Death or Sushi

We're in the midst of a subtle crisis here with EFil. The impression that I get is that he is not stabilizing the way they need him to, which is delaying surgery. They moved him out of the Intensive Care Unit, which is good (?). But he has not yet had this surgery they told him he really needs.

We went to donate blood for him Friday. At the time, he was being rushed into surgery and he said that he either needed our blood or we should donate in his name. So we did. We all told work to go fuck themselves, we were helping our friend. Then we got in a car, turned on Poison and Quiet Riot, and hot-footed it to a hospital. We made jokes about how this was a great bargaining tool--"Oh, you don't like this sketch? Does my BLOOD like this sketch?" and "You don't like this tee shirt design? Well then give me my blood back." Nothing covered the fact that we were all worried as hell. The Odwalla bars and fag jokes only made a thin facade of okayness surround us as we got needles shoved in our arms.

One Animal from the Future almost passed out. The flobotomists loved my crazily-painted toenails. And we all got juice. So that was something. But that was the last thing we could do. Now it's just visit, visit, visit, and pray really hard.

Last night we went out for sushi. We went to our favorite joint in an iffy part of town. On one half of this place, there is a karaoke joint, which always houses the finest of drunk warblers. Even on that quiet Tuesday evening, there's one girl in a sparkly tube top singing Pat Benetar. On the other side lies a Dance Floor and the Sushi Bar.

Last night it was jumpin'. We were trying to order Toro, Unagi, and some sake, for chrissake, and the Japanese were just jammin'. The band consisted of two lead singers, older then, say, dirt, and a bunch of defeated-looking Asians on the instruments.

We had just finished the California Roll when we realized that something terrifying had started to happen. All these Japanese people were behind us, doing the electric slide in perfect unison. Now, you know how when you're in a bar, and the whites are all clumsy and drunk, distracted and sloppy, lolling this way and that, looking for someone to have sex with later, and sort of dancing in the meantime? Well, that was not the case at the Gower Gulch last night. These people were right on the money, stepping cleanly, with reserve. There were no looks of joy in their faces, no glimmer of electric-slide excitement in their eyes. No laughing. No out of place claps. Just a 20 minute song and a determination to be the best.

The thought occurred to me that as the only whites in the building, we might not make it out alive.

They would complete the final step-ball-change, and their heads would turn to the right, staring directly at all three of the Whitey McWhitensteins at the bar through almond-shaped eyes. Then, they would glow red for a split second and they would all leap over the flimsy paper screens and rip us to shreds. Nothing would ever be found of our bodies.

But we did make it out alive, and I considered that a gift from that higher power. I had to live so I could go visit EFil today, and text him and call him names. It was a sign, dammit. And today, the air smells like triumph.

fist in the air. g