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The first time was with this big ape I scouted out
to try and keep the other gorillas in line up in the old theater lodge on Friday nights.
He ran six foot five, around 265. He kind of looked like Herman Munster with pimples
and was of Scottish descent.
I thought he was the answer to something, however he soon
turned out to be a big chicken shit nothing.
Ended up banging the dumpy little Pollack candy stand girl
with watermelon tits. She by the way, stood a shade over
five feet. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying
not to think about the two of them together.
His big claim to fame happened that night she and him
got into slap fight and starting playing grab ass and chasing
each other around the foyer. So the big fucking doofus runs
past where I’m tearing tickets with his little milk dud
package in hot pursuit. I remember shaking my head, thinking
this goddamn punch and Judy shit has got to go.
Next thing I hear is this concussion of wood and glass,
punctuated with bellowing howls of agony. So I walk out to
the lobby and survey the damage. Yup. The big dope had
propelled on his considerable meat hooks right smack
through the double pane glass entrance doors. The carnage
was certainly impressive. All over the shot gun size hole
in the glass shards hung strips of flesh and there was enough
blood there to make Clint Eastwood puke.
Across the street on the hood a Toronto, dip shit
was screaming in pain and holding his lacerated arm. He
was spewing blood like a water fountain, lucky dick head
just missed a major artery.
My only reaction was rather instinctive “guess whose going to
have to clean this fucking mess up?” Never did get all
the blood off the sidewalk. The upshot was that stupid baboon
ended up suing the theater for about ten grand for a
sticky door jam.
As usual this is preface to the story.
The big jerk had battered souped-up 61 battle ship gray
Rambler. One night he was driving us to work and decided
to show off his slant six cylinder balls by passing two
cars going up the big blind crescent rail road bridge
right after the old tavern dead man’s curve.
Sure. Almost a tenth of a mile straight up asphalt tombstone
500. I still remember looking at his stupid face arrested
in pure delight as he dumped the silver Hurst shifter
from second gear to over-drive in the left lane hitting
sixty. Just pure blind luck of the draw that nothing was
coming in the other direction. Bud, we would have been
head-on dead meat in a bucket. Accident reconstruction
team would have had a nervous break down trying to figure that one out.
Should have been dead at seventeen. In lieu of flowers
please send donations to……..
The second time with an old family friend. He was
my age, classmate in school most of my life. He had a
state of the art 1973 midnight black Vet. Had some giddy-up.
Beautiful May evening. We smoked a little reefer in Orient
and on the way back home, he decides to air out the
ride on the causeway. Now he could handle his Penis car.
We hit 85 no problem. Smooth as cement milk. Too be honest
in a car like that 90 has no vibration. Everything was
fine until he spotted a bicyclist on the right hand shoulder
of the road. He pulled a bead on the guy’s rear fender
pointing the center of the Vet dead on the dude’s elevated ass.
Within seconds this guy was going to briefly be a hood
ornament and then launched into the Sound. At the very
last second, Pete slightly jerked the wheel a minuet
fraction to the left. Missed him by a razor’s slice. He
turned to grin at me with pride. Directly in front of
us now was a potato truck going maybe forty. Missed
that to. We graduated from high school that June.
Number three. I was going to college upstate in the
morning. My buddy agreed to drive me there. Night before
we picked up a couple of neighborhood Catholic girls
and headed up to Yacht Club out on the pier.
The girls were underage so I stayed with them in the car,
another Rambler, this one however was a tired 64 Nash.
So he goes in, come out an hour later totally shitfaced
and pissed off too boot. Won’t talk to anybody in the car,
just keeps drinking straight Bacardi from his “to-go-cup.”
It was pretty bad right from the start. He was pure
precision rubber behind the wheel. He started picking up
speed gradually. Soon the telephone polls swished by inches
from the window like picket fences. I was in the back with
the girls, who were terrified and huddling against me.
I had mixed feelings. The combo of booze and RPMs was bad,
however the proximity of the girls was great.
The climax came rather quickly. After somehow negotiating
a series of hair pin curves, we careened head on into the
other lane stacked with on coming head lights.
The girls screamed. I cupped both their breast, figuring
hey if I gotta go, then this will have to do.
We all ended up facing backwards in a farm field. Not
a scratch on us or the car. One of the girls, however did slap
The last time I wasn’t so lucky. For this one I was
at the wheel. Dead eyed January driving the 63 Chevy
typewriter delivery truck I dubbed the “Eager Beaver.”
It was a meat locker of a night. Myself and my pal
(also the driver in the last segment) was over on
the shot gun side. We were bored as only 22 year old
men can be. So we went to the local Chinese restaurant
had dinner and drinks and over fortune cookies, dropped
a little acid.
Well, what to do now. It had started snowing and the
wind had really picked up. We decided to scope out this
bar about twenty miles away to try and pick up these
girls we knew. Everything was going rather well until
there was this series of white outs. After the three
count on last one I reduced our speed to around forty.
I was just about to remark to my partner that hey this
ain’t so bad when we went into a really nasty white out
tunnel, I kept slowing, it won’t clear. I shot a look
at Monk over in the passenger side, he had bent over
into the crash position, when I looked back at the
road, stopped dead in front of us was the rear end
of a 66 Lincoln. Yeah we smacked this one. Damn square
too. I didn’t go through the windshield. Monk cut
his lip and forehead. Now I was thinking what’s coming
up behind us. We bailed out of the truck. The Eager
Beaver was totaled. I could hear the sirens in the
distance. I told Monk to beat it pronto. The local
cops hated his guts. I’d ride this one out myself.
About a half hour later, we’re all in the nice
warm police cruiser in the parking lot of the 7-11.
In the back seat were three of the teenagers from the
Lincoln (which by the way barely had a scratch on it)
I was sandwiched snugly between the fourth kid,
(they were all clean cut basketball players) and
the attending officer.
The cop was methodically filling out the accident
report. No charges pending, just poor visibility and
road conditions. The radio squawked peacefully.
The acid was kicking in. The dashboard lights were
stunning. It was all kind of cozy. Everybody was
calm and nobody was saying much. With all the details
and paper work completed the officer inquired where
everyone wanted to go. Big mistake. I opened my
mouth and suggested, “how about McDonald’s?”
The cop turned to look at me. Our faces inches apart
and he narrowed his eyes.
I got dropped off in the next town at the local
bar. Now I was high. Depressed. After all the truck was
trashed. Just then Monk strolls in the door with
a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow, grinning at
me. At this point in his life my friend was a strange
guy. He had been in a number of accidents. All kinds.
He sort of collected them. Anyway he starts saying the
night is young, its stopped snowing, the moon is out,
we’ve got plenty of time to make those women at that
bar. I looked at him and asked how we were suppose to
get anywhere? He shrugs, orders a beer and I’m actually
listening to him trying to convince the bartender to
loan him her car. I’m looking at him with my mouth open
and he turns to regard my expression of incredibility and
says….”what ??…don’t worry…………..I’ll drive.”
Attitude House 5/99
Breaking in the New Bartender at Halloween.
Yeah I’ll have one of those.
Yeah, I always have one of those.
No. You don’t have to ask,
“If I want another”
I always want another.
Yeah I know I drink
the first three pretty fast.
Yeah I teach for a living.
Yeah I like to sit here in the early evening.
In these soft lights and scribble in this notebook.
What am I writing?
Just learned over the years that a lot of stuff said in the bar is
better off left unsaid and chances are nobody wants to hear it anyway.
So let’s just say I’m skipping the “middle man” and leave it at that.
Yeah. Times are getting tough again.
What you expect?
This counties “theme park” normalcy to last indefinitely?
Sorry. History doesn’t teach that.
Yeah. Look. OK just skip it.
What are you going to be for Halloween?
Yeah. No fooling. That sounds great.
O same thing as last year I suppose.
Guy in the bar with a bottle of beer, little black hat, notebook, etc.
with that haunted look.
I think this year it’s finally back in style.
Enough terror to around this year.
Holiday really matches the spirit of the times.
Yeah. A gas mask.
It’s OK I guess
Watch the game?
I don’t care.
Hey look the Devils just scored.
How about that “no goal” deal?
Hell I don’t know
I wouldn’t know just what
the goal is anymore.
Maybe they moved it.
Sure. Most of my life.
Hey look gotta go.
That would be your tip on the bar.
Next time I’m in
all you got remember
is that I’m a regular
and I’ll be having the usual.
If it helps
It’s the big night.
And you’re working the neighborhood
I could be your trick
You could be my treat.
One can only ring my doorbell
and hope for the best.
Attitude House 10/01