Sold Out Of Soul

This afternoon, Taylor and I met at a Mexican car wash on Pico Boulevard. He believes people have been following him through the Valley, specifically vampires (and/or Goths), and he thought the car wash would be a good place to exchange his money for my coke. After his Porsche was engaged on the car wash belt lock, he popped open his glove compartment.

The Contents of Taylor's Porsche Glove Compartment on Tuesday, October 14th, 2008, 12:42 PST:

A stack of 15 $100 bills

1 Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol (double action)

1 Black Dildo (I did not ask)

1 Whoopi Goldberg bobble-head doll (the resemblance was staggering enough for me to stop breathing for a full 45 seconds)

A pair of Italian merino wool-finished gloves (these may have been mine, but I didn't push it)

Taylor handed me the money, and as I was fishing the coke baggie out of the liner pocket of my blazer, he said something very strange: "People will unintentionally associate what I say about the qualities of other people with my own qualities." I asked him what he meant, and he continued, "What I say about other people sticks to me--even when I talk to someone who already knows me, you for instance. So, when I say that Vickki is a cunt for spelling her name with two 'k's', people--you specifically--will subconsciously think I'm as much of a cunt for pointing out her cuntiness. Do you dig?"

I stared at Taylor for a full three minutes. Then I said, "Who is Vickki?"

"She's the shoe manager at Encino Lanes. You know, Vickki," he said. "She has a tramp stamp of Enrique Iglesias above her ass."

"Oh. Right. Vickki."

After the exchange, Taylor dropped me at my car across the street. "Someone has been breaking into my home and rearranging my furniture, like, on a weekly basis, bro. I'm afraid to go home at night," he said, lighting a Benson & Hedges 100. "Something is seriously fucked up, and when they find me in the L.A. reservoir, eviscerated with my cock in my mouth, you will know this to be the truth."

"Do you seriously think you're being followed by vampires, Taylor? Seriously?"

"Or goths," he said, pitching the half-smoked butt into the street.

"They can fine you $10,000 for that."

Before he drove away, he said, "There is a loneliness in this world so great, that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. People so tired and mutilated. Either by love or no love."

I drove back to the 20th Century lot with an uneasiness that required me to take three Xanax and drink a Fosters in the commissary men's room.