Notes. From the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 26.
BITCH. FOR A DAY. I was feeling pretty damn low driving out to him instead to pick up Belinda, Parp's onset cunt. In case you haven't been paying attention, Parp tricked me into being his bitch for a days and all I had to drive out to pick up the cunt so she'd be available later when you needed to stick his tongue up a big buck.
And I do mean big. Maybe you know the type. Then waste. Giant ass.
How do they do that? Like they're wearing corsets 24 hours a day. I was picturing Parp explaining to her Apple ass how in Parp world sex has to last for a couple hours or it's not worth having. I was picturing her listening to me with this big grin on her face because she's thinking about all the orgasms she's in for.
Then in my mind I cut to an hour later and picture her with her face in it below and her ass in the air just wishing it would end for Christ's sake. I had to laugh at that. But as I plunged into the bowels of queens I was back to kicking myself. How did I get into this fix?
I blinked and the next thing I knew I was promising to give Parp my wages from yesterday and now I was driving crew around like a damn cabby. But asking myself how it happened was just rhetorical. You know. For the gods.
I knew what happened. It was my own fault. I set myself up. I felt guilty for forgetting the van so I let Parp railroad be in exchange for forgiveness.
I pounded the steering wheel I was so pissed. Cocksucker. I settled down a little bit after I got into Nassau County even though at one point I lost my way. Hey it's no big deal.
Asking for directions from strangers is a time honored American tradition. Pulling up alongside another car. Rolling down the window. Smiling while the other driver rolls down his shouting, how do I get to the highway?
The sense of community derived there by connects me with my fellow travelers including my father and his father before him. GPS on the other hand connects me with Jack shit. I found the road to Hempstead again without the aid of mechanical voices and just settled into the drive. Ever been along island?
A string of little town hung on semi highways, gas stations, malls, cheap little houses. The worst side of all? The funeral parlors. Every time you see one it's like a big sign saying some people never get out of here.
That shit started haunting me back in the early 80s when we all first moved to the city. They didn't used to put me to funeral homes until Viter pointed out what it meant. We were all living in these bad neighborhoods, ghettos, where the supermarkets smell like rotting food and cat box and you can't wait for that part of your life to be over. We were standing on the sidewalk on a summer afternoon in Washington Heights with the sunlight blazing off the pavement and white brick and car metal.
We were counting our change to see if we could afford to buy a couple drinks. We got done counting and I turned to go but Viter just stood there, stuck still because he noticed we were standing in front of a funeral home. Some people here don't get out, he said. So where did a guy was trembling?
You know when you're getting out? ASAP, I said, and kept walking for the nearest bar. I just wrote the episode down to Viter's spookiness. Out of nowhere things would haunt the guy.
Like a few years later when he froze in front of the microphone on Letterman. But as the years passed, the funeral home stayed with me and even amplified as I got older. Now when I see one it's like it sees me back and says, passing through, there are a lot of funeral homes on Long Island. So I finally got out to Hensstead to pick up this Belinda who was officially distilled photographer.
Low-rise jeans, again, and a black camera bag slung over her shoulder. I tried not to look too hungry watching her over the steering wheel as she walked out to the car, but it was hard not to stare. She was kind of a puzzle and I was trying to put the pieces together. She's naked on the internet.
She's a photographer. She likes wearing fucking me jeans to work. She had a little red t-shirt and these big round tits poking domed so big they looked at the shirt off her midriff. And I'm convinced to park is bending her over.
I hated the prick right then. Surfs the internet, finds country wants, calls it up, bends it over. What an ego maniac. She got in.
Hi, she said. So ready for day two? I asked like her uncle. Turns out she's shy.
Yeah, kind of sweet too, but the ass and the pants and the old internet nudity says she was already sizing me up for my drill potential. I resisted the urge to say blowing part and tried to make chit-chat about bullshit things instead. Unseasonably humid, huh? I asked.
From large, I mean. Yeah, she said. It smells fatunty in the air. Wow.
Fatunty, fatunty, spring! She smiled. Cool, I said, probably a little distracted. All I could think about was her no doubt shaving snatch, burning a hole into the upholstery of the seat next to me.
She really didn't seem like an internet nude poser. I made a mental note to check out her blog that night after the wife wasn't dead. About ten minutes into the drive I made her giggle for the first time. See, the only thing we had in common that we knew about was parking the chute so we got down to the subject of park nuttiness pretty quick.
Ever noticed the missing toe on Parp's right foot, I asked. I was watching the road, but out of the corner of my eye I could see her looking at me. He has only four cows? She said.
She giggled. Is that true? Yep, you just have to look. Well, you'd have to take a shoe off, wouldn't you?
Nope. I said, you can see through the sneaker four little lumps, not five. You never have to take clothes off when you can count lumps. That killed.
She laughed her tasty ass off. And that's how we rode. Me joking, her giggling. Right now and then I was able to take my eye off the road and get a look at the belt buckle that just covered her mound.
And all I could think was, man am I married. 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 2016 by Dan Wrench.