Jim Marquez has earned his nickname, Beast from the East. He is a monster in size and personality. We’ve had our share of drinks at the bar together and I can now count him as a friend. But, I was a fan of Marquez, way before I met him.

The first piece I read of his was in an art magazine. It was about him waiting in line to meet, Hunter S. Thompson, two weeks before he offed himself. That piece got me to buy his book, East LA Collage.

I once described Marquez’ writing,  as compost. Yeah, compost! He writes about the wasted days and wasted nights. He tells the tales that most of us prefer not to repeat. In those tales of waste and the discarded there is the life of a beast growing and learning.

He submitted this peace below for inclusion in the Eastsider Writer. After the Reading, is a short story that is part of his newest book, The Heart of the Beast: Collected Love Stories.

Enjoy this piece and visit his sites:

Books: www.lulu.com/jimmarquez
& www.amazon.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/jimthebeastmarquez
MySpace: www.myspace.com/jimthewriter
Magazine: www.Citizenla.com

Jim is the Editor & Senior Writer of “Citizen LA.”
He has been published numerous times nationally & internationally in:
“Hispanic”, “Modern Drunkard Magazine”, “Bedlam”, “Artillery”, “Soma”,
“Fear”, “Tu Ciudad”, “Gadfly”, “Gallery”, “LA Weekly” & “Flux”.

Jim has been invited to be on panel & read from his latest book at the:
12th Annual “Edward James Olmos Latino Family Book Festival”
October 10-11, 2009, on the campus of Cal State Los Angeles.

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AFTER THE READING
By Jim Marquez

I should’ve been happy after the reading and signing of my latest book: big crowd, standing room only, college girls sitting on the floor and gazing up at me like I was the Mexican-Charles-fucking- Bukowski himself, but something was off…

The booze flowed well, it always does when I read, and I read the fuck out of the material; freaked everybody out and even surprised myself with the ferocity and rage in which the words exploded off my tongue.

Maybe I wasn’t drunk enough, I don’t know, but I was actually feeling a bit down.

I mean, I was running late because I had to pick up the chairs for the show, pick up a 20lb bag of ice, buy the drink bucket, and buy extra beers and, so, because all that shit was on my mind, and because I still had to fight rush hour traffic into Downtown L.A. in the fucking rain, and, add that to the fact that I had come to that afternoon with the sickness (hangovers to mortals, an entirely different and agonizing level of suffering to those of us who actually drink), so, I guess I wasn’t in the best of moods come game time.

And I had arrived at the gallery a good 40 minutes late so I had to set up all the shit myself: unload the chairs, stock the booze, fuck, man, fucking bullshit! And I’m wearing a killer new red shirt too and I’m sweating like a fucking stuck-pig and goddammit I need to hire somebody to do the little nit-picky shit you have to do in order for the show to go on.

People are arriving, asking questions, shaking my hand, asking when the reading will start, looking at their watches (fuckin’ drink, goddammit, it’s free, leave me alone!) and it’s then I remember I left a full pint of Jameson Irish sitting in the trunk of my car and even though the parking lot is only a half a block down the street, I just can’t disappear.

I was late already, the gallery owners are pissed at me you can see, the people are anxious, and I suddenly have to run to the toilet and spray the bowl with burning diarrhea.

My insides are rumbling and popping, my head hurts; the sweats won’t stop. The fucking sickness is still clinging onto me. Can’t shake the fucker loose. Can’t be doing all this shit when you have the sickness; I need another 5 hours sleep, need coffee, need a big lunch, need more sleep after that, then, maybe, the body begins to recover by 6pm.

Christ.

I had invited a ton of people, but few on my list had bothered to come. Lots of strangers did so that was ok; still had a great turn out.

I was hoping like hell these two Irish girls I had shared an intimate moment with in front of a bar at closing time back in Pasadena the week before would show, but didn’t even though they said they’d absolutely be there to cheer me on because they were, like, so into literature.

Another woman I had a quirky thing going with was invited, said she’d be there, but didn’t show.

Another girl from Chicago who I had another equally off beat thing going with was invited, and she promised she’d get away from her boyfriend, because, you know, they lived together, and she said she’d totally be there; well; she didn’t show either.

So who goes? What woman I thought would actually blow me off? My favorite ex-girlfriend. I had seen other women after we 911’d out, but nothing I ever wanted serious.

Plenty of sex, but hey, they wanted it “light” with no problems and I was more than happy to oblige. Not very many around like that anymore, and those women never crash and burn like “real” relationships, anyway; they simply lose interest.

And then you’re forced to jack-off to memories of past indiscretions in the toilet stalls of Japanese restaurants in the food courts of local shopping malls.

So the Ex comes, the Ex, and she had the questionable taste of bringing along her current boyfriend who looked like he didn’t want to be there but had no problem drinking my Pabst I noticed. Yeah, have another one, pal, and don’t leave a tip either, but can you blame him?

If you were the “new” guy would you want to go see your woman’s ex-boyfriend perform? The asshole she no doubt bitched about incessantly over the years? Yes, I’m an arrogant fuck; I like to think I might have come up in conversation during a drunken rant or two, or at the very least during a particularly nasty and foul PMS attack.

I had invited all those other women to keep me busy, but when The EX walked in, I have to admit, my heart did jump…

So the first reading goes well, I get the laughs and the grunts in all the right places, cheering and applause after; I sell books, slap backs, pass out my card, but still, something was off.

I made one major mistake that I’m still kicking myself in the ass over and so maybe that contributed to the overall crap feeling I had: I sat by the cart of booze instead of next to my book display which was on the opposite side of the room.

There were a lot of people checking out the book and I was nowhere near them. I should’ve been talking the thing up; made myself available to questions, the fact that all my work is self-published, but no. Where am I?

This old-house of a drunk is guarding the fucking alcohol. God, what a degenerate!

Still though, like I said, the first of the two planned readings went well; lots of congratulations and then I had to run to the toilet yet again; dear Jesus, another spray of raw matter that makes you question if you’re human or not.

And time was running out too. 20 minutes for a break before the next set and everything had been pushed back due to my late arrival. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

When I get back from splashing water in my face and scraping the sweat off my body, I sit next to The Ex, just had to. She was next to her dude. He didn’t say much. I couldn’t resist looking at her.

Her hair. Her smile. I could smell her body from where I sat. I used to be so close. But I played it off, flirted with a couple of 18-year-olds that came by to say hello and shake my hand and ask me where I get my ideas. That was great! Couldn’t have planned it better myself.

It’s flattering as hell when girls half my age are talking to me about my shit, hell, talking about anything, those who would otherwise not be bothering and waving me off with disgust at any of the local Starbucks in L.A. Ah, the world loves a celebrity, no matter how limited in scale and unworthy.

Then, my old buddy Danny, who I had to practically drag down here kicking and screaming threw his arms around me, shit-eating grin on his brown mug and said, “Oh, brother, my God, I loved it, you fuckin’ kicked ass, dude, but,” and he raised an index finger, “I have notes.”

“Told you-you wouldn’t regret coming down.”

“I gotta piss first. Where’s the can?” I point, he exits.

I then introduce The Ex to GRONK, the world-famous “Chicano” artist, who happened to be there for my show, and she’s instantly blown away. She’s always been a closet artist herself so that was very fucking cool.

Oh, right, and I think the now world renown artist Emmeric James Konrad was there too before I really knew him and would eventually a year later write a huge spread on him for “Flux” magazine out of London.

Anyway, one of the owners of the gallery starts to chant my name, and it feels fantastic but I also know he’s politely asking me to get a move on. I get the hint.

The next piece goes even better, a longer, fouler chunk of business about booze and a debaucherous three-way gone bad in Pasadena. I’m reading this in front of The Ex and it feels slightly embarrassing speaking of such things in front of her for the first time, but fuck it. It’s literature. I’m allowed.

I don’t want to look over, however, see her scrutinizing me, see me looking at her, trying not to, then the boyfriend checking this shit out, and awwwww, to hell with it. I feel like a stupid fucking kid. Jesus Christ!

I dance about the room, snorting and growling, a raging bull ready to make somebody a widow. I’m sucking back the Guinness that Joey’s older brother brought to the show and the material cranks! I howl, screech, and curse the motherfuckin’ heavens! I shake my fists. Stomp my feet. Go totally “Network” on an unsuspecting crowd. Really sell the fucker to the cheap seats.

Make them glad they came and that they will never, ever forget being at one of my shows. I am a God. Not the God, but a god nonetheless. I read the way it’s supposed to be done, none of this cute, clever, glib PG-13 crap designed to illicit forced snickers simply because everybody else appears to know what the fuck is so fucking funny; I’m not trying to “identify” with the audience; fuck the reader; not trying to find a lesson, or god forbid, find “closure”, and definitely not trying to achieve some kind of Oprah-bonding bullshit. Either they dig it or they don’t.

I’m shaking when I’m done. Drenched. Vibrating. Oh thank Christ that over! Let me go get severely drunk now. Let me drive home with whiskey blurring my sight, one eye open; wake up in my driveway not knowing how I got there. Then, crawl into my bed and pass out and not come to ‘til 5pm the next day.

But we gotta clean up first; toss the ice in the gutter, move the left over liquor to the upstairs office, pick up the empties, fold the chairs; then, I have to run to the bathroom again. RAAAAAAAAA!

A few people lined up to buy books, which I signed, took their cash, and the goodbyes came quick. Half the room cleared out the second I stopped reading-those fuckers, they got their free booze now they wanted to dart before they had a chance to look like cheap bastards-but the others were kind enough to say “great job” and “thank you” and shake my hand like a man.

Then The Ex came over. I stuck my hand out to say goodnight but she threw her arms around me, gave me a huge smile and hug and I embraced her as if it was the first time. She whispers into my ear, “I’m sorry for bringing my boyfriend.” I laugh it off and say, “It’s not always about you, honey,” and gulp heavily from a cup of the cheap wine I got at Trader’s Joes for $1.99 a bottle, the same crap everybody serves at all these “arty-type” receptions, show launches, galas, poetry nights, whatevers.

I shook her dude’s hand but by that time he was totally disinterested and barely looked my way. And don’t think I didn’t notice him leave earlier during my second piece to sneak a smoke outside.  Or was that somebody else?

Fine, whatever; just remember this pal: I was there before you.

Over to the Golden Gopher then on 8^{th St.} a couple blocks away and it’s crammed full with the usual underage-teasing flusys from USC but suddenly I feel weak. I’m tired. Not a whole lot of people wanted to go over and drink and that bummed me out too. What gives? This is fucked!

A couple of the dudes were there though, from my invite list, they went to the show, listened, then came over to drink with me. They didn’t buy books, but at least they were cool enough to offer support. However I was still so wracked with this mysterious depression that I couldn’t crack a smile.

Depression? I’ve never felt depressed before. Felt like shit, yes. Fucked over, sure. Scared, nervous, anxious, put-upon, lonely, but, depressed? No, don’t think so.

I should have been feeling top-of-the-world, but I wanted to sit down. Tons of white beauties scurried passed me, my two buddies offered macho encouragement but after three drinks, man, I had to leave. Too many people. Too loud. Too fucking happy!

I walk out and it’s raining. Great. Perfect.

Lately I’ve liked the comforting, boozy and small confines of Chinatown. Three bars and a parking lot within stumbling feet of each other in a spot of the city where there is zero-trouble and near zero-cops. I needed that.

I head down Broadway. Make it in four minutes. It’s 12:30am. I park.

First, the Red Room Bar. Closed. Those Fuckers! Usually they have a nice crowd for Thursdays but the rain has chased away the pussys of the world.

Next up is Hop Louie’s. Old school joint. People are leaving as I breeze in. I order a $4 Jameson (now it’s up to $7 a pop. Ouch!) and sit in a dark corner. It sucks though. I want to hear my usual Sinatra tunes on the box but what’s the fucking point?

I’m anxious. I need something. I don’t know what. I want to feel better.

I know The Jazz Club stays open late; maybe find something over there.

It’s dark. Near empty. One drunk, white dude on the piano is almost keeping tune in spite of the cheap whiskey coming off of him.

A hot, white bartender stands ready, her boyfriend sits at the bar drinking, keeping an eye on her. Making sure this drunken Mexican doesn’t look down her shirt.

Then, there’s the Chinese club owner, tidying up, closing down for a rainy-night.

And one more person.

A woman.

A natural beauty.

All legs, a black skirt that looks painted on, a tight blouse with sharp nipples popping, skin like a marble statue. She looks Parisian; they tend to look like that, but no. Filipino too. Eurasian? Even better.

Best of all though: she’s drunk.

She changes seats every few minutes. From sitting and flirting with the 70-something club owner, to sitting down front with the piano man and cheering on his puttering of poorly groped for piano keys, to the sad and lonely motherfucker at the bar leering at her as she makes her way toward me.

“How long have you been here?” she asks. “I haven’t seen you before.” She hiccups and squeezes in close to me even though there’s plenty of room.

Just then the piano man finds his way onto “My Funny Valentine”

“I’ve been here a few minutes,” I say close to her face, our lips inches apart. I can feel her breath on me. “Been drinking and watching you,” I say and close the gap. “You’ve been having a good time tonight, sweetie?”

“Hell yes,” she says. “It’s my birthday. I’m 31 today!”

“Really? Good God, you barely look 24. So pretty…so hot…”

“Keep it going,” she grins and licks her lips and waves me on with her hand. “Give me more, come on, I need all I can get at my age.”

“Your age? Bullshit, lady, you look like a fucking model.” I put my hand on her cheek and caress it. I let it slide off her face to her neck, stroke behind her ear and then I lean forward and kiss her gently on the lips.

“You’re so sweet,” she whispers.

“I know,” I say, then, press a hard-on against her tummy. She doesn’t resist.

“Are you having a good time tonight?” she asks, pushing closer.

“I am now. I was earlier too, for a while. I just did a show, a reading at some gallery over on Spring St.”

“How nice, baby. Did they like you?”

“They loved me.”

“Then what are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I don’t know, just chilling out I guess. I saw my ex-girlfriend at the show; she brought her latest boyfriend. That was interesting.”

“Well, I just saw my ex-husband yesterday. It sucks, I know, but cool at the same time.”

“How long were you married?”

“Two years. He ‘s black you know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I like black men. They know how to get a woman. They know what to say. They do things other men don’t have the balls to do.”

“Would you settle for a brown man tonight?” I kiss her again.

“Sorry, honey. I want the piano man to be my boyfriend tonight.”

“But you’re over here with me now.”

“I know, but I’ve been working the white boy for the past two hours already. You know how that goes.”

I grin. Nod my head. “Yeah, I do.”

“Let me go say Hi, be back.”

She leaves but not before I put a hand on her hip, then cup her ass and pat her behind as she walks away.

I order a Tsing Tao Beer, put a cigarette in my mouth but don’t light it.

“She’s a pretty one,” the club owner says to me and slaps me on the back. I know him. He’s a good man.

“Hey, my friend what’s shaking tonight? Anything going on?”
“Closing up Jimmy. What are you drinking?”

“Beer, but how about a glass of zinfandel?”

“Julie,” he calls his bartender. “Get Jim a nice glass of white wine over here.”

“Thank you, Willy,” I say.

“No problem. Five more minutes, OK, Jim? I’m cold, I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

“Don’t we all,” my lady has returned, spins, and falls back, tapping her ass on my erection.

“OK, you two, five minutes,” and Willy goes behind the bar to count receipts.

The piano boy has stopped, is slowly gathering his music, and my girl says, “Do you have a cigarette for the birthday girl?”

“Kiss first,” I say, and she turns her head, I reach, we kiss, my hands go to her hips, I grind into her. “It’s so nice here, with you,” I say. “So quiet.”

“Where were you two hours ago?”

“At my show, performing like a monkey for peanuts.”

“Too bad, baby. I gotta go.”

“You ready darlin’?” the piano man’s booming voice says and the dude drops his cell phone, knocks over an empty beer bottle and loses his music too. “Fuck!” he shouts

“Hey,” she says to me. “He’s tall, he’s white, he’s cute, and he probably has a huge cock. It’s my birthday you know. You can’t blame a girl.”

“Well, if you want to settle for that, sure.”

We both laugh. “I gotta go,” she says and kisses me.

“I know.”

As she does I reach under her skirt from behind and clamp my right hand onto a good portion of her cheeks and dig my fingers into her asshole, then her pussy, then squeeze her ass and she stumbles away.

“I hope I see you again,” I say, rubbing and sniffing her wetness between my thumb, middle and index fingers.

She stops, turns, says, “Me too, baby,” then, blows me a kiss.

That was nice. Real fucking nice. That did the trick.

I drowned the rest of my drinks, grab a copy of “Citizen L.A.” to cover my head, and jogged to my car out back. I’m a little dizzy, but better.

I head over to Paisano Taco Truck on Sunset Blvd. across from the Bohemia Disco just a couple blocks outside of Downtown L.A.. It’s early, about 2:30am.

A few struggling drunks have made their way down to the truck as well. It is a steady rain that gives us comfort as we eat hot and fresh beef tacos at our cars and get wet and have one last cigarette before the drive home.

And the drive into East L.A. is quick and uneventful. With no fucking cops and no fucking traffic I’m home in ten minutes. I’m calm. I park in my driveway just as the rain comes harder. And then it hits me like a kick to the balls. Dammit! I still love my Ex. That sucks.

I still love her. God fucking help me but I still love that woman. And I guess I’m a little drunker than I thought I was because I begin to cry. The rain is hitting the top of my car, pinging and plunking, and thank God for that because I don’t want my trashy neighbors to hear me.

So I cry and blubber like a baby seal taking it on the head. Heaving sobs. I haven’t cried like that since my father died. A stuttering of breath, then, a flood of tears. The harder it rains the more I cry. But the more I cry the better I’m feeling. This weight of melancholy that had been squatting on my chest all night begins to dissipate.

I sit there in my car in my driveway in a hellacious rainstorm and cry for ten minutes, spitting out, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” over and over and over again.

Then, after, I go inside and pass out with my clothes on.