There was nothing to do that night, so I headed out to the Coconut Teaser. I hated that place. I hated the bands that played there—poor man’s Motley Crue, everyone an aspiring Keith Richards; a dirty and cheap audience listening to a dirty and cheap band, the skid row of the Sunset Strip. Even the club itself was fucked up, tacky and cheap, and not in good way. You entered into the foyer I guess you’d call it, lit up bright with fluorescent tubes mounted in acoustic tile, Hollywood Greyhound Bus Station ambience. If you went through the open door on the right you entered the Teaser. If you went through the open door on the left you entered a sleazy little disco that catered to German tourists and played lots of Abba on a tinny PA; the Germans wore stone washed denim, polo shirts, gold chains and white shoes; they were all big bellied, red faced and drunk. And if entering either door was too depressing a prospect, you’d do what I’d usually did, which was lean against the abandoned salad bar chain smoking cigarettes and angrily wondering why the fuck I’d gone there in the first place.

A fucking salad bar--I guess the place used to be some kinda restaurant. Salad bars say Dallas Texas, Ramada Inn, bacon bits, all you can eat buffet…. And there’s nothing remotely rock’n’roll about that.

I’d lean against the empty salad bar under the bright fluorescent lights, bad German disco flooding in one ear, bad hair metal in the other, getting angrier with myself by the minute, glaring with increasing malice at the sallow rockers and the red-faced Germans, and usually leave without ever entering either room.

Since I hadn’t entered either room, I hadn’t hit the bar, and this was the kinda situation that really made me need a drink. There was a liquor store on the other side of the parking lot, and I decided to grab a six pack since I was nearly out at home. If I could get drunk enough the night wouldn’t be a total waste.

I met her at the bottom of the stairs.

“That band sucks,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go to your place,” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the liquor store. “We’ll buy some champagne to celebrate,” she said. “I’ve got some money.”

There was not a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. It wasn’t that many months ago that we’d fucked. She’d picked me up at Club Lingerie and I took her back to my place. She wasn’t much to look at, and had been a rough, messy, nasty fuck, menstrual blood soaked through my sheets and stained the mattress. Maybe on another night in front of a better club I’d’ve been insulted by her lack of recognition, but this was late on a cold and dreary Wednesday night on the sidewalk in front of the Coconut Teaser, and there really didn’t seem to be much point getting worked up about anyone’s standards.

At first it seemed an act of kindness not to say anything. Her sense of sullen urgency, strong six months ago, had grown into desperation. Maybe she’d forgotten our night together, but there was clearly a lot more she was trying to forget and not succeeding.

Kindness was not a strength of mine, however, and we were barely out of the liquor store before I decided I could make an interesting game of this.

My memory is full of gaping holes. Half of every year has vanished in big chunks, or maybe never was, and half of what remains is blurred by a drunken or narcotic haze. In order to compensate for these giant gaps and fill the empty spaces, that which I do remember is remembered in excruciating detail, a harsh light as unflattering as noon day sun. Fucking her was one of the things I remembered. I had more than enough recollection for the both of us.

I decided to replay that first night in every detail. There was really no need for us to sit next to each other on the living room stairs listening to music; we were there to fuck and nothing more. We hadn’t even exchanged names yet, and it didn’t seem likely that we would. But the first time I’d met her things hadn’t been so desperate, and that brief pretense of romance and seduction had seemed to both of us a necessary act of etiquette.

Not this time. She was a little baffled as to why I didn’t take her straight back to the bedroom. I got us each a beer and sat down next to her on the stairs. I played the same album I’d played before.

Neither of us spoke. After a few minutes drinking beer in silence, she turned her head and looked at me, and for the first time that night I saw something in her eyes. It was fear.

“I’ve been here before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah.”

She got up and walked down the hall. “It’s this door?”

“Hurry up,” she said as she stripped off her clothes.

She was on her period again. She scowled as she pulled out her tampon and tossed it across the room. It bounced off her leather jacket and landed on the carpet.

I went down on her. She came with a grunt. She pushed me on my back. “Your turn,” she said. We drank some beer. We fucked. We came. There was even less pleasure in it than the last time. It was just a thing to do with someone you meet on the sidewalk on a cold and dreary Wednesday night. She rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning I drove her back to East Hollywood. She told me her name. She seemed much more relaxed, almost happy, but not so happy or relaxed that she’d let me take her to her place. She had me drop her off at an intersection in the neighborhood.

I had nothing to do that day. I went home and took a shower. The champagne was in the fridge, unopened. I grabbed the bottle and the newspaper and went back to my room. Her tampon was still in the corner. The blood left a stain on the cheap shag rug.

 

Close this Window