I get home and find a rejection slip from a magazine in Tampa. They say the short story I sent them was too dark and violent to print in their magazine. I’m a little worried because my story included only implied violence, while the sample copy I got from them contained a story where a doctor describes in great deal how he rapes and strangles a 16-year-old girl.
The only e-mail I have waiting for me is three advertisements for porn. I write to two magazines for submission guidelines, select a story and a collection of five poems to send off to two other magazines tomorrow morning.
My car is running low on gas, so I call Tommy Guilt to take me and Doc Filth to the bar. He says he will be over in about 15 minutes. He shows up right around the time Kurt gets home and decides to come with us. Tommy wants Kurt to drive. Kurt wants Tommy to drive. This quickly descends into a wrestling match. Kurt takes control in less than a minute, pinning Tommy on the living room rug, rubbing his face into the carpet, leaving Tommy swinging madly over his shoulder, trying to punch at Kurt’s out-of-reach face. Tommy agrees to drive.
On the way there, he gives us a long, drawn-out story about how he got pulled over that day, and the cop threatened to search him. This has been something I’ve dreaded for a long time, getting pulled over with Tommy Guilt in the car, because as long as I’ve known him, he doesn’t know how to shut his fucking mouth. No doubt, he would just sit there and list off to the pig exactly what each of us may be carrying, from drugs, to concealed weapons, to signed confessions for a million different crimes that we may or may not have committed. Tommy would tell all.
“Getting searched sucks,” I say as we pull up in front of Filth’s house. “I got searched once when my car broke down a few years ago. I was like 19 years old.” I’m in the back seat of Tommy’s car, while Kurt and Tommy are looking back and forth between each other, trying to figure out which of us is going to collect the Doctor. Not wanting to abandon my story mid-sentence, and be unable to launch back into it, as it is one of my personal favorites, and though I’m sure that at least Kurt has heard this one, probably Filth too, and possibly Tommy, I don’t want to give up, so I continue unabated. “I was driving this really shitty car at the time, worse than the one I’m driving now, and it was stalling all the time.”
“Who is going to get Doc Filth?” Kurt asks.
“I’m not,” Tommy announces.
I pause. “I guess that means it’s me,” I say dejectedly.
Tommy whips out his cell phone. “We can always call him.”
Happily, I jump back into my story as he dials the Doc’s number. “I was driving home from work, back when I was working in the gaming store.” I pause to nod to Kurt, making sure he actually remembers that six-month period when he and the Doc would come to see me at my job in the games store for free pizza, make fun of the regular customers, and steal all the cassettes out of my car. “I was coming home, and it stalled right behind where this pig had some guy pulled over. Remember how it used to stall all the time, right before I got rid of it?” I ask, looking at Kurt again for some kind of validation to my story.
“Doc,” Tommy says into the cell. “We’re here. Come outside.”
“I got my car going,” I continue. “A quarter mile up the road, it stalled again. I got pissed, popped the hood, and started to get out. That was when I hear from behind me, ‘Get the fuck back in the car!’ and I turn around to see the cop behind me, jumping out of his blazer with his hand on his gun.”
Filth comes down the driveway, tromps around the back of the car and gets in.
“So the cop is like, ‘You know why I pulled you over?’ To which I responded, ‘You didn’t pull me over, my car stalled, and you pulled up behind me.’”
“Is Rubin telling the story about when he got his car searched?” Filth asks with a sigh, pulling a cigarette out of his pack.
“Yeah,” Kurt responds. “I think I’ve heard this story about a 1000 times.”
“Shut up,” Tommy insists, turning the car on and putting it in drive. “I’ve never heard this story.”
“See,” I say, pointing to Tommy as a validation to the whole ordeal. “Tommy hasn’t heard it.”
“Yes he has!” Filth protests. “It was the night we met Tommy. It was all you would talk about!”
“I haven’t heard it,” Tommy insists.
I smile at Filth, who just grumbles something about how he’s sick of hearing the same stories over and over from me. “I don’t even remember him saying why he pulled me over, but I remember talking about how I didn’t know what I was going to do, and that I couldn’t afford to get it fixed. So he asks me if I have any drugs in the car, and I realize now that it was stupid to say this, but I thought at the time it would be the best thing to say, showing what a good, upstanding kid I was. I told...”
“...That you weren’t into drugs,” Dr. Filth sighs.
I give him a harsh warning-look and say, “I told him I wasn’t into drugs. He, of course, asks if he can search me. So I’m stuck there on the side of the road with a cop going through my car, which was the messiest car in the world. He thought he even hit pay-dirt too. He comes out holding a few Dungeons & Dragons books, a book on magic, and the Satanic Bible. He’s holding them up proudly, like he caught me doing something illegal. ‘What are these?’ he asks me knowingly. ‘What’s with the role-playing books?’ I’m not sure what he thought he had me on, because I bought almost all of those books at Barnes & Noble. So I tell him, ‘I work in a game store; I play role-playing games.’ He counters by holding out the Satanic Bible, and smugly says, ‘What about this?’”
“So you tell him you thought it would be an interesting read,” Filth says, sounding bored, looking out the window to the nighttime cityscape.
“Shut up!” Tommy snaps. “I want to hear this!”
“Shut up!” I repeat. “Tommy wants to hear this.” I collect myself, nod to Tommy, and continue. “I tell the cop I thought it would be an interesting read, and he squints at me knowingly. ‘Are you involved in the occult?’ he asks. Now, I really wanted to laugh in his face, but that, of course, would be worse. Besides, that’s when he becomes the good cop.”
“He had to do both?” Kurt asks, more like he’s filling a role than truly interested.
“His partner was there, but that guy wasn’t really doing anything but standing against the guardrail. The cop says to me, ‘I can do you a favor, I won’t write you a ticket, but I need you to do something for me.’”
Doc Filth cries out, “‘Get on your knees, son!’”
“No,” I tell him. “Like I said, his partner was there. He starts telling me how he’s the guy that all the other cops come to when there are matters of the occult. But, of course, he doesn’t know everything, and I appear to be up on it, so he wants to be able to call me if he needs to answer any questions.”
“He wanted you to be an informant,” Doc Filth says.
“I tell him all right, but I want him to do me a favor in return. He got suspicious, and I pointed out how my car was breaking down, and I was worried about getting home. I asked him if he could follow me to make sure I got there safely. He sounded defeated when he agreed, but conceded that he would need to leave if he got a call. I asked him if he could turn on his lights and pretend he was chasing me. He just said, ‘No.’”
Tommy doubles over laughing. “You asked him that?”
I nod.
“Damn,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “You’ve got to write that one down.”
We get to the bar, get a pitcher of Moosehead and take our place in the back. It’s a crowded Wednesday, which is odd, as Wednesdays are usually dead, except for the belugas that come to suck down the ten-cent clams. Chloe is already here, eating clams with this immense butter-smeared beanbag, leaning over every few seconds to make lewd comments. She acknowledges enough to keep him from being upset that she is eating his food.
Finally, she extricates herself to come and sit with us for a while, but not before ordering another 40 clams for herself.
“Not a vegetarian tonight?” I ask when she gets back to our table.
She laughs wildly and cries, “I forgot!” Then, as if to justify her actions, “Clams are the only meat I eat!”
“Be careful,” Kurt says. “You’re giving Doc Filth wood.”
The good Doctor shrugs.
“Are you going to share those clams with your good friend, Rubin Valentine?” I ask as the bartender takes the order past us to the kitchen. “Poor, famished Rubin Valentine?”
“I have to share with that guy,” she says. “I figure I need to give him some clams, since he’s not getting laid tonight."
"Good," I grunt, swigging my bear. "I was afraid I was going to wake up with that pig in our house." I sip again and look over at Filth, who is staring off into space. “Doc, you’re awful quiet tonight. What’s wrong?”
He looks at me, his eyes widen and a slight smirk crosses his lips. “I’m really stoned,” he says. “I’ve been smoking garbage for a long time now, and I finally got my hands on some good stuff.”
“Careful,” Kurt says. “Don’t forget that Rubin is a police informant.”
“As long as I don't cast any black magic spells, I should be all right," Doc sneers.
I sip my pint and let out a little laugh. “I really wonder what he was thinking. Did he think it was going to work? I was young and naive, back then, and even I knew he was feeding me a line of shit. Was I supposed to fall on my knees and thank him?”
“Did he ever call you?” Tommy asks, balled-up in the corner of the booth. “Did you ever have to do any service? Fill him in on the dangerous worlds of gaming?”
“No, there weren’t any games of D&D that got out of hand," I whisper remorsefully.
"As much as I wanted to get that call, it never came.”
“They could have a show about you,” Tommy says, hands working up and down his heavy, brown tie with red-white-and-blue stripes, flattening his crisp white shirt with his hands. “‘Rubin Valentine: Role-Playing Informant!’”
“Yeah, I can see it now,” I say. “When the police can’t solve a string of bizarre murders, they call me in to help, and of course, it only takes one look to know that these were committed by a tenth level dark paladin.” I lean in close over the table. “We need to be careful, because he is quite adept with his ‘cause disease’ ability and has a magical broadsword +5 that can leave infectious rot, not to mention it makes him immune to all clerical spells.”
“How do we catch him?” drunk Chloe asks, genuinely enthralled.
“Well, obviously, the things I just said are things he only believes to be true, because this show is set in the real world. I conclude that this isn’t a dark paladin, but a dungeon master who has gone off the deep end and is killing the players in his game. “ I nod wryly. “The only member of the party left is the beautiful, female, half-elf sorcerer with flowing blonde hair, a swimmer’s physique, breasts like cantaloupes, proficient in massage, and has an insatiable sexual appetite.”
“And you hook up?” Kurt asks.
“No, because the person playing her is a 40-year-old male virgin weighing close to 350 pounds, is only 5'4", still lives with his mother, and is proficient in only Star Wars video games, and masturbating to his mother's underwear catalogues,” I declare.
“That sounds more like your type,” Filth says.
I glare at the Doctor, but say nothing. “We arrive at his mother’s house just as the crazy DM is breaking in, and the only weapon I can get my hands on is a replica of the sword he is wielding, and we have this climactic battle where I throw him off the roof, and as the camera pans up from his broken body lying on the ground in the rain, it will cut away to me and I'll say, 'Now you can fly with the dragons,' before the show fades to black." I sit back proudly and pour myself another pint of beer.
“Have you thought of this before?” Kurt asks, pursing his lips.
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “Maybe a little.”
I look up when the door opens, and my heart sinks. “Fucking great,” I groan, which makes Tommy, Kurt and Filth all turn around to look at her too. “Just when I was hoping for a drama-free night.” Kurt is looking from her to me, desperate for my response. Tommy, having never met her in person, is looking confused. Dr. Filth is looking down at the table, shaking his head, hiding his face with his hand.
I'm a sucker for long red hair. I'm a sucker for long red hair and she knows it. I bet she even thought about that when she was coming here, knowing that all she had to do was leave that scarlet mane draped over her shoulders, and I would melt. She's the kind of person that would consider that sort of thing.
She looks like she has been poured into those jeans, and has a polyester 1970's-style shirt that was no doubt Salvation Army acquired, and only people such as her can wear it so well. She walks with the same confident sashé that could knock a man to the ground just seeing it, her arms folded across her breasts like an impatient mother, waiting for a guilty child to come crawling back apologizing. Her big, slightly narrowed green eyes fall on me instantly, and her thick, pouting lips slide from nonchalant Gen-X-frown to a smirk so imperceptible that it almost has to be picked up psychically, not through the normal five senses. There is no way she just stumbled in here at the right time; she was looking for me. With elegant strides of her long, runner’s legs, she floats through the bar to our table, and even over the music, her whisper is audible to every person in the joint, “Rubin Valentine, it’s been quite a while.”
The rest of my cohorts have fallen silent, choked quiet by the impregnated air between us. Even Chloe, who had threatened to kick ass if this girl ever showed her face again, now stares up in horror at the milk-white face, speechless. Everyone in the bar has stopped what they were doing for this spectacle, and who can blame them, really? The smoke has even started to swirl away and clear the air so that everyone can get an unadulterated view of my response.
“Zoe West,” I say dryly. “How are you?”
“Todd said I could probably find you here any given night,” she says, uncrossing her arms and leaning on our rickety table.
“It’s Doc Filth,” I correct her. “No one calls him Todd but his mother.”
Dr. Filth nods in agreement. “And work.”
"You haven't grown up enough to stop using your silly little nicknames," she spits with an exhalation of disappointment, and twists her lips about. She nods her head a few times, smiles weakly and says, “I’m doing fine, Rubin, how are you?” Her tone is soft, but still on the defensive, waiting for me to attack, but is trying to diffuse the situation before it can get worse. “How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you in quite a while.”
“I’m trapped in a city I hate, with a job I hate, an alcohol problem I’m not too fond of, and no prospects of selling a word of my writing. I’m doing wonderful.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me to sit?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Kurt, Tommy, and Doc Filth look again from me to her, unsure if they should do the polite thing and move in, or if they should hold firm for me.
“Rubin, I just came here to see you and talk to you for a few minutes,” she says, crossing her arms again, tapping her foot loudly on the scuffed wooden floor.
I point to the gold band around her left ring finger. “You're still wearing that. Don’t really want to talk to you.”
She takes it off and puts it in her pocket. “Is that better?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, forget about that, will you? The engagement is practically broken off anyway.”
“I heard you set a date and it’s soon.”
“And I want to change it.”
“Why did you come here tonight? Me and my friends came to drink beer and have some fun. I don’t remember calling and saying ‘Hey, Zoe, come out and ruin my night, and make my friends uncomfortable.’”
“I just want to have a conversation with you.”
“We’ve had a lot of conversations.”
“I want one more.”
“Why don’t you just leave right now, so we can forget you were here?”
“Not until you agree to talk to me.”
I think for a few seconds. “Saturday morning. Breakfast. Eleven o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Same place we’ve always had breakfast. Now leave.”
“Your wish is my command.” She smiles victoriously, bows, and leaves us to our booze.
The silence hangs tenuously around us—every diaphragm contracted; lung filled; vocal chord taut; lips parted, waiting for some signal that they could blast forth with sound and return the bar to its usual din. My eyes don’t leave her silhouette as she exits the bar. Naturally, it’s Tommy Guilt who breaks the silence. “Holy shit, so that was the girl who did so much damage to you?” He throws another look over his shoulder toward the door. “God damn, Rubin! She was fucking hot.”
“Yeah,” I snap, taking my eyes off the door and glaring at Doc Filth. “Yeah, she is hot, and she’s amazing in bed. That was Zoe-fucking-West. The girl I don’t really ever want to see at any point, and someone feels the need to tell her where to find me.”
Doc gives me a long, exaggerated shrug while guiltily stroking his pint glass up and down. “What can I say? I ran into her, we talked. She wanted to see you. You guys get back together all the time, I thought maybe you would want to get with her again.” He gets his eyes to the level of my chest. “Think about it, you might even get laid. Who was the last person willing to have sex with you?”
“Her,” Kurt says.
“Exactly,” Doc says. “Her, you’re looking to score here.”
“Whether or not I’m going to score with Zoe-fucking-West is the least of my concerns,” I snap. “We were almost engaged. I scored with Zoe-fucking-West a lot of times.” I look from Filth to Kurt and back dramatically, as if they should actually be worried about this. I feel like there should be some heavy piano playing slowly behind me. “I’d really like to forget about Zoe-fucking-West and start thinking about somebody-fucking-else. I don’t really need people telling Zoe-fucking-West where to find me.”
“Could you watch the language?” Doc hisses, still not looking at me, pointing at Chloe with both hands. “There is a lady present!”
“Fuck Zoe!” Chloe says. “Rubin, I know how you feel about hitting girls, so I just want you to know, if you want me to kick the shit out of her, I will totally do it.” She shoots Dr. Filth a harsh look as well.
“You’re not going to be all upset about it now, are you?” Kurt asks. “My god, you need to just get over her. You’re better off without her. You’re happier without her. Just forget about her!”
“Easy for you to say,” I moan, resting my head on the pedestal of my arm. “You didn’t spend as much time with her as I did. She isn’t easy to get out of the head.”
“You’re being melodramatic, Rubin,” Chloe says, putting her arm around me. I allow myself to fall into Chloe. On the jukebox, George Harrison starts to sing, ‘For You Blue.’ “I’m the only support you have right now, so you’d better do what you can to not lose that.”
“Oh, Chloe, you’ll be the only woman I don’t end up trying to lose.” My head gets too heavy to hold up with only one hand, so I bring my other under to support it.
“So,” Kurt says. “What are you going to do about this? Are you going to meet Zoe?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at the center of the table. “I’m not going to just stand her up. That would be shitty.”
“He’s getting laid,” Kurt says flatly.
“You don’t know that!” I defend. “I’m not even going to be trying. I want nothing to do with this.”
“Where are you going for breakfast?” Filth asks.
“The diner right by our place,” I say. “We used to go there all the time.”
“Right near your bed!” Kurt cries.
“Shut the fuck up,” I order, giving him a light punch in the shoulder. “I’m not going to try to have sex with Zoe West.”
“You’re not going to try,” Filth begins.
“But she will, and you will do whatever she says,” Kurt finishes.
“You probably will do whatever she says,” Chloe agrees, switching sides.
“Way to switch sides,” I whine.
“Oh, Rubin,” she says in a poo-pooing voice, waving her hand at me to emphasize it. “How many times have you run back to her? Rubin, I love you to death, but when it comes to her, you have no spine.”
I throw myself down on the rickety table, nearly spilling all of our beers. “I know!” I cry. “I know! I’m weak to Zoe West, and there is nothing I can do about it! I’m going to give in to her devices, I know it. I know it,” I say, turning to Doc. “And it’s all your fault!”
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