El Tropico Nightclub Pt. 2

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One fine evening, in the hallowed, but crusty halls of El Tropico Night Club (The famous East L.A. haunt that specialized in hookers, transvestites, cocaine, and ghosts. "Broken Hearts & Broken Noses")two of my favorite patrons strolled in. One was a retired cop that worked security and had his own mechanics' shop (from his garage), the other was a Cab Driver. They were always quite jovial and had a great knack for telling stories and chiming in with each other. This particular time Jorge, our Cab Driver, walked looking like he had seen death itself. Angel, our retired cop, had his arm around him and looked like he could barely contain his smile. They sat at the Bar:

Me - Hey Man, que traes?

Jorge - Nuthin Man. How you been?

(Turning to Angel)

Me - Sup with your boy? Looks like su vieja se lo madreo!

Angel - Nah Bro. It's better than that! (Laughs)

I pop open a couple of beers (the usual) as they settle in

Jorge - (staring at the bottle) I can't fucken believe it.

Angel - (to me) You see, Jorge here is suffering from what us cops call "shock"; A near death experience; you know, "shaking hands with Jesus"

Me - (to Jorge) Not Jesus, my cousin, but the Man upstairs?

Angel - The one and only! (pats Jorge in the back) you'll make it through this homey.

Jorge - It wasn't my fault...

Me - Relax Man... What Happened?

Angel - (holding back a smile) ...well I don't know about that...

Jorge - (To Angel) Cmon! I just did the usual. (turns to me) I was doing my rounds; you know, hitting all the bars and clubs looking for fares. Its easy money to take a some drunks home. And sometimes I pick some hot Mamacitas!

Angel - (Laughs) ...right...

Jorge - Hey Man! I'm telling you I was just following the game plan! I picked up this old lady, over at Luminarias. She was sloshed! I figured: easy money. I'll take her home the long way, listen to some tunes, and ask her for a nice tip.
(Takes a swig of beer)
...Damn...

Angel - Tell em what she said first.

Jorge - This old lady sits down in the back, and before I can ask where to she says: "All Men are Idiots"

Angel - "Bola de pendejos!"

Jorge - Yeah, so I get her address and we're on our way. I tell her "you shouldn't be so hard on us, some of us out there our good catches..."

(Jorge takes a sip)

Jorge - She starts sighing.

Angel - ya vez las novelas...

Jorge - She says: "Hay Mijo... if you only knew... just what I've gone through..."

Me - ...and she starts crying...

Angel - ...I'm tellin you...

Jorge - Yes! So now I've this drunk old lady just bawling in the back. And I'm trying to calm her down.

Me - Of course you are! Damsel in distress...

Angel - More like Gramsel!

Jorge - Anyway, I'm saying stupid shit like "Oh, it's gona be alright" and "maybe you're better off without him"

Angel - Bad Idea...

Jorge - She cries even louder when I said that! "How could you say that to me?!" she says.

Angel - Real bad...

Jorge - So now I'm apologizing! I'm like "Senora I didn't mean it." and "I'm sorry." and all that.

Me - Ah, my favorite line with my Ladies: "I'm sorry..."

(Me, Jorge, and Angel together) "...it was all my fault"

(clink beers)

Angel - Wait, it gets better. Go on bro.

Jorge - I don't know how I got into this mess, but we go back and forth all the way through. Till finally, I'm at her house.

(Angel is again holding back a smile)

Jorge - I tell her the fare and she says: "Ok, young man. Pay yourself." I looked in my rear view, figured maybe she was gona hand me her purse, I don't know. Oh, man... She's leaning back on the seat. I'm like "What?" and she starts pulling up her skirt! "I said, Pay Yourself! Be a Man. get back here, and pay yourself!"

Angel - Yeah! Get to it Son! (Laughing)

Jorge - I said "Ma'am I'm sorry, but you've had to much to drink. I just need my fare and I'll be on my way.

She says: "What are you? some kind of faggot?!"

... she pulled up her skirt...

...oh man...

(Me and Angel) - ...oh man...

Jorge - "Maricon!" she says. I had to get out of the car and open her door. She wouldn't leave! Just kept saying it: "Maricon! Maricon!"

Jorge stoped and just stared at his beer bottle for a while. Angel and I stared at each other with ear to ear smiles till finally we both broke into guffaws. Angel patted Jorge in the back a few more times. Jorge smiled and shook his head.

Me - Guess you could have told her the usual again...

(Jorge, Angel, and Me) I'M SORRY. IT WAS ALL MY FAULT!

El Tropico NightClub

One of my many end points was that bar in East Los Angeles. It was not circumstance that brought me there. That part of the world had some answers for me. Some of the answers where in the ring, at the boxing gym where I would train everyday. Some of the answers where in the women, whom I switched every few weeks. Some of the answers lay with the whispers of the dead, and the advice of the living.

It was next to huge cemetery that had been around for ages. Apparently the first settlers in El Pueblo de Los Angeles had buried their dead in that very spot. The city grew around it and we have a Club that specializes in hookers, transvestites, cocaine, and ghosts. I befriended the owner after looking for gigs to play. The place had an ad in a local weekly rag announcing punk rock nights. It was an interesting joint, with a ton of history. It oozed the slimy secretions of scores of lost dreams. It was full of rats, shit, and booze. I told the owner, after a gig played to an audience of 10 ( 5 of which where playing next ) that we were just cruising along, looking for a place to land. I don’t know what the guy saw in me. I’m guessing it’s the same thing that happens to me when I know, I just know I have a relationship with someone that I need to unfold. I like to say that the angels whisper in my ear. He must have heard it too because he offered me this deal: “Help me out with the bar and you can stay in the back.” Not a bad way to land, being that we had been homeless for the past couple of months, living out of our car in the lot by Santa Monica pier. The owner was a large man, larger than most Mexicans. This gave him an edge when he needed to throw out another drunk, punk, or junkie. But he was getting old, tired. And the prospect of one more fight, one more argument, one more hustle was beginning to wear on him. Wear him down, wear him out. He had become the reluctant gatekeeper, holding back the torrential laments of the melancholic dead, the incessant dissatisfactions of the living, and his own impending death. He carried a skull around his neck and on a keychain. “Death brings me luck, I don’t know why” He wasn’t too far from the truth. In true Castaneda fashion, Death was his advisor. By keeping death near, he always knew it wasn’t his time. But Death has a funny way of skewing your perception and seeping into your worldview. Not the healthiest thing an old man with a lot of enemies can do. No wonder he would always complain with aches and pains. Hanging out in the Underworld will do that to you.


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