A Hollow Victory
Looking at Mudd’s Hold, a notorious bar of lawful iniquity, sin as my old man would call it, I sat on my butt. Mudd’s was a dubious spot known for it’s wayward chicks, thought of as crazy, dirty, or lost. Girls trying to vanish, did.
And Lynn was sitting in it, having a drink. Or drinks. Without a bodyguard.
Barbarians walking past, glancing at Mudd’s black doors with sordid looks and a hint of curiosity, hurt my soul.
I had to go in but couldn’t. It was a trap, far from my own in spirit, but in all practical ways- a mirror. Both of us playing on past passions and dancing blind to a difficult waltz.
I was additionally unhappy from waiting out in a cloud of choking smog. L.A.’s air was bad and poisonous raindrops stung skin as wasps sting- in swarms.
Finally, I saw Lynn push through a crowd- a salmon struggling to swim to spawning grounds.
“Chris, I’m not doing this- I gotta go.”
Sagging, I found out that tracking Lynn down was not a victory- it was only a half of a victory.