NPC follows a day in the life of an Unemployed Art Historian, and is a fictionalized account of my daily thoughts and activities at the time it was written. Though taken from life, I invented (or wildly embellished) all characters and events, and nothing in the text should be taken at face value. Jeffrey’s memories are his own and do not represent an accruate account of my background, memories, thoughts, or emotions. NPC is a story. Though I intended to revise and extend the novel (and edit out some of the dirty bits), and even began revising the work, I have decided to post the unedited, original work here. Read at your own risk.

I wrote NPC during November and December of 2009 as part of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I found the process incredibly rewarding, relaxing, and rejeuvinating, and I intend to take part in NaNoWriMo in the future, as time, energy, and creativity allow.

The text is rough and contains some harsh language and sexual imagery that may be inappropriate for some readers and highly embarassing to the author. Discretion Advised.

For more about NaNoWriMo, please visit their website, and I encourage you to take part in one of their many activities.

NPC: a memoir a novel

1

. . . It’s a beautiful sunny day. . . Where am I? I’m sitting on a large, padded swing that hangs from an ancient oak tree. Birds chirp happily above me. I lean my head back and look up: I can see the clear, blue sky twinkling between the leaves and branches of the tree as they sway and flutter in the gentle breeze. I hear a voice, but can’t make out what she’s saying. I raise my head and look to the left.

Across the green expanse, I see a woman emerge from a small, yellow house. To the right of the door, two small children giggle at each other as they swing to and fro on a small swing set. A club house with rope ladders and heart-shaped windows nearby, and there are tricycles and a few dolls clustered together near the swing. They are my daughters. That is my house. The woman is my wife. She carries two glasses of lemonade and is smiling broadly. “Klaj ulaf frond, snorg,” she says.

She comes over, hands me a glass of lemonade, and sits beside me on the swing. The lemonade is delicious: cold, tangy, lightly sweet. Beads of sweat roll down the glass. I put my arm around her and she snuggles close against me. “Mmmm. . . trog fleer gaber.” I can’t understand a word she says, but I know I love her. Mme Suçonie: the love of my life.

We met at University. I studied painting and philosophy; she studied Psychology. We met in a course on Feminist theory, and it was love at first sight. Within a week, we were dating, and we’ve been together ever since. I asked her to marry me, down on one knee, after a picnic in the park: wine, cheese, baguette, kiwi, apples, and peaches.

I lay my head back and look up at the tree and the sky beyond. She kisses me lightly on the neck. We begin to rock slowly, back and forth. The breeze feels wonderful on my face, and her long, brown hair drifts and swirls, lightly tickling. She smells like apples and honey.

I close my eyes and listen to the birds and the children playing. I take a long drink of lemonade. I could stay here forever, just like this. She rubs her hand across my chest and mumbles something against my neck.

We are making dinner plans. Everything she suggests sounds delicious, even though I can’t make out what she’s saying. We kiss gently, and I hear the children laughing.

I start to drift off into a blissful sleep, but am interrupted by an annoying, buzzing, droning noise. It’s far away, but close enough to be a bother. We kiss again, and I run my fingers through her hair. This is heaven.

I drift off to sleep, a glass of lemonade in one hand, my free arm wrapped around Mme Suçonie, the love of my life, the most wonderful person I’ve ever known. I am a lucky man.

The buzzing noise invades my respite, and I shake my head, trying to chase away the annoying noise.

 

I awake with a start. Where am I? The buzzing noise continues. Jesus. The fucking porter is blowing leaves around the parking lot outside my window. I look at the clock: 8:23am. Effing Christ. Wait. . .

Shit, was I just dreaming about Mme Suçonie?

I sit up in bed. Shit. I was just dreaming about Mme Suçonie. I dreamt that we were married and had two daughers. We had a small yellow house. The world was filled with love.

I bury my face in my hands. I want to cry, but the tears don’t come.

I first met Mme. Suçonie in 2003. I was studying Painting and Philosophy at the University of Illinois-On-The-Prairie. I enrolled in a course on Feminist theory, and she was in the class with me. I had just quit smoking and started exercising. I was fitter and happier than I’d been in years, and it showed. I admired her from the moment she entered the class on the first day.

During a break on day three, she bumped into me at the soda machine. I apologized and we started talking about the class. Other students were annoyed at the amount of reading that was required every night, but Mme Suçonie and I agreed that the reading requirements were not too stringent, and were actually quite interesting. The break was over and we went back to class.

A heated discussion ensued. We had just read Judith Butler on Gender an Performance, on the primacy of performance in constructions of gender. By the end, several students were screaming at me. They were vehement: gender is not a performative structure. I agreed with Butler. The professor never intervened (though she agreed with me entirely, and despite the relatively ludicrous and fallacious nature of the counter-argument: gender is innate and god-given sort of Horseshit). By the end of class, I was a wreck: on the verge of tears, I packed up my books and left. Mme Suçonie caught up with me outside the building.

She agreed with me, but had kept her mouth shut. A good catholic girl, born and raised on the Prairie, she knew all about the backwards and Victorian mindset that ruled daily life. She asked if I would like to join her for a drink.

We took my car to a nearby bar, and stayed there, drinking and chatting, for hours. She touched me lightly on the arm. At 3am, the bar closed and I drove her back to her car. She turned to me and said, “I’m not ready to say goodnight just yet.”

We drove to her place, a small cottage behind an old Arts-and-Crafts style four-square in the historic part of Prairie Town. She opened a bottle of wine, and we sat up, chatting. We watched the sun rise through the large windows in her small living room. I had class at 3pm, but had no desire to leave her, and no need for sleep. I felt wonderful. We talked of our hopes for life, where we hoped our studies would take us. We held hands.

Around 8am, we agreed that we were hungry, and went to a local diner for a long and leisurely breakfast: coffee, orange juice, eggs and toast. She wanted to stay with me, but had class at 1pm, and wanted to shower before hand. I agreed: shower was a good idea. I drove her back to her car around noon, and she leaned over and kissed me. We sat in the car for awhile, gently kissing, before she got out, and waved bye bye.

It was a couple of weeks before we made love. It was wonderful: the most magical, loving, gentle, and beautiful act of love-making I had ever experienced. Nothing was held back, everything was given. We formed a single entity, filled with love and devotion.

For the next 3 years, we were together nonstop. Unless we had class, or she was at church with her family, we were together. We cooked and ate together. We slept, bathed, brushed our teeth together. We talked of marriage, children. It was wonderful.

We went on picnics in the park. We sat on her sofa, cuddled, and watched movies. We slept together, spoon-style. We cooked for each other. We took dancing lessons. We went out sometimes and sang Karaoke at the local bars.

One night, we sang Paradise By The Dashboard Light. It was intense. Afterward, I told her that I loved her. She said that she knew, and that she’d loved me since that first day in Feminist theory class.

On another night I closed the University Gallery early, and set up a candle-lit dinner (wine, cheese, pork loin stuffed with herbs, snow peas in a peanut sauce) in front of the large windows that looked out over the University mall. We made love there on the floor, and fell asleep together. It was wonderful. My boss found us in the morning, naked, arms and legs entwined. He closed the gallery for the day, and we made love again. We were to spend the rest of our lives together.

Jesus. How did I get here. This small room, back in Texas. The porter continues to blow leaves around the parking lot. He seems intent on making sure that nary a speck of dust remains on my window sill. I don’t know why he bothers: it’s about to rain.

The sky outside is completely grey. It seems like twilight.

I get up, still feeling awful. Why do I have dreams like that? They always put a total damper on my day. Jesus.

I scratch my testicles and walk over to the coffee maker, empty the basket, new filter, fill the pot with water to just past the 6 cup mark and pour water into the coffee machine. Six cups of water equals 7 Tablespoons of coffee. I am an expert at this: the perfect pot every time.

It took me years to perfect this recipe, countless hours spent in coffee shops and diners and gas stations and donut shops sampling various blends, brews. In 1988, just after my parents divorced, I had my first cup of coffee:

• I was 9 years old. I was in the fellowship hall at the Methodist church. People were milling around, preparing for the service, munching donuts and drinking coffee. Children were running around, but I didn’t want to play with them. I stood next to the coffee and juice table. No one was watching me. I surreptitiously grabbed a Styrofoam cup, poured a bit of milk into the bottom, and added 3 packets of sugar. I inched over to the large coffee urn, and filled the cup with coffee. I began stirring the coffee with a swizzle stick as I seen the adults do. Suddenly and hand grabbed me on the shoulder and I spilled hot coffee all over my dress shirt and tie. “Children are not supposed to drink coffee! You shouldn’t be drinking coffee!” From that moment forward, I was hooked.
• I heard the first lines of Howl on a television show when I was 10, and saved up my allowance ($1 per week) until I had enough cash to buy the book. The guy at the bookstore didn’t want to sell it to me: told me Ginsberg was a fag and that little kids shouldn’t be reading stuff like that cause it might turn them queer like Ginsberg. He relented, and “I saw the best minds of my generation, starving, hysterical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. Angel-headed hipsters, etc.” [i]There was a coffee shop in town, and I would ride my bike there after school and read poetry. I made friends with Oneae, one of the girls that worked there, and she would hook me up with coffee and we’d chat about poetry. I had a crush on her, and she let me kiss her one day when the shop was empty. 10 years old, and kissing one of the cheerleaders at the local Junior High. We never really dated, but we did kiss some, and I got my first erection with my hand on her small firm breast. That coffee was pretty good, very dark, sort of spicy, and strong, bitter. Oneae taught me the joys of black coffee.
• A few years later, I was, I don’t know, 13 or 14, I guess it was my first year in High School, I made friends with a sophomore chick, Onebea: cute, blonde, thin, I had a crush on her. She had a car, and we’d go to poetry readings in town. We’d stay out late drinking coffee and chatting, and I’d have to sneak in. I told her I loved her one day, and she laughed. We stopped hanging out after that, but I still went to poetry slams and later started drinking cappuccinos and espressos.
• Two was my first true love affair. She was a sort of ancillary member of the group of kids I hung out with: the Punk Rock Clan. I thought she was really cosmopolitan and interesting and stuff. She read the New York Times and was into poetry I’d never heard of. She introduced me to Langston Hughes: “Sometimes a crumb falls/ From the tables of joy/ Sometimes a bone/ Is flung/ To some people/ Love is given/ To others/ Only heaven.”[ii] We would take thermoses of hot coffee to playgrounds and sit on swingsets, and swing, and drink coffee, and read poetry to each other. I had my first taste of alcohol thanks to Two. We sat outside my house and drank a bottle of wine. I put my arm around her and casually caressed her large firm breasts. Oneae and Onebea were small, thin, and cute; Two was thick and perky all over: thick, luscious lips; a large, firm butt with the sexiest little wiggle; giant, D-cup breasts with large, thick nipples. She let me suck on them one night. She taught me how to make my own espresso drinks, and gave me an old espresso maker. She started dating the leader of the Punk Rock Clan, and it made me sad. Many years later, we would hook up one night.[iii]

But in those early years, it was about coffee and liquor. Irish coffee. Espresso and amaretto. Coffee and chocolate liquor. Cappuccino with peppermint schnapps. On and on.

• I got my first apartment, with a few Punk Rock buddies in 1996. We had just graduated High School, me a year early. We smoke marijuana and drank cheap beer that we stole from the local grocery: I would pull up in the car, they would hop out and walk casually inside, grab 2 cases each, walk slowly to the register, then run out, jump in the car, and I’d peel ass out of there. I would’ve gotten in on the beer-running action, but by then I’d gained quite a bit of weight, and was horribly out of shape. One of the guys and I discovered the Kaddish: we memorized it and would recite it to each other. “Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. Downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph/ the rhythm the rhythm — and your memory in my head three years after — And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud — wept, realizing how we suffer —“ We started eschewing cheap beer in favor of good, super dark coffee. We tired of the mere 12-cup pot with 24 tablespoons of coffee grounds, and one night decided to run the pot through again, with 24 tablespoons of fresh grounds. That coffee made me sick to my stomach, and I couldn’t stand the smell or even sight of coffee for a couple of days.
• Mme Suçonie helped me learn about coffee, and together we developed the perfect grounds-to-water ratio. For six cups or less, one Tablespoon/cup and 1 teaspoon for the pot. For 6 to 8 cups, one Tablespoon/cup plus one for the pot. For 8-10 cups, one Tablespoon/cup plus 2 for the pot. For 8-12 cups, one Tablespoon/cup plus four for the pot. The process of developing this recipe took us several months of trial and error. It was amazing: we would wake up together, kiss, cuddle for a few minutes, get up, she’d put on her pink flannel gown, and we would make coffee. We kept careful records of grounds-to-water ratios day-to-day, and after several months we hit upon the perfect ratio. While the coffee perked, we would often shower together or make love or sit on the sofa and cuddle and stare out the window. We were so in love.

Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island

Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers

caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel

Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud

caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into the sky over the waving trees

Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol

Caw Ccaw the call of Time rent out of foot and win an instant in the universe

Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory

caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all visions of the Lord

Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord[iv]

While the coffee perks, I guess I’ll have a shave and shower. Nothing better to do. In the bathroom, I take a long look at my body. Jesus. The years have not been kind. Pasty white chest, covered in hair and stretch marks, blue veins visible through the skin. Flabby man-breasts, sagging beer gut, thick tangled mass of wiry pubic hair, shriveled peins barely peeking out through the fur. Shriveled testicles invisible. Pimples on thighs and buttocks, hair sprouting from random points on my back. Disgusting.

I squirt some shaving cream onto my palm, turn on the hot water, and smear the cream on my face. I check the water: still cold. Oh well. I rinse the razor under the water, and run the razor up the right edge of my face from the line of my chin to my sideburn. Blood begins to trickle from a cut on my chin. I rinse the razor again. The leaf-blowing porter continues his Sisyphean task. The water is slowly starting to warm. I shave the right side of my neck. I rinse the razor. I shave up my face, careful to avoid cuts on my chin. The water is steaming hot, by now. I rinse the razor: it burns my upper lip. I shave my chin twice, but cannot manage to get very close. Oh well. I repeat the process on the left side of my face: up the sideburn, rinse, up the  neck, rinse, up the rest of my face. I start to shave my chin again. The porter bangs hard against the window, and I loose control of the razor, slicing a small gash across my chin. Mother Fucker. I rinse the razor out, shake off the water and place it on the edge of the sink. A couple of pieces of toilet paper would serve as temporary bandages for the gashes on my face, but I’m about to shower, so they’ll have to wait. Ugh.

The bathroom is filthy and no amount of bleach will dull the stains on the tile: years of grime caked into the grout. I turn on the shower and wait several minutes for the water to warm to an acceptable level. I get in the shower and stand there for several minutes, hoping the water will wash away the haunting memories of that damned dream. “Darn that dream, I dream each night. You say you love me and you hug me tight. But when I awake you’re out of sight. Oh darn that dream.” I start singing. “Darn that Dream, and bless it too. Without that dream I never would have you. But it haunts me and it won’t come true. Oh Darn that Dream.” The cheap shower curtain billows up, sticking to my legs. It’s annoying as hell.

I pour a bit of cheap shampoo into my palm and massage it into my thinning scalp. This crap always dries out my hair and scalp, and makes me look all dandruffy, but it’s cheap, and it’s about all the local grocery carries. I stick my head under the water and some soap runs into my eye: it burns. The soap runs into the gash on my cheek. It burns.

I pour a bit of peppermint bath soap onto a rag and wash my body, careful to scrub under my breasts, my armpits, between my buttocks and thighs, around my testicles and shriveled penis. The peppermint oil in the soap tingles, stings a bit, but it feels sort of nice.

I rinse off, and turn off the water. I pull back the cheap shower curtain. Damnit. I forgot to get out a towel. I gingerly put one foot out of the shower and reach for the cabinet. I start to slip, but manage to regain my balance. I open the cabinet and reach for a towel. I slip. My leg slides across the floor. My shin bangs the edge of the tub hard. I feel a sharp pain as my thighs stretch painfully, and I contort my body to take some pressure off my legs. I fall hard, my forearm strikes the toilet, my head bounces off the sink, I crumple to the floor.

I lay there for a second: sharp pains in my shin and forearm, a dull ache in my forehead, a soreness in my thighs. I slowly pick myself up again, slipping and sliding, and manage to grab on to the cabinet and pull myself up. I retrieve a towel and dry my hair, face, chest, arms, pits, back, but, testicles, legs, and feet, then dry the floor and edge of the tub, and hang the towel over the shower curtain rod to dry. The perfect beginning to a perfect day.

I can smell the coffee, but it will have to wait until I get a few bandages on my razor-mangled face. I pull a single sheet from the roll and carefully tear two triangle-shaped pieces. My face is bleeding freely, now, having recovered from the shock of the shower, and I use the large leftover piece of tp to mop up a bit of blood before adhering one triangle to the gash on my chin, and the other to the slice on my cheek. I drop the blood-soaked and decaying bit of toilet paper into the toilet and admire my handiwork: like a seasoned pro. Jeez. Satisfied, I walk over to the counter a fix a cup. Finally. My stomach wobbles as I walk. I empty my favorite coffee cup, rinse it out, and add 2 tablespoons of milk and one tablespoon of cane sugar to the cup, then fill the cup with coffee and stir. I leave the steaming cup of coffee on the counter while I go and dress for the day.

I asked Mme Suçonie to marry me on May 12 2006. We had just finished a picnic in the park, the first of the season. I had spent almost all my savings on an engagement ring, and I’d been nervous for several days. She knew something was going on, but I didn’t reveal what I was thinking. She stood up to stretch, and I rose to my knees. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the small velvet box. I looked up at her. She was beautiful. The light behind her filtered through her hair, creating a halo. She’s an angel.

“Suçonie, my love?”

“Yes?” She looks down at me, smiling.

“You know I love you. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life without you as my partner. And . . . Suçonie. . . Will you marry me?”

A look of bewilderment comes across her face. “Jeffrey. . . “ she pauses. . . “I love you, and you’re a wonderful man. You may be the perfect man. But. . . I can’t marry you.”

I’m dumbfounded. “But Suçonie, the past 3 years together? Everything’s been perfect!”

“Our time together has been wonderful, Jeffrey, more than I could have imagined, everything I could’ve hoped. But you’re not Catholic, Jeffrey, and you’re, um, not athletic. . . you’re kind of fat. And I can’t imagine raising children with someone like you. They might grow up to be little fat versions of you, and I couldn’t bear that.”

She turned and walked away. Three weeks later, she moved to California with a guy from her church that she’d been seeing. How did she find the time? We were together 24/7, unless she was in church, or we were in class.

I was a wreck for months. Shit. I’m still a wreck. The thing is, when I asked her to marry me, I was the fittest I had ever been. Sure, I had a bit of a gut, but I was jogging, lifting weights, exercising every day. We exercised together. We went hiking and jogging and rode bicycles together. And she wouldn’t marry me ‘cause I was fat?

My first real girlfriend liked my gut. Amber LaFarge. Tall, thin, small perky breasts, short brown hair, big eyes, small mouth, plump lips. She would lay behind me when we spooned and rub my gut, my big, beautiful pot-belly, she called it. Jesus.

I retrieve an old pair of blue jeans, a pair of red boxer shorts with little paisley things on, my favorite black t-shirt with three martinis on the front, and an old pair of socks from the closet. I slip on the boxers and jeans. I pick up the jeans I was wearing last night, remove the belt and empty the pockets onto the bed. Phone and (empty) money clip go in the front left pocket; cigarettes, lighter, keys, and pocket knife in the right. I force the belt through the loops, missing one in the back on the left side, realize my mistake, tug the belt out and start over. This time: success. I fasten the belt and tug the t-shirt over my head. I walk into the bathroom, apply cheap deodorant to my underarms, and comb my wet hair.

I pick up my socks and walk over to the counter. The coffee has cooled sufficiently, and I carry the cup over to the desk, where I will spend most of the day. I have a small, filthy sofa that I picked up off the side of the street: someone was throwing it away, and I needed something to lounge on while I watch the tele. It’s not very comfortable, and it smells a bit, but if I sit just right, I can usually manage to make it through an episode of Heroes or maybe Law and Order.

I place my socks on the desk, pick up my shoes, and undo the laces. I sit down in the cheap, but comfortable Herman IKEA chair, wipe off the sole of my left foot and tug on a sock. There are thin spots that will become holes in a few weeks on the heel of the sock. I repeat the process with my right foot: brush off the sole, tug on the sock. I pick up my left shoe and shove my foot into it. I’ve been trying to teach myself to tie my shoes in a different way.

Since I was small, I’ve always used the ‘rabbit runs around the tree and the fox chases it into a hole’ method, but lately have wanted to switch to the ‘quick two-loop’ method. It’s hard, but I’m committed. I’ve only been working on this shoe-tying project for a couple of days, and I’m still pretty slow at it and sometimes I forget: proprioception overtakes me, and I have to untie the shoe and concentrate on the new method.

I tie my left shoe and repeat the process with the right shoe. I like this new knot: it’s far sturdier than the old method, and I feel accomplished. Nice.

With shoes on, coffee in hand, I stand up, turn on the computer and go outside for a cigarette. It’s time to start the day.

2

Where am I? How did I get here?

In 2003, I moved away from home, from everything I knew. I packed my 1992 Honda Prelude, full to the gills, with some kitchen stuff, some clothes, my records, a few books, some painting supplies, etc. and drove to the Prairie. It was all spur-of-the-moment. I had gone to visit an old friend, who had recently landed a job at the University of Illinois on the Prairie. He was the head of the Art Department. I had a great time with him and his family, and then had to return to TX, to a dark, dank, drug-filled and debauched apartment in Mid-Cities TX. I called my mother to kvetch. “Why don’t you move up there and go back to school?” I was 23.

Seven days later, I was in the car, driving to the Prairie. The Honda made it, just barely, and it would never again breach 50mph without shuddering, coughing, wheezing, and moaning. I rented the second floor of a house in the old part of town. From my kitchen and bedroom windows, I could see downtown: the lights, the Capitol building, the Hilton Hotel that looks like a giant prick, rising from the plains.

I went back to school. I met Mme. Suçonie. Two days after she rejected my marriage proposal, I received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Painting and Philosophy. I studied hermeneutics, aesthetics, and metaphysics. I took courses in printmaking and graphic design. I worked for the art department as a studio assistant, gallery assistant, art handler, and general gopher. I founded a student group and an art gallery. I was very active and involved. My activities at the University of Illinois on the Prairie, coupled with my 3.97 GPA, honors, magna cum laude, got me into one of the top Art History progrms in the country: The State University of New York, North Shore, Long Island.

In June 2006, still reeling from the Suçonie incident, I packed what I could into a 1998 Subaru Forester (kitchen stuff, guitars, painting supplies, books, records, a computer, clothes, recording equipment), and drove to Long Island.

I found a garage apartment about 20 minutes from campus and got everything set up. I travelled to Texas to visit Mominem. I got in touch with Two, and we had some fun (See note 2). I though we were going to make something happen, and made plans for her to come visit me on Long Island. I bought a plane ticket for her. I set up my apartment all nice: candles, wine, fluffy pillows and comforter on the bed, nice sheets, soft towels, special foods, etc. Two days before she was set to arrive, she called and said she had a boyfriend and that we couldn’t do the things we had done earlier in the summer. I cancelled her flight: out $687.58. It was probably a good thing: I was (and am) way too damaged by the Suçonie incident to even consider a serious relationship. Anyways.

So I went to graduate school. I published a paper on Nazi Aesthetics and its relationship to Postmodern theory. I studied performance, the body, consciousness, cross-cultural music theory. I became interested in graffiti and street art. I was excited.

Living on Long Island, 35 minutes from NYC by train. The art market was hopping: every week a new gallery opened; new magazines started up; performances in the street; community action groups protesting the Shrub and His Criminals with massive papier-machet caricatures. Every week auction and sales records were being set. $9,000,000 for a painting by Banksy at an auction benefiting Product(Red). It was a magical time.

At school, I worked for the student paper, writing art reviews and editorials, and serving on the editorial board. I met Six: a PhD candidate in Postmodern American Fiction. Blonde, of Polish descent, thin, flirty. We made out a few times, and went to dinner and on picnics and dancing. One day, my arm around her, sitting in a dark movie theater, I had an epiphany. I never saw her again.

Then, suddenly, it was over. I completed a Master’s Degree in Art History and Cultural Studies. The housing market imploded. The multinational banks collapsed. The stock, art, and local health food markets dried up. Galleries closed. Performances ceased. Magazines disappeared. By the time my diploma arrived in the mail, Long Island had a 10% unemployment rate, 30% foreclosure rate, and 45% credit default rate.

In the following year, I ran through the bulk of my savings. I sent out thousands of resumes, carefully crafted, highlighting my extensive curatorial, research, writing, editing, and art handling experience. No joy. I applied to community service positions by the hundreds; to beer store stock boy jobs; to nonprofits of all sorts; to government positions; to private companies. No joy. By June 2009, the party was over, and I was headed back to Texas: a triumphant return? No. A walk of shame? Indeed.

 

So here I am. Back in a dark and dank (but not drug-filled or debauched) apartment, this time in Dallas. Life has taken a decidedly different and unfortunate direction. Every day brings the same sequence of events:

Wake up. Make coffee. Shave. Shower. Drink coffee. Look at job-posting websites and send out resumes. Eat corn flakes. Look at job-posting websites again. Nap and/or masturbate. Ponder suicide. Drink expensive beer to remind myself of better times and chase away suicidal thoughts and dull the depression. Eat ramen noodles, or, when I’m feeling flush, maybe some eggs and toast, or eggy toast, or even a chicken thigh or two, maybe some fresh vegetables, fruit, healthy stuff. Play old video games. Watch the tele. Sleep. Wake up and do it all again, exactly the same way, no deviation, over and over and over and over and over again.

I still think about Mme. Suçonie every day, whether I dream about her or not. Sometimes I have happy thoughts, sometimes I feel sad or angry. She ended up marrying the good Catholic boy. He joined the Army. She got a job teaching Elementary school. They have a baby on the way (or perhaps kicking and babbling in a crib or bassinette somewhere). Congratulations. I can’t get over the feeling that it should be my baby on the way (or sleeping in a bassinette somewhere). I miss her. I miss the companionship, the feeling that I have someone to share life with, to experience new things with, to work toward a better life with. But I’m back in Texas and she’s married, pregnant, and living back on the Prairie.

Every month my savings dwindle and my debts mount. After 18 months with no job, will anyone hire me? I sometimes feel like I should’ve stayed in Texas all those years ago: I could’ve kept delivering pizzas and I would be a manager by now; I could’ve avoided the Suçonie incident, the Six affair, and the accursed Epiphany; I could still be smoking marijuana and drinking cheap beer every night. Instead, jobless, $2,312 in the bank, $63,835 in student loan debt, $4,897 in credit card debt, retirement account down from $78,900 or so to just over $22,000. Single. Unemployed. No obligations. I’m left only with a vague and murky and nebulous hope for some sort of happier future.

I’m outside having a cigarette, thinking about what could have been, but isn’t. The sky is completely grey, threatening rain. I stub out the cigarette, take the butt inside and drop it into the garbage can. I sit down at the desk and take a long drink of coffee. It’s job-hunting time. Hooray.

Today’s job offerings: Customer Service Representative; Bilingual Customer Service Representative, B.S. in Electrical Engineering required; Office Services Clerk, 23 years experience required; TEST JOB – DO NOT APPLY; Account Director – Public Relations; Account Executive/Senior Account Executive; Sales Manager; Litigation Secretary; RN Case manager; Construction Auditor/Bookeeper; Sales Engineer – Turbine Parts; Audit/accountant D.O.E.; In-Store Sales Associate, 5 years sales experience required; Financial Analyst; Accounting Financial Analyst; Sales Representative/Account Executive; Bankrupty (sic) attorney; Top Notch Personal Injury Secretary; Director of Accounting; Personal Assistant, 10 years + experience required. There are over 500 more, as usual for a Thursday morning. The usual suspects: no entry-level stuff, and nothing for a Historian of Street Art, Graffiti, and Social Action.

I finish the cup of coffee, stand up, and walk to the refrigerator. Four tablespoons of skim milk, three teaspoons of sugar, top with coffee and stir. It’s going to be a long morning. I take a sip of coffee: too hot. Time for another cigarette.

Outside, I find Écœurant, who, it seems, also believes it to be cigarette time. Écœurant, like his roommates Mauvais and Négligé, is covered in random and amateurish tattoos. He works at a go-cart track a couple of miles away, and can usually be found slurping from a can of cheap beer (usually Tecate or Natural Light: yuck) and smoking cigarettes. He’s a pretty nice guy.

Écœurant: What’s up Jeff?

Me: Morning, E-Core. Nice day, huh.

É: Shit.

We stand and smoke for a moment.

É: Shit. Gotta go work at the go-cart track later. It’s going to be dead. Fuck.

Me: Uh huh. All rainy and shit: who wants to ride go-carts in the rain? Not me, but I rarely want to go go-cart riding much anyways, you know?

É: Shit. I work there and I don’t want to go-cart much.

Écœurant drops his cigarette, stamps it out with his foot, and goes into his apartment without saying a word. Pungent marijuana smoke stench escapes his apartment and makes my stomach churn. The door closes. “Sorry for wasting so much of your time, E-Core.”

The guys in that apartment are cool enough, but I can’t get over the feeling that they don’t have much respect for me. Oh well. At least there are a few people around to chat with every now and again, even if they don’t really want anything to do with me.

The other neighbors are alright too, I guess. There are six apartments that line the little courtyard—two one-bedroom units on the north and south sides, and one two-bedroom on the east and west—with another dozen or so scattered around, forming little hallways that lead to parking lots, the garbage dumpster, the laundry facilities, and out to the street. The courtyard has four trees in big concrete planters that once had gorgeous flowerbeds (I’m sure), but these days serve as ashtrays and trash cans. There’s a little fountain in the middle that pisses water all day: it’s fairly well-designed and the two little streams of water barely make a ripple as they enter the pool below, but when I stand outside and smoke, or hang out with the neighbors and drink beer, I usually have to piss after about 2 minutes. It’s really annoying.

I’ve only met a few of my neighbors, and only the ones that live around the little courtyard:

• Apartment 101: Lentement and Mollement. A couple of brothers who smoke and sell marijuana. Lentement pretty much stays in the apartment all day, and I’m pretty sure he slings weed out of there, as there’s a constant stream of dirty-looking hipsters and lowlifes that parade in and out, but I can’t be sure, and really don’t care either way. Mollement works downtown at a comic book shop, and I hear that he’ll sell a bit of weed if you walk in and ask for “the new Chuck Norris comic” (for a $20 sack) or “last month’s Chuck Norris” ($40 sack). I don’t know, though, since I rarely smoke that stuff any more: it just makes me paranoid and incommunicative. Lentement is convinced that I’m an undercover cop, for some unknown reason, and I try to joke with the other neighbors about this. Nobody thinks it’s very funny. Oh well. The brothers have virtually identical tattoos covering their arms and torsos, but arranged as mirror images: a scary clown with blood-covered fangs and lizard eyes; the girl from the St. Pauli Girl beer label; a couple of saucy anime chicks flashing their panties; little axes that drool blood which forms a little pool on their elbows; some Chinese letters that probably mean something like “loves lentil pancake” but that they claim means “pussy-pleasing donkey dick” or somesuch; etc.
• Apartment 102: Écœurant, Mauvais and Négligé. As mentioned (above), Écœurant works down at the go-cart track. All three of these guys tend to hang out around the courtyard from about noon, when they wake up, until 4 or 5 in the morning, unless they’re working. E-Core and Mauvais drink fairly heavily: É has his cheapies, and Mauvais (or Mower, or Mow) goes more for the Sam Adams and Guiness varieties. Mower also works at the go-cart track, and fancies himself the founder of extreme go-carting. I’ve seen video of Mower taking a go-cart up on two wheels, doing rail-slides, jumping the go-cart down flights of stairs, and other inanities. He hopes to one day add go-carting to the list of X-Games, and would like to develop a Vert style of go-carting. Négligé doesn’t drink very often and rolls his own cigarettes. He’s been unemployed almost as long as I have, and spends his unemployment checks on weed from Mollement and Lentement. Écœurant, Mauvais and Négligé are also rather heavily tattooed, but each has pretty much his own style (though most of their tattoos are somewhat hastily done and look pretty amateurish). Écœurant has a full back piece of super-heroines from the Marvel franchise in various states of undress and apparently in the middle of a lesbian orgy; his arms are a mish-mash of scary clowns, go-carts, and tribal-esque markings. Mauvais has a bunch of weed-related designs on his arms and legs: pot leaves, joints, bongs, and sayings from hip-hop (“Smoke Weed Everyday,” “I Gets High,” “Where da weed at?” etc.). Négligé is probably the most heavily tattooed of the lot: Chinese characters on the palms of his hands and pads of his fingers; some sort of slime monster on his forarm that is munching on a ruffled-panty-showing school girl (her legs and pantied butt are sticking out of the monster’s mouth, and for some reason she’s wearing high-heeled Mary Janes), and the monster apparently has a bit of a drool problem, as a pool of slime covers most of the forearm and drips down Négligé’s wrist; a variety of WuTang Clan emblems and martial arts figures; a couple of old Chevrolet step-side pick-ups with a  Chevy emblem and the words “Big Tits, Pink Pussy, and a ’54 Chevy;” and on the inside of his lower lip—which he constantly turns out and shows everyone—a pair of red wings.
• Apartment 103: a gay couple, one blonde and chubby, the other balding and chubby. They seem pretty friendly, but I’ve rarely had occasion to speak with them: they apparently don’t drink (at least not outside), or smoke, and they both work pretty crazy hours at some investment firm or bank or something downtown.  Their apartment shares a wall with mine and I sometimes hear them singing along with Lady Gaga or Cher or whoever. The worst is when I’m laying in bed after a long day of drinking and I hear them start fucking. Their bed is just on the other side of the wall from mine, and they must have some big honking metal frame bed, ‘cause it squeaks and bangs against the wall and makes clanging noises that almost cover their lovemaking noises. The sounds of two chubby guys fucking is simultaneously nauseating and depressing.[v] Anyways.
• Apartment 104: Me.
• Apartment 105: The Rails: Mme. Hautain and Mme. Maligne, a couple of sluts. Mme. Hautain dated Écœurant and Négligé, and slept with (I hear) Lentement, Mollement (possibly at the same time: conflicting reports), Mauvais, and Aloysius (one of the neighbors I’ve never met). Mme. Hautain smokes weed like a friggen chimney and she usually drinks about a pint of cheap whiskey every night: how she manages to wake up and go to work in Dental Hygiene everyday, I’ll never know. Mme. Maligne dated Lentement and Négligé and slept with Mollement, Écœurant, Mauvais and Aloysius; she smokes long skinny cigarettes and sips wine; she works at a Yoga studio down the block, and gives massages at a spa somewhere. Both of them pop pills like candy, and they’d be a lot better looking if their faces weren’t all pock-marked and pimpley from the pills. Mme. Hautain dyes her hair blond, has big, cute brown eyes, and would be sort of attractive, except for the makeup that she applies with a masonry trowel and those massive fake breasts that jut out of her chest. Anyways, I’m an ass man, and Mme. Hautain has a little flat pancake butt. She’s always running around without a bra on, and I think she must’ve had her nipples enlarged, because they’re constantly rock hard and poking out of the tiny wife-beaters she wears when she hangs around after work. Mme. Maligne is really pretty cute: long, curly brown hair; big green eyes; a small, pouty little mouth; pointy little breasts; long, tapered legs that go all the way up to one of the roundest and tightest butts I’ve ever seen. She’s really fit, and is constantly wiggling around in little short shorts that show off every inch of her long, tapered, and well-toned legs, and that don’t quite cover her sexy round bubble of a butt. I’d probably try to get into her little pink panties one day, but I don’t really want to stick my dick into anything that’s already met the guys in 101 and 102, and, anyway, since that epiphany in grad school, I haven’t even had the slightest desire to even kiss another human, much less get all sweaty and sticky with one.[vi]
• Apartment 106: the Family Snuffleupagus: Aloyisus, Alice, and their young daughter Rosalyn. The Rails are always telling stories about how wild the Snuffleupagusses get, but I’ve never seen or heard them. Apparently, the Snuffleupaguses (minus Alice, I guess) like to film themselves having sex in all sorts of interesting positions and utilizing various appliances, and then post the vids to an amateur porn site on the interwebs. The rails tell stories about the various things they’ve seen on the site, and I overheard Mme. Hautain telling Négligé about the time she and Mme. Maligne got high on pills and weed and let Aloyisus film them doing something that involved a large vibrating egg, a swing, whipped cream, a variety of cat-tail whips, some furry hand cuffs, a cock ring, and a few other things that I didn’t hear. I didn’t catch all the details, but it sounded a bit too strange for my taste, and gave me yet another reason to avoid the Rails like the plague, or at least to the degree that I avoid shopping at Wal-Mart.

I take a last drag on my cigarette and shake off the burning embers with a couple of flicks of my finger. The cherry flies up in an impossible arc, arching over my shoulder and landing somewhere behind me. I often trace the curves and arcs of cigarette embers that I flick off before tossing the butts in the garbage. I think about the various forces involved: the tensile strength of the cigarette butt, paper and tobacco; the stickieness of the burning embers and their adherence to the paper and tobacco; the angle of thrust applied by my flicking finger; the tension on the butt-end applied by thumb, middle and ring fingers. I wonder about the laws of thermodynamics and if they have any relevance: something about ‘equal and opposite reactions’ and “conservation of angular momentum” or somesuch. I don’t really know. After all, I’m an art historian for Christ sake. But it’s fun to think about anyway.

I read a book recently about Fractal Geometry. It was pretty cool. I didn’t really get any of the equations, but the graphs and stuff made sense, and the pictures had a nice sort of symmetry that appealed to my sense of aesthetics. Maybe the flight of the cherry operates like a fractal? Jeez. That would be even rougher than the Cartesian or Euclidean or Newtonian or whatever that conservation of whatever shit is. Anyways.

I take the butt inside and drop it in the garbage. Sure, the butts make the garbage stink even worse than random food scraps, chicken bones, decaying chicken packaging, coffee grounds, egg shells, and other stuff, but it’s better than leaving them on the ground, or stamping them out in the flower beds. Sometimes when I’m feeling self-righteous, I’ll take my garbage can out and pick up all the junk in the flower beds.

I feel a sudden warmth and a slight burning sensation on my left shoulder blade. Shit. The cigarette cherry landed on my shirt and burned a hole through without me even noticing: too caught up in thinking about fucking geometry and falling bodies and all. Damn it. I do a little dance around the room in an attempt to shake off the burning embers. No go. They’ve stuck fast to my skin and shirt. I stretch my hands back, twisting my arms all up and hyperextending my right shoulder. Jesus. But I manage to brush the embers off my back and I quickly pick them up from the floor and throw them into the sink. By now, they’ve burned out.

I go to the bathroom in search of burn ointment or Neosporin or something. No luck. I do notice, though, that I still have two bits of blood-soaked-but-dry toilet paper stuck to my face. Fuck. All that time outside smoking, and thinking of fractal geometry and remembering bullshit and the whole time with toilet paper stuck to my face. What an asshole. I peel the tp off my face and drop the stiff little bits of pseudo-bandage into the toilet, where they mingle with their now largely-decayed progenitor. I rummage around in the cabinet a bit and find that I do have a couple of medicated towelettes that Momma ganked from a clinic or hospital and sent to me, like, 4 years ago. Better than nothing, I guess. I gingerly remove my t-shirt. Despite my best efforts, it grazes the recent burn. I let out an animal-sounding yelp. I grab one of the towelettes, rip open the package, remove the wet little towel, unfold it, and attempt to wipe the burn on my back with it. No go. I look around for something to make my hand longer. The toothbrush. I wrap the towelette around the toothbrush handle, turn, twist my head around to look at the small circular burn on my back, reach up over my head, angle the toothbrush just right (which is pretty hard to do in the mirror, you know), and manage to swipe the burn a couple of times. The antiseptic stings a bit, but that means it’s working, I guess. Let’s see how many more times I hurt myself today. Fuck.

I peel the medicated towelette off the end of the toothbrush, toss the towelette at the garbage can (it misses by several inches and lands on the edge of the bathtub, where it rests for a moment before sliding off onto the floor behind the toilette). I place the toothbrush upright in my cracked Dallas Police Department Booster mug, retrieve the towelette (with no small difficulty) from behind the commode, and pick up my favorite black t-shirt, now featuring a nickel-sized hole in the back. Oh well. I put on my t-shirt and head over to the desk.

What to do, what to do. I already checked out today’s wondrous list of jobs: no point in revisiting that quagmire again. I could read the Times, but I don’t really care much about what’s going on in the NYC art world any more. They turned their back on me; I returned the favor. (As if my not paying attention to the NY Art scene will have any effect whatsoever on that world: nothing even remotely close to the effect the scene’s own back-turning had on me, that’s for sure.) Eff. I hate days like this. And every day’s pretty much just like this. I could watch some crappy crime drama on the interwebs, or maybe a Frontline or something, but then I’d feel like I was really wasting time. Fuck. What to do. What to do.

I surf over to the Macintosh Rumors website to see what’s up with the conspiracy nuts and technophiles in the mac world: Apple to Manufacture Verizon-Compatible iPhone in Q3 2010? (Who gives a shit?); RadioShack to Sell iPhone (ditto); Apple Retail Stores Roll Out ‘Reserve and Pick Up’ Purchasing for Holiday Season (Corporate profit-taking scheme #4899326h-23885: motherfuckers. Who’s got $$ for buying computers and iPods and iPhones and whatnot? Not me, that’s for sure. And not anyone I know either. Jesus.); Apple Preps Broadway Store for Opening (this is what the Rumor mill has to offer?); Updated iTunes LPs for Apple TV 3.0 Now Available (Ok. These iTunes LP thingies are pretty cool, I guess. I downloaded a third-party one for the Fantasia soundtrack, and it was pretty groovy: nothing like holding an LP in your hand and flipping through the liner notes, that’s for sure, but still kinda cool.); MacHeist nanoBundle Offers 6 Mac Apps For . . . Free (Free? Now that’s interesting. What’s on offer? ShoveBox – easily capture important bits of information (meh); WriteRoom – a distraction free writing environment (hummm. . . might be useful, if I ever wrote anything any more, but then again, I wrote a ~200 page Master’s Thesis with the TV on, stereo playing, and constant trips to smoke, so maybe not); Twitterific – popular Twitter client (Twitter sucks, for sure. My fucking dad Twitters the most inane things, the jerkoff: “just got back from playing guitars with Wild Bill,” for example, or “At work *yawn* boring. Soon off to play guitars with WildBill.” What a joke.); TinyGrab – quickly share screenshots (could be usefull, maybe, sometimes, on occasion. . . oh who am I kidding); Hordes of Orcs – tower defense game (yawn); Mariner Write* – fast, streamlined word processor (might be useful, but I already have three or four other word processors, and one that I like very much, so: meh), requires 500,000 total bundle participants to be “unlocked.” Just as I suspected: nothing that I really need or want. But I’ve nothing better to do.)

I click through to the MacHeist website. I participated in last year’s Holiday Bundle: got a virus scanner that found a couple of Windows viruses hiding in a couple of files I got from friends at school. No real threat to me, but it was good to have them gone. I also got some really great diagnostic tools that I’ve used to keep this lemon of a computer up and running. I enter my user name and password (thankfully, I use the same username and password for almost everything online these days, so it’s easy to remember) and start downloading and installing programs that I’ll likely never use. Jeez. Something to do, anyways.

I click the ‘dowload all’ button. After a minute or so, a progress bar appears, and after another minute the progress bar displays “6 minutes 31 seconds remaining.” Well, ok. Time for another cup of coffee and a cigarette.

I pick up the coffee cup, lift it to my lips, lean my head back, and chug the remaining half-cup. I stand up and take the 4 steps to the refrigerator. I grab the milk and pour about 2 tablespoons, maybe 3, into the cup. I add sugar-in-the-raw. I top with coffee and stir. I pick up the hot coffee cup and take 5 steps in a little arc that passes the desk and sofa, to the door.

Outside, I set the coffee on the edge of one of the planter/ashtrays, reach into my right-hand jeans pocket, and fish out cigarettes and lighter. I flip open the lid and retrieve a cigarette with my lips. The pack returns to my pocket, I flick the lighter three times, shake it, and flick it again before it finally lights: almost time for a new lighter, methinks. I light the cigarette and take a long drag before dropping the lighter back into the pocket.

It’s still very cloudy, and my right knee begins to throb a bit, signaling impending rain, probably heavy, and likely lengthy, featuring some lightning and thunder. I take a drag on the cigarette.

The fountain is pissing its brains out, as usual, endlessly, but without creating even the slightest ripple in the pool below. I feel the need to urinate. I take a drag on the cigarette.

A squirrel darts across the courtyard, leaps onto a planter, looks at me, picks up a decaying cigarette butt, and begins eating it. I feel nauseous. I take a drag on the cigarette.

I can smell marijuana coming from several of the apartments around. Yuck. The squirrel continues its disgusting repast. A dog barks in one of the ancillary apartment barks at nothing. The fountain pisses. I take a drag on the cigarette.

Mauvais: ‘Sup, Jeff.

Mauvais enters the courtyard from the direction of the garbage dumpsters. He is holding a joint, or maybe a hand-rolled cigarette.

Me: Hey Mower. How’s it going today?

Mauvais: Meh. Another day.

Mauvais takes a drag on is joy-garette as he walks towards me. I take a drag on my cigarette. I exhale. Mauvais exhales as he passes me: it’s probably a hand-rolled cigarette, otherwise he’d be holding that shit in longer, and it smells like cheap tobacco.

Me: I hear you. I wish the fucking sun would come out. I’m tired of this cloudy, rainy bullshit.

Mauvais: Yep.

He tosses his cigarette into one of the planters and disappears into his apartment, displacing a large volume of marijuana smoke, which wafts out into the courtyard. Yuck.

Me: Sorry to take up so much of your time, Mower.

Between the squirrel and the cigarette but and the effing marijuana stench, I’m feeling fairly sick to my stomach. Plus I kinda need to take a shit. Every day: beginning of my second cup of coffee, partway through my second cigarette, I have to shit. At least I’m regular. I flick the cherry off the end of my cigarette and watch as it arcs up and away, heading slightly off to the left. It lands near the fountain: angular momentum and conservation of mass or whatever, you know.

I take the cigarette but inside, drop it into the trash, and head for the bathroom. Eleven steps from front door to bathroom door, one step inside, close the door, turn, loosen belt, tug off jeans and boxers in one fell swoop and sit down on the toilet. I wonder how much of Prufrock I can recite in the time it takes to shit? I wonder if I can remember enough to get through one shit? Let’s see:

Let us go, then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go through certain half deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells. Streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question. Oh do not ask “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

I urinate and the bowel-movement begins.

In the room the women come and go, Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

I reach over and pull off a long strip of toilet paper. I carefully fold it into a palm-sized square.

And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street, rubbing its back upon the window-panes; there will be time, there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

I reach between my legs, wipe, and drop the toilet paper wad into the bowl. I reach over and grab another swath of tp and repeat the folding process.

There will be time to murder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate. Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

I wipe again, drop the tp, and check my butt cheeks, crack, and asshole for remaining particles of shit. Good. All clean, and I didn’t even make it to my favorite part of the Prufrock!

I stand up, turn slightly, depress the toilet lever, bend down, pull up my jeans/boxers combo, re-fasten the belt, tug my t-shirt out of the belted jeans, jiggle the handle to make sure that it’s not stuck (it has a tendency to stick, and will run for hours if I don’t check it), contort my body uncomfortably, open the bathroom door, and take the five steps past my bed to the desk.

As I walk, I shout out my favorite line:

I grow old. . . I grow old. . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I SHALL WEAR WHITE FLANNEL TROUSERS, AND WALK UPON THE BEACH! I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.[vii]

Yep. I’ve still got it.

One day back in Feminist theory class, I think it was a couple of days after our first date, I sat outside with Mme. Suçonie and recited the entirety of the Prufrock to her. When I finished, she clapped her little hands, with their neatly manicured, but unpolished, nails, gave me a big hug, and kissed me for the first time. It was magic.

After class that day, we went out for dinner and drinks. We were still in the bar, sitting close together, talking and staring at each other, when the bar closed. She invited me to take her home, even though her car was at school.

I drove her home, and as we drove she took my hand and began caressing it. She kissed it and nibbled on my fingers.

At her place, we went inside. I opened a bottle of wine and we cuddled on the couch until the sun came up. She asked me to stay with her while she slept. We stripped down to our underwear, and she took off her bra. She had the tiniest little breasts and the cutest little nipples. I kissed them briefly, and we spooned for a bit. We slept together that way for several hours.

When I awoke, she was snoring softly in my arms. I felt wonderful. I laid as still as possible and felt her ribcage expanding and contracting as she slept. I got an erection. She whimpered a bit in her sleep and wiggled her little dancer’s butt against me.

She awoke, turned to me and kissed me. I told her I loved her. She snuggled tight against me and said she loved me too. She wrapped her legs around me. We laid like that for awhile, me sporting a massive erection, and her with her legs wrapped tightly around me, occasionally rubbing her butt against my penis, which by now was poking out of the front of my boxers. I could feel her vagina, hot and damp against my belly.

She kissed my neck. I kissed her forehead. She bit my chin. I nibbled on her ears. I could feel her nipples, like little rocks against my chest. Her panties were wet, and I could smell her arousal.

We wouldn’t make love for several more weeks, but that night together was the most erotic and intimate experience I have ever had. It was magic. I never wanted it to end, and I still wish I could go back there. What happened? Where am I? How did I get here?

Jesus. I need to stop thinking about Suçonie. Every day it’s the same old fucking thing: I get a bit restless or lazy or whatever and *boom!* I start thinking about Suçonie. What utter bullshit. It’s been 5 years for Christ Sake!

So I sit back down at the desk and surf the interwebs for a bit. New York Times Arts page has a bunch of stuff about theater, a couple of book reviews, and a couple of music reviews: no visual art stuff, and nothing in my field. I surf back to the Mac Rumors page: nothing new. I surf over to the community forum thing for Diablo II: now here’s something to keep me busy for a bit.

I started playing D2 about 6 months after it came out, back in 2000. A buddy had moved in across the way, and he was a huge fan. I’d go over there and smoke weed and watch him play.

When the Lord of Destruction expansion came out, I started playing as well. We both played the paladin character. Well, he played the pally, and I pretty much just copied what he did. We’d take turns playing for a few hours, then we’d pack a bowl and crack a beer and switch. We went on like that for months.

One of the first things I did when I moved to Illinois was to buy the game. I installed in on an old iMac that just barely made the specs and played for a month or so before school started, but then school started, and I met Suçonie, and I didn’t have time to play for a bunch of years.

After grad school was over, I didn’t have much to do (except hunt for jobs and sit on my ass), so I started playing again and found this community. They hold tournaments and talk about problems and trade and they’ve developed various mods and side programs that count runs and help single-players horde items. Everyone is fairly adult, unlike the communities that focus on multi-player versions of the game, and the forum is well moderated.

I tend to visit a couple of times throughout the day: usually once in the morning (after job-hunting, and to help me keep from getting bored[viii]) and once after I’ve had a few beers. There’s a virtual bar sub-forum where some of the people spam about their lives, and talk shit. It’s a good times.

Mortus has started up a new tournament: Germophobic Heroes. No restrictions to skills or equipment, but if the character gets touched or touches anyone or anything, they’re out. Too tough for me, I rarely make it through the Normal difficulty, and most of the other guys have finished the game dozens or hundreds of times in Softcore and Hardcore modes.[ix] But they’ve accepted me into the group, sort of, or as much as anyone can be a part of a group of people who have never met and live thousands of miles apart.

A couple of new people have joined up and posted their customary Introduction threads. I sometimes greet them, but usually let the seasoned pros do the job. There’s a whole bunch of traditional things they do to newbs on the forum: they kick shins or crotches, they steal wallets, they cuff upside the head, etc. and I don’t feel that I’m enough of a participant to really take part in much of that.

TigerSpit77 is asking something about some item that I’ve never seen and its usability on a Hydra Sorceress.[x]

DayTrader has returned. He’s a seasoned fellow that once completed a Hardcore TetraDecaSept[xi] and has crazy amounts of credibility in the forum. One other guy completed a PentaSept, but no one has ever matched DayTrader’s amazing feat. Now you might think that completing the game 14 times with each of the seven characters would make a sane person quit, and DayTrader did, for awhile. But now he’s back, apparently to hone his skills in preparation for the impending release of Diablo III, which may not appear for 2 or 3 more years.

Someone (apparently a new guy) is offering 10 Perfect Gems for some item I’ve never heard of. There’s a separate forum for that, jackass. Oh well. The moderaters will fix it up sooner or later (and probably ban the guy, since you have to be active in the forum for 3 months before you can start trading: everyone’s fairly honest in this forum, and everyone wants to insure that their closets full of virtual booty remains clean and free of the hacks that populate multi-player versions of the game).

In the daily thread, a couple of guys are discussing a month-long video game tournament on the Speed Demon forum: interesting, I guess, but I’ve never heard of most of the games of which they speak, and never owned most of the systems on which the games are played, but these guys are pretty into it.

The daily thread is a place to talk about what’s going on in Real Life (RL) and what your plans are for Diablo for the day. I chime in (sort of off-topic, since the thread so far is about speed runs on the Super Nintendo or somesuch) with “RL: another day in paradise. Woo. Woke up, coffee, shower/shave, cut my face, fell and banged my head, job-hunted, and now forum-surfing. Upcoming: food (times two), some hulu or whatever, a nap, maybe some beer (well, probably some beer, but I need to make a beer run first and I don’t know where a beer store is around here), and . . . D2: maybe take my Tiger Striker[xii] out for a bit, try to get her to A2, or maybe not. Depends on how I feel.”

Ok. Enough foruming for a bit. I guess it’s time for some cereal.

I go to the cabinet and fetch an old, cracked bowl (my favorite and, incidentally, only bowl of any sort) and set it on the counter. I open the pantry and remove the massive box of store brand Corn Flakes. I open the Corn Flake box and unwrap the balled up wad of plastic bag inside. I pour about one-and-a-half cups of Corn Flakes into the bowl, spilling a few on the counter (Waste Not, Want Not, Cock Sucker!). I fold up the plastic bag, shove it down in the box, close the lid, and put the box back in the pantry. I open the refrigerator and remove the milk. I remove the lid of the milk jug, pour about a cup of milk over the cereal, and replace the lid, making sure to get a good seal. I place the milk back in the refrigerator. I look down and spot an old banana that I had forgotten about: probably still good. I retrieve the banana and close the refrigerator. I fetch a spoon from the drawer next to the sink, peel the banana, scoop out the bruised parts, and drop them and the peel into the garbage. I then use the spoon to slice the over-ripe and slightly brown banana into bite-sized chunks and drop them into the cereal. I put the spoon in the bowl and wash my hands. I dry my hands, pick up the bowl, walk over to the desk, set down the bowl, sit down and begin to eat.

It’s a good thing that I enjoy Corn Flakes, since that and Ramen are about the only foods I can afford these days. Sometimes I splurge for bananas, but usually not, since I usually forget about them and they rot in the fridge. I’m thankful that I found this one in time. It’s pretty mushy, but not yet rotted. Another day or two, and I’d have to throw it out.

I stir the cereal a bit with the spoon, before scooping up a big mouthful of flakes, with a large-ish piece of banana in the middle. Yum. I stick it in my mouth and begin to chew: crunchy flakes, mushy banana, slightly sweet, a bit of corn flavor that contrasts nicely with the banana. Yum. This is tasty.

Without looking, and while shoveling another another mouthful of cereal into my yawning maw, I reach for my coffee. It’s not in its usual spot, and I feel around for a second as I use the spoon to scoop up a bit of milk that has dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I slurp the bit of milk off the spoon, swallow the mouthful of cereal, drop the spoon into the bowl, and take a look around. Where the fuck is my coffee? Jesus.

It’s not on the desk, where it should be.

I look over at the kitchen counter. It’s not there.

I stand up and walk to the bathroom. No luck. Damnit. I hate it when I leave my coffee lying about someplace. Motherfucker.

I turn back to the desk and check again. Nope.

Ok. Where did I last have the coffee? Fuck.

I gaze out the window, silently praying that the universe will allow my coffee to rematerialize.

Then I spot it, sitting outside on the fucking planter right where I left it. Dumbass.

I go outside and fetch the coffee. Great. 45 seconds lost. Now my cereal is going to be even mushier than normal. Oh well.

I take a sip of coffee and go back inside. I sit down at the desk, take another sip of coffee, set the cup down in its appointed spot, and resume munching cereal.

After a couple of more bites, I decide that I really need something to occupy my mind while I chew. Ugh. Maybe some music? No. Too much effort to open up iTunes and pick something out: I have about 7 months worth of music, all types, almost all styles. I have thousands of hours of orchestral, jazz, ambient, and rock/pop/alt stuff, plus a bunch of hip-hop, turntablism, dance music, show tunes, opera, and pretty much anything else you can imagine. A few oddities from my collection: A Creole version of Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime,” with accordions and whatnot; a record called Banjaxed by this guy Zack something, that pretty much drives listeners insane with its ludicrous and mind-erasing repetitiveness; the entire discographia of Os Mutantes, a latin-American pop band from the 1960s, including the fabulously silly love ballad “Meu Refrigirator Neu Functiona;” over 100 versions of “Sunny,” the fairly awful disco/lounge song, including 7 in French, 4 in German, a dozen or so in Spanish/Portuguese/Latin-American, and a spirited pop version in Japanese; I could go on.

I take another bite of cereal and surf back to the Times. I look again at the various offerings, and notice, near the bottom, “Donning Anew the Miniskirt of a Predator,” by Dave Itzkoff, about Heather Locklear’s return to Melrose Place. There’s a small picture of Heather in a low-cut black jacket, and I feel a slight stir in my jeans. This looks good.

A couple of mouse-clicks and a mouthful of cereal later, I’m looking at a slideshow of Heather’s television career. Damn. What a facie little slut she was and is. Yummy: almost as yummy as this cereal.

A bite of cereal and a click, and there she is on the new Melrose Place, sitting behind a desk in what appears to be a black mini-dress, rather low-cut, squishing her breasts together and looking coy.

A click and a bite of cereal: she’s pictured holding some flowers with some dude. Apparently, she was on Dynasty in the ‘80s. Her hair’s all teased up ala Farah Fawcett, and she’s looking longingly into his eyes.

Bite, Click: she’s in a police uniform with William Shatner and some other jerkoff, smiling. She’s got her thumb hooked into the front of her police belt, her hip cocked to the side, and her hand is gesturing towards what I imagine heaven might be like.

Click, Bite: She’s in a tight red knitted dress, holding a wine glass, hip again cocked to the side. The dress hugs her (likely fake) breasts, softly rounded belly, and luscious hips. I bet her ass looks great in that dress. I take another mouthful of cereal and contemplate her butt, wiggling prettily as she walks into a bedroom and beckons me to follow. . .

Click, Bite: She’s wearing a red t-shirt, sitting in Michael J. Fox’s lap and crushing his head to her breast. Jesus. Lucky bastard. But he looks sort of sad. I look closer and he’s got his hand on her ass. There’s a sweet little smile on her face, as if she’s enjoying the display. Yummy.

Bite, Click: Meh. Her on the Drew Carey Show with that hideously made-up hag and some other chicks.

Quick click: This is more like it. Tight, diaphanous blue dress shirt, unbuttoned a bit, stretched tight over her breasts. She’s wearing some dress pants and has her hands in her pockets. I imagine her sliding her right hand in between her legs. I chuckle a bit and almost inhale the half-chewed mouthful of cereal.

Bite, chew, Click: She’s wearing a white pant suit with a blue and pink lace teddy for a blouse. Hip cocked, hand on hip, thrusting her chest out at me: she has her legs slightly crossed as if she’s rubbing her thighs together in anticipation. Ha.

Click, Bite: She’s in a black skirt-suit. The skirt is rather tight, with a little flip at the bottom that shows off a bit of thigh; her knees disappear into tight black boots. She looks rather severe, tough, sort of dominant, and ludicrously sexy. Ugh.

Bite, Click, chew: what’s this? She’s in a one-piece bathing suit with a white jacket, posing with her arm around a buff young surfer guy. I can see a bit of breast and a hint of nipple, but it’s her face that throws me off. It’s obvious that she’s had some work done on her face, and it’s kind of nasty.

Click, Bite: I’m down to the last bit of cereal, and at the last picture of Heather. She’s sitting at a table across from a younger woman. Heather’s in a red, low-cut mini dress or miniskirt suit. Her arms are folded on the table and she’s looking a bit pissed. Her legs are visible under the table, bare, pale, firm, and crossed high: if that skirt was a half-inch shorter, I could see a bit of cheek, and maybe the crotch of her wet panties. But again her face throws me off. Obvious nose work, cheek work, brow lift, chin whatever, neck firming. God. That’s disgusting. Why do women do that to themselves? Older women are sexy too, but only when they accept their bodies, faces, and experience. This fad with young = beautiful that’s been going on is so fake, and a huge bore.

The stirring in my jeans dissipates, and I take a couple of sips of coffee before slurping the last bit of now-very-mushy Corn Flakes and Milk directly from the bowl. I take a sip of coffee, stand up, pick up the bowl, and walk the sink. I rinse the bowl out and place it in the sink. I’ll wash dishes after dinner tonight, or tomorrow if I’m too drunk after dinner tonight.

I walk back to the desk, pick up my coffee, and drain the last half-cup or so in one big gulp. I take the coffee cup to the sink, rinse it out, shake off excess water, and set it next to the coffee maker. I go outside for a post-brunch cigarette, and take my usual spot, leaning against the planter.

I retrieve cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, stick a stick in my mouth, put the box back in my pocket, light the cigarette, and drop the lighter in the pocket. I take a long drag. My knee throbs, and I’m certain that it must begin to rain soon. I take another drag and hear a door behind me open.

I look back and see Mme Maligne emerge with her two small dogs. She’s wearing her usual day-time outfit of tight rocker t-shirt, stretchy hip-hugger jeans, and pink sneakers. The top shows off her perky little breasts, flat stomach, and accentuates the gentle swell of her hips.

Me: Goodmorning, Maligne.

Mme. Maligne: Oh! Hi Jeffrey.

Me: How are you today?

Mme. Maligne: Oh, I’m okay, I guess. Gotta take these little fuckers for a walk, though. They wouldn’t let me sleep in, the bastards.

She giggles a bit, and the dogs tug on their leashes.

Me: Mean little dogs! Be nice to Maligne, now, puppies!

She giggles again. Her dogs are tugging harder on their leashes, and she lets them lead her off toward the street. I watch her tight little ass wiggle its way across the courtyard and down the little hallway between 101 and 106. God, she’s sexy. I can definitely see why all the guys around here have taken a piece of that. Too bad she such a fucking whore. She looks back and sees me ogling her plump butt, and I hear her giggle. She doesn’t say a word, but adds an extra wiggle to her walk that looks like an invitation. My penis stirs and she disappears from view. I may have to go pull the head off it after this cigarette.

I take a couple of drags and flex my knee, hoping to work out some of the fluid build up. I continue thinking about plump, wiggling asses and how much I love them: firm, but yielding; tight, but wiggly; round and high. In jeans, skirts, short-shorts, bikini bottoms. The squishiness against my pelvis when I fucked Two from behind. The little pink panties, sheer with little hearts embroidered on that Mme. Suçonie used to wear to bed, and the dark shadow where her dancer’s firm cheeks came together.

Stop it, Jeff! No more Suçonie today.

I take a couple of drags on the cigarette and try to turn my thoughts to other things. Mme. Maligne’s return disturbs my thoughts: she looks just as sexy from the front, her perky little tits jutting out and jiggling ever so slightly, Maligne emphasizing every movement, her shoulders back, thrusting her chest out, swaying her hips to and fro, sort of rolling them over as she walks. She knows she’s got it, and she flaunts it, the fucking tease. Except she’s not a tease, she’d let me in her pants if I wanted, I bet, despite my sagging gut, withered hairless testicles, man boobs, and hairy back. What a slut.

But wait. Women enjoy sex just as much, if not more, than men. Why should Maligne be a slut for taking what she wants? And why should I give a damn who she’s been with and what she’s done with whoever she’s been with? And I’m a man, damnit! I have needs and desire too, so if I want a piece of Mme. Maligne, and if she wants to give me a go, why not jump on her and ride?

But then I remember the epiphany, the 5 years of celibacy, the horrible dread I feel any time I think of sex. I remember that I never get off the first few times with a new woman, and how that’s put off a few of the one night-ers that I tried when I was younger.

Mme. Maligne: So what’s going on with you today, Jeff?

Me: Not much, Mal. . . pretty much the same old thing, another day in paradise, you know.

I notice that she quickly glances down as she approaches, trying to take a quick peek at my nonexistent package, I guess. She looks long at the bulge in my jeans that’s created by the way my gut pushes down the front of the jeans and smiles. I take the opportunity to check out her perky little tits, and realize that I can make out the slight outline of her large areolae, with a smaller outline around her half-erect nipples. Jesus.

Mme. Maligne: You gonna sit out here and drink with all of us tonight?

Me: Probably. I need to make a beer run first, though, I think.

Mme. Maligne: You should! It’ll be fun. You never know what’s going to happen when Hautain and the boys and I get together!

She passes me in the courtyard, and I have the opportunity to check out her sexy little ass as she walks into her apartment. Just before closing the door, she wiggles her butt at me, and I look up to see her smiling. I feel my face blush a bit, somewhat embarrassed that she caught me staring at her butt again. She giggles and tosses me a wave, then wiggles her ass at me again and closes the door. My penis stiffens uncomfortably. Shit. If I play my cards right, I might get laid tonight.

 

Oh. Who am I kidding.

3

Jesus. How did I get here? How is it that I think I might have a chance to slip into Mme. Maligne’s little pink panties? For one, she pretty much invited me with that little giggle and all that ass wiggling. But maybe she was just teasing me. Does she have a boyfriend? Shit. I don’t know. There’s certainly a veritable fucking parade of hipster dudes and punks in and out of that apartment she shares with Mme. Hautain. Fuck. I’m horny. It’s rare that I feel this way at all much any more. Jesus.

And I never think about women as pieces of ass, there to ride and be ridden, to fuck and get fucked. But who knows. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find out what color Mme. Maligne’s thong panties are tonight. Yummy.

I finish the cigarette and flick off the cherry. It flies up and arcs sharply off to the right, where it comes to rest in the big concrete planter/ashtray I’ve been leaning against.

I straighten up, my penis still half-hard, and I look down to make sure it’s not jutting out too obscenely. There’s a slight bulge, below and to the left of the zipper, obviously a half-aroused penis, and I look around to make sure nobody’s looking out their windows before walking stiffly back into the apartment and dropping the butt in the garbage can.

I’d love to go pull the head off real quick like, and I’m sure it would take just a couple of quick yanks, but if I do that, there’s no way I’ll have the stamina left to be suave, debonaire, charming, and all that, much less to pound away into Maligne’s little round bubble butt all night, even if she does decide to let me in.

I walk over to the fridge and check my beer stock. Two big bottles of Arrogant Bastard, from the Stone Brewing Company in California, and one twelve-ounce Elissa IPA from the Saint Arnold Brewery in Houston: definitely not enough. I wonder where a good beer store is around here. I guess a drive is in order.

I give my penis a bit of a squeeze and silently urge it to relax. After a couple of moments, it complies, and I grab my keys and wallet off the desk and head out the door, being sure to lock it behind me, not that I have anything really worth stealing.

I turn right and walk down the little hallway between the gay couple’s apartment (number 103) and the Rail house, past a couple of apartments with occupants of which I have no knowledge, and out to the parking lot.

I take another right and walk past a broken-down, late-1980s Plymouth Omni that belongs to Écœurant or Mauvais: I’m not sure. It’s got a few large dents and a long scrape down the driver side, but looks like it might be functional, if not for the missing rear wheel and tire. I seem to recall one of the guys telling me that the Oxygen sensor or something was faulty, but I really have no idea.

I walk past an early 1990s minivan of indeterminate make that likely belongs to someone I’ve never met, past Mme. Hautain’s 2004 Honda Prelude, candy apple red, with stickers advertizing a couple of bands I’ve never heard of, a rainbow, and a sticker encouraging people to Coexist, with the word formed from religious symbols, and take a left, past another couple of late model coupes and three massive SUVs of various gas-guzzling vintages before arriving at the Subaru.

I pull the alarm clicker thingy from my pocket, aim it at the Subaru and press the button once. The Subaru makes a chirping sound that indicates that the alarm is disarmed and the driver door unlocked. I drop the alarm clicker back into my pocket, reach in and remove the keys.

I open the door and step into the car. I put my foot on the brake, slide the key into the ignition, turn the key, and the Subaru growls to life. I reach up and left behind me, grab the seat belt, pull it across my fat self, and click the buckle into its little receptacle.

I press the power button on the radio, and TV on the Radio’s Dirtywhirl begins screaming from the aging and half-blown speakers. I turn down the volume, check the mirrors, put the Subaru into reverse, remove my foot from the brake, press lightly on the gas, and roll out of the parking spot, turning the steering wheel slightly to the right so that I roll out in a gentle arc.

I put the car in drive and roll through the parking lot, past a variety of older and newer vehicles, mostly small, overpowered sports cars and ludicrously large trucks and SUVs, and turn right onto State Street towards Washington Ave. I begin to sing along with TV on the Radio.

…Comander, controller

I found you

Dirty little whirlwind

I am pinned by the heat of your swirl

Dirty little whirlwind

Tangled up in the flesh of a girl

As I approach Washington, I take my foot off the accelerator, flip the blinker arm down to signal a left turn, look both ways (even though I have the right of way) and am about to turn, when I hear a loud honking coming from my right.

I look to the right and see a large delivery van of some sort barreling down Washington towards me. The truck honks again, and I slam on my breaks to avoid a collision. The truck flies by and I see a large, bearded gentleman waving his middle finger at me and screaming something. Jesus Christ. The jackass must be going at least 50 through this residential neighborhood, and he completely failed to stop at the sign. Oh how I love Dallas.

I look hard to make sure that no other cars are coming, take a deep breath and turn left onto Washington.

Oh you could curl me beside you

The spark in your eyes belies the Apocalypse inside you

Twisting the pits from the particle

Skull can’t save face

So shake the shame from it

Burn me up inside you

Let me churn in your furnace of whirl[xiii]

It looks like this part of Washington is mostly residential. I know there’s a gas station a few blocks down where I ride my bike to buy cigarettes every couple of days, but their beer selection sucks. Hummm.

I come to the light at Villa Nueva and decide to turn right. I flip the blinker arm up to signal the turn, slow slightly, and crank the steering wheel to the right. The Subaru turns down Villa Nueva.

I like this Dirtywhirl track. It sort of reminds me of one of the great loves of my life, Three, who I first met in High School. I saw her one day, I guess it was during the first week or so of my Senior year. She was kind of tall, thin, with virtually no curves, and she had the biggest green eyes and sexiest bee-stung lips I had ever seen. In fact, she may have the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen outside of Angelina Jolie or Liv Tyler or one of those other late 1990s TV and film actresses with the big fake lips. But Three’s lips were real, by god, and she had this amazing long, bright orange hair that appealed strongly to my punk instincts.

Later on, I learned that a buddy of mine was dating her, and we met at a party one night. We hit it off right away, and quickly became close friends. These days, Three is married (for the second time) to a shit-kicking, racist, sexist, homophobe of a red neck, and she’s taken up many of his ludicrous views on human relationships, politics, and whatnot, but we’re still very close. We don’t talk much, or write, or email, but any time we get together, it’s like we’ve never been apart.

This part of Villa Nueva looks pretty much like it’s residential, a bunch of duplexes and four-plexes and stuff. Oh well, it’s kind of nice, with big trees and all, and I bet it looks great when the sun is shining, or would if the people took care of their yards and picked up the garbage and stuff. Meh.

Suddenly, a white pickup begins to back out just in front of me, and I have to slam on the breaks to avoid crashing into it. I throw my hands up in disgust and see the driver look back at me. He stops the truck and stares. I gesture to go ahead, back out, and be on your way, no problem, buddy, and he gives me the finger. Two in one day: go Dallas, your citizens are number one, for sure.

He continues backing out, very slowly, and proceeds down Villa Nueva at about 10 miles an hour.

Now I’m not one to drive much over the speed limit, and in residential neighborhoods like this I usually try to stay around 25mph or so. But 10 is fucking ridiculous. God damn it.  Oh well.

So Three and I became friends in about 1993 or so, going to movies, and meeting up for coffee, and stealing liquor from our parents and getting drunk together in the woods and whatnot, but lost touch for a few years after High School.

One year, I guess it was about 1996 or 7, I sent her a Christmas card with my new address and phone number in, and she gave me a call and we made plans to meet up. We were suddenly close friends again. I’d pick her up from work and we’d sit at my place and drink and smoke, and I’d drive her home late. We’d go to movies, and rent movies, and go to plays and concerts. We were really close.

I’d always had a bit of a crush on her, and I told her about it, and she knew how I felt, but things never got weird until 1999 or so, when she started dating another old friend of mine. Actually, she and I were hanging out one night, and this buddy of mine showed up, and we were all drinking, and he left, and I offered to drive Three home but she decided to stay and sleep on the couch, so I went to bed and woke up to the sounds of people having sex in the living room. I walked out to find my buddy on top of Three and she was screaming his name and I started crying softly. They didn’t know that I’d seen them.

A couple of weeks later, I told my buddy about walking in on them and how it really sort of hurt my feelings, since he knew how I felt about Three, and couldn’t they have just gone off somewhere else? He told me, pretty much, that it was none of my business and that they were in love and that I could go to hell. Not my business. Sex on my couch, in my apartment, with a woman that I had been in sort of puppy love with for 5 or 6 years? Not my business?

Three weeks later, they were married, and I didn’t see Three again for over a year. I fully expected to never see her again, and had sort of moved on with my life and everything.

One night, I was over at a buddy’s house, smoking weed and playing Diablo II, when I got a pone call. My room mate (a shithead if there ever was one, but that’s another story) insisted that I come home right away, that there was some sort of emergency.

I walked home, threw open the door, and stormed inside. The room mate was smiling, and I looked over at the sofa. There was Three, sitting there with a big smile on her face. I was dumbfounded, in shock, and I just stood there for a second before running over, pulling her to her feet, and giving her a big hug and sloppy kiss.

It was like we’d never been apart.

She apologized for that night on the sofa, and told me that she’d had a child with the guy, found out that he was a lying sack of shit, and divorced him. She hoped I could forgive her. I did, of course. There was really nothing much to forgive, just a couple of bruised feelings.

Over the next couple of years, my puppy love turned into something approaching what I would feel for Mme. Suçonie many years later. We were together nonstop. We didn’t ever have sex or make out or anything, but we slept together a few times, and held hands, and kissed hello and good bye. We were extremely intimate with one another. But she had a string of shithead boyfriends, and my feelings were constantly hurt (or maybe it was my ego), and I pretty much had to move to Illinois to forget her.

I’m coming up on a light. What street is this? Oh. Jefferson Ave. There should be a beer store around here somewhere.

The light turns red and I come to a stop behind the slow-moving, finger-flipping cocksucker and his white pickup. Let’s see. I look left. It looks like more of a residential area that way, but you can never be sure around here. I look right. Well, there’s a gas station, that definitely will not have anything worthwhile, but beyond that I see what appears to be the beginning of an old commercial section. Let’s turn right.

The light changes, but white pickup doesn’t move. The cocksucker appears to be hunting for something in the floorboard, and I can see his shoulders, sort of in the middle of the window, and his head disappearing under the dashboard. Motherfucker. I tap the horn gently to get his attention. He looks up, sees the green light, looks back at me, waves his finger at me again, reaches down and picks something up, and then shifts into reverse. I see the little white reverse lights appear, and he starts backing up towards me.

Jesus Christ. I check the mirrors: all clear behind me. I put the Subaru into reverse and back up to get out of this guy’s way, and tap the horn again. He slams on his breaks, rolls down his window, and begins screaming at me:

Cocksucker: You wanna piece of this muthafucka? I’ll fuck you up Honkey, me and my little friend here! You muthafucka, honk at me!

He raises his right arm, and shows me a pistol. Jesus Fucking Christ. I love Texas.

The light turns yellow, and he’s suddenly lurching forward again, this time picking up speed. He makes it through the intersection, still screaming profanities at me and waving his little gun around.

The light turns red, and cars begin to move across the intersection.

I shift the Subaru into drive and roll to a stop at the light. Jesus. First I almost get creamed by a fucking delivery van, and then I get a gun waved at me by some fucking redneck just for gently reminding him to fucking pay attention to what’s going on around him. Ahh, the hospitality and friendliness of Texans: you got to love it, right? Why did I ever come back here?

I look to the right: there’s definitely a couple of little strip malls down there, maybe a bar or two, some old restaurants, a dry cleaners, and an army/navy surplus store. Groovy.

I flip the blinker arm up to indicate a right turn. You know? Come to think of it, in a half-mile or so, Jefferson runs right into Steer City, where all the tattoo shops and biker bars and punk clubs and hookers and whatnot can be found. There should definitely be a liquor store or package store or beer store or something around here. The light changes, I crank the wheel to the right, and begin to turn.

Dirtywhirl ends, and Blues From Down Here begins.

Suddenly, I hear a loud, familiar honking, and I look left just in time to see that fucking delivery van barreling down the Jefferson toward me. The fucker isn’t going to stop at a red light either. Jesus.

I slam on the brakes, and watch as the driver swerves, just at the last minute, narrowly avoiding a collision. He gives me the finger again as he passes. I love Dallas.

Shaking slightly, I pull onto Jefferson and begin scanning around for a likely beer store. What do we have: Gina’s Pizza and Pasta; Tortas El Guerro; a Sri Lankan Community Center; a day care; a dry cleaners; Ledbelly Social Club, with a sign out front advertising nightly appearances by Big Daddy Wolfman and the Howl (whatever that is, a blues band maybe?); an out-of-business used car lot that used to be a gas station once upon a time; an empty lot, pavement cracked and sun-bleached, weeds poking through, with a few random piles of garbage and a couple of sofas with springs jutting out of the cushions; a Headcutters hair place; a nail salon with writing in Korean, and a little sign with prices in the window. No luck.

I come to the light at Villa Carbon: another block or two and I’ll be in Steer City, and pretty much out of luck. Ok. I think the next block is either Malcolm X or maybe Villa Grande, I guess I’ll turn there.

There are a bunch of guys standing around on the corners: they’re all Hispanic and of indeterminate legality. Hummm. I guess I know where to go if I ever need some cheap day labor.

The light turns green and I proceed. Madame Lace’s House of Sex: a boutique; Fuzz Lane Smoking Accessories and Gifts (I think this is the flagship location of the old Fuzz: I bought many a glass bubbler at the one out in Arlington back in the day); Jeng Chi Dumpling House (Nice! I’ll have to remember where this is. I loves me some dumplings… um… It’s on Jefferson, between Villa Carbon and whatever comes next. Got it); a clinic of some sort, with all the signage in Spanish, and several mothers standing outside with their children; a Charbucks; Tacos De La Revolución, with a hand-painted sign out front advertising Tripas, Lingue, y Offal, and Al Carbon tacos for 75 cents each (might be worth a try. . . though I think I’ll skip the Intestines, Tongue, and random organ meets); a pile of rubble surrounded by a chain-link fence with a sign advertising the impending arrival of a Chase Bank branch; a couple of other garbage-strewn lots with the weeds that poke through the asphalt. No luck here, either.

The next block is indeed Villa Grande. The light is red. I flip the blinker arm up, indicating a right turn and slow to a stop. Across the street, a young African American woman is walking her dog. She has a gorgeous, well-kept afro, that gently bobs in the breeze, large, unfettered breasts, with obvious nipples poking out of the front of her pink t-shirt, that bounce and wobble gently as she walks, and a plump, round ass bounces gaily and that God only knows how she managed to fit into the skin tight pair of white jeans with lace accents and pink, heart-shaped pockets on the butt. Yummy.

I watch the woman cross the street, and feel a bit of a stir in my jeans.

On the opposite corner, two women, obviously prostitutes, start talking to the dog-walking hottie. They’re both wearing way too much makeup, miniscule mini skirts and tube tops and fuck-me heels. One has on a huge, filthy red wig and red fish net stockings, held up by a red garter belt, and even from over here, I can see varicose veins and cottage cheese: yuck. The other has blonde hair, probably also a wig, and is bare-legged. She has a couple of tattoos on her chicken legs. The prostitutes appear to be talking shit to the dog-walking, ass wiggling chick, who appears to be attempting to ignore them. The red-head shoves the dog-walker hard, and she stumbles into the street. A guy on a bright red crotch-rocket almost wipes out as he tries to avoid hitting the woman. The little dog is barking like crazy and lunging at the prostitutes, trying to bite their ankles.

The light changes, and I turn onto Villa Grande.

Jesus. This road is a piece of shit: potholes everywhere, exposing 4 or 5 generations of asphalt and the original brick below; gutters packed with cigarette butts and beer cans; garbage of various types (paper and plastic) drifting to and fro; sidewalks broken, cracked, jutting up at odd angles. I just love how the City of Dallas keeps up its infrastructure, especially in the older parts of the city. The store fronts on this block are almost universally shuttered: abandoned restaurants, beauty parlors, and bars, punctuated by the occasional bait-and-tackle shop (even though there’s not a body of water with any fish in for close to a hundred miles) or vacuum cleaner repair place with heavy iron bars over the windows and doors. Economically depressed would be an understatement.

Off to my right, I see a sign a block or two away, towering above the surrounding buildings: Sonny’s Wholesale Liquor Beer and Wine. Eureka! I come up on a stop sign at Lincoln Avenue, which appears to dead-end into the parking lot of Sonny’s. I slow the Subaru and flip the blinker arm, but notice a sign that indicates this to be a one way street, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s one way going the wrong way. I’m going to have to find an alternate route. Fuck.

I flip the blinker off, and proceed down Villa Grand, looking for an opportunity to turn right into a parking lot or something and maybe get back to what I hope is a nice, inexpensive, beer store with a wide selection of IPAs.

Unfortunately, the entire block appears to be enclosed by large chain-link fence. A faded sign advertises a new grocery store that will be opening in the spring of 2008. This is the fall of 2009.

At the next block, a one-way going the right way, but with no signage to indicate street name, I start to turn, but find that a large, bright orange barricade blocks off the street. Fuck.

The Subaru shudders and creaks as it bounces down the road. It’s a bit jarring, even at 20 mph, and the cd player is skipping like crazy. I reach down and shut switch to the radio: NPR is in the middle of yet another pledge drive. I turn off the stereo.

It looks like there’s been a car accident or something ahead: there’s an ambulance, two fire trucks, a handful of police cars, and tow-truck pretty much blocking the intersection at Villa Grande and Washington. Maybe I’ll be able to turn here.

I get closer, and see that an SUV is upside down, blocking most of Washington, and a small, mangled sports car is sitting awkwardly on the curb. Jeez. I hope everyone’s alright.

A blonde police officer steps out into the street in front of me and gestures that I come to a stop. I let off the gas and depress the brake. I love a woman in uniform. Unlike the male cops I see milling around that look like they subsist on a steady diet of donuts and fried twinkies, she’s slim and fit, her uniform taught over her bullet-proof vest, hips and thighs, her feathered, dyed blonde-brown-red hair blowing gently in the breeze like Farah Fawcett in one of those beach movies from the 1970s or something. Her lips are painted a luscious pink-red color, and look like they’re coated in vasoline. She’s wearing mirrored aviator-style sunglasses that disguise her expression beautifully. She turns, and I have an opportunity to check out her ass, and it’s just as I hoped: firm and taught. I bet I could bounce a quarter off that thing. As she continues to turn, stretching slightly, the curve of her ass comes fully into view, and I can see the gentle slope of her right cheek descending into her thigh and disappearing in between her legs. As she turns fully around, I notice a small triangle of light visible between her firm ass and fit legs. My jeans are suddenly way too tight.

I reach down and make an adjustment of my aching penis and tug the bunched-up boxer shorts from between my legs, where they were cutting painfully into my testicles. I give my penis a gentle stroke, and put my hand back on the steering wheel.

I turn my attention from Officer Sex Pot, and watch as the Tow truck backs up close to the overturned SUV. A fat, greasy, disreputable-looking driver emerges, slowly saunters to the rear of the truck, and begins tugging out a length of cable from the winch mounted to the truck.

He takes the end of the cable and throws it over the top of the SUV. The cable catches on a tire, and the end swings down in an arc. I hear the sound of breaking glass as the cable breaks one of the last remaining windows in the totaled hunk of metal.

I look back to Officer Yummy, and resume lusting after her tight little body. I wonder what kind of panties she has on under that uniform: utilitarian white cotton, maybe? Or something racier? Red lace and satin perhaps? Or maybe purple lace? A purple lace thong with a little butterfly right at the top of her ass?

The tow truck operator has attached the end of the cable to some part of the shattered SUV, and he struts to the controls at the back of the truck. He fiddles with a few levers, and I hear the truck rev up. The winch begins to turn, the cable goes taught, and the overturned SUV begins to shudder and rise.

I watch as, the SUV rolls over onto its side. The winch continues tightening, and the cable shakes violently. Suddenly, the SUV slams to the ground, righted once again.

The lights on the ambulance begin to flash, a siren fills the air, and the ambulance pulls away quickly, bouncing and rocking to and fro on the cracked and broken pavement.

I look back at Officer Wet Dream, who has turned towards me and is making hand motions that suggest I continue on, past the accident scene.

I lift my foot off the brake, give Officer Honey Pie a friendly wave, and continue on. She waves back, and I imagine her blowing me a kiss, pulling off her sun glasses and letting her hair blow in the breeze.

I don’t know what it is about women in uniform. Maybe it’s my male ego, wanting to be dominated by a strong woman. Maybe it’s my male ego, wanting to dominate a strong woman. Maybe I just like a bit of gentle s & m in my fantasies. Who knows. Whatever it is, there’s just something about female Police Officers, soldiers, flight attendants, etc. I damn near pop wood every time I come into contact with a woman in uniform: yummy.

Past the wreck, there’s still no opportunity to turn and hopefully weave my way around back to the Liquor store I saw back there. Instead, there’s more of vacant, trash-strewn lots and boarded up stores. A dead dog lies in the road, flies buzzing around it’s mangled carcass. Empty liquor bottles litter the sidewalks and gutter, some broken, some shattered, some whole. A large, black plastic garbage bag lies in the street to my left, broken open, revealing food scraps of various and indeterminate types, dirty diapers, and some other nasty shit, including what appears to be a broken crack or methamphetamine pipe. Jesus.

At the next block, two groups of young men stand on opposite corners. They look like they’re about to fight, and I reach over and hit the lever to lock the doors as I approach.

They seem to ignore me as I pass. I’m not even going to attempt a turn here, and it’s a good thing, since Madison is another one-way street.

I continue on. The neighborhood is becoming more residential now: large, ancient, broken-down apartment complexes with broken windows and garbage-strewn lawns. Little kids run around in their underwear, and fat mothers and grandmothers sit on their stoops in muumuus and housecoats. Music of various types blare from open windows. Even through closed windows and vents, a stench made up of body odor, ethnic foods, and marijuana fills my nostrils. I wretch a bit, and accelerate despite the likely damage to the Subaru’s suspension from the lunar pavement.

A signal light just ahead turns red and I slow to a stop at McKinley. I flip the blinker arm up to signal a right turn, look to my left, and make a right-on-red-after-stop turn.

McKinley is better maintained, with a few small cracks and a couple of shallow potholes, but nothing like Villa Grande. It looks like some developers have taken over the area and are in the process of creating a nice, fully gentrified, Vanilla wasteland. It’s really a fairly strange sight. To my right, there’s a bombed out old strip mall, with an ethnic hair care place, an auto parts store, and a couple of boarded up storefronts. The sidewalk is littered with garbage, and a couple of homeless gentlemen are sitting next to their belonging-filled shopping carts, sipping whiskey or wine from paper sacks. To the left, there’s a Panera Bread and a Chipotle, a shiny new Charbucks, and a Gold’s Gym all tucked into the ground floor of what used to be a factory or warehouse of some sort, and there are undoubtedly high-priced, finely finished, and shoddily-constructed lofts above. The building has been painted in contemporary greys and blacks, and wrought iron railings with little tables and hanging baskets and whatnot jut out of the upper floors. Disgusting.

A pair of stroller moms round the corner ahead and walk down the sidewalk toward me. Both of them have blonde hair up in ponytails and are wearing cute little workout outfits and loads of makeup to push their pretty little babies around town for a bit. The gentlemen with their whiskey in bags sort of leer at the women a bit, and, as I pass, I take a quick look the pair of skinny butts and stick legs as they strut past. Jeez. It’s like I’m caught between two worlds or something. Strange.

I pull up to the stop sign at Via Blanco, which, if I recall correctly, was the center of old Dallas and its young oil moneyed families: to the left, there should be a bunch of grand old homes, built in the 1910s and 20s, vacated by the 1950s as the wealthy families moved into Turtle Creek and Highland Park, about the time that the Interstate Highways began carving up Dallas into the Have and Have Nots. I think that the area declined sharply in the 60s and 70s, and became one of the drug and prostitution Meccas of the area: just my kind of place, all dirty and broken and graffiti covered, with skin colors of various shades, ranging from light yellow and pale pink to dark chocolate and coffee and everything in between. Unfortunately, it looks like the area is experiencing what they call a ‘rebirth,’ meaning that moneyed whites are moving back and pushing out the rich tapestry that formerly populated the area. Jesus. And I can’t turn here either.

I look to the right, and can see the back of the liquor store, but I can’t get there. I continue on.

At the next block, things go from bad to worse: now both sides of the street have been overrun with the young, wealthy, and beautiful. It looks like the fucking Upper West Side around here: little cafes that spill out onto the sidewalk; skinny men and women with fake-baked skin and designer couture mill about; more stroller moms with dyed hair, some with fake breasts and/or asses, teaching their sons and daughters the finer points of self-commodification. No chance of finding a beer store around here.

Now, to be fair, I suppose I’m actually a part of the gentrification, the ‘rebirth’ that’s taking place in this older section of Dallas. After all, I’m white and well-educated, and likely living in an apartment that would be occupied by a struggling Latino/a family or recent immigrants from Pakistan or something. But I am rather poor, like most of the recent residents of this area, and I patronize local ethnic markets and tacquerias and attempt to support the minority populations that still make up the majority of the neighborhood. But activities, as a white boy in Old Dallas, are not that much different from what the hipster set does around here, and they’re definitely whitening up this area to a rather unfortunate degree. I sometimes have a nagging suspicion that I should be out in the white bread suburbs with the rest of the honkeys. Oh well.

The next block is Villa Carbon, and I flick the blinker arm up to indicate a right turn, slow the Subaru, and crank over the wheel. I reach into my pocket and retrieve cigarettes and lighter. I take out a cigarette, stick it in my mouth, light it, take a long drag, roll down the window, and shove the cigarettes and lighter back into my pocket.

Soon, I’m back in the real world: broken shopping carts, garbage-strewn lots, abandoned buildings. This is more like it. Maybe I can get back to the liquor store this way.

Up ahead, I notice that the road dead-ends into a park. I completely forgot that this little park was over here. I’ll have to come hang out, lie in the grass, and watch the birds or something one day. There are a bunch of cars scattered about, and it looks like a gathering of some sort is going on in the park.

I get a bit closer and realize that it’s some sort of family reunion or birthday party or something. Looks like fun, but I’m not about to crash some family gathering, and, besides, I’m a man on a mission.

I pull to a stop at the cross-street in front of the park. It’s clear to the left, and I look to the right and notice my old friend the massive white delivery van speeding towards me, swerving back and forth. He begins honking frantically. The people in the park look over at us.

I plant my foot firmly on the brake and wait for the truck to pass. Just as the truck reaches the intersection, I see the driver turn the wheel hard, and he stops honking the horn long enough to shoot me the finger yet again.

The truck lurches towards me, rocking back and forth, shuddering, tires squealing. Family reunion attendees look towards the action in horror.

The crazy, finger-flipping driver appears to be aiming the truck directly towards me. From my vantage point, he looks like a crazy pirate, maniacal, drooling, bits of flesh and spittle clinging to his filthy beard, as if he’s on a suicide mission or something: a kamakazi pilot, hell bent on destroying his target, even if it means certain death.

I frantically throw the Subaru in reverse, and quickly begin backing up to avoid a collision. The truck continues to turn, way too fast. It seems as if it’s about to topple over. There’s no way I can escape.

The truck careens onto Villa Carbon, charging through the area I recently vacated. At the last possible second, the driver turns the wheel again, the truck swerves left, missing the Subaru by inches, and leaning dangerously, then right, again barely avoiding the Subaru. Jesus.

I look back, and see the driver’s arm appear out the window as he speeds away. He’s giving me the finger again.

I put the Subaru back in drive, roll up to the stop sign, flick the blinker arm up, and slow to a stop. I’m shaking a bit, and can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I take a drag on the cigarette and slowly exhale, trying to calm myself.

I take another drag on the cigarette, exhale, and slowly pull out, taking a right turn onto the street in front of the park. Surely this will take me back to the liquor store. Alas, up ahead, I can see that a large concrete barricade is blocking off the street. Fuck.

Wait a minute. That truck just came from down here. Where did he come from? To the right, I see some toppled weeds and fresh tire marks in the gravel, dirt, and cigarette butt covered easement. It looks like he jumped the curb, careened around the barricade, and swerved back onto the street. Fucking maniac. Jesus.

I look past the barricade, and see the road merely returns to Villa Grande, where another barricade blocks the road: no opportunity to get back to the liquor store, which I can see, about a block to the left, from here.

I come to a stop, and execute a three point turn, first turning hard to the left, until I’m about to run the Subaru up onto the curb, then throwing the gears into reverse, cranking the wheel hard back to the right, and reversing back, slowly straightening out the wheel until I’m roughly facing back the way I came.

I shift the car into drive and pull forward slowly. The family look like they’re having a good time in the park, and I give a friendly wave as I pass. A woman shoots me a glare, and her husband or brother or boyfriend gives me the finger. What is it about Dallas that makes everyone so flipping happy? Jesus.

I drive past the park. The road takes a sharp bend to the left, and I’m suddenly headed back to McKinley, where the young and beautiful work and play.

Ok. I’m just going to have to find an alternate beer store. This is just too much fucking work to get back to that Sonny’s Liquor that I saw. Mother fucker. Oh well. At least I’ll get a nice driving tour of Old Dallas.

I finish the cigarette and flick the butt out the window, where it lands on the littered sidewalk and begins to commune with its buddies.

You know, come to think of it, perhaps I’m not really contributing that much to the gentrification of Old Dallas. Sure, I’m white and well-educated, but if we think of gentrification in terms of class, rather than race, then, as part of the ramen noodle eating class—as opposed to, say, the foie gras or escargot eating class—why should my whiteness or education background have much of anything to do with contributing to the gentrification that’s going on around here? At the same time, I have a genuine love and respect for most everyone, and I want Old Dallas to remain the vibrant and colorful place it has been for the past fifty years or so. Is my whiteness enough to damage the tapestry? There have always been Caucasians in this area, though they’ve mostly been woefully uneducated, so-called ‘white trash,’ and, while I’m not really a part of that set of people, I do share some qualities with them, and, again, I make every attempt to fit in with the original occupants of this area.

On the other hand, my education level gives me the supposed ability to find well paid employment. Additionally, I’ve come to appreciate some of the finer things in life. I like foie gras and escargot almost as much as tacos al carbon and shumai and fried Spam sandwiches. I like nice furniture with clean lines. I use a Macintosh and drive a Subaru.

This split, between my desire to keep Old Dallas colorful, and my love of art and well-educated demeanor, create an almost schizophrenic attitude: I’m torn between upper class desires and attitudes, on the one hand, and a working class ethos on the other. Life is strange and complicated at times, and I rarely have any idea how my actions or attitudes impact the world around me. Oh well.

I roll to a stop at McKinley. There’s not a light here, but a throng of stroller moms and hipster jerk wads are having a conversation in the middle of the street. Good times.

I reach into my pocket, retrieve cigarettes and lighter, remove a cigarette from the pack, put the pack back into my pocket, light the cigarette, and place the lighter in my pocket. I roll down the window. Surely they see me? I flick the blinker arm up to indicate a turn. A blond, botox-ridden stroller mommy looks over at me, then goes back to her conversation. A hipster dude looks over, chuckles, taps a couple of his buddies on the arm, and points at me. They all burst out laughing.

I take a drag on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into my lungs, and exhale. I tap the wee bits of ash off the end. I take another drag, reach down, and turn on the radio.

NPR is still in full-on pledge drive mode. Yuck. I reach under the driver’s seat and retrieve the case of pirated cds. I unzip the case and begin to peruse its contents: j¢ volume 4 (a compilation of emo shit and bad hip hop that I made just before leaving Texas for Illinois); MEOW!! (Cat Stevens’ Greatest Hits, plus a couple of other random Cat tunes); Sing Along With Shit, vol. 2: the Double Flush (some nice sing-along songs to stretch out my vocal cords before karaoke); Mix 26 (a rather depressive birthday mix I made just after a fight with Mme. Suçonie); 27: Just Like Heaven (a rather cheery birthday mix I made just before I proposed to Suçonie, and that now only brings back bad memories); Sunny Songs (a compilation of songs with lyrics that feature ‘sun’ or ‘sunny,’ including Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine and at least 5 versions of the Sunny song, including one that I remixed and added a little rap to, in which I professed my love and commitment to Suçonie);[xiv] a compilation of System of a Down songs that one of my old friends gave to me as a going-away present when I left TX; Brian Eno’s Here Come the Warm Jets. That will work.

I press eject on the CD player, retrieve the Eno disc from the case, drop it face down on the passenger seat next, retrieve the TV on the Radio disc from the player, place it in the case, zip up the case, place the case under the seat, pick up the Eno disc, flip it over, and slide it into the player. Within seconds Needles In the Camel’s Eye begins to pour from the speakers. I pound my fist in the air for a second, then reach down and crank up the volume.

I take a drag on the cigarette, tap off the ¼ inch of ash, and glace up at the intersection. To my delight, the throng of stroller hipsters and mommies have moved on. I look both ways: no cars coming. I crank the wheel hard to the right, lift my foot off the brake, depress the gas pedal, and turn onto McKinley, back into gentrification central. Whee.

A couple of French restaurants, a Papa John’s pizza (yuck), a Green Dry Cleaners, a Montessori Pre School, and a Modern Design store populate the bottom floors of the twin high-rise apartment buildings that fill the block. A sign reads “McKinley Towers: A Friendly Place.” Friendly. Jesus.

A couple of hipster dudes step out in the street, and I’m forced to slam on the brakes. They look at me, raise their arms, wave their middle fingers, and begin laughing at me in almost perfect unison, like fucking synchronized swimmers, scissor kicking across the street. Friendly McKinley, indeed.

In truth, I expect that most of the white folks moved back to Old Dallas for fairly similar reasons. The first wave moved here for inexpensive rents, great ethnic food, and a wide variety of neighbors. As more and more young whites moved into the area, they created a demand for newer and prettier housing, for Charbucks and Earth-Friendly Dry Cleaners and Montessori Pre-Schools. Developers responded to this demand by buying up large swaths of old, decrepit rental properties and abandoned buildings, demolishing the lot, and building high- and mid-rise apartment blocks, shopping centers, etc. The city responded by modernizing and upgrading the infrastructure (streets, sewage, and the like) that fed the new structures.

The influx of new, semi-affluent whites that moved into the new buildings demanded even more chain stores and fancy dining and wine bars, which further pushed out the mom-and-pop shops, tacquerias, and local dives. The area got paler and paler.

It’s interesting to see the transformation. North of here is almost entirely new construction: houses, shopping malls, apartments, etc. But one block South, the old Old Dallas remains, as vibrant as ever.

But I’m part of the first wave of new, young, educated white boys to move into this old portion of Old Dallas. How long will it take before the old part of the Old part becomes the new part of the New part?

I’ve got to get off this street and find a beer store. I’m getting pretty thirsty.

The signal light ahead changes yellow, then red. I slow to a stop. A sign on the corner prohibits right turns. Mother fuck. A throng of young, hipster women walk past, and enter a lingerie store, wiggling and giggling. They’re all fairly attractive, but I bet they’re bitches, every last one of them. I don’t even bother checking them out.

I don’t know why this light changed. There are no other cars on the street.

I take a drag on the cigarette, inhale, exhale, and take another drag.

The light changes. I release the brake, depress the gas, and continue my trek through hipster hell. My rain-indicating knee is throbbing. I shove the cigarette in my mouth, grab the wheel with my left hand, reach down, and begin trying to massage the pain away. I’d love to be able to flex the knee, but I need to keep my foot on the gas and try to get out of here. Fuck.

I take my left hand off the wheel, grab the cigarette from my mouth, and tap the ash out the open window, holding the wheel steady with my knee.

I take the last drag, and flick the cigarette out the window. Spots appear on the windshield, and the throbbing knee ceases screaming. It’s starting to rain.

I roll the window up. Baby’s On Fire begins playing. I turn the volume down slightly to avoid further damage to my ears: I already have a fairly tough time hearing when there’s any sort of background noise (conversations, muzak, the fountain outside my apartment), likely due to all the loud punk rock I listened to when I was younger.

I stretch out my back; it’s suddenly a bit stiff for some reason or for no reason at all.

A light ahead changes to red and I slow to a stop. It’s raining a bit harder now, and I turn the wiper knob one click to the right: intermittent. The wipers begin to slap out a steady rhythm.

The hipster dudes and stroller moms have vacated the street, disappearing into one or another of the Charbucks or upscale tchotchke shops that line the block. I realize that I can see 4 Charbuks from here: one directly to my left, on the corner; one across the street, second storefront; one down the block to my left; and another further down McKinley. Holy shit. Should I turn Right? Left? Continue on? I deliberate for a second, and decide to continue on. Pretty soon, I should hit Stevenson Ave, and I bet there will be a few down there somewhere.

The light changes, and I roll forward.

The windows are beginning to fog up a bit, and I turn on the air conditioner and flip the knob to the Defroster setting. The fog begins to lift, freezing a bit along the edges as the cold air dehumidifies the air.

A pile of hipsters emerge from the Charbucks up the block, flipping up the hoods on their $280 sweatshirts, and saunter across the street. I slow to a stop to let them cross. One looks over at me, staring blankly, and shoots me the finger. I love this town.

The hipsters complete their trek and, one by one, disappear into The Ginger Man. I didn’t even realize there was one of those over here. Nice. I used to frequent a Ginger Man in Manhattan: I guess I knew it was a chain, but didn’t realize that they came all the way down here.[xv] I’ll have to remember that for the next time I’m feeling flush and want to spend half a day drinking good IPAs and chortling at various crowds of hipsters and stroller-less stroller moms.

I continue on, passing yet another shoddily-constructed mid-rise, with another Green Dry Cleaners, Charbucks, and frou-frou French Bistro-looking place. Cindy Tells Me begins to play.

At the next light, which conveniently turns red as I approach, I look for a street sign, but none exists. I look down the block to my right, and see Stevenson First Methodist Church. So this must be Stevenson.

I flip the blinker up, and execute a right-on-red-after-stop turn.

Stevenson is one of the main drags through the old part of Old Dallas, and it’s remained fairly well-maintained, even though most of the grand old homes have been converted to multi-family tenements. Next to the Methodist Church, an old clap-board house, probably servants quarters back in the day, has almost completely collapsed: the sign that the city hung, probably years ago, that proclaimed the property Condemned, lies twisted an faded, on a beam that used to support the porch, and which now lies in a crazy angle across the yard.

Across the street, there’s an old bar, Froggy’s, that I’ve heard some pretty wild stories about over the years. A bar directly across the street from a Church? Only in Dallas. A couple of kids are walking with their skateboards ahead.

The sky grows darker, and the rain continues.

Driving Me Backwards begins to play, and I skip the CD forwards to On Some Faraway Beach, which seems a bit more fitting for a day like this, driving in the rain to find a beer store.

Suddenly, one of the skateboard kids steps out into the street. He’s less than ten feet from the front of the Subaru.

I slam on the brakes. The Subaru slides a bit on the wet pavement, and the kid steps back onto the sidewalk. The bumper grazes his baggy jeans and he lurches forward, slamming into his friend.

I roll down the window.

Me: You OK, buddy?

Kid 1: Fuck you, Cracker! You best watch where you’re going, Mother Fucker!

Kid 2: Ya! Get the fuck out of here, you fucking Cracker! You fucking Honkey motherfucker!

Me: Sorry, man. But are you alright?

Kid 1: FUCK YOU, CRACKER!

The kid swings his skateboard at the Subaru, denting the passenger door. I accelerate. What’s with the people around here?

The kids stoop down, grabbing handfuls of rocks and gravel, and throw them at me as I pass. Gravel sounds like hail on the roof, and a larger rock chips the rear window. Jesus Christ.

I accelerate quickly to get out of the way of the artillery and away from the skateboard kids.

At the next intersection, I once again spot the white van. I’m going too fast to stop, but slam on the brake anyway.

The Subaru fishtails slightly, and I crank the wheel over and skid sideways, coming to a stop with the rear end hanging slightly out into the intersection; the front almost facing back the way I came.

The driver leans on the horn and blows through intersection, swerving slightly to avoid a collision. I look back and see his finger.

Holy shit. That was close. I look for a street sign: Washington. Jeez. I’m almost right back home again. Hell.

My hands are shaking from the adrenaline, and I put the Subaru into reverse and maneuver my way around until I’m pointed back down Stevenson. The skateboard kids have re-entered rock-throwing range and once again begin screaming profanity and pelting my car with gavel and small rocks.

I accelerate forward and get out of range again.

At the next block, I make a sharp left and find myself on Monroe. I continue to shake, and reach into my pocket for a cigarette. Holy shit.

No way there will be a beer store down here. This is all friggen apartment buildings like the one I live in. Oh well.

The next block is Cesar Chavez. I take a left.

Up ahead, I see it. A beer store at the corner of Washington and Cesar Chavez. The store looks like a beacon, brightly lit and shining through the dark afternoon.

The rain slows, then stops completely, and the sky begins to clear.

A sign flashes: “Engourdissment Beer and Wine.”

The large old building is almost completely covered in graffiti: SKEL and SHAKA, founders of the Sex Professionals of Texas graffiti crew dominate the south wall, greens and pinks and yellows, and I can make out a couple of other tags, FIBZ, CHASP and STRIKA. I wrote a paragraph or two about these guys in my Master’s thesis.[xvi]

I turn into the parking lot and pull up near the front door. Above the automatic doors, running the entire length of the building, there are a couple of Roller Tags[xvii]—FRENZ and WNDZ—and a large cartoon of a guy guzzling a beer. I’m going to have to come back by here and take some pictures, for sure. Through the windows, I can see long isles of wine and stacks of beer cartons. I hope they have a good selection.

Two women stand inside, looking out at me. One is older, Caucasian, slightly plump, with curly, graying hair, with an extremely friendly-looking face. The other is small and very cute, of indeterminate nationality, (maybe Asian, maybe Latin American, who knows) with short-cropped black hair. They’re talking to each other and looking out at me and laughing.

I turn off the Subaru, unbuckle the safety belt, pull the keys from the ignition, open the door, step out, and drop the keys into my pocket. The women are talking to each other, and the older one waves at me through the window. I wave back, close the door, fish the alarm clicker out of my pocket, and click a button: two chirps and the doors lock.

Before going in, I think I’ll take a quick look at the other side of the building.

I walk around the front of the Subaru, past the storefront, and round the far corner. I take a drag off the cigarette, and shake the ash off the tip.

Just as I hoped, above me, covering the entire wall, a huge SPT CREW tag, with smaller throw-ups and rollies with the names of the crew, dated 2008. Friggen awesome. The whole building is a big friggen advert for the SPT CREW. I love this place already.

I consider walking around to look at the back of the store, but decide to save that for another day. I turn around and walk back to the front of the store, looking up at the Rollies above, and then through the windows at the women. The young one waves at me again, smiling broadly, and I wave back.

I take a last drag off the cigarette, flick off the cherry, and pitch the butt into a garbage can near the door.

I step forward, and the doors slide open.

 

4

I take a couple of steps forward and enter the store. A pleasant bell dings as I walk through the doors, which slide gently closed behind me.

The older woman greets me:

-Hello! Welcome! I’m Mme. Engourdissment. Are you looking for anything special today?

Me: Hi! I’m Jeff. Ummm. I’m looking for some good, hoppy IPAs.

Mme. E: You know? A woman was in here earlier, and she wanted some beer from India for a party she was throwing. I don’t think we have any Indian beers, so I gave a couple of India Pale Ales. Those are close enough, right? I don’t really know much about IPAs, or beer of any sort, myself. I’m more of a wine drinker.

Me: Well, IPAs actually come from England. Way back a long time ago, back when India was a colony, or maybe even before, the Brits wanted to get beer to the troops over there, but the sea voyage was way too long, and their Stouts and Lagers and traditional Ales spoiled on the trip. So they developed a new recipe, with extra hops added as a preservative. This new beer, India Pale Ale, was able to survive the month-long trip, and could even be stored once it reached the colonies.

Mme. E: Wow! That’s interesting!

Me: Now the British IPAs are tasty and all, but they’re a bit too sweet for my liking. I go more for the American versions.

Mme. E: What’s the difference?

Me: Well, when the Craft Beer revolution started, brewers were looking at all the old recipes, and they came across the IPA, which called for, I don’t know, say one pound of hops per barrel or something. Well, being good Americans, the brewers said “One pound? Screw that!” and dumped 3 or 4 or 5 pounds of hops into the mix. So American IPA are way hoppier than their British counterparts, and are usually bitter rather than sweet. They’re also generally a good bit stronger. Where British IPAs tend to be around 5%, American IPAs are 7 or 8 or 10%.

Mme. E: Wow! I’ll have to remember that. Did you know about all that, Mme. Allégresse?

Mme. Engourissment looks over at the younger woman, and I follow her gaze.

Mme. Allégresse is even cuter up close. She doesn’t have the greatest body, or anything, but her eyes and nose and mouth are vibrant and incredibly attractive.

Mme. A: I didn’t know anything about the history, but I sure love the beer!

Mme. Allégresse looks at me and smiles. Here big eyes flick briefly down, widen slightly, and then stare deeply into my face. She smiles broadly, and her eyes twinkle. Damn, she’s cute.

I’m suddenly nervous.

Mme. A: What’s your favorite IPA, Jeff?

Me: Oh, I don’t know. I like Sierra Nevada’s Anniversary Ale quite a bit, and Mendocino’s White Hawk is pretty freaking awesome, but I really have no preference, as long as the beer makes my mouth pucker, or, like, they hit me like a punch in the face.

The women begin to laugh, and I chuckle a bit. I look over at Mme. Engourdissment, and then back at Mme. Allégresse.  Allégresse is definitely checking me out. This is crazy. First Mme. Maligne checks out my nonexistent package, and now this really cute and sort of innocent looking woman is also giving me the eye. My hands begin to shake a bit, and my mouth is suddenly dry.

Mme. E: Well, go ahead and have a look around, and if we can help you with anything, let us know.

Me: Thanks! I will

I give Mme. Allégresse a smile, and she smiles back. Jesus, she’s cute. My hands begin to sweat a bit.

To the left of the counter, and just behind Mme. Engourdissment, who gives me another big smile, I spot what I’m looking for: a lengthy cooler that stretches around the shop, and that appears to contain several thousands of beers. Following the counter around to where the cooler begins, I pass a phalanx of boxes, cases of Beers I Haven’t Tried, mostly imports, which frown at me, attempting to encourage me to go ahead and try them out. But I cannot be awed. I know that among the cases there exist, in virtually infinite number, the Beers I Needn’t Try, the Beers Made For Purposes Other Than Drinking, Beers Drunk Even Before I Crack The Bottle Since They Belong To The Category Of Beers Drunk Before Being Brewed. And thus I come to the beginning of the cooler, where I am attacked by the infantry of Beers That If I Had More Than One Life I Would Certainly Also Drink But Unfortunately My Days Are Numbered. Quickening my pace slightly, I bypass them and move into the battalion of Beers I Intend To Try But There Are Others I Must Try First, the Beers Too Expensive Now And I’ll Wait Till My Pockets Are Less Empty, the Beers ditto When Someone Else Is Buying, Beers I Can Try Some Night At A Buddy’s Place, Beers That Everybody’s Drank At Least Once So It’s As If I Have Had Them Too. Eluding these assaults, I come to the center of the first wall of coolers, where other troops are holding out:

• The Beers I’ve Been Planning To Try For Ages
• The Beers I’ve Been Hunting For Years Without Success
• The Beers Made From Fruits And Other Stuff That Doesn’t Quite Appeal
• The Beers I’d Like To Have Around Just In Case Someone Drops By Who Would Be Impressed At My Connoisseurship
• The Beers I’ll Wait On And Maybe Try This Summer
• The Beers I Should Have On Hand Because The Bottles Match The Other Beers In The Fridge
• The Beers That Fill Me With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified

Now I have turned the corner and begun to examine the remaining forces in the cooler along the back wall, luckily able to bypass the array of Beers that is, to be sure, numerous but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Beers I Drank Long Ago Which It’s Now Time To Drink Again and the Beers I’ve Always Pretended To Drink And Now It’s Time To Sit Down And Really Drink Them.

With a sort of zig-zag around a small shelf of local wines, I find myself in the citadel of Beers Of A Sort That I Truly Enjoy, namely the IPAs. Even inside this stronghold I can make some breaches in the ranks of the defenders, dividing them into English Style IPAs, IPAs That Appear Different But Just Have A Recent Change In Label, and IPAs That Look Like Microbrewed Bottle-Conditioned Ales, But In Actuality Are Mass-Produced Coors or Anheuser Busch Products, and, perusing the cooler in this area, I’m able to discern a few Beers which are attractive to me on the basis of my desires and needs for the new and the not new (for the new I seek in the not new and for the not new I seek in the new), as well as the Beers that meet my price point, or, even if they’re a bit higher than I would normally pay, have some intrinsic properties that make them seem worthwhile, even if they would put me slightly over budget for beer this week.[xviii]

I realize that I’m going to need a basket. There are just too many good beers here, and the prices are insanely low. I mean, they’ve got big bottles of Stone Arrogant Bastard[xix] for a mere $2.79. These were, like five dollars or so on Long Island. And their six-packs are no more than 8 or 9 dollars for even the best beers. Jeez. I’m in beer lover’s heaven.

I turn back to the front of the store. Mms. Engourdissment and Allégresse are standing close together, whispering animatedly. Mme. Allégresse looks over at me and giggles.

Mme. E: Are you finding everything allright, sweetie?

Me: Oh, I’ve found a bunch of stuff. I’m going to need a basket or something.

I spot a line of carts near the door, and begin to navigate my way through the isles of wine.

Mme. A: Oh! Here, let me get one for you!

Mme. Allégresse scampers over, retrieves a cart, and begins wheeling it towards me.

Me: Uh, Thanks!

I meet her about halfway through the store, and she wheels the cart in front of me. I grab the front of the basket, and gently pull the cart away from Allégresse.

Me: Thanks a bunch, Allégresse!

Mme. A: You’re so welcome, Jeff!

She smiles broadly, her impossibly large eyes twinkling.

I drag the cart towards me, pulling it past me, and take hold of the handle. It’s warm where her hands were. I begin pushing the cart back to the cooler, to select a few beers.

Mme. Allégresse slides by me, and I feel her hand gently stroke my back, elbow, and forearm.

Mme. A: Excuse me, Jeff.

Me: Um. No, excuse me.

I stop and check out her butt as she passes. Like the rest of her body, it’s pretty much a rectangle. She has virtually no figure, and looks soft, plush, and warm. I feel my penis stiffen slightly as I wonder what it would be like to wrap my arms around her, to hold her close and feel her warm soft body against mine.

I shake my head violently, trying to remove the images of intimacy from my mind.

I resume pushing the cart to the rear of the store, where my bounty awaits.

I open one of the cooler doors, retrieve two bottles of Arrogant Bastard, and set them in the bottom of the cart. The door slowly closes, and I move two doors to the right.

I scan the shelves and spot Saint Arnold Elissa IPA[xx], a ‘local’ beer made in Houston. A sign advertises a sale on Elissa: $5.79 per six-pack.

On Long Island, I lived about a 10 minute drive from the Blue Point Brewery. They make one of the best IPAs I’ve ever had: Hoptical Illusion. The best thing: the Brewery was open for tours and free tastings Thursdays and Fridays from 3-7pm, and on Saturdays from noon to 7. It was great. I went with Six a few times, and then started going by myself, or with some buddies from school or neighbors or whatever. We’d get crazy drunk, fill a growler[xxi] or three, stop by a grocery store, and then go back to my place for barbecue, beer, and good times. I miss that. There are a couple of breweries in Fort Worth, but they charge for their beer, and most of it is pretty friggen nasty. I miss Long Island.

I open the cooler door, and pull out two six-packs of Elissa. I set them in the cart and push the door closed.

The next door over has a couple of likely candidates: Full Sail IPA[xxii] ($6.59 per six) and Pyramid Thunderhead India Pale Ale[xxiii] ($6.99 per six).

I open the door, retrieve a sixer of each and deposit them in the cart before losing the door. Yummy.

I look down in the cart and mentally calculate the bill thusfar: 2 Arrogant Bastards, at $2.79, that’s about $6 with tax, plus $12 for the Elissas, that makes $18, plus $7 and $7 for the Full Sail and the Thunderhead. What’s that? $18 plus $14, um. . . $32. I’m still way under budget.

A nearby sign advertises Boulevard Single-Wide IPA[xxiv] for $5.99 a six. Perfect. I push the cart down a bit, locate the Boulevard, open the door, retrieve two sixers, put them into the cart, and close the door.

That takes me up to $44 or so. Hummm. Another sixer? Or two more Arrogant Bastards? I scan the cooler. Two Arrogant Bastards it is.

I wheel the cart around, and head back 6 or so doors. I open the cooler and pull out another couple of bottles. Whew! All done. This is going to be a nice haul, for sure. And all this beer for around $50? Yes, please!

I navigate through the isles of wine, contemplating which beer I’m going to enjoy first: Elissa, maybe? Full Sail? Single-Wide? Hummm.

Mme. A: I’ll take you over here, Jeff.

I look up and see Allégresse standing at a cash register near the front door. She’s smiling, and waves her hand at me.

Me: Great! Thanks, Mme. Allégresse.

Mme. A: Oh, you can call me Ally, Jeff, if you like.

Me: Um. Ok, Ally.

I look over at Mme. Engourdissment. She’s smiling at me as well, and has a sort of expectant look on her jovial face.

Mme. A: Did you find everything alright, Jeff?

Me: Yep. I found some pretty good stuff, I think.

Mme. A: Great!

I round the last rack of wine, and Mme. Allégresse looks down at the cart. Her eyes widen slightly at the bevy of IPAs that I’m wheeling towards her.

Mme. A: Yep it looks like you found quite a bit of good stuff. I really like the Elissa, and Arrogant Bastard is really hard to beat, you know.

Me: Ya. I loves me some Arrogant Bastard.

Mme. A: Have you had their 13^th Anniversary Ale?

Me: No. Is it any good?

Mme. A: Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s super hoppy, with that sharp punch at the beginning, but with sort of a flowery, citrusy sort of flavor. I love it! We’re out right now, but the truck comes on Thursday, and we should get a case or two the, but you’ll have to be quick. They go pretty fast.

Mme. E: Yes, but mostly because Ally here buys them all up.

The women giggle a bit, and Mme. Allégresse begins to blush a bit.

Mme. A: Stop it! It’s good beer! And I give everyone a couple of days to get some before I take whatever’s left!

Me: That’s the way to do it, for sure. Man, if I worked at a beer store, I’d be loading myself up with a quickness!.Do you get any sort of discount?

Mme. A: 15%

Me: Wow. 15% on top of how cheap everything is here? That’s great!

I pull the cart up to the register, pull an Elissa six from the basket, and set it on the counter. Allégresse reaches for the six, and brushes purposefully against my hand.

Is she really flirting with me? No way. That was an accident, I’m sure. There’s no way a girl this cute would be flirting with a fat slob like me. And even if she is, I’m still reeling from the Epiphany, and I’d never be able to get up the nerve to ask her out, and even if I did, and even if she accepted, I’m so out of practice that I’m sure I’d make a total ass of myself. And even if I didn’t, I’d never be able to make the first move, to kiss her at the end of the night, or take her hand, or put my arms around her without a clear invitation, not that I’d even understand a body-language invitation anyways. Jeez. I’m a fucking jerk.

I load the rest of the six packs and the four bottles of Arrogant Bastard onto the counter, and Mme. Allégresse begins scanning the sixers and placing them into a box.

Mme. A: So the distributor will be here later today, in case there’s anything special you’d like us to order up for you.

Me: Is Sierra Nevada’s Anniversary Ale available yet?

Mme. A: Yes! Thant’s such a good beer! We asked for some last week, but he didn’t bring us any.

Me: I’d buy, like, three or four cases of that, and age some in my closet. I love that beer, for sure.

Mme. A: Well, I’ll make sure we get some for you! The delivery comes about 10am on Thursday, so I’ll see you then?

Me: Cool. I’ll drop by sometime Thursday morning, then.

Mme. A: Great!

Mme. Allégresse finishes scanning the six packs, and begins scanning the Arrogant Bastards and wrapping them in paper sacks, and carefully laying them on top of the six packs in the boxes next to her.

Mme. A: Ok. That will be $47.88, Jeff.

I reach into my left pocket and retrieve the rubber-banded collection of credit/business/frequent-shopper cards and cash that serves as a wallet. I retrieve my debit card from its little sleeve that I made from the card it was attached to and covered with tape, and hand it to Mme. Allégresse.

She reaches for the card, and lays her hand on mine, giving a gentle squeeze before gently pulling the card from my fingers.

Mme. A: Debit or Credit?

Me: Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s easiest for you, Ally.

Mme. A: Credit, then.

She hits a few buttons on the register, pauses a moment, then hands the card back to me. I hear the sound of a modem starting up, dialing in to my bank to check that I have the money to cover the purchase.

Mme. A: So, Jeff, I was just about to go get some lunch at Mai Lin’s. Have you ever been there?

Me: No. Is it any good?

Mme. A: Oh! It’s the best Vietnamese food I’ve ever had! It’s so yummy!

She rubs her belly and licks her lips, laughing a bit. Her eyes twinkle.

Mme. A: Do you like Vietnamese?

Me: Yep. I used to eat boatloads of Pho back in the day, but I haven’t had any in years. I guess I’ll have to try it out sometime.

Mme. A: Well, what are you doing right now?

Me: Well, I guess I better go put this beer in the fridge, and then I’ll probably have a nap, or maybe start drinking or something.

She looks a little confused, and her eyes narrow slightly. The receipt printer spits out a piece of paper. Mme. Allégresse rips the paper off, pulls a pen from a little cup next to the register, lays the receipt on the counter, and hands me the pen. I scribble my signature on the line and hand the pen back to her.

Mme. A: Um. . . Ok. Maybe next time, then, OK?

Me: Um. Uh. Ya, I guess.

Mme. A: Like, maybe Thursday after you pick up the beer?

Me: Um. Ya. See you Thursday.

Mme. E: Bye Sweetie!

I pick up one of the boxes and place in on top of the other, then carefully pick up both boxes together.

Mme. A: Do you need some help with that, Jeff?

Me: No thanks, Ally, I think I have it.

Mme. A: Ok. Have a great day, Jeff!

Me: You too, Ally! And we’ll see you soon, Mme. Engourdissment.

I walk to the door, and it slides open in front of me. I look back at Mme. Allégresse and sort of wiggle my fingers at her, trying to wave bye while holding forty pounds of beer. She waves back and gives me a gigantic smile. Mme. Engourdissment walks slowly across the store toward Allégresse.

The door closes behind me and I walk over to the Subaru. I balance the lower box against the rear quarter, and retrieve the alarm clicker from my pocket. I hold down the button: one beep, and then a second later I hear all the doors unlock with a thunk.

I reach over and open the rear door. I carefully place the boxes of beer on the seat, slide them to the middle of the bench, and pull the top box off of the lower box, and set it near the door. I close the rear door, open the front door, slide in, fasten the safety belt, retrieve (with no small difficulty) the keys from my pocket, close the door, depress the brake, insert the key into the ignition, turn the key, and the Subaru growls to life.

I look up and see Mmes. Allégresse and Engourdissment looking at me through the window. They’re talking in an animated manner, and Allégresse is gesticulating. She looks slightly upset. Mme. Engourdissment puts her arm around Ally, gives her a gentle hug, and raises her free arm to wave at me again.

I wave back, reach down, put the transmission into reverse, look back, and slowly back out of the spot.

I depress the brake, shift into drive, and pull out onto Washington. Then it hits me: Mme. Allégresse just asked me out to lunch, and I didn’t even realize it. What an asshole. I slow the Subaru, pull to the side of the road, and think for a minute.

I should totally go back and ask her to come to lunch with me. I really should. That’s why she looked a bit upset. She just threw herself at me and I didn’t even pay any attention. And she’s so damn cute. Lunch with her would be really fun!

Cue Epiphany.

I put the car in drive and pull forward, still cursing myself for being such a dumb ass.

I had a chance, there, and I lost it. Oh well. Maybe I can do something about it when I see her again on Thursday. Oh who am I kidding. She gave me a chance once; no way she’s going to make that mistake again. Stop beating yourself up, Jeff! You’re a nice guy, and she really liked you. It was totally obvious. She’ll give you another chance. Now who’s kidding who? I’m such a fucking asshole.

I raise my arm, make a fist, and punch myself in the head. I feel a sharp pain in my knuckles and skull. I punch myself again, harder this time, and my vision goes blurry for a second. That should shake some sense into me. Yep.

There’s a stop sign ahead. I look around and realize I’m right back at State Street. I’m right back home. I look in the mirror, and can clearly see the Engourdissment’s Beer and Wine parking lot, just up the block. Jeez. I could’ve walked there. What an Asshole, indeed.

5

Where am I? How did I get here?

Oh, ya. The Epiphany plus a crawling sense of self loathing equals Jeff unable to comprehend a woman’s interest in him, and unable to express interest in women. I’m a jackass. It’s as if I’m able to function only as a Non Player Character, a non-participant in my own life, a complete inability to act, even if acting is entirely in my best interest, and capable of leading me to the life that I hope for: the white picket fence; the little yellow house; the wife; the swing in the backyard; our children playing in the clubhouse I built for them.

How did I get here? 1) the Epiphany; 2) the failure to secure employment; 3) the feeling that my education was in vain, that I wasted the past seven years.

So here I am, alone, with only beer, naps, some neighbors who don’t give two damns about me for company, and a strong desire for human contact, for love, for intimacy, that is not quite resolved through masturbation.[xxv]

I flip the blinker arm down, turn the wheel gently, and make the left onto State Street. A few hundred feet later, I turn into right into the parking lot, steer around the various cars that litter the No Parking zones and fire lanes, and wheel into my usual spot.

I sit for a moment, and let the final stanzas of Here Come The Warm Jets blare through the speakers. I pump my fist in time to the beat, in an attempt to sort of rally myself, to perk up, to get going, to shake myself out of the fog of Failure.

I put the transmission into Park, turn the key, remove it from the ignition, and take my foot off the brake. I unfasten the safety belt and open the door. I get out of the Subaru, close the driver door, and open the rear door. I drop the keys into my pocket.

I reach in, lift the first box of beer, and place it atop the second box of beer. I tug both boxes across the seat towards me and feel a sharp pain in my left side. Oh good.

I lift both boxes, and take two steps back. I lift my left leg and gently kick the door closed. I balance the boxes against the Subaru, reach into my pocket, and feel around until I find the alarm clicker thingy. I depress the button: two beeps, followed by the sound of all the doors locking.

I lift the boxes, turn around, and trudge towards my apartment, past Mme. Hautain’s car, past the minivan, past the Plymouth Omni, and turn down the little hallway.

I walk down the hallway. My left side is starting to throb a bit, now.

I approach my apartment, brace the boxes of beer against the window sill next to the front door, the only door, reach into my pocket, and retrieve my keys. I fumble through the keys for a moment, and manage to get the house key out and aimed towards the keyhole.

I shove the key into the lock and wiggle it for several seconds before it finally disengages the bolt.

I remove the key, drop the keys back into my pocket, turn the door knob, and open the door.

I lift the boxes, take two steps to my right, and walk inside. I kick the door closed behind me, but it sticks on the jamb and fails to close fully. I take a couple of steps back and bump the door forcefully with my butt. The door closes fully, and I carry the boxes into the kitchen and set them on the counter near the fridge.

I extract one of the Arrogant Bastards from its protective paper sack, open the fridge, and slide the Bastard to the far left rear. I remove two more Bastards from their sacks and place them in front of the first, being careful to align the labels. The last Bastard falls in line with the rest.

I look in the top box: 1 six of Single-Wide, and the Full Sail six. I open the Single-Wide box, and fish out three beers. I line them up next to the Arrogant Bastards. I retrieve the other three, and place them next to their six pack mates. I pull the Full Sail sixer out of the box, and set it on the counter, and toss the empty packing box across the kitchen, toward where I keep the recycling.

I reach into the remaining box, fetch the other six Single-Wides, and place them in the refrigerator next to their cousins. I repeat the process with the Elissas, and move the gallon of milk and jug of tea to the left, to give myself easier access to the remaining space on the shelf where I keep beverages.[xxvi]

Let’s see. I’ll probably drink the Full Sails tonight, so I guess I’ll put the Thunderheads in the back, and the Full Sails up front.

I load the Thunderheads and the Full Sails, and close the fridge.

I pick up and collapse all the empty six-pack containers, carry them to the little wire recycle bin where I keep recyclable paper stuffs, and wedge them into the bin next to the coupons and grocery ads from yesterdays mail. I fold up the paper sacks and stuff them into the recycle bin as well. I pick up the box on the counter, nudge the second box around with my right foot until the box is in its proper location (against the wall and between the wire recycling bin and the bookshelf), turn the first box on its end, and place it inside the second box. I look back at the counter, and notice a couple of coffee stains and some grounds littering the counter: yuck.

I walk to the sink, pick up the two-days-old washcloth, turn on the water, rinse and wring out the washcloth, and wipe down the counter. I may be a jerk and a fatty, but at least I’m not a fat jerky slob.

I look over and see that the computer has gone to sleep while I was out. I walk over, wiggle the mouse a bit, and hear the engines firing up. What to do? What to do?

It’s too early to drink or nap or watch the hulu. I’ve already eaten and job-hunted and ran out for beer. What’s left in my day?

I sit down at the desk and decide to check email. I move the mouse over to the right-hand side of the screen and click on the Apple Mail icon: a little blue and white postage stamp with an eagle soaring above. The window opens, and a little cartoon wheel begins turning, indicating a search for incoming email.

After a couple of seconds, the cartoon wheel stops its rotation, and a sound like a pan flute crossed with a fog horn comes from the speakers. No new mail. Oh well.

I close the Mail window. What to do? Let’s see if anything new is going on in the D2 Forum.

I click on the little blue compass and open Safari. I click the ‘Bookmarks’ tab in the menu bar and navigate down to the ‘Research’ collection, over to the ‘Diablo’ set, and down to the ‘Single-Player’ link. The window goes dark for a second, and then slowly begins to load up the forum.

More follow up posts—likely varying from “Congratulations” to “You’re fucking crazy!”—to DayTrader’s TetraDecaSept; another introduction thread, this time for someone named LuigiLovesTehPrincess; some follow-ups to the germaphobe tournament; a question about where to find a program called PlugY, which will likely get the poster a lifetime ban;[xxvii] someone asking about running Diablo II on Macintosh computers. . . if he looked in the “Help” sticky, he’d find the D2 on Mac User’s Guide I wrote six or eight months ago, but that’s probably too much trouble for him: well, I would post a link to the guide, but since he couldn’t be bothered to look in the Sticky, I won’t be bothered to point him to it. Besides, there are some other Mac users who are nicer than I, and the moderators know all about my Mac Guide, so he’ll get a link to it sometime. Shit. We mac users have to stick together, so I’ll swallow my pride and see what he wants.

I click the link to the post, and read the following:

Hi Forum. I hopes someone cans help. I’s wanting to run the multi-instance dll so’s I’s can do teh hf rushes. Also wanting to run 1.07 to makes it easier and maybe find the burrito cannon. Hlp plz.

In the little box at the bottom of the post, I type the following:

There is no multi-instance dll available for the mac. You have to have multiple installs. (Note that this will only work in OSX Leopard or later.)

You start with a single install of D2. It’s in a folder called ‘Diablo II Folder’ in Applications. Rename this folder ‘D2-1’ or somesuch.

Create a new folder. Name it ‘D2-2’ or whatever. Go back to ‘D2-1,’ click on one of the contents and hit CMD-A to select all, then CMD-C to copy all. Now go back to D2-2 and hit CMD-V to paste everything.

Now create six more folders (D2-3, -4, -5 . . .), open each, and hit CMD-V to paste in.

 

To run multiple instances, you just open each of the installs, and go as normal. I don’t HF Rush, so I can’t really speak to how it works.

 

As for 1.07 (or anything prior to 1.10), you’ll need a mac that can run OS8 or 9, or a PPC mac that can run the Classic environment. So far as I know, the copy/paste stuff works in OS8/9, but not in Classic (due to some file-structure restrictions in early versions of OSX).

Also, go check out the D2 Mac User’s Guide. It’s in the ‘Help’ Sticky at the top of the first page.

 

I hope this helps! Good luck.

I hit the ‘post’ button and watch as the screen flashes for a second, and my words appear. Someone else already posted in the meantime:

Watch Your Grammar and READ THE FRIGGEN STICKIES!!!!1!!1!one! JeffCaff wrote a guide for macs that will answer all your questions, jackass!

Nice. It’s always good to curse out other members for being lazy cocksuckers. We’re a friggen community here. Why do communities like this always get into quarrels and squibbles over nothing? We’re all playing this 10-year-old game; we all have similar attitudes about keeping D2 ‘pure.’ Let’s just be civil, helpful, friendly, and the like, right?

It’s pretty much like the rest of life: we’re all in this together, so why all the competition? Why can’t we all just get along?

Like all those people giving me the finger while I was hunting for a beer store. I mean, come on! Live and let Live!

Of course, I’m as guilty of all this as everyone else, I guess. I don’t flip the bird (unless it’s warranted), but I do tend to put people into little boxes: some of which get shuffled to the back of my mind, or placed in undesirable quarters. Like the fucking hipsters that are taking over Old Dallas. I mean, this is a nice place, or could be. I bet the influx of hipsters is exactly what led to all the little birdies I saw today (except those from the hipsters themselves, who birdied because they could tell I wasn’t one of them). I’m young and white, and I moved into Old Dallas for the cheap rent and great food, so I must be a hipster, and be trying to take over this area and push all the brown people out, yes? Shit. So then why am I living in a friggen shithole? Only because the rent is cheap, and the landlords are more likely to keep up with maintenance and make improvements if whitey lives in their properties.

So a few clean-cut, decently- or well-educated pale folks move into an apartment complex populated by Hispanics or African Americans or even working class Caucasians. Groovy. The well-educated whites have grown accustomed to a certain sort of environment, and demand that the landlord(s) keep up maintenance and make improvements (pretty flowers and the like). The landlords comply, and raise everyone’s rent to offset costs. So, the apartments start to look nicer: fresh coats of paint in contemporary colors; landscaping; maybe even the little fountain that broke down in 1979 gets repaired. Well, great. The place starts to look really nice. But the rents have gone from three or four hundred per month to eight or nine hundred, and many of the Hispanics and African Americans and Pakistanis and working class whites get priced out of the neighborhood. This is gentrification in a nut shell, highly simplified, of course, but largely accurate nonetheless.

So this is why I live in an apartment complex with a fountain that pisses all day and night and that is populated by a bunch of whiteys, while just across the street there’s an apartment complex built in the same year, designed by the same architectural firm, with a broken down fountain, peeling paint, no flowers, and an ethnically rich tenant base.

But I digress.

The whole gentrification situation breeds contempt between the so-called minorities (that make up the majority of the people in the United States) and working class folks, on the one hand, and well-educated whites, hipsters, stroller moms and the like on the other. And I go out driving around, looking for a beer store and trying to be friendly to my neighbors, but get dirty looks and wagging fingers at every turn.

The tradiditional residents of Old Dallas don’t want me around, because I’m white, fairly well-kept, and highly educated.

The new residents of the New part of Old Dallas don’t want me around because I’m overweight, uninterested in fixed-gear bicycles and looking pretty.

So I get the finger. I get cursed at. I get rocks and skateboards thrown at me.

Oh well.

Time for a cigarette.

I stand up, turn, and walk to the door. I fish cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, open the door, retrieve a cigarette from the pack, stick it in my mouth, shove the pack back in my pocket, step outside, close the door behind me, and light the cigarette.

I take a drag and walk over to the little planter I like to lean against whilst I smoke. I lean up against the planter and look around: the fountain pisses. I hear the unmistakable beeping and transmission grinding that indicates trash pickup.

I take another drag, and flick the ashes off into the planter.

I hear some other ruckus coming from the parking lot. I look over behind me and see six Hispanic guys walking into the courtyard carrying rakes, shovels, and trays of little plants (a variety of daisy, I think). I give a friendly wave, and get a scowl in return.

One of the guys begins picking cigarette butts and other debris from the planter. Another follows close behind him, and uses a pitchfork thing to break up the ground. The other guys drop their tools and retreat to the parking lot. By the time they return, carrying 4 bags of fertilizer each, the first two guys have moved on to the second planter.

I take a drag on the cigarette, inhale, exhale, and watch as the men begin opening bags of fertilizer and dumping them into the first planter. Another of the men picks up a shovel and begins to spread the fertilizer around. The fifth dude pulls a small spade from his pocket and begins digging small holes into the freshly spread fertilizer. The sixth follows, pulling little baby plants from their plastic cases, and dropping them into the holes.

By now, the first two guys are moving towards me, giving me a look that screams “Get the fuck out of our way Cracker!”

I move over near one of the little stone tables in the courtyard, take a drag off the cigarette, and sit down on one of the stubby little stools.

The first two men quickly finish the last planter. One begins to go around and pick up garbage, while the other disappears into the parking lot, returning seconds later with a garden hose, which he attaches to a water spigot near my door. He begins watering in the flowers in the first planter. The fertilizer guys have finished the third planter and begin working on the fourth. The planter guys finish the second planter. The watering fellow begins watering the second planter. The trash collector takes a large arm-load of debris down the hall toward the dumpster.

The first two guys have finished now, and one begins picking up garbage while the other disappears into the parking lot. He returns shortly with a backpack-style leaf blower and begins to blow leaves and dirt and bits of debris around the courtyard. I take a drag off the cigarette, inhale, exhale, and tap the ash off into the little ashtray on the table in front of me.

The flower planting is completed, the trash is picked up and taken away, and one-by-one the men return from whence they came. The last to disappear is the leaf-blowing fellow.

And *poof* they’re all done, and the planters are now filled with little plants, some of which are sprouting small, soft yellow flowers. The whole operation took less than three minutes.

That’s teamwork for you.

Now if only the whole world could work together like that, we’d be set for eternity: no illness, no hunger, no sweatshop labor, no rape, no child abuse, no religious wars, only peace and harmony. HA. No way I’ll ever see anything like that. No way. Humans are too competitive. Those landscape guys developed a system to complete the maximum amount of work in the shortest amount of time: they could surely complete two or three hundred planting operations in one day, and I bet they get paid by the planter or by the property. They’re working this well together for a purely economic reason. As long as our society is based on money, there will be a dearth of community and cooperation.

Well, that last bit may be a bit reductive, but still. I think it really is greed that drives most human activity: lust for money, fame, power, sex, etc. Greed and lust feed on greed and lust: the more we have the more we want. Until we can, as a species, learn to eschew lust and replace it with desire or even hope, we will always be at war with one another, people will continue to die and suffer for no good reason, and I’ll still get flipped off and cursed at when I drive around.

I grab the edge of the table with my right hand and lean back as far as I can, twisting slightly in an attempt to stretch out my side and back. I take a drag on the cigarette, lean forward, put the cigarette into my right hand, grab the table with my left hand, and stretch again.

I take the last drag on the cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray.

I take a deep breath and can smell the freshly-turned, damp earth. It smells like growth, like life, like thriving.

I stand up and walk back to the apartment. I open the door, go inside, and close the door behind me.

What to do? What to do?

I’m feeling a bit sleepy, so maybe I’ll have a nap. But if I lay down, I’ll probably want to pull the head off it, and I want to save my energy just in case Mme. Maligne really does decide to let me stuff one deep into her pie and get all sloppy. So maybe a nap isn’t that good an idea. Hummm. What to do.

I have beer. I’ve eaten. I’ve got enough cigarettes to last me the night. I’ve showered and shaved. I’ll need to eat a bowl of ramen soup, but that comes later. If I start up some hulu this early in the day, I’ll feel like a total fucking loser. What to do?

Wait. How many cigarettes do I have?

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the pack. I flip open the lid and count two, four, six, seven. Seven cigarettes. I’ll definitely need more than that if I’m going to sit outside with the neighbors and drink and try to get into Mme. Maligne’s little pink panties.

Do I have an extra pack in the stash?

I look over toward the bookshelf where I store spare cigarettes. I could’ve sworn there was a spare pack there, but the spot is completely empty. Shit. I must’ve smoked them last night or something. Damnit. I guess I’ll have to make a cigarette run. Why didn’t I check before I went to the beer store? I could’ve stopped off somewhere easy and picked up some with no problem. Oh well.

Car or bicycle? Hummm. Well, since I’m feeling a bit sleepy, a bit of exercise is probably right in order.

I walk over to the ancient Schwinn ten-speed that I picked up for three dollars at a junk store in Illinois. I tilt the bicycle slightly, and flip up the kickstand with my right foot. I spin the bicycle around and roll it towards the door.

I grab the bicycle by the seat, stretch out my left hand, and open the door. I roll the bike through the door, turn it to face towards the parking lot, and close the door. I pull the keys from my pocket and lock the door. I drop the keys back into my pocket.

I roll the bicycle out to the parking lot, straddle it, and kick the pedals around until the one near my right foot is pointing skyward. I put my right foot on the pedal and push gently. I put my left foot on the other pedal and roll out in a graceful arc, past the Plymouth, the minivan, the gas-guzzling SUVs, and take a right onto State Street.

God. It’s suddenly a friggen gorgeous day. Maybe seventy degrees, bright, warm sunshine, a soft, gentle breeze. Fucking lovely, for sure. Far and away from that dark, overcast bullshit we had all morning. Nice.

I pedal down State, changing into a higher gear to get a bit more of a leg workout and accelerate a bit. The wind is whistling in my ears, rushing past and creating a great whooshing sound.

My breathing becomes slightly labored, and I can feel the first beads of sweat collecting on my forehead.

At Lafayette, I slow to a stop and look both ways, carefully scanning the four-lane street for white panel trucks and other hazards. It’s clear both ways, and I slowly accelerate, across the two west bound lanes, and turn into the far east bound lane, hugging the shoulder just in case some cars magically appear.

The wind rushes past my ears as I accelerate. My breathing has become slightly labored (I smoke too much), and my thighs are beginning to burn a bit from the effort of climbing the slight incline. My whole body feels warm.

I pass a few houses, formerly upper-middle class bankers homes, and now a more interesting mixture of four- and eight-plex rentals, abandoned and boarded squats, and halfway houses. A couple of homeless men are walking towards me, and I raise my right arm to give them a wave.

Me: How’s it going today, gentlemen?

Man1: Alright, alright.

Me: Beautiful day, huh?

Man 1: Hell yes, after all that rain and shit.

Man 2: Fuckin Right.

I pass the men and they give me a friendly wave.

This slight bit of exercion is really getting the blood pumping, and I feel my testicals fill with fluid, and my penis swells slightly. I don’t know why I don’t exercise more often. Every time I get a good sweat on, I feel so alive and viril and optimistic. I should really get out on the bike some more, and maybe even start doing some floor exercises time to time: sit-ups and push-ups and the like. Maybe even pull out the little fifteen pound hand weights I picked up in IL when I first quit smoking and put away after the Suçonie Incident.

I’m coming to the light at Cesar Chavez, and I slow down and raise my left arm, holding my hand up to indicate a right turn. I look over my right shoulder: still no traffic, and turn into the parking lot of the Tetco Gas Station, the only place around that carries my brand of cigarettes.

I roll to a stop in front of the store, and hop off the bicycle. I flip down the kickstand and stand the bicycle near the door.

I walk to the door, grab the handle, and tug the door open. A little bell sounds as I walk through.

The attendant is stocking candy bars on the rack in the center of the store. She looks up as I enter.

Attendant: I’ll be with you in just one minute.

Me: Groovy. I’m in no hurry.

The attendant is short, really short, and kind of homely. She has dirty, curly red hair, a huge beak of a nose, and a heavily pockmarked face. Scars cover her arms and hands.

I look around the store: the usual convenience store contrivances: candybars, peanuts, chips, a coffee bar, rows of refrigerators filled with soda, juice, premade sandwiches, overpriced milk and eggs and cheese. A rack of sunglasses stands in the center; a display of expensive and cheaply made road maps is near the bulletproof cash register enclosure.

I shift from one foot to the other and look over at the magazine rack. On the lower shelves, the usual suspects: women’s magazines, men’s magazines, car magazines, Time and People and Newsweek, several Spanish-language magazines, some music-related magazines, an extreme sports magazine, a couple of comic books. The upper shelves are populated with a vast array of Porn. Not just Playboy/Penthouse/Hustler, but also Juggs, Barely Legal, King, and about two dozen DVDs, with various highly suggestive titles: Lila Spreads, Poon Dog, Sloppy Suckers XVII, Naughty Neighbors IV, and others.

I hear the attendant stand up behind me and walk over to the register enclosure. She unlocks the door, steps through, pulls it shut behind her, and flips six separate locks closed. She smiles through the bulletproof plastic screen, and gives me an expectant look.

Me: Two packs of Camel Indian Spring?[xxviii]

The attendant scans the rack of cigarettes above her head.

Attendant: Camel Indian Spring?

Me: Yep.

Attendant: We’re all out of Indian Spring.

Me: Ummm. . . Indian Summer, then?

The attendant pulls a step stool from under the counter, climbs up on it, and retrieves one pack from the rack.

She steps down from the stool and turns to the register.

Me: Two packs, please?

The attendant gives me a little glare as if to say “Why didn’t you say two packs in the first place, you fucking cocksucker.”

She clambers back atop the stepstool and retrieves another pack from the rack.

Me: Sorry about that, but I gotta get the two pack special, you know, save the 27 cents or whatever.

Attendant: Anything else?

Me: No thanks.

Attendant: You need a lighter?

Me: Nopes. I got one in my pocket.

Attendant: need a sack?

Me: Nope. I have two pockets. Thanks, though.

Attendant: That’ll be twelve dollars and ten cents.

I reach into my left pocket and retrieve the packet of cards and whatnot. I retrieve the debit card from it’s little pouch, and slide it through the card reader on the counter.

Attendant: Credit or Debit?

Me: Whatever’s easiest.

Attendant: Debit. Scan your card again.

She starts punching buttons on the cash register, and I slide the card through the scanner again.

Attendant: Ugh. Scan your card again, but wait until I finish entering the information.

Me: Sorry about that.

Attendant: No problem. Ok. Scan it now.

She points at the scanner. I scan the card again. The little screen flashes a couple of times and says “Welcome to Tetco.” The screen flashes again, and two little touch-sensitive buttons appear: credit or debit. I pick up the little stylus and poke the debit button. Nothing happens.

Attendant: You have to push it hard.

Me: Oh. Groovy.

I push the debit button with a good deal of force. The screen flashes again. “Your Total: $12.10. Is this correct? Yes. No.”

I poke the Yes button.

The screen flickers for several seconds and then presents a numbered keypad, like on an ATM or telephone or computer keyboard, but touch screen style.

I poke in my code: 5267.

I should really change this fucking code: May second, M S. 2 May is Mme. Suçonie’s Birthday, and I picked this code to help me remember. Now I want to forget.

The screen flickers a few times, and then goes dark for several seconds. I look up at the attendant. She stares at the cash register, waiting for something.

The screen flickers to life and says “Approved.”

The cash register clacks to life and spits out a receipt.

The Attendant rips the receipt from the cash register and shoves it through the little pass through slot in the bulletproof plastic. She shoves the cigarettes one at a time through the slot.

I retrieve the receipt, fold it in half and shove it into my left butt pocket. I retrieve the first pack of cigarettes and shove it in my left pocket; the second goes into the right pocket.

Me: Thanks a bunch.

Attendant: Have a nice day, and come again.

Me: I’m working on it already.

I turn and walk to the door. I push the door open and step through. I tug my pants up a bit, and shake my legs, trying to loosen them up a bit before getting back on the bicycle.

I flip up the kickstand, throw my right leg over the bicycle, kick the right pedal until it’s pointing roughly up, put my foot on the pedal, and roll away from the store. The pack of cigarettes in my right pocket is in a bit of an awkward position, and I reach down to adjust it. The bike wobbles a bit, but I begin pedaling a bit faster to avoid falling.

I slow to a stop and look both ways before turning back across Lafayette. No cars, no pedestrians. I roll out and start to head back home.

What to do when I get back home? Hummm. Maybe I’ll just ride around for a bit. Mauvais told me something about a good bike trail around here that goes through Steer City and into Downtown. Maybe I’ll ride around a bit and try to find it.

I ride down Lafayette, enjoying the gradual decline. I pedal a bit, picking up speed, and then coast. The wind rushes past my ears.

I pass the halfway houses and eight-plexes. There’s a post office drop box at the corner of State Street, covered in various marker and spraypaint tags. It looks like someone’s using a homemade mop marker[xxix] to tag Suss or somesuch: I can tell the type of marker by the way the paint or ink or whatever drips and runs, and I really like the look of mop and homemade style markers. Good stuff. Unfortunately, I’m going too fast to make out any more of the tags.

I pass State Street and venture on to Villa Nueva, past more four- and eight-plexes, past boarded-up vacant houses, past crash pads and squats and (presumably) crack or general drug houses.

As I approach Villa Nueva, I look over my left shoulder and check for traffic. The street is empty behind me. I hold my left arm out straight and look ahead of me. A car is coming, and I slow down to let it pass before turning, but the car slows and I see the driver—a middle-aged African American fellow—wave me across.

I give a friendly wave, and turn in front of him. Everyone’s being so nice now that the sun is out. Maybe I really do love Dallas?

I turn onto Villa Nueva. Jesus. This road is a total piece of shit. Fuck.

I roll into a driveway and pull onto the sidewalk, which is rather cracked, with huge sections missing, but it’s way better than the street.

Riding on the sidewalk gives me a better chance to see the houses that I pass. This area once housed the laborers and others who worked for the Bankers and richies that lived on Lafayette and Washington and the other OWMS[xxx] back before the great migration of Rich White Folks to the suburbs.

A group of people are sitting on and standing around a porch up ahead, drinking cans of High Life and muttering to one another. I raise my hand and wave as I approach.

Me: How ya’ll doing today.

Man 1: Alright.

Me: Already.

A couple of the men raise their beer cans at me as I pass, and I give a friendly nod.

My legs are really burning now, and I have to force myself to keep going. If I stop now, turn around and go home, I’ll be sore all day, but if I can ride until my legs stop hurting, I’ll be all full of energy the rest of the day, especially once I get a couple of beers and some Ramen Noodle Soup and a half-dozen or so more beers in me, so I keep going.

I turn back onto the street and slow down as I approach Custer Boulevard. There’s a stop sign here and cars rush to and fro. If I recall, Mauvais said the bike trail was just past Custer. Groovy.

I put my feet on the ground, and sort of walk the bike forward a bit, watching the cars and trucks stream by. I look to the left and see that the light at Villa Carbon is turning red: a good sign that I’ll be able to go pretty soon.

The west-bound lanes clear, but the east-bound lanes are still full of vehicles, which stack up at the light. After several minutes, cars have completely filled the east bound parts of Custer, but a couple of people were nice enough to leave me a space to ride through. I wave, and kick the bicycle forward, wobbling a bit as I get started. I wave at the people who let me through, and look to my right again before committing to the street crossing.

The west bound lanes are still clear, but I can see that the light has changed, and cars are beginning to pull away from the light. I pedal a bit faster, and cross Custer in plenty of time.

This part of Villa Nueva is obviously becoming heavily Gentrified. The road is still a bit bumpy, but most of the potholes have been filled, and the sidewalks are newly repaired. Big trees line the road, and most of smallish houses have been renovated. Jaguars and Priuses and Explorers fill the driveways.

A couple of blonde, plastic stoller moms are walking their children down the street ahead. I slow a bit so that I’ll have plenty of time to examine their wiggling little butts. The first is wearing a yellow, sleeveless half-shirt and has a flat little no-butt, stuffed into a pair of skinny jeans. It pretty much looks like a two-by-eight board stuffed in her pants. There’s not even any indication of a division between right and left butt cheeks. Yuck. The second has a swollen round bubble of a butt, and is wearing a pair of grey tights and a little pink sports bra. Her lower back is tight and toned, obviously fake-baked, but I can see the sexy little dimples at the top of her butt, and tell that she’s wearing a lacy pair of French-cut bikini panties: the line arcs beautifully across her firm, swollen ass cheeks, and disappears into the crevice that leads to her fat little pie. Her legs look great in the tights, and I feel my penis stiffen a bit as I imagine bending her over a table, ripping down the tights and panties in one fell swoop, and stuffing my prick into that waiting and obviously willing and probably plastic-enhanced ass.

Me: Afternoon Ladies.

Stroller Moms: (In unison) Hi!

I accelerate slightly, and raise my right hand as I pass, giving a friendly wave and trying to look nonchalant, as if I wasn’t staring at that little slut’s bubble.

They smile and wave, and I continue on.

Man, I’m a friggen horny bastard today. I don’t know what’s with me, but despite my virtual hatred of stroller moms, I would pound that bitch from behind for days if she’d let me. Fuck. I’d even fuck the skinny no-ass one: I bet she’d fucking scream and buck and twist up like a fucking pretzel when I poked her.

I’ve got to stop thinking like this. Jesus. I mean, I’m a fat, hairy, white boy with no job, no money, and no game. That dumb ass move with Mme Allégresse is proof. She was practically begging me to ask her out, and I didn’t even realize it until it was way too late. Shit. I should turn around and ride over there and apologize and beg her to have dinner with me, but I know I could never get the nerve up to do something like that, what with the Epiphany and all.

I really hate myself sometimes.

The wind rushes past my ears, and I shift gears and pedal harder, despite the burning in my thighs, in hopes that the exertion will burn out some of the horniness, at least for the time being, at least until later, when maybe I’ll get a chance to break one off in Mme. Maligne.

Up ahead, I see a break in the trees and houses, and I sign that warns of bicycles, stroller moms, children, and skateboarders crossing the street. So this bicycle path is pretty close. Nice. I’ll definitely have to get down here more often, for sure, especially if the path is well-maintained and safe.

I hold my left hand up, bent at the elbow, to indicate a right turn, and turn onto the beautifully paved path.

The bicycle path follows a right-of-way for a collection of high-tension power lines that cut through this part of town. This entire area was a friggen nightmare just a couple of years ago: shootings, prostitutes, drug dealers, crack houses, illegal gambling halls and brothels, etc. But it’s all been taken over by the young and beautiful. A woman is roller-blading on the path ahead of me: tiny little short shorts, tiny little top, all legs and tight dancer ass, and toned body. I feel my penis stiffen a bit as I realize that I can make out a bit of cheek, peeking out from the bottom of her shorts.

I pick up speed and pass her.

Me: Hello.

She doesn’t respond, and I see that she’s wearing an iPod. I can make out some dance music or something leaking from the headphones. I raise my hand and wave; she flicks a hand up at me and smiles in response.

The path winds and twists around the high-tension lines, and I have a bit of fun over-steering and twisting my way down the path. My penis calms down a bit, and I can feel the burning in my thighs easing.

Sweat is rolling down my face and back, and I’m breathing hard. It feels great, even though I’m fairly out of shape.

Up ahead, I see a hipster couple cuddling on a bench. They look happy. He leans over and kisses her, and I see that he has some large rings in his ears and some tribal-looking tattooes on his biceps. Dumbass. The girl is cute-ish, and has some colorful butterfly and flower half-sleeves, well-toned and visible thanks to strappy black tank top with Obey emblazoned on it Ozzy Osbourne-style lettering. Fucking Sheppard Fairey and his bullshit Obey Bullshit.

Sheppard Fairy played a fairly large role in my thesis, exemplifying the corrupting power of Capitalism and the takeover of graffiti by corporate interests.

Fairy was never particularly interested in graffiti, by his own admission, until he needed to come up with an art project while he was working on an MFA at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). So he made some stickers with a picture of Andre the Giant and the scribbled phrase “Andre the Giant has a Posse.” He stuck them up all over Providence.

Soon, he was making large screen prints and wheat-pasting them up all over town. He gained some notoriety, and found himself exhibiting and selling prints with relative ease. He illegally wheat-pastes half of the prints, and sells the other half in galleries and through his website.

Time passed, and he received some graphic design commissions from shoe companies and skateboard companies and soda conglomerates.

He started claiming that his corporate and gallery work provided the funds necessary to continue his illegal street art campaign, but he makes far more money from his legal work (now including a well-received graphic design studio, a clothing line, and a magazine empire) than the relatively few wheat-pastes that he sticks up around New York, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and the like, always (and rather conveniently) very near galleries and other spaces where he’s showing work.

His street art, rather than being a fuck you to the commercial art world, now serves as advertisement for his legal activities. I think of this process (and the entire development of street art) as a sort of Gentrification of Graffiti.

Well-educated whites, often MFA graduates and graphic design professionals, begin creating illegal street works. Their works on the street are visually beautiful and appeal to wealthy young whites, who go to gallery shows and pay $250 for a print that they saw on the street.

Street artists follow the same strategies employed by graffiti writers, namely finding and holding a spot.

Up-and-coming MFA students see how successful street artists have become, and begin making street art themselves.

The influx of street art into an area draws wealthy whites to that area, and soon the tenements and ethnic stores are pushed out, replaced by upscale apartments and Charbuckses. Traditional graffiti (marker and spraypaint tags, throw-ups, pieces, and the like) are replaced by pretty wheatpastes and stencil graffiti. Wealthy whites believe that this pretty stuff is the real graffiti, and lobby to have street art legalized, while complaining to the police and city council about the couple of lone tags that appear on lampposts and mailboxes with ever-increasing infrequency.

Graffiti becomes marginalized, and street art takes over.

Up ahead I see a stop sign at Villa Carbon. I slow down and stop. A couple of cars pass, and I continue on.

There are a couple of hipster dudes riding towards me, pedaling furiously, but not going very fast at all: fucking fixed gear bullshit. I wave at them and they wave back.

As I pass, I hear one say something about “fucking roadies.” They start laughing.

The soreness has completely dissipated, now, and my legs have a nice, rubbery feeling. My breathing has become a bit easier as well, and I’m really feeling great. I definitely need to do this more often.

On my right, I remodeled houses twinkle in the sun, punctuated occasionally by new mid-rise apartment blocks and the odd Charbucks or Panera Bread or Jason’s Deli sign. To my left, it’s almost completely high-rise apartments of contemporary design. I bet the friggen rents around here are outrageous, and I’m thankful to be living in the sort of valley of Old Dallas that still exists between Downtown and the new part of Old Dallas.

Of course, some traditional graffiti still exists, mostly on Freight Trains and in economically depressed areas. Likewise, some street art still follows the traditional, anti-advertising spirit of graffiti.

For example, in 2006, FIBZ sold three works to the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex Contemporary Art Museum (MCAM) for $680,000. She used the all of the money to put on the SPT Crew’s barge trip down the Brazos river.

Similarly, all of the SPT Crew’s graphic design income goes to fund community centers, public art projects, classes, and block parties throughout Texas.

Also, the SPT Crew continues their illegal practices, and take months off at a time to travel the state and country, completely covering a variety of walls, billboards, telephone poles, and mailboxes with their tags, throw-ups and pieces, and members are continually arrested and sought for questioning by the police.

But for the most part, street art has ruined graffiti.

Three women are jogging up ahead, all blonde and ponytails bobbing, and tight jogger butts wiggling in little short shorts and fake breasts bouncing around in their sports bras. They all have fabulous legs. Two of their asses are firm and round, sitting high on their backs, and the third is larger, plump, and slightly wobblier than the other two.

I slow down a bit and coast behind them, keeping my distance and staring hard a the asses and legs as the stride in unison in front of me. The big ass wobbles in time with the pumping legs, but at the exact opposite frequency: foot hits pavement/ass cheek flops up, foot in the air/ass cheek bounces down and wiggles slightly. Jesus I’m horny.

I speed up and pass them, glancing over to see two sets of C cups and one set of ludicrously large DDs or maybe even Es. The women smile.

Big-assed sexpot: Hello.

I raise my hand in a wave.

Me: Ladies.

DD or E Cups: Hi.

Tight-assed hottie: Hi.

I continue riding, pedaling a bit faster as my penis stiffens yet again.

A stop sign looms ahead, and I slow to a stop and look both ways, checking for cars coming down Villa Blanco. My penis is uncomfortable now, and I take a second to make an adjustment before crossing the street. One or two more blocks, and I’ll head back home.

This little section of bike trail has been recently manicured, with young fruit trees and flowerbeds brightening up the electrical line thoroughfare. The buildings on both sides are almost universally high-rise apartments, now, punctuated by parking garages. I can see three Charbucks signs from here. Jeez. Fucking Hipster Central.

A young woman is walking towards me, being drug along by a large dog. She has short-cropped black hair and a cute, round face. I get closer and realize that she looks just like Four, like, they could be twins or something. Jesus. The same impossibly large, round, brown eyes. The same small mouth with those sexy cupid-bow lips. The narrow shoulders and small breasts, the wiggle to her walk that is the world’s best indicator of a gorgeous ass. Damn.

The dog lunges at me, and I swerve slightly, almost coming off the bike. I slow to a stop and put my right foot on the ground. I am breathing heavily.

Cutie Pie: Sorry about that! Are you OK?

Me: Oh, I’m fine. I just sort of lost it a bit. No problem.

The dog comes over and sniffs at my bicycle and left foot. The cutie yanks hard on the leash, but the dog doesn’t even budge.

Cutie Pie: Charlie! Don’t bother the nice man!

Me: It’s alright, no worries.

I reach down and let the dog sniff my hand before scratching him behind the ears. He pants and wags his tail and tongue at me.

Me: Friendly little dog.

Cutie Pie: Oh, yes, he’s a bit too friendly at times.

I look up at the Cutie. God she’s gorgeous. And she looks just like Four. I want to jump off the bike, rush over, pick her up and give her a huge bear hug and sloppy kiss, but I stay on the bicycle.

She turns to go.

Cutie Pie: Come on, Charlie, let’s go home.

Me: Go on, Charlie. It was nice to meet you, you sweet little dog.

The dog turns away and follows the Cutie.

I look back and examine her ass as she wiggles away. Damn. She even has Four’s perfectly round butt. Holy Shit. My penis stiffens.

Four and I met in the late 1990s, while I was doing a short Community College stint. I saw her one day and told a buddy that she was the cutest little think I had ever seen.

I got up the nerve and walked over to her to introduce myself. She was sitting on a bench smoking, and just as I walked up, she reached down into her purse. I could see down her loose-fitting low-cut t-shirt, and saw these tiny, dark pink, erect nipples poking out of her chest.

She shook my hand and introduced herself. I sat down on the bench next to her. I was sure that I was going to start dating her, but it never really happened. My buddy swooped in and scooped her up: he was thin and charming, I was fat and shy.

So Four and I became buddies: we went out to breakfast together every Tuesday and Thursday; we went for dinner on Wednesdays and Saturdays; she would come over and watch movies, I would go over and watch television. After a couple of months, my buddy broke up with her, and I was there to give her hugs and all. I could’ve had her then, and many times after, but never availed myself of her.

I push off with my right foot, and begin to pedal away. I take one last look at that ass, covered barely by a clingy pair of khaki Capri pants. I don’t see a panty line, so she’s either wearing a thong, or a pair of boy legs, or maybe she’s even going commando. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her look back at me. She speeds up her walk and practically runs away. That ass looks great in a speed walk. Yummy-licious.

I ride on down the bicycle path, resuming my over-steering and weaving to and fro.

The wind rushes past my ears, and a coolish breeze is blowing in from the North, causing the trees to gently bob back and forth.

Sometimes Four and I would wrestle around a bit during commercials or if a movie got boring or something. I would have to stop after a couple of minutes, because I would always get a massive erection. Four would laugh and rub her thighs together. I should have just grabbed her and kissed her one of those times. I bet it would’ve been magical.

One Valentine’s Day, we were both single and decided to spend the day together. I bought her almost $300 worth of gifts: candy, balloons, Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, a little heart-shaped pillow with Be Mine embroidered on it. We cuddled for a bit and watched The Jerk and wrestled and I got an erection and tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let me and we ended up spooning for a bit on the couch. She rubbed her perfect ass against me, keeping me hard for over an hour until it was time for her to go home.

I walked her out to her car, my penis at full attention, poking painfully against my jeans. At her car, I grabbed her and gave her a big hug, and she jumped onto me and wrapped her legs around me and kissed me. I gave her butt a squeeze and she tried to suck my tongue out of my mouth. I almost came in my pants right there. It was awesome.

The next day, she left on a family vacation and came back with a boyfriend. They were married six months later and moved to Massachusetts. I visited them one year at Thanksgiving, and she and I built a fort out of blankets and pillows and watched The Jerk and held each other under the fort. She wrapped her legs around my right thigh and we started kissing. She was on fire.

After several seconds, I remembered her husband, asleep in the next room, and pushed her away. “We can’t do this,” I said. She whined that he would never know, and started nibbling on my neck. “But I would know,” I said. She started rubbing my erection through my jeans, and I slapped her hand away.

I should’ve gone ahead and taken her that night, but my damn moral/ethical constitution wouldn’t allow it.

Ends up, Four was a huge cheater. I became friends with her husband, and a couple of years later he caught her with some dude. It was their wedding anniversary. He filed for divorce, and it came out that she had been with dozens of men since they got married, and that she even (apparently) fucked the best man on their wedding night.

Two weeks later, before their divorce was final, before they even went to court, but after they were separated and had lawyers and everything, he went out, bought a gun and some bullets, and shot himself.

Since then, it’s been my mission to see Four one last time, but she seems to have disappeared: her email doesn’t work, I can’t find a phone number, no one has heard from her. It’s probably just as well, since all I want to do get my dick wet, to fuck her hard, because I know that to give her a good one or three or seven and then never see her again is about the only way I’ll ever be able to fully get her out of my head.

I’m coming up to the stop sign at Villa Grande, and slow to a stop, checking both ways for cars. I’m pretty winded, now, and I wonder if maybe I should head back home. Hummm. Well, if I keep going for another block or so, I’ll get a slightly better workout, but I’ll definitely have to have a shower. If I turn back now, maybe take Villa Grande back to Lafayette or Washington and then back home, I’ll get some decent hills and all, and I’ll . . . still need to shower. Hummm.

I guess I’ll turn back.

I lift my left arm and point my hand up to indicate a right turn, look again for cars, and pedal out, taking a right onto Villa Grande, headed back towards home.

Jesus. This neighborhood is pretty fucking fancy around here: all remodeled homes, punctuated by newly-constructed duplexes that sort of look like the older, remodeled places, but are (I’m sure) far lacking in the well-built department. In fact, the newer places sort of look like those crappy toys that used to come in Happy Meals, as if someone bought a cheap hamburger and got a house with it, all wrapped in plastic and everything, just take it to an empty lot, rip of the packaging, and *poof* you’ve got a new house! I think I’d prefer something a bit more original, with a bit of longevity. But at least the road’s fairly well maintained. It would be nice if the city kept up roads like this everywhere around here. But I guess that’s the price we pay to live in the little valley between the New Part of Old Dallas and the New Part of New Dallas. Oh well.

I pedal down the street, picking up speed a bit, and shift into a higher gear. I can feel sweat rolling down my back and face, and my breath is coming in heavy gasps, marked by a certain smoker’s rasp. I feel really good, if a bit rubbery; this ride will do me some good, and should help me perform a bit better, should Mme. Maligne allow me to throw a hump into her tonight.

The light at Custer turns yellow, then red, and I slow to a stop. This is an interesting corner. On the close side, there are the backs of two apartment mid-rises: on the far side, a collection of tenement houses built around 1930. Stroller moms meet strolling bums. The hipster set continues its encroachment into Old Dallas.

I look right down the block, and see a stroller mom practically running towards the intersection. She’s on the ‘wrong’ side of the street, and I can tell that she’s scared out of her mind. Someone probably asked her for a quarter or something. She’s not even trying to avoid the cracks and potholes in the sidewalk, and the stroller bounces around dangerously. I hope the kid is strapped in tight. Jesus.

As she approaches, I can see that she had a boob job some months ago, probably just after the baby was born, and the fake breasts bounce unnaturally as she runs. Yuck.

My breathing has slowed a bit, and I look left to check for oncoming traffic. The street is clear, so I lift my left art and point my hand to the sky to indicate a right turn, put my feet back on the pedals, and slowly turn onto Custer.

I upshift to to make it a bit easier to pick up some speed, and as I pass the frantic stroller mom, I downshift to pick up even more speed and keep the leg workout going. I’m really flying, now. At least, it feels like I’m flying.

I’m probably only going about 15mph, if that, but the wind rushes past my ears, and I can hear a change in the wind sound as I pass the little saplings that the Nuevo-riche mid-rise planted in the sidewalk.

It’s strange that they would plant trees on this side of the building, since it’s only parking garage entrances over here, but I guess they have to keep up the pretty appearance all the way around the shoddy structure, which, by all rights, should be completely covered with graffiti just like the delapidated four- and eight-plexes across the street.

Alas. I expect the police presence is much greater on this side of Custer than on the other side, and Dallas has just increased the sentence and fines for graffiti crimes.[xxxi] In the valley between New Dallas and the New part of Old Dallas, there are people tagging and making throw-ups and pieces at all hours of the day; over here, everything is bright, shiny and new. I’d like to come back in 50 years, when all the hipsters have moved to greener pastures, and the apartment developers (and, hence, the police and city government) have given up on this area. The back side of this mid-rise would look great, all covered with graffiti and crumbling and windows broken out and boarded up. Maybe some people squatting inside, maybe drug lab on the second or third floor.

But until then, these new structures (and, by extension, the people who populate them) are a puss-oozing pimple on the face of Old Dallas.

I start to slow for the red light at Villa Grande, but it turns green and I resume pedaling hard towards home.

I wave at a family across the street. They look like they’re preparing for some kind of large gathering: picnic tables set up; cheap table cloths flapping in the breeze; toilet paper wrapped around the trees in the yard. The family members smile politely at me, and several give me a friendly wave. Children are running happily around the yard. I wonder what it must be like for them, living across the street, in the veritable foothills of New Dallas.

I ride past a Charbucks. A hipster couple is sitting outfront, sipping overpriced and burnt double half-caf nonfat soy caramel cinnamon macchiato lattes or quad venti breve mochas or somesuch. I don’t bother waving: they’re too wrapped up in their cell phones to notice anyway.

Next door is a Green World Cleaners and a Jason’s Deli. I wonder what it would be like to wake up one day and realize that the City had torn down your neighbor’s house to make room for yet another block of chain stores and mid-rise apartments for up-and-coming hipsters. I think I would throw a friggen fit: spraypaint would be the least of their worries. Molotov Cocktails might be appropriate, and would certainly deter some of the influx, though probably not as much as some mop tags.

Back in Junior High, I read this book The Monkey Wrench Gang and began to fancy myself the Arbiter of Justice of my little country neighborhood. Down the block, I had grown up playing in this smallish patch of forest. It was only six or eight acres, but it was a great place to run around: we (my neighbors and I) built tree houses and ramps for our bikes and dug out little trails and stuff.

Then, one day, the owner sold the property: the No Trespassing signs disappeared, replaced with shiny new concrete roads and front-end loaders and big construction machinery.

A buddy of mine and I snuck out one night, dressed all in black, and carrying bolt cutters, knives, screwdrivers and other implements of destruction. We cut hydrolic lines, ripped up seats, put sand in the gas tanks and crankcases, and generally caused a bunch of havok.

The next day or the day after or something, a schoolmate told a story about how someone had come along and torn up all of his dad’s machinery out at this new housing development he was building. Apparently, the machines were all destroyed and it would cost over a million U.S. Dollars to replace. I burst out laughing.

These days, I’m still angry, but I’ve become extremely scared or afraid or at least slightly worried about prison, so I tend to shy away from all but the easiest and safest sorts of culture/society jamming, like signing petitions and talking shit and stuff. Oh well.

I need to get off this Old vs. New cliff, and get back to the real part of Old Dallas. I check behind me for oncoming cars, hold my left arm out straight to indicate a left turn, and turn left onto Villa Carbon.

Aaahhh. Back in Old Dallas. To the left: old servants quarters for the richies on Big Washington back when Big Washington was the home to the old oil and cattle barons who founded and ran Dallas, now converted to duplexes—sagging porches, many with padlocked beer refrigerators and sprung spring sofas, overturned and rusting tricycles, huge Pecan and Magnolia trees, unkempt lawns. To the right: larger, brick structures that housed the sons and daughters and visiting families of the old oil and cattle barons on Big Washington, now converted to four- and eight-plexes—graffiti covered, boarded windows, jury-rigged smokestacks and chimneys jutting out at odd angles, various sorts of trees (a few ringed by small brick planters, most of which are now used for trash storage, but a few with some dead or dying Dandylions and stuff), old gentlemen lounging on porches and smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. This is much better.

At the corner of Villa Carbon and Lafeyette, just down the block from my apartment and the cigarette store, I slow to a stop. I think I’ll just continue down Villa Carbon to Washington and rock the back way for a bit of an extra workout.

I check both ways for traffic, put my feet up on the pedals, and start across Lafeyette. I look to the right and see a car turn onto Lafeyette from State. It looks like Mme. Hautain is going out for something. Maybe she’s working or something, who knows. Or maybe she’s driving Mme. Maligne to the Pilades studio. Who knows. I stand up on the bicycle, lean forward, and pedal hard to make sure I get out of the street in time.

I make it across the street in plenty of time, and look back to see what Mme. Hautain is up to. Indeed. Mme. Maligne is in the passenger seat and I see them looking at me. I wave at them, a bit too late, though. They don’t see me. Oh well.

I sit back down on the seat and look back forward, just in time to see a pothole loom ahead. I swerve quickly and avoid hitting it. This road is rather poorly maintained, unsurprisingly. This is, after all, Old Dallas, and the City has no desire to maintain roads that are almost entirely used by minorities, people of color, and poor whites.

I swerve into a driveway and up onto the sidewalk to save a bit of wear on the bicycle. This is nice. I can smell some sort of curry coming from one of the four-plexes. It smells delicious, and I look over to and see a beautiful young Indian woman, in a Sari, with the little red dot on her forehead, practicing some sort of traditional dance. She looks like one of those Vishnas or whatever they are in those paintings of Krishna. Damn. I give her a wave and she smiles broadly.

I’m really breathing hard now, and the rasp has gotten a bit worse. I cough hard and hack up a thick wad of cigarette smoke related phlegm. I spit it into the street to my left and continue pedaling. The rasp lessens and I can feel my lungs open, allowing more oxygen to flow into my bloodstream. I get a bit lightheaded for a second, but it passes quickly.

I’m coming up onto Washington, and I swerve back down a driveway and onto the street. I slow to a stop, raise my left arm and point my hand to the sky to indicate a right turn. I take my right foot off the pedal, and plant it firmly against the curb.

I look left and right for cars, and slowly pedal out onto Washington. A couple of blocks more and I’ll be home.

The rubberiness has left my legs, and the dull ache has returned. I upshift to make things a bit easier on my legs. That’s better.

The houses around here are fairly well maintained: a mixture of grand old homes, converted to du- and fourplexes. Many are owned, I’m sure, by the same company that owns my apartment complex, and they’re trying (I think) to assist the City in removing poor folks from the neighborhood. But there’s still plenty of Old Dallas around here, and it seems that the population is resisting full gentrification, which is nice. I, for one, am in favor of this area remaining a happy valley between the New and New-Old Dallases, despite the rather icy reception I received this morning. Sunshine seems to make everyone happier.

The road sucks, though: no surprise there, but I think I’ll stick it out. It’s not that far to home. I move over close to the curb where the potholes are slightly less dense to make things a bit easier.

There aren’t many people out, and I’m a bit surprised at the lack of movement. It’s like everyone’s on siesta or something. Nice. If I wasn’t sure that this bike ride would jack me up too much to nap, and if I didn’t need a shower before drinking with the neighbors later, and if I didn’t tend to wank before and/or after napping, I’d be siesta-ing with everyone, for sure.

I stop pedaling a bit and just coast down the slight downhill grade on this part of Washington. Most of this part of Dallas is slightly hilly. Well, not hilly, for sure, but definitely not flat. In the New part of Dallas, the City graded everything perfectly flat, and paved it all over to make things easier on the developers. I like these little sort of wavy roads much better: they’re easier to ride, since the uphill parts are pretty much flat, and the downhill parts can be easily coasted down with virtually no effort, given sufficient speed. And I’m definitely rolling along pretty fast, probably 12 or 15mph or so, definitely fast enough to coast pretty much all the way home. Good times.

A couple is crossing the street at Villa Blanco. They’re holding hands and talking quietly in Spanish. The man looks over at me as I wave. He waves back, and the woman looks over and smiles. Everyone is so happy now that the sun is out. I’m happy too. This bike ride has really done wonders for my mood: the beautiful—if slightly hipster and way out of my league—women, the friendly people, the sunshine, the exercise, the signs of resistance to wealthy white encroachment. This is shaping up to be a pretty good day.

I ride on, pedaling occasionally, but mostly coasting along and letting my cigarette-addled lungs relax. I take a long, deep breath and try to hold it for a second. I hope to get off the bicycle without huffing and puffing, just in case Mme. Maligne is sitting out. I wouldn’t want her to think that I didn’t have the stamina to bring her to orgasm later. Oh. Wait. She won’t be outside: she’s off somewhere with Mme. Hautain. Groovy. But I still don’t want to be huffing and puffing when I get off the bicycle.

I take another deep breath and try to hold it in for a couple of seconds. My head swims and I swerve a bit.

I start taking slow, measured breaths, but my swallow reflex kicks in, making slow, measured breaths difficult.

A couple of hipster bikers are riding towards me on their Fixies.[xxxii] I wonder what they’re doing here in the valley, so far from hipster heaven.

As they approach, I hear one of them yell at me:

Fixie rider 1: ‘Sup

Me: Gentlemen

Fixie rider 2: What kinda bike is that?

Me: Some sort of Giant road bike, I think.

Fixie rider 2: It’s crazy looking.

Me: Thanks.

They pass, and I give a wave.

Me: Have a good on, fellas.

Fixie rider 1: Late.

Fixie rider 2: Yep.

I’m actually surprised that they were so friendly. Fixie riders are usually assholes. It must be the sunshine and stuffs.

I hear the Fixies laughing behind me. That’s better. Laugh at the fat Roadie rider, you skinny hipster fucktards. It’s good to know that not everything has gone all happy since the sun’s come out.

As I pass the halfway mark between Villa Blanco and State St., I manage to get my breathing largely under control, and begin to pedal again.

I notice some graffiti on a telephone pole: SUSS and somebody named ALED. It looks like they both used the same Mop marker: some of the drips run almost all the way to the ground. Nice. I really like messy, drippy-looking tags. There’s an art to getting the drips to run just right and without obscuring the tag.

As I near State, I look behind me to check for cars, then swerve out into the middle of the road and execute and gentle, G-force-enducing, wide-ass turn. Fun stuff.

The forces involved in turning the bicycle this way force the bike to accelerate quite a bit, and I coast down State, turn into the parking lot, past the gas-guzzling SUVs, past a car I haven’t seen before (a late 90s or early Naughties Subaru Outback, green and silver, it could almost be a twin of my Subaru. I wonder who owns it), and the broken down Olds. I turn sharply and coast down the little hallway.

I swing my right leg over the bicycle, lean the bike over to the right, and roll to my front door before leaping off the bike and skipping to a stop.

I’m breathing in even, if slightly shallow breaths, and sweat is pouring down my face and back. My shirt is wet with sweat and sticks to my back.

I look around. The courtyard is empty. Birds are chirping in the trees, and a gentle breeze is swirling through the courtyard. I kick down the kickstand, and set the bicycle upright, turning the wheel slightly to make sure it’s well-balanced. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and then on the landing above me. I look up, but can’t see who it is.

I hear keys rattling, and a door open.

Cutie Pie: CHARLIE! Come back here!

Is that really the cutie from the bike path? The one that looks like Four’s twin?

Four’s perfect ass and tiny, perky nipples and huge, innocent eyes flash through my mind, and my penis stirs in my jeans.

I see the dog bound down the stairs, turn the corner and run directly towards me, dragging the leash behind him.

Cutie Pie: Charlie!

I can hear her waking slowly down the stairs.

Charlie runs up to me, stops, sniffs my feet, looks up at me, and wags his tongue and tail. I get down on one knee and begin rubbing his head. He tries to lick my face.

Me: Who’s a good boy? Charlie is! It’s not nice to run from that little cutie like that, but you’re such a friendly little dog. Good boy.

Cutie Pie: Charlie!

I look up and see Cutie Pie turn the corner by the stairs. She’s walking towards me, swinging her hips in that way that only women with perfect asses can achieve. I quickly pull off my helmet, set it on the ground nearby, and run my fingers through my hair to fluff it up and hopefully make me look a bit cuter.

Cutie Pie: Charlie! Don’t bother the nice man!

Me: He’s alright. Aren’t you, boy. Who’s a good boy?

Cutie Pie: Um. Thanks for grabbing him.

Me: Oh, he just ran right up to me like we’re old friends or something.

I take hold of the leash and stretch my arm out to her. She reaches for the leash and brushes against my hand as she takes the leash from me.

Me: I’m Jeff, by the way. Jeff Caffoulier. You live right up there, I guess?

Cutie Pie: Yes. We just moved in a couple of days ago.

Me: Me too. Well, I’ve been here a couple of weeks, but, you know.

Cutie Pie: How do you like it?

Me: It’s nice, so far. I like this part of town.

Cutie Pie: Me too. I’m Fille Rêveuse, by the way.

She offers her hand, and I reach up and take her hand. Her skin and touch is extremely soft. I look up at her and she smiles, showing perfect, square, white teeth, and wrinkled, bee-stung lips. My penis thickens, and I feel myself blush a bit.

Charlie rubs his nose against my neck and licks my chin.

Mme. Rêveuse: I think he likes you!

Me: Either that, or he thinks I smell good after a long bike ride.

We both laugh.

Me: That would be a first for me, for sure. Do you like the way I smell, Charlie?

Mme. Rêveuse: Well, we better go. Come on, Charlie!

She tugs hard on the leash, and Charlie reluctantly backs away from me. Mme. Rêveuse turns to walk away, and Charlie turns to follow.

Me: Oh. Hey. The guys that live over here, and the ladies that live over there and I will probably have a few drinks down here in the Courtyard later, if you want to come down and meet everybody and join in.

Mme. Rêveuse turns back towards me, her torso twisted around, emphasizing her narrow waist and gorgeous ass. I can see a slight, dark line running between her cheeks, indicating that she got a bit sweaty on her walk. With big, wobbly butt cheeks like that, I would be surprised if they didn’t sweat a bit when she walked.

Mme. Rêveuse: That sounds nice. I have a couple of things to do, but if I finish early enough I’ll think about it. When do you think you’ll be out?

Me: Well, I’ll probably be out about five or six, and everyone else will be out between then and seven or so, and we’ll probably be out here most of the night.

Mme. Rêveuse: Ok. I’ll try to make it. I definitely feel like drinking some wine tonight.

Me: I hope you do! Ok. I’ll see you later, then!

Mme. Rêveuse: Ok.

She turns around and walks toward the stairs. I gaze longingly at that perfect ass: right leg down, right ass cheek up; left leg up, left cheek down. The whole thing wobbling side to side as she swivels her hips side to side.

My penis is almost fully erect, now, and I remain crouched on the ground to hide it, just in case she looks back.

She turns her head slowly and catches me ogling her bottom. She giggles a bit and wiggles her butt teasingly. I blush.

She turns and begins to climb the stairs. I straighten up, adjust the bulge in my pants, reach into my pocket, retrieve the keys, unlock and open the door, stoop, pick up the helmet and the bicycle, and carry them inside. I kick the door closed behind me, and carry the bike across the room to its storage spot. I set the bicycle down, and twist the front wheel around to make sure it stays balanced and out of the way. I set the helmet on the seat, and adjust it around to make sure that it’s not going to fall off. My penis is throbbing, and I rub it gently through my jeans. Jesus. I’m fucking horny. I stuff the keys back into my pocket. I’ve been fucking horny all fucking day, and that damn Mme. Rêveuse just made it worse. I really want to masturbate, but I also want to save it up for Mme. Maligne, or maybe even Mme. Rêveuse if she shows up tonight. God. I hope she shows up and begs me to fuck her. Ha. Like that would ever happen. Damn, that girl is fucking sexy.

I grunt a bit and thrust my crotch out, wiggling my hips slightly. My testicles feel swollen and heavy. I need a cold shower.

I walk over to the desk and begin emptying my pockets. I pull the fresh, but slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes, phone, and rubber-banded stack of cards and bills from my left pocket and set them on the counter. I pull the squashed, half-empty pack of cigarettes from my right pocket, then retrieve the fresh but dangerously dented pack of cigarettes, lighter, keys, pocket knife, and alarm clicker from my right pocket and set them all together on the desk. Fuck, I’m horny.

I need a cigarette before I shower. I pick up the opened pack of cigarettes, flip open the pack, retrieve a cigarette, stick it in my mouth, close the pack, and return it to the desk. I look down and mash on my erection a bit, shoving it around until it is in line with the zipper on my jeans, which sort of minimizes the bulge. I pick up the lighter, light the cigarette, and return the lighter to the desk before turning quickly, walking to the door, opening the door, stepping outside, and closing the door behind me. I don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke in my houses, even though I can’t really smell it any more, and even though nobody ever comes over to smell it either.

I walk over to a nearby planter and lean up against it. I take a long drag on the cigarette: inhale, exhale. Mme. Rêveuse’s perfect ass flashes through my mind and I twist my hips slowly. I need to think about something else.

Let us go, then, you and I. When the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table.

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.

Streets that argue like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question.

Oh. Do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room, the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.

That ass is like a dream come true. That line, running down the back of her khaki capris, perfectly delineating the separation between her bouncy, wobbly, but firm cheeks. God in heaven! I’d love to rip those pants down and bury my face in that ass, bend her over, rip down her tiny lace panties, and shove my tongue into her musky, just-walked several miles vagina. Damn It.

I take a long drag on the cigarette, look up at the sky, and exhale through my nose. I’ve got to stop thinking about Mme. Rêveuse and her luscious ass. God damn it!

The fountain pisses. I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale, exhale. Some birds of indeterminate genus twitter in the trees above me. A slight, pleasant breeze swirls through the courtyard. My penis twiches slightly, but I push back the thoughts of Mme. Rêveuse and her magnificent, perfect, brilliant body.

The fountain pisses. The pissing is constant, and a bit too loud to provide the feng shui, meditation-friendly atmosphere that such fountains (and, by extension, courtyard designs) imply.

I take a drag on the cigarette, inhale, and exhale through my mouth.

I’ve finally stopped sweating, and my breathing has returned to normal, but I still can’t shake the image of Rêvuse’s wiggling little ass, huge, impossibly innocent eyes, luscious lips, long, lithe neck and overall magnificent body from my mind, and this failure is contributing to the incomfortable bulge in my jeans.

Calm down, Jeff! Chill out, buddy!

Time for a cold shower.

I take the final drag on the cigarette (inhale, exhale) and stub it out in the planter. I step away, towards my apartment, and walk stiffly to the door. I open the door, step inside, close the door and walk over to the desk.

I bend down and untie my left shoe, pull it off my foot, and set it on the chair. The bending and stooping mashes and pinches my erection. Maybe this will get my mind off Cutie Pie: doubtful, but who knows. I untie my right shoe, slip if off my foot and set it on the chair next to its mate.

I turn and walk to the bedroom area. I open the little closet and look for a pair of jeans. I want to look my best for Mmes Maligne and Rêvuse, for sure. I select my ‘nice’ pair of jeans, the ones with the fewest holes and wear spots on the heels and crotch. I toss the jeans on the bed.

I pull out my lucky pair of boxer shorts, the grey ones with orange, blue and purple stripes in a vertical arrangement: the boxers are incredibly comfortable, and seem to shape my package into something a bit more enticing. Not that I’ve ever gotten anywhere in these boxers before: maybe tonight’s the night. I toss the boxers on top of the jeans.

I pull out a pair of orange socks and toss them next to the jean/boxer pile.

I rifle through my t-shirts, and retrieve the tan undershirt that I never thought I would wear, but later found that it really brings out the color in my face and eyes, and, despite being an XL, fits as well—with some stretching—as any of my other t-shirts, and actually makes my man boobs look like nice, well-formed pectoral muscles.

With this combo, I’ll look and feel my best, or feel that I look my best anyways. Mme Maligne and, perhaps, Rêvuse will have to be the judges.

I strip off my shirt and toss it at the hamper. It misses and lands on the floor. Ordianarily, I would leave it there, but I walk over and pick it up and drop it in the hamper. I want the place to look nice and clean and well kept, just in case one of the potential friends (the slutty-acting one or the innocent-looking one) end up coming over for some hot, sweaty sex later on.

I should probably go around and pick up any stray garbage and used glasses and stuff before I shower, maybe sweep the floor if it looks like it needs it.

I look around the apartment and spot two glasses on the desk and one on the side table next to the sofa. There’s also an empty, squashed pack of cigarettes on the floor next my bed, and a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter.

I walk around, pick up the glasses, and take them into the kitchen. I open the dishwasher, pull out the top rack, and, one-by-one, place the glasses, inverted, onto the rack. I push the rack back in and lift the dishwasher door with my foot. I grab the door with my hand and push it closed.

I walk over by the bed and pick up the empty pack of sticks. I walk over to the counter, place the empty pack on the junk mail, fold up the mail and empty pack and drop them in the recycling bin. I take another scan of the apartment, looking at the floor in particular. It looks fairly clean, definitely clean enough for Mme. Maligne, and probably clean enough for sweet little Mme. Rêvuse.

I walk back to the clothes hamper, undo my belt, pull it from the loops and toss it on the bed. I undo my jeans, grab the top of the jeans and the top of the boxer shorts and pull the both off in one fell swoop. I step out of the jean/boxer mashup, pick up the lot, and drop it into the hamper. I stick out my right arm to brace my self, lift my left leg and tug off the sock. I adjust my balance a bit and peel off my right sock. I drop the dirty socks into the hamper.

I walk into the bathroom, step around the door, and close it behind me. I stretch over the edge of the tub and turn on the water. I straighten and walk to the mirror to check for any stray hairs I might have missed this morning. (I usually do a fairly crappy job of shaving my face.) It looks like I did alright this morning.

I pick up the toothbrush, turn the cold water handle on the sink, and wet the brush portion of the toothbrush. I pick up the toothpaste, flip open the lid, and squeeze a largish dollop onto the toothbrush.

I stick the toothbrush into my mouth and begin brushing my teeth. I brush the front, top portion. I brush the front bottom portion. I brush the entire left side in large, circular strokes, making sure to scrub the gum line. I brush the entire right side the same way, and switch to the tops (and bottoms) of my grinding teeth. I scrub the tops of the right side bottom teeth. I scrub the bottoms of the right side top teeth. I scrub the bottoms of the left side top teeth and tops of the left side bottom teeth. I scrub the interior surface of the bottom teeth, first the left, then the center, then the right side. I scrub the interior surface of the top teeth: first the right, then the center, then the left side. I scrub my palate and tongue. I gag a bit as I scrub my tongue, and wretch a bit.

I lean over and spit the huge wad of foamy toothpaste and spit into the sink. I rinse the toothbrush under the water, shake it, and place it in the cracked coffee cup. I stick my head under the faucet and take in a mouthful of water. I rinse and spit and turn off the faucet.

I retrieve my towel and place it on the back of the toilet.

I pull back the shower curtain and stick my hand under the water: a bit cool, but not too cold, just enough to drive away the arousal and shake me out of this horniness.

I step into the shower and let out a little squeal as the cold water hits my bike-ride warmed back and legs, and arousal-warmed genitals. My penis and testicles shrivel almost immediately.

I run my head under the water. I close my eyes to avoid getting water in my eyes, and Mme. Rêvuse’s ass flashes through my mind. Jesus.

I smooth my hair back and wipe the water from my face. I grab the shampoo and squeeze a dollop onto my hands. I set the shampoo back in its spot, rub my hands together, close my eyes, and begin scrubbing my hair.

Mme. Suçonie and I used to shower or bathe together occasionally, and she loved to wash my hair for me. I would kneel on the floor of the shower, eye level with her cute little belly and pubic mound, and she would scrub the crap out of my hair with her longish fingernails. When she finished, she would rinse my hair, and I would put my hands on her hips and kiss her, low on the belly, just above the little patch of soft, brown pubic hair. It was magical and wonderful and amazing and fantastic, and I miss it.

Wow. That memory of showering with Suçonie absolutely did the trick. Now, I more sad than horny: perfect.

I rinse the soap out of my hair, reach down and pick up the washcloth and body soap. I squeeze a bit of soap onto the washcloth and place the soap back in its spot. I massage the washcloth a bit, until the soap begins to foam, and start scrubbing the dried sweat off my body.

I scrub up my right arm, across my chest and neck, down, over, and around my belly, back up to my neck. I scrub my right armpit.

I switch the washcloth to my right hand and scrub my left arm and armpit.

I scrub the crevice between my pubic ridge and right leg. I scrub my penis and testicles and the area between my testicles and asshole. I scrub the crevice between my left leg and pubic area. I scrub my left thigh, calf, shin, and foot. I switch the washcloth to my left hand and scrub my right thigh, calf, shin, and foot.

I turn and face the showerhead, and thoroughly scrub my bottom and ass crack.

I rinse out the washcloth, wring it out, and drape it over the bath faucet.

I rinse the soap from my body, and gently massage my penis and testicles, warming them back up a bit after the cold water and Suçonie shock.

I turn off the shower, pull back the curtain, and grab the towel from the back of the toilet. I dry my hair, face, neck, shoulders, left arm, right arm, chest, and back. I put my left leg up on the edge of the tub and run the towel over, down and around it. I dry my left foot, and step out of the shower. I place my right foot on the edge of the tub and dry it. I dry my right foot.

I run the towel around my crotch and bottom, pull the curtain closed, and drape the towel over the shower curtain rod.

On second thought, I better put the towel in the hamper. What girl—slutty or innocent—wants to see some dude’s damp bath towel dangling in their face while they’re taking a piss or wiping my cum off their thighs?

I retrieve the towel, carry it into the bedroom area, and drop it in the hamper. I pick up my lucky boxers, step into them, and tug them up. I adjust my package to make a nice bulge in the front of the boxers.

I pick up the jeans, tug them on, button, zip up, and readjust my package. I pick up the t-shirt, stick my arms through their appointed holes, and stretch out the tee. I pull the shirt over my head, pull the fabric down my torso, and stretch the t-shirt at the belly and across my chest.

I go back into the bathroom, pick up the deodorant, pull off the cap, apply the deodorant to my left pit and right pit, replace the cap, and set the deodorant on the sink.

I pull the comb out of the coffee cup and brush my hair into an attractive, Elvis ’68 Comeback Special sort of pompadour. I brush my short sideburns and eyebrows.

I place the comb back in the coffee cup, turn on the sink, and rinse the hair and toothpaste stains off the sink. I check the toilet. Thankfully, it looks fairly clean. I hate cleaning the toilet.

I maneuver my way out of the bathroom and walk to the bed.

I pick up the belt and feed it carefully through the loops. I feel around to make sure I didn’t miss any loops: success. I tighten the belt, adjust the jeans on my nonexistent waist, and arrange my penis and testicles to make the largest and most attractive bulge possible, given their rather inconsequential size.

I think it was my first “date” with Six, though it may have been the first time I went out with Five. We were sitting in this brewpub, chatting and flirting, and I got up to go to the men’s room. I stood up at the table, and looked down at whoever it was. She was gazing intently at my package, and I saw her eyes widen and pupils dilate. I probably could’ve gotten some that night, but I didn’t.

That’s right, it was Five, the girl I dated for about ten minutes right before I left for Illinois. I tried everything I could to forget about Three, but nothing worked, not even Five and her ludicrously sexy body.

Anyway, Five was maybe the smallest girl I ever went out with. She was blonde, fit, with breasts that were almost too big for her frame, and an ass that was definitely way too big for her body.

Even with my smallish penis, I bet I would’ve pretty much ripped her in half.

But we never did anything beyond a bit of making out and cuddling.

It was nice and all, but my mind was on Three, and Five knew that I was crazy for another woman. Damn me and my infatuations with unattainable women: Infatuations that operate to the detriment of other potential romantic or intimate encounters. Damn the Epiphany!

I pick up the socks and walk to the desk. I lift the shoes from the chair and place them on the desk. I sit down, lift my left leg and tug a sock up, over my foot, and up my calf. I pick up my left shoe, slip it on, and start to tie it. Remember the new shoe-tying method, Jeffy! Success.

I like this new shoe-tying thing: easy, fast, and secure. Brilliant.

I put my left, shoe-covered foot on the floor, and lift my right leg. I grab the remaining sock, tug it over my foot, up my calf, and adjust the fit over my toes. I slip on the right shoe and tie it.

I stand up, retrieve my phone and rubber-banded stack of cards and cash, and drop them into my left jeans pocket. I pick up keys, alarm clicker thingy, lighter and pocket knife, and drop them into my right pocket. I pick up the pack of cigarettes, retrieve one, shove the pack into my pocket, and pull out the lighter.

I go to the door, open the door, and step outside. I close the door behind me and walk over to one of the stone benches. I brush a couple of bits of dirt and grime off the bench and sit down.

From here, I can see Mme. Rêvuse’s apartment, and I look up to see if maybe I can see her through the window. No joy.

I light the cigarette and take a drag. The fountain pisses. Inhale. Exhale.

I hear a car enter the parking lot and pull into a spot. The engine shuts off. The fountain pisses.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale. A car door slams, and I hear someone climbing the stairs. I look up and see a tall, well-muscled, blond Adonis of a guy walk down the landing. He stops in front of Mme. Rêvuse’s door and knocks.

I take a drag on the cigarette; the fountain pisses.

Please let this be a brother or cousin or something and not a boyfriend.

Mme. Rêvuse opens the door. Adonis grabs her, picks her up, and gives her a big hug. She squeals and kisses him full on the mouth. He carries her inside and kicks the door closed behind him.

Bummer. Oh well, I knew she was too good to be true, and she is way out of my league, anyways.

I lean over and put my elbows on my knees. I take a drag on the cigarette. The fountain pisses.

I walk down the hall in the middle of the night and see Three on the couch, in the throes of orgasm with my buddy.

I am on one knee, arm outstretched, hand holding a ring. Mme. Suçonie is saying something about “not catholic and not athletic.”

I am dancing with Four at her wedding. She is pressed tightly against me. She looks up and says “If you had made love to me that Valentine’s Day, or any one of those times we were wrestling and you got a hard on, this would be your wedding too.”

Amanda LeFey is walking out the door with the last load of her stuff, telling me that she hopes we can be friends.

I am sitting on the couch with Three. I have just met her soon-to-be Second Husband. He is playing some sort of shoot-em-up game on his X-Box. She snuggles up to me, kisses my neck, nibbles on my ear, and says, “He’s not you, but I guess he’ll have to do.”

I’m in New York, talking to Two on the phone. I have just received confirmation of her plane reservation to come visit me for a week, and am giving her the information. I tell her that I can’t wait to see her, and I look forward to holding her in my arms again. She tells me that if she comes, she’ll be staying in a hotel in the city, because she’s met someone new and we won’t be able to be together.

Mme. Allégresse is asking me out, but I don’t realize it.

Three is on the couch, fucking my buddy, her future First Husband.

Mme. Suçonie refuses my ring and moves to California with some other guy three weeks later.

The fountain pisses: I take a drag on the cigarette and start to cry softly.

6

How did I get here? Whatever happened to that confident guy who, despite his gut and small penis, managed to hook Two, Three, Four, Amanda LeFey, and Mme. Suçonie?

I need a beer.

I set the half-smoked cigarette on the stone table, stand up and walk to the door. I open the door and walk to the refrigerator. I open the refrigerator, grab a Full Sail, and close the refrigerator. I grab the bar key off the counter and crack open the beer. I drop the key on the counter and the beer cap into the garbage. I take a long pull on the beer and walk back outside.

I close the door behind me and retrieve my cigarette from the table. I take a drag on the cigarette and a pull on the beer: inhale, swallow, exhale, ahhh.

I stop crying and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I sniffle a bit.

The fountain pisses.

I take a long pull on the beer, swish it around in my mouth, and swallow. This Full Sail is pretty good: not the best ever, and not particularly hoppy, but very pleasant, for sure.

What time is it?

I set the beer down on the table, reach into my left pocket, retrieve the phone, and hit a button to illuminate the screen: 4:37pm.

I stuff the phone back in my pocket, take the last drag off the cigarette, stub it out on the table and toss the but into a nearby planter. I pick up the beer, raise it to my lips, tilt my head back and begin to chug. I swallow about half the remaining beer and lower it from my lips. A bit of foam escapes from the corner of my mouth and rolls down my chin. I quickly wipe it off before it can drip onto and stain my shirt.

The fountain pisses out its little song.

I pound the rest of the beer, turn, and walk back to my door. I open the door and walk inside. I should probably slow down a bit on the beer. After all, what if Mme. Maligne still intends to give me a go tonight? I definitely don’t want to be all beer-addled and unable to perform. But. . .

I gotta get drunk and I sure do dread it, ‘cause I know just what I’m gonna do. Start spending my money, calling everybody ‘honey,’ and wind up singing the blues. Spend my whole paycheck on some old wreck: brother I can name you a few. Well, I gotta get drunk and I sure do dread it, cause I know just what I’m gonna do.

 

Well I gotta get drunk: Lord I can’t stay sober! ‘Cause a lotta bad memories abound. They’re gonna drive me crazy, keep me fat and lazy, and I’ve gotta push them all down. Well, a lotta good Doctors keep telling me, “Jeff. You better start slowing it down.” But there’s more old drunks than there are old Doctors, so I guess I better have another round.[xxxiii]

I walk to the recycle bin, and drop the empty bottle inside. I go to the refrigerator, open the door, and fetch another Full Sail. I pick up the bar key, and crack open the bottle. I set the key on the counter, and drop the cap in the garbage.

I take a sip of beer, and walk to the desk. I want to listen to some music: something happy and fast and sort of angry. Maybe some Propagandhi.

I set the beer on my Cincinati Fire Division Engine Company 14 Bomb Unit patch that I converted to a coaster, and sit down at the desk.

I wiggle the mouse around to wake up the screen, and navigate to iTunes.

The iTunes icon bounces in the dock for a second, then opens. The beachball spins as iTunes reads its preference and library files. I scroll down to the Rock folder, click the little triangle, scroll to Punk, click the little triangle, and navigate to Propagandhi.

I recently illegally downloaded their entire discography, but haven’t listened to much. I select the first song in the list (“Anti-Manifesto,” from How to Clean Everything) and click the play button.

Guitars, Bass, and Drums begin to pour from the speakers. I hit the volume button a couple of times to crank up the sound and drive women from my brain.

I stand up and do my solo version of an early-1990s mosh pit. I stomp around in a rough circle and swing my arms around in front of me. My back is hunched, head down, and eyes closed. This fucking rocks.

Back in High School, I was part of this group of Punk Rock kids. One of the guys lived in this house out in the country that had a big room above the garage that we called the Stag Lounge, where we hung out, played loud music, drank stolen beer, danced around, and generally had a good time.

One of the guys had this weird way of dancing around with his eyes closed and stomping around with his head down and swinging his fists around dangerously. He clocked a few people a time or two. It was great fun to watch, and ever since then, I’ve adopted this dance whenever I stomp around to Punk music. It gets the blood pumping and makes me laugh inside.

I’m breathing a bit heavily, and stop my silly punk dance. I walk over to the desk, pick up the beer and take a long pull. Propagandhi continue rocking. The song changes to “Head? Chest? Foot?” and I take another pull on the Full Sail.

I walk to the sofa and sit down. I lift my right foot, and put my right ankle on my left knee. I lean back and take a pull on the beer.

It’s been awhile since I listened to this music. In fact, I probably haven’t listened to Propagandhi since 2003 or so, since I moved away from Texas.

For a time, I was too happy, and had no need for loud, angry, political punk. Then I was too sad and angry for poppy music like this and opted for more sedate stuff: ambient music and Italian operas. And then I was too busy with Grad School for much of anything. I listened to opera or jazz when I studied, but didn’t really ever sit and listen to music for any length of time.

I take a pull on the beer, lower the bottle, think better of it, and tilt the bottle up, downing most of the beer in a couple of seconds.

I lower the bottle and let out a long belch. My chin is wet with beer foam, and I wipe my chin with my sleeve: no need to try to keep my shirt clean for Mme. Révuse, and I bet Mme. Maligne won’t care about a bit of beer smell on my shirt-sleeve, not that I have any chance with her anyway.

I stand up and take the last couple of swallows from the beer. I belch loudly, and feel a bit nauseated. That’s what I get for pounding two mediocre IPAs in less than twenty minutes.

I carry the bottle to the recycle bin, drop it in, walk to the refrigerator, belch, open the refrigerator, retrieve Full Sail #3, close the refrigerator, open the beer, drop the cap in the trash and walk to the door. A cigarette should help to calm my stomach. I stumble a bit as I feel the alcohol hit my brain, but manage to right myself. I open the door and step outside. I close the door behind me and walk to the fountain.

I set the beer down on the edge of the fountain, fish cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, retrieve a cigarette from the pack, stick it in my mouth, light it, take a drag, and drop the cigarette pack and lighter back into my pocket.

The fountain pisses, and I feel a need for a piss coming on.

I pick up the beer, take a pull off the bottle, and take a drag on the cigarette.

Mme. Suçonie says, “No. I can’t marry you. You’re not Catholic, and you’re fat.” She turns and walks away.

Mme. Rêvuse leaps into the arms of Adonis and starts sucking on his tongue.

I shake my head vigorously, trying to shake the bad thoughts from my head. I take a long gulp of beer, and a drag on the cigarette (inhale, exhale). My vision swims, and I feel dizzy for a second. Woo. I feel good, if a bit sad and pissed off. Never mind. Another couple of beers, and some conversation with the neighbors, maybe some flirting and/or fondling and/or fooling around with Mme. Maligne and her tight little ass, and I’ll be feeling great, like a man again. It’s been too long, by far.

I grow old. . . I grow old. . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a Peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach.

I can hear the mermaids singing each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I take a pull off the beer, lower the bottle, swallow, raise the bottle again, and take a second pull.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale, exhale.

The fountain pisses.

I sit down on the edge of the fountain, and cross my feet at the ankles. I tap ash off the cigarette into the fountain. I set the beer down on the fountain ledge next to me and take a drag off the cigarette. Little droplets of fountain piss water splash up onto my back.

I pick up the beer and take a long pull. It’s rare that I drink this fast, and I’m starting to feel it already. Nice. Drunk again. Woo.

I stand up, take a drag on the cigarette, flick the cherry off into the fountain (it arcs perfectly up, slightly to the left, and out in a long arc, where it lands with a soft hiss in the fountain), walk over to my apartment, open the door, step inside, close the door, walk to the garbage can, and drop the cigarette butt into the garbage. I need to get an ashtray for outside.

Propagandhi is singing about Ska, and about how it sucks and the bands are only in it for the bucks. I do my little, silly punk dance over to the desk and sit down. I take a pull off the beer.

I navigate thorough the Propagandhi playlist to “Nation States,” and double-click to switch to it. I start to sing along.

“Publicly subsidized! Privately profitable!”

That’s the anthem of the upper-tier (the puppeteer untouchable).

We focus a moment, nod in approval and bury our head back in the bar-codes

of these neo-colonials while our former nemesis

(ah, the romance!): the nation-state, now plays fund-raiser for a new brand of power-concentrate.

Try again, but now we’re confused- what is “class-war”?

Is this class war? Yes, this is class war.

And I’m just a kid- I can’t believe that I gotta worry about this kind of shit!

What a stupid world! Yeah, this is just beautiful… absolutely no regard for principle.

What a stupid world. (We’re): 1) born 2) hired 3) disposed!

Where that job lands,

everybody knows and you can tell by the smile on the CEO’s

that the environmental restraints are about to go.

You can bet that laws will be set to ensure the benefit of unrestricted labor-laws

(all kept in place by displaced government death squads).

They own us. They produce us. They consume us.

Can you fucking believe this? What a stupid world.

Fuck this bullshit display of class-loyalties.

The media and “our” leaders wrap it all up in a flag- their fucking shit-rag. hooray![xxxiv]

I probably need to eat something to make sure that I’m not too crazy drunk when it comes time to hang out with the neighbors and maybe try to get into Mme. Maligne’s little pink or yellow or purple or red or white or green or orange or sheer or whatever panties.

As Nation States ends, I hit the space bar to pause iTunes, stand up, and walk to the cabinet where I keep a large stash of Ramen noodles.[xxxv] I open the door and peruse the offerings: Oriental, nah; Shrimp, maybe; Beef, nope; Chicken, now that sounds good. Of course, I had Chicken flavored Ramen yesterday and the day before, and if I keep eating the Chicken ones at this rate, I’ll be out of Chicken flavor and forced to resort to one of the others that I like far less: next Ramen-buying trip, I’m going all Chicken, for sure.

I pull out a package of Chicken-flavored Ramen and set it on the counter next to the stove. I reach down, open the lower cabinet where I keep the Ramen-cooking pan, reach in, grab the pan and lid, close the door, and carry the pan to the sink.

Let’s see. Do I want Chicken-flavored Ramen Soup, or Ramen noodles with a bit of chicken flavor mixed it. Hummm. . . I had soup yesterday, so I’ll rock out the noodles today.

I tug the water spigot handle up, stick the pan under the water, and fill the pot to a little over half-full. I carry the half-filled pot to the stove and set it on the large burner. I twist the appropriate handle to ‘Hi,’ pick up the lid, place the lid on the pot, and walk back to the desk.

What to rock out with while the water’s boiling. Let’s see. How about some NOFX? Sounds good.

I navigate the mouse over to the NOFX playlist, and scroll through the list to the beginning of Ribbed. I double click “Green Corn” to start it playing, pick up the bottle of beer and take a pull.

I turn the volume down a bit so I can listen out for the sound of boiling water, and sit down at the desk.

I take another pull on the bottle and set it down on the Cincinnati Fire Division Bomb Unit coaster. I navigate over to the Dock and notice that a little red circle with ‘2’ above it has appeared on the little postage stamp icon for the Apple Mail program.

I click the little postage stamp icon, and the Mail window opens. Two new messages: one from my Credit Card company letting me know that my bill is ready for viewing; one from Publisher’s Clearing House. I click on the Credit Card notice, navigate to the ‘Mark as Read’ button, and click the button. I navigate to the Publisher’s Clearing House message, double click, and scroll through the colorful “You may already be a winner!” text to the bottom, and click on the “Enter Now!” button.

Safari (the Apple web browser) opens, and the PCH website of the day opens. This is a simple one:[xxxvi] just a little progress bar that moves quickly from left to right, with little phrases flashing above, letting me know that a “Valid SuperPrize Number” has been issued. Woo.

I’ve been clicking on the PCH email every day for over 4 years, now, since I was back in Illinois and holding Suçonie every night: no joy thusfar, but I never expected to win anything anyway. But it takes way less than a minute a day, and maybe it’s worth it for a slim (if at all extant) chance at winning a ludicrously large amount of money.

“Moron Brothers” starts up.

I click the little red button on the upper left corner of the Safari window to close the window, then navigate over to the Delete button in the menu bar of the PCH entry email, and click that to delete the message.

I click on the iTunes menu bar to bring it to the foreground, pick up the beer, and take a gulp. Yummy. Another couple of minutes and the water should be boiling and ready for the introduction of the cheap, starchy noodles that will become my dinner.

I stand up and walk to the window. Outside, the sun has disappeared behind the apartment, casting the courtyard in a pleasant sort of dusk, even though it’s only a little after five. A gentle breeze tickles the leaves on the branches, and makes the few leaves on the ground dance a bit. The fountain pisses, and I remember that I need to pee.

I turn and walk to the bathroom. I slide around the door, unzip my pants, and retrieve my penis. I bend slightly and lift the seat. I aim my penis at the water and relax the sphincter and urine begins streaming from deep in my bowels, through my penis, and into the bowl.

I examine the urine as it enters the bowl: a nice, rather unhealthy shade of yellow that indicates high concentrations of salt, caffeine, and other waste products; definitely a product both of my diet of coffee and tea, and the brief bike ride that helped kickstart my waste-expelling body systems.

The stream of urine begins to taper off, and I let out a sigh of contentment.

The stream turns into a dribble, and I close off the sphincter, shake my dick a couple of times to get the last drops off, stuff my penis back into my pants, zip up, reach over, and hit the lever to flush the toilet.

I turn and sidestep the door. In the kitchen, I can see steam pouring out of the pot.

I walk into the kitchen, remove the lid from the Ramen noodle pot, grab the package of noodles, and carefully rip the plastic open at the seam on one end. I tug the plastic fully open, reach in with a couple of fingers and grasp the seasoning packet. I drop the seasoning packet on the counter and rip the plastic seam on the back of the package open. I pull the dried block of noodles from the package and drop them into the boiling water: five to seven minutes, and I’ll have dinner.

I carry the plastic packaging to the garbage and drop it in the can. I wish they made this packaging out of recyclable materials, but that would probably raise the price of these cheap noodles to something prohibitive. Oh well. I turn back to the cabinets, stoop slightly, and open the one that contains my various, if a bit limited, collection of cooking utensils. I retrieve the colander, close the cabinet door, and place the colander in the sink. I tug open the eating utensil drawer and retrieve a fork, one of four mis-matched forks in my vast collection. I open the cabinet above, and retrieve a bowl. I place the fork in the bowl and place the fork-filled bowl on the counter to the right of the sink.

“Moron Brothers” ends and “Showerdays” begins.

I walk over to the desk, pick up the half-empty beer, and take two long gulps. I look down at the bottle, and decide to drain the rest and open another beer before the Ramen noodles finish cooking.

I take a deep breath and tilt up the bottle, draining the last bit in three smallish sips.

I carry the bottle to the recycle station, and drop it in next to its six-pack mates. I walk to the refrigerator, open the door, and retrieve another Full Sail. I close the refrigerator and pick up the bar key and pry the lid off the bottle. I set down the bar key, pick up the cap, and drop it in the garbage. I take a sip of beer, walk to the desk and set the beer down.

Those dreaded Wednesdays and Saturdays

Also known as Showerdays

I hate them[xxxvii]

Just another minute or two and the noodles will be finished.

I walk to the counter and retrieve the fork from the bowl. I step over to the stove, and give the noodles a quick stir to break up the block. The noodles are starting to look a bit mottled, indicating par-boiled status.

“Showerdays” ends. “Food, Sex, and Ewe” begins, and I return to the desk and hit the space bar to pause iTunes. I’m not much of a fan of the rest of Ribbed. “Together on the Sand” is alright, but most of the other songs are a bit too whiny and juvenile for my taste.

I sit down at the desk and scroll through the NOFX playlist. I stop at So Long and Thanks for all the Shoes, and click on “Murder the Government.”

I set the fork on the desk, pick up the beer, and take a small sip. I’m starting to feel fairly tipsy, and really need to slow it down and get some cheap starch in my belly to soak up some of the alcohol: good thing the noodles are almost done.

I wanna tar and lynch the KKK

Pull and shoot the NRA

Yah Yah Yah

 

Murder the Government

Murder the Government

Murder the Government

And then (Do it again, Yah!)

Murder the Government

Murder the Government

Murder the Government

And then. . .

Murder the Government![xxxviii]

Nice. The noodles should be pretty close by now.

“Monosylabic Girl” begins, and I hit the spacebar to pause iTunes, stand up, pick up the fork, and walk to the stove. I give the noodles a stir: they’re all done now.

I twist the knob to turn off the stove, pick up the noodle pot, side-step to the sink, and pour the noodles and water into the colander. I set the pot on the counter, pick up the colander, and give it a shake to expel the last bits of water. I pour the noodles from the colander into the bowl, and set the colander in the sink. I pick up the seasoning packet, rip a small bit off the corner, and begin sprinkling the noodles with the ludicrously salty, fake Chicken-flavored seasoning.

Once the top layer of noodles is fairly well covered, I pick up the fork and stir the noodles around. I sprinkle a bit more seasoning on the noodles and stir again. Fake chicken and salt stench hits my nostrils. That should be enough seasoning.

I pick up the little ripped-off bit of seasoning packet and carry the garbage to the trashcan. I drop them in the can, step over, pick up the fake Chicken and salt flavored bowl of noodles and walk back to the desk.

I sit down at the desk and place the bowl of cheap noodles in front of me. I pick up a fork-full of noodles, twirl the fork a bit to collect the strands of noodle, and blow on the wad of noodles to cool them a bit so I don’t burn my tongue and mouth too badly.

I stuff the fork full of noodles into my mouth. They’re still too hot, and I chew with my mouth open and exhale in an attempt to cool my mouth off. I swallow the burning hot noodles, and feel the heat descend down my esophagus and into my stomach. I belch out hot, salty, fake-Chicken flavor, stick the fork back in the bowl, and pick up the beer. I belch again, and take a couple of sips of beer, feeling the cool liquid going down my throat, soothing the burned feeling, but intensifying the gaseous nausea in my stomach.

I belch again and scroll through the NOFX playlist. Ugh. I’m tired of this band. Shit. I’ve been tired of NOFX for almost ten years, now. Jesus.

I scroll through the list of playlists and click the little triangle next to the ‘Classic’ folder, and scroll down to the ‘Bowie’ playlist. I scroll through my collection of Bowie, past the early and overplayed stuff, to Pin Ups, the beginnings of The Thin White Duke era. I click on “Rosalyn,” and cocaine-fueled, mid-1970s, slightly experimental (but not yet Brian Eno inspired) pop begins booming from the speakers.

I love this mid-period, Thin White Duke stuff. Bowie gets a bit better with Heroes and Low, but completely falls off after that, in my opinion, probably due to too much drug abuse, and Bowie’s ten-odd years of musical innovation that may or may not have exhausted his ability to make new musical statements, turning him from an innovator to a reactor. Anyways.

I give the Ramen a stir, and watch the steam as it pours from the bowl. I hook a couple of strands with the tines of the fork, and twirl the fork around, shaking it a few times to remove a couple of stuck-on and too hot noodles. I give the four, twirled and balled-up strands a thorough blow, and stuff them in my mouth: still a bit warm, but fully edible. I chew the noodles, swallow, and feel them slide down my throat, warming my esophagus slightly on the way down, and adding a slight bit of discomfort to my beer-filled stomach.

I twirl up another ball of noodles and blow on them for several seconds before stuffing the noodles into my mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

I pick up the beer and take a gulp. I swish the beer around in my mouth to remove some of the salt, and swallow.

I set down the beer, and begin twirling another ball of noodles, the largest one yet: probably about 14 strands. When it’s fully twirled, I have a ball of steaming, cheap, noodles about the size of a nectarine. I blow on the noodle ball and raise it to my mouth. I feel the heat pouring off the noodles: way to hot yet. I resume blowing on the noodles.

“Rosalyn” ends and “Here Comes the Night” begins. This is not really the right sort of song to be listening to after seeing Cutie Pie sucking on Adonis’s tongue just minutes ago. Jesus.

I walk down the hall. It’s late, or maybe early. I don’t know. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to strange noises coming from the living room. I’m wearing boxer shorts, and a half-erection is poking through the hole in the front. I round the corner and look into the living room. Three is laying on the couch, moaning, her legs wrapped around my buddy who is grunting and thrusting away into her.

I hit the Command key and the right arrow to skip to the next track: “I Wish You Would,” then again to skip to “See Emily Play.” This is better: Bowie covering early Pink Floyd. Nice.

I stuff the wad of noodles into my mouth and begin to chew. This wad of noodles is a bit too big, and I have to lean my head back and chew with my mouth open to keep the noodles in my mouth. I swallow about a third of the noodles, many not fully chewed. That’s better.

I chew a couple of more times and swallow the rest of the noodles in a gulp. The wad of mostly chewed noodles slides down my throat and becomes part of the boiling morass in my stomach.

This is a really crazy cover: three or four different singing parts, a full or half orchestra, some crazy guitar/bass/drum lines, squealing noises. I think it’s even better and more drug-fueled than Syd Barrett’s original. Good times.

I stick the fork in the noodles and twirl up a more appropriately-sized ball of noodles. The steam has decreased markedly, and I stuff the noodles in my mouth without blowing on the noodles. Perfect: warm, but not too hot, and several minutes from cold and nasty.

I chew a few times and swallow the noodles. I belch a bit, pick up the beer and take a gulp. I hear a noise outside and look out the window. Mauvais and Écœurant are sitting down at one of the tables, smoking and chatting with big cans of High Life in front of them. Good. The ‘party’ is starting.

You know, I think I was wrong before. Pin-Ups is not, in fact, the first of the Thin White Duke records. It’s largely populated by members of The Spiders from Mars, the backing band for the Ziggy era, and really marks the end of that era, while pointing, in parts, not to the Thin White Duke era, but to the brief, if vastly important, Diamond Dogs period. It’s also a collection of cover songs, even though I don’t think I’ve heard the original versions of most of the songs. It’s still a great album, and there are some fabulous tracks on this record. “Friday on My Mind” is effing awesome, and “Sorrow” remains one of my favorite Bowie tracks of all time.[xxxix]

I fork up another medium-sized wad of noodles and stuff them in my mouth. I sort of mash the noodles around a bit with my tongue, enjoying the salty, fake Chicken taste and starchy, glutinous mass, then chew a couple of times, swallow, and take a gulp of beer.

Beer and Ramen: the dinner of champions. Maybe “the dinner of loser art historians and fat slobs” would be more appropriate. Ramen is definitely a poor sort of substitute for a good, nutritious meal. Oh well. It’s cheap, and it’s really all I can afford these days, unless I give up good beer, which is not going to happen any times soon. I must have some sort of way to escape the drudgery of my life: jobless, loveless, days and nights fueled by memories of what could/should/might have been, and a life directed (and largely ruined) by the Epiphany.

I really suck.

I take another forkful of noodles, stuff them in my mouth, chew, swallow, then tilt the bowl and scoop up the last of the noodles: not much sustenance, here, but I don’t need much sustenance. After all, I’m largely inactive. After that bike ride, though, I could probably use a bit of protein: not going to happen today, unless some chicken magically appears, materializes fully cooked in front of me, and that’s not going to happen unless the laws of physics and nature completely break down, replaced by wishes and dreams.

Oh well.

I stuff the last bit of noodles into my mouth, chew, swallow, and wash down with beer.

I pick up the bowl, stand, and walk to the sink. I rinse the bowl and colander and deposit them in the dishwasher. I rinse the Noodle Pot and put it in the dishwasher. I close the dishwasher and walk back to the desk to retrieve the beer.

I take a sip, walk to the door, open the door, step outside, close the door and walk over towards Mower and Cory.

Me: Evening, gentlemen. How’s it going?

Mauvais: Sup, Jeff.

Écœurant: Yo. What you drinking tonight, Jeff?

Me: Oh, a little Full Sail IPA. Not the best I’ve ever had, but not bad. I see ya’ll have the good old Oil Cans rocking.

Mauvais: Yep.

They’re talking about Go-Carting, something about trying out a new spot that Mauvais saw a few days earlier. I reach into my right pocket, retrieve cigarettes and liter, pull a stick from the pack, return the pack to my pocket, light the cigarette, and drop the lighter into the pocket. I sit down at the table, take a drag, inhale, lean back a bit, and blow a couple of wobbly smoke rings into the air.

Mauvais: Ya. There’s these banks and a couple of parking cubs, almost, you know, like a half pipe for skateboards or something, and I want to get out there and see how it rides.

Écœurant: You think the curbs are close enough to the lip to grind, or what?

Mauvais: Shit. Looks like. I wanna get out there tomorrow, for sure.

Écœurant: You work tomorrow?

Mauvais: Naw. You?

Écœurant: I open, but I should be off by 2 or so.

Mauvais: Shit. I’ll pick you up and we’ll fucking ride out there and tear it up.

Écœurant: Rocks.

This extreme go-carting shit sounds crazy. Grinding curbs with a go-cart? A go-cart half pipe? Jesus.

Me: So ya’ll really clear stunts in the go-cart?

Mauvais: Shit. Some.

Écœurant: Shit. Mauvais pulled a 540 out on a bank down at the Glade last week. Fool ended up popping into neutral and rolling backwards for a bit and shit. I thought for sure he was going to lose it, but man.

Me: Really? Jeez. You guys are crazy.

Mauvais: Shit. That’s nothing. I was cruising around Toys the other day, and hit a fucking frontside axle grind on this curb, and swung the back end around and jumped off the curb into a fucking 360. I fucking nailed that shit.

Écœurant holds up his right hand, and Mauvais slaps him a high five. I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale, exhale. The fountain pisses, and I’m about to need another piss myself. I pick up the beer and take a long pull.

Me: Shit. I started fuck early today. Well, not really early. I started about, I don’t know, 45 minutes ago or something. This is already number four.

Mauvais: Fun times.

Me: You’re fucking right. I probably ought to slow it down a bit, though. It’s only, what, 5:30 or something, right?

Écœurant: It’s like 5:45, I think.

I pick up the beer and chug the last bit. I set the bottle down and take a drag on the cigarette.

Écœurant: I want to build up that ramp at the Glade and try that flip again.

Mauvais: Ya. I think we need to get it another couple of feet higher, like vertical, and you’ll be able to hit it. I wanna try that 720 cage stand out there again.

Me: 720 cage stand?

Écœurant: Ya. You pop the cart off the jump into a spin, then, like, climb up onto the roll cage in, like a handstand sort of, you know, one hand and a shoulder on the cage, and one to steer, and land it clean before climbing back down again.

Me: Holy shit.

Écœurant: Ya. That shit’s crazy. I won’t even try anything like that anymore.

Mauvais: But you did clear that nose pick 540 at the Ditch last week. That was some seriously crazy shit.

Écœurant: Ya. But at least I kept my hands on the wheel and feet on the pedals. You climb all over that shit.

Mauvais: Shit.

Me: So do you modify these go carts with anything special, or are they sort of stock?

Écœurant: Well, we usually pull the engine and transmission out and drop a 800 Honda and a four speed tranny in. And we change up the suspension so all the wheels turn and tilt. And we make it so we can change between two- and four-wheel drive with a switch.

Mauvais: Fucking Buddy rides a fucking 1200, six speed.

Me: Jesus. Do you beef up the roll cage or put special restraints in or anything?

Écœurant: Not much.

Mauvais: Shit. I cut off about half the roll cage. You don’t need all that shit in there, just weigh you down, you know. And you definitely don’t need no fucking seat restraints. Only pussies wear seat belts.

Écœurant: Hell ya.

Me: Jesus H. Shit. I gotta piss. Be right back out, gentlemen.

I pick up the empty beer bottle, stand, and walk to the door. I flick the cherry off the cigarette, open the door, walk over, drop the butt in the garbage and the bottle in the recycling and walk back to the bathroom

I sidestep the door, unzip, retrieve the cock, point, and let loose a slightly less yellow stream. The beer’s starting to really take effect: starting to force the body to expel excess water, which helps to clean out all the pent up toxins, and wash out all the pipes.

The stream of urine slackens and slows to a drip. I close off the sphincter and shake it off. I flush the toilet, stuff my penis back into my jeans, zip up, back carefully—if a bit wobbly—out of the bathroom, and walk to the refrigerator.

I open the door and fetch out another Full Sail. I set the beer on the counter, pick up the bar key with my right hand, take hold of the beer with my left hand, and prise off the cap. I grab the cap and toss it towards the garbage. It sails through the air, smacks against the rim of the pail, flies up in the air, and lands in the garbage.

I raise my arms in a large ‘V,’ ala an Olympic victory salute, lower my arms, pick up the beer and walk outside, pulling the door closed behind me.

I walk over to the table, pull cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, and deposit cigarettes, lighter, and beer on the table before sitting down.

Me: So what ya’ll been up to today?

Mauvais: Nothing much. Smoked some weed and sat on the couch and watched the television.

Écœurant: Yep. I was supposed to work today, but JewBoy called and wanted to take my shift. I said “Hell Yes” and packed a bong load. Hell yes.

Me: Ya. I didn’t do much either. I found that beer store down the street. Had a helluva time getting there, drove all over the fucking place. Man I wish I knew that was just right there. Fuck. And I had a bike ride. And I met the chick that lives up there: Mme. Rêveuse. She’s fucking hot, and has this big fucking douche bag stud of a boyfriend and cool Rottweiler or something named Charlie. She’s pretty nice. I guess they might come down later.

Mauvais: That’s cool. We need another couple of Rails around here.

Écœurant: Hell ya.

Great. More friends to watch fuck my girlfriends, crushes, and dream lovers. I’m such a lucky guy to have friends like these. Shit. With friends like mine, who the hell needs COINTELPRO?[xl] With friends like these, who needs enemies? Jesus H. Motherfucker.

Me: Hell ya. I need to find a little hottie to do a bit of railing with myself.

Écœurant: Shit, man. Fucking Maligne and Hautain will both fuck your brains right out, man. All you have to do is fucking wink at ‘em. Fucking Whores.

Mauvais: Shit. I walked in on Core and Lautrement screwing Hautain from both ends one day. Man, I pulled my cock out and stuffed it right in the only hole that slut had left. Fucking bitch loved it. She couldn’t get enough.

Écœurant raises his hand, and Mauvais slaps him a high five. They begin laughing.

My stomach turns over, and I let out a half burp, half cough, half choking sound.

I reach over and grab the beer, tilt it to my lips, and take a long pull. I set down the beer, tug a cigarette out of the pack and spark it up.

I hate hearing men talk about women this way. I mean, sure. I think all sorts of stuff about women, and some of it’s maybe a bit demeaning, but I’d never act on the thoughts, and definitely wouldn’t ever repeat it to anyone. But still, I guess I can’t say too much about Cory and Mower. They’re just verbalizing what I was already thinking about Maligne and Rêveuse. Fucking patriarchy permeates everywhere and everything: there’s no relevant difference between my nasty thoughts and Mower and Cory’s nasty talk. There’s no relevant difference between this sort of patriarchal putting down of women and the racism and class bias that permeates all of Dallas, and things were no better in Illinois, and just about the same on Long Island.

I want a partner, not a mere Rail for a night or an afternoon. But at the same time, I’m fucking horny and would love to get my dick wet with no strings.

But in either case, there’s the fucking Epiphany. Mother fucker. And, anyways, I have to keep up a bit of a masculine aura around these guys.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale. My stomach calms down a bit, and I take a long pull on the beer. I start to set the bottle down, but think better of it and take another long gulp.

I set the beer down on the table and take a drag on the cigarette.

Me: Hell. I’d love to break off a piece of Maligne one night or something. She’s got a nice round ass.

Écœurant: You an ass man, Jeff?

Me: Hell yes. Ass and legs. And neck. I love a good long, thin neck.

Mauvais: Hell yes.

Écœurant: I likes me some titties, myself. Big floppy fucking tits, for sure.

Me: That Hautain has a fucking rack on her, huh.

Mauvais: Shit, man. She should. She paid enough for ‘em.

Écœurant: And that Maligne paid even more for that ass of hers.

Me: Really?

Écœurant: Shit, ya.

Mauvais: No she didn’t. I known her since we was in fucking Elementary school. Man, she’s always had a great ass.

Écœurant: Really? I remember it being way smaller in High School.

Mauvais: Ya. But that was before she started taking the dick back there.

They start laughing, and I chuckle politely, playing my part.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale.

I pick up the beer and guzzle down a few mouthfuls. I need to get fucking wasted, now. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this line of conversation. Maybe I should see if Mower will let me take a bong rip, dull out my senses, make me stop talking, make me withdraw, sit silently, just listening and watching, never acting. Fuck.

A door opens, and we all look over. Mollement and Lentement emerge from their apartment.

Me: How ya’ll doing today?

Lentement: Alright, alright.

Lentement stands outside the door for several seconds, staring off into space like a zombie. Mollement starts walking down the hallway towards the parking lot.

Lentement reaches into his pocket and fishes around for a moment before pulling out his keys. He looks at them in his hand as if he forgot why he pulled them out. He looks up, reaches out and closes the door. He looks back down at the keys in his hand and slowly fishes around, retrieving a single key. He holds the key between his finger and thumb and looks at the door for several seconds. Écœurant and Mauvais start laughing.

Lentement reaches out and grabs the door knob.

Mollement: Hell ya. Great. How are you guys?

Mollement disappears into the parking lot. Lentement looks down at the keys in his hand, and then at his hand on the door. Slowly, as if pushing his hand through molasses, he reaches out and inserts the key in the door. Mauvais and Écœurant are doubled over, laughing.

Lentement turns the key to lock the door, lets go of the door and the keys, and stands there, looking at the keys hanging out of the door.

He reaches up, slowly, and pulls the keys out of the door.

Lentement: Ya’ll drinking tonight?

Mauvais: Hell yes.

Lentement: Well, maybe me and Mole will drop by. Who knows. Well, see you guys later on.

Me: Later, Lint.

Écœurant: Late.

Lentement stands at the door for a second, looking at the keys in his hand. He drops them in his pocket, and turns toward the parking lot. He stands there, gazing out toward the parking lot, not moving, not speaking.

I take a drag on the cigarette and a pull on the beer: inhale; gulp; exhale.

I take another drag on the cigarette.

Lentement begins walking slowly toward the parking lot.

Mauvais: Those guys are fucking crazy.

Écœurant: Dopey and Slowpoke.

They start laughing hard. I chuckle politely and take a sip of beer. I take the last drag off the cigarette and stub it out on the table.

Me: You wouldn’t happen to have a spare bowl or something we could use for an ashtray out here, do you?

Mauvais: Naw.

Écœurant: Hummm. I might have something. Let me check.

Écœurant stands and walks to the apartment he shares with Mauvais and Négligé. He opens the door and walks inside. A thick stench of marijuana escapes from the apartment.

Me: Anything left in that bong of yours, Mower?

Mauvais: I cashed it earler. Why? You wanna smoke out, Jeff?

Me: I might like to take a hit or so later on, if you have any. I don’t smoke much: it just makes me paranoid. But I wouldn’t mind getting a bit high if you can spare a bit.

Mauvais: Hell ya. I’ll go pack a bowl now, if you want.

Do I want to get high right now? Or should I wait a bit. If I smoke now, I’ll be of little use when Mme. Maligne comes out, and definitely won’t be able to flirt with Mme. Rêveuse and piss off her douche bag boyfriend if they come out. But I’d really like to get a bit high right now, stave off, maybe, or at least dull some of these feelings of unattractive worthlessness. Shit. I’ll wait a bit.

Me: Naw. I think I’ll wait a bit, let it get dark, anyways.

Mauvais: That’s cool. I’ve got plenty. We’ll fucking get fucking high later on.

Me: Cool. Thanks, Mower.

Mauvais: No worries, buddy.

Écœurant emerges from their apartment carrying a ceramic soup bowl with a large chip in the rim. He closes the door behind him.

Écœurant: Man, why didn’t we think of this before?

He punches Mauvais hard on the arm.

Écœurant: Great idea, Jeff.

Mauvais: Fuck you, cocksucker! Ya. Helluva good idea, Jeff.

Me: Shit. Thanks. I just got tired of throwing butts in the planter, or taking them inside or leaving them on the ground. You know?

Mauvais: Shit. This place is a fucking dump. I don’t give a shit about leaving garbage around. Motherfuckers don’t send anyone to clean it up, who gives a shit?

Me: Well, I like things a bit cleaner, I guess.

Écœurant: Fuck ya.

Écœurant sets the chipped, ceramic bowl on the table and sits down.

Écœurant: I’m a bit of a clean freak, myself, but these motherfuckers, especially Négligé, are some dirty motherfuckers, for sure.

Écœurant scratches his crotch and digs a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights from his pocket. He tugs open the top and retrieves a bent cigarette from the pack. He shoves the cigarette in his mouth, burps, drops the pack on the table, reaches over, grabs my lighter, lights his cigarette, and drops my lighter on the table in front of him.

A cigarette seems like a good idea. I reach over, pull a stick from my pack, reach over, grab my lighter, and light my cigarette. I take a drag, set the lighter down on top of my cigarettes, and pick up the beer. I take a few gulps of beer and suppress a burp. If I don’t watch these guys, I’m going to loose my lighter tonight.

I tap some ash off onto the ground and take another drag on the cigarette. The sun has largely disappeared, and various lights come on all at once: three security lamps (one on each corner of the courtyard, minus one that burned out several days ago); the weird yellow-green lamps that illuminate the stairs; some timered lights in a couple of apartments upstairs, probably installed by the apartment complex to make potential thieves or squatters believe that the apartments are occupied, but which, in reality, only serve to indicate that the apartments are empty and have working water and electricity.[xli]

I take a drag on the cigarette, pick up the beer, and take a long pull.

Écœurant: Shit. I wanna look at some titties. Hey Mower, let’s go to Aphrodite’s.

Mauvais: Fuck that.

Écœurant: Come on, fucker. Shit. I wanna see some naked bitches.

Mauvais: That place is fucking nasty, all c-section scars and stretch marks and bitches that shove their hemorrhoids in your face. Fuck that.

Me: Jesus.

Écœurant: Shit. I love that shit. Fuck, there was this bitch there last time and she was shaking her ass in my face and shoving her fucking hemorrhoids out at me, and then pulling that shit back in, and pushing it out and pulling it back in. Fuck. I took a look at that shit and just had to have a fucking lap dance from that bitch.

Me: Jeez.

Mauvais: Fuck that. I’m not going over there and spending money on those nasty fucking sluts.

I take a drag on the cigarette and a pull on the beer.

Écœurant: Shit, man, just throw fucking quarters at them.

Mauvais: Fuck. They’ll kick your ass out quick for that shit.

Écœurant: Naw, man, you just every now and then toss one of those golden dollar things out there.

Mauvais: Shit.

Écœurant: Try to play fucking quarters with their blown out poons.

Mauvais and Écœurant begin laughing, and I chuckle politely. I take a long gulp of beer: it’s almost time for a fresh one.

Me: Shit, Core. Man, they seriously don’t throw you out for that?

Écœurant: Fuck no. Shit. Those bitches take whatever they can get. I mean, you can’t throw pennies at them, but they’ll take quarters, for sure, as long as you toss in a dollar every now and again. Fuck. Last time I was there, I tossed three dollar coins and about twenty fucking quarters on the stage, and the fucking bitches were picking the change up with their asses and pussies and tongues and shit. Whores.

Mauvais: No way you can get away with throwing change.

Me: Shit. Those women are just trying to make a living the best they can, and throwing change at them is pretty fucking rude, you know?

Écœurant: Fuck that. I ain’t giving those bitches my fucking dollars. No way. Fucking whores.

Écœurant stands up and walks to his apartment. He opens the door, goes inside, and closes the door behind him. A strong stench of marijuana escapes, and fills the courtyard for a moment before dissipating.

I down the rest of the beer, take a drag on the cigarette, stand up, and stub out the cigarette in the cracked bowl on the table.

Me: I’m fetching a beer.

I pick up the cigarettes and lighter, drop them in my pocket, turn and walk to the door. I open the door, step inside, kick the door partway closed, and drop the beer in the recycling. I feel a sudden movement in my bowels, and rush to the bathroom.

I sidestep the bathroom door and close it behind me, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep the rapid outflow of diarrhea under control until I can get my pants down. I undo the belt, unbutton my jeans, stick my thumbs into the waistband of my lucky boxers, and tug down my jeans and boxers in one fell swoop.

I quickly sit down on the toilet, and nearly fall into the bow. Fuck.

I stand partway, reach behind me, and flop down the toilet seat. I sit down and relax my prostate and sphincter. Diarrhea begins to spray into the bowl. My stomach or intestines or something grumbles.

This happens to me sometimes. Sometimes, after a few beers, some dinner, some more beers, and plenty of cigarettes, I get diarrhea. It’s fairly disgusting, and I sometimes wonder if there’s something going wrong with my gutty-wutts. I hope there’s nothing wrong, but at least I know the conditions under which this state occurs. And it’s not like I can go off to a doctor and get my guts checked out: unemployed and ineligible for Medicaid or Medicare in the world’s most technologically and scientifically advanced country, and only advanced industrialized nation without a nationalized healthcare plan.

And, anyways, I’m only 31, and I doubt that anything too serious could be going on this early in life: it may be underway, and I’ll probably regret not having it checked out now, but I’ve probably got another ten or twenty years before I really start needing any sort of medical care that I can’t get through Over-The-Counter medications and a decent diet.

Of course, I could have an awful bicycle or car accident and need some attention, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. And I’m fairly certain that only the most expensive—and, thus, impossible for all but the most wealthy individuals—insurance plans would even cover bicycle or automobile crashes, since the auto insurance should (as long as you pay the extra, and largely unaffordable, premium) cover bodily injury, and bicycling is an inherently dangerous activity, and people should know better than to ride a bicycle.

I had hoped that President Obama would push through a national healthcare system, but he’s apparently as beholden to corporate interests above and beyond interests of the population he was elected to serve as his predecessor, The Shrub. “The Democrats are on the inside, what the Republicans are on the outside.” I think Jello Biafra said that.

The shit-spray slows to a dribble, then stops. My guts are slightly sore, and my asshole burns. I reach over and pull of four squares of toilet paper. I fold the paper in half, then in half again, raise my left hip and wipe my left butt cheek and part of the crack. I can feel the sticky, wet mess clinging to my bottom. Yuck.

I rip a larger piece of toilet paper off the roll, raise my left hip, and wipe the crack, from the top, down to my asshole, and repeat the process, this time starting at my crotch and wiping up.

I rip another piece of toilet paper off, and wipe my right butt cheek, and run my hand over my butt. It feels cleanish, overall, and I check my left hand for traces of shit: it’s clean.
I pull off another four square piece of toilet roll, fold it up and wipe all over, just to make sure.

I reach back behind me and flush the toilet. I stand up, stoop, pull up my boxers and jeans, adjust my penis and testicles, button the jeans and fasten my belt. I side step to my left, turn around, turn on the warm water in the sink, dampen my hands, pick up the bar of cheap soap, soap up my hands, set the soap back in it’s place hear the warm water handle, wash soap off my hands, turn off the water, take two steps over to the tub, holding my hands carefully to avoid dripping water, reach out, and use my damp shower towel to dry my hands.

I twist my body around, open the door, and wiggle around it. The bathroom smells of foul, sickness-related shit. Yuck.

I walk to the refrigerator, open the door, and retrieve the last Full Sail. I pick up the bar key and pop off the top. I set the bar key on the counter, drop the cap in the garbage, pick up the fresh beer, and walk to the door.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the pack of cigarettes. I flip open the top: one cigarette left. I pull the cigarette from the pack and stick it in my mouth. I crumple the empty pack, walk back to the garbage, and drop the empty pack into the can. I walk over to the desk, fetch a fresh pack of cigarettes, and shove them into my pocket.

I walk back to the door, tug it open fully, step outside, close the door, reach into my right jeans pocket, pull out the lighter, light the cigarette, and walk over to the table where I notice that Écœurant and Mauvais have been joined by Négligé. Écœurant is flipping through a copy of the Dallas Watcher, the local ‘indie’ newspaper, that is, in reality, owned wholly by ConDeNast.

Négligé: Yo yo, Jeff.

Me: My name is Smokestoomuch. Mr. Smokestoomuch. Well, you better cut down a bit, then. What? You said your name was Smokes too much, and I said you better cut down a little, then. Oh! I get it now! It never struck me before! My name is Smokes Too Much, so I better cut down a bit! How’s it going, Nel.

Négligé: Shit. Cory wants to go to the fucking nasty whore bar, and I just want to sit here and drink and smoke.

Écœurant: Fuck! Look at this! Shit. Fucking Aphrodite’s has fucking midget strippers tonight! Fucking Awesome! We’ve got to go.

Écœurant waves the paper in Mauvais’ face, and lets out a long belch. I take a drag on the cigarette (inhale, exhale) and a sip of the beer. I set the beer on the table, pull the fresh pack of cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, and set them on the table. I sit down and take another drag on the cigarette.

Mauvais: I’m not going to fucking Aphrodite’s tonight.

Écœurant: Fucking midget strippers, dude!

Négligé: No way.

Écœurant: Jeff! Come on! You’re coming with me, right?

Me: Fuck that. I’m going to sit out here and drink beer and smoke cigarettes all night, for sure.

Écœurant: Come on! Midget strippers! I can’t go all the way over there by myself! Shit!

Mauvais: That’s disgusting, dude. Those bitches freak me out.

Écœurant: They’re fucking awesome. Shit. You should’ve seen Lentement and Mollement over there with the fucking midget bitches. The Mole laughs and points at them and shit, and fucking Lenny just sat there until they were almost off the stage and said “Fucking Midget bitches, dude” and he started laughing too. It was fucking awesome! Those bitches give great lap dances, man, fucking squirming around in your lap and shit. Fucking rock.

Mauvais: Fuck that.

Me: Jeez.

Mauvais: I bet those bitches didn’t want your fucking quarters, Core.

Négligé: Quarters?

Mauvais: Ya. Fucking Core was just telling us how he throws quarters at the nasty fucking strippers at Aphrodite’s and tries to bounce the quarters off the table and into their crab infested poons.

Négligé: No shit.

Écœurant: Hell Ya. You’ve gotta throw a couple of golden dollars in there, but those bitches will take whatever they can get. Fucking anything for another rock of crack.

I take a drag on the cigarette, and tap ash off onto the ground. The fountain pisses.

All this talk of strippers and bullshit really gets to me. For one, the women that work there are just trying to make a living, and they deserve some sort of respect. And, anyways, I don’t patronize those places. They exploit my fantasy, and I’m perfectly capable of exploing my own fantasy on my own, with no help from anyone else.

Back in 2000 and 2001, I had a neighbor who was a stripper. She was loads of fun: wild, crazy, willing to drink to excess every night and smoke loads of weed. We’d go out to bars sometimes, and she’d rub all up on me and guys would stare at her and stop me on my way to the bathroom and ask how a fat loser like me managed to pull a hot piece of ass like that. It was great.

I never went and watched her strip: I couldn’t afford the expense. But I thought about it many times. But I guess I didn’t really need to anyway, since she was always walking around in just her panties, or wearing sheer tops or cable-knit sweaters and letting her nipples stick through the holes in the fabric or changing her clothes in front of me.

There were a couple of times, after just the right amount of beer and weed, that I got a bit of a hard on watching her shake her tits around, but we never had sex or even fooled around very much.[xlii]

Anyways, she would tell me stories about how some of the guys at the club treated her: calling her a whore; grabbing all on her; sticking their hands in between her legs; trying to pull her thong off or to the side. She told me that she was giving a lap dance to this guy one day, and he held her down, pulled her underwear to the side and started shoving his fingers in her. She would tell me these stories, and I would find myself simultaneously angry at the men and the society that would allow such denigration of women, and saddened that my good friend was forced to work in this sort of situation. It’s really disgusting.

I mean, she didn’t have an education. She dropped out of High School and never went back for a GED or anything, and stripping was about the only way she could make a living without taking off all of her clothes. But still, the things she subjected herself to, the thing that society virtually forced her to subject herself, really filled me with anger, and gave me some insight into the other side of the stipper pole.

She ended up marrying one of her regulars at the club. He was rich and a fairly nice guy. I worried about her for a long time, but I hear that he treats her well, and she doesn’t have to take her clothes off for money any more, which is a pretty good thing.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale.

I hear car doors slam in the parking lot, and the voices of two men talking loudly. I can’t hear quite what they’re saying. The voices get closer, and I look over at the hallway that leads out to the parking lot. The voices are climbing the stairs, and I realize they’re talking about what they might have for dinner: curry or Phö. Enhaut and Audessous appear on the upstairs landing, and walk to the apartment just to the left of Mme. Rêveuse.

Audessous: But that curry at Bangkok Palace is so yummy!

Enhaut: Ya, but wouldn’t some Phö be better for your hangover, honey? I know it would make me feel better.

Audessous: But curry would work too, and it’s your fault that I stayed up till 9am drinking.

Enhaut: We were doing a bit more than drinking, baby.

Audessous: Hi boys!

Audessous waves down at us, and I nod a return greeting. Enhaut pulls a set of keys off of his belt, and unlocks the door. He opens the door, and, as Audessous slips past him into the apartment, Enhaut gives his ass a squeeze. Audessous squeals a bit and scurries inside. Enhaut looks down at us, waves, goes inside and closes the door behind him.

Écœurant: Fucking fags.

Me: Who was that?

Mauvais: Fucking Enhaut and fucking Audessous, the fucking local faggots.

Me: Are they the ones that I hear bumping fucking Lady Gaga at 8am?

Négligé: Shit.

Écœurant: Fucking fags love that shit.

Mauvais: Fuck you! You love Lady Gaga too, you bastard!

Écœurant: Ya, but I wanna fuck her!

Mauvais: Ya? You saw those pictures of ‘her’ fucking sack, right?

Écœurant: What? Fuck you!

Mauvais: Ya! Bitch is a man! Core’s a fag! You gonna give her a reach-around when you fuck her, Core?

Écœurant: Fuck off. Bitch is hot. She ain’t no man.

Mauvais: That bitch is a man, dude.

Écœurant: Fuck you.

Négligé: You haven’t seen that picture? Ya! He was dancing or something, and his sack fell out. His publicist or somebody said it was a wardrobe malfunction.

Écœurant: No way, man. Bitch is too fucking hot.

Mauvais: It’s true, dude. Bitch is a man.

Écœurant punches Négligé hard on the arm, and Mauvais, Négligé and I burst out laughing.

Négligé: Cory’s a fag. Cory likes dicks. Cory’s a fag.

Écœurant: Shut the fuck up, motherfuckers.

Me: It’s alright, Core. You don’t get to choose who you want to be with.

Mauvais: That’s right!

Écœurant joins in the laughing. I take a drag on the cigarette. The fountain pisses. I reach out, pick up the beer, and take a sip, then take a big gulp. I tap ash off onto the ground.

These guys are always fucking with each other like this. It’s kind of fun. I used to have buddies like this, always fucking around with each other and stuff. I think it keeps people honest, and helps us refrain from taking things too seriously.

But in recent years, especially since Grad school, I’ve sort of lost my touch when it comes to this stuff. All my grad school buddies were fairly staid, and the few that did appreciate a good ribbing really couldn’t handle the Texas-style beat down I would issue. So I sort of stopped, and I’m surprised that ‘you don’t choose who to love’ shit even popped out of my mouth.

I guess I’m drunk.

I hear a door open behind me. I can tell that it’s either Hautain or Maligne by the location of the sound.

Mme. Maligne: What are you boys getting into tonight?

Mauvais: Oh shit.

Écœurant: I see you in that tank top, girl.

Me: Hey, Maligne. What’s going on?

Mme. Maligne: Not much, just having a little glass of wine before dinner.

I feel her hand on my shoulder, and look up.

Mme. Maligne: Scoot over, cutie.

I slide over until my right butt cheek is most of the way off the bench. Maligne sets her wine glass on the table, and sits down next to me. She slides her hand down my back, and a shiver goes up my spine. She rubs her thigh against my leg, and I slip my arm around her back.

She presses closer to me, grabs my hand and slides it down to her hip. My penis swells in my jeans. It’s been a long time since I had my arm around a sexy woman like this. Shit.

Mme. Maligne: That’s better, don’t you think?

Mauvais: Shit. Mel’s got her another little toy for the night.

Mme. Maligne: Shut up, Mower.

Négligé: That’s right. You ready to get your dick wet, Jeff?

Me: Shit.

I feel my face flush.

Mme. Maligne: Oh, look! He’s blushing! You do want to get your dick wet don’t you, Jeffy!

She turns slightly, reaches over, and slides her hand slowly up my leg.

Mme. Maligne: You want some of this, Jeff? Huh?

Me: Shit.

Mme. Maligne pulls away from me, and she and the guys start laughing. I take a drag on the cigarette, lean forward, and stub it out in the bowl. I feel Maligne shift behind me, and as I sit back, she rubs her pointy little breasts against my arm.

I tilt the beer back, and guzzle the rest of it. My penis is lodged uncomfortably between the crotch of my jeans and my thigh. I don’t want to be obvious about making an adjustment, so I shift slightly in hopes that my half-erect penis will pull free. If anything, the shifting around made it worse.

Me: Fuck. You’re gonna drive me to drinking, sister.

Mme. Maligne: Well don’t drink so much that you can’t get it up for me later!

Everyone’s laughing freely, now, and their merriment makes me relax a bit. I let out an honest chuckle, stand, grab the empty bottle, and move to go inside. Mme. Maligne strokes my arm.

Mme. Maligne: Where are you going, Jeffy?

Me: I’m just going to grab a beer. I’ll be right back.

Mme. Maligne: Well don’t take too long! I might not be here when you get back!

I step away, and feel her hand slide away from my arm and slide down my back. She gives my butt a squeeze, and my penis dislodges itself, springing up, and making a rather obscene bulge in the front of my jeans. Luckily, my back is turned to the group; and, luckily, they’re all laughing too hard to notice.

I walk to the door, open it, step inside, and push it partway closed. I drop the empty in the recycling. I stroke my penis and silently will it to calm down.

As the erection dissipates, I feel the strong urge to urinate.

I walk to the bathroom, sidestep the door, turn on the light, and unzip my fly. I reach in, tug out the half-erect penis and point it at the toilet. I look down and see that the lid is down. I stoop slightly, let go of my penis, and lift the lid. I take hold of my penis and aim it at the toilet. Clear urine begins to jet into the bowl.

I can’t believe how forward Maligne’s being. Shit. I mean, I knew she was a total rail, but still. Damn. I usually don’t go so much for random sex, but god damn. Fuck my morals. I’m going to get my dick wet tonight, for sure, break one off in that big round ass of hers, if she’ll let me.

The stream of urine slows, and turns into a pathetic sort of dribble. I squeeze out the last bit, shake my penis off, reach up, flush the toilet, stuff my now limp penis into my jeans, reach in and arrange things so I don’t have the uncomfortable squeezed feeling from before, zip up, turn off the light, and sidestep the door.

I walk to the refrigerator and open the door. What to have now? Hummm. How about some Double Wide. That sounds good.

I pull a Double Wide from the fridge, close the door, set the beer on the counter, and pick up the bar key. I prise the lid off the beer, set the key on the counter, and drop the cap in the garbage. I pick up the beer, walk to the door, step outside, pull the door closed behind me, and walk over to the table. I take a sip of beer, the strong rush of hops almost makes me choke, and I set the beer down on the table.

Me: Damn that’s good beer.

Négligé: What are you drinking tonight, Jeff?

Me: I was on the Full Sail IPA, but I ran through that sixer already, so now it’s time for some Double Wide, from Boulevard Brewery in California or Denver or somewhere.

Négligé: Any good?

Me: Hell yes: super hoppy, a bit bitter, and ridiculously strong. I loves it.

I sit down on the bench and snuggle up to Maligne. She rubs my back, slips her hand around and places it on my lap, dangerously close to where I left my penis so it wouldn’t get squished.

I feel my testicles swell in anticipation. I hear a cell phone make a chirping sound, and Écœurant reaches into his pocket and pulls out an expensive-looking Blackberry. He punches a couple of buttons on the phone.

Écœurant: Shit. Motherfucking nobody wants to go to Aphrodite’s tonight! What the fuck is wrong with these motherfuckers?

Mme. Maligne: What’s going on down there tonight? I heard that place was nasty.

Mauvais: Fucking midget strippers!

Mme. Maligne: Midget strippers? Shit! I’d be down for that!

She stretches her right arm out, and Écœurant slaps her a high five.

Écœurant: Let’s go, baby!

Mme. Maligne: Naw, not tonight. I’ve already got other plans.

She squeezes my thigh and slips her hand down in between my legs, and begins gently stroking the inside of my thigh. My penis swells and pokes against her forearm. She slides her hand slowly up the inside of my thigh, and gives my erection a squeeze.

She reaches out with her free hand and takes a sip of wine. She turns her head towards me, sets the wine glass on the table, and starts stroking my penis through my jeans.

Mme. Maligne: Mmmmm. That’s nice.

Me: Good wine?

Mme. Maligne: Oh, ya. The wine’s really tasty.

Her face is mere inches from mine, and I feel a strong urge to stick my tongue in her mouth. I lean forward slightly.

Suddenly, she stands up.

Mme. Maligne: I’m kind of uncomfortable on this bench with half my ass hanging off. Scoot over, Jeffy.

She pulls me towards the middle of the bench. I take the opportunity to make a quick equipment adjustment.

I reach out and grab the beer, trying to look nonchalant despite the massive erection jutting out of my pants and the bright red color of my face.

Mme. Maligne turns, sits down in my lap, wraps her arm around my neck, and grinds her ass against my erect penis. Her ass is warm and soft, like a bug, fluffy pillow, soft and squishy yet slightly firm: definitely the ass of a Pilades instructor. Holy shit.

I take a long pull off the beer, set the bottle on the table, and put my hand on Maligne’s bare thigh. She spreads her legs slightly, as if in invitation, and grinds her ass against my penis. I’m about to go crazy with desire.

Écœurant’s phone chirps again. He retrieves it from his pocket and mashes a few buttons.

Écœurant: Hell yes! Buddy’s down, that’s right! Fucking midget strippers, here I come!

Négligé: You’re really going to go look at that shit?

Écœurant: Hell ya!

Mauvais: Shit. That’s nasty, dude.

Écœurant: Fuck ya!

Mme. Maligne: That’s cool, midget strippers.

She starts giggling, and her entire body vibrates against me. I slip my arm around her waist to hold her in place, take my hand off her thigh, reach out, fetch the beer, and tilt it up. I take a long pull.

I set the beer back on the table, pick up the pack of cigarettes and pound them on the table a few times. I lean forward, strip off the plastic, flip open the pack, tug out the foil, wad the foil and plastic up and toss them in the bowl, and retrieve a cigarette. I drop the pack on the table, stick the cigarette in my mouth, pick up the lighter, lean back, and light the cigarette. I toss the lighter on the table. I feel like a god.

Écœurant stands up and goes inside. I take a drag on the cigarette. Mme. Maligne squishes her ass against my erection and wiggles around. The fountain pisses.

Mauvais: I can’t believe that fucker’s going to go look at midget strippers. Fucking nasty.

Négligé: That’s right.

Mme. Maligne: Come on, midgets need love too.

Everyone starts laughing. Mme. Maligne writhes in my lap. I take a drag on the cigarette (inhale, exhale) and tap ash off onto the ground.

Mauvais: Ya. But they’re not going to get any from Core, they just want his money. And he’s going to go out and throw change at them and get his ass kicked out.

Mme. Maligne: Why would they kick him out?

Négligé: He throws quarters at the bitches: tries to bounce a quarter into their snatches and shit.

Mme. Maligne: That’s fucked up! He really does that? That’s fucked up, dude!

Négligé: Ya. He was telling us all about it earlier, right Mower?

Mauvais: Hell ya. They’re going to run his ass out of there for sure.

I’m having trouble concentrating due to Mme. Maligne’s ass, grinding against my penis just enough to keep me hard, but not quite enough to get me off. She’s driving me crazy.

I squirm a bit on the bench, wiggling my hips and thrusting my erection against her ass. I take a drag on the cigarette.

Mme. Maligne: Stop squirming, Jeffy!

Mauvais: He probably can’t help it. I bet he’s got a fucking hard on.

Négligé: Fucking right! All that ass rubbing against him, I’m surprised he hasn’t come in his pants already!

Mme. Maligne: Boys. Stop it.

Mauvais: You hard, Jeff? Come on. You know you’re about to blow.

Négligé: How long has it been, Jeff, like three, four years or some shit? Ya. You’re about to blow.

Mme. Maligne: Stop it!

Me: Holy shit.

Mauvais: That’s what I thought!

If I wasn’t blushing before, I certainly am now.

I take a drag on the cigarette, lean forward, and stub it out in the bowl. I lean back and place my hand on Maligne’s knee. She grabs her wine glass, takes a sip, and sets the wine back on the table. Her ass grinds and wiggles against my erection.

She sits back and squirms around a bit, getting her ass squished just right against my dick. She grabs my hand, and moves it up her thigh and in between her legs. My thumb and forefinger are underneath her short shorts, very close to her vagina. I can feel the warmth emanating from her.

She crosses her legs high, trapping my hand in between her legs, and forcing my hand against her crotch. She begins swinging her leg and grinding her crotch against my hand.

I wiggle my fingers a bit and realize that my forefinger is right where her thigh ends and her tiny panties begin. She shifts slightly, and now my fingers are right up against her vagina. I can feel the swollen outer lips, the cleft between them, and the little nub at the top.

I move my hand slightly, wiggle my pointer finger around, and press it against her clitoris. She’s extremely warm, now, and wetness begins to seep through the thin panties.

She leans closer to me and whispers in my ear: “Naughty boy.” She’s grinding and wiggling her ass and legs like crazy now, and a shudder runs through her body, starting deep in her pelvis and running up her back and down her legs. She shakes her head side to side, and lets out a whimper of contentment.

I’m about to loose it.

Suddenly, she stops wiggling around and uncrosses her legs. I reluctantly slide my hand out of her shorts and start stroking and gently squeezing her warm, fleshy thigh.

She leans forward, grabs her wine glass, and swallows the rest. She leans back and tickles my ear with her nose. She whispers “Thank you, Jeffy. That was good,” and gives me a gentle kiss on my cheek. She picks up my hand, drops it next to her, and stands up. She wiggles her ass in my face and tugs her shorts down. I’m panting a bit, and a tiny bit of pre-ejaculate escapes from my penis, dampening my boxer shorts.

Mme. Maligne: Ok. I’ll see you boys in a little bit. I’ve got to get some more wine and get ready for tonight.

She tousles my hair a bit, looks down, and gives me a big smile.

Mme. Maligne: See you soon, Jeffy.

Me: Holy shit.

I squirm on the bench and turn to watch Maligne’s ass wiggle away. At her door, she turns and winks at me.

I turn back to the table, pick up the beer, and take a swig. I can smell her on my fingers.

I pull a cigarette from the pack, light it, and begin to smoke.

Négligé: Post-coital smoke, Jeff?

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: Fuck ya! That shit was better than any fucking midget strippers, her fucking rubbing herself off on your hand like that. Shit ya!

Me: You saw that?

Négligé: Hell, yes.

Me: Holy shit.

Négligé: So. You bust a nut or what, Jeff?

Me: Shit. Just about.

Mauvais: Chase her in there and break one off, Jeff! She got hers: we all saw it. It’s only fair that you get some too!

Me: Shit. I should.

Négligé: Man, stand up and go get some of that! It’s pretty good, man.

Mauvais: Ya. The way that little slut throws her ass around. Man. Let me tell you.

Me: Damn.

I take a drag on the cigarette. I pick up the beer and take a drink.

Maybe I should hop up and chase her sexy little ass to bed. Damn. But she said she needed to get ready for something. For what? All she needs to do is let me rip her panties off with my teeth. Shit. I’m going to finish this stick and go over there.

But if she wanted me to follow her, why didn’t she say something? But she did give me that little wink and everything. Maybe she wants me to chase her inside.

But she did say she had to get ready for something. Maybe she’s in there putting on some really slutty underwear and some slutty little outfit for me, and maybe she’s going to pull me inside later and fuck my brains out all night.

Shit. I need to calm the fuck down. But, damn, she got me so fucking hot, and I don’t know if I can stand it much longer. I certainly can’t stand up right now: my fucking dick feels like it’s about a foot long and about to rip through my jeans. Damn that Maligne and her sexy wiggling ass, and damn the Epiphany and my self-doubt. But maybe I should chase her inside and rip her clothes off and fuck her brains out. Shit.

But she did say she had to get ready for something. Fuck. Ok. I’m going to wait. Good things come to those who wait, right? And the guys did say she was good, right? I’m going to wait, and I definitely need to slow down on the drinking, make sure I can still get it up for her later on.

Calm down and slow down, Jeff!

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale.

Mauvais: Get your ass up and go fuck that bitch, Jeff! She wants it, I can tell.

Négligé: Hell ya.

Me: Shit. I don’t know, man. I think I’m going to wait a bit and let her come to me.

Mauvais: She already came all over your hand, dude. I can smell her pussy from over here. Shit. Don’t be a fucking pussy, Jeff. Go fuck Maligne!

Me: Naw. I’m going to wait. If I run in there now, I’ll probably bust a nut before I even get my pants off. No. I need to wait, calm down a bit, so I can perform later on.

Négligé: Fucking pussy.

Mauvais: Damn right.

Me: Shit. Yep.

The door opens and Écœurant emerges. He’s changed into a preppie outfit of Rugby-style shirt, dark blue jeans, and bright white skate sneakers. His hair is spiky and looks wet. He’s wearing a large gold chain and a couple of rings.

Écœurant: Hell ya! Midget strippers, here I come! Fuck ya!

Mauvias: Shit. Dude you just missed Maligne cumming all over Jeff’s hand just now. Dude can’t even stand up, he’s so fucking hard for her.

Écœurant: Is that true, dude?

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: I told him he should chase her inside and fuck her brains out, but he’s too much of a pussy.

Écœurant: Shit. I would. Man, get up on it, for sure. She’s fucking good, dude, and she’ll keep you going all fucking night: wiggling that sexy ass around and poking you with those little titties. Hell ya.

Me:I’m going to wait, dude. She said she had to get ready for something, you know.

Négligé: Ya. Get ready to go for a ride on your fucking cock.

Mauvais: Fucking right.

Me: Shit. I’m just going to sit here for a bit, smoke, drink my beer, and see what happens. Shit. I told ya’ll all about Mme. Suçonie and the Epiphany and all that shit, right? Well, I’m going to wait.

Écœurant: Don’t wait too long, dude. She might just find herself another horse to ride tonight.

Mauvias: Fuck ya.

Me: Ya. I guess she might. But, you know.

Négligé: I know if you wait too long you’ll never get any.

Me: Shit. I guess you’re right. But I’m still going to wait.

Écœurant: Well, sit there and wait then, Jeff. I’m off to see some midget bitches strip and rub their little pussies in my face. I’m gonna see how much a motorboat costs. Usually I can get one for a couple of gold dollars and a few quarters, but I bet those midget bitches will let me do it for less.

Mauvais: Shit. I bet it’s a lot more, dude.

Me: Ya. They should charge more. There’s fewer of them, and it’s like a niche market, you know. High end shit, right?

Écœurant: Shit. We’ll see. I got a pocket full of quarters, and I’m fucking ready.

Écœurant walks off towards the parking lot. I can hear the quarters jangling in his pockets. Crazy fucker.

I take a drag on the cigarette and tap some ash off onto the ground.

Négligé: Jeff. You know you got to forget about that Suçonie bullshit and that Epiphany crap one of these days.

Mauvais: Shit. And the best way to forget about that shit would be to do a little railing with Maligne. Shit. Maybe even get Hautain to rub those fake titties in your face while you fuck Maligne from behind. They like that shit, you know.

Négligé: Hell ya.

Négligé raises his hand and Mauvais slaps him a high five. I take a drag on the cigarette. My erection is starting to dissipate, and it twitches a bit in my jeans.

Négligé: You ever been with two bitches, Jeff?

Me: Naw. I don’t even like to fuck, much. I prefer the love-making, myself. I’ve only ever had one one-night stand, and it was great, but I prefer longer term sorts of sex.

Mauvais: Fuck that. Get that shit out of your head, dude.

Me: Shit.

Sure. Get that shit out of my head. Right. Like I have any choice.

Back when I was a kid, mom and dad beat this bullshit into me about sex being something that married people did to make babies. The church insisted that sex was for committed married people only. And despite my rejection of Christian ideology, and despite catching my parents having sex for fun, and not to make babies, I somehow want to hold onto this idea that Sex is best when it involves committed partners, over a long period of time: that sex is best when love is involved.

I mean, sure: sex is fun. Lots of fun. But I want it to be something more meaningful, even if nobody else believes it to be so. That’s why I never did anything with Three or Four, and why I only ever had that one one-nighter with Two, and why I’ve been celibate since Suçonie, and why I was a virgin until I was 21.

I’m sure a night with Mme. Maligne would be great, and it would be really nice to feel the warmth of another human, I bet I would go a bit nuts and start thinking I was in love with her or some bullshit like that. I’d certainly want to do it more than once. And the thought of a threesome with Maligne and Hautain sounds like fun, it’s definitely something that I could never do, even if Hautain wasn’t such a nasty whore.

But, shit. That’s no way to think about those girls, Jeff. Women like sex just as much, if not more, than men do: if those girls are whores, so are these guys. I guess that’s why I feel like such an outsider most of the time. I and not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be a whore.

I pick up the beer, take a drag on the cigarette, inhale, take a sip of beer, exhale, take another sip of beer, and set the bottle on the table. My erection is almost completely gone, now.

The fountain pisses.

I take another drag on the cigarette.

Me: You know. I guess you guys are right, but I really don’t want to start something that I can’t see through for a long time, you know. And that Mme. Hautain is kind of nasty.

Négligé: Hautain is nasty, dude, and so is Maligne. They’re the rails, dude. They’ve both slept with or dated every guy around here.

Me: Ya. But I’m an ass man. I like round butts and small, natural breasts. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like big breasts and all, they’re fun. But given the choice between a slut with big tits and a slut with a great ass, I’ll go for the ass every time.

Mauvais: I’m telling you, dude, you can have both, and at the same time if you want.

Mme. Hautain: Hi boys!

I look over and see Mme. Hautain walking in from the parking lot, wearing a miniscule plaid skirt, tiny white button up top, unbuttoned and tied around her chubby waist, and fuck me pumps. A sort of buff looking dude is with her, dressed all up like a G and walking with an exaggerated limp.

Me: What’s up Mme. Hautain?

Mauvais: Yo.

Mme. Hautain: This is G. G, this is Négligé, Mauvais, and Jeff. Jeff just moved in over there.

G: Sup, fellas.

Négligé: G.

Mme. Hautain: So what are you boys getting into tonight?

Me: Just chilling. Having a beer, smoking cigarettes, you know.

Mauvais: Speaking of beer.

Négligé: You fetching a beer? Fetch me one too, Mower.

Mauvais: Fuck you.

He stands up and walks inside. G sits down on the bench to my right, and Mme. Hautain jumps into his lap. I glance over and can clearly see her roast beef and pierced vagina through her sheer, lacy, pink panties. She makes no attempt to cover herself, and I bet she can’t: that skirt is awfully short, and doesn’t look like it stretches much at all. G clamps his hand on Hautain’s upper thigh, and she wiggles a bit in his lap.

I wonder if her flat, bony ass is getting Hey Fellas hard. I doubt it.

I take a drag on the cigarette, tap some ash off onto the ground, take another drag, and reach forward to stub the cigarette out in the bowl. As I’m grinding the cigarette out, I take a casual glance at Mme. Hautain’s fake breasts.

Surprisingly, it looks as if she’s wearing a bra, and from the slight pink cast and lace pattern visible through the open top, it looks like the bra matches the panties. Nice.

I glance back down at her crotch and examine the delicate pattern of hair, shaved into a neat ‘V’ shape.

I finish stamping out the cigarette. Mauvais emerges from his apartment, carrying two oil cans of High Life. He sets one down on the table and tosses the other at Négligé.

Négligé: What the fuck are you doing, Mower?

Mauvais: You said you wanted a fucking beer, asshole.

Négligé: Ya. But I didn’t want you to throw it at me.

Mauvais sits down at the table and pops open the top of his beer. Négligé pops the top and a bit of foam begins to squirt out. He quickly lifts the beer to his lips and slurps away the foam.

Négligé: See. You got it all foamy and shit. Asshat.

Mauvais: Fuck.

Mme. Hautain: You want a beer, G?

G: Shit ya.

Mme. Hautain slides off his lap and turns to walk to her apartment. Her skirt has ridden up, and I can clearly see that she doesn’t even have enough ass to swallow the thong. And the flat, board-like, not-quite Cheeks are dotted with bright red pimples. It looks like somebody put a pair of delicate pink panties on a piece of two by twelve that somebody shot a red paintball gun at from a hundred yards or something. Fucking nasty.

A shudder of disgust runs down my back, and I feel my penis shrivel.

With nothing to support the skirt, it slides down, thankfully covering Mme. Hautain’s nonexistent ass. She wiggles her hips as she walks into her apartment.

G: Fucking sexy bitch, that Hautain, huh. I’m going to drill the shit out of that bitch here in a little minute.

Mauvais: So how long have you been hanging out, G?

G: Shit. I just met that bitch like twenty minutes ago at the fucking Stop and Go.

Négligé: Seriously?

G: Fucking right. She was getting some cigarettes and I said, “Hey minha, what’s cracking?” And she invited me to come home with her. Fucking whore. I don’t care, though. I’m gonna stuff my dick in between those fake titties and squirt a load all over her slutty little face.

Mauvais: Fucking right. Those tits are good.

G: You fucked her too?

Mauvais: Me and everyone else.

G: You guys too?

Négligé: Hell ya. Everyone. Except Jeff, here, he’s got some kind of moral bullshit going on.

Me: And between the fake tits and the nonexistent ass, I don’t think I’m going to either. Shit.

G: Is it as good as it looks?

Négligé: She’s alright. Man, she’ll fucking beg you to fuck her in the ass: she loves that shit. And when you’ve finished, she’ll suck her shit off your dick Bitch is crazy.

G: Hell ya.

Mme. Hautain emerges from her apartment carrying two Coors Light tall boys. I look into her apartment and see Mme. Maligne, naked, her chubby body wiggling and jiggling as she walks from the kitchen into one of the bedrooms. Her bare, swollen ass jiggles and wobbles around perfectly as she walks, and my penis stiffens a bit.

Mme. Hautain closes the door, blocking my view. I reach out and grab a cigarette from the pack, stick it in my mouth, and light it. I take a drag. I grab the beer. The fountain pisses. I take a pull off the beer, swallow, then take another. I set the beer on the table.

Mme. Hautain flops down in G’s lap, flashing her sheer panties and fat, roast beef pussy at me again. Nasty bitch.

G: So what do you fellas do?

Mauvais: I work down at the go-cart track.

G: Shit.

Négligé: I sit around on my ass and smoke weed all day.

G: Nice.

Me: I’m an art historian.

G: What does that do?

Me: Not much, really.

Mauvais: Jeff’s actually a graffiti scholar.

G: For reals?

Me: Yep. Graffiti and Street art and social action, shit like that.

G: That’s cool.

Me: What do you do?

G: Aw, I work down at the Adidas store in Steer City.

Mauvias: Cool. You think you can hook me up?

G: Naw. I don’t even get a discount up there. Shit.

Négligé: That’s bullshit.

G: I knows.

Mme. Hautain: Shit. I left my cigarettes in the car.

She slides of G’s lap and flounces out to the parking lot. I pointedly avoid looking at her nonexistent, pimply ass.

G turns to watch her walk away. He licks his lips.

G: I’m going to pound the dog shit out of that bitch. Fucking whore. So what do you do at the Go-cart track? Is it Mauvais?

Mauvais: Not much. Sit around, hand out helmets to kids and shit.

Négligé: Ya. But he is doing some kick ass shit with the go-carts.

G: What? Like clearing stunts and shit?

Mauvais: Hell ya. Extreme Go-Carting, fool.

G: No shit? That’s crazy.

Négligé: Shit ya.

Me: Ya. Mauvais and Écœurant do some crazy shit with a go-cart. Like flips and shit, right Mower?

Mauvais: Haven’t flipped one yet, but I do do some crazy shit.

G: Like what?

Mauvais: Like 540s and axle-grinds and shit like that.

G: You serious?

Mauvais: Shit ya. We’re taking this shit worldwide.

Mme. Hautain emerges from the parking lot, pounding a pack of Virginia Slims against her hand. She rips off the plastic and drops it on the ground. She tugs a cigarette from the pack and plops down on G’s lap. The knot that’s holding her top together has slipped a bit, and I can see a good bit of breast and about half of her bra. The areola of her left nipple is visible, brown and splotchy and covered in tiny little bumps.

She reaches out and grabs my lighter. She lights her cigarette and throws the lighter on the table. She picks up a can of Coors, pops the top and hands it to G. She picks up the other can, pops the top and takes a drink. She sets the beer on the table and takes a drag on her cigarette.

G tilts up the can and guzzles most of it. He lowers the can and lets out a belch.

I pick up my beer and down the last couple of sips. I stand up and walk to my apartment.

Me: Fetching a beer.

I walk to the door and drop the cigarette on the ground outside. I open the door, step inside, walk to the recycling bin, drop the bottle into the bin, walk to the refrigerator and fetch another Double Wide. I pop the top, drop the cap in the trash and take a pull off the beer.

I hear a thumping and squeaking sound coming from upstairs. What is that noise? It takes me a second to realize that it’s the sound of Mme. Rêveuse and Adonis fucking. Shit.

My shoulders slump and I hang my head. God damn it. Why did I have to come in right now? Why couldn’t I have waited a bit before fetching a beer? Maybe then I wouldn’t have to hear the Cutie Pie getting screwed upstairs. Damn it.

I realize that, in addition to the bumping, thumping and squeaking, I can hear Mme. Rêveuse moaning and squealing. Jesus.

I walk quickly outside and pull the door closed behind me. I pick the cigarette up off the ground and stick it in my mouth.

At the table, Mme. Hautain appears to be trying to suck G’s tongue out of his mouth. His hand is up her skirt.

Négligé: Jesus. Take it inside, you two.

Mauvais: Ya. Nobody wants to see that shit.

G stands up and carries Mme. Hautain to her apartment. He throws the door open, and carries her inside. He sets her down and she unties her top and wraps her arms around his neck. He closes the door.

Mauvais: That douchebag is about to get the fuck of his life. I hope Hautain’s on her pills, cause otherwise he’s going to wake up with a case of Herpes and maybe even some Crabs. Nasty whore.

Négligé: Fucking douchbag.

Me: Ya. What was that ‘Hey Fellas’ shit? I hate that word, ‘fellas.’ Fucktard.

Mauvais: Shit. That’s the kind of thing Hautain likes, man. Douchebag G’s and threesomes or fourgies or fivesomes with Maligne or just with a bunch of dudes. She a fucking whore, for sure.

I take a pull on the beer, set it on the table, and sit down. I take a drag on the cigarette. The fountain pisses.

I feel my phone begin vibrating in my pocket.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the phone, and check the little display to see who’s calling me. Holy Shit! It’s my old friend Hove from back in Undergrad. Fucking rock.

I flip the phone open and hold it up to my ear.

Me: Hungghh?

Hove: Ak!

Me: What’s cracking, Hove?

I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, stand up, pick up the beer and walk towards the parking lot. I hate talking on the phone in front of people.

Hove: Not much, Jeff. You know. Same old thing. What’s up with you?

Me: Shit. Another day in paradise, for sure.

Hove: Yep Yep. You drinking tonight?

Me: Hell ya. This is beer number eight. I’ve been rocking it out for awhile, now. You?

Hove: You know me, just cracked open a PBR tall boy, and thought of JefCaf, so I thought I’d give you a shout out.

Me: Hell yes! Glad you did, for sure. Man, you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Fucking crazy, for sure.

I stick the cigarette in my mouth grab the phone with my left hand, lift my beer-holding right hand to my mouth, retrieve the cigarette from between my lips with fore-and middle-fingers, and take a pull on the beer.

Hove: So what went on today?

Me: Shit. So I got up, did the usual job hunt and coffee scene, and decided to rock out of the house for a bit and find a beer store.

Hove: You’ve lived there how long and haven’t found a beer store yet?

Me: Ya. Like almost three weeks or something. No. I moved in with a bunch of beer, like three cases and some big ones, and made a trip up to the one I’d been going to by mommas house, but I figured I better find one nearer the house or something, you know.

Hove: Yep Yep.

Me: So it was really grey and sort of nasty looking outside. So I get in the car and start driving around. Like, before I could even get out of the parking lot, this crazy fucker in a big fucking panel truck tried to mow me down and he flipped me off like it was my fault and shit. And like everywhere I turned, people were shooting me the finger and throwing rocks at me and shit. And that wasn’t even the first time I had a run-in with the fucker in the panel truck. Shit was, like, everywhere I went I was having to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision with this motherfucker.

Hove: No shit?

Me: Ya!

I reach the Subaru, set my beer down on the hood, and lean against the front grill. I take a drag on the cigarette.

Me: So I drive all over the fucking place, like in a big circle, all over Old Dallas, up into the New part of Old Dallas, and all over, like. So I… oh ya! So I’m driving, and these skateboard kids are walking, and one of them steps out in the street and I have to slam on my brakes and I almost hit him. And I roll down the window and am, like “You alright buddy?” and the kid flips me off, calls me a cracker, and he and his buddy are, like throwing rocks and their skateboards at me and chasing me down the street!

Hove: Jeez.

Me: Ya! So, anyways, I keep driving all around, and everywhere I go people are flipping me off and screaming stuff at me and all kinds of shit.

Hove: Shit, man.

Me: Ya. So then, like, no bullshit, I roll up on this beer store, and it’s, like, covered in pieces and throwups from the SPT Crew!

Hove: No shit! That’s fucking awesome!

Me: Ya! And it’s like the clouds parted and the sun started shining and the birds started singing and shit!

Hove: *laughing*

Me: No shit. And I go inside, and there’s this kind of hot Asian chick in there, and I think she wanted me to ask her out.

Hove: Oh ya?

Me: Ya. She was all asking me “You going to lunch?” “I’m going to such and such. You ever been there?” “And maybe you should come to lunch with me, the place rocks”

Hove: And you didn’t realize she was coming on to you until later, did you.

Me: Shit. You know me, for sure. No. I didn’t do anything, just stood there like a dumbass!

Hove: Man, I told you you needed to let go of Suçonie and forget about that Epiphany bullshit, right? Get your fucking nuts back, right?

Me: Ya. But it’s hard, you know.

Hove: Shit. That’s the only way anything’s going to change, dude.

Me: Ya. I know, but still.

Hove: But nothing, man. Get up tomorrow, go to that beer store and ask her out. Tell her you’re sorry for putting her off, you’re a dumbass, and ask her for drinks after work. She’ll do it, man.

Me: I don’t know, Hove. I think I may have lost my chance.

Hove: Well, the only way you’re going to find out is by going back up there and talking to her.

Me: Shit. Ya. You’re right.

Hove: I know I am, dude.

Me: So, anyways, since the sun came out and all, I decided to go for a bike ride. Oh, wait. Before I even went to the beer store, I saw one of the chicks that lives over here, the neighbors call these girls ‘the Rails’, and she was all checking out my package and shaking her ass at me and stuff, and then just now… well that comes later. Anyways, so I go on this bike ride. And everybody’s friendly and waving and smiling at me and there’s all these hot bitches roaming around in little short shorts and tights and shit. And I meet this fucking Cutie Pie. Man. This chick looks just like Four: same ass, same cute little face, same lithe little body. And I got a fucking chub right there. Anyways, it ends up here name’s Rêveuse and she lives right above me. Her dog got loose when I got home, and she was all flirting and shit, and I asked her to come down for drinks in the courtyard tonight, and she said she would, and I was like all ready to stuff one or three into her, but ends up she has this hot, fucking Adonis of a boyfriend. I heard them fucking upstairs a minute ago, and I almost lost it.

Hove: Shit. Sucks, dude.

Me: Ya. And then a minute ago, this Rail that I mentioned a bit ago, I was sitting out with the heavily-tattooed neighbors, wait till I tell you about these guys, and chick comes out and sits in my lap and is all rubbing up on my dick, and she stuffed my hand between her legs and rubbed herself out one right on my hand, right out there in front of everybody, dude. Fucking awesome.

Hove: So you give her one right there, or take her inside first.

Me: Naw. You know. She said she had something to get ready for, and I figured I’d wait a bit and see what happened.

Hove: I tell you what’s going to happen. You didn’t chase her right then, and now you’re not going to get any.

Me: Shit.

Hove: I’m serious, dude.

Me: Ya. I know.

I take a drag on the cigarette and take a look around. I realize that I’m right behind Mme. Maligne’s bedroom, and I can see into her room through the curtains. Shit.

I take another drag on the cigarette, and Maligne comes into view. Still naked, but now with her hair all done and face all made up and shit. Her nipples are large and swollen, pale pink and puffy areola with dark pink nipples, erect and jutting out of her chubby, jiggling chest. She walks over to a bureau and begins rummaging around, and I’ve got an awesome view of her swollen, wiggly ass. A tattoo of a boquet of flowers or something reads like a fucking arrow, pointing right between her massive, floppy, yet perky-looking ass. It’s lightly tanned and blemish free. It wobbles and jiggles with every move. Jesus H. So fucking sexy. My penis swells.

Me: So, anyway, I got back from the bike ride, had a shower, and started drinking. Good times.

Hove: Shit. Nice.

Me: So what’s been up with you? How’s that restaurant mural thing going?

Hove: Man, those guys are taking forever, and they keep changing their minds about what wall and what they want on it and shit. And it’s about to start getting cold, you know.

Mme. Maligne retrieves a black lace bra and pair of panties from the bureau. She walks over to her bed, drops the panties on the bedspread, slips her arms through the straps on the bra, reaches behind her, arches her back and wiggles her hips around (she is completely shaved, and I can see a little delicate ribbon of pink protruding from between her outer lips as she struggles into the bra) and snaps the bra together. Her pudgy belly wobbles slightly. She gives her breasts an adjustment, picks up the panties and steps into them. I get another great view of her honey pot, and my penis is full on hard.

I adjust my penis in my jeans, take a drag on the cigarette, flick it across the parking lot, pick up the beer and take a pull.

Mme. Maligne has disappeared from view.

Hove: But it’s still going, you know. And I told you there’s a hotel attached to this restaurant, and they’re going to let me stay there while I work on the mural.

Me: That’s cool.

Hove: Hell ya. It’s great, because it’s all the way across town, out by fucking O’Hare, and I wouldn’t want to be riding my bike all the way over there every day, especially once it turns cold.

Me: For sure. That would suck.

Hove: But it kinda sucks, you know. I was supposed to be doing this long wall out in the front, like two hundred by sixty feet, like this huge wall, but now they want me to do this different one with lower visibility like around the side of the building. The one I was supposed to do, you can see right from 55, dude, but this other one is, like, around the corner. I mean, I guess you can see it from the highway, but you’d have to look for it, and it’s not nearly as big.

Me: How big is this one?

Hove: It’s like, I measured the other day, like 97 or something by sixty. It’s still pretty big, but I more wanted the visibility, you know?

Me: Shit. That’s huge dude. But I get it about the visibility.

Mme. Maligne reappears holding a tiny black dress. Her back is to me, and I can see that the panties have a little lace and rhinestone butterfly just at the top of her ass. The thong completely disappears between her glorious ass cheeks.

I lick my lips, adjust the bulge in my jeans, pick up the beer, and take a long pull.

Mme. Maligne tugs the dress over her head, slips her shoulders through the straps, and wiggles around, tugging the dress down over her perky little boobs, down over her round, wiggling belly and waist, wiggling even more to get the dress over her ass and hips, and arranges it around her upper thighs.

She runs her hands over her body, smoothing out wrinkles in the dress, and disappears from view again.

Is she putting on that dress and doing her hair and makeup just for me? Shit.

I take another pull on the beer, pull cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, retrieve a cigarette from the pack and light it up. I set the box of cigarettes and the lighter on the hood of the Subaru.

Hove: Ya. It will be great, either way, you know, as long as they get their fucking asses in gear and let me get to work before it gets to cold out. I need the money, you know. I really can’t afford to put this off until the Spring.

Me: They plan on paying you well?

Hove: Ya. We’re not really negotiating that yet, but I’ve heard something about 30K plus materials.

Me: Shit! You could live for a year on that, Hove! That rocks!

Hove: Two, more like, and I could pay my loans down a big chunk.

Me: Shit. I wish I could pay my loans down. I just checked the other day and I still owe more than they gave me. Fucking Bullshit, dude.

Hove: I hear that. I’m still in forbearance or whatever it’s called, you know, so I’m sure mine are getting pretty high.

Me: Ya. It’s fucking bullshit. And with all the ‘help’ they gave me to find a job, and with the fucking economy all fucked up like this, I’m half a mind to stop paying them, tell them to go eff right off.

Hove: You still hunting for a job?

Me: Shit. I’m something like 3500 resumes in since May 2008, dude. I’ve looked everywhere. Shit. I filled out a volunteer form for this museum the other week: no word. I called the volunteer coordinator up and asked her what was going on, and she said I was overqualified. Do you believe this shit? Overqualified to fucking volunteer, man. It’s bullshit.

Hove: That’s fucked up.

Me: Ya. So how about you? You’ve got that mural thing in development. Are you still doing the moving thing and working odd jobs and stuff?

Hove: Ya. I do the moving thing to get a bit of cash for beer and stuff, but I’ve been selling some work lately, dude.

Me: Really? That rocks, Hove!

Hove: Hell ya. I met this chick, and we’ve been sort of seeing each other, and she owns this gallery in Bucktown, and she gave me a show, and she bought a couple of pieces, and I met this collector, and he loved my stuff, and he bought a couple too. So I’m doing all right. Got money for beer and food and the cats and all.

Me: How are your kitties doing? Still running around like crazy?

Hove: Ya. The kittens rock. They’re playing around in my lap right now.

Me: That’s cool.

I pick up the cigarettes and lighter and drop them into my pocket. I pick up the beer, down the last bit, and start walking back to the apartment.

Me: So. You still working on that project at the Bottle, Hove?

Hove: Off and on. It’s kind of taken on a life of its own, now.

Me: Ya?

Hove: Ya. Like, I painted over all the tags, you know, and put up my clouds, and people started writing stuff in the clouds, and it’s just taken off. There’s all kinds of stuff in there now, and I pretty much just sit back and let it go.

Me: That’s cool.

Hove: Ya. But the best thing is, the owners let me start painting the rooms backstage and shit. I go down there sometimes, mostly when there’s a show I want to see, and hang out backstage and paint and talk to people. I met Muse last week.

Me: No shit?

Hove: Hell ya. It was rocking. And the guys from Walter Meego want me to do another set for them.

Me: That’s awesome, Hove!

Hove: Hell ya!

I walk through the courtyard and give a nod at Mauvais and Négligé. The fountain pisses.

I walk up to my apartment, open the door, walk to the recycling bin, drop the bottle in the bin, and walk back to the bathroom.

I don’t want Hove to hear me pissing through the phone, so I sidestep the door, lower the seat, cradle the phone with my shoulder, undo my belt and the button on the jeans, lower my pants and sit down. I adjust my penis so it’s aiming into the toilet.

Hove: Ya. And I met some other dudes there, these guys own a chain of clothing stores in the Chi, and they had me do a couple of murals, just silly stuff, you know, flowers and shit.

Me: That’s cool!

Hove: Ya. I used that old trick you taught me, with the projector and you just stand there with the projector going and paint.

Me: Rock!

Hove: Ya. They had this projector in a storeroom, but they had no idea what it was, and they told me I could have it. It needed a bulb and stuff, but I got it working.

Me: That’s cool.

I finish urinating, stand up, carefully cradle the phone between my cheek and shoulder, and slowly pull up my jeans and boxers. I adjust my penis, button the jeans, and refasten the belt.

I walk to the refrigerator.

Hove: So you liking the new place, or what?

Me: Ya. It’s pretty cool, I guess. It’s friggen dark all the time, though.

Hove: That sucks.

Me: Ya. But there’s a little courtyard out front, and the neighbors are cool, if a bit weird, and the neighborhood is fucking awesome, all tacquerias and Indian dives, and Vetnamese, and people of every shade and color.

I open the door, grab a beer, close the door, pop the top, put the cap in the garbage, pick up the beer, and walk outside. I pull the door closed, and head for the parking lot.

Hove: That’s cool! Kindof like Bucktown, I guess.

Me: Sort of, but Bucktown is pretty gentrified, filled with Hipsters and pretty people and shit. This is more like that area just outside of Bucktown, with all the carnicerias and Turkish tobacco shops and all that shit, you know the area I mean?

Hove: Hell ya. Fucking West Bucktown, dude, just down from where I used to live with DMan and all those guys.

Me: Ya. It’s pretty cool, and I guess the people are friendly, as long as the sun’s out, and since this is Texas, the sun’s out most of the time. What’s weird, though, is the sort of makeup of the area. Like, this is what’s known as Old Dallas, where all the rich bankers and oilmen and shit lived back in the 1920s. They built a bunch of sort of tenements for their servants and shit, and then moved out to North Dallas and Turtle Creek and shit like that in the 1940s, and pretty much left this area to rot.

Hove: Ya?

Me: Ya. It’s really in a good location, sort of between three major highways, about four or five miles from downtown, and all, and that’s really what made the richies move away from here. The fucking interstates sort of carved up the city into areas of Haves and Have-Nots. I mean, what self-respecting oil baron wants to live next to a fucking highway, right? So this area became the sort of ghetto, I guess. And then, just a few years ago, the city started trying to rejuvenate downtown, and they re-zoned a bunch of this area, tore down a bunch of houses, and started building these fancy, tissue paper-like high-rises and Charbucks and fucking Jason’t fucking Deli and shit.

Hove: Ya. They’re doing that to West Bucktown and Koreatown, too.

Me: No shit? Anyway, so the part of Old Dallas that I’m in is still, like Old Old Dallas. It’s like a valley in between New Old Dallas, where they’re tearing out all the cool old homes and building high-rises, and New Dallas, where they’ve built up the arts centers and all that shit and put more high-rises in. So there’s quite a bit of, I guess, diversity round here. With, like Hipsters and stroller moms and fucking yuppies to the North and South, with all their fucking chain stores and shit, and a rich tapestry of African Americans, Latinos, Asians, Caucasians, fucking Indians and Africans and pretty much everybody, all right in the middle, with all the great, cheap, food and graffiti and all that stuff that makes living in the disadvantaged part of town so appealing.

Hove: Hell, ya. I’m starting to hate the influx of pretties and fucking hipsters into West Bucktown, you know? Fucking come in here and the fucking beer prices go through the roof, and they shut down Yin’s Noodles and bring in a friggen Chipotle, and all that bullshit. I pretty much just stay in my basement and drink PBRs and smoke a little weed time to time, you know? I just can’t take the hipster scene.

Me: Me neither, dude.

I walk up to the Subaru and lean against the hatchback. Headlights flash across my face, and I look over to see this wildly expensive-looking sports car pull in and park. A chubby, Italian-looking guy gets out. He’s wearing a too-tight pair of black slacks, black cowboy boots with about a five inch heel, and a white shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, showing off his hairy, pale and chubby torso, with a couple of gold chains hanging down, one of which has a rhinestone-encrusted cross hanging from it. His hair is greasy and slicked up into a sort of Pompadour. Jeez.

The Guido walks towards me, turns, and enters the apartment block. He gives me a nod, and I nod in reply.

Hove: So it sounds like you’re getting on all right there, huh.

Me: Pretty much. I’m starting to get to know my neighbors, and get to know the neighborhood and all. And I found the good beer store, like I told you. I mean, I drove all over the place, and it ends up that this great beer store is, like, a block from my apartment. Fucking awesome, for sure. Now if only I had a job and a girlfriend, life would be grand.

Hove: I hear that.

Me: Ya. And it sounds like things are going pretty well for you, too.

Hove: Hell, ya. Shit. I’m getting another call, hold on.

Me: Yep yep.

Hove: Shit. It’s the chick that owns the gallery I was telling you about. So I’m going to have to say later. I’ll give you a call back later on, if it’s not too late.

Me: Cool, Hove. I’ll be up drinking for a bit, but no worries either way. And thanks for calling!

Hove: Hell ya. Don’t be a stranger, Jeff.

Me: For sure.

Hove: Later.

Me: Late.

I flip the phone closed, shove it in my pocket, and take a sip of the beer. I set the beer down on the bumper, fish cigarettes from my pocket, stick a stick in my mouth, drop the pack back into the pocket, pull out the lighter, light the cigarette, and drop the lighter back in it’s appointed place.

I take a drag on the cigarette and a sip on the beer, and walk back towards the courtyard. Mme. Maligne’s chubby little body and that swollen, fleshy, wiggly ass flash through my mind, and my penis twitches a bit.

I hear voices in the courtyard, and I emerge from the little hallway to find the Guido standing behind Mme. Maligne. He’s rubbing up against her a bit, and has his arms around her plump waist. Mme. Hautain and G are back, sitting at the table, and Mme. Rêveuse and Adonis are standing near one of the planters.

My shoulders slump and my head droops. I feel a sudden rush of regret, sadness. My penis withers.

I’m dancing with Four at her wedding reception. She rubs against me and whispers “If you had made love to me that day, this would be your wedding too.”

I walk into the living room and see Three on the couch. My buddy is fucking her brains out. She screams his name and begs him “Harder! Fuck Me Harder!”

Mme. Hautain: So G and Maligne and Guido and I are going to the Villiage to do some dancing. You guys want to come?

Mme. Rêveuse: I don’t know. What do you think, Adonis?

Adonis: I’m down for anything, babe.

Mme. Rêveuse: Dancing sounds like fun, but I’ve never been to the Villiage. Isn’t that a gay club?

Guido: Shit. Ya. It’s a fucking fag party, but we always have fun times.

Adonis: I love a good gay club. They always have great dance music, and the drinks are usually cheap. Let’s go, babe. You want to?

Mme. Rêveuse: Ummm. Sure, if you want to.

Adonis: Hell ya.

Adonis puts his arm around Rêveuse and pulls her close. G slides his hand up Hautain’s thigh. Guido grinds up against Mme. Maligne’s swollen ass.

I take a drag on the cigarette and chug a bit of the beer. Mother fucker.

I walk to the table and sit down across from Mauvais: Hautain and G on one side, Négligé on the other.

Mme. Rêveuse: Oh. Hi Jeff.

Me: Hey, Mme. Rêveuse. How’s it going?

Mme. Rêveuse: This is Adonis, my boyfriend. He’s in town for the weekend.

Adonis steps forward, and offers his hand. I set the beer down on the table, reach out, and give him a shake.

Me: Adonis.

Adonis: Jeff. So what do you do, Jeff?

Me: I’m an unemployed historian of graffiti and street art. Yourself?

Adonis: That’s cool. I’m an investment advisor.

Me: Nice.

Mme. Maligne: And this is Guido, a friend of mine from High School.

I turn around on the bench and give Guido a friendly nod.

Me: Guido. A pleasure.

Guido: Nice to meet you, Jeff.

Me: So ya’ll are going dancing at the Village, huh?

Mme. Hautain: Hell yes! You want to come, Jeff?

Me: Shit. No thanks. I’m not much of a dancer.

Mme. Maligne: Have you ever been to the Village, Jeffy?

Me: Not in a long time. I had this girlfriend back in the late 1990s who used to take me out there time and again. Do they still have the drag shows on Thursday nights?

Mme. Hautain: Hell, ya! I love that shit. Some of those dudes are pretty hot.

Adonis: Hell, ya. I love a good drag show. Always a good time.

Mme. Hautain: Well, I better go get changed. Come on G, you can help me pick out something sexy to wear tonight.

Mme. Hautain lifts herself out of G’s lap, stands, and pulls him towards her apartment. G stands and follows her.

Mme. Rêveuse: I should put on something else, too.

Adonis: You want some help, baby?

Mme. Rêveuse: Sure, I guess. Come on. See you guys in a little bit, OK?

Mme. Maligne: Take your time. We’re not planning on leaving for a little bit, anyway.

Mme. Rêveuse and Adonis walk across the courtyard and climb the stairs to her apartment.

I take a drag on the cigarette and a pull on the beer.

Guido: What are you drinking, there, Jeff?

Me: Aw. It’s a little IPA from Boulevard. Double Wide IPA.

Guido: Oh. One of those Fancy beers, huh.

Me: Ya. I’m a bit of a beer snob: a hop head to be more exact.

Mme. Maligne: You want a glass of wine before we go, Guido?

Guido: Sure, honey.

Mme. Maligne: Well go get us some, then.

She pulls away from Guido, and shoves him playfully towards her apartment. Guido turns and disappears into Mmes. Maligne and Hautain’s apartment.

I take a drag on the cigarette. The fountain pisses.

Négligé: I want to smoke some weed.

Mauvais: Let’s go, then. You want to join us, Jeff?

Me: Naw. I think I’ll wait a bit, still.

Mauvais: Cool, cool.

Mauvais and Négligé stand and walk into their apartment. I take a drag on the cigarette, stub it out in the chipped bowl, pick up the beer and guzzle the rest. I stand up and turn towards my apartment.

Mme. Maligne steps in front of me and presses her body against me.

Mme. Maligne: Why didn’t you follow me inside earlier, Jeffy.

Me: I don’t know. Too drunk, I guess.

Mme. Maligne: Well, maybe some other time?

Me: Sure, I guess.

Mme. Maligne twists around and grinds her soft, flabby butt against me. My penis stiffens slightly, involuntarily.

Mme. Maligne: You know you want it.

I step away and walk to the apartment. Hell ya, I want it.

I open the door, step inside, drop the empty in the recycling bin, and fetch a fresh beer from the refrigerator. Mother fucker.

First, I don’t realize that Mme. Allegresse is asking me out. She was pretty fucking sexy and super cute and seemed really friendly. Then I mis-read Mme. Rêveuse, get all excited about maybe getting some from her perfect little ass, and then find out that she has a long-distance boyfriend in town and have the joy of hearing them fucking. Jesus. And then Mme. Maligne practically dry humps me in front of the guys, pretty much inviting me to chase her inside and fuck her, and I do nothing, just sit and drink.

I’m such a fucking loser. God damn it.

My eyes well up, and I choke back the impending tears. This bullshit is nothing to cry about, asshole.

I crack open the beer, toss the cap on the counter, take a long pull and walk back outside. Mme. Maligne and Guido are sitting together on one of the little benches by the table. She’s half in his lap, and he has a possessive hand on her pudgy flank. He gives me a look that says, “this is mine, fucktard.”

I walk over to the table, fish my cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, pull a cigarette from the pack, light it, and drop the cigarettes and lighter on the table. I take a drag on the cigarette, sit down, and take a long pull on the beer.

Mme. Maligne takes a sip of wine, and gives me a wink. Fucking tease.

I realize that I’m still allowing my shoulders to slump. I consciously force myself to sit fully upright, shoulders back, in a forced display of confidence.

Me: So what do you do, Guido?

Guido: I’m a salesman down at Rocky and Marciano Brothers Used Cars, over in Fort Worth. What are you driving?

Me: 98 Subaru Forrester.

Guido: I can get you a good price on that trade, and get you into something a bit newer and nicer.

Me: I’m happy with the Subaru, thanks.

Guido fishes around in his butt pocket and retrieves a crumpled business card. He offers it to me.

Guido: Well, if you change your mind, my number’s on there. I’ll get you a good deal.

Me: Ya. I bet you will, too.

I take the business card and shove it in my pocket. This mother fucker. Jesus.

I take a sip of beer and take a drag on the cigarette. I lean my head back and blow six perfect, fat, and well-proportioned smoke rings. I take another drag (inhale, exhale), pick up the beer and take a long pull. I let out a sigh of contentment, and tilt the bottle back for a second pull.

I swirl the beer around in my mouth for a moment, savoring the rich, floral, slightly citrus hop flavors. I swallow and take another pull.

Guido: I gots to take a piss.

He gives Mme. Maligne’s thigh a squeeze, leans over and kisses her on the mouth. She lets out a whimper. They kiss for a second, tongues obviously intertwined. Guido stands up and walks into her apartment.

Mme. Maligne: So, Jeff?

Me: Ya?

Mme. Maligne: You jealous, Jeffy?

Me: What do I have to be jealous about, Mme. Maligne?

Mme. Maligne: I’m going to fuck him all night long.

Me: Ya?

Mme. Maligne: You could’ve had some too, you know.

Me: I guess.

Mme. Maligne: So you’re jealous.

Me: Not really. I don’t really like one nighters, or one evening fucks anyways.

Mme. Maligne: Oh. You’re one of those guys.

Me: I guess.

Mme. Maligne: Too bad.

She stands up and walks to her apartment. I watch her ass wiggling and wobbling and flopping around in her dress. My penis stiffens, and I squirm around a bit on the bench.

She goes into the apartment and closes the door.

Jesus. This is one forward little slut, for sure. I wish I’d chased after her earlier. I really need to get this Suçonie Epiphany bullshit out of my mind, let the bullshit Christian morality go. It’s been way too long since I held a naked woman in my arms, felt long hair tickling my chest, had a woman lay in my arms and run her fingers across my chest.

Tears well up again, and I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I sniffle a bit and take a drag on the cigarette.

Mauvais and Négligé emerge from their apartment. A thick cloud of marijuana smoke follows them.

Mauvais: You all right, dude?

Me: Shit. If I’m not all right, I’ll be OK.

Mauvais: I heard that. You totally should have gone in after Maligne earlier, maybe changed her mind about fucking that fat Italian Guido fucker.

Négligé: That guy’s a fucking cocksucker.

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: Dude, you’re way cooler and way better looking than that guy, and Maligne could use a guy like you.

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: No shit. She’s a slutty little whore, for sure, but even whores sometimes want a decent guy to keep around for a bit. And, shit dude, she’ll suck your fucking cock until your eyes pop out of your fucking head.

Négligé: Hell ya. That bitch has one fucking rocking little mouth on her. And the way she tosses all that ass around will make all your problems disappear, for sure.

Me: Shit. Man, change the subject, will you?

Mauvais: We’re just saying, you know.

Me: Ya. Thanks. I just have a few issues, you know, still sort of grieving about that girl in Illinois and shit.

Négligé: You gotta let that shit go, dude.

Me: I know. I know. But it’s hard, you know.

Mauvais: Shit.

Négligé: Ya. But you gots to do it.

Me: Ya. I know.

I tilt the beer back and take four long pulls, emptying the bottle. I set the bottle on the table and allow my shoulders to slump and head to sag.

A door opens behind me and I turn to see Mme. Hautain and G emerge from her apartment. She’s changed out of her slutty school girl outfit, and into a slutty dancer outfit. She’s wearing gold tights with matching platforms and a shimmery pink halter top that barely covers her fake tits and shows off her flabby stomach. A fake jewel-encrusted chandelier dangles from her pierced belly button. She’s teased her hair all up and is wearing way too much makeup. Her nipples poke obscenely out of the thin top.

She gives me a pitying look, then turns and rubs her tits against G.

Mme. Hautain: I’m ready to dance!

G: Hell ya.

She turns around and starts bouncing to an internal rhythm. She grinds her breasts and hips against G. He rubs her nonexistent ass, and I wretch a bit looking at the gold covered two-by-twelve.

She turns to face us, lifts her arms above her head, and starts bouncing her tits up and down and shaking her head side to side.

G is obviously having a great time, and he slides his hand up her flabby stomach and squeezes her fake breasts.

I turn back to the table. Mauvais and Négligé are ogling Hautain’s tits.

I finish the cigarette and stub it out in the bowl. The fountain pisses. I pick up the empty bottle, stand, and walk to my apartment. I open the door and step inside.

I carry the bottle to the refrigerator and set the empty on the counter. I’m swaying a bit, definitely drunk now.

I open the fridge and grab a fresh beer. I pop the top off and let the cap fall to the floor. I carry the fresh beer to the bathroom, sidestep the door, tug down the zipper on my jeans, reach in, and pull out my shriveled penis. I aim my penis at the toilet and start to urinate. The sound of the piss hitting the water doesn’t sound quite right, and I look down and realize that I’m peeing all over the seat. Oh well.

I adjust my aim a bit. Urine arcs from my penis, through the hole in the seat, and into the bowl.

I take a pull on the beer: pissing and drinking at the same time. If I had a picture of this, it would be called “The Human Filter.”

I finish peeing, stoop, pull a length of paper from the roll, wipe off the seat, drop the wet paper into the bowl, reach over and tug on the handle to flush the toilet.

I zip up, step out of the bathroom, and walk outside.

Mme. Rêveuse and Adonis are standing near the planter. She’s changed into a clingy, purple knit cotton knee-length dress and low heels. Her short hair is spiked up, and she’s wearing a small bit of eye makeup and some lip gloss. She looks absolutely amazing.

I pull the door closed behind me.

Mme. Maligne and Guido step out of her apartment. She’s carrying a purse, and she pulls some keys out and locks the door. In her heels, she’s about three inches taller than Guido, who has his hand parked possessively on her ass.

Mme. Hautain: Everybody ready?

Mme. Maligne: I think so.

Adonis: We’re ready.

Mme. Hautain: Then let’s go! I want to dance! Come on!

They begin filing out to the parking lot. Mme. Hautain is wiggling her hips and trying to shake that board in her pants around as she walks. I can see her fake tits bouncing around, wobbling first to the right, where a perfectly round globe appears beyond her right arm, then to the left, where the bags of silicone or water wobble to the left. The whole view fills me with no small measure of disgust. I shift my gaze to Mme. Maligne’s luscious, swollen, and jiggly ass as it bounces gaily under the shimmering dress.

Me: Ya’ll have a good time tonight.

Mme. Rêveuse: You too, Jeff.

Adonis: Nice to meet you, Jeff.

Me: You too, Adonis. Guido.

Mme. Maligne looks back at me and gives me a smile and a wink. She adds an extra wiggle to her walk.

I take a pull on the beer, set the beer down on the table, and pull a cigarette from the pack. I stick the stick in my mouth and light it. I look back to watch Mme. Rêveuse ‘s perfect, firm, swollen ass disappear into the little hallway: I hate to see her leave, but I sure love to watch her go. She swings her hips as she walks, and her ass bobs gently to and fro under the clingy cotton dress, which is stretched taught over her ass, creating little stretch lines as her swollen cheeks pull the fabric over the cleft between them. Her massive ass flops and swivels around and jiggles as she walks. I feel my mouth gape, and my penis twitches.

Just before she and Adonis disappear into the little hallway, she pauses and looks back at me. I give her a wave and she gives me a friendly smile, but I think I see a trace of pity in her eyes.

What time is it? I reach into my pocket and pull out the phone. I hit the button on the side to light up the little screen on the front: 9:24. Shit. Too early for bed, too late to stop drinking, and too drunk to start smoking weed. Oh well, I guess I’ll keep drinking for a bit, and maybe see what happens.

7

Who am I? Where did I come from? Three encounters with beautiful women today, and I couldn’t manage to portray anything beyond non-threatening chubby guy. Jesus. There was a time when I would’ve had lunch with Mme. Allegresse, given her a kiss after, gotten her number, and still made it back home in time to meet Mme. Rêveuse on the bike path, catch Charlie for her after, and ask for her number instead of inviting her out to drinks with the crew. And I still would’ve had time for a shower and a few beers before Mme. Maligne decided to sit in my lap and drive me crazy, and if something like that had happened to me in say, 2003 or 2004, I would not only have chased her into her apartment, I would’ve made sure she didn’t want to get out of bed or up off the floor for the rest of the day. Jesus. Who am I? How did I get here? Jesus.

I’m a total fucking loser, for sure.

I take a drag on the cigarette and blow a few smoke rings skyward.

Mauvais: Shit. I want another beer.

Négligé: Ya. You wanna ride up to the store, or what?

Mauvais: Shit. I’m too drunk and the light’s broke.

Me: No good.

Négligé: Shit. I don’t wanna ride either.

Mauvais: Fucker! Ride up to the store for us, come on!

Négligé: I’m not going by myself, asshole. Not at night around here.

Mauvais drains the last bit of beer from his oilcan and tosses the empty can at one of the planters. It misses and clangs around on the concrete.

Négligé: Shit.

Mauvais: Come on, dude. It’s just right around the corner. It’ll take you like two minutes or something. Don’t be a pussy.

Négligé: Shit. I ain’t no pussy. But… shit.

Me: Are the roads really that dangerous around here at night?

Négligé: Man. Motherfuckers round here will kill you for looking at them wrong.

Me: Well, then be sure to look at them right.

Mauvais starts laughing hard, and raises his left hand toward me. I start chuckling and slap him a high five.

Négligé: Fuck you guys. Shit. Well I want some more beer. Fuck. Give me some money, motherfucker. If I’m riding, you’re buying.

Mauvais: Shit. That’s cool.

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a twisted wad of bills. He digs around for a moment and digs out a ten and three ones.

Mauvais: Oil cans. Get us a dozen. We’re gonna fucking party tonight. Shit.

Négligé: Hell ya!

Négligé grabs the cash and goes inside. I take a drag on the cigarette and exhale through my nose. I picture myself as a dragon, strong and powerful, ready to pounce on the next decent piece of ass I see. Shit, I’d fuck Mme. Hautain’s nasty little body at this point.

Négligé emerges from the apartment wearing a backpack and wheeling his fixie beside him. He leans the bicycle against the wall and closes the door.

Négligé: See you motherfuckers in a minute.

Me: Right right.

He pushes the bicycle around the courtyard, mounts it, and pedals away down the hallway toward the parking lot.

I take a drag on the cigarette, reach out, grab the beer, and take a small sip.

Me: Shit. I fucked around and got pretty fucking drunk, Mower.

Mauvais: Hell ya. You should. After giving up Mme. Maligne’s big sexy ass like that.

Me: Shit. Don’t remind me.

I take another drag on the cigarette. I need to come up with something to chitchat about for another couple of hours until bedtime. Shit.

Me: Shit. I was down at the beer store earlier, you know, and I’m pretty sure that the Asian chick that works in there was hitting on me.

Mauvais: Who? Not Allégresse.

Me: Ya. Mme. Allégresse.

Mauvais: What did you do?

Me: I fucking didn’t even realize she was hitting on me until I was back here and unloading the beer.

Mauvais: Dumbass! Mme. Allégresse is a fucking awesome chick, dude. I mean, she doesn’t have the best body ever, and she’s kinda too tall for me, but she’s fucking awesome, for sure. And she’s the kind of girl you would like. You know, friendly, not too slutty, not into one-nighters and shit. Fuck, dude. I’m going to give her a call and get her over here.

Me: You know her?

Mauvais: Shit, dude. I’ve been knowing her since fucking Junior High, dude. She even dated Core for a bit, like ten years ago or something.

Me: No shit?

He digs his phone from his pocket and begins punching on the keys.

I take a drag on the cigarette.

Me: Hey Mower. Don’t get her over here now, dude. I’m way to fucking drunk.

Mauvais: Shit, dude. She won’t mind. She likes that fancy beer like you, and I bet she’s had more than a few already. That girl can drink, dude.

Me: Dude, I’m telling you, I’m way too drunk.

Mauvais: Don’t worry, Jeff, she’s not going to mind.

His phone chirps and he hits a couple of buttons. He stares at the screen for a second and starts mashing buttons again.

Shit. These guys know Mme. Allégresse? Holy shit! Man. I wish I wasn’t so fucking drunk. I’m going to have to sober up a bit so I can be witty and charming and shit. Holy shit! I can’t believe these guys know Mme. Allégresse!

Négligé pedals into the courtyard and hops off his bicycle. He pushes the bike to his apartment, wheels it inside, takes off his backpack, retrieves a couple of oil cans, sets them on the table, and disappears into the apartment. Mauvais’ phone chirps again and he mashes a few buttons and stares at the screen.

I take a drag on the cigarette and try to appear nonchalant.

Mauvais: Shit. She’s busy with her roommate or something tonight.

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: But I told her you lived here and she said might come by sometime.

Me: She knew who I was?

Mauvais: Hold on a minute, dude.

He mashes buttons on the phone. The fountain pisses. I take a drag on the cigarette and try to look casual, though I’m suddenly feeling excited and hopeful.

I pick up the beer and take a sip. Négligé emerges from the apartment and sits down across from me.

Mauvais’ phone chirps, and he mashes a few buttons.

Mauvais: Shit. I wrote, ‘That Jeff guy lives here. Come over and drink with us.

Me: Ya.

Mauvais: And she wrote something like, “That guy that I asked to lunch earlier?” And I said, “Ya. He feels like a jerk and wants to make it up to you.”

Me: Ya.

Mauvais: And she’s like, “Well, I’m busy, but maybe some other time.” I think you hurt her feelings, dude.

My shoulders sag a bit.

Me: Shit. Tell her I’m really sorry. Tell her I feel like a total asshat. Tell her I’m a fucking dumbass. Shit

Mauvais punches buttons on his phone.

Négligé lights a cigarette. I take a drag on the cigarette and blow a couple of wistful and nonchalant smoke rings into the air.

My head droops. Jesus. What an asshole.

Mauvais: Perk up, dude. She’ll give you another chance. She’s fucking awesome like that.

Me: God. I’m such a fucking asshole.

Mauvais: Shit, dude. Don’t even worry about it. Dude, and even if you really pissed her off and she doesn’t want anything to do with you, Mme. Maligne will let you poke her any time you want. Shit, even if she does. Shit. I’m telling you, man, that shit is good.

Me: Fuck.

Négligé: Who ya’ll talking about?

Mauvais: Fucking Allégresse, dude!

Négligé: Allégresse?

Mauvais: Hell ya. You remember her, dude, that chick that Core dated back in High School for awhile. The tall Asian chick that comes by here and gets all crazy on fancy beers every now and again. You know. Fucking Allégresse, dude.

Négligé: Shit. Where’s she been lately? I haven’t seen fucking Allégresse in months.

Mauvais: Shit. She’s been around. Working a bunch, and I think she was dating some guy for awhile, and you know how she gets when she has a boyfriend.

Négligé: Ya. So what’s this ‘other chance’ shit about?

Mauvais: Shit. Fucking Jeff here met her at the store earlier and, what, Jeff, she asked you out and you said ‘no?’

Me: Man, I didn’t even realize she was asking me out. Or maybe I did, but the fucking Epiphany blocked me.

Négligé: Dumbass! Fucking Allégresse is fucking awesome, dude. Shit. You know, you two would have a good time together, I bets.

Mauvais: That’s what I was telling him, dude. Dude, Jeff, you gotta go up there tomorrow or something and, like, apologize and shit.

Me: Shit.

Mauvais: I’m fucking serious, dude.

Me: I’m such an asshole.

Mauvais: Dude, you’re not an asshole. You’re a pretty fucking good guy, you know?

Me: Fuck. Ya. But, fuck. I don’t know. You know? It’s like. Fuck. Like, I’m still all fucked up over Suçonie, and then that Epiphany shit, and it’s like, fuck. I don’t even know what I’m doing any more. Fuck, man. It’s like I lost my mojo and shit.

Négligé: Dude. You gotta let that shit go, dude.

Me: Fuck. It’s hard, you know?

Mauvais: Fuck that. Take her some flowers or something tomorrow, or, fuck, just go up there and ask her out. Take her to fucking Bar Francaise or something, buy her a few beers and see what happens.

Me: Shit. Fuck, dude. I guess.

Négligé: Ya. Fucking take her out, dude. Ya’ll be good together, for sure.

I take a sip of beer and a drag on the cigarette. I exhale and stamp the cigarette out in the bowl. I take another sip of beer and set the bottle on the table.

Man. I fucked up. Fucking Epiphany bullshit! If I’d only realized that she was asking me out, the whole day could’ve been different: no getting all excited about Mme. Rêveuse; no fucking dry humping with Mme. Maligne and thinking I was going to get some. Shit. I’m a fucking asshole.

I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I sniffle a bit and wipe my face. I cough a bit and try to pretend that I’m not about to cry.

I take a deep breath, reach out, and pull a cigarette from the pack. I stick it in my mouth, take another deep breath, pick up the lighter and fire it up. I light the cigarette and take a deep drag. Mucous coats the back of my tongue and throat, and I choke a bit and let out a whimpering sigh. I exhale and take another drag. Calm the fuck down, Jeff.

I take a sip of beer, check the bottle, and down the last several mouthfuls. Shit. I guess I’m about to drink a twelve pack tonight, and maybe even more. Jesus.

Me: Fetching a beer. Shit. This’ll be number twelve for me tonight.

Négligé: Nice.

Mauvais: Hell ya.

I stand up, turn, and walk to the apartment. I drop the cigarette on the ground outside, open the door, and take the empty bottle to the recycling bin. I walk to the refrigerator and fetch the last Double Wide. I pop the top, drop the bar key and cap on the counter, walk back outside, close the door, and pick up the cigarette.

I take a couple of puffs to burn off any nastiness that might have accumulated on the cigarette, then take a long drag and walk to the table. I exhale through my nose and mouth at the same time. Out of the corner of my eye, smoke jets out of my face: smoke from my mouth pointing just above the horizon; smoke from my nose pointing towards my chest.

I sit down at the little bench, take a sip of beer, and set the beer on the table. My butt is a bit sore from sitting on these concrete benches for so long, and I squirm a bit, trying to get comfortable.

Me: Shit. I’ve got to slow down a bit. I’m fucking drunk. Jeez.

Négligé: Hell ya. Drink up, Jeff!

Négligé picks up his oil can and guzzles the rest of it. Mauvais picks up his can and follows suit.

Négligé: I’m fetching a beer. You ready, Mower?

Mauvais: Shit. *belches* Fucking right.

Négligé stands and walks into their apartment. I take a drag on the cigarette and stub it out in the bowl.

Me: Shit, Mower. That stuff with Allégresse kind of bums me out, dude.

Mauvais: Don’t worry about it, Jeff. I’m sure she’ll be willing to give you another chance.

Me: I fucking hope so. Shit. I just hope I can get up the nerve to go apologize to her and ask her out.

Mauvais: Just do it, Dude. Don’t sit around and think about it, just get out and do it. What have you got to loose?

Me: Shit.

Négligé emerges from the apartment carrying two oilcans. He sets one on the table near Mauvais, and pops the top on the other. He slurps down a couple of mouthfuls of cheap beer and sits down at the table.

Me: Man, I was talking to my buddy a bit ago, and I was standing by the Subaru and looked up and I could see into Mme. Maligne’s bedroom.

Mauvais: No shit?

Me: No shit. And she was fucking naked in there, fucking all jiggling around and shit. Shit, dude. I wish I’d fucking chased her inside earlier. Man. She’s fucking sexy.

Négligé: Shit. I usually don’t go for the chubby girls too much, but shit. That is one sexy little bitch.

Me: Shit. I likes those chubby chicks.

Mauvais: Hell ya. Soft and warm and shit?

Me: Hell ya, dude. Fucking the way that ass wobbled and jiggled around, and that fucking ‘stuff it right in here’ fucking tramp stamp and shit. I’m a fucking asshole. Fucking peeping tom bullshit.

Mauvais: Hell ya!

He raises his hand and I slap him a clumsy, drunken high five. I take a sip of beer.

Me: I mean, I feel a bit weird about looking in her window and shit like that, but shit, dude. I couldn’t fucking look away. Those fat little titties and those big, puffy nipples. Jesus Fucking Christ.

Négligé: Hell ya, dude.

Me: Shit. I’ve got to stop thinking about that shit. I’m gonna get myself all fucking worked up and excited and shit, and then I’m going to remember that I could’ve had that, and maybe could’ve had Mme. Rêveuse and maybe could’ve had some fucking Allégresse, and get all fucking depressed and shit.

Mauvais: That Rêveuse bitch is fucking bad, dude.

Me: Shit. I was out riding around earlier, and I fucking met her on the bike path over there. Shit. She looks just like this chick I used to know. God damn. And then I came back here and found out that she lived here, and I was talking to her and shit and, dude, she was wearing these fucking grey tights and she was all sweaty from walking and god damn her fucking ass. Holy shit.

Négligé: You like the smell of sweaty pussy, Jeff?

Me: Shit. I couldn’t really smell anything. Fuck. That’s one sexy little bitch.

Mauvais: Ya. And she fucking knows it too. That fucking guy she’s with, man, that fucking Adonis dude? Shit. Bitches like that, man, I bet she goes fucking nuts when that dude stuffs it in her. Shit.

Me: Shit. I went in for a beer awhile ago and heard them fucking upstairs. She was all moaning and crying and shit. God damn. Made me kinda sad, you know?

Négligé: Fuck ya. Big fucker like that? I bet she can’t get enough.

I reach out and pull a cigarette from the pack. I spark it up and take a drag. My mouth is dry from too many cigarettes, too much beer, and not enough water. I’m going to be hungover tomorrow, for sure.

Inhale. Exhale.

Me: Shit. It’s been like 4 years or something since I made a chick scream my name and shit. That’s too fucking long, man. For sure.

Mauvais: Fuck.

Me: Shit. I don’t even know if it fucking works any more.

Mauvais: Shit. You fucking had a big one going when Maligne was grinding all up on you like that.

Me: Shit.

Négligé: Shit, dude. Like riding a bicycle. You just need to get it wet, and it’ll come right back to you.

Me: Ya.

Négligé: Ya. Fucking go knock on Maligne’s door tomorrow afternoon, and when she answers just tell her you’re ready for the nut she promised you.

Mauvais: Ya. And then stuff it right in her fucking ass, dude. She’ll fucking love it. I bet you’ll last, like, ten seconds in there.

They start laughing, and I chuckle a bit. I take a drag on the cigarette.

Me: Shit. I’m going to go apologize to Mme. Allégresse tomorrow. Fuck Mme. Maligne. I want some Allégresse, for sure.

Mauvais: Dude, she’s not going to let you fuck her for awhile, dude. She’s a good girl.

Me: Shit. That’s fine. I can wait. I mean, it’s already been a long fucking time, what’s another month or two?

Négligé: Man, go take Allégresse to lunch, get her number, then come back here and take a piece of Maligne. Get yourself used to fucking again, then nail Allégresse in a couple of weeks.

Me: Shit. I’m not doing that shit, dude. It’d be like cheating or something.

Mauvais: Fuck. It’s not like you’re married or anything, dude. A little rail never hurt anybody.

Me: Shit.

I take a drag on the cigarette. A sound of screeching tires comes from the parking lot. I hear a door slam.

I take a pull on the beer and a drag on the cigarette.

Écœurant stumbles into the courtyard.

Mauvais: Shit. Fucking Core’s back. They kick you out, Core?

Écœurant: Shit, man. We got over there, and they wouldn’t let Buddy in ‘cause he was wearing a white T-shirt. So he left, and I went in and bought a bottle of KD and got me a midget bitch to share it with and shit.

Me: Nice.

Écœurant: Ya. That bitch drank all my fucking whiskey, and gave me a lap dance, and went up on stage, and she was on her back, rubbing her pussy and shit, and I fucking bounced a quarter off the fucking stage and it smacked her right in the fucking cunt.

Négligé: Shit, dude, you’re fucking crazy.

Écœurant: Shit. Bitch was like, ‘What the fuck was that?’ And she started talking shit to me and she picked up the quarter and fucking threw it at me and fucking called the bouncer to kick me out, fucking bitch.

Mauvais, Négligé and I start laughing loud. I take a drag on the cigarette and choke a bit.

Mauvais: I fucking told you, dude. You can’t be doing that shit.

Écœurant: Fuck that. Fucking bitch. Gimme a fucking beer, assholes.

Négligé: There’s a bunch in the fridge. Go get one, you crazy fucker.

Écœurant stumbles inside. I take a sip of beer and a puff of cigarette: inhale; swallow; exhale.

Mauvais: I fucking told him, fucking didn’t I.

Me: Hell ya.

Mauvais: Fucking throwing change at fucking strippers. Dumbass.

Négligé: That fucking Core is fucking crazy, dude.

Me: Shit. Crazy shit.

Écœurant emerges from the apartment carrying an oil can. He pops the top and guzzles a beer for a second, then sits down at the table.

Écœurant: Fucking motherfuckers. Shit.

Mauvais: You’re one crazy fucker, Core.

Écœurant: Shit.

Me: Throwing quarters at strippers and shit: fucking crazy, Core.

Écœurant: Shit. Fucking bitch cunt. Shit. Those fucking whores best take what they can get. Fucking bitches, dude.

I take a pull on the beer and a drag on the cigarette.

I really don’t like this ‘whore,’ ‘bitch,’ ‘cunt’ stuff. Jesus. These motherfuckers need to show some damn respect for women. Jeez. I mean, what year is this?

Oh, ya. I’m in Dallas. Fucking capital of sexism, racism, homophobia, and the like. These guys are cool and all, I guess, but they’re definitely Texans, born and raised, for sure. Give ‘em ten years and they’ll be voting republican and going to church and bullshit I bet.

I take a drag on the cigarette (inhale, exhale) and a pull on the beer. Almost time for bed or another beer. Hummm. Decisions, decisions.

Mme. Maligne is sitting in my lap. I have an erection, and she’s rubbing her vagina against my hand. She gets off, stands up, and goes inside.

I’m laying on the couch with Four. She’s wiggling her perfect butt against my erection and I’m nibbling on her neck. Years later, at her wedding, she tells me that I should have fucked her that day, that we’d be dancing at our wedding if only I’d broken one off in her.

Motherfuck. I need to stop thinking about this shit. Jesus.

Me: Hey, Mower. You wanna smoke a bowl, dude? I need to get my mind erased for a bit.

Écœurant: Jeff’s gonna smoke? Shit.

Mauvais: Ya. Let me smoke a cigarette first.

Me: Groovy.

I take a drag on the cigarette and stamp it out in the ashtray. I guzzle the last bit of beer.

Me: Fetching a beer.

I stand up, pick up the empty beer bottle, and walk to my apartment. I open the door and step inside. I close the door behind me, and stumble into the wall, knocking one of my paintings askew. I right myself and walk to the recycle station. I drop the beer bottle in the bin, walk to the refrigerator, and open the door.

Shit. A dozen beers gone, already. What to drink now? Shit. Stick with the Double Wides or move on to something else? Elissa, maybe? Shit. Stick with double wides, for sure. Lessen the hangover a bit maybe.

I pull a double wide from the refrigerator, close the door, pop the top off the beer and stumble back to the door. I open the door and step outside. I close the door behind me and walk over to the table. Mauvais is lighting a cigarette and Écœurant looks like he’s about to pass out: head nodding towards his chest, arms limp, shoulders sagging.

Me: You gonna make it, Core?

Écœurant: Shit.

Me: You look like you’re about to pass out, dude.

Écœurant: Shit.

Négligé: Get a marker. If he passes out, we’re drawing the Manson shit on his forehead, for sure.

Écœurant: Fuck you guys. I’s not passing out. Shit.

Mauvais: Shit.

I set the fresh beer on the table and sit down. I pick up the pack of cigarettes, tug one out, stick it in my mouth, drop the pack on the table, and light the cigarette. I toss the lighter on the table and watch it skitter around a bit.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale. I take a pull on the beer. Fuck. I’m pretty drunk: will make for a rough day tomorrow, for sure, but maybe a bit of weed will lessen the effects. We’ll see. It’s been a long time since I smoked that stuff.

Négligé: I can’t believe Jeff wants to smoke with us. Ha.

Mauvais: Shit.

Me: You know. I’ve had a pretty rough day. Shit. I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t, but I think I better.

Négligé: Fuck ya, dude. Get a little faded, and everything will be alright.

Me: Shit. That’s the plan. May not be the best idea I’ve had, but shit.

Mauvais: Hell ya.

Fuck. I really shouldn’t smoke any weed. God knows if I start smoking that shit again I probably won’t stop for a long time, plus it’ll make finding a job that much harder. But, motherfucker, the old brain is really fucking with me lately, and maybe a bit of weed is just what it needs to start firing again. Shit.

I know that’s just bullshit. Weed making the brain work better? Ha. But damn. I really need something to chase these thoughts out of my head, and the beer’s just not cutting it any more. I think my tolerance must have gotten too high. And I bet I could pass out fairly easily after this beer, just take off the clothes and slip into bed and I bet I’d be out in a minute or two. And God knows, if I smoke some weed I’ll sit up for awhile longer and probably be just about useless tomorrow, not that I’ve been at all useful today or for the past 19-odd months. Shit.

I take a drag on the cigarette and a pull on the beer: Inhale; swallow; exhale through the nose like a dragon.

Me: Shit. I probably shouldn’t. I should probably just pound this beer and take my fat, lazy ass to bed.

Mauvais: Fuck, dude. A little weed won’t hurt you any.

Me: Shit.

Négligé: Ya, dude.

Me: Shit. I haven’t smoked in, like, five years or some shit.

Négligé: Damn. No shit?

Me: Shit makes me paranoid and quiet and shit, and I really don’t need much help in the quiet and lazy department, for sure. But fuck, dude, my brain is playing some crazy ass tricks on me these days. Maybe it’s time I taught it a lesson, dulled it out a bit and shit.

Mauvais: Fuck ya.

Négligé: Shit. A little bit of weed might be just the thing for you dude.

Me: That’s what I’m thinking, I guess. But man. I don’t know.

Négligé: Don’t puss out on us now. Shit. Let’s go get high.

Mauvais: Lemme finish this cigarette.

We take drags on our cigarettes and pulls on our beers.

Écœurant: Fuck. I’m going inside. Fucking whores ruining my good time and shit.

Mauvais: Dude, we told you you couldn’t be pulling that shit.

Écœurant: Fuck.

Écœurant stands up and shotguns his beer. He lets out a loud, nasty sounding belch, turns and walks inside.

Mauvais: Five bucks says he’s passed out by the time we get in there to smoke.

Me: No bet.

Négligé: Shit. More weed for us.

Me: Hell yes. Shit.

Mauvais: For reals.

Mauvais stamps out his half smoked cigarette, stands, picks up his beer and walks to his door. Négligé stands and follows. I take a drag on the cigarette.

Mauvais: You coming, Jeff?

Me: Shit. I’ll knock on your door when I finish this cigarette.

Mauvais: Right on, dude.

Mauvais and Négligé walk inside and close the door behind them.

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale.

What the fuck am I doing here? What makes me think it’s a good idea to start smoking weed again after all these years? Jesus. I must be crazy.

I mean, I used to smoke all the time. In fact, I was high from sometime in 1995 or 1996 through March or so of 2006: ten years of my life committed to getting high and siting around on my ass, or getting high and painting, or getting high and going to the bar, or getting high and jacking off or fucking or making out with Mme. Suçonie or Two or Three or Four or Mme. LeFarge, or getting high and playing guitar, but mostly just getting high and being paranoid. By the end of my run, I couldn’t even get high around people any more, because I would get high and think the people around me were plotting bodily harm or theft or whatever.

There was this one time, I guess it was about two months before I proposed to Suçonie. She was spending the weekend with family (or so she said, I expect she was probably with that other guy though), and I was drinking beer with a buddy. We decided to walk over to Weed Boy’s house and hang out for a bit.

Now, unbeknownst to me, Weed Boy was the biggest weed dealer in Downstate Illinois.

So we walked over there and knocked on the door and went inside. There were about two dozen people there, and the place looked and felt like a fucking crack house. Anyway, Weed Boy took us into the kitchen and we sat around a table. He packed a bong load and we smoked it while he rolled the biggest blunt I had ever seen, I mean, this thing was at least 10 inches long and almost a full inch thick. It was huge.

So I got pretty high off the bong, and then he sparked up this blunt. There were four or five of us smoking it. He warned us that this was some special Space Weed or something, but I paid no attention: I was already too high from the bong rips. So I smoked about half the blunt, then started passing it. Jesus, I was so fucking high.

So we finished the joint and went into the living room. One of the girls there had been in some course I had my first year in school and she was asking me all kinds of questions, but I was too high to respond. And then I heard it.

Weed Boy leaned over to some guy and said “That motherfucker Jeff is gonna have a taste of my fucking tire iron in a second. I’m going to bash his fucking brains in.” And Weed Boy went out to the garage and came in with a tire iron. He handed the tire iron to his friend and the friend whacked it against his hand a couple of times. They looked at me. I jumped the fuck up and ran out of there. I think I said something like “I got the fear, man!”

Ends up, the friend needed a tire iron to change a tire on his car, and they had no plans whatsoever to use it on me, but I was so fucking high and so fucking paranoid that I didn’t have a clue what was going on.

I didn’t smoke again after that. Never Again, I told myself.

And I didn’t smoke weed again. I was a really good thing, too, since Grad school would’ve been much tougher had I been high through it. I wanted to start up again after the Suçonie debacle, but I forced myself to drink my blues away instead.

And here I am, almost four years later, thinking about picking up the pipe again just because I had a bit of a rough day, just because I feel like a loser, just because I feel fat, lazy and stupid. And the weed is just going to make me fatter, lazier, and stupider. Jesus.

Why do I think this is a good idea?

I take a drag on the cigarette: inhale; exhale. I pick up the beer and take a long pull.

I take another drag on the cigarette: it’s almost at its end.

To smoke marijuana or not to smoke marijuana. That is the question. Fuck it. No question. I’m smoking.

I take the last drag, stamp the cigarette out in the ceramic bowl, stand, wobble slightly, pick up the beer, take a pull and walk over to Chez Mauvais/Écœurant/Négligé. I knock on the door.

Why am I doing this? Why am I knocking on this door? Jesus. Self-destruction for the win.

Mauvais opens the door.

Mauvais: Come on in, Jeff.

I step inside and close the door behind me. The living room stretches off to my right, the kitchen and dining area are to the left, and straight ahead I can see a tiny hallway that ends in a bathroom.

The living room is filthy and reeks of marijuana. I take a pull on the beer and look for a seat. A large telvision hangs on the wall, above a sort of bookshelf composed of empty boxes. Some sort of reality television show involving Japanese people flopping around in mud blares from the screen.

Mauvais sits down on a dilapidated metal futon. The mattress is covered in indeterminate stains and burn holes. A water-stained coffee table stands in front of the futon. Négligé sits in a cheap recliner nearby, breaking up cheap Mexican weed on a go-cart magazine, and Écœurant is sitting in a Papasan chair with his back to me, his head slumped.

I walk around Écœurant, step over the cheap coffee table and sit down in a relatively filth-free section of futon. I take a pull on the beer and set it down on the table in front of me. Écœurant appears to be passed out.

Me: Damn. Core went down quick, huh.

Mauvais: Shit. Drunk fuck.

Négligé: Shit. I guess we’ll have to skip him on the weed then.

Mauvais: Fuck yes. Serves him right for passing out so fast.

Me: Core left his shoes on.

Mauvais: Shit. Where’s a marker?

Négligé: Huh?

Mauvais: Core passed out with his shoes on. I’m gonna write the Manson shit on his forehead, dude. Where’s a marker?

Négligé reaches down and rummages through a pocket on the side of the recliner. He produces a large Magnum 44 permanent marker and tosses it at me.

I catch the marker and hand it to Mauvais. Négligé reaches over to a table next to him, picks up an ornate bong: a dragon, standing on a pile of skulls, one of which serves as the bowl.

Mauvais stands, steps over to the sleeping Écœurant, kneels, and pulls the cap from the marker. A pungent, sickly-sweet chemical smell fills the air. He gently tilts Écœurant’s head back and writes ‘666’ on his forehead.

Mauvais steps back to examine his handywork. He steps forward again and draws two inverted pentagrams next to the 666. I chuckle a bit.

Négligé: Here, Jeff.

I look over and see that he’s offering me the bong and a lighter. I take the bong and lighter from him and take a closer look at the bong.

Down the dragon’s back, sharp spines or fins extend outward about an inch. The topmost fin has a hole for inhaling. There is no obvious way to hold the bong, so I grasp it awkwardly by the base and wrap my lips around the smoking fin to stabalize it. I raise the lighter and flick the wheel. Last chance to pass, Jeffy.

I hold the flame near the skull-bowl and begin to inhale. The flame sucks down into the bowl, and the marijuana begins to burn. I move the lighter slightly to bring it into contact with more of the marijuana, then, as I feel the smoke begin to burn my throat, release the trigger on the lighter and pull the bowl up slightly to allow fresh air into the chamber.

Marijuana smoke fills my lungs and my vision swims. Mauvais replaces the cap on the marker and sits down. I hand him the bong, lean back, exhale, and immediately begin caughing loudly.

Mauvais: It ain’t good dope if it don’t make you choke.

Négligé: Hell yes.

Mauvais takes a hit off the bong. My caughing has lessened, and I grab the bong and pass it to Négligé. I lean back on the futon. I am high already. I want a cigarette.

Négligé takes a hit and hands me the bong. I hold it in my hand for a second, caugh once, lean forward and take another, slightly smaller hit, then pass it off to Mauvais. The second hit doesn’t make me cough as bad, and I exhale through my nose to give any residual THC a chance to be absorbed through my sinus cavity. Jesus. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Fuck. I’m fucking stoned already. My mind begins to wander.

Négligé and Mauvais are talking, but I really can’t understand what they’re saying and I really don’t care to even try. I lean back and stare at the television. The Japanese contestants are now swinging from ropes, occasionally falling into what appears to be a vat of rotting cottage cheese. A cute Japanese girl with impossibly large, wobbly breasts swings away from the launch pad, makes it to the next rope, lets go of the first, misses her hand hold, and falls tits first into the cottage cheese. I laugh softly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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