Ezekiel Tyrus's Blog: A Story a Week with Zeke, page 9
September 16, 2013
Subtle Melodrama reviews 'Eli,Ely.'
Eli, Ely takes place over the course of one week, but in that time Eli thinks back on past events which include lots of sex, disappointing relationships, addictions, and generally being a bit of a bastard. And that he certainly is.
http://www.subtlemelodrama.com/2013/0...
http://www.subtlemelodrama.com/2013/0...
September 10, 2013
September 4, 2013
Use to be a Tampa bouncer in Punk and Skin clubs
When I tell people that I use to work as a bouncer at punk and skin clubs in Tampa, they always freak out a little. Now I know why. Tampa is considered the most stressful city in America.
http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/major-city-...
http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/major-city-...
Stop Bashing Burning Man
I don't do Burning Man myself, not an outdoorsy person and being out there in the desert doesn't appeal to me, but I'm not down with all the Burning Man bashers. Quit hating them for being passionate about something you're not into. Seriously, how do you feel when people bash shit you're passionate about? Fucking lighten up, people.
August 29, 2013
The Only Thing I like About Christmas
The Only Thing I like About Christmas
By Ezekiel Tyrus
December 24, 2012
The only thing I like about the holidays is the Christmas song from the Peanuts Christmas Special from the 1950s.
"Christmas Time is Here," where you hear the high-pitch voices of children over a particularly moody Jazz piano.
Whenever I hear this song, I'm always moved to reflection and wonder if the sound of those kids singing is what the castrati's of yesteryear sounded like.
I enjoy Christmas if only because it means I can occasionally hear "Christmas Time is Here" on the radio.
If I am alone when that song comes on, I'll usually close my eyes, lean back and try to focus on that song, that song alone, and remember the days before I shaved, before my voice cracked, when I still believed in Santa Claus and Charlie Brown.
I'm the Prodigal Son, that's my family's nickname for me, and as an adult I've spent more time away from my family on Christmas or any other time of the year.
The year 2006 was the first time in over a decade I did not have to work on Christmas or that I was living anywhere near my family.
In the mid-2000s, I moved back to my native Central Florida.
At my Grandma's trailer on the 24th of December, (yes, you read correctly, At my Grandma's trailer, -now quit you damn smirking,) which is where my entire family has gone every year on Christmas Eve to celebrate and that year, my first in over 10 years, none of my siblings bothered to show up.
I reconnected with various cousins and aunts and uncles who laughed at the jokes I made at the expense of various men and women who had once been married into our family.
When I said, "There's nothing inappropriate about this, is there? It's okay to make fun of people who use to be married into our family, isn't it?"
My Mom said to my cousin Karla, "I don't know if it is appropriate or not but there's plenty of material in this family."
Then the two of them proceeded to make snide comments about their ex-husbands, the fathers of their kids.
I left my Granny's place at around 9 and drove to a bar I knew would be open on Christmas Eve and this being Sunday, I knew who was going to be working.
The bartender was named Lynnette and she and I were occasional lovers, friends with benefits.
This arrangement was made and agreed upon by ourselves, first proposed while I was inside her the first time.
We'd been flirting hard since day-one.
It was her dimples, her ample body and her large brown eyes that I adored and the fact she made a kicking stiff cocktail was nice, too.
On an especially slow night, Lynnette kept me there with a free round, then another free round and another and before you knew it, I was the only guy there as she and her co-workers were closing up the place.
We ran out the back door as the automated alarm system was coming on and me being too drunk to drive, Lynette took me in her jeep to a beachside condo she called home.
Athletic, graceful, joyous and comfortable like we had known each other a long time, the sex was great, definitely worth bragging about and as we were having sex a second time, her enthusiasm made me think, Wow, this is so good. I don't want this to be the only time, so I asked, "Hey, Lynnette. Do you wanna have a 'friends with benefits' -type of thing? I mean, would you like to do this on a regular basis?"
"YES! YES! OH MY GOD! YES!"
I assumed she was answering my question.
Why did I not ask her if she wanted to date me?
If she was interested in being my girlfriend?
Because the very first night I met her she told me she had a fiance' living in Montreal who she had met back when she lived in Burlington, Vermont.
She was in Florida to enjoy hot weather while living in a rent-free condo her mother had inherited from her mother-in-law.
She loved her fiance' though they did have their differences but she DID love him, as she'd say emphatically between sex acts with me.
We had sex several more times after that, each time worth the depletions of my soul and self-respect.
Sometimes our orgasms would be in sync and Lynnette would really get into giving me oral; humming, pulling, making pop sounds, saying things like, It is so good being bad with you.
At the bar on Christmas Eve, she's there with her Montreal fiance', -an art student, I think she told me.
French-Canadians have a reputation for being good-looking and Lynnette's boy was no exception: a pensive, moody young man with dark chiseled features, impossibly dark thick hair that simply stood out of his head in small waves and curls.
He appeared to be in good shape like he worked-out but despite his handsome appearance, the young man appeared unfriendly and preoccupied like he desperately wanted to be someplace else.
He looked at me indifferently as I sat next to him at the bar.
When Lynnette saw me, her eyes bugged out of her head for a second and she started to act a little nervous, like I was going to walk up to her and give her an open-mouthed kiss or something.
Am I really that unpredictable?
The moment I walked into the bar, my intuition told me the beauty at the bar was her fiance’, and she did mention the last time I spent the night with her that he may be coming down during the holidays but Oh, well. What the fuck do I care? He doesn't know me I thought, but obviously my presence was making her nervous.
Did he know about me?
If one person at the bar said my name out loud would he know who I was?
What would her Canuck fiance' do about it if he did?
Oh, who the fuck cares? I could take him with ease. Not a problem, I thought but if I knew intuitively who the man was the moment I laid eyes on him, why did I choose to sit right next to him?
I sat there sipping on my Rolling Rock as she doted on her sullen fiance' who was complaining about having a ‘humid Christmas this year in fucking Florida.’
My cell phone rang.
It was Tiffany, and Tiffany wanted to know what I was doing tonight and if I'd like to come over to her house over by Lake Washington.
Tiffany and I met shortly after I first arrived back in Melbourne in April after leaving Georgia in a hurry because I thought the Athens police were after me.
(Eventually the case against me got thrown out of court but at the time, I had no way of knowing that.)
We met at a club.
She had been in a fight with her husband that left a nasty bruise on her arm.
She was going to file a restraining order against him that week but until then, she was having a ball with a beefy tattooed bald guy who was absolutely nothing like her piece-of-shit whimpy-ass husband and I was more than happy to oblige a woman's request for a 'revenge fuck' against an abusive husband.
So, we had uninhibited sex like a pair of teenagers in a public park overlooking the Melbourne Causeway at 3 oh clock in the morning.
Tiffany was beautiful and though too elegant for these surroundings, Tiffany was game and as comfortable with her body outside as if she were in her own bedroom, amused by the fact we were having sex in a park like we were in high school.
She was a married woman and a mother of two who was preparing to go through a painful divorce.
I had just moved back to town and was staying with my parents.
We chose not to exchange information.
It was just an emotional, physical, sexual need the we both were able to momentarily fulfill.
Kiss, kiss. Thank you. Thank you.
It was nice and something we both needed.
And of course, I used condoms.
Months later, I stumbled upon her profile on myspace.
Tiffany's a definite hottie with alabaster skin and red-hair who resembles actress Julianne Moore from movies like Far From Heaven and Boogie Nights.
We added each other to our friend list, we began to email frequently, we exchanged #s and would often call each other just to talk.
Sadly, she never filed that restraining order and Tiffany was still married, trying to keep the marriage for the sake of her children; a boy and a girl, 3 and 6.
Here she was calling me on Christmas Eve, alone as her husband, -a man from a foreign country openly hostile to America and one that carries old-fashioned, borderline misogynistic views towards women, -had recently taken their two kids and himself to this particular country to see his family and it was a question-mark as to when he, if ever, was going to return.
Tiffany told me she had some vodka and cranberry juice, maybe some red wine, too. “Would you like to come over? It'd be really nice to see you again.”
She gave me directions to her place and I said I'd be there in a few and me being me, I announced to the bar that I had just been given a Christmas Eve Booty Call.
A few lonely patrons gave me a half-spirited drunken toast and Lynnette said “Congrats,” but followed with venomous eyes that told me to get out of there.
I now think he may have known all about me but simply was unable intuit I was the man who had been banging his fiancé' for the last several months.
Lynnette's handsome Canuck shrugged at me, then got off his stool to go somewhere, -probably to take a shit, when Lynnette said in a whiny, entirely unlike Lynnette voice, “I love you,” and he just waved as if swatting a gnat away from his face and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Lynnette rolled her eyes and shook her head sadly at something between the two of them.
Tiffany looked better than I remembered and I was surprised by the way she smiled and embraced me at the door, holding me for a much longer amount of time than one holds somebody who is just a friend.
She smelled nice, her skin was soft and I don't always notice shoulders but her shoulders, clearly exposed in a red tank-top, are the most beautiful shoulders I've ever seen.
Her pretty feet were naked and she wore a pair of blue sweat pants.
We laid next to each other on a futon couch in the living room and we snuggled affectionately like a genuine couple and she told me about her life, both before and during her marriage.
Tiffany's childhood and adolescence are far from the worse I've ever heard from somebody with whom I've known intimately but her life has been rough, one I wouldn't wish on anybody.
The real danger in surviving bad childhoods is that very often, regardless of the therapy and forgiveness you can acquire, these bad childhoods will manifest themselves in a lifetime of bad decision-making.
Tiffany married a man she did not love because he had money, he'd provide security, he swore he'd love her unconditionally and that he was there to take care of her; all things new to dear Tiffany's life.
He also did old fashioned dating rituals that most American boys don't do anymore; pulling a chair out for her when she was about to sit down, standing at the dinner table when she got up to use the restroom, buying roses and at the time, she found his old fashioned ideals endearing, refreshing, something she had never experienced before.
She decided these admirable qualities outweighed his temper, his controlling tendencies, the fact she didn't love him or even find him that attractive.
She solidified her bad decision by marrying the man and having two babies with him.
Interestingly enough, Tiffany told me that they always maintained separate bedrooms throughout their marriage and that he'd only gotten her off two, maybe three times during the entire time they had been together.
When they did have sex, after he'd finish, most of the time, she'd grab a dildo and pleasure herself to climax because he couldn't do it.
They'd been together for 8 years and he never even expressed an interest in giving her an orgasm and the few times he did get her off, it was all just a happy accident for her.
Now, she feared her husband may never come back with her two babies, that she may have to move to his native country just so she can be with her kids.
He had been threatening not to come back ever since the day after he arrived to his homeland.
I told her a little about my life but my troubles were nothing compared to hers.
When I was telling some anecdote, Tiffany interrupted me to say she could get drunk inside my blue eyes and we smiled and began to make-out and that was pretty much our night; sipping vodka-cranberries and making-out on the futon in Tiffany's living room.
Her neck, so long and sensitive, she purred as I kissed her there and kissing her shoulders as her body laid below mine made her do the same.
Way after midnight, we found ourselves lying on her queen-sized bed and as bad as her husband was and though we had slept together before, Tiffany said she did not want to sleep with me because she was a married woman and as bad as her husband was to her she knew he didn't cheat on her.
I reminded her that this may be the last time we ever saw each other again.
That she may move to that foreign country and this moment would be it.
I pointed out that we were attracted to one another and that I made her feel beautiful because she was beautiful and that she needed me the same way she did the very first night we met, she needed the emotional release that comes from great sex with somebody you are attracted to.
"We don't love each other but we can have great sex and you know we can."
Her flimsy tank-top had been removed already and she was lying in her gym pants on her bed and most of my clothes had been earlier discarded in her living room.
I was stripped down to my boxer-briefs and a t-shirt by the time I entered her bedroom.
Now, I proceeded to take off everything else.
Sometimes when you try to seduce a woman by getting naked first, it's the worst thing you can do.
(Her face goes into an amused panic, her legs clinch together and she reminds you that you two are not going to have sex tonight and then you're left standing there feeling like a dork, knowing she's seen you looking like a big dumb baby with a big dick and with all your might, you wish you could take back the last several seconds, wishing you just kept your pants on, gave her a kiss she could feel the next day and walk away leaving her wanting more but NO, you had to get too naked too soon and now she thinks you're a dork and her and all her girlfriends will be laughing about you tomorrow.)
Other times, getting naked works beautifully, letting her feel empowered and in control as she pulls your body on top of hers fully embracing you.
Tiffany pushed her sweats off and after rolling a condom on my cock, she encircled her entire body for mine, fully absorbing me through her, all the while telling me I'm beautiful, as I'm telling her the same, saying, "Fucking you is like wrapping my body in warm silk."
She came several times that night, each time releasing a deep emotional breathy sound that came from deep inside her heart, deep inside her soul and when I finally came a second time that night, she laughed a thoroughly delighted laugh as if years had been stripped away from her.
Tiffany appeared younger after the sex than she did before.
It was after 5 in the morning and though she had a wonderful time and “Yes, that's exactly what I needed, lover,” -I couldn't spend the night, she said, as one of her neighbors may notice my Chevy Malibu in her driveway in the morning and besides, “I am a married woman after all.”
Driving home on US-1, I felt disappointment in myself for sleeping with two women, one engaged and the other married.
I didn't feel guilt, just disappointment.
I knew better.
I could do better.
I owe it to myself.
Why did I let myself get into these situations?
Just to get laid?
I care about Tiffany but don't need her baggage in my life and even if she was divorced, ultimately, I don't think I could help her as her problems go a lot deeper than anything I could do for her.
If I met her when I was a younger man and before she hooked up with Scumbag?
Yes, we could've been perfect for each other.
I would've been a good sympathetic friend who would've turned into something more but then again, who the fuck knows?
The truth is, I have loved women with lives more traumatic and tragic than hers.
Timing is everything and had we met at a different time in our lives, we'd be together now.
I like Lynnette and would be overjoyed to have a relationship with her.
She's considerably younger than me but if she were single, it could possibly work but again, why did I let myself get dragged into this?
You knew she was engaged.
She was almost hostile towards you when you were there at the same time as her fiance’.
If she had been friendly with me, would he have been jealous?
Would he have figured out there was something between her and I?
Other times when I've been at her bar, even on the busiest nights, she made it obvious to everyone there that she and I were fucking, that I was the guy she was going home with those nights.
One story she told me that I was too drunk to witness or remember, involved me consuming whiskey and pissing off all the wrong people and when a trio of young hip-hop-loving red-necks with gym memberships began to openly speculate when would be the best moment to ambush my ass, Lynnette got into their faces and said, "You fuck with him at your own risk, he's a dangerous man but you're not going to do it here."
Those boys never touched me and I woke the next day in Lynnette's arms.
I'm too old to still get laid using the bad boy schtick but Lynnette's at the perfect age to be seduced by it.
If Lynnette were single, I'd still be nothing more than a friend with benefits.
Not about age necessarily, just maturity.
Mine as well as hers.
Who the fuck knows?
Who the fuck cares?
Of course, while I feel no guilt towards these men for fucking their women, I do acknowledge that doing so could be hazardous to my health, meaning if you ever pick up a Florida newspaper and read I was found behind a building with a bullet in my head, you'll know why.
Driving on US-1, beating myself up and feeling depressed and feeling lonely, I made a turn onto Malabar Rd.
It was dark and empty.
Inside the car, recognizing the first few seconds of "Christmas Time is Here," I pulled off the side of the road, shut off the engine and turned up the volume on my radio full blast and put my hands in my lap.
Then I cried without restraint, without being the least bit self-conscience that I was crying.
I continued to cry until the one and only Christmas song I like was over.
I turned off the radio and told myself to quit crying and I did.
I started my engine back up and drove to my Malabar studio apartment singing "Christmas Time is Here" softly, inside my head wishing all Christmas songs had a Jazz piano.
I moved back to California the following Spring.
By Ezekiel Tyrus
December 24, 2012
The only thing I like about the holidays is the Christmas song from the Peanuts Christmas Special from the 1950s.
"Christmas Time is Here," where you hear the high-pitch voices of children over a particularly moody Jazz piano.
Whenever I hear this song, I'm always moved to reflection and wonder if the sound of those kids singing is what the castrati's of yesteryear sounded like.
I enjoy Christmas if only because it means I can occasionally hear "Christmas Time is Here" on the radio.
If I am alone when that song comes on, I'll usually close my eyes, lean back and try to focus on that song, that song alone, and remember the days before I shaved, before my voice cracked, when I still believed in Santa Claus and Charlie Brown.
I'm the Prodigal Son, that's my family's nickname for me, and as an adult I've spent more time away from my family on Christmas or any other time of the year.
The year 2006 was the first time in over a decade I did not have to work on Christmas or that I was living anywhere near my family.
In the mid-2000s, I moved back to my native Central Florida.
At my Grandma's trailer on the 24th of December, (yes, you read correctly, At my Grandma's trailer, -now quit you damn smirking,) which is where my entire family has gone every year on Christmas Eve to celebrate and that year, my first in over 10 years, none of my siblings bothered to show up.
I reconnected with various cousins and aunts and uncles who laughed at the jokes I made at the expense of various men and women who had once been married into our family.
When I said, "There's nothing inappropriate about this, is there? It's okay to make fun of people who use to be married into our family, isn't it?"
My Mom said to my cousin Karla, "I don't know if it is appropriate or not but there's plenty of material in this family."
Then the two of them proceeded to make snide comments about their ex-husbands, the fathers of their kids.
I left my Granny's place at around 9 and drove to a bar I knew would be open on Christmas Eve and this being Sunday, I knew who was going to be working.
The bartender was named Lynnette and she and I were occasional lovers, friends with benefits.
This arrangement was made and agreed upon by ourselves, first proposed while I was inside her the first time.
We'd been flirting hard since day-one.
It was her dimples, her ample body and her large brown eyes that I adored and the fact she made a kicking stiff cocktail was nice, too.
On an especially slow night, Lynnette kept me there with a free round, then another free round and another and before you knew it, I was the only guy there as she and her co-workers were closing up the place.
We ran out the back door as the automated alarm system was coming on and me being too drunk to drive, Lynette took me in her jeep to a beachside condo she called home.
Athletic, graceful, joyous and comfortable like we had known each other a long time, the sex was great, definitely worth bragging about and as we were having sex a second time, her enthusiasm made me think, Wow, this is so good. I don't want this to be the only time, so I asked, "Hey, Lynnette. Do you wanna have a 'friends with benefits' -type of thing? I mean, would you like to do this on a regular basis?"
"YES! YES! OH MY GOD! YES!"
I assumed she was answering my question.
Why did I not ask her if she wanted to date me?
If she was interested in being my girlfriend?
Because the very first night I met her she told me she had a fiance' living in Montreal who she had met back when she lived in Burlington, Vermont.
She was in Florida to enjoy hot weather while living in a rent-free condo her mother had inherited from her mother-in-law.
She loved her fiance' though they did have their differences but she DID love him, as she'd say emphatically between sex acts with me.
We had sex several more times after that, each time worth the depletions of my soul and self-respect.
Sometimes our orgasms would be in sync and Lynnette would really get into giving me oral; humming, pulling, making pop sounds, saying things like, It is so good being bad with you.
At the bar on Christmas Eve, she's there with her Montreal fiance', -an art student, I think she told me.
French-Canadians have a reputation for being good-looking and Lynnette's boy was no exception: a pensive, moody young man with dark chiseled features, impossibly dark thick hair that simply stood out of his head in small waves and curls.
He appeared to be in good shape like he worked-out but despite his handsome appearance, the young man appeared unfriendly and preoccupied like he desperately wanted to be someplace else.
He looked at me indifferently as I sat next to him at the bar.
When Lynnette saw me, her eyes bugged out of her head for a second and she started to act a little nervous, like I was going to walk up to her and give her an open-mouthed kiss or something.
Am I really that unpredictable?
The moment I walked into the bar, my intuition told me the beauty at the bar was her fiance’, and she did mention the last time I spent the night with her that he may be coming down during the holidays but Oh, well. What the fuck do I care? He doesn't know me I thought, but obviously my presence was making her nervous.
Did he know about me?
If one person at the bar said my name out loud would he know who I was?
What would her Canuck fiance' do about it if he did?
Oh, who the fuck cares? I could take him with ease. Not a problem, I thought but if I knew intuitively who the man was the moment I laid eyes on him, why did I choose to sit right next to him?
I sat there sipping on my Rolling Rock as she doted on her sullen fiance' who was complaining about having a ‘humid Christmas this year in fucking Florida.’
My cell phone rang.
It was Tiffany, and Tiffany wanted to know what I was doing tonight and if I'd like to come over to her house over by Lake Washington.
Tiffany and I met shortly after I first arrived back in Melbourne in April after leaving Georgia in a hurry because I thought the Athens police were after me.
(Eventually the case against me got thrown out of court but at the time, I had no way of knowing that.)
We met at a club.
She had been in a fight with her husband that left a nasty bruise on her arm.
She was going to file a restraining order against him that week but until then, she was having a ball with a beefy tattooed bald guy who was absolutely nothing like her piece-of-shit whimpy-ass husband and I was more than happy to oblige a woman's request for a 'revenge fuck' against an abusive husband.
So, we had uninhibited sex like a pair of teenagers in a public park overlooking the Melbourne Causeway at 3 oh clock in the morning.
Tiffany was beautiful and though too elegant for these surroundings, Tiffany was game and as comfortable with her body outside as if she were in her own bedroom, amused by the fact we were having sex in a park like we were in high school.
She was a married woman and a mother of two who was preparing to go through a painful divorce.
I had just moved back to town and was staying with my parents.
We chose not to exchange information.
It was just an emotional, physical, sexual need the we both were able to momentarily fulfill.
Kiss, kiss. Thank you. Thank you.
It was nice and something we both needed.
And of course, I used condoms.
Months later, I stumbled upon her profile on myspace.
Tiffany's a definite hottie with alabaster skin and red-hair who resembles actress Julianne Moore from movies like Far From Heaven and Boogie Nights.
We added each other to our friend list, we began to email frequently, we exchanged #s and would often call each other just to talk.
Sadly, she never filed that restraining order and Tiffany was still married, trying to keep the marriage for the sake of her children; a boy and a girl, 3 and 6.
Here she was calling me on Christmas Eve, alone as her husband, -a man from a foreign country openly hostile to America and one that carries old-fashioned, borderline misogynistic views towards women, -had recently taken their two kids and himself to this particular country to see his family and it was a question-mark as to when he, if ever, was going to return.
Tiffany told me she had some vodka and cranberry juice, maybe some red wine, too. “Would you like to come over? It'd be really nice to see you again.”
She gave me directions to her place and I said I'd be there in a few and me being me, I announced to the bar that I had just been given a Christmas Eve Booty Call.
A few lonely patrons gave me a half-spirited drunken toast and Lynnette said “Congrats,” but followed with venomous eyes that told me to get out of there.
I now think he may have known all about me but simply was unable intuit I was the man who had been banging his fiancé' for the last several months.
Lynnette's handsome Canuck shrugged at me, then got off his stool to go somewhere, -probably to take a shit, when Lynnette said in a whiny, entirely unlike Lynnette voice, “I love you,” and he just waved as if swatting a gnat away from his face and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Lynnette rolled her eyes and shook her head sadly at something between the two of them.
Tiffany looked better than I remembered and I was surprised by the way she smiled and embraced me at the door, holding me for a much longer amount of time than one holds somebody who is just a friend.
She smelled nice, her skin was soft and I don't always notice shoulders but her shoulders, clearly exposed in a red tank-top, are the most beautiful shoulders I've ever seen.
Her pretty feet were naked and she wore a pair of blue sweat pants.
We laid next to each other on a futon couch in the living room and we snuggled affectionately like a genuine couple and she told me about her life, both before and during her marriage.
Tiffany's childhood and adolescence are far from the worse I've ever heard from somebody with whom I've known intimately but her life has been rough, one I wouldn't wish on anybody.
The real danger in surviving bad childhoods is that very often, regardless of the therapy and forgiveness you can acquire, these bad childhoods will manifest themselves in a lifetime of bad decision-making.
Tiffany married a man she did not love because he had money, he'd provide security, he swore he'd love her unconditionally and that he was there to take care of her; all things new to dear Tiffany's life.
He also did old fashioned dating rituals that most American boys don't do anymore; pulling a chair out for her when she was about to sit down, standing at the dinner table when she got up to use the restroom, buying roses and at the time, she found his old fashioned ideals endearing, refreshing, something she had never experienced before.
She decided these admirable qualities outweighed his temper, his controlling tendencies, the fact she didn't love him or even find him that attractive.
She solidified her bad decision by marrying the man and having two babies with him.
Interestingly enough, Tiffany told me that they always maintained separate bedrooms throughout their marriage and that he'd only gotten her off two, maybe three times during the entire time they had been together.
When they did have sex, after he'd finish, most of the time, she'd grab a dildo and pleasure herself to climax because he couldn't do it.
They'd been together for 8 years and he never even expressed an interest in giving her an orgasm and the few times he did get her off, it was all just a happy accident for her.
Now, she feared her husband may never come back with her two babies, that she may have to move to his native country just so she can be with her kids.
He had been threatening not to come back ever since the day after he arrived to his homeland.
I told her a little about my life but my troubles were nothing compared to hers.
When I was telling some anecdote, Tiffany interrupted me to say she could get drunk inside my blue eyes and we smiled and began to make-out and that was pretty much our night; sipping vodka-cranberries and making-out on the futon in Tiffany's living room.
Her neck, so long and sensitive, she purred as I kissed her there and kissing her shoulders as her body laid below mine made her do the same.
Way after midnight, we found ourselves lying on her queen-sized bed and as bad as her husband was and though we had slept together before, Tiffany said she did not want to sleep with me because she was a married woman and as bad as her husband was to her she knew he didn't cheat on her.
I reminded her that this may be the last time we ever saw each other again.
That she may move to that foreign country and this moment would be it.
I pointed out that we were attracted to one another and that I made her feel beautiful because she was beautiful and that she needed me the same way she did the very first night we met, she needed the emotional release that comes from great sex with somebody you are attracted to.
"We don't love each other but we can have great sex and you know we can."
Her flimsy tank-top had been removed already and she was lying in her gym pants on her bed and most of my clothes had been earlier discarded in her living room.
I was stripped down to my boxer-briefs and a t-shirt by the time I entered her bedroom.
Now, I proceeded to take off everything else.
Sometimes when you try to seduce a woman by getting naked first, it's the worst thing you can do.
(Her face goes into an amused panic, her legs clinch together and she reminds you that you two are not going to have sex tonight and then you're left standing there feeling like a dork, knowing she's seen you looking like a big dumb baby with a big dick and with all your might, you wish you could take back the last several seconds, wishing you just kept your pants on, gave her a kiss she could feel the next day and walk away leaving her wanting more but NO, you had to get too naked too soon and now she thinks you're a dork and her and all her girlfriends will be laughing about you tomorrow.)
Other times, getting naked works beautifully, letting her feel empowered and in control as she pulls your body on top of hers fully embracing you.
Tiffany pushed her sweats off and after rolling a condom on my cock, she encircled her entire body for mine, fully absorbing me through her, all the while telling me I'm beautiful, as I'm telling her the same, saying, "Fucking you is like wrapping my body in warm silk."
She came several times that night, each time releasing a deep emotional breathy sound that came from deep inside her heart, deep inside her soul and when I finally came a second time that night, she laughed a thoroughly delighted laugh as if years had been stripped away from her.
Tiffany appeared younger after the sex than she did before.
It was after 5 in the morning and though she had a wonderful time and “Yes, that's exactly what I needed, lover,” -I couldn't spend the night, she said, as one of her neighbors may notice my Chevy Malibu in her driveway in the morning and besides, “I am a married woman after all.”
Driving home on US-1, I felt disappointment in myself for sleeping with two women, one engaged and the other married.
I didn't feel guilt, just disappointment.
I knew better.
I could do better.
I owe it to myself.
Why did I let myself get into these situations?
Just to get laid?
I care about Tiffany but don't need her baggage in my life and even if she was divorced, ultimately, I don't think I could help her as her problems go a lot deeper than anything I could do for her.
If I met her when I was a younger man and before she hooked up with Scumbag?
Yes, we could've been perfect for each other.
I would've been a good sympathetic friend who would've turned into something more but then again, who the fuck knows?
The truth is, I have loved women with lives more traumatic and tragic than hers.
Timing is everything and had we met at a different time in our lives, we'd be together now.
I like Lynnette and would be overjoyed to have a relationship with her.
She's considerably younger than me but if she were single, it could possibly work but again, why did I let myself get dragged into this?
You knew she was engaged.
She was almost hostile towards you when you were there at the same time as her fiance’.
If she had been friendly with me, would he have been jealous?
Would he have figured out there was something between her and I?
Other times when I've been at her bar, even on the busiest nights, she made it obvious to everyone there that she and I were fucking, that I was the guy she was going home with those nights.
One story she told me that I was too drunk to witness or remember, involved me consuming whiskey and pissing off all the wrong people and when a trio of young hip-hop-loving red-necks with gym memberships began to openly speculate when would be the best moment to ambush my ass, Lynnette got into their faces and said, "You fuck with him at your own risk, he's a dangerous man but you're not going to do it here."
Those boys never touched me and I woke the next day in Lynnette's arms.
I'm too old to still get laid using the bad boy schtick but Lynnette's at the perfect age to be seduced by it.
If Lynnette were single, I'd still be nothing more than a friend with benefits.
Not about age necessarily, just maturity.
Mine as well as hers.
Who the fuck knows?
Who the fuck cares?
Of course, while I feel no guilt towards these men for fucking their women, I do acknowledge that doing so could be hazardous to my health, meaning if you ever pick up a Florida newspaper and read I was found behind a building with a bullet in my head, you'll know why.
Driving on US-1, beating myself up and feeling depressed and feeling lonely, I made a turn onto Malabar Rd.
It was dark and empty.
Inside the car, recognizing the first few seconds of "Christmas Time is Here," I pulled off the side of the road, shut off the engine and turned up the volume on my radio full blast and put my hands in my lap.
Then I cried without restraint, without being the least bit self-conscience that I was crying.
I continued to cry until the one and only Christmas song I like was over.
I turned off the radio and told myself to quit crying and I did.
I started my engine back up and drove to my Malabar studio apartment singing "Christmas Time is Here" softly, inside my head wishing all Christmas songs had a Jazz piano.
I moved back to California the following Spring.
Eulogy for an Old Prick
Eulogy for an Old Prick
By Ezekiel Tyrus
January 27, 2012
Truthfully, it is more of a tribute to an old prick but I simply thought Eulogy was a better title.
When I learned that somebody whom I hated with a passion died recently, I immediately wrote the following on my Facebook status:
"Fascinating when you find out somebody you hated w/ a passion just died. Mel Clay, San Francisco writer, actor, poet, playwright, & former neighbor of mine was one of the biggest assholes I've ever met in my life. My God, the stories I could tell about that sleaze ball scumbag. Rest in Peace, I guess but not before I tell you to go fuck yourself one last time. Seriously, Mel. (EXTENDING MIDDLE-FINGER,) I guess you won't glare at me in North Beach coffee shops anymore & there won't be anymore actresses complaining to me about your sleazy advances. The one thing that kept you from getting your ass kicked was because you were so fucking old. Now you're dead. WIth all due respect, I know you've got family and friends who are gonna miss you but I ain't one of them. Fuck off, Mel Clay. Thinking about you makes my skin crawl. (And before anybody lectures me, when I die, if you hate me, you can come to my funeral in a red dress with tap shoes for all I care.)"
The comments I got regarding this particular status update were mostly amused.
If any of my Facebook friends were taken aback by this status update, they didn't communicate it with me but then again, they are my friends.
A status update like that wasn't out of character for me.
That was pretty much Zeke being Zeke, ladies and gentleman but something interesting started to happen.
I found this asshole's life and death were never too far away from my thoughts.
I no longer live in North Beach but every day that I ever walk into that wonderful neighborhood, I saw Mel Clay, without fail, usually hanging out at one of the coffee shops on Columbus, always scowling at me if we ever made eye contact.
Sometimes his scowls pissed me off and other times they made me laugh but I never went a day in North Beach without seeing him.
Ever.
He died towards the end of September, 2011.
This past Tuesday, eating a lovely Italian dinner with my lovely Italian girlfriend, Michelle, I found myself at Caffe' Puccini sitting by the window looking up and down the street expecting to see that fucking asshole in his tired threadbare thrift shop clothes and tattered leather sandles walking up the avenue, stopping to scope out my hot girlfriend, -as always, and then shooting me a nasty look.
That was Mel and he did that always but he never arrived Tuesday evening to shoot me that nasty look because now he's dead.
Dead, dead, dead, dead.
North Beach is not going to be same for me anymore.
Really.
As long as I'm in San Francisco, it'll always be my favorite neighborhood and having spent so much of my young adulthood there, it will always be my Movable Feast, but somehow, it will feel different without that prick hanging out in the North Beach coffee shops trying to look at me hard like a teenage gang-banger.
Already, I'm thinking about turning him into a character for another project and I'll detail the actual stories I have regarding this man and the time I spat in his face because I knew I couldn't hit an old man regardless of what an aggresive asshole he was being.
Seriously, I couldn't hit an old man, even when one had it coming.
But yes, I did spit in his face once and later, even he acknowledged that if he were a younger man, it would've been a fistfight.
I did write him an apology afterwards but we never became friends and the fact is, he started it and was banking on the fact that because he was elderly, I wasn't going to get physical.
But I did.
Spitting on him like that.
I couldn't help myself.
That was the problem.
(I was rather out-of-control in my mid-to-late 20s and fucking with me would've been a bad idea for anybody.)
(He was a fellow who liked to provoke people but did not always know when to stop, when he had gone too far. He didn't always respect boundaries. ...Again, if he were a younger man ...)
He was also a notorious sleaze when it came to the ladies.
Adapting a particular classic novel for the stage some time in the late 90s, an actress he was considering for a lead role was so uncomfortable by his presence and the way he kept trying to get himself invited to her apartment, that she wrote an editorial about Mel Clay and published it in a San Francisco-based theater magazine warning other actresses to stay away.
(-How do you like them apples?)
Doing research on the man to make him a character in yet-another upcoming novel I'm presently working on, I stumbled upon an online memorial page set up by some long-time friends of his.
Evidently, he had a few.
Looking at the tribute section, which only had two tributes as of 1/27/2012, I decided I'd write one despite the fact that I hated the man.
(At this time, the tribute I wrote is not on the page. It has been written but it has to be submitted to a host who may or may not deem it appropriate to be publshed. I've submitted it and to be honest, if it were me or somebody I loved, I'd be tickled if somebody wrote a similar tribute.)
But what can I say?
“I've never killed a man, but I've read many an obituary with a great deal of satisfaction.” ― Clarence Darrow
Thanks, Clarence.
Here's my tribute: (For those of you who've already read my status update, I do apologize for repeating myself but stick around, you may be surprised at the end but probably not as surprised as I was.)
"I debated leaving a comment but I decided that when I pass, I'd be okay with people expressing how they genuinely felt about me, love or hate. ...So, here goes, (a big sigh,) ...Mel Clay was one of the biggest assholes I've ever met in my life. ...I knew the man for over 15 years, a North Beach neighbor of mine. ...Once, a story too lengthy to print here, the only thing that kept me from beating his ass was his age. ...He was 65 at the time and i was a mere 24. ...The feeling was mutual as Mel hated me and it pissed me off the way he'd glare at me whenever he saw me walking around Little Italy, so I started glaring back and suddenly the hate stares he use to give me ceased. He'd still look at me nasty but all I had to do was simply look back at him and he'd stop, put his head down or look away. ...Oh, how I hated Mel Clay. ...As an actor and playwright in his 50s and 60s, he'd cast himself in lead roles written for men in their 20s and 30s. ...When he was alive, nobody that I knew who knew him had anything nice to say but I recognize he did have friends and family that evidently loved him and will miss him but the man I knew was the biggest prick in North Beach. ...Rest in Peace, Mel Clay but not before I tell you to go fuck yourself one last time. (Extends middle finger.) ...However, I do admit, I think Mel would love and appreciate this 'eulogy' as much as one from somebody who actually cared for the man. ...And I do recognize that he was ALIVE in a way that other people never get to be; a world-traveler, a poet, a playwright, a director, an actor, a screenwriter, a biographer, etc. ...A man who met and knew just about everybody worth knowing that came through San Francisco back when San Francisco was cool. ...And as much as I hated the man, I knew him well enough to know he'd enjoy hearing a tribute from somebody not sorry to see him go. (I take that back, I don't wish death upon anybody but i can't say I'll miss him because I won't.) ...And when I die, if you don't like me, you're invited to state as much at my funeral. ...Bring tap shoes, if you wish. ...And a red dress. ...The opposite of love is not hatred but rather indifference. If somebody genuinely hates you, you've elicited an emotional response. The hater has something invested in you. ...Congratulations, Mel Clay. Maybe I will miss you a little bit. ...(Lifts up a beer in a toast, drinks it.) ...(Softly, sadly.) ...Rest in peace, you old prick. ....The lessons you taught me are ...LIVE YOUR LIFE ON YOUR OWN TERMS! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE ON YOUR OWN PRINCIPLES! ...SPEAK YOUR MIND! ...REGARDLESS HOW OFFENDED SOME PEOPLE MIGHT BE!...BE YOURSELF! ...REGARDLESS WHO MIGHT NOT LIKE YOU! ...SPEAK YOUR MIND! ...REGARDLESS HOW UNPOPULAR YOUR OPINIONS MAY BE! ...CREATE ART! ...TRAVEL! ...YOU DON'T HAVE TO MELLOW WITH AGE! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE COURAGEOUSLY! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE FEARLESSLY! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE AS OVER-THE-TOP AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN! ...SO IN THE END, EVEN YOUR ENEMIES ARE GOING TO MISS YOU! ... You were never boring. ...You were never dishonest. ...Goodnight, Mr. Clay. ...Sleep forever. ...Rest in peace."
I was going to include the link for his memorial page but I think I can actually get in trouble for doing so, therefore, I will just encourage you to google - Mel Clay San Francisco.
(In a soft voice,) Rest in peace, you fucking asshole.
Mel Clay
August 4, 1932 - September 26, 2011.
By the way, my birthday is August 2nd.
-Thank you for reading.
By Ezekiel Tyrus
January 27, 2012
Truthfully, it is more of a tribute to an old prick but I simply thought Eulogy was a better title.
When I learned that somebody whom I hated with a passion died recently, I immediately wrote the following on my Facebook status:
"Fascinating when you find out somebody you hated w/ a passion just died. Mel Clay, San Francisco writer, actor, poet, playwright, & former neighbor of mine was one of the biggest assholes I've ever met in my life. My God, the stories I could tell about that sleaze ball scumbag. Rest in Peace, I guess but not before I tell you to go fuck yourself one last time. Seriously, Mel. (EXTENDING MIDDLE-FINGER,) I guess you won't glare at me in North Beach coffee shops anymore & there won't be anymore actresses complaining to me about your sleazy advances. The one thing that kept you from getting your ass kicked was because you were so fucking old. Now you're dead. WIth all due respect, I know you've got family and friends who are gonna miss you but I ain't one of them. Fuck off, Mel Clay. Thinking about you makes my skin crawl. (And before anybody lectures me, when I die, if you hate me, you can come to my funeral in a red dress with tap shoes for all I care.)"
The comments I got regarding this particular status update were mostly amused.
If any of my Facebook friends were taken aback by this status update, they didn't communicate it with me but then again, they are my friends.
A status update like that wasn't out of character for me.
That was pretty much Zeke being Zeke, ladies and gentleman but something interesting started to happen.
I found this asshole's life and death were never too far away from my thoughts.
I no longer live in North Beach but every day that I ever walk into that wonderful neighborhood, I saw Mel Clay, without fail, usually hanging out at one of the coffee shops on Columbus, always scowling at me if we ever made eye contact.
Sometimes his scowls pissed me off and other times they made me laugh but I never went a day in North Beach without seeing him.
Ever.
He died towards the end of September, 2011.
This past Tuesday, eating a lovely Italian dinner with my lovely Italian girlfriend, Michelle, I found myself at Caffe' Puccini sitting by the window looking up and down the street expecting to see that fucking asshole in his tired threadbare thrift shop clothes and tattered leather sandles walking up the avenue, stopping to scope out my hot girlfriend, -as always, and then shooting me a nasty look.
That was Mel and he did that always but he never arrived Tuesday evening to shoot me that nasty look because now he's dead.
Dead, dead, dead, dead.
North Beach is not going to be same for me anymore.
Really.
As long as I'm in San Francisco, it'll always be my favorite neighborhood and having spent so much of my young adulthood there, it will always be my Movable Feast, but somehow, it will feel different without that prick hanging out in the North Beach coffee shops trying to look at me hard like a teenage gang-banger.
Already, I'm thinking about turning him into a character for another project and I'll detail the actual stories I have regarding this man and the time I spat in his face because I knew I couldn't hit an old man regardless of what an aggresive asshole he was being.
Seriously, I couldn't hit an old man, even when one had it coming.
But yes, I did spit in his face once and later, even he acknowledged that if he were a younger man, it would've been a fistfight.
I did write him an apology afterwards but we never became friends and the fact is, he started it and was banking on the fact that because he was elderly, I wasn't going to get physical.
But I did.
Spitting on him like that.
I couldn't help myself.
That was the problem.
(I was rather out-of-control in my mid-to-late 20s and fucking with me would've been a bad idea for anybody.)
(He was a fellow who liked to provoke people but did not always know when to stop, when he had gone too far. He didn't always respect boundaries. ...Again, if he were a younger man ...)
He was also a notorious sleaze when it came to the ladies.
Adapting a particular classic novel for the stage some time in the late 90s, an actress he was considering for a lead role was so uncomfortable by his presence and the way he kept trying to get himself invited to her apartment, that she wrote an editorial about Mel Clay and published it in a San Francisco-based theater magazine warning other actresses to stay away.
(-How do you like them apples?)
Doing research on the man to make him a character in yet-another upcoming novel I'm presently working on, I stumbled upon an online memorial page set up by some long-time friends of his.
Evidently, he had a few.
Looking at the tribute section, which only had two tributes as of 1/27/2012, I decided I'd write one despite the fact that I hated the man.
(At this time, the tribute I wrote is not on the page. It has been written but it has to be submitted to a host who may or may not deem it appropriate to be publshed. I've submitted it and to be honest, if it were me or somebody I loved, I'd be tickled if somebody wrote a similar tribute.)
But what can I say?
“I've never killed a man, but I've read many an obituary with a great deal of satisfaction.” ― Clarence Darrow
Thanks, Clarence.
Here's my tribute: (For those of you who've already read my status update, I do apologize for repeating myself but stick around, you may be surprised at the end but probably not as surprised as I was.)
"I debated leaving a comment but I decided that when I pass, I'd be okay with people expressing how they genuinely felt about me, love or hate. ...So, here goes, (a big sigh,) ...Mel Clay was one of the biggest assholes I've ever met in my life. ...I knew the man for over 15 years, a North Beach neighbor of mine. ...Once, a story too lengthy to print here, the only thing that kept me from beating his ass was his age. ...He was 65 at the time and i was a mere 24. ...The feeling was mutual as Mel hated me and it pissed me off the way he'd glare at me whenever he saw me walking around Little Italy, so I started glaring back and suddenly the hate stares he use to give me ceased. He'd still look at me nasty but all I had to do was simply look back at him and he'd stop, put his head down or look away. ...Oh, how I hated Mel Clay. ...As an actor and playwright in his 50s and 60s, he'd cast himself in lead roles written for men in their 20s and 30s. ...When he was alive, nobody that I knew who knew him had anything nice to say but I recognize he did have friends and family that evidently loved him and will miss him but the man I knew was the biggest prick in North Beach. ...Rest in Peace, Mel Clay but not before I tell you to go fuck yourself one last time. (Extends middle finger.) ...However, I do admit, I think Mel would love and appreciate this 'eulogy' as much as one from somebody who actually cared for the man. ...And I do recognize that he was ALIVE in a way that other people never get to be; a world-traveler, a poet, a playwright, a director, an actor, a screenwriter, a biographer, etc. ...A man who met and knew just about everybody worth knowing that came through San Francisco back when San Francisco was cool. ...And as much as I hated the man, I knew him well enough to know he'd enjoy hearing a tribute from somebody not sorry to see him go. (I take that back, I don't wish death upon anybody but i can't say I'll miss him because I won't.) ...And when I die, if you don't like me, you're invited to state as much at my funeral. ...Bring tap shoes, if you wish. ...And a red dress. ...The opposite of love is not hatred but rather indifference. If somebody genuinely hates you, you've elicited an emotional response. The hater has something invested in you. ...Congratulations, Mel Clay. Maybe I will miss you a little bit. ...(Lifts up a beer in a toast, drinks it.) ...(Softly, sadly.) ...Rest in peace, you old prick. ....The lessons you taught me are ...LIVE YOUR LIFE ON YOUR OWN TERMS! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE ON YOUR OWN PRINCIPLES! ...SPEAK YOUR MIND! ...REGARDLESS HOW OFFENDED SOME PEOPLE MIGHT BE!...BE YOURSELF! ...REGARDLESS WHO MIGHT NOT LIKE YOU! ...SPEAK YOUR MIND! ...REGARDLESS HOW UNPOPULAR YOUR OPINIONS MAY BE! ...CREATE ART! ...TRAVEL! ...YOU DON'T HAVE TO MELLOW WITH AGE! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE COURAGEOUSLY! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE FEARLESSLY! ...LIVE YOUR LIFE AS OVER-THE-TOP AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN! ...SO IN THE END, EVEN YOUR ENEMIES ARE GOING TO MISS YOU! ... You were never boring. ...You were never dishonest. ...Goodnight, Mr. Clay. ...Sleep forever. ...Rest in peace."
I was going to include the link for his memorial page but I think I can actually get in trouble for doing so, therefore, I will just encourage you to google - Mel Clay San Francisco.
(In a soft voice,) Rest in peace, you fucking asshole.
Mel Clay
August 4, 1932 - September 26, 2011.
By the way, my birthday is August 2nd.
-Thank you for reading.
10 Things/Statements/Jokes/Actions That Have Never Made Me Laugh
10 Things/Statements/Jokes/Actions That Have Never Made Me Laugh
By Ezekiel Tyrus
October 17, 2012
1. A friend and I are having our picture taken and somebody suddenly stands behind me or my friend and holds up two fingers as if to suggest either me or my friend have flesh-colored antennas growing out of our heads, or devil horns. When is that ever funny?
2. When a co-worker, classmate, teacher, boss or even traveling companion says, "Are we having fun yet?"
3. When a co-worker, classmate, teacher, boss or customer says, "Are you working hard or hardly working?"
4. Pollack jokes. I'm not so politically correct that I'll say I've never laughed at a racist, sexist, homophobic, or even transgender joke. I'm not necessarily fond of these jokes but they have made me laugh before and under the right circumstances, they can be funny but the reason I've never laughed at a Pollack joke is because most everybody I've ever met with a Polish surname was actually quite smart, and more than a few have been pretty hot looking. I'm not Polish. (German, Irish, Welsh and some African and Native American, believe it or not, but no Polish.) Pollack jokes are just dumb-guy jokes and 99% of people I've met with Polish surnames weren't dumb and about 75% I've met have been good-looking. What's up with all the dumb ugly jokes?
5. Adam Sandler talking baby tawk. The sight of a grown man well into his 40s talking baby tawk is simply not funny. If I was 4 years old and he was my father, I might think it was funny.
6. Jerry Lewis squaling like a spastic child. When is it funny to see grown men act like scared slightly retarded children?
7. 'Star Wars' references. My Generation has got to get over these movies. References have been way overdone. It fascinates me that the oiginal cast and the filmmaker have no interest in discussing those damn movies anymore. Not all of us have seen 'Star Wars' 100 times. (I saw none of the sequels after 'Return of the Jedi.') My Generation seems to think any 'Star Wars' reference is automatically funny. I don't get it. By the time I was 13, I had no interest in a kids' sci-fi movie about muppets and light sabers and dopey dialogue. I don't see what my Generation sees in it. -Why are 'Star Wars' references funny?
8. When I'm making out with a girl at a club or party or simply kissing a woman after a romantic date and somebody says, "GET A ROOM!!!" (It's never funny. And talk about a mood killer.)
9. When I'm attending a protest, either as a participate or spectator and somebody says, "Get a job!" -What makes you think they don't have jobs? Because they're at a protest? So are you. Do you not have a job?
10. Jokes with really long set-ups. Jokes that start with lengthy stories that meander into little, cutesy punchlines that often involve puns. Senor citizens are fond of these type of jokes. None of my grandfathers made these type of jokes but I've known old fuckers who do.
By Ezekiel Tyrus
October 17, 2012
1. A friend and I are having our picture taken and somebody suddenly stands behind me or my friend and holds up two fingers as if to suggest either me or my friend have flesh-colored antennas growing out of our heads, or devil horns. When is that ever funny?
2. When a co-worker, classmate, teacher, boss or even traveling companion says, "Are we having fun yet?"
3. When a co-worker, classmate, teacher, boss or customer says, "Are you working hard or hardly working?"
4. Pollack jokes. I'm not so politically correct that I'll say I've never laughed at a racist, sexist, homophobic, or even transgender joke. I'm not necessarily fond of these jokes but they have made me laugh before and under the right circumstances, they can be funny but the reason I've never laughed at a Pollack joke is because most everybody I've ever met with a Polish surname was actually quite smart, and more than a few have been pretty hot looking. I'm not Polish. (German, Irish, Welsh and some African and Native American, believe it or not, but no Polish.) Pollack jokes are just dumb-guy jokes and 99% of people I've met with Polish surnames weren't dumb and about 75% I've met have been good-looking. What's up with all the dumb ugly jokes?
5. Adam Sandler talking baby tawk. The sight of a grown man well into his 40s talking baby tawk is simply not funny. If I was 4 years old and he was my father, I might think it was funny.
6. Jerry Lewis squaling like a spastic child. When is it funny to see grown men act like scared slightly retarded children?
7. 'Star Wars' references. My Generation has got to get over these movies. References have been way overdone. It fascinates me that the oiginal cast and the filmmaker have no interest in discussing those damn movies anymore. Not all of us have seen 'Star Wars' 100 times. (I saw none of the sequels after 'Return of the Jedi.') My Generation seems to think any 'Star Wars' reference is automatically funny. I don't get it. By the time I was 13, I had no interest in a kids' sci-fi movie about muppets and light sabers and dopey dialogue. I don't see what my Generation sees in it. -Why are 'Star Wars' references funny?
8. When I'm making out with a girl at a club or party or simply kissing a woman after a romantic date and somebody says, "GET A ROOM!!!" (It's never funny. And talk about a mood killer.)
9. When I'm attending a protest, either as a participate or spectator and somebody says, "Get a job!" -What makes you think they don't have jobs? Because they're at a protest? So are you. Do you not have a job?
10. Jokes with really long set-ups. Jokes that start with lengthy stories that meander into little, cutesy punchlines that often involve puns. Senor citizens are fond of these type of jokes. None of my grandfathers made these type of jokes but I've known old fuckers who do.
To the Local San Francisco Celebrity Who Eyeballed Me Last Night
To the Local San Francisco Celebrity Who Eyeballed Me Last Night
By Ezekiel Tyrus
February 23, 2013
I was holding my girlfriend's hand as we were on our way to Caffe' Puccini after the literary event, so-&-so's reading and 4-act play, which was enjoyabe.
On the way out, I spotted a writer I admired and stopped to tell him I was a fan of his memoir but he surprised me by saying, "Which one?"
Of course, I couldn't remember the title.
As I stood there stammering like a dumbfuck, holding my girlfriend's hand, awkwardly trying to describe the contents of a book while its author threw titles at me, I became distracted noticing some guy mean-mugging me; narrowed eyes, clinched jaw, etc.
"Who's that?" I said to myself.
Then it hit me and immediately I knew why you weren't happy to see me.
"Oh, hey, _________," I said neither too loud nor friendly, simple acknowledgement between two people who don't really like each other.
I'm certain my face began to reciprocate yours as you proceeded to look away.
"Let's go, babe," I said to Michelle, cutting off the memoirist. We never did figure out which title of his I read which is funny considering I use to own an autographed copy.
My girlfriend, a visual artist with an eye for detail, commented on the face you gave me and during an extraordinary Italian dinner, I told Michelle the entire story.
I caught you lying, dude.
Not little fibs or white lies either, nor were they mere exaggerations and half-truths all us writers, storytellers and MEN have a tendency to do. (Not every fistfight was really with a 6'5" power-lifter and not every seduction involves a hot Parisian and her sister, though that did happen to me ONCE.)
The point is, you took two historically significant events and made yourself the hero of both of them.
I shake my head at your audacity.
Unless a person was born in the 1990s, like the chick you were hanging out with that night, nobody would believe you.
We were eating dinner at Sparky's. The man I was sitting next to was our mutual friend, who despite his literary success and recognition has remained the same sweet, down-to-Earth guy he always was and he knew you were lying telling me as much a few weeks later but it seems our buddy forgave you instantly.
He looks up to you for some reason, don't ask me why, and genuinely loves you like a brother.
Your relationship with him is none of my business.
I won't critique your writing nor will I wish you any ill-will but you're naive if you thought I wouldn't judge you or use those lies to personally discredit any of your other stories.
Such are the ramifications of lying. If two stories you told me aren't true, why should I believe a third?
A few weeks later, we're having dinner again, no girls this time, just a bunch of dudes eating burritos.
You told a story about being in prison and being forced to join a boot party to participate in the beating of a convicted pedophile only to find out after his proceeding death that he wasn't really a pedophile, a case of mistaken identity. You feigned a remorseful expression and a few dudes comforted you, telling you to not hate yourself, that you did what you had to do in prison, etc.
I said nothing because I simply didn't believe you. Why should I?
Your image is of the edgy badass tough-guy writer who has been to hell and back.
It sells books and probably gets you laid.
(Tossing a grain of salt over my shoulder.)
You may have done some time. I don't know. I'm aware you were quite the drug abuser in your past and I celebrate your sobriety. I do. However, I can't believe the bulk of your stories or the badass image you've created for yourself.
A drunken brawl 10plus years ago outside a Seattle bar got me a trip to King County Jail for Assault. It happens, it doesn't impress me and it's not worth bragging about.
Shortly after our last dinner together, I dropped out of 'our' scene, not because of you or anyone else, I just went a separate way and though I've kept in casual contact with our mutual friend, you and I have not seen each other in about 4 years or so.
However, whenever your name came up around punks, drunks, poets and writers, what stories about you do you think I told?
The time you told me you were a skateboard messenger on 'Twilight Zone: The Movie' and were there when the helicopter crashed on Vic Morrow, cutting off his head and killing two children.
And the time you told me you were working as a cinematographer on the short-lived tv show 'Cover Up' and were there when Jon-Erik Hexum shot himself while playing Russian Roulette.
You were lying. If those stories are true, they didn't happen to you. Aprorpriation is still lying.
I barely knew you when you told me those stories and had not yet read any of your words.
Of course, this is how I've judged you. Can you blame me?
I can tell by the way you looked at me that it has gotten back to you that I think you're a liar.
So what.
If you want to confront me, do so. I'm not hard to find.
And if you can prove those stories belong to you, I'll publicly apologize.
Best,
Ezekiel Tyrus
2:14 AM.
2/22/2013
San Francisco
By Ezekiel Tyrus
February 23, 2013
I was holding my girlfriend's hand as we were on our way to Caffe' Puccini after the literary event, so-&-so's reading and 4-act play, which was enjoyabe.
On the way out, I spotted a writer I admired and stopped to tell him I was a fan of his memoir but he surprised me by saying, "Which one?"
Of course, I couldn't remember the title.
As I stood there stammering like a dumbfuck, holding my girlfriend's hand, awkwardly trying to describe the contents of a book while its author threw titles at me, I became distracted noticing some guy mean-mugging me; narrowed eyes, clinched jaw, etc.
"Who's that?" I said to myself.
Then it hit me and immediately I knew why you weren't happy to see me.
"Oh, hey, _________," I said neither too loud nor friendly, simple acknowledgement between two people who don't really like each other.
I'm certain my face began to reciprocate yours as you proceeded to look away.
"Let's go, babe," I said to Michelle, cutting off the memoirist. We never did figure out which title of his I read which is funny considering I use to own an autographed copy.
My girlfriend, a visual artist with an eye for detail, commented on the face you gave me and during an extraordinary Italian dinner, I told Michelle the entire story.
I caught you lying, dude.
Not little fibs or white lies either, nor were they mere exaggerations and half-truths all us writers, storytellers and MEN have a tendency to do. (Not every fistfight was really with a 6'5" power-lifter and not every seduction involves a hot Parisian and her sister, though that did happen to me ONCE.)
The point is, you took two historically significant events and made yourself the hero of both of them.
I shake my head at your audacity.
Unless a person was born in the 1990s, like the chick you were hanging out with that night, nobody would believe you.
We were eating dinner at Sparky's. The man I was sitting next to was our mutual friend, who despite his literary success and recognition has remained the same sweet, down-to-Earth guy he always was and he knew you were lying telling me as much a few weeks later but it seems our buddy forgave you instantly.
He looks up to you for some reason, don't ask me why, and genuinely loves you like a brother.
Your relationship with him is none of my business.
I won't critique your writing nor will I wish you any ill-will but you're naive if you thought I wouldn't judge you or use those lies to personally discredit any of your other stories.
Such are the ramifications of lying. If two stories you told me aren't true, why should I believe a third?
A few weeks later, we're having dinner again, no girls this time, just a bunch of dudes eating burritos.
You told a story about being in prison and being forced to join a boot party to participate in the beating of a convicted pedophile only to find out after his proceeding death that he wasn't really a pedophile, a case of mistaken identity. You feigned a remorseful expression and a few dudes comforted you, telling you to not hate yourself, that you did what you had to do in prison, etc.
I said nothing because I simply didn't believe you. Why should I?
Your image is of the edgy badass tough-guy writer who has been to hell and back.
It sells books and probably gets you laid.
(Tossing a grain of salt over my shoulder.)
You may have done some time. I don't know. I'm aware you were quite the drug abuser in your past and I celebrate your sobriety. I do. However, I can't believe the bulk of your stories or the badass image you've created for yourself.
A drunken brawl 10plus years ago outside a Seattle bar got me a trip to King County Jail for Assault. It happens, it doesn't impress me and it's not worth bragging about.
Shortly after our last dinner together, I dropped out of 'our' scene, not because of you or anyone else, I just went a separate way and though I've kept in casual contact with our mutual friend, you and I have not seen each other in about 4 years or so.
However, whenever your name came up around punks, drunks, poets and writers, what stories about you do you think I told?
The time you told me you were a skateboard messenger on 'Twilight Zone: The Movie' and were there when the helicopter crashed on Vic Morrow, cutting off his head and killing two children.
And the time you told me you were working as a cinematographer on the short-lived tv show 'Cover Up' and were there when Jon-Erik Hexum shot himself while playing Russian Roulette.
You were lying. If those stories are true, they didn't happen to you. Aprorpriation is still lying.
I barely knew you when you told me those stories and had not yet read any of your words.
Of course, this is how I've judged you. Can you blame me?
I can tell by the way you looked at me that it has gotten back to you that I think you're a liar.
So what.
If you want to confront me, do so. I'm not hard to find.
And if you can prove those stories belong to you, I'll publicly apologize.
Best,
Ezekiel Tyrus
2:14 AM.
2/22/2013
San Francisco
Why People Hate Hipsters Part 1.
Why People Hate Hipsters Part 1.
June 14, 2013
By Ezekiel Tyrus
May 16, 2013, Thursday, I got off work at The Beat Museum in North Beach and walked over to the office space that I maintain at The Sestri Hotel. While there, I received a text from dear friend, (and local celebrity; playwright, performance artist, personality) –S.K.
Basically his text told me he was in North Beach by City Lights Bookstore for the book release of 'Tales of the Cacophony Society' and wanted to know if I wanted to meet up for a quick bite, S. texted that he wasn’t going to have time for a lengthy sit-down dinner, but maybe a quick pizza slice?
I was hungry and texted him to meet me at The Loving Hut, an odd and tasty vegan restaurant that this non-vegan often craves for some strange reason. It’s run by a religious-cult that worships a short squat old Asian woman with a particularly bad blond dye job. I love it there.
After waiting about 20 minutes or so in front of the vegan Goddess worshippers, and my texts to S. going unanswered, I started to feel bad for insisting S. meet me at a restaurant. S. wanted to be at the event, not having a lengthy dinner and conversation with me. What was I thinking?
I still wanted to see S. to personally say thank you for a recent favor he did for me, and perhaps we could make a date for a future dinner.
I knew The Cacophony Society was huge and had been around along time but I had no idea the event at City Lights was going to be so crowded. Seeing this kind of turnout for a reading is awesome. Inspiring.
In front of City Lights was a scruffy young man carrying a sign that read, “GOD HATES FACTS.”
In the pizza place on the corner before you get to the famous bookstore I spotted from behind, her spiky blond hair a trademark, T., a San Francisco theater-owner I see too infrequently. I called out her name and T. turned around and smiled and gave me a deep all-consuming hug, “Hey, Zeke,you live in these neck-of-the-woods, don’t you?”
“I live here part of the week and with my girlfriend in the Tender-Nob the rest. You know, I’ve got a novel getting published in July.”
Enthusiastically, “I know. S. told me. I can’t wait to read it. S. said it’s really great.”
“Aw, thanks. Wow. Have you seen S.? I’m looking for him.”
“Oh, he’s around. I just saw him.”
“Cool.”
T. was hanging with a beautiful young woman who smiled at me warmly. We were introduced, shook hands and then I was off. I do wish I saw T. more often.
I couldn’t believe how crowded it was. Bodies were walking in and out of City Lights which was filled to capacity and walking to Vusivio’s, where the bouncer is a buddy of mine, the door wide-open like a backyard house-party with people walking back and forth between the two and forming crowds in Jack Kerouac alley and on the sidewalk. The reading inside City Lights was being filmed with a screen displayed on the side of the bookstore in the alley. Amazing.
S. is 6’3” with shaggy bright blond hair noticeable and outstanding inside a crowd. Looking for my friend in the bar, then the alley, the sidewalk and after I stood a few moments in the bookstore doorway, I turned around to go outside to look elsewhere when I got bombarded by the rudest woman I’ve met in a long, long time.
“Hey, what are you doing here? You don’t belong here. You looked totally lost like some dumb tourist, like you’re in shock. Does all this offend you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. You’re a tourist, right? What are you doing? Looking for your car?”
“You think I’m a tourist?”
She mumbled something about me being a tourist because of the expression on my face and the fact I was wearing a black jacket that had the word SAN FRANCISCO written on it.
I asked her how long she had been living in San Francisco?
She said I was too ‘mainstream-looking.’
I asked her again how long she had been in San Francisco. (Very few people are actually from San Francisco.)
“Since 1998.”
“Well, honey,” I said, “I’ve been here since 1995.”
Then she got angry, raising her voice, “So! Do you think that makes you cooler than me? I came here from Berkeley!”
“No, lady. I don’t even think like that. But it proves I’m not a fucking tourist.” I already disliked this very juvenile woman but intuition told me she knew my friend.
“I’m looking for somebody. I’m looking for S. Have you seen him?”
With laughter and disgust, Miss Charmless accused me of lying. “You don’t know S.,” more laughter, “you don’t know S. You’re too mainstream-looking.”
What the fuck does that mean?
I was wearing faded blue jeans, carpenter-style, Rockport sneakers, a black clingy jacket with SAN FRANCISCO written on the right breast, a white thermal shirt and a red knit cap on my bald head, a well-trimmed beard, my nose had been broken 3 times and looks it and there’s a noticeable scar piercing the front of my right eyebrow I got from a fistfight I started in Florida and lost.
This woman looked like a middle-aged 40something Shelly Long, the actress who played Diane Chambers on Cheers. She may have gotten her clothes at the Salvation Army for all I know. They were nondescript and neither fashionable, nor trendy. Just clothes with a wimpy sweater with buttons that some substitute teacher would wear, there was nothing about her that was stylish or attractive. She had long dirty-blond straight hair that she wore sensibly with no body or waves.
She had an unfriendly, aggressive face. Even if she had not been so rude, her looks did nothing for me. I did not find her attractive nor was she a sort I’d strike up a conversation with her at a bar.
Your average Leper has a greater fashion sense than I do but there’s no explanation as to why I was so ‘mainstream-looking’ but this boring Shelly Long-looking 40something substitute teacher was on the zeitgeist of underground culture?
I told her I was an old friend and that I owed S. a favor. She still insisted I didn’t know S., I was too ‘mainstream-looking’ and that S. wouldn’t hang with guys like me.
I told her I owed S. a favor and wanted to see him and was going to ask her one last time if she knew where he was.
Still challenging me, she wanted to know why I owed him a favor. I told her that S. had recently read an uncorrected proof of a novel I had written and gave it a blurb and though the book has since been sent to a professional editor and proofreader, S. took it upon himself to catch every typo that caught his eye, something he didn’t have to do. It was my intention to give S. a bear hug, a big thank you, and I was going to make some future dinner plans or possibly buy him a drink tonight. For the last time, did she know where he was?
She shook her head quietly.
Enter Jeff B.
As I stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the crowd inside City Lights, Jeff B., one of the managers at City Lights arrived walking his bicycle and stood in between Miss Charmless and I.
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Hey, Zeke.”
“Can you believe this crowd, man?”
Then Jeff told me he’s here on his night off because his co-workers were going to need help closing.
We shared a laugh and carefully, Jeff walked into the store carrying his bike. I had no idea where he was going to put it. There was virtually no room inside the store to stand. Crazy.
Without saying anything, I turned around to go look for you-know-who when Miss Charmless said in a girlish voice, “Wait, wait, tell me about your novel.”
I turned around, everybody is a potential sell but I don’t take shit from anybody. “Are you going to be cool? Are you going to be respectful? Are you going to be rude and bust my balls like you have been doing?”
Sweetly, “Oh, no, I’m going to be cool. Tell me about it.”
Big sigh, “Shortly after I stopped living at Theater Spanganga in the early 2000s,” she noticeably reacted when I mentioned the theater S. use to own, “I found myself in a relationship with a woman whose last name is my first name. Our friends speculated that we hooked up to say our own names during sex.” She laughed. “Now this young woman had the bad manners to break-up with me on the same day I got fired from a sales job. In the novel the protagonist’s name is Eli, E.L.I. and his girlfriend’s last name is Ely. E.L.Y. The title is 'Eli,Ely.' My full name is Ezekiel Tyrus. I think you’ll like it. There are characters loosely based on people that you know like S. K. One of the themes of the novel is living in San Francisco. There’s a Hemlock Tavern scene, a Diva’s scene, a Bondage-A-Go-Go scene where I once worked as a dancer and a Power Exchange scene where I once worked as a bouncer.”
“Oh, I use to go to Bondage A-Go-Go and The Power Exchange in the 90s.”
I said nothing but rolled my eyes and thought, “Whatever,” but also felt a need to say, “By the way, I feel I must emphasize that I’m not self-publishing. I’m being paid to publish. Not paying to publish.”
Surprised, “That makes a difference in this town.”
I hoped this was the end of our dialogue. I turned away from her, my hands in my pockets and stood on the sidewalk with my back turned towards the street, and sideways away from her, and scanned the crowd looking for my tall friend’s blond hair.
Miss Charmless stuck out her hand, “My name’s D. G.”
“Nice to meet you,” despite the fact it wasn’t nice meeting her. “You can call me Zeke.”
As I stood there, she started talking about A. B. for some reason. I have met A. a handful of times. She seems nice but I’m rather indifferent and don’t know why D. Charmless brought her up.
Did she want to know whether or not I knew the woman?
Then I decided to test her myself. Was she a writer, a performer, or just some scenester, some hipster hanger-oner?
Did she ever do any writing and performing with Popcorn Anti-Theater? She said No but she knew H. C. and genuinely loved him and supported him.
I’ve known H. for years and he’d be a hard guy to love but I kept that to myself. Instead, I casually mentioned I was one of the original performers of Popcorn Anti-Theater in the 90s.
Oh, she said, as I watched the wheels spinning in her vapid elitist brain, taking me all in, changing her opinion of who I might and might not be.
D. then suggested we walk to the alley.
I thought for a moment, …“Sure,” perhaps I’d finally see S.
It was now after 9:30 and I had not eaten since that morning. My stomach was empty and my head was gaining a starvation headache.
I was impressed by the screen in Jack Kerouac alley and the fans watching the image with various whoops and hollers, seeing people so excited for a book is a turn-on for any writer.
I don’t do fantasy novels myself but when the entire world was going ape-shit for Harry Potter, I was delighted. Anything that encourages reading is a good thing.
I then turned to the pretentious woman standing next to me. How interesting was she?
“Did you know Paul Addis?” (A notorious San Francisco performance artist who had recently taken his own life.)
Immediately she looked at me like she was going to cry. D. nodded her head slowly.
If she assumed we were going to bond over the loss of a mutual friend, she thought wrong.
“I knew Paul Addis well-enough that I didn’t like the guy.”
D. surprised me by laughing.
“Hey,” I asked, “Do you have any tattoos?”
“No but I like to look at them.”
I laughed and proceeded to take off my jacket and started rolling up my sleeves.
Altogether, I’ve got about 30 tattoos, many of them inspired by literature and almost all of them being a type of print.
Visibly surprised by my extensive ink, upon seeing Jack Kerouac’s image on my forearm, D. gave a little squeal, literally grabbing my tattoo with her fingers as if squeezing the Beat writer’s cheeks.
I told her I worked part time at The Beat Museum. “Come by Thursday,” I said. “I’m there all day Thursday.”
Impressed, excited by all this. Delighted, even.
On my other arm, she noticed bold black text that read, Write Like Markson, and asked what that tattoo was about.
That tattoo is a personal mantra for me. It’s a reference to Post-Modern writer David Markson who is a personal idol of mine.
After explaining this to D., I asked her in a voice dripping with bitchy sarcasm that evidently she was too clueless to hear, “I’m sorry. Am I being too mainstream for you?”
“No,” she said, “but I’m beginning to think you are pretty cool despite the way you look.”
Did she really say that?
Enter some old coot.
Seconds after insulting me for what wouldn’t be the last time D. introduces me to some old coot. I didn’t know the man and I was trying so hard to keep my temper in check, I never bothered to memorize the man’s name upon introduction. He was considerably overweight. Fat. Her wore jeans with a leather belt and over-sized belt-buckle. He also had on a thick vest jacket, wide glasses, a white trimmed beard and the kind of inexpensive SF baseball caps that sell at Walgreens for 3.99.
After introductions, Miss Charmless said to the old coot, “Yeah, Zeke here is actually pretty hip though you’d never know if by looking at him.”
What the fuck? Who the fuck does she think she is?
What was so special about the way Miss Charmless and the old coot look like compared to me? There were people at this event wearing vintage suits and sporting intricate moustaches, beards and hairstyles but there was nothing extraordinary about these two. Nothing. They could’ve been a pair of boring suburban neighbors carpooling to a PTA meeting.
D. offered to give the old coot a ride home. I was now angry and starving, not a good place to be but I continued to bite my tongue and shook her hand when D. said she was going to stop by The Beat Museum some Thursday to say Hi.
I wanted to tell her to fuck-off but also wanted to understand why a woman her age would behave in such an immature, laughably pretentious manner.
The two left and I went to Chinatown and ate some Szechuan Shrimp.
When I got home that night, I located D. G. on Facebook. It wasn’t hard. We have more than 10 friends in common. I put in a friend request. She accepted within minutes. Shortly afterwards, I wrote the following:
Our interaction last night will make it into my next book. Please be honest, were you simply practising hipster discrimination, making fun of strangers, or were you flirting? I'm not here to judge you. I'd just like to know for a future project.
Best, Zeke
D. G. wrote back:
I was doing both. I find men thrill to my acerbic wit. See it worked; you are thinking of a clever way to ask me out now. D. 415-xxx-xxxx.
Horrified, I replied:
(big sigh) D., I contacted you via FB to find out what your intentions were when you started fucking with me that night. I thought you were being very rude, condescending but not very surprising or different from other dealings I've had with The Burning Man Crowd. I've never been to Burning Man for the simple fact I'm not an outdoorsy person but I've got old friends in this town (S.,) & some of my favorite people, (T.) who are passionate about Burning Man. I support them 100% and love them.
I was there to meet S. I needed to say ‘Hi, Thank you,’ give him a big grateful hug and though he was probably too occupied to run off and grab a bite, we could make arrangements later. (Seriously, he's an old friend and I owe him a favor.) It was after 8pm when you saw me and I hadn't eaten all-day and I was starving. When I walked out of City Lights, where I know most of the staff, you immediately started acting like the coolest kids at school (which is how The Burning Man crowd behaves often enough.)
You accused me of being 'too mainstream-looking,' (when there's nothing extraordinary about the way you look or dress) and of being a tourist based on my shocked-expression. (Perhaps I was looking for somebody and starving?)
When I pointed out I had lived in San Francisco longer than you, you got strangely defensive. "Does that make you cooler than me cause you've been here longer?!" No, honey. It proves I'm not a tourist. ...I don't even think that way. I'm too old. Who is cooler than who? Who gives a fuck?
You accused me of lying when I said I was looking for S.
I don't believe you were flirting. You were too surprised when I told you I was one of the original performers at Popcorn Theater. You were too surprised when I told I use to live at Theater Spanganga You were too surprised when I mentioned I've got a novel coming out and it isn't self-published. You were too surprised when I mentioned I worked PT at The Beat Museum and had two arms covered with Literary tattoos. You were too surprised when I mentioned Paul Addis and disclosed I knew him well enough that I didn't like the man. I can feel sorry for his death but he was a mentally-ill Napoleon with Delusions of Grandeur who was enabled by his friends, who once walked up to me when I was working as a bouncer somewhere, tweaking hard and weighing a solid 85 pounds, mumbled something incoherently, slapped me in my chest and then walked away flipping me off in the process. Another time he walked up to me and said, "Check this out," and bent over lifting his shirt to show me a handgun strapped to his lower back.
You were prepared to make fun of me as a mainstream, fearful tourist because that's what you perceived me to be. You are a little long in the tooth to be acting like you're still in high school. You don't know me. I've had 3 one-man shows in this town, have performed at Fringe, and have been in this town long enough that my friends and enemies include some of San Francisco's most famous and infamous.
D., I am first and foremost an artist. Being a member of a scene doesn't automatically make you an artist.
Later, you introduced me to some old coot wearing a vest jacket and the kind of inexpensive baseball caps you buy at Walgreens and said to the old man, "This is Zeke. He's pretty hip though you'd never know it by looking at him."
What the fuck, D.?
I was not impressed with your behavior or attitude at all.
What is forgivable in a teenager or a college student is really unattractive on somebody past 40.
"A clever way to ask you out?" I've had the same girlfriend for 4 years and I love her. It's common knowledge I primarily date women of color; African-American, Asian, Latinas. My current girlfriend is Japanese and Italian and though we've been going together for 4 years she's only 24 to my 41.
(Yeah, I know. I'm not opposed to dating women close to my age but I've never dated anybody older than 25.)
Michelle is an artist and more photogenic than most models and I begged my publisher to use her as a model forthe cover of my novel and they agreed. Look at my profile and check out her pictures.
Look, we can still be friends. Stop by The Beat Museum. Say Hi. Read my book. You know some of the characters portrayed in the book and know the locations well. I know you'll love the book,really, even if we never become friends.
I added you on FB because I wanted to find out why you were so aggressively dismissive and rude to me. Telling some other friends about it last night, they made me feel stupid for not just telling you to fuck off and walking away. I'm glad I spoke to you after you were being a bitch and even educating you not to judge by appearances (though you should have learned that 20plus years ago.)
We can still be friends and if we see each other again it'll be cordial and respectful.
Best, Zeke
--- After that, D. just blocked me off her friend list.
It amused me. So she can dish it out but can’t take it. Seen it once, seen it …
The entire episode epitomizes why people hate hipsters.
1. They’re mean. (She felt justified to treat me with hostile contempt because D. assumed I was a shocked-faced tourist. What if I was? Has she never been a lost tourist? Is she positive she’s never going to be one in her life? What if we all treated tourists like that? People would be afraid to travel. That’s just bullying.)
2. The adolescent desire to be the coolest kids at school. (There were moments during my encounter with D. where I felt like I had walked into an after-school special about a new kid being harassed at his new school, only the actors portraying the students were all in their 40s. It shows a lack of maturity and a lack of character.)
3. Judge by appearance and if you don’t conform to their idea of non-conformity. (This needs no explanation or example. What was interesting about my encounter with this hipster, D. G., is there was nothing interesting about her appearance. She wasn’t even good-looking nor a stylish dresser.)
4. A ridiculous sense of exclusivity. (Hipsters have convinced themselves that only they know a particular band, only they’ve read a particular book, or have attended an event, or concert, and that only they know a certain individual or artist. D. G. accused me of not knowing a particular individual who happens to be a San Francisco playwright, literally calling me a liar because only she and her exceptionally cool friends would know S., not a mainstream-looking guy like me.)
5. Confuse being a part of a scene with being an artist. (A hipster thinks having good taste in music and having a nice music collection somehow makes them a musician. An artist must create art. Otherwise, you’re just part of a scene.)
June 14, 2013
By Ezekiel Tyrus
May 16, 2013, Thursday, I got off work at The Beat Museum in North Beach and walked over to the office space that I maintain at The Sestri Hotel. While there, I received a text from dear friend, (and local celebrity; playwright, performance artist, personality) –S.K.
Basically his text told me he was in North Beach by City Lights Bookstore for the book release of 'Tales of the Cacophony Society' and wanted to know if I wanted to meet up for a quick bite, S. texted that he wasn’t going to have time for a lengthy sit-down dinner, but maybe a quick pizza slice?
I was hungry and texted him to meet me at The Loving Hut, an odd and tasty vegan restaurant that this non-vegan often craves for some strange reason. It’s run by a religious-cult that worships a short squat old Asian woman with a particularly bad blond dye job. I love it there.
After waiting about 20 minutes or so in front of the vegan Goddess worshippers, and my texts to S. going unanswered, I started to feel bad for insisting S. meet me at a restaurant. S. wanted to be at the event, not having a lengthy dinner and conversation with me. What was I thinking?
I still wanted to see S. to personally say thank you for a recent favor he did for me, and perhaps we could make a date for a future dinner.
I knew The Cacophony Society was huge and had been around along time but I had no idea the event at City Lights was going to be so crowded. Seeing this kind of turnout for a reading is awesome. Inspiring.
In front of City Lights was a scruffy young man carrying a sign that read, “GOD HATES FACTS.”
In the pizza place on the corner before you get to the famous bookstore I spotted from behind, her spiky blond hair a trademark, T., a San Francisco theater-owner I see too infrequently. I called out her name and T. turned around and smiled and gave me a deep all-consuming hug, “Hey, Zeke,you live in these neck-of-the-woods, don’t you?”
“I live here part of the week and with my girlfriend in the Tender-Nob the rest. You know, I’ve got a novel getting published in July.”
Enthusiastically, “I know. S. told me. I can’t wait to read it. S. said it’s really great.”
“Aw, thanks. Wow. Have you seen S.? I’m looking for him.”
“Oh, he’s around. I just saw him.”
“Cool.”
T. was hanging with a beautiful young woman who smiled at me warmly. We were introduced, shook hands and then I was off. I do wish I saw T. more often.
I couldn’t believe how crowded it was. Bodies were walking in and out of City Lights which was filled to capacity and walking to Vusivio’s, where the bouncer is a buddy of mine, the door wide-open like a backyard house-party with people walking back and forth between the two and forming crowds in Jack Kerouac alley and on the sidewalk. The reading inside City Lights was being filmed with a screen displayed on the side of the bookstore in the alley. Amazing.
S. is 6’3” with shaggy bright blond hair noticeable and outstanding inside a crowd. Looking for my friend in the bar, then the alley, the sidewalk and after I stood a few moments in the bookstore doorway, I turned around to go outside to look elsewhere when I got bombarded by the rudest woman I’ve met in a long, long time.
“Hey, what are you doing here? You don’t belong here. You looked totally lost like some dumb tourist, like you’re in shock. Does all this offend you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. You’re a tourist, right? What are you doing? Looking for your car?”
“You think I’m a tourist?”
She mumbled something about me being a tourist because of the expression on my face and the fact I was wearing a black jacket that had the word SAN FRANCISCO written on it.
I asked her how long she had been living in San Francisco?
She said I was too ‘mainstream-looking.’
I asked her again how long she had been in San Francisco. (Very few people are actually from San Francisco.)
“Since 1998.”
“Well, honey,” I said, “I’ve been here since 1995.”
Then she got angry, raising her voice, “So! Do you think that makes you cooler than me? I came here from Berkeley!”
“No, lady. I don’t even think like that. But it proves I’m not a fucking tourist.” I already disliked this very juvenile woman but intuition told me she knew my friend.
“I’m looking for somebody. I’m looking for S. Have you seen him?”
With laughter and disgust, Miss Charmless accused me of lying. “You don’t know S.,” more laughter, “you don’t know S. You’re too mainstream-looking.”
What the fuck does that mean?
I was wearing faded blue jeans, carpenter-style, Rockport sneakers, a black clingy jacket with SAN FRANCISCO written on the right breast, a white thermal shirt and a red knit cap on my bald head, a well-trimmed beard, my nose had been broken 3 times and looks it and there’s a noticeable scar piercing the front of my right eyebrow I got from a fistfight I started in Florida and lost.
This woman looked like a middle-aged 40something Shelly Long, the actress who played Diane Chambers on Cheers. She may have gotten her clothes at the Salvation Army for all I know. They were nondescript and neither fashionable, nor trendy. Just clothes with a wimpy sweater with buttons that some substitute teacher would wear, there was nothing about her that was stylish or attractive. She had long dirty-blond straight hair that she wore sensibly with no body or waves.
She had an unfriendly, aggressive face. Even if she had not been so rude, her looks did nothing for me. I did not find her attractive nor was she a sort I’d strike up a conversation with her at a bar.
Your average Leper has a greater fashion sense than I do but there’s no explanation as to why I was so ‘mainstream-looking’ but this boring Shelly Long-looking 40something substitute teacher was on the zeitgeist of underground culture?
I told her I was an old friend and that I owed S. a favor. She still insisted I didn’t know S., I was too ‘mainstream-looking’ and that S. wouldn’t hang with guys like me.
I told her I owed S. a favor and wanted to see him and was going to ask her one last time if she knew where he was.
Still challenging me, she wanted to know why I owed him a favor. I told her that S. had recently read an uncorrected proof of a novel I had written and gave it a blurb and though the book has since been sent to a professional editor and proofreader, S. took it upon himself to catch every typo that caught his eye, something he didn’t have to do. It was my intention to give S. a bear hug, a big thank you, and I was going to make some future dinner plans or possibly buy him a drink tonight. For the last time, did she know where he was?
She shook her head quietly.
Enter Jeff B.
As I stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the crowd inside City Lights, Jeff B., one of the managers at City Lights arrived walking his bicycle and stood in between Miss Charmless and I.
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Hey, Zeke.”
“Can you believe this crowd, man?”
Then Jeff told me he’s here on his night off because his co-workers were going to need help closing.
We shared a laugh and carefully, Jeff walked into the store carrying his bike. I had no idea where he was going to put it. There was virtually no room inside the store to stand. Crazy.
Without saying anything, I turned around to go look for you-know-who when Miss Charmless said in a girlish voice, “Wait, wait, tell me about your novel.”
I turned around, everybody is a potential sell but I don’t take shit from anybody. “Are you going to be cool? Are you going to be respectful? Are you going to be rude and bust my balls like you have been doing?”
Sweetly, “Oh, no, I’m going to be cool. Tell me about it.”
Big sigh, “Shortly after I stopped living at Theater Spanganga in the early 2000s,” she noticeably reacted when I mentioned the theater S. use to own, “I found myself in a relationship with a woman whose last name is my first name. Our friends speculated that we hooked up to say our own names during sex.” She laughed. “Now this young woman had the bad manners to break-up with me on the same day I got fired from a sales job. In the novel the protagonist’s name is Eli, E.L.I. and his girlfriend’s last name is Ely. E.L.Y. The title is 'Eli,Ely.' My full name is Ezekiel Tyrus. I think you’ll like it. There are characters loosely based on people that you know like S. K. One of the themes of the novel is living in San Francisco. There’s a Hemlock Tavern scene, a Diva’s scene, a Bondage-A-Go-Go scene where I once worked as a dancer and a Power Exchange scene where I once worked as a bouncer.”
“Oh, I use to go to Bondage A-Go-Go and The Power Exchange in the 90s.”
I said nothing but rolled my eyes and thought, “Whatever,” but also felt a need to say, “By the way, I feel I must emphasize that I’m not self-publishing. I’m being paid to publish. Not paying to publish.”
Surprised, “That makes a difference in this town.”
I hoped this was the end of our dialogue. I turned away from her, my hands in my pockets and stood on the sidewalk with my back turned towards the street, and sideways away from her, and scanned the crowd looking for my tall friend’s blond hair.
Miss Charmless stuck out her hand, “My name’s D. G.”
“Nice to meet you,” despite the fact it wasn’t nice meeting her. “You can call me Zeke.”
As I stood there, she started talking about A. B. for some reason. I have met A. a handful of times. She seems nice but I’m rather indifferent and don’t know why D. Charmless brought her up.
Did she want to know whether or not I knew the woman?
Then I decided to test her myself. Was she a writer, a performer, or just some scenester, some hipster hanger-oner?
Did she ever do any writing and performing with Popcorn Anti-Theater? She said No but she knew H. C. and genuinely loved him and supported him.
I’ve known H. for years and he’d be a hard guy to love but I kept that to myself. Instead, I casually mentioned I was one of the original performers of Popcorn Anti-Theater in the 90s.
Oh, she said, as I watched the wheels spinning in her vapid elitist brain, taking me all in, changing her opinion of who I might and might not be.
D. then suggested we walk to the alley.
I thought for a moment, …“Sure,” perhaps I’d finally see S.
It was now after 9:30 and I had not eaten since that morning. My stomach was empty and my head was gaining a starvation headache.
I was impressed by the screen in Jack Kerouac alley and the fans watching the image with various whoops and hollers, seeing people so excited for a book is a turn-on for any writer.
I don’t do fantasy novels myself but when the entire world was going ape-shit for Harry Potter, I was delighted. Anything that encourages reading is a good thing.
I then turned to the pretentious woman standing next to me. How interesting was she?
“Did you know Paul Addis?” (A notorious San Francisco performance artist who had recently taken his own life.)
Immediately she looked at me like she was going to cry. D. nodded her head slowly.
If she assumed we were going to bond over the loss of a mutual friend, she thought wrong.
“I knew Paul Addis well-enough that I didn’t like the guy.”
D. surprised me by laughing.
“Hey,” I asked, “Do you have any tattoos?”
“No but I like to look at them.”
I laughed and proceeded to take off my jacket and started rolling up my sleeves.
Altogether, I’ve got about 30 tattoos, many of them inspired by literature and almost all of them being a type of print.
Visibly surprised by my extensive ink, upon seeing Jack Kerouac’s image on my forearm, D. gave a little squeal, literally grabbing my tattoo with her fingers as if squeezing the Beat writer’s cheeks.
I told her I worked part time at The Beat Museum. “Come by Thursday,” I said. “I’m there all day Thursday.”
Impressed, excited by all this. Delighted, even.
On my other arm, she noticed bold black text that read, Write Like Markson, and asked what that tattoo was about.
That tattoo is a personal mantra for me. It’s a reference to Post-Modern writer David Markson who is a personal idol of mine.
After explaining this to D., I asked her in a voice dripping with bitchy sarcasm that evidently she was too clueless to hear, “I’m sorry. Am I being too mainstream for you?”
“No,” she said, “but I’m beginning to think you are pretty cool despite the way you look.”
Did she really say that?
Enter some old coot.
Seconds after insulting me for what wouldn’t be the last time D. introduces me to some old coot. I didn’t know the man and I was trying so hard to keep my temper in check, I never bothered to memorize the man’s name upon introduction. He was considerably overweight. Fat. Her wore jeans with a leather belt and over-sized belt-buckle. He also had on a thick vest jacket, wide glasses, a white trimmed beard and the kind of inexpensive SF baseball caps that sell at Walgreens for 3.99.
After introductions, Miss Charmless said to the old coot, “Yeah, Zeke here is actually pretty hip though you’d never know if by looking at him.”
What the fuck? Who the fuck does she think she is?
What was so special about the way Miss Charmless and the old coot look like compared to me? There were people at this event wearing vintage suits and sporting intricate moustaches, beards and hairstyles but there was nothing extraordinary about these two. Nothing. They could’ve been a pair of boring suburban neighbors carpooling to a PTA meeting.
D. offered to give the old coot a ride home. I was now angry and starving, not a good place to be but I continued to bite my tongue and shook her hand when D. said she was going to stop by The Beat Museum some Thursday to say Hi.
I wanted to tell her to fuck-off but also wanted to understand why a woman her age would behave in such an immature, laughably pretentious manner.
The two left and I went to Chinatown and ate some Szechuan Shrimp.
When I got home that night, I located D. G. on Facebook. It wasn’t hard. We have more than 10 friends in common. I put in a friend request. She accepted within minutes. Shortly afterwards, I wrote the following:
Our interaction last night will make it into my next book. Please be honest, were you simply practising hipster discrimination, making fun of strangers, or were you flirting? I'm not here to judge you. I'd just like to know for a future project.
Best, Zeke
D. G. wrote back:
I was doing both. I find men thrill to my acerbic wit. See it worked; you are thinking of a clever way to ask me out now. D. 415-xxx-xxxx.
Horrified, I replied:
(big sigh) D., I contacted you via FB to find out what your intentions were when you started fucking with me that night. I thought you were being very rude, condescending but not very surprising or different from other dealings I've had with The Burning Man Crowd. I've never been to Burning Man for the simple fact I'm not an outdoorsy person but I've got old friends in this town (S.,) & some of my favorite people, (T.) who are passionate about Burning Man. I support them 100% and love them.
I was there to meet S. I needed to say ‘Hi, Thank you,’ give him a big grateful hug and though he was probably too occupied to run off and grab a bite, we could make arrangements later. (Seriously, he's an old friend and I owe him a favor.) It was after 8pm when you saw me and I hadn't eaten all-day and I was starving. When I walked out of City Lights, where I know most of the staff, you immediately started acting like the coolest kids at school (which is how The Burning Man crowd behaves often enough.)
You accused me of being 'too mainstream-looking,' (when there's nothing extraordinary about the way you look or dress) and of being a tourist based on my shocked-expression. (Perhaps I was looking for somebody and starving?)
When I pointed out I had lived in San Francisco longer than you, you got strangely defensive. "Does that make you cooler than me cause you've been here longer?!" No, honey. It proves I'm not a tourist. ...I don't even think that way. I'm too old. Who is cooler than who? Who gives a fuck?
You accused me of lying when I said I was looking for S.
I don't believe you were flirting. You were too surprised when I told you I was one of the original performers at Popcorn Theater. You were too surprised when I told I use to live at Theater Spanganga You were too surprised when I mentioned I've got a novel coming out and it isn't self-published. You were too surprised when I mentioned I worked PT at The Beat Museum and had two arms covered with Literary tattoos. You were too surprised when I mentioned Paul Addis and disclosed I knew him well enough that I didn't like the man. I can feel sorry for his death but he was a mentally-ill Napoleon with Delusions of Grandeur who was enabled by his friends, who once walked up to me when I was working as a bouncer somewhere, tweaking hard and weighing a solid 85 pounds, mumbled something incoherently, slapped me in my chest and then walked away flipping me off in the process. Another time he walked up to me and said, "Check this out," and bent over lifting his shirt to show me a handgun strapped to his lower back.
You were prepared to make fun of me as a mainstream, fearful tourist because that's what you perceived me to be. You are a little long in the tooth to be acting like you're still in high school. You don't know me. I've had 3 one-man shows in this town, have performed at Fringe, and have been in this town long enough that my friends and enemies include some of San Francisco's most famous and infamous.
D., I am first and foremost an artist. Being a member of a scene doesn't automatically make you an artist.
Later, you introduced me to some old coot wearing a vest jacket and the kind of inexpensive baseball caps you buy at Walgreens and said to the old man, "This is Zeke. He's pretty hip though you'd never know it by looking at him."
What the fuck, D.?
I was not impressed with your behavior or attitude at all.
What is forgivable in a teenager or a college student is really unattractive on somebody past 40.
"A clever way to ask you out?" I've had the same girlfriend for 4 years and I love her. It's common knowledge I primarily date women of color; African-American, Asian, Latinas. My current girlfriend is Japanese and Italian and though we've been going together for 4 years she's only 24 to my 41.
(Yeah, I know. I'm not opposed to dating women close to my age but I've never dated anybody older than 25.)
Michelle is an artist and more photogenic than most models and I begged my publisher to use her as a model forthe cover of my novel and they agreed. Look at my profile and check out her pictures.
Look, we can still be friends. Stop by The Beat Museum. Say Hi. Read my book. You know some of the characters portrayed in the book and know the locations well. I know you'll love the book,really, even if we never become friends.
I added you on FB because I wanted to find out why you were so aggressively dismissive and rude to me. Telling some other friends about it last night, they made me feel stupid for not just telling you to fuck off and walking away. I'm glad I spoke to you after you were being a bitch and even educating you not to judge by appearances (though you should have learned that 20plus years ago.)
We can still be friends and if we see each other again it'll be cordial and respectful.
Best, Zeke
--- After that, D. just blocked me off her friend list.
It amused me. So she can dish it out but can’t take it. Seen it once, seen it …
The entire episode epitomizes why people hate hipsters.
1. They’re mean. (She felt justified to treat me with hostile contempt because D. assumed I was a shocked-faced tourist. What if I was? Has she never been a lost tourist? Is she positive she’s never going to be one in her life? What if we all treated tourists like that? People would be afraid to travel. That’s just bullying.)
2. The adolescent desire to be the coolest kids at school. (There were moments during my encounter with D. where I felt like I had walked into an after-school special about a new kid being harassed at his new school, only the actors portraying the students were all in their 40s. It shows a lack of maturity and a lack of character.)
3. Judge by appearance and if you don’t conform to their idea of non-conformity. (This needs no explanation or example. What was interesting about my encounter with this hipster, D. G., is there was nothing interesting about her appearance. She wasn’t even good-looking nor a stylish dresser.)
4. A ridiculous sense of exclusivity. (Hipsters have convinced themselves that only they know a particular band, only they’ve read a particular book, or have attended an event, or concert, and that only they know a certain individual or artist. D. G. accused me of not knowing a particular individual who happens to be a San Francisco playwright, literally calling me a liar because only she and her exceptionally cool friends would know S., not a mainstream-looking guy like me.)
5. Confuse being a part of a scene with being an artist. (A hipster thinks having good taste in music and having a nice music collection somehow makes them a musician. An artist must create art. Otherwise, you’re just part of a scene.)
My greatest virtue is my honesty
My greatest virtue is my honesty.
By Ezekiel Tyrus
A woman came into my work several days ago.
Is unsightly a worse word than ugly? Obese, bespectacled, teeth like damaged plywood, this unsightly woman may be Polynesian and possibly transgendered.
On this day, she wore a peach-colored tank top sans bra, big round brown nipples visible like cut salami.
Her looks have nothing to do with my feelings towards her. My capability for love includes all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and race, and genders, even those whose sex falls somewhere in between.
This woman came in through the front door and immediately said, “Hey, I’ve been gone for awhile! Did you miss me?!”
"No."
"No?!" Surprised by my brutal honesty, "Why not?!"
"Because you’re not a nice lady. You yell at people. You yell at me. You yell at my co-workers. Whenever I’ve offered to help you, you’ve snapped back at me. You’ve accused me of following you around when I’ve done nothing but walked past you."
"Well, perhaps I experienced karma than because I just had a heart attack and just got out of the hospital."
I said nothing and registered nothing. She could’ve told me she just had a turkey sandwich and the same expression would’ve remained on my face.
I simply didn’t care and while she probably knew I didn’t really care, she seemed genuinely hurt that I wasn’t even going to pretend.
In a challenging tone, her eyes wide open, “Are you saying I deserved that heart attack?!”
Same pokerface, “I’d never say anybody deserves a heart attack but when you treat people the way you do, you can’t expect me to give a damn.”
She smiled sadly and nodded her head.
We exchanged no more words.
She took care of her business; pulled money from the ATM, went to the pharmacy, did some shopping. Noticeably, she was nicer, more polite than usual.
When she left, the woman stopped in the doorway, looked at me thoroughly defeated, and waved.
I waved back.
Who knows if she will ever change, if there’s time or if she should even bother?
———————————-
It appears I’ve got enough material for a novel about my 5plus years working Security/Loss Prevention at a well-known drugstore chain.
-Ezekiel Tyrus. 7/3/2013
By Ezekiel Tyrus
A woman came into my work several days ago.
Is unsightly a worse word than ugly? Obese, bespectacled, teeth like damaged plywood, this unsightly woman may be Polynesian and possibly transgendered.
On this day, she wore a peach-colored tank top sans bra, big round brown nipples visible like cut salami.
Her looks have nothing to do with my feelings towards her. My capability for love includes all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and race, and genders, even those whose sex falls somewhere in between.
This woman came in through the front door and immediately said, “Hey, I’ve been gone for awhile! Did you miss me?!”
"No."
"No?!" Surprised by my brutal honesty, "Why not?!"
"Because you’re not a nice lady. You yell at people. You yell at me. You yell at my co-workers. Whenever I’ve offered to help you, you’ve snapped back at me. You’ve accused me of following you around when I’ve done nothing but walked past you."
"Well, perhaps I experienced karma than because I just had a heart attack and just got out of the hospital."
I said nothing and registered nothing. She could’ve told me she just had a turkey sandwich and the same expression would’ve remained on my face.
I simply didn’t care and while she probably knew I didn’t really care, she seemed genuinely hurt that I wasn’t even going to pretend.
In a challenging tone, her eyes wide open, “Are you saying I deserved that heart attack?!”
Same pokerface, “I’d never say anybody deserves a heart attack but when you treat people the way you do, you can’t expect me to give a damn.”
She smiled sadly and nodded her head.
We exchanged no more words.
She took care of her business; pulled money from the ATM, went to the pharmacy, did some shopping. Noticeably, she was nicer, more polite than usual.
When she left, the woman stopped in the doorway, looked at me thoroughly defeated, and waved.
I waved back.
Who knows if she will ever change, if there’s time or if she should even bother?
———————————-
It appears I’ve got enough material for a novel about my 5plus years working Security/Loss Prevention at a well-known drugstore chain.
-Ezekiel Tyrus. 7/3/2013
A Story a Week with Zeke
Writer and Performance Storyteller, Ezekiel Tyrus is here for you, to tell tales and create characters.
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