I drove a black Altima that was poppin’ during its heyday, but I got it when it was fifteen years old, and that piece of shit was beginning to show its age. The paint had faded, the stereo was busted, the seats were torn, the dashboard was cracked, and the grip on the steering wheel was so worn out that it often slipped out of my clutches in the middle of a turn. After a number of near accidents, I finally installed a no-slip, slip-on steering wheel cover with an ergo massager grip. The black rubber nodes along the surface appeared erotic, like shiny little nipples that horny drivers like me could rely on for a kinky little driving experience.
Later that week I got a call from my homegirl Luna, who was a menace to sobriety. She dropped so much E back in the day we called her tumblr. Whenever she rang me up for a night on the town, I knew it was because she needed an enabling chauffeur to drive her home after spiraling down a rabbit hole of hedonistic rage and reckless dance floor abandon. I called it Driving Miss Bat-Shit Crazy, but at the time, Looney-Tuna was sleeping with a headlining DJ named DJ JD, so it was difficult for me to say no. I had been through the nightlife meat grinder enough times to know that I couldn’t accept an invitation to the club unless it was bullshit-free. Otherwise, you’re just a regular schmo, and this is your regular schmo night at the Hollywood club:
You drive 2 hours through Tinsel Town traffic and pay $20 to park. You wait 2 more hours in line because the bouncers hate you and when you do get in, you pay $20 more dollars for admission. Inside, a watered down cocktail is jacked up to $20 a pop with tip, and because the place is packed to the rafters, it takes 20 minutes to complete the transaction. The bartenders hate you almost as much as the bouncers do.
If you’re a typical schmo with a couple of bucks, this is your typical experience:
You pay $200 round trip for car service. You grease the doorman $100 to skip the line or you hook up with some sleazy club promoter. You order bottle service at a 1000% markup and you tip the waitress 10%. The server hates you almost as much as the bartenders and the bouncer.
But if your homegirl Luna is sleeping with the DJ, then this is your typical club experience:
You and Luna ride with the DJ because he has his own parking spot. You walk right into the club with zero cover and zero drama and you drink unlimited free booze in the DJ booth. You stay past closing time and party with the employees, but the entire staff still hates you.
So there we were on a Saturday night, raging in the DJ box with DJ JD and drinking all the free booze, when this Neanderthalic bouncer stepped to us and grunted, “Get the fuck out da boof!”
“What?”
“Get da fuck out!”
“What did we do?” I asked.
“We need the space! Get out!”
We looked at DJ JD and he simply shrugged, “Just wait outside the booth!”
We got out and the bouncer replaced us with some poon and his douchey clique. Apparently, the staff had botched their reservation, and since the place was filled to capacity, they booked Poon & Company into our free spot in the DJ booth. Can you believe that shit? What ever happened to VIP treatment (Vagina-Influenced Perks)?
After that, we were relegated to the floor-level ranks of the night club with the rest of the peasants, but we did snatch a liter of vodka prior to our removal and Luna and I stood in a corner swilling from the bottle like a couple of hobos. After a few pulls, Luna popped some pills, and we made our way to the dance floor.
When my homegirl Luna is dancing and trippin’ balls, she turns into one of those giant promotional air tube puppets you see at grand openings or used car dealerships.
We got on the dance floor and while Luna was flailing around in her usual tube-girl routine, she whipped around and accidentally popped some lesbian in the face and gave her a nose bleed. The lesbian’s burly GF stepped up to Luna like WTF?! but Luna was oblivious. The burly GF then turned to me like WTF Part Two?! and I said “Don’t release that sequel in my neighborhood. My name is Gutierrez and this is between ustedes.”
That’s when the burly GF poured her entire cocktail into Luna’s purse, which was resting on the dance floor. Again, Luna was too busy impersonating a sky puppet to notice but I witnessed the whole thing and as a loyal friend, I had to ask myself, “Am I gonna hafta choke this bitch on behalf of Luna?” The answer was “no” because I don’t tussle with the ladies but if you ask me if the real reason I didn’t defend Luna is because that burly GF would have wiped the dance floor with my perfect ass, then the answer is “yes.” Thankfully, the lesbians took off and since the score was even, I said, “Fuck it. Dance on.”
Two minutes later, Luna had to go to the restroom. She picked up her soggy purse, flung it over her shoulder, and unknowingly sprayed a bunch of people before blindsiding some guy with a sopping blow to his cranium. People were yelling and the dude that got lit up was holding his wet skull and looking at Luna like, “WTF Part Three–The Trilogy?!”
I grabbed Luna’s hand and we ran off the dance floor. We split up to go to the restroom and that’s when Luna discovered that all of her tampons had been soaked in Long Island Iced Tea. When we met back up, she told me that she had put one in her coochie anyway.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I asked.
“Please,” she scoffed, “I had already dipped them in Jäger to begin with.”
Luna loves that Jägermeister, especially Jäger Bombs, which is a blackout-inducing cocktail that consist of three simple maneuvers: 1) drop a shot glasses full of Jäger into a glass of Red Bull; 2) drop it down your gullet; then 3) eventually drop your guts all over creation at the end of the night.
The thing about Luna, however, is that she rarely puked. “Emesis is my nemesis,” she would often declare as she took every precautionary measure imaginable to counter the effects of her alcohol abuse: Molly, Adderall, Percocet, cocaine—you name it, she’d take it.
I once met up with her for “a drink or two” at a dive bar called The Downer and right away she goaded me with Jäger bombs.
“C’mon, Lu,” I groaned. “You know I don’t drink that demon semen.”
“Two Jäger bombs!” she shouted at the bartender and six hours later, I was holding her hair in the restroom of her apartment as she puked violently into the toilet. Upon hearing her throw up, then smelling it, and then worst of all, smelling it, my stomach quickly followed. Still clutching her mane, I spewed my own guts into the adjacent sink and the ensuing spastic contortions caused me to yank her upward with every heave.
Together we created this bizarre tug-of-war seesaw of call-and-response vomiting: as I blew chunks, my death grip would snap her neck back; and then she would jerk my arm back down as she chundered some more, which would then cause me to retch and pull her up all over again. We were dueling barfers in an exercise routine for degenerate losers. Up… blech! Down… upchuck! Can you feel that burn in your esophagus and nostrils?! Don’t stop! No pain no gain!
After we toweled off and moved to the living room for a night cap, I asked her how long it had been since she hurled and she told me it was something like six years. When I asked her why she hadn’t taken her usual narco steps to prevent the horrendous outcome of a night that was supposed to end after a two drink minimum, she calmly replied, “I’m trying to cut back on partying.”
“You go, girl,” I muttered.
But that was all bullshit. As the saying goes, “a washed sow returns to mud,” and the following weekend we were at some other EDM sweat lodge embarking on another round of Saturday night Saturnalia. DJ JD wasn’t with us that evening so it was a regular schmo affair, but that was good because our night didn’t evolve into the typical unbridled pig fuck that usually results from comped liquor… but it was still pretty ratchet. By the time the lights came up, Luna and I were in a bad way, like zombies in a club-induced semi coma. When we stumbled out of the club, we had to stagger six or seven blocks to reach my shitty parking spot on some street. I kept walking into parking meters on the way and plowing ahead like the indestructible Terminator sustaining repeated gunfire.
When we finally got to the Altima, I discovered that the driver side door was unlocked. At first I thought I had failed to secure it, but when we got inside and noticed that my brand new steering wheel cover was missing, it was clear that some asshole had broken into my car and stolen it.
“Not only that,” said Luna. “But the mother fucker installed a working stereo and completely reupholstered your car!” We looked around, confused. There was a baby seat in the backseat.
“And you have a baby now!” she added.
Just then, some bruiser opened the driver side door and yanked me out of the vehicle. “You trying to steal my car, you fucking Mexican!”
He dragged me to the sidewalk and that’s when I noticed that the car had Nevada plates. I showed him my keys and explained that I had entered the wrong vehicle and eventually the bruiser drove off, still not entirely convinced that we were innocent until proven sober. When we got to my Altima a couple of parking spots away, my shiny new steering wheel cover was still attached, but after determining that there was no way for either one of us to drive home, Luna and I did the smart and sensible thing: we shared the duties… I worked the foot pedals with my hands and Luna controlled the steering wheel.
“Oh my god!” she squealed, “these little nipples are giving me a hand job and making my nipples hard!”
Seriously, man I thought to myself down in the footwell, I can’t take this bitch anywhere.