As I would stand next to my Honda with fingerless motorcycle gloves, the stereo would blast his song to disturb their suburban neighborhoods. Picture me finishing the last burning puff of my smoke and flicking it on their carefully manicured lawn, just at the electric guitar peak of Collins’s song. The idea of littering gives me so much internal rest.
Except with Rachel. For her, I would produce a cigarette and lighter to smoke while the music annoyed wholesome families in their suburban oasis. She would run to me, having never aged past eighteen, wrap her arms around me, and seductively inhale the smoke from my mouth, ending it with gentle licks to my lips. And, as my head would swim and everything moved in slow motion, Edwyn would scream with real intensity:
I would separate the front of Rachel’s robe and slide my partially exposed fingers in her right there in front of God, neighbors, and husband watching from the kitchen window with a coffee cup in his hand.
I would make her lick my fingers before I’d sit in the driver seat, lighting another smoke before driving off.
See what happens when one’s allegedly forgotten moments of rejection haunt them for over a decade? Someone save me. I need Jesus.
CHAPTER 10
After leaving the Soldier Show early due to knee injuries, Natalia sent two postcards and a letter telling me of her snorkeling adventures in Guam and how much she missed me. It was over, but she certainly sparked some repressed burning desire in me because shortly after my return to Douglas in Germany, I began to complain about the need for a woman in my life.
While folding clothes on the bed, Doug asked why I was whining. “What the hell is wrong with you?” were his exact words.
“I don’t know,” I said, drawing the last word out like I was a cranky, hungry four-year-old as I slumped over the bed, facedown into the linen and freshly dried clothing.
“Well, stop it. Are you going to start your period?”
“No, I think I need a girlfriend,” I corrected him with my face still smashed into the comforter. My statement was muffled, but he knew what I was trying to say.
“So, you are whining about it? Just go get one.” Doug made it sound terribly simple as he folded a sweater using his chin to hold the fabric.
I straightened from my slumped position, face now hot with blood. I could feel my flushed cheeks cool again as I stood erect and slurped drool back into my mouth. “I feel like I’m missing something in my life.” I balled a pair of socks and threw boxers on his pile. He was particular about his folded clothing, so the “his” and “hers” fold pile had become the norm. “I need a woman in my life.”
“So, go get one,” he reiterated, then methodically picked up the balled socks and set them next to another pair that would later become a row.
“What are you going to do? Sit at home with your thumb up your ass while I’m on a date with my girlfriend?” I folded a pair of jeans and placed them in my drawer.
He giggled as he tossed a pair of his old boxers, which I had taken over as my underwear on the top of my pile. “Sure, why not?”
“Right. I’m married. That’s ridiculous, I can’t do that.” I walked back to the bed and pretended to kick dirt on the tiled floor with my head slumped.
He giggled again as he adjusted his row of socks. “Whatever you want. As long as you are happy, I don’t care what you do.”
Continuing the childish routine, I bounced up and down to emphasize my point. “I need a woman.” I stomped around in an irritable, frustrated attempt for attention before throwing myself face down on the bed again. My muffled whines made Doug snicker.
“I need pussy.” I slobbered into the comforter.
Doug laughed as he poked me in the ass with a quick jab of his index finger. “I do, too,” he remarked.
Life went back to normal after returning from the Soldier Show. My six-year tour in the army was over, and it was time to become a civilian—correction, a proud veteran. We moved to my sister’s town in Ohio, just outside of Cleveland and rented a really nice renovated duplex up the road from her place. While working as a graphic designer at a local print shop that paid eighteen dollars an hour, Doug applied to colleges in the area to get his masters in psychology. We were on our way to beginning our happily ever after. We were miserable.
Let’s talk about this for a second. Ohio sucks. Fuck the Buckeye State. The perfectly manicured lawns and one-tree-per-front-yard-with-a-ceramic-goose-near-the-bushes makes me sick. The cross-stitched “Home Sweet Home” placards in the front windows and soccer-mom sports utility vehicles in the driveways are enough to make me stab myself in the eye with a hot french fry. Although the town we lived in was more trendy and youthful, it still reeked of fratboy-gone-dad, if you know what I mean.
The Cleveland Stadium was about a ten-minute drive without traffic from my front door. Our peaceful residential street would have cleared during a game had we stayed long enough to witness it. We moved to Vegas before we ever settled. Thank God, Doug’s brother, Rico, talked some motivation into us; otherwise, I would be wearing an eye patch with a fake diamond in the center and constantly explaining the french fry accident to fat housewives.
Rico, who got most of the Spanish genes but really looked Turkish, was a man who transcended macho. He was hyper-masculine, vulgar, bold, and honest to the core. He was a stocky well-built guy with one of those indented butt chins. He traveled more than any businessperson I have ever known, so his fashion influences were mostly European and very flashy. He had been called a faggot because he waxed every two weeks, and a pimp because he changed his phone number more often than anyone could keep up with. Doug called him whatever he wanted to in Spanish. I just called him Rico, or Fucker, depending on my mood. Despite his shady life, his tactless monologues, which were many through the years, were always right. He was the king of offensive common sense. It is Rico who can be credited with our conversion from Midwestern misery to Vegas history.
During his one and only visit to the great Buckeye State, Rico gave us one such crude speech. He leaned against the doorway of the dining room as we sat at our table, sipping cocktails. Ever the metrosexual, Rico crossed his left foot over his right, forcing a hand in the pocket of his super tight fashionable jeans—which, by the way, were adorned with strategically placed bedazzling beads.
“They’re not fucking women’s jeans, Leva. Get a fucking clue,” he scolded us earlier when Douglas teased about the sparkles on his pants. “These are from fucking Italy, pinche. I paid three hundred dollars for these.”
Doug’s high-pitched laugh, complete with banging on the table, drowned out my comment about his sassy pants. Rico was confidently smug. “Bitches like to see my cock.” Then he said some vulgar shit in Spanish before telling us that we needed to get out of this corn-fed state.