Boons of Embarrassment

Tired as shit and harboring some heavy late night eyes, I had approached the Twin Cities at a topspeed of 25 to 30 mph, struggling along with my shitty old, rusted out, brown and blue, 1978 Pontiac Lemans that had blown its transmission about 100 miles back, somewhere just outside of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I couldn't get it passed second gear but, fuck it, I had to keep going. It was still faster than walking and on top of that, all the shit I owned was packed in the back. I put the hazards on and stayed to the right. Near downtown St. Paul, under a spaghetti like junction of multiple overpasses and around a curve, my droopy eyes had finally drooped to a close. I was out...asleep at the wheel...dreaming, even. I remember feeling completely peaceful as if snuggled by a warm, cozy fire enveloped in soft, mushy blankets and pillows.

Boom!.....sccccrrrape!! I hit the concrete foundation of the overpass above me and scraped along it until finally flipping the steering wheel hard to the left. I crossed 3 or 4 lanes without being hit by any traffic and bumped the opposite wall of the overpass before finally coming to a halt. What a fucking switch of emotions that was! Comfort to chaos in half a second! Beads of sweat covered my forehead as I tried to recollect my breath. I lifted my shaking, clammy hands in front of my face, scanned down my arms and down the rest of my adrenaline-filled body to observe that my hide was somehow unscathed. The Pontiac Lemans, aside from its demolished exterior, was otherwise semi-functional, though I did have a blow out resulting from my sharp, sudden turn of the vehicle. I changed the torn up tire, successfully ignited the engine, and was once again on my way, no longer harboring any tired eyes.

A few blocks away from my new apartment, in which I had set up beforehand over the phone (site unseen), I had a blow out with the spare tire, as well. I rode on the rim, parked the beast, and unloaded my shit into my newfound foreign abode, abandoning forever the weathered and weary heap of smoking metal that, before today, was previously recognized as some kind of machine for transportation. I threw down some blankets and arranged my boxes and belongings around them in a fort-like manner. I felt safer that way. It gave back to me a hint of comfort that my fresh unfamiliarity had stolen from me. As I layed in bed, staring at the blank and quiet ceiling, loneliness, boredom, and uncertainty had already begun to lock themselves in as my initial set of feelings on this, the first night of my arrival, the first night ever living completely alone.

I was signed up to attend the University of Minnesota in the Fall but it had not started yet. There was nothing to do but check out my environment. I lived near downtown Minneapolis in a neighborhood called Loring Park. The greenery of the park was a nice compliment to the skyscrapers in its backdrop and a peaceful break from the city that surrounded it. I remember running on a path that encircled a quaint little pond in the center of the park where little duckies would swim and bathe, where the sun would glisten off the water, where trees would rustle in the summer wind...and where men would fuck each other in the ass....in broad daylight! Unbeknownst to me before moving into the area, the park was Minneapolis' silently accepted gay cruising area.

Barely hidden in the bushes, I witnessed a sweaty, thin, middle-aged man mounting and humping an older, balding, hairy rotund man. A pretty sight it was not. The poor little duckies, I thought. It still took me other instances of various propositions and blow job offers before I finally understood what the park was almost exclusively about. Shock and weirdness had now replaced my boredom. Fair enough. Nothing is worse than boredom.

There were also transvestite and she-male hookers working the park after sundown. On one occasion, my loneliness and curiosity, outweighing my shyness, lead me to invite two of them over for drinks at my apartment. One was Hawaiian mixed with other nationalities that I couldn't decipher. She named herself, Desire'. Her friend, comfortable with giving out her "boy" name, told me her name was Jacob. Jacob had sandy blond hair, was thin and lanky, and definitely could pull off the illusion of being a girl...at least to a drunkard in the dark. Desire's arms were too long for her body and she had a protruding jaw which made her look like a ridiculous island monkey in drag. I set aside any judgmental "norms" from childhood that may have accidentally slipped through the cracks of my well-fortified, anti-conservative brain, and looking through their attire and passed their flamboyant front, I discovered them both to be genuinely friendly and interesting. I had also found it quite impressive how comfortable they were with their...approach to things. They talked of their experiences in the park, asked me what I was all about (as if I knew) and we all eventually got piss-ass drunk together, clinging our glasses and high-fiving by the night's end like regular dudes. They hit on me, here and there, but noticing how naive I still was at the time, respectfully pulled back their reigns of any sexual intent.

The three of us ended up innocently passing out on my futon mattress, overlapping and interweaving like saturated (and satiated) spaghetti noodles. I woke up hungover with the two strange aliens in my bed and wondered what my mother would think of me if she walked in the room at this precise moment. Hmm. What would it matter. Fuck it...wasn't boring. Anyway, I woke up the two girlie-boys and told them I had things to do and that they should probably get going fairly soon. I was polite like I always was back then. They both kissed me simultaneously, leaving the last resemblance of any female lips on each side of my cheeks, and with their broken heels, five o'clock shadows, and dangling monkey arms, they went on their jolly ways. I never seen them again but I had a good time.

Aside from a few odd moments as such, life in the park was...well, no walk in the park. My new digs became a vortex of maraudic introspection where the dead silence of my apartment walls had replaced my own personal veils, encapsulating myself into myself, forcing me to peer at my core...a core void of personality, of self-image, of anything familiar to reference itself upon. I was such a pussy--not physically but emotionally. Physical pain rarely meant shit to me other than another sensation, one that I sometimes would invite to take the focus off my funky, tumultuous head. It got so bad in my empty little nest that I resorted to cutting myself, not out of any type of attempt at suicide, but purely to relieve stress. I only did this once. I found smashing my head against the wall was more my style and it made more sense since my head was the enemy in the first place. Needless to say the obvious, it was time to get the fuck out of Loring Park where my only solace from my apathetic confusion was inebriating myself as I walked around a defiled pond that had various, hairy ass-fuckings going on, down along its edges. Yeesh. My initiation into the city was short and sour...whiskey sour. It was time to go.

One listing in particular had caught my eye while I was browsing through the local City Pages weekly newspaper. It read, "Two female students looking for a 3rd person (preferably male) to share rent in 3 bedroom upper. Near U of M, no pets...bla, bla, bla." Preferably male? Hmm.They must have just had some problems with a female roommate or maybe just wanted the security of a man around the house, I thought. Cool. The last time I checked, I was a male so I believe that I qualify! An array of different pornographic movie scenarios flashed in my head. I could be like the guy in the old sitcom, Three's Company, where one single guy lives with two single women accept in my sitcom the guy would finally get laid instead of teased all the time. Living with a couple chics, huh? At the time, it was my dream scenario. God damn, was I a dork back then, a walking dork. I was much too easily impressed, I had no game, and I wasn't at all in control of my hormones, to say the least. My body was simply a breathing machine for my dick to exist.

I called the number on the ad and arranged a meeting with the girls and the landlord who was the sister to one of the girl roommates. During the meeting, I blatantly and disgustingly came across as Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. "don't worry I would never try to boink you or your friends" Guy. I convinced them that I had an abundance of money and that my only concern was finishing my studies at the university. I hid my extreme state of introversion, and I also made a conscious effort to not look at any of the girls' tits. They loved me and I was in. I was even allowed to move in a few days early. The girls were of average looks, of a mainstream crowd, and were not really my style of people otherwise but, hey, with girls come other girl friends and I seen it as an opportunity at meeting potential future pussy. Yippee! My days of having little, no, or fat chic pussy could be over!

Yea, well, it was a fat chance...with these girls anyway. They invited me to La Crosse, Wisconsin to go get drunk at Octoberfest with a bunch of dipshit college pukes. I couldn't stand college party type shit. I would always end up fighting and not fucking, which was probably the best alternative. I'm about 12 and 0 in the "fight win and loss ratio vs. college frat boy" department....and 0 and 1000 in the "how many hot college bratty bitches I could fuck" department. I kept having to beat and pummel it into these people the fact that I was a lover not a fighter but they just wouldn't understand. That or they couldn't properly express themselves with a mouthful of their own fuckin' teeth and...oops...sorry...still have some residual rage in me fueled by some ancient insecurities. Anyway, back to La Crosse...

I didn't like the company the girls mingled me with and I was sick of getting doused with beer in every new bar we entered (an Octoberfest tradition), so I had no alternative but to get as pissed-up as humanly possible. I didn't drink any beer or even mixed drinks for that matter. Fuck their beer drinking and drenching traditional bullshit! Give me my tequila!! That night, I drank nothing but. One shot for every year I was on the planet--21 to be exact. I had an iron gut back then...something I was proud of.

So, needless to say, I did some stupid shit and made a complete ass of myself. While walking down the street with the girls and their people, one dude, who I wasn't too fond of, was fucking around, trying to be funny, and threw his friend's jacket on the roof of a two story building. So, to thwart whatever he was trying to do, I climbed up the gutter, retrieved the jacket and jumped off the building onto the concrete below without as much as scratching myself. I don't know if it was the booze that made me relax enough to hit the ground and roll properly or if it was just sheer luck that I didn't get hurt. An amazing drunken feat it was.

Nevertheless, the gallant act was a bit overdramatic and freaked everybody out. The only one who was proud of me was the kid whose jacket I retrieved. I was quiet all night and then, out of the blue, I crawled up a wall and jumped off a building. I suppose the contrast could be seen as slightly disturbing but, god damn, it was done with good intention. Regardless, after the incident, no one talked to or even acknowledged me for the rest of the evening. At the end of the night, the girls were set up with sleeping accommodations in their friend's house while I was left in the bright living room, ordered to leave the lights on. What a bunch of rude motherfuckers, I thought. I save the day and I'm treated as such? Fuck this. I proceeded to scan the entire house for a hole or a corner to lay in but there was nowhere where a body wasn't laying. Fuck this again, I thought. I'm sleeping motherfuckin' somewhere! So, I snuck in a bedroom, the owner of the house's bedroom, and crept under his bed in which he was passed out upon, cuddled up with his girlfriend. He was the same guy who threw his buddy's jacket on the roof.

Still drunk, I woke up to the angry words of, "...and who the fuck is under my bed! Dude, get the fuck out of there!"

"Hold on bro! I've got to, uhh....oh shit...my pants."

He retrieved my pants for me which, for some reason, were laying on top of his bed. I grabbed the pants and looked down at my crotch and to my panicked dismay, realized I had pissed all over myself and all over the floor under the bed. I mean, I didn't just wet myself a little but I must've pissed a number of times throughout the night! Fuck!

"Come on dude! Get out from under there!"

"Relax! I've got to get my pants on, ya prick!"

I tore off my piss-soaked fruit of the looms, tried to conceal them in a corner under the bed, threw on my pants and wriggled out from my cesspool. I was a fucking wreck. I couldn't even see straight much less make out the disgusted look on the faces of my new roommates and their cohorts who were staring at me in silent, judgmental disbelief. What'd they expect, man, shit...not giving a guy a place to sleep and all. It's just piss...not even, actually. Most of it was water, really. What's a little water? It never hurt nobody, I thought, trying to downgrade my embarrassment.

"Well, let's go," I said, smiling, trying to play it off like everything was fine. To my luck, the girls allowed me in their car. I slept in the back and didn't say anything and, of course, wasn't spoken to. I saw the words written all over the girls faces which read, "O my god! I can't believe we let this freak move in with us!" So much for my meeting some new pussy but fuck 'em. It's too late now, rude asshole bitches! Ize be on da lease! Ha. Actually, I tried to be extra nice to them over the next couple days and explained to them that the night in La Crosse was not representative of me. They started to lighten up a bit until they received a package in the mail that contained my rank fruit of the looms with a note saying, "I believe these belong to your disgusting roommate!" Zoinks! I guess I'll have to meet people elsewhere, I rightfully concluded.

God damn it, man! I need some bro's, some fucking male friends, friends who I could comfortably hang with, friends who actually...like me. My roommates had me outnumbered and I needed some social power...or something. The girls' plot to ignore me out of existence was starting to get to me. So, coincidentally, the same day it was getting to me to the point where I was looking for another place to live, I was approached in philosophy class by a future partner in crime and fellow outcast, a former boobyhatch resident and social misfit, the insane, the genius, the Derelict. Sherman. Sherman the Derelict. The two of us would be the beginning of a developing triad, a trinity, if you will...a trinity of unholiness and ridiculousness.

Sherman the Derelict was 6 or 7 years older than I and had just been let loose out of a half-way house after serving time in prison for criminal damage to property, harassment, and various other charges related to a girl he became obsessed with. He stood about 5'7, with a semi-stout physique and a pug nose. Though not a bad looking guy, his body sat on a rectangular and somewhat chubby frame that sprouted thin arms and legs in comparison to his torso. His long hair was over-bleached into a platinum explosion and his skin was equally and excessively tanned into a near charred oblivion. Sherman told me that, on a regular basis, he would break into a closed hair salon near campus and bleach his own hair using their products. He also said he would "glaze" in their tanning beds before sneaking back out. When we'd part for the day after hanging out together, his code word was, "glaze", for when he was going to bust up into the salon. Wow. I met someone whose self-consciousness and vanity exceeded even mine...to the point of criminal behavior even. Sherman the "fashionable" Derelict.

At the time I met him, he was making an attempt at living alone, but Sherman was destined to live with his mother for the rest of his life. His relationship with his mother was...strange--Norman Bates of the classic Hitchcock thriller, "Psycho", type strange. One night, after breaking his court order to not drink any alcohol, the Derelict and I got well lit off of beer and tequila. Around and about his room were placed an assortment of small porcelain statues and trinkets of a mother and a small boy in various positions and scenarios. In a drunken psychotic rage, Sherman began to destroy each and every trinket, yelling obscenities about his mother as he went on his rampage.

"That fucking bitch! I can smell her pussy! She was playing with herself...I caught her playing with herself. I can smell her pussy! Her pussy's all over everything. I can smell it all over me!!"

He then proceeded to kick me out of his apartment leaving me to contend with a 2 mile walk in 20 below zero Minnesota winter weather, minus my hat and gloves that were still left behind in his efficiency. It took me awhile to forgive him but the Derelict had a certain talent in winning the hearts back from the friends he would moderately fuck over. I believe it was because he was so pathetic, at the time, that any feelings of being offended by him were simply dismissed by the knowledge and appreciation that he was him and I wasn't! He's one of those friends who make you feel good about yourself in comparison. No matter how fucked up I was, Sherman would always top it. I mean, one might question my integrity regarding how I always made fun of him but it was the only way I could hang around him without resentment. So, the trade, I guess, would be that Sherman would on occasion fuck me over, owe me money, or leave me stranded somewhere, and I would rip on him or talk shit about him to our other acquaintances. That, and the fact that I found his neurotic idiosyncratic behavior quite amusing, had kept us friends, not to mention, seeing a part of myself within Sherman's obsessive personality.

Sherman would borrow money from me and from whoever else willing or friendly or stupid enough to give it up. On the first day of the month, when he received his retard money (social security income), he would transform into the character of some high rolling showboat who was definitely good to be around if one was lucky enough to catch him on his wave. It was the only way that I could get some of my money back that I had spent on him in dribs and drabs throughout the days leading up to his monthly government paid score. The same pattern would be played out each time he got his SSI check. He would buy a new outfit, walk in the club like he was king shit, tell a bunch of lies that he was a major music producer or promoter or what not, spend all his money buying those in his general vicinity rounds of drinks, and then he would leave or "roll" without telling me or his other friends. Before leaving us stranded, he would discard into a garbage can in the club, most of the new clothes he bought for the night, usually consisting of some ridiculous pimp type hat and a sport coat of some kind. He did this once a month, every month, the same thing. The next morning he would call me with the same coined phrase:

"Rolled! I rolled, brother...roll!!"

"You left us fucking stranded, man! We had no ride home. What the fuck's your problem!"

"Because I rolled, rolled...ahhrolled!"

In his twisted mind, he felt the catch phrase somehow justified and nullified his actions. In a way it did..."Hey man what happened to the Derelict? We were stranded and had to walk home in the pouring rain!"

"Oh...well, he rolled."

"He rolled? Oh, okay. Sorry for asking. As long as he rolled..."

Shortly after meeting Sherman the Derelict, he had introduced me to his best friend James, better known as King James or "King Ja", as Sherman would like to put it. The three of us met up at a bar in an area near campus called, Dinkytown, where King Ja had explained to me how him and the Derelict became friends. He told me that he knew of Sherman in high school but didn't begin to appreciate him until one day in speech class. Sherman unprepared, not realizing a speech was even due, simply made something up off of the top of his head. It went something like this...

"My speech today is on the sounds of farm animals. The cow goes, "Mooo!" The pig goes, "Oink Oink!" The rooster goes, "Cockawoooraarooo!" The sheep goes, "Bahahaaa!" The horsey goes...."

Sherman went through all the farm animals he could think of, sending the entire class into an uproar of laughter. At the end of his speech and after seeing the response he had gotten, the Derelict explained to the class that his speech was not about farm animal sounds at all but that it was really about the art of laughter and how to manifest it in a group. Sherman was given an A on his speech, an A in the class and had earned the friendship and respect of King Ja.

King Ja got his name because of his looks, his demeanor, and because of his previous overdramatic and almost comical acts of fundamentalism. He explained to me how him and Sherman used to baptize random citizens in the waters of Lake Calhoun. It was a busy public lake, still in the city limits, where people would rollerblade, bike, jog or throw picnics. King Ja and the Derelict would stand by the shore and preach the word of the lord to passersby. Those showing the slightest interest, willingly or not, would be thrown into the lake and cleansed of all their sins.

Though not as extreme as he was before I met him, the King still had the persona of a holy man or a shepherd, though lacking, to say the least, the passivity and moral conduct that a shepherd is commonly perceived as having. King Ja had a short, dark beard and mustache along with dark, black, thick long hair. Sherman called it "the mane" and attributed to it the reason why the King got so many women. King Ja was also very aggressive. Sitting with him at the bar that first night, I noticed right away that the man I was talking to was a living and breathing contradiction. Along with his dominant attitude, he would preach to me teachings from the bible and what metaphorical lessons he felt that Jesus was really trying to get across to us.

"The teachings of Jesus can be broken down into love and hate. Do you follow the path of love or do you follow the path of hate? This is the question."

"Look, James. I'm really not into the Christian thing. I mean, I feel it's war-based and not at all based on love."

"I'm not necessarily speaking about Christianity. I'm more into the teachings of Jesus himself, the raw untarnished core point of his lessons without the dogma and the powers that be that overtook and distorted his true musings."

The King got on a roll and many of the things he said were idealistic but beautiful nonetheless. I liked how into it he was. I liked his intensity. During our conversation specifically related to love and peace, a fairly large man had bumped into our table seemingly on accident. In one swift motion and in the same sentence, Ja switched gears on a dime.

"When Jesus spoke of slaying the demon, he spoke of slaying hate with love. Peace was his instrument of....(bump)....Hey! You better watch where you're steppin' motherfucker, you spilled my drink! You buy me another one or I will fuck you up!"

"King! Settle down. I don't think he did it on purpose," I yelled out.

Sherman was giggling and shook his head in a matter that told me that this wasn't the first time James had snapped for almost no apparent reason. The Derelict told me not to get upset or worry and that it was just the way the King was. I could also tell that Sherman got off on the power of King Ja's behavior and I realized that Sherman was the submissive sidecar in their relationship...on the outside anyway.

"I don't understand. You were just explaining how love, not hate, is what it's all about...I don't think that guy wanted to fuck with you and if he did, he sure as hell aint gonna now. Look he's leaving." I was relieved. I wasn't in the mood to fight at the moment, especially after hearing all that shit about peace and love and what not. I was kind of getting into it.

"I seen it in his eyes. I felt he wanted a piece of me...a piece too big for him to chew."

King James was drunk by now and the inflation of his ego became directly proportionate to the increments of alcohol he would consume. He got up to go to the bathroom and on his way back to his seat he stopped off at the bar to throw down another shot before returning to our table. Sherman looked into his eyes, smiled and put his head into his hands in an "oh no, here we go" type of fashion. King Ja sat on his chair, looked me in the eyes, paused a moment, and said...

"I love you therefore I must kill you."

Sherman bursted out into laughter, spewing beer out of his mouth and into the air. James tried to keep a serious face but eventually lost it himself. I joined in and the three of us became a giggling, laughing, glass breaking, beer spewing mess. We parted from the bar before getting arrested, and went our seperate ways home. It was a fun night. On my happy drunken walk back to my unhappy living situation, I had realized that I had officially just made some friends. I raised to the sky a half bottle of beer that I had snuck out of the bar and soluted to the moon and stars. The moon. It always looked and felt so much more powerful through my drunken eyes. I never noticed it much, otherwise.

The repeated pattern of embarrassing myself in front of my pistil-bearing roommates had continued and escalated and strangely enough, in doing so, had begun to turn to my advantage without any conscious effort on my part. They became intimidated by my unintentional antics and by pure chance, always seemed be there when I was doing something stupid. Ironically, my funky behavior had kept them at bay...kept them guessing. Every time they thought they had me figured out, I'd unconsciously pull out some more shocking shinola. Apparently, it was my way of marking my new territory or "pissing" on my space.

One day, while I was alone in the apartment, I rolled a joint and decided to start working on a painting I had been putting off for the previous week or so. I wanted to put a mural on my bedroom wall of a tripped out, geometrical, psychedelic image that had been plaguing me in my dreams. In order to not get paint on my clothes, I stripped down buck-naked. After a couple hours of working on the image, I noticed that it was coming out exactly how I had seen it in my head. I was impressed with myself and astounded at how detailed the image had manifested itself through my hands. Cool! I took a break and smoked the rest of the weed. What a great fuckin' mood I was in! I looked in the mirror and noticed I had an assortment of colors all over my body. I added to it and covered every inch of my skin until I looked like a walking cartoon. I then, of course, being in the delightful mindset I was rarely in, began to jack-off, using masterbation to finalize the power of my work...or something like that. I used some of the paint as lubricant. I think it was one of the blue tones.

I pointed my hips at the centerpoint of the painting and touched the tip of my dick to the wall when I knew that "funny feeling" we all know and love was about to display itself. In the midst of my ejaculation, with my face tightened and my teeth gritting, one of my roommates had walked in on me! Right at that precise fucking, personal, weird, meant to be alone god damn moment, she walked in on me!

"Adam, why didn't you do the dishes. You know it was your turn to...oh my fucking God!!! What are you doing! You fucking freak!! You fucking freak!!" She yelled this as she ran away.

"But...wai....I...gouhggoohhraaah...you don...uuhhhhhh...(glitch)." I couldn't properly speak in the middle of busting my nut. When I collected myself and finally caught my breath enough to speak, I yelled to her across the apartment trying to explain myself.

"It was for an art project at school!"

She hadn't heard me. She was already down the stairs and outside. Was she going to call the police? Could I get in legal trouble for this? Naw. It's not illegal to jack-off, especially in your own room. Fuck her. My humiliation turned to pride and to be perfectly honest, the whole thing kind of turned me on, anyway. I mean, I was caught red-handed (actually blue-handed) so I might as well have made the best of it. Plus, the formidableness of my load was nothing for me to be ashamed of. I remember her eyes being fixated on my ejaculating penis when she was screaming in disbelief. Passed the inescapable visual surprise of acknowledging what I was doing with my crotch, she stared at it for a couple extra seconds longer than she needed to. It was almost like I fucked her. Ah, to hell with feeling embarrassed! I chalked it off as a small win. Fuck 'em. I giggled and went back to my painting. What else was I to do.

On another occasion, Sherman the Derelict and I had picked up two fairly homely looking girls from a club downtown, eventually coercing them into heading back to my place. I was in the front seat of the girls' vehicle and started playing with one of the girl's coochies while she was driving. The Derelict was in the backseat making out with his catch as well. As we got closer to our destination, I noticed a nervous bubble brewing in the face of my unpredictable friend which finally popped when we came within just a few blocks from my apartment. Sherman freaked out and threw his body out of the hatchback of the moving vehicle! He "rolled!" This time literally. I don't know if the pressure of knowing he was about to get some ass messed him up or he simply was not as drunk as me to see the "beauty" in these girls. Oh, well. More for me. Through the back window, I viewed the Derelict getting up and brushing himself off. He waved to us to let us know he was not hurt and we kept on our way. The car had never stopped moving.

The girls were a giggling, slobbering, drunken mess when we got to my pad. I did a quick scan of the interior and noticed my roommates were still not back for the evening. Awesome! I had the whole place to myself for a three-way heavyweight fuckathon! I got the girls some weed and wine and it didn't take long before were going at it. They weren't the hottest or the skinniest girls in town but, hey, they were willing and that's all that I needed. They also played with each other which was always a bonus.

At one point, I had both of them on the living room couch with their heads buried in the cushions and their fat asses propped up in the air.Yeeha! I was having the time of my life! I would take turns on each of them, banging and rotating at will. It was what I envisioned doing when living at home during high school, laying in bed bored and fantasizing about what I would be doing when I lived alone. Ahh...alone. Wait a minute. Alone? Oh, fuck!

I had heard both of my roommates coming up the stairs but it was too late. The front door was situated in such a way where the girls' propped up asses would be the first image seen in the visual field upon opening the door. It couldn't be helped. I had time enough to pull it out and turn, unintentionally striking a perfect sideways exposed boner pose, before once again being discovered in an abrupt and unavoidably compromising fashion. The girl I was fucking turned and tried to cover herself. She did this as a reaction but giggled in the process, not really giving a shit. The other girl didn't move at all...she was, well...snoring...passed out with her ass up and face down and exposed to the world! I was amazed that she didn't fall to one side or the other. She must've been in a completely balanced doggie pose. It was impressive. I wanted to take a picture.

Anyway, my roommates screamed and bitched as they stood behind the other side of the door on the stairwell. I helped collect all of our clothes, copped a last feel before waking up my sleeping beauty, apologized to the girls and sent them on their ways. Damn it. I didn't get to cum! The next day I was given 30 days to vacate the premises and being that the landlord was a direct blood relative to one of the girls, I had no chance for rebuttle. I started looking for another place.

A few weeks later on one of my last nights living with the girls, King Ja, the Derelict and myself decided to celebrate my moving out...well, we used it as an excuse to get annihilated, anyway. It was a fairly typical evening for our unholy trinity. The King would nearly get into a fight and Sherman would end up calling a girl a bitch or be off somewhere raising some sort of controversy of some kind. Myself, if not in the middle of one of their debacles, I'd be dancing my ass off with a drink in one hand and a smoke or a joint in the other.

After unofficially being kicked out of a club, we headed back to where King James had illegally parked his car in a spot where he would always illegally park his car, though this time the end result was finally what the sign said--"towed." The car was gone. The King was fuming and I was using every ounce of focused concentration and energy, to stop from laughing my ass off.

"Fuck this! Let's just go to another bar," yelled James.

On our way to wherever King Ja was leading us, the King had caught the eyes of and entered into a bizarre, silent stand off with a man who was walking towards us. A giant man walking towards us! I mean, a fucking mountain man giant! He must've stood 6'10, carried over 300 plus pounds, was big, burly, hairy and scary. The two of them caught eyes, stared at each other nose to nose and slowly pivoted together in a 360 degree circle before pivoting the other way. It was like a weird, primitive, male animal dance. Neither of them said a word and they moved together in unicen, mirroring each other, before slowly backing off...also in unicen. The mountain man, I feel, was a direct physical manifestation of King Ja's anger. A reflection of his mind, if you will. The King, literally, created him.

On the street, in front of the bar, Sherman the Derelict and King Ja got into a huge argument. Sherman started in on why Jim was fucking with the mountain man using it as an excuse to bring up other shit he was pissed off about. Previous to my meeting the two of them, they had a history of being in bands and creating music together. Whenever a music project would stumble or fall apart, one of them would blame the other for fucking the whole thing up. King Ja, definitely not liking an argumentative draw, brought up the dirt on the Derelict through the singing of a song that reminded Sherman of the girl he had been obsessed with in the past...a girl he went to jail over and still couldn't talk about without getting upset. Ja's disgruntled night and angry head had steered him into justifying himself in hitting Sherman below his emotional belt.

"Sara...smiyaa-iyaale. Oh won't you smile awhile for me...Saraaaa. Oooowoowoh...", the King sang in perfect tune and with a gusto of bitter energy.

"Fuck you! We're through! Finished! Fuck You!! Go find yourself another back-up vocalist you son of a bitch!" Sherman the Derelict stomped his way down the sidewalk, hailed a cab, and rolled. W'ed talk to him tomorrow. It was Sherman's way of saying he was done for the evening. No biggie.

The King and I, continued our night at the King's favorite club, Mr Nibbs. He asked me if I ever did powder cocaine before and I told him I did just a little, once in Milwaukee. We agreed to split a fair amount, a fair amount for me back then being a gram or two. In the future, "Mr. Nibbs" became our code word for "cocaine." If we were sitting around and we were bored one night and had a bit of cash, one of us would look at the other and say, "They call me Mr. Nibbs!" Hence we would drop our boredom and our sense and head for drugs. This night was our first night doing it. We headed back to my place, once again barren of my evil twin roommates, and chopped up some lines on a mirror in the living room.

"Hey King, let's take this into my bedroom because I don't want to get busted by my roommies. I'm already in hot, steaming water as it is."

"Okay. Let's just do a quick couple of lines and then bring the mirror and shit in there."

We did some lines. We did some more. Then, I lost my inhibitions and desire to give a shit. Hell, I didn't even remember I had any roommates...until they walked in...again...of course. Jim and I both had our heads down towards the mirror. In my hand, I had a straw positioned close to my nose, and with our heads and bodies remaining still, both of us raised our eyes to see my roommates staring at us with folded arms, standing in the doorway. We looked like guilty dogs greeted by their master after taking a fresh, incriminating dump on the carpet. They were silent. Were they numb to my antics? Have I lost my advantage? Needless to say, we took our shit in my bedroom and we finished it on my bed. The girls said nothing. We were high as fuck.

It was about 5:30am and King Ja was too geeked to go home much less make it to work. I told him he could stay over but he would have to stay in my room lest we piss off my roommates anymore, especially now that the goodie-two-shoe bitches knew that we were doing something illegal. Regardless of how hard we tried to conceal ourselves from them, they were simply destined to be appalled by me and now by my friend. Each of us on separate occasions were discovered “lurking” in our underwear in the middle of the night. We were merely just getting up to piss, each time perfectly synchronized with my roommates late night bathroom schedule. It would never fail. They would be up to use the bathroom at the same exact time we would be. We couldn’t win.

King Ja slept until noon or so only to wake up with a hangover, the memory of his impounded car, and to the news that he had lost his job at the hospital cleaning out piss pans and what not. Not a bad job to lose, I thought. King Ja apologized about getting me in even more deep with my roomies. We both agreed to blame it on the cocaine and alcohol and we let it go. Fuck them anyway. Jim went home and I was left to the devices of my apartment mates. I was done with their judgment and didn’t give a shit at all. A few days later, King Ja helped me move into a studio apartment where once again, I was demoted to living alone...and I suppose rightfully so.

In my mail, I received a letter from the landlord who was the sister of my now ex-roommates. In it, the letter stated that I would not be receiving any of my $300 deposit back because she had to pay a painter (coincidentally) the same amount of money to cover the beautiful and colorful, geometrical mind-fuck that I had skillfully painted on my bedroom wall. "Painting Plus" was the company she claimed she used. Being the bastard I was and refusing to lose any more games in my life without a fight, I researched the painting company to joyfully find out that they had never done the work. They were never even contacted by the perjuring, landlord bitch. I subpoenaed him to court, he testified that he did not have anything to do with painting the bedroom wall, and I was granted my $300 back.

Now, in small claims court, winning don't mean squat. The game is in getting your money back to where you actually get it back in your pocket. So, with a meddling, cheesy scheme of mine, I actually made this happen. I can't believe she fell for it. I called my ex-landlord and posed as a radio disc jockey, contorting my voice to sound like a television car salesman or game show host. I told her she was the winner of a $50,000 sweepstakes give-away and that all I needed was her bank account number to deposit the money. She was clueless and gave it up like the ho she was. It was so easy. I gave the courts her account number and they somehow transferred $300 dollars from her bank account into mine. Sweet! I, of course, had to call her up and gloat, telling her in my radio disc jockey voice who I really was and that her stupid ass was played by a masterbating, underwear-soiling, cocaine-sniffing, perverted bastard!

I know it's pathetic but for the psychopathic loner geek that I was at the time, it was my first win and a great one at that. Think about it. I acted like a complete moron and as it all turned out, everything went my way! All those years in high school where I was so serious and where I tried so hard and lost so much but here, in this situation, where I let it all go, where I bared my idiotic soul...I won...and obtained wisdom in my foolishness. Wisdom about the healing powers of humiliation. Wisdom about letting go. I was onto something! I was awarded a victory for exposing myself...a boon for my embarrassment, if you will. I had a clue and for the first time in my lonely life, as pathetic and petty as this small win may sound to you......I had an edge. I had a fucking edge!

(Minneapolis, Summer, 1988 to Summer, 1989) . . . . . . aa

©2002-2012 Mr. Applegate.net