I was at Manifest Discs shopping for pop punk CDs at 16 years old. I flipped through the Punk section (you could tell it was the punk section because a drawing of a safety pin on neon green construction paper was elevated above the rack on a popsickle stick), found a few suitably angsty records, and made my way towards the register. The woman behind the register smirked as she scanned the CD cases. She was wearing a leather jacket with patches and spikes, camo pants, and pink hair. I smiled at her, but she just wanted to know if I would be paying in cash or credit. I didn't carry cash, so I told her I'd be using my debit card, and again she smirked.
I was parked on the far side of the parking lot, near busy South Boulevard. I saw that the vehicles in the right lane of traffic going south was swerving into the next lane to avoid a broken-down Chevy. Poor guy was about a quarter mile down the sidewalk, so I walked up to him to see if he needed a ride anywhere, maybe to an auto parts store and back, maybe home. A woman walked by as we had our conversation. He didn't need a ride, but he thanked me and shook my hand. He was dressed well, and I noticed his cuff-links, made with some black jewels.
I jogged back to my car, passing the woman who had passed our conversation on the sidewalk. "You could give me a ride, if you wanted." I turned to look at her. She was attractive but looked sunk. Approaching middle age, she was wearing a low tank-top and jean shorts, walking in high heels on a busy Charlotte road in broad daylight. I said all right and led her to my car.
My passenger seat was rarely free of debris. I had to move some books and bags to the back seat to make room for the woman. Among the books were my Biology 101 textbook and my ESV Bible. I heard her breath in my ear. She climbed in; I closed the door on her carefully and walked around the back of the car. Once inside, I unwrapped one of the CDs, put it in the CD player, adjusted the volume to a moderate level, and asked her where to. "Where to?" she parroted. I repeated myself. "Well...turn right, I guess." Her voice was gravely, and I could tell she was a heavy smoker.
We cruised down South Boulevard a couple miles, and I asked which lane I should be in. She raised a penciled eyebrow at me. "Turn right." It seemed like a strange place to turn, but I did, and during the turn she put her hand on my knee, slowly dragging it up my leg. She gave me some more seemingly random directions, and I noticed we were passing many secluded buildings outside the normal patrol of law enforcement. I noticed also that we were passing the same buildings every few turns, circling South Boulevard like one caught in a whirlpool. Her fingers were cresting my inner thigh when I realized the woman was a prostitute. It was then that I informed her of my age.
Her hand changed course immediately, as did the nature of her directions. In minutes we were outside a dingy apartment, and she was thanking me for the ride. She and her girlfriend were just going to start a movie upstairs. Did I want to come? I answered no very feebly, my hand gripping the five-speed like a lifeline. Come on, all it would cost me was time. Again I politely declined, and she changed her hips towards the concrete stairwell, smiling back at me on her way.
I peeled out of the complex, turned back onto South Boulevard, and was almost immediately pulled over. The officer cowboyed over to my half-rolled-down window and asked through his mustache if I knew why he had stopped me this evening. I spluttered that it was a misunderstanding. He was afraid it wasn't. His hand slipped down to his belt, just outside of my field of vision. Was he reaching for his gun? The following three seconds were as long as his stache. His gloved fingers returned to my field of vision clutching a pink ticket pad. I saw he was grinning. "Didn't use your blinker, kid."
Friday, July 24, 2015
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
how i get girls
Here's how I get girls.
I bumble up to the bar, say hello to the bartender (whom I know because I am an alcoholic,) order the same thing I always order, and compliment an article of the bartender's clothing. I pull the book out of my back pocket and ask the bartender to put the Blue Jays game on one of the televisions. I pull the pen from behind my ear, adjust the douchey backwards baseball cap, open the book, and unroll the piece of wide-ruled notebook paper which serves as a bookmark. It has a lot of markings on it, but most of them are crossed out. I try to write a poem, fail, and look at the book, just look at it. I'm trying to read, but I can't, because I can't stop thinking about something, work or the poem now crossed out on my bookmark. Then the girl three seats down asks what I'm reading. I don't tell her I'm not reading, I tell her the name of the book that's open on the hardwood bar. She says she's never heard of it, what is it? Poetry. She loves poetry. What sort of poetry does she like? Slam poetry. I look at her, she's out of my league. I start actually reading, but she's still talking. Do I like slam poetry? Sure, used to write it. Really, can I perform a bit for her? No, I can't remember anything, everything is all a haze. That's poetic. She goes to the bathroom, and the bartender pours me another drink. I can see through it, the liquid warps the wood knots prevalent in the bar-top. The bartender is checking some electronic device under the counter. My phone is in the car, and I long for it, but I don't want to get up. It's a busy bar.
The girl returns from the bathroom as I turn a page. I see that she is very attractive. I look down at my expansive stomach, shrugging. She sits in the seat next to mine and the bartender drags her 20 oz beer glass in front of her and smiles at both of us. They call the 20 oz glasses "imperial" here, which I guess is a sophisticated way of saying supersized. When I drink beer, which isn't often anymore, I reject the offer of an imperial glass (for just one dollar more!) because I can't track myself as well as I can when I drink pints. I end up getting drunk and driving anyway, just because I don't know I'm really drunk until I'm halfway home. She asks more questions about me, which I answer quietly, shortly. Then I send some questions her way. She talks about her exes. I like talking to her, but she intimidates me because she is beautiful and well spoken. She probably likes my eyebrows. They're expressive, about twice the width of normal guy-brows, and fuller. My best quality for certain. What am I doing this weekend? Nothing, what is she doing this weekend? Nothing. Long pause. Would it be rude if she asked for my number? No. Can she have my number? No, but I'm already tearing off a piece of my ratty notebook paper to write it down. She laughs, pulls out her iPhone, and calls me on the spot. I explain that my phone is in the car. That seems to turn her on. I hear the automated voicemail tell her to leave a message at the beep. She says her name and spells out her phone number. "Eight, zero, three..."
The Blue Jays tie it up in the eighth, and I hoop. She smiles at my excitement, and I notice she has curly black hair. I want to touch it, but I reach for my glass instead. It sweats all over my fingers, and I wipe the residue on my jeans. Through the ninth inning she texts and I watch my game. After the Jays are finished losing, I ask for my bill. (Why do people call it a check?) I hear two things at the same time: the receipt paper being torn and the girl's voice. I have to ask her to repeat herself. Can she have a ride home? She's just down the street. On our way out the door, the bartender winks at me. I smile faintly.
We get in my car, and "Africa" is playing. She loves this song. I turn it up and she shouts directions at me. By the world famous drum fill, we're outside of her house. Would I like to come inside? The house is big, and she explains on a stoop in a whisper that it belongs to her parents, who are in there, hopefully sleeping. They won't like her having a boy over. How old is she? Old enough to drink. I see her car in the parking lot with a college parking sticker on it and am comforted. She opens the door and we creep upstairs. In her bedroom she turns soft music on and starts touching my chest. I touch her back and push her towards me, my fingers worked up in her hair. We kiss, and it's too wet at first, but not for long. Her hands aren't on my chest anymore, but they haven't made it to my belt. My hands haven't moved, but my fingers are flexing through her coarse hair into the fabric of her shirt. Then I hear her bedroom door slam open, and we both look. Her brother, maybe 12, 13, is standing there in his pajamas ogling at us. He immediately starts screaming, and it sounds like a train whistle.
There's movement down the hall, the sound of her parents stirring. She calls after me that I should text her later as I pass her brother, round the corner, take the stairs four at a time, and make for the front door. The kid is right behind me, screeching, matching my steps somehow with his short legs. He's on my tail as I reach the front door and find it locked. In my panic, it doesn't occur to me that all I have to do is undo the padlock. By the time I figure that out, the boy has his arms clamped around my leg and a deeper male voice is calling from the landing. As the mustached face appears from behind a corner, I fling the front door wide, peel the screaming kid from my leg with some difficulty, and run to my car. I gun it and soon I'm on the interstate in relative safety. I check my phone. No missed calls.
Sam
I bumble up to the bar, say hello to the bartender (whom I know because I am an alcoholic,) order the same thing I always order, and compliment an article of the bartender's clothing. I pull the book out of my back pocket and ask the bartender to put the Blue Jays game on one of the televisions. I pull the pen from behind my ear, adjust the douchey backwards baseball cap, open the book, and unroll the piece of wide-ruled notebook paper which serves as a bookmark. It has a lot of markings on it, but most of them are crossed out. I try to write a poem, fail, and look at the book, just look at it. I'm trying to read, but I can't, because I can't stop thinking about something, work or the poem now crossed out on my bookmark. Then the girl three seats down asks what I'm reading. I don't tell her I'm not reading, I tell her the name of the book that's open on the hardwood bar. She says she's never heard of it, what is it? Poetry. She loves poetry. What sort of poetry does she like? Slam poetry. I look at her, she's out of my league. I start actually reading, but she's still talking. Do I like slam poetry? Sure, used to write it. Really, can I perform a bit for her? No, I can't remember anything, everything is all a haze. That's poetic. She goes to the bathroom, and the bartender pours me another drink. I can see through it, the liquid warps the wood knots prevalent in the bar-top. The bartender is checking some electronic device under the counter. My phone is in the car, and I long for it, but I don't want to get up. It's a busy bar.
The girl returns from the bathroom as I turn a page. I see that she is very attractive. I look down at my expansive stomach, shrugging. She sits in the seat next to mine and the bartender drags her 20 oz beer glass in front of her and smiles at both of us. They call the 20 oz glasses "imperial" here, which I guess is a sophisticated way of saying supersized. When I drink beer, which isn't often anymore, I reject the offer of an imperial glass (for just one dollar more!) because I can't track myself as well as I can when I drink pints. I end up getting drunk and driving anyway, just because I don't know I'm really drunk until I'm halfway home. She asks more questions about me, which I answer quietly, shortly. Then I send some questions her way. She talks about her exes. I like talking to her, but she intimidates me because she is beautiful and well spoken. She probably likes my eyebrows. They're expressive, about twice the width of normal guy-brows, and fuller. My best quality for certain. What am I doing this weekend? Nothing, what is she doing this weekend? Nothing. Long pause. Would it be rude if she asked for my number? No. Can she have my number? No, but I'm already tearing off a piece of my ratty notebook paper to write it down. She laughs, pulls out her iPhone, and calls me on the spot. I explain that my phone is in the car. That seems to turn her on. I hear the automated voicemail tell her to leave a message at the beep. She says her name and spells out her phone number. "Eight, zero, three..."
The Blue Jays tie it up in the eighth, and I hoop. She smiles at my excitement, and I notice she has curly black hair. I want to touch it, but I reach for my glass instead. It sweats all over my fingers, and I wipe the residue on my jeans. Through the ninth inning she texts and I watch my game. After the Jays are finished losing, I ask for my bill. (Why do people call it a check?) I hear two things at the same time: the receipt paper being torn and the girl's voice. I have to ask her to repeat herself. Can she have a ride home? She's just down the street. On our way out the door, the bartender winks at me. I smile faintly.
We get in my car, and "Africa" is playing. She loves this song. I turn it up and she shouts directions at me. By the world famous drum fill, we're outside of her house. Would I like to come inside? The house is big, and she explains on a stoop in a whisper that it belongs to her parents, who are in there, hopefully sleeping. They won't like her having a boy over. How old is she? Old enough to drink. I see her car in the parking lot with a college parking sticker on it and am comforted. She opens the door and we creep upstairs. In her bedroom she turns soft music on and starts touching my chest. I touch her back and push her towards me, my fingers worked up in her hair. We kiss, and it's too wet at first, but not for long. Her hands aren't on my chest anymore, but they haven't made it to my belt. My hands haven't moved, but my fingers are flexing through her coarse hair into the fabric of her shirt. Then I hear her bedroom door slam open, and we both look. Her brother, maybe 12, 13, is standing there in his pajamas ogling at us. He immediately starts screaming, and it sounds like a train whistle.
There's movement down the hall, the sound of her parents stirring. She calls after me that I should text her later as I pass her brother, round the corner, take the stairs four at a time, and make for the front door. The kid is right behind me, screeching, matching my steps somehow with his short legs. He's on my tail as I reach the front door and find it locked. In my panic, it doesn't occur to me that all I have to do is undo the padlock. By the time I figure that out, the boy has his arms clamped around my leg and a deeper male voice is calling from the landing. As the mustached face appears from behind a corner, I fling the front door wide, peel the screaming kid from my leg with some difficulty, and run to my car. I gun it and soon I'm on the interstate in relative safety. I check my phone. No missed calls.
Sam
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