What seemed like days in my own personal hell with my friend PG (Producer Gay), his Trick (the poop whisperer), and countless hours of Miley Cyrus was in fact only a one day drive. The moment we arrived at the hotel, I was overcome with excitement. Finally I could spread my wings and relax, without the need to be chauffeuring a casualty of porn and a coke-crusted whiter version of Miss Daisy. As we walked into our hotel, I couldn't escape a conversation I shared with Trick on the drive up. He had detailed his intentions of exploring a friendship with PG, rather than a rancid continuation of the sexual combat they had shared the night before. Trick claimed no contest to renting his own hotel room from ours, in order to set a certain boundary. While I wanted for PG to enjoy his trip, I also wanted to enjoy mine. Part of that would include the absence of Trick's foolery. This is what made our arrival that much more strange.
After valeting the car, the three of us walked up the hotel stairs to the reservation desk, which sat on the second story of the establishment. As PG walked up towards the attendant, I sat my ass down in one of the lobby chairs. I expected Trick to get in line as well, following through on his promise of a private room. Instead, I found myself being shoved over in my chair. "Make room for me. I'm really exhausted." Without being able to stop my mouth, I instinctively responded: "Because you've been driving for ten hours straight?! Right?!" I couldn't help myself from labeling Trick as the least self-aware piece of shit I had met in quite a long time. He didn't seem to have any bearing. PG was stationed in front of the reservation specialist for at least ten minutes while I sat squeezed into a chair for one with the bane of this trip. There was some sort of issue with the credit card that had been used for the reservation ahead of time. As the clock had struck well past midnight, I couldn't help myself from starting to set up shop in the lobby, ready for bed. I didn't have enough money in my pocket for the cost of this luxe hotel's rooms, so I didn't have much in the way of options. Trick, on the other hand, had explained his interest in procuring his own room. "Aren't you going to get your own room, buddy? Isn't that what you said?!" I was going to make this happen for my benefit. Rather than reply, Trick just sat there. This became a governing theme of the trip after exiting the confines of our jail cell within PG's car. Often times, I would ask a question of Trick or try to engage him, followed by total silence. It must have been equivalent to asking Hellen Keller how she's taking in the sights or trying to discuss abstinence and sexual health with Flavor Flav. These conversations would go nowhere. After a few moments, I would find myself having moved on. About ten minutes after asking Trick whether or not he'd be reserving his own room, I was met with a confusing "No, I'm okay."
Shut the fucking door? What? Were we even talking? "What's okay?" I asked. "Oh, I'm okay. I'm not going to get my own room." Were we still having a conversation? What was happening. Delayed responses are one thing; this was a whole other animal of creature. Once I realized he was responding to my question from ten minutes prior, I decided to absolve myself from the conversation. This was not a meeting of the minds, but rather a cringe-inducing foresight into the rest of the trip.
While PG spent his aggravated time arguing with the bank over the phone - after hours - I took in the scenery of this San Francisco travelers destination. There were a slew of transient occupants walking the halls of this hotel lobby, all seemingly of some sort of Asian descent. Once PG grabbed our room keys, I announced this observation to him and was met with a chuckle-inducing ethnic joke of racist proportions: "Didn't you know, Raanan? San Francisco is the birthplace of rice." I giggled as soon as it fell out of my friend's mouth and helped set us all back a step as a racially-biased civilization. I'm a Gay Jew, so I pretend it's okay to joke.
Before heading towards the elevators for our night's rest, I noticed a lovely little girl. She couldn't have been over the age of twenty one and she was standing amidst the check-in area of the lobby in a tight little black dress, most probably sold as a t-shirt. I was experiencing a full anatomy lesson on ass and vagina. Who knew how informative this trip was going to be?! She had run-down stockings without a shoe near her toes. This barefoot young girl without underwear was clearly soliciting. Whatever she had for sale was clearly not for my purchase, but I was enjoying the sights. I paused our departure from the lobby as I had to observe. While she wandered around, seeking the attention of a man (correction - a heterosexual man), the security in the hotel lobby kept asking her to leave. All of a sudden, the only white male most probably in existence in that hotel, walked over towards her. He couldn't have been a day over sixty-five, so clearly this was going to be a meeting of intellectual equals. As he cradled her backside, our new "friend" was whispering in his overgrown hairy ear words that I couldn't make out from far. Then she yelled out: "One-hundred!" And with that, the old man disappeared for a few minutes. Upon his return, the elder gentleman handed her a stack of cash in the most obvious way possible, shoving it down her mosquito bitten chest. The two of them approached the front desk, asking for a room, while the attendant was giving them a hard time. All the while, I was observing with Trick and PG in tact. Trick turned to me and said "I would have asked for at least two-hundred..." To which, I couldn't help myself but say: "You've only done it once, right?"
And with that, we rose from my single-seater chair and approached the elevator. Trick turned to me and asked where we should venture out for the evening. "Are you fucking kidding me? You know I just drove for the last 10 hours. The only place I'll be venturing to will be dreamland." You'd think there'd be a bit of appreciation as I "took one for the team" driving this long torrential ride all by myself, but alas there was not. "Well, I'm exhausted too. I was in the car also, but we're on vacation." Um... Correction Trick, you took MY vacation hostage. And with that, we got in the elevator and found our room for the week. There were two queen sized beds, equating to my own place to rest my head, while PG and Trick would have their own semen palace on the other side of the room. Within minutes of checking in, I passed out.
The following morning, our first day in SF, I was woken to the sounds of PG showering and preparing for his day. I should have gotten myself ready for the day and fled that room as quickly as possible. Trick was fast asleep, but I was still exhausted. I turned on my iPad and tuned in to some of the TV I had missed from the night before. My plan involved a little programming catch-up followed by a day-long destination at a coffee shop to write. I knew Trick may be in tow, but I had laid out the ground rules the day before, explaining my true intentions for the trip. Writing was my only real intention, with the nights planned around PG's reckless addiction to alcohol and boys.
An hour into my TV time, Trick woke up. As per usual, he did not clean up nicely; Trick was not well-kept in the morning or the evening. While he struggled to open his cake-crusted eyes, I rose to use the shower. "What are we going to do today?" I was asked. "Well, I'm going to write in a coffee shop or find a nice spot in the park. You're welcome to come along, but I'm not going to be much entertainment or conversation for you." I was hoping he'd refrain from any involvement in my day, but alas I was wrong. "I'm cool with that. It's just going to take me ten minutes or so to get ready." I should have dressed and left with PG, but I opted to rest and catch up on TV, so shame on me.
Shortly after my shower began, it was over. I'm a fast boy when it comes to getting ready. I can be in and out of the shower within minutes and dressed shortly after that. Within less than ten minutes, I was ready for the day. As Trick got ready to shower, I opted to meet him downstairs outside the lobby where the smokers go. "I'm going to have a cigarette and I'll meet you down there when you're done." I grabbed my bag and proceeded to the elevator. Once outside, I lit my Marlboro Light 100 and began calling friends, sharing the details of our drive up. After a few cigarettes and over thirty minutes, I became rather frustrated with Trick. How long does it really take to shower? Also, if it's going to be at least thirty minutes, afford yourself that time rather than making people wait. There's a certain sense of decorum necessary when on a group trip. Trick had no self-awareness, so I should have assumed otherwise. As the time continued to trickle on, it hit forty five minutes and I couldn't understand what this mess was doing. I texted him: "Where are you, bitch?!" As an aside, I call all of my friends "bitches" and "hos" as a sense of endearment. Trick didn't take it that way. "Why are you being mean to me? It's only been ten minutes. And why'd you call me, bitch?" I apologized and explained that I meant it in the nicest way possible. Then I asked how much longer he would be and even offered he come meet me after he was done. "I'll only be five more minutes. Please wait." So, with that, I continued to wait for this mess to come down the hallway lobby for me.
An hour and a half after I had arrived outside, Trick came prancing through the lobby doors in the same outfit as the day before. If anything, he looked dirtier than he had prior to his shower. His eyes still carried caked-out dirtiness around the edges of his lids and he smelled like a tar factory. What the fuck had he been doing upstairs?! As we left to go on our walk towards coffee/workspace, Trick was mystified by every store-front, asking to stop in any and everywhere possible. Within a few minutes, I realized I would not be able to write for the day. I was going to be the resident babysitter. The drive up was just a preliminary exercise in training me for this week. Trying to adjust to this new plan, I decided we may as well do some sight seeing. "Do you mind walking around the city and venturing up to the Castro (the gayest area of SF - if that's even possible) with me?" Trick obliged as he had no plausible options outside of day-drinking. We began walking up Market Street in SF, an area I was somewhat familiar with at the time. Every five or six feet, Trick found a distraction. A homeless man with a crowbar approached us asking if we wished to purchase weed. "I got the purple shit everybody wants!" Trick began to inquire and I grabbed his arm. "We're gonna keep walking, mr." As we continued to walk, Trick began to complain about the shoes he was wearing. He had a pair of Doc Marten boots on that had yet to be broken in. "You brought uncomfortable shoes to a city that's based around walking...?" He had no answer, yet he continued to complain. PG was a common topic of conversation as he complained, yet again, about my friend. "He tried having sex with me all night! Ugh." I was firstly grossed out by PG's kept interest in this foul creature, but more so confused by Trick's lack of awareness to the contract he entered into by joining this trip. "Did you ever think you may have given him the wrong idea?" Then, crickets. No response. About ten minutes later, while walking together silently, Trick turned to me and said: "What kind of idea could I have given?" Oh, we're still having that conversation? Um, no. I just ignored him.
We finally found ourselves at a Starbucks in the Castro and I decided to set up shop at a table they had outside. I had hoped to enjoy a caffeinated treat at an independent coffee shop, but Trick was afraid of anything new. "Starbucks is open everywhere for a reason." I love Starbucks, but this way of thinking was not my own. We ordered drinks and it became obvious that Trick expected me to pay for him, which I did. I began writing at our outside work station, but couldn't focus as Trick kept trying to grab my attention. It was imperative that he show me pictures of all the random guys he was chatting with online for sex, that were currently in the area. "But you came up here with my friend. Why are you looking for anything online?" The response was brilliant: "PG and I are just going to be friends." After about two hours, I grew restless in his presence and decided to venture elsewhere in the area. "I wanna go check out Delores Park. I think it's just a few blocks from here. Up for a walk?" While I expected Trick to jump at the opportunity to continue holding my day captive, I was gleeful with the reaction I received instead. "Actually, my feet hurt so bad right now. Can't we just stay?" I agreed and ventured inside the coffee conglomerate for a refill.
It couldn't have been more than four or five minutes that it took to walk inside Starbucks and order my coffee and return to our table outside. When I returned, there was a middle aged man seated in my chair. I began to look around, worried for my possessions. My entire book was kept in that pile and now my workstation was no more. As I did a 360 turn around the premises, I found Trick seated on the steps of a row home half a block down the street. As I approached, I realized he had my belongings in hand, so I felt somewhat less panicked. "What happened to our spot? Why'd you move here?" Then Trick proved what a hassle he was to my existence: "Well, that man looked like he wanted a chair, so I offered him our table." I could have understood if it was a handicapped or older man, for sure, but this man couldn't have been more than fifteen years my senior and he was walking fine. Well, actually, he was now sitting pretty at my workstation.
With my lack of seating potential, I decided it was time to venture towards the park. Because I was merely a visitor to the city at that time, I wasn't 100% sure where Delores Park was. I had an inclination to continue down the street we were on, but I had no guarantees. This was part of the travel journey, so if I went in the wrong direction, no harm. Trick couldn't agree. "Well, my feet are hurting. Why don't you go and I'll stay here? You can text me when you find the park." I agreed excitedly. Finally I would have time free from the confines of his dirty mess. As I walked a few blocks down the street, I was instantly met with Delores Park. I made the decision to ignore texting Trick. This was my time to write and enjoy myself. I made a spot for myself in the park, called a friend or two, and began to set up shop. About an hour and a half later, I received a text from Trick asking me where I was. I chose to abstain from a response. Here I was, a stranger to this city - having only visited twice prior - making due on my own; why couldn't he do the same? When he agreed to the trip, amidst the throws of dirty pig sex with my friend PG, he had no idea who I was or whether we would be enjoying one another's time. For the record, I was not enjoying his time.
Shortly afterwards, I decided to venture to this lovely Tea Lounge around the corner from the park. I had been to this place - Samovar Tea Lounge - on my last visit and remembered enjoying it. Walking in with my backpack and working materials, I sat down at a table and ordered a Blood Orange Tea from my server. This hip little find in the middle of the action, here in SF, is very quaint and sweet. I felt transported to the workplace I had originally planned for myself, agreeing to this trip. Sipping tea and writing away, I was in heaven. I almost forgot about Trick. Then as quickly as I forgot about him, I was reminded of the syphilis infection that hijacked my trip. My phone began to blink with a series of texts. "Where are you?" "Why haven't you texted me?" "What's going on?" "Where is this park?" "Answer me!" The irony of this all is that there was no delay between these text messages. I received each and every message all at once. Erratic, yes; Psychotic, quite possibly; My friend, not quite. I texted him my whereabouts and informed him that this Tea Lounge did not serve coffee. "I don't drink coffee. You know that, Raanan." And with that, I geared up for his arrival.
A few minutes later, Trick walked in to my Tea Lounge with two 32 ounce Sugar Waters (Lemonade) and sat down at my table. While you may be able to bring any and all outside beverages to Starbucks, this Tea Lounge is not quite like that. You are transported to different parts of Asia, gaining the entire tea service ritual while enjoying your time at this lounge. I would have assumed outside beverage was off limits, but that's just me. It seems I was not alone, because within minutes the server approached our table with the same understanding as my own. The exchange was priceless.
"I'm sorry, but you can't bring outside beverages here. Can I pour your 'drink' into one of our mugs?"
"No. I'm okay."
"I'm sorry, but you can't have those here."
"I said I'm okay."
"I apologize. Maybe I'm not saying the right words, but you have to dispose of your 'drinks'."
"Can you leave us alone?!"
(awkward pause, followed by the server grabbing a mug and presenting it)
"Do you mid if I pour that into here?"
"Fine."
Trick then placed the other bottle of sugar water into his bag after I explained the scenario to him. It was like explaining the need for clothing to Matthew McConaughey. The conversation wasn't going much of anywhere. I was horribly embarrassed, noticing the glaring stares from the entire staff. Trick had no self-awareness. As I attempted to continue writing, Trick started up again as the worst possible distraction. After showing me countless faceless torsos he had acquired online through different gay sex applications on his phone, Trick became concerned with the present status of his haphazard hair. "I want to get a haircut. Want to go with me to get one? There's got to be a 'Super Cuts' in this city." I agreed that he needed a haircut, but mostly in an effort to get him out of my range. In truth, a flea bath was more necessary than a trivial haircut, but any excuse to get him gone was good with me. "Why don't you get a haircut while I stay here an write? We can meet afterwards." After a few minutes of attempting to entice my company, Trick agreed to leave. Free, again. Thank you Jesus and Oprah.
While Trick had now ventured out, I began to write away, yet again. Then PG called me from his conference and we laughed about Trick's ridiculous nature. PG informed me of the night before's bedroom interaction. I had passed right out and hadn't been privy to any of the happenings. As the story went, Trick became extremely irritable with PG throughout the evening, threatening to call the front desk claiming "RAPE!" every time my friend tried to hold him or embrace. "I want to take things slow!" That was the continual cry from Trick's mouth to PG's ears. Again, this was rather strange and extremely odd considering their original meeting, which mind you was the night prior. Despite the stories from our car ride and the mess that was Trick, PG still wanted him. I believe that this sort of chase was brand new to my friend and he couldn't take the rejection. Normally boys throw themselves at PG, hoping for his attention and help with success. I've seen many a boy throw caution to the wind in hopes of PG's undying attention. Then, shortly after an encounter or two, PG loses interest. This was entirely new to my friend as this third wheel was an enigma to PG. The chase began to consume him, yet there was no denying this addition to our trip was a mess.
Shortly after hearing PG's story, he informed me that he would be back from his work conference and at the hotel by 8 pm, anticipating a night out. It was only about four-thirty in the afternoon at this point, so I had plenty of time to continue my work at the Tea Lounge. I agreed to be back home at our hotel and ready for a night out upon PG's return. While I'm not a crazy partier and would have much preferred a night at the movies, I know how PG is and I had agreed to come on his trip. Crazy nights were inevitable and part of our planned itinerary. A few minutes after hanging up the phone, Trick texted me that he had finished his haircut and would retire to the hotel room until going out that night. I let out a sigh of relief and then texted him back, asking how his haircut turned out. "It's okay, I guess..." I didn't really understand this response as I think there's not much gray area with a haircut. You like it or you don't, right? Perhaps I'm crazy. Actually, I know I'm crazy - lunatic status, but still. And with that, I decided to continue writing and take advantage of my free time.
Around 7 pm, I ventured back to the hotel for the night. As I walked into our hotel room, Trick was laying on the bed, seemingly fully dressed in a different change of clothes - a new concept so far on this trip as he had been wearing the same outfit for at least a day and a half already. The haircut was unapparent, but Trick wasn't the most well-kept of individuals, so this didn't come as a shock. I immediately began to get ready, feeling responsible to be ready by the time PG had returned. He had a full day of work and this was more so his trip than anyone else's. I wanted to be respectful, especially because this trip was done on his dime. Entering into the bathroom, I received a quick glance into what had been happening with Trick and his hour and a half long visits to the shower. Within this "green environment" of SF, our hotel had signs everywhere pleading with guests to reuse towels, keeping good with the environment. I had used one towel in the morning and intended to use the same that evening. Walking into the lavatory, I found myself staring at a stack of towels spread throughout every inch of room that was left outside the shower and toilet. Upon further inspection, I found giant brown stains covering each and every towel - most notably a cause of diarrhea. I had never seen anything like this. When one has the accessibility of both a shower and a toilet, not to mention a full vanity, why would it be necessary to wipe shit all over a stack of towels? Amongst said towels were mine and PG's, now covered in rancid stain. It was as if Van Halen were in town and went old school to trash our bathroom. Was Trick tripping on acid? How could anyone do this? Also, assuming this happened to anyone - giving the benefit of the doubt - wouldn't you do everything in your power to hide the evidence? Instead there was a bathroom full of shit linens and towels left for me to clean up? Foul. I would have asked him why he did this or if he needed a physician's visit, but I assumed he'd respond: "I only did it once."
I cleaned up the towels, adding maid to my resume, right behind chauffeur and babysitter. After calling the front desk and requesting more towels, embarrassed that we used our entire assortment within less than 24 hours, I proceeded to shower and get ready. Within a few minutes, I was dressed and ready. Shortly afterwards, PG arrived home, ready for the evening. After he took his shift in the shower, I assumed we were ready to leave. Then Trick spoke: "I still need to shower and get ready..." I couldn't help but think: "What the fuck have you been doing for the last few hours?! You already raped the bathroom." Everything in my being forced me to keep my mouth somewhat shut. There's no real way to filter my tongue, but at times I can restrain myself - a bit. I was exercising every bit of tact and restraint possible in order to make my friend happy. For whatever fucked up reason, PG was still somewhat intrigued by this Trick, so I wanted to be supportive and kind for my friend. An hour or so later, Trick was ready. I went to use the bathroom to urinate and found a brand new mess of shit-soaked towels. Lovely.
The three of us set out for an evening of debauchery. I had nowhere to be in the morning and PG had promised business expensed drinks for the evening, so I signed on happily. We got to the Castro, ready for a bar crawl. As we drank sordid cocktail - one after another, I watched Trick go from sweet and affectionate with my friend to pushing him away, claiming they could only be friends. This manic behavioral change was not overly surprising as this was the same person who had admitted to setting a car on fire and pooping in a man's mouth for money just 24 hours prior.
After we had a few drinks in us, we ended up at 'Badlands', the Castro's big dance party club. Most people end up dancing there towards the end of the night and we were no different. Feeling a fun buzz due to my drink of choice - Jameson on the Rocks - I became entrenched in the dancing fun. While out on the dance floor, Trick professed his love of me as a friend. "I love you Raanan! We're going to be best friends for life." Even lightly drunk, I knew this was a stretch.
"Sure", I said. Unable to find better words and nervous I may wake up in a pile of shit, it felt right to oblige his will. Don't ever argue with someone capable of setting you on fire during a night's slumber. "Sure" seemed like the best bet.
I find this blog to stretch longer than expected, so look forward to Part 4 - the closing segment. Sometime next week, after Thanksgiving, you get to read more about Trick, PG, and my run-in with the Keebler Elf...
xoxo.
R
