Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Chapter 16 (26,410 words out of 50,000)

16.

Don’t think.

David’s outside, he wants to get some hookers, he’s been harassing me all night, saying he’s bored, saying he needs to get some ass, saying he wants to get into a fight, saying he wants to score some coke, saying he wants to fuck a coke-head stripper in the ass with a bottle of corona in the bathroom – he says he wants to break it off while it’s in there and then nervously laughs when I look at him, tells me he’s just kidding because he didn’t get my instant approval – that’s what David needs, David needs me to tell him that’s ok – I do it all the time, he gets angry and calls someone a fucking spic and then looks at me and I laugh and tell him not to worry, that the fucking spic is going to go out and work at his tire shop in order to feed his fucking future gang-banging spic kids and his flat-faced olive-skinned whore of a knocked-up wife while he’ll go home to Judith and put a vibrator up her ass and a cock in her mouth, cum all-over her face and make her work for the money he brings home to her.

Put five more dollars in the money slot, the window opens up again, the stripper’s still dancing as if she never stopped, as if she enjoys this and just continuously does it all night whether someone’s watching or not, as if she doesn’t ever pick up her cell phone and cal one of her girlfriends to see if she wants to go out tonight or maybe just call him, call the babysitter – her mother – and see how her future jailbirds are doing, see if her husband Tyrone came by, see if he was bringing presents with him again, trying to buy his kids affection by coming by once a week with bikes and cash and video game systems, never giving money, forcing her to strip in this fucking place behind a glass window with a hole in it that’s made for tips – if someone puts enough money through the hole they can also stick their dick through and she’ll happily suck him off, she’ll tell him how good his dick taste, tell him she wants to taste his cum, tell him he needs to hurry up and cum for her because in one minute that screen is going to come back down and chop his fucking dick off.

David bangs on the door – don’t think.

“Show me your ass.” She immediately stops what she’s doing and awkwardly turns around, bends over and spreads her ass cheeks - her asshole is all irritated, the fucking thing looks like a goddamn knuckle – she must give it up for next to nothing, these desperate guys who come here, you got to wonder if they even care, if they fuck it despite the hemorrhoids and the inflammation, despite the fact that she must bite her lips so hard that blood drips from them and splatters all over of the sticky floor - I can’t imagine ever being that desperate, I can’t imagine ever being so low that I would go within several inches of that ass to get off.

“Dude, fuck you, I’m going home.” God, why won’t she just turn back around? How long would she stand like that, it’s fucking awkward – she’s not even looking back at me, she’s just staring at the wall, probably contemplating exactly what she did in her life to get to this point – a point where she’s displaying her puffy asshole to a complete stranger as if this was completely fucking normal, as if the fact that she does this every fucking night is justification makes it ok, makes it less sleazy, makes it some kind of fucking joke. You wonder what she fantasizes about, while I’m here staring at her asshole? Does she fantasize about someone holding her hand? Running their fingers through her fucking hair? Does she just fantasize about something as trivial as being held, kissed on the fucking back? Having someone say that they love her? What the fuck does she think about right now while she bends over, while I jerk-off and pant like a dog getting off, while I build to a fucking orgasm and begin cumming over for Thanksgiving dinner, we invited her, she invited her, what the fuck was I think –

Don’t think.

She told me she loved me again, after the blow-out with my father. She told me she fucking loved me and I said the same and I’m not even sure if I didn’t mean it. I can’t tell the difference between playing the roll and losing the war anymore. I don’t even know my next move, we got my mother coming for Thanksgiving, Agatha’s talking about taking a trip to fucking Disney World, I haven’t worked the field in a month – I’m losing contacts, I’m losing leads – I just need to get the fuck out of this, cut my losses and call it a fucking day – at least one-hundred-and-fifty-million people in this world are dumber than Agatha and I need to just come to terms with the fact that I may be –

No, don’t think.

The stripper turns back around and she just looks at me, something in her eyes, some type of sadness. “You’re not doing anything.” I can’t even tell if it was a question or a statement. I’m not doing anything, she’s right, but she looks hurt – she looks let down – she looks like she’s failing.

“You got your tip.” It’s none of her business but she insists on sitting down and looking at me with these big fucking eyes, these goddamn nurturing fucking eyes – she covers up her body with this cheap red shawl and crosses her legs and acts like some shrink she might have seen in some movie.

“Honey, you gotta get something for your money. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Oh man. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone this nuts. This is really some fucked up shit, right here. This bitch –

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Ten seconds ago you had your face pressed against the wall and you were spreading your ass-cheeks apart – you’re going to help me with my life?” It’s an insult. It’s an honest-to-god fucking insult. I mean, what’s wrong with people that –

“Aye! You just looked like –“

“JESUS. FUCKING. CHRIST. What. THE FUCK. Is WRONG with you people?”

“You people?”

Don’t think.

“You fucking people! Your lives are SHIT. Fucking meaningless! And you people see a fucking opening to do something with it and you all of the sudden, despite fucking YEARS of being…THIS…you fucking think that you have what it takes to be something bigger than you’ll ever be.”

“Steve!”

“Oh, fucking Steve, right, your fucking bouncer – your fucking protector. Steve who throws out perverts every fucking night while these guys have a pistol grip on their cock – this is the guy that solves your fucking problems and yet you think you’re going to solve mine!”

This big mother fucker. “All right, let’s go dickweed.”

“Who solves your problems, Steve? What fucking degenerate, low-life prick helps you when you can’t pay the rent? Who steps up to tell you everything’s going to be all right when your wife leaves you?”

“Shut the fuck up, pal.”

“ALL of you! All of you fucking losers! Three-hundred-million people in this country, who solves your problems? Which of the three-hundred-million make you feel better about your miserable fucking lives!”

I hardly feel that fucking punch. I hardly feel the ground as my face scrapes across it. I hardly feel my tooth fall out. I hardly feel my body bounce, my muscles tighten, my forehead split. I hardly feel the stares as I try to turn to Steve.

“If I ever see you in here again you’re leaving through the fucking window, pal.”

I hardly see the door slam. I hardly see the people backing away from me. I hardly see the looks on their faces, trying to avert their eyes, trying not to look at the bloodied man with his pants down to his knees and his dick poking out from his Armani underwear.

“What about you? Who the fuck is your savior? All of you? Who the fuck helps you bury your complexes, ignore your problems? WHO?”

I hardly hear the grumbles, I hardly hear people saying “loser” and “drunk” and “pervert” and “call the cops”. I hardly hear the sounds of disdain, as people brush me off – they don’t have any fucking problems, I’m just some crazy guy with blood all over my face and a fucking tooth clenched in my hand, trying to get my pants back up but I don’t even have the strength to stand, I’m fucking swimming with adrenaline.

“I DO! That’s the fucking answer! You don’t HELP me – I’m the sanest fucking person in this country – you’re the ones that are fucking nuts – you’re the ones that need me! All three-hundred-fucking-million of you! But you’re all so far gone that you don’t even fucking see it. Right now, I’m your fucking problem. I’m your FUCKING excuse!”

After Disney World Agatha’s talking about taking the trip to California to meet her parents. To meet her fucking parents.

“Even when I’m at my lowest, I’m still your fucking savior.”

Just don’t think.

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