Darrell Vickers – Chapter Twelve: Watch Out For This Asshole

The next day, the ennui had returned.  That is, if I had ennui.  I can’t remember exactly what it is.  It sounds French and I know that Lou Reed wrote a song about it on the “Sally Can’t Dance” album and it was a pretty sad song so it’s got to have something to do with being bummed out, right?  Anyway, if I wasn’t ennuied, I was definitely bummed out.  Artie had been at my Sugar Smacks again and I had to have Carla’s waffles for breakfast.  But that wasn’t really why I was feeling so bummed.  That’s why I was feeling so nauseous.  No, this bummedoutedness (that’s got to be a word – especially in this day and age) was because I was feeling lost.

I guess I was also lost in my shitty little apartment but that’s a place you’d expect to feel lost in.  Cause, like, you’re living in a shitty apartment, smoking pot and watching the numbers run by on the bottom of CNBC.  Anyone would be lost doing that.  But then one day, you stop smoking pot (theoretically) and get your act together and things become amazing and you’re not supposed to be lost anymore.  All that had happened to me (Except for the stopping smoking pot part – and that was just theoretical, anyway.).  I got my act together and became a million times more successful than I’d ever dreamed I’d be and I had two gorgeous women, a beautiful cook, a smokin’ hot indoor gardener and…I was still feeling lost.  Fuck!  I mean, what did a guy have to do to not feel lost?

And please don’t say, “find religion.”  The first thing a religion would want me to do is give up sleeping with my four beautiful women.  You know how hard it was for me, before this, to even sleep with one average-looking woman?  (Don’t get me wrong, I love average-looking women too.) It was really fucking hard.  The quality time I got to spend with all my lovely ladies was the sole happy oasis in my big, bummed-out life desert.

Then, the bishop or reverend would want me to give him a ton of my money so they could build a church the size of a football stadium made out of Ivory and watch diamonds.  Wouldn’t God want those idiots to be feeding the poor with all that cash instead of drinking wine out of golden chalices?  No, religion wasn’t for me.

Luckily, I had started drinking a lot more and I think that was helping.

So, I’m slouching there, either bummed-out or ennuied in the common room.  Most of the gang is present.  They’re all having a slice of premium Joe before getting back to the grind.  An elderly guy comes into the room and knocks lightly on the doorframe.  He was probably in his late seventies with a white mustache and white hair.  You know, he’s your basic old guy.  He looks a little swarthy.  Egyptian, perhaps?  Turkish?

It was nine o’clock, on the dot.  I know that because three sets of beautiful sounding chimes went off and three guys looked at their big, bejeweled wrist lumps.  I can set my 50 dollar phone to play chimes or “The Final Countdown” on the stroke of nine, synchronized with the atomic clock in London.  I didn’t bring that up though.  Why spoil their buzz?

The ever-gracious Alchemy asked the old man if she could be of assistance.

Randy jumped in front of her, “This is Achmed.  He’s here for me.”

Captain Magnificent held up his arm in front of the old man’s face and smiled smugly at the rest of the room.  Achmed carefully took the Patek Phillipe off Randy’s wrist and began to gently wind it.

“He’s the head watch repair guy down at Wempe Jewelers.  I’m not gonna trust a quality time piece like this to some shitty little box.  Fuck that.  This asshole has been in the watch business for over 50 years.”

“You had this poor man come all the way here from Fifth Avenue just to wind your watch?” Alchemy did not approve.

“For the money I’m paying him, he’d come all the way here to wipe my ass.  Right, old man?”  Randy roared with that charming laugh of his.

Achmed just smiled and gently returned the watch to his new boss’s wrist.  Randy pulled a pile of bills out of his wallet and haughtily stuffed them into the breast pocket of Achmed’s jacket.  The old man continued to smile.

“You see.  This is how you fucking get your fuckin’ watch wound you sub-continental box-owning jerk-off.”

Randy waved “Phillipe” in front of Punjab’s face.  Punjab also just smiled.  When Randy couldn’t raise anyone’s temperature, he left the room in a huff.  And he took his wrist with him.

I, for one, was a little confused.  Possibly even confounded, which was a bewildering combination.  “I don’t get it.  How can that guy smile like that when Randy was such a prick to him?”

“Oh that is an easy one, my non-watch owning friend.  The Patek Phillipe 5059 is a self-winding time piece.”

Even Alchemy joined in the high fives.  Though, she didn’t look comfortable doing it.

Meanwhile, the girls had just finished a very expensive brunch and were now paying a little visit to Oscar De la Renta’s boutique on Madison Avenue.

So, I’m a guy.  You’ve probably guessed that by now.  I don’t get what’s so great about shopping and I really don’t get what’s so great about buying clothes, but it had become their number one hobby.  I got the bills, so I know how much time, not to mention that other stuff, they were spending on it.

Not that I begrudged them a nickel.  For what they gave me, I would have gladly cut off both my legs and some other guy’s head.  After all, money is only piece of paper with dead guy’s face on it.  Izzy and Rebecca were so very much alive and beautiful and snugly.

Sure, I go on and on about the mind blowing and incalculably exultant sex, and there were great big gobs of incalculable exultancy, but our relationship went deeper than that.  Now I’m not claiming to be Deepak Chopra, but I do have some depth to me.

To have a woman’s (or women’s) head (or heads) resting on my shoulder and sharing those last few warm and tender moments, before being whisked away on the wings of Morpheus, was truly magical.  It made me want to jump up and down like I’d just won a Chevy Cavalier on The Price Is Right.

Giving me a little smooch in the park, holding my hand at the movies…Women are my Yasakani no Magatama, my Aztec gold, my Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple.  What is mere money compared to riches like that?

So no, they could spend what they liked.  I now return you to their regularly scheduled shopping expedition.

Their modus, Zack will pay for it, operandi was to grab an armful of dresses and nighties and whatever the hell else women wear and scamper into the same cramped little change room.  While in there, they’d slip out of this and slip into that.  Feel a little of each other’s this, rub a little of each other’s that. (I’m getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it.)  But in the end, they would not let all this naughty foreplay distract them from their appointed rounds.

Izzy had just put on a cute little yellow number that was so low cut, it showed off her cleavage to people walking behind her.  She peered down at the staggering price tag and got a little verklempt. “I love Zack.”

Rebecca ogled herself in a long flowing, strapless red number that was so expensive, you needed to hire an armed guard to zip it up for you.

“I think I do, too.”

They turned to the sales attendant and chirped in unison, “We’ll take them!”  I got them platinum cards.  I had to.  The plastic ones kept melting.  Yep, they knew more about shopping that Jamie Lee Curtis knows about your colon.

Now, it was off to lunch.

 

Speaking of lunch, mine was about to arrive.  I had just finished my morning calls and was having little a drink.  During the day, I would only have a small glass of wine between sales.  It was kind of sophisticated in a way and it enabled me to still be conscious by quitting time.  At night, I could investigate the manlier liquids to unconsciousness.  Yep, my malaise/ennui/being bummed-out was really getting me down.

 

But the “Oh, where is my life going and is there any meaning in the universe?” bullshit that only people with money can afford to worry about was but a small part of my downward mood spiral.  At work I had to deal with the deafening howling coming out of the office next to me.  It was reaching an ear-blistering crescendo, when in walked Polo looking like a black Billy Dee Williams.  No wait.  He’s already black, isn’t he?  Let’s say he looked like a white guy who looked like Billy Dee Williams.  Only Polo was black.  I’d had a bit to drink.

Carlo followed him into the room carrying a big silver tray.  It had one of those matching silver domey things on top that supposedly keeps your food piping hot.  I’m a bit of a “silver domey thing” skeptic, but it certainly looked nice.  A single flower leaning out of a delicate antique vase added a little warm color and texture next to the cold metal surface.  For a psychotic killer and an expert smusher of noses, Polo had a nice visual touch.

“We have your lunch, courtesy of the ever-lovely Carla.”

This dropped my mood a little.  “Is it waffles?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“As a matter of fact…”

Yep, the exact answer I was dreading.  I really, really loved Carla but she sure made shitty, shitty waffles.  Still, you have to be polite and appreciative to a woman who is “being so very kind” every morning so I braced myself for indigestion.

Polo instructed Carlo to put the tray on the desk and then removed the food cover with a flourish.  And there they were.  In all their griddled mediocrity.

“It’s one of her specialties.”

“It seems to be her only specialty.”

Oh well.  It was appreciation time.  Besides, I needed something to soak up all the morning’s booze.  And…perhaps my chewing would drown out that fucking racket.  I began to deposit generous amounts of syrup into the lightly-browned misshapen dimples.  Another series of howls filled the room.

Polo took note.  “Pardon me for inquiring, but what is that awful din?”

Chew.  Chew.  Chew.  The syrup really wasn’t helping a whole lot.

“That’s Randy.  About this time every day, he gets completely coked-up and howls like a coyote for the entire afternoon.”

I was wondering how red wine would go with waffles when Polo excused himself.

Carlo stood over me looking somewhat sympathetic.  I guess he couldn’t help but notice my doleful mastication.

“You should try and put some of the strawberries on.  They’re very fresh.”

Another howl shot through the door and bounced off all of my walls.  Actually it was half a howl and then a loud smack, followed by an unsaintly cry of pain and then silence.

Carlo continued to watch me chew.  I don’t think he liked the look of my lunch either.  “Artie wants to know if we can have take-out tonight.”

I would have eaten the termites out of my attic rather that face another fucking waffle.

“Sure.  Maybe Chinese?”

Polo re-entered, straightening the sleeves of his jacket.  He had blood on his knuckles.

“I have been assured by your neighbor that your afternoon will be a peaceful one.”

Now this was great news.
“Right fucking on!  Forget the take-out, tonight.  We’re all going to the Plaza!”

Carlo and Polo started to jump up and down in excitement like a couple of goofy kids.  I don’t quite know when I became “Dad” to this bizarre collection of people.  I only know that I was a way better one than the asshole who raised me.

Punjab called Alchemy into his office.  This was big, big, BIG.  He was sweating like he had a mouthful of extra hot, nay molten tika masala.  For there in the middle of the room stood… “The Robot”.  Yes, the one from Lost in Space.  This guy was off his curry-eating nut.  He wanted Alchemy to take a picture of him with his newest piece of nostalgic crap.

“You understand, it is not one of the copies.  This is the original.  And now, I Punjab, am the very owner of it!”

Normally, Alchemy’s impeccable manners would not have allowed her to ask such a question, but as she stood before that six-foot pile of metallic-paint-sprayed plastic and Christmas lights, she couldn’t resist. “So, was this android expensive?”
Punjab’s giddy smile faded. “I don’t believe that I would like to be revealing that.”

“You can’t say?  And you proudly announced that you’d spent 83 grand on a felt carrot?  Jesus fucking Christ!”  That would have been the third titillating time I heard her swear, but I was still finishing up my cabernet and waffles.

That night, I’ll admit, I got pretty fucking hammered.  I had loaded way too many boxes of wobbly into my brain truck.  There was this “Jorum”, I think that’s what they call them, of champagne…no that’s wrong.  The big champagne thing is a jeroboam.  A jorum is some sort of bowl they used to drink out of in the bible.  Both great Scrabble words if you’ve got a “J” and an “M”.  Anyway, that night I was so spifflicated, I couldn’t remember the word for soup.  It’s a good job I wasn’t in the mood for any.

So, there I sat post jeroboam, splayed out on a plush leather chair by the fire, drooling, insensate and oh-so-attractive looking.  I think I also may have gurgled the odd time.

The girls had had about as much of me as they cared to for one evening.  Izzy sipped some 1978 Lafite-Rothschild and gazed dreamily into Rebecca’s fire-lit eyes.

“So, do you like, ever have sex with Artie?  I mean, he is your husband.”

“Nah. He can’t afford me.”

Izzy looked over at my inebriated mass. Another possible gurgle may have taken place.  Or perhaps it was a fart. The human body is such an unpredictable old bird.

“I sometimes wish he couldn’t afford me.”

“I don’t get that little shit.  He’s smart.  He had all the advantages growing up and now he’s making tons of money.  He’s got two beautiful women at his beck and call.  He’s also banging Carla and that indoor gardener, by the way.  And this is what he chooses to do with his life?  Sitting in a chair shit-faced drunk and gurgling?”

See.  I knew I was.

“I sure wish the shops were still open,” Rebecca sighed.

Izzy looked around the big, richly appointed room.  “If I ever own a great house like this, I sure hope I do more in it than just sit around and urinate in my own pants.”

Rebecca had had enough. “Fuck this shit. Let’s do something.”

Izzy’s eyes brightened. “Let’s have sex!”

Rebecca looked over at me, the inebriated puddle.  I think I may have drifted off to sleep by this point and my gurgling had been replaced by sporadic bouts of elephantine snoring.  “You can forget that tonight.  Look at him, noodle time.”

“I suppose…we could have sex.  Just the two of us.  Without him?”

“I’d really like to, but I wouldn’t know what to charge.”

Izzy leaned over and pulled Rebecca’s soft, young face toward her own and gave it a big wet soul kiss.  A glorious coming together of shimmering plump lips and the delicate dueling of moist satin tongues.  I’m not even sure if “moist satin” is right, but it sure sounds sexy, doesn’t it?  It was the kind of kiss you only see in the world’s most exquisite works of art or those great Spring Break videos.  And I missed the whole magical lesbotic smooch cause I was completely drunk on my ass.  You see, kiddies?  Always imbibe in moderation like all the liquor ads tell you to but don’t really mean.

“Maybe you could do it for free,” suggested Izzy, slipping her talented hand under Rebecca’s thin blouse and tenderly alighting upon her ever-so-welcoming bazooms.

Rebecca’s whole being ached to accede.  Her spine did tingle.  Her most delicate flower longed to open its lush, engorged petals and offer up its nectar to the Sapphotic bees of ecstasy.  But still there was one small fruit fly of concern in her punnet of yes-berries.

“You won’t tell Artie, will you?  About the free part?”

Izzy gave Rebecca a kiss so rapturous and erotic, that if the Venus statue had hands, she would surely have been stirring her own honey maker, just thinking about it.  Their mouths were locked in molten passion.  Their amative hands were tearing through cloth in search of flesh.  Just a few moments more of rabid, venereal debauchery and primal, lubricous satiation would be there’s.

It was at that precise instant I jumped up out of my chair and screamed like Andy Dick.  The girls almost shit themselves in surprise.

“We’re going to visit my father,” I proclaimed.

I then looked down.  Oh dear.

“And I’m going to need a dry pair of pants!”

=DV=

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DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg.  CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay.  From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S.  He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.)   Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music.  Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com

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