Happy Birthday, You Crazy Fucker

For the most part, I was unconscious for my 30th birthday party. Everyone was there. My stripper coworkers, my waitress coworkers, ex-coworkers from the furniture store, my animal pack from the Valley, my drinking buddies, my smokers, my ex-gangster friends, my video-game friends, my business partners, my ballroom dance partners, my poet friends, my activist friends, my musician friends, my painter friends, my artist friends, all were there, under one roof, to celebrate my third decade of life.

In the multi-million dollar house on the hills of an old South Pasadena, overlooked Dodger Stadium. 6 bedroom, 4 bathroom, three storey house. Where, from the two 30 foot long, 15 foot wide balconies, the backyard was a 100 acreage of untouched nature. Where in the mornings, packs of coyotes hunted rabbits and the eagles and hawks soared eye level. The fancy shcmancy house where I lived with three other roommates, each paying a measly $500 for rent.

I grabbed the rail. It was almost midnight. That’s not really when I would’ve turned 30, though. It would’ve been the afternoon after. But, hey. Semantics, right?

I was drunk as fuck. There was around 200 people there for me, and, I’m pretty sure, I took a shot of whiskey with, at least, half of them. Jack Daniels. The preferred.

It was kind of funny to me that most of my gifts were bottles of Jack Daniels. There was a lot of journals and pens, but mainly, it was a bottle of Jack Daniels. Went to show what people thought of me. A drunk writer. Living in a multi-million dollar house.The stories did their job. All they really knew was that I was a manager of a strip club. That I flew across the country performing, doing shows, reading my poetry, and crap like that. That no drink could stop me, that no drug could hurt me. I was an immortal in the eyes of people that needed to feel better about themselves because someone they actually knew was living out a crazy artists story. One that they would never ever be able to live.

They didn’t know the truth. I was depressed. Unhappy. Alone. Interestingly enough the same behavior that created this caricature of a bohemian lover, was unconsciously my screams for help. This lifestyle was burning me out faster than, well, fire. I was going to die regardless.

So I held onto the rail. tight. White knuckled. Heard all the laughter and banter behind me, below me. Thought that everyone was here for someone that didn’t really exist. Someone that I really didn’t like. Someone I would make fun of if he wasn’t me.

I looked over the rail, down on the big balconey below me, where some random guests of mine were reveling. Below that, a 100 foot drop to the bottom of the dark hill. Lots of rocks and sticks. A pretty hard ground. I blinked. And threw one leg over before someone could grab me. Then I threw the other one over. And prepared to push off. See how immortal I was.

Then I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. And just as grabbed it to wrench it off, his other hand grabbed mine. I shot an angry, drunk glance at ther man whom the hands belonged to.

It was Jim. My friend Jim. short, yet sturdy. Menacing, yet caring. Short cropped hair, but wild. It was Jim.

“Yo, Xavier.” He said sternly. “Get back over here. You’re not done with your party yet.”

I looked into his eyes. Scary eyes. But comforting eyes. The eyes of someone I had been to hell and back with. A friend of mine for more than ten years. The guy who taught me about coffee and cigarettes. This was jim. And he was asking em to come back.

So I did.

And as I finally put both of my feet on the safe side of the balconey, a bunch of voices form inside were heard yelling, “He almost jumped!” ” That guys crazy!” “Yeah, but you know Xavier. He’s got a flair for the dramatic!” “That guy! H’e's crazy!” Crap like that. Crap people didn’t know anything about. Just something they read in a book or saw in a movie that they wanted to be around. The character in fiction that no one really wanted to be like, but who they wanted to be around.

I looked at Jim. He put both his hands on my shoulders. “You alright, man?” He asked gruffly.

I looked at his feet and then at mine. “Naw, man. I’m far from okay. I’m pretty fucked up right now.”

He patted my shoulders. “It’s cool, man. It’s cool….” He said.

That’s when I passed out.

The next morning I heard stories that I went downstairs to my room with two girls from the club. They were going to tuck me in and tell me bedtime stories. I heard there was a show we put on. I heard there was a video tape that mysteriously vanished. I heard that I fought with someones boyfriend. And then someones girlfriend. I heard the cops came but didn’t break up the party. I heard there was strip poker upstairs. I heard a lot of unbelievable things.

Then I got dressed and went to work. Night shift manager of a strip club called, The Glass Stiletto.

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