NoHo Dinner

NoHo Dinner

A NoHo dinner starts with deciding you're hungry.
This is not a decision to eat
The 7-11 can satisfy hunger.
It is not a place to eat.

So I decide I'm hungry.
And I leave my apartment.
And I wave to the Mexicans in my complex.
Outside it's a cold Floridian blood isn't used to.

I don't think anything's going to happen tonight.

Outside,
Leaning against a lawn fence,
Two Mexican boys,
Can't be older than me,
Are drinking and smoking.

And it doesn't smell like cigarettes.

I wave.
I would say, Hi,
But I don't know Spanish.
I say, How ya' doin'?

One of them nods.
But they don't seem happy.
About me.

I'm wearing my black laundry day jeans today.
Faded.
Wrinkled.
Three sizes too small.
Primus patch sewn onto the back pocket.
I've had these jeans since the sixth grade.
I don't usually wear them because they make me look like a
thirty-year-old fag.

Walking past these two Mexican boys,
Thick flannel jackets,
Hard dark looks,
Pot,
I'm thinking, Now might not be the best time to look like a
thirty-year-old fag.

I'm also wondering if the hoods makes them technically hoodlums.
But if it's based on hoods that would make the KKK hoodlums.
Which they are.
Maybe the word started with them.
How ironic that these two people could be compared.

No offense.

I'm a block away from the good ole' boys,
Still two blocks from the 7-11,
And from down the street comes a bright array of colors.
Fourth of July Style.
The whole street looks different.
The walls going:
Blue, White, Red, White, Blue&;#8230;
You get the idea.

And it wasn't accompanied by the triumphant explosions of Democracy
that come with fireworks.
No.
But it was loud.
The piercing blast,
The iodine missile of a siren.

Apparently the red coupe didn't care about patriotism.
Because the policeman had to shout through his megaphone, Stop the
car.
Get out of the car.
See this wonderous visual display that I am putting on for you.

And this middle-aged woman in cheap clothes gets out.
She's crying.
Thank God there was a cop there to save us from this menace.
This terror of little old ladies who think they can peacefully drive
dirty old cars.
Thank God he wasn't watching a bank or a convenience store.
Keeping the peace.
Fucking cops.

No offense.

And as I slide past him I give him a thumbs-up.
He doesn't return it.

After another block I come to the crosswalk that normally I wouldn't
care about.
But the cop is right there.
They ticket for that here.

I wait,
And the cold gets denser.

A mud-brown, mud-thick parade of water and trash runs through the
gutter.
Look at me, it says.
I'm the dirty, scripted pollution of this God-foresaken city.
I'm what all the Movie Stars are worried about.
Think Globally.
Act Locally.
I find a wadded receipt in my jacket pocket;
Toss it in the river.
Done my part.

The sign starts telling me to walk.
By the time I'm off the curb it's telling me to stop.
Too late.
If I stop now some middle-aged woman with no money and bad taste will
run me down with her red coupe.
I gotta protect myself.

I'm not strong enough for this place.

Just past the crosswalk is the furniture store.
At least I think it's a furniture store.
It's full of cheap couches and chairs.
And I thought I saw price tags.
But all of its signs are in crazy gibberish that,
I'm sure,
Literally translated means, Laugh at the gringo we won't sell furniture
to.
This is furniture for us oppressed folk.
Not silly white males who think they can live wherever they want.
Too bad.
I could use a new couch.

No offense.

And past the furniture store is the ice cream shop.
I miss ice cream.
And despite the cold I'm going to make it part of tonight's
dinner.
Desert.
I miss desert.
Or dessert.
I live in one and eat the other.
But I can't remember which I do which.

Fast approaching is my five-star, grade-A restaurant.
I know it's "grade-A" because they have to display that in the
window.

But first I must ford the treacherous natural American land.
The parking lot.
Wide.
Pointy.
Filled with tiger traps and spilled petrol.
Grit.
And then my oasis.
Lewis and Clarke had it easy.

I can hear my sandal-soles grind like brake-pads wearing thin.
And I think I've stripped my gears.

A new chapter of Mexican Klan has sprung up.
They sit in front of the Laundromat.
Play some game with a bottle.
They like me even less.
I'm trembling terrified.
Like prey.
Thank god the rotten stench of their clothing masks the cologne of fear
I'm wearing.

No offense.

And worse yet.
Two cops,
Black and white,
Stand in the doorway of my safe haven.
They don't trust this baby-faced twenty-year-old thirty-year-old
fag.
They barely let me through the door.
I give them a thumbs-up.

Hurry past the all-seeing eye of the guru behind the counter.
My dinner is freezing in the back.

Before I get to the main course,
I grab an appetizer.
A Styrofoam cup.
I take it to the French Vanilla hose on the cappuccino machine.
Release When Cup Is 2/3 Full.
Hey,
Buddy,
I'm a pro.
I know when it's full.
Don't instruct me on filling coffee cups.
And for the first time in all the years I've been doing this,
The cup over flows.
The guru's gaze is lecture enough.
Put me in my place.

I search through all the lids.
Find the most decorative one with all those punch tabs.

Time for dinner.

Like a phantom he's there.
Legless.
Young.
Torn green jacket.
He sits in his chair like it's anything but a throne.
He's a used cog of the military-industrial complex.
Worn treadbare.
They pay him to keep his mouth shut.
A nut on the assembly line can witness a lot of safety
violations.
Of course,
I'm just waiting for him to ask for my change.

No offense.

But he doesn't.
He asks, Have you tried these new Coolatas?
And I have.
And I love them.
And I recommend the French Vanilla.
Even though it's cold out.
He says, I know.
But they look good.
And I smile and agree.

Because I'm feeling rich I grab the big burrito.
Obviously better.
With green chili.
A minute thirty in that steel microwave of theirs.
Open hole to ventilate.
Forty-five seconds then flip.
I'm a regular chef.
Bam!

I walk over to the counter.
Inspect the candy prospects.
But then I remember the ice cream.

The gimp is positioned in front of the hot dog fixin's.
He asks me if I like relish.
I shake my head,
Even though I do.
All the best ones have relish.
Or so he says.
Then comes the gratifying beep.
I'm done, yells my burrito.
Come.
Taste of my delicious green chili.
I don't ask.

At the counter I add a pack of Parliament Light 100's with the recessed
filter to my list.
$3.72 for the cigarettes.
$1.49 - burrito
89cent - coffee.
8\% tax.
$6.59 - total.
I have eight dollars.
I love the guru's accent when he counts back my change.

I stand outside and unwrap my burrito.
Hold it close to my chest.
I sip my coffee.
I cock my hip.
Now I'm a thirty-year-old fag hooker.
The first bite if all bread.
Tortilla.

I'm thinking, What an uneventful night.

That's when I notice this cubby black kid walking toward me.
He's got a stack of yellow papers in one hand.
Threatening.
I'm in trouble now.
He's gonna kill me for my dollar forty-one.

No offense.

I look to the cops.
Find them leaning against the trunk of their squad car.
Eating donuts.
It's too classic to be real.

The black kid is closer to me.
He's older now.
Maybe my age.
He says, Hey, man.
I say it, too.

He says, Have you found God?
Shit.
I think he's between my couch cushions.
He hands me one of his precious pieces of paper.
Gold.
Sunlight with something about a large meal.
At a local church.
He asks what church I go to.
What denomination are you?
Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus?
Do you read the Bible everyday?

I don't,
I'm not,
Yes,
And no.

Jesus and I, we go back aways.
I told him I was coming out here.
He told me tough break.

Then this chubby black God-banger asks me if I tithe.
If you don't tithe, he asks, how can you love God?
I tell him my heater's broken.
My disposal is broken.
My rent is late.
My phone is being cut off.
I think God understands.
And I tell him I want to help.
I want to chuck money at social problems.
At domestic abuse, drug abuse, child abuse.
At poverty.
Like the Movie Stars.
And he says, Even if you get a man off drugs; get him to stop beating
his family; get him a good job, a good home; get him to love one and
all,
He still goes to Hell.
He's still worthless.
It's not even worth challenging.
He's right.
Quality of life is nothing compared to imaginary death benefits.

No offense.

I tell him I'll try to do better.
If he'll read another book.
He won't,
But neither will I.
He leaves.

My coffee's getting cool enough to slurp.
Those harder Mexicans are still there.
They stare at me.
They send waves of violent intention.
If I strut over there like a dirty, worthless pimp, and bum their
cigarettes, and ask them for money, and berate their social standing,
would they accept me?

No offense.

The cops see the dynamic.
The need to take charge.
To be cops.
On their way over to the Mexicans they swagger.
Only cops can pull off swaggerin'.
The way the shoulders lift and drop.
The way the hips roll the invisible square hula-hoop.
The white one hikes his gunbelt.
His gut fights with him.
Literally.

The Mexicans smile at them and laugh.
Like they were invited.
It's all brotherhood out here.
I strain to listen to the jargon.
Sulfurous smoldering in the inner canal.
Because fingers keep flying.
Accusingly.
At me.
Witch.
Commie.
Republican.
I'm screwed.

The white one breaks off from the pack,
Leaving the minorities to their own devices.
One day there will be a white Klan.
That'll show 'em.
Try to enjoy life in my country, will you?

The white one gets to me,
Still struggling with that distension he calls a stomach.
What are you doing here, son, he asks.
What?
You mean this street or born in general?
The cop wrinkles his nose.
Don't smart off to me, son.
You got it, dad.
Then comes the third degree.
Had hydrochloric acid spilled on my arm in the seventh grade.
Feels a lot like that.
Do you live here, son? Here? This town? What street? What do you love
most about the 7-11? Is this where you meet your connection? What's in
that burrito?
I spend the whole time staring at his gun.

Now we're both men of business.
So the cop makes his way around to a point.
I think you should move along, son.
I ask if there's any reason.
Any reason?
Those guys over there.
They aren't too happy about you.
Well, that's the price they have to pay to live in this beautiful free
country.
The cop alludes that they don't want to pay.
They don't have the money.

Then tell them to move along.
I'm not bothering anyone.

You're bothering them.

It's my fault if they turn violent?

It's your fault if they turn violent.

This fucking city!

No offense.

I thank the cop for the heads up.
After all I can't expect him to endanger himself.
He's got a family.
Who have I got?
That he knows about.

I chuck the last bit of burrito in the proper waste receptacle.
All tortilla.
Start the hero's trek home.
It's all too familiar now.
Except the ice cream shop.
That's more deja vu.
I must have seen it when I was an Egyptian princess.
Ice cream would go well with my coffee.

Inside is like the Lynch version of classic.
Creepy children painted on the walls.
The lights flicker.
The girl behind the counter,
However,
She looks like sunshine.
She has the kind of body that makes me wish I knew Spanish.
I try to say Hi.
I try to be funny.
She doesn't get it.
No matter what it is.
Not because it's English.
Because it's me.
I have to point to the butter pecan.
I have to point to the sugar cone.
I have to point to her ass.
She only rings up the cone.
One dollar.
I love the way she says dollar.
Then I've overstayed my welcome.

Outside the streets are the NoHo-version of empty.
i.e. Full.
I get a bodyguard back to my apartment complex.
A black angel.
With a long black leather trench-coat.
Smoking those cigarettes that don't smell like cigarettes.
Tangle with me and you tangle with him.
He's so good he doesn't even look at me.
Or acknowledge me.
No one would guess he's my bodyguard.

I pack my cigarettes.
I unwrap them.
You first open a pack it looks like a never-ending supply.
I'll never run out.

Slide that stick between my lips.
Flick it with my tongue.
If only it was tiny and rounded and squealed like a woman.

I do one of my lighter tricks.
It impresses me.
It's so satisfying that it hurts to walk.

But I trudge.
Gotta warn 'em about the Red Coats.
Godzilla is coming.
The Beatles are singing on the rooftop.
No one cares.
Because nobody cares about them.
And that's all anyone cares about.
Not me.

No offense.