If I ever saw you fucking a guy, I’d go home, get my gun, and shoot his ass. And if I ever see Michael, I’m gonna gut him like a phissh.
He’s gonna wake up in a bath tub full of ice with some Footloose playing in the background. I’ll sing the “Kick off your Sunday shoes” part and he’ll sing the “Please, Louise” part. I’ll have an icebox on the toilet that he shits in and I’ll show him my awesome knife flicking skills. And I’ll do it on a Sunday so the lyrics work out. And I’ll tell him my name is Louise. Just for shits and giggles.
I mean if you’re gonna kill someone might as well make some money off of it.
I took Abe and Alex out for a drive. We didn’t have a destination in mind so I just followed roads at random. I should’ve gone downtown or something because we ended up in the ghetto.
We knew we were in the wrong part of town when a guy threw up a Crip hand sign so he could pass by a group of dudes sitting on the stairs to a rundown row home. Just our fucking luck…the light was red.
I should’ve taken that as a sign to turn around and head back to campus, but I just kept driving, going farther into the nasty parts of Baltimore everyone hears about but hardly ever sees.
Liquor stores were on every other corner. The windows to homes were boarded up; many looked vacant. No street lights. And the people… They huddled in groups and stared at us as we drove by. They walked with hunched shoulders and short, fast steps. And their faces… They either looked tired and soulless or angry. If I had to choose between the two, I’m not sure which one I’d pick. I’d rather suck start a shotgun.
I told the brothers that I didn’t know where we were, but that was only half true. In a past life, I used to ride in the backseat of an SUV with some bad people packin’ heat. I never spoke to the Cholo or Vietnamese man, so I had plenty of time to look out the window.
I knew we were in the clear when we reached the all boys’ Catholic school, Mount Saint Joseph. It was still on a street I wouldn’t want to walk alone at night, but it was significantly safer.
I was looking through my belongings on my desk, and came across the Notebook. I flipped through its pages and realized how far I had fallen.
Once upon a time, I used to moonlight as a dating coach. I had an ad on Craigslist, met clients for brunch, went to their homes to raid their closets, taught them to properly fold pocket squares, dressed like a pretty girl so women would smell the preselection on my champions. I suppose I use the word “champions” loosely. Most times they’d talk to a girl at a venue and nothing would come of it. Only my long time clients really made it to first-date bangs, but I only had a handful of those. My rates were anywhere from $50 to $150 an hour. As you can imagine, the champs had deep pockets.
Anyhow, I looked at all the notes I had written. How venue changes get a girl more invested in the date (having her pay for the first round of drinks is another good way of doing that). Kino at the right moment. How to make a conversation flow and how to make silences pregnant with anticipation. I sound like a douchebag player. Because, once upon a time, I played the game.
Whenever I met a client (who wasn’t some creepy Craigslist stinker trying to solicit me for sex, at least half of them) I always started with this:
A few things: I’m not here to have sex with you; I’m here to help you fuck other women. I don’t have a magical pill that will make you a pussy magnet; you’re gonna spend some time in the trenches to earn your stripes. Crashing and burning will be a far better teacher than my criticism. And you should never take advice about women from a chick.
As a girl who sees the strings moving the marionettes, I thought I’d always see what was coming at me. Nope. No. Wrong. REALLY WRONG. I became comfortable and fell into Sucker Land. I was one of those girls who fell prey to ME.
I have other things to study tonight. Douchebaggery things.
I dropped my phone in the harbor today. I was coxing the men’s eight boat down to the dock. There’s step down that I usually shine a light on so the men don’t trip with a 300 pound boat on their shoulders. My mobile slipped from my hand. Clunk, clunk, splash. Fuck my life. I knew it was gone.
Me: Guys, I dropped my phone in the water. Watch your step today.
Emre: Wow, you’re surprisingly calm about all this.
I tried to keep my cool while we were rowing, but man… I was super blue.
All of those memories. I had a shit ton of photos on my phone that I would occasionally look through when I felt sad.
It’s a good thing I have a great memory.
Fuck it. I’m gonna say it.
I want the photos of Michael back.
I have half a mind to jump into the harbor for my phone so I can get my SIM card back.
There’s a fisherman who always stands on the dock. Perhaps I can pay him to fish my iPhone out of the murky depths.
I went out with my sister Timi last night, and since I hadn’t seen her in a few months and she’s dying in bumfuck West Virginia, we started the night with shots at Max’s Taphouse with my bartenders Tim and Mikey.
I was designated driver (because fuck Uber, except for Malik) so while I was sipping a pink Sex on the Beach, I got a wild hare up my ass and decided we should go someplace else. “We should go party with those Loyola kids…” I drove through the city, taking very drunken directions from Timi, and we arrived at the campus. Yeah, it was pretty fuckin’ dead for a Friday night. “They don’t party here; they go to this shitty place called ‘Murphy’s’. Let’s go there.” To Murphy’s we went… and man did that place blow the big one. I can handle dive bars. I like ’em. This was a dive bar with rich kids. Salmon pink shorts. Polo shirts. Boat shoes. The trifecta. And let’s not leave out Abercrombie w/Bitch. Some chick got up in my face when I danced with a normal-lookin’ fella… Oops. Whatever. Nothing a shot can’t fix, right?
And holy shit, the dancing. Everyone seemed to be just jumping up and down with their hands in the air to The Killers’s “Mr. Brightside,” complete with screechy sing-alongs. There was a group of dudes shaking their hands at the floor. It looked like they were rebuking the devil or something. Childish Gambino’s “Sweatpants” was playing in my head. Rich kid asshole paint me as a villain.
We left Murphy’s after a grand twenty minutes and a few new phone numbers in my mobile device. There was another bar down the street that we walked to. I handed them my driver’s license; the guy told me it wasn’t me. I had dressed nicely and applied war paint make up. I guess it was quite a transformation. “Here’s my military ID. Everything matches, and that’s a helluva lotta work to put in just for a fake.” The other bouncer looked at my ID.
“You’re not military; you’re just a dependent.” He pulled out a common access card and held it in front of my nose.
“Are you in the reserves? That’s not active military.” I guess he thought I wouldn’t know the difference (I grew up in a military household and worked at the hospital on base).
“No. I just work for the department of defense.” Fucking contractor.
I wasn’t having any of it. I took my cards back and pushed passed the bouncers. “Tootles. I need a drink. I’m fucking 25 years old. Kiss my ass, if it please you, massah.” I should’ve stayed outside. This bar sucked just as much as the other one; there were just more people dancing like epileptics sloshing Coors and Natural Light all over the floor. We watched that debacle for maybe thirty seconds and walked back out. “We’s free slaves now, massah,” I shouted at the bouncer. Timi and I stood at the crosswalk to a huge intersection.
“This is the road that divides Baltimore from Towson.”
“I’ve heard those Towson kids know how to throw down. Wanna go?”
“Jeshicca…” She wiped some spittle from her mouth. “When have I ever said ‘no’ to that?”
I half carried that betch to where I had parked, took a ten minute power nap in the Shaggin’ Wagon, started up the engine, flipped a U-ey, and drove back to the Intersection of Party Times. We passed a group of Loyola dudes. Timi rolled down her window and looked at me with droopy eyes. “If the light is red, run it anyway. LOYOLA SUCKS BUT I’D STILL FUCK A FEW OF YOU WHITE BOYS”!
The light was green, but I still squealed the tires of my fuck bus.
Towson didn’t disappoint. There was an ass ton of fine folks. We went to some bar called The Rec Room where I got my ass stomped in cornhole (I got better with alcohol though). After the bars closed a big ass fire truck showed up and four firefighters hopped out. They had stopped for hot dogs; I had a sudden hankering for wieners (LOLOLOLOL). I got mine with ketchup and mustard.
The drive back was peaceful once we got out of Towson, Timi mumbling her directions (she’s the best drunk navigator). We traversed through the ghetto at 0300 on empty roads. I drove in reverse because I’d probably never be able to do it again bragging rights. We stopped at a diner for an incredibly early breakfast, got four hours of sleep, and spent the day doing girly things.
Also, piña coladas are hereforth known as “penis colossus.”
I just ordered a stripper to kick off the crew season.
After our first regatta, we’re gonna go back to my place and get lap dances from a pro. In a dominatrix getup (I made a special request for that; I hope she obliges).
I said that Kenneth would be the guest of honor. I hope she brings a riding crop and asks him if he’s been a bad boy. And then beats the shit out of him with it. It’s the least I can do for one of my star rowers. He’s never been kissed or anything like that. Soft-spoken, gentle giant with a heart of gold? It’ll be great.