'Ajax, it's Dean. What say we have a few beers?'
««—»»
Ajax, like Dean, was not a true Seattlelite. He'd moved here from the east coast to pursue the more bountiful employment opportunities. He stuffed envelopes for a national survey corporation and was quite proud to make a living at it—not that many would call his existence a living.
Ajax looked like Rush Limbaugh with a beard, and possessed similar political sentiments. Well, make that Rush Limbaugh with a beard who dressed like a pan-handler. He and Dean had met quite by accident, at a Fremont tavern called THE DUBLINER during the last game of the World Series. They'd been the only two cheering when the Yankees had won. Since then, both never fitting into the Seattle grunge-goth-Left Coast-shaven-headed-everyone- has-a-fucking-knapsack scene, they became fast friends.
Ajax' surname was Jackson, and his parents had absurdly dubbed him with the first name Andrew. In his bent political persuasions, however, he regarded the seventh president of the United States as the nation's first 'pinko,' a closet separatist who boldly killed unarmed Indians while the rest of the Continental Army was fighting the well-trained British, and who 'lucked out' at the Battle of New Orleans because his drinking habits forced subordinate officers to lead the battle. Hence, Ajax didn't like his name, so he insisted he be called Ajax.
Ajax was also a bit of a pervert.
'Man,' he said, 'I'd like to pee on her back.'
Dean frowned at the table.
With this comment, Ajax had been referring to the zombie-shuffling waitress who'd just brought them their beers. She was rack-skinny, straight black hair like a mortician wig, with unbra'd tits pushing against her black PIERCE ME! T-shirt like a couple of under-ripe peaches. Tattoos of skeleton hands crawled up her neck to strangle her, and she had something in her lower lip that looked like a shower-curtain ring.
'Shit,' Ajax appended, 'that tramp's probably had more abortions than I've had beers. Bet she gargles biker piss like Listerine. Pops empty Jim Beam bottles out of her pussy for parlor tricks and has an asshole bigger than the drydock for a Nimitz-class carrier.'
Dean blanched.
'Yeah, I'd yank that bitch's reins bigtime; she'd whinny like a horse, ' Ajax went on, his eyes fogged in fantasy as he stared after the vapid barmaid. She moved like one of the cast of
Full of reeking bums eating their own boogers, bovine-faced bald lesbians, and a man with a beard and large breast implants—God Bless Seattle!—the Rte. 25 bus had brought Dean here from downtown—here being a tavern called THE WHARF which sat one street away from beautiful Lake Union, or not so beautiful when one considered the lake's history. For a hundred years, a coal-oil processing plant had dumped its petro-chemical effluence into the lake's pristine depths. Swimming was strictly prohibited, and if you ate a fish caught in Union's waters, any sequent offspring would more than likely be born with flippers. As for THE WHARF itself, it was an actual murder site: A number of years ago, a local 'businessman' was shot in the head with a small-caliber weapon, evidently for running up too lofty a marker with other local 'businessmen.' Ajax and Dean sat at the self-same table.
The tavern made a garbage pit look well-appointed. Some entrepreneur took a couple of double-wide trailers, smacked them together, and that was it. That was the bar. The clientele fit right in, West Coast rednecks to the max. Heavy metal blared from the juke, billiard balls clacked in the back. A giant projection TV in the corner sported Monster Truck races.
Ajax sipped his Redhook ESB and winced. 'So the wife let you out of the cage tonight, huh? Let me guess. Work meeting?'
Dean squirted lemon juice into his Pyramid Hefeweizen. 'How'd you know?'
'Duh. What is this, like the eighth Friday night in a row she's had a
Dean grinned triumph against the ceaseless implication. 'No, it's the sixth, smart guy.'
'Oh, that's right. The other two
'Why should I?' Dean retorted. 'She's in an odd business. Clothing distribution isn't like working at a bank, you know. Most of their invoices go out on weekends.'
'Whatever you say... '
For as long as they'd been friends, Ajax had always intimated that Daphne might be cheating on Dean, the prospect of which Dean viewed as preposterous.
'How often do you drop wax?' Ajax asked.
'What?'
Ajax rolled his eyes. 'How often do you fuck her? Let me guess—once every two weeks?'
Dean was taken aback. 'Well, not quite
Ajax laughed. 'Christ, my grandparents fuck more than that.'
'Marriage isn't about sex,' Dean explained. 'It's about a spiritual bond, an everlasting one. It's about commitment and total faith. It's about
'See that!' Dean clapped at the coincidence.
The side of Ajax's bearded face flopped into his palm. 'You're hopeless. You live your life by advice from The Beatles.'
'The Beatles were monumental,' Dean defended. 'The most important musical assembly in history.'
'They were a bunch of acid-head hippie pinko guru-loving junkie shit-heads—'
Dean was long used to Ajax's rather conservative nature. Best to change the subject as quickly as possible. 'We were talking about the reality of marriage, Ajax. Sex becomes faddish, much less important.'
Ajax grinned. 'Faddish?'
'Statistically, sex amongst happily married couple drops drastically after the second year.'
'Not into the toilet,' Ajax said. 'Shit, man. If I was married to a woman as good-looking as your wife, I
