General Writing

[NessySchu]

[Starfe]

I write a little bit.

Actually, I'm mostly just pompous enough to think that people would be at all interested in the way I carry on. Some people find my life absurd, some find it revolting. I can see both sides. I've been in the midst of writers block for a couple of months now, and I've shifted my schedule so that next quarter I'll have more time at home, and to myself, so I can go to the bar and write. The period in my life from 2007 to the end of 2009 was sinister and ridiculous, and I've written of it pretty extensively. I write on paper mostly, and so I've little to show for it digitally, but one piece I do have concerns my 21st birthday. I've enclosed it here, in HEAVY spoiler tags, because its 6000 words. I don't actually expect anyone to read it, and I expect even fewer people to like it, as its not quite good, simply a recounting of a night in my life during its most raucous and contemptible point. No one has edited this, so I can't speak for spelling or grammar or typos. One thing I can assure you of is that all of the following is true, however sad that may be.

Its about getting hammered and going to strip clubs. But really its not.



[spoiler]I’ve always found the American ritual of going out on your 21st birthday and getting blind an incapacitated drunk to be something of an oddity. In most other countries its readily available at a young age, or simply flows freely. As it should, given its historical and psychological worth. As such, most other cultures don’t put the same rabid and reckless “free at last” value on the date of legal purchase. Why bother? An oddity indeed. Perhaps it was boorish, that malevolent dive into the night. Perhaps it was simply a way to briefly ignore and forget the fell deeds that await coming of age, the rotten truth of responsibility put off with one night descended into the black void. And perhaps it was simply a miscreant tradition, that somehow sunk its rotten claws into the culture of our times. But it didn’t matter at all. None of that did.

I was 21 years old, on the 23rd of April. I bore my teeth. I woke with a sneer. And I lusted for blood.

As an Irish boy I am constantly looking for ways to justify going south to my mothers house, if only to eat something horrible for my health that isn’t Cup Noodle and Tabasco sauce, which I am assured is a delicacy in some foreign and exotic places. It seemed my 21st birthday was valid, though I had been drinking in that house for years to blurry to number. I figured at first that leaving my friends behind in Seattle for the weekend would preclude my efforts of getting seriously and riotously fucked out of my mind. But then I remembered that my best friend lived in Vancouver and was a man of such high quality and stature that he had a blower connected to his ignition, courtesy of Thurston county. Also that my mother ran through about half a gallon of tequila a week. I was to be in fine hands, to be sure.

There was some sadness that I wouldn’t be taking my sinister road show about in Seattle, in part because most of my friends never missed a chance to watch me fall to bits in public. And who could blame them? I was a crucial leader in the young drunk community. Without my guidance to and from wretched hives of establishments they might wander, perhaps even rest? Who would hand out Wild Turkey to the homeless and downtrodden on Thanksgiving? I would take that chance, all cubs must grow sometime, and it was high time! They would live. Well, some would die, but for the most part they would survive and flourish. I had foreign watering holes to conquer, I had ruin to bring unto the poor denizens of ill fated establishments in the distant lands to the south. I was a man on the move.

Vancouver always changes. As the car rolled off the freeway and we headed down 78th street I saw all these empty buildings. Wonderful brick and glass casings just waiting for someone to care. The city had undergone tremendous expansion just prior to the spectacular burning collapse of the world economy. And so the people here were fearful still, and it was unlikely anyone would care about these husks. This town was forsaken, just like many small cities around the country, and these buildings only stood to remind me of the empty man I had become in this sullen place. I wished they would fall, I hadn’t come here to think about those times, I had come here on the lash, I had come here to mine for those lost times, before the buildings were finished, before those skeletons stood.

Arriving at the homestead a lump formed in my throat. It was a queer feeling, coming home for the first time since my fathers passing. This had not quite been what I imagined. I had always imagined a 21st birthday having a drink with my father and mother down at the historic Paul’s Elbow Room, all the barflies wishing me well and a lively group surrounding me. Plans, it seemed, don’t always pan out. Not this time at least. Not for me. That was an old dream. I had even begun to dread that very thing. I knew that Paul’s was on the agenda, but it would be something of an empty trip itself, so close to his death I would hear “Happy Birthday” as much as I would hear “I’m so sorry about your dad.” It wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t here for more condolences, I had enough of them. I was here for thrills.

The plan was quite a lot simpler than most 21 runs. It didn’t involve pre-game shots or mini-bottle necklaces or parties you never quite make it out of. This was a relatively small affair. It would start simply at Paul’s only my mother, my parents friend Kevin, and my friend Kyle in tow. I had already had a drink or three at home, and it was to be significantly compounded in that place. Paul’s is the kind of bar where you are equally likely to run into a Mexican meth cook as you are your friends grandmother, in for here daily vodka-cran. And they were very likely to get along swimmingly. It was kind of an anomaly. The drinking public in Vancouver had been growing younger, and bars had changed in turn. Paul’s was a hold out. No karaoke, no jagerbombs, collars distinctly unpopped. Journey didn’t crop up even during the most heinous jukebox abuse. This place was a dying breed, to be sure. We shuffled in and made our way to my parents table, and there we posted up. I would start with a gin and tonic. I don’t typically drink gin and tonic, save when I am in dire times. I’ll never remember if I chose that as a symbolic nod to the drunken pirate ship that was about to set sail or The Pogues kick I had been on lately or maybe, just maybe, that it had been my fathers favorite drink, and knowing him, they must have made a good one here at Paul’s. I’ll never know why I did it. But I do have my guesses.

Soon I was 3 or 4 drinks sunk. People had begun to figure out who I was and our table became something of a “Meet the Author” affair. I wasn’t simply a member of my mothers ever growing retinue. I was the other Bill McDonnell. Some of them had been there for the funeral and hadn’t had their chance to give their condolences. I could respect that. But it became a quick irritation when one after another these barflies scooped themselves off of their permanent fixtures to talk with “the son of a great man”. I felt like some sort of ill proven Prince. Not that I couldn’t appreciate the words of these kind people. But I quickly found that no bar, not even Paul’s Elbow Room, had enough drink and jukebox abuse to cover up the feeling of gripping your last right without your old man. For all those times he covered for my friends and I, went on midnight beer runs for us, shared a drink with me as we talked on The Beatles, laughed off my wild intoxication, and even once borrowed a Keystone Ice from us. For all those times I wished this passage could be with him. Two gin and tonics. But this time he was busy, healthy again and on a business trip in some far off place. I’m certain he was having a fair laugh.

Six drinks was plenty for Paul’s. My mother paid our tab and we said our goodbyes. Being the “Bill McDonnell” at Paul’s was like being crowned, but I wasn’t King yet. That was something earned. I needed my stripes, and to find them, I’d have to leave this place. It helped that there were chips, eggs, and beans to be had. A solid base for the real depravity to come. Kyle and I would need to be ready. We were to meet downtown in Portland with an old friend. Big Eli McCallister. It was sure to be a most sinister occasion. We ate, and we drank some more. As the beer stock began to run dry, and not wanting a repeat of Halloween 2006, I avoided to the tequila and went in search for drink. Things became serious when I dug into the back of the freezer and my hands struck glass. A bottle had been buried in that frozen place. Behind clams and fish and ice cream. When I produced the artifact I realized what it was. Seagram’s Dry Gin. Half a fifth left. It had been the last bottle my father bought. It had been the gin he drank the night he decided that it was time to go. Something morbid in me said it was a birthday gift from beyond. Something damaged in me told me to simply put it back. But something else spoke to me. This bottle was the half he had left behind. It was his memory. It was everything he loved and hated to lose. This bottle was what he watched baseball with and what he listened to The Beatles with. What he laughed with and what he toasted with. It was the drink he would have with me because he couldn’t make it. I quietly poured a gin and tonic.

After a few more drinks on these sacred grounds Kyle and I needed to make our way. Unfortunately Kyle had an alcohol interlock system in his car, and I was the kind of anachronism who liked to walk, so driving was certainly out of the question. Most priests would have a hard time passing the scrutiny of the blower, anyway. So my little sister would drive us to the edge of the Portland MAX train system, and we would step on that train drunk and perhaps never return. Across the river Styx, we’d have to fight our way out. Its somewhat liberating, riding into the night with no clear way out. No plan beyond a staging ground. Like leaving your life behind for the lash. It seemed in that moment, a noble pursuit.

Time flashed past me, and I found myself at Kell’s pub with two of my oldest friends. We sat at a small table in the midst of the crowded pub and drank, but secretly we eyed the basement cigar room. I had checked it out, it was unattended and we thought perhaps it was closed. But I was well and drunk, and ready to have a go at whoever. This was, after all, a plastic Paddy bar, and I was a flesh and blood Paddy. I figured I would simply put up an accent and ask a bartender if we could be served in the basement. They would be won over by the prospect of a good word from a real, albeit Americanized, Irish man.

What I hadn’t planned on was the bar manager and bouncer both being Irish. In the noise they couldn’t hear the inconsistency in my accent, and were thrilled to meet me. A Waterford boy in need of a cigar and a quiet drink with his friends? Absolutely. They sent us downstairs with a waitress in tow, fetched me a shirt from the bar that would prove essential later, and let us get down to it. Another round of drinks was produced while Big Eli surveyed our cigar choices, gleaming to him like so many precious indulgences from behind a glass case. He is seldom a man of class or finery, and shows no deep pretensions, but the man knows tobacco like I know bourbon.

The basement was quiet and dark. A long hall of booths, underused and often unknown. We each had our cigars brought to us, cut and lit. Drinks before us. It was something strange. The three of us had spent many late nights seated similarly, clouds of smoke and cups. Only in Denny’s Bored punk kids. Now things seemed so grown up, we spoke candidly about how we felt when my father died, Eli spoke of the life of a father, and how he often forgot he needed to be responsible in the haze of the moment. I always remembered our days as 3 boys in middle school, cursing and spitting offense and getting in trouble. I never forget the laughs we had as 3 young men, drinking coffee and cheap beer, lying to police and parents. And now we were 3 men, thrust into the bleakness of adult life. But the smoke and the drink were the same, our hearts were the same, and it only followed that we would cause some trouble.

About 3 rounds into Kell’s we started breathing fire through our cigars, and we decided to take off. Our waitress had headed back upstairs, so we figured we’d simply call up our tab at the bar. This seemed reasonable, but this is where things became complicated. Kyle declined to let me pay, good man that he is, so Eli and I approached the front door to step out and get some air while Kyle assailed the bar. The waitress dashed past Kyle as we approached the door, waving her hands and a piece of paper, and as we crossed the threshold the hand of the bouncer, a Waterford boy himself, clapped down on my shoulder with the force of a man ready to scrap. I figured it out right quick, Kyle had arrived at the bar just after the waitress stepped away from it, and he had been completely overlooked. But they saw Eli and I trying to have them, trying to get out free. We tried to explain that Kyle had gone to pay, but the idea didn’t penetrate. We were some young punks, once again. The bouncer didn’t seem angry so much as he seemed hurt, big man though he was. Cheated by another Waterford boy. Dishonest he called me, and he even knew my name. Eli stepped in to pay the bill while I tried to calm things. This was typical of us. We were rotten to the eyes of most. Always had been. Three scruffy boys with long hair and stubble, not looking for girls only looking for laughs. We handled the situation and escaped. I felt a scumbag, like I’d truly done something wrong. But I remembered my dad. And I remembered the $100 plus tab we bailed on in Canada. I had it coming. He was having a laugh, I just knew it.

Things were getting hazy. Only the fine and greasy dinner my mother made was saving me from a staggering spew. Next on our list was Ground Kontrol. We were all nerds at our core, when one ignored our rough veneer. And nothing sounded better than crowding around an arcade cabinet and drinking tall cans of Pabst’s finest blue ribbon award winner. We walked among the banks of arcade machines until we found something appropriate, Sunset Riders. I had played it all my life, since I was tall enough to stand at a cabinet. But youthful practice rarely translates to drunken skill. We hauled out beers like it was nearing closing time, though it wasn’t. And we poured quarters into that machine at a heinous pace. The final challenge came, the kind of thing an 8 year old can do, but a drunk can’t. The battle with Sir Richard Rose. We battled and shouted and drank between button mashing fervor. Like young men. And just like young men we ran out of quarters.

Defeated by a flashing Konami villain we decided to carry on. We asked Eli where he thought we should go, which was essentially a poor idea. The boy had good intentions, to be sure, but drink was involved, and those intentions were no where in sight. We let him lead on. The streets were unknown to me, these were the roads less traveled, and that was good. Strange creatures roamed about, and jeered at us, and run to close we were all to eager to engage. A very poorly disguised transsexual stopped us to bum a smoke. We chatted with the lovely lady, and Eli tried his damnedest to get her to join us. Why not? This was the kind of night that needed a good tranny. Especially one bigger than I was, though maybe it was the heels. She declined, there was some better party to be at, though I could scarcely imagine it. What unimaginable kicks were there to be had? I would never know, Lou Reed would have to wait.

Eli lead us to a glowing oasis. The Cabaret. I knew what we were about to step into. We had 2 hours left to drink, maybe less, but that was not the main attraction of this venue. The bouncer let us in for free upon seeing my birth date, the perks of the times, I suppose. We stepped into a horrifying black lit room, in the haze and the glowing blues and purples it was nigh impossible to see the edge of the room. It was there though. Out of those dark borders staggered drunk men with pants that tented to suggest fell deeds, and behind them girls in the kind of bikinis that served no purpose on a beach. Kyle loathed these places, and was pretty drunk already, he sat at the bar on the way in. Eli and I moved down into the crater and took a table by the stage. Drinks were ordered with some girl who must have been very cold. These places were interesting to me, but I loathed their purpose. These girls, what happened? Surely something must have gone wrong along the way. But the money was good. Maybe it was demeaning? Who was I to say? My vision was certainly not good enough to stare, but out of no where Eli pointed to a girl on the stage.
“Is that Melinda Fry?”

I declined to believe. A girl I had gone to elementary school with, dancing here? I didn’t want that to be the case. Broken dreams so close to my own childhood. But Eli was convinced. I chalked it up to the haze and the lights. But soon this girl in heels too tall started walking towards our table, I simply assumed she was coming to solicit us. But no. Her eyes were used to this light. She saw us. She knew our names. It was her. Melinda Fry. Sister of my childhood friend. Adopted daughter of my elementary school custodian. Tormentor of my easy rage in my early teens. She was here at The Cabaret. And she sat down.

We had never been friends in school, I thought she was a bitch and she liked to wind up my short temper and watch me shake. Not quite the memories that lead to tearful reunions under the black light. To my surprise the conversation was good, not forced and awkward in the middle of this pit. She found out it was my birthday and bought me a drink, the money she produced from within the functionless shiny thing she had herself covered with. We three talked of old times, teachers and friends for a while before Melinda flagged down one of her girls. I knew where this was headed, and I didn’t like it. But I felt I needed to experience this at least once, as sordid as that sounds. This, to me, was near the bottom of dignified society, and I needed to study its vile entrails. I cannot remember the girls name or even what she looked like, maybe that wasn’t important in this kind of affair? She took me from my table and my drink and my company and lead me by the hand, quite delicately, to the back of the bar, a room steeped in black light with chairs lining the walls. She sat me down, at which point I realized that tonic water glows under a black light and I had spilled it all over myself during tonight's affairs, giving my shirt the appearance of a chronic masturbators Sunday best.

The girl gave me forced compliments as she moved about on my lap, straddling me, bouncing about, and removing her already scant outfit. I struggled through our conversation, not from my usual nervousness with girls or the awkward nature of the situation, but simply my despair over tie situation. Was this worth the money for her? Half-heartedly grinding on some drunk and gin soaked stranger? I don’t know how long the lap dance lasted, struggling in my mind to justify this. But soon it was over, and I thanked my greater resolve that I would not be returning to my table with a visible affliction. But I needed to find out why these girls did this. The money? Exhibitionism? Maybe I was the only one in this den of wolves and wounded souls who thought it was a bit strange. I sat back at the table, Eli and Melinda were still talking, seemingly having fun. They looked at me like I should say something about what had happened back there, but I didn’t, like some silly notion of kiss and tell. Over time I gently managed to ask Melinda in my drunken boldness what got her into this place, what crude path had brought her to this stage from the school I last saw her at. She was practiced in her response, this had clearly come up before, and she told me that the money was good and that it was paying for school and that she just viewed it as dancing and tended to ignore the men who were all to eager.

As an optimist, and in my haze, I believed her. And perhaps it was true, maybe I was just judging something I didn’t know? I dropped the thought and returned to drinking. The clock was swiftly approaching two and soon we would begin to sober up, whether we liked it or not, it was time to get deeply involved in some rum. Melinda got called to the stage, some horrible track blaring over the speakers, and Eli and I looked at each other. We were drunk, yes, but we knew this was truly bizarre.

Kyle had rejoined us from the bar, he was in rough shape, but we all were and we weren’t ready to pack it in. Who is? After so many drinks the seething fury of a man on the move starts to rear itself, and you may not know where you’re going but you know the night is young and you haven’t lost your resolve. Not yet. Things from here on become a bit of a patchwork tale. The sort of times that could be imagined, and Lord if I didn’t wish they were. At The Cabaret we heeded last call, getting one last drink for a night that we wouldn’t easily remember, and as the girls came off stage to the leers of the few cackling beats who still remained here in this place, Melinda came over to say goodbye. This place was vile, yes, but I stood convinced of her reasoning. She hugged us, as I recall, and in the middle of her goodbye a man grabbed her boney shoulder and said the words that would stick with me that night like the hangover the next morning.

“C’mon, this isn’t a high school reunion, get your ass to the back.”

The exploitation in the managers voice was unmistakable. He poured greasy sleaze and made me shudder when he stared into me with his pale blue eyes. His shirt was open a few buttons down and I couldn’t bear his image. I had been wrong when I believed Melinda. The look on her face at that moment spelled it out. She was stuck here, she was nothing without this job. This man had a hold on these girls and she had a hole in her heart. She must have had dreams when she was a girl. The job, the education, the boy, the fairytale wedding. She must have had dreams, however small and childish they seemed now, there must have been something once… Now only the whisper of a lost youth. She smiled a false smile, practiced through innumerable lap dances, and waved as he lead her off, his hairy fist wrapped around her tiny wrist. What had I seen just then, should I have said something? Get my face done in by some bouncer for some girl I hardly knew and hated when I did? Perhaps a brave man would have said something, but that wasn’t me. For all my talk and trials I was a coward. I let him win, and watched her walk off, those youthful dreams rekindled at our table, only to be devoured in this den of wolves. For a moment I was sick. For a moment.

We must have walked, we must have stood, we must have deliberated on our destination. For me it was a movie transition, a quick wipe from The Cabaret’s blue glow to a red and dingy light in some juice bar further into the pit. I cannot recall the name of the place, nor where it was, but I remember the red lights. We three kings sat in a tiny strip club somewhere in the fetid part of Portland. About 3 feet from the stage we watched the C-String of strippers come on the the likes of Kid Rock and Disturbed. What was I doing here, what was I doing in this wretched place?

A girl solicited me, and fearful of saying no, and without a drink to occupy myself, I took her up. Another dance, I thought, another foul time. But I couldn’t say no. These girls here at 4 AM, they needed it. So I was lead to the back again, this time I could see the cum stains on the chairs even without black light. This place was filthy, but I didn’t care. I was drunk and lonely, right? At least that was the idea. She sat me down and went to work much faster than the girl at The Cabaret, naked in moments, she clamored on me and “danced” in the way no girl would in reality. This wasn’t reality, this place was a lie. I remember her black hair and her pretty face, done up in to much makeup. I remember her suggestion that we move to one of the “Private Rooms” for a show. I remember what her inflection said that meant. And as long as it had been since I was with a girl and how drunk I was and how well she knew how to wrap my kind of guy into a client, I declined. When the dance ended, I tipped well.

Back to the pit I found Eli at a table with a stripper, and Kyle no where in sight. This should have concerned me, but in my state I thought him invincible. I sat down and found out the girl was on her lunch break, but what kind of lunch can you get at 4 AM at a strip club? We chatted for a bit until a girl put her hand through Eli’s beard, and he was pulled to the red lit back. I found myself alone with this stripper.

The first few moments were quiet. But the look in her sad eyes said she was a real person. I leaned forward and asked, “How do you feel today?” She looked at me and smiled, like no on had ever asked her that. She told me she hated this job, and that she felt bad almost everyday. Striking honesty, so late at night. To me, this was horrible. I spoke to her for only 15 minutes, but I made her laugh and smile and talk about things she wanted. She told me she was saving to go back to school to study linguistics, that she wanted for more. I could almost forget that she sat across from me in scant clothes, I could almost forget that she was about to go on stage to some horrible song. In that brief segment of my night, that glimmer of time, she was real, she laughed, and maybe, just maybe, she felt happy.

Eli came back from his dance and I asked him if he knew where Kyle was. It had just occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him in an hour. We decided it was time to go, we were a man down and that wouldn’t stand. Eli started for the door. I got up, the girl before me sat still. I waited for Eli to walk out before I turned to her. My fathers best friend had given me $100 for my birthday and told me to have a laugh. I didn’t need the money to have a laugh. I took out two fifties and handed them to the stripper. I knew that for a place that rarely saw Mr. Lincoln, this was an oddity, but I did it anyway. She told me she couldn’t take it, I told her she had to. She offered me a dance and I said the conversation was enough. I knew $100 wasn’t all that much, but it would help. Perhaps even the gesture helped, as though someone out there really wanted her to get out of this place. And I did, without the motives of the slimy men she saw nightly. I pressed the money into her hand and turned about, waving over my shoulder. That would be enough for now, I hoped she took my words to heart, I hoped she escaped this place. She was the only thing in this den of lies that had a gleam of truth, and I’d seen the depths as well, there is no greater despair than the hell of a loveless cage.

Outside it would be a cold April night, I zipped up my coat and followed Eli, who was inquiring with the bouncer if he’d seen Kyle leave. Kyle has a tendency to realize hes hit his limit and vanish into the night. He was not one to be taken care of. But this night he would need it. The bouncer didn’t know where he’d gone, but two miscreants in the silent street, not smoking but simply loitering, knew just how far he’d made it. They pointed just down the sidewalk to a giant vomit smear. The kind you see drunks produce in overzealous public service announcements. “This could be you!” it shouted. We approached the vomit pile and to its right, in the shuttered store front of some lowly place, a pawn shop or a porn shop or maybe something more sinister, lay Kyle. Huddled on the ground and passed out. He’d really had it. Eli and I were not worried though. Kyle was a real champ, though legally declared as chemically dependent. He would hurt in the morning, but this was no cause for concern. Perhaps a lesser group would have called the medics, searched for some snow covered triage station. But he had his limbs, and near as we could tell, he still drew breath.

Nevertheless it was time to go, I phoned for a cab while Eli shook Kyle awake and helped him up. He was shivering, as well he should, but I was too small to loan him my coat. Then I remembered the shirt I had wrested cruelly from the hands of Kell’s, a place I could never return to. It had been half stuffed in my pocket all night, hanging down my leg like a colorful handkerchief hangs from Steven Tyler’s mic stand. I tossed it to Kyle and he pulled it over his other shirt, that would hold him, till the cab came. I didn’t mention, and he didn’t notice, that the shirt had endured two lap dances. The filth of it would have been clear to any sober man, but these were dire times, and a little stain here and there would have to pass.

We didn’t talk much as we waited for the cab. It was just before 5 AM on a Thursday night, or sometime feverishly early on Friday morning. Somewhere people were rising for work, for school, for kids, for life. But was that life? Rising early to the same notion everyday? I didn’t think so. If this night spoke of anything it was that plans were foolhardy. Those everyday things, the pattern, the plan, it was simply passing time. This had been a night for true adventure. Something some would never know. All my many plans for this night were all out the window. No train home from Canada, no family dinner with cake and curry, no double gin with dad at the Elbow Room. No big night with a big dream. No dreams at all. Not tonight.

I found myself in the backseat of a Radio Cab, those foul cars that look like cops at a distance. Eli was upfront, and unbelievably he was going to work in the morning. The morning. What did that even mean? Our cabbie knew not to talk. We had seen some night, and the explanation would both frighten and consume him. So I thought. Eli pointed to a street sign that he was to get off at. When I strained my eyes I realized that it was an on-ramp. He was drunk but why here? Who could know? I shook his hand and sent him home to the wife and child, he had done his service tonight. He was a valet, and alcohol was unacceptable in his line of work. But here he was, 5 AM, on a work night. We had been disconnected for years but I knew one thing about him still. He was a true friend.

Kyle and I were more than a little drunk, trying to direct this cab to our fortresses in the Lakeshore area of Vancouver. Kyle was to be dropped off first. I felt like I should thank him for being there on this night, but he was one of my greatest friends, and there would be more drunk moments for this. This much I knew. As soon as we dropped Kyle off I began to fall asleep. I lead the cabby around in a half conscious circle for a while before he brought me home.

In my driveway I produced my credit card. The headlights hit our front room. In the past I would have worried that this would wake my father, and I regretted that this time it wouldn’t. He had always been there when I staggered in. Maybe he didn’t wake up or maybe sometimes he simply woke to say hi. But he had always been there. The king and the castle guard. It was different walking in without him there. The TV was still on Fox Sports Network, the dogs had made their way to the living room, and even the pillows sat in the typical places. But no dad. No gin and tonic. The sun peaked over the horizon. I stood and looked upon our front room, slowly being drenched in the days first light.

Tonight had been a laugh, and even though I’d seen so many broken dreams I felt it had been a success. I remembered a talk my dad and I had shortly after his 50th birthday. He said that he would come out with the boys and I for as much of the 21 run as he could, in his health. Two months before his death. He had wanted to last, for my brother, for me, for his whole family and all his friends. He had wanted to be there. And I believed he had it in him. I walked in that night and his seat was empty. But he was there. He and I were on the lash and on the move. He and I had a laugh that night. I waved and said goodnight, then stepped down the stairs. I could see his smile. I could hear his laugh.

[/spoiler]

[Drathi]

[Kinokokao]

I wanted to play that game just to get the gay elf sex.

[Maxine MagicFox]

[Kinokokao]

The other night Mr Kino actively wanted to talk about my novel idea.

Which is about gay wizards, of course.

It was slightly surreal for him to take me seriously as a writer and want to help me hammer out the plot. He did give me a couple of really good ideas.

Although he kept vaguely simplifying the plot in ways that amused me, and referenced my villains with Star Wars analogies ("So this guy's like Darth Vadar and this other dude is the Emperor?" "Er, yeah, kind of")

Also he has little understanding of how nuanced gay wizard fiction needs to be. He kept making suggestions like "make it so he has to like, suck the magic out of him. Literally. Like through his coc--" "OK I UNDERSTAND"

[Maxine MagicFox]

^_^ sounds like a wonderful night, Kino. You should tell him that you seriously want to have more just like it.

......(I think, though, I agree with the last suggestion... it does sound good :3 )

[Starfe]

[Drathi]

[Kinokokao]

[NessySchu]

[Kinokokao]

[zamisk]

[NessySchu]

[Maxine MagicFox]

*so jealous* i wanna be psychic too....