“Nightlife”

Under the piss-yellow glow of a towering streetlamp on the corner of Central and 5th was a shirtless man as skinny as a rail with long wispy hair that would play a translucent drum set covered in filth using a tipped-over shopping cart as a stool. We took to calling him “Crack Drummer” and would sometimes sit on the curb across the street and just watch him play for up to an hour with no break. The last time we saw him, a cop was talking with him between songs and the following week, he was long gone like smoke in the wind, leaving only the abandoned shopping cart behind as the sole proof he ever existed.

     Parked outside the abandoned Gizmo Store nearby would be an old man driving a black-and-green Oldsmobile with a propane grill bolted to a tow trailer. He cooked and sold barbecue with a cardboard sign duct-taped to the grill with the prices written upon it in black Sharpie. Sometimes, as we walked past him, he’d be shouting at the homeless people sleeping in the doorway of the abandoned building.

     “AY! AY, JUNKIE! LOOKITME! LOOKITME! LEAST I’S WORKIN’, LAZY-ASS! YOU WANNA SEE HUSTLE?! THIS’S HUSTLE!”

     This was more or less how every week went for us: My bandmate Mike and I would wander into Downtown Albuquerque on Friday nights after I finished my college classes for the day in the hopes we might find something to do, but we were always disappointed with what little was offered. It seemed nothing in theaters ever deserved the $15 admission fee, very few bands played locally that caught our attention, and the ones that DID always played in bars we couldn’t drink in, let alone see shows at, because we were only 19.

     During our sightseeing trips, we’d always walk past clubs, venues, and bars and see flashes of smoke, music, and bright neon lighting escaping from an open door when the bouncer would let someone in before it’d slam shut behind them. Exotic bands like the Russian surf-rock group The Red Elvises was to play at the Insideout one night, drag queens and burlesque shows at the Effex Nightclub, the loud chaotic jangling of pinball machines in the Sister bar, flocks of drunks cackling and living blissfully through the amber haze of a good night stumbling together from one bar to the next, but yet all of that excitement was only for those of drinking age. We never even humored the idea of trying to book and play shows at any of the clubs since we’d be barred for the same reason we couldn’t see other bands there, reducing us to just going on sightseeing trips and watching people like Crack Drummer and the barbecue man from safe distances until we were 21.

*****

     As I was picking up Mike from his mom’s house to indulge in our weekly sightseeing one night, he told me about this local venue he’d stumbled upon simply called The Theatre that would host an improv comedy show every Friday night called “Make It Up!” I’d never really been that interested in improv comedy, but Mike was adamant we check it out given his own background in theatre, and what finally swayed me was when he agreed to pay for my ticket.

     It was a cold winter night in Albuquerque and a freezing wind ripped through the fifteen or so people lined up outside the glass double doors to The Theatre, an unassuming fixture with tall glass windows placed squarely on the bottom corner of a four-story brick-and-mortar office building as people gradually sauntered into the line behind us. Mike and I were third and fourth in line, and I bantered with him through chattering teeth while huddled into my coat to keep warm. Finally, the glass double doors opened and the line of people filed inside to pay the admission fee. After our tickets were torn by a young woman in a flannel and beanie standing outside the auditorium’s double doors, we were shuttled into a modest theater with a capacity of 50 that was host to a set of black cushioned bleachers up against a yellow wall with a soundboard in the back and a black homemade stage that faced the crowd.

     The show was to start at 7, but began at 7:05 as a troupe of millennials in either tuxedos or dresses took the stage as a 90s pop song played over the PA and the lights dimmed. The crowd, nearly sold out, applauded warmly. 

     The finer details of the performance are hazy, but most of it consisted of standard improv exercises. At one point, the troupe all stood in a line, one person said a word, then the person to their right said another word, then the person after said another word, and it’d cycle until they made a funny sentence.

     Towards the middle of the show, one of the troupe dressed in black slacks and a gray blazer who introduced himself as Bobby stood on the lip of the stage and addressed the audience as the rest of the cast went backstage. 

     “And now, for this next bit, we’ll need two volunteers from the audience!” 

     Mike grabbed my arm and shot it into the air with his own faster than the rest of the audience. Bobby pointed at us and said “you two! Come on up here!” Triumphant music played over the PA as Mike dragged me by the wrist up on stage with him.

     Bobby motioned us with his hand to introduce ourselves to the audience. “What are your names, boys?”

     Mike proudly turned to face the audience. “Michael Robante.”

     The two looked at me as I tried to gather my bearings and figure out how I got up here, my hand shading my eyes from the glaring spotlights. “Oh, hi. I’m, uhhhhh, Harry Johnson.” Tepid laughter from the audience. 

     “Well, boys! You two get to be the directors of our next story! Isn’t that exciting?!”

     The audience whooped and hollered. 

     “Now, Michael, I’m going to partner up with you, and Harry, you’re going to partner up with my friend Alan!” Alan, dressed in black slacks with a red velvet vest over a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up, entered stage right from behind the curtains with a flourish and the crowd cheered for him. Bobby and Mike took Stage Left as I went Stage Right and stood behind Alan. 

     Bobby began a lengthy monologue to explain to the audience that he and Alan would start the scene and occasionally look to Mike and I for suggestions on names, characters, locations, etc. I leaned against the wall and zoned out after he’d talked for longer than three minutes, pondering what we’d get for dinner after the show. After a few more minutes of monologuing, I looked over and noticed Alan staring desperately at me, which I quickly deduced meant I had missed my cue. I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

     “Oh, sorry. Um, Del Taco?”

     Alan looked at me incredulously, an expression that quietly asked “seriously?” I shrugged and his demeanor changed back to one of charisma as he turned to Mike and Bobby and said “Well, I was just out here, walking my dog apparently named Del Taco…”

     The game continued as such, where I’d just say whatever popped into my head regardless of the scenario until ten minutes later, Alan and Bobby turned to the audience and bowed.

     “Now wasn’t that just FUN, everyone?!” The audience cheered. “And, as a prize for playing along so well, these two lucky guys just won TWO FREE TICKETS TO NEXT WEEK’S SHOW!” The audience erupted into applause as I went wide-eyed and Mike looked at me with a big smile like he just got told we were going to fuckin’ Disneyland.

     A week later, we were back at The Theatre to cash in our free tickets. We went in, had our tickets torn by the flanneled woman, filed into the small auditorium, sat in the same spots as before, and the show began. 

     Just like last time, Bobby faced the audience towards the middle of the show and said “and now, we’re going to need a member of the audience for this next bit!” Mike raised his hand faster than everyone else and got pulled on stage. 

     Minutes later, the bit was completed and Bobby said “well, wasn’t that fun, ladies and gentlemen!? And for playing along so well, you, my friend, have won TWO FREE TICKETS TO NEXT WEEK’S SHOW!” He pulled two tickets out of the right-hand pocket of his blazer and handed them to Mike as he took a bow.

     He bounded down the stage and sat back down next to me. “What did you think?”

     “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

     We went back the next week and this time wore different coats and beanies as disguises and sat in a different spot in the bleachers. We decided to make a game out of it: How many free tickets could we win?

     Sure enough, halfway through the show, Bobby turned to the audience and asked for two volunteers. Mike and I shot our hands up and Bobby said “you two! Come on up here!” The audience applauded for us as we stood up in the dark and approached the stage. As we got closer and the overhead stage lights began to illuminate us, Bobby recognized us and a subtle look of displeasure grew upon his face. 

     We went with the bit (whatever it was), and Bobby said to the audience “now wasn’t THAT fun, ladies and gentlemen?! And for playing along, you two won TWO FREE TICKETS TO NEXT WEEK’S SHOW!” The audience whooped and hollered as Mike took a bow and I took a curtsy. We went back to our seats with shit-eating grins and fist-bumped.

     We came back a week later once again in disguise, Mike in a flannel and beanie while I sported a “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID” trucker hat he loaned me, and the flanneled woman taking tickets looked visibly annoyed as she recognized us and granted us entry. We sat down in the bleachers in a spot we hadn’t sat in before and waited for the lights to go down.

     The troupe came on stage introduced by a pop song like they normally did, engaged in a few improv exercises, and Bobby announced that tonight, they would be improvising an entire hour-long musical based on a suggestion from the audience. He then asked us, “and just what is this musical called, ladies and gentlemen?”

     Mike cupped his hands over his mouth and screamed “FRENCH BOYS!”

     “French Boys it is!”

     So we sat through an hour of French Boys, and when the show ended, it came time for the actors’ introduction and bows.

     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to introduce you to our wonderful talent tonight! Give it up for ALAN!” Alan ran on stage to applause. “Alice!” So did Alice. “Steven!” Steven ran out and gave a saucy wave to much applause. “And don’t forget… MONICA!!!!” Rapturous applause for Monica. They all took the stage, bowed and ran off behind the curtains once more. “I’ve been your host, Bobby, and we’ll see you next time!”

     The surrounding audience gave a standing ovation while Mike and I just sat there dumbfounded. He grabbed me on the shoulder and sounded more disappointed than anything. “They forgot to do the audience participation.”

     I laughed when the realization hit me. “Don’t ya see, Mikey? We kept winning and got kicked out of the casino.”

     So our Friday night fun went belly-up and we were once again without anything to do.

*****

     Roughly half of a year later, it was October. In that time, I had dropped out of college, took a break from Mike and the band to work full-time and build up my bank account, and ended up spontaneously reuniting with him after he called and asked if I could give him a ride home from class one day. I had a new work schedule that required us to start hanging out on Saturday nights instead of Fridays, but in all that time, we were simply stuck with a different flavor of the same problem: It was a SATURDAY night with nothing to do.

     We sat in a red tattered booth beneath faux vines running along the walls of my favorite pizza joint, Mimmo’s (may it rest in peace), commiserating over the lack of activities. Mike scrolled through an event list on his phone trying to find anything of interest to partake in while I shoveled a slice of pizza into my mouth. He stopped scrolling when something on the list caught his eye and he looked up at me as I started on another slice. “There’s a karaoke night going on downtown.”

     I finished my bite. “Where at?”

     “Uhhhhh The Sister.”

     I shook my head and finished another bite. “Nah, we can’t do that. Bar. Twenty-one plus.”

     “Damn.”

     “Shit, man, is there ANYTHING to do around here?”

     Mike shrugged. “I mean, I was fine with The Theatre.”

     “Yeah, but would you have kept going if we didn’t keep winning free tickets?”

     “...yeah, good point.”

     Mike took a few bites of the slice upon his plate while I finished mine and perked up with an idea. “Say, do you think there’s any eighteen-plus nightclubs in town?”

     Mike pondered the idea for a moment. “I dunno. Let’s check.”

     We pulled out our phones and with a bit of research uncovered a hookah lounge downtown simply called The Hook, coincidentally just a few blocks away from The Theatre. Only a few blurry images of it existed online and all of the reviews culminated in only two stars, mentioning repeated stabbings and gang activities happening right outside the front doors.

     It was perfect.

     I parked in a vacant dirt lot off 2nd and Silver that’s since been fenced off and Mike and I walked a few blocks up the street towards The Hook. Given downtown’s seedy reputation and the mention of violence and gang activities in the area, I carried a can of pepper spray in my pocket beside my wallet while Mike had a knife in his pocket beside his phone.

     We approached The Hook and examined it from the curb, a small two-story brick rectangle painted matte black that sat otherwise unassuming between two traditional brick-and-mortar offices.  LED lights were affixed under the sign atop the building, illuminating it in purple and red against a black night with the stars hidden by the light pollution. A few crotch-rocket motorcycles were stationed in the parking spaces out front and the drivers kept revving their engines while chatting with the bouncer, a 5'5 man with greased-back hair, a tight black t-shirt to accentuate that he only worked out his upper body, and black jeans. Mike and I weaved around a dirty velvet rope that snaked between filthy golden poles turned bronze to reach the entrance, a dark wooden door shut tight like the gate to a gothic hell.

     The bouncer absentmindedly chatted away with the motorcyclists, still revving away, as Mike and I stared at him wondering if we were supposed to let ourselves in. I looked at Mike, shrugged, and reached for the door handle. Only then did this summon the bouncer, who stormed over to yell at me.

     “AY, BUDDY! Gotta check you first. I keep shit real safe here.”

     He wedged himself between the door and I and attempted a menacing pose by standing with his feet apart and crossing his arms. “Arms up.” We raised our arms over our heads and he patted us down, starting with me and then Mike. When he finished, he nodded his head with approval and nodded to the door.

     “You good, but don’t try nothin’. I keep shit real safe here. Got it?”

     I nodded, knowing he missed my pepper spray and Mike’s knife.

     We made our way through the door just to be stopped by another set of dirty velvet ropes and a bored woman dressed in a Halloween witch costume sitting behind a pedestal with a tablet set atop it. She looked us over and said we have to pay the door charge first.

     “Door charge? What door charge?”

     She shoved the tablet with a card reader on it towards me with the screen claiming I owed them $18 to get in. I sighed, swiped my card, and chose not to leave a tip. Mike did the same, grumbling the whole time about extortion, and we were granted access to The Hook.

     We ambled beside the dancefloor and gazed discontent at our surroundings. They seemed to be celebrating Halloween a few nights early, and the building was fittingly devoid of life like a neon graveyard. A DJ stood upon a high platform in the corner absentmindedly browsing his laptop while loud thumping techno music shook the building and rattled my eardrums like a bullet in a birdcage. The high-ceiling room was lit red and purple by overhead lights and the LED dancefloor was completely vacant except for a thick layer of hookah smoke and fake fog. There was a second floor I couldn’t figure out how to access, and nearby was a hookah bar with a few 30-somethings in costume sharing a single hookah. Behind the bar was a rack of Hookahs to choose from with glow sticks and Halloween decorations hanging above and around them. 

     I leaned right into Mike’s ear and shouted so he could hear me over the pounding music. “IS THIS REALLY IT?!

     He leaned into my ear to shout “I HOPE NOT.”

     We approached the bar and examined a menu saying that renting a hookah for an hour would cost $40. We quickly backed away in an attempt to preserve what remained of our dwindling finances.

     “WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO AROUND HERE?!”

     “I DON’T KNOW. WANNA SEE WHAT’S BACK THERE?!” Mike pointed at a doorway with a black curtain hanging over it beside the bar.

     “OKAY. WHY NOT?!”

     We shuffled through the curtain to find a backroom lit dark red with a long cracked mirror running along the side wall. Two pool tables sat atop another LED dance floor flashing reds and greens and yellows and oranges. We thought about playing a game of pool only to find most of the balls had been stolen and all of the cues were cracked, warped, or both. 

     I sighed and noticed another curtain in the back with an inkjet printed sign beside it proclaiming in size 30 italicized Times New Roman “NO GUYS!” I quizzically raised an eyebrow, wondering what that could possibly mean. I leaned into Mike’s ear again.

     “HEY! I’M GONNA GO CHECK THAT OUT REAL QUICK!”

     “OKAY!”

     I walked over and began to approach the curtain when the 5’5 bouncer seemingly materialized out of thin air and stepped in between the curtain and I, extending an open palm into my chest to stop me.

     “AY! Sorry, bro. Ladies lounge. Girls only.”

     “WHAT?!”

     “Ladies lounge. Can’t go back there.”

     “NOT EVEN TO CHECK IT OUT?!”

     “Nah, bro.”

     “WHAT?”

     “NO!”

     I walked away and Mike and I passed through the black curtains back into the hookah room.

     We sat down in a dingy naugahyde booth pilfered from the grave of a 50s roadside diner adjacent to the bar. The wall above the booth was decorated with cotton spider webs and the painted heads of baby dolls dripping fake blood on the seats beside us. We were both annoyed with how the events had unfolded and couldn’t even hear each other complain about it.

     I pointed at a bathroom door and said “I’M GONNA TAKE A PISS! I WANNA SEE HOW BAD IT IS IN THERE!” Mike nodded and leaned back into the booth while I stepped into the bathroom.

     The bathroom was the size of a walk-in closet with blue walls the color of mold and a single fluorescent bulb flickering overhead with one sink, two urinals, and a single stall. One urinal was blocked by the sink, so I saddled up to the other. I then looked over at the stall door a shade of gangrenous green and thought “Huh. The stall door is awful close to--”

     WHAM! As if on cue, whoever was in there shoved the door open and it swung into me, shoving me into the urinal as the occupant walked out without washing his hands. The mess was minimal, thankfully, but I’d had enough.

     I sat down in the booth next to Mike who had cupped his hands over his ears to try and minimize the hearing damage. I leaned back in my seat and sighed. I looked over at the bar and noticed an elderly couple saddled up against it. They were dressed nicely, which was bizarre given the dingy condition of our surroundings. The older male side-eyed Mike and I, leaned to his wife, pointed at us, and mouthed “fairies.” I grabbed Mike and we left.

*****

     Having finally grown discontent with what little the bustling city offered us, we turned to Mother Nature as a source of entertainment. 

     Mike scarfed down a pot brownie as I drove into the desert by the Atrisco Reservoir where we could be free from the light pollution. I found a particularly hilly area with a trail guided by dead brush and sand the color of ivory. I killed the headlights, leaving us in pitch blackness save for the overhead glow of a half-eaten moon in the sky, and cranked the Hawkwind album “Space Ritual” on my stereo as Mike leaned back in his seat to absorb the music.

     The album buzzed and moaned to life with a swirling flurry of guitars crying above the pounding bass as the machine-gun clatter of the snare drum shot Mike right out of his mind and into the stars. He turned and hummed to the music while laid back in his seat in a state of pure and unadulterated bliss while my car rocked gently over the sandy hills like a gas-powered kayak gliding along a dust-laden creek. 

     Fifteen minutes later, I turned the radio down and pulled over. “How is it?”

     “Fuck, man. I feel like I’m lost in space. I’ve been launched from an escape pod as a mission’s gone wrong and I’m drifting endlessly through the stars to an unknown destination.”

     “Dude, nice.”

*****

     One night, Mike was telling me about a friend of his named James that he’d met in middle school and kept in touch with occasionally, but since neither of them had cars going into their adolescence, they were at the mercy of rides from friends and that gradually cut down on how often they saw each other over the years. 

     He told me that James’ father was a lawyer and his mother was a realtor, raising him in a strict upper-class household that enforced good grades and mandated he attend law school when the time came, even if he wouldn’t be any good at it or didn’t want to. Any defiance on his end would result in a grounding, and in the one act of rebellion he could get away with, he insisted his friends call him Jimmy. 

     Mike buttoned that by saying he hadn’t seen Jimmy in a while and swiftly realized that since I had a car, gas money, and as much free time as the two of them, I could be the missing link in getting these two in a room together again.

     An hour later, we parked against the curb outside Jimmy’s three-story family home made with white bricks, white marble columns, and solar panels affixed to the shingled roof evoking the look of a modern industrial farmhouse. A luscious array of exotic plants and trees were meticulously stationed in the front yard to hide the house from public view. Mike texted Jimmy that we were here, summoning him through the tall red wooden front door in a dash past the trees and into the backseat of my car. He was about 5’6 with a stocky build, wearing professional-looking glasses upon a soft face with a clean haircut that screamed “white collar grooming policy” with ironed jeans, a pair of well-maintained Nikes, and a Star Wars t-shirt beneath a windbreaker. As soon as Jimmy got his seatbelt on, Mike gave him a potent edible while I began to head deep into the desert, waiting for it to take hold of the poor boy. 

     By the time we reached the Atrisco Reservoir, Jimmy had begun to melt into the backseat. I slid a CD into the stereo and cranked the volume. I turned to face him in the backseat and asked “Hey, Jimbo. Wanna hear something cool?” I skipped forward in the tracklist to “Machine Gun” by Jimi Hendrix and the Band of Gypsys and began to glide the car along the hills like I usually did with Mike. 

     I observed Jimmy via the rearview mirror as he swayed and moaned to the music, completely entranced by Hendrix’s guitar solo sounding like the screams of innocent civilians being gunned down as helicopters flew overhead and machine guns ripped lives from bodies and limbs from limbs. We had squee-gee’d that third eye right open and Jimmy remained nigh-speechless as I played the rest of the album and anything else I thought might enhance his mood in the time it took him to sober up enough to take him home without raising his parents’ suspicions.

*****

     A week later, when we realized that Jimmy was 21 years old while Mike and I were only 20, we pulled up to the Smith’s off Paseo and Wyoming in the classy part of town where we wouldn’t get recognized at about 10:30. I reached into the backseat where Jimmy sat bemused and handed him a twenty dollar bill.

     “All right, Jimmy. Your mission is simple: I need you to go in and retrieve a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Just a standard-sized bottle will do. While you’re doing that, Mike and I are gonna get a 12-pack of Coke. If you get the Jack, you get to keep the change and whatever we don’t drink. Deal?”

     Jimmy shook his head with intense focus like I was sending him to fight for our country before he stepped out of the car and marched inside the store. Mike and I waited five minutes and then entered the store well after him to complete our own task.

     I strolled casually through the decently maintained store with earthy walls and shiny tiled floors to the soda aisle as Mike followed behind me, looking around anxiously as if we had contraband on our persons. I examined our options as Mike leaned into my ear and spoke with a panicked whisper. “Jesus, man. We’re gonna get caught.”

     “We’re not gonna get caught.”

     “This is too obvious!”

     “We’re just buying sodas, man. College kids buy soda all the time.”

     I grabbed the red cardboard sleeve of sodas and headed for the self checkouts. Mike followed behind me trying to keep cool, but he kept looking around in the corner of his eye for anyone who might be onto us. 

     We got in line outside the enclosure of self-checkouts and mossied up to one of the machines when it became available. As I went through the menus and paid for the sodas, an armed security guard stationed where the enclosure funneled into the building’s exit stared at us with a raised eyebrow, the bemused gaze predominantly fixed on me. Mike tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the guard to direct my attention to him and I turned to see he was approaching us.

     “Excuse me!”

     I turned to face him. “Good evening, officer! Is there something wrong?”

     “What’s that on your shirt?” The guard pointed at my t-shirt.

     I looked down to see that I was wearing my Bad Religion t-shirt adorned with a mural of Jesus Christ wielding an AK-47 as U.S. Marines invaded a suburban neighborhood. I laughed and held out the breast of the shirt so he could better see the logo. “Bad Religion, man!”

     The guard smiled. “I THOUGHT that’s what that was! I saw them at the El Rey.”

     “Shit, me too! I probably moshed into you at some point.”

     The guard chuckled and headed back to his post. “You guys take it easy.”

     “You too, man!” I grabbed the receipt and the red box of Cokes and we walked back to the car, Mike hyperventilating as he followed behind me. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, he knew, he knew, we were almost caught…”

     We approached my car in the parking lot to find Jimmy patiently leaning against the rear driver’s side door while holding a paper sack in his arms. “Hey. I got the Jack Daniels for you. It was in a locked cabinet and I had to get a worker to open it for me.”

     “Hey, no worries, man. You ever listen to Suicide? I wanna show you a song called Frankie Teardrop.”

*****

     Every Friday night for about a month straight, we’d go pick up Jimmy from his family mansion and either feast off the value menu at Denny’s, send him into Smith’s for a booze run, or spend a few hours at a late-nite gaming cafe called Golden Gun Gaming (may it rest in peace) to compete in whatever game we could rent for an hour with our collective pocket change.

     That all swiftly came to an end when Jimmy’s parents found half a bottle of vodka under his bed after he’d been dropped off puking-drunk one night and forbade him from ever seeing Mike and I again.

     I was sitting in Mike’s living room tuning my trusty Washburn guitar as he read that text from Jimmy aloud to me.

     “Hm.”

     Mike looked up from his phone at me. “What?”

     “Well, he left his hoodie in the backseat, so I guess we’re just gonna have to sneak around his parents to get it back to him.”

     “I don’t think we can. Jimmy said his parents are keeping an eye out for your car.”

     “Really?”

     He nodded. “They took a picture of it and your plate, too. He said they’ll call the cops on us and say you flashed a gun at them if you even drive past.”

     “Jesus. I’m not even old enough to BUY a pistol…”

     Once again, the routine of the nightlife faded away and Mike and I were left to our own devices, making fun from thin-air via the mundane. Sometimes, we’d go to the airport and park in the viewing lot to watch planes take off while blaring Slayer to disrupt the couples making out in nearby cars. Sometimes, we’d fill a bucket with water and toss lit firecrackers in it to watch the little bursts of water shoot out from the bucket accompanied by a muffled “POP!” Sometimes, we’d indulge in all-night Nicolas Cage marathons. Sometimes, Mike’d buy a weed brownie and I’d drive him around the desert while blasting Hawkwind or Jimi Hendrix over the stereo.

     And hey, sometimes we might accidentally write a song.