Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 14 Enter the 9th Circle

“I want to tell you one of my favorite stories,” Scott says, turning my face to his, “now that we’re new friends.” “Hello, Miss Thing,” Dennis yells, moving in right behind me. I mentally check to see where my wallet is.

“I once had this roommate who was a 300-pound tacky black drag queen named Laronda,” says Scott, getting an evil look in his eye. “Anyway, she comes to me one day and I tell her that I need a favor.” Dennis snickers behind me. “So, I tell her that my father is sending me money by Western Union and I can’t pick it up.” Scott looks around me at Dennis and they both begin laughing. “So, Laronda says that she will pick the money up for me.” “Delicious, just delicious,” says Dennis twirling the back of my hair with his index finger.

“The day arrives and I send Laronda to Western Union.” Scott pauses and looks straight into my eyes. “Oh, did I tell you that Laronda was illiterate?” Dennis is giggling louder. “She can’t read or write a word.” “So I tell Laronda that she needs to hand the teller this note to get the money.” “Tell him what the note says, tell him what the note says,” blurts Dennis, tugging on my sleeve. “The notes says, ‘My name is Laronda, gorilla woman, give me all your money, I have a gun!’ ” With this Dennis and Scott fall off their stools and begin rolling in laughter. They are falling all over themselves. “The cops…, the cops…, the cops took her away!” Dennis and Scott can barely breathe and are slapping and clinging to each other.

“Can you imagine the look on that teller’s face when a 300-pound tacky drag queen with crooked stockings handed her that note?” says Scott, now red in the face from laughing. They continue laughing and slowly climb back onto their bar stools. I feel as if my mouth is hanging open. Don’t get me wrong, it took years for me to laugh at that story, well okay, weeks. If that story is true, what are these two truly capable of?

An old man squeezes between me and Scott; he is listing from side to side. Scott bounces him like a pinball. Then Scott looks around me at Dennis and whispers loudly, “Oh look, fresh fish!” It’s about this time that I remember I am at work. I have very little money in my pocket and I am not here for a picnic. “Hey guys, I have to get going.” I say.

Scott and Dennis are no longer looking at me and have moved on to greener pastures. Scott is pressed up to the guy from the front and Dennis has his hand on the guys back pocket, encasing his wallet.

I jump off the stool and head back to the stairs by way of Bob. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me and has a smile on his face. He is softly laughing and shaking his head side to side. I point to the stairs and tell him to “Come up and see me sometime.”

Slowly climbing the stairs, I become overwhelmed. I am suddenly aware that I am in a den of prostitutes, thieves, cut throats, drunks, drug addicts, and probably killers. But I have to tell you, I am having the time of my life. Oh sure, I am fresh off the turnip truck from Upstate New York, but I’m not that naïve, or at least I don’t think I am.

I walk back into the bar and Don immediately spots me. I push through the crowd. The jukebox is playing Joan Jett for the fiftieth time that night. Funnily enough, it’s “I Don’t Give a Damn About My Bad Reputation.” Somehow, that seems very fitting at this moment.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 13 Enter the 9th Circle

“Frightening,” says Don as I walk back around the side of the bar. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say, lifting up the side entrance. “Trust me, I do,” responds Don, handing me a shot. “I’ve had to go up there myself on occasion.”

I don’t even ask what I am about to drink, I just throw it back. The dancer is now sitting down on the bar completely naked and smoking a cigarette. “I’m on break,” he says to me with a wink. There is a really old man leaning on his leg and looking into his eyes. “Isn’t a naked dancer illegal?” I whisper to Don. “Lots of stuff here is illegal,” Don whispers back.

“Okay, so what’s in the wooden boxes I serve with the boilermakers and who’s the old man upstairs?” I ask, looking at Don. Don puts one finger up to his lips. The phone rings and Don grabs it. He looks at me and points to the basement door. “Tree wants you downstairs.”

I walk out from behind the bar. “Be careful,” Don says with a laugh, “there are more monsters in the basement than there are upstairs.” I flash him a “you’re real funny” smirk and cautiously approach the basement door. It can’t get any worse, I think, can it? I grab the handle and yank it open. 

The noise level is louder in the basement and the lights are much brighter than in the upstairs bar. The staircase is actually pounding and vibrating in time to the music. I slowly walk down the stairs, waiting to see what this next adventure will bring. The place is jumping. It is fully packed with lots of old men and very young guys. I see that Scott and Dennis have cozied up to an old man at the bar. Scott, ever on the prowl, sees me and raises his drink in my direction.

Tree is behind the bar holding court; he waves me over. “Geoff,’ I want you to meet some friends,” he says, a big smile crossing his face. “Geoff, this Carl,” Tree says, putting his hands on the shoulders of one of his bar patrons. I put out my hand to Carl and he shakes it. Tree moves further down the bar to the next patron. “Geoff, meet Neil.” “Nice to meet you, Neil,” I say, extending my hand.

“And Geoff, this is Bob,” Tree says with a smile. I turn and find myself eye to eye with a blond tussled muscular surfer with killer blue eyes. Words fail me. “Hi, I…, I…,” I mumble. “I am Geoff,” Bob says, finishing my sentence and grabbing my hand in his. I can’t look away from his eyes, and then a perfect smile appears on his face. His teeth are straight, white, and he has a twinkle in his eye. 

I stand there not moving for a good three minutes. “Let go of his hand,” says Tree out of the side of his mouth, causing Bob to laugh.  You know that part in the movie when the wave crashes on the beach and the music begins to swell? Well, this was that moment for me.

“I hear this is your first night. Are you having a good time?” Bob asks. “Uh huh,” I respond. In my mind we are slow dancing. Everyone around Bob begins to laugh. “Wow, you cast quite a spell,” says Tree to Bob. Bob doesn’t move, he just stares deep into my eyes and keeps the smile on his face. “I…, I…, I am very pleased to meet you,” I say, still looking into his eyes. Bob keeps holding my hand and I feel the warmth of his hand in mine.

Slowly, I pull my hand out of Bob’s, realizing that I am making a fool of myself. “What…, what…, what do you do for a living?” I stammer, still looking at Bob. “Bob’s a lawyer,” Tree says quickly, “corporate law,” adding a wink at Bob. The wink escapes me as I continue to stare at Bob.

“Oh Geoff, wait. Robin!” Tree yells, waving across the bar. “Robin, Robin!” he yells louder and waves his arms like he’s landing a plane. I really don’t need to meet anyone else. But Robin Byrd looks over at Tree, acknowledges him, and begins to walk in our direction. She is wearing her trademark look, a string bikini and cowboy hat. I notice that the bikini is not really holding that much in. She saunters up to the bar and flashes a smile.

“Robin, I want you to meet Geoff, he’s new here,” Tree says, reaching across the bar and pushing me forward. Robin looks at me and I notice she has an eye that sort of just wanders off. She puts her hand and out and says, “Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you,” I quickly say. “If you need anything Robin, just ask Geoff,” Tree adds. Then he quickly blurts out, “He’s not from New York City.” Robin smiles and I take a step back. It’s then that I realize I am pushed up against Bob, I can feel him behind me. “Nice,” whispers Bob and puts a hand on my hip. I almost faint.

“Hey, new kid,” someone screams across the room, breaking my moment. I realize its Scott. He motions me over with his ever-present riding crop.  “Excuse me,” I say to Robin and Bob. Bob flashes another smile at me and I take a few steps backwards. Quickly I turn and walk right into one of the patrons. “Hello cutie,” the patron slurs. I can smell the booze emanating from him as he is teetering and trying to put his arms around me. I suddenly hear the crack of the riding crop as Scott brings it across the old man’s head. “Move along grossy-grosserson,” says Scott, hitting him with the riding crop again and again. The old man lunges and staggers away from us. Scott grabs my arm, pulling me to the side of the bar, and yanks out a stool. “Have a seat,” Scott says, dusting it off with his riding crop.

I steal a look back in the direction of Bob. He is staring at me with a big smile on his face. “Oh, you like ‘em big and cute?” says Scott, placing the riding crop under my chin.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 12 Enter the 9th Circle

“Fuck you,” I think to myself, but I don’t say it out loud. The cigarette smoke encircles my head. It actually improves the smell in the apartment. The ever-watchful cats track my every move with their eyes. I flick the ashes into one of the jars filled with yellow liquid and the smell it returns confirms my fears that the jars might be filled with urine. Now mind you, this is years before we have the show “Hoarders” or anyone knows about how Howard Hughes lived. The term we used back then is “eccentric.”

“Have you eaten?” I ask him. “What the fuck do you think?” he responds. He moves his arms like a spokesmodel on The Price is Right. “Do you see a skeleton lying here?” he asks, spraying spittle into the air. I can see the top part of his dentures lying within arm’s reach; they have unidentifiable fuzz sticking to them. “How long have you lived like this?” I ask. “How long have you been a jackass?” he mimics me. 

I let out a heavy sigh to clearly signal that he is annoying me. So many questions run through my head. What am I supposed to be doing up here? Why me? Who takes care of him? Does he ever leave here? Who is he? While I am trying to gather my thoughts, he takes the cane by his bed and sweeps it across a pile of books, sending them crashing to the floor. “Do I have your attention?” he says and then cackles. “Toothless old fuck,” I think to myself.

I look around and take in more of the room. “Is there anything I can get you?” I ask. “Yeah, you can get the fuck out!” he adds with his now-familiar cackle. “With pleasure,” I sing, turn on my heel and head towards the door. I look back at the bed and he shoots me the bird. “Dear Lord, please strike him with lightning,” I pray under my breath. I close the door and lean against the frame. Inside something crashes against the wall. It’s very clear that he has thrown whatever it is in anger.

I head down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I pass the office and glance in again. This time someone is sitting at the desk; their head is down but I can clearly see a straw up their nose. They keep leaning forward and I can see them snorting white powder off a mirror. They glance up, look in my direction and catch me watching. I quickly pull my eye out of the crack in the door; I have had enough drama for the night. Actually, I have had enough drama for several nights.

As I continue down the hall, The Staff bathroom door slides open and about eight people pile out. They are laughing and extremely animated. “Hello!” I say and continue on my way. I get to the door at the bottom of the stairs and wait. I begin to slowly count to ten. Then grabbing the knob, I push the door open.

The first thing I see is a skanky go-go boy standing on the bar. His underpants are around his ankles and he is surrounded by men. He is stirring a drink with his dick. I hear someone yell out “Now this party’s starting!”

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 11 Enter the 9th Circle

I reach out and search the wall for a light switch. “Don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams. “I… I… I… can’t see,” I say.  “Don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams again. “I can’t see,” I say again, raising my voice. “Don’t turn the fucking light on, don’t turn the fucking light on, don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams louder, beginning to slap his hands on the bed again. I start to feel intense pressure and can hear my heart beating faster. “Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up!” I scream, surprising myself.

My hand begins to move faster over the wall searching for the switch, the panic in me rising again. I find it and bring my hand up fast, the familiar “click” sound bathing the room in yellow light. He screams as if he is being doused in Holy Water.

I look over at the bed, where he is writhing and screaming. What I see in front of me is a shriveled old man with yellow skin. He is wearing a filthy stained t-shirt. His hair is short and standing up in all directions. His fingernails are long and broken and he is lying in his own filth.

What really shocks me is that one of his legs is black and swollen, and I swear I can see the bone. The putrid smell is overpowering and I can feel the room spinning. “Oh my god, you need a doctor,” I mumble. “What I need is some fucking water, some fucking quiet, and for you to turn off the fucking lights and to get the fuck out of my house!” he hisses at me.

I run back into the kitchen, open the fridge, find the ice, throw it into the Mason jar, and run back into the bedroom. I climb over all the garbage, come to the side of the bed and extend my hand to him. His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls himself up to me. He reminds me of a sick bird whose claw has wrapped itself around my arm. I force myself not to scream. He grabs the jar and begins to drink the water, spilling it down the front of himself.

“I need a cigarette now,” he says, spitting water on me. “What you need is a doctor and a shower,” I shoot back at him. “You’re pretty mouthy,” he growls at me. “I am also obviously the only one who’s walked this far into your house in years,” I say, standing back up. I grab his cigarettes and light one. “Who the hell said you could smoke in my house?” he screams.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 10 Enter the 9th Circle

I am frozen to the spot. I can feel the sweat forming again on the back of my neck. I want to drop the tray and run for my life. Whatever this is, it was not worth it. “My… my… my name is Geoff,” I stammer. “Don’t just fucking stand there, get me some water,” the voice demands. “Ice is in the freezer.” I still could not see who it is I am talking to. The smell of death and decay is clinging to everything.

I walk around the piles of newspapers, magazines, and rotting clothes. The cats watch my every move. I am standing in the kitchen, or at least what I think is the kitchen. I can see the fridge, so somewhere there must be a stove. I spot what looka at one time to have been a white microwave oven. A thick layer of grease covers the top and sides, giving it a slightly brownish-yellow “sticky” look. 

I place the tray on top of several of the half full mason jars. The smell in the apartment is burning my eyes and nose. “Hurry the fuck up!” the voice yells “I…, I’m going as fast as I can,” I say. I have to keep repressing the feeling that I am going to vomit at any minute. A cat walks on the counter in front of me, dragging its tail under my nose. “Rowr,” the cat says, pausing briefly in front of me and looking into my eyes. Then it turns and makes a return trip. 

I am definitely standing on things that have been laid on the floor. If I have to guess I am suspended about five inches above the actual floor. 

“Do you want the water they sent upstairs with me?” I ask. “Do you want the water they sent upstairs with me?” he mimics me. “Fucking genius,” he snarls, sounding like steam escaping a tight valve. “Use your fucking brain.” He hisses. I am listening intently, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. 

My guess is that he is behind the slightly closed door twelve feet away from me. Slowly and as quietly as I can, I begin walking over and around the mounds of garbage on the floor. “What the fuck is taking so long?” he screams.  Somewhere in the room with the slightly closed door, objects hit the floor. In his anger he is throwing things everywhere. 

I can hear myself breathing as I reach out with a trembling hand and press one finger to the door. It moves slowly inwards but not before letting out a loud creak. “Where is my water? Where is my water? Where is my water?” He begins screaming and slapping his hands on the bed. 

The door opens slowly and the smell I first encountered when I entered the apartment is suddenly much worse. I squint into the room. I can’t see anything. The room is dark and the blinds are pulled. The only light is coming from a street light outside. 

I see a figure lying on what must be a bed in the middle of a pile of garbage. Leaning up on his elbows he looks at me; I still cannot see his face. “Where the fucking holy God dammed hell is my water?” he screeches. My urge to drop the tray and run is now stronger than before.  

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.