Pink Christmas - Part 1

She came running and screaming like a rabid dog  from across the double wide, each step angrier than the last.  Her arms were outstretched, flailing about her body like propellers pulling her through the turbulent air that had been created when I refused her offer of a homemade candy sucker.  The glow of a pink Christmas tree provided the only light and as I glanced up from the deadbolt I was desperately trying to unlock I realized the monster was nearly upon me.   Unspeakable terror gave way to the tragic understanding that I was going to die at the hands of a pornography addicted, drug dealing, pedophile with bad teeth and a lisp.  This was it; this was the end.

Online dating is the dicey deal you make with the devil when the bar scene dries up, and you find yourself oddly attracted to 3AM infomercial pitch women.  It’s a world entirely unto itself where the rules of normal human interactions no longer apply. It’s a place completely built by the destroyed dreams, unrealized potential and nagging insecurities inside of all of us.  The creepy beauty and twisted satisfaction of all this, however misguided and unethical, is the notion you can be anything you want –and I mean anything – and find love, sex or whatever fills your emotional void.  If a profile says one has 31 doctorates and makes a billion dollars a year, well, by god it must be true, because even though basic logic tells us this is not possible, at the end of the day we desperately want to believe the lie. It’s all a con, and when I was 21, it was the perfect place for me for one simple reason: I wanted to write. I had always wanted to be a writer and thought the more I forced myself into dangerous and morally questionable situations the more I would find myself past the brink of human experience.  It was here, after most people turn away ashamed, beaten or both, when the real stories would emerge for me, and somehow online dating provided this chaotic and misguided opportunity. 

“Are you really, like, a brain architect?” she inquired.

“Of course I am, but I’m just finishing my neurosurgery fellowship so I have a few more years here before I can start the business and really make the big bucks,” I assured her over the instant messenger that kept us connected like the terminally ill.  Just how dumb was this girl?

"Radical Nuro Transmission Displacement Theory" was my newest online fallacy that I had created in order to meet rich, gold-digging cougars and to this point had proven everything but successful.  In hindsight the lie of being a doctor that could duplicate someone’s mind and place it inside of inanimate objects was just too much to believe – even in the distorted, hazy online dating world.

“So…you can put my mind into things – like dogs?!”  I sensed her building excitement within the question and immediately knew she must have animals, something I would undoubtedly use to my benefit given the opportunity.

“Not exactly, it has to be inanimate – like a toaster – the object can’t think on its own or possess predetermined feel...”

“Toasters can think!” She interrupted. “How else does it know when to let go of my toast?”  

This was going to be like taking candy from a baby. I proceeded to agree with her notion of a toaster’s ability to think and various other aspects of life. I told her about my time studying medicine in France, a country I have never actually been too, and my love for animals - especially dogs. It was then with an almost curious amount of predictability she invited me over to her place. 

As I drove across town toward her house I realized I knew almost nothing about the woman I was meeting in the middle of the night.  She was in her late 30’s and loved animals - specifically dogs.  She had described herself as a slightly heavier Nicole Kidman who, until a recent 4-wheeler accident, had liked to hit the bottle. Short of that I knew nothing – not even her name.  What the hell was I doing?  Why was I doing it?  Good questions to ask oneself while driving through a snowstorm at 1 AM to meet a complete stranger, but those inquisitive instincts would not be developed in me for several more years so onward I pushed until I arrived at the address she had provided.

“A fucking trailer?” I thought as I parked my car in the narrow doublewide’s covered car port.  I double checked the address and then noticed the glow of a pink Christmas tree radiating from the side window – an unmistakable landmark she had described to help me find her “house”.  As I walked toward the front door frightened paranoia suddenly washed over me and the urge to leave crept into my mind.  I dismissed the feelings as a case of the unknown jitters and knocked on the door. 

Suddenly the inside of the trailer sprang to life.  Dogs barked. A woman’s voice screamed for their silence.  Footsteps – heavy, slow footsteps - creaked from the rear of the trailer until they stopped on the other side of the door.  The clickty-clack of locks being undone filled the doublewide’s car port, the door handle slowly turned and as the door was opened I got my first look at the greatest online liar in history.

Shaped like an acorn-dradel hybrid she wore a white tank top that almost covered her soft cookie dough torso.  Her blue pants – purchased at what appeared to be Baby Gap – extended to her ankles, one of which possessed a law enforcement issued monitoring device.  Her hair was sandy brown and stretched into some kind of bird nest design found only on obscure undiscovered tropical islands that civilized society would never understand.  Her hardened sweat-stained face remained cold as I introduced myself.  Her glossy, red-stained eyes blinked slowly as she dragged the crook of her elbow across her mouth wiping the white filmy drool that had accumulated during my brief introduction.  Silence, terrible, mind-wrecking silence ensued.

These were uncharted waters, and I certainly possessed the wrong type of vessel to maneuver such a situation but I found myself thinking, “What would Buckowski, Kerouac and Vonnegut do?” The answer was simple: press on.

“So…” I stammered, still standing on the poorly constructed wooden steps of the entrance, “What’s going on?”

Without warning her eyes widened to the size of silver dollars, and her demeanor deflated to that of a blown bicycle tire.  “Come in,” she hissed, and without giving a second thought to my own personal well-being I entered the double wide trailer as she locked the door behind me…


<To Be Continued>

Andys

Andys Bar

It was February.  I was searching for hookers and cocaine, and by that I mean a Blockbuster Video, along a lengthy and darkened stretch of forgotten Salt Lake City roadway when unexpectedly the cold, blue, glow of a neon lit sign washed across my face. The sign simply read “Andys” situated above the decaying arch entrance of a red-brick, dilapidated two-story building.  A conveniently placed Budweiser sign blinked from one the side windows - all covered by large, forbidding iron bars.  Suddenly my search for nose candy and happy endings seemed silly if not irrelevant.  Around the back of Andys I found a parking spot in what can only be described as “murder alley” and quickly made my way up the side of the crumbling building and through the front door.

I was immediately greeted by the pungent stench of human sweat, cigarette smoke and failure.  The atmosphere seemed tense despite the fact Tom Jones was being pumped through an old multi-colored jukebox.  The walls were a yellowish-tan, beaten and half rotten from a lifetime submerged in second hand smoke and human tragedy. The worn carpet was a conglomerate of oranges, browns and what appeared to be speckles of vomit - not necessarily that of the human variety.  In front of me stretched a long and narrow wooden bar with shelves of liquid courage and misfortune neatly situated behind it.  As though any self-examination was needed in such a depraved and helpless establishment, long and piercing mirrors were hung next to the alcohol shelves stretching the remainder of the bar, allowing any paying customer a glance of themselves and perhaps a thought of “Just how the hell did I wind up here?”   Brown, laminate-topped, circular tables were placed around the room in no particular order accompanied by orange, circular, cushioned stools that curiously invited one to take a seat and forget about whatever troubles existed – both imaginary and real.  A lone pool table was awkwardly placed in the corner of the room – its green felt top obviously mangled from misuse and spilled drinks.  Pictures of beer advertisements and feel good slogans were hung throughout the bar screaming to be noticed but rarely considered or given any thought at all by anyone who ventured within the four walls where I now stood.

“What’ll it be?” barked the bartender a man of aging complexion and riddled with anxiety and an immediate and obvious distrust for myself.

“Whiskey.” I replied - it being the only drink possibility that may set the man at ease and soothe the moment’s pending hostility.  I was right. 

The bartender nodded and loosened his bulldog demeanor, silently assuring himself I would be no trouble or at least fit in with the regular clientele – an unsurprisingly rough and derelict group.   To either side of me sat Native American men barely conscious of my existence, completely consumed by the dark draw of whatever had been poured into their glasses.  All sat heavily burdened and downtrodden, crushed by some inescapable, invisible force.  Hushed groans escaped their mouths after each numbing sip of their beverage.  Further down to my right rested a man seemingly beaten by the stark realities of whatever demons tortured him, silently speaking to his drink and content with whatever answers it wielded.  His shaved head and tattooed, Nazi-sympathizing exterior coupled with what appeared to be a large and unforgiving knife tucked into his sock informed me he was not a creature to be reckoned with and at all costs avoided.  Two other men of various nationalities sat in the far corner engaged in a heated, table-shaking debate speaking a language I will never know. 

I sensed acts of violence were no stranger to this place.  I could almost taste the spilled blood of intoxicated men who had come here searching for an escape or answer to their failed American dream but found no such solace. Instead they would drown their countless insecurities with whatever booze they could afford until the lines of humanity dissolved and their deep seated primal instincts came rushing out followed by the terrifying violence of an alcohol-fueled rage.  People had died here; I was sure of it. 

How long could I maintain my unnoticed presence before one of these raving lunatics descended upon me?  Why was someone feeding these goddamn vultures liquor? Certainly these men understood this was no escape from whatever pitiful existence they had woven for themselves and the grim comforts they found within Andys would surely be stripped and spit upon as soon as they reemerged into mainstream society. 

My thoughts were suddenly and deliberately shaken from me as the bartender slammed my whiskey down and demanded payment.  I paid the tab and silently absorbed my drink - the burning comfort of whiskey warming my entire body.  “Rest easy.”  I thought as I ordered another shot too curious and oddly attracted with my surroundings to leave after just one drink.  I sparked up a cigarette and surrounded myself within the calming blue hue of melting nicotine.  Another drink led to three more and the bar that had presented itself as lacking all human decency suddenly seemed not so bad.  After all, I was no better than the generation of men seated before me and their hideous, hidden transgressions however thoughtfully tucked away yet always lurking within their minds.  We all had things we were running from and places like Andys provided a pause, however brief, from the cruelties and bitter beatings life has a distinct way of handing out. 

I moved away from the bar in search of the restroom which was located at the top of an eight-step, corkscrew staircase.  As I entered the small room an odor of baked urine and decade old shit burned my nostrils.  The wood-paneled walls were peppered with fist size holes telling stories of drunken madness and the unimaginable rage that had been worked out within the tiny area.  A filthy toilet sat connected to the even filthier carpeted floor that had not been cleaned in my lifetime and clung to every missed drop of urine, vomit and stool that had ever been produced within the confides of the space.   I no longer had the desire to use the restroom and walked back down the staircase and out the font door.

I had been duped; Andys was a zoo of men.  My initial distrust and criticalness had been correct.  True we all are running from something but the self-loathing, self- deprecating black hole of Andys interior was much more complex and disturbing than a mere break from life’s hardships.  It was while walking back down “murder alley” that I realized what differentiated me from them – I had the rest of my life ahead of me – not behind.