by Lorraine Ray
At my desk in my apartment beneath my fucking tin horn later that night. I sit trying to write the Jose Vampiro story, which my landlord has inspired, but I am reliving (in fury) the tin horn episode at the Writers’ Warehouse dinner instead. Marsha made me feel like an idiot in front of Rodney. But instead of hating Marsha, I’m thinking about how fucking irritating Rodney is becoming. Why do I still consider him a friend? And what did Marsha mean by saying she would not give me a plug nickel again? Did she really mean that? And later that evening I even overheard Marsha and Rod discussing going on vacation together! She and Bailey drive somewhere every summer, usually Colorado or the Pacific Northwest, and Marsha uses that place for the location of her next crappy romance, writing a bunch of flowery descriptions that stink to high heaven about the way the romantic couple view the sunset and the plants and crap. She used to say she would take me with her someday so I could have a vacation; come to think of it, it’s been a fucking long time since she’s said that to me.
“A real writer can write regardless of adversity,” I, the douchebag friend, plan to reply if ever I hear again her anguished complaint about getting a better job. Shit, I feel bad though, saying crap like that even inside my head and would I do it now to her, saying crap I don’t even believe and never have? It’s messed up to imagine treating her like that after all the years I’ve known her, but what can I say? The fact is I have to do what I have to do when I have to do it and there is no escape from destiny, dude. Why am I chewing my fingernails again?
Oh please, I beg myself, don’t cry. I know I am saying a lot of stupid-ass platitudes, trying to make myself feel better about Rodney moving in on Marsha. The thing is I can’t think of a way to stop Rodney.
But, snap, and say now, I think with a sniff, Marsha might have other amigos or relatives who I can tap for rent money, too, since she might not be in love with me. I will have to get cold about our relationship and plan to use her for whatever I can get. Sure, that’s something to hold onto. Now that she’s no longer in love with me and all my illusions are shattered, I can use her freely. I feel super crappy and super drunk and illogical saying that to myself, honestly though, confessing my truly terrible-ass thoughts. She’s been too good to me and I’m not even loyal to her, ever, and I’ve told her a hundred times I’m no good and she should leave me to my own devices, but she keeps helping me out whenever she can. But maybe, maybe, she’s wising up? She’s given me rides places and given me her actual stuff. Dude, no kidding; Rodney was wrong when he said her gifts were nothing special. And I used to think, sometimes, every once in a while: “I hope this means she isn’t taking any of it from Bailey.” She gave me a home cooked birthday cake with “Happy Birthday, Vig” on it and one year she gave me some writing things and even a new leather coat, boss, but I gave it to a chick, and Marsha told me to keep going at my vampire novels, even though she didn’t like them and thought the horror genre was about the dumbest crap…
Hey, I need to stop right there and think about what’s going on. Maybe she wants me to succeed for her own reasons and maybe she thinks if she says I shouldn’t give up I’ll become a success and I won’t forget her and Bailey! She is a vampire!
Oh, jeez. That’s my detective brain thinking of symmetry in relationships, but it’s shit, dude. There is no symmetry between the thinking of a man and a woman. None whatsoever.
Maybe it’s my paranoid brain imagining. But no, I don’t think Marsha will ever be as devious as I am. I don’t think she has a devious bone in her body. Buys me a beer and laughs at my jokes, when she doesn’t have Bailey with her. And she gave me actual dough, which is a new low for her. A new fucking low.
If she was flirting with Rodney at the writer’s dinner, it had to be to make me jealous, therefore she might have fallen in love with me! That much is an obvious conclusion, isn’t it? If I think through the situation carefully from start to finish that is the only reasonable conclusion. And knowing she has fallen in love with me convinces me she has truly, truly disintegrated as a person.
Sad, and I don’t even respect her writing. The whole thing is pathetic, and I keep telling her that, in my mind, but she doesn’t listen or doesn’t want to hear what I’m saying which is fucking honest. Well, I’ve warned her. At least in my mind.
I tried to warn the one I screwed? Yeah, there you go, I mutter. Why is it always the case the screwees refuse to heed the screwers?
I never thought of Marsha having amigos or relatives, though, besides Bailey, who is in third grade (I have babysat Bailey time and time again for hours to be a good guy for the little ridonkulous tyke), but she might scare up a few of them, and the douchebag writing buddy might move in on them, I figure. Sure, it’s a possibility in the realm of stupid-ass ridonkulous things that could never fucking happen.
Maybe that’s what Rodney has in mind! Sure, he’s gotten wind of her money from me! I had mentioned that Marsha gave me money. That Rod is the biggest opportunist, besides me, that I know. She doesn’t know a thing about that Rodney character; he’s a bad actor. Damn, he’ll screw anybody. Rodney babysit a kid? Fat chance! He won’t do anything that doesn’t benefit him directly. Rodney doesn’t care about Bailey. I realize no matter how tough I talk, I won’t leave a kid in the lurch. I’ll always stand up for a kid. Bailey can’t be left without a babysitter, which would be messed up. Rodney talks a good talk, however he doesn’t have that bottom-line interest in others, and he doesn’t have any interest in Marsha’s kid; I can bet that’s true. Marsha is making a big mistake if she’s thinking Rod will come to her aid the way I have all the times I’ve agreed to take care of Bailey. Sure, Rodney is all for himself. Now I might say that, but I don’t act that way. Marsha ought to be able to see the difference….
“Hey, Marsha, got any relatives in town?” One day I’ll drop that kinda casually into the conversation. My new scheme. Plunk, drop it right in front of her. Now that’s something worth looking into and I’ll write myself a fucking note to that effect as soon as I get a six-pack to celebrate getting the dinero finally, after six long months struggling to meet the rent every month, and the “Spinoza months” bonus from Tight-ass, and so I am finally many months up on rent and can get some breathing room with money from my job. And the tax dough. Gotta get onto the taxes, dude. Get going now while you’re ahead. Finally, also, a bigger pay-off to that goddamn lame relationship. I mean with Marsha. Fellow writers, fuck them! Shit. And I ain’t getting no second job, you idjet landlord. And Marsha. And Rodney. Why is everyone ganging up on me about a second fucking job?
So, dude, wait a fucking minute. If Marsha had any relatives with any money they would have given her their money by now, right, Mister Smart-Ass Detective Asshole? If she had any relatives with money, would she be left so poor her kid had trouble with the wrong size sneaker making her toe infected?
Good thinking, fucking genius. And I realize it is fucking hopeless to imagine her relatives giving me anything, and truly it is beyond hopeless into the realm of unthinkably ridonkulous things to not even waste any time thinking about.
Stroll up and get yourself another six pack of decent ale for a change from Rancho Grande Drive-Thru Liquors. Go ahead, you deserve it for working hard to get yourself out of all your fucking money troubles, which are coming at you from all directions like a stupid Star Wars laser attack.
