Cut Short

I mentioned the coked up German guy in a recent post, but didn’t go into much detail because he wasn’t important to that story. He still isn’t important, but he has become a real fixture at the club for some inexplicable reason. He’s white with a stubble beard and puffy cheeks. He often wears a newsboys cap, some kind of pull over sweater with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and underneath his dark blue jeans he dons long-toed dress shoes. I hadn’t intended to get to know him, but after our first conversation he took a liking to me for whatever reason, and now he waves me down every time he spots me at the club. The first interaction had been so frustrating. He wanted to know what I thought of him, judging by his manner of dress. I couldn’t say, “tacky or European,” so I said something like, “you look like the kind of guy who’s really committed to slam poetry.” He didn’t take it as an insult and I was happy the jab had gone over his head.

Him: Have you traveled at all?

Me: Yes, I’ve traveled quite a lot, actually.

I rattled off the places I’d been recently.

Him: Wow, that’s a lot. I think it’s good to travel as much as you can, otherwise you don’t know anything.

I thought about how classist this statement was, but said nothing. Such a small percentage of the global population can afford to travel. It is a luxury, and I am privileged.

Him: I have to tell you about my trip to Jamaica!

Me: How was that?

Him: It was terrible! I stayed at a resort, but everything around the resort was super poverty. We were in this isolated area where all the food was American and over priced, and all I wanted was something local. I saw a kid outside the resort eating some fried fish and it looked good. I went over to talk to him, and at first he was scared of me since I’m this European white man and everyone else is black, but eventually he told me about a market I could go to where they sell the fish. He told me to be careful and “don’t act scared.” I was leaving the resort and all the guards were saying, “No no! Don’t go! It’s too dangerous!” But I ignored them because I’m not going to be scared, and I didn’t have anything valuable on me. So I walked to this market, and I’m out there in my linen pants and all, looking really like a tourist, and I realize everyone is looking at me. I’m the only white guy, everyone is black, there are no tourists here at all, just me. I decided to follow the boy’s advice, so I puff out my chest and try to avoid their stares and pretend like everything is normal. I’m searching for the fish. All around me people are gutting fish out in the open with machetes and there’s blood and flies everywhere. It smells terrible. I don’t let it get to me. I finally get through that part of the market and I find the fish lady. I hadn’t noticed that I was being followed. I look around and see people reaching under tarps to get something, and it takes a second for me to realize those tarps are covering guns, piles of guns. There’s all these big scary blacks around, looking at me—

The DJ called my name. Divine intervention.

Me: I’m sorry I have to go dance on stage.

Him: Come back so I can finish my story!

Me: Okay, I’ll try.

I danced and he didn’t tip me, not even one dollar. So afterwards I found another lap to sit on.

Cut to a few weeks later. He’s been at the club nearly every day I’ve worked. I think it’s become his primary pick-up spot. He comes, buys a gram, then either gets a half-hour dance with some girl willing to let him eat her pussy (or at least willing to verbally agree, whether or not that actually transpires in the room is another matter entirely), then leaves. Tonight he doesn’t try to flag me down, he walks directly over to me.

Him: You’re too good for this place, you know that?

Me: Thanks?

Him: But really. I couldn’t talk to the other girls the way I talk to you. You’re too smart for this.

Me: There’s a lot of very smart girls here.

Him: But not like you. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because I feel like I can tell you anything. I had a meeting with Paris Jackson today— well I should say my firm had the meeting. Do you know who she is?

Me: Michael Jackson’s daughter?

Him: Yes. You’re young, you didn’t really grow up with Michael Jackson, did you?

Me: My mother loves Michael. She would play his concert tapes for us when we were kids.

Him: So you knew about him, but years after when he was most popular. Paris Jackson wants my firm to investigate her father’s death. I’ve been doing a lot of research, looking into the case, reviewing the documents. The truth is, it was no accident: it had to be an inside job. Do you know what happened?

Me: I think so. He was prescribed a lethal dose of sleeping and pain meds?

Him: That’s what they said, but it was all a cover up. He was given the kind of medicine doctors use to put someone out during surgery! This was not the kind of thing you take just to sleep. You don’t sleep better, you’re just knocked out and then you wake up after surgery. Nobody gets prescribed that.

Me: How do you know it was an inside job?

Him: Think about it. You remember the trial, right?

Me: Of course. He was accused of molesting children.

Him: He was molesting children. Everyone knows. He was paying out hundreds of thousands of dollars to these families.

Me: Settlements.

Him: Hush money. And on top of that he was racking up incredible bills that were using up all of his money— all of the family’s money. He was out of control, so they put him down like an animal. No doctor gives out that kind of medicine. That’s not what you get if you can’t sleep. They put him down. I don’t know who all was in on it, but I believe his brothers and sisters all made the decision and paid the doctor to administer the lethal dosage.

Me: Did the doctor lose his license afterwards?

Him: No! He didn’t, and he only spent two years in jail for involuntary man slaughter.

Me: It makes sense Paris would want to know the truth, especially with that new documentary, Leaving Neverland or whatever it’s called.

Him: It started before then.

Me: Did she tell you that?

Him: No, I just know. When we were talking, for the first twenty minutes she seemed normal, charming and beautiful. But then things took a turn and you could tell something wasn’t right. I think he molested her too.

Me: I thought he only liked boys?

Him: I don’t think it was that simple. She and her brother weren’t his, you know? Biologically. Those weren’t his kids. And when you’re in that world, you don’t think clearly. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I believe she was another’s his victims in all this. And you know what else—?

The DJ called my name over the loudspeaker. I was relieved for the excuse. I didn’t believe in all of his conspiracy theory, but some of it made sense. I was grateful to yet again be “saved by the bell,” the resounding DJ dong, pun intended.

Me: I have to go.

Him: Come back and talk to me later! I’ll be waiting.