To Piss on Manicured Lawn

And the Philosophical Ramifications of Said Urination

I’m living in my car. Not a single square inch of the floor is visible to the naked eye. 72 Pabst Blue Ribbon cans create a temporary shag carpet. My cigarette lighter is broken. So is my back right window. A guy by the name of Shane is responsible for both. Shane doesn’t have two front teeth anymore. I still see him and his otherworldly goons at Mike’s Place on Thursday nights. Shane knows he’s a mongrel and doesn’t look me in the eye anymore. I quite love him. Her hot pink bra is crumpled in the corner. Standing out amongst the pathetic interior like a beacon of light. She’s my beacon of light.

She said we can’t fuck in the car anymore. Says she’s tired of getting thrown into the headrest and having to look up at the 7th Avenue Baptist Church sign while I’m hitting her from behind. She’s Catholic. So am I. Who cares? The church parking lot is the best place to have car sex, I’ve determined. No lurkers. No peepers. No homeless guys who beg one too many times until I have to wrap 7-iron around their gizzard gobbling sun-stained saggy turkey necks.

Why don’t you come to my parents place she says. I can sneak you in and out through the basement walkout. Basement walkout? I said. You live in the fuckin’ Ritz Carlton Beth Lewis? Oh Beth, my Beth. She lived in Hawthorn Village, some yuppy degenerate utopia with fountains and underfucked housewives and manicured lawns and dad’s who’s dicks only worked when their daughters brought over a new friend. I grew up in a similar place but my parents threw me out of the house a few months after graduation because I stole my dad’s Remington Model 700 and fired off a few shots into the woods after I found out Jessie Banks was pregnant. I longed to frolic naked through the evergreen blades of grass and chase the mailman on all fours like a rabid dog. There was no salvation left for me. I was happy. I was hopeless.

The first night Beth asked me over for a fuck was the night I found out she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend! What an idiot! She told me to park a few houses down on her street and show at the backyard walkout around 10:30. I had just finished up a few pints and Newports and a line of Maggie Martin’s younger sister’s Adderall in the handicap stall at Mike’s place, which was a block and a hike down the road from the pearly gate entrance of Hawthorn, so I figured I’d head early and throw rocks at random windows until some retarded fake tough guy 50 year old claiming to be defending his family came outside in his knickers with a wimpy pump shotgun yelling to get off his lawn. Okay buddy. I parked around 10:20 and legged it to Beth’s. As her front door came into eyesight I saw her on the front porch kissing some pencil-necked twink wearing a flannel and salvage jeans goodnight. I didn’t recognize the twink from afar and I knew Beth had two younger brothers but I had no reason to believe Beth was an inbred and snogging one of them on the mouth. He walked down the pansy-lined front walkway leading to the sidewalk and turned towards my way. I dove behind a transformer and watched the bloke stroll past me wearing his metrosexual lumberjack attire. He did not smell like sex. I made my way around back after he passed and sat on the back porch criss cross apple sauce texting Beth I existed. She opened the door to me folding a maple leaf like a paper airplane. She didn’t smell like sex either. I asked her about the twink and she said it was a guy she had met at the coffee shop. She claimed she really liked him. Then why am I licking chocolate syrup off your pussy right now? Never mind. I was just here to kill time.

To love is to hate yourself, and nothing was more loathsome than my wretched anima. She ushered me in and out of that sliding glass door for months until I had lost count. I stopped counting after 1 to be fair. To be fair! After one what difference does it make.

One night she led me through the front door. Younger brothers were off to school. Parents were out at a party and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow. I got to see the inside of her castle for the first time, and boy was it a howler. These suburbanites are so full of themselves! Smiling relatives and siblings in picture frames bore down on my soul from all angles of the abode. A mirror in every room. Cutlery. Leather sofas. A vacuum cleaner! A Dyson! The prized heirloom destined to make it to the Space Age so long as its Chinese motor doesn’t blow out. The horrifying fluorescent lighting gave me white spots in my eyes for years. My friend Johnson had warned me about these places years ago. Johnson could see the future and the past. He told me the outcome of the Spanish Civil War and also the Great Anteater Wars of 2439. Then he said I could have a hit of his crackpipe. Johnson told me the Suburban man lives in quaint desperation. He dreams of shooting himself in the head while he watches Modern Family over a bowl of rigatoni. He wishes to mutilate his own hand in the Toro Riding Mower. He desires to commit sappuku with the artisan cheese knife at the house warming party. He wishes to hunt the Millers for sport when they barbecue on Saturday’s after baseball games. So I was prepared

Saturday night. Parents gone to some function. Beth leads me to her parents bedroom upstairs for the first time. She says don’t worry. My belt is undone and my drawers are dropped to the fiery gates of Hell. The floor is lava. Mid fellatio her dad thunders in from down the hall. He witnesses his daughter performing oral sex on a drifter who lives in his car and smells like river water. I thought they were away for the night. Beth thought they were away for the night. She had just gotten home about 15 minutes ago before letting me in. Their car was not in the driveway or garage. Turns out they had ubered home early. Beth didn’t realize. Mr and Mrs Lewis sound asleep to the sound of spitting and gurgling. Mr Lewis lunges at me and yells as I shuffle up my pants and dodge his outreached pudgy hands. My dick is stump hard and gets caught in the waistband. I sidestep him and run out the bedroom. He chases me down the stairs. The old man is fast, but I am a cheetah in pursuit. Or I am a gazelle in elusion. I glide like a lizard on pristine lake water. I transcend laws of physics and run down the stairs and past the smiling faces and out the door and I run until I can’t run anymore. The father makes it a few hundred yards before giving up, cursing and yelling in the night promising to lynch me in the street and burn me at the stake.

My breath is caught and I laugh. When the coast is clear, I return to the manicured lawn and have a piss in the cool October night. The dog is getting put down tomorrow.

Onward,

Tony

Humble Wordsmith

Writer Boy

Pisser

Take me down to the Paradise City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
Take me home (I want you, please, take me home)