Note: This is the conclusion of last week's story. So read that one first. Or you won't know what's what.
The bar again. It’s been a half hour solid. No Walt, no Walt’s boyfriend, just me and my lost cause. Two more shots and I don’t feel any less nervous. Just slightly more nauseous.
Better off this way, that I’ve been stood up. Now nothing’s holding me here. I can cut out, forget the misadventure. Still, dudes pack the dance floor like divorcees at a Tom Jones concert. How I’ll escape, I can’t say. The air is warm, not easy to breathe. I just want to lie down.
Thinking, I need a plan but not able to think much beyond. Thinking, what a fuckup I am. Thinking, all this time wasted on a half-baked plan. Can a plan be quarter-baked?
The newspaper, on Sunday it lists local happenings, shindigs. I had pulled the section and studied. Combed through the nightclubs and bars like a diabetic reading nutrition facts. Had to. At best they gave only subtle hints. Cryptic clues pointing toward the sexual preference of a given joint. Phrases like “Great for a guy’s night out,” caught my eye. But I was cautious—probably just a sports bar. The tag “Open-minded atmosphere,” more promising. Eventually, I compiled a list—short though it was—of potential spots.
Today, I woke up about noon and spent the next couple hours trying to talk myself out of this monkey business. In the end, figured I’d scout the three finalists.
First place I dropped by, Chameleon’s, turned out a drag joint. And while the whole “dress like a woman, think like a woman, understand the woman” philosophy has some merit, I decided to hold that for plan B. Next, The Cave, looked like it had a leather dress code. Last on my list, Charlie Horse, was more what I had in mind. Nothing too flashy, too kinky. This I could dig.
But now, now I kind of wish I’d tried my luck at The Cave. My brown leather jacket, it once belonged to my dad. Not so much hip and trendy as middle-aged suburban chic but probably would’ve gotten me in. And once inside, I couldn’t have done any worse than I was doing now.
“Excuse me,” I hear. The voice thick with accent. Over my shoulder, a tall olive-skinned man.
“Excuse me.” Again, now that he has my attention. “But I wonder, how do I get service here?”
“You want a drink?” Making sure we’re on the same page.
“Nice of you to offer,” he smiles. “I will have bourbon.”
Well played. I wave to the bartender. Vodka for me, bourbon for my new friend.
“I’m Josh,” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Marc.” A pause. “It is good to meet you also.”
We sit and we sip. For a few minutes nobody talks. Occasionally glancing at Marc. He smiles.
“I like this place,” he says finally. “The people, they are quite friendly.”
“It’s not bad. The music’s awfully loud. And the dance floor’s all crowded. And there’s that smell of cologne…”
Marc interrupts with a laugh. “You misunderstand me,” he says. “I do not mean this bar. I mean your country. It is a good place. Better than I have been told.”
“Yeah, land of the free and home of the brave. Good times for all.”
“I do not understand. My English is not…excellent. What is it you mean by that?”
“Nothing, just an old saying.”
“Ah, yes. An expression. In France we have one, ‘Taper dans l'oeil.’ Word by word it means, ‘to hit in the eye.’ But as an expression, it is, ‘to be pleasing to the eye.’ Do you understand?”
And just like that, we’re flirting.
“Why are you here?” I say.
“It is Friday night. Would I be at home?”
“No, In America, I mean. What brings you to America?”
“Ah, America. My sister, she studies here. I am just on a visit. But it is nice, you know? The people, they are kind and the cute ones always buy me drinks.”
We sit quietly. Marc orders the next round. We sit quietly but it’s not uncomfortable. Somehow, the language barrier excuses awkward silence. Makes it understandable silence. Unavoidable silence. Relaxed silence.
“I must leave now,” Marc says. “I have promised to meet my sister for coffee after she has finished with her studies for the day. But it was very enjoyable meeting you Josh.”
“Yeah, Marc. It was nice to meet you too.”
“Take this please,” he says, scribbles a number on the inside of a matchbook. “I will be in town until the end of the month. We should have dinner, no?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
~ ~ ~
I wake early the next morning. Eyes heavy with hangover, the sun is way too bright. I open my fridge and grab a bottle of water and head down to the bakery for a cranberry muffin.
In the alley, Duke’s propped against the brick wall, breaking up discarded cigarette butts. Combining the leftover tobacco to build a fresh smoke.
“Josh! You don’t look tiptop.”
“Long night, Duke. But I feel alright.”
“Maybe you just look that way on account of all the poison They’re feeding you.”
“The Government?”
“The one and only!” Duke pats his belly with one hand, places the skinny cigarette in his mouth with the other. I toss him a book of matches.
“No need to worry. I quit the soda. Diet and regular. They can’t get me now.”
“No? Well, what you got there? Water?”
“Just a little H2O Duke, no healthier drink.”
“That so? Think about all them chemicals from the plastic bottle seeping on into your beverage. A cancer cocktail, if ever there was.”
I bank the half-empty bottle off the alley wall, into a dumpster.
“That a’boy, fight the power. You know, I only tell you this because I care for my people. Not trying to frighten you or nothing. Just being the best Duke I can be.”
“Thanks.”
“Well enough with the small talk. Tell your old buddy how things went. Spare no juicy detail…or, if the details are too juicy you might just summarize. But let’s hear it, brother.”
“No juicy details to speak of. I gave it the old college try. But I’m not sure hitting on gay men is any practice for hitting on straight women.”
“Me, I never went to college but I could’ve told you that much.”
“Duke, it was your idea!”
“I have lots of ideas, my man. Not all of ‘em top shelf. But tell me this, did you learn anything? Anything at all?”
“Yeah, wasn’t a total bust. Actually, I’ve got some plans for tonight.”
“Well? What’d you pick up, kid?”
“Just an idea. I’ll tell you if it works out.”
~ ~ ~
Deep in the evening when I get there. Half a red sun perched on the horizon. In a different season, everything would be dark by now.
Ornamental wooden doors are propped open and inside I can make out the rough shapes of people—dancing and chatting and having an all around good time. Roll my shoulders, inhale deep—I smell pleasantly of Hugo Boss—and walk past a bouncer with more muscles than a seafood restaurant.
I slip through the crowd, closer and closer to the bar. Music, loud and not all too clear. A poppy R&B song—everyone in the mood for a little bump and grind.
A few feet from the bar, survey the scene. Folks huddled together, usually in groups of two or four, timing interactions with the bartender so their next drink will arrive just as their current one is finished off. Further on down, a lone figure.
“Excuse me,” I say and boy does she jump. “But how would one get service here?”
“You want a drink?” She’s confused by my heavy and unidentifiable accent.
“Sweet of you to offer. I’ll take vodka.”
She laughs. “That’s a good one.” Flags down the bartender, she orders us a couple drinks. “Interesting accent. Where are you from?”
“France,” I say. “Your country is very nice. Always, cute women are buying me drinks.”
She smiles and we sit. Drinking in a calm and comfortable silence.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Next Time's a Charm Pt. 1
A tickle when sweat drips from my armpit, down the side of my ribcage. A techno number—sampling, of all things, the theme from Braveheart—too loud for me to think. A whole lot of lights in a whole lot of colors and it’s total sensory overload.
“Fuck,” I say to myself. “Fuck, fuck, I am so fucked.”
And I really am fucked. Got in way over my head this time. Inching through a crowd of people—happy, dancing people—I see their polo shirts, skinny jeans, their leather shoes and I don’t fit in at all. My loose sweater, cargo pants, my sneakers—they’re new and not too shabby but still I can’t compete. I’m not happy and I’m sure-as-shit not dancing.
Hugo Boss all up in my nostrils, I choke a bit. It’s everywhere, like one of these sharply dressed folks spontaneously combusted and the fire sprinklers sprayed cologne. Me, smelling of Old Spice anti-perspirant. I want my money back.
Through the sea of people, I pass like a modern-day Moses, find myself at the bar. The most fortunate turn all night far as I’m concerned. Give me beer or give me death. I sit on a stool, close my eyes and wait for the bartender.
Music still pounding. So loud it’s beyond sound. So loud I feel it, causes my liver to twitch. I try a meditation exercise a friend once taught me. Big breath in, now imagine you’re a wave washing up on the beach—peaceful, pristine. Exhale and you roll back out to sea—beautiful, the natural order of things…
“Want a drink, or a nap?” someone says. Snaps me back.
“Huh...uh…draft beer…” I start. Then think better. If my shoes, my scent haven’t given me away, I don’t want my adult beverage to do the job. “Or, forget that. Green apple martini.”
The bartender laughs. Big, earthy chuckle. It shakes my bones and combined with the thumping techno, I fear I may implode. A gold tooth glows in his mouth and for some reason the guy’s wearing sunglasses. Even though he’s indoors. Even though it’s night.
“That’s a girlie drink,” he says. “And we don’t serve those here if you get my drift.” Another heavy laugh and he slaps my shoulder. I squirm, realize I’m even more fucked than I thought.
Before I revise my order, two shots hit the bar. The bartender shows his gold tooth—I guess that’s a smile.
“On me,” he says. “Your first time here, no?”
Nod. We each down a shot.
“Loosen up,” he says. “Everyone’s first time is sometime.” Can’t argue with that logic. “You’ll fit right in.” He lifts his sunglasses to wink then moves down the bar to another customer.
I swivel on my stool, look at the dance floor. People. They’re enjoying themselves, and for a moment I wonder if I should join. I wonder if I should jump in. Dive in. Sink or swim. I wonder how I let myself get into this mess. Then I wonder where the bathroom is. Because I really have to piss.
The men's room, first thing I notice—before the erotic yet tasteful painting on the wall—how clean the place is. No crumpled paper towels inches from the trash can—some guys have terrible aim. No puddles near the urinals—like I said. And it smells of Hugo Boss. Which now, I’m getting used to.
I saddle up, face a large canvas with a naked woman’s watercolored behind and make sure to steady my stream. Lest I risk blowing my cover again.
Washing my hands, another patron enters the piss parlor. Tall and blonde and has a wine colored shirt. He smiles when I carefully place my used paper towel in the trash. Then he extends a hand.
“Walt,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
This is it. Work it. Time to work it. “Hi Walt, I’m Josh.” We shake.
“You’ve never been here before have you?”
“No. That obvious?”
“It’s just, you have quite a distinguished…style. And that’s something I don’t forget.”
Not too bad. No sir. Maybe not so fucked after all. Maybe this was actually a good idea.
“So,” Walt says. “How’s this compare to your regular joint?”
“My regular joint?”
“You know. Your regular bar”
“Oh. To be honest, I’ve never been to a gay bar before.”
Walt smiles. Knowing, smug. “A newbie,” he says. “Cute. Why don’t you meet me at the bar in twenty? I’d love to introduce you to my boyfriend. We’ll buy you a shot. Nobody should drink alone.”
Boyfriend? Flirting, really it was friendly banter. Not fucked, really I’m totally fucked.
“Thanks,” I say. “See you in a few.”
~ ~ ~
Last weekend was when I decided to give it a go. It was supposed to be an experiment. It was supposed to teach me a thing or two. It was supposed to change my life. What it wasn’t, was my idea.
Saturday morning, left my apartment and walked around the corner and up the alley toward my favorite bakery. Duke was there, hunched over on a milk crate. Always.
“Hey Duke,” I said. “What’s cracking?”
“What’s cracking? They’re trying to kill us is all. Same as last week and the week before and every week since They realized we ain’t going nowhere!” His beard was so thick, so bushy I couldn’t see his lips. Words rained from a cloud of grizzled hair.
“Nobody’s trying to kill us, Duke. Hell, if anyone wanted to kill you they’d have done it by now. You never leave the alley.”
“Oh, you’re wrong. You are WRONG! They’re killing me alright, They’re killing you too. They don’t have to know where I sleep at night to get me. And They don’t discriminate between noblemen like myself and common peasants.”
Duke, he swore that was a title. Swore he descended from Scottish nobility. Maybe. But I was still pretty sure that Duke was only his name.
“Who’s trying to kill us?” I asked, squatted on my haunches.
“Who do you think? The Government, like always. They have big charts and computer-made-graphs and They figure ain’t enough room on this earth for us all. Running low on food and fuel and forests and They take it as duty to thin the herd. Well I’ve lived in an alley for a half decade through and I ain’t thin yet. So good luck to them is what I say.”
I first met Duke the day I moved into my apartment. He was making the rare trip from his ally to a corner bodega. Carton of milk in one hand, a half smoked cigarette wedged in his beard.
It was a busy afternoon. People going this way, that way. Trying to make it home, trying to mind their own business. Duke, the only one to offer me help with boxes. We finished and I tried to buy him dinner. But he was too proud for that. Said a good nobleman helps his subjects, asks nothing in return.
“So, the Government’s trying to kill us to curb overpopulation?”
“Oh, They’re not trying. They’re goddamn succeeding. They’re smart you see. Doing it slowly. Slowly but surely.”
“Duke man, you’re paranoid. I’m gonna grab a bagel, you want a Coke or something?”
“Ha! See, that’s my point, brother. That is my point. You buy the Coke and what do you get? All the sugar They can dissolve in water. Sure enough They’ve put you one step closer to a heart attack.”
“Then I’ll get you a Diet Coke.”
“Diet Coke, chock full of chemicals! You’ll get the Big C for sure. That’s what They do—poison you. Microwave some food, just turns it radioactive. Plop down in front of the tele, They beam radiation right to your brain. They’re taking us out and ain’t a thing to do about it.”
“So why worry? If we can’t do anything about it, why even worry?”
“Who’s worried, brother? I’m just warning you—live your life while you got it. ‘Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.”
“Thanks, Duke. I appreciate that.”
“Because Josh, I worry for you.”
Wow. The man lives in an alley, babbles conspiracy theories and he’s worried for me. Talk about a downer.
“Why’s that Duke? I’m doing alright.”
“Because a man your age, he should be thinking about one thing and one thing only. You know what I mean, my boy?”
Nearly said keeping a roof over my head, realized that might have been on the rude side. Shook a no.
“Women, brother. Beautiful, beautiful women. And long as I’ve known you, ain’t ever seen you with a nice lass on your arm. Not once. Ain’t ever seen you bring one to the bakery for a spot of breakfast after a hard night’s work. If you get where I’m coming from…”
“Ever think I might not score points by introducing a lady to the local bum?” And I felt like a grade-A cocksucker right off.
“Josh, that’s cold. But a benevolent ruler never holds a slip of the tongue against a lowly peon. Just try to show more respect in the future.”
Thing was, women were kind of a sore subject with me. There was something about the fairer sex I didn’t get. They seemed foreign—exotic, mysterious, intimidating. They humbled me like nothing else.
Two months ago I vowed off the singles scene after one particularly shitty incident.
At a club on the North end of town, I had tried to drink myself courageous. Seven pints in, decided to give it a go. Stumbling to the far end of the bar, I took a seat next to a short, dark haired woman with over-glossed lips. So shiny I could see my reflection in them.
“Uh, would you like a drink?” I said, legs twitching something fierce.
Forced, tightlipped smile and she blew a quick breath from her nose. No words, pointed to a nearly full margarita sitting before her.
“Right…well, maybe later,” I said, watching myself go red in her lips. Just sitting next to her for another few minutes—the silence burning my ears—before I retreated out the door.
Back in the alley I tried explaining to Duke how I’ve never been smooth with the women.
“What do you mean, ‘smooth’?”
“I get nervous, flustered. Can’t be myself.”
“Well, how’s it you ain’t nervous with me. Hell, I might lack a set of ovaries. But kid, I’m kinda intense. Most people, they avoid me. You seem ‘smooth’ enough.”
“Too bad you’re not a young lady, Duke. I’d be on easy street.”
“Well brother, maybe you need some practice,” Duke said and I think he was smiling. But with that beard it’s anyone’s guess.
“What’re you getting at?”
“Well, like you said you need to work at some smoothness. It ain’t happening with the ladies, so maybe, maybe you oughtta try your shtick on the dudes. You know, for practice. Then take your learnings, really knock them dames for a loop.”
“Duke,” I said. “Might be you’re on to something.”
Next Week: the conclusion of Next Time's a Charm
“Fuck,” I say to myself. “Fuck, fuck, I am so fucked.”
And I really am fucked. Got in way over my head this time. Inching through a crowd of people—happy, dancing people—I see their polo shirts, skinny jeans, their leather shoes and I don’t fit in at all. My loose sweater, cargo pants, my sneakers—they’re new and not too shabby but still I can’t compete. I’m not happy and I’m sure-as-shit not dancing.
Hugo Boss all up in my nostrils, I choke a bit. It’s everywhere, like one of these sharply dressed folks spontaneously combusted and the fire sprinklers sprayed cologne. Me, smelling of Old Spice anti-perspirant. I want my money back.
Through the sea of people, I pass like a modern-day Moses, find myself at the bar. The most fortunate turn all night far as I’m concerned. Give me beer or give me death. I sit on a stool, close my eyes and wait for the bartender.
Music still pounding. So loud it’s beyond sound. So loud I feel it, causes my liver to twitch. I try a meditation exercise a friend once taught me. Big breath in, now imagine you’re a wave washing up on the beach—peaceful, pristine. Exhale and you roll back out to sea—beautiful, the natural order of things…
“Want a drink, or a nap?” someone says. Snaps me back.
“Huh...uh…draft beer…” I start. Then think better. If my shoes, my scent haven’t given me away, I don’t want my adult beverage to do the job. “Or, forget that. Green apple martini.”
The bartender laughs. Big, earthy chuckle. It shakes my bones and combined with the thumping techno, I fear I may implode. A gold tooth glows in his mouth and for some reason the guy’s wearing sunglasses. Even though he’s indoors. Even though it’s night.
“That’s a girlie drink,” he says. “And we don’t serve those here if you get my drift.” Another heavy laugh and he slaps my shoulder. I squirm, realize I’m even more fucked than I thought.
Before I revise my order, two shots hit the bar. The bartender shows his gold tooth—I guess that’s a smile.
“On me,” he says. “Your first time here, no?”
Nod. We each down a shot.
“Loosen up,” he says. “Everyone’s first time is sometime.” Can’t argue with that logic. “You’ll fit right in.” He lifts his sunglasses to wink then moves down the bar to another customer.
I swivel on my stool, look at the dance floor. People. They’re enjoying themselves, and for a moment I wonder if I should join. I wonder if I should jump in. Dive in. Sink or swim. I wonder how I let myself get into this mess. Then I wonder where the bathroom is. Because I really have to piss.
The men's room, first thing I notice—before the erotic yet tasteful painting on the wall—how clean the place is. No crumpled paper towels inches from the trash can—some guys have terrible aim. No puddles near the urinals—like I said. And it smells of Hugo Boss. Which now, I’m getting used to.
I saddle up, face a large canvas with a naked woman’s watercolored behind and make sure to steady my stream. Lest I risk blowing my cover again.
Washing my hands, another patron enters the piss parlor. Tall and blonde and has a wine colored shirt. He smiles when I carefully place my used paper towel in the trash. Then he extends a hand.
“Walt,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
This is it. Work it. Time to work it. “Hi Walt, I’m Josh.” We shake.
“You’ve never been here before have you?”
“No. That obvious?”
“It’s just, you have quite a distinguished…style. And that’s something I don’t forget.”
Not too bad. No sir. Maybe not so fucked after all. Maybe this was actually a good idea.
“So,” Walt says. “How’s this compare to your regular joint?”
“My regular joint?”
“You know. Your regular bar”
“Oh. To be honest, I’ve never been to a gay bar before.”
Walt smiles. Knowing, smug. “A newbie,” he says. “Cute. Why don’t you meet me at the bar in twenty? I’d love to introduce you to my boyfriend. We’ll buy you a shot. Nobody should drink alone.”
Boyfriend? Flirting, really it was friendly banter. Not fucked, really I’m totally fucked.
“Thanks,” I say. “See you in a few.”
~ ~ ~
Last weekend was when I decided to give it a go. It was supposed to be an experiment. It was supposed to teach me a thing or two. It was supposed to change my life. What it wasn’t, was my idea.
Saturday morning, left my apartment and walked around the corner and up the alley toward my favorite bakery. Duke was there, hunched over on a milk crate. Always.
“Hey Duke,” I said. “What’s cracking?”
“What’s cracking? They’re trying to kill us is all. Same as last week and the week before and every week since They realized we ain’t going nowhere!” His beard was so thick, so bushy I couldn’t see his lips. Words rained from a cloud of grizzled hair.
“Nobody’s trying to kill us, Duke. Hell, if anyone wanted to kill you they’d have done it by now. You never leave the alley.”
“Oh, you’re wrong. You are WRONG! They’re killing me alright, They’re killing you too. They don’t have to know where I sleep at night to get me. And They don’t discriminate between noblemen like myself and common peasants.”
Duke, he swore that was a title. Swore he descended from Scottish nobility. Maybe. But I was still pretty sure that Duke was only his name.
“Who’s trying to kill us?” I asked, squatted on my haunches.
“Who do you think? The Government, like always. They have big charts and computer-made-graphs and They figure ain’t enough room on this earth for us all. Running low on food and fuel and forests and They take it as duty to thin the herd. Well I’ve lived in an alley for a half decade through and I ain’t thin yet. So good luck to them is what I say.”
I first met Duke the day I moved into my apartment. He was making the rare trip from his ally to a corner bodega. Carton of milk in one hand, a half smoked cigarette wedged in his beard.
It was a busy afternoon. People going this way, that way. Trying to make it home, trying to mind their own business. Duke, the only one to offer me help with boxes. We finished and I tried to buy him dinner. But he was too proud for that. Said a good nobleman helps his subjects, asks nothing in return.
“So, the Government’s trying to kill us to curb overpopulation?”
“Oh, They’re not trying. They’re goddamn succeeding. They’re smart you see. Doing it slowly. Slowly but surely.”
“Duke man, you’re paranoid. I’m gonna grab a bagel, you want a Coke or something?”
“Ha! See, that’s my point, brother. That is my point. You buy the Coke and what do you get? All the sugar They can dissolve in water. Sure enough They’ve put you one step closer to a heart attack.”
“Then I’ll get you a Diet Coke.”
“Diet Coke, chock full of chemicals! You’ll get the Big C for sure. That’s what They do—poison you. Microwave some food, just turns it radioactive. Plop down in front of the tele, They beam radiation right to your brain. They’re taking us out and ain’t a thing to do about it.”
“So why worry? If we can’t do anything about it, why even worry?”
“Who’s worried, brother? I’m just warning you—live your life while you got it. ‘Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.”
“Thanks, Duke. I appreciate that.”
“Because Josh, I worry for you.”
Wow. The man lives in an alley, babbles conspiracy theories and he’s worried for me. Talk about a downer.
“Why’s that Duke? I’m doing alright.”
“Because a man your age, he should be thinking about one thing and one thing only. You know what I mean, my boy?”
Nearly said keeping a roof over my head, realized that might have been on the rude side. Shook a no.
“Women, brother. Beautiful, beautiful women. And long as I’ve known you, ain’t ever seen you with a nice lass on your arm. Not once. Ain’t ever seen you bring one to the bakery for a spot of breakfast after a hard night’s work. If you get where I’m coming from…”
“Ever think I might not score points by introducing a lady to the local bum?” And I felt like a grade-A cocksucker right off.
“Josh, that’s cold. But a benevolent ruler never holds a slip of the tongue against a lowly peon. Just try to show more respect in the future.”
Thing was, women were kind of a sore subject with me. There was something about the fairer sex I didn’t get. They seemed foreign—exotic, mysterious, intimidating. They humbled me like nothing else.
Two months ago I vowed off the singles scene after one particularly shitty incident.
At a club on the North end of town, I had tried to drink myself courageous. Seven pints in, decided to give it a go. Stumbling to the far end of the bar, I took a seat next to a short, dark haired woman with over-glossed lips. So shiny I could see my reflection in them.
“Uh, would you like a drink?” I said, legs twitching something fierce.
Forced, tightlipped smile and she blew a quick breath from her nose. No words, pointed to a nearly full margarita sitting before her.
“Right…well, maybe later,” I said, watching myself go red in her lips. Just sitting next to her for another few minutes—the silence burning my ears—before I retreated out the door.
Back in the alley I tried explaining to Duke how I’ve never been smooth with the women.
“What do you mean, ‘smooth’?”
“I get nervous, flustered. Can’t be myself.”
“Well, how’s it you ain’t nervous with me. Hell, I might lack a set of ovaries. But kid, I’m kinda intense. Most people, they avoid me. You seem ‘smooth’ enough.”
“Too bad you’re not a young lady, Duke. I’d be on easy street.”
“Well brother, maybe you need some practice,” Duke said and I think he was smiling. But with that beard it’s anyone’s guess.
“What’re you getting at?”
“Well, like you said you need to work at some smoothness. It ain’t happening with the ladies, so maybe, maybe you oughtta try your shtick on the dudes. You know, for practice. Then take your learnings, really knock them dames for a loop.”
“Duke,” I said. “Might be you’re on to something.”
Next Week: the conclusion of Next Time's a Charm
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Prophet With His Poison Tongue
Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. I try to help you and you flip me off. I try to save you and you pay me no mind. And while other prophets may have been ignored in their lifetimes—validated by future generations—me, I won’t have the luxury.
Sometimes you toss me a few coins. Like I’m a bum. Sometimes you drop a doggie bag at my feet. Like I’m in this for half a chicken fried steak. And besides, your money will be no good. Not when the time comes. Your comfort food will be of no comfort. Not when the time comes.
But I stand on my simple mount and preach my simple sermon. The End is near, I tell you. Best be ready, I tell you. Time is not forever, I tell you. And you pull your children close. And you keep walking. And you say, forget the crazy man, Dear. Forget the crazy man. And me, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.
* * *
From thousands of years back the Mayans saw it coming. Their calendar, racking up the k’ins (days), the unials (months), the tuns (years). Ticking away like an odometer, closer and closer to the end of the Great Cycle. 5,200 years in the making. Closer and closer to the End of History.
For us, it will be December twenty-first, two thousand and twelve. What I mean is, by the Roman calendar, the Great Cycle ends on 12/21/12. One two, two one, one two. Add them together and that’s 3,3,3. Maybe not the Number of the Beast but halfway there. For them, it was to be 13.0.0.0.0. What I mean is, by the Mayan calendar, the Great Cycle ends on a perfect thirteen. How lucky is that?
And check this out: that day—12/21/12 if you like, 13.0.0.0.0 if you’re a stickler for accuracy—that day is the winter solstice, shortest day of the year. And while the sun makes but the briefest of appearances, on that day it crosses paths with the galactic equator. Bam.
So what happens? Floods, earthquakes? Tornadoes, hurricanes? 5,200 years coming. Four years to go. An End to History.
* * *
Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You laugh at the dirty old man, the loony fool. But there is no time for laughter. There is no time for levity. There is no time for apathy. Because really, there is no time.
Once in awhile you sit by my corner, in my square. Play your guitar and sing your songs and wink at passersby as you drown out my message. As you drown out the message. I tell you, sir, I’m preaching here. I tell you, sir, even if you don’t care, others must be reached. I tell you, sir, the End is near. There is no time for merrymaking.
And of course you care not. You tell me, bro, I’m preaching too. You tell me, bro, the people don’t dig on downers. You tell me, bro, I’m singing ‘bout peace. There’s always time for peace.
But really there isn’t. And I tell you as much but you laugh. Everybody laughs. You tell me, bro, you’re crazy. And I tell you, sir, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.
* * *
Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. He didn’t know about any Great Cycle, didn’t know about any 13.0.0.0.0. Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. But he called the End of History just the same.
And check this out: Nostradomus, he predicted all sorts of crap using judicial astrology—forecasted the future based on the movements of stars, movements of planets. Sound familiar? Did he see the solstice sun cross the galactic equator? Fucked if I know. But whatever he saw, what he made of it was plenty clear.
What he predicted: he predicted three Antichrists, three manifestations of evil, three destructive forces—3,3,3—that would precede the End of History. The first—an Emperor born near Italy who would exhaust his forces in Russian snow—was Napoleon. The second—a Captain of Germany whose revolt would cause great bloodshed—that was Hitler. The third—the Antichrist who finally ushers in the End—the third Antichrist is the worst of the bunch.
Of the third, Nostradomus wrote, he’ll “come out of the country of Greater Arabia.” Nostradomus wrote, “From the sky will come the great King of Terror.” Clear enough? Terror from the sky?
The most important historical event of the new century and Nostradomus called it almost half a millennium ago. And more, he knew this wasn’t just some serious shit. Really, this was the End of all serious shit.
* * *
Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You pity me. But still I try to help you. You ignore me. But still I try to inform you. You laugh at me. But still I try.
You need to know nothing lasts. You need to know there’s always an End. You need to know it only grows closer. Never further away.
Of course, I understand your reluctance. You refuse to accept that there is an ebb and flow. You refuse to accept that you are temporary. That everything is temporary. Of course, you are afraid. But fear is not excuse enough. Not for me.
So prepare, I tell you. Repent if that’s what you believe in, I tell you. Make amends if you have amends to make, I tell you. I might be crazy, I tell you. But I’m not the only one.
I might be crazy, I tell you. But all things considered, there’s something to be said for experiencing the End of History. And there’s something to be said for peace of mind.
Sometimes you toss me a few coins. Like I’m a bum. Sometimes you drop a doggie bag at my feet. Like I’m in this for half a chicken fried steak. And besides, your money will be no good. Not when the time comes. Your comfort food will be of no comfort. Not when the time comes.
But I stand on my simple mount and preach my simple sermon. The End is near, I tell you. Best be ready, I tell you. Time is not forever, I tell you. And you pull your children close. And you keep walking. And you say, forget the crazy man, Dear. Forget the crazy man. And me, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.
* * *
From thousands of years back the Mayans saw it coming. Their calendar, racking up the k’ins (days), the unials (months), the tuns (years). Ticking away like an odometer, closer and closer to the end of the Great Cycle. 5,200 years in the making. Closer and closer to the End of History.
For us, it will be December twenty-first, two thousand and twelve. What I mean is, by the Roman calendar, the Great Cycle ends on 12/21/12. One two, two one, one two. Add them together and that’s 3,3,3. Maybe not the Number of the Beast but halfway there. For them, it was to be 13.0.0.0.0. What I mean is, by the Mayan calendar, the Great Cycle ends on a perfect thirteen. How lucky is that?
And check this out: that day—12/21/12 if you like, 13.0.0.0.0 if you’re a stickler for accuracy—that day is the winter solstice, shortest day of the year. And while the sun makes but the briefest of appearances, on that day it crosses paths with the galactic equator. Bam.
So what happens? Floods, earthquakes? Tornadoes, hurricanes? 5,200 years coming. Four years to go. An End to History.
* * *
Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You laugh at the dirty old man, the loony fool. But there is no time for laughter. There is no time for levity. There is no time for apathy. Because really, there is no time.
Once in awhile you sit by my corner, in my square. Play your guitar and sing your songs and wink at passersby as you drown out my message. As you drown out the message. I tell you, sir, I’m preaching here. I tell you, sir, even if you don’t care, others must be reached. I tell you, sir, the End is near. There is no time for merrymaking.
And of course you care not. You tell me, bro, I’m preaching too. You tell me, bro, the people don’t dig on downers. You tell me, bro, I’m singing ‘bout peace. There’s always time for peace.
But really there isn’t. And I tell you as much but you laugh. Everybody laughs. You tell me, bro, you’re crazy. And I tell you, sir, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.
* * *
Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. He didn’t know about any Great Cycle, didn’t know about any 13.0.0.0.0. Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. But he called the End of History just the same.
And check this out: Nostradomus, he predicted all sorts of crap using judicial astrology—forecasted the future based on the movements of stars, movements of planets. Sound familiar? Did he see the solstice sun cross the galactic equator? Fucked if I know. But whatever he saw, what he made of it was plenty clear.
What he predicted: he predicted three Antichrists, three manifestations of evil, three destructive forces—3,3,3—that would precede the End of History. The first—an Emperor born near Italy who would exhaust his forces in Russian snow—was Napoleon. The second—a Captain of Germany whose revolt would cause great bloodshed—that was Hitler. The third—the Antichrist who finally ushers in the End—the third Antichrist is the worst of the bunch.
Of the third, Nostradomus wrote, he’ll “come out of the country of Greater Arabia.” Nostradomus wrote, “From the sky will come the great King of Terror.” Clear enough? Terror from the sky?
The most important historical event of the new century and Nostradomus called it almost half a millennium ago. And more, he knew this wasn’t just some serious shit. Really, this was the End of all serious shit.
* * *
Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You pity me. But still I try to help you. You ignore me. But still I try to inform you. You laugh at me. But still I try.
You need to know nothing lasts. You need to know there’s always an End. You need to know it only grows closer. Never further away.
Of course, I understand your reluctance. You refuse to accept that there is an ebb and flow. You refuse to accept that you are temporary. That everything is temporary. Of course, you are afraid. But fear is not excuse enough. Not for me.
So prepare, I tell you. Repent if that’s what you believe in, I tell you. Make amends if you have amends to make, I tell you. I might be crazy, I tell you. But I’m not the only one.
I might be crazy, I tell you. But all things considered, there’s something to be said for experiencing the End of History. And there’s something to be said for peace of mind.
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Correspondence
From: Peter Smithson
To: Nathan Himes
Subject: Happy Monday!
Dear Nate-the-Great,
Not that I need to remind you buddy, but this is going to be a most busy week. An initial report for the Chester account is due Wednesday and I’m going to need you to redraft your charts. Basically, a pie chart with only two sections looks a tad dull. So, what I’d like is for you to redo them as bar graphs. Thanks buddy.
Speaking of bars, hope you didn’t get too drunk this weekend, lol. We don’t need another situation like last Monday, with you all hungover and slurping down a whole pot of coffee. That coffee’s for the whole office, buddy. Lol. Any-who, good luck with those graphs.
Sincerely,
Pete
From: Nathan Himes
To: Peter Smithson
Subject: Crappy Monday
Dear Peter,
I’m a full grown man. Call me Nathan. Call me Nate. But kill this Nate-the-Great shit. You sound like my grandfather.
The Chester account is not my department. While you may be my superior, any graphs constructed were done only as a personal favor, not a professional duty. I gave you pie charts because I figured a fellow as portly as yourself would have an easier time relating to something that looked edible. My mistake. I’ve got my own work to do here. Any changes you need, make them yourself.
Finally, as you know corporate can read all company e-mails. Therefore, I’d prefer you didn’t speculate when it comes to my weekend activities. I’m sure the higher ups might frown upon my off-hours drinking, just as they might frown upon the bottle of cheap whiskey in the bottom drawer of your desk. Oops, I forgot they can read our e-mails. Sorry. Lol.
Very Truly Yours,
Nathan
From: Peter Smithson
To: Nathan Himes
Subject: Sincere Apologies
Dear Nate,
I’m so, so sorry you took offense to the nickname. I assure you, it was meant only as a show of affection. However, since we're on the subject, I’d appreciate if you referred to me as Mr. Smithson, or simply Boss in all future communications.
While the Chester account is not technically your responsibility, as your supervisor I have full authority to delegate tasks. So if I tell you I want a bar graph, give me a goddamn bar graph.
To conclude this correspondence, whatever’s stored in my desk is entirely my business. Just as whatever’s stored in your desk, such as a huge pile of condoms, is entirely your business. And whatever happens to those condoms, such as their tendency to disappear each time your secretary frequents your office, well that’s your business too. Certainly not any of my business. And certainly not any of the higher ups’ business. And certainly, certainly not any of your wife’s business.
With respect and admiration,
Boss Smithson
From: Nathan Himes
To: Peter Smithson
Subject: Blow Me
Dear Captain Douche Bag,
First, in all future communications, please refer to me as King Himes: Master of Pie Charts. Or better yet, don’t refer to me at all.
Next, with respect to the Chester account, you can turn your bar graphs sideways and shove them up your fat ass. Be careful though, I wouldn’t want you to incur any brain damage.
And lastly, I’d like to clear things up with regards to the interoffice romance referenced in your previous e-mail. Not that I owe you an explanation. As you may be aware, everything a man does, he does with one goal in mind. That goal, of course, being pussy. Some men prefer sporadic, varied pussy. Other men, frequent and familiar pussy.
For example, one man might use his position of authority to diversify his pussy intake. By the same account, another man might embezzle a little cash so his wife doesn’t leave his pathetic, overweight ass. Thus stabilizing his flow of commonplace pussy. That being said, mention the secretary situation to my wife and I’ll choke you to death with your stupid fucking Tweety Bird necktie.
Love you lots,
Mr. Nathan Himes
From: Martin Shaw
To: Peter Smithson
Cc: Nathan Himes
Subject: Urgent
Dear Misters Smithson and Himes,
I would very much like to see you both in my office as soon as possible. Feel free to bring your secretaries and/or whiskey bottles with you. While you will soon have little need for the former, the latter may provide some consolation.
Many thanks,
Martin Shaw
President, Shaw Analysts Group
Monday, June 16, 2008
Wandering
With the heavy summer heat, a smothering blanket. With the acidic winter cold, a badger gnawing at exposed flesh. Probably, you can count the number of nice New York days on your hands. Combine spring and autumn and you’ll get a week and a half of mild, sunny weather. Total. And if you’re lucky, a couple of those days you’ll be off work.
I’m not about to risk it.
Today, I call out. All the flowers blossoming, I say my sinuses are killing me. All the pollen in the air, I have a major migraine. On the other end, The Boss sounds less than sympathetic. But in an office without windows, on a day this choice, can I blame him? And I’m totally full of shit. So can I blame him?
I take the subway into Manhattan. Because days like today, they’re worth more than fifteen bucks an hour.
A Helluva Sight.
In SoHo, I look at shops I can’t afford to shop at. I look at restaurants I can’t afford to eat at. I look at a homeless man with his rubbery prick in hand. Standing in front of a bougie boutique, pissing on a pile of garbage. I assume he’s homeless, being he isn’t housebroken.
Men in suits pass, say nothing. Students in bright purple t-shirts don’t even look. New York City, everybody fits in. And on a day this fine, nobody’s about to worry on account of a little urine.
The homeless man zips up, proceeds to root around in the trash for cans and bottles and assorted treasure. More power to him.
Northward Bound.
Moving slowly and without any real point. What they call a New York Walk is the exact opposite of this. New York Walks are for days too hot or days too cold or days when you have someplace to be. New York Walks are for most New York days. And today is anything but.
At Washington Square Park, old men play chess and smoke long brown cigarettes. A college kid sitting on concrete steps strums an acoustic guitar, collects loose change in an NYU hat. A wannabe bohemian. A well-fed artist.
Some man with no shirt offers me coke. Some girl with a long dress offers me salvation. To both, I politely decline.
The 1 train takes me to midtown where businessmen who don’t give half a shit about the weather push past tourists who don’t realize how they’ve lucked out. The businessmen, too into themselves to notice. The tourists, too into everything else.
Who Could Have Anyplace Better to Be?
Just inside Central Park, a man in a jury-rigged clown costume twists and folds balloon animals. Striped pajama pants, a plain white undershirt stretched over his gut. No makeup but a red foam nose. And at least a dozen children lined up. Waiting. They request giraffes and tigers and hippos that all look exactly alike.
I nod slightly to the clown. He winks and turns his attention back to the kiddies. If I had offspring, I wouldn’t let them within spitting distance of this guy. But lucky for me, I don’t have offspring. Lucky for my offspring.
Cherry blossoms and fresh green lawn. Toddlers stumble around like drunkards. Weeping willows and just opening daffodils. Kids lazily toss a baseball back and forth between bare hands. Bees and statues of important men on horses. Young ladies in bikinis sunbathe with raggedy paperbacks. Blackbirds and boulders. Men in shorts far too short jog with their iPods.
And I wonder, damn, shouldn’t these people be in school? Or at work…
Love is in the Air. Or Maybe Just Pollen.
A walkway shaded by trees, lined with artists busy sketching young couples. Most days, these guys would do back flips just to make eye contact with a passerby. But spring is for lovers. And with the Valentine’s Day hangover still thick as fog, no park-side doodler is without subject.
Heading north slowly, without any real point. I see a man kneel and remove a small, velvet box from his pocket. This all happens not fifteen feet away. Before he can get a word out, before he even opens his mouth, the woman with him screams. Oh my God, she says. Oh my God, oh my God, of course I will.
What I first want to say is, I give it a year, tops. Just to be funny. Just to be a dick. But I can’t. So I keep on strolling. Because today, it’s far too prime a day to be a total asshole.
And I don’t want to say I start misting up. Just that maybe my allergies are kicking in for real. So I move East. Out of the park and away from all the blossoming vegetation. Or away from all the puppy love. Whatever.
Time Keeps Moving. Too Far Sometimes.
Countless hi-rise apartment buildings and sushi restaurants. Upscale thrift stores and gourmet markets. To my left, the yard of a convalescence home is partitioned off by a tall fence of iron bars. A handful of elderlies hunched over in wheelchairs, propped on walkers with tennis ball-padded legs.
And up against the fence, an old man with paper skin and sagging jowls grips the bars with both hands. His gaze follows me until I’m no longer in his field of vision. Then he looks back to the street traffic.
Like an inmate whose only crime is age. But criminals can be paroled, pardoned. The old man, he’s only getting older. His prison’s only getting smaller and there will be no time off for good behavior. But at least he’s outside. On a day like today, that’s as much as anybody can ask.
Low Tide Blues.
When the sky goes pink I figure it’s getting toward happy hour. On Second Avenue there’s no shortage of bars offering the two for one but anything with an outdoor patio has a line like Splash Mountain. So I end up in a dark room with a warm glass of whiskey. But that’s alright.
Heading home I take the local train, making three stops for every one on the express line. I can use the sit. And the whiskey, dense in my belly, it fights off boredom. Sure, a forty-minute subway ride is milked for a solid hour. But that’s alright.
At home, my inbox is full of emails from The Boss. Listing assignments and meetings and important presentations that occurred. Nothing asking about my migraine. Listing projects and reports and everything I missed out on. Everything I missed out on. But that’s alright.
I’m not about to risk it.
Today, I call out. All the flowers blossoming, I say my sinuses are killing me. All the pollen in the air, I have a major migraine. On the other end, The Boss sounds less than sympathetic. But in an office without windows, on a day this choice, can I blame him? And I’m totally full of shit. So can I blame him?
I take the subway into Manhattan. Because days like today, they’re worth more than fifteen bucks an hour.
A Helluva Sight.
In SoHo, I look at shops I can’t afford to shop at. I look at restaurants I can’t afford to eat at. I look at a homeless man with his rubbery prick in hand. Standing in front of a bougie boutique, pissing on a pile of garbage. I assume he’s homeless, being he isn’t housebroken.
Men in suits pass, say nothing. Students in bright purple t-shirts don’t even look. New York City, everybody fits in. And on a day this fine, nobody’s about to worry on account of a little urine.
The homeless man zips up, proceeds to root around in the trash for cans and bottles and assorted treasure. More power to him.
Northward Bound.
Moving slowly and without any real point. What they call a New York Walk is the exact opposite of this. New York Walks are for days too hot or days too cold or days when you have someplace to be. New York Walks are for most New York days. And today is anything but.
At Washington Square Park, old men play chess and smoke long brown cigarettes. A college kid sitting on concrete steps strums an acoustic guitar, collects loose change in an NYU hat. A wannabe bohemian. A well-fed artist.
Some man with no shirt offers me coke. Some girl with a long dress offers me salvation. To both, I politely decline.
The 1 train takes me to midtown where businessmen who don’t give half a shit about the weather push past tourists who don’t realize how they’ve lucked out. The businessmen, too into themselves to notice. The tourists, too into everything else.
Who Could Have Anyplace Better to Be?
Just inside Central Park, a man in a jury-rigged clown costume twists and folds balloon animals. Striped pajama pants, a plain white undershirt stretched over his gut. No makeup but a red foam nose. And at least a dozen children lined up. Waiting. They request giraffes and tigers and hippos that all look exactly alike.
I nod slightly to the clown. He winks and turns his attention back to the kiddies. If I had offspring, I wouldn’t let them within spitting distance of this guy. But lucky for me, I don’t have offspring. Lucky for my offspring.
Cherry blossoms and fresh green lawn. Toddlers stumble around like drunkards. Weeping willows and just opening daffodils. Kids lazily toss a baseball back and forth between bare hands. Bees and statues of important men on horses. Young ladies in bikinis sunbathe with raggedy paperbacks. Blackbirds and boulders. Men in shorts far too short jog with their iPods.
And I wonder, damn, shouldn’t these people be in school? Or at work…
Love is in the Air. Or Maybe Just Pollen.
A walkway shaded by trees, lined with artists busy sketching young couples. Most days, these guys would do back flips just to make eye contact with a passerby. But spring is for lovers. And with the Valentine’s Day hangover still thick as fog, no park-side doodler is without subject.
Heading north slowly, without any real point. I see a man kneel and remove a small, velvet box from his pocket. This all happens not fifteen feet away. Before he can get a word out, before he even opens his mouth, the woman with him screams. Oh my God, she says. Oh my God, oh my God, of course I will.
What I first want to say is, I give it a year, tops. Just to be funny. Just to be a dick. But I can’t. So I keep on strolling. Because today, it’s far too prime a day to be a total asshole.
And I don’t want to say I start misting up. Just that maybe my allergies are kicking in for real. So I move East. Out of the park and away from all the blossoming vegetation. Or away from all the puppy love. Whatever.
Time Keeps Moving. Too Far Sometimes.
Countless hi-rise apartment buildings and sushi restaurants. Upscale thrift stores and gourmet markets. To my left, the yard of a convalescence home is partitioned off by a tall fence of iron bars. A handful of elderlies hunched over in wheelchairs, propped on walkers with tennis ball-padded legs.
And up against the fence, an old man with paper skin and sagging jowls grips the bars with both hands. His gaze follows me until I’m no longer in his field of vision. Then he looks back to the street traffic.
Like an inmate whose only crime is age. But criminals can be paroled, pardoned. The old man, he’s only getting older. His prison’s only getting smaller and there will be no time off for good behavior. But at least he’s outside. On a day like today, that’s as much as anybody can ask.
Low Tide Blues.
When the sky goes pink I figure it’s getting toward happy hour. On Second Avenue there’s no shortage of bars offering the two for one but anything with an outdoor patio has a line like Splash Mountain. So I end up in a dark room with a warm glass of whiskey. But that’s alright.
Heading home I take the local train, making three stops for every one on the express line. I can use the sit. And the whiskey, dense in my belly, it fights off boredom. Sure, a forty-minute subway ride is milked for a solid hour. But that’s alright.
At home, my inbox is full of emails from The Boss. Listing assignments and meetings and important presentations that occurred. Nothing asking about my migraine. Listing projects and reports and everything I missed out on. Everything I missed out on. But that’s alright.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Inappropriate Proposition
“Can you imagine the first bastard to ever eat an egg?” This is Big Larry talking. Talking with a mouth full of omelette. “All those other cavemen must have looked at him like he’d lost it.”
Gil isn’t at all sure what Big Larry’s getting at. “I’m not at all sure what you’re getting at,” he says.
“Listen kid, what in the name of fuck would compel a person to eat cooked chicken menstruation?” A string of American cheese stretches from the corner of Big Larry’s mouth to his chin. One hand holding a fork, the other stretched across the pleather booth like he’s cradling an invisible date. The waitress approaches and Big Larry waves her off before she can speak. Doesn’t even look at her, just waves her off. “Because that’s all an egg is, a goddamn chicken period. But some nut decided to eat one, figured it was tasty, now we call them eggs. Much more appetizing.”
Across the table Gil nurses a cup of black coffee. Dark, like his prospects. Bitter, like Gil himself. “I guess you got a point.”
“Of course I have a point,” Big Larry says. “But I haven’t gotten to it yet. Just listen, pollen is nothing but tree jizz. I’m telling you kid, that’s exactly what it is. But nobody calls it that. Can you imagine people walking around all spring and bitching ‘This damn Elm cum is making me sneeze.’ That would never fly. So we call it pollen. Now, do you get my point?”
Gil has no fucking idea what Big Larry is talking about. But he doesn’t say as much. Gil, he just scratches at his two-day stubble and stares Big Larry straight in the eyes. All this, trying his damnedest to come off as thoughtful.
“Listen Kid,” Big Larry says. “What I’m trying to get across is, in this life you’ve got two choices. Either you look at things the way you want them to be or you look at things the way they are. Either you choose to be right or you choose to be happy.”
* * *
The omelette, gone. Gil, on his third cup of coffee. “I got a question,” he says. “You can’t be more than five foot nine, a buck forty. So why’s everyone call you Big Larry?”
Big Larry pats his not-so-big belly and says, “Kid, once was a time my reputation preceded me. My reputation, let’s say it entered the room about ten inches before I did. You get my point?”
“I get it, yeah,” Gil says. And standing up, he chokes down the last of his stale coffee, grimaces at the taste and says, “Yeah, I get it. But there’s places I gotta be. Get my point?”
“Your point is you’re a broke, shit-eating, ingrate,” Big Larry snaps. “So sit down and listen up. Sit down, and thank me for the three cups of joe I bought you. Listen up, and maybe you won’t be so goddamn broke this time tomorrow.”
To save a shred of pride, Gil stares right back at Big Larry. He stares for a beat, but there isn’t any doubt who’s in control here. There isn’t any doubt Gil’s going to sit back down. The waitress approaches and this time it’s Gil who waves her off before she can speak. “Okay,” he says. “But I don’t wanna hear no more about any tree busting its load.”
“Kid,” Big Larry says. “I can’t spit out a window without hitting someone you owe money to. Of this you’d have to agree.” Gil nods. “What I have for you is a proposition. Do what I ask, you’ll be rewarded. Will it be enough to wipe out your debts? No Gil, no it won’t. Will it be enough to keep your knee out of a cast for the next couple weeks? I would think so.”
“Okay,” Gil says. “Let’s hear it.”
* * *
“Right now Kid, right now relations between Missus Big Larry and myself are a shambles. We kept the flame burning longer than most, but right now, right now the connection just isn’t there. And you know, these days they'll stick a prenup in your Happy Meal. But back when the Missus and I tied the knot, wasn’t the case.”
“Jesus, man,” Gil says. And his eyes are so wide an onlooker would swear they’re Q-balls. The waitress approaches and both men wave her off before she can speak. “I don’t know what you heard about me but no, man. No. I won’t kill your wife.”
Big Larry’s head flings back so hard it bounces off the pleather cushions and he laughs something awful. Sounds like smokers cough. “Kid, you’re alright,” he manages before another laughing spell.
“Listen,” Big Larry says finally. “I can’t remember the last time the Missus and I had relations and I didn’t pretend she was someone else entirely. No different than masturbating really, if you had a right hand always bitching about the toilet seat being up.”
And while Gil is relieved that murder was not the deal to be brokered, he’s also a little disappointed. When he figured Big Larry was setting up a hit, it was the only time all evening Gil felt they were on the same page. Everything said before and since may just as well have been Greek.
“Here’s the point kid, I can’t divorce my wife on account of having no prenup. I can’t kill her on account of me not being a complete prick. What I’ve got to do is appease the lady. Keep her off my case. Keep her satisfied.” Big Larry winks a big wink. “However, as you might assume, half a lifetime married to a fellow with my reputation, Missus Big Larry has certain standards. But Gil, you have quite a reputation yourself.”
“So, you’re asking me to bone your lady?” Gil says, totally tactful. “And you’re gonna give me coin to do it?”
“Yeah Kid, that’s the offer,” Big Larry sighs. “Now, you can look at this two ways. Either you can look at this the way you want it to be. And then, you’re doing me a favor. Or you can look at this the way it is. And then, you’re nothing but a whore. Two choices kid, be happy or be right.”
For the first time all evening, Gil grins. “I don’t care much about being happy or being right. The way I see it, in this life the only choice I have is to get paid.”
“Kid,” says Big Larry. “We can shake on that.”
Gil isn’t at all sure what Big Larry’s getting at. “I’m not at all sure what you’re getting at,” he says.
“Listen kid, what in the name of fuck would compel a person to eat cooked chicken menstruation?” A string of American cheese stretches from the corner of Big Larry’s mouth to his chin. One hand holding a fork, the other stretched across the pleather booth like he’s cradling an invisible date. The waitress approaches and Big Larry waves her off before she can speak. Doesn’t even look at her, just waves her off. “Because that’s all an egg is, a goddamn chicken period. But some nut decided to eat one, figured it was tasty, now we call them eggs. Much more appetizing.”
Across the table Gil nurses a cup of black coffee. Dark, like his prospects. Bitter, like Gil himself. “I guess you got a point.”
“Of course I have a point,” Big Larry says. “But I haven’t gotten to it yet. Just listen, pollen is nothing but tree jizz. I’m telling you kid, that’s exactly what it is. But nobody calls it that. Can you imagine people walking around all spring and bitching ‘This damn Elm cum is making me sneeze.’ That would never fly. So we call it pollen. Now, do you get my point?”
Gil has no fucking idea what Big Larry is talking about. But he doesn’t say as much. Gil, he just scratches at his two-day stubble and stares Big Larry straight in the eyes. All this, trying his damnedest to come off as thoughtful.
“Listen Kid,” Big Larry says. “What I’m trying to get across is, in this life you’ve got two choices. Either you look at things the way you want them to be or you look at things the way they are. Either you choose to be right or you choose to be happy.”
* * *
The omelette, gone. Gil, on his third cup of coffee. “I got a question,” he says. “You can’t be more than five foot nine, a buck forty. So why’s everyone call you Big Larry?”
Big Larry pats his not-so-big belly and says, “Kid, once was a time my reputation preceded me. My reputation, let’s say it entered the room about ten inches before I did. You get my point?”
“I get it, yeah,” Gil says. And standing up, he chokes down the last of his stale coffee, grimaces at the taste and says, “Yeah, I get it. But there’s places I gotta be. Get my point?”
“Your point is you’re a broke, shit-eating, ingrate,” Big Larry snaps. “So sit down and listen up. Sit down, and thank me for the three cups of joe I bought you. Listen up, and maybe you won’t be so goddamn broke this time tomorrow.”
To save a shred of pride, Gil stares right back at Big Larry. He stares for a beat, but there isn’t any doubt who’s in control here. There isn’t any doubt Gil’s going to sit back down. The waitress approaches and this time it’s Gil who waves her off before she can speak. “Okay,” he says. “But I don’t wanna hear no more about any tree busting its load.”
“Kid,” Big Larry says. “I can’t spit out a window without hitting someone you owe money to. Of this you’d have to agree.” Gil nods. “What I have for you is a proposition. Do what I ask, you’ll be rewarded. Will it be enough to wipe out your debts? No Gil, no it won’t. Will it be enough to keep your knee out of a cast for the next couple weeks? I would think so.”
“Okay,” Gil says. “Let’s hear it.”
* * *
“Right now Kid, right now relations between Missus Big Larry and myself are a shambles. We kept the flame burning longer than most, but right now, right now the connection just isn’t there. And you know, these days they'll stick a prenup in your Happy Meal. But back when the Missus and I tied the knot, wasn’t the case.”
“Jesus, man,” Gil says. And his eyes are so wide an onlooker would swear they’re Q-balls. The waitress approaches and both men wave her off before she can speak. “I don’t know what you heard about me but no, man. No. I won’t kill your wife.”
Big Larry’s head flings back so hard it bounces off the pleather cushions and he laughs something awful. Sounds like smokers cough. “Kid, you’re alright,” he manages before another laughing spell.
“Listen,” Big Larry says finally. “I can’t remember the last time the Missus and I had relations and I didn’t pretend she was someone else entirely. No different than masturbating really, if you had a right hand always bitching about the toilet seat being up.”
And while Gil is relieved that murder was not the deal to be brokered, he’s also a little disappointed. When he figured Big Larry was setting up a hit, it was the only time all evening Gil felt they were on the same page. Everything said before and since may just as well have been Greek.
“Here’s the point kid, I can’t divorce my wife on account of having no prenup. I can’t kill her on account of me not being a complete prick. What I’ve got to do is appease the lady. Keep her off my case. Keep her satisfied.” Big Larry winks a big wink. “However, as you might assume, half a lifetime married to a fellow with my reputation, Missus Big Larry has certain standards. But Gil, you have quite a reputation yourself.”
“So, you’re asking me to bone your lady?” Gil says, totally tactful. “And you’re gonna give me coin to do it?”
“Yeah Kid, that’s the offer,” Big Larry sighs. “Now, you can look at this two ways. Either you can look at this the way you want it to be. And then, you’re doing me a favor. Or you can look at this the way it is. And then, you’re nothing but a whore. Two choices kid, be happy or be right.”
For the first time all evening, Gil grins. “I don’t care much about being happy or being right. The way I see it, in this life the only choice I have is to get paid.”
“Kid,” says Big Larry. “We can shake on that.”
Monday, June 2, 2008
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