Tuesday
To me, the hotel was a metaphor. The address a metaphor, squatting there downtown, between a bail bondsman, a pawn shop, a liquor store. I thought, “This hotel is a toad. The type of toad that comes across the ocean on driftwood and invades an island and reproduces and destroys the fragile predator/prey symbiosis established for eons.” Everything a metaphor. I understood. I went along with Rob’s suggestion. I put on my Nikes and ran over, an easy four miles. But then I developed reservations about Rob.
1.) I tend to avoid men whose names are verbs for lawless activities.
2.) He was wearing Crocs. Fucking Crocs.
3.) His skin smelled like bread.
After the two quarts of Budweiser, the three tablets of Adderall (crushed, snorted, blue dye in my sinuses, my nose), the frantic sex (I’d give it a 5, but the bread odor was poisoning the well big-time), I knew I’d never want to see Rob again.
I pulled back the curtains, to see an alley and a sliver of sky. A pigeon coughed. The air had chunks in it, like poorly smashed potatoes.
“This hotel is an Asian carp.”
“A European starling.”
“This hotel is kudzu. Look at it, clinging to me.”
“What?” Rob said. He had a face also like a poorly smashed potato. And he smelled of bread. Goodbye, Rob. I have to go find the ice machine.
In the lobby was a blood stain in the shape of Greenland. The desk clerk gave me this knowing look, the glazed fishbowl of understanding. A fat woman slouched on the most incredibly red couch. She was the size of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, same whippit nitrous oxide grin.
I gave her cigarette money before she could ask, and somersaulted out the door, past the pawn shop, into the impossible jog of morning.
Sunday
Hassan Hassan shows up at my apartment with two bottles of cough syrup. We robo-trip. We have sex, I guess. I tell him, "The Rabbit. Get me The Rabbit from my bag over there." (The Rabbit is a giant pink dildo, with little rabbit ears attached. The idea is to bring about vaginal and clitoral stimulation simultaneously.) He hands me The Rabbit. I lay back on the bed. My legs go all crunchy, warm toast with crispy edges. I feel like a low cloud. I finish with The Rabbit. Hassan Hassan gives himself a hand job. It's like one of us could be in Iceland, the other really bored on the moon -- that kind of sex.
I go into the bathroom and vomit into the sink.
Jenna Jameson sits on the toilet. She’s reading Runner’s World magazine. She looks up, right into the ruptured retinas of my eyes, and says, “So that’s making love, huh?”
“I don’t need this right now,” I tell Jenna.
“Blitzo, the both of you. And he’s married.”
“Don’t need it, J.”
“Right.” She stands, wipes swiftly and tosses the chrysanthemum of toilet paper into the toilet. Pulls her panties up from her ankles. Her panties are lime green. She says, “If you’re going to waste a decade, I wouldn’t make it your twenties.”
Thursday
She quit washing dogs at the kennel on Thursday. It wasn’t the chemicals and the way they made her hands lobster-red, skin all peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t the shrieks, the barks, the howling of the caged and frightened animals. Or the hot roar of industrial dryers. Or the pit bulls awaiting execution. Or even how it was her job to squeeze the dog’s anuses, to make them void before she dipped them into the steel basin of water and detergent.
It was the swinging door.
On one side of the door was the lobby. Over there the lighting was insanely bright. The air smelled like flowers and Lysol. The owner blinked in the bright lighting and greeted the customers and their dogs. He would kneel down, would smile and pet and cajole. In an infant’s voice, he’d say, “Look at your little princess!” Or, “Oh, she’s a good-good dog.” Or, “What a wonderful baby, this one here.”
Then he’d sell them a key chain or a lint remover in the shape of a dachshund. And open the swinging door, to the cages.
Once the door swung shut, the customers into their cars, he’d say, “Fucking mutts!” and carry the dogs off the ground, from their leashes, them dangling, whimpering, spinning in slow circles of spittle and growl.
That morning, as she quit, she said to the owner, “You should call this place the Bad Faith Kennel.”
He looked up, at her breasts and said, “What?”
To me, the hotel was a metaphor. The address a metaphor, squatting there downtown, between a bail bondsman, a pawn shop, a liquor store. I thought, “This hotel is a toad. The type of toad that comes across the ocean on driftwood and invades an island and reproduces and destroys the fragile predator/prey symbiosis established for eons.” Everything a metaphor. I understood. I went along with Rob’s suggestion. I put on my Nikes and ran over, an easy four miles. But then I developed reservations about Rob.
1.) I tend to avoid men whose names are verbs for lawless activities.
2.) He was wearing Crocs. Fucking Crocs.
3.) His skin smelled like bread.
After the two quarts of Budweiser, the three tablets of Adderall (crushed, snorted, blue dye in my sinuses, my nose), the frantic sex (I’d give it a 5, but the bread odor was poisoning the well big-time), I knew I’d never want to see Rob again.
I pulled back the curtains, to see an alley and a sliver of sky. A pigeon coughed. The air had chunks in it, like poorly smashed potatoes.
“This hotel is an Asian carp.”
“A European starling.”
“This hotel is kudzu. Look at it, clinging to me.”
“What?” Rob said. He had a face also like a poorly smashed potato. And he smelled of bread. Goodbye, Rob. I have to go find the ice machine.
In the lobby was a blood stain in the shape of Greenland. The desk clerk gave me this knowing look, the glazed fishbowl of understanding. A fat woman slouched on the most incredibly red couch. She was the size of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, same whippit nitrous oxide grin.
I gave her cigarette money before she could ask, and somersaulted out the door, past the pawn shop, into the impossible jog of morning.
Sunday
Hassan Hassan shows up at my apartment with two bottles of cough syrup. We robo-trip. We have sex, I guess. I tell him, "The Rabbit. Get me The Rabbit from my bag over there." (The Rabbit is a giant pink dildo, with little rabbit ears attached. The idea is to bring about vaginal and clitoral stimulation simultaneously.) He hands me The Rabbit. I lay back on the bed. My legs go all crunchy, warm toast with crispy edges. I feel like a low cloud. I finish with The Rabbit. Hassan Hassan gives himself a hand job. It's like one of us could be in Iceland, the other really bored on the moon -- that kind of sex.
I go into the bathroom and vomit into the sink.
Jenna Jameson sits on the toilet. She’s reading Runner’s World magazine. She looks up, right into the ruptured retinas of my eyes, and says, “So that’s making love, huh?”
“I don’t need this right now,” I tell Jenna.
“Blitzo, the both of you. And he’s married.”
“Don’t need it, J.”
“Right.” She stands, wipes swiftly and tosses the chrysanthemum of toilet paper into the toilet. Pulls her panties up from her ankles. Her panties are lime green. She says, “If you’re going to waste a decade, I wouldn’t make it your twenties.”
Thursday
She quit washing dogs at the kennel on Thursday. It wasn’t the chemicals and the way they made her hands lobster-red, skin all peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t the shrieks, the barks, the howling of the caged and frightened animals. Or the hot roar of industrial dryers. Or the pit bulls awaiting execution. Or even how it was her job to squeeze the dog’s anuses, to make them void before she dipped them into the steel basin of water and detergent.
It was the swinging door.
On one side of the door was the lobby. Over there the lighting was insanely bright. The air smelled like flowers and Lysol. The owner blinked in the bright lighting and greeted the customers and their dogs. He would kneel down, would smile and pet and cajole. In an infant’s voice, he’d say, “Look at your little princess!” Or, “Oh, she’s a good-good dog.” Or, “What a wonderful baby, this one here.”
Then he’d sell them a key chain or a lint remover in the shape of a dachshund. And open the swinging door, to the cages.
Once the door swung shut, the customers into their cars, he’d say, “Fucking mutts!” and carry the dogs off the ground, from their leashes, them dangling, whimpering, spinning in slow circles of spittle and growl.
That morning, as she quit, she said to the owner, “You should call this place the Bad Faith Kennel.”
He looked up, at her breasts and said, “What?”
About the Author
