"I'll come over at nine." Mexican Monkey tells me Friday afternoon. The cleaning crew was coming early and he wanted to avoid the noise of vacuum cleaners and the cleaning lady's duster.
"I'll have breakfast," I said and hung up.
It didn't occur to me that he may not be over, the weather people predicted and we got rain starting that day and scheduled for the entire weekend. I somehow didn't connect that it was Friday and he was inquiring about Saturday morning.
Now, what monkey can stay out of the bars in West Hollywood, or anywhere, on a Friday night?
Duh? So when it was close to nine-thirty and no Mexican Monkey, I called.
He answered, gravel in his voice as usual after a night of debauchery and I was ready to hear his, 'I got so drunk last night' speech.
"I just got out of jail."
"You were arrested for drunk driving?"
"How come everybody says that to me? Huh? How come, Gil said the same thing."
"Well, I don't know, maybe because we all expect to get a call to bail your ass out of jail one day."
"No, I broke up a fight."
This was going to be good. Mexican Monkey, of course can't stay out of a ruckus, like any monkey, if he didn't start the fight, he sure as hell wasn't going to stay out of one going on either.
"You broke it up and were arrested?"
"Yes, they took us all in."
"Let the judge sort it out. Sounds about right. So are you coming over? I'm hungry and would like to have breakfast."
"I'll be over soon."
Mexican Monkey hung up and I thought, well, I guess he will and waited, besides the story sounds to good to miss and I don't exactly look like I missed too many meals.
He looked like someone that just got out of jail. Disheveled, hair unkempt and that certain unsavory odor of urine, sweat and other odd odors that jails have. I offered a shower.
"No, I need to eat."
Eat we did, and then he slept in between telling me what happened.
"Trunks?" Never heard of it."
"It's a neighborhood bar, off Santa Monica."
"Oh, a hustler bar."
"I think so," Mexican Monkey said in a very sheepish tone. "But the guys that were fighting were straight."
"Well, what was the fight about?"
"I don't know? One had a bottle and other a bar stool and they were trying to kill each other."
"And so you and someone else tried to break it up?
"The cops came in just when we got them separated and arrested all of us."
"What are straights doing in a gay bar?" I asked.
"Oh, Mikie, all the bars are mixed now."
"You're kidding."
"The Abbey? Mostly straight now."
"Gad. When I heard the Friendship opened with a new owner announcing it would now be a Metro bar I became concerned."
"Yeah, and they arrested a bunch of us, even some women were arrested and the guy in our cell said the worse was yet to come when his wife finds out in the morning."
Mexican Monkey went home in the afternoon and came back dressed with his 'I just got off the bus--ranchero pinstriped pants and some god-awful ranchero shirt. The cologne was worse than the Jail-Jungle he wore earlier.
"So, you going out tonight."
"Maybe, but I'm not drinking."
He didn't either, at least here, we had a pork roast rubbed with whole cloves and curry, acorn squash with butter, brown sugar and cinnamon and sauteed brussel sprouts with fresh nutmeg.
Not the usual fair but I think Mexican Monkey should eat well between prison visits.
No comments:
Post a Comment