Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 4"

“Detouring Vol. 4”

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

I smell tobacco smoke as I awaken, eyes blinking rapidly, the hangover screaming at my ears like a nagging, self-righteous mother giving me the “what-for.” Sitting up, I hear noises in the living room, amplified by my condition, banging around dolorously in my head. A familiar heavy-set figure appears in the doorway.

“You’re awake!” says she, stating the obvious as people with pretensions to humor in situations embarrassing to anyone but themselves tend to do.

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“You were unable to perform last night.”

“Who are you, again?”

She’s telling me that we met at the party on Live Oak last night. I know that. My last memory of her was watching her vomit into the shrubbery. Strange appears in the door behind her and laughs at me.

“I have all kinds of fucked up pictures of you.”

“That’s not surprising,” I say, lifting myself from the mattress. “Why the fucking congregation in my living room?”

"Trying to figure out how it was exactly that Jesus turned water into wine... and how it relates to our salvation."

Further, Strange explains that he tried to tell the heavy-set girl (note: in vol. 3 referred to as chubby) that these sort of sleep-ins were normal for people who binge on a regular basis, and that her response was that one day these kinds of binges lead to death; so they were discussing what to do in the event that I were to either stop breathing or begin vomiting. Naturally, they then go into a debate on whether or not I should be on my back or on my stomach while I sleep the sleep of the most devout of Dionysian devotees (my metaphor, not his).

I laugh and pick myself up; dizzy. My posture is, of course, a feint. I definitely want to stagger. To fall, even. But I have a reputation of hard drinking stamina to uphold. And all I can manage is to blurt out, “If you’ll both excuse me, I have to piss.”

My stomach is rumbling as the piss streams from the tip of my dick and into the bowl below me. I will probably end up on my knees, puking into it before all is said and done. I am not too proud, no. I figure that Strange has enough to lord over me as regards my escapades, and the heavy-set girl, well, she’s already made it clear she’s a novice when it comes to the ingestion of spirits; no, I simply didn’t want to fall from my bed directly onto my face, and I certainly didn’t want to crawl into the bathroom.

I tuck my penis back into the fold of my boxers and kneel to the throne. The tingle moves from my stomach and into my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck are raised, and I’m retching, even going so far as to shove my fingers into my mouth in an attempt to precipitate regurgitation. This works. By now I’m used to this sort of thing. I’m not accustomed to this activity in the same way that young women who counteract their binges with purges are, but I do have a liver that is dreaming of the day I become an ascetic teetotaler. Dream a little dream, dear liver.

Strange sips on a beer in the kitchen. No doubt it is the last one. I say nothing. I reach over him and into the cupboard for a glass. He says there’s no ice. It’s okay. I run tap water into the glass and chug it down. The heavy-set girl whose name is Vanessa comments on the fact of my dehydration with an annoying upward inflection indicative of a question, failing just as miserably in her second attempt at humor as she did in the first. I ask her if she’s always this poignant in her observational routines. This doesn’t register. I fill the glass again, gulp down more water and then set the glass noisily into the sink.

All three of us sit on the couch, smoking. Vanessa smells good. I think she may have used my shower. But it could be Strange. He’s finished his beer and is now peeling his jeans away from his crotch. Vanessa comments on this as typical male behavior. I’m starting to worry that sweet beautiful silence may never spend the day (or night) here again.

“So. Last night,” she says. Strange forces a chuckle.

“What about it?” I ask.

“I wanted to have sex, and you were too drunk.”

“It’s called whiskey dick.”

She asks me how old I am and if I see a proctologist regularly. I say that I’m twenty-five and that I don’t know. Turning the table, I ask her how often she sees her gynecologist. She says that she doesn’t because she has no healthcare.

“Fucking Republicans,” Strange interjects. “Those motherfuckers think everyone should bow down to their fucking OTB scam. ’Here insurance company, here’s my monthly fee, because I just KNOW that I’m going to get sick!’ I say FUCK MIDDLEMEN.”

“OTB means off-track betting. I think it has to do with horse racing,” I say.

“Huh?”

“OTB just doesn’t make sense, though I get the comparison. Sort of. I think.”

Vanessa is silent for a change as me and Strange banter back and forth. We are carrying on to the point where I know that I will have to pull out my laptop. And we’ll have to Google the term OTB. My assumption will be proven correct and he will concede victory to me. I will smoke a victory cig and then take Vanessa back into my room and do to her what I should’ve done last night.

However, the most that this will ever be is a fantastical succession of possible events lazing around in the back of my mind while I’m trying to convince Strange that it isn’t a big deal. Which is exactly what I’m trying to do. I’m telling him that I agree with the premise, it’s just that I’m not sure if the metaphor is apt. And does it matter? Not really. The point is that her asking me about my proctologic history is neither here nor there. It has nothing to do with the fact that I couldn’t get an erection. I’m not forty.

“Is it because I’m not skinny?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t care about that. I’m telling you, there is a ceiling to what you can do while being heavily intoxicated.”

“It sucks," Strange adds, "Lady Liquor can be a bitch like that. Sometimes she just wants to be the only lady in a guy's life."

I motion an "amen" in his direction. Always a good wingman. Vanessa stands up and gives us each "once-overs," finally demanding that I take her to my room and finish the job. After some laughter, I tell her to go and get ready. She smiles, curtseys to us both and runs into my room, slamming the door behind her.

"Got a condom?" I ask him.

He laughs.

"What happened last night?”

"You started giving girls piggy-back rides. Then guys. "

“That’s hilarious.”

"Oh, don’t doubt it, asshole. I have pictures. So you can Google it later, motherfucker."

Then he shows me the pictures. Photographic evidence of my much heralded stupidity. Yes, I’ve heard the stories. But this is the first time any real visuals have been provided. Pictures of me rolling around on the wooden floor, spilt liquor mixing with the dirt from peoples shoes, leaving colorful streaks; me licking it up. There’re pics of me hanging my dick out of my jeans while wearing the shittiest of shit-eating-grins on my face. Tousled hair. Slideshows of me lip-locking with every girl whose personal space I could charm/drunkenly invade my way into. A fat guy sitting across my back, likely the result of a piggy-back ride gone awry.

“Could’ve been worse,” Strange says, commiserating. “Could’ve been caught giving that guy’s asshole a moustache ride.”

“I wasn’t talking about how ‘throwed’ I was, was I?”

From his grin I deduce an affirmative answer. Fuck. The best one, he says, is the one he didn’t get. But everyone was talking about it.

“You pulled down your pants and took a shit in the bush.”

“That’s too bad. I would’ve gotten you a frame for that one.”

My social M.O. might not preclude benders and awkward sexual encounters at gatherings, but it doesn't normally include shitting in shrubberies. This most isolated of incidents could've been the result of anything. Perhaps in my clouded perception of things, I was expressing boredom. Boredom with routine. Partying, a routine in many circles, combines the same elements (with some variation) but coalesces different perceptive expectations. The good time vs. the bad time. Inebriation vs. sobriety. Sex vs. a landscape of copulative aridity due to a great many of variables: A gender ratio skewed in favor of the opposite sex/sexual orientation, one's own finicky aesthetic tastes, one's own displeasing aesthetic appearance, a lack or over-abundance of liquor (as per lack: causing one to be more inhibited, discerning; as per abundance: causing an inability to perform, sexually, socially), or more likely, one's unpleasant attitude; anything may or may not happen because the cut and dry is that routines can be planned, outcomes cannot. When I decided to step onto that property, it was to get drunk, talk a loud load of shit about journalism and literature and film, and maybe make out with/offend women (beautiful and not-so-beautiful alike), but I had no idea that things would end with a scatological act. To quote the hipster art gallery guy I once interviewed: “Totally fuckin’ drunken DADA, man.”

I didn’t want to break the man’s heart, but the qualifier cancelled out the word it qualified.

I enter my room and Vanessa is spot reading of the books that was laying on the floor. I ask if she’s enjoying what she’s perusing. She says yeah, because it’s straight up porno. I feel like maybe discussing the finer points of Henry Miller with her, but realize that that sort of endeavor would be comparable to me climbing the Himalayas. I.e., fucking impossible. “Yes,” I agree. Total porno. No substance whatever. But I enjoy it. I begin to climb onto the bed, but she commands that I bathe myself because she doesn’t want to be turned off by the pukey, shitty smell of my person.

“The hot water is out of commission,” I say, lying. Of course, she doesn’t believe me and checks for herself. Her suspicions are confirmed and she says that if I don’t want to fuck her all I have to say is I don’t. I argue that I don’t see the point in showering to do something dirty. It’s counterproductive, and more than that, as senseless as demanding that a girl shower pre-cunnilingus.

“But... you stink,” she insists.

So I climb into the shower, turn on the spout, and let the water rinse over me. The previous night’s should-be regrets circle the drain. I wash everything thoroughly. My nether-regions have never been so clean! Clean to the point that I start thinking to myself that there's a possibility that what I figured was a really bad tan was actually just an accumulation of dirt and grime due to my inconsistent showering habits.

Toweling myself off, I start to put on a fresh pair of boxers but reconsider. After all, I'm going to be naked anyway. Instead I cover the important parts in talcum powder and open the door. Vanessa is lying spread-eagled under the covers.

"You're clean," she says.

"And naked."

Underneath the covers we begin kissing. It doesn't last long because she realizes that I haven't brushed my teeth. She's just looking at me. Changing the subject of voiceless subtlety to the act at hand, I insert myself betwixt her thighs. She sighs and I begin to push dryly into her. We're both quietly discomfited. I try to get some juices flowing by grabbing her breasts and sensually squeezing and kissing them. But I can't keep from slobbering for some reason. As I expect, she tells me that it isn't working. Her breasts aren't that sensitive. At least not to loose saliva and poor hand technique.

"Well, I can't stay hard, anyway," I admit.

"Fuck it. I'll masturbate. Leave me be."

Strange is drinking a beer and eating some chicken. "You had money?"

"I didn't have money until I lifted this guy's wallet. Drunk. Loud. Talked way too much... what's that word you like to use?"

"Braggadocious.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Talked lots of shit. Found him passed out on a couch, ass pocket bulging. Snagged it easily. Only had about thirty bucks and a couple of credit cards. I wasn't so cruel, though. I left him his ID."

"I hope you bought beer for all of us."

He points to the fridge and mumbles something along the lines of "help yourself." I open the fridge and there are five beers left out of what was a six-pack of Modelo Especial sitting next to a carton of OJ and half a package of bacon. I grab a can and sit on the couch next to him. Steam escapes the lip of the can as I crack it open. As I begin my first sip, Strange asks me if I fucked her.

“No. She made me shower.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re pretty fucking dirty.”

“I can be.”

“You shit in the bushes,” he says, sucking on a jalapeño. “It’s not illogical to assume that in the course of a drunken shit, you might forget to wipe your ass.”

Vanessa’s moans can be heard over the hum of the AC, which kicked on only minutes ago. Strange comments on the fact that I’m letting a strange girl pleasure herself on my bed.

“Well, I couldn’t get the job done.”

“Again? Shit. Let me do it.”

I’m not so sure that I want to confront seriously my manhood and its deficiencies, drunken or mental. Because I’m certain that I don’t suffer from ED. So certain in fact, that I am actually concerned. I’m too young, right? I’m not a drug addict-- booze and assorted pills, sometimes coke-- is that a factor? I’ll have to do some research on causes of ED, but I’m almost positive that I’m not a candidate. Vanessa emerges from my room with a satisfied countenance.

“Will one of you fine gentlemen walk me back to my car?”

“You have a car?” Strange asks. “I’ll walk you if you take me to the liquor store.”

“Sure,” she agrees.

Strange blows me a kiss as he and Vanessa head out the door. I finish the remaining gulps of my beer. The pack of cigs is next to my laptop on the coffee table. There are two left. I pull one out of the packet and light it. As I exhale, I follow the trails of nicotine fog as it floats away from me, gradually entering an oblivion that I couldn’t even begin to imagine to fathom. I continue smoking in the kitchen. Pacing somewhat, I take casual puffs of the cig between my fingers, talking to myself, wondering if the assholes at Artology are going to stick me with yet another bullshit interview. At this point, I’d rather do opinion pieces about the new DART Rail Station or the beloved Good-Latimer tunnel that no longer exists except on Flickr pages than interview hipper-than-thou gallery owners or up and coming artists who will say anything for cred even if it means subverting their own values which were clichéd or untenable at best to begin with.

I open the fridge and pull one of the beers out, tear into it and commence chugging. It’s all I know at this point. Because I always want to tell myself, to convince myself even, that I have so much integrity and that these artists, these gallery owners, they’re the problem. They aren’t taste making, they’re selling. They’re selling and they’re hoping we’ll buy. They aren’t out scouring the gutters or the schools for who has the most talent or promise; no, they want a gimmick and all that’s needed to drive gimmickry is ambition and a shit load of it.

But even that wasn’t true. I finish the beer and toss it into the sink. Open the fridge, pull out another and crack it open and chug. Now I have beer dripping from my chin hair and onto the floor. Some of it has gone down my neck, onto my chest, and down into my belly button. It wasn’t true because I know for a fact that given the first opportunity at some kind of exposure, I’d off and run with it. Simply put, one could say that I am a hypocrite. A hypocrite stewing in his own dearth of acclaim. A wannabe Thompson, Bangs, or Self, even more subtly, scholastically, a Robert Hughes at the height of his acerbic acuity, which he uses to deftly poke and prod at sanctified monuments of liberal and conservative thought alike. Shit, carving a niche of one's own becomes more and more of a depressing proposition the more one ponders it.

I finish the can and drop kick it into a corner of the living room. I go into the fridge and repeat the cycle. I’m beginning to wonder to myself if I should dispense with bad habits and sit down and write a novel or something. I’ve never really considered myself to be creative, even in my most calculated of deconstructive screeds against a great many artists and the like. There’s never been an afflatus to imagine or perceive in a manner befitting a writer or artist. But I’ve always been able to dissect, comment, and laud or pan or whatever. Quite effectively, in fact. Better than most other writers on the Artology staff. Putting aside the inherent silliness of astrology, as a Libra, I strive for balance. Even in my desperate toil for concision, I have been known to consult various thesauruses and lexicons when simple everyday vocabulary just doesn’t get the point home.

Then I start arguing with myself over the semantics of writing “professionally.” I’m getting mired in how to define objects and states, etc.. Such as: can one be a critic and still be creative with words? Should my Wordsmithery be viewed as an art or craft? Both? Art vs. Craft. Is one superior or do they exist on different planes of creation? And if so, do they ever converge? I’m drinking. I’m talking to myself. I’m half naked. Mostly naked, actually. I’m sporting wet hair and boxers. I finish the beer. I walk into the living room and pick up the pack of cigs, burrow my finger through the silver lining and extract the last cigarette. I put it to my mouth and light it. Maybe I should sleep, I say to myself.

Striding and puffing my way back into the kitchen, I open the fridge and peer in. One beer left. I decide to drink it because, fuck it, Strange is out getting liquor. Besides, my fridge, my fucking rules. I pull it out, crack the tab, and have my way with it. I drop the diminished cig into the can and set it in the sink with the other can I’d previously used and abused.

I throw myself onto the couch and close my eyes. After a time, I fall into a dream. A dream where I’m walking the streets of Dallas, hand in hand, with a flaccid, uncut, immaculately veined cock, seemingly representative of a map of the highways and byways of the Plastic City herself. And in front of me and this sad excuse for a member, an impossible to reach vagina, spread before us. The more we walk, the farther away the massive pudenda gets. I’m starting to sweat and so does the cock, accompanying this likewise perspiration an odorous emission of god knows what.

We walk. And we walk. Interminably, it seems. Briefly I awaken as a noise stirs me, but then I fall right back into the dream. Except now the vagina is draped in pubic hair in much the same way the old houses on Swiss Ave. are covered in twisting, verdant vinery. The penis now appears to me more rigid. Erect. Proud. Lacking that awful fancy dairy scent. This is better. This is more acceptable. We are walking east bound on Live Oak. We pass Strange and a fat girl, fucking in broad daylight in a luxury VW.

I shake myself from the reverie and sit up. My dick is poking out through the hole in my boxers. I stuff it back in, sit up, and realize that I’m bit light headed. I run into the bathroom and puke some more.

© Patrick Patterson-Carroll  (2009)