Inside the 8/23/12 edition of Albuquerque's weekly, alibi, I ran across a column called Potshots in the Temple, written by Alex E. Limkin (a former U.S. Army sergeant of 15 years, including a tour of Iraq from 2004-2005). This particular insert was subtitled: "The Making of an Army Bigot"—an in-depth analysis on the mindset of the former Hammerskins member Wade Michael Page, who shot and killed 6 people at a Sikh gurdwara in Oak Creek, Wisconsin the year before.
Limkin's 1st assignment with the Psychological Operations Batallion in Fort Bragg circa 1992, was the basis for the article, describing the effects of hostile conditions within boot camps; specifically death metal hate sessions directed toward Muslims and the Middle East, which he points to being a strong factor in Page's actions on the day in question.
"Like Page, I got into music. Not to spread venomous hatred but as therapy for injuries. Eventually I became a member of a band, which I'm still in today. Instead of screaming about racial pride, we are a tolerant and accepting lot. Our name is generic. FM. I like to say that it does not stand for frequency modulation but for the Fulkien Ministers, a self- selected delegation of 12 officials that went on a peace mission in ancient China and never returned."
* * *
I had been sitting inside Chama River for around 20 minutes, perusing the alibi and waiting for the show to start. The walk to the bar was filled with the scent of oncoming fall and acrid odors like grammar school bus lots and mildly hot trash on the corners. If you've lived in Albuquerque at any point, you know that there is an overwhelming smell of stale craft beer between like, 8th & 2nd street on Central Avenue. It's impossible to avoid and only really dampens during the coldest months of Winter.
At 6:38pm, I was sitting at an empty/clean table closest to the exit, because nowhere is this smell more relevant than Chama River's Micropub on 2nd Street. Thankfully, they leave the door open during the day.
MGMT's Kids, a staple song in the bars of Duke City, was on the surround sound, drowning out the cacophony of the really brave ones and the regulars who sat at the top. I could only make out the conversation of the couple at the table next to me- who were in the middle of debating Robert Deniro's questionable/stellar performance in Ronin.
Honestly, from the initial awkwardness at the table, an awkwardness that slowly loosened with the introduction of more alcohol, I got the impression this was the beginning of date #2 or #3, and when the young man began discussing the social relevance concerning moving in with his gay friend and how that could be misinterpreted, I laughed to myself (much louder than anticipated) and stuck my face as deep into a glass of Oatmeal Stout as humanly possible, hoping the gurgling would muffle my amusement. I had read an article several months earlier about Jet Fuel deposits located near a groundwater source in New Mexico, and being at a higher elevation than most, you come to appreciate a constant source of H20, especially when drinking on an empty stomach. The dingy aftertaste of bleach in my glass helped to reassure that Chama's source was safe, and one could only hope that this was the case for all of downtown.
My original intention was to remain inconspicuous, knock back a few, make some notes on the ride to Desert Fish, and meet up with my wife for dinner/ the show. Sitting alone at a table next to the door and writing in the margins of a newspaper, surrounded by people talking over people so other people can hear what they have to say, I wasn't sure if I was accomplishing as much.
The young man next to me began using playful negs with visible enthusiasm on his unsuspecting date. He commented on her ugly shoes and complained that her nail polish didn't match his Patagonia Nano Puff Pullover—but her eyes made up for the difference. He made overly elaborate declarations about his passion for film, fancying himself an as yet unrenowned movie critic, waiting for the right exposure. I decided then and there that the enemy, every enemy, wears button- ups beneath their light jackets, and overuse their Z's (even though they're meant to be S's) in an annoyingly euphemistic context.
"That's(zzzz) why you hear music and wish your glasses weren't on."
This moron began discussing studies on the crystalline structures of water drops under the influence of different prayers, speech, environment and music- how every particle was tightly constricted,
"... like pristine molecules symmetrically sound and less disorganized you know?"
His date failed to make the connection, and diverted the attention toward her reasoning for the "natural inability to contain water in the human body." The lovechild of Woody Allen and Neil Strauss made some cheesy remark like "Need a fully hydrated release..." and said that love and appreciation could take the tiniest particle of our bodies' base and shape it into something like a diamond earring, which I wanted to believe was feasible, but didn't have the facts to support the theory at the moment.
"Nothing too big. But under the right lense, 40 karats, unblemished."
He stroked her chin with his fat ring finger and pulled her wrists toward his chest, attempting to lull her into a playful submission. I stood up to order another beer, but asked for the check and exited in light of the display.
* * *
The Alvarado Transit Center is the easiest place to catch the 766 east toward Nob Hill. I'd never been to the Desert Fish, and had heard that it was a pretty upscale establishment for the area. I knew I was completely underdressed for the occasion. My wife was scheduled to get out of work (as a banquet server at UNM) and would either catch the bus from Yale Boulevard or walk the half-mile and meet me when finished.
I'm convinced she was pretty disappointed in missing out on the parade of ministers in raspberry button-ups witnessing to Maid-O-Matics and spiced out, native dwarves—considering she gets a real kick out of shit like that. All the tables were occupied, and the long faces on craned necks waited for late arrivals—gnashing their teeth in that crazed hypersensitive manner that screams barbiturate abuse.
When I arrived, I circled the building per this anxiety induced ritual I've grown accustomed to; I was alone and out of my cave, the sanctum of the unsocial. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy congregating as much as the next guy. But only in familiar settings. This was completely out of my element.
The patrons helped me to understand as much- their inquisitive glares from the window sill as I approached the entrance. It was near dusk, but I could clearly see sneers from a guy with blonde twisted braids and... goddamn it... another white button up long sleeve—out front posing for photos with a small group of friends. He smelled my apprehension to enter, and I would later realize that the man in khakis who held possible contempt for my appearance, was Hakim Bellamy, Poet Laureate of Albuquerque.
The hostess wore an aghast expression before I asked if my wife had already arrived. When I described Lindsey to the woman, I was assured she was at the empty bar only moments earlier, but she had already left. She didn't seem too keen on showing me to a table, and instead asked if I would like to sit there and wait for Lindsey's possible return. She could smell the negative balance on my checking account, but didn't realize I was carrying cash at the time. Her black button up and tight hair bun gave me moment to consider response, and comply without scene.
I felt like I'd shown some fake UNM credentials at the door, or they just took general pity on me, because Randy, the barkeep, didn't need my Bank of America Card to hold the tab. It's strictly on the honor system at Desert Fish. Hakim sauntered over to the opposite end, far opposite end, refusing to acknowledge anyone else other than Randy and maintaining a peripheral scan of the bum with the blank expression on his face. He ordered a water before making small talk and confirming the band's drink credit for the night.
He took his place on stage, at the back right corner next to the window and behind a speaker, as the Beat & the Feet filed in and began setting up. I was still surrounded. Long sleeves, cuff links, and a primarily bald/Anglo... pristine... wait staff. I felt more and more like the unshaven vagrant who dragged himself into a place where he didn't belong. This is a common occurrence in Albuquerque restaurants. Randy was sorely disappointed I didn't need to see a menu, but didn't say as much. He was polite.
* * *
The look on the 18 people in attendance, besides myself, was an apathetic perplexion while the Beat hopped around the room, organizing A/V wires like a tech on crank. Finally, Lindsey appeared in the doorway, and I was so fucking relieved that someone else would endure this moment with me.
What sounded like common grocery store Muzak emitted from the house speakers. Everyone seemed to be battling narcolepsy or fecundity. I soon realized the music was coming from Hakim's MacBook and I felt the powerful urge to order my second drink in under 15 minutes, third in an hour. The look on Hakim's face said something to the effect that he had wasted the effort... in dying his hair platinum blonde, let alone showing up. That the stained bath towels at home were all for nothing, because no one was there to see.
