Darlene or Uni ball

Darlene or Uni-Ball
Darlene...
Darlene....
Darlene...
For three months Darlene is all I think about. I dream about her; I
fantasize about her. I masturbate to her name in the phone book. For
three months now I haven't asked her out because of the job situation.
The job situation is complicated by the fact that I am an African
American. Actually I'm not an African American in the traditional
sense, but I do believe in the Darwinian theory that humans originated
in Africa, from the ancestor hominid. All I want is a job at Denny's.
Darlene works at Denny's. My interview last week goes like this: when
the manager, whose name by the way is Denny, decides not to hire me I
threaten a lawsuit. The only threat I can think of is racism.
"But you're white as chalk!" He says confused. Of course I don't get
the job. Luckily, Darlene attends church with Momma.

On Sunday my Momma introduces us at The Springdale Church of Christ
where they are both members. She slaps me as we walk closer towards
church, because my tie is not on straight. Momma's a Christian, which
makes it easy for her to beat me, even though I'm 23. "If God can send
his only begotten son to earth, and crucify his ass; then I don't see
why I can't hit my kid without it being called child abuse."
I haven't been inside the Springdale Church of Christ since I drank 12
Mr. Pibbs before my baptism when I was 15, and christened the baptismal
the S.S. Mr. Pibb. "I know you tried to tell them it was holy water,
but they've even put pee in the pool tablets in the water since you
came," Mom says before she introduces us. The church people stare at
me. Thankfully, Darlene doesn't know about my nervous teenage bladder.
As soon as I see her, I realize how much more beautiful she is face to
face than on the video cameras I placed behind the ladies shit stall,
at Denny's, where she works. I never should have held it against Momma
that she was a Christian. Of course, I still hold it against her that
she used to be a Jehovah Witness, but only on the major holidays and my
birthday. Juts seconds before I met Darlene Mom and I argue about it.
"It helped to save a lot on presents," she said as I remembered one
Christmas when I did without.
All I know is Darlene looks like a model, that is, if models have
raccoon eyes and harelip scars. What I like most about her are the tiny
wrists that hold her pocket book, and her dainty feet with toenails
painted red, white, and blue. I suddenly realize I'm staring, so I
stop. I like Darlene's feet, because I hate my own.
Actually, Darlene and I went to school together for one year. However,
after the 3rd grade she moved away; but before she moved, she competed
with me in the math field day contest. They awarded her the blue
ribbon, after they caught me cheating. She didn't beat me, and I didn't
cheat. The only thing that beat me was flip-flops. Momma told me not to
wear them that day, but I didn't listen.
Together, Darlene and I went through fifteen straight rounds till we
reached the finals. "158 divided by 28," the judge shouted as we raced
to complete the problem the fastest. I worked through it on the
chalkboard as the dust shot through my nose and started choking me. "I
won!" That was until Darlene's Father saw my flip-flops. "Hold it! Hold
it! I think we have a cheater here," he shouted as I tried to cross my
toes. It was too late. He walked up to the stage. "That boy has six
toes on both feet, now that ain't fair. That's two extra digits to
count on goddamnit. That's cheating." As I look at Darlene I wonder if
she remembers the cheater. I'm not bitter; I'm sure her math skills
help her out at Denny's.

I make plans to pick her up the next night at 7:30. I put on extra
Stetson before I drive over and pick her up. That morning, I make sure
to push all my embarrassing tapes, like Toto, below the seat. I know
that just because I like "Turning Japanese" doesn't mean everybody digs
it. As a precaution, I wash out a few used condoms in the toilet, and
wrap them back up, just in case. I was gonna use them as balloons for
my nephews birthday party, but I can always buy new ones. The only
other precaution I make is call Forrest Lawn Nursing Home and make sure
Grandpa is still locked up. I don't want Grandpa to get out and kill
us.
The month before Grandpa shot me in the groin after he escaped from
the nursing home. It was his 14th escape attempt in as many months.
They amputated his feet after the 12th attempt, but he still fought for
his freedom. He was pissed after the April Fool's Day joke. My friend,
who worked at the local newspaper, helped me with the joke. I thought
it might be funny and cheer Grandpa up a bit if he saw his name in the
paper. I thought it might be even funnier if he saw his name in the
paper in the obituary column. I spent all night writing it. "Grandpa,
age 78, died yesterday." The next day the nursing home saw it in the
paper and freaked. "Zombie," they screamed as they hit him on the back
of the skull with a flashlight, bashed in his skull, and drug him out
the door to the graveyard. "But I'm not dead," he shrieked as they
threw dirt on him.
I guess I would be pissed too. Grandpa spent four and a half hours
below ground before they realized the joke. The next day, not seeing
the humor in it, Grandpa escaped, and shot me in the groin. Every day I
relive it. Every morning I awake to a lopsided scrotum, hanging between
my legs, and my one testicle that was severed from the slug. It's my
uni-ball. When I look at it I remember the whole thing. The cops come.
The sirens blare. My Grandpa laughs like Zarathustra. I hear the old
fuck fake his way out of it. "O god what have I done, I have
Alzheimer's." He screams.
I shake the trauma out of my head as I pick up Darlene at her
apartment. Darlene lives in a big 3 story apartment building, with air
conditioning, that her mother left her when she died. Before I enter, I
breathe in my hand and check the breath. The receptionist at the door
sounds a little like my star 69 girl. I wonder if Darlene likes phone
sex as much as I do. I met the star 69 girl like this. The week before
I randomly call a number and start my dirty talking routine. "Do guys
with only one testicle make you wet?" This is followed by my usual.
"What are you wearing?" Then, on the other line, the weird bitch
proceeds to tell me. I hang up, afraid. It totally breaks the moment
and my one eyed monster goes limp. She star 69's me for the rest of the
night trying to tell me what she is wearing. I call the cops, after she
won't stop, and try explaining it; but they won't listen. I wonder if
Darlene likes guys with one testicle?
I forget all about it as soon as I see Darlene. She is dressed in a
flowery skirt with curly pubic like hair. She looks anorexic, but I'm
sure it saves on grocery bills. My grocery bills are always so
expensive, and if I had a girlfriend I'd want an anorexic one. I lean
close and hug her so she can smell the Stetson. Momma gave me a few
extra dollars so I decide to take her to Wendy's instead of Burger
King. The air feels nice as we go through the drive thru, and park
beneath a pine tree, so we can relax in the evening shade. Busily, we
eat our burgers when she notices, "Hey it's Toto! I love those guys,"
and slaps in the tape. "Turning Japanese" blares through my Subaru as
we wash down our fries with watered down soda. My fingers smell like
hamburger grease as I slide my arm around her. It extends around her
tiny shoulders like a boa constrictor.
The only thing bad about Darlene is she never shuts up. "You know I
cheated on my boyfriend one time." She says and chuckles. "He caught me
fucking the mailman so I pretended I had multiple personalities. Since
I had multiple personalities he decided to become a Mormon. I guess he
thought since I had multiple wives now why not." We giggle, and kiss,
and I decide to drive her back home. All the way back she won't shut
up. She goes on and on about her feminist issues. "Really the word
sexual her-ass-ment really is discrimination. I mean you are saying
her-ass when you pronounce it." She nods her head and looks deeply into
my eyes. Then another light bulb goes off in her head. "I think it's
just horrible that cats are used in pornography." I don't understand
what she is talking about. "What?" "Why kiddy porn you idiot." I want
to explain it all, but I figure the one testicle will freak her out
enough. I oughta whip out my uni-ball right now just to shut her
up.

Back at the apartment it surprises me when Darlene asks me up. I wrap
my arms around her like a fly trap in the elevator. I don't know if
it's the Stetson or the "Turning Japanese" that gets her.
1....
2.....
3..... The elevator rises as she reaches her hand down in the front of
my pants and wiggles it around like a gerbil in Richard Gere's ass. We
tongue kiss in front of her door. In the darkness of her apartment her
eyes glare like a raccoon. "Let me get more comfortable. You go make us
some drinks," she says, and kicks off her jelly shoes in the corner
with the other's. I turn to the fridge, and open up a two-liter bottle
of Mr. Pibb that sits on the counter like a trophy. I take out glasses
and open the freezer in search of ice cubes. Immediately, I vomit from
what I see. There is a clubfoot, a human hand, a baby arm, and a bag of
eyeballs in zip lock bags. They are labeled neatly with stickers that
say clubfoot, human hand, baby arm, and bag of eyeballs. With my
clip-on tie I try wiping all my vomit off the fridge; because I know if
someone vomited on my fridge I'd never go out on another date with them
again. Above all, I need another date.
Suddenly I see Darlene as she walks back into the room with only her
bra on. On her stomach is a caesarian scar that looks like a smiley
face from a baby she gave up years ago, or so she says. "I hope you
don't mind the scar. The Baby Doctor says a smiley caesarian scar helps
alleviate post partum depression". Then she smiles. She notices my
vomit covered tie as I try removing it. Darlene looks at the freezer
and bursts into tears. "O god you probably think so bad of me. It has
such a negative connotation." I walk away slowly trying not to piss her
off. "What?" I ask playing dumb, and walking towards the door.
"What has such a negative connotation?"
"Cannibal," she screams. The caesarian scar opens and bleeds like a
stigmata. "That damn Jeffrey Dahmer ruined it for us all. People
immediately think just because you like a little human flesh every now
and then that you're a bad person. Well I'm not a bad person. I'm not a
murderer. They all volunteered, honest they did." I reach for the
doorknob as she reaches for me. It's locked. She whips her arms around
me and begins crying. With one hand she clutches my throat and with the
other grabs my crotch. There is a zip lock bag on the counter labeled
"uni-ball." I feel her gnawing on my neck. I don't say anything. I am a
lonely man. I want to be a volunteer.