Taxonomy One. 35 with 2 children. He gazes forward into the sky through the office window. 47th floor. He knows that at some point that once milky white phone with all the blinking lights, now covered with smudges, will ring. He knows that ring will throw tantrums in his ear canals. She'll call him to tell him that it's over. They're done. After 13 years. He wants to cry. He wants to scream for his secretary. Secretary. That's right. That woman. Women. They're the problem. Always have been. Maybe today he'll just surprise them all. Maybe he'll get up from his cluttered desk, take in a deep breath, adjust his tie, walk over to the big office window, survey the traffic 47 floors beneath him, laugh, walk back to his phone, dial up the secretary, tell her to cancel all his appointments, hang up and make a running start at the window. Maybe.
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
11.10.09
Dormitory Debauchery
"Dorm Sex"
By Alix Orozco
It was my second semester of college. I'd already done as much as I could to build up a reputation as a pothead, an alcoholic, maybe even a slut. Not intentionally, mind you. I'd been approached only a month before by one of the more lax resident assistants to go get high.
Now that same RA was asking if my friend Vance would buy the 3 of us some 40s. He agreed and once the contraband had been procured and safely stored in the RAs room, we began drinking and listening to music. Half way through the second 40oz and our filters were off. We began watching porn and showing each other our favorite porn stars.
Then came the drunk texting.
I don't know if the cloud of testosterone that overtook the room got to my head, I don't know what it was that I was trying to prove, but I felt the insatiable need to get laid. And I knew just who to call upon. We met only the week before. After drunken makeouts and confessions of, "I think you're hot," I fellated him in the backseat of his BMW.
In retrospect it's hard to remember what exactly had convinced him to come over, probably some explicit review of the things that awaited him.
"I have to go!" I squealed to Vance and the RA.
"Where are you going?" the RA asked.
"To get laidddddddd, suckahhhh," I replied with zeal.
I made my bed quickly and found a condom. I suddenly heard a knock on the door. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my roommate, "I need the room for a bit. Text you when I'm done."
He surveyed my room and focused on the array of books scattered across my desk. His eyes zeroed in on a Player's Handbook I had for Dungeons and Dragons. "Oh, you play D&D! I have a chara..." he started.
"I didn't say I wanted to talk, Brody. Take off your pants and get on the bed."
"Oh, uhh, okay."
I straddled him. "Is it okay if I tie you up?" I asked.
"Yeah, umm, I guess so," he answered timidly.
I unzipped his pants, slid them down and began fellating him as I'd done once before. Suddenly I felt not only his penis in my mouth, but my own vomit. Part of me was disgusted, but the desire to continue was overwhelming. I swallowed it and continued.
A few minutes and once his penis was fully erect, I put on the condom and assumed the position (reverse cowgirl style) and began to gyrate my hips. He thrust his own forward until I made him stop. I wanted complete control of the situation. He was moaning.
He came and I untied him. He thrust his fingers into me and I directed his every action until I could no longer speak.
Half an hour later he was coming to orgasm a second time, "Oh shit," he said, "I think I got a little bit on your wall."
I pulled my skirt back down, showed him downstairs and ran back to greet the RA sitting on a couch in his hallway. "Guess who just got laid!" I sang while thrusting my hips forward suggestively.
"But you're a girl!" he protests, "It's easy for you!!!"
"You look like you could use a cigarette," a voice says from behind me. It's Liam and he's wearing a sly grin on his face.
"Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
We went outside and I was beginning to sober up from the night's activity. I was suddenly very aware of the rain falling on the awning above us, the silvery dance of smoke emanating from our lips, the dull, satifying ache between my legs.
Liam finally spoke after a few drags off of his cigarette, "Did you take that purity test everyone's been doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "I think I scored like a 46."
"You know," he smirked, "I got a 22. I'd be willing to help lower your score."
I surveyed my surroundings, taking into account possible things that were on the quiz that I had yet to do. "Well," I replied, "I've never had sex with 2 different people in one night, I've never had sex outside, or in public, or in the rain."
"Yeah?" he ventured. He put out his cigarette, "I'm in room D222."
I went to my own room and passed out. I woke up with a hangover.
© Alix Orozco
By Alix Orozco
It was my second semester of college. I'd already done as much as I could to build up a reputation as a pothead, an alcoholic, maybe even a slut. Not intentionally, mind you. I'd been approached only a month before by one of the more lax resident assistants to go get high.
Now that same RA was asking if my friend Vance would buy the 3 of us some 40s. He agreed and once the contraband had been procured and safely stored in the RAs room, we began drinking and listening to music. Half way through the second 40oz and our filters were off. We began watching porn and showing each other our favorite porn stars.
Then came the drunk texting.
I don't know if the cloud of testosterone that overtook the room got to my head, I don't know what it was that I was trying to prove, but I felt the insatiable need to get laid. And I knew just who to call upon. We met only the week before. After drunken makeouts and confessions of, "I think you're hot," I fellated him in the backseat of his BMW.
In retrospect it's hard to remember what exactly had convinced him to come over, probably some explicit review of the things that awaited him.
"I have to go!" I squealed to Vance and the RA.
"Where are you going?" the RA asked.
"To get laidddddddd, suckahhhh," I replied with zeal.
I made my bed quickly and found a condom. I suddenly heard a knock on the door. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my roommate, "I need the room for a bit. Text you when I'm done."
He surveyed my room and focused on the array of books scattered across my desk. His eyes zeroed in on a Player's Handbook I had for Dungeons and Dragons. "Oh, you play D&D! I have a chara..." he started.
"I didn't say I wanted to talk, Brody. Take off your pants and get on the bed."
"Oh, uhh, okay."
I straddled him. "Is it okay if I tie you up?" I asked.
"Yeah, umm, I guess so," he answered timidly.
I unzipped his pants, slid them down and began fellating him as I'd done once before. Suddenly I felt not only his penis in my mouth, but my own vomit. Part of me was disgusted, but the desire to continue was overwhelming. I swallowed it and continued.
A few minutes and once his penis was fully erect, I put on the condom and assumed the position (reverse cowgirl style) and began to gyrate my hips. He thrust his own forward until I made him stop. I wanted complete control of the situation. He was moaning.
He came and I untied him. He thrust his fingers into me and I directed his every action until I could no longer speak.
Half an hour later he was coming to orgasm a second time, "Oh shit," he said, "I think I got a little bit on your wall."
I pulled my skirt back down, showed him downstairs and ran back to greet the RA sitting on a couch in his hallway. "Guess who just got laid!" I sang while thrusting my hips forward suggestively.
"But you're a girl!" he protests, "It's easy for you!!!"
"You look like you could use a cigarette," a voice says from behind me. It's Liam and he's wearing a sly grin on his face.
"Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
We went outside and I was beginning to sober up from the night's activity. I was suddenly very aware of the rain falling on the awning above us, the silvery dance of smoke emanating from our lips, the dull, satifying ache between my legs.
Liam finally spoke after a few drags off of his cigarette, "Did you take that purity test everyone's been doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "I think I scored like a 46."
"You know," he smirked, "I got a 22. I'd be willing to help lower your score."
I surveyed my surroundings, taking into account possible things that were on the quiz that I had yet to do. "Well," I replied, "I've never had sex with 2 different people in one night, I've never had sex outside, or in public, or in the rain."
"Yeah?" he ventured. He put out his cigarette, "I'm in room D222."
I went to my own room and passed out. I woke up with a hangover.
© Alix Orozco
7.10.09
Excerpt from: "The Best Way to Do Shots"
In Celebration. From "The Best Way to Do Shots"
We met for $2 shots at that new place that used to be a coffee shop. At the moment the name escapes me-- too many drinks in between-- but I'll probably remember it when I'm sitting on the crapper reading the New Yorker or something. We had just thrown our daughter a party for her second birthday in a very family friendly environment, so after leaving her with her grandmother, my girl and I decided it'd be fun to get away and slam a few. After all, she's the one who should be getting the presents, right? Baby had a head like a melon. I always laugh about that, but she doesn't.
So I was buying. We decided that we'd do shots 'til we dropped. She had the Yellow Cab Co. on speed dial. We get the first round. She picked vodka. I was a little disappointed because I'm a whiskey guy, and I have horror stories with regards to mixing lights with darks, but I jammed with it. Vodka it is. "Any particular kind sir? House?"
"It's all two bucks, right?"
"Yes."
"Stolichnaya," I said, and turning to her, "I never heard it in a rap song."
She chuckled.
She looked at me smilingly, adoringly. I had to shake my head. Pinch myself. Never thought I'd be the recipient of such lovely things, not from this woman. We get our glasses.
"Did you know," I said, "that vodka is Russian for water, and that it was originally seen as a feminine drink?"
"That was on the Wikipedia entry."
I toasted to her and we drank. She signaled to the barman. Two more. "Everything's on Wikipedia," I said. She nodded. “Mhmmm.” We turned, and two more glasses filled with clear alcoholic water stared up at us. She toasts to me, we drink.
“Are you implying that everything I learn, I learn from the internet?” she asked.
“No, but... I don’t see you read much.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said.
Two more! We glared at one another, stifling laughter, awaiting our poison. The bottoms of the glasses scratched against the bar’s surface as the bartender slid them toward us. We grabbed blindly at the glasses, careful not to break the glare. We toasted to our daughter and drank, reacting animatedly to the burn.
“TV,” I said.
“What?”
“TV. The thing is always on.”
“I don’t watch that much! It’s just noise!” she insisted loudly.
“Yes, you hate silence,” I said, signaling for two more. She seemed a little perturbed at that point.
The bartender handed us our shots directly, one at a time. We toasted to us and sent them down our throats. She wiped her lips and smiled. “How ya feeling?”
“Good,” I said. I was confident. Just as confident as the first day I met her. I put my hands on her hips and drew her into me. She pushed off and told me I wasn’t getting out of it. She called for two more. She toasted to my horniness. I toasted to her always being on her period when I’m horny. She laughed and we slammed the shots down our throats.
“I hate it when you leave me with the baby,” she said.
“I hate it when you nag me,” I countered.
Two more! We toasted. After that we got two more. We had to sit down. We were all over one another. Just like junior year of college. Next thing I know, she had called a cab and we were standing outside, puking on the corner of the night, waiting for it.
Wiping the vomit from our lips, we fucked one another with our eyes. We started kissing. Inside the cab we held hands in silence. As the vehicle made the turn on our street, she looked at me and told me that it was too bad she was on the rag.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
We met for $2 shots at that new place that used to be a coffee shop. At the moment the name escapes me-- too many drinks in between-- but I'll probably remember it when I'm sitting on the crapper reading the New Yorker or something. We had just thrown our daughter a party for her second birthday in a very family friendly environment, so after leaving her with her grandmother, my girl and I decided it'd be fun to get away and slam a few. After all, she's the one who should be getting the presents, right? Baby had a head like a melon. I always laugh about that, but she doesn't.
So I was buying. We decided that we'd do shots 'til we dropped. She had the Yellow Cab Co. on speed dial. We get the first round. She picked vodka. I was a little disappointed because I'm a whiskey guy, and I have horror stories with regards to mixing lights with darks, but I jammed with it. Vodka it is. "Any particular kind sir? House?"
"It's all two bucks, right?"
"Yes."
"Stolichnaya," I said, and turning to her, "I never heard it in a rap song."
She chuckled.
She looked at me smilingly, adoringly. I had to shake my head. Pinch myself. Never thought I'd be the recipient of such lovely things, not from this woman. We get our glasses.
"Did you know," I said, "that vodka is Russian for water, and that it was originally seen as a feminine drink?"
"That was on the Wikipedia entry."
I toasted to her and we drank. She signaled to the barman. Two more. "Everything's on Wikipedia," I said. She nodded. “Mhmmm.” We turned, and two more glasses filled with clear alcoholic water stared up at us. She toasts to me, we drink.
“Are you implying that everything I learn, I learn from the internet?” she asked.
“No, but... I don’t see you read much.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said.
Two more! We glared at one another, stifling laughter, awaiting our poison. The bottoms of the glasses scratched against the bar’s surface as the bartender slid them toward us. We grabbed blindly at the glasses, careful not to break the glare. We toasted to our daughter and drank, reacting animatedly to the burn.
“TV,” I said.
“What?”
“TV. The thing is always on.”
“I don’t watch that much! It’s just noise!” she insisted loudly.
“Yes, you hate silence,” I said, signaling for two more. She seemed a little perturbed at that point.
The bartender handed us our shots directly, one at a time. We toasted to us and sent them down our throats. She wiped her lips and smiled. “How ya feeling?”
“Good,” I said. I was confident. Just as confident as the first day I met her. I put my hands on her hips and drew her into me. She pushed off and told me I wasn’t getting out of it. She called for two more. She toasted to my horniness. I toasted to her always being on her period when I’m horny. She laughed and we slammed the shots down our throats.
“I hate it when you leave me with the baby,” she said.
“I hate it when you nag me,” I countered.
Two more! We toasted. After that we got two more. We had to sit down. We were all over one another. Just like junior year of college. Next thing I know, she had called a cab and we were standing outside, puking on the corner of the night, waiting for it.
Wiping the vomit from our lips, we fucked one another with our eyes. We started kissing. Inside the cab we held hands in silence. As the vehicle made the turn on our street, she looked at me and told me that it was too bad she was on the rag.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
3.10.09
Damned By Faint Praise: Where fiction and reality meet and eventually fuck, spawning horrible, horrible children
Yes, I really was a Model UN nerd. Kind of. One of the running themes throughout these entries is 9/11. I don't write about it a lot for various reasons, but it was certainly in the background as we traveled. The dates are accurate.
and now...
March 27, 2002 from "My Life as a Model UN Delegate"
I hate these fucking dress shoes. They give me blisters. Carla sneered at me when I complained. Lunch break. Hopefully it’ll be better than the awful continental breakfast. Those are always bad. Nothing new. Two meetings in, and the only thing I really remember is the moderators-- college kids, all fucking one another, most likely; sexual tension and all; sexual competition; gender division; girls moderating the Security Council; guys moderating the Human Rights Council; who can churn out the most resolutions; intimidation-- with their gavels and their obnoxious loud voices, yelling about decorum. Decorum you little shits! That’s what they really want to say. So I laughed when Miles showed me a funny picture of one of the guys with a huge dick ripping into his ass and cum gushing out of his mouth like one of those European fountains you see in all the tourist photographs.
Mostly we sat around watching representatives from other more important nations running around, wheeling and dealing. Ideas. Debates. Resolutions. Occasionally we’d be approached by someone from Lesotho or Papua New Guinea wanting our input on some resolution they’d drafted that guaranteed such and such or affirmed whatever for whomever they pleased. It was all very boring, very useless, and very much an exhibition of spinning wheels on wet pavement. Futile, destined to hydroplane. Good luck getting America to give half a shit, much less the two that seems the hyperbolical norm.
Met these two guys from Vermont. One was Jewish, the other Muslim. Best friends. Nice guys. We showed shock at the revelation of their long tenured friendship. We shouldn’t have, but the current events, the media; in that moment, we were everything we hate, I think. They represented another country that would have little input into the meetings. In fact, if you weren’t a Western power, an Asian power, or certain middle eastern countries, you were destined to spectate.
Ben and Carla came to our council meeting to brag that they had just been "semi-instrumental" in getting a resolution passed. Yay for them, but I'm not sure what they mean by "semi" instrumental#. Anyway.
After all was done, we did some more tourist shit that culminated in a trip to the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Miss Tanguay and Jasen held one another quite romantically, making me very uncomfortable. Miles must’ve been off smoking a cigarette, and Ben and Carla, who knows? Asking questions at the information center? Either way, it was pretty damn fucked up to leave me there.
It was cold and high above the city, the building having reclaimed its position as tallest building in NYC. By default.
More tomorrow. Goodnight.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
A note on the #. Apparently this format doesn't support footnoting. In the story, the footnote is simply a dictionary definition of "instrumental."
30.9.09
Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 6"
“Detouring Vol. 6”
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
I’m still pretty drunk as I sit here at the bar. I feel giddy. Happy. Effervescent. What’s more, I don’t even harbor ill will towards Steve, who tonight has his Mohawk spiked and dyed orange. The makings of your typical "mall-punk;" all the studs in his face arouse in me only laughter, but I‘m sure his actual intent was to somehow distinguish himself from the twenty other douche-bags who regularly stomp up and down Lower Greenville. Way to make a statement. Of course, Strange doesn’t understand why I always pick on him specifically. Why I have a problem with him. I say, “Maybe I’m just an asshole.” The only response I get is an impassive “probably.” Holy shit, I say. Is “the Strange” becoming burnt out on my negativity?
“Nope. It’s just that the amount of shit you talk far outweighs the times you’ve had your ass handed to you. Karma, she’s gaining ground on your pacifistic ass. I can’t protect you forever. Even if you are right.”
“Fuck the alpha-male mentality, man,” I say.
Yes. Fuck it. The alpha-male mentality. That’s the thing, though. I need a friend, not protection. A friend. He could’ve stood there earlier and let Steve pound the snot out of me and I wouldn’t have loved him any less. Shit.
The music provided by the house DJ is becoming ever more grating. This is weird for me because when I’m drunk like this, I usually tune out anything undesirable. That is, if it doesn’t make me want to dance or fuck, or if it doesn’t remind me of some off-the-cuff talking point, then I assign it non-existence. It’s really quite easy.
On particularly bad nights, I can go the entire hop without noticing any songs. I’ll focus on visuals (i.e. women) or on drink specials or on titillating conversation I might be able to overhear without being too much noticed. If a cabal of chatters seems amenable to my injection into the proceedings, then there’s little room for the music to impinge on my ears because one as passionately focused as myself when it comes to talking, lecturing, and socializing cannot be shaken by mere top 40 variety songs. No, no, no. It takes something I really enjoy. Something I can-- if only vaguely-- connect to an indefinable nostalgic memory. The kind of music that awakens the sentimentalist in me. Makes me think of a girl. Hearkens me back to better days. Sadder days. Days of the 400 Blows!
The songs playing tonight are typical jock rock bullshit. The DJ smiles wide and nods his head from track to track, so proud of his plebian tastes, somehow confirmed by the fact that no one is paying any god damned attention to him. No one fucking cares. He could just as easily let the night go on auto-pilot and it wouldn't sound any better. The difference would be nil.
I see Steve grab a beer and lean his ear into the cocktail waitress' face. This place is busy. I would say "busier than usual," but I am not usually around. I am thinking of stumbling back home. It's not like I can ride on Danger's tab all night. I need some sleep. I resolve to lift myself from the seat.
My legs tremble beneath my upper body as I stand. I'm a bit dizzy, but I think I'll be fine. Lately I've been getting really sickly drunk. Tonight, my stomach feels calm. I think that I might be hungry. I'll have to raid the pantry when I get back to the apartment.
Approaching Steve as if we're good buddies and not arch-nemeses, I ask him to tell Danger that I'm out. He gives me a brief glance and says "ok." Just like that. Giving the four letter, two syllable word the brevity it deserves. He doesn't look at me, expecting me to be verbally combative, abusive. Begging for an ass kicking that I rightfully deserve. Maybe it's not even worth it to him anymore. To indulge me in my drunken outbursts.
I don't know. There's something disingenuous about Steve’s persona. His appearance that so gently caresses the face of social conformity. His bullish, pseudo-protective stature that only seems to reinforce all societal stereotypes; reflecting upon him negatively as self-righteous bully. Yeah, he says he’s punk. He exudes aggression. But deep down he’s no different than those people who insist half of America should rightfully be in prison.
He’s a fucking phony.
This is not to say that I’m the only one that sees it; that I’m some kind of savant, revelatory, seeing through some kind of transparency that no one else recognizes. No. Everyone knows this. Everyone on this block accepts this. Strange knows it, too. He’s just too busy actually being a punk to notice it.
I step outside and I see a crowd of people stuffed in the door of the bar across the street. It’s The Peruvian. I’ve never been in there. In fact, I think it just opened. Like, they had a “ribbon cutting” ceremony, a “grand opening” very recently. Paying no attention to the traffic, I make my way across Greenville. People are shoving, fighting, yelling obscenities. Some are snapping photos with their cell phones. I can hear something about “fucking assholes” and “dickheads” and such.
Peeking through the crowd, I notice that there are several guys, some with the “twist-tie” handcuffs cutting through their wrists, others in plain black shirts, and still more with hats that have TABC emblazoned across the front.
“These motherfuckers! These fascist motherfuckers!” One of the guys yelled. There were some retorts to the effect of “shut the fuck up,” but they were responded with more profanities. A guy started talking to me. I am winding down to a state of tipsiness, and I feel very tired and sleepy, but we’re engaged in this conversation about cops and we’re both feeling the same way about the situation. You give these assholes any kind of authority and they abuse it. Hell, these TABC guys are nothing more than glorified security guards. Fucking rent-a-cops for the state of Texas. Basically, what they do is troll bars and clubs and streets for drunken violations. Their main function is to write tickets and assess penalties to liquor selling establishments, but of late they’ve been rather forceful and even more recently, brutal.
A while back they were in hot water over some aggression at a gay bar in Ft. Worth: lies, accusations, physical abuse, violations of civil liberties, etc.. I expect this to be in the papers and on the local news, too. The TABC finally makes the fatal mistake that results in its immediate disbandment: they fucked with the wrong white people.
I reach over the crowd to snap some pictures on my cell and go on my way. The cops should be around soon, and I’d rather not incriminate myself with an inebriated presence.
My mouth is parched and I feel like having a lie down on the sidewalk. However, I know that I must resist such urges, considering the propinquity to my apartment. Less than ten minutes. That's all I have to wait. Then I can suck down a few glasses of tap water and throw myself onto my unmade bed.
At the Ross light, I balance myself against a telephone pole and stare emptily into the distance, the headlights of vehicles blaring out from the abyss ahead. A voice calls my name. I turn my back and I see a young woman's head poking out of the driver side window of a Kia Rio.
“Vanessa!” I shout. She cries out my name and I make my way to her window. Car horns are honking behind her as the light has just changed to green. She begs that I quickly hop into the passenger seat, and unthinkingly, I do.
The AC blasts in my face. She’s asking me what I’ve been up to. I smile and shrug. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes. Yes I am. Is it obvious?”
“I don’t know. You are walking along Greenville at almost two in the morning.”
She makes a right on Live Oak, accelerating westward. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a car. It smells new. Definitely not the kind of smell one would encounter in a vehicle that has been made into a temporary love den. Oh how one’s dreams can weigh on one’s perception of reality!
“I have cigarettes in my purse if you’re interested. It’s at your feet.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
I grab her purse, look inside, and there they are, a pack of Marb Reds, nestled between her wallet and a tampon. It’s unopened. I pull the pack out and slam it against my palm a few times. The car stops at the light on Washington and Live Oak. The Jack in the Box to the right of us is dark, with all appearances lending credibility to the fact that despite the sign proclaiming its 24 hour availability, it’s closed, sitting on its concrete island in silence.
Trails of smoke billowing from my mouth and nose, I say, “We’re going to your place, huh?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Oh. Cool. You live far?”
“Just a little further down on Live Oak. Pretty close to downtown, which is good because I work downtown.”
“What do you do?”
“Office work.”
As it turns out, her residence, a studio loft on the corner of Cantegral and Live Oak is one of the structures that I marvel at in passing on my treks downtown. As the car slows to a stop, she grins at me. I’ve been kidnapped, I think. It’s weird; kind of a thrill. Most of all because it isn’t true; it‘s not real. And though I’ve disabused myself of childish games and the melodramatic angst indicative of adolescent sexual development (or claim to have), I can see why “playing” can be so exciting.
We both slam the car doors and she steps onto the curb and holds her hand out to me. Crossing the threshold of the opened front door, we go hand in hand, her first (as per the chivalrous dictum that goes something like, "ladies first"), etc. and she slaps the wall, which lights up the entire room.
The place is immaculate, Spartan, the antithesis of "lived-in." I stand in the middle of the living room-- I think-- and if I say something, I believe the reverberation will overcome the both of us.
"Nice, right?"
Nice, right?
Yep. Indeed, I say. Indeed. I'm staring at the black leather semi-circular couch in the middle of the room. Wooden floors unadorned by carpeting of any variety. Walls barren and white/grey. The glass coffee table; the floor beneath, unobstructed by magazines or newspapers or books, taunting me with its empty middle class modernity. I motion to the couch as if asking for the privilege to sit. She says, “take a shower first.”
I laugh.
“Seriously,” she says.
The contrast between the bathroom and the rest of the loft is noticeable. Opposing. The bathroom is cluttered with beauty and hygienic products. Unmentionables are strewn about as if in the aftermath of a tornado. I have to hack my way through the jungle of lingerie to find the shower.
I strip down and step into the shower. The water temperature fluctuates then settles into a nice warmth as it plashes over my head. I start smelling the shampoos and conditioners. They're all very fruity. Feminine.
Sitting on the toilet, I towel myself off. I hate bathing. I hate getting my head wet. It gives my naturally curly hair reason to act up. The act of putting my clothes back on seems counterproductive. I mean, I'm clean now, but they are dirty; redolent of spilt alcohol and cigarette smoke.
In the living room, Vanessa is sitting on her couch as I enter. She is grinning at me. Scaring me. I say that I'm tired. She asks me to have a drink with her on the balcony. She promises the view of downtown is beautiful.
We are sitting quietly, drinking some really god awful champagne. I think of asking her how someone who "works in an office" can live like this. Instead I take in the sight, the neon lighted structures of downtown Dallas looming monolithically to the west, representative of the western world's contribution to architecture.
Why not? You know? It doesn't matter, this really is nice. A breeze blows in from the north and I feel a smile forming on my lips. I just hope she doesn't expect me to fuck her.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
I’m still pretty drunk as I sit here at the bar. I feel giddy. Happy. Effervescent. What’s more, I don’t even harbor ill will towards Steve, who tonight has his Mohawk spiked and dyed orange. The makings of your typical "mall-punk;" all the studs in his face arouse in me only laughter, but I‘m sure his actual intent was to somehow distinguish himself from the twenty other douche-bags who regularly stomp up and down Lower Greenville. Way to make a statement. Of course, Strange doesn’t understand why I always pick on him specifically. Why I have a problem with him. I say, “Maybe I’m just an asshole.” The only response I get is an impassive “probably.” Holy shit, I say. Is “the Strange” becoming burnt out on my negativity?
“Nope. It’s just that the amount of shit you talk far outweighs the times you’ve had your ass handed to you. Karma, she’s gaining ground on your pacifistic ass. I can’t protect you forever. Even if you are right.”
“Fuck the alpha-male mentality, man,” I say.
Yes. Fuck it. The alpha-male mentality. That’s the thing, though. I need a friend, not protection. A friend. He could’ve stood there earlier and let Steve pound the snot out of me and I wouldn’t have loved him any less. Shit.
The music provided by the house DJ is becoming ever more grating. This is weird for me because when I’m drunk like this, I usually tune out anything undesirable. That is, if it doesn’t make me want to dance or fuck, or if it doesn’t remind me of some off-the-cuff talking point, then I assign it non-existence. It’s really quite easy.
On particularly bad nights, I can go the entire hop without noticing any songs. I’ll focus on visuals (i.e. women) or on drink specials or on titillating conversation I might be able to overhear without being too much noticed. If a cabal of chatters seems amenable to my injection into the proceedings, then there’s little room for the music to impinge on my ears because one as passionately focused as myself when it comes to talking, lecturing, and socializing cannot be shaken by mere top 40 variety songs. No, no, no. It takes something I really enjoy. Something I can-- if only vaguely-- connect to an indefinable nostalgic memory. The kind of music that awakens the sentimentalist in me. Makes me think of a girl. Hearkens me back to better days. Sadder days. Days of the 400 Blows!
The songs playing tonight are typical jock rock bullshit. The DJ smiles wide and nods his head from track to track, so proud of his plebian tastes, somehow confirmed by the fact that no one is paying any god damned attention to him. No one fucking cares. He could just as easily let the night go on auto-pilot and it wouldn't sound any better. The difference would be nil.
I see Steve grab a beer and lean his ear into the cocktail waitress' face. This place is busy. I would say "busier than usual," but I am not usually around. I am thinking of stumbling back home. It's not like I can ride on Danger's tab all night. I need some sleep. I resolve to lift myself from the seat.
My legs tremble beneath my upper body as I stand. I'm a bit dizzy, but I think I'll be fine. Lately I've been getting really sickly drunk. Tonight, my stomach feels calm. I think that I might be hungry. I'll have to raid the pantry when I get back to the apartment.
Approaching Steve as if we're good buddies and not arch-nemeses, I ask him to tell Danger that I'm out. He gives me a brief glance and says "ok." Just like that. Giving the four letter, two syllable word the brevity it deserves. He doesn't look at me, expecting me to be verbally combative, abusive. Begging for an ass kicking that I rightfully deserve. Maybe it's not even worth it to him anymore. To indulge me in my drunken outbursts.
I don't know. There's something disingenuous about Steve’s persona. His appearance that so gently caresses the face of social conformity. His bullish, pseudo-protective stature that only seems to reinforce all societal stereotypes; reflecting upon him negatively as self-righteous bully. Yeah, he says he’s punk. He exudes aggression. But deep down he’s no different than those people who insist half of America should rightfully be in prison.
He’s a fucking phony.
This is not to say that I’m the only one that sees it; that I’m some kind of savant, revelatory, seeing through some kind of transparency that no one else recognizes. No. Everyone knows this. Everyone on this block accepts this. Strange knows it, too. He’s just too busy actually being a punk to notice it.
I step outside and I see a crowd of people stuffed in the door of the bar across the street. It’s The Peruvian. I’ve never been in there. In fact, I think it just opened. Like, they had a “ribbon cutting” ceremony, a “grand opening” very recently. Paying no attention to the traffic, I make my way across Greenville. People are shoving, fighting, yelling obscenities. Some are snapping photos with their cell phones. I can hear something about “fucking assholes” and “dickheads” and such.
Peeking through the crowd, I notice that there are several guys, some with the “twist-tie” handcuffs cutting through their wrists, others in plain black shirts, and still more with hats that have TABC emblazoned across the front.
“These motherfuckers! These fascist motherfuckers!” One of the guys yelled. There were some retorts to the effect of “shut the fuck up,” but they were responded with more profanities. A guy started talking to me. I am winding down to a state of tipsiness, and I feel very tired and sleepy, but we’re engaged in this conversation about cops and we’re both feeling the same way about the situation. You give these assholes any kind of authority and they abuse it. Hell, these TABC guys are nothing more than glorified security guards. Fucking rent-a-cops for the state of Texas. Basically, what they do is troll bars and clubs and streets for drunken violations. Their main function is to write tickets and assess penalties to liquor selling establishments, but of late they’ve been rather forceful and even more recently, brutal.
A while back they were in hot water over some aggression at a gay bar in Ft. Worth: lies, accusations, physical abuse, violations of civil liberties, etc.. I expect this to be in the papers and on the local news, too. The TABC finally makes the fatal mistake that results in its immediate disbandment: they fucked with the wrong white people.
I reach over the crowd to snap some pictures on my cell and go on my way. The cops should be around soon, and I’d rather not incriminate myself with an inebriated presence.
My mouth is parched and I feel like having a lie down on the sidewalk. However, I know that I must resist such urges, considering the propinquity to my apartment. Less than ten minutes. That's all I have to wait. Then I can suck down a few glasses of tap water and throw myself onto my unmade bed.
At the Ross light, I balance myself against a telephone pole and stare emptily into the distance, the headlights of vehicles blaring out from the abyss ahead. A voice calls my name. I turn my back and I see a young woman's head poking out of the driver side window of a Kia Rio.
“Vanessa!” I shout. She cries out my name and I make my way to her window. Car horns are honking behind her as the light has just changed to green. She begs that I quickly hop into the passenger seat, and unthinkingly, I do.
The AC blasts in my face. She’s asking me what I’ve been up to. I smile and shrug. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes. Yes I am. Is it obvious?”
“I don’t know. You are walking along Greenville at almost two in the morning.”
She makes a right on Live Oak, accelerating westward. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a car. It smells new. Definitely not the kind of smell one would encounter in a vehicle that has been made into a temporary love den. Oh how one’s dreams can weigh on one’s perception of reality!
“I have cigarettes in my purse if you’re interested. It’s at your feet.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
I grab her purse, look inside, and there they are, a pack of Marb Reds, nestled between her wallet and a tampon. It’s unopened. I pull the pack out and slam it against my palm a few times. The car stops at the light on Washington and Live Oak. The Jack in the Box to the right of us is dark, with all appearances lending credibility to the fact that despite the sign proclaiming its 24 hour availability, it’s closed, sitting on its concrete island in silence.
Trails of smoke billowing from my mouth and nose, I say, “We’re going to your place, huh?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Oh. Cool. You live far?”
“Just a little further down on Live Oak. Pretty close to downtown, which is good because I work downtown.”
“What do you do?”
“Office work.”
As it turns out, her residence, a studio loft on the corner of Cantegral and Live Oak is one of the structures that I marvel at in passing on my treks downtown. As the car slows to a stop, she grins at me. I’ve been kidnapped, I think. It’s weird; kind of a thrill. Most of all because it isn’t true; it‘s not real. And though I’ve disabused myself of childish games and the melodramatic angst indicative of adolescent sexual development (or claim to have), I can see why “playing” can be so exciting.
We both slam the car doors and she steps onto the curb and holds her hand out to me. Crossing the threshold of the opened front door, we go hand in hand, her first (as per the chivalrous dictum that goes something like, "ladies first"), etc. and she slaps the wall, which lights up the entire room.
The place is immaculate, Spartan, the antithesis of "lived-in." I stand in the middle of the living room-- I think-- and if I say something, I believe the reverberation will overcome the both of us.
"Nice, right?"
Nice, right?
Yep. Indeed, I say. Indeed. I'm staring at the black leather semi-circular couch in the middle of the room. Wooden floors unadorned by carpeting of any variety. Walls barren and white/grey. The glass coffee table; the floor beneath, unobstructed by magazines or newspapers or books, taunting me with its empty middle class modernity. I motion to the couch as if asking for the privilege to sit. She says, “take a shower first.”
I laugh.
“Seriously,” she says.
The contrast between the bathroom and the rest of the loft is noticeable. Opposing. The bathroom is cluttered with beauty and hygienic products. Unmentionables are strewn about as if in the aftermath of a tornado. I have to hack my way through the jungle of lingerie to find the shower.
I strip down and step into the shower. The water temperature fluctuates then settles into a nice warmth as it plashes over my head. I start smelling the shampoos and conditioners. They're all very fruity. Feminine.
Sitting on the toilet, I towel myself off. I hate bathing. I hate getting my head wet. It gives my naturally curly hair reason to act up. The act of putting my clothes back on seems counterproductive. I mean, I'm clean now, but they are dirty; redolent of spilt alcohol and cigarette smoke.
In the living room, Vanessa is sitting on her couch as I enter. She is grinning at me. Scaring me. I say that I'm tired. She asks me to have a drink with her on the balcony. She promises the view of downtown is beautiful.
We are sitting quietly, drinking some really god awful champagne. I think of asking her how someone who "works in an office" can live like this. Instead I take in the sight, the neon lighted structures of downtown Dallas looming monolithically to the west, representative of the western world's contribution to architecture.
Why not? You know? It doesn't matter, this really is nice. A breeze blows in from the north and I feel a smile forming on my lips. I just hope she doesn't expect me to fuck her.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
26.9.09
Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 5"
"Detouring Vol. 5"
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
The phone is ringing. Shit. Strange is expecting a call from a possible future employer and I'm supposed to pretend that I run a small mom and pop pizza shop; as a reference. Or something. The details were never clear, so the assumption is that he expects me to come up with something believable. Because the truth is that he is an employer's worst nightmare. He's flighty. He quits jobs and doesn't say shit to the people in charge. Leaves other hapless paeans in his wake; hanging, as it were. When questioned, he simply shrugs and calls himself a proletarian nomad.
Dilemma. Why? Because I'm beating my fucking meat, that's why. I stop and reach for my phone. The display is a number that is not logged in my SIM card. It suddenly stops ringing. The display reads that I have a missed call. No shit.
I regain my masturbatory mindset, gradually pacing myself back into a good frictional momentum, pumping my fist into my crotch quickly while the images on my laptop monitor provide me with the appropriate visual stimuli.
When I finally spill some seed into my hand, the phone rings again. I reach across my body with my left hand for the phone. My arm, however, isn't that long, so I have to slightly dip myself into the crevice of the couch made by the convergence of cushions in order to pick up the phone, which itself is resting in the fault line created by the middle cushion and the far right cushion. I can feel the semen that has oozed between the head of my cock and fingers getting cold.
Looking at the display, I see that it's the same number as before. This person is unrelenting. I press the green 'go' button and put the phone to my ear. "This is Benny Salvatore; Benny and Vinny's Pizza, whadduya want?” There is a silence here. Then:
“Hello... um... I’m calling regarding an applicant. Um... an Adam Rodriguez.”
“Oh yeah? Haven’t seen him in a month.”
“Well, I’m a manager at Profit Bar. We like to screen our applicants for references. What can you say about Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Who?”
“Uh... Adam Rodriguez.”
“Oh. Called himself Strange. Good guy. Can‘t usually trust Mexicans, so that‘s saying something. My brother Vinny hated him, though. His friends were obnoxious drunk fuckers, always come in and hit on all the lady patrons. But he worked harder than anyone, and if my brother wasn’t such a pussy, the kid’d still be working for us.”
“Oh. Well... um... thanks a lot... Mr. ... ?”
“Salvatore.”
The guy hangs up and between a dial tone and the cold, disgusting bodily excretion seemingly gluing together my flaccid cock and my fist, I feel very silly. I can’t believe I actually did the Italian American accent. I know it probably sounded fake and awful, but fuck it, I think I scared that guy shitless.
I go into the bathroom and wash my hands and my dick and begin searching for clothes that smell clean. My Nirvana shirt is on the floor. I pick it up and smell it. Nothing discernibly foul, and from looks, besides a few wrinkles, it’s good. I pull it on and then cover the lower half of my body with a horrendously ripped up pair of jeans.
While doing vanity exercises in front of my bathroom mirror, I feel the sudden urge to laugh at myself. In the past, girls have accused me of being more obsessed with my appearance than their younger teenage sisters. I laugh and say aloud to myself that they were right.
I hear the front door open. It’s Strange. He calls out. “Marco!” “Polo!” I echo back.
I see his head peek into the bathroom. He asks me what’s up. I tell him he got a call from Profit Bar. He smiles. I follow him into the living room. He says he has good news. I see a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vodka on the table. Both 750 ml. The whiskey is Jameson. The vodka is something that I know he picked up for less than 10$.
“Well. My mom is throwing me some money. Grudgingly. So I can get a place.”
“Awesome,” I say.
“Yes. I feel kind of dirty. Like a middle class suburban bitch.”
“Anyone would take the money. Guilt free. They’re liars if they scream otherwise. Hell, even I can admit that my dad will probably drop me a few pounds this week.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Help me find a place around here. No Upper E shit, though. It’s only $500.”
We decide to “think efficiency.” Yes. It’s like living in a closet, but it’s better than sleeping in parks or beneath underpasses. “I might do that just for inspiration,” he says, laughing. We sit on the right and left cushions of the couch, staring into the wall ahead. He says that I should do something with my empty, boring wall.
"What? Knock it out? No thanks. I'd rather get drunk and pretend there's shit on the walls than have to look directly out into that nightmarish still life called ‘the porch‘ by management even though it is undoubtedly a courtyard."
"All I'm saying," Strange says, cracking open the bottle of vodka. "Is that arty renditions of naked women might spruce shit up some."
“That explains why your place was always so boner inducing despite the lack of promise...” I trail off.
Thoughts are conjuring themselves in my mind. I laugh. We both laugh. Drinking, passing back and forth the bottled spirits. But then I tell him that the truth is that that kind of stimulation is bad for me. Yes. It’s enough that I jerk off to internet porn as much as I do. I mean, shit. I can’t even operate without the imagery provided by my open laptop.
The days of rubbing one out in the shower or laying in bed, legs akimbo, blowing loads onto my stomach or fucking seldom worn dress socks are quite past me. There is a challenge-- a certain sacrament-- in having to push some buttons and wait for a wireless network I can surf and wank to ejaculatory glory. Walls adorned with fleshy feminine shapes would give me an ease of mental access that left zero room for ritual.
Strange lights a cigarette and leers at me a little. He laughs uncomfortably. We both do. All is quiet. The white wall ahead watches over our gluttonous imbibing, over my revealing revelation.
And amidst the quietude of the abated mirth-- discomfited as it was-- and through a gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle, I say, "So yeah, the Profit Bar called about references for 'Adam Rodriguez.' I pretended to be this transplanted New Yorker named Benny Salvatore. I think I scared the guy, but he might call, so just a heads up."
"Ha, he bought it?"
"Yeah. I even added that bigoted Italian American thing. You know, where they hate immigrants and minorities and shit."
“Cool.”
I ask him if he got anywhere with Vanessa. He says no. Not at all. I say that I had a dream that they were fucking in a VW. “She has a Kia Rio,” he says. “They started out making bikes,” I say, getting up. I go into my room and shuffle through a pile of books. I pick up Strange’s book.
He turns to watch me bring the book around the table and plop myself into the cushions of the couch. I grab the whiskey, throw back a gulp or two and then flip through the book. The cover is somewhat bent because it was jammed, sandwich-like, between two other books. Something called, A Freudian Interpretation of Dreams and Debord’s Panegyric. The only thing I remember about the former was a six page explanation about the significance of a silken white glove in dreams. Hint: it’s sexual. Debord’s book is a postmodern memoir of sorts. I remember some stuff about how he likes women. Other than that, all I can say is that the pictures are cool.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a passage in your book that my dream reminded me of,” I say.
Of course, there was nothing exact about the relation between my dream and his book, except that in both cases there is this weird tunneling through of the REM wall that separates actual sleep from the environs in which said sleep takes place. There is certainly a scientific phrase for this phenomena, but fuck if I know what it is.
Anyway, when Strange took off with Vanessa, the idea of them walking to her car made me dream of walking. The previously built up sexual tension without release set up the vaginal and sexual imagery; a manifestation of a theoretical continuation due largely to my failure, in reality, to perform ’neath and ’twixt the sheets.
In the book, there’s a bit, which I begin reading aloud to him, where the narrator is dreaming through a haze of a malt liquor and marijuana that his female roommate is sitting naked, sweating, talking to him about her mother who has a parrot that says things like “fuck me! fuck me real hard!” and he questions her as to whether or not she taught the parrot to say it as a practical joke on her mother and she says, “are you kidding? I’m too much of a stoner to take the necessary time for that. My mom fucks all the teenage acne-faced boys in the neighborhood.” The narrator of course stirs himself awake, his underwear heavy against his flesh with perspiration, and realizes that his roommate is fucking her boyfriend in the adjoining room, screaming “fuck me! fuck me real hard!”
“My question, dear Adam, is where the fuck did the parrot come from?” I ask, laughingly, closing the book and swigging on the bottle of whiskey.
“When I was writing it I had this great tat mag that had a pullout section dedicated to tattoos of exotic animals, and this very beautiful girl had a huge tattoo of a macaw on her back. Amazing coloring. It seemed like something funny and interesting at the time.”
We sit around and continue to drink. It’s dark outside. Strange pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. I look at it. It’s a phone number. “Vanessa?” Yes. Vanessa. I crumple up the paper and toss it into the kitchen.
Inundated by a wave of spontaneity, he asks me if I want to walk down to Lower Greenville. I think about it briefly. We’re obviously more than a little drunk (hence the rashness). I say yes. Fuck it! Let’s do it. I stand to my feet, salute Strange, and take another nip of whiskey. Both bottles are dangerously low on liquids.
Even in our soused stupor, we realize that we’ll have to empty our pockets to see for ourselves that between us (remember I am flat broke) we have about $1.69, which isn’t enough to buy shit. At least not at bars on Lower Greenville.
Placing ourselves gently, in concurrent motion, back onto the couch, we sip at the remnants of the bottles, Strange with the vodka, and me with the whiskey. Then we swap.
“Well,” I start. “We’re already pretty lit, wouldn’t you say?” He nods. “Well then, lets just head out and see where the night takes us.”
“Could be promising,” he adds, belching loudly.
Outside the air is neither humid nor arid. This balance is somewhat staggering because it has been hot and dry of late. A beautiful, timely surprise really, especially with the warmth in our guts and heat on our faces due to the alcohol consumption. There is a breeze roving over from what feels like a northwesterly direction. It feels amazing. We begin our stumble through the parking lot toward Munger Ave.
Thoughtlessly, we drop trou in the alley and release some fluids against the newly erected wooden fence. No one sees us and we continue northbound on Munger. Strange starts talking about some of his ideas in relation to my blog. He wants us to collaborate on a massive happening campaign involving city council members, black dildos and jail time, if necessary.
“Think of it. Like... live art.”
“Spontaneous!” I shout.
“Kind of. I mean, it’s planned.”
“Calculated.”
“Yes! I mean, fuck city council. Look at our black leaders. Look at them! They throw around allegations of racism like they’re paid to do it, and then they run out any and everyone who might be willing to help the predominantly black neighborhoods that they represent yet don’t even live in! They do more harm than good.”
We cross Swiss Ave.. Without bothering to question or assume a position of “devil’s advocacy,“ I allow Strange to continue his drunken inveighing unabated as we pass the quiet mansions on the corners. It’s about giving voice to voiceless people, he insists. Because they vote for the representation who they assume, due to racial similarity (which is an interesting fallacy; hear: What’s Beef? by Black Star [Kweli and Mos Def]), will represent them justly and fight for their best interests, and what they get out of it is fuck all.
“So here, here’s your black dildo Mr. Councilman. You like to fuck your own constituents, here! Here’s an object with which to actually do it!”
This unusual grammatical precision, combined with uncharacteristically coherent annunciation makes me laugh. Normally he's very disjoint and unfocused in his drunken proclamations. As most are-- more so than most. In extreme cases, his language will devolve into grunting and other slurs of the tongue. But right now, as we trek toward Lower Greenville, penniless yet excitable, he's the most articulate I've ever known him to be in this state. Or maybe it's simply the fact of my own state, which is quite similar, commenting on his, filling in the blanks. Articulating automatically that which is in fact, not articulate at all.
We stop at the light on Live Oak and Munger and I start laughing for no particular reason. I feel light headed and nothing seems to have any weight about it. No solid, tangible qualities. This compels me to muse about the red hand commanding us to not walk. That we should just fuckin' cross because it's not like the red hand is really an authority. It is an inanimate object which must defer its very existence to our animate dominion.
“Now,” I reason. “One can argue that the hand is a symbol, suggestive of the authority of our governing body, which has so decreed that the only way for our streets to function is to force everyone to take turns getting from one point to another and to defy said decree can lead to many an unfortunate result. Like getting ticketed or being hit by a car, etc..”
Strange looks at me and the light goes green. We step into the street with faltering steps. “All that talking while you could’ve been walking,” he says, shaking his head.
“And why didn’t you go ahead and cross?”
“Because I wanted to hear your drunken bullshit. It’s only fair. You listened to mine.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“You’re the cautious one. I just walk. Those lights and signs are suggestions to me at all times. Not just when I’m drunk. You preach to the choir.”
“We do that all time with each other. Things like this, we fuckin’ agree.”
Lower Greenville, from this distance, seems fairly dead. With this in mind it should also be noted that it’s a Sunday night. We’ve crossed over to the east, northbound traffic side of Munger. There’s a big church to our right. Some mornings homeless folk can be found sleeping in the stairwells and in the grass near the back of the church. On the other side of the street is a quiet park with benches and picnic tables and 90’s style playground (plastic) equipment. During the day, it’s a family friendly gathering place. At night, old men partake in brown bag dinners on the benches. This is Strange’s vocabulary. He admits he has himself been guilty of this (see: routine). After work he'd pick up a forty across the street at the Valero and stop at the park en route to this apartment on Swiss. The one he’d roomed in with Danger.
Munger has turned into Greenville Ave. and we’re coming up on a deserted strip of former bars and clubs that now seem little more than obstructions due to the great difficulty of walking the sidewalks that border them. Ferns, pines and other flora protrude in vivid color, with the slight suggestion of something approaching zest, into the walkway, daring passersby to brave the gauntlet. After all, to get across to Lower Greenville, it’s impossible to avoid. Unless one drives or jaywalks.
We do neither. Nor. At least not normally.
The reason the northbound traffic side is easier is because of the nature of the intersection ahead. Ross and Greenville Aves. both fork at odd angles; Ross peals slightly southeastward while Greenville goes northeast. This leaves a blind spot on the corner of the southbound traffic side of the intersection.
There is a white sign with a crude pictograph representing a peripatetic human of some sort surrounded like a child in a bubble by a red circle with a line (of same color) slicing through the human depiction-- the universal symbol of negation-- on the north side of Ross in front of a small taco stand. No Pedestrian Crossing.
We are now crossing Ross onto Lower Greenville. Passing a tattoo parlor, Strange fumbles with his cell phone. He punches a button and puts it to his ear. He’s trying to reach Danger, I assume.
For some reason I’m thinking of Kundera’s euphoniously titled Unbearable Lightness of Being. Saying it over and over in my head. I like it. It sounds elegiac. Poetic. I’ve never read the damn thing, but the title alone is enough to merit a read one of these days. And I laugh. I’m laughing because the “lightness of being” I am currently experiencing is anything but unbearable. It is euphoric.
The Euphoric Lightness of Being.
I say it aloud as we approach Revolution ‘59. New Edition’s Candy Girl can be heard distinctively as people pass through the doors and onto the sidewalk or vice-versa: from the sidewalk up to the bar. For the longest I had assumed that it was a Jackson 5 tune. The guy outside the door asks us for our ID’s. We oblige and without incident or even comment, are ushered in.
“This is my kind of place,” Strange shouts to me over the music. It’s empty, but revolutionary paraphernalia abounds. The prevalent ubiquity of Ernesto “Che” Guevara-Lynch manifests itself rather forcefully and prosaically; the famous mural made t-shirt design for young pretenders everywhere to express their suburban/urban haute discontent. Hell Yeah (Pimp the System) by Dead Prez kicks in and I begin to nod my head with the beat as M-1 and stic.man begin invoking ‘hoods and cities in much the same manner epic poets of yore would invoke muses.
“I like this song,” I say. “But there’s a reason this place is empty.” I point to the sign.
Strange gives the sign a glance and then walks up to the bar. I follow. The tender has an undie mag. splayed out on the counter before him. He’s chewing gum and there’s a sharpened pencil tucked between his head and the soft fold of his right ear. From the looks of the magazine, he’s been giving the models moustaches and shit.
“What’s with the prices?” Strange strains his voice over the music.
“The prices?”
“Yeah. The prices. Who can afford this?”
The guy just looks at him. “I don’t fuckin’ know, man. I don’t set the prices, I just charge them.”
“And what kind of tips do you stand to garner?” I slur.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” I shout.
The guy looks at me and then at Strange and then points to me. “I’m not serving him. He’s drunk off his ass.” I am not bothering to defend myself. I start for the door. Yes, I’m feeling it. The whiskey. The beer. Taking its toll. “The only thing revolutionary about those specials is how fucking expensive they are!” I shout. Strange grabs me and we head for the exit.
“Yo! Yo Strange!” I blather as we crash out the door together. “What is big, dumb, and less punk than Punky Brewster?”
He laughs. I stumble and point to Steve, who I see across the street. “That gargantuan motherfucker right there! Hey Steve! Steve! Stevie! Hey man, don’t hurt me, alright. I’m afraid of the pain. That, and if you slug me in the gut, I swear I’ll puke all over your pansy ass shoes.”
“He’s a dumb fuck, Steve, but don’t hit him,” Strange says.
“Wait a minute,” I say, really feeling the liquor hit my brain. “Hey Steve, man. I’m sorry, but I was thinking about Kundera earlier and... ever read that guy? Me neither, but I was inspired to write a story. Yeah, it’s called “The Unbearable Stench of Steve the Closeted Homosexual.”
He laughs. “You’re real funny, man. Look, I could beat you six ways to Sunday, but it won’t change the fact that you’re a broke fucking loser that needs to learn some self composure.”
“Composure? Oh, look at this Adam. Look! This fucking guy! Where’d you learn to talk like that Steve? Hey, I got a book for you to read...”
Strange smacks me.
“Shut the fuck up, man!”
I wake up at the bar where Danger works. Steve is smiling at me. I look at my phone. The digital clock in the corner of the tiny glowing screen says 12:53. I groan and ask Steve what happened. He leans in and tells me that he didn’t beat me up or I’d be in a hospital having my stomach pumped to retrieve my own teeth. I rub my head and fake a laugh. I tell him that I’m drunk as shit. He puts a beer in front of me. Says I’m on Danger’s tab.
“Can I get a shot of whiskey after this?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I sit back in my chair and sip the beer. It’s a light beer of some sort and tastes like shit. Just as I begin to wonder where Strange has gotten off to, I get a text. In typical Strange fashion, it’s brief.
Seeing Danger for the first time in a few weeks, all I could think was to ask if he had any white pony. As we’re exchanging pleasantries, I out with it, and he looks at me very seriously and says, “No fucking way would I ever sell to you.” I laugh and thank him for the drinks. He says “no problem, brother. Any time,” and quickly cuts over to a girl he knows. Or doesn’t know.
The MILF looking lady nursing a neon colored cocktail next to me has a cig in her mouth and is looking through her purse for a lighter. I unsteadily flash mine in front of her. She inserts the tip of the cancer stick into the orange part of the flame and makes an audible sucking noise as she takes in the fume. In this process, her cheeks deflate against the bone structure of her face. I ask her if I can have one and she shoves her pack against my elbow, now digging into the counter.
Lighting my cigarette, I attempt to start conversation with her, but she tells me there’s a group waiting for her, and picks up her purse and cocktail and slides off the chair. Fuck it, I say to myself and knock back the rest of the beer.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
The phone is ringing. Shit. Strange is expecting a call from a possible future employer and I'm supposed to pretend that I run a small mom and pop pizza shop; as a reference. Or something. The details were never clear, so the assumption is that he expects me to come up with something believable. Because the truth is that he is an employer's worst nightmare. He's flighty. He quits jobs and doesn't say shit to the people in charge. Leaves other hapless paeans in his wake; hanging, as it were. When questioned, he simply shrugs and calls himself a proletarian nomad.
Dilemma. Why? Because I'm beating my fucking meat, that's why. I stop and reach for my phone. The display is a number that is not logged in my SIM card. It suddenly stops ringing. The display reads that I have a missed call. No shit.
I regain my masturbatory mindset, gradually pacing myself back into a good frictional momentum, pumping my fist into my crotch quickly while the images on my laptop monitor provide me with the appropriate visual stimuli.
When I finally spill some seed into my hand, the phone rings again. I reach across my body with my left hand for the phone. My arm, however, isn't that long, so I have to slightly dip myself into the crevice of the couch made by the convergence of cushions in order to pick up the phone, which itself is resting in the fault line created by the middle cushion and the far right cushion. I can feel the semen that has oozed between the head of my cock and fingers getting cold.
Looking at the display, I see that it's the same number as before. This person is unrelenting. I press the green 'go' button and put the phone to my ear. "This is Benny Salvatore; Benny and Vinny's Pizza, whadduya want?” There is a silence here. Then:
“Hello... um... I’m calling regarding an applicant. Um... an Adam Rodriguez.”
“Oh yeah? Haven’t seen him in a month.”
“Well, I’m a manager at Profit Bar. We like to screen our applicants for references. What can you say about Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Who?”
“Uh... Adam Rodriguez.”
“Oh. Called himself Strange. Good guy. Can‘t usually trust Mexicans, so that‘s saying something. My brother Vinny hated him, though. His friends were obnoxious drunk fuckers, always come in and hit on all the lady patrons. But he worked harder than anyone, and if my brother wasn’t such a pussy, the kid’d still be working for us.”
“Oh. Well... um... thanks a lot... Mr. ... ?”
“Salvatore.”
The guy hangs up and between a dial tone and the cold, disgusting bodily excretion seemingly gluing together my flaccid cock and my fist, I feel very silly. I can’t believe I actually did the Italian American accent. I know it probably sounded fake and awful, but fuck it, I think I scared that guy shitless.
I go into the bathroom and wash my hands and my dick and begin searching for clothes that smell clean. My Nirvana shirt is on the floor. I pick it up and smell it. Nothing discernibly foul, and from looks, besides a few wrinkles, it’s good. I pull it on and then cover the lower half of my body with a horrendously ripped up pair of jeans.
While doing vanity exercises in front of my bathroom mirror, I feel the sudden urge to laugh at myself. In the past, girls have accused me of being more obsessed with my appearance than their younger teenage sisters. I laugh and say aloud to myself that they were right.
I hear the front door open. It’s Strange. He calls out. “Marco!” “Polo!” I echo back.
I see his head peek into the bathroom. He asks me what’s up. I tell him he got a call from Profit Bar. He smiles. I follow him into the living room. He says he has good news. I see a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vodka on the table. Both 750 ml. The whiskey is Jameson. The vodka is something that I know he picked up for less than 10$.
“Well. My mom is throwing me some money. Grudgingly. So I can get a place.”
“Awesome,” I say.
“Yes. I feel kind of dirty. Like a middle class suburban bitch.”
“Anyone would take the money. Guilt free. They’re liars if they scream otherwise. Hell, even I can admit that my dad will probably drop me a few pounds this week.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Help me find a place around here. No Upper E shit, though. It’s only $500.”
We decide to “think efficiency.” Yes. It’s like living in a closet, but it’s better than sleeping in parks or beneath underpasses. “I might do that just for inspiration,” he says, laughing. We sit on the right and left cushions of the couch, staring into the wall ahead. He says that I should do something with my empty, boring wall.
"What? Knock it out? No thanks. I'd rather get drunk and pretend there's shit on the walls than have to look directly out into that nightmarish still life called ‘the porch‘ by management even though it is undoubtedly a courtyard."
"All I'm saying," Strange says, cracking open the bottle of vodka. "Is that arty renditions of naked women might spruce shit up some."
“That explains why your place was always so boner inducing despite the lack of promise...” I trail off.
Thoughts are conjuring themselves in my mind. I laugh. We both laugh. Drinking, passing back and forth the bottled spirits. But then I tell him that the truth is that that kind of stimulation is bad for me. Yes. It’s enough that I jerk off to internet porn as much as I do. I mean, shit. I can’t even operate without the imagery provided by my open laptop.
The days of rubbing one out in the shower or laying in bed, legs akimbo, blowing loads onto my stomach or fucking seldom worn dress socks are quite past me. There is a challenge-- a certain sacrament-- in having to push some buttons and wait for a wireless network I can surf and wank to ejaculatory glory. Walls adorned with fleshy feminine shapes would give me an ease of mental access that left zero room for ritual.
Strange lights a cigarette and leers at me a little. He laughs uncomfortably. We both do. All is quiet. The white wall ahead watches over our gluttonous imbibing, over my revealing revelation.
And amidst the quietude of the abated mirth-- discomfited as it was-- and through a gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle, I say, "So yeah, the Profit Bar called about references for 'Adam Rodriguez.' I pretended to be this transplanted New Yorker named Benny Salvatore. I think I scared the guy, but he might call, so just a heads up."
"Ha, he bought it?"
"Yeah. I even added that bigoted Italian American thing. You know, where they hate immigrants and minorities and shit."
“Cool.”
I ask him if he got anywhere with Vanessa. He says no. Not at all. I say that I had a dream that they were fucking in a VW. “She has a Kia Rio,” he says. “They started out making bikes,” I say, getting up. I go into my room and shuffle through a pile of books. I pick up Strange’s book.
He turns to watch me bring the book around the table and plop myself into the cushions of the couch. I grab the whiskey, throw back a gulp or two and then flip through the book. The cover is somewhat bent because it was jammed, sandwich-like, between two other books. Something called, A Freudian Interpretation of Dreams and Debord’s Panegyric. The only thing I remember about the former was a six page explanation about the significance of a silken white glove in dreams. Hint: it’s sexual. Debord’s book is a postmodern memoir of sorts. I remember some stuff about how he likes women. Other than that, all I can say is that the pictures are cool.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a passage in your book that my dream reminded me of,” I say.
Of course, there was nothing exact about the relation between my dream and his book, except that in both cases there is this weird tunneling through of the REM wall that separates actual sleep from the environs in which said sleep takes place. There is certainly a scientific phrase for this phenomena, but fuck if I know what it is.
Anyway, when Strange took off with Vanessa, the idea of them walking to her car made me dream of walking. The previously built up sexual tension without release set up the vaginal and sexual imagery; a manifestation of a theoretical continuation due largely to my failure, in reality, to perform ’neath and ’twixt the sheets.
In the book, there’s a bit, which I begin reading aloud to him, where the narrator is dreaming through a haze of a malt liquor and marijuana that his female roommate is sitting naked, sweating, talking to him about her mother who has a parrot that says things like “fuck me! fuck me real hard!” and he questions her as to whether or not she taught the parrot to say it as a practical joke on her mother and she says, “are you kidding? I’m too much of a stoner to take the necessary time for that. My mom fucks all the teenage acne-faced boys in the neighborhood.” The narrator of course stirs himself awake, his underwear heavy against his flesh with perspiration, and realizes that his roommate is fucking her boyfriend in the adjoining room, screaming “fuck me! fuck me real hard!”
“My question, dear Adam, is where the fuck did the parrot come from?” I ask, laughingly, closing the book and swigging on the bottle of whiskey.
“When I was writing it I had this great tat mag that had a pullout section dedicated to tattoos of exotic animals, and this very beautiful girl had a huge tattoo of a macaw on her back. Amazing coloring. It seemed like something funny and interesting at the time.”
We sit around and continue to drink. It’s dark outside. Strange pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. I look at it. It’s a phone number. “Vanessa?” Yes. Vanessa. I crumple up the paper and toss it into the kitchen.
Inundated by a wave of spontaneity, he asks me if I want to walk down to Lower Greenville. I think about it briefly. We’re obviously more than a little drunk (hence the rashness). I say yes. Fuck it! Let’s do it. I stand to my feet, salute Strange, and take another nip of whiskey. Both bottles are dangerously low on liquids.
Even in our soused stupor, we realize that we’ll have to empty our pockets to see for ourselves that between us (remember I am flat broke) we have about $1.69, which isn’t enough to buy shit. At least not at bars on Lower Greenville.
Placing ourselves gently, in concurrent motion, back onto the couch, we sip at the remnants of the bottles, Strange with the vodka, and me with the whiskey. Then we swap.
“Well,” I start. “We’re already pretty lit, wouldn’t you say?” He nods. “Well then, lets just head out and see where the night takes us.”
“Could be promising,” he adds, belching loudly.
Outside the air is neither humid nor arid. This balance is somewhat staggering because it has been hot and dry of late. A beautiful, timely surprise really, especially with the warmth in our guts and heat on our faces due to the alcohol consumption. There is a breeze roving over from what feels like a northwesterly direction. It feels amazing. We begin our stumble through the parking lot toward Munger Ave.
Thoughtlessly, we drop trou in the alley and release some fluids against the newly erected wooden fence. No one sees us and we continue northbound on Munger. Strange starts talking about some of his ideas in relation to my blog. He wants us to collaborate on a massive happening campaign involving city council members, black dildos and jail time, if necessary.
“Think of it. Like... live art.”
“Spontaneous!” I shout.
“Kind of. I mean, it’s planned.”
“Calculated.”
“Yes! I mean, fuck city council. Look at our black leaders. Look at them! They throw around allegations of racism like they’re paid to do it, and then they run out any and everyone who might be willing to help the predominantly black neighborhoods that they represent yet don’t even live in! They do more harm than good.”
We cross Swiss Ave.. Without bothering to question or assume a position of “devil’s advocacy,“ I allow Strange to continue his drunken inveighing unabated as we pass the quiet mansions on the corners. It’s about giving voice to voiceless people, he insists. Because they vote for the representation who they assume, due to racial similarity (which is an interesting fallacy; hear: What’s Beef? by Black Star [Kweli and Mos Def]), will represent them justly and fight for their best interests, and what they get out of it is fuck all.
“So here, here’s your black dildo Mr. Councilman. You like to fuck your own constituents, here! Here’s an object with which to actually do it!”
This unusual grammatical precision, combined with uncharacteristically coherent annunciation makes me laugh. Normally he's very disjoint and unfocused in his drunken proclamations. As most are-- more so than most. In extreme cases, his language will devolve into grunting and other slurs of the tongue. But right now, as we trek toward Lower Greenville, penniless yet excitable, he's the most articulate I've ever known him to be in this state. Or maybe it's simply the fact of my own state, which is quite similar, commenting on his, filling in the blanks. Articulating automatically that which is in fact, not articulate at all.
We stop at the light on Live Oak and Munger and I start laughing for no particular reason. I feel light headed and nothing seems to have any weight about it. No solid, tangible qualities. This compels me to muse about the red hand commanding us to not walk. That we should just fuckin' cross because it's not like the red hand is really an authority. It is an inanimate object which must defer its very existence to our animate dominion.
“Now,” I reason. “One can argue that the hand is a symbol, suggestive of the authority of our governing body, which has so decreed that the only way for our streets to function is to force everyone to take turns getting from one point to another and to defy said decree can lead to many an unfortunate result. Like getting ticketed or being hit by a car, etc..”
Strange looks at me and the light goes green. We step into the street with faltering steps. “All that talking while you could’ve been walking,” he says, shaking his head.
“And why didn’t you go ahead and cross?”
“Because I wanted to hear your drunken bullshit. It’s only fair. You listened to mine.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“You’re the cautious one. I just walk. Those lights and signs are suggestions to me at all times. Not just when I’m drunk. You preach to the choir.”
“We do that all time with each other. Things like this, we fuckin’ agree.”
Lower Greenville, from this distance, seems fairly dead. With this in mind it should also be noted that it’s a Sunday night. We’ve crossed over to the east, northbound traffic side of Munger. There’s a big church to our right. Some mornings homeless folk can be found sleeping in the stairwells and in the grass near the back of the church. On the other side of the street is a quiet park with benches and picnic tables and 90’s style playground (plastic) equipment. During the day, it’s a family friendly gathering place. At night, old men partake in brown bag dinners on the benches. This is Strange’s vocabulary. He admits he has himself been guilty of this (see: routine). After work he'd pick up a forty across the street at the Valero and stop at the park en route to this apartment on Swiss. The one he’d roomed in with Danger.
Munger has turned into Greenville Ave. and we’re coming up on a deserted strip of former bars and clubs that now seem little more than obstructions due to the great difficulty of walking the sidewalks that border them. Ferns, pines and other flora protrude in vivid color, with the slight suggestion of something approaching zest, into the walkway, daring passersby to brave the gauntlet. After all, to get across to Lower Greenville, it’s impossible to avoid. Unless one drives or jaywalks.
We do neither. Nor. At least not normally.
The reason the northbound traffic side is easier is because of the nature of the intersection ahead. Ross and Greenville Aves. both fork at odd angles; Ross peals slightly southeastward while Greenville goes northeast. This leaves a blind spot on the corner of the southbound traffic side of the intersection.
There is a white sign with a crude pictograph representing a peripatetic human of some sort surrounded like a child in a bubble by a red circle with a line (of same color) slicing through the human depiction-- the universal symbol of negation-- on the north side of Ross in front of a small taco stand. No Pedestrian Crossing.
We are now crossing Ross onto Lower Greenville. Passing a tattoo parlor, Strange fumbles with his cell phone. He punches a button and puts it to his ear. He’s trying to reach Danger, I assume.
For some reason I’m thinking of Kundera’s euphoniously titled Unbearable Lightness of Being. Saying it over and over in my head. I like it. It sounds elegiac. Poetic. I’ve never read the damn thing, but the title alone is enough to merit a read one of these days. And I laugh. I’m laughing because the “lightness of being” I am currently experiencing is anything but unbearable. It is euphoric.
The Euphoric Lightness of Being.
I say it aloud as we approach Revolution ‘59. New Edition’s Candy Girl can be heard distinctively as people pass through the doors and onto the sidewalk or vice-versa: from the sidewalk up to the bar. For the longest I had assumed that it was a Jackson 5 tune. The guy outside the door asks us for our ID’s. We oblige and without incident or even comment, are ushered in.
“This is my kind of place,” Strange shouts to me over the music. It’s empty, but revolutionary paraphernalia abounds. The prevalent ubiquity of Ernesto “Che” Guevara-Lynch manifests itself rather forcefully and prosaically; the famous mural made t-shirt design for young pretenders everywhere to express their suburban/urban haute discontent. Hell Yeah (Pimp the System) by Dead Prez kicks in and I begin to nod my head with the beat as M-1 and stic.man begin invoking ‘hoods and cities in much the same manner epic poets of yore would invoke muses.
“I like this song,” I say. “But there’s a reason this place is empty.” I point to the sign.
Revolutionary Specials:
Draughts (Dom.)-- $4.50
Draughts (Foreign)-- $6.50
Bottles-- $3.50
Well drinks-- $4.50
Strange gives the sign a glance and then walks up to the bar. I follow. The tender has an undie mag. splayed out on the counter before him. He’s chewing gum and there’s a sharpened pencil tucked between his head and the soft fold of his right ear. From the looks of the magazine, he’s been giving the models moustaches and shit.
“What’s with the prices?” Strange strains his voice over the music.
“The prices?”
“Yeah. The prices. Who can afford this?”
The guy just looks at him. “I don’t fuckin’ know, man. I don’t set the prices, I just charge them.”
“And what kind of tips do you stand to garner?” I slur.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” I shout.
The guy looks at me and then at Strange and then points to me. “I’m not serving him. He’s drunk off his ass.” I am not bothering to defend myself. I start for the door. Yes, I’m feeling it. The whiskey. The beer. Taking its toll. “The only thing revolutionary about those specials is how fucking expensive they are!” I shout. Strange grabs me and we head for the exit.
“Yo! Yo Strange!” I blather as we crash out the door together. “What is big, dumb, and less punk than Punky Brewster?”
He laughs. I stumble and point to Steve, who I see across the street. “That gargantuan motherfucker right there! Hey Steve! Steve! Stevie! Hey man, don’t hurt me, alright. I’m afraid of the pain. That, and if you slug me in the gut, I swear I’ll puke all over your pansy ass shoes.”
“He’s a dumb fuck, Steve, but don’t hit him,” Strange says.
“Wait a minute,” I say, really feeling the liquor hit my brain. “Hey Steve, man. I’m sorry, but I was thinking about Kundera earlier and... ever read that guy? Me neither, but I was inspired to write a story. Yeah, it’s called “The Unbearable Stench of Steve the Closeted Homosexual.”
He laughs. “You’re real funny, man. Look, I could beat you six ways to Sunday, but it won’t change the fact that you’re a broke fucking loser that needs to learn some self composure.”
“Composure? Oh, look at this Adam. Look! This fucking guy! Where’d you learn to talk like that Steve? Hey, I got a book for you to read...”
Strange smacks me.
“Shut the fuck up, man!”
I wake up at the bar where Danger works. Steve is smiling at me. I look at my phone. The digital clock in the corner of the tiny glowing screen says 12:53. I groan and ask Steve what happened. He leans in and tells me that he didn’t beat me up or I’d be in a hospital having my stomach pumped to retrieve my own teeth. I rub my head and fake a laugh. I tell him that I’m drunk as shit. He puts a beer in front of me. Says I’m on Danger’s tab.
“Can I get a shot of whiskey after this?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I sit back in my chair and sip the beer. It’s a light beer of some sort and tastes like shit. Just as I begin to wonder where Strange has gotten off to, I get a text. In typical Strange fashion, it’s brief.
With a cute pnk girl. See ya tomorrow.
Seeing Danger for the first time in a few weeks, all I could think was to ask if he had any white pony. As we’re exchanging pleasantries, I out with it, and he looks at me very seriously and says, “No fucking way would I ever sell to you.” I laugh and thank him for the drinks. He says “no problem, brother. Any time,” and quickly cuts over to a girl he knows. Or doesn’t know.
The MILF looking lady nursing a neon colored cocktail next to me has a cig in her mouth and is looking through her purse for a lighter. I unsteadily flash mine in front of her. She inserts the tip of the cancer stick into the orange part of the flame and makes an audible sucking noise as she takes in the fume. In this process, her cheeks deflate against the bone structure of her face. I ask her if I can have one and she shoves her pack against my elbow, now digging into the counter.
Lighting my cigarette, I attempt to start conversation with her, but she tells me there’s a group waiting for her, and picks up her purse and cocktail and slides off the chair. Fuck it, I say to myself and knock back the rest of the beer.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
22.9.09
abbie collins
*Currently, I am incredibly (?) with slothfulness. That is not to say I am extremely lazy (though, don't be mistaken, I can be a useless toad when so self driven). No. I am artless, although this may appear (to simpleminded individuals) to be nothing more than the equivalent of a rash, to me....
it is a very slow death; it is the labor bed of the most revered of every hell pit; it is the mother of irrational tantrums; it is the father of my fake hope provoked; and less than thought out adventures. I swear, I fuck more when I'm less creative. "I'm bored! I'm without milk I'm without seed!" during half the relationships I've gone through I've gone to such lengths as bruising my upper arms with teeth marks as not to spit my actual opinions all over their desired passions. (MOVWDST) "this is the only thing I've had inside me all day!" they think I'm being sexual, on the contrary..... I'm being completely apathetic.
"Crying and fucking go hand in hand, you feel nothing but a lump in the process." I've said since the age of 14. I've been debating adding constipation to the list, or guilt. Guilt and sex....one and the same, for someone who has frequented sexual pleasure as much as I have, I sure don't like it. It has transcended beyond pleasure to me, but, not an act of art, not even a useless act, something to be compared to clipping your toenails. I receive a slight satisfaction and maybe a slight feeling of productivity or accomplishment. Truth is, I'd rather cook a good meal than fuck these days, at least some fruition comes out of that. I'm looking for stimulation. Have you ever seen a man or woman lose their ability to create? To execute the action that lends to love?
I have one answer to that, "get the fuck away... I can set fire to myself with one hand thank you."
*By Abbie Collins transcripted by Adam Strange from a notebook, posted with permission
it is a very slow death; it is the labor bed of the most revered of every hell pit; it is the mother of irrational tantrums; it is the father of my fake hope provoked; and less than thought out adventures. I swear, I fuck more when I'm less creative. "I'm bored! I'm without milk I'm without seed!" during half the relationships I've gone through I've gone to such lengths as bruising my upper arms with teeth marks as not to spit my actual opinions all over their desired passions. (MOVWDST) "this is the only thing I've had inside me all day!" they think I'm being sexual, on the contrary..... I'm being completely apathetic.
"Crying and fucking go hand in hand, you feel nothing but a lump in the process." I've said since the age of 14. I've been debating adding constipation to the list, or guilt. Guilt and sex....one and the same, for someone who has frequented sexual pleasure as much as I have, I sure don't like it. It has transcended beyond pleasure to me, but, not an act of art, not even a useless act, something to be compared to clipping your toenails. I receive a slight satisfaction and maybe a slight feeling of productivity or accomplishment. Truth is, I'd rather cook a good meal than fuck these days, at least some fruition comes out of that. I'm looking for stimulation. Have you ever seen a man or woman lose their ability to create? To execute the action that lends to love?
I have one answer to that, "get the fuck away... I can set fire to myself with one hand thank you."
*By Abbie Collins transcripted by Adam Strange from a notebook, posted with permission
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