We're more popular than Jesus now; I don't know which will go first, rock 'n' roll or Christianity.
John Lennon
I had finally hit rock bottom. I knew I was in deep shit after I polished off the entire second bottle of the Little Penguin Chardonnay. I knew I was in trouble because I lost my car keys and I couldn’t get home and I had no cab fare and my alcoholic boyfriend was a jerk-off. Three strikes in a row. My luck was running out.
So there I was, desperately stranded at his beachside penthouse condo with no way to get home but to walk. I was finally walking out on him because he had broken his promise to me that he wouldn’t drink anymore. He would always drink, drinking was his best friend, that was a fact. I was tired and beat up and worn down and haggard. I was tired of this relationship, tired of life and tired of myself. I finally walked out on him. Of course my friends and family had warned me, but all to no avail. I guess that’s because I never listened to anyone.
I walked to the bus stop on Federal Highway and waited on the bench for the bus. I sat there and stared out at the cars stopping at the red light, people looking over at me like I was some pathetic little girl. Did I even have bus fare on me? I frantically rummaged through my bag. Two quarters and a dime. One guy rolled down his window and said, “Hey baby, need a ride?” I did, as a matter of fact, so I jumped into his black 1999 Camaro and we sped away as the light changed. The car smelled like Evergreen air freshener and he had Led Zeppelins’ “Stairway to Heaven” playing on his CD player. There was an old Marshall amp in the backseat that stunk of stale smoke. Old cans of beer lay open on the floor and the odd cockroach ran by. He was smoking a cigarette and smiling at me with an ugly, “I haven’t been laid for a long time”, chipped tooth, fucked up smile. I guess this was my lucky day.
“I’m Eddy.” he said as he put his damp hand on my thigh. “I’m Greta”, I said, taking his hand off my thigh. “You from around here babe? I’ve never seen you here before.” No, that was for sure. I would normally not jump into strange cars but this was an emergency. ”I’m going to Bombay beach….Its just north a few miles.” I said, my heart pounding.
“Sure, Bombay Beach, yeah I did a few gigs there.…”he said.
My brain was still fuzzy from all the alcohol and I started to feel weird. Weird like I was going to throw-up weird.
“I feel sick!” I gasped and puked out the window.
Eddy pulled the car over, opened the door and heaved me out.
“Sorry lady!” He moaned.
He drove off, leaving me on the side of the road. I wiped my mouth and picked myself up and flipped him a bird. “Screw you!” I yelled. Luckily I had one last piece of Juicy Fruit in my bag, which I promptly chewed, the sweet taste moisturizing my mouth from the acrid taste of throw up. My jeans were now ripped and my purse was scuffed up. This was not me. This was not who I was or who I was raised to be. It had been Peter’s fault that I was in this mess, I was paying for his alcohol addiction. Of course, I was also paying the price of my bad choices in life.
I had spent four years with him, drifting in and out of bars around Fort Lauderdale. Every bartender in town knew us or rather, knew him for his non-stop drinking binges and excessive tipping. We were not ever turned away from an establishment serving alcohol. We were regulars. During those four years I turned into a lush myself, drowning myself in white wine and vodka. This was finally the end. The ravages had finally taken its’ toll and now this….
A cop car pulled over to the side of the road and flashed his lights at me. I froze. Oh no, not this. Did I deserve this punishment? The cop got out of the car and walked over to me sitting on the side of the road.
“Can I see some ID please Miss?” he took my ID and ran it in the cop car. My head was spinning from dehydration, from the blue and red lights and the smell of Evergreen air freshener. “Stairway to Heaven” flashed through my head and then I passed out.
When I woke up I was in jail, sitting in a cell, wearing country orange. I do not remember how I got it on, but reality was hitting me hard in my pounding head. My cell was empty, thank God. I took a piss and started to feel better. Someone came to let me out. “You’ve made bail. “ she said and tossed me my clothes. “Get dressed princess.”
If its illegal to rock and roll, throw my ass in jail!
Kurt Cobain
Past is past, and now I’ve since decided to turn over a new leaf. A non-alcoholic, coffee drinking leaf where café latte is the new Chardonnay. I live in a town full of rehabbers, people on the edge of salvation.
Today is Saturday morning and I head to the beach to catch some sun. I’ve got my towel and my sun block and my beach bag, well prepared for harmful rays. I stop off for breakfast at The Green Heron Restaurant, a worn down, old fashioned diner on Atlantic Avenue, the last vestiges of the old fashioned Mom and Pop stores that haven’t yet been taken over by corporate America like Starbucks.
The diner is crowded, full of people this morning. They sit at their tables, New York Times newspapers poised, Blackberries chirping merrily with varied ring tones and Rolexes gleaming in the morning sun like fine crystals of snow on a glacier. I wait for a table. The hostess a petite blonde with frazzled hair points me in the direction of a small corner table, under a skewed print of a green heron drawing in a tacky wooden frame. The food smells good.
I sit and stare ahead. The waitress pours me a steaming cup of coffee and takes my order, eggs scrambled, bacon and white toast. Its a hearty meal, maybe the only meal I will eat all day. My appetite has diminished these days after drinking. Food seems excessive now. It makes me sick sometimes. But this particular morning I am starved. I lazily watch the cooks in the kitchen, scrambling around.
A Rolex gleams in front of me on a fine blonde haired wrist. The wrist belongs to a preppy, blonde man in his fifties, handsome and tan, reading his Kindle. For a split second he makes discreet eye contact with me and then poof, the moment is gone. His wife, a buxom brunette talks at him while he tries to read. He seems disinterested in what she has to say. She talks loud enough for the entire diner to hear, apparently she wants someone, anyone, to pay attention to her.
“I need to stop by the hairdresser today Garth.” She whines. “Okay dear.” He says absent mindedly, reverting back to his Kindle.
I go back to staring ahead again. I am looking forward to my day at the beach. Its been too long since I felt the sun on my body, my toes in the sand and the wind on my face. I have my paperback book, a thriller by James Patterson in my bag. I am ready to forget the world and retreat into fantasy. The waitress pours me another cup of coffee and I ask for more creamers, they never give you enough of them.
The preppy blonde man gets up to leave. He leaves a generous $5.00 tip on the table. He stares at me again and I smile a little smile. He is very attractive in a safe, fatherly sort of way, unlike most of the druggies and alcoholics I have been hanging around with. I wonder at my choice of men. It must be true that women like bad boys, because that is all I am usually attracted to. The word losers comes to mind. Maybe its time to make a change.
A lot of rock bands are truly a legend in their own minds.
David Lee Roth
Garth stared at his Blackberry. He had a tee time at 2:00 at the Falls, Joanne would be pissed. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn, it was his day to play golf and she knew that, she just liked to hang on to him as long as she could. “Honey, before we go I just want to show this one dress I saw at Bebe…”. He sighed. Women could be so tiring.
“Sure hon, I am playing golf later today, remember ? I don’t have much time.” He said, his patience wearing thin.
She pouted, “Alright, if you’d rather go and play stupid golf than be with me I understand.”…
Here we go, he thought, more guilt. Why were Jewish women so good at heaping on the guilt?
They drove to Boca Town Center and parked the car in the crowded lot. It was a cream colored Cadillac Escalade, his wife’s car. He bought it for her to keep her safe in case of fender benders for which she was famous for. Joanne was what you would call a distracted driver, cell phone, coffee, nails, Blackberry, there was always a distraction and of course, talking. She loved to talk, more than anything. This was what usually caused her to crash, getting caught up in heated conversations about the price of gold, what sale was on where and whose husband was sleeping with who.
They entered the mall through the main entrance, past The Grand Luxe Café. Joanne moaned, “I wish we had time for lunch honey, before you golf…I love that place.” Garth said nothing but walked with a steely resolve towards Bebe. “Let’s see that dress.” He said determined to make this a short and painless shopping trip.
A young, very attractive blonde greeted them as they entered Bebe. She couldn’t have been all of twenty, he thought, what a rack.
“Hi there! Good to see you again! Here to see that dress?” The sales girl had a slight Boston accent, he mused. Probably from the South Side, escaping the cold here in sunny South Florida. He made a mental note to stop by the mall by himself sometime. Maybe the girl had a coffee break. It might be worth it.
“Yes, dear, we’d love to see it.”. Joanne said. “Okay, let me get it for you…..I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the back room. Garth slunk down in an overstuffed chair and crossed his arms. He didn’t mind these shopping junkets for Joanne. She was just good at spending his money, that’s all, all ten million of it. It was a never ending spending spree, Christmas every day, no limits, no concerns from where it came from. She had a good life. She was, after all, the mother of his children.
Joanne had been with him from the start, when they had started dating. He was a senior at Miami high and she was a sophmore. They fell in love at sixteen and stayed together for more than thirty years now. She helped him buy his first piece of land, the piece of land that started his career in real estate and helped him build an empire.
She was entitled. She could have whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. He rarely denied her anything. But sometimes he grew tired of her endless demands and sought solace in the arms of much younger women, discreet affairs that lasted a day or two, with women who did not keep track of his net worth or his age.
Joanne came out wearing the dress. It was a black sequinned number, fit tight to her skinny body and accentuated her full well done breasts. It was sexy, designed to please.
He liked it. He smiled slowly. “I like it.” She beamed at him. “Do you?” he smiled, “Yes I do, lets take it.” He glanced at the tag. $1500.00. The salesgirl beamed. “Its a great dress, fits you like it was made for your body. That’s Versace for you. ” Joanne disappeared into the fitting room.
Garth paid for the dress on his Black American Express card. The salesgirl eyed the card for a moment and stared at the name on it. He was used to that. People wanted to know if he was someone famous. The salesgirl carefully wrapped the dress and handed him the fancy, thick bag, embossed with their logo. They sauntered their way through the mall back towards the entrance. Joanne gave him a look.
“How about a bite honey, before you play golf?”
Garth glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 am.
“I guess I have a bit of time…..Where is this place now?” he sighed. “Right here, Grand Luxe Café.” she beamed. Nothing pleased Joanne more than to shop and eat and be seen by others shopping and eating.
Grand Luxe Café was an ornate restaurant done in Egyptian golds and turquoises, very post modern designs from the past. A gay waiter showed them to their table where they were presented with a lunch menu full of leafy green salads and crusty sandwiches on baguettes. Garth glanced at his Blackberry. There was a message from Cliff his golf buddy reminding him to meet at their 2:00 tee time at The Falls.
Joanne sat and looked around at the restaurant, letting everyone take the sight of her in. People often stared at Joanne because she was so well preserved, an older, fine specimen with long black hair and the face of a twenty five year old, with perfectly done breasts and one facelift. She looked hot for fifty plus.
“So honey, thanks for the dress, I just knew you would love it. I can’t wait to show it off at the club,” she beamed.
“Its nice, it looks great on you honey,” he commented.
He loved being seen with her. They made a handsome couple. They had two lovely twin girls, Gabriela and Gwen. They were the perfect family. They lived on the Ocean in Bombay beach. Their life was perfect. Or so it seemed.
Everything has a natural explanation. The moon is not a god, but a great rock, and the sun a hot rock.
Anaxagoras
The ocean was flat, flat as a frozen river in February, the sun was beating down on me and it was barley 11:15. I found the perfect spot to lay out my towel, far away enough to keep out of the water but close enough to gawk the walkers. Somewhere a radio played “Hotel California” and some kids ran around the beach, chased by their nanny.
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the ocean. It was calming, like when you put your ear to a seashell. I just lay there, feeling the sun beating down on my body, clad in a small bikini that I had bought on sale at Macy’s for eighty percent off. It was red, a fancy thing from Brazil, too bad there was no one around for miles to admire it. I had my legs waxed just to tan.
I thought of my life, about the past four years with Peter. It had been a whirlwind of parties, of nightclubs and bars and of drunk nights and arguments, only to make up the next day. Each new day with an alcoholic was a promising one, until the next six pack or tequilla shot. Then it was back to square one, a drunken slur, who’s blaming who, making me feel like shit. I think I would have married Peter, if only he were able to come clean and stop drinking. He had it all, good looks, good family, smart. But he loved booze more than he loved me. He had proven that.
I am done with men… The thought was comforting. No more man in my life to constantly battle with, I would have peacefulness and tranquility. I could keep my day job unfettered by complicated relationships, frantic calls of I’ve lost this or I’ve lost that or did you take my money or when are you coming home. Men! So fucking demanding.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever meet the right one, my soul mate. They say there is someone for everyone, but he seems to have eluded me in thirty years of my life. All the men (and I use the term loosely) have been like grown up boys waiting for their Mama to care for them, to save them, to provide nurturing and food. Why is this my role? I want someone to nurture me, to indulge me in my fantasies of becoming a model or an artist or business woman, someone who will back me financially and emotionally. But no, these are not the men I meet. I meet the needy, lost souls that need to be saved. And they look for me to save them from themselves. It happens every time.
Peter and I had some good times, we went down to the Keys, spent days just fishing and eating and relaxing. He was good then, so happy and carefree, like a little child in a playground. Then at night the drinking would start and slowly he would turn into an evil monster, belittling me and making violent hurtful love to me. Then, in the morning, he would be sleeping peacefully as if no damage had been done the night before, then throw up in the bathroom to start off the day. A vicious cycle that sent me spiraling down into the depths of numbing depression.
The sun felt so good, like it was lifting all the hurt and bad out of me. The more I remembered, the more I tried to forget about the past, about Peter and the rest of them. I needed to be with me for awhile, to be cleansed of the sickness and the disease of alcoholism. I hoped it would last. The sun seemed to beam goodness into my dark soul.
I feel asleep for awhile and woke up to the sound of heavy breathing at my face. It was a dog. A big, lovable German Sheppard. I sat up. “Hey guy!” I said. A tall man came running towards me. It was the man from the restaurant. He waved. “I ‘m sorry, he won’t hurt you. Brandy! Get down!” The dog backed off.
It was him. The preppy man from the restaurant was there in front of me, wearing white pants and a golf shirt. “Hello, I remember you…I think I saw you this morning at breakfast right?”
“Yes.” I said. He extended his hand. “I’m Garth.”he said, smiling. I shook his hand and smiled at him. “I’m Greta, nice to meet you…I like your dog.”
“Oh he’s just a big baby.” He said. “He’s 3….We love him…..I was just headed of to play golf and thought he might need a run.”he said.
I lay back, suddenly self conscious about my legs and stomach. Suddenly glad that I had my legs waxed. He seemed to be eying my body.
“Nice day today…” he smiled, looking me over.
I suddenly felt conscious about my toe nail polish being chipped. “Yes, it certainly is…Love the weather here. ”I replied.
“Are you from Delray?” he asked
“Yes, I just moved in last month. I lived down in Fort Lauderdale before that.”
There was a pause.
“Well, nice to meet you Greta.” He said and turned and left, dog in tow.
“See you around.” I said.
Being a rock widow is not my job, so I would hire people to do it for me.
“So what you working on now? Any more spec homes on the ocean?” asked Clifford.
“No, I’m afraid that market has dried up for now with this economy, there just aren’t the five million dollar buyer out there that used to be there. “I’m thinking of getting into tech stuff. I’ve got a connection out in Silicone Valley that’s making a new mobile phone for kids. Could be very lucrative.”
“Wow! Sounds good. Any way I can get in on that deal?” Clifford asked.
Clifford thought for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”
I'm still friends with all my exes, apart from my husbands.
“Thanks…”I was excited.
“I’m Marion by the way…. she smiled kindly at me. “I’m Greta. ”I smiled back.
Now it was time to go hunting for furniture and trinkets. Bombay Beach was full of great little shops to buy ornaments and used things. I decided to go with an all white theme for my decor, that would make it easy to buy stuff. White. White curtains, white bedspread, white accessories. White, clean, pure, a symbol of my starting over again. I felt a kind of happiness at the thought of starting over in a new place. It would be a nice change after living with dick fuck in his crummy, messed up condo. His idea of decorating had been an old sectional couch with a chrome table and an old lamp from his mothers garage. It was Salvation Army at its best, no style, no sense of design for that loser. Part of me missed him, part of me was glad he was done.
Suddenly there I was, thinking about him again. I wondered what he was doing now, probably sitting at some tiki bar somewhere telling some bullshit story to some dumb broad who would go back to his lousy apartment for the price of a beer. Probably he would tell her what a bitch I was, how I didn’t understand him and what a lousy lover I had been. Some dumb broad who would probably fall in love with Peter and send the rest of her life with him. They would probably have a big, tacky, expensive wedding, the kind we never had gotten around to. Good riddance, I thought, she can have him. I am done, done, done with that loser and if he ever comes into my life again I will kill him.
He caused me so much pain and I went through so much bullshit and for what? To be left with one huge Visa bill, a faded black eye, a damaged car and box full of apology note, which reminded me that I should burn those in case Mr. Right ever found them and blackmails me with them. Reminders of the past… No thanks. There was no sentiment to be found in this heart of mine.
I sat down in an old chair in the empty apartment and started to sob huge, deep sobs. There I was, feeling sorry for myself, thinking of the past and all the hurt and negative emotions came pouring out. Four years was a long time. Never again. I wiped my nose on my tee shirt and dried my eyes. I looked around the apartment and decided to make this new place a happy place, my place, where no one could ever hurt me again.