First Draft, Hyperbolic funny story.
I ran up the stairs. Ran is a relative term, I suppose because of my alleged “socially degenerative drinking” it could also be called vomit-fall-sob-scream-repeat up the stairs. After Pepe, the omnipresent Latino man who makes sure everything in the shit show country club works, got me a clean shirt, cause apparently you can’t serve a table a 50 dollar lobster if you are covered in the food you invented before, read: sweet brown whisky and whatever that brown moldy proto-fruit you ate in desperation not to puke.
And rice, there is always rice.
So after I got out of the bathroom from changing and scraping the steak flavored sex jelly out of several places god did not intend to be lubricated, I made eye contact with the ageing beauty that was my manager.
She said something sweet and sexy like “Holy shit, its 10 in the fucking morning. If my husband didn’t take me out last night I would rape you with a pistol.”
I knew what she meant
With a caustic wink and a glance at the crusty sex jelly mixed with what I know identified at black powder, said “Baby once you go flintlock you never go back”
Choking back the bile rising in her throat she mentioned I should get the fuck to work.
I of course was stunned! Vomit? I was sure she didn’t have a gag reflex.
All former amorous thoughts for her died in that moment, as they have so very many times.
After fishing the moderately sized crucifix out of my pocket and putting it around my neck, because there is nothing that the WASPs I was serving hated more than catholics, except Jews, and confusion.
So they could never understand the SHALOM I would yell when I saw them, nor the occasional hail Mary I would whisper over their food before is served it.
All I know is that hot teen country club jailbait love a mystery and the amount of sex they would offer up was directly connected to their father’s disapproval
On advice to my lawyer I can should not talk about the taught bare (Mostly not) ly legal poon that was being carted around there.
I went up to Greg, the bartender, and asked for my usual. Which was for his short long island ass nothing that I couldn’t steal.
“C’mon Greg, just a bit of a drink to help me remember not to kill you.”
“No”
“I have to do this whole shift sober!”
“Charley lets not pretend you are sober.”
After what is described by the police as a prolonged rolling black out, and what my friends call lunch, I found myself in my car driving home.
Again, driving is a relative term. Despite what the cops tell you as the beat your “Rank disorderly ass”, you can drive anywhere, so long as the glass is wide and the crying of children is a comfort.
Driving has always been cathartic for me, ever since my Dad reminded me that my parents never loved me and sped away from the orphanage that I would spend much of my thoroughly repressed childhood living in. I mean, just because psychiatrists tell me I should deal with my problems, that I shouldn’t yell at women with purses large than a head, nor only be able to have sex while Wife Swap is airing (did you know they don’t sell DVDs of it), doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give their wives the clap and never pay their goddamn bills even though its “covered” in my “health insurance”.
Anyway.
Work, right, okay. The first well scrubbed man to come in the door had a woman with him who was dripping high class sensuality. You could tell from her eyes that the xanax was in full effect and maybe if you could get to her before her fifth glass of wine you might get a little play in the pantry. Just have to let her know that I am game for some clandestine sex and that she should be, I mean, after the fifth glass she will be ready for passionless sex with her hateful husband while her hateful kids steal from her wallet so they can get vicodin and have loveless sex with whatever boy or girl gets high with them. It’s a beautiful system. I can work both ends of the spectrum and once you realize that you don’t get tips at high class establishments such as this your scruples really take a hit.
I saunter up to the table, tell the man that the owner wishes to have a word about him about his club dues and sit down with his woman. Eye contact. Good. Words START.
“Hows are those xanies treating ya?”
“Scuse me.”
“I was wondering if you and me should get all kinds of weird in a dirty closet covered in dirty Mexican porn.” Damn, she wanted me. I could tell by the way I kept stabbing at her breasts with my fingers and alternatively staring at the now obvious boner.
“Sure.” I love rich people, she barely glanced at her husband, who was screaming at Pepe, as all powerful white people do, at least the kind who almost certainly hire dominatrix’s.
“So what school do you go to?” Shit, she is getting clingy.
“Small Midwestern liberal arts. But I have a good back and a hair trigger, you see I take the tension off the whole junk situation by…oh listen to me, I’m dating myself.” I wish, and lordy I have tried. Enough Yoga and back stretching and I’ll never have to talk to another woman.
She seemed to understand.
After an impressive bleach ridden 2 minutes she was passed out and I had some explaining to do. I can’t tell if it’s the sex or the dense fumes from the certainly illegal cleaners they wash the dishes with, either way the club takes care of things like this. With any hope her memory will be fucked and her bracelet will get me a fifth for the ride home.
Sorry about the digressions, where was I?
Oh yes. Eye contact. They hate it.
