Checkpoint Charlie Dolce Kevil 400 Where the fuck is Stuckey?  Blow by blow western female Roy Mosaic Big Daddy’s Ferrarro’s for linner all the extras gone by the time the second cab came home when it was light on Sunday morning.

Oh as in Oh really. Rough jeans. Sorry. AJ asleep a blue drink in front of me whose was it who knows what’s in it don’t know that either tastes like tequila you have to drink one drink an hour according to state law (Blogo). Geoff’s pizza went up like smoke when he walked away for a minute. He gave me a hug but I was already smiling (inside).


Drinks, early. White wine and beer. Getting ready for an Irish dinner. Artists, rebels, and badboys. The Temporaries on display at the Temporary Museum. 314-962-0093. The number waiter Jen has on her hand in black marker. Jake appears out of the dusk of fish and chips and AJ’s red bull and vodka. Roy gets a call from Davíd, who’s on the Metro roundabout Forest Park. Sweet. Back at the rooms Davíd says, “Wow. This really happened.” Someone turns the music up. There’s a beat. There’s just something about you baby that makes me want to give it to you. Hour five or so and Roy is way past that. He drops a cinder on the duvet and I score it an E-9. Kevil reaches for the club soda and I thank God for an ally in the war on incidentals.

Tigin. Roy Sr. The next day he asks his son, “You guys eat that fish yet?” The coolers working overtime. We only had to ice them once. Pabst, Founder’s, Torpedo. Molly’s. Aubrey’s. That blonde with the ten-cent rack. Roy in form. James at the bar to get a round for us when someone else comes along and hands me a beer. I don’t ask why, I try Bud Dry. Talking to a guy in a Pirates hat, he doesn’t know the Cards are playing them, it’s just a hat. Anyone named Roy eats and drinks for free.

Walking down the hill to Broadway for MPO’s/Lafayette’s. Someone gets me a bud and I go right to the dance floor. Pounds and pounds. Me and three others. A little bit of love just above the waist. A pimp wears red leather. Roy: “He went out there and did all of his moves in about ten seconds.” Pat joins us. She says she has a husband. All I want to do is dance so that is what we do. The place closes at one-thirty.

Outside we are looking for cabs. Two gals are yelling at each other from opposite sides of the street. Geoff says it would have been some kind of catfight. One of them was wearing some pretty skimpy clothing and something would have definitely come off.

Where are we going? Where are we going? Am I getting in this cab? Am I really going to Pop’s? (Or as Jake will say tomorrow, “I can’t believe we went to fuckin Pop’s.”) Pop’s was like a dream. Remember one thing and you’ll remember another.

Pop’s a saloon. Mos Eisely space cantina. Immediately come in and see that gal in the red shirt doing a pole dance on an imaginary pole. She would’ve danced with anyone and yet she was dancing with no one. High, drunk, still uncomfortable. I order a Bud. Pat begins his verbal assault of the band. “Look at the guitarist. He’s wearing a fucking sweater vest.” Some gal up on the stage dancing. Alright looking, blond. The dance floor dead except for a couple of OK looking younger gals. I took my Bud out there and gave it a whirl. It’s hard to dance to “Everything Zen” but I was doing it. A chunky gal named Lisa came out and joined me. She was cheery enough but I didn’t last long.

Roy was working the tables, visiting with ever’ girl and woman along the way. At this point, he has stopped remembering the evening a long time ago. He was doing what someone the next day described as the retarded T-rex. I remember one lady he was dancing in front of. Fiftyish, short blond hair. It was Pat who said she was bothered at first but when she realized how drunk Roy was she concluded he was harmless and let herself be amused.

A terrible rendition of a Britney Spears song. Kevil flabbergasted by the $25 beer he just ordered. I had had enough. Pat too. The band is still on and he is really letting them have it now. “You guys suck!” He is drawing some looks from the loyal patrons. I am going around to everyone in our group trying to put together an exit troupe. Kevil was bouncing off of tables. Everyone I talk to, including Roy and Jake, say they are ready to leave. But I can see in Roy’s eyes that he is looking right through me.

The band comes off. Some finally upbeat music comes on and a big line dance with full participation breaks out on the once-dead dance floor. Jake has disappeared. Roy I realize is not going anywhere. I am toast. “Roy? Roy?” I give up. But James and Davíd won’t leave him. Roy calls these men his troopers. Me, Pat, and Kevil cut and run.

No cabs in sight, just Solutia and Akzo-Nobel brewing up the good stuff. The Oz is to the left. Penthouse and PT’s within walking distance. I have cabbie Azeeim’s number. Patrick calls him. Several minutes later another cab comes and we get in it. Kevil goes and lays in the back seat, farting. Pat, who had called Azeeim, now calls to tell him (at my suggestion) that we don’t need him to come get us. “Yeah, ah, I just called for a cab from Pop’s. Sorry, but another one came and we got in it. So we’re good.”

Azeeim: “But I’m almost there.”

Pat: “Yeah, we got another one. Sorry.”

Azeeim: “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Pat: “We are in another cab.”

I talked to our cabbie but I don’t remember about what. Didn’t have a meter. Jenkins Cab Co. I was kind of afraid he was going to charge us a ton. It took only $18 to get there from MPO’s. We pulled up to Hotelumiere. $15. Pat gets it. Kevil wheels himself out of the van. I help him up a bit. He is shitfaced. He might fall over in the lobby. Pat says to the person at the desk, “Two out of three sober isn’t bad.” It’s all fun and games. Kevil uses a wall or two. Pat begins to roll footage on his phone. Glass-backed elevator up. Kevil goes to bed. It’s 4:30. Pat and I sit there talking and smoking but I am starting to nod off. When he leaves I go in the bathroom and j-it.

I go and get the bedsheet off of the other bed. I am asleep on the couch about 45 minutes when I hear a knock.

It’s Jake. He nods quickly, his eyes wild and tired at the same time.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?”

No response. He goes to the bathroom.

“How’d you guys get home?”

No answer. He goes to bed. I head back to the five-foot couch and fall asleep quickly, waiting.


Peet’s. Me kevil and Jake on the river. Talk of Billie Mays Hayes and his cocaine heartbeat. The Sham-wow guy got his ass kicked by a chick in Vegas yeah there was claw marks and shit all over his face you gotta check out the photos. Jake: “How long have chamoises existed anyway.” Someone else says, “Thirty dollars a month on paper towels. Outrageous!”

Trucking out the trash. Filling the cans near the elevators. The far and the near. Onesies. Batties. Fake Amelie’s fake tits. Getting very near to them and inhaling. Davíd in the corner on a couple of cushions. Kevil jack-knifed on one bed. Jake jack-knifed on another. Roy on the floor. Me on a short-man’s couch. The mini-bar is protected by sensors. A brunch of cracker/sausage/cheese. Bruder basil.


That’s some checkpoint, that checkpoint Charlie!

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