Monica ran up to me and gave me a hug. She was a skinny half-Italian girl that spent her days working at Red Lobster and her nights drinking herself stupid. She was another girl with no father and a heartless mother. Her hair was intensely gelled and looked like something out of Moonstruck.
I said, “Monica, your hair looks great.”
“Oh, thank you. I worked really hard on it. Do you wanna see my cleavage, I have cleavage tonight.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
She pushed her little tits together and made cleavage.
“It makes me wanna put my tongue in it.”
“You know you can't, I have Brandon down in Columbus.”
“You and Brandon go well together, so I'll keep my tongue to myself.”
She laughed not knowing I was being sarcastic about everything I said. She was completely convinced that her hair was great and her cleavage made me horny. She was attractive and it would not have been hard to have sex with her. But it didn't really matter to me. She lived alone in an apartment for the last two years. She was fond of farting and burping as loud as possible. She watched a lot of television and had no political opinions.
She lived a lonely life.
I went over to the table where everyone was sitting. Amanda's new boyfriend was there. She always had a new boyfriend. This one was named Joseph. Like everyone she liked to have someone around that appreciated and loved her. My generation was consumed with serial monogamy. We went from one person to the next. Even if we had kids it didn't matter. The state was happy to take care of them now. We viewed our romantic relationships like little boys with baseball cards, television shows, and the owning of cars. We liked to meet someone new. We enjoyed learning about them. We enjoyed sharing our lives with them, talking about childhoods, our parents, our siblings, little things that happened when we were seven. We enjoyed meeting people for the first time and that slow revealing of who we really are. It was all theatrical. Our sex was neurotic, with no intention of procreation. It always involved dirty talk, violence, paddles, handcuffs, anal sex, dildos, strap-ons, and threesomes. There was no getting married and quietly walking as virgins into the bedroom on a wedding night awkwardly trying to have that first sex. Our awkward first sex was a distant memory, one that we would laugh over, usually over the phone.
Joseph was a tall man. He grew up with a Christian preacher for a father in Hartford. A small country town 20 minutes by outside of Youngstown. He was one of those Christians that voted for Bush in 04 and in 08 voted for Obama. He had a bible in his car and knew it well. The pages were ruffled; there were little notations next to lines he felt were important. Several book markers were found amongst the pages. His father had made sure he learned the bible.
Several years ago, between the ‘04 and ‘08 election a change had occurred. What it was, he never said. But a realization that creationism, pro-life militancy, and the love of foreign wars had nothing in common with responsibility, kindness, and sincerity.
Joseph was wearing a bright blue shirt with a white tie and dress pants. He believed it was important to be drunk and well-dressed at the same time. His hair was gelled and styled. My hair was not combed. I couldn't comb my hair because of genetics. My father was Sicilian and had nappy hair. If I combed my hair it would turn into an afro. I had spent my life completely unable to comb my hair. It was a detriment to my everyday life. It was hard getting a job without properly combed hair. One could never be a server in a restaurant, a hedge funder, a schoolteacher, or anything that made above 12,000 a year without nicely gelled and styled hair. Joseph had a very good shot at life. He was a server and had learned how to speak Spanish. I believe pragmatically that if I had hair that could have been combed I would have been able to rise to levels of success undreamed up by the normal man. But my hair could not be combed. It was my tragic flaw. Like Oedipus having sex with his mother. But for me it was my hair. I couldn't even be a proper hipster with curly hair. Male hipsters had brown hair that flowed nicely over their head. That went over their forehead and looked appealing to the eye. I had come into luck though. Michael Cera, an actor, a man who played in movies being ironic was also half-Sicilian and had hair that could not be combed. It looked combed but I knew it wasn't. He was just pushing it down with his fingers. Perhaps he had stylists with specially built combs for people who were half-Sicilian mixed with Northern European white people. Women started finding my hair attractive.
Joseph's hair daunted me. I was a writer. I wasn't really a writer. I had not made enough money to live as a writer and call myself a writer. My parents ingrained in me being so deep that it’s part of myself the concept that a person cannot call themselves something unless they are making money doing it. If a person golfs on the weekend, they like to golf. They are not a golfer. Tiger Woods was a golfer, not Bob the shift manager at Denny's. If you acted in cheap horror movies on Thursday and you could not pay your car insurance with cheap horror movies then you were not an actor.
Joseph yelled, he was always very excited, “How was work?”
It occurred to me say it was bleak but I said, “It wasn't memorable.”
He laughed and said, “We're all going to Monica's after the bar closes and playing Monopoly.”
Monopoly was a game with a little metal shoe.
“I have to get up early and get on a bus.”
“We'll get you there.”
Amanda heard and said, “He's always nervous about getting to places on time.”
“It is important to be on time.” I'm always on time because I know my hair looks terrible.
“We'll get you there on time.”
“I'm going to get really drunk.”
“That's cool. This is a bar.”
“I suppose this is the place where a person can get drunk.”
“Can't do it at a cell phone store.”
“No, this is the place.”
I went to the bar to get another drink, the bartender came over. His name was Tom. Tom dated Sarah for a while. It was a six month pointless relationship. They fought all the time and were jealous of each other. Sarah had to text message Tom every hour or Tom would get worried that Sarah was fucking somebody else. Sarah even bought a special cellphone with a keypad so she could type quicker to Tom.
Tom came over and said, “Hey, how's it going?”
“Life is awesome, Captain and coke.”
Then Tom said with a serious face. Tom always had a serious face. He considered everything he said to be serious, essential and vital. Tom said, “I didn't hit her.”
“You didn't what.”
“Hit her. She broke three of my fingers.”
Sarah was on the other side of the bar almost passed out sipping on a drink while he spoke.
“How did she break your fingers?” I said.
“She slammed them in a car door.”
“That must have hurt.”
“Yeah, it fucking hurt. There was fucking blood everywhere. I was drunk and bleeding everywhere. She kept yelling like a fucking retard. I kept yelling back at her with blood pouring out of my fingers. Then she started pushing me. Then she started punching me. I couldn't do anything to get her to stop.”
It occurred to me he could have ran away. He could have realized she was a crazy bitch and gone home.
Tom went on, “So I pushed her. I was like, 'fuck this,' and pushed her back. It wasn't like I was trying to beat up a woman. Then she called the police.”
“I heard the police got called.”
“Yeah, she fucking called the police. The police showed up and of course took her side of the story. I had to spend a night in jail. I had to hire a lawyer and go to court for assault and battery. I had to spend a thousand fucking dollars for all that shit.”