Benny and the Fuck Up. 

My name is Benny.  I walked out my front door last night to see Tito waiting by the curb, sitting on the front fender of his new Charger.  He bought the car only six months ago but has already managed to get into two accidents.  The most recent of which occurred earlier that day, when he tried to cut off a BMW but instead sideswiped it and swerved into an abutment.  I volunteered to drive my car saying that he’d had a rough enough day and I’d be glad to drive.  In reality, I was just wary of being in a car helmed by Tito. 

I unlocked my Mercedes CL and we both got in.  We didn’t really have a destination on this early Friday evening so we drove down the boulevards aimlessly.  Tito packed his glass pipe with purple kush.  The funky odor of dank pine filled the cabin of my car as Tito sparked the bowl.  He offered me a puff but I turned him down.  I told him I was trying to get over a cold, which was true.

We decided to see a movie.

I pulled my Mercedes into the parking lot belonging to the record company where Tito had been working until recently.  Tito asked the security guard whom he was familiar with to raise the arm so we could park in the lot for free instead of paying at the theatre across the street.  The security guard informed him that there was a post up, declaring him banned from the building.

We decided to park somewhere else.

I turned the CL around and pulled out of the parking lot as Tito bitched about his former employers.  He started packing another bowl of kush as I unknowingly steered the Mercedes the wrong way onto a one way street.  I did a quick three point turn and parked the car at an open meter.  I twisted the key in the ignition, shutting off the engine but leaving the radio playing. 

Tito brought his lighter to the bowl of the pipe and sparked it, inhaling the putrid smoke.  Tito held his breath for a moment, released a plume of smoke and started to hack.  There was something strange about sitting in my car, parked next to a palm tree, listening to Bing Crosby sing White Christmas while Tito took hit after hit after hit.  When he was finished we got out of the car and started to walk in the direction of the theatre.

The 8:30 was sold out so we bought two tickets for the 10:35.

We walked through the lobby of the hotel across from the theatre and into the hotel’s bar.  The waitress greeted us with a southern “Hey y’all!” which is always strange to hear, especially in Los Angeles.  I ordered a Heineken which disappointingly arrived in a glass instead of a bottle.  Tito ordered a double crown and coke.  He tried to flirt with the waitress but his voice was too loud and his body language too lecherous. 

We sat at a table in the corner.  I nursed my beer while Tito pounded his drink.  We both talked of our mutual desire to get a recording deal.  I felt bad because the poor fuck has next to no talent and will never, ever ever ever get a deal.  Tito started talking to me about power numbers and astrology.  I took a quick swig of my beer and excused myself to go to the bathroom. 

I took a piss.

When I walked out of the bathroom I saw Tito again talking to the bartender.  He came walking back with a new half-empty drink and sat down at the table.  I sat down across from him.  I lowered my head as he renewed his monologue about astrology.  A group of three LA County Sheriffs walked through the bar.  I nodded at one of them, but he just stared at me suspiciously.  Tito started rapping “Fuck the Police” under his breath.  I looked at the time on my cellphone and suggested we go get cigarettes.  Tito killed his drink and stood up.  He shakily walked out past the cops, who all stared at him as he stumbled past.

LA is not made for walking.  The closest place to buy cigarettes was at a grocery store three blocks away.  We walked, one foot in front of the other.  I had to pull on the back of Tito’s shirt to prevent him from walking into traffic.  We waited for the light to change and crossed the street.  It took us nearly five minutes to walk through the large empty parking lot.  The bright green fluorescents of the grocery store shone out like a beacon.  We walked toward it.  Cigarettes were our goal and we were nearly there.

We walked inside.

I stood in line behind a Mexican woman who bought a bag of 7 navel oranges and three cartons of orange juice.  The large fat black man tugged at one of his cornrows as I approached him.  I asked him for a pack of Parliament Lights from behind the case.  He told me to feel free to grab it myself.  He rung me up.  The bill was $5.06 and I handed him a twenty.  He asked if I wanted change.  I told him I did.  He handed it to me.  I wished him a merry Christmas, even though I’m not a Christian, and he smiled and said “you too.”  I asked Tito for a lighter.  He walked a few steps ahead of me and did not answer.  Tito’s face was flushed as he staggered out through the sliding glass doors.

Tito pushed a security guard aside and heaved a stomachful of vomit onto the concrete right in front of the grocery store.  He spat and purged again.  I grabbed Tito by the arm and tugged him away.  He stood up straight and mumbled something to the security guard about food poisoning.  I pulled Tito over to a nearby trash can and told him to go to it.  He continued vomiting.  The pungent smell offended my nose.  I pulled out my wallet and pulled a ten dollar bill from inside.  I walked up to the security guard who was busying himself laying newspaper onto the pool of vomit.  I told him that I was sorry for the trouble and I tried to hand him the bill but he wouldn’t take it.  I told him that it was Christmas, a time for giving but he wouldn’t take it.  I told him that I wasn’t trying to buy him but he still wouldn’t take it.  I sheepishly placed the folded up bill back into my wallet and walked back over to Tito who was breathing heavily, hunched over the refuse bin, spitting occasionally.  I tugged his arm.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”