Jason and the Karaoke Bar

To hear Jason Frisbie sing is to see God hand you twenty dollars and tell you that everything is going to a-ok. It's like he ate a choir of angels and washed it down with sweet, honeyed wine. Metaphors were created for the sole purpose of describing how this wonderful, terrible man can work a melody.

A few weeks ago Frisbie and I went to this hole in the wall bar to meet some of our more desirable friends. I mean that these people often wore pants and a shirt and the same time, which isn't something I can say about everyone Frisbie knows. These people were hunched over a white binder when we walked in. Turns out it was karaoke night in that poorly lit place. One of our friends, a short guy with shocks of white hair shooting out of his cheeks and knuckles that looked like serrated blade, wound up singing a blistering, soulful version of Prince's “Let's Go Crazy”. It was insane. One girl started convulsing on the ground as if possessed.

Not everyone was happy, though. One guy in particular, a no-name with a torn Skid Row t-shirt got up in our friend's face, calling him a pansy, a faggot, a twinkle-toes and a bunch of other crap. Now, I said our friend had hands like a knife, but he was a peaceful death machine. He took the insults and looked the other way. Frisbie, though. Frisbie looked at the guy and right there I knew it was over. I've heard stories of people surviving hurricanes and earthquakes and a few who narrowly avoided death via volcano, but no one's survived an angry Jason Frisbie.

The poor drunk didn't even notice Frisbie. Just finished his insults and went back to his Milwaukee's Best. Our friend sat down and laughed it off. Frisbie went up to the DJ and leaned in close. I could see the DJ's eyes widen in horror? Ecstasy? I don't know. I just know that the woman struggling her way through both parts of the B-52s' “Loveshack” was surprised to find her song cut off before she even got to the chorus.

This is where things really got nasty. Jason took the mic and held it loosely between three fingers. He shifted his weight left, then right. He didn't look at the screen, but he cast a glance at me before the opening notes started playing. I was stunned. It wasn't until I heard him, in that voice from Olympus, sing “Ground control to Major Tom,” did my senses kick back in. In a flurry of desperate miming and forcing, I got our friends to cover their ears. Even through the flesh and blood mufflers, I could still hear Frisbie's voice, hitting notes that our feeble five senses weren't meant to fully realize. I dared to look around the bar. That was a mistake. People too unaware, too in awe, or too drunk to understand what was going on were being throttled, like a mix of “Scanners” and “Dogma”. What came next should be obvious.

Their heads exploded. It was insane. Blood and chunks of peoples faces were splattering everywhere while Frisbie asked, without a hint of irony, “Can you hear me, Major Tom?” Our friends were screaming, crying, or just frozen in a state of shock. The song ended, but the DJ was dead. He came to the table, put ten bucks on the table and tapped me on the shoulder, motioning towards the door. He stepped over a waitress surrounded by broken glass and spilled beer on the way out.

I've never mentioned it to him, never questioned it. Our friends were smart enough to do the same. The only thing I brought back from that night was a habit of tensing whenever he hums something on the radio.

Jason's Out and I'm Back

I told myself that I would chronicle this man, this “Jason Frisbie” for the world but god damn if that hasn't been impossible. Ever since I moved in with Jason it's been little more than a haze of drugs, women and brief moments of clarity where I can't even look myself in the mirror. But that fog is lifting.

Jason took off to South Korea about a week ago. He said something about “checking in on his investments” and left a cigar box full of uppers on the kitchen table. That was it. I don't even know if the bastard's coming back, but I know that these pills won't last forever so I've got to get as much of this man's life down as I can in the few weeks of blissful serenity that I have left.

Jason and the Terrible Waiter

Jason drummed his fingers on the table while he counted the seconds his girlfriend had been in the bathroom. There was no rush, through- A man like Jason has all the time in the world. He spent the time sipping his water and scanning the almost-busy restaurant. Behind him and to his right was a young couple, about the same age as Jason was, holding hands across the small table and speaking quietly with each other. Closer to him, but still to his right, was a pair of fat parents trying to yell at their fat children through closed teeth.

But across the room was the most fascinating couple, Jason thought. An elderly couple sat there, smiling at each other and silently enjoying each other's companionship. This made Jason happy. One day, thought Jason, I can put this tainted life behind me and just enjoy the subtle love that comes with age.

Five hundred seconds, and his girlfriend was still missing. But Jason barely paid attention to the benchmark because his attention was stolen by the newcomer to his tableaux. It was a waiter, tall, lanky, greasy ponytail showing off a greasy face. In that moment, Jason knew everything he needed to know about this man. He was a loser, a small fry, a man destined for compromise and the lower rungs of the social ladder.

And then his new character ruined everything. He was serving the elderly couple and dropped a small container of horseradish. It seemed suspended in air as Jason's eyes followed its decent. When it his the ground, it exploded. Green sauce flew across the room like jade shrapnel. The couple was covered, and pieces of sauce landed as far as Jason's table, peppering the area like a good grenade. There was a glob of the stuff on his girlfriend's seat, and had she returned from the restroom, her night would have been ruined. Jason noticed this. Jason became upset.

No one appeared to be interested in cleaning up the mess, so Jason calmly wiped down his table, and waited. His girlfriend returned soon after and they ate their meal as though nothing had happened. Jason had decided that telling his girlfriend would only upset her, for she knew what Jason Frisbie was capable of. No. They ate as normal people ate, and after they had laid down their tip, Jason excused him. The bathroom, he said. But it was into the kitchen he went. He found the waiter without too much difficulty, and in one swift motion Jason tore several strands of oily hair from his unsuspecting head. That was all. No words, not extra actions. Just the hair, and then he left.

At home, Jason unearthed a dusty box, made with what looked like dried animal skin. He hadn't opened the box often. He had won it from David Bowie, years ago, in a hopscotch contest. Inside the box were bottles of glowing liquid, a small book, and a doll. Jason didn't need the book, and instead reached straight for the doll. He tied the hair strands around the doll's neck, then used a small paintbrush to spread a few drops of an orange potion on the doll's torso and head. The whole act didn't take long, even though Frisbie moved with caution and the patience of a man used to rituals.

The dolls stays on his coffee table now, dressed in unassuming clothes and never resisting when Jason decides to release some anger. A pull here, a pinch there. Sometimes the punishments become more excited or exotic, but the doll has never lost its potency.

Jason and the Misshapen Stranger

He wasn't pissed or angry. Nowhere near as angry as I've seen him before. No, Jason was just irritated. This...guy. This half-faced, jigsaw puzzle of a person had taken his seat, next to his girlfriend, and rested his meaty ass on his gloves. Each of Jason's hands held a draft beer, each surface as smooth as glass, and he just stared that the back of this stranger's head.

Eventually, his girlfriend turned to him and mouthed the words, "I'm sorry." She didn't want this interloper sitting next to her. She wanted to be next to Frisbie, to feel his energy and to bath in his animal magnetism. She was just a girl, with the same desires as any of the girls in the bar. But she was special, because Jason graced her, allowed her the privilege of holding his hand. Jason softened his expression when their eyes meet and hander her both beers, then pulled another chair to their table and didn't say anything.

The other people at the table, friends of friends, they must have known the stranger. He was talking to them and they were responding, disgust well hidden. The man wouldn't leave willingly, Jason decided. But Jason wasn't going to destroy this man. Not here, in a crowded bar, next to his girlfriend. He didn't want to cover her in blood, then sleep next to a girl who smelled of death. No, he was going to be a man, a gentleman, and solve this problem without raising his fists.

So Jason sat, passing the brief time with small talk, meaningless filler until the misshapen stranger faced him. And there it was. Jason's perfect, radiant brown eyes bored into the other's uneven, milky orbs. There was tension. Oh god, was there tension. The bar grew silent without knowing why and everyone at that particular table was watching the invisible battle that took place in the space of their gaze.

Then the stranger's pug-nose began to bleed, and he gasped while the collective world exhaled. A thin stream of blood rounded his hair lip as he looked around, bewildered, before getting up and disappearing into the smoky night. Jason stood, silently, like a prince who had just reclaimed his long-lost throne, and walked back to his original seat. The gloves were warm but he carefully placed them back in his coat pocket and sat down, aware that dozens of eyes were analyzing him, studying his fluid movements and burning his image into retinas for the lonely nights that they were sure to have. And, as soon as it had begun, it was over. The conversation started back up and people were talking about their lives as if nothing unusual had happened. In a way, nothing unusual really did happen. It was just another night at the bar with a man named Jason Frisbie.