Years back, when I was working in sustenance delivery, my manager got a thoughtful look in his eye and told me this:
“You know, you can spend your entire life building bridges. But, during that time, you suck one cock, just one, and everybody remembers you as a cocksucker, not a bridge builder.”
At the time, I wondered why he had singled me out as the keeper of his deep, dark secret.
Until today, I didn’t realize that his words transcended sexual experimentation.
Two years ago at a friend’s cabin, I bought a 36 pack of beer for only $12. Just one 36 pack. And the beer, Boxer Lager, has a crown on every can. A crown! What symbol has humanity produced that surpasses the crown as a mark of respect and honor? Yet the insults rained down on me all weekend, even as I defended the fiscal responsibility of my choice. I had spent less money and gotten more alcohol than anyone at that cabin. America is supposed to reward those who have more money and more things than people with less money and fewer things.
Flash forward, to now: These days, I buy better beer. And even if I continue to do so for the rest of my life, I’ll still get calls like this one, which came in just this morning: “Hey, I saw a guy walking down the street with a 36 pack of Boxer, reminded me of you.”
I’ll always be remembered as the guy who made a wise, thoughtful decision to save money, and get more for the little money that was spent, even if that meant drinking something that tasted like it leaked out of a homeless man with bad kidneys.
It’s been a few years since I read The Great Gatsby, which was recently converted to the silver screen. If memory serves, wasn’t Jay Gatsby just some guy who let a bunch of strangers party at his house while he called them “old sport,” then somebody shot him and nobody showed up to the funeral?
When you dwell in an apartment complex, you get to know your neighbors over time. A large portion of these relationships develop based on how well the contractor decided to insulate the partitions above, below, and side to side in each unit. I’ve heard all the basic stuff—one guy liked to shag his girl, then scream and punch the wall. Another couple would have loud, frivolous arguments, pause to bump uglies for a few minutes, then continue on with the bickering. One coital instance had me believe, but never confirm, that the dog-lovers had thrown little Fido into the mix.
And I’m not over here straddling a stepping stool topped with phonebooks, pressing my ear to the ceiling. If I’m on the couch and I hear these freaks digging in, I’m not about to get up and inconvenience myself just ’cause somebody wanted private time. I sit where I sit, and I hear what I hear, which brings me to wonder what kind of feats the new downstairs neighbors are going to bring to the table.
The former people below me had a brief, unobtrusive sexual calendar that was very accommodating for me. Only woke me up a handful of times.
But it’s been quiet down there lately. Maybe they’re waitin’ on me to set the tone. Little do they know, I only get my lovin’ on in high-class steak joints, in order to avoid the shame that comes with communal love-making. I believe it was a little known bard from the 17th century that quoth, “Don’t crap where you eat, and don’t love where you live,” at least according to what is scratched in the stall where I get it on. In the men’s washroom, everyone assumes you just downed a choice cut, and are enjoying an opulent BM. Nothin’ weird about that.