|Could this be Tina...God I hope not....|
That would be 6 months worth of heavy
drinking and drugging to explain!!!
Since Juan was too far out their at this point to practice common sense, let alone common courtesy, rational logic goes out the window with it. It was after this comment about Leather Face was made, I got the uneasy feeling that the jokes about Leather Face may be going a little too far. At times it is acceptable to join in on the emotional bashing of others, but unless you are directly connected to the bash-ey, a line must be drawn, and if crossed, hell will be to pay, and in this case, by the Hell’s Angel’s!!!!
“Dat’s okay my frineeed, my last hiena luked like dis…” Juan said as he pulled out a picture of him, with his arms wrapped around the neck of a goat…taken on a farm, somewhere up in the Ortega mountains.
“Juan…I think that’s a goat.” I said…and immediately, Bones chimed in with…
“Damn your girl makes mine look like Megan Fox!”…and that unfortunately, was the final straw…apparently its all right to talk shit about woman, but it would appear that in Pisano culture, never make fun of a mans animals,(especially if there is an outside chance he may be fucking em, but the same could be said about a hillbilly from West Virginia) because at that moment, Juan slapped Bones in the face, clear across the bar…
“Are you FUCKING CRAZY ESSAY?!” Bones yelled as he stood up while simultaneously knocking over the bar stool…
“Don’t you talk shit about Glacia”
“Juan why the fuck…why the fuck would you slap that man.”
“Fuck you wabos!”
“Juan why do you keep talking about wabos?”
“I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP LITTLE MEXICAN BASTARD!!!!” Yelled an angry Bones, whose was starting off toward the pool tables in the corner, where the rest of his biker friends sat around like an outlaw biker cub scout meeting.
Juan sat on the stool, poised ever and enthralled with the picture of him and Glacia, weeping like a little girl with a skinned knee. He was calmly sobbing into the remains of his beer when I yelled…
“We got to get the fuck out of here…JUAN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”
“Relax wabos, I got it under control…You see, da trouf about dat guy is, da trouf is…he is not like you or me…”
“I know Juan, he’s a 48 year old outlaw biker, with multiple felonies, and hundreds of violent friends and the entire crew he knows is HIGH AS SHIT ON BIKER CRANK!!!!!...DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA JUST HOW FUCKED WE ARE NOW??”
“Alright…let’s go let’s go then…”
“I fucking hate you Juan.” I screamed as we began our exodus…
We began to run out the back entrance of the Swallows, but one of the dancers on the floor did a "lopsey loo" to the left, which presented Juan with an opportunity to sidestep his ass into a cigarettes vending machine. This act caught the attention of everyone standing, or dancing, within an 18 foot circumference….for a moment, I felt like I was in a movie, as I grabbed Juan by his arm and yanked him off the floor, super-hero to lesser concerned minority side kick style.
“Quick you fucking baracho!!! Let’s not make any more of a God Damn seen.”
“That cigarette machine was in da way”
"Your a fucking wino and a hedonistic bastard, you know how fucked we are?" I asked, as the sounds of "Fuck You" could be herd chanted from the bathroom
We jumped into my bus, and with all it’s hamster-power , burned out of that crowded country western parking lot, and mashed onto the Ortega Highway, destination, 5 freeway south, toward San Clemente, California. The bass of the engine, roared from my Volkswagen screamed as we went down the road. The live Tonic album, by Medeski, Martin, and Wood was playing as I began to make conversation with a very drunk Juan.
“So Juan…I think I remember you from that Smut Peddlers show…right there at Mulligans, I mean…what the fuck is the name of that place…” I had drawn a Xanax induced blank, and suddenly, could not say the name of Coconuts, even though I could see the sign above the bar…
“Ahhh? Where you talk about?”
“Down the street from that burger joint…” Still no luck, what the fuck was happening hear I thought to myself
“Oh Madonnas?” Juan said, it was at this point I wondered to my self if he was suggesting the pop icon, gone hoe to housewife, had offered her self up as a virgin burger joint…
“You mean McDonalds?” I asked.
“Yeah dats what I say, Madon-as…”
“Ha-ha I’ll drink to that…no it’s just past there, you make a left under the free way…”
“Oh yeah…that place, dair…dair, right dair inside the poking lot, Coconuts” Juan said as he slammed back his Heineken “Coconuts. That’s where I live.”
“Juan, you do NOT live at a fucking bar…where? In the dumpster out back by the Doheny Salon? Or in the tent city just under the 5 freeway and P.C.H? Hugh? Hugh? What do you sleep on a fucking ice plant or something?” I started to feel like I was loosening my ability to distinguish the difference between passionately asking questions and taking genuine interest in a conversation or topic, and just passionately being an asshole drunk now.
“NO, I did not say dat…I do work dair on Saun-day…” Juan started pounding on my dashboard, as he continued, and I began to wonder, since Juan lost his ability to operate a door knob, would God bless me with Juan loosing his ability speak...any and all languages? Was this it? Was he about to stab me in the back because I had been so abrasive toward him in the bar? Would I make a fatal error, park my bus, step outside to light up a cigarette, and get a back full of crude silver wear stolen from a local Denny's? He does look like Abraham Lincoln fucked Fidel Castro...and made a love child…and that love child is the man sitting before me, plotting coyly for his chance to strike. Remain calm…think…tell him something like you got plenty of Allen wrench’s and used air pumps he can use to fix bikes…or perhaps we could scroll through my phone book and I could give him an ex’’s phone number…at that moment my thoughts were interrupted by....
"I don't know what da fuck happened back der, but you can crash at my pad tonight...actually, you wanna be my roommate?"
....Read Tina from the Beginning....
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