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The worst thing about transatlantic flights is not the seating discomfort provided by your cheap company’s economy airfare. It is not the chatter you inevitably have to tolerate when sitting next to granny just back from her holiday in Rome. Neither is it the US customs shakedown upon return to the United States. For me, it is the jetlag that manifests itself in midday exhaustion and midnight energetic activity.
So here I am in downtown Los Angeles in a hotel overdue for a renovation, trying to sleep to prepare for the technical conference I am scheduled to attend. The beat up elevator was not a good sign as I went up to my room noticing the carpet with a high traffic area stained into it. A leaky faucet and cracked vanity with delaminating mirrors was the least of my worries as I was just so sleepy.
The blur of arrival at LAX, subsequent baggage claim and transport to my hotel resulted in my laying down as soon as I got into the room. “At least I should be able to go out for some good tacos after my nap” is what I said to myself before drifting off to sleep.
Several hours later, I am wide awake, it is the middle of the night and I have just slept since midday. The TV set is busted but I have learned that the best thing to do is get up instead of trying to fight your way back to sleep only to wake up with the alarm exhausted once again.
Hunger quickly made itself known with a demand for food from my empty stomach. Reminded of the desire for quality Mexican food, I decided that I should go for a stroll in order to find something suitable; mistake one.
Having packed lightly for the short visit, I only had a black hooded sweatshirt at my disposal for a casual walk. My khaki pants would have to suffice along with a tank top; mistake two. Without even a glance at the mirror I was out the door to stretch my legs and find something to eat. In the hurry to head out the door I forgot to put a belt on. Thus, my pants were riding a little low but it wasn’t bothersome enough to go back to the hotel for a belt.
The night streets were far from empty and quiet compared to my base in Iraq. Here the hustle and bustle was a major departure from that which I had become used to since leaving California for the service and my current occupation as a contractor. My pace was brisk; quickly bringing me across all the urban detritus that used to be so normal in the past yet seemed so foreign to me at this age. Even at this late hour, a street person with a grimy hat and dirty face was standing in the median holding a “Will work for food” sign as I crossed a boulevard. I passed him some spare change and walked on.
Without paying particular attention to where I was going, I kept walking, just following my nose. The sights became more and more familiar. So when I saw a primer grey Chevy Impala cruising down the road hitting potholes, making sparks fly from the rear bumper and curb feelers I knew I was getting close to finding something nice to eat.
Sticking to the main avenue, I came across a few closed Salvadorian restaurants with colorful hand painted lettering and gated corner stores. There was a red neon “Bar” sign up the block. Someone inside would surely know where to find something good to eat nearby. Walking in, I headed straight for the bartender and asked over the clatter, “Hey man, do you know where I could get some decent tacos around here?”
He replied, “I don’t know about that home’z but why don’t you stick around for a drink?”
“I’m really hungry though.”
He responded, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you bro, have a Michelob. First one’s on the house.” At that point he smiled and slid me a cold longneck and a bowl of beer nuts.
I sat down to drink the beer and munch on the salty snacks without looking around too much other than to notice the working class guys relaxing and playing pool. There were lots of shaven heads, lots of tank tops and lots of tattoos but no cigarette smoke since California outlawed that long ago. The first beer went down very quickly so I ordered another from the bartender at the other end of the bar. One guy seated at that end of the bar was looking in my direction with a peculiar stare. I looked away and chalked it up to being that serious look we are supposed to carry when growing up in the California barrio, but something was different about it. I just couldn’t place it at the moment.
The beer was taking longer than expected, I looked back over to see what was happening and the same guy was smiling at me. His teeth were glowing in a psychedelic way from the black light suspended above him. At that instant, I thought he was a drug dealer. Nodding, I turned and focused on the shelves behind the bar that had a mirrored background.
Perusing the selection of hard liquor, I found an empty space in the shelf where the mirror was unobstructed. In the mirror, to my surprise, were two “cholos” standing very close to each other under the red light bulbs seemingly coaching one another on how to shoot pool. The stance was somewhat like a boyfriend teaching his girlfriend how to shoot by leaning over-her-back. Then it hit me, oh snap I’m in a cholo gay bar. I tried to conceal the look of disgust from my face as I realized what kind of establishment this was.
A bottle sliding across the table refocused me from that thought and I decided to knock it back in order to leave soon. The bartender and other client sitting at the bar noticed my hurried consumption of the beer and nervous spinning of the bowl of snacks. I got up to pay the tab and managed to pull out my wallet before the guy staring at me walked up to me.
He said, “Leaving so fast darling?” as he looked me up and down like a piece of meat.
“Check please!” is what I nearly shouted at the bartender who seemed to giggle through his scraggly beard at my discomfort exposing his metal rimmed front teeth.
The bartender wasn’t coming over so I decided to place the money on the bar before turning to leave. I felt a hand tighten around my arm and heard “Why don’t you stay awhile ese? You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I gotta get some tacos man! See ya!” is all I could think to say.
He didn’t let go of my arm as I tried to walk off. This was getting serious, and could get really ugly. His right hand came up as he said “Nice sweatshirt, I like it. What’s underneath?”
Before I knew what happened he grabbed my sweatshirt collar as I swung with my left and struck his slack jaw. I was lucky to knock him down on the first blow. He went down, nearly taking me with him, but I managed to slip out of the hold losing my sweatshirt in the commotion. Bottles started to fly in my direction crashing and shattering as I ran out the door. I managed to look in the mirror only to see low slung khakis with the waistline of my boxers exposed and a “wife beater” to go with my tattoos and shaven head. “I’m so screwed looking like this” is what I thought out loud.
Keeping to the side streets to avoid attention, I thought I was home free. Unfortunately, I found myself in the heart of MS13 territory unrealistically hoping that there would be no more run-ins. The idea was to get back to the hotel as soon as possible and forget about getting something to eat. Walking in the blighted neighborhood, I remembered growing up in similar conditions; graffiti, beat up cars, and barking dogs lined the streets.
Nearly home free, I turned the corner only to see a few LAPD units pulled up to a house with a bunch of cholos sprawled out on the front lawn. The cops were working over the guys trying to find contraband. They were called out on a noise complaint because there was a fight at a party in the house. I had just walked across the street and was just past the scene when another squad car skidded to a stop and lit me up with the spotlight.
“What are you doing here?” asked the cop.
“I’m walking back to my hotel” was my reply while being blinded.
He stepped out of the car “Show me some ID” he demanded.
“I’m just walking back to my hotel officer, what’s the problem?” is what I asked.
“Hey, I ask the questions you zero head! Got me?!” he fired back. “Where is your hotel?”
“At the convention center, I’m here for a conference.”
“Likely story, the only cholos at the convention center are there to sell drugs” was his incredulous reply as he laughed. “Now let’s see that ID!”
I reached back for my wallet but it was not there. The panic registered in my facial expression and the cop noticed it. My wallet must still be at the “Bar”, what a dilemma.
“Officer, I lost my wallet earlier and just now realized it.”
“Sure homie that must be want happened” He said as he reached for his sidearm “Now turn around, put your hands on your head and interlace your fingers.”
I paused at the order and he screamed “Do it now, we can do this easy or hard. You choose.”
The first thought was to run but I resisted the impulse and ended up in the back of the squad car. Once in the back I identified myself to the cop and he ran my record. It came back clean so he asked me what happened to my wallet.
I reluctantly told him the entire story about coming home for a conference from Iraq, about the jetlag, craving tacos, and nearly getting rolled by some fruitcakes at the cholo gay bar.
He laughed hysterically then had me tell the story to the other officers at the scene so they too could laugh and point at me. Even some of the cholos on the lawn heard me tell the story only to laugh and say “Everybody around here calls that the fairy bar ese”.
I got a ride to retrieve my wallet and was dropped off at the hotel. The cop said “Night-night Tinkerbelle puto” before laughing some more and turning on the red and blues to speed away.
Bastid, that was some night don’t you think?
So here I am in downtown Los Angeles in a hotel overdue for a renovation, trying to sleep to prepare for the technical conference I am scheduled to attend. The beat up elevator was not a good sign as I went up to my room noticing the carpet with a high traffic area stained into it. A leaky faucet and cracked vanity with delaminating mirrors was the least of my worries as I was just so sleepy.
The blur of arrival at LAX, subsequent baggage claim and transport to my hotel resulted in my laying down as soon as I got into the room. “At least I should be able to go out for some good tacos after my nap” is what I said to myself before drifting off to sleep.
Several hours later, I am wide awake, it is the middle of the night and I have just slept since midday. The TV set is busted but I have learned that the best thing to do is get up instead of trying to fight your way back to sleep only to wake up with the alarm exhausted once again.
Hunger quickly made itself known with a demand for food from my empty stomach. Reminded of the desire for quality Mexican food, I decided that I should go for a stroll in order to find something suitable; mistake one.
Having packed lightly for the short visit, I only had a black hooded sweatshirt at my disposal for a casual walk. My khaki pants would have to suffice along with a tank top; mistake two. Without even a glance at the mirror I was out the door to stretch my legs and find something to eat. In the hurry to head out the door I forgot to put a belt on. Thus, my pants were riding a little low but it wasn’t bothersome enough to go back to the hotel for a belt.
The night streets were far from empty and quiet compared to my base in Iraq. Here the hustle and bustle was a major departure from that which I had become used to since leaving California for the service and my current occupation as a contractor. My pace was brisk; quickly bringing me across all the urban detritus that used to be so normal in the past yet seemed so foreign to me at this age. Even at this late hour, a street person with a grimy hat and dirty face was standing in the median holding a “Will work for food” sign as I crossed a boulevard. I passed him some spare change and walked on.
Without paying particular attention to where I was going, I kept walking, just following my nose. The sights became more and more familiar. So when I saw a primer grey Chevy Impala cruising down the road hitting potholes, making sparks fly from the rear bumper and curb feelers I knew I was getting close to finding something nice to eat.
Sticking to the main avenue, I came across a few closed Salvadorian restaurants with colorful hand painted lettering and gated corner stores. There was a red neon “Bar” sign up the block. Someone inside would surely know where to find something good to eat nearby. Walking in, I headed straight for the bartender and asked over the clatter, “Hey man, do you know where I could get some decent tacos around here?”
He replied, “I don’t know about that home’z but why don’t you stick around for a drink?”
“I’m really hungry though.”
He responded, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you bro, have a Michelob. First one’s on the house.” At that point he smiled and slid me a cold longneck and a bowl of beer nuts.
I sat down to drink the beer and munch on the salty snacks without looking around too much other than to notice the working class guys relaxing and playing pool. There were lots of shaven heads, lots of tank tops and lots of tattoos but no cigarette smoke since California outlawed that long ago. The first beer went down very quickly so I ordered another from the bartender at the other end of the bar. One guy seated at that end of the bar was looking in my direction with a peculiar stare. I looked away and chalked it up to being that serious look we are supposed to carry when growing up in the California barrio, but something was different about it. I just couldn’t place it at the moment.
The beer was taking longer than expected, I looked back over to see what was happening and the same guy was smiling at me. His teeth were glowing in a psychedelic way from the black light suspended above him. At that instant, I thought he was a drug dealer. Nodding, I turned and focused on the shelves behind the bar that had a mirrored background.
Perusing the selection of hard liquor, I found an empty space in the shelf where the mirror was unobstructed. In the mirror, to my surprise, were two “cholos” standing very close to each other under the red light bulbs seemingly coaching one another on how to shoot pool. The stance was somewhat like a boyfriend teaching his girlfriend how to shoot by leaning over-her-back. Then it hit me, oh snap I’m in a cholo gay bar. I tried to conceal the look of disgust from my face as I realized what kind of establishment this was.
A bottle sliding across the table refocused me from that thought and I decided to knock it back in order to leave soon. The bartender and other client sitting at the bar noticed my hurried consumption of the beer and nervous spinning of the bowl of snacks. I got up to pay the tab and managed to pull out my wallet before the guy staring at me walked up to me.
He said, “Leaving so fast darling?” as he looked me up and down like a piece of meat.
“Check please!” is what I nearly shouted at the bartender who seemed to giggle through his scraggly beard at my discomfort exposing his metal rimmed front teeth.
The bartender wasn’t coming over so I decided to place the money on the bar before turning to leave. I felt a hand tighten around my arm and heard “Why don’t you stay awhile ese? You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I gotta get some tacos man! See ya!” is all I could think to say.
He didn’t let go of my arm as I tried to walk off. This was getting serious, and could get really ugly. His right hand came up as he said “Nice sweatshirt, I like it. What’s underneath?”
Before I knew what happened he grabbed my sweatshirt collar as I swung with my left and struck his slack jaw. I was lucky to knock him down on the first blow. He went down, nearly taking me with him, but I managed to slip out of the hold losing my sweatshirt in the commotion. Bottles started to fly in my direction crashing and shattering as I ran out the door. I managed to look in the mirror only to see low slung khakis with the waistline of my boxers exposed and a “wife beater” to go with my tattoos and shaven head. “I’m so screwed looking like this” is what I thought out loud.
Keeping to the side streets to avoid attention, I thought I was home free. Unfortunately, I found myself in the heart of MS13 territory unrealistically hoping that there would be no more run-ins. The idea was to get back to the hotel as soon as possible and forget about getting something to eat. Walking in the blighted neighborhood, I remembered growing up in similar conditions; graffiti, beat up cars, and barking dogs lined the streets.
Nearly home free, I turned the corner only to see a few LAPD units pulled up to a house with a bunch of cholos sprawled out on the front lawn. The cops were working over the guys trying to find contraband. They were called out on a noise complaint because there was a fight at a party in the house. I had just walked across the street and was just past the scene when another squad car skidded to a stop and lit me up with the spotlight.
“What are you doing here?” asked the cop.
“I’m walking back to my hotel” was my reply while being blinded.
He stepped out of the car “Show me some ID” he demanded.
“I’m just walking back to my hotel officer, what’s the problem?” is what I asked.
“Hey, I ask the questions you zero head! Got me?!” he fired back. “Where is your hotel?”
“At the convention center, I’m here for a conference.”
“Likely story, the only cholos at the convention center are there to sell drugs” was his incredulous reply as he laughed. “Now let’s see that ID!”
I reached back for my wallet but it was not there. The panic registered in my facial expression and the cop noticed it. My wallet must still be at the “Bar”, what a dilemma.
“Officer, I lost my wallet earlier and just now realized it.”
“Sure homie that must be want happened” He said as he reached for his sidearm “Now turn around, put your hands on your head and interlace your fingers.”
I paused at the order and he screamed “Do it now, we can do this easy or hard. You choose.”
The first thought was to run but I resisted the impulse and ended up in the back of the squad car. Once in the back I identified myself to the cop and he ran my record. It came back clean so he asked me what happened to my wallet.
I reluctantly told him the entire story about coming home for a conference from Iraq, about the jetlag, craving tacos, and nearly getting rolled by some fruitcakes at the cholo gay bar.
He laughed hysterically then had me tell the story to the other officers at the scene so they too could laugh and point at me. Even some of the cholos on the lawn heard me tell the story only to laugh and say “Everybody around here calls that the fairy bar ese”.
I got a ride to retrieve my wallet and was dropped off at the hotel. The cop said “Night-night Tinkerbelle puto” before laughing some more and turning on the red and blues to speed away.
Bastid, that was some night don’t you think?
Last edited:
lease:
ain't had one of those in too long. Needed it
