8-11-01 Sa 9:46 PM

Dublin’s. It’s my sister Bernice Zurn’s 28^th birthday. The Angels held onto their tie with men against them thanks to a nice pickoff play at second. Shot two games of pool and drew. Thinking I should get home and rest for tomorrow’s baseball game. Long black waves fall to Earth, a dark eye lies behind them. It’s time to go, but let’s see how the Angels do. Gypsy eyes. I’m in headlights. I hear the words “ass” and “sick and tired.” So, eventually, maybe soon, maybe next, I should get in my car and drive home. I have a wood-bench erection that belies how jacked out I am. No D in San iego. A pretty girl sat down. She says her name is Cherise. She asks, “Are you working?”

“Working?” I repeat.

“Working,” she affirms.

I have no idea how to answer. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m kind of broken. I guess some of me works still.”

She left. A girl too innocent-looking to be smoking a cigarette took her place. Her name is Annie. She’s purdy. She got on her cel phone. Time to go. If I wasn’t writing like a geek, I could talk to her, but what would be the point. “Okay,” she says to the phone and the conversation is that short. She sounds vulnerable. I thought of writers with mistresses and the Ten Commandments and the meaning of adultery. She is still there. I begin to appreciate the boldness of the “working” girl. Where’d she go? Whatever. What else? What in the Hell else? What in the Hollywood else? A guy cam out at ten o’clock and announced that no more drinking is allowed outside tonight. City ordinance. Take it inside. Mine is empty. I slide it to the busboy when comes. Everyone’s wearing black tonight. Everyone. What if I say hello? Some chick in a fish-scale bustier gets a look on her face like I look familiar to her, and she points at me, airily waving her finger. Still there. A closeup billboard of the eyes of an ad oversees us. Gatsby, anyone? He died around her somewhere, Fitzgerald. If you could get another drink out here, I would. I suppose it’s a blessing you can’t. She’s still there. Just sitting there. A Charger/49er preseason game is on the TV behind me. I go the Dan Jenkins book, Dead Solid Perfect for my brother. Still there. The traffic on Sunset keeps going, not going. My pouch of Samson tobacco is empty. Still there. I’m stiff. In all the wrong places. Rochelle says the baby has been crabby. The car’s with a valet. I think I’ve spent about $25. Now what?