On The Road Again
I once knew a man, a massive, throbbing, walking, talking, enormous gland of a man. He was the kind of man who, whether you admired him or not, you couldn't help but respect, because he was a sexual god. He could stare at a woman and make her cum. He could simply caress her hand in public, and she'd throw herself on the nearest horizontal surface, spread her legs, and beg him to bang her senseless.
How's that George Thorogood song go? He could make a rich woman beg, a good woman steal, an old woman blush, and a young girl squeal. All in the same night.
He was my best friend. I met him in college, we bonded right away, and I considered him a brother. He was best man at my wedding, and I returned the favor a few years later.
Notice I'm talking about him in the past tense. What happened to my best friend, a satyr among men?
He got married. Which is okay by itself, but then he got divorced. And she ripped him a new one. She crippled him, ripped off his face, and then, at the final divorce hearing, got his testicles.
Seriously. With a pair of rusty tin snips her lawyer brought for just that purpose.
Whackity-whack.
Few things are as sad as a formerly manly man who's been emasculated in the worst way. When I checked in with him last, he was actually living with his mother in Seattle, Washington.
So I put some air in the tires of my 87 Jeep Cherokee, said a prayer to the radiator gods that the stop-leak stuff I poured in would work "just like magic" and I hit the road, north and west, away from the front range, through the Rocky Mountains, through Utah and Idaho and Oregon, up through the Pacific Northwest, into Seattle.
I got into town at about three in the morning. I raced along NE 77th Street until I got to the proper condominium complex. Unfortunately, all those condos looked the same and the drizzle in the air and the bad lighting prevented me from finding the proper building.
I parked my jeep as close to the middle of the complex as I could, and I leaned on the horn. I saw lights come on in units all over the complex within seconds, but it was a good ten minutes before my buddy Al Castro came racing toward me. He was wearing blue and white striped pajamas. Swear to God, pajamas.
"What the fuck are you doing, J.T.," he asked.
"Pack a bag," I said. I put him into the jeep and we drove across the grass to his mother's condo. I dragged him inside, said hi to his mother, and dragged him into his room upstairs. In five minutes, I had his bag packed and I was dragging him back down the stairs.
Al's mom was sputtering at me in Spanish, demanding answers. So was Al.
I didn't give him any until after I'd put him back into the jeep and we were on the road.
"What's going on," Al demanded.
"We're on a quest, old buddy," I said. I got into Interstate 90 toward Mercer Island, and toward America.
I said, "Al Castro, we're getting your nuts back."
TO BE CONTINUED
How's that George Thorogood song go? He could make a rich woman beg, a good woman steal, an old woman blush, and a young girl squeal. All in the same night.
He was my best friend. I met him in college, we bonded right away, and I considered him a brother. He was best man at my wedding, and I returned the favor a few years later.
Notice I'm talking about him in the past tense. What happened to my best friend, a satyr among men?
He got married. Which is okay by itself, but then he got divorced. And she ripped him a new one. She crippled him, ripped off his face, and then, at the final divorce hearing, got his testicles.
Seriously. With a pair of rusty tin snips her lawyer brought for just that purpose.
Whackity-whack.
Few things are as sad as a formerly manly man who's been emasculated in the worst way. When I checked in with him last, he was actually living with his mother in Seattle, Washington.
So I put some air in the tires of my 87 Jeep Cherokee, said a prayer to the radiator gods that the stop-leak stuff I poured in would work "just like magic" and I hit the road, north and west, away from the front range, through the Rocky Mountains, through Utah and Idaho and Oregon, up through the Pacific Northwest, into Seattle.
I got into town at about three in the morning. I raced along NE 77th Street until I got to the proper condominium complex. Unfortunately, all those condos looked the same and the drizzle in the air and the bad lighting prevented me from finding the proper building.
I parked my jeep as close to the middle of the complex as I could, and I leaned on the horn. I saw lights come on in units all over the complex within seconds, but it was a good ten minutes before my buddy Al Castro came racing toward me. He was wearing blue and white striped pajamas. Swear to God, pajamas.
"What the fuck are you doing, J.T.," he asked.
"Pack a bag," I said. I put him into the jeep and we drove across the grass to his mother's condo. I dragged him inside, said hi to his mother, and dragged him into his room upstairs. In five minutes, I had his bag packed and I was dragging him back down the stairs.
Al's mom was sputtering at me in Spanish, demanding answers. So was Al.
I didn't give him any until after I'd put him back into the jeep and we were on the road.
"What's going on," Al demanded.
"We're on a quest, old buddy," I said. I got into Interstate 90 toward Mercer Island, and toward America.
I said, "Al Castro, we're getting your nuts back."
TO BE CONTINUED
posted by JT Benjamin at 5:02 PM
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