#get yourself a girl who is optimized for avoiding night predators

[ecotone99]

[RF] Slapdash Confessional

I’m a reasonably happy guy, but some days you find yourself dangling, strung up by the nipples in life’s musty basement, near a tray of terrifying tools: mallet, pincers, pneumatic drill, buzzsaw. When I avoid getting bludgeoned by life, I’m a pretty affable fellow. Those days when I duck and parry, when I’m quick on my feet and give life the slip, I can be almost upbeat. The other days, when I’m dragged round back and poleaxed, when life gets to clubbing my kneecaps, when it roughs me up and works me over and I get skewered and zapped and peed on, I crawl into a pub or diner, or one of those zooty nightclub deals, simply to sulk and recuperate.

Life has it out for me. Oh yes, it does. Just picture the following scene. I’m ensconced in a cozy booth, nursing myself with drink, when - and this invariably happens - some guy strolls up and starts jabbering at me. What’s this? A conversation? I didn’t slither in here to make friends. It’s a real job of work, let me tell you, bearing up through these chirpy chats, the sham laughter and stiff dialogue, getting douched in a stranger’s complaints. The worst part of the night is the listening, all the listening you have to do, the pretending you really care. You slog on through the vivid trauma, the deep grind and toilet strain.

And what about this guy, this shot-eyed sozzled zombie, this tramp with tannic teeth? You know what? I really don’t care. So I order the works, slip out the back and stick him with the heart-stopping tab. What is it with people anyway? The common human with his common lament, his unbearable tale of woe. Just between you and me, I don’t care much for Earthlings. They tend to want things from you - directions, the time, money, friendship. Yeah, no thanks. Walk on, pal. Keep moving. Keep moving and be on your way.

You want the unvarnished truth, the secret of how I got like this? It saddens me now as I think on it, when I remember the person I was, when I mourn such heavy losses. You see, things weren’t always like this. Oh no. Once upon a time, I would clutch life by its throat. I was souped-up and thrumming on joy, a wizard of sparkly happiness. It was mysteriously hardwired into me, in the dark gulp of a watery womb: I was plucked from the cervix all bursting with hope, my bright blood flowing through a champion's heart. I felt stirrings of expectation, the rumble of blazing nether fires. I ran strictly on diesel, you know, on fuel as heavy as lead. And I just knew it was coming.

I believed them, all of them: the marketers, the soothsayers, the razzy radio guys. I could see it all coming my way, the good and beautiful things, the double dazzle of high-tab living. Oh yeah, I saw it coming, and so did every shark in town. They saw me coming all right, that mob of sharp-shouldered suits, all twinkle and newscaster style. I believed their pitches and fell for their gimmicks and wound up getting gazumped. And my zip and vim and hopefulness faded. But that's not the thing that killed it, my optimism. That's not what drained all the light from my eyes. Oh no. That isn't what finally ruined me. I mean, sure, they were predators, a grim gaggle of carping cons, real frauds and swindlers and cheats. They did a lot of damage, believe me. They shook me down and zilched my hopes and brutally speared my dreams. But they don't take the prize. Nah. Not even close. It wasn't just hope that faded, you see. Oh, it was so much more. It was every fine feeling I had. And now I feel nothing at all - except pain. Oh sister, I can feel pain, down in my squirming nerve ends. I am a shaman of pain. So ease back in your chair and listen, and let me tell you all about it, what turned me into this sputtering ruin, this monument of abject shame.

It was something I was puzzling over, trying hard to drill down and get right. You see, girls don't go for a guy with no heart, a guy who's an emotional stump. And I was never that tender of heart. I wasn’t chockful of rapturous feeling. My problem was deadly simple: I didn't have any soul. And that's what women want. So I was told anyway, by a certified expert on the subject, an off-the-books escort named Ample Joy. Ample said I was toxic, dysfunctional, and she dated me only for the money.

Well, let me tell you, I was planning to hit it big, to jet off to some self-discovery spa for the astronomically rich (balmy private island, shimmering lagoon) where I could drill myself blind with chic cocktails that have pornographic names, nose-hemorrhage money to learn the art of heart - you know, dial in to my feelings, finally grow a soul, or get myself the best knockoff soul that high-line credit cards can buy. And then, oh yes, then she’d regret those words, just as I have certain regrets, a few of them quite bitter, like the time she duped me into that flick, the one about the high-riding Darcy fellow, the poor sap who would jib and dither and get fat-tongued with all those laced-up gals (now there’s a guy I can relate to), a show so boring, so supernaturally dull, I bonged bourbon through a dryer hose to get myself through the ordeal. When the thing was finally over, I was pretty well shickered up and clobbered, and while trotting the ladies’ room or powder parlor I got a bit zigzagged or wrong-footed and wound up thrusting my face into a wall. I coolly assured Ample that no real damage was done, at least not to that slab of a wall, and I roundly passed out on her bed. I woke to find the jaws of her drug-addled Chow Chow tightly clamped on my crotch. He didn’t move, and I didn’t move. It was a bloodraising standoff, all time-freeze, heart flop and zugzwang. He really pushed his luck down there, let me tell you, with all that tugging and twitching he did. There were several close calls, believe me, and I was wearing some pretty tight pants.

I glowered and sneered at the pup, your classic back-alley staredown, while reaching for the bedside table, where my hand probed a drawer like a baffled spider. Forethought, you see, life comes down to forethought. I had wisely stashed a pilsner in there before my crackup the previous night, and for once in my plodding drizzle-mist of days, having another beer could get me out of trouble. The spider clutched its prey. Dangling the can portside, out of the canine’s view, I shook it vigorously, with spirit, like my snobbler’s life depended on it. Good thing dogs are so stupid, I thought, shouldering the can like a booze bazooka. I took careful aim, belched a quick prayer, and I plucked the trembling tab. Out shot a sudden rope of fizz, which startled the pup and sent him scrambling off the bed. After that I saw nothing, heard nothing. Yeah, that's right, I thought. And stay down there.

It’s good to be the alpha mammal - you know, to get top billing, be the globe’s headliner. We uprights are evolution’s fantasy. Yeah, it’s no secret: selection’s got a thing for us. Down here in the animal mangle, in the jungle judo and zoo riot, under plunging atmospheres, we rose above and really flexed our stuff, and we clinched the planet pageant. First prize to the walkie-talkies. And, I don’t mind saying, I think we’ve more than earned it. Which species gave us the pull-tab beer can? Which one gave us beer? And, final question here, who can fire said beer like a howitzer, fending off rivals with foam and fury? Yeah, I think I’ll rest my case right there.

I leaned back on the barge of pillows there, on the bed, in the glow of clear superiority. And that’s when Ample arrived. With the dazed pup down there on the hardwood, my sea-mammal heft on the panicked mattress, the collateral splash from beer-cannon fire, it was time for me to act, to do what I do best. I begged, for nearly an hour, using every gimmick I knew. I plied her with tears but she knew they were fake, so I plied her with booze, but she primly refused, something about it being ten in the morning. And that was it, the full breadth of my tactical checksheet, my playbook for encounters with the opposite sex. It was carefully systematized, in strict alphabetical order: B for bawling, followed by B for begging, followed by B for booze. But to my dazzled amazement, none of these strategies worked. Ah, that Ample Joy, she always did get the best of me. And I would just beg for more.

But just one second here, there was one more gimmick left to me, one more trick to wrangle, that of self defense. That’s right, I would kung-fu my way out of this. I stood up from the bed and looked at her, at the damp-eyed confusion in her perfect face, a face that had smiled and puckered while she took my money - yes, my money! - and I told her it was all her fault. I refreshed her on a vital point: I was there by her invitation. And, what’s more, she demanded I watch that horse-and-buggy show, during which I burped and napped and maybe had a few tipples, while I prayed for a satellite to fall on her house, preferably into my lap. And when that didn’t happen I got myself snockered, a process that worked with its usual efficiency (though I normally take hooch through a snorkel), and that’s why there was such a mess. Yeah, I said it, every word of it, right to her flawless, twitching face. I don’t remember much after that, except for the volley of projectiles from her cavernous closet, my Olympic vault over the handrail, and bounding up the drive to my curbside getaway, my two-door sight for sore feet, my Bandit, which jerked and chugged me away to safety.

Ample never did forgive me. She soldiered on through the cascade of flowers I sent her, through the cataract of calls from unlisted numbers and all the puerile poetry I could muster. But now you know all of my story. That's when it really happened, when the key finally turned and the tumblers clicked, when I rounded some kind of corner or pole just to flop into this gurgling vat, the boiled sludge of my endless shame. On that day, in that searing moment, as I sprinted away from a wounded woman, as I feared my galloping heart might burst, it came rifling into my pleura, the horrifying truth of it all: I would never obtain a real soul. I would always be just a scumbag, a lowlife, a contemptible and broken man, a guy who shoots his beer at a puppy and then offloads his guilt to its owner. Yeah, I'm that guy. I'm the slob who doesn't grow or improve or stop blaming the whole world for his sins. And you know what? I can't help it. I can't do anything about this. You see, on that day I turned into stone. I am psychologically inert. Maturity is off the radar for me. I will never evolve or become a better man. So, I did the best thing that I could. I limped home and guzzled a few shoplifted beers and slurped up some kind of offal. Then I had myself a good blackout.

Do you pity me, sister? Have I earned it, the lamplight warmth of your soft, sad eyes? I certainly hope I have. I speak for the wastrels and finks, all the flopped-out bottom-rungers: we need that human look. I sure could use it myself.

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