Notes, from the Upper West Side, a novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 74, The Magellco Job I got the job. Normally, that would be great news, unequivocally, but I'm pretty sure I told you already that the whole modeling part of the adventure ended up with me drifting on cargo from my own shipwreck, with seagulls pecking my brains apart. I think I already mentioned the eventual catastrophe a couple times.
So let's just say I got the job, and yes, I was excited, because on the day I got it, the shipwreck wasn't even on my long-range radar. It was a one-morning shoot. In fact, I don't think it went a full two hours. I showed up, they shaved my face extra close because I guess I haven't mastered that art yet.
Then they put me in a costume, a white shirt, and dark blue tie, and made me push a thin metal cylinder up my nose and hold it for the cameras. Click, click, click, click. You've seen these little machines, these gizmo's, these gadget, Temunkey-ly. They're tubular, they fit in a grown-up nostril.
Posing with the gizmo was incredibly easy work even for a modeling gig. The only problem for the model, me, was I couldn't turn my brain off while the photographer was snapping his million shots. All I could think about for the first few minutes was how I was standing on a platform with hot chicks and other people staring at me while I plumbed my nose with a metal finger. You may have seen the packaging by now.
Yeah, that's out. You want to know what I look like? You can't really tell from the photo, because you only see my profile in the lower half of my face, but that's me with a megelco mirror trim in my nose. I'm smiling.
I am one happy urban male, and you know why? Because I am liberating my face from the oppression of tangly nose hairs. Feeling like I was standing in front of the whole room with a finger in my nose eventually made my mind wander to Freddie Lipden, a kid I knew in the fifth grade. Freddie always smelled like tuna and picked his nose whenever and wherever he didn't care.
It was disgusting. All the kids hated him, and these four older boys who'd all been held back a year and always hung together, these guys would always find Freddie at recess and beat him up. And kids beating you up at recess is, well, it isn't a great experience, but it has its advantages. For instance, you never wonder why they're beating you up.
The kids kicking your ass always tell you straight out. You smell like tuna. You pick your nose. You wear that to when you grow up and your wife decides one day she's never going to touch your cock again or look at you without rolling her eyes.
You'll be looking back with nostalgia on those days when kids kick your ass at recess. Freddie's parents had to transfer him to another school eventually. This was after they had a bunch of conferences with the teachers and the whole fifth grade got lectured about beating Freddie up. But even as a kid, I used to wonder why his parents just didn't make Freddie brush and gargle after his tuna binges, and why they didn't tell him about the limits imposed by taste and hygiene on public nose evacuation.
It made me wonder what they smelled like, and what their house looked like. Before I could spend too much time in the mental mists with Freddie and his parents and the kids who kicked his ass, the shoot was over. I changed back into my streets. I went downstairs.
I lit up a cigarette. It was fuck date two minus eight days. A couple days earlier, I'd started getting texts from Cammy, so by the time I went down to model nose shears, she was routinely bone rising me. I was in such a constant state of arousal that I started taking long, late night showers and making lame excuses to the wife.
I got really sweaty at the bar and my hair smelled like tuna from the buffet, huh? And during those showers, I didn't even try to hold it back in the home stretch. Then one day Cammy sent me a picture of herself to my phone. Her back was to the camera and arched.
She was naked except for these tiny latex panties, garded to a pair of torn fishnet hoes, and there was ass cleavage. Arched back, ass cleavage, and streaks of purple under otherwise blonde hair. It was like she'd given me a large intravenous dose of lust. I still had that picture on my phone.
I looked at it just after writing that last sentence. Nobody saw me looking. The boys are in bed and the wife is in California biting pipe. I can stare at anything I want.
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 2020 by Dan Wrench.