My Thirtieth Birthday Bash
2 Coronas and a rum at Rozelle's. Tim and Sera took me to Tom Bergen's for an Irish coffee.
Tu 5-26-98 9:10 AM
A week later! Holy crap. Wednesday night I wanted to go out and blow the last two hours of my twenties, but no one wanted to go out except the Gip, but he got mad at me when I hung up on him twice when he said Piazza should go to the Giants or the Padres. Carlin came up and pestered me all night. It seems like she's trying to get some dick. I don't have the heart to tell her it's out of the question. So, I sat on the couch and drank beer by myself while I turned thirty, slumped in the TV chair, brooding, Leno flickering on the walls. I woke up the next morning, not bitter or depressed, but empty and scared. I guess you could write a novel about what scared me, but in a few words, it must be my total lack of courage. By the time I got to school, though, the bitter depression had replaced the empty fear. I buried it under my public façade to perform my public duties as a public school teacher. I gave myself to the kids. When school ended, I was about to walk home when Rozelle called across the playground. I had been helping her with her resume a day earlier and something came up about birthdays and she learned that mine was imminent. "So," she now said, "Zurn, what's up for your birthday?" "Nothing," I said, "I'm probably just going to go home and drink." She said, "Get in my car." Good old Rozelle. We went to a place on Melrose called Hot Wings and drank some beer. Then she drove us over to Gabi's house. Maria and Maria showed up, and we went back to my house where my brother was waiting with five cases of beer. I picked up a bottle of bourbon and one of tequila. And we drank and partied and danced and limboed around the living room. We played quarters and drank tequila shots. Soon the room was littered with dozens of dead beer cans. GIP and Thing showed up. Montes brought some lemons and limes. Somewhere along the line, though, the girls left, and things got weird. I don't remember exactly what sparked it, but my brother and I started going at it over his disrespectful, free-loading, fucked-up, ungrateful, never-ending rip-off attitude. Some might say it was just the flammability of the mescal, but I squared off with him, and I tell you, it had to be done. What were the exact words? We'll never know, but the result was we went after each other. It sucked because 250-pound Gip was holding back 200-pound me while 170-pound Thing was holding back 220-pound Mac. A few bruises and other assorted sore spots were incurred in the melee but no significant damage. I don't remember the exact order of events, but I let it go with "Change your tune or get out of my house!" and everyone said, "Come on. Forget it. Let's go to a bar." So I went and showered. When I was done showering and started to get dressed, I was still too disgusted to go anywhere, so I just sat in my closet brooding. I heard everyone start asking where I was. Someone peeked in my bedroom, but didn't see me in the closet. "He's not in his room." I just sat there and listened. I couldn't have asked for a better birthday present. To be a fly on the wall at your own anti-funeral, to listen to the people closest to you speak freely from their hearts about you, without knowing you are there. "I bet he walked up to Molly Malone's." I heard. "I bet you're right." "Should we go up there?" "Screw it."
They went on to take turns talking about what a fucked-psycho I am. I don't remember what exactly they said, unfortunately, but it wasn't actually as instructive as I might have hoped. Each one of the bastards seemed to think they had the perfect insight into the psyche of John Zurn. Fucking hypocrites. One time John did this. Another time John did that. He's throwing his life away." Maybe he went to Shirelle's," one of them said. They paged her. She called right back. She told them I wasn't with her. "Whatever you do," one of them said, "Don't tell him how quickly she called back." Everyone agreed on that. I walked out to get a beer. It was funny watching them trying to quietly play it off. "Johnny Boy, where you been? You been in there the whole time?"
"I shit on all of you," I said like Tom Berenger in Platoon when he listened to his men plot his murder. It was calm for a while. The eye of the hurricane. But soon my brother started talking his usual smack where he thinks he is the Alpha Dog when he brings nothing to the table (Five cases of beer on this one occasion notwithstanding). I roared and went after him with my one wood. I cracked it over his fucking car and the head went flying from the shaft. All of a sudden cop cars came rushing up and stopped. Maybe they'd been on call since our earlier brawl. Nine of them, nine cops, frisked us on the front lawn. They told Mac to go home, but he was too drunk to drive and too broke for a cab. "We can take him in if you don't want him here. You want us to take your own brother in?" I didn't say anything, but turned after a few seconds and went back up into the house to ice my broken finger. I went into my room and passed out.
5-27-98 W 7:33 AM
The next day, we drove out to Havasu together, Shirelle, Mitch, Mac, and me. I drove us in the LeBaron with the top down.
Tu 5-26-98 9:10 AM
A week later! Holy crap. Wednesday night I wanted to go out and blow the last two hours of my twenties, but no one wanted to go out except the Gip, but he got mad at me when I hung up on him twice when he said Piazza should go to the Giants or the Padres. Carlin came up and pestered me all night. It seems like she's trying to get some dick. I don't have the heart to tell her it's out of the question. So, I sat on the couch and drank beer by myself while I turned thirty, slumped in the TV chair, brooding, Leno flickering on the walls. I woke up the next morning, not bitter or depressed, but empty and scared. I guess you could write a novel about what scared me, but in a few words, it must be my total lack of courage. By the time I got to school, though, the bitter depression had replaced the empty fear. I buried it under my public façade to perform my public duties as a public school teacher. I gave myself to the kids. When school ended, I was about to walk home when Rozelle called across the playground. I had been helping her with her resume a day earlier and something came up about birthdays and she learned that mine was imminent. "So," she now said, "Zurn, what's up for your birthday?" "Nothing," I said, "I'm probably just going to go home and drink." She said, "Get in my car." Good old Rozelle. We went to a place on Melrose called Hot Wings and drank some beer. Then she drove us over to Gabi's house. Maria and Maria showed up, and we went back to my house where my brother was waiting with five cases of beer. I picked up a bottle of bourbon and one of tequila. And we drank and partied and danced and limboed around the living room. We played quarters and drank tequila shots. Soon the room was littered with dozens of dead beer cans. GIP and Thing showed up. Montes brought some lemons and limes. Somewhere along the line, though, the girls left, and things got weird. I don't remember exactly what sparked it, but my brother and I started going at it over his disrespectful, free-loading, fucked-up, ungrateful, never-ending rip-off attitude. Some might say it was just the flammability of the mescal, but I squared off with him, and I tell you, it had to be done. What were the exact words? We'll never know, but the result was we went after each other. It sucked because 250-pound Gip was holding back 200-pound me while 170-pound Thing was holding back 220-pound Mac. A few bruises and other assorted sore spots were incurred in the melee but no significant damage. I don't remember the exact order of events, but I let it go with "Change your tune or get out of my house!" and everyone said, "Come on. Forget it. Let's go to a bar." So I went and showered. When I was done showering and started to get dressed, I was still too disgusted to go anywhere, so I just sat in my closet brooding. I heard everyone start asking where I was. Someone peeked in my bedroom, but didn't see me in the closet. "He's not in his room." I just sat there and listened. I couldn't have asked for a better birthday present. To be a fly on the wall at your own anti-funeral, to listen to the people closest to you speak freely from their hearts about you, without knowing you are there. "I bet he walked up to Molly Malone's." I heard. "I bet you're right." "Should we go up there?" "Screw it."
They went on to take turns talking about what a fucked-psycho I am. I don't remember what exactly they said, unfortunately, but it wasn't actually as instructive as I might have hoped. Each one of the bastards seemed to think they had the perfect insight into the psyche of John Zurn. Fucking hypocrites. One time John did this. Another time John did that. He's throwing his life away." Maybe he went to Shirelle's," one of them said. They paged her. She called right back. She told them I wasn't with her. "Whatever you do," one of them said, "Don't tell him how quickly she called back." Everyone agreed on that. I walked out to get a beer. It was funny watching them trying to quietly play it off. "Johnny Boy, where you been? You been in there the whole time?"
"I shit on all of you," I said like Tom Berenger in Platoon when he listened to his men plot his murder. It was calm for a while. The eye of the hurricane. But soon my brother started talking his usual smack where he thinks he is the Alpha Dog when he brings nothing to the table (Five cases of beer on this one occasion notwithstanding). I roared and went after him with my one wood. I cracked it over his fucking car and the head went flying from the shaft. All of a sudden cop cars came rushing up and stopped. Maybe they'd been on call since our earlier brawl. Nine of them, nine cops, frisked us on the front lawn. They told Mac to go home, but he was too drunk to drive and too broke for a cab. "We can take him in if you don't want him here. You want us to take your own brother in?" I didn't say anything, but turned after a few seconds and went back up into the house to ice my broken finger. I went into my room and passed out.
5-27-98 W 7:33 AM
The next day, we drove out to Havasu together, Shirelle, Mitch, Mac, and me. I drove us in the LeBaron with the top down.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
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