(now called the Key Club), the Roxy and the Whiskey A Go-Go across the street as well, Harry’s quickly became the watering hole for members of Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Aerosmith, and every rock star that came to Los Angeles. In the 1980s it became the hangout spot for the scores of aspiring musicians that played the clubs and littered the sunset strip with flyers for their bands. The LAPD made nightly arrests for everything from fights to public drunkenness to drug dealing. Sometimes they busted people for no reason other than to provide amusement for themselves, thus proving militant blacks wrong that the LAPD was down on African Americans. Frank had seen them beat the crap out of people of all races just because they felt like it. Once he’d been arrested while walking to Harry’s. He hadn’t taken a drink all day, he hadn’t been carrying, and he was cold sober. The pigs had just wanted to hassle him because he was wearing a leather jacket and had long hair.
But all that had changed. Now fourteen years later, Frank was not only sober and loving it, he was married to a loving woman named Brandy and he had a three-year old son named Mark and a two-month old daughter named Melody. He was recently experiencing an upswing in his writing career—he’d almost destroyed it eight years ago when he was deep in his heroin addiction—and he was producing the best work in his life. His income was good, better than it had ever been, and the gigs kept coming in. Most of what they used to pay the mortgage on the condo and the bills came from the CD-ROM games he was writing and Brandy’s partnership in the modeling agency she co-owned with her mother. Now that his fiction-writing career was taking off again, he was selling novels. It was only a matter of time before he gained a solid readership. And then…
And now here he was, sitting in Harry’s Bar and Grill wondering why he would risk losing it all again.
Frank took another sip of coke. Neil Young came on the bar’s sound system, screeching that we had to keep on rocking in a free world. Brandy had taken the kids to her mother’s for dinner after Frank told her he had a meeting in West Hollywood with the CD ROM people to discuss next year’s projects. The CD ROM gigs had become so lucrative that she’d bought the lie. It was the first time he’d ever lied to her in the five years they’d been together. Amazing , he thought, drumming his fingers on the bar. To think that all that I have overcome: inadequate feelings about myself, alcoholism, heroin addiction, destroying my career in publishing, using women for my own sexual needs, allowing women to use me for their sexual needs, lying to people to score the next gig, the next fix, the next fuck. I overcome all that , I redeem myself before God Himself, and now I’m sitting in Harry’s Bar and Grill, the most tempting bar in Los Angeles where one can score the drug or woman of their choice without even trying, after having just lied to my wife about what I am doing tonight .
Jesus .
He set the empty glass on the bar. The bartender approached and Frank signaled for another. The bartender refilled his glass with Coca-Cola and placed it in front of him on a napkin. The bartender, who was large and hulking with a bald head and large hoop earrings, motioned at him. “Nice tats,” he said. “Where do you get your work done?”
Frank moved his arms out. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a Harley Davidson insignia on the front. His tattoos were very well displayed. “Rick Bennett over at Good Time Charlie’s does my work now,” he said.
“They’re gorgeous,” the bartender said, wiping down glasses. His arms were tastefully decorated as well, although not as intricately as Frank’s. Both of Frank’s arms were heavily tattooed from the wrist all the way to the shoulder, blending into the pectorals in the front and snaking down his back to his waist. When Frank went shirtless he got quite a few stares, most
But all that had changed. Now fourteen years later, Frank was not only sober and loving it, he was married to a loving woman named Brandy and he had a three-year old son named Mark and a two-month old daughter named Melody. He was recently experiencing an upswing in his writing career—he’d almost destroyed it eight years ago when he was deep in his heroin addiction—and he was producing the best work in his life. His income was good, better than it had ever been, and the gigs kept coming in. Most of what they used to pay the mortgage on the condo and the bills came from the CD-ROM games he was writing and Brandy’s partnership in the modeling agency she co-owned with her mother. Now that his fiction-writing career was taking off again, he was selling novels. It was only a matter of time before he gained a solid readership. And then…
And now here he was, sitting in Harry’s Bar and Grill wondering why he would risk losing it all again.
Frank took another sip of coke. Neil Young came on the bar’s sound system, screeching that we had to keep on rocking in a free world. Brandy had taken the kids to her mother’s for dinner after Frank told her he had a meeting in West Hollywood with the CD ROM people to discuss next year’s projects. The CD ROM gigs had become so lucrative that she’d bought the lie. It was the first time he’d ever lied to her in the five years they’d been together. Amazing , he thought, drumming his fingers on the bar. To think that all that I have overcome: inadequate feelings about myself, alcoholism, heroin addiction, destroying my career in publishing, using women for my own sexual needs, allowing women to use me for their sexual needs, lying to people to score the next gig, the next fix, the next fuck. I overcome all that , I redeem myself before God Himself, and now I’m sitting in Harry’s Bar and Grill, the most tempting bar in Los Angeles where one can score the drug or woman of their choice without even trying, after having just lied to my wife about what I am doing tonight .
Jesus .
He set the empty glass on the bar. The bartender approached and Frank signaled for another. The bartender refilled his glass with Coca-Cola and placed it in front of him on a napkin. The bartender, who was large and hulking with a bald head and large hoop earrings, motioned at him. “Nice tats,” he said. “Where do you get your work done?”
Frank moved his arms out. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a Harley Davidson insignia on the front. His tattoos were very well displayed. “Rick Bennett over at Good Time Charlie’s does my work now,” he said.
“They’re gorgeous,” the bartender said, wiping down glasses. His arms were tastefully decorated as well, although not as intricately as Frank’s. Both of Frank’s arms were heavily tattooed from the wrist all the way to the shoulder, blending into the pectorals in the front and snaking down his back to his waist. When Frank went shirtless he got quite a few stares, most
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