Catharsis

Dear mother believes nothing rids one of stress more than a good old fashioned cry, which makes sense considering her favorite movies include The Notebook, Titanic, Steel Magnolias, and Police Academy 4: Citizens On Patrol. We were speaking about this over dinner one night when she proclaimed, "I'm in the mood for a good cry."

We all laughed at Mother's boyfriend's response.

He said, "Gee Honey, if you really wanna cry that bad I can always punch ya in the nose!"




It wasn't funny, however, on the way to the hospital when he turned around in the driver's seat and asked us, "Who's laughing now?"

Car Troubles

Maybe all those drag races finally caught up with me, not too sure, but I had a problem with the clutch in my Honda. There wasn't any resistance; I'd press my foot down and it would slam to the floor. The shifter, on the other hand, was stiff as a priest at a playground. This combination not only made switching gears a real pain in the ass, but it also put my car out of commission.

Mother's boyfriend promised to have a look see. His diagnosis?

"That there. See it? That's the Slave Cylinder for the clutch. It's leaking. Don't worry though. The part's cheap. And easy to replace."

I made a few calls, went to an auto-parts store and, sure enough, it was inexpensive: $23.99. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to replace it that day so I had to wait until morning. Fair enough; as long as everything was in working order before my return to work on Monday. He told me I'd have to help him bleed the lines which, if you ask me, wasn't a ridiculous request or anything. I mean, the least I could do was be of assistance; it's not like he wanted money.

The next day found me kneeling in the driveway, hand-pumping the clutch back to life. My instructions were to push it as far in as possible three times consecutively, hold it down, then wait for his signal before repeating the whole process. At first all my work was to no avail. No resistance in the clutch whatsoever. It wasn't until I'd pumped that sonofabitch twenty times or so that I started feeling something. The clutch fought back, making each pump a tad more difficult than the last. Finally, Mother's boyfriend said we were good to go.

I got up off the ground, wiped my knee clear of snow. He asked if I had the keys.

"I just wanna give it a quick test drive. Check if the clutch is slipping."

Fair enough. I pulled the keys from my pocket, slipped them in the ignition and started the car. He let it warm up a few minutes before hopping in the driver's seat.

"OK. Just wanna see if the clutch slips. Be back in a few minutes."







That was just over a month ago. If anybody happens to spot a Beige 1992 Honda Accord with a bumper sticker which reads, "If this car were a horse I'd shoot it" on the back, drop me a line.
I'm real sick of riding a bicycle everywhere.

Femme Fatale

"Ice water and ibuprofen is the ultimate hangover cure" I told her. She didn't ask what I was doing outside the ladies' room, who I was, or why I had my arm around her. Instead she smiled a baby-doll smile, her blue eyes shining bright as the employee vests around us. Leaning into me, she asked if I was a scientist.

Gee, I thought, this whole coming to Wal*Mart to get some ass really is paying off! Never mind those three hours wasted in the electronics section, that didn't matter now. I made a mental note for future excursions that the ladies' room greatly increased my chances of meeting dames, then answered her question.

"Oh yeah. I'm a scientist all right! A REAL scientist."

That seemed to satisfy her query. We talked, meandering aimlessly through aisles, hand in hand conversing about our life goals. She wanted to end world hunger; I desperately wanted to bring sexy back. She told me her name was Gina; I told her mine was Gene. (Hey, I lied about being a scientist I might as well lie about my name.) We were silent after that, just soaking up the beauty of the sporting goods department.

For laughs I tried on a camouflage vest and scratched my groin like a hunter. Gina responded by shooting milk out of her nose, which was odd because I hadn't seen her drink any. I shrugged it off as mere coincidence and led her to the light fixture department, where a bulb lit above her head.

"Gene I've got an idea! Let's go back to my place. Ya know, for a more . . . one on one experience."

I played it cool, shrugged my shoulders and said, "Whatever. As long as you got popcorn there, I'm down." She assured me she did. There was also the issue of me not having a car. Gina solved that one real quick.

"Two words, Gene: Public Transportation"

She asked me how I got to Wal*Mart without a car but I dodged that bullet by picking my nose, acting as if I hadn't heard. Then we went outside to wait for a bus.

Gina's place was a one bedroom apartment which, by the looks of it, leased itself out to the city dump; garbage bags piled up in the kitchen, empty bottles scattered across the floor, clothing draped over chairs, on tables, and the twin-size bed. Before taking her coat off Gina reached inward, pulling out a quart sized milk container. That explained the milk snot, but I was still curious.

"Oh. That? Sometimes I steal things for kicks. Plus I really like milk."

With that settled her whole demeanor changed, transforming from a sweet little girl into a cheetah, and myself a lamed zebra. Gina pounced, knocking me back onto the bed, and tore off my clothing while our tongues grappled for one another like a blindfolded thumb wrestling match. Finally, our clothes stripped of our sweaty frames, we became one hulking mass of passion, squeaky bedsprings and all.

It was forty-seven seconds of absolute bliss. I know because I counted.

After it was done, Gina slumped off me and went to the bathroom. I searched the room for a mirror with which to give myself a thumbs up. It was a no go. I was still grinning when Gina returned, tears running down her cheeks. My grin disappeared.

"What's the matter Kitten? Wasn't I all the man you'd hoped for and more?"

Sniffling she said, "Yes! Yes you were! But it's not you! I swear it's not you!"

"Well, what is it Snugglepuss?"

"I have a secret Gene. I haven't been honest with you."

My heart raced, "Tell me then, Sweetie Pie. You can tell Uncle Gene anything your kitten heart desires."

"Gene." she paused, half inhaling half snorting, "I'm married. I'm married to a bad man. A man who beats me, calls me nasty names like Gina The Wiener Eata, and forces me to sleep with flannel pajamas on!"

My mouth dried up. "Honey bunches, why do you stay with him then?" I asked.

"He has money. Lots and lots of money."

I looked around the apartment in disbelief; she must have sensed my doubt because Gina ordered me to check the freezer of her mini-fridge. I did so, finding a stack of bills.

"Cold hard cash" I gasped.

"Yeah" she replied, "I like to pour water on it beforehand. Just a habit, I guess."

"If you have all this money Snuggle Bunny, why live in such a dump?"

"It keeps me grounded. And I don't like staying in his mansion while he's on business trips. Which is more often than not. So I have a palace of my own!"

She wiped a tear from her cheek. I was in the middle of asking if there was anything I could do when she interrupted me, blurting out, "Sometimes I wish he would just die!"

I froze. Had I heard her correct? I tried calming her down. I said, "Kitten. Baby girl. Dollface. Sugar Lips. Cutie Pie. Honey Bear. Snuggly Wuggly. Sweet Face. Tiger. Baby Doll." and other endearing terms but Gina wasn't having it.

"I'm not having it, Gene! Not anymore! I want Rinaldo out of my life! Will you help me Gene? Will you....?"

"What do you want me to do?" I asked jokingly, "kill him?"

And the room went silent. Gina's eyes burnt a hole in mine. Slowly she nodded her head asking, "Could you? Will you?" pausing before adding, "I'd share the money with you."

That tickled my ear a bit. If this guy had half as much dough as she let on, we'd be sitting pretty. Scratching my chin, biting my lip, I thought things over. Then I said, "OK. You're on, but I'm gonna need a small advance."

"Anything Gene. Anything for YOU."

"All right. How's about forking over $800?"

"That's fantastic" she said, peeling bills from her frozen wad.

Those crisp fifties and twenties felt good in my hand, and even better in my wallet. Having tucked them safely away I told Gina not to worry, that I'd get in touch with her soon, but until then she'd have to sit tight. Until I'd gone through with the plan she'd just have to trust I was out getting the job done. I walked over to the table, found a pen and paper scrap, scribbled down a P.O. box address and said, "If you haven't heard from me in two weeks, send another advance. Make it a grand for traveling expenses. Once I get that I'll return for you, my love. Now don't get me wrong, darling. Those weeks without hearing a word will be trying. You're gonna want to reach out to the nearest phone and call me. Just for the sound of my breath hitting the receiver. Don't baby. Don't. Be patient. Once it's all said and done we'll have the rest of our lives to be together. What's a few weeks?"

I put my clothes on and made toward the door. She rushed me, grabbed my right arm, swung me around.

"I love you Gene!"

We kissed.

"Yeah babe" I said and left.




Crazy broad. She didn't even tell me who her husband was, what he looked like, or any of that important stuff. Not like I seriously planned on killing him anyway. What do you take me for, a garbageman? Besides, I'd read stories like this before; boy meets girl, they fall in love, girl convinces boy to kill her significant other, girl double-crosses boy. The end.

Not this time. I was content with my payment of $800 for the quickie, and a grand more for not calling her afterward. What more could a guy want? Groff would be proud!

That night as I lounged in the reclining chair I'd purchased from The Salvation Army, I couldn't help feeling sophisticated in my favorite red sweats, a frosty Old Mill in each hand, watching infomercials for Girls Gone Wild. My mind turned towards thoughts of Gina along with a long list of "what ifs." What if she really did love me? What if she wasn't lying about her home situation? Cold sweat forced itself out through my forehead and cheeks, and for a moment I felt horrible.

Then I looked at things in a completely different light. She HAD to be lying.

After all, what kind of chick steals milk?

Team Work

Big Jeb should be sponsored by Summer's Eve that douchebag.
Groff, Earl, and I were at a house-party, looking to get laid, when he approached us.

"You guys really came prepared this time. It shows."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Those clothes. They're sharp!"

Speaking for the group I thanked him.

"No problem" he said pointing at me, "I once had a shirt like that."

"Really?"

"Yeah. . . then my dad got a job!"

Big Jeb smacked the beers out our hands, let out a triumphant "HOOO-YEAH!" and head-butted the wall.

Let's bring you up to speed real quick; my old man passed away in a tragic microwave explosion, Groff's pops is on disability with a curved spine after too many years behind the wheel of a bus, and Earl's the product of two broads with buzz cuts. See why we might find that statement offensive?

The three of us went to the fridge for fresh brewskies, bitching about Big Jeb and his lameness.

"We gotta get that sonofabitch back" Earl grumbled.

"Skeedly-dee doo dat dat dat!" Groff yelled, pulling his hair.

"I know. I know." I replied, "We'll think of something."

And we sure as hell did.

It took an hour or two but we came up with an ingenious plan. Sure, we were hammered at that point but that doesn't matter. Everyone knows the best ideas come under the influence.
Here's what happened:

Big Jeb was in the kitchen yelling "American Eagle rules!" when I walked up and called him a moron. Crushing a beer can on his forehead he shook his face back and forth.

"What you just say?"

"I called you" I said, taking my glasses off for dramatic effect, "a fucking moron" and gave his beer belly a shove.

Call it divine intervention if you want. Call it coincidence.

The original plan was for me to push Big Jeb while Groff crouched behind him on all fours.
What happened instead was better than any one could've imagined.

See we were in the kitchen when it all went down and, oblivious to us, the basement door was open. Hammered, remember? Anyways it worked out so that when I pushed Big Jeb he fell where the door should have been, down the stairs, tumbling onto the concrete floor below. All these dames were downstairs playing beer pong. They responded by cheering, calling Big Jeb a pussy, laughing, and throwing beer bottles at his face.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure if the blood was from the fall or the broken glass. Either or I still say we pulled off a great exercise in teamwork. As for Earl, he was taking a shit during the excitement.

Give the dude a break. He's human.

So yeah, considering he's in a coma, Big Jeb shouldn't be a problem for quite some time.

That douchebag.