Immoral Hollywood Faith

[The actions described, and words spoken by real-life celebrities within the work of fiction below are that of the author's imagination, and nothing else. The author has never met, nor has been in communication with any of the celebrities mentioned -- nor is it likely he will ever have such a pleasure. If any of the celebrities have the desire to sue the author, he would like to refer their lawyers to the 1988 Supreme Court Decision of Hustler Magazine V. Falwell. This disclaimer is a joke as well as it is a serious matter.]            




       "Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty."
                                                                               - Stephen King



Behind every great beautiful city there is a heap of trash a mile high in plain site, and if one cares enough to ignore their own naivety, they'll not only notice it in an instant, they'll become nauseated by the smell, and might even barf on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Brendan Milton had already known this about Hollywood and the greater Los Angeles county before moving from the San Francisco Bay Area four years earlier, but even Brendan had to admit, there was plenty more trash people pretended didn't exist in the city where he grew up. Of course life is never perfect, and not every city in the world is ever truly clean. So four years ago, Brendan decided, to hell with inhibitions and hesitation, go forth down south to Hollywood and try to make it into the entertainment business, no matter how small a success the result may be -- becoming an extra; pushing pencils for a millionaire asshole; gaffer work; or whatever minuscule -- it's better than failure, and enough to enjoy the smell of the immense heap of trash in the city.
     After four long years of labor, paying soul-sucking expensive rent, sitting his chunky ass in a chair outside audition rooms, Brendan finally got a role in a film. Not only did it involve him having to actually say dialogue, but it was going to get his name in the opening fucking credits. That, and enough money to pay rent for maybe half a year, hopefully giving him enough time to audition for a role in another movie, possibly with a big studio. Hopefully a part in one of those shitty comic book films. Now, that's the ticket.
     Brendan had called a friend he'd known since high school, Gabe Garcia, to inform him of this recent success. Gabe had already been living in Hollywood for six years, earning five acting credits, all big studio films. One was actually a part in Spielberg's recent big flop, but Gabe was still climbing the latter to the peaks of notoriety, and attaining a million followers on his Twitter and Instagram. Brendan always knew Gabe would achieve success in acting, as well as developing a small following in standup comedy around the clubs on the Sunset Strip. In high school, their fellow students would always find his jokes fucking hilarious. Once there was an incident when some jock asshole bully attempted to pick on Gabe due to his small stature, but to the meathead's failure, he was overtaken by Gabe's charm and humor.
     "You ain't fuckin' kidding with me, are you, Brendan?" Gabe had asked over the phone.
     "No, joker, I actually got the part," Brendan affirmed, grinning. "I start next week."
     "About fucking time, man," Gabe cheered. "I knew you'd get somewhere. I told you you'd make it. You're good, man. Haven't I always told you that?"
     "Yes, you have." Brendan chuckled. "Every time I felt like moving back home, you said: 'There's no reason for anyone to quit. Whether it's a commercial, or ending up as an extra in a porno, work is work.' Blah, blah, blah."
     "There ain't nothing 'blah, blah,' about it, Brendan. I knew you had talent. You're like a fart in the wind whisking up the nose of the one who farted. No, you're the cocaine dealer a mormon falls in love with. And the fucking Mickey Mouse buying an entire religion."
     "I just want to thank you for all the encouragement. I'll have to admit, if you weren't around, I would be back at the bay, shilling out weed at the dispensary in Berkeley to a bunch of those hippy fools."
     "You're welcome, dude. I just wish-" Gabe was silent for a moment. When he continued to speak, he sounded as if he were about to cry. "I just wish I could've had it happen to you sooner, like get you a part in that Spielberg film. I really think I could have done it, man, but I was too much of a pussy to ask at the time."
     "Don't beat yourself up about such bullshit, Gabe. In this town we're all on our own in the end. And, honestly, it feels better it happened this way."
     "Cool, man. You know, we got to celebrate. Drinks on me, Brendan."
     "Sure. Is tomorrow good for you?"
     "No, you fucker," Gabe blurted. "Tonight, brother. We're gonna get wasted to-fucking-night."
     Brendan looked at the clock on the microwave in his kitchen. He said, "Dude, ain't it kind of late for us to go out? It's like half past eight."
     "That means the night is younger than a preschooler's first day learning what colors are. Get yourself dressed. Don't worry about looking all fancy. Meet me at Wayland's Bar, near Franklin Avenue and Vista Del Mar."
     And before Brendan could get in another word, Gabe hung up.
     He then went into his room to change, and decided to wear his usual attire: a band t-shirt (one with a picture of The Doors), and blue jeans. If Gabe had told him they were going to a nightclub like The Quill, he would have dressed in the all black suit his father had bought him as a going-away present before he moved out of the Bay Area to La La Land. Brendan's father had been proud his son had finally decided to take a chance by moving to Hollywood, even if he did come back home in failure.
     Do as I wished I did, my boy, his father had told him. Just don't get too crazy with the booze like your mother. You seriously don't want to end up like her, because in success, or failure, addiction will kill just the same.
     In the four years since Brendan had been living in Hollywood he had a pretty good hold on avoiding the possibility of becoming an addict. He had done most of the drugs and booze drinking in the Bay Area in his 20's anyway, and succeeded in avoiding a lifetime of being possessed by it. And yes, he had his fair share of binge drinking nights at a handful of parties with Gabe and coworkers from his various day jobs, but as of yet, nothing was consistent enough to develop into a daily habit. And if his acting continued after this upcoming role, his fingers were still crossed on avoiding fame resulting in becoming an addict. But of course, he had to admit, there was a benefit to being a drug addict and a quasi-celebrity in the Hollywood cesspool, there was always the reality show Celebrity Rehab.
     Brendan didn't own a car, so he took the bus to meet up with Gabe at Wayland's Bar. He made it to where Gabe said to meet him, but after a few minutes of walking up and down the sidewalk looking for the bar, he couldn't find the damn place. He then called Gabe's cellphone.
     "Hey, man," Gabe answered on the other line. "Did you decide not to go out tonight, man? Where you at? A shot and a beer are waiting for you right in front of me."
     "Dude, I can't find the place," Brendan informed. "I'm where you told me where it is, but I don't see it."
     "Shit, I'm sorry," Gabe sighed. "Should have given you better instructions. Go up Vista Del Mar from Franklin Avenue, then turn left onto Dix Street. There's an alley, turn right, and, boom, you're where I'm at. I'm sitting in a booth. It's a small, and quite quaint."
     "Did you just say, 'Dicks Street'?" Brendan asked. "You ain't tricking me into a gay bar, are you?"
     "No, you idiot. D-I-X. Dix Street, not 'dicks' as in penis."
     Brendan entered Wayland's Bar which was nearly empty. Two old men with long, gray hair sat sharing a pitcher of beer as they watched highlights of a baseball game on a flatscreen television above the bar. Four other people were playing a game of pool on the opposite side of where the booths were located. Brendan found Gabe sitting alone in one of the booths, gesturing for him to hurry up and sit with him. Brendan walked over to him and slid into the booth. On the table between them were two double-shots of whiskey, two full glasses of an IPA beer, and one empty beer glass.
     "I had a beer while I was waiting for you," Gabe said. "What took you so long?"
     "Took the bus," Brendan said. "And it took me a minute to find this whole-in-a-wall."
     "Don't talk shit, man. This place is a hidden gem, nice and relaxing. I mean, look around, Brendan, smooth and classy looking, and let me tell you, the bathroom is clean, not one old shit-stain in the bathroom stall, or one phone number written on the wall. Some nights Wayland's does get a nice, profitable crowd. You hear that on the jukebox?"
     "Yeah, Elvis," Brendan said.
     "Classy classics, my man," Gabe said. He took hold of one of the double-shots, holding it up over the middle of the table. "A toast, my best friend."
     Brendan picked up the other double-shot of whiskey, touched the glass against Gabe's.
     "To your recent success," Gabe said. "I'm proud of your persistence and patience. It has paid off, and you will keep on climbing to the heights of fame."
     "Thank you, Gabe, for your persistent encouragement." Brendan then sighed and looked down at the table, almost in grief. He then said, "I just wish Lisa were alive to know about this. She was the real reason I even tried."
     Gabe reached across the table to touch Brendan's hand.
     "She would have been proud, man," Gabe said. "Let the past be past, but cherish the best memories, and never forget the best people in our lives." He lifted his hand off Brendan's.
     "Cheers, my friend," Brendan said.
     They downed the double-shots. Gabe swallowed with satisfied ease while Brendan's face contorted as the burn went down his throat.
     "The fuck, man," Brendan said. "Is that fucking Wild Turkey?"
     "Uh, yeah," Gabe confirmed. "That's our party whiskey."
     "Look, I don't want to go too far with the drinking tonight," Brendan said, waving his hands before his face.
     "Why not? We're celebrating, aren't we?" Gabe picked up his beer and started swigging a few gulps.
     "I know, I know," Brendan said. "But you know me and my past. And all that shit with my mom."
     Gabe looked right at him, leaning forward in his seat a little. He said, "Dude, you're thirty-three years old, if you were going to become an alcoholic, or junkie, you'd be one by now. You have the best self-control of all the people I know in this town, and I'm talking about the big-time people. You know how many big celebrities I know have a cocaine addiction? You wouldn't believe who, man. And don't get me started on the crackheads. One of them preaches on television about how much they lead a clean life due to their belief in The Lord Jesus, all the while they get supplied crack to smoke in their fucking trailers onset."
     "Damn," Brendan uttered. "You think I'll find out firsthand who's a junkie?"
     "Depends on how big a production your next acting gig is, so just enjoy yourself, and drink your fucking beer, man. I bought it."
     "Tell me about one of them," Brendan said.
     "No."
     "Come on, man."
     "Someone might overhear." Gabe gestured to the other people in the bar.
     "If these regular people hear you, and they tell others, then it'll just be considered rumor and tabloid gossip," Brendan said. "They're just regular people as far as I can tell."
     Gabe looked around at the other patrons, and said, "Yeah, you maybe are right, but you never know who's working for TMZ. One of the pool players could be an intern, eagerly waiting for a scoop to get him on the payroll."
     "Shit, I guess you're right." Brendan finally took a sip of his beer.
     "Plus, even in a place like this there are ears listening. Ears belonging to those who don't trust you yet, Brendan."
     "What the fuck are you talking about? Who's ears?" Brendan chuckled. "Are you like a Scientologist, or something? You speaking of the illuminati?"
     "No, man, I don't believe in that stuff," Gabe said. "I'm talking about a brotherhood of actors. If you earn their trust, you'll be privileged with certain information, and things you'd otherwise never have access too."
     "Funny, Gabe," Brendan said. "Nice joke."
     "I'm serious," Gabe said, looking Brendan straight in the eyes, his jovial attitude gone. "And one of the things which has been most beneficial to me is the fact that upon earning the trust of the Brotherhood of Actors, I was guaranteed another role in a movie, then another, then another, and now I'm in a fucking Spielberg film. And my agent called me this morning, and informed me I got top-billing in the next big Will Ferrel production."
     Brendan raised an eyebrow, waved his index finger, and said, "You're fucking with me, bro. Sounds too strange to be true. Sounds like a freaky cult where I got to dance naked in front of rich wrinkled men, or something."
     "I'm as serious about this Brotherhood as a suicide, Brendan," Gabe said, his facial expression blank. "And to become a part of it has nothing to do with what you just said. There's nothing you have to do naked, or whatever. All you have to do to become a member is as simple and easy as if never admitting to someone how many times you masturbate."
     "Okay, fine, I'll play along, Gabe. What is it I have to do to be a member of this 'Brotherhood?'"
     "You just have to keep a secret, Brendan. That is all."
     "What kind of secret, Gabriel?"
     "Something you lock away in a safe in your home."
     "I don't own a safe."
     "Then buy one tomorrow, because you're getting that secret tonight."
     "What secret?" Brendan shook his head. "You're getting strange, man. This town has gotten to you."
     "Kristen Stewart's sex tape," Gabe said, smiling.
     The mere mention of the name flushed away the disbelief Brendan had in his expression to that of a child seeing an amazing magic trick for the first time. His jaw dropped, and if it fell off, it would have broken the wood table.
     "Huh," Brendan uttered, unable to say anything else.
     "Kristen Stewart," Gabe repeated. "The one who is directing and acting in the film you're going to act in. And not only is she your biggest celebrity crush, you're going to be doing a scene with her, talking with her, looking into those beautiful eyes. You are lucky to work with someone you actually like. The people I worked with in my first role were a bunch of assholes."
     Brendan shook his head, finally coming out of his daze.
     He said, "Wait, I never told you about the film I was gonna act in. How the fuck do you know it's a Kristen Stewart film?"
     "I told you, I'm in the Brotherhood of Actors, so I'm privileged to learn information about what's going on in Hollywood days or even weeks before they're released to the general public. I only asked a fellow brother about you, because you're my friend. I've never done such a thing since being in the Brotherhood."
     "Stop saying 'Brotherhood.' You sound like a villain in a comic book movie."
     "Fine," Gabe said, giggling. "So you interested or not?"
     "It's all too weird for me to be interested."
     "Let me ask you something. How excited were you when you met Kristen?"
     "I didn't meet her," Brendan corrected. "I only met the casting director and a producer when I auditioned. I was only given pages of the script without knowing who wrote it. I didn't find out it was Kristen Stewart's project until I got the callback telling me I got the part."
     "Okay then. How excited were you when you found out you were going to work with-"
     "Very, very fucking excited," Brendan finished for Gabe.
     "Remember the first time we saw Panic Room when we were kids?" Gabe asked, his jovial attitude in top gear once again.
     "Yes," Brendan said, then began drinking his beer with greater haste.
     "And you told me, before we even left the theater, that the girl who played the diabetic daughter was going to be a huge star. And I was like, 'The girl who looks like a boy?' Then your face got all red and shit, and you got all defensive, saying, 'Just because a girl got short hair don't mean she looks like a fucking boy. It simply means I can see her beautiful face, and if I'm lucky enough to kiss her, I don't have to take the time to brush away the damn hair covering half her face, I can just go in and plant one-'"
     "I remember," Brendan interrupted.
     "Okay, alright," Gabe said. "I want to ask you another question. You think you'll have a chance with K-Stew? Any chance? Dinner and a movie, at least?"
     "No," Brendan admitted. "Not a chance."
     "Why do you think so little of yourself? It could happen, you know. Maybe her heart stopped when she saw your audition video, and thought to herself, 'I want to work with him. NO! I NEED to work with him. I want to be in his presence. I'm swooning. What has come over me?'"
     Brendan couldn't help but start laughing. Gabe joined in. The laughter lasted for a good minute.
     When Brendan recovered his senses, he said, "There's no fucking way she'd have an inkling of interest in me. There may develop a friendship, that is all. She has a girlfriend anyway."
     "She's just in-between men right now," Gabe said. "She truly was in love with what's-his-name, that pussy vampire."
     Brendan got visibly angry. His hand formed into a fist, the whites of his knuckles to Gabe were as clear and visible as a full moon on a cloudless night.
     "Don't you ever mention that limey pansy," Brendan said, his eyes widening. "Ever, ever again. I don't know what she ever saw in him. Pasty toothpick fuck."
     "Okay, I won't mention Jacob," Gabe said. "Or was it Edward."
     "Who fucking cares," Brendan blurted.
     "Okay. So you really think you don't have a chance with her?"
     "Gabe, I'm a gentleman, and I want to be professional."
     "So, career first?" Gabe asked.
     "Yes."
     "Then you'll have to be in possession of K-Stew's sex tape if you want to retire in Hollywood with a big bank account."
     "She doesn't have a damn sex tape. It would have been on the internet by now. Believe me, I've looked."
     "It's not on the internet, because it's a secret within the Brotherhood," Gabe said. "And if it's within the Brotherhood, there's only one copy. If it gets on the internet, you'll be at fault, and the only good job you'd be able to get in this town, or anywhere else is as an extra on a big budget porno."
     "So what if I don't want to 'possess,' as you say, this supposed Kristen Stewart sex tape?" Brendan asked.
     "I know you don't need to believe me, Brendan, but the possibility of you getting another credited gig after this little movie you're about to do is slim to none. You'll end up needing the Hollywood faith, my good friend, and Hollywood God is only as real as a nod from a moneyfucker in a suit. So are you willing to perform a simple ritual tonight in order to guarantee a Hollywood career, brother?"
     Brendan finished his beer, and as he was tasting the last gulp, he stared his best friend right in the eyes. In the seventeen years since they first met in English class, neither of them had ever told a lie to each other.
     "Fine, okay," Brendan finally answered. "What do I have to do in this initiation to this...Brotherhood?"
     "As of this moment, to move forward," Gabe began to say, reaching the inside of his leather jacket pocket, "all we need is this." He took out a small stack of yellow post-its and a green ballpoint pen. "Then I've got to make a phone call."
     "Who are you calling?" Brendan asked.
     "I don't know. It's a phone number I was told not to save on my phone, or write down on anything, not even on the back of my hand, just memorize, and only call once."
     Gabe took out his cellphone, and for a moment he stared into space just over Brendan's head, his lips moving, silently mouthing the numbers.
     "Well, you gonna call, or not?" Brendan asked.
     "Just making sure I got it right."
     "How would you know? You didn't write it down."
     "I memorized it the same way I memorize my lines, cause I'm an actor, motherfucker."
     Gabe finally entered the number into his phone. He hit send and then held it up to his ear.
     "Want another beer?" he asked Brendan. "I may have to wait up to ten, maybe twenty minutes."
     "Shit," Brendan uttered. "I'll go to the bar and get one. How about you?"
     "No, I may have to drive you."
     As Brendan stood up to make his way to the bar he heard Gabe saying into the phone, "Yep, yep, four-nineteen-five, calling in to acquire first location for initiate Brendan Milton. I'll stand by for as long as needed for instructions."
      What the fuck did I get myself into? Brendan thought to himself. He then said aloud, "This has got to be a joke." He turned a little to see Gabe sitting silently on the phone at the booth by himself, and he felt more at ease at the thought of how far his best friend had come over the years since their high school days. The little guy couldn't get a girl if his life depended on it in that shitty school full of uppity shithead chicas, but these days of living a Hollywood success, Gabe was the kind of man where confidence and courage leads to success way before Queens come begging for his attention.
     "What'll you have, man?" asked the bartender as Brendan came up to the bar.
     "Give me a Racer Five, and another shot of Wild Turkey." Brendan took out a twenty dollar bill from his wallet.
     "Your friend want another drink?" the bartender asked as he filled a glass with Racer Five.
     "He said he didn't want another one for now," Brendan informed.
     And as the bartender poured a shot of Wild Turkey, he said, "Looks like you guys were celebrating over there. What's the occasion?"
     "Um, well, I got my first role in a movie."
     The bartender laughed as he took the twenty dollar bill from Brendan.
     He then said, "You know how many times a year I hear that in this place?"
     Brendan shook his head.
     The bartender raised his hand up and formed a circle with his thumb and fingers, saying, "Absolutely zero. Seriously, man, you should be at the club picking up chics. What are you doing here?"
     "I'm not really into that scene," Brendan admitted. "Plus, I'm getting too old to party with the twenty-somethings."
     "Whatever makes your boots fit, man," the bartender said, chuckling. "It's fourteen, I'll come back with your change."
     "Nah, it's cool, keep the rest."
     "Thank you so much, De Niro."
     Brendan arrived back at the booth.
     Gabe was talking on the phone, saying, "Alright... okay... I can find the place, especially with public transport as instructed. Thanks, ma'am." There was a short pause. "Yes, of course, ma'am. The number's already blocked and forgotten." He then hung up.
     "Guess I can have another drink now," Gabe said. He noticed the fresh beer and shot on the table. "I'll be back." He got up to head over to the bar.
     "So that means you aren't driving the rest of the night?" Brendan asked.
     "Yep. My car's parked in a good spot. No cop's gonna give me a ticket. When we leave we gotta take the bus."
     "To where?"
     "Look, you can't know until you get there, okay. But you can look at that." Gabe pointed down at the table.
     Brendan looked down to see something written down on the post-it. He looked up to ask Gabe something, but he was already at the bar ordering a shot and a beer for himself. The bartender fist bumped Gabe before taking his order. Brendan reached over and slid the stack of post-its closer to him. Gabe had drawn an image of a four-leaf clover and wrote Clover...field below it.
     Good and drunk, Gabe and Brendan were riding on the city bus. There were around six other passengers.
     "We should go back to Wayland's Bar every time you or I get a part in a movie," Brendan suggested.
     "Why? As you said it's a 'hole in the wall,' man," Gabe said.
     "Let's make it like Vinnie's Bar and Grill back home. Our place to go to get fucked up at, just you and I, cause fuck those big clubs, man, full of fake assholes anyway."
     "I guess you're right, Brendan. If we get into celebrity status, and people get wind of that place being our hangout spot, it could get a lot more business. A line will form on Dix Street all the way to Franklin Avenue."
     "They'll have to rename Wayland's to the 'Dix Line' or something."
     Brendan and Gabe started to laugh uncontrollably.
     "The owner'll be fucking pissed if he had to do that," Gabe managed to say.
     About a half-hour later Gabe told Brendan it was there stop and they stepped out.
     "Where to now, brother?" Brendan inquired.
     Gabe pointed down the sidewalk, and said, "Just down a few yards, and we'll be there."
     They walked until they came to Noah's World of Adult Entertainment.
     "I knew you were fucking with me, man, " Brendan said, slapping a hand on his forehead. "We're just here to get some random porn movie, aren't we?"
     "No, man, this is just step one," Gabe informed. "Just follow me, and don't say a word."
     They entered the store. It only had a handful of customers, both young and old horny straight men browsing through movies and sex toys. Brendan didn't dare look around, he simply followed Gabe making a beeline for the cashier counter.
     The clerk, a man in his early fifties with a gray beard, sat on a stool reading Stephen King's IT.
     "Can I help you find something?" the clerk asked without looking up from the novel.
     Gabe took out the post-it Brendan had seen at the bar, held it up toward the clerk, and flicked it with his middle-finger to make a tapping sound.
     "Clover...field," Gabe said.
     The clerk jerked up his gaze from the book to look at Gabe.
     "Of course," the clerk said, closing the book and getting off the stool. He then looked around, calling out, "Trevor."
     "Yeah," someone said from the other side of the store.
     "Man the counter while I help a customer with their mail-order." He then gestured at Gabe and Brendan. "Please follow me, gentlemen, to that door down there."
     Gabe and Brendan made their way around the counter and stopped behind the clerk as he took out a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked a door labeled Owner's Office: stay the fuck out, opened it, and gestured for Gabe and Brendan to enter. The office was in complete darkness when the clerk closed the door behind them.
     "Secrets are kept in the dark in every place where people live," the clerk said. "There's just more of them in La La Land." A switch was flipped and lights turned on.
     In the center of the room was an office desk with the usual business papers laying atop of it. Behind the desk, against the wall from one side of the room to the other, were filing cabinets labeled with numbers which looked to Brendan like dates. The clerk went up to Gabe and Brendan, and shook their hands.
     "The name's Noah," he greeted. "The owner of this fine establishment."
     "Yeah, of course, the name on the sign outside," Gabe said.
     "Yes, that's me."
     "Do you ever get any complaints from the religious people about that name being on the sign for this kind of business?" Gabe asked, genuinely curious.
     "My number one customer base on the weekdays are frustrated religious people of all faiths, both men and women," Noah stated. "They're basically sixty percent of my business. Hell, maybe more. Weekends are usually slow when all I get are virgin nerds who can't afford the internet."
     "Makes perfect sense," Brendan said.
     Gabe lightly slapped Brendan's arm with the back of his hand.
     He said, "Dude, what did I say about not saying a word?"
     Noah put his hand up, and said, "No, that's fine, four-nineteen-five. He's right. He'd be a fine porn pusher if he so desired. Okay, now, moving on to official initiation business."
     Noah walked around his desk to where the filing cabinets were.
     "When is the initiate's birthday?" Noah asked, facing the cabinets.
     "June twenty, nineteen-eighty-three," Gabe answered.
     "Okay, six-twenty," Noah repeated, browsing the filing cabinets. "Here we go." He slid open the cabinet he was looking for, fingered through a full stack of files, and took hold of a file he picked. Before taking it all the way out of the stack, he turned his head to look at Brendan, and said, "This is the funnest part about working with the Brotherhood of Actors."
     The man then took out the file, and dropped it on his desk.
     "Now, the way the second step is done," Noah began to say, "is that we match the month and day of your birthday with a currently living fellow member who happens to be free this evening. And I know he ain't out of town working on a movie, cause his ass is a little lazy, preferring to do voice acting in cartoons. To each is own." Noah looked over at Gabe. "Four-nineteen-five, what's his name?"
     "Brendan Milton," Gabe replied.
     "Okay, from now on, with devout discretion, Brendan Milton, your are now known as six-twenty-six," Noah said. "That is six-slash-twenty-slash-six. The month, the day, and the number of years difference in age to your counterpart actor brother. Do you understand? Nod 'yes' if you understand."
     Brendan nodded. He thought to himself how this was one crazy, different rabbit hole he found himself spiraling downward in. He had heard and read about some crazy rituals when it came to college fraternities and organizations like the Freemasons, but this trip was another ballpark in the middle of the desert hardly any explorer could find on their own. There was no working compass in this landscape.
     Noah opened the file he had put on the desk, and took out his cellphone from his pocket.
     He said, "This guy has like seven numbers listed. This may take a while if he's having a party at his house. Please, be patient." He dialed the first phone number and waited.
     Brendan turned around, nudging Gabe to do the same.
     "Gabe, this is weird as fuck," Brendan whispered.
     "Don't say my name," Gabe whispered back. "Call me by my actor counterpart."
     "What? Oh, uh, I forgot."
     "It's four-nineteen-five. You gotta remember that, six-twenty-six, when we get to the next location, the next step."
     "How many more steps, four-nine-one?"
     "It's four-nineteen-five, six-twenty-six."
     Brendan slapped his hand on his forehead. He said, "I'm getting a fucking migraine with all these numbers."
     "That phone number didn't work," Noah said. "That was the fourth one. Hopefully fifth time's the charm."
     "It's all worth it, six-twenty-six," Gabe said, putting a hand on Brendan's shoulder in consolation. "Don't get all stressed."
     "Fucking finally," Noah said. "Hey, hello there."
     Gabe and Brendan turned to face Noah talking on the phone.
     "Calling in four-nineteen-five with initiate six-twenty-six, this is Arc Rider," Noah continued. He listened to the person on the other line for a moment, then said, "Are you on fucking ecstasy?" Another pause. "Molly and DMT? Damn. Is Chris with you? Good. This needs to be done. Give Chris....your....fucking....phone, Mike." A pause. "Yes, the gremlin deity, whatever." He looked over at Brendan and Gabe. "These fucking kids get rich and turn into junkies. Nothing has changed since the eighties, I swear to fucking -- hey, Chris, how you doing?" A pause. "Cool, cool. Look, man, an initiate is on the way over to your place. Got it?" Long pause. Noah looked over again at Brendan and Gabe, shaking his head, and motioning with his other hand, puppeteering how fast the person on the other line was talking. "Great. Cool. The word is Clover...field. They're arriving in the usual Uber car." He then hung up.
     "Four-nineteen-five, your counterpart was much more savvy with this shit," Noah said. "I'm calling you two a trusted Uber. He'll bring you to your counterpart, six-twenty-six."
     As soon as Gabe and Brendan exited the porn store a car was parked in front near the entrance, the engine running.
     "You two call for an Uber?" hollered the driver.
     "Yes, sir," Brendan replied.
     He made his way over to open the back passenger door, then Gabe put the back of his hand up to Brendan's chest to stop him.
     "Don't say a word on our way to your counterpart," Gabe said. "Okay?"
     "Scouts honor," Brendan said, raising his left hand. "I won't make that mistake again."
     "Good, because it's better for the both of us. The thing is, this isn't just a test for you, it's a test for me as well, brother."
     On the Uber ride to their destination the car was in complete silence, with the only sounds being from the clicking of the dashboard as the driver signaled left or right, and the robotic voice from the GPS app on the driver's phone. With each instruction the voice gave to the driver, Brendan slowly realized they were headed for Beverly Hills. He had never had the pleasure of attending a Beverly Hills house party -- which he assumed they were going to, due to Noah's conversation on the phone with someone high on two different drugs. He turned his head to look at Gabe to show his excitement over being able to be inside a Beverly Hills luxury home, but Gabe simply looked straight ahead with an emotionless expression, as if he were a Mormon spreading the word of Joseph Smith. Maybe they'd express their excitement later, back at his apartment when they watched the grainy footage of Kristen Stewart having sex. A moment of a celebrity's private act of intimacy held within Brendan's grasp.
     They had arrived. The Uber driver pulled into a driveway which was around fifty yards long leading up to the front of the big house. When the car stopped near the front door, Brendan and Gabe could hear loud music coming from inside. There was a party happening in there, alright. The usual for an actor with a bottomless bank account.
     "He knows you're here," the driver informed, "but knock on the door until it's answered."
     "Thank you," Gabe said, motioning for Brendan to get out of the car.
     They walked up to the door. Brendan watched as Gabe used his knuckles to knock on the door in a sequence of three knocks, slight pause, then four knocks. He repeated it four times before stopping to wait for someone to answer. They waited for nearly a minute.
     "Use your fist, I guess," Brendan suggested.
     "I don't want him to think I damaged his door," Gabe said. He was silent for a moment, thinking, then said, "Ah, what the hell."
     Gabe decided to heed Brendan's advice and proceeded to bang on the door with his fist in the same sequence of knocks. He did it five times, and waited. After another minute, there still wasn't an answer. Brendan noticed there was a doorbell.
     "I got this," Brendan said.
     He started pressing the doorbell button in the same sequence as Gabe's knocking.
     "Brendan, we can't do it that way."
     "Just say you did it," Brendan said, as he continued to press the doorbell button. "Like you had no choice cause of the damn music."
     The music inside the house had stopped.
     "See." Brendan stopped pressing the doorbell and gestured to the silence inside. "One's gotta do what one's gotta do."
     The door was quickly unlocked from inside, then swung open.
     A guy in his underwear immediately pointed a taser gun at Brendan and Gabe, his eyes glazed and barely open.
     "Fuck you, Jonah!" he yelled at them.
     Brendan threw his hands up, and began gasping. Gabe simply looked at the nearly naked dude.
     He said, "Clover...field."
     A male voice from inside the house hollered, "Who is it, Mike?"
     "Someone talking about clovers invading the forest of Kabbalah," replied the naked Mike.
     "I told you not to mix Molly with DMT," said the dude inside the house. "Please, invite them in, they're friendlies."
     Mike's eyes opened wider. He said, "Gremlin deity speaks fondly of you. Come on in." He dropped the taser gun to his side, and moved aside for Brendan and Gabe to enter.
     As they made their way through a small foyer, they heard other voices begin to speak.
     A girl said, "Oh, thank God, I thought it was the cops."
     A boy said, "I just got hired on Disney channel, I'm too young to end up on TMZ."
     "Come on in here, you two," said the familiar voice. "Just follow the music."
     At first it sounded like church music began to play as they went down a small hallway, then an acoustic began playing, and Brendan realized it was the song Faith from George Michael. They came upon a wide passageway leading to a large room with white couches surrounding a glass table, upon which there were glasses of mixed drinks, beer bottles, an ounce of weed, and an American Express card laying flat near lines of cocaine ready to be snorted. There were five young people sitting on the couches, three men, and two woman. Brendan thought he recognized one of the guys, but couldn't remember from what or where.
     "Who are these two good looking gents?" one of the females asked before leaning over the glass table to snort a line of cocaine.
     Brendan and Mike stood at the threshold of the passageway, quietly staring at the scene. Mike made his way around them, still holding the taser in his right hand with a stiff grip, his knuckles white with paranoid rage. His eyes looking suspiciously on Brendan.
     "Apparently they are here, bearing clovers for Master Gremlin," Mike informed the group.
     "Is that like slang for salvia, or something?" the cocaine snorter girl asked, sniffling and rubbing her nose.
     Mike raised the taser gun, pointing it right at Brendan.
     "This one looks confused," Mike proclaimed. "And you know what they say about confused cats?"
     "Like what?" asked the guy Brendan thought he recognized.
     "They demand a clean litter box after taking only one shit in it," Mike said.
     "Mike, please put the fucking taser down," said a male voice from across the room. The voice which allowed Brendan and Gabe to enter the house.
     Brendan looked up to see a person he did actually recognize, standing by an expensive stereo system, wearing swim trunks and a sleek bathrobe with a bed of roses design on it.
     "Sit down, Mike, and smoke some weed to calm down," the guy said.
     Mike then lowered the taser gun, stepped backward until the back of his thighs met the edge of the armrest of one of the couches, and with his eyes still staring at Brendan, he fell back onto a dude's lap who put an arm around Mikes chest, and patted his head with his other hand.
     "I feel safe with you, Mike," said the dude with Mike laying on his lap.
     "So, six-twenty-six, do you recognize anyone in this room?" asked the guy in the bathrobe.
     "Maybe that one there," Brendan said, pointing to the guy comforting Mike.
     "How about me? Do you know who I am?"
     "Yes, of course," Brendan said with slight excitement. "You're Mclovin. Christopher --" Brendan began thinking of how to pronounce the actor's name. Actually, he had completely forgotten what his last name was, just his first name, and the fact he was the infamous Mclovin. "I'm so sorry, sir, I forgot how to pronounce your last name."
     Chris put up his hand, saying, "Don't call me 'Mclovin.' I'm tired of hearing that shit every fucking time I meet new people. That fucking goddamn name was a miracle that turned into a curse to bear." He lowered the stereo's volume, then made his way around the couches to where Brendan and Gabe stood. He said, "After you leave here, I want you to know that whoever you've met tonight for the first time you still haven't met when you wake up tomorrow morning. If you meet any of us in the near future, that will be the first you've ever met. Do you understand?"
     "Yes, loud and clear, my counterpart," Brendan affirmed.
     Chris looked over at Gabe, and said, "He's a pretty good catch for the Brotherhood, four-nineteen-five. Learns the rules pretty damn quick."
     Chris put his hand out to shake Brendan's.
     "Should we be speaking out loud about the Brotherhood in front of the ladies?" Brendan asked as she shook Chris' hand.
     "Oh, them," Chris said, glancing at the scene behind him. He leaned in close to Brendan, and whispered, "I slipped roofies into everyone's drinks before they began ingesting their own choice of drugs. They won't remember a fucking thing about tonight when they wake up in the morning, they'll just think they got blacked out drunk. They're young, you know. Please, follow me upstairs to my bedroom."
     Chris walked between Brendan and Gabe, leading them back to the foyer, gesturing them to follow them up a flight of stairs to the second floor.
     "Isn't that a little fucked up to do, Chris?" Brendan asked, as him and Gabe ascended the stairs behind Chris.
     "Yes, you're right, six-twenty-six," Chris admitted, "but one of the benefits of being in the Brotherhood of Actors is spending most of your career getting away with a lot of shady behavior most men only dream of doing. Why do you think Bill Cosby got away with it for so many years? It was only when he was useless to the industry that he got exposed. And if any of those bitches say they got drugged and raped, I'll blame it on any of those other dudes, because not only are they not part of the Brotherhood, they've ingested illicit drugs while I only have been drinking."
     "I don't think I'll be doing that in the future," Brendan stated.
     They came to Chris' bedroom door. Before he opened it, Chris turned to look Brendan right in the eyes.
     "That's fine, you can do whatever you want," Chris said. "But this initiation into the Brotherhood may come to you one evening just as it has to me tonight, last minute when I've already been entertaining guests in my own home. So, when I got the call, barely half an hour ago, I had to use my personal supply of roofies when I, as a good host, served them all refills. My advice to you, six-twenty-six, is as soon as you get the money, buy yourself a hefty supply of roofie pills, because that's part of being in the Brotherhood. There are sacrifices of your own innocence to maintain our secret, and yours as well."
     Chris then opened his bedroom door, entered, then held it opened for Brendan and Gabe as they went inside. After they entered the room, Chris closed the door, and locked it.
     "This may or may not be your last step, six-twenty-six," Chris said as he walked around them to the center of the room, standing at the foot of his bed. He grinned at Brendan. "I just want you to know that I don't make the rules, okay."
     Gabe giggled. Brendan looked at him questioningly. Gabe simply gestured for Brendan to pay attention to his counterpart.
     "Six-twenty-six, I need your attention," Chris said.
     Brendan looked back at him.
     "Sorry," he said.
     "That's all right. Even I got a bit freaked out when my own counterpart brought me to his bedroom. We're not going to have sex. All you have to do is kiss me while your friend there bears witness."
     Brendan closed his eyes for a second, shaking his head in an attempt to shake the buzz he felt from the drinks he and Gabe had at the bar earlier that evening. His eyes opened back up to look at the infamous Mclovin. No, he was not drunk enough to mishear what he just heard.
     "Are you seriously being serious?" Brendan asked.
     "Yes, of course. Everyone has to do it with their counterpart. Other than holding onto the big secret you're going to receive after all your steps are performed, you're going to have to kiss me as if we were in love. Don't worry about using tongue. It's an acting kiss. No tongue required."
     "What the fuck?" Brendan uttered.
     "Hey," Gabe called to him.
     Brendan looked over at him.
     "I had to kiss James Franco," Gabe admitted.
     "Damn, you lucky," Chris said to Gabe. "I had to kiss John Goodman."
     "You had to kiss DAN CONNOR!?" Brendan yelped.
     "Well, I'd like to say I kissed Walter Sobchak," Chris said. "Anyways, can we get this over with, I got a party to go back to."
     "Whoa, man, if I knew this was going to be a part of getting into the Brotherhood, I would have reconsidered," Brendan said. "I mean, if I had to kiss Mclovin to get Kristen-"
     "Don't say your secret out loud, EVER!" Chris snapped, putting his hand up in Brendan's direction.
     This made Brendan spasm where he stood.
     Chris put his hand down, gave out a heavy sigh, then said, "Look, six-twenty-six, we're actors. This kiss is like anything else we perform in front of the camera, it's fake and part of telling a story. Emotion is only conveyed by it's visual presentation. There's nothing inside either of the kissers other than intent to contribute to a big work of art. Okay?"
     "Who watched you kiss James Franco?" Brendan asked Gabe.
     "We don't have time for questions," Chris said. "I'm getting impatient."
     "Okay, fine," Brendan said, throwing up his hands in Mclovin's direction. "To Brokeback we go." He then made a beeline for Chris, put his arms around the actor, and laid one on him. This shocked Chris for a moment, then he placed his hands on Brendan's shoulder blades. Brendan pulled away, hollering, "I can't quit you." Then placed his lips back onto Chris'.
     Gabe held a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud and possibly ruining his best friend's moment with the big Hollywood Star. He watched through squinting eyes as Brendan and Chris made out for nearly two minutes, until Brendan finally pulled away from the delirious looking Mclovin.
     "We must depart, my lova'," Brendan exclaimed, "for who is to watch over the sheep tonight, and keep the wolves lonely under the fool moon."
     Chris had to shake his head out of the momentary delirium.
     He said, "Whoa, true commitment." He then backed away and put a finger up to Brendan. "But you used tongue there."
     "Sorry about that," Brendan said. "I went a little overboard there. I just got a little excited over the fact I'll have a decent career after tonight."
     "Oh, you will have a damn good career, because that was a damn fucking great kiss. Let me tell you, if I was an actual homosexual, I would have already jizzed in my draws."
     "So, um, what's the next step?" Brendan asked.
     "I don't know what the next step is, six-twenty-six, but I know where you're to go next. The Chateau Marmont, room sixty-four. The Uber is still parked outside my house. And you are to go alone." Chris pointed at Gabe. "He's not to go with you. He stays here. And that's that."
     "Okay," Brendan affirmed. He then turned to say goodbye to Gabe.
     Before he could say the word, he saw Gabe placing his index finger over his own lips, quietly advising Brendan to remain silent until the initiation was completed. He unlocked and opened Chris' bedroom door.
     "Please close the door behind you," Chris said. "Him and I have Brotherhood business to discuss."
     Brendan did as Chris demanded. As he ascended the stairs he smiled with some glee, but felt strange as if he were a child playing with matches for the first time, feeling the burn. The Chateau Marmont was the light at the end of the tunnel, he knew, but was the light going to burn? Maybe.
     When he came to the front door, he realized there was no more music coming from the room where the group of roofied drug abusers were partying. Not only that, there was no sound of people conversing coming through the wide passageway into the foyer for Brendan to hear. For a moment he stood there, wondering why there was silence. He thought about going into the room to say his goodbyes, but he thought it was better not to. They most likely all past out from all the drugs. And if all of them overdosed, it was Mclovin's problem. After all, he was still profitable to the Hollywood industry, so he wouldn't get in too much trouble, just more fame.
     Brendan finally opened the door, and exited the house to see the same Uber parked right in front of the house, it's engine still running.
     As soon as Brendan got in the backseat and closed the door, the driver said, "Chateau Marmont it is, sir."
     The ride had been silent for nearly ten minutes until the unexpected happened: the driver asked Brendan a question.
     "So, how long have you lived in Los Angeles?"
     Brendan at first didn't say a word, heeding Gabe's advice.
     "Um," he muttered. Then said, "I don't think we're suppose to talk."
     "It'll be our little secret," the driver said. "Can you keep a secret?"
     "Yes, of course," Brendan stated.
     "Good. Anyways, I don't know your name, nor you mine, and if either of us make it to big-time-celebrity status, we'll know each other then, but the secret we must still keep to ourselves. Do you agree?"
     "Yes, sir. To answer your question, I've lived here for the past four years, spending it working day jobs and auditioning for acting roles in films."
     "Since I'm driving you to this infamous hotel, I'd like to assume you've finally got an acting gig."
     "Yes, my first. A little role, but enough screen time to get listed in the film's opening credits."
     "Wow, congratulations," the driver said, excited. "I'm happy for you. I'm a standup comedian, by the way. I've been here for six years."
     "Any success with your art, man?" Brendan asked, leaning forward in the backseat.
     "Twice a week I get paid gigs at comedy clubs. I get paid fairly. I also made a nice junk of income from my YouTube channel, but since those fucking Google cocksuckers have been cracking down with their new dumbass algorithms, I've had to do this Uber thing to help pay the bills. I have yet to get an acting gig."
     "How many followers on social media do you got?" Brendan inquired.
     "Just over twenty thousand."
     "That's something, man. I've barely got five hundred. At least you've been noticed by the world."
     "'Noticed by the world,'" the driver repeated. "I like how you phrased that. You make it seem like I've achieved more than you, with you going to be in a film and all."
     "If you keep at it, and maintain your current composure, some billionaire producer is gonna beg you to make a film for them."
     "You really think so?" the driver asked, seeming to regard Brendan as a person who exaggerates with delusional ideas.
     "Yeah, man," Brendan said. "The entertainment industry is only set up to evolve and grow, not fail."
     "You sound like you've got a little too much faith in Hollywood there, Bub."
     "I know you have doubts," Brendan said with a more encouraging tone. "I have doubts, and probably will always have doubts, no matter how much my bank account grows. But I'll say this to you, my fellow artist, if you build it, they -- the audience -- will come and make it bigger."
     They had arrived at the entrance to the Chateau Marmont.
     "We're at your destination, sir," the driver said, turning to look at Brendan. "Thanks for your little pep talk."
     Brendan reached a hand over the front seats. He said, "Best of luck to you, sir. Until we meet again, hopefully in the near future on a film-set, or at an afterparty. And I'll take our little secret to the grave."
     "As will I, brother," the driver said, shaking Brendan's outstretched hand. "Get out before the uppity staff yells at me. They're sometimes vicious."
     Brendan got out of the car. As soon as he closed the passenger door the driver slammed on the gas, speeding down the road, and when it turned on the curve, the tires screeched.
     "Some fucking Uber drivers in this town have no respect," a man's voice said.
     Brendan turned to who was talking and saw a bald man wearing a black suit and tie, standing at the end of a driveway leading up to the building. Brendan immediately could tell under the man's suit were biceps bigger than his own head. There was an earpiece connected to a wire in the man's right ear, the type Secret Service members wear at The White House.
     "Are you a guest here, sir?" the man asked.
     For a moment Brendan had no idea what to say. He didn't realize the hotel had tight security due to high profile guests. Chris had no instructions on what to say to the security to get in. So he decided to say the most simplest, honest truth.
     "I'm going to room sixty-four," he stated.
     "Just give me a moment, please," the security guard said. He turned away from Brendan, then spoke quietly into the small mic clipped to his cuff. "Affirmative," he said aloud. He turned back to Brendan, and said, "Welcome to the Chateau Marmont, Mr. Milton."
     Brendan's head jittered, his eyebrows rose, eyes opening in shock.
     "You...you know my name?" he asked.
     The security guard sighed in agitation. He said, "Look, I don't know what all you Hollywood kids do, and why you do them. All I do is say, 'You may go, or you may go away.' I get paid enough to not care what you weird rich people do. So, you may go up to room sixty-four, Mr. Milton, and please enjoy your stay at the Chateau Marmont."
     He gestured for Brendan to walk on up the short driveway.
     As he passed the guard, he said, "Sorry if--"
     "That's quite alright, dude," the man interrupted. "I'm happy to stay here and protect you people from the TMZ fools. I even have a gun."
     With those last words said the the guard, Brendan almost had the desire to run up the driveway, but thought better of it, deciding to speed walk instead. He came to the entrance, entering the lobby which was surprisingly almost empty with the exception of a few guests lounging on a fancy couch, and a clerk at the desk who noticed him right away.
     "Hello, Mr. Milton," the clerk said. "It's good to see you. Are you going to the bar?"
     "No," Brendan replied. "Just up to the room." Brendan awkwardly pointed up to the ceiling.
     "That's great, sir. If you want anything, don't be shy, give us a call."
     Brendan nodded. He then asked, "Uh, where are the elevators?"
     The clerk pointed, saying, "Right down there, sir."
     "Thank you," Brendan said.
     "You're so very welcome." The clerk's smile seemed so forced, it was as if he were possessed by Mickey Mouse.
     Brendan went to the elevators, pressed the button, and waited for the door to open for him. As he patiently waited, someone stepped up next to him. He glanced to see the person and was immediately starstruck by who he saw: Ben Affleck. Co-writer of one of Brendan's favorite screenplays, Good Will Hunting. A lot of people have said Affleck most likely contributed next to nothing due to their perspective that Matt Damon was the smarter one of the two, but Brendan knew that was bullshit.
     "Hello," Brendan said to the Batfleck. "It's an honor to stand beside you waiting for an elevator."
     Affleck regarded Brendan with an expression that said, The fuck is this guy's problem.
     "You ain't gonna get all weird on me, are you?" Affleck asked. "Because if you are, I'll just let you take the elevator up alone."
     "No, no," Brendan said. "I apologize. So sorry, sir. In fact, you can get in alone, if it makes you more comfortable."
     The Batfleck started laughing, patting Brendan on the shoulder. This made Brendan jump where he stood.
     "I'm just kidding, man," Affleck said, chuckling. "Relax, alright. Thank you for your compliment. Want an autograph?"
     "No, that's okay," Brendan said. "I don't have a pen, anyway. I just want to tell you during this short timespan we'll be in each other's presence is that you are my favorite Batman. You brought more complexity to the character none of your predecessors did."
     "Why thank you, young man," Affleck said, grinning. "You know, it wasn't all me. A lot of it had to do with the director's vision."
     "Yes. Snyder is an extremely underappreciated filmmaker in today's industry. And I say you as well for not getting that nomination for directing Arco."
     "It's called Argo, but thanks again for yet another compliment."
     Brendan tapped his forehead with his finger, saying, "Yes, of course, Argo."
     The elevator door opened, and they both entered.
     As the door slid closed, Affleck asked, "So who are you -- I mean, what do you do?"
     "I just got my first acting role in a film. It's been in production for at least three weeks. My scenes are being shot next week."
     "Who's directing?" Affleck inquired.
     "Kristen Stewart," Brendan informed. "Her first full-length feature."
     "You know, I've never had the pleasure of meeting K-stew in person. How is she? Is she really as easygoing as her reputation says?"
     "Well, I haven't met her yet. I only met a producer, and the casting director."
     "Wow," Affleck uttered. "She cast you in her first feature film simply by watching your audition tape, and not meeting you in person first. You must have really impressed her with your skills."
     "Honestly, I think it's because I'm good enough for the part, and most of all, cheap."
     "Don't be so modest with yourself. An established filmmaker who hires an actor without meeting them in person means something."
     "Really, Mr. Affleck?"
     "Yes, really. Please, call me Ben." Affleck reached out his hand. "And your name is..."
     "Brendan, Ben." He shook the actor's hand, blushing.
     "Do you have a last name, Brendan newly-christened-actor?"
     "Oh, yes. Brendan Milton."
     The elevator doors opened.
     "This is my stop," Affleck said, walking into the hallway. He turned, and said before the doors were shut, "Until we meet again, Mr. Milton."
     As Brendan felt the elevator move on up to the floor where room 64 was located, he looked down at the hand that shook Batfleck's, his mouth opened in awe.
     He uttered, "Whoa."
     The moment of amazement had past, as the elevator doors opened to his designated floor. He walked out, read the signs with their arrows pointing him in the direction of room 64. He then walked on down the hallway. When he came to the door of room 64, he knocked, but when he did he noticed the door was already open. Being hesitant, and a bit bewildered, he looked up and down the hallway to see if anyone else was around, thinking the room's occupant had gone to get a bucket of ice, or something, because the lights were on inside. The hallway was completely devoid of anyone else but Brendan himself. He pushed open the door a little.
     "Hello," he called. "I'm here."
     No answer, and no sounds coming from inside the room.
     "Um, may I come in?" he asked.
     Again, no answer.
     "Clover...field," he said.
     Once again, nothing.
     He looked around once more at the empty hallway before deciding to push open the door and enter the room.
     "I'm coming in now." He then said, "It's six-two-six. No, that's incorrect. I'm six-twenty-six. Yes, that's who I am."
     There still was no answer as Brendan went into the room, closing the door behind him, and instinctively locking it. He looked down at the black and white tiled floor as he walked slowly down the hallway which led him into a living room. Compared to all the other Hotel rooms Brendan had paid to sleep in, this room in the Chateau Marmont seemed more like an apartment space. He actually didn't know what the cost per night was for the room, but he guessed it was in the one to two thousand, or even three thousand a night range. He noticed something on the coffee table in front of the television. He got closer, seeing that it was a white DVD case with something written on it in black marker ink. He picked it up, thinking it was the Kristen Stewart sex tape, and figuring he was meant to watch it by himself in the room, and hold onto it -- his secret -- for the entirety of his career as an actor in Hollywood.
     But what was written on it wasn't anything regarding Kristen Stewart's underground sex tape. What was written on the case was: Brendan Milton's Audition Tape.
     "What the fuck?" Brendan said aloud.
     He turned the DVD case around and saw there was nothing written on the backside of it. He then opened the case, finding a DVD-R disc labeled with what was written on the cover of the case. He closed the case, then dropped it back onto the coffee table.
     As Brendan looked around at the room 64, he noticed the sliding glass doors leading to the patio outside were open. He walked outside to the patio, glancing at the table and chairs, and the recliner lounge chairs with their comfortable cushions, then went up to the railing to look upon the view of Hollywood.
     After a moment of feeling the night's cool, soothing breeze while looking down at the city's lights, Brendan had come to the realization that the whole Brotherhood of Actors must have been a joke constructed by his friend Gabe, a kind of fun congratulatory prank to simply say, You made it. And here you are at the top, looking down at where you use to be.
     "From here you can't see all the trash streaming through the streets and gutters," he said aloud. "From here you simply see the beauty the trash is built upon."
     He got out his cellphone to call Gabe. There was no answer, so he left a message.
     "Hey, man," Brendan began to say, "I knew this Brotherhood of Actors thing was all bullshit. You couldn't simply tell me you got me a room at the Chateau Marmont for the night as a gift for my recent success. Thank you, my friend. But did I really have to kiss Mclovin? Ha Ha, brother. Whatever. Tell him it was worth it. Anyways, I don't want to spend an evening alone in the room here. Come on by, and bring a pack of Tecate for old times sake. Call me back when you're on your way, man."
     He hung up, put the phone back in his pocket, and looked upon the cityscape with ease and satisfaction. After four years, he had finally made it. There was nowhere to go but upward. Unless he fucked up, which he didn't plan on doing.
     "Fame is like a candle you buy at a department store," said a female voice from inside the hotel room.
     Brendan turned, but before he could see who was speaking, all the lights inside the room went off.
     The voice continued, "But in Hollywood, someone else lights the candle for you."
     In the darkness, Brendan saw a small flame flicker to life. It was from a bic lighter. The small flame moved to light a cigarette. The first burn of the cigarette was inhaled, then exhaled.
     "And just as quickly as it is lit, it can be blown out as if it were a candle on a birthday cake."
     The figure who had been speaking walked out of the darkness inside the room, and emerged into the light from the patio lights. Brendan was overtaken by the sight of who it was. He was shocked, surprised, starstruck, and horrified all at the same time. He froze, unable to speak, even think a thought.
     Kristen Stewart took another drag of her cigarette. She blew the smoke in Brendan's direction.
     "Hello there, Brendan Milton," she said.
     Brendan still couldn't say a word, and began to shiver a little. He was able to raise a shaking hand up before him. Kristen Stewart simply stared back at him, smoking her cigarette.
     After almost two minutes of silence, Kristen said, "Well, do you have something to tell me?"
     "Um," Brendan muttered. "Uh."
     "Whoa, some real conversationist, aren't we, Mr. Milton?" Kristen said.
     Brendan put down his hand. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
     Finally he said, "This..."
     "'This' what?" Kristen asked.
     A pause. Then Brendan managed to say, "This must have been a prank."
     "What kind of prank?"
     "To maybe... cause me to run into you like this." Then something occurred to Brendan. "But what's my audition tape doing inside the room?"
     "It's a memento for you," Kristen said. "It's the only thing you'll take with you once you leave."
     Brendan scratched his head, confused. "What do you mean by 'memento?'"
     "You're fired," Kristen stated. "In fact, you were never actually hired. The thing is, Mr. Milton, it was either you, or Mr. Garcia for the scenes I'm filming next week. He passed the test two days ago. Tonight you didn't. So he gets the role, you don't. Fucking pervert."
     "Wait, wait," Brendan said, waving his hands before him. "I got a callback earlier today."
     "Did you sign anything?" Kristen asked.
     "No, but--"
     "Then you didn't get anything," Kristen interrupted.
     "What the fuck is this?" Brendan said. "Is this like some Hollywood prank actors pull on each other."
     "No, you fucking moron," Kristen said, almost yelling at him. "It was a ruse in an attempt to see what kind of person I was going to have work on my movie. To see if you were the kind of pervert I now know you are."
     Brendan pointed a stiff finger at her, and said sternly, "Hey, I ain't no fucking pervert. Don't be calling me something I'm not. I don't care how famous you are."
     "Oh, come one, Brendan. You came to this room expecting to acquire my sex tape, because you thought you'd be part of some cultish Brotherhood of Actors, so you'd guarantee a career in this town. Do you understand how fucking dumb that sounds? How ridiculous? There's no fucking secret society of male actors. Get fucking real. And you know what, when Gabe was offered my nonexistent sex tape, he didn't even leave Wayland's fucking bar. He knew it was bullshit. You're out, Brendan. Not only that, I'll tell everyone else I know in Hollywood what kind of pervert you are."
     "Please, stop calling me a pervert," Brendan said. He began to breathe heavily, not that he was angry, but because he was sad. This scene was weighing heavily on his heart. He felt as if he were being made powerless by an invisible force. He said meekly, "Just stop."
     "I ain't stopping, you disgusting human being," Kristen snapped.
     Brendan moved over to a recliner lounge chair and sat down. He took deep breaths to calm himself.
     "There's a new era here in Hollywood, son," Kristen said. "And in this era, the woman is in charge, and this woman here digs deep into a man's psyche to find out what depths he'll go to achieve stardom--"
     "Just stop talking," Brendan said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
     He looked down at the ground, slowly shaking his head. He then looked up at Kristen Stewart.
     He asked, "May I have a cigarette, please. I feel I'm entitled to one."
     "Fuck off," she said, taking a long drag of hers.
     "I asked nicely, Ms. Stewart."
     "Fine," she said, reaching in her jeans pocket for her pack, then taking out a single smoke.
     She tossed it on the ground. It rolled close to Brendan's feet. He picked it up.
     He said, "There's a nice way to do that, you know."
     "Not for you, prick."
     "May I borrow your lighter?"
     She tossed the bic at him, and he caught it with one hand.
     "This is my first cigarette in four years," Brendan said, lighting the cigarette. He took a long drag, and when he exhaled the smoke it was like all the stress he had just developed since Kristen showed up left with it. He continued, "I quit just before moving here from the Bay Area. God, it was fucking hard going through the withdrawals, especially while living in this crazy town."
     "Whoopty doo, good for fucking you," Kristen said.
     "So, a new era in Hollywood, eh? Where the women are tyrants instead of the men. Lisa would've said that was an oxymoron, properly enunciating the suffix, 'moron.'"
     "Who's this Lisa?" Kristen asked, avoiding Brendan's look.
     "My dead girlfriend," Brendan replied. "She died before I decided to move down here, and give acting a shot."
     This made Kristen finally turn her head to look down at Brendan. She said, "Don't bullshit me."
     "I'm not," Brendan said. "We were together for seven years. I would tell her about my dreams of becoming an actor. And she'd tell me, 'Then lets move to Hollywood. Give it a shot, Brendan.' Now, I see it was nothing but a shot in the dark."
     Brendan tossed the unfinished cigarette, stood up from the recliner lounge chair, then walked past Kristen Stewart into the dark hotel room, aiming to leave without looking back.
     "How did she die?" Kristen asked.
     Brendan turned before going into the hallway leading to the door. He said, "At this point, it doesn't matter. And by the way, why Mclovin? Couldn't I have been forced to kiss Ryan Gosling, or Ryan Reynolds?"
     Kristen smiled, amused by Brendan's question.
     She said, "Lack of availability, Brendan. The best people who fit a role perfectly are usually hard to get. You may have been perfect for the part, but now you're hard for me to accept."
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

   

   
   
   

Am I Here?(Oh, Thrifty Dignity)

"Did you go on a date with Summer soon after?" she asked, then washed down the burger with a satisfying sip of her beer.
     As I had been telling her my story thus far, she had barely gone through one beer as she listened intently, eating her burger and fries. I, on the other hand, had drank two and a half beers as I spoke, one bite of the burger, and hardly touched any of my french fries. Honestly, when I had been telling her about Mario and I smoking weed, I had forgotten about my food. When she asked me about Summer, I had noticed the pitcher of beer was nearly half empty, and thought that maybe I had poured myself three beers instead, and was drinking my fourth. I wondered if I was being selfish with the booze, and felt like offering to buy the next pitcher.
     "Olavi, you home?" she asked, knocking her knuckles on the table.
     "Huh, what?" I mumbled, looking up at her. "Sorry about that. I'll often go pensive when I'm inebriated. Not as much when I'm drunk though, you should've been around me when I was still smoking weed. I mean, if you were talking to me when I was high, my mind would go wandering and I literally would forget someone was talking to me. I admitted it to Summer once, and she was pissed. 'How could you do that to me?' she'd say as if betrayed. I laughed, and she'd get more angry and sad. Yeah, it was good times."
     I paused for a moment, pointed my finger in her direction, and said:
     "You, you had a question for me. I apologize. What was your question?"
     She grinned, seemingly amused, and said, "Your first date with Summer. Was it soon after you first smoked weed?"
     "Uh, I'd say it was about a month after, maybe less, maybe more. I hung out at her apartment with Mario and her roommate before I asked her on a date. Well, I mean, I didn't say, 'Hey, let's go out on a date, girl.' I just asked her if she wanted to see a movie."
     "Actually, that's asking her out on a date," she informed.
     "But I didn't use the word 'date' when I asked her to see a movie with me. I asked to hang out. You know, like a friend."
     "Well, did you eat before or after you saw the movie?"
     "We went to Pizza Hut before going to the theater."
     I filled my half-empty beer to the brim.
     "Date," she stated. "It was a real date. How was it?"
     "Typical."
     "In what way?"
     "In the way any typical first date is: answering each other's questions. Blah, blah, blah. Well, here's the thing - now I never told her this - I wanted to see a movie called Little Miss Sunshine, but I was being gentlemanly and asked her what she wanted to see, and she said Jackass 2."
     "Yeah, so?"
     "A guy drinks horse semen in the fucking movie. What kind of first-date movie shit is that? What was I thinking? I bet things would have turned out better if we saw what I wanted to see: Little Miss Sunshine. I fucking love that movie."
     "The Jackass movies are cool," she said. "Never heard of Little Miss Sunshine, though."
     "It was nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards," I informed. "And if it were up to me, it would have taken home little gold Oscar."
     I took a big gulp of my beer.
     "Okay," she starts to say, "so you two start dating. And what happens after that?"
     "I'm going to fast-forward two years to when she took my virginity," I said.
     "Wait," she said, closing her eyes, and putting a hand up, "excuse you? Virginity? Skipping two years? Uh, what?"
     "Well, the thing is we weren't really an item in the two years I'm going to skip. Yes, we went on a date, then hung out a bunch of times afterwards, but she made it perfectly clear she simply wanted to be friends. And since during this time I was getting drunk and stoned nearly every day, at work or at home, I tirelessly pursued her affection to no avail of course."
     "When a girl says 'No,' it means she means fucking no, Olavi," she said. I could see in her eyes and furrowed brow, she was beginning to misjudge me.
     "But she seemed to always want to hang out with me," I said. "The thing about Summer is that she had a harsh upbringing I'll get into later, causing her to be a little awkward socially. I'm not saying she was abnormal in her interactions with people, just, you know, different. I liked that most about her. She was beautiful, and best of all different. Smart as hell too, but had this internal frustration which made her soul a bit callously numb, you could say. People at that fucking job her and I worked at would walk all over her. Those fucking goddamn junkies. I hate those who are full of a lifetime of faults exploiting the momentary faults in others just to feel better about themselves. One of the reasons I quit that fucking job."
     "What job was that again?" she asked.
     "One where those with a rebellious characteristic and a desire to be euphoric would throw a customer's package against a wall for the hell of it due to the seclusion of working inside a warehouse," I said.
     "Sorry, I don't understand," she said, obviously confused by not getting a straight answer out of me.
     "I worked for a shipping company, and was a member of a union," I finally answered. "But I won't tell you which one, because I think you use the services provided by covertly said company."
     "Whatever," she said. "So you quit your job because of how your coworkers treated Summer. Correct?"
     "Yes, but that wasn't the soul reason. The other reasons were she would never love me as much I loved her, the management pissed me off as much as some of my coworkers, and basically I was beginning to have of a manic swing without knowing it, causing me to make rash decisions in my life."
     "A what swing?" she inquired.
     "I'm bipolar," I informed. "Bipolar One to be more specific. I told you about my third fifty-one-fifty."
     "You know, I could barely even tell you're bipolar," she admitted.
     "That's because of the stereotype most people define us by, intense mood swings where one starts laughing, then crying within seconds. Those are Bipolar Two's. Bipolar One's have a more prolonged swing which actually can be more damaging, emotionally and physically depending on the circumstances. Plus I'm on the good medication. My brain is well balanced."
     She pointed to the nearly empty pitcher of beer, about to say something before I said:
     "Oh, yes, we need a refill. I'll get the next one." I stood up about to go inside and order a fresh pitcher.
     "I was about to ask if it was a good idea for you to be drinking," she said.
     "Yeah," I said, "it's always a good idea when you're having a good time."
     "But your mental health," she said, concerned.
     My reaction was simple. I laughed.
     I then said, "When I get back with the fully loaded pitcher, I'll tell you about my first devilock haircut." I moved my hand to the back of my head, took hold of the end of the devilock hanging against the back of my neck with my forefinger and middle finger, then flipped it over the top of my head to let it hang before my face.
     I said, "And I'll continue telling you my story until I'm done." I turned to go inside the bar, stopped midway, then turned to face her once more before going to order another pitcher of beer. "Then you may judge me in whatever way you desire."
     "Okay," she simply said, strangely amused.
   
   
   

Am I Here?(Stoned to dream)

     The problem with most drug users is they don't find their own lives interesting until the moment they first get high. I believe the true gateway to drug abuse is not using marijuana to begin with then graduating to something more intense, but the fact one may perceive a sober life as boring and ordinary. Just because a drug put a smile on your face, doesn't mean your life is any more extraordinary than it was the moment before you decided to inhale or ingest it. No matter how one may deny it, our lives are more exciting than most of us tend to accept.
     The day I turned eighteen years old I bought my first pack of cigarettes. I had heard most tobacco smokers say how much they hated their first cigarette. This always perplexed me, to be honest, because if that were true, then why would they continue on smoking and bitch about how hard it was to quit? So with that question in mind, I walked to the park near my house after getting home from school with the pack of smokes in my pocket, holding a birthday card sealed in an envelope from my aunt, and the intention that if I did not enjoy my first cigarette in the very least, I'd throw away the rest of the cigs, never to buy another again. At the park I sat on top of a lunch table in an empty family barbecue area. After three attempts, I lit my first cigarette with a match and inhaled the tobacco's smoke. Lo and behold, I didn't cough, not once. As I continued smoking the rest of the cig, I opened the envelope, and read the card from my aunt. Inside the card there was a hundred dollar bill.
     Fan-fucking-tastic the smell was, and fan-fucking-tastic the nicotine hit felt. There's nothing else more relaxing than the first nicotine hit, not even the ones after it. It's a buzz most likely comparable to smoking opium -- the only difference being that nicotine euphoria can only be experienced once, while opiateheads get it with every hit. When I had hopped off the table and took a few steps towards the walking path leading to the parks entrance, I didn't walk a straight line for five steps. That was it, every cigarette after that is not, and will never be like that first.
     Marijuana is a completely different. Compared with my first cig, my experience of the green smoke was the complete opposite.
     Mario picked me up from my house.
     "I thought you already had it on you, man," I said as soon as I sat in his car.
     He started driving immediately, and said, "Why's that, cause I'm Mexican?"
     "No," I said. "But if you want to get all racially butt-hurt and stereotypical, maybe I should sit in the backseat like an uppity yuppie." I then said in an aristocratic tone, "Jose, take me to my drug dealer on the way to the whorehouse. I'll give you but a little for yourself. You are driving a limo, you know, so only half a line of coke for you."
     "We're gonna go pick it up, Olavi," Mario said, reaching for his cellphone. "You wanna smoke, right?"
     "Yes, but why you need me with you when you buy it? Wouldn't the dealer be more comfortable if you're by yourself?"
     "Dude, we're buying an eighth, not an ounce," Mario informed. "Plus, it's cool I not only provide for your first high, I think it's fun you come with me."
     "How is it more fun?" I asked, confused.
     "It's fucking male bonding, puta." He searched for a contact on his cellphone, pressed send.
     "Shit," I said, "want to play catch too?"
     As he waited for the person to answer on the phone, he said to me, "Good idea, maybe after we're done smoking." His phone call was answered. "Hey, man, it's Mario. How you been?" There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other line. "Good to hear. I'm lookin' for an eighth." A short pause. "Cool, bro. Be there in about five, maybe less. Is that cool?" Mario gave me a wink and nod. "Alright, be there soon."
     He put the phone down in his lap.
     "It's that easy?" I asked Mario.
     "Uh, duh," he said. "And hardly any waiting in line. No reservations required."
     "Wow," I said, astonished. "Mexicans are truly efficient."
     "The guy's white, moron," Mario corrected. "And you know what that means?"
     "We're going to white suburbia where we'll get pulled over. Don't worry, Mario, I'll do all the talking."
     "No, you idiot, we're going to the trailer park down the road from my house. The one behind El Rancho. What I was trying the say is this guy's cheap with his shit. We're not really getting a full eighth, but it's great quality, especially for a first-timer like you."
     "Is he half-white, like me?" I asked.
     "No. Total blue-eyed white-trash blond. He ain't cool to hang around with though. I think he breaks into homes, cause I heard he's always trying to sell people new TV's and Playstations."
     "Damn," I said. "Talk about breaking the stereotypical mold."
     "You know, now that I think about it, I think he's the one who stole my car last year," Mario said.
     "That was a real classic," I said. "Now you're driving this shit which has no dashboard lights, or even a radio."
     A few minutes later Mario parked his car in front of a double-wide manufactured home in the trailer park. The white dude came out, leaned on Mario's car door, and money and weed were exchanged in an instant with a "Hello, thanks," and "Goodbye." Before I knew it, we were headed back to my house. I didn't say a word the whole drive back. In all, honesty, I was nervous leading up to the drug deal, but when it was over I was happy it was so easy and uneventful.
     "Whoa," I uttered when Mario parked his car in front of my house. "It's like I lost my virginity, even though I'm still actually a virgin."
     "Yeah, man, welcome to the frontier, a new beginning," Mario said. He sat silent for a second, looking at me. "This reminds me of something."
     "Like what?" I asked.
     "Remember when we went to Great America our last year of Middle School?" He asked.
     "Yeah," I replied. "What about it?"
     He tapped my shoulder with his hand, and said, "That was when you finally road an upside-down roller coaster for the first time. The Demon, you know, with the two loops after the first drop. Remember how you were as we were headed up to the drop?"
     "Yeah, crying like a bitch," I admitted.
     "And when the ride was over, what was the first thing you fucking said to me?"
     "Oh, yeah," I said, then recited the memory. "'Mario, let's do it AGAIN!'"
     "Exactly, Olavi. Sometimes the danger is merely an illusion."
     So with my fear slightly deterred by what Mario had said, I stood in the backyard of my house, looking around at the cracks between the fence's board, seeing if any of my neighbors were in their yards as Mario sat in the patio chair, rolling the blunt.
     "Don't be all paranoid, man," he said before licking the swisher paper. "None of them are home at this time. They're at work, and their kids are in school."
     I asked, "You think a cop would smell it if he were driving by?"
     "Jesus Christ, fucker," he blurted. "You're paranoid before you even get high. I swear, all you first-timers are all the same. No, Olavi. No one is gonna stop to smell the pot. Pigs and people got better things to do when going by the front of your house."
     He finished rolling the blunt, lit the bic lighter, and held its fire under the seem he had just licked.
     "Why you do that?" I asked. "You might burn it all."
     Mario chuckled, and said, "It won't all burn. It's to make sure it's sealed all the way so we can smoke it better." He then held it up to me. "Are you ready?"
     I looked around one more time. I didn't hear anyone else in close proximity to my house; we were alone, and all seemed calm and peaceful, as if it were meant to be. I turned back to Mario and saw he had already lit the blunt and was toking on it. He inhaled, held the smoke inside his lungs for a few seconds, then blew it all out. The smell immediately came to my nostrils, as if beckoning, calling me to embrace it's soft, silk smooth euphoria.
     "Come on, sit," Mario said, reaching over to pull the other patio chair closer to him. "Sit right next to me, man. Here you go."
     I sat down. For a second I only looked down at the lit blunt held in between Mario's thumb and forefinger.
     "Take it, man," he said. "Before it goes out."
     I took hold of it with my thumb and forefinger, and just like being on a rollercoaster about to be pulled down that first drop by earth's gravity, my lips went around the receiving end of the blunt and toked a mouthful, took the blunt away from my mouth, and inhaled fast. And holding the smoke in my lungs, I thought, Fuck it, then proceeded to toke on the blunt more, doubling the amount of smoke inside my lungs already. I then blew it all out and coughed profusely.
     "Damn, Olavi, not so much," Mario said. "Save some for me." He took hold of the blunt again.
     I coughed for almost half a minute. Mario continued to smoke.
     When my coughing fit was over, I said, "The fuck, man. I didn't even cough that much the first time I had a cigarette." I coughed a few more times before reaching for the blunt again.
     "Wow, really?" Mario asked, handing me the blunt. "Everyone I know coughs when they first try a cigarette. Hell, I fucking threw up."
     I took a few more puffs of the blunt, and had another coughing fit as I handed it back to Mario. I then stood up from the chair, and spit in the grass.
     "Don't worry, man, you'll get use to it," Mario informed. "The coughing fits get less and less the more you smoke."
     "You actually barfed the first time you had tobacco?" I asked.
     "Yeah. Made me all light headed. Got dizzy and shit. Threw up in a parking lot." Mario started to laugh as he remembered. "Almost spilled all my chunks on the hood of someone's Benz."
     "The first time I had a cigarette it felt hella nice," I said. "The nicotine just hits you like that." I snapped my fingers. "In a manner of seconds. What about THC, man, how long does it take before you're high?"
     "Well, are you high now?"
     "Um, to be honest, no. Let me see." I put my arms out to my side and walked a straight line as if I were being tested for a DUI. I achieved it without faltering in the slightest. "I guess not," I said.
     "Come sit back down," Mario said. "Have some more."
     "No, man," I replied, sitting back in the chair, motioning away the blunt with the wave of a hand. "I don't want to smoke too much, maybe next time."
     Mario leaned back in his chair. He said, "Okay then. Just sit back, relax, and let it come." He continued smoking the blunt. "By the way, what made you change your mind about smoking weed?"
     I stared up at the overcast sky, and said, "Because of Summer."
     "Dude, it's still fucking November," Mario corrected. "Summer's a long time away."
     "Not the season, a girl named Summer," I informed. "She's a coworker of mine. She smokes weed too. I thought if I started smoking, we'd have a reason to hangout. End up sitting in her car after work in the parking lot, have nice conversations, get to know her."
     "Fuck her?" Mario asked.
     I looked back over at him, and said, "Well, eventually, yeah. But, man, you must understand, I'm in love with her. Not a crush kind of thing. I'm saying love-at-first-sight, motherfucker. Can't get her out of my mind kind of love. And we've talked, had a conversation." I leaned closer to Mario. "Summer keeps me up at night for hours, I'm telling you. Shit, there was one whole night I couldn't sleep."
     "Shit," Mario muttered.
     "I've never felt this way about a girl before," I said, shaking my head.
     "How about compared to the girl back in high school?" Mario asked. "What was her name?"
     I began giggling, and said, "Oh, yeah, Ariel. Well, the thing about her was I knew her since I was a child, and never had any feelings for her until the end of my last year in middle-school when one night I had a dream about her. She was basically the very definition of 'dream girl' because I had only fallen in love with her in a lucid dream."
     "What's a lucid dream?" Mario queried.
     "It's where you know you're dreaming. We were with some other people at the park at night, sitting at a lunch table in the middle of the grass. She was singing with a guitar that wasn't in her arms. It felt so real I could feel my heartbeat, and the evening breeze move the hair on my arms. Just like how I feel the breeze on my arms at this moment."
     Mario looked around the backyard. He said, "There's no breeze, man."
     "Seriously, don't fuck with me, Mario," I said. "It's a light breeze. I can feel it."
     "Dude," Mario said, leaning closer in my direction, "you're stoned. I can see it in your eyes. They're bloodshot."
     I looked at my arms, down at my lap, then up at the trees near my house. He was right, there was no wind, like at all. I gazed back at him.
     "Whoa," I muttered. "It's like that fucking dream." I raised my arm up, and moved it around in front of me. "Everything is like... delayed."
     Mario broke out laughing, slapping his knee.
     I looked over at him, smiled, and said, "It's as if you're not there."
     "Okay, man," Mario said, "now how does it feel?"
     "Different," I replied.
     "Have a cigarette. Sit back, relax. There's no reason to worry."
     For what seemed like five minutes, I reached inside my pocket for my pack of cigarettes, slowly took out one cig, and place it between my lips. I felt around inside my pocket for my lighter.
     "Shit," I said, "I lost my lighter."
     "I have it, idiot," Mario said, chuckling.
     "I gave it to you?"
     "Yes, before I rolled the blunt."
     I pondered for a moment, then said, "I...don't remember."
     "Here, I'll light it for you." Mario reached over, held my bic light up to my cigarette, and sparked up the flame. "There you go."
     I began smoking the cigarette, the tobacco smoke smoothly entering and exiting my lungs.
     "See that, Mario," I said.
     "What's that, Olavi?"
     "I didn't even cough."
     He tossed my lighter on my lap. "Don't mean you won't one day get cancer if you'll never quit. So, tell me about Summer."
     "The thing is with Ariel I couldn't achieve the courage to even speak to her throughout all of high school, but with Summer, I felt compelled to speak with her. Like fucking metal to a fucking magnet, man. I'm gonna ask her out on a date, man. I'm serious like an earthquake, I'm gonna ask her out for dinner and a movie the next time I see her at work."
     "You think she'll say, 'yes',?" Mario asked.
     "I could care less about the outcome at this moment, I just want to do it. Are you sure there's no wind?"
     "Dude, there's no fucking wind or breeze, and I ain't blowing on you from where I'm sitting. You're just high as fuck cause it's your first time. Won't be the same after this."
     "You know, Summer says she eats edibles. You ever had an edible before?"
     "You mean like a magic brownie?"
     "Yes. She said something about eating brownies before cutting the turkey for Thanksgiving last week."
     "I've never had an edible before, just smoked blunts and joints."
     "Maybe I'll have her show me how to make magic brownies at her place. That'll be a good way to get closer to her. You know, emotionally."
     "Don't hit the nos too soon, Olavi. I know from experience, better to be friends before lovers. If you become lovers too soon, it won't end well."
     "How long will I be high for?" I asked.
     "I don't know, I told you I've never ate an edible before."
     "No, I mean now."
     "Oh, I don't know. How much you smoke?"
     I began thinking how many times I inhaled. After almost a minute, I said, "I don't remember."
     "You're so fucking high, man." Mario began laughing again.
     I then sat there smoking my cigarette, rubbed my face with my hand, then stood up from the chair, and surprisingly was still well balanced.
     "You think I can walk a straight line again?" I asked.
     "Try it," Mario said.
     I stood still, staring down at the lawn.
     "Well, you gonna walk the line, or not?" Mario asked.
     "I don't want to, cause I'm questioning whether I'm even here, or just in a dream," I said.
     "Come sit back down."
     "You think I'll fall down and not get up, Mario?"
     "No, just come sit, relax, and enjoy the high."
     I did as he suggested.
     "Are your parents leaving this weekend?" he asked.
     "Yes," I said.
     "Then this weekend we get crunked, and you can tell me more about Summer. Right now, love the high under the shade of the clouds."
     About an hour and a half later, when my first high was over, it felt as if a dream ended while I was still awake.
   
   
   

Am I Here?(In Love)

     I do not remember the exact date, nor the exact time on the clock, but I do remember the moment I fell in love with Summer at first sight. Never before had it happened to me up until that time, but the feeling felt so familiar it was as if breathing oxygen after almost drowning. It was about ten to twenty minutes into the workday, when I was scanning Next-day Air packages, and then tossing them into the big containers which were to be driven straight to the airport. On that particular day our team was understaffed, so management called in two people who worked in the morning shift to aid us evening shift people. I was about to scan and toss a package going to Kingsman, Arizona, when I heard a member of the management team call out to the two double-shifters.
     "Go upstairs and sign your names on the staffing sheet in our office," the manager said.
     I looked up from reading the label on the package slowly moving along the conveyer belt, and saw one of the most -- if not the most -- beautiful women I had ever laid my depressed eyes upon as she was turning to make her way to the office at the other side of the building. She wore a gray tank top, baggy blue jeans, black work boots, and a pair of work gloves, one of which she was removing from her right hand so she could use the pen to write her name on the staffing sheet as instructed. Other than her beauty, that's what impressed the most at first, her readiness for work, and fully prepared for the hot evening of hard work. Her beauty though, goddamn what a beautiful girl. Her blue eyes shined like the waters of Bora Bora, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing a beautifully grand face which had not one touch of makeup, and sure as fucking Hell, didn't need any.
     If I had fallen to my knees, injuring myself, and having to take time off work, it would've been worth it.
     The coworker walking beside her I had only noticed in my peripheral. I only knew he had black hair.
     It was a moment I shall always remember. I even know the exact spot I was standing. I was twenty years old at the time, and never before that moment had I ever fallen for a girl so quickly. It was as if I had been struck by lightning, blown off my feet straight into the air, and all I could see was the rest of the world over the walls of my isolation and dark depression.
     I looked back down at the Arizona package, scanned it, picked it up from the conveyer belt, and placed it inside the airport container.
     "What are their names?" I asked my manager.
     "Her name's easy to remember," my manager said. "It's Summer. His I forgot, which is why I had them both sign in. I'm lazy that way."
     "Summer," I said. "Of course her name is Summer."
     "Hey, everyone," my manager called out to the rest of the staff, "Olavi's in love."
     "What's his name?" a coworker asked.
     "Her name's Summer," I corrected. "She's a she. And I don't -- I'm no love." I stammered, scanning a package that didn't go in the container I was loading. "I don't know what you fools are talking about. It's only been like ten seconds since the first time I've seen her."
     "Come on, Olavi," my manager said, "if Helen Keller were here right now, she'd even notice you smitten with hearts in your eyes."
     Most intellectuals in this world have the blue-collar worker all pegged wrong; though most showed up either drunk or high -- management included (as well as I) -- they saw right through me as if they could read my mind.
     Later that evening, as I was loading packages into a trailer, I took any free moment available to look out at the unload area so I could catch a glimpse of her putting a package on the moving conveyer belt -- not that I wanted to see her bend over, I just wanted to see her in all her glory of, you know, existing. The few times I did observe her, she was working close with the other dude from the morning shift, and all I hoped for was that he wasn't her boyfriend. Unloaders usually worked separately along the conveyer belts where the delivery trucks were parked, but these two were basically connected at the hip, unloading the same package cars or ones parked right next to each other. They were both good workers, but I found the sight of them working so close together so disheartening, and I hoped they weren't as close outside work.
     I'm going to fast-forward a bit, because I don't want to bore you with the day-to-day of my work experience at that particular company -- which I shall not name -- nor the consistent routine of unloading, sorting, and then loading customer packages inside a forty-foot trailer. It was probably the best job I've ever had: four to five hour shifts with good pay, and excellent benefits. The perfect part-time job for a college student or a struggling artist, allowing plenty of free time during the day to focus on their passion -- if there was any, that is. I'll admit, I was a twenty year old college dropout, hopelessly finding my voice and craft in my writing of fiction, finding myself in a pool of self-doubt, becoming lazy. I had this cool, original idea for a novel, but I simply was having a difficult time starting it -- debating with myself whether it should be in third-person, or first-person narrative. So I spent a lot of my free time going to the library and reading critically acclaimed novels for inspiration and some semblance of motivation.
     After a while I realized I was not really progressing, but stagnant, stuck in a routine which I had never really left. I quit college because I felt no passion in going to classes, listening to lectures, writing essays, taking exams, study and research for a thesis I literally didn't give a shit about even though I came up with the subject matter, and giving some speech in an attempt to get people to like something which was assigned to me, but I wouldn't give a fuck about it even if I were paid. And those fucking godawful college debates where everyone's mind is already made up before they even start fucking talking. I don't mean to bash those who desire for careers in the medical field, Law, Education, Politics, or Engineering, but those with a passion for the Arts attending college, not only are wasting their money, they're wasting valuable time. You can't find yourself by doing work for others. But I'll tell you this: as you hear my story you will consider me a Dumbass hypocrite, and I'll concur with such criticism because I wasted so much time -- at one point finding myself in debt with no job. We can either learn from other people's mistakes, or learn from our own. Either way, we fucking learn.
     In the routine I found myself in, where I simply was a recluse who woke up, read, watched movies, saved money, and occasionally tried to write a novel, it finally dawned on me I wasn't living a life. Up until I first laid eyes upon Summer I had never had a girlfriend, never had sex, nor kissed a girl. It wasn't that I was a religious person holding onto my virginity until marriage. Hell no. It was just I never made any moves on girls I had crushes on in high school. Back in those days I was mostly depressed, and if I wasn't, I'd just be too chickenshit to ask a girl out on a date.
     In my teenage years I didn't like those popular skanks who everyone knew was bound to get knocked up by the bad-boy-jock-guyhoes by the end of senior year, or at the least, the summer immediately after. The girls I liked -- or I should refer to as ladies -- were the ones more focused on their education, especially ones involved in sports.
     No. I never attended a girl's sports event to gawk at their perfect form... performance. Now that I think about it, maybe I should've sat in the bleachers, shown my support and expressed Minuteman (actual high school mascot, weird) PRIDE! But the ladies probably would have said to each other: Did you notice that guy Olavi always comes to our games, sitting all by himself? I heard he only shows up at the girl's events and never the dude's. Who's he dating? WHAT?! He's single. OH...MY GOD! What a CREEPER!
     The ladies I had a crush on are now either married with children, or have awesome careers and live far away.
     Anyways, back to Summer.
     I never expected to see her again after she first double-shifted, but every once in a while she'd be there, and every time I saw her at work, it was as if seeing her for the very first time all over again. There was this feeling of refreshing excitement, as if my depressed soul were soothed by an ancient tonic long forgotten. For months I didn't get the opportunity to talk to her; by the end of every shift she was there for, she'd be gone by the time I'd clock-out.
     Then a miracle occurred -- a miracle to me anyway. She transferred from the morning shift to the evening, and there she was, my coworker everyday. Everyone else knew I was in love, everyone but her of course. She seemed too focused on her job to notice some dude gawking at her. The fact she'd be naive of my crush on her made me love her even more, because as I mentioned earlier, I don't like attention-seeking skanks.
     For about a month we didn't have a conversation. When we finally did we were alone in a trailer she was loading. I don't remember what I said word for word, but it was about loading boxes in that particular trailer and other bullshit regarding work. I basically said the first things which were coming to mind: These packages are the ones the customers bitch about most cause they're not home to sign for them. When they finally get them, the boxes are half-crushed. Whatever, they're idiots. You don't even have to build walls with the boxes, just put them to the side, or toss 'em. You don't have to feel guilt about it. I never am.
     I don't think Summer said much in reply to what I was saying; probably saying things like, "Wow," "Interesting." Then turning around and going back to work. I probably sounded like a bumbling idiot, but her looking right at me with those beautiful blue eyes when I was speaking made my appearance of idiocy worth it.
     As time passed I would notice more and more Summer appeared sad, like her heart had been broken, or some bad memory left a scar in her mind, and all I wanted to do was make her happy. Hug her, kiss her forehead, telling her there was nothing to be sad about, because no matter what, I'd make my soul purpose in life to make her happy.
     A day before Thanksgiving, during a short break at work, I asked her where in the Bay Area she was going to celebrate the holiday with her family. She informed me her family was the type where everyone simply avoided each other.
     "Sorry to hear about that, Summer," I said.
     "People in my family are selfish trash," she said. "I don't mind anyway. Are you having dinner with your family?"
     "Yes. Family on my father's side. They're religious, but it'll be nice to see them. I hardly see any of my cousins on my dad's side of the family."
     "That's nice," Summer said, placing both her hands under her chin, looking bored.
     "So what're doing tomorrow if you're not eating Thanksgiving food?" I asked. I was working my way to inviting her to my family's dinner.
     She replied, "Oh, I'm still eating Thanksgiving food. With friends. And we're gonna eat edibles an hour before we cut the turkey. We did it last year. It's really fun to be high at Thanksgiving."
     "What's an edible?" I asked, unfamiliar with the context of what she was saying.
     Summer cupped her hand on the side of her mouth, moved closer to my ear, close enough to where I could smell the scent of her hair, and whispered, "Weed." She then backed away, looking around to see if anyone else was listening. "Last year we made cookies. This year I'm baking brownies."
     That evening I laid in bed having a hard time falling asleep because I couldn't get Summer out of my mind. I so desperately wanted to talk to her more, learn everything about her: where she was born, how old she was, her favorite color, her interests, her favorite book, when she first kissed a boy, her first crush, and so on and so on. I thought of her so much that night, I believe I only had an hour of sleep.
     I thought about what she had said in regards to eating weed brownies with her friends on Thanksgiving day. The thing was, up until that time I had never tried marijuana. Most of my coworkers smoked weed. Seemed like everyone smoked something illegal at that company. A lot of meth heads. My friend Mario smoked weed, and had tried for the past year to convince me to at least try it. He told me if I didn't enjoy it, then I obviously wouldn't have to do it again. And coincidentally, as I lay in the dark, imagining hanging out with Summer and all her friends at a party at one of their apartments, Mario called me on my cellphone.
     "Hey, man," he said, obviously stoned. "Olavi."
     "Yeah, Mario, what do you want?" I asked.
     "You don't have to be rude, man."
     "What time is it?" I asked.
     "Like, almost three," he said. "Why?"
     "And you expect me not to be rude, Mario? It's three in the morning."
     He sighed heavily into the phone. "Well, are you tired?"
     "No, I'm still awake. I'm just saying, man, it's the principal."
     "Olavi, we're not in school anymore. We don't have a principal."
     Jesus Christ, I thought, is it cause he's high, or simply naive.
     "I was calling you to ask you a question," Mario said. I could hear him blowing out smoke.
     "And that is?"
     There was a pause. I could hear the sounds of him toking hard, then blowing out smoke.
     He finally said, "Will you ever, at least once, smoke weed with me, your bestest of all bestests friends in the wholed wide earth?"
     I was silent for nearly a minute, thinking about the moment Summer moved close to my ear, her hand covering her mouth, and the scent of her hair. How much I wanted that hand to touch my face, how I desired more than anything to put my arms around her and touch her hair with my nose so I could get a close and clearer whiff of her blond, naturally scented hair.
     "Did this mothafucka' just hang up on me, man?" Mario said to someone with him.
     "Yes," I said into the phone. "The next time we hangout I'll do it. I hope it's as good as cigarettes."
     "Man, the shit's so good, you may quit tobacco for good," Mario said, nearly cheering.
     "Unlikely," I said. "Have you ever had an edible?"

SOC #42: Sheltered Riot

Olavi: "Let me tell you a story about the time my cousin Antonio and I went to the Coachella Music Festival in the summer of 2007. We took a train, then a bus down to Southern California. On the train we met two Canadian dudes from British Colombia or wherever the fuck, and had a long conversation about the differences between our two great nations. By the end of the train ride, I realized there honestly was no difference. Well, they learn French and English in grade school. Anyways, we then had to take a 3 hour bus ride to where the Festival was located. Antonio planned our ride to the place, I bought the tickets for the three days of the festival, and provided the tent for the campgrounds where we'd be sleeping at. This was the first time either of us had been to a big multi-staged music festival. The only reason I wanted to go was because Rage Against The Machine were reuniting for a show since disbanding seven years before. We made it through security with no fuss. I snuck in a flask of vodka, and some cigarettes with tobacco and weed packed in together. After being assigned our camping spot, we started to put up my tent. Antonio ended up doing most of the work, because I started drinking vodka from the flask and became useless. He didn't drink, nor did he smoke anything. A clean cut, smooth sailing guy, my cousin. I thought he'd live it up and imbibe some booze on this trip, but no. He'd say, 'I'm just not into it, Olavi.' I'd say, 'Fine, more for me. You might have to carry me here to the tent tomorrow if I go overboard.' He said, 'Look, you're family, and I love you, but I ain't carrying your fat-ass all the way here. There's security for that.' The tent was up, our things inside the tent. It was night time, so we went to the venders and bought ourselves pizza. He drank pepsi. I drank a Miller. We then went back to our tent and met one of our fellow campers. They said they drove all the way from Oregon. I forgot everything else they said. All I remember was it was two dudes and a chick in a menage a trois relationship, and all I was interested in was the fact they were passing around a weed pipe and they were nice enough to let me smoke some. The next three days were awesome. Saw a lot of great bands, but mostly ones I'd never find myself listening to on a regular basis. There were displays of Art all over the place, structures made by passionate individuals. One was a big locomotive which would annoyingly blast it's horn every ten minutes. I hated that fucking thing. Guess it was suppose to represent humanities horrifying treatment of planet Earth, blah blah blah. Anyways, at the end of the first day, my cousin and I were sleeping in our tent. I was so drunk I slept in an awkward angle where my foot was sticking out the front of the tent. And obviously a damn hippie hoodlum came up and tickled my foot. I jolted awake, saying, 'Fucking shit! Bastards!' The culprit was gone. Antonio said, 'The fuck you bitching about, drunk.' I said, 'A clown tickled me, man.' He asked, 'How?' I answered, 'My foot was sticking out the door.' He suggested, 'How about you bring your foot inside.' I said, 'I got a nice cigar. You wanna have some of it with me?' He said, 'No, you idiot. I've told you, I don't want to smoke anything, I don't want to drink any booze, I just want to enjoy the music. And in order to do that I need fucking sleep, not stay up late smoking a fucking cigar.' I looked at my watch, and informed, 'But it's like, eleven-thirty, man. It's like early, man. Do you hear that outside?' He said, 'Yeah.' I said, 'The people cackling laughter, people singing, guitars playing, and the drums pounding. Those, my dear cousin, are the sounds of life - not simply life - the love of life. They're all making love to life out there, Antonio, and all you want to do is sleep.' He said, 'You're drunk babbling, and everyone out there is on drugs. The drums don't even have any fucking rhythm. My mother would be disgusted by those fools.' I said, 'You know, your sister would be proud you came to Coachella with me. The last thing she told me was to get out of the house and do things. I'm sure she said the same thing to you.' He said, 'I know. I just don't want to get drunk or high.' I said, 'You don't have to get drunk or high. Look, man, lets share the cigar I brought, and walk around the campground for an hour, until the cigar goes out, then we can go to sleep.' He said, 'I don't want to inhale that shit.' I informed, 'Cigars are for the taste, you don't inhale the smoke.' He finally sat up in the tent. I sat up as well, reaching in my backpack for the cigar and my lighter. I said, 'This could be the only one you'll ever smoke in your entire life.' We spent the rest of that first night wandering around the tents, puff and passing the cigar back and forth. I smoked it more than he did. When we stopped to watch a bunch of morons on shrooms try to play their instruments, I asked him, 'How you like the cigar?' He said, 'It's okay, but I don't find it appealing.' He then gave out a small, genuine cough. I said, 'Even tomatoes aren't for everybody.' The next morning, before they let people back into the festival, a girl came up to me and asked if I had shrooms. I said, 'I don't do shrooms.' She then said, 'Why?' Then continued to walk around, inquiring if anyone had shrooms to spare. A year later I would find out why shrooms were loved by millions of drug abusers. Later that day, at the Stephen Marley concert, a man was walking around the crowd, holding up a sign that said: I need LSD. And, yes, a year later I'd find out why people enjoyed that shit. That night I drank a few beers, a strong Bloody Mary, and passed out, sleeping like a dead man, dreaming about a field of daisies being crushed by an armored tank. I woke up the next morning truly rejuvenated. Antonio told there had been a near riot at 3am. Riot police showed up. The campers, those stoned idiots wouldn't stop with the drums, so people who lived in homes near the festival called the cops. The stoned idiots threw bottles at the police, calling them Nazi's and yelling obscenities about their mothers. A helicopter flew overhead with the guy who ran the Coachella Festival yelling into a bullhorn, calming down the crowd of idiots, telling them to go back to their tents and to please be quiet. 'Peace and Love is what we should be about,' he had said. Antonio said, 'I can't believe that shit didn't wake you up.' A year later I had forgotten about youth's desire to treat stupidity like it were just another night club to do ecstasy in. My cousin had not followed me down such a path. His sister would have been proud."

SOC #41: New Year Cooky

Olavi: "There was once a time when I was young, fresh out of high school, and had a mature sense of rationality where, if I had made more formulaic decisions, I wouldn't have the time to actually tell you this story of New Years Eve 2004. My friend Mario and his two friends, Salvio, and Chris took a flight from San Fransisco Airport at around 6pm to Las Vegas for the New Years celebration. It was a spur of the moment invitation by Mario only days before. He called me up and asked, "Hey, Olavi, wanna go to Vegas for New Years?" At first, the words I really wanted to say were, "No. Not last minute like this. I don't feel like it. Not my thing." But I must've been actually silent for nearly half a minute, because Mario said into my ear, "Did Olavi hang up on me?" I said, "No, I'm still here, man." Mario then said, "Well, you wanna go or not?" In the split second before I answered, I thought about the last moment I saw my cousin two weeks before she died. Olavi, she had said, you got to get out of the house more. Go do stuff. Go party, kid. Do it when you're young, because believe me, the older you get the less fun you'll be able to have. Where's your mom's cookies? As I remembered, I said, "Cookies." Mario asked, "What's that you say?" I said, "Okay, I'll go. Is it just you and me?" Mario wooed with excitement in my ear. I said, "Damn, man. I don't want to watch fireworks def." Mario then said, "About fucking time you do something fun for yourself. It just won't be you and I. Chris and Salvio are coming as well. Chris booked everything. The flight, the room, everything, man." So a few days later, on New Years Eve, our flight landed in Vegas just before 8pm. After picking up our luggage I followed Chris and the rest as we wandered around the Vegas airport. I had no clue what we were looking for; we weren't headed outside where all the taxi's were but inside where people seemed to be standing around, waiting for whoever and whatever. Chris then appeared from the crowd of people with a man wearing a suit, and holding a sign with Chris' full named written on it. It was a fucking limo driver. I couldn't believe it. We were headed to the fucking hotel on the Las Vegas strip inside a fucking limo on New Years Eve with the celebration just around the corner. I felt good, great, excellent, and elated with the decision I had made. Sometimes it's okay to spoil yourself and just eat the damn cooky. We sat inside the stretch limo as the driver drove us through the city, the strobe and neon lights passing by. Salvio noticed there was a CD player in the roof over the back seat. He put in some rap music. The speakers blasted with true gangsta lyrics. I wish he had let me play some of my Danzig music, then I would've truly enjoyed the short trip to the hotel. I looked out the window as the limo was nearing its destination. The Luxor. That black pyramid with the white light of a tip, stretching its beam up into the dark, starless sky. Cooky, I thought to myself. Mario and I stood far from the front desk as Chris was checking himself and Salvio into the room. The thing was Chris only booked two people into the room, not all four of us. So Mario and I just stood at the border of where the lobby ended and the Casino began. I was admiring the decor of the Luxor when Mario said, "Doesn't look good." I asked, "What do you mean?" He said, pointing, "Look." I looked over and saw Chris arguing with the clerk, but it wasn't the clerk, it was the fucking manager. I asked, "You think they saw us, saw we were Mexican, put two and two together? Figured things out? Fucking bastards." Mario looked over at me, "You don't even look Mexican, you half-gringo." I said, "Hey, that kind of hurts my feelings. Sometimes I do wish I was born a little darker." Mario said jokingly, "Bullshit." I emphasized, "Key word, Mario, 'Sometimes.'" Chris and Salvio appeared. Chris said, "They won't give us the fucking room." Mario asked, "Why the fuck not? You made the reservation weeks ago." Salvio informed, "They said it was because we weren't twenty-fucking-one." I said, "What's us not being twenty-one have to do with sleeping in the Luxor?" Chris said, "Cause the fucking mini-bar in the room. If all of us are under twenty-one it's a fucking liability. Fucking morons didn't tell me when I booked it. But the manager said this kind of shit happens all the time, so they booked us a room at a cheaper hotel." Mario inquired, "Is it on the strip?" Salvio said, "He said it was." I said, "I bet he's fucking full of shit." We went back outside and got into the cab. The cab driver told us the hotel we were headed to was a mile off the strip. Chris said, "That lying cocksucker. Olavi, you were right. Fuckers don't care about us underage people. They just want all the money they can SUCK OUT OF YOU!" Salvio said, "Hey, it ain't all bad. It's like just after ten-thirty, we can make in time for the fireworks." The cab driver said, with a heavy Russian accent, "Good luck with that." Then he chuckled. I said, "Still a good cooky." Mario asked, "What?" I said, "Nothing." We made it to the cheap-ass hotel, checked in as fast as we could, dropped off our luggage inside the room, and then waited ten minutes outside for another cab. The cab couldn't make it all the way to the strip due to heavy traffic and the fact some roads were blocked off for the nights celebration. Mario paid the cab driver, we got out, then ran on foot to the strip. Yes, we made it to the crowd of drunk people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. During this time of my life I had never been drunk, and I simply stared at all the people around me, all the tourists, from all around the country and all around the world, and thought in my sober mind how much I didn't want to be like them. I saw all these smiles, heard all the laughter, saw bravery in men walking up to beautiful women and begging for their love. What I truly saw, as my friends and I waited for the year 2005 to arrive, were unhappy people numbing themselves into a fantasy which would never come. I saw the biggest wish for an eternal utopia in those faces and eyes, and the minds behind them were full of dreams never coming true. At this time in my life I was in between joy and depression, and when the big sign said Happy New Year 2005. I could only hear annoying bangs of colorful lights in the sky, and annoying shouts from drugged up, drunken fools. We continued to walk through the strip as the new year began to go and go as it always did. Mario turned to me and said, "Dude, look." I inquired, "Where?" He said, pointing, "Up there. The dude is climbing that big neon sign. Fucking awesome." People began to cheer and woo, clap and whistle. Then a big flash of sparks burst from the sign. A light brighter than any of the fire works. I covered my eyes for a second. I uncovered them a moment later as the cheers changed to screaming. The neon sign was out of power. The man was gone. Salvio yelled, "The fucking guy just fried." Everyone ran. Later, we would find out the man was from the Bay Area in California. Not only that, he was from where Mario and I lived. We later found ourselves inside a new cab headed for the hotel. Chris asked the driver, "Is there an eighteen-and-up strip club in Las Vegas?" Fifteen minutes later we were sitting inside a dirty fucking strip club in the front row. It was nearly empty. I wasn't enjoying myself like the others were who looked on the stage like drooling dogs, so hypnotized by the naked lady onstage, going up and down on the damn pole, crawling pathetically on the ground right in front of us. She beckoned for Mario who, like a Zombie in a horror film, went up to her obediently at the edge of the stage. She touched him all over. He got carried away and rubbed both her inner thighs with his hands. She pushed them away immediately, waving her finger before his eyes, saying, "No, no, bad boy." I simply sat there uninterested, smoking a cigarette. I'm not saying strip clubs shouldn't exist, but goddamn, they're fucking boring. I'll admit, I was a virgin at that time, and I love pussy, but I certainly was not a dog with his pink lipstick dick poking out. The found the faces of the men more interesting - and honestly more fucking hilarious - as they stared at the strippers onstage. Seriously, why pay to see a comedian when you can look at a man mesmerized by a naked woman. When the place closed, we were outside getting a cab, but the fucking greedy cabdrivers wanted to charge us fifty bucks for a most likely fifteen dollar drive to the hotel cause of the traffic from the New Years Celebration. We ended up paying one of the drivers, but guess what, NO TRAFFIC; city workers had already cleared the strip for civilian traffic, so the roads flowed smoothly. Chris was fucking pissed, so he got the cab driver to stop at a gas station and buy us underage kids a case of Corona. The driver said, "I could lose my job." Chris said, "No, you won't." We got back to the hotel with the twelve Coronas. I didn't drink any. I just didn't feel like it. I thought about that idiot who electrocuted himself to death on that night. It wasn't because he wanted to die, it was because he was a drunken moron trying to impress a girl who was probably actually a hooker he couldn't afford. Such a thought made me sleep well. I didn't want to spoil myself by eating too many cookies. Three years later I'd find myself back in Vegas with magic cookies, and numbing myself from the fire, because, with the right drugs, one can have a wonderful time in Hell."

SOC #40: Olavi's paper scars

Olavi: "I don't have any visible scars on my skin. I've never been stabbed, but I've had a knife pulled on me. I've never been shot, but I've had a gun drawn on me. I've done plenty of drugs, but never got to a point where I fell down stairs, crashed my car, ran into a glass wall, jumped off a building with the thought I could fly, or have been beaten to a bloody pulp by a fool. My hearts been broken, shattered to pieces, but there's never a scar for any us who have suffered such travesty. My scars are within my own mind, memories which triggered my last great horror, faded by the passing of time - many years, in fact - for me to regurgitate into words a prolonged experience I hopefully will never live again. I say 'regurgitate' for I feel it's the healthiest way to relieve what I consider an aggravation of silence. Of course I could tell a completely fictional tale that has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell, but lets face it, every fiction was inspired by truth in some for or another. I looked at the stories I had written and saw myself in them, like pieces of a puzzle I stole from a box and reshaped for selfish reasons. When I finally had come to this realization, I said, 'What the Hell. I'll simply write about myself, get it all off my chest. All those times on drugs. The sex, the booze, the parties, the field of weed, the house of weed, the trip to Vegas and Comic-con, the two psychosis', and the suicide attempt in one epic of an autobiography.' What it really took was a painting I had someone make of myself with my shirt off, my devilock down over my face, and a cigarette hanging from my lips - also my beer gut sticking out in front of me. I looked upon this image, and asked aloud to myself, 'Am I Here?' And like that one chef use to say, BAM! I had another novel in mind with all my good and bad memories inside it. It would be like James Frey's Million Little Pieces, but without all the heroin use, and the fact he called it a memoir when it really was semi-autobiographical fiction. 'Fuck it,' I said to myself, still looking down at the painted image of my fat-ass, 'It will be fictional, because I want the story to be more entertaining than what happened in reality, more intense, more drugs, more sexual content, and... a lot more drugs, like shrooms laced with acid, and.... more cocaine. I mean, there's no other drug that makes a story about drug abuse better than cocaine. And the psychosis parts will be each FIFTY PAGES LONG! No paragraph breaks.' Okay, it's not Olavi talking right now, it's actually the writer of these words. Don't worry, the author is not suffering a mental breakdown, or some kind of split personality kind of thing. But you'd find that more interesting if that were really happening, wouldn't you, you reader? For you love the dramatic over the mundane sanity. Moving on. I want to show off my scars in the form of words to whoever will read them. Will the story be entertaining? Yes, I think so. Will it be any good? How the Hell should I know? Honestly, I don't even care. I don't even care how this blog post will be perceived by others. I think it's gone too far out to sea, pulled by the tide to be honest, because I had some idea on how this would go, like I'd get into something about how the consequence of losing ones own mind - no matter how innocent the circumstances - will be the fact that some of the people you care about will avoid you at all costs, never saying a word to you for years. Or if you don't cry when your heart is broken by a woman you'd thought would be in your life until death, the bitch wasn't worth it, and you tell everyone if she ever called you back, you'd tell her, 'FUCK OFF! YOU CUNT!' Then after two years, she sends you an e-mail telling you how much she missed you and regrets not calling you, she feels bad about it and all that shit, then inside you cry with joy like a Star Wars fanboy meeting Mark Hamill for the first time at the airport. Or the fact I didn't end up in jail a few times doesn't mean it was worth it. Anyways, where was I? Fuck. I always get lost in these little insignificant tirades I find myself doing. Kind of like the times I'd smoke weed and talk philosophically for hours. I'm done doing that mundane horse-shit anymore. I don't even care if weed's legalized. I ain't touching it. By the way, none of this is ending up in Am I Here? So don't think this is some special sample. Damn, this post has really gone off the deep end, hasn't it? Okay then, I'll give you a sample: 'In Vegas, my friend Mario and I were invited to a penthouse suite at the MGM Grand by this rich guy (I forgot his name, so don't ask) where we witnessed his wife and four hookers stand in a circle, taking turns (Warning: adult content)... peeing inside an empty pitcher. When they were done, the rich man picked it up and began drinking the piss in large, unwavering gulps. We screamed in disgust, horror, and genuine shock, then ran the fuck out of there.' Did you like that? If you didn't, go read squeaky clean fucking Twilight, or some other escapist bullshit. There be only truth and honesty in the stories I tell, whether fictional, or inspired by fact. The next chapter of Am I Here? coming soon. It's the best part, where I fell in love with Summer. No, not the season, the person, a real kind and beautiful woman. She took my virginity, you know. Olavi OUT!" \m/