It’s a shame how it always ends up with a walk away.
I had been doing okay. Minding my own business. At least as much as the demons, and the state of a bank account skinnier than a tweaked out meth-head squatting on a ham sandwich behind a Q.D. dumpster, would allow.
Overall, I was doing… better. Piss bottle collection was under control. And briefly listed on Neighbor Net. For a city in which I’ve never actually lived. At least until they yanked the ad–”Guaranteed to help you fail your drug test! Paternity hormones extra. Local pick-up only.”
The horrible smell in the bathroom was finally traced to the worn out silicone sex toy under the sink. The one with what appeared to be the moldy remains of a chili dog flapping out the hole.
Still not exactly sure how *that* happened.
But rent was paid for the month. With a mixture of checks, cash, and hoarded quarters. Sadly, the Panda Express gift card was declined.
Overall, a solid 2/10 of adulting.
Managed to sell a story under the pseudonym to my pseudonym—can’t allow the commissioned scatalogical dalliances of warring factions of gender neutral Oompa Loompas to interfere with the pursuit of more palatable prose.
I’ve never been one to kink shame. But receiving that request briefly made me question the current state of humanity. I mean I’ve certainly manipulated my wedding vegetable to some pretty weird shit. But never once anything having to do with Oompa Loompas. And just try looking at yourself in the mirror after spending seven hours trying to make *that* sexy.
I sold my perverted soul for 20 cents a word—weirdest writing ever. But sometimes, you just have to push through. Purely for artistic integrity.
With some get-go in my Venmo, I buggered off to the local to secure a handle of fun. And a treat in the form of a proper pack of smokes. A welcome break from the hand-rolled abortions I had been smoking. The ones burning at the same unpredictable rate as an uncontrolled 70s Playboy bush fire.
They were so lovely, all my bottom shelf besties. And I actually debated a minute if I wanted to try the Canadian version of my usual choice. Maybe the bad decisions would be more stereotypically polite. Although I suspect that the only truly Canadian aspect of the bottle was the word printed on the label.
Sticking to the tried and true Irish, I grabbed my familiar friend and stood quickly, riding the rush as the blood pumped sludge back into my brain. Once the static cleared, I turned to leave.
And there she was.
Her black hair was a tangled mess. It jutted out chaotically from beneath a knitted slouch and highlighted pale skin. Thin, anemic hands shook delicately in a manner that made me want to marry her. An oversized jacket hid the slight frame of her body. But legging’d legs, almost concentration camp thin—and yes, I hate myself for having just written that—poked out of a short skirt and stretched down to clunky combat boots.
Even several bottles away, I could smell the daddy issues.
She was browsing the cheap vodka; I was checking her out. I don’t know if she heard me, or smelled me. But bloodshot eyes met under the fluorescents.
Her scowl projected displeasure at feeling judged. At least until I sheepishly displayed my own selection in an 80 proof version of “I’ll show you mine first.”
The second she connected the dots between the hand holding aloft its bottled bad decisions and the absolute disaster of a human trying like an idiot to smile through misinterpreted social cues, we clicked.
Small talk in a queue of small people discussing small crimes. At least until it was her turn to ring out.
She retrieved some frumpy bills from inside her bra–I had to fight the urge to sniff them. For some reason, I was curious just how boobily they smelled. As she flipped the dollars out, it was apparent she was going to be short.
“No worries. I got ya.”
We danced the routine of the checkout and shuffled out the door. Since she lived closer, and the weather was damp, we decided to go to hers to drink our warmth. And to get to know one another a little better. Which at the time, I didn’t anticipate would involve anything other than getting fucked up.
For once, it was nice to not be alone.
She unlocked the front door and kicked it in with the tip of her boot. I was immediately blasted with the combating aromas of stale smoke, patchouli incense left burning, and cat piss. If I were to bottle it to sell at the trendy farmer’s market, I would have labeled the scent “Hippie Chick.”
Coats were stripped. Boots kicked off. She motioned to the couch for me to sit and I politely obeyed her gestures.
She disappeared into what I assume was the kitchen and returned with two mugs and a pre-rolled hanging from thin lips.
The smoke curled up into her eyes as she walked, making her squint.
I poured a healthy splash into the stained and chipped M.S.U. mug I was given and offered my thanks. She glugged some vodka into the other mug, her head cocked to the side to combat the smoke stinging her eyes.
She inhaled deeply. Then swapped the pre-rolled out for several swallows of hairspray booze.
Exhaling a large cloud of smoke in my direction, she thanked me for covering her at the store. Not sure how to respond, and still sober enough to be somewhat of a gentleman, I replied that it was my pleasure. There might not always be honour amongst hoodrats. But there usually is a little to be found between addicts.
A slight smile crossed her lips. She fiddled to pair her phone with a Bluetooth speaker I couldn’t see. I could see that the screen of her phone was cracked, the same as mine.
Were we a perfect match? Was this what destiny is supposed to smell like? Where the fuck was the cat?
I didn’t have time to answer my own questions before she took another deep hit while walking over to stand in front of me. Bypassing the convention of simply passing it, she pressed it against my lips. And, since my momma raised me to be polite, I did not protest.
Hands undoing my belt caused me to cough more than the inhale. I stupidly asked her what she was doing. And I hated that I sounded like a lazily written line, straight out of some cheesy sitcom.
As she struggled to free my “Daddy Issue Detector” from unwashed boxers, she said that she wanted to show her appreciation. Apparently it had been forever since anyone had been kind to her.
I was in no condition to argue. But I did give fair warning that it might take some effort. She smiled as she struggled with my belt and said that she liked a challenge. Everything would be fine as long as we finished before her husband got home.
*insert cartoon brake screeching sound here*
“You’re married?” I asked, stupidly, much to my throbbing co-conspirator’s chagrin.
I may be a lot of things. Terminally stubborn. A wordy fuck with biting sarcasm; a tin can kicking Michigan State boozer. One willing to do most anything for the sake of a good story. But like that oversized loaf of meat, I won’t do that.
Not again; not after…her.
She struggled to retain her grip; I gently pushed her away.
I didn’t even bother trying to finish my drink.
It was time to bail.
She immediately began insulting me. Nasty things were said about my appendage; mean things yelled about my appearance. She even made fun of my boxers.
Once my boots were on, I grabbed my bottle and headed towards the door. As my hand reached for the surprisingly sticky door knob, I felt the impact of a mug against my back. Undrunk vodka ran down my jacket and soaked the back of my jeans.
Another soldier sacrificed in the war of my own stupidity.
It was an uncomfortable walk back to my rented hovel; it was just another night of running feral on the dirty Boulevard. That depressing strip of broken asphalt where the traffic runs fast. And where the dreams all drift someday to die, slow.
More often than not, doing the right thing means you end up spending the night questioning the decisions that landed you there. Alone. Sometimes with nothing but the phantom scent of cat piss and rough drafts of Oompa Loompa porn for company.
Oompa loompa doompa-dee-dee.
If you are wise, you’ll never love me.
