Sunday, November 20, 2005

Chapter 21 and 22 Part 1 (34,548 words out of 50,000)

21.

“When are you going to ask me about Chris?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Chris – when are you going to ask me about what he said at the party?”

“…”

“…”

“When are you going to ask me about what he told me at the party?”

“I know what he told you.”

“Oh.”

“And I know you know I know what he told you.”

“Ok.”

“So?”

“So?

“You don’t care?”

“It was before we were getting together.”

“Yeah, true, but…I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand – do you want me to be mad at you?”

“No.”

“If it means anything I hooked up with someone that night too.”

“I’m not feeling bad…who’s you hook up with?”

“If you’re not feeling bad what’re we doing here?”

“You’re a guy.”

“Ok.”

“And guys are stupid.”

“Most of the time.”

“You’re supposed to be mad.”

“But I’m not.”

“Jesus Christ, Joseph, you…you fucking beat the crap out of Chris. You put him in the hospital. And you’re saying you weren’t mad?”

“I lost control.”

“No shit.”

“But I’m Ok now.”

“You’re ok now?”

“I’m ok now. Does that bother you?”

“What? What…no, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t particularly get it, but it doesn’t bother me.”

“Either way, you know you liked it.”

“Liked what?”

“The fight.”

“Not particularly.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Yeah right what?”

“You were hot for it, come on. You can admit it – this is me.”

“Hot for it?”

“Yeah – totally hot for it.”

“It’s the biggest emotional response I’ve seen from you since we’ve gotten together. I thought there was something there with Rick but you just bottled it. I was hot for you, you big doof. If anything I was kind of appalled you had to use your fists to express yourself. You keep flipping back and forth, now with your mom you’re this deep and caring man all over again. I don’t need you to always be like this – I just like to occasionally know that there’s more there than the two-hundred-dollar coffee and the shirts you wear sometimes, that’s all.”

“…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

22.

He’s not even talking to her. The girl sitting next to him has her leg crossed towards him, she’s fake reading a book while twirling her hair with her pen. He should be fucking her in the cramped bathroom right now but he’s not even talking to her. He’s doing a fucking crossword puzzle, listening to his IPOD, taking a break from reading “The Catcher in the Rye”, the book of choice for every angst-riddled poseur. The fucking guy probably has Postal Service on his goddamn IPOD – how can people try that hard? You either have it or you don’t, how does a fucking kid like this deicide to waste so much energy pretending to have it. This kid should be at home right now, playing Dungeons and Fucking Dragons, masturbating to the latest copy of Final Fantasy. He shouldn’t be here.

She looks at him and asks if she can get by, she has to piss, obviously, the wine she’s kicking back is going right through her. If I was sitting next to her I’d have her in the back of this plane, fucking her brains out, while the flight crew video taped it and occasionally brought me a complimentary gatorade to keep my fucking electrolytes up. But this fucking guy, quick glance, this fucking indifferent nod and he doesn’t even get up, he just sort of shifts. The thing he doesn’t realize is, he’s driving this bitch nuts. She obviously wants to fuck him but he’s just ignoring her – her primal mind is going nuts, his isn’t how it’s supposed to be – he’s supposed to be hunting her, he’s supposed to be fucking her – she’s supposed to be nurturing these needs. SO in that regard, he’s doing good – he’s making her desperate, making her feel like a failure. But he’s leaving no opening to bring it home, by the time he makes his move – if he makes her move, she’ll have already shifted her minds focus onto someone else – he’ll be inconsequential, just another cock.

I need to talk to this guy.

He doesn’t even watch her leave, doesn’t check out that spectacular ass, could he be a fag?

“Ed, we haven’t really talked yet.” He lowers his IPOD, doesn’t even take his headphones out, looks up at me annoyed. If it wasn’t for his calm and cool fake-o demeanor I’d say he was simple afraid of flying and trying to block out the fact that he’s something like fifty-thousand feet in the air. But if that is the case, he’s really fucking good at blocking it all out.

“Yeah…Joseph, right?”

“Yeah, Joseph.” I wonder what happens to you when you get into a fight on the plane? Do they land it or something or do they just try to contain the dudes and lock them in some special room the rest of us flyers always assumed is nothing but a closet? I don’t know, this fucking kid is just some arrogant shit, that’s what his fucking problem is. He groans as I push him to move over so I can sit down, he’s fucking so emo I don’t feel like a goddamn tool using the word “emo” to describe him. This kid – this kid has no idea what’s ahead of him. I almost feel bad for him. If I were a better man I’d take him on as a prodigy but I already have my charity case. “The girl you’re next to, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know, man.” Oh – there’s some anger there. Does he feel like I’m calling him out? Challenging him? I’d have to assume so and you know how I roll, always give them what they want.

“She’s hot though, dude. She’s totally wet for you, too.”

“Well, Joseph, first off she has to be at least thirty. Secondly, I don’t know what gave you the impression that I’m your fucking locker-room buddy but I’d seriously reconsider that assessment of our relationship.” Using sixth-grade words in a well-spoken manner, he’s a fucking comic-book reading faker – this guy never read anything tougher than Michael Crichton.

“Well, Ed, first off a thirty year old chick will make you shoot your load so hard the inner wall of your cock will shed and a semen/blood mixture would cover her tits. Fucking secondly, and this is going to be great, why the fuck do you think David, Bob, David and Eric even fucking hired you?” This kid – this fucking kid – something tells me he honest-to-god thinks he got hired because he knows shit about business. Maybe he thinks he was hired because he’s one fuck of a marketer – his Power Point slides look like Jesus Christ made them.

“Because of my speaking skills – it’s why they have me running point at today’s meeting.” Oh. Man. This is beautiful.

“Speaking skills?”

“Yes.”

“They’re paying you, what? Eighty-k a year for your speaking skills?” David, Bob, David and Eric – seriously, guys, what the fuck will you do without me? You guys struck fucking gold the day I walked into your office – you are so lucky you didn’t let me go – if it was you and this fucking guy in Atlanta – when you wanted to go out and get laid and he wants to go over his presentation notes – you fucking guys would be calling me up and asking me to meet you out here. There’s nobody like me. This guy isn’t even fucking trying.

“That’s none of your business.”

“They originally wanted you to replace me.”

“I heard you don’t do shit, Joseph.” I don’t do shit. I’m sure they whisper that around the office. Joseph is making two-hundred-thousand a year fucking base for doing jack shit. He doesn’t even know what this fucking company does. He gets large bonuses. He’s always taking time off. Yet he doesn’t do shit. Nothing. But they don’t see what I do – none of them can even conceive what my two-hundred-k a year gets David, Bob, David and Eric. These are guys who pay thirty, forty-k a year to play golf in a club with no minorities or women – paying me 200-k, 50-k for each of them, to get them pussy once a week is a fucking steal. But they don’t see that. To the rest of the office, the people with no vision, the people with no sense of how fucking pointless their job is – they all think I do shit. Business – our goddamn capitalist society – is motivated by fucking. Everything we create, everything we do, is because we want to fuck. A guy doesn’t spend four-plus years in college so that he can get a job that pays well and have a sense of fulfillment. He dos it so that he can get a job that pays well and in turn flash his money to get some fucking pussy. That’s what I do – I get them the pussy they need. I’m the goddamn cornerstone of our economy.

“I don’t do anything?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

He has this smile about him, this weasel arrogant smile – this fucking King Shit smile – it’s the cool kind of smile, the one that’s supposed to make an “old fart” like me unhip and outdated. I got six years on this kid, round-a-bouts, but even when I was four years younger than he is now I’d fucking destroy him. “Let me tell you what I do. What you were hired to do. Tonight, for instance, is the night before the bog kick-off meeting. David Jones will likely just want to get a steak tonight and then retire early. Contrary to what you believe – he’ll be running point tomorrow and of the lot of us, he owns the most stock in this company and thus has the most to lose. David Richards, Bob and Eric like to get fluffed, however. I have a couple of strip clubs picked out already, which one we go to usually depends on what the guys drink at dinner. If they’re drinking beer we go to a sleazy joint – local – where the strippers have three kids at home and their vaginas are cavernous traps. If it’s wine we go a more ritzy club where the strippers are referred to as exotic dancers or adult entertainers and whereas they likely won’t be sucking anybodies dick there more inclined to anal sex and other more risqué fetishes if the price is right. David like blowjobs, if possible – I’d set it up for him behind his back he likes to believe he’s getting special treatment. I give the girl an extra tip and let her know he really likes to get his balls sucked. Eric just likes to watch – I set that up as well. Sometimes two women, sometimes one woman with several toys. From what I understand, he doesn’t even masturbate. He just soaks that shit up like he was a fucking TiVo and then waits quietly for us to return to the hotel room. My money is on the fact that he’s an in the closet homo – he likely fingers his asshole while he jerks off, maybe rolls on his back and shoots himself in the face – sucks on his finger with his eyes clothes – shit like that. Either way there’s a reason he doesn’t take care of it at the club. Bob likes to hit women – from my experience three out of four guys like to hit women, one out of ten actually act on it – Bob acts on it in a sexual aggressive fashion with the more run-down hookers, I tend to give them about five-hundred bucks in hush-money to get them to take a couple of slaps, maybe a cigarette to the tit – they always take it, they’re lucky if they make five hundred in a week some of these girls are so fucked up. If you stand outside the window you hear belts slapping, women crying – it’s a fucking thing to experience, I’ll tell you that. If you ever see Bob’s wife you will almost always wonder what he does to her when they’re home – the girl looks like a fucking church receptionist. Answer is – he doesn’t even touch her. Last I heard they had separate beds. Now all this, this is the night before the big meeting – this is how they window. On the celebratory nights it’s completely different. They all get laid or at the very least they flirt with women who would normally never talk to them but I’m lighting up Alabama Slammer shots for the ladies to have as long as they humor my guys. There’s always a bar fight, too, usually involving me. When I’m not acting as their pimp I’m their own fucking private gladiator. Occasional arrests, I have a bails bondsman contact in almost every city. I always keep a couple of hundreds handy to give the cop that pulls us over for a DUI. It’s all stupid Hollywood shit but that’s all these fuckers know.

“So that’s what I do. That’s why I get paid a couple of six-figures. That’s why you never see me working and why people joke that I don’t do anything around the office. It’s because my job, the job David, Bob, David and Eric are now expecting you to pitch in on, apparently, is more important than speaking well and fucking power point presentations. We keep this company afloat, we provide a service only the elite within our country are able to benefit from. Sure, it’s not the job you write home about, but who give a – Oh, sorry, is this your seat?”

She looks at me like I’m the man this fuck Ed will never be. She knows it when she sees it. She’s so fucking hot right now, so desperate and denied that it would be an easy score. “Sort of, you can have it if you want to talk to your little friend.”

“No. No, I’m done with him. The seat next to me is empty, though, if you wanted to talk for a while.” Ed shoots me a look – he still thinks I’m nuts – he still thinks I’m some bitter old fuck who’s trying to shake him down, who feels threatened by his knowledgebase.

“Yeah – I’d like that.” She shoots Ed a look that freezes him – Ed’s fucking childsplay, she was going to give him a courtesy fuck and teach him a few things – now she’s going to have fun, do for herself.

“Excellent. Ed – nice talking to you. This should be an interesting trip for you, aye?” He doesn’t answer, he stares at his seatback and puts it all together. Meanwhile I already have the name of the hotel she’ll be at as well as her fucking schedule and cell phone number.

Ed and I, we’re going to have some fun on this trip.

Well, I will.

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