Last night’s blurb, seen here, was short and didn’t have much in way of detail. I’ll fix that.
After The Record Company’s unbelievable performance last night at Hotel Cafe, my friends and I went out to 4100 Bar for another couple of drinks. When the night ended, I needed to run and grab some Ibuprofen to ensure that I wasn’t hungover this morning when I finally decided to roll out of bed. There is a 7-11 a couple of blocks from where I live and I decided that was my destination. A long time ago a friend of mine said to never go there at night because of all the people that show up. I rarely listen to people when it comes to that, I’ve been there before at night and it was fine. Well, tonight made me regret ever not listening to him.
As I pulled up to the store, there were two guys hanging out outside. I took them for normal homeless folks holding doors open for people in hopes of a bit of change in return for their kindness. I hear them comment on my car as I get out and then they both started to make hootin’ and hollerin’ noises as I walked towards them. I get a reasonable amount of attention for the vehicle so this isn’t uncommon. What’s uncommon is what happened next. As I began to walk away, one of the guys - a stocky Latino guy with a perfectly shaved and shaped goatee with a 49er hat on - extended his hand for a handshake. I figured it was just a “Hey, that’s a nice ride” kind of thing but, oh, was I wrong.
First, he didn’t let go of my hand. He was clearly more drunk than I was and asked me whether he could talk to me about the Masons. Yes, the Freemasons. He showed me his tattoo, his ring, the pin on his button-up shirt. To be polite, I said sure, thinking that it’d be a couple of minutes of my life and I’d be no worse for wear. Well, soon the conversation turned into a myriad of things, all of which I could only nod my head at and say, “Yeah, sure, man.” I can’t provide the blow by blow but I can tell you the following:
- He gave me his “card” which stated that he was: a 7th degree black belt, a weapons expert, and had an inspirational quote from Bruce Lee. He also carried his cards in a Batman card holder, which I actually thought was kind of cool.
- He was, in addition to being a Freemason, a former Marine with PTSD. This actually made me empathize with him. He was suffering from PTSD and was having trouble with the VA. This is a larger issue in this country and it pisses me off to no end. We will use these young men and send them off to die or do horrific things but when they come back, they may as well be invisible.
- He owned 3 (this turned into nearly 9 by the end of the conversation) hot rods, including a ’64 somethingorother. He wanted to buy my Camaro.
- He was looking for work. And, by work, I mean: he wanted to either be a bodyguard or KILL SOMEONE FOR ME. “I can make problems disappear. I’m licensed to carry.” He then proceeded to show me his gun. This is also about the time I became stone cold sober and looked around to determine whether or not I was about to get robbed for my car and/or shot in the goddamn parking lot of 7-11.
- He liked my hair. Seriously. He even grabbed it! Then he told me about how long hair means power or something or other. He also kept shaking my hand but now he was doing some weird shit with his thumb, as if he were giving me a sign of some sorts. The next bullet point is interesting, to say the least.
- I was finally at my car door and had it unlocked, ready to fucking leave because it was nearly 3 AM at this point. He grabbed my hand again, I said I’d give him a call - because if I didn’t he was going to kill himself - and then he gave me a hug goodbye. OK, nothing wrong with that. Oh, one more hug? And a kiss a on the cheek. Sure…drunk people get emotional, I get it. Oh, one more? “Come here, man.” And he started to lean in very slowly as if he was going to kiss me. I backed up, said it wasn’t like that, and pulled my hand back. He laughed and said something like, “Of course not!” and let me get into my car.
I started the car and got the fuck outta Dodge without looking back. All I wanted was some damn Ibruprofen and ended up, apparently, getting hit on by a PTSD’d former Marine Freemason murder-for-hire 49er fan. It was only Friday too, still got all of Saturday and Sunday to see what other random Hollywood weirdness I can stumble into. The lesson to take away from this? Never visit the 7-11 on Hollywood and Normandie after dark.