Blackhumouristpress's Blog

February 16, 2011

Long Island’s Journey into Night or Je Ne Veux Pas

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 1:56 am
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If you take gin, tequila, rum, vodka, triple sec, sweet and sour mix with a splash of cola (doesn’t have to be Coca or Pepsi.  RC Cola would work too) and mix that with a man going through a divorce, you could have one potentially drunk male within a few drinks.  Give an average sized man six of these drinks and you could be listening to or speaking Portuguese.

I know a guy (that really sounded quite Italian rather than Portuguese) who was going through a divorce, playing Reggae music, coaching a youth hockey team and a C level women’s hockey team.

This individual’s days started with work from 1am until 8am.  Breakfast and a short three or four hour nap, pick-up hockey, lunch, practice the bass guitar, nap, coach a youth hockey team or a women’s team, play a men’s league game then back to work.  Rinse and repeat.

A mother of one of his youth players asked this man if he would take up the task of coaching a beginner female hockey team and so he did.  He quickly learned that speaking to grown women the way he might a pre-pubescent young man does not work.  Women are not boys.  Using reverse psychology will not work with women.  Using rhetorical questions will only create animosity.

“What the fuck are you doing out there?”

Pose that question and you may get one of several answers from a woman.  Here are a few you could expect.

“I am doing exactly what you instructed.  Maybe you don’t know what you’re fucking doing?”


“I am trying to do the best I possibly can.  If my best is not good enough for you then maybe you should consider fucking yourself.”

Instead the coach had to take breath and try to gather the proper words carefully so as to not cause a fight.  The coach understood well what it was like to use the wrong words and what the potential was if the wrong word or phrase was used out of anger or frustration.  Going through a divorce will cause a man to contemplate what he might have done differently.  Word choices are paramount with most women and especially with one who is contemplating divorcing you and so the coach was particularly careful with criticism while coaching a team of women that were struggling to string together two passes and play together as a team.

“Um… Abigail, try to take a second and think about what your options are before you make a decision.  Remember: hockey is a game of chess not checkers.  It is a thinking woman’s game.”

“Right, coach.  I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

The coach had one particularly mediocre player who really wanted to become a good hockey player despite the fact that she had never played sports before in her life and was not too athletic.  Her attitude was very good despite the fact that she might have been the worst player on the worst team in the league.

Abigail heard the coach talking about playing live music and took it upon herself to go out to hear him play.  If you took Ugly Betty and made her more matronly and a hockey player, you could then picture Abigail.  Abigail grabbed a table by herself close to the stage so that she could watch the coach play and sing music.  In between sets, the coach stopped by her table to thank her for making the trip out to hear and see him.  He asked her what she was drinking and came to find out it was a Long Island Ice Tea.  He had never had one before.

Maybe somebody from Long Island created the drink that appears to look like ordinary, innocuous ice tea or just someone thought it gave it a good name such as The Bitch Slapper, The Stink face, The Cross Checker or The Ass Pounder.  It is a potent drink among potent drinks.  If you find a good chemist or seasoned bartender, the drink is as sweet as candy.  If made wrong, it tastes like kerosene and then you know that the mixture of liquors is going to keep you in low gear the next day.  Abigail bought the coach one after he took a sip of hers and then he went on to have five more.  Six Long Island Ice Teas in a span of three hours.  What the coach remembers was that when he turned his head, his vision had a two second delay on focusing on the direction in which his head moved.

Coach put his hand on Ugly Betty and with a look of distress and innocence, he told Abigail that it would not be possible for him to drive and that it might be difficult to walk.  Abigail’s motherly instincts kicked in.  She placed the coach in the front seat of her minivan as he rode the roller coaster whenever he closed his eyes.  Coach felt no pain and felt as helpless as a baby as he listened to Celine Dion on Abigail’s car stereo.  Coach commented that she sang very well in French not knowing who was singing and that it was her first language.  Abigail took it to mean that Coach really liked the music.  Coach was listening to different music in his head.

Somehow after taking his last gulp of the toxic drink and then chewing on ice to fend off dehydration, Coach was more drunk than he was an hour before.  His head rolled around as he sat on the couch at Abigail’s house.  He could hear Celine again singing in French.

« Je ne veux pas … quelque chose, quelque chose … da da da, dee dee dee »

I don’t want.  Coach understood that much French in his drunken stupor.  I don’t want to be divorced, I don’t want to be drunk, I don’t want to be in someone else’s bed tonight, I don’t want to listen to Celine Dion and I don’t want to watch a woman pull feces out of a paralyzed dog’s ass with blue rubber gloves on.

“I know this is disgusting but I just can’t put the dog down yet.  She has been with me and the kids since they were little.  It’s just so hard to do this.  I’m a single mother with two kids and I can’t kill one of the only tangible things from the days when we were a complete family.”

Abigail was crying while putting feces in a bag and the half dead German Sheppard consoled her with a lick on her forearm.  Celine Dion was building to a crescendo and Coach was about to hurl.  He got up and stumbled to a bed in the back away from the dog, the gloves, Celine and Abigail.  The buzz was getting stronger somehow and the room began to spin for Coach.  The night eventually ended and with the light of day, everything gets just a little bit worse.

Coach opened his eyes careful not to move since he was not sure where he was.  He looked to his right and resting in the crook of his right arm was a head of brown hair and a body unlike any that he was accustomed to.  The room was foreign and the smell in the air was not unlike hallways of nursing homes.  It hurt Coach to blink and his throat was bone dry.  He wondered if like coyotes or wolves caught in traps if it would be possible to chew his own arm off at the shoulder so as to not to disturb the head that rested on it.  No such luck.  Coach dressed quickly and apologized profusely, grabbed his guitar and a cab in hopes of finding his automobile where he left it the night before.  To this day Coach will not drink a Long Island Ice Tea, listen to Celine Dion or coach a woman’s ice hockey team.  The mixture was not healthy for him.

Speaking of Long Island, the Islanders came to life in a big way Friday night.  After being blanked by Brent Johnson less than two weeks ago and watching Johnson knock out DiPietro with one slow blow, they pounded Pittsburgh 9-3.

Was it Talbot’s previous hit on Comeau that caused a concussion?  Was it the two previous shut-outs the Islanders endured at the hands of the Penguins?  The sucker punch of Talbot by Martin after the Isles were up 6-0 was a surprise that laid the foundation for the rest of the game. The goonery by a man named Michael Haley who was brought up from Moose Jaw, I mean Bridgeport, fighting a goalie, then Brooks Orpik driving Grabner hard into his own goalie, Gillies putting an elbow to the head of and then attacking Tangradi who was hurt by the check.  What a game.  Two games this week resembled mid-1970’s hockey a la Slapshot. 346 penalty minutes, 65 penalties and 10 ejections are exceptional for a season much less one game.  These sorts of highlights lay doubts about the sport in the minds of mothers and network executives in the states. These things happen and this week it happened twice,  Boston and Montreal and the New York Islanders and Pittsburgh.  Dan Bylsma said it best.

“The first half of the game was a hockey game and the second was not.”

On another note, Detroit which has the lowest amount of fights in the league at nine, finally returned from the all-star break with a 6-1 win over Boston.  Pavel Datsyuk is the key to their success.  Tomas Holmstrom too is back to collect trash and put it in the net.  Both were sorely missed by Detroit for close to six weeks.  The west is wild and crazy tight.  When the dust settles, who will be the eight that go on?



October 10, 2009

Women in Bars

Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:02 pm
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Sarah and Angela made plans for two Fridays in a row to leave their homes in Grosse Pointe to have a drink in Hamtramck which is a little island of a town encompassed by the city of Detroit. After a few cancellations, they met at Small’s. In the main room was a noisy garage band. Sarah and Angela found a table under a television where Fox Detroit was agonizing over the unravelling of the Tigers in the last days of the 2009 baseball season. Neither of them was interested in that nor anything else going on in crowed bar that cool autumn night. Catching up was all that they really hoped to do.

Sarah was the mother of four children and was married to a second generation Greek man who owned his own garage. Demetrius inherited his father’s garage that was started back in 1959. Demetrius made a good buck and lived a fairly simple life.

Angela was the mother of two children, one of which played ice hockey on a team with Sarah’s son. Angela and Sarah became friends immediately and carpooled to hockey games and practices and eventually became each other’s confidant.

Sarah ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and Angela had a Corona Light. A young fat man with mutton side burns, many tattoos and a backwards Lions hat on, put ten dollars in the juke box and played every Ramones tune available. Sarah blinked hard and shook her head.

“Have you figured out when boys become men? This little cherub probably still lives at home and plays drinking games in his parent’s basement in between X Box tournaments with his equally unmotivated friends who are living at home with their parents,” stated Angela, while leaning her chin on the palm of her right hand.

“Um my loving husband is sitting right now in my living room with his brother and cousins, watching a Red Wings game on a seventy two inch television. Four fat Greeks wearing Chelios jerseys, eating wings and drinking beer. I could walk naked in front of all of them and they’d never notice. His fucking brother is such a goddamn pig too. He makes that sound when you’re sucking snot up from somewhere in your throat. It is so damn gross and then he swallows it.” Said Sarah.

“I hate it when his parents come over and the wives of his cousins and brother. Everyone is Greek and they all speak Greek and I’m just running around making coffee for the old people who are ripping on me in Greek because I’m not Greek. Thank god I’m not Greek. Something happens when those Greek chicks have kids. Their hips expand and they grow moustaches. I shit you not. Even the good looking ones get fat asses and facial hair. When I first met his parents they assumed I was Greek and then they wanted assurances from me that the kids would go to Greek school on weekends to learn to read and write in Greek. My Greek god turned into just a fucking Greek. Him and his cousins, brothers, their wives, his parents and their Hellenic hip disease… Honest to Christ almighty. I’m immersed in the fucking white sauce of life.” Said Sarah, while Angela laughed uncontrollably.

Sarah was short with brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Sarah’s inspiration unbeknownst to her was Angela. Angela had her last child a few years back and began to work out religiously. Angela’s husband had told her that he could not get aroused since she had become more matronly than he had anticipated. Angela signed up for spin classes, Pilates and swam. Everyday she tried to get in between a half hour to an hour of exercise. Within six months, Angela had lost forty five pounds and looked and felt better than she had in years. Angela’s husband still criticized her one too many times. Angela had found more than exercise to occupy her time.

“I have something I have to get off my chest,” said Angela after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m seeing a Polish poet who works during the day as a plumber”.

Sarah laughed as though Angela had told a joke. Angela wasn’t laughing. Sarah reached across the table and grabbed Angela’s forearm.

“I want to hear about this and don’t leave a fucking detail out,” said Sarah.

“I told Tom for weeks to fix the P trap under the sink in the kitchen. I thought he had done it and I open the cabinet to get cleaning solution to clean up a spot where the cat has taken to pissing over and over and the cabinet had fallen apart totally. I could see the foundation through a hole where there used to be wood. I was so pissed. I go into the den and he was looking at porn or something on the internet. As soon as he heard my feet stomping towards him on the hardwood floor, he turns off the monitor… So fucking childish… Anyway I ask him why he never took care of it. He shrugs like my other kids and says he forgot. I was so mad that I went to the hardware store to get the parts myself. I connect it all up and water is spraying everywhere and I’m about ready to cry. There I am under the sink with a pipe wrench and I have whining kids asking for pudding pops and Tom gets upset because he’s trying to watch football and the kids are yelling. He gives them each a granola bar and tells them to play downstairs. Mind you, I’m under the sink with black shit all over my arms and he never attempts to stop watching football which he could tape if he wanted to and help me with something that he should have done. Instead he tells me that I’m going to fuck it up and sure enough I do. Instead of crying, I put on my running shoes and took the kids to the high school track with me and they walked while I ran. I ran three miles and came home and made cookies and never gave another thought to the damn leaking pipe. Tom runs the water and it’s now spraying all over everything under the sink. He says with his smug assed smile that he knew I would fuck it up. My sister tells me to call this handy man named Marek and he comes over the next morning. This guy walks in and I just knew even before he said one word that we were going to connect. He disconnects what I put on and adds some Teflon tape and it works perfectly. Marek tells me that I did a good job except for the tape and he gets ready to leave and doesn’t charge me. I force the guy to take a fifty and I’m thinking that’s that. A week later, I’m right here in Hamtramck at Trowbridge having coffee one night and low and behold my plumber is reading poetry. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t shirt and nervously reads his poetry in English with his cute Polish accent. There were maybe a dozen people there and I waited until he was done and bought his book of poems and had him sign it. Well one thing leads to another and we get together and he reads my poems and I his and then one night we go to dinner and wind up back at his place for hours. I can’t tell you how many times we made love. It was love. You know when you’re fucking and when it’s actually the act of love making. Every time is so good and I can’t wait until the next time,” said Angela.

Sarah had her mouth open as if someone had poured cold water on her. Sarah asked the obvious question.

“Tom? Tom understands that I’m there but I’m gone. He can smell it on me that something has changed. He had the balls to say to me the other day that I act too good for him now that I got in shape. I told him that I’m the same person I was when my ass was too fat for him. There’s just less of me than before. Have you started running yet? Are you doing the 3K with me at Thanksgiving?” Asked Angela.

“I’ve been begging Demetrius to let me have a dog. I want a dog that will jog with me. Maybe a Doberman or something that’s built to jog. I’m up to a mile a day. It takes me twelve minutes but I’m getting better.” Said Sarah.

“So if you want a dog just go buy one,” said Angela.

“It doesn’t work that way when you’re married to a macho Greek. He says if I blow him once in a while, I can have the dog. I’m blowing him twice a week now and last week I wind up getting a cold sore and he’s so sure that he’s going to get herpes on his nut sack that he makes me give him a hand job. Can you believe it? Like junior high, honest to god. I get olive oil and am jerking his cock while ESPN is on the gigantic television. He’s just about to cum and Stavros calls for me to bring him a drink of water. Demetrius gets so pissed and then I gotta start all over again. My damn right arm was cramping and I offer to go in the shower with him since I’m on the rag and he’s horrified that I suggested a little shower sex. I told him it will be fun kinda like mixing a porno with Psycho. He could watch my blood go down the drain. Anyway he tells me to shut up because he can’t concentrate. Finally he cums and I make sure it goes straight up in the air and lands on his precious Red Wings home jersey. He jumps up and mops the come off like it was fucking ink. He thanks me and I tell him I better be getting a team of mush dogs like they have in Alaska,” said Sarah.

At that moment a young cocky guy walks up holding a beer. He had longish blond hair and wore a Fedora with ripped up jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He lifted Angela’s purse up from the stool next to her and sat down uninvited.

“What’s up, ladies?”

Sarah liked the attention but Angela did not appreciate it. The young man could not hold a blow torch to the Polish/plumber/poet and she let him know in so many words.

“Um Kid Rock… You may not have noticed that we have chosen this table away from everyone else because we wanted to be alone. We don’t want you to go away thinking that we are going to crawl out of here and into a bed with each other because we don’t play for that team. Had you been in tuned to clues, you may have noticed too the rings on both or our ring fingers which is a symbol in our society of marriage. Now marriage may not matter to you and that’s cool but we really don’t want or need the company right now. I’ll buy you a drink if you go away,” said Angela harshly.

The young man walked off and Sarah and Angela continued to share details of their day to day lives. They shared things about their children, things they wanted out of day to day life and the physical changes they hoped to make in their homes. They shared intimate details of their lives and cherished the time they set aside to check in with one another. The speed and demands of day to day life made their meetings a necessity for sanity and order. They hugged as they got to their cars and promised to meet the next Friday. The next Friday did not happen nor the Friday after that. It would be a little more than a month before their next opportunity to connect. You can be sure that they’ll both have something they’ll want to discuss. They always do.

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