by Dee Simon
The nurse let out a heavy sigh and handed me the registration forms. Another equally overweight nurse ambled over pushing a wheelchair and helped Lexi sit down. She threw her purse at me just before the nurse wheeled her down a hallway through a curtain and out of sight.
“Should I go with her?”
“Just sit down and fill out the forms,” the nurse said with her trademark sigh.
There were hardly any open seats in the waiting room. I sat in the first seat I could find next to a homeless man with a severe eye infection. He was shaking his head from side to side, muttering, “fuck this shit” over and over again. I ignored him and concentrated on the forms the nurse gave me. It took several minutes before I realized that there was no way I could properly fill these out. I didn’t even know Lexi’s real first name, let alone her surname or social security number. I leaned back in the chair, holding her pink ostrich-feather purse and the hospital registration forms in my lap and wishing that I could travel back in time to last night at the bar. As soon as Lexi had approached me, I would have pretended not to recognize her, left the bar alone, and at this very moment, I would have been sleeping in my warm bed rather than sitting in a hospital waiting room next to a diseased homeless person. Her phone rang again, playing her obnoxious “Baby Got Back” ringtone. This caught the attention of my neighbor, and he laughed and sang along in a gravelly voice, “Girl got an Oakland booty. Bitch got back. Yeah. I love that shit.” He motioned for me to bump fists with him, but I shook my head “no” and stood up from the chair, pretending that I had some pressing matter that needed my attention. It’s my personal policy not to touch the homeless. He frowned and hissed, “Nice purse, faggot,” and erupted into spasms of wheezy laughter. This prompted the group of homeless people sitting across from us to start laughing as well. I had reached my threshold. I contemplated leaving Lexi’s purse at the front desk with the fat nurse and then heading home. But then my conscience grew heavy as I realized that I was partly at fault for this state of affairs and I went outside to have a cigarette. Lexi’s phone rang again. I felt I should answer it because obviously her husband was concerned about the welfare of his wayward wife. Someone had to tell him that she was at the emergency room. If he called again, I resolved to answer it. Five minutes later, “Baby Got Back” rang out and this time I answered. “Hello.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“This is Dave. I’m answering Lexi’s phone.”
“Lexi? Where the fuck is Amber?”
Amber must be Lexi’s real name. “Umm, Amber’s at the hospital right now.”
“What? The hospital? Who the fuck are you? Why do you have her goddamn phone?”
“I’m one of Amber’s friends and I’m at the hospital with her. I’m holding her purse for her, and I answered her phone because it kept ringing.”
“Fuck yeah, it kept ringing. I been calling it all morning. What? Were you fucking her last night?’
“Well, she spent the night at my house and injured herself this morning, so now we’re at St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Were you fucking my wife last night?”
“Listen. I don’t think you should be concerned with that right now. I think you should be concerned with your wife being in the emergency room.”
“Listen, fuckstick. Don’t tell me what I should be concerned with. I’ll be concerned with whatever the fuck I want to be concerned with. Were you fucking her last night?”
I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation like this. I should be in my bed right now.
“Yes. I fucked your wife last night. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Who’s this again? Rick? Juan?”
“This is Dave. I work with your wife.”
“The DJ?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard about you. She talks about you all the time. DJ Dirty Sanchez, her favorite fucking DJ. “
“Listen. Your wife’s in the hospital. I think you should come see her.”
“I knew she was fucking somebody last night. I could feel it. Fucking whore. They’re all fucking whores.”
“Dude, your wife’s in the hospital. You should come see her.”
“All right. Where you at again?’
“St. Mary’s on Hyde and Bush.”
“All right. I’m coming. Fuckin’ A. I don’t need this shit.” Click.
I went back into the waiting room to wait for Lexi’s husband. It was noon already and I was beyond exhausted. My shift started at six and I was dreading the thought of having to work all night after dealing with this. The only open seat was next to the same homeless man with the eye infection. I collapsed into the chair and noticed him staring at me warily with his one good eye. I think he was still upset because I hadn’t bumped his calloused fist. Lexi’s husband Ron showed up about an hour and a half later. I knew who he was because he had been calling her phone for the past half hour telling me that he would be there soon with the girls. I observed Ron standing in the middle of the waiting room anxiously punching numbers into his cellphone, trying to determine how I’d approach him, when “Baby Got Back” started playing and his head jerked over to where I was sitting. He immediately walked towards me with his daughters closely in tow. The girls were quite young. The oldest looked about ten and the youngest about six. All three had long, yellow-blonde hair like their mother. Ron had to be at least forty years old. He was a stocky man about 5’9”, maybe 180 pounds. He was much larger than me. His hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail, and he was wearing a black faded Miller High Life T-shirt and tight blue jeans and mirrored aviator shades. He took off his sunglasses and stood there staring at me for a few seconds before putting them back on. Honestly, I wasn’t quite certain whether he was going to embrace me or punch me in the face. I hoped for the former. I stood up to greet him and hesitantly extended my hand. He studied it for a second or two, shook twice, and then angrily released it. His irritation was palpable. In fact, he didn’t even bother to introduce himself. The awkward silence was soon broken by the shrill voice of his youngest daughter who couldn’t have been older than six or seven.
“Daddy, who’s this guy?”
Ron turned to her and said, “He’s the guy your mother fucked last night.”
As soon as he said this, all three girls focused their undivided attention on me. The youngest girl then inquired, “You fucked my mommy?”
I didn’t know how to respond to this. “I’m not going to answer that. I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about that in front of children. Your wife’s in one of the rooms right now. You should probably talk to a nurse or something.” I handed Ron the registration forms and Lexi’s purse. Ron was still glaring at me. He refused to take the purse or the forms from me.
“Don’t you fucking tell me how to raise my kids. You can fuck my wife, but don’t you ever tell me how to raise my fucking kids.”
I really needed to defuse this situation. “Listen. I didn’t mean to tell you how to raise your kids, okay? You can raise them any way you want. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry for that. I just didn’t want to talk about that in front of them”
“You’re damn right you’re sorry. You’re a sorry sack of shit. I don’t fucking care what you say to them. Besides, that one isn’t even mine.” He said this while pointing at the youngest girl with the shrill voice. Ron snatched the purse and the forms out of my hand and stormed off towards the nurse’s desk, leaving me with his three daughters. I watched him having a heated discussion with the overweight nurse at the desk. He scribbled something on the forms, tossed them at the woman, and stomped back towards us. “She’s going to be in there a couple more hours. We can’t go in yet.” Ron’s cellphone was vibrating and he agitatedly glanced at it before shoving it back in his pocket. “How long you been here?”
“I’ve been here for almost two hours and I really need to get home. So, since this is all taken care of, it was good to meet you and your daughters. Tel
l Lexi, I mean Amber, that I’ll see her at work and to take care of herself. I hope everything works out.”
“Hold on a second, tough guy.” His phone was vibrating again and this time he answered it. “What the fuck do you want? I’m busy. I’m with my fucking kids. No, I can’t come over right now. Can you wait a couple hours?” He hung up the phone and looked at me entreatingly. “Hey, man, can you do me a huge favor? I need you to watch the girls for a minute.”
“Dude, I really can’t do that. I have to go work. I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“Come on, man. I let you fuck my wife and I don’t beat your fucking ass. The least you can do is watch my kids for a fucking half hour while I go pick up some money. I’ll be right back. They’re good girls.”
I anxiously glanced over at the girls. The oldest twirled her hair around her forefinger and made kissing gestures at me. “Listen, I really can’t do this. I have to go to work.”
“Come on, man. Do this one thing for me. It’s the least you can do. I really need to get this money. It will be a half hour tops.”
I felt genuine sympathy for the guy and reluctantly acquiesced. After all, I did fuck his wife last night and now she’s in the emergency room. “All right. Half an hour. And then I have to leave. Seriously.”
“Thanks, buddy.” He crouched down and grabbed all the girls together. “Listen, honeys. I need you to stay with Dirty Sanchez over here. Daddy’s gonna be right back.” With that, he patted his eldest daughter on her head, stood up, flashed me the thumbs up sign, and then briskly walked away.
The girls stood there staring at me as if they were waiting for some type of direction. I’m not good with children. And they could sense my discomfort. Children have this uncanny ability to sense when they’re not wanted and then take full advantage of the situation. I looked around the waiting room, trying to find some place where we could all sit down. I motioned them towards four open seats in the corner of the room. I had no idea what preteens do in their spare time. I scanned the room for coloring books or Highlights magazines to give them. There was a stack of old People magazines on a table next to my seat and I handed them to the children. “Here you go. You can read, right? Your dad will be back in a minute.” This day had become a veritable nightmare. The girls apathetically flipped through the magazines and whispered amongst themselves. I heard the youngest one giggling but tried my best to ignore them all while flipping through a Reader’s Digest. I stopped at an article about a camper who survived a grizzly bear attack and pretended to read it. I don’t think anyone under the age of sixty is allowed to read Reader’s Digest. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the youngest daughter, her knees balanced on the arm of her chair, staring at me with the same wide-eyed fascination that she would have for a burn victim attempting to apply lip gloss. I focused my complete attention on the miniature magazine in my hands and purposely avoided all eye contact. Perhaps if I acted like she didn’t exist, she’d leave me alone. Of course, I was wrong. She tapped my shoulder with her little finger and continued tapping for about twenty seconds until I had no choice but to address her.
“What do you want?”
“Did you really have sex with my mommy?” she asked in her sickeningly adorable “Cindy Lou Who” voice.
“I don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re like six years old and should not be concerned with grown-up things.” As soon as I said this, all three started to giggle.
The oldest daughter, who had been making the kissing gestures earlier, then said flippantly, “My mom has sex with lots of men, so don’t think you’re special.”
“I don’t think I’m special. I don’t think I’m anything. This conversation’s over.”
“Is Dirty Sanchez your real name?”
“No. It’s my DJ name, unfortunately.”
“What’s your real name?”
“My real name’s Dave.”
“That’s a boring name.”
“Fair enough. What’s your name?”
“I’m Tessa.” Pointing to her sisters, she said, “This is Angelynne. And this is Becca.”
I could tell by their names that they would most likely follow their mother’s career path.
“It’s nice to meet all of you. Now sit there and read your magazines. Your dad should be back soon.”
The youngest girl, Becca, dropped her magazine and looked up at me. “I’m hungry. Do you have McDonalds?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Can you get some?”
I flashed her an exasperated look. “There’s no McDonalds here. This is a hospital.”
“I’m hungry. We haven’t eaten all day.” All the girls were now looking at me like despondent golden retriever puppies abandoned at the side of a lonely country road.
“Uggh, I’m sure there’s a vending machine around here.” At this point, I could understand the reason Lexi had her recent abortion. “Come on. Let’s go find some food.” We walked towards the main nurses’ desk where I asked about the cafeteria. The nurse pointed to a hallway to our left and we went off in search of food. Surprisingly, the cafeteria offered a variety of food options. The girls specifically requested ice cream sundaes and luckily the cafeteria had them. I bought three sundaes and we sat down at one of the green formica tables. While I watched them eat, I resolved to get a vasectomy at this very same hospital next week.
Becca, with vanilla ice cream dripping from her chin, turned to me and asked, “Do you love my mommy?”
“No. Not exactly. I’m friends with your mommy.”
“My daddy doesn’t love my mommy either. He calls her a dirty cocksucking whore.” When she said this, her sisters laughed hysterically.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a little girl, and little girls don’t talk about things like that. Jesus. I need a cigarette, so let’s finish our ice cream and go outside.” Before they finished, I took off towards the exit. They followed behind me. Ron had been gone for well over an hour. I was past the point of compassion and was currently figuring out ways I could abandon them here without anyone noticing. I even contemplated slipping the homeless guy with the eye infection a twenty and asking him to watch them. Before we reached the revolving glass doors, Ron entered with his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a blonde girl in her early twenties.
“Hey there, buddy. How’s the babysitting going?” Both he and his lady friend chuckled at this.
Now I was angry. “Look, man, you have some wonderful children. I have to go. I hope your wife’s all right.”
Ron released his girlfriend and turned to face me. He suddenly threw his arms out and clutched me in a tight embrace that lasted for about fifteen awkward seconds. “Thanks, man. I really had to get my swerve on, if you know what I mean,” he said, patting my back.
I broke free of his embrace. “No, I don’t know what you mean. You’re an asshole, and I have to go now.”
“Come on, man. I’m the asshole? Who were you banging last night? Oh yeah, my fucking wife. Listen, man, this open marriage shit is bullshit. Someone always gets hurt. No fucking way around it. But I can play that game too.” He looked over at the twenty-something girl playing with his eldest daughter’s blonde hair and slapped her playfully on the ass. “It’s just so much easier for a bitch to find some dick. You know what I’m sayin’? They can go to any bar and get laid. Fuck, they can get laid on the bus. Fucking whores. They’re all fucking whores.” His eyes were bloodshot and his breath reeked of whiskey.
Becca looked up at Ron and then at me and asked, “Daddy, is Mommy really a whore?”
Ron turned towards the girl, bent down, and held her tiny face between his hands. “Yes she is, baby, your mom’s a dirty whore, but I love her and she’s gonna be okay.”
And this was my exit. Without saying goodbye, I turned around and practically ran out of the hospital. I’d be lying if I s
aid I didn’t feel sorry for those children, but they weren’t my concern. My concern was that it was after 5:00 PM and my shift started in less than an hour.
You Can’t Make a Ho a Housewife
I rarely told anyone that I was a strip club DJ. When someone asked what I did for a living, I’d say I worked in radio. Not that being a strip club DJ is any less embarrassing than being a wedding DJ or roller rink DJ; I just didn’t want to deal with the “do you get to fuck all the strippers every night” question or, even worse, the derisive impersonations: “Give it up for Stacey swinging on the pole tonight. Yeah, Stacey.” I just didn’t want to go there, so I’d lie and say I worked in radio. Well, it wasn’t an outright lie. I really wanted to work in radio but just couldn’t land a commercial gig. I had wanted to work in radio since my thirteenth birthday when I saw Oliver Stone’s film Talk Radio. While my friends were briefly entertained by the strong language but ultimately bored, I was utterly enthralled with Barry Champlain, the shock jock played by Eric Bogosian. Two years later I heard Howard Stern for the first time and I had found my calling. I got a college degree in broadcasting and landed a few gigs in Detroit and the Chicago suburbs before relocating to San Francisco in the late nineties with the goal of becoming a famous radio talk show host.
I soon discovered that it’s not all that simple to waltz into the number five radio market in the country and land an afternoon-drive shift. In fact, I learned that it’s nearly impossible unless you’re a hot chick with a massive rack. I mailed countless demos but with little success. There were no call backs, only rejection letters stating that my credentials were “indeed” impressive but the position had been filled. I managed to find an unpaid gig at KUSF 90.3 FM, a local, non-commercial radio station, as the host of a late-night metal radio show called Rampage Radio. The show was recorded live every Sunday night from 2:00 to 8:00 AM and was one of the longest-running metal radio programs in the country. In the beginning, I was really inspired and believed that this was my ticket to broadcasting stardom. I interviewed local metal and punk bands and became the unwavering voice of the underground music scene. But after several years, the show devolved into a six-hour methamphetamine-fueled after party featuring a cast of rock-and-roll casualties, goth scenesters, homeless punks, and tranny street hookers. After one regrettable night involving several rails of speed, a six-pack of chocolate pudding, and a stripper named Dallas, I earned the moniker “Dirty Sanchez,” which took me three years and several job changes to finally shake. Looking back, that unfortunate nickname and a nasty methamphetamine habit were the only things I ever got from that show.
