I turn on the TV and Say Anything is on. John Cusack and Ione Sky. I love that movie. Julie never saw it. I had always wanted to show it to her. I thought she’d appreciate it, but we never got around to it. I never showed her. I lay in my bloody bed and watched John Cusack chase his girl to the very end and thought about everything I didn’t do for mine.
the i.e.
I’VE BEEN DOWN OFF THAT 2C-E for like twenty minutes, had to turn off the trance. I can tell when I’m sobering up cuz trance goes back to sounding like shit again.
I take Ashly to the couch to smoke weed and listen to records. She’s twenty-two. I call her the Midlife Crisis. Fucking her is like buying a Corvette and a gold chain. She’s closer to my kid’s age than mine. She’s straight out the Inland Empire. It’s nothing but cholos, tweekers, and dirt bikes out there.
The other day she told me I was flitty for ordering a Jamba Juice.
I’m like, “What the fuck is a flitty? I don’t speak I.E.”
She sighs. “Flitty is ‘gay,’ it means you’re fucking gay for drinking a smoothie. We eat our fruit whole. We don’t blend it and put it in cups, fool.”
I say, “It’s a smoothie, it’s sposed to be blended. Girl, we gotta get you some culture.”
That’s what I’m doing on the couch, giving her some culture. I got her looking at a book of R. Crumb drawings. I’m telling her about him, telling her how he likes fat asses and big legs, how he liked to get piggyback rides from women.
I tell her, “He woulda loved you.”
He would’ve; her ass is fucking nice. I just had my face buried in it, tripping my balls off. The only time she really lets me eat the pussy is when she’s high, and even then she puts the blanket over my head so she won’t see me.
I got a head cold. I’m blowing my nose then snorting K up my good nostril before it clogs up again. I can’t breathe anyway, so colds really mess me up. When I was down there, I was mouth breathing, damn near passing out.
I’m thinking about getting the surgery done. I was talking about it with Z the other day at the Fred Segal Cafe, where the rich and beautiful come to eat organic greens overlooking the parking lot. And then they go buy overpriced bullshit from the boutique.
Right now the fad for guys is to spend a thousand bucks to look like a romanticized version of the working class. I fucking hate rich people.
I’m having my tea talking to him about my nose. I’m telling him how I’m damn near passing out when I’m doing my exercises and how hard it is to go down on chicks.
I tell him, “My septum’s deviant and it’s fucking with me. I think I’ma get that surgery.”
This Afghani motherfucker, been here twenty years and still sounds fresh off the boat, says, “You should, cocksucker, and while you’re knocked out have the doctor take a chisel and chip off that big hump on your nose.”
“Fuck you, Z, I ain’t making my nose smaller. This a motherfuckin’ Roman nose!”
He says, “It’s not Roman, it’s just fucking big.”
I point at my nose, I say, “Look, bruh, I’m half Italian. Back in the day, this is the first thing you saw when you was about to get fucked-up, this big-ass Roman nose bending the corner. If you saw this shit come around the corner, you knew two things: one, you was about to get fucked-up, and two, you were about to get some aqueducts!”
We laugh about it. Deep down inside, like most of my nonwhite friends, Z has a special hatred for the White People’s conquests, so I try to bring ’em up as much as possible. He’s telling me the Romans were a bunch of fags who fucked each other.
“And? So? Y’all got fucked up by a bunch of queers.”
This waitress walks by and chimes in: “Your nose isn’t Roman. My nose is Roman.”
He says, “See, cocksucker, I told you it’s not a Roman nose.”
“You think you’re right because the waitress agrees with you? She’s a fuckin’ waitress, she brings me ketchup. What the fuck she know about noses?”
I go to my computer phone to look up Roman noses, which I hate doing. You start talking about anything and some dipshit goes straight to Wikipedia on his iPhone before you can even figure it out for yourself. Well, now I’m that dipshit.
I read off the following: “ ‘A Roman nose is a human nose with a prominent bridge giving it the appearance of being curved or slightly bent.’ Now what, motherfucker? My nose is bent as hell. I told you it was fucking Roman.”
He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head and says, “It’s not Roman, it’s just big.”
“Fuck you, Z.”
Now I’m on the couch putting a rolled-up dollar to my Roman nose wishing this cold would go, and Ashly and I are talking about her liberal use of the word nigga. When we met, she was dropping nigga all over me. I’m about to introduce her to Ross, and I tell her don’t be dropping no niggas when we’re around him.
We’re over at Ross’s, she’s on her best behavior, and there’s some drunk Mormon chick who’s all, “Gimme some more Jack Daniel’s, nigga!”
Ross doesn’t hear it, he’s too drunk, but MLC from the I.E. does and she looks at me and rolls her eyes. Then the Mormon goes into the bathroom and makes out with Ross’s wife.
Back in the car, Ashly’s talking shit. “See, fool, you thought I was gonna say nigga and that dumb blond girl said it instead! All the time you were worried about me!”
“Yeah, I was worried about you; I’m fucking you, I’m not fucking the Mormon.”
“Dude, you’re crazy. I wouldn’t say nigga in front of a black person!”
Her mom was the same way. When I first met her, I walked into the garage. She’s in there holding court with her sixteen-year-old daughter’s little friends. They’re smoking weed and cigarellos, drinking Cold Duck. The neighbor’s sitting in a lawn chair; she’s got a bloodied bandage on her shoulder.
This little white girl with braces lights up a Black & Mild and says, “Oh, you’re Rude Jude. I heard you got jokes, let’s have a snapping session.”
I tell her I’m off the clock. I look at the bloody Mexican. “What happened to you?”
The mom jumps in, “Aw, fucking Booshie attacked her!” Booshie’s their giant dog. “Yeah, we’re all sittin’ here, drinking and shit and fucking Booshie just loses her shit and hops on Marisol, starts biting her. I fuckin’ throw my drink down and jump on her. I’m punching her in the face, yelling, ‘Booshie, stop!’ Shit, for a minute there, I thought she was gonna attack me! Didn’t she look like it?! Didn’t she?! We thought Marisol was done for the night but here she is, drinking with us, tough little bitch.”
And they all nod in agreement and the neighbor don’t say shit, she just takes another drink of champagne out her Dixie cup. Then the mom’s like, “Aw shit, I don’t wanna do this, but lemme just say, Rude Jude, I fuckin’ love you!! I used to watch you all the time on Jenny Jones and I’d be thinking he’s a funny nigga! This nigga is funny! Lemme get a hug!”
I go over there and hug her and she pushes her fake boobs into my chest and I’m smiling. I’m on my I.E. shit.
eating out
GROWING UP, I DIDN’T GO out to eat much. Early on in the divorce, on the weekends, my dad would take us to McDonald’s for chicken nuggets, then we’d hit a movie or something, but we never went to sit-down restaurants.
I remember when I was fifteen, Mo took us to T.G.I. Friday’s, me and Loc didn’t know how to act. We ordered water with lemons and made lemonade at the table using sugar packets. I ordered a chicken-fried steak and sat there, pissed-off when it didn’t come out fast enough.
Mo was Loc’s big cousin; he got in some trouble in the city and came out to Auburn Hills to lay low. He’d take us all around, buy us dinner, and order the most expensive shit on the menu.
He put us up on game, like how to pull a bitch by tellin’ her bullshit, how to give her the danglin’ eye, and how you shouldn’t fuck the chick super-good till the second time you smash, things like that. Mo was the shit. I loved the fuck out of Mo. H
e’d do some crazy shit, like if his car broke down, he’d leave that bitch on the side of the road and just go buy a new one.
Mo moved back to Detroit and got shot. Me and Loc kept going out to eat. We’d get our little checks from McDonald’s on payday and hit up Murdock’s for jazz night, eat fried cheese sticks, smoke Black & Milds, and undertip the waitress because we didn’t know better.
When we got a little older, we’d hit Friday’s on the regular. I ended up pulling this waitress from out of there.
She was this cute little corn-fed white girl from somewhere in the middle of Michigan. She had just moved to the big city and was living on her own, waiting tables and fuckin’ black dudes. She had a thing for black guys, but she fucked with me anyway because I looked good in the face.
We kept it light. I’d see her at her job, we’d smash here and there, but that was it. She hit me up one day and was like, “I need a favor.”
A few months earlier, she was fucking with this CBA ball-playing cat. He got her pregnant and bailed. She’d been hounding him for some help and he finally sent her some money for an abortion, but she needed me to take her.
I’m like, “Cool, I got you, no worries.”
I stay the night, because I’ma take her to the clinic in the morning.
I wake up the next day wanting to fuck, because I know I won’t be able to smash for like a week once she handles the little ball player in her belly. I’m kissing on her, but for some reason she’s not in the mood. She’s like, “Quit it, Jude, I’m tired.”
I’m like, “You just woke up, girl, how you gon’ be tired?”
She’s like, “Come on, we gotta go soon.”
I whisper, “Girl, why you so grumpy? Lemme just do this. . . .”
I start going down on her. She’s like, “Come on, Jude stop. . . .”
I put my finger to her mouth. “Don’t say nothing, I’ma make you feel all better.”
I’m down there licking away, trying to get her in the mood, but it was smelling kind of foul.
I keep going. I come from the school of pussy eating where if the shit tastes bad, you just eat past the taste.
I’m down there for like five minutes, and it’s only getting worse. It tastes like fish and pennies.
I quit; I stop eating and start fucking. She’s not into it. The smell’s caught in my beard and my dick goes soft. I hop off, I’m like, “Come on, we got places to be.”
The ride there’s silent. She’s annoyed I tried to fuck her on her abortion day.
It’s wintertime, the sky’s gray, the snow’s gray, it’s a good day for it. The clinic’s on the east side in a strip mall somewhere in Sterling Heights. We roll up, she signs in, the doc takes her to the back. I take a seat, crack a magazine. I’m reading, it’s gonna be a minute. She comes out ten minutes later, looking stuck.
“That’s it?”
She’s like, “Yeah. You ready to go?”
I’m like, “Damn, that was fast.”
She says, “I didn’t get one. . . .”
I say, “You didn’t get one? What, you keeping it?”
She says, “No. I had a miscarriage . . . this morning.”
I wipe my mouth.
“Oh.”
supercuts
I USED TO GIVE MYSELF haircuts. I’d climb up on top of the bathroom sink, get in the mirror, and chop away. My grandparents hated it, but my aunt’s first husband, Rick, loved it, thought I looked New Wave.
When I was around seven or eight, my pop started taking me to Mario’s over at the Meadowbrook Village Mall for my cuts. He used to hook it up, cut a part in my hair, finish with some talcum powder. I liked going to Mario. I grew up with blacks, Mexicans, and white trash, so it was nice to be around an Italian every now and then.
Mario knew Madonna’s father from the old country, so my dad thought that if Mario gave Madonna’s dad his head shots, he could in turn give ’em to Madonna, and she’d hire him in a movie or, even better, wanna fuck.
For months after he gave him the pictures, my pop’d be at the house claiming, “When Madonna sees those pictures of your old man, she’s gonna wanna help me out. She’s gonna wanna give me work. Or you know what else? She might even like your daddy.”
And we’d be like, “Madonna’s gonna be our stepmom?! Cool!!”
He’d be standing there next to the dresser, scratching his back with a hairbrush taped to a stick, smiling, saying, “I’m a good-looking guy. It could happen, it could happen.”
Mario never gave Madonna’s dad the pictures; he didn’t feel right doing it. But Pops kept hounding him till one of the other barbers finally blew up: “Look, it’s a little weird, okay? They go back a long time and he’s not just gonna start passing out pictures, trying to get strangers work. It’s just weird.”
My pop stood there looking all hurt, said, “Oh I’m a stranger now? You’re not even Italian, what do you know, you pencil dick?! He forgot where he came from. Jude, come on, let’s go.”
After that, whenever we drove by the Meadowbrook mall, we got to hear about it. “That white-bread Italian fuck wouldn’t fucking help me. He’s jealous I’m an actor and he gives haircuts.”
When I was in my twenties, I had Billy-54 cut my hair. He was the doorman at the hottest club in Ferndale. It used to be a Rite-Aid. He’d hook up the ill highlights à la ’N Sync. I swore I had ’em first but no one believed me. We ended up being friends. I even took him to Jenny Jones. He wore a zebra-print trench coat on the train and people thought he was a rock star.
When Gabbie and I broke up, I’d sit there in his chair spilling my guts, telling him how fucked-up I was over her. He’d shake his head and tell me he felt for me.
Turns out they were fucking the whole time during the breakup. When I found out, I didn’t even fight him. I just wrote a rap song about it and played it for him, like a bitch.
I couldn’t believe she’d do that to me. “Out of all the people you can fuck, Gabbie, you gotta fuck my hairdresser? You gotta fuck Billy-54? He wears a fucking zebra coat for Christ sakes. Who the fuck’s sposed to cut my hair now, Gabbie?”
I dumped Billy, got back with Gabbie, and made her tell me everything about it. Was his dick bigger than mine? It was. How many times? A bunch. Did he fuck better than me, when, where?
That’s why when I met Julie, I was afraid to hit on her. She did such a good job cutting my hair that if it didn’t work out I’d have to find someone else.
When we started fighting, I stopped liking my haircuts. I got more critical. I blamed her for going bald. By the time we broke up, I ain’t even want her touching my head anymore. I just shaved my head. Fuck haircuts.
I hear Julie’s on tour doing hair for some rock group. I’m happy for her. When I drive by her salon I pretend she’s out of town. I know just cuz you miss something it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good for you. I try and keep that in mind as I grow my hair out.
white chocolate
REBECCA TOOK ME TO THIS obnoxious movie about some rich white lady who feels bad for being rich so she gives money to bums and not to her spoiled-ass kid. And the kid spends the whole movie all mad about being neglected and ugly. Then the rich lady tries to volunteer at group homes but she cries when she sees the retards. In the next scene a little mongoloid is in the bathroom checking on her to see if she’s okay. It’s supposed to be poignant. The movie ends with her buying her spoiled little asshole kid some $250 jeans.
I said to Rebecca, “Rebecca, why would you take me to see a movie about a bunch of people I hate?”
She’s laughing. “Because I knew you would hate it.”
“Asshole.”
She likes to get me riled up.
I was talking about it to Anthony, the masseur at my fancy-pants chiropractor’s office. We were talking movies while I was trying to avoid the fact that the back of his hand was touching my ball sack.
I told him, “The only people who want to watch a movie about a bunch of rich white people feeling bad about bein
g rich and white is rich white people.”
He didn’t say shit. He just kept working my inner thigh.
The same lady who did that movie did another one about some white people adopting a fat little black girl because her mom was a crackhead or had AIDS or something. I’m sure all my liberal friends creamed their pants over that one. Can you imagine having your very own black person that you rescued from the ghetto as a pet? You get to touch their hair and bring ’em to parties.
Z took me to a dinner party in the Hills last week and I was talking to this white writer lady in her forties. Right after she finishes telling me about her daughter graduating from Harvard, she starts talking about how much she hates white people.
We’re in a party full of people dancing around to U2 with their eyes closed, and there’s only one black person there and she’s Canadian.
I tell her, “Be proud of your whiteness; white people are the shit. We run things.”
She’s like, “But deep down inside, I’m black. I feel like a black person. I feel it in my bones.”
You feel like your ancestors were enslaved, stripped of their culture and traditions, and you’re a product of that? You feel black? Black like she struts around her house listening to Miles Davis, drinking Cabernet, black. Black like she eats sautéed collard greens with her quinoa, black. Black like you blew a black guy in college.
I keep it light. “Well, you look white as hell to me.”
She says, “No, I already have two strikes against me as a double minority. I’m a woman and I’m Jewish.”
I’m like, “You’re Jewish!? You ain’t no minority. Shit, that’s like being white with benefits! You’re like white-plus.”
She grabs my arm and looks dead in my eyes. “Yeah, but deep down . . . I am black.”
I take a bite out of my wood-oven gorgonzola-and-shallot pizza. Chew it up and swallow it. I let that one sink in.
Hyena Page 8
