Authors: Gregory Shultz
I opened my mouth and said, “Ahhhh.” That made him laugh.
“You are so funny, Smith. Wally’s told me you’re a joker.” He could smile like a motherfucker and still keep talking. He then conducted a free preliminary examination. “Anyway, I see you have a bridge that spans nine through twelve.” Dental speak. “Before I could whiten we’d have to change out the bridge first. But you know what? Since you’re Sam’s boyfriend, you come in and I’ll get you taken care of, completely free of charge.”
“Excuse me?” I was floored by his generosity. My dental bridge had cost twenty-five hundred dollars several years ago. “That is awful damn kind of you, Doctor. May I ask why you are so eager to help? I hate to look a gift—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He patted me on the back and shook my hand. “Just call me and we’ll get it set up.” He gave me a wink and then walked away.
“Wow,” I said. “What do you think of that, Sidebottom? There’s an affable fellow if there ever was one.”
Sidebottom grimaced. “Yeah, whatever. Guy’s an asshole. He’s not good looking, but he always has a herd of chicks with him. Know how he does it? He buys all their food and drinks. The dude’s loaded. I’m not shitting you. We’ll be at an expensive Italian restaurant, hanging out in the bar, and he’ll pick up the tab for any hot chick he sees, even if there are ten of ‘em in one place.”
“Okay, then why the favor to me?” I asked.
“Are you that damn dumb?” Sidebottom slapped me on the belly. “He’s doing it to get into Sam’s pants. What he doesn’t understand is that that won’t work with her. So if I were you I’d go get the freebie, and quick. Though it comes as a surprise to me, you must still be in her good graces.”
After an hour passed I was two mixed drinks drunker. The earth was beginning to tilt a little bit and I was feeling a little out of control. I knew I wouldn’t be good to drive.
Another acquaintance of Sidebottom’s ambled toward the bar, surrounded by a troop of rather attractive older women. His name was Larry. He was short, pudgy, fiftyish, completely bald, and dressed like a teenager in faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Sidebottom said he was a neurosurgeon. Tonight was Larry’s girlfriend’s birthday, which Sidebottom found amusing since the man was supposedly happily married to another woman. That, however, didn’t stop us from merrily singing “Happy Birthday” to his middle-aged blonde mistress. I didn’t think the woman was the least bit overweight or unattractive, so I was surprised by the doctor’s gifts to her: a jump rope, a facial treatment kit, a gel seat cover, and spinning shoes with a gift certificate for a spinning class attached. But that wasn’t all. In private, but close enough for me and Wally to overhear, the good doctor cheerfully informed his mistress that he had set up an appointment for her next week at a surgical spa. He smiled and told her that her skin would be treated by lasers and that she would have her laugh lines filled in with collagen. I kept waiting for her to slap his bald-ass head, but it didn’t happen.
Then the ladies from 52 Palms migrated in our direction. While Sidebottom acquainted himself with the pack, Esmeralda glued herself to my side and resumed her inspection by running her hands about my chest, shoulders, neck, and thighs. She even managed to check out my calves after pretending to reach down for something that she didn’t actually drop.
Upon completion of her exhaustive physical examination of Yours Truly, Esmeralda wrapped her arms around me and pulled me in for a kiss.
Or so I thought.
When our lips were just inches apart, in a rather thick Hispanic accent that I hadn’t taken note of until that point, Esmeralda gazed into my eyes and said: “I like to taste pussy.”
Surprise, surprise!
And then, right after that, I heard this from Sidebottom, who was just a few feet away:
“Baby, is that a mirror in your pants? Because I can see—”
“Sidebottom,” I shouted. “Stop it, man. Is your crew of bullshit artists incapable of brainstorming original pickup lines?”
Wally just looked at me and winked. Though I had cut his lame pickup line short, he apparently hadn’t really needed it because a brainless-looking blonde had her tongue wedged deep inside his ear canal.
Sidebottom was doing well for himself. He had truly eclipsed me, if that was really his aim in life. He was accomplishing things with women I never had. Good for him.
I thought now would be a good time to beat it since I wouldn’t have Sidebottom to chat with anymore. I gently peeled myself free from the horned-up Latin woman and hailed the bartender for my tab.
“Where you going, baby?” Esmeralda asked.
I figured she wanted to tell me more about her love of the female vagina, but I just laid some bills on the bar and said, “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll see each other around. Orlando’s a small town.”
And as I left I saw Dr. Samantha Fleming walk in. She was on the arm of the same CEO I had found her chatting with at the party in Isleworth.
I wasn’t the least bit jealous. As I walked out of there I felt nothing but happiness for her, because she had indeed found the rich man who’d solve all her problems. I hoped he would treat her like the beautiful princess that she was. And my oh my, did she ever look beautiful. . . .
On the lonely drive home I cried a tear, because I then realized how much I had hoped she’d eventually see the world through a less jaded and materialistic lens. Then maybe we could have been together.
I knew we’d never have another chance, but I resolved then to pray for her every day.
I really wanted her to be happy. I truly did.
20
I
ENDURED ANOTHER SLEEPLESS night. I lay in bed for hours, clinging to the stubborn hope that if I just lay there long enough, maybe I could force it to happen. My body, my soul, and my mind were all definitely tired—exhausted, in fact. The required ingredients were there to induce sleep. But no, it just wasn’t meant to be.
Just take the fucking pills
, urged a voice that continued to echo inside my head.
What are you trying to prove?
Samantha had probably been right. Without the meds it could take months, perhaps even years, before I would be able to achieve a normal sleep pattern again. I remembered being able to sleep at least a few hours each night I had spent in Samantha’s bed—I would have killed just to have one hour of sex with her now. That would most certainly do the trick. A part of me wanted to crawl back to her, but for entirely selfish reasons.
When the big angry yellow ball in the sky began to spit daylight through the seams of my curtains, I just wanted to cry. Not only did I want the outside world to explode and vanish into nothingness, I also wanted the sun to burn out along with it.
I was contemplating suicide. I’m telling you, I just wasn’t thinking straight. I felt like a zombie.
I asked God: “Could you please return me to the peaceful meadow, even if only for five minutes?”
No answer. . . .
I had a date scheduled for tonight at Glory’s place. There was no way that was going to happen in my current state of mind. As beautiful as she was, the very thought of being in her house and eating her cooking nauseated me. It hurt to think about her now. I believe I was afraid of finding out that she was too good to be true. What if she was crazy just like Caitlin and Samantha? And the thought of eating any strange food really did unsettle me. I wanted to play it safe and just order a pizza. I wasn’t in the mood to experiment with food, nor with women for that matter.
So I picked up the phone and called Glory. My call went straight to her voicemail—she probably wasn’t up yet. It was only seven a.m. I left what I will admit was a terse message. I just simply said I was feeling too ill. I don’t even think I said goodbye.
I turned off my cell phone—my headache was so horrific that I didn’t even want to feel the blasted thing vibrating.
I then heard a racket from my neighbor’s house across the street. He was thwacking the weeds in his yard. The incessant whine and chop of the whacker’s motor was more than I could bear. Besides, there was an unspoken rule in the neighborhood: No yard work with motor tools until ten a.m.
I decided I was going to go out there and set my neighbor straight.
His last name was Gellman. I didn’t know what his first name was and I never wanted to know it. He was a few years my senior and bigger around the middle than a wild boar. The Domino’s delivery guy should have just moved in with Gellman, because Gellman ordered from there six nights a week. When I moved into the neighborhood ten years ago he’d sported a blond crew cut. Now his crew cut was completely gray, and he somehow managed to maintain a scruffy beard that always looked like it was just three days old. I had never seen Gellman with a woman. In fact, aside from the pizza man, I had never seen him with anyone at all.
“Well, well, well. Look at what the proverbial cat dragged out,” Gellman crowed as I approached him. He had this ultra-smug look on his face that said he’d just as soon crap on you than to look at you. Worse was his hideous gap-toothed rictus that had always spooked the total living shit out of me. He made Chucky Doll look like Shirley-fucking-Temple. Through the years we’d had many disputes about his barking dogs—the son of a bitch had five of them. Thankfully the noisiest of the lot had recently died. I mean, I wasn’t glad the little yapper was dead, but I was grateful it wasn’t around to torture me anymore. I’d had nothing to do with the dog’s fatal end, but I think Gellman still suspected foul play on my part.
I halted my advance just beyond arm’s reach of him. While still holding his weed eater he lifted his left leg and ripped a hair-parting fart. He then shouted: “Oh no! Where’d it go?” It was always the same old gag with him. The guy could fart at will. I’m not kidding.
“How’re things, Gonzo?” I said. I always called him Gonzo. The first time I’d called him Gonzo he had taken it with surprisingly good cheer, somehow believing the nickname was born out of genuine affection, which it of course was not. But he had enthusiastically encouraged other neighbors to also call him Gonzo. I called him Gonzo because it sounded like a good name for a malevolent clown. And that’s what he was: a spooky goddamned clown.
“Well,” he said, stroking his stubbly whiskers, “I’m not doing as well as I used to be, up until a couple of weeks ago anyway. Where’s that
fine
woman of yours that I used to always see you with? Caitlin, was it?” I nodded. “Yeah, I miss seeing that tight, sweet caboose of hers. Damn, I just love those little Irish-blooded spitfires. She’d look better with red hair, though.” His face then contorted into a disgusting visage that was all too familiar to me. He held up a finger and said, “Incoming,” and then he farted again. I had to hand it to him: that one was a champion-caliber cheek flapper.
A few seconds later I caught a toxic whiff of his gastric masterpiece. “Christ, Gonzo,” I said. I just left it at that. I didn’t want to encourage him further.
“Well, you really do look like death warmed over,” he remarked. “You’re trying to emulate me, I see, by sprouting some stubble of your own.”
“It’s only seven o’clock, Gonzo. I’ll shave before the sun clears the horizon.”
“Honestly, Smitty, I can’t recall ever seeing you up as early as I have of late. What’s up with you? You look like you got in a fight with an eighteen-wheeler.”
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked him.
“Ah yes, it is indeed a beautiful, beautiful morning.” He pointed to the still-rising sun. “I know you just hate a beautiful morning, don’t you? You always hide from God’s grandeur.” Gellman had a bit of the Holy Roller in him.
“You seem to have forgotten the ten o’clock rule on yard tools,” I said. I knew I had him over the barrel now. “So I am kindly asking you to withdraw your power tools until the designated time.”
He scratched his stubble, which made an annoying sandpapery noise, and then he smiled. “That’s only on the weekends, mi amigo. The ten o’clock rule does not apply to workdays. Today is Thursday.”
He was quibbling, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “Perhaps we could take this matter up with the HOA,” I said, referring to the homeowners association. I don’t even know why I played that card, because I knew what everyone else in the neighborhood did. It was a weak homeowners association, with little power and no deed restrictions granting them any real authority. Hell, the dues were voluntary, and the money was only used to conduct quarterly meetings and to keep the common areas watered. That was it.
Gonzo set his weed eater on the ground and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried about you. You’re out here on my front lawn wearing shorts that are too big for you, you have no shirt on, and you look like hammered dog shit. Besides, you’ve never been an early riser. My yard work has never bothered you before. I’ve been doing this on Thursday morning for years now. You never said a thing. What’s more, I noticed that your lights were on inside your house. You were up and about.” He removed his hand and shook his head. “Why all the anger, Smith? I’m trying to be a thoughtful neighbor.”
He was right. I was being an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole. I was being unreasonable. I was just looking for a fight. I realized just then that my whole life had been that way. I was a confrontational prick. It was like I was on a mission to burn every bridge in my life.
“I apologize,” I said softly. I turned and started to walk away.