Notes. From the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 46.
Man Mood. I know I said this before, but it's really important for you to remember that in about 12 hours I was scheduled to bonabade about 15 years younger than me. So I had a mood to protect. A man mood.
You boys? You know this mood. It is the mood that says you deserve what you're about to pound. I call it the Gimme That Mood.
At the beginning of the day my mood was large with Gimme That, but now I was sitting in the park with my two boys after getting yelled at by a stranger and Gimme That was yielding to something dark and small and scared. I didn't have a name for it. See, Danny Boy caught me off guard. Completely.
Like he'd happened on me drunk and standing on one foot. Why was I this vulnerable? Because it never occurred to me that me and the boys could offend a stranger just by the way we ate our lunch. I still think he was a prick for yelling at me, but he got me ruminating on how I might be giving off a smell.
Or a look. Or a sound or a vibe that I had no idea I was giving off and that made people want to turn on me. The thought that I might be communicating on some animal level things that I have absolutely no control over started spooking me. What if Cammy jumped up and called me a lip smacking peasant?
What if she laughed at me and wouldn't tell me why? And then I thought, shit, is this the cleanest shirt I've got? I'm in public for fuck's sake. Then I started thinking about all the guys out there who could out fuck me and about how out of shape I was and how I didn't take the cock hardening drugs and how my abs really did suck.
Just like Parp said. What's the matter, Daddy? Harry asked. Nothing.
Daddy's gotta leave for his shift in a few minutes. I was all alone. But why are you sad? I was petrified.
I nearly crapped my pants. Even the boys are picking up the vibe I thought. Is there anything scarier than that? I mean, other than maybe finding out your wife and mom have been able to read your mind all along.
Finish up your lunch, boys. Your life's a wait. Shit. My mouth was on autopilot.
They stared at me. I stood up and paced away. The pat. The lighter.
Flick, flick, suck. Then the sneaky look around. Smoking in a reside park is not what you would call legal anymore, but mainly you just get yelled at by non-smokers with no futures and sad childhoods if they catch you doing it. I could see two other people smoking.
Fat guy. Tossing the tennis ball up and down. Young mommy with stroller looking harried and cold on a bench by yourself. No one was giving them shit for it so I figured I was safe.
Sammy got off the bench and started for me. Sammy, you done eating? He stopped mid-stride. Nope.
What did I say? Finish eating? He gave me this grin like he was waiting for a gold star. So Sammy, sit back down and finish.
Oh yeah. Retired. Harry said. I had to have a phone rings and I looked down and the old caller ID says Tony Park in big white letters and I'm relieved thankful for a shot at some camaraderie.
Hey, Tone. I said. Hey, Paul. Guess what I just did on the internet.
I don't know. Play a game or something? My mouth was still on autopilot. I just read Belinda McElroy's blog.
Belinda McElroy. Oh yeah, big butt Belinda. I saw her blog that one time when I was checking out her ass. I sort of remembered that she wrote stuff on it too.
Suddenly my shoulders and back seized up the way they do when you've been caught out right doing the bad. I knew there was something about me and big butt that I didn't want to get back to park but I couldn't remember what it was. Yeah. He said.
Wednesday she posted this entry. You should read it. It's about this guy who gave for a ride into Manhattan to shoot stills for a video. And this guy, what a schmuck wanted to know and made a girl like her pose naked on the internet.
Oh yeah. That was it. And she goes on to say he wanted to know because he was the concerned father of two boys. Pause.
Hello? He said. Well, fuck. I kind of think I asked you explicitly not to bring that up to her.
I mean I asked you to do that as a favor and you said okay. And the very next day this one thing I asked you not to say you were you went ahead and said it to her. Now I suppose she thinks I hired her for her ass. Oh right.
Like that would be the farthest thing from your mind. I heard him sigh. You're such an asshole. And speaking of favors, I kind of asked you to do me a favor and call me a producer for a day and you used that to extort a day's wages out of me.
Yeah. I get it next week. Asshole. Sixty seconds into the conversation and already we both played the asshole card.
Not exactly what I was hoping when I picked up. I sat down on one of those stone posts on the side of a pathway, froze my ass on contact right through my corduroys. I stubbed out what was left of my illicit cigarette and let it crumble to the ground. So what is this all about really?
I asked. Why are you calling me about this now? Are you backing out? Of what?
I'm not. Are you still covering for me tonight or is this rant your way of saying the deal is off? He laughed. Getting cold feet?
Jesus. Sorry but I'm not going to be your excuse for backing down. Hope you've been doing your dick exercises. Dick exercises?
Uh oh. He laughed. Shitty abs. Toothpick arms.
Limp cock. My condolences to the lady. I almost threw the iPhone down in the dirt. 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 Ranche.