I have a choice.  That fanciful choice to stop drinking, rather than the practical choice to start drinking vodka and Red Bull to keep the stamina rolling for later.  I have this argument every night, but the result is always the same.  Some say that is the definition of insanity:  repeating the same actions despite the result never changing.  I figure that being insane is probably the least of my worries, in the grand scheme of things.

I put on some music after pouring the drink and sink into my leather chair, the muscles in my ass and back thanking me with spikes of pain for subjecting them to the skeletal frames that pass for chairs on Houli’s patio.  I take a long gulp of pure caffeine and liquor, allowing it to collapse into my throat, stream into my stomach, and deconstruct into my bloodstream.  Pretty soon those spikes of pain can no longer be felt.

I only finish one drink before my phone rings.  I look at the caller ID; it’s Chevy, not Gina.

I flip open the phone.  “Congrats on not wrapping your car around a telephone pole.”

“I forgot – you gotta make it hurt a little, alright?  With Gina.  Or Maya.  Just pull her hair or something, whatever.”

“What?”

“Come on, man!  What part of ‘vicarious’ do you not understand?  I want to look at them next time we go get drinks and think about them getting nailed hard.”

“Why would you want to think of me nailing them hard?  What’s wrong with you?”

“No, dammit – not YOU, specifically.  Just the image in general.  Oh, and hey –  not too bad, just enough for that good pain.  Slap her ass, they like that.”

“Good pain…right.”

“Ok man.  Remember, I want details.  Don’t black out!”

I close the phone.  Luckily, before I’m left with any spare time that would force me to reflect on Chevy’s words, Gina calls.

“Hey, we finished stacking all of these goddamn chairs.  I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I put my shoes back on and walk into the kitchen, not even looking at the stove.

 

Gina drives an El Camino.  I like the nostalgia of it.  She has it decked out properly; a string of tassels across the top, a Virgin Mary statuette, and felt on the dash.  It takes me back to when I was young and my uncle and brother and I would ride in his El Camino looking for hotel pools on the beach we could jump the fences to and go swimming.  It was a small thrill; doing something we shouldn’t, but it was only simple trespassing.  It was an innocent thrill, and I enjoyed remembering that – an innocent thrill.  Those have become rare as the years have gone on. 

When I get in, she lights up a joint and passes it my way.  I take a long drag, and she starts into a spiel about Maya.

“She’s done some stupid things – she told me some things, but she’s a good girl.  That’s easy enough to tell.  Anyway, she’s looking forward to getting out tonight.  I figured Chillers would be good – lots of people her age.  You mind Chillers?”
I look over at her.  ”I know I’m older than you, but I’m not fucking dead yet.”

She laughs, “Alright, good.  Just saying, Maya and I might be dancing a lot so you will be on your own – “

“I think I can handle that,” I tell her.

” – and I don’t want you to feel bad.  Okay, okay.  Anyway -”

” – Hey,” I interject, “I can’t keep up with your million miles an hour conversation.  You got some of that coke for me, or what?”

She laughs again and digs in her console with her right hand.  I watch Boba Fett go rummaging and come up with a little baggie.

“Here you go.  I have some other stuff for later, but this will hold you over.”

I take the baggie.  “You planning on an all-nighter?”

“Maybe,” she says, pulling into the parking garage and grabbing a ticket from the dispenser.

 

Downtown is in full swing.  It has dropped a few degrees more, so everybody is in jackets.  Gina is wearing a denim jacket with patches on it.  I’ve been drunk for hours, so I’ve forgotten a coat, but still can’t feel the cold.  There are the girls in miniskirts and bikini tops braving the cold for commission trying to rope us in.  We let them, getting our ticket for a free shot on the way in.

Chillers is a two level club.  The upper floor is a steel catwalk and the lower floor is packed and dim with a colorful dance floor.  We walk across the catwalk and I look down at the floor; it’s nothing but early twenties women dancing with the usual scattering of guys around the edges.  Guys whose best bet was to wait until the magic hour where the women are so drunk there are no inhibitions, but not so drunk they’d get puked on before making it to the bed.  Learning that timing takes a lot of trial and error.  I had the puke stains to prove it.

The music is thumping just a little too loud in my stoned ears as we meet Maya downstairs by the bar.  Maya and Gina hold a conversation but I can’t hear a word of it.  I order a Vodka Red Bull while they talk and fuss and point at the dance floor and laugh.  I get my drink and theirs, then turn around and they both look at me with wide eyes as if I’d caught them in the middle of something.  I look at them blankly and hand them their drinks.

“We’re going to dance for a while,” Gina leans in to my ear and says, “can you watch our drinks for us?”

“Of course,” I say, barely able to hear my own voice.

They set their drinks down and disappear into the color and strobe lights.  I lose them for a moment, then catch sight of them amidst the bobbing, strobe-lit heads.  They are kissing each other and grinding closely, and I figure this evening is only getting better.  Hopefully Gina has some of that E for me.

 

While I hold the bar down and they dance, Chevy calls again.  I flip open the phone and hold it up to my ear, putting a finger in my other ear.  I have to shout just to hear myself.

He says something I can’t hear.

“What?” I say, “You’re going to have to shout.”

“What?”

“SHOUT, dammit!”

“GET ANY ACTION YET?” he shouts into my eardrum that is already pushing its capacity with the shitty dance music.

“NO, JACKASS,” I say.  “IF YOU WANT ACTION SO BAD, COME DOWN HERE AND GET SOME YOUR GODDAMN SELF.”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO SHOUT AT ME, I CAN HEAR YOU FINE ON THIS END,” he shouts.

“I CAN’T HEAR ME FINE.”

“MY WIFE WILL KILL ME IF I COME DOWN THERE,” he says.

I close the phone and put it back in my pocket, and as I do so a tan little twenty-something sidles up next to me, smiles, and pushes completely up against me, leaning in to order a drink.

I’m probably too old for joints like this, Chevy was right.  And his choice to be married and not be able to be here tonight is the right choice, and one I would make, I realize.  But, at the same time, this young girl’s warm, sweaty body feels good, so I just tell myself that whether it is choice or destiny that has put us all in our places, right now my place in Maya’s God’s Grand Scheme isn’t bad at all.

 

After about thirty minutes, and as many vodka red bulls I can fit in that time span, Maya and Gina both come off of the floor and order rum runners.

“You two seem chummy,” I say to them.

“Chummy?  What’s that mean?” Gina says with glazed eyes.

I keep forgetting about the age difference here.  “Nevermind,” I say. 

I turn to Maya.  She looks at me and I look at her.  I’m undecided whether I should bother pursuing her or not, so I smile thinly.  I could care less, but with the night begging for something to spice it up; it might just be worth trying.  Even if the result is a simple story of failure, it’s a result.

I turn to say something to Gina, and she leans in and presses her lips to mine then slips her tongue into my mouth.  I go with it.

“Is that what chummy means?” she asks after we detach.

I turn to look at Maya, not sure what I’m going go say.  Instead of talking, she leans in plants her full lips on mine, also flipping her tongue into my rum and vodka numbed mouth. 

I suppose a story of failure will have to wait, for now, but it looks like the results are in on whether the night was going to spice up or not.

 

Two minutes later, the three of us are sitting in a booth as far from the dance floor as possible.  I am in the center of the booth with each girl to either side.  We aren’t sitting thigh to thigh, but our ankles and feet and shins are bumping against each other.  I want to ask questions, but I somehow still have the good judgment to just shut the fuck up and enjoy the innocent thrill.  I feel like an El Camino, lazily cruising, ready to store memories in the back bed.

The waitress brings our next round.  I notice these drinks are stronger than usual.  Maya clears her throat then looks at me.

“So,” she says, “you’re probably wondering what the hell is going on.”

It’s a rhetorical question, so I just raise an eyebrow and grin to say, ya think?

“Well, we decided we both like you – we – us – all want the same thing; we want to have a good time, and there’s something about each other that we like.  So, why let stupid inhibitions get in the way?”

I want to bring up the religion thing from earlier in the night, but shut the fuck up mode is thankfully still in effect.  We still have to talk very loudly, though I am glad the thumping music is farther away, so shouting a question about religion seems like too much effort anyway.  Instead I ask the question that needs to be asked.

“You two are fucking with me, right?”

Neither of them bat an eye.  They both look at each other, then lean across me, and kiss each other, then they kiss me again.

“Ok, ok, I had to ask,” I say.

The waitress shows up with more drinks, and we all sit back and sip and light up.

“So,” I say, “though I’m not quite sure what happened with you two, I have to say I like it.”

“We were talking as we stacked chairs back at the bar, and…the subject of experimentation came up.  Things we’ve done, things we haven’t.  Shit like that.”

Gina continues, “So we decided to do something totally off the wall tonight.  We tossed some ideas around, but we eventually settled on one.”  Gina smiles as she says this and rubs my thigh. “Plus, I have some goodies to help the night along.”

They both put down their drinks and tell me they are going to dance again.  I tell them I’m going to hold the booth down; it’s better to sit than to stand at a bar – if you already have someone to take home.  It’s even better if you have two.  Gina slips me a baggie with two lines in it.

“Don’t pass out on us now,” she winks.

But it is only a few minutes before they return from the dance floor.  They are both sweating and dig into their drinks healthily.  The waitress comes back around, so I order one more round and say we want to close the tab.  The waitress tells me there is no tab.

“Shit, really?”  My eyes are wide in surprise.  It’s either surprise or the coke surging through my bloodstream, I’m not sure.

“Industry night,” Gina says to me in explanation.

So we don’t pay a tab and leave, heading back to my apartment.  I’m unsure whether this is a fanciful choice that we have all made, or if it was predestined, but there is a part of me that knows after this night I’m not going to be able to frequent Houli’s for a while.  I’m giving up my casket; another bar scratched off of the list.  But it is worth it; worth the chance that this is by choice; I get to enjoy all of the pleasure for the next few hours, and pay the consequence tomorrow morning all by at least semi-conscious decision.  Chevy might be bummed, but at least he’ll get his story.  It feels good just being along for the ride.  All three of us pile into Gina’s El Camino, three fluttering tumbleweeds on a buffet of booze and drugs, with religion relegated to an ironic afterthought, like the small Virgin Mary statuette on Gina’s dash.