"Damn, look at the ass on that," I thought to myself. As always happens to most men, especially when they're with their women in public, the object of my attention turned around and busted me. The obligatory dirty look came, but it was only half-hearted. She continued removing her items from the cart and placing them gingerly on the conveyor belt that led to the register. I shrugged my shoulders a little, jingled my keys in my coat pocket, and kept a poker face; if she didn't want the attention she shouldn't have been bending over in jeans that tight. Her movements became more and more graceful, however, like she was putting on a show now that she knew she was being watched. And that face, I recognized that face. Her tits were obviously after-markets, the roots of her hair were several shades darker. It was all so tactless and cheap like hotel paintings. This was a fake woman, one that probably wore heels and neon thongs for a living. I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine what she'd look like in a dark room illuminated only by blacklights. Bingo. As she handed the cashier some money from her purse I hoped that there weren't any singles in the mix. That poor kid working for three dollars above minimum wage didn't deserve to be handed money that had been in this broad's various folds and crevices. She walked away with a heavy switch of her cheeks and strutted through the automatic doors towards the parking lot like she wanted me to follow her and help her put her groceries in her trunk. The world was a sick place, alright. I checked out and proceeded to my car. The ride home was business as usual.
Benny's car was sitting in the front lawn when I pulled into the driveway. It had been parked in the same spot for four days straight. He wasn't even trying to go out and get a job. I didn't know how much further my hospitality would last. There's something wrong with people who lack all ambition, and something worse with those who choose to do so on another man's couch. I parked the car and walked in through the front door to rouse him from his probable slumber in order to recruit him to help bring in the groceries. To my surprise he'd pried himself from his usual spot on my sofa. I heard the exhaust fan running in the bathroom and saw light coming through the door that was half-way open. I approached quietly to try to scare the deadbeat so he'd be awake enough to give me a hand. When I peered into the bathroom the first thing I saw were his feet, toes down. They were connected to his calves, which were attached to his knees that were touching the floor, which led up through the various bones in that children's song right up to his head, which was hovering over the toilet bowl. Benny's eyes were closed and he seemed to be in a mystical state of ecstasy. My attention went to his hands which were down inside the bowl. Had he dropped something in there?
I stood up on the tips of my toes and saw that I was wrong. Benny was kneading his own fecal matter like dough. I saw it oozing out from between his fingers and my stomach instantly turned. We all knew the man was a bit on the strange side, but none of us suspected the extent of it. For lack of a better plan in such a bizarre set of circumstances I reached for the knob and pulled the door closed as hard as I could. That would let him know he'd been caught without forcing us to make the terrible eye contact that neither would be able to handle. I heard a few expletives under his breath, and then the toilet flushed. Benny ran the sink, presumably to wash his hands. I backed away slowly from the door and awaited whatever was coming next.
The door opened abruptly and Benny made his way to the kitchen without saying a word or looking in my direction. He reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a bottle of bleach. After running the hot water for a few seconds he plugged the sink and dumped some bleach into it, then proceeded to scrub his hands in the disinfectant solution he'd concocted as if out of second nature. This was not the first time he'd been through this drill. Benny was a repeat offender. I didn't have time for repeat offenders in my life anymore. Hell, I could barely forgive myself for most of the things I had done. He had to go, his welcome had been well worn out. Now it was just a matter of who would cast the first stone. Benny didn't keep me in suspense for long.
"I'll pack my things and go. I'm sorry, Ron. I can't explain myself."
I saw the genuine remorse in his eye sockets that had been hollowed by years of hard drinking and television. At that particular moment, and only for a brief time, I felt bad for the man. It wasn't defeat that was so hard to take for a person; it was admitting to it. That's what broke a soul. I'd learned.
"Yeah. Maybe that's a good idea." I instantly regretted using the word 'maybe'.
Benny gathered his things while I pretended to search through the refrigerator and cupboard for some dinner ingredients. I didn't trust him enough to turn my back to him anymore. A butcher knife sat in the dish-drying rack next to the sink. Both of us knew it was there, both of us probably knew that the other had the same plan if anything should go wrong. It was the most tense situation I'd ever been subjected to, but it played out so blandly and would seem so normal to anyone who had just tuned in. Those kinds of moments are the ones that make me wish I could write, wish I could describe the human condition. "Ron Hastings, World-Renowned Author!" It'd never happen, I'd already seen to that. My eyes stayed discreetly glued on Benny as I settled for being able to experience such an odd event, and live through it. I shuffled various food containers around and pulled some pork chops from the freezer. By that point Benny had gathered all of his belongings and was headed for the door.
"The key," I said more timidly than I'd hoped for.
"It's on the coffee table," he mumbled.
I felt like a fool. The nerve of this bastard to make me feel out of line! As if he shouldn't be walking on eggshells. As if he shouldn't be praying I wouldn't tell our friends. He was disgusting, like hamsters who have to be separated after giving birth so they don't consume their young. If this was what the human race had been reduced to it was no time for a photo op. I cringed at the thought of every handshake I'd ever given him. One last one for the road was absurdly out of the question.
"Bye, Ron."
"Bye, Benny."
The door closed gracefully like a top-knotch escort or foreign dignitary had just left. How could someone so vile even make movements similar to the rest of us? I shook my head as I put the pork chops back into the freezer and pulled out that bag of frozen peas that I'd always warned Benny not to eat.
Things appeared to be different in my bedroom. Everything was in its place, but I felt as if I'd witnessed some warped event that would never be erased from my memory. I sat at my computer desk intent on doing the only thing that I knew would put me back in control. I dropped my pants to my ankles and positioned the bag of frozen peas between my thighs. I entered my password for that monthly membership website and scrolled down to the latest movie uploaded. After spreading some paper towels across my knees I pulled open the drawer on the right side of my desk and shoved my right hand in. I rose to attention. The feather drawer felt so good, the tingling sensation shot from my hand to my spine and I started going to town with my left hand. It wouldn't take long, I'd just ripped open a pillow and added some fresh feathers to the drawer the previous night. Sure enough I was right. My head tilted back, my left hand sped up, my lips quivered violently as the the bag of frozen peas fell to the floor and the paper towels caught the mess. And to think that some clowns paid that supermarket strumpet hundreds of dollars in the back room of some dingy strip joint for the same result.
The world was a sick place, alright.
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