by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 36: ZEKE
By nature, females are batshit crazy. Think about it. Their Aunt Flow pays them a visit and they go temporarily insane and they’ve had to suffer this monthly disruption ever since they were little women. Tell me that doesn’t have a long term effect. I mean, if my hormones radically rearranged once a month, it’d be fair to call me unbalanced, right? You might even check me into the loony bin. If I was out of control a fourth of the year, would you allow me to even drive a car? It’s not their fault they start going haywire at puberty and end up with a faulty brain. But they do. It’s a fact.
They’re so out of it, they don’t even know what they want. Never met a broad yet who could tell me what she wants. Well, they do tell you, but before you can count to ten, they want something else. See? Unbalanced is a polite word for them.
Knowing this fact of female nature as I do, I shouldn’t’ve been surprised that a different Brenda answered the door than the horned up Brenda who had invited me over. Based on her call, I was expecting her to answer the door wearing nothing but a smile. Nope. She was fully dressed and not even seductively. And her face was all puffy, like she had allergies. The sight was enough to soften a brick.
I took my coat off and tried to get comfortable on her couch, but her pacing made me nervous. She’d stop now and then to straighten the magazines on the coffee table. She’d cross her arms, drop them, cross them again and go back to pacing across the living room. I thought she might be coked up. Couldn’t tell for sure. I couldn’t catch her eye.
Whatever. To be honest, I wanted to unburden my soul more than I wanted to unburden my loins. She was doing a good job chilling out my hormones and making the choice easier.
But where do you begin with the task I had? There’s the “Forgive me father for I have sinned” thing. But that wouldn’t work. She’s not my father. Hate my father anyway. I’d say it to a priest if I had to, but not to her.
On the way over, I had tried to sort out what my best course of action should be. Should I start small and prepare her for the big stuff? Or should I jump into the heavy shit so that the small stuff becomes a fart in comparison? How would you do it?
An idea needs to be expressed with the right words placed in the right sequence spoken in the right tone. What a tall order. I doubt we ever get it right, even when we try to get out our most trivial thoughts. All our ideas are buried so deep within us, we can reflect them only dimly to the outside world. That is, if we comprehend the idea ourselves to begin with. Know what I mean? But still, I say you gotta try. It’s the effort that counts. If you don’t make the effort you’re just a Sutler.
But before anything else, before the attempt, whether I start big or small, I needed to get a confidentiality agreement from her. Blackmail her, in other words.
I said her name softly. Too softly? She snatched a pillow from a chair across the room and fluffed it. Wouldn’t look at me. Louder and with more desperation, I said I needed to talk. Know what she said? “Want some coffee?” Fucking rude. Actually, come to think of it, a cup would’ve hit the spot. But that’s not the point.
I mean, I get it now. I get that she couldn’t have been acting any other way. I’ll get to it. It’ll all come together and make sense. Be patient. You know more than I did at the time, so count yourself lucky.
I say no to coffee and I decide I need to jump right in. I prepare to initiate my spiritual avalanche and the phone rings. You’d think a bomb went off the way she shakes and drops the pillow. There’s a portable phone on the bookshelf. Makes sense to grab that one. Nope. Doesn’t meet her female desires. She scurries to the bedroom. Ignores me as she passes. Looks out the window.
I’m hurt. Confused. But I’m also a man with a mission. I go down the hallway to her bedroom.
As I get closer, I hear her say, “It’s almost done. How is he? Please be gentle.” I don’t know what to make of it. Can’t even make a wild guess. “I know where that’s at. How do I do that? Okay. I will.”
I’m standing in the doorway. She’s leaned over the nightstand writing on a pad of paper. I try to savor the view from behind but all the lust had been drained from me.
Her conversation’s over. She stares at the pad of paper. She’s crying, I think.
Oh man, I thought. Am I gonna have to listen to her thing before we get to mine? And how important could her shit be? I beat myself up for not running to a church. It could’ve been over by now. I’ll give a priest props for not gabbing about his own shit before he’s ready to listen to yours. I mean, Father Volpe and I argue all the time, but I never have to beg him to hear me out.
“I need to talk,” I say with as much urgency as I can gather. “I NEED to TALK.”
She spins to me. Her eyes are crazy. She asks how long I’ve been standing there. Strange question. I overheard her end of the conversation and it was confusing, but not incriminating.
I ignore her question and repeat myself for the fourth fucking time. She asks if I can wait. Yeah right. Wait on cleansing my soul? I’m supposed to say, “Anything for you princess,” but I don’t. No. It can’t wait, I tell her. It’s serious.
“As serious as this?” she asks, coming towards me, turning all soft and smiling.
Okay, I’ll say this. It’s annoying how women change moods faster than a minute hand. But the heavenly exception comes when they go from clawing to purring. Then I don’t mind the transformation. She came to life. Her skin glowed. Her tomatoes perked up. She led me unto sweet temptation.
