Jack nodded his head and lifted his beer. “Like after eatin’ a burrito out of the toilet.”
“What?” Biscuit snapped back. “A toilet burrito?”
Jack nodded his head and laughed. “Contraband. If you get caught with them, you go to the hole, so you can’t leave ‘em out in the cell, and you need to keep ‘em cold anyway. So the Mexican’s would steal the food from the kitchen and smuggle it to the cells and make up burritos. They’d sell ‘em for stamps and store. They’d come wrapped in a piece of plastic, like from a garbage bag. The end was tied and it’d be air tight, and we kept ‘em in the toilet to keep ‘em cold until we wanted to eat ‘em. Toilet’s kind of like a ‘fridge in the joint. Got sick on a few of those fuckers, that’s for sure. Sorry for interrupting, go ahead.”
Biscuit leaned away from the table and widened his eyes. “You ate shit out of a toilet?”
Jack nodded his head. “Didn’t have a choice. Food, drinks, everything. You tie a string to it, shove it in the toilet, and pull it out when you want it. If the cops come, you flush it. After they leave, if they don’t find the end of your string, you pull it back out of the sewer and either eat it or drink it.”
“God damn,” Biscuit said as he shook his head from side-to-side.
I felt the same way, but didn’t dare embarrass Jack by saying so. Life in prison was without a doubt different than life on the outside. To imagine living every day confined, under the watchful eye of the guards, and having a few thousand people who wanted to try and test your ability to fight on a daily basis was more than I wanted to try and imagine.
“Go ahead,” Jack said. “I apologize for interrupting.”
Biscuit narrowed his gaze as he stared down at the table and shook his head. “Okay, so I’m waitin’ on my check, and my gut’s a rumblin’ and makin’ noise, and I know it’s time to go. I reach into my wallet, pull out a twenty, and drop it on the table. I run out to my bike and ride that fucker home like I’d stole it. Whole way, it’s a coin toss as to whether I’m gonna shit my pants or make it on time. I pull that fucker in the drive, hop off, and run into the house, dropping my pants as I’m runnin’.”
“So I get into the shitter, and just explode. A miracle I even made it, I’m tellin’ ya. So for about four hours, I got the shits. Now for situations like this, I keep them pills, the anti-diarrhea stuff, Imodium AD. I take about ten of those fuckers and finally it stops.”
He paused and reached for another bottle of beer. He held his finger in the air as he took a drink to make sure we all knew the story wasn’t over. As he lowered his bottle to the table, he continued.
“So that ain’t even the story, the story’s this. I took so many of those damned pills that I didn’t shit for a week, and we got the rally comin’ up in two days. Finally, it came. When it did, it was a week’s worth, and about the size of a ten-year-old boy’s arm. Fucker ripped my ass to shreds. Now, although I finally took a shit, I’m in pretty sad shape and I got a hemorrhoid the size of a Johnsonville Bratwurst hanging out of my ass.”
He widened his eyes and waited for a response.
“God damn,” Jack said. “That’s a bitch. And the run’s a few days out?”
I’d heard the story ten times over the years from half a dozen different people. The first time it made me about half sick, but every time after the first, I couldn’t help but laugh. I was curious to hear Jack’s response to Biscuit’s problem solving skills, and sat anxiously waiting for Biscuit to continue his tale.
“Precisely. Two days until we’re gonna spend ten hours on the road, and I’ve got a little friend hangin’ outta my ass like I just gave birth. So I know I can’t make it with this hot dog hanging out of my ass. Hell, I can’t even sit down. Sleepin’ on my belly and shit, and I fuckin’ hate sleepin’ on my belly, I’m a back sleeper. So I get me a rubber glove and I poke this fucker back up in there. Hell, after a few minutes, I feel pretty good and forget it’s even there. I stand up and take a few steps.” He paused for effect and took another drink.
He shoved his beer to the side and leaned into the center of the table. After making eye contact with each of us individually, he continued his story.
“And bloop - out the fucker comes. Another rubber glove, poke him back in there, and everything’s fine. Take a few steps and bloop - out he comes again. Now I know I can’t ride to Austin with my finger in my ass, so I start to thinkin’. And all of a sudden it comes to me, so I have Tater come get me in his truck and take to me that dildo shop out east. After a look around a bit, I find one of them butt plugs. Did you know they come in about ten different sizes?”
Toad, who I was quite certain had heard the story no fewer times than me, shrugged. Jack, obviously slightly uncomfortable, sat back in his seat, wrinkled his nose, and crossed his arms.
“Had no idea,” Jack responded.
“Well they do. Picked me out a little red number on the small side of things. And it had this little ring in the end made it look like a pacifier. So Tater takes me home, and I glove up, shove the hotdog inside, and poke the little pacifier in my ass. After I wiggle around a bit, it feels pretty good. Now as far as I’m concerned, problem’s solved. I’m a day out and ready to ride. Just for shits and grins, later on that night, I reach back there to check on things, you know, make sure everything’s where it should be. And I’ll be damned if that little ring, you know the part you hold on to? It’s fucking gone!”
Jack shrugged his shoulders and wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”
Biscuit nodded his head. “Yep. Fucker sucked right up there in my ass. So, now I got to go fishin’ for this little fucker. I glove up again, stick my finger up there, and fish around and find it. I pull her out, wash her up, and grease it with Vaseline and poke it back inside. Couple a minutes, and bloop. You guessed it, it disappears.”
“So I just say fuck it. At this point in time, I feel pretty good, other’n knowing I got a butt plug in my ass. I hop on the bike and ride out to the snow ski and mountain climbin’ store out on Central. Buy me one of those spring loaded carabiner D-rings. After I rode home, I gloved up one last time, found the little fucker, pulled it out, and hooked that D-Ring to it. Then I shoved her back in, and let the hook just hang out of my ass.” He paused and nodded his head proudly as if he’d just cured cancer.
Jack winced. “Rode to Austin with a rappelling D-ring hanging out of your ass?”
“Sure did, left it there for a fucking week. Don’t know if it was a conscious thing, or just because I had that little rubber plug in there or what, but I didn’t shit for a week. When we got home, I reached back, grabbed the D-ring and gave it a tug. Damned thing popped out, and my little friend the hotdog was gone. Problem solved,” he said.
Biscuit sat back in his seat, crossed his arms, and nodded his head. As Toad shook his head in what was probably a combination of disbelief and disgust, Jack leaned forward and grabbed his second beer from the table. After he took a long drink, he shook his head and laughed.
“You’re funnier than a motherfucker,” Jack said.
“Club joker, that’s me,” Biscuit responded proudly.
Jack shook his head and took another drink. He inhaled a shallow breath and appeared to be preparing to speak when his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. Toad’s eyes widened slightly immediately following, and his head tilted to the side.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit. Now, that’s a woman,” Jack said as he craned his neck to see.
Toad tilted his head to the side as his eyes appeared to bulge out of his head. I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder toward the door.
Holy fucking shit was right.
A lump began to immediately rise in my throat. I blindly fumbled for my beer as I continued to study the tall blonde woman as she slowly walked toward the bar. After taking a drink of my beer and washing the lump down my throat, she was directly in front of me, facing sideways. My eyes fixed on her, I fumbled to find the table, and released the bottle of beer. As my heart began to pou
nd from my chest, I stood from my seat and turned to face her.
It had been fifteen years, but I was pretty damned sure. Not based so much on what she looked like, but how she made me feel when she walked into the room. I swallowed heavily and rubbed my sweaty hands against the thighs of my jeans.
“Sam,” I said.
Nothing.
“Sam!” I said with a tone of authority.
Slowly, she turned around.
Her eyes immediately widened, and she raised her hands to her mouth as if in shock.
“Steve?” she whimpered.
As our eyes met, it felt as if my heart completely stopped beating. Somehow, in spite of it, I found a way to take the few steps across the floor of the bar and open my arms. As soon as she wrapped her arms around me and rested her face on my chest, my heart began to beat again.
After a long hug, she released me and pulled away slightly. As she stood in front of me, I glanced up and down her long frame. She looked no differently than she did fifteen years prior. What little she had aged did nothing but add to her beauty. Eventually, I fixed my eyes fixed on her left hand.
No ring.
And my heart stopped beating again.
SAM
I sat in the kitchen wondering if one day an answer would come. I knew - or at least I suspected - my mother’s death would come long before mine; but knowing did little to prepare me for her departure from my life. As I was sure all children did, I wished I had spent more time with her, called her more frequently, and came home on a more regular basis. Changing it now would be impossible, and all I hoped for was to ease what little pain remained.
I lifted my coffee cup halfway to my mouth and gazed down into the cup. Realizing it was one of the cups I used to drink out as a young girl brought back memories, and as they filtered through my mind, a smile came to my face. Although I was a girl, blonde, and somewhat of a ding-dong, I wasn’t so idiotic or mentally impaired that I wasn’t able to accept her death as being just what it was.
The completion of her cycle of life.
No newcomer to losing someone I loved, I grinned and lifted the cup to my mouth with my mind filled with fond memories of my childhood. As my mind slowly searched for even more tender recollections from my youth, her not so dead cat walked into the kitchen and meowed.
Fucking cat.
I hated cats. Now, along with everything else in the home, I had inherited a fucking cat. The grey tabby looked like a small version of her larger vermin cousins, and was possessed by none other than the devil himself. In the several days I had spent inventorying the contents of the house and searching for small pieces of my mother’s life, the cat followed me everywhere I went. When I stopped, it stopped. As I worked, it sat and stared at me with golden snake-like eyes that seemed to burn holes through my skin and into my flesh. The one thing that prevented me from stepping on it or placing it out with the many bags of trash was the fact it was my mother’s only true friend, and my single living tie to my mother’s former life.
“Go away!” I hissed as I swatted my hand in the direction of the filthy feline.
“Meow!” it responded.
“No,” I screeched.
“This,” I swatted my hand in her direction again. “Means go away.”
She meowed again, obviously confused regarding my demand, and began walking toward me. As I watched in sheer horror, she walked alongside the table, turned at the last moment, and before I could lift my leg, slithered to the side and rubbed her body against my shin. The many hours I spent at the gym combined with my quick reflexes paid off in the form of a swift leg extension which sent her sliding across the kitchen floor.
“Stay over there before I put your sickening ass in the freezer,” I snapped as I stood from my seat.
I stared down at my leg as if I expected to see my calf withering away from some form of staph infection. After brushing her residue from my skin, I finished my coffee and walked to the sink. Gazing into the back yard provided a rush of memories from my high school years, and the time I had spent with my then lover, Steve.
If anyone ever was, we were meant for each other. The type of couple that made everyone else sick when we showed up at a party, we were the two people who always finished each other’s sentences, poked food into each other’s mouths, and tasted each other’s drinks we concocted at parties or fast-food restaurants.
My life had never felt as in order as it was then. In Steve’s presence I was able to exhale, and had no worries whatsoever. He was a huge guy, standing more than six feet five, wasn’t overweight, and actually was quite the opposite. In high school, he played football and basketball, and always stayed in great physical condition. After school was over, he continued to stay in great shape by constantly lifting weights and running. His physical presence combined with his protective nature made me feel comfortable that no matter what, no harm would ever come to me.
Other than spending time with me, his only other true love was riding his Harley. He found freedom in riding it, and often spent countless hours on the road - often with me on the back – riding to a place that we rarely planned on going. I was young at the time, but there was no mistaking that our love was not only genuine, but it was the type of love most women would never find in a lifetime.
To try and describe the love we shared would be impossible. Words like perfect and phrases like once in a lifetime came to mind when thinking about it, but there were no words in my vocabulary that would accurately describe our relationship with any level of justice. When we were twenty-one years old, I decided I needed to act as if I was an adult, and the selfish side of me desired children.
Steve wanted nothing more than to live his life free, and love me until the end. In time I’m quite sure children would have been possible with him, but at the time I asked, I gave very little, if any, room for negotiation. His response was not what I wanted but what I should have expected.
And we parted ways.
Incapable of living in the same city as Steve lived without having him in my life, I left the city with tear-filled eyes, a broken heart, and no plan for my future. I moved as far away as geography and common sense would allow, and came to rest in New York City. Within a year I was married to a workaholic who could care less about anything but how many commas were in his paycheck.
After a year of marriage, a terrorist flew a commercial airliner into the building he worked in, and he never came home from work. No body, no clothes, no jewelry, and no closure to a loss I was ill prepared for.
I recovered quickly, as I always did, with the understanding living life was a mystery; and solving it, no different than watching a movie, didn’t come until the bitter end. With the exception of losing Steve, I had accepted everything life had thrown my direction, and never once complained.
Losing him, however, remained the one thing for the last fourteen years I never accepted. I knew I couldn’t change it and would never be granted an opportunity to fix it, but accepting it as being a good decision haunted me on a daily basis.
After the death of my husband, I left New York and moved to St. Louis - the second worst decision I ever made in my life. There I remained, single, uninterested, and gainfully employed as a hairstylist at an upscale salon I dreamed of one day owning. The untimely death of my mother brought me back to Wichita, a city I had very little intention of ever returning to full time, and in fact I dreaded even the short visits to my mother prior to her death. My underlying fear of encountering Steve, and finding him living a happy life with someone other than me made me feel ill.
Immediately following our breakup, I had snooped on Myspace hoping to find a glimpse of him or a morsel from his life without me. As the years passed, I had spent countless unsuccessful hours attempting to find him on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and even scoured the popular dating forums. It came as no surprise that I never found anything; Steve was always a person who enjoyed living out of the view and away from the scrutiny of others. A few years into this century
, and I’d given up any hope of ever learning anything about him. In time, I began to live my life as the single arrogant bitch most of my clients described me as.
Arrogant? No.
Dissatisfied with the loss of the one man I loved, and the other who I had simply settled for? Yes.
I gazed at the concrete bench situated underneath the pergola, recalling the time Steve and I had spent there. As my focus shifted to the entire yard, I appreciated the small changes my mother had made since I’d seen it last. The sides of the brick walkway leading to the fountain in the rear of the yard once adorned with large leaf periwinkle and various hostas was now beautifully landscaped with lavender, daisies, and an occasional black-eyed Susan. The back yard had always been my mother’s place of escape, and in many respects, it was mine as well. She used the yard for therapeutic reasons after the death of my father, and I sometimes felt guilty for my less relaxing use of the beautiful space she had created. The smell of the flowers combined with the seclusion created by the depth of landscape made it a perfect area for sex. Steve and I had spent countless hours in the yard fucking on various large stones, the concrete bench, and even in the fountain. I loved fucking him in my mother’s back yard, and generally speaking, I preferred it to my bedroom. Steve’s bad-boy attitude, his take charge personality and my willingness to please the man I truly loved caused me to agree to some pretty risqué sexual situations in the five years we were in a relationship.
My eyes once again shifted to the bench and became fixed. I grinned, wondering just how many times I had pressed my chest against the cold concrete while arching my back, forcing my ass high enough in the air for Steve to satisfy my sexual desires. Many times I had bit my lower lip so hard while he fucked me that impressions of my teeth remained in my lip for an hour after we returned into the house. Although my mother never questioned me, I always felt she knew I loved the yard just as much as her, but for different reasons.