Rotten Apples and the Complexity of Marriage

It’s true what they say… It’s who you know. I know these nice girls who own a restaurant and we’ve become good friends-they give me whiskey and I make them laugh– so naturally, they asked me to design their website. After three drunken meetings, a blues bar and an agreement involving free drinks and crab cakes, I said yes.

Of course, I’d need pictures for this site. This would mean several arduous nights at the restaurant blending in, drinking, eating and taking pics. One such evening, I asked the hot wife to come along. We drove to the usual street for parking. I pulled up to a spot and prepared to engage my master parallel parking move. As I whipped the car back, I underestimated curb location and was met with horrible grinding followed by slow and steady hissing.

Crap.

I knew exactly what happened, but hoped somehow the noises were a homeless man expiring under the car and not the flat I tire I feared. No such luck. I stood there, dressed like a rock star and facing the dirty task of changing an SUV tire. Hot wife chucked her purse to the ground and a chapstick rolled out and stopped at my toes. “I just had that tire replaced” She yelped. Salt in the wound, I thought. Not only had I failed miserably as a master parallel parker, I was also being pulled into the complex and futile world of spousal arguing. I took a deep breath and decided not to engage. Hot wife had had a bad day and I knew her rage wasn’t completely directed at me, so I broke off to find the jack. Upon opening the rear gate, I was met with piles of girly cheerleading junk that can only be found in a women’s car: nine pairs of shoes, 10 to 12 Lucky Magazines, two umbrellas and three complete changes of clothes. I let out a sigh of mental and physical fatigue. Not only do we have a flat to fix, we now have a wardrobe to organize. On the street. At 6:38pm.

We finally get enough of her closet into the back seat that I can get out the jack and spare tire–a full size spare, nonetheless. We spared no expense on our Subaru Forrester. Okay, jack in place, crank in hand and… the curb. The curb was in the way. I had actually performed a textbook parallel maneuver, I just misjudged the curb. I small wave of satisfaction spilled over me. I stood up and looked at Hot Wife. “The parking job is actually quite good.” I said with a grin. She shot a blank stare with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, “I want a divorce”. I slumped over with another tired sigh. “I have to move the car forward to that driveway. The jack won’t fit here.” I said, in defeat. I slowly lurched the crippled car forward until I had enough room to work and let out another sigh in the driver’s seat, before I exited for the task at hand.

It was warm, I was tired and dressed inappropriately. The lug nuts were near impossible to move and I was now sweating like the disgruntled Italian that I am. As I struggled not to get tire-black all over my rock star clothes, another SUV drove up. They spied the spot we had just pulled forward from and I thought out loud, “Oh you fuckin better not…” They did. They squeezed into our spot. OUR SPOT. Hot wife stood glaring at them, arms folded, foot tapping. I watched in disbelief as they pulled up and tapped the bumper OF A CAR ON A JACK. I immediately thru my arms up in the air at them in a classic “What the fuck?” pose. The couple exited the vehicle, Chicky on cell and Dude putting on a suit coat. Chicky didn’t even acknowledge our existence. Dude walked around to me and the jack, looked down at the empty wheel well and then up at me. He grinned and let out a small chuckle before walking down the street, arm around Chicky. I was furious, seeing red. Sure, we left the parking space and technically, its available. But be a man, assess the situation. Make an educated guess as to what’s transpiring. Maybe offer your condolences… Man to man. What a fucko.

I get the new tire on and am unsuccessful at keeping the grease and rubber off me in the process. Hot Wife is still watching Dude and Chicky walk away. She reaches her boiling point and in a blind rage, bolts to the back of our car. She pulls out two apples–two very rotten apples. Without a sound, she holds them up and with a mischievous grin, looks at me and then to Dude and Chicky’s SUV. Hot chick then does something that reminds why I continue to be hopelessly infatuated with her. She smooshes the apples allover the windshield and leaves the mangled remains in the wiper well. I don’t know what made me smile more–the fact that she had the presence of mind to do such a deed, or that she had such a thing as rotten apples in her car in the first place. Either way, I was in love all over again.

The flat got fixed, pictures were taken and a column written. A stellar night all around.

Getting Directions from Folks on the Street

1. A young Mother of four, just leaving Colucci’s Ammo and Video, bags of cigarettes and moon pies in hand.

Driver: Excuse me, could you direct me to the City Museum of Art?

Smoking Mom: Museum of Art? That’s on Monroe. That’s the last place I saw little Bradley Earnhardt-Mathers’ father alive. Ain’t that right Brad? Yeah. He don’t talk, he just twitches some on account of his unorthodox silent water birth. Lousy Scientology. So, let’s see, today is Friday, right? I’d take a right up here and catch Pine over to St Lawrence Ave. Usually I’d have you take a Left onto Pine and directly thru Preble St, but the resource center gives out free sugar cookies to the Methadone Clinic today and it can get sketchy for well-to-do folks such as yourself. If you’ve never seen a three- day sober junkie teased with sugar, then it’s best you stay clear. Went down that road myself, just last year. I got addicted to pain killers and when the pharmacy wouldn’t refill my prescriptions no more, I moved on to shooting’ up ol’ vitamin H. A month later, I found myself naked in my sister’s trailer, drinking Thunderbird from a baseball trophy and screwin’ my cousin’s husband. Finally the cops had to bring me in on account of me hidin’ my kids in a Walmart warehouse for a week. I guess I figured they’d be fed and clothed at the very least. Now I’m clean and back workin’ at the “Suds and Duds” on 3rd. I make change and serve the drinks. It’s good money and the judge says as long as I work at least 18 hrs a week, I can have my kids.

Say, that’s an awful big car. I bet you could fit us all in for a ride to the Krispy Kreme on yer way to your art…


2. A hunched over old man, newspaper, a four-footed hospital cane and warts.

Driver: Excuse me, could you direct me to the City Museum of Art?

Man: Used to be a department store. They had a lunch counter that served the best damn corned beef hash I’ve ever had–with real mayonnaise and good, thick bread. Not like those fancy designer breads you get nowadays, with the nuts and the candy or whatever. I remember the regular waitress was Mabel. She had fire red hair, legs up to her neck and an iron constitution. We dated for a spell until she turned up at my door with an over-stuffed suitcase and an even more over stuffed belly, if you catch my meaning. Broke it off, then and there. I’ve never had the need, nor the time for the small folk. Too loud and needy–always want something–candy, money… cancer medicine. I sure miss those corned beef sandwiches, though. Well, in ’61 they closed the lunch counter and in ’64 the store. I went back a week or so before the counter shut down and it wasn’t the same. Half the stools were broken and a greasy film coated the china and silver. The corned beef was tough and the bread thin and moldy. Mabel was long gone by then. I’ve met and had carnal relations with other women since then, of course. But, Mabel… Mabel was special. I sure would like a corned beef and a good rogering from old Miss Mabel right now.

Now, what was your question, again, son?


3. A visibly insane homeless man, resembling Jesus, had he never gone back to heaven.

Insane Jesus: Museum? Oh, it’s quite easy, really. Your best bet is to stay right on this street through two lights. At the third light, you’ll see my friend Gary the unicorn eating pop-tarts and peanut butter. Take a right. After about 1/8 of mile, just after the street lamps turn to gumdrops and the road becomes a snake, you’ll see a large brick building. Take another right. Pass the cinnamon toast tree on your left and look for the iridescent lawn chair grouping, just kiddy corner to the portal to Hell. Get in the left hand lane and take a left at Satan’s armchair. If you pass the Jiffy lube, you’ve gone too far. You’ll stay on that road for three miles-– and two tours of duty– when you’ll see the museum on your left. Be sure to take in the Dali exhibit. It’s simply electric ridicularity.

Would you mind sparing a few dollars so I can feed little Benny? He’s the only personality who hasn’t eaten today.

Confessions of a Bartender

What can I get ya? Man, if I had a donut every time I said that, I’d be a human pastry. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a bad job. I get to be king of everyone from 5 to 2. I can be the meanest Son of a bitch on the planet, but for those seven hours every Thursday through Saturday everyone wants to be my best friend. I have all the power because I have all the booze. I suppose it’s a pretty great life, I make mad money…. Sure, I work hard– Real hard. Some nights I’m not home until 3 or 4am. It’s okay, though.

You meet some crazy people on this job. There are the regulars, the ones who think they know you. They bring in their friends and expect special service and sometimes, free drinks. Sure, I lead them on, pretend I’m their buddy– maybe even throw them a freebie. The truth is, it’s my job. It all means more cash in my pocket at the end of the night. I couldn’t care less about them or their friends. I have my own problems, ya know? There’s the kid I never see and the uncle who won’t leave my apartment. He was supposed to stay for weekend. That was 2002. I feel bad, but the man has something loose in the ol’ noggin. I came home last night, 4:30 am, right? Old Uncle Fisher’s on the couch naked. He’s just sitting there, naked as the day is long, huggin’ that Goddamned Bear of his, every once and while mumbling something about how everyone will be sorry when Monday comes. Well, guess what, Fish? Monday came and went about a thousand times. Get offa my couch, ya lazy bastard! Christ!

Right, where was I? Oh yeah, people I’ve met in the bar.

A lot of famous people come in here. Just last week, Bruce Springsteen came in and sat right in the same stool you’re sitting in. He had two jack and cokes, made a phone call and left. Tipped me a twenty. Nice guy. Most Celebes are pretty nice. Of course, you have the occasion belligerent and demanding model or sports hero. Like last night: It’s like, 11:30 and it’s dead. I think there were maybe two people in the bar, Dirty Ernie DeFazio and a mailman. Suddenly, in walked Dr.Phil and a chick that was not his wife. She was definitely a hooker, possibly a man. They sat, ordered two pink ladies… no shit… and proceeded to dry hump at the end of the bar for a half an hour. I had to finally ask them to tone it down. I told them they were disturbing the other customers, when in fact I was the one disturbed. Ol’ Dirty Ernie probably got a week’s worth of bathroom material out of it. The kicker? No tip. The guy makes millions pretending to help people on TV and he can’t spare a fiver for a no-name bartender? What a fucko. I got him back though. I took a picture of his little indiscretion on my camera phone. Maybe I’ll post it online, or email it to his wife. Heh.

I’ve been in a few fights here. Usually it’s the run of the mill drunken brawl. Every once and a while some jock will get a hair up his ass and take a swing at me and I’ll have to throw him out. I’ve only ever picked a fight once myself. I was 17 and my girlfriend just broke up with me, so I picked the biggest biker guy I could find and hit him in the face. He and bunch of his friends pummeled me until the cops showed up. I was the only one not arrested.

I went to school, ya know. Yup, six years of my Dad’s hard earned money to become a booze pusher. He’s not bitter. He actually comes in every Thursday to do the crossword. He’s cool. Has one eye. Lost it in Viet Nam. The kicker is he was a desk clerk. I guess some G.I. got all upset about my Dad losing his transfer papers. They both threw down and Pop ended up with a #2 pencil in the eyeball. So yeah, I feel bad sometimes that I wasted all his cash on a useless college education. There’s really just not a huge call for Sports Sociologists. I dunno, maybe I’ll go back to school. Maybe I’ll write a book about all the crap I’ve seen here. It could piss a lot of people off. Yeah... That’d be sweet.

You want another? This one’s on me.

Short story Part IV

Fisher stared into the broken bathroom mirror as he wiped the spit from his eyes. The Baldwin boys had pinned him on his way in. They took turns spitting on his face and called him a SCOF– Sub-Class Overachieving Freak. He pushed his fingers thru his stark white hair and immediately thought of his mother. She always told him the rare white hair made him special, special in a world of conformity. Fisher stood and stared some more. He was only eleven, but his eyes looked dark and tired. He had already lived through a lifetime’s worth of pain and ridicule. The scars were deep and the pain constant. Tears began to well up in Fisher’s sad eyes, but were halted when he caught glimpse of his neon tag poking out form under his gray jacket. That’s right, he thought, no need to worry now. Things would fall into place soon it enough. The Baldwin boys would soon get theirs… and the world would witness his power. It was three days until Monday.

Lunchtime was never a treat for Fisher. The choices were limited, the food bland and the company nonexistent. He always sat a table in the corner, alone. The occasion gaggle of girls would walk by, whisper and giggle in his direction. Fisher hated school. In fact, he hated society in general. There was a certain comfort in his loneliness. He was happiest when he was alone. He liked to use his time in the lunchroom to single out who would be useful under his rule, and who wouldn’t. There was the leviathan, Max Nackrody, king of the troglodytes. He would be Fishers’ security advisor. Well, advisor was a big word for Max’s pea brain, so he’d tell the giant that he would be the muscle. There was Nelson Huffzler, the brainy fourteen year old who was always busy meticulously building paper cities… then destroying them with the fury of Godzilla on the fleeing Japanese. Fisher admired Nelson’s evil-maniacal streak, and would be sure to keep him close when the time came. As for the adults and girls, well they would be cheap labor. He never trusted adults, and girls made him squirm with distain. Girls were always giggling and primping and giggling… and giggling. They made his blood boil. Even his own mother would, at times, drive Fisher to the point of homicidal thoughts. This memory of his mother made Fisher aggravated and he bit maliciously into his dry chicken and straight through to his lip. He grabbed his chin and let out a quiet yelp. The pain slowly subsided and Fisher thought about how his blood always tasted like metal, then in the same thought wondered if it was normal that he had tasted his own blood so many times at age eleven. Before any further consideration, a single tone rang out through the building. It was back to classes, and for Fisher, back to planning.

Half way through the afternoon instruction, Fisher was summoned by his teacher to report to processing. Apparently there had been a problem with the authentication of his Monday Bear tag. Fisher was happy to comply, knowing what befell him if reported with an unauthorized bear. It turned out the problem was with the location of his bear. When the tracking devise inside was activated, the bear was not where Fisher had reported it to be on his application. In fact, the beacon put its location across town. 14.7 miles form Fisher’s home. Without even looking at a map, he knew where his bear was. Fisher was brought into a dark room, where everything was metal and there was a single lamp on a table. He was nervous and angry. He knew they were going to question him… doubt him. He also knew what had happened to his bear and he worried they wouldn’t believe him. Fisher sat and waited in the poorly lit room. He was cold and angry. His father had taken his bear. The more he thought about the situation, the more his head spun with questions. How did Gordon get the bear from the steel laser locked case? How would he convince the authorities of his innocence? Fisher searched frantically for answers, but the more searched, the more upset he became. Worse yet, he came to the realization that he would have to do that one terrible thing to his Father in order to save himself. Fisher had evidence– Evidence that could send his Father away forever and a day. He swore he’d never use it. He promised Gordon and Grandpa he’d never use it. He even promised his Mom.

Things were different now, however. Fisher would have to grow up if his plans were to go forward. No one was safe now and no one was off limits. No one.