CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wouldn’t you know it. Right when I’m about to put a magick bullet into the head of a troll mage who’s resting on the side of the road near Grundlestiff Creek in the Burned-Eye Canyons, my cell phone goes off.

“God damn it!” I scream, almost knocking off my headphones. “Shit..who the fuck is calling me at a time like this?!?”

A pivotal moment when the hunter hasn’t been spotted yet. Where the prey is completely helpless and at the mercy of the best ass kicker in the world. Where I’m about to ruin someone’s day.

“Xavier?” I say to myself. Reading the caller ID.

Hello?” I say, not knowing what else to say other than the mandatory greeting.

“What is up, friend!” says an excited, Xavier through the cell phone. “Tis me! Xavier!”

I laugh a little to myself. It was good to hear from him again. “Sup, Xavier. What’s up?” I look at the computer screen. The troll mage named, Yournamehere, hasn’t seen me yet. Good. Now I can reset my traps.

“Get dressed, coz i know you’re playing the game naked. Erick’s in town. We’re gonna go to O’Neal’s.” He says.

Erick’s in town? Haven’t seen him in years. He moved back to Chicago with a wife and kid in tow. He lived here for around five years as a computer animator. He was always good at drawing and good at computers so when he decided to merge the two together, he found it to be a lucrative career move. He got a job at Pullman Games, desiging characters in console video games, some that we play, and when he got enough money together, decided to take the wife and kid back to Chicago.

Erick and, Xavier were in the same travelling theatre group. That’s how they met. That was the reason, Erick came to California. To chase after the dream of becoming an actor. And, just like a lot of immigrants to California, discovered all the ugliness that comes from Art overwhelmed by industry. Somehow, through all his misadventures in LA, he ended up in the same theatre group, Xavier was in.

They clicked immediately. Probably because of the drinking. And probably for the love of Art. But most assuredly, it was writing. Just plain old writing.

O’Neal’s was a hole in the wall, dive bar in the middle of Little Tokyo, Downtown Los Angeles, on the corner of 1st and Central. Across the street from the Japanese National Museum, down the street from Parker Center, a hop skip and a jump away from the Artists District, and next door neighbor to Skid Row.

O’Neal’s was, Xavier and, Erick’s second home. They would drink 2 dollar pints of german beer, from 10 at night to 2 in the morning, every other day. There were butcher paper tablecloths on every table and the owners and waitresses encouraged people to draw and write on them. Big, steel-colored industrial pipes hovered overhead because there was really no ceiling. O’Neals was basically two rooms separated by the bar in the smack dab in the middle. One room was several high tables. The kind that people stand at. No chairs except for the ones at the bar. This was where people socialized and met new folk. The other room was where the booths were. scattered across the room, these very, very, comfortable seats. And on every wall, a local painters art were displayed. O’Neal’s really was the Artists bar. The LA Artists who were lost in the shuffle of all things electric and plastic and televised and sensationalized. This is where they came to congregate. And unfortunately, waste away until nothing was left.

That was where, Xavier and, Erick felt at home.

Local heroes, community royalty, Los Angeles at a closer, harder, longer glance would wander in here and have a seat in the booth, Xavier and, Erick staked claim to. The corner booth.

Jeric, ex-gangbanger turned civil rights leader and international speaker, hailing from Echo Park, would be found at that booth. Omekah, the multidisciplinary artist with a thousand alter egos and a thosand pieces of clothing could be found there, too. Jaycie, in her own right, Los Angeles royalty, daughter to LAUSD educators and boards of directors within several community non-profit groups could be found at that corner booth. Anna Lisa Kristina, registered nurse, owner of three houses, two cars, and a thouroughbred, was found ocassionally sitting at that booth. Nathaniel surgeon by day, musician by night. Fernando from Texas, turned ballroom dancer. Lucien the stoned out of his mind, film-maker. Geraldina, the manager of a coffeeshop on San Pedro, who also did some mean kick-flips with her skateboard. Mai, a rhodes scholar who worked at a tattoo parlor. Topher who makes robots. Just kidding, but you know he probably could have. And, of course, little old me.

I kid you not, thousands of people with thousands of their stories walked through those doors. And at one point, has sat down at that corner booth, shared a drink, told a story, and wrote on the paper tableclothes with, Xavier and, Erick.

It was a magic time. Halcyon days again.

“Fuck…” I say to myself.

“What’s a matter, bro?” Xavier asks through the cell phone.

“I just got ganked.” I say. Looking at the computer screen and watching the troll mage dancing on my dead dwarven body.

“Damn. Sorry to hear that.” Xavier says. “Oh well. Perfect timing. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Alright…”

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