Anyway, I saw that dog gettin’ knocked around by one of his kids -- this nasty little fuck named George -- an’ it bit him. I laughed when I saw it; I mean, the little fuck deserved it. But when his asshole father found out what happened, he pulled out a pistol an’ shot the dog as it cowered in a corner. Then after he dropped us off at the bus station the next mornin’, he went off to get another one.
I asked my mom why he’d be allowed to do that, an’ she snapped, “What the fuck do you care? We got our own shit to worry about.”
I used to have nightmares about that dog. Till I finally caught on to what my mom was talkin’ about an’ started actin’ on it. Right about the time my mom decided she wanted to change her life. Too late for that, for me, though. But then I met Connie, an’ she’s the one who brought me back to humanity. For a little while, anyway.
I met her at this rave downtown. I was the promoter’s main connection for “X” -- ecstasy for those who ain’t payin’ attention -- an’ I was sellin’ off some extra tabs for a nice little profit in the mosh pit. I never did that crap, myself; it was too much fun watchin’ all the neon glow sticks an’ pacifiers swirlin’ in the darkness. Lots of slim sweaty boys an’ slick hot girls twistin’ ‘round an’ glidin’ into each other while some overpaid DJ dropped tunes. That promoter was a cheap bastard; he never had live bands. Besides, if I had gotten wasted it would’ve been way too easy to get into the rhythm of the night, an’ I’d probably have wound up givin’ the crap away to keep the joy goin’. An’ I might’ve missed seein’ her. Seein’ Connie standin’ stock still in the middle of all those fuckin’ gorgeous guys an’ girls. No glow stick. No pacifier. Just a bottle of water an’ little smile on her face as she watched ‘em dance. God, she looked hot.
I swung over to her, but she saw me comin’ an’ raised a finger at me. “Not for me, buddy; I gotta work, tomorrow.”
“Wasn’t gonna offer,” I said -- even though I really was, as a way of gettin’ t’ talk with her. “Just wanted to ask you to dance.”
She looked at me, real tight. “You’re straight.”
“In every way.”
“I meant you’re not flying.”
“An’ I meant in every way.”
She looked me over an’ nodded. I ain’t gonna be fake an’ modest, here; I knew I looked good. I wasn’t as built up as I am now, but I was done up okay. An’ I could see from her eyes she saw me as a one-nighter, someone over for a quickie. Which was fine with me.
So we danced an’ did the bullshit thing. She was workin’ on a cheap-assed indie flick in Venice, some soft-porn thing for the European video market. I got the hint that she’d watched some of the shootin’ an’ got horny from it. I told her I was open to doin’ somethin’ like that. She told me the pay sucked. I told her I was workin’ at bein’ a contractor, do roofin’ repair an’ shit. Which was bull an’ she knew it, but she didn’t give a fuck. She took me home to her place an’ we found out just how perfect we were for each other, that night. Holy shit, did we find out. She had to go to work with maybe two hours sleep, but she went purrin’, lemme tell ya.
I moved in with her two weeks later, an’ we got married two months after that. An’ for three years, it was cool. Shit, it was perfect. She got herself out of the soft-porn crap an’ into some pretty damn good indie flicks. “Things that’re being made by the mini-majors,” as she put it. An’ me, I got into the paintin’ gig, doin’ houses an’ small buildin’s an’ workin’ on sets when Connie referred me. An’ we fucked every night an’ loved it. Loved it till I got busted for doin’ a buddy a favor.
Guy named Terrence, who asked me to cart a couple bags of coke to a friend of his. I’d done it before, so I figured no big deal. Only Terrence’d been busted an’ was workin’ the cops to cut down on his time inside, an’ he was turnin’ over anybody an’ everybody he’d ever worked with, me included. So I got grabbed with two kilos of coke in my backpack an’ was handed a sentence of eight to twenty for possession with intent to distribute. The asshole. I made sure word got into his mini-security facility that he was a skunk. I hear his time inside was made wonderful by those who could do it to him, anytime.
Shit, fuckin’ Terrence. There’s another asswipe I’d like to take care of. Not like I was gonna do with this bet; that fuck was too fuckin’ skanky for me to even think about it.
An’ don’t start thinkin’ I’m a racist. Me not wantin’ to fuck Terrence’s got nothin’ to do with his color; it’s got to do with the fact that he’s an ugly fuck an’ had some kind of prejudice against bathin’ more’n once a year. I don’t care what race a guy is, so long as he looks decent an’ keeps himself clean. An’ such.
I mean, I once wondered what it’d be like to do my thing with a famous black actor, you’d know him I said his name, if he wound up inside. He looked like he’d be fun an’ frisky. Not that I’d even really thought of tryin’ t’ connect with him on the outside
