I Heard The Pulse . . .
by
J.M. August
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
J.M. August on Smashwords
I Heard The Pulse . . .
Copyright © 2011 by J.M. August
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Dedicated to my mother who generously provided the title for this book.
Chapter 1 / Pipe / Los Angeles / 2010
“Hey big boy.”
“Long time no see,” I say.
“I know, right.” Pipe kisses my cheek and we detach like strangers. She slides into the bar booth and I wait for her to sit. She’s changed – thinner, more refined, always an attractive girl, but now I don’t know – different, unfamiliar, lustrous skin and live eyes, as if I never noticed they were grey before, a black diamond bracelet on a thin right wrist -- hello, says the bracelet.
“You’re late,” Pipe says.
“Sorry, I walked.”
“So what’s up?”
“Not much. What’s up with you?”
Pipe lifts her chin, slides her cocktail four inches to the left and tosses her bob, “Not much, I can’t believe you’re sitting across from me -- how wrong is this?
“What’s the occasion, you miss me?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just bored with everyone else.”
“Ha ha -- either way I’m flattered.” My eyes lock on the sickle of gold tick-tocking in the V of her tee. Pipe’s itemizing eyes, scanning me up, Bergdoff button down, Ferragamo slip-ons, blue chinos, no socks, adding up my overall worth -- I look in Pipe’s left eye and she adjusts her napkin, “How long are you in town for?” I ask.
“Forever.”
“Oh really now, forever’s a long time, you sure about that?” I check my back pocket for Nicorette -- affirmative, I take one out, chew, and slide it under my tongue.
“It was time for a change, plus New York turned out to be no different than LA. Everyone’s the same. There’s no difference anymore. I mean, whatever happened to the party we were promised?”
“There are just as many dumb people in New York as LA -- or anywhere else for that matter. It’s nice to see you again though, you haven’t missed much.”
Pipe pops a wasabi nut in her mouth.
Our server appears, I glance at Pipe’s drink, a vodka soda, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Hangar One, straight with a twist, lots of ice.”
“Will do and for you, are you doing fine?”
“I’m fine thanks,” Pipe responds.
“Thank you,” I say.
Our server walks away and my eyes follow her backside out, an attractive party girl with a subtle lisp, brunette and energetic . . . “So. Who are you sleeping with these days?” Pipe asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Who – Are – You – Sleeping with these days?”
“No one, I keep my cock clean, its worth too much.”
“You must have one amazing cock. Although if my memory serves correct there was nothing extraordinary about it -- maybe you’ve changed,” spinning her drink with a straw.
“Maybe it’s grown.”
“You do look taller,” Pipe says.
“Ha, I wish.”
“You look good though.”
“Thanks, as do you. You look fit.”
“Green tea and Barre Method.”
“Does Barre Method actually work?” I ask.
Pipe looks straight in my right eye, nods affirmative, and mouths the word, Yes. Our server sets my drink on the table, “Thank you,” I say.
“My pleasure,” the server says, lips re-glossed, ass out.
Pipe eyes the waitress up from the heels. I readjust my CK briefs, hit my vodka, and absorb our confines for the very first time – the electronic bass beat throbbing out the speakers in the ceiling, the Tower Bar on Sunset, a booth in the corner, a place we both agreed to meet, dark but not intimate, a few people in booths, a black lacquered vas atop the brass railed bar, orchids.
“So seriously, who are you having sex with?”
“No one. You’re the last girl I slept with.”
“Why are you abstaining?” Pipe asks.
“Because I realized my body’s a wonderland. What more of an explanation do you want, and why do you care?” I say.
“I don’t. I just think it’s a bit narcissistic -- no one’s above sex, it’s necessary, like bumblebees and pollen.”
“I have had sex since we dated. I just don’t sprinkle it around like a child anymore. Plus, I’m beginning to think that girls take off too much, what’s the word . . . patina. I mean what’s the limit on foreskin sustaining friction, there has to be a limit, how much is too much, does the skin just fiddle down to the thinnest of thins – is there botox for dick?”
“There’s botox for va-jay.”
“You should look into that.”
“Maybe I already have.”
“Good for you. Actually, I already knew about that, duh -- Chelsea Handler -- Didn’t she have vaginal reconstructive surgery?”
“I think she had work on the inner lining, but for the sake of conversation she had cosmetic surgery on her va-jay.”
“Awesome.” I look around the bar for our waitress, but she’s nowhere to be found. Pipe tries to spot where I’m looking but there’s nothing there to see.
“So, what gets you naked now?” I ask.
Pipe takes a sip of her drink, mulls an answer, and sets the glass down, “Kindness, sincerity . . . a sense of humor.”
“You should be charging if that’s all it takes. If I were you I’d be rich by now,” I say.
“You make good points, in reality what gets me naked is big dicks, cash, and five diamond reviews,” her eyes piercing my core as if I’ve never seen her teeth before.
“Oh-my!”
“Oh-yes!”
Pipe’s mobile vibrates, she checks it, debates a response, and silences it.
“How’s your brother doing?” I ask.
“Good actually. He’s doing better now. He quit doing drugs.”
“Good to hear. So, he’s calmed down?”
“As calm as Pike can be. He has a new job.”
“Are you guys still talking a lot?”
“Now not so much, but we still talk occasionally. I told him I was meeting you.”
“How did he respond?” I ask.
“He told me I was stupid and a fool,” Pipe says, “I should’ve never called you.”
“Or maybe, I shouldn’t have answered your phone call.”
“There are no hypotheticals in life. You picked up the phone because you wanted to,” Pipe snipes.
It’s been too long since the possibility of a random occurrence has disrupted my life. For the past three years life has consisted of a solitude of my choosing, as if being alone reinforced my superiority amongst my twenty plus age group, my peers, the people with jobs and formulated equations for success. Pipe called last week, first with a text, then a reply, then a quick chat. She cut me off four years ago. A week after we broke up, I knocked on Pipe’s door ready to resume and found Cody (a prospect she kept heated while we dated) seated on her couch ripping a bong, a Corona on the coffee table next to a W magazine with Uma Thurman’s face on the cover -- a magazine I bought for Pipe a week prior. Pipe in one of those ‘right after sex’ dresses, something clean and comfortable and barefoot, looking at me expectantly as she arranged gladiolas in a vase-- stupid little boy, tricks are for kids. She won. I let her win, I was too beaten down then, tired and insecure, trying to manage, so she left me for Cody -- a dubbed down version of me, more stable, less bravado, from money, a grade A closeted fucking douche that will never not succeed – And because of this I wrote a book that was not about her, a different girl, a classier girl, a less vicious girl with a penchant for observing autistic children in playgrounds. Sure, there were minor details, but nothing she could pinpoint. I wrote a book that wasn’t about her, payback for Pipe throwing me away the first time, for the doubters and classmates incapable of thinking beyond the three degrees of celebration, and now my negativity has compounded since that brief moment of after college success, lodging me in my current state of affairs, progress inevitably back to zero, the circle closed -- Pipe leans back in the booth and models a look out the window, her neck soft and feline, put there on purpose, bitable.
“So what are your plans tonight? What are you doing later? Or were you just planning on meeting me for a drink?” I ask.
“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the new Norman Rule exhibit in Beverly Hills, but I think she’s trying to get out of it.”
“Fuck that.” I don’t believe her, I think she’s trying to get out of it, she might as well hop on the table, turn around, and touch the fucking tabletop, I think she’s trying to get out of it -- “I don’t think I like this place. We should’ve agreed to meet somewhere else.”
“I’m not entirely opposed to this place, it’s cozy,” Pipe says.
“Let’s bounce.”
“Are you really that opposed to this place?”
“Yes, I am very much opposed to this place.”
“Fine, let’s go somewhere else then.” Pipe checks her phone again, rips off a text and pops it in her clutch, relines her bra, and takes another sip of her drink.
“Down your drink, this place is suffocating,” I motion for the server and cut my throat for the bill.
After leaving the Tower Bar, we cab it to The Belmont (which had been redone since I was last there) and leave after a quick drink (as there wasn’t much seating) and walk to the cluster of spots near the Pacific Design Center, our fingertips glancing against one another’s, the night colder than usual, car lights and oversized Navigators waiting curbside, Pipe puts her arm inside mine -- ‘For Sale,’ ‘For Lease,’ ‘Available,’ half filled restaurants and empty glass facades, a Swedish massage parlor, rug store, tile store, palm shop, a shut down strip joint, a bad girl gone dead, the dirty girl LA once was, now dissolved and cheapened, overused and soiled, as if what was behind the glass was something I never wanted to touch in the first place.
We walk down Melrose and head to The Comstock, stopping in a shadow between streetlights on Huntley. Pipe hands me a packed chillum and a black Bic lighter. I light the metal end stuffed with pot and inhale, the smoke hitting my throat faster than expected as my mind sinks to the feverish thought of why Pipe called me after all this time apart, her scuffed Boutin’s with the red bottoms tapping against the sidewalk, I blow a cloud that mushrooms then drifts, disappearing into the leaves and branches of the Mimosa tree against the lit night sky. I hand the chillum back to Pipe. She lights, inhales, and blows, her legs crossed at the ankles. West Hollywood and all its petite glory, tiger stripes of ivy climbing white stucco bungalows as a nine-and-a-half in yoga tights walks her cat across the street, fingers attached to a glittery gold leash, a parallel thread . . . “It’s done,” Pipe says, harpooning out whatever’s left, already mid step. She puts the chillum back in a small teak box that could’ve held lipstick, and pops the box in her clutch. I follow her across the street, my mind floating in a soft shell highdom, soapy like a ghost. I step onto the sidewalk and quickly scan the line, five dudes, one girl, all of them from out of town judging by their attire, too much plaid, shitty shoes, and a dumb novel look written on their face as if they never realized that they’re the only ones waiting in line, The Comstock no longer a hot spot to be, just a decent place to get a drink now. “We just wanted to stop in for a drink?” Pipe says.
The mocha-skinned bouncer loosens his scarf, shifts his stance, “Do you have reservations?”
“Reservations? Seriously? It’s a fucking bar,” Pipe says. The bouncer looks me in the eyes and I shrug my shoulders. The bouncer looks at Pipe, “Where you going to dinner?”
“Where’d you go to college? What does it matter -- is BOA better than STK?” Pipe says.
He lets us in. The bouncer checks down to Pipe’s ass as we enter through a velvet curtain that smells like the beach – music invades, “Big Time” by Peter Gabriel, an Indian headdress on one wall, a girl dancing the pole on the other, fake books in bookcases and a second floor catwalk. Pipe steps to a corner spot, hands pulling me to where a few people are, hips moving like a comma – single, white, and female -- the freedom of living within the sphere, dancing in a look but don’t touch sort of way -- I turn her around, place my palm on the small of her back . . . the song mixes to change, Pipe spins around, grabs my neck, and bites my bottom lip as if the past four years sans contact haven’t existed, welcome to Earth. I pinch her hip in the release, “Whatta you want to drink?” I ask.
“What?”
“What do you want to drink?”
“DJ and a beer,” Pipe replies. Her breath hot on my ear, her hand gripping my ass, I maneuver out of her hold and manage through some people, some short skirts, Persians, a chick spinning in circles; I make it to the bar untouched, “What can I get you?” Libby asks, tossing two napkins in front of me.
“Two shots DJ, two Pacifico’s,” I say, over the din of the small establishment.
“Chilled?” Libby asks.
“Yes.”
About a month ago I asked Libby out, heated and inebriated and convincing, she gave me her number, broke protocol, put her rules aside, I never asked her out, I forgot.
Two snaps, four shakes, two pours -- “Open?”
“Yeah,” I reply, handing Libby my Amex.
A cold shoulder from Libby and a look over to Pipe, already holding court to four dudes, one of them’s that fuckface from the television show Lost. It wasn’t that she was a tramp, maybe its neediness. After years of never remembering I have come to understand Pipe’s flittering about as a concentration deficit, plus men liked her. Carrying herself in and out of situations, blowing where the wind blows, landing inside your world to take what was rightfully hers, the last obstacle -- Pipe, she’s one big front. A succubus of a specific degree looking to make dispossessed, that’s her seed, the rest is just stucco, and no matter how much you dress her ass up, she’ll always be that, using dick to rebound nowhere in particular. I refrain from falling into that pit of one-upmanship, and take my shot, hit my beer, and breathe, deliberately not looking at Pipe talking to other dudes -- the song changes to something with tambourines and a trumpet, the new Minnie Tuk song about a Lion in love with a Matador.
“Do you think it’s cool to pretend we’re not friends anymore?” bartender Libby asks.
I turn around surprised, “Sorry, I wasn’t pretending, just didn’t think,” leaning on the bar, “What’s up? How is everything?” I reply.
“Things are good. What about you?”
“Did you ever end up going to Vancouver?” I ask.
“Yeah actually I did, it was beautiful. I wanna just move up there and zone out for awhile, breathe that clean air. I’m surprised you remembered,” Libby says.
“Well it seemed like you really wanted to go. Last time I talked to you that is. You should move up there. If it makes you happy, do it.” I take a sip of the Pacifico.
“I love Canada, it’s a great place to live.” Libby smiles and takes a sip from her water bottle, swallowing like an athlete, attractive and fit, shoulder length auburn hair, good skin, clean face, a notch on the bridge of her nose, an innate extra-something that just missed the mark. She puts the water bottle down, “So what’s up with you now, what are you up to? Writing still?” – And in the instance, Pipe slips next to me, her back to Libby behind the bar, her finger hanging predictably on my belt loop.
I apologize to Libby via smile and she moves on to another order, “So that guy over there wants to party with us,” Pipe says.
“Fuck off, no he doesn’t.”
“Fuck off, he does.”
Pipe drops her shot, sucks a lime and swallows a good sip of beer -- harpooning a warm breath I can feel on my wrist, “We should go talk to him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because he was on Lost, and looks like a douchy pope of Melrose entering Marc Jacobs slavedom -- fuck ‘em?” Looking directly at the actor holding a Heineken talking to his cling-ons in plaid, their faux hawks properly disheveled, mustaches curled and highlighted. I’m unwanted in that crowd; they just want to fuck Pipe.
“FYI, the world’s not beneath you,” Pipe says.
“FYI, you’re too impressionable, give it a rest.”
“FYI -- you’re a dumb fucking donkey that thinks the shitty little lintel you reside on is real.”
“FYI -- the lintel is real.”
“FYI -- the lintel’s another form of insecurity.”
“FYI -- no one likes you.”
“Oh really. Is that really what you’re resorting to now?” Pipe says.
I take a swig of my beer, and after a quick mental sequence of possible events, I’m forced to acquiesce to Pipe’s request, the other way would be worse, “Fine,” I reply.
9:32 the next morning -- the landline rings, I reach for it on my nightstand, fumble and pick it up again, “Hello?”
“So next Friday I want you to come in, don’t worry it’ll be painless, and I want you to bring . . .” It’s Gable, my literary agent of sorts.
“Dude, I just woke up. Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“Your cell’s always on silent. Get up, it’s almost ten. You sound like death. What’s up?”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Next Friday, I want you to come in, face to face. Can you do that, next Friday at 3?” enunciating every syllable.
“Yeah, but I wanted to go and take a look at . . .”
“Thank you very much and have a nice day.”
Dial tone, Gable hung up. Fucker. I down a glass of water and exhale just as thirsty again. My hipbone hurts. I slipped on the kitchen floor shortly after Pipe left my place late last night. This was after I spit a bevy of insults directed at her intrinsic hoe nature, then I pulled her hair, albeit playfully, and then she got pissed, and then she left, and then that was it. I spent the rest of my night watching Schindler’s List on HBO, taking bong rips and drinking vodka out of a hand blown glass tumbler, my steam whistling hot followed by the cold sweat of having nothing else to do.
My small pre-furnished guesthouse, the sliding glass door still open from the night before, my rented existence lit in morning sun. Its hot today, it smells hot, uncharacteristically hot, like summer. The manic anxieties of last night fading away, replaced by a new RX tint, a new day, something extra. A hawk glides in the distance, birds chirp, a dog barks, a dude in swim drunks cuts a woman’s hair on a roof deck two houses down, Laurel Canyon already awake.
America, my cleaning lady, came by yesterday, the aseptic smell of bleach pardoning my third base assault on Pipe. Living in a clean place, floors scrubbed, rugs shaken, counters cleared, the triangle of the toilet paper end still untouched. Just a puddle where a half tray of ice cubes melted in front of the Viking fridge, the lone culprit, the puddle -- I wonder what Gable wants me to come in for? An offer? Impossible. I’ve produced nothing since my first book titled, I Heard the Pulse but There Was Barely a Vibe. A book I thought would change the world, but ultimately never lived up to the expanse of such proclamation, nonetheless I wrote it, made a snippet of change that at the time I thought was a lot, rifled through bad decisions and spit on the world like an ungrateful self serving animal, but I’m still here, still existing, looking for a proper place to advance. Maybe someone wants to buy the rights? Maybe someone stumbled on it? Maybe, it’ll never amount to shit. Maybe I’m destined to suck fucks in a world that threw away my ticket. Last time I saw my agent Gable was at a Doheny Estates party about a year ago, some fundraiser for a WeHo dude running for mayor. He accompanied me with the sole motive of introducing himself to an acquaintance I knew from IGA, the agency he now works for.
My mobile vibrates – message from EMILY, “Are you still alive?” – a ‘used to be’ friend from college whom I drunk texted last night. A girl I cut off for no apparent reason, a regrettable situation that needs no further explanation. I cycle down to the text I sent her, “BTW you still don’t exist,” whatever that means. I drink another glass of water followed by OJ straight from the container.
The landline rings again, and it feels like I’m being watched, a voyeuristic intrusion, the phone continues to ring and I debate answering it then pick up the receiver, “Hello?”
“Is Marion there?”
“No. She moved out. Stop calling,” I reply.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I don’t know how to reiterate this to you but Marion got in trouble, she moved out. I live here now. We have no connection to one another. Stop calling!” I hang up the phone.
Ten seconds later the phone rings again, and I ignore, sure that it’s the Jon that just called. This ex model turned high priced escort named Marion lived in this guesthouse before my arrival, from Paris, turning cash tricks where my bed now resides. I thought the osmosis of it all would bubble more action but not a lot’s happened. When Fuld, the owner of the guesthouse, came to clean out the apartment after her departure, he found empty tampon casings crusted with cocaine on the ironing board in the bathroom, a smuggling device of some sort. But her spirit no longer inhabits the guesthouse, the unit’s life trajectory forever changed by my marijuana smoke and hour long showers and afternoons of endless leisure sans sex.
I look at the ice cube puddle in front of the fridge, a perfect puddle, the subtle crease in liquid where the wood floor warps, the stress of Pipe lingering. What to do? For all the hype leading to the welterweight fight of Crispin vs. Pipe, it underwhelmed. This is what happens when you try to stick it to the past. It never works out. Just a depressing memory that no longer feels fertile. I reach for my mobile and text Emily back -- “Sorry about last night -- What’s up?”
*****
“A Grey Goose martini, dry with a twist, and a cheese burger, medium rare . . .”
“What kind of cheese?” Natalie asks, facing the register touch screen behind the bar, dressed in black, in shape, flawless face -- another girl bartender, brunette this time.
“Camembert, and can I have sautéed spinach on the side instead of fries?”
“You can have whatever you like,” shifting her hips.
I worked out at Sports Club today, followed by a mineral steam plus facial at Tadich & Rose. The Lakers vs. the Timberwolves illuminates off a modest flat screen behind the bar, a blowout. Natalie punches my order in and makes my drink, scooping ice into the stainless steel shaker. I stay silent and continue to watch the game. Natalie slides my drink in front of me, “Thanks.” “Not a prob.” Lamar Odom looses the ball out of bounds, smiles as if it’s not his problem, shrugs his shoulders, and trots back down the court.
“You know I played tennis in college, right?” Natalie chimes, refilling her glass of water, pretending to watch the game.
“Where’d you play again?” I ask.
“Florida.”
“You guys already had your hiccup.”
“Oh, and what’s Southern Cal doing these days, living life sanctioned.”
“Yeah, so what, at least it was worth it.”
“Oh wow,” Natalie smiles, “You know, nostalgia’s not currency,” she says, pulling on her water straw. She puts the glass down, “I actually like SC though,” softening. She moves on to another order. There was a time in life when the possibility of Natalie would have compelled me to pursue. An initial get together, date, drinks, trivial conversation, breakfast after, four days later a follow up text, another date, more sex, more breakfast, friend intros, joint iTunes purchases, sleeping over, random comedic texts about last night’s 30 Rock, together, exclusive, my path hooked to hers, dinner, movies, fights, annoyances, challenges, weekends with parents. Or maybe I’m not her type. Or maybe her path leads to a duplex in Burbank.
Minutes later, I take a bite of the burger, then a sip of vodka, swallowing everything together, my Tom Ford cologne punching the atmosphere as if it is on time-release. Natalie fronts my vision, pretends to look for something behind the bar, bends over, tosses her hair, ponders a thought, and picks up a new pack of paper straws. She cuts a slit in the plastic and refills the empty stirring cup with pastel paper straws.
“Do you still play . . . tennis that is?” I ask.
“Now, not so much. It’s an easy game to get burned out on, the repetition and mental mindfucks beat it out of you after awhile. I’ll hit with someone, but I won’t play competitively. I still workout though, obviously.” She curtsy’s and throws the plastic packaging in the garbage bin.
“Where do you work out?” I ask randomly.
“Equinox.”
“Which one?”
“The one right here by Sunset Plaza. I usually pop in before I come here. It’s easy for me -- Oh! You know who I saw there yesterday?”
“Who?”
“Christian Slater.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Yeah, he still looks amazing.”
“Did you holler?”
“No, of course not. I’m not like that.”
“Then why’d you mention it?” I ask.
“I just had a crush on him growing up, that’s all . . .” And as I say this, a hard hand slaps my back, “My name is Crispin and I’m a recovering homosexual.”
I turn around hoping for a mistake, fearing someone may know I eat alone in public, the outline in front of me indiscernible, it’s Matranga. “Hey, what’s up,” I say, clapping a hug, “Big boy, long time no see. What’s up?” Matranga greets.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” I extend a hand to Matranga’s date, “Crispin, what’s up.”
“Sisley, what’s up.”
His date looking aesthetically secure, a little blonde, a little republican, but seemingly chill nonetheless, pretty fucking hot considering Matranga’s past portfolio. Matranga recently completed his MBA from INSEAD, spending half his time in Fontainebleau, half his time in Singapore -- according to him, all he did was fuck, but I have learned not to believe Matranga in these circumstances, especially when he believes in himself this much.
“So what are you doing, eating by yourself?” Matranga asks.
“Yes -- yes I am. I come here to avoid people like yourself,” I say.
“I’ll hunt your ass down hungry like the werewolf of London, ma’fucker.”
“Oh really now, well in that case . . .” I look at my drink, then Sisley’s hips, then her face, “Sis’ -- C wrote that book I was telling you about, what was the name again?” Matranga asks.
“I Heard the Pulse blah blah blah,” I reply.
“I’ve never heard of it, but don’t take it as a . . .” Sisley says.
Matranga jabs my arm, “You should come sit with us, roll with, why not, what else is going on?” Sisley tickles my elbow with her finger, cooing me to roll with. The hostess standing on Matranga’s other side looks me up expectantly, tapping her ballets twice, roll with and all the time that may entail . . . “We’ll warm up with a drink then,” Matranga says, turning to the hostess, “We’re gonna have a drink first. I’m very thirsty.”
“Not a problem.” The hostess walks back to her mount by the entrance, eying out the floor to ceiling glass. I’ve seen this hostess before: big ass, cute face, eyes like a dove, but hostesses are against policy, they’re just girls too lazy to waitress, no work ethic, the nothingness of modern day slave labor as there are no commissions in reservations baby. Matranga’s already leaning the bar, eyes moving across environs looking for manipulation, Sisley on my other side, her warm arm pressed against mine.
“Babe. What do you want to drink?” Matranga asks.
“Whatever you’re having,” Sisley replies, “Something not too sweet, a big boy drink.”
“Isn’t she great?” Matranga says, knocking my arm.
“She’s a lovely girl.” My eyes pulling for Matranga’s other story about Sisley, but he gives me nothing. I take a bite of my burger.
Sisley relines her hair.
“What can I get you?” a different bartender asks.
“Whatever he’s having -- two,” Matranga says.
Sisley scans the revving-to-crowded restaurant, her naked shoulder blades facing the bar mirror, who has money, the pretenders and puffs in disguise -- Ochocinco steps through the entrance and Sisley shifts her hips to the blackened beauty across the room, his barracuda face and ebon skin, a broad back contouring through an orange tee screaming athlete! A black man worth millions, someone daddy swore her never to touch.
“Whatever happened to that chick you wanted to bang . . . Nina? Whatever happened to Nina?” Matranga asks.
“It wasn’t ever gonna happen.”
“That girl was killer.”
“That girl was hot garbage, fuck that, reject and wait baby, plus, she’s about to get married.”
“Like a last chance?”
“Pretty much.”
Matranga’s drink arrives. Sisley doesn’t touch hers, eyes fixing on the general vicinity of Ochocinco.
“So who are you fucking these days, seriously?” Matranga asks.
“My dick’s not confetti.”
“Whatever happened to that girl we met at Champaca’s, what was her name?”
“It’s like you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying -- you have to leverage your dick as the world’s greatest commodity, and in order to do that you have to reject on shit you may not want to pass on, welcome to Earth baby. Male’s the new bitch,” I take another bite of the burger, juice seeping through the bun onto my fingertips down my hand, the pink meat falling apart.