Devilcountry (14 page)

So he drank.  

One day a few years later, long after the night
of S & M, he finished his vodka, stopped his car, stepped out, and walked
into oncoming traffic.

He’d never done it before, so why not?
 Yeah, it’s kind of sad. But this is what happens when superheroes have
nothing to be superhero-ey about.  May you
be
at
peace Jimmy, and please watch over us, only if you’re kind of bored and got
nothing else to do.

THE EMPEROR WEARS NO PANTS

Gino
hadn’t worn pants for days, apparently.  Just tight, black speedos that
said Tommy Milfiger on the label.  He had purchased them in bulk at a swap
meet.  “Why should I pay an extra fifty bucks for an ‘H’?”  
he
hollered as bits of pepper and onion shot out his mouth.
 If anything, his logic was sound.  His shirt was unbuttoned,
revealing washboard abs and a tattoo on his upper right pectoral of a circle
with the words “Pussy Magnet” written inside it.
 
His punk band he had started with an
ex-girlfriend, a bass player, who’d gotten the name from a book of refrigerator
magnet poems she’d read.
 
They were
awful, yet artsy people who showed up to their shows were completely
fooled.
 
 

 
         
 
“Craig, would you like a drink?” asked
Carin.

 
         
 
“Uhh…” Before I could respond she
had poured close to a fifth of scotch into a tumbler and shoved it into my
hand.  She batted an eyelash as she plopped the concoction down in front
of me.

“Yeah, bro’ do it!  Guzzle that shit, we
got some drinkin’ to do…high five, bitch!”  He
raised
up his hand, I met it reluctantly, and the clapping sound could be heard all
the way down the block.  No De Niro and Scorsese yelling over a lost print
of
Fellini’s
8 1/2.  No Coppola and Spielberg
bitching about not getting final cut.  Just Carin. And me.  And Gino…

 
         
 
“Dude, did you see
Armageddon
?
 That’s like my all-time favorite!  Bruce fucken Willis!  That
guy’s awesome!  Carin, do you know Bruce Willis?  Can you hook me up?
He’s awesome!  That movie was fucken awesome!  Shit blowin’ up n’
shit.  Fucken awesome.”

 
         
 
He was so loud, the equilibrium of the
room demanded that I play it cool.  Spit from his last sentence concerning
the directorial genius of Michael Bay landed on my ear and nose.  It
bothered me that I’d made this pilgrimage only to be lectured by a man in his
underwear.  I tried to laugh it off.  I tried to pretend that it was
all okay
.  That this was part of the vision.  That
this was the dream I chose.  That this is what I really wanted.  Then
I realized the alcohol would sooth the disappointment.  Soften the
disillusion.  Bring anesthesia where no joy could take root.  Joy is
a process, based on premise, and positive reinforcement.  When you are in
a position where no joy can take hold, we reach for a numbing agent.  I
needed to drink this pain away.  And drink I did.

 
         
 
By the time Carin had searched around the
room for another cigarette I had polished off my glass and the clink of the ice
cubes could be heard by the neighbors
.  I stared
at her, doe-eyed, hoping for a second.  “Jesus, you don’t screw around.
”
she said.

 
         
 
“That’s my boy!” hollered Gino, as he
demanded another high five.  It was the best scotch I’d ever had.  It
reminded me of drinking scotch with Potty, the friendly neighborhood Pot dealer
with a wife who had a penchant for sodomy.  Potty had closed a huge pot
deal.  He taught me how to savour the scotch.  All the flavors
cascading in your mouth, like a liquid rainbow requiring no rainfall.  But
Carin and Gino had a different approach.  Both of them seemed to drink it
down like Kool-aid.  They swam in it like fish.  No joy to be had.
 So I did as the Romans did.  
The pantsless,
unwashed, Michael Bay lovin’ Romans.
The only joy I took was the sense
of knowing that I had brought the food.  Without me they would have
starved.  Or ordered Chinese.  For me it’s the little things in life.
 The ability to provide for others brought me a sense of inner-peace.
 It linked me to Carin.  I understood why she owned a pizza joint.

 
         
 
Carin and Gino seemed to be laughing back
and forth at each other.  I couldn’t figure it
out
as I was about four glasses into liquid heaven.  The bottle was nearly
empty.  “You should have the last of it, Carin.”  I said.

 
         
 
“Why?” shouted
Gino.

 
         
 
“Well, it’s hers.” They again started
giggling like school children.

 
         
 
“What’s so funny?” I drunkenly inquired.

 
         
 
“It’s Dickie’s scotch,” said Carin.
 “Fifteen-year-old.”

 
         
 
“Oh” I replied, puzzled. “Well then all
the more reason.”  Gino looked pissed.  He had his eye on it.  
More laughter from Carin.

She paused.  “You’re right.” She grabbed up
the bottle and put it to her lips.  “Bottoms up.”  She swigged.
 Gino stared.  So did I.   

Carin seemed to be holding onto something.
 What looked to be a green Bic lighter, but she had used matches for
cigarettes earlier.  I hesitated to ask. It couldn’t be what I thought it
was.   Before becoming too inquisitive I realized I had to pee.
 Carin pointed the way and I stumbled down a hall toward a guest bathroom.
 I had trouble finding the light.  I finally clicked it on and I was
submerged within bright fluorescent, which reminded me of school.  I hoped
the principal didn’t find out I was drunk.  I switched it off immediately
and clicked on a softer vanity light that outlined the top of the mirror.
 
Much nicer.
 I steadied myself against a
wall.  I noticed a picture directly above the toilet.  It was a
landscape.  
A beach, with a sand dune and the sun
hanging just above the horizon.
 It was a painting done with oil on
canvas.  It reminded me of the pictures Bob Ross would paint on PBS.
 They always brought me to a happy place.  I would dive into the
world Ross painted. They were visions brought to life. It was magical.  I
could tell it was back
east,
they don’t have beaches
like that out here.  There’s no guy with headphones and a metal detector,
or a carload of Mexicans.  
Just beach with a beached
rowboat nearby.
 
Plain, simple, gorgeous.
 I fell inside the picture, like I did as a kid.  I felt the
emptiness, the betrayal,
the
disappointment.  I
was ready.  

For the vision.

RICK AND RANDI  

And
then there was
Rick
.  Rick was a driver.  I
helped Rick and his fiancé paint their new apartment.  I felt it was an
excellent opportunity to break ice with Rick and Randi.  I like helping
young couples out.  It gives me hope.  At a certain key point while
painting I made sure they saw my carpenter’s crack, purely for humorous
purposes.  
Also because pants don’t fit me.
I’ve
yet to meet a pair that can conquer my odd-shaped ass.  It was effective.
 

After painting, Rick and I sat in folding chairs
and watched home improvement shows.   A
woman,
dressed conservatively with debutante hair and boring khakis with pleats, was
guiding us through installing a skylight.

“I hate pleats!  She looks like a Mormon!
Like a gay Mormon! UGH!  How am I supposed to get wood!  Jesus!” said
Rick.   He pointed back to Randi, who was hanging a portrait of
herself that had been painted by one of her girlfriends from a
Playboy
shoot on Maui.  They had two weeks to kill on the island.  They had
slept together several times with both agreeing to leave the island just as
friends.  The jilted lover, unwillingly demoted to friend status, couldn’t
stand it, so she painted Randi’s naked form on velvet with Acrylic.  It
was actually one of a series.  
Fifty in total.
 
All of Randi, all naked, all leading up to a series of
restraining orders.
 Still, the portrait Randi was now attaching to
the wall was striking. A generous blend of classical overture mixed in with
some Nagel undertones, Warholian color and
cheap motel sexy
.  “Now
look at that ass.  That’s an ass, Craig,” said Rick as he stared back at
Randi.  She was reaching up to the ceiling while measuring the footprint
where the portrait would sit.  She wore a tight halter-top attached with
one little bow at the top of her neck.  Every back muscle was rippling.
 Her shoulders were perfect.  Her arms were tanned and muscular,
sprouting out of her like two perfect limbs coming off a perfect tree.
 Her ass was inside tight cut-off jeans that rode right up to the corners
of what would be considered decent. Randi was stunning with the tool belt
cinched around her accenting her form. The full image was striking.  “I’d
watch that screw in a skylight any day.”  Rick had a point.

“But gosh, Rick, they want you to focus on the
project they’re working on, not her ass,
”  I
devilishly advocated.

“I WANT ASS!  NOW!”  The woman on TV
started welding two pieces of sheet metal together to make some sort of
post-modern lampshade.  Rick pointed to the screen.  “See the way
she’s bent over? That would work if she were wearing a G-string.”  Rick
swigged a beer and shot a look back at his fiancé, who had moved on to putting
new soil in a
flower pot
.  Her tight, blue
short-shorts started to ride up as she bent forward, ever so slightly. My
carpenter’s crack could not compete with what Randi was offering.  Rick’s
mind was turning.

“So you want women in bikinis, arc-welding?” I
asked.

“Shit yeah!” He swigged his beer.  Rick
oscillated between the TV and Randi.  He was being given his vision.
 I can’t help but wonder what the TV was saying to him.  I grew
jealous.  TV was a harsh and fickle mistress.  We sat in silence for
a moment. Finally Rick blinked.  His cosmic download complete.

“So what are you guys up to tonight?” I
inquired.

“Not sure, probably go see a movie or something.
 Maybe eat; she’s dying to get out of the house for a while.”

 
“I
have a coupon for a Chinese place if you want it.  I delivered a shit-ton
to some restaurant guy and he tipped me in coupons,” I offered.  “I think
it’s owned by that famous Japanese restaurant owner dude or something.”

“You delivered to his son.  
A cheap dick.
 He co-owns it with his father.  A
cheaper dick, both of them eyeball Randi.  The son is trying to break in
as D.J. and producer.  He took my demo.  I never heard from him
again, but I think he stole some of my samples.  Dick.“

“Those restaurants are everywhere. I guess you
have to be fairly shrewd in business to get to that level.”

“Are you kidding? They only had one store until
three years ago.   Then the son, by sheer luck, manages to be at the
same rub and tug
at
the exact same time that some famous
restaurant douchebag is at.  Two jpeg photos later, he and his dad are restaurateurs.
 
Printing fucking money.
Not fair.”

“I guess opportunity was knocking.”

“Opportunity was tugging, my friend. And when it
tugs, Craig, you better make sure you tug back, ya’ feel me?”

“Which demo did he hear? Your Nu-metal band?”

“No, my drum and bass one.  I put that
re-mix of Weird Al’s
I’m Fat
on it.”  I looked unsure of what Rick
was telling me.  “I mixed
I’m Fat,
with porno people screwing.
 Had a Liberace hook behind it.  You said you liked it.”  I
nodded my head.  It was a striking musical statement.  I had listened
to it liberally in the car.  “I mean how hard is it to just give notes?
 Nothing, nada, zip.  Douche.  Can’t even get him on the phone.”

“It is impossible to progress as an artist,
without input,” I said.

“You know what else? He reintroduced himself to
me.”

“Really?”

“Can you believe it?  I’ve met him like
five times now.  Tries to play it off like we don’t know each other.
 People like him deserve to die in the desert.”

 
“So
rude. Who’s baby-sitting?”  I asked.

 
“Uh,
Lisa is, actually, of all people,” answered Rick.  “She said she’d do it
for free.  Loves kids or some shit.”  My heart skipped.  I
wanted to show Lisa how sensitive I was around babyshit.