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Gonzoe's Blog

  • Rejected

    so, i have this friend. we'll call her Skeletor von Dusseldorf. she asked me to write an article about One Night Stand's for the December issue of Drink! an Orlando Weekly insert about Orlando's bar/club culture. i wrote one version and scrapped it. wrote another version, tweaked it, and handed it in. a few weeks later, Skeletor told me it was rejected by her editors because it was too "over the top". so now, i figure i'll show it to all of you and you can let me know what you think.

    however, first, some warnings. for example, mom - read this under no circumstances. this is one piece of writing a parent should never see of their child. you may not want me to come home for x-mas. as for everyone else, if you don't find the following things funny,  don't read on: misogyny, sex with animals, public displays of fellatio, malicious deceit, and graphic violence involving christmas candy. essentially, if you are a decent person at all, you'll just stop reading now.

    with that said, here is my untitled article about one night stands in Orlando. please to enjoy.


    ....................

                Ask someone what they think the best part about Christmas is and you’re likely to get some crappy, high fructose corn syrup answer. Family. Togetherness. Compassion. How everything looks so pretty.  Peace on earth and goodwill towards oh-my-fucking-god-shut-up-or-im-going-to-jam-a-candy-cane-in-your-eye. On a good day, there’s the person or two who’ll at least be honest and have the guts to say “presents” but that’s still not even close to the best thing about this cheery holiday season.

                The answer, my friends, is an easy lay. Really. It’s easier to score a one night stand around Christmas than it is to find a goofy goth kid wearing Wal-Mart face paint at I-Bar on a Wednesday night. Despite what grandma says, Christmas is not the season of sharing. It’s the season of having sex with someone who may or may not have your correct phone number.

                Now ladies, this doesn’t necessarily apply to you. Mostly because “one night stand season” is open for you all year long. If, in a time of need, you haven’t yet learned how to wrastle yourself up a man for the evening, then you are beyond redemption. Men are dumb. We’d go home with a water buffalo if it had a nice rack and offered the promise of Grand Theft Auto and whiskey back at its place.

                So gentlemen, you still with me? Good. Because all women, ALL women, want the same thing in this time of joy – they want to feel loved. A girl would rather be single for her sister’s wedding on Valentine’s Day than be single around any given Christmas. This time of year evokes so many sentimental feelings, that your average girl would be thrilled to watch football with your friends, so long as you’ll cuddle with her later that night. Or at least promise to. Who said anything about follow through?

                Though that does lead me to an important point: Men, if you wish to dine at any roast beef carving stations this December, you will have to play the roll of a softie. Not for any extended period of time, per say, but if you’re at a bar and want to drunkenly ask a girl “Suhwahsyernaim?” (that being drunk speak for “so, what’s your name?”) you better be prepared to follow it up with “Eiijuusrahllymishhouldinsumwoon” (or “I just really miss holding someone”). Even on the coldest day of the year, a girl’s heart will melt like cinnamon ice cream on warm apple pie over that kind of material.

                Don’t believe me? Fine. Not my problem. But I swear on all the free kegs at Back Booth that I have met some of the dirtiest, craziest, filthiest whores in all my life during the holiday season. I once met a girl who, within 3 hours of introducing myself, was asking me to (a) let her satisfy me orally, (b) have anal intercourse with her, and (c) spread my cake icing all over her face. Oh, and not back at her place. In the bathroom of the bar. Swear. To. God.

                Now, in all fairness, that may not be exactly the cider you’re looking to swig; which is fine, of course. The point is that everything you’ve ever wanted – and more – is out there for the taking. You just can’t walk up and treat it like your normal one night stand situation. Women at Christmas are much more impressed by the guy who bought a touching gift for his mother than they are the “crowned prince of Jager Bombs.”

                The thing is, girls are actually willing to be a bit crazier this time of year. They want that affection so bad they can taste it. Plus, it’s the season of giving, right? So why not give a little something special. You may have to cuddle with her afterwards and give her a massage, but luckily she thinks your name is Jacques and, yes, they really have 8-digit phone numbers now.

                One last thing I haven’t yet revealed: this scheme actually applies to girls you already know. Honest truth. I’ve slept with a girl who downright hated me two weeks before Christmas and God only fucking knows what was going through her head at the time. A week later, she couldn’t stand the sight of me again. Why? Beats the shit out of me. I was probably just in the right place at the right time. She probably would’ve fellated a mountain goat had it shown up in my place.

                The moral of this story is to keep your eyes and your ears open. Christmas is a veritable goldmine of one night stands. Always remember, nothing says “Merry Christmas” like getting to third base in the ....Washington St.... parking garage.


    4:52 PM
    • Post a comment...
      • natalie brooke

        I lol'd

        2 years ago
      • Gus Forrester

        " I once met a girl who, within 3 hours of introducing myself, was asking me to (a) let her satisfy me orally, (b) have anal intercourse with her, and (c) spread my cake icing all over her face. Oh, and not back at her place. In the bathroom of the bar. Swear. To. God."  I was there for that... though not in the bathroom- I was entertaining the ugly one back on that cum-encrusted coach. good times.

        2 years ago
      • Katie Gardner

        Fantastic.

        2 years ago

  • A Single Sentence



    “And like Solomon and David, Jesus took upon himself several wives.
        For he was first wed to Joanna, then Susanna, and lastly to Magdalene
    When questioned by his followers in Judea, he spoke the words of Deuteronomy:
    A man may love many women, he said, 
        So long as he does not love one more than another.”

                                Luke 8:5-9


        Genevieve Harrison quietly sits cross-legged in the green room. Smoothing her long, blue skirt, she looks at the television in front of her and watches as Jack McLaron yells into a video camera. His words are mostly unintelligible and overly abrasive. Even with his grey hair combed to one side and his clean, grey suit, he gives Genevieve the impression of being a local hero that somehow rose to extreme fame. Using only her index finger to wave her blonde bangs away from her eyes, she briefly wonders why on earth she agreed to such an interview in the first place. As she continues to ponder this notion, her train of thought is suddenly broken when the door to the room swings open. In the gap between the door and the frame, a young man pokes through his head and begins to speak.
        “Seven minutes till you’re on, Mrs. Harrison,” he says. Genevieve takes a deep breath and stands up. She straightens out her jacket and walks deftly in the direction of her summoner.
        “Let’s get this over with,” she whispers under her breath.
        Genevieve follows the young man, an intern she presumes, onto the edge of the studio floor. She watches as Jack McLaron finishes his rant and tells the studio audience of the short, commercial break they’ll be taking before resuming the show. In an act of obvious predetermined drama, he takes the pencil that he has been holding throughout his narration and throws it at the camera just before it cuts away.
        I really do loathe this man, she thinks to herself. But maybe I can convince at least one person who watches this garbage to see reason.
        Before she even realizes it, Jack McLaron is once again filming and he is calling her to join him on set. The audience stands up and claps, a response she knows is automated, as she smiles and waves her way onto the brightly lit scene. Jack McLaron stands up and invites her to sit next to him - just on the other side of his desk - as though he actually desires such a thing. The two quickly seat and the audience regains its composure. The few people in the crowd who are actually cognoscente of Genevieve Harrison’s existence actually scoot just an inch forward on their hard, plastic chairs as they anticipate the interview.
        “Well, Genevieve, thank you for joining us tonight,” Jack begins to say.
        “It’s a pleasure, Mr. McLaron,” she says. They both know she’s lying through her teeth. She puts her hands on his desk and is glad that there is a barrier, albeit slim, between herself and her host.
        “Look, Genny, I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” Jack begins to say. “You don’t mind if I call you Genny, do you?” he finishes.
        “No, of course not,” Genevieve replies, even though she hates the name. Her fake smile continues to shine on her already wounded face.
        “Good, so, Genny, I assume you’ve watched the show, right? I mean, I wanna cut right to the chase. This, uh, this husband of yours. Michael, I believe his name is?”
        “Yes, yes, that’s him,” Genevieve says while nodding her head.
        “Yes, so how does Mike feel about you wanting to take on a second husband?”
        “Well, Michael supports me one hundred percent. We’re of the same mind when it comes to women’s rights. He doesn’t see any reason why women shouldn’t have the same rights as men when it comes to multiple spouses…”
        “Wait, wait, let me ask you something. Do you even understand the dynamics of the American household?”
        “Yes, yes I...” but Genevieve is cut off before she can finish.
        “No, I don’t think you do. You see, a man traditionally takes three wives not only because it was deemed appropriate in the Bible, but because this way he can ensure his succession with a proper heir. That’s why some men take nine wives; and I applaud them for it. They stick to a sacred number AND get the satisfaction of knowing they’ll get dozens of chances of having the perfect son to carry their name. How can you – one woman married to multiple men – even remotely hope to carry out that mission? Are these men out of their minds?”
        Genevieve moves her body in a way that suggests a counter reply, but the crowd silences her when they stand and applaud. She wishes she could do more, but all she does is laugh nervously and allow the capillaries in her face to fill with blood causing her skin to turn pink.
        “Jack, if I may,” she begins as the crowd quiets and sits back down.
        “Of course,” he says and gestures for her to continue.
        “We don’t believe in this archaic system that you’ve just described. We think a personal legacy is all that’s important; not what children you leave behind to inherit it. History has proven itself several times over that this fact remains true.”
        “Oh, God, you’re not gonna invoke the name of Charlemagne are you?” Jack says with disgust.
        “Why wouldn’t I? He’s a perfect example of a great king who had many wives and through his horrible choice, ended what could have been a great and long-lasting empire before it even got off the ground! How can you ignore it?”
        “Because it’s all hearsay and irrelevant. Especially when we know for a fact that the Roosevelt’s gave us four great Presidents and three outstanding senators. How do you compete with that?”
        As the crowd once again erupts into applause, Genevieve knows that pleading her case has now long passed the point of pointless. She simply disagrees with a slight movement of her head and debates which issue she wishes to press onto the unwilling commentator.
        “What about the fact that nowhere in the Bible does Jesus actually discuss this family system you seem so dead-set on protecting?” Genevieve jabs back.
        “I don’t believe I follow you.” Jack McLaron leans back and looks at her skeptically.
        “There’s no indication anywhere that Jesus married because he wanted to have some superior heir; it’s clear that he took three wives because he loved three women. And, if that’s the case then, honestly, why can’t a woman love three men and want to take those men as husbands for herself? Why should she always be the one with wives-in-law? If we were given the right to vote fifty years ago, I think it’s time that the men understand that we are truly equals and therefore are capable of loving three men just as they are capable of loving three women.”
        In the audience, six women clap loudly and proudly. Two of them cry out in support. Genevieve turns to the crowd and laughs nervously. With the bright lights in her face, she can’t see more than two feet in the direction of the shadowed crowd. She only nods in their direction as a gift of thanks.
        “Mrs. Harrison,” Jack begins and leans toward her, over his desk. “If God had wanted you to have three husbands, he would’ve given you three wombs.”
        “Mr. McLaron,” Genevieve says as she leans in close to her opponent. “If God had wanted you to have three wives, he would’ve given you three penises.” She smiles at him in a look of defiance; her left eyebrow cocked up high on her forehead. Several members of the audience chuckle.
        At a loss for words, Mr. Jack McLaron merely smiles back at her.


        A large, stout, balding man by the name of Thackeray Morstead walks into the front door of his apartment and shouts out “I’m home!” His already loosened tie is now being undone completely by his left hand as he walks through the foyer and into the family room.
        “Hi, dear,” his second wife Donna says as she approaches him from the far hallway. Two knitting needles adorn her auburn hair; gorgeous locks which spend most of their time pulled back into a ponytail so as not to bother her while she sews. Happy to see her husband home from his long day of work, she smiles and kisses him tenderly.
    As they separate, he looks over to the couch and sees one of his daughters, Emma, seated comfortably and watching the television. Briefly, he glances at the animated screen to see if he approves of the content. A fairly attractive woman in a rather professional-looking navy blue skirt-suit sits on the left-hand side of the screen. On the right, at the far side of a small desk, sits a well known political pundit of increasing age and of which Thackeray has never been a big fan of. The woman he does not recognize.
    “Emma, sweetie, turn that garbage off. Why on earth would a girl of your tender age even bother with that nonsense?” he asks. His tone is common of most fathers concerned with the increasing age of their beautiful daughters.
    “But dad!” she says in protest and turns around. “Genevieve Harrison is on and my teacher, Miss Shore, is always talking about her. She sounds really cool. And I’m thirteen and am old enough to watch whatever I want!”
    Just then, Thackeray’s first wife Michelle walks in from the kitchen. She wears an apron on top of her simple, white dress. Her hands are damp – a sign that they’ve just been washed – though a few spots of white flour still decorate her strong arms. “Hi honey, how was work?” She stands a few inches away from him and only connects her lips to his cheek so as not to soil his clothes.
    “Oh, just fine, I suppose. Same as always,” he says and smiles. Emma turns around and goes back to watching TV, hoping she hasn’t missed anything important. “And you, Shell?”
    “Just more of the same for me too. Of course, I did find out at the store today that the price of flour went up another twenty-five cents per pound.”
    “Again?” he asks, agitated. “That’s the second time this year.” Michelle only raises her arms and looks to the side. Her actions suggest the phrase ‘but what can you do?’ Thackeray sighs.
    It’s then that four boys and three girls coming running down the hallway. “Dad!” they all scream in unison. Michelle and Donna each take a step back as the children of various ages crowd around their father. A large, group hug is formed as he kisses each one of their foreheads. Special attention goes to a boy of eleven years; Thackeray winks at his son and ruffles his unkempt mop of dirty blonde hair. The older son of fifteen notes this behavior in jealous silence. Slowly stepping out into the living room is Thackeray’s third and youngest wife, Cassandra. Crossing her arms, she smiles at the scene and leans against the wall. Still with his children around him, Thackeray looks over at the young woman and smiles. She closes her eyes and kisses the air in his direction. Opening her eyelids, Thackeray is briefly lost in the hypnotizing power of her bright green eyes. Cassandra blushes and turns to the side. Aware of her husband’s seemingly single-minded behavior, Donna loudly clears her throat. Thackeray shakes his head as if coming out of a trance.
    “So, right, um, what’s for dinner tonight?” he asks Michelle.
    “Lasagna, garlic bread, and green beans,” she tells him. Six of Thackeray’s children are excited by this announcement. Emma, still seated on the couch, remains unaware of the menu.
    “Okay, so has everyone finished their homework?” he asks the offspring before him. Even though all of them nod their heads in agreement, a few of them are hesitant.
    “Rachel,” Thackeray tells his middle daughter. “Don’t make me check over your homework.” She rolls her eyes at the comment and turns around to make her way back into the bedroom she shares with her two sisters.
    “Cassandra, do you mind helping me with something in my room before dinner?” Thackeray asks of his wife.
    “Of course not,” she replies. “Don’t be long.” With that, she turns and walks delicately back down the apartment hallway. Her thick, black hair waves at him enticingly as it brushes against her entire back. The curved tips of her locks intermingle with the fabric belt around her hips. For a brief moment, Thackeray’s heart rate noticeably increases. He draws in a breath.
        *                *                *
    Later that night, long after they’ve all finished dinner and Thackeray’s seven children are all in bed and asleep, his wife, Michelle, exits her husband’s personal bathroom. Now clean of all kitchen-related smears and blemishes, she wears only a light pink, cotton night gown which Donna made for her soon after marrying Thackeray.
    Approaching the far side of the queen-sized bed, she moves the covers and slips herself between the soft sheets. Thackeray is already present and is comfortably reading the latest issue of Time magazine by the light of his desk lamp. Instead of lying down completely, Michelle sits upright and leans against the headboard. Her eyes are occupied by a long, dark hair that curls slightly at one end. It rests neatly atop Thackeray’s beige quilted blanket. Gazing at the strand, her fingers attack each other’s cuticles in nervous, fidgeting motions. Thackeray doesn’t seem to notice. Finally, Michelle takes a deep and weighted breath before sliding down into her husband’s bed.
    As she moves deeper into the cool bedding, Michelle rolls over and puts her hand on her husband’s leg. Slowly and delicately, she begins to runs her fingertips back and forth along his thigh. She nudges her face lightly against his arm and closes her eyes. Thackeray merely continues to read his article on the ongoing threat of European socialism. His only acknowledgement to his wife’s actions is a slight raise in the left corner of his mouth. Some might call it a smirk.
    “Not tonight, honey,” he says without looking at her. “Long day at the office. Maybe next time, hm?” He leans over and kisses her forehead. Without waiting for her acquiescence, Thackeray returns to his literature. Michelle’s eyes snap open and she takes a deep breath before pulling away from her husband of seventeen years.
    “Thackeray?” she asks him. She remains completely horizontal.
    “Yes, dear?” he replies.
    “Can we talk for a moment?” A barely noticeable amount of slightly salty liquid begins to fill up her eyes.
    “About anything you like.” He casually continues to read.
    “Why is it okay for a man to have three wives?” she asks.
    “Excuse me?” Thackeray finally looks in his wife’s direction, but continues to hold the magazine in his hand.
    Michelle stoically repeats herself. “Why is it okay for a man to have three wives?”
    “Well, why not?” he replies. “That’s a silly question. When has it ever not been okay for a man to have three wives? Why not ask me why….bricks are red?”
    “It’s not the same and you know it,” she says and props herself up a bit.
    “Then I have to say that I don’t know what you mean,” Thackeray says and finally puts down his magazine onto his lap. He sinks down slightly to be at a better eye-level with his wife before continuing. “Every man has three wives. Everyone at the office does. All your girlfriends have two other wives-in-law to their one husband. Why is it okay? I suppose because that’s just the way things are? Or cause we don’t live in India? Is that the answer you were looking for?”
    Michelle swallows and chooses her words carefully before speaking.
    “Even though everyone seems to forget this detail, the stipulation that men can have many wives is that he loves each one equally.”
    “Well, of course. I mean, that goes without sayi…”
    “Equally,” Michelle interrupts her husband with conviction.
    “I know, Shell. Equally.” Thackeray’s voice takes on a hint of timidity in fear of where his wife is directing the conversation.
    Still looking her husband in the eyes, she bluntly tells him, “We haven’t made love in nearly a year.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” he says, pulling his head back for emphasis. “I mean, it was just the other week when…” and he trails off in his recollection.
    “The other week, right? When Sophia had her dance recital? You mean in March? You do realize this is January, don’t you?” Michelle sits up a bit as her husband’s responses agitate her more and more.
    “I…I didn’t even realize. Um…” Thackeray staggers.
    “In that time period, do you even have the vaguest clue how many times you and Cassie have jumped in bed together? And in the middle of the day when you’re children are still awake even?”
    “Michelle, angel,” he looks up at her and into her watery, brown eyes. “That doesn’t mean I love you any less. I just love you…differently.”
    Michelle now sits up completely and again leans her back against the headboard. She crosses her arms in disgust. “I knew you’d say something like that. Lord, you’re incredible.” She uses her shoulder to wipe a tear away from her eye.
    “Something like what? I…”
    “Just shut up,” she tells him. Thackeray quickly silences himself. “I’ve thought about this for a while now. I wanted to at least talk with you first to see if you’d defend yourself or apologize. I had a feeling you’d react this way though.”
    “React what way? What have you been thinking about?”
    “Genevieve Harrison is right. Women are treated like a lesser species. Of course, you probably haven’t even bothered to take the time to look into what a woman has to say,” she says with contempt.
    “Michelle, what exactly are you trying to say?”
    She looks down at him and scowls. “Thackeray, I want a divorce.”
    “What?” he says in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. Look, honey, I’m sure we can work this out. People only get divorced in severe circumstances. We can…”
    “Not anymore. This is a new world, Thackeray Delano Morstead. One you’ll have to learn to get used to. I’m leaving you. And I’m taking our children with me.”
    “But you can’t!” Thackeray suddenly becomes panic stricken and sits up. “There’s no way you’ll be allowed to do that!”
    “I can and I will,” she returns calmly. “I’ve been looking into this for the past couple of months. In between preparing your meals, of course.
    “In just a few months, you can expect me to be out of your life forever.” Michelle looks Thackeray in the eyes. “And Roland, too.”
    Thackeray sinks down into his bed. He’s sure his heart will stop beating at any moment.


        “Whiskey and soda,” Jerry Thomas says to the bartender. In a few quick motions of the hand, a drink is concocted and handed to the patron. A monetary exchange takes place between the two individuals. Jerry leaves a tip on the bar before walking away and sliding onto the banquette of a small table near the bar’s back corner. As he takes a sip, he glances up at one of the bar’s several television sets. A baseball game is shown, but being neither interested in the teams that are playing nor in the score, he turns his eyes elsewhere and his thoughts as well.
        Eventually, a girl in her early thirties enters the lounge and looks around. Since it is only 4pm and the establishment is mostly unpopulated, she easily catches sight of Jerry when he holds up his right hand and waves slightly in her direction. She walks over to the table casually while removing her long overcoat. Tossing her jacket over a chair, she drops her purse down onto the small table and begins to rummage around through it.
        “Sorry, I’m late,” Alison says as she finds her elusive wallet. “How long you been here?”
        “Oh, not too long, Miss Shore. This is still my first one,” Jerry says, acknowledging his drink.
    Alison grimaces and makes a sound of disgust. “Geez, you know I hate it when you call me that. What are you drinking?” she asks her friend.
        “Whiskey and soda,” Jerry replies while shrugging. “Nothing special.”
        “K, be right back,” she says and approaches the bar. Alison’s experience at the bar is similar to that of Jerry’s and she soon returns to her location on the hard, wooden, bar chair with a cocktail in hand.
        “So how’ve you been? How’s school?” he asks the second question in a slightly mocking tone.
        “Oh, it’s okay,” she says in an exhalation of breath. “These kids’ minds are just so messed up though. Even in middle school, I sometimes feel like I’m teaching kindergarten.”
        “Ah, still fighting the good fight, I see,” Jerry says and chuckles. He follows the comment with a sip of his drink.
        “Always,” Alison says slyly.
        “Ah, ever my little crusader.” Jerry raises his glass to Alison. “And how do all these parents feel about you filling their children’s minds with your left-wing, liberal, feminist manifesto?”
        “Well, I haven’t heard much from the parents themselves, so far. I mostly just get one or two kids saying ‘But Miss Shore, my dad says what you told us last week is a bunch of hippy garbage.’ Though that’s to be expected, I suppose.”
        “I suppose,” Jerry echoes. He rolls his eyes and looks off to the side.
        “What?” Alison cries out defensively.
        “Hey, I didn’t say anything!”
        “No, but I know you, Jerry Thomas. That look and that tone of voice mean that something else is going on in that big, mysterious brain of yours. C’mon. Spill the beans.
        Jerry sighs and, using his straw, plays with the ice in his drink. He doesn’t look up at Alison. “You really wanna hear what I have to say?”
        “Of course I do. Well, you’re not against me, are you?”
        “Not exactly,” he says, still stirring his drink.
        “You’re against me?! You think that men should have all the power…”
        “Hey!” Jerry yells out but then quickly quiets back down. “Calm down will you? I don’t think that and you know it.”
        “Then what?”
        “Did you watch McLaron the other night? When Genevieve Harrison was on?”
        “Of course I did.”
        “Was there any part of the interview that struck you as,” he pauses for a brief moment. “As particularly interesting?”
        “I can think of several parts, personally.”
        “What about the part when they discuss the quantities of male and female genitalia on any given individual?”
        “That was by far the funniest part, yes,” Alison says and laughs, remembering the banter. “But interesting? Not really.”
        “You didn’t notice how they were both right?”
        “What!? How do you figure? Harrison totally put him in his place,” she says, defending her idol.
        “Not saying she didn’t. But in a sense, so did he. He was just as right as she was. It was only cause she got the last word that she seemed on top. If that transaction happened in the opposite way, with her going first, he would have equally been right and the audience would have gone ballistic.”
        “Are you saying that men and women have equal rights? Cause if so, then I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”
        “For the love of…” Jerry trails off and readjusts his posture. Taking a sip from his drink, he finally continues. “Alison, do you have three wombs?”
        “I don’t see what that has…”
        “Just answer the question,” he interrupts passively.
        “No. No, I do not.” She rolls her eyes as she answers.
        “Okay. And do I have three penises? Or, better question, does any man have three penises?”
        “Not to my knowledge.”
        “Okay, so, according to their argument, it would stand that a man should only have three wives if he has three penises, correct?”
        “Well, essentially…”
        “And, in his argument, a woman could only have three husbands if she had three wombs, yes?”
        “That was his reply, but…”
        “So then both parties are wrong. What I got from the interview is something that no one else seemed to get. That no one should have three husbands and no one should have three wives. Or any multiple spouses, for that matter. The whole system is actually ridiculous. We were each meant to have one spouse and that’s it.”
        “Oh, Jerry, now you’re just being absurd.”
        “Says the girl who’s a strong proponent of changing the face of the entire family unit as we know it.”
        “Well, yeah,” Alison begins. “But I just want to level the playing field. What you’re talking about is gutting the entire economic and social structure of our society and starting from scratch.”
        “Just because something is fundamentally broken doesn’t mean we shouldn’t bother fixing it.”
        “But what you want is a fantasy, Jerry.”
        “Oh, so, what? Small revolutions in the name of women are acceptable? But large revolutions that help both sexes are fantasy?”
        “Okay, I think this is getting a bit more intense than either of us realize. Let’s…”
        Just then, the volume on the television is turned up to an exceedingly loud level. Jerry and Alison both look up from each other to the vibrantly tuned vacuum tubes attached to the bar walls. They quickly notice how the programming has switched from that of baseball to that of news. An extremely properly dressed gentleman graces the screen and orally dictates the text he is being shown for his viewing audience.
        “…still unsure as to what exactly happened. All we know is that Genevieve Harrison, one of the primary leaders of the feminist movement, has been shot in an attempted assassination by a currently unknown gunman. Our reports tell us that she was leaving a restaurant in Chicago when suddenly a shot was heard from across the street and that is when Genevieve collapsed onto the sidewalk. We don’t have much else right…I’m sorry, just one second…I’m…I’m being told we have a pedestrian video of the shooting…But, viewers please be warned…I’m being told it’s very graphic and you may want to turn away from your TV set.”
        The shot cuts abruptly from that of the stately organized newsroom to that of a shaky street filmed with extremely poor film quality. At first, the image is of three boys of slightly varying single-digit ages running around in broad daylight. As they play on the sidewalk, a female voice from off camera abruptly asks, “Hey, is that Genevieve Harrison?” The camera suddenly shifts focus from that of the children to that of three individuals exiting a restaurant across the street. “Hey, yeah it is,” the male camera operator says. In the center is Genevieve Harrison. Both her sides are flanked by well-dressed men.
    Suddenly, a loud gunshot is heard and the left-side of Genevieve’s neck simply explodes in a firework display of blood. The red liquid covers the face of the man to her left as she falls backward onto the ground. The camera shakes during the whole ordeal but amazingly never loses focus. “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” is all the male camera operator says. The same female voice from off camera shrieks and in a quick blur of movement, we see the camera spin back to the three children as their mother runs to hold them in her arms. Just as fast it turned away, the camera returns to the focus of the restaurant and the scene bounces up and down as the spectator runs over to get a closer look. As a perfect shot of Genevieve Harrison lying on the cement with a massive pool of blood pouring from her neck comes into view, the other of Genevieve’s men looks up at the camera. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks. Before a response can be given, the man stands up and says, “Turn that damn thing off!” One of his hands makes a long, sweeping motion at the camera and the picture quickly blacks out.
    For only four-point-six seconds, the channel remains blank as the studio editors try to decide on how to proceed. For Alison, Jerry and twenty million other Americans, each second ticks by like an epoch.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” the news announcer says when he finally returns. His face is white and his normally calm demeanor is obviously destroyed. “I don’t mean to make guesses, but it appears Genevieve Harrison – prominent political figure in the feminist movement – has been mortally wounded. I…I think it is safe to say that she has been assassinated. I…” he pauses, unsure of what to say next. Stunned, nervous and well-versed in what happens when political revolutionaries are assassinated, he simply slips out the only words on his mind.
    “God help us all.”


        James Earl Maddox sits and stares contemplatively at the chess pieces in front of him. After a time, he picks up the black rook and moves it three spaces to the right. He places it down on the board and then quietly stares again as he goes over all the possible outcomes of the game in his head. In thought, he scratches his graying temple. He does his best to ignore his other companions in the game room; all of which share his same attire of a clean, white jumpsuit.
        Across the rec room, a heavily-barred door opens. Through it steps a young man wearing semi-formal attire and with a messenger bang slung over one shoulder. He shakes the hand of the orderly who closes the door quickly. James looks up at the man briefly, but then refocuses his attention on the one-man chess game before him. Through the top of his eyes, James sees the outsider adjust his clothes before slowly making his way over to his table.
        “James Earl Maddox?” the young man says as he approaches.
        “That’s me,” James says with a heavy Southern drawl as he adjusts his glasses. He maintains his focus on the chess board before him. “Course no one ever called me by my full name till…Well, you know. I assume you’re from that newspaper, correct?”
        “The New Spectator, yes. I’m glad you allowed me this interview, Mr. Maddox. My name is Christopher Scott.”
        “Nice to meet you, Christopher,” James says casually as he looks up from his chess game and holds out his right hand. The two shake, though Christopher’s anxiety becomes obvious when he takes hold of James’ hand.
        “So, Mr. Scott, if I’m not mistaken, your newspaper only has a circulation of about two thousand people, is that not correct?” James asks.
        “Two thousand and growing, Mr. Maddox. Why do you ask?” Christopher replies.
        “Oh, no reason. You mind if I continue to play during the interview?” the elder man asks as he finally looks up at his companion. “I love a good game of chess.” He smiles.
        “Of course, please,” the reporter says and gestures to the plastic game pieces. James places his elbow on the table and returns his attention to the gameboard. “May I begin?”
        “Whenever you like,” James says without looking up. From his messenger bag, Christopher pulls out a pad and pen
        “Before I start, I just want to go over a few basic facts. Just to get the details from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” Christopher laughs nervously but James doesn’t seem to notice.
        “Right, so, you’re from West Virginia, is that correct?”
        “Born and raised,” replies James. He picks up and moves a pawn on the chess board.
        “And instead of attending college, you went to work on your uncle’s corn farm after high school, no? Worked there until your arrest?”
        “Sure do have your facts straight,” James says nonchalantly.
        “But I did find an interesting paper you wrote in high school,” Christopher says. “About Marxist theory and its application to the capitol economy of Asia.”
        James looks up at the reporter through the top of his glasses. “Ah, I see you’ve done your homework. I had a feeling about you. You independent papers still know how to do some honest reporting.”
        Christopher smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Maddox. I like to think so.”
        “Don’t get too cocky on me now. You actually read the thing?”
        “Of course! I found it quite interesting and indicative of your…”
        “Oh, quit the crap. It was a load of pig shit. You and I both know it. But if you can cut through that, you can see what I was really getting at?”
        “Honestly, Mr. Maddox, the paper seemed to come from a student of the revolution. You, yourself, seemed to be quite the extremist in your younger days.”
        “I suppose you could say that,” James says and smiles.
        “So what happened?” Christopher asks abruptly.
        “What happened?” James asks and looks up at his interviewer questioningly.
        “Yes, you seemed to go from idealistic radical in your younger years to stout conservative in your elder years; to the point of committing assassination of a revolutionary figure. You seemed to turn to the opposite side of the coin, no?”
        James Earl Maddox takes a deep breath and grunts. He turns back toward his chess game and seems suddenly aggravated with his interviewer. “Yeah. Suppose I did.”
        “You seem upset by my supposition.” Christopher pauses and thinks. “Are you saying you’re not conservative? Do you see yourself as a revolutionary for being an assassin?”
        “Lord, you’re a fool,” James says and shakes his head. “But no - if I have to feed it to you – I don’t suppose I’m a conservative.”
        “Then why murder Genevieve Harrison? Why assassinate the star of the liberal movement?”
        “For reasons you clearly aren’t capable of understanding,” James says and once again goes back to his chess game. “If you were, you’d ask me slightly more directed questions.”
        “More appropriate? How do you mean?” Christopher asks.
        “Oh, so you want me to tell you how to interview me now? Boy, I know everyone makes mistakes, but I sure was wrong about you.”
        “Please, sir, Mr. Maddox. Just give me something – anything – to help me understand why you would murder someone if you actually supported them?”
        James takes his glasses off and drops them hard onto the table. Christopher flinches noticeably.
        “Fine, but this is all you get. Then, this little shit excuse of an interview is over.
    “So, how many people had heard of Genevieve Harrison before I did what I did?” James asks.
        “Roughly a quarter of the nation, give or take,” Christopher responds quickly having prepared extensively for this interview.
        “And how many afterwards? How many now?”
        “Well, everyone. And people in other countries, too. That’s why I couldn’t believe you’d grant me this…Wait…Are you saying you killed her on purpose? In order to make her more famous?”
        James Earl Maddox shrugs his shoulders. He moves the white bishop diagonally four spaces to the left.
        “You can’t be serious, though. There’s no way you could have foreseen the country’s reaction and the repercussions that followed.”
        James shrugs his shoulders again and remains focused on the game.
        “And even if you somehow could, you would have fought to clear your name. In fact, your plea of insanity rather lends itself to the notion that everything you’ve told me is some elaborately concocted story. I think you’re really in here because this is exactly where you belong,” Christopher says being half-honest and half-rash hoping to illicit a reaction from his interviewee.
        “Yup, that’s right,” James begins. “Just some stupid, conservative redneck who murdered a major liberal, political icon.”
        It’s then that a neuron in Christopher Scott’s brain fires causing him to understand the entirety of James Earl Maddox’s story. For a time, Christopher sits in silence and stares blankly at the list of questions on his notebook, all of which now seem irrelevant. James Earl Maddox continues to play chess as though unaffected by the current situation. Soon, the door at the far side of the room opens once again and the orderly steps in to summon the exit of the reporter called Christopher Scott.
        Walking away, Christopher’s intellect is in flux. Dozens of questions and comments flip through his mind as he walks away from the most important figure he’s ever had the pleasure of interviewing. Interested in James’ response, he turns around and blurts out one last comment.
        “You know, Jack McLaron is one of your biggest supporters. He says that you’re a reminder that people always get what’s coming to them.”
        James Earl Maddox looks up and smiles. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”



    1:47 AM

  • The Patron Saint of Violence

     

                Union Square is a beautiful place in the fall. This massive square at the upper end of the Village houses not only every sort of store you can imagine, but a vast array of artisans, street performers, a playground for children, and on the right days of the week, one of the best open air fresh markets the country has to offer. As the temperature drops to that sweet spot where walking three blocks warms you up and an iced tea cools you off, people come in droves to pass their time here in the heart of Manhattan.

                On this certain day, I was walking on 14th Street, passing the south end of the Square on my way from class to the gym. Walking along, I notice today is another one of the many, endless days where the miniature, elevated amphitheater is hosting a demonstration of some sort. Usually, the crowd is gathering for something political - the freeing of Tibet or the praising of Barack Obama or whatever. You get the idea.

    Today, the meaning seems ambiguous since I don't see any signs and the gentleman with the megaphone is too far away for me to hear. I pause for a moment on the far side of the street and look over. There's another change of pace today as it seems everyone is seated on the hard cement instead of in their usual, upright and locked positions. Two or three people stand on the fringes of the seated mass and attempt to pass out printed literature to all passersby, no matter how disinterested they may look. Each one of these people is also armed with a clipboard, most likely for collecting money or information of some sort. My curiosity piquing, I decide to cross the street. I've got time to kill and the gym sure as hell isn't closing in the next twelve minutes.

    I walk up to a middle-aged woman with her brown ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball cap. She sees me coming and instinctively thrusts one of her folded pieces of paper toward me. I take the leaflet from her well-manicured hand and look down as I begin to open it up. I also engage the enemy.

    "So, what's this for?" I ask curiously.

    "The paper?" she replies.

    "Well, I assume the paper is for whatever is going on here, right?" I ask and motion my head toward the crowd. The man with the megaphone is close enough to hear at this point, but I'm not really paying attention to him. I look back down at the propaganda in my hand.

    She laughs. "Yeah, sorry. Stupid question. It's just nobody ever actually comes up to talk to me, so I froze." She laughs again.

    "Oh," I smile, "no problem. So what's it about then? Some kind of anti-war protest from the look of this page here."

    "That's right," she begins and quickly falls into a well-rehearsed and pre-planned speech. "We're here today in demonstration against the Iraq War. Over four thousand of our US troops have been killed so far in battle and today we are urging the government to bring our troops home and begin a resolution of peace and not of war. Are you registered to vote?"

    "I am, but not in New York, sorry," I reply and continue to frequently glance down at the paper in my hand. This way I can avoid eye contact but still seems as though I'm deeply interested in the matter.

    "Awwww, too bad. We're collecting signatures for a petition to send to Congress which demands immediate action on their part to construct a formal plan of withdrawal in an immediate and timely manner. If you don't mind me asking, what are your feelings on the war?"

    She's polite, but almost too polite; like a phone service operator. You can call these people and swear and curse at them and tell them you fucked their mother in the ass and they still call you sir or ma'am and use words like 'please' and 'thank you'. It makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I continue nonetheless.

    "My feelings on this war and nearly any and all armed conflicts can be summed up in the quote 'Make drinks, not war'. I find that a nice rum and coke can solve most issues of anger and tension among individuals."

    She laughs a bit nervously, but nods her head and says, "Well, okay."

    "But, no," I continue "I do agree that this war is a joke. I call it 'Vietnam the Sequel' amongst my friends."

    This gives her a reason to give me a nice, full, over-exaggerated laugh. "That's definitely one way to put it!"

    "Alright, well, I have to get to class. Sorry I couldn't help. Nice talking to you," I say. I nod my head once and begin to step away. My excuse to flee is a lie, but three more minutes of conversation with this woman was going to drive me up the freaking wall. And it's not like we had any important business left to attend to. It's just an easy excuse.

    "Thanks! Have a good afternoon!" she gives me a wave as I walk away.

    As I get to the edge of the square, I pause and turn back around. Thinking about the remark I made about Vietnam made me realize exactly how much this demonstration really is like one of the old "sit-in's" from the 60's and 70's. I think about how much my mom would get a kick out of it, so I pull my phone out to take a picture to send to her.

    Putting the shot in frame, I notice a man a few feet in front of me also watching the rally. I begin to step off to the side to get him out of the frame when some electrical impulse travels through my brain, signaling something peculiar to me. Not only is he wearing a long, khaki overcoat and black gloves, but he's holding an umbrella in his right hand. I look up at the completely cloudless sky and wrinkle my eyebrows. I finish taking the picture and drop my phone back into my pocket. For a moment, I stand there and watch him.

    New York, surprise surprise, is home to a shitload of crazy people. Hell, have you been reading these stories over the past few months? I mean, seriously. Anyway, some are obviously more interesting than others. So, generally, when I see someone that looks like they might be unhinged, I give it a minute; see if anything is about to happen. Most of the time, the world trudges on, unchanged.  But every now and then, I find myself glad to have taken those three minutes out of my day and wait for an adventure.

    A minute later and the man with the umbrella is still standing in the same spot; his extreme focus on the crowd in front of him. As I'm about to turn away, he slowly turns his head around in both directions, as though he's looking for someone. He turns his head far enough around to see me and, for a moment, he catches my eye. Nervously, I turn my head away from him and look over towards the seated crowd. The same man with the megaphone continues to speak to his audience. I'm still not listening to  him.

    A moment later, the man with the umbrella turns around and begins to walk toward me. He has those huge, bug-eyed sunglasses on and they make him look absolutely ridiculous. Not wanting to instigate Senor Cuckoo, I choose to ignore him and just stare over at the rally. I do this based on the supposition that, generally, crazy people are like ex-girlfriends; if you just ignore them, they tend to leave you alone.

    But right now I'm not so lucky. Without saying a word, the man walks up to my right side, stops, and turns to face the rally as well. Standing side by side, I take in his height (roughly mine) and his build (slightly larger than mine) through my periphery vision. Not sure what to do, I choose to try and ignore him some more in the hopes that the results will soon turn in my favor.

    "You a cop?" he asks him without turning to face me.

    "Excuse me?" I ask and look at him. He doesn't look at me. So far, the results are not going in my favor

    "Are you a cop?" he asks again, this time slightly louder and slower.

    "How many cops do you know with huge holes in their ears and that wear DC shoes?" I ask him.

    "Not giving a direct answer means you probably are."

    "Okay, look, I'm not a cop. I promise. Just a student at NYU." I turn back to face the crowd.

    "Not any kind of security or enforcement?"

    "Nope, nothing. I swear. Just passing by and seeing what's happening."

    "Why were you staring at me then?" he asks.

    "Sorry?"

    "You were looking at me before I walked over. Why?"

    Paranoid schizophrenics, hoorah! I think back upon my decision to watch this man for a moment and wish I had decided differently. This is not the adventure I had in mind.

    "Honestly?" I ask. It's a common reply of mine when the answer I'm about to give is somewhat odd and/or personal.

    "No, lie to me," he says and continues to watch the demonstration. I chuckle before continuing.

    "Well, cause unless there's something I don't know, you appear to be prepared for a thunderstorm on an essentially cloudless day. Just found it amusing is all."

    "Huh," he says and looks down at his attire. "Never even thought about that. Knew I looked unusual, but didn't put it together like that until now." He looks back up toward the demonstration.

    "Glad I could help," I say sarcastically.

    "So what do you think about this sit-in?" he asks me out of nowhere.

    "What?" is all I can think of to say.

    "You're a student you said, right? And you appear to be observant, too. So I figured I'd ask you what you thought of all this, being a relatively intelligent person and all."

    "Why thank you," I reply. "And truthfully I think it's kind of dumb. I mean, I agree with them about the war – being in that country is none of our goddamn business – but I just think the approach is stupid. Getting signatures to try and press Congress into action? Right. You'd be better off asking God for divine intervention."

    The man with the umbrella laughs but still doesn't face me. And since I'd feel awkward looking at someone who's looking in another direction, I too, face the seated crowd. Our conversation persists in this odd manner.

    "Pretty decent analysis," he tells me.

    "Thanks," I say. "And you? What're your thoughts?"

    "I don't think you want to hear my thoughts," he tells me.

    "Oh, you'd be surprised. I'm studying to be a writer. I like hearing dissenting points of view, no matter how much I disagree. Helps to make my stories richer."

    "That so? Well then, you sure?"

    "Positive."

    "Alright, you asked for it. But I wouldn't say I disagree with you, I think I just have a violently different perspective than you do."

    "In what way?"

    The man with the umbrella takes a deep breath and pauses. He puts his umbrella down on the ground and rests the handle against his leg. He starts to rub the palm of his right hand with his thumb. Finally, he proceeds.

    "I don't think peace is a solution to violence," he says methodically.

    "I'm afraid I don't follow."

    He pauses again.

    "Think of all the times you've seen violence in your life. How many of those conflicts were solved with hugs and kisses?"

    "I assume we're not talking about girlfriends, right?"

    He laughs before continuing. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean, but seriously. Violence is not cured by peaceful means. A bully doesn't stop being a bully until a force stronger than him puts him in his place. It doesn't necessarily have to be violent force, but it has to be threatening and it has to be able to back up its threats.

    "I mean, take a boring example. What if, every night at dinner, your older brother stole your dessert so you could never have any? Finally, one day your sister says 'Hey, that's not nice. I demand you stop doing that in two weeks. I'm going to sit in front of your door every morning until you stop' What do you think is going to happen?"

    "I would plan to continue losing my dessert." I say.

    "As you should. But now what if your sister said 'You have two weeks to stop. After that, if I see you do it again, I'm going to tell all the cheerleaders at school that you're obsessed with gay porn and wear dresses when no one is looking.' Then what?"

    "Then, considering the right circumstances, he may stop."

    "Exactly. And if that doesn't work, maybe she'd threaten to poison him or something. Whatever. The point is that peaceful means doesn't stop someone from being a bully. A sit-in won't work. A petition won't work. Peace does not stop violence. And, further, violence does not beget violence. Violence actually cures violence."

    "Wow, I never thought of it like…"

    Before I finish my sentence, he continues. He's clearly emotionally charged at this point and is oblivious to my reply.

                "How anyone, in this day and age, could think that peace can defeat greed and war is maddening. Here we stand, facing complete economic collapse, purely based on the fact that human greed has multiplied so violently that it alone is causing society to crumble. And how do these people want to solve it? With a letter in calligraphy and an RSVP card for the event. It's insanity. Absolute fucking delusional insanity."

                "You got a point, man," I say and take a deep breath. "But whatcha gonna do?" I ask rhetorically.

                "Make the peaceful violent," he says stoically.

                "Excuse me?" I ask and turn to face him.

                "Your sister. Threatening your brother in both scenarios. Same person. Only stronger the second time. What's different? The threat of actionable force. In short - you need to make the peaceful violent."

                "And how does one go about doing that?" I ask, somewhat scared of the reply I might get.

                "Oh," he says and pauses. "I have my ways."

                "Look, if you're planning on blowing something up, can you tell me so I can get the fuck out of here and pretend I never met you?"

                "Heh, don't worry. No bomb. Just me."

                I pause for a moment and think. A thought pops into my head but I'm not sure if I should vocalize it or run for my life. My brain apparently makes the decision for me.

                "So, if I understand you correctly, you're about to do something completely deplorable in order to make this mass of people turn from peace to violence."

                "Essentially."

                "And you're doing this because you actually want peace, right? You want an end to this war? And others, I presume."

                "Oh God. In the worst way."

    "But where does that leave you? A sinner fighting for virtue. A force of destruction that leads to a force of order. I mean, where do you see yourself in the grand scheme of things? Isn't that conflcting?"

    A pause. A long one. His eyes remain invisible to me, but his mouth moves in a way that signifies his distress. Something I said set off a trigger. I hit a little too close to home.

    "I'm not meant for this world," he finally reveals to me. "Nor the next. If there's a Hell, I'll probably burn in it. Forever. It's simply my lot. We don't all get to be Mother Theresa or Princess Diana. Some of us have to be Louis XVI or Rasputin. Some of us have to scorch the earth so badly that the people stand up and revolt and demand for something better. We have to ruin it to make it better.

    "But there's no place for us here," he says and I notice the faint stream of a tear fall down over his cheek. "I'll die and be remembered as a monster. But no one will ever realize that I was a monster so that they could be happier. That I burned the world for them and for their children."

    He pauses for a half second as he takes a breath and clears his runny nose.

    "Now, if you'll excuse me," he continues, "I have to go make the world a better place."

    Without saying another word, the man picks up his umbrella and starts walking around the crowd in a large arch around the crowd and toward the raised area where the man with the megaphone is. His stride is long and powerful. He always looks forward and never once strays his eyes to the sights around him. About twenty feet from the rally leader, he presses a button on the handle of the umbrella and it extends outward. It doesn't unfold, however, and only elongates. The strap is still wrapped around the end preventing a complete release.

    But it's then I realize how odd he's holding this umbrella. Like it's too heavy to be held upright. Like it's something else entirely.

    Then, my breath stops and my chest collapses.

    I watch, not breathing, as the man raises the umbrella up over his shoulder like a baseball bat. Then, approaching the rally leader, he swings and connects. The end of the umbrella smashes into the back of his skull with a dull thud. The rally leader makes a face of surprise and agony before collapsing onto the ground. Before the crowd has a chance to realize what's going on, the man with the umbrella raises his weapon over his head and swings down as hard as he can. Screams erupt from the center of the crowd. The stranger drops the umbrella on the ground, turns, and runs off into the sunset.

    No one is seated anymore. Half of the crowd is running away and the other half is running toward the center. I couldn't move if I wanted to. A police officer shows up and pushes his way to the front of the hysterical mass.

    Minutes later, an ambulance shows up. Though I have no idea why. It's quite obvious from the way he's loaded into the truck that the rally leader is already dead. His head beaten in with, of all things, a loaded umbrella. The police have the weapon, but because of his gloves, no fingerprint ID will ever be made. His mission was successful.

    Now normally, I never buy the newspaper. But the next morning, on my way to class, I make an exception. I pick up a copy of the New York Times and flip to the local section. There, I find the article I'm looking for. The headline reads "Peace Protester Murdered in Union Square". I skim the article until I found what I'm looking for – a quote from one of the assistant organizers.

    "What happened today was a horrible tragedy. A kind and adored man was killed while organizing a rally devoted to peace. While we may never know the identity of the killer, his act has made our organization decide to increase its measures toward Congress. There are obviously forces which wish to stop us and so we must meet those forces with equal strength. That is why we are putting together a march on the UN building for six weeks from now where we plan on blocking the entrance and exit gates until our voices are heard. In sympathy for our former leader, we've already had ten thousand New Yorkers pledge their attendance on our website for this fateful demonstration against hate and war…"

    So he was right. The peaceful slowly become violent. They're still far from a threat of great proportion, but they've taken the first step. They're on their way. Because of him, they might actually get the peace they ask for.

    I smile.

    But, somewhere in the city, I know there's a man sitting alone in his bedroom, looking at the same newspaper article.

    And he's not smiling. He's crying.



    (c) 2008 J.E. Tobal
    9:53 AM
    • Post a comment...
      • Sunrise the Sea

        http://www. imdb. com/title/tt0289992/

        I didn't pay attention to the whole movie but your story had the same feeling.


        Your story was pleasant enough to digest. Kudos. The only thing I'd like to chat with you about is, "Oh, you'd be surprised. I'm studying to be a writer. I like hearing dissenting points of view, no matter how much I disagree. Helps to make my stories richer.
        "

        It's problematic to me, your chosen words there....

        3 years ago
      • Loren Dunn

        i think those guys have a club. i see em all over.

        3 years ago
      • Neil

        Noir-ish and powerful.

        3 years ago
      • Joshua Branton

        I like your stories. This particular one was very good! Keep it up.

        3 years ago
      • :*:BAM BAM:*:

        dude, i read a sentence all i can say "is you broke my heart"..lol

        3 years ago

  • One Night in Buenos Aires

    Before the story, very quickly, here are my cold, hard numbers behind my trip to Argentina:

     

    Length of Stay, in Days - 9
    Nights I Went Out Drinking - 7
    Hours Between Plane Landing and Trip to First Bar - 4
    Museums Visited - 0
    Churches Visited - 0
    Malls Visited - 4
    Cemeteries Visited - 1
    Meals Eaten Not Containing Meat or Pasta - 3
    Subsequent Pounds I Gained During Trip - 7
    Amount that Love Had to do with It - 0
    Days I woke Up Before Noon - 3
    Pieces of Original Art Procured - 3
    Total Cost of Art, in Dollars - 107
    Bars that Carried non-Bacardi Rum - 0
    Bars that Could Make a Good Mixed Drink - 0
    What is So Hard About This - ?
    Distant Cousins Dined With - 11
    Phones Stolen by Prostitutes - 1
    Credit Cards Left in ATM - 1
    Days Until I Leave for Florida - 8
    Days Until Class Starts - 13

    Chances I'll Have a New Card By This Time - 1:10,000

     

     

     

    And now, the tale....            


                At this point, I'm pretty sure all of you know that I got my phone stolen by a hooker while I was in Argentina. If you didn't know that, you at least know my phone was stolen because I've had to get everyone's phone numbers again. So, if you're in that category, then guess what? You know my phone? You know how it was stolen?

    Well, a hooker stole it.

                Ta-da.

                The story that follows is my only real, good, interesting story from my time in Argentina. It's a sort of long, multi-part story that spans two separate evenings, but it's all I really got. Telling you about how we found bar after bar where the bartender looked at you like you had just asked him for a quick, $10 blow-job when you said the words "Captain Morgan" really isn't all that interesting. Nor is the fact that Argentina seems to only have two food groups – Pasta and Beef.

    But hookers attacking you on the street?

    Ole!

                So, my plane lands on Monday night around 7pm. By the time I get to the apartment it's about 8:30pm. Meals in Argentina are later affairs than they are in the US, meaning dinner isn't usually eaten until about 9pm or 10pm. So, once I sit down and relax and unpack, it's time for dinner. As we finish up, my brother, Adam, asks me if I want to go out and just grab a quick drink. I tell him that I slept about 6 hours on the plane, so I'm actually up for whatever. My sister options to stay behind and just the two of us head out for, what is supposed to be, a quick drink or two.

                Really, if you know me at all and don't see the spiral of weird this night is about to take, then I don't know what to tell you.

                We get to this one trendy microbrewery joint (like an Argentine Brewzzi or Heartland Brewery) and it's pretty dead. At this point it's only about 11:30pm. But it's a Monday and people in Argentina rarely go out on weekdays. This place has literally about 6 other people in it. So we have one overpriced drink and decided to venture for parts unknown. My brother talks to the bartender and we decided to take a 20-minute walk to this downtown area that was supposedly populated with many drinking establishments.

                Notice the use of the word 'supposedly'.

                I shit you not when I tell you this, but for 90 minutes my brother and I walk around downtown Buenos Aires and don't find a single, normal bar. By normal, I mean that we do find at least ten different establishments where the company of women could be bought. Beer is on the menu, but so is vagina.

    Yes, Argentina has a very serious prostitution problem right now. Even worse is the problem they have with child prostitution. At one point while wandering the streets, we walked by two girls who looked to be around 13 or 14 who were shouting out prices playfully to each other. I believe one of them was quoting a price around $15 USD.

    I am not making this up.

                After accidentally walking into two or three of these "bars" that turn out to be pink taco stands, I jokingly say to my brother "Man, how do you say 'Irish Pub' in Spanish." Luckily, this reminds him that there is an Irish Pub in our area called Killkenny (no South Park pun intended). We ask a parking garage attendant where it is and find it pretty quickly. Unfortunately, to our dismay, as soon as we walk in we find that the bar is about as equally populated as the place we were in to begin with (the trendy microbrewery). But at least the drinks are a bit cheaper, so we sit down and order a drink.

                And another one.

                And maybe some shots of Jager.

                One drink? Ha! I laugh at this proposition of one drink.

                After about an hour, it's 2am and it becomes pretty evident that the bar is shutting down. We leave with a good buzz and grab a taxi to get us home.

                A matter of blocks before getting back to my grandma's apartment, we pass by a small bar on a corner that is packed with people. Because we love adventure, we told the driver to pull over and we got out and went inside.

                Bordo Bar was the place we had been looking for all night. A small, two story bar with a rickety, metal spiral staircase to the second floor. One wall was made of brick and had a small, non-functioning fireplace in it. The drinks were cheap and they even made shots. Oh, and did I mention how there was more than one table of young, attractive women? No? Well, guess what? There was.

                My brother and I sit at a table next to four girls when I tell him to walk up and offer to buy them a drink. I would've done it myself, but I don't speak Spanish nearly well enough to negotiate those kinds of war terms. Hilariously, within 30 seconds of the offer, my brother finds out two things about these women. One, they all speak English. Two, they are all 17 and seniors in high school. These are literally the first two sentences out of these girls' mouths. I'm laughing my ass off when they tell us to pull up chairs and join them. If I was in the US, I probably would have suspected that it was a Chris Hansen sting operation. But, when in Rome....

                We end up staying there talking to these girls until about 4am. They teach us this word "pesuti" which they described by saying "You know Paris Hilton? Lindsay Lohan? Nicole Richie? They are all pesuti." That pretty much summed it up. We eventually leave and head home for the evening.

                That was your setup. Now, for the main event.

                Thursday rolls around and Adam and I decide to head back to Bordo Bar. We get there around midnight and the bar is still relatively quiet. Over the next hour, the place becomes packed. Apparently this bar is a popular hangout for high school kids to pre-game at before they go out to the main clubs. Seriously, this whole place was filled with nothing but high school kids. I think I was the oldest person in the bar by a decade (not counting Adam). What's really kind of terrible about this is the fact that the hipster fashion is immensely popular among the Argentine youth. This means the entire male population of the bar was 17-year old boys who looked like they just walked out of Williamsburg. Yeah, try to imagine that vividly without becoming incontinent.

    But I digress. There's this table of two girls sitting next to us and we keep thinking of how to try to engage them in conversation. It's at exactly this point in time when one of them turns around and starts talking to us. No lie. And she was pretty good looking, too. We tell them to join us, but they say they have some friends coming.

    Whatever. Whores.

    Their friends finally show up and I decide to buy them all shots. And these two other girls shots at another table. And shots for Adam and I. Eight shots might seem expensive, but at this place it cost less than $20 USD.

    Zing.

    This move causes us to re-engage conversation with the table of now four girls. They're throwing back clericot (think sangria but with different kinds of fruit and white wine instead of red) like it's nobody's business and this one brunette is being overly flirty with me. It's at this time that Adam gets distracted by a separate table of about 8 girls and starts talking to them. Sometime around 2am, the four girls that I'm talking to leave to go to this club called Kiki (or something along those lines). They tell us to come, but seeing as I don't actually plan on hooking up with a 17-year old, I'm not really pushing for the trip. Plus, Adam seemed to be making some headway with the other table of girls, so I figured I'd let him work his magic. So we get the location of the club and tell them maybe we'd meet them up later.

    Oh, I forgot to mention, I'm pretty fucking drunk at this point. Aside from my own drinks and shots, I've also started working on the clericot and I even think I got a pitcher for myself.

    I dunno. I was drinking heavily.

    Fuck you.

    Soon, the situation with Adam and his table of women devolves. A couple of the girls seem to be deeply Christian and begin getting weirded out by us. The one girl Adam was totally into leaves to go outside and doesn't come back (she has a boyfriend, but this nugget of information wasn't stopping him). Then some of the douche hipster guys that the girls knew came over and everything was getting less and less fun at a rapid rate.

    I know, I know. You'd think I'd love to hang out with a bunch of Christian 17-year olds and some assclown hipsters, but nope, you're wrong. Surprising, but true

    At this point, we decide to leave and hit up that Kiki place. We hop in a cab and head to the area which is quite a hotspot. Tons and tons of bars and clubs and patio bars and you name it.

    ("You name it" includes you know what.)

    (That means whores, dumbass.)

    We find the club and enter. Being drunk I was totally unaware of this, but apparently it cost $8 per person to get in, which in Argentina is goddamn highway robbery. That's how much people make in a fucking day in that country. Realize, I had just bought 8 shots for the price of our combined admission. Put that in a pipe and smoke it.

    Whatever, we're in. The place is ridiculously full, but I manage to get us two absurdly overpriced drinks. You'd think the vodka was made from Angelina Jolie's breast milk or something. It's the only justifiable reason to charge that price for a highball drink.

    After spending about 20 minutes or so in the club, we can't find the girls from Bordo Bar. I also notice myself starting to get belligerent, which is really not a good thing to do in a place where you don't speak the language. And a place that kind of doesn't worry about cracking down on the 13-year old prostitution issue. So, we decide to leave and find another, less expensive and less Miami-esque place to drink.

    So, here's me and my brother. We're both piss drunk and walking down the streets of a city we don't really know all that well. Really, how could this have possibly ended well?

    We accidentally take a turn down a road we probably shouldn't have, because we quickly came across two ladies of the night. They approached my brother, but he yelled at them something in Spanish and waved his hands all menacingly like he was Jet Li and shit. The sharks must've smelled blood cause this is when they attacked me. Honestly, it was kind of disgusting. One of them latched onto my leg and was half-humping, half-vibrating on it. It was like she was having a seizure or something. I finally push them off me and they start to walk away.

    I have no idea how, but somehow my alcohol-addled mind thought to check my pockets to see if I'd been robbed. Which is amazing cause I don't even think to do that shit sober. I pat my right pocket and realize my phone is gone. I start to go after the two girls who are only about 10 feet away, but a car is waiting for them and they quickly duck into it.

    "Give me back my fucking phone!" I yell out to them and something gets tossed out of the car. For a second, my heart leaps and I think I'm actually gonna get my phone back.

    Fail.

    She had not thrown my cell phone, but instead, threw her own shitty cell phone which was crusted with pink glitter and stickers and other things that a 10-year usually uses to decorate their trapper keeper. Because I'm drunk and angry, I pick up the cell phone and lob it at the back window of the car. I also yell out "Fuck you!"

    In retrospect, I realized how fuck-all stupid this was. The driver of the car more than likely had a gun or a knife or a lead pipe or a really, really sharp pencil and would not have hesitated to use it had I damaged his car with the phone. So, no, this was not one of the brighter things I've done with my life. Eh.

    Awesomely enough, this didn't stop us from our original mission. We turned around, walked back to the main plaza, found a bar, and sat and had a drink. When most people get robbed by a hooker at 3am in a foreign city, they usually call it a night. No, not us. We demand drink.

    But when about 4am rolls around, the reality of the situation finally sets in and we decide to pack it in. We may have also been out of money at that point. I'm not exactly sure. It's not beyond reason.

    When we get home, I send Helio an email asking them to shut off my phone. Because yes, phone companies always shut off phone services by request of email at 4:30am. Why not?

    So the next day, I finally call and have them cut off my phone service. I contact the phone insurance company and have them send me a new phone.

    Mind you, I still haven't gotten that new phone yet, but I should have it in my possession and operational within about 12 hours from now.

    Fucking US mail.

    But hey, don't think I can one-up that?

    The very next day, I go to an ATM to take out cash and promptly leave my card in the machine. It was one of those old machines that takes your card and doesn't give it back to you until after it's given you both your cash and your receipt. So, the ATM eats my card and by Saturday evening I was without a source of income or a telephone.

    WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    The moral of this story is:

    Fuck you. That's the moral.

    End.

    12:27 PM
    • Post a comment...
      • Melissa Sasse

        two things:
        1. if you hadn't demolished the girls phone you might've been able to find out who it was registered to and caught that bitch or at least been able to use it!
        2. you DEFINITELY need a drink after some shit like that

        3 years ago
      • Neil

        Sorry to hear of your troubles - but that's a great story!

        3 years ago
      • Sandy Hutchins

        Wow. Never had my phone stolen by a hooker, but I did lose my ATM card in Rio in an ATM. By the way, I miss you and I love your stories.

        3 years ago
      • Joshua Branton

        Fantastic!

        3 years ago
      • kelly

        only you joe... only you...

        3 years ago
      • Jen Jen ツ

        love love love your stories.

        3 years ago
      • Paul Christopher Willia…

        ROFLMAO! Dude your the best. Ill try to meet up with you this weekend even just to have a drink or something.

        3 years ago

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