Like a bandit in the old west, my earbuds are my trusty six shooter and it’s holster, my mp3 player. When it’s fully loaded with an ammunition of songs, I am ready to take on any varmint at High Noon. Although I am unwilling to share my cover of Wanted Dead or Alive, I will be candid with my taste in music. You will find that I commonly park my hoss at the Hard Rock saloon, in between Pop Rock Barber Shop and the Bank of Alternative. My usual orders are awesome riffs and solos like More Than A Feeling by Boston or hypnotic vocals from any song sung by Freddie Mercury. If the bartend ain’t serving any joy juice, my earbuds double as buffer, eliminating pesky advances from bar prostitutes. Sometimes you just need a time-out from reality.
“What the Fuck!! Do you want us to die!?” I yell and tug her arm away from the wheel.
In response of my defense, she slaps back and generously includes and elbow to my right ear. My hearing goes numb on the right side. Condensation accumulates on the windshield from the irate suicidal and her scowling mouth. A stream of heat and maledictions whiz by my face as I roll down the window. I continue to wonder why and how I got stuck in the honeycomb. Trissy became too much beeotch to handle.
If I weren’t such a nice a guy, I would have dumped her on the curb like a Microsoft operating system. There was an absence of goodbye kisses and pleasantries as we reached Trissys home. I stared at her bubble behind as she walked away with flailing arms and thought, that’s the last time I tap that.
She owned a Playstation with a healthy library of games, which basically is code for keeper.
The names have been modified for anonymity but the following story is remarkably factual.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?!”
“I bet you’re hanging with that fucking bitch Jelena.”
“Get your ass down here and pick me up!”
“If you don’t call me back I’m gonna tell everybody at the club we’re fucking sleeping together!” My voice-mail relays to me.
“Your psycho friend again?” Jelena smirks. A yawn follows as she unravels her naked body from my arms.
“Yeah, I think Tristys drunk again.” I hand Jelena my phone and have her listen to the R rated voice-mails as I slip out of bed and jump in the shower.
“I think you should see what the fuss is about.” Jelena yells from the bedroom.
I quietly sigh in agreement, staring at the beading water on the white bath tile as if artificial rain would offer any resolution. What the fuck did I get myself into? I ponder achingly. I continue to wash the sex off.