I ordered a beer, Terry got a Coke, and we settled ourselves into one of the circular booths. From that vantage point, we could survey the entire bar, looking for potential marijuana salespeople. I don't know why we didn't just ask Larry, he would have been the logical choice. Neither of us care much for Larry. I was relaxed, Terry was nervous, jumpy, and obviously guilt-ridden. Finally, a Jamaican guy wearing a tee shirt bearing a logo of an immense pot leaf wandered up to the bar, and we knew he was our man.
Terry got up and darted over to the guy.. I figured the deal was in the bag, and I looked around for someone to talk to. After all, the logo on the free Blue Moon matchbooks advertises "live conversation". I didn't have to look far--a good-looking but obviously wasted guy approached me, introduced himself, and sat down. He started babbling about his imaginary life as an attorney--the details were fleshed out well, but it was obviously a crock of shit. He claimed to be the lawyer for convicted Spokane rapist David Coe, who was about to be released from prison. David was a vile person, he told me earnestly, but everyone was entitled to legal representation. It paid his mortgage, after all. My new friend was obviously a sociopath, but an entertaining one, so I humored him. In an abrupt shift from discussing the details of the rape case, he began putting the moves on me. He announced, "I am glad you are married, or I would be all over you!" to which I responded, "I am, too--I certainly don't want you all over me."
In the midst of his ramblings, Terry returned, and our new friend started hitting on both of us, perhaps with a menage a trois in his addled little mind. "You look like you'd like a cowboy!" he announced to Terry, who just stared at him with huge, startled eyes. "Someone to control you, protect you, and tell you what to do...." and, turning to me, "you want someone INTELLECTUAL, who you can argue with...."
True enough, spoken with the peculiar clarity of the sociopath. I gave Terry twenty bucks, and she went over to the Jamaican guy. The "attorney" followed her, presumably to make a purchase of his own. The process was certainly taking a long time to complete. After a few minutes, Terry returned, looking visibly upset. "Those guys are nuts" she announced. "They're both in the alley. Their vibes are really weird--they're totally creeping me out." She had left without completing our transaction.
I was on a mission. "I'll take care of it" I announced boldly, rising from my seat and leaving the bar. By now, it was plainly obvious to everyone what we were doing. The alley beside the Blue Moon is like a little open-air marijuana market. However, most of the salespeople are discreet, and the transaction is over in less than a second. Not so with the Jamaican guy--he was fucked up beyond repair, dropping buds on the ground and stooping over to pick them up. When he saw me, he simply reached into his pocket and pulled out an open Baggie, filled with buds and some tiny Ziplock bags. He clumsily began stuffing buds into one of the small bags, a task that was extremely difficult, due to his inebriated state. It was obvious that he was not just drunk, but also insane. The attorney guy stood next to him, chuckling and weaving back and forth. Staring at them was like reliving a moment of a terrible acid trip. They were both completely out of their minds, to the point that they did not appear to be connected to their own bodies. Quickly, I gave the Jamaican guy my twenty bucks, which I had retrieved from Terry. I thanked him politely, and sprinted back into the bar.
Terry waited for me--since I'd left, she had encountered one of her many male admirers. I'd seen him around the Moon before, he's a Burning Man contortionist, or something like that, and a decent enough guy. ""I've got it" I whispered, still keeping up the charade of being surreptitious. As we settled into the booth, the attorney guy ran back into the bar. He was shaking so violently that it was like he was in the throes of an epileptic seizure. His voice trembled in such an exaggerated fashion, that it would have been hilarious if it wasn't so disturbing. "I've got to get out of here" he said. He turned to me. "After you left, that guy attacked me! He just turned on me for no reason! I had to defend myself, so I knocked him to the ground!" He swayed back and forth, reliving the horror of his ordeal. "What could I do--he attacked me! He's lying on the ground right now, with a couple of his teeth missing! I HAD to hurt him--I had no choice!" A new realization struck him, and he began to shake even harder. "I have to get out of here immediately! The police will be after me. I don't know WHY these things happen to me, but they always do!" He turned and began to race out of the door, stopping for a moment to look at me. "You're CUTE" he said. Then he was gone.
Cute under pressure, that's me. "I think we'd better wait a minute or two, and then get the hell out of here" Terry whispered. Her contortionist friend and I both agreed. I finished my beer, and Terry and I crept towards the door, expecting a storm of police to come in at any moment. We snuck past the alley, pausing for a moment to stare at the horror that surely awaited us. To our surprise, relief, and disappointment, everything appeared to be completely normal. The Jamaican guy was talking to one of those Mooner guys that are always out there. The two of them were leaning against the side of the building and smoking cigarettes. Not a police car in sight. It was a scene of almost bucolic normalcy, at least by the standards of the Blue Moon. Terry and I got into my rental car and drove away, laughing at the absurdity of it all.....
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