"FUCK YOU DOING!???' An oil stained [insert stereotype for mechanic] approached aggressively. His toothless sneer indicated a drug of choice rendering him volatile and "not to be fucked with".
"YOU CAN'T BE BACK HERE, BOY!!!"
Ethan barely had time to take offense to the racial pejorative "boy" before the man was up close and personal.
"Can't you read good?" he pointed to a sign that was so rusted, it wasn't a sign anymore. Fuck, was it ever a sign to begin with, or does this guy need Jesus and Risperdal? Ethan didn't want to know.
"Can't you read good?" he pointed to a sign that was so rusted, it wasn't a sign anymore. Fuck, was it ever a sign to begin with, or does this guy need Jesus and Risperdal? Ethan didn't want to know.
"Damnnn! Chill Bro. I need my car, psycho."
The Lord of the Salvage Yard didn't bat an eye; clearly all too familiar with that diagnosis. He extended his dirty paw. Ethan slowly removed a pink slip from his back pocket and emphatically presented it for all to see.
Clearly not bemused by the satire, the Lord snatched the ticket and meticulously perused the document.
"HA!" he smiled for the first time (I'd include a trite description of his dentition, but you, the reader, are smart enough to paint the picture yourself), "You're that idiot who left his car at the hospital emergency entrance. You pissed off a lot of people, boy." He sucked something through his nose and spat it out of his mouth. Classy. Satisfied, he returned the credentials (a helluva lot dirtier and crumpled than a few seconds ago) and indicated for Ethan to follow. Ethan complied, but kept a safe distance.
"HA!" he smiled for the first time (I'd include a trite description of his dentition, but you, the reader, are smart enough to paint the picture yourself), "You're that idiot who left his car at the hospital emergency entrance. You pissed off a lot of people, boy." He sucked something through his nose and spat it out of his mouth. Classy. Satisfied, he returned the credentials (a helluva lot dirtier and crumpled than a few seconds ago) and indicated for Ethan to follow. Ethan complied, but kept a safe distance.
They arrived at a portable, the Manor a Salvage. It was plain in color, decorated only by myriads of warnings and rules painted on metal plates, crucified to the portable. Ethan had a sneaking suspicion that they took the rules of the junkyard very seriously here.
"HEY BOY!" A sense of shock rifted through Ethan's body as the Lord hollered, leaning out the service window of the portable. The fact that Ethan had just learned from one of the many signs posted (Beware of Owner) that, not surprisingly, they were armed in this kingdom (the context apparent by a picture of a handgun), inflamed his apprehension. For the second time in the 10 minuted he had been there, he considered cutting his loses and leaving the whip.
"You dumb of something?" The Lord patronized further, "Over here! You need to fill some papers out."
Ethan complied, ignoring his better judgement. He cautiously approached and was shocked to find that inside the portable was a well furnished office, complete with Kitty-hang-on motivational posters and a fetish amount of porcelain bobble-head dog figurines nodding their head autonomously.
"Nice office...sir" Ethan opened up, unsure himself if he was being genuine or sarcastic. In any case he hoped it was received as the former.
"I ain't no queer!" the Lord decreed, presuming the intent of my comment was a pickup. Ethan could only offer a baffled look as his only rebuttal. Honestly he didn't want to know what the fuck was going on. This could've come from a Monty Python skit, it was so bizarre.
"You needed me to fill something out?" Ethan diverted.
The Lord continued with his slow piercing gaze before pulling some papers from somewhere, all while maintaining his glare.
Ten pages worth of legal jargon flopped on the counter. Ethan had taken a LSAT prep course, but he was in no mood to exercise his knowledge with what he assumed was a straightforward and standard legal form for a junkyard. He flipped through the entire thing in a few seconds, stopping at random pages to scrutinizing the vernacular, though not entirely sure what he was looking for. He just hoped that his attentiveness to detail (or affectation of such) would deter the Lord from fucking with him. Seems legit. What's the worse that could happen?
"Yupp. Looks like everything's here." using his most confident and assured grown-up voice.
The Lord was just staring at him with an eerie crooked smile. He said nothing.
"So..." Ethan trailed off, hoping to galvanize some directives from the Lord.
The Lord continued his leer as he pointed to a single line on the last page. Even the affectatiously erudite Ethan Campbell knew the implication.
He grabbed a filthy white Bic pen from the counter, conveniently tied to what had to be the king of the porcelain dog army; his eminence afforded to him by his size which tripled that of his brethren.
Ethan Matthews, he said in his head as he scribbled his autograph. He had to catch himself from saying, "thanks for reading", which was second nature in his book-signing days.
The forms were snatched away before he could even cross the T's, "All right. You're all set. It's gonna be twenty-five hundred"
Twenty-five dollars? No fucking way it's that low...fuck, did he say Twenty-five HUNDRED? Ethan was beside himself, "Two grand??? For what!?"
"You read the forms Mr. Civil Litigator. You should know. 450 for the tow, 150 a day holding fee, 45 a day lot fee."
Ethan did the math in his head, checked his work, and recounted again, "That's only 24 hundred." As if 100 dollars was the make or break.
"Oh that's right..." the Lord cooly patronized, "Hundred dollars douchebag fee"
Okay, now I heard that. He's fucking with me. Has to be.
"Sure! the douchebag fee. How can I forget." Ethan added sarcastically
The Lord kept a straight face; chewing on something. They're always chewing, these types.
Okay, not a joke. "You're serious???" Ethan pleaded, "You can't do that!!"
"You signed the papers, boy." The Lord flipped to a page in the middle of the paper stack:
Article 7 Section 14
The proprietor can and will include a fee for "douche-bag" behavior, the definition of which is listed in Article 2.7.
Article 2 Section 7
From here on out, the term douche-bag will denote distasteful and unfavorable characters.
"You can't do that you fucking idiot!" Ethan exclaimed, putting an end to this surreal buffoonery.
"My lot", the Lord leaned in close, his alcoholic smell now potent, "my rules, nigger! You want your car, you got to play by them."
Ethan was clearly at a disadvantage. Regardless of his thoughts on this imbred and his establishment (the term used loosely), he knew that he had signed off on it, thus agreeing to be this hillbilly's bitch.
"Fine!! I need a moment though." Ethan ceded, biting his tongue.
He felt the Lord's stare as he walked out of ear shot. He slid his iPhone from his back pocket and hit the home button
iMessage
MoTheR
Just what I need. Another person to make me feel badly for myself.
Somehow her timing was always inopportune. Phone calls throughout the day that, from precedence, would occupy the space of an hour. He didn't have the time investment nor an adequate response for "oh, mr. hot-shot writer. no time for his mother." At this particular incidence, it was perfect; a comfortably affluent parental unit to tow him out of another ditch.
"Aww FUCK!" Ethan clapped his hands together in frustration. His financial pit reminded him that his four thousand dollar shopping spree was still in the car. This might as well happen.
He turned back around and sure enough the Lord was watching over his shoulder with a death glare; the same look Ethan always got walking into a Liquor store in Korea town. "YOU BUY!"
"Can I grab some of my belongings from the car?" Ethan asked
The Lord's shrugged, "What shopping bags?"
Ethan returned a bitter smile and a contemptuous thumbs up, "You're right. What shopping bags? Fuck was I thinking? My mistake." This day can't get any better.
Another text came almost immediately after:
Krystal: Where the fuck are you??? Chris is pissed!!!
FUCK
Ethan had forgotten that he was supposed to come back into work today.
Ethan: Shit. I'm coming right now
Some faggy dive in Venice
Ethan stumbled into the bar, kicking up peanut shells from the floor. Sweat beaded on his head from the heat, a rushed expedition by bus and foot, and the looming rage of yet another boss. His only comfort was knowing that he didn't technically need the job. He took up bar tending 'cuz bitches love bartenders, and he found most of his inspiration for his writing from his patrons, especially of the bitch variety. Times as they were, the necessity of this job grew more apparent which contributed to Ethan's anxiety in being late. As he shimmied and sidles in and out of the crowded bar, his trepidation increasing with the realization that it was extraordinarily busy that day and they were a bartender short. He felt like everyone was shaking their heads at him (staff and guest) for letting them down with his derelict untimeliness. He was doing a lot of that lately, letting people down.
"Matt!" A booming voice stopped him in his steps. Chris was of the bouncer sort; a fat and intimidating Samoan who seemed to command all the females attention by simply sitting with his arms crossed, offering single word answers and coy grins. He was an ugly son of a bitch too which made that feat even more incredible. Perks of the job, like i said. He had been a bouncer for the Deja Vu strip-club syndicate, eventually earning the ranks of manager, and somehow coming to run this overpriced pretentious shit hole. Obviously the worst thing Chris could do was yell at him (well actually, the worst thing Chris could do was fire him, especially now), but Ethan had seen Chris on numerous occasion break a table with a belligerent drunk guy. What's more menacing is that they--the belligerent drunk guys--always ended up paying for that broken table. Talk about carrying your cross to Golgatha. So, yeah, don't fuck with Chris...seriously.
Ethan clenched his face and prepared to plead his case, "Chris, man, I'm sorry man. I had to deal with this hill-billy cracker at the tow yard--"
Chris shook his head and held up a hand, "Shut your face. I don't give a fuck. Bar 4 NOW!" He tossed Ethan an apron. It was just a piece of cloth, but Ethan would've sworn it knocked his back a few paces. Did I mention Chris played tight end for SC before getting suspended for a helmet hit, putting one unlucky kid in a coma? I think the poor bastard is still in a coma.
That probably wasn't the end of the conversation, but Ethan convinced himself that it was in order to put it out of his mind. You can't tend bar on a bad mood. Nobody wants a bummer for a bartender. Fake it for her to make that paper.
He made his way to the back of house and to the other side of the bar that serviced an outside patio. Krystal was just finishing up pouring a line of blowjobs for a bachelorette party. She saw Ethan from the corner of her eye. Looking back at him, she made a gun with her hand and blew her brains out (out of view of the basic brides maids and their "woooing" of course) before laughing. Sure, she had to stay later because Ethan showed up late, but she was a super mellow stoner. Ethan couldn't recall a time he had ever seen her mad, ever.
"Oh my GOD!" she exasperated, walking toward Ethan and giving him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Kill me now! If I hear another thing related to a wedding, I'll set the bride on fire. I will! Don't think I will?"
Krystal took a swig of 151, pulled out a zippo and blew a ball of flame over the growingly ratchet wedding court's heads. They all screamed in shock then laughed and clapped after.
Retarded, she mouthed, again out of view. Ethan approached the bar top.
"You can close them out baby boy" Krystal said, counting out her tips from a pint glass.
"Nah Krys! Don't be stupid. They had to be hard to deal with and I was late. I already feel badly!" Ethan pleaded.
She pinched his cheeks, "Word on the street is that you need it."
Ethan rolled his eyes, "Fucking Darlene", he mumbled under his breath as she poured two shots of Jameson.
"...Annd this." She handed him one shot, clinked it with the other and shot it back in one motion. "Okay, I'm out! Your hell now Matthews." She wiped her bottom lip and referred back to the bridal shower, "Alright you dirty slut hookers. Peace BITCHEEESS!" she condescended with a smile faker than half their titties.
A clamoring of "Oh My God, like byyeeee", "I miss you already", "Love you Slut" followed as Krystal backed away from the bar with a Nixon inspired double deuce. Retarded, she mouthed to Ethan again right before disappearing into the back.
Ethan couldn't help but smile. Her jolliness was contagious. He loved how she made his week better already with attempted arson, a little cash gift, a shot, and good ol' fashion customer derision. But hey, that's what bartenders do, right?
Ethan began setting up his bar the way he liked: pulled two stacks of pint glasses from the refrigerator and set them on the rubber threshold that split bartender and bar attendee. He checked his garnishes (olives, check; limes, check; cherries, check...) impaling two of each with a miniature sword toothpick, ready to go. He grabbed a pint glass from the stack he pulled up, and dabbed at each beer tab to test levels. "Erick! I'm running low on Sculpin!" Ethan called out to the back of house.
A voice responded from somewhere in the back, "I just changed it, chief!" the bar-back responded. He sounded out of breath. Must be doing kegs right now. He let the sculpin tap run to dump the foam.
Turning back around, he was greeted by the last people he'd expect to see.
"Um. What the fuck?"
"Ethan, I'd hit you right now if we weren't in public. Is that any way to talk to your mother? Jude! You see how your son talks to me?" They plopped down on two Bar stools, his mother in a floral blouse and white capris, his father in a suit (that's all he ever wore whenever he stepped out in public. At home, it was boxers, slippers, and a wifebeater that emphasized his skinny-fat E.T.-like bod).
"Etan, respect yo mow-dah." Ethan's father said reflexively, eyes squinted and fixed on his iPhone screen. Ethan's mom waved off his lack of attention.
Ethan leaned over the bar-top and kissed his mother on the cheek, "I meant what are you guys doing in Los Angeles? It's a little random, don't you think?"
"We're meeting your uncle at Staple's center." she replied, clasping her hands together and grinning widely
"What? Lakers?" Ethan playfully stuck out his tongue and flipped off some regulars that he saw from across the room.
His mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly and tried to swat away the obscene gesture, "No silly. Blue-Man Group!" Her excitement was painted on her face.
"Oh yeah, of course. Staple's Center. Blue-man group. How did i mistake that?" He said robotically, emphasizing his sarcasm. His mother playfully swatted at him.
"I don't understand da blue! Why da blue? Do you need to be blue to heet drams?" Ethan's dad was the founding father of selective hearing, "Eet's too much. My eyes hurt just looking at dis veedeeo."
"I told you, Jude. It's their...PIZAZZ!" She gesticulated 'pizzazz' with jazz fingers.
"Olways wid de PIZAZZ", his father rolled his eyes.
"Enough you two or I'm gonna have to call the bouncer", Ethan toyed. He loved how his parents were such characters. They were like the Seinfelds, but interracial. "So you're seeing the Blue-balls group in downtown, yet you're somehow here in Venice..." He
"Well you didn't return my text so I got worried. I called Keith and he said you'd be here." His mother's diminutive confidence in Ethan's ability to handle himself was accurate. On usual circumstance, he would lambast her overbearing concern, but it was comforting to know he had that support system. As much as he claimed demons, he was statistically privileged. So goes the plight of suburban youth.
Ethan's parents lived in Irvine california. Though driving distance, there was a massive disconnect between Los angeles and Orange county. Orange county shaped their views and they abided by its strict code of ethics in exchange for personal safety and home-price values. Let's just say, down here, the people are less colorful. Ironically, his father was a Nigerian national who made his way to the top on software and computer repair, establishing himself before the cool kids ran the industry. Mother was a Sacramento native and also a salt-of-the-earth personality. She was a NICU R.N. who was never leaving California. She felt the comforts of the Golden State were enough. A journey south was as far as she went. Together, they assimilated into white-privelaged communities, following the zeitgeist and gentrifying themselves so as to not stick out (as much as an interracial couple in Newport could). These were Ethan's parents: timid, low-key, and frugal. Frugal, as in living on a 5ook combined income yet recycling cans on Wednesday at the local Stater Brothers parking lot.
"HEY BOY!" A sense of shock rifted through Ethan's body as the Lord hollered, leaning out the service window of the portable. The fact that Ethan had just learned from one of the many signs posted (Beware of Owner) that, not surprisingly, they were armed in this kingdom (the context apparent by a picture of a handgun), inflamed his apprehension. For the second time in the 10 minuted he had been there, he considered cutting his loses and leaving the whip.
"You dumb of something?" The Lord patronized further, "Over here! You need to fill some papers out."
Ethan complied, ignoring his better judgement. He cautiously approached and was shocked to find that inside the portable was a well furnished office, complete with Kitty-hang-on motivational posters and a fetish amount of porcelain bobble-head dog figurines nodding their head autonomously.
"Nice office...sir" Ethan opened up, unsure himself if he was being genuine or sarcastic. In any case he hoped it was received as the former.
"I ain't no queer!" the Lord decreed, presuming the intent of my comment was a pickup. Ethan could only offer a baffled look as his only rebuttal. Honestly he didn't want to know what the fuck was going on. This could've come from a Monty Python skit, it was so bizarre.
"You needed me to fill something out?" Ethan diverted.
The Lord continued with his slow piercing gaze before pulling some papers from somewhere, all while maintaining his glare.
Ten pages worth of legal jargon flopped on the counter. Ethan had taken a LSAT prep course, but he was in no mood to exercise his knowledge with what he assumed was a straightforward and standard legal form for a junkyard. He flipped through the entire thing in a few seconds, stopping at random pages to scrutinizing the vernacular, though not entirely sure what he was looking for. He just hoped that his attentiveness to detail (or affectation of such) would deter the Lord from fucking with him. Seems legit. What's the worse that could happen?
"Yupp. Looks like everything's here." using his most confident and assured grown-up voice.
The Lord was just staring at him with an eerie crooked smile. He said nothing.
"So..." Ethan trailed off, hoping to galvanize some directives from the Lord.
The Lord continued his leer as he pointed to a single line on the last page. Even the affectatiously erudite Ethan Campbell knew the implication.
He grabbed a filthy white Bic pen from the counter, conveniently tied to what had to be the king of the porcelain dog army; his eminence afforded to him by his size which tripled that of his brethren.
Ethan Matthews, he said in his head as he scribbled his autograph. He had to catch himself from saying, "thanks for reading", which was second nature in his book-signing days.
The forms were snatched away before he could even cross the T's, "All right. You're all set. It's gonna be twenty-five hundred"
Twenty-five dollars? No fucking way it's that low...fuck, did he say Twenty-five HUNDRED? Ethan was beside himself, "Two grand??? For what!?"
"You read the forms Mr. Civil Litigator. You should know. 450 for the tow, 150 a day holding fee, 45 a day lot fee."
Ethan did the math in his head, checked his work, and recounted again, "That's only 24 hundred." As if 100 dollars was the make or break.
"Oh that's right..." the Lord cooly patronized, "Hundred dollars douchebag fee"
Okay, now I heard that. He's fucking with me. Has to be.
"Sure! the douchebag fee. How can I forget." Ethan added sarcastically
The Lord kept a straight face; chewing on something. They're always chewing, these types.
Okay, not a joke. "You're serious???" Ethan pleaded, "You can't do that!!"
"You signed the papers, boy." The Lord flipped to a page in the middle of the paper stack:
Article 7 Section 14
The proprietor can and will include a fee for "douche-bag" behavior, the definition of which is listed in Article 2.7.
Article 2 Section 7
From here on out, the term douche-bag will denote distasteful and unfavorable characters.
"You can't do that you fucking idiot!" Ethan exclaimed, putting an end to this surreal buffoonery.
"My lot", the Lord leaned in close, his alcoholic smell now potent, "my rules, nigger! You want your car, you got to play by them."
Ethan was clearly at a disadvantage. Regardless of his thoughts on this imbred and his establishment (the term used loosely), he knew that he had signed off on it, thus agreeing to be this hillbilly's bitch.
"Fine!! I need a moment though." Ethan ceded, biting his tongue.
He felt the Lord's stare as he walked out of ear shot. He slid his iPhone from his back pocket and hit the home button
iMessage
MoTheR
Just what I need. Another person to make me feel badly for myself.
Somehow her timing was always inopportune. Phone calls throughout the day that, from precedence, would occupy the space of an hour. He didn't have the time investment nor an adequate response for "oh, mr. hot-shot writer. no time for his mother." At this particular incidence, it was perfect; a comfortably affluent parental unit to tow him out of another ditch.
"Aww FUCK!" Ethan clapped his hands together in frustration. His financial pit reminded him that his four thousand dollar shopping spree was still in the car. This might as well happen.
He turned back around and sure enough the Lord was watching over his shoulder with a death glare; the same look Ethan always got walking into a Liquor store in Korea town. "YOU BUY!"
"Can I grab some of my belongings from the car?" Ethan asked
The Lord's shrugged, "What shopping bags?"
Ethan returned a bitter smile and a contemptuous thumbs up, "You're right. What shopping bags? Fuck was I thinking? My mistake." This day can't get any better.
Another text came almost immediately after:
Krystal: Where the fuck are you??? Chris is pissed!!!
FUCK
Ethan had forgotten that he was supposed to come back into work today.
Ethan: Shit. I'm coming right now
Some faggy dive in Venice
Ethan stumbled into the bar, kicking up peanut shells from the floor. Sweat beaded on his head from the heat, a rushed expedition by bus and foot, and the looming rage of yet another boss. His only comfort was knowing that he didn't technically need the job. He took up bar tending 'cuz bitches love bartenders, and he found most of his inspiration for his writing from his patrons, especially of the bitch variety. Times as they were, the necessity of this job grew more apparent which contributed to Ethan's anxiety in being late. As he shimmied and sidles in and out of the crowded bar, his trepidation increasing with the realization that it was extraordinarily busy that day and they were a bartender short. He felt like everyone was shaking their heads at him (staff and guest) for letting them down with his derelict untimeliness. He was doing a lot of that lately, letting people down.
"Matt!" A booming voice stopped him in his steps. Chris was of the bouncer sort; a fat and intimidating Samoan who seemed to command all the females attention by simply sitting with his arms crossed, offering single word answers and coy grins. He was an ugly son of a bitch too which made that feat even more incredible. Perks of the job, like i said. He had been a bouncer for the Deja Vu strip-club syndicate, eventually earning the ranks of manager, and somehow coming to run this overpriced pretentious shit hole. Obviously the worst thing Chris could do was yell at him (well actually, the worst thing Chris could do was fire him, especially now), but Ethan had seen Chris on numerous occasion break a table with a belligerent drunk guy. What's more menacing is that they--the belligerent drunk guys--always ended up paying for that broken table. Talk about carrying your cross to Golgatha. So, yeah, don't fuck with Chris...seriously.
Ethan clenched his face and prepared to plead his case, "Chris, man, I'm sorry man. I had to deal with this hill-billy cracker at the tow yard--"
Chris shook his head and held up a hand, "Shut your face. I don't give a fuck. Bar 4 NOW!" He tossed Ethan an apron. It was just a piece of cloth, but Ethan would've sworn it knocked his back a few paces. Did I mention Chris played tight end for SC before getting suspended for a helmet hit, putting one unlucky kid in a coma? I think the poor bastard is still in a coma.
That probably wasn't the end of the conversation, but Ethan convinced himself that it was in order to put it out of his mind. You can't tend bar on a bad mood. Nobody wants a bummer for a bartender. Fake it for her to make that paper.
He made his way to the back of house and to the other side of the bar that serviced an outside patio. Krystal was just finishing up pouring a line of blowjobs for a bachelorette party. She saw Ethan from the corner of her eye. Looking back at him, she made a gun with her hand and blew her brains out (out of view of the basic brides maids and their "woooing" of course) before laughing. Sure, she had to stay later because Ethan showed up late, but she was a super mellow stoner. Ethan couldn't recall a time he had ever seen her mad, ever.
"Oh my GOD!" she exasperated, walking toward Ethan and giving him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Kill me now! If I hear another thing related to a wedding, I'll set the bride on fire. I will! Don't think I will?"
Krystal took a swig of 151, pulled out a zippo and blew a ball of flame over the growingly ratchet wedding court's heads. They all screamed in shock then laughed and clapped after.
Retarded, she mouthed, again out of view. Ethan approached the bar top.
"You can close them out baby boy" Krystal said, counting out her tips from a pint glass.
"Nah Krys! Don't be stupid. They had to be hard to deal with and I was late. I already feel badly!" Ethan pleaded.
She pinched his cheeks, "Word on the street is that you need it."
Ethan rolled his eyes, "Fucking Darlene", he mumbled under his breath as she poured two shots of Jameson.
"...Annd this." She handed him one shot, clinked it with the other and shot it back in one motion. "Okay, I'm out! Your hell now Matthews." She wiped her bottom lip and referred back to the bridal shower, "Alright you dirty slut hookers. Peace BITCHEEESS!" she condescended with a smile faker than half their titties.
A clamoring of "Oh My God, like byyeeee", "I miss you already", "Love you Slut" followed as Krystal backed away from the bar with a Nixon inspired double deuce. Retarded, she mouthed to Ethan again right before disappearing into the back.
Ethan couldn't help but smile. Her jolliness was contagious. He loved how she made his week better already with attempted arson, a little cash gift, a shot, and good ol' fashion customer derision. But hey, that's what bartenders do, right?
Ethan began setting up his bar the way he liked: pulled two stacks of pint glasses from the refrigerator and set them on the rubber threshold that split bartender and bar attendee. He checked his garnishes (olives, check; limes, check; cherries, check...) impaling two of each with a miniature sword toothpick, ready to go. He grabbed a pint glass from the stack he pulled up, and dabbed at each beer tab to test levels. "Erick! I'm running low on Sculpin!" Ethan called out to the back of house.
A voice responded from somewhere in the back, "I just changed it, chief!" the bar-back responded. He sounded out of breath. Must be doing kegs right now. He let the sculpin tap run to dump the foam.
Turning back around, he was greeted by the last people he'd expect to see.
"Um. What the fuck?"
"Ethan, I'd hit you right now if we weren't in public. Is that any way to talk to your mother? Jude! You see how your son talks to me?" They plopped down on two Bar stools, his mother in a floral blouse and white capris, his father in a suit (that's all he ever wore whenever he stepped out in public. At home, it was boxers, slippers, and a wifebeater that emphasized his skinny-fat E.T.-like bod).
"Etan, respect yo mow-dah." Ethan's father said reflexively, eyes squinted and fixed on his iPhone screen. Ethan's mom waved off his lack of attention.
Ethan leaned over the bar-top and kissed his mother on the cheek, "I meant what are you guys doing in Los Angeles? It's a little random, don't you think?"
"We're meeting your uncle at Staple's center." she replied, clasping her hands together and grinning widely
"What? Lakers?" Ethan playfully stuck out his tongue and flipped off some regulars that he saw from across the room.
His mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly and tried to swat away the obscene gesture, "No silly. Blue-Man Group!" Her excitement was painted on her face.
"Oh yeah, of course. Staple's Center. Blue-man group. How did i mistake that?" He said robotically, emphasizing his sarcasm. His mother playfully swatted at him.
"I don't understand da blue! Why da blue? Do you need to be blue to heet drams?" Ethan's dad was the founding father of selective hearing, "Eet's too much. My eyes hurt just looking at dis veedeeo."
"I told you, Jude. It's their...PIZAZZ!" She gesticulated 'pizzazz' with jazz fingers.
"Olways wid de PIZAZZ", his father rolled his eyes.
"Enough you two or I'm gonna have to call the bouncer", Ethan toyed. He loved how his parents were such characters. They were like the Seinfelds, but interracial. "So you're seeing the Blue-balls group in downtown, yet you're somehow here in Venice..." He
"Well you didn't return my text so I got worried. I called Keith and he said you'd be here." His mother's diminutive confidence in Ethan's ability to handle himself was accurate. On usual circumstance, he would lambast her overbearing concern, but it was comforting to know he had that support system. As much as he claimed demons, he was statistically privileged. So goes the plight of suburban youth.
Ethan's parents lived in Irvine california. Though driving distance, there was a massive disconnect between Los angeles and Orange county. Orange county shaped their views and they abided by its strict code of ethics in exchange for personal safety and home-price values. Let's just say, down here, the people are less colorful. Ironically, his father was a Nigerian national who made his way to the top on software and computer repair, establishing himself before the cool kids ran the industry. Mother was a Sacramento native and also a salt-of-the-earth personality. She was a NICU R.N. who was never leaving California. She felt the comforts of the Golden State were enough. A journey south was as far as she went. Together, they assimilated into white-privelaged communities, following the zeitgeist and gentrifying themselves so as to not stick out (as much as an interracial couple in Newport could). These were Ethan's parents: timid, low-key, and frugal. Frugal, as in living on a 5ook combined income yet recycling cans on Wednesday at the local Stater Brothers parking lot.
