Shane was a great friend. I suppose he still would be, if I knew where the fuck he was. About a year ago he just dropped off the face of the earth, which is sad because so many of us who were privileged enough to count him as a friend will truly miss his hijinks. He was an extraordinarily imaginative man, slightly degenerate, completely in the moment.The best nights with Shane always involved lots of booze. Because he was a former college football star his bulk was massive and his frame sturdy, and he could put it away with the best drunks out there. It usually took around a hundred dollars and several smuggled pints of hard liquor to get him in his zone--well worth the effort and cost.
Most of my nights out with Shane--unfortunately--took place in one of the countless many establishments that comprise the vast wasteland of American nightlife. Here, drunk women come and go, jokes are told and forgotten, and it all eventually blurs together in one hellish nightmare of squandered time. Sometimes, however, through the fog of all the fraternity faggots and their putrid cologne, college tricks and their desperate attempt to look unamused, and the local older crowd trying to feel young again, there will shine a beacon of pure magic. This is why people keep going to the smoke-congested, overpriced, piss-on-the floor killing fields of America's lost social dignity--known to most simply as a 'club.' They keep coming back because they know that eventually, something genius will occur and they might be lucky enough to witness it.
At any one of the places that we would frequent you would generally find nothing more than a pack of overweight twenty-somethings grinding their sweat-soaked bodies against the midsection of a complete stranger. This was always hard for me because where I come from a bar has stools, a surly sober person to pour stiff, never watered-down drinks, and a classic rock jukebox. You treat it, and its nightly occupants with a certain degree of reverence. Not the case with your typical 'club' type of hangout. Here, you expect the following: go deaf listening to the "DJ" play the latest re-mixed version of Jock Jams: Volume 34, urinate anywhere but the urinal, and watch the frat kids discuss their strategy for getting one of the drunk skanks to come back to the house and get gang-raped. Because of these features, the 'club' received no reverence from me. Not one ounce. And fellow patrons would also be treated accordingly.
The reason I mention all of these puke-making features of the contemporary after hours scene in America, is that one night Shane made me forget all about them--which was a feat. He gave me something that made all our forays into the void worthwhile. He gave me that piece of genius that everyone is in search of. But I also mention them because of the security measures that these features could necessitate. Chiefly, the need for a phony name. Something akin to an author's pseudonym or a porno actors performance handle. I was usually Randolph Sloan, or Chest Roberts. Shane typically stuck to his old faithful: Chet Dunbar. I was usually a medical supply salesman. He was almost always in the insurance game. We only existed from the moment we entered to the moment we left.
The night was hot, sticky and distinctly Saturday. I knew that the next day would absolutely suck because I was bound--out of sheer boredom--to drink more than I should, and I would undoubtedly be hungover. I knew that I would spend most of Sunday trying to get the blurred images of drunk college kids in pastel polo shirts--collars upturned--out of my head. I always hated Sunday without a hangover, so the headache and dry mouth would just make the sabbath that much more unbearable.
We entered the establishment like most Japanese would get on a subway car: by squeezing through a ginch-gaggle at the door, taking great care to avoid the great plumes of menthol smoke that rose forth. Once at the bar, Shane casually indicated that there was someone he was interested in, and, much like he has done in reality, he disappeared. My friends and I were unable to locate him until we saw him walking toward the back exit about an hour later--shapely vixen in tow.
We--myself and two friends who had accompanied us that evening--gave Shane about an hour and decided to head home. We stopped at a gas station en route and my pal Ali purchased an enormous bag of Cheetos. The cramped ride back to Shane's apartment took all of twelve minutes.
We walked in the door and immediately heard the soft moaning of the girl that Shane had somehow convinced to come home with him. STOP, STOP, STOP! Before I go any further, I must tell you about Shane's place. It was easily one of the coolest places that any of us had ever seen. It was also the nicest place Shane had ever, or probably will ever live in again. It was an old warehouse that had been converted into studio apartment spaces with lofted living room platforms. You could take the stairs to the top of the platform, turn around and look down into the bedroom. On this unforgettable evening, the three of us decided to go to the top of the platform and have a seat. Take in the show. Eat some Cheetos.
So, there the five of us were. The girl was moaning, Shane was going to work, we had a front row view--feet dangling down off the stoop.
I don't know why, but Shane was always into being the subject of the voyeur's curiosity. He loved to fuck girls in front of .... well, anyone who would watch. Strange but true. I always felt he should leverage this joy of sexual performance to his favor, and maybe that's were he is these days. Who knows? All I can tell you is that Shane was not angry when he saw three of his close friend watching him screw this girl. To the contrary, he was delighted. And, apparently, he was very hungry.
Shane spotted the gigantic bag of Cheetos and immediately gave us the universal symbol for eating food, and then indicated that we should quietly bring him some Cheetos. He continued gesturing until Ali, who was just drunk enough to think it was a good idea, began his descent of the staircase toward Shane's bedroom door. The next we saw of him, he was commando crawling toward Shane's bed--trying to sneak up unnoticed. As he arrived, Shane turned the girl's torso away from the edge of the bed and began to mount her from the backside. As she squealed in apparent delight, Shane would use the noise to conceal his rummaging in the Cheetos bag. This continued for several minutes until, unexpectedly, the girl turned back around and pulled Shane on top of her. I must admit, if I hadn't been so impressed by the feat of daring that Ali had been performing, I would have definitely admired this woman's savagery in bed.
The mid-fuck feed was going just fine until this last position shift. With Shane on top, the girl began demanding full, spit-soaked porno kisses from poor Shane. When this happened she began to taste something foreign, something that had not been there when they started. She was now tasting the greasy, but still pleasing flavor of the Cheeto. Perhaps it was this flavor failing to agree with her, or her sense that she was being watched, but in one furious and super-human movement she managed to push all 250+ pounds of Shane off of her. As she did this she let out an Amazonian war-shriek that scared poor Ali so badly that he stood and bolted out of the bedroom. She scanned the room like the alien from Predator, almost as if she could see thermal patterns and, very deliberately, settled her gaze on the gentlemen at the top of the stairs. We gave a weak smile, and a short wave hello.
Not a good idea. The only think that I can recall coming out of her mouth that was actually a word was something like "what in the fuck are you smiling at motherfucker?!!" I was, for perhaps the first time in my life, truly terrified.
She stormed into the bathroom, pushing past Shane as he tried to stop both her and his own laughter. She did not exit for thirty minutes, in which time we tried to work out what we would all say to her. I wanted to leave, but Shane would have no part of that. If she was to be faced, it would be all of us facing her.
When she came out she was far less angry, but it was still very awkward. How do you explain the hilarity of things from our perspective? How would Shane explain that when a 250 pound man does cardio, he needs to have carbs to stay in the game? More importantly, what would she say to us? One thing was certain, Shane would never apologize.
And so it went. She reappeared, fully clothed, tapping her foot, arms crossed. This is the classic I-want-an-apology-for-this-bullshit-Cheetos-eating-and-voyeurism-routine stance. None was forthcoming. This childish standoff lasted about fifteen minutes--a goddamned eternity. Something would have to be said--or done. Something symbolic.
You could always count on Ali, and true to form, he pulled through with the icebreaker. As he gently extended the Cheetos bag, he looked at her softly and asked "would you like one?"
We never saw her again.
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