After avoiding the whole location craze, I finally figured I would utilize the “check in” feature on Facebook. It was time to be more social, right?
Well, it might have all happened like this…
8:30pm – Check in at Union Station.
We were supposed to pick up our friends at 8 o’clock but, we were running late. Unfortunately, the LA Transit System was running later.
We parked the car and prepared to suck in bus fumes for twenty minutes or so, when an over zealous security guard began rapping on the hood of my car with a billy club.
“Wow. Do people really still use those?” I asked.
“I do,” he spat back. “No loitering. Get a move on.”
I didn’t bother to bring up that the nature of a passenger loading zone was to loiter and instead asked for his suggestion on what to do when our friends arrived and we weren’t there.
“Drive in circles,” he suggested.
I mentioned that it might be kind of bad for environment and sort of defeat the whole purpose of taking the subway and carpooling.
“I don’t care.”
He wasn’t very sociable.
9pm – Check in at Seven Grand, a hip, whiskey-themed bar downtown.
I like whiskey. I like to spell it with an ‘e’ because I’m American and we rule, but mostly I like to drink it.
A bar dedicated to whiskey on the day I got an expense check for driving 300 miles in December?
Yeah, that might lead to trouble.
10pm – Check in at The Golden Gopher – A laid back establishment that serves alcohol.
My friend Mike wanted to check out a few more bars in the area. I was content to drink myself into a stupor. We had words. He won because I was beginning to slur. He said he’d be leaving and I said something articulate like “go ahead.”
Then, he was gone and I was lonely.
I missed Mike and went to find him at the Golden Gopher. I had but one obstacle to overcome: the bouncer was one of them philosophical types.
“Are you an investment banker?” he asked me.
I looked down quickly to make sure I hadn’t worn my three-piece suit by mistake. Nope. Blue jeans and jacket.
“I am not,” I told him slowly. “Do I look like a banker?”
“You can never be sure,” he told me. “I hate bankers.”
“That seems to be the prevailing wind these days.”
“I guess we do need them though,” he said. “You know. To hold our money.”
“You could always dig a hole in the yard,” I suggested. “Keep it in there.”
“I don’t have a yard,” he said coldly. “I lost my house.”
“I should have guessed that.”
He smiled at that. Then he laughed a little.
“Yeah, you’re all right.”
And, I was in.
Having performed more mental gymnastics than I was really prepared for, I decided a few more brain cells needed killing.
This place had better serve whiskey.
11pm – Check in to Big Wangs, a sports bar with good wings.
“Belligerent” is a strong word and… well, okay I was getting a little loud.
Mike’s patience was already running thin at the Golden Gopher, after I’d tried to steal one of the cute little lamps they had shaped like the adorable little critters.
I’d followed him to Big Wangs for some wings and I think he was searching the utility posts for the number of a cab he could call because it was obvious I would not be providing a safe ride home.
I followed him like a puppy follows a tumbling stick.
I was drunk and I was loud. But, belligerent?
Okay, when I started berating a helpless busboy because the washroom was out of paper towels, that was belligerent. My brain was so fuzzy, that I surely had the capacity to use fewer words in English than he did and our summit near the kitchen did not end well.
12am – Check in at the Los Angeles Police Department Headquarters, a place you don’t want to visit most times, but especially after midnight.
Few things are as sobering as fluorescent lights. They’re just so clinical. Even on the best days, catching a glimpse of yourself in a bathroom mirror with those long white bulbs illuminating every kitten scratch and pimple scar you’ve ever had is a harrowing experience.
After getting kicked out of a bar for belittling a helpless busboy about paper products.
Yeah, I wasn’t feeling too good about myself at that point.
Poor Mike just got caught up in the mess. Defending me? Trying to sedate me? I don’t know. I just know he was sitting next to me and I was still just drunk enough to know one thing: he could not be trusted.
12:30pm – Our wives check in at Aladdin Bail Bonds, whose sappy commercials that run on basic cable in the middle of the night used to make me joke about wanting to get arrested.
So much for being social.
