Thursday, December 31, 2009

It's your last post of 2009, Charlie Brown

On the internet there is a report about oil prices.  Oil has reached 79 dollars a barrel. It must be true.  I read it on the Drudge Report.

I am stuffed.  My belly is full of Mexican Rice, refried beans, tostadas, tacos.  The tacos were full of beef, lettuce, onions, and cheese.

I must have had 4 of them and now I am so full I can cannot concentrate on the news that oil prices are spiking again.  I am sure some trader at Wells Fargo is laughing his ass off at me.

I hear the noises my stomach makes.  My stomach makes the creaks and groans of a piñata right before it bursts, unloading its gifts of candy and cheap toys.

Only my stomach is full of tamales and cupcakes. 

After it breaks open it rains buckets of decaffeinated tea down on the children.  Soaking them like the dirty whores that appear in German watersport videos.

It is the last day of 2009.

I am so happy to see it go.  I will look back at this year and it will depress me to remember any of it, except that on the last day possible I read the quote of the year, "This cockroach-like existence is cumulatively intolerable even though on any given night it is perfectly manageable."

Wanna get depressed?  Go read the story.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Don't go reading anything into this post

"It's not imaginary." I told her.  "I don't just make stuff up."

She took one look at me.  She looked at my bald head.  A few stray hairs standing around alike the last survivors at the Alamo.

"We surrender! We surrender!"  I could imagine them saying.

"No quarter!"  The little Mexican Banditos would say.

She looked at my bald head with the few stray wisps of hair and my fat jowls and laughed her vicious little laugh.

"You're just a fat Piggy!" She giggled.

"You do not have swollen noids!"

She was doubled over with laughter.  She was pointing at me with her index finger and brushing the hair out of her face.

"Quit it!"  She bellowed.  "You're killing me!"

"Fuck you!"  I thought to myself.

I thought about last night when I came in her.  How she let me get on top of her.  I thought about her getting up and turning around and doing 'reverse cowboy' on me.

I laughed a little myself.

"I am glad you are not going to be so serious."  She said.  She must have thought I was laughing at myself the way she was laughing at me.

"You don't know."  I said solemnly.

We sat down in the kitchen at the breakfast table.  We did not have a dining room table in the 1 bedroom apartment.  So the breakfast table doubled as the dining room table.

"I guess it triples as the lunch table too!"  I thought.

Great.  I am being snooty to myself.

"Why do people put themselves out there when all they get is ridicule."  I asked her.

"Hell if I know."  She said.  "I am gonna be alone forever."  She said in a mocking tone.

"How do you plan on doing that?"  I asked her a little indignantly.

She looked at me crossly.  She picked up the napkin ring that was sitting in the middle of the table.  She tossed it violently at the living room wall.  It smashed against the wall with a crackle, exploding into a million shards of plastic wood.

"That was fucking crazy."  I looked in the eyes.

"It was a bit dramatic."  She agreed.

Then she shrugged and got up out of the chair.  She walked over to the bedroom and checked on the kid.  He was still asleep.  Apparently he had gotten used to living with his crazy ass parents.

"At least he can sleep."  I said glad that something good could come out of all this.

"No fucking shit."

Teri plopped down on the hide a bed sofa that doubled as our living room sofa.  We got tired of putting the cushions on it so the sofa stayed in bed form most days.

William was stretched out on the sofa watching TV.  William was in high school and I was sure his parents were wondering where he was.

I was not sure how Teri knew William.  I just knew they were "friends."

"Don't be so fucking jealous!"  Teri would tell me whenever I asked her how she knew Will.

"Anyway.  I am allowed to fuck other dudes."  She told me.

"Remember?" She asked referring to our little agreement.

"So are you fucking him?" I asked my cock tingling a bit.

"Not yet."  She answered.

Teri ran her hand under the sheets.  I could tell she was holding hands with William under the sheets.

"I need to get to bed."  I told them.

William looked up at me worried.  "You don't want to drink a few more beers?"  He asked like a scared puppy.

"We're out of beers."  I informed him.

"I wish we had some weed."  Teri added.  She looked over at William and his eyes got glassy.

"Me too."  He whispered.

I had enough.  It was a long walk to work and I had to get up at 6 in the morning.

"Only 4 hours for sleep for me."  I said to no one.

Teri snorted and snuggled up against William.

The TV was blaring Montel Williams.  Some woman going off about her baby daddy.

I got off the sticky fake leather chair.  I walked to the bedroom and opened the door.  I walked in and closed the door softly.  The room was pitch black.

I kicked a toy and stifled a yelp.  The kid stirred a little in his crib, but did not wake up.

I laid down on the bed after peeling myself out of my jeans and underwear.  I kept my t-shirt on to protect myself from the chill in the air.  My nipples were hard and rubbed the cotton t-shirt uncomfortably.

When I got under the blankets I noticed I had a hard on.

I could hear the Montel Williams show go into a commercial.  It was one of those long 2 minute informercial style commercials.  A magic bullet blender.

I tried to imagine what William and Teri were doing on the sofa together.  I could not hear any squeaking from the bed, nor did I hear any moaning.

When Teri came to bed her she smelled like she had given him a blow job.  But she said nothing happened because William said he was afraid of getting caught.  He also said he wanted to smoke some weed and wasn't in the mood to fuck unless he could get some.

"We're out of fucking weed!"  Teri whispered harshly at me.  Her breath coming out at me like a copper penny.

"I know." I reminded her.

"I need to get some fucking sleep."  I reminder her.

"It's already 5 am."  She said with a little too much glee.

"Great."  I told her.  "I am going to be dead at work."

"Call in."  She advised.

"And just what the fuck do we do when rent comes around?"  I snap at her.

"I don't know."  She replied.  "I was just offering."  She added lamely.

"Offering to get us kicked out?"  I turned around to face her pulling the blanket with me.

"Oh, fuck me!"  Even in the dark I knew she was rolling her eyes.

"Are you hard yet?"  She asked grabbing for my dick.

"Not yet."

She put both hands around my cock rubbing furiously to get me hard.

"I am so fucking wet."  She announced.

"I thought I heard the baby move."  I close my eyes and try and will a faster hard on.

"Shhh."  Teri warned me.

She pulled me on top of her.  I slipped in easily.  She let out a quiet moan.

"Did you jack off while I was out there?"  She asked.  Her voice gruff with desire.

"A little." I admitted.

"You better have not cum."  She said sternly.

"I didn't!" I said quickly.

We fucked for a few more minutes and then I let out a squirt of ejaculate on her belly.

"Good Boy."  Teri praised me.  "Don't go getting me pregnant again"

Monday, December 28, 2009

Things would be different.

"Things could have been different."  She said.

"Yep." I answered back.

"Things would have been different."  I said.  I was leaning back against the concrete wall.

"You need a woman to make you do things."  She looked at me and took a drink from the long neck beer she had resting against her waist.

"I do." I admitted.

I looked down at my feet.

"But you would have treated me right."  She said in between drinks of her Bud Light.

"I would have."  I agreed.

"You need a good looking woman to keep you interested."  She accused me, rightly.

"I do."  I told her.

"But you're a different kind of man."  She said.  She took one of her legs and crossed the other leg with it at the knee.

She was still a good looking woman even though she was pushing 38.  She had thin legs.  She had on those snow boots that had become fashionable with all the teenage girls.  Her Levi's were skin tight and tucked into her boots.

"But,"  she continued "You aren't the kinda man that gets distracted by beauty.  You only need one good looking woman to keep you happy."

I don't know about being that good of a person.  But I think I knew what she meant.

"I would-uh treated you well."  I told her.

"I know you would-uh."  She smiled back at me.  Her long dark hair was moving in the breeze like a sail on the most magnificent sail boat you had ever seen.

She dug out a cigarette from her purse and put the cigarette between her chalky white fingers.  Her pink nail polish gleamed in the moonlight.  She lit the cigarette and took a long, deep inhale.  She blew the smoke out of the mouth.  A little of the smoke escaped from her nose.

She shook her head like she was disagreeing with herself a little.  Then she smiled to herself and looked up at me.

Chemistry.  We had it.  I never even had to try with her.  Words came out when they needed.  Actions around her seemed fluid.  Natural.  Everything slowed down to super slow motion.  I just sat there and counted her breaths.

We looked at the pavement a lot when we talked.

"It's funny."  I said.  And we both laughed at the inside joke.

"It is funny."  She said back to me. 

My mouth was dry so I got myself another beer from the six pack we were drinking from.  The six pack was sitting on the asphalt.

After a long while I decided to break the silence.  "I wonder how things would have been with us."

"I do too."  She said softly.

She uncrossed her leg.  She put her hand behind her head and stretched her back out a bit.  She smiled shyly over at me.  Self-conscious.

"You ever kill anybody?"  She asked me.

"Sure."  I told her.  "Why do you ask?"  I wondered.

She did not answer my question. She just asked me another one.

"How did you dispose of the body?"

"Medical waste."  I answered.

"So who do you wanna kill?"

"Marty."  She said.  "I am sick of his shit."

I swallowed a big gulp of beer.  My heart was beating pretty fast.

"You still got that GAT in your glove department?"  She looked over at my truck.

"Yep."  I said as smoothly as possible.  "I still got it."

The gun was not hidden very well.  Everyone knew about my gun.  They knew how I kept it stashed in my glove department and how I never needed to bring it out. 

"I'm serious!"  Her pretty little head was full of pout.

"I'm gonna have to borrow it."

She quit looking over at the gun and the Ram 1500 and looked back over at me.

"A body can be pretty heavy to move."  I said matter-of-factly.   "And it can be pretty difficult to bury by yourself."

She took one final puff off her cigarette and tossed the bud towards the gutter.  It landed a few yards away from the water and burned into the grass, innocently enough.

"You're gonna start a fire."  I told her and laughed.

"I don't give a shit."  She said with an edge to her voice I had never heard before.

"You shore sound pissed."  I told her.

She shrugged her shoulders at me.  Then she headed over to the red colored cardboard carrier and took out another beer.  She bent down to pick up another beer and her sweater opened up at the neckline.  I made no real effort to divert my eyes and I got a look at her bra.  It was black and real lacy.

She looked up and saw me staring at her.  She rolled her eyes a bit at me.

"I forgot what a boob man you are."  She smiled up at me.

Then she brought herself to her full height in her boots.  She stood real close to me.  She was almost as tall me as me in those boots.  I could smell menthol  and lipstick on her breath. 

"You should help me, you know."  She said it to me like she was asking me to help her with the dishes.

Doing the dished is the kind of chore a woman always wants you to help her with.  But as soon as you do she starts fucking the next door neighbor, or your brother.  The she tells you how it's all your fault and how you were never really man enough for her.  She tells you how she hates the way you smell of axle grease and dirt when you get home.  And how you don't ever wash your penis enough and how she always hated the taste of your foreskin.

"That's some bullshit."  I said a little harshly thinking about my ex.

Her eyes looked surprised and she took  stepped backwards from me.

"I didn't really mean it."  She said.

Only I knew better.

"I think you did."  I took another drink from my beer.

We both stood there staring at each other for a second.

Then she smiled at me the way she smiled at me the first time I saw her walking towards me.  Back then she was the accounts payable girl at the mini lube where I worked.

She was walking towards the copier machine.  She had on a short skirt with flat shoes and when I saw her I would swear to you that her hair was blowing just like in one of those shampoo commercials.

I'd never seen a girl as pretty as her in real life.  She had pale skin and dark eyes.  She was dressed so professional.  It was cute because there was no reason to dress so nicely at this job.   The last girl who had her position always wore jeans to work.   On Saturdays the other girl would wear sweats and she would always keep her hair in a ponytail.

"Maria."  I said.  But all I could get out was her name.

She ran her fingers through her hair.  She looked so angry.  Her eyes were steel.  Her jaw was clenched.  She fingered the bottle of beer.  I could tell she was just counting the seconds to make a get a way from me.

"Marty's gonna be expecting me soon."  She said through clenched teeth.  Her eyes drifted out to space.

"I bet he is."  I said evenly.  I did not want to give away my disappointment with how things were going.

A shiver went through her and she tugged at her jacket.  She zipped her jacket up and drank the last half of her beer down.  She looked around to find a place to get rid of the empty bottle and settled on putting it back in the six pack.  That meant she had to walk over to me again.

I backed up so as to let her put the bottle away and as to not let her get any funny business going on.  I had a feeling I could not let her get too close to me. I figured for just another whiff of her perfume I might go in to the cab and grab my pistol.

Before she left me she gave me a last look over her shoulder.  Her long dark hair blowing in the wind again just like the first time I met her.  But this time her pink cheeks were rosy for all the wrong reasons.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Bus Ride With Homeless Guy

The bus ride home should not be this eventful.  I got a homeless guy taking a piss at the bus stop.  Homeless guy is chugging a 40.  Big green bottle of Malt Liquor.  Homeless guy claims to have a job.  Homeless guy just got off work and wants to get his drink on.

"Back in Tucson where I roll we drink and piss like this, it ain't no big deal."

But homeless guy can tell I am not feeling him.  It's not so much that he took a piss in the middle of the bus stop that is in plain sight of a major street.  It's exactly how close he took the piss to me.  Like I could her the splash down.  Like I felt like I had to look down at my shoes for run off.  I dared not turn my head for fear of jabbing something in my face.  I'm protected by the metal barricade bus shelter otherwise I'd of really been pissed.  (haha sorry)

His watery eyes are looking over at me.  He tries to apologize.  He is saying he is sorry.  He says it like 39 times. More exactly he starts saying it like 39 times, but never finishes through an entire apology.
 He stammers and gets some of the words out but not enough of them to make sense or enough of them in order to keep my interest.  The only other question he has for me is when the bus is coming.  "Do I know?"

"The bus is coming soon."  I tell him. 

But he is 75 cents short of a one-way fair ride into downtown Tempe.  I hesitate to ask him what is downtown.  I just hand over 75 cents after I get on the bus and he sits there looking stupid drunk digging in his filthy pants for change and spilling assorted orange Tic Tacs on the bus driver.  Now he is offering to collect them before the bus starts.  He starts to touch the driver but the driver freaks out a bit and yells at the homeless guy.  Homeless guy shirks back like an abused puppy.

I sit at the back of the bus so as I can listen to Miley Cyrus without anyone catching on to what I am listening to.  I don't feel like answering questions today.

Some girl is sitting next to the driver.  She is leaning half out of her seat.  She is telling some story abut how the cops are fucking with her.  They are asking if her car is abandoned, "because it sure looked abandoned to them."

She fights back with lawyer words and tells the cops to suck it because her car has a license plate and her tags are not expired.  "Suck on that coppers!"  She says like we live in the 1920's or something.

I smell something fishy about the whole thing.  Something don't make sense to me.  Like why are you riding the bus if your car got tags and a license?

I ama gonna scratch my head about that one.  All because I might be gettin' some rash on my forehead or something, all this stuff coming down on me making me think I can't put off seeing no doctor no more.

Homeless guy starts paying attention to the girl and fake grabs her ass.  I start laughing my ass off.   The shit was funny because you can see her giant mom purple underwear.  Even though she is like 20 pounds over weight you can see yourself fucking this chick.  Even though she is clearly a crack head.  A fat ass crack head on the bus instead of driving her car.  It must be broke down or something.

I shake my head at the homeless guy as he looks over at me laughing with my headphones on.

"Don't do it." I implore him with my eyes.

I don't know why I'm always stopping myself from having fun.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

It's almost Christmas, so let's start spreading the cheer fuckers

It's almost Christmas.  The weather is playing tricks on me.

It's cold and raining.  Raining bullets like we are at Columbine.

Those guys had the right idea.  Don't just kill yourself.  Kill all the fuckers that start shit with you.  Kill all the fuckers that make your life miserable.  Kill all the people who have it better off than you.

I had an idea for  Suicide Christmas Cards and it went something like that.  Which is why I guess I don't work at a Greeting Card Company writing sappy cards that will tear up ol' Grandma.

I say fuck Granny.  She spent all day shopping for gift bags that have pictures of cute kittens on them.  She does not know how to use the gift card you gave her.  She can't figure out all this modern technology she sees in front of her.  Her fingers run over her cell phone trying to find the slot to put the quarter in.  She gets pissed off when she can't find the privacy booth to talk in.

We weren't supposed to live this long.

I have proof of that in my bowel movements.  The daily dumps all my readers keep telling me to stop talking about like if they were shitting yellow for a week and it suddenly turned black again because they had spent the past few days hibernating in a alcohol coma they could ever shut up about it.

I guess I should not tell you that I got a bruise on my arm.   All I know is it is yellow and squishy like cream corn living under the surface of my arms.

I've got some kind of rash. I think that is making my neck red and bumpy but that could just be the nasal infection I have had since the 8th grade when I moved here.

But some asshole at work told me that my kidney might be failing and I can't stop itching now.

I have a second toe trying for an ingrown toe nail, but I am searching for laptops on craigslist instead of saving money for the doctor.  I still need a monitor and a bigger hard drive and a DVD player on my computer so I think it makes sense to go ahead and "invest" in a laptop that has all that stuff.  I have no idea why that seems like a bad idea.  Really.  I bet I can get a list of podiatrists from my union that work for free.  I bet they can clean all this MERSA.  I bet they fix degrading organs.

I don't want to do that.  I got this flash of inspiration that people like me think about rational shit the same way you guys think of impulses.  Nobody takes impulses seriously.  Every one wants to shoot their three year old in the face.  Everybody wants to tell off their boss.  But nobody does that.  Same with me.  Only the opposite.  I can't seem to think of rational things as anything other than a flash or an impulse.  It all moves so fast.  Good decisions are just a blur for me.  I live some place slower than all you.

Cold, dark, gray light.  Weather playing tricks with me.  I listen to a loop of the first three songs of Foreigner's Very Best and Beyond.

People tell me at work that they don't believe that I am depressed.  I laugh at them when they talk to me like they know me.  I smile at the fuckers in my line to0, and when I notice my voice gets too monotone I adjust it.  I pick up a few decibel levels and I flash a toffee popcorn grin at the cute girls with tarantula eyes.  I love when hot chicks can't figure out the simplest shit like how to apply fucking mascara.

Call me Scrooge.  But this fucking computer types 23 words a minute and I type 34 words a minute.  I have to wait for the god damn thing to catch up with me and we are supposed to be living in the 21st century.  Well all I know is technology is fucked and it ain't getting any better for us on the sidelines.

Today is one of those days.  All the loneliness.  All the panic.  Nothing is here but the itching and the smell of rotten fish.

You know the only thing more annoying that people telling me I am not depressed?  When people think they have a clue as to why I write this blog.  Like I am some kind of suffering Narcissist who can't get enough attention.

Like I want your fucking attention.  Trust me.   If I wanted your fucking attention I would get it.  I am smart enough to get through a few physics and chemistry classes.  I might not get A's.  But you don't need to get an A in BLOWING shit up to BLOW shit up even if that BLOWING shit up would be ME getting BLOWN THE FUCK UP.

I like the company out here on the internet.  Even with all crazy ass bullshit most of you don't call me on it.  You don't sit around fixing me.  You're as curious as I am at exploring the shit you see on the screen.  Maybe it doesn't make sense half the time for you.  But that's okay. The German's have a word for it. We are just exploring 'lifeworlds'.  But I am going to pretend you are smart enough to quote Habermas naively and pretend you have access to big ass dictionaries and Google so I am not going to insult you and mention that word.  I think it brings us together.  How I project you with intelligence.  Maybe dark hair, that you feel the need to nervously finger behind your ear.

God.  You are so fucking gorgeous.

Beauty is the one thing that keeps psychopaths human.  That's why every psycho loves beautiful women.  That's why he shoots them up at L.A. Fitness.  That's why he carves them up in his basement. That's why he stalks them on their way to the bookstore and peaks in their windows when they take a shower and that's why he stares at you across the aisle while you use the self checkout line even though he heard your friend tell you about the open line at the express lane and he saw you brush your hair in front of your face to cover up what your beautiful mouth was saying, that the guy in the express lane gives you the most intense stares you have ever seen and maybe you think he is some kind of Vampire all because he has red, itchy earlobes and it would just be better if you two stayed over at the self check out and try not to stare back at the guy because that kind of shit just encourages him.

You can wonder at me.

But I wonder at myself sometimes.

I wonder why I got through it all.  I wonder when I am going to start waiting for the raindrops to fall on me.

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Totally Homoerotic Adventures of Lester and His Pimped Out Girlfriend Krystal

As soon as Lester turned 21 he was visiting the Indian Casinos.  The "Valley" had tons of them.  Casinos, not Indians.

Though Lester did notice quite a few Indians hanging around the Circle K asking for his pocket change so they could buy another 40.

They would take his money.  Their dirty hands cupped together to collect whatever change Lester felt like giving that day.  After buying beer they would wrap the tall cans surreptitiously inside a brown paper bag like no one knew what they were doing.

The Indians would look up at you with bleary eyes and mutter thank you.  Counting all 37 cents and doing math in their heads.  Wondering if they had enough money to buy another beer, or if they had to keep nursing that bottle of King Cobra that was still 2/3 full of bright green pungent liquid.

But it wasn't difficult to guess what was inside the brown paper bags that littered the parking lot.  Even if you were so stupid that you could not guess what was in the bag, you could smell the alcohol on them before they got within 3 feet of you.

No.  Lester was not thinking about Indians on his birthday.  He was only thinking about their casinos.  Lester had just gotten paid and wanted to turn the small paycheck that he got from working the concession stand at the movie theater into a pile of money.

Lester knew the odds were against him.  "They don't build those casinos from winners."  His momma told him on the way out the door waving at him and his brother as they sat cross legged by the TV eating bowls of Super Sugar Crisp.  The familiar theme song from the Super Friends blaring at them from the 19 inch TV set and obscuring some of what his mother had said to them.

"There were almost never any winners in the casino if you don't count the Indians lucky enough to get those monthly checks from the company that runs all the gambling operations." He thought.

"Not that I care." He said to himself.  "It will get me out of the house, and I need to get out of the house."

The house was not really a house.  It was a motel room that he shared with his girlfriend.  A girl he had met at the movie theater.  They both worked together and it seemed to Lester that Krystal was always looking to change shifts so that they worked together.

He would be stuck together with her all day in the ticket booth. Cramped and surrounded by glass walls for at least most of the 4 and 5 hours shifts they worked.  And he would be forced to come up with conversation.

Krystal liked to talk.  Whenever she wasn't surfing the web, or texting her friends she asking him probing questions that she found on MySpace bulletins.

"What's your favorite color?"
"Do you like cats?"

Lester did not have a favorite color and he did not really have an opinion about cats.  He tried to ignore her questions.  He gave nods and shrugs instead of answers to most of her questions.  He was hoping she would get the hint, but she never did.

She seemed especially interested in knowing the sexual things about him that MySpace Bulletins were full of.

How many partners had he had?
Had he had a three some?

Lester knew if he answered those questions she might get the wrong idea.  Think he was interested in being her boyfriend or something.  She was wrong. Lester could get laid from any number of a half dozen girls (and let's be honest boys also) if he wanted.  And none of those girls (boys) worked with him.  None of them asked him about his shoe size or inquired about the places he had visited. 

The girls "were just nice wet pink holes."  He thought.  So nice and warm that he usually forgot they came with mouths.  That is until one of them took his long, thin cock in their mouths.  Their tongues stumbling across his manhood.

"At least they used their mouths for something other than talking."  He said.

"It was hard to talk when you were gobbling down dick."  He laughed to himself  at the idea.

Lester walked out of the movie theater and into the blinding white sun.  He counted himself lucky that Krystal was busy in the back stock room.  He would not have to explain himself to her where he was going, or what he was going to do with the money after he took his check to the check cashing place.

He walked quickly to his car taking the occasion glance backwards at the automatic revolving doors of the mall.  His car was parked hurriedly and took up the better part of two spaces.  The front tire peaking in to the handicap spot enough to get him a fine or ticket from a prick cop if they so choosed.

The door to his 1987 silver Buick Skylark was stuck.  He had to give the car door a yank before it grudgingly opened.  The sound of his car door opening, piercing, sharp metal on metal, may have embarrassed others, but it did not worry Lester.

Lester plopped himself down on the gray cloth interior and started the car.  He was careful to gun the engine without flooding it and the car responded to his practiced technique by roaring loudly.  The radio turned on and the blown speakers starting blasting a song by Jay Z.

Lester turned the music up and rolled the passenger window down using the silver switch on his driver side door.  The car did not have air conditioning and it was a long drive to the casino.

Lester's ears were ringing by the time he got onto the freeway.  He was in a good mood.  One hand on the steering wheel, he moved casually in and out of the lanes.  The speedometer read 68 miles an hour in the pale green LCD light that was popular in luxury vehicles from the early 80's.

Lester cursed himself.  He had forgotten to stop by the check cashing place.  He had to take the nearest exit and double back towards the movie theater.  He took the McClintock exit and drove to the Check Cash store.

The same obese 40 year old woman who was always working was working the counter.  She greeted Lester with her customary salutation.  Something between a cougar in heat and the concern of of an adopted mother.

"I bet you need your check cashed, huh?"  The cashier asked dumbly.

"Yeah."  Lester smiled sheepishly.  Lester looked down at the check and was humiliated to see that the check was missing a day's pay.

"Shit."  He muttered to himself.  Since he had left the theater in such a hurry he was going to have to wait until next week to get the check fixed.

"What's wrong?"  The check cashing woman asked.

"Oh, nothing."  Lester said as he placed the check under the bullet proof glass.  "They forgot to pay me for a few days is all."  He said depressed.

"That sucks."  Monica said.  At least that was what her name tag said.  Monica.  Lester tried to her will her name into his memory banks.  You never knew when knowing a person's name could come in handy.

Monica stamped the check loudly.  Black ink perfectly copied, she wrote a few initials on the back of the check.  She counted the money out of her drawer carefully.  Twice.  She did not need to be that conscientious, but she enjoyed staring at Lester.

Lester reminded Monica of her son.  His plaid button down shirt shoved up at the elbows.  His unkempt hair matted down with sweat.  Even his ear ring which her son had taken to wearing, probably just to upset her, matched the boy in front of her.  The strange tingling in her loins that Lester gave her was the only difference she could think of between the two boys.

"Any plans?"  She asked.

"It's my birthday."  Lester shared, uncharacteristically talkative.
"And I am going to the casino."

"That sounds fun."  Monica winked at Lester.  Lester smiled broadly and shoved his slipping shirt sleeves to his elbows again.

Lester scooped up his cash and turned on his heels and walked out of the store.  He nodded his head at Monica as the door closed.

In the car and again gunning the engine he took off with a cloud of black smoke fuming from the tailpipe.  Lester managed the car on to the freeway again.  This time speeding in and out of lanes.  His heart pumping and racing along with the car.  He felt he was cheated out of an hour of gambling already.  He had to make up the difference.

Indian casinos in Arizona are not like the casinos you see on TV.  They don't have all the neon signs like Vegas.  The building were non descript.  They blend into the background of red and maroon topography of the valley.

At the entrance to the casino are two security guards.  Both appear to be Native.  The larger is female.  She is obviously Navajo.  The male looks to be Native but he might just be old and weathered.  His skin is beaten red by the sun.  He looks feeble to Lester.

"Old and slow."  He thought to himself and he walked past the two guards.  "And fat."

"God."  He muttered.  "What a bunch of fucking stereotypes."

Lester felt a tug on his shoulder.  A surge of adrenalin went through him.

"Hey,"  A gruff female voice sounded in his ear.  "I am going to need to see your ID."

"Oh."  Lester said a bit confused.  "That's right.  My identification."

Lester pronounced the full word of the acronym and relaxed a little showing the guard his ID from his wallet.

"I need you to take the ID out of the wallet."  The guard said with trace of annoyance in her voice.

Lester complied with a bit of annoyance himself.

"It's my birthday."  He said.  "I am 21."

"Congratulations."  The guard said as she looked up from his ID.  Then she smiled at him and wished him good luck.

"Thanks."  Lester said and walked into the casino.

The casino can be overpowering for  a first time visitor.  The impact of 1,000 slot machines whooping and ringing.  The flashing lights.  The hundreds of people milling around.  The controlled chaos of loose inhibition.  It was enough to make Lester feel out of place.  That maybe he was not ready for all this.

Lester decided to get a beer.  He had heard in Vegas that cocktail waitresses walked around all day and offered free beer or screw drivers to anyone playing a game.  But Lester wanted to wait for a minute before trying his luck at the slots.

He walked past elderly Mexicans playing slot machines.  He walked past white trash smokers at the smoking area.  He walked past the buffet tables and sat himself at the sparsely populated bar and ordered a Bud Light.

He sat there slowly sipping his beer, lost in his thoughts when a man in his 50's sat next to him.

"You mind if I sit here?"  He asked.

Lester took the bottle away from his lips and said, "I don't care."

Lester put the bottle down and fumbled a bit with the napkins the bottle rested on.  The man's presence was making him uneasy.

As if sensing Lester's discomfort the man introduced himself.

"Hi. I'm Pat."  The man offered his out and Lester shook it good mannerdly.

"Lest,"  Lester dragged out his name as if Lester reconsidered telling Pat his real name mid way though.

"Nice to meet ya." Pat cooed back at Lester.

Pat was thin boned and smelled like menthol cigarettes.  For a man Pat's age his arms were unnaturally tight.

"Probably from working out."  Lester thought.

Pat wore black slacks and a black dress shirt that was opened to the third button.  Lester could see his gray chest hair.

"Nice to meet you too."  Lester said.  Though it was not nice to meet Pat.  Lester wanted to be alone.  He needed a few drinks and he wanted to get the lay of the land before he set out to play the slots.

Lester had thought about playing poker or one of the various card games that the casino had laid out before him.  The female staff in low cut blouses were an enticing offer, but Lester knew there was not much of a chance of him leaving with any money if he did that.  It was better to stick to something that was pure chance like slots.  Something he had no control over.  Something he could not screw up.  If he lost.  Then it was fate.  Nothing you could do against fate.

"You play much?"  Pat asked pointing at the slot machines that lined the walls of the bar.

"No."  Replied Lester.  "Never played before."

"Then you just need a bit of liquid encouragement."  Pat laughed at his joke and slapped his knee.  Pat smiled a toothy dentured grin.

Lester looked over at Pat trying to asses him.

"I guess."  Lester admitted.  He took another drink from the bottle of Bud Light that was getting dangerously low on beer.

"Looks like you need another."  Pat said and waved his arm at the bartender.  The bartender walked over and twisted off two caps and placed the fresh bottle of beer next to the two men.

Lester looked up at Pat after this and smiled a bit.  He was happy to have someone buying him a beer.

Pat had a question for Lester.

"Lester, I would like to pay you $10,000 to have penetrative anal sex with you."

This was Part 2. Parts 3 and 4 are on the way. Part 1 brief convo with a prostitute.

Persipration equals preperation.

Sleep pattern is off.  Slept 9 hours on and off.  Mostly off.  A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer.  A back load of posts sit idly ping ponging in the memory of my computer.

I need to shower today, or at least brush my teeth.

Bowling later tonight.

A chance to see her.  The girl with the crucifix tattoo on her arm.  She slings bags of crinkle cut fries into the fryer.  The heat from the small cooking station leaving her sweaty.  Perspiration collecting on her forehead.  She wipes it away with the back of her hand and a smile.

She offers you free refills of Coke and you fall in love.

I have to go pay the electric bill.  I have to return library books.  My reading has slowed down, because of all the audio books I am reading.

I won't embarrass myself by listing them for you.

"But one of them was Twilight."  He grinned mysteriously. 

 As usual I was unable to interpret his grin.

It is dark in my room.  The sun is producing the gray shadows of winter rather than the yellow light of summer.  The world outside looks frozen still.  My window fogs up  like a bathroom mirror in the early morning.  I wipe away the fog with the palm of my hand.  My hand is cold and wet and now.  I place my clammy hands on the top of my forehead and feel for a fever.

My bowels feel squirrely.  Like the animal  is working its way out of me.  A yellow discharge is left in the bowl.  I flush.  I reach my arm behind me and feel the top of the commode for a bottle of preparation-h.  I stand awkwardly from the strain and slather a bit ointment on my buttocks.  I purse them together and yank my underwear back up.  I toss the medicine at the wall.  It makes a dull plastic coated thud as it bounces around and finally lands on the carpeted floor.

I pause for a second.  Remembering a conversation I had with a friend the other night.  He is having a midlife crisis.  He is wondering if all there is to life is having a family.

"Go to work.  Take care of your family.  Clip the yard.  Open your mail."  He says.  His voice is uncharacteristically full of melancholy.

"We are bodies."  I tell him. "It is a wonder we can ever forget that."

I leave the meaning of that statement for him to figure out.

"What ever happened to doing all those things we said we were going to do when were in high school?"  He asked.

"That was high school."  Another friend explains.

"People talk like that in high school." He adds.

"Maybe we never meant any of those things."  I think to myself.

"I feel like I am going to throw up."  My friend says suddenly.
Hidden behind the flickering shadows of the backyard fire he does.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Brief conversations with prostitutes (part 1 first draft)

"Not even for money."  She said.

Her answer hurt my feelings. 

"You won't have sex with me...even for... money?"  I ask again.  My voice rising an octave or two on the last syllables.

"Not even for money."  Came her quick reply.

"She didn't even have to think about it."  I thought.

"But that's what prostitutes do."  I protest.  "They have sex for money."

"Yes."  She admitted.

"But not with you."  She repeated.

"I see."  I said.  But not really.

Was I so disgusting that even a prostitute would not have sex with me?

"Maybe."  I thought. 

"I was looking forward to this." I offered meekly.  "And I hardly ever look forward to things."

I knew how pathetic that sounded.  But I was hoping the hooker would have pity on my.  Not pity per-se.  But sympathy for my situation.  Sympathy which could lead her to empathize with me.  And that empathy might allow her some how to gain some insight into my personality.  Perhaps then she could see the "real" me.

"Because people like me." I though to myself.  "After they get to know me."

"But Kyrstal,"  I begged.  "Pleasssssssse."

Krystal reached into her bag and pulled out an orange and yellow colored bag of Reese's Pieces.   As she tossed the bag around in her hand she explained to me why she was carrying a bag of candy around with her.

Her last "John" did not have all the money he'd agreed to pay her.  So she had gone around the motel room collecting whatever things of value she could find that happened to be lying around.

She was upset about "the john" stiffing her, but I felt like she was proud of the fact that she had managed to get some of her dignity back by jacking an alarm clock along with a few bags of candy from him.  I thought about asking her why she didn't try and look for things of more value, but then I thought better of it.

"You want a bag of candy?"  She asked me.  Her voice was surprisingly sweet.  "I got three of four."

"Ya!" I almost jumped out the bed to grab the sack.

"I love candy."  I told her earnestly.

"I bet you do sweetie."  She said as she patted my hand with hers.  The sound of my flabby hand being slapped reverberated around the cramped room.

Not for the first time I wondered if it was my obesity that was bothering her.  I suddenly became conscious of how sweat drenched my socks were.

My toes curled in against one another and scratched at the soles of my shoes. I had been withholding scratching another itch on my calf so long that the itch decided to file for residency.

I hate scratching myself  in public, but I could not hold out any longer.  I had to give in to temptation. I sighed and exhaled deeply.

I bent forward and struggled to itch my swollen calf.  My belly folded in on itself and mentally I tried to avoid counting how many rolls of fat had just been pushed up towards my gut.  I was sure my face was a bright purple from the exertion, so I stared at the space heater and tried to avoid giving Krystal a direct look when I dragged my body back to its upright position.

I took a few breaths with my mouth open to get my oxygen levels back.  I wondered if enough time had passed since Krystal had asked me about the Reese's for me to accept the bag and tear it open without looking like a fat slob.

All I wanted was a few of the candies.  I wasn't about to eat an entire bag of Reese's Pieces in front of Krystal.  Especially after my reaction to her question about the candy was so obvious.

"Yes, the big fatty would love a bag of candy.  He wants the bag of candy more than sex.  Candy is all he lives for."

I get it.  You don't have to look at me that way, Krystal.  I know loving candy is bad.  Just like I know that eating an entire bag of candy is way bad, and choosing a bag of candy over possibly having sex with a Mexican prostitute is beyond good or bad.  No.  My choice was made for me.

But it's not exactly as if I was choosing the candy over the Mexican prostitute.  If I had a choice I would choose sex with the prostitute.  I could get candy anytime, anywhere I wanted.  There is a convenience store on every block.

If you drive by a block without a convenience store you can bet that out there somewhere is a developer or architect dreaming about finding a way so that you never have to leave the block to get yourself a corn dog or a giant sized slushy.  They will never stop building 7-11's.  There seems to be an inexhaustible supply of strip malls and corners that have yet to be decorated by neon signs advertising 32 ounce Big Gulps for 99 cents.

I think Krystal-the-prostitute waved a bag of candy at me because she hoped that I would take the bag of candy from her and forget all about what I came here for.  Sex.

Well, there was no chance of that.  I was horny as shit.  I shifted my  penis uncomfortably around in my pants.  I was going to wake my flaccid penis up.  Ready or not my penis was performing today.

Krystal's tiny frame jerked around the bed from all my squirming. She steadied herself by placing her hand down on the bed then she crossed her legs.

She was wearing a black mini jean skirt with no stockings and a brown top.  The top had white crotchet flowers sewn all over the front.  From her feet dangled a pair of black slip on heels that had seen better days.  The soles were worn and the metallic straps looked like they had been recently chewed on by a dog.

"Probably a Chihuahua."  I thought.

That last thought was pretty racially insensitive.  I'm not like that.  I am just very tense today.  And actually having to convince a hooker to have sex with me is not exactly helping my stress condition either.

A small electric floor appliance plugged into a nearby wall was turned on and hummed loudly.  From the look of it, the appliance must have been made in the 1970's.   The red hot coils burned your eyes if you stared at it too long.

"It's hot in here."  I offered.

It seemed to me that our conversation was stalling and it also seemed to me that it was HER job to steer the conversation some place interesting, or at the very least sexy.

"Yes."  She said flatly.

Krystal did not speak with any accent.  In fact she probably spoke better English than me.  She sounded vaguely Valley Girl when she talked.

"I hope the Reese's Pieces don't melt."  I added trying to joke around with her.

"You can have them, you know."   She smiled at me and her eyes darted for a bit towards the shiny plastic bag.  "It's okay."  She said.
"It really is."

"Thanks."  I told her and reached for the bad.  I had to use my pocket knife to rip open the bag.  I fumbled first for a few minutes using my teeth after my fingers were rebuffed by the impenetrable plastic.

"These things don't like to open."  I laughed again trying to lighten the mood.

I got the bag open and asked Krystal if she wanted some.  She  declined politely.  I worried that she declined the candy because she was afraid of the knife I was carrying on my key chain.

"It's really dull."   I told her as I closed the small blade.  "I don't think it could cut anything.

"Oh."  She smiled half-heartedly.  She didn't seem to notice the knife after all.

Krystal had been staring at the burning space heater.  Her eyes watered a bit and she turned back to face me.

"I don't want to have sex for money."  She said with a sudden forcefulness. 

"I know."

But before I could finish she interrupted me.

"I mean I don't want to have sex for money with ANYONE anymore." She gushed.

"Oh, great!"  I thought.  "Just what I need.  A hooker with a conscious."

"Wow." I told her.  "What made you come to that decision?" I asked.

What I really wanted to know was WHEN did she come to this decision.  Was it before she walked into the shabbily decorated Motel Room with me?  Or was it after she imagined me naked and on top of her thrusting away with my tiny pencil dick into her gaping wet hole?

"I thought about it after my last trick."   She announces.

The last trick was not exactly a trick.  It turned out Krystal was sleeping with her pimp. Her 'confession' did not exactly come as a shock to me.  I knew from a 60 minutes documentary that most prostitutes had to sleep with their pimps. But things were different in Krystal's case.  Krystal's pimp actually was her boyfriend before she started tricking.

Krystal met her boyfriend at the big screen I-Max where she worked.  She was a popcorn girl, and he sold tickets, or he was a popcorn boy and she sold tickets.  I wasn't too sure I caught what she said.

But anyway, she met her pimp AKA the boyfriend at the movie theater and they fell in love and moved in together.  When the theater they both worked at got bought out by a larger movie chain the larger movie chain fired all the I-Max workers.

Left without jobs and fearing homelessness or worse Krystal's boyfriend convinced her to prostitute herself.

"I always had low self esteem."  She said brushing back a loose strand of highlighted hair.  "It must have been pretty easy for him to convince me."

When Krystal spoke she thumped her shoe to her heel making a slight clacking noise.  The more she grew excited about telling me her story the more the shoe went back and forth between her heel.  The clacking got so loud it threatened to overtake the space heater as the loudest thing in the room.

I was thankful for all the noise.   The space heater made the room insufferable hot and I was mouth breathing.  I hate the sound of mouth breathing.  I just don't seem able to stop mine.

Friday, December 04, 2009

Just when you thought it was safe to go the toilet

I woke up and took a black dump in the toilet today.  Most of the time the dumps I take end up in my underwear, or rubbed into the bedspread.  Something must be wrong with my ass because it leaks, or maybe something is wrong with my stomach to make my ass leak.

I have no idea.  Like you I am not a doctor, nurse, or even  a pharmacist.  I am just a high school dropout.  So far my only accomplishment in life has been graduating from the 8th grade, even though I am smarter than most of the people you know.  It turns out you don't have to be smart to get by in this world.  Most of your lives are evidence of that. 

So I have no idea why I am shitting black for 5 straight days since my birthday, though I blame the alcohol.

I keep thinking about going to the doctor, but going to the doctor will just enable me to live another 20 or 30 years and with my back going out on me yesterday and leaving me incapacitated and surviving on bottles of generic ibuprofen I think you can understand my hesitancy about getting better. 

I say fuck getting better, but I swear off beer and drinking anyway. At least for a few weeks as my liver repairs itself.   I guess I am just a complicated bitch and you will have to understand that and accept me and stop worrying about me, because the kinda broke I am has nothing to do with money it has all to do with a man's soul.

It comes from years of neglect by parental units chomping on lucky stripe cigarettes and soaking themselves in bottles of Dr. Pepper so as to strip away the loneliness and guilt they carry around them like one of those girls who lives in the rain forest who carry baskets on their heads.  A basket on the head feels so natural to half naked girls trudging through make shift paths in the rain forest, but all I can see is 75 pounds of pressure distorting their necks.

As I write this I can hear my roommate's muzzled computer blast The Daily Show in the background.  It's a repeat of a show taped on November 18, 2009.

My finger tips are cold as I type.   I squeeze and flex my toes together in hopes of generating enough heat to warm me up on this bitter cool Arizona mid afternoon.  High temps somewhere in the low 60's today.

I left my bedroom window open last night and now it is chilly 69 degrees in my room.  My computer hums without the fan having to kick on.  The monitor I stare at 6 hours a day is slowly dying.  Down to 75 percent of the screen.  Colors fade out and in.  Mostly black and white.  A bag of opened sunflower seeds rests against the tower.

I am going to go to work now.  Going to work and praying that my back only screams at me today instead of the stabs and makeshift surgery without anesthesia I normally get. 

When I get to work all the young people I know ask me how old I am now that my birthday passed.  I tell them the truth "that I am 39."  Even though I feel older and younger than that at the same time. 

I avoid the full length mirrors decorate the breakroom because they tell a truth I don't need to hear.  That avoiding cola is not making me skinny.  I guess I need to give up the cookies I eat.  One package of cookies every three or four days.  Enough to keep me at 200 pounds.

And 200 pounds is enough to keep me from the good life of going to college and meeting a girl and getting her pregnant, and moving in with her, and getting behind on the mortgage so that I move in to a 2 bedroom apartment without heat, so that makes her leave me, and I am stuck with child support payments, and the white collar job I got just got axed, so the recession is real, which only makes me not understand remember how the recession is just how ordinary people always live. Paycheck to paycheck.

But I already got all that without the hard work of going back to school and without all the additional pain of a broken heart, other than the heart break my momma has to live with every day-seeing her big boy suffering in the desert without a truck and without a college degree- because he's so smart and special even the world went on by without him.

But living this way I get to stay here in my two bedroom apartment with a 15% government surtax.  The tax taking all my money away from me.  Money that I would have used to buy a Motorola Droid (or at least a Env Touch) with.

In the breakroom right before work I am typing corrections  and editing all this on the mousy keyboard of an Env3 like I am the hero. Like you are worthy audiences.  Like all this means something, when we both know that I should just shut up and get on with it, and of course getting on with it has nothing to do with searching for Miley Cyrus pictures.  Especially pictures of her adjusting her bra straps, but fuck it I say, "Those pictures are making me feel horny."

And being horny is the first sign of being alive.  And I love being alive.