gutterlust received massive transfusions of inspiration from:Charles Bukowski
Hunter S. Thompson
Mysterious Skin
Leaving Las Vegas
Casey Scott
Allen Ginsberg
E.E. Cummings
...oh yeah, and soopageek
soopageekLife puts all its weight into the punch and knocks the wind out of us. Some of us jump back up, wearing our scars proud as a mother fucker, ready for more. Some of us lie there, gathering our strength and licking our wounds before submitting ourselves to more brutality. Some of us learn to dodge the blows. Some of us anesthetize ourselves so we don't care that we're being hit.
The thing we have in common is the resolve to continue.
The thing we have in common is the resolve to continue.
Her eyes are dark and wide, watching me while listening to my every word. Her white flannel night-gown is pulled taut across her curving back and hips as she sits in the bed, but hangs loose and bunched from the knees to her ankles. Her arms are clamped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees, her fingers casually tugging and pulling at the fabric. The hem of her gown rises from her ankle to her calf and falls again with each thoughtless grasp.
She moved out on Long Island with her mother when she was three. Twice a month, for the past 5 years, I take a train to spend the day with her and stay late enough to read to her at bed time. I read to her from a tattered spiral notebook. It's one of several dozen that I've brought here over the years. The notebooks are filled with my own words, scrawled on the morning train ride from Brooklyn to Patchogue. It's filled with magic and heroes and love and sorrow. And lots of monsters. Her eyes always grow bigger when a new monster is described to her. Her knuckles whiten and she grips her night-gown a little tighter. She squeals when the heroes triumph and cries when the heroine loses her true love, however briefly.
She doesn't remember the beginning and there will probably never be an end. One day she'll just be too old to listen or care anymore. She'll forget it all, for a while. I imagine some day she'll be going through my things when I'm gone and discover the cardboard box filled with these old notebooks.
I finish for the night, leaving tense, unanswered plot developments dangling in the air as I close the notebook. I tuck her into the sheets, her head swimming with ideas and possibilities. I brush the hair back from her forehead and kiss her goodnight. She reaches up and grabs me around the neck, pulling me in close for a hug. She lets go, falling back on the pillow.
"You're my favorite story, Daddy," she says as she pulls the bed covers tight around her chest.
She's mine, too.
She moved out on Long Island with her mother when she was three. Twice a month, for the past 5 years, I take a train to spend the day with her and stay late enough to read to her at bed time. I read to her from a tattered spiral notebook. It's one of several dozen that I've brought here over the years. The notebooks are filled with my own words, scrawled on the morning train ride from Brooklyn to Patchogue. It's filled with magic and heroes and love and sorrow. And lots of monsters. Her eyes always grow bigger when a new monster is described to her. Her knuckles whiten and she grips her night-gown a little tighter. She squeals when the heroes triumph and cries when the heroine loses her true love, however briefly.
She doesn't remember the beginning and there will probably never be an end. One day she'll just be too old to listen or care anymore. She'll forget it all, for a while. I imagine some day she'll be going through my things when I'm gone and discover the cardboard box filled with these old notebooks.
I finish for the night, leaving tense, unanswered plot developments dangling in the air as I close the notebook. I tuck her into the sheets, her head swimming with ideas and possibilities. I brush the hair back from her forehead and kiss her goodnight. She reaches up and grabs me around the neck, pulling me in close for a hug. She lets go, falling back on the pillow.
"You're my favorite story, Daddy," she says as she pulls the bed covers tight around her chest.
She's mine, too.
Her cough was deep and from the diaphragm. It boomed with a rattle in her chest.
In the vernacular of sex, she was on top. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of my head, supporting the weight of her upper body as she straddled my pelvis with her own. With a slight rocking from the knees, and with the counter balance of her arms, she thrust herself repeatedly onto me. Each forward motion would bring her breasts just above my face. With each backward motion, her long dark hair would tickle my eyes and nose. Every 15-20 seconds this carnal stroke cycle would stop, like a piston seizing in the cylinder, with her weight resting on her hips rather than her arms. Then she'd turn her head into her left shoulder to cover her mouth and cough. The muscles in her groin would contract, the rattle from her chest rippling through them in a shockwave. If she had done this while leaning forward, or if we had been attempting this in any other position, it would've caused an evacuation. She punctuated each cough with a raspy and sheepish "Sorry" then began moving again.
The social pleasantry of covering one's mouth when coughing or sneezing is presumably in the interest of public health. When this practice is being observed by someone to whom you've just paid an additional $150 for a bareback ride, it becomes a level of irony that few ever have the chance to witness.
* * *
The door latch clicked quietly as he left the room.
The would-be Greta Garbo stood by the window. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching dark sedans dart down Lexington Avenue below. The red numbers on the clock beside the hotel bed allowed her 15 minutes until her next arrival. She sighed, her warm breath fogging the street lights into sparkles.
Some day I'll get out of here.
She ran her finger through the condensation on the glass, creating a single, sliver of clarity through the fog. She thought of her little girl in Ohio and wondered if she was all right.
In the vernacular of sex, she was on top. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of my head, supporting the weight of her upper body as she straddled my pelvis with her own. With a slight rocking from the knees, and with the counter balance of her arms, she thrust herself repeatedly onto me. Each forward motion would bring her breasts just above my face. With each backward motion, her long dark hair would tickle my eyes and nose. Every 15-20 seconds this carnal stroke cycle would stop, like a piston seizing in the cylinder, with her weight resting on her hips rather than her arms. Then she'd turn her head into her left shoulder to cover her mouth and cough. The muscles in her groin would contract, the rattle from her chest rippling through them in a shockwave. If she had done this while leaning forward, or if we had been attempting this in any other position, it would've caused an evacuation. She punctuated each cough with a raspy and sheepish "Sorry" then began moving again.
The social pleasantry of covering one's mouth when coughing or sneezing is presumably in the interest of public health. When this practice is being observed by someone to whom you've just paid an additional $150 for a bareback ride, it becomes a level of irony that few ever have the chance to witness.
The door latch clicked quietly as he left the room.
The would-be Greta Garbo stood by the window. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching dark sedans dart down Lexington Avenue below. The red numbers on the clock beside the hotel bed allowed her 15 minutes until her next arrival. She sighed, her warm breath fogging the street lights into sparkles.
Some day I'll get out of here.
She ran her finger through the condensation on the glass, creating a single, sliver of clarity through the fog. She thought of her little girl in Ohio and wondered if she was all right.
Theologians, philosophers, and scholars have debated the existence of heaven, and its location, for thousands of years. There's nothing to discuss. It's in Manhattan on 9th Avenue and it's called Golden Chicken and Ribs. They have a "meat and two" unlike anything you've ever seen. If you don't believe me, go check out their website. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you need to visit more BBQ joints. When my sister comes to visit me from New Jersey, we usually meet there for dinner. She doesn't have to come all the way down to Brooklyn, and I get a free meal. It's a good trade.
Teresa lives with her husband somewhere out near Paterson. I visit them a couple of times a year. I get off the bus at some huge mall out there and they pick me up. They're somewhere in Totowa or Little Falls or Wayne or where the fuck ever. I have this theory about North Jersey. I think some time after creating Golden Chicken and Ribs that God picked-up all the cities that would comprise northern New Jersey into his hand. You know when you pick your nose, how sometimes you get one of those boogers that's really elastic and sticky, but not wet? It won't just wipe off onto some surface, so you roll it into a ball between your finger and thumb then flick it away. That's what God did with the cities of North Jersey.
My sister had her elbows on the table in front of her. Between the fingers of her hands she held a barbecued rib to her mouth. A stream of grease mixed with sauce glistened in the light as it slid down her fore arm. After law school she married her college sweetheart and settled on the other side of the river. At a glance her life is filled with sharp business suits and neatly coiffed hair. Seeing her like this reminded me of the girl I grew-up with: the pig-tailed sister who'd double-dutch with the neighborhood girls or try to catch pigeons with me in the alley across the street from our stoop. It's funny how much location can influence a person's behavior. When I vist her in Jersey in her immaculate home and with her husband around, she carries herself in a way that's foreign to me. When she's in the city with me at Golden Chicken and Ribs, she's Reesy from the block.
Reesy was in the middle of telling me something when she noticed the grease running down her arm. She placed the meatless bone back onto the plate. She then raised her arm, cocked her head sideways, and proceeded to lick the grease from her arm. "That's too good to waste," she said and laughed. Teresa from New Jersey never would've done that. She picked up another rib from her plate and put her elbows back on the table. Before taking another bite, though, she continued.
"I'm glad you're getting some of that stuff out. How does it feel to be writing again?" She nibbled at the rib while she waited for my response.
I wasn't sure what to tell her. I just told her what she was hoping to hear. "I think it's good for me," I said.
"I've been reading the stuff you put on there, D." I hated being called D, but she was the only person left who did, so I let it slide. She hated being called Reesy, too. "It's had me scared that you've mentioned me a couple of times. I've been afraid that you'd write about something really embarrassing like the time we made out with each other."
"That was your idea!" We were maybe 10 and 12. She had talked me into it so she could know what it was like to kiss a boy before she actually had to kiss one.
"It's still embarrassing! And you haven't exactly been censoring the fucked up shit from your life." She started laughing and her voice became more boisterous and her accent more pronounced. Any trace of Teresa-from-Jersey that got off the bus was long gone by now.
You can take the girl out of the city. . .
She pointed the rib at me across the table. Her head did that side-to-side motion that only women can do, in rhythm with the syllables of the words she spoke. "Listen here, mother fucker." She laughed again and I burst-out in laughter as well. "I better not read about how kissing your sister made you molest kids and punch rabbis."
Teresa lives with her husband somewhere out near Paterson. I visit them a couple of times a year. I get off the bus at some huge mall out there and they pick me up. They're somewhere in Totowa or Little Falls or Wayne or where the fuck ever. I have this theory about North Jersey. I think some time after creating Golden Chicken and Ribs that God picked-up all the cities that would comprise northern New Jersey into his hand. You know when you pick your nose, how sometimes you get one of those boogers that's really elastic and sticky, but not wet? It won't just wipe off onto some surface, so you roll it into a ball between your finger and thumb then flick it away. That's what God did with the cities of North Jersey.
My sister had her elbows on the table in front of her. Between the fingers of her hands she held a barbecued rib to her mouth. A stream of grease mixed with sauce glistened in the light as it slid down her fore arm. After law school she married her college sweetheart and settled on the other side of the river. At a glance her life is filled with sharp business suits and neatly coiffed hair. Seeing her like this reminded me of the girl I grew-up with: the pig-tailed sister who'd double-dutch with the neighborhood girls or try to catch pigeons with me in the alley across the street from our stoop. It's funny how much location can influence a person's behavior. When I vist her in Jersey in her immaculate home and with her husband around, she carries herself in a way that's foreign to me. When she's in the city with me at Golden Chicken and Ribs, she's Reesy from the block.
Reesy was in the middle of telling me something when she noticed the grease running down her arm. She placed the meatless bone back onto the plate. She then raised her arm, cocked her head sideways, and proceeded to lick the grease from her arm. "That's too good to waste," she said and laughed. Teresa from New Jersey never would've done that. She picked up another rib from her plate and put her elbows back on the table. Before taking another bite, though, she continued.
"I'm glad you're getting some of that stuff out. How does it feel to be writing again?" She nibbled at the rib while she waited for my response.
I wasn't sure what to tell her. I just told her what she was hoping to hear. "I think it's good for me," I said.
"I've been reading the stuff you put on there, D." I hated being called D, but she was the only person left who did, so I let it slide. She hated being called Reesy, too. "It's had me scared that you've mentioned me a couple of times. I've been afraid that you'd write about something really embarrassing like the time we made out with each other."
"That was your idea!" We were maybe 10 and 12. She had talked me into it so she could know what it was like to kiss a boy before she actually had to kiss one.
"It's still embarrassing! And you haven't exactly been censoring the fucked up shit from your life." She started laughing and her voice became more boisterous and her accent more pronounced. Any trace of Teresa-from-Jersey that got off the bus was long gone by now.
You can take the girl out of the city. . .
She pointed the rib at me across the table. Her head did that side-to-side motion that only women can do, in rhythm with the syllables of the words she spoke. "Listen here, mother fucker." She laughed again and I burst-out in laughter as well. "I better not read about how kissing your sister made you molest kids and punch rabbis."
"Dwayne?"
It wasn't really a question. It was that tone that people use when they've already asked you a different question but you never acknowledged them. The speaker questions you a second time with your own name to get your attention. Just hearing that tone in their voice, you know you've missed a direct question. When it happens in front of a group of people, it can be an embarrassing moment. Not for me though. I'd been drinking since 7am that morning.
Actually, I'd been drinking since April. It was now July.
If you get technical about it, drunks are alcoholics, but for want of a better term, I like to make distinctions between the two. Alcoholics and drunks start in the same place. Their drinking escalates them to the level of being a functioning derelict. Alcoholics then go through a series of stages as the "functioning" part of that term begins to deteriorate. They go through stages of denial about their inability to function. They begin to hide their inability to function. As they begin to fail the people and institutions they care about more and more, they attempt rehabilitation for as long as necessary, up to and including the remainder of their lives. The entire process is fueled by a single thing: guilt.
Remove guilt from the equation and you get a drunk. Drunks don't delude themselves about the inability to function and seldom bother to hide this fact unless there's something to gain from it. They're loud, conspicuous, uncoordinated, a little bit shaky, and make no apologies for any of it. From your local wino to the town drunk, this is a universal truth. That was the line I had crossed back in April. Due to an absence of any remorse concerning my proliferating consumption of alcohol, I accepted my new life as an unabashed drunk. The fun part was watching the world around me deal with it.
So, I didn't care when my name was asked as a question that day in the project room, at least, not enough to be embarrassed. It was the late 90s and I was part of a graphic design consulting firm. I knew I'd never be able to keep the job in the long run, but for the meantime, I had been trying to lie low and milk that salary for as long I could before I was shit-canned. I hadn't done an honest day's work at the firm in over two months. I came to work reeking of vodka Bloody Marys and stayed smashed most of the day. I'd sit at my desk and push paper around to look busy. I could fake it for a while.
Eventually, people began to notice that my work wasn't being completed. Then they noticed that I wasn't even starting it. My name was being spoken around the office in hushed conversations. When people walked by my desk they had an obvious look of pity on their faces. On the good days, I would make mock, sad faces back at them and laugh. By the time of this meeting, I was the office joke. Upper management had been compiling their paper trail of inadequacy, failure, and insubordination for my eventual termination. I had maybe a week left, if I was lucky.
As the sound of my name was absorbed by the upholstery and bounced slightly off the hard surfaces in the room, the air did fill with embarrassment. But it wasn't mine, it was theirs. Throats were cleared nervously and eyes looked down at the table or straight ahead at nothing while the project leader attempted to get the attention of the office drunk. I did the only thing any of us can do at a time like this. I looked up at the lead designer and asked a question that was a equally rhetorical.
"Hmmm?"
The leader re-asked their original question, the one I had missed. The answer to it required some depth of preparation and concern on my part, and I had neither by this point. I shuffled some paper on the table in front of me half-heartedly, acting like I was looking for something to help me answer the question. It was a fruitless charade and I abandoned it after a few moments. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. I raised my hands from the table, turning the palms upward slightly - the universal sign of empty hands - and shook my head sloppily. "I don't know," I said. I dropped my arms, my wrists banging against the tabletop.
It wasn't really a question. It was that tone that people use when they've already asked you a different question but you never acknowledged them. The speaker questions you a second time with your own name to get your attention. Just hearing that tone in their voice, you know you've missed a direct question. When it happens in front of a group of people, it can be an embarrassing moment. Not for me though. I'd been drinking since 7am that morning.
Actually, I'd been drinking since April. It was now July.
If you get technical about it, drunks are alcoholics, but for want of a better term, I like to make distinctions between the two. Alcoholics and drunks start in the same place. Their drinking escalates them to the level of being a functioning derelict. Alcoholics then go through a series of stages as the "functioning" part of that term begins to deteriorate. They go through stages of denial about their inability to function. They begin to hide their inability to function. As they begin to fail the people and institutions they care about more and more, they attempt rehabilitation for as long as necessary, up to and including the remainder of their lives. The entire process is fueled by a single thing: guilt.
Remove guilt from the equation and you get a drunk. Drunks don't delude themselves about the inability to function and seldom bother to hide this fact unless there's something to gain from it. They're loud, conspicuous, uncoordinated, a little bit shaky, and make no apologies for any of it. From your local wino to the town drunk, this is a universal truth. That was the line I had crossed back in April. Due to an absence of any remorse concerning my proliferating consumption of alcohol, I accepted my new life as an unabashed drunk. The fun part was watching the world around me deal with it.
So, I didn't care when my name was asked as a question that day in the project room, at least, not enough to be embarrassed. It was the late 90s and I was part of a graphic design consulting firm. I knew I'd never be able to keep the job in the long run, but for the meantime, I had been trying to lie low and milk that salary for as long I could before I was shit-canned. I hadn't done an honest day's work at the firm in over two months. I came to work reeking of vodka Bloody Marys and stayed smashed most of the day. I'd sit at my desk and push paper around to look busy. I could fake it for a while.
Eventually, people began to notice that my work wasn't being completed. Then they noticed that I wasn't even starting it. My name was being spoken around the office in hushed conversations. When people walked by my desk they had an obvious look of pity on their faces. On the good days, I would make mock, sad faces back at them and laugh. By the time of this meeting, I was the office joke. Upper management had been compiling their paper trail of inadequacy, failure, and insubordination for my eventual termination. I had maybe a week left, if I was lucky.
As the sound of my name was absorbed by the upholstery and bounced slightly off the hard surfaces in the room, the air did fill with embarrassment. But it wasn't mine, it was theirs. Throats were cleared nervously and eyes looked down at the table or straight ahead at nothing while the project leader attempted to get the attention of the office drunk. I did the only thing any of us can do at a time like this. I looked up at the lead designer and asked a question that was a equally rhetorical.
"Hmmm?"
The leader re-asked their original question, the one I had missed. The answer to it required some depth of preparation and concern on my part, and I had neither by this point. I shuffled some paper on the table in front of me half-heartedly, acting like I was looking for something to help me answer the question. It was a fruitless charade and I abandoned it after a few moments. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. I raised my hands from the table, turning the palms upward slightly - the universal sign of empty hands - and shook my head sloppily. "I don't know," I said. I dropped my arms, my wrists banging against the tabletop.
"...all the goddamn time!"
The words slammed into my consciousness. I had been lost in an absence of thought, watching a muted television behind the bar. I held a tumbler over-handed in my fingers with only a few cubes of ice in it. They slid in circles on the oily-brown traces of whiskey in the bottom of the glass as I mindlessly twirled my wrist. I raised my elbow from the surface of the bar so that the glass rose into the air above my head. I waved it slightly to get the bartender's attention. He acknowledged me with a nod.
There are two kinds of drunks in the world: ones who don't give a shit about anything and ones who give a shit about everything. The guy at the other end of the bar was a vocal version of the latter. Any night, any bar, there's always one of these guys. They drunkenly rant all night long, creating a virtual spotlight and soapbox with their boisterous nature.
"And I'll tell you another goddamn thing...."
He apparently was just getting started. The bartender arrived with an open bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and poured me another double. I could see in the bartender's face the worry that he might have to ask Mr. Opinion to leave. There was a hint of embarrassment there, and I could tell he was gauging the room for signs of discomfort as he grew louder and louder. I didn't mind. This was exactly the sort of thing I came here for.
"...is just fuckin' pathetic!"
Pathetic is like the word awesome. Any power or value the word once had has been diminished by constant, exaggerated use. A really delicious cheeseburger is not an "awesome cheeseburger." It's just a great tasting cheeseburger. Somewhere along the way, people began to use the word "pathetic" as an overstatement to describe something which was merely disappointing, rather than something which is actually evocative. "Pathetic" is also used a lot for sarcasm - exaggeration's more sophisticated sibling. My feeling is that the words have come to be misused because its been so long since anyone truly experienced awe or pity.
I spend my days doing graphic design for some Puerto Rican T-shirt screeners. I maintain a modicum of lucidity throughout the day until I get home. Then I drink all night, usually until I black out late in the evening. This gives me a lot of time to fill. Lately, I've had this blog writing contest to occupy some of my time. Usually though, it's spent scribbling half-baked fragments of free verse and watching TV. Most of the time, I prefer this routine. I live alone, I'm largely left alone at work, and I drink alone. I realize this is not normal, and most of the time I can ignore that fact. I do reach a breaking point, however. I'm lying naked in my bed with a weeks worth of empty vodka bottles scattered about the room, having a serious inner dialogue about whether to masturbate to Anjali Rao on the evening news or save myself for Ann Curry on the Today show the next morning.
That is pathetic and that's when I go to the bar. I'm not really interested in meeting anyone there. I'm not interested in any boozer camaraderie or even a sympathetic ear. I go to feel normal again.
The words slammed into my consciousness. I had been lost in an absence of thought, watching a muted television behind the bar. I held a tumbler over-handed in my fingers with only a few cubes of ice in it. They slid in circles on the oily-brown traces of whiskey in the bottom of the glass as I mindlessly twirled my wrist. I raised my elbow from the surface of the bar so that the glass rose into the air above my head. I waved it slightly to get the bartender's attention. He acknowledged me with a nod.
There are two kinds of drunks in the world: ones who don't give a shit about anything and ones who give a shit about everything. The guy at the other end of the bar was a vocal version of the latter. Any night, any bar, there's always one of these guys. They drunkenly rant all night long, creating a virtual spotlight and soapbox with their boisterous nature.
"And I'll tell you another goddamn thing...."
He apparently was just getting started. The bartender arrived with an open bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and poured me another double. I could see in the bartender's face the worry that he might have to ask Mr. Opinion to leave. There was a hint of embarrassment there, and I could tell he was gauging the room for signs of discomfort as he grew louder and louder. I didn't mind. This was exactly the sort of thing I came here for.
"...is just fuckin' pathetic!"
Pathetic is like the word awesome. Any power or value the word once had has been diminished by constant, exaggerated use. A really delicious cheeseburger is not an "awesome cheeseburger." It's just a great tasting cheeseburger. Somewhere along the way, people began to use the word "pathetic" as an overstatement to describe something which was merely disappointing, rather than something which is actually evocative. "Pathetic" is also used a lot for sarcasm - exaggeration's more sophisticated sibling. My feeling is that the words have come to be misused because its been so long since anyone truly experienced awe or pity.
I spend my days doing graphic design for some Puerto Rican T-shirt screeners. I maintain a modicum of lucidity throughout the day until I get home. Then I drink all night, usually until I black out late in the evening. This gives me a lot of time to fill. Lately, I've had this blog writing contest to occupy some of my time. Usually though, it's spent scribbling half-baked fragments of free verse and watching TV. Most of the time, I prefer this routine. I live alone, I'm largely left alone at work, and I drink alone. I realize this is not normal, and most of the time I can ignore that fact. I do reach a breaking point, however. I'm lying naked in my bed with a weeks worth of empty vodka bottles scattered about the room, having a serious inner dialogue about whether to masturbate to Anjali Rao on the evening news or save myself for Ann Curry on the Today show the next morning.
That is pathetic and that's when I go to the bar. I'm not really interested in meeting anyone there. I'm not interested in any boozer camaraderie or even a sympathetic ear. I go to feel normal again.
It is true that New York City is like no other place in the world. One of the problems with being a native though, is that you don't have a very firm grasp on what life is like in the rest of the country. The only time I lived outside of the city was when I was in college. Imagine my surprise to see roadside memorials along the highways of Virginia.
I turned to my dorm mate who was driving and said, "Man, Christians are bad drivers." I never did see a Star of David or a statue of Buddha; always little white crosses. My guess is that it's the ones who didn't get the "God Is My Co-Pilot" bumper sticker.
Should I die in a motor vehicle, let me just say for the record that anyone who makes a roadside memorial to commemorate the place where I bought the farm: I will haunt your ass. I'm not talking all Casper the Friendly Ghost or Whoopi Goldberg channeling Patick Swayze. I'm talking about hiding your car keys when you're late for work and putting the toilet lid back down just before you sit. Hardcore haunting, yo. I'm not playing. I'll fuck you up.
I think it'll be cool being a ghost. You could do nice ghostly things for the people you loved. Like, move that can on the top shelf just a little bit closer so they can reach it. It'd be like having invisibility super-power, but without the usual distractions; like spending all of your time in ladies' changing rooms. I figure if I've shed my mortal coil that I wouldn't spend every day doing that. Maybe just on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I like to think that when I become a ghost, and they are making me watch the orientation video and getting my name-tag, that that is when I get everything explained to me; the answers to life's most perplexing mysteries. That'll be the best part of being a ghost. You know... THE BIG ONES. Like, just what was she and Billy Joe McAllister throwing off the Tallahatchee Bridge? Who shot Tupac and Biggie? Do sorority sisters really have topless pillow fights in their underwear and inevitably a pillow rips open and feathers begin floating about the room and sticking to the light sweat glistening on their skin from the playful romp? You know, important shit. I'm kidding though... I could do without the feathers.
I like to think we all get to be ghosts for a while and that it's not just for lost or tormented souls. Maybe we all get a chance to be near our loved ones who have the toil of enduring our passing, and let them sense our presence, even if they can't see or touch us any longer. It's the things we write-off as coincidence, like something turning-up somewhere you didn't expect it, that reminds you of them. Maybe they put it there to let you know that they're alright and that they miss you, too.
I turned to my dorm mate who was driving and said, "Man, Christians are bad drivers." I never did see a Star of David or a statue of Buddha; always little white crosses. My guess is that it's the ones who didn't get the "God Is My Co-Pilot" bumper sticker.
Should I die in a motor vehicle, let me just say for the record that anyone who makes a roadside memorial to commemorate the place where I bought the farm: I will haunt your ass. I'm not talking all Casper the Friendly Ghost or Whoopi Goldberg channeling Patick Swayze. I'm talking about hiding your car keys when you're late for work and putting the toilet lid back down just before you sit. Hardcore haunting, yo. I'm not playing. I'll fuck you up.
I think it'll be cool being a ghost. You could do nice ghostly things for the people you loved. Like, move that can on the top shelf just a little bit closer so they can reach it. It'd be like having invisibility super-power, but without the usual distractions; like spending all of your time in ladies' changing rooms. I figure if I've shed my mortal coil that I wouldn't spend every day doing that. Maybe just on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I like to think that when I become a ghost, and they are making me watch the orientation video and getting my name-tag, that that is when I get everything explained to me; the answers to life's most perplexing mysteries. That'll be the best part of being a ghost. You know... THE BIG ONES. Like, just what was she and Billy Joe McAllister throwing off the Tallahatchee Bridge? Who shot Tupac and Biggie? Do sorority sisters really have topless pillow fights in their underwear and inevitably a pillow rips open and feathers begin floating about the room and sticking to the light sweat glistening on their skin from the playful romp? You know, important shit. I'm kidding though... I could do without the feathers.
I like to think we all get to be ghosts for a while and that it's not just for lost or tormented souls. Maybe we all get a chance to be near our loved ones who have the toil of enduring our passing, and let them sense our presence, even if they can't see or touch us any longer. It's the things we write-off as coincidence, like something turning-up somewhere you didn't expect it, that reminds you of them. Maybe they put it there to let you know that they're alright and that they miss you, too.
I was breathing fast and my eyes were wide. I could feel my nostrils flaring as the air rushed in and out of my nose. I was nervous, even scared. I guess it's supposed to be like that your first time. Shhhhhh. Sh. It was all I could hear; hot breath filling my ear, soft and reassuring. "It's okay. Just relax and enjoy it." The moist warmth of a tongue wriggled around my earlobe. I felt a hand sliding up my leg. It gently cupped my crotch. I trembled and closed my eyes.
***
"Can I give you a ride?"
Night had fallen. There were only a couple of other boys left in the park. I looked at him through the open window. He was white, in his early 40s, sitting behind the wheel of a BMW, dressed in a business suit. I'd seen him before. He cruised the park a couple of times a month, but this was the first time he had stopped to speak to me. "Sure," I said. I pulled the handle on the car door and got in.
He pulled away from the curb. Tenement houses and apartment buildings seemed to float outside my window. "How old are you?" he asked, breaking the silence.
I was 16 at the time - sure I knew everything and too street-smart for my own good. "Old enough," I said. He turned a corner and the neighborhood began to look familiar. I'd already taken this trip more times than I could remember. With the married closet jobs, it was always in the car in some alley or the hourly-rate hotel a few blocks from here. The old fags, past their prime and needy, had nice apartments we could go to. But these guys were my bread and butter. "You married?" I asked. I liked to make the married guys squirm a little.
He unconsciously took his left hand off the steering wheel and ignored my question. "So how..."
I figured I'd save him the time and interrupted him. "Fifty to fuck. Twenty five for anything else. I don't swallow."
We had arrived at the hotel. He drove past it and found street parking down the block. He put the gear shifter into park. "I've already got the room," he said. "Wait here on the sidewalk for five minutes, then come up to room 12."
I sat on the stoop of a nearby house and watched him cross the street. His leather shoes clacked against the asphalt as he jogged to the other side. I lit a cigarette as the lights flickered on in the buildings on the block, as people came home from work.
***
His hand moved from my crotch and slipped under my shirt. His face began to move away from my ear, gently kissing my neck. The side of his face was rough and smelled like Barbasol. The kisses tavelled along my skin toward my mouth. His breath was stale tobacco smoke and coffee. Soon his lips were on mine and his tongue was in my mouth. His fingers traced the edges of my nipples.
***
He let me into the room. He immediately excused himself to the bathroom and shut the door. He knew how the game was played. I looked around the room and spotted the money sitting on the table. I picked it up - two twenties and a ten - and shoved it in my pocket. I pulled a condom from the other pocket and placed it on the table where the money had been. I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. I kicked my shoes off but nothing else; most of them liked to do the undressing, or at least watch. He came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a hard-on. He grabbed the condom from the table and handed it to me. They liked that, too.
I simultaneously took his cock into my mouth as I rolled the condom down onto it. I blew him for a few minutes, his hands on either side of my face at the jaws. He lowered his hands to my shoulders and pushed me away. He reached down and lifted my T-shirt over my head then pushed me down on the bed and removed my jeans. He rolled me over and grabbed my hips with his hands, raising me onto my knees, like he was adjusting a baby's high-chair. Propped on my knees and elbows as he entered me, I looked at the painting on the wall above the bed - a ship on a stormy sea with a lighthouse in the foreground.
***
His fingers began to move away from my chest, across my belly, to the button on my shorts. He tugged at it with his finger and thumb until it came unfastened. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was textured with dozens of swirl patterns. I studied them looking for familiar shapes. He pulled the zipper on my shorts down and I could feel the vibration of each tooth as it moved through the metal track. I saw what looked like a face in the swirl near the window and right beside it, an elephant. His hand moved beneath the waistband of my underwear. There was a car in the swirl near the door and right above me, one that looked like an all day sucker. He slid his body down the length of mine, positioning his face near my pelvis. By the end of the summer, I had the ceiling memorized. I lay there motionless; I didn't know what else to do. I was only ten.
"Can I give you a ride?"
Night had fallen. There were only a couple of other boys left in the park. I looked at him through the open window. He was white, in his early 40s, sitting behind the wheel of a BMW, dressed in a business suit. I'd seen him before. He cruised the park a couple of times a month, but this was the first time he had stopped to speak to me. "Sure," I said. I pulled the handle on the car door and got in.
He pulled away from the curb. Tenement houses and apartment buildings seemed to float outside my window. "How old are you?" he asked, breaking the silence.
I was 16 at the time - sure I knew everything and too street-smart for my own good. "Old enough," I said. He turned a corner and the neighborhood began to look familiar. I'd already taken this trip more times than I could remember. With the married closet jobs, it was always in the car in some alley or the hourly-rate hotel a few blocks from here. The old fags, past their prime and needy, had nice apartments we could go to. But these guys were my bread and butter. "You married?" I asked. I liked to make the married guys squirm a little.
He unconsciously took his left hand off the steering wheel and ignored my question. "So how..."
I figured I'd save him the time and interrupted him. "Fifty to fuck. Twenty five for anything else. I don't swallow."
We had arrived at the hotel. He drove past it and found street parking down the block. He put the gear shifter into park. "I've already got the room," he said. "Wait here on the sidewalk for five minutes, then come up to room 12."
I sat on the stoop of a nearby house and watched him cross the street. His leather shoes clacked against the asphalt as he jogged to the other side. I lit a cigarette as the lights flickered on in the buildings on the block, as people came home from work.
His hand moved from my crotch and slipped under my shirt. His face began to move away from my ear, gently kissing my neck. The side of his face was rough and smelled like Barbasol. The kisses tavelled along my skin toward my mouth. His breath was stale tobacco smoke and coffee. Soon his lips were on mine and his tongue was in my mouth. His fingers traced the edges of my nipples.
He let me into the room. He immediately excused himself to the bathroom and shut the door. He knew how the game was played. I looked around the room and spotted the money sitting on the table. I picked it up - two twenties and a ten - and shoved it in my pocket. I pulled a condom from the other pocket and placed it on the table where the money had been. I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. I kicked my shoes off but nothing else; most of them liked to do the undressing, or at least watch. He came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a hard-on. He grabbed the condom from the table and handed it to me. They liked that, too.
I simultaneously took his cock into my mouth as I rolled the condom down onto it. I blew him for a few minutes, his hands on either side of my face at the jaws. He lowered his hands to my shoulders and pushed me away. He reached down and lifted my T-shirt over my head then pushed me down on the bed and removed my jeans. He rolled me over and grabbed my hips with his hands, raising me onto my knees, like he was adjusting a baby's high-chair. Propped on my knees and elbows as he entered me, I looked at the painting on the wall above the bed - a ship on a stormy sea with a lighthouse in the foreground.
His fingers began to move away from my chest, across my belly, to the button on my shorts. He tugged at it with his finger and thumb until it came unfastened. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was textured with dozens of swirl patterns. I studied them looking for familiar shapes. He pulled the zipper on my shorts down and I could feel the vibration of each tooth as it moved through the metal track. I saw what looked like a face in the swirl near the window and right beside it, an elephant. His hand moved beneath the waistband of my underwear. There was a car in the swirl near the door and right above me, one that looked like an all day sucker. He slid his body down the length of mine, positioning his face near my pelvis. By the end of the summer, I had the ceiling memorized. I lay there motionless; I didn't know what else to do. I was only ten.
On playgrounds and in public schools I had been in fist fights with other boys. On more than one occasion I've found myself in a bar fight. I know what it's like to have my bare fist connect with the face of another man; to feel the skin of the face stretch beneath my knuckles and the bones crunch in my hands. But I had never punched a woman in the face before.
Her head snapped backwards and the force of the blow sent her body stumbling. Her right hand went immediately to her face in reaction to the pain. Her left arm was flailing in an attempt to regain her balance, or just find something to grab hold. It was like watching one of those nature films of a baby horse trying to stand for the first time, but with the projector running backwards. Her knees buckled and she crumpled into a seated position on the floor, like someone releasing the strings of a marionette. Bright red blood trickled from her nose onto her fattening lip. Her eyes were closed, her lashes growing wet with the tears of physical pain, like water in the teeth of a comb. When you punch a man, he looks back at you with anger. When she opened her eyes, the first thing I saw was surprise. Then her surprise literally melted away. The hard, wide roundness of her eyes shrunk and became softer as they continued to fill with the tears of a hurt heart. A single stream began to flow from the corner. It trickled down her face, tracing the edge of her nose. It met the blood there and diluted its color. With one of her delicate hands she wiped at her lip. She winced in pain then moved the hand from her face, looking at the blood on her fingers. Then she looked at me for some sort of explanation.
The room was full of excuses: our volatile 4 month relationship, her disclosure that she was fucking some co-worker, the argument which followed, the two empty vodka bottles on the coffee table. None of them were a good reason, though. There was nothing I could say or do to explain what had just happened. Nothing could justify this brutality. My right hand throbbed with pain sending waves of nausea into my gut with each pulsation. The skin at my neck grew hot, rising up into my ears. She rose to her feet. She looked down, pretending to straighten her clothes so she wouldn't have to look at me. She chuckled. Not earnestly, but with remorse.
"I guess I had that coming," she said, mostly to herself.
She sniffed then looked up again, but not at me. She glanced around the room like she was looking for something, then turned and walked into the bathroom, switching on the light. Placing both hands on the edge of the sink, she leaned over it, looking into the mirror. She turned on the faucet and carefully cleaned the blood from her face. I stood there watching her from a distance. Her body was dark in the backlight, almost like a silhouette, framed in the doorway of the bathroom. I had a view of her side as she leaned over the sink. Her legs were straight and long, then her form curved sharply at the waist, her back arched and rising to meet her head which was eye level with the mirror. For a split second I grew wistful at the scene, then my hand throbbed again. She snapped off the light and walked out of the bathroom.
She gathered her purse and coat from the couch. She cleared her throat as she pulled the sleeves over her arms as if she might say something, but she remained silent. She tossed her head slightly to keep her hair from getting tucked into the collar as she put it on. She crossed the room toward me as she headed for the front door to leave. As she passed by me I began, "I. . ."
She raised her hand to my mouth and placed the first three fingers to my lips to stop me from speaking. She looked into my eyes intently and said, "I know."
She smiled sadly at me. It wasn't a simple look of pity, but one of grave concern. I'll never know if it was directed at me or for herself.
"I didn't think you were that sort of man, either," she said and left.
Her head snapped backwards and the force of the blow sent her body stumbling. Her right hand went immediately to her face in reaction to the pain. Her left arm was flailing in an attempt to regain her balance, or just find something to grab hold. It was like watching one of those nature films of a baby horse trying to stand for the first time, but with the projector running backwards. Her knees buckled and she crumpled into a seated position on the floor, like someone releasing the strings of a marionette. Bright red blood trickled from her nose onto her fattening lip. Her eyes were closed, her lashes growing wet with the tears of physical pain, like water in the teeth of a comb. When you punch a man, he looks back at you with anger. When she opened her eyes, the first thing I saw was surprise. Then her surprise literally melted away. The hard, wide roundness of her eyes shrunk and became softer as they continued to fill with the tears of a hurt heart. A single stream began to flow from the corner. It trickled down her face, tracing the edge of her nose. It met the blood there and diluted its color. With one of her delicate hands she wiped at her lip. She winced in pain then moved the hand from her face, looking at the blood on her fingers. Then she looked at me for some sort of explanation.
The room was full of excuses: our volatile 4 month relationship, her disclosure that she was fucking some co-worker, the argument which followed, the two empty vodka bottles on the coffee table. None of them were a good reason, though. There was nothing I could say or do to explain what had just happened. Nothing could justify this brutality. My right hand throbbed with pain sending waves of nausea into my gut with each pulsation. The skin at my neck grew hot, rising up into my ears. She rose to her feet. She looked down, pretending to straighten her clothes so she wouldn't have to look at me. She chuckled. Not earnestly, but with remorse.
"I guess I had that coming," she said, mostly to herself.
She sniffed then looked up again, but not at me. She glanced around the room like she was looking for something, then turned and walked into the bathroom, switching on the light. Placing both hands on the edge of the sink, she leaned over it, looking into the mirror. She turned on the faucet and carefully cleaned the blood from her face. I stood there watching her from a distance. Her body was dark in the backlight, almost like a silhouette, framed in the doorway of the bathroom. I had a view of her side as she leaned over the sink. Her legs were straight and long, then her form curved sharply at the waist, her back arched and rising to meet her head which was eye level with the mirror. For a split second I grew wistful at the scene, then my hand throbbed again. She snapped off the light and walked out of the bathroom.
She gathered her purse and coat from the couch. She cleared her throat as she pulled the sleeves over her arms as if she might say something, but she remained silent. She tossed her head slightly to keep her hair from getting tucked into the collar as she put it on. She crossed the room toward me as she headed for the front door to leave. As she passed by me I began, "I. . ."
She raised her hand to my mouth and placed the first three fingers to my lips to stop me from speaking. She looked into my eyes intently and said, "I know."
She smiled sadly at me. It wasn't a simple look of pity, but one of grave concern. I'll never know if it was directed at me or for herself.
"I didn't think you were that sort of man, either," she said and left.
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