The Lost Weekend

The Crest Motel is arguably one of the biggest dumps you can rent for the night, but our weekend L.A. road trip wouldn’t require much of a room. Allen’s track record of hooking up with someone or spending the night at the baths meant we’d only need it “just in case.”  That was how he pitched it to me, anyway.

We announced ourselves to the man at the front desk and he imprinted the credit card. He spoke some sort of dialect that was hybrid of Turkish and Ferenghi, as he pointed us to our rooms and wished us a good night. 

Time would tell.

We bounded up the metal stairs past the row of doors painted Pacific Blue. The Crest was one of those two-story white stucco motels that surrounded a pool in the middle courtyard. Hollywood pools have given me the creeps ever since watching  William Holden meet his soggy fate at the murderous hands of Gloria Swanson.

We entered our room—213—and surveyed the joint. Two squeaky cots that (had we brought our own mattresses) could have passed for real beds. The inside of the mini-fridge in our “kitchenette” had been tagged with the same blue enamel used to paint the motel doors. A piece of duct-taped cardboard blocked our view from what was once the shower window.

No matter. If were were lucky, we wouldn’t see the room again until checkout time tomorrow.

As we preened our selves for our big night in West Hollywood, we heard shouting from the room next door. It was a lone, angry voice.

“You tell Rico, if you see him, that I’ve got the papers!” At first we thought he was a wannabe actor running lines before an audition, but as the conversation went on we realized he was yelling at someone over the phone. Allen and I raised our brows, and spritzed ourselves with another shot of Halston Z-14 then made a beeline for the door.

Before reaching the stairs, we were stopped dead in our tracks by a slight, short man with a pencil-thin mustache and shiny black pompadour. Savoir Faire eez everywhere!

“You da guys in 213?” he asked poking a spindly finger into Allen’s chest. 

“Yes,” we answered in nervous unison.

“Well if you see Rico, tell him I got the papers, got it?”

We promised we would, then sprang down the stairs, past the Turkish Ferenghi, then out the door for our night on the town.

***

The first of the clubs to have Happy Hour (other than Rage which was way too chi-chi for our scrawny untanned bodies) was Gold Coast—a sort of Cannery Row looking dive. Its patrons and staff looked more like the Pirates of the Caribbean than International Male.

Allen and I crunched through the peanut shells on the floor as guys watched sports from booths surrounding the room. He ordered a Heineken. I ordered a G&T. We mocked a few people and had another drink. More mocking, more drinks, more mocking...morrr drinksshh.

A few (three? four?) guys asked if they could join us. They were a far cry from Allen’s frat boy fantasy and even further from my penchant for gawkish nerds. They were bikers and rather than get our heads bashed in, we let them squish into our booth.

A Norsk blonde with a big smile sat next to me. In true “devil-may-care-road trip-fashion” I promptly had my hands and tongue all over him. (Flash forward: As Allen’s camera would later prove, the guy was very dirty, semi-toothless and nothing at all like the Adonis stored in my gin-induced mind.)

We bid the bikers adieu and crunched through the peanut shells out the door and found ourselves back on a dark and slightly blurry Santa Monica Boulevard. The queue at the door of Revolver was short and seemed our next obvious choice. I always liked Revolver. It was a video bar, where I could get drunk and watch TV, just like home, but had a better chance of getting laid.

Once inside, I ordered another G&T against my better judgement, propped myself up on the bar and watched some Lucy reruns and Saturday Night Live skits.

I don’t know where Allen went, but after three hours of big screen TV and God knows how many cocktails, I was ready to go.

I tracked him down and we headed back to The Crest—but not before stopping at a bathhouse. This was the one part of gay life I had always vowed to steer away from. I really just wanted to go to sleep, but Allen was in terrible need of some nookie so I, empathetic guy that I am, relented. We got in line.

We shuffled forward for about an hour until we got to the door. Shrek, the gatekeeper, said it was another hour wait once we got inside.

That was too long a wait even for Allen so we said “screw it,” and drove back to the room. Another bullet dodged.

Back at the room, I bolted toward the bathroom and hurled every gin and tonic (and lime) I downed that night. I had never been so ill.

I collapsed onto the bed. “Goodnight Blonde Biker.”

***

Morning came around and my eyes opened as best they could. My head was pounding. My mouth tasted as though the bathhouse ogre had shit in it. I rolled over to see Allen’s bed not only empty, but unslept in.

I recounted the night’s activities—drink, drink, biker, drink, hurl, pass out. I remember Allen bringing me back to the room, but judging from his past habits of bars, booze and baths, my guess was that he didn’t want his night to end watching me puke my guts into a rust-stained toilet.

I opened the door and stood on the balcony to get some air. The sun was bright and a couple of birds flitted around the courtyard—all in all, a beautiful L.A. morning. I looked at the sunlight bouncing off the pool and noticed something submerged at the bottom—a wadded tangle of sheets.  

“Allen?” 

My heart stopped and a chill went down my spine. “Rico got him,” I thought and wondered what the connection was. Was this more than a simple road trip? Was Rico one of the guys at the Gold Coast? How can I get the keys to the truck out of that tangle of sheets? Where was the Toyota, anyway?

I dove back into the room and locked the door and sat on the edge of my bed for what must have been an hour, wondering what to do.

The sound of keys in the doorknob jolted be back to reality.

It was Allen.

He had a glint in his eye from what I could tell. Mine were still swollen shut. 

He had gone back to Revolver after dropping me off where karaoke night was in full swing.

I can’t imagine Allen with a microphone, but apparently his version of “The Wimoweh Sleeps Tonight”  won the heart of a strapping lad from Indiana.

Allen apologized for putting me into panic mode. I apologized for putting a damper on the first part of his evening. 

We packed our bags and I stole a bad oil painting from the wall.

We headed toward I-15 Northbound, hopefully leaving Rico (and the papers) in the dust.