When one thinks of a bust, they picture either a marble or plaster head (with or without shoulders) of some figure of historical significance, or a pair of breasts.
I’ve the rare and enchanting opportunity to divulge a story of both, all in one perfect package.
I’d been out of town with work for about a month and a half in the fall of 2005, and had used that time to continue my self-issued and short-lived bout with sobriety; as fate and the calendar would have it, upon my return home, I had just passed the three-months-dry mark, and as fate would further permit, two of my closest friends Martin and Thai (and Martin’s begrudgingly sporting girlfriend Bianca) would help me celebrate my return home and my three month sabbatical from booze with several strong drinks at a place owned, ran, and frequented by Jews. Not a biased slur, but a fact, and therefore, this dive shall be known as the Jews’ House.
The Jews’ House was a pretty awesome bar despite its looking more like an old inner-city warehouse with tables and chairs strewn about in no orderly fashion, and the old-style brick walls with mortar oozing out of the seams. There was a small make-shift stage at one end for live bands and poetry readings on one night or the other, and there was a smoker’s patio out back on the roof of the adjacent building. (This bar was on the second floor of a building, over a shop of one kind or another, and getting to the bar meant finding the narrow doorway on a motley street and entering into uncertainty, climbing forty or so steps before finding your objective.) There were windows behind the stage for some sunlight, and the bar was well-lit at that time of day at that time of year; otherwise, the bar was lit by black lights and utility lights, and candles that were on each table, if they were lit and not blown out by drunken or privacy-seeking clientele.
The floor had a grime all its own. Stained dark brown by either lacquer or several thousand (possibly million) city-treading bar-dwellers, or both, it gave the impression of a real denizens’ haven… and any denizen would do. It’s not that the floor wreaked of piss or anything; but only the drunkest and most needy would dare lie down on it.
The one feature of this bar that made it unique, at least in my experience, was the many perfectly molded, designed, and glazed pairs of breasts over respective torsos (with nothing above the neck, below the waist, or beyond the shoulders), probably between five and ten at any given time. They were all very nice breasts, and all very nice art; even the pregnant ones had an air of dignity and sex appeal. There were several colors and varieties: Some were multi-colored in a camo-pattern of pastels and neons; some had silvery lace covering their silver, almost cosmic sheen; there were one or two flesh-toned torsos there, one of which had a tattoo of a heart, on the back wall. There was even a couple, a man and a woman, tastefully done. Very awesome atmosphere for an otherwise unremarkable bar.
Not too far into the afternoon, I was stoned-drunk heading for completely shitfaced. (The proprietor of the establishment sold drinks cheap, and the bartender was overly generous with his boss’ wares. For my own part in the events, I was, let me remind you, drinking for the first time in a quarter of a year, and Martin and Thai were seasoned alcoholics and enablers, and my enthusiastic return to recreational alcohol absorption was probably a little overboard.)
Martin and his girlfriend, ever the killjoy, had to leave early for some other important function… at least, it must have been important, because Heaven forbid Martin and Bianca would leave because she was PMS-ing. (Note: Bianca’s pretty cool, actually; fact is, though, none of our girlfriends ever really thought much of any of the guys in our troupe other than the one they were fucking (read, “we’re all assholes that condone promiscuity and shun monogamy”), and, because light grudges developed from tedious animosity, it was an excellent way to ensure that the girls, once left for a new shrew or fresh air and freedom, would not miraculously find their way back into the Circle of Trust, becoming little more than a groupie and an annoyance. This boundary has been tested only a few times, with friendships being the fatality. In any case, Bianca and Martin are married now, so it’s just as good that I put something nice about her.)
So it was up to Thai to babysit my drunken ass. As revealed previously, Thai’s a very sublime character, but he can also be somewhat passive at times; had I chosen to be a complete and total prick during Phase I of my drunken stupor, he may well have let me grow deep into a rage of belligerent sarcasm and vulgarity (foreshadowed by the first hour of our drinking, certainly a solid prompt for Bianca to ensure Martin’s removal from Ground Zero) and left me for bouncers and cops (AKA, the protagonists of most stories) to handle. Luckily, Thai’s radar was right on track (as it typically is during periods of inebriation), and he ensured my crash-landing was on a nice, comfy couch in the Lion’s Den.
The Lion of this particular Den was a self-infatuated wannabe peacenik named Chas. Chas was a tool that pretended to be some laid-back retro-hippy that played the bongo in a band. As he was short and not typically a threat to anyone, he had to add elements of panache to himself in order to stand out: to wit, odd little belt buckles, necklaces of hemp beads and pottery balls, flavor savors under his ridiculously large teeth, and rings and bracelets, etc. While he boasted on about cultural awareness and sensitivity, in truth, he built his persona in a failing effort to get laid. He was the friend of the girl who would never fuck him.
But he had a mean streak to him. He would side with a prospective girl in belittling someone just to curry her favor. I never could respect that sycophantic behavior, and absolutely abhorred it when he once mocked a mutual friend of Thai’s and mine in front of some not-too-impressive but equally self-absorbed girls that considered themselves “intellectuals”. (Note: I do not typically make allowances for cruelty based on social stature or looks, or even brains. I’ve never liked snobbery, though I myself am conceited, (snobbery has an element of disrespect and elitism that I don’t particularly care for, and that I find pretentious) and do enjoy seeing those that are snobs brought down several rungs below dirt level.) Alas, Chas was not a genuine person, and would take advantage of any situation he could, no matter the cost in virtue. (Yes, I do feel like something of a hypocrite right now, considering this story’s theme…)
And I was passed out on this douche’s couch.
Yeah. Not one of my prouder moments. But Thai was friends with this poser; otherwise, I might have been resting on some sterile, stainless-steel bench in the county jail’s drunk tank, being fondled by some gay vagabond. I was grateful to have avoided THAT.
Before evening fully fell and the night was a complete wash, however, I woke up to Chas shoving me. Let me make this clear: I was passed out on this dude’s couch, there as a guest with Thai, and this little fellow, half of me, was shoving me, not because of anything of necessity, like his girlfriend was coming over to screw him at last and he needed that couch. No, he was shoving me in some odd, playful manner, making me the butt of whatever joke he was making at my expense; this much was abundantly clear. (As I could have predicted, he’d taken advantage of my unconsciousness to assert a corporeal dominance over my sluggish mass, something a little guy like him couldn’t do to a conscious person.) (It later came out that he had also answered my phone during my oblivious state when a girl I was seeing called. (This girl, Nixon, was a bisexual stripper with family issues and a penchant for freaky behavior; she had asked me during my out-of-town trip to fuck her at gunpoint on camera, and suggested I treat the barrel as one might a speculum; rust forbade such atrocities, but I appreciated her enthusiasm.) Nixon was under the impression that I was still out of town, a fabrication that Chas disenchanted (much to her chagrin) during his unauthorized phone discussion with her; he also insulted her and told her to quit calling. (I might have done the same, of course, as Nixon was a fling and a nuisance; but I wasn’t quite done with her, at least not in that instance, and Chas was a prick, so what happened next was as much his own doing as it was mine.))
On auto-pilot and into Phase II, I stood up from the couch. Thai may or may not have seen war in my eyes, but he did make sure that we left prior to a regrettable show-of-force; somewhere in between my bloodshot-eyed rising and my stumbling to the door, my phone was retrieved and delivered to me. (It is my belief that future generations will be born with a phone charger growing out of their asses; that is how much I rely on my phone: It’s the great enabler for precious commodities like delivery and ass, and whoever invented texting must have had a long-winded wife. Coincidentally, my wife hates my cell phone. Needless to say, I was pleased that Chas’ dwarf fingers didn’t finger-fuck my cell too much.)
Thai got me out of the house and made a few farewell pleasantries, during which time my gate became one of purpose and, out of Chas’ view, I grabbed off the front porch Chas’ bansai tree, on which he’d been pruning and shearing and dwarfing for two full years, and hurled it pot and all down the street. The pretentious little plant hid the streets some 30 yards away, and I kept walking down the sidewalk, hearing in my leave, “Dude, did he just take my bansai tree? Where is it?” I walked on, and Thai caught up with me.
(Note: Some would say that, with karma and partying and drinking so much to excess that you pass out before you can even vomit, Chas’ fucking with me and making disillusioning comments to a hole on my phone was merely the chaos theory and justice at work, and no more blame nor punishment should be attributed to him than to a guy who writes profanities and draws swastikas on his friends’ faces while they’re passed out. Some would even say that I deserved to be fucked with, that I had it coming for my over-doing it after three months of sobriety. I don’t disagree with that in the least; a good time could be had by all, and that’s fine. But with that line of reasoning, one could also make the argument that Chas was an opportunistic little prick who had his ever-so-vulnerable bansai tree in the open while begging for some retaliation. I just made it a win-win situation, was all. (Update: Seven months later, Chas was selling a 1987 Volvo wagon that ran, but that he had left sitting for several months; he wanted $300 for it so he and his band could record an album. I gave him $100 for a lake car, and he was smiling and obsequious the whole time, as though there were no hard feelings, and everything was cool. I got $500 on a trade-in, you tool. How’s the CD?))
Thai and I went back to the Jews’ House to continue our drinking; my “nap” had rekindled my vigor and moxy, and I was at this point something between a ninja and Superman. We were seated at the back of the J-House, left in the nominal darkness in a crowded bar, watching everyone but largely unseen. There was some slight, nonsensical conversation, both of us feeling omnipotent and amused among the mortals, but otherwise the drinking was the goal and purpose of that night. There was something brewing, though, in one or both of our heads, in this very moment, at this bar that was packed with witnesses that were too blind to see us. Thai looked up at the tattooed breasts directly above us, and I looked up. There was no stealth or chicanery involved, just drunken tomfoolery and the perfect moment where everyone saw nothing, and Thai and I were alone in that crowded bar.
I reached up and lifted the nicely skin-toned (lightly tanned Caucasian) bust off the wall, and concealed it in my quickly removed jacket. Without speaking, Thai and I stood, entranced by the petty “borrowing” and the large amount of alcohol we’d each consumed, and left the Jews’ House. A doorman almost stopped us, looking curiously at the wrapped package that was my coat, yet, seeing no more than two drunks in a daze, let us pass right out of there with a piece of art that would have gone for $500 or more to paying customers.
It was most nearly Thai’s birthday. Happy birthday, Thai.
Two months later, Thai called me with some irritating news. A friend of his named Kyle was visiting his house when Thai shows him the tits, perky and wonderful and temporarily housed in the back of his closet. Seems one thing that was an essential fact was, Kyle was Jewish, and though Thai knew this, he didn’t know that Kyle was friends with the owner of the Jews’ House; Kyle was also a partier and a drinker, a real man-about-town, so it was natural that Kyle and the Jews’ House owner, who was also the creator of said tits, would have discussed the goings-on at the bar. This was no shit: Thai and I found a flyer that very week that offered a reward for the tits’ safe return. There is was, photocopied, tattoo and all.
But there was more, and this was what really hit home and made returning the tits essential: These were the breasts of a dead girl. The Jews’ House owner/bust artist had made this particular set of breasts off of one of her friends; said friend later died. The bust artist was very upset by the loss of her friends’ tits, and Kyle, knowing this, felt guilty in knowing that the tits were at Thai’s house. Kyle was so guilt-ridden, in fact, that he returned to Thai’s house in order to talk about how guilty he felt, and asking Thai to return the rack posthaste.
There were a couple of elements at work here: The law was one, no explanation necessary. But even if it weren’t abundantly clear that Kyle was going to snap, there was also guilt at having taken a cherished keepsake of a lost friend. Lastly, there was a reward: The Jews’ House was offering a $100 bar tab for the safe return of the tits. The avoidance of punishment and guilt, as well as the bliss of a bar tab, made a pretty persuasive argument.
Thai was reluctant at first, believing that great risk came with even bringing the bust to the Jews’ House, even if it was just to be left in a hidden corner for Kyle’s retrieval and returning to the proprietor. But realizing the volatility of the Kyle Situation made returning it a must; Kyle was an acquaintance, but not a trusted agent, and certainly not one who could swallow a story no matter how heinous in order to cover for a friend, or at least not a casual friend like Thai. As Thai had told him the story of how the bust was stolen in the first place, including my part in it, and Kyle had even less loyalty to me, it was at great detriment to me as well. It had to become a non-issue.
We went to good ol’ Wal-Mart, bought trash bags, duct tape, bleach, and rubber gloves. I did the clean up, removing fingerprints and detritus from the bust, and wrapped it into the plastic bags, snugly with the tape. Thai’s gym bag was just the perfect size: The tits were returned that night, tucked safely behind a video game in the Jews’ House.
The next month, Thai and I went with Kyle to drink off of Kyle’s tab. It was a little awkward, I guess, sitting there getting stoned-drunk off reward booze that wasn’t really earned. It was also a little sad, looking around the bar, not seeing the returned bust anywhere; it was assumed that the owner had decided not to risk it again, and took the art home for safe-keeping.
A couple of years later, when we made it back to the Jews’ House during an unplanned and uneventful night, a group of us sitting against the wall was laughing and drinking, and Thai and I pointed out, in low voices, where we had been sitting when the Stolen Tits Caper began. We recounted many elements of that night, mildly cursing Thai’s lack of discretion and Kyle’s forceful guilt.
We reached up to the nearest bust and found it anchored, securely, to the wall. No one was going to be walking out with one of those anytime soon without buying it.
Which I hear you can do for about $500.
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