The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (13 page)

Alotta
with matted hair.

Me
and Jay with dangling dicks.

Mine
smelling
kinda
really shitty.

Fear
gripped my senses.

I
peed a little.

***

“Yeeees?”
Alotta called out in an innocent tone.

“Alotta!
Open the door! My stash was stolen and the neighbors said two dudes with a
bunch o’ tattoos was at the house! Said they was drivin’ a cherry red Caddy
like the one parked in the driveway!”

Alotta
lied her freshly-fucked ass off. “Just a minute, baby! I’m cookin’ a pot roast!
Got my hands full! Be right there!”

“A
pot
roast?! Bitch! Yer lyin’ ass ain’t cooked so much as a pot o’ Ramen
noodles since we been married! I know they’re in there! If yer fuckin’ those
dickwads, that’s yer business. But if they got my speed, that’s
my
business! Now open this door or Mr. Mossberg’s gonna turn the knob for me!”

He
continued pounding on the door demanding entrance while the three of us tried
to get dressed. We were successful in getting our garments tangled but utter
failures in getting them on. Alotta kept putting him off with excuses that wore
thinner with each passing second.

With
the prospect of a double-aught death looming close at hand, Alotta said the
best thing for us to do was hide in the broom closet. She’d brew a believable
story for Harry and get him to leave once he calmed down. She hastily agreed to
the original split, saying we’d part ways afterward. That suited me just fine.
 

***

Two
men with a combined weight of six hundred pounds. Stuffed into a space big
enough for a vacuum. Tweaking balls. Trying to keep their junk from touching
and falling flat in the endeavor. Swooning from the sweet, overpowering tang of
Pine-Sol. Clutching a wad of clothing, unsure if
any
of
it’s
theirs. Praying to God that if they get shot through
the door of a broom closet, it’s a quick departure from the mortal coil.

Would’ve
made for a killer book cover.

***

We
heard Alotta open the door. Harry charged in the room.

“Where
are they?! Those two motherfuckers ripped me off and they’re fuckin’.....why
are ya naked, Alotta? And what’s my shit doin’ on the table?
What the fuck
is goin’ on here?!”

Alotta
cocked her trademark attitude and let the hammer fall. “If you’ll quit screamin’
in my house I’ll
tell
you what the fuck’s goin’ on here!
I
took
yer junk, ya sonofabitch!
Me
and Chrissy are goin’ to
Sturgis this weekend and we wanted enough to do on the trip. With all the
bikers there we thought we’d sell some for ya, too. You was sleepin’ when I
went to the house so I decided to take all the bags and bring back what the
rally didn’t buy. You ungrateful piece o’ shit!”

“Ya
expect me to believe that? Who does the Caddy belong to then?”

“Oh
fuck, Harry, that’s Chrissy’s new car. She let me borrow it to get the stuff ‘
cause
you had the Corolla at home.”

Through
the hollow closet door, we heard what sounded like a pistol-grip shotgun being
placed on a wooden coffee table.

“But
why don’t ya have any clothes on, Alotta?”

She’d
filed her edgy timbre. “
‘Cause
I was sniffin’ a little
bit and got hot,
ass
hole. Kept thinkin’ ‘bout that big ole dick o’ yers
and figured I’d rub one out on the couch. That alright with you?”

“Well,
yeah.” Harry sounded like a child whining about his early bedtime. “But what
about the two dudes that Willy and Billy told me about? The twins across the
street said they saw a couple o’ guys over there while I’s nappin’. Said two
big motherfuckers with tattoos came to the house and-”

“You
mean the twins who haven’t been right since they licked those sheets o’ acid
five years ago? The ones who also told you they was gonna call Animal Control
‘cause o’ the chickens we was growin’ in our front yard? Ya mean
that
Willy and Billy, baby?”

Harry’s
voice still had a tone of skepticism, only now it was tempered with acceptance.
“What the
?.....
I don’t know if I buy this, Alotta. If
all this is true, why didn’t ya just ask me for some?”

She
swayed from defensive and rough to coy and pouty. “’Cause I know how ya are
with yer stuff, sweetie. You wouldn’t’ve believed me. We were just gonna do a
little bit, sell some, and bring the rest back. Honest, Sugar Bear. You know I
wouldn’t take
any
thing from ya without a good reason, Crazy Baby.”

Hearing
her attach his moniker in such a babydoll fashion sent shivers down my back.
What chilled my bones was the ease with which she did it. I’d often wondered
how Alotta could stay with a man who was as notorious for smoking people as he
was hard drugs. Fact is, after fifteen years, she was used to it. And for a
split second I wondered how many times she’d had to placate Crazy Shitz
throughout the course of their marriage.

Things
fell silent after that. I couldn’t tell if they’d left the room or if Harry was
standing on her neck. If he’d killed Alotta and went searching through the
house, it was only a matter of time before he got to the broom closet and
filled us full of holes. I felt Jay’s muscles tense. The sentiment carried over
to mine.

I
spoke so softly in his ear, it wouldn’t even register as a whisper. “What if
she took him to another part of the house so we could get out of here?”

The
words hung in the air as we heard the gagging gulps of a woman deepthroating a
rigid hard-on.

***

I
suppose you could chalk it up to Alotta trying to prevent a double-murder in
her apartment. Or giving her husband some candy so as not to receive a fist in
the mouth for absconding with his methamphetamine. Personally, I like to think
she was just a filthy Jezebel who would stop at nothing to get her jollies. Her
motivations didn’t matter, though. We were given a small window of retreat and
I was going to crash through that shit like a wild pitch in the Special
Olympics.

I
began to put something on so we wouldn’t get arrested for indecent exposure
when we hit the street. It would’ve sucked to achieve a narrow escape from the
notorious Harry Shitz only to fall prey to the cops and go to jail naked. It
wasn’t easy in the cramped space of the closet, but I didn’t want to be
bare-assed when we walked down the hall. Jay, conversely, had other things in
mind and wasn’t so quick to embrace our good fortune.

***

I
heard a noise coming from his side of our dark, tiny matchbox. Couldn’t place
what it was. I thought it was a rat scratching from inside the wall. But the
more I listened, the more it sounded like someone tapping a pack of baloney:

(Fap,
fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap.....)

I
could feel Jay’s movements. My blood boiled when it hit me.

“Jay!
What the fuck are you doing, dude?! Are you serious?!”

“I
can’t help it, man. That shit’s hot and I’m still horny.”

(Fap,
fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap.....)

“Jesus
Christ! Put that thing down and let’s get the fuck out of here before he shows
us what our kidneys look like!”

***

I
opened the door and slowly stuck my head between it and the jamb. Harry and
Alotta were in a heated sixty-nine on the couch with Alotta claiming the
captain’s seat. She was covering Harry’s ears with her thighs, his face
smothered by her curdled crotch. She released loud moans that shrouded our
movements. We slinked from the closet and started tiptoeing our naked asses
down the hall with clumps of cotton over our kibbles. I didn’t know what was
ours and what belonged to Alotta, but at that point, I would’ve worn a tutu.

Alotta
sent us a wink that said, “See ya later.”

I
sent her a finger that said, “Fuck you, you infested, trouble-making whore.”

Before
we climbed to freedom through the bathroom window, I heard Harry
: ”
Damn, girl! Yer ass smells
ex
tra shitty today!”

***

Jay
had thrown his Caddy in neutral so I could push it out of the driveway. We were
on the road headed to my place, nerves still jangled from our recent near-death
experience. He’d put the top down and the joint I’d found in his glovebox was
slowly taking the edge off the glass. We passed it back and forth in silence,
grateful for every breath that didn’t involve an artificial respirator.

Jay
had blue balls and felt cheated.

We
had nothing to show for our work except a comedown.

I
needed to boil my dick.

But
we were thankful to be alive.

Sticky
summer air lapped our faces like a senile old mutt who’d forgotten who its
owner was. Hints of fresh-cut grass settled into the cab of the drop-top. The
sunset held sharp hues of orange and vibrant pink and looked like an oil
painting hanging in the sky. Leafing through the passing houses, I saw children
playing in front yards with attentive parents watching over them, pets walking
faithfully next to old people out for an evening stroll, couples staring
dreamily into each other’s eyes
so deep it made me want to puke.

Suddenly,
it hit me how wonderful life is; how much greater it could be without theft and
attempted murder.

I
turned and looked at Jay.

Hairy,
sweaty, half-naked Jay.

The
guy who’d lured me in with the promise of stolen narcotics. I knew it wasn’t
all his fault, because I was grown. I had made my choice to be there. But I’d
willed myself to believe that he knew what he was doing and had almost paid the
price for it.

I’d
jacked thousands of
dollars worth
of drugs only to
leave them in a hovel with their rightful owner. I’d been balls-deep in a woman
so foul she couldn’t tempt a recovering sex addict. And twice in the same day,
I’d gotten close to someone else’s gun over some bullshit.

All
of that added up to the textbook definition of “buzzkill.” I knew I wouldn’t be
hanging out with Jay anymore after that.

***

The
weed was superb. I was high as hell and reached for a menthol from the console.
It was only then that I noticed what Jay was wearing. After all the shit that’d
gone down, I couldn’t resist a jab for the memories he’d given me.

“Hey,
Jay?”

“Yeah,
man?”

“That
really is a cute fishnet thong you have on,
Lotti
.”

“Blow
me, Coxman.”
 

There.
I’ve taken my rightful place in front of the toilet. Lord of the
clothes hamper. King of the sink. Master of all I survey. Flesh hanging out of
my jeans, languishing helplessly over the zipper, both hands cradling the
shaft.

A
Super Soaker of waste.

Swiveling
my hips slowly in a three-sixty. Making circles as if manipulating an invisible
hula hoop. A pilgrim come to stand before his sacred porcelain god.

Despite
my best efforts, a few droplets of the yellow stream splash into the dark-blue
water.

No
worries—I’ve hit most of my targets dead-on.

Try
not to break them up too fast.

The
game must continue.

Gauging
my gyrations, I mimic an exotic dancer enticing the men at her feet, commanding
attention as she warps the images of their wives. Their mothers. Their sisters.
Their-

“Innis,
what are you doing?”

“I’m
knocking off the chunks stuck to the inside of the bowl. Look! I’ve got almost
every piece!”

***

My
girlfriend hasn’t looked me in the eye since.

Clearly,
she doesn’t support the dream.

Yeah, just like that, baby.

You like that don’t you, you dirty little bitch?

(Fap,
fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap.....)

You wanna play Massa and Field Slave, huh? I’ll bet you do, you freaky
fuckin’ cracka.

You’s can whip me, Miss Marla, if'n you want to. Blackie Coxman be
needin’ a good beatin’ sometimes.

(Fap,
fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap.....)

I’m the one who stole that mess o’ biscuits from the kitchen, Miss
Marla. You’s gone punish me?

No, no, no! Don’t put the girdle on. Leave it off for a spell,
just long enough for me to see them stretch marks.

(Fap,
fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap, fap.....)

Come on, Miss Marla, I’ll let you piss in my hair like I know you
like, you scummy fuckin’ snow bunny-

***

“Coxman!
What are you doing?! Are you peeping at Marla again? Sweet Jesus on a
jellyroll! You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore!”

“I’m
sorry, sir. I have this medical condition where I have to release fluids
throughout the day or the cartilage in my knees gets backed up. It can be very
painful.”

“What.....what
the fuck are you talking about, Coxman? There’s no such goddamn ‘medical
condition’ and you know it! Look, I’ve already told you, just because there’s a
hole in the wall between the bathrooms does
not
mean you can spy on
Marla when she empties her colostomy bag. It’s illegal. And disgusting. Plus it
creeps me the hell out. I should’ve fired you the first time I caught you doing
this and I can’t believe I didn’t. You’re really not leaving me much of a
choice here, Innis. This has gotten way out of hand.”

“Hahaha!
Well played, Mr. Jenkem! You said ‘hand’ while I have my dick in my hand! Good
one, sir!”

“
Shut
the fuck up!
Goddammit, Coxman, what the hell is wrong with you? I am so
tired of yanking you out of seminal fluid. It’s gross and Accounting is on my
ass about the funds spent on toilet paper. You are such a sick fuck, man. Why
can’t you just look at
Family
Guy
porn in your cubicle like
everybody else?

“That’s
it. I’m tired of you walking around the office with sticky hands and stains on
your pants. You’re outta here!”

***

No
worries. I wasn’t a great telemarketer, anyway. Besides, soliciting money for
the Sisters of Clitoral Mercy was a scam.

“Mercy”
my creamy, suckable balls. From what I hear those dykes used the cash for the
doubleheader models and pounded that shit.

***

Administrator.

Brass
Hat.

Slave
Driver.

Big
Shot.

The
Guy Pissing Away Your Retirement Dollars on Portraits of His Favorite
Mythological Creature to Hang in His Office (top o’ the mornin’ to ya,
Zack
).

Your
Boss.

Whatever
you choose to call the tool preening his coif in the mirror of his company
vehicle, he serves a purpose. Who else but your boss would tell you when you’re
fucking up a mind-numbing task? Or inform you that you can’t use sick time to
attend the Adult Video News Awards out of fear he’ll run into you?

The
Man is everywhere at work: up your ass with a pen ready to write negative
reviews in your anal tract; over your shoulder breathing the rancid redolence
of cottage cheese down your neck; and lying in wait in the goddamn bathroom
just
daring
you to go in there and pleasure yourself because you’re
bored (I
may
have given supervisors reasons to distrust me in the past).

However
demeaning the job we take to avoid eating tuna fish straight from the can, you
can bet your ass you’re going to have some bureaucrat bitch over the most inane
infraction.

So
what if I dropped GHB into the secretary’s latte?

Who
cares if a loogey wound up in a Happy Meal?

None
of those details should affect my raise.

***

Through my long-range telescope
I see that you’re employed. And
you’re probably a good employee, too. You’re punctual, you perform your tasks
efficiently, and when review time comes around you don’t remind your immediate
supervisor that you know where his family sleeps. But however you view your
position as the fitter of those little plastic pieces at the ends of shoelaces,
there is one person who thinks you can do it better, faster, and without all
the masturbation: your boss.

I
don’t mean the owner, mind you. Their ability to wreck your world is simple.
All they have to do is sell the business or shut everything down. I’m referring
to the little dingleberry under the owner’s balls, there to guard their asshole
from the rapist cock of Worker’s Despair.

My
cynicism aside, I resentfully admit that there are bosses around who won’t fuck
you until your nose bleeds. They’re the kind who will smoke your joint
with
you by the dumpster instead of calling the cops.

That
shit makes them cooler than a herd of plump bitches on the Klondike
.

But
they are so rare that the mall Santa just grabbed his crotch when I requested
one for Christmas.

That
fat fuck. He didn’t have to make dirty hand gestures, too, you know.