“Hey man,” said the dude at the head of the kitchen table at a house in East Tulsa. We were expecting a party, but when I walked in the door it was only him and four hard looking motherfuckers playing cards. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was built. Angry looking, but not angry. Eerily wise looking in spite of the angry expression on his face. Hardcore. This dude was the real fuckin’ deal. He pointed at an ice chest by the table. “Get a beer.”
It was Christmas Night, 2001.
My buddy, an artist from Brooklyn, was with me. He was oblivious to the tension. A girl he met the night before at a dance club on Brookside where I bounced gave him her number. He convinced me to come over here with him.
I knew the girl, and helped her out when she got in some trouble once. She kept rough company. My friend didn’t care about that. His brain wasn’t thinking; his dick was.
My friend was a small guy. Not above 5’7”, muscular, but covered it in loose clothes that mimicked something Picasso would’ve worn. Paint spattered jeans, Etnies, a loose hoodie, and a parka. His hair looked like chia sprouts left untended. He wore fingerless knit gloves. You wouldn’t have thought this guy was a master pussy hound. But he could hook ’em, fuck ’em, and still keep ‘em as friends afterward. I think he fucked everyone he met in Tulsa.
Well, almost everyone.
He had no clue how small of a place Tulsa is. There are always micro-political forces at work in a place this interconnected. But he didn’t sense that; the lure was too strong for him. I was his sidekick that night. His protection from himself, in some ways.
I scanned the room when we walked in. Immediately, I felt a need to piss. Nothing seemed right about this scenario.