A Night at Mojo’s

Circa 2008, Ogden, UT

Posted on July 19, 2020 Posted in utah, ogden, daily bliss

Tagged #fiction, #gen x, #internetcafe, #lesbians, #metalmusic, #mojos, #yuppies

Mia says, “Let’s get coffee,” and of course I agree. It has been far too long.

We walk side by side; Mia, her buxom girlfriend Roxanne and I, down 25th street toward Grounds for Coffee. She and Roxi are an item, and I am the straight but, bi-curious friend who makes them politically correct lesbians. Grounds used to be a coffee shop. Now it has become some upscale yuppie eating establishment in an asinine attempt to turn Ogden into the next Park City, complete with a gondola.

“Figures,” Mia rants. “Damnit, all I want is some coffee!”

“There’s always Denny’s,” Roxi offers.

My stomach turns sour in response to the prospect of another night wasted at Denny’s. I’m just not in the mood to be filled with greasy fries, moons over my hammy and bad memories.

“No way.”

“We could go to Mojo’s,” Roxi is full of suggestions and D-cup breasts, which are spilling from her black corset top.

“To Hell with that! We can’t even drink there.”

“I thought you said you wanted coffee Mia,” I contradict. “Besides, I’m nursing a hangover." This is a lie because I recently stopped drinking entirely, but explaining my reasons why would take way too much time and it's also nobody's business. "And it’s been ages since I’ve been to Mojo’s. I like that place.”

“Mojo’s it is then.”

Mojo’s Café is a conglomerate coffee house/internet café/local art exhibit/music venue…a haven for sad little O-town’s youth. I have always liked the place. When I was a disgruntled teenager, in love with pain and Nine Inch Nails, I always wished there had been a place like this. We cross Washington Blvd. and walk to the café directly opposite the LDS temple. Utah is such a strange state. In stark contrast to the pristine gates and iron bars of the temple, are a group of teens clad in black T-shirts, hipsters, vans and mohawks. Male and female alike sport numerous facial piercings and tattoos.

Mia and Roxanne fit right in. Their clothing makes a statement. I stick out like a sore-thumb in jeans and a sweater. I gave all of my Goth gear away to the suicidal tendencies in need of nice threads once I no longer required such means to establish my identity.

“Who’s playing tonight?’

“It’s metal night!” the pink-haired door girl tells us. She then proceeds to name a few groups all equally ominous, “…Brutal Spleen!”

“No shit?” I am a little shocked at the familiar name. My friend Max fronts this band. It will be cool to see him again.

As we enter, I imagine Mojo’s would be a great place to drop acid, but there's just lattés and espresso shots. The walls are covered in contemporary “art.” A virtual feast for the eyes, so many things to look at! A serial artiste named Steve Stone is a particular favorite here. His paintings feature pop culture icons like Captain Crunch, Mickey Mouse, and Yoda all seated at the Last Supper with Hitler and Gandhi. It’s very much like an accident you can’t bring yourself to look away from. Other pieces resemble Rothko, Monet, Picasso; all mediocre copies of another man’s genius - the dilemma of our Age. The most original thing I spot is something resembling sex organs spliced open on an operating table.

Max and two other band members I do not know, and a troupe of their band-aides are seated near the entrance.

“What’s up?” Max asks quizzically when he spots me.

“Oh you know, getting my tri-monthly dose of homosexual homage in.” I nod to Mia and Roxanne who have already seated themselves near the entrance, one on top of the other, at the front line of glowing pink and blue Macs to check their email.

“Ah! I see. Where’s your man?”

“He’s busy tonight, helping his Mom move into her new place. Sucks too because he really likes Metal.”

My husband is an avid fan of Death Metal bands and Shakespeare. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who can read Dickens while simultaneously watching a boxing match. He took me to the symphony, camping and to a strip club all in the first month I met him. His interests always keep me curious.

His Mom was recently booted out of the home she’s been renting for twenty-two years when the landlord died. His greedy son decided to hike up the rent in his hour of mourning, leaving my mother-in-law with no choice but to move in a hurry. The gentrification was already beginning. Ogden was now on the map, so to speak. We didn't know it at the time, but it was soon to be invaded by California yuppies escaping their high property taxes to come bring all their bad habits to our "quaint" little town.

“Too bad. Next time,” he says and gets up to let me sit in his chair.

Max and I have always had this strange acquaintance; bizarre in the fact that he is the only heterosexual male I’ve been close to since high school, I have not slept with. When I saw Reality Bites in junior high, I memorized these words of wisdom, “Sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship.” The number of sexual encounters which followed in years to come only confirmed such sage-like advice. Until I met my husband, I thought the two were irreconcilable.

We chat, about classes (we’re both returning to college on the eve of our ten year high school reunion), life, music, etc. We could be poster children for the last of the Gen Xers; chronic slackers who long for the Fight Club lifestyle, pulled into adulthood kicking and screaming not so much from lack of ability but more by lack of opportunity. I was recently let go from my 28th job in my 28th year when the CEO decided to cut his losses and layoff 356 people, en masse. I would've been pretty upset about it had this kind of thing not happened to me several times before. Of the 28 potential "careers" that were no longer options for me, 26 of them were positions that no longer even existed, 23 of which I had been laid off. So...back to school. But Max and I, well, we were the first two punks and the last two punks. But now, it’s just Max.

“How’s married life?”

I get this question a lot. My typical response is that it’s much like life was before we got married; only people keep asking how it’s going all the time and the elders, when we're going to procreate.

“It’s great.”

I spot Max’s girlfriend, Aimee, nearby and wave. She smiles a thousand daggers. I know that look. It says stay the Hell away from my man with the politeness of a scorpion. All women understand this. Men delude themselves about the fierce rivalry under those cordial greetings, but we know. I wish I could tell her, I’m no thief, I’m not what you think I am but, that would involve more candor than is publicly kosher right now.

“Where’s your husband?” she asks.

Yep, it’s final. She thinks I’m trying to bag her man.

“He couldn’t come. He’s been helping his Mom move all day. I was bored so thought I’d get out a bit with Mia and Roxanne.”

“Oh, I see.”

The double kiss of death – she doesn’t believe me. Do men square off this way? I think they do, that sort of quick assessment of how one could kick another's ass if need be. Women are more deadly. We character assassinate.

“More groupies for us,” Max laughs. He’s not helping matters. “Hey,” its Mia, “we’re getting out of here, too many tweeners. We’re off to Brewski’s. You game?”

Blech. Brewski’s. A hot bed for bar fights and vomit fests. More metaphorical pissing contests...sometimes not so much a metaphor. I temporary halt. Normally, I’d say Hell no but, I’m in a weird predicament. I could stay here in a potentially hostile environment with my friend of eleven years and his girlfriend who wants to kill me, or I could vacate to an absolutely hostile environment to watch Mia grope Roxanne’s fishnet thighs while plying her with Tequila Sunrises. To go or not to go?

“You know it was really good to see you girl (I mentally pause to recall it’s been over two years), but I just can’t handle that scene anymore.”

“Alright, thanks for coming out. Catch you on the flipside.”

They exit with the grace of cats. Given all the entangled mess of human relationships, I’ve often wondered if women would be easier. I doubt I’ll see Mia again for at least another three years. She’ll fall back into the drama of pride parties and pole-dancing girlfriends and forget all about me, one of her old remnants from high school….I’m still trying to figure out why she contacted me tonight at all?

“Not down for the pink taco tonight, eh?” Max is known for this variety of ill-advised humor.

“Nah, I gave that habit up years ago.”

Aimee turns red. Her face turning the bright cherry of the little baby doll dress she's wearing. I guess that was not the best response I could have come up with. I glance at Max and marvel at his ignorance. Sometimes the male capacity for oblivion astounds me. I’m quite frustrated because A) There is nothing going on between Max and I aside from debauched camaraderie. And B) I’ve been Aimee. I know what it feels like, it’s awful. In my single days, I dated a number of local musicians and had to wade through all the scantily clad groupies hanging about trying to get a taste of talent by sleeping with it after every show.

I simultaneously feel a need to defend myself and comfort her. Maybe this is the reason couples become attached at the hip. It’s not because they can’t function without each other, it’s because other couples feel threatened by the absence of your other. Solitary, you suddenly become competition. Oddly, my husband and I have never had a problem with that. Like tigers, we roam on our own with little heartache about the absence of the other but snuggle like kittens in our private domicile with an unwavering trust in mutual loyalty. This is a luxury I know I should cherish. It's rare these days.

“Well, we’re up next,” Max announces and heads to the stage. I’ve been so caught up in Aimee, I completely zoned out the garage band antics of the previous occupants. With Max absent I decide now is as good a time as any.

“Aimee, you want to smoke?”

“Sure.”

The air is less dense outside. No fog machines here. I take a deep breath and prepare to set things straight.

“Aimee…you know Max and I have been pals for years, right?”

The look on her face tells me this is not what she was expecting.

“Well, that’s all we’ve ever been and that’s all we’re ever going to be. I love my husband. I love my husband. Do you understand?”

I see she does as the tension leaves her face like so many rubber bands. I think I like this girl. She really does love Max.

“Max is just a buddy. Nothing more. He’s a good pal but, a pal just the same. And I think you’re really good for him. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for you both.”

“Thank you.”

Nothing more. She knows I’ve been in her shoes. There are women who fall for men like Max because they are similar beings and then there are girls who lust after them because they fill the cultural phenomenon of the tortured-inspired types; musicians, artists, poets. I know, I fell for one myself. There will long be a shadow of females throwing themselves at someone they think they can hitch their star onto. It’s a little daunting for those who truly love them - bad habits and all.

Aimee smiles at me, relieved I’m not one of the aforementioned types. She can tell we share this common thread, however small, and it unites us momentarily. We go back inside and take a seat under the great Warholesque Fascist Crunch painting before the band starts to play.

There are plenty of bobbing heads, raised fists and more flannel than you can shake a stick at. Boys, mostly boys. Even the groupies stay clear of the mosh pit. There it is, the rhythm of memory. How many times have I been side by side with those boys before? How many times have I lost myself in the music? Even this crunchy, heavy, screaming music strikes a nerve when heard live. There’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the recesses of our human genes when the pounding of the drum was a call to war, or to the hunt…to blood. Yes, I remember.

I have always come for the music, for the rush of being in between all those sweaty bodies, for the high of it. I look around and see Emo chicks sizing the band up, wondering how much it might add to their prestige to be seen on the arm of (insert musician here). But Aimee…she gets it, I can tell. Her eyes are closed. Women close their eyes in rapture. I close mine when I hear a poem, when I make love, when I am utterly moved.

My eyes are not closed now. Max’s music is not my particular forte but, I enjoy the observation. This is fun. It’s silly, it’s juvenile and in all other respects ridiculous but it is fun.

“We love you,” screams a tall, gawky blonde boy whose hair keeps falling in his eyes.

I laugh. This is great. These boys are pummeling each other and they’re doing it with a smile. I am still one of them. Not in the ridiculous clique sense, but in the tie of these mutual joys. Deep down, beneath the time, the layers of work, education, and growing up, I am still one of them. Perhaps I always will be. I do hope so.

Max and the entourage descend from their brief high rise of divinity, soaked in sweat and happy spirits.

“You two were supposed to rip your shirts off for us!”

Ah, sarcasm. It’s an endearing trait.

“I thought you were supposed to!” I counter.

“People would run out of here if we did!”

Max picks Aimee up off the couch by the waist and kisses her to the disappointment of all those groupies. I want to go home now. I miss my sweetheart.

“Hey! You running off so soon?”

“I can stay for another smoke, then I’m off.”

Max, Aimee and I make our way onto the sidewalk again and light up. The Megaplex 13 illuminates the starless Ogden sky in putrid shades of rainbow brite.

“That’s atrocious! What a joke,” Max is clearly not impressed.

“Well, we’re definitely fabulous these days. Sort of looks like the castle from Wizard of Oz.”

We laugh and smoke. Another habit ingrained in all the years of my friendship with Max. The three of us take turns pointing out all the various ways Mayor Godfrey is a moron and how hideous the new mall is before I stab my cigarette in the ashtray and say goodnight.

It was a good night. A brief visit to my youth, passing in waves of cultural upheaval. But it was the last of such nights. A period on an era. With even more unpredictable days to come.