You can’t be angry when you’re dead
“Coming, coming,” I grunt shuffling over to open the door. A giant gorilla bares his teeth at me in the dingy hallway. “Who are you?” I say. “Night manager,” he snorts, pitching forward like a door off its hinges and bringing me down with him. I’m pinned under the massive frame, the pressure crushing my chest and — phew — I wake up. There’s a sliver of daylight between the drapes — gotta be morning, or afternoon — bright enough to register the empty bed beside me in this ritzy hotel. Nothing dingy about that.
Where’d the snatch go? Memory ain’t what it used to be. I can’t even remember the countdown to midnight, much less making it back here. Geez, I’m all entangled in this bathrobe, need to spread it open, feeling a little winded from raising myself up. Could be the extra pounds up front — oh well, like I told the doc, I’m not about to go on a diet. A few pillows behind my back — take a good look at Mr. Goodbar, my big guy, doesn’t need help from any blue pills to perk up. I reach for it, eager to reward it for all the years it has served me without fail when all hell —
What a racket. The pounding is on the door now, not just in my head, a screechy “housekeeping” is added to the mix — I forgot the do-not-disturb sign — the TV’s blasting out a rerun of fireworks and rowdy crowds — who turned it on? — my cell’s vibrating with relish for busting my eardrums. Why would anyone call here on New Year’s Day? Next meeting ain’t till midweek. “Come in,” I holler at the door fumbling for my glasses to see who the caller is. Fucking ringtone, I gotta figure out how to change it on this gizmo. What’s up with that headache anyway? Doc says I’m in excellent health, not gonna stroke out any time soon like some guys my age.
This girl is stuck in the middle of the room with her cart of cleaning supplies, staring like a deer in the headlights, pretending not to see that Mr. Goodbar is wide awake. I nod knowingly, up and down her figure. Granted, you can’t make out her boobs under that silly housekeeping outfit, great set of legs though, and those dark eyes and parted lips — what a tease, the question mark on her face. “Yeah yeah,” I say, “go ahead and clean up.” I scramble off the bed so the little honey can put on a show of arching and stretching and flapping the sheets.
“Hello,” I yell on my way to the couch, having punched the nagging phone just to shut it up. Great, it’s my fucking wife Erin bitching right off the bat about the noise on the line. “It’s the TV, I can’t find the remote,” I say as I spy the remote in the middle of the bed, must have rolled on it in my sleep. Where’s Ms. Housekeeping? “Aaargh,” I go at the swaying ass disappearing into the bathroom, I should have known she’d start there. Big mistake grunting, now Erin wants to know who’s there with me — some bird I picked up at the party last night, maybe? The castrating bitch. Mr. Goodbar promptly shrivels on listening to her yadda yadda yadda. “Nah,” I lie, “Just my foot, gout’s acting up.”
I should never have married a girl with her own money, can’t tell her she’d be out on the street if she doesn’t shut the fuck up. Fucking Erin, not only she owns the company, she’s got a law degree — law school’s where she’s learned to hit people over the head nonstop with that yadda yadda yadda. I should have listened to Stephie before I tied the knot — kid’s the only good thing from my first marriage — she flew home mid-semester to beg me not to go through with it but stupid me, I was smitten or something. Erin had this effect on me. I didn’t want to hear Stephie’s gripes about getting another “older sister” for a stepmom and now it’s come back to bite me in the ass.
I don’t know how to fix these kind of mistakes. I don’t know what the fuck women want. I mean, besides a big hard cock. Erin’s the exception, I guess, or has been since she found out I’d been boinking Gillian. She’s like a fucking lamppost, my wife. Nothing would make her budge. It wasn’t enough that I fired Gillian — best assistant I ever had — she made me hire her nephew Pete, for Pete’s sake. The kid’s an idiot, doesn’t do half as good a job as Gillian used to, and I don’t feel like fucking him. I guess that’s the idea, but if I can’t get any from my wife, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
I feel like throwing the phone out the window, hell, you can’t open windows in this hotel, but she makes me so mad. I got this nagging pressure in my chest and I can’t even grunt without Erin thinking I’m getting my rocks off. This woman is thousands miles away and still running my life, I’m not like the jerks who beat up their wives, but I sure feel like strangling her sometimes, my fists clench as soon as she starts, lucky for her I don’t want to go to jail. I got people, just not the kind that would clean up forensic shit, no one like the big guy’s peeps — he can shoot some brown dude on 5th Avenue and get to be president. Fuck it. I should tell Erin, yeah, I picked up a real hottie at the party, she’s blowing me as we speak.
Granted, I can’t get a word in edgewise. Not that I’ve been listening, just that amid the barrage of yadda yadda yadda the word divorce leaps out. “What?” I say. “What the fuck you talking about? You want a divorce? Why? I already agreed to all your terms, what more do you want? No, I’m not barking. I am not. Okay, fine, I’m barking. Do we have to do this over the phone? Wait till I get back. Then we’ll sort it out.” Shoot, my chest is on fire. “Fine. Whatever you want, babe, happy new year to you, too.” You’re giving me a fucking heart attack. “Kiss Jonathan for me. Bye.”
I’m seeing red, didn’t notice the doll’s out of the bathroom, making the bed, does she really have to bend over like this? I close the gap between us in a heartbeat, I’m suddenly twenty, grabbing her by the pussy, like the man says, she’s kinda short and slippery and I lose my balance, landing hard on top on her like my dream gorilla. I press her head into the sheets with one hand. “Shush,” I say, the usual crap, whatever comes to mind. “No screaming, you hear, or else — ” Last gal complained to the night manager and he came knocking on my door, asked if he should call the cops. Unbelievable, the gall on these illegals, or whatever they are. I assured him she never said no, acted like I was giving her the time of her life, told him to fire the bitch if he wanted my business. Customer’s always right.
This one’s bumping and grinding before I done anything — she’s stronger than the others, even though she’s just as small — and she’s making funny choking noises into the sheet — one hell of a turn on. I raise myself a tad to get at her panties and she’s like some fucking circus acrobat suddenly her elbow comes up and smacks me in the nose. I’m having a major bleed out like I haven’t since I was a little kid. “What the fuck?” And she’s like, “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry mister. I didn’t mean to…” What? She speaks? “Get the fuck out,” I say, hobbling over to the bathroom. “I’m calling ICE.”
Fucking disaster looking at myself in the mirror. White bathrobe’s streaked with blood. Breaks my heart, the way it hurts — all ’cause that piece of ass from last night wouldn’t come up to the room with me. The way she moved on those stilettos, all tipsy, practically falling into my arms, giggling every time I topped her drink. Great bar, that party, and no one from Erin’s crowd to rat me out. I was about to hoist the gal over my shoulder and carry her to my room combat style — pain shooting down my side just thinking about it — when some heifer swooped in and grabbed her, “C’mon, sweetie, we gotta get going,” and off they went pretzeled together like a pussy version of Laurel and Hardy. Gotta be a lez, the Hardy type — she ain’t getting any the way she looks, I guarantee you that. But her friend, whoa, I got a hard-on thinking what might have been.
Women in this country are way out of control. They used to be much nicer back in the day. What were we thinking giving them rights? First off, we gotta do away with their voting rights, then we’ll see how much yadda yadda yadda they can generate. And let’s not forget property rights. Erin, I run her company for her — I fucking made her rich beyond her wildest dreams — and now she wants me out for something that’s got nothing to do with the job? Who’s gonna run this country if the bitches get everybody fired? Fucking undocumented gorillas? It’s a disgrace. I can’t wait for the big guy to push the big button and nuke them all, the biggest fireworks display— blastoff Mr. Goodbar — I’m going through the melted windows, hurtling over the blue planet as gazillion mushroom clouds pop up across the terrain, each detonating the next, wish I could be there when it all blows up in her face, I’d be laughing my head off for all of eternity, ’cause, yeah, babe, yadda yadda yadda, that’s right, you can’t be angry when you’re dead.
