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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “the End of the World” cc&d, v279 (the January 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:  |
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You the Pimp, Man! You the Pimp!
Liam Spencer
It was yet another day of deep boredom. The grey sky churned a little rain outside, and thus it was nice and chilly. My kind of weather. The laptop provided the only real light inside the dark apartment. Facebook funnies, making fun of Trump and the Trumpanzies. Share and share again. It’s important to have some humor and enjoyment during such rough and dark times.
Friday. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing. Just some cheap beers and all too expensive cigarettes. Belches provided a little more pleasure. Another day of nothing was giving way to a night of nothing.
My lower and middle back were pretty well gone, along with the left leg. There was no job I could do. Short naps were usually what was possible through the night. Worker’s Comp was the same as ever. Even when they say yes, they say no. It was a waiting game, as usual. They’ll starve you out to save money. That’s how so many injured workers end up on the streets. We live in a country that hates its’ own people. Is as does.
Sometimes you gotta just survive before you can live.
I was settling in for yet another night of surviving.
A message came from Gary. He was unemployed and bored. Similar situation. He wanted to hang out. That meant my beers being shared, but it was company, at least, so I agreed.
Gary was a spaced out guy, but very nice. I picked on him about looking like Jay Leno, minus the chin. He smoked a lot of pot, and preferred being spaced out. Self medicating. I preferred the bottle.
Anyway, he came down to my place to hang out. We sipped beer and bullshitted. It had been a while since I drank more than the two or three cheap beers. They were going down nice and smooth. We were both having a change of pace. Being broke without hope, and thus staying inside an apartment began to feel like a prison sentence, yet we were both wise enough to be grateful for what we each had, for the time at least.
After a number of beers, we each came to the inevitable conclusion that it had simply been too long since either of us had been social. It was unleashing something. There was a sense of freedom, somehow, as if we were each animals that had been accidentally left out of our cages.
We decided on a local bar, the Streamline. SL for short.
The SL was the best neighborhood bar in the city. It was also the cheapest place to drink in Seattle. If one lived in Lower Queen Anne, they were known in the SL. There were your neighbors, the people you ran into when out buying beer or groceries. The regulars seemed to live their lives there. Dedicated.
It was a diverse group. There were people barely getting through life. There were the tech people making six figures. There was everyone in between. A lot of artists and writers gravitated toward the place.
Any given night could be either a true adventure or a boring waste. One never knew.
We were hoping for adventure, but expected to simply be wasting money.
We had made a mistake. We could have been sipping on $1 beers outside my apartment. Instead, we were sipping $3 beers outside the SL. We sat there blinking at each other, chuckling at our foolishness.
Gradually people meandered in. It was nice to see some of them. Some of them. It had been a while. Conversations began. I made my rounds. The few Trumpanzies stayed silent. I was known as the Liberal asshole.
I went to get another beer. What the hell. There sat Shawna. She was nice, but very big. I mean, very big. Like four hundred pounds big. And loud. But she was a very nice person.
The thing with Shawna was that she was always on the prowl. Always. She tried with me before. I passed. Some guys go for that, though. Just not me.
The other thing with her was that she always wanted to talk. A lot. It wasn’t easy to get away. There was never a call to be rude to her, even if you wanted to get away to smoke or to text or to mingle. I was stuck, for a while.
An older guy, thin, came over to Shawna on the other side, beginning a conversation. He had done me a favor. I got another beer and headed back outside to mingle some more.
Gary seemed to have vanished. I thought about finishing my beer and heading home too. It had been a mistake to spend the money. Still, it was such a nice change of pace. I was away from my prison cell, at least for a while. Food for the week be damned.
I hobbled around, bad back, bad left leg, and all, mingling and conversing. Some of it was boring. The usual. I hadn’t missed a thing. Somehow, though, I had still missed it.
That beer finished, I went back for another. Just one more. Just one.
I hoped to not get trapped by Shawna again. I was relieved. The older, thin guy had her to himself, zeroing in, gleaming like a champ. Good for him.
Back outside and relieved, swearing that I had bought my last beer for the night, I stood largely alone. The mingling had taken on a life of its’ own without me. I smiled slightly, taking it all in. In no time, I’ll be back to my cell.
A young woman wearing glasses came out to smoke. She was maybe five five, mid twenties, and dark blond. Long hair. Knock out body. The stuff of dreams.
Our eyes met. The flirtation was very obvious. We chatted briefly. Others joined in. Our eyes kept meeting.
The conversation of the group somehow ended up referencing Larry David. She didn’t know who LD was. It broke my heart. Someone took out their giant phone and showed clips. We all laughed. She laughed the hardest, looking into my smiling eyes.
Then she went back in. Damn. Shortly, I went in....to get another beer.
Shawna was still occupied by the skinny guy. Light pettings. I looked away. As I motioned the beertender, a guy came up and shook my hand. He looked like a made man. Tough as nails. We all know the type. I was a little taken aback. Then, he spoke. High pitch, Irish accent, much like the character from MASH or maybe the fellow from Lucky Charms commercials. What an odd mix.
He was friendly, so I commented on it. He laughed a good laugh. We talked a good talk about Seattle housing prices, the disappearance of all things interesting in Seattle, about looking to live elsewhere, etc. Buzzed, not drunk. It was a good talk.
Then he began saying how he knew me. Known as something of an asshole, for good reason. He mentioned people with connections (if you know what I mean) from back east. Uh huh. I waited for my next beer, then brought him a glass of water, and excused myself to go smoke.
Outside was pretty full. I lit a smoke and stood where I could find room. This, surely, must be that last beer, at last.
Most of what remained were lonely guys and a few couples. Typically cleavage and legs shown through as the couples showed off, and the lonely guys drooled in line, hoping for their turn. Turnover was common. That was always a game I never played. Drama. Bullshit. No thanks.
The SL was a dive bar, but was very caring. Very community. Potlucks on holidays. Family for both couples and loners. A place to be community. All are welcome. Except those banned.
Any troublemakers were banned. This was a no fight zone. No tolerance. It was a place to blend in, not take someone out. If trouble began, ten to fifteen guys would escort the offender(s) away. If you were known, you didn’t worry, even if things got rowdy.
I stood, making every sip last. I was the observer, wishing for some writing material, but knowing that being there was a mistake. The money. Money is hell to earn and easy to burn. Shit.
I figured I may as well make the most of what foolishness I had committed, so I decided to look to converse. There was a guy sitting there wearing a jean jacket. He looked lost.
Introductions made, he brightened up, and began talking. Quickly he revealed his job. He was actually a professional wrestler. Really. He showed off clips from Youtube of him getting his ass kicked. Body slam or superplex or some kind of shit. It looked very painful. I cringed. Bad back.
“Oh no! Not really. I mean, we rehearse for weeks. It’s all rehearsed! There’s still some pain, but they train us. Extensively.”
“Well yeah, you’d have to. But still, like seven feet in the air...”
“but you land feet first...that’s all.”
On it went. I’m always a sucker for interesting conversation. How many times in life do you meet someone who tries to make a living as a professional wrestler? I might get writing material out of this after all, I thought.
Then it came.
“Hey. How big are you...like five eleven, two ten?”
“Well, yeah, I’m a big fat guy.”
“I’ve heard about you. You’re something of an asshole. You’d be perfect as a wrestler!”
“No no. I’ve got one good arm, one good leg, and a really bad back. Not a good idea.”
My eyes were wide.
Of course, I thought to myself. I clearly need to change careers, and the first offer I get is as a professional wrestler! Great.
“Nah, man, we’d train you, man. Really. First you’d be a referee. A bad guy. That kind of thing. Then you’ll turn good guy....Perfect! I discovered someone!”
“I’m not the guy. I’m already injured. If someone tried to lift me seven feet into the air, we’ll both need paramedics.”
“Man, just keep an open mind about it, ok? Please. You’d be great!”
“Ok, buddy, ok. I will.”
Relieved to end that scenario, I meandered back inside, and debated another beer. In short, the beer won, barely. The deal was that I’d have one more, but cash out, so this would truly be my last for the night. Money burned. None earned.
The thin guy was making out with Shawna. Heavy. Good for him. I ordered another beer and cashed out, then went outside. Shortly the professional wrestler went in to get another beer. When he came back out, he looked devastated.
It turned out that the older, thin guy was the wrestler’s roommate. He was taking Shawna home. Thus the professional wrestler had nowhere to sleep.
He couldn’t stay with me, but I did find a friend who would allow him to crash as a favor to me.
“Thanks man! I really own you one! Keep an open mind about wrestling, ok?”
“Don’t mention it. And ok, I will.”
Yeah right.
Things were clearing out in the outside smoking area. I stood largely alone, ready to leave when my final last beer was done. I smiled at the wild ride the night had been, then frowned because it was over. It would be back to my cell again. My crime? Being an injured worker. Great. The harder one works, the bigger a sucker they are. Why don’t they teach that in schools, before it’s too late?
Out came the young woman from earlier, her delicate features and long, dark blond hair accentuated by the casts of light and shadows. Her eyes brightened as they met mine. Relatively alone, this time, we began chatting, except the chatting seemed like nonsense. Other signals sirened.
While I’m not sure of the how’s, it wasn’t long before there were caresses followed by soft, appreciative kisses. Building. Swirling madnesses. Unexplainable. Some things are best left that way.
It was really happening. Really. I could feel it. My place. Amazing. I was so glad I had stayed out.
And then....high pitch voices;
“Christa! OH MY GAWD! CHRISTA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
Two young women ripped us apart. We glanced at each other, glowingly.
“Your boyfriend will be SO PISSED!”
Uh oh. Umm. I hadn’t considered that. No worries, though. This is SL, after all, and I’m known. All I have to do, bad back and all, is wait for the cavalry. Thirty seconds. I could do that.
And there he was. I smiled. Not big. I wouldn’t need the Cavalry, even as they’ll be coming.
Then his two buddies showed up. They were much bigger. FUCK! Thirty seconds is a bit long....
This might hurt.
The first one there was the “made man.” He no longer sounded like “me lucky charms.” All made.
“You got a fuckin’ problem?!”
Next was the professional wrestler.
“Man, I’ll body slam you so fucking hard your asshole will pucker!”
Wait. What?
I stood behind them, pointing to each of them, smiling and shaking my head yes.
The cavalry came and escorted the youngsters away. The threat was gone. Whew. I’ll finish my beer and go home, laughing at all the absurdities.
There stood the professional wrestler, his face gleaming.
“Man! I discovered two talents tonight!! Yes! We got “The Made Man.” He alone is a find! I can see it, his making his way to the ring, stone faced, looking ready to kill.”
The “Made Man” did a hell of an act, I have to say. What a great actor.
“Then we got Liam. Man! With your size, and your limp...a way with ladies.... I can see it, totally! We’ll get you a cane and a costume, pair you up with some lady wrestlers, and you’ll be like the pimp! Yeah, man, the pimp! You the pimp, man! You the pimp!”
The “made man” and the professional wrestler continued to chat excitedly about the possibilities and excitements of selling tickets, souls, and bodies for low paychecks and a way to avoid the real prostitutions of low wage labor and soul murdering boredoms of all the decks being stacked against us all.
Meanwhile, I stood between, yet behind them with my mouth and eyes wide open.
This is all life truly has to offer? Really?
The deck is stacked indeed. All of them are. There is no winning.
And yet, there’s still so much beauty.
