It Was Four Days In All (Wife Number 2)
We married outdoors, high on a mountaintop before a humble Stupa in Red Feather. It was mid autumn, the Aspens vibrated with rustling hues of orange and red. Endless blue sky with random tufts of milky white clouds rolled over head, close enough to touch. The sacred path of meditation soothed with new banners of deep purple and green, a gift from the caretakers in our honor.
Two and half miles it ascended, gradually upward through the trees and hedgerows of bright yellow flowers, an aroma of sweet fall pine filled the air. Walking along side of me, one of my oldest friends and ordained Lutheran minister, Bryce, whom would soon conduct the ceremony. Waiting for me at the path’s end, the beautiful woman with deep brown eyes, long black hair and tender smile I was about to wed… and then the Honeymoon was over.
It was four days in all, holed up and cornered in the little spare room. A 2×4 keep the door affixed. A small crucifix on a leather strap loosened around my neck, a blue glass marble with a solid black iris wrapped around my wrist. One window typically looked out at the street, now draped with a thin purple silk bed-spread; a thin strip of dull yellow light seeping across the carpet from beneath the locked door and on the side, one ominous shadow pacing the hall accompanied by the endless hounding of antagonisms spewing from its owner. Occasionally the front door would open and the shadow would appear; a silhouette on the window drape from outside. And the noise, turned from vulgar audio mulch to the echoing destruction of a carpenter’s hammer breaking apart my chest-of-drawers and various other belongings of mine.
Toward the morning of the fourth day, much of my furniture smashed, most of my valuable shit removed, that is to say pilfered and carted away without my approval, I finally unlocked and opened the door and peaked my head around the corner, then again in the other direction down the hallway. Scattered around on the floor and in front of my bedroom door and in little piles around the house, lying on counter-tops in every room of the apartment were various voodoo charms and artifacts with little piles of strange herbs and roots. Witchcraft symbols and signs were scribbled and drawn with lipstick or sealing wax or whatever the substance may have been…on the kitchen linoleum, in the bathroom sink, on my entertainment center, on the outer side of my bedroom door… I left Colorado with a backpack full of nothing and forty dollars crumpled in my pocket on Greyhound bus headed for Texas a week later…
Are Y’all Coming or Not! (Wife Number 1, the Only One I wanted to Marry)
Now these two, God bless ’em, loved Smashing Pumpkins…loved them, mind you. And being respectable, square young lads of the Latter Day Saints with an intimate knowledge of our grand works, it was an honor and somewhat flattering that they wanted so badly for us to go with them. Mel and I had been living together for about a year at the time, notoriously, over at Rumbleweed apartments where one day her two brothers, Ben and Aaron, dropped by in a frenzy with two extra tickets. “You’re both coming with us to see them play the Ogden!” they said. We tried politely to decline; far from the top on our bucket list that summer (or that day,) but then hey, free tickets are free tickets….and they insisted.
We rode together in one van, the four of us. They up front sporting tidy whites and black slacks, us in back giggling and snarfing scooby snacks amidst a thick cloud. The show didn’t start till 9pm but we pulled into Ogden’s lot and parked just prior to high noon… “First in line!” they declared. Kids. Let’s see now, we had a lid to blaze and lines needing to be chopped (while no one was looking,) and, well, all damn day. So, Mel and I graciously, chivalrously even, offered to stay with the van until the theater opened its doors. Folks, I swear It wasn’t planned. Hell, it wasn’t even thought out, it just happened. We scalped those tickets for $600 not more than a half hour after we got out of the van. Yeah, I know…. real, real shitty thing to do. And we suffered for it.
She was joking, you see, when the guy asked us for tickets. After all, we couldn’t miss this show. It was their favorite band…they were waiting at the front of the line, they bought the tickets, they drove us there, they would be… devastated. They would never forgive us. Mel snickered “six bills,” and this guy breaks out the wallet quicker than shit. Something about, hell I don’t remember exactly but he was supposed to have two tickets for this show which had been sold out for months. Supposed to… It all happened so fast, even Quickdraw Mcgraw would have had nothing on this guy. I glanced at the six one-hundred dollar bills fanned out in his hand. I glanced at Mel who nodded approvingly. I made the exchange. And with five steps in the opposite direction this guy was around the corner. We looked at each other and shrank as our hearts sank into our feet. Without a word we bolted after him; five steps around the corner but, he had vanished.
We stopped frozen in panic. I’d never before (or since,) fallen so swiftly into sober. “Wtf are we going to do?” she asked me as the tears swelled in her eyes. Pray to God we find another scalper…i don’t remember if I said it aloud. As we walked back to the van we spotted Ben and then, he spotted us. All smiles, ear to ear, “this is going to be awesome!” he shouts. My wristwatch showed that it was two o’clock… The line at the front door steadily grew in both directions. I went one way and Mel went the other, each with $300. And every hour on the hour Ben popped up out of nowhere asking me when we would join them in line. It’s hard to keep saying “relax,” to someone when you’re freaked out, on the real. The plan, if you can call it that, was to meet back at the van at 8:30 or find the other as soon as one of us got tickets. Yeah, real hard.
It was 8:45 pm and I hadn’t gone back to the van, I couldn’t. Not yet. Worse still, Mel hadn’t come to find me with two tickets in her hand. No, she came to find me with Ben clutching her arm, dragging her towards me. “Are you coming or not!” he demanded. Of course, I said, but I have to grab a jay from the van real quick…you two go ahead, I’m right behind you. Mel slipped the $300 to me as Ben dragged her off. I shuffled off the other way…. …to the van, and I grabbed that joint….and then I smoked that mofo right there on the curb by myself as the sun set, right down to the end. I flicked the roach away and slowly began the walk of shame towards the others. I felt about two feet tall. I could see them up ahead, across the street. I watched as the front doors opened, watched as Mel looked around for me in fear. And as I started to cross the road I spotted off to my right… that guy!
Holy shit! There he was and he was about to sell those two tickets to a couple of high school kids! In leaps and bounds I went, five feet between us just as he was reaching for their cash. I shouted “wait!” but no sound escaped me. Suddenly he looked over at me and grinned a grin, a big Cheshire cat grin, and without looking back at those kids he said to them “sorry, but there sold already.” He handed me the tickets and I handed him the cash. You should have seen Mel’s face when I walked up and handed to her her ticket.
Crackhead Mel, written by Brett Schrieber and Zacharay Ian Freeman one year before her and I met:
Hello, my name is Mel
I’m a rich girl raver…
I got a cushy job
workin’ for my dad..
And I make 900…
million dollars every hour
And I spend it all
On CRACK!
I’m a crack addict, ah yeah!
Hello, my name is Mel
I smoke lots of pot…
And I trip
Every chance I get…
My main choice of drug
It’s ecstasy… but I’ll do anything
That you put in front of me, cause….
I’m a crack addict, ah yeah!
Hello, my name is Mel
I’m a two week tweeker…
I’ve got a lazy boyfriend…
he doesn’t have a job,
he just sits around on his ass all day…
plays his guitar…
and does all my drugs…
I’m a crack addict, ah yeah!
Mizz Jackson (Ginger, the Hooker I was Smart Enough Not to Marry)
To put it delicately, Ginger turns tricks…lots o’ tricks. In fact Ginger turns tricks with such proficiency as to afford her a plush 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment a mere two blocks from campus; prime real-estate on which our sweet Ginger zealously peddles her wares. Rumor has it that for a sticky, undisclosed amount of trust fund money or a sizable bag of criddle, Ginger will accommodate almost any debauched request. Slip her an extra hundo and she’ll slip a finger in your ass and demand that you spit on her, or at least that’s what the graffiti scribbled frantically on the men’s room wall proclaims. I’d wager 10 to 5 that she’d be pleased with the free advertising placed ideally next to the condom dispenser. Another 10 says she scrawled it herself; a shameless self promotion (I recognize her handwriting.)
Alas, sweet Ginger, I know her well…. well, not really. But before you brandish your pious judgement let me assure you that I be neither pimp nor john. She enjoys my naivete far too much to charge a fee for services rendered…i suppose. And while she never openly speaks of her trade in my presence, she doesn’t need to. I’ve internally reconciled my indifference to this open secret. I suppose again that I spare her feelings by not drawing attention to it. No, but no, that’s untrue, I simply understand that to protest would only see a swift end to a marginally “good” thing and besides, who is a burned out dope-head to lift his nose at a squalored camp girl?
Ginger; it’s Not Her Name, It’s Her Dub …as in, “I Dub Thee, Ginger.” But she’s a real person and I use that term, “person,” most graciously in this context. But rest assured she’s actually a crook, and informant for the Ft. Collins Drug Task Force, and informant in Chicago for whatever police gang programs which that’s state’s inner circles profit from and she got hired as a Larimer County Human Services Case Worker working, officially, during 2014/2015 after having been arrested in Texas (the No Tolerance State,) in 2007 for her crime of stealing a truck and spending at least a full week in jail pending her questionable release for that singular crime of GTA…in Texas…where they’d prosecute any medically documented retard for unintentionally pocketing a pack of bazooka-joe bubblegum….and she is still lurking and prowling our neighborhoods and streets.
Yes, from sex peddling to national informant whom transcends jurisdiction lines, Ginger’s her title and tainted, her tale (tail.) And if I may express myself in a manner to which I am accustomed (crude as all hell,) I loathe the bimbo more today than I did the last time I hate-fucked her… and y’all wonder why I’m still single?
She’s Far From the First
A thousand miles…a thousand miles and some twenty-five years that’s how far she is from the first woman I ever pissed off or disappointed. Far enough that I won’t lose any sleep over it, but still. We’d hung out few times sure, passed the bitch around once or twice, yeah. She knew to keep it at 10 & 2 without any instruction from me so I figured she’d been at least to the end of the block if not all the way around it. All well and good, I harbored no dubious intent nor ulterior motive. I simply wanted to enjoy the company of a chill female from across the room. And the conversations deepened as conversations do.
Let’s be clear on one thing; I’ve never turned anyone onto anything stronger than Pink Floyd nor do I promote or encourage the pernicious self destruction of others. What Ole Ben Kanobi never told Luke was that once you take that first step into a larger world there’s no taking it back. And once you’ve graduated to train-spotting it’s a much larger, darker world indeed. But that’s where she led the conversation with subtle hints and curiosity. “Can you show me how?” she asked. Well, I do love answering questions with questions but there was a point I wanted her to see, a bigger picture.
“I like you,” I confessed, “so let me ask you a few questions first… do you have family and friends that you love?” “Yes,” she said. “What about goals and plans for the future; do you see yourself somewhere better than here five, ten, fifteen years from now?” “Absolutely!” she replied. “What about your hobbies and interests, you are passionate about these things, right?” “Obviously, look around my living room,” she said. “Do you respect yourself, have you a moral code?” “Yes, of course I do,” she said. “So there are lines you are unwilling to cross?” I continued? “That’s right,” she told me.
Well, I explained, you can kiss all that shit goodbye as you flush it… all of it, down the toilet because that is exactly what you will do if you ever take that first blast. Your friends; fuck ‘em. Your family; fuck ‘em. Your goals; fuck ‘em. Your talents; fuck ‘em. Your morals; fuck em. “But I thought you said it was amazing,” she protested. So I did, I acknowledged but had I realized and understood how distant I’d become from everything and everyone I’ve ever cared about before my first time there would not have been a first time. “So you won’t do it with me?” she asked. No, I won’t, nor will I help you to start either. And that was when she called me an “asshole,” and told me to leave. So I left. Asshole, I get that a lot. Seems to me a real asshole would have given her what she wanted and then given her something else, if you catch my meaning. But as I was saying, I won’t lose any sleep over it.
Rise and Shine
March 1, 2023. I wake to a loud knock… the meat thermometer I keep next to the half empty bottle of Coyote Gold reads -10 degrees below zero. I blow a half frozen snot ball from one nostril and snort a half gram sherd crushed up with half a Percocet blue up the other one.
I jump to my feet, take a deep swig from the bottle of tequila and kick the space heater back on with a bare foot…. piece of shit. I throw on my cleanest dirty shirt and fumble my way to the front door. She’s standing there; a lit Kool Filter King clinging to her lips, a shit eating grin draped upon her face. “You look like hell,” she says and blows a smoke ring in my face. I inhale it through the nose and retort, “Really, cuz I feel like shit.”
Hell yeah, she had sex appeal. Thin body with a plump butt, pretty smile that stretched from ear to ear, high cheek bones with dark brown skin and solid black hair, and her pulling a bag of grass from her bra well yeah, I thought we’d get along swimmingly but… but we don’t think with our peckers contrary to belief. And we don’t like surprises. So imagine my surprise when she started dropping terms like “them,” and “they.”
We don’t like mind games either which is why we try and always speak the truth and sure, it doesnt make us very popular but it does keep things nice and simple. We also pay close attention… at least to those details we deem “important.” And which details might those be? Well, any detail pertaining to matters of the soul and I suppose any detail that contradicts accepted reality, uh, as we recognize it.
To put it simple she was by herself… but she wasn’t alone.
“Waseechu!” She Called Me
Summer, 2010. Pawnee National Grasslands, Colorado. “Get away from me, you’re killing me!” I barked at her as she drove alongside me, sleazily oozing with concern like a mother with Munchhausen syndrome. The words were gargled throatily as I tried not to choke up more of my own blood, I’d been coughing up handfuls of it since sunrise. Not wispy spittle, no, but rather thick globules of it; coagulated. From repeatedly wiping my hands and mouth with my Hilo-Hatties button front Hawaiian shirt it looked like a prop garb from a slasher film, saturated and horrifying. In full appearance i presented victim number three in any B-rated shark attack film. Last thing I needed was a cigarette but, no wait… wait, that was exactly what I needed and i ruined two with the shakes fumbling at the pack of Reds and then laughed aloud at the irony; it was the lucky which remained. As I wrestled it from the box it became blood-stained from my fingers… and to think the night had started off fun.
It had been a long drive eastward to the grasslands with my hand on her thigh and her’s on my junk; booze, speed, myself and one plump Arapaho Indian with thick hips and perky tits. The bonfire clawed skyward, a’crackle and pops to accompany the mechanical buzz of summer. We’d been scroggin like a couple of sweaty heathens beneath a full moon for a few hours before things started getting weird and yeah, it started off being more fun than watching two dogs with their hind legs tied together. It was more fun than you could shake a stick at… it was an all round good ole time till I realized that there in the darkness we were no longer alone…
Gathering silently round the fire and soon circling all around us were silhouettes in the darkness and as their numbers grew what was at first a barely audible whisper above the distant cicadas was gradually becoming a polyphonic symphony of unrecognizable voices speaking words in a language I couldn’t understand. Dope heads call them shadow monsters, doctors call them hypnagogic hallucinations… but any psychologist or anthropologist worth his salt knows they’re metaphysical and for the record, they can’t commit you to the psych-ward for encountering them.
My attention to them became focused as a laser beam when the pudgy squaw riding me started talking past me, to them. I realized that what I’d been hearing in the back of my mind was actually her native tongue and that was all it took for me to shove her off and call it a night. I threw on my shorts and Hawaiian shirt and was half way up the road when she pulled up alongside me in her jeep wrangler, oozing with concern. Being a diplomat I casually disinclined her offer of a ride home… safer walking I’d politely explained and after a few minutes of soft rebuttals she suddenly changed her demeanor and her true colors came shining through.
“Wasichu…” she called after me, followed by a string of other words I can’t recall and that’s when I coughed up the first handful of blood. And she followed beside me for almost an hour swinging wildly from perturbed lover to antagonistic heckler and every time she switched from English to her own tongue I uncontrollably hacked up a fistful of congealed blood. “Please get away from me!” I pleaded as I continued on, raising my palms for her to see what I was experiencing at which she’d fall back into caring benevolence. But after several refusals to climb into her jeep it was right back to, “Wasichu….”
Fully aware that it would take me two or three days to walk back to civilization, and considering this sorceress wasn’t going to drive off, I stopped… pulled the cig tucked behind my ear and lit it. I turned my head away from her so she couldn’t catch what I was whispering under my breath, “She’s evil, right?” I asked myself and then responded, “Oh yeah, she’s evil!” I turned back to her in disgust and resolution, “If you’re truly my friend and you actually care about me them you’ll take me straight to Mountain Crest if I get in?” After assuring me that she would, I hopped in her jeep. Not a word was spoken over the next hour back to Fort Fun.
Covered in blood, fumbling to roll a joint from the bag of shwiggidy in my backpack, neither of us spoke a word. But she had a big fat satisfied grin on her face the entire way and we pulled into the parking lot of the Mountain Crest Mental Health facility about twenty minutes before they opened for buisness. The chubby squaw got out of the jeep and waddled her pudgy ass up to the entrance and knocked at the door until a man in a suit opened it and they began speaking for a few minutes before she followed him inside.
“She’s evil, right?” I asked myself again, aloud, “Yeah man, she’s fucking evil.” Right, and so I retrieved her pack of Camels from the dashboard, fired up a smoke and took a deep drag. After about ten minutes sitting there alone I see her walk out of the building followed by two strapping large men wearing white scrubs, one carrying a clipboard in his hand. “She’s evil, right… yeah, she’s fucking evil.” They collectively stopped about fifteen yards away from the passenger side of the jeep to assess the seriousness of the situation.
Who knows what the fucking witch had given them but their caution was well understood… I was covered in blood, mine but they didn’t know that, and if they were armed with any tasers or stun guns they were chivalrous enough to keep them out of sight. “Zachary,” one of them said, “May I call you Zachary?” I took another drag from my smoke and upon seeing my blood stained hand he pulls the squaw back with him a couple feet as the guy with the clipboard begins furiously scribbling with his pen.
I took a couple more drags, mutually sizing them up and I see that big fat grin has yet to depart her big fat head. “You may call me whatever you like as long as you don’t allow her to speak to me at all,” I said. That removed that stupid grin and instantly she jumps forward, “Wasichu, Náanaa.eená!” she yelled and automatically I began coughing up blood again and at that moment the big guy grabbed her by the arm and dragged her swiftly away back toward the building with the other guy in suite, frantically scribbling on his clipboard.
They were gone for awhile longer this time, long enough for me to waste four or five zig-zags trying to roll another joint which, finally, I managed despite the shakes and the blood and I sparked it up. About halfway through it I turned to look at the empty driver’s seat, “She’s fucking evil right?” I asked the empty space before hitting the jay again… “Yeah man, she’s fucking evil.” I’d smoked half of that joint before snuffin’ it in the ash trey and had time to smoke another couple coffin nails before I saw the pudgy bitch walk out the front entrance with the guy in the suit from earlier while the two big guys in the scrubs approached the jeep again.
They got much closer this time, about ten feet though still reserved and I wrapped a hand around my blooded, sticky goatee and made a deep sigh. Honestly, crazy or not, I was looking forward to a safe place to collect myself and attempt to rationalize the very unreasonable experiences I’d just… experienced. That and a chance to clean the blood off of me. “Zachary,” said one of them “would you like to come inside and talk to someone?” The other guy wasn’t holding his clipboard anymore and they both presented much friendlier than they had previously.
“Yes sir,” I answered, “right after I take a couple more puffs from this roach and have another cigarette, if that’s alright.” It wasn’t a question, I was finishing that joint and having another cigarette whether they approved or not but, to my surprise, they were cool about it. “Sure Zach,” one said, “we’re not rushing you… whenever you’re ready.” I finished the joint, smoked one last cig thinking it would be who knows how long before I’d get to have another one and stepped out of the jeep. Seeing my gaze focused on the Indian at the front of the building they stated, “Don’t worry Zach, we’ll go in through the service entrance and she has been I instructed to leave the premises the moment we’re inside.
I walked ahead of them, seven or eight feet between us and the service door was opened from the inside by the suit. The two scrubs followed behind me as the door closed and I waited for the suit to walk ahead, leading me to wherever. I entered his office first, followed by him and he said to the other two men, “Thank you, that will be all for now.” I sat down quietly and looked at my hands, covered in sticky ichor and settled into the chair. The suit came up from behind with a tall glass of apple juice and a container of wet-wipes. “They’re fetching you a fresh shirt, Zach… may I call you Zach?” Wiping off my hands as best I could, he lifted the small trash can by his desk and I tossed the mess into it. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sure you would like to wash up before we talk,” and then he walked over to the private bathroom door in his office.
It must’ve taken me fifteen minutes to get cleaned up and while doing so the suit knocked on the door to offer me that fresh shirt. I returned to the chair as he sat down at his desk and waited patiently for me to begin. “Would you like another glass of juice?” he offered, and yeah, I did. Finally I spoke… “Listen, sir,” I began, “I’m a Cultural Anthropologist with an Associate’s of Applied Science focusing on Animism in Indigenous Cultures.” I spent fifteen, maybe twenty minutes explaining my current studies, explaining the how’s and why’s of my relationship to the Native that brought me here and then stated assertively, “Sir, I’m ready for my room and whatever medications you think I require.” And get me right, I meant every word of it.
Naturally, the suit was the head Psychiatrist or Psychologist or Psychotherapist or whatever Grand title the top headshrinker running a mental hospital calls himself. “Zachary,” he told me, “We cannot accept you into this facility nor can we prescribe you any medications because you are not crazy.” I already knew this but I was spooked as fuck with good cause and I began to protest, “You don’t understa….” but he interrupted, “Zachary, I do understand but you must understand that this facility functions to treat those with mental health conditions and disorders…” He leans back in his chair and I leaned forward to make sure I got a good whiff of whatever he was going to say next. “What you have experienced over the past twenty-four hours was not a mental disorder, it was a metaphysical interaction and mental health doctors and facilities do not treat the metaphysical.” What he had just said blew me out of the fucking water and I leaned back in complete disbelief… I hadn’t expected him to believe the account I had given.
“We cannot accept you as a patient in this facility,” he went on, “nor can we prescribe you any type of psychiatric medications because doing so would be a felony.” Needless to say, I was stunned! He continued, “I would be facing prison and this facility would be shut down if I admitted you as a patient based on the information you have provided and the brief exchange with the woman who brought you here.” Fucking stunned! “I would highly advise that you have no further interactions of any kind with that woman…” (Yeah, way ahead of you dude…) and as he’s saying this he picks up the phone at his desk and begins dialing, “We can’t accept you here but I am greatly concerned as you are, I’m sure, about the great loss of blood… are you willing to be seen at Poudre Valley Hospital, I’ll accompany you and stay with you of course.”
I presumed and rightly so t’was PVH on the other end of his phone call and he gave his name and mine and stated that we were on the way. “Okay Zach, they are expecting us, are you ready.” Yup, ready and willing. Now as crazy as all this sounds, I swear under penalty of perjury to the truthfulness of this testimony. The suit stayed there with me, sat by my side as well as stood beside me during the multitude of exams for the next eight hours as several different examinations and internal x-rays and such were performed. And at the end of that eight hours when the staff doctors involved finally approached us with their results they explained to us both that, “Well, Mr. Freeman, you have no internal bleeding, no hemorrhaging, no internal wounds… we have no explanation for the cause of so much blood loss but we’re giving you a clean bill of health and a discharge. Do take care and you’re free to leave at your leisure.”
Father Francis, I Must Confess
May 21, 2020. New Mexico. I was drifting, see, heading for the dead end of nowhere. No place special in mind. Windows down letting that damp air slap my face with the cool, grey morning. The world’s a blur, even with the spectacles meaning I’m half-blind so I usually don’t spot trouble ’til it’s breathing down my neck… unless it’s flashing lights or waving a placard. After the run-in with that shrew in the clown house and the way my love life’s gone south, females were the last thing on my mind.
Thumbs… thumbs… thumbs. A thumb hitchin’ on the blacktop sticks out like a busted nose and this brawd’s thumb sprung up outta nothin’ like a shinobi in a Kurosawa film, way out on the edge of my periphery. Random acts of randomness seemed to be my calling card and U-turns were becoming my signature so I figure, what the hell? I swung the ride around and got as far as “Where you goin’, cause I’m headed…” when she yanks the door open, tosses her oversized baggage onto what I generously call my passenger seat and then herself on top of my gear and yesterday’s news.
Undignified precedences aside, I got no taste for cheap rudeness, see? Especially when some strumpet barges into my space, stranger or not, pawing through my belongings without an invite. Now, if our wilted camp flower hadn’t been so quick on the draw, if she’d just let a guy finish, she’d have heard my question was just a lead-in: “Which way you headed,” meant I was going in the direction I was already heading. She slams the door, chirps, “Yeah, me too,” and starts tossing my things outta the way… as though my shit was in her way… like I’m now her chauffeur… like I’m driving Miss fuckin’ Daisy or something.
A good deed, yeah, its own reward. Been rockin’ the same threads for three days anyhow. My backpack was just a sack of nothin’. The real ice, the diamonds and the rubies, the gold? They’re snug in the Sovereign Cotton Sock of America, Vault Left Foot. But still… As we hoof it down the road this damsel pulls out a burner and starts cryin’ into it to some shmo, her (pimp, dealer, some Hollywood hustler?). He’s yellin’ at her about none of my bee’s wax so I peel off. There’s a Travel Center up ahead where I can A) grab a soda, and B) ditch this brawd…safe for both of us, see?
Yeah, TA, just up the block. City blocks, mind you. The kind that chew you up and spit you out. All tenements, factories gone to seed and coughin’ up rust and roach motels stinkin’ of perfume de toilette and paid- for-the-hour debaucheries. The kind you see off every exit ramp this side of the Atlantic. Maybe the other side too, who knows?” She pockets her phone, and I’m watchin’ the street while keepin’ an eye on her makin’ sure she don’t lift nothin’.
“So wHat Do ya’ say, twenty bucKs for sOme HEAD or sOme sssssSex?” If I’d been drinkin’ anything, I’d have painted the windshield with it. Now listen up, Father Francis, this confession gets a bit… twisted. Twisted for a couple of reasons:
1) I spilled my guts to you before about shackin’ up with spent piece of used jet trash, a squalid camp girl bimbo called Ginger that appreciated my naivete too much to charge a fee for services rendered… I’m good in the sack.
And I reckon the final verdict will show I’ve only known, just formal-like, others from those smoky back alleys. But this was the first time I ever got the offer to “come-and-get-it” with a price tag up front and,
2) While I was both mortified and intrigued, simultaneously, I was also both relieved and infuriated that I didn’t have twenty dollars to blow, uh, no pun intended.
But then again, that shit on her lip had some shit on its lip, so… No dice, sweet heart.
Ode to Audie Jaye
You’re a girlfriend too costly, you pilfer and mooch
Not once having offered to break bread with thee…
You’re the wife so much wanted at times, now long bygone,
You’re virtue, in truth, has no lock and key.
You pop up at random, both home and in town
Charging for trickin’ the streets, so it seems…
What friendship is there which you have to offer
If I will not pay to get into your jeans?
When an Arapaho Woman Says “I Love You” To a Paleface
I ain’t spinning yarns here; this is the straight dope. It ain’t prejudice, it’s just the cold, hard truth. Audrelia Bobby Nicole Jenkins kept chirping ‘I love you’ like a broken record while stabbing at the air between us with a Teflon blade half as long as a ruler.
When I returned the sentiment, I did it by dialing the precinct to keep the peace instead of breaking her ribs. The only reason I’m still breathing is because she was too wasted on cheap rotgut to hit a stationary target, swinging her blade at a ghost while I danced through the shadows of my own hallway.
I, Zachary Ian Freeman, solemnly swear under penalty of perjury to the truthfulness and accuracy of this blog entry with laser precision and candid detail.
I ain’t spinning yarns here; this is the straight dope. It ain’t prejudice, it’s just the cold, hard truth. Audrelia Bobby Nicole Jenkins kept chirping ‘I love you’ like a broken record while stabbing at the air between us with a Teflon blade half as long as a ruler.
When I returned the sentiment, I did it by dialing the precinct to keep the peace instead of breaking her ribs. The only reason I’m still breathing is because she was too wasted on cheap rotgut to hit a stationary target, swinging her blade at a ghost while I danced through the shadows of my own hallway.
I, Zachary Ian Freeman, solemnly swear under penalty of perjury to the truthfulness and accuracy of this blog entry with laser precision and candid detail.
