Be Still My Heart, Then My Tennis Shoes

Mud-shark [muhd-shahrk] adj. - describing a person of the female gender more apt to be in a relationship with a male of African-American descent.

   There are many things in my high school life I am not proud of. One of them, actually the more notable of them, is that I was a "wigger". It was a low point in my life filled with A Tribe Called Quest, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Girbaud overalls. Now, before you turn your nose up and run for the hills, there were many pluses to this niche that I filled.
    First, black guys dug the shit out of me. So, while all my "Metal" and "Punk" friends were having problems after, before, and during school, I was pouring out some 40oz. for the homies. Never mind that I had no dead homies. Never mind that I had no incarcerated homies. Never mind that I really had no "homies" to speak of. These same guys would invite me to incredible parties. When the only white guy walked in, and the record scratched, it would inevitably start back up with some Beastie Boys and everyone shouting and grabbing at my direction to pull me in.
   Second, black girls dug the shit out of me. I was seen as non-threatening, and "down". I could steal a car, drive them and their friends around, and at no time slip and call any of them "bitches". I could come to an Ice Cube show, take them out to eat, and they still wouldn't feel obligated to give me some "punani". I found out a few things from these "dates". Black girls were way more inexperienced than I thought. Black girls had really protective parents, that also tended to hate white people. Black girls had a love/hate relationship with thugs.
   Third, white girls that liked black guys dug the shit out of me. This was awesome. I'm going to stereotype here, so if you have any kind of political correctness that is in danger of being shattered, you have already read too far into this blog. White girls that like black guys were fucking dirty. I mean this in many different ways. Yet, I would like to turn your attention to one of these white girls in particular, her name was Chelsea.
   Towards the end of my senior year she moved down the block from me. She wasn't particularly gorgeous, but she was good looking. In my minds eye I keep picturing her ass. It was like the backside of some human/Clydesdale hybrid. It was fucking incredible. It was the kind of ass that ate up her shorts, and she wore the type of shorts that had no problem being eaten up. She had creamy white skin, that was enhanced by these thighs that only a teenage volleyball player seems to posses. She wore her hair in cornrows, as did every single one of her friends. I knew from the second I saw her that I was hungry. The only problem was her black as coal, 6'2", thug boyfriend.
   His name was Chris. he was a year younger than me and had already dropped out of school. I knew him "well". At the time I had many business endeavours and he happened to be one of my "customers". He liked me enough. I didn't trust him, even that much. He was know for robbin' and stealin'. I tried to never put myself in that position. Notice, the word "tried". I had already become keen to the notion that if you wanted a girl that is in a relationship, you get in good with the boyfriend. So, this is exactly what I did. I am a bad person. Over the next couple weeks I hung out with Chris just enough to hang out with her. He rarely came into my house, and if he did he stood in the front room. Mostly, we hung out at her house, in her bedroom, with her friends.
   "You know, Monica likes you", she whispered to me in a haze of smoke and Old E.
   "Really? That's nice, but I need more", this was my way of being greedy.
   "What do you mean", curiosity always got the best of dumb girls. If it seems that I'm being mean you're going to realize why.
   "I mean, I like more than one girl", planting seeds.
   "Bobby, you're fucking crazy."
   "Crazy for something", looking her up and down for added effect.
   This exchange happens nonchalantly, but every once in a while I would see the glance. I would see the look. I would see that stare, out of the corner of my eye, when she doesn't think I'm looking. Or does she? Then, like a light from only God above, things fell into place.
   "Bobby, I'm going out of town for a few days to visit family", Chris tells me like I'm his confidant.
   "Really, where you going?", seething with naivete.
   "Just to see my grandma New York. I was hoping you'd keep an eye on my girl while I'm gone. Niggas be fucking foaming at the mouth for her. I mean, I can trust her, I just want to make sure no one slips in, ya heard", I'm realizing I can't write slang worth a shit.
   "No problem", really, seriously, no problem.
   Needless to say, it took me two days to convince Chelsea and Monica to go to dinner with me. It took me two minutes into dinner to convince them to drink with me. Oh, the wonders of fake IDs. It took me thirty minutes into dinner to convince them to sleep with me. High school was an easy time. Carefree and wonderful. Fuck it, I thought. I'm almost out of high school. I've been fairly unscathed. I'll take an ass-beaten by a big, fucking black guy. If I say it was for a threesome, my friends will understand.
  
   This was not my first parade.

   We got back to her room and we made ourselves comfortable. It was raining that evening. I remember more than that. They both looked just as good as I imagined. I remember more than that. Her room became a mess, quickly. I remember more than that. They did things, I could tell, they had never done before. I remember more than that. I'll tell you what I do remember.
   Walking out of her house a couple hours later I could see the glow of lights. They seemed to be coming from down by my house. They seemed to be police lights. They seemed to be coming from directly in front of my house. I ran. I ran fast. When people talk about making a b-line, I'm fairly certain they saw me run that day. I ran up towards my front door and saw my mom outside talking to the cops. I took that quick glance at the cop's cars and saw people sitting in the back of said police cars.
   "Son, can you identify a couple people for us?", the cop asked. My mom knew.
   "Sure, what the hell happened", I kind of already knew.
   "Your house was broken into. They didn't manage to get away with anything, but a few items were broken in the chase", cops are so matter of fact. "With the help of your neighbor, who witnessed the whole incident, we were able to apprehend them."
   Out of the back of the car, one of the guys, was none other than Chris. Him and two other guys tried to get away with one speaker, one VCR, one stereo reciever, and my limited edition "New School Green" Filas. They were looking for more. They would have never found it. Basically, if you are critical analysis impaired, he convinced his girlfriend to go to dinner with me. Keep me occupied while he robbed my house.

Two things he didn't count on. Me fucking his girlfriend, and my neighbor being a serious busybody.

 

Coffee and The Beast

It was this morning. I fell in love this morning.

   I stopped for coffee. I never do that. I really never do that. I'm not a coffee person. As I sit here, with my brain buzzing and fingers vibrating at a slow hum, I know why I am not a coffee person. Yet, this morning I fell in love.
 
   Reality:

   "Hi, how are you this morning", brightly smiled inquiries always make nervous on Monday mornings.
   "I seem to have woke up above ground", yes this my standard retort. Yes, it is charming. Yes, this is stolen from my dad.
   "Hahahahahahahahah, that's cute. Well, it's better than the alternative, right?", oh to be young and positive. It's so endearing I want to crush it.
   "That's what they tell me, but I still don't see it", I crush the fuck out of it.
   "Hahahahaha, good point. So, what will you have?"
   We slide into the typical consumer/retailer banter. Her mid-length red hair frames her chubby face perfectly. The freckles on her pale skin makes her smile glow, and make me smile even more. She's from Houston, which gives us a minute or two of conversation. She wants more tattoos, which gives us even more. She fixes my coffee so non-chalantly that I start to forget why I'm there. Her compadre, young and giggly, detracts my attention with a few seconds of interjection from glancing at my barista's soft curves. I can see a hint of cleavage, and round, soft hips that hug the tight work issued slacks. I am hooked. God damn it!
   I pay, she serves...........
  
   Fantasy:

   She slides my iced coffee across the waist-high counter. I reach across, and as I grab it she brushes my hand and leans in.
   "Women's restroom, one minute", a women twice her age isn't this sly.
   I look up, disguising the excitement in my face, as I see her partner in crime give a smile that only goes with someone that knows a little too much about a situation. I turn my back, sip from my unusually delicious drink, and start the count in my head. I count fast. I do that, a lot.
   I knock. I enter. The drink has disappeared from my hand. She faces me, leaning against the gleaming, white sink. Blouse unbuttoned, pants are the the same. I walk over to her and the smirk on my face turns quickly into the deep, hard kiss that makes her moan into my throat. Sliding my hands down both sides of her hips, I drop her pants down to her ankles. We both know it's early, we both know we have work to get done, and I oblige by turning her on her heels. She grips both sides of the sink. I move down onto my knees and spread her thighs open like a mean cop. Her ankle comes out of one of her pant legs, and I taste what has already been started. I can feel the twitch, the shiver, and I can taste the urge. As I stand up she can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of my button fly opening. I see her hands wince on the porcelain. Inside it's tight. Inside it's warm Inside, I can actually feel the vibration of her smiling. Each thrust gets harder. Her cute, freckled face beams at me from the mirror. It makes me harder. I grab the back of her head and push it against her reflection. To me, she is almost kissing herself. To her, I am fucking both of her. Then, it happens. I can feel it. She gets loud. I cover her mouth with my other hand and dive even deeper. Her hands become slightly relaxed, and her work is done. My work is right there. Seconds away. I tell her. She is surprisingly quick. Pushing me backwards, she drops to her knees and takes me in. All in. My back arches and I know she can hear my guttural brain move through her mouth. Her eyes widen as she stares up at me. I grab the hair at the nape of her head almost begging her to stop and keep going at the same time, like the ending paragraph in a Henry Miller chapter.................
   And this is how I fall in love one hundred times a day.

*pictures are used without permission, but I hope that noone gives a shit since I ain't profiting one red cent off of them.



Bonnie and Clyde

  She asked me how to steal a car. Her name was Marissa. She was not very good looking. I was 14, and among some of the worse things I used to do, one of them was steal cars. Lots of them. It became a bad habit. A fun habit, but bad nonetheless.
   Marissa was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with the post-modern flight to the suburbs. You know? The one where every middle class family tried to carve out their own piece of Americana by buying a house, manicuring their lawns, and making little Suzy try out for the cheer leading team. This was her. She was upper-middle class Mexican. Which meant that I spoke more Spanish than she did. Her mother was a stay-at-home, PTA president, bake sale, community organizer mom. Her dad was a middle management, drink beer with the fellas, make sure his lawn is perfect, President of the school board dad.
  She lived nowhere near me. My best friend was her boyfriend. From the minute I saw her, I hated her, and I had to have her. See, I had, and still have, a thing for bitches. I like mean women. I like "my shit don't stink" women. I don't know why. I don't know where it came from. I especially like women that don't like me. I think they have good taste. Back then, I think I was too young to know, or think, why. I just liked the unattainable. I always liked the idea of flying my Mohawk with a cheerleader on my arm. I enjoyed the contrast. I still do.
   So, imagine my surprise when she calls me, out of the blue.
   "Hello", I asked into the receiver, hesitantly. See back then, I didn't have a lot of female callers. So imagine my surprise when my brother yelled up the stairs that there was a girl on the phone for me.
   "Hi Bobby", it was a girl!
   "Yeah, this is Bobby."
   "This is Marissa, Danny's.....well........Danny's ex-girlfriend. Do you remember me?", I could picture her laying on her bed like a 50's teenager. Her black hair splayed out over pink pillows. She's twirling the phone cord with her index finger, staring at her poster of Wham, or some shit 80's pop group.
   "Do I remember you? We just hung out last weekend at the mall. Did you just say Danny's ex-girlfriend?", a little dim light bulb appeared over my Kool-aid red Mohawk.
   "Yeah, that was kind of a dumb question. Yeah, me and Danny broke up on Monday. He said he was too busy to keep up the relationship. I don't really want to talk about it, but I thought you were pretty cool and I wanted to know if you wanted to go hang out sometime.", I could tell this had rebound written all over it.
   "Absolutely", I didn't give a fuck!!!!!!
   So, over the next month we hang out. A lot. Her parents wouldn't approve of me, of course. So they drop her at the mall under the guise that she's meeting friends. From there we head out of the mall and basically do three things. We either made out like gross teenagers in heat, walked to the pool hall down the street and played pool, or hit the dollar movie theater. Yet, we were constantly talking. She was intrigued by my home life, and how my parents didn't seem to give a shit about what I did. I was intrigued about things like, having dinner with your family every night, and what the hell a country club formal was.
  On one of these informal dates we hatched the plan for her to spend the night. It was easy. She was trusted, which is why she got away with so much shit. My parents didn't give a shit. Anyone could spend the night. really, anyone. I could have strolled in there with a boxcar full of hobos, and my parents wouldn't have gave a fuck. I did none of the work, I just said...

"Sure, come on over Saturday night, we'll see what we can get into."

   There ya go. She showed up at about six in the evening. I don't even know how she got there. She laid down two stipulations up front, and quick. No sex. Fuck, I hadn't even had sex, and oddly enough, didn't plan on it this evening. I had to have her at the main downtown bus stop at 10am the next morning. I agreed, and the night started.  It started fast.

   "You have any soda", she asked while pulling a bottle of Rum out of her duffel bag.

   "Why yes...I do", I ran up and down the stairs in record time. Coke, ice, glasses, done.

   We sat around and talked for hours. The TV played in the background, but no one watched it. We got sauced. Really sauced. Then, she asked the big question.

   "So, you could steal a car, right now?"

   "Yes, yes I could."

   "How? Like how do you do it", she really seemed interested.

   "Well, it's not easy, but it's not hard", I confidently started in on an explanation. 

  
   Let's go over the basics of old fashioned car theft. First, getting into a car in the late eighties was not that hard. If the car you wanted was locked well there were still several possible roads to take. You could use a slide hammer to remove the door lock, thus making entry quick, yet loud. You could always "amateur" your way into a car. That involved smashing a window, and unless it was between the hours of 3am and 4am, you were seriously risking getting arrested or shot. Yet, if you had enough strength you could wedge your fingers between the door and the top of the window and pull that window down. You'd break the window regulator, so if it was raining outside, this would suck. You might as well walk. I preferred the path of least resistance, unlocked cars. People in white suburban neighborhoods were oddly trusting of where they parked their cars. Thus, gaining entry was quiet and easy.
   Well, once you're in the car, Robert, then what do you do. Well without boring you with too many inane details, and trying to make it seem as awesome as the movies(it's not) I'll keep it simple. You break the shit out of the steering column, so you don't end up just being able to drive straight. Second, and this is the fancy part, you take a long, thick flat head screwdriver and you jam it into the lock cylinder. It makes its own key. Hahahahahaha. Turn the screwdriver and if you've hit your mark, you have a car.
    "Let's do it", she shrieked in a way only a "bow head" could do.
   "I don't think that's a good idea", through the Rum, I'm thinking straight.
   "NoOOOOOoooOOoooOoo. We definitely should. Please, just one. We don't even have to ride in it. just get it started, then we'll come back to the house. Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon."
   "God damn it, fine."
   I lived in a bad neighborhood. Yet, right behind me, was a really nice neighborhood. Hence, it became my own little auto lot. It was a 1986 Mustang Gt. I hated the guy that owned it, and I hated it even more. It all happened quickly. She was nearly peeing her pants before we even got in the car. It was quick, it was easy, it was loud. Too loud. So loud, we drove off in it. Ha. We ragged that son of bitch out. We did donuts in the McCoy's parking lot, we drove it through fields, we stopped and bought eggs so we could....of course....egg houses.
   The lights lit us up like Christmas. It was a cop, and the three blocks I had spent trying to out run him made it a very unpleasant stop.  No license, underage, stolen car, halfway to drunk is no way to go through life young man. We were two blocks from my house. I could see my roof. All that seperated us was one small field, a fence, and the turn of a block.The cop stood at my door. I looked at Marissa. She was crying. I had to make this right.
   "Follow my lead", I mouthed to her.
   "Noooo", she muffled.
   "Trust me", I mouthed.
   "OK", I can't believe she's trusting me.
   I waited, waited, waited, and watched as the cop made a slight turn away from the car door. I kicked it open like a fucking mule, knocking him forward on his hands and knees. We took off like bullets. We were young, in shape, and scared. That fat cop didn't stand a chance. We were over the fence before he even stood up.
   We got home, she cried, a lot. She packed her duffel bag, called a friend and left. I was still laughing it off when she walked out the door. It was 4am. I heard through the grapevine that she kept using the word degenerate to describe me to her friends. I never understood the problem. I mean, yes, I was a degenerate, but we had gotten away. No harm, no foul.
No harm, no foul
No harm, no foul
No harm, no foul.
I thought we had fun. We would never speak again.

My short lived Frida Kahlo

They say the first sentence is what gets you. Well, here it is:

    I fell in love with her while I was into my first month of being engaged to be married. I was fairly depressed in San Antonio.  Depression in a city like that, is tantamount to dragging a 80lb. weight with your cock all day long. Also, it didn't help that I was new to the city so I was still getting a firm footing on anything I could find that made me feel like I fit in. So everyday, after work, I would put on my civvies and wander through a city that I knew absolutely nothing about. This basically meant moving from coffehouse to bar to museum. Wash, rinse, repeat.

   I finally settled at place called Zoe's. It was so reminiscent of me failing to succeed in Austin that I loved it. It was an old building that was wood, and wood, and more wood. It creaked, and smelled like roasting beans and cigarettes. The shingled roof was falling apart, and you could taste old San Antonio rain on the porch, even in the middle of a cloudless day. The interior was dark, brown, and filled with books. Did I mention Cynthia? Oh yeah, she worked there, and she was amazing.

   She was the artist in me. Does that make sense? After leaving Austin the "artist" friends I had became exactly that, the friends I had. Hold on, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start from the beginning.

   Back in the 90's there were these events that became very popular at coffeehouses across the nation. they wee called Poetry Slams. It was like a poetry competition for aging twenty-somethings that were trying to hold on to some semblance of popularity that their writing had given them in high school. I, of course, was one of those people. So, after a couple weeks of drinking myself drunk on coffee, inhaling more cigarettes than a young person should, eating so many scones I probably supported a portion of France by proxy, and gawking awkwardly at Cynthia every-damn-day, I entered Zoe's inaugural poetry slam. I also, kicked its ass. I won the shit out of it. Two people came up to me afterwards to thank me for entering, and they were crying. Pussies.

   I go out back to smoke, and laugh into the $75 I just won.

   "You're good", she slyly whispered from directly behind me.

   "Hahahahahaha, I wish. If I was good I wouldn't be winning poetry slams in coffeehouses", trying to be quick and nonchalant.

   "That's the truth. Can I give you some advice?" I have to admit, she was kind of being a bitch, and I liked it.

   "Absolutely", my head was begging that the advice involve some form of us making out right now.

   "Use that money to pay your tab, that way I can get out of here. Hahahaha. Also, do you want to go get a drink?"  YES!!!!!!!!!!!!

   "Sounds good", and it starts.

   Quick, frame of reference for this story. I am 20 years old at this point, so I am freaking out because the only places I can drink, know me as a machinist. I also, don't know how old she is. So, this whole fiasco could be finished before it even starts. Luckily, she didn't give a shit about my age. Take-out Chinese food, two bottles of wine, and this is what started my three-week love affair.

   It was the kind of affair that has you laying on your back, on a downtown porch, staring at the night sky, and talking about Mexican folk lores till 4am. The kind of love affair where Tom Waits plays in the background while you go down on her for what seems like an eternity, and when she tries to return the favor you find yourself so satisfied you hush her and lay there feeling her smile. We walked around the city at midnight taking photographs, and if you have ever been to San Antonio, you know, midnight is a dark time to be downtown.

   She was gifted. She made these incredibly intricate shrines to dead artists. She wrote, she cooked, she made me a better painter. In three weeks she helped form my opinions on Albert Camus. She taught me to understand that making tortillas was not only fun, it was my a birthright. She loved my anger. She prodded me to get in arguments with her pretentious friends. She loved that I carried a shotgun in my truck and that I kissed like every kiss was my last. She made me forget my fiance.

MY FIANCE!!!!!

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!

   Yes, my fiance. Who I had forgotten, but she had not forgotten me. I realized this when I drove home one night and there she was. My mother had already filled her in on the particulars, so there was really no need to fill her in on the details. In fact, the honest truth, had it not been for my mother actually going out of her way to call her, the engagemnet probably would have just fizzled. No pop. It was a back and forth battle. I don't remember any tears. I don't remember any anger. I just remember a rock, and someone slowly chiseling away at it. The fiance already knew where Cynthia worked. She already had plans. She already had decided "no" was not the correct answer. I sat there with my head in my hands, as she drove away.

   Two hours later.

   "You are not going to see her again."

   "Ok"

   "Do you even want to know what she said?"

   "Not really"

   "She said, 'He's an amazing man. He's unbelievably talented and he might even be a genius. He should be with someone that can deal with an artist.' Do you want to know what I told her?"

   "Not really."

   "Well, he's with me."