Things

September 27, 2006 at 8:25 AM | Posted in Personal | 4 Comments
 
  I’ve given up a lot of things.  And that’s what they are, just things.  My big, new house is a big one that comes to mind, as I take a look around this tiny apartment.  This entire flat could fit inside the big, open, living room-dining room-kitchen area. 
  Big, vaulted ceilings, big open space.  Large master bedroom, with my OWN bathroom, and a big, big closet.  All of our new appliances.  Christ, what a stove.  Electric, flat surface, warming center, dual small/large burner, dual oven.  Dual oven!  Paid a pretty penny for that fucker.  We both wanted it, The Storm and I.  I did more cooking than she on it.
  Out the patio door–well, you can’t go out there yet, we needed to build a deck.  Big plans I had.  I was going to build one.
  Full, gigantic basement.  Never had a basement before.  Had my own space down there, and a family room.  Planned a space to put a pool table in.  I really wanted a pool table.  Walk out doors to a patio, that I had made bigger, with the hope of having a hot tub one day.  This looked out on the yard, big and deep, a half acre in the suburbs, backing to a creek and trees.  Frequently we would see deer on our back yard.  Once, half a dozen wild turkeys.  None of the yards had fences, so it seemed one single expanse.  The neighboring yard had a levee, giving us a short section of clean hill, marking the border of one side of the extremely flat yard. 
  Big, two car garage.  We had paid to have it made extra long, and had big windows put in the back.  Had plans to put a sunroom in.  Nice, big, flat driveway.  Barely a slope to it, I had wanted to get a basketball hoop.  This connected to the porch, a little wider than some others, and it was nice.  Room for a bench, and you could still walk around.  Sit there and admire the tree we planted and setting sun.
  There I could sit and ponder all my possessions.  The house, the yard.  My cars.  My appliances, my electronics and computers.  The computer I built, and my brand new monitor.  My shelves of books, my shelves of computer parts.  My movies and games.  The dining room furniture my dad gave me when we moved in.  The bedroom set that my parents had had since the sixties, that had been passed down to me.  My new king-sized bed.  My tools and parts, collected over 20 some-odd years of adulthood.
  Much the same with the rest of my possessions:  collected over 20 some-odd years of adulthood.
  I gave up most of this.  I took some of my tools, and of course my car and truck.  Took my clothes, or had them thrown at me.  Took most of my books, and many of my small personal affects.
  But the house, the furniture, the everything else–I gave it all up.  I gave it up, let her have it.  Just. . .just let me out of this marriage, this prison, this unhappy life.  Take everything I have, and let me be, and let me be happy. 
  And for the most part, I am happy.  I have given up everything for love.  To leave my wife, and be with the woman I love.  I have gladly given up everything, and never looked back.  You know that, right?  We have both given up much.  Kim has moved away from everything and everyone she knows, left her son in the hands of her ex.
  The best part of my day is coming home, and holding her in my arms.  We really are in love, completely.  We sit, we watch tv.  We joke.  We lay in bed together and chat, like kids on a sleepover.  I do everything I can for her, because I love her.  She does the same for me.  She touches me, and I have to hold back the tears, because I have wanted so much just to be touched.  We fulfil each other needs and desires.  When I look into her eyes, I can’t believe the love I see, looking back at me. 
  I had feared that it was going to be too perfect, and I didn’t deserve this much happiness.  God agrees with me, for once.  I was scared something would happen to her, or to me, to take this all away from me.  But I know now, what I get, what my balance is.
  See, there is balance in all things.  If I get something to make me happy, I get also something to make me not.  Such is the way of the universe.  When I explained this to Kim, she asked me, "Superstitious much?"
  I said, "I am not superstitious so much as the fact that I have a deep sense of appreciation for the God’s sense of irony."
 
  The ex won’t let me see my kids, and it’s killing me slowly, on the inside.

Mad Dogs And Englishmen

September 15, 2006 at 4:54 PM | Posted in Journal | 8 Comments
  I have become a dog person, or at least, I’m beginning to become one.  It will take some time to fully embrace, but I am warming up to the idea.  I am doing it for Detroit, and for her, no matter what kind of animal she had, I would embrace the prospect with glee.
  Luckily, Mac is an easy dog to like.  We have discussed it, he and I.  One issue that he had, he told me, was that he was unprepared for the jealousy he would feel towards me, vis a vis our sex life.  Before, when Detroit was with Mr W., Mac had way more contact with her.  He realizes now that it is different, and he accepts it, but it was a culture shock for him.
  I expressed to him my own concerns, and he reciprocated understanding.  He will try really hard to help slowly assimilate me into dog ownership.  However, he chided me carefully, I don’t own him.  Detroit does.  A mutual respect will go a long way towards creating a friendly detente.  That look of disgust on his face when Detroit and I are having sex really has to go, then. 
  He eventually relented.  During one of our many talks, he sniffed at me and asked, "You’ve had a dog before, yes?  Tell me about it."  I lay on my back on the couch, and he sat in the chair, glasses down his nose, notepad and pen in hand, soothing music played. . . .
  Way back in nineteen and ninety-three, ’twas the year o’ the flood.  I wrote about my experience with Domino’s, and this was another episode in that season, soon to be released on DVD.
  Mac sighed.  "Get to the point, dude."
  Right.  My sister could no longer keep her cat, Charcoal.  A big, blue Persian, Mom had developed an allergy.  Basically a good cat.  Then, someone The Storm worked with had to move out of their house, and couldn’t take their dog with them for a while.
  Chelsea.  Don’t know what kind of dog.  About the size of a retreiver, but not as wide, and short hair.  Chelsea had three legs.  She was rescue dog, and the nicest, sweetest dog you’d ever meet.  I heard the story of her abuse, and it pisses me off.
  So we took her in for a month or so.
  It’s not enough for a dog to be housetrained.  The people have to be dog-trained as well, and we weren’t.  I worked late so I slept late, and The Storm got up early to leave for work and wouldn’t take the dog out because she expected me to do it.  I would wake up to a puddle at the base of the stares, as well as a nice dookie.
  Then the dog would run and hide, I guess because he was used to being beaten at this point.  I didn’t want to beat him–not really–but I did want to take him outside, and it usually meant I had to go and drag him from under our bed.
  One of these occasions, I was in the upstairs, retrieving the dog.  Guess I was a retriever, huh?  It sure was what The Storm treated me like–
  "Stay on topic, dude," Mac said.
  –So I am in the upstairs, pulling her out of the bedroom.  The landing at the top of the stairs is very small, like 3 feet by 6 feet.  Steps going down, our door, bathroom door, two other bedroom doors, just enough wall space to accomodate all of this.
  Chelsea liked the cat, Charcoal.  Chelsea like everyone.  But Charcoal did not like Chelsea, nor any other dog.  Probably no other creatures at all, including us people, but he tolerated us because we fed him, and petted him at his discretion.  Chelsea knew Charcoal didn’t like her, and so she teased the cat.  She liked to play with her, get close, invade the cat’s personal space, things like that, just to piss the cat off.  It was funny as hell.
  The cat is up on the top landing, minding his own business, snooping around.  I am trying to drag Chelsea out.  The cat sees an opportunity.  He has been waiting for revenge for a long time.  He sees me dragging the dog, figures this is it, I’m gonna kill the dog, And Charcoal lunges for Chelsea as I am dragging her past me.
  Since I am dragging her past me, Chelsea is no longer there when the cat strikes, and he lands on the back of my leg.  No claws, but his teeth have sunk into my calf.  Just as I turn around to see what the fuck, Charcoal jumps off me quickly.  You could tell he was spooked.  He didn’t mean it, and I never blamed him.  The expression on his face was a very obvious, very plain, "Oh, shit!"  He ran off.
  I had a small fang wound in my calf, which didn’t bleed very long.  I thought nothing of it.  So little, in fact, that I’m sure now I never bothered to clean it out.  In the meantime, I went on a float trip with The Storm, some other Domino’s managers, and their respective meteorologic phenomena.
  Brilliantly, I allowed my wound to be exposed to river water for an eight hour stretch.  Hey, it seemed like it was healing.  That’s what that red streak running down my leg means, right?  Right?
  We get back from the float trip, my car gets stolen, and I go back to work.  That week, I feel weak, and my leg hurts alot.  Frequently I sit down.  By Friday, two weeks since the bite, it really, really hurts, and I’m having trouble walking.  I decide now would be as good a time as any to go to the doctor.
  Dr Yap is retired now, but he was a great doctor, a great guy.  Korean, he was in a MASH unit during the Korean war.  He saw me, he was disgusted with me that I had waited so long.  He wanted to send me to the hospital, and I. . .just didn’t think it was that serious.  Just give a shot, some antibiotics.  I’ll be fine.  He gives me one shot, then another.  Then tells me to hold still, or he’ll have one of the nurses circumcise me.  They were all hot, so it would have been fun to play show and tell, but I told him, "Doc, I was born in Jewish Hospital."  It was true, and he got a kick out of that.
  So he let me go, after giving me several shots that almost knocked me out, and trying once more to convince me to go to the hospital.  Whatever.  Honestly, what does he know?
  I get home, and The Storm is waiting on the front porch.  So is my dad.  Dr Yap called The Storm, and she in turned called my dad, and they ambushed me, and my dad TOOK me to the hospital.
  I spent a week on the inside.  It was brutal.  It changes you, it makes you hard.  But I made some friends on the inside.  Friends who had friends. . . . .on the outside.  I called my supervisor, and I called my MIT.  I was managing the Blackjack Domino’s, and this was still under the 30-minute guarantee, by the way.
  Gina Meredith.  Nice girl, bad acne, super religious, and slow on the pizza making.  Managing a Domino’s is 90% pie making.  She was going to be in charge while I was in the hospital.  Her big chance to shine.
  I called several times, made sure they got food orders right, payroll taken care of, scheduling done, things like that.  Minor crises all under control.  I lay around and watched TV, had an IV in me.  I could have done this at work.
  It was funny though, when I got out, and came back to work, everyone was thrilled to have me back, and Gina gave me a hug, and she was almost sobbing.  She let me know she had a new respect for my position as manager.  Vindication, after getting shit from her, thinking I’m not doing anything.  It’s called managing, and it’s a little more subtle than making a pizza.
.. . . . .
 
  And what of the animals?  Well, we had Charcoal for a while longer, but he ran off one day and we never did see him again.  Chelsea’s owners came and got her after a about a month and a half.  The dude also made off with my bong, as well.  I hadn’t used it in years, had no intention of using it, and was going to maybe sell it to them.  I let them try it out, and never saw them again.  My three-foot bong.
  There’s a lesson here somewhere, and it completely eludes me.  

Black Coffee In Bed

September 13, 2006 at 4:29 PM | Posted in Personal | 3 Comments
  Back in the Outer Metro Area, I once again enjoy the 45 to 55 minute drive to work.  I was used to it, and then I easily adapted when living with my dad to a 17 minute drive.
  What helps the most, of course, is living with Detroit.  Not in Detroit, with Detroit; pay attention.  Although I do spend an inordinate amount of time in–
  Okay, never mind.
  But the times, they are a changin’.  Time in my life for change.  I swear I feel I have never been happier in my life.  Sucks for the writing:  how the hell am I supposed to find shit to write about and bitch about?  It’s a bunch of fuckin crap, I tell ya!  This is more happiness than one man can fucking stand!  How the hell am I supposed to maintain my edgy, eclectic, on-the-edge style of writing?  Fuck.  I am going to turn all soft and mushy, and my fans and groupies are going to turn on me, and I will go the way of the mastodon or George Michael, although with much less sexual ambiguity.
  It’s bullshit, I tell ya.  My sane, well-reasoned, carefully crafted blurbs on various topics, such as customer service–which always seem to come off as childish, psychotic, incoherent rants for some reason– are what the customer (you) come to me and read for.  I get that I am a security blanket for a lot of people.  As long as I rant, all is well with the world.
  But what the hell do I have to complain about now?  Too much sex?  If it was anything, it would be the way my goddamn middle-aged body has betrayed me, not allowing me to have as much sex as I want.  And how much would that be?
  I’m torn here.  I know most of you know Detroit, know her better than me, like her better than me, are better friends with her than me.  Any tales I tell out of school will come back to her, but also make me sound like a crass, uncouth jackoff.
  I suppose it should suffice to say that she is getting all she ever wanted, and she is very satisfied, and happy.  And of course I am too.  Go ahead, just try to wipe this stupid grin off my face.  Try.  We aren’t having sex like teenagers, of course–we aren’t that clumsy.  More like middle-aged. . . minks.
  Minks that are making up for lost time.
 
  Speaking of making up for lost time.. .
  I started smoking recently.  If you recall one of my articles from the past, I said I was going to wait until I was 60 to start smoking.  I figure that most people start when they are young, and I feel young again all over.  Plus, since I am older, I will die of something else before this kills me.
  Detroit has said she wants to quit, so this was probably a bad time to pick it up.  But I have smoked before, for literally months, before I got tired of it and quit.  I will probably do the same this time, especially if she wants to quit.  I can drop it pretty easily.  But right now I am enjoying it, I smoke thin cigars, cigarellos, and I look REALLY cool.  Plus, I only smoke in the car, and it is a drive to and from work.  Max, 2 or 3 a day. 
  I never was a heavy drinker, but I like a beer once in a while.  The Storm was occasionally on my back about it.  Not verbally; she would just give me the look, and sigh.  But that came to lose meaning for me after a while.  I mean, I did whatever I wanted before, with a wife breathing down my back, disapproving of everything I did.
  Now I have Detroit, who has said repeatedly (and she has had to say it repeatedly, because I was so indoctrinated, so trained, that it has taken a while to undo my previous brainwashing) that I can do what I want.  She says I can do what I want because she knows that "whatever I want" does not include anything that would hurt her.  Mostly, whatever I want has to do with pleasing her.
  Whatever I want–
  I feel like a teenager with his first car.  Freedom.  I can go over to my friend Karl’s without getting bitched at, getting the 3rd degree, getting guilt trip over spending time with someone other than my family.
  You all know I am highly sexed, right?  Sex-crazed, sex obsessed, a pervert, a dirty old man, whatever you want to call me.  All I can say is, "no convictions."  But the Storm made me this way, partially.  I mean, I had it in me, always.  But she kept me suppressed and repressed so much, that it was screaming for an outlet.
  Look, I couldn’t even have porn, or look at it.  Ever.  At all.  Part of it was our religous thing, but a big part of it was her over-extreme prudishness with regard to everything.  She didn’t even like Victoria Secret commercials on TV.
  If I may psychoanalyse myself, this took a person with a highly active sex drive and put him over the edge.  I fantasized about everyone and everything (okay, not quite; I do have some limits) all the time.  I took to hiding some porn, and keeping some sites hidden on the internet.  I stared at women like a predator.  Not a sexual predator.
  More like a tiger, stalking prey.
  All because I had such a high sex energy that was being squeezed out and pushed down and bottled up and capped off.  I could have been a normal guy, with a high libido.  Instead, I am a sex obsessed freak.
  It’s how I felt anyway.  Detroit comes along, and tells me its okay.  As our relationship grew, I found that many of my feelings were normal, just swollen, throbbing.  Erect.  Rock-hard.  Pulsating. . .
  Okay.  And now, I get to share this with someone who appreciates it.  I feel normal now.  I feel in love, and sharing it with someone I love, instead of predatorially trying to connive, convince, bargain, barter, or trade wares for sex with a spouse who was not on the same page sexually as I was.  Sexually, I was a size 54 in a 34 inch straight jacket.
  Geez, this turned into a longer piece of bullshit than I intended.  I may go back and shorten it, then add some random cuss words to make it more of a fucking bullshit goddamn asshole piss rant.
  Cause the other point I wanted to get to was that, since I do what I want, I started to drink coffee as well.  Of course, I still have to pussy it up, because I’m a sissy.  I used to drink half coffee, half hot chocolate.  But I really like it with lots of cream and lots of sugar.  I was talking with the ladies on the floor here, because we have coffee and all the fixins provided for us, so one of them brings a caraf up every morning, and we have cream, sugar, et cetera. 
  They were discussing my newfound appreciation for coffee, and how they like theirs.  I couldn’t even finish the sentence, all I got out was, "I like my coffee like I like my women–" before I started to giggle.
  These straight-laced, proper, uptight office women thought is was funny too, they’ve heard the rest of the joke.  But it could go several different ways.
 
  I like my coffee like I like my women–
  "Hot and black."
  "Liquored up."
  "Tepid and bitter."
  "From a truck stop."
  "Full of cream."
  "With a buttery croissant."
  "In the car with the top off."
  "Anally."

Addenddum:  March5 2008:  I had to add this thought I had about two months ago:  "I like my coffee like I like my women.  In the morning, I’d like my coffee to shut the hell up….."

It’ll Be Just Like Starting Over

September 11, 2006 at 1:35 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
 
  I’ve had to tell the story a few times already, so I suppose it merits one last retelling.  Detroit and I leave from our flat Thursday morning about 9 AM (all times are given in central time, which is also Tulsa time, which is what we live on), pick up the trailer, and we head out about 11 AM from the St Louis Metro.  What should have been a 9+ hour drive to Detroit (the city, not the person) turned into an 11 hour ordeal.
  First of all, pulling an empty trailer that took to the wind like a kite meant we had to drive no faster than 60 mph’s all the way.  Then we hit a construction zone on a tollway near Chicago (the city, not the person) during rushhour.  We arrive in Detroit (city) at almost midnight, get a hotel room and crash for the evening.  In the morning, Detroit (the person) and I drive to her. . .old house.
  This is not my discussion to have, or to write about.
  And yet, I will.
  Let me give you my observations.  I’m sure Detroit (city and person) will have a different perspective.  This is what I saw.  We get there, I stand off out of earshot, while Detroit and Mr Wonderful converse.  Then they go house, and Detroit (person) signals me to wait.
  So I wait.
  I waited an interminably long time.  Objectively, about an hour.  Subjectively, 40 years in the desert.  What I thought was happening, what I imagined was happening–some of it was right.  Most of it was wrong. 
  I did imagine that he would ask her to come back, to work it out, to give them another try.  I also imagined that. ….in my worst nightmare, she relents, and agrees to try to work things out.  This has no basis in reality, and nothing she has ever said or done would indicate this is a possibility.  Nonetheless, it was a fear I had, creeping onto the edge of my flesh.
  I imagined that he would try to hurt her, and wondered if I should come in to break something up.  I imagined him coming out onto the porch with a bloody knife, looking for me.
  I imagined her coming out onto the porch with a bloody knife, needing an accomplice.. .
  But they talked, and, as Detroit (person) told me later, it was more than they had talked, total, in the whole year, possibly longer.  Once he accepted the inevitable (and thank God, for me, despite my ridiculous fears, that it was inevitable; that would have been one shitty ride back to St Louis by myself), they were able to talk, reach agreement and understanding on many issues and details of import in a breakup such as this.
  And then I met the man.  The myth.  The legend.  The antagonist in all of Detroit’s (person [getting a little annoying, isn’t it?  Live with it]) writing.  He treated me much more civily than I would have expected.  We never shook hands, however we managed small talk, and even joked about a few things in the most awkward of manners.
  Still, he hung around and chatted until it was time for him to go pick up his kids.  As soon as he was gone, I backed the truck and trailer into the driveway, and, with Detroit’s (you understand now, right?) son to help, I loaded truck and trailer, got everything taped up, packed up, tied down, and was done before they came back.  I enjoy the ironic dictomy of, before he left, empty trailer.  He comes back, trailer full.
  We took Alex out to dinner before we left, and I had some good conversation with him, I felt.  He is a good kid, a good person.  I hope he feels the same about me.
  The older son?  Words fail me.  They apparantly fail him as well, because he said NOT ONE WORD to anyone, even his own mother, the entire time we were there.  Mr W’s kids?  No opinion on them either, except that the older daughter is the typical bitchy whiny self involved slut that you will find in any high school.  My condolences if you have one.
  As I said, I was able to get along with Mr W.  As the day wore on, however, his congeniality gave way to a barely concealed snarkiness and ill-prepared sarcasm.  His comments and little asides were justified, in his view, but they left me feeling embarrassed for him, that he couldn’t come up with better material.
  I don’t hate the guy.  In fact, I don’t even dislike him.  I see in him many similarities to my ex, where they don’t realize their behavior drives people away.  I am grateful to him, as well, because Detroit (person) came to me.  I’m sure he thinks of me as the bastard homewrecker, and I took his woman away.
  But I could never have taken her if she wasn’t willing to be taken.  Same goes for me.  We didn’t steal each other away from the other person’s spouse.  We just both happened to be at the right place at the right time, and pulled each other’s asses out of the fire.
  The important thing is, he is going to take care of Alex, and therefore I will be civil with him.  I was going to write a ripping, sarcastic piece about him, but why bother?  I mean, normally, my feeling is that, if you can’t kick a man when he’s down, when can you kick him?
  But there is an unwritten, unspoken guy code at work here.  He will accept defeat as gracefully as he can, and I won’t rub his nose in it.  That’s all I got.
  So we say our goodbyes, and leave.  Me, Detroit, Alex, and Mac.  We get Mac in the back seat of the truck.  I realize, tactfully, that she and Al are going to have the last goodbye, so I shake his hand, look him in the eye.  He says to me, "Take care of my mom."
  "Don’t worry, dude.  That’s my job."  They hug and kiss goodbye, and we roll.  The tiny pickup–this is a V-6 Ranger–is loaded down, and the trailer is full and tied down.  Seriously full.  We hit the highway.  We left at roughly 9 PM Central time, on Friday night.  The trailer has no taillights, and only one working brake light.  I can go no faster than 55, and usually just 50.  This is a 600+ mile trip.
  Plus, we have to stop every 37 minutes, it seems like, for me or Detroit or the dog to pee, or to get gas.  Why can’t this shit be coordinated?
  About 4:30 or 5:00 AM, we stop at a truckstop on the St Louis side of of Indy, park, and sleep for about an hour and a half.  We get up, and the sun is up.  After we eat breakfast, we are back on the road.  More of the same, but at least it is daylight.  At every stop I had been giving the vehicle train a walk around, checking the tires, the hitch, the load tie-downs, and fluids in the truck.  Finally, we make it home.  One fucking thirty in the afternoon.  A ten hour drive took us sixteen and a half fucking hours!  Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.
  My son came over and helped me unload, and I had time to take a shower and take a short hour and a half nap before leaving to go into my second job that night.  When I came home that night, I took out my contacts, brushed my teeth, and just went to bed.  I thought I said to Detroit, "I’m just gonna go lay down–"
  But apparently I said nothing, and just crashed.
  That’s okay.  My baby is home with me now.

It’s My Birthday Too, Yeah!

September 6, 2006 at 1:29 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  Yes-yes-yes, things are going well with Kim and I.  It’s a fool’s paradise, and we are indeed fools in love.  We are stupid happy.  When we get the internet back, which should be next week, Kim can update you in her unique style.  I already gave you my update, but I want to be consistent in my writing (plus I am sick of the mushy stuff) so I want to continue with my theme.
  I’m digging deeper into my memory for things to remember, and my memory’s remembering ability isn’t that memorable.  But sometimes a memory will jog another, and they all fall down, like domino’s, which is, oddly enough, the place I worked.
 
  In the 80’s, which were in essence my 60’s, I briefly lived with an older woman named Joy.  I was 21, she was forty.  We were both peaking.  I fucked her up, down, sideways, left, right, over and under.  It was a very good year.
  For the most part.  These things are not without a price.  This is a cautionary tale, I suppose, about how a relationship is not just the two people, but it affects the people around you. 
  I found a ticket stub which reminded me of an event.  Feb 20, 1986.  My 21st birthday.  ZZ Top was playing in the now disassembled Checkerdome.  I wanted to go, so I bought 4 tickets.  Me, Joy, her 11 year old son Ricky, and her 17 year old daughter, Rhonda.
  The thing about Rhonda, see, that I never got, was that she was a 17 year old girl.  She had lived with her dad, then came to stay with her mom, and I was there.  She was pretty, she was ultra-hip, terminally bored, and her eyes were perpetually rolled.
  I wanted to fuck her.
  Logistically, it wasn’t going to happen.  She was disgusted that I was fucking her mom, yet I was only a few years older than her.  I had a string of fantasies about that, I tell you what.  That’s some funny stuff right there.  I don’t care who ya are.
  But I threw out an olive branch, the concert tickets, in the hopes that we could all go together, masquerading as a dysfunctional family.  The concert ticket waved in her face, she was more civil towards me.  If only I could have parlayed that into a a blowjob.  Sigh.  So many could-have-beens.. .
  Joy worked for a podiatrist who had two offices, and he spent half the day in one location, and half the day in the other.  She spent half the day alone, doing paperwork and so forth, and the other day prepping patients for him.  How do you prep a patient for a podiatrist?  Well, you throw their ass up in the chair and take their shoes and socks off.  The same chair, by the way, that I convinced her to service me in on numerous occasions.
  I digress.  On Thursday–and I believe this was a Thursday, she didn’t go in till noon because she was working Saturday.  Since she wasn’t going in till noon and she was an alcoholic, she had a beer or three before going to work.
  Rhonda became incessed.  I’m sure it was merely concern over her mother’s well-being.  They started to argue, they started to yell, they started to push and shove.  They started to slap and pull hair.
  Rhonda was a bigger girl than her mother.  I stepped in to intervene.  Soon, I had my arms full of angry, screaming, kicking and yelling teenage girl.  But she smelled good.  Shit, Bryan, stay on track.  We fought back and forth from the living room to the kitchen and back.  Mostly just wrestling, and the bitch was pulling my hair.
  We stood back from each other, we took a break.  She punched me, right in the face.  I looked at her.  I punched her right back, right in her mouth.  Only time I have ever hit a girl.  She seemed a little shocked.  I was trying to get Joy out of the house, and I managed to, with Rhonda trailing.  We hopped into my pathetic Chevy Chevette, with her screaming after us, because, somehow during the course of the conversation, the topic turned to the concert which was that night, and she wanted an assurance that she was still invited.
  I invited her to suck my cock.  There was no way we were taking her after all of this.  I took Joy to work, gave her some time to calm down, did some relaxation and breathing exercises with her. 
  I took her back after work, and Rhonda was gone.  Ricky was home from school, and he hadn’t seen her, so we left to go to the concert.  It was a decent show, nothing special.  Interesting side note, however:  I was working at the warehouse at the time, and there was a smoking hot, I mean seriously smoking hot, babe in the office named Carla.  She said she was going to the concert that night as well.  I told her I would stand up before the show and yell for her, to see if she hears me.  She laughed at that.
  But I did.  Once we were in our seats, but the show hadn’t started yet and the lights were still up, I said to Joy, "Hold on, there’s something I gotta do."  I stood up, cupped my hands, and started to yell.  "Carla!- – -Carla! – – Carla!"  I stood there for a moment, looking around.
  A calm voice from about 8 rows behind me said quietly, "Hi, Bryan."  I turned and it was her.  Wow.  Fate.  It was meant to be.  But she was going out with someone else, and so was I.  Plus, she was completely not interested in me in least.
  . . . *Anyway* . . .
  We come home from the concert, and there is a note on the door, saying something about Rhonda being in protective custody with family services, or something like that.  It was late, we figured we would deal with it in the morning.
  The next morning, Ricky left to catch the bus for school, came back a few minutes later, spooked.  "There’s cop cars at the top and bottom of the street."  We sent him on his way, then we got in the car so I could take Joy to work.  She lived on a very short street, three houses on each side, and we could see that Ricky had been right.  At the top of the street, on the cross street, a cop sat, and the same at the bottom.
  Cursing quietly to myself, we got in the car and made like nothing was going on.  Why was I surprised, then, when the cop I went passed pulled me over?  Why?  "Oh, shit, he has his lights on.  He wants me to pull over!"  Why was this a shock?  Was I in denial?  They could have been waiting for someone else . . .
  I was arrested and booked on third degree assault.  I spent some time in a cell, then I was asked to write down my side of the story.  I did, at length, earning the nickname "Hemingway."  Cops are just hilarious, and endlessly original.  They tossed me back in the cell for a few hours, then released me on my own recognisance. 
  Afterwards, because family services got involved, I had to go to some counseling sessions with all of them.  Eventually, we all got along better, and Rhonda got over her aversion to a younger man fucking her mom.  She started going out with a forty year old man.  To spite me and her mom?  Who knows?  That was one lucky bastard, though, getting some of that sweet, young–
  Nevermind.

There Goes The Neighborhood

September 5, 2006 at 3:46 PM | Posted in Journal | 3 Comments
  Over the weekend, the g.f. and I (my friend’s teenage daughter picked up my cellphone, and the wall paper was a pic of Kim.  She says to me, "Is that the G.F?"  She explained that, in the parlance of our times, that means "girlfriend."  Which is good, it helps, because I might have mistakenly thought it stood for "great fuck."  Silly me.) moved into our new flat.
  She is actually the first person there, and I show after work.  Let’s see, that was Friday?  We go get some stuff out of storage, then go to my dad’s house to get some of my stuff, end up getting nothing, but we talk with my dad and sister.  We head back to the flat that night and sleep on the floor:  no bed.
  Nothing makes you appreciate the modern conveniences like not having them.  Unless you are 4 years old, there is really no reason to sleep on the floor.  Let me tell you it sucked, and standing up the next day off it sucked even more.
  Saturday, we bought an air mattress as a temporary reprieve, and its not that bad.  In fact, compared to the floor, it’s fan-fucking-tastic.  But we went to the store to shop for beds, and found the one we want when we have the money.  Highly unusual thing, though:  behind the store, right out the back door, was a pet cemetary.  Almost an acre, right behind this store in a dense suburban area, one that I have delivered extensively in, and this is the first I had ever seen of it.  The g.f. and walked the length of it, since it turns out we both have a thing for the macabre and the sentimental, and this was oddly both.
  That evening, she hung out with me at work, and got to meet some of my co-workers and friends, like the Dude.  Earlier that day, actually, was the first meeting between Detroit and Bunny.  All I can say is, odd.  My friend Bunny, she is unsure of what to think about Detroit and I.  Time will tell, perhaps… She isn’t working today (Tuesday), otherwise, I feel certain, I would have heard from her.  I don’t want to call her and ask her, "What didja think?" because we only talked for a minute, and anything she said at that point would have been superficial nicey-nice.
  Had fun at work, though, and that night a good night’s sleep on the air mattress.  We had decided earlier to go to the breakfast buffet, so of we go.  We eat, then we leave.  As I walk from the passenger door to the driver door (one thing we have agreed on is thus:  A gentleman ALWAYS hold the door open for a lady.  Car doors, everything.  Despite my manners, I am a gentleman, and despite her.. . . . being with me, she is a lady.  Therefore I open every door for her.) to get in, I hear a voice say, "Grampa!"
  I look around, trying to get my bearings, which are suddenly spinning wildly out of control.  I see one, then two grandchildren, then my daughter.  I am looking for adults.  I see Mike, the oldest son, and no one else.  No wife.  They start to come over, then stop, not sure of what to do.  I yell to them, "Come here!" and they run over.  It was great to see them.  My daughter hugged me and  kissed me, and the youngest of the grandkids.  Little Michael said, "Mitchell and Gramma didn’t want to come.  Probably a good thing." 
  I agreed.  While I knew it would have to happen sooner or later, later would be better.  I just want to keep my distance from the s.t.b.e (soon-to-be-ex), because she is a complete freak.  My daughter says to me, "Daddy, who’s in the car?"  It was the gf’s car.
  I said, "It’s. . . my girlfriend."
  "Can I go meet her?"
  The other two girls echoed her request.  I said, "Uh, sure."  If you look up "awkard" in an online dictionary, there is a video clip of this moment.
  But, I must say, my daughter is a class act.  Completely honest, just wanting to get to know people and like them.  She goes up to the door where Kim is sitting, taking her by surprise.  Miranda says, "Hi!  I’m his daughter!"
  They chatted briefly, while I talked with the two older grandkids, and my son.  Then they had to go, before it got more awkward for the big people, and before the breakfast buffet closed. 
  But it was good to see them.  It was good to hug my daughter.
 
  My whole purpose, my whole reason, for moving back to Troy, was for her.  My son, too, but mostly for her.  My son is 18, and he can come and go and do as he pleases.  But I wanted to be close to them both, so they know, that despite what the stb ex says (and you know what, let’s go back to the nickname I originally came up with.  This is the internet after all, the place for screennames and nicknames, and it suits her, it just fucking suits her:  "The Storm.")–despite what the Storm says, I didn’t abandon the children, just her.  And I didn’t even abandon her, I have to take care of certain things with her.  But I did leave her.  Dropped her like a bad transmission, I did.
  So part of that was the need to move here in town to be near them, so that I am just a few minutes away, and they can visit, or I can pick them up, or whatever.  Just to be near them, we moved inconveniently far from the center of town to the Kuntry.
  Running into them randomly in a public place shows me how well I thought this plan through.  I don’t want to meet the Storm in public, and I especially don’t want to meet the Storm in public with the GF on my arm.  I will go to jail.  Let me explain:
  The Storm will make a loud, embarrassing public scene because she has no self-control and no desire to act rationally.  She will yell, scream, shout, call me names, try to take a swing at me, and try to wrestle Detroit to the ground.  Under different circumstances, a highly erotic prospect, nevertheless, in this situation, very undesireable.  Police will come, and even though I haven’t laid a finger on her and never will, because she is the woman making loud noise and crying, and I am the man, I will get arrested and spend a few hours or maybe the night in jail for third degree assault, making friends and trading cigarettes to retain my anal virtue.
  Don’t ask me how I know this, it is just one of those things that if you have been through it, you know it.
  My older daughter calls me later, hassling me.  "You know, you needed to warn us when she came to town.  We have to live with your wife, you don’t."
  I apologized, but she continued to give me shit, saying she owes me an ass-kicking.  It occurred to me, however, that this must be hard on the Storm.
  First of all, all she has done, most likely, is think about me for the last several weeks, while I have given her nary a thought.
  Then, her children, even the ones that aren’t mine, are treating me decently, even getting along with me, and being understanding.  They haven’t shunned me the way that she wanted them to, or even, quite frankly, the way I expected them to. 
  She needs to come to grips with whom exactly the asshole is in this relationship.
  The grandkids want to come over to my apart–my flat, and I said yeah, as soon as I get furniture, you can all come over. 
  I was originally worried about Kim–in the irrational, paranoid sense, about something happening to her, car accident, or whatever, before we got together, or shortly afterwards, just to give me a taste of paradise and rip it away from me, like God can do, because of his twisted sense of humor and incredible comic timing and understanding of the unique nature of irony.  Thanks God, for all the comedy!
  Of course it could still happen, but I grok a sense of God’s plan for me now.  He will let me have happiness, he will let me have Kim.  But he will also fuck with me constantly, I see that now.
 
  I am God’s chew toy.

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