Welcome to the Hotel California.. Pat Leahy, Part 1

 I sprawled out in the motel bed and lit a Cuban cigar. I filled my pipe with Jack Frost, which seemed like a fine way to start the day, while Libby bustled around the room poking in various bags, preparing the intricate two hour morning beauty constitutional that I know as well as my own twenty minute one.. from her steamy ritualistic bath to applying various portions and potions and other Bare Mineral things from the pots and jars and brushes in her big , brown leather make up box. I stretched my joints and thought about our day as I absentmindedly stared at another Law and Order and searched for my lighter on the wildly colored bedspread then blew smoke from my fifth morning camel toward the motel ceiling. We were going to visit my Facebook buddy, Pat, in Long Beach. Pat is the proprietor of High Gear machines and a very enthusiastic supporter of herbal endeavors. He is pretty much the court jester of our little Facebook bully club. Jj was gonna stay behind and get caught up on everything around the house for Cecily’s return from France. I still haven’t made my mind up if this was a good thing or not.

‘Hey, Marcia…’we are goin’ to a bike shop today… I brought two Harley tanks so you’d have something to wear… Leave them fuckin’ Muslim clothes here.’

She opened the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of luxurious scented steam to mingle with the skunky dank cloud i was creating. ‘Go find it..Lemme see if I can find my jeans. We’ll slut it up today!’

I got up and dug out the two crystal studded Harley-Davidson shirts while she came out for a towel and her jeans in nothing but her panties and stopped to inspect her facelift scars in the mirror, still strangely at odds with her youthful breasts below… Have I mentioned they took off her fucking ears? I threw the shirt at her and plopped back down on my bed with my phone to see if Jj was up and about yet. We made a coffee date so I could pick up my jacket from the night before, then I checked on Bob and caught up on texts and phone calls until Libby emerged from her steam bath pulling and stretching at my top with a towel around her head. I rolled my eyes at her and went in for a quick shower while she worked her intricate magic with her Kat Von Dee make-up once again. I twisted my riotous mess of purple and red curls atop my head, grumbling that I had carelessly tied it up wet in a messy ponytail the night before and fell asleep… I stepped in the ice cold shower to wake myself up as I briskly bathed, then turned the water to full heat and let it run down my back and hips to loosen the sore muscles of not enough sleep. I stepped outta the shower and into my tank and Miss Mes.

When I emerged from my very own steam cloud, Libby looked stunning. Her hair was messy soft around her face, and in clothes that actually fit she was a knockout. In the ten minutes it took me to add a few curls to my hot mess of hair and paint on enough make-up to pass for the Amy White that Pat expected, Libby had went through several transformations. First, she tied a long scarf around and around her head like a turban. Then she put a different scarf around her head and tied the long one around her neck. Then she put on a long black Jesus dress lookin’ thing over it all. Then she took all that off and added.. You guessed it.. The Army fatigue Columbo Muslim jacket and one of them damned fishing hats. And Toms. Again. With my beautiful Harley shirt. Hell, I tried.

After our usual scavenger hunt for cigarettes, pipes, lighters, purses, car keys, room keys, lighters again, and Biker Gnome, Libby loaded her pockets with cream n sugar in the Motel office while i admired the beautiful California day. I grabbed my pewter Paris Hiltons out of the trunk and we hopped in my car headed over to Jj’s for real coffee. Sounds like the beginning of a nice normal day, right? Right? Wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.

 

We hung out with Jj for an hour or two, laughing and gossiping, trying to cajole him into going to Pat’s with us. But, since Cecily’s flight was due in the next day, he opted out, so Libby and I headed for Long Beach. It was a beautiful day and the traffic wasn’t awful. We followed my GPS to a nice little neighborhood and saw nothing that looked remotely like it should be the dwelling of a biker who has never left the 60’s, so we turned around and went looking again…  We had directions from Pat to turn at the Mexican restaurant… well, he didn’t tell us that every building in Long Beach basically looks like a Mexican restaurant. So, we had to do a turn around or two… thank goodness for those nifty little U-turn signs California has. When we got back to the street where we had initially been lead to by my GPS, there he was, waving his arms wildly at the end of the street. We parked, and I got out to meet Pat Leahy for the first time. He was much bigger than I expected him to be, dwarfing me even in my 6 inch Paris Hiltons. He was a combination of a cast member of Duck Dynasty, Kramer, Daffy Duck and Mongo from Blazing Saddles. He squeezed the breath outta me then Libby, then kinda yelled “Ya’ll come on in!” I would soon learn this half yelling-half laughter twang is his normal way of speaking.

 We made our way through a deceptively normal looking entrance into a place that I am going to make an attempt to describe… again. It was a hippie compound, encampment sort of place, with small buildings or ramshackle tents or shops kinda strewn everywhere. My mind went into gearhead overload and I can’t possibly begin to give you in detail what I saw, because I saw every fucking thing automotive or motorcycle ever built piled on about a half an acre. There were tools of an exploded Snap On factory proportion… You followed a makeshift walkway of sorts through the maze of various buildings and erected rooms… Peeking inside them you would see fantastic hot rods and Harley engines, or parts, or someone peeking back at you… His shop areas were immaculate. Nothing else was. Libby and I picked along gingerly behind Pat with a growling furry dog of some undetermined lineage. sometimes it was around a mudhole or across a concrete block or a swaying piece of plywood. I was watching where I placed my beautiful shoes and Libby was holding her coat tightly against her sides so as not to brush across the anything, everything, bikes, parts, cars, signs, appliances heaps through which we were traversing. I held my breath and made a wide berth around a large black plastic bag that held quite obviously something that once walked now dead and decaying, hopefully a deer or large dog…. I didn’t see a pale blue hand fall out amongst the maggots and flies, at any rate. We suddenly came upon a house, with a treehouse type room built on the top. A blonde head with a mouth doing the telling chew-clench symphony of a methhead, appeared out of the room from above and welcomed us. Pat informs us that this is his friend, Jewels. You don’t get to Pat’s bird nest of a home from the front of the building at all… oh noooooooooo. You have to go around to the side where you find…. The Stairs of Death.

I have, my entire life, had a deathly, unholy fear of stairs and escalators. And here, I HAVE to go up what appeared to be the steps built by a ten year old to his treehouse…. In 1948. In heels. Very high heels. Someone had been so kind as to make sure that at least one of the two rotted planks that made up each step of the rickety death trap to Pat’s house was nailed down, so. After my heel went through the bottom step and Pat chuckled “Hehehehehe…. Got me some glitter offa that purty shoe to keep!” I felt carefully with the stacked toe of my shoe and gently carried my 170 pound crippled up ass one step after another up the ninety eleventy steps to Pat’s house. And, holy sheep shit. You just THOUGHT the stairs were something.

The entrance to this psychedelic sewer of a place was a sight in and of itself… To the left, there is a beautifully maintained greenhouse full of the prettiest marijuana plants I have ever seen. There is an amassing of plastic tarps, rickety chairs and other things one might would expect to find on a porch… of Grizzly Adams on acid. Around about this time, Rick the pinstriper showed up. Rick had a dingy Tom Petty kinda look going on, not counting the apparent absence of teeth which made it impossible to understand a word he said. By this point, I need to pee a little, so I ask Rick where is the bathroom. I THINK he said “huhuhuhhhh I dunno, I just hang it over the porch.” I am not positive of this however, but I wasn’t gonna hang it over the porch at any rate, so I decided to hold it. The building itself, as far as I could see, had no actual doors or windows. It DID have places where they should be, however. A ginormous pit bull appeared and humped my leg a little, and I was glad he didn’t hump Libby because he may have knocked her off the porch, which, I guess, was technically a roof. Pat DID have curtains of a sort; you know those big flags you see people selling at rallies and fairs with stuff like “Southern by the grace of God” printed on a rebel flag? Well, there was a various assortment of those covering the window holes… never let it be said Pat is uncivil. Beside the door hole, There is a porch light, and a bunch of little mice painted in rows, like Zeros on the nose of the red Baron’s plane… I asked about it. Pat told me,  “This here is a tally  how many fuckin’ rats have been shot in this here fuckin’ room to date! HAHAHAHAHA! YA’LL COME ON IN!” So, Jewels chewing her jaw, Libby and I, Pat and Rick the pinstriper entered what shall from here til the end of the earth be known as the den of debauchery, the epicenter of insanity, the nexus of Pat’s universe, to the scent of marijuana and the tune of Sweet Home Alabama and Pat yelling “TURN IT UP!”

 

 

 

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One Response to “Welcome to the Hotel California.. Pat Leahy, Part 1”

  1. As usual, you never cease to let me down with your stories. I can picture it all happening!!

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