By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
Marko met up with Bernadette at the urban market behind the library. They had planned to meet at one of the usually sun-soaked round metal tables with the uncomfortable set of chairs, but it had rained the day before and the sun hadn't been around in a week, so things were still pretty wet, but brave the elements they did. They covered the chairs and tabletop with pieces of the town's independently distributed paper and sat tentatively, their collective focus torn between one another and their place in the universe according to the chairs and table. The wind was beginning to pick up and so they battled (only) briefly, then muttering "fuck it" to themselves and gathering the partially wet, partially fluttery paper and shoving it into the nearby trashcan.
"Now what?" Bernadette queried.
"I know a quiet place where we can talk. Come on."
They walked quietly west along the sidewalk, wide and empty; the traffic trickling in the street, running against them, eastbound. City busses appeared to lean on the corner like bums with their heads in dumpsters. Even farther in the distance, street preachers yelled the “word of god” as revealed by Christ, and panhandlers tested them in turn by requesting they make good on their exclamations in purely pecuniary gestures (after all, these Christians bandy about words like “charity” often). While people exhaustedly boarded the busses, Bernadette, unaffected by the urban spectacle ahead, commented on the dead air between them.
“I generally try to think before I speak. As my brain is occupied, so my lips are sealed,” said Marko.
“I do, too. I guess I’m being impatient.”
“I think you’re fine.”
“Good. Where are we going?”
There was a small park on the southwest part of downtown which was situated around a large serpentine sculpture that Marko had always found "ugly as fuck," but the benches were comfortable and obscured by trees. This, giving the clean green ground an intangible feel of intimacy, of easily traversed boundary, made him feel like an outdoorsman-- rugged, yet urban (or is it the inverse?), he could, in just a few steps, be his usual metropolitan self.
He gestured to Bernadette to sit. The wood of the bench damp but not wet, she dabbed her fingers at the ring-patterned surface, and then smiled and sat, crossing her legs ladylike. In the silence, he found himself being stalked by his libido. Blinking several times and trying to focus on a thought to make into words for Bernadette, he knew that the task was futile. His libido was fucking with him. Nude, pale, and poking its penis into a blow up doll that looked like one of the local weather ladies, this pathetic manifestation of his libido smiled and winked at him.
“I’m thinking of quitting my job at Neiman,” she said.
“Huh?”
“My job? I told you about it. I do retail for Neiman Marcus. It pays the bills, but I get so sick of all the snobby old hags that patronize the counters, ‘I want this, and this and this just like this dear, and if you would be oh so sweet, could you wrap it and put a nice bow on it... maybe spritz some perfume on it.’ Bitches. I wish I could shop all day and still make money. It isn’t fair.”
“I sit in a cubicle all day and twiddle my fucking thumbs. I make shit for it, too. I’d rather flirt with old hags than be a hamster in a cage. Spinning and spinning and sitting and sitting and monotony the only constant....”
Through the gusts of wind displacing her hair, Bernadette looked at him expectantly as if to plead, “Yes...? yes? There’s more, I know there is!” But he just stared at the belly of the sculpture, trying to ignore his libido as it thrust quicker and quicker into the doll. He tried to think of ways to recreate the sparks that flew the other night in the sports bar. His penis was beginning to knock on the door of the crotch of his jeans. Folding his arms into his lap, he said, “Have you ever known someone so attractive that the very idea of not being able to behold such a sight was heartbreaking?”
“No. I don’t care much about looks.”
“Hmmm. No... hmmm.”
“Yeah, I prefer guys with money,” she said, choking out laughter.
They were silent. The trees quivered with each bluster of air from the southwest. She settled her purse in her lap, opened it, and pulled out a shiny metal case. Inside were four cigarettes and one neatly rolled joint. Extruding the joint with a smile, she shifted her body-- legs still crossed-- toward him. Like in the bar with the cig, she pokes the joint in his direction, "Want a toke?"
"Nah. I'm already seeing weird shit." She crumpled her face, withdrew, and put the joint between her lips. Marko watched his libido. It was done fucking the doll and was smoking a cigarette. He could smell the marijuana smoke and he could faintly hear her making excuses for why she does it. Of course, he didn't give a fuck about her justifications. A little pot every now and then never killed anyone.
He turned and smiled at her. For a moment he considered reiterating his previous question. His libido was escalating the game by pissing all over the doll. Perhaps it was a bid for attention, or maybe a devolutionary swing toward fetishism, but all the same, in that space of time he wished he were high, drunk or dead.
"Let me hit that," he said, and she gladly handed it over. He drew from the joint and pondered what all the fuss was about. He turned to Bernadette and said,
"The way lawmakers talk about this shit, you'd think it'd be more interesting. This has got to be the most boring, everyman drug there is."
"Are you badmouthing my weed?"
"Eh."
Silence.
"There was this one guy," she said, blowing away some ash that had accumulated in the cherry's wake. "He seemed to me like the quiet, mysterious type. At first. Had this very Slavic look about him. Angular, edged face, blue eyes, light skin, one of those Owen Wilson noses, and was very solidly built."
"Hmm. So what was wrong with him?"
"How'd you know?"
"How'd I know what?"
"That there was something wrong."
He thought about her question for a moment and then told her that in his experience, young women made excuses not to stick with men whom, to their own specifications, were physically attractive, but had some kind of nagging, perhaps even trivial personal issues. She laughed at the suggestion, and told him that he watched too much fucking Seinfeld, which, to her mind, was a display of male pettiness and socially arrested neurosis.
“And don’t you dare bring up Elaine,” she added. “Females are outnumbered like, four to one on that penis fest.”
“Uh... I don’t watch that show. But your defensiveness is duly noted.”
“Whatever. Anyway, this guy. I used to follow him around. Stalk him. Kind of. Around downtown. Rides a bike, I know. So one day, I followed him into the coffee shop on Commerce and stood in line behind him. When he finally noticed me, he smiled...”
...
“And?”
“And I smiled back. He took this as license to sit with me by the window. We exchanged pleasantries, but the more we small talked, the more bored I became. I did the ‘uh huhs’ and stared into his beautiful eyes.
“Amazing thing is, I was back at work, leaning on the counter, daydreaming. I don't even remember walking back or even parting with the guy. You know? Like there was this large patch of time that I’d lost. Fell right into oblivion. I couldn’t remember anything of what he said. Not his name, what he does, or even what he thought about the weather. But I will always, always remember his eyes and his skin. And that nose. Mmm.”
Marko laughed at her swoon. The ridiculousness of that girlish expulsion of breath at the thought of a man’s large, crooked nose. He was a little annoyed, disappointed even, at the thought of the moments wasted in listening to her eventless story of aesthetic stimulus lost, and his libido only sat naked, Indian style in the grass, hoping to get a peek up her dress.
Initially he thought it bizarre, this hallucinatory manifestation of his libido, behaving as a seasoned fetishistic porn star one moment and in the next, as a child with a healthy sexual curiosity. But it made sense, because in his mind he was conflicted. He wasn’t quite sure how to view the woman sitting next to him. Possible on-again-off-again fling? One night stand? Unstable relationship characterized by frenzied, passionate sex with an underpinning of empty conversation and boredom?
The woman who at first so stunned him was beginning to, for reasons in that moment unbeknownst to him, grate on his patience. After a time, he blinked rapidly, hoping to shutter the pasty little fucker out of existence. Finally, she returned to his cognizance, offering him a cigarette which he declined as he stood up to stretch.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Nowhere. Just stretching.”
She lit the cig.
“So... what’s your story?”
To mention Denica, for him, would’ve been to once again tramp the fields of lonely disappointment. Bernadette observed him with intent, with demand. He didn’t think her revelation deserved that kind of “blood,” but as prevarication wasn’t an option, he decided to tell her. Fuck it. There was nothing to lose, and even less to gain, he’d realized.
“Denica.”
“Denica?”
“That was her name. She was beautiful. I didn’t really know her. She was an aspiring model from Mexico. An itinerant, she spent some time in my apartment. We didn’t talk lots, but when we did, it had an impact on me.
“She always had the sweetest way of describing me. In Spanish. I never understood any of it. She could’ve been calling me an emasculated momma’s boy for all I knew, but it was beautiful. And so was she. I was depressed for weeks after she left.
"The busker dude downtown played a lot of Rod Stewart tunes. Shit’s depressing to me. I must’ve dropped thirty bucks in attempts to shy him away from that particular part of his catalogue.”
“Wow,” she said in a voice tinged with boredom, exasperation. The conversational welcome between the two appeared to have worn itself out. There grew a tension between them suddenly-- though it’d been developing slowly over the course of their interactions-- that was neither sexual nor rancorous; it was somewhat indifferent, but altogether discomfited.
In the silence, she unearthed one of those cell phones that do everything but perform oral sex and began fiddling with it. Marko watched his libido as it became more brazen, running its fingers along Bernadette's silken legs. He met eyes with the pallid form and they exchanged smiles. The libido licked her knee with its tongue and said that the best thing about fucking a new woman was that she'd have no idea what a shitty lover you were until after the fact.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
Showing posts with label Smoking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Smoking. Show all posts
18.10.09
Taxonomy is usually a method of Categorization.
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)
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)
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)
21.9.09
Booze-Sleeve Crew/Comix
"I Can Indeed Eat a Star"
"He and I Have Had Problems"
"Never Leave the Planning to Me" Ft. Anthony Obi
"I Am Incredibly Modest, I Must Admit"
"Micki's a Con-Artist"
"Papier-Maché-ville"
All drawings by Robby Mexico
14.9.09
Reruns, Syndication & Reiteration
"If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner, and wink your eye at some homely girl." -- H.L. Mencken's epitaph
I sing the body articulate looking for love (?) for pseudointellectual banter (?) for companionship obsessed (?) find chubby art chicks beautiful women all shapes all sizes find artistic expression in fishnets and skirts no black no black but sort of intriguing not quite interesting it's art the body articulate finds the body inanimate looking for ideal when they could be searching the shapely illogic of the pseudointellect find chubby art chicks find love find banter find yourself without going to California.
(2008)
Heaven 1997
I stood outside the club, dark, the rain splashing in puddles around me; the only thing keeping me dry a canopy and a thin, miserable excuse for a jacket. I could feel the vibrations of music from inside. All I really wanted was a cigarette to go with my cup of whiskey. I noticed that not too many women come to shows like this, and when they do, there's usually a boyfriend-- or male approximation of-- not too far ahead (or in some cases, in tow). I sipped thoughtfully, hoping, surprisingly enough, that some tobacco carrying soul might approach for a round of small talk. This never happened.
I considered leaving the fucking place. Taking my cup and never looking back. I don't like music anyway. At least not that shit. And those people! Those fucking people with their band shirts and their clove cigarettes and their stupid dances. FUCK THEM.
So I leave. Just. Walk away. It's better this way.
(2008)
Es un "cliché"
sino tus labios
son como
el sabor
de vino tinto
y tus ojos
son como
"limpid pools"
así que
en los desaparezco
sin aliento
me ahogo
...bueno,
ahorita estoy pensando
que
si nado para seguridad
dejarás la lluvia de tus emociones
y no me matarás
como le hiciste a tu papá
but anyway
Olvídate esos tonterías
Soy cómico.
(2009)
I shit you not, I was in the express lane at Kroger with a couple bottles of PLONK and a big box of condoms, and the old lady behind me smiled and winked. I winked back and put my arm around her. The burly black guy behind the counter goggled at me. "Yeah, man," I said. "I'm not ashamed. I like a bit of mature."
(2009)
"Kissing"
Kissing is only great when drunk with desire or drunk with booze. Anything else is mauvaise foi.
(2009)
Day 9. Sex.
I called you from a payphone outside your boyfriend's apartment complex. See, lucky for me, before I did my laundry that day, I felt through the pockets of my favorite jeans. The wadded up piece of cocktail napkin. Your name in all caps and your number beneath.
MELINDA.
832-XXX-XXXX
You answered and asked where I was calling from. An undisclosed location, I said. You chuckled and told me that it was a weird number for a cell phone. I forgot to pay my cell phone bill, I answered.
"Melinda," I said, "I think that you're the most beautiful woman in existence. How does dinner under the stars followed by sex sound to you?"
You hung up.
Fucking call girls.
(2007)
All writings and photos by Patrick Patterson-Carroll
10.7.09
Comix & Shit
Happy Birthday, a strip by my friend,
Robby Mexico
From left to right, round and round!:
"Hey, since the economy's crumbling, wanna get fucked up animation style?"- Robby
"Fuck Yes" - Jill
--Time Passes-- Caption: SOON
Caption: MANY HOURS LATER:
"Oh shit. Robby, what time is it?" - Jill
*cough* 4:20
"Shit, I have to go to work" - Jill
"Not in animated land, you don't." - Robby
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
"Robby, is this what you do all day?" - Jill
"No... Yes." - Robby
--
Given the UST/Houston nature of this post, I want to show respect for, and give "shout-outs" to "Booze Sleeve Crew", Robby, Brian Husband, Shana Copeland, Ally Taylor, Christian Kawas, Bill Higgins, Matty G., Michelle S., Elaine Harwell, Sam Garza, Anthony (Fat Tony), D ee R ai L, Steven Vaughn, Ace, all the fez kids: Lorena, Jessica, my roomates Yasushi and François, etc, etc...
Robby, if you have any to add, do in comments. I'm forgetting people.
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