A brief story I wrote for a reading. The essential story of how one might get arrested.
Brenda and Eddie liked to argue. Just about as much as they liked to fuck afterwards. This was the particular joy for Brenda. The arguing that is, not the sex. Brenda hadn’t enjoyed sex since the surgery. The surgery also made her completely unable to deal with what she saw as bullshit. That made things particularly difficult with Eddie, as he lived his life fueled by talking his way out of things and conforming whenever it seemed beneficial. This did not fit well with Brenda.
They were arguing about how Eddie told his boss he would be “happy” to come in on Sunday. Then they argued about Brenda being boring, specifically her inability to get enjoyment out of anything. Brenda blamed Eddie for that.
Eddie learned at the beginning of there relationship that it was best to pull the car over when they argued. His best weapon against Brenda was his ability to look her in the eye for longer than she was comfortable with (which since the surgery was anytime at all). Brenda’s defense was simple, change the subject as much as possible. If they got on one subject he would win. She knew that.
Brenda talked about Eddie’s ex-girlfriends, his drunk friends, his drinking, his cooking, his bad writing, how he won’t sleep at her place, how he doesn’t “get” her, and especially how he (with no explanation) refused to read her poetry. Eddie was starting to get tired and the whiskey was hitting him pretty hard, but he knew he had to make some retort.
The police cruiser pulled behind Eddie’s car before they put the lights on, blinding the passengers. Brenda felt an immediate guilt for starting the argument.
“Can you talk yourself out of it?” she asked Eddie. His head hung low and a smile of complete acceptance washed over his face. He ended the argument the same way he always did.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I never fuck you right or make enough bread I know.”
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Roger - Judgement
I never liked the subways here. Not like the ones back home. Not, home, per se. But back in my city. Maybe that’s what the problem is: I’m all too aware this isn’t my city. But he took my city away from me. With one shot in the night that thug took it all from me. But he didn’t realize what he was triggering. Now I had to take it away from all of them.
The stairs between the subway underground and the street can tell you a lot about a city. In my city they make sure those steps sparkle. Here, it is complete rubbish, covered in newspapers, food, and excrement. But when a town is run by the mob and the rich with there fancy limousines and their drivers, so no one ever sees the piss sliding down the stairs from the drunk at the top. It’ll be the first thing I do when I take this place over. Well, second thing. Right after I kill Bruce.
Across the street from the opera house an old woman drops to the ground with her bag of groceries. No one stops to help. I don’t understand people anymore; they won’t eve protect themselves. Surrounded by all this poverty and gunshots and funerals and they still haven’t realized that if everyone would just help each other out a bit, things would be better. But what am I saying? Humans just aren’t capable. They can’t do anything with out forcing them to do it. I know that. After years of trying to run the League, I know they just aren’t capable of making decisions. So I will make them for them. I don’t have to worry about their warped sense of self preservation. Because I’m not one of them. “Ticket please! You need as ticket mister!” the teller yells at me as I walk in the opera. A group of ushers approach with those stupid covered flashlights. They wave them around after I disappear to the balcony, like their muted lights would ever show anything but an aisle and seat number. Bruce’s problem is he’s the easiest person in the world to find when he’s not on the job. You just have to find the swankiest event and town and find the most garish balcony seats and the most attractive girl and sure enough, he’s there. An old man sings on the stage in German about his father. The music is beautiful. I’ll let them keep that afterwards. Music, that is. They don’t screw that up.
“Alfred! If you could remain with the young lady and escort her home when the opera is finished it would be much appreciated.” He says something assuring in the woman’s ear and any complaint she could possibly have melts away. He’s nothing but cheap tricks, on the job and with people. Not like me. He is not like me.
We exit the back of the opera house and I can’t help but wonder if that still bothers him. If paranoia ever sits in. I know I’ll never feel right in an alley again after what that man did to Lois. I can’t hear Bruce anymore. All I see when I look at him is the only man who stands in my way. The only man who could ever take me down. The only man who could bring about my demise. Yes, this is the best place to do it, in the same alley his parents died. “I’m sorry about Lois,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Clark he calls me.
“I am not Clark anymore.”
The stairs between the subway underground and the street can tell you a lot about a city. In my city they make sure those steps sparkle. Here, it is complete rubbish, covered in newspapers, food, and excrement. But when a town is run by the mob and the rich with there fancy limousines and their drivers, so no one ever sees the piss sliding down the stairs from the drunk at the top. It’ll be the first thing I do when I take this place over. Well, second thing. Right after I kill Bruce.
Across the street from the opera house an old woman drops to the ground with her bag of groceries. No one stops to help. I don’t understand people anymore; they won’t eve protect themselves. Surrounded by all this poverty and gunshots and funerals and they still haven’t realized that if everyone would just help each other out a bit, things would be better. But what am I saying? Humans just aren’t capable. They can’t do anything with out forcing them to do it. I know that. After years of trying to run the League, I know they just aren’t capable of making decisions. So I will make them for them. I don’t have to worry about their warped sense of self preservation. Because I’m not one of them. “Ticket please! You need as ticket mister!” the teller yells at me as I walk in the opera. A group of ushers approach with those stupid covered flashlights. They wave them around after I disappear to the balcony, like their muted lights would ever show anything but an aisle and seat number. Bruce’s problem is he’s the easiest person in the world to find when he’s not on the job. You just have to find the swankiest event and town and find the most garish balcony seats and the most attractive girl and sure enough, he’s there. An old man sings on the stage in German about his father. The music is beautiful. I’ll let them keep that afterwards. Music, that is. They don’t screw that up.
“Alfred! If you could remain with the young lady and escort her home when the opera is finished it would be much appreciated.” He says something assuring in the woman’s ear and any complaint she could possibly have melts away. He’s nothing but cheap tricks, on the job and with people. Not like me. He is not like me.
We exit the back of the opera house and I can’t help but wonder if that still bothers him. If paranoia ever sits in. I know I’ll never feel right in an alley again after what that man did to Lois. I can’t hear Bruce anymore. All I see when I look at him is the only man who stands in my way. The only man who could ever take me down. The only man who could bring about my demise. Yes, this is the best place to do it, in the same alley his parents died. “I’m sorry about Lois,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Clark he calls me.
“I am not Clark anymore.”
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Roger: Are you playing your love game?
Did you miss us? We have completed and are publishing a zine entitle "Death by Dragonry: Issue 1." We will be distributing it around the city and I'll try and we are working with a few people to try and get it on the interwebs. Speaking of which, did you know that graphic artists are the least reliable people on the planet? It took us forever to find someone to actually sit down and put everything together for us. blech!
Anyway, we are all really proud of it. Tyler (T), Mark (you haven't met him yet), and I (Badger) worked very hard on it and are super excited for you to see it. I will post the locales at which it is being distributed when we actually figure that out. Hit us up at deathbydragonry@gmail.com if you want one. ENJOY OR DIE!!!!!
Anyway, we are all really proud of it. Tyler (T), Mark (you haven't met him yet), and I (Badger) worked very hard on it and are super excited for you to see it. I will post the locales at which it is being distributed when we actually figure that out. Hit us up at deathbydragonry@gmail.com if you want one. ENJOY OR DIE!!!!!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tyler: Do Work
So I just saw a commercial for Ohio tourism. It showed a bunch of people going around to our 'landmarks' like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a, uh, baseball game, and, you know... Old Man's Cave. Right, so we don't have much tourism wise but that's cool. The sad part was the slogan which basically went, 'Ohio! More fun than you can spend in one day! Stay the weekend!" That's right, Ohio is super duper fucking fun but only for 2.5 days. F that N I say.
So check this out. Here's an article entitled 'A Conversation With Ladies 80's' It is exactly what the title implies. Get down.
A Conversation with Ladies 80’s
Death By Dragonry: Good morning, Ladies 80’s. Thanks for meeting so early.
Ladies 80’s: Oh sure. It’s no problem, honey. You’re cute; you can just call me Lady.
DBD: I…don’t think I can do that. Are you drunk?
L8: Drunk? No. But am I sober? Also no.
DBD: It’s 10:30 in the morning…
L8: It’s 5:00 somewhere, baby.
DBD: It’s not. If you don’t mind, what are you high on?
L8: Life!
DBD: …
L8: Also, I did a line in the bathroom.
DBD: That sounds about right. So, you look a lot different than I thought you would.
L8: What were you expecting, sweetness?
DBD: Well, I mean, I’ve heard stories about you. A couple years ago everyone loved you. You were a good dancer. You had cool friends. What happened? You look kind of like…
L8: Like a 37 year old divorcee with two kids, teased hair, and leopard print spandex pants.
DBD: Actually, yeah. That’s pretty accurate. So what happened?
L8: I used to be on top of this town, you know, just like how I don’t like to be in bed! Ha!
DBD: Wow.
L8: Yeah, I was great. Then a bunch of sleazy guys found out about me and realized I was just a $4 buffet of girls looking to have a little fun, if you know what I mean.
DBD: Please stop winking at me.
L8: Then, somehow, a ton of wannabe cougars waltzed through my doors and scared off most of the attractive girls.
DBD: They certainly did.
L8: Now all I’ve got are fake desperate housewives trying to hold on to the last bit of their youth and all the guys desperate enough to sleep with them which is a pretty broad sweep of gross men. Oh, also fat girls. I’ve got fatties in abundance.
DBD: Indeed you do.
L8: So, yeah, balls to the wall. What are you going to do?
DBD: I think you used that wrong.
L8: Yep.
DBD: So what do you do now?
L8: I’m just gonna keep doing what I do.
DBD: Creeping out 20-somethings?
L8: Exactly. What are you doing later anyway. My kids are with their dads for the weekend.
DBD: Oh… things. I’ve got things. Right, so, I’m going to get going. It was real… interesting meeting you.
L8: All right, whatever floats your pickle. Go ahead and call my pager if you’re not doing anything later.
So check this out. Here's an article entitled 'A Conversation With Ladies 80's' It is exactly what the title implies. Get down.
A Conversation with Ladies 80’s
Death By Dragonry: Good morning, Ladies 80’s. Thanks for meeting so early.
Ladies 80’s: Oh sure. It’s no problem, honey. You’re cute; you can just call me Lady.
DBD: I…don’t think I can do that. Are you drunk?
L8: Drunk? No. But am I sober? Also no.
DBD: It’s 10:30 in the morning…
L8: It’s 5:00 somewhere, baby.
DBD: It’s not. If you don’t mind, what are you high on?
L8: Life!
DBD: …
L8: Also, I did a line in the bathroom.
DBD: That sounds about right. So, you look a lot different than I thought you would.
L8: What were you expecting, sweetness?
DBD: Well, I mean, I’ve heard stories about you. A couple years ago everyone loved you. You were a good dancer. You had cool friends. What happened? You look kind of like…
L8: Like a 37 year old divorcee with two kids, teased hair, and leopard print spandex pants.
DBD: Actually, yeah. That’s pretty accurate. So what happened?
L8: I used to be on top of this town, you know, just like how I don’t like to be in bed! Ha!
DBD: Wow.
L8: Yeah, I was great. Then a bunch of sleazy guys found out about me and realized I was just a $4 buffet of girls looking to have a little fun, if you know what I mean.
DBD: Please stop winking at me.
L8: Then, somehow, a ton of wannabe cougars waltzed through my doors and scared off most of the attractive girls.
DBD: They certainly did.
L8: Now all I’ve got are fake desperate housewives trying to hold on to the last bit of their youth and all the guys desperate enough to sleep with them which is a pretty broad sweep of gross men. Oh, also fat girls. I’ve got fatties in abundance.
DBD: Indeed you do.
L8: So, yeah, balls to the wall. What are you going to do?
DBD: I think you used that wrong.
L8: Yep.
DBD: So what do you do now?
L8: I’m just gonna keep doing what I do.
DBD: Creeping out 20-somethings?
L8: Exactly. What are you doing later anyway. My kids are with their dads for the weekend.
DBD: Oh… things. I’ve got things. Right, so, I’m going to get going. It was real… interesting meeting you.
L8: All right, whatever floats your pickle. Go ahead and call my pager if you’re not doing anything later.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tyler: Back The Fuck Off Me
Check this shit out. Josh Rea (Is Gea) drew this logo thing. Be jealous.
Alright, so (really I doubt anyone has noticed) I haven't posted a story, a real live story here in a while but, look, I got my reasons. Mostly, the reason I haven't finished a story is because I've been writing more than I am currently able to finish. I'm on chapter 11 of me and Roger's book. I've got two other concept book I've started and come back to here and there. I've got a collection of short stories I hope to make into an actual collection of short stories. There's maybe three finished but at least ten started. Beyond fiction writing, I'm doing more consistent writing for CMH which is a little cool. Also, the Death By Dragonry zine just needs more material if we're going to do more than one issue. I may not be considered the greatest writer but goddamn if I'm not a prolific fucker. Maybe someday I'll finish something.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Tyler: Write Write Write
Couple things here then a paragraph from a story.
Firstly, the Death By Dragonry zine is very close to completion and, actually this just crossed my mind. I have no idea what we're going to do with it once it's done. I mean, I imagine we'll put it places, it's obviously free, I have no idea where. I have no idea about any kind of distribution. 100% clueless. Wonderful.
Moving on, CMH just contacted me and wants me to do more things which is weird because about a week ago they wanted me to do just about nothing. Don't quite know how I feel about it. Hmm.
Ok, so, this is a short story (I mean, real short though. The entire thing is under 400 words) mostly about my ineptitude with women but more specifically how it takes me mere seconds to fall for a girl. Sadly, this part is completely true and still relatively painful to think about. I'm just going to post a portion of it though in hopes that I can actually get something published someday. Huzzah.
I’ve always had a problem with falling in love with girls. Any girl. Often for little reason at all. For two years in high school, as a scared young man desperate for some kind of female attention, I feigned an undying love for Oasis because some girl liked them. I cannot even say for sure that she had any interest in me whatsoever but I was almost positive that if I talked to her about the drunken fucking brothers Gallagher long enough she would eventually fall head over heels for me. It didn’t work out, which is one thing, but now there is a girl, name withheld, currently residing in the Greater Columbus Area that actually thinks ‘Wonderwall’ is my favorite, all-time, number one song. Just to know that she’s out there is embarrassing as shit.
Firstly, the Death By Dragonry zine is very close to completion and, actually this just crossed my mind. I have no idea what we're going to do with it once it's done. I mean, I imagine we'll put it places, it's obviously free, I have no idea where. I have no idea about any kind of distribution. 100% clueless. Wonderful.
Moving on, CMH just contacted me and wants me to do more things which is weird because about a week ago they wanted me to do just about nothing. Don't quite know how I feel about it. Hmm.
Ok, so, this is a short story (I mean, real short though. The entire thing is under 400 words) mostly about my ineptitude with women but more specifically how it takes me mere seconds to fall for a girl. Sadly, this part is completely true and still relatively painful to think about. I'm just going to post a portion of it though in hopes that I can actually get something published someday. Huzzah.
I’ve always had a problem with falling in love with girls. Any girl. Often for little reason at all. For two years in high school, as a scared young man desperate for some kind of female attention, I feigned an undying love for Oasis because some girl liked them. I cannot even say for sure that she had any interest in me whatsoever but I was almost positive that if I talked to her about the drunken fucking brothers Gallagher long enough she would eventually fall head over heels for me. It didn’t work out, which is one thing, but now there is a girl, name withheld, currently residing in the Greater Columbus Area that actually thinks ‘Wonderwall’ is my favorite, all-time, number one song. Just to know that she’s out there is embarrassing as shit.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Roger - Amanda Propaganda
Things that need to be addressed before this post:
1) I understand that there is some one in Columbus that shares the title character's name, Amanda Propaganda. That is unfortunate, but I promise I have never met her.
2) I haven't posted for quite sometime. I have found the blog problematic in that it is not possible to edit shit like I would like. So there are things on here that I have since realized are complete garbage. For that I am sorry.
3) Enjoy!
“What’s your book about?”
I looked at the broad with confusion. Who are these people that ask questions of men with headphones on? I marked my page with an ancient, laminated bookmark and slid it across the table to her. She turned it over and read the back cover
“Sounds interesting.”
“It gets me through class alright.”
“I’ve noticed. So has probably everyone else in the class.” She was right. There were only seven students in the class. I’m sure it was awkward for them; all trying to critique my work as I burn through novel after novel. Fuck ‘em, I say. They had made it clear they weren’t interested in anything I had to say.
“It’s too angry.”
“I don’t really know the characters.”
“Maybe it’s just too abstract for me.”
Bollocks. All of it. Anyway, the professor was too scared to say anything to me due to a certain inappropriate habit of hers that I had fueled once or twice prior.
I noticed the inquisitive young lady and I were the only ones left in the room and snatched my book up and started to leave.
“I really like your writing. I don’t think most people catch the allusions.” She was right. Recall something from anything but the bible and it goes over everyone’s head.
“Whatever. It’s all just lazy.
“What is?”
“Allusions. I just pop open some dumbed down book of mythology and pick a fucking story. Then put it into some semi-relevant modern circumstance and there ya go. It’s just lazy.”
She either wasn’t following or disagreed. We walked out of the room. I held the door for her but didn’t look at her just. That way she wouldn’t think I was trying for anything (which I wasn’t). It probably didn’t work.
“You done for the day?” Nope, definitely didn’t work.
“Nah. Gotta walk straight to work.”
“Which is?” She wasn’t exactly smiling anymore. I saw this as an issue. Like she was trying to match my apathy or something. She wouldn’t last. I wouldn’t let it.
“Plasma bank. Couple times a week. Gotta change my name each time though. But, fuck it you only have to pay state taxes.” She laughed. I win. “Nah, I work at Hound Dogs.”
“No shit? I love that stuff man! Best pizza in Columbus. Hands down.” She kinda jumped up and down when she said it. If she had had tits they would have bounced. Alas—“What do you do there?”
And here is how you slowly sabotage a good thing at its earliest point. Right at that point of beginning where things will still move forward, but will inevitably fail because of this one, singular moment. Like some kind of fuck up clutch.
“Bartender. Next door. At the bar. There’s one next to it.” I was stammering. It happened without me thinking. What purpose did I have to lie? Fuck her if she thinks less of me for being a pizza cook. Money’s tight, had to pick the job up. She was clearly into me, why fucking lie? Who in the fuck was I lying for?
“You mean Ravari? Dude, I’m in there all the time. How come I haven’t seen you? Wait a minute? Do you do karaoke?” Yes! God change the subject! “Hol-y shit. You’re the guy who sings Erykah Badu!”
“Indeed I am.”
“Man you are something else. You got some balls for a white guy to sing songs by strong black woman.” For some reason it always stings a bit when someone reminds me that I’m white. Like I’m not hiding it enough. I’m not being cross cultural enough or something. It really bothers me. Eli recorded me rapping once. He said it sounded good, but I thought I was just so fucking white. He said it just made it funnier. Fuck that. He didn’t have as much of a need to be legit as I. “Fuck, you did Chaka Khan once!”
“Shit, I’m just glad I made an impression.”
“Well listen, I got some shit I gotta go do, but maybe I’ll stop by for a drink a little later on.” If I wasn’t so worried about how I was going to become a bartender in the next few hours I would have asked her what shit was being done or what she drank or all kinds of other great, stimulating questions. Instead…
“Word.”
“Right. Well, later?”
The problem with making pizzas is it’s a messy business. Making hundreds of pizzas a night requires a lot of people and even more ingredients. One must have sauces and toppings and dough. Oh, God! The fucking dough! Every shift just flour in places only your mother and that stripper you dated once have ever seen. Eventually the flour forms cake with the sweat caused somewhat by the five hundred degree oven and somewhat by the anxiety of attempting to not be the slowest kink in the machine. And today was just like any other day. A thin layer of cake on my arms and face. A slight buzz from the case of beer we found in the cooler (I think it was Blind Larry’s). Just the same old shit.
But, I need it to not be. I was trying not to blow anything out of proportion; she’s just another girl. I barely even remember anything about her from before today. Is it just the lie that made me so pressed for it to go right? Things haven’t been good for so long, why would I need it to change just then?
As I was cleaning up and getting ready for the boss man to let me get out of there, I decided to just to run home, tail firmly placed betwixt my legs. I figured either she would miss me and she’d chalk it up, or she wouldn’t show up at all. Maybe I was just confused over the whole thing. I had simply just over analyzed the whole fucking situation.
“Hey, Mr. Jude! Some lady’s askin’ for you at the bar,” said Crash. He was a good bartender, but he was as silly as his name implies.
“Thanks Crash.”
“I told her they needed you in the back. Figured you could use the time to clean up. Told her your bartending shift ended half hour ago.” That beautiful bastard! The second you think these aging alcoholic punks have nothing for you, they hand you a gift like this.
“Shit, thanks, man.” I hadn’t the words.
“Just doin’ what I can, Mr. Jude.” He smiled at me. Not mockingly, nor cynically. But like a man who had just battled through years of memories of booze and dope just to remember what chasin’ skirts was all about: disguising one’s true self.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. They had taken out the light bulb after they found a few too many dirty syringes (like darkness would ever stop a morphine addict). I ran to my car (checking to see if she was outside or not first) and found a decently fashionable shirt in the trunk. This was just about as good as this situation would be.
She was sitting at the end of the bar, he back to the door. It’s a bad seat. Grandpa always told me to sit where you can see the door, that way you know where everyone in the bar is. I think I had forgotten what she looked like. She wore a black shirt, colorful half sleeve, and the best set of hips I’ve ever seen. I sat down next to her and she smiled without looking at me. I grabbed the short glass in front of her and smelled it. I threw a deuce in the air which Crash picked up right away.
“Fuck’s your name anyway?”
Crash set down two shots of Old Grand Dad’s and two Pabst’s. We toasted and threw ‘em back.
“Amanda. They call me Amanda Propaganda.”
1) I understand that there is some one in Columbus that shares the title character's name, Amanda Propaganda. That is unfortunate, but I promise I have never met her.
2) I haven't posted for quite sometime. I have found the blog problematic in that it is not possible to edit shit like I would like. So there are things on here that I have since realized are complete garbage. For that I am sorry.
3) Enjoy!
“What’s your book about?”
I looked at the broad with confusion. Who are these people that ask questions of men with headphones on? I marked my page with an ancient, laminated bookmark and slid it across the table to her. She turned it over and read the back cover
“Sounds interesting.”
“It gets me through class alright.”
“I’ve noticed. So has probably everyone else in the class.” She was right. There were only seven students in the class. I’m sure it was awkward for them; all trying to critique my work as I burn through novel after novel. Fuck ‘em, I say. They had made it clear they weren’t interested in anything I had to say.
“It’s too angry.”
“I don’t really know the characters.”
“Maybe it’s just too abstract for me.”
Bollocks. All of it. Anyway, the professor was too scared to say anything to me due to a certain inappropriate habit of hers that I had fueled once or twice prior.
I noticed the inquisitive young lady and I were the only ones left in the room and snatched my book up and started to leave.
“I really like your writing. I don’t think most people catch the allusions.” She was right. Recall something from anything but the bible and it goes over everyone’s head.
“Whatever. It’s all just lazy.
“What is?”
“Allusions. I just pop open some dumbed down book of mythology and pick a fucking story. Then put it into some semi-relevant modern circumstance and there ya go. It’s just lazy.”
She either wasn’t following or disagreed. We walked out of the room. I held the door for her but didn’t look at her just. That way she wouldn’t think I was trying for anything (which I wasn’t). It probably didn’t work.
“You done for the day?” Nope, definitely didn’t work.
“Nah. Gotta walk straight to work.”
“Which is?” She wasn’t exactly smiling anymore. I saw this as an issue. Like she was trying to match my apathy or something. She wouldn’t last. I wouldn’t let it.
“Plasma bank. Couple times a week. Gotta change my name each time though. But, fuck it you only have to pay state taxes.” She laughed. I win. “Nah, I work at Hound Dogs.”
“No shit? I love that stuff man! Best pizza in Columbus. Hands down.” She kinda jumped up and down when she said it. If she had had tits they would have bounced. Alas—“What do you do there?”
And here is how you slowly sabotage a good thing at its earliest point. Right at that point of beginning where things will still move forward, but will inevitably fail because of this one, singular moment. Like some kind of fuck up clutch.
“Bartender. Next door. At the bar. There’s one next to it.” I was stammering. It happened without me thinking. What purpose did I have to lie? Fuck her if she thinks less of me for being a pizza cook. Money’s tight, had to pick the job up. She was clearly into me, why fucking lie? Who in the fuck was I lying for?
“You mean Ravari? Dude, I’m in there all the time. How come I haven’t seen you? Wait a minute? Do you do karaoke?” Yes! God change the subject! “Hol-y shit. You’re the guy who sings Erykah Badu!”
“Indeed I am.”
“Man you are something else. You got some balls for a white guy to sing songs by strong black woman.” For some reason it always stings a bit when someone reminds me that I’m white. Like I’m not hiding it enough. I’m not being cross cultural enough or something. It really bothers me. Eli recorded me rapping once. He said it sounded good, but I thought I was just so fucking white. He said it just made it funnier. Fuck that. He didn’t have as much of a need to be legit as I. “Fuck, you did Chaka Khan once!”
“Shit, I’m just glad I made an impression.”
“Well listen, I got some shit I gotta go do, but maybe I’ll stop by for a drink a little later on.” If I wasn’t so worried about how I was going to become a bartender in the next few hours I would have asked her what shit was being done or what she drank or all kinds of other great, stimulating questions. Instead…
“Word.”
“Right. Well, later?”
The problem with making pizzas is it’s a messy business. Making hundreds of pizzas a night requires a lot of people and even more ingredients. One must have sauces and toppings and dough. Oh, God! The fucking dough! Every shift just flour in places only your mother and that stripper you dated once have ever seen. Eventually the flour forms cake with the sweat caused somewhat by the five hundred degree oven and somewhat by the anxiety of attempting to not be the slowest kink in the machine. And today was just like any other day. A thin layer of cake on my arms and face. A slight buzz from the case of beer we found in the cooler (I think it was Blind Larry’s). Just the same old shit.
But, I need it to not be. I was trying not to blow anything out of proportion; she’s just another girl. I barely even remember anything about her from before today. Is it just the lie that made me so pressed for it to go right? Things haven’t been good for so long, why would I need it to change just then?
As I was cleaning up and getting ready for the boss man to let me get out of there, I decided to just to run home, tail firmly placed betwixt my legs. I figured either she would miss me and she’d chalk it up, or she wouldn’t show up at all. Maybe I was just confused over the whole thing. I had simply just over analyzed the whole fucking situation.
“Hey, Mr. Jude! Some lady’s askin’ for you at the bar,” said Crash. He was a good bartender, but he was as silly as his name implies.
“Thanks Crash.”
“I told her they needed you in the back. Figured you could use the time to clean up. Told her your bartending shift ended half hour ago.” That beautiful bastard! The second you think these aging alcoholic punks have nothing for you, they hand you a gift like this.
“Shit, thanks, man.” I hadn’t the words.
“Just doin’ what I can, Mr. Jude.” He smiled at me. Not mockingly, nor cynically. But like a man who had just battled through years of memories of booze and dope just to remember what chasin’ skirts was all about: disguising one’s true self.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. They had taken out the light bulb after they found a few too many dirty syringes (like darkness would ever stop a morphine addict). I ran to my car (checking to see if she was outside or not first) and found a decently fashionable shirt in the trunk. This was just about as good as this situation would be.
She was sitting at the end of the bar, he back to the door. It’s a bad seat. Grandpa always told me to sit where you can see the door, that way you know where everyone in the bar is. I think I had forgotten what she looked like. She wore a black shirt, colorful half sleeve, and the best set of hips I’ve ever seen. I sat down next to her and she smiled without looking at me. I grabbed the short glass in front of her and smelled it. I threw a deuce in the air which Crash picked up right away.
“Fuck’s your name anyway?”
Crash set down two shots of Old Grand Dad’s and two Pabst’s. We toasted and threw ‘em back.
“Amanda. They call me Amanda Propaganda.”
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