The Neon Owl

by

Chad Lutzke

Chapter 1:  I Had Coltrane

I once caught my junk in my zipper, just a little bit of skin—barely a graze—but enough to make me howl and take my sweet time zipping up every day since. The girl I was with laughed her ass off. She was busy hurrying herself with her bra and struggling with the fasten. I didn’t help her. I’d lost all interest in chivalry at that point. That laugh was a sign of things to come. We lasted four months, then it ended the same way it started: Me in pain.

She was one of several that never worked out, and just another reason to leave Sacramento, the phone call from a lawyer being the catalyst.

“Your aunt’s dead, and she left you everything.”

That’s a direct quote. The lawyer didn’t have a bedside manner, nor was he thorough in explaining the details. And if I’d been closer to Aunt Ruth, I might have spit shit in his ear about breaking things gently. But I was too stunned. I didn’t hear much else he had to say and had only one question: “What?”

Aunt Ruth didn’t have a lot of money. It was all tied up in her motel. A shit-hole on Sunset Boulevard in West L.A. When I met with the lawyer, he showed me a photo. One that was at least twenty years old. And since time heals a building like nails fix a flat, I knew not to expect much once I got there.

“One stipulation,” he’d said. “You can’t sell it.”

Apparently, Aunt Ruth was adamant about the building staying in the family—me being the last in a short line. Unless of course there was a mini-me out there, and I can think of two incidents where that could be the case. The first was a hot little Mexican in Denver who frequented my bed for the better part of a week, just before I’d moved to Sacramento. A young lady who assured me the pill had blocked any chance of our reproducing, yet was in the habit of spilling lies. It wasn’t until after I’d moved that a friend shared with me the truth behind the lies. She was no 20-year-old Judo instructor, but a 16-year-old high-school dropout. And before you go thinking ill of me, I was 17 at the time. This was no cradle robbing. That disturbing bit of news had me questioning the truth about the pill and reminded me of a book I’d read once where a woman slept with a man for the sole purpose of using his seed, the poor guy never the wiser.

The other was a one-night stand. Your average drunken romp, much of which I couldn’t remember even if threatened with bamboo under my nails. Except for one little awkward bit. That trip a man takes to the bathroom after coitus? The one where he disrobes his johnson of its latex shield? Well, it was already gone. Eaten by a flower I’d never see again. That’s the one that worried me most. But I’m not the kind of guy to reject an unexpected knock on the door from a 17-year-old who has my eyes. Hell, I’d welcome it if I’m honest. Arms open. And I mean that.

Anyway, the motel was mine if I wanted it.

It took me less than a week to pack and tie loose ends, which included finishing the final 30 frames in that year’s bowling league. We placed second and left with a trophy, which I promptly took to Goodwill, along with a bag of old clothes I’d been meaning to part with. I’ve no idea if a bowling trophy is the kind of junk that’s another man’s treasure, but the offer was there. I can’t very well call myself a minimalist if I’m lugging around dust collectors like that. A trophy or a decorative vase, they’re the same to me. Winning the trophy was nice, but I’ve got my mind to keep the memory.

So, four days later, I was there on the highway, pissing on the side of the road in the middle of a long drive to The City of Angels. I zipped up (slowly), took my last breath of fresh Northern California air and headed toward the van. Everything I owned was in that van, and in the trailer I’d rented. She was packed tight with my collection of vinyl, the shelves to put them on, my turntable and speakers. Hey, I’m a minimalist. I’m not soulless. A man who lives without music is a man who is without. Period.

I want to get something clear right away. The minimalist lifestyle, it doesn’t go hand in hand with any hippie, free-spirit bullshit. I’m no barefoot-trekking, weed-puffing, aging flower child who thinks the sun shines out of Jerry Garcia’s ass.

It’s not so much the minimalism that pigeon-holes me for some, but the van itself. Shag carpet, bed, mini-fridge, and a stereo system so loud and crisp the deaf turn their heads three blocks away. But there’s no wizard airbrushed on the side. No large-breasted barbarian. No dragons. Just a two-tone orange and purple that in the right light you’d swear had stars living on her. Not a single joint, bowl, bong, or otherwise has been fired up in her. The only thing that’s ever been burned in that baby is Nag Champa. The carpet pulls it in, keeps it there for months. Makes for a heavenly scent and adds to that 70s ambience. A decade I think we all miss. Unless of course you’re guilty of being caught up in the disco craze. In that case, no doubt you’ve got a whole photo album worth of pictures you just as soon keep hidden from the kids. It’s tough explaining a once-deep love for polyester and eye-gouging collars.

By the time I left for L.A., I still hadn’t named her. She deserved one but nothing struck me as worthy. A woman’s name didn’t seem right, not with my lady luck, though it did cross my mind to name her Kathryn, after my mom. But that didn’t seem right either. One night I end up in the back of the van with a special someone, sharing a bottle of wine, and the next thing you know we’re putting Kathryn’s shocks to the test. Nope. Too many memories of Mom knocking on the bathroom door during the merciless grip of puberty, asking how long I think I’ll be and how in hell does one boy take so long in the shower. Mom never was that good at math.

So as I ate the last stretch of road on the way to L.A., the sweet tenor of one John Coltrane as my soundtrack, the name seemed obvious. And by the time I hit the smog, I dubbed thee Coltrane.

Gandalf had Shadowfax. B.B. had Lucille. And I had Coltrane.