goodolvic

We were tired and fucked up, me and Lorena and Gustavo and Jimbo, and Lorena and Gustavo were pervs who liked fucking in parking lots and watching people out through the camper windows so when we got there they told us to go buy them some shit and to take our time or at least wait for them to open the tail gate.

“You guys’re fucking stupid,” I said. “Oil and shit back there, it’s dirty.”

“It won’t show on this bitch’s greasy ass.”

And Lorena punched Gustavo in the back of the head and he laughed like a hyena. Her long peroxide hair was all messy and in her face because they’d been doing whatever in the back since we left the party. I could see it because the lights from all around the parking lot were shining into the truck and it was all orange and stringy.

I asked them what they wanted.

“Ey man, get me the McRib. That shit is back yo!”

“Me too,” added Lorena.

“You sure you don’t want a hot dog or something in case Tavo’s dick don’t work?”

“Hey, fuck you! Pinche baboso!” Lorena reached into the cab and tried to scratch Jimbo or something but he stumbled out onto the ground.

Lorena yelled, “They don’t have hot dogs at McDonalds, stupid!”

I got out and picked Jimbo up and we walked to McDonalds.

I was probably not walking straight but neither was Jimbo. He had his hands in his pockets and was already over the joke. He didn’t look right.

“We should’ve picked up them girls who came with Lalo,” he said, and I nodded.

“They wouldn’t leave without that puto. Next time we see them, though.”

“That one bitch, Marta. She was fucking fine.”

“Yea, she was.”

“You see them booty shorts she got on? Ay, mami chula.”

“Fuck yea, mano.”

“Them girls were down, man. Fucking down! It’s Tavo’s bitch that scared them off. I don’t even know why we brought them.”

“Come on, man. Come on.”

“That pendejo’s going to make Lorena his baby mama.”

“Probably,” I said. Everyone I knew was a baby daddy or a baby mama.

Jimbo tripped over the curb on the way to the door and smashed his face into the stucco wall so hard that his nose was bleeding. I took off my bandana and gave it to him.

“Oh shit, man. Your shit’s bleeding hard.”

“Fuck you, it don’t hurt.”

“You’re supposed to lean back. Here dude, sit your drunk ass down and lean back.”

“Nah man, this ain’t shit.”

“No man, you’re bleeding hard. You fucking wait here.”

“Shut your bitch ass up. I’m fucking hungry.”

“Hey fuck you! You want to walk in and leave blood all over? I don’t need no fucking 5-O getting called on us.”

Jimbo didn’t say anything then, and he just smacked his lips and crumpled to the ground so he could sit.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll get you some shit but you owe me. What do you want?”

Jimbo sat on the curb with his legs stretched out. His Dickeys were so big and loose that he was really sitting on his shorts and the pants were down on the asphalt.

“That McRib sounded fucking good, ey. Get me one of those.”

“Aight.”

I left Jimbo outside and wiped the sweat off my face. I stunk like hell, probably, but I didn’t really care and walked in. I was pulling my pants up as I walked past the tables where no one was sitting. The place was lit up bright. There were just a few people in line: some dude and hishaina, a fat old man. I got in line after them, coughing and sniffing while I waited. They took the fat man’s order right after I got in line and then the dude and his girl were up. She was hanging onto him and whispering in his ear so you know they were new. I was probably staring because she looked at me and whispered into the dude’s ear, then he looked back at me like he was going to start some shit. I looked at him like I was going to finish it, little bitch. He didn’t say anything and they just went and ordered and moved aside.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

The honey on the register. She was in a uniform and wearing one of those stupid visors but her face was like some kind of perfect. Her cheeks were round and pink even though her skin was light brown like that vanilla coffee the pussies drink at Starbucks. Her eyes were green, almost too green so maybe they were contacts, not that it mattered. Her lips were plump and like smooth chocolate, covered in gloss. I think I got to staring again because when they stopped moving she waved her hand in front of them.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, girl. You just so fine I got distracted.”

She didn’t seem down with that because she coughed and said, “Sir, I need your order.”

“You so beautiful, girl. You so beautiful. You want to hang sometime? Give me your digits?”

She backed up a bit and a guy walked up from behind her. It was probably the manager. His fat stomach was hanging over his belt and his face sagged. He had one of those thick chunt mustaches.

“We need to process orders. You going to order, sir?”

“There ain’t no one else here, man.”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you going to order or no?”

I looked at her and she was sort of hiding behind him. If she wasn’t interested then and I didn’t care.

“Yea man, whatever. Four McRibs and I want sodas, too.”

“What size?”

“Small, man.”

“How many?”

“I said four.”

“How many sodas?”

I stepped up and put up my fingers.

“One, two, three, four. Cuatro, compa. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and punched things into the register.

“Twenty dollars and thirteen cents.”

“Damn.” I dug around in my pocket and I had a balled up twenty that I dropped on the counter, but no change.

“Hey man, I don’t got change.”

“No dollar?”

I looked at him and shoved my hands in my pockets.

“No man, no more.” I looked at the girl, who was now by his side and waiting for the manager to complete the order. “Hey girl, you got thirteen cents I can have?”

“It’s okay,” said the manager. He took the twenty and gave me the receipt. “Thank you.”

I took it and balled it up, gave the girlie a sly smile and walked to the side. The fat man and the puto couple were still waiting. I leaned against a table and waited with them, looking out to Jimbo. He was still sitting with his head leaned back and the black bandana over his nose. There was music playing but it was some department store shit and it only made me sad. I got real sad. I mean, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just sort of like, fuck, look at this. I’m listening to this music. I’m standing with these people. Jimbo’s outside and he’ll probably need to get to the hospital. Gustavo and Lorena are fucking on a dirty carpet in the back of a truck, but at least they’re doing something.

I stood with those people and didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at the counter girl. I just stood and waited as each order came up and not mine. I waited for the McRibs and sodas we’d be throwing up in a while, and outside I waited next to Jimbo for those two in the truck to come and get out of the truck so they could get their shit, and then we just waited for tomorrow.

I can’t sit here and write with you looking over my shoulder.

I turned to look at her, just to drive the point home.  I usually end things by looking people in the eyes.  Meghan stared right back into my eyes, unlike most people, but I tried anyway.  Hers were far bluer than my dusty irides, which I believe gave her a sort of leverage.

Well, shit.  You can’t write when you’re alone, you can’t write when you’re at the café, you can’t write when there’s music playing, you can’t even write when the sun’s out!  Now you tell me you can’t write when I’m standing next to you.  What kind of fucking writer works like this?

The kind that doesn’t get any writing done.  Have you heard of breathing down someone’s neck?

I was sitting at my desk, as I do frequently, when I sit to check e-mail or hit the message forums, the laptop screen glowing back at me.  I’d gotten the panicked urge to write but when I finally sat down to start, nothing definite developed.  The morning of the day before she’d sent me an IM to tell me that she had an unexpected day off from work, and wanted to know what I was up to.

I don’t know.  I need to write something.

Not tonight.  Come out with me.

We went out last week.

She remained silent and I could not even hear her breathe.

I need to see you, she finally said.

Last night I saw her.  Her hair was up in a formation and she was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, which was appropriate attire for bowling.  She picked me up and when we arrived I rented our shoes, and then ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and the first of two white russians.  Meghan called me a fucking cliché, as well as a fat ass, and only ordered a beer.  The neon lights shone above us and I was always the one keeping score.  The paper was sometimes green, sometimes pink, and sometimes blue.  She was better than me at bowling because I never tried, but I made it look good.  I waggled my jeans when appropriate and hurled with gusto, and she smiled at that.  I drank from my second white russian and placed my arm around her shoulder as we sat for a moment, then she kissed me on the cheek.

You need to shave.

Not until I write something.

To which she responded by rolling her eyes and standing to resume the game.

Sometimes I had a strike, but not as many as her.  The second game ended with XYZ having a score of 190 and MEG having a score of 223. I kissed her to congratulate her and because I wanted to and we walked out with my arm around her waist, which she was fond of, and told me so when we went on our first date about two months prior to last night.  She remarked that her car smelled nicer than mine and she said that I should consider getting the interior detailed.

It smells like me, I said.

She only laughed and we continued driving.  We were passing a wonderland of liquor stores with many wondrous glowing signs. There seemed to be many people interested in loitering last night. Many simply stood and talked silently amongst each other, and none appeared to be homeless.  They were all nicely dressed, the men and the women.  Jeans, sweaters, shoes that appeared to have been recently purchased or shined.  They were not drinking, or even consuming an evening snack.  They simply talked.

Do you ever search for clarity, I asked.

What do you mean?

I mean, you know, clarity.  A way to define and sharpen your thoughts.

Sometimes.  When I need to figure out a problem, especially at work.

No, I mean clarity in general.  Clarity about the purpose of things.  Life thoughts.

She looked at me and breathed loudly through her nose.

Not really.  I try not to think about that stuff.  It just makes things even more difficult to understand.

I mumbled, I see.

We arrived at my apartment and I asked her what she wanted to do. She said a movie would be nice, and I agreed.  My DVD collection is not one which I am necessarily proud of but I do keep a variety of films on disc format for such evenings as last night.  When I returned from the bathroom I found she had chosen a movie starring James Stewart called Rear Window.  In this movie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, James Stewart is a photographer named Jeff who suffers from a broken leg and is forced to endlessly sit in a wheelchair due to the cast required for it to mend.  He spends time sitting at a window and looking into the courtyard between the apartment buildings on his block.  As the plot unfolds, Jeff; his girlfriend, Lisa; and nurse, Stella; become embroiled in a mystery surrounding a murder. There are several suspenseful scenes late in the film in which Lisa and Stella investigate the murder, because of course Jeff is forced to remain in his wheelchair and do nothing but look out the window.  I’d seen it before but I don’t think Meghan had, so I asked, and she said she had heard of it but never watched it.  We sat down on the couch with a blanket over us and watched the entire movie in silence.

What did you think, I asked.

I liked it, but Jeff is a dick.

What?

He treated that girl like shit.  Who does that?

I shrugged.  Some people just don’t know how to communicate appropriately.

Those poor people.

She leaned into my chest and I kissed her on the forehead, then lips, then neck, and she told me she was glad I took a break from writing to see her last night, and I was feeling light and amorous, so I agreed. We embraced and kissed on the couch for several minutes and she told me she would meet me in the bedroom.  Meghan stopped at the restroom and I immediately went to the bedroom to prepare the condom and disrobe, and afterwards we made love.

She awoke alone in the morning because when I first awoke I had an urge to check my account balance.  I had one thousand two hundred twenty six dollars and seventy three cents in my checking account, most of which would be paid to the landlord within three weeks.  I became panicked and sat alone on the balcony, watching people wake up and drive out early to go to work.  My temples pulsed rhythmically and I tried to write words for a song that would match the same rhythm.

Bal co nee boy, look at you now.  Wry teeng is muh nee, so don’t have uh cow.

I could only attain clarity when I am on the balcony.  On the mornings or nights of clarity I sit on the balcony and consider the future.  I think back to the many people in this world who I do not nor will ever know, who die alone, in poverty and obscurity, remembered only by distant family, if that, and acquaintances who might claim to have known them but in truth were only vaguely familiar with a sense of the people.  In such moments I feel as though there is no purpose to anything, and my heart is lifted ever higher.  Then I sit down and write.  It is the only reason I have a balcony and it has presented me with many ideas that would have otherwise not come to fruition.

I returned to my desk and tried to write something compelling that would sell.  I thought that perhaps an article on the glut of liquor stores and the plights of those who inhabit their vicinity would go at one of those urban living blogs, the ones that focus on keeping it real, but I could not think of anything to write about besides the fact that there were many liquor stores and people in front of them, and I was certain that everyone already knew that.  Photographs would help, of course, but that would mean paying one of the shutterbug friends to provide photographs, and I did not have the funds for it.  My next idea was a short story about a German man, originally from Rio De Janeiro, who discovers that his daughter is having an affair with a handsome taxi driver, and that they are planning to run away together to Argentina, which sickens the father because he believes Argentina to be an inferior country to Brazil.  I could not develop it any further than six hundred words or so, and when I began to consider working on one of the many archived works on my hard drive I became more lost and unable to focus.

Meghan appeared, then, and said good morning.  She poured herself orange juice and stood behind me in the old robe that I never wore.

Are you hungry?

No, thanks, I said.

Sure?  I can cook some eggs before I head out.

I’m okay, but thank you.

She remained silent, seemingly waiting for me to produce something, until I finally told her.

She got dressed and left in an irritated mood, but still kissed me on top of the head.  I got the idea to write about a young man with photographic memory who recalls every single kiss that he had ever received, and that he never discussed or wrote down any details about the kisses because he feared losing each instance from his mind. Eventually, the young man would realize that although he remembered every kiss, he only recalled them as notations in a ledger, and not as the experiences of kissing and being kissed, and only then would he realize the importance of a true kiss.  The idea seemed too genuine and hokey to function as anything more than fluff but if I could make it satirical or direly modern in some way it could work.  I made notes but did not begin the outline, at least not until I had a better sense of the types of people whom the young man would find himself involved with.  Perhaps waitresses in cafés and bars, or fellow students at a local college, or even older women whom he met through his work as a tutor of their daughters, who required assistance in one subject or another.  I thought of killing the young man at the beginning of the story in some violent manner, but that seemed too modern, and not likely to rouse the reader’s interest.

I can’t sit here and write with you looking over my shoulder.

I turned to look at her, just to drive the point home.  I usually end things by looking people in the eyes.  Meghan stared right back into my eyes, unlike most people, but I tried anyway.  Hers were far bluer than my dusty irides, which I believe gave her a sort of leverage.

Well, shit.  You can’t write when you’re alone, you can’t write when you’re at the café, you can’t write when there’s music playing, you can’t even write when the sun’s out!  Now you tell me you can’t write when I’m standing next to you.  What kind of fucking writer works like this?

The kind that doesn’t get any writing done.  Have you heard of breathing down someone’s neck?

I was sitting at my desk, as I do frequently, when I sit to check e-mail or hit the message forums, the laptop screen glowing back at me.  I’d gotten the panicked urge to write but when I finally sat down to start, nothing definite developed.  The morning of the day before she’d sent me an IM to tell me that she had an unexpected day off from work, and wanted to know what I was up to.

I don’t know.  I need to write something.

Not tonight.  Come out with me.

We went out last week.

She remained silent and I could not even hear her breathe.

I need to see you, she finally said.

Last night I saw her.  Her hair was up in a formation and she was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, which was appropriate attire for bowling.  She picked me up and when we arrived I rented our shoes, and then ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and the first of two white russians.  Meghan called me a fucking cliché, as well as a fat ass, and only ordered a beer.  The neon lights shone above us and I was always the one keeping score.  The paper was sometimes green, sometimes pink, and sometimes blue.  She was better than me at bowling because I never tried, but I made it look good.  I waggled my jeans when appropriate and hurled with gusto, and she smiled at that.  I drank from my second white russian and placed my arm around her shoulder as we sat for a moment, then she kissed me on the cheek.

You need to shave.

Not until I write something.

To which she responded by rolling her eyes and standing to resume the game.

Sometimes I had a strike, but not as many as her.  The second game ended with XYZ having a score of 190 and MEG having a score of 223. I kissed her to congratulate her and because I wanted to and we walked out with my arm around her waist, which she was fond of, and told me so when we went on our first date about two months prior to last night.  She remarked that her car smelled nicer than mine and she said that I should consider getting the interior detailed.

It smells like me, I said.

She only laughed and we continued driving.  We were passing a wonderland of liquor stores with many wondrous glowing signs. There seemed to be many people interested in loitering last night. Many simply stood and talked silently amongst each other, and none appeared to be homeless.  They were all nicely dressed, the men and the women.  Jeans, sweaters, shoes that appeared to have been recently purchased or shined.  They were not drinking, or even consuming an evening snack.  They simply talked.

Do you ever search for clarity, I asked.

What do you mean?

I mean, you know, clarity.  A way to define and sharpen your thoughts.

Sometimes.  When I need to figure out a problem, especially at work.

No, I mean clarity in general.  Clarity about the purpose of things.  Life thoughts.

She looked at me and breathed loudly through her nose.

Not really.  I try not to think about that stuff.  It just makes things even more difficult to understand.

I mumbled, I see.

We arrived at my apartment and I asked her what she wanted to do. She said a movie would be nice, and I agreed.  My DVD collection is not one which I am necessarily proud of but I do keep a variety of films on disc format for such evenings as last night.  When I returned from the bathroom I found she had chosen a movie starring James Stewart called Rear Window.  In this movie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, James Stewart is a photographer named Jeff who suffers from a broken leg and is forced to endlessly sit in a wheelchair due to the cast required for it to mend.  He spends time sitting at a window and looking into the courtyard between the apartment buildings on his block.  As the plot unfolds, Jeff; his girlfriend, Lisa; and nurse, Stella; become embroiled in a mystery surrounding a murder. There are several suspenseful scenes late in the film in which Lisa and Stella investigate the murder, because of course Jeff is forced to remain in his wheelchair and do nothing but look out the window.  I’d seen it before but I don’t think Meghan had, so I asked, and she said she had heard of it but never watched it.  We sat down on the couch with a blanket over us and watched the entire movie in silence.

What did you think, I asked.

I liked it, but Jeff is a dick.

What?

He treated that girl like shit.  Who does that?

I shrugged.  Some people just don’t know how to communicate appropriately.

Those poor people.

She leaned into my chest and I kissed her on the forehead, then lips, then neck, and she told me she was glad I took a break from writing to see her last night, and I was feeling light and amorous, so I agreed. We embraced and kissed on the couch for several minutes and she told me she would meet me in the bedroom.  Meghan stopped at the restroom and I immediately went to the bedroom to prepare the condom and disrobe, and afterwards we made love.

She awoke alone in the morning because when I first awoke I had an urge to check my account balance.  I had one thousand two hundred twenty six dollars and seventy three cents in my checking account, most of which would be paid to the landlord within three weeks.  I became panicked and sat alone on the balcony, watching people wake up and drive out early to go to work.  My temples pulsed rhythmically and I tried to write words for a song that would match the same rhythm.

Bal co nee boy, look at you now.  Wry teeng is muh nee, so don’t have uh cow.

I could only attain clarity when I am on the balcony.  On the mornings or nights of clarity I sit on the balcony and consider the future.  I think back to the many people in this world who I do not nor will ever know, who die alone, in poverty and obscurity, remembered only by distant family, if that, and acquaintances who might claim to have known them but in truth were only vaguely familiar with a sense of the people.  In such moments I feel as though there is no purpose to anything, and my heart is lifted ever higher.  Then I sit down and write.  It is the only reason I have a balcony and it has presented me with many ideas that would have otherwise not come to fruition.

I returned to my desk and tried to write something compelling that would sell.  I thought that perhaps an article on the glut of liquor stores and the plights of those who inhabit their vicinity would go at one of those urban living blogs, the ones that focus on keeping it real, but I could not think of anything to write about besides the fact that there were many liquor stores and people in front of them, and I was certain that everyone already knew that.  Photographs would help, of course, but that would mean paying one of the shutterbug friends to provide photographs, and I did not have the funds for it.  My next idea was a short story about a German man, originally from Rio De Janeiro, who discovers that his daughter is having an affair with a handsome taxi driver, and that they are planning to run away together to Argentina, which sickens the father because he believes Argentina to be an inferior country to Brazil.  I could not develop it any further than six hundred words or so, and when I began to consider working on one of the many archived works on my hard drive I became more lost and unable to focus.

Meghan appeared, then, and said good morning.  She poured herself orange juice and stood behind me in the old robe that I never wore.

Are you hungry?

No, thanks, I said.

Sure?  I can cook some eggs before I head out.

I’m okay, but thank you.

She remained silent, seemingly waiting for me to produce something, until I finally told her.

She got dressed and left in an irritated mood, but still kissed me on top of the head.  I got the idea to write about a young man with photographic memory who recalls every single kiss that he had ever received, and that he never discussed or wrote down any details about the kisses because he feared losing each instance from his mind. Eventually, the young man would realize that although he remembered every kiss, he only recalled them as notations in a ledger, and not as the experiences of kissing and being kissed, and only then would he realize the importance of a true kiss.  The idea seemed too genuine and hokey to function as anything more than fluff but if I could make it satirical or direly modern in some way it could work.  I made notes but did not begin the outline, at least not until I had a better sense of the types of people whom the young man would find himself involved with.  Perhaps waitresses in cafés and bars, or fellow students at a local college, or even older women whom he met through his work as a tutor of their daughters, who required assistance in one subject or another.  I thought of killing the young man at the beginning of the story in some violent manner, but that seemed too modern, and not likely to rouse the reader’s interest.