A Lazy Wednesday

Words - Me; Music - Suno

More fun times at the cuckoo's nest :).

Also trying my hand at free flow streaming conscious poetry, similar to the beat generation trying to emulate but not parrot.

https://suno.com/s/quaylzLupjbQI5Un

It was a pre-evening Wednesday when my friend showed me this crudely drawn flyer, in bold black letters announcing two OC punk bands playing at The Nest, and I without a ride quickly walked home, passing fading white bricked fences and semi-manicured suburban houses until I got to mine, a bright yellow two story, with a door handle centered in the dark brown door which, when drunk, is a challenge to open, I made my way through the silent house to a cream colored phone and rang my friend Vic, a 5'4 slight introverted musical prodigy that could play any genre on any instrument even jazz on a cheap gift store ukulele, Vic wasn't into the punk scene but after a twelve-pack bribe agreed to go, soon rolls up in his early 70's forest green Chevy Chevelle wagon he bought for a few hundred bucks, and even though it'd been well maintained, still sounded like it was going to die at every stop, Vic looked and drove like a little old lady who could barely see over the steering wheel and drove so slowly that an elderly person with a walker walked faster, eventually we made it to the corner liquor store that didn't check id, I was in and out and threw the twelve-pack of piss-tasting Budweiser, along with my two companions - Jack Daniels and Olde English malt 800 - onto the black, cracked, leathered back seat.

[Piano Solo]

The radio in Vic's car didn't work, making the 10-mile trek to the club longer by our silence, as neither Vic nor I said much, Vic's expression was as empty as the streets we drove on this dull eve, I, being tormented by the slow drive, was really looking forward to releasing tension in the pit, a few times felt like reaching over with my foot clad in worn-torn Vans tennis shoe and jam the throttle, but maybe the universe slow-rolled us for a reason, which became clear when we got to the club, Vic chose to park up the block, rather than in the club’s parking lot, Vic carried his beer clutched tightly to his chest, I carried the fifth of Jack in my back pocket and Olde English under my shirt thinking I wasn't being obvious, as we passed the ticket-window of the punk club, a screaming red and white ambulance blew past, Vic froze like a stone statue as I witnessed pure chaos, as cops, bikers and punks scattered about, watching a 6'6 300 pound gorilla of a biker, only seen above car roofs as he stood up, fighting 7 struggling cops dangling from both arms as they tried to pin him to the ground, I told Vic, who I thought was next to me, to stash the beer, turns out wasn’t Vic, but an old biker that who’d been to hell, calmly told me Vic had left, sure enough, Vic was bolting up the street, still clutching the beer, passing by a new batch of siren-wailing black and whites, and all I could think of, there goes my ride as Vic with tires squealing, vanishes into a dust cloud, they pinned, cuffed and threw the still battling gorilla into the back of a cruiser, the mobs of bikers and punks all retreated back into our clubs, each side claiming victory, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

[Piano Solo]

The mood inside the nest was somber while waiting for the phone to ring with news, good or bad, of the punks sent to hospitals, The few punks remaining sat stoically in a large semicircle on wooden chairs, held our collective breaths, some admitted atheists also prayed when the phone screamed of news, the club owner's thumbs up said all, the stench of stale beer and cheap cigs filled the air as we jointly exhaled, then a drunk punk who fancied himself an intellect, enlightened us mix of leather jackets, spiked multicolored hair, matching Doc Martens and closely cropped hair, poetry from memory, and this really attractive female with bright orange-green hair sitting next to me, I mistakenly thought we were having a moment, with my liquid courage, quietly asked if she wanted to go out to the parking lot to talk, she responded by loudly shouting fuck no, why the fuck would I want to do that, then switched seats causing me to burst out an infectious laugh, shared by all, for at least that moment, and with all passing moments, the cops shut down our clubs for the night, after the smoke and dust cleared from the rumbling bikes and battered cars, I was left there, alone with no ride home, started the lonely 10-mile trek home down the same concrete and asphalt path illuminated by flickering yellow neon lights, that Vic took earlier when he stranded me, I did eventually make it home, as I braced myself against the shit brown door cursing not only the fucker that put the door handle in the middle, also whomever locked a door that was rarely locked then staggered into the empty house and passed out on the couch, where I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of what might have been with the punk with the bright orange-green hair