Friday, August 4, 2017

Pretend I'm Human

My last blog entry was about a sociopath and a broken boy and according to my email inbox and my comment box, nobody reads me anymore. Perfect. I think my blogging hiatus was long enough to have lost any followers/readers I may have gained over the past many years. Now I can write in solitude, knowing that only the walls are listening. And these walls look hungry for absorption. Vertical flatness of being. Manufactured existence. I can hear their bones bend beneath painted skin. They probably need something more fulfilling, but I'll give 'em what I've got and hope they don't start closing in on me mid-sentence.

Okay, so now that I got that over with, what's next? Sex. Sure, why not. Seems like a logical flow of thought. My brain moves straight from "the earth sucks and humans are ridiculous blood bags" to "let's talk about sex, baby". Sure, let's do it. After I'm done writing this blog entry I'm going to watch the following film:
Why? Because it fell on my doorstep, so to speak. And for social studies, duh. I wish that my curiosity of human sexual desire was equally matched by my own sexual appetite, but let this blog entry be my stepping out of the asexual closet, so to speak. I'm sure if you read my last blog entry then you must have thoughts and questions. And since I'm drinking and stuck inside my fucking truck (I said fucking haha) I've decided to pontificate. What does being asexual mean (to me) exactly? Here, let me explain.

Over the course of my life I have been in numerous serious relationships with women. Was even married once. I am capable of love. I am also capable of commitment, although this is where it gets convoluted. In my mind, commitment translates to being honest, faithful, caring, respectful and helpful to another. In past relationships I have definitely been all of these things, which makes me an awesome boyfriend/husband. However, you'll notice sex wasn't included in that list. I am painfully aware of how sexual our species is and how important sex is to a lasting relationship, which herein lies my problem. My sex drive has always been a 2 on a scale of 1 to 10, sometimes lower even, and this poses a massive threat towards me having a lasting relationship with another. And let me tell you what... it sucks. Miserably so.

I've never told anyone this before; this is my big asexual secret. I obviously didn't have to tell my former lovers. They figured it out the hard way and I'm remorseful for allowing it to happen repeatedly. I'm still human, which means I still have the need for attention, affection, connection... and even sex, but only at times. Picture a camel taking a long gulp of water from an oasis. Now picture that same camel walking laboriously across a thousand mile wide desert without having the need to take another drink. Yeah, that's pretty much what my sex drive is like. I don't have the daily, weekly, or even monthly need to have sex. I can literally go months without the desire.

So why am I saying all of this now? Because it's the weekend and I don't have any other shit to do. I'm stuck inside a truck! Because the moment felt right. Because I'm tired of keeping it all inside. Because current circumstances dictated my hand and heart. Because the Clippers lost to the Celtics. Heck if I know, I just felt like writing and this is what came out. Do with it what you want. Comment and ask questions, I'll answer. Forward it to a friend, I don't really care. Honestly, I'm hoping nobody reads this anymore anyway. I'm writing this one for myself, really, but if it makes its way to someone else and they're glad they read it, then I'm cool with that.

P.S. I don't really know if the Clippers lost to the Celtics. Hell, I don't even know if they play against each other. I just picked two C letter sport teams because I enjoy a little alliteration in my life. Alright, I've embarrassed myself enough with this entry, I'll shut up now. Next one I write will be uplifting and much less revealing, I promise. Bye.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

I Am Not A Sociopath, But I'm Pretty Sure This Guy Is

Hello readers, I have a question. I realize I've abandoned you all and I barely write anymore, but for those of you still hanging around and reading this, I have a question. Do you ever grow wary of meeting new people? Does the idea of meeting and getting to know someone for the first time excite you or cause anxiety? I used to think new people in my life meant new ideas, new stories, new adventures, but I'm beginning to question the whole thing now. Maybe I've surpassed my own Dunbar's number of new people I'm supposed to meet in this life. If this is true, I hope it only counts for Americans because I still want to travel the world and meet new people abroad, but maybe I'm done meeting Americans? Could be.

I've been called a sociopath twice now, both times by someone new in my life. The first occurrence affected me deeply and I even spent numerous therapy sessions discussing the possibility that I might lack empathy for other people. It was decided that I am not a sociopath, but rather a victim of childhood abuse who has difficulty connecting intimately. I agree with this, but I also know that until I REALLY get to know someone, I will automatically assume that you are out to hurt me (and others) in some manner. And let me tell you, it takes a long fucking time for me to finally open up and start trusting someone new. Until recently that is.

My therapist spent countless sessions trying to teach me how to open up and talk about all the bullshit that tries to bring me down. She ingrained in me the importance of trusting and discussing deeply personal stuff with other people. And so I have. I started opening up. A few times actually. And I honestly wish I hadn't. Nobody needs to know my own personal pain. That's not their burden to carry. I don't expect them to; I don't want them to. That's why I write poetry. Anyone who truly wants to know my inner demons can find them screaming at the top of their lungs via my poetry. Go there and read it if you want to get to know that side of me, but fuck off if you think I'll just open up and talk about it ever again. Never going to happen. Sorry, therapist Heather, but I'm unlearning all the progress we made.

I've also had my asexuality questioned twice now. I've never talked about this before, because frankly, it's embarrassing and nobody even understands it. Yes, I am asexual. I don't give a damn about sex. I can go forever without needing to fuck. I don't actively seek it out. Does this mean that I never have sex or that if I do I don't enjoy it? No. Being asexual doesn't mean we lack feeling or arousal. I can be turned on. The problem is, I don't really want to be. I'd rather be left alone really. Even in the company of a beautiful woman who wants to have sex, chances are I'm thinking about short story character development or a podcast I heard or why it took Robin Williams so long to kill himself. Normal shit like that. To me, love and sex are both things I don't really understand. Hence why the majority of my creative writing centers around these topics. I often write about the things that puzzle me the most. Humans are at the top of that list. We are a turbulent, yet predictable species, capable of love and compassion while simultaneously performing the worst acts of violence and hate upon one another. I don't get it. I don't like it. But I also don't shy away from it. I watch murder videos on the internet as a refresher course on just how fucked up things can get. I watch porn as a litmus test to see how sideways human sexuality is sliding. I watch horror movies, listen to politically incorrect comedy (shout out to Doug Stanhope and his Deadbeat Hero album), read books and watch documentaries about historical wars and genocide. For fuck sake, I am a direct descendant of a Russian Jew who escaped Hitler's advance into the mother country! The list goes on and on.

But I am not a sociopath. Nor a psycho. I think about these things a lot. I wonder what causes people to become that way. I have all the right ingredients. The things done to me when I was a church boy is enough in itself to set me on a course of chaos and destruction, but the only person I chose to hurt and destroy in this life was/is myself. I have been extremely hard on me. I have been trying to kill myself via external choices my entire adult life. Things inside me are broken and bent and I hate myself because I can't figure out how to make it not so. I hide a lot, but I also love to socialize. It's human nature to want to be part of a group and be accepted. It's also human nature to hurt and abuse. I've hurt people too. I recently hurt several friends I knew in Oregon. One confided in me his secret and during one of my many drink nights, I blabbed it to someone else. I feel really lousy about it. Another trusted me as their best friend, shared everything with me as I did her, and I commenced to hurt her feelings during a phone call that I unwittingly answered in my pocket with things I was saying after not answering. It pains me when I think about it now after all this time. And the last is someone I allowed into my life on a level deeper than I was comfortable with. I will not say much about this person seeing how I know she's likely reading this, but she got closer than anyone and suffered the most in the end and I'll never forgive myself for it. I cursed at her out of unseen anger for no reason other than I wanted to be left alone. She witnessed the dark side that exists in me, in every human to a certain degree. And if you're reading this and thinking to yourself that darkness doesn't exist in you, I call bullshit. It's there, in some form or capacity, you simply haven't acknowledged it yet.

I write about these things to point out one thing really: that I carry great remorse over hurting people. Those who know me know this isn't my thing. I don't hurt people intentionally. I do, however, fuck up sometimes. I am, after-all, human, as much as I like to pretend I'm not. And the difference between a good person and a true sociopath is... acknowledgement, remorse and apology. I recently had a conversation with a friend who shared with me her awful life experience with a true sociopath. She didn't give me permission (nor did I ask for it) to share her story, but I'll chalk this one up to "never trust a writer" because anything you share can and may be used without permission because writers often feel the end justifies the means. I tried saving the screenshot texts to share (with her and his names blurred out), but I noticed they are hard to read so I'll transcribe them instead. For those of you who care to see what a true sociopath acts like in real life, just read the following break up texts between my friend and her boyfriend of a year and half:

Her: What are your unrealistic expectations?

Him: I dunno. I'm always unsatisfied when I wake up with someone. Always a question of "can I do better". I just want someone with the same hobbies tbh

Her: Like video games and traveling?

Him: Essentially

Her: I like both of those

Him: On a different level. I don't have patience. I don;t wanna teach someone.

Her: I don't travel much because of lack of money & time. I don't much care for your video games but I can sit for hours and play them

Him: I've lied to you too much. I don't want kids like ever. I formed myself on things I thought would make me more appealing to you. I am a lie to you.

Her: Then tell me the truth

Him: I never wanted kids. I never planned on marrying you. I just kept digging a deeper hole.

Her: Why? Why did you try so hard to make me like you?

Him: Because I live to be liked by people. Idolized. It makes me feel power. I have a fucked up complex. I don't care for others feelings as long as they're building me up. Right now that girl she's mad because I didn't answer her calls. And I'm stuck between "do I give up and continue playing all the games that I love, or make it up and pretend to be vulnerable?"

Her: You really are a sociopath aren't you?

Him: I dunno. Maybe

Her: You need help. I don't know if it will work, but you need it.

Him: (crying laughing emoji)

Her: Not even funny right now

Him: I don't care enough to get help. I just want to get through life.

Her: Just don't hurt anyone else.

Him: I can't.

Her: Be single and live your life fucking whoever you want

Him: I can't do that either

Her: Why?

Him: I don't know how to just get people like that. I have to convince them. Make them like me.

Her: Convince them of a one night stand

Him: I'm not that charming

Her: You can be

Him: I like the little relationships though

Her: You made me love you for a year and a half. I'm sure you can handle one night.

Him: I like having the strings

Her: You need to learn to do without. Why the charade with a new person?

Him: Because. I feel even more powerful here than with you

Her: You make me sick. I honestly want to throw up right now.

Him: Really?

Her: Yes

Him: How?

Her: How can you go that long just fucking with me. You knew what I wanted. You knew my goals and had no intention of participating in any of them.

Him: Don't tell anyone of this. Please.

Her: Why?

Him: Because I have a good reputation back home

Her: Not like I know anyone you're gonna fuck over

Him: You can't tell mom. You can't tell my friends or your friends because they know each other.

Her: Interesting. You fuck me over for a year and a half and now you need something from me. How ironic is that?

Him: I didn't fuck you over.

Her: What would you call it then?

Him: A rollercoaster

Her: You wasted a year and half of of my time. I could have been looking for my life partner. Fuck you and your rollercoaster.

Him: You're 20, you'll be fine.

Her: Screw off. Or maybe your new friend Rosa

Him: Rosie

Her: (eye roll emoji)

Him: I thought you cooled off

Her: Is this fun for you?

Him: Honestly?

Her: Yes, honestly. After a year of lies- yeah I'd like honesty

Him: It's not. Because I just lost you both and it kinda blows. But I've learned to look on the bright side so now I have more time to go to the gym, play games and shit

Her: Hmm both? And you said you weren't cheating on me.

Him: Karma lol. Honestly? I lied. The truth comes out now.

Her: How long?

Him: Ready?

Her: Yes. How many?

Him: That night you were super drunk and said you didn;t care, I had sex with that one girl

Her: Which one girl?

Him: When I got to Quantico and told you all about GG I was screwing her. And Rosie was kind of serious since April

Her: I fucking knew it.

Him: So almost a year. And three. Now you can hate me.

Her: I think I might throw up now.

Him: Does it feel better? Or hurt more? I like Rosie because she had more fucked up past than you and your cousin. Her grandpa raped her for years, but made her into really weird shit. It got me going. There's no reason for the other two other than I was shitfaced and wanted to see if I could.

Her: Any other truths you want to tell?

Him: Are you crying?

Her: Nope. You want to make me?

Him: Interesting. I like making people cry. I used to say bullshit to my mom to make her break down when I didn't have my way. You see manipulation is my game. That's why I took psychology to better understand how to break people down.

Her: So any other truths you want to tell?

Him: Your love language "touch" that's why I would refuse to cuddle or hold your hand for no reason. That was your own doing though.. you told me. I can't think of anything else.

Her: I thought I could trust you. My bad.

Him: So are you going to tell anyone? I mean there's nothing I can do about it but I'd prefer you not to.

So there you go, a true sociopath (seemingly born into it). The part where he talks about breaking down and manipulating his own mother makes me wonder how far back his fucked up nature goes? To the womb possibly? I don't know. My own childhood experience was pretty fucked up and I know the damage it caused in me, but even so, I am as far away from this guy as anyone could be. I could never say or think those thoughts about anyone, especially a friend or lover or family member. The level of apathy and cold blooded mindset this kid displays is a clear example of the darkly broken aspect of our species. Those murder videos I watch on the internet... this type of person does it. Those historical leaders who starved millions of their own citizens to death... this type of person does it. That kid, Randy Stair, who hated humanity and proved it by shooting his coworkers and himself to death in a Weis Market in Pennsylvania... this type of person does it. I am not this type of person.

But let's revisit the part of this blog where I called all you people out. The part where I said a certain degree of darkness exists in all of us. I already acknowledged it exists in me. I don't pretend it doesn't. The fact that my friend trusted me enough to share this and I in turn shared it on my blog causes me pause and concern. Am I performing yet another abuse of friendship? It's very possible. Did perceiving this prevent me from sharing it anyway? Not at all. I want to hurt this person who hurts others without remorse. I want him to suffer the nine gates of hell. I want to personally come back to Oregon, stalk him like a prey, and execute his eradication from society before he progresses into a more dangerous monster. But I am not a killer. I am, however, a writer. And even though I no longer live in Salem, Oregon, I am still part of this blog group that is read by many people who live there. My friend is a really good human and I'd bet a million dollars she won't ever call this sociopath out, but I'm not as nice and I have no qualms doing it for her. His name is Mateo Campbell and I am acting as judge and jury when I say he is an nonredeemable piece of shit and should be avoided at all cost.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this guy will evolve into a higher being and do great things during his time on planet earth. I've heard it said that all people can change. And so I ask you one more question, dear readers... what do you think? Are you comfortable knowing he's your neighbor? Does he worry you? Or am I running long against the seams? I have been known to do that from time to time.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

East Coast Fury

I have left Oregon. The Pacific Northwest is no longer my home and the snow covered mountains I grew so accustomed to seeing every day no longer punctuate my horizon. In December of last year I made the decision to move back east. I quit my job of ten years and said goodbye to dozens of friends I made in the decade that I lived there. It wasn't easy this time. Over the course of my life I have relocated many times and experienced many fare thee wells, all of which were relatively easy for me, but this last time around wasn't the same. Something changed. I think the man I was learning to become allowed himself to grow closer to the friends he made. The goodbyes were difficult and four months later I find myself missing them and thinking about all the fun times I had with everyone. Fuck all, I miss Oregon and my people.

So, what am I doing now?
Driving a big rig all over the place. Mostly up and down the east coast, but dispatch knows I'm willing to go anywhere in the country if the load pay is right. I bought this rig off my dad which means now I am a small business owner, which translates to: I am now adulting on expert level mode. I flipped my life completely in an opposite direction. I went from living a simple, stress free lifestyle to one that resembles an 800lb bluefin tuna fighting at the end of a deep sea line & hook. I feel like I bit off more than I can consume.

I'll explain.

I obtained my CDL (commercial drivers license) via a tour bus company 15 years ago when I lived in Pennsylvania. I used a shitty school bus to pass the driving test and then immediately started driving people all around the US and Canada on vacations in a 55' luxury coach tour bus. That was a fun time, not too stressful. After that I moved to Oregon where I became a garbage truck driver. Honestly, I've never had an easier job. Automatic straight truck on a set local route, nothing complex about it. For a tiny moment I learned how to drive a 10 speed semi hauling garbage to landfills and that was my first taste of driving a big rig, but little did I know what I'd be getting into later. Fast forward to now times.

I purchased my dad's 2009 ProStar International truck without ever having sat in it. I've never been a trucker. I had no idea what truckers do. When I got to PA my dad gave me a two week crash course on how to be a "real" truck driver. Suddenly I found myself immersed in a world that I did not understand. Real truck driving is nothing like I had ever experienced prior. Real truck driving is hard, harder than anything I've ever done. I'm now in my fourth month of driving and every day is still a challenge. My biggest hurdle by far was/is learning how to shift a 13 speed. I've been driving manual vehicles since I was 16 but that did nothing to prepare me for shifting a big rig. It's way different. I hate it.

My life is radically different now. I no longer get off work around 3 every day and then go play or explore or hang out with friends or drink or write poetry and stories. I don't get to do that stuff much anymore because trucking isn't just a job, it's an entire lifestyle. It occupies most of my time, day and night. And when I do finally get some downtime I have to use it to grab a shower and eat and sleep. I squeeze those things in when I can and if I have any time leftover, then I can pull out my laptop and write something or watch a movie or read a book. But honestly, I can feel the creative writer in me dying. I'm no longer living a free and exciting life filled with people and experiences and stories, so my inspiration is running out and so is my muse. I guess the good thing is that I'm drinking way less now. I used to drink every single night and now it's few and far between.

I don't have plans on turning this site into a trucker blog, but I'm sure from time to time (when I actually get time) I will be writing about trucking stuff since that's what's happening in my life now. I'm hoping to eventually settle into this and find a way to keep writing creatively. That last story that I started was exciting to me and I would love to jump back into it again. The characters are waiting for me. They have shit they want to do! It's weird to think that their lives depend completely on me. I can bring them to life on paper and make them do things or I can abandon them where they currently are and leave them dangling forever in limbo. Writers are gods, did you know that?

One last thing then I'll post this. One of my main reasons for moving home was to be close to family again. I have nephews and nieces whom barely know me and I want to be cool uncle Mick. I'm enjoying getting to know them and being a part of their lives. It's something I've kind of avoided my whole life. I've never lived close enough to be a solid part of my family and now I am and it feels good. I know what you're thinking and yes it kind of defeats my purpose of being present in their lives while being an over the road trucker, but I do get home to see them way more now than I did living 3,000 miles away. So stuff it!

Okay, that's all for now. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Short Story In Progress...

     The guys were kicking it out front of Grant's Bar & Grill, or the 'Grant', as they liked to call it. They sprawled along the sidewalk smoking cigarettes and watching traffic. Sometimes they'd shout at the lookers, the ones who's heads would pivot while passing. The carrying on would increase until the car would exit their view, and then they'd all calm down a bit and go back to harassing themselves or any stranger unfortunate enough to walk down their sidewalk. The Grant was a real piece of shit bar located on Sixth & Hubert, opposite side of town as all the PeeWees (white privileged). Far enough away, in fact, that the PeeWees could completely forget that anyone other than themselves existed. But the Roach Street Crew didn't give a shit about none of that, none of them. Fact, they didn't really care much about anything at all, except getting fucked up and running shit round the Grant.

     Bobby sat atop a newspaper stand while rolling one; the heels of his shoes kicking hard against the plexiglass door while he licked the paper of the finished joint and twisted it between his fingers. He held it up and inspected it from every angle. It was good. He glanced over at Two Step.
     "Here, ya dumb dengo, light it up!"
Two Step took the joint and removed a zippo from his pocket. Holding both up high, he thumbed the lighter to life and began singing a song known only to himself as he pranced down the sidewalk like a fag. Down to the end of the block and back up again. Down and back up, like a real fairy. Until his friends all became lit  and started booing and throwing street trash at him. He stopped his sing song when he got hit in the head with a crumpled soda can.
     "Jeezus, ya fucks!"
     "Just light the stick, ya homo. For chrisake."
The rest of the crew laughed and chimed in and continued hurling insults at their friend as they stepped in closer to form a semi circle while passing the joint around. Just then, a cop car turned in off Sixth and slow rolled its way down Hubert. The Roach's stared hard; their heads on pivot as the cruiser drove by. The cop eyeballed the crew equally hard; connecting faces with names and activities and smiling like a real asshole. When he reached the end of the block he quick flipped his siren and made a "whoop whoop" sound before exiting from view.
     "Ya get a load of that shit?" exclaimed Bobby as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "Which one of you fucks ordered bacon-wrapped chicken?"
The group all laughed as they finished the joint and relocated back inside of the Grant.

     Grant was in his sixties. Retired veteran. Hated everyone. Used his returning home money to open up a bar where he could spend his dying days serving up fucks like these. Though the age gap was considerable, he didn't mind 'em much. Matter of fact, Grant kind of liked having them around. Reminded him of when he was their age. Still fit, not giving a shit, and ready to kill. Two wars, three ex wives and seven children later... Grant was the explosive type who could blow at any moment, depending on the prevailing inner city winds. The Roaches sauntered in and piled onto old bar stools. They slapped their hands against the bar repeatedly and the commotion caused other patrons to turn and look their way. For the most part, everyone knew everyone here, but there were a few outsiders who watched the young crew tentatively and with caution as they continued to bang the bar and yell at the bartender.
     "Why you even have that goddamn song on the box, Grant?" (American Pie played from a jukebox along the corner of the furthest wall).
     "Hey, how long we gotta wait to get served in this dive, Grant?"
     "As long as your mutha waited last night!"
The crew laughed. Others didn't. Grant began pouring beers and sliding them one by one across the bar into waiting hands. One by one, the Roaches sang praises unto his name as they lifted sloshing beer mugs.
     "Graaaant is the ant of my eye!"
     "It's apple of my eye, you ghetto goat!"
     "Whichever fruit... I don't... aw, fuck off anyhow."
More laughter. On the opposite side of the bar, nearest to the bathrooms, the pool table was being abused by a couple in love. Between shots, they would caress and kiss and dry hump against the rail as though their next shot depended on it greatly. The woman wore a skirt that continuously needed pulling down. Her thong panties.. orange.. on display like her own imperfections. Her man stood around 6 foot and wore a muscle shirt and jeans. He looked like the front cover of a magazine. The Roaches spun on their chairs and watched while the two continued making piss poor shots at the table.
     Grant surmised the future way of things and leaned in. "None of your shit tonight, fellas. Please. I've not got the energy."

     Pop Tart was the first to stand. As he started walking past his crew a foot crept out and tripped him up, sending him sprawling. He regained his balance and verbally terrorized his friend while simultaneously laughing. He grabbed his dick through his pants and began thrusting his hips against Bobby's leg. Bobby punched him in the nuts and shoved him off. Pop Tart shot them all the bird and continued walking toward the billiards area. He set his beer down on a table and fished a smoke out; his eyes never leaving the hot blonde's ass. Even after state law forbid smoking in all public and private establishments, the Grant continued giving the Man the finger by allowing his patrons to smoke wherever they damn well pleased. He had been heard screaming, on several occasions, "Just let them gov't pricks come in here and tell me how t'run my business! I fucking hope they try!"

     Cover boy noticed quickly that he had a set of eyes on his girl. In between piss poor shots, he sized up Pop Tart and watched as the guy's friends all commented loudly from the bar, egging him on. It was no longer safe here and he knew it, but little could be done at this point. He was now a mark.

     Pop Tart crushed his smoke against a beer coaster and moved over to the rack of cue sticks attached to the wall. He pulled down the first one he saw and started rolling it around in his hand and talking sexy to it. He held it flat against his cheek, the long end hovering way out into open air, while licking it with his tongue and saying all the naughty things he wanted to do to it.
     "I'm gonna shove you so far up my pussy, baby, oh yeah. Gonna bury you deep."
The couple immediately ceased their sexuality and traded it for an expert level of professionalism that far exceeded the world champ players seen on TV. They tried pretending Pop Tart wasn't there. They tried so hard, but their attempt was halted by a bent over bare ass walking backwards toward their table. Pop Tart had dropped his pants and underwear and was now shuffling at them while smacking his ass cheeks with the pool cue and yelling, "Fuck me real good hard for the money shot!"


     In a last ditch quick effort call, the cover boy decided for a brawn approach to solving the situation he found himself in and kicked Pop Tart hard in the ass sending him toppling over and into several chairs and without hesitation, he jumped in and began beating him with his cue stick, but within seconds the bar cleared and The all the boys were in on the action. The first wave of fists and kicks knocked the cover boy off of Pop Tart. In a scramble to avoid blows, he lost his cue stick and ended up on his back out in the middle of the bar floor. He curled up instinctively as a storm of hardened feet reigned down on his body. Ribs began to crack, teeth loosened, fingers broke, as the Roaches continued their torment. In a moment of strength, cover boy managed to stand up and even swing a few while his short-skirt girlfriend screamed and clawed at them from beside the pool table, but the Roaches made quick work of him, promptly knocking him unconscious with two solid whacks from his dropped cue stick.

     Blood flowed from multiple cuts on his face and head and his eyes were already swollen shut. His jaw went off in a weird angle as unconscious breathing gurgled through. The girlfriend went into full-on freak out mode and jumped onto her lover like a shield showing up late in battle, crying hysterically and slinging curses and kicking at shins with her high heels. She moved like a fish at the end of a hook. The Roaches looked down and laughed and Pop Tart, having recovered from his pantless debacle, walked over and gave one last kick for nothing, but as unbalanced as he was, missed his intended target.

     "That's enough now, you cunty runts! Take your niggerish shit outside!" Grant screamed from his side of the bar, slammed fists and snorted. A crop of grey hair tossed to and fro while his torso trembled into action. Grant would always carry on a lot, but always from his side of the bar. Everything that occurred beyond it was not really his business. He considered it part of the turf war. The battle zone. And he wasn't in charge of that. He manned the booze and the lights and the shotgun he had hidden beneath the register was for the thieving criminals, not for breaking up fights. So he'd just yell and carry on and tell everyone his opinion, but never back much of it up. Fact: he'd already fought his wars twice over and wanted no part in them now.

     One by one, each Roach started to step away from the hot blonde whose tits were was now shaking while she cried and sobbed next to her unconscious boyfriend. The bar sure could become a place for hot torso action in a hurry. Bobby was the first to walk away and as he did he made a clicking sound with his tongue and tapped Pop Tart on the shoulder and Pop Tart tapped Mickey on the shoulder as he walked away and Mickey tapped Two Step and Two Step tapped Fitz on his shoulder and the whole group stepped over to the bar to finish their beers before walking back out into the street. They slapped each other good and bounced around feinting punches and carried on quite a bit as they bid Grant farewell.
     "We'll see you later, ya grumpy stump!"
     "Yeah, why you gotta be so crotchety? We barely got to know the fella!"
     "Save us our stools!"
They laughed and went out the door and left Grant surveying the mess left behind.


     "Ya'll see the eye pop out his head?" Fitz said as the crew made their way down Hubert Street. They moved together like an unrehearsed street performance, each at a unique speed, with varying levels of attention to their forward direction. Two Step dragged a beer coaster along the building walls as they walked. The thin, rounded pad of pressed cardboard bent and flicked as it ran across gaps, indentations, and depressions, giving a pfffft pfffft sound as pieces of itself flaked off leaving a trail behind them.
     "His eye didn't pop out his head. What the hell are you even saying?" asked Bobby. Bobby walked out in front, like always, his eyes darting from faces he saw in windows to other noticeable things happening along the way. He memorized locations of doors. He knew every alley and cross street extension and just about every bar with a backdoor leading into them. For the past four years, Bobby remained the unelected leader of the Roach Street Crew and all the other members remained silently okay with it. He was their de facto frontman; the guy who could brain his way out of most things, but also had the scrap needed to handle what couldn't be handled smartly.
     "I'm just sayin, it looked like his eye popped out. From where I was standing," Fitz replied. "Eyes do pop out yannow," he added.
     "Cheesy crust, your mutha musta butt-fucked a dalmation to have a dip-shit like you for a son, you spotted mutt," Two Step badgered. Everyone laughed, including Fitz.

     The boys continued walking. It was nearing seven Thursday evening and the city was becoming alive with the buzzing energy of a horde of other humans exploring the myriad local businesses with open signs in their storefront windows. Families entered restaurants, couples went into bars, women exited one clothing shop only to immediately enter another, men disappeared into strip clubs never to be seen again. The city life was kicking into gear and the Roaches were just getting started. A commotion could be heard across the street and the gang all turned and looked. On the sidewalk opposite of them, about a block back, an elderly Asian couple began arguing. The man, who appeared to be in his sixties (according to Asian aging standards, but really, who can honestly tell) was wearing a white apron over black slacks and an olive colored dress shirt. Grasped in his right hand, which was currently held high above his head and being used as an exclamation to his sentences, was a three foot beef stick. The end wobbled back & forth in the air as the man waved it angrily at the woman, who in turn was giving it right back to the man. Together, the obnoxious level of their verbal assault rang out like a war song being played at high speed. Foreign sounds and syllables bounced and echoed off walls as passerbys paused to watch and listen.
     "They sure get animated when provoked," Fitz remarked. Bobby and the others nodded. "Sounds like pots and pans being thrown everywhere." Everyone laughed except Mickey. He stood with his hands buried in his pockets and his back pressed up against the wall, not really paying attention. Bobby noticed.
     "Mickey, what's got you buggin?"
Mickey shrugged and looked off in an opposite direction. Bobby stepped over and got right in his face; their noses nearly touching. He stood there, staring deep into Mickey's eyes. The exchange of warm breath could be felt on their faces. Mickey stared back... hard.
     Bobby clicked his tongue and whispered, "Hey Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind... hey Mickey."

Mickey cracked a smile and shoved Bobby away. "Back the hell off, you lunatic."
Bobby laughed and turned back to the action. The crazy Asians were still bickering in the street; the beef stick still flopping obscenely in the air.
     "This is ridiculous. They've went through the alphabet a hundred times already," Bobby remarked.

     The rest of the crew watched as Bobby crossed the street and made his way over to the arguing Asians. Without hesitation, he grabbed the beef stick from the old man's hand and started bouncing like a gorilla back across the street while waving the meat up and down with one arm, beating his chest with the other and making loud gorilla sounds. The couples' bickering ceased immediately as they watched gorilla boy make off with their beef. The old man stood completely frozen, dumbstruck by what just occured, but the old lady snapped into action and chased Bobby out into the street yelling foreign expletives at him. Bobby spun around to face her and the woman stopped dead in her tracks. They stared at one another for a brief moment before Bobby held the beef stick out in front of his crotch with both hands, wiggling it as if inviting her to take it.  
     The angry Asian lady immediately lunged for it, but with the quickness of an NFL kicker, Bobby punted the piece of meat as hard as he could. It split in two: one half went flipping wide right while the other half soared high into the air and made a rubber slapping sound as it bounced and smacked along the city street. The cacophony from the original argument ended and was replaced by laughter from the Roach Street Crew. Bobby looked down at the oriental and grinned. She looked around at everyone looking at her and then over at her husband who still stood motionless in defeat. Having had enough, she hissed disapprovingly at Bobby, yelled a few more quick curses and retreated back to her husband. Bobby replied by clicking his tongue and sauntered back across the street to rejoin his crew who greeted him with high fives and shoulder slaps and a bottle of whiskey.

     "Dude, did you see the look on Mr. Miyagi's face when you nabbed his beef?" asked Pop Tart excitedly. "He just stood there like a dumb fuck... no clue what to do!" Everyone was laughing. Bobby stole a quick glance over his shoulder as though to make sure the situation had indeed ended, and then turned back to his crew.
     "Alright... alright... calm yer nuts, okay? How about we go see Miss Tits. I feel like getting into it tonight," Bobby said as he took a long pull from the whiskey bottle, capped it and chucked it over to Fitz. Fitz unscrewed the cap, drank it dry, then tossed the empty bottle far down an alley. The faint sound of it shattering into pieces was drowned out by the group's audible excitement of heading over to Miss Tit's place. The night was about to get sideways.


     The one hundred year old apartment high rise loomed over the surrounding buildings by six stories and outlived the oldest of them by at least thirty years.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Red Glow

"You're the master of whisperers, you're supposed to know everything" - King Joffrey Baratheon

The other night I decided to roam the city streets after hours. During the day, downtown Salem is a stale place, void of anything inspiring to me, but at night it becomes an enchanting forest haunted by the hungry, welcoming to the weary, and foreboding to those who live their lives only in the daylight. I walked up and down each narrow alley, casually, driven by a desire to locate the source of my own existence. I investigated the dimly lit nooks and crannies like a rodent would looking for crumbs. I stood silently, with my face upturned toward the dark sky, while a cool drizzle covered my naked head. I passed by several others; humans of the night lunging in and out of the shadows like ghosts in the making. Those of us who dare to explore the sadness of a sleeping city enter an agreement with each other: the randomness of the night becomes our play thing; our temporary home. And it is up to us to take what we discover and bring it into the daylight for the rest of you to see. Treasures found. Cryptic messages. The fragmented clues of the unborn. It's all there just beneath the surface, past the shadows, echoing within the night. As I was about to leave and travel back home I was greeted by a lone woman, bent inward into her own madness, ranting loudly at a store front. While part of me feels a little guilty for recording her, another part of me is completely fascinated by the human mind, especially when it cracks into a chaos that resembles spilled poetry. Here is what she had to say:


“The heart your father gave me, it’s hollow. My chest is dead like a cracked carcass. I can’t feel this; it’s not going to do anything for me. I have to be loved. I have to love. I don’t have a mate, that’s disgusting. I don’t know what you want. Ya’ll bit me on my scrotums, everything. I needed those. These men and me. I don’t know what you want. Fifteen years they’ve been saying that. I love sin. All these ladies, I don’t know what you want. All these blind ladies that you’re supposed to be singing to. To attract them to you. So I can be loved. Love. I don’t know what you want. You’re invincible; I need you physically. I told you I don’t and I don’t need you and I don’t want you. Invincible. You can’t tell me if you’re going to fucking stay alive or not. I needed you. Write that one down. And that’s not me, I do it natural. I already protected and sealed these baby boys. Literally. I already protected and sealed everyone. You’re trading me. My water is gone because you put a great prostitute on me. She’s eating me dead. Your crumbled bitch. I don’t know what you want. You’re sinning. You can’t tell me which one of you’s are gonna stay alive, that’s my decision. I don’t know what you want. I want your father’s musical heart beating in my big chest with my big breasts. I didn’t say that. My hands. Where’s my bat hands with my red glowing fingertips? My healing power I have to love. I have to. Now I’m dying with three hundred billion people taking it. We’ve already been in four to five boxes. I’m suffocating. I know how I need it, it’s pertinent.  Burgeoning. I don’t know what you want, you’re invincible. I think you’re being judged from ships you’re shrinking me. I can’t collect myself the way you wanted me to. It had to be done one step at a time; that’s how I needed it and now I can’t do anything. What am I gonna be? What am I gonna be, demons? What am I gonna be? I can’t hang out with my family. What am I gonna do? My back is fucking broken. We haven’t fucking… we’re tense as fucking hell man. It’s not funny. You don’t fucking do that to me. And then spread it out. What about me? There’s a bunch of old ladies in here. Look at what you did to me. I had already done all that. I don’t know. These people they have family members. Friends. It’s not only the people in the pictures. You gotta judge. Step in front of the thrones and get judged.”

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Hearts (a short story)

     "I haven't been to my blog page in some time. Heck, I can hardly remember what it looks like. I'm not even sure if I ever renewed my domain name, so for all I know my site is now just a broken web link lost among countless others. I think my last entry was a short story about an ugly bartender who blew one of her customers during a smoke break," Harold said while taking an unusual length of time sorting through the cards held in his hand. The remaining three people at the table just sat there watching and listening, impatiently.
     "I met a girl on Tinder," Harold continued. "A local writer here in town. Published three novels all on her own! I was impressed right off, you see. We spent our entire first encounter discussing favorite authors and books. We explored the ins and outs of what it's like to self publish. She was a deep well of knowledge and experience in that area. A real turn on, you see."
     Harold finished arranging his cards and looked up. "Are we ready?" he asked while peering around the table. His fingers were already sliding a card up from his fan.
     "If you got the 2 of clubs, just lay it down already. For crying out loud, Harold," the man sitting across from him said, the fingers of his free hand tapping the table top.
     Harold slid the card out and laid it down onto the center of the table. It was the 2 of clubs. "You don't have to be cross, Henry. Everyone here is just trying to enjoy themselves. You get so crooked sometimes, I swear."
     Henry huffed, smacked his fan of cards down and leaned angrily away from the table. His face reddened and constricted beneath a full set of salt and pepper hair, causing old facial lines and crevices to scrunch together as he shot a hard stare at Harold.
    "You take forever!" Henry bellowed. He continued, "You sit there messing with your cards, telling your stupid little sex stories that none of us want to hear! You hold us captive, you son of a bitch!" Henry took a moment and calmed himself before muttering, "This is worse than the war, I swear" and motioned for the player next to him to go. She laid down a king of hearts. "Oh, for Christ's sake! You don't have ANY clubs at all?"
     She shook her head no while hiding behind the wall of cards in her hand. Henry smacked down an ace of clubs. The next player laid down the 10. It was back to Harold.

     "It's not like I always talk about sex, Henry. You just selectively hear it. I talk about all sorts of stuff. Interesting things! I'm living life, you see, and I enjoy sharing my experiences with the table. I look forward to card night." Harold had a way of over-using the phrase 'you see' and it infuriated Henry. Every time the words were spoken it was like a knife twisting into old Henry's side, and it made him writhe within his chair. Harold continued, "And by the way, I never said I had sex with that woman from Tinder. If you must know, we didn't even make it past our third encounter. She was sort of stuck on herself and I don't think I could get past it."
     Harold never called a date a date, they were always 'encounters', and he encountered women often. He was 42, divorced twice, and had recently discovered the world of online dating while reading an internet article on the Huffington Post. Within a week of reading the article he had created three separate profiles on three of the most popular free dating sites. The daily inundation of BINGS, BEEPS, and BLIPS from his cell phone, alerting him of new messages from women, were a welcome spark in his life. In the pre-online dating days, Harold kept his phone on silent mode because it annoyed him, but now every alert he received could be heard by one and all. They were his audible badges of honor and he wore them proudly.
     And my, how old Henry hated them.
     "Turn off your goddamn cell while we're at cards, Harold! I'm telling you for the last time, turn it off!" Henry's anger increased with each new hand that was dealt. The fact that he even allowed this forty year old boy seated across the table to get to him, incensed him further. Memories of a long, hard life flooded back. "Little shits like this don't know," he thought to himself. He could feel his old bones ache as his temper swelled. He clenched his free hand into a fist, then relaxed it. His eyes focused on the queen of spades in his hand and he let out an indiscernible string of curses. The lady to his left spoke out.
     "Henry, it's alright. None of us here mind, now do we?" she asked while glancing at her table pleadingly. By this time the attention of other tables in the Activity Hall had already turned in their direction. The bridge table was nearest to them and the players seated there made no effort in hiding their disgust. Repeated glances and whispering made that obviously clear.
     "Sure, Henry, we just want to play cards," the other lady added shyly.
     Harold's cell phone beeped in two quick successions. Henry burst out of his chair and reached across the table for it, but Harold quickly grabbed onto his wrist before he had the chance to take it away.
     "Let go of my phone, Henry. LET IT GO."
     "There are women at this table, you inconsiderate little shit!"
     "And that is relevant how? Now let go of my damn phone, Henry!"
     "I will not."
     The sound of chairs sliding could be heard as a few men at other tables stood up. A few women gasped audibly. The two men at the hearts table remained locked in battle; one standing, the other still seated, their arms competing over a phone. The two lady players sat perfectly erect with cards still fanned in their hands, unmoved by the scene playing out before them. Whether from fright or uncertainty of what to do, they remained motionless like two atomic bomb test mannequins waiting for the blast.
     The devastating blast came via Henry and caught everyone completely by surprise, including himself. As the anger continued building and his 71 year old muscles continued to engage in the prolonged tug-of-war match he unwittingly placed himself into, his body began to turn on him. His traitorous leg muscles quivered under the intense stress and he felt as though he might collapse at any moment. His upper torso trembled as his arm continued pulling at that damn phone. His mind was sharp and strong and continued sending commands to his failing body, but his stomach muscles were now beginning to bail on him. His back turned to sweat and he could feel his heart pumping fiercely inside his chest. His thoughts drifted momentarily to his latest medical exam and to his doctor warning him, nay, urging him to avoid strenuous activity due to the weakened condition of his heart. The words struck hard and snapped Henry back into the moment. His chest burned and clenched. Several gentlemen his age were now standing right there at his table. They were mouthing things and using their hands for punctuation, but his hearing had been replaced by a long drawn out tone that sounded like number 3 pressed on a cell phone.
     Ah, the cell phone! His mind jerked back to attention and his eyes refocused onto Harold's phone. He still wanted it. He wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted his whole life. In one final, visceral attempt at victory, Henry gave it everything he had and pulled hard against Harold's hold on him. There was a a terribly loud popping sound as Harold's grip failed and he watched his cell phone slip away within Henry's hand. The popping sound continued as Henry's newly freed body weight sent him sprawling backwards against the wall. He hit with a loud thud and slid down to his ass where he sat in a heap, breathing uncontrollably. As the popping sound ceased and his senses began to return, Henry now noticed the disgusted looks on people's faces as they slowly stepped away from him. The floor suddenly felt like warm mashed potatoes beneath his butt and the smell of shit instantly overtook him. The popping sound happened twice more as he felt the last few squirts of excrement exit his bowels and enter his pants. He heard one of the ladies at his card table mutter, "Oh dear, now he's gone and done it." Harold sat motionless at the table. He also sat phoneless.
     Still lying on the floor in his own evacuated shit, Henry looked down at the cell phone in his hand and smiled. The smile turned to a long drawn out laugh as he realized he had won. And at the height of his victory celebration, the cell phone beeped three times in succession. And it was Howard's turn to smile. And Howard's smile quickly turned to laughter. The rest of the activity room grew uncomfortably quiet as Henry reached down, undid his belt and unzipped his pants. Harold stopped laughing as he watched Henry slowly and methodically take the cell phone and slide it into the depths of his pants.

                                                                  THE END.

Friday, July 10, 2015

Rags To Riches (a short story)

(WARNING: Explicit Content)  

 It was 8:37 and she still hadn't shown. Kenneth sighed, looked up from his phone and watched as the bartender made her usual swipes across the bar with a damp terrycloth towel. It was knotted up into a ball and looked stupid in her hand as she slid it back and forth in figure eight motions, cleaning nothing. Her half-ass attempt at cleaning infuriated him as he took another drink and continued watching. She appeared disinterested in life. The clothes she wore were trademarks of hard times and her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail as to avoid any effort at making herself look pretty. Forty years of alcohol had not been kind to her face and her attitude towards customers was irreverent at best. Basically, this bitch was one bad moment away from losing her proverbial shit.
     "I can't take it anymore. You're killing me here, Janice."
     Janice set her balled up rag aside and walked over. "Whattaya need there, Kenny boy? Nutha fountain?"
     "No, I do not need a 'nutha fountain'." Kenneth said using a girl's voice as he pronounced 'nutha fountain' mockingly. This was exclusively a Janice phrase and it too infuriated him. For as long as he'd been coming here she had always referred to the pouring of beer as pouring a fountain. "What I need is for you to use that rag as a normal person would. Can you do that, Janice? Can you not knot the rag up when you clean? I mean, is it even possible?"
     Janice glanced over at the rag. It was still balled up tight. She looked back at Kenneth.
"You think you got it all figured out, donchya. You're one of those smarty fart wise asses who think they're better than everyone else. Ain't ya?" Janice walked back over and picked up the rag and slowly unraveled it. "Well lemme tell you sumthin, Kenny boy. I got your number, mother fucker. Yeh, that's right. Every night you sit there in that bar seat drinking alone, and every night I watch you pretend to text people on your expensive little smart phone there, hoping to avoid anyone noticing just how alone you are. And tonight you got stood up again. That's the third time in two weeks. You think I'm too stupid to notice things? Well you're wrong, asshole. And I can clean this goddamn elbow rest however I want. You hear me?"
She walked down to the far end of the bar and started cleaning again. Kenneth watched as she swiped back and forth lazily, this time with the rag spread out flat like a normal person would. He turned and stared at his beer. He looked down at his phone and pressed the home button... zero new text messages. He opened his message history and scrolled through the texts that Rachel had sent him. He read them all, it didn't take long. She spoke in abbreviated thoughts and kept her intentions hidden well. Their correspondence played out like a bingo hall romance. Each message was neatly trimmed of any importance and all nonessential letters were omitted for sake of brevity. He re-read her last text that said she'd meet him at the bar at 7. She added a sideways smiley face and the words ‘can’t wait’ with an exclamation point.
Frustrated, he exited their message archive and opened his dating app. After logging in he navigated to her profile and looked at her collection of pictures again. She was gorgeous. Her complexion and make-up was perfect in every pic, as was the long black hair that hung straight down around her face, the ends of which just brushed the top of her ample breasts. In one pic she even bent forward and pursed her red lips which opened up her cleavage for all the online dating world to see. Kenneth sat staring at the digital picture for some time. He focused on the curvature of her tits and how her skin rounded backwards into her blouse, gently disappearing into darkness. He reached down and adjusted his pants to make room for his growing erection. He imagined himself on top of her naked body, lost in a moment of misfired passion and pent up sexual energy. His lips formed a little O as he pretended to suck on her nipple. His excitement grew.
“Hey lover boy, how bout a nutha fountain?” Janice asked abruptly, appearing before him unexpectedly.
Startled, Kenneth looked up. Janice stood over him with the cleaning rag draped over her arm, popping her gum, her eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his cell phone. Embarrassed, Kenneth hit the power button and the screen went dark. He looked back up at her.
“Janice, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, dawlin’. Ask away.” She set her rag down and leaned onto the bar as though legitimately interested in what he was about to say. Her low cut shirt relaxed and opened up, exposing perky breasts held tight by a turquoise colored bra. Leaning on crossed-over elbows, Janice chewed her gum unromantically and stared at Kenneth while waiting for him to speak. Her make-up appeared to have been applied in an extreme hurry and with complete disregard to beautification. Her eyeliner was thick and her mascara chunky which gave the impression of a woman trying to paint over two eyes that held dark secrets for too long. The color of her lipstick didn’t match the thick layer of blush on her cheeks.
Kenneth took all this in and then spoke.
“Janice, do you ever get… lonely? I mean, not here at work because obviously you’re never really alone here, but you know… out there?” He tilted his head and nodded towards the exit.
Janice stopped chewing her gum and smiled.
“You realize that’s the first serious question you ever asked me before? You been coming here for what, a year now? And through all that time all you ever do is sit there in that stool pining over girls who never show up. And giving me shit about it too, I might add. Every time you get stood up you take it out on me, you realize that? Listen, lover boy, real magic ain’t found in them fake bitches inside that silly phone,” Janice said while pointing. “Those types of girls drive up in their perfect little cars with Dutch Princess stickers in the windows, take one look at this place, and leave. Most of ‘em don’t even sit in the parking lot long enough to turn off the ignition. Those girls can’t even afford the monthly payments on the cars they choose that make them feel better about themselves; cars that they wear like expensive shoes. And here you sit in this beat-up bar, night after night, dressed to impress, waiting for something magical to happen.”
She stood up and removed the empty pint glass from the soggy coaster.
“Can I pour you a nutha fountain?” she asked again, this time in a loud crow.
Kenneth nodded and watched her retrieve a new glass from a plastic drying rack. She turned to the pour station and pulled on the tap. Looking over her shoulder she continued, “Listen, Kenny, there’s a reason you choose this place and not the next bar up the street. Only you can know that reason. Just look around, what do you see?” She turned back just in time to finish the pour. As the foamy head crept up she leaned in and blew it off until everything settled, then turned and placed the beer in front of him.
“There ya go, lover boy, a fresh fountain for your worries. That one’s on me,” she said and walked over to a new patron who just sat down.
Kenneth grabbed his beer and repositioned himself on the bar stool so he could people watch while he drank. Scotter the Otter was standing at the juke box navigating the touch screen menu, his pool cue held tightly in his left hand. His skin tight clothing and greasy slick-backed hair were the reason behind his nickname, but he liked to think it was the way he deftly ran a pool table. The ability to fluidly sneak balls around the others and sink them into pockets with ease was his claim to fame and there wasn’t a single person in the place that could out shoot him. Most of the time he’d just practice running tables all by himself since nobody liked losing to him, but every once in awhile an outsider would venture in and Scotter the Otter was quick to offer up a game.
Danielle always sat next to the pool table where Scotter the Otter was playing. She liked watching him bend over to take his shots; his buttocks stretched his tight fitting pants in a seeming effort to escape them. She was always joined by one or two regulars of the opposite sex; she never sat alone. She enjoyed the company of men, maybe a little too much, and unbeknown to her her nickname was “Well, Fuck” because she was as big as a whale and really liked to fuck. Tonight she sat at her table entertaining three possible suitors, one of which was her ex. He was either too stupid or too drunk to comprehend the current situation, or the fact that she had made quite a scene just the other night when she dumped his ass in front of everyone for not being able to ‘get it up’. And in the blink of an eye his nickname had switched from Half Bow to Half Mast, just like that.
Kenneth chuckled as he replayed the break-up scene in his memory and continued to look around. Most of the regulars were already here tonight as well as many outsiders who were lured in by the Live Music banner on display out front. The place was filling up fast. Every time the door opened he would quickly look to see if it was Rachel showing up late, and every time it wasn’t, his disappointment grew a little more. He checked his phone again… zero messages. He looked at the time… 9:07. He was now officially stood up. Again.
Feelings of dejection started to overcome him as two girls suddenly appeared from nowhere and squeezed their way next to him, pushing for a spot at the bar so they could order some drinks. Kenneth immediately picked up his phone and pretended to be texting someone. The girls were already a bit buzzed from where ever they just came from and giggled together playfully while holding onto one another’s arms. One of the girls bumped into Kenneth and apologized to which he replied “no problem” without even looking up. Janice walked over and took their drink order.
“Whatta ya having, ladies?”
“Two Bud Lites and two lemon drops, please.” The girls replied in unison.
“Two fountains and two sucker punches, coming right up.” Janice spurted back.
Janice reached across the bar and pressed the off button on the phone in Kenneth’s hand. He looked up angrily. “The magic ain’t in there, lover boy, so stop pretending it is,” she said and walked away. When she got to the pouring station she looked back over her shoulder, nodded towards the two girls standing next to him and shot him a ‘what are ya waiting for’ look. Kenneth shook his head stubbornly and Janice sneered. Upon her return she set all the drinks down and tallied the amount.
“That’ll be sixteen bucks there, Double Mint Twins.” Looking at Kenneth, Janice continued, “Say, do either of you girls happen to drive a brand new Nissan Pathfinder with terrific rims and a pink Dutch Princess sticker in the window?”
“I drive a new Monterro Sport with a pink sticker!” the girl closest to Kenneth excitedly replied.
Janice smiled. “Say, have you met my friend Kenny? He just bought you this round.”
Kenneth shot her an extremely disapproving look but quickly concealed it as the two girls turned toward him. In pure drunken showmanship, they both fondled Kenneth on his arm and shoulder, thanking him protrusively while slightly slurring their gratitude. They were young and pretty and their purses glimmered from all the sequins. Their make-up and hair was perfect and the clothes they wore matched that of Kenneth’s. The three of them were definitely dressed to impress.
“That was really nice of you!”
“Yeah that was, thank you! This place is sort of ghetto. You come here often?”
“Do you know what type of music will be playing?”
“Hip-hop I hope. Oh god, look at what she’s wearing…”
“Oh, that’s just nasty.”
“Gawd, that girl is busted.”
“So is the bartender. Look at her skirt… it doesn’t even match her top. And her stockings have runs in them!”
“Do you come here often?”
“There isn’t a single guy in here worth fucking.”
The two girls went on and on complaining about this and that, judging everyone and laughing at their underprivileged, bar-going counterparts. Kenneth simply sat there listening, observing, saying nothing. His eyes moved down their bodies as he checked out their exquisite legs exposed by short skirts that fit tightly, showing off the curves of their asses. He wondered if they even bothered wearing panties. He chuckled as he compared them to Well, Fuck and considered how these two girls were basically cut from the same mold, only theirs was five sizes smaller. Their tight-fitting v-neck tops revealed the young breasts beneath, enticing stares from every corner of the bar as they constantly giggled and touched each other teasingly. They enjoyed being the center of everyone’s attention. Kenneth felt angered as he watched them down the drinks which he got tricked into paying for. As hot as these girls were, he had no interest. After awhile, they too lost interest and left the bar without so much as a goodbye. Kenneth turned back around in his bar stool and faced his beer.
“So, lover boy, did ya score a few numbers?” Janice asked as she lifted his beer and swiped with her balled up cleaning rag.
Kenneth stared at the knotted rag in her hand. “Goddammit, Janice, you and that stupid fucking rag!” was all he could say. She stared back at him.
“I take that as a no?” Listen, it’s not my fault they weren’t your type. Hell, they looked your type.”
Kenneth shot her another look of disapproval. Janice yelled at the other bartender that she was taking a smoke break and turned back to Kenneth.
“Meet me around back behind the smoking area. Use that door over there,” she said pointing and disappeared through the swinging kitchen door.


Out back, Janice stood leaning against a stack of boxes smoking a cigarette. Off to the side a door opened and Kenneth’s head appeared. He looked around, saw Janice, and slowly made his way over next to her. She had her free arm tucked under her smoking arm and a jacket draped over her bare shoulders. She looked like an over-aged hot mess of a woman, but Kenneth didn’t seem to care. She motioned for him to sit on the stack of pallets next to her, which he did. She moved directly in front of him so that they were eye to eye. Still smoking, she reached forward with her free hand, unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. She played with it in her hand for a minute, rolling it around and squeezing it until it became hard, then she leaned forward and began sucking. She held her lit cigarette off to the side while she worked it, taking an occasional break from Kenneth’s cock to take a drag, then going right back to business. Smoke billowed out from Kenneth’s crotch as Janice continued sucking and exhaling to completion. After he climaxed, she stood, turned, and spit. Kenneth remained seated, immobilized and panting heavily while she finished the remaining drag of her cigarette. Having finally regained his composure, Kenneth zipped up.
“My face is numb,” he said rubbing his cheeks.
“Good,” replied Janice as she snuffed out the butt on the pallet he was sitting on. She turned to go back inside and as she reached the corner she stopped and looked back over her shoulder and said, “A sixteen dollar blow-job from a 47 year old alcoholic bartender on her smoke break… now that’s magical, lover boy. Come back inside; I’ll pour ya a nutha fountain.”

                         THE END.