I think you’ve had it
backwards all this time. You wanted to enter history. Wrong approach, Leon. What you really want is out.
—Don DeLillo, Libra
Where does all the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I was out on the patio sipping a Bloody and
noshing on designer tacos with my business manager, Juan Perez. After hashing
out our plans for the next six months—Algiers, Minsk, Ho Chi Minh City—we were
discussing the finer points of Pierre Boulle and all those damn dirty apes.
The sun was shining, Stained
Class was on the turntable, and the kitty cats were dry-humping in the
dirt. We were even talking about going on a tandem juice fast, just for the
fuck of it. Life was good. Real good.
And now? My business
manager is in Men’s Central for public urination while jaywalking, and I’m
hitchhiking through East Dogdick, Nevada,
with all my belongings stuffed into a triple-XL Cannibal Corpse longsleeve tied
to a hockey stick. I’ve got a screaming headache, three loose teeth and some
kind of skin thing happening on the inside of my left elbow. I don’t know, a
rash or something. But way grosser, like I’ve got a bad feeling insects might
be living under my skin, making babies and defecating and so forth. Also, I’m on
drugs.
But I remember my business manager’s arrest vividly. We were
crossing Grand Avenue—against
the light, but well within the confines of the crosswalk—when he decided to
blow a piss in the middle of the street. I’m talking this is downtown Los
Angeles. In broad daylight. After like 300 beers. And
of course a cop car pulls around the corner mid-deluge and blocks traffic like
this is the crime of the century and the entire neighborhood should be shut
down immediately and we better call in a helicopter in case this dude runs for
it.
“Okay, buddy. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but
put your hands behind your back.”
“Can I put it away first?”
“Negative.”
“Seriously?”
They hauled him away with his pecker hanging out of his
zipper like a sad, drunken turkey neck. This was Friday afternoon, which means
a mandatory weekend in the can. Just think of all the fun he’s having now. Staring
at the ceiling. Taking a dump in front of 20 of his closest friends. Avoiding
eye contact.
Do you mind if I smoke
while you fuck me?
Do you mind if I snore
while you fuck me?
How did I end up in Nevada? I took a bus. After my business manager’s arrest
I was so distraught that I went home to take a nap. And, okay, feed the cats.
When I woke up, I decided that the best way to show solidarity with my
incarcerated confidante was to live life to the fullest and do a few of his
favorite things. So I went out and got a mani-pedi. I bought a pair of white
jeans, the most expensive ones I could find. I ate three cheeseburgers at three
different overpriced “gastropubs.” I
went to the titty bar and spent about 200 bucks in just over an hour. On the
way home, I stopped at Mickey D’s for a 20-piece nugget and spent the rest of
the night reading conspiracy-theory books and jacking off.
It’s how he would have wanted it.
This bullshit originally appeared in the June 2013 issue of Decibel magazine.
