 |
|
|
|
New Voices From San Francisco |
||
|
|
|
|
New Voices From San Francisco |
||
|
The Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie By Steven Hoadley Episode Three - A Love Story
She wouldn't budge. I couldn't call her by her name because I didn't know it. She lay there comatose from what was, I'm sure, a debauchery-filled drinking session the night before. My dick itched. I reached down to scratch and felt the familiar caked on film of dried sex juice. I pondered why I even bothered fucking. I never remembered it. Jane Taube from my high school freshman year was the last true sex I could recall. The body next to me resembled Jane by species only.
"Wake up!" I prodded.
Nothing.
Fuck it. I got up and headed to the bathroom.
As I rose, a pounding, whirling, dizzy spell hit. I made it to the toilet, vomited, and then sat without flushing. I felt a vodka shit coming on, no need to flush twice. Always the conservationist.
As I sat perched on the shitter, I tried recalling the previous night. Nothing came. Walking into Neil's Lounge was the last thing I remembered.
Vodka shits were always a messy affair. Lots of ass-wipe was needed, lest you risk a tear and a finger full of brown. Never a pleasant experience.
It wasn't as bad as anticipated. Unusually strong odor, however. It seems it's easier to tolerate one's own foulness. I wiped three times and flushed twice. So much for conservationism. I headed back to the room.
A pack of Pall-Malls lay on the bedside table. Next to them was an almost-empty bottle of Schnapps. That explained it. Schnapps should be called Blackout. At least that's the effect it always had on me. It also explained the heavy hanging stench. Vodka shits had nothing on Schnapps shits. By far the worst. I plopped down on the edge of the bed, drank the two swallows that were left in the bottle, and lit a smoke.
Something was eating at me. I didn't know what. Either I was supposed to be somewhere, or I did something so terribly stupid while drinking that, hidden in some cobwebbed corner of my brain lay a terrible remorse, an even worse embarrassment, or possibly some all-consuming guilt. Sometimes, blackouts were a good thing.
"Hey, come on, get up," I pleaded to my nameless guest. A few blond curls crept out from under the sheet lying over her face. The rest of the cover was bundled to one side, leaving her naked and exposed.
Her tits looked more like teats. Long, like the offshoots from a cow's udder. Big bumpy brown nipples engulfed the end of them. I was sure I'd sucked them, I always did. Her bush stared at me. Un-groomed and unappealing. It reminded me of a sea urchin. Big black tentacle-like hairs shot in every direction, ready to snatch. Underneath, or below, were the lips. The stinging, snapping-at-all-things-living, swollen, been-fucked-by-a-million-Sam-Mackies, pussy lips.
I was sure I'd sucked them - I always did.
What was it? Why did I have that feeling of unavoidable doom? I didn't have a job, so I wasn't late for work. I couldn't pin it down.
The smoke from my smoke was rough, harsh, and soothing. My habit had grown to ridiculous proportions. I was downing four packs a day, often having to steal my supply. I found myself looking at car dashes as I walked down streets, snagging half-filled packs if the doors were unlocked. The patrons at Neil's and my other watering holes knew to keep their cigarettes close by when I was in the house. I was shameless in my cigarette thievery. I smoked in the shower. When I came upon No Smoking signs, they only proved to remind me that I needed another cigarette. I lit up on busses and subways, in welfare offices and church missions, you name it. Smoking laws were for the non-smokers. I smoked, those signs didn't apply to me.
The first cigarette was vital to clear the passageways. It set off a debilitating cough attack. I didn't bother trying to cover my mouth. The phlegm had to go somewhere. I held my side and hacked up good, clearing the way for another day's smoke-fest.
"Hey." It was her.
I must have waked her with my heaving and wheezing.
"Hey," I answered.
"You don't sound so good," she said.
"I'm fine”, I replied. “Just reaming the pipes."
I looked back and there she was, face and all. I was surprised. She was cute. Pixie cute. She had a little upturned nose and a small dimple on her chin. Her skin was smooth and clear. A far cry considering my normal fare. Her large blue eyes showed little sign of heavy drinking. I was a face man so I was pleased. Some guys are tit-men or ass-men or leg-men. Not me. I was a face man. If a woman's smile brought me to smile, I could put up with sea urchins and teats.
"What is that smell?" she asked.
"I don't smell anything," I lied.
"You were great last night, Sam. I sure had fun."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you were so funny."
"That's me."
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"Do you remember my name?"
"Sorry, no."
"It's all right. You were very gone. You sure can drink."
"I know."
"Samantha. My name's Samantha."
"Sam - Samantha, we're a match."
"You said that last night."
"We were at Neil's, right?"
"We sure were. You were dancing your little bubble butt off. You even danced with some big guy wearing a dress. What a sight. So funny!"
"That would be Burt."
"Who?"
"Never mind. Did we drink all the booze?"
"Yes, I think so. Didn't you have to be in court this morning?"
"Court! Fuck!"
I couldn't believe it. I had a nine-thirty appearance in front of Judge Peterson. That bitch took no prisoners, or should I say, took prisoners aplenty. I'd been in front of her a half-dozen times and she swore if I missed another court date, she would toss my Mackie-ass away for a year.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"I don't have my watch."
I ran to the TV, switched it on and started scanning the channels for one of those morning programs that always flashed the time. During times when I could manage employment, those shows made me suicidal like no other. Televised executions couldn't make me want to slash my wrists and set fire to myself more. Traffic cams showing the endless snaking of automobiles, all carrying submissive drones to jobs that I wanted no part of. That wasn't my world. I detested it. I refused to participate.
"Godamnit! Where's the fucking time?"
Finally. Some plastic-faced woman sitting next to some male-model automaton, appeared. Below them read the time - nine-twelve!
"Oh, Christ, woman, I got's to go! Court is twenty minutes away by bus! I'm fucked!"
Strewn about the floor lay our clothes. I found my pants and threw them on, leaving my underwear to fend for itself.
"Fuck! Help me here woman! Where's my shirt!"
"Calm down, Sam. You want a ride?"
I stopped.
"You have a car?"
"Yes."
"Jesus, why didn't you say so?"
My heart slowed slightly. I found my shirt, shoes, and socks and hurried to the bathroom to get myself together.
I put on my boots and pulled my shirt over my head. I bent over the sink and held my head under the water. I slicked back my hair best I could and there it was. A big stain. A big red obvious stain right in the middle of my white t-shirt!
"Samantha? What the fuck is this?" I said, spreading my arms.
"Looks like a big red stain."
"Oh, Christ, woman. Of course it is! How the fuck did it happen?"
"I'm sorry, Sam. I don't remember."
I was powerless. There was nothing I could do. The time on the TV said nine-nineteen. I would have to face my executioner, red blotch and all.
"Let's go!"
She had gotten dressed in the midst of my panic spree. She wore a simple, yellow, one-piece dress that went to her knees. There were flowers on it.
As we hit the door, her brightness made me pause.
"You look good."
"Thank you," she said, smiling.
"Okay, let's get the fuck out of here!"
We ripped down Sunset Boulevard in her '84 Gremlin. She ran lights, scraped pedestrians, ignored the curses of angry drivers, and I didn't even have to ask.
We whipped into the courthouse parking structure and Samantha screeched into the first handicapped space available. She gave me a quick glance.
"How was that?"
"Fuckin’-A baby. I think I like you."
We hurried in, having to pass through metal detectors and the suspicious stare of four large blue policemen. The clock on the wall read nine-thirty-five.
I knew where Judge Peterson's courtroom was. We slinked in and sat in the back. She wasn't in yet and the chairs were half-filled with potential cellmates.
District attorneys’, public defenders, bailiffs, and secretaries of various duties shuffled around, talking, whispering and trading pleasantries. They all looked pressed and ironed. Judge Peterson's throne sat higher than the lowly commoners awaiting her entrance.
"Thanks for getting me here, Samantha," I said.
"Not a problem, big guy."
She smelled good. After a night of drinking, fucking, sweating, smoking and vomiting, she smelled incredibly good.
"So what are you here for," she asked.
"Defrauding an innkeeper."
"Who did you defraud?"
"An innkeeper."
She giggled.
I reached over and took her hand. I pulled it to my mouth, kissed and smelled it. Our eyes locked. We gave each other our first real inspection. Her eyes were beautiful. Clear, gazing, sober. Her blond locks tumbled messily down, framing her smile and sparkle. My cock twitched.
"God, baby. How did I end up with you?"
"I picked you."
"Why?"
"You made me laugh."
"Was that before or during sex?" I said.
"Stop that, silly," she said with a tiny giggle.
The air in the courtroom began to tighten. The suits stood more upright and moved about in an increasingly hectic manner. Judgment time was near.
"Samantha, are you married?"
"No. I have five kids, though."
That explained her drained breasts and overworked mound. Perhaps I was too harsh, I thought.
"Jesus, girl. Where are they now?"
"The father of my nine-year-old has them for a week. Took them on vacation with his new bridey-poo."
"Do I hear spite in your voice?"
"Not at all. If anything, I have pity for her. Just a matter of time before she misses his dinner time and takes her first backhand."
"How many fathers are there?"
"Four. And don't ask, please."
"Everyone remain seated, court is now in session," the bailiff announced.
Judge Peterson was all business. I guessed her to be late-fifties. She had salt-and-pepper hair, tied up in a bundle. Her face was handsome, solid, regal even. She would peer over the top of her thick glasses, which always seemed to rest halfway down the bridge of her nose to see what hapless sap cowered before her. I knew the game well. Open your eyes real wide, look pitiful and remorseful, weak and meek. I don't think it mattered, though. It was the criminal justice assembly line. Idiot in, idiot out. Next!
She tore through her docket making whimpering mice of the stream of misery that paraded in front of her. Some were fined, some were reprimanded and fined, and some were reprimanded, insulted, jailed, and fined. I was ready for any of it except the jail part.
"People versus Mackie, Samuel Bartholomew," announced one of the walking mannequins.
I rose with an enthusiastic bound, hoping Judge Peterson would take note of my soberness. She wasn't looking. As I passed Samantha she reached out, touched my hand and smiled.
"Good luck," she said.
"Thanks." Her kindness confused me.
I walked straight, steady and to the point. I glanced down to straighten my shirt and saw it. The big red obvious stain! It now had the look of a bulls-eye. As I took my spot in front of Judge Peterson and the State of California, I saw her look over her glasses and onto my shirt. I tried not to crumble. My face bore fear, I couldn't hide it.
"Mr. Mackie," she said. “Nice to see you again.” Sarcasm spewed.
"Yes, ma'am. Nice to see you too, ma'am."
"Mr. Mackie, there is a dress code in my courtroom."
"Yes, your honor, I know that, of course. I was eating breakfast . . . I spilled. I was running late, and -- "
"Mr. Mackie. Four months ago you appeared in front of me on this charge. I set an arraignment date and you failed to appear. You decided to show again six months ago and I let you off with another promise to appear. You missed that date. Why are you here now?"
"Your honor, I called the court and set up a new date. I am aware I messed up. I've had some problems. I lost my -- "
"Enough."
She looked pissed. The situation had deteriorated.
"Mr. Mackie,” she said, “in the past two years I've seen you more than my own husband, you have shown no respect for this court. I am going to remand you into custody and set bail at five-thousand. You are ordered to appear two weeks from today for your arraignment."
Authority swooped. A bailiff, handcuffs, out one door, through another, into a cell. A holding tank. There were probably twenty of us in there. Most colors, all age groups, and various states of personal hygiene were represented. The place smelled of hangovers and arm-pit sweat. I squeezed into the last remaining gap on a hard, butt-polished bench. I crossed my arms, stretched my legs out, and hunkered down for what was sure to be an all day wait.
We sat there for hours. Bullshit flew, bouncing off every wall and every head. “Judge Peterson's a cunt,” one man said. “She wouldn't let me talk,” said another. “They fucked up my paperwork, I didn't do it!” Crap piled on crap equals shit. The place stretched and swelled with it.
The chatter and cursing had finally died down to a light buzz when commotion broke. One large powerful man began pummeling on one little bony man. Half the men ignored it and moved to the side so as not to catch a stray blow. The others sat transfixed, viewing the beating with the lewd glazed-over look of men beating off in a porn theater.
I didn't know which side to join.
The small bony man was taking a terrific thrashing. Undeserved by any standards. Blood had already puddled in a couple spots. Spit and groans flew with every blow. The big powerful man had gone insane. His face was contorted, explosive, tragic. I couldn't take it anymore.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Stop That!"
The room froze. Everything and everyone turned towards me as if waiting for me to do something.
The giant man with the tragic face fixed his glare on me. The beaten man scurried under a bench.
"And if I don't, what are you gonna’ do about it?" A white, foamy spit flying from his lips.
Excellent question. I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Umm . . . nothing, I guess."
"You're ugly,” he screamed. “You got a dirty shirt and I'm gonna’ rip your face off!"
He lurched towards me. I struck a defensive pose, as if I would actually defend myself.
The sound of clinking keys and heavy iron door saved me. Four larger-than-him cops entered with purpose. One stood guard at the door and the other three circled the madman. He wasn’t going to go down smiling and started swinging and kicking wildly. The cops whipped out long, thick batons and brought them down in crunching unison over the man's head and torso. With every thundering blow, he crumbled a little more, finally ending up in a heap on the cold concrete floor.
As fast as they entered, they left. Dragging the crumpled felon behind them. A brief feeling of victory, of unity, swept through the room. The aggressor had been overtaken and the meek had inherited the cell. All was well -- for about ten minutes. Then depression moved back in and gloom settled once more. No one checked on the little man. He was healing.
The clink of the keys returned. Everyone stirred, hoping to be liberated from the oppressive environment.
"Mackie, Samuel. Come with me," the big clean cop barked.
I didn't hesitate. I followed him down to a room, which led to another room that had a window -- A window to a lobby. In a chair waiting, reading a book and waiting, was Samantha!
"What's going on?" I asked the officer.
"Someone posted bond for you."
Yes! Samantha. My lord and savior! My one-woman task force. She was freeing me from the evil regime and had come to release me out of the bondage of desperation. She was my floaty device on that ocean of hell. I was saved!
They handed me my empty wallet, motel
keys, and forty-two cents. Keys clanged again and I was in the lobby. A
tall, handsome, grateful man.
"Baby!" I said, as I gathered myself from her full body smack.
"Let's go, Sam. Let's get the hell out of here. You don't belong in a place like this."
"Damn right I don't."
Her Gremlin was parked in a handicapped spot two spaces over from where she had parked earlier. There was a ticket on the windshield. She snatched it off and dismissed it to the ground.
"Fucking pigs," she griped.
It was late afternoon, rush hour. She drove back in her same style - fast! Lights were ignored, pedestrians lept, only this time, she cursed back at the drivers left in her wake.
"Bitch!" one guy yelled.
"Watch out, skank!" shouted another.
"EAT MY ASS!" she screamed back.
"Damn, baby."
"Oh,” she said. “Sorry."
We pulled into the King of Spain Motel. She turned the ignition off, but didn't get out of the car right away. I waited to follow her lead, but she didn't lead. Finally she looked over at me with that smile and spoke.
"I have a surprise for you."
"Really? I'm not a big one for surprises, baby."
"You'll like this one. Let's go."
We entered the room and there displayed so proud and beautiful on the table was booze! Lots and lots of booze. Vodka, gin, bourbon, Schnapps, and bunches of beer. Two sturdy, clean tumblers sat on the desk next to a full bucket of ice.
"Sweetheart, you're great! Look at you. Little Miss Party Planner."
She blushed and smiled. "I thought you might want a drink after your long day."
"Great minds think alike, baby!"
She went to work on the drinks. I stripped and headed for the shower. The jail grime had soaked in, it had to come off.
I scrubbed, washed and didn't miss a spot. Remembering my unpleasant Scnapps shit earlier in the day, I took extra care down below. I got out, toweled off and returned to the room. She sat on the edge of the bed, drinks ready, watching TV.
I grabbed a cocktail and sat my nakedness next to her. The chill of the iced vodka, combined with the fresh coolness of the bedspread, warmed me. I took a deep, full drink.
"Ahh. . . “ I sighed.
"Good, huh, Sam?"
"Life's placenta, baby, life’s
placenta."
“Ew “
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. That’s how you
talk.”
I smiled.
She still wore her pretty yellow dress. Her legs were white, smooth and perfect. My cock started to rise.
"Look, baby," I said, looking down at my growing erection.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"You're the reason."
She blushed a small blush.
She stood up, unhooked her dress at the shoulders and let it fall. She wore no bra and her breasts fell out natural and unashamed. She stood before me.
"My God sweetheart, you're so beautiful."
I meant it.
She sat back down and wiggled up against me. We watched a movie about some guys breaking out of a prison. We laughed and giggled and made stupid remarks.
"Is that what it's like?" She asked.
"No, It's more like a YMCA dorm with ill-mannered men."
After some time, we propped pillows up against the headboard, and eased ourselves back.
She reached over, took my hand in hers and squeezed.
"Sam?"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I’m not sure. Seems like hate always gets there first."
The movie played on. I finished my drink.
"Baby, I'm empty."
Samantha took my tumbler, got up, filled it with ice, re-filled it with vodka, handed it to me and slid back in.
"Sam?"
I looked at her.
"If you want, you can love me."
I picked up my drink and drained it.
"Baby?"
"Yes, Sam?"
"I'm empty."
I always had been.
Next Month! A New Episode!
|
|
|
Also by Steven Hoadley on SoMa Literary Review: The Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie
Bedtime,
Barbra Streisand can Shove Her Memories up Her Ass, |
|
|
Reproduction of material from SoMa Literary Review pages |
|
