24 Oct 2006

He who dares wins in the city...

So, its important to note that in general - I'm not that bad of a guy. Por Hemplo, I usually try to give money to the homeless and compliment the ugly. I always tip both servers and strippers and I usually try to do that tap on the head thing before I...ahem. Well, despite all these great character traits I'm still finding myself on the banned list of certain hotels.
Here's the thing - third night in San Francisco and we spend it drinking and eating at this place called Cha Cha Cha on Haight street. I'm there with my friends Tony and Mely two fellow Santa Fe transplants as well as King George and Eric. We get bombed and start speaking supermarket Italian. You know, Preggo, Mozzeralla..Provolone, conversing gallantly in the romance language. Well as things go we left the restaurant and hit some clubs and had a great evening.

Pretty normal - but don't worry...it gets better.

Around two in the morning we get back to the hotel and find ourselves with a mighty thirst. At first Tony, Eric and I try to hit one of the liquor stores (I didn't know they stopped selling at 2) but it's of no use. One funny thing is that I learned that Eric makes like a gay rabbit and flees at the first sign of danger (in this case a wheel chair bound Rasta who was rolling behind us shouting shit). We get back to the hotel disappointed and decided to order a pizza. At three in the morning both are very essential. Unfortunately for us, Mr. Pizza Man the 24hr pizza delivery service wouldn't deliver to our hotel.

In that moment of glorious defiance I ripped up the phone book in protest of the pizza company that spited us. I threw the shredded pieces of paper out the window and down they fell 6 stories to 4th street - like some urban duck hunt gone awry. This was followed in rapid succession by a water glass, an iron, a tv remote control, a Gideons bible, one air jordan, 4 eggs, coffee mix, a coffee pot, Georges and then my urine, Eric's Argyle sweater and finally our innocence which fell faster then michael jacksons pants at a boyscout jamboree. Everything hit the ground with either a satisfying thud or an electrifying crash!
Then as if a sign from heaven, or at least from the hotels management( at this point in my life one might be a metaphor for the other) the phone in our room began to ring.I failed to mention that Eric had passed out. This is important later.

My general rule of thumb is that if your hotel phone rings after 2 in the morning its always best to grab your shit and flee. Which is what we did. Except for Eric who was assed out.

I make it halfway down the hall and almost to the elevator when my conscious kicks in. I couldn't leave Eric, he was co-signer of my lease, my personal Internet cafe (I am using his laptop to write this) a source of most of my jokes, my hetero life partner and most important my friend. So with no regard for danger to either life or limb I went back for him. I ran in the room and shook him till he woke up - sleepy, drunk and confused. I told him grab your shit and go. It took him a minute to comprehend the scope of what I was yelling at him.

Just a quick aside, King George has learned this from numerous strip club encounters - when I say we have to go...I mean it, we have to go now.

We grab as much shit as we can from the room and head toward the elevator. Its at this moment when the story goes from mundane to insane.

Like cowboys we're cut off at the pass by savages - in this case the night bellman. He yells in full authority - were you the ones in 617? Of course, being the slick tongued smooth operating devil that I am - I yell no. I must have telegraphed my intentions with my eyes because he grabs for my arm. I pull a terell owens do a juke and sprint down the stairs, yelling at Eric -run motherfucker! I get down to the lobby and the little bastard bellman has beat me there, must have taken the elevator. He's at the door. He's blocking it with his body. Telling me the cops are on the way. Telling me I'm going to jail. I tell him I don't want trouble, pretend like I'm heading to the front desk and then when his guards down - I tackle him. We both go flying threw the front door of the hotel in an orgy of destruction and youthful ambition.

I will not go silently into that good night.

I get up - the bellman's down, I take off running down the street. I pass Tony, yell at him to run, he hands me his car keys and I fly four blocks down the street and hide in his car.

George, Mely and Tony join me shortly - but where's Eric?

From the car I see about 5 cruisers blazing down the street towards the hotel. I picture little Eric being taken downtown, being interrogated - bright light shinning in his face. Grizzled police asking him - where were you the night of October 5? The Judge throwing the book at him - prison showers...then I realize he might like it and suddenly I don't feel that bad. We creep down by the hotel, Erics in cuffs sitting on the curb. We pull into a little side street and wait. Delighted to be alive and scared for my friend. Then my phone rings and its Eric and they let him out. He's down the street hiding from homeless. He says the cops are looking for us. He tells us that he acted his balls off with the cops - told them that he didn't know us, was just invited to party in our room. Since his name wasn't on any of the hotel registers they let him go.

I ask him what happened in the hotel - how did the bastards get you?

He tells us that he was right behind me - he saw the tackle and as he was about to make his move the other guy behind the front desk locked the door by remote. He hit the door anyway and thats when he got tackled by a now very angry bellman. The front desk dude threw the bellman a club and threatened to brain eric with it if he got up. Thats how he stayed till the cops arrived.

Its King Georges last night in town and we pick up Eric and race to get George to the Airport - laughing the hole time.

Who says youth is wasted on the young?