Like Sand Through An Hour Glass, The Days Of No-Strings Sex…

Pokey and Aurie were trying to sweat me out.  They weren’t about to leave me alone with her.  Not as long as they each thought they had a crack.  It was getting late, Sunday night, and everybody had work in the morning.  Or at least I did, and that’s all that mattered.  The shitty bottle of wine they brought was long gone, and now everybody was subsisting off my largess.  My Sunday beer.  It was killing me.

Go home you lousy leeches.  Go home and vaporize into non-existence.  Just fold into some passing parallel dimension.  Hang out in quantum possibility for an aeon or three.  My beer is almost all gone because of you two fucks.

“Whose ready for another beer?” I asked, getting up.

“I’ll take another one,” everybody said.  Everybody in the entire world.   I winced, but my back was turned.

“Some more of my beer, coming right up!” I announced.  A little pissiness leaked through the pants of my facade.   I was hamstrung.   I couldn’t call these two couch mushrooms out as blood-suckers in front of the chick.  Not so early in the seduction process.   I would look like a petty alcoholic.  She’d get to see that part of me later.  Hopefully much.  This was no time to sandwich board it.

Besides, they might make a case for being Even-Steven because of the Two Buck Chuck they spotted earlier.  Like that counts.  I hate wine.

I looked at my watch.  33 more minutes before Owl Liquors closed.  The rail was coming down.  Should I just drive to the store now?  I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to wind up having to spot a whole new party package myself, and with the arrival of lots more beer, I’ll never get rid of the Toad Stool Twins.  I can try to wait them out a little longer.  I’ll give them sixteen more minutes.  I rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck.

“I really have to pee!” Bobbi informed us.  Well alright.  She pushed herself out of her lotus, brushed the cracker crumbs off her jeans and walked to the bathroom through our little dude triangle.

“Excuse me, guys.”

We all checked her out.  Nice butt-cheekage.  Two big melons straining the seams of her jeans.  Our shifty eyes caught each other looking so we turned away.

“Cool chick.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Bobbi had moved to Santa Fe from Providence, Rhode Island, which made her kind of exotic.  She was a little crunchy, and a little grungy.  She was Crungey or Grutchy.  No make-up, air-dried hair, torn jeans and thrift store sweater type.  She did sport a personal Kryptonite in the form of cat glasses, and you can tell beneath all the woodsy, wholesome burlap and denim, she had a burlesque stripper’s body dying to get out.  That was not going to happen with three dudes sitting around drinking beer.  I’m sure it happens, but not in the dimensions that I tend to frequent.

“So you guys have to get up early for a landscaping gig tomorrow?  Or, are you free to party on?”

They looked at each other.

“We don’t do landscaping,” Pokey said.

“That’s right, ” I said, looking at my watch.  Eleven more precious minutes left.  We heard the toilet flush, and looked at each other.  Uh-oh.  I could tell they were both in it to win it.  I just better go get some beer now.  This is going to be a long night.

She came out and smiled at us.  She went back to her pillow, sat down, and crossed her legs.

Is it even worth it?  She’ll just wind up hating you anyway.  Everything winds up rotting.  This whole game is rigged against us.  Death is our only true relief.

“Are you okay?” she asked me.

“Oh yeah, I was just wondering if maybe I should make another beer run.”

Everyone agreed that was a great idea.  Yes?  Great idea?  Not so great that anybody reached for their wallet.  Fuck it.  I break.  Lost this battle, but the war rages on.  Double down on victory in the Kursk salient.

I got up.  My death ray was in full effect as I looked at the two urchins avoiding my eyes.  Can’t penetrate into their souls if they don’t look.  Sneaky fuckers.

“Be right back, guys.”

“Let’s burble some herbal,” one of them said, as I closed the door behind me.

I walked out to my car.  No muffler.  The roar set off car alarms when I drove past.  Sometimes, like now, it felt good.  Sometimes it was just embarrassing.  The clerks at Owl used to laugh about hearing me all the way from Maynard.  Ha-ha.  I pay your rent.  Show a little respect.  A little awe.

I drove up to the window.  It was the old lady.  She looked like an apple doll.

“EEEEEEEE! Crazy huero is here!  We were talking that we could hear you–”

“A case of MGD bottles, and two 40s of Old English. Throw in a shot of Dark Eyes, tambien…por favor!”

I had no time for idle chit-chat.  Those two back there are probably filling her in on all kinds of information she hadn’t received clearance on.  Homo Todd’s Halloween party, The St. John’s Incident, any number of open mike nights, the Dread Zeppelin show, Soul Asylum at UNM.  Just a whole bunch of information she didn’t need to process just yet.

I didn’t mean to, but I peeled out from the window.  The tires were bald enough.  They didn’t need the abuse.  Like anything did.  It just seemed like when I got uptight, I would naturally scatter that shit wherever I doth roam.

My roaming took me on to St. Francis then a right up Alameda.  I cracked one open and murdered half.  Threw the cap out the window, and killed the rest.  Tucked the empty under my seat, and hand signaled a left turn.  I fished a butt out of the ashtray and sparked it.  I was feeling a little better.

I was grateful that the State of New Mexico had come to it’s senses about allowing package liquor sold on Sundays.  When I heard it was official, you would’ve thought it was V.J. Day by the way I rejoiced.  Jumping up and down and punching the air kind of joy.  For a long time, you couldn’t buy booze from a store on Sundays.  Just at a bar.  If you’re already passing up meals to keep the lights on, the extra financial burden of getting your grog on a Sunday, because you drank up your stash on Saturday, could be just the thing that upsets the household budget, and severely restricts how much beer Father can purchase for the rest of the week.

And that makes Father cross.  Hostage-takey kind of cross.

But those Dark Ages were behind us now.  We were moving into a brave new world.  I looked over to all the beer and smiled.  My happy bunch of beer.

I parked the car and cracked another one.  Might as well get a few under my belt to fortify me for battle.  I sized up my chances.   The trolls kind of came as a set, and women hate to break up a set.  I knew that much.  Advantage me.  However, they were more from the same tribe.  That woodland, Kashi-crunching, outdoorsy knit cap wearing, hacky-sack kicking peoples.  Advantage them.

They were easy-going and mellow.  I was hateful and dangerous.  Pretty even there.

They had weed, although I never actually saw it.  Advantage them.  I had lots of beer, although they’d never actually see it.  Advantage me.  Big advantage.  Okay.  I win.  I tucked the empty under.

I grabbed a six-pack to bring in.  Six beers between four people.  Heh-heh.  A party-spoiler if there was ever one invented.  I couldn’t pull it off with people who knew me well.  They’d see me walk through the door with a six and know I was hoarding.  But if these people really knew me, I wouldn’t have to go through this charade.

The whole night had been a charade for me.  I had been as fake as an electric fireplace.  A faux-finished one.  Sitting there, trying to nod my head in all the appropriate parts of the conversation, when I would have rather just stared, slightly slack-jawed and entirely not interested.  It was grueling.

Pokey had been talking about his idea for Judo trading cards.  God, what a stupid idea.  I had already heard part of this brainstorm before.  Typical late-night, unrealistic pipe-dream ambition caper.  Who the fuck cares enough about Judo, besides Pokey, to get into collecting trading cards about that shit?

I took Judo as a kid.  Pretty worthless as a martial art.  Unless you go to a bar where everyone wears the pajamas and agrees to only flip each other in a fight.  If some ass-hole grabs your chick’s ass, you could go over there, bow, grip each other by the pajama lapels and start waltzing around the dance floor looking for an opportunity to roll him over your hip like a jitterbug dancer.  Then Judo wouldn’t be worthless.  Other than that…

I had to act supportive.  Couldn’t just piss all over his Rose Parade.  Really wanted to though.

“That sounds like a great idea.  Everybody loves Judo, so everybody would love Judo trading cards.  I hope you will buy me a beer or four to replace the ones you drank tonight when you become a millionaire.”

Ha-ha-ha.  We all laugh together.  Ha-ha-ha.  We’re all friendly friends.  Ha-ha-ha.

I cracked open another beer.  I’ll go back in right after this one.   Not too eager for another earful of Aurie’s conspiracy theories, and the inevitable buzz-kill that results from believing some of them.  Sure most of them you could shuck aside, but if a dude just keeps coming at you with them, like that’s his thing, and he is very eager to share his personal nightmare with you, eventually he’s going to spin one out that you find yourself believing.  Especially if your stoned.  We’re losing the war for Man to the Lizard People, being one that rang true to yours truly.

Holy shit. He’s right!  It’s them.  From Reptilis Reticula or some shit.  Bush for sure.  Others?   Too many to list.  What can I do to overthrow them? I have trouble holding down a day job.  Oh yeah.  We are fucked.

I call it Fear Tripping.  Get yourself on a course of thought that leads from one scary thought to another, but always slightly scarier.  Amp that bitch up.  See if you can get your teeth to sweat with fear.  The thing I’ve found about scary thoughts, is that there are always other ones that reinforce them.  Once you go down that alley you’re doomed.   All you can do is stop thinking.  Meditation is one way.  I had another.

It started to get clinky under my car seat as I stuck number four under.  One more, and I’ll go in.  I snapped off the top.

I wondered how long Bobbi would be my girlfriend.  She seemed like a three-to-six month.  Stable enough to make it work for awhile, and then too stable to make it work anymore after that.  Those are a little rougher to bounce out of.  By then there’s enough history to pull out the long knives.  You’re not going to scoot out without getting shived a few times with The Dagger of Ugly.  She seemed like a nice girl, but that doesn’t mean shit in a break up.  I’ve watched Gaia Goddesses and Moon Mothers turn into Medusas once they smelled the funk.

Works with animals?  Helps the poor?  Teaches children?  Christian?  New Age?  Green?  Rainbow?  Doesn’t matter.  Hurt them and they all go wolverine.  God bless them for that.  Most dangerous animals will leave you alone if not provoked.  Why did I keep poking at them with my stick?

Well okay.  Yeah.

But is that really a good enough excuse?  Bobbi seemed like a really nice girl.  Nice enough not to deserve the likes of someone like me.

It was that last thought that did it.  I started the car up, and backed out of the car port.  I had this moment of clarity.  Or at least as clear as a moment you can have after 7-8 beers.  I didn’t need to get involved.  Just because she was attractive, and I was bored and “lonely.”  I didn’t need to insinuate myself into her life, and then feel bad for doing it in the first place.  I wasn’t up for the guilt this time.

I’ll hold out for somebody equally traumatized by life.  That way we’ll be even when everything goes to shit.  I’ll let the two trolls fight over her.  It was an ever so small inching towards something resembling a conscience.  An emotional troglodyte’s first evolutionary movement towards a sentient bi-pedal existence.

I turned onto St. Francis.  They’re going to be wondering what happened to me.  Hell, I was wondering what just happened to me.  I wrote it off as just saving myself a six-pack, but it felt like more.

A cop climbed up behind me.  The no muffler.  He had to be hearing it all the way in his bone marrow.  I was going to jail.  Going to have to wake up Marko for bail.  He followed me all the way down Cerrillos, but turned off on Baca.  Only in Santa.  Maybe my karma was getting a little better.  I aimed my car for home.  I had work in the morning.

Sanitized for your protection.

27 responses to “Like Sand Through An Hour Glass, The Days Of No-Strings Sex…

  1. Very nice. Worthy of paper and binding, this one, definitely. And you pulled the best trick-the “always leave ’em wanting more” trick. Like going to see Nugent, and he plays his whole set, then leaves the stage without performing Stranglehold. I mean, fucking everybody would be going apeshit hoping the Nuge comes out and plays it for an encore.
    So, now you’ve got me on the edge of my seat hoping for more stories from this “say hi to the bad guy” style of tale telling. Really, I love it when you write about kind of being a motherfucker without disclaimers. I mean, it just has that extra level of realism-cause we can all relate to despising beer mooching cock blockers, even if in the end you sort of did the chivalrous deed.
    On a totally different note-I wholeheartedly disagree with your critique of Judo. It is very effective in street fighting. The last thing a motherfucker expects is to be gripped up, kneed in the stomach or groin and then “flipped” or just hip roll tripped, to the ground whereby the boots can be liberally applied to their head at will. Most of the fights I’ve won in my life were because of dirty fighting and Judo. And I want a fucking trading card made of me for it.
    Also, my wife and I both agree you are a dead ringer for her father when he was younger in that picture. Not that that has anything to do with anything, but you know, I just felt like noting that on your blog.

    • Haha, Dude. Maybe it was just the type of Judo I learned, at The Camarillo Community Center for little kids. Mr. Nishimori taught it. I’ve got a few blogula worthy stories about that shit. Maybe if they taught us groin kicks I might have liked it more. As it was, we just spent a lot of time either waltzing or tumbling. Occasionally you’d get to choke out some dude, but they’d stop you pretty quick, since I guess, actually killing your opponent wasn’t part of the deal. Many years later, Marko and I realized we were both taking it at the same time, before we knew each other. I’m sure I choked that fucker out. (ha. Kidding, Marko. I’m sure you kicked my ass) Whatever.
      Strange that I would resemble Deanna’s dad. Irish isn’t he? Hell, it’s not like I haven’t tried at times to pass. Good deal. Dude, you have to tell me some using dirty judo fighting stories. Tell me a bed-time story. Hah-yah!

      • The knee to groin isn’t exactly an acceptable Judo move, I don’t think. I ad libbed it once, and followed through with the most basic trip and half flip they taught me in Judo classes. Where I went they were kind of really thorough about it. I went for like ten months and the old guys teaching the classes made me practice like the same three moves incessantly. Like they ground that shit into me. And they were dead fucking serious about that shit. I did not like going to Judo because of the humorless old guys, and I never thought about it as anything but a fucking boring pain in the ass.
        Of course, through the years I tried to fight like show off brawling style with little success, but then I found myself in situations that were a little more hairy than just pugilism engaged in by a couple of good chaps.
        Surprisingly the cross arm gripping up of the lapels thing came instinctively when the time called for it, and I was able to get the cocksucker off his feet and on the ground like it was nothing. Thinking back on it, those old guys weren’t really training us for tournaments or the olympic team, I don’t think. They were showing us the basic way to fuck a motherfucker up when need be. Really, the knee to the groin and stomping stuff just goes right along as a follow through. I’ve also, once memorably, given the ol’ knee to the stomach- then an uppercut-then grip up and flip-then stomp the shit out of. I think I wrote about that in my blog, the Gladiator School Dropout post. Most of the time it’s just knee-grip-trip-stomp-and get the fuck out of dodge.
        But when you go in with a preplanned “secret move” like a goddam video game character, your opponent simply does not know what the fuck is going on. Especially if he’s expecting you’se to duke it out or engage in homoerotic wrestling maneuvers.

      • Ok, I have to begin with the disclaimer that I learned my best move from a mail-order pamphlet I bought as a kid, but that fact aside, I always got a kick (pun so intended) by Kah-rah Tay dudes. Like when they square off on the dance floor in some Elvis-learns-karate stance. Oh shit. Embarrassing ass-kicking coming up!
        I’ll tell you what I’ve seen work well, is that there Aikido. T-Bone knows that stuff and he used it to great advantage. But, I mean he was really pretty serious about it. Pulled a fucker off of me one night and waltzed him out nice and smoothie.
        Flores Brothers used to drill us over and over, too. I think it worked. I sometimes found myself able to just go robo. Auto-pilot ass-kick. I could let the Muse of Mayhem flow through me. Not unlike Isadora Duncan, I became one with the dance. Some nights it didn’t flow so good. All I could manage was to keep my ears from being ground into the broken ashtray glass while rolling around. Victory enough.
        Ah, if only I had another youth to spend misguided. You know, kick out the jams, one more time… So old now, so soft…

    • No part 2, I just drove home. I guess I fucked up and didn’t make that clear. Okay, that’s going to really bug me now. Shit. Alright, watch this…just going to add a little something. Keep any more of this from happening.

    • Well, in that case your turning point was even more poignant. Those subtle realisations that turn the super-tanker bit by bit, away from the rocks. 🙂

      • The super-tanker metaphor is apt. I was slow and lumbering, filled with combustible liquid, and prone to run aground. PS Glad you got to use the pic. It’s a thought-provoking portrait, almost Diane Arbus.

  2. Everything from your deal in Santa Fe is news to me. It’s good to finally find out what went on out there with you guys. I was there for 2 days in my entire life on my way driving to New Orleans and I visited Pat Decker and felt out of place and got the hell out. Your sister has been there most of her life now, and Keller too. It’s interesting. Picturesque story as per custom here, Pal 0 mine.

    • “Well that’s news to me?” Mad Dog answers Stoogie when told that him and Sledge are two months behind on the rent and now owe him $400.
      I forget you weren’t there in Santa Fe those years. Seemed like your ghost was always poking around though. Dude, did anything ever happen in your life? vim. Were you ever a witness to something cut-down? I once did. Chin knocks over full beer.

  3. Awesome, you crazy huero. Good on you–leave ’em wanting more, they’ll follow you anywhere. Or at least you feel some kind of dignity…which is a lot better than being followed anywhere for any significant period of time. Then it’s off to Creepy-Land! Good vibes to Camarillo! Thanks for the, you know, the usual.

    • Also–waltzing, in Judo class? Are you sure the folks didn’t sign you up for Cotillion instead? How are you at distinguishing dessert forks from salad forks? Both can be used as weapons, would be one of my guesses as to a response to that from you. Although, that would not be distinguishing, that would be similarizing. Shit. Sorry, man. I need to go get laid, I’m getting way too lame. And I don’t even do chicks. Excuse my language, ladies. Auf wiedersehen!

      • I’m not going to comment on Judo anymore, since I’ll just use up material I could better employ padding the blogula I’m going to write. Be assured that the “waltzing” will be addressed, and hopefully bring clarity to your query. I will bring up a rather humiliating story regarding a salad fork as weapon though. I just start going out with Sue. We’re sitting in a Carrows with two biker friends of her and her ex. Just having coffee. In comes, Sue’s ex, a pretty gnarly looking hombre. Wait, fuck this. This story might save my ass some week. Forget it. Pretend I never brought it up.

    • Orale! I kind of fucked up, que no? I made my story all confusing and shit, and all my bros were all, “Oh the story’s not EEEEEEven over!” Que no? Pero, it was. All finished. I felt all stoopid. Not making it claro that like the vato already decided to bail when he started the car. Hey, whatever, no? Not like I’m writing a book for school or shit.

      • Chingada, homie, I was tryin to read your book and shit, where the fuck you know some of them words, vato? So I’m ALL fucked up and then, my lady rolls up with some other bitches and was all, Y que? and I’m like, Sad Girl, you KNOW Huero’s book is on the computer, come back later, bring some shit with you and lose the bitches, and she was all, Joselito, I got a itch Im gonna find someone who knows how to scratch me good and I was all, Chinga tu y tu puta madre,Ima read this book, go on then. Then my moms comes in and shes like, Eh, mi hijo, you gotta go get diapers,and so now Im here with the diapers and my girl,she did me a good, we got some good smoke and moms just came in with some cabeza tacos so I gotta bail but me and you gotta hang soon, I aint seen you since we was on the dorm in MCJ a couple months ago, right? Orale, man, keep it real, like for real.

  4. Ever since the “freckled breasts” revelation, I find I take a look at the tags associated with your posts. Who comes up with this stuff? WordPress? Anyway, my favorite this time is “sneaking suspicion”, with “Old English 800” a close runner-up for sentimental reasons. Be well, all!

    • I come up with the tags myself. Sometimes I just try to pick out weird or random ones, without really basing them on whether they will drive up hits, which “freckled breasts” and its many close derivatives continue to be the most popular search engine terms for this blogula. In fact, I don’t think it’s missed a day.

  5. Wow. Not a day. So, those many moons ago when you pulled “freckled breasts” out of the atmosphere of your brain (like a pickle out of the jar at a dive…), did you have ANY idea just how many visits it would inspire? What a global phenomenon freckled breasts really are? Makes me kinda wish I had freckled breasts. Actually, no, it doesn’t. Mostly because I am male. And I like to be a bit tan, and freckled skin, well…let’s just leave it at “Lindsay Lohan”, shall we? Anyway, this was kinda written rhetorically, so if it doesn’t move you, I won’t cry in my coffee if you don’t respond. Keep calm…

  6. i completely agree with “Dave” about the worthiness of this story! love it. i can’t weigh in on judo, though…
    i really love how you perfectly capture scenes & people- spot on and so funny.

    • I’m not worthy. (repeat 2X more) However, maybe my slice of stupid life is worth a hardy smirk. That’s all it managed to get out of me, a slight belly grin. Glad some people liked it though. I’m learning not to listen to myself. It’s hard. I’m so fucking loud. Ok, Candice, hope Portlandia is working it’s magic on you. May your Wonder Woman bracelets remain fully charged. Good little warrior girl.

      • how do you manage to be so fucking adorable & self deprecating (i had to sound that word out & look it up to get the spelling right!) at the same time??? it NEVER works for me. always plays like i’ve got self-esteem issues…
        really did love this one. reminded me of a funny college moment of my own when i had to nicely ask both of the lovely gentlemen to leave. it just wasn’t going to happen, you know?
        portland has lost much of its magic, yet this “little warrior girl” is still roaring loudly. xo

      • Self-deprecating I can see. Fucking adorable? Ha! That’s rich. I’m going to get some mileage out that. Next time I piss someone off (it shan’t be long, I’m sure) I’m going to say, “Sorry, but I am fucking adorable, aren’t I?” We’ll see how it flies. Anyway, thanks, Candice.

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