Page 3

When I ooze back in to control over my bodily functions, I look over at Sheila, mouth agape, and moist hair matted to my forehead. Scattered tendrils frame a flushed face, punctuated my a lolling tongue. The look she gave me beats the one she gave her soiled housecoat.

"S'where's Jimmy?"

She crosses her arms, staring in to my soul with contempt. "Jim and the boys went to my place. I'm her to watch the joints."

Babysitting the dope. Boy, I bet trim like this gets all boiled inside when they know that they amount enough to Jimmy to preside over his domain of drug dealing, while he's out partying at her place -- if but only for a few hours. Maybe a few days. Jim. Ha.. I like that. No one in their right mind calls Delongue anything other than 'Jimmy' to his face. Jim is kind of manly; Jimmy suits his teenager-y personality. I like that she's trying to man-up the weasel's name, but no matter which way she cuts it, Jimmy is Jimmy: a limp noodle with the kind of deals that would make anyone his friend.

It makes me wonder why she's letting him over to her house. Apartment, pardon. Similarly, she strikes me as disappointed that a die-hard customer like me is here, instead of following Jim to the next party. I'm the late aftermath of a friendly drinking party; I lived it up amongst ex- and future-cons, and everyone's protégés, all weekend. I'm starting to wonder why I'm still here, too.

I waver to my weaving feet; standing as straight as I can muster, I gather up the gumph to check out the front window. Sheila stands up, bemused, trying to see what I'm up to. I'm so relieved to see my little shit-beater Volvo out in the driveway. It's never looked better. The smile on my face reflects my remaining level of inebriation.

Relishing my discovery,  I make my lumpy way to the door, using furniture to flop my way there. Sheila stands in her spot, arms crossed & a smug look taking up her faded face. I bet she was better looking, back before she dropped out of high school. I bet she was the beehive queen, maybe. Wait, that's closer to my Mom's era. Maybe she was popular once, too. Maybe she dropped out to pump out some adoption-fodder, and never went back. I'd like to smack her over the head with a bottle of Jack, if I could get away with it.

I find my shoes, but only just barely. They're buried under a pile of clean-and-dirty socks, I only spotted them because I noticed a shoe lace snaked out from underneath. I leave them untied, tongues shoved half-way inside. Hell, I had to sit down just to shove them on; I'm not up to working hard for comfort, not now.

Bumbling out the door, I smack my head on the fencepost on the way out to the car. Sheila, unseen, lets out a boisterous roar of approval. I stumble off to my beloved car, cupping a hand over the throbbing lump on my noggin. I didn't cut myself, but I feel like I should be bleeding a bucket of blood all over the asphalt. Head wounds usually bleed copiously. I fish through my pockets for my ever-elusive car keys. I heard them jingling when I walked, so at least I have a hunch that they're with me, and not in a puddle of puke out back. It surprises me vaguely, when I find them in my back pocket. I don't put them there, typically, because I have a tendency to fall on to my ass, to sit, while drunk. Stabby-stabby, flabby ass-y. Let's face it, keys are one of the least comfy things to sit on.. sort of like metal cacti. Unlocking this door is an epic challenge, requiring feats of patience, hand-eye, and dexterity. This would make a good stoner music video, this shit.

Eventually, I drive off, St. Christopher's medal swinging on the windshield mirror. I'm dazed & amused with my predicament; I lost a job, and spent the weekend blowing my savings on booze (as always), and some pills. I'm glad that I don't have to work, because sleep cannot wait. When I get in, I ignore the answering machine, and sink in to the crisp sheets of my firm bed.

My broken snooze is halted by a thought. What's that phrase, about God watching out for the drunken, and the small?

I dreamt of nothing, that's typical for me. I note the darkness I find myself in. The sleeping form of little Jill beside me puts me on edge. She's snuggled up to my belly, overheating the crap out of me. My back feels like ice, in comparison. The reverie ends with an itchy scalp. I scratch at it furiously, praying to the electricity that it's not lice, or bedbugs again. Jill rustles blearily. She rolls over, slinging a hand around my short-haired crown.

"Hey, Joe. I let myself in."

I wish she'd stop doing that. One of these days, I'll get Corrina back, and we'll be in here together; she'll be unwanted & unwelcome. I think she comes like this to tempt fate. She doesn't know that Corrina and I have started talks about getting back together. Jill knows we 'see' each other, but not that it's gotten serious-er lately.

My hand reaches for her panties. I love that she sleeps in her under garments. My fingers slip in to her dewy folds, exploring her 5 o'clock shadow. Her gentle hands remove me from the scene.

"I worked tonight, and haven't showered yet."

In the cloak of the dark, I stick out my tongue and gag, jerking my hand back to safety. I decide to have a shower of my own. The partying made me all slimy & grimy.