On the fourth night, the Mexicans found me.
I was asleep in the back seat when I awoke to a knocking on my window. I saw two beaners staring at me with their beady eyes and the barrel of a gun pressed against the glass.
“Get out or get shot,” one of them said.
I listened and got out of the car as instructed. I sat on the curb, and watched their tattooed bodies ransack my car. They took what was left of my diluted cash. As they drove off with my newly found freedom car and my savings, I felt helpless. I made it too easy for them to take advantage of me. Why didn’t I fight? A teenage boy sleeping in his car in an abandoned parking lot—that’s too simple. I was ashamed that I let this happen to me. I wanted so hard to try to be an adult and take care of myself, and I failed miserably. I walked back to my home that evening and faced my foster father. I knew he would be pissed.
He never once scolded me. He never once lectured me. He never once made me feel like the dirt I already was. He saw in my face that I learned my lesson. He warmed me up a plate of pizza rolls and we watched TV like nothing had happened. He was a decent guy after all. It was after that situation that I realized I couldn’t let myself be homeless ever again. I wouldn’t survive, plain and simple.
I hear sirens down the street, which steals my attention. They get closer. I walk over to the window and peer into the darkness. I glance down at the street below and see an ambulance pulled up to the front door of my apartment building. I watch as the EMTs unload a gurney and enter into the building.
I look up at the dim sky. There are no stars tonight; just the vague glimmer of the full moon lighting the choppy clouds. It reminds me of one of those Halloween nights, spooky but pleasantly intoxicating.
I hear people outside my door talking and knocking. I check the door peep and see the EMS personnel crowded around. They are trying to get into the apartment next to mine. I’ve never met the people who live there, but I can sometimes hear a girl crying at night. If I were to guess, her bedroom wall is adjacent to my living room wall. I like to turn my TV up loud in the hope that she will understand how thin these walls are. I’m sure she doesn’t want the people next door to hear her sobbing.
A while later I hear them leave and head down the hall. I’m back at the window looking down, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery woman before she is loaded into the back of the ambulance, but it’s no use. I’m too high up too see anything concrete.
I find myself hoping she is okay, she obviously has got enough happening in her life right now.
I go through my DVD collection and pick out the movies I advertised to sell on Craigslist. I’ve always prided myself on my enviable movie collection, and for many years I swore I would never sell any of them. Times are tough right now and I don’t have much of anything in this apartment worth any money, so I will have to part with some of them. If I can get $50 for ten DVDs, I will be happy. We will see if anyone bites. I plan to try and watch as many of them as I can before I start selling them off. I guess it’s my way of enjoying them one last time.
I get a robust craving for a cigarette. The need has been getting worse lately—perhaps since I gave into temptation and smoked one with Paul the other night. I had to quit smoking to save money. I could really use one right now, though. My mind wanders to the half-pack of Newports I’ve hidden above the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I’ve reserved them for emergencies only. Screw it. I can’t sleep anyway, so might as well get some air. I throw on my slacks and a hoodie and head downstairs. I take a spot on the curb and watch the traffic.
I find it comical when I come to the realization that most of the traffic on this street are horny old guys. There are a lot of hookers that hang around this area, which, in turn, brings a load of traffic constantly coming and going at all hours of the day and night. The bar down the street is notorious for pickups. Sometimes I supervise the women through my apartment window. I watch them pace up and down the sidewalks, looking for their next meal. I’ve been playing with the idea of trying one on some day. I want to so bad, but I just don’t have the funds for that habit. So, for now I just use my imagination. I do have my eye on a couple of them who frequent these parts; they would be my first choice. I’ve heard stories that some of them will pull a knife on you and rob you blind if you’re not careful. That might be enough to turn me on.
I finish my smoke only to light another. One of the girls that I commonly see during the evening hours lives on the first floor of my building. I see her exit the door beside me, dressed to impress. She must be working tonight. She turns in my direction and heads toward me. I listen as her heels click closer to my back.
“Hey, you looking to hang?” She brushes her hand across my hair. Her voice is soft and teasing. I glance up toward her and answer.
“Yes, but no,” I say with longing in my voice.
It’s been weeks since I’ve got laid and every piece of me wants her. She smiles and continues walking down the sidewalk. I can’t help but watch as her ass jiggles in an obvious way. On to her next victim, I suppose. I decide I like her, and add her to my list of possibilities.
Blame
A dangerous game we play.
Accuse whom you must, but who is the real culprit?
The reason we may never know.
Trust cannot be promised at this point.
How do you live with yourself?
Does it really even matter?
You must learn to deal.
Play it out.
Who does it really help? Not you, not me.
So how do I move on from here?
Who will be next?
An unpleasant source of the show.
Succumb to it, but why?
Turn your cheek, look away.
Believe the ghost, follow its path.
Numb the network.
Be someone new, it’s tempting.
Do something crazy with another in hand.
Maybe they can help and maybe not.
Anything might be better than nothing.
Take what you can until it doesn’t last.
Forget the moment until it comes back.
Until then, succumb.
Who’s your taker?
Mark
I wake up to shards of grass blocking my view. The smell of dirt is thick upon my nostrils. I lift my head, only to see everything on its side. I sit upright and feel the dampness on my pants. The fresh smell of morning air, as well as the morning dew, has infused my clothes. Birds are chirping heavily as the sun begs to make an appearance. I look behind me and see the entrance to my apartment building. How long was I out here? I pick myself up before becoming lightheaded and falling back to the ground. I take a moment to compose myself and slowly try to stand up again. I take 316 small steps to my apartment door, chug a bottle of water, and fall into bed.
The afternoon passes before I manage to open my eyes. I feel like a complete ass this morning. The stench that hits my senses is beyond rancid. I realize I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. I’ve managed to sweat out the toxins from the night before, leaving a putrid odor attached to my skin. My nose is mostly plugged and inflamed from the lines of coke. I think it’s safe to say that I certainly can’t party like I used to back in the old days. What was I thinking, doing coke from a guy I didn’t know? Not terribly bright on my end.
I clean myself up and throw on fresh clothes. I head down the block to a café that serves the best country fried steak and gravy. I order myself up a plate and a couple of brewskies. I notice they have the Tigers versus the Twins game on TV, so I plan to make an evening of it. I need a quiet mellow night after yesterday. I really don’t want to end up in the yard again. It was a bit embarrassing not knowing who saw me lying out there.
My couple of brewskies turns into countless drinks, and pretty soon the waitress brings to my attention that I am plastered and that she can no longer serve me alcohol. I guess I got a little too carried away yelling at the baseball game. The Tigers were playing li
ke ass—was I supposed to be happy about that? The waitress hands me my bill, and it’s almost $75. She charged me for ten Bud Lights. There’s no way I had ten bottles of beer. I begin to count the bottles sitting on the table next to me. Damn, she is right. Ten beers at $5.50 each plus $15 for my food and taxes. I guess $75 is accurate. I begrudgingly pay the lady and head out.
I’m eight blocks from home, so I hoof it. Halfway there, I feel the urge to talk to Barbie. I need to know that she is okay with what happened at mediation yesterday. I want to know that she is happy and that I am not giving up on her. Even though I know why, I need to know again the reason for ending everything we have. I know it’s a bad idea, but I do it anyway. I dial her number restricted so she doesn’t know it’s me.
“Hello?” she answers on the second ring.
“Hey Barbie.”
“What do you want, Marcus? Haven’t I been through enough lately?” I sense some exhaustion in her voice. Like she desperately needs some sleep and a foot rub.
“Barbie, how did this happen to u-us? Are we really going to follow this th-through? I don’t want to lose you. This was never my intention.”
“Marcus, are you drunk? Of course you are. That’s a stupid question, you’re always drunk. All the time you are drinking, and you don’t even bother to hide it anymore,” she barks into my ear.
“And why are you calling me restricted? I’m sick and tired of your games, Marcus.”
“Babe, please. I won’t give up on us. I’ll be a better husband, lover. I’ll get help. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. Please, let’s stop this now. Let me come home. It’s not too late to fix this.” I plead with her to say the word. The one word I’ve been longing for.
“I knew you were drunk the moment you stepped into the office yesterday. I could smell your liquor and mint stench a mile away. You are not fooling anyone, you need help Marcus. I cannot save you anymore. You have to save yourself now. You’re a drunk and a cheat and I refuse to let you bring me down anymore. Get out of my life.”
“Barbie, I’m sorry. Barbie? Babe?” She’s gone.
I thought about calling her back, but I know it would be no use. She would never answer another restricted call again in fear that it was me on the other line. How did she find out I cheated? I had no idea she knew about it. Does she have proof, or is she fishing for information? The truth of the matter is this: She is right. I am a drunk and a cheat. Would you believe me if I told you it wasn’t my fault? Didn’t think so. I like my liquor; there’s no shame in that. I don’t think I have a problem that needs to be fixed. Everyone has their thing, and mine happens to be in the form of drinks. I am successful and put together, so it really shouldn’t matter—just let me do my thing.
Now, cheating—a little harder to explain. I never considered myself a cheater until one day when I realized what I was doing was in fact cheating on my wife. It never felt like cheating to me—even if it was only a few times (maybe more, depending on what you consider cheating). I consider penetration, D in the V, as cheating. Other people might consider a kiss or a special touch as a deal breaker. There is no excuse for the things I did with this other woman. I love my wife very much like a man is supposed to love a wife. We went through something tragic and we struggled.
Barbie pulled away from me and from our life. She was depressed for a long time, and angry. She was angry at everyone and everything, especially me. She took out her frustrations on me, and I was weak. I was trying to cope with Jake’s death in my own way. I turned to alcohol without even realizing it. I started drinking one glass a night, which quickly escalated to two, then three, then mornings, then lunch breaks. Barbie made me feel like it was my fault Jake was dead. I know she didn’t mean for it to be like that; she was trying to grieve. I had all these feelings that I couldn’t deal with, so when a beautiful woman offers to buy me a coffee because I looked like I needed a coffee in my life, then yes, I was intrigued.
Yes, I needed someone to not blame me.
Yes, I needed someone to not hate me in my life.
Yes, I needed a distraction.
My distraction’s name is Lana and she is a very nice lady.
I dial Lana’s number. “Hey, can I see you tonight?” I’m relieved when she answers the phone.
“I was hoping to hear from you. Come over.” Her voice is cultivating—I can almost see her lips move when the words come into my ear.
The thing you need to understand about Lana is that she is my breath of fresh air. We have a sort of nonverbal understanding in our relationship that involves keeping a distance. When we are together, we talk about a lot of things, but we don’t talk about us. We don’t ask about the past or the present. We don’t talk about our lives and what is happening within. I don’t know her life story, where she works, about her family, or her last name. She doesn’t know that I’m married, that I’m divorcing, where I work, that I had a son. However, I can tell you a lot about her. She is kind, sexy, and has goals in her life. She is messy, likes Chinese takeout, and buys the good toilet paper. She is a decent cook and has an intelligent mannerism, so I believe she is educated. The two of us almost make it a game—who can be the most evasive in this conversation? It’s hot and it’s no strings attached.
When I enter her apartment, I gaze into those gray eyes. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been longing for those eyes until they are staring back at me. Time and time again, I can’t help but notice something in them. I almost get the sense that she has been broken, just like me. Last time we were together, I almost violated our game and asked her what was ailing her in life, but I decided not to. I didn’t want to mess up what we have built together. I know she likes what we have going as much as I do, and I’m not about to ruin a good thing for the both of us.
“Come on in. You look like shit, by the way. Long day?” She glances at me with a grin.
“I’ve seen better days to say the least.” I enter her apartment and plop down on the couch. She puts a cold beer in my hand.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I notice she is in her nighty so I glance at my watch—11:38 p.m. I didn’t realize I was at the café that long. At this hour I wonder if she thinks this is a booty call. That’s not what I intended, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if it turned out that way.
She looks sexy in her yellow silk nighty. It’s just long enough to cover her upper thighs, and I notice the material is thin and hugs the curve of her hips perfectly. My eyes rest on her chest. The yellow material is just light enough for me to see the outline of her large breasts. Then it dawns on me—she wore this nighty on purpose. She knows I can see enough of her sexiness in this attire for me to want to spend the night on top of her. Savage is what it is. She planned on taking advantage of me. That is so hot.
Barbie hasn’t made me feel wanted like this in a very long time. Perhaps that’s why I keep coming back to Lana. To fill that empty void I’ve longed for.
She stands directly in front of me. The grin on her face tells me she wants to play. She takes my hand and places it under her gown. No panties. Now I know she means business. She directs my hand until I feel the warmth of her body on my fingertips. As I gently coordinate my movements, her body relaxes and takes it in. She lowers her gown below her breasts. I stare up at her, then at her breasts; they look marvelous and oddly larger than they should be for her body type—could be implants, but doubtful. I reach for her breast with my free hand and synchronize my movements with her nipple.
The first time we were together, she told me that she loves it when men play with her breasts, so I make it a point to do that every time we are together. My fingers move inside her warmth and I feel the wetness within. I can feel the zipper of my jeans get tighter and tighter as my erection grows. It’s almost uncomfortable and I debate stopping to let it out for air. She reads my mind and removes my hand from under her gown. She places my fingertips on her lips and washes away her sweet smell with her mouth. She kneels down in front of me and unzips my j
eans. As she places me in her mouth, I feel that thing she does with her tongue ring. That thing that almost puts me over the edge.
I begin to wonder how many other guys she has done that thing to. Am I the first? The second? The twentieth? I caress her hair and remove it from her face while she continues to pleasure me. It feels
So.
Damned.
Good.
My mind drifts to Barbie; she used to suck me off when we first got together, and she was good at it, too. That didn’t last long, though. I think women give head in the beginning of a relationship just to attract a guy. Once it becomes a permanent thing, then boom, never again.
She does that thing again with her tongue one last time and I come. This time she wanted me in her mouth when I did. I was a little surprised. That’s a new one for me.
I like it.
Money
A useless piece of paper.
It makes you or breaks you in life.
A blatant piece of society that leaves you longing.
There is never enough, no matter how hard you work.
Your only hope is to find it crumpled in the street.
Killing yourself every day for that scent.
Power drips from its roots, calling your name.
Too far to grasp in the drive by.
A source of happiness often cloaked.
With enough, you might be able to live comfortably.
The higher your wants, the higher your bill.
Barely given, often stolen.
A cause for desperation, a leader of anguish.
Kept to build your bones, rarely your future.
The memories flood when the scent is inhaled.
Noisy encounters when fumbled within.
The feeling doesn’t last long.
Can you spare?
Adam
As I’m sitting here waiting for this Kris guy to show up, I glance around the apartment. I should probably clean up a little if I want this guy to like the place. I mosey about and pick up the trash that’s laying around. I straighten up the movies on the shelves and open the window. I never really noticed the odor in this place until recently. It’s bad. It has to be animal piss from the people that lived here before me. Fresh air from the window should help to mask the scent. I go into the bathroom and grab my body spray, making sure to spritz every corner of the room.
Tomorrow Page 6