Drinking alone
in Omaha,
me and the old bartender,
Jack,
who’s bar i’d passed a few times
the past few days

and saw him,
this old man,
sitting by himself in the bar,
with no bartender
and no patrons,
and i thought
i’d give him some business
because the alternative
was
uninspiring:
sitting in my room
again
drinking beer
alone
or i could go do the same thing
down the street
and feel what it’s really like
on a Thursday night
in Omaha,
November seventeenth,
twenty-eleven;
so i pulled my bicycle
out of my work van
and rode down the
cold night
street.

Jack was sitting outside
looking forlorn,
another day of emptiness
at his bar,
and then i showed up,
and as i rolled up
he went inside and got behind the bar,
and i don’t know why i said it,
i’ve never said it before to anyone in my life,
but i said, “Howdy.”
And he said, “How you doing? What’ll it be?”

My beer choices were Bud and Bud Light.
Behind the bar was a well stocked shelf of
American and Canadian Whiskeys
and gins,
one large bottle of Vodka,
and some cans of soda in a see-through mini fridge.

“I’ll take a Budweiser please.”
“That’ll be 2.25.”

I sat there drinking my beer watching a college football game on the TV behind the bar.
Jack sat at the end of the bar watching it too.
It was quiet. It was like that for a while.

Then i asked him his name.
“Jack.”
“Nice to meet you, my name’s Brandon.”
“Where you from Brandon?”
“Los Angeles… How about you? You live here you’re whole life?”
“No.”
“Oh yeah? Where are you from originally?”
“Iowa.”
“So you just moved a little west huh?”
“Well, when the sheriff points in three different directions and tells ya, ‘You can go this way, this way, or that way, but you can’t stay here.’
You end up here.” Jack said, then took a drink from his mountain dew.

“You ever been to California?” I asked.
“Once. The northern part.”
“San Francisco?”
“No, we never reached the coast. I was going bear hunting in Idaho, and we traveled down into California.”
“Oh so you were in the Sierras? Did you get any Bears?”
“No. We ended up back in Idaho, and then our cabin got snowed in for three weeks.”
“Obviously you had enough supplies to make it through, you’re still here. Unless you had to eat someone.”
Jack laughed. “No we had a months worth of supplies, but there was six of us, so it was only about three weeks. Fucking snow was up to here.”
He raises his hand above his head. “We couldn’t get out!”

And then in walked an old surly Omahan
that sat between us
and without a word to each other
Jack turned around and got the man his usual,
a can of Miller High Life
and a box of Marlboro reds,
and i let the conversation go
and watched the football game
and drank the rest of my beer.

Jack could see in the bar mirror
that my drink was gone
and he asked if i’d like another.
“Let me me get a Jim Beam on the rocks this time.”
He kind of liked that, “Bourbon? You got it.”

I fucked around with my phone
for a second, posted a picture from in the bar online,
and finished my whiskey
and asked,
“Hey Jack can i get another Budweiser.”
“Another? Alright.”

And as i drank that beer, the whiskey sank in
and i contemplated everything

started feeling like
this would be the rest of my life
alone with my self,
no one waiting for me,
no one wanting me.

One could disappear in Nebraska
for an entire life
and never return.

Omaha
is a purgatory.

I finished my beer and got up from the bar.
“Take care of yourself Jack, it was nice meeting you.”
“You take care too, Brandon.”

Feel myself
reverting
into
introversion,
or am i just stoned right now?

Alone for
10 days
wandering,
thinking of a million things,
my last night on the road before coming home,
new environments
incredible stimuli
for thought,
that is
if i
care
to think,
and not just float around
distracted by pretty colors
and food.

I try to dig on different states
as if they were their own countries,
and try the local cuisine
and talk to the local people,
try to see who they really are
listen to random bits
of conversations
and look at what they wear
and what kind of jokes they make
what kind of movies they like to quote.

Working class cowboys with cowboy hats,
city slicker wannabe marlboro men,
preppy college kids,
a punk rock scene,
a scenester scene,
and a stoner scene i heard the radio refer to as “freakies”
post-modern hippies with dreads
and tribal piercings and hemp clothes,
sidewalk guitarists with hats open on the ground full of money;
and there was a bohemian take over of the
East side of Downtown Denver,
where all the beatnik hipster types get together
and eat gourmet versions of everything
and drink the best micro-brewed beers out of Fort Collins
Colorado,
and quote lines from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
and Dumb and Dumber.

II.

It rained my last night in Denver,
so i put my rain jacket on
and walked down the street
and went to the little official liquor store
filled with wine
and fridges full of mostly locally brewed craft beers
that are over 3-5.
“Hey man, do you guys have any dry days in Colorado?” I ask.
“No, not in Colorado.”
“Cool, I’ve been to places and they’ll be dry on Sundays.”
“No. We used to, then we got rid of that law. What we have here is
the three-five law.”
“What’s the three-five law?”
“7-11 and grocery stores are only allowed to sell pisswater
at three point five percent alcohol. Only stores like mine are allowed to sell anything stronger.”
“No shit?”
“They’re trying to pass a bill to allow all stores to sell all liquor.”
“That’s cool.”
“Not for me.”
“Oh Yeah no kidding huh? You go into business for yourself based on that law,
and then they pass that bill and you go out of business. That’s bullshit.”
“You got it. I don’t think it’s going to pass though.”
“Well i hope not for your sake bro. Take it easy man.”
“You too.”
And i leave
with my six-pack of Samurai Rice Ale.

I thought i’d seen a pizza spot nearby when i was wandering around on my bike
and so i took a shot
and walked up one more block
and there it was
still open,
four hipster employees
one mopping,
one making pizzas,
and one running
the register.
The fourth one i guess was just getting off his shift
or on a break
cause he made himself a pizza.
Anyway,
when i walk in, the guy mopping,
who has a big handlebar mustache
says,
“Hey, what’s up man!” And put his hand up for a high five like he knows me,
so i give him a good one and say,
“What’s up dude? How’s it going?”
“What are you doing bringing beer here? We sell beer.” He said, dejected.
I laughed, “My bad bro.”
“It’s ok this time. Thanks for coming in the rain.”
“No worries dude.”

No one was in there
but i was good luck.
After i ordered a veggie pizza
three more people came in.
“Do you know what you want?” He asked a customer.
“Not yet.”
“Ok you have three seconds to order or you don’t get anything.”
The guy looked a little surprised.
“Alright you don’t get anything.”
I laugh.
The customer’s still confused.
“I’m just kidding. Here’s a menu, take your time.”

Life doesn’t seem too bad in Denver.
Everyone rides bikes
and everyone has beards,
so i fit in when i showed up unshaven
riding around on my bike
with hipster glasses.

Then i shaved and
it was all over,
before i could be mistaken
as a serious artist with a beard
taking art photos with my digital camera,
now i was just a fuckin tourist
taking pictures with my cell phone.

III.

Denver Colorado:
a nice place
full of just as much fucked up shit
as any other city;
watched the local news…
don’t want to repeat what happened,
far too graphic for any poetic prose piece,
same
random-violence
that occurs in cities all around the world:
robberies, rapes, and murders.

You can’t escape it,
people are beautiful
and they are desperate grotesque monsters.

It was 10pm
and
the man entered the hotel
off the street,
coming the opposite direction of me.
I entered the hotel
behind him
and walked towards the only elevators
and he looked at me
as though i may be
a mugger
or
an assassin.

He looked to be
a very serious yakuzaesque
Japanese businessman,
something in his stern expression
told me he held a black belt in karate,
or maybe even
his family jiu-jitsu passed down for centuries.

I used to work for Mitsubishi Electric
US Corporate headquarters for a year.
So it came naturally
for me to make eye contact with him
and give him a head nod,
and he seemed slightly surprised
that this unshaven guy in black
who just apparently followed him into the hotel
off the streets
knew how to properly acknowledge a Japanese person,
as if i had once lived in Japan
as a samurai
in a life before
and knew the culture;
working 7am to 4pm
for a Japanese corporation in America for a year
was like living in Japan for 8 hours a day,
five days a week.

So he nodded back,
knowing the disrespect and dishonor
of not nodding back.
And i know their code of honor,
they’re a shy people
and they assume most Americans know nothing of them
aside from what we learned in Kill Bill
and “Most eXtreme Challenge.”
Especially these mountain folk in Colorado, right?

I nodded at him and he had nodded back as if we we’re adversaries
in a movie,
acknowleding that
something bad was going to happen
and that he accepts his fate with dignity.

And then we entered the elevator together.
To make it more alarming for him
and awkward for me,
he presses 5
and thats my floor too,
so i just enter and don’t press anything.
The Japanese business man freezes
as i search my pockets
trying to find my key.
Now he’s sure of it.
I’m an assassin
because he knows too much,
or at the very least
i’m a robber,
because he’s putting off the
“scared animal”
vibe, secreting
pheromones of fear
as i searched for my key,
he may have thought i was preparing
the needle and syringe
full of time-released heart attack poison
used by most
first world clandestine services.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close,
two other guys enter and hit 6,
difusing the tension a little bit;
or at that moment, in his mind, saving his life.

But when floor 5 came
i lingered back
and the Japanese business man
bolted,
he power walked out of the elevator
and i kind of slowed myself down and
let him get a good lead,
and i’m sure he was still scared
because
now i was following him down the same hall.

Finally he turned a corner
and i kept going to my room
and
heard his key quickly
go in and out of the door,
the door opening
then pulled shut immediatley,
no lag to allow the door to close on its own.
The sound of his deadbolt locking into place.

When i got to my room i
smoked a bowl out of an apple i got in the lobby
opened a bottle of Samurai Rice Ale
and wrote this.

Started at 2:30am,
climbing
Half Dome
with headlamps
and flashlights,
wary
of
bears
looking for
picnic baskets.
It’s late September
and there were signs up
warning you as you entered the park.

And like Dustin said,
“If we see a bear, just group together and make a bunch of noise.”

2.

Crossed a bridge over a creek
in the dark
to the smell of giant conifers,
and the sound of crickets
and running water.

The only drinking water station
was about a mile in.

We filled our
water bottles,
camelpacks,
and my canteen
with
Yosemite water
good enough to be bottled from the tap and sold.

3.

About two hours in
most of us had now been awake for twenty hours;
our drive up from Long Beach delayed by pockets of traffic in LA,
a detour on the 99,
and construction on the 41 deep inside Yosemite
that held us up an hour and a half
with only twenty minutes to the campground.

I took the anchor spot on the hike
and set my own pace.

Having worked the day before in 111 degree heat
from 8am to 3am
at Paramount Studios
on New York street,
I was now up twenty hours straight
off five hours sleep,
hiking up a mountain
on a trail
that’s considered
one of the most strenuous
day-hikes
in the world.

Lucas was ahead of us in the darkness.

He whistled his ghetto location,
“Sooowooop-”
so we knew he wasn’t too far ahead.

Kent and Ryan were keeping pace with him,
and John and Dustin were keeping at my pace;
having just turned thirty
I was the elder,
the rest of them in their early and mid-twenties.

4.

We steadily ascended,
not seeing what we were actually climbing,
just knowing if we kept putting one foot in front of the other
daylight would come
and we would get to see everything.

So we climbed mammoth steps of granite
carved from the mountainside
by centuries dead Virginian pioneers.

We didn’t talk too much,
zoned and
zenned out
on the trail.

Daylight broke at 6:30am.
The woods
turned from black
to blue.

5.

We emerged
from a
blue
dawn
forest
upon
The Sub-Dome.

The air
was
thin
cold
and
clean,
and
the
smell
of
redwood
and sequoia trees
surrounded us
like christmas morning,
it had that same good feeling.

I looked to the east
and watched the sunrise.

It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen,
the entirety of Yosemite illuminated,
its stunning body revealed
to me
for the first time.

Surreal to have my first
live view of Yosemite
not from the bottom looking up
but from the top
looking down.

Massive valleys far below
surrounded by
monumental mountains
in all directions.

To the west
sat Half Dome,
cables
draped down its
smooth granite backside,
not allowing us to rest
until we conquered it completely.

6.

A lot of hikers end their journey at the Sub-Dome
afraid of what could happen
should they lose their grip
or let their feet slip
halfway up the cables
and then their bodies go
careening
down
the mountain.

It’s a 60 degree incline;
experienced hikers who seemed in good shape
rigged safety harnesses
for themselves
before they
began the climb.

Our only harness was our determination not to die.

We went for it;
me in my Adio skate shoes,
my old hiking boots
chewed up by my beagle Red Baron.

7.

Took one wooden plank at a time
and climbed the mountain
like a ladder.

An extremely fit lady in her fifties trailed me up,
“Do you want to go by?” I asked.
“No I like your approach; I’m going to follow you up.”

I assessed each section,
evaluated the contours of the smooth granite,
visualized each move before doing it,
then made my move:
ONE
TWO
THREE
large steps a plank,
using my upper body to pull me up the mountain
not relying on my shoes to provide adequate traction.

Just kept moving up
not looking down
until finally it
flattened out to 30 degrees
and before I knew it
I was on top,
and let go of the cables
and looked out
over
the entirety
of
Yosemite.

8.

At the top
you’re friends with everyone
because you made it,
and everyone takes pictures
of everything.

People were saying things like:
“majestic”
and “magnificent”
“stunning”
“breathtaking”
“wonderful”
and
“beautiful.”

I took pictures with my friends
and explored,
peering over the edge on different sides,
walking around the whole thing.

I looked out over the valley,
visualizing the glacier
that had once passed through
cutting down the mountainside.

9.

Smoked pot with my boys
and watched a man prepare
a parasail
over and
over again;
one little gust of wind
and he’d start all over again,
re-laying all the cords to his parasail
in an intricate perfect order
so as not to tangle on take-off.

Finally he had it how he wanted
and waited a moment
assessing the wind…
no wind,
he put earbuds in from an mp3 player,
pressed play,
then began running
to
the
edge of the cliff–

The
wind
kicked up
and
twisted his sail,
everyone watching held their breath,
I said, “Oh shit!”
and
he
skidded
to a stop
fifty feet from death.

Without speaking to anyone
he packed his chute
and climbed back down
the cables.

The most exhilarating ride of his life
would have to wait.

I stuck a rock in my back pocket
and began my descent down the cables
to meet my friends
who had already climbed down,
me telling them,
“You guys go ahead. I’m going to walk around up here for a while.”

10.

Brown cloth glove on left hand,
black mizuno batting glove on right,
grabbed the cable on the right side with both hands
and slid my feet sideways,
leading with my right foot,
one plank at a time
all the way down
Half Dome.

I paused
and moved to the side
allowing
people
ascending
to get by,
holding
myself
by
the
cable,
back against the incline–
staring
straight
down
epic
Yosemite.

And
half way down
I thought I broke the baby toe
on my right foot.

A cute blonde girl in pink designer outdoorwear hit me up on the way down
as she climbed, trippin’ on how I was sliding down the mountainside.
“That’s how you have to get down??”
“No, that’s just the way I’m doing it. I got on skate shoes so it works better.”
“Oh my god… My shoes aren’t any better!”
“You’re good. The hard part’s getting up, coming down’s the easy part. You’re already half way, you got it, watch.”
“Ok, thanks.”

No one else was trying to climb up below me
so I slid the rest of the way down,
slowing at planks like speed bumps,
the declination finally letting up,
eventually leveling out,
and I let go of the cables
and jogged the rest of the way down.

11.

“What up Brandoje?!” Lucas asked.
“I’m the shit.” I beamed. “We’re all the shit for doing that. That was incredible!”
“Hell yeah it was son!”
“We’re fucking beasts. Men among boys.” I said and they agreed, egos exonerated.
Lucas asked, “Who was that chick you were talking to? She was hot!”
“She was tripping out on how I came down. Did it look crazy?”
“You looked like a cat.”
I laughed.
“Where’s Dustin and Kent?”
“Dustin took off, he wasn’t feeling well. Kent went with him.”
Ryan stood up, put on his backpack, and said,
“John and I are going to see if we can catch up to Dustin, I just got a text from him saying he’s out of water.”

Lucas waited for me as I took my shoes off
and one dirty sock
and one bloody sock
and examined my fucked up feet.

I checked out my right baby toe
but it wasn’t broken,
a fat blister had formed and popped
dying my sock red.

Only a small blister on the other foot.

Washed,
bandaged,
moleskinned,
freshly socked
and shoed,
I took the gallon of water from my bag
and filled my canteen half full
and gave the rest to Lucas to fill his camelpack
and descended,
ignoring the pain,
knowing there was no other way out
but to hike
back
down
the
mountain.

12.

John and Ryan
waited for us
half a mile down the trail.

No sign of Dustin
who was sick and out of water,
who must still be hiking.

We asked some hikers along the way if they’d seen him,
“Did you see a slightly portly guy with a Chargers hat on?” John asked.
“Oh yeah, we passed him a while ago, he’s probably near the bottom by now.”

13.

The heat was bearing down on us
at 1pm.

We were getting low on water
and the heat kept growing.

John got sick
and puked.

We took small drinks from what was left
in Lucas’s camelpack.

We psyched ourselves out
by thinking the next water outpost
was just around every corner,
but like a mirage
there was only more mountainside.

“Look, tourists! We’ve gotta be close.” I said.

Tourists dressed casually,
holding little water bottles,
taking pictures in front of all the rocks and trees
and waterfalls.

Thirsty,
sun beating down,
I jogged the rest of the way,
momentum carrying me
past the tourists
who would never
go as far as we had.

14.

A few minutes of jogging
and I was at the waterfull.

I drank at the water fountain
for a couple minutes as
a line of faggy European tourists
formed behind me
dangling half empty little plastic water bottles
from their thumb and forefinger
while they waited
bantering in French and sweedish,
and then I made them wait longer
as I filled my empty canteen.

“Hey Brandon!” Dustin said. He looked tired.
Kent and Dustin were resting in the shade of a tree.

I joined them,
every inch of my body completely exhausted.

My friends made it down a few minutes later
and went directly for the water fountain.
They drank their fill
and filled their bottles
and we all rested for about twenty minutes.

As we got ready to leave
I saw the chick I had talked to on my way down the cables.
“So did you make it to the top?”
“No way, I freaked out! I probably climbed down a minute after I passed you.”

15.

We hiked the last mile and a half of the trail
back to the cars.

Smoked a few victory bowls
and drove off.

Immediately pulled my shoes and socks off and
tended to my feet.

Pulled up to a crossroads just outside the campgrounds
and Lucas asked,
“Which way to the freeway?”
“I don’t know, maybe those guys know.” I said without thinking, seeing two Rangers on bikes at the corner.
“Excuse me! Which way to the 99?” Lucas asked.
“The 99?” The Ranger questioned.

The Rangers rode their bikes up to us
and saw me without a seatbelt on and without saying anything else
demanded,
“Where’s your seatbelt?”
“I just got down from Half Dome, my feet are bleeding,
I forgot, I’m sorry.” I said.
“Let me see your ID.”

The cop came around to my side.
“Dude, these guys are fucking trippin’.” I said.

These weren’t Ranger Rick Rangers,
these were wannabe Walker Texas Ranger Rangers…

I tried to get out of the car to get my ID out of my bag
but the cop closed the door on me,
“Can you reach it from in here?”

I unzipped a pocket without thinking
and the cop caught a glimpse of amber colored
plastic (my weed container)
and said,
“Is that marijuana?! Pull over!”

16.

We were pulled out and patted down
and sat on the sidewalk
and all our stuff got dumped from our
camping bags
and they found my ID,
confiscated my bud,
John’s pipe,
and ran all our names.

One of the Rangers held a rock and asked me,
“Did you take this from the top of Half Dome?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s against the law.”
“I didn’t realize that. Sorry.”
“If everyone took a rock from the top of Half Dome, there would be no rocks left up there for your grandchildren to see.” He lectured.
“That makes sense, I apologize.”
The Ranger placed the rock next to the weed and pipe on the hood of the car.

Lucas turned to me,
“John and I have warrants. We’re going to jail. Call my girl and tell her what happened. Hopefully they’ll let you drive the car home.”
“Ah man, I’m sorry dude, I should’ve had my fucking seatbelt on.”
“Don’t blame yourself, it’s not your fault.”

John was quiet and angry.
I told him “Sorry bro.”

When the cops found out they had warrants
they were
handcuffed and
patted down again
more thoroughly,
going above and beyond the call of duty,
violating them,
clapping Lucas’s nuts extra hard twice,
making him grunt and wince in pain.

They were put in the backseat of the same car and taken to Yosemite Jail.

“Here’s a ticket for the marijuana.”
He handed me a ticket for two-hundred and seventy five dollars, “For posession of less than an ounce of a controlled substance.”
Could have been crack, crystal meth, or heroin as far as that ticket read,
but it was only a couple bowls worth of Marijuana,
how ridiculous.
“You won’t be charged for removing the asset (rock) from the top of Half Dome.”

Turns out all National Parks are under Federal Mandate
and those fucking nerds
they got for Rangers
follow the letter of the law to a T–
This was probably the biggest bust they’d had in months,
a couple dudes on DUI warrants.

“We’re letting your friend Lucas out tomorrow morning after he sees the judge.
Since your driver’s license is good we’re going to let you drive the car.
It’s your option, you can leave and get a room somewhere in town,
or you can get a campsite for twenty dollars.”
“What about my other friend?”
“He’s getting transferred to Mariposa County, then he’ll be extradited to Orange County. So what do you want to do?”
“I’ll take a campsite.”

He wrote down a number and told me to go to the campsite and pay for it in the morning
or else they’d send me a bill twice the amount

17.

I was furious.
Pissed at myself,
feeling to blame for my friends going to jail,
if only I had my seatbelt on…
if only I had my wallet in another pocket…

I drove from the spot we were hemmed up at
to my campsite.

I yelled, “Motherfucker!”
and people walking by darted their head at me.
I didn’t realize the back windows were still down
and now I felt stupid
and started to calm down.

I checked into my campsite
and parked for a minute.

A family was set up in the site next to me.
The father smiled and waved.
“How’s it going?” I replied.
“Are you expecting more people or is it just you?”
“Just me. I was at the top of Half Dome. I need to rest before I drive home. I’ll be out of here in the morning.”
He smiled and nodded his head,
waved again,
and returned to his family
satisfied a party wasn’t going to break out next to him and his “normal” white family.

18.

I needed change for the payphone,
so I was told by an old lady Ranger
to go to
Curry Village
where all the tourists
mingled in a quaint little
outdoorsish/frontiersy atmosphere
with wifi internet everywhere
and kids running around all over the place.

I was hungry when we were leaving
but now
as I saw people eating pizza
happy and innocent
with their families,
the smell of garlic
in the air,
my
appetite
disappeared.

Went in the first store I saw,
an “Outdoors” store
where a douchey
hipster bearded prick
made it obvious he was annoyed
that he had to get my dirty smelly ass
fresh off the mountain
some fucking change
for the telephone.
“Can I get two dollars in quarters for the phone please?”
“I only have a dollar.”
I gave him the rattiest piece of shit dollar I had.
He gave me four quarters.
“Next time go to the market.” He said all pissy.
I let it slide and said nothing and took my change.
What’s his misery to me?
We’re all suffering, buddy.

19.

I found a payphone and called Dustin and Ryan
leaving a variation of the following message on their voicemails:

(sounding serious)
“Hey this is Brandon.
Lucas and John are in jail.
This is not a joke, this really happened.
We got pulled over on our way out of Yosemite
and they were arrested on their warrants.
Lucas’s getting out tomorrow.
John’s being extradited to the OC.
The cops let me drive the car, so I’ve got the car.
I’m staying overnight and picking Lucas up in the morning.
Try to get a message to their family and their girls,
I don’t have anyone else’s number,
both their phones are dead.
Once again, this is not a practical joke.
This is real,
this really happened.
Lucas and John are in jail.
I’m at a payphone in Yosemite,
I’ll be here for a little bit if you want to call back.”

I hung up.

There was a man on the phone to my left
and a family talking to their grandmother
on the phone to my right.

Having made that phone call twice in their presence,
they now stared at me when I hung up the phone.
Feeling uncomfortable,
I didn’t wait by the phone very long.

20.

I went to the little market and looked at the food
but I still wasn’t hungry.

I passed the beer case and saw they were selling cans of Budweiser
for a dollar
so I bought one
and drove back to camp.

Backed into the space and turned the radio on,
it was about 7pm, and the sun had gone down,
the family next to me had the Giant’s game
on the radio
so I found the game on the am dial
drank the beer
and made myself eat,
finishing the rest of Lucas’s beef jerky.

I got restless and went back to Curry Village
and bought two more beers
and drove back to camp,
and drank each beer quickly
while they were still ice cold.

Eased the driver seat all the way back
and fell asleep listening to the ballgame.

I woke up and looked at the clock: 9:59pm.

I listened to the people in the camp next to me:
“The Ranger’s just came and checked everything out,
they went through all our stuff, it’s crazy!”

I was half asleep
and that seemed like an easily dreamable statement,
but it made sense why I woke up now,
the Ranger’s must have come by and flashed their lights in my car.

I listened to the bottom of the 9th,
Lincecum completing the shutout,
turned the car off
and fell back asleep.

21.

The sun began to rise.

I put my dirty shoes
on my
damaged feet
and hobbled to the
bathroom.

I hung out in the car
at the camp
until 7am,
then drove out.

The place to pay for the site didn’t open until 8am.
So I just drove around a little and parked
until it was eight
and paid the twenty bucks for the campsite:
“Hi, I need to pay for my campsite, I got an emergency campsite from the rangers yesterday, they said it was twenty bucks.”
“Emergency campsite?”
“Yeah, my friends got arrested and I had to stay an extra night to pick them up.”
“Oh I heard about that!” The chipper middle aged blonde woman Ranger Rick style ranger said as if it was something really exciting.
“Really?”
“It was all over the radio!”
“Ha.”
I gave her a twenty and she gave me a reciept.
“How do I get to the courthouse?”

22.

Made my way to the courthouse.
She said, “Go to Yosemite Village and you’ll see the signs.”

The only signs I saw at Yosemite Village
were “Do not enter without resident permit”
so I was like fuck, you mean I gotta walk a half mile up hill
to get to the courthouse?
Fuck…

So I parked at Yosemite Village
and walked,
feet aclimating to the pain.

I asked for directions to the courthouse
from a deli clerk,
in front of one of those nerd
wannabe Walker Texas Ranger Rangers
waiting for a breakfast burrito.

He told me to go up the hill and I’ll see a sign.
So I continued on until I saw a sign.

Stepped into the courthouse
and talked to an old white haired bailiff,
“Hi I’m here to pick up my friends who were arrested last night.”
Pluralizing just in case John was going to get let out.
“Oh ok hold on.”
“Are you here for Lucas?” Asked a pretty blonde lady in another room through an open door.
“Yeah. Lucas and John.”

I took a step toward her
and everyone went
“Whoa!”
The bailiff put his hand on his gun and told me “Can’t go in there.”
I took a step back. “Ok, sorry.”

He took his hand off his gun and everything was back to normal
and they were smiling and being small town friendly again.
“You’re buddy John is going to Mariposa County and is being extradited to the OC.
Lucas is seeing the judge at 1:15;
so come back at 1:30 and he should be released by then.” She said.
“Alright 1:30, thanks.”

23.

So I now I had to hang out for another four and a half hours.

Went back to Curry Village market
and bought a quart of chocolate milk
and began wandering around the valley,
following
meandering trails,
taking pictures with
my cell phone.

Before I knew it
it was noon,
so I headed back to
Yosemite Village.

Checked out the Ansel Adams Gallery–
Yosemite
frozen
in
black and white.

Entered
a little Yosemite museum
of what it looked like
when it was worshipped
by tribal human beings
as if it alone
was the reason for life,
that this was a level of heaven on Earth,
and remains so
is reality,
is living breathing
life giving
art of
Earth.

24.

It was 1pm,
still a half hour to go.

Saw this little graveyard ahead of me,
so I checked it out.

Planks of redwood
and boulders of Yosemite granite
engraved with names
dates
and
epitaphs.

I paid my respects and
read most of the headstones.

Now it was 1:20.
So I headed down the trail
on my destroyed feet
to retrieve
my relinquished
homie.

25.

Went up to the courthouse
and asked the bailiff
if Lucas had been released.

“Go down the hill to the cage.
They have to discharge him down there.”

And I saw him walking up the hill
a free man.

“Brando!!”

26.

We walked down the side of the road back to Yosemite Village.
Lucas was in good spirits.
“I saw you walking up the hill when they were driving me back down to the jail to be released. I was like, that’s my friend right there!”
“How was it in there?”
“Easy. We were talking to the lady that works there, she was nice, she made us microwave dinners and gave us jello and popcorn.”
“What a trip, was it just you two? Were you in the same cell?”
“No, but our cells were next to each other so we could talk.”
“Dude I feel real bad about this shit. If I had my seatbelt on none of this would’ve happened.”
Lucas laughed.
“I could tell you felt bad. It’s not your fault man, I should’ve just kept driving.”
“Dude we were exhausted and stoned, our brains were on standby…”

A Ranger pulled up alongside us in his squad car.
“You’re not supposed to be walking on the road.” He said sternly. “Where are you going?”
“We’re trying to get to Yosemite Village.” I said.
“There’s a trail on the other side of those trees that will take you to it. Now stay off the road!”
He drove off and we found the trail.
“That was the same cop that pulled us over yesterday.” Lucas said.
“It was, wasn’t it! He got to fuck with us one more time before we left. Bastard.” I said.
We laughed.
“That guys an asshole.”
“The lady at the jail told me they hadn’t had to take anyone to court in two months.
They had all their paperwork together and everything was really organized,
I had a public defender, and the district attorney was there,
and we were done in fifteen minutes.”
“They probably all went out for drinks afterward to celebrate. Was it surreal having it all go down in the middle of Yosemite?”
“It was!”

27.

We got to Yosemite Village.
“You wanna drive?” I asked, joking.
“Hell no.”

Jumped in
Lucas’s
girlfriend’s
burgundy
Toyota hatchback
and
PUT
ON
MY
SEATBELT.

“Hey let’s stop by where we got searched.”
“That little parking lot?” I asked
“Yeah, I threw my weed out by the bathroom behind us when we were sitting on the curb. I want to see if it’s still there.”
“No shit? For sure, let’s go, that’d be rad if it’s still there! ”

I drove back to the little lot we got rolled at;
no Rangers in sight.

Lucas jumped out of the car
and went in the bathroom
and came back a few seconds later.

“Was it there?” I asked.
He opened his hand:
a strange little black container
that was left untouched
all day yesterday
and today,
not even so muched as kicked
or stepped on,
was back in his possession.

I drove off and he opened it
and inside was just enough herb
for a couple bowls.

“What are we going to smoke out of?”
“Didn’t John bring some apples with him?”
“He did! Brando, we’re gonna get to smoke!”

28.

Lucas turned an apple into a pipe
as we drove out of Yosemite,
smoking one for the road.

“You know why that weed was still there?”
“Why?”
“Because I paid my respects at the Yosemite graveyard before I picked you up from the clink.”
“Haha. That’s tight.”

Stopped for dinner
at a little Mexican restaurant
in a small farming town off Highway 99
called Pixley.

A table full of old white farmers
ate large plates full of
rice and beans and enchiladas.

Lucas and I ordered tacos
and I drank iced tea.

We had a good conversation down the mountain
about life and death
and music,
but now we were just hungry
and didn’t say too much while we ate.

29.

Prologue

When John was released
he was never extradited to the OC
but instead released up in Mariposa County
where he had a nice stay
with no troubles.

His trouble came when he got released,
in the form of a couple hick farmboys
who didn’t know who they were about to fuck with.

As he tells it, he was walking to go find a pay phone
and these two dudes are walking down the street toward him.

The bigger of the two bumps into him on purpose
and then says to John, who has shoulder length hair,
“Excuse me, MISS.”
“What bro?”
“You heard me faggot.”
“Dude you do not know who you’re fucking with.”
“Well you don’t know who YOU’RE fucking with!”
The big farmboy advanced on John.
John puts up his dukes.
They start scrapping.

John lands some good punches, but the farmboy takes ‘em and keeps coming.
Farmboy fakes left, John reacts, farmboy crushes John with a right.
John goes down.

John said, “I saw him standing over me smiling with a bunch of teeth missing and thought,
‘I better get up or my face is going to look like his.’”

So John got up and with all his adrenaline
rushed and tackled the farmboy,
mounting
and pummeling him
until he was semi-conscious,
his friend standing by pleading,
“Stop it he’s had enough!”

Strange way for a story about Yosemite to end,
but that’s life sometimes.

So i walked next door to 7-11
and went inside
and bought a liter bottle of
water
and got in line behind a
group of
young black guys
talking about jazz.

While we waited patiently
a weasely looking white guy
dressed for the office
thinks he’s outsmarted us all.

Just as a second register was opened
to help alleviate the line growing behind me,
he boldly walks up to it.

The person at the first register was done,
so the black dudes went there.

Too tired to debate the situation,
i just cut right in front of the guy
who looked like he worked in marketing
for some stupid corporation
that love go getters like him
that take the initiative
to cut everyone waiting in line
as if there were
no one there
at all.

“Hey, what are you doing?!” He said distraught.

I looked over my shoulder at him.

“The line cracks off back there, bro.” I said.
“You could have told me you know.” He said offended.

Instead of arguing about it
i looked him in the eyes,
and he tried to look me back,
but backed down after a second
and i watched him go to the back of the line
as the cashier scanned my water.

I paid for it and left and
went back to my suite at the Desert Palms
and started writing this.

I told my buddy Rob about what happened;
he’s the other camera guy for the show
and my roommate in the suite.
He had returned
from shooting the Coffin Case/Megadeth party
in the middle of me writing this.

“You know I’m a mellow guy, i just said, ‘fuck this motherfucker.’”
Rob started laughing, he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“So you just cut him back? That’s hilarious!”
“Yeah it was like elementary school. Now he’ll never do that shit again.”

We laughed.

A retired super-hero.
His contributions in the second world war
directly
saved the world.

My Pappap is gone
who believed in love at first sight
and married the most beautiful woman he had ever seen
and was the last person he saw
before leaving this Earth,
he loved my grandma more than life itself.

My Pappap is gone
who taught me the value of being
a kind man.

My Pappap is gone
who was more than my grandpa,
he was my friend.

II.

My Pappap
was the best man i ever knew.

Why can’t the best live forever?

We’re born here
and struggle
and love
and leave everyone
behind

You’re a loss to the planet
my sweet beautiful Pappap
and you were it’s gain,
you
who
saved it for us
all,
you were one of the greatest men
that ever lived on it.

I am forever grateful
to have been your grandson.

I will see you again…

III. (night after the funeral)

i’ve been isolated and alone
in my dealing with his death,
need to surround myself
with people
that love me.

can’t finish writing this
without crying,
because
my Pappap is gone…

“my pappap is gone….”

“my pappap… my pappap….. my pappap……………………..”

Inside were four people:
a female waitress,
an older lady cook,
a swarmy older man wearing a tight fitting green shirt with a crucifix around his neck,
and a drunk mexican gang member
resembling a retarded scumbag version of Fernando Valenzuela.

I ordered, “dos pupusas con frijoles y queso,” and sat down at a little table.

As i waited,
the drunk mexican gang member stopped talking to the man
in the green shirt and looked at me,
and then my hat,
and back at me and asked,
“Ohhh, you like the Braves?” He said in a high pitched voice.
“Yeah.”
“Well I’m a dodger fan!”
Bear in mind everything he said to me was enthusiatically slurred.
“Yeah i could tell by your hat.” Him wearing a beige Dodger hat over a bandana.
“You like the Dodgers?”
“No, I’m actually an Angels fan.”
“Angels?? Well our teams are off the field!”
“Fuck it.” I say.
“You know, I say ‘Off the field!’ ’cause they aint playing no more.”
Guess he thought i didn’t understand his analogy.
“Fuck it, we’ll do it next year.”
He gives me a fist bump, “fuck it!”
“Are you a fighter?” He asks.
“I know how to fucking fight.” Confident in my ability to whoop the shit out of this
fuck motherfucker gang member piece of shit if i have to.
“I know you can fight, but are you a fighter??”
He throws a drunken right hook at no one.
“I don’t go looking for trouble.”
I felt my body coil– ready for trouble.
“But I’ll come into your hood and eat some bomb ass pupusas anytime.” I add.
“AHhhhh! Mi barrio! You see this??” He points to two scars on his face. “They tried to kill me!”
I realized his scars were from bullets that grazed his face.
“Make ‘em pay for missing.” I said.
Liking that answer, he wanted to punch my fist again,
so i gave him a solid crack to his knuckles to let him know
i wasn’t to be fucked with.

“You a Raider’s fan?” I asked changing the subject.
“Ehhhhh! Raiders and Chargers today!”
“Yeah I know, i’m about to get these pupusas and go watch the game.”
“You’re good people.” He says.
I make a fist and gesture to him like “thanks.”
“You used to play baseball?” I asked, changing the subject again, thinking he’s not the best of people.
“I used to play! How old are you?” he asked.
“30.”
“I’m 29!”
“Right on. You used to be a pitcher?”
Coming to realization of his likeness as scumbag version of Fernando Valenzuela.
“Yeah. I used to pitch!”
He winded up and simulated throwing a slider five times in a row, i counted;
all the while a stupid drunk grin on his face.

The waitress looked at him then at me and smiled
and handed me a bag with my pupusas in it
and asked him to translate the price into English.
“Four dollars, capiche?” He said.
I gave her five.
“Capiche, that’s Italian.”
“I know that’s Italian!”
“I’m Sicilian.”
“Well i’m Mexican.”
“Well then i guess we’ve got an understanding. Take it easy bro.”
And he insisted on giving me the handshake bro hug before i left with my pupusas.

Buddhist stuff, mental martial arts like an old Aikido master.

Gang members
are animals
that smell fear
and it
triggers
their endorphins,
so i’d never give them the satisfaction
of intimidating me.

Gang members are extremely paranoid
(inherently and from drugs)
and it may be dangerous for my life
that they take big white boys
in ghetto situations
as undercover police.

That
could
get me
killed
on a bad day.

After this encounter, i had a realization about that.

I walked to the safer side of the 110 freeway
and ate the pupusas next to a statue of Chick Hearn in front of the Staples Center.

From having only fifteen minutes before been immersed in a third world environment
and situation
i was now sitting inside ESPN Zone across the street from the Staples Center,
drinking a Schooner of Bud light,
watching the Raiders play the Chargers
in a first world illusion.

Our world is
still emerging
from a miniature
hyper
neo-
dark age
created
by
WWII.

At constant brink of
nuclear annhilation
and
total war.

We are the
post-apocalyptic
reality.

is how i was described
by this hot ass chick
i met at the Red Room.

She tells my belligerent drunk friend
after his failed attempts to pick up on her
and her female lover,
“You will never penetrate me.”

Then she turns to me and says,
“But you’re interesting.”
And gives me a penetrating
sexy look,
smirking at me.

Something about a hot ass chick
giving a devilish smile.

I ran the backside of my hand against her forearm
under the bar table
like petting a cat,
then returned my hand to drinking my beer.

She said she worked for a production company
and i told her about my shit
and we hit it off
and she gave me her number,
and when she left
she lingered behind her lover
and turned and mouthed,
“Call me.”
And smirked and made the call me signal with her hand.
I nodded.

I bought from Trader Joe’s;
Charles Shaw–

not bothering to pour the fucking shit
into a glass
just uncorking it and drinking it from the bottle
and then
drinking another,
this one cost twice as much
with a fancy bottle
i paid the extra two dollars
for the illusion of something better,
the wine
taste like shit
but it fucked me up.

God damn you and all the Chuck’s out there,
you son of a bitches,
especially you
Bukowski.