The Trouble with Being Born: A Novel

Father

66 “Oh God. What time is it baby? Almost two thirty? I missed Contract Law again. Fuck.” This apartment is freezing. She should turn the heat up. I shouldn’t have to ask her, she should know better: a guy could freeze his balls off in here. I know fuel oil’s expensive, but you don’t entertain a man in a goddamn icebox. No wonder I don’t want leave the bed. That and her sweet little trim. It ain’t cold down there. “Where you going? You gotta go to work huh. No, she ain’t expecting me until four thirty, after my class is done. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just lie here and smoke: it’s too cold to get out of bed. Hand me those Luckies, will you.” She tosses the pack on the bed near my feet and turns to get dressed. I lean over to grab my cigs. “I just told you: if I go home now she’ll know I missed my class again. All right, all right. I’ll go to the library or something. Maybe go down to Jack’s and have a beer. You wouldn’t happen to have a fiver you could lend me, would you? What are you looking at me like that for? I’ll get it back to you. I always do, don’t I? I brought drinks the other night, didn’t I? What? Keep your money then. Yeah, yeah, just keep it.” Fucking tight bitch. Maybe it’s time I dump the broad. I got enough trouble with my wife. Where are my pants? Damn it’s cold. I should’ve never gotten involved with this miserly little cunt. Father 67 father What a mistake. A lousy five bucks when I spent ten the other night on drinks at the Wyndham. “What do you mean? These are my cigarettes. Sure I’m sure.” She’s counting cigarettes now. Fuck this. I throw off the covers and take my pants from the chair. I start shivering immediately. One leg, then the other. Where’s my shirt? I’m so cold I can hardly see straight. I curse the cow under my breath. “Fucking cunt. Fucking tight cheap whore. Fucking porca.” She screams. “You heard me.” Watch, ring, then undershirt, then shirt, then jacket, then shoes. I look around, find my briefcase. A present from my father. I put my overcoat on. “Fuck you, you cheap little bitch,” I say right to her face. She holds her nail file in her hand like she’s going to stab me. I fake like I’m going to punch her, and she throws her hands in front of her face. I turn around and back out the door. I don’t want to get stabbed with that file. After the first couple of stairs, I run down what remains of the four flights to the bottom. Marone, it’s cold out here. I need a cigarette, but I left the pack, my pack, on the bitch’s bed. Maybe I should go back up there, slap her around a little and retrieve my cigs. Never trust an Anglo bitch. Dark Scots-Irish. Drinks like a fish and screws like a pro. And counts like a Jew. Buttana la shaka. God damn her to hell. Maybe I should wait down here and punch her lights out. It’s too goddamn cold. The bus stop’s three and a half blocks. Maybe I’ll warm up if I get moving. I scratch my nose and smell that cunt on my hands. I should have taken a shower or washed up, but there was no time. I need to splash on some cologne somewhere before I go home. I don’t want Enid sniffing around and asking questions. She ain’t stupid and I don’t need the grief. I don’t know what I’m going to do until four thirty. If I had some scratch I could catch a matinee. I’d like to see that new Mitchum picture, Night 68 father of the Hunter. But I barely got bus fare to get home. Did I leave my tie? No, it’s in my suit jacket pocket. The cold here is different than in Colorado: it’s damp and cuts to the bone. Like the people. If I was back in Pueblo, I could...