The Devil You Know and the Devil You Don't

"Bottom's up and down the hatch," Shell raised his shot glass to heaven for the ninth time in an hour and that's when everything went to hell. The booze worked it's evil mojo. The usual tension between roommates boiled over. Shelly verged on being blackout-drunk. Suddenly the world owed him and everyone was out to get him. He had a Stalinistic paranoia. Since I was in the radius of the blast zone, he leaned into me.

"I want my money. All the money you owe me. That would be like $500 bucks and I know you have it in your sock drawer. So fork it over." He was splayed out on the coach, indolent as usual.

"Fuck off! I paid you already," I sneered. I was perturbed that he knew about the money in my sock drawer, but I wasn't shocked. Roommates can't hide things from one another for long. When living with someone else, one comes to expect no privacy. The experience is like a Parisian commune and an East German police state wrapped up into one.

"Well, I don't think you paid me..." Shell said. His eyes seemed to look right through me. He wasn't himself. He got in my face and I could taste his alcohol-filled breath. Then a stupid urge overtook him and he shoved me. A dark hand was upon us.

History will record this moment as the last time the living room had fully intact furniture. He threw me against the wall, knocking over the bookcase that doubled as an empty beer can holder. We crash landed on the couch. It cracked in half. Quicker to my feet, I whacked him over the head with a wooden kitchen chair. He tried to jab me but had poor footing, missing the mark. I grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him in close for an uppercut. After we traded a few more blows and then it all went black...

What the fuck?! I woke up inside the bathtub. The first thing I did was to check if I had all my teeth. My head throbbed. Pain radiated throughout my body. My spinal column was twisted like the Amazon Rover. I barely managed to stand up and went in search of a painkiller. There were no elixirs in this house. The medicine cabinet only had some Tums. One pain had no cure: I had to face the music between Shelly and I. Lord knows I wasn't happy that I slugged my good friend and nor was I pleased that our crappy place was now worse.

The living room looked like Bosnia. Shell was nowhere to be found. I stopped yelling for him, because it only aggravated my head. My cell phone went off...

"Hey, it's Shell's cousin Marty." Now this was the last cocksucker I wanted to hear from and I pulled the phone away from my ear but he jabbered on: "I'm at this 24-hour strip joint. That money you paid back to Shell sure came in handy."

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm so glad you paid Shelly back. We're having a great time..."

"What did you say?" I felt my blood pressure rise.

"Hey, calm down... I've sent a cab for you. I scored some more cash at this all night poker game. I'm sitting on a smooth couple grand. Shell says he is sorry and owes you... Plus, there's a guy here who can really hook things up with these strippers."

Like always, I let myself be talked into something I'd regret and couldn't afford. The sunlight hurt my eyes as I stood on the street corner. My clothes were in tatters and my face had been recently donated to the Muhammad Ali School of Boxing. Two fucks from Case Western University strutted by. They appeared frumpier than me. Jeans pre-ripped, shirts pre-stained, hair purposely unkempt, toe-jam, and stinky feet in $175-dollar sandals -- what kind of asshole looks this way intentionally? My court-ordered anger-management classes weren't helping me much.

Standing there with my prick in the wind, I dreamed of a warm, soft bed and something to eat. Finally the cab arrived. The dude who picked me up was from Somalia. He gleefully informed me he has only been driving for two months. I asked, in America? No, in his whole life. Perfect, a toss-me-back-and-forth ride. My stomach deserved a better protector.

The Silver Horse Saloon, an over-priced titty bar, operated 24/7. Sin had its own universe in Cleveland. At this place a guy would go in with a cash-stuffed wallet and leave broke, scented with expensive perfume. Champagne, lap dances, and private "fantasy" rooms awaited me. I had no business going inside.

Shelly was sitting at this round table with a blonde in each arm. Both were flat out gorgeous -- fake tits and Russian accents. Marty had a couple of girls too. A guy with sunglasses and slick black hair sat alone. I didn't know him but he had a presence like Marlin Brando. I assumed he was the guy Marty mentioned on the phone.

"Shell what's up? Marty..." I said hesitantly. Before I could have any temptations to revisit the conflict, a beer was in my hand.

"Sit down friend, enjoy life's pleasures," Shell said. He was dressed sharply, free of bruises. Where did he get those clothes, I wondered and how come he didn't have any signs of being in a fight? "Hey Kid," Shelly said to the stranger, "Fix up my friend here like you did me... And put it on my tab." Shell was acting arrogant as a gangster. He pulled the girls close to his chest and they giggled.

Before I could blink I was in an Armani suite and all my pain had evaporated. What the fuck was going on? But I was too burned out to question the universe. I modulated my thoughts to something more terrestrial. "What do you do for a living, Kid?" I asked the new guy and waved over the cute Asian waitress over for some company. As Kid lit a smoke, a sweet little thing from Korea snuggled up in my lap. That fine haunch of hers rubbed against my crotch. She let me put my hand between her thighs after I bought her a drink. It was sleazy and I loved it.

"To answer your question," Kid said, "I'm into quality assurance. It's a family business, really." He was trying to downplay things. "I'm doing this gig now but I want to do something other than the family business. I want to step out on my own. I'd like to play jazz saxophone. Wild nights at a night club in Paris... Saxophone melodies wrapping around the beat like a snake, slithering in and out of time... Then suddenly heading off anew, shedding skin... I love music like that... I really do."

He kept up this scintillating talk for an hour or so. I was sold. I agreed with the man, nodding along and hanging on each word. Kid was a true artist, or at least he talked like one, and that impressed me. I approved of his I-don't-give-a-shit attitude. Furthermore, he wasn't easily distracted by a good-looking piece of ass like me, Shelly or Marty. That was something a man could respect. How many hours did I piss away in mental masturbation over a broad who never noticed my ass?

"What sort of quality are you assuring?" Marty piped in.

"Souls..." he spoke coolly.

His eyes glowed red after he removed his shades. He wasn't kidding. The son of Lucifer himself was sitting with us at a topless joint. I felt honored. However, my attention quickly turned away for good reason.

Maritza took the stage, it was more like she owned it. She was absolutely lovely. Her skin was olive complected. Her breasts were large, firm: real. She had on a tight-fitting, red sequenced dress. When she spun in time to the music, it was magic. Those calves and thighs - how I wished they would open up to me. Shelly was thinking the same thing. The two blonde Ruskies didn't faze him. He wanted this Italian beauty like I did.

Bent over, she was paradise on two legs. Maritza had an ass that would have had Van Gogh painting with more inspiration. She wasn't like all the others who made conversation to just get to a guy's wallet. Sitting next to her, a man felt like a mogul or a movie star. It's a shame she was dancing here but I didn't have the means for a woman like her. How could I dare of dream of rescuing her?

I walked up to the stage, one of a dozen guys, all surrounding her, waving dollar bills. I couldn't imagine what that sort of attention would be like. Shelly, being the big shot, paid for everyone's drinks. That's when we started to stare each other down. Kid ambled over.

"You dumb asses are about to go fisticuffs over this stripper... She doesn't even know you..."

"Yeah, but can't I like make a deal to have her?" Shelly asked.

"That's something my father would have jumped at, and I guess that's why he is disappointed with me... See, I have a bit a of a heart. I'm not going to take a soul so a guy can have a night with a stripper. I have pity. Yes, even in hell there is pity."

Shelly's face turned red and he got indignant: "It's my soul, Kid... Set it up."

As this interplay occurred, my eyes were on a goddess. Maritza didn't move across the stage, she glided. She knelled down before me. Her perfume filled my nostrils. So sweet. I was intoxicated. She put her hand on my cheek and pulled me to her breasts. At that moment I would have delivered myself to be sacrificed.

"Do you want a little bit of heaven, or a little bit hell," she whispered to me. A nimbus enveloped her.

I looked back at Shelly and the Kid. They were drafting a contract. That damned Shelly was trying to get the Devil's son to help him steal my fantasy. My eyes returned to Maritza. I touched her hand and she touched mine. Oh, how I'd wait for hours on end beside the phone for just one call... I'd stay alone for days just to be hers. For endless nights I'd fill her with a lead pipe with wings. I'd worship her like a princess and fuck her like a whore. Passion-struck and lovesick, I was in a daze and knew it was all too much for me. Mere mortal man, run...run...run...

Leaving the loud music and dark club behind, I stumbled out into the daylight. There were millions of cracks along the concrete sidewalk. Shattered glass, cigarette butts, litter and even a child's chalk drawing of an angel. My clothes were again in tatters, the Armani suite vanished. I had 5 bucks in my pocket -- enough for eggs and coffee. I took a deep breath: oh my, the sweet smell of Maritza, very divine.

Back at the Apartment, I stood around and eyed the disaster. I went into Shell's room and he was buried beneath the covers. He muttered repeated apologies for borrowing my money. I took pity and let it go.

Time passed and I never saw Kid again. Shell never got his contract. Nonetheless, I dreamed of vacationing in Paris with Maritza. My thoughts painted us standing close and the sultry timbre of the saxophone filling our souls. But I wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't going to have any supper and I was bound, yes bound, to suffer.

God Bless, Shell, that sweet Jew, so damned Christ-like. What friend... What timing... He was playing Bob Marley and it lifted my soul. Yes, those lyrics reminded me what my terra firma ought to be.

"Simmer down...
Control your temper
Simmer down
You won't get no supper
And you're bound to suffer..."


Coming Soon: Classified Ads, Hot Wife & No Cash For Burgers and Fries

The Installation Art of War

Start calling me Patton, folks, because I just finished reading Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. I was ready for action! Damn, I was glowing like I had five stars, two pearl-handled revolvers and was leading the 3rd Army across the Siegfried Line into Nazi Germany. Hungry for more knowledge, I decided to open up the local news section in the paper. (It was the only other thing I had in the crapper to read). The words “Art Contest -- Win Money” stared me in face. They tempted me like a hot stripper whose gyrating hips could drain me of my last dollar or like Satan trying to trick Christ into jumping off a cliff. Since I had already spent my last dollar, the cliff was my only option. So my thoughts took a leap of faith… I was ready for a battle with the muses.

Classic painters like Van Gogh had talent, but Andy Warhol and the likes ushered in a tsunami of caca from which the world is yet to recover. This meant that untalented bums like Shell and I could enter an “art contest” and possibly score a few bucks, a little fame in the local press and get a few chicks, too. Now if my roommate Shell and I had talent for anything, well, it was for being shysters. We could pull wool over the eyes of the best of them. No shame! Nope we had nothing constricting us like a conscious or a hope for heaven. Come to think of it, the only reason we weren’t on top of the world was because we procrastinated so damned much.

Flush I finished my business on the toilet and rushed out to share my new idea with Shell. He had his feet propped up on the kitchen table and was eating around the mold on the Wonder Bread loaf.

“Gotta’ a way we can score cash and girls…”

The sports section dipped below his chin and his eyebrow raised, “yes, pray tell.”

“There’s an art show downtown. I mean a contest. Anyone can enter. It’s modern art which means it can be anything. We can do that shit, most definitely. Look at all these New York bozos making millions by splattering paint on a canvass or hanging a bunch of oranges from a ceiling and putting up a sign that says ‘orange.’” Now, I knew damned well we had no chance in hell of winning, but I was bored. And boredom is the mother pranksters.

“Alright, you have a point. But what you don’t have is the faux sophistication nor the homo-style sensibility to ever convince a crowd of wannabe art lovers that we are artistes. Shell had to say the French word, artistes. It was his way of cutting me down at the knees. “So, what’s your big idea… You know this bread isn’t all bad, you got to chew around the mold… still edible.”

I wanted to take the art world by storm and my roommate was devouring a penicillin experiment, great. “Well, I got an idea from Rumsfeld. Remember our basketball game with him? We could do a piece on the war…”

“What are you talking about, a piece on the war? Whatever we do it’s going to be a piece of shit,” he said, letting out a belch and then scratched his nuts. Shelly liked to argue for argument's sake. I knew he'd want to be in on the action. I rolled out my plan like a Latin American death-squad commandant who had CIA support for a coup de'etat. We lit up our cigars and bathed in the tobacco drenched air. A few hours and a couple drinks later, we were in business and on our way to the show.

We installed our gift to the art world right in the middle of the room. Yep, notice that I didn't say "put up" or "hang." NO... We installed this mother. The sexy mannequin was standing atop several sandbags. She was dressed camoflage mini-shorts and a matching tank top with one breast hanging out. She had on a red, white and blue thong that was hiked up so everyone could see it. Hundreds of little green army men were glued to her legs. They were charging from out of her snatch, which had a neon sign around it that glowed: POWER! At her feet lay strips of bacon. Above it all hung a banner that read: "Pussy Command: sign up to be fucked by the USA!"

As the art-loving singles and dinks of Cleveland gathered round our monument to the Greek Goddess, we heard gasps... awkward silence... nervous laughter... and outright disgust... I loved it all. Shell and I were dressed up like two pigs, wearing berets. We danced around the exhibit -- okay, the monstrosity -- and made squealing noises. We were handing out photos of women in camouflage lingerie with captions like: "Get fucked, join the Army!"

"Like, oh my gawd..." A twenty-something blonde in a little red dress said. "What is this? It's like rude to women..."

Her GQ-esque boyfriend chimed in, "Ah, yeah, I think it is rude and mean to women..." He didn't know exactly what was wrong with it, but knew that contradicting his lady meant no sex later.

Beefcake Johnson grabbed Shelly by throat and threatened to kill him: "You mother fucking al-Qaeda supporter. Stop bashing our troops and the US of A." Beefcake corralled everyone into singing "God Bless America." No one wanted to be accused of anti-patriotism. Even the liberal candidate for Ohio's attorney general's seat and the hippie chick with a Grateful Dead tee-shirt joined in the hymn. We were S.O.L.

Apparently while this commotion was occurring, Shell told the event organizer to "eat the shit from his balls..." Any chance of staying in the contest was lost. I packed up what I could of our stuff and tried to hitch a ride home. I kept thinking that I should have studied Sun Tzu more closely.

The master of battle wrote: “Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.”

Meanwhile, Shell had called Stara, a hot law school student, and got his thing on with her. She was all anti-establishment this and that. The whole thing turned her on immensely. I was too tired to desire anything. I put the idea factory on idle. I decided to watch George C. Scott's Patton for the umpteenth time. I must have still been searching for a way to be a real patriot. Then it came to me: Liberate Paris. Oh yes, I'd love to liberate Ms. Hilton... yummy.

... And boredom is the mother pranksters.

Coming Soon: The Devil You Know and the Devil You Don't

Gnome and Unknown Stockholm Syndrome

Shelly and I plopped down in the front room at the boarding house. We were exhausted and just back from our first day on the job. Covered in sweat and grime, we were now experts at picking up trash along the freeway for minimum wage. We started our new careers hung over from a night of drinking Wild Turkey. What a way to live! We were two college-grad losers both pushing forty. What a way to die... I predicted one of us would be smashed by a semi-truck on the interstate.

Shell, with his beaked nose and thinning hair, was fidgety and fat. I wasn't exactly the model of fitness either, but I could still hold my own in pick-up basketball game.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I pressed him and walked over to the fridge for a cold beer.

"Two things... One: I got to take a big shit... Two: I swear to Christ there’s something living in the walls."

I laughed, saying shouldn’t taking a shit be number 2. He shot me a cold look.

Shell stormed into the can and I could hear him grunt. "This is a man’s true catharsis. The best novels were written in the crapper. You should start writing more in here," he hollered through the door. "I think Crime and Punishment was written that way."

I was always open to new avenues to inspire my writing. I was about to reply when I heard a noise on the other side of the wall. "What the fuck is that?"

Shell ran out of the bathroom, his pants dangling from his knees. "You see, you just heard it too. Something’s in there."

"First, pull up your drawers, dude. And second, it’s probably a rat or some rodent. We live in Cleveland, you know," I said sardonically.

"Sorry, I'm forgetful. Einstein was forgetful, too. He forgot to wear socks. I forget to pull up my drawers. Anyhow, a rat has four feet, this thing has two feet, I swear, I’ve been listening to the walls for the last week and a half."

I pictured Shell with his ear to the wall and bottle of beer in his hand. What a ridiculous way to spend one's time! But what the hell, I thought, and I put my ear to wall.

Nothing.

"You have to wait, it is not going to happen until we’re quiet."

I was sucked in. Five hours later, and a lot drunker, I was about to call the whole thing off. Then the pitter patter of little feet, I heard it inside the walls.

"What the fuck?" I mouthed to Shell.

"Believe me now," he whispered back.

Whatever it was, we had to catch it. Build the perfect mousetrap, so to speak, we did. Shell had this idea of sticking a hose in one vent and blasting water inside. We’d remove another vent and whatever it was would be forced out.

Little feet and a big blast of water… A 3-foot-tall gnome rolled out of the vent and onto the kitchen floor. The little guy was sopping wet. He had one of those red caps on and green tights. We both stood up in shock.

"That fucker has been living in the walls… Jesus," Shell said, having a nervous fit.

My eyes were wide like a fish’s. The gnome tried to run and slipped past Shell. I dived and tackled him in the hall. I screamed for Shell to get something so we could hold the gnome. He brought out a blanket.

"What are we going to do with that?" I asked as the gnome kicked and clawed for freedom.

"Roll him up like a burrito."

An hour later, I was taking a real big swig of whiskey and Shell was drinking hard too. We were in the living room staring at this gnome wrapped up in a blanket Shell's great aunt Mable had sewn.

"No one will believe us," Shell said. "Who is going to believe we captured a real gnome. They don’t even exist!"

"What do you mean they don’t exist? We’ve got one right here…" I shot back.

The gnome was silent. He stopped trying to escape and was seemingly resigned to his fate. He had a white beard and grayish eyes. The words that came from him were incomprehensible to us.

"I can’t understand him," I said. "But I'm going to make sure he isn't going anywhere." I tied his ankle to the couch.

"He’s talking gnome, duh. I think gnomes talk in Danish… We could call the library and see if they have a book about talking in Danish," Shell insisted.

"How do you figure he talks in Danish? I never read that in any fairy tale."

"All the fairy tales come from over there, my uncle Maury knows all kinds of stuff…" Shell proclaimed.

"Just like he knew which horse would be the winner and we blew a grand at the track," I said in disgust, dredging up a bad memory.

"Let bygones be bygones. I’m going outside to the pay phone to call the library."

I guarded the gnome, listening to his gibberish – his Danish - whichever. Shell returned with a big grin on his face. "Hey, the library has these tapes that teach Danish people to talk English. We can play them all night and he’ll learn to talk to us."

OK, it seemed plausible, if in fact the gnome spoke Danish. Otherwise, another colossal waste of time. We left the tapes playing all day. When we came back from the job, he’d escaped from the blanket but his ankle was still tied to the couch. He had the TV on and was watching one of those raunchy talk shows.

"Let me go, you sons-of-bitches," he yelled. "Your mother was a whore and your father was a hamster."

"Shit, he learned perfect English," Shell said, happy that his theory had been proven correct.

I was overwhelmed and grabbed a cold one.

"You can’t keep me like this… it’s illegal," the gnome groaned and cast supercilious eyes upon me.

Shell and I discussed all possibilities of keeping this gnome. We could make him clean the house and do other chores.

"I can hear you assholes talking. I’m only 3-feet-tall. I will suck at cleaning. I can’t reach any major appliances, and my legs are too short to be good on a ladder. Plus slavery is illegal. I know it is. You can’t kidnap me. I’m going to call the cops."

Everybody thinks they have rights, I thought to myself. And this little shit had an annoying way of letting us know about them. Neither Shell nor I wanted an international incident. I could already see this gnome demanding representation from the Danish consulate.

We crafted a compromise. The gnome would have to paint the walls and when he was done, we'd set him free. This took about a week, but the gnome didn't want to go once he was finished. He was pleading to stay, getting on his hands and knees. I hated seeing that kind of begging.

"It's Stockholm syndrome," Shelly said in between stuffing a sub sandwich down his throat.

"Now he's Swedish?" I asked.

"No, it's when a captive develops an attachment for his captors."

Well, neither of us knew what to do. And they say once you touch something from the wild, it can't go back. So we let the gnome stay under the condition he gets a job. The keen little bastard was a Dunkin Donuts assistant manager in no time. I didn't mind a fresh dozen donuts and warm coffee every morning. We all sat around the TV watching the morning news. We talked about heading up to Windsor to gamble and to meet chicks.

That's how we got through life. All talk... Fantasies... Little people with big plans. Things couldn't stay this chummy forever. I knew that the Stockholm syndrome would get old. Sooner or later the gnome would start making demands, wanting a pint-sized toilet and a miniature bed, that type of deal. Shell would see it and get prissy, too. Now that would be hell! Suspicions, accusations and tensions... But for now we had peace.

I took Shell's advice and slipped into the writing studio. Cracking open a cold one, I wondered: Did Doestoevsky have a gnome and a broke buddy around all day to inspire him? My mind wandered. Would I be punished for my crimes? If so, I'd like to be executed by firing squad. No blindfold or cigarette. I'd spit on the ground and say, "Viva Denmark."

Just before I could die as a hero, my daydream was interrupted. Shell and the gnome dragged me into the living room. They told me to peak through the curtains. Shit, there was Don Rumsfeld standing in the front yard with a clipboard. He was reading meters for the gas company. How the mighty have fallen! I knew we owed on our bill, but I didn't know how much. That was a known unknown.

Well, an hour later all four of us were on the basketball court. Me and Rumy versus Shell and the gnome. In between my three-point jumpers, Rumy was telling us how his new crusade was to rid the world of bad pop music.

"Boys, I'm tough on Cher," he said, looking really fucking serious.

Shell and I excused ourselves to a bar. We agreed never to fuck with gnomes or a former Secretary of Defense. That mix is bad Instant Karma. Who has time for that shit when Monday's work along the freeway comes too quickly?

Coming Soon: The Installation Art of War