If It Feels Good Do It

Boring

A few nights later I went back to Fern’s. It was a Friday.

Same skate stickers. Same 25 oz Busch. Same dude who was there a few days prior. Apparently.

“Hey!” some dude said. “You were here a few days ago! You came up and talked to me.”

“…Yes! Thank you for remembering. Please excuse me for forgetting as I was extremely drunk at the time.”

That dude had also been drunk that night. And like me, that dude had ridden his bicycle over this night. He bought me a shot of gentleman Jack. I chased it with my Jack on the rocks and felt like a man for three point five seconds.

Anyways, who cares about all that. At around 9 PM I rode home because ultimately, Fern’s was boring. I wanted to check out Taco Beach, near my apartment.

ROGER ROGER, YOU’VE GOT CLEARANCE CLARENCE, WHAT’S YOUR VECTOR VICTOR?

I began to lock my bike in the alley behind my apartment. When I was doing that a silver and black mercedes pulled up next to me. A large black man stuck his head out of the drivers side window and stared. It was the same man that committed imaginary murder a few weeks prior.

I glanced at him but then continued about my business. I was headed to Taco Beach. This was important.

But when I locked up my bike and turned around that imaginary murderer was still staring.

“What’s up?” I said.

“WHAT’S UP?!” he said

“…” I said.

“YOU STILL CONCERNED ABOUT THE PO-LICE?”

“What?”

“THAT NOTE YOU LEFT ON MY CAR! TALKING ABOUT HOW YOU GONNA CALL THE THE PO-LICE.”

“Uh, that wasn’t me.”

The man’s manner became cordial. “Oh. OK. I apologize. Roger, number 39.” Roger extended his hand.

“Ian, 47.”

We shook hands. I could see another guy in the car with Roger. I had seen him in front of apartment 39 before. At that time he was friendly. Now he looked embarrassed.

Roger apologized a few times. It was cool, I told him. I didn’t care.

Then I hurried my way over to Taco Beach.

EAT MY TACO

Taco Beach is well, Taco Beach. When people in Northern California say they don’t like SoCal, they are referring to places like Taco Beach. Just look at it. Objectification of women. “Eat my Taco” double entendre. Palm trees. Nice weather. Fuck that. I bet those girls aren’t even being ironic. Where is the fog and the cynical outlook? Clearly Taco Beach has never met with a graduate advisor.

I walked downtown and entered the bar. Alas I found neither tacos nor a beach. Instead I found a middle aged man from New Jersey who was looking for both tacos and a beach. I sat next to him.

“I’m a Merchant Marine,” he said. “I just got back from a trip.”

“Cool,” I said.

“No, I hate it.”

“Oh,” I said. “What do you like?”

“I like to smoke pot. I’m glad I’m home now so I can smoke a lot of pot.”

“Oh.”

He had a close relationship with the bartender. He bought her a few shots. And me a few shots too. Or she bought him some shots and me some shots too. Maybe both. Two bars and free drinks — the night was off to a good start.

But then a horrible band began playing. They were a Latin band that couldn’t decide if they were also reggae.

I began to think of Roger. I wondered what he was up to. Now that guy was a straightforward, straight-shooter.

I decided it was time to hang out with the neighbors. I left the downtown and walked the half mile or so back to my apartment. I walked over concrete. Over asphault. Over cracks. Rocks. Tracks. Grass. Shit. Dirt. Puddles. Trash. Through alleyways. Through gates.

HOMELAND GHETTOPOLIS

Finally I walked up that long staircase. When I got to the top, my phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Oh no. It was Judy, the girl of former romantic relation who also lives in Long Beach.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said. “I’m drunk.”

“Let’s meet,” she said. I could tell she had also been drinking.

“No. I don’t want to. I told you,” I said.

“Come on!”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Look, maybe some other time but not right now. Please leave me alone.”

“OK.” Judy hung up.

Wow, that was easy.

I walked a few steps to apartment 39. The door was open. A TV was on with no volume. Otherwise, it was dark. Two guys were sleeping inside. I recognized both of them as my neighbors. The man on the floor had been sitting inside the silver and black Mercedes with Roger. Another guy was sleeping on the couch. He wasn’t Roger. I didn’t see Roger .

I was about to knock on the door when my phone rang. The guy on the couch woke up and looked at me. I turned, walked down the hall and answered the phone. The call was from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hey! How’s it going?”

“Ok.” I didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Nikki.”

“Nikki?”

“You don’t remember me?! We met the other night. I want to meet up.”

I didn’t remember her. “Oh. You mean, now?”

“Yeah!”

Where had I met her? At Fern’s? I searched my memory, but I was a drunk person trying to remember a drunk night. The end result was I could not remember what I was trying to remember.

“Well, OK,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Where do you want to meet? Just tell me where to go.”

“Uh. How about Taco Beach?”

“OK. I’ll drive over there,” she said.

I hung up the phone and walked to apartment 39. I knocked on the door. “Where’s Roger?!” I said.

The guy on the floor who I had seen in the car earlier looked up at me. “Oh, hey!”

“What’s up man,” I said.

“Hey, don’t worry about that guy.”

“Roger?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about him. He’s an idiot. Plus he’s gone. He doesn’t live here any more.”

“Oh OK.”

We introduced ourselves. The guy on the floor was Tim, and the guy on the couch was Deon. Deon was from Fairfield — the 707 — just like me.

But I had to meet Nikki. So, I said goodbye to my new friends. Then I walked back downtown again. Nikki called and texted me a few times along the way. I reconfirmed that I was headed to Taco Beach.

But when I got there, Nikki wasn’t. So, I sat down outside on the edge of a concrete planter box.

Then I heard, “Hey!” I looked to my left and there Judy was. Judy of former romantic involvement who I didn’t want to talk to. She had two friends with her. They walked into Taco Beach. One of must have been Nikki. They had tricked me.

“You tricked me,” I said.

“Look, I just want to talk,” said Judy.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I said. I stood up and walked away.

“Ian!” Judy stood up and began following me.

Oh no. Not this again.

“Ian! Why won’t you talk to me?”

I kept on walking.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because you’re a liar,” I said. “And you’re inconsistent. We’ve already been through this.”

She said something else. It was an argument.

“Whatever!” I said. “It is not good between us. That’s all there is to it. Leave me alone.”

Judy followed me. Over concrete. Over asphalt. Over cracks. Rocks. When we got to the railroad tracks I told her to stop following me. Again.

“You don’t want to follow me,” I told her. “I will ditch you, and you won’t want to be alone where you will be alone,” I said.

She started to follow me anyways.

“Leave me alone!” I said. Then I ran.

“Ian!” she yelled. She started to run, but she stopped. She would not follow me over those tracks. That grass. That shit. That dirt. Those puddles. That trash. Through those alleyways. Those alleyways were my friend. Those alleyways were my lover. They would swallow me. Those alleyways would protect me.

Then I walked through those gates and up the long staircase. Then I walked to apartment 39. The door was still open and Tim and Deon were still there. I knocked on the door.

“What’s up, Ian?”

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s go get some beer or something.”

SEVENELEVEN

They were into that. Deon had a car and he drove us around. Judy was calling me, and I was not answering. She was also texting me constantly. I was a coward she said. I was a bunch of other negative stuff. Before I was not a coward. I was resilient. But then I didn’t do what she wanted me to do. Then I became a coward. What a coincidence.

Deon drove us through downtown. The streets were crowded. The sidewalks were more crowded.

“Damn,” said Tim. “Bitches be everywhere tonight! Why were we in that apartment playing games, D? We could have been down here.”

“Seriously,” I said.

I was on a tight budget. I was looking for a forty of Steel Reserve. The Seveneleven downtown didn’t carry that. So we drove north. East. North. West.

Finally we found another Seveneleven. We parked and walked inside. This one carried forty ounce Steel Reserve High Gravity Lager.

And this Seveneleven was crowded. One great thing about hanging out with Tim and Deon was, they spit game at all places and all things. In the dark alleyway on the way to the car, they spit game. In this crowded and brightly lit Seveneleven, they spit game. And I was drunk.

An old lady walked in. She got hit on. A fly buzzed through the automatic doors. It got hit on. The old lady dropped her cane. It got hit on.

Then these two college girls walked up to the counter holding a bunch of beer. And damn they were fine.

“Hey ladies, where you headed?”

“You two trying to get your drink on? Let us roll with you.”

“Hi. I’m like, new to the area.”

I looked at the counter. Some lines were on it. I stared into a a crack in the floor. A bunch of pick up lines were in it. A dollar bill got stuck to the cashier’s hand. It had game on it.

One of the girls spoke up. “Oh yeah, I just moved here too. I’m going to Grad School.”

“Really?” I said. “I’ve been to Grad School too.”

“Oh? Where? For what?”

“I have a masters in Computer Science from UC Davis.”

The girl looked at me. Then she looked at my new friends. And my new friends looked at me.

“Oh,” the girl said finally. “That’s funny.”

I finished buying my forty. Deon grabbed me. “Let’s go outside,” he said. “They’ll follow.”

And Deon was right. The five of us conversed in the parking lot. The girls were named Jenny, and Tammi “with an i.”

“You can’t come over,” Tammi said. She was laughing. “The place is a mess.”

But she gave me her number so that we could all come over some other time. I was the only one with a phone on me. But then I didn’t have that phone on. Judy had been calling so much I turned it off. So I waited the minute and a half for the phone to turn on again. I just stood there. Then I asked for Tammi’s number again. Then she gave it to me again. Then we left.

RASTA MAN

When we got back to Tim and Deon’s apartment it was time to party. Someone passed around a bong. I drank most of my forty. I was pretty drunk.

It was time to visit Rasta Man. Apparently.

“Let’s go, D! Let’s go visit Rasta Man.”

There was an apartment down the street. I had seen a bunch of people standing in front of it before. They were usually partying, sort of. One of the guys always standing there had dread locks. When I walked by, usually he was yelling at someone. I wondered why they didn’t kick him out.

At around 2 AM we walked over to Rasta Man’s place. I found out why they didn’t kick that guy with dreadlocks out. It was his place. He was Rasta Man.

“I’m Ian,” I said.

I think Rasta Man said hi. Then Tim broke the ice. Deon stood there with me. We were mostly concerned with not falling over.

“This is the guy Roger was trying to mess with,” said Tim.

“That guy Roger is an idiot!” said Rasta Man. “Do you remember when he came over here? He got mad at me about something.”

“He did, D!” said Tim.

“And then I said you better step back!”

“Yep! That’s right.”

“I told him, ‘Don’t mess with me. I’ve got a second degree black belt in Kung Fu and in another martial art you never heard of.’”

“Yep! He does, D!”

“And then I went… BAH!”

Rasta Man jumped forward and shadow boxed Deon’s face. Then Rasta Man jumped back. Rapidly.

The conversation was a little bit on the bizarre side.

My phone rang. It was Tammi. Apparently.

“Hey Tammi,” I said.

“Hey!” Do you know who this is?

“Yeah, it’s Tammi,” I said. “With an i.”

“Nope, this isn’t Tammi. This is Jenny.”

“Oh, hi Jenny.”

Deon got in my face. “Oh damn! Jenny calling you?” Deon was into Jenny.

I needed some privacy so I walked into Rasta Man’s apartment. I walked through the living room and the kitchen. Then I walked out the back door.

“Are you still with your friends?” Jenny asked.

“Yep. We’re still hanging out. I love these guys.”

Then Jenny asked about me. Who was I, really. I began to answer who I was, really. Then I blasted off. Then I landed on another planet. It was Planet Diatribe. I was something. I was something else. I went on and on. I don’t remember what I said. Then I stuck my feet out and flew back to Earth again.

“Anyways, do you want to give me your number?” I asked.

“Sure!”

But I didn’t have a pen. I had landed and retrieved my belongings, but none of them were a pen. Then I looked at the back doors. I couldn’t remember which apartment I had walked out of. I was utterly lost. Mentally. Physically. Maybe spiritually.

Or maybe not. I guessed which door was the right door and I was right. I found a pen and wrote Jenny’s number down on my hand.

Then I walked home. Deon walked with me. Tim rode his skateboard. He could manual. I tried to manual and almost fell over. I was not sober enough to manual.

I set my empty forty bottle next to my front door. I thought that was cool.

ALWAYS SOMEONE WORSE OFF

In the afternoon when I woke up, I laughed.

I was late for church. I walked over there but service was at 10 AM and it was later than that. I had never been to that church before but had been wanting to check it out for a while.

I saw a line forming around the corner headed into the church courtyard. I got in it. Then the church members let us all in. I realized I was at a free lunch, primarily for homeless people.

A pastor came up to me and asked me if it was the first time I had been there. I told him yes. I think he suspected I was not homeless. He made sure I felt welcome, though.

“A lot of the folks here are homeless, but some of them are not. Whatever the case you are very welcome to be here.”

I ate lunch with a homeless guy named Jerry. He was an upbeat and talkative fellow who had that very day relocated from Orange County. From Anaheim.

It was a positive change in my not so humble opinion I told him. He told me he was going to look for a job in Long Beach on a fishing boat. I told him that sounded good. He asked me where I lived. Around the corner I said.

“Oh, next to a wall or something?” he asked.

We talked for about 45 minutes. I told him I hoped to see him next week and then walked back to my apartment.

After briefly saying hello to my friends at number 39, I drove to Manhattan Beach.

Everything was so beautiful. Everyone was beautiful. I was approximately five million miles from them. From being able to live there.

I phoned my mother and told her I loved her and Southern California and she said that was good. Then I phoned Jenny.

“Oh hi,” she said. She acted stand-offish. I must have said something weird to her the previous night. I couldn’t remember. I said goodbye.

And then it was Sunday night in Manhattan Beach. I thought I would have trouble sleeping. So I went to bar, drank a few beers by myself and read a book.

Then I went home. I was right about having trouble sleeping.

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