The burgundy Silver Shadow Rolls Royce stopped short. It's hand built ton of steel, polished Walnut, lambskin, chrome didn't shudder by the quick stop but rather the rear lunged forward.. The party inside continued. The driver, a well dressed, if overly groomed young man, heavily doused in Hermes eau de verte and rather gothic in black suede from Bergdorf-Goodman, had been enlisted by the owner of the car to drive when the owner had uncorked a third bottle. Not being completely sober nor used to driving such a large car the young man found finding the right alley while driving the beauty to be rather a challenge. The three in the rear found staying dry and awake rather a challenge. "I think it's this alley, I can hear the back beat...listen, thump, thump, thump, yes this is it", he moved the Rolls across the wet lanes and sped down the narrow dark alley. Yes this was it. The crowds of overdressed women and gender bending muscle boys lining either side of the alley were all he needed to confirm that the Club was here. The driver, realizing there would be no place to park momentarily turned his head to the rear to announce that fact and in that split second rear ended a stopped black Towncar. A portly well dressed middle aged man, someone they'd mock as B & F, bounced out of the rear, yelling at the top of his voice, a too handsome and shirtless muscled younger man left the Towncar's passenger side.
The Rolls driver, cocky and confident of at least the Silver Shadow's look in the alley, yelled out the window to the portly man "move your rental, No...no.. not you sweetheart, looking at the bemused muscled shirtless man, the limo"...the line garnered a few laughs from the onlooking crowd and the Rolls driver laid on the timbre of a 250,000.00 car's horn for added drama. Club security approached and the middle aged man jumped back into the Towncar, as the shirtless muscled man grabbed his leather jacket from the car. The man said " good...you can hike it home...north is that way.' The driver of the Rolls, surprised by the ditching of hot man was taken aback as the young man approached his window and said, "Dude that was my date for tonight" The driver replied," that troll?'. Look stud it's different in Santa Rosa, DL is a meal ticket not a lifestyle". The burly security team were now running down the alley and the driver said, I'm sorry, quick you better hop in, the gaurds leave us alone, baby huey in back is a known spender". "SWEET! I'm down, the muscle man jumped in and the driver pushed a series of buttons to lock doors, roll up windiows, dim lights, and turn up music. " Wow this is really soft said the muscled man to the driver," Feel the carpet it's 14 ply virgin lambs wool, I always keep my shoes off. The muscle man offered his hand and said "Jojohn well actually Sid. It's because.....the driver interrupted. no worries friend in clubland I'm Helen, actually it's Larry but when I club with my the queen passedout in the back I always go by Helen, it's a nom de demi-mode. The Commercial Bankers I work with are cool but the clients are on the squarer side of hip". I like you replied the shirtless man, I'm a firefighter, well an E.M.T. i n Rosa and keep this below the radar. Ha not if you get into anymore fender benders in front of hot clubs it won't.
The clubs security man knocked on the window, an urban gorilla in black carrying a falshlight. Everything o.k. Helen?' Yes it's chill, any parking? Pull up to the front. I'll let them know to let you in, the gorilla talked into his walkie taklie and a craxked reply came back affirming the spot.. Sid said you must be important, No Not at all they like, a Rolls or three at the front. and put up with the stooge in backs antics, this is his mom's Rolls and he lives with her. The threesome in back has passed out thanks to a quart of cheap Popov gin. The three, one a fat 20 something and two effemante twikies had taken a 'disco nap'.Which really meant they had passed out.
Sid said to Larry. Bro don't park in front, park on the dark side ,I took a hit of E with that dork and I'm seriously hard and horny, I'm married but if you are into it I'll blow you, I got to get a load off." Larry replied. Into it? hell yeah, I've never had a Fireman, Sid said I'm an Emt and volunteer for Cal Fire, Larry started to beat Sid off through his jeans and Sid mindful of how they met said, Dude no offense but with your driving skills you need to park first. Larry laughed.
The car parked, Sid took control and within 5 minutes both were naked and Sid was happily banging away at his new friends ass. Within 15 minutes the two were half dressed and running into the Club. Sid grabbed Larry as they passed a Men's room sign and steered him into a stall. Larry said DRUGS? in a rather hopeful voice and Sid replied "sorry son the E and me being a country boy means your hole is required again. Larry laughed and said "whoa rear ending that limo has made my night". In no time he was astride his new friend in a stall and holding his face as each stared into each others eyes and Side relentlessly bounced him up and down on his cock. "You have a sweet ass Larry", You have talents too Sid,you should flip and come to my team this sweet ass could be yours. Sid laughed and said like candy from a baby...yeah as Larry shot on Sids rock hard abs,.. candy flip.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
500 Words.
Graham Greene famously wrote a minimum of 500 words a day, mostly,or so I have read, before any notable amount of alcohol was consumed or love affair begun or ended. It was a self imposed regimen that he held to throughout his life and did not vary due to project, location, war, economic dislocation, travels, residency or any life condition that an educated man of Greene's catholic taste, Socialist views and intellectual abilities encountered. This regimen was held to throughout Greene's prolific career despite suffering through the crashing swings particular to the bi-polar disorder that shadowed his fully lived life The constant demon that clouded a brilliant career and long life. The brilliance of Greene is his use of that cloud to give depth to the palette of colors that are his best works.
It seems a small task for an author of Greene's abilities to write 500 words daily especially if under contract or when a seed of an idea has germinated and taken root. Wouldn't it simply be a matter of taking pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to percolate along a thought, develop a line or theme into a full sailed essay, story or entertainment. So it would seem and so I thought when I first became a follower of Greene's works as a recently graduated University man.
Set free daily from an intellect killing position as a very junior Clerk in a Filipino government owned Commercial Bank for 60 minutes, usually with a brown bag lunch and no chums to pass the hour with, I found the business district of my hometown far from the mysterious one described by Hammett or the raw amusing one described by Twain but an utterly cold boring place indifferent to the individual. It was not the place of urbanity merrily described in the Thin Man. In fact the place was filled or so it seemed, with boars of every stripe. People referred to by me as "those people". Those people being the barbarians otherwise called auslanders, outsiders who simply didn't get it. I was sure that meant suburban commuters or tourists. I'd argue that really it meant just about anyone whose grandparents hadn't been resident in the city when it shook and burnt down in 1906. They were to be engaged with only in business and rarely if ever outside of it. I'm also certain that to those well heeled business men, the ones from every corner of the world, the power brokers that ran the district and owned much of the region, it meant recently graduated University men with low paying jobs who had an hour to kill.
It was a deuce of a chore to keep the hour filled with needed distraction and be back within the hour. For a social young man with a large family nearby as well as a robust social network, it was a painfully boring and lonely daily hour. Luckily one of my noontime strolls was past the windows of the El Dorado Bookstore.
The now long gone historic El Dorado Bookstore on Market Street had more Penguin authors than my University's bookstore and offered an intellectual respite from the drudgery of daily work. My own perch in this lifeboat of culture in the ocean of banal commercial drones were the shelves filled with Greene. My first lunch date with my talented older friend was "the Third Man". It was the start of the affair. An affair that I kept alive by weekly visits and bi-monthly purchases timed around my paydays of my new friends works. I was a thirty man offered a cool glass of fresh water. I drank it gratefully.
I anticipated lunch hours now and found more than a few less traveled quiet places away from the hustle of businessmen hustling each other where I could continue my silent conversation with my friend. I was engaged by everything he wrote. I did struggle with friend Graham's early works, the English seemed far too Ox-Bridge pretentious, often reading as school boy stilted rather than subtle language I'd fallen in love with. Well developed idea's came across as pompous little England burdened by Empire, rather than witty entertainments and suspense's of his middle-period. Greene's earliest works, written when he was my age 60 year's before, were disliked by me unknowingly at the time as being far too pretentious for someone our age. Our friendship had become such that I simply didn't like my new friend's attitude and rushed through those few hours not merrily spent by reading another title in his collective work. The boar that was the narrator's voice had a well spoken yet awful in being self important. That voice in those earlier works was a disquieting voice, a mid 20 something burdened with having to rub shoulders with those outsiders from beyond the Pale who simply didn't get it. The burden of youth is learning adaptive skilks in dealing with people who simply don't get it. The magic of friend Graham is that like a merry great Uncle the difference of 65 years and thousands of miles disappeared so that the young friend Graham honestly annoyed his young friend Reader. The young Master that Greene is in Travels without Maps is not as nuanced as the Master Greene in Brighton Rock but the sureness of his strokes are clear in both works and the style, the mark of him is there bountifully in each.
That mastery, part education, experience and a regimen of discipline. The discipline of writing 500 words daily. Daily. The clarity of tone, an assured masculine voice, a hallmarkof friend Graham was honed by the the mastery of creating art in 500 words daily over decades. I'm profoundly grateful that he did.
It seems a small task for an author of Greene's abilities to write 500 words daily especially if under contract or when a seed of an idea has germinated and taken root. Wouldn't it simply be a matter of taking pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to percolate along a thought, develop a line or theme into a full sailed essay, story or entertainment. So it would seem and so I thought when I first became a follower of Greene's works as a recently graduated University man.
Set free daily from an intellect killing position as a very junior Clerk in a Filipino government owned Commercial Bank for 60 minutes, usually with a brown bag lunch and no chums to pass the hour with, I found the business district of my hometown far from the mysterious one described by Hammett or the raw amusing one described by Twain but an utterly cold boring place indifferent to the individual. It was not the place of urbanity merrily described in the Thin Man. In fact the place was filled or so it seemed, with boars of every stripe. People referred to by me as "those people". Those people being the barbarians otherwise called auslanders, outsiders who simply didn't get it. I was sure that meant suburban commuters or tourists. I'd argue that really it meant just about anyone whose grandparents hadn't been resident in the city when it shook and burnt down in 1906. They were to be engaged with only in business and rarely if ever outside of it. I'm also certain that to those well heeled business men, the ones from every corner of the world, the power brokers that ran the district and owned much of the region, it meant recently graduated University men with low paying jobs who had an hour to kill.
It was a deuce of a chore to keep the hour filled with needed distraction and be back within the hour. For a social young man with a large family nearby as well as a robust social network, it was a painfully boring and lonely daily hour. Luckily one of my noontime strolls was past the windows of the El Dorado Bookstore.
The now long gone historic El Dorado Bookstore on Market Street had more Penguin authors than my University's bookstore and offered an intellectual respite from the drudgery of daily work. My own perch in this lifeboat of culture in the ocean of banal commercial drones were the shelves filled with Greene. My first lunch date with my talented older friend was "the Third Man". It was the start of the affair. An affair that I kept alive by weekly visits and bi-monthly purchases timed around my paydays of my new friends works. I was a thirty man offered a cool glass of fresh water. I drank it gratefully.
I anticipated lunch hours now and found more than a few less traveled quiet places away from the hustle of businessmen hustling each other where I could continue my silent conversation with my friend. I was engaged by everything he wrote. I did struggle with friend Graham's early works, the English seemed far too Ox-Bridge pretentious, often reading as school boy stilted rather than subtle language I'd fallen in love with. Well developed idea's came across as pompous little England burdened by Empire, rather than witty entertainments and suspense's of his middle-period. Greene's earliest works, written when he was my age 60 year's before, were disliked by me unknowingly at the time as being far too pretentious for someone our age. Our friendship had become such that I simply didn't like my new friend's attitude and rushed through those few hours not merrily spent by reading another title in his collective work. The boar that was the narrator's voice had a well spoken yet awful in being self important. That voice in those earlier works was a disquieting voice, a mid 20 something burdened with having to rub shoulders with those outsiders from beyond the Pale who simply didn't get it. The burden of youth is learning adaptive skilks in dealing with people who simply don't get it. The magic of friend Graham is that like a merry great Uncle the difference of 65 years and thousands of miles disappeared so that the young friend Graham honestly annoyed his young friend Reader. The young Master that Greene is in Travels without Maps is not as nuanced as the Master Greene in Brighton Rock but the sureness of his strokes are clear in both works and the style, the mark of him is there bountifully in each.
That mastery, part education, experience and a regimen of discipline. The discipline of writing 500 words daily. Daily. The clarity of tone, an assured masculine voice, a hallmarkof friend Graham was honed by the the mastery of creating art in 500 words daily over decades. I'm profoundly grateful that he did.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
King Philip
The crashing waves broke over the petrified wood of the shipwreck King Philip. Seagulls flew in circles over the long dead bow, a half dozen jet black Ravens had landed on the solid wet sand just east of the remains of the long ago shipwrecked boat and inched there way slowly, ever slowly to the boat.
The naked body of a white man, face-down, lie partially buried in a swirling tide-pool of seawater and sand within the ribs of the boat. The crashing waves of a fall storm recently exposed the remains of the once proud King Philip and the returning tides were quick returning.. The body, the object of the birds, was not a preserved crew member exposed with the retreat of the sand entombing the ship but that of a white man in his late 20's, his marble white skin contrasting sharply with the dirty sand and blackness of the petrified wood of the boat. The body was partially buried in the wet sand and appeared save for its face down position much like a weekend beach goer might. One who had buried himself to the waist to amuse his kids. Its rigidity in repose belied any such idea. The birds saw a meal, the largest of them landed on the bodies buttocks and in a quick motion tore into the fleshy left buttocks and flew away. It new nothing of the man, that he had a wife who would begin to worry about his being gone in a few hours, nor about the drunk janie who having prepared herself so carefully, wearing the sheerest nightie she owned and who drank a bottle of Vodka when she decided he had stood her up, nor of his other friends who continued to call his cellphone tossed into the seagrass in the Sandunes, he was missing another mindless house party full of an endless parade of Cal Fire employees and they needed him to continue the party. They called and called, the messages buzzing on, the battery wearing down until the cell went silent. The voice-mail had been filled hours ago by dozens of calls from a frightened former john named Addige who had overheard a drug dealer at a sex club stonily talk of a gay for pay hooker having been overdosed by another drug dealer who had provided him pure white heroin mixed with special K rather than the usual mix of heroin and fluff.
Few others knew of his existence and two who did had caused the overdose to occur. Fewer still would mourn the man, he was not a very sympathetic individual. His wife would, not so much out of marital happiness, for there had been little of that, but out love of the material life they had together. Her life had been so unrelentingly hard and deprived before he married her that his end meant the end of that world and as no other path would be open to her, a room in a shared rented mobile home trailer park on Santa Rosa Avenue would be her next home. There were no children to ask why daddy how drowned in San Francisco 90 miles from home in Santa Rosa and the life of the junkie was such that if his absence was noted at all it would be with relief by many as he'd become the daily train wreck to be avoided.
That might happen but as there were no clothes there was no identification and he most likely would not be found. The sea was relentlessly reclaiming the wreck as weak dawn gave way to full light the boat and body would be sleeping together under tons of sand. He had walked to the beach from what he called a molester van after allowing his cherry to be popped by his drug dealer. The X fed to him was pure enough that the humping had been intensely pleasurable.and the promise of yet more free heroin had lured him naked to the beach for a swim. The stormy night and the discovery of the remains of the King Philip had excited them both and they sat naked side by side on of the boat's remains. The drug dealer grabbed him, deeply kissed him and pro-offered the lines from his hand, the man, ever glad of a free line or two inhaled greedily the mixture of special K and heroin. The burn in his nose had barely ceased when he fell forward from what had been the port side of the ship into tide pool of seawater and swirling sand. He was paralyzed by the drug cocktail and was unable pull himself up out of the half foot of icy water. The drug dealer aided the angel of death in its flight by standing on his victims neck and back within three minutes the man had drowned.
An end place fitting as scene of death, the Clipper ship King Phillip had been transporting a cargo of Pigeon feces for fertilizer when shipwrecked in 1878 and the dead man, like all addicts had become a flightless Pigeon.
The naked body of a white man, face-down, lie partially buried in a swirling tide-pool of seawater and sand within the ribs of the boat. The crashing waves of a fall storm recently exposed the remains of the once proud King Philip and the returning tides were quick returning.. The body, the object of the birds, was not a preserved crew member exposed with the retreat of the sand entombing the ship but that of a white man in his late 20's, his marble white skin contrasting sharply with the dirty sand and blackness of the petrified wood of the boat. The body was partially buried in the wet sand and appeared save for its face down position much like a weekend beach goer might. One who had buried himself to the waist to amuse his kids. Its rigidity in repose belied any such idea. The birds saw a meal, the largest of them landed on the bodies buttocks and in a quick motion tore into the fleshy left buttocks and flew away. It new nothing of the man, that he had a wife who would begin to worry about his being gone in a few hours, nor about the drunk janie who having prepared herself so carefully, wearing the sheerest nightie she owned and who drank a bottle of Vodka when she decided he had stood her up, nor of his other friends who continued to call his cellphone tossed into the seagrass in the Sandunes, he was missing another mindless house party full of an endless parade of Cal Fire employees and they needed him to continue the party. They called and called, the messages buzzing on, the battery wearing down until the cell went silent. The voice-mail had been filled hours ago by dozens of calls from a frightened former john named Addige who had overheard a drug dealer at a sex club stonily talk of a gay for pay hooker having been overdosed by another drug dealer who had provided him pure white heroin mixed with special K rather than the usual mix of heroin and fluff.
Few others knew of his existence and two who did had caused the overdose to occur. Fewer still would mourn the man, he was not a very sympathetic individual. His wife would, not so much out of marital happiness, for there had been little of that, but out love of the material life they had together. Her life had been so unrelentingly hard and deprived before he married her that his end meant the end of that world and as no other path would be open to her, a room in a shared rented mobile home trailer park on Santa Rosa Avenue would be her next home. There were no children to ask why daddy how drowned in San Francisco 90 miles from home in Santa Rosa and the life of the junkie was such that if his absence was noted at all it would be with relief by many as he'd become the daily train wreck to be avoided.
That might happen but as there were no clothes there was no identification and he most likely would not be found. The sea was relentlessly reclaiming the wreck as weak dawn gave way to full light the boat and body would be sleeping together under tons of sand. He had walked to the beach from what he called a molester van after allowing his cherry to be popped by his drug dealer. The X fed to him was pure enough that the humping had been intensely pleasurable.and the promise of yet more free heroin had lured him naked to the beach for a swim. The stormy night and the discovery of the remains of the King Philip had excited them both and they sat naked side by side on of the boat's remains. The drug dealer grabbed him, deeply kissed him and pro-offered the lines from his hand, the man, ever glad of a free line or two inhaled greedily the mixture of special K and heroin. The burn in his nose had barely ceased when he fell forward from what had been the port side of the ship into tide pool of seawater and swirling sand. He was paralyzed by the drug cocktail and was unable pull himself up out of the half foot of icy water. The drug dealer aided the angel of death in its flight by standing on his victims neck and back within three minutes the man had drowned.
An end place fitting as scene of death, the Clipper ship King Phillip had been transporting a cargo of Pigeon feces for fertilizer when shipwrecked in 1878 and the dead man, like all addicts had become a flightless Pigeon.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The decline and fall of Syd and Barry.
The fly buzzed about the blood stained tissues piled up on the coffee table. It landed and crawled slowly over the filth. Syd couldn't stop focusing on it. It seemed to grow bigger as it moved closer to his open eye. The fly moved onto the tissue he has stuffed up his nostril. It was soaked through but clotting had occurred sometime between his blacking out and now. Syd didn't move, the lethargy of snorting heroin for much of the night hadn't entirely worn off and the effort needed to brush the fly away seemed an insurmountable challenge just then. The pain in his stomach was an entirely different thing. The rumble in his gut had roused him from the grey cloudy nether world that passed for rest in the daily ritual of snorted heroin for rest, steroid injections for strength and Viagra for erections. The rumblings in his gut became more painful and frequent. The pain was getting to be "reduculous" and only eased when presently the seat of his pants slowly filled with a wet warm goo which began to trickle down his legs. That didn't get him to move. Syd was whippd by the tail end of the dragon that was snorting Afghan white heroin.
It was getting more difficult to level the ride out and moments like this, unthinkable a year ago, were now regular. So regular in fact that the locked door to his "Man Cave" no longer caused Angelina alarm or upset the neat little house's daily routine. The world beyond the door continued unchanged while the fly crawled onto Syds blood stained cheek and flew away. The warmth in his pants turned cold and the air smelled of sweat, Jack Daniels and shit. The shakes started. It was very cold or so it seemed but he knew the heat blasted from the vent silently. Full late morning light shone brightly through the French Doors and had banished all shadows from the wooden deck just beyond. The deck was filled with large Terracotta pots full of late fall blooms and all was awash in sun. The blessed sun of the wine country mocking the dark demons of addiction.
Syd fully awake, now became aware of the crap in his pants and jumped up from his face down position on the dark brown leather couch, " shit of shit..." he said aloud, repeatedly in a half sobbing half whispered cry. He bounded into the bathroom but fell short, tripping over an overturned ottoman and landing on his ass. He jumped up again, rushed into the shower, stripping off the soiled pants as the hot water poured over his now naked body. The trail of brown liquid followed him from the couch and ceased only when it reached the shower. His cell phone rang again. It had rung continually for what seemed hours. He ignored it. Ending his shower, he toweled off facing the oversized full length brown wooden framed mirror leaning against the bathroom wall. A hacking cough began and wouldn't cease. His body convulsed, he shat again, this time standing up and naked. The brown ooze landing fully on the white bathroom mat. "SHIT! What the FUCK", he cried out and showered again.
Clean again, he looked into the mirror. Syd saw a too lean, older looking than his 29 years, man staring back at him. Syd looked himself over critically as the commodity he now was. Syd was shagged out and past prime by any standard. Once what everyone thought of as a good looking guy, he had always pulled ass, well at least after his nose was fixed, it having been broken in a high school football game. After that Syd was no longer called Platapus Rex. Those same teenagers would now taunt him by calling him scarecrow fag. The wasting effect of a year of near daily heroin use and ticking had taken a heavy toll on his muscle tone. The steroid cocktail he juiced daily would need to be alternated again and rapid muscle gain mixed in with a shot for strength.
Popping the vitamins and Viagra he took daily with a swig of Jack Syd walked over to the closet where the safe lay hidden, not by design but by habit, under a pile of filthy clothes. Opening it he removed two of the 60 boxes of steroids neatly lined up within. A couple of thick envelopes full of cash were set beside them. Those were for his increasing trips to McCarthy, his drug dealer in the Haight. The envelope had been kept full by his selling of Steroids and tricking with married men and an occasional frustrated wife but the once unthinkable had occurred, a john upon seeing him at his Hotel room door had passed and slammed the door shut Syd never fucked a single woman. That would seem like he was cheating on Angelina. In his drug fueled roid rages and endless erections blown in cars on back roads by old bi married men not banging single pussy passed for marital fidelity, that would now change. Syd was confident that the lonely hearts club of women would melt as soon as he opened a door or said Darlin to them and was not worried.. If a fool can have confidence Syd would thrive.
That particular idea, keeping loyal to "Angie" had started when he was Gian the Fireman. a stripper at suburban bay area Bridal Showers. Syd wouldn't touch the Maid of Honor or Bridesmaids. The Mother of the Bride and Groom, the Matron of Honor, hell the Grannies were all potential paying Jane's. Single girls got attached and caused trouble. It took two dates for any woman to open her legs and the money rarely came until the 5th but the single girls would be attached by the end of the bang and ready to do battle for "her boyfriend". A mouse of a wife like Angelina was too tempting a target for a territory invading woman to pass up and Syd let them feel him up, suck him off but that was all.
Still business was only as good as his being able to be buffed and keep a boner some of the time. As his dependency on heroin increased his erections had become more difficult to maintain and were no longer the thick "sleek Fireman's Pole" he had formerly and rightfully bragged of.. The cellphone rang and he grabbed it after he injected his two doses of steroids. It was a Jane, she'd been given his number by her friend Addie and looked to meet in four hours time at her place in Healdsburg. Jojohn said no, that as it was a first "date" they would need to meet in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel in Santa Rosa, she would need to make the reservation, pay for the suite and pay cash upfront for his service, his minimum was three hours at $500.00 per hour. To his surprise she agreed! The time was noted and the call ended. The steroids had begun to take effect and he felt like the day would be a good one. Closing the safe he noticed he had blown his entire supply of heroin. He called McCarthy and set a meeting in 90 minutes time in the parking lot of Walgreens on Stanyan Street. Opening the "man cave" door he yelled ANGIE I'm heading to the city". And headed to his sweet 4 x 4 pick up.
This Jane sounded like easy rich pickings and he looked forward to the easy routine of conversation, food ordered from room service, massage for her with a skilled handjob providing her with an unrelenting release followed by about 30 minutes of cuddling. The cuddling messed with the woman and he would be assured of at least four more dates before he would tell her his wife was pregnant and he wanted to work it out. A fifth or sixth date never was booked as the women became increasingly uncomfortable with his lack of erection and the amount of money she was spending. Those who attempted to stick around were prone to being dependent lonely souls more bothersome than profitable and he would block their numbers Equally troubling were young gay men. They were simply mischievous. The easiest most profitable client was a married older man. They paid for servicing, silence and privacy. A best example was the 60 something retired Stock Broker Real Estate developer who owned the Curee Cave.
Barry Harris was his best client and 10,000.00 a month from the owner of the rapidly failing Dry Creek Winery Curee Cave had not been unusual when they first tricked but as the market for trophy wines disappeared post 2008, Barry's finances had taken a triple hit, his leveraged real estate holdings lost 50 percent of value and no longer provided easy capital. Cash gained by pulling out large amounts of money from ever increasing equity had dried up as surely as the creeks in drought. Drought or no, large amounts of capital infusion were needed to cover the expenses of running a sink hole of a winery and the shopping extravagances of an alcoholic wife.
Money for Barry, or so it was rumored in the town, was still plentiful as he was thought to cultivate dope on his more remote acres.. What Barry did do was launder the Mexican Drug cartels money through his Winery production cost and skillful manipulation of profit and loss write-offs. A never used Champagne cave, dug out of the mountain, well out of view of the Chateau and tasting rooms was a curing facility for primee aged Kush. for them too and the finished product often began it's journey to Chicago and the southeast from the tiny Healdsburg Airport a mile down the road. Barry flew for them as well and under cover of marketing his wine. All together the arrangements and increased trips had relieved his strained cash flow. Flying his Cessna to private airports near ski lodges in Aspen or Vail and the film festival at Sundance from his own runway, had become so common that no one much noticed the plane. Barry saw no other way out of his financial troubles and had recently taken the more risky flight into Vegas with his plane loaded with first quality Kush. He was, they liked to remind him, more and more their "bitch" but he reassured himself that this was only temporary until his real estate holdings value recovered. Barry just needed to hold on.
Liquidating the whole operations was not an option. No one would pay even close to what was owed and the more sobering fact was that the Mob, once established in an enterprise, were loath to leave. It simply was too good a deal for them. The only people on record were Barry and Isabel Harris. The employees were all his, the property was all his. The risk therefore was all his. They reminded him that he had sought them out by offering use of the empty Champagne Cave. They were hesitant to use a place with tourist trade activity but Barry had skillfully sold them on the place, his marketing skills were put to good use as he showed them the end of the estate with an independent power source, well water, a pristine and well lit unused Cave.
The Winery was now an integrated facet of an international criminal operation. On the upside, a legitimate business which was financially profoundly unsound and incapable of turning a profit survived and kept a dozen people employed. The Mob business, which produced so much cash that it was difficult to "legit" all of it, yielded a large "profit" in capital gains for its investors through the cover of the winery. It may have been a marriage of convenience but it served the same client. Those liking a toke or two were the best clients for the fine wines. The baby boom liked a buzz, the sun and a look of luxury and class. So what if it was more Vegas wine country theme park than a Tuscan hillside vineyard. The majority of the clients no more traveled under the Tuscan sun than were Harvard M.B.A.s. The money rolled in and life went on.
It was all professionally run and not in any way resembling the violent gangsta's of popular imagination. It provided employment, and taxes. The only Mob people Barry Harris interacted with were the dozens off duty county Sheriff's "employed" by him through the special event and catering section of his winery. When not providing services to the courts and jails or golfing with the judges of Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino and Lake Counties they supervised the arrival, parking and loading of out of state U-Hauls and R.V.'s, all driven by middle aged "tourist couples" as well as the delivery trucks for markets who picked up regular "winery purchases'. They also provided security and manned the always money losing special events that the town looked forward to reading about and the socially ambitious Isabel had become famous for. They a provided the heat, muscle and intimdation that kept the operation going and the too curious or disgruntled away.
They all knew Syd from his bi-weekly bangings with barry. They thought he was a freak and at times goaded the former County grappling champ into time killing matches that turned into mini-gangbang by hose or broom handle of a too stoned to care Syd whose rapid decline had become so marked that he was "topped" on most occasions and rarely remembered it. Syd was, they had told Barry,a liability that needed to go. They'd leave the how, when to him for a week or two but made it clear that Syd having infected one of them with H.I.V. after a match ended with an equally stoned Sheriff fucking hin without a rubber they would not be inclined to be quick or kind if they needed to do it. Barry was neither cruel or sentimental. about personal relationships and after a thoughtful day and enlisted McCarthy. No date was set but Syd was Barry knew, "past due" and the idea of his life ending did not bother him nor disturb his sleep. This was after all just business in the glorious wine country.
It was getting more difficult to level the ride out and moments like this, unthinkable a year ago, were now regular. So regular in fact that the locked door to his "Man Cave" no longer caused Angelina alarm or upset the neat little house's daily routine. The world beyond the door continued unchanged while the fly crawled onto Syds blood stained cheek and flew away. The warmth in his pants turned cold and the air smelled of sweat, Jack Daniels and shit. The shakes started. It was very cold or so it seemed but he knew the heat blasted from the vent silently. Full late morning light shone brightly through the French Doors and had banished all shadows from the wooden deck just beyond. The deck was filled with large Terracotta pots full of late fall blooms and all was awash in sun. The blessed sun of the wine country mocking the dark demons of addiction.
Syd fully awake, now became aware of the crap in his pants and jumped up from his face down position on the dark brown leather couch, " shit of shit..." he said aloud, repeatedly in a half sobbing half whispered cry. He bounded into the bathroom but fell short, tripping over an overturned ottoman and landing on his ass. He jumped up again, rushed into the shower, stripping off the soiled pants as the hot water poured over his now naked body. The trail of brown liquid followed him from the couch and ceased only when it reached the shower. His cell phone rang again. It had rung continually for what seemed hours. He ignored it. Ending his shower, he toweled off facing the oversized full length brown wooden framed mirror leaning against the bathroom wall. A hacking cough began and wouldn't cease. His body convulsed, he shat again, this time standing up and naked. The brown ooze landing fully on the white bathroom mat. "SHIT! What the FUCK", he cried out and showered again.
Clean again, he looked into the mirror. Syd saw a too lean, older looking than his 29 years, man staring back at him. Syd looked himself over critically as the commodity he now was. Syd was shagged out and past prime by any standard. Once what everyone thought of as a good looking guy, he had always pulled ass, well at least after his nose was fixed, it having been broken in a high school football game. After that Syd was no longer called Platapus Rex. Those same teenagers would now taunt him by calling him scarecrow fag. The wasting effect of a year of near daily heroin use and ticking had taken a heavy toll on his muscle tone. The steroid cocktail he juiced daily would need to be alternated again and rapid muscle gain mixed in with a shot for strength.
Popping the vitamins and Viagra he took daily with a swig of Jack Syd walked over to the closet where the safe lay hidden, not by design but by habit, under a pile of filthy clothes. Opening it he removed two of the 60 boxes of steroids neatly lined up within. A couple of thick envelopes full of cash were set beside them. Those were for his increasing trips to McCarthy, his drug dealer in the Haight. The envelope had been kept full by his selling of Steroids and tricking with married men and an occasional frustrated wife but the once unthinkable had occurred, a john upon seeing him at his Hotel room door had passed and slammed the door shut Syd never fucked a single woman. That would seem like he was cheating on Angelina. In his drug fueled roid rages and endless erections blown in cars on back roads by old bi married men not banging single pussy passed for marital fidelity, that would now change. Syd was confident that the lonely hearts club of women would melt as soon as he opened a door or said Darlin to them and was not worried.. If a fool can have confidence Syd would thrive.
That particular idea, keeping loyal to "Angie" had started when he was Gian the Fireman. a stripper at suburban bay area Bridal Showers. Syd wouldn't touch the Maid of Honor or Bridesmaids. The Mother of the Bride and Groom, the Matron of Honor, hell the Grannies were all potential paying Jane's. Single girls got attached and caused trouble. It took two dates for any woman to open her legs and the money rarely came until the 5th but the single girls would be attached by the end of the bang and ready to do battle for "her boyfriend". A mouse of a wife like Angelina was too tempting a target for a territory invading woman to pass up and Syd let them feel him up, suck him off but that was all.
Still business was only as good as his being able to be buffed and keep a boner some of the time. As his dependency on heroin increased his erections had become more difficult to maintain and were no longer the thick "sleek Fireman's Pole" he had formerly and rightfully bragged of.. The cellphone rang and he grabbed it after he injected his two doses of steroids. It was a Jane, she'd been given his number by her friend Addie and looked to meet in four hours time at her place in Healdsburg. Jojohn said no, that as it was a first "date" they would need to meet in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel in Santa Rosa, she would need to make the reservation, pay for the suite and pay cash upfront for his service, his minimum was three hours at $500.00 per hour. To his surprise she agreed! The time was noted and the call ended. The steroids had begun to take effect and he felt like the day would be a good one. Closing the safe he noticed he had blown his entire supply of heroin. He called McCarthy and set a meeting in 90 minutes time in the parking lot of Walgreens on Stanyan Street. Opening the "man cave" door he yelled ANGIE I'm heading to the city". And headed to his sweet 4 x 4 pick up.
This Jane sounded like easy rich pickings and he looked forward to the easy routine of conversation, food ordered from room service, massage for her with a skilled handjob providing her with an unrelenting release followed by about 30 minutes of cuddling. The cuddling messed with the woman and he would be assured of at least four more dates before he would tell her his wife was pregnant and he wanted to work it out. A fifth or sixth date never was booked as the women became increasingly uncomfortable with his lack of erection and the amount of money she was spending. Those who attempted to stick around were prone to being dependent lonely souls more bothersome than profitable and he would block their numbers Equally troubling were young gay men. They were simply mischievous. The easiest most profitable client was a married older man. They paid for servicing, silence and privacy. A best example was the 60 something retired Stock Broker Real Estate developer who owned the Curee Cave.
Barry Harris was his best client and 10,000.00 a month from the owner of the rapidly failing Dry Creek Winery Curee Cave had not been unusual when they first tricked but as the market for trophy wines disappeared post 2008, Barry's finances had taken a triple hit, his leveraged real estate holdings lost 50 percent of value and no longer provided easy capital. Cash gained by pulling out large amounts of money from ever increasing equity had dried up as surely as the creeks in drought. Drought or no, large amounts of capital infusion were needed to cover the expenses of running a sink hole of a winery and the shopping extravagances of an alcoholic wife.
Money for Barry, or so it was rumored in the town, was still plentiful as he was thought to cultivate dope on his more remote acres.. What Barry did do was launder the Mexican Drug cartels money through his Winery production cost and skillful manipulation of profit and loss write-offs. A never used Champagne cave, dug out of the mountain, well out of view of the Chateau and tasting rooms was a curing facility for primee aged Kush. for them too and the finished product often began it's journey to Chicago and the southeast from the tiny Healdsburg Airport a mile down the road. Barry flew for them as well and under cover of marketing his wine. All together the arrangements and increased trips had relieved his strained cash flow. Flying his Cessna to private airports near ski lodges in Aspen or Vail and the film festival at Sundance from his own runway, had become so common that no one much noticed the plane. Barry saw no other way out of his financial troubles and had recently taken the more risky flight into Vegas with his plane loaded with first quality Kush. He was, they liked to remind him, more and more their "bitch" but he reassured himself that this was only temporary until his real estate holdings value recovered. Barry just needed to hold on.
Liquidating the whole operations was not an option. No one would pay even close to what was owed and the more sobering fact was that the Mob, once established in an enterprise, were loath to leave. It simply was too good a deal for them. The only people on record were Barry and Isabel Harris. The employees were all his, the property was all his. The risk therefore was all his. They reminded him that he had sought them out by offering use of the empty Champagne Cave. They were hesitant to use a place with tourist trade activity but Barry had skillfully sold them on the place, his marketing skills were put to good use as he showed them the end of the estate with an independent power source, well water, a pristine and well lit unused Cave.
The Winery was now an integrated facet of an international criminal operation. On the upside, a legitimate business which was financially profoundly unsound and incapable of turning a profit survived and kept a dozen people employed. The Mob business, which produced so much cash that it was difficult to "legit" all of it, yielded a large "profit" in capital gains for its investors through the cover of the winery. It may have been a marriage of convenience but it served the same client. Those liking a toke or two were the best clients for the fine wines. The baby boom liked a buzz, the sun and a look of luxury and class. So what if it was more Vegas wine country theme park than a Tuscan hillside vineyard. The majority of the clients no more traveled under the Tuscan sun than were Harvard M.B.A.s. The money rolled in and life went on.
It was all professionally run and not in any way resembling the violent gangsta's of popular imagination. It provided employment, and taxes. The only Mob people Barry Harris interacted with were the dozens off duty county Sheriff's "employed" by him through the special event and catering section of his winery. When not providing services to the courts and jails or golfing with the judges of Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino and Lake Counties they supervised the arrival, parking and loading of out of state U-Hauls and R.V.'s, all driven by middle aged "tourist couples" as well as the delivery trucks for markets who picked up regular "winery purchases'. They also provided security and manned the always money losing special events that the town looked forward to reading about and the socially ambitious Isabel had become famous for. They a provided the heat, muscle and intimdation that kept the operation going and the too curious or disgruntled away.
They all knew Syd from his bi-weekly bangings with barry. They thought he was a freak and at times goaded the former County grappling champ into time killing matches that turned into mini-gangbang by hose or broom handle of a too stoned to care Syd whose rapid decline had become so marked that he was "topped" on most occasions and rarely remembered it. Syd was, they had told Barry,a liability that needed to go. They'd leave the how, when to him for a week or two but made it clear that Syd having infected one of them with H.I.V. after a match ended with an equally stoned Sheriff fucking hin without a rubber they would not be inclined to be quick or kind if they needed to do it. Barry was neither cruel or sentimental. about personal relationships and after a thoughtful day and enlisted McCarthy. No date was set but Syd was Barry knew, "past due" and the idea of his life ending did not bother him nor disturb his sleep. This was after all just business in the glorious wine country.
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