Tag Archives: humor

Excerpt from a current project…

King Babysitter (Working Title)

 

 

12:45 We drive to Dr. Eichwalds oncology office in Beverly Hills, he’s vaping and the car fills with smoke like a Cheech and Chong movie. I open all the windows and he says, “oh god not you too, this is fine, it’s a vape, it’s not cancerous, the other companions are the same, you guys are pussies…’ I say nothing. The smell is disgusting, and my skin is getting an oily sheen. We park, get out and now he lights up a cigarette and is slurping the coffee loudly, we walk into the lobby of the medical building, he still has the lit cig. The security guard calmly tells him to put it out. He takes two big drags opens the front door and flicks it onto the sidewalk almost hitting a woman in a wheelchair. “Whoops,” he says sarcastically. Now we’re in the waiting room, he takes elephantine vape hits. The room is crowded with people, mostly elderly, it’s a small room and the vape clouds hang like a Manhattan beach marine layer in June. An old woman on a walker, wobbles her way up to him legitimately coughing and says, “please sir, I have an upper respiratory infection can you not do that here?” He takes another long pull off the extra-large vaping unit and as he’s blowing it out says, don’t worry this doesn’t cause cancer like cigarettes it won’t harm you. Just then the receptionist calls him in. He comes out and says he received a B-12 shot and a testosterone shot. He then says that he needs a testosterone shot because Serenity is too fat to fuck without dick pills or testosterone. He says this quite loudly and a couple of children are in the waiting room now, they turn their heads and look at him quizzically. A woman comes up to him and says, “really? are you kidding me? Can you watch your language?” He takes a massive vape hit and says, “What? It’s true. She may have an eating disorder. Are these your kids? You look great, your body is amazing for having all those kids.” He looks at me and whispers “Milf.” She looks at me, then looks back at him and says, “you are disgusting.”
“Let’s go, Stephen.” Hold on he says I need a Toradol shot. So now we wait for Dr. Eichwald to give the nurse clearance for Toradol shot – he keeps alluding to Dilaudid or Morphine and I tell him many times it’s not happening, that he will be in even more hellish pain then ever if he does. And he will just end up getting strung out again. Yeah, Yeah, he says. We leave. I just want to get back to the apartment. This guy is truly a fucking embarrassment. But he wants to stop and eat.

2:00 pm We arrive at Kings Road Cafe. He’s told 4 times not to vape or smoke in the restaurant, they threaten to kick him out, so he finally stops. He orders eggs and he’s slurping coffee and chewing his food loudly with his mouth wide open, and I mean really chewing his food. Other patrons are disgusted and seem to be spreading out in a diameter, moving to other tables and whatnot. He tells me he had stomach cancer years ago and he has to eat slow, and really masticate his food. He says that they built a pouch for him. He has a pouch for a stomach. He says he thinks they used parts of his bladder and intestines…hell, I think they even used part of my asshole. The place is small, and this guy speaks loud or louder than the volume of the room. I can’t eat. 7:00 pm is still 5 hours away.

2:45 we get back to the Apartment. He says he’s going to nap. 3:30 he’s sleeping in a mummy like pose on his back, his eyes are partially open. He looks dead. I walk closer. He’s breathing. But his eyes are partially open. It’s all very eerie.

5:00 He wakes up, and immediately makes a pot of coffee. This is the second pot of coffee today so far. He pours in about half a jar of Coffee Mate Vanilla Powdered Creamer. I imagine his ‘pouch’ just completely resonated with the Coffee Mate, it’s like vanilla cream spackle, even the parts of the pouch that were fashioned out of his asshole are fucked. I administered Suboxone and Lyrica and Gabapentin and he says he missed his 7:00 am dose of suboxone and needs that dose as well and said if he doesn’t remember nobody will. I immediately refer to previous notes on a group e-mail and see that he got his morning sub, he did. Then I also send a text to ask the overnight companion miles. He immediately texts me back with “HE’S LYING.” I tell him that he got it, and he must have forgotten. He flies into a rage. “You fucking people are the worst! I never got it, you’re fired I’m done with all this.” He’s a med seeker. I walk away. I walk out to the deck and he’s still screaming, you fucker you piece of shit I’m sick of all this I’m done with you people I leave the sliding door wide open. It’s summertime in California and I look out at into the pool area. Nice and quiet people are laying in the sun, swimming, playing with their children in the shallow end of the pool reading magazines and books just enjoying life. Stephen K is missing all of it because he’s stuck in the madness of addiction, want and need. He walks out to the balcony and continues the tirade. I sit there quietly while he continues his barrage of scorn insults ridicule and threats. You fucking people, HA! Sunnyside Companions, you’re all a joke You charge to keep people sober, that goes against everything AA is about the owner of that criminal enterprise you work for is a fucking con artist he ripped off all kinds of people. All eyes are on us now from the pool area and I don’t care. I say nothing. I get up and walk into the living room he walks in and says fuck off I’m leaving and walks into his room and slams the door. Now there’s a knock on the front door. I get up to go to the door I look through the peephole. Security guards. I let them keep knocking, I ain’t answering it. They keep knocking, “Hello, HELLO!?” He comes out of the room. “Aren’t you going to answer the fucking door,” I say nothing. He lets out a monumental sigh and he opens the door. They’re both strapped and look like no fuck around types. He asks them what they want. They ask if everything is OK. He Says, yeah except my sober companion says I got my suboxone at 7 am this morning but I know for a fact I didn’t. They cut him off, “Sir that’s between you and him.” Then him, “Well can you get him out of here?”
“Sir your Father’s name is on the lease, we’ve been through this before, call your father if you want him removed.” He then goes into this whole story about being an undercover cop. The security guards nod and tell him they have to go. He tells me I’m off to a bad start. Whatever, I say. He tells me we need to go out and buy more creamer.

5:45 We go to CVS; the vaping is non-stop. As we’re driving he calls Wayne on the speaker to find out about his living arrangements in Malibu. Stephen starts asking about the furniture and what not. “I want real shit, good stuff! Not Ikea or Living Spaces garbage, I want good appliances and cookware utensils and silverware! Not Bed Bath and Beyond bullshit, you hear me? It should be a beautiful place with plenty of indoor and outdoor entertaining space. There was a pause on the line. “Hello? Where the fuck is this guy?” He looks at me, I just shrug. Wayne says, “I’m right here Stephen, I’m just flabbergasted that you would even ask me these things AGAIN when your father and mother made it crystal clear that you are on a budget and Ikea Bed Bath and Beyond and Living Spaces is what it’s going to be, as far as cookware utensils and silverware are you fucking kidding me? Who are you? Gordon Ramsey? Fucking Emeril Agassi!? What are you gonna host elite dinner parties?! You’re lucky you’re getting anything! Fucking kidding me! You have been in thirty plus rehabs, 3 od’s in the last year alone! We are all done with you if this doesn’t work out. Stephen loses it, “Fuck you, you lackey! We were friends for years and now you are an assistant for my Dad and you are in cahoots with him to punish me! Your shit, you never made anything of yourself that’s why you have to suck the ass of the golden calf, MY FATHER! Wayne says fuck off and hangs up. He gets out of the car and walks towards CVS I follow. He calls Wayne (on speaker) as he walks into CVS. Wayne picks up, “WHAT STEPHEN!?”
WHAT!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT? Don’t you ever hang up on me again, you servant, you shlepper, you, you, SERF!! I’ll have you fired, tell my Mom and dad to gimme’ my shit! My Range Rover! My Diablo! My 1000 dollar a day! You better tighten up your attitude or I’ll have you fired fucko!” He’s throwing 5 or 6 coffee mate vanilla powdered creamer into the small CVS basket. Wayne hangs up again. “YOU MOTHER FUCKER!” “Stephen can we not do this here?” I ask
“DON’T tell me what to do!” An employee and a guard are walking quickly toward us. The guard looks like he has pepper spray in his hand. I say, “Whoa, whoa, all good man, dude was just having a disagreement on the phone, no need for pepper spray.”
“If you pepper spray me I will sue the whole CVS corporation!! My father is…” before he can finish the manager says, “Sir please just leave.”
“Not without my creamer!!” He says this the way a father would as if his child was being held captive. He’s escorted to the register, he pays, and we leave. The ride home is filled with thick seething resentment, anger and vape smoke. He’s stuck in it and I just need to get him back to the apartment. We get back he says nothing. The night shift companion Miles relieves me, and I can’t wait to leave. I go home to my wife. She has dinner made, she’s calm, she’s beautiful. I tell her the job is great. I can’t go into it any more than that. I’m in a financial position that quells my complaining…for now.

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Interview with Marc Maron on his Podcast, WTF-https://youtu.be/f56zxLKIuXw

Wanna’ Come Back And Party?

Room Service

1:45 AM.

I get an order for an Ice bucket and a Bottle of Champagne. Easy enough. I walk to the room. Let this just be easy, it’s the last order of the night. Please, God. I just can’t anymore.

I knock on the door. It opens.

A diminutive man with tiny little Von Dutch black bikini briefs, bleached hair and tribal tattoos looks me up and down, googly-eyed.

‘Hiiiiii! Oh my god! That was fast.’ He steps aside.
Behind him another man with only a towel wrapped around his waist yells,
‘What does he look like? What does he look like?’
He motions me in while saying,
‘Calm down you horny bitch. See for yourself.’ I move into the room quickly and set down the champagne. He’s watching my ass as I pass him. I turn and hand him the bill.
‘Mmm, Daddy. Slow down. When did you start working here?’ I just want out. I don’t give a shit if anybody’s gay, bi, tri whatever. I just don’t like being cruised. At any hour of the day. This is the last thing I want to deal with at the end of a long shift.
‘Yeah, about six months.’
Then towel guy, ‘Mr. Sexy voice! Do you do voiceovers? You should? That voice! All deep and bedroomy! Well, do you?’
‘No.’ I reach for the bill from Von Douche. He still hasn’t signed it.
He looks me in the eye. ‘Wanna stay and party?’ Then towel guy,
‘Yeah, we got crack and vodka!’ He points to his butt and to the minibar simultaneously.

‘Oh god, Joey shut the fuck up, you depraved little bitch!’ Von Douche says as he’s handing me the bill. ‘If you wanna’ come back and party after you get off…’ Joey interrupts.
‘Yeah, then you’ll really get off!’
‘No.’ I say.
I leave the room and I hear them start to argue.
‘Goddamnit, Joey! You ruin everything!’
I look at the check, no tip.

False sense of entitlement: Case study #1

Three out of four days I work here I’m miserable and I’m ready to walk off the job. It’s not the job (wait, yes it is) but it’s also the people.

 

These people think they live on another planet, and they’re just visiting. These people have such a ridiculous sense of entitlement. I want to kick them in the balls/box and throw them down an elevator shaft.

Example:
I deliver an order to a guy (a bacon cheeseburger blah.) He opens the door. He’s wearing a red and black velvet houndstooth jacket, purple deep v t-shirt, white jeans and purple high top sneakers, topped off with a Hall and Oates style faux hawk /mullet. The combination of colors, style and grooming choices are horrendous. Bad hair, bad fashion, and bad music can literally cripple me at times.

I rush in, ‘Where would you like this sir?’
‘You don’t have to call me sir. I’m younger then you are. Wait, sorry man. Are we ok?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ I put the tray down on the table.
‘So I got a big room. Spacious. Is this normally a room they give to a cripple or handicap? Ha ha ha.’
I grin. I wanted to say ‘if the shoe fits.’ But I knew better.
‘Sorry man I’m from New York I’m not really about PC you know, politically correct.’
Fucking dork.
‘Yeah haha,’ I force a laugh. Which by the way is one of the most painful things you can do to yourself, forcing a laugh is like forcing tears. It’s bullshit and ultimately doesn’t do anybody any good.
The New York I’m from, or the Los Angeles I’ve experienced this guy would have his ass beaten within an inch of his life.

-BY THE WAY (RANT TIME)

Being from New York meant something years ago. First of all ”I’m sorry I’m from New York.” Real New Yorker’s would never apologize for where they’re from! Period! And that’s a good thing! Old New York, FUCK YEAH!
It was ruff tough and violent. I left in the 90’s. It had a Great low brow artistic edge, Haring and Basquiat reigning supreme. Hip-hop like you still haven’t heard in ages. More political hip hop shit, not this hip hop hair band – youtube shallow ass shit. Alphabet city was the dope capital of the east side. The bucket lowers, you get the dope, crack viles littered the gutters I was smokin’ and kicking them all the way down the fucking sewer. You didn’t even need to say you were from New York. People fucking knew they felt it coming off of you.

 

Back to the current assholery-

 So I put the order down on the table.
‘Where you from man.’
‘A lot of different places,’ I answer darkly. He grabs the bill and backs away slowly,
‘Hey man, I’m really sorry if I offended you in any way.
The tip is included right?’
‘You didn’t offend me in any way and yes the tip is included. Says it right on the bill.’
‘Okay, I just want to make sure you’re getting taken care of.’
‘Oh yeah, I’m getting taken care of. That 20% there on that cheeseburger is about nine dollars, it goes into a pool, and gets split between six of us.’
We stood looking at each other for a moment he looked very scared he walked over to the desk and grabbed his wallet pulled out a $20 bill gave it to me and said ‘Hey man once again I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, here bro.’ I walked out and said nothing. I didn’t have too, I punked his ass without saying a word. That’s New York. That’s L.A. That’s being real.

 

ROOM SERVICE DURING AWARD SEASON

Well, it’s here, that self-congratulatory jerk-off fest and ass kissing extravaganza!

Film, music, and television award shows! Look I’m not trying to hate, I enjoy one or two shows here and there. But Jesus Christ it’s nonstop in this town! I would love if they gave an award for ‘biggest douche bag, biggest asshole, the biggest pain in the ass to work with, biggest ass, biggest man boobs…’

I don’t know, maybe if we get a little more creative, and a little more self-deprecatory maybe the general public wouldn’t take actors and celebrities so seriously. They seem to look at them as these monumental, incredibly important, amazing people. What’s worse though are the sycophants & minions that blog and report on said celebritards. And a lot of those people stay right here in the hotel. These are the flies buzzing around the secondary shit that is Hollywood. Based on the delusion that there’s any glamour in Hollywood, entertainment reporters would be the very lowest on that wrung. How do I know? Because I worked for an entertainment magazine (STAR) long enough to see what a load of stupid fucking tripe all that information and news is. But hey, I grew up in this town so I’m probably a little jaded.

Ok on with it.

Golden Globes Night.
I get a big order $860.00 rm. 412, knock knock.
‘Room service.’ The TV is LOUD; I hear audience laughter as well as heavy room chatter. A lot is going on in there. I sense douchery; I hope I’m wrong.
‘What? what? Who is that? Why are you bothering us! Come back later.’

I knock again and scream loudly over the noise, ‘ROOM SERVICE!’
‘Yes, Yes. Okay. Hold on.’ The door opens a Perez Hilton looking guy gives me a dismissive wave in. Fat dude in purple skinny jeans and deep v-neck with a wolf’s head print. I’m annoyed, right off the bat. Why do I have to be visually offended by your bad taste in fashion and your lack of physical exercise? I hate everything.

I go in, 10 or 12 people are huddled on a couch looking up at a wall mounted plasma screen. They’re consumed.
They’re desperate for a fix. They speak as if they know the celebrities intimately and personally. Using first names, or shortening the name or making child like names of the nominees.
‘Oh my god Patty (Patricia Arquette) is hot!’
‘Well Meryl is like that…’
‘Bobby D was up for that.’
‘And Well George (Clooney I suppose) is so blah blah…’
I’m totally ignored, and someone says ‘pause it.’ The poor man’s Perez replies, ‘Don’t you fucking dare, I need to see this in real time! Ok come in. Quickly please.’ At that point I move even slower. ‘Where would you like…’ I say slowly.
‘Oh god, just over there. Where ever.’

Then a chubby girl in skintight everything. ‘No no not there! Just leave it. Right by the window.’ She gets up with a grunt. ‘Nyuuhh, oh my this looks fan fucking tastic!’ Another rude chubby wubby on the Couch yells, ‘eat my quesadilla bitches and just see what fucking happens!’
‘Oh shut up Gavin!’ I back up towards the door, now I really want to get out of here. I feel my soul being sucked out of every orifice. The depth of this crowd resembles a dried out birdbath.

I leave the room. I look in the book, of course there’s no extra tip or gratuity. ‘Oh God you cheap assholes,’ I say under my breath as I round a corner. I bump into a bellman that’s bringing someone’s luggage to the lobby. ‘Yeah man,’ he says ‘this is the cheapest fucking crowd of the year prepare yourself.’ The next room, 516. Just tea. Small order smaller auto gratuity. I knock,
Room service before I can even finish the sentence a girl whips open the door,
‘Finally.’ she says. The room’s packed with wardrobe racks, and suitcases, and boxes, and shoes and high-end designer shopping bags, jewelry strewn all over the tables. I manage my way around the obstacle course of couture footwear and accessories. I give her the check.
‘Yes yes I’m here dressing and styling VIPs I’m sorry to be short, I just need things delivered very quickly.’
‘That’s nice.’ I say.
She grins at me.
I walk out.

Short & Sweet
The Grammys. In the great words of Chuck D of Public Enemy, ‘Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy.’

More senseless awards for art. I will not be commenting on Kanye West, because I really don’t care. I haven’t heard the new Beck album either. I’ve never listened to music because it won an award. Seems like an Award just solidifies your self-worth as well as a future paycheck.
Most of the guests that I dealt with on Grammy night were too self obsessed to be dismissive or mean. Anybody that was of real importance was already at the show. At the end of any shift (regardless of the event that’s taking place) I usually laugh it off. And I realize that it’s not my career path and you wouldn’t get the entertainment of this lovely little blog, so I will be reporting more about this fantastic award season after the Academy Awards! And we’ll see you at the movies!

 

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! Another excerpt from my book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’ Available on Amazon.

My Father, Carl Marcus 1978.

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From the chapter, “Going For A Drive”

 

“What’s a shnorra Daddy?”

“Mikey, it’s men or women who freeload and sponge, like leeches at corporate or government jobs because they have no original thoughts, business sense, or ambitions. AND EVEN WORSE, they have no panache or hustle. You never want to get caught up in that garbage kid, it’s a dead-end life. A real fucking horror show.”

“OK, Dad.”

He turned up Frank Sinatra and ran his gold rings on the Caddie’s plastic steering wheel. He sang “My Way” as he gunned the red Eldorado up the 101 past Cambria. My father drove us all over California. We motored from Point Conception to the Mexican border, from San Fernando to San Francisco, Burbank to Barstow and all the nooks and crannies in between. He feeds us Ghirardelli chocolates, Pismo Beach clam chowder; date shakes from Hadley’s, root beer floats from A&W, fried shrimp from Howard Johnson’s, and pea soup from Andersen’s. On many occasions, he would wad up the check and stick it in his pocket, and we’d just walk out. “Let’s play a game kids. It’s called dine and dash.” If the waitress ever stopped us on the way out, he’d say, “must have slipped my mind,” then pay the bill. Once in our travels, my father took us to Fedco. He had acquired ‘paid’ stickers that a manager friend stole from the cash register. These stickers were used for big-ticket items that couldn’t be bagged. He’d slap a sticker on an item (toasters, irons, roller-skates, bicycles, even a color TV he put on a dolly) and we’d walk out.

When he was tired he’d pull into a rest stop and say, “OK you little cuties, shut the fuck up now. I’m sleeping, and I want silence.” He had no problem throwing an open fist into the back seat if we woke him. He called it “backhand therapy.” At home, he called it “wall-to-wall counseling.” My sister and I would sit back there wired on sugar and freak out about waking him. Then he’d wake up, and we were off. We also played road games. “Hey kids, you want to play house of horrors?”
 There was silence.

“How do you play that game Daddy?” My sister asked.

“We think of the worst possible scenario that could occur in a house filled with children.” More silence, for what seemed like an eternity. “For example, a banister that is sharpened like a shaving razor, and when you slide down it cuts you in two, haha!”

“Ok dad,” I said nervously.

“Or a special well lit room where they take a hole punch to your eyelids so your pupils are always exposed to the bright lights.”

“Eww,” said Lorraine.

“Or a chair with tacks and nails on it that you’re forced to sit in.”

“Dad, how about being stuck in a car that plays Frank Sinatra, over and over and over, forever?”

 

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#1 Son And Other Stories is available now on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/0999614185/

Also, check out my Interview with Marc Maron on his WTF podcast.

http://wtfpod.libsyn.com/episode-876-michael-marcus-dr-steve

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More Hotel Insanity

If you’re sick like just sniffly, well, the only reason why we care is that we don’t want to be around you. If you constantly verbalize your cold, flu, or allergies it’s really mundane and boring. Americans have some form of healthcare now! At this point in our current international climate, your little cold or allergies are whiny 1st world bullshit. No one truly gives a rats ass. And if they (the sick people enablers) cater and constantly kowtow to that shit, the little sickies are gonna’ leech on to that codependency and ride it into their golden years. I’ve seen it!

Anyway, so I deliver to a guy who orders quite frequently. This guy always has some story about his health. Mr. Harmon in 511. He has a different boy toy in the room every time I deliver an order. Most of them look like Santa Monica street hustlers. With their little backpacks and plastic bags of clothes and shit sitting on the couch.

Tonight’s delivery interaction;
I knock on the door. It opens, its dark, and smells like cheap stripper strawberry incense or oil.
‘How you doing Mr. Harmon?’
He’s about 6’2″ and really pale and bloated. He looks like Larry Bird’s estranged brother. And has an eerie fucking vibe to boot.
He throws his hands in the air theatrically.
‘Oh God, no Bueno! I think I caught a bad cold, Ramon is going to get me Theraflu.’ Ramon is grabbing his jacket and rushing out into the cold night.
‘I’m sure the concierge has it.’ I say.
‘No, Ramon loves to walk the streets. He’s been doing that for years.’ He turns on the light, I wish he hadn’t.

‘Listen I have this weird thing with my eyes, they keep going back-and-forth.’ He’s pointing at his eyes. ‘Have you ever had that?’ He’s moving his index finger back-and-forth between both eyes. I’m standing there watching this charade. Why oh why the fuck do I have to get a play-by-play of your present status Harmon? ‘We’ll have you?’ He asks again. ‘No Mr. Harmon. I’ve never had that.’
‘Hmm, yeah it’s a pretty unique thing. Well, the doctor gave me some promethazine, but I already took four Norco so I might not be good to mix them.’ Those were drugs that I used to use quite frequently, sick or not. ‘What would you do?’
Harmon asks. At this point, I’m in total ‘who gives a fuck’ mode. So I’m like, ‘Yeah go ahead and guzzle down the promethazine. You’ll get real drowsy and nod off, and then maybe your eyeballs will stop moving back-and-forth.’ He runs into the other room, ‘Hold on hold on,’ he says. Oh no, I just want to get the fuck out of here.

‘Mr. Harmon can you please sign the check?’
He comes running back with two small packages. ‘My housekeeper gave me these the other day. She gets them from some little bodega botanica place in East Los Angeles. They’re Mexican bath salts. Maybe these will help me.’
It’s probably not a good idea to drink the promethazine and then take the bath, right?’
‘Well unless never want to wake up.’ Which sounds like a great idea for either one of us at this point. ‘Ha ha ha. That’s funny.’ He signs and hands me back the bill. Well ‘pray for me by name!’ He says in a show tune like voice. I finally leave. I look in the checkbook, no tip. I feel like my spirit has been run over by a Stolen Cadillac Escalade.

Same night, two hours later. Simple order.
I’m delivering chamomile tea to a Mrs. Gordon, room 319. I’m taxed and tired.
I just want it to be over. Let this night be done. I knock.
‘Room service.’ No answer I lean in, I hear somebody scurrying around. I knock again. No answer, again I hear scurrying around. I knock louder. Still nothing.
‘ROOM SERVICE.’ Nothing. Jesus what the fuck. I kick the bottom of the door three times. ‘ROOM SERVICE!!’
‘Oh ok. Of course.’ I hear a droll voice say.

A frumpy depressed looking blonde 20 something opens the door. My intuition tells me another mundane, soul-sucking situation lies in my wake.
‘Just put the tray on the bed. Listen, I’m concerned. My sliding glass patio door won’t lock properly. Maybe you can take a look.’ I hand her the bill. She puts it down without signing it. That’s always a bad sign. I walk over to the door. It latches. No fuss no muss.
‘It’s fine ma’am.’ I walk towards the bill.

She looks over at the checkbook. ‘I finished a production job early, and I’m here for a couple of days. I’m so bored. What should I do? Don’t say the movies, Universal Studios or Disneyland. Those are stupid suggestions. I already got mad at the bellman for suggesting all that garbage.’ Her voice is high pitched like lee press on nails on a chalkboard, or metal patio furniture being pulled across concrete. I offer up museums, and exhibits, coffee houses, and quaint little hipster neighborhoods.

‘Boring. Boring.’ She says. ‘I need some action!’
‘Maybe go pick up an LA Weekly. You’ll find the back pages loaded with all kinds of activity.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘What are you talking about? Sex, S and M, sex clubs, prostitutes?’
That’s not what I’m talking about. God.’
I looked over at the bill, and made my way to the door. She signs it and is shaking her head.
‘I was talking about music venues, nightclubs, dance clubs. But hey, whatever.’ She growls at me and hands me the bill. I walk out. I’m done for the night. I’d rather fill catsup bottles or do some other form of side work then deal with these people. Just for tonight, I need to get my mojo back.