by Ken O'Steen
I had a few things of course that needed attending to. Most important was spreading word throughout the circle of neighbors, and other enthusiasts of pleasurable dereliction, that while there would remain at least one shoulder nowhere near a wheel, there would be one less leaning against the bar there. After being informed on an individual basis, the broadest sentiment appeared to be an initial dread of a farewell gala requiring them to pony up. I resisted the idea of any officially celebrated sayonara, even though no one had proposed as much. It was clear however among confederates, the intent was there to be as thorough in the pursuit of diminished senses, embarrassing overindulgence, and sentimentally excessive alteration of mood through chemical means during the final week, as the pending change warranted, even to the point of neurological damage, as a souvenir of a series of memorable evenings.
Andrew and I shared our Last Supper at The Pig in the middle of the week. At some point during it he told me, “I’ve got to get out of there some time,” referring to the Essex, naturally.
“This doesn’t sound like you.”
“The Donovan who’s going to be living at the beach isn’t like the Donovan I’ve come to know and tolerate.”
“I’m a rolling stone and a rambling man,” I told him with a ripe grin.
Proffering the sweetest smile he said, “Maybe I lost my head. But I still have some closet ambitions too.”
“Likewise, guilty as charged, as you would be the first to know. But I’m sure to be back here. Put it at five to one…fate.”
In those “final days,” I collected the last dribs and drabs of pay from the Pimperary, and got a little money of mine returned from the Essex. I took my valedictory walks around the neighborhood. By the end of the week I was dehydrated as well as tired, a little relieved, already slightly missing my present clan, and truest kin perhaps, and anticipatory at the same time.
The final night after closing, the professor locked us in. He kept the glasses full, though by then Andrew, Penelope and I were taking it easy. On the television behind the bar we were watching clips of Larry King moderating a discussion, though at lowered volume, among Arnold Schwarzenegger, Ross Perot and Ralph Nader: all great men, each destined to someday save the nation in his own way, I had no doubt. I wrote the phone number for Bob’s at The Beach down, and passed it out to the other three, making me easily accessible in the afterlife.
“Already trotting out the human interest Halloween news bites,” the Professor interjected, commenting on our CNN friends. “They run that same clip every year, I swear.”
“Halloween here…I mean, why?” Penelope said.
“I’m dressing as a Salvation Army soldier this year,” Andrew claimed. “I need suggestions on where to buy a kettle.”
Though we were taking it easy, we weren’t stopping, and the Professor was urged to reaffirm his comradely spirit again by causing glasses on the bar to brim anew. There was the obligatory request for me to be certain to join them from time to time when I came in from what was now routinely called my “vacation home.” Penelope reiterated that her upcoming string of jobs performing on the road would keep her out of town a while, but that she was sure to “be here by the time you come around. ” I congratulated her again for bagging the mini tour, and for what it bode for her spreading notoriety; and what the notoriety should bode for her as a working, performing, eventually recording musician. All three of the rest of us reminded her again how much we admired both her perseverance and her talent. This caused her to grumble with the expected gruff discomfort. But we could see she was pleased.
When the bright eyed and bushytailed CNN morning anchors christened the launch of a “new day,” in the east, we accepted that our night was done, and the surprisingly elegiac occasion to which it had been devoted. The final words of the Professor’s to me, to summarize, were, “It’s been a pleasure, financially and otherwise, selling you lots and lots and lots of liquor. But think how many people will become regulars here only because you aren’t around? Be careful out there, Donovan. You’re going where it’s truly dangerous.” He followed with a simultaneous handshake, and pat on the back.
From Penelope came a tender peck on the cheek. “Until I see you,” she said. “Here, or at a gig,” she remembered to say. “Bring the chick,” she said.
I reminded Andrew one more time he’d have to come and spend a couple of days with Lila and me; but he made a disgusted face again at the thought of the lengthy travel. ”Look, I don’t like the ocean, the sun, OR the beach. But drop back by here when you’re in the neighborhood. And…I do want you to keep in touch you know.”
In the morning I stood on the sidewalk in front of the Essex waiting for Lila in brilliant, white sunlight, my ragged backpack at my feet. Everything with me for nearly eleven months still would fit inside it, what was worth retaining that is. I had given away some things to a few of the Essex’s neediest. I planned to begin anew with a refreshed set of toiletries in my soon to be refreshed life, so I’d dumped the old, along with a pair of gangrenous sneakers I’d refused an eager recipient for purely hygienic reasons, unloading them in the bin with the rest of my poor man’s pathetic detritus.
The sun was so bright it seemed to boil the dinginess of the neighborhood up to the surface. It was not so different from a glimpse of the worn but sensuous woman from the night before visible in the light of day. I didn’t mind. It didn’t matter.
From there a vision: the Hollywood sign…palm trees sprouting from concrete. Shiny cars, blue skies; the midways of a declining, hence, very entertaining civilization at your fingertips. Lila pulled up, honking the horn. She pulled to the curb, and smiling, reached across the seat to unlock the back door in order for me to toss my backpack in. I felt a twang of nervousness as the thought crossed my mind that maybe the Professor had been right.
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