Kaixo Texas

I’m smoking a Davidoff, watching the empty beach, and suddenly the rain stops and a rainbow appears. I have never heard waves actually crash before. All I can think to myself is, “This is bullshit.”

Davidoff reminds me why I smoke.

Even in freezing rain, La Concha bay is breathtaking. Tourists come here in the summer, it’s considered one of the world's great surfing beaches. In January, the cold kills off all the tourists. All except one, this year.

I have always enjoyed empty beaches. They are my zen gardens. I’m trying to think of why they make me so happy. Maybe it’s the same reason I like empty restaurants: there is something serene about an empty place that’s supposed to be full of people.

It’s not just a loose metaphor: a restaurant full of people means I’m working, it means I’m on stage. An empty restaurant is the place I can relax the most, more than my own apartment. When I go home I see all the chores I have neglected. When I’m in the restaurant after everyone has left, that is probably the most peaceful place I can imagine.

Maybe I never said it explicitly; maybe it was just something people could read on my face. But being on stage for a long time warps your mind. Even when we’re not in the restaurant, it is there in the back of our minds. Nagging. When you’ve forgotten about it for a split second, that is when someone walks up to you, and asks you how work is going.

I spend so much emotional capital in the course of my job, that oftentimes I’m discombobulated on my days off.  I’m unable to make real or lasting connections with the people around me. Sometimes I’m manipulating my own feelings so closely, I forget how to react to things organically.

I’m standing on the beach, which is deserted. I can hear people speaking in the distance. They’re speaking Basque (a language with no concretely known origins). It’s a beautiful language that is completely indecipherable to me. This was what I needed to regain my sanity for the long term: a date with a language barrier. I needed to disappear to a place where I can communicate in only the most basic ways.

So nice.

Days would pass where I spoke only two to three sentences. I had never spoken so little in my entire life. Talking is my job. It is a source of entertainment, a means of comfort, and a defense mechanism. I could never choose to stop talking- I had to be forced. I’m so glad I was.

The empty dining room at Rekondo.

Because I was still operating on my American eating timeframes, I ate a lot of meals in empty restaurants. I would show up at 1PM, a late lunch for me, and find out that the restaurant wasn’t even open for lunch yet. At Extebarri, Rekondo, and Elkano, I ate the majority of my meals in solitude. Other diners would begin trickling in as I was eating my mignardises. 

The empty dining room at Elkano.

One of the longest conversations I had during my entire trip was at about 5AM at La Cuchara de San Telmo, one of the best pinxto bars in the city. It’s the fever pitch of the Tamboradda, and the kitchen has long since closed, and the cooks have set up a microphone. They are singing karaoke, still in the kitchen. There’s a disco ball lighting up the bar, and its standing room only.

There’s a group of three girls and a guy staring at me. They’re speaking quietly and pointing. I suppose I stick out like a sore thumb, about a foot taller than everyone in the bar. The guy walks up and says one word, a question:

“Gay?”

I used a lot of hand gestures to communicate here. Whenever I ask for the check, I use the hand-across-the-neck gesture with “la cuenta por favor”. I decided this gesture would also work to say “not gay”. Even on the other side of the world, I’m still setting off false positives on peoples gaydar.

He’s disappointed, and one of the girls jabs him playfully, to say told you so. Two of the girls walk up to me, they’re speaking Basque, which sounds even better coming from attractive ladies. They tell a joke, and they laugh. Because I can’t tell even a fraction of what was said, I fall back on a technique: pretend to be stifling laughter, then laugh really hard. Crinkle the sides of my eyes, a real laugh. I feel like I’m performing brain surgery here, and my trick works, they seem put at ease. But now they’re asking me a question, and I still can’t understand. I decide to stand up straight, and confess in my native tongue.

“I don’t speak Basque.” I decide to throw in a “Barkatu” to show that I was at least trying.

Without missing a beat they switch to English. “Where are you from?” Boy do I feel like a loser for not being bilingual. But I’m also grateful I speak the language of globalization. The cooks are singing AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds”, and the whole bar is singing along, in English.

I have to think about this for a second. America? Texas? Houston? Houston is the ideal answer, but I turn it back a notch, “I’m from Texas.”

“Oh! You are from Texas?” She is making a hand gesture like she’s swinging a lasso, and pronouncing it Tayk-sass. I hold my right hand up in the shape of a gun and confirm, “Pow pow, bai, Texas.”

I’m still holding my right hand up, and her friend puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m terrible at flirting; I’m almost incapable of detecting it when a lady is actually flirting with me. When I think I AM being flirted with, I’m consistently wrong. It’s pretty magical. However I think that’s what’s happening here. Her hand smells like gin, and she has really pretty hazel eyes. “What are you doing here in San Sebastian?”

“Vacation! I just had dinner at Arzak, it was crazy.”

She makes a confused face, she hasn’t heard of Arzak. However, her friend has. She leans in to whisper in her ear, “It means he has money.”

I shake my head at her. Not gay, and not rich.

She still has her hand on my shoulder, “So who did you come here with?”

“By myself.”

“No girlfriend... no wife?”

“Nope. Solo.”

She cocks an eyebrow and smiles. I ask her, “What’s your name?”

“Isabelle.”

“Justin. Pleasure to meet you.”

Everything was going so well. She looks down and can see the beginning of a tattoo on my arm. She pulls the sleeve back, and while she doesn’t recognize the image, her friend does, and gasps. “Oh my god”.

 Gentlemen? When getting a tattoo of an insane warmongering icon of your homeland, ask yourself: will this scare the shit out of gorgeous women in Europe who would otherwise potentially sleep with you? Know the consequences.

If I had a decent grasp of their language, I could probably have explained that I am not a crazy person, and that the hyperbolic pride Texas has relative to the rest of the America is not unlike the pride the Basque people have relative to the rest of Spain. However, the horrifying violence of Texas independence ended almost two centuries ago. Now it's a nostalgic fridge magnet. A custom license plate.

“Concrete shoes.”

My favorite part of this song, and the whole bar knows the words.

Isabelle’s friend is whispering into her ear, this time in Basque, and I feel her grip on my shoulder rapidly loosening.

Now I remember where I saw all these logos: "The Politics of Terrorism"

A chill runs down my spine, and I think of a series of banners that I saw 30 minutes ago, and I suddenly realized, it was an ETA prisoner amnesty banner. The ETA is the face of the Basque separatist movement. The one definitively labeled as a terrorist organization by the EU and United States. The one that has claimed over 800 lives in the last 50 or so years in the name of Basque independence. The one that declared an allegedly “permanent” ceasefire only two years ago. It has not surrendered its arms or disbanded though, and has broken permanent ceasefires multiple times. 

I saw this more than once.

Suddenly, I realize, I have seen various logos for a terrorist organization at every bus stop, on every street corner, on every ancient artifact I looked upon. The dark heart of mankind is constantly on my mind, but of all the places I did not expect it to surprise me, it was during my vacation.

“Cyanide.”

Unfortunately, I can now see how these ladies might have been repulsed by my tattoo. I’m not feeling guilty about getting it put on my forearm forever, but I do feel guilt for potentially picking at an emotional scab that is barely healed, if at all. I'm reminded that the Basque people have dealt with lots of real violence in my lifetime, and I worry that my nostalgic reference to the battle for Texas independence might have hit too close to home.

It's also quite possible that they were just repulsed by the notion of Texas in general. But the initial coming out as a Texan didn't freak them out. If they thought I was a hillbilly, I imagine they would have laughed or made fun of me. Maybe they thought I was with the tea party? I'm fairly used to being looked at like what I'm saying or doing is crazy, but at a time when maybe I actually wanted to make a connection with someone, my nonsense traveled halfway around the world to meet me. I cannot help but feel like I had this coming. All I can do is laugh and shake my head at myself.

Or maybe it just scared them out of context. As my roommate rightly observed, “The come and take it flag looks like a fucking gang tattoo.” 

“TNT.”

She comes in for a hug. “Have a nice vacation.” The pained way she looked at me as we parted ways is a splinter I am still trying to dig out of my mind.

I wave at them as they leave the bar, “Agur, Isabelle.”

“DONE DIRT CHEAP.”

I come back the next day. La Cuchara de San Telmo has amazing kokoxtas, and I’m eating them in the bar, which is empty, because I’m there as soon as they open.

The bartender recognizes me now, “Kaixo, Texas.” He makes a finger-gun at me. Ha.

Against all odds, I had successfully communicated with people on the other side of the world for my first time. It was strangely refreshing, and like my interactions with most people in any language, a dark comedy of errors.

I can hear the waves crashing down the block. Once I’ve stuffed myself silly I’m going to stare at the black water for at least 30 minutes. The waves slam into the rocks with such convincing ferocity, it’s as if every drop of water in the world is acting in conjunction to climb the beach, over the sea wall, and destroy me. I am endlessly soothed by sitting on the wall, and watching the sea come at me (come and take it?).

I have to laugh to myself in the empty pinxto bar, remembering a conversation a guest and I had at the restaurant before I left:

“So you’re going on vacation to Spain? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, I’m stoked.”

He leans in close, lowering his voice, “Are you going with anyone? Like your girlfriend or wife?”

“No. I’m going by myself. I think I need it. ”

He high fives me, his eyes narrow and his grin widens. “Good for you man. Haha!” He taps me on the arm,

“Why bring sand to the beach?!”

The Sweet Truth

You need to drink more sweet wines.

Wines that contain palpable sugar levels.

You have to do this.

Maybe you associate sweet wine with dessert, with sugary indulgence. You could not be further from the truth. Sweet wine’s greatest utility lies not in desserts, but in savory foods. Really savory foods.

When I was a little kid, I would look forward to waffles on Saturday morning. My mom would toast eggo waffles and then spread butter on the waffles, still warm. She would set the waffles in front of me, and I would unleash a biblical flood of syrup on the sinful earth that was my two waffles. I think I was 6 years old on the morning that my mom and dad were both sick in bed, too tired to make me waffles, at least on the schedule I was used to. I didn’t take it personally, and I took matters into my own hands.

I got the waffles, and I got them in the toaster without burning the house down. I spread the butter right into the little nooks of the waffles. I sat down and I opened the syrup floodgates. I took a bite, and I wasn’t old enough to understand what had happened in my mouth, but I may as well have been watching galaxies being born. I saw the big bang. I watched life begin and end over and over again over such an incomprehensibly long time that numbers don’t exist to quantify its staggering longness. I saw the horror of the dark heart of man, contrasted by the ineffable joy of existence. My pupils were thrown open like the suicide doors of an expensive sports car, and I was changed forever.

I used salted butter on accident.

Without knowing it concretely, I had just experienced the magic of sweet and savory happening at the same time in my mouth. I finished the waffles with gusto, and immediately transitioned to cartoons, whacked out of my mind on sugar and an unrealized epiphany. I forgot about the sublime purity of that moment, the mathematical constant of truth that I witnessed when I was six.

Then, on a rainy day off, fifteen years later, I sat down to a pretty unassuming meal: Kung-Pao chicken from Pei Wei, and a bottle of Dr. Pauly kabinett Riesling. I had no grandiose intentions for this meal, other than to get fed, and tie on the suggestion of a buzz while I do it. The total cost of this meal was approximately seventeen dollars. I take a bite of the chicken, tasty, probably loaded with MSG but whatever. I’m chewing, and pouring myself a glass of Riesling into a rocks glass. I took a sip, and instantly, I was torn from my dining room table, through time, to that moment when I was six years old. I stood, side by side with my younger self, and we stared into the center of the universe, the nucleus of creation itself.

“Do you know what this means?”

“It means that sweet wine fucking crushes savory food.”

“You're not supposed to say that word.”

“Shut the fuck up, six year old me.”

Flash forward to my kung pao and Riesling. I’m calling my girlfriend at work, I sound panicked. “OK so you stumbled across a good wine pairing, why are you freaking out?”

“No.” I’m catching my breath. “This is bigger than good. This is the truth.”

Sweet wine and intensely savory food is a gastronomic fission reaction that to this very day threatens to extract tears from my eyes every time it is done properly. The principles of sweet and savory, applied to food and wine pairing, is the greatest good I feel like I can consume.

Sweet wine is a handful of buckshot blessed by the last preacher on earth, fired into the black molten heart of the devil.

Consider some of the most prized gems of Houston dining: Bellaire. Hillcroft. Long Point. Our ethnic cuisine is some of the best in the United States. A lot of it is loaded with spice, bursting with Capsaicin and screaming with aromatic intensity. How do you tame those dragons with wine? You do it with acid, and you do it with fucking sugar. No I will not give you a list of dishes paired with recommendations. Ok here’s one: Pichot demi-sec vouvray with the papaya salad at Vieng Thai. That’s all you get. I am asking you to roll into Himalaya, to Otilia’s, to Que Huong with a bottle of sweet white wine and just trust me. Your brain will fall out of your skull.

lightly sweet

Consult your local wine professional today on a bottle of sweet wine that will deliver a flavor experience rivaling the euphoric intensity of pure heroin, with none of the horrifying side effects. They can guide you to exactly how much sweetness you want. Rattle off the dish that its going with, and they can fine tune the recommendation.

Sweet wine is the sword made by the old blacksmith who has lived his whole life under the boot of a world governed by tyranny and evil- the very evil you intend to eviscerate with the divine perfection of his last blade.

Our precious ethnic restaurants are not the only proving grounds for sweet wine. Lock your hands around a bottle of Donnhoff Kabinett, and pay the incredibly reasonable ten-dollar corkage at Paulie’s. Order the bucatini all'amatriciana. Take a bite of this considerably spicy pasta. Chase it with the wine. Use the surplus of complimentary napkins to wipe the tears away from your face as you sob, your mind barely able to survive its brush with infinity (at a total approximate cost of like, 50 dollars, including food, wine, and corkage). Don’t forget to buy a cookie.

sweet

Or hells bells, go to Central Market. Get a bag of Utz classic potato chips, and a bottle of Paolo Sarracco moscato d’Asti. Get some good marcona almonds. Get chex mix, or whatever high end analog they sell at CM. Get pretzels. All of these, with something bubbly, sweet, and uncomplicated, will bring you to your knees. They will bring your friends and family to their knees. The earth will tremble as the world’s population falls in unison to their knees from the inescapable truth: sweet wine goes with damn near everything, and we underestimate its power daily. 

very sweet

Or if you don’t feel like a do-it-yourself religious experience, go to Underbelly. Go to the Pass and Provisions. Go to Hugo's. talk to Matt, talk to Fred, talk to Travis, and talk to Sean. Tell them you want to trip the light fantastic and they will, with your permission, hit you with the semi-truck of flavor that is sweet wine. Talk to David at Uchi. Talk to Kat at Mark’s. Talk to Adele and Mike at 13 Degrees. They will light you up. Talk to Marcus at Ibiza. Talk to any of the wine professionals in the city, and we will show you the truth that we have known for a long time.

I miss the days that the deadliest somm to ever walk a floor, Antonio Gianola (AKA The Enabler), would push my mind to the brink with Madeira and fried chicken livers. With suckling pig and Kerpen two star. If there is justice in the world, if the truth really exists, he will once again join us on the field of battle.

Sweet wine is that shiny gleaming alien assault weapon that nobody knows how to use. As they close in, and all hope is lost, it hums to life. “What are you doing?” You point it at the wall of the ship, “making an exit” and depress the trigger.

And get ready for this: sweet wine is fucking delicious by itself. That’s right. It’s healthier and more natural than soda, which you probably drink. Maybe you don’t drink sugary sodas. But I’m willing to bet you drink at least one cocktail that is sweet, just because you saw Don Draper drinking it on television. Suddenly you’ve decided you’d rather have a tough looking tom collins than be caught with a glass of gewürztraminer. You’re living a double standard, and you’re missing out. You need to get your game face on, and start spending all of your money on sweet wine immediately. You need to take out high-interest unsecured loans to buy more sweet wine. You must pull complex, daring, highly illegal heists of priceless art and sell it on the black market, to finance the sweet wine addiction I am imploring you to pick up.

In a world where certainty is illusive, we need to be reminded of what little hard truth still exists. The kernel of truth that I am gingerly placing in your hands today, dear reader, is that sweet wine is one of the most useful and relevant alcoholic beverages that mankind has ever created.

I encourage you experience the riot of joy, the cold brilliant precision, of the truth.

The Hammer: San Leonardo Gonzaga 1999

This wine was so good. It was meant for greatness.

He was always shy, quiet, introverted. But when he got a guitar in his hands, he bent the world to his will in the garages of Jackson, Mississippi. You watched a small dose of fame twist lesser musicians into blowhards who would rest on their laurels (or their parents couches) for the rest of their lives. Not this guy. He got more critical of himself the more accolades he collected. He pushed forward. You thought maybe this was going to be a happy story. The girls finally noticed him, record companies wanted to talk to him. The last thing you saw coming was drugs. You watched him waste away. You begged him to stop. To eat. To sleep. He wouldn't. That night, he started wobbling on stage at The Feenicks, and as he finished the second to last song, he pukes on stage. You knew he was drunk, but it was blood. Drunk people don't puke blood. The applause dies abruptly, people are gasping and waiting for him to collapse. But he doesn't. In slow motion you see him raise his arm to his face and wipe blood away from his mouth.

"The show isn't over."

The crowd explodes with screaming and thunderous applause. He steadies the guitar and looks at you, his eyes are watering. You know the truth. He is dying in front of you. They fire up the last song, and the whole building is shaking, he's screaming, with red teeth, into the microphone, into oblivion. You aren't sure if its real or not, but he's turning white, even as he finishes. You call 911. He throws the guitar on the ground and staggers backstage in huge exaggerated steps. You found him in the bathroom, sitting down, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The toxicology report might as well've just said, "Yes."

It was the best show anyone ever saw at The Feenicks or anywhere.

San Leonardo is a Bordeaux-style red made in Trentino, Italy. It will blow your mind with its humble brilliance- you'll drink Milwaukee's Best with it on the roof till the sun comes up. You'll bring it subway meatball subs after it plays its heart out in shitty dive bars. You'll burst into tears when the paramedics look up at you and say, "I'm so sorry." You will remember it long after it is gone.

TANGER ZEST

Tell me gang, have you heard of my friend, Tanger Zest?

Tanger has a pinstripe suit. It looks like a regular suit, but when you get really close, you can see that the stripes say "TANGER TANGER TANGER TANGER"

He didn't buy the suit. It was given to him as a gift. It would have cost ten thousand dollars. Tanger kicked the door into that nice apartment complex that that was burning down on 41st and Leewood. The fire trucks pulled up to see Tanger, holding a toddler in his jacket. "He's got mild first degree burns and needs oxygen." Tanger says, handing off the kid, wrapped in his sport coat. He walks away wordlessly as a sports car pulls up, a suited man is on a cell phone, shouting and cursing, who the fuck is this asshole, what the fuck did he do to my son. The fireman secures the oxygen mask on the little boy, and a card falls out of the jacket. Its a tag from getting the suit tailored, with his buisness card stapled to it:

DR. TANGER ZEST

REFRESHING

PUNCTUAL

PROFESSIONAL

AT YOUR SERVICE

  

"That asshole saved your son's life."

What did Tanger do? He never answered the question the same way twice. Tanger was not a doctor.

"I run a charity called Hats for Dogs. Did you know 94% of dogs don't or can't wear hats??"

"I design weapons. Cool weapons that only attractive people use. They use them and they say cool things. Just like in James Bond, but for real. They make cool noises like BIEW BIEW BIEW." 

   

"I'm a toothpaste expert. Or consultant rather. But its not just how I pay the bills, I LOVE toothpaste. I'm an avid collector of fine toothpastes. You should see my collection." This seemed like a potential truth- Tanger always smelled faintly of mint and orange.

Nothing Tanger did quite made sense. He was always one standard deviation away from sane. He would put mustard on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He ironed his clothes again after having them pressed at the drycleaner. When asked why, he would just smile and say, "I like em CRISP!" Tanger would volunteer at the local animal shelter, and give the dogs grandiose names names like Sebastiano Quintanilla (a west highland white terrier that was somehow permanently dyed neon green), Elisabeth Scheherazade (a three legged labradoodle that smelled like peanuts), and Lieutenant Dietrich Momotegi (a pitbull that was kicked out of police training for not biting people). They noticed the dogs with goofy names always got adopted. He penned a massive list of names. He put ice in his beer. He drank his orange juice piping hot. He only slept on his couch. He always carried an unshuffled deck of cards- in case anyone wanted to play, which they usually did. Half the fun, he said, was shuffling a fresh desk of cards.

Tanger was powered by some otherworldly energy that kept him going long after other people would have gotten tired or given up. Some people speculated that Tanger wasn't actually a man at all, but perhaps an angel. People that knew him better would describe him as perhaps a mischievous sub-deity. He wasn't nice to everyone, just people he felt deserved it. His favorite thing was to pester the wicked while doing something nice for someone he wanted to help. He stole happiness from the ungrateful and doled it out to those in desperate need. One time when I met him for lunch he plucked a flower from the vase of a couple on their cellphones at the table, begrudgingly celebrating something, and gave it to the woman sitting alone- a large awkward hat concealing her hair loss from chemotherapy. She asked why, Tanger said, "Why not? Ladies should get flowers all the time." She was laughing, as he moonwalked away. The busy couple never noticed. 

Tanger had all the obscure tools you needed to fix all the little stupid things that broke, ever. Tanger knew things. Tanger spoke languages, and had connections. He walked into restaurants he'd never been in, and the room lit up,

"Welcome back, Dr. Zest!"

Tanger would bring you the junk food you found irresistible when you were too upset to eat. He would listen if you ever had anything to say, or he would just meet you up if you needed to silently kill a bottle of wine. If he thought it would help, he'd start spouting off nonsense. He would shout the name of the wine in a singsong voice, especially if it was Italian: "CODA DI VOLPE! THE TAIL OF THE FOX." 

Tanger put sugar on his pizza. He said that's how they eat it "back home". One time you tried it and maybe you were drunk, but it tasted pretty good. 

Tanger would be doing something stupid, like putting glitter in a return envelope to a credit card company, and someone would say something like, "Tanger, that doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense."

"Why are you putting glitter in an envelope??"

"No. The question is why aren't you putting glitter in an envelope?!" 

"Goddamit Tanger." This is how all attempts to discern his motives ended.

It was useless arguing with Tanger. He always got his way, mostly because nobody cared to stop him. To this day, he is always doing something mildly nuts to ensure the world moves forward in a zanier, more colorful, and happy direction. And really, who would want to stop that?

   

Tanger is a force of good in the universe

  

Los Angeles

You sent Los Angeles a text: a heads up to let it know you were on your way. Los Angeles already knew. It tracked the GPS unit in your car. It paired the signal with the receiver in your cell phones. It monitored data from your car engine like temperature, quality of intake air, and fluid levels. It mined information about your average speed, the songs you listened to the most, and a list of suggestions about other artists you might like. Los Angeles found a way to welcome you and let you know you were being watched. It texts you back,

LA: I can’t wait to see you! By the way, I think you need an oil change.

Los Angeles is smiling at you impossibly hard. It is looking at a picture of itself on the cover of a fitness magazine, pulling up its expensive t-shirt to reveal washboard abs. Turn to page 37 to find out how Los Angeles did it. To see what Los Angeles eats to keep looking young. Los Angeles is smiling so hard it seems like its teeth might slice through its own lips. Its grin makes your skin crawl.

Los Angeles is being waved past the security checkpoint. The security team is more interested in you than Los Angeles. As you walk forward, their body language reveals that they are preparing to stop you.

Do you have any fruits or vegetables? “No.” You do.

Do you have any weapons or explosives? “No.” You do.

What is your relationship with Los Angeles? “We’re good friends.” You’ve never met.

Security doesn't believe you. They look at Los Angeles, who confirms "I know them, they're with me."

Los Angeles clasps its hands around yours for an assertive handshake and says, “Don’t forget about me when you’re famous!” You can never really tell if LA takes you seriously or not. Los Angeles is looking through you, trying to catch the attention of the graphic designer sitting at the sushi counter. Los Angeles is nodding its head and saying “uh huh” at everything in regular intervals, enough to make you question if it understands or cares. Los Angeles is asking for the fresh grated wasabi, for the savory egg custard that isn't on the menu.

Have you seen LA’s new tattoo? What language is it in? It looks like Cyrillic.

Have you seen LA’s new apartment? They shot scenes from Inception in it.

Have you seen LA’s red Tibetan Mastiff? The dog is literally red. When pressed on what it paid for the dog, Los Angeles smiles, and looks off camera “a lot.”

In the airport you’re freezing. Rubbing your arms to stay warm. Los Angeles is contemplating its jacket options. It taps you on the shoulder, holding up two options: military-esque green jacket or black peacoat? You gesture towards the peacoat. Listening to a cellphone poised between its shoulder and cheek, LA mouths “thank you” and stuffs the military jacket back in its suitcase.

Los Angeles can see that you’re hurt. That you are slowly losing it. A carefully calculated expression of concern overtakes LA’s face. It tilts its eyebrows in just the right way, leans forward, and asks in a hushed tone, “Are you ok?”

“No, LA. I’m not.”

“It’s ok to be sad that she’s gone. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

“It’s more than the girl, Los Angeles.”

“The restaurant? You’re not going to make it back in time for service are you?”

“I’m going to try, but it’s not looking good. It’s eating me alive.”

“Is that all? You’re gonna be late for work? Relax dude.” Los Angeles begins reaching for the intercom, “I can totally have Kit bring you a Kombucha-” You cut LA off.

“It’s you LA. You creep me out. I think you’re really cool, but I can’t shake the feeling that you’re pure evil.”

LA sighs. It closes the script and sets it aside. Its about to break character and tell you how it really feels. But you’re putting on your backpack. You’re leaving because you don’t care to hear it out.

You’re walking to the gate, and you allow yourself to feel like you’ve won. You needn’t look behind you to know that LA is smiling daggers into the back of your head. Los Angeles is a master tactician, one of the deadliest foes you’ve ever encountered. You merely bumped into Los Angeles, and felt the electric crackle of its horrifying power. You haven't won, because you didn't really attempt to engage Los Angeles. You were afraid to.

Los Angeles clears its throat, you turn to face it- a huge mistake. Los Angeles is thinking at the speed of light, sizing you up, and is going to send you home with a paper cut:

“Thanks for getting her here safely.”

Smaller Words

-->

We’re all sitting very still in a massive Blackhawk helicopter tearing across the jungle. “Five minutes until lineup.” Nobody’s eyes move, “Yes, chef.” The canopy below us is dark green and shiny from the rain. Jason is wrapping bandages around his hands. Chef is texting on his phone. Everyone is armed to the teeth with rifles, grenades, pistols. I reach to my side, to feel for a gun. The drop down holster is empty. I am completely unarmed. Kelly asks, “How many hostages is it again?” Chef doesn’t look up from his phone. “Fifty-three.” In unison, we all quietly swear in disbelief. How are we supposed to pull this off? A sense of mild panic washes over me, not just because I have no idea how we’re supposed to recuse fifty three hostages, but also because it is becoming obvious to me that I’m dreaming. And that’s usually when things get ugly.

…

Its finally cold outside, so instinctively, I go to get whiskey. I see a bottle of my favorite Japanese whiskey on the bar, forgotten behind some other bottles and I ask for it neat. It tastes so good I want to get up and smash my chair to pieces. This is a reaction I have to good alcohol that I first observed maybe six years ago at a steakhouse. I was drinking a Zinfandel, and I think my exact words we, “Emily… this wine is so good… It kind of makes me want to get into a fight.” Perhaps in the same way a really good punk show might make you want to punch someone in the moshpit in the face, really good alcohol makes me want to brawl.

Of course, I’m not just here for whiskey.

She materializes out of nowhere and spots me, “Oh I see you already have a drink, fine.” She snatches the tumbler away and noses it. She puts it down and as she’s walking away asks, “Is that 12 year Yamazaki?”

It is.

Ladies?

If you want me to leave you alone, do not walk up and identify what whiskey I am drinking by simply smelling it. Do not do this if the idea of me wanting to hang out with you bothers you. At all costs, do not demonstrate an expert-level understanding of my favorite spirit.

I’m more or less speechless, and she’s back. She’s working, moving quickly and not making eye contact. “I was struggling with Japanese whiskies, then I realized they kind of smell like rum. Plus, a lot of them use this very distinctive type of Japanese oak that they typically use for building temples.”

STOP STOP STOP SAYING INTERESTING THINGS GODDAMMIT. I mean, my heart and my mind are fully prepared for not ever seeing her again. However I just have to laugh, because every time I start successfully deprioritizing her, she says or does something remarkable, and I’m like, do you want to go drive around listening to music in the car until 5 am sometime? Just one last time, Bird?

I close my eyes and I see bits and pieces. Fake electronic candles flickering behind bottles, a huge pile of crumpled up money that she is counting. A shot glass full of cigarette ash. A text message: I’m still here deck brushing but I got some wine for when we get out.

…

I told myself that writing would be a healthy, cathartic exercise. I’m afraid it’s just not the case. I find myself stepping outside of my comfort zone as often as possible for the sake of good stories to write about. What’s worse, I end up using the truth and fiction interchangeably- and leaving everything up to the reader, probably not the best idea. But I do love a good story, so I continue to push.

“You’re staying with your goddamn ex girlfriend in New York City? Not to mention her new boyfriend is your friend and was your mentor?? Are you insane?”

She’s pushing a meatball around her plate, incredulously.

“More or less.” I say. Other times my general response to this kind of question is, “I’m trying to make my life more like a Woody Allen movie.”

…

I have the easiest job in the restaurant, as a server-sommelier. However, that doesn’t prevent it front sinking its teeth into the delicate flesh of my dreams, and populating them with the most realistic nightmares I have ever experienced.

I dream of the restaurant, every night. I see diners sitting in the seats. They have been waiting for their food. For 20 minutes. For hours. For years. I am running to the kitchen to fire their next course. I’m looking for chef. Where in the fuck is my chef? I have to fire their course. They have been waiting for decades. They are looking at me, and they are furious. The restaurant is empty, save for their table. I have no excuse to fall back on. This is unquestionably my fault.

In another nightmare, the restaurant is full. Everything is going normally, then I look back at the kitchen: and everyone is gone. The grill is still on, the food is all out, but the entire Back of House has blinked out of existence. Horror. Nobody in the dining room notices, and as time stretches on, people start getting upset that their food isn’t coming out.

Did you have less than stellar service from me at some point? Trust me that it is more upsetting for me. As my brain will not let me live down a single gaffe.

These are fairly mundane nightmares, but they are so vivid and real. They are so real that I will be aware of lying in my bed, in my pajamas, and I am still gripped by a sense of life-or-death urgency to push my tables forward. There is always another turn coming. A thousand turns. We have seven thousand on the books tonight. I need two hands to count the number of times I have finally fully woken up to find my thumb hovering over my chef’s phone number. Because I was going to call him. To fire tables. If I weren’t utterly terrified by my flimsy grasp on reality, I would laugh at this scene.

Never before in my life have my conscious and subconscious mind become so dangerously intermingled. And really, it isn’t just that, but my sense of a timeline in my life has become blurry. Old memories are rising to the surface, and current ones seem like they happened eons ago.

The one thing that has remained constant is that every night I have a nightmare about the restaurant, that is punctuated by other, more topical nightmares.

I take it to mean that there are a lot of things in my life that mean a lot to me right now. The success of the restaurant seems to be the big one. One thing I can’t explain the increasing presence of the girl from the facility.

…

I’m sitting outside the psychologist’s office, which is located inside the facility. This is the first memory I have of listening to other people talk about me and learning something from it.

“Your son has been an… extremely unusual addition to the community here.”

My parents are naturally horrified by the vagueness of this statement coming from a mental health professional. “Is he getting worse? What is so unusual about him??”

“No ma’am, we actually took him off suicide watch after the first day. I can assure you that your son is not a danger to himself or others. I don’t think he ever was.”

“Well then what?!”

She’s excitedly searching for words. “He’s uh, trying to help all of his peers. At group therapy, he is actually helping the other kids resolve their conflicts. His roommate Tony has a history of… violence. He turned in a sharpened toothbrush to us yesterday. His explanation was that Justin talked him out of using it.”

I’m instantly transported to that moment when Tony asked me, “Hey man, you got a quarter? I want to call my girlfriend and tell her I love her before I go kill one of the orderlies.”

I’m 13, and really grateful Tony listened to me. My Dad, still upset, interjects, “Make sure the kids you make my son sleep next to don’t have fucking weapons. That’s your job.”

I fast-forward 14 years to New York. I’ve got maybe six hours left before I have to get to the airport. I’m in the bathroom, washing my hands, applying lotion to my still-fresh tattoo that is weeping blood onto my shirt. With out even trying, I overhear “So what’s he been like this whole time?”

I move closer to the door. Adrienne projects, even as she is attempting to talk more quietly, “He’s a completely different person. He used to be really loud and animated. Now he’s just… silent. It’s bizarre. I don’t recognize him anymore.”

I’m trying not to laugh, not just because I’m a voyeur at heart, but because I’m looking in the mirror, and maybe I can’t recognize myself anymore either.

I’m back in the facility, and I can barely recognize this girls face. I started seeing her more and more in the last three months of my nightmare diet. I remember her being gorgeous, her black eye doing nothing to discourage me. I’m eating fish with her and some friends in the cafeteria and saying, “This is so gross, its funny how gross it is. Like they’re trying to kill us.”

She’s ignoring my banter because she has something important to say.

“Hey. I kind of like you. It really meant a lot that you stuck up for me the other day at group.” She slides a piece of paper across the table and walks away wordlessly. I open it up, and it’s a phone number. It says:

For when we get out.

Wendy reaches across me for the paper, and I can see her two-week-old scars from slashing her wrists with a box cutter. “Dude. You just got a hit on in a mental hospital.” I am grinning so hard I’m afraid my teeth are going to fall out. Wendy stuffs the number into my shirt pocket. “What’s she in for again?”

While I’m watching her walk away, she turns back to look at me, and winks, with flawless execution. This is the first time this has ever happened to me. Did it set a precedent?

“Anger issues and violence.” I wave at her.

…

I’m walking on gravel covered in fallen cherry blossoms. This place is unreasonably pretty, just like in the pictures.

I’m in the Ibaraki prefecture in Japan. I feel like I walked here. Obviously I’m looking for Hitachino. Specifically I’m hunting for the No Shizuku brandy, but my goal here is to get whatever I can find. Then my sense of smell kicks in. It smells like someone is burning a vanilla bean with a blowtorch. I rotate on my heels to face a massive Japanese temple, with a faint light glowing inside. I walk in to investigate.

I’m inside and the burning vanilla bean smell is getting stronger. I’m sweating, and as I wipe sweat off my forehead I can see the temple bursting into flames. Someone was waiting for me to get here. I’m vaguely scared, but the fire pouring up massive wooden support beams mesmerizes me. The wood has been burning for a long time, and is now black and shiny. Paper walls are turning beige, then brown, then black, and finally vanishing in a puff off smoke.

I rarely see her make an entrance, she just kind of suddenly appears. And here she is. She knows I’m here, but she’s not looking at me. She’s spinning a bar blade on her finger. I’m relieved at this clue that I’m dreaming, because she never spins the blade in real life. I’m the one who is obsessed with spinning bar blades. She’s talking, but the sound of the fire and the temple starting to collapse is really loud. I can hear her say, “I’m annoyed at myself that we ever crossed the friend boundary line.”

“I’m playing it cool, Bird. It’s not like I expected you to be my girlfriend or something. It was nice getting to know you.”

I read the words CO-RECT INDIA on the bar blade.

I can barely see her, the air is shimmering from the heat, and everything is starting to turn grey-black from smoke gushing in every direction. I can hear an ear-splitting snapping noise: the ceiling is collapsing. Sweat and smoke are stinging my eyes.

She thinks I’m more upset than I am, “You’ll be fine. I’m just a girl.” I roll my eyes.

I’m trying to form words as the whole temple comes down on my head. I sit up in bed, a red light from the window unit means I forgot to turn the A/C on.

Note to self: going to bed and leaving the A/C off causes fire death.

Note to self: going to bed drunk causes falling death.

Note to self: going to bed hungry causes starvation death.

Note to self: going to sleep at all will result in service nightmares. Put the phone out of arms reach so I don’t accidentally call chef. At one point before I went to bed this week I actually said aloud to myself, “There are no more guests in the restaurant. You will not have to wait on anybody until you get back.” It super didn’t work. Maybe stop sleeping?

…

I’m at the restaurant, and we’re in the thick of it. The fever pitch of service is happening, and I’m one step behind everything. I’m rushing to catch up. Need to fire table B. I look back at the kitchen, and everyone is gone. No. No. No no no. This is not happening. I rush into the kitchen, and to my complete terror, it is actually happening. I’m looking for signs that I’m dreaming, and I can’t find them. Some zany mistake my subconscious makes when writing my dreams is missing here. This is goddamn fucking reality, and the entire kitchen has disappeared. I am so fucked. Then I see Mark pop up from behind the line, and I realize what was happening. Five cooks simultaneously dropped down to their knees to plate the stone crab and kombu aspic dish, and I cannot see them when they do this. I swear I almost ran away in terror.

That weekend, I’m confidently pouring whiskey into my flask, and the opening is very small. I feel cool because there is a 2-millimeter margin of error between me filling this flask up with delicious whiskey, and spilling it all over the ground. Right as I begin mentally patting myself on the back, I feel a cold wet sensation on my feet. Goddammit. Don’t look down. Bad enough that my dreams are coming to get me while I’m awake. I walk out the door, my sandals wet.

…

The helicopter is vibrating, shaking all of us inside. The sun is setting over the Jungle, and I am paralyzed with fear: I do not have any guns. We are somehow supposed to rescue 53 hostages from a military prison complex. How am I supposed to do that without weapons? “Willet? Can I borrow a gun?” He doesn’t hear me.

This is a common dream problem for me: being unarmed in a situation where I need a lot of guns, usually a zombie apocalypse situation or an Escape from New York type deal. However I went to bed drunk, and I’m in a helicopter, so I know exactly what’s going to happen next. I see an enormous rainbow macaw gliding along side the chopper. I say to myself and point at it, “Jungle Bird.”

The helicopter starts turning and the pilot is cursing shit shit fuck shit DRONES. We hear an air raid siren go off below us, suddenly there are glowing lights turning on beneath the canopy for hundreds of yards beneath us. The mist reveals a dozen targeting lasers from SAM sites, fixating on us. Austin closes his eyes hard, “Oh… no.” Gunfire erupts. Explosions and the crackle of machine gun fire begin in the distance and then resonate with a tink tink tink on the side of the chopper. Chef looks up from his phone and stares at me.

“You know how I can tell when you’re telling the truth on your blog?”

Suddenly the tinks increase in frequency, and an explosion causes the Blackhawk to lurch forward violently, and I feel my intestines fly up into my chest. We are spinning in a free fall. Alarms are going off in the cabin, and as we spin the front of the cockpit catches a stream of gunfire. Bullets explode through the cockpit and tear the pilot apart, spraying dark blood on everything. His arms flail in death like a ragdoll as we plummet towards the ground.

I’m falling, we’re all falling. Clutching onto the side of the helicopter, bracing for impact. Everyone is hanging on for dear life except my chef, who is sitting calmly, as if the forces trying to throw us out of the cabin are not affecting him. He leans forward.

“You use big words and flowery language to entertain yourself when you lie, because lying doesn’t excite you the same way the truth does.” He looks out the door. Everything is a blur. We’re no longer over the jungle canopy. We’re about to crash into the prison. Men and women with rifles run to avoid the impending crash of our helicopter. The ground is rushing to meet us.

“When you’re telling the truth, you use smaller words.”

We collide with the earth like a meteor. And as I’m thrown from the chopper and through the ground I begin to wake up. I fall out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, where I puke my guts out. I look out the open door into the living room. There are damp whiskey footprints on the ground. I need to take it easy, I think to myself. Once I’ve unburdened myself of my stomach full of poison, I stumble back to my bedroom.

I should be working harder to find balance. I should be trying to do whatever everybody thinks it is I’m supposed to do. But this path just feels right. I’ll be more responsible when the Bird is gone, I say to myself, unconvincingly. I want to call her, but I need to sleep. I decide to split the difference.

I raise up the remote to my window unit, and turn the A/C off.