Notes, from the Upper West Side, a novel by Dan Wrench. CHAPTER 11 ZANACS interlude How's that for wifeliness or spousleness? You can go fuck yourself, charming. Yeah, yeah, I can understand the frustration of not winning every single argument and having to give up a playdate with a wide gate, big-nosed, minimally-racked ex-hooker gal pal.
But there are just some places that husbands and wives are not supposed to go, and telling your significant other-to-go-fuck themselves is definitely one of those places. It is beyond the pale. At the time we had the actual argument, I was willing to give Junior some leeway, but just now, typing it up when I know she's the future parp-chomper, well, it added to my stressors. And what really added to the old stress pile is that I know for a fact that if I had lost that argument, if Junior and wide-gape-suit went out to play that Saturday while I watched the boys be boys at Chuck E.
Cheese, there is no way I would have walked up to the twat and told her to go fuck herself. You know? It's uncalled for. More than that, it's unmanly.
No shit, that's what it boils down to. If I'd sabbied up to Junior and told her to fuck herself, it would have been the emotional equivalent of punching her in the face. Yeah, emotional abuse is what the sisters would call it. They would have worn black and held the vigils outside my door, banging little finger drums and shrieking.
I speak the truth and you know it, ya cunt. Now ladies, if my ranting has offended, think about this, and all is mended. The twat is off on a playdate with parp right now and it's been going on for over a month, and she stuck me with the kids and we've been to Chuck E. Cheese every damn Saturday.
And did I mention? She's sucking the guy's cock. So thinking about all that and typing it up made me pretty pissed off as you can probably tell, so I wasn't able to write any more about it for a while. I tried, but I ended up surfing the old web instead.
Huffpo, DailyCoast, NYP, Washpo, MSNBC.com. Yeah, I'm kind of a news junkie. And yeah, I'd tell it's a little to the left. Shick, stick that.
Or they used to anyway. I tried a few times to pick up where I left off, but the thought of the wife Tard telling me to fuck myself sent me searching for the Xanax. That and if I could end in a St. Pauli girl can be a real cool hand like they say in that movie where Paul new needs all the eggs.
I didn't have any girl in the fridge, but the boys are in bed and the bars downstairs are open. So I went down to the nearest one. The mermaid in. Now, a lot of you ladies, and I'm pretty sure this book will be read by millions of women, you know, women who have no desire to run off and blow their husbands, human-turred ex-colleagues.
A lot of you ladies are sweating the welfare of the poor little mop tops snoozing in the other room. What happens if they wake up in the middle of the night while Daddy is washing down his durogas saloon? Well, the first thing you should know is that no damn kids were harmed in the making of this tale of vengeance and justice. Not yet anyway.
When I got back from downstairs just now, the little lads were still in their bedrooms and oozing, and their Daddy was feeling a lot better. But what if they had awakened? What then? Poor little sobbing kitties in the middle of the big city.
They're drunk and sex-themed Daddy downstairs, Oglings street ass, under Amsterdam Avenue lamps. Fuck that. Happens all the time. I'm always coming upstairs to find the little bastards scurrying back to their HQ.
They love it when Daddy's gone. So go ahead and call the social workers you cry babies. The pride of my kids if they're summertime fun. The one thing I do worry about vis-a-vis the boys when I'm down at the bar is, what if I should hook up with a lovable slut?
The thought of hooking up with a lovable slut is pretty much what keeps me going through these humid days of the horing wife. But where would I take her? I can't bring her upstairs to where the boys are. And unless she lives nearby, I pretty much can't risk going home with her if I want to be back before they start knocking on the neighbors' doors for breakfast.
Yeah, I know. Bathroom's stall. The mermaid has some nice ones, but still. Not like that mattered tonight.
There was nobody down at the merm worth raising a dick to, even though somebody in the back was getting her ass felt up while she bent over a table. Short. Blonde hair on a black chick. That's okay.
But she talked like she could kick the living shit out of me which turned me on a little bit. A fraction. But like I said, not enough to raise Admiral Ballsy. It took me a while to finish fuming about my remembrance of the wife's go fuck yourself advice.
But three beers and a couple white pills later and I was ready to float back upstairs and land gently behind the old keyboard again. And I thought shit. Is this what writers go through every day? Is this what Dylan Thomas went through?
I can do this. I could get paid to have problems like these. Now I just have to find some way to have the wife or somebody screw me over again next year so I'll have something to write about then. You think shit like that with drugs and alcohol in you.
On my way out of the merm, I got flagged down by one of my neighborhood drinking chumps, Darryl, who was talking to one of his pals at a table. Hey, Paul! Wafe back yet? Oh yeah, I think I told him junior was visiting her parents this summer.
Nope. Get his sucked. Nope. Me neither.
What we gotta do to get his sucked. Gotta get some abs, Darryl. I said, ahh shit. I gotta get a good activity then maybe I can get me some abs.
I get cackled. Okay. Gotta be a rock star I guess. It ain't that man.
Bitch just don't like sucking it. Tell me about it. I mean aside from the whole junior blowing part by her neither was a more profound truth than I'm one day going to have to introduce my pal Darryl to. Someday I'm gonna have to sit him down across from me and tell him the horrifying truth that the city is filled with chicks who like nothing better than to suck cock and who think about it all the time.
Square chicks don't want you to know they exist and Oprah isn't interviewing them anytime soon so as far as poor chumps like Darryl are ever likely to know. Bitch's just don't like sucking it. I thought about that as I reached the steps to my apartment building and I just broke out laughing. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction.
The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the Upper West Side. Copyright 2013 to 2014. I'm Dan Rich.