David Hansen

This is a story from a while ago that I had actually forgotten about until the other night when I was talking to a girl at a bar. I don’t like it as much because I’m not the main character and it’s not as well written as most of my other work, but I felt I needed to put something up while I’m finishing up some other stories.

Several month ago, myself, Drougs, Dahlsy and Staggs went to TheBar after work. We’re just hanging out, shooting the shit and watching the game. Pretty standard stuff until in walks David Hansen.

Despite the fact I had never met this man before, I immediately knew his name, as it was embroidered on the back of his leather vest, just above a dragon and the words “World Champion.” He is an older man shoulder length grey hair and matching goatee. Leather pants, a sparkly, multi-colored shirt beneath the aforementioned vest and biker boots. He drives a Harley. It is true you cannot buy ‘cool’ and attempts at doing so have hilarious results.

Dahlsy becomes enraptured with this man and after a while calls him over. The obvious question “what are you the world champion of?” is quickly asked. The answer: hairpieces. He is a 7 time state, 5 time national and two time world champion in hair piece design.

Immediately he is fascinating. We begin talking to him about his accomplishments shooting pool and pounding drinks. At some point in the evening Hansen suggests that we go to another bar down the street.We agree, pay the tab and head outside, where we encounter a homeless man who looks EXACTLY like Grady from Sanford & Son. I inform him of this and he feigns amusement. Hansen invites Grady along. I begin whistling the song from Sanford & Son and giggling to myself. The joke is getting old but I am still thoroughly amused, so I continue.

Hansen says he wants to stop at his apartment to change, and invites us up.

I am going to try and describe Hansen’s apartment but I fear even my literary prowess will fall short of capturing the eerie, uncomfortable yet polished and engrossing surroundings in which I found myself. In a single phrase I think it could best be described as a Stanley Kubrick nightmare. The entire apartment was open and surprisingly voluminous, although the lack of room separation and floor to ceiling mirrors that covered almost every wall may have attributed to the perceived size. In the center of the room was an aquarium, containing several small, live birds. A bed against one wall with the obligatory bedroom adornments and a rather ornate and expensive looking oriental, free standing partition. Were it not for the eccentricities I could see this place being rather posh and I imagined it to be exceedingly expensive.

By far the most unsettling aspect of this whole place were the mannequins. They were arranged everywhere throughout the space. At least a dozen of them. All with the same blank plastic expression they shared with their owner. Some were adorned in multi-thousand dollar Hansen hair pieces, others were contorted in strange, unnatural positions. One in particular was lying on the floor wrapped in strings of Christmas lights, bound like an abducted rape victim in the trunk of a car. I tried not to spend too much time examining these unsettling still-lifes as in all honesty, they fucking freaked me out. I backed away cautiously eying these strange models and half shuddering. I returned to the group that had now found a place on the couch, Hansen excused himself momentarily and returned with a tin full of weed that could only be described as the stickiest of the icky. He rolled an enormous spliff and began to pass it around. I declined participation as weed has a tendency to give me panic attacks and my soundings would in no way be conducive in calming me after the onset of such an affliction.

Hansen offered Grady a cut and a shave and led him to the barber chair and station that was set up in the far corner of the apartment. Dahlsy, after he became sufficiently intoxicated, he began to wander around the apartment removing hairpieces from the displays and placing them on his head. With each toupee, emerged a new persona. He would change accents, dance around and perform skits. This continued for quite some time. It was amusing to a point but after a while his originality ran out and he began doing piss poor impressions of movie and television characters. I turned my attention to a photo album sitting on the table.

Thumbing through the pictures, the first half were mostly of Hansen, his multiple motorcycles and from what I could deduce, a limousine company he used to own. The second half however was completely different and I was in no way prepared for what was about to come. I had no desire to flip past the first two pages as they contained grainy, poorly focused pictures of primarily black chicks. Naked. Not even tasteful Playboy style nude shots, more like girls on bare, stained mattresses, spread eagle, uncomfortably close crotch shots. I have no idea how many there were but judging from the number of pages and assuming the theme continued throughout there were upwards of 100 pictures.

I decided it was time to leave. I informed the rest of the people of this, headed downstairs and lit up a cigarette. A few minutes later Drougs, Dahlsy, Staggs, Hansen and Grady immerge from the apartment, Hansen has changed outfits and now dons a blue jumpsuit with the same world champion patch.

We head into Butterfield 8. Butterfield 8 is a very upscale restaurant/bar with under lit floors, marble bar 10 dollar drinks and never less than 3 exotic hundred thousand dollar cars parked out front. Rumor has it this is one of Mick Jagger’s favorite spots when he comes to Chicago. When jumpsuit clad Hansen, Grady the hobo and my bosses and I walked in, EVERYONE in the bar stopped and looked at us. I took a quick assessment of the situation and without saying anything slipped away and got into a cab.

EDIT: Butterfield 8 burned down on Friday. I’m pretty sure it was insurance fraud.