Eliaz forced me to mention that since I do not have a Myspace, I must put this on the Wood Sugars page instead. Hopefully you read more than Eliaz did (the first paragraph). Enjoy. The intetnion of this story is to not hurt anyone's feelings. However, the majority of the characters in this tale must be held culpable for their missteps with me and my emotions. Ladies, don't ever make the mistake of "hooking up with" and hurting someone who likes to write. The character named "Jenny Lewis" you'll read about that i actually love and respect. This is chapter one – a preview of Donny Rodriguez's "The Hiatus: A Semi-Autobiographical Novel." Edited by Jena Kehoe .The other thirteen chapters will be posted over the next few weeks,but for only a week at a time,becuase this project will be avaliable for purchase in book form.
Chapter 1
A baritone, genetically fashioned, homosexual morning radio disc jockey in Chicago, glibly denounces me as a 'crazy-ass, creepy, stalker, loser' around 7:30 AM on March 1st, 2007. This voice and articulation trained, man doesn't know me personally but he sure is developing a rapport with my ex-girlfriend, Jenny Lewis (all the dames mentioned in this story will assume nicknames so to protect their identity and any legal recourse towards myself. They will be named after other things i love/hate which are-but not limited to ;red-headed-indie-rock-chicks,their former or current boyfriends, etc... ). He first encountered her in a radio segment about "crazy-ass, creepy stalker ex-boyfriends."
"So wait, he took pictures outside your dorm, at three thirty in the morning, of himself with his phone, and sent them to you?" asked the ClearChannel KISS FM employee.
"Yeah, he left me eight voicemails, and said he was tapping on my first floor window, like a stalker, and that he was going to sleep outside until I came out to talk to him!" exclaimed my hoop-nose-ringed, Urban Outfitter's fitted former girlfriend. Jenny Lewis went on to say "Yeah, I just moved to the city and he couldn't handle all the new friends I was making, so I dumped him, and he went psycho and sent me picture mail right on the other side of my window!"
The reverberating cringes and ambivalent laughter from the Hills-viewing, soup-and-half-sandwich-combo-consuming, (Insert an article of raiment from the current issue of Cosmopolitan's "Get the chic look for under $100." ) wearing, listening audience of primarily 16-28 year old women...
It should have been enough to wake me from my Miller Lite-induced, three-hour-deep coma, but I just laid there, the fabric-softened sheets shielding me from the embarrassment and the sixteen month sexual hiatus ahead of me that would commence around 9:30 AM -- that "morning drive" time from the Kennedy expressway outbound to O'Hare an hour and half, morning. Was I guilty of Jenny's claims, or did I have a solid slander case against her?
Everything the soft, but not fragile, voiced young lady said about me was one hundred percent true.
Zack had amazing breasts -- fully B-cupped and perfectly proportioned.(refer back to the first paragraph for character name clarification.) However, you wouldn't notice because you would be too busy avoiding everything but her sincerely gorgeous crystal green eyes. With that said, is there any body part more overrated than eyeballs? Even if one's eyes are the apex of aesthetic beauty, what can you do with them? There's no experiencing, or physical enjoyment to come of anyone's organs of vision. It is the most shallow thing one could be attracted to. Nevertheless, this girl's looker's were lookers.
Zack's thoughts were pleasantly dense, so much so that they felt fleshy and tangible -- like once you heard them, all you wanted to do was gather them in both of your hands, brush them with your face's skin and entertain them with your lips.
Zack and I were first acquainted at the $9,000 dollar a semester, ersatz of "artistic learning" institution known as Columbia College, in Chicago. The then-20-year old Zack was cast with me in a few off-Broadway and Lincoln Ave. plays. We traded off desire for one another for the equivalent of $36,000 in artist-credibility-crippling tuition money.
Zack was good at playing the "actress" role -- she wasn't prolific at the acting part of the craft, but she could, however, pretend to be humbled by compliments. She had the consistent ability to orgasm and then pass out before I could even anticipate my climax. Our relationship wasn't purely amorous in nature, but anytime we drank and spent the night together, sleep was never a priority.
Obviously, not every aspect of her was flawless; she did partake in some annoying rituals. Whenever she was around other actors, she would get as wasted as Trishelle on the first day of shooting the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Also, once a week, she and her female colleagues would drown themselves in bottles of Yellow Tail Merlot, hoping to be resuscitated by Adam Brody's hazel eyes and the Pacific ocean that waved behind him, while Snow Patrol breathed ambiance (an O.C. Reference, three years after the height of the show's popularity... I sure am a hip and current writer!).
As faith and the suits would have it, production on our relationship was put to a halt, a year and eight months before the Benjamin McKenzie star-making vehicle was actually cancelled. In the summer of 2005, Zack and her perfect 2nd base's rounded towards home – Columbus, Ohio, and got engaged to Morgan . Morgan was a 29-year old, slender, two-time DUI offender, legitimate artist. Miss leading lady took her final bow.
In the epically freezing month of February '07, I received a phone call. Zack tells me she left Morgan because "he couldn't handle being compared to YOU." In addition to Morgan's insecurities, he showed up blitzed to her best friend's wedding reception at a country club in Bexley, Ohio, where he was removed and arrested for crashing a golf cart into the side of the complex (at which point the Morgan DUI meter gets bumped up to three). Most likely, I was freshly cheated on (by another girl,the opening paragraph's Jenny Lewis) and Zack, crisply out of college, had her whole life ahead of her, no expiration date in sight. I had no plans for life that night she called, and so we agreed to meet up on her birthday. On the night of the phone call -- the night before the Bears were preparing to participate in (and not cover the Vegas odds they were getting via the spread) Super bowl XLI-- our tongues were wet, warmed up, and set to tackle each other at some Lakeview after-hours joint, when it became caressingly apparent (Zack's tangible thoughts!) that she had "gone corporate," and had intentionally grounded her integrity (witty and accurate football metaphor). She was all business now, and indifferent to anything that didn't concern facilitating her ego or her 13-digit routing number. Disappointed in who she had become, and not possessing the cash needed to buy enough booze to sleep with someone I didn't respect, I deflected her advances and drove home dejected, buzzed, and stung.
PEG-32 Stearate—PEG, which is short for polymer of ethylene glycol, is a clear, colorless, and practically odorless liquid. It's strongly hydroscopic,which is defined as the absorbing of moisture from the air (1). The number in the name is the average number of units, or monomers, of ethylene glycol. In this case, the number is 32 (2). PEG-32 is present in various feminine cosmetics, from Fall Out Boy Pete Wentz's eye liner to P. Diddy's infomercial-staple, Proactive acne treatment (3). PEG-32 can also be found in face and body paint. Other contents located in standard facial and body paint are: Ceteth-3 Acetate—a non-ionic surfactant which exhibits surfactant properties and may be used as emulsifiers (duh) (5), Water, PEG-8 Stearate, Glyceryl Stearate, PEG-75 Lanolin, Phenoxyethanol, Methyl Paraben, Ethyl Paraben, Propyl Paraben, and Butyl Paraben.(4) All face paint purchased in the United States must adhere to FDA regulations. According to the FDA website (cfsan.fda.gov), before application, one should dab a small sample of paint on the arm a few days before paint is placed on desired region of the body. This is to check for allergic reactions. One should always dilute the paint before administering to any domain of the body. Warm water and soap is the best method for removing the festive make-up, but anything that's safe for the skin and of liquid matter, such as saliva and pre-moistened make-up removal wipes would also be sufficient.
Game 6 of the 2nd round of the Eastern Conference 2007 NBA playoffs, pitted the visiting, defense-minded, veteran Detroit Pistons against the scrappy, shooting-at-will, over-achieving Chicago Bulls, on a seventy-degree day in the month of May. The Bulls started off the first half of the game sluggishly, with 37-year old reserve forward, P.J. Brown, leading the team by scoring 20 points, so even a novice clairvoyant could predict the former 6 time NBA champions were in for a rough night. While preparing a soy protein-filled chili, I received a text message from Zack, who I hadn't spoken to in months. I began to read the mess faintly aloud:
Hey you, long time no talk.
I miss u n want 2 c u tonight.
I hadn't had sex in three months, so after reading those two cyber English sentences, I was titillated with the idea of a potential rendezvous. Instantly willing to repress the thoughts of Zack being a selfish lover and over all non-genuine friend, I continued anxiously reading the text:
I'm in this new musical, Debbie Does Dallas the musical.
Sexy, I know! We r having a fund raiser tonight at the gay bar
Spin on Halstead and Belmont. It's only $15, hopefully I'll c u there!
What the Fuck!?!?! Sorry, I mean WTF. Too insulted to think in correct, standard, adult English, I regressed to using the diction of a eleventh grader, state-school-bound girl, and texted this thought in my head:
WTF the nerve of this bcth, txting me this BS.
She only wnts 2 c me b/c she's got a fdraisier! skank!!
F if I'm going 2 some g@y dance club,2 c her inconsiderate a$$.
ttyl in hell, axe wound!!!
My actual response was less callow and petulant than that, something to the effect of "Zack, we've haven't spoken in months due to our incompatible personalities, also you have never been a good friend to me. Are you aware of how insulting your offer is? You won't be seeing me tonight or anytime soon for that matter," which she countered with "I know, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you ; ) (winking icon).
The Bulls got waxed all over the hardwood floor at the United Center, so I needed to rebound from my now doleful demeanor. Predictably, I got on the Halstead bus headed north, en route to the Boystown nightclub Spin, and the compromising of my last bit of integrity. My plan was to sit alone at the bar, avoiding Zack until I would be so heavily inebriated that I would forget I had irascible feelings for her.
It wasn't my first time in a gay bar. My best friend and former high school paramour,Lee, was a dancer at Columbia College and she often brought me around her hot female friends, and I guess equally attractive (gay) male friends who all loved dancing at gay bars (that PC,cliché line to show chicks you're not a bigot comes to mind : "I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to say other bros are attractive"). In the spirit of being solo at a gay bar, I asked the bleach-toothed, clean-shaven, six-foot two barkeep to politely fetch me "tonight's most popular drink" — I've always thought it would be funny to drink a brightly colored, fabulous, Sex and the City-inspired cocktail in public. He handed me a Miller Lite. Wow! Gay guys are just like you and me, only repulsed by lady parts!! Zack and her cast mates took the well-lit stage and performed a scene from the crass, duly suggestive, poorly adapted Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical. After they finished, the dance party started and the novelty of being stag at a circus-like gay bar was running on the fumes from the Redken's aerosol hairspray that filled the room. It was getting late and I had to use the bathroom, but was kinda of nervous, considering my surroundings and alcohol-induced almost-homophobia. I decided to leave. With Britney Spears' dry-hump-friendly hit "Toxic" body-rolling out of the speakers, I did the "F, I gotta pee" dance all the way to the door, where Zack spotted me. I dodged her all night and there she was as I'm about to leave.
Zack, incredulous, parts her mouth,slowly pulls down the shades on those optical delusions of hers and careens her face towards mine and begins to kiss me. Be it apathy or a needed diversion from the fact that I needed to pee, I welcomed the act. Zack chugged her Cosmo, and dragged me to the dance floor by my left arm, my right arm very candidly squeezing shut the flowing of any urine that might have the audacity to crotch block me this night, so to speak.
Pardon my Friday night Comedy Central's bad stand-up set-up, but did you ever notice how dark the four corners of gay disco clubs are? At Spin, the corners are not only dark and rayless, but they also have curtains to pull around you and that handsome, Latin fella with the perfectly shaped eye-brows named Raymundo. In the middle of the dance hall, nary a word was spoken between Zack and I; we were indulging on brews, boredom, and each other's bodies. Public displays of affection, or PDA -ing, are awkward and distasteful wherever they happen, but when you consider two members of the opposite sexes performing the ironically aberrant act in the midst of a sea of dude-on-dude hooking up, it was clear we needed to relocate.
She had on a white and purple bubble print, 95% cotton/5% spandex, hand-wash-only summer dress, with a plunging neckline. I backed up the 5'5'', naturally tanned, incandescent Zack into one of the aforementioned wall-joiners, where our hands proceeded to take some liberties. Our palms, thumbs, and fingers were mischievously sliding behind, on top, and underneath our evening attire,while our mouths were in perfect cadence with one another. "Let's go to my place, I just moved down the street, and I have plenty Corona Lights in the icebox," Zack whispered into my left ear as she began biting my neck and lobe. In a very un-Benicio Del Toro bad-ass way, I too eagerly uttered,"Vamanos!"
"Do you have any limes?" I asked Zack once we were back at her new apartment. No answer. Coronas are almost undrinkable without limes. After digging through her vegan-friendly fridge, I located a container in the shape of a lime with Tropicana lime juice inside of it. Let the battle between my sobriety and the fear of getting "whiskey stick" commence.
Zack was in the water closet for about seven minutes doing any combination of the following activities: puking, bikini-line-shaving, crying, and/or madly swallowing her Ortho Tri Cyclen Lo, which she took erratically. I spilled the contents of an imported 12-ounce Mexican cerveza down my throat as I waited for Zack to finish up in the restroom. Dizzied but still conscious of the situation, I ran back into the sandalwood furnished kitchen and grabbed three more beers for back up. Enter Zack, 'clothed' in skin tight pink boy shorts and a see through white tank top sans brassiere.
The kissing was sloppy, the petting was aggressive, and my intentions were slowly proving cumbersome. Had I had a little too much to drink? "I'll return in a moment," I explained as I took her hand from beneath my boxer briefs and placed it in between her own willing and toned thighs. On my way to the bathroom, I grabbed the skunky tasting long necks . Once inside the heavy-candled powder room, I began pounding the two piss-yellow beers. Unnecessary. By the time I came back, Zack had found the remaining beer and had siphoned out the liquid. The swirling of our tongues clockwise, and the counter-clockwise revolutions of our hands below the other's waist, lead to a rhythmic and hypnotic downward spiral towards sleep for the both of us. Unbelievable, that one time too much alcohol was a bad idea...
Remember when you older brother would pin you down and force his thumbs into your eye sockets while projecting dissonant shrills at the top of his lungs? Well, take that experience and add the feeling of paper-cutting the pink tissue that makes up your brain, and mix in a pinch of the summer-season traveling-carnival's main attraction, the Zipper,-inspired dizzies ,and voila, the recipe for how bad I felt that morning. From her bedroom, I smelled an intermingling of raw vomit, lemon-scented Lysol brand disinfectant, and three unlit lavender-scented candles. Zack was frantically getting ready because she was already twenty minutes late for work when I came to.
I scavenged for my clothes and decided to split a cab with Zack to her job, my final destination being my apartment, and more importantly, my cell phone charger so I could tell everyone about my ridiculous night.
It was hard to tell what was more nauseating that morning after. Was it the unapologetic braking and accelerating of the taxi in Chicago morning traffic? Perhaps it was the unsympathetic sunshine that was forceably tailing us on every turn? Or, was it the fact I stayed in neutral instead of driving towards a shot at redemption and vindication against the egocentric and uncaring Zack?
The hired driver pulled up to the curb in front of Zack's office building on LaSalle and Wacker, and after looking at the expensive fare as it already stood, I decided to make this my final destination as well, split the bill with Zack, and just take the CTA home from there. As we were set to embrace and exchange empty hugs, I noticed that on her left cheek, a black penis and testicles were painted on her face. I was hilariously reminded of a scene from the movie Ten Things I Hate About You, and the night before at the fundraiser. In a desperate attempt to prove that Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical was sexy and fun, Zack agreed to the plastering of non-toxic genitals on her left cheek. Even if Zack would've Google-searched "face paint" and "FDA regulations" like this narrator did, nowhere would she have found a warning against letting someone paint your face while drunk, and the consequences that follow the next morning if you don't wash it off. I immediately licked my right hand's pointer finger, and as Zack's emotionless eyes followed my tongue to my finger, I caught a glance of her eyes. That clear morning, Zack's eyes were the most beautiful I'd ever seen them – paralyzing, is apt. Unfortunately for Zack, I don't really care much for eye portals. I care more for selfish people getting justly gutted every now and then. So rather than wipe off the pocket-sized, dark phallic symbol and save her the embarrassment of explaining herself to her boss, I just slathered saliva on my digit, than ran it to her lips and said, "This is the most honest and painstakingly gorgeous I've ever seen you. Text me later, I would love to hear all about your day." I shot her a wink only reserved for Vince Vaughn archetypes and kissed the right side of her face, the one that didn't have man privates painted on them. I strutted away, hung over, sore that the Bulls were slaughtered the previous night, and completely over Zack.
0 comments:
Post a Comment