Is that Christopher Meloni from L@w & Order?

(image courtesy of NY Daily News)

01.08.07

“Which one do you want?” she asks as she pulls out a bag of assorted goodies—acid, ecstasy, Xanax, Vicodin, crystal meth, OxyContin, and Valium. My anxious hands quickly grab the acid.

And I’m with two sluts I picked up at some shithole dive bar on East 1st Street, which was inundated with broken stools and Natty Ice on tap, and overwrought with fratholes and sororitards, an inescapable stench of urine, and more thirteen-year-olds than a Bergen County bar mitzvah; it shall remain nameless, although the jukebox did boast music that I found to be phonetically pleasing. One of the girls is a bohemian princess from Greenwich, donning a rainbow bowler hat, Scottish tartan, and tattered flares; her name is Sophie. The other girl is an inbred bumpkin whose attractiveness is somehow indubitable—I forget what her name is but for continuity purposes I’ll call her Sue Ann.

Sophie delightfully snatches the E, while Sue Ann predictably grabs the yaba. I am already anticipating an extravagant night full of fornication, iniquity and decadence. Hopefully, it will end with a much-needed threesome.

I lay the smiley-faced tab on top of my restless tongue. As it dissolves I can’t help but think about the absurdity of this situation; I graduated from Flinstones vitamins to acid. At that moment I realize I took the E instead of the blotter. As I spit it onto the sidewalk Sophie punches my right arm.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. Shit,” I say as I grab the acid. But druggies do not usually care about the money, what upsets them more is any imprudent use of a drug.

And there we are, stumbling down 2nd Street like drunken vagabonds, singing 90s buzz hits like Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping” and Eve 6’s “Here’s to the Night” as we constantly hug each other. And Sophie’s grinding her teeth and touching my hair. And Sue Anne is slightly paranoid and utterly confused; she keeps asking if we’re at the bar yet.

And there I am, watching the lucid fireworks rip through the transparent New York sky. “Is it Independence Day already? Why is there snow in July?” I feel like a tourist in my own city.

We decide to hail a cab on 1st Ave and head uptown to Sue Ann’s apartment because she apparently has an obnoxiously extensive vinyl collection. The third cab we see—a sketchy yellow van—pulls up to the sidewalk and we quickly get inside.

Sue Ann enters the taxi first and sits in the backseat. I allow Sophie to get in before me because I’m such a fucking gentleman; she sits behind the driver. I hop in the seat next to her because I know she wants to continue rubbing my hair. I quickly feel as if I’m being watched as I notice a small lipstick camera poking through an advertisement for Heinz ketchup on the glass divider that separates us from the cab driver. I convince myself I’m just high and proceed to dig into my True Religion jeans for a stick of gum—there is no gum but I do find a nickel, which I appreciate with the utmost sincerity.

The driver asks us where we are going in an overblown Irish accent. “123rd and 3rd,” Sue Ann shouts from the backseat. She then continues to whisper it in an attempt to make sure she has the right address.
I’m pretty sure she does not live there, but maybe I’m just paranoid.

The driver keeps repeating the address, which starts to bug me out considering I’m completely zonked out of my gourd. Then, like a flash of pure rapture, a kaleidoscope of scintillating lights gleaming from the car ceiling attacks my pupils and I finally know that the acid is kicking in—that intense rush of whatever. In two snaps, the driver’s head revolves and he shouts something that seems as if it could be straight out of a Twilight Zone episode, “You are in the Ca$h C@b©; it’s a TV game show that takes place right here in this taxi—”

And before I could let him finish, I shout, “No fucking way. Sophie, it’s Christopher Meloni from L@w & Order. Chris, my mom loves the show; she’s a huge fan. What are you doing driving a taxi?”
“Well, actually—” he starts, but Sophie interrupts him. “Oh my God, I love Law and—” she starts, but quickly loses focus. “Oh my God, I love bald men. Can I touch your head?”
“I can see you guys had a great night,” the driver says as he turns to look at the road. She quickly loses interest and begins rubbing her freshly shaven legs in an attempt to quell her incessant desire to rub anything smooth.

Sue Ann is in the backseat, breathing heavily; her hands are shaking with a fervency that reminds me of the fake palpitations coordinated by the blind members of a Southern Baptist church. “Can we not play?” she shouts and then whispers.

“Don’t be silly, Sue Ann, this is life. Life is wonderful. Life is filled with beautiful things like cabs that light up on the inside and are driven by Christopher Meloni. I love life,” I ramble as I continually click and unclick my seatbelt.
“Alright guys, focus; so what do you say? You want to play?” he asks slightly irritated.
“Yes. We want to play,” I say as I slouch down in my seat. “Could you turn the lights on again, please?”
“Sure, but just once more,” he says, now laughing. He whispers to no one in the front seat, “This is going to be a long ride.” And I find comfort in the flashing lights.

“So what’s everyone’s name?”
Sophie anxiously replies, “I’m Sophie and this guy with the great hair is Hayden and that’s Sue Ann in the back.”
“It’s Sue Ann with two Ns and no E, people always think there’s an E but there’s no E, well except what Sophie has,” Sue Ann repeats and then whispers again to herself.
Apparently my attempt at guessing her name was successful. No matter what people say, stereotypes are completely true.

“Okay, Sue Ann without the E, the first questions are worth twenty-five dollars a piece.”
I can barely make out what he is saying because Sophie is grinding her teeth and rubbing my jeans while simultaneously massaging her smooth, silvery legs. If that is not enough of a distraction, there is a leprechaun outside my window riding on a Segway; I just want to chase him and steal his pot of gold.

“On average, one hundred people choke to death on this type of writing utensil every year.”
I’m trying to think of the answer but the only word my mind can focus on is death. And then I think about Rosa and the Meadowlands. Sue Ann keeps shouting fork from the backseat, which then makes me think about food. My mind quickly puts the two words together and all I can ponder is what it would be like to be a cannibal. Sophie keeps muttering something about dicks and then I start to wonder—
If a male cannibal digests the dick of another male, does that make him gay?

Then, before I can think about anything else, Christopher Meloni says, “five seconds guys.”
“Five seconds till what, Mr. Meloni?” Sophie asks.
“Oh, strike one. The answer was a ballpoint pen. Ballpoint pen. Two more strikes and you’re hiking it.”

“I didn’t know this game involved baseball,” I say, still thinking about cannibalism and irrumatio. Then my mind wanders as I ask, “Did you know that semen contains several agents that have important roles in the prevention of preeclampsia?” Sophie starts rubbing my bulge as I continue, “That’s why it is essential that pregnant women practice fellatio on their partners regularly, so as to decrease their chances of having an unsuccessful pregnancy.”

“That’s hot,” says Sue Ann, now sweating. "Can we turn down the heat?"
“It’s so warm,” Sophie says as she gently rubs over my masculinity. “Do you think you can put the radio on? I really really want to dance.”

The driver just shakes his head and says, “We’ll just edit that out. Okay, here’s your next question: Which Nevadan city, known as ‘the Biggest Little City in the World,’ is actually located west of Los Angeles?”
Sue Ann, who has stopped shaking, ignorantly asks, “I thought we were in New York?”

And I cannot stop thinking about the blowjob I got from this girl in Los Angeles last summer. Then I ask, “What time is it?” I look at my watch in utter disbelief; it has only been three hours since I took the blotter. “Do you think we can make a quick stop? I want to see the fireworks.”

Everyone ignores me. And, to my surprise, Sophie shouts, “Reno, Nevada.”
The cab silences and I can only hear my thoughts reverberating from ear to ear—Blowjobs, Hannibal Lecter, fireworks, Reno 911, leprechaun Segway races. My paranoia matures and I start to believe that everyone in the cab can read my mind. I take out a piece of gum that I somehow found in my pocket (a fucking 4th of July miracle), chew it, and then stick it on the not-so-hidden camera in front of me.

“Reno, Nevada is correct,” Christopher Meloni shouts. "Okay these next questions are worth 50 bucks, but they're a little harder."

"So am I," I shout as Sophie continues to rub me down. And I laugh very heartily until I see my reflection in the mirror; it doesn't seem to be mimicking any of my movements. So there I am, battling my reflection, trying to see which one of us can make a sillier face.

"The phrase, 'Mind your P's and Q's' originated in England and was used by bartenders to settle down their unruly customers. What do the P and Q stand for?"
And before anyone can say a word I yell, "I want to phone a friend."
"You mean a Mobile Shout Out?"
"Well I'll still have two more lifelines, right?"
"You've really never seen this show, huh," he says as he makes a right turn. "You get two shout outs, a mobile shout out where you can call one of your buddies to help you out, and a street shout out where you ask someone on the street for help."
But I don't want to ask the leprechaun outside because leprechauns are tricky characters, so I yell, "Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"The Mobile thing, the shout out...I want to phone a friend."
"Okay Mobile Shout Out it is. You know you only get one," he says annoyingly while simultaneously slipping in which service provider they use.
Glad I could be a part of such shameless promotion.

"So," he begins. "Who are you going to call?
"My boy Mafo. He's a veritable appendix of information, for real," I say as he hands me the ugly, black hunk of antediluvian technology. "He always watches F@mily Feud." The phone rings.
"Whoa, I think the phone is ringing," says the voice on the other line; I can hear a bong bubbling in the background and a cacophony of coughs in the distance. A cacoughony—as you can see I am only entertaining myself at this point.

"Mafo. Hey Mafo, it's Hayden man, I'm in the cab where you get cash with Christopher Meloni."
"No way brah, I'm watching that shit on TV right now; the answer is Platypus, for sure."
"Platypus? I didn't even tell you the question yet."
"Yo man, we just hit Jimi bro—glass on glass, double-perc, ash catcher, slide and party bowl-"
"Sick bro, who you with?"
"Dress, Vincheesy, Chanman, and Big Z. Time to smoke Big Red, here's Dress."
"No way, Spicoli? What's good, daig?"
"Ten seconds," says the driver.
"Wugglin.'"
"Sick, I'm trippin' real hard right now."
"Five seconds," says Meloni.
"Shaka man," Dress says—he's a man of few words. "Cannonball," he shouts as I hear him take a bong rip, a puff of hookah, and a chase of liquor. Based on his sharp inhalation I know it's a shot of Jack. "Brutha, hold on, Z-Money wants to say something..."

"Ohh, times up," says Meloni. And as he takes the phone away, all I can hear from the speaker is a deep voice yelling, "Fuckin' Myrrh." And then laughing, then Chanman shouting, "Hey man, I ain't gunna do your laundry," then silence. And I realize happiness is just a Mayfly. Happiness is a thirty-second phone call. And we drop and we smoke and we snort and we inject, in vain, with the slight hope that we can protract this feeling of elation. It replaces any unrefined emotions. That first kiss. That first road trip. That first time you heard "What I Got". It all gets replaced by this relentless flow of dependency. We never find happiness in ourselves and any good fortune we may have is merely that of pure luck. And any misfortune we encounter is simply contrived. And I quickly realize I don't want this. I don't need this. But the car is still moving, and I don't want to be alone.

After about five successfully answered questions and possibly two hours—I’m not sure—the driver stops in the middle of the road and I swear to fucking Buddha I see that leprechaun again.

“Why are we stopped?” Sue Ann asks, now shaking again. “Did we get a flat?”

Then a symphony of bells rips through the air as the driver yells, “That sound means it’s time for the Red Light Ch@llenge©.” I try and collect my thoughts and Sophie has now moved onto rubbing the leather seat beneath her as the driver continues, “Since you have accumulated two hundred dollars or more, you qualify. It’s a two hundred and fifty dollar question; it’s a multiple answer question which means that you have to get all parts of it right in order to win. You have thirty seconds to answer it from the time I ask you.” But I am too preoccupied with the leprechaun to hear what Christopher Meloni is saying, but he continues, “You ready?”

Sue Ann says, “I don’t know how to change a tire.”

Sophie misinterprets his last question and unbuttons her frayed flares. I watch as her fingers inch their way past the waistband of her satin, polychromatic underwear. And she starts rubbing her rosebud at a glacial pace, tilting her head back and arching her blossoming bosoms. And I’m not watching her please herself because I’m too captivated by the transposition of shapes and colors on the surface of her variegated undergarment.

And everything illuminates around me. The cosmic tempest above my head conquers my vision. Its beauty overwhelms my dilated orbs as I slouch down till I am lying horizontally on my seat. My pupils begin to swallow my eyes as the light elegantly swims down like a piece of paper in the wind. It begins to envelop my casing, tugging and pulling the thin hairs that excitedly protrude from my goosebumped flesh. Now afraid, I shout, “Could you turn off the crazy lights, please?”
And Christopher Meloni’s response is one that frightens me even more. “The lights aren’t even on, man.”

And now I know I’m too high. I start to laugh until my two fountainheads fashion rivers of tears that relentlessly stream down my visage, until my neck is covered in salty seas. And I can’t stop laughing. I’m lost in my own humor.

“According to Judeo-Christian tradition, the Decalogue, otherwise known as the Ten Commandments, was a list of religious and moral imperatives given to Moses by God at Mount Sinai in the form of two tablets. Name six of the Ten Commandments. You have thirty seconds. Go.”
But I haven’t learned about the Ten Commandments since my unfortunate, bullshit Sunday School days.

And as I watch Sophie play DJ, all I can think about is sex.

As I’m sifting through my mental drug cabinet, Sue Ann is huddled in the backseat, sweating profusely, and talking to no one about her past—a paroxysm of emotions. “You know, every Christmas, when I was little, my dad and I would leave a slack of ribs, a fresh tin of wintergreen snuff, and a bottle of Jack underneath our stockings for Santa. And when I would wake up in the morning, there would only be a pile of bones, a cup full of dip spit, and a half-drunk handle of Whiskey. One Christmas morning I caught my dad passed out next to the fireplace with barbeque sauce smothered all over is face and hands, dip spit dripping from his lower lip onto his wife beater, and the bottle of Jack securely fastened to his chest. I don't believe in Santa anymore. I hate Christmas.”

Ignoring the solitary therapy session behind me, I start to shout out random answers with the hope that I would get at least a few right.

“Thou shalt not rape. Thou shalt not use the backdoor without permission. Thou shalt not give facials. Thou shalt not kiss after fellatio. Thou shalt not ever go ass to mouth. Thou shalt not—.” But I can’t stop laughing.
And I’m laughing and Sophie is moaning and Sue Ann is whispering about rape and patricide and crying and Christopher Meloni is yelling.
“That’s it. Get out now. All of you.”

He pulls the taxi over and I see that damn leprechaun again. I slide open the door and fall out of the cab right onto my face. As I am picking gravel off my cheeks, I can hear Sophie screaming for a few seconds. The screaming subsides until there is nothing but an ebb of panting. She crawls out of the cab and begins to rub my nape; her hands are moist. Sue Ann is still huddled in a fetal position in the backseat of the cab. Mr. Meloni irately opens the driver side door, walks around the car, and pulls Sue Ann out of the cab. And there we are, cradling each other on the sidewalk.
Christopher Meloni fervently slides the taxi door closed and yells, “And the name's Ben Bailey, bitch.”

And every fucking single girl is thinking about how this is the perfect story: Fuck My Life.

And Meloni is driving and Sophie is spent and Sue Ann is yelling, "Is this how you do a street shout out?" But all I can think about is how my good luck is riding off into the distance on a Segway. Fucking leprechauns.