Twisted Fiction

Neighbor (cont.)

"I see. And what do you do for yourself and the Lord?"

"I'm trying to start a Christian nightclub." Now there's two words that don't spell F-U-N.

"Oh, and how is that different from a regular nightclub?"

"Well, it'll be all Christian bands and no alcohol."

No alcohol? It's been my experience that whenever I'm around a bunch of zealous Christians, or any other overly enthusiastic religious group for that matter, the first thing I'm looking for is a nice big double vodka, with a side order of vodka. God bless.

"Christian bands and no alcohol. I don't see how you can fail," I say.

This would have been a perfect time for the Guy with the Top Hat and Cane to make an appearance. Just like a cop, there's never one around when you need him.

I point to the bike.

"I see you like biking. Me too, only I can never find anyone to go with. I have no athletic friends."

"I don't own a car so I ride my bike everywhere."

"You don't own a car?" I do the Elvis lip again.

"Don't need one. Everything I do is close by. If I need groceries or something I just put them in my basket." Yup, there was the basket. I was talking to Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. In reverse drag.

"I see," I said. Not seeing this at all.

"I was just about to ride to the beach-would you like to uh, ride with me?" Danny says turning towards the road, giving me a better look at his tush.

"What? In your basket?" I joke.

He laughed. It was worse than before. I think I heard some neighborhood dogs yelp in pain.

"No silly! On your bike of course!"

No silly? What man says 'no silly' ? That's it! He's probably gay. Straight guys never look this good. Still, he did appear to be checking out my tits with a certain amount of enthusiasm.

"Gee, I don't know," I say, trying to sound like a busy, hard-to-get Cosmo girl. "I kinda have some things I have to kinda do."

"Okay, no problem. Nice to meet you," Danny says, and starts to pedal away.

"No wait! I can do all my junk later. It's just important writing deadline stuff that I need to do to pay the rent. I'd love to go for a meaningless, time wasting ride to the beach with you."

Fort Lauderdale Beach - a half hour later

We've locked our bikes to a lamppost on the sidewalk. I am in the water with Danny and he is holding me up from underneath while I lay flat on my back, arms straight out, bobbing in the waves. He is very close.

"I want to kiss you," he says.
"I don't even know you," I say, thinking that's not a bad idea.
"What do you want to know," he says looking so damn adorable.

"What did you do before being a wannabe Christian nightclub owner?" I ask, trying to look coquettish knowing my hair is flat and matted to my head.

"I was in prison for armed robbery," he says, swooshing me over a wave.
"Yeah, right."
"No really. For four and a half years."

Nice. Thank you, Universe. It wasn't bad enough you sent me a born again Christian with a vague purpose in life, that doesn't own a car. Let's throw convicted felon into the mix. What next? A hermaphrodite vegetarian?

We're back on shore now, sitting on our towels.

"Did you kill anyone?" I ask. I figure if he killed someone, I'd only have sex with him once.
"Naw, I drove the getaway car."

That's seems funny for someone who now only drives a bike. Maybe he got caught because really, how fast can you go on a Schwinn?

"How did you get caught?"
"We were sloppy, me and my crew. We didn't wear our masks. I got blasted on X the night before and couldn't remember where I left it - the mask. It was bad, gnome sayin'?"

Tsk, tsk. Disorganized crime.

"Seven people I.D.'d us," Danny continued, "They arrested me at my parents house. I got convicted and sentenced to six years. I did four. I was almost twenty-five and now I'm twenty-nine."

He went on to tell me how he and his crew had pulled several jobs before this one. How on one job he netted over twenty thousand dollars holding up a store manager that was making a night deposit. The total take was over sixty thousand, but he had to split it with the gunman and the lookout. That was his most lucrative job.

"What did you do with all the money?" I asked.
"Went to Vegas, bought a jet-ski and spent the rest of it gambling on one of those day cruise gambling ships. It was awesome. I lost everything, gnome sayin'?"
"So what do you do for money now?" I asked.

Danny is digging into the sand with his big toe as he speaks. A little mountain of sand with a few cigarette butts in it collects next to his foot. Even his toe looked handsome.

"Well, I had a job at Freddy's Ford Emporium selling cars, but I got fired for getting' into a fight with another salesman. The dude was messin' with m'shit, gnome sayin'?"

Turns out he pummeled one of the other salesmen for trying to steal his customer. The other salesman insisted he was just showing the guy where the restroom was, but Danny didn't believe him and made hamburger out of his face. Luckily the salesman didn't press charges, but only because he was selling hot TVs on the side and Danny knew it.

Now Danny works in the liquor store across the street from our building. He makes nine dollars an hour plus gets a fifty percent discount on all wine and liquor. They don't know he has a criminal record because the man that owns the store is in his seventies and used an old job application from the fifties that only asks for your name and address. Danny also told me he smokes pot before and after every single thing he does. And not spleefs or fatties, either. Pot from a big glass bong that you have to insert your whole mouth on.

"Thanks for not judging me," Danny says, looking at me with saucer eyes. I appreciate that." Who says I wasn't judging?

"Is that why you looked so confused back at the mailboxes when I asked you if lived in the building?" I asked, hoping he'd say yes. Because if he said no, he'd be really amazingly stupid, in which case I was then allowed to have sex with him twice. Unless of course, he was mentally retarded in which case, I could only take him for an ice cream.

"Oh man," he says, smiling, but not laughing (thank you, Jesus), I was so high. "
"So you're a pothead?"
"Oh, I'm more than a pothead," Danny says, with pride. "Pot is my gasoline. (He prounces it gas-oh-leen.) "
"You really smoke before and after everything you do?"
"Everything."
"How do you function? What about before you go to work at 9:00 o'clock in the morning?"
"I said before and after everything, didn't I?" I heard first sound of nastiness in his voice.
"How do you function like that? Don't you get tired or have short term memory loss?" I queried.
"I have no short term memory at all! Long term, I do. But I can't remember shit, short term, gnome sayin'?"

Before I could respond to this lovely new revelation, he says, "Want to come over my apartment for dinner tonight?"

I can faintly see the man with the top hat and cane out of the corner of my eye, but he makes no sound and soon, he is gone. Pussy.

"Sure," I say. "Why not?"

We get back on our bikes and head home. Danny rides in front of me.
Every girl he passes does a double take. If only they knew, I think, if only they knew. Ah, they'd still go for it.

Back home

Danny has set the dinner for 6:00 pm. We are having ravioli with sauce from a jar. Danny says even though he is Italian, he cannot make homemade sauce. People have tried to teach him, he said. Once he was on the phone getting live instructions from his aunt in Brooklyn and he still couldn't do it even with all the ingredients laid out in front of him.

I am back in my apartment getting ready to go to Danny's and wondering why I am doing this, and more importantly, how big Danny's dick is. I'm wondering what to wear. The horizontally striped top is definitely out.

The phone rings at 5:45.

"Listen," Danny says, sounding irritated. "Would you mind going to the store and getting some more ravioli? I don't have enough. And some more sauce while you're at it."

"What? You're inviting me to dinner and I'm supposed to bring it fifteen minutes before we eat? Are you kidding?"

"Never mind," he says, sounding like a petulant child, "I'll ride my bike! Make it at seven then. I'll need time. Bye!"

And he slams down the phone.

I looked at the receiver. Did this just happen? Is it possible that I am so shallow that I would still consider eating dinner with this dick lunatic? Yes, it is possible.

My base shallowness had completely overshadowed my sense of judgment. Had he been less gorgeous, I would have cut my losses. But it had been a while, if ever, since I was with someone this handsome.

However, I was treading on thin-pirhana-underneath-ice, and it was time to seek council. I decide to call my trusted friend and confidante, Ramona Jean Parker.

Ramona is from West Virginia. A Southern belle who rebelled against her junior league, cotillion going upbringing and instead of becoming the wife of an oilman, she ecame an oil painter.

Ramona lives in a house in Miami that was built in the 1940s, and is decorated with everything from that era. It is an amazing place filled with rattan furniture, Turner paintings and jadeite. And that's just the bathroom.

Ramona is a kindred spirit; I could say anything to her; she possessed not one politically correct bone in her body. We ranked on everyone and everything-nothing was sacred. The sharpness of Ramona's sarcasm could split a Redwood at 50 paces. Ramona was also brutally honest, she could make a grown man cry or sniffle like a school girl. After eight rings, she answered the phone.

"What?! for Chrissakes! Say something!!" Ramona always answered her phone with anything but the word 'hello'.

"It's me Ram, Portman. You alright?" Ramona was the only person I knew that never called me by my first name. She always called me "Portman".

"Jesus, Portman! I thought you were Sears! Those motherfuckers keep calling me about my bill. And they never answer right away when you say 'hello'. You have to say hello? hello? about a bazillion times, until they finally answer. They have that stupid computer calling system. I hate those cocksuckers. If they don't stop calling me, those fuckers aren't getting a dime. So, how are you my love?" she added, with a sweet Southern drawl.

I tell her about Danny. I go on and on describing every detail starting with his ass and ending with the ravioli incident. I'm torn. Should I go over there or tell him to piss off and cut my losses or risk the consequences of sleeping with a pot-smoking felon?


After I'm done, Ramona is silent, then she says, "Pretend he's a personal ad, and then ask yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"Think of him as a personal ad, would you date him then? Think about it:
Testy ex-con, drop out, pothead, with no car, little money and ear shattering laugh, socially inept, seeks attractive multi-talented woman to leech on to. Must have car, good job and big tits. Shallowness and good dope connections a plus. Serious replies only.

"I see what you mean," I said, seeing what she meant. "But you left out the gorgeous part."
"It doesn't matter! Listen to the ad. But far be it from me to tell you what to do, Miss I Gotta Have It. Fuck! There's my other line. Let me talk to these dillholes and get it over with. I'm gonna answer, 'Sears billing department, may I help you?' That'll confuse the fuckers!. Call me later."


7:10 Danny's House

I'm at Danny's because I have the screamin' got tos! We're sipping on some Merlot he got half price and eating our raviolis. Danny is talking non-stop and seems to be in a lively mood, not like before. His eyes are red and glassy. He tells me he has a hard time communicating with people, that all his girlfriends leave him because he is "hard to get along with". He is twenty-nine. He hates his parents; particularly his mother whom he says is ultra stupid.

The condo he is living in belongs to his parents, although he doesn't tell me that. I looked it up on the public records. He has two brothers, one older, one younger. The older one, Gino, lives 40 minutes away, is in sales and has two kids. The younger one is single lives in Las Vegas and is a blackjack dealer. His name is Christian and he's an atheist.

After dinner Danny fires up his bong. A few times. I'm amazed at the amount of dope he can smoke. He offers, but I politely decline, but agree to more glasses wine. He's a very bad boy and I'm having a great time.

He tells me about his life in prison. He says the meanest, toughest guy there was a black man named Sydney. Sydney caught his wife cheating on him, right in his own bed. He shot the guy in the ass and blew one cheek clear off. When the cops came, they found out Sydney was also wanted for armed robbery in three states.

Sydney was Danny's best friend in jail. They had so much in common, what with the holdups and all. Sydney stood 6 feet 3 inches tall and weighed 280 pounds. Sydney never messed with anyone unless they messed with him first, and that usually didn't happen. He only one uncomprimising rule; when all the inmates were in the rec room watching TV, everyone had to shut the fuck up when The Nanny came on. The Nanny was Sydney's favorite TV show and he demanded absolute silence when it was on.

"Not only that," Danny said, taking another hit off the bong, "He would get up and sing the theme song that went with it. You know that cartoon in the beginning that tells the story of The Nanny? He knew every word and would dance around while he sang it. Man, it was fucked up, gnome sayin'?"

Then Danny got up and started singing The Nanny song pretending to be Sydney. It was actually pretty funny. After a while Danny asked if I wanted to go into the next room meaning the bedroom. I most certainly did.

That night we had the most fabulous, cosmic, spine tingling, pinch-me-am-I-dreaming sex in the world. Then I went home.

This went on for about a month and a half. I'd go over Danny's house two, three times a week; I'd drink wine, he'd smoke and then we'd have sex. He was bad for me, but I liked him and I found myself wanting more.

About the fifth week, he started putting a towel on the bed before we had sex, when I asked him why, he said he didn't want pussy juice all over the bed. I had sex with him about two more times like this, with the towel. Finally, the creepiness of it all got to me. One night I went to his apartment and knocked on his door.

Danny answered looking glassy-eyed and gorgeous.

"Hey, Len! I just was gonna come over to your place after the game's over-it's in the fourth quarter."
"I have to talk to you," I said pushing past him.

We sat next to each other on the couch. He just looked at me. I was breaking the Cardinal Rule of a relationship: Never talk to a man during a football game-especially one's that's high.

"The commercial's still on, so talk," Danny says with one eye on the tube.
"Look, I have to rethink this," I say.
"I know, I know what you're thinking," he says.
"No you don't! I haven't told you anything," I say, irritated at being interrupted.
"I understand, I understand," he says.
"What? Look, you're not my boyfriend and I think I need more, I can't keep doing that towel thing. Having sex on a towel every time is taking the spontaneity out of and, and it's making me feel creepy. Like a whore, but one that's not getting paid."

"I told you," Danny said, getting slightly nasty, "I'm not washing my sheets every time we do it! I don't want pussy juice all over the bed. I have to sleep in it." Asshole, I thought.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore, " I say, thinking even shallow people have their limits. The commercial was winding down.

Then Danny starts waving his hand back and forth in front of his throat, making the "cut" gesture.

"Let's just forget it," he says. "This is getting too complicated."

Complicated, I thought? You don't know complicated you moron! To you, remembering where you live is complicated! But I remained calm.

"Fine," I said getting up. The game was just starting again.
"Well, it was fun while it lasted," I held out my hand to shake his. We shook.
"Here I have something for you," he says as I head towards the door, feeling like I don't know what. Danny hands me a bottle of Merlot.
"What's this, a parting gift?" I asked.
"No, it's a bottle of wine." He says.
I looked at him, "You really are a piece of work, gnome sayin'?"

And just like that, it was over.

As I walked back to my apartment, there at the end of hall, is the Man in the Top Hat and Cane, mopping his brow and winking at me. I give him the finger.

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