One passed out on the sofa; one dancing
like a fool, his shirt off; one clutching the remote
for dear life as the Cartoon Network flashes across
a big screen TV; and the other, the youngest in this
rotten bunch sitting in the corner of the living room
nursing a beer patiently waiting for his turn, biding
his time.
“What the fuck am I doing here?” I mumble
as the center of our attention, a big loud drunk woman,
hops onto her dining room table with a Japanese Kitana
sword, strips off her blouse and begins to gyrate to
an old Van Halen tune cranking from a real nice sound
system. Hot for teacher indeed. 1:30 in the morning
and blasting with total disregard to the neighbors in
the surrounding complex.
At first, before I got here, it was just
me she wanted at this dive in Pasadena on East Colorado
Boulevard. Blurry-eyed, very much so. It was she and
I holding hands and walking toward the exit when she
says, “Let’s get some more boys, make this
a real fuckin’ party.”
Right there I should have walked, but since I was
drunker than normal—and that’s saying something—and
because I wanted to take the next step in a Bukowski
shoe, I say, “Okay, cool.”
So I’m careening down California Boulevard
near Cal Tech. The woman is next to me, while an ex-con,
it turns out, sits in the back. They’re exchanging
DUI stories. This after we picked up a case of beer
from 7-11.
“You know,” Ex-Con says, “I can
go to jail just by riding in the back seat here. Parole
violation.”
“Interesting,” I say and lock eyes with
him in the rearview mirror. The woman is singing and
hopping on her seat.
“Ain’t gonna happen tonight, bro,” I
say, “I’m the best drunk driver in the city.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the woman cuts in, “Sure
you are. Just shut up and get us back to my place. And
remember, we’re gonna party up. That’s
it. I’m not fucking anybody tonight!”
We both nod our heads emphatically and wave our hands
in front of us as if that was the furthest thing from
our corrupted minds.
We get to her place. Nice joint, doesn’t look
like the apartment of a drunk: clean and well lit, tastefully
furnished.
The stereo goes on. Beers get packed
into her fridge. Ex-Con darts for the can and is out
minutes later. “I
think I broke your toilet,” he tells the woman.
I’m sitting in a chair drinking beer that tastes
like crap because I hate drinking beer this late in
the career. If you’re going to drink, then drink goddammit.
But I have to take it easy here. Need some
of your senses if dealing with a con and a drunken woman.
Nothing, I repeat, nothing, is worse than a
woman who can’t handle her booze. Also, I might
have to perform if the need arose, so there’s
that.
“What do you mean you broke my toilet?” the
woman screams. They both charge down the hall. More
screams fill the air. Denials are offered. I’m
called to double check the damage. And yes, sure enough,
about a fourth of the right rim has been broken off.
Smashed into pieces which lay in the bottom of
the bowl.
“How the fuck did you do this?” the
woman cries.
“I wasn’t doing anything, I just took
a piss.”
“Bullshit,” I say, pointing at his steel-toed
hiking boots. “Look at your shoes. Man, you’re
so fucked up you probably put your foot up for balance
and stomped on the thing.”
“Oh, right. I guess I did that.” He looks
down, like a child who just wet his bed for the third
night in a row.
“You sonuvabitch!” The woman lays into
Ex-Con with a terrible screech, which was bold, I thought.
Risky actually. “You’re gonna pay me for
this I swear to God! I just cleaned the fucking bathroom
today! Look at it! Look at it! How could you motherfucker? I
just cleaned today!”
It goes on like that while I stumble back to the
living room to finish my beer. Then, I don’t know
how long after, two men appear at the woman’s
open sliding door. They walk in with 12-packs. Stud
Boy and his buddy, 400 Pound Black Dude.
We measure each other up quickly, nobody looking
for a fight. Only one thing we were sniffing around
for, and we were going to be gentlemen about it. So
we quietly acknowledge each other’s presence but
pretend the other guys aren’t there.
The woman and Ex-Con come squabbling back into the
room and she suddenly drops the scary voice. “Hey
guys! It’s about time! Now we can dance!”
Ex-Con goes to the sofa, already defeated. More beers
put into the fridge. Stud Boy comes out of the kitchen
with his shirt unbuttoned, dancing. 400 Pound Black
Dude goes to a recliner and grabs the remote. Cartoon
Channel pops on with no sound.
Immediately the woman joins Stud Boy.
“All right!” she yells and kicks out
her thick legs and feet. “Come here you man!” She
spins around and starts grinding into Stud Boy’s
crotch. “Yeah, a real man! Dance for
me bitch!” And Stud Boy, with a vacant and smirking
face, obliges.
I get up for another beer I don’t want. When
I come back out of the dark kitchen the woman is tossing
around a wacky straw island hat. “Here,” she
throws it at 400 Pound- Black Dude who’s still
sitting on the recliner flipping channels, but keeps
coming back to cartoons. “Put it on! Dance with
us! Come on!”
400 Pound Black Dude takes the skewed hat off his
head, says, “I don’t think so,” and
tosses it back to the woman.
Great, it’s a circus and I have to perform.
Okay, fine, at least let me see where this goes. “Give
it to me,” I say.
“All right, another man!” She
tosses it at me. “Put it on and dance, bitch!”
I do, with all the grace of a drunken monkey, and
for a few eternal minutes she’s digging it. She
whoops and hollers and punches the air. Stud Boy gets
pissed and stomps off for another beer. Then the woman
leaves the room. Thinking this is my chance, I dart
after her.
She’s lying on her bed, her feet on the floor,
and she’s drumming the air, grooving to whatever
metal tune is now bellowing through the apartment. I
stand at her doorway, notice a cute, short cocktail
dress hanging on the closet door.
“This is my bedroom,” she says, finally
noticing me. “It’s a mess, I didn’t
have time to clean it. Do you like it?”
“It looks fine to me, sweetie.” I step
into the room. “I like that dress you got over
there,” I whisper.
“What? Now I suppose you want me to put it
on so I could get your little dick hard, right? Right?”
“Um, no. I was…”
“I know what you were trying to do, you motherfucker!
Now get back out there with the rest of them, you pig!
I’ll be out in a second.”
Good idea, I think. Must keep the drunk going; at
least that, God, at least fucking that.
I go out and see Ex-Con slinking out the sliding
door with two beers in his hand. The others don’t
pay him any mind, but he pauses long enough to give
me a parting glance then exits in a hurry. I
have to chuckle. Probably knows enough to get out when
the getting’s good. I have to sit and rest my
eyes.
When I open my eyes after I guess fifteen-twenty
minutes I’m on the sofa. Japanese anime is blaring.
I hate that shit. The music is off. 400 Pound Black
Dude has stayed put. Not once did he get up or have
a drink. Where are Stud Boy and the woman though? I
hear muffled whispers coming from the dark kitchen. Dammit.
400 Pound Black Dude looks at me. Shrugs his shoulders,
I return the gesture. Fuck it. Might as well. Wouldn’t
be the first time. So I get up, and good God I’m
woozy, dizzy, faint, need food, get my balance, and
I stumble into the kitchen.
Stud Boy has the woman pressed against the sink.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. And they’re
chatting. That drunk, almost-ready-to-close, moving-in-for-some-action
banal senseless chatter that doesn’t mean anything
at this point because the only thing you’re thinking
is, well, you’re not thinking at this
juncture are you?
The animal is king here.
So to be the asshole, I step between them. Stud Boy
and the woman don’t get pissed, they step apart,
let me pass, and I go to the fridge and grab another
beer. They continue to fast talk, I think he’s
trying to convince her to fuck; she wants to but is
resisting.
I crack my beer and lean against the sink to watch
and listen. They’re about 5 ¾ inches from
me. I see their lips moving as they banter, but it’s
dark, the only light coming from the living room.
“Can you believe this fucker?” the woman
says to me and leans back on the sink. Stud Boy presses
an impressive hard-on into her. He doesn’t look
at me.
“You think you know how to fuck, fucker?” She
nearly spits at him. “You know what to do? You
think you can make me feel good again?”
“Come on, sweetie,” he slurs.
“I asked you a question, fucker! Answer
me! Answerme!” She hits him
on the chest. “Answer me!”
“Yes, baby, I’ll make you feel real good.”
“Oh yeah, you fuck? You fuck! You fuck! Here
then!” And the woman unzips her jeans and yanks
them down to her knees. She’s not wearing panties. “Come
on then fucker! Come on!” It is a quick,
vulgar, shocking gesture.
Stud Boy can’t believe his luck as he drops
to his knees and goes down on her.
Now, I’m standing there. The woman is cursing
still, bucking, she’s growling, almost angry with
herself because she isn’t gay and has to get a
man and/or men to do this for her.
So, I figure, what the hell. Three’s company,
you know? I drop to my knees, turn the happy couple
to the side and approach the woman from the rear.
It goes for a few seconds, the three of us, then: “Get
off me!” She shoves Stud Boy who is unbalanced
and falls back; pants down, a wet erection bobbing in
the cold stuffiness of a narrow kitchen.
“You motherfucker!” she shouts at Stud
Boy as she re-fastens her pants. “Get the fuck
out! Get the fuck out! Everybody get the fuck out!”
“But I brought beers,” Stud Boy whines
while gathering himself.
“Then get your beers and get the fuck outta
my house!” She shakes her head. Rubs her temples. “I’m
getting a headache,” she finally whispers.
400 Pound Black Dude steps into the kitchen: “What’s
up?”
“Everybody just leave, okay? Take your friend
with you,” and she points at Stud Boy raiding
the fridge, stuffing bottles back into a box.
“All right, you heard the lady, time to go,” 400
Pound Black Dude announces, and he and Stud Boy shuffle
out of the kitchen and into the night. I step around
the woman to leave myself, real quiet; she’s looking
down, rubbing her forehead. She says, “I didn’t
say you.”
Really?
“I have to pee first,” and she pads out
of the kitchen.
I look at my watch: 3am. Not bad. Be done by 3:30.
Then, head over to Carl’s Jr. for a six-dollar
burger with cheese. No onions, please. Then, take the
Five Freeway Route home. Get in by 4:30. Perfect.
“GODDAMMIT!” I hear from the bathroom. “That
motherfucker!” The woman stomps back into the
living room. “You know what that asshole did to
my toilet?” Her face is red. Veins are pulsing
in her neck. “He…he...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” She
belts it out. “I’ve had it! That’s
it! I’m sorry. You have to go now.”
I’m like, what? You mean if it wasn’t
for what that jackass did I’d be sharing the night
with this woman? That sonuvabitch!
“I’m sorry to leave you high and dry
tonight, but…”
And then I give up too. Fuck it. “Okay, baby,
I’ll say good night then.” She walks me
to the door. I turn. “Can I at least have a kiss
on the lips? I want to know what I’ll be missing.”
She looks like she wants to cry at that but shakes
it off and immediately comes to me. Her kiss is warm
and soft and needy, as is mine, and all too brief. “That’s
not even trying,” she waves. “You be careful.
Watch out for the cops.”
“Always.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
The woman shuts the door, pulls the curtain, I spin
around, and promptly fall off her porch and onto her
driveway. I hear a snap when I go one way and my left
foot goes the other.
I come to an hour later laying face down on oily
asphalt. Reeking of booze, cigarettes, and other foul
matter. I stand to walk, feel a horrific pain but brush
it off as just another sprained ankle.
The next day my left foot looks like something you’d
find on a deformed Hobbit. Go to the doctor: hairline
fracture of the ankle and shin. Four weeks in a boot-cast.
Goddammit. I need a girlfriend.
—Jim Marquez
