New York Scribbles
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
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there are easier ways to get a plane ride home
BOULDER, Colo. (AP) - John Mark Karr awaited his first court appearance in Colorado on Monday as a TV station reported that prosecutors decided not to bring charges against him in the slaying of JonBenet Ramsey because his DNA failed to match genetic material on the 6-year-old girl's body.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
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Burnt Novel serial sex scene
We exit the bistro arm in arm and hail a cab. Rachael kisses me in the back of the taxi. I open an eye and peek out the window. We zoom through midtown Manhattan traffic. I have always wondered where all the people go. What they do. I sometimes feel very lonely in Manhattan with all these people around. Not now of course, Rachael has her tongue in my mouth.
When we get to the hotel we walk hand-in-hand through the revolving door. Rachael checks us in. I look up at the dazzling chandelier. It makes me dizzy. Rachael gets a bottle of champagne sent up to the room. We make out in the elevator. Rachael rubs her hand over my crotch. I start to get hard.
“You do have a big thingy,†she laughs.
The room is huge and covered with dark green velvet. There is a king-size bed and a whirlpool bath. A lot of pleasure can be had here.
“How can you afford this,†I ask.
“Oh, I can't. Not on what Jack makes, but Raquel can. She lets me have her credit cards for these excursions into the city.â€
The champagne arrives. Rachael signs while I pop the cork. We start fooling around. Rachael undressed me so I'm naked before she is. She fills her mouth with champagne and then kisses me, spilling the sparkling liquid from her mouth to mine. She pours more champagne on my body and licks it off.
“I wish we had some coke,†she says.
“I have some.â€
“Really?â€
“Yeah.â€
“God, I haven't done coke in years.â€
I chop up the rest of my supply and we do it until it is gone.
“Let's get sexy,†she says.
I take off her nice tight Sunday outfit. Her body is small and tight. She doesn't have any cellulite or stretch marks. I would never have guessed she had given birth to two kids. She reclines on her back and arches her hips. She spreads her legs and leniently lowers my head to her. I have never gone down on a pussy that has gone through the torture of childbirth. I can't tell any difference in her vagina than that of other girls I've been with that weren't mothers. I thought she might be stretched out, but she isn't. Her body seems to defy nature. I move my tongue and suck with my lips judging her response and repeating the movements that cause her to moan. She wraps her skinny legs around my shoulders and her nails scratch my back. When I bring her to climax she settles down and heaves deep breathes, concentrating on the enjoyment.
“Fuck that was nice,†she says. “You are good at that.â€
I never knew if I was good at that or not. But her compliment makes me want to do it some more. The cocaine gives me an oral fixation. I want to feast on pussy.
“I could do it again,†I say.
“No, I have something else in mind.â€
Rachael fills the large bath with hot water. Then she sits back down on the bed and sucks my semi soft dick until it stands up stiff. She takes a condom out of her purse and rolls it down the shaft leaving a little room at the tip. She reaches over into her purse again and brings out a little tube of KY Jelly. She rubs it over the condom. Her pussy is very wet and the jelly won't be needed. She gets in the doggy style position and looks over her shoulder at me with a playful smile.
“I want sodomy,†she says in a scratchy voice.
“You mean…â€
“I mean I want you to fuck me up the ass.â€
“Won't that hurt?†I ask.
“Yes, but I like it,†she says irritated.
I pull her ass to me and slowly work the tip of my cock around the rim of her anus. Then I thrust forward.
“Gentle,†she grunts.
“Sorry.â€
“Trevor, I like it for fucks sake. Just be a little gentle until you get it in.â€
I slide into her slowly. She grunts again. She is tight. I can feel the veins of my penis pulsating with every heartbeat. As I ream her up the ass I catch our reflection in the massive mirror on the opposite wall. We look primal. I thrust harder like an angry animal.
“Fuck me with swagger,†she shouts. “Do me, do me with swagger.â€
I wrap my hand around her and put some fingers up her cunt. With my fingertips I can feel my dick moving back and forth through the thin line of flesh between her vagina and asshole. I keep pumping back and forth giving it all the swagger I got. Rachael keeps grunting. Her arms are out stretched in front of her and I can see her long fingers gripping the pillow. I come and keep thrusting. I only stop when I lose my erection.
She turns over and grabs my face with her hands. She looks directly into my eyes.
“I really like that but don't really like to talk about it, do you understand?â€
“Yeah, I…â€
She kisses me on the mouth to shut me up before I say anything we both might regret.
“Good, now let's get in the tub.†She leaps off the bed and practically jumps in. I take off the dirty condom and plunge in as well. We splash around and rub each other's backs and necks. She sucks my toes, taking them into her mouth individually one at a time.
After a while the fatigue of fucking and the French wine take their toll. Rachael calls down to set a wake up for eleven p.m. She tells me I can sleep here until morning but I tell her I'll leave when she does.
We lay on the bed. Rachael reads my poetry books out loud. She recites with perfect cadence and I like the poems better than when I read them to myself. It lulls me to sleep. I don't hear Rachael leaving and don't wake up until morning.
When we get to the hotel we walk hand-in-hand through the revolving door. Rachael checks us in. I look up at the dazzling chandelier. It makes me dizzy. Rachael gets a bottle of champagne sent up to the room. We make out in the elevator. Rachael rubs her hand over my crotch. I start to get hard.
“You do have a big thingy,†she laughs.
The room is huge and covered with dark green velvet. There is a king-size bed and a whirlpool bath. A lot of pleasure can be had here.
“How can you afford this,†I ask.
“Oh, I can't. Not on what Jack makes, but Raquel can. She lets me have her credit cards for these excursions into the city.â€
The champagne arrives. Rachael signs while I pop the cork. We start fooling around. Rachael undressed me so I'm naked before she is. She fills her mouth with champagne and then kisses me, spilling the sparkling liquid from her mouth to mine. She pours more champagne on my body and licks it off.
“I wish we had some coke,†she says.
“I have some.â€
“Really?â€
“Yeah.â€
“God, I haven't done coke in years.â€
I chop up the rest of my supply and we do it until it is gone.
“Let's get sexy,†she says.
I take off her nice tight Sunday outfit. Her body is small and tight. She doesn't have any cellulite or stretch marks. I would never have guessed she had given birth to two kids. She reclines on her back and arches her hips. She spreads her legs and leniently lowers my head to her. I have never gone down on a pussy that has gone through the torture of childbirth. I can't tell any difference in her vagina than that of other girls I've been with that weren't mothers. I thought she might be stretched out, but she isn't. Her body seems to defy nature. I move my tongue and suck with my lips judging her response and repeating the movements that cause her to moan. She wraps her skinny legs around my shoulders and her nails scratch my back. When I bring her to climax she settles down and heaves deep breathes, concentrating on the enjoyment.
“Fuck that was nice,†she says. “You are good at that.â€
I never knew if I was good at that or not. But her compliment makes me want to do it some more. The cocaine gives me an oral fixation. I want to feast on pussy.
“I could do it again,†I say.
“No, I have something else in mind.â€
Rachael fills the large bath with hot water. Then she sits back down on the bed and sucks my semi soft dick until it stands up stiff. She takes a condom out of her purse and rolls it down the shaft leaving a little room at the tip. She reaches over into her purse again and brings out a little tube of KY Jelly. She rubs it over the condom. Her pussy is very wet and the jelly won't be needed. She gets in the doggy style position and looks over her shoulder at me with a playful smile.
“I want sodomy,†she says in a scratchy voice.
“You mean…â€
“I mean I want you to fuck me up the ass.â€
“Won't that hurt?†I ask.
“Yes, but I like it,†she says irritated.
I pull her ass to me and slowly work the tip of my cock around the rim of her anus. Then I thrust forward.
“Gentle,†she grunts.
“Sorry.â€
“Trevor, I like it for fucks sake. Just be a little gentle until you get it in.â€
I slide into her slowly. She grunts again. She is tight. I can feel the veins of my penis pulsating with every heartbeat. As I ream her up the ass I catch our reflection in the massive mirror on the opposite wall. We look primal. I thrust harder like an angry animal.
“Fuck me with swagger,†she shouts. “Do me, do me with swagger.â€
I wrap my hand around her and put some fingers up her cunt. With my fingertips I can feel my dick moving back and forth through the thin line of flesh between her vagina and asshole. I keep pumping back and forth giving it all the swagger I got. Rachael keeps grunting. Her arms are out stretched in front of her and I can see her long fingers gripping the pillow. I come and keep thrusting. I only stop when I lose my erection.
She turns over and grabs my face with her hands. She looks directly into my eyes.
“I really like that but don't really like to talk about it, do you understand?â€
“Yeah, I…â€
She kisses me on the mouth to shut me up before I say anything we both might regret.
“Good, now let's get in the tub.†She leaps off the bed and practically jumps in. I take off the dirty condom and plunge in as well. We splash around and rub each other's backs and necks. She sucks my toes, taking them into her mouth individually one at a time.
After a while the fatigue of fucking and the French wine take their toll. Rachael calls down to set a wake up for eleven p.m. She tells me I can sleep here until morning but I tell her I'll leave when she does.
We lay on the bed. Rachael reads my poetry books out loud. She recites with perfect cadence and I like the poems better than when I read them to myself. It lulls me to sleep. I don't hear Rachael leaving and don't wake up until morning.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Burnt Novel Serial Shit # 8
The clock on the wall say eight-thirty and my first class, painting, is at ten. I should be able to make it back to Jersey on time if I leave right away and don't have a morning masturbation session reminiscing over last night. I get dressed, tucking my erection into my pants.
This is the last week of classes before Christmas break. We go longer than the real schools like Princeton, who are already out. I can't afford to miss any more classes.
In the bathroom I use the free toiletries. I brush my teeth and water down my face, splashing cold water into my eyes. I'm still in a fog. After the drinking and drugs of the last few days I need a weeks sleep.
I leave the room slowly, without wanting to really depart. I take a last look around, trying to recapture the comfort of such an inviting bed in such a fine place. I see a note Rachael taped to the door. It says that I should come to see her and that maybe her sister can help me get a job that will allow me to get to Europe. I leave the luxury behind. In the lobby I get some funny stares from the people who work there. I don't feel as cool leaving as I did arriving.
I catch a cab to Port Authority. Outside it's the usual hustle and hassle of street people and con artists trying to get by. This is the place where the decline happens, a strong convergence of beggars, pimps, prostitutes and lost tourists. I wait at the departure site for the bus that stops only a few blocks from my house. I have to wait fifteen minutes before it comes so I smoke a cigarette and drink some bad coffee. No matter how stuck up those people where in that café Janis took me to at least they knew good coffee. Anything would beat the black hot piss that I'm drinking out of a white Styrofoam cup.
19!
On the bus I fall asleep and miss my stop. I wake up a few stops past mine and get off and run home. Grandpa is sitting, as usual, on the couch looking out the window.
“Hey,†I say. “Find any new ones?â€
“Naw.â€
I rush down to my room. I change out of my clothes. I put the poetry books on a shelf near my records. I grab my paints, paintbrushes, and canvases. I run back up stairs. Grandpa turns his head to look at me.
“Where have you been?†he asks, taking a strange new interest in me.
“Sorry, no time to talk. I'm late for class.â€
“That girl stopped by.â€
“Who?â€
“How the hell do I know, who? The one you like I guess.â€
“Oh.â€
“She has got nice curves.â€
“That's enough of that.â€
“Mike talked to her.â€
“Oh.â€
“What class do you have?â€
“Painting.†I hold up my brushes.
“That the one where you have nude girls sit down and spread their legs?â€
“Yeah. I mean no, well yeah there are girls that sit for us but they don't spread their legs.â€
“Who cares, you get to see some titties right?â€
“Yeah.â€
“When you are my age seein' titties in person, even from a stage, keeps you alive.â€
“Sure Grandpa, just don't cause trouble at the supermarket today.â€
I run from the house and make it to the bus station as the bus pulls away from the curb. I pound on the side and the guy stops for me. Usually the bus drivers never stop when they are pulling away from the curb. I sit down with my art supplies. I look at the other passengers. A few businessmen, a few old people along for the ride and a young kind who looks like a Tommy-Timmy prototype listening to a iPod so loud the heavy metal is hissing out his cheap headphones filling the bus with a distorted buzz. Even though I can't paint very well I like acting artistic. It's like I'm going to create something worthwhile and everyone else is just riding the bus. I re-shoulder the art bag in a smug earnestness.
I get to class and everyone is already working. I talk to my teacher and tell a lie. I say that my final project, which we were supposed to start three weeks ago but I haven't even started, is going well. I sit down and arrange my water and brushes. I hope the model is hot.
The teacher gives a quick lecture about painting nudes and then the model walks in. The model is beautiful, naked and sexy. He also has a dick. I thought we were getting female models. I'm disappointed but not as much as grandpa is going to be. There is a tap on my shoulder. At first I think it's my teacher because I'm lost in concentration and sometimes he walks around and helps us out with constructive criticisms. When I turn my head I see Janis. She has pulled up a chair and is sitting right behind me.
“What are you doing here?†I hiss, “Do you just show up for classes? Do you even pay a tuition?â€
“Shhh, I want to talk to you.â€
“I don't want to talk to you,†I lie.
“I want to explain. When do you get a break?â€
“About a half-hour.â€
“I'll wait.â€
I turn back to my painting and now feel self-conscious with her watching me. I can't make any fluid strokes.
Janis leans over into my ear again and says,†I really like your painting.â€
This helps. I get back into the groove. I concentrate and try to paint with discipline. We are supposed to be learning to paint, not taking artistic license. I'm here to learn the craft of form and function. Even Picasso had to learn the rules before he went abstract.
The night before the model must have had beans. While I'm working on his muscular buttocks, there is a long wet juicy fart. There is no doubt where that fart came from. It wasn't silent and deadly. It was a loud and deadly fart.
Everyone stops painting and now really stares at the model. Some obviously seeing a person for the first time. The teacher stops moving for a moment. There is a pregnant pause and then the model embarrassingly scoots from his position on the podium. With a shriek he hightails it out of the classroom naked. I think that this is the last we will be seeing of him. But I'm wrong. The model comes back about a minute later to retrieve his clothes. I think he is crying. Maybe now we can get some cute female models in. The teacher doesn't really know what to say. Since we lost our object he calls the class early. He tells us we should use the extra time to work on our final projects.
The class is dismissed. Janis and I walk outside and have a cigarette. The wintry air sits like an icy barrier between us. I don't know what to say. If she wants to talk to me I'll let her start.
“That was an interesting class,†she says.
“Yup.†I'm still mad and am not giving anything away. But I smile.
We look at each other and start to laugh. Our laughing builds slowly but soon gets out of hand. I grab her to keep from falling over. She grabs me back and we lose our balance on the icy sidewalk. We roll over into a snow bank and collapse into each other's arms. My canvas falls into the snow bank. It sticks out like a potato chip stuck in sour cream dip.
We help each other up and then kiss. I brush of the canvas, even though it is ruined. We walk together toward the bus stop. I'm sick of buses. They are not romantic escape routes. Janis tells me she wants to talk.
“So you are bi-sexual?†I blurt out.
“No. I don't like labels. As soon as you are labeled it seems to strengthen the group but limit the individual. I can understand women's rights and lesbianism but I'm not a fist waver and besides I like who I like and it's not about gender and I don't want to be told that it is.â€
“Yeah, I guess,†I say.
“Don't get me wrong. There are times I wish I was more of a strong powered dyke.â€
“Oh.â€
“I'm just so sick of women living in the world of derogatory comments and women buying it.â€
“What do you mean?â€
“Derogatory comments, you know.â€
“Not really.â€
“Think about it Trevor. Like 'she's a good fuck' or 'has nice tits.' Those are things girls like to hear because we want to be good lovers and have nice bodies but there is no respect behind the words. It's objectifying us as pieces to be used and abused.â€
“And that's why you were with that girl?â€
“No, that turned out wrong. I was on Ecstasy and it just felt good. If you wouldn't have run off so fast you could have joined us.â€
“Really?â€
“Yeah, I wanted to do it with you but Shelly came by and we just took it and were waiting for you to go clubbing in the city and it was just fucking bliss. You ever do Ecstasy?â€
“No, I mean I took what was supposed to be Ecstasy, but I never got off the way you were. I think I need to find new drug dealers.â€
The bus comes and we get on. I get horny thinking about having sex with Janis and her friend the skinny Shelly with the big tattoo on her back and blue hair. At the same time I'm a jealous guy and I really like Janis and don't want to share her with anyone. I wonder if these thoughts make me a male oppressor.
We get off a few blocks from Janis's house.
“You have to work?†she asks.
“No.â€
“What are you doing?â€
“I don't know.â€
“You want to do something?â€
“I don't care.â€
“No,†Janis says a little pissed off. “Either you want to do something with me or you don't. I won't take this lassitude.â€
“I want to do something with you,†I say with sincerity. I figure now is the time for the truth, not wounded pride. “Whatever you want to do.â€
Janis shakes her head. “I want to go out for a dinner and a movie. We could use a normal night out. The blah, blah average dating ritual. It's a test, if you can't decide what to order at the restaurant or talk during the film I want to break up.â€
“I wouldn't do that. Are we going out?â€â€
“I didn't think you would, but since you are such a cute boy I let you know in advance, because I'm on your side. And no, don't worry we are not going out.â€
“Thanks, I think.â€
Janis kisses me. I kiss her back.
“Hey, Janis.â€
“What?â€
“Why are we not going out?â€
“It's too soon?â€
20!
We walk into Janis's house. I smell the stale fumes of alcohol lingering.
“My mom's awake,†says Janis. “I guess you can meet her.â€
Her mom is sitting at the kitchen table. She isn't what I expected. Her mother is intensely beautiful. I had pictured a worn out, defeated slug holed up in near poverty, the kind of cliché they show on TV. Sure, she is a little old but I've never seen a woman age so gracefully. People active in the 1960's are now over sixty. Janis's mom looks like a youthful forty odd. Her mom reminds me of one of Purdy's bad jokes; that booze is a preservative. People are living longer and aging better. I have noticed that lately when I meet people and then learn their age what I once thought of as old no longer holds true. Especially as I always get closer to the older age. And now I'm fucking a mother of two up the ass. Rachael has to be over thirty, and it doesn't seem that old anymore. When I was in my teens I thought that people who were thirty were a step away from a wheelchair. I'm not that young myself, and I don't think I look that old. I always get carded. Even in the city. And I don't feel old. The hangovers are bad, but I don't look at the world any differently. I still want my sex, drugs and rock and roll when I can get it.
Janis's mom wears her hair straight and shoulder length. Her pale skin is wrinkle free except for a little around her almond shaped eyes. She is wearing black Levi pants and a red sweater. The clothes are loose and comfortable and she moves freely, yet there is a sultry sexiness to all her actions. Janis's mom has the kind of refined aura that's austere in its style. Some women are born with it and others try buying it at a Swiss finishing school. It's the look girls try to fake by smoking a cigarette. The aloof coolness hangs heavy on Janis's mom, there is no pretending, it drapes her like velvet. In her day she must have been one of the most gorgeous women in the world. She is full of that Grace Kelly grace.
“Mom,†says Janis. “This is Trevor. Trevor this is my mom.â€
“Hi,†I say.
“Hello Trevor,†says Janis's mom. “I'm Alice.â€
She gets a bottle of Vodka out of the freezer and a sharp crystal goblet from the almost bare and broken shelf.
“You kids want a drink?â€
“Uh, sure…†I start to say.
“No.†says Janis and that is the end of that. “We're going to the movies.â€
“Why don't you make a movie instead of paying to see someone else's sub par project?â€
“Mom…†Janis shakes her head.
“We were always working. We worked through the heroin with Nico and we worked through the coke at Studio 54. There is always time to play after work. You must create to be alive.â€
“What did you ever do? Look how you live.â€
“I was an actress in my day.â€
“No mom, you were beautiful and fabulous and you were just there. You didn't have to act.â€
“Honey, just being there was the acting.â€
“Just go into your room and drink by yourself.â€
“I will. I would rather drink alone than drink in poor company. Good company is tough to come by these days. I wish I never had to grow to be an old woman who would say woe-is-me the youth of today. What a waste.â€
“Whatever, where is the paper?â€
“In the bathroom.â€
Janis goes to get the paper. I'm left alone in the kitchen with Alice. I don't know what to say so I smile. Alice pours herself a drink. I wish I could join her.
“So are you her boyfriend?â€
“Yeah, well no, I guess.â€
“My daughter the little AC/DC.â€
“Huh?â€
“Are you a painter?†she points to my Utrecht bag.
“Not really, I just take a class.â€
“What do you do?â€
“I'm a pizza guy.â€
“What's that?â€
“I deliver pizza, you know?â€
“You are not Mexican. Are you?â€
“No, I'm notâ€
“Too bad. It might have given you more depth. Delivering pizza. Good Lord, that doesn't seem like much of a profession.â€
“You were a movie actress?†I need to change the subject.
“If you can call Andy's celluloid masturbation films anything else but wank, than yeah, I was in the flicks.â€
"Andy?"
"Andy Warhol."
“Did you know Lou Reed?â€
“I met him a few times, before Andy and he fell out.â€
“What was he like?â€
“A real bastard, in a good way. A real New Yorker.â€
“I love the Velvet Underground.â€
“Of course you do. All white boys your age do.â€
“No, they don't.†I say defensive. Alice can say what she wants about me delivering pizza. But she stepped over the line with the Velvet Underground. Besides, she is wrong. Most people don't even know the Velvet Underground. I mean they might know the name. And maybe they heard 'Heroin'. But they don't know songs like 'The Gift'. And unlike me, they haven't listened to every album a million times.
“I think the Velvet Underground was as important as the Beatles and Stones.â€
“They never sold.â€
“So fucking what. The masses are asses.â€
“How dime store Nietzsche of you. What didn't kill Lou made him stronger, too, right?â€
“What?â€
“Nothing, what else do you want to do besides deliver pizza and what's that food I see on TV, Buffalo Wings, to people?â€
“I don't deliver Buffalo Wings, that's Domino's I think.â€
“Anyway, please say you want more out of life.â€
“I want to travel.â€
“I highly recommend it. I must say I like your scarf.â€
“Thanks. I got it at Goodwill.â€
“Learn to steal away a compliment kid.â€
“Huh?â€
Janis comes back into the kitchen. Alice excuses herself and saunters down the hall with goblet in one hand and bottle in the other. Janis and I sit at the kitchen table and she looks through the movie section.
“Not a lot of options,†she says. “The movie theatres around here suck.â€
“I wish we had a car.†I say.
“I wish we lived in the city, fuck a car.â€
“We have lots of time, it's only the afternoon. We could take the bus in,†I suggest.
“I'm sick of the bus.â€
“Me too.â€
20!
Janis gives me her mischievous look. “I'll be your model,†she says.
“Model for what?â€
“The painting. You have to do your final project right?â€
“Yeah.â€
“And did you start it?â€
“No.â€
“Don't you think you better?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Well don't you want to use me?â€
“Yeah, I do…nude?â€
“Of course.â€
“Okay.â€
“Set up down in my room,†she says. “ I'm going to get some wine and fruit.â€
“Don't you think it will be corny to have wine and fruit in the painting?â€
“It's not for the painting, it's for us to eat and drink.â€
“Get two bottles.â€
“I'll get three.â€
This is the last week of classes before Christmas break. We go longer than the real schools like Princeton, who are already out. I can't afford to miss any more classes.
In the bathroom I use the free toiletries. I brush my teeth and water down my face, splashing cold water into my eyes. I'm still in a fog. After the drinking and drugs of the last few days I need a weeks sleep.
I leave the room slowly, without wanting to really depart. I take a last look around, trying to recapture the comfort of such an inviting bed in such a fine place. I see a note Rachael taped to the door. It says that I should come to see her and that maybe her sister can help me get a job that will allow me to get to Europe. I leave the luxury behind. In the lobby I get some funny stares from the people who work there. I don't feel as cool leaving as I did arriving.
I catch a cab to Port Authority. Outside it's the usual hustle and hassle of street people and con artists trying to get by. This is the place where the decline happens, a strong convergence of beggars, pimps, prostitutes and lost tourists. I wait at the departure site for the bus that stops only a few blocks from my house. I have to wait fifteen minutes before it comes so I smoke a cigarette and drink some bad coffee. No matter how stuck up those people where in that café Janis took me to at least they knew good coffee. Anything would beat the black hot piss that I'm drinking out of a white Styrofoam cup.
19!
On the bus I fall asleep and miss my stop. I wake up a few stops past mine and get off and run home. Grandpa is sitting, as usual, on the couch looking out the window.
“Hey,†I say. “Find any new ones?â€
“Naw.â€
I rush down to my room. I change out of my clothes. I put the poetry books on a shelf near my records. I grab my paints, paintbrushes, and canvases. I run back up stairs. Grandpa turns his head to look at me.
“Where have you been?†he asks, taking a strange new interest in me.
“Sorry, no time to talk. I'm late for class.â€
“That girl stopped by.â€
“Who?â€
“How the hell do I know, who? The one you like I guess.â€
“Oh.â€
“She has got nice curves.â€
“That's enough of that.â€
“Mike talked to her.â€
“Oh.â€
“What class do you have?â€
“Painting.†I hold up my brushes.
“That the one where you have nude girls sit down and spread their legs?â€
“Yeah. I mean no, well yeah there are girls that sit for us but they don't spread their legs.â€
“Who cares, you get to see some titties right?â€
“Yeah.â€
“When you are my age seein' titties in person, even from a stage, keeps you alive.â€
“Sure Grandpa, just don't cause trouble at the supermarket today.â€
I run from the house and make it to the bus station as the bus pulls away from the curb. I pound on the side and the guy stops for me. Usually the bus drivers never stop when they are pulling away from the curb. I sit down with my art supplies. I look at the other passengers. A few businessmen, a few old people along for the ride and a young kind who looks like a Tommy-Timmy prototype listening to a iPod so loud the heavy metal is hissing out his cheap headphones filling the bus with a distorted buzz. Even though I can't paint very well I like acting artistic. It's like I'm going to create something worthwhile and everyone else is just riding the bus. I re-shoulder the art bag in a smug earnestness.
I get to class and everyone is already working. I talk to my teacher and tell a lie. I say that my final project, which we were supposed to start three weeks ago but I haven't even started, is going well. I sit down and arrange my water and brushes. I hope the model is hot.
The teacher gives a quick lecture about painting nudes and then the model walks in. The model is beautiful, naked and sexy. He also has a dick. I thought we were getting female models. I'm disappointed but not as much as grandpa is going to be. There is a tap on my shoulder. At first I think it's my teacher because I'm lost in concentration and sometimes he walks around and helps us out with constructive criticisms. When I turn my head I see Janis. She has pulled up a chair and is sitting right behind me.
“What are you doing here?†I hiss, “Do you just show up for classes? Do you even pay a tuition?â€
“Shhh, I want to talk to you.â€
“I don't want to talk to you,†I lie.
“I want to explain. When do you get a break?â€
“About a half-hour.â€
“I'll wait.â€
I turn back to my painting and now feel self-conscious with her watching me. I can't make any fluid strokes.
Janis leans over into my ear again and says,†I really like your painting.â€
This helps. I get back into the groove. I concentrate and try to paint with discipline. We are supposed to be learning to paint, not taking artistic license. I'm here to learn the craft of form and function. Even Picasso had to learn the rules before he went abstract.
The night before the model must have had beans. While I'm working on his muscular buttocks, there is a long wet juicy fart. There is no doubt where that fart came from. It wasn't silent and deadly. It was a loud and deadly fart.
Everyone stops painting and now really stares at the model. Some obviously seeing a person for the first time. The teacher stops moving for a moment. There is a pregnant pause and then the model embarrassingly scoots from his position on the podium. With a shriek he hightails it out of the classroom naked. I think that this is the last we will be seeing of him. But I'm wrong. The model comes back about a minute later to retrieve his clothes. I think he is crying. Maybe now we can get some cute female models in. The teacher doesn't really know what to say. Since we lost our object he calls the class early. He tells us we should use the extra time to work on our final projects.
The class is dismissed. Janis and I walk outside and have a cigarette. The wintry air sits like an icy barrier between us. I don't know what to say. If she wants to talk to me I'll let her start.
“That was an interesting class,†she says.
“Yup.†I'm still mad and am not giving anything away. But I smile.
We look at each other and start to laugh. Our laughing builds slowly but soon gets out of hand. I grab her to keep from falling over. She grabs me back and we lose our balance on the icy sidewalk. We roll over into a snow bank and collapse into each other's arms. My canvas falls into the snow bank. It sticks out like a potato chip stuck in sour cream dip.
We help each other up and then kiss. I brush of the canvas, even though it is ruined. We walk together toward the bus stop. I'm sick of buses. They are not romantic escape routes. Janis tells me she wants to talk.
“So you are bi-sexual?†I blurt out.
“No. I don't like labels. As soon as you are labeled it seems to strengthen the group but limit the individual. I can understand women's rights and lesbianism but I'm not a fist waver and besides I like who I like and it's not about gender and I don't want to be told that it is.â€
“Yeah, I guess,†I say.
“Don't get me wrong. There are times I wish I was more of a strong powered dyke.â€
“Oh.â€
“I'm just so sick of women living in the world of derogatory comments and women buying it.â€
“What do you mean?â€
“Derogatory comments, you know.â€
“Not really.â€
“Think about it Trevor. Like 'she's a good fuck' or 'has nice tits.' Those are things girls like to hear because we want to be good lovers and have nice bodies but there is no respect behind the words. It's objectifying us as pieces to be used and abused.â€
“And that's why you were with that girl?â€
“No, that turned out wrong. I was on Ecstasy and it just felt good. If you wouldn't have run off so fast you could have joined us.â€
“Really?â€
“Yeah, I wanted to do it with you but Shelly came by and we just took it and were waiting for you to go clubbing in the city and it was just fucking bliss. You ever do Ecstasy?â€
“No, I mean I took what was supposed to be Ecstasy, but I never got off the way you were. I think I need to find new drug dealers.â€
The bus comes and we get on. I get horny thinking about having sex with Janis and her friend the skinny Shelly with the big tattoo on her back and blue hair. At the same time I'm a jealous guy and I really like Janis and don't want to share her with anyone. I wonder if these thoughts make me a male oppressor.
We get off a few blocks from Janis's house.
“You have to work?†she asks.
“No.â€
“What are you doing?â€
“I don't know.â€
“You want to do something?â€
“I don't care.â€
“No,†Janis says a little pissed off. “Either you want to do something with me or you don't. I won't take this lassitude.â€
“I want to do something with you,†I say with sincerity. I figure now is the time for the truth, not wounded pride. “Whatever you want to do.â€
Janis shakes her head. “I want to go out for a dinner and a movie. We could use a normal night out. The blah, blah average dating ritual. It's a test, if you can't decide what to order at the restaurant or talk during the film I want to break up.â€
“I wouldn't do that. Are we going out?â€â€
“I didn't think you would, but since you are such a cute boy I let you know in advance, because I'm on your side. And no, don't worry we are not going out.â€
“Thanks, I think.â€
Janis kisses me. I kiss her back.
“Hey, Janis.â€
“What?â€
“Why are we not going out?â€
“It's too soon?â€
20!
We walk into Janis's house. I smell the stale fumes of alcohol lingering.
“My mom's awake,†says Janis. “I guess you can meet her.â€
Her mom is sitting at the kitchen table. She isn't what I expected. Her mother is intensely beautiful. I had pictured a worn out, defeated slug holed up in near poverty, the kind of cliché they show on TV. Sure, she is a little old but I've never seen a woman age so gracefully. People active in the 1960's are now over sixty. Janis's mom looks like a youthful forty odd. Her mom reminds me of one of Purdy's bad jokes; that booze is a preservative. People are living longer and aging better. I have noticed that lately when I meet people and then learn their age what I once thought of as old no longer holds true. Especially as I always get closer to the older age. And now I'm fucking a mother of two up the ass. Rachael has to be over thirty, and it doesn't seem that old anymore. When I was in my teens I thought that people who were thirty were a step away from a wheelchair. I'm not that young myself, and I don't think I look that old. I always get carded. Even in the city. And I don't feel old. The hangovers are bad, but I don't look at the world any differently. I still want my sex, drugs and rock and roll when I can get it.
Janis's mom wears her hair straight and shoulder length. Her pale skin is wrinkle free except for a little around her almond shaped eyes. She is wearing black Levi pants and a red sweater. The clothes are loose and comfortable and she moves freely, yet there is a sultry sexiness to all her actions. Janis's mom has the kind of refined aura that's austere in its style. Some women are born with it and others try buying it at a Swiss finishing school. It's the look girls try to fake by smoking a cigarette. The aloof coolness hangs heavy on Janis's mom, there is no pretending, it drapes her like velvet. In her day she must have been one of the most gorgeous women in the world. She is full of that Grace Kelly grace.
“Mom,†says Janis. “This is Trevor. Trevor this is my mom.â€
“Hi,†I say.
“Hello Trevor,†says Janis's mom. “I'm Alice.â€
She gets a bottle of Vodka out of the freezer and a sharp crystal goblet from the almost bare and broken shelf.
“You kids want a drink?â€
“Uh, sure…†I start to say.
“No.†says Janis and that is the end of that. “We're going to the movies.â€
“Why don't you make a movie instead of paying to see someone else's sub par project?â€
“Mom…†Janis shakes her head.
“We were always working. We worked through the heroin with Nico and we worked through the coke at Studio 54. There is always time to play after work. You must create to be alive.â€
“What did you ever do? Look how you live.â€
“I was an actress in my day.â€
“No mom, you were beautiful and fabulous and you were just there. You didn't have to act.â€
“Honey, just being there was the acting.â€
“Just go into your room and drink by yourself.â€
“I will. I would rather drink alone than drink in poor company. Good company is tough to come by these days. I wish I never had to grow to be an old woman who would say woe-is-me the youth of today. What a waste.â€
“Whatever, where is the paper?â€
“In the bathroom.â€
Janis goes to get the paper. I'm left alone in the kitchen with Alice. I don't know what to say so I smile. Alice pours herself a drink. I wish I could join her.
“So are you her boyfriend?â€
“Yeah, well no, I guess.â€
“My daughter the little AC/DC.â€
“Huh?â€
“Are you a painter?†she points to my Utrecht bag.
“Not really, I just take a class.â€
“What do you do?â€
“I'm a pizza guy.â€
“What's that?â€
“I deliver pizza, you know?â€
“You are not Mexican. Are you?â€
“No, I'm notâ€
“Too bad. It might have given you more depth. Delivering pizza. Good Lord, that doesn't seem like much of a profession.â€
“You were a movie actress?†I need to change the subject.
“If you can call Andy's celluloid masturbation films anything else but wank, than yeah, I was in the flicks.â€
"Andy?"
"Andy Warhol."
“Did you know Lou Reed?â€
“I met him a few times, before Andy and he fell out.â€
“What was he like?â€
“A real bastard, in a good way. A real New Yorker.â€
“I love the Velvet Underground.â€
“Of course you do. All white boys your age do.â€
“No, they don't.†I say defensive. Alice can say what she wants about me delivering pizza. But she stepped over the line with the Velvet Underground. Besides, she is wrong. Most people don't even know the Velvet Underground. I mean they might know the name. And maybe they heard 'Heroin'. But they don't know songs like 'The Gift'. And unlike me, they haven't listened to every album a million times.
“I think the Velvet Underground was as important as the Beatles and Stones.â€
“They never sold.â€
“So fucking what. The masses are asses.â€
“How dime store Nietzsche of you. What didn't kill Lou made him stronger, too, right?â€
“What?â€
“Nothing, what else do you want to do besides deliver pizza and what's that food I see on TV, Buffalo Wings, to people?â€
“I don't deliver Buffalo Wings, that's Domino's I think.â€
“Anyway, please say you want more out of life.â€
“I want to travel.â€
“I highly recommend it. I must say I like your scarf.â€
“Thanks. I got it at Goodwill.â€
“Learn to steal away a compliment kid.â€
“Huh?â€
Janis comes back into the kitchen. Alice excuses herself and saunters down the hall with goblet in one hand and bottle in the other. Janis and I sit at the kitchen table and she looks through the movie section.
“Not a lot of options,†she says. “The movie theatres around here suck.â€
“I wish we had a car.†I say.
“I wish we lived in the city, fuck a car.â€
“We have lots of time, it's only the afternoon. We could take the bus in,†I suggest.
“I'm sick of the bus.â€
“Me too.â€
20!
Janis gives me her mischievous look. “I'll be your model,†she says.
“Model for what?â€
“The painting. You have to do your final project right?â€
“Yeah.â€
“And did you start it?â€
“No.â€
“Don't you think you better?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Well don't you want to use me?â€
“Yeah, I do…nude?â€
“Of course.â€
“Okay.â€
“Set up down in my room,†she says. “ I'm going to get some wine and fruit.â€
“Don't you think it will be corny to have wine and fruit in the painting?â€
“It's not for the painting, it's for us to eat and drink.â€
“Get two bottles.â€
“I'll get three.â€
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Save Heathers
Important note forwarded from Heathers, our favorite
bar in the world…
This was posted by Dan Selzer, one of my fav DJ's in New York City, on Dan's New York Yahoo Happenings. It was an email he recieved from Heathers. Heathers is where Dan does Dazzle Ships.
Subject: You better fight, for your right….to party
For those who thought grassroots movements were moot, time to stand up and do something, anything. If you blog, write til your fingers bleed, if you have connections in the press, use them, if you want to just be kept posted, thats ok too.
There is a serious movement that goes beyond me right now. There is an active and strong community out there, that is trying anything and everything to stop any bastion of New York nightlife.
This includes restaurants too, as E.U, was so unfairly made an example out of. But right now, this is about me, the story is bigger, but if irrational people have their way, they will stop at nothing to try and put me out of business.
___________HEATHERS BAR REPOST______________________
Fight the evil doers that threaten your favorite (or at least one of your 5 favorite) bars….
Yes, the neighbors have mobilized into an irrational angry mob of torches and pitchforks, and are trying new channels to unjustly strip me of my liquor license.
If you, or anyone you know lives with-in a 3 block radius of me, please come and sign a petition that shows that, yes, there are many neighbors who want me here, and that i am not the loud bar that i am being villified as.
Please pass this along, spread the word to anyone who wants to write about the unjust activity of a community trying to strip the east village and the lower east side of any nightlife activity.
FIGHT THE POWER
Heathers
506 E 13 St.
bar in the world…
This was posted by Dan Selzer, one of my fav DJ's in New York City, on Dan's New York Yahoo Happenings. It was an email he recieved from Heathers. Heathers is where Dan does Dazzle Ships.
Subject: You better fight, for your right….to party
For those who thought grassroots movements were moot, time to stand up and do something, anything. If you blog, write til your fingers bleed, if you have connections in the press, use them, if you want to just be kept posted, thats ok too.
There is a serious movement that goes beyond me right now. There is an active and strong community out there, that is trying anything and everything to stop any bastion of New York nightlife.
This includes restaurants too, as E.U, was so unfairly made an example out of. But right now, this is about me, the story is bigger, but if irrational people have their way, they will stop at nothing to try and put me out of business.
___________HEATHERS BAR REPOST______________________
Fight the evil doers that threaten your favorite (or at least one of your 5 favorite) bars….
Yes, the neighbors have mobilized into an irrational angry mob of torches and pitchforks, and are trying new channels to unjustly strip me of my liquor license.
If you, or anyone you know lives with-in a 3 block radius of me, please come and sign a petition that shows that, yes, there are many neighbors who want me here, and that i am not the loud bar that i am being villified as.
Please pass this along, spread the word to anyone who wants to write about the unjust activity of a community trying to strip the east village and the lower east side of any nightlife activity.
FIGHT THE POWER
Heathers
506 E 13 St.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Contact:
US OPEN last day of AUG.
It was a crowded day at the US Open. I had to wait in line for two hours before I got in, but who better to queue with than British tourists. We were talking football and all things were honky dory until I mentioned that Andy Murray is Scottish and doesn't like the English.
I almost missed Nicole Vaidisova, who at the age of seventeen has the body of Wonder Woman. Luckily she was pushed to three sets so I caught the last of her match on Court 4. Nicole has the natural bodily talent to be a number one, but rumors persist that she also has a messed up head that sits on top of statuesque perfection to end up a could-a-been, should-a-been, Marat Safin.
I saw Serena Williams practicing with both her mom and dad. At first I thought, that has got to be one of the Williams sisters, and I didn't mean the svelte Venus In Furs. But it was Serena, who seems to have broadened her sporting events from not only tennis, but also competitive eating. Someone should tell Serena that in the fashion business it pays to be thin.
I grabbed a few over priced beers and soon drank more than the price of admission. (That's not true, I stayed sober, but I like that sentence. And besides, I've been pissed enough in the past to deserve it.) I decided to be patriotic and support Justin Gimelstob vs. the second best Spaniard in the world David Ferrer, even though it meant missing Elena Dementieva.
I clapped my hands and didn't drink beer, and shouted, “Come On Justin!†like a teenybopper crying for Justin Timberlake. I needn't have bothered. Justin got his ass kicked in three quick sets. And I also don't like his game. A few Wimbledon's ago, Justin really gave it a go, jumping around getting grass stains, and pounding his body to win. Yesterday was a disaster and Gimelstob was a non-starter.
A side note: There was a very beautiful, and fakely stacked girl in a green top who Justin kept staring at, and she kept moving around not really caring who won or lost. I wondered if Justin was distracted. I mean I was watching her too, but I didn't have a match to play. As it turns out I ran into Justin today at the Union Sq. Virgin Megastore. I asked him, “What the fuck happened, it was like you didn't even try. I missed Elena Dementieva in the Grandstand for you.†He just mumbled something. Then I asked about the girl. He said way to eagerly, “What, have you seen her?â€
Chump.
I saw Justine Henin-Hardenne's husband Pierre-Yves, who bites his nails even when he isn't watching Justine in Arthur Ashe Stadium. He seemed a little slow-witted but I'm sure Pierre-Yves is a very agreeable fellow.
Later I watched Youlia Fedossova, a qualifier ranked way up there at 264, who upset the number 25th seed Anabel Medina Garrigues of Spain, 7-5, 6-1 in the 1st round. She was playing against Estonian Kaia Kanepi and her little entourage of face painters and flag wavers. Youlia, who despite her last name ending in the Russian hottie 'VA' is actually French. She was up in the 1st 4-2 but lost 6-4. She won the second set, only to repeat the 1st, going up 4-2, but losing 6-4. I ran into her coming off the court. I'm in love. But then I thought, she is probably fifteen. I looked her up on the US Open website but there was no info, not even her picture. But take my word for it, take these words, she is to die for.
NIGHT TIME. ANDRE TIME.
Andre has to keep getting injections to even stand up, but he fights on in the last Open of his career. It was another brilliant 5 setter, to rival last years James Blake marathon. If you didn't see it I can't describe it. But don't worry. It will soon be a rain delay favorite.
I almost missed Nicole Vaidisova, who at the age of seventeen has the body of Wonder Woman. Luckily she was pushed to three sets so I caught the last of her match on Court 4. Nicole has the natural bodily talent to be a number one, but rumors persist that she also has a messed up head that sits on top of statuesque perfection to end up a could-a-been, should-a-been, Marat Safin.
I saw Serena Williams practicing with both her mom and dad. At first I thought, that has got to be one of the Williams sisters, and I didn't mean the svelte Venus In Furs. But it was Serena, who seems to have broadened her sporting events from not only tennis, but also competitive eating. Someone should tell Serena that in the fashion business it pays to be thin.
I grabbed a few over priced beers and soon drank more than the price of admission. (That's not true, I stayed sober, but I like that sentence. And besides, I've been pissed enough in the past to deserve it.) I decided to be patriotic and support Justin Gimelstob vs. the second best Spaniard in the world David Ferrer, even though it meant missing Elena Dementieva.
I clapped my hands and didn't drink beer, and shouted, “Come On Justin!†like a teenybopper crying for Justin Timberlake. I needn't have bothered. Justin got his ass kicked in three quick sets. And I also don't like his game. A few Wimbledon's ago, Justin really gave it a go, jumping around getting grass stains, and pounding his body to win. Yesterday was a disaster and Gimelstob was a non-starter.
A side note: There was a very beautiful, and fakely stacked girl in a green top who Justin kept staring at, and she kept moving around not really caring who won or lost. I wondered if Justin was distracted. I mean I was watching her too, but I didn't have a match to play. As it turns out I ran into Justin today at the Union Sq. Virgin Megastore. I asked him, “What the fuck happened, it was like you didn't even try. I missed Elena Dementieva in the Grandstand for you.†He just mumbled something. Then I asked about the girl. He said way to eagerly, “What, have you seen her?â€
Chump.
I saw Justine Henin-Hardenne's husband Pierre-Yves, who bites his nails even when he isn't watching Justine in Arthur Ashe Stadium. He seemed a little slow-witted but I'm sure Pierre-Yves is a very agreeable fellow.
Later I watched Youlia Fedossova, a qualifier ranked way up there at 264, who upset the number 25th seed Anabel Medina Garrigues of Spain, 7-5, 6-1 in the 1st round. She was playing against Estonian Kaia Kanepi and her little entourage of face painters and flag wavers. Youlia, who despite her last name ending in the Russian hottie 'VA' is actually French. She was up in the 1st 4-2 but lost 6-4. She won the second set, only to repeat the 1st, going up 4-2, but losing 6-4. I ran into her coming off the court. I'm in love. But then I thought, she is probably fifteen. I looked her up on the US Open website but there was no info, not even her picture. But take my word for it, take these words, she is to die for.
NIGHT TIME. ANDRE TIME.
Andre has to keep getting injections to even stand up, but he fights on in the last Open of his career. It was another brilliant 5 setter, to rival last years James Blake marathon. If you didn't see it I can't describe it. But don't worry. It will soon be a rain delay favorite.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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Andre the Giant always stands tall.
Andre Agassi should retire. Right now. After his last two matches he hasn't even been able to stand up. After the first match Andre needed two cortisone injections.
Andre said he didn't want to go out hobbling off the court. Now here is his chance. Why not withdrawal after beating the up and coming star and current top 10 player Marcos Baghdatis? Go out with a victory.
I want Andre to keep playing. I want Andre to win. But I don't want Andre to be in so much pain.
Andre Agassi should do whatever he wants. I just hope he knows that no matter who plays in the final, Andre is already the only champion of this US Open.
NEW YORK (AP) -As bad as his back has been, Andre Agassi never resorted to taking injections during a tournament. This U.S. Open is hardly any event, though: It's his final one, and Agassi now has received two types of shots to deal with the pain.
Agassi was given an injection of anti-inflammatory medication Friday, his trainer, Gil Reyes, said in a telephone interview. Unlike Tuesday, when Agassi went to a hospital for a cortisone shot, this procedure was done at Agassi's hotel, because his back hurt too much for a car ride.
The eight-time Grand Slam title winner didn't practice at all Friday, the day before his third-round match against German qualifier Benjamin Becker.
Agassi was examined by the U.S. Open's chief medical officer, Brian Hainline, following his theatrical five-set, 3-hour, 48-minute second-round victory over eighth-seeded Marcos Baghdatis, a match that stretched from Thursday night into Friday.
A hobbling Agassi appeared to have trouble swatting autographed balls into the stands when his victory was complete and shifted in his chair as he tried to find a comfortable position during the postmatch news conference. Reyes said the 36-year-old Agassi needed to lie on the ground outside the players' lounge in Arthur Ashe Stadium while waiting to be driven to his hotel.
“Andre's back was stiffening up. Pretty excruciating,†Reyes said. “The inflammation was causing tremendous pain and an obvious lack of mobility.â€
Agassi has dealt with a painful sciatic nerve for some time now; it's why he played only 15 matches in 2006 before the Open.
Andre said he didn't want to go out hobbling off the court. Now here is his chance. Why not withdrawal after beating the up and coming star and current top 10 player Marcos Baghdatis? Go out with a victory.
I want Andre to keep playing. I want Andre to win. But I don't want Andre to be in so much pain.
Andre Agassi should do whatever he wants. I just hope he knows that no matter who plays in the final, Andre is already the only champion of this US Open.
NEW YORK (AP) -As bad as his back has been, Andre Agassi never resorted to taking injections during a tournament. This U.S. Open is hardly any event, though: It's his final one, and Agassi now has received two types of shots to deal with the pain.
Agassi was given an injection of anti-inflammatory medication Friday, his trainer, Gil Reyes, said in a telephone interview. Unlike Tuesday, when Agassi went to a hospital for a cortisone shot, this procedure was done at Agassi's hotel, because his back hurt too much for a car ride.
The eight-time Grand Slam title winner didn't practice at all Friday, the day before his third-round match against German qualifier Benjamin Becker.
Agassi was examined by the U.S. Open's chief medical officer, Brian Hainline, following his theatrical five-set, 3-hour, 48-minute second-round victory over eighth-seeded Marcos Baghdatis, a match that stretched from Thursday night into Friday.
A hobbling Agassi appeared to have trouble swatting autographed balls into the stands when his victory was complete and shifted in his chair as he tried to find a comfortable position during the postmatch news conference. Reyes said the 36-year-old Agassi needed to lie on the ground outside the players' lounge in Arthur Ashe Stadium while waiting to be driven to his hotel.
“Andre's back was stiffening up. Pretty excruciating,†Reyes said. “The inflammation was causing tremendous pain and an obvious lack of mobility.â€
Agassi has dealt with a painful sciatic nerve for some time now; it's why he played only 15 matches in 2006 before the Open.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
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Section 8
On what might be one of the last warm sunny weekends of the summer I was walking through Central Park. I was enjoying myself. The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots always reminds me of long summer days and I was softly humming the songs. When I whispered-sung 'Do You Realize?' I realized that in my fleeting happiness I had momentarily forgotten that everyone I know will die. A huge melancholy gripped me and I needed to sit down. I pondered it all. Life and Death.
I needed to keep walking. I thought about small beginnings. I thought of birth. I had a hard time getting my mind around the fact that we all come from women. Every single person alive came out of a vagina. I was walking through Sheep Meadow and people were everywhere, sunbathing and playing and just all around. All those people, POP POP POP, came out of a vagina.
It was staggering.
All those people.
All those vaginas.
POP POP POP.
I grabbed a guy by the arm and said, “You came out of a vagina!â€
He looked at me like I was crazy.
“No,†he said. “I was a cesarean.â€
“Huh?â€
“I was a C-Section,†he repeated and hurried away from me.
Oh, I thought. Here comes the fall.
Lyrics - Flaming Lips—Do You Realize
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die -
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize
I needed to keep walking. I thought about small beginnings. I thought of birth. I had a hard time getting my mind around the fact that we all come from women. Every single person alive came out of a vagina. I was walking through Sheep Meadow and people were everywhere, sunbathing and playing and just all around. All those people, POP POP POP, came out of a vagina.
It was staggering.
All those people.
All those vaginas.
POP POP POP.
I grabbed a guy by the arm and said, “You came out of a vagina!â€
He looked at me like I was crazy.
“No,†he said. “I was a cesarean.â€
“Huh?â€
“I was a C-Section,†he repeated and hurried away from me.
Oh, I thought. Here comes the fall.
Lyrics - Flaming Lips—Do You Realize
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die -
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
I'm too sexy!
Fashion week is about to hit New York once again. Which is lucky for me, because I can always find some waif at bar time who has drunk her weight in vodka. And having the luxury of living alone in Manhattan I'm never more than a short cab ride away from gettin' some of that fine blacked out mannequin fucking.
I'm joking! Of course I don't like sex with models. Gross.
Along with fashion week comes all the assholes with opinions on the society that shapes us, or shapes society. It always brings up the issue of weight. Models too thin. Americans too fat. Let's make that Americans too obese. Being too obese is like saying, “I love you sooo much.†When just saying, “I love you,†should be enough. The average model is 5'9 and 110. The average American woman is 5'4 and 154. In America, there is just more to love. (And hate.)
I'm joking! Of course I don't like sex with models. Gross.
Along with fashion week comes all the assholes with opinions on the society that shapes us, or shapes society. It always brings up the issue of weight. Models too thin. Americans too fat. Let's make that Americans too obese. Being too obese is like saying, “I love you sooo much.†When just saying, “I love you,†should be enough. The average model is 5'9 and 110. The average American woman is 5'4 and 154. In America, there is just more to love. (And hate.)
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
This land that we love.
I've been watching loads of 9/11 stuff on TV, like last night there was a movie made by two French documentary filmmakers who were with these fire fighters on September 11th. Their film was going to be about how a rookie becomes a man in the NYPD. When the call went out for the World Trade Centers the brothers went with the truck and caught the whole day on film. They were in the towers, only a block away when the first one collapsed- their footage went all surreal white, images the whole world has seen many times- and they also caught the aftermath. And what resulted was these two French brothers really now belong to part of the NYPD. Let's never forget the French gave us the Statute of Liberty. And let's never forget we deserved it. We fought the good war. And that war, like all wars, was hell. But this war we fight now is another thing. Like double-double hell, or something.
Anyway all the 9/11 reflection in this city is giving me anxiety and also making me really sad. And on the 5th year of remembrance there is still nothing built on the 16-acre New York City expanse where the World Trade Center used to be. I'm gonna give my moment of silence…and get back to Scribbles. Keep on keepin' on.
Doing time at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center: Over twelve hours a day at the US Open.
Due to copyright reasons, copycat reasons, I can't post most of what I wrote about this years' US Open. I can give you the scribbles that I came up with after staring at the sun too long. Trust me, it is brighter than the corporate bullshit.
When you immerse yourself into a tournament you are gonna see it all, the blood, sweat and tears. The Draw eventually goes down to one. For that one lucky skilled person it is 'Miller Time'. But they should probably rename it 'Federer Time.' I was in the stands screaming my lungs out the night Mighty Mighty James Blake took on The Rog, but Federer was just too good. He doesn't hit it the hardest, he doesn't move the fastest, but he is total tennis.
James had his chances, oh how I wet my pants when in the tie-break, in the first set he went from 4-1 down to 6-4 up. You only need seven to win!!!!! But like in public park tennis when the levels don't always match up, one player can always take a match whenever he wants. And that is what Federer did.
Andy Roddick had a great run at the Open, and like James, he even managed to get the second set off Federer in the final. But not even Jimmy Conors could advance the cause for the American. (I missed this because I chose to instead spend my time at the Kettle of Fish Packer Bar in the West Village where we were shoved in like fat greased sardines and I had to sit next to three obese Bears fans with bad breath. We lost 26-0 at home. To Da Bears. With my misery complete I turned to Kyle and said in a voice everyone could hear, “If they are gonna let big fat ugly women in here, than they better at least be from Wisconsin!â€
Back to tennis. I never should have left it.
On the Women's side Sharapova proved good and beat hard nosed little Justine.I was a great fan of Maria's around the time she won Wimbledon, and than I wasn't so much a fan of Maria's- sorta hated her dad and his whole antics but still loved those oh so long lovely legs of hers. I do give her props for the Audrey Hepburn inspired little black dress/tennis outfit.
But there is another side to this life. One not for the winners. For the HUMANS in the US Open, when it comes to crunch time and the tournament 'gets tough' and most players in the Men's and Women's draw are sent home, the play on the outer courts is left to the Juniors, the Champions (the now Seniors who were probably once Junior Champions) and Wheel Chair tennis. So on days when the Grandstand isn't even used, the side courts are bustling and also bursting (keep reading) with activity.
After the great movie Murder Ball I was intrigued to witness Wheel Chair tennis. Knowing if I ever suffered a fate of paraplegic proportions I wouldn't want to live, I wanted to see people presumably much better at living than me serve and volley.
Unfortunately, time restraints kept me from catching a match. I did watch some practice, and there isn't much more in the way of motivation (or to make you feel like a lazy ass) than seeing these people so focused and determined. Like in the movie Murder Ball, the Wheel Chair athletes come across as more sincere. They seem to be more mentally tough and dedicated to victory than some of their able bodied peers.
I did watch some Juniors because discovering the next Federer, or at least the next Vincent Spadea, is more plausible than finding a Van Gogh at a stoop sale. There is a chance to see up and coming greatness, or at least in Vince's case, up and coming professional ok-ness. I saw more than I bargained for. From a ball boy.
On court 13 there was a Jr. Girls' doubles match that featured four very fit, lean and long legged teen girls whose nipples were poking out of their sweaty tops. Even though the competition wasn't stiff, this didn't keep one of the ball boys from getting an erection. After it became apparent his issued Polo apparel couldn't conceal the young man's hard-on the chair umpire had to stop the match and excuse the kid, who made it worse by throwing up while leaving the court in tears. Puke on a hot tennis court is never a good thing. Oh, what's a shy wallflower boy with raging hormones to do? If you think about it, the situation is almost a sick joke. Luckily, I don't think about it. That can be a debate between Health Class and Phys Ed.
The future of American Men's tennis has been dropped on the not so broad, and now not so young, Donald Young. Two years ago this left-hander from Atlanta, Georgia was as hot as Outkat's 'Hey Ya.' He was the number one seeded Boy's Junior in Wimbledon, but lost early. Since then the development hasn't been there and what was once so much promise is now seen as mediocrity. That is a lot of pressure on a kid who is still not even eighteen. Don was upset in the semis.
The # 3 Boys Junior seed Nicolas Santos from Brasil was also upset, and even if he doesn't have all the firepower yet needed to be a pro he has enough fire in his guts to be a top twenty player some day. The desire is already there, and the strength will come. Of course, in tennis, no one gives a shit about you unless you are in the top ten in the world. That is less than one single teams fielded side in football.
If you are like me and can fake your way into the tournament I say good for you. Some people might even think you are some sort of journalist- but hey, I did see in the hospitality tent a young dude wearing an orange t-shirt with a big B on it with 'Blogger' underneath. I approached him and asked, “Hey are you a blogger covering the Open?†He said, “No. I write for the Christian Science Monitor.â€
Down with whitey! For those who can afford the tournament they get most things free, like corporate box seating, drinks, and cake. I have never been given cake. I was once given a pot brownie, but never cake. Because when I'm not faking that I write for Tennis Daily, I'm mostly living an underground Bohemian lifestyle. Which means I'm surrounded by good music, fine cheap wine and sexy girls who walk around my apartment naked while reciting Anis Nin poetry, who sometimes spontaneously (can it be spontaneous if they are already naked?) jump into my bed and exclaim, “Ravish Me!†Yes, living the underground Bohemian lifestyle has its perks. But living the underground Bohemian lifestyle I'm not privy to the preppy contingent that views tennis not so much as a sport, but a social event. I don't get anywhere near perky Buffy's pert breasts, and Buffy comes from the kind of money that is mostly running the show when not doing lunch on the streets between Park Ave. and the Park.
Down with whitey. So, here are some secrets for the 'real' tennis freaks. The art of the sneak-in. Though my moral character won't allow me to actually do this myself, my sense of justice cannot help me but to share this information.
Send one person through the gate. Have that person buy two 'collector' beers and guzzle the first one down. Then tuck one cup into the other and leave the grounds with a full beer making sure to get stamped. The stamp is not water resistant, so meet the friend, lick the stamp and rub it onto the friends hand. Take the two beer cups and pour half the beer into the other cup so you each have a beer. Walk back in and have the beer cup in the hand with the stamp. Even if the stamp is a little smudged they will see the beer cup and presume that you were both already in. Two for the price of one.
God Bless America.
Anyway all the 9/11 reflection in this city is giving me anxiety and also making me really sad. And on the 5th year of remembrance there is still nothing built on the 16-acre New York City expanse where the World Trade Center used to be. I'm gonna give my moment of silence…and get back to Scribbles. Keep on keepin' on.
Doing time at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center: Over twelve hours a day at the US Open.
Due to copyright reasons, copycat reasons, I can't post most of what I wrote about this years' US Open. I can give you the scribbles that I came up with after staring at the sun too long. Trust me, it is brighter than the corporate bullshit.
When you immerse yourself into a tournament you are gonna see it all, the blood, sweat and tears. The Draw eventually goes down to one. For that one lucky skilled person it is 'Miller Time'. But they should probably rename it 'Federer Time.' I was in the stands screaming my lungs out the night Mighty Mighty James Blake took on The Rog, but Federer was just too good. He doesn't hit it the hardest, he doesn't move the fastest, but he is total tennis.
James had his chances, oh how I wet my pants when in the tie-break, in the first set he went from 4-1 down to 6-4 up. You only need seven to win!!!!! But like in public park tennis when the levels don't always match up, one player can always take a match whenever he wants. And that is what Federer did.
Andy Roddick had a great run at the Open, and like James, he even managed to get the second set off Federer in the final. But not even Jimmy Conors could advance the cause for the American. (I missed this because I chose to instead spend my time at the Kettle of Fish Packer Bar in the West Village where we were shoved in like fat greased sardines and I had to sit next to three obese Bears fans with bad breath. We lost 26-0 at home. To Da Bears. With my misery complete I turned to Kyle and said in a voice everyone could hear, “If they are gonna let big fat ugly women in here, than they better at least be from Wisconsin!â€
Back to tennis. I never should have left it.
On the Women's side Sharapova proved good and beat hard nosed little Justine.I was a great fan of Maria's around the time she won Wimbledon, and than I wasn't so much a fan of Maria's- sorta hated her dad and his whole antics but still loved those oh so long lovely legs of hers. I do give her props for the Audrey Hepburn inspired little black dress/tennis outfit.
But there is another side to this life. One not for the winners. For the HUMANS in the US Open, when it comes to crunch time and the tournament 'gets tough' and most players in the Men's and Women's draw are sent home, the play on the outer courts is left to the Juniors, the Champions (the now Seniors who were probably once Junior Champions) and Wheel Chair tennis. So on days when the Grandstand isn't even used, the side courts are bustling and also bursting (keep reading) with activity.
After the great movie Murder Ball I was intrigued to witness Wheel Chair tennis. Knowing if I ever suffered a fate of paraplegic proportions I wouldn't want to live, I wanted to see people presumably much better at living than me serve and volley.
Unfortunately, time restraints kept me from catching a match. I did watch some practice, and there isn't much more in the way of motivation (or to make you feel like a lazy ass) than seeing these people so focused and determined. Like in the movie Murder Ball, the Wheel Chair athletes come across as more sincere. They seem to be more mentally tough and dedicated to victory than some of their able bodied peers.
I did watch some Juniors because discovering the next Federer, or at least the next Vincent Spadea, is more plausible than finding a Van Gogh at a stoop sale. There is a chance to see up and coming greatness, or at least in Vince's case, up and coming professional ok-ness. I saw more than I bargained for. From a ball boy.
On court 13 there was a Jr. Girls' doubles match that featured four very fit, lean and long legged teen girls whose nipples were poking out of their sweaty tops. Even though the competition wasn't stiff, this didn't keep one of the ball boys from getting an erection. After it became apparent his issued Polo apparel couldn't conceal the young man's hard-on the chair umpire had to stop the match and excuse the kid, who made it worse by throwing up while leaving the court in tears. Puke on a hot tennis court is never a good thing. Oh, what's a shy wallflower boy with raging hormones to do? If you think about it, the situation is almost a sick joke. Luckily, I don't think about it. That can be a debate between Health Class and Phys Ed.
The future of American Men's tennis has been dropped on the not so broad, and now not so young, Donald Young. Two years ago this left-hander from Atlanta, Georgia was as hot as Outkat's 'Hey Ya.' He was the number one seeded Boy's Junior in Wimbledon, but lost early. Since then the development hasn't been there and what was once so much promise is now seen as mediocrity. That is a lot of pressure on a kid who is still not even eighteen. Don was upset in the semis.
The # 3 Boys Junior seed Nicolas Santos from Brasil was also upset, and even if he doesn't have all the firepower yet needed to be a pro he has enough fire in his guts to be a top twenty player some day. The desire is already there, and the strength will come. Of course, in tennis, no one gives a shit about you unless you are in the top ten in the world. That is less than one single teams fielded side in football.
If you are like me and can fake your way into the tournament I say good for you. Some people might even think you are some sort of journalist- but hey, I did see in the hospitality tent a young dude wearing an orange t-shirt with a big B on it with 'Blogger' underneath. I approached him and asked, “Hey are you a blogger covering the Open?†He said, “No. I write for the Christian Science Monitor.â€
Down with whitey! For those who can afford the tournament they get most things free, like corporate box seating, drinks, and cake. I have never been given cake. I was once given a pot brownie, but never cake. Because when I'm not faking that I write for Tennis Daily, I'm mostly living an underground Bohemian lifestyle. Which means I'm surrounded by good music, fine cheap wine and sexy girls who walk around my apartment naked while reciting Anis Nin poetry, who sometimes spontaneously (can it be spontaneous if they are already naked?) jump into my bed and exclaim, “Ravish Me!†Yes, living the underground Bohemian lifestyle has its perks. But living the underground Bohemian lifestyle I'm not privy to the preppy contingent that views tennis not so much as a sport, but a social event. I don't get anywhere near perky Buffy's pert breasts, and Buffy comes from the kind of money that is mostly running the show when not doing lunch on the streets between Park Ave. and the Park.
Down with whitey. So, here are some secrets for the 'real' tennis freaks. The art of the sneak-in. Though my moral character won't allow me to actually do this myself, my sense of justice cannot help me but to share this information.
Send one person through the gate. Have that person buy two 'collector' beers and guzzle the first one down. Then tuck one cup into the other and leave the grounds with a full beer making sure to get stamped. The stamp is not water resistant, so meet the friend, lick the stamp and rub it onto the friends hand. Take the two beer cups and pour half the beer into the other cup so you each have a beer. Walk back in and have the beer cup in the hand with the stamp. Even if the stamp is a little smudged they will see the beer cup and presume that you were both already in. Two for the price of one.
God Bless America.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Burnt Novel. Serial Shit # 9
21!
Janis leaves. I wait until I hear the door shut.
“I'm gonna paint.†I yell down the hall. Alice will like the fact we are making art.
“What was that?â€
“Paint. I'm gonna paint,†I repeat.
“Good for you kid.â€
I wait for more but it's not forthcoming. I gather my supplies and carry them down to Janis's room. I arrange a chair in the corner. I take out my brushes and paints and set them up on a small table. I position a new canvas.
I've never done anything this cool in my life. Painting a live nude girl: a very hot live nude girl! My girl. This is like a French film Mike and I saw, La Belle Noiseuse, where this old painter guy gets to drink wine and paint this beautiful girl. And in the film the painter's wife doesn't really care, until he starts screwing the model. But she is his muse, and so in an artistic way it was sorta socially expectable for painters to be old horny guys like that. You don't get that mentality in America.
Maybe Janis is my muse.
There is still some paint in the brushes making the bristles stiff. I soak them in solution. I never clean my brushes as well as I should. I also don't stay within the outlines. I'm a sloppy painter, which could be a metaphor for my life. I don't give a fuck. I'm living in the moment.
Janis returns with a grocery bag filled with wine and foodstuffs perfect for a picnic- a loaf of crusty bread, two hunks of cheese, deli cold cuts, fruit and cashews.
“You want to eat now?†I ask. I pop a few of the salty nuts into my mouth. It wets my appetite and increases my thirst.
“No, let's work first,†she says. “I don't want my stomach sticking out.â€
“Well, I'm going to have some wine.â€
“Okay, me too.â€
I open the first bottle with the Swiss army knife that Mike gave me for last Christmas. I remember I still need to buy presents for this Christmas. Janis and I drink out of teacups. We sip in silence, we lock eyes, and then we both put our cups down. Janis takes off her clothes. She sits in a compromising position. I start to get hard. I clear my thoughts. I vigorously work on her figure. Janis stays still and stoic. She is very good at this. I wonder if she has modeled before.
I finish my wine and loosen up. The brush strokes take on a contextual meaning. The painting is taking shape. I am starting to orchestrate the color schemes. I use a noir background and contrast that with eggshell white for her pale winter flesh. Dashes of avocado go into the green eyes and cobalt blue into the pubic hair.
I have another glass of wine. I don't want to finish the painting all in one sitting. My work is always better when I do it in stages and besides, it will be another chance to get Janis to pose nude for me. I hold the teacup of wine to my pursed lips and look at the creation with proud satisfaction. Janis clears her throat.
“Um, Monet,†Janis says. “Can I move now, are you finished?â€
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.â€
“It's not easy staying so still.â€
Janis starts to move, and does a few yoga stretches to get the kinks out of her body. I find it kinky. When my hard-on returns I don't ignore it. I'm turned on again. All artistic endeavors are forgotten. I take a brush and make a stroke from her neck down to her belly button. It leaves a blue mark between her breasts down to her tummy. I kiss her breasts, sucking on her candy raisin nipples like the sweet confectionery they resemble. Janis groans. I pull back and take the brush and make another stroke. I start covering her in smiley faces and hearts and peace signs.
“What are you doing?†she asks.
“I'm making you into a lovely flower power child.â€
“I'm not a hippy,†she smiles. “But I do like Devendra Banhart.â€
I write 'yummy' on her lower back.
“Let me do you,†Janis says.
“Me?â€
“Yeah, you.â€
I take my clothes off and Janis starts to paint me. She doesn't draw much of anything but covers me in all colors. Soon we are kissing and on top of each other. The paints start to blend into a mucky brown. We are getting paint over the carpet of her room but I'm too turned on to tell Janis what a mess we are making. I don't want to stop. We start getting into it heavy. I find a condom and put it on making sure to avoid the paint. I don't want anything toxic to enter her body but I sure want to be inside there myself. I penetrate her and it's tight but wet and full of pleasure. I push forward on her and our bodies move against each other, we create a new design of swirls.
This is primal, sloppy fun. I'm a fucking artist fucking. Janis contracts against me and her breath becomes labored. I know girls fake orgasms and I have my share of performance anxiety but this is too good, feels like a vise grip massaging my dick. I look into her eyes and they are wide and wild. Her pupils are dilated like she's on psychedelics and I know this is the real thing. I want to tell her I love her. Instead, I just keep making love to her.
When we are fucked out Janis and I have a hell of a chore cleaning up all the paint. Then we eat the food and drink the wine.
We are in her bed, in the spoon position, our limbs wrapped around each other. I think of Rachael. It was real fun fucking Rachael and I wonder if I'll ever be able to have sex with her again. My thoughts feel like cheating.
“What are you thinking about?†Janis asks.
I turn to look at her. I look into her eyes and hold her gaze.
“I'm thinking about how lucky I am to have met you.â€
“Mmmm,†Janis purrs. “Me too.â€
She gives me a squeeze and I squeeze her, then she touches me where it feels good, and I touch her where it feels good, and we start it all over again, this time without the paints.
Janis leaves. I wait until I hear the door shut.
“I'm gonna paint.†I yell down the hall. Alice will like the fact we are making art.
“What was that?â€
“Paint. I'm gonna paint,†I repeat.
“Good for you kid.â€
I wait for more but it's not forthcoming. I gather my supplies and carry them down to Janis's room. I arrange a chair in the corner. I take out my brushes and paints and set them up on a small table. I position a new canvas.
I've never done anything this cool in my life. Painting a live nude girl: a very hot live nude girl! My girl. This is like a French film Mike and I saw, La Belle Noiseuse, where this old painter guy gets to drink wine and paint this beautiful girl. And in the film the painter's wife doesn't really care, until he starts screwing the model. But she is his muse, and so in an artistic way it was sorta socially expectable for painters to be old horny guys like that. You don't get that mentality in America.
Maybe Janis is my muse.
There is still some paint in the brushes making the bristles stiff. I soak them in solution. I never clean my brushes as well as I should. I also don't stay within the outlines. I'm a sloppy painter, which could be a metaphor for my life. I don't give a fuck. I'm living in the moment.
Janis returns with a grocery bag filled with wine and foodstuffs perfect for a picnic- a loaf of crusty bread, two hunks of cheese, deli cold cuts, fruit and cashews.
“You want to eat now?†I ask. I pop a few of the salty nuts into my mouth. It wets my appetite and increases my thirst.
“No, let's work first,†she says. “I don't want my stomach sticking out.â€
“Well, I'm going to have some wine.â€
“Okay, me too.â€
I open the first bottle with the Swiss army knife that Mike gave me for last Christmas. I remember I still need to buy presents for this Christmas. Janis and I drink out of teacups. We sip in silence, we lock eyes, and then we both put our cups down. Janis takes off her clothes. She sits in a compromising position. I start to get hard. I clear my thoughts. I vigorously work on her figure. Janis stays still and stoic. She is very good at this. I wonder if she has modeled before.
I finish my wine and loosen up. The brush strokes take on a contextual meaning. The painting is taking shape. I am starting to orchestrate the color schemes. I use a noir background and contrast that with eggshell white for her pale winter flesh. Dashes of avocado go into the green eyes and cobalt blue into the pubic hair.
I have another glass of wine. I don't want to finish the painting all in one sitting. My work is always better when I do it in stages and besides, it will be another chance to get Janis to pose nude for me. I hold the teacup of wine to my pursed lips and look at the creation with proud satisfaction. Janis clears her throat.
“Um, Monet,†Janis says. “Can I move now, are you finished?â€
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.â€
“It's not easy staying so still.â€
Janis starts to move, and does a few yoga stretches to get the kinks out of her body. I find it kinky. When my hard-on returns I don't ignore it. I'm turned on again. All artistic endeavors are forgotten. I take a brush and make a stroke from her neck down to her belly button. It leaves a blue mark between her breasts down to her tummy. I kiss her breasts, sucking on her candy raisin nipples like the sweet confectionery they resemble. Janis groans. I pull back and take the brush and make another stroke. I start covering her in smiley faces and hearts and peace signs.
“What are you doing?†she asks.
“I'm making you into a lovely flower power child.â€
“I'm not a hippy,†she smiles. “But I do like Devendra Banhart.â€
I write 'yummy' on her lower back.
“Let me do you,†Janis says.
“Me?â€
“Yeah, you.â€
I take my clothes off and Janis starts to paint me. She doesn't draw much of anything but covers me in all colors. Soon we are kissing and on top of each other. The paints start to blend into a mucky brown. We are getting paint over the carpet of her room but I'm too turned on to tell Janis what a mess we are making. I don't want to stop. We start getting into it heavy. I find a condom and put it on making sure to avoid the paint. I don't want anything toxic to enter her body but I sure want to be inside there myself. I penetrate her and it's tight but wet and full of pleasure. I push forward on her and our bodies move against each other, we create a new design of swirls.
This is primal, sloppy fun. I'm a fucking artist fucking. Janis contracts against me and her breath becomes labored. I know girls fake orgasms and I have my share of performance anxiety but this is too good, feels like a vise grip massaging my dick. I look into her eyes and they are wide and wild. Her pupils are dilated like she's on psychedelics and I know this is the real thing. I want to tell her I love her. Instead, I just keep making love to her.
When we are fucked out Janis and I have a hell of a chore cleaning up all the paint. Then we eat the food and drink the wine.
We are in her bed, in the spoon position, our limbs wrapped around each other. I think of Rachael. It was real fun fucking Rachael and I wonder if I'll ever be able to have sex with her again. My thoughts feel like cheating.
“What are you thinking about?†Janis asks.
I turn to look at her. I look into her eyes and hold her gaze.
“I'm thinking about how lucky I am to have met you.â€
“Mmmm,†Janis purrs. “Me too.â€
She gives me a squeeze and I squeeze her, then she touches me where it feels good, and I touch her where it feels good, and we start it all over again, this time without the paints.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
victory
we win
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Burnt Novel Serial Shit #10
22!
I wake up with a headache. We didn't drink that much, only a few bottles. It must have been rotgut because I feel like shit. I have to meet the boys at the Blue Rose. Janis is still sleeping. She looks peaceful bundled up in the fetal position. Her breathing is soft and gentle. Tom Waits- Innocent when you dream.
I don't wake Janis. I kiss her on the cheek, grab my scarf and coat and tiptoe out of her house. As I pass through the kitchen I can hear the television, the sound of the TV doesn't cover up her mom, snoring loudly.
Outside it's one of those sunshiny bright winter days where the skies are clear, cold and brilliant. A glare is coming off the snow and ice making it hard to see. It intensifies my hangover. Most of the sidewalks have been cleared off and it's an easy walk through the neighborhood. I feel peaceful and serene despite my pounding head. I think the sex helps. I've read that intercourse can cure the common cold. Screwing your brains out cures all aliments. Halfway to the Blue Rose I remember I left my painting supplies at Janis' house. I'll get them later.
When I get to the bar the gang is there. Our occasional morning bullshit sessions are kind of a ritual. While most people are at work, we work off the excess of the weekend, mixing the toxins in our systems with more poison. Misery loves company.
As I walk in, Kenny, Mike's construction Buddha buddy, is explaining the meaning of life. Listening to him babble on are Tommy and Timmy, also Pete the Stripper- who always takes his clothes off when he gets really drunk, and Purdy, who listens with disinterest. Purdy once told me that as a bar owner, he has heard it all before, twice.
Mike is missing. He must be in the john. After my first Bloody Mary he still hasn't shown. Talk turns to the previous night. I become the center of attention. I knew I wouldn't get away with my bad behavior.
“Hey Trevor, some girls stopped in looking for you right after you left in such a state the other night,†says Purdy. He turns toward Tommy, “And you! No more selling that shit in here.â€
“What?†Tommy shrieks with his non-innocent hands in the air.
“Yeah?†says Timmy, though no one addressed him.
“That's not all. I heard you finally got yourself a 'Mrs. Behavin,'†says Kenny lifting his fingers in the air, making the quotation sign.
“Huh?†I ask.
“Ya know, a 'Mrs.' As in a married gal. Misbehaving, like married gal stepping out on her husband.â€
“Jesus, how do you know that?â€
“People talk,†says Purdy. “Someone saw you on the train.â€
“Oh.†If they think it was just a train ride into the city I'll let it drop. I'm not going to tell anyone I fucked Rachael up the ass. I might tell Mike. “Yeah, so what?â€
“You dog,†say Tommy. “You are like a hound dog. The sex DMX.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
“DMX the rapper?†I ask. “I thought you guys only listened to heavy metal.â€
“Shit no. We are down. DMX is black heavy metal, like a motherfuckin' African American Ozzy Osbourne barking at the moon.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy. “Woof! Woof!â€
“Whatever. So where is Mike?†I ask.
They all shake their heads in the negative.
“I forget names and faces but I never forget a pussy,†says Tommy for no reason at all.
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
“That's surprising,†says Pete the stripper, “since the only one yous ever seen is your mom's the day you was born.â€
“So no one knows where Mike is?†I demand.
I get blank stares. Then Tommy breaks the silence.
“Hey Trev, why are girls like credit cards?†He asks.
“Yeah?†Timmy adds.
“I don't know.â€
“Because when you use them you pay but the bill doesn't come till later. Wait…or because you can use them over and over?â€
“That's very cerebral of you,†I say. “I hope you didn't hurt yourself coming up with that.â€
“Naw man, it was easy…wait! You saying I a retard?â€
“Timmy doesn't say anything.
“Smart challenged.†I say.
Mike walks in and sits down. We all stare at him. He looks back at us.
“What?â€
“What? I guess the question is where have you been?â€
“Just around, you know?â€
“No, Mike, I don't,†says Kenny. “What where you doing, giving away all your possessions? Wait, you still have your looks. The only thing going for you these days.â€
“Funny, ya fucking fat laughing Buddha.â€
I stay silent. I wait for this to play out. Mike will tell me when he is ready. At least I hope he will. It's easy to forget about the outside world sitting here at the Blue Rose. Maybe it is too easy.
“Fuck that Teen Spirit bullshit,†says Tommy. “Nirvana ruined American rock n roll.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
I'm not going to get into it with them. I grab Tommy by the arm and drag him out of earshot of the grunge discussion. Timmy follows.
“What's up with the ecstasy you always sold me?†I demand.
“What do you mean?†Tommy asks.
“Yeah?†repeats Timmy.
“I mean the stuff you sold me was bullshit. Whatever it was it sure in the hell wasn't ecstasy.â€
“Yeah, it was.â€
“Yeah.â€
“No, it wasn't. I'm finding a new fucking drug dealer.â€
“Who you calling a drug dealer?â€
“Yeah?â€
I walk away disgusted.
23!
After another hour Purdy has to open. The group goes their separate ways. My hangover is replaced with a dizzy buzz. I follow Mike. He is walking at a quick pace, ignoring me.
“Mike? Hey Mike, wait up.â€
“Huh?†He turns to face me.
“What are you doing Trevor?â€
“Walking with you.â€
“OK. I heard you got jumped.â€
“Yeah.â€
“You okay?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Are the Slaughter guys after you?â€
“Shit. I hope not. I don't know.â€
“It was Juniors' fault. Wasn't it?â€
“Yeah.â€
“That asshole.â€
I want to talk about more pleasant things.
“Hey, guess what?†I ask.
“What.â€
“Well, you know how I hadn't had sex in like over a year?â€
“Yeah?â€
“Well, I have.â€
“Have what?â€
“I've had sex.â€
“Good for you, Trevor. With Janis?â€
“Yeah. But listen. I also had sex with this woman. She is married and has two kids.â€
Mike gives me an unfavorable look. “Oh yeah?†he asks cautiously.
“Yeah in a hotel in Manhattan. It was so fucking great. I fucked her up the ass.†I brag.
Mike stops in his tracks.
“Life is like that,†Mike says. “Most times it is a lull, but sometimes it is a whirlwind.â€
“Yeah, yeah that's what it feels like. I'm in a whirlwind.â€
“So who do you like?†Mike asks.
“What do you mean?â€
“I mean who do you like? Does Janis know you had sex with this woman?â€
“No. But she had sex with this chick. I caught her.â€
“You have had a busy two days,†he says. “Who do you like?â€
“I don't know. I mean I might be falling in love with Janis. She is like the coolest girl I've ever met. But just having sex again feels so great. I don't want to choose.â€
“You always have to choose. If you don't choose, you loose.â€
“Yeah. I'll choose later.â€
Mike continues walking. I struggle to keep up.
“Where are we going?â€
“To Debbie's house.â€
“Mike?â€
“Yeah?â€
“Who is Debbie?â€
“She has a business. I saw her ad in the back of the Jersey Free Press.â€
“How far back?â€
“You know, the back.â€
He means the last few pages- the personal ads, the hookers and the Dan Savage column. You can't take that shit seriously. The only reason I read that lonely hearts desperation is for a laugh.
'Overweight alcoholic seeks Supermodel for conversations and buffet diners.'
It's all a joke and you are in trouble if you think otherwise.
“What kind of business?†I ask a little worried. Mike doesn't look well and I'm concerned. “Are we going to some strip joint?â€
“Listen Trevor, I'm not feeling conversational right now. I'm in pain, while you've been in your whirlwind I've been in a dull ache for the last few days so can we just walk in silence.â€
We walk in silence. The afternoon sun is already starting to set. Days don't last long in winter. It helps to hibernate. I want to go back down to my basement room and listen to records. But I need to support Mike. We stop at the corner of two desolate streets.
“I'm going there.†Mike points across the road.
“We are?â€
“Yeah, I guess we are.†He says.
The business is really just a house, run down like Janis' but even smaller. In the yard hangs a red sign 'Cupid's Arrow.'
Mike knocks on the front door.
A voice calls from inside. “Please enter.â€
We walk into the house and I instantly get a creepy feeling. It smells of stale maraschino cherries, over sweet and sickly. Old Valentine's Day cards litter the coffee tables. Paint is peeling from the walls. The ceiling has water damage and looks like it could come crashing down on us at any moment.
Then we meet Debbie. She is the receptionist. She is sitting at a little card table that is set up as a desk. On the desk is a plaque with her name. Debbie has thick painted on make-up and big fat melon tits. Her flesh is starting to fade. She is older than she will ever admit. She smiles in defeated hope, like she can't even bring herself to falsely fake it, she has seen too much disappointment for a new dawn to ever bring a bright new day.
“Are you Mike?†Debbie asks me.
“No, I am,†says Mike.
“Hey Claire,†yells Debbie. “We got our client.â€
Claire waddles into view. She has a bovine face and bulking frame. She's as big as a boxcar. The floorboards creak. I look up at the ceiling to make sure Claire's rumble isn't going to bring down the roof. She is fucking huge, obese, and as wide as she is tall. I have no idea how someone can get like that. The long, slender, menthol cigarette that she holds daintily is in stark contrast to her obesity. What the fuck is this? If these ladies are prostitutes there is no way I can let Mike fuck one of them. Oh shit, what if Mike is going to become a male whore and these are the pimps. Is Mike doing this so we can get to Europe? This could be my fault. Oh double shit, what if they want me to become a boy toy?
“Sit down boys,†Claire says spreading herself out across a sofa. “It's a sad state of affairs when such cute young boys as yourselves need our services.â€
Mike and I look at our feet. I'm ready to run.
“Cinnamon bon-bon boys?†Claire offers a plastic dish of tiny stale red heart-shaped candy.
“No thanks.â€
“So what's your problem?†she asks me.
â€I don't have one,†I say. “He is the one.†I nudge Mike.
“Oh, sorry.â€
I look at Mike but he ignores me. He sits down in the chairs provided and I reluctantly do the same. I really want to get out of here.
“So you are the one who needs our help?†asks Claire. The smile never leaves her face. Like a laughing cow snorting away in green pastures. I find it repugnant.
“I do,†says Mike. “Yeah, I wanted to come here.â€
“You're lonely?†she asks.
“Yes,†he says.
“Crying all the time?†She nods her head in knowing sympathy. She has twinkles in her eyes that are accentuated by the gaudy glitter sprinkled on her puffy cheeks.
Mike hesitates and gives me a sideways glance. He doesn't roll his eyes the way I expect him to. He is buying into this. Mike is too smart for this bullshit. Lovesick is the worst sick of all.
“Yes,†he says.
“Can't get her out of your mind?â€
“Yes.â€
“You have a broken heart, my sweat dear. It's one of the saddest things in the world. But don't you fret. You have come to the right place. We mend broken hearts.â€
24!
Cupid's Arrow is the last place love exists. But this doesn't stop Mike from handing over four hundred dollars for fortune cookie advice. It's money we could have used for our trip. Finally we leave. On the way out Mike is handed a Xeroxed pamphlet.
We head back home in more silence. The sky goes from gray to black as we walk. We talk to Grandpa for a while and then head down to our room. I turn on the stereo. I put on Nirvana's Unplugged album. It was recorded in New York.
“Why do you always play old records?†Mike asks.
“I have a great record collection.â€
“Yeah you do, all your dad's old ones. But you don't stay up with the latest releases. I mean this is from the 90's.â€
“Yeah, but it is good. I thought it fit your mood.â€
“I don't want to listen to it.â€
“What? You don't like Nirvana now?â€
“Sure I do. I mean I think Kurt was great, at least the best of his time. But he was a one trick pony, man. He got caught up in his own fame. I mean Nirvana never got experimental. They never did a Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's, a Stones' Their Satanic Majesties Request or the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds. Besides, he killed himself and he had a baby daughter. That is fucked up. Just like Ian Curtis. All this talk about tortured genius, I know, I get it, but no one mentions how unfair that is to their kids.â€
“I like Out of Our Heads or Aftermath better than Their Satanic Majesties Request and Rubber Soul or Revolver better than Sargent Pepper's.†I say. “But Pet Sounds is the best thing the Beach Boys ever did besides their cover version of Louie, Louie.â€
Mike shakes his head. He pulls records out of his Adidas bag.
“Listen to these. They're pretty decent. And they are NYC groups still making music.â€
He hands me records from the Walkmen, the Kills, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Clap Your Hands Say, Yeah. We listen to the records. I don't want to like them but do despite myself. I'll have to keep up with the latest music. Sometimes I feel like I have heard every great song already. It can get depressing but than finding new music is what it is all about. And Mike's right about another thing, a father should never kill himself.
Mike reads a magazine. We don't talk. I read a book on film noir. I have a final in that class. We stay downstairs the rest of the night listening to music and reading.
“Put on, On Fire.†Mike says.
“I thought tonight was dedicated to new music.â€
“There is nothing better than Galaxie 500.â€
“You are right,†I agree.
Mike smiles. And I smile. It is the first time all day that I feel life is back to the way it should be.
I wake up with a headache. We didn't drink that much, only a few bottles. It must have been rotgut because I feel like shit. I have to meet the boys at the Blue Rose. Janis is still sleeping. She looks peaceful bundled up in the fetal position. Her breathing is soft and gentle. Tom Waits- Innocent when you dream.
I don't wake Janis. I kiss her on the cheek, grab my scarf and coat and tiptoe out of her house. As I pass through the kitchen I can hear the television, the sound of the TV doesn't cover up her mom, snoring loudly.
Outside it's one of those sunshiny bright winter days where the skies are clear, cold and brilliant. A glare is coming off the snow and ice making it hard to see. It intensifies my hangover. Most of the sidewalks have been cleared off and it's an easy walk through the neighborhood. I feel peaceful and serene despite my pounding head. I think the sex helps. I've read that intercourse can cure the common cold. Screwing your brains out cures all aliments. Halfway to the Blue Rose I remember I left my painting supplies at Janis' house. I'll get them later.
When I get to the bar the gang is there. Our occasional morning bullshit sessions are kind of a ritual. While most people are at work, we work off the excess of the weekend, mixing the toxins in our systems with more poison. Misery loves company.
As I walk in, Kenny, Mike's construction Buddha buddy, is explaining the meaning of life. Listening to him babble on are Tommy and Timmy, also Pete the Stripper- who always takes his clothes off when he gets really drunk, and Purdy, who listens with disinterest. Purdy once told me that as a bar owner, he has heard it all before, twice.
Mike is missing. He must be in the john. After my first Bloody Mary he still hasn't shown. Talk turns to the previous night. I become the center of attention. I knew I wouldn't get away with my bad behavior.
“Hey Trevor, some girls stopped in looking for you right after you left in such a state the other night,†says Purdy. He turns toward Tommy, “And you! No more selling that shit in here.â€
“What?†Tommy shrieks with his non-innocent hands in the air.
“Yeah?†says Timmy, though no one addressed him.
“That's not all. I heard you finally got yourself a 'Mrs. Behavin,'†says Kenny lifting his fingers in the air, making the quotation sign.
“Huh?†I ask.
“Ya know, a 'Mrs.' As in a married gal. Misbehaving, like married gal stepping out on her husband.â€
“Jesus, how do you know that?â€
“People talk,†says Purdy. “Someone saw you on the train.â€
“Oh.†If they think it was just a train ride into the city I'll let it drop. I'm not going to tell anyone I fucked Rachael up the ass. I might tell Mike. “Yeah, so what?â€
“You dog,†say Tommy. “You are like a hound dog. The sex DMX.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
“DMX the rapper?†I ask. “I thought you guys only listened to heavy metal.â€
“Shit no. We are down. DMX is black heavy metal, like a motherfuckin' African American Ozzy Osbourne barking at the moon.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy. “Woof! Woof!â€
“Whatever. So where is Mike?†I ask.
They all shake their heads in the negative.
“I forget names and faces but I never forget a pussy,†says Tommy for no reason at all.
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
“That's surprising,†says Pete the stripper, “since the only one yous ever seen is your mom's the day you was born.â€
“So no one knows where Mike is?†I demand.
I get blank stares. Then Tommy breaks the silence.
“Hey Trev, why are girls like credit cards?†He asks.
“Yeah?†Timmy adds.
“I don't know.â€
“Because when you use them you pay but the bill doesn't come till later. Wait…or because you can use them over and over?â€
“That's very cerebral of you,†I say. “I hope you didn't hurt yourself coming up with that.â€
“Naw man, it was easy…wait! You saying I a retard?â€
“Timmy doesn't say anything.
“Smart challenged.†I say.
Mike walks in and sits down. We all stare at him. He looks back at us.
“What?â€
“What? I guess the question is where have you been?â€
“Just around, you know?â€
“No, Mike, I don't,†says Kenny. “What where you doing, giving away all your possessions? Wait, you still have your looks. The only thing going for you these days.â€
“Funny, ya fucking fat laughing Buddha.â€
I stay silent. I wait for this to play out. Mike will tell me when he is ready. At least I hope he will. It's easy to forget about the outside world sitting here at the Blue Rose. Maybe it is too easy.
“Fuck that Teen Spirit bullshit,†says Tommy. “Nirvana ruined American rock n roll.â€
“Yeah,†says Timmy.
I'm not going to get into it with them. I grab Tommy by the arm and drag him out of earshot of the grunge discussion. Timmy follows.
“What's up with the ecstasy you always sold me?†I demand.
“What do you mean?†Tommy asks.
“Yeah?†repeats Timmy.
“I mean the stuff you sold me was bullshit. Whatever it was it sure in the hell wasn't ecstasy.â€
“Yeah, it was.â€
“Yeah.â€
“No, it wasn't. I'm finding a new fucking drug dealer.â€
“Who you calling a drug dealer?â€
“Yeah?â€
I walk away disgusted.
23!
After another hour Purdy has to open. The group goes their separate ways. My hangover is replaced with a dizzy buzz. I follow Mike. He is walking at a quick pace, ignoring me.
“Mike? Hey Mike, wait up.â€
“Huh?†He turns to face me.
“What are you doing Trevor?â€
“Walking with you.â€
“OK. I heard you got jumped.â€
“Yeah.â€
“You okay?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Are the Slaughter guys after you?â€
“Shit. I hope not. I don't know.â€
“It was Juniors' fault. Wasn't it?â€
“Yeah.â€
“That asshole.â€
I want to talk about more pleasant things.
“Hey, guess what?†I ask.
“What.â€
“Well, you know how I hadn't had sex in like over a year?â€
“Yeah?â€
“Well, I have.â€
“Have what?â€
“I've had sex.â€
“Good for you, Trevor. With Janis?â€
“Yeah. But listen. I also had sex with this woman. She is married and has two kids.â€
Mike gives me an unfavorable look. “Oh yeah?†he asks cautiously.
“Yeah in a hotel in Manhattan. It was so fucking great. I fucked her up the ass.†I brag.
Mike stops in his tracks.
“Life is like that,†Mike says. “Most times it is a lull, but sometimes it is a whirlwind.â€
“Yeah, yeah that's what it feels like. I'm in a whirlwind.â€
“So who do you like?†Mike asks.
“What do you mean?â€
“I mean who do you like? Does Janis know you had sex with this woman?â€
“No. But she had sex with this chick. I caught her.â€
“You have had a busy two days,†he says. “Who do you like?â€
“I don't know. I mean I might be falling in love with Janis. She is like the coolest girl I've ever met. But just having sex again feels so great. I don't want to choose.â€
“You always have to choose. If you don't choose, you loose.â€
“Yeah. I'll choose later.â€
Mike continues walking. I struggle to keep up.
“Where are we going?â€
“To Debbie's house.â€
“Mike?â€
“Yeah?â€
“Who is Debbie?â€
“She has a business. I saw her ad in the back of the Jersey Free Press.â€
“How far back?â€
“You know, the back.â€
He means the last few pages- the personal ads, the hookers and the Dan Savage column. You can't take that shit seriously. The only reason I read that lonely hearts desperation is for a laugh.
'Overweight alcoholic seeks Supermodel for conversations and buffet diners.'
It's all a joke and you are in trouble if you think otherwise.
“What kind of business?†I ask a little worried. Mike doesn't look well and I'm concerned. “Are we going to some strip joint?â€
“Listen Trevor, I'm not feeling conversational right now. I'm in pain, while you've been in your whirlwind I've been in a dull ache for the last few days so can we just walk in silence.â€
We walk in silence. The afternoon sun is already starting to set. Days don't last long in winter. It helps to hibernate. I want to go back down to my basement room and listen to records. But I need to support Mike. We stop at the corner of two desolate streets.
“I'm going there.†Mike points across the road.
“We are?â€
“Yeah, I guess we are.†He says.
The business is really just a house, run down like Janis' but even smaller. In the yard hangs a red sign 'Cupid's Arrow.'
Mike knocks on the front door.
A voice calls from inside. “Please enter.â€
We walk into the house and I instantly get a creepy feeling. It smells of stale maraschino cherries, over sweet and sickly. Old Valentine's Day cards litter the coffee tables. Paint is peeling from the walls. The ceiling has water damage and looks like it could come crashing down on us at any moment.
Then we meet Debbie. She is the receptionist. She is sitting at a little card table that is set up as a desk. On the desk is a plaque with her name. Debbie has thick painted on make-up and big fat melon tits. Her flesh is starting to fade. She is older than she will ever admit. She smiles in defeated hope, like she can't even bring herself to falsely fake it, she has seen too much disappointment for a new dawn to ever bring a bright new day.
“Are you Mike?†Debbie asks me.
“No, I am,†says Mike.
“Hey Claire,†yells Debbie. “We got our client.â€
Claire waddles into view. She has a bovine face and bulking frame. She's as big as a boxcar. The floorboards creak. I look up at the ceiling to make sure Claire's rumble isn't going to bring down the roof. She is fucking huge, obese, and as wide as she is tall. I have no idea how someone can get like that. The long, slender, menthol cigarette that she holds daintily is in stark contrast to her obesity. What the fuck is this? If these ladies are prostitutes there is no way I can let Mike fuck one of them. Oh shit, what if Mike is going to become a male whore and these are the pimps. Is Mike doing this so we can get to Europe? This could be my fault. Oh double shit, what if they want me to become a boy toy?
“Sit down boys,†Claire says spreading herself out across a sofa. “It's a sad state of affairs when such cute young boys as yourselves need our services.â€
Mike and I look at our feet. I'm ready to run.
“Cinnamon bon-bon boys?†Claire offers a plastic dish of tiny stale red heart-shaped candy.
“No thanks.â€
“So what's your problem?†she asks me.
â€I don't have one,†I say. “He is the one.†I nudge Mike.
“Oh, sorry.â€
I look at Mike but he ignores me. He sits down in the chairs provided and I reluctantly do the same. I really want to get out of here.
“So you are the one who needs our help?†asks Claire. The smile never leaves her face. Like a laughing cow snorting away in green pastures. I find it repugnant.
“I do,†says Mike. “Yeah, I wanted to come here.â€
“You're lonely?†she asks.
“Yes,†he says.
“Crying all the time?†She nods her head in knowing sympathy. She has twinkles in her eyes that are accentuated by the gaudy glitter sprinkled on her puffy cheeks.
Mike hesitates and gives me a sideways glance. He doesn't roll his eyes the way I expect him to. He is buying into this. Mike is too smart for this bullshit. Lovesick is the worst sick of all.
“Yes,†he says.
“Can't get her out of your mind?â€
“Yes.â€
“You have a broken heart, my sweat dear. It's one of the saddest things in the world. But don't you fret. You have come to the right place. We mend broken hearts.â€
24!
Cupid's Arrow is the last place love exists. But this doesn't stop Mike from handing over four hundred dollars for fortune cookie advice. It's money we could have used for our trip. Finally we leave. On the way out Mike is handed a Xeroxed pamphlet.
We head back home in more silence. The sky goes from gray to black as we walk. We talk to Grandpa for a while and then head down to our room. I turn on the stereo. I put on Nirvana's Unplugged album. It was recorded in New York.
“Why do you always play old records?†Mike asks.
“I have a great record collection.â€
“Yeah you do, all your dad's old ones. But you don't stay up with the latest releases. I mean this is from the 90's.â€
“Yeah, but it is good. I thought it fit your mood.â€
“I don't want to listen to it.â€
“What? You don't like Nirvana now?â€
“Sure I do. I mean I think Kurt was great, at least the best of his time. But he was a one trick pony, man. He got caught up in his own fame. I mean Nirvana never got experimental. They never did a Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's, a Stones' Their Satanic Majesties Request or the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds. Besides, he killed himself and he had a baby daughter. That is fucked up. Just like Ian Curtis. All this talk about tortured genius, I know, I get it, but no one mentions how unfair that is to their kids.â€
“I like Out of Our Heads or Aftermath better than Their Satanic Majesties Request and Rubber Soul or Revolver better than Sargent Pepper's.†I say. “But Pet Sounds is the best thing the Beach Boys ever did besides their cover version of Louie, Louie.â€
Mike shakes his head. He pulls records out of his Adidas bag.
“Listen to these. They're pretty decent. And they are NYC groups still making music.â€
He hands me records from the Walkmen, the Kills, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Clap Your Hands Say, Yeah. We listen to the records. I don't want to like them but do despite myself. I'll have to keep up with the latest music. Sometimes I feel like I have heard every great song already. It can get depressing but than finding new music is what it is all about. And Mike's right about another thing, a father should never kill himself.
Mike reads a magazine. We don't talk. I read a book on film noir. I have a final in that class. We stay downstairs the rest of the night listening to music and reading.
“Put on, On Fire.†Mike says.
“I thought tonight was dedicated to new music.â€
“There is nothing better than Galaxie 500.â€
“You are right,†I agree.
Mike smiles. And I smile. It is the first time all day that I feel life is back to the way it should be.
-
mccutcheon
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T.O. attempts suicide?
Best line I've heard regarding the Dallas Police report being false about T.O.'s suicide attempt:
“We are talking about the Dallas Police Dept. They still don't know who killed JFK.â€
“We are talking about the Dallas Police Dept. They still don't know who killed JFK.â€
-
mccutcheon
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Burnt Novel Serial Shit #11
25!
The next morning I feel refreshed from the quiet night in. When I'm run down from a hangover I feel self-pitying, like it's all a waste. Then when I rejuvenate I'm ready for anything. Mike is getting up beside me. Most of the time when I wake up Mike is already gone. He must have been exhausted as well.
“What are you doing tonight?†Mike asks. “You work?â€
“No. I got a few days off. I told Ricardo I needed to study for finals.â€
“You seeing Janis?â€
“Probably. I don't know.â€
“You want to go into the city?â€
“The city, really?†Mike has been staying away from the city lately.
“Yeah.â€
“Why?â€
“A party at Next. I'm going to start modeling again. The agency is having the Christmas party. I should go and make an appearance.â€
“Really?†I know how much he hates modeling.
“Yes. We need the fucking money. That love therapist was bullshit. I have to get out of here. I figure a few jobs and we can take off.â€
“Really?â€
I thought it would be a year before we went. Suddenly there is much to consider. I worry about grandpa left alone, and I just met Janis. I'm used to thinking solely about me. For the last two years all that kept me going was the anticipation that I would escape this life and move into another one. It was all about the trip. Now, I'm not positive I want to leave. I would like to stay with Janis.
Later in the day I call Janis.
“Janis?†I say into the phone.
“Yeah?â€
“Were we going to get together tonight?â€
“I don't know.â€
“I'm going to go into the city with Mike.â€
“Okay.â€
She doesn't tell me not to go. I don't ask her if she cares.
26!
Mike and I take a car into New York. Mike has been up to his old tricks again because neither of us actually owns a car. At the agency party most of the faces are different but of course the girls all look the same.
As soon as we enter Mike is swished away. There is an open bar. I start drinking and stand in a corner. After a few doubles I walk around. The girls are gorgeous. But it is cookie cutter physical perfection. I can't tell anyone apart. I think about Janis and her lovely curves.
There is an older woman, looking very upset, standing alone with a bottle of Vodka in her hand. She is tall and weathered and out of place. I walk up to her because she looks like the most interesting person here.
“Hi.†I say.
“I'm too old for you boy,†She says in a thick Eastern European accent.
“So you don't want me than?â€
“No.â€
“It was a joke.†I say.
“My daughter is the hot little thing. Go talk to her.â€
I look over to where she is pointing. I see her daughter surrounded by press agents and a few paparazzi. To her credit the model looks more bored than bewildered. This hot new thing for the moment is not caught up in the glamour being offered her. It is always brief. Better to take the money when you can.
“Where are you from?†I ask.
“Poland.â€
“Poland?â€
“Yes, Swinoujscie it's a small island in the north, in the Baltic Sea near Germany. The part that used to be the East.â€
“Oh, I've never been there.â€
“Of course you haven't. You look like a boy who hasn't been anywhere.â€
Her words sting me. I want to tell her about my plans to travel, how I am going to see the world, spend time in Europe with Mike. I might even get to this fucking Swinoujscie place. The thing about plans is, they are waiting in the future. You can never stick up for yourself with only plans to do something, plans to travel. Plans are like dreams. They are often not realized. It's not until you actually pull it off that you can reap the respect of the accomplishment. If I had been to that fucking island than I could get her.
I want to rebuff her statement. Prove that it is only a matter of time until I too start having experiences worth remembering. In my anger I get an insight. I have seen her before. Though it's impossible that I have. The woman looks at me. She takes a swig of vodka. Then it hits me. She is Janis's mom. Having never been anywhere I have a limited scope of people. But I see that this Polish mom of a model is the spitting image of Janis's mom. Only a few cultural differences separate them. Drinking vodka is not one of them.
“What? Did I hurt your feelings?â€
“No, you just remind me of someone I met recently.â€
“Is this a good thing?â€
“I wanted it to be.â€
“It's a girl then. All problems for boys your age start and end with girls.â€
I wish that were true. I don't feel like explaining myself but I do anyway.
“It's a woman. The mother of this girl I like. That is true. The rest of it I don't know. I mean I'm mad, and I don't want to hold a grudge but I do. And then I think her actions might be from the way she was brought up.â€
“So the woman is a bad woman?â€
“I don't know. She isn't the perfect mom.â€
“What is a perfect mom? We do our best.â€
“I know, and I know life is hard. I just get upset with adults who let life beat them before it's over.â€
“How do you know she has given up, this mother?â€
“She sits home and drinks all day.â€
“That is a bad thing? She is at the home, but at least she doesn't hurt anyone. There is worse than a solitary drinker. She isn't violent is she?â€
“No, I don't think so. But she doesn't participate.â€
“What is this participate? You Americans think life is like that fat black woman's television show. Life is not scripted.â€
“You mean Oprah?â€
“Yes, Oprah.â€
The mom walks away.
The doubles have caught up to me. I've lost all inhibition. I can approach anyone I want with the buzz of the majestic. A group of models stand erect and preening to my left. I overhear their conversation. They are talking pop culture politics.
“Oh my god! Yesterday I met Sean Lennon. He was so cute,†says a redhead.
“Did you tell him you didn't like Asians?†asks the tall-waif blonde. All the girls are tall-waifish, of course. From her accent I hear she is the polish girl. She sounds like her mom.
“What?†she asks horrified, looking around to make sure no Asians heard, either embarrassed by the conversation or confirming that she really doesn't like them.
“Well, when you got back from Japan you told me you hated the Japanese, you said they were all little and spoiled. That you were never going back to Asia.â€
“Sean isn't Asian. He's British; his father was in the Rolling Stones. So there.†Says the Redhead defiantly.
“Yes, he is, his mother is Ono Yoko. His father was John Lennon, The Beatles.â€
“Really?†Redhead asks.
“Yes?â€
“Yes, but he is famous so it doesn't count.â€
The Polish tall-waif agrees with a mock smile and turns to me.
“You.â€
“Yes?†I ask.
“Why were you talking to my mama?â€
“We were just talking.â€
“Whispering sweet seductions?â€
“No.â€
“What are you doing here? You don't look like a model to me.â€
“I'm not a model, I deliver pizza.â€
“What is that?â€
“People call up to have a pizza delivered to them and I drive it to them and then they tip me a hundred bucks every time.â€
“Really? You are not Mexican are you?â€
“No.â€
“I thought only Mexicans delivered pizzas.â€
“No. I'm American.â€
“A non-model boy. I will talk to you. Let's go.â€
“Go?â€
“Yes, I say go, we go.â€
“Where?â€
She grabs my arm, leads me across the banquet to where the drinks are on display, grabs a bottle of Champagne and leads me out of the crowded room. I'm escorted down the hallway and through a corridor. There is an open window. The model climbs out.
The rickety fire escape is rusted iron. It isn't too sturdy. When I step on the landing it gives under my weight. Icicles hang from ladder rungs. My hands are bitter cold. The rest of my body is warm, flushed with the alcohol. I look over the city, at the lights and steam that spin and float everywhere.
New York is glowing in the cold night with all the glory and significance of the most important city in the world. This is where it all happens. This is it, the city of dreams. It's where a pizza guy can sit on a fire escape with some international model and drink champagne. I'm aware of the moment. I might not have traveled yet, but at least I have New York City. It's not like I'm stuck in bum fuck North Dakota or one of those barren states that doesn't even have professional sports teams.
The model pops the cork and the Champagne spills down her wrist. She puts her perfectly pouted lips to the top of the bottle and sips the sparkling bubbles. Then she hands me the bottle and lights a cigarette.
“So,†she says, “My mom is too old for you. Besides, she is taken. My father is still alive.â€
“I was not trying to pick up your mom.â€
“What were you talking about?â€
“I was talking about a girl and her mother. Your mother reminded me of this girl's mother.â€
“Do I remind you of the mother's daughter?â€
“Uh, no.†I didn't think of that before.
“Is this girl your girlfriend? The number one in your life?â€
“No, well, maybe she is number one in my life but she isn't my girlfriend.â€
“That is sad.â€
“Yeah, maybe.†I take another sip. “We just met really.â€
“Time is nothing.â€
“I always thought time was everything. I even have a theory.â€
“You are wrong.†She puts up her hand in the stop motion. She won't let me explain.
“But.â€
“Shhh. So pizza boy, what are you doing here with your heartbreak?â€
It's a good question as far as questions go. She means it in the sort of rhetorical, 'how did I crash this party way', instead of the 'what am I doing here, what is she doing here, what are we all doing here, philosophical Greek way'.
“I came with my friend Mike.â€
“I know Mike, he is funny and strange. Not around very much.â€
“He doesn't really model anymore. I guess he has been lately, coming into the city. I didn't know about it.â€
“Why should you know about it?â€
“We live together.â€
“I'm sure he comes and goes as he pleases. You are not his lion tamer.â€
“Um, we live in the same room so I usually know where he goes.â€
“You sleep together? Are you lovers?â€
“No. He sleeps on the floor.â€
She looks at me like she doesn't believe it.
“Lots of the boys are gay,†she says in an understanding compassionate tone.
“Mike is not gay. I'm not gay.â€
She goes in for a quick kiss. She presses her lips firmly against mine. I'm taken aback by her rash action. Then she opens her mouth and I do the same. Despite her exquisite lips she isn't a very good kisser. She bares her teeth and fumbles with too much tongue. She pulls back.
“Okay, you are not gay,†she says, swigging more of the champagne.
“Thanks.†I say. I wipe her saliva off my mouth.
“What is your name?â€
“Trevor.â€
“My name is Bi, not spelled B-Y-E, just B-I. You want to hear a Paris story, Trevor?â€
“Sure. I'd like to go to Paris someday.â€
“My mother was also a model. In the 80's she was allowed to leave the Iron Curtain to model in Paris. She was followed around the city by secret agents and spies from Russia. My mother had to occasionally sleep with these men so she would be allowed to stay in Paris. Ironically when one of the bastards got her pregnant she was forced to go back to Poland. I never met my father.â€
“You said your father is still alive.â€
“He is.â€
But?â€
“I lied.â€
“So you were conceived in Paris, that's cool.†I wonder if that is the truth.
“Is that the right way to use ironic? I don't want to be stupid like that Alanis Morrissette song.â€
“I think that is right.â€
“Good. I hate stupid people. You aren't stupid are you?â€
“Sometimes.â€
“Sometimes is good. To think you are stupid and question what you do makes you not stupid. Its people who think they are clever that are stupid. Let's leave here.â€
Bi doesn't make much sense. She has the strong arrogance of a young lady caught up in her own beliefs because no one has ever put her in her place. No one has ever told her she is wrong. That's what beauty and celebrity gets you.
I stand up to go back to the party but Bi starts to climb down the fire escape.
“What are you doing?†I ask.
“I want to leave,†she says still descending. “I want to be out on the streets away from these people.â€
“What about your mom?â€
“She is able to take care of herself. She can drink her weight in vodka.â€
I believe it. I start to climb down the ladder. When we get to the first floor the ladder ends fifteen feet from the sidewalk. I am thinking we will have to climb back up when Bi swings herself from the bottom rung and launches forward into an open dumpster.
“Come on, jump!†she yells. “It's clean garbage.â€
I swing myself for momentum and let go. I land right on top of Bi. I hope she isn't crushed.
“Are you okay?†I ask.
“Yeah, I'm fine. You could have landed over there.†She points to the corner of the Dumpster where rotting food is seeping through a bag.
I help Bi up and she climbs over the edge. I follow her.
“I want to get out of Soho.â€
“Where do you want to go?â€
“I want to go uptown.â€
“We can get a cab a block over there.â€
“I want to walk.â€
“It's a long way.â€
“So?â€
27!
We walk two blocks.
“I want to take a cab,†Bi says.
“Ok.†I lift my arm and hail a cab.
“Uptown, West Side.†Says Bi.
We get out at Central Park West and West 72nd. I pay.
“That is where John Lennon was killed,†Bi informs me.
“I know.â€
We walk back toward Broadway to a bar called the Broadway Tavern. We enter into the smoky dankness. Not even the smoking ban can air this place out. It's a run down joint without a hint of white trash irony. It should be hard to find a bar like this in Manhattan, but here it is settled into one of the most famous streets in the world. I'm sure it's the first time a model has ever been in here.
This isn't the Lower East Side where the hip drink cans of PBR even though they have the rent. Here, what you see is what you get. A few barflies sip bottles of Budweiser.
“What do you want?†I ask.
“Champagne,†says Bi.
We sit at the bar. There is plenty of room. The bartender leans our way.
“Yeah?â€
“Do you have champagne?â€
“We got Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.â€
I look at Bi. I don't want to push the issue with this guy.
“That sounds good,†says Bi. “It must be a very good beer.â€
“No, it's crap,†I whisper in her ear.
“How can they call it the champagne of beers if it is crap? I bet it is from Belgiumâ€
“No, it's from Milwaukee.â€
“Milwaukee? Where is that? Is it a Bavarian city?â€
“No, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Above Chicago.â€
“I know Chicago. It's cold there like in Poland. They don't even make champagne in The States. How can they make the best beer?â€
“Let's have vodka.â€
“Okay.â€
“We will have vodka,†I tell the bartender.
“Straight vodka. No juice, no ice,†Bi states. “I can drink my weight in vodka.â€
The bartender doesn't say a word. He brings over two glasses and a quart of vodka in a plastic bottle. He pours the vodka into the glasses.
“What kind of vodka comes in a big plastic bottle?†asks Bi.
“I don't know, it's the low end, it's not a brand name.â€
“Yes. This is bohemian. I love itâ€
Bi is slumming it after all, or is too drunk to know better. She likes the atmosphere. I don't know if it's bohemian. It's like a lot of the bars we go to in Jersey when we aren't at the Blue Rose, where we get funny looks for asking for imported beer. Why drink PBR if you don't have to.
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It's an old-fashioned jukebox with records that actually skip as they play and buttons that stick with years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
An old lady stumbles into the bar. I think she is having trouble walking because she is old. Until she shouts, “Gimme a gin and fucking tonic.†She is stumbling because she is wasted. She sits down at the bar next to Bi. The bartender makes her drink using gin from another huge plastic bottle. The woman takes a sip of her drink and then throws it against the wall. She starts swearing at the bartender. He grabs her and escorts her out.
“Some people just shouldn't drink,†says one of the barflies.
Bi and I drink the vodka and talk. Five minutes later the old lady comes back into the bar.
“Gimme a gin and fucking tonic,†she shouts and then suddenly passes out on the floor. The bartender leaves the old lady on the floor. I turn back to Bi.
There are always New York stories, aren't there?†I say.
“Have you seen the new Interview?†she asks.
“No.â€
“I'm on the cover.â€
“That must be nice for you.â€
“It was started by Andy Warhol.â€
“I know.â€
“Do you like Andy Warhol?â€
“Yes, I like the stuff he did with the Velvet Underground.â€
“All white boys your age like the Velvet Underground.â€
I'm about to protest when suddenly Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor only a foot away from the old drunk woman. Bi never slurred her words even though she must have been wasted. I look down at one of the most beautiful women in the world, a girl who is on the cover of Interview, lying next to the geriatric alcoholic no one cares about. Two women on the opposite ends of the human scale, still at the moment closer together, literally, than anyone would ever think. Unlike her mom, I guess Bi can't drink her weight in vodka.
I cup Bi's radiant head in my arms and place the back of my hand on her right cheek.
“Bi? Are you okay?â€
She remains slumped.
I tap the old lady on her shoulder.
“You okay ma'am?â€
No response. I turn back to Bi.
“Bi, hey baby, wake up,†I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.â€
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it's his last two cents.
“I'm sure she will be okay.â€
I pay the tab and pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can't weigh an ounce over a hundred. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We wobble out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?â€
“Hmm?†She mutters, but her eyes don't open.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I don't have money left for a cab. At least not enough to go all the way back downtown. I check Bi's coat pockets for cash, but she only has cigarettes and three credit cards.
Two doors down from the bar is an open video/DVD store. I rest Bi against the building and enter. A robust woman with a mound of black curly hair is smacking her chewing gum, talking to a thin, painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy patient with emaciated frame and translucent skin. He needs to stop the smack and take some vitamin C. I think about my situation. We all need to change our habits.
“I want an Audrey Hepburn-y black and white, classic-y, type of movie, only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,†says the woman with the massive black curls.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,†the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?â€
“It's a remake of Sabrina, the original had Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.â€
“Really? When did it come out?â€
“Nineteen ninety-five.â€
“That's not modern enough. Anything else?â€
“Excuse me,†they both look up at me sort of startled.
“Yeah?†The clerk asks.
“Can I use your phone?â€
“The phone is for customers only.â€
“Come on man, I need to help this girl.†I point to the sidewalk where Bi's limp arm is partially visible.
“What's wrong?†The woman asks.
“She drank too much. I need to get her home.â€
“I'll rent Devil Wears Prada,†the woman says. “I can use the phone, right?â€
“Sure,†says the clerk. He shuffles behind the counter to check out the movie. Then he hands over the phone.
I usually use Netflix,†she says. “What's the number?â€
I dig through my wallet and find the piece of paper the number. Mike always has a different cell phone and I never memorize the numbers. I lost my cell phone and haven't replaced it.
She takes it and dials.
“Mike, is this Mike? This is Babs, I have someone who wants to talk to you.â€
Babs hands me the phone.
“Mike, I'm with one of those Next models. She's passed out. I need to get picked up.â€
I explain to Mike where I am. He is still in the city and says he will come and get me. I hang up the phone. Babs gets her movie from the clerk. We walk out of the store together. Bi is no longer slumped on the sidewalk. I look both ways down the street and don't see her.
“Thanks.†I tell Babs.
“No problem babe,†she says as she walks away.
I hurry back to the bar. A few remaining drunks look at me. I step over the old woman who is still passed out and hasn't moved an inch.
“Hey, have you seen that girl? That girl I came in with a little while ago?â€
“No,†says the bartender. “Last time I saw her was with you.â€
“Yeah, well if she comes in tell her I'll be outside on the corner waiting for a ride.â€
“Sure,†says the bartender.
“I'll give that skinny little bitch a ride,†says the barfly. He probably hasn't had a hard-on in years. His Budweiser gives him false bravado.
“Whatever.†I say turning around to leave.
I walk out of the Broadway Tavern. The night is cold. I keep bundled up. Mike pulls the stolen car to the curb. I get in the car with one last look around for Bi. I don't see her.
“Where's the model?†asks Mike.
“I don't know. Lost her.â€
“Lost her?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Good job smooth man. She was not your average girl.â€
“I know.â€
“Well, that's the end of that.†Mike says.
“End of what?â€
“The end of your whirlwind.â€
My mood sinks even lower. I don't want my whirlwind to be over. Mike peels away from the curb and we are soon on the beltway heading back home, away from the city, away from where everything is possible. We are headed where nothing ever happens. We leave the city where I was born but no longer belong.
Mike's Galaxie 500/Luna CD plays in the stereo. Dean Wareham sings, “The Twin Towers are talking to each other.â€
Not any more they are not I think.
28!
I wake earlier than usual. For a brief moment everything is forgotten: The Slaughter Gang, Janis, Rachael, the Next party, losing Bi. I have no recollection of who I am. I'm lost in peaceful amnesia. Then I get my bearings. Mike is in the corner, lightly snoring. And he tells me that I snore.
I decide to contact Rachael and see if her twin sister can get me a job. If she is really as loaded as Rachael says than I should be able to make some real money. Having the days off from delivering pizza I'm finding it harder and harder to go back to that life. I don't ever want to see Ricardo Jr. again.
Mike stirs from his sleep. He almost always wakes up before me.
“What's up?†He asks wiping sleet from his eye sockets.
“Nothing.â€
“Then why are you staring at me when I sleep? It gives me the fucking creeps, man. What are you doing up anyway?â€
“I was just looking to see if you were awake.â€
“Well, I'm awake now.â€
“You snore.â€
“Fuck off.â€
“Mike?â€
“Yeah?â€
“About our trip?â€
“Yeah?â€
“I know you are making money but I don't have enough.â€
“I'll pay for you. That's why I'm doing the Next gig.â€
“That's not fair. I want my own money.â€
“Don't worry about it,†he says smiling.
“Listen, I met this woman Rachael, you know the one I fucked up the ass, she used to by my neighbor when I was living in Manhattan, when my parents were still alive. I think she can help me get a job.â€
“That's a fucking coincidence. That woman you fucked up the ass used to be your neighbor in the city?â€
“Yeah, I know, listen, if I get some money together fast can you go right away?â€
“I should be able to. I could leave in a week.â€
We walk upstairs and Grandpa is sitting at the window. I make him some oatmeal. Mike sits with him and I can hear them talking while I prepare breakfast. Having mad the plans I get sentimental for these mornings with grandpa. And we haven't even left yet. I wish I wasn't so soft.
I hear Mike telling Grandpa how I managed to lose a top class model last night. He isn't holding anything back. I appear pretty dimwitted in his little story. Grandpa laughs at my misadventures. Mike can bullshit a good tale. He never lets the truth get in the way of a good story.
I finish the oatmeal and put it on a tray with three large glasses of orange juice. I carry the tray into the living room. Grandpa and Mike both look at me with smiles. I smile back.
Grandpa grabs his oatmeal. He takes small spoonfuls, slowly and with great deliberation, masticating delicately. When we go out naturally, it isn't too much different than the way we came in. Grandpa eats like a baby.
“What are you boys doing today?†Grandpa asks.
“I have to work. But first I'm going to talk to someone about a new job.â€
“Really?†Grandpa looks hurt. Maybe he thinks he won't be needed to cut out coupons anymore.
“It's not a full time job. I'll still keep the pizza job,†I say hoping that I won't have to.
“What is it?â€
“I don't know yet. I met this woman who used to be one of our neighbors in the city. She has a twin sister who is rich and always looking for people to do her odd jobs.â€
“Like cleaning her pipes?†Grandpa chuckles and then chokes on his oatmeal. His jokes are crude as usual and painfully dated from his factory working days.
“I'm sure it won't be anything as exciting as that,†says Mike encouragingly. “He will probably just do some chimney sweeping.â€
They both laugh. I finish my juice and take the glass into the kitchen. I wash the few dishes that are sitting in the sink, dry them and put them in the cupboards. Then I go downstairs and get dressed. I find a clean pair of black Levi jeans, a button down light blue oxford shirt and my Pumas.
29!
I walk to Rachael's house. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the men are at work. A few kids play in their front lawns building snowmen and forts. It's a perfect winter day. The sun shines bright through clear skies. I have my scarf on and I wear an expensive pair of Lou Reed criteria Velvet Underground sunglasses to fight the glare. I got the glasses from Tommy, who I'm sure never paid for them.
When I get to Rachael's house her kids and a few children from the birthday party are storming out the front door in a huff of giddiness. They are bundled up and ready for the backyard snow. I remember how exiting it was to be off from school as a kid.
“Hiya!†says little Laura.
“Hi,†I answer.
“My aunt's inside.â€
“Thanks.†Her aunt, so Rachael's sister is here. Perfect timing.
I knock on the door. Rachael answers it. She looks a little run down. Watching the kids has left her haggard. She needs another weekend in the city. I wouldn't mind joining her for a long lunch.
“Trevor?†She says.
“Hi, Rachael.â€
Rachael looks around quick, then ushers me in.
“Rachael what's wrong?â€
“Oh God. I shouldn't do this.â€
She thinks I came over to fuck her. I'm ready to tell her I came for the job, to have her hook me up with her sister.
“Listen,†I say.
“No, you listen,†She says. “I'm not Rachael, I'm Raquel.â€
“What?â€
“I'm Rachael's twin sister. She is still in the city. Rachael couldn't bring herself back, wanted some more alone time. She is thinking of leaving Ralph.â€
“Oh.â€
“But don't tell anyone.â€
“Um,†I mutter. Why would anyone care if Raquel were babysitting the kids? Actually, it makes it easier on me. Now I can directly ask for a job.
“No one knows,†she says.
“What do you mean?â€
“I mean, that Rachael and I switch roles and no one knows we do it. We've been doing it for years.â€
“Years? And no one knows? You mean you switch roles and pretend that each is the other and no one can tell?â€
“That's right darling, we've been doing it for years and no one seems to notice. Rachael thinks that Laura might suspect, but as for our husbands they stopped noticing us years ago.â€
“Laura does know.â€
Wow,†Raquel says. “Listen darling, you are the first one to be told this and I don't want you blowing our cover.â€
“Mum's the word,†I say.
“Nice pun.â€
“What?â€
Raquel looks at me like I'm making a joke.
“What?†I repeat.
“Nothing, You aren't too bright darling, are you?â€
“Well, I'm in school, I'm trying to better myself as a person through education,†I might have blown my job possibilities, so I add, “and I do all right on the streets.â€
“Well, yes darling, that always helps.â€
“So, I was wondering if, well Rachael told me, that you might have a job for me.â€
Raquel rushes toward me. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses me to the door. Her hands start grabbing. Her right hand locks the front door to the house while her left hand starts undoing buttons and zippers. I'm getting stripped down before I can even protest. This isn't the job I was looking for. I don't want to do this. But I have to do this to get a job.
We slide down in a heap all tangled up in clothes and limbs embracing each other, losing our balance. We end up on the floor, me pinned below Raquel. When I try to push Raquel off me she thinks it's a playful gesture and plays along, biting my ear.
I'm trying to catch my breath as Raquel puts her tongue deep into my mouth. She is more forceful than Rachael is, and even though Rachael was more into the kinky side of things, Raquel is in for the straight fuck. She wiggles her panties off, pulls my Levi's down around my ankles and mounts me. Despite myself I'm hard. Here comes more of the whirlwind.
Raquel rides me without a condom. I question what woman would do this. Her tiny body thumps and her little buttocks thwack against my balls. The agony in my testicles adds distraction, keeping me going. It's pain and pleasure mixed together.
I lay stiff until I can't fight it any longer. I come inside of Raquel and she doesn't stop. Soon the sensation is too much. I start losing my erection.
“Come on motherfucker, I'm almost there!†Raquel shouts. “Keep it up.â€
I grit my teeth, willing all the blood to rush into my cock. It doesn't work. I go soft and Raquel only stops after I slide out of her with a flop. She remains on top of me, sliding her pelvis over my soft cock.
“You're not much of a gigolo, are you darling?†She says. “I'm not paying you for that.â€
“I'm not a gigolo,†I say. I feel ridiculous. I wish Raquel would get off of me.
“Yeah, darling, that's what Rachael said, but I thought I would give it a try.â€
“Oh.†I'm relived. I had felt betrayed by Rachael. Like she sold me out. And I was the one bragging to Mike. Being used is all about perception. I don't like Raquel.
“So you want a job? One you might be good at.â€
“Yes.â€
“Do you have a passport?â€
“Yes, I do.â€
“Well here is the thing darling, I have these parties and my husband is always inviting French fucking snobs, it infuriates me to no end hearing of how we don't have quality munchies. I mean its New York fucking City after all, isn't? We have everything.â€
“Yeah…â€
“So, I'm going to beat the foreign twerps at their own game. You know much about cheese darling?â€
“I like chevre, comes from the Loire Valley, goes good with Sancerre wine.â€
“Uh-huh,†says Raquel, “Listen darling, the way they process the cheese in France is with all kinds of mold, it gives it the flavor and odor and all that, but it doesn't meet with FDA approval, you can't bring it into the States. Now, I don't give a hoot and a holler about cheese, I'm lactose intolerant, but I want to show these French weenies we can have great smelly cheese in New Your just like in Paris. So your job will be to go to fabulous fucking France, buy the best god awful ripe cheese that you can and smuggle it into the country for my husband's parties. You will be well paid handsomely.â€
“I get to go to France?â€
“Yes, you know for a day or two and then you come back.â€
“You want me to be a cheese smuggler?â€
“Yes.â€
“Won't it be hard to smuggle cheese into the country with all the stepped up security at airports.â€
“You are getting an education, use your street smarts darling,†she says condescendingly. “I mean if you get caught it's only cheese.â€
“Can you get off me now?â€
“Sure darling.â€
Raquel reverses her squat and composes herself. She stands over me. Then she walks into the kitchen. I pull up my pants and stand up.
“So, um when do I start?â€
Raquel walks back into the foyer.
“Call me tomorrow.â€
“Here?â€
“No, not here darling.â€
Raquel hands me a card.
“I'll be back home.â€
“Okay.â€
Raquel looks at me like she doesn't believe I can do the job.
“And thanks,†I add.
“No problem darling,†she says.
The next morning I feel refreshed from the quiet night in. When I'm run down from a hangover I feel self-pitying, like it's all a waste. Then when I rejuvenate I'm ready for anything. Mike is getting up beside me. Most of the time when I wake up Mike is already gone. He must have been exhausted as well.
“What are you doing tonight?†Mike asks. “You work?â€
“No. I got a few days off. I told Ricardo I needed to study for finals.â€
“You seeing Janis?â€
“Probably. I don't know.â€
“You want to go into the city?â€
“The city, really?†Mike has been staying away from the city lately.
“Yeah.â€
“Why?â€
“A party at Next. I'm going to start modeling again. The agency is having the Christmas party. I should go and make an appearance.â€
“Really?†I know how much he hates modeling.
“Yes. We need the fucking money. That love therapist was bullshit. I have to get out of here. I figure a few jobs and we can take off.â€
“Really?â€
I thought it would be a year before we went. Suddenly there is much to consider. I worry about grandpa left alone, and I just met Janis. I'm used to thinking solely about me. For the last two years all that kept me going was the anticipation that I would escape this life and move into another one. It was all about the trip. Now, I'm not positive I want to leave. I would like to stay with Janis.
Later in the day I call Janis.
“Janis?†I say into the phone.
“Yeah?â€
“Were we going to get together tonight?â€
“I don't know.â€
“I'm going to go into the city with Mike.â€
“Okay.â€
She doesn't tell me not to go. I don't ask her if she cares.
26!
Mike and I take a car into New York. Mike has been up to his old tricks again because neither of us actually owns a car. At the agency party most of the faces are different but of course the girls all look the same.
As soon as we enter Mike is swished away. There is an open bar. I start drinking and stand in a corner. After a few doubles I walk around. The girls are gorgeous. But it is cookie cutter physical perfection. I can't tell anyone apart. I think about Janis and her lovely curves.
There is an older woman, looking very upset, standing alone with a bottle of Vodka in her hand. She is tall and weathered and out of place. I walk up to her because she looks like the most interesting person here.
“Hi.†I say.
“I'm too old for you boy,†She says in a thick Eastern European accent.
“So you don't want me than?â€
“No.â€
“It was a joke.†I say.
“My daughter is the hot little thing. Go talk to her.â€
I look over to where she is pointing. I see her daughter surrounded by press agents and a few paparazzi. To her credit the model looks more bored than bewildered. This hot new thing for the moment is not caught up in the glamour being offered her. It is always brief. Better to take the money when you can.
“Where are you from?†I ask.
“Poland.â€
“Poland?â€
“Yes, Swinoujscie it's a small island in the north, in the Baltic Sea near Germany. The part that used to be the East.â€
“Oh, I've never been there.â€
“Of course you haven't. You look like a boy who hasn't been anywhere.â€
Her words sting me. I want to tell her about my plans to travel, how I am going to see the world, spend time in Europe with Mike. I might even get to this fucking Swinoujscie place. The thing about plans is, they are waiting in the future. You can never stick up for yourself with only plans to do something, plans to travel. Plans are like dreams. They are often not realized. It's not until you actually pull it off that you can reap the respect of the accomplishment. If I had been to that fucking island than I could get her.
I want to rebuff her statement. Prove that it is only a matter of time until I too start having experiences worth remembering. In my anger I get an insight. I have seen her before. Though it's impossible that I have. The woman looks at me. She takes a swig of vodka. Then it hits me. She is Janis's mom. Having never been anywhere I have a limited scope of people. But I see that this Polish mom of a model is the spitting image of Janis's mom. Only a few cultural differences separate them. Drinking vodka is not one of them.
“What? Did I hurt your feelings?â€
“No, you just remind me of someone I met recently.â€
“Is this a good thing?â€
“I wanted it to be.â€
“It's a girl then. All problems for boys your age start and end with girls.â€
I wish that were true. I don't feel like explaining myself but I do anyway.
“It's a woman. The mother of this girl I like. That is true. The rest of it I don't know. I mean I'm mad, and I don't want to hold a grudge but I do. And then I think her actions might be from the way she was brought up.â€
“So the woman is a bad woman?â€
“I don't know. She isn't the perfect mom.â€
“What is a perfect mom? We do our best.â€
“I know, and I know life is hard. I just get upset with adults who let life beat them before it's over.â€
“How do you know she has given up, this mother?â€
“She sits home and drinks all day.â€
“That is a bad thing? She is at the home, but at least she doesn't hurt anyone. There is worse than a solitary drinker. She isn't violent is she?â€
“No, I don't think so. But she doesn't participate.â€
“What is this participate? You Americans think life is like that fat black woman's television show. Life is not scripted.â€
“You mean Oprah?â€
“Yes, Oprah.â€
The mom walks away.
The doubles have caught up to me. I've lost all inhibition. I can approach anyone I want with the buzz of the majestic. A group of models stand erect and preening to my left. I overhear their conversation. They are talking pop culture politics.
“Oh my god! Yesterday I met Sean Lennon. He was so cute,†says a redhead.
“Did you tell him you didn't like Asians?†asks the tall-waif blonde. All the girls are tall-waifish, of course. From her accent I hear she is the polish girl. She sounds like her mom.
“What?†she asks horrified, looking around to make sure no Asians heard, either embarrassed by the conversation or confirming that she really doesn't like them.
“Well, when you got back from Japan you told me you hated the Japanese, you said they were all little and spoiled. That you were never going back to Asia.â€
“Sean isn't Asian. He's British; his father was in the Rolling Stones. So there.†Says the Redhead defiantly.
“Yes, he is, his mother is Ono Yoko. His father was John Lennon, The Beatles.â€
“Really?†Redhead asks.
“Yes?â€
“Yes, but he is famous so it doesn't count.â€
The Polish tall-waif agrees with a mock smile and turns to me.
“You.â€
“Yes?†I ask.
“Why were you talking to my mama?â€
“We were just talking.â€
“Whispering sweet seductions?â€
“No.â€
“What are you doing here? You don't look like a model to me.â€
“I'm not a model, I deliver pizza.â€
“What is that?â€
“People call up to have a pizza delivered to them and I drive it to them and then they tip me a hundred bucks every time.â€
“Really? You are not Mexican are you?â€
“No.â€
“I thought only Mexicans delivered pizzas.â€
“No. I'm American.â€
“A non-model boy. I will talk to you. Let's go.â€
“Go?â€
“Yes, I say go, we go.â€
“Where?â€
She grabs my arm, leads me across the banquet to where the drinks are on display, grabs a bottle of Champagne and leads me out of the crowded room. I'm escorted down the hallway and through a corridor. There is an open window. The model climbs out.
The rickety fire escape is rusted iron. It isn't too sturdy. When I step on the landing it gives under my weight. Icicles hang from ladder rungs. My hands are bitter cold. The rest of my body is warm, flushed with the alcohol. I look over the city, at the lights and steam that spin and float everywhere.
New York is glowing in the cold night with all the glory and significance of the most important city in the world. This is where it all happens. This is it, the city of dreams. It's where a pizza guy can sit on a fire escape with some international model and drink champagne. I'm aware of the moment. I might not have traveled yet, but at least I have New York City. It's not like I'm stuck in bum fuck North Dakota or one of those barren states that doesn't even have professional sports teams.
The model pops the cork and the Champagne spills down her wrist. She puts her perfectly pouted lips to the top of the bottle and sips the sparkling bubbles. Then she hands me the bottle and lights a cigarette.
“So,†she says, “My mom is too old for you. Besides, she is taken. My father is still alive.â€
“I was not trying to pick up your mom.â€
“What were you talking about?â€
“I was talking about a girl and her mother. Your mother reminded me of this girl's mother.â€
“Do I remind you of the mother's daughter?â€
“Uh, no.†I didn't think of that before.
“Is this girl your girlfriend? The number one in your life?â€
“No, well, maybe she is number one in my life but she isn't my girlfriend.â€
“That is sad.â€
“Yeah, maybe.†I take another sip. “We just met really.â€
“Time is nothing.â€
“I always thought time was everything. I even have a theory.â€
“You are wrong.†She puts up her hand in the stop motion. She won't let me explain.
“But.â€
“Shhh. So pizza boy, what are you doing here with your heartbreak?â€
It's a good question as far as questions go. She means it in the sort of rhetorical, 'how did I crash this party way', instead of the 'what am I doing here, what is she doing here, what are we all doing here, philosophical Greek way'.
“I came with my friend Mike.â€
“I know Mike, he is funny and strange. Not around very much.â€
“He doesn't really model anymore. I guess he has been lately, coming into the city. I didn't know about it.â€
“Why should you know about it?â€
“We live together.â€
“I'm sure he comes and goes as he pleases. You are not his lion tamer.â€
“Um, we live in the same room so I usually know where he goes.â€
“You sleep together? Are you lovers?â€
“No. He sleeps on the floor.â€
She looks at me like she doesn't believe it.
“Lots of the boys are gay,†she says in an understanding compassionate tone.
“Mike is not gay. I'm not gay.â€
She goes in for a quick kiss. She presses her lips firmly against mine. I'm taken aback by her rash action. Then she opens her mouth and I do the same. Despite her exquisite lips she isn't a very good kisser. She bares her teeth and fumbles with too much tongue. She pulls back.
“Okay, you are not gay,†she says, swigging more of the champagne.
“Thanks.†I say. I wipe her saliva off my mouth.
“What is your name?â€
“Trevor.â€
“My name is Bi, not spelled B-Y-E, just B-I. You want to hear a Paris story, Trevor?â€
“Sure. I'd like to go to Paris someday.â€
“My mother was also a model. In the 80's she was allowed to leave the Iron Curtain to model in Paris. She was followed around the city by secret agents and spies from Russia. My mother had to occasionally sleep with these men so she would be allowed to stay in Paris. Ironically when one of the bastards got her pregnant she was forced to go back to Poland. I never met my father.â€
“You said your father is still alive.â€
“He is.â€
But?â€
“I lied.â€
“So you were conceived in Paris, that's cool.†I wonder if that is the truth.
“Is that the right way to use ironic? I don't want to be stupid like that Alanis Morrissette song.â€
“I think that is right.â€
“Good. I hate stupid people. You aren't stupid are you?â€
“Sometimes.â€
“Sometimes is good. To think you are stupid and question what you do makes you not stupid. Its people who think they are clever that are stupid. Let's leave here.â€
Bi doesn't make much sense. She has the strong arrogance of a young lady caught up in her own beliefs because no one has ever put her in her place. No one has ever told her she is wrong. That's what beauty and celebrity gets you.
I stand up to go back to the party but Bi starts to climb down the fire escape.
“What are you doing?†I ask.
“I want to leave,†she says still descending. “I want to be out on the streets away from these people.â€
“What about your mom?â€
“She is able to take care of herself. She can drink her weight in vodka.â€
I believe it. I start to climb down the ladder. When we get to the first floor the ladder ends fifteen feet from the sidewalk. I am thinking we will have to climb back up when Bi swings herself from the bottom rung and launches forward into an open dumpster.
“Come on, jump!†she yells. “It's clean garbage.â€
I swing myself for momentum and let go. I land right on top of Bi. I hope she isn't crushed.
“Are you okay?†I ask.
“Yeah, I'm fine. You could have landed over there.†She points to the corner of the Dumpster where rotting food is seeping through a bag.
I help Bi up and she climbs over the edge. I follow her.
“I want to get out of Soho.â€
“Where do you want to go?â€
“I want to go uptown.â€
“We can get a cab a block over there.â€
“I want to walk.â€
“It's a long way.â€
“So?â€
27!
We walk two blocks.
“I want to take a cab,†Bi says.
“Ok.†I lift my arm and hail a cab.
“Uptown, West Side.†Says Bi.
We get out at Central Park West and West 72nd. I pay.
“That is where John Lennon was killed,†Bi informs me.
“I know.â€
We walk back toward Broadway to a bar called the Broadway Tavern. We enter into the smoky dankness. Not even the smoking ban can air this place out. It's a run down joint without a hint of white trash irony. It should be hard to find a bar like this in Manhattan, but here it is settled into one of the most famous streets in the world. I'm sure it's the first time a model has ever been in here.
This isn't the Lower East Side where the hip drink cans of PBR even though they have the rent. Here, what you see is what you get. A few barflies sip bottles of Budweiser.
“What do you want?†I ask.
“Champagne,†says Bi.
We sit at the bar. There is plenty of room. The bartender leans our way.
“Yeah?â€
“Do you have champagne?â€
“We got Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.â€
I look at Bi. I don't want to push the issue with this guy.
“That sounds good,†says Bi. “It must be a very good beer.â€
“No, it's crap,†I whisper in her ear.
“How can they call it the champagne of beers if it is crap? I bet it is from Belgiumâ€
“No, it's from Milwaukee.â€
“Milwaukee? Where is that? Is it a Bavarian city?â€
“No, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Above Chicago.â€
“I know Chicago. It's cold there like in Poland. They don't even make champagne in The States. How can they make the best beer?â€
“Let's have vodka.â€
“Okay.â€
“We will have vodka,†I tell the bartender.
“Straight vodka. No juice, no ice,†Bi states. “I can drink my weight in vodka.â€
The bartender doesn't say a word. He brings over two glasses and a quart of vodka in a plastic bottle. He pours the vodka into the glasses.
“What kind of vodka comes in a big plastic bottle?†asks Bi.
“I don't know, it's the low end, it's not a brand name.â€
“Yes. This is bohemian. I love itâ€
Bi is slumming it after all, or is too drunk to know better. She likes the atmosphere. I don't know if it's bohemian. It's like a lot of the bars we go to in Jersey when we aren't at the Blue Rose, where we get funny looks for asking for imported beer. Why drink PBR if you don't have to.
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It's an old-fashioned jukebox with records that actually skip as they play and buttons that stick with years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
An old lady stumbles into the bar. I think she is having trouble walking because she is old. Until she shouts, “Gimme a gin and fucking tonic.†She is stumbling because she is wasted. She sits down at the bar next to Bi. The bartender makes her drink using gin from another huge plastic bottle. The woman takes a sip of her drink and then throws it against the wall. She starts swearing at the bartender. He grabs her and escorts her out.
“Some people just shouldn't drink,†says one of the barflies.
Bi and I drink the vodka and talk. Five minutes later the old lady comes back into the bar.
“Gimme a gin and fucking tonic,†she shouts and then suddenly passes out on the floor. The bartender leaves the old lady on the floor. I turn back to Bi.
There are always New York stories, aren't there?†I say.
“Have you seen the new Interview?†she asks.
“No.â€
“I'm on the cover.â€
“That must be nice for you.â€
“It was started by Andy Warhol.â€
“I know.â€
“Do you like Andy Warhol?â€
“Yes, I like the stuff he did with the Velvet Underground.â€
“All white boys your age like the Velvet Underground.â€
I'm about to protest when suddenly Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor only a foot away from the old drunk woman. Bi never slurred her words even though she must have been wasted. I look down at one of the most beautiful women in the world, a girl who is on the cover of Interview, lying next to the geriatric alcoholic no one cares about. Two women on the opposite ends of the human scale, still at the moment closer together, literally, than anyone would ever think. Unlike her mom, I guess Bi can't drink her weight in vodka.
I cup Bi's radiant head in my arms and place the back of my hand on her right cheek.
“Bi? Are you okay?â€
She remains slumped.
I tap the old lady on her shoulder.
“You okay ma'am?â€
No response. I turn back to Bi.
“Bi, hey baby, wake up,†I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.â€
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it's his last two cents.
“I'm sure she will be okay.â€
I pay the tab and pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can't weigh an ounce over a hundred. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We wobble out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?â€
“Hmm?†She mutters, but her eyes don't open.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I don't have money left for a cab. At least not enough to go all the way back downtown. I check Bi's coat pockets for cash, but she only has cigarettes and three credit cards.
Two doors down from the bar is an open video/DVD store. I rest Bi against the building and enter. A robust woman with a mound of black curly hair is smacking her chewing gum, talking to a thin, painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy patient with emaciated frame and translucent skin. He needs to stop the smack and take some vitamin C. I think about my situation. We all need to change our habits.
“I want an Audrey Hepburn-y black and white, classic-y, type of movie, only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,†says the woman with the massive black curls.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,†the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?â€
“It's a remake of Sabrina, the original had Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.â€
“Really? When did it come out?â€
“Nineteen ninety-five.â€
“That's not modern enough. Anything else?â€
“Excuse me,†they both look up at me sort of startled.
“Yeah?†The clerk asks.
“Can I use your phone?â€
“The phone is for customers only.â€
“Come on man, I need to help this girl.†I point to the sidewalk where Bi's limp arm is partially visible.
“What's wrong?†The woman asks.
“She drank too much. I need to get her home.â€
“I'll rent Devil Wears Prada,†the woman says. “I can use the phone, right?â€
“Sure,†says the clerk. He shuffles behind the counter to check out the movie. Then he hands over the phone.
I usually use Netflix,†she says. “What's the number?â€
I dig through my wallet and find the piece of paper the number. Mike always has a different cell phone and I never memorize the numbers. I lost my cell phone and haven't replaced it.
She takes it and dials.
“Mike, is this Mike? This is Babs, I have someone who wants to talk to you.â€
Babs hands me the phone.
“Mike, I'm with one of those Next models. She's passed out. I need to get picked up.â€
I explain to Mike where I am. He is still in the city and says he will come and get me. I hang up the phone. Babs gets her movie from the clerk. We walk out of the store together. Bi is no longer slumped on the sidewalk. I look both ways down the street and don't see her.
“Thanks.†I tell Babs.
“No problem babe,†she says as she walks away.
I hurry back to the bar. A few remaining drunks look at me. I step over the old woman who is still passed out and hasn't moved an inch.
“Hey, have you seen that girl? That girl I came in with a little while ago?â€
“No,†says the bartender. “Last time I saw her was with you.â€
“Yeah, well if she comes in tell her I'll be outside on the corner waiting for a ride.â€
“Sure,†says the bartender.
“I'll give that skinny little bitch a ride,†says the barfly. He probably hasn't had a hard-on in years. His Budweiser gives him false bravado.
“Whatever.†I say turning around to leave.
I walk out of the Broadway Tavern. The night is cold. I keep bundled up. Mike pulls the stolen car to the curb. I get in the car with one last look around for Bi. I don't see her.
“Where's the model?†asks Mike.
“I don't know. Lost her.â€
“Lost her?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Good job smooth man. She was not your average girl.â€
“I know.â€
“Well, that's the end of that.†Mike says.
“End of what?â€
“The end of your whirlwind.â€
My mood sinks even lower. I don't want my whirlwind to be over. Mike peels away from the curb and we are soon on the beltway heading back home, away from the city, away from where everything is possible. We are headed where nothing ever happens. We leave the city where I was born but no longer belong.
Mike's Galaxie 500/Luna CD plays in the stereo. Dean Wareham sings, “The Twin Towers are talking to each other.â€
Not any more they are not I think.
28!
I wake earlier than usual. For a brief moment everything is forgotten: The Slaughter Gang, Janis, Rachael, the Next party, losing Bi. I have no recollection of who I am. I'm lost in peaceful amnesia. Then I get my bearings. Mike is in the corner, lightly snoring. And he tells me that I snore.
I decide to contact Rachael and see if her twin sister can get me a job. If she is really as loaded as Rachael says than I should be able to make some real money. Having the days off from delivering pizza I'm finding it harder and harder to go back to that life. I don't ever want to see Ricardo Jr. again.
Mike stirs from his sleep. He almost always wakes up before me.
“What's up?†He asks wiping sleet from his eye sockets.
“Nothing.â€
“Then why are you staring at me when I sleep? It gives me the fucking creeps, man. What are you doing up anyway?â€
“I was just looking to see if you were awake.â€
“Well, I'm awake now.â€
“You snore.â€
“Fuck off.â€
“Mike?â€
“Yeah?â€
“About our trip?â€
“Yeah?â€
“I know you are making money but I don't have enough.â€
“I'll pay for you. That's why I'm doing the Next gig.â€
“That's not fair. I want my own money.â€
“Don't worry about it,†he says smiling.
“Listen, I met this woman Rachael, you know the one I fucked up the ass, she used to by my neighbor when I was living in Manhattan, when my parents were still alive. I think she can help me get a job.â€
“That's a fucking coincidence. That woman you fucked up the ass used to be your neighbor in the city?â€
“Yeah, I know, listen, if I get some money together fast can you go right away?â€
“I should be able to. I could leave in a week.â€
We walk upstairs and Grandpa is sitting at the window. I make him some oatmeal. Mike sits with him and I can hear them talking while I prepare breakfast. Having mad the plans I get sentimental for these mornings with grandpa. And we haven't even left yet. I wish I wasn't so soft.
I hear Mike telling Grandpa how I managed to lose a top class model last night. He isn't holding anything back. I appear pretty dimwitted in his little story. Grandpa laughs at my misadventures. Mike can bullshit a good tale. He never lets the truth get in the way of a good story.
I finish the oatmeal and put it on a tray with three large glasses of orange juice. I carry the tray into the living room. Grandpa and Mike both look at me with smiles. I smile back.
Grandpa grabs his oatmeal. He takes small spoonfuls, slowly and with great deliberation, masticating delicately. When we go out naturally, it isn't too much different than the way we came in. Grandpa eats like a baby.
“What are you boys doing today?†Grandpa asks.
“I have to work. But first I'm going to talk to someone about a new job.â€
“Really?†Grandpa looks hurt. Maybe he thinks he won't be needed to cut out coupons anymore.
“It's not a full time job. I'll still keep the pizza job,†I say hoping that I won't have to.
“What is it?â€
“I don't know yet. I met this woman who used to be one of our neighbors in the city. She has a twin sister who is rich and always looking for people to do her odd jobs.â€
“Like cleaning her pipes?†Grandpa chuckles and then chokes on his oatmeal. His jokes are crude as usual and painfully dated from his factory working days.
“I'm sure it won't be anything as exciting as that,†says Mike encouragingly. “He will probably just do some chimney sweeping.â€
They both laugh. I finish my juice and take the glass into the kitchen. I wash the few dishes that are sitting in the sink, dry them and put them in the cupboards. Then I go downstairs and get dressed. I find a clean pair of black Levi jeans, a button down light blue oxford shirt and my Pumas.
29!
I walk to Rachael's house. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the men are at work. A few kids play in their front lawns building snowmen and forts. It's a perfect winter day. The sun shines bright through clear skies. I have my scarf on and I wear an expensive pair of Lou Reed criteria Velvet Underground sunglasses to fight the glare. I got the glasses from Tommy, who I'm sure never paid for them.
When I get to Rachael's house her kids and a few children from the birthday party are storming out the front door in a huff of giddiness. They are bundled up and ready for the backyard snow. I remember how exiting it was to be off from school as a kid.
“Hiya!†says little Laura.
“Hi,†I answer.
“My aunt's inside.â€
“Thanks.†Her aunt, so Rachael's sister is here. Perfect timing.
I knock on the door. Rachael answers it. She looks a little run down. Watching the kids has left her haggard. She needs another weekend in the city. I wouldn't mind joining her for a long lunch.
“Trevor?†She says.
“Hi, Rachael.â€
Rachael looks around quick, then ushers me in.
“Rachael what's wrong?â€
“Oh God. I shouldn't do this.â€
She thinks I came over to fuck her. I'm ready to tell her I came for the job, to have her hook me up with her sister.
“Listen,†I say.
“No, you listen,†She says. “I'm not Rachael, I'm Raquel.â€
“What?â€
“I'm Rachael's twin sister. She is still in the city. Rachael couldn't bring herself back, wanted some more alone time. She is thinking of leaving Ralph.â€
“Oh.â€
“But don't tell anyone.â€
“Um,†I mutter. Why would anyone care if Raquel were babysitting the kids? Actually, it makes it easier on me. Now I can directly ask for a job.
“No one knows,†she says.
“What do you mean?â€
“I mean, that Rachael and I switch roles and no one knows we do it. We've been doing it for years.â€
“Years? And no one knows? You mean you switch roles and pretend that each is the other and no one can tell?â€
“That's right darling, we've been doing it for years and no one seems to notice. Rachael thinks that Laura might suspect, but as for our husbands they stopped noticing us years ago.â€
“Laura does know.â€
Wow,†Raquel says. “Listen darling, you are the first one to be told this and I don't want you blowing our cover.â€
“Mum's the word,†I say.
“Nice pun.â€
“What?â€
Raquel looks at me like I'm making a joke.
“What?†I repeat.
“Nothing, You aren't too bright darling, are you?â€
“Well, I'm in school, I'm trying to better myself as a person through education,†I might have blown my job possibilities, so I add, “and I do all right on the streets.â€
“Well, yes darling, that always helps.â€
“So, I was wondering if, well Rachael told me, that you might have a job for me.â€
Raquel rushes toward me. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses me to the door. Her hands start grabbing. Her right hand locks the front door to the house while her left hand starts undoing buttons and zippers. I'm getting stripped down before I can even protest. This isn't the job I was looking for. I don't want to do this. But I have to do this to get a job.
We slide down in a heap all tangled up in clothes and limbs embracing each other, losing our balance. We end up on the floor, me pinned below Raquel. When I try to push Raquel off me she thinks it's a playful gesture and plays along, biting my ear.
I'm trying to catch my breath as Raquel puts her tongue deep into my mouth. She is more forceful than Rachael is, and even though Rachael was more into the kinky side of things, Raquel is in for the straight fuck. She wiggles her panties off, pulls my Levi's down around my ankles and mounts me. Despite myself I'm hard. Here comes more of the whirlwind.
Raquel rides me without a condom. I question what woman would do this. Her tiny body thumps and her little buttocks thwack against my balls. The agony in my testicles adds distraction, keeping me going. It's pain and pleasure mixed together.
I lay stiff until I can't fight it any longer. I come inside of Raquel and she doesn't stop. Soon the sensation is too much. I start losing my erection.
“Come on motherfucker, I'm almost there!†Raquel shouts. “Keep it up.â€
I grit my teeth, willing all the blood to rush into my cock. It doesn't work. I go soft and Raquel only stops after I slide out of her with a flop. She remains on top of me, sliding her pelvis over my soft cock.
“You're not much of a gigolo, are you darling?†She says. “I'm not paying you for that.â€
“I'm not a gigolo,†I say. I feel ridiculous. I wish Raquel would get off of me.
“Yeah, darling, that's what Rachael said, but I thought I would give it a try.â€
“Oh.†I'm relived. I had felt betrayed by Rachael. Like she sold me out. And I was the one bragging to Mike. Being used is all about perception. I don't like Raquel.
“So you want a job? One you might be good at.â€
“Yes.â€
“Do you have a passport?â€
“Yes, I do.â€
“Well here is the thing darling, I have these parties and my husband is always inviting French fucking snobs, it infuriates me to no end hearing of how we don't have quality munchies. I mean its New York fucking City after all, isn't? We have everything.â€
“Yeah…â€
“So, I'm going to beat the foreign twerps at their own game. You know much about cheese darling?â€
“I like chevre, comes from the Loire Valley, goes good with Sancerre wine.â€
“Uh-huh,†says Raquel, “Listen darling, the way they process the cheese in France is with all kinds of mold, it gives it the flavor and odor and all that, but it doesn't meet with FDA approval, you can't bring it into the States. Now, I don't give a hoot and a holler about cheese, I'm lactose intolerant, but I want to show these French weenies we can have great smelly cheese in New Your just like in Paris. So your job will be to go to fabulous fucking France, buy the best god awful ripe cheese that you can and smuggle it into the country for my husband's parties. You will be well paid handsomely.â€
“I get to go to France?â€
“Yes, you know for a day or two and then you come back.â€
“You want me to be a cheese smuggler?â€
“Yes.â€
“Won't it be hard to smuggle cheese into the country with all the stepped up security at airports.â€
“You are getting an education, use your street smarts darling,†she says condescendingly. “I mean if you get caught it's only cheese.â€
“Can you get off me now?â€
“Sure darling.â€
Raquel reverses her squat and composes herself. She stands over me. Then she walks into the kitchen. I pull up my pants and stand up.
“So, um when do I start?â€
Raquel walks back into the foyer.
“Call me tomorrow.â€
“Here?â€
“No, not here darling.â€
Raquel hands me a card.
“I'll be back home.â€
“Okay.â€
Raquel looks at me like she doesn't believe I can do the job.
“And thanks,†I add.
“No problem darling,†she says.
Last edited by mccutcheon on Thu Sep 28, 2006 6:42 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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Late Summer in NYC
Bike riding. Tennis. Beers outside. Listening to Beat Happening's Indian Summer. Listening to Luna's Indian Summer. Listening to Spectrum's Indian Summer. Wishing Johnny Cash covered Indian Summer when working with Rick Rubin. Kisses. Late nights and it is still warm. Soccer. European Champions League. Hugs. Marky's Music. Early mornings. Orange juice. Brett's six touchdowns. New friends at the Kettle of Fish. Staying for five hours after the first victory of the year with new friends at the Kettle of Fish. Living in NYC in September. Girls still dressing like it is summer. It is September and it is still fucking beautiful in every way!