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

It was a dull Saturday afternoon in Cleveland, especially since our TV had been stolen by the crackheads who lived next door. Man, they didn't have the decency to shut their curtains to conceal the newly plundered booty. Without an idiot box, I was forced to find an alternative source of entertainment. I thumbed through the classifieds, going past the garage sales, cars, heavy equipment and whatnot, I came to the "Adult" section. I grew silent, which Shelly noticed.

"Hey, what are you looking at now?" Shell inquired.

"Checking out these escort ads," I replied dryly.

"Oh yeah? Anything good? I need to get laid, you know."

"Don’t we all, but you ain’t got the cash for these broads – It’s like $250 bucks for an hour of full service."

"Damn that’s expensive… I could do $125 – tops" he said like an agent negotiating a contract.

"Man, that would be your whole unemployment check and some food stamps," I said, trying to impose some sort of financial reality. His gonads were in the driver's seat and he wasn't listening to my advice.

"It would be worth it…" he said with his eyes trailing off into the corner of the room. "Hell, I could go back to work cleaning toilets to get banged on a regular basis. Tell me what it says in there. Don't leave me to my pathetic imagination, come on!"

As reading aloud the ads came to life -- hot blonde this, sexy brunette that, and all sorts of weird sexual variations – fat ones, pregnant ones, ones that will let you whip them, others that will whip you. All too fucking expensive for two unemployed guys, but add college-educated to the algorithm and there’s bound to be a scheme cooking. Still, I figured, I didn’t need to pay for it, because I was in good shape for a lay-a-bout in his late thirties. Shell on the other hand was losing most of his hair and had a pot belly.

"Whoa, shit… I think I got one for you Shell!" I announced loudly, sitting up in the old chair – the armrest was held together by electric tape.

"What, what…" he eagerly returned like a kid waiting for a Christmas present.

"’Hot wife: 24, 5’2, 105 lbs, green eyes, long blonde hair, C-cup breasts, will do you for $100 but hubby watches.’"

Shell stood up and danced. "We’re gonna get laid!!! We’re gonna get laid by the hot wife… I got 90 bucks. Can I P-L-E-A-S-E borrow a ten spot? Oh and a ride down there, too? I'll pay you back next week when my unemployment check comes in... I know, I know... I'm a lousy, broke Jew. Don't play the Catholic martyr bit... Help old Shelly boy get laid."

Fine, I thought, he's helped me when I needed some brews and was short. But part of the deal was that I get to tag along and see this chick. I picked up the phone to arrange the seedy rendezvous. A gruff, hillbilly male voice answered.

"Hell-low…Hell-low…"

"Y-e-a-h…" I said, drawing out the word like a southerner. "Do you have an ad in the paper?"

"Y-e-a-h, we do," he said proudly. "Just like it reads. No bullshit. You can fuck her, but I stay in the room so there ain’t no funny business."

"Uh huh," I said as Shell leaned his head near the receiver to listen in on the conversation. "Well, my buddy wants to meet her, and I might come along -- so there’s no funny business either."

"H’ail, do what you want… We’re out here in Copley," he explained, sounding like even more of a hick.

Riding for about nearly 50 minutes to this motel outside Cleveland didn’t faze me in the least. Being silly, I keep repeating: "We’re out here in Copley…".

Overly anxious, Shelly could give a shit about anything other than fucking. A vision quest, he was "on a mission from God" like the old Blues Brothers movie. Cool air whipped through the window of my old blue Chevy Nova – a car with no less than 100,000 miles on the road – and Bob Seger’s "Old Time Rock’n’Roll was dripping out of the speakers." What a great spirit Shell had about life. I joined him with some out-of-tune harmonies on the refrains.

We pulled into the parking lot. Shell needed no encouragement and nearly lunged out of the car; I stepped quickly to keep pace. We knocked on the motel room door, room 3 to be exact. Talk about an entrance, this 6-foot-5 Hercules dude with a bald head and cigarette dangling from his lips answered the door. He loomed over both of us. Squinting his eyes, the guy checked us out and then waved us inside. I didn’t see a hot wife and asked what gives? No reply... We all sat down, and he asked us which one of us was going to fuck her. Shell raised his hand like a kid at school. Clay, as he called himself, asked for the money, which Shell was all too quick to fork over.

"No… no… no…" I said lifting my hands in protest. I was always suspicious and I needed to see the wife before any money would be shown. "Let the man see the goods first," I said firming up my voice to let him know we weren’t dicking around.

"Baby Rhonda, come out here and show these guys how good you look."

Help me Rhonda yeah… She strutted out of the bathroom, ass naked save for a little white towel. Man, she looked good, precisely as the ad said.

"You want her now," Clay asked the lusty Shell.

"Fuck yeah!" he said, shoving the money at Clay and dropping his drawers.

Like a wilder beast, Shell pounced on the petite love bunny. He forgot to take off his tee shirt and black socks. I sat there cracking up as he yanked the towel off of her and tackled her on the bed.

"You’re an ornery one," she said playfully.

Shell lifted her legs straight up in the air, and he proceeded to fiercely pump away. He was too damned horny to worry about foreplay. Clay sat by my side. He eyed the situation like a referee at a boxing match, watching to make sure every blow was above the belt.

Guffawing, I could barely look at the spectacle and almost pissed my pants when Shell asked Rhonda: "Who’s your daddy?" Shell turned Rhonda on her stomach and smacked her ass. He yelped like an Apache warrior. Shell was a man possessed. He rammed her doggie style. The orchestra: Loud creaks from wont out bed springs…The performers: the hooker and Shelly…

Man, it just picked up from there...

Oh my god…

Creak…

Fuck me, harder, harder…

Creak, creak, creak…

Oh god yes, I’m cumming…

Creak, creak…

The ride home seemed a to last forever and both of use were getting really hungry. Shell kept saying what a great fuck she was, and that I should have splurged for one, too. While Shell was in hard-on, sweet pussy reminisce, all I could think about was that damned bed’s peculiar sound and that I would have to spring for his burger and fries.

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