“Thank you. I’d like to say you’ve been a great audience. Thank you very much. Good night.” And with that, Maurice walked off the stage. It wasn’t that long ago when he was bussing tables in the restaurant across the street. Now, he’s made it. He had his Scotch rocks waiting for him. He decided to forgo the cigar and put it in his shirt pocket.

Over the sound system the DJ was playing ‘Last Night A DJ Saved My Life’ by Indeep.
Maurice chuckled and broke into a big grin while saying “crazy vato. Fuckin DJ.” The stage manager overheard and asked if Maurice wanted the music changed. “No, it’s fine. Me and the DJ go back. Way back. Back into time.” The stage manager nodded and started walking away.

‘Not a problem I can’t fix, ‘cause I can do it in the mix’ Maurice rapped as he shadowboxed with a scotch in one hand. He laughed. He started out in small dives and now he’s in larger dives. He text messaged the DJ. ‘What’s Up Kid? How’d I do?’ A few minutes later, the reply, ‘Yo man. You sucked.’

Maurice laughed. He was glad to have the DJ around. Helped keep him grounded.
He had a spell of drug abuse but it was under control, he maintained. He couldn’t be around coke, because he’d want some real bad.

A serious jones. Weed was ok. Booze, beer were cool too. The coke? Forget about it. The DJ used to hook him up on occasion. Now one of his duties was to keep it away. Maurice figured if they could get past the DJ, then it must be destiny. Coke rationalizations.

Coke rationalizations lead to coke talk eventually. Maurice could be fine, then something would trigger the jones and he had those digits programmed into his phone. Different code names in case the DJ got hold of the phone and started prying. Maurice couldn’t stand that but put up with it.

But there was no problem. Last night a DJ did save his life. Last night and many nights before. Grouchy but grateful. And Maurice was sure that there would be many other nights for the DJ to do his thing.

The DJ then played ‘Got to be Real’ by Cheryl Lynn. He was hitting all of Maurice’s sweet spots. He took a swig of Scotch and pulled the cigar from his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. The ‘No Smoking’ sign was right in front of him so he didn’t light it up.

Maurice just bopped and sipped his Scotch. Got to be really real. He was feeling good. Top of his game, no matter what the DJ said. He was in the moment when everything revolved around him for just a short while. It doesn’t last long and a lot of people don’t even notice when it’s happening to them.

The phone in Maurice’s pocket vibrated. ‘Only foolin kid. Any requests?’ Maurice smiled. There were a few requests he had in mind. Some only recently stopped being illegal in certain states.

It was a pretty good weekend. Hanging with Rand and Julio on Friday, Connie and Jennifer on Saturday and Bill on Sunday. Everything went well. Nothing planned. The good feeling carried over to today. A lot of people out today, perhaps all week. That was great.

The encounter with Bill was definitely not planned though I did try to instigate something on Saturday afternoon. He’s phobic about having sex before driving a bus, he feels he will kill himself and the passengers if he did. So perhaps I saved close to 60 lives. Yeah right.

I told him that we have a lot going for us, and sex is just sex. I’ve had it, hoped I wouldn’t look for it again, but it seems I might have to. It’s a lot like keys. You have your keys, but somewhere down the line you will misplace them. If you find them, great. But sometimes there is a good chance that you might need a new key or even a whole new lock.

And maybe the locksmith is a hot guy, like the cross between George Clooney and Colin Farrell. Or just resembles one of the two, I’m not picky. And he’s horny and hot….

I wake up in a cold sweat and stumble to the refrigerator for a swig of diet 7Up. The cold tile floors bring me to an irritated state of consciousness. I see a few empty Heineken bottle and Guinness cans. Ashtrays overflow with stale Gauloises.

I walk into the bathroom and take a piss while looking in the mirror. I always think I look good when I’m wasted. I’m that detached from my persona, it’s like a vacation from me.

I’m handsome, witty and a touch decadent.

I wake up under a pillow. The cat has clawed my arm trying to roust me from bed so I can feed him. When I shoo him off the bed, he goes into the next room and caterwauls. But he sounds almost human. It sounds like he’s saying ‘Hello’. Which is endearing in a frightening way.

I stumble out of bed and walk into the kitchen and find there is no fucking cat food. I realize that I am truly an idiot. I was in the store last night and walked right by the cat food. Nothing. Not even dry food that I shouldn’t give him since he’s been fixed. I remember I have a can of tuna in the fridge. The cat will eat well, once the tuna in his bowl warms to room temperature. No, he’s impatient and hungry. He’ll eat the damn thing cold.

I wake up in the Lincoln Tunnel. The New Yorker magazine from 3 weeks ago is at my feet. The bus is crowded, people standing in the aisle. I sit in the back, next to the wheel well. Whoever wants to sit next to me will sit on top of the wheel well. Not very comfortable, but roomy.

No one wants to sit next to me. I pick up the New Yorker and go back to sleep.