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No Clue

Max Evans


��Woke up this morning butt-naked next to some fat chick. She was wearing an oversized Raiders T-shirt and her left eye was cocked open. She said that would happen before we passed out. How I wound up in her bed was simple: Corona, Heineken, a shot of Patron, back to Corona, two shots of Jager, and finally the kicker, an Adios Motherfucker.
��Her walls were covered with old bouquets tacked upside down and magazine pics of Vin Deisel and Ben Affleck. I wanted to slip away but her big-ass arm had me pinned. After I bench pressed that log off me, her other eye popped open. “Hey,” she grogged out, “where you going?” “Bathroom,” I whispered.
��While taking a leak and scratching the flea bites her cat gave me, I remembered it was Sunday. Shit, Shaleen’s gonna fuckin’ kill me! I thought. I rushed into the front room without shaking. My gear was on the couch all mixed up with her’s. I threw mine on and made sure to be quiet with the belt.
��Curious to see how big she really was, I picked up her drawls. I gave them a stretch and inside my head, Chris Tucker went, “Daaamn!” Then I chucked them and they floated out wider than a family-sized pizza.
��Before I did the creep, I took a peek in her room. All she’d done was turn away from the sun. The back of her legs had so much cellulite, they looked smothered in chunky peanut butter. There was a magnet-picture of her boyfriend on the fridge. He was a straight dweeb in a Navy uniform.
��I sealed the front door shut and booked it to my car. I had to keep clicking the clicker to find it. Stuck under the wiper blades were flyers for 420 festivals and raves. I snatched them off and stuffed them in the glove with old parking tickets. Burrito wrappers covered the floorboard but I couldn’t recall going to Del Taco after the club.
��As I was picking out the morning boogs, I could smell that chic’s stuff. I checked my finger and something like dried marinara was on the cuticle. I thought about it more and figured what it had to be. Before the light turned green, I racked my brain praying I never went down on her.
��The whole night flashed through my head as I floored it to Shaleen’s: getting to the club late with the fellas, checking out who was there, a big girl buying me a beer, and later, faded as hell, sneaking out the back door with her.
��Her name was Margarita, or Maria, or something Mexican like that. Her eyebrows were toothpick-thin and arched high like a Mickey D’s sign. Her lips were two-toned, red and brown, and she was wearing this fuzzy black sweater that V’d deep into Cleveland. I remember staring once and thinking, If that bra were some rims, she’d definitely be rolling on D’s! The more we drank, the more the rest of her disappeared.
��The most messed up part of the night was when she gave me a smack. We ended up in her bathroom somehow and were way past being kissy-kissy. So while she was giving me head, I melted out, “Ahh bitch.” She stood up, slapped me and said, “Don’t call me no bitch!”
��Best believe I was hella-stunned like Glass Joe on “Mike Tyson’s Punch Out.” I grabbed her by the wrists, gritted my teeth and said all-hard, “Fuck’s wrong with you?” She shook me loose and came right back at me with, “Well, don’t be calling me no mother fucking beetch then.” We argued a little bit more and then went back to macking. The tile was cold at first. The mats smelled like cat piss.
��I was only about ten minutes late to Shaleen’s. I knew I had to get in there fast so she wouldn’t shove the Irresponsible Card in my face. I looked in the rearview and my eyes were red as rug burns. Zits jumping out. Hair jacked. I wanted to try and fix it but wasn’t about to lick my fingers for nothing.
��Shaleen opened the door with sleep lines on her cheek. It looked like she made the Penny Saver her pillow for the night. She stared at me and said, “What the... Nice hickeys, guy.” I was like whatevers and stepped past her.
��On the couch chillin’ out was our son Bailey. He was in his diaper and Kobe Bryant T-shirt. I said, “Wassup, Bail’-Bail’,” but he was too busy watching “Blues Clues” to even notice me.
��I stepped over Lego’s, clothes, bills and old juice cups to get to the kitchenette. As messy as Shaleen’s studio can get, it’s better than the looks I got when Bailey was just born and Shaleen was still living with her parents. I moved dishes around in the sink and washed my hands with orange dish soap. Wet the hair a little. Drank from the faucet.
��Then I heard from the doorway behind me, “I don’t even wanna know.” Shaleen ripped down a gang of paper towels and said, “Here, just take these. I don’t know where those hands’ve been.”
��While I dried off, Shaleen said Terrell was picking her up at nine so they could go to California Adventure. Terrell’s her boyfriend. He’s cool-people. Last Saturday night after Bailey knocked out, me and him ran to Vons to split a twelve pack. I’m just glad she found someone to nag on instead of me.
��
��Shaleen went into the bathroom to curl her hair and said, “Eric, change his diaper. He just woke up.” I grabbed Bailey’s bag and sat next to him on the couch. His plastic cell phone was under my butt so I grabbed it and flung it away. When it hit the ground, it kept going, “Sorry, wrong number. Sorry, wrong number.”
��Bailey stared at the tube while I took off his heavy diaper. He’s probably seen that tape a million times already. He loves it when Blue finds a clue cause she’ll spin around fast like an AOL-logo. One time, Bailey spun around too and bonked his head into Shaleen’s coffee table, right at the corner. That scar above his right eye will probably never go away.
��While I was swiping a wipee around everything, Bailey’s little wee-wee flipped up. He looked at me and half-smiled like when he poots. He’s got blonde hair like Shaleen and hazel eyes like mine. His head’s shaved for the summer and some people say he looks like Eminem. Others say more like Mini-Me. I say his nickname should be Mini-Em.
��After I strapped a fresh diaper over it, Bailey asked me in his high-pitched voice, “Pee-pee gone?” I lunged to kiss his soft Buddha-belly and told him, “Yeah Bail’, your pee-pee’s covered now.” But while sliding on his shorts for the day, I couldn’t help but think, Little man, you ain’t got a clue what that thing’s gonna get you into. Not one single clue.




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