The Beethoven Goodbye

I was 15 when I had my first drink, a few days after February 28th, 2006. It was a morose day in which hundreds filled in the Greek Amphitheater that Santa Monica High School is so known for. The masses gathered to grieve the loss of the eternally missed Eddie Lopez, a friend to all, who on the night of February 28th was gunned down less than a mile from where I sit currently with the many memories shared rolling down my cheek. An improvement I’d say from the weeping and wailing on the day of my first drop.

I learned early on that death will leave you with a litany of unanswerable questions, so I’ve grown aplomb at bifurcating in favor of solutions. Blame hood movies, or hip hop, or my cousins and uncles that taught me the best way to show love and reverence to the dearly departed is to line the streets with liquid gold in their memory.

The orange and amethyst sky consumed me as I made my way through the quaint Venice neighborhood, Ludacris’ “Growing Pains” on repeat on my big black brick of a Walkman that I got from a garage sale on Rose. I was subconsciously headed straight to the oasis in the desert; Beethoven Market.

Having only lived in the area a few months, and more importantly never having any fucking money, I hadn’t spent too much time in the place that, over time, became a haven for me. I walked in and could immediately hear that the man behind the counter, Miguel, was watching the Laker game. Behind him were bottles I have battled and beat over the years, but then, at that time, they were just warnings from my mother pushing the notion of generational curses far before I even knew what the fuck they were.

I beelined to the counter to catch the game and talk Kobe. He still wore the 8 then. Eddie came to mind with the thought of him hitting jumpers in my grandparents driveway calling

himself the Mexican version of the Mamba. The sadness quickly gripped me. Surely is vitriolic that sadness, with impeccable timing, and it fucking ages you. No better proof than me being able to walk out of the market with a plastic flask of Jim Beam. See in that moment I wasn’t a 15 year old kid trying to have a good time, I was a 15 year old kid trying really hard not to have a bad one. I like to think Miguel noticed that. Or maybe it was the extra $10.

That moment is the catalyst of an 18 year relationship between myself and the brick and mortar of bliss. I did more mourning there, some celebrating too. At one point I even had a tab. I was sure to never let it get above $25, but it’s hard to say when its only purpose was for sour belts and booze.

I walked into Beethoven for the last time the other day on its definitive last day. It was fucking weird, the shelves were bare and the way the sunset was shining through the windows made it feel cinematic, like some Terry Gilliam shit on a widescreen. I don’t know I was high as fuck from enjoying a joint on the drive through the Westside. I walked around for a bit, doing my best to allow recall to come up from the concrete. I remembered drunkenly and very passionately making out with some girl by the wine, so I grabbed a bottle. I saw a sign that said “40% off” so I grabbed 2 more. When I walked by the beer, I could do nothing but laugh at the fact that if you blindfolded me at the entrance, spun me around 10 times and said go, I could get to the fridge with no issue and grab a couple tall cans.

The line was long, it felt like the line to view an open casket. At the counter stood Miguel and his longtime partner Luis, along with their families. I stopped to chop it up with them just as my brother walked in. The 4 of us did some shit shooting, reflecting on stories that time wove into the fabric of me. Like the time I shot a music video outside with no mention that there would be a staged drive by and Luis ducked as soon as he saw the passenger's side window roll down.

Or the time they opened an hour early for me because I was walking, probably more stumbling home from a heater. My personal favorite is the time me and a group of pre gentrification Westside niggas hawked down some assholes trying to rob the store.

They rang up the beer, the bottles of wine, some mezcal and scotch. I threw in paper of 2 varieties, rolling and toilet, some dish soap and incense and it all came to $70. I looked at them and their wives and their children and smiled. I paid for it all with my card and slid a $20 bill with it.

“For all the beers I never paid for.”

They laughed and they took it and I was happy. After 40 years in business, 7 days a week, they found a way to laugh even though the end was given a date. It was fucking awesome to see. It reminded me that shit keeps going and regardless of the level of loss it is imperative to smile and laugh again. To allow it to happen.

After Eddie died, I got drunk on the side of my house by the trashcans off shitty whiskey. I thought laughing was something that had fled forever. Then a couple weekends later I found myself at some party in some place, turning tears into wine and rum and whatever the fuck else this girl's parents left in their pantry while on their trip to Madrid. Pain was aplenty, but the contagious nature of laughter took over as tales were told. Someone told the story of how he beamed with joy after scoring his first and only touchdown just a few months prior. Another beautifully reenacted how on a trip to DC in 8th grade he was woken up to Eddie asleep on his shoulder blasting Vicente Fernandez. I spoke of the time, on my 15th birthday we went to a Dodger game. Jayson Werth was a stalwart in left field for the boys in blue in the era of $6 tickets and there we were right behind him. My cousin, Jacky Boy, a lifetime contrarian and

practicing villain, came with us. Jacky Boy who is a born and raised Angeleno, spent the greater part of 7 innings heckling Werth with the best insults a 15 year old can possibly spew, and for the greater part of 7 innings it was drowned out by the raucous Dodger faithful in the outfield. At some point during the stretch, a dart straight from Jacky Boy’s mouth shot through the heart of the fan favorite left fielder. Blue called for the game to commence and Jayson turned to the crowd and tossed the ball into the stands. Now, I’m not talking that underhand big looper to the 6 year old who brought his mitt with a little shirt that says “Future Slugger” or some shit, this was a frozen rope with a GPS to Jacky Boy’s face. The ball hissed on its way to carnage, the only thing that kept it from fulfilling its purpose was Eddie reaching out and catching the ball inches from Jacky Boy’s nose.

Many people laughed and I did too. At first it felt odd, to find joy in a memory of a person loved and lost but the catharsis set in and the laughing didn’t stop. And it felt good.

The next time I saw that ball was after waiting in a long line to see an open casket. He was buried with it.