Prologue:

Sometime back around the turn of the century there was a boy named Dick. Now, don't get me wrong. Dick was a good boy, but when Dick drank, well, he could be a real dick. And even when Dick isn't drunk, he can be one of those annoying people who talk in the third person. Kinda like I am right now; I'm Dick, I just thought it would be fun to write in the third person, like a writer. Actually, writing in the third person is really more about catharsis right? (All you sensitive-intelligent types nod "yes."--thank you.)

    But who wants to hear about that. That's like talking about eating healthy and being a nice person. Don't worry, this is a little story about Dick being himself.

    When Dick was growing up, beginning at the age of eight or so, his dad would let him drink at the family get-togethers and special occasions--Christmas, Thanksgiving. Dick's dad would deal with Dick's worrisome mom in the following manner:

Dick's mom: Ray, should he be drinking like that, he's just a boy!
Dick's dad: He's gotta learn how to drink. Let 'em be, woman.

Let's fast forward to the first time Dick got drunk (he was in the second grade). It was during Thanksgiving and everyone was done eating. The whole family was over: Buddy, his wife Sue and their kid; Cali, her husband Scott, her ex-husband Frank, and her three kids; as well as a couple of families that lived nearby. And of course Dick's dad's friend Perry and his family. Perry was a big black man who would always yell something about coon hunting every time he came over.

    Well everyone was over and everyone was done eating. Dick's dad, Ray, had taken the wood cover off of the dinner table and leaned it against the wall. So what looked like a big dining table now became a poker table with green felt, cup holders, ashtrays, and slots for the chips; everything was in place.

    Smoke hung heavy in the room and Dick, drunk from his mom's punch, was lightheaded and feeling silly, bouncing off the walls and rolling on the burnt-orange shag carpet. Dick ended up beneath the poker table and started yelling, "My tongue's stiff! I can't feel my tongue! Hey mom, when you're drunk does your tongue get stiff?"

    Well, this was not the way to handle your alcohol. Dick was sent to his room with this fatherly command: If you're gonna drink, don't act like a drunk.

    I think Dick's been fighting that one ever since.

The Nobody:

Case in point: Saturday night, June 23, 01.

    Never underestimate the power of the inner drunken child. The kid's a lot cooler and will kick the ass of that little pussy inner child that sets sunshine upon the soul like an apple on a teacher's desk.

The night always begins slow. Dick was running on only two hours of sleep from an encounter with methamphetamine the previous night, Friday. A friend of Dick's let him take a rip off a launch pad. The rush. The laughter. The talk. The talk. The cigarettes. Then the descent down through the atmosphere ... without a parachute. The speed-induced night was a frenzy of working, thinking, thinking about thinking, a night of frenzy and high distraction that lasted until 6:30 a.m.

    So by Saturday night I really didn't want to do anything, but Stew was down from San Francisco and had stopped by to hangout and check out the "spacement." My roommates and I had redone our dingy little basement with a space theme--no kidding, aluminum foil and all (it actually looked fucking lame, but we were proud of our work). So Stewy and I went out and bought ourselves two sixes of Becks and some cigarettes and gave our friend "Ken" a call. (In order to protect the anonymity of the second friend I have chosen the moniker, "Ken.")

    After the first round of beers were downed between me, Stew, and "Ken." "Ken" started talking about going downtown to get some drinks--Stew was into it, but I wasn't. I was tired (of course I didn't say why). All I wanted to do was to coax my roommate into scraping up another ripper onto that launch pad and take off--pedal to the metal, mullet baby! But rather than act like a pussy in front of my friends, or come clean with the speed thing, I agreed to go out--outwardly anyway. I was now eager to get out and drink myself into a second wind.

Feeling better from the beers we'd downed, we walked down Santa Clara toward our first stop: the Caravan. Hanging a right on First, passing all the juvenile delinquents and housecleaners waiting for the public transit, we three encountered an odd, but not queer, group of five guys. Their leader, or the guy that spoke on their behalf, was wearing a worn-from-working-construction flannel and ol' worn jeans. His John Deere cap was the type with the foam front and the plastic mesh in back. It kinda just sat on his head, as if he'd just picked it up from the liquor store (back in 1985).

    Taking a slug from his can of Budweiser (probably the last remnant from the case him and his buddies had polished off on their drive over from Hollister to San Jose), he says, "Hey, y'all know whara bar is aroun' here?"

    As he spoke I made a mental note of his 'suthern' accent. I looked around and with a sweeping motion of my hand responded politely, "They're everywhere." We were on the corner of Post and First, and right across the street in fact was the Flying Pig, Bella Mia, and the E&O.

    But "Ken" was quicker to find the potential comedy of this situation. He points over to Post and says, "Yeah, there's a great bar right down there, it's called Mac's."

    They seemed mighty excited--hell, for a second, with all the camaraderie of the situation, it felt like I was slapping backs and shot-gunning beers in some sprint car pit party. Their leader waved his hand in a motion that said, "Thanks Honey!" Quicker than old Saint Nick up the chimney him and his crew of good ol' boys made a bee line straight to Mac's. Mac's by the way is anything but straight. Yeah, it's a comfortably cramped, warm little bar with a big sassy bartender that gives anyone a hard time, especially if they're straight.

When you walk into Mac's you don't think you're in a gay bar. It's mellow, it's cool, it's full of dudes, and a few hot chicks. What's so different about that? So, I'm sure they all had a beer or so before putting the pieces together. It's possible to dismiss the fact that the bartender acts like a fat and shiny mare in heat, but as soon as some polite old man starts eyeing you and offers up his stool--and with a quick glance you notice all the guys are in pairs like couples, and the house music keeps pumping, and everyone has been like so nice--Bam! you'll know you're in a gay bar.

    As soon as they sauntered around the corner I laughed my ass off and didn't even stop to pick it up.

Arriving at the Caravan, Stew and "Ken" finished their cigarettes outside as I walked into to get a receipt I could use for cash from some lame-ass ATM unit they got in there. Fucking thing never works. Somehow I always walk away from it feeling like some dumbshit who should know to bring cash, or one of those women you see get flustered at the check-out line in the grocery store. But this time it wasn't there and that bartender guy with the beard pointed out their new ATM machine next to the jukebox. It was bright.

    My eyes focused on it and everything slowed down, each step towards that bright machine--that looked friendly and familiar as those ATMs in 7/11--filled me with joy, a relaxed, content joy. "Fantastic! Yes!" I imagined myself buying a round of drinks: An unseen camera catching a moment of laughter as Stew, "Ken," and I knocked our frothy glasses of cold beer together. As I turned to glance over my shoulder and give the bartender a quick "Thank you man," he informed me that the new ATM was out of order. He told me that I should go across the street, up the stairs into the plaza, take a left... But I had heard it all before. I was a strung-out little girl with a teddy bear in one hand and limp kite-string in the other; a tear trickled deep within me. I felt like I had to pee.

    "Ken" ordered the first round: a long island for him, Guinness for Stew, and for me a CC and Coke. Sitting at the end of a long table that divides the bar and waiting for my drink to come, a hot little blond was bending over the juke and wagging her tail as she thought over the selections. Not wanting to get caught staring at her ass, which was about three feet away from my mouth, I decided to change the course of my gaze. I noticed a chick with tight pleather pants bending over the pool table as she contemplated her shot.

    "Ken" handed me my drink, it was cold in my grasp. Him and Stew slumped in their chairs and we began to bullshit. (Ahh, that first sip of CC and Coke made me want to start doing my karate moves.) The first round went down fast. So did the time. Before I realized what was about to happen, Shana, the chick with the pleather pants--that evenly hugged her trim-bubble ass as she bent over the pool table--came over to our section of the table. She jumped right in. Of course, I made the immediate observation that any hot little number that comes up to you at the bar probably has some type of psychosis, but why not enjoy.

Pause! I forgot to tell you something:

I had been passing out these postcards to people that night. They were ads for some damn website (www.comfuzine.com) I work for from time to time. The postcard displays some Ozark proto-hippies with flabby skin and bushy genitalia. One of the women on the postcard, in fact, looks like she's concealing something extra in her tangleweed bush.

    Shana was actually the first chick, first biped able to form a sentence for that matter, who totally dug the postcard. She had actually come over because I had left some at the bar and she was curious and entertained by them. You know, most people are far too cool and fashionable, or too PC to appreciate pictures of grotesquely unattractive naked people.

    Anyway, that's the way it started.

Ok, you can press Play again.

She said that we could call her Trippy Longstockings if we wanted to. She sat down with us and we all slightly shifted our positions toward her--so it would be easier to talk and stuff. It was my turn to buy a round so I told her I'd buy a drink for her too. I quietly asked Stew to lend me some money as I went to go get the drinks.

    Within the first ten minutes of talking Shana and I had already covered the basics: Satan, fucking, drugs, and stealing. Her darkened lips, thin arched eyebrows, and long lashes were accentuated by her pale olive complexion. I think if she was on fire she could seduce it by rubbing her breasts and softly gyrating hips, and the fire would remain hot without blemishing her skin, except for flushing her cheeks with blood, perhaps. But hey, she wasn't on fire. She began talking about her boyfriend being in jail for stealing boxer shorts from Macy's. I noticed that my drink was almost gone. I tore my stare away from her for a moment and noticed the blond back at the juke again, wagging her tail in indecision--Shana rattled on.

    I noticed that Shana had trailed off and was now silent as I turned back to look at her. Was Shana looking at what I just looked at, the same way I had just looked at it? In a split second the situation became clear and without missing a beat Shana winked a long lash and told the blond that she looked sexy.

    The strangest thing happened. It was like that moment during the "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" cartoon when the Grinch's heart expands. The blond smiled and said, "Thank you. You know you look familiar, do I know you?" And the talk was on, the blond bending over the chair next to me swaying her ass as she thought: boyfriend or Shana? or both? You could see the spark in the blond's eyes, it ignited her whole body as she squirmed in time with Shana's compliments. After a few minutes the blond decided to mosey on back to the juke, finish selecting and went back to the bar with her boyfriend.

    As soon as the little blond walked away Shana began whispering things about her from across the table. Considering the juke was so close, I'm sure the blond overheard it all. Before the next minute was up Shana was back to every other topic again. She would never stay on one subject for too long, but move over several subjects, returning to them later to add detail or humor to the overall conversation. And she kept on talking.

As she's rattling on let me pull you aside for a moment and share my thoughts:

I think most men could learn a huge lesson from watching a woman scam on another woman. Shana doesn't have some "approach." Her skill lies in the simple fact that she doesn't intrude on the other woman's space--Shana invites the other woman to strut as she fondles the woman's ego. She does not desperately depend on some hot and heavy stare prematurely delivered--a stare that implies, "It's only you and I, baby." Shan operates in a well-lighted, shared space, or common ground. She compliments the woman in front of the whole world. It's as easy and fun as joking around with a best friend. It's comfortable. Remember dudes, chicks dig comfort. Think of any relationship, the deeper you get, the freakier she gets. Don't be fooled by the one-night stand, she's only comfortable because she's drunk, or because you're giving her money.

    Shana's intentions or actions are transparent, but she is honest without being verbally blatant about it--she's playful. Ok, she does have two tits and a pussy, which no natural man could imitate--But fuckin' A. Later that night the blond's boyfriend finally got hip to the mood and invited Shana over to the bar for drinks with him and his girlfriend.

    Why didn't I fuckin' bring my girlfriend that night!?

Finally, that part about the cell phone:

So there's not much else to the night. We left the Caravan and went to South First Billiards, to the Usual, and back up First to Katie Blooms. Katie Blooms is where the lack of sleep mixed with alcohol began its evil psychosis. The night became a blur of stumbling laughter and references to Shana. While at Katie Blooms I spied a girl trying to take pictures of her friends. I invited myself into their inner circle and began telling them to take a picture of me. "Hey, take a picture of me..." and this is where the night soured before going home, "...take a picture of me I've got a cell phone." But I didn't have a cell phone.

    I began walking around Katie Blooms with my thumb and pinky extended to my ear and mouth, talking and talking on my make-believe cell. It got to the point that I began talking more loudly, walking more rapidly, introducing myself to more and more people as a guy with a cell phone. Finally, "Ken" and Stew got me out of there, but I wasn't finished. Walking briskly in front of them I was screaming "Cell phone! Cell phone!" with my thumb to my ear and my pinky to my mouth.

    I was a businessman. I was a prophet! I was a fool--in the Shakespearean sense! I was fully aware and was acting as a mirror for all my weak brethren and sistren to deeply gaze into and discover their shortcomings.

    It must have been as we began to come up on all the high-tech hangers-on that lollygag around Toons and the Mission Ale House that I began screaming, "Sell the stocks!"

    "Yes, Hello! Cell phone! Cisco! Sell the stocks! Hello! Cell phone! Cell phone! Cisco! Sell the stocks!"

    And on and on all the way through St. James park--where I must have fit right in--all the way home to Fifth and St. James. I'm not sure what happened to "Ken" and Stew that night.

    Upon waking up I decided not to go to Downtown for at least a couple of weeks.

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