“Detouring Vol. 3”
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
Our theory about Señor Raygun is this: the best acting that guy ever mustered was acting like a head of state. Fairly convincing, he was. You know, except for the falling asleep while hosting foreign diplomats and calling Nancy “mommy” and shit. Neither one of us, Adam nor myself, are old enough to truly remember the man’s time as the 40th President of the USA, but unanimously, we can say that he has influenced the worst parts of contemporary American society. The “Yuppies,” the “Reagan Democrats,” the “Brat Pack,” “Reaganomics,” all of that which came to characterize the decade of my birth; all of it a shrine to everything that my 25 year old self is not; rebels against, even.
That aside, let it be said that I owe my very existence to the "Gipper." His election in 1980 forced my mother to make the decision she’d been itching to make: moving to England. Of course, at that time, Britain had become “Thatcherland.” Not a whole lot of difference there. To this day she laments her judgment. But she did meet my father. I was born not long after.
We’re sitting in the dark. Night has fallen. Milady is gone. Scared off by our counterreactionary politics. We've been sitting here awhile. And now the guy who owns the store tells us we should leave soon because we're scaring off the paying customers. Buy some fucking gum or leave.
Reveling in our repulsiveness, we finish the cigarettes and stand. I decide that I’m not in the mood to drink. Adam is surprised but himself undecided.
The wind takes us the way we came. Westward on Live Oak. We're quiet. Stepping past the tilting STOP sign at Ross, I yawn. It's been a long day comprised of nothing. I already want another smoke. Adam breaks in with, "I want a drink. Wanna hit Elbow Room? I bet we can talk ourselves into a pitcher of piss."
"That's a possibility."
"What kind of alcoholic are you?"
"The kind who'd rather drink alone than mix it up with a bunch of drunken strangers that I'd just as soon shit on."
"Now you sound like an asshole."
"And the transformation is near complete!"
The truth is becoming clear. I'm getting sick of people. And I can pinpoint the exact moment the asshole in me came out. I used to wait tables for a long standing local dinner theater establishment. I'd been having an affair with the owner's daughter. And the owner's daughter's daughter. But at the same time, I had the warm fuzzies for the girl who had trained me. She was engaged to be married. Admittedly, I've never been very principled when it came to affairs of the heart or penis. If the attainment of a woman's affection or the chance to get laid hung in the balance, you can bet I played every card at my disposal. The issue in this situation was that I'd let myself get in too deep.
Then, just as now, as I walk my ass toward eventual inebriation, I was perpetually hard up for cash. I wanted to do something special for she who had trained me-- in hopes that I might be able to outdo a trust fund baby-- and I needed to make rent. These two things were not going to happen if I was only getting two shifts a week, yanking in a meager $2.14 an hour (for 4 hours of work) plus tips that I had to split with the kitchen (who made over $6 an hour).
The owner's daughter, who was also my manager, always seemed weirdly, perhaps unduly impressed with me. My only motivation was a desperate want to keep my job, but since the turnover of waitstaff prior to and after my arrival was largely abysmal, my longevity was refreshing-- at least that was her reasoning. One night as I was cleaning my assigned station, she approached me and said she'd put me on 6 nights a week if I did her a few favors.
Yeah, the favors were sexual. So there I was, sexing a woman pushing 60. I will not say that I enjoyed it because older women are oh so experienced. I enjoyed it because: what kind of guy doesn't enjoy essentially being paid for sex? Besides, it's not like I'm built like Adonis. So, it was a fairly good deal all around.
I complicated matters when I for some reason decided it'd be a great idea to also hit the owner's daughter's smackhead daughter. It was kind of an accident, actually. She'd just broken up with a guy that I graduated hs with, and she was unhappy with her clingy sugar daddy, so when she decided to suck me off during one of the Saturday night shows while I was serving beers at the bar, I didn't say no.
For my part, there was no intention of ever going any farther with her. I figured she'd just gotten her fix and needed something to occupy herself with, but apparently she'd had designs on me for awhile. This worried me. After all, I was fucking her mom. But I hadn't gotten that much action since freshman year of college! Shit! I was getting nowhere with the girl who'd trained me.
The owner's daughter's daughter wasn't going to pay me. In fact, she wanted me to fuck her and buy her nice things. And be funny. Because apparently she found me infinitely amusing. Request three was easily doable. One and two; after much thought, I decided that I could make one happen, and one night I did. Two would never happen.
So I was waiting tables every night but Sunday, pulling in nearly $300 a week, and fucking the owner's daughter and the owner's daughter's daughter. One Saturday night the girl who trained me offered me a cigarette (I had quit at that point), and I very easily caved taking it and lighting it with zest. She said that I was dragging ass and that I looked like shit.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said, exhaling.
"Wrong. I think Sam Sam is right. You're fucking Lea."
"What?"
"He's never seen her so happy. And... and he's been knocked off the rotation twice for you. Wanna tell me the truth?"
I didn't but I did. So I did. I fucking spilled it. Laughing the whole time. She maintained a grave expression. After some minutes of silence, she blew smoke in my face and laughed. She tossed her butt and went back inside without saying anything. I sat there. It was cold. The cigarette was killing my throat and giving me a headache. The more I thought, the more pissed I became.
I felt weak. Compromised. I'd wrenched myself. I'd also given away my motive in the process. When I realized that was what prompted the laughter, I went inside, grabbed a bottle of that overpriced shit they call wine ($30 for $8 wine!), and simply made for the front exit. I walked home. Drinking the wine and cursing the whole way (it had the twist off top).
The next morning I was hung over, and had six missed calls. "Fuck you!" I yelled at the phone and turned it off.
I did make an old lady happy, though.
While crossing N. Beacon Ave. we hear noises. Music. Shouting. Party. Adam trots faster in the direction of the sound. I'm following him past the hedge that overhangs the sidewalk as fast as I can, slapping leaves from my face. The sounds are emanating from the apartments with the nicely groomed shrubberies lining the path to the doors; from the unit on the end, whose concrete path lies between Live Oak and Bryan Pkwy.
The music is shaking the building at its very foundation and there are people crowding the ingress between us and possible inebriation. A couple of girls are shouting at Adam. "Strange! It's you!"
He runs up and hugs them. One is chubby and wearing a frilly, oh so short skirt with polka dots, the other is skinny, tattooed from head to toe (it seems), and has a martini glass in one hand and is clutching a cigarette butt with a long stream of ash drooping downward in the other. She is more his type. I examine the chubby girl from afar. Adam calls to me. Fuck it. I love booze! I love sex!
I'm making my way up the path when the chubby girl staggers slightly under the door frame. I'm getting closer. She is fucking blitzed! She's wearing high heels. This is not a good combo, I think. I get about three feet from her, and she touches her right foot to the concrete. As she attempts to whip her left foot over the threshold in kind, the heel on the right foot shoe gives. She topples sidelong, diagonally falling into the shrubbery.
Everyone around her bursts into laughter. I help her out of the bush and ask her if she's alright. She looks at me dazed, looks at the palms of her hands, laughs, and shows them to me. They are cut up. She kicks off her heels, kisses me on the cheek, tells me I'm sweet with a chuckle, and then bends into the bush and spews.
Adam thrusts a cup of mystery liquor in my face, I grab it and sip while watching the chubby girl blow chunks into the shrub by way of her hair.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll
(2009)
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