24

Note: Probably want to skip this if you're here for the travel articles.

Taking a break from writing about my Taiwan trip, not because anything momentous happened on Saturday, but just to switch things up.  I met up with Tyler, who I haven't seen since his first tattoo session.  He's not going to like this, but more than his arm, I was shocked to see how much thinner he'd gotten.  From arms the size of tree trunks during training six months ago, he had dwindled down to a shadow of his former self.  Hess had really fucked him in his placement.  Away from gyms, or any easy access to them, and I was now more heavily built than he was.  His arm looks fucking cool though, like something straight out of Berserk.

I'd arranged to meet up with him because I was certain that Brian would want to celebrate his last weekend in Taiwan before his big Thailand trip.  Turns out Brian not only fucked up his ankle the day before, but he's running a fever and is bed-ridden.  I frown when Ethan sends me the news.  Sick?  Brian?  Guess there's a first time for everything.

In Choir Cafe, home of some tasty burgers

Walking around Ximending taking pictures of the graffiti.

Attack on Titan has really taken off.

With those plans shot to hell, Tyler and I grab a drink out on the famous outdoor pub area in Ximen.  I don't know why I always find myself here, because the dick to boob ratio is highly unfavorable if you're a straight man.  It's the most convenient place to sit down and grab a drink though, unless you're eager to put a few away in the classy decor of a 7-11.  I start telling every person passing by, female or otherwise, to have a drink with us.  Most people, mistaking my cordiality for drunken boorishness, hardly deign to cast their eyes in my direction.  One guy agrees then asks me if I have room for 15.  This little quip irritates me until Tyler points out that no one is going to say yes and then just sit down.  Yeah, I know everyone is a spineless coward, it doesn't make me any happier.

Tyler's not much of a drinker, and I quickly outpace him, though I can tell the guy taking care of us thinks I'm the drunker one.  After our four beers I feel mildly intoxicated, the burgers we had at Choir Cafe soaking up most of the Tiger we've been drinking.  Tyler says he's feeling good and I have to agree with him.  Ethan texts us that he's heading out to Luxy after checking up on Brian.  I've heard this place is a little exclusive, but the reality is it's a little exclusive.  The bouncers all frown at me when they see I'm not wearing pants, and no amount of pleading is going to sway them.

Bouncer: "You need to go home."
Me: "I live in Xizhi."
Bouncer: "Then go back to Xizhi."
Me: "That'll take forty minutes."
Bouncer: "Then buy some pants."

You piece of shit.  Bet you enjoy this part of your job, don't you?  I size him up and think I could take him.  A quick pole-axing kick to the knee and then I'd be stepping on your windpipe.  Buy some pants?  How about I take yours, you greasy-haired fuck?  Then I remember I'm not in a Guy Ritchie film and the actions I take have actual consequences, especially as an EDUCATOR OF CHILDREN.  Tyler gets me to calm down by pointing out that he's merely doing his job, not lording it over us peasantry.  You know, basically all the reasonable shit you don't want to hear when you're pissed at your own fuck ups, but appreciate when you're not get your face kicked in by three big dudes.

So...looks like I'm off to buy some pants.

Easier said than done, I note, seeing every major clothes store closed down.  The only places still open are women's boutiques, and giggling, I peek my head in, wondering if any of their pants will fit me.  Their tights (for this is all they have) don't even look like they'd fit around my wrist, so I abandon that idea.  I briefly consider trying to buy some pants off of people, but everyone in the area looks like they're on a mission, and that mission is getting into Luxy.  The Iron Code of Shadak prevents me from mugging somebody for their pants, regardless of how hilarious this might be.  Imagine leaving somebody slumped over in an alley, wallet and smart phone left respectfully in their shoes, whitey tighties covered in gutter grime...yeah, I actually thought about this for a split second.

I'm forced to admit defeat to all the other asexual douchebags with Bieber haircuts and ass-riding pants, staring forlornly at the soulless wenches strutting around in their finest.  Tyler nods glumly and we make back to my place, hopping on the MRT.  I apologize in advance about the layer of dust in my studio, and my soiled sheets.  Honest to a fault, I mention how they've yet to grace the cleansing waters of a laundry machine since their purchasing six months ago, when he cuts me off.

Tyler: "We're going back."
Me: "Uh, what?"
Tyler: "I've already missed my bus back home.  I'm committed, and I sure has hell don't want to go back to your place at midnight on a Saturday.  Fuck Luxy, we'll find someplace else to get drunk."
Me: "Uh, yeah.  YEAH, HELL YEAH."

Just like that, we're switching trains and heading back.  I know a place that's got a selection most spice closets would envy, though none of the liquor there is legitimate.  By legitimate, I mean none of these liquors produced in the US are meant for domestic consumption.  What should be Jack Daniels instead reads Fire Water Whiskey, and features a stoic Native American chief on the label.  Oh the trouble you would get in back home:

Can't really complain for $50 NT a shot though.  For some reason, Tyler insists on drinking Absinthe.  I wonder aloud at the wisdom of this decision, but Tyler waves me off insisting Absinthe is good at getting you fucked up.  I'm sold.  I throw back the liquid and can't really say I notice any difference between it and Jager.  Then, detonating like a depth charge, the full force of the liquor punches me in the stomach, coiling upward and lighting my esophagus on fire.  I have never taken a shot of something that causes to me salivate instantaneously.  I tell Tyler that I might be making an offering to the porcelain gods tonight.  He responds by ordering another shot.  Faced with a wide selection of dubious liquors and my ham-fisted prodding, Tyler sticks to his guns by saying, "I don't want to mix liquors."  Jesus, who still believes that shit?  Fine.  We stick to vomit-in-a-glass, and every swallow is a fight against my rebelling stomach.  To his credit, Tyler waits between shots, probably because he wants to walk out of here unassisted, speaking something other than heavily-slurred drunkese.

I'm surprised too see that two of the bartenders from last time are there, which was at least five months ago.  They recognize me, and I even remember the name of one of them, Leyla.  I tell her I lost my cell phone and I need her number again.  She starts off in a huff asking if I think she's easy.  Why do women always feel the need to show a strong front like that, as if giving out your number makes you a wanton slut.  Trust me, I'm not thinking you're easy when you make things difficult.  I'm thinking I should talk to someone else.  I ask her again and she acquiesces.  Wow, that was easy.  Did she just read my mind?

Tyler notes the absence of females in this bar, and I feel him, though with my track record I doubt we're seeing any action tonight.  If I knew I'd try sleeping on the street that night I might've tried to be more proactive, but instead I while away the night chatting with Tyler.  And despite the slowly thinning crowd, already small to begin with, the night does not seem like such a failure spent in the company of another kindred spirit in a foreign land.  We rail against the inadequacies of our company, share frustrations about our students, co-workers and life in Taiwan, and share in our small triumphs.  Liquor loosens our tongues and we find ourselves ranging over topics vast and taboo.  The third shot of absinthe roils around with the contents of my stomach, and almost as soon as it touches my tongue I can feel my salivary glands getting to work.  Chasing with water proves ineffective, only masking the burn as it passes through.  Knowing this cannot last, I switch over to tequila for the last shot, and then we set about to the task of annoying the bartenders as they're trying to close down.  I cringe inwardly as I know how annoying it is to close a bar down with people asking you stupid shit.  After the fourth shot Tyler is wearing a big grin on his face.  I feel almost nothing, and part of me is jealous.

Since he's intent on continuing his drinking, and I can't really refuse, we get one of the bartenders to take us to a small little jazz bar.  As we're getting ready I bum a cigarette off of Leyla.  She rolls her eyes at me with practiced contempt, asking me why foreigners never have their own cigarettes.  I tell her where I come from, some people are smokers, and some people are social smokers.  She seems to understand, and forks one over.  The bartender who's taking us (forgot her name, some English name that didn't suit her) calls a taxi and we get in.  At this point the coffee I drank has long worn off, and without feeling drunk, my body begins to question what it's doing still up at three in the morning.  The music here is subdued, atmospheric jazz, and the bartenders look spiffy enough in their vests and bowties.  I order a margarita and with practiced ease the bartender swirls Jose Cuervo (ugh), triple sec, and lime juice together, and shakes it all together in his cute little three-piece shaker.  No one in Taiwan seems to use Boston shakers.  He rims a martini glass with salt and serves the concoction to me up.  I almost laugh.  A Jose Cuervo margarita served up?  The only other time I've seen a more incongruent cocktail is when I did the same thing in MY FIRST BARTENDING GIG EVER.  This guy looks like he's supposed to know his shit.  Ah well, maybe he does.  Maybe that's how they do things in this country.  I take a sip.  Predictably underwhelming.  Meanwhile, Tyler goes on at great length about Joe Rogan and how great of a human being he is.  I listen with half an ear, sleep beckoning.  Nearing closing time he switches gears and starts laying into me about how I fucked up the night by not bringing pants.  Goddamnit.  I know he's ribbing me, but the grin fades from my face as he keeps at it.  This lasts several minutes and the bartenders both tactfully decline to choose a side as he calls in support for this roast.  By the end I'm sitting stony-faced, already pissed that we have to somehow piss away two hours before the trains start running again, without having to listen to this clown too.  When he finishes, I stand up and make for the door, thanking the bartender for my half-finished margarita.  As soon as we're safely away from the bar I turn and let him have it.

"HOW DARE YOU SAY THIS SHIT WHEN I'VE HAD TO BABYSIT YOU, YOU FUCKER?  You thought it was funny, me sitting there taking that shit in front of everybody, embarrassing me in front of all those people (four people)?"

 I'm fucking livid, my nerves short from lack of food and sleep, but still, this explosion is unjustified for a little bit of playful hating.  Despite his drunkenness, Tyler recognizes my rage and backpedals.  "I didn't know your tell, honest man, I didn't know your tell."  I fling his apology in his face with the maturity of a grade-schooler and the invectives keep coming.  Repeatedly Tyler tries to fix things, but I'm beyond reasoning, and with the tide of blood rushing into my ears, his patient voice takes on a whiny, pleading quality, angering me further.  I cut him off, "JUST STOP TALKING.  DON'T EVEN TALK.  YOUR APOLOGIES ARE USELESS RIGHT NOW."

Not my proudest moment.  Tyler realizes that nothing he can say will change things, realizes I want to be angry for the sake of being angry, and lapses into silence.

We go into a 7-11, get food and sit down on the street.  The silence between us becomes uncomfortable, until Tyler breaks it by handing me a can of coconut water.  I thank him thusly:

Me: "This is the shittiest coconut water I've ever tasted."
Tyler: "It's better when you're not wasted."

God bless him for being the bigger man.

After that we start walking, looking for a likely place to sleep.  I see a cat on the way and get it to follow us, delighted in my good fortune.  Most cats here avoid me like the plague, but this one is different.  Its fur is soft and it wears a collar, but it's obviously roaming around.  Curious.

Keeping a watchful eye for us.

I wish I could take you home.

Tyler finds an unused garage and hunkers down.  As exhausted as I am I have trouble falling asleep out in the open.  Visions of getting my throat slit (in crime-ridden Taiwan, I know, I know) flash through my thoughts every time my eyes close.  Instead, I sit on some steps nearby and content myself with petting the cat, flicking my eyes in Tyler's direction every once in a while.  He has no problem sleeping on the dusty concrete floor of the garage, despite the flies and mosquitoes.  At 5:30 I wake him up, and he gives me the look of a man condemned to execution at dawn.  I give him a tight nod, feeling like the gods have trampled me underfoot and thrown me to the wolves.  We find a taxi, make for the nearest MRT and ride back towards Taipei Main, barely able to stand.  Twenty minutes later I make the torturous walk to my apartment and wearily push open the door to my studio.  As I slip into bed I glance at the clock.  6:45.

Huh.  When was the last time I was up for 24 hours?