So I wait, and two young women stumble up. One of them suddenly drops her pants and commences urinating right on the door of Mulberry. I'm too shocked to respond. All I can muster is, "Whoa!" before Jon the bartender flings the door open and yells, "What the hell?!" The girl pulls her pants up and mumbles something angrily at Jon, as if this situation is his fault somehow. The women leave and Jon returns with a bucket of water to pour on the urine that is now running toward the curb.
"This is not my job," he says, "Things keep getting weirder and weirder."
"I'm sorry," I say, "I would have stopped her, but I was too shocked to do anything."
"It's not your fault."
I continue waiting, as drunk people stumble past, girls hanging on guys arms, guys speaking loudly about persons and events of the night.
As I wait, I sort of reflect on my situation. Here I am, carless, with a bunch of gear. The main reason I started DJing at Mulberry is because I wanted there to be one place in downtown Fullerton on a Friday night that didn't play top 40 or dub step or whatever is considered appropriate "club music." I play what I think is good music: T.Rex, The Beach Boys, The Specials, Frank Zappa, etc. plus whatever local stuff I've picked up at Burger Records. I call it The Anti-Club, and the crowd is usually nothing compared to the packed bar next door with the bass-booming windows, but it's something. It's a little haven, I guess. Some nights it feels like a losing battle. But as long as Dennis says I can do this, I will keep doing this.
The cab finally arrives and I load my gear, stepping over puddles of pee-water, and the cab driver is very patient. He even helps me.
As we drive home in silence through quiet foggy streets, all I can think to say is, "This fog is weird."
