Bagwhores is a collaboration between me and a meth addict named Floyd. I met him at the Coffee Bean on Sunset and Fairfax. He wrote poetry but couldn’t find a way to link his thoughts. So he stole $200 from the newspaper stand where he worked for a week and hired me to help turn his poetic snippets into experimental prose. And so Bagwhores was born…

11:50 PM. Sunset Boulevard, the ultimate mindfuck.

The clock still tick, tick ticking away. It is the one thing I can count on. Its pulse is steady now…not too fast, not too slow…but it will quicken at any moment. I will wait with confidence. Its pulse will quicken soon enough.

I walk.

The city has a hard rain tonight, but in this neighborhood the streets still smell of urine. Acidity can’t wash away raw filth. Ah, tired and feet hurting in shoes half a size too small with steel toes to add to the pain.

Walking the streets during the day to find memories in hidden corners of the city is difficult enough. A person is too visible, too aware of what other people are doing. Noise. Cell phones ringing, talking, singing. Cars, workers, the masses—too busy to complete a full hello, rather a “hey” or quick nod is given. Ambling across the street you’re aware of your every step. And why shouldn’t you be? Stopped cars with eyes behind the glass staring, judging, possibly molesting you in a mental fantasy if you are lucky enough to be considered worthwhile.

But at night…at night…nostalgia seeps through the gutters and creeps up on you like a tendril of smoke. It flits about first in silhouette, rapid images that recall slices of emotion, bare and unforgiving. And then the shades materialize into distinct color, standing harsh and apparent in the glare of white lights that line the street. Here stand our memories, begging us to acknowledge them, make sense of them, let them live through us once again. But the streets of L.A. have their angels, and a cloak is given to those who need one. I need one. Certain memories are best left in dark alleys, shadowed by inner fears.  Nobody asks, nobody tells, nobody hurts—for now….

I walk.

Six miles is a long, no…a very long walk in this city. Being forty-six only adds to the discomfort.

Observe, observe, stop thinking! Don’t look down, down is where the mind is. Keep looking up. Make eye contact.

The women give me a half-smile, curious, timid, complex.

The men hand out an all over look, an invitation for a feast. A dinner I do not want on my plate.

I walk.

Snippets of conversation add contour to the concrete sidewalks of the boulevard. A buffet of the senses, do I go back for seconds? Do I want more of the sexual repartee between the man and woman on the corner, or would I rather dip into the heated exchange between the two old men in front of the liquor store? A dollop of wasabi might do me good.

Energy. Purples and oranges and browns. I know this place. Yes. An obscure bar, made notorious by the famous musician who hanged himself in one of the bathroom stalls; so famous I cannot remember his name. Smokers milling about outside, that typical Californian breed who inhale cigarettes while drinking their daily two-ounce shot of wheatgrass. Simple people—workers, living day by day on weekly paychecks that barely keep one in food and rent.

I stand.

The feel of burning liquid down my throat, traveling through the electrical current, reaching my feet, padding my mind, comforting my soles—that is my desire.

I wait. My toes strum the pavement.

A girl. Tall, slender, angular in her slightness. How I wish she were sinuous and fresh. Red dress, clingy and bareback.  I see ribs, thin skin, veins pulsing. Face pale, cheekbones erect, a creature of the night no doubt. She walks towards me, her eyes never stray. The gypsy comes to a halt and looks me over.

A low but enticing hello echoes from open red lips. Always a fool for the ladies, a plain, but thankful hello is bounced back.

“What’s going on in there?” she murmurs.

“No idea.”

“You goin’ in?”

“No.”

A smile. Knowledge. Torment.

“I gotta get home, ” I crack.

“No you don’t, Floyd.”

Every day, hour, second of my past, the past I have so vainly tried to correct, devours me like a million locusts, hungry for my soul. I am submissive.

“Yes,” I agree.

So tired. Too tired from my walk. From that first step into what was once my life. So many times I have wished that for one day, just one complete day, I would belong to no one. Not my parents, or my work. My friends, or my god. No one. And now, this girl, this gypsy, this bagwhore, has the power to grant my beloved wish. Sweetness like a lullaby envelops me. The ticking of the clock grows louder.

She waves her hand over her body like a magician. The wand she holds is long and sleek and black, full of magic tricks and promises, but there is something different. I cannot quite make it out; she blurs my vision with her enchanting motions. There is a nozzle, a head, a black hole.

“Floyd,” she sings.  “My Floyd…”

Terrifying, seductive.

A noise. A large clap rings out. My ears throb, my chest explodes.

I lay. Hunched on the ground, my knees are my anchors.

Where is my gypsy?

“Where is my gypsy!” I shout.

Gone.

A screech. I look. Focus.  Focus!

A car I now recognize as a bad moment from my past roars off.

People are surrounding me. Claustrophobia is setting in.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick goes the quickening pulse of the clock.