Cardigan came over last night. He’s been coming over more and more lately. At first it was only once or twice a month. But it’s only the 15th and he’s been here five times in February, always with a case of beer or a bottle of whiskey. Good stuff, too. Not that cheap Canadian swill that my ex’s dad drinks. Golden Wedding or some shit. Tastes like piss mixed with lower quality piss.
Most nights, the two of us usually watch some movies and don’t talk very much. Maybe a joke or he’ll tell me about a case they’re working on down at the station. But that’s it. But last night was a little different. Cardigan came in the door, threw a pizza on the table along with a bottle of Jameson’s. Said his wife was leaving him. We ate in silence, then drank the bottle of whiskey. Not one word for four hours. Just NPR on the radio. They were playing a concert by My Morning Jacket. I didn’t want to ask him about it. I feel bad for the guy, sure, but I got my own problems too.
Around 11, he got up, gave me a gun cleaning kit, and left. Said he was going to a motel and thanked me for listening. He’s got his own way I guess.
I might sell the mini-pool table in the spare room and see if he wants to move in if this is serious. I read that cops have a high divorce rate: they take the job home. It’s not easy for anyone I guess.
I have to call down to First Mutual and let them know I’m on my way before I show up. The manager there sent me a letter, on bank stationery, just asking me to give them a heads up. It looked real official and everything. I had been at the bank before without advance notice and it is a bit odd. Well no actually, it’s really odd. I used to date one of the tellers. She always takes her break when I come in now. She’s not that sneaky. The guards always put their hands on their pistols and suck in their guts when I walk by them. I think they want to impress me.
But, yeah, in his letter he asked me to make sure my “peculiarity wasn’t loaded or capable of discharging” when I arrived. My emphasis. I wrote back, telling him while I figured it was him doing his job —I mean, my dick is a loaded weapon, literally, it can kill people— that request was far beyond the scope of good taste. He called me the next day from a pay phone to apologize and he explained the the situation. The insurance company had him over a barrel on this one.
It turns out that about a week ago, a guy walked in with a pistol sticking out of his pants. Now, he didn’t want to see about remortgaging his house where his ex-girlfriend and his ex-personal trainer have shacked up while he lives in an apartment over a Mexican restaurant owned by a Chinese family, like most other people with guns in their pants. Nope, he was a run of the mill bank robber trying to use public knowledge of my condition to steal from the place. The guards shot him up pretty bad.
Those guards are friggin’ twitchy to start with.
The poor guy going to be on trial for having a concealed weapon, attempted robbery, and for sexual assault of one of the guards. I’m not sure how that last one got in there. Cardigan said I could likely get him in small claims court for defamation of character. I think I might.
Anyway, I told the bank manager that I understood, I’ll take the magazine out before I go to the bank. He’s a nice guy and I think he’ll let me refinance my mortgage now, so I figured what the hell, right? But I’ll be God damned if I don’t keep one in the chamber.
I had to write a paper a county over this afternoon. Said I had an SKS for a dick. How does someone make a mistake like that? I mean sure, it takes the same ammo, but they’re totally different. I’m lucky it’s not an SKS, I have enough trouble without an integrated bayonet.
The paper, The Daily Observer, was reporting on this website that’s popped up recently. Apparently, it’s a fun thing for people to sneak pictures of me when I’m at Wholefoods or the Liquorsmart. They email them to some blog and this person puts them on this website called Soviet Gitch.
Of course I looked at the site. Who wouldn’t? I’m even a little flattered. They have t-shirts for sale on the site. They only have three so far: “Murder-Cock,” “Kalashnikrotch Lives!,” and “My Other Dick Kills People With Bullets.” I ordered two, but asked them to take “Murder-Cock” down. That one still kind of upsets me. I’m going to trademark it I think, that way at least I can get paid from it. The Soviet Gitch people haven’t responded yet.
Though, one thing really pissed me off. There are some before-the-incident pictures that I’m positive my ex’s father mailed in. Two of me getting out of the pool when we were in the Dominican and one weird angle where you can almost see up my shorts. He’s such an asshole. I was furious for a minute, then kind of sad.
I’ve lost a lot of hair the past few years.