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..."


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