Notes. From the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 27.
The Neighborhood. Carnality. It was late last night when I finished that last chapter. Now listen, I still have a lot to tell about that ride with Big Butt Belinda, but I had to get some sleep because I still get some pretty busy days even though I'm laid off and the wife is out of town on a cocksucking gig.
Oh, did I mention I got laid off? I guess maybe not. So I'm kind of stuck with no money coming in right now except unemployment. Shit, it used to be bartending was what you did when you lost your regular job.
Now it's the regular job you lose. Is that insane or what? Some people blame the union, not me. Thanks to the union I've got some great benefits, like the pennies that pay for Dr.
Jessica. So every couple of years or so the boss is pushed back with a raft of layoffs. Big deal. It's just a matter of time before the union gets us reinstated.
Just a matter of time. In the meantime, I'm sweating my ass off in the summer humidity and taking the kids to morning Bible camp. I know Bible camp. Seems unlikely a full blooded blue stator like me would take his kids to a summer church thing, right?
It was Junior's idea, but I have to say I pretty much went right along with it. First off, it keeps the kids out of trouble in the non-school months. Second, it gives me a few hours off to be a grown up on my own among my fellow grown-ups. Third, it teaches the boys some of those basic morals and things about compassion that they probably don't get enough of for many place else.
That's three good reasons. So fuck off. Bible camp in the city is a couple of rooms in a church basement, so the camp part is more of a prayer than a real place where you can't be. It's pretty pathetic too when you see how they take these little sunless cement rooms and decorate them with cardboard cutouts of trees and one or two teepees made of blankets with the profiles of animals etched into them.
This morning's Walk to Bible camp featured a brush with the neighborhood carnality. Me and the boys were walking down the sidewalk in a steamy morning torpor when we made a stop to pick up Carol Ann Hurty. Harry's seven year old girlfriend out in front of her mom's apartment building. Your mom wants you to stand out here by yourself, I asked her?
Yes, sir. Nothing. Just ask him. And the three of us come in and start drows down the hill between Amsterdam and Broadway toward the church that has the cellar.
That is Bible camp. We were the man squad plus one. Jack Hammers were jacking. Ice melt bookers.
Sammy said. Oh God. Carol Ann shouted at Harry. You have a McPonner.
And she stopped and pointed at that part of his anatomy where a little boy is one to get a McPonner. I do not. He shouted back. What's a McPonner?
Sammy asked. It's um, I was struggling here. I was tempted to say it was what McDonald's made out of the bones that didn't make it into the house. I might have even been stupid enough to say that too, but Carol Ann jumped in first.
It's his fuckstick. She screamed. I expected Sammy to ask me what a fuckstick was, but he didn't. Instead, he and Harry marched on in silence.
Their jaws stern and their brows furrowed as if they were little justices deliberating on new evidence. Carol Ann was only seven, like I said, but the little bitch was miffing me. You parents know what I mean. Harry has only a few years before his own balls selling out to the nearest tramp in a shiny skirt.
Just a few years before he wakes up to a brain full of ass. Just a few years. Less than a decade. I wanted to go to Carol Ann's house and grab her stupid mom by her camouflage, print blouse and say, just what do you think you're doing talking about boners and fucksticks in front of your daughter like it's normal banter so she can come over and laugh at my kids dick?
Don't little boys deserve a chance to rest up before the slam dance? Don't they get a few years to read comic books? Don't my boys get a childhood? I ranted dust mentally on the way to morning Bible camp.
While Carol Ann Hurty looked at my face and giggled. Notes from the upper west side is a word of shame. The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the upper west side copyright 2013 to 2016.
Bye, Dan.