Resolution: I won’t date women I meet in bars. ~ McCleary 01/01/2000
Coming to this decision at the time wasn’t too hard for me. That is not to say its practice wasn’t without difficulty. Back then, I was working quite a bit as a dj at clubs around Hollywood. When asked by friends what that job is like, I usually said the following, “Well, you get to play whatever music you want to hear all night. You get free drinks and are encouraged to let customers buy you drinks. There is always the opportunity to meet pretty girls at work. And, at the end of the night, they hand you some cash and say, ‘I’ll see you next week.’” All in all, it’s not a bad deal.
Still, for me, the job was not without its drawbacks. Around that time, there was a huge influx of cocaine back into the Hollywood bar scene that went hand in hand with a big heavy metal revival at the clubs. I was finding more and more that I was getting requests when I was spinning by coked out retro metal kids. “Do you have any Iron Maiden?” “No,” I’d answer, “not tonight.” And they would come right back with, “Well, then how ‘bout some Judas Priest?” Look, if I don’t have any Maiden in my bag, then I sure as hell don’t have any Priest. Y’know? Still, this was becoming far too regular occurrence for me. Maybe I just wasn’t up with the times. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“If God dropped acid, would he see people?” ~ Steven Wright
My whole thing with drugs my entire adult life, well, my life going back to high school when drugs first entered my world, has been that I have to observe somebody on it before I’d ever consider trying it. I remember in 9th grade a girl in my freshman Algebra I class having to be physically removed by school administrators because she was having a bad acid trip in class. That was enough to keep me away from L.S.D. for life. I noticed that kids who messed with heroin tended to fall asleep at inopportune times in awkward places, and when they woke up, if no one was around they were very likely to make off with pieces of your stereo equipment or easily pawned kitchen appliances. “Hey, where’s Barry? And, where’s my cd changer?”
“Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blank eyed in the rain, when it snows in your nose, you catch cold in your brain.” ~ Allen Ginsberg
My experience with cocaine was much the same. First of all, snorting blow has got to be one of the least sexy looking ways to ingest a drug. Maybe it’s just me, but sticking a straw up your nose and putting your face down to a table top or mirror to snort a rail just looks depraved. I don’t get it. Cocaine makes you crap. Also, once people are coked up all they want to do is talk (and drink), which under some circumstances would be entertaining, but coke heads only really want to tell you the same story over and over six different ways. On top of that, they only want to hear it from their own perspective so there is no back and forth in the conversation or getting a word in edgewise. If they don’t have a story to tell you then they’re more than happy to tell you how great they are and how anything and everything else is bullshit. You become, very quickly, an unwitting prisoner to whatever it is they want to talk about… unless… the person that is holding the coke leaves the room, in which case your captor who is trying to reinvent the sounding board as some form of internationally banned torture has to go find them on the chance that they’re doing more blow and leaving them out. Yeah, I know I’m a big square, but I’m just not interested.
At that time, back in the late 90’s, I was noticing that the women I was meeting in bars were leading to far too many freak show encounters either later that same evening or down the road if I managed a date with them. One instance in particular sticks with me. I was dj-ing a Thursday night at The Viper Room for my friend Dean, who was mc-ing a Pussy Cat Dolls show (the original retro burlesque incarnation, not the Pop 40 act they are these days). Dean, gods bless him, brought over a stunning redhead named Jamie to the dj booth, made introductions, and left us to our own devices. I “bought” her some free drinks during the course of the evening (I did mention the perks of my job, right?), had some great conversation about soul music, and when last call came around I invited her to hang out after hours (I did mention the perks of my job, right?!).
After hours, we had another drink while I packed up my gear and waited to get paid out. Jamie mentioned that she needed a ride home, so naturally, I offered her one. On the way home Jamie asked what I’d be up to the remainder of the evening (wee morning hours). “Well, I’ll unload my records, and then I thought I’d watch a little Perry Mason before going to bed.” “Really?” she replied. “I love Perry Mason and I’m a little obsessed with Paul Drake. Mind if I join you?” Are you kidding me? So, we go back to my place and really never got around to watching any Perry Mason if you know what I mean.
In the morning, I wake up to call in late to work. I make the call and then retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face to begin the healing process from a largely sleepless night. When I emerge, Jamie is sitting on my couch, topless, cutting a couple lines of blow on my coffee table. I’m not sure I’m actually seeing this moment correctly in my head, so I rub eyes and do a double-take. No, that IS what she’s doing. I’m not awake enough to make any coherent comment on the situation so I go and crawl back into bed. Jamie does her lines and then sequesters herself in my bathroom for an undefined period of time. I presume she’s taking a crap. At some point, I hear the shower running. When Jamie emerges from the bathroom she gets back into bed with me and has to tell me with a level of detail even the most marginally sane person would find unreasonable how impressed she is that I left the seat down on the toilet for her. Yeah. “My hero!” *Sigh* How do I get myself into these situations?
I dig down and get myself motivated, out of bed and dressed. I tell Jamie I need to drive her home so I can get to work. She gets dressed and off we go. On the car ride to her place in Hollywood, I get to hear a mile a minute story about why this woman doesn’t have a car these days. Apparently, she had a car which she bought from her cousin on payments, which she fell behind on because she’s only working part-time for a florist. How did I not notice this the night before? Thankfully, although there’s no hope of me getting any comment in whatsoever during her tale, I can focus on driving making her rambling a kind of substitute for talk radio. Long story short, her cousin, who lives in the valley, repossessed the car from her without warning, but told her she could have it back, for free, if she would do a couple scenes in a porno he was producing. Classy.
When we get to her place, right away she mentions, “You know, you haven’t even asked me for my phone number yet.” “Really?” I reply, “I’m sorry. Crazy night. Yes, of course I want your number.” I come up with a scrap of paper and a pen and she jots it down for me. Then she produces her cell phone and gets me to give her my number which she keys in. I give her a kiss goodbye and get on my way to the office. When I get to the corner of her block to make my turn, I notice her number lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up, crumble it and toss it out the window before heading on my way. These are problems I do not need. Four or five days later I come home from work to a message from Jamie on my answering machine calling me every form of asshole one can imagine for not calling her. Still, I can’t help but think I got off easy.
After some reflection on my dating fiascos of the late 90’s, I decided that bad light and alcohol was not the way to go about meeting people. Making my decision about not dating women I meet in bars was not a difficult one. For the most part of the 21st century, I have stuck to my Y2K resolution. I noticed right away in the year 2000 and then again in 2001, that the qualities of the women I was dating were much more outstanding and appealing and a lot less freaky and frightening. I don’t think I went out with a single woman during that time who would go anywhere near a line… and I wasn’t complaining, so I’ve stuck to it (for the most part ~ nobody’s perfect) since.
Fast forward to this past July, and if you’ve been keeping up with my writings at all, then you know that I have had no shortage of bad, bad dates lately despite not meeting any of these women in bars. My disaster quotient for dates has got to be higher than any of my single friends. Whenever I’m at a dinner or party with friends and the topic of conversation turns to bad date stories, I can always tell the winning tale. I generally don’t have the heart to relive my worst ones, so I tend to settle on a story that is only marginally more awful than the ones told by the other guests. If someone chimes in after me with a story that is worse, then I always have an ace left in my back pocket with which to trump. As my most recent serious ex told me recently when complaining about what’s out there in the dating pool these days, “All the normal ones are taken.”
One Friday in late July of this year, I found out quite suddenly that I was being laid off from my job. Specifically, I found out at 4:00 p.m. that I was to be out by 4:30. Yeah, thanks for the heads up. Sheesh. Rather than rant and rave or cause a scene, I decided that it was for the best and that the only thing for me to do really, in the short term, was to go out that night, tie one on and howl at the moon. These jerks, my former bosses, were doing me a favor. I wasn’t happy there anyway. I was having a very good day.
I made some calls and decided the only place for me to go that night was the Burgundy Room in Hollywood. I know bartenders and the dj there and that a few of my friends would be going. Also, their mixed drinks are large and effective. I get home, have dinner and throw back a couple beers while watching the Angels game. I shower and get myself dolled up, check the mirror to make sure I’m happy with what I see before heading out to Hollywood at bar time on the subway.
At the Burgundy Room, I quickly locate my friends at the shallow end (closest to the door) of the bar. It takes me all of a minute to tell them my unexpected layoff story and have a cocktail (Stoli tonic) and a shot (Jagermeister) placed in front of me. Post time. And they’re off… I was having a very good day. Shortly after downing my shot and starting my cocktail, I notice a pretty young woman who I don’t know hanging on the fringes of my circle of friends, but is definitely checking me out. She’s a tall, maybe 5’7”, but it’s hard to tell because of her heels, slim, brunette and wearing jeans and little white top that tastefully reveals her cleavage. I work my way over to where she’s standing, say hi and introduce myself. She tells me her name is Victoria and that she’s friends with one of the bartenders there I really don’t know that well. I run through the names of my friends that work there or are regulars and we quickly discover we know a lot of the same folks.
Soon after this, she’s distracted by some of her own friends and drifts away from our conversation. I go back to my friends, down my cocktail, order another and then go out front to have a smoke and chat with my friend, Torrance, the doorman. While I’m out there, Victoria appears to have a smoke and right away we start chatting again. I can tell there is chemistry working between us. The attraction is definite and present. Victoria lets me know that she just popped in that night to say hello to a friend and that she has to be on her way. I don’t even consider my rule about not meeting women in bars, let her know I’d like to see her again, and ask for her number. She smiles and gives me the digits which I key into my cell phone. I was having a very good day!
The night continues and the cocktails flow from the glass to my stomach and into my bloodstream where they do their work… most effectively. Before I know it, I’m quite drunk. At around a quarter to one in the morning I realize it’s time for me to start thinking about heading home. The last train from Hollywood to Koreatown leaves around 1:05. I start saying my goodbyes and making my way to the door. Once outside, I need to say goodnight to Torrance, but he’s distracted by a group of people he’s holding court with. While I’m waiting for Torrance to finish talking to whoever he’s talking to, I notice another couple girls hanging out front, and one of them, once again is definitely checking me out. Well, this is more like she’s undressing and raping me with her eyes. This woman is very petite, Asian, wearing tight leather pants, three inch heels and a little tank top. Wow.
Rather than wait for Torrance to finish, because often times there’s no telling when you can grab his attention, I decide to bolt and head for the train. While I’m walking up the block my internal monologue becomes a dialogue and starts fighting with me. “I need to get home.” “No, you need to go talk to that Asian girl.” “I already got a promising number tonight.” “So go get another. What if Victoria doesn’t work out?” “I’ll miss my train.” “Oh c’mon, you’re a resourceful mofo, you can find a ride.” At that point, halfway up the block I stop dead in my tracks, turn on my heel and head back to the bar. What the hell? So what if I have to take a cab home. Wasn’t I having a very good day?
Inside I quickly locate the sexy Asian girl and her friend and make my way over. I’m greeted by a huge smile. Introductions are made, drinks are bought, rather, free drinks are “bought” all around, it turns out we all know the same bartenders and have many of the same friends. LA is a small town in more ways than you’d think. The Asian girl, Roni (short for Veronica) and her friend, Mandy (short for Mandingo, ok maybe not) are out with the same intentions as I am that night, to howl at the moon, and from what I can make out, they are doing as good, if not better, a job at it than I am. As if on cue, the dj shifts the music from punk rock to 80’s dance and electro. Roni and I quickly find some open space in the tiny, crowded bar and start getting down. We spend the better part of the last hour the bar is open dancing very, very close to each other. Our hands are all over each other. It’s on and I’m into it. I was having a very good day!
At last call, I let the girls know that I am without a ride, and if they could swing by Koreatown on their way home, then I’d really appreciate a lift. What’s this? A ride? No problem. After last call, we are allowed to stay after hours at the bar while they close up (one of the perks of having friends that work there). Roni and I have another drink, which for me, was totally unnecessary, but certainly passed the time. Mandy had stopped drinking an hour or so earlier as she’s now the driver. Sometime around 2:30 a.m., Roni gets a text message letting her know there is an after hours party going on in West Hollywood at one of her friend’s places. It takes her and Mandy all of 5 seconds to decide they’re going. Would I like to come with? Well, lemme see… I can take a cab home… or I can continue partying with this girl I am very attracted to… hmmm, that’s a tough one.
Roni, Mandy and I make it to the party in WeHo and right away I can tell that this is not exactly the place I want to be. I recognize quite a few folks from the cocaine crowd that hangs around the Burgundy Room, including a dealer. Still, I’m out to party that night, there’s good music playing and I’m with a pretty girl. Things could be worse. I manage to locate a couple beers for Roni and I (Mandy is taking her driving responsibility seriously) even though I’m totally blasted at this point. Hey, I’m out having more than my USRDA of fun. At some point later on, we’re all sitting in the living room, well Mandy and I are sitting, Roni is sitting in my lap, when Roni leans into my ear and whispers, “Do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck?” Have I mentioned I was having a very good day? “Yes,” I quickly reply, “Let’s go.”
We go to a bathroom in the back of the house and lock the door behind us. Roni goes to the sink and starts digging in her purse. I come up behind her, put my hands on that part of her little hips right above her ass and turn her around. We start to kiss for a few seconds before I reach up and cup one of her breasts. Right away, as if jolted by electricity, Roni pushes me away. “What are you doing?” Before I can answer there comes a knock at the door followed by an “it’s me!” Roni opens the door and lets Mandy in. I take a seat on the edge of the tub and start thinking, “Am I in for a three way?” Sadly, I wasn’t. Roni gets into her purse and produces a baggy of coke which she and Mandy share. At least they were polite and offered me some… I declined as delicately as possible considering the close quarters. “Thanks, but that’s not really my thing.” It was then that I realized what Roni had said in my ear was not “do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck,” but “do you wanna go in the bathroom and do a bump.” I’m sure it was just a case of my intoxicated subconscious playing a cruelly unnecessary game of wishful thinking with me.
After that, I was pretty much ready to go, but that was not in the cards. I was out after hours with the cocaine crowd, and all they were really interested in was doing more blow… and talking shit. At the party, I found myself, once again being the sounding board for any number of people really only interested in the sound of their own voice. Eventually, it got late enough and the girls were ready to take me home. I think it was around 5:30 in the morning at this point. I’d finished that last beer around 3:30, shortly before Roni led me to the toilet. After that, there was no more alcohol in the house to be had, not that I really needed it. I was done.
“I've never had a problem with drugs. I've had problems with the police.” ~ Keith Richards
Mandy gets behind the wheel, Roni grabs shotgun and I pour myself into the back seat. We start heading south on La Brea, and at the corner of Melrose, we have to stop at a red light right next to a cop. When the light goes green and we pull away, the cop doesn’t even wait until we’ve crossed the street to light us up. Mandy pulls over and starts freaking out. “Oh my god, what do I do?” Roni reminds her to tell the cops, if they ask, that she hasn’t been drinking. In fact, at this point, it had been more than 4 hours since her last drink, so she was probably fine. The cop who comes to her window tells her she’s being pulled over because her windows are too tinted. What bullshit. Of course, he then asks where we’re coming from and if she’s been drinking. She says yes, but nothing since 11 o’clock, which isn’t entirely true, but she should have just straight up lied to the cop and said no.
The cops of course now have cause, so they get her out of the car to perform a field sobriety test. Roni starts freaking out. She’s sure Mandy is going to jail. I try to be the calming voice of reason from the back seat. I tell her that Mandy is fine. She hasn’t had a drink in hours. She’ll pass the test and we’ll be on our way. Then a couple minutes turns into 10 and then 15 minutes and Mandy still hasn’t come back. It’s then that I start worrying. I’m telling Roni that cops are just being pricks trying to scare her, but I can no longer help but agree that this situation isn’t looking good. Eventually, one of the cops comes to the window on the passenger side and lets us know that Mandy blew a .09 in the field breathalyzer and has been arrested. The cop then asks if either of us is sober enough to drive her car home so he won’t have to have it impounded saving Mandy an additional hassle with an already horrible situation. I’m shocked Mandy blew that high, but right away I volunteer to drive her car, provided I don’t get arrested too the second I put the key in the ignition.
The cop tells me, “No problem. I can give you the breathalyzer test before you drive to make sure you’re under the limit.” Really? Then he asks me, “How much did you have to drink tonight?” “A lot,” I reply. I also let him know I was drinking way later in the night than Mandy. Then I step up and blow a .03 on the machine. That’s less than half the legal limit. I can’t believe it. I almost want to ask him if I can blow again. The cop tells me that different people’s bodies process alcohol at different rates. I almost want to protest my drunkenness. I was on a mission that night. Now I felt cheated. Then again, once when I was in my early twenties I got pulled over for suspected DUI on a night I wasn’t drinking. I told the CHP officers who pulled me over that I wasn’t drinking, but when I blew in their field breathalyzer, I blew a .032. The cops told me that this proved to them, that while I was below the legal limit, I was lying to them which gave them cause to impound my car and take me to the hospital for an official blood test. Thankfully, that night it was just a scare tactic. The cops sat me along the side of I5, handcuffed, for about 20 minutes before cutting me loose and telling me to drive safely. Now, on this night, I’m wondering how I can have drink after drink and blow a BAC less than I did on a night I was stone sober. I’m convinced DUI, while dangerous and wrong, is a big money scam for law enforcement. The cop hands me Mandy’s keys and I go about getting Roni and myself home. She tells me on the drive east, “Thank god the blow is in my purse and not hers. She really could have been in a lot more trouble.” Hey, what are friends for, right? Needless to say, all those sparks that were flying earlier are now gone. Was this a very good day?
That Saturday, when I come to, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and punched in the face. 30-something McCleary doesn’t have the powers of recovery the 20-something version did. My hangover lasts all through Saturday and well into Sunday. .030? Seriously? Maybe it had something to do with not getting to bed until nearly 7 a.m. and it wasn’t as much about the boozing. Sunday evening, I realize that all was not lost. I have a hot number burning in my phone from Friday night’s debauchery. I give Victoria a call and leave her a message. I don’t hear back from her until Monday night, but when she calls she tells me that her and some girlfriends are meeting at Safari Sam’s to have a drink and see a band. Would I like to come out and meet them? Yes I would, provided I can get a ride home at the end of the night. No problem. Maybe that Friday was a very good day after all.
Once again, I get all gussied up and take the subway up to Hollywood. I find Victoria and her friends at the bar and settle in for some live music and a couple beers. This is the first chance at any extended conversation the two of us have had. Victoria tells me that she is 32 years old and is recently divorced from an eight year marriage. She has a two year old son from that relationship. She thinks she got married too young and the two of them grew apart as they matured, but now she is interested in dating again because, as she said, “Now that I’m not married, I need something in my life to complain about.” I laugh on the outside, but internally I don’t register this as a good sign. Victoria, once again, looks gorgeous. She’s wearing a nifty little black dress and heels that really show off her legs. Hey, what can I do? I’m a man… and us guys are visual… I like what I see, so I decide to ignore the warning signs and shift to offense. I make sure to laugh at her jokes, ask leading questions that show an active interest, and, whenever possible, start to breakdown the physical space between us by reaching out and touching her every so often to accent whatever point either of us was making.
Victoria’s friends were all very cool and funny. One of these ladies even went to Hamilton (that’s where I went to high school), so there was no shortage of things to talk about even if I didn’t have my date's undivided attention. Her friend’s band was wild as hell, so all in all it was a good time. After the band finished its set, I get Victoria to give me a ride home and was very pleased when she accepted my invitation to come up stairs for a nightcap. We settled in on the couch with our drinks. I put some T-Rex on the turntable and started thinking that while there might be some things here that I’m not going to like, that right now, in this moment, things could very well be ON between us. After a couple songs, I see a nice opportunity, so I lean in and give Victoria a slow, sweet, somewhat passionate kiss. She kisses back for a few moments and then pulls away. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Y’know, I thought those bumps I did earlier tonight at the club would keep me awake, but I’m just really tired.”
Are you kidding me? I mean, are you kidding me?! This woman has a two year old and she’s going out on a Monday and doing blow. How on earth do I find these women, over and over? Then she asks me if it’s ok if she spends the night because she lives out near Pasadena and has to come back this way for work the next day anyway. Her kid is with his dad. Well, ok. I give her some sweats and get myself changed and into bed while she’s in the bathroom presumably doing the same. Quite possibly, she’s taking a crap. I grab my phone and delete her number. She comes out of the bathroom and slides into bed next to me. We talk a little bit while drifting towards sleep. Meanwhile, my internal dialogue starts its arguing again. “Go to sleep.” “You should try to hump this woman in bed next to you who you're never going to see again.” “Go to sleep.”
Coming to this decision at the time wasn’t too hard for me. That is not to say its practice wasn’t without difficulty. Back then, I was working quite a bit as a dj at clubs around Hollywood. When asked by friends what that job is like, I usually said the following, “Well, you get to play whatever music you want to hear all night. You get free drinks and are encouraged to let customers buy you drinks. There is always the opportunity to meet pretty girls at work. And, at the end of the night, they hand you some cash and say, ‘I’ll see you next week.’” All in all, it’s not a bad deal.
Still, for me, the job was not without its drawbacks. Around that time, there was a huge influx of cocaine back into the Hollywood bar scene that went hand in hand with a big heavy metal revival at the clubs. I was finding more and more that I was getting requests when I was spinning by coked out retro metal kids. “Do you have any Iron Maiden?” “No,” I’d answer, “not tonight.” And they would come right back with, “Well, then how ‘bout some Judas Priest?” Look, if I don’t have any Maiden in my bag, then I sure as hell don’t have any Priest. Y’know? Still, this was becoming far too regular occurrence for me. Maybe I just wasn’t up with the times. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“If God dropped acid, would he see people?” ~ Steven Wright
My whole thing with drugs my entire adult life, well, my life going back to high school when drugs first entered my world, has been that I have to observe somebody on it before I’d ever consider trying it. I remember in 9th grade a girl in my freshman Algebra I class having to be physically removed by school administrators because she was having a bad acid trip in class. That was enough to keep me away from L.S.D. for life. I noticed that kids who messed with heroin tended to fall asleep at inopportune times in awkward places, and when they woke up, if no one was around they were very likely to make off with pieces of your stereo equipment or easily pawned kitchen appliances. “Hey, where’s Barry? And, where’s my cd changer?”
“Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blank eyed in the rain, when it snows in your nose, you catch cold in your brain.” ~ Allen Ginsberg
My experience with cocaine was much the same. First of all, snorting blow has got to be one of the least sexy looking ways to ingest a drug. Maybe it’s just me, but sticking a straw up your nose and putting your face down to a table top or mirror to snort a rail just looks depraved. I don’t get it. Cocaine makes you crap. Also, once people are coked up all they want to do is talk (and drink), which under some circumstances would be entertaining, but coke heads only really want to tell you the same story over and over six different ways. On top of that, they only want to hear it from their own perspective so there is no back and forth in the conversation or getting a word in edgewise. If they don’t have a story to tell you then they’re more than happy to tell you how great they are and how anything and everything else is bullshit. You become, very quickly, an unwitting prisoner to whatever it is they want to talk about… unless… the person that is holding the coke leaves the room, in which case your captor who is trying to reinvent the sounding board as some form of internationally banned torture has to go find them on the chance that they’re doing more blow and leaving them out. Yeah, I know I’m a big square, but I’m just not interested.
At that time, back in the late 90’s, I was noticing that the women I was meeting in bars were leading to far too many freak show encounters either later that same evening or down the road if I managed a date with them. One instance in particular sticks with me. I was dj-ing a Thursday night at The Viper Room for my friend Dean, who was mc-ing a Pussy Cat Dolls show (the original retro burlesque incarnation, not the Pop 40 act they are these days). Dean, gods bless him, brought over a stunning redhead named Jamie to the dj booth, made introductions, and left us to our own devices. I “bought” her some free drinks during the course of the evening (I did mention the perks of my job, right?), had some great conversation about soul music, and when last call came around I invited her to hang out after hours (I did mention the perks of my job, right?!).
After hours, we had another drink while I packed up my gear and waited to get paid out. Jamie mentioned that she needed a ride home, so naturally, I offered her one. On the way home Jamie asked what I’d be up to the remainder of the evening (wee morning hours). “Well, I’ll unload my records, and then I thought I’d watch a little Perry Mason before going to bed.” “Really?” she replied. “I love Perry Mason and I’m a little obsessed with Paul Drake. Mind if I join you?” Are you kidding me? So, we go back to my place and really never got around to watching any Perry Mason if you know what I mean.
In the morning, I wake up to call in late to work. I make the call and then retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face to begin the healing process from a largely sleepless night. When I emerge, Jamie is sitting on my couch, topless, cutting a couple lines of blow on my coffee table. I’m not sure I’m actually seeing this moment correctly in my head, so I rub eyes and do a double-take. No, that IS what she’s doing. I’m not awake enough to make any coherent comment on the situation so I go and crawl back into bed. Jamie does her lines and then sequesters herself in my bathroom for an undefined period of time. I presume she’s taking a crap. At some point, I hear the shower running. When Jamie emerges from the bathroom she gets back into bed with me and has to tell me with a level of detail even the most marginally sane person would find unreasonable how impressed she is that I left the seat down on the toilet for her. Yeah. “My hero!” *Sigh* How do I get myself into these situations?
I dig down and get myself motivated, out of bed and dressed. I tell Jamie I need to drive her home so I can get to work. She gets dressed and off we go. On the car ride to her place in Hollywood, I get to hear a mile a minute story about why this woman doesn’t have a car these days. Apparently, she had a car which she bought from her cousin on payments, which she fell behind on because she’s only working part-time for a florist. How did I not notice this the night before? Thankfully, although there’s no hope of me getting any comment in whatsoever during her tale, I can focus on driving making her rambling a kind of substitute for talk radio. Long story short, her cousin, who lives in the valley, repossessed the car from her without warning, but told her she could have it back, for free, if she would do a couple scenes in a porno he was producing. Classy.
When we get to her place, right away she mentions, “You know, you haven’t even asked me for my phone number yet.” “Really?” I reply, “I’m sorry. Crazy night. Yes, of course I want your number.” I come up with a scrap of paper and a pen and she jots it down for me. Then she produces her cell phone and gets me to give her my number which she keys in. I give her a kiss goodbye and get on my way to the office. When I get to the corner of her block to make my turn, I notice her number lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up, crumble it and toss it out the window before heading on my way. These are problems I do not need. Four or five days later I come home from work to a message from Jamie on my answering machine calling me every form of asshole one can imagine for not calling her. Still, I can’t help but think I got off easy.
After some reflection on my dating fiascos of the late 90’s, I decided that bad light and alcohol was not the way to go about meeting people. Making my decision about not dating women I meet in bars was not a difficult one. For the most part of the 21st century, I have stuck to my Y2K resolution. I noticed right away in the year 2000 and then again in 2001, that the qualities of the women I was dating were much more outstanding and appealing and a lot less freaky and frightening. I don’t think I went out with a single woman during that time who would go anywhere near a line… and I wasn’t complaining, so I’ve stuck to it (for the most part ~ nobody’s perfect) since.
Fast forward to this past July, and if you’ve been keeping up with my writings at all, then you know that I have had no shortage of bad, bad dates lately despite not meeting any of these women in bars. My disaster quotient for dates has got to be higher than any of my single friends. Whenever I’m at a dinner or party with friends and the topic of conversation turns to bad date stories, I can always tell the winning tale. I generally don’t have the heart to relive my worst ones, so I tend to settle on a story that is only marginally more awful than the ones told by the other guests. If someone chimes in after me with a story that is worse, then I always have an ace left in my back pocket with which to trump. As my most recent serious ex told me recently when complaining about what’s out there in the dating pool these days, “All the normal ones are taken.”
One Friday in late July of this year, I found out quite suddenly that I was being laid off from my job. Specifically, I found out at 4:00 p.m. that I was to be out by 4:30. Yeah, thanks for the heads up. Sheesh. Rather than rant and rave or cause a scene, I decided that it was for the best and that the only thing for me to do really, in the short term, was to go out that night, tie one on and howl at the moon. These jerks, my former bosses, were doing me a favor. I wasn’t happy there anyway. I was having a very good day.
I made some calls and decided the only place for me to go that night was the Burgundy Room in Hollywood. I know bartenders and the dj there and that a few of my friends would be going. Also, their mixed drinks are large and effective. I get home, have dinner and throw back a couple beers while watching the Angels game. I shower and get myself dolled up, check the mirror to make sure I’m happy with what I see before heading out to Hollywood at bar time on the subway.
At the Burgundy Room, I quickly locate my friends at the shallow end (closest to the door) of the bar. It takes me all of a minute to tell them my unexpected layoff story and have a cocktail (Stoli tonic) and a shot (Jagermeister) placed in front of me. Post time. And they’re off… I was having a very good day. Shortly after downing my shot and starting my cocktail, I notice a pretty young woman who I don’t know hanging on the fringes of my circle of friends, but is definitely checking me out. She’s a tall, maybe 5’7”, but it’s hard to tell because of her heels, slim, brunette and wearing jeans and little white top that tastefully reveals her cleavage. I work my way over to where she’s standing, say hi and introduce myself. She tells me her name is Victoria and that she’s friends with one of the bartenders there I really don’t know that well. I run through the names of my friends that work there or are regulars and we quickly discover we know a lot of the same folks.
Soon after this, she’s distracted by some of her own friends and drifts away from our conversation. I go back to my friends, down my cocktail, order another and then go out front to have a smoke and chat with my friend, Torrance, the doorman. While I’m out there, Victoria appears to have a smoke and right away we start chatting again. I can tell there is chemistry working between us. The attraction is definite and present. Victoria lets me know that she just popped in that night to say hello to a friend and that she has to be on her way. I don’t even consider my rule about not meeting women in bars, let her know I’d like to see her again, and ask for her number. She smiles and gives me the digits which I key into my cell phone. I was having a very good day!
The night continues and the cocktails flow from the glass to my stomach and into my bloodstream where they do their work… most effectively. Before I know it, I’m quite drunk. At around a quarter to one in the morning I realize it’s time for me to start thinking about heading home. The last train from Hollywood to Koreatown leaves around 1:05. I start saying my goodbyes and making my way to the door. Once outside, I need to say goodnight to Torrance, but he’s distracted by a group of people he’s holding court with. While I’m waiting for Torrance to finish talking to whoever he’s talking to, I notice another couple girls hanging out front, and one of them, once again is definitely checking me out. Well, this is more like she’s undressing and raping me with her eyes. This woman is very petite, Asian, wearing tight leather pants, three inch heels and a little tank top. Wow.
Rather than wait for Torrance to finish, because often times there’s no telling when you can grab his attention, I decide to bolt and head for the train. While I’m walking up the block my internal monologue becomes a dialogue and starts fighting with me. “I need to get home.” “No, you need to go talk to that Asian girl.” “I already got a promising number tonight.” “So go get another. What if Victoria doesn’t work out?” “I’ll miss my train.” “Oh c’mon, you’re a resourceful mofo, you can find a ride.” At that point, halfway up the block I stop dead in my tracks, turn on my heel and head back to the bar. What the hell? So what if I have to take a cab home. Wasn’t I having a very good day?
Inside I quickly locate the sexy Asian girl and her friend and make my way over. I’m greeted by a huge smile. Introductions are made, drinks are bought, rather, free drinks are “bought” all around, it turns out we all know the same bartenders and have many of the same friends. LA is a small town in more ways than you’d think. The Asian girl, Roni (short for Veronica) and her friend, Mandy (short for Mandingo, ok maybe not) are out with the same intentions as I am that night, to howl at the moon, and from what I can make out, they are doing as good, if not better, a job at it than I am. As if on cue, the dj shifts the music from punk rock to 80’s dance and electro. Roni and I quickly find some open space in the tiny, crowded bar and start getting down. We spend the better part of the last hour the bar is open dancing very, very close to each other. Our hands are all over each other. It’s on and I’m into it. I was having a very good day!
At last call, I let the girls know that I am without a ride, and if they could swing by Koreatown on their way home, then I’d really appreciate a lift. What’s this? A ride? No problem. After last call, we are allowed to stay after hours at the bar while they close up (one of the perks of having friends that work there). Roni and I have another drink, which for me, was totally unnecessary, but certainly passed the time. Mandy had stopped drinking an hour or so earlier as she’s now the driver. Sometime around 2:30 a.m., Roni gets a text message letting her know there is an after hours party going on in West Hollywood at one of her friend’s places. It takes her and Mandy all of 5 seconds to decide they’re going. Would I like to come with? Well, lemme see… I can take a cab home… or I can continue partying with this girl I am very attracted to… hmmm, that’s a tough one.
Roni, Mandy and I make it to the party in WeHo and right away I can tell that this is not exactly the place I want to be. I recognize quite a few folks from the cocaine crowd that hangs around the Burgundy Room, including a dealer. Still, I’m out to party that night, there’s good music playing and I’m with a pretty girl. Things could be worse. I manage to locate a couple beers for Roni and I (Mandy is taking her driving responsibility seriously) even though I’m totally blasted at this point. Hey, I’m out having more than my USRDA of fun. At some point later on, we’re all sitting in the living room, well Mandy and I are sitting, Roni is sitting in my lap, when Roni leans into my ear and whispers, “Do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck?” Have I mentioned I was having a very good day? “Yes,” I quickly reply, “Let’s go.”
We go to a bathroom in the back of the house and lock the door behind us. Roni goes to the sink and starts digging in her purse. I come up behind her, put my hands on that part of her little hips right above her ass and turn her around. We start to kiss for a few seconds before I reach up and cup one of her breasts. Right away, as if jolted by electricity, Roni pushes me away. “What are you doing?” Before I can answer there comes a knock at the door followed by an “it’s me!” Roni opens the door and lets Mandy in. I take a seat on the edge of the tub and start thinking, “Am I in for a three way?” Sadly, I wasn’t. Roni gets into her purse and produces a baggy of coke which she and Mandy share. At least they were polite and offered me some… I declined as delicately as possible considering the close quarters. “Thanks, but that’s not really my thing.” It was then that I realized what Roni had said in my ear was not “do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck,” but “do you wanna go in the bathroom and do a bump.” I’m sure it was just a case of my intoxicated subconscious playing a cruelly unnecessary game of wishful thinking with me.
After that, I was pretty much ready to go, but that was not in the cards. I was out after hours with the cocaine crowd, and all they were really interested in was doing more blow… and talking shit. At the party, I found myself, once again being the sounding board for any number of people really only interested in the sound of their own voice. Eventually, it got late enough and the girls were ready to take me home. I think it was around 5:30 in the morning at this point. I’d finished that last beer around 3:30, shortly before Roni led me to the toilet. After that, there was no more alcohol in the house to be had, not that I really needed it. I was done.
“I've never had a problem with drugs. I've had problems with the police.” ~ Keith Richards
Mandy gets behind the wheel, Roni grabs shotgun and I pour myself into the back seat. We start heading south on La Brea, and at the corner of Melrose, we have to stop at a red light right next to a cop. When the light goes green and we pull away, the cop doesn’t even wait until we’ve crossed the street to light us up. Mandy pulls over and starts freaking out. “Oh my god, what do I do?” Roni reminds her to tell the cops, if they ask, that she hasn’t been drinking. In fact, at this point, it had been more than 4 hours since her last drink, so she was probably fine. The cop who comes to her window tells her she’s being pulled over because her windows are too tinted. What bullshit. Of course, he then asks where we’re coming from and if she’s been drinking. She says yes, but nothing since 11 o’clock, which isn’t entirely true, but she should have just straight up lied to the cop and said no.
The cops of course now have cause, so they get her out of the car to perform a field sobriety test. Roni starts freaking out. She’s sure Mandy is going to jail. I try to be the calming voice of reason from the back seat. I tell her that Mandy is fine. She hasn’t had a drink in hours. She’ll pass the test and we’ll be on our way. Then a couple minutes turns into 10 and then 15 minutes and Mandy still hasn’t come back. It’s then that I start worrying. I’m telling Roni that cops are just being pricks trying to scare her, but I can no longer help but agree that this situation isn’t looking good. Eventually, one of the cops comes to the window on the passenger side and lets us know that Mandy blew a .09 in the field breathalyzer and has been arrested. The cop then asks if either of us is sober enough to drive her car home so he won’t have to have it impounded saving Mandy an additional hassle with an already horrible situation. I’m shocked Mandy blew that high, but right away I volunteer to drive her car, provided I don’t get arrested too the second I put the key in the ignition.
The cop tells me, “No problem. I can give you the breathalyzer test before you drive to make sure you’re under the limit.” Really? Then he asks me, “How much did you have to drink tonight?” “A lot,” I reply. I also let him know I was drinking way later in the night than Mandy. Then I step up and blow a .03 on the machine. That’s less than half the legal limit. I can’t believe it. I almost want to ask him if I can blow again. The cop tells me that different people’s bodies process alcohol at different rates. I almost want to protest my drunkenness. I was on a mission that night. Now I felt cheated. Then again, once when I was in my early twenties I got pulled over for suspected DUI on a night I wasn’t drinking. I told the CHP officers who pulled me over that I wasn’t drinking, but when I blew in their field breathalyzer, I blew a .032. The cops told me that this proved to them, that while I was below the legal limit, I was lying to them which gave them cause to impound my car and take me to the hospital for an official blood test. Thankfully, that night it was just a scare tactic. The cops sat me along the side of I5, handcuffed, for about 20 minutes before cutting me loose and telling me to drive safely. Now, on this night, I’m wondering how I can have drink after drink and blow a BAC less than I did on a night I was stone sober. I’m convinced DUI, while dangerous and wrong, is a big money scam for law enforcement. The cop hands me Mandy’s keys and I go about getting Roni and myself home. She tells me on the drive east, “Thank god the blow is in my purse and not hers. She really could have been in a lot more trouble.” Hey, what are friends for, right? Needless to say, all those sparks that were flying earlier are now gone. Was this a very good day?
That Saturday, when I come to, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and punched in the face. 30-something McCleary doesn’t have the powers of recovery the 20-something version did. My hangover lasts all through Saturday and well into Sunday. .030? Seriously? Maybe it had something to do with not getting to bed until nearly 7 a.m. and it wasn’t as much about the boozing. Sunday evening, I realize that all was not lost. I have a hot number burning in my phone from Friday night’s debauchery. I give Victoria a call and leave her a message. I don’t hear back from her until Monday night, but when she calls she tells me that her and some girlfriends are meeting at Safari Sam’s to have a drink and see a band. Would I like to come out and meet them? Yes I would, provided I can get a ride home at the end of the night. No problem. Maybe that Friday was a very good day after all.
Once again, I get all gussied up and take the subway up to Hollywood. I find Victoria and her friends at the bar and settle in for some live music and a couple beers. This is the first chance at any extended conversation the two of us have had. Victoria tells me that she is 32 years old and is recently divorced from an eight year marriage. She has a two year old son from that relationship. She thinks she got married too young and the two of them grew apart as they matured, but now she is interested in dating again because, as she said, “Now that I’m not married, I need something in my life to complain about.” I laugh on the outside, but internally I don’t register this as a good sign. Victoria, once again, looks gorgeous. She’s wearing a nifty little black dress and heels that really show off her legs. Hey, what can I do? I’m a man… and us guys are visual… I like what I see, so I decide to ignore the warning signs and shift to offense. I make sure to laugh at her jokes, ask leading questions that show an active interest, and, whenever possible, start to breakdown the physical space between us by reaching out and touching her every so often to accent whatever point either of us was making.
Victoria’s friends were all very cool and funny. One of these ladies even went to Hamilton (that’s where I went to high school), so there was no shortage of things to talk about even if I didn’t have my date's undivided attention. Her friend’s band was wild as hell, so all in all it was a good time. After the band finished its set, I get Victoria to give me a ride home and was very pleased when she accepted my invitation to come up stairs for a nightcap. We settled in on the couch with our drinks. I put some T-Rex on the turntable and started thinking that while there might be some things here that I’m not going to like, that right now, in this moment, things could very well be ON between us. After a couple songs, I see a nice opportunity, so I lean in and give Victoria a slow, sweet, somewhat passionate kiss. She kisses back for a few moments and then pulls away. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Y’know, I thought those bumps I did earlier tonight at the club would keep me awake, but I’m just really tired.”
Are you kidding me? I mean, are you kidding me?! This woman has a two year old and she’s going out on a Monday and doing blow. How on earth do I find these women, over and over? Then she asks me if it’s ok if she spends the night because she lives out near Pasadena and has to come back this way for work the next day anyway. Her kid is with his dad. Well, ok. I give her some sweats and get myself changed and into bed while she’s in the bathroom presumably doing the same. Quite possibly, she’s taking a crap. I grab my phone and delete her number. She comes out of the bathroom and slides into bed next to me. We talk a little bit while drifting towards sleep. Meanwhile, my internal dialogue starts its arguing again. “Go to sleep.” “You should try to hump this woman in bed next to you who you're never going to see again.” “Go to sleep.”
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