Notes, from the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 56 A Leap of Faith. At first, I was careful.
I was on the road to recovery. But a few minutes after walking to Amsterdam to get to my street, I started mulling it over. And mulling it over got me pretty depressed. First of all, I was about to start doing that part thing everybody always laughed at, namely changing my whole life so I could achieve some simple goal.
The essence of part nuttiness. It was maybe five minutes after part left me, only five minutes. Before I convinced myself I could probably achieve the same simple goal. Just by eating more broccoli or drinking 10 cups of water a day or something.
Some simple routine I could find out on some website somewhere if only I knew the right words to Google with. Some secret that was real easy but dark and killer like... Eat three stalks of celery with peanut butter and whey protein. Watch your cock bulge while the bones melt away.
But here I was about to remake my triceps and parpe's image. Who was I? Seriously, did I even like myself? It was pretty cool that evening out on the streets.
So when I noticed I was sweating it jard me a little. It was like I had a fever. Like I sold my soul to the evil one, maybe. Or like I was Walter Neff in Double Indemnity.
Unable to hear my own footsteps on the sidewalk because I was already a dead man. Or maybe both. I swear to any god you might think I believe in. At one point I was sure I could feel a parpe's breath on my neck.
It was clammy. I was taking a leap of faith. And not just any old leap of faith but a leap of faith I couldn't tell anyone about. Maybe you're out there right now taking a night course so you can keep your job or get a better one or surprise your wife with your newfound ability to build a cabinet or fix a toilet.
Or cook up some of those delicious sauces you know she loves. Sauses with basil and tomato paste and simmer while she drools. It's manly. Civilized.
And it's something you can tell other people about. But training my cock. I can call it whatever I want. But if anybody catches me in the act then all I am is a pervert.
Worse. A lonely pervert. And where's the guarantee I was going to actually end up a new man. An enviable man full of energy and hard as a rock.
Okay. I believed in the prescription magic. I found out a few of those pills and I'm sure I've either got a hard on or a piece of a class action suit against the pharmaceutical company. But all the working out and vitamins and eating those powdered super foods that part beats.
Like I said where was the guarantee? I was pretty sure I couldn't sue parpe if his theories and schemes and experiments turned out to be horseshit. And if I did sue him what did I stand to win? A surface pro?
A paper back copy of the Federalist Papers? Dumbbells? So you can see where my brain was going. I didn't want to imitate parpe because he is the incarnation of all that is evil the empty Christ, the destroyer of worlds.
Rosemary's baby. But imitating him looked like my safest bed if I wanted to be boss cock at my next bone fest. I walked into my apartment thinking those thoughts. Thoughts that forced me to sit on myself for holding my keys and forgetting what time it was and where the boys and junior were and when they might be back.
And the train of thought that had me sitting there like a statue sitting there transfixed. Was the thought of all the people I would eventually have to explain this to and how behind my back they would laugh and shake their heads and riff on my pathetic existence. People like Kurt Libby and Johnna and the doll. What was I going to tell them?
I guess I could make it sound like I wasn't changing my whole life. I could make it sound like I was adapting parpe for the same mind. Die in exercise you guys you should try it. But they'd be able to tell I'd gone over.
That I'd traded my independent life for parpenudiness. Which was now my nudiness. When I roused myself out of the stupor induced by these thoughts and moved off the sofa it was to do something truly insane. Namely, send an email to Cammy.
But I had a good reason. Really? Even in hindsight I can't argue with the reasoning. See, I knew that giving my soul to Satan was something I could pretty much backburner if there was no second date with the campster so I figured send her an email and feel her out.
I mean she did say the next time we do it the last time we did it so I guess her mood at the time was yeah second date why not. But now there was this part of me that wondered what she meant by it. At first I thought I was just being paranoid but then I thought Jesus I don't know what she means by it. Or just about anything else.
I mean who was she anyway? She gets off pretending to be a little boy and his mother. She splits like a hooker after telling me I have a limp dick. She's an actress.
She's an artistic director and she's in her mid 30s. Shit. I thought I haven't got a clue what she means or wants or thinks or knows. So on the one hand if Cami was up for a second date my soul went straight to the Dark Lord.
On the other hand if she said no thanks then I could eat pizza and watch TV and pretty much keep my soul to myself except for the part of my soul that regularly went to the fan. And of course Lord of all tail would have to struggle with rejection. But struggling with rejection was a me I knew. A me I was pals with.
And it's why I have Jessica. 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 2017 by Dan Wrench.