Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Another Day, Another Dollar

We laid in the bushes. My heart was beating like a steel drum. Bum. Bum. I knew we couldn't go on like this. The constant hiding. The sneaky letters hidden on the bottom of beer soaked coasters.

We worked together. Servers for your beverage and sustenance needs. Snook's Burgers and Shakes.

Keven asked me on a date the first night I worked with him. He said that he wasn't sure why, but he was compelled to ask. Said that I was special. We made love that first night and haven't stopped since.

I thumbed through the little green rule book at orientation; it's pages stained brown and yellow from years of employees running their fingers through it. In bold, black ink it read: "No employee dating, under any circumstances." Since I was in the first flush of my training, they let me hold on to the rules, so that I familiarize myself with its contents.

I was a little too familiar now.

My mother always said, never date anyone you work with. But, the rules change when it's your boss, and you need this job or you'll end up sitting on a curb with all your shit and your thumb up your ass. Yeah, she didn't cover that during the child-rearing years.

Now, we sit and wait, hoping that that light streaming through the tangled web of bushes and leaves was just a kid looking for his lost watch. And trying to maneuver around so that we could pull on shirts and pants and shoes. We're a heap of body hair and pale limbs.

The sound of a static and jumbled speech from a walkie-talkie ring out in the air. Shit. I don't know what I'll do if we're caught. I'm only a minor for two more weeks...and I'm pretty sure his wife won't be too happy.

I really wish my mom had covered this during that child rearing phase. Shit.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Dragon Tattoo

He was a hermit. Jason, that is. The rooms of his apartment were mish-mosh warehouse of computer parts, rusted tools and well-thumbed books. It was hazardous trying to maneuver throw the piles if you didn't know the place as well as him. He was like a mole scurrying through the zigzag paths he laid out.

It was utter chaos.

Jason wasn't the type to disregard his appearance, even if he only made bi-monthly public appearances. He had a smooth, toned chest. Hazel eyes. And a dragon tattoo that wrapped around his back and spread out over his chest, breathing flames just above his nipple.

Just looking at him was enough to make me have an orgasm.

When we first met, he was making one of those random little ventures out to the book store, to load up on a solid month-worth of reading material. I happened to bump in to him. Literally. I fell flat on my ass, and he pulled me up tender hands. I straightened out my black and white plaid dress, and he stooped down to pick up my selected books. Ah, the joyous Orwell. The hilarious Eggers. He looked down at my soon-to-be-purchased books and smiled. That day marked the best thing to happen to me in ten years.

Since then, we've been in this on again off again relationship. I can't get him to get the hell out of the house. And he drives me nuts with his obsessive need to categorize all his computer bits.

The odd hours.

The restless need to write.

The strange things he says to me.

The collection of panties in the top drawer of his dresser.

Our fights would span over days, weeks. I couldn't believe that this man, this hermit, who never leaves the house, is sleeping with countless women throughout the city. They leave their souvenirs for him to do...I don't even want to know what with. The pink silk ones. The black lacy ones. The red boy-shorts.

He always curbs my anger by fucking me stupid. I can't even describe it. Like when a tornado plows through a house.

I watch him roll out of bed. He maneuvers around the pile of books at the end of the bed, dusty flap-jackets poking out at odd corners. I sit up, wrapping the sheets around my body. And stare into the eyes of the retreating dragon.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Blonde Baby, Blone

And this is one other vinyette I found from summer '09:


I sit in the shade of a big oak and listen to the birds chirping. I listen to the sound of my heart, pounding loud against my chest like police at a druggie's door.

She's been nothing but an addiction. Smooth golden hair. Small pert mouth. Baby blue hues. I can smell her scent, a mix of cinnamon and strawberries, even though she's been gone for three hours.

Beth.

Our first fight.

She's been seeing other people. Last night I found half a dozen used condoms floating in her pool, and a girl with a pearl necklace lying, passed out on the diving board. Her hand squeezing an empty beer bottle for life support.

Beth said it was a small get together with close friends. She had nothing to do with the copious amounts of sex.

I was a fool to believe her.

Black, white and gray fuzz played across the TV. That monochromatic, static noise. I walked over to the TV and rewound the VCR. She was old school. Love old tapes, vinyls and books. Always said she preferred the old way of doing things to this technological perversion. This new age vision.

Click. The tape was ready. I pressed play.

Creampies and rim-jobs. Bukkake and irrumatio. Beth was a star. A filthy blow-up doll in a porn flick.

You can't ask a girl like that stop. Beg for the sake of your sanity. Your relationship. She's a hound. She can smell the sex oozing out of people. She feeds on it.

Now she's gone. Gone like a fallen ice cycle. Shattered. Gone. And I sit alone under the heavy branches of an oak tree.