I left home when I was in high school without a diploma and shacked up with a floozie. I call her a floozie not just because my mother called her that, but because she was a floozie. She was a floozie to end all floozies. If being a floozie was anything like being in the Army she’d have been a general. And instead of painting skulls on her helmet to represent vanquished opponents, she’d have painted dicks, to represent vanquished dicks. And to accommodate all the dicks she’d need something like a million helmets and a whole convoy just to transport them.
When I left I had no means to support myself other than an almost uncanny ability to make chicken wings, which I’d learned from a brief apprenticeship at Skeet’s Wing shack. I didn’t make the wings all the way though. I wasn’t worth a damn as the fry man. I battered them and put the hot sauce on. And let me tell you, it takes a special touch to understand the subtle graduations between hot and atomic.
Well, anyway. I used to brag to my floozie girlfriend about my chicken wing making abilities. This was before we ran off. I was still working at the restaurant and on occasion she’d come in all coked up and I’d slip her a few wings on the sly. After I got off work we’d go out into the parking lot and drink beers. Then she’d let me do lines of coke off her tits. Man, what times.
But now it was 2:00 am and man, did she have a hankering for some wings.
“Baby, can’t you make some?” she asked as she held in a rather large bong hit.
I tell her that our motel room, while very nice, lacked the basic facilities of a proper chicken wing making outfit. She looks at me, all disappointed-like and returns to doing drugs.
Later that night I must have gotten really drunk or stoned or something. At one point I remember standing on top of the sink in my underwear raving about how chicken wings were going to save us. I told her that I’d be famous and we’d be rich.
She asked me if she’d still be a floozie once we were rich. I said yes. She seemed satisfied with that.
Chicken wings? What the fuck was I thinking? I woke up the next morning on the floor wondering what happened. My girlfriend was in the tub. I went in to see her. She was passed out. Even asleep she looked like a big floozie.
Then, there was some banging at the door.
“Come out of there you slut! Leave my brother alone!” yelled a voice from outside. Seeing as she called me her brother, I had no choice but to assume it was my sister. I looked out of the peephole. My sister was in the parking lot with a tire iron in her hand. She was making some mondo menacing gestures.
My girlfriend got out of the tub, applied some lipstick in the mirror, and went to look out of the peephole.
My girlfriend yelled back, “Get out of here you crazed bitch! I’m calling the cops! Stay away from Joe! He’s happy now!”
Then she lit up a cigarette. She appeared to be considering the situation.
My sister was still out in the parking lot. She was going from car to car trying to figure out which was my girlfriend’s. She was still waving around the tire iron, and something, call it a hunch, told me she didn’t just have a hankering to change a tire.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” my floozie girlfriend asked.
“She’s my sister!” I said.
My girlfriend knew my sister long before she knew me. They used to clean houses together. My sister used to complain a lot because, most of the time, my girlfriend was either too drunk or too high to tell the difference between a vacuum and a boa constrictor.
“Come out or I’ll smash the door down,” my sister yelled.
“You still owe me twenty bucks, bitch!”
This really sent my sister over the edge. She started smashing up everything that could be smashed: car windows, discarded beer bottles, whatever. When she ran out of things to smash she began assaulting the concrete.
In the course of smashing up everything she’d managed to smash out the windows to my girlfriend’s car. My girlfriend, still in her underwear, ran outside and tackled my sister in the parking lot. Soon the other low-life tenants of the motel were outside watching the two girls wrestle in the parking lot.
During the struggle, my sister ripped off my girlfriend’s top and threw it down.
Now, everybody was watching. Some people even started throwing money. I ran around to collect it. As I picked up a five I thought about how these men were flat-out ogling my girlfriend. Ogling! Didn’t she feel the least bit ashamed to be half naked in a parking lot with strangers looking at her! God, what a floozie, I reminded myself. She could have at least covered her tits between swings! As I watched her I wondered if she was secretly enjoying the attention.
Then, the cops showed up.
There was this slogan on the side of the police cruiser that pulled up. It said: “Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect.” The words were right on top of one another so that they formed an acrostic. CPR. Cute, huh? Well, apparently these cops had never even read the side of their own car.
They got out and beat my sister and my floozie girlfriend to the ground. Then they handcuffed them and threw them into the back of the police cruiser. CPR my ass.
Then they started asking questions.
I was staying at a pretty shady motel so by the time the police showed up everyone was back in their rooms. I stayed outside, but I shut the door to my room so as to conceal the almost unimaginable quantity of illegal drugs I had inside.
“What the fuck happened here, son?” one of them asked me.
I looked at my sister and my floozie girlfriend. They were in the back of the cruiser head-butting one other. Then I thought about the wings. Then I thought about my floozie girlfriend’s tits. Then I remembered the wad of cash I’d just collected during the wrestling match.
I looked the cop square in the eye and said, “Know any good wing joints around here?”
Author’s Note: For those interested, no, I’m not the guy in the story. But I do enjoy a good chicken wing now and then.