Waiting Rooms

-Chapter two

Waiting Rooms

Shortly after Vegas, Jilian did eventually break up with me over a payphone outside of Freddy's club in LA.

I have a moment of immense rage outside as I proceed to take the payphone and slam it against the receiver many times before leaving the phone hanging from its cord.

Back inside the club, Freddy's club: The Jewel Mine, which is, quote-on-quote, "The hottest club this side of West Hollywood," Is almost empty except for a couple cleaning ladies scrubbing the floor on their knees. I call out to Freddy as I descend down a set of steps from the lobby.

Freddy emerges from one of the VIP rooms stark naked eating a banana.

"Good God man have some decency!" I yell, which gets the attention of the cleaning ladies, who unfortunately look back and get an eye-full of Freddy's cock. Witnessing such inappropriate behavior in a work environment confuses the ladies who just go back to scrubbing the floor.

"What!?" He equally yells back, not just to me but to everyone on the dance floor, "Never seen a dick this big before?" He chuckles at his own joke, then directs his attention towards me as I leave the staircase, "What are you doing here? We're closed."

"I need to talk to you about something. Job related."

"Well if it is so urgent... Please step into my office." He bows his head and reaches out with his right hand stepping back like an old-fashioned butler, "Let me guide you, sir." He looks up with a stupid grin.

"Fine you fuck-head, but first put on some god damn pants."

"I shall not let God's name be used in vain in my place of worship!" He scowls at me, "Ayden, you're dealing with a man very close to Jesus, and I suggest you think very carefully before opening that mouth of yours again!"

"Oh jesus, fucking stop it you freak." I cross my arms, and roll my eyes.

"That's it!" He gets into a defensive position, and freakishly points at one of the cleaning ladies with his dick swinging. "Get the fucking cross, and get the casterating tools, cause this rebel will be dealt with accordingly." The lady stupidly looks at Freddy, and shrugs.

"MEREDITH!" Freddy yells, then aggressively points at. "Get the fucking nut chopper!"

"Mr. Jewels sir," She says in an almost comically high-pitched voice that would make you think of a cheesy soap-opera maid whose entire character is to be innocent and hispanic. "I do not know what you are talking about sir."

"Useless bunch." Freddy Scowls once again under his breath.

"Anywho," he claps his hands, "Let's go."

Freddy would take me back to the VIP room he emerged out of. The inside is beaten up with miscellaneous drinks and such oozing out of all crevices in the room.

The carpet floor feels squishy and uncomfortable with every step, making me lose balance sometimes just out of pure inconvenience. And to make things worse, the smell of marijuana, tobacco, and other contaminated fumes mixed with the living atmosphere of this room is so overwhelmingly sensitive, it almost feels like I should be required to wear a gas mask before entering.

"It smells in here dude!" I hold my nose tight as I walk into the dimly lit room following close behind Freddy who doesn't seem to mind at all.

A tiny radio on a table in the corner plays The Smashing Pumpkins, "Perfect," at a reasonably low yet atmospheric level, totally inappropriate to be playing just because the condition of this room is completely-and-utterly-not-fucking-PERFECT.

"I had the craziest night of my life last night man," Freddy says as he tosses the banana leaf, and picks a half-full snapple up off the ground and chugs it.

"Man! You're 'VIP ROOM' is giving me a fucking migraine, and I think a disease."

"Calm down princess." He says, as he shuffles through a pile of clothes and cds.

"May we please find a better place to conversate? Please!" I say before just leaving the room entirely. Freddy is a fucking slob I think as I peer down at my wrist-watch, calculating the available time I have left, which is like an hour or so, before I find myself back outside, hopping into my parallel parked vehicle, aka the fire-truck-red mazda, then it is of the utmost importance that I full throttle that bastards accelerator all the way to Warner Bros studio to accomplish yet another equally as stupid task.

Freddy then for the second time re-emerges from the room, but this time he's wearing pants!

"Alright cowboy, let's go conversate!" He says while pulling a belt through the loops of his pants.

The cleaning ladies have started to vacuum the other VIP rooms adjacent to us on the other side of the dance floor.

"Yeah..." I say with a hint of uncertainty in my voice that Freddy notices.

"What's wrong ranger? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Are you fucking drunk?" I say pushing him off.

"Maybe," he says, then proceeds to give me a noogie, "Come on champ, cheer up! Let's kick it off in my office!"

"You're definitely drunk." I say following him to another set of steps that lead to a totally separate part of the building.

"When am I ever sober?" Freddy says looking at me with that same stupid grin from before.

"Good one." I say patting him on the back.

As we advance up the steps I notice a large painting overhead: A messy drawing of king-kong on the empire state. The massive ape is holding a woman with his mouth open, saliva dripping down his furry chin.

"That one we just got finished earlier this month." Freddy says pointing up at the canvas.

"Reminds me of Andy Warhol." I say, trying to compliment it.

"Who?" Freddy turns around with a questionable impression, I have a sneaking suspicion that he might be fucking with me.

"You know, Andy Warhol... The famous artist? Soup art? ... The soup art? Very pop? Very hip?"

"I'm drawing a blank dude." Freddy says as we reach the final step, surfacing up to a crossroads then turning left to begin a short-lived journey down a hallway with intense fluorescent lights.

"Just in here." Freddy says as he pushes a door into another dimly lit room, "Just sit there or something." He points to a beanbag in the corner.

Inside there's a single hanging decoration: a poster of Rage Against the Machine's infamous album cover, you know, the monk setting himself on fire and shit. An entirely empty bookshelf is nesting above the beanbag chair. On the top shelf there's a hard copy of JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, untouched. A vinyl player rests on a table adjacent to his work desk that is transmitting signals to a ginormous speaker pushed up against the back wall that plays Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden at an above average volume. There's a milk carton with at least 30 other vinyls tucked underneath the desk with music ranging from hard rock, post-punk, some beatles, and some alternative.

A small rectangular box at the corner of his desk is actively playing MTV music videos on mute, a singular pen rests next to a 3-ring binder labeled, "Work shit."

"When did you start liking hard rock?" I say slumping myself down onto the bean bag.

"This?" He points to the air, nodding his head, "It's my brother's music." He then looks at me as he crouches down to turn down the subwoofer blasting BLACK HOLE SUN WON'T YOU COME,

"But I like all music silly." He then proceeds to sit down in one of those ergonomic chairs used in offices, then spins around.

"But, yes, I don't usually listen to this gay shit." He stops to face me, "Since my brother is coming back from that New York deal I was telling you bout, he decided he wanted an office in my club, since he kinda owns half of this electronic manor and he ultimately decided that his office should be this one, and I wasn't gonna argue with the sonofabitch, so I told him 'sure, why not brother.' and now I'm moving his stuff here, and my stuff downstairs. And the MTV is actually mine."

"That makes sense because you always struck me as the flamboyant British pop, kind-of-kid, electronic seizure kind-of-kid, Bass that makes you reconsider your life decisions, kind-of-kid."

I say getting comfortable in the chair, "So why was the music playing?"

"Because I can appreciate all fucking types of music, and I dont like quite rooms, and this is still my office until he gets back," he closes his eyes and counts in his head, "Which wont be for another month or so, and I was just fucking with you, of course I know who fucking Andy fucking Warhol is you nitwit."

He says picking up the folder, flipping it open, and flipping it back closed in a way that hints, 'I'm bored, entertain me.'