BYAAAH!!!

cabman #5

“well?”

“well, he said to head back out on 695, and we should see it right away…”

“call those U-Haul people again.”

“Preemo, it’s five o’clock on a Saturday. the place where we’re dropping it off at is closed anyway. why don’t we just…” he kept looking at me over the top of his sunglasses, with his chin kinda buried in his chest. i dialed the phone.

“hello, yeah, we just called about returning this trailer. listen, we don’t know where…right…yeah, that’s it…ok, the account number is [deleted]. i know you’re not in the area, but i can hear some typing, i’m guessing you have…could you do a MapQuest or something for us? thanks, Juglesh, that would be great.”

“Juglesh?”

i cupped a hand over the phone. “yeah…he’s gonna try and find the place for us.”

“Juglesh? where the fuck is the place? Afghanistan?”

“i think it’s Indian.”

“Afghanistan?”

“no. Juglesh.”

Preemo reached across and snatched the phone from my hand and picked up where i left off. he was clearly irritated at this point – sweating, red-faced, cursing profusely, smoking. understand, we had sat in weekend traffic for over an hour, crawling the last half-mile, trying to get into this place. we get in there, make the drop and exchange, and now we can’t find the place to drop off this fucking U-Haul trailer.

i pulled off the highway and into a 7-11.

“i’m gonna go ask for directions.”

Preemo waves and nods and continues into the phone, “what do you mean, ‘you need an address?’ don’t you have it in front of you? the place where we need to drop it off…if i knew the address, i might...”

there were three guys in the 7-11. two had on the stiff polyester shirts that they were issued by company headquarters, but neither had them buttoned. the third guy was on the otherside of the counter, but not a customer. he had about a dozen knives splayed across the countertop, and when he saw me, he covered them up with a wrinkled old paper bag, scooped them up, and moved further down the counter along with the other employee where the cutlery show continued.

the guy i’m talking to has a real heavy accent and speaks English more poorly than i do. i ask for directions to the place – the name of the town or whatever where the U-Haul is to get dropped off – and he says something like, “290. go out. you see it soon right away. peace out, homey,” and pounds his chest and flashes me the peace sign.

Mother Fucker.

“what did he say?”

“he said get on 290. we should see it right away.”

“what’s it called again?”

“ocean vista. something.”

“fuck.”

“any luck with the U-Haul people?”

“fuck no.”
“you gonna tell me what’s in that tube?”

i didn’t think he’d tell me, but i tried again anyway. i pulled out back onto the highway and headed towards 290, passing all the traffic we just sat in. i reminded him that we’d be sitting in it on the way back. we drove for about twenty minutes in silence. sand, alcohol, and fat asses mocked us from the east as i hunched over the wheel, westbound.

“i took insurance out on the trailer,” he said.

“Preemo, fuck this man. let’s pull over. i’ll unhitch the trailer, burn this motherfucker, and leave it smoking on the side of the road. it’s the beach back there, man! the Beach!!!”

“you can’t do that.”

“why not? you got insurance.”

“but you can’t just pull off…”

“and those motherfuckers back at the 7-11…they probably gave us the wrong directions anyway. prolly laughing about my retarded ass right now…”

“son-of-a-Bitch.”

“…AND we gotta sit in that traffic again. man, this don’t make no sense.”

“take the next exit.”

“Yes.”

i turn off and we were in some fuckin’ backwater, country – i don’t know. i pulled over on the side of the road and put my flashers on. i tried asking Preemo again about that tube, but he was stonefaced. he gave me some bullshit when i first started about letting him handle some things, and the less i knew the better, and all that pseudo-business bullshit.

i grabbed a flare from the back of the truck. once i had the trailer unhitched, i stabbed both of those tires, broke the lights and reflectors, ripped off the license plate, and cracked the flare. they might tell you that those utility blankets you find in moving trucks are flame retardant, but that’s bullshit. i got two going and left them inside the trailer, and the third i managed to pull part way onto the trailer’s roof.

hey…what does a skunk use to make a phone call? a Smell-ular phone. get it? man, that shit is funny. i called the U-Haul people on my Smell-ular [HA!!!] and thanked them for all their help, that - yes indeed - i found the place, and had unhitched the trailer. they assured me that they had noted the conversation, that i had dropped it off [early, in fact], and that there would be no additional charge. the flames were really going by the time i hung up. i could have stayed there all night watching the show, but Preemo was laying on the horn. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you could have gotten us killed.”

“cool. i got a souvenir.” i threw the license plate in the back seat. “do you remember how to get back on the highway?”

“no.”

“me either. but i think if i just go back this…can you hand me the map?”

“WILL YOU JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!”

“geez…ok. hey Preemo man, did you see the way those blankets went up?”

“you know, i work in business, and i can’t believe…i never treated a customer…that’s just no way to deal with the public. if the consumer needs something, then you need to make it happen.”

“precisely.”

“i mean, the place is Closed? what is that about? closed. how are we supposed to return the trailer?”

“were.”

“what?”

“were. how were we supposed to return the trailer. i burned that mother.”

“right. whatever. i don’t know. i just feel their network completely dropped the ball on this one.”

“yeah…and it was after they got your money.”

“right.”

“hey Preemo man…i bet those guys at the 7-11. i bet they thought i was a tourist or something. gave me the wrong directions on purpose. they all probably had a laugh about it.”

“stop in there on the way back.”

“no way man…we’ll go later. as soon as we pull in, i’m running for the beach.”

“real quick. there’s something i need to get. we need alcohol anyway.”

he had a point.

when we got back into town, i found that same 7-11. the same guys were working…they had the door propped open with a chunk of cement and were outside. one was smoking, and the other was eating something sloppy out of tin foil with his fingers. shit all over his face.

Preemo got out of the truck with the poster tube. he said something to the guys and they followed him into the store. when they get in, he kicks the cement away from the door and opens up the tube. he kinda shakes it a little, and these two fuckin’ huge parrots fly out and immediately attack the 7-11 guys. they were flailing their arms about and smacking at the birds, but the animals just kept circling back around and dive bombing. they would latch on to flesh with their claws and stab with their beaks, squawking and flapping their wings. there was blood everywhere.

Preemo strolled out of the place with a case of beer and two bottles of cheap wine. he’s a pretty big dude.

“what the fuck was that?” i said.

“oh. those guys deserved it. they can’t be making a horse’s ass out of peole just because…”

“no. i mean the birds.”

“yeah…uhhhh…that was the shipment.”

“i know, motherfucker, i helped you unload it. i thought they were drugs or expensive paintings or something.”

“nope.”

“that’s cruel.”

“hey…don’t worry about it. those guys will be all right.”

“i mean the birds.”

“yeah them, too. they like it in the dark. haven’t you ever seen a bird cage with a blanket over the top?”

“they could have died in there.”

“sometimes…maybe. they’re fine until they hit the light. then they can be a little agitated.”

“ya think?”

“now do you see why i didn’t want you to know what we’re moving.”

“naw man…that’s not cool. i’m all about, you know, the ethical treatment of animals and shit.”

“i’ll keep that in mind…but if you stick with me, do you know what you’re biggest problem is gonna be?”

“what’s that?”

“WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THE FUCKIN’ CASH!!!”

man, i couldn’t WAIT to hit the beach.

all the way live #12

a couple weeks ago, i head that Gomez was coming into town. and i would have really liked to have seen them in my semi-right mind, but as the fates would have it, i had been up for something like 50 hours, was hallucinating, and violently paranoid on the day of the show. to make matters worse, the Doktor leaves a message on my phone that went something like: “[mumble] Gomez [mumble, mumble] got tickets [mumble] women [mumble, belch] bring that limo, cunt mussel.”

i figured at that point, what’s a few more hours without sleep, right? their new record is really good, and i really wanted to see them. so i get to his place, and he comes out all hands waving and buttoning his shirt, with this red mark on either side of his mouth, extending back towards his ears.

“St. Clair, you’re the motherfuckin’ MAN!!!”

“…”

“wait until you see what i got for YOU!!!”

“…”

“what’s your problem?”

“nothing man…i’m just sleepy. who’s opening up?”

“hmmm? oh fuck that. listen…can you drive?”

“why the fuck not. i drive everywhere else. it’s seems to have become my job. i really like it. you know, i’ve begun to think of driving, of the road, as a metaphor for…”

“fan-fucking-tastic. look, the ladies are…”

“ladies?”

“yes indeed…the ladies are inside. let me go get them and we’ll…”

“can’t i come in to get a drink or something?”

“no.”

“…some water or…”

“fuck that…let me go get them and we’ll be on our way.”

“awwright, i guess. hey man…the new Gomez record is good. can’t wait to see them.”

“yeah, listen. about your ticket…”

“what?”

“i had to give it away.”

“you had to give it away?”

“i had to give that fuckin’ ticket away.”

“to who?”

“to the girl i’m taking tonight.”

“…”

“come on, don’t be like that.”

“she ball-gagged you, didn’t she?”

“what? i don’t know what you’re…”

“yes, you do. yes, you do, and yes, she did. you’re disgusting.”

“what?”

“you’re an ape.”

“i’m offended that your would say something like that.”

“she fuckin’ ball-gagged you. that’s what those red marks are from, aren’t they?”

“HEY!!! that’s my business.”

“whatever.”

“come on, don’t be like that. wait until you see…”

“so i gotta fuckin’ drive your ass around all night AND miss the show?”

“yeah but wait until you see what i got for YOU!!! bi-coastal babe, speaks no Inglés.”

now, i’m understandably irritated, but i figure i can get to Millvale, drop them off, park the limo, smoke a joint, and fall asleep. fuck the drive home, ya know, cuz once i’m out, i’m out for like twenty hours or so. the Puerto Rican girl can do the drive home.

so whatever - we get there, the Doktor gets out, trying to be all suave and shit. suit and tie, opening the door, real dignified, you know the routine. motherfucker was ball-gagged twenty minutes earlier, but now all of a sudden he’s little lord fauntleroy.

Doktor Fauntleroy

i found the most inconspicuous and secluded spot possible to park a beat limo, i got out of the driver’s seat and headed into the rear, locking the doors. i almost forgot about the chica in the backseat. very fine, by the way. nice body, tan, blonde hair, brown eyes. normally, i don’t like blonde hair, but i wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eatin’ crackers, youknowwhatimsayin? [let me get a fist bump] but anyway, i just wanted to unwind and pass out. i flipped on the television, smiled politely, lit up the joint, and settled in. the whole time, she was looking at me, smiling sweetly, but i wasn’t about to get into all that “language of love” bullshit, myself. i offered the joint but she just shook her head, giggled, and stuck her tongue out at me. on the tip, there was a little blue pill.

great.

i don’t even remember falling asleep, but i do remember i was dreaming about being on the beach. i was walking right at that point where the water wets the sand. there’s beautiful women everywhere. all over the place. and the sky is blue and it’s warm. i’m just flapping my big old feet in the sand, squishin’ it beneath my toes, enjoying the sights, rubbin’ my belly, right. all of a sudden, the girl from the limo – the Spanish girl – she’s in front of me, walking backwards, throwing sand at me. and it hurts. it hurts. it hurts real fuckin’ bad. but not like you think it would. she doesn’t mean to be mean, you see. she thinks it’s the fun fuckin’ thing to do at the beach, i guess. so i keep walking and she keeps throwing sand, and it keeps hurting. i try to block it, but i don’t really wanna block it that bad and, anyway, it’s no use. it’s sand. then the Doktor is up in a lifeguard chair and he’s yelling and all of a sudden it gets dark and there’s a storm. his yelling is right in time with the thunder. St. Clair, boom boom boom, St. Clair, boom boom boom, St. Clair.

and then i wake up.

the girl’s got her head in my lap and my junk is on fire. i mean, bless her heart and all, but it had to be the worst head in the all-time history of dick sucking. she was like, i don’t know, chewing on my nut sack or something when i managed to pull back and get myself free. it was like raw chicken down there.

“St. Clair!!!” pound pound pound

so i get this girl off of me and she looks more confused now than anything. i try to get a look at the damage in the lowlight of the streetlamp shining through the window, but that’s no use. the fuckin’ Doktor is pounding, screaming hysterical at the car window, “St. Clair!!!” pound pound pound “OPEN THE DOORS, you lousy pigfucker!!!”

i’m all disoriented and in pain. i get my pants buttoned and try to get this girl situated before i open the door. every movement, every wisp of fabric against my crotch feels like someone is lightin’ me up with a blowtorch. i get the door open.

“oh Christ…it hurts.”

“what?”

“nothing.”

“what have you been doing?”

“nothing.”

“you…her…hey!!! way to go boy!!! look at you, come here…” the Doktor grabs at me for some sort of celebratory jostling, but i ended all that shit real quick with a punch to the gut.

“[gurgle] WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR???”

i was limping my way back towards the driver’s door. “don’t touch me,” i whimpered, “Fuck. it feels like someone took a cheese grater to my dick head.”

“good times, huh? i Told you…”

“fuck you. ouch,” i whimpered. i felt like crying. i imagined all my nerve endings permanently damaged. my nut sack scarred. how long had that brute been at it, Lord? HOW LONG? i worried that my dick would become like the Elephant Man. women would whisper. there would be pity in their hearts. they would turn away in disgust. children would run shrieking in horror.

uhhh…scratch that last part.

i shuffled my way to the door, hunched over and fell into the driver’s seat. the Doktor got in on the passenger’s side. i could hear the females hurriedly speaking in Spanish in the back. i raised the privacy glass.

“fuck,” i whispered, cupping my hands over Ground Zero.

“stop being a baby.”

“but it hurts. do you have any chapstick?”

“you’re disgusting.”

“every time i move, it feels like a massacre in my pants.”

“…”

“how was the show?”

“hmmmm?”

“ouch. son-of-a-Bitch. Gomez…how were they?”

“hmmmm? oh. no. i don’t know. we didn’t go in.”

“you didn’t go in?”

“no, we didn’t go in. i banged her by the dumpster.”

“oh. ouch.”