Out Like A Lamb (Part 2)

So… In. Out. In. Out. My mother taught me to use deep breaths.

So. I was told not to covet my neighborS wife. I was also told to stay off the beach but I sat there anyway.

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I was back to the place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daughters got high and fucked in their parents beds. And ChristmAs came early. And I think I might covet my neighbors wife.

“What would you rather…” Hold on. Not yet. Was I writing a story? I think I might covet my neighbors wife this year when Christmas comes early.

I moved back home. Well, not home in the traditional sense, but you know what I mean and if you don’t then you still probably know what I mean. It was the post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving time of the year. That weird transitional phase between holidays. Nobody knows if it’s okay to put up the Christmas decorations yet. Some radio stations ease you in to the holiday spirit and others hypnotize you with the constant rotation of Christmas jingle and holiday cheer. There are the sales at all of the Halloween Adventure stores because , you know, it’s never too early to get ready for next year and fuck me there‘s nothing quite like a Spiderman costume at fifty percent off! Everybody is getting ready for Thanksgiving. Pumpkins linger and suddenly turkey’s are in high demand. The people that like to go to the mall are getting ready for “Black Friday.” And people that like people that like to go to the mall are also getting ready. I like to call them “thieves.” Wallets in front pockets. Oh, and Christmas came earLy. It seems that it comes earlier every year.

I like to refer to this place as “Dash American.” I’ll explain. Everyone you meet here is either Irish-American, or Italian-American, or African-American, or Polish-American, or Jewish-American, or Russian-American, or Native American. How come there’s no dash in Native American? Someone should be looking into that. Anyway, you see what I mean by “Dash American?” I cannot claim any of the dashes listed above and I can’t come up with any that could describe me. Maybe “Average-American.” Maybe “I think I covet my neighbors wife-American” if that is one, but I don’t think it is, so I guess I’m just an average American that might covet his neighbors wife.

Jesus, I hope you didn’t spend that weekend in hell for me. I fucking covet my neighbors wife. You’re not supposed to save me. Save them. Christmas came early again. You could have spent that weekend doing anything you desired. Maybe you could have taken some whore to a resort in Cancun and fucked her as much as you wanted while a short Mexican brought you pina coladas served in fucking coconuts. Fucked the way Joseph and Mary never did. I bet that is what Judas would have done. No, you had to be so righteous. You realize that I’m fucked because of you, right? How can I compare? What can I do that even comes close to what you’ve done? You turned water into wine. You gave a blind man sight. I’ve got nothing on that. But I do feel sort of bad for you, I mean, you really got the short end of the stick. You shouldered the weight of the world and we still use your name in vain and you take it.

Can you feel it? Seven long fucking months.

Your sacrifice is otherwise unparalleled. You could have been a father, but instead you chose to treat us all as your sons. They ruined it for the rest of us. Your “children” taught their children to believe that Mary was a whore. Your mother. They teach the youth that women are the root of all evil. Who ate the forbidden fruit? Who fathered Mary’s only child? That is what they teach. The image that they praise is of your death. They continue to mock your rituals. Eating your body and drinking your blood. The blood of Christ. And you still love them. They love nobody and you love them.

Was I telling a story? Yes, I was. Where was I?

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I re-established some lost friendships. It turns out that nobody missed me. I wasn’t surprised because I can’t expect the fountain to stop flowing just because I am on the other side of the pond. Does that make sense? I understand it. The old group of friends got back together. The first rule of acting is: never look at the camera. I don’t like that rule. I think if you applied it to text the rule would be: never address the reader directly. I don’t like that rule. It’s too impersonal. I like to feel like we know each other. The reader-writer relationship is pretty intimate to begin with. It’s like question-answer. There would be no reader wIth no writer and vice versa. No question with no answer and vice versa. We are co-dependent.

“What would you rather have, Pat’s or Geno’s?”

“Definitely Pat’s.”

“Yea, me too. You want to know why I can’t eat Geno’s?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m afraid, but let me explain. I don’t stay away from Geno’s because I don’t like it. You see, Geno’s is like that girl that cheated on and fucked over your best friend. You hate her because he hates her and you leave it at that, but you know the real reason you hate her? You hate her because you’re afraid that even after all the fucked up shit she did to your best friend, she might actually be pretty cool, maybe even cooler than your friend. At least cool enouGh to where you might like her and maybe even lover her, but you could never do that to your best friend, so you just stay away and say ‘fuck her for cheating on you man.’ And he’ll ever know that you’ve been jerking off to her for the past three years. That’s why I don’t go to Geno’s, I’m afraid it’s better than Pat’s.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too fucking much?”

“Actually, yea. Your wife did last night when I was thinking about how I should fuck her.”

So you thought I was losing it in the last one? I can’t explain it either. We were all friends again but I had to have his wife. I loved her. I didn’t. She was despicable. I loved the thought of her. Can you even imagine what I do all day? I sit on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about sitting on my hands. It’s like my brain is looking into two mirrors reflecting back and forth into reflection eternity and I can’t make them stop. I took pictures and deep breaths.

My friend’s name was Jimmy. I say was because we are no longer friends. His wife’s name was Suzanne. I say was because they are no longer married. I coveted Suzanne. Christmas came early that year. Jimmy was an attorney or something like that but it doesn’t matter. He was one of those jetsetters. He had all of this nice shit, but for what? He prayed to a material Christ, but for what? He had a secretary that he was having an affair with. He also abused the narcotic commonly known as cocaIne. He told me these things in confidence. I expressed my desire of a double-date to Suzanne and insinuated that she should introduce me to one of her friends. She agreed and the four of us went out to dinner. I can’t remember my dates name because it is not important. Jimmy chose the restaurant and I have to say, I wasn’t impressed.

We sat and stumbled through a few minutes of awkward conversation. A few laughs here and there. My date was quiet and I sort of wanted to tell her how stupid she looked. Jimmy and I were both dressed nice, not too fancy, but presentable, clean shaven. Suzanne looked decent and professionAl. My date appeared sub-par. She was clearly the black sheep of the date. I wanted to make her feel so insignificant. I wanted her to feel like an ugly duck in comparison to Suzanne. I lost my desire to embarrass my date when Suzanne said “The service here isn’t very good.” She wasn’t impressed either! Lip service. It was like an early Christmas gift. I replied.

“You know Suzanne I was just thinking the same thing. I was a little bit surprised that Jimmy would choose such a rinky-dink establishment for our double-date. This second rate hole-in-the-wall must pale in comparison to the five-star bed and breakfasts he undoubtedly takes his secretary to when he’s fucking her repeatedly on his Chicago business trips. You did know Jimmy was having an affair, didn’t you? No? tell her, Jimmy. Oh come on, he works late four times a week, the constant travel, what kind of fucking attorney do you think he is? You didn’t know? Well I have a question for you, Suzanne, why do you think they call it the “Windy City?” Well, I will tell you. They call it the Windy City because of all the blow the out of town attorneys like old Jimmy-John here shove up their unfaithful noses right before they fuck their mistresses. You didn’t know that, either? I’m sorry Suzanne, but your husband is a cheating, drug abusing, asshole. You guys have a nice evening.”

I left immediately after that. You should have seen their faces. Suzanne isn’t much of a looker, and she isn’t too bright, but goddamn she can act. She seemed so surprised at what I told her. She pretended as if she wasn’t guilty of all the same crimes. She pretended as if she didn’t love it when Jimmy would go out of town so she could have her young stallion spend the night and make love to her the way Jimmy never could. And the drugs? She was guilty as charged. She went to the bathroom every ten minutes. Either your bladder is the size of a peanut or you’re doing coke, sweetheart, and I’m putting all of my money on the latter.

Typically in every story there is a protagonist and the antagonist. I’m sure most of you are reading this thinking that I’m the protagonist, but, sadly, you are wrong. I’m the bad guy here, can’t you see it? There is nothing in the Ten Commandments about putting a powder up your nose. Yes, both Jimmy and Suzanne were guilty of infidelity but their Sunday mass trips absolve them of any wrong doing. They beauty of religion. A father or priest told them that if they confess they will be forgiven of all their sins. I bet they both sang like birds to that man. The messenger of God. That man that is most likely molesting young children underneath the pews. I wonder who he confesses to? Does the church pardon him of his sins? Do they look the other way? Those crooked fucks. That is not what God or Jesus or Mary had in mind. They were pure. I am the protagonist because I don’t go to church and I covet my neighbors wife and that is a sin. But I don’t want to be forgiven. I just want to make peace with it. I’m the bad guy here. And fucking Christmas came early.

“Oh, Thomas, was that you sitting over there on that park bench? Was that you sitting you there dead to the world? Was that you over there with your head in your hands, your stare as distant as the Midwest Moon? Was that you with the flashy clothes? Was that you eating too soon? Was that you stealing from the poor? Was that you on the park bench hunched over like the sloth? Was that you that let rage hold your tongue? Was that you in despair over another’s goods? Was that you with your pride always feeling so proud?”

Now that you mention it, I think it was me. I killed the livestock and sent the locusts. I turned the water red. Yeah, that was me. I got up from that lonely park bench and got into my car. I turned up the radio but my car plays a different tune… “The Sun is up, it’s all I see…” And I pass the pedestrians. One hand full of hope, the other full of shit. And a rope. They go home and at night they say their Hail Mary’s, hands clasped together tighter than a bullfrogs ass. Or a Jews wallet. Or a Catholics trigger. Or a Muslims detonator. Or a rapists grip. Or a Turkish prison. Or a suicidal noose. Or a child’s closed eyes. As stiff and upright as petrified wood and that is more than just a simile. And then they sleep. The Sun is up, it’s all I see. I am awake.

“Set ‘em up for the Gold Medal Kids.”

And we drank away everything and never said a word. We cussed like sailors and never said a fucking word. Christmas came early and we sinned as sinners do all night because in the morning we are not yet found. Set them up for the Gold Medal Kids. Now that I split them up I was ready to make my move and I did. The first night was a long one. I sat on my hands on the edge of her bed thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands and she slept and slept and maybe she was dreaming about me or Jimmy or Christmas or who she was going to fuck tomorrow or where she was going to get her blow the day after tomorrow. None of that mattered. I left before she woke.

The Sun is up, it’s all I see.

To be continued…

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Pt. 3 will be out in February.

Happy Thanksgiving, Holidays, and Valentine's Day.

I'll be back soon.