Darrell Vickers – Chapter Nineteen Right Knee…Left Knee…or Wienie?

Now that things were going so well with Ms. Princeton, I felt a little awkward about bending my indoor gardener over the furniture.  Especially, since I no longer had any indoor plants.  I mean, suppose Alchemy and I fell in love in Fiji.  It could happen.  One night after champagne-soaked beach sex, betrothals occurred.  Then what?  If we ended up getting married, indoor gardeners would have to be a thing of the past.  Marriage is like that.

Dear sweet Gloria.  My conscience would plague me so, but I simply couldn’t resist her.  She’d come in with her watering can and smile at me like some radiant forest sprite.  Before you could say, “Hydrangeas” or “Toadstool” she’d lifted up her little skirt and there it would be.  A veritable Disneyland for your penis and all the rides were free.  Oh, I’d try to say, “Not today.” But the next thing I knew, my hand would be gently caressing “that on which she sat”.  From there, I was only mere moments away from irrigating her luscious private garden with my lady sprinkler.  But even as I was doin’ the dog, I was concerned.  Even after I’d fired my mighty soldiers I was worried about her.  That’s very, very rare in a man.

I was super concerned about all my girls.  I really liked them and I so appreciated all the unfathomably scrumptious things they’d done for me.  But the crucial difference between my lovely, wonderful ladies and Alchemy was…she liked me for free.  This was unchartered territory.

How were they going learn to get along in this expensive world without my money?  It was perplexing and I was perplexed.  Possibly even consternated.

There were no easy answers.  It was causing me so much agida that Polo found me a counselor.  A very attractive counselor named Belinda.  She used to wear these short black skirts around her office.  And these high, spikey shoes.  I think you can guess what happened next.  It involved thanking her profusely and doubling her hourly rate.  As Belinda was putting her bra back on, she told me my anxiety was just a phase I was going through and everything would work itself out in due course.  And, if my sleep problems continued, I was always welcome to jump back onto her couch, especially if she was already lying on it.  Everyone should have a pal like Polo.

The days before the big event had dwindled down to a precious few.  That last week, the excitement was building to unbearable levels.  Apart from me not sleeping, the girls got testy with each other and even Artie’s forest glades were looking darker and more foreboding.

Socializing at work had almost stopped completely.  The entire staff was glued to their phones and order forms.  I still found time for my morning doob with Dorothy but other than that, I was just trying to build up as much commission-cash as possible.

Everyone must have had big plans because that workforce would have made fire ants look like video-store clerks.  All except Alchemy.  She just motored along with the same intensity that had gotten her picture on the “Salesperson of the Month” plaque ever since we’d been there.  This month though, she had some stiff competition.

We did take one small break from our insatiable lust for gold.  The day,…da-da, daaaaaahhhhhh! (I tried to make that sound ominous and dramatic.  Did it work?) The day that Randy returned to work!  Most of us had just assumed he was dead.  From what we saw of him, I don’t think we were far wrong.

Noises were heard coming out of his office, early on Wednesday morning.  Was someone in there?  Who?  Surely not!  Alchemy, Punjab and I stood for several tense minutes in the hallway, trying to build up the nerve to knock.  It was with timid, anxious hearts that we stepped inside his office after a very familiar voice bade us enter.

And there he was, sitting behind his desk, like nothing had happened.  But something had happened.  It was impossible to miss what had happened.  Ran’ now required a big, intricate metal neck brace to hold his head up.  There were also bandages everywhere, covering up his multifarious peck marks.  We tried our best not to recoil in horror from his new appearance, but JEEZ!

There was an awkward moment or two…or three.  I thought Punjab was going to cry.

The ever-classy Alchemy took the welcome-back lead. “You look good.”

Randy kicked the phone off his desk. “Fuck off!”  Obviously, common politeness was not what was required. “I’m a mutant.  A freak!  I might as well have gone to Auburn.”  Wow, he had really hit rock bottom.  “If I take this brace off, my head rolls around on my shoulders like I’m one of those plastic dogs in the back of a Mexican’s car.”

We wanted to be supportive.  I know he was a world-class asshole but you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy.  Especially looking right at him, like we had to do.  I mean, JEEZ!  “Is there anything they can do, medically?” I enquired.

“Not in this shit stain of a country, they can’t.  But I’ve been doing a little research from my hospital bed, which none of you fuckers visited, by the way.”

We bowed our heads.  He had us there.

Alchemy marched bravely into the teeth of the conversational storm.  ”Have you tried looking into physical therapy clinics?”

Apparently, he had. “Fuck ‘em!  If I wanted to get jerked-off, I’d hire Zack’s girlfriend to do it.”  Yes, he was still Mr. Charming. “I decided to dig a little deeper into Google.  For chump change I can fly to the Philippines…”

Now, it was Punjab’s turn to enter the fray, “I am not liking the sounding of this.”

”Turns out, for the right price, I can have the neck sinews of some young supple Philippine peasant sewn into the back of my head and I’ll be better than ever.”

I could see Alchemy’s dander rising. “I’m speechless,”

“No you’re not.  That’s the trouble with you women, you’re never fucking speechless.”

“That’s just so morally, ethically and reprehensibly repugnant.”

“Hey I’m the good guy in this deal.  You don’t think that there are all kinds of poor people over there who wouldn’t love to stare at their feet for the rest of their lives if I tossed them a hundred thou U.S.?  I’m giving them the choice.  You’re the one who would deny them that opportunity.”

Alchemy’s eyes narrowed.  She was about to jump down his leather and titanium supported throat.

I tried to lighten the very dark vibe in the room. “I guess everybody wins.  You get a younger neck, the peasants get money and they’ll always know if their shoes are untied.”

Not even a smile.  Perhaps levity wasn’t called for.  Someone needed to change the subject, fast.

“What, by chance, did you do with your pet vulture?” asked Punjab.

“I’m glad you brought that up, my little dusky friend, cause I’ve was meaning to ask you guys…”

Before he finished his sentence, Randy reached down behind his desk and pulled up the biggest goddamn turkey I had ever seen.  I thought he was going to snap his anti-head-lolling neck scaffolding, as he struggled to lift it.

“Who wants to help me cook this fucker?  Apparently, it tastes a lot like it just ate chicken.”

Randy thought this was dazzlingly funny, but Alchemy stormed out of his office.  I felt I had to follow.

Meanwhile, back at the house, everyone was getting ready to parteeee!  I think I may have forgotten to mention that Polo had rented me this great new house.  Fully furnished.  Right down to a brand new, top of the line waffle maker.  He’d arranged a six-month lease.  That way I’d have time to think about whether I wanted to rebuild or just sell “as is” and get a new place.  All those serious life decisions would have to wait.  There was a righteous party to be thrown.

If you’ve got sufficient funds, there is no limit to the amount of money one can spend on a celebratory gathering.  These days, people pay mini-celebrities like Paris Hilton hundreds of thousands of dollars just to show up and be seen at events.  Apparently, that was the only expenditure I had not incurred.

Barrel-chested men of brawn wheeled in crates and crates of the most exotic intoxicants imaginable.  Domestic beer was only for those poor assholes who couldn’t afford some weird foreign brand with no vowels on the label.  These guys were carrying in boxes of Delerium Tremens from Belgium, Schneider Aventinus from Germany, Nogne Bitter from Norway and Birra Del Borgo Duchessa from Italy.  If you had heard of it, then it wasn’t good enough for us to swallow.  Bruichladdich Forty Whisky?  It was 2,500 bucks a bottle and we had two cases.  Gone were the days when I’d sit around the dorm room drinking myself comatose on 20 bucks worth of Mickey’s Big Mouth.  Polo even hired a bartender who heated up your rum by filling his mouth with lighter fluid and breathing fire onto the bottom of your glass.  I just hoped I had enough money left over for the plane tickets to Fiji.  And that was just for inside the house.

Outside was also a flurry of ultra-expensive activity.  Tanks of helium were filling obscenely-shaped balloons.  London-style street lamps were positioned all around the pool along with heaters and streamers and tents and a separate bar and something called a chocolate fountain.

And if the sheer size and scope of this epic party weren’t daunting enough for those proud but human laborers, Carla was feeding them waffles all day.

I had instructed Izzy and Rebecca to invite everyone I didn’t like in college, so they could be humbled and driven mad by my opulent magnificence.

Artie had been working on a fine-art tribute to me in egg tempera.  He’d slapped it all down on an 8’ x 10’ canvas.  Nothing subtle about this pic.  He had painted me, wearing a crown and sitting on a giant throne.  Rebecca and Izzy bookended my regalness, without benefit of garmentry.  Luckily, I only had to pose for this yolky monstrosity.  A couple of very brave individuals had the job of bolting it onto the second storey of the house, so I would loom over the party like some geeky Zeus.  It was the gaudiest and most insultingly ostentatious thing I had ever seen.  Donald Trump would have thought twice about putting it up.  But me, I didn’t want to hurt Artie’s feelings.  He was proud of it.

Gloria bought a jungle’s worth of indoor plants so she could futz around with them.

The one comfort I did have in this whole ridiculous affair was the knowledge that I was getting my money’s worth.  Polo stood out in the hot sun all day with his clipboard and made sure that every drop of booze and molecule of helium that I paid for was delivered and in good condition.  And nothing but nothing wasn’t done to absolute perfection. (Is that a double negative?  Real writers aren’t supposed to do that, right?)

And when the day’s hard labors were done, Izzy, Gloria, Carla, Nedda and Rebecca lined up on one side of the pool and flashed the burly and appreciative multitudes.  I loved my girls.

That night, all chance of sleep was blown away by the winds of desire.   My thoughts, my dreams, my unrelenting boner were all held prisoner by the ever-comely Alchemy.  What a cutie-pie she was.  And how good she was going to look in that warden’s outfit.  As I lay there psychotically obsessing, I knew she’d already have her luggage packed and ready to go.  Ready to go half way around the world with a criminally underachieving lothario like me!  I could picture the two of us in some beach cabana (I guess cabana is Spanish – whatever the Fijian word for the Spanish word “cabana” is) and almost hear her say, “You want me to do what!?”

When the Bee Gees tunefully queried “How can a loser ever win?” in their comeback hit “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” (their first comeback with the Trafalgar album, not the disco one), they obviously hadn’t considered the pluck and guile of one Zack Bramble.  Remember, I minored in Pluck.  The fact that I wasn’t even born when this tune was a hit is neither here nor there.  Music is supposed to be timeless.  Back to my point.  It was possible for even a dorky dweeb like me to become a winner and it was possible to turn your life around without having pay Tony Robbins large sums of money to awaken the giant within.  I had proven it.  God Bless America!

I had gone from living in a cockroach infested grotto to having two fireplaces in my bedroom in just six months.  Horatio Alger was Charles Dickens compared to my tale of rags to riches.  I lay there in my big puffy bed and watched the moonlight stream in through the Tudor windows and light up the warm smooth skin on Izzy’s back.  Incomparably gorgeous.  And soon it would be Alchemy’s back.  Even more incomparably gorgeouser.  If that’s even possible to be…and a word.

It turns out, I wasn’t the only one awake.  The phone was rudely ringing in the Ty Warner suite.  A barely conscious Punjab struggled to pick up the receiver. “Whatever the bejesus is the time you are calling?”  Someone was saying something on the other end.  “Clint Howard?  Who the devil are you at this time in the morning?  What do you want?”
“He was the kid star of Gentle Ben.” Angela sleepily offered.

“Who is this Ben character?”

“It was a bear.  The guy’s a washed-up asshole.  Hang up the phone,” Billy advised from within his cottony cocoon of shame.

“You can take your gentle bear my friend, and stick it up your washed-up posterior.”  Punjab giggled like a 12-year-old schoolgirl and slammed the phone down.

Now, he was wide awake.  It was going to be impossible to get back to sleep.  He licked his lips and surveyed the two bodies next to him in bed.  “Oh poor, poor Punjab is now awake.  He is going to be needing some very special attention to his privates.  Who shall it be, I should be wondering.”  He pointed his index finger back and forth between his two victims d’amore as he rhymed his way to a decision.  “Eeny Meany Miny Moe…”  Billy crawled further and further under the sordid sheets.

 

The phone rang.  No, it wasn’t that washed-up asshole Clint Howard again.  This particular ringing phone was across town in Brian’s apartment. “Helloooo?” he asked nervously.

“You’re a fucking dickhead loser, you pansy-assed women’s underwear sniffing, Amherst cocksucker!”

Randy then giggled like a 12-year-old schoolgirl jacked-up on coke and slammed the phone down.

Even though no names were mentioned, Brian had his suspicions as to who the caller might have been.

=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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