In 1993 I learned two things about
Chinese culture. First that it was the Year of the Rooster and second, that “he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument.”
In 2003 I sat in the Cecil’s lobby, putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts, but hoping to score; human companionship. No one was there anymore and I was an adult now. My mind meandered.
Rooster was
my father. In his youth he was Billy-from-Easy-Rider handsome, cocky, and a
womanizer. Rooster would never back down from a fight, ever. He drank enough booze
to fly a plane, snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine, cursed, worked hard and
partied even harder. I heard that in the autumn of his life Rooster wore scars
and tattoos like medals, sped on motorcycles, and had no connection with the
children he spawned in and out of wedlock.
Two blond
women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding
that he produce a Roy Mingus. I’ve never forgotten that name on account that is
sounds really cool. I imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke. The
ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in; I thought
about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when I was
five.
During the years
of my short lived young life, my
mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced. When
sober, Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra-violent if anyone crossed him. Other than that, he
had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic, chest pounder, and rosary wielding.
Tithe giving included.
Rooster came
to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother, Gjeo and their
motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad. It
wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids. The running
joke amongst them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record
of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over
the years. In some ways, I admired the resiliency in him. In other ways, I had
always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man.
I curled up
and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby. It was around one in the morning
that old Pike straggled in and woke me. He startled me and I swung, narrowly missing
his crotch. After cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old
easy chair. We started talking about lawn mower motors. He chattered away, but
my mind was ten years back.
That 1993 spring mid-morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage. I needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me. My mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces, as my uncle was called, could.
my way…
in 1993 i learned two things about Chinese culture first that it was the Year of the Rooster and second that he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument
in 2003 i sat in the Cecil’s lobby putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts but hoping to score human companionship no one was there anymore and i was an adult now my mind meandered
Rooster was my father in his youth he was Billy from Easy Rider handsome cocky and a womanizer rooster would never back down from a fight ever he drank enough booze to fly a plane snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine cursed worked hard and partied even harder i heard that in the autumn of his life rooster wore scars and tattoos like medals sped on motorcycles and had no connection with the children he spawned in and out of wedlock
two blond women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding that he produce a Roy Mingus i’ve never forgotten that name on account that is sounds really cool i imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke the ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in i thought about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when i was five
during the years of my short lived young life my mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced when sober Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra violent if anyone crossed him other than that he had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic chest pounder and rosary wielding tithe giving included
Rooster came to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother Gjeo and their motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad it wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids the running joke among them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over the years in some ways i admired the resiliency in him in other ways i had always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man
i curled up and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby it was around one in the morning that old Pike straggled in and woke me he startled me and i swung narrowly missing his crotch after cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old easy chair we started talking about lawn mower motors he chattered away but my mind was ten years back
that 1993 spring mid morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage i needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me my mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces as my uncle was called could
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