Battle Scars

But then he pauses to move into the light so he can read a note John has given him. And it occurs to me that John has been scribbling down notes and showing them to various people the whole time we've been together.

"Montrose trash," says Carl. "Come on."

"The only problem I've ever had with anybody was not letting them trick me," says John.

"It doesn't matter what you're doing or who you are," says Carl. "It's the appearance. It's the perception. And for most people, perception is biased."

That's the ticket, I'm thinking. A lot of it does come down to perception. This isn't exactly the most original philosophical idea, but it's perhaps the best way to think about a lot of the issues in the Montrose. Relative newcomers to the area like to think they're bohemian, but what they really want is a gay Epcot, a sanitized version of the freewheeling lifestyle. And they don't like the look of people like Big John, whom they perceive to be doing all kinds of wrong.

I want to keep listening to these guys talk, but I suddenly get distracted by the swig of water running over my lips. I stare through the glass's clear bottom and wonder if I really should be accepting a drink from someone I hardly know in the apartment of someone I don't know at all.

My mind flashes to a hypothetical future: It's three days later and I'm tied up with a rubber ball in my mouth. And damn, my butt hurts.

I set down the glass and stare at the TV for a moment. There's no sound, but The Simpsons is on. Homer is mouthing something to Marge.

I don't know about you, but I think it's about time to go.

John and Carl accompany me back to Hollywood Food Store, where Carl takes his leave. He goes to bed kind of early, so it's dinnertime.

Halfway back to my truck, John asks if he can get a ride to bartender school.

"If it's really just a ride, sure," I tell him.

"That's all it is," he says.

We crisscross a couple more blocks, trying to stay in the shade along the way. But just as we near my vehicle, John mumbles, "I'm really feeling irresponsible. I think I'm going to pass."

"You sure?" I ask.

"Yeah, man."

He gives me a prolonged hug, flashes his bad-boy grin and walks away.

And all I can think is, he was feeling irresponsible? What did that mean? Should he have come or shouldn't he?

The world may never know.