The Anger of the Monogamous Male

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An older woman wore a pink shirt at the entrance to the place. She held on to a very small dog. It was the type of a dog that was typically owned by women half her age. It was the kind of a dog that young women enjoyed decorating with absurd flowery bowties and preposterous sweaters. But not this one, this tiny dog came as it was.
The woman was waiting for her gentleman friend who ordered up a morning’s coffee. She appeared peaceful. Maybe it had something to do with the dog. Perhaps she was simply a mellow type. With age came perspective and nothing in life was really worth worrying about.
She did not even seem too anxious when the confused heroine addict bumped into her leash as he stumble out to the street with a half used cigarette in his hand. She remained at ease throughout the passing minutes and was more than gracious when the young junky asked her for a light.
“I am sorry but I do not smoke, smoking is bad for your skin tone” she affably replied.
The young man was neither appreciative nor disappointed. He was more concerned with sustaining gravity.
Despite the collective displays of serenity, I felt uneasy. Natalia was more than twenty five minutes late. I was never one for tardy characters. Thankfully, the irritating ambulance sirens rang through Powell Street and validated my status as the only non-enlightened individual in the coffee shop. This New Yorker never truly molded into that granola flavored San Francisco consciousness.
I walked up to the large counter and ordered myself another medium cup of flavored coffee. The radio played a song by the Beatles. I believe it was I ‘m Looking Through You off of the Rubber Soul album.
“Guy? Hey, what’s going on dude?”
Vivek smiled from behind his small table. In between us stood a homeless woman that leaned on her rusty blue cart. In it, she housed all of her worldly belongings. She stood there like an out garden figurine. Off the tip of her outer lip dripped discontent.
“Come join me,” he cordially invited me.
I did.
“What’s new in the life and times of Mr. university professor?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing too important,” I admitted, “life is life.”
“Working on any interesting research projects?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Oh really? Nothing? Any exciting academic projects?”
“Nothing to report, but forget about me, my life is boring, what about you? What are you reading these days?”
He did not mind the change in focus.
“I just finished a six hundred page book about North Korea called Under the Loving Care of the Fatherly Leader by Bradley Martin. It was an amazing book about the inner working of the North Korean regime. What are you reading these days?”
“I started reading three different books,” I said “two of them are novels, one Auster and one Russo but I abandoned both around page sixty. I can never keep focus these days. The third book is my own academic manuscript that is almost too boring for anyone to stay awake. I put a copy of it in my bathroom and catch a quick page read every time I take a shit.”
“Well, I guess that can be a productive place to work.”
“Not me, I am blessed with super quick bowl movements.”
Vivek, as always, was all smiles. The guy did not have a bad bone in his entire Indian body. Maybe it had to do with that Asian karma business. Maybe it had to do with good family DNA. The most impressive thing about this guy was the fact that he was the best read person that I have ever run into. Try to catch him unprepared and he was ten steps ahead of you.
“Every read Crazy Cock by Henry Miller?”
“Of course, it is a classic.”
“How about Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky?”
“A Cloud in Trousers is one of my all time favorites.”
“Goethe?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Me you son of a bitch.”
He must have noticed just how irritated I grew as I continuously looked at my watch. Natalia, you fucking bitch, how do you keep a man waiting for so long? What ever happened to mutual respect? If there is no respect, there is no love.
“You seem angry.”
“I am not angry, I am mad.”
“What a fine distinction.” he smiled. “But do not feel too bad, all monogamous men are angry by default, it is not entirely your fault, it is a genetic condition. It is a pain inflicted upon all men by the very construct of the modern times and the very institution of monogamous relationships.”
Vivek was about to present another one of his world famous theses, I was not about to get in his way.
“The male specie is biologically programmed for polygamy. Evolutionary forces require the male to spread his seed to as many female vaginas as possible. It is an evolutionary must. It is a basic biological premise that ensures the survival of the human specie across time.”
I have heard these types of theories before. Vivek was stating the obvious in the world of men but such logic failed in the world of women. I presented my counterargument.
“You are correct in stating the obvious. There are mixed evidence in regards to females and monogamy. On the one hand, female promiscuity does improve the genetic pool. On the other hand, female monogamy does present certain advantages in the wild in regards to the survival of its offspring. In other words, females are programmed for monogamy while the male for polygamy.”
“So what are you saying?” I scratched my nose across its surface.
“I am arguing that all monogamous males are intrinsically frustrated at their core level by the institution of monogamy. We could have all been swinging our dicks freely if it wasn’t for women and the bloody sword of organized religion.”
Vivek excused himself for a moment. His enthusiastic talk along with the large herbal tea led to a abrupt urge to take a piss. While he was gone, I inspected Powell Street through the window with the hope of finding my Natalia. She was nowhere to be seen.
Near the window, I saw a couple holding hands. I could only see the man’s back. I had no idea why he was scratching his leg in a repeated motion. The woman reminded me of my ex-girlfriend Maria. She had dark Mexican hair and had a tear in her eye.
Vivek may have been correct about the inert anger of the monogamous male but her knew very little about the pain of being a woman.
We sat around the coffee shop for thirty more minutes. Vivek introduced chemical composition into his former argument.
I ordered a large chocolate brownie that was full of nuts. Natalia always argued that I need to drastically cut down my intake of junk food if I ever planned on loosing that gut. But she was not there to give me that famous worried look. I devoured the chocolaty pile of sugar within a quick minute.
An hour later, Vivek and I decided to head out Chinatown where we hoped to find some cheap imitation watches. I lost my old silver watch down on Royal Street last month on a trip to New Orleans.
Natalia did not show up on that morning. She later explained that she woke up angry for no apparent reason.

LA No Longer

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L.A. No Longer

Jack felt the shiver running throughout his body as he walked past those familiar doors that seemed to know more about him than most of his friends did. More than three years have gone by and yet, the place still felt like fresh made bread. Excitement was not the right adjective to describe what he felt at the moment, neither was exhilaration. To Jack it seemed like a strange breed between an old high school reunion and compulsion.

Despite his past success, Jack once again found himself dead broke and amongst the unemployed. Now that he was down on his luck, there was no room for foolish male pride. Now a day, it was all about simply getting by. After he lost his high paying income, foreclosed on his ocean front condo and crashed his once impressive silver automobile, Jack was back to square one.

South Florida was no place for a man to live life. It was all fluff within and throughout. Between the long impressive blue canals and the sweet summer breeze, all that was now left for the locals was disappointment.

What was once supposed to be the Rodeo Drive of the east coast soon turned back to water down beer and grouper sandwiches. But even after losing his cash, his car and his unbelievable high-rise apartment (known to most women as the panty dropper, no explanation needed), Jack still felt like he had a fighting chance in this world.

The old wooden bar still smelled the same way it did before the good real estate days, before any jerk with twenty grand could become an over night millioner, before Jack hit it big and told the owner of this fantastic old bar to take this job and shove it up his ass.

Jack felt strange for a moment as he sat on the wrong side of the bar. Once a bartender, always a bartender, he thought or at least that is how he felt at the moment.

Three years and nothing much had changed. Billy still had those same ridiculous pictures up on the wall, sporting him and Dan Marino smiling like two morons over a pitcher of amber stout. Billy could never get over the fact that he almost made it, that he was offered a football scholarship down at the University of Miami. Billy was well on his way to made it into the big times until that career ending torn ACL injury. Sidelined by misfortune, he decided to give up on football all together.

Instead he opened up this friendly little bar down on A1A. One man’s watering hole may once again give Jack a reason to wake up in the morning. At least, that was what Jack was hoping for.

“What are you having sweetie?” she asked.

The jaded blond behind the bar knew nothing of Jack or of his connection to the place. Back in the day he used to lay them left and right. The blonder the faster, the redder the better, the browner the funner. Jack liked the taste of it all. To him, regardless of color or shape, women tasted like freedom.

“Ill take a Sam Adams.”
“Sorry sweetie, we only carry domestics.”
“Sam Adams is a domestic,” he lackadaisically smiled.
“Whatever you say hon, but we only have the basics, Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Coors and Coors Lights, you know, American beers.”
He smiled. “I see that Billy is still just as cheap and as patriotic as he has always been. I’ll have a Miller Light. “
“Are you a friend of Billy’s?” she asked.
He hesitated, “Well, let’s just say that we go way back. Where is the old bastard anyways? Is he around? Most likely he is not. He is probably down at the gym flexing his muscles across some stretched out mirror, am I right?”
“No hon. He ain’t at the gym and he never gets in here before eight O’clock these days. He went down to Dolphins training camp out in Plantation, preseason football, you know what Billy’s like.”

Unfortunately he did.

“Two seventy five please, do you want to close you out or open a tab?”
He threw a five on the bar and told her to keep the change. Billy’s was still one of the cheapest places for beers around the area. Billy never bought into that whole William and Sonoma bullshit like the rest of them did. Billy detested the Aventura Mall and those luxury foreign cars that everyone bought during the recent real estate boom. If it was up to Billy he would kick all of those New Yorkers back to where they came from and turn Fort Lauderdale back into Jimmy Buffett land. He never liked the corporate facelift that everyone else fell for. Billy was a good ole boy and wanted his life to be as simple as the beers he served, nothing too complicated.

Jack only wished that he could take Billy’s worldview but he was not made of the same basic elements. He fell in love with the money, the monetary excess, the large homes and those grade A titties that seemed to literary pop everywhere with every plastic surgery center that mushroomed across Yamato Road up in Boca Raton.

While Cheri handled some of the other customers that were lining up at the other end of the room, Jake took his time to reflect about those old bartender days. Despite the mediocre pay and occasional degradation, the bartender gig at times made one feel like a celebrity. When you worked the bar, everyone wanted to your attention. When standing tall behind that bar, every man wanted your advice and way too many women offer a lick of their cupcakes. Why he ever left? He thought about it for a while.

Cheri returned for a moment only to leave again. The banker at the other end did not like way her Appltini tasted. Cheri did not make a fuss, instead she just smiled and made her a new one with an extra shot. Such was the vibe of the place. Billy always preached his philosophy about keeping his costumers satisfied. “A happy costumer,” he would say “is a returning costumer.”

Jack took a careful look at that group of bankers on the other side. They were dressed in the cloths of success and were drinking like young fraternity boys. Hard days for the banking world, hard days for the real estate industry, hard days all around. When times were bad out in the world, business was good at Billy’s old bar. The recently disenfranchised, unemployed and bankrupt were more than happy to drown their sorrows in Billy’s cheap drinks and fried finger foods.

“So Cheri, how long have you been working here?”
“I don’t know, close to a year now.”
“Do you like it?”
“You know, it pays the bills. I have had better jobs as well as worst ones. You know what it is like.”
“Oh yea? What was the best job you ever had?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do, I really do.”
She hesitated for a while, “Back when I was younger, I worked as a cocktail waitress down at the Crazy Horse.”
Jack knew that place all too well, “you mean that tity bar in north Lauderdale? I use to love that place. Billy and I used to go drinking there after work back when things were good between us. But I don’t think that I ever seen you over there.”
“Yea, like you would notice anyone with all of those naked women running around.”
“Well, a pretty face like yours I would never forget.”
“Get over yourself Jack; working at the tity bar, I must have heard that line more than a hundred times. But thanks for the compliment,” she smiled.

Thinking back to those days at the Crazy Horse brought a smile to Jack’s tired face. A couple of the waitresses who worked at Billy’s were either strippers or former strippers. After work, they would all hang out at the joint, get free lap dances, buy shots all around and often bring back a couple of girls back to Jack’s place where they all snorted cocaine and fucked like a bunch of Cajun horndogs.

There was one particular stripper who caught Jack’s eye. She went by the name of Coco but her real name was Stacia Martinez. She was a half black, half Dominican dancer with natural 36C and a pear shaped ass. Coco loved money as much as she liked the attention. Jack was more than happy to deposit his weekly tips into Stacia’s carefully comforting Caribbean clitoris.

Year, those were the days, back before everything turned around, before Jack gave it all up in favor of the rich real estate life, before he climbs up the mount of high society only to crash all the way down to its underside. Now he had nothing.
While Cheri dealt with the crowd of secretaries who came in for happy hour, Jack went outside for a cigarette. The ocean breeze sailed lightly across his unshaved face. He did not mind the solitude of the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, Billy pulled up in his red Mustang. “If it aint American, it aint something I drive,” was the way Billy looked at things. There were not too many locals who so proudly displayed their patriotism, most were more interested in displaying their consumerism.

But not Billy, he rejected the Prada, Lexus and Armani logos in favor of the old red white and blue that was proudly displayed on every corner of his bar, his car and even tattooed on his left shoulder.

“Well shit if my eyes don’t fool me. Is that old son of a bitch Jack Douglas I see?”
“Yea Billy, it sure is, been a long time, how are you partner?” they hesitantly shake hands.
Billy took a long careful look. Years have gone by and Jack seemed like a different man.
“So what’s the deal Mr. big shot millionaire, you looking to tear me down and build another one of those monstrous high rise condos on my remains? You sure as shit aint coming in for a drink, I best assume.”
Jack took a deep modest breath, “You sure as shit are wrong there Billy, I am no longer in the world of real estate development, it is all gone I tell you, every single dime I ever made in real estate went down the shits and under the water. I am just as flat broke as you first met me. Down and down by the rain.”

Billy digested Jack’s words as if they were some strange concoction of eel soup or some exotic appetizer they served down at those fancy sushi restaurants. “And you came here for what reason?”

“Are you going to made me beg for it Billy? I want my old job back.”
“Well hell shit if that don’t beat nothing, are you telling me that Mr. high-rise wants to go back to service Miller Lights to a bunch of redneck fisherman and local alcoholics, are you really that desperate Jack? Whatever happened to all of those socialite friends you recently been hanging around with?”

“I told you Billy, it is all gone, the money, the women, the cars and all of those highbrow types, all went missing. I am no long Jack T. Douglas the second, I am just plain old broke ass Jack the bartender.”

Billy needed some time to think about it. Like most people out there, he enjoyed watching his friends thrash about with the many discomfort offered by life. Other peoples' misery make our worries taste like key lime pie.

Jack returned a week later to take over the early shift. Cheri was schedule to join him around 7pm. Her body used and her eyes tender, Jack took a careful look at Cheri and wondered why he never noticed her back in those days when life made much sense down at the Crazy Horse Saloon.

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Apathy is my new religion

“Are you ready to go Rocco?” she asked while tossing an uncomfortable plastic bag into the garbage bin. It was difficult for a woman of her social standing to bend down and clean up after him. Yet, public humiliation was more tolerable to her than paying the $150 fine. The dog did not answer her question; instead, he repositioned his legs and wiggled his tail in delight. The northeast corner of 33rd Street and 8th Avenue was a sight for sore canine eyes. Of particular interest was that old Jewish woman dressed in flowery fabrics was of particular interest to him. She inspected the flashy outdoors menu of the Stage Deli and wondered out loud why the place charged “$3.45 for a bowl of Matsaball soup, were these goyim crazy or something?” Rocco was drawn to the grandmotherly scent that came from her direction. The smell of mothballs and old body odor inspired him to urinate beneath the woman’s legs. “Oh my God,” screamed out the old woman in panic. “Lady, your dog almost peed all over my shoes.” The younger woman seemed unimpressed, she jerked the dog towards the opposite corner of Eighth Avenue.
“Mommy is just going to make a short phone call, don’t worry, it won’t take too long.”
Rocco did mind. He had nothing scheduled for the day. As she exercised her dialing fingers upon the slick panel of her cell phone, Rocco urinated all over the walls of Madison Square Garden.
Nestled between the majestic Empire State Building and the Corinthian-decorated United States Post Office across the street, Madison Square Garden would barely win the “Best in Show” award in the Mississippi county fair. The Empire State Building peaked to the sky while the historical post office building told ancient tales of Roman glory. By contrast, Madison Square Garden was nothing to look at. It was a simple round block of concrete decorated with cheap advertisements and that old blue and white sign that read “Pennsylvania Station.”
With his territory clearly marked for all to see, Rocco felt an unusual sense of ownership over Manhattan real estate. Now all that was left was to piss all over City Hall, the Whitney Museum and the Trump Tower International. Soon the entire city would belong to him. Intoxicated by his own delusions of grandeur, this canine real estate entrepreneur refocused his attention towards his master. While she dialed the different number combinations, he stared at her deep brown eyes and tried to gage her sense of loneliness.
“I can’t get a hold of Gina. Let’s give her a few more minutes. Hopefully, she will show up
He wiggled his tail served in affirmation. She adjusted her wide underwear strap and led her obedient friend towards the busy sidewalk. A filthy homeless woman approached the two.
“Can you spare some change?”
Rocco watched his master reach into her pocket and hand the old woman a small shiny dime. The woman murmured a few irate words in her direction and walked away.
“This city is full of crazy people,” said the woman to her dog. “I swear to God, people here are just crazy.”
Fully aware of the irony, he crossed the street and once again found himself standing in front of the deli. Spotting a medium-sized piece of sesame bagel on the outer rim of a green garbage bin, Rocco indulged the tasty snack. The woman waited impatiently for her friend to arrive. But Gina never showed up.
Around 11:30am I walked out of the C train stairways and walked out to the filthy concrete of 8th Avenue. At the entrance to the Stage Deli, I spotted a semi-attractive Indian woman who held on to an awkward dog.
“How are you today?” I asked, but she ignored me.
“O.K Rocco, it is time to go home, Mommy had enough.” she disappeared into the crowded streets.
Frank showed up a few minutes later. He was recently laid off from the bank but did not seem too concerned about his new situations.
“What can I tell you Guy, sometimes things just happen. You have to go with the flow, take life’s punches and keep a smile on your face.”
We both ordered the ham and cheese omelets. For a moment, I was pissed at the size of the so-called small orange juice but Frank reassured me that life was too short for such concern.
“Think about what stress can do to people. heart attacks, strokes, cancer, high blood pressure, those are the main causes of death. You have to ask yourself, is it really worth it? I tell you Guy, ever since I lost my job, I decided not to give a shit. Apathy is my new religion.”
We talked about it for a while and then I headed home for an early noon nap. When I woke up around three, I found Jenny lying there naked right besides me. She must have skipped her one o’clock philosophy seminar on account of her nasty hangover.
Jenny and I hung out with the wrong type of people. They were much younger than we were in terms of state of mind despite our reversed chronology. Why we ever agreed to head all the way down to the Bowery just to see Nick showcase his lame-ass poetry had something to do with Jenny and the fact that Nick was her best male friend ever since high school. Nick was a nobody. just another of the many sheep that herded around this urban campus. Poetry night was Jenny’s fault but the hangover was mine. While we waited for the poets to do their thing, I took full advantage of the $3 shots of cheap tequila that were on special. The busty waitress was more than glad to bring more shots around and I was more than happy to see her smile. The golden drink eased my boredom at times. Yet, it only made things only that much more tolerable. To start with, I never could stand Nick. He just waited for me to stumble. He wanted Jenny all to himself despite the fact that he was a flaming homo. True, I could have been a better boyfriend to Jenny. I was a complete bastard at times. But outside interference in a relationship, that went against the basic protocols of the Geneva Convention.
“I am leaving you Guy.” That was the first thing she said after she woke up from her nap. I still nursed a hangover; Jenny added another layer to it.
“You want some coffee?” I asked but she seemed rather disinterested.
“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, “I am leaving your ass and this time it is really over.”
Just most other people around our age group, we kept on breaking up only to hook up a few weeks later. By now I was used to this predictable exercise.
“I don’t really care Jenny, you can go ahead and walked out the door.”
“You don’t care? What the fuck do you mean, you don’t care?” She threw her jacket on and slammed the door as she walked away.
But I really did not care. Life was too short for drama and apathy after all was my new religion.
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ci

Feeling alive for a moment

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Larisa sat alone at the Vbar coffee shop down on Sullivan Street. She drank her skinny latte and chewed on the pumpkin flavored granola that she packed away in a small Ziploc bag before she left her apartment.

The place was sort of empty for a Thursday morning. Typically, just finding a chair was a challenge. But on that day, there were enough empty seats to make one wonder.

Maybe it had something to do with the relatively warm weather. Forty degrees may have seemed like arctic temperatures in places like Boca Raton or Palm Springs but when it came to the city in January, it seemed rather temperate.
Larisa wore her lucky turtleneck shirt. The fabric pressed hard against her small love handles but she liked the way that her large breasts burst through the thin lilac cotton.

Across her left finger she wore the antique brass ring that she received from her aunt Rebecca only a few months before she passed away from stage three Leukemia. The two of them were never that close but for some strange manner, Larisa felt safe when wearing that ring. It almost felt like someone was watching over her from above.
The radio was playing soft classical music. She always preferred the piano to the violin.
Around 11:30am, Jake walked into the place.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He asked in his typical Jake shyness.
She pretended as if she did not notice, but she did notice, she noticed just as soon as the door opened, just as soon as he walked in. Her heart beat like an African drum to the sound of her enthusiasm. She did her best to seem aloof.
“Not to much, what are you doing here?” What a stupid reply, she thought. She only wished she could take it back and start off with something more meaningful.

“Oh, you know, just getting some coffee. Hanging out. Trying to avoid work, the usual, you know.” Hey smiled and then turned towards the book that Larisa was reading. He could not make it out. “What are you reading there? Is this fun reading or something for school?”

“Oh trust me, this is definitely not for fun, this is for Schiller’s class. The book is called Journey to the End of the Night. Louis-Ferdinand Celine wrote it. He was a French writer from back in the day. Schiller is making us read it for his seminar. The book is kind of heavy reading if you ask me. I am only on page 58 and I have to write a paper on this stupid book by Monday afternoon.”

“Oh I love that book,” he smiled, “I read it over the summer. It’s a classic. I am sure that you will eventually change your mind. Celine was a freaking genius. He is definitely one of my favorite authors along with Bukowski and Philip Roth.
Once again, she felt inadequate. Jack was a deep guy. He must have thought that she was boring. There were not many people like him around campus. While all the other boys were always busy with getting drunk and trying to fuck anything and anyone that walked, Jake read books, played the guitar and always had something smart to say.

Larisa and Jake were not good friends. They weren’t really friends at all. They sort of knew each other from some of the classes that everyone took during freshman and sophomore years at New York University. The two of them never really hung out. Yea, there was that one time when Professor Falica took them all out for beers to celebrate the end of the semester but they sat on the opposite corners of the long rectangular table. Jake sat next to the professor and argued with him about something that seemed rather intellectual. She on the other end and on the other side of the table sat with Jenny Crugerman and Stephanie Sigel and engaged in the same old discussion about where to go out that weekend and how cute this boy was over the next. She recalled just how much she hated life on that particular night. Everyone around her seemed so similar to one another. No one ever had anything interesting or original to say and neither did she.

But on that rather warm Thursdays like that Thursday, things would be different. Sometimes life intervened in one’s favor. At least that was the way she felt as Jake slid his tall chair along her outer thigh.

The sat around for a while and talked about the kind of things that people around their age spoke about. While Jake had much to say about everything, she focused on her smile. A guy like Jake was full of theories about life. He had read important books. He had already managed to backpack all across Europe and the Yucatan Peninsula. Larisa has never been anywhere. She did not read any important books nor did she have anything smart to add to Jake’s many worldly observations.
She smiled and nodded her head. She pretended to keep up with the conversation but what she was actually attempting to do more than anything else was to seem much smarter than she actually felt.

Jake was a nice guy. He lit with enthusiasm. He treated her to a cup of herbal tea and later they split a double chocolate brownie that made her feel that much better.
When they walked into his apartment, she was overly impressed by the paintings that were displayed all across the studio apartment’s walls. Jake had painted these during the summer he spent out in Florence Italy. She could only hope for such adventures or such talent.

Jake took out a painted glass pipe from the drawer of his desk. Thick green marijuana spilled out of a round plastic container into a pure piece of notebook paper. Jake broke the plant into small pieces and placed them into the pipe as he lit it up.
Larisa observed the slow moving dials of the living room clock that indicated that noon was just around the corner. A bit early in the day for pot smoking she suspected. She has only smoked pot a few times before and could never really get high. But Jake offered and so she accepted. For him, she would climb a tall white mountain only if to see him at the top.
As the smoke made its way through her system, Jake inserted his intellectual tongue into her ordinary mouth. It tasted like knowledge. It carried an older texture along its cress. His kiss was more mature than that of most boys who had kissed her before.

As he slowly massaged her breasts and licked the tips of her nipples, Larisa could feel her back twist and twirl like a drunken ally cat. Panic settled in all across her inner thighs. Things were moving way too quickly. But she knew that she would never get a second chance. She knew that Jake was different than most of the other boys she came across. And besides, she was in New York City. Her parents lived more than two hours away. No one would ever find out, she suspected.
Despite several attempts to keep her underwear on, Larisa had no real chance. Jake’s persistence that he attributed to them Marijuana and to the fact that he absolutely loved her body and must have had a taste of her inner salty flesh, that was all way too much. Despite the mastery of his tongue, she could not help but to worry about just how bad it must have tasted. She did not want to loose Jake as a result of his body’s saltiness.

Jake asked her if she preferred for him to be on top or at the bottom. She did not know what was the right answer and so she told him to simply have his way. He took a condom out of his bedroom drawer and asked Larisa to place it across her larger than usual cock.

While he moaned in pleasure, she just closed her eyes and thought about what life would be like if Jake decided to make her his girlfriend and the two of them would be known amongst her girlfriends as a leading couple of the overall popularity scale.
While Jake took his time, soaping up in the shower, Larisa fixed her makeup and dried her long brown hair.
Low cumulous clouds came down on the streets of New York City; the sun was slowly disappearing despite the early hour of the day. As the temperatures plummeted down back to the ordinary low thirties, Larisa walked towards her university dorm room and wondered if Jake would ever call her up again for a second date.

Regardless of anything that he may do or would have done, nothing really mattered for during that brief moment that for the first time in her life, Larisa felt like she was alive.

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Are you drinking

By: Charles Bukowski

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.

The Grey Dog Coffee Company

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I was not all that excited about the idea of becoming the newest employee of the Grey Dog Coffee Company. Sure, I would get all the coffee that I wanted for free and I would mostly be working along with good looking hippie college students who could surely teach me a few tricks in the sack. But still, I was a graduate of the prestigious MFA program in creative writing of the University of Michigan. It simply seemed illogical that I would find myself sitting here in this small village coffee shop awaiting an interview.
But what is a brother to do? These are hard days and somehow I had to pay rent. Susan and Irena, my two lesbian roommates would not likely grant me an extension. Somehow I knew deep down in my bones, that if given the chance, Irena would be more than happy to jump my bones. She went both ways. But Susan was strictly butch. She never experienced the joy of a man and would likely argue that there were no such joys. Clearly, I could not fuck my way out of this one. There were less than seven hundred dollars left in my checking account and time was running out.

Her name was Ski and she was the assistant manager of the coffee shop and an undergraduate student at New York University. Before we sat down beneath those yellow chandelier lights all the way in the back of the coffee shop, she wanted to know if I would like anything to drink and of course, it would be on the house.
“Sure, I will take a cup of coffee, black, two sugars.”
“Give me a moment,” and then she returned with two cups of coffee and a friendly smile. She took out my application from a tall stack of papers and quickly glanced over my credentials.

“So tell me Greg, I see that you worked in a bunch of coffee shops back in Ann Harbor, Common Cup, Caribou Coffee and Foggy Bottom Coffee House. I also see that you have an undergraduate degree in American literature and an MA in creative writing. So I take it that you are a writer.”

“Well, that all depends on who you ask. I published a few short stories in The Believer and the Chelsea Literary Journal but I doubt that you ever ran across my works.”
“That sounds really cool, I would love to read one of your stories.”
“Why, are you the reading type Ski?”

“Are you kidding me, I love books. You will always find a good book at my bedside. Without books, what is the point, right?”
“Hell yea. But you and I are in the minority on this one, most people prefer reality television.”
“’Hey, forget most people,” she smiled “most people suck.”
“I could not agree more Ski. Tell me, who is your favorite author?”
“Oh, that’s a good one, I could not say, I am torn between Hemingway and Truman Capote, how about you?”
“Hard one, I would be torn between Henry Miller and Philip Roth.” We went back and forth for a while. Suddenly, one of the employees yelled Ski’s name out. She excused herself for a moment and left me with a sweet taste in my mouth.

I looked around at the people who were quickly filling up the place. It was eleven O’clock in the morning on Tuesday in December and none of these people were at work. Were these people independently wealthy? Were they tourists? Students? Or were they as unemployed as I? It did not really matter, the place had a good vibe to it and no one seemed to differentiate between a Sunday and a Tuesday. Everyone just seemed more than content to be here in New York City and away from the cold winds that were running around the tall city buildings.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized when she returned “there was a bit of a mix up with a customer but now it is all taken care of. So where were we?” She smiled.
“You were about to tell me whether you were single or had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t recall that conversation.” She laughed. “I recall something about Hemingway.”
“So what is the answer?” I insisted.
“Do you always ask such questions during a job interview?”
“Only when the person who interviews me is a good looking woman who likes books.”
“You realize of course that now things are too awkward for me to offer you the position.” She apologized.
“Yes, I know, I fully realize that. But I will take your phone number any day over a job. There are many places were I can earn a buck but not too many women in New York City who can put a smile on my face.”
“So I put a smile on your face?” She bashfully laughed.
“You did and you do. So what do you say Ski, do you have a man in your life?”
“Not at the moment. But I am not sure that I am taking applications at the moment.”
“I think you should reconsider, just look at my resume, I am more than qualified.”
“Oh yea? And what exactly do you think qualifies you for the position?”
“Well Ski, I am a very hard worker, I take my job seriously and promise to show up for work on time, every time and to stay late at work when ever is required. I tell you Ski, a man with strong work ethics is hard to find around these parts.”
“Trust me Greg, I already know that by now.“ She smiled.

She would not acquiesce and instead of her telephone number she instructed me to add her on Facebook which I did just an hour after I came back home.
Irena walked in on me just as began to jerk off under my sheets. She did not seem embarrassed at all, rather, she seemed aroused. The idea went through her head for a quick moment but instead of jumping into my bed with that tiny Russian body of hers’, she demanded the long overdue rent. I told her that I needed another few days before
I would have the money.

“Yea, well, I heard that one before. Maybe you should consider getting yourself a job instead of sitting around here and jerking off all day like some damn teenager.”
A few days later I emailed Ski a PDF copy of “Red Wine Wonders”, a story that I published in Literal Latte, a local publication off of 10th street down around the corner. From her reply, I could tell that she really liked it.

We agreed to meet up for a drink a few days later in the Vig Bar, a trendy little join off of Elizabeth Street. When thinking about it, I was not in any position to pay for all of the martinis that she ordered that night. Ski had enough dirty martinis in her to piss out olive oil and I was the one who laid out more than a hundred bucks at the end of the night.

A single man of limited means living here in New York City was an exercise in idiocy. I could have opened the gym.

Maybe it was time for me to listen to my brother’s advice and to move back home to Nebraska where the beer was cheap and the spare bedroom available. But let’s be honest now. Great writers don’t come from the wheat fields of the Midwest; they did not thrive in silence.

Women like Ski, long literary streets and a constant headache are the hallmarks of New York City, a city that will always offer a man a good kick in the ass.
Ski could not come despite my many attempts. More than thirty-five minutes down between her thighs and my tongue was growing numb. Maybe it had to do with a lack of technique, maybe it was the vodka. I never got a second chance.

Standing out on that cold empty road that connected Sioux City and Omaha, I held on to my backpack and a copy of Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums and wondered just how long he would have stuck around the streets of New York before he would give up on his literary dreams.

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