Back to basics

This is a coming home moment for me.

Or perhaps a “homecoming” if you will.

I wrote some stories long ago about a guy named James who lived in Los Angeles. No, I’m not talking about “Detective James”. That’s a different guy (or is it?). Nor is it James Pietermeister, the character in my critically acclaimed A Shot at the Title series.

This James was just a normal guy with a hardass Scottish roommate whom he was possibly having sexual relations with. He also had a tense rivalry with a guy named Randy and a bully-like friendship with a dipshit named Dale. It was sort of my nod to Charles Bukowski.

Sometimes the stories connected. Sometimes they didn’t.

The last story ended on a cliffhanger where Dale was killed and Randy was revealed to James’ father. This will be a soft reboot.

So enjoy Back to Basics

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Back to Basics

By Beau Montana

Sometimes I open my medicine cabinet and wonder how many ibuprofens I can take before kidney failure. Then I take a shit, pour a couple shots of Jim Beam, then grab my keys to begin my second shift job at the toilet factory.

This is how my mornings usually go.

But on this particular morning, I was stumbling drunk and minding my business when I was approached by a slick Philly with a quarter. “Say,” says the man as flips the coin off his thumb, “that’s a nice car you got there.”

“Thanks,” I shrugged, “it’s an 84 Fiero I pulled out of a drainage ditch in Glendale.”

“Care to take me for a spin?”

Not one to argue, I invited the stranger into the vehicle. “Are you gonna put on your seatbelt?” I say.

“You know what they say about seatbelts? Only the Dutch and homos wear em. Do I look like a Dutch?”. He lowered his shades and clicked his seatbelt.

I started the car and we began rolling towards Sunset in the direction of the toilet factory. At a stop sign, the man rolled down the window and pulled out an old Ruger .22. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked.

He lowered the pistol and aimed it at oncoming traffic. Several wheels squealed and came to a complete stop. I was now cleared to move through the intersection. “As my pappy always said,” he told me, “the car don’t make the man. But a Ruger sure does.”

It was at this point I started to get worried. A little closer to Sunset, the man wanted to accost a roaming street hooker. “Hey sugar tits,” the man shouted to the woman as I pulled up to the curb, “wanna make a quick dime?”

“Sir, I’m late for my shift at the Red Lobster,” the woman said.

“Don’t get defensive baby, I’m only looking for a tug or two.”

“How about I drop you off here?” I ask the man. “I’m almost to work anyway.”

The man lifted the Ruger and rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “Like I said, this is a nice car,” he replied. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

I thought for a second. “Yeah you’re right, this is a damn nice car. What should I do?”

Then the man rubbed his finger along the barrel of the firearm. “How about you walk the rest of the way to work,” he suggested. “I’ll take care of the car.”

I thought that was the sensible option so I stepped out of the Fiero and he climbed into the driver’s seat. “You’re a smart man,” he told me. Then he slammed on the gas and went roaring towards Sunset.

I stood on the street amazed. Everyday I’ve cursed Los Angeles and everyone in it. But I guess there are still a few good angels left in this town.