dubious-enthusiast

Latest Posts by dubious-enthusiast

You ain't got nothin' better to do than wend your way 'round the squalid streets of west Hollywood on a Saturday. Sat in the driver’s seat of your stiflingly hot beat-up Cavalier Chevy, windows down, you cruise up n' down the L.A scene; crankin' the volume on your stereo high and condemning yourself into an ashy grave, as you light up the last cigarette in your possession- it ain't even 16:00 pm yet, and you're already on your second pack.

As you idle down the 101, you spot a lone hitchhiker- a young boy, maybe sixteen, seventeen? Who's straggly, grown out schoolboy hairstyle and plaid button-up contributed and shape his incongruous mien. He looks out of place. Lottering by the side of the busy road, as he tiredly sticks his arm out while holding a limp thumbs-up; presumable that same sigh he'd held for hours- with no such luck.

You find the boy oddly striking. Delicate, even effeminate features, contrasting with a sharp masculine jaw and a menacing teenage glower. You note the way the gusts of warm air expelled from the underneath passing cars tousles his auburn hair, the locks glowing a furious heat as they ripple beneath the sun's rays.

Slowing as you near the drifter, an anticipative expression unfurrows the boy's brow, brightening his scowling face. And against your better judgement, you ease your foot off the accelerator. Pulling over and slowing to a halt.

The boy gratefully drops the laborious gesture, strolling over to the side of your car. "Where you headed?" he leans himself over to place his pale hands on the ledge of your open window before responding. "Hollywood." You can't help but huff out a quiet laugh "Yeah- I mean, your kinda already here, man. Like, anywhere in particular?" you ask again. To which the boy shrugs "Anywhere but that way." he states, pointing inland.

You can just tell- he's a dirty little runaway. It's glaringly evident. You see it in his charmingly scruffy appearance, as you sense it in his vague replies. And you know damm well he ain't gonna cause you nothin' but trouble.

But you can't help yourself.

"Tell you what- I'm heading' down Santa Monica Boulevard, if that's any help." you offer, disregarding any circumspection you might have still been maintaining as he flashes a winsome grin your way. "Umm hmm." he hums in agreement "That's good." the boy nods gratefully, climbing into the infrequently used passenger seat. "I'm Bill." he introduces himself, extending his hand. "Izzy." you're slow to answer as your slightly stunned by this sudden formality. None the less you take the small extremity in your own, shaking it.

He's soft.

You drop it hurriedly before your thought prosses continues down that path. Because, fuck, this kid's gonna compromise your already loose morals.

The two of you converse as you drive. With the boy- Bill, clumsily avoiding the subject of his parents whereabout and questions concerning his destination. His romanticized view and nativity surrounding L.A and its crass culture exposes his sheltered upbringing. This ain't no kid born and raised in Los Angeles; this is an inexperienced suburanite from up north. And after witnessing his awe at the unsightly high-rises, rough apartment blocks and unbearably congested road, you ain't even sure this kid's seen a city before.

Though he seems desperately intrigued at the mention of your band. Wanting to know about the make of your guitar, the experience of playing a gig and showing an interest in the whole sex, drugs, rock n' roll lifestyle in general.

Inquiring as to how long he's been out on his own, the kid persists in in innocent facade; though you swiftly tell him to cut the bullshit. And after reassurance that- no, you ain't gonna grass him up- he eventually relents, confessing that he's only recently left home. You warn him that hitching's dangerous at best, and suicidal at worse. To which he argues that he ain't got enough money to rise the Greyhound no more, so he's left with no choice.

An astonishingly pleasant car journey ensues, wherein you reminisce about your misbehaviours at school, and he recounts his recent escapades with his teachers and run-ins with the law. Laughing at the impression he does of his father and aghast when he reveals his unfamiliarity with the band Three Dog Night: your favourite.

As you coast down Sunset, he cuts the trip short by assuring you it's alright if you just drop him here. Wondering where the time, you almost regret the forth coming loss of your young companion as you drop him on Holloway Drive. "Well, here we are." you breath, performing a sweeping gesture with the arm lazily slung out your window. "Appreciate it." he nods as you park up on the curb. Clicking the door open, he swivels in the leather seat to plant his feet on the tarmac outside. Turning his head back to make eye contact with you and say one last thing "See you 'round, Izzy."

But you got more important things to do than mourn some strange kid you don't even know, and likely won't see again. You got tasks of the utmost to busy yourself with; like returning to your dwelling at the infamously debauched Hellhouse to light up a fat joint with your good friend West Arkeen.

Stationing your clunker of a car onto the sloped driveway of the dilapidated bungalow, you park it at a skewed angle, digging your wheels into the pe-existent tracks that cut through the unkempt lawn.

And as you amble your way up the walkway, you're mindful of avoiding the shards of broken glass that litter the cracked concrete, along with the occasional used condom and mass amounts of discarded cigarette butts which you add to as you flick your own onto the ground. The door hangs ajar, as it always does. Far as you're concerned, there ain't nothin' in there worth stealing anyways. All the guys you know that live inside that festering pit keep their shit on them at all times. Making your way through the gutted house and into its equally ravaged, ill-lit living room, you regretfully stir Del James. His rugged face buried deep in the notebook he hunches over.

"Hey, man..." you interrupt tentatively, to which he fixes you with a lour and an accompanying grunt of recognition. "You seen West 'round?" you query, scratching the at side of your cheek uneasily. "Your room." he replies, unforthcoming as ever he jerks his thickly bearded face to the back of the house. Short n' sweet, your conversations with Del always struggle to hit a word count in the double digits. Ironically, the penmanship you've so rudely disturbed this foreboding biker from completing- is poetry. The guy fuckin' loves poetry, can’t get enough of the stuff in fact.

"Hey hey." you whip around to face West's immoderately unnerving grin, as he exits the corridor leading to your room. Sauntering over to you, his clammy hand grips your shoulder "Be with ya in a minute, Izzy. I gotta take a piss." he says, slapping you unnecessarily hard on the back as he passes like an estranged uncle might do at a family gathering when he's drank too much.

Man, I been waitin' all day, c'mon. You sigh inwardly.

Waiting for West the finish in the bathroom, you stand awkwardly in the doorway of your dingy room. And as you do so, familiar irritant catches your eye. The duct tape patched window parallel to the entrance of your baren abode has a moth-eaten dress shirt nailed over the cloudy glass, crucifixion stye. With its empty arm spread wide in an attempt to block out the sunlight.

In response to this unintentional symbolism, some fuck off their face had spraypainted an upside-down cross on to the fabric. Along with the accompanying phrase 'Hellhouse: siners only' written on the wall beside it. What bothers you most is the incorrect spelling of sinners. On many occasions, you've laid in bed facing the graffiti, tempted by your desire to correct. But that would include touching up the wall's blistering paintwork and then writing over the mistake- by which time you might as well just cover the whole thing up. And after you've worked out the logistics and run through the scenario again, it's given you a headache n' you don't wanna think about it no more.

Making his reappearance, West waltz into your room to deposit himself atop the stained crumpled sheets that cover your mattress with a deep sigh. As you seat yourself on the floor opposite him, West extracts the blunt from within the depths of his musty leather jacket dramatically, like some sort of untalented magician. "Let's get this lil sweetie lit, shall we?" he smiles wide-eyed, licking his lips and flicking his zippo open to ignite the rolled paper's twisted end.

As your high intensifies over time you loosen up enough to tell West about your strange encounter on the 101. "Not like you to give a free ride, Izz." he breaths the smoke out of his lungs, mostly disinterested in your tale. You accept joint as it comes your way, taking a long drag before plucking it from your lips "Feelin' generous today..." you answer.

Over the following week: you haunt your dismal room, wearily plucking at the battered strings of your Gibson. And when you’re feelin' lively (by your standards at least) you knock around the Strip; occasionally accompanied by West- and even rarer, Rob Garner. Who currently held a job as the drummer of a band called L.A guns.

You also ruefully park your car in the lot to the side of Tower Records. Pushing your way through the flyer-covered glass door and spotting the motive of your unannounced visit tending to a stack of cassettes behind the cash register.

Desi and yourself’ s relationship had been frowned upon since the beginning your entanglement with her, rendering your breakup inevitable. Guit washes over you every time you relent and go see her. You ain't mean it like that, of course. The end of your love affair was necessary, and you're well aware of that fact. But having said that, just because you ain't together, don't mean you can't check up on her, right? You still care about the girl- and a girl she certainly is, that's the goddam problem. You remind yourself.

She's doin' alright, she tells you. Misses you though, which pulls painfully on your heartstrings.

Fuck, you need a drink. So, you agree to indulge yourself the moment you exit the store. Getting absolutely sideways is your remedy of choice in situations like this. And brother, with the self-medicating you do, you deserve a full-on doctoral degree.

It's not like you forgot, you might have misremembered the date, and sure, you're a little late arriving- but you knew you had a show to play tonight...totally. It's just that unfortunately, you momentarily thought the gig was tomorrow. Hence your drinking prior to the event. But that's fine, you're always on something when you’re on stage, and tonight's no different- just slightly more intensified.

These are the words of reassurance that reverberate in your spinning head as you stumble up the steel steps of the Cathouse stage. Having shown up mere minutes before the beginning of your set, there was no time to change. Meaning you're stuck wearing the faded black jeans and Marilyn Monroe singlet you've lounging in all week- and will surely make you the subject of ridicule backstage for its faggishness.

The harsh stage lights blind you as you stagger to take your position in front of the amp stack to the left. The piercing mic feedback cuts the stiflingly congested club, so damp and airless form the colliding bodies occupying it, that the wall practically drip with perspiration. The sharp ringing stabs at the inside of your head, worsening your swimming vision.

You can't really comment on the quality of your performance, though you can certainly use common sense to assume. As you blacked out the moment you began to choke the neck of your guitar to sound out the guttural first notes of the opening song. Dead on your mother-fucking feet. Rendering yourself completely useless in the rhythm department and a general inebriated nuisance. And after getting up CenterStage and yelling a drunken "We're London, goodnight!" into the mic, you trip on your way back down the steps and do your best to style it out- praying none of your bandmates took any notice, which predictable, they did. Shooting you disgruntled scowls of disgust. You ain't even bothering to hangout the sweaty dressing room tonight. You can anticipate the unbridled vitriol that awaits you because of your unpresentable state- and you don't wanna fuckin' hear it.

So instead, you resolve to sooth yourself with another of your unhealthy pleasures; making a hasty exit, you push past the crowd of hairspray-encrusted socialites, and relish the light breeze graces your clammy face as you step into the stillness of the night.

Dragging one foot in front of the other with great difficulty, you meander over to the quiet parking lot's perimeter. Slumping down onto the curb, still vaguely warm from the day's heat. You fish around in the pocket of your skintight jeans, a challenging task as the fabric clings to your bony legs. What you're looking for is your smokes, and when you find them, you extract the packet from your oppressive pants- having to wriggle the thing vigorously to free the small box.

At last, you inhale deeply as the flame of your lighter licks at the end of the cigarette dangling from your lips. "You were incredible..." a breathy voice utters from above you. Your head snaps up violently, startled. You hadn't heard anyone approach.

And hey- it's that fuckin' kid again! Auburn shoulder length now backcombed to reflect the current era and sporting a smearing of unskilfully applied eye makeup. "Jesus, fuck-" you exclaim, coughing on the smoke you'd just dragged. "Sorry." the boy smiles down at you apologetically, holding his palms out apprehensively. "Sorry, man. just had to say." he says, eyes shimmering under the artificial glow of the streetlight you're sat beside. "No, no- you just caught me of guard 's all-" you bat away at his concern with a dismissive hand "-sneekin' up on me like that." you wring a hoarse laugh out as you continue to splutter. "Didn't mean to, honest." he scrapes the toe for his tattered Converse along the concrete, looking down as he lets a self-conscious smile tug at the conner of his lips. "Don't worry 'bout it" you reassure him before continuing "And the show- very kind of you to say, but I think an armless fuckin' spastic woulda played better than I did tonight." you admittedly slur. "What? No way, you rocked!" his insistence at your greatness and childish turn of phrasing forcibly lift smile into your face.

What an odd little fucker.

You offer him the space on curb beside you, that he hurriedly accepts. You quiz the boy- Bill, you really gotta stop referring to him in such an offhanded manner- on how he managed to track you down again. To which he replies that after you'd dropped him on Sunset, who's gaunt, pallid face should he see plastered on every damm lamp post down Holloway Drive: that's right- yours.

How you hadn't foreseen the very situation happening after the initial interest he'd shown towards London, escapes you. Of course, he'd want to the only guy he likely knows in L. A’s band.

He knows he don't look old enough to smoke, but try’s his luck anyway; demurely asking you for a cigarette. And submitting all too quickly, you yank the carton back out of your pocket and pull one to the top, holding the pack out for him. Leaning down Bill places the smoke between his teeth, withdrawing it as he tips his head back and meeting your eyes- silently asking for a light. You oblige, letting your glance drift over the contours of his angular profile. His down-cast eyes adorned with feathery copper lashes that stretched long shadows over his cheekbones. Along with a retrousse nose and pouty lips, parted to accommodate the Marlboro Red between them. "So, how you been?" you relent- unable to help yourself from checking up on the kid.

Your affliction originates from a place of empathy; vividly recollecting your formative years spent living on the unforgiving streets of L.A. Passing out exhausted in doorways, having to steal to keep your growing body feed. But most of all you remember the dreed of night fall, and the terrifying implications it held. Always fearing you'd come to suffer one of the three inimical M's: mugged, maimed, or murdered. A term you'd coined yourself- and it frightened you to your core as an isolated adolescent brought up in 'nothin' but fuckin' cornfields' Lafayette.

"Doin' alright..." the smoke escapes from inside his mouth, snaking up and disappearing into the darkness surrounding you as Bill oscillates his head side to side in a noncommittal answer. "Not what you was expectin' from the glamorous Hollywood, huh?" you crane you neck trying to catch his eye, a knowing smile on your face as you do so. "I dunno what I was expectin'. I just- I had to get out" he jabs the cigarette balanced between his fingers at the ground decisively. "I woulda gone anywhere..." he finishes. "Fair enough." you nod.

He quiets a moment "I meant what I said though." he turns to you, tilting his head so the glow of the streetlamp backlights him. Illuminating his teased head, and setting it ablaze, framing his pale face with a flaming halo of hair. "-About you being great." And though you deem the statement untrue, you reluctantly take the complement.

You share a drawn-out look-

"Uhh, man. I gotta walk back-" he stands abruptly, groaning as he digs the sole of his palms into his eye sockets. You feel a slight pang of guilt, being unable to drive back to wherever he's taken residence. You tell yourself you ought not to care, though it's blatant that you do. "Be safe, 's a jungle out there." you promptly all after him. Hearing him chuckle before he spins around to face you. "Yessir." he salutes you sarcastically, walking backwards. Rolling your eyes, you scoff a last "Bye."

He grins, before replicating his prior farewell to you "See you 'round, Izzy.”

MADMAX

my favourite lesbian <3

mostly here for archival purposes :)