5. “Smoking’s Bad For You!”

5.  “Smoking’s Bad For You!”

               I was standing at the bus terminal with my copy of The Old Man and the Sea in hand.  I still had no money other than the quarters I had dug out of my car.  There wasn’t enough gas in the tank for me to get to work.

Some poor, homeless fuck passed in front of me and began digging in the gutter for cigarette butts.  I turned away.  I faced the wall and remembered I knew exactly where the motherfucker was coming from.  Been there, done that.

               Some other man, this one much older, was lying up against the wall.  He was probably drunk and had finally found some peace in his slumber.  I looked to my left and saw a woman in her forties (no doubt there because of a DUI) standing twenty or thirty feet away.  I turned to my right and saw some kids skateboarding down the street.  Some more kids were smoking pot.

               What I thought was a young woman circled around from behind me and got up in my face.

               “Do you have a lighter?” she asked in a high-pitched, dorky voice.

               One look at her thick, blue eye-shadow and I knew she was underage.  Her voice made sense now – it was typical of a fourteen year-old white girl.

               “No!” I said, immediately angry.  “No, I don’t have a lighter!  Smoking’s bad for you!”

               She gave me her best bitch face and walked away.  Incidentally, I looked at her ass.  Turning around and seeing me at that exact moment, she gave me an evil, cunning smile.

               “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, pretending to be appalled.

               I looked up and straight into her eyes before I shook my head to declare my blamelessness.

               I said, “I was making sure you really were a minor trying to solicit illegal activity out of an innocent man.”

               “I have a woman’s ass,” she said in her valley girl, teeny-bopper timbre.

               “You get your jail bait butt and you walk it over toward someone who’ll believe your bullshit,” I said.

               She went away.  I stared at the drunk all pressed up against the wall, his face black with soot, his beard wild like a lion’s mane.  Twenty seconds or so passed.  I couldn’t take it anymore and turned back around.

               There she was – the little teenage girl’s joint was lit and she was sending me a victory glance from the middle of the street, gloating at me with her nose up in the air.

               “Good job,” I mouthed in a whisper.

The homeless motherfucker was still scrounging for cigarettes when the bus pulled up.

FUCK!

FUCK!

               I got held up at the welfare office since the Zionist girl wanted to know why I did what I did and why I was wearing my anti-Israel gear.

I explained to her I was protesting the war and the massive poverty that ensued in my hometown and in the rest of the country.  All the bloodshed in the rest of the world so a few rich Christians and Jews could get rich off the rest of us.  Next, I tried to draw a comparison between the Zionist state and South Africa using the word “apartheid” but she wasn’t all that informed.  We got to talking about Martin Luther King Jr. and finally she started to get it.  I asked her for her number and she said no.

By the time I got rejected, by the time I got out of there, I didn’t have time to get to the bank and cash my check.  I prayed on my way to Courtney’s house that she would have some booze or at least some marijuana.

I knocked on her door and she answered, smiling, of course.  Even though I showed up unannounced.

               Courtney let me in.  I almost took off my shoes but thought better of it.  I didn’t want to stink up the joint.  I had running pants two sizes too big sagging around my knees so I wouldn’t need to take them off to fuck.  She’d never know about my toenails and toe jam.

               She told me to sit down, so I did.  I was inconspicuous about it and sat far away from where she was standing.  I spread my legs at a sixty degree angle to try to look cool.

               She said something about going to the kitchen but I wasn’t listening and just said, “Yeah.”

               She disappeared.

               A bunch of her baby’s toys lay scattered around.  I thought somebody should clean them up.  Somebody could trip or twist their ankle.

               Courtney came back with a bong full of ice and a freshly packed bowl of marijuana.  She offered me green and I said no.

               “Do you have any booze?”

               She rolled her eyes and said, “There’s some Skyy in the cabinet above the stove.”

               Walking past her, I was careful not to step on one of her burden’s playthings.  Maybe I’d get brownie points for being respectful.

               I entered the kitchen.  It was much cleaner than the living room.  I headed straight for the liquor cabinet and found the vodka.

               “Do you have ice?” I hollered.

               “You’re fucking dumb, Paul!” she shouted back.  I heard the gurgle of her smoking her water pipe.

               “I was trying to be polite!” I flirted back, or tried to.  I pushed the lever and nothing came out.

               Dumb bitch, I thought.

               I opened the freezer and grabbed one of her ice trays.  I got three ice cubes out and didn’t drop any on the floor.  Vodka and ice filled the glass half way.

               “I see you’re a glass half-full guy,” Courtney joked when I returned.  Again I sat down across from her, keeping my distance.  Again, I tried to look cool by spreading my legs at a sixty degree angle.  Then I went sixty-five - for emphasis.

               “What are you trying to say?” I angled my eyebrows at her, gave her a little sneer.  Showed her my gap tooth.

               “Oh, nothing,” she flirted, smiling.

               I’m so in, I thought.  Then I checked my phone.  We still had a couple hours before her man got off work.

               She tried to pass me the bong but I just sipped my vodka and said no.

               Wails and moans of distress and agony echoed through her hallway and into the living room.

               “Oh no!” Courtney said.

               Goddamn it, I thought.

               She set her bong down.  Apologizing, she backed out of the living room.  Finally she turned around before she entered the hallway and I couldn’t help but see her butt.  It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for but that didn’t matter.

               Minutes went by.  The baby was still crying.  I couldn’t help but notice my surroundings.  I was bored.  I looked at the freshly vacuumed carpet.  The baby’s toys.  The coasters and magazines on the coffee table.  National Geographic.  Men’s Journal.  Rolling Stone.

               I set my drink down on my coaster and put my head in my hands.  This was objectively a bad idea.  Courtney probably hadn’t wanted to hook up.  She either wanted to be friends or she wanted to fuck with me because of all the horrible things I had said online or to make her husband jealous or she was just a bored, flirty woman.  It didn’t matter.  I was starting to get it.

               “I have to change his diaper!” Courney shouted from around the corner.  “This is going to take awhile.  I’m so sorry!”

               Vodka and ice became one in my glass.  It began to look more and more like a refreshing glass of water.  Losing all strength and succumbing to my boredom and diminishing hope, I drank it all.

I could hear her wiping the kid’s ass.  I didn’t want to see his poop.  I sure could smell it though.

I looked down into the empty glass – the abyss.  I looked back at the kitchen.  The hallway.  The magazines.  The toys.  My leg in an involuntary manner began to rhythmically and intensely shake up and down.  The liquor cabinet screamed out to me while the baby moaned and cried and screamed.

“There, there,” Courtney said to it, soothingly.  “Almost done.”

I couldn’t take it anymore and shouted, “Something’s just come up, Courtney!  I need to drive my Dad to the hospital!”

She shouted and asked me to wait.  I thought about ripping the bong but said fuck it and left.  I was careful not to slam the door but I practically ran down the street toward the bank.  By the time I got there it was after hours and both ATM’s were out of service.

“Fuck!” I screamed up at the heavens.

No more alcohol.

“Fuck!”

A Little Of Each

A Little Of Each

               With my money in hand I practically skipped on my way to the bars.  Most of them were closed at that hour but I found a good one – the Irish bar – still open.

               I sat down among the best downtown had to offer that night and they were okay.  The bartender was jolly.  The patrons consisted of male construction workers and three beautiful women, all smiling and full of life.

               I ordered a Jameson and it cost me seven dollars.  I ordered it neat and drank it down.  Someone ordered a round.  The men began to tell jokes and everyone started to laugh together.  The women began to dance.  A couple of the men danced with them while the rest looked on.

               The bartender asked me if I wanted another.

               “Yes,” I said.

               He reached up and pulled down the Jameson Caskmates IPA and also the Stout.

               “I highly recommend these,” he said.

               “Which one’s better?” I asked.

               “I like them the same,” he replied.

               “Whichever,” I told him and shrugged my shoulders.

               “On the rocks?”

               “Yeah.”

               I looked up at the television to my right and U2 was playing one of their hits.  I looked over to the other television and saw Pablo Sandoval.  There were captions.

               Sandoval plays third base and sometimes first base for the San Francisco Giants (every once in awhile he plays catcher and if you’re lucky you’ll see him pitch).  He came up when the Giants were bad and hit the snot out of the ball.  Something went wrong when he went to play for Boston and the Giants took him back.

               The captions displayed the translation of Sandoval’s jovial and now, mature attitude.  He was thanking the Giants not only for giving him another chance after blowing it in Boston, but for everything they had done for him before he had left.  He was saying how he now knew, looking back, that everyone had been worried about him back then.  That even though he was single-handedly carrying the offense for quite a while, the criticisms he endured were motivated by love, something he wasn’t able to accept back then.  My mind wandered back to when Aubrey Huff released his book and told the whole world that all anyone ever wanted was for Sandoval to “get on the treadmill.”  Sandoval was the kind of hitter who could hit a ball that bounced before it reached the hitting zone.  That’s why everyone loved him so much.  But the best thing Pablo said was after the interviewer asked him about how big the game was and he said in response that the game was only big if you loved it enough, that loving the game was the most important thing a player could do.  I smiled when I read that particular caption.

               The second drink came and I didn’t know if it was the IPA or the Stout, but it was on the rocks.  This one cost about nine dollars.

               I had barely tipped the bartender for the first drink but he obviously hadn’t cared.  The second drink was a big one.

               “Which one is this?” I asked him, about half-way through the whiskey.  “IPA or Stout?”

               “What do you think of it?”

               “It’s fuller, richer than the original,” I said.

               “I poured a little of each in there,” he told me and winked.

               “It’s amazing,” I said.  “You can pour a good one.”

               “It was out of necessity,” he shrugged.  “We sell so much of these brothers, I’m all out.”

               I gave him a bigger tip this time and got back to thinking about the black cat.  Eventually I drank down the rest of my Caskmates and left.

               A homeless guy was pacing back and forth.  I bent down and tied my shoe in front of him.  He was talking to himself.  I asked him if he was alright.  He stopped talking to himself and said he was.

               I walked home, smoking my last two cigarettes.

               Everything was alright.

BLACK CAT

BLACK CAT

               I woke up sweating.  The truth came in a feeling that washed over me.  I couldn’t have the young woman from the bus.  She was too pretty, too educated, too passionate about literature and too incredibly perfect.  All I could think about was how firm she was in her opinions, how strong she was in the feminine way, and how much I wanted a woman like that.  I needed to get some booze.

               I said “hey” to my roommate on my way out, quietly and full of shame, as usual.  Would I be going out for a walk or would I be succumbing to my sinful nature?

               But I was depressed.  It was time for sin.

               I shut the door gently behind me and walked down the cobblestone path toward the sidewalk.  About half way there a black cat appeared out from beneath a car and stood directly in my path.

               Just my luck, I figured.  A black cat undeniably in my path.  The creature wasn’t crossing, it was forcing itself into my life.  My only options were to jump sideways or scare it away.

               I must not have had the heart.  I thought to myself that the black cat crossing your path folklore was just a bullshit myth.

               “Hey,” I said to it in a soft voice.

               It jumped a little, was scared at first.  Then it showed some courage and stood firm.

               “What are you doing?” I asked, still soft.  “Come here.”

               It came right up to me.  I stood still and it circled around me, brushing its sides up against my sweatpants, scratching and caressing and pressing its head into my legs.

               “You wanna get pet or something?”

               It kept circling so I reached down slowly so it could see me.  It gave me its back, then its neck, then behind its ears and its head and finally the spot right in front of its tail, the place all dogs and some cats really enjoy getting scratched.  It kept circling in such a way that forced me to stop petting it so I wouldn’t get near its butthole and private parts.  You can’t get too close to those or they bite.

               I said, “I guess some people think you’re unlucky.  But I don’t.”

               Then it rolled over, signaling to me it wanted me to pet its belly.  I didn’t.  Just because a cat says it wants its belly scratched, doesn’t mean it wants that now.  Cats aren’t like dogs in this way.  A dog gives you its belly and trusts you with it immediately.  A cat is smaller and only has its claws and small mouth to defend itself with.  All dogs, no matter the size (except for the tiny ones) are stupid and think they can kill you with their mouths in almost any situation.  They don’t understand that a strong man with guts can force his hand or forearm deeper into a dogs mouth, and as the dog bites down harder, the man can use his knee or another part of his body as a leverage point underneath the dog’s neck, before bringing his second arm around the backside of its skull in order to snap its neck and kill it.  A cat instinctually feels its own vulnerability and upon just meeting you won’t let you touch its underside.  If you try that straight away it will claw and/or bite you.  Not fatal, but that shit fucking hurts.

               I showed the cat I understood its position, what it meant.  That maybe later I could pet its belly.  I continued to scratch its side, its back, its head.  I got it behind the ears, which is more of a dog thing, again, but some cats like that too.  With dogs you really dig in deep and it drives them crazy.  That spot is almost orgasmic for a dog but for a cat they either like it mildly or not at all.  I didn’t get the top of the cat’s nose because we weren’t that close yet.

               I showed it I was afraid to directly touch its belly and it understood.  It pawed me with its back right foot (so I wouldn’t see it coming) but the paw was without any extended claws.  This meant it was okay for me to touch its belly.  I got it a few times, but I could tell by the way it was kicking its legs (albeit playfully) that I shouldn’t get too passionate about the belly stroking.  It extended its claws with its front two paws to show me.

               I told it I had to go.  I stopped petting it and started to walk toward the sidewalk again and it ran into my foot.

               “I’m sorry!” I said bent over toward it.  “I didn’t mean to kick you.”

               It started circling me again and rubbing.  We weren’t done.

               Finally I was able to get some space and I started walking down the sidewalk toward the bars.  It followed me.

               “Fuckin’ weirdo,” I said to it.

               It kept following me.

               “You wanna go on walks and shit?” I said and laughed.

               It walked right alongside me.  I pictured walking it down my street on a leash.  Some gypsy looking dude laughed at us and walked into his house.  I wondered how long he had been watching us.

               Eventually the cat stopped and watched me continue to walk down toward the corner.  We were done.  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” I said and headed for downtown and the bars.