The Saturday Morning Post #12

Continuing excerpts from my novel of L.A. in Short Stories plus one Novela, here is part of Chapter 12. If you want to catch up, check out the first one here and the previous one is here. The one thing to remember is that each of the 13 short stories is narrated by a new character, and the novella is told from an omniscient point of view tying it all together. This time around, the narrator was a co-worker of Tycho Ford, who was abruptly promoted to an executive-level position in the wake of the great quake that struck L.A. Well, Riverside, but it was big enough to do damage. But let him explain why Tycho’s promotion screwed things up.

FIFTH WHEEL

Okay, I know that the universe is totally random and shit, but I couldn’t help but take the timing of this earthquake very personally, because it had totally blown my long thought-out plans out of the water and, on top of that, had cock-blocked me big time.

The afternoon it happened, in fact, was a mere couple of hours before I was going to ask the Big Question, and I was pretty sure that the answer was going to be, “Sure.” The question was, “You want to go out, and then maybe stay in?” And the target of that question was a hot and sexy coworker in my department who I got along with really well. But there was a complication to the question, because the coworker had met my girlfriend many times, and the coworker was also a dude.

He was a little younger than me, but very gay, very out, and so painfully beautiful that it was sometimes hard to look at his face. It was like staring into the Sun. He was also incredibly intelligent and funny as hell and, to be honest, he always smelled really nice. I’m not sure what shampoo or cologne he used, but he was like a walk past the toiletries department at one of our ever rarer department stores, but far enough away that it wasn’t like being punched in the throat by an atomizer.

He also knew that I was bisexual and, over the last few months, he had become my chosen sob sister as I bitched and whined about every single way my girlfriend, Mercedes, wasn’t keeping me happy. And yes, I appreciate the irony that her first name and his last name are both cars. His name is Tycho Ford. Sadly, my last name isn’t Dodge or something like that. It’s Baxter. Trivia: Baxter is the female form of the occupation baker. Yeah, English used to gender things that hard.

Speaking of that hard… that had been my perpetual state, at least mentally if not physically, whenever I’d been in Tycho’s presence, or even thought about him, for the two years he’s been here. Seriously. My number one masturbation fantasy since about July 2027 has been bending him over a sofa and slamming his ass while using his shoulders for leverage while licking the back of his neck and whatever else I can get my mouth to while I still have my dick up his ass.

And then the earth shook and it all went to shit. I lost my opportunity to ask and our schedule went into major “Gov owns yo asses now” mode, and he and I wound up assigned to different posts in the disaster area. And then, the next time I saw him was after he’d suddenly been promoted and I’d gotten a text from our regional manager, Gloria, that I was now his assistant, and that he’d picked me.

And… fuck!

See, I knew how the rules worked, and that totally changed everything. At least on the official level, although we all also knew what was going on unofficially: already established couples who hadn’t formerly been superior and report got through fine. Those of us who hadn’t established already? Well, shit. Tycho would get fired for asking, and I’d get severely disciplined for coming on to him.

Speaking of which, I don’t want to say a lot about it, but I had an unfortunate run-in with some little gay fuck in the tailoring department who says that he’s Tycho’s SO, and claims that I jizzed on a flawed suit that I returned. As if. It was goddamn mayo from a Subway sandwich, and if he tries to say otherwise, I’m going to sue his ass for slander or libel or both. And definitely defamation of character.

Bitch is just jealous, because he can see how much I love Tycho.

But, again, the rules stop me from finally revealing it, so I’m not sure what to do. In lieu of anything else, I take advantage of our unlimited TAP cards to figure out where Tycho is staying. I stay a discrete distance from him on the platform before we hop the B Line, then get into the car behind his, and discretely watch through the windows, figuring rightly that no one really pays much attention to anyone in the other cars because they’re too worried about some crazy suddenly going off in their car.

And then I start to see him and this little queer tailor boy traveling together — both ways. What? I found a park near their hotel where I can sleep and no one will question because, hey, post quake, right? A lot of people are camping out at the moment. And so it goes until the Friday ten days after the quake and I follow them home.

Only this time, instead of going all the way to the NoHo Station, they hop off at Hollywood and Vine, and I follow, and they head up Vine almost to Sunset to a club on the ground floor of a forty story Omni Hotel. The club is called NCLU, and it has the typical jet black walls around and into the entry, overly muscled Bouncers/Security, velvet ropes and long lines. Except that Tycho and his little slut walk to the head of the line and they are let in immediately. Meanwhile, I have to stand in the very long line, and it’s about ninety minutes before they finally let me in — after charging me a $40 cover and telling me that there’s two drink minimum.

Motherfuckers. I mean, I could cheap out and just wait across the street, but that would probably be the best way to get spotted, so I pony up, dictating a note into my AI. “Cut grocery budget this week, try to stretch one into two.”

Inside, the club is a well-planned mind-fuck. The walls, floor, and ceiling are jet black, and the only light comes from purple OLED tubes where the walls and ceiling meet. I go down a short hall, around a corner, and then up some stairs — which are marked in red OLEDs. The walls here also have glowing figures on them — characters from Alice in Wonderland, dicks and tits and asses and twats, and, toward the top, large green illuminated arrows with the words “EAT ME” and “DOWN THE HOLE” in them.

It’s another u-turn and then into a gigantic warehouse space at the top of a metal staircase, and the place is insane. Here there are colored OLEDs sweeping everywhere and constantly changing, artificial vape clouding the air,  and some definitely old school shit, like spinning black balls stuffed with different colored… um… portholes? And, OMG, there are even Disco Balls up there — things I remember my mother telling me existed when she was my age, but which were considered “ironically” (another thing people my mother’s age did back then), but which also, apparently, had been big with people slightly older than her and, ultimate irony, were originally popular as dance hall accessories a century ago, in the years of the Great Depression.

As I walk in here and remember my grandmother telling me that latter fact, all I can think is, “Ooh… shiny. So what shit are they distracting us from now?” And then my brain screams at me, “Forty bucks to get in and they want you to spend another thirty on drinks, dipshit.”

“Um… did they specify what kind of drinks?” I wonder.

“No,” that voice sighs, and so I go down the metal stairs into Wonderland, go to the first bar and ask, “How much is a Coke?”

“Eight bucks,” he says.

“And… water?”

“Eight bucks.”

“And… how much do they pay you an hour?”

“It’s $22.50,” he replies.

“Shit. Same non-living wage here, dude. How much do they pay per Coke?”

He just smiles at me in some sort of extreme gratitude and says, “These bottles? They pay 89 cents each.”

“Holy fucking shitballs. Okay, so… they make a fortune, you make shit?”

“Yeah. Sucks. Doesn’t it?” he says. “Who do you work for?”

“City government,” I reply, flashing my ID on instinct, and he looks like he’s going to shit his pants.

“Oh, dude, sorry. Wrong price. For a Coke, or whatever soda, you pay two bucks.”

“Um… why does my employer matter?” I ask.

“City runs this place, ma dude.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “So… bang me a Coke.” I show my city debit card, then stick it in the reader.

He charges me two dollars, so I tip him six.

“Hey. Thanks, man! Oh, hey — you didn’t know. I hope they didn’t charge you full cover.”

“They did.”

“Shit. You want me to talk to the manager — “

“No, it’s fine. Call it a donation.”

By this point, I was over it, and I was going to full on justify this as a business expense for the government. And why not? First, I had to make sure that my boss wasn’t abusing government funds or time (hint: he was not.) Second, I had to check up on our contractors, right? And if I cleared them, no harm, no foul. Right?

Okay, sure. Our particular department, the UECLA, didn’t really deal with places like this — unless you could call them houses of worship, and I’d argue that some of the guys here would — but it was all about CYA.

I grabbed my two dollar Coke and headed back up to the dance floor, taking up a position on the catwalk above it, scanning the crowd for that one familiar face. It wasn’t easy because of the constantly changing lights and moving crowds, but I eventually spotted Tycho and his little whore. They were both shirtless, jeans riding tantalizingly low, and they were grinding each other.

Mental snapshot for the fap bank, then I raced on down, figuring that, by this point, it wouldn’t be weird if I happened to bump into them. On the way down, I peeled off my T-shirt and stuffed it down the side of my jeans to match their style, and then danced my way through the crowd to where they were, taking enough time so that I’d be sweaty enough to look like I’d been dancing all night, too.

When I finally get within hailing distance of them, I realize that the two of them are dancing with a couple of really hot Hispanic guys, who are equally shirtless and sweaty, and judging by the body language, it looks like they’re all well on their way to having a foursome.

Well, fuck.

And then Tycho’s little tailor boy spots me. We lock eyes and I’m not sure what to do, but then the little bastard smiles and waves me over. Tycho notices and so do the other two guys, so I’m trapped, and I walk over to join them.

“Jimmy!” Tycho’s fuck toy gushes weirdly, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Fancy meeting you here. How are you doing?”

“Okay,” I mutter.

“In case you forgot, or I never told you, I’m Finley, by the way.” He extends his hand and I’m not sure how to take it, so I just give it a brief shake, constantly wondering, “Why the hell is he being so nice to me?”

This is the guy who accused me of jerking off on his “boyfriend’s” suit. Okay. Okay, So it wasn’t mayo from a Subway sandwich. I lied. It was my jizz. But how the hell did he know that on sight?

“I had no idea you’d show up at a place like this,” Tycho said. “Where’s Mercedes?”

“Um… we… broke up,” I lied. “She really wasn’t into all the quake overtime and having to be separate and all that.”

“Oh, right. Where did they put you up?”

“The Lexen,” I lied again. I was actually at a Holiday Inn in Hollywood, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Wow, us too, but I haven’t seen you there. You’ll have to pop up to our room some time.”

“Yeah, I should,” I said.

“Who’s your hot friend?” one of the other guys asked, and Tycho did the quick intro.

“Oh. This is Jimmy, my assistant. Jimmy, we just met these guys. Um… shit. Refresh me?”

“Adam and Tony,” the other one said.

“Right,” Tycho added. “Adam and Tony.”

“Este tipo debe llenar un sándwich con pan moreno y carne blanca,” the taller one said to the other.

“Y monta nuestras vergas toda la noche,” the other one adds.

“Tipos… hablo español,” I reply and they look at me in total shock.

“¡Mierda!” the tall one mutters.

“Pero… todavía deseas que te follemos?” the other one asks.

“Fuerte y duro, papís,” I reply. Sure, I’m usually a top, but I’m willing to make an exception sometimes, and these guys are exceptional.

“You little slut,” Tycho mutters. He smiles but then he sort of freaks. “Sorry. Sorry, no, I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that. It was encouragement, okay?”

 “I’m just impressed that you understood all that.”

“What? Dude, it’s almost 2030 in L.A. Who do you know under forty who doesn’t speak Spanish?”

“Yeah, true, I guess.”

“And… we’re okay with that comment?” he asks.

“Why would I not be?” I reply. “I am a slut…”

Image: © 2018 by the author, Vine Street looking north from Hollywood Boulevard.

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