Straitjacket

Jewell Marceau has never been to The Harbor Room in Playa del Rey, CA so she does not know the scene there. I told her that the average age of the patrons is about seventy years of age but she must have thought I was kidding or exaggerating or something. I'm not prone to hyperbole when I'm dicussing the places where I go to drink. Recently I was in there chatting with a man in his forties who told me that he identifies himself around town as "the youngest guy who goes to The Harbor Room." I genuinely enjoyed the humor of his chosen moniker on a number of different levels. My gaze had travelled around the tiny, wood-panelled bar while I surveyed the assorted customers and nodded my appreciation for his words. I always feel like a teenager when I walk in that place, but that's not why I go there. On another occasion a different patron had asked me why I frequent The Harbor Room. He had posed the question in a mild, offhand manner but I could tell that he was really interested in hearing my answer. I remember turning my head and gazing towards nothing while I said:

"I just like to go places where I can drink a lot and nobody looks at me strangely."

I had punctuated my words with an inane giggle, but the man's expression had turned serious and he had immediately responded:

"This is a good place for that."

I think he may have repeated the sentiment a second time with the same tone of flat certainty/reassurance. Or maybe it had just resounded within my head again. In any case, we had both continued our descent into a mellow, alcoholic haze in companionable silence. It takes one to know one.

Jewell would not enjoy The Harbor Room so I never brought her there with me. Last week I mentioned that one of their bartenders had asked me for ID when I'd stumbled in off the beach around midnight. It struck me as funny since I knew exactly why it had happened. Often older people lose their ability to discern the ages of younger generations. I occasionally have that problem myself. People have kids and I can't tell if their child is 12 or 18. Seriously. That's just how it goes. That night I had handed the bartender my ID while a woman at the bar said:

"Well it certainly is nice to be asked, isn't it?"

I had responded uncomfortably with a brief, idiotic giggle which is generally what my stupid self does when I don't know what to say. An elderly man to my right had observed me for a moment before commenting:

"Just enjoy it, sweetheart. The years go fast. They go real fast. Enjoy it while you can."

I could tell that he meant it. He really meant it. I had paid for my vodka and headed towards the back of the miniscule establishment. The elderly man, the woman, and her friend were the only other patrons in the place. I had listened to their conversations as I stared into my vodka and kept my back to the rest of the room. No one had cared what I was doing or perceived my posture as being unfriendly. I may have been forty years younger than any of them, but I had the soul of an old drunk and they could tell that I was not there to actively socialize.

Jewell rolled her eyes when I recreated the whole scene for her at our recent shoot in Mike Raffone's studio. She could not have more thoroughly misunderstood my story if she had been trying. Maybe she was trying. She said:

"What? Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to brag that you still get carded when you go to bars?"

I stared back at her, the levity of my mood quickly vanishing. Just a moment earlier I had felt happy and upbeat. Now here she was trying to twist my words around on me. Lately I've lost patience for people who do that. It's like they are just waiting for an opportunity to slap you down. Over nothing. Maybe I was overreacting but I turned a steely gaze on her pretty face and hissed:

"Look here, you dumb cunt, that's not what I was trying to convey to you. I was trying to tell you about the place, the patrons, how different it is from other bars, how mellow it is, how old everyone is, how.."

As it turned out Jewell probably never heard anything after the "dumb cunt" reference because she tackled me to the ground in such a fit of monstrous rage that I found myself restrained inside a straitjacket just mere moments later. How did she do that?? Of course I noticed Mike Raffone gleefully snapping photos from across the room long after I was incapacitated and could do nothing about it. Suffice it to say that he captured every gross indignity that I suffered at Jewell's hands that afternoon: the straitjacket, the leather straps, the wooden paddle, the gigantic ballgag, the probing hands..

Someday I really am going to end up in an insane asylum.

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- XXOO Tanya











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