30 days from sidewalk sheetsA Chapter by Judas Hammer I got the word. The Doc gave me 30 days to leave. It was about to hit the streets again. Only the Brit can save me. The Brit!!! There where cracks forming below the surface of the relationship. It was not growing in a positive direction but remained stale and somewhat unhealthy. I realized long ago in life everyone was crazy to some degree. How we eventually find the love of our lives: was accepting their irrational ways and are able to indulge the insanity. The little thing that might make someone sleep with the lights on and one eye peeled we find cute. To one this might be stressful but another person might inwardly smile thinking to himself or herself, this was how papa used to act. So it was safe and oh so familiar. The truth would soon be revealed, as it always seemed to be. Her manic insecure ways bubbled to the surface. Each time she spoke it was like she was channeling another person. She laughed child like, as if a little girl lived inside her jumping up and down. So this was who treated the insane prison masses? Why do all these types of people find California and why do they all seem to wind up breathing the same air and standing in the same space as me? Her deep, dark eyes were hiding something from me. Someone had messed her up, broke her down and shown her the evil side of men. He (whoever he was) had planted the seed: that demon seed. The rest of us would have to taste the poison fruit. The crazed laughter, the condescending arguments about nothing was enough to have me sifting through the classifieds of life. These events were enough to have any sane man watching for shiny metal in the wee midnight hours. It all changed one day when I drank the last bit of wine. We had gone to see a flick at the Art theaters on 4th street, the small one screen theater I has passed on my way to the Coffeehouse with all the pretty people decked out in summer scarf’s, thick rimmed glasses and Ginsberg beards on thin vegetarian frames. We had strolled a few blocks on 4th when a bird took a dump hitting her on the back of the shoulder. I was mildly disgusted but tried to play it off. “I have to buy a lottery ticket. It’s good luck when a bird s***s on you” Were these the thought of your average Chicagoan? If this where the cases would not Chicago be the sitting capitol of Millionaires with Avian s**t stained blouses and shirts. I have heard all of myths both international and domestic, but that one had never graced my ears. Later I thought it just be something one says when embarrassed by an unexpected event. We went to a liquor store and she bought her lottery ticket and I bought two shots of E and J along with candy to sneak into the theater. She tied a sweater around her slender shoulders and we were back on our way. We reached the theater, she paid for our tickets and found two seats near the front to the right hand side. The inside of the theater was quaint but very modern. A screen behind a stage, with seats arranged in typical cinema style. From the simple exterior of the theater, which included a marquee and an old fashion box office, I expected the inside to be less elaborate. We finished the movie and then checked out most of the vintage clothing stores on the other side of the street across from the elementary school. After the vintage clothes tour, we decided to eat on Pine Street at a local sports bar with Mexican seafood cuisine. I always ordered the Baja fish burrito with several twenty-ounce mugs of Blue Moon to wash it down. We finished our meal while watching a basketball game on the myriad of big screen televisions to the back then returned to the condo on third. I sat on the sofa full and drunk, while she rifled through the refrigerator for her daily glassful of vino. She took the cheap bottle of Pinot and held it to her face. There was only a swallow left. I had adhered to her rule I had been admonished for before. Don’t finish anything off unless you intend to replace it like her father used to do. I was not her father and obviously not hen pecked to the point of finishing a meal and having to nervously run to the store to replace what I had consumed. Instead I left enough to save myself the aggravation. This later would come back to bite me in the self-righteous a*s. She yelled at me again and poured the splash wine in her glass, “Nobody messes with my wine” she said and stormed out of the kitchen in a huff. I was still too numbed by the beers but I felt this might be the future. Things would change and they did. After two or three days of light conversation I asked her what was wrong. “This is not working she said. I’ll give you thirty days to find another place” And there it was. The decision had come down from the Doc. It was over. In thirty day we were a wrap. I had been at this point with many others. The wayward traveler would again be on the road: where only the good Lord knew. I spent that night trying to talk her out of it, but her mind was steel and the though firmly entrenched in her bi polar gray matter. It went from the consumed wine; to I was not considerate or thankful, to the few arguments we had and to my writing taking her time. All excuses I thought. It was just not her style, unless the man was weak and wet paper. I guessed she had some role models that had build this image of what a male was in her head. For both our sakes I would be absent when she was home. I would be at the Coffee shop while she was on her sofa, laughing drunkenly at a reality cooking show with her hair wrapped up like a skinny, tinted toothed pirate. The sleeping situation also changed, instead of sleeping on the right side of her huge bed I was moved to the guess bedroom, with the treadmill and large screen TV she captured on Black Friday at a Walmart in Compton. It was the best room I had occupied in years. Much better than the floors, car seats and sofas where I had slept before. It was my new reality and accepted this as another challenge in life. Another person turned as they always did. The mercy I granted was never returned and was facing the cruel, California, urban reality called Long beach. I saw the signs early but again desperation had forced me into the place as desperation always did. Life seemed to constantly play defense and always threw competition in the forms of the broken people: I called friends who later turned out to be the best of enemies. The Crazy Brit had called to meet her at Hamburger Mary’s. I had always walked by Hamburger Mary’s from Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. I only saw tall transvestites strolling from the front door, and as I have shared with anyone that will listen the Trannies frightened me. She wanted to talk to me about the screenplay. I exhaled fatigued at script meeting request. I made my way to the meeting place. The inside was vibrant and colorful with spotless tables and sports on the TV’s behind the modern bar, lit up with fluorescent lights. I entered and she was already there with her sister Beck. Her sister was a small, round plump faced lesbian who appeared like one of those small boys, that sit on the sidelines watching, while the bigger men punished each other in sports involving contact and blood. I had met her before in the Brits apartment but we barley spoke. She was hugged up with her girlfriend on a small love seat. On that day in Mary’s she found out the sisters girlfriend had left and was back being the tag-a-long to her insane sibling: who on this day put on her best face of sanity. She greeted me with a hug and I shook her sisters attempted manly handshake. We sat at a table and she told me to order anything I wanted. I ordered a beer and a Buffalo burger. Mary’s was famous for their burger and I had the
urge to taste one. I would probably not venture there by myself, so today was
the day. I put my leather pouch on the table containing my notebooks and
writing materials. I pulled out a yellow pad and tried to appear official. It was in full Hollywood mode, let the BS posturing start. She gave me a run down of the events and again proclaimed herself the victim. I internally chuckled; she was really never the victim. She was a walking, breathing, living human land mine and self-saboteur of everything. She was a black whirlpool with a semi acceptable accent that clung onto American words making them sound Royal. The manager came by and she introduced me. The Brit claimed to have connection up and down the gay bar scene and could get me into Mary’s as a bartender. She told me he was the driver the night of the accident that left her with the scares, which turned her into a human map with a disfigured wrist. The mini singer assured me he owed her for that night and he would hire me out of due dilligance. He was a flaccid man, barley thirty with a beard and blue baseball hat firmly a fixed on his head. The Brit gave him the run down on my situation and he played it off the best he could. With that ability he should have been nominated for a Toney. I could sense from his bated energy he was going through the motions, and there was no way I was going to be slinging drink behind the brightly lit bar with the pretty bar stools. He gently pinched my resume and went back to an office. The insane crooner stood pleasantly pleased with herself and returned to the matter at hand: her story. Everything was about her except for free food and beer she was providing in this cool, homosexual hideaway. I would weather her storm and listen to the characters portrayal of how each one of them did her wrong. How they plotted against her. How she wasted over three thousand pounds to be in a wedding she was not even included. She, she, she, me, me, me… Her voice sounded like a skipping record. The food came and I dove into the burger. The gay Bison burger was the best I had eaten. I downed my Shocktop without haste. This made it easier to absorb her major rants. After one hour we finished the conversation. I took a few notes and she did not go crazy. Beck came back and whispered something into her ears. Suddenly her eyes shot wide open as she repeated the words marry, as though struck by cupid arrow. The Brit turned back and faced me as though the arrow had struck her between in the forehead. Deep in my gut I knew this was bad. I had tried to bed the Brit several times in the past but I was recently turned off because of an event. She gave me a ring when I emailed her that my kids mom was expecting. She tried several times one night in the Irish bar on the corner, to convince me to terminate my daughter. Between rounds of Guinness Stout she said it was wrong to bring a child into the world under these conditions and that an abortion would be the saintly thing. I was no longer Catholic but the residue of my faith prohibited killing the unborn. So I had to choose between masturbation or abortion on my road to hades. I choose masturbation. There would be no baby killing on my watch. All I wanted was those bad teeth and twisted smile wrapped around my manhood for a good twenty minutes. Can’t I live! I received a tight hug and a kiss on the checks. I exited and returned back to the condo. After a few weeks the Doc and I were co existing perfectly like some weird Boosom Buddies episode or Threes Company if we had one more. Right Tripper right! I had met the Brit again and discussed her script over and over to the point of exploding temples. I started writing and emailing her the copies for revision. Every day we meet somewhere else but beyond the work she wanted to hang with me more. I could feel maybe she wanted more, but that was way more than I was willing to give. A woman should never tell a man her sexual history: abortions, diseases and beatings given and received and engaging in sex with bi sexual men. That never brings the man into a feeling of love. It cements the fact in his mind that bridge will never crossed for sanities sake alone. I can do way better! That year alone she was on her seventh termination and third STD: I had been aware of. It was easier and easier to keep it friendly. Easy to keep it non sexual. The claptrap would not snag me; I was ahead of the game because I was not willing to play. I was willing to attempt friendship but deep inside I knew this would cause complications; the clock had started on her mind. She suddenly told me her friend was renting out a room inside of her own condo. I remembered her saying something before when she first asked me to scribe the script. I knew this also would be part of the deal. I had told her about the Doc again and she laughed, “Everyone knows psychologist are crazy!’ I found that statement odd and a bit hypocritical but got the feeling maybe she had seen some in her life. I knew this fragile friendship would end soon; it was a matter of time. The thirty days passed quickly as though someone had pressed a fast-forward. Nerves were hitting me hard. The friend didn't say I could move in. It was about to be the street again. I didn’t even have the money to move out, I was still short. I was on my second interview at Jobcorp but not hired. I took long walks up and down Broadway thinking and planning yet no plans came. I was stuck again. I had been here so many times before. What was I doing wrong? What could
I do right? Help me Jehovah! I though we were friends again? During one of our afternoon writing and lunch session I had told the Brit my dilema. She had a plan to get back in the good graces of the Doc and buy me some time. We drove to a Supermarket and bought three bottles of two dollar wine. The Doc loved her wine. It was her nectar that made her forget about the prison. The Brit did come through on that occasions, but I never knew if it was for the friendship or if it was for her master plan. I delivered the White Zif with yellow flowers and a card stating hopefully we could still be friends. The Brit was right. It defused the invisible tension that hung tough in the air. It was a sweet thing the Doc did letting me stay. She was a good soul deep down inside but everyone had their limits and it seemed I had a natural ability to test everyone’s limits. I had lost the way. I had lost my purpose. Why was I hear? On the west coast barley living? I lost the roadmap. I asked the man up
stairs but he couldn’t hear. Maybe my voice was not serious enough. Maybe I was
not saying the right things. The writing niche was probably the hardest to break into yet every failed singer, actor and comedian gave writing a serious chance. Like any of the other elements of the film industry it is a skill that has been crafted over years and years of rejection and misery. Using a screenplay to break down the proverbial Hollywood door was like Don Q fighting the windmills. Fantasy. But the fantasy brought me large green teas and lunch and sometimes dinner. It also got me away from the Doc. Deep down the Doc did not like my writing, I could feel it in her voice. I had given up hitting the keys on my laptop for the scripts sake, hoping to catch a Director of Development, high on coke, high on himself. They were the self-appointed gods to the Evil Empire. © 2013 Judas HammerAuthor's Note
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Judas HammerThe City of Angeles, CAAboutI like to write, live in La and write and make short films. and more..Writing
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