Bad Boys (Inner Circle)

My dad was away working on a class action lawsuit in Harrisburg, which meant take out from Sal’s Italian Too, the classic Italian eatery in town. Wendell limped towards my mom’s van and slumped in, tired and hot from a long day of pre-season practice.

My mom said, “What happened to your leg?”

Wendell said, “Can I get the bread zucchini?” Changing the subject was his way of concealing the truth.

My mom said, “What are you not telling me?”

Before Wendell could answer, Nunzio Venchenzo waved to my mom. A buffed would be Antonio Banderas, Nunzio was one of Coach Matthias’s senior shining stars on the offensive line. Flashing his pearly whites he said, “Hi Mrs. Brucker. You are looking beautiful today.”

My mom smiled, “Why thank you, Nunzio.”

Nunzio said, “Well I have some news to make you feel swell. My dad offered to cater the pre-season banquet free of charge.” His dad, Fabrizio owned a pizza parlor on the edge of town aptly named Fabrizio. The pizza rivaled Sal’s Italian Too.

My mom said, “Great. We will discuss it at the next booster meeting.”

Nunzio said, “Oh, and if you ever want a slice it’s always on the house for your family, especially Wendell.”

“You are so very sweet, Nunzio. God bless you.” Then my mom rolled her window down and drove away.

When we were out of the parking lot Skipper raised her hand. Despite being out of school the ten year old was always studious, “Didn’t Sal agree to do it and isnt he signing the paperwork tonight?”

I said, “Yup. And dad also said there’s no way in hell Fabrizio will cater a Blackhawk dinner ever.” Earlier in the year, Fabrizio had come under fire for refusing to serve a biracial couple. Many in the community, my family included, responded by refusing to patronize Fabrizio’s.

Wendell said, “Mom, the next time you see Nunzio dont talk to him. He put a dirty hit on me.”

Skipper said, “Maybe it was an accident.” While book smart, she always saw the best in people.

Wendell said, “No, it was a dirty hit. I’m next in line for his position and I am benching as much as he is. My speed just needs work Coach says.”

We pulled into Sal’s. My mom said, “Next time I see him, I’ll just run him over.”

Two days later, my father, home from Harrisburg and informed Fabrizio that Sal was catering the event. Fabrizio responded by trying to cuss my dad out, to which my dad responded by hanging up the phone. Nunzio reupped his campaign against Wendell by putting a dirty hit on him attempting to reinjure his leg. The bad behavior didn’t go unnoticed though.

Coach Link, a longtime fixture in the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks, saw what Nunzio was doing. Warning him to stop, Nunzio ignored Coach Link. In response, Coach Link benched Nunzio for the rest of the practice and told him that he would suggest it was Wendell, not he, who should be starting. When Nunzio tried to say it was an accident Coach Link responded with, “Bullshit, Pal. Save your Eddie Haskell routine for another sucker.”

That Saturday was the first scrimmage against Penn Forest, a mostly black team we would again face off with later in the season. Nunzio’s parents sat away from the rest of the fans, possibly because anyone else would punch them. Fabrizio shouted, “C’mon Hawks! Get those ink blots!” Next to Fabrizio sat Nunzio’s mother, who wore a black funeral veil and prayed the rosary, never looking up to speak otherwise. Most people looked at the odd couple, rolled their eyes and looked away. The show was free but after two seconds you saw the whole thing.

Skipper said pointing to Nunzio’s mom, “April, who died?”

I said, “No one just her hopes and dreams.”

Wendell played well, getting some varsity time and the whole JV scrimmage. While he executed a good campaign, he got a concussion which meant Skipper and I would have to retrieve him from the trainer while our mother waited in the car. As we approached the training room, we saw we saw Coach Link and Nunzio shouting at each other. Coach Link said, “Nunzio, give back Jason’s money. NOW!” Both of Coach Link’s sons played for the district. Jason, the youngest, was the fastest running back coming up.

Nunzio said, “Coach Link, c’mon. That’s not true and we both know it. I would never do that. Jason’s confused. He knows how much I looked up to JT.” Link’s older son, JT, was the most fearsome center to ever play for The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks. He was currently in his third year at US Naval Academy where he was a starter.

Coach Link said, “Son, we all make mistakes and lying only makes it worse. Give it to me now and this ends. You hear?”

Nunzio laughed, “Man, your bookie must have hit you extra hard. Or did your latest girlfriend from the Jefferson Lodge stick you with something that’s eating your brain? This is nuts and we both know it. Even for you.” Coach Link had a horrible gambling problem that cost him his marriage to his kid’s mother. He had two other ex wives, both who were strippers that he met on the job at The Jefferson Lodge. Coach Link was currently dating Bambi, dancer of the month, who had actually been JT’s high school sweetheart.

Coach Link grabbed Nunzio and said, “Listen here you smug sonvabitch! You steal from Jason, you steal from both JT and me!” His trademark cigar flew out of his mouth as Coach Link swung at Nunzio barely missing him.

Nunzio laughed again, “Pops, lay off the cigars. Smoking kills.”

Coach Link swung again, but then Coach Matthias grabbed his hand. In his thick West Virginia accent, Matthias said, “Both of you, my office. NOW!”

I looked at Skipper and said, “Now this is cinematic gold.”

Skipper said, “You mean this very disappointing adult behavior?” Wendell then walked out of the training room with a hell of a headache but was even more bummed that he had missed the action.

That Monday the news over the wire was Nunzio had turned on his Eddie Haskell charm and got Coach Matthias to believe the alleged theft was just a simple misunderstanding. Because he had tried to punch a player, Coach Matthias suspended Coach Link for two weeks. Over the weekend Coach Link interviewed and accepted the equipment coach job at Clairsville, our most bitter rival. While the position was a significant pay decrease, the carrot on the stick was that Jason, who wanted to join his brother at Navy, would be a part of the starting squad. The news stung, but anyone close to the situation knew that if “The Nunzio Problem” was addressed this all could have been avoided.

The Nunzio problem continued to flourish with Nunzio bending the rules and Coach Matthias being a sucker for the Eddie Haskell routine. Able to get away with it once, Nunzio continued to steal from underclassmen. Using his size and strength to intimidate them, they feared speaking up because either they would get beaten up or Coach Matthias wouldn’t believe them anyway. Unchecked by Coach Link who despite his faults operated out of fairness, Nunzio continued to put dirty hits on players he saw as competition, especially Wendell. While he didn’t say it, whenever I saw Wendell limping I knew why. When my mom bought it up he just changed the subject because there was nothing anyone could do really. The reality was, Wendell’s speed and strength were improving, two things that didn’t sit well with the team bully.

In the middle of the season, Nunzio began what he referred to as “lucrative side hustle.” Moonlighting for a local drug dealer, Nunzio served as muscle if a recalcitrant customer refused to pay. Using Fabrizio’s as a front, Nunzio pushed weed and mushrooms, but as he explained, “My real goal is coke and heroin because that is the future.”

The law and Nunzio’s entrepreneurial spirit soon clashed. While cruising in his best friend Kyle Latham’s car, the two were pulled over for having a broken taillight. Kyle, who’s dad was head of the math department and who’s mom was head of remedial reading, was clueless that his friend was on his way to drop off vicadin that had been ripped off from a local pharmacy to a dealer. When the cops searched the car, Nunzio, who had dropped the bag turned on his Eddie Haskell charm and claimed the drugs were Kyle’s and he was drug free. The act worked and a confused and shocked Kyle was booked, cuffed and taken to the station. Panicked, Mr. and Mrs. Latham called my dad at 2 AM to get their son, who had never even gotten so much as a detention, out of trouble.

Kyle was a good kid with no record, so my dad was able to work his magic to get probation with the charges getting espouged after a year. But the Latham’s wanted blood. One night at a game, they kvetched about but their Nunzio fatigue. As usual, Skipper and I sat there attentively pretending not to listen.

Mr. Latham said, “He sleeps at our house. A LOT. I don’t like to see a kid put out, but Coach Matthias is now treating us like his freaking answering service.”

Mrs. Latham said, “I told Kyle to just quit. He doesn’t want to play in college anyway. That way it’s less time with Nunzio and that enabling jagoff Matthias. But his girlfriend Lexi wants him to play and you know how that goes.” Lexi McCandless, Kyle’s girlfriend, was a cheerleader and they were the quintessential Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk couple.

Mr. Latham laughed, “I don’t know what kind of power Nunzio has over him. He’s a dufus. And I know he’s a dufus because I had him as a student!”

My mom said, “It’s the Eddie Haskell thing.”

Mrs. Latham said, “Eddie Haskell was charming. Nunzio is just a pig. He eats the whole container of ice cream and puts it back in the refrigerator. We said help yourself but come on.”

My dad motioned his head towards Nunzio’s mom, “Women stopped wearing those to church in the 1960s. That’s just weird.”

Mrs. Latham said, “So much good God is doing here. Her son’s a thug and her husband starts spouting his racist garbage in my house. I told him to get out. We don’t talk like that and we don’t tolerate that. And he told us we couldn’t handle a joke. I told him we can, hate just isn’t funny.”

Mr. Latham said, “Speaking of veils, we told Kyle that that we are putting the Nun in Nunzio as in no more of that jagoff in our son’s life. I follow him between classes to make sure Kyle isn’t hanging out with him. Sometimes I’m late to mine. But let me tell you, I can get another job but I can’t get another kid.”

Mrs. Latham said, “And I am eating lunch with him which he hates, but it keeps Nunzio away because it’s uncool.”

My mom laughed, “Good for you.”

The ref blew the whistle. My dad looked at Mr. and Mrs. Latham, “The law is going to catch up with him and that charm’s about to run out. It always does.”

My dad called it. A week later, Nunzio graduated to armed robbery. With a ski mask and a gun, Nunzio camped out late at night after a game at The Whiskey Rebellion Shops, our local strip mall. He held an old woman at gunpoint. Frail and afraid, she handed Nunzio the money to save her life, but slipped and fell as she hurried away, breaking her hip. From her hospital bed, she was able to give a description of the assailant as wearing a Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk football letter jacket.

Ever the criminal mastermind, Nunzio bragged to anyone who would listen. Lexi McCandless, who was angered Nunzio had jammed her boyfriend Kyle up but was also the granddaughter of the old woman he robbed, called the police and gave them the hot tip. Nunzio was promptly arrested and identified by the old woman in the lineup. Coach Matthias could no longer ignore the Nunzio problem and kicked him off the team. Fabrizio began an aggressive campaign to get Nunzio reinstated. After phone calls failed, he made a visit to Coach with his disgraced offspring by his side.

Skipper and I saw it in person one Thursday as we ran into the high school to fetch Wendell from practice. Standing beside his son, Fabrizio made his pitch, “ Coach, this is a misunderstanding. Nunzio is a good boy. He was just playing a joke.”

Coach Matthias said, “Well the old lady and the cops ain’t laughin. My players understand they are to behave like warriors on the field and gentlemen off. Son you are a disgrace to your team, your community and your letter jacket.”

Nunzio hung his head as his father continued to plead his case, “Nunzio ain’t like those blacks from the city who are destined for jail. He made a mistake. He’s from a good family. Coach, you were young once. You gotta understand, boys will be boys.”

Coach Matthias said, “No, punks will be punks. And I don’t care what color he is. You are livin’ proof that if you plant rotten corn you get rotten corn. And if I had a belt, I would put you both over my knee right now.”

As Wendell rounded the corner, Coach Matthias said, “Son, tonight is Thursday. I want you in by 8 PM cause I need you rested for tomorrow night because you are starting. Don’t study too late, y’hear?!”

Wendell’s eyes flashed with excitement, “You got it, Coach!”

Nunzio said, “Coach, you can’t have that runt replace me?”

Wendell said as he walked off, “Nunzio, he just did and that’s Starter Runt to you.”

Nunzio screamed and kicked a trash can. The mask had finally dropped and Nunzio was showing his true self. When we got outside, Skipper, Wendell and I burst out laughing. Then Wendell looked at his watch, “Ohmigod! We need to get home. It’s six already and I have to eat dinner and have a big chemistry test to study for!” The three of us then sprinted to our mom’s van. Of course, she reveled in this latest development and regretted missing Nunzio’s meltdown.

That Friday, Wendell made his debut on the offensive line as a starter. Impressing the coaches and teammates, Wendell not only secured the spot for the rest of the season but for the remainder of his career at Whiskey Rebellion. Starting in the last four games, he earned the coveted Blackhawk letter jacket and would go on to become a fan favorite and was eventually elected team captain.

Nunzio had his day in court. Once again, Fabrizio argued that it was “a joke” and “boys will be boys.” In pleading his son’s cause, Fabrizio also informed the court that his son was “not a problem black.” As usual, his mother prayed the rosary complete with funeral veil. Unfortunately the judge, who during sentencing revealed she was part black, did not share their sense of humor and sentenced Nunzio to five years in prison. When Coach Matthias learned of his fate, he cut Nunzio’s face out of the team picture and made it a rule that Nunzio was never to be spoken of again.

From prison, Nunzio earned his GED, earned an associates in business and became the shining star of Western Penitentary’s Intermural Football Team. Using his Antonio Banderas good looks, he began a prison pen pal relationship with Bambi, who gone through a tumultuous breakup with Coach Link. Sick of her job at The Jefferson Lodge, she was now working part time as a Reikki Practitioner and Wiccan Tarot Card Reader. The day he was released, Nunzio and Bambi married at the same magistrate where he was first arraigned for armed robbery.

Putting his prison business degree to good use, Nunzio took over Fabrizio’s and managed it for years with Bambi. The two lived and worked quietly for years until COVID-19 when Nunzio took to the business’s facebook page and called Black Lives Matter a terrorist organization and referred to Dr. Rachael Levine as an ugly man in a wig. He also refused to close for the pandemic because Bambi’s tarot cards told him it was a hoax.

Locals, appalled by the racism, transphobia, and COVID denial organized a boycott. Health officials hit them with fines and sanctions. Fabrizio’s was forced to close it’s doors. Shocked, Nunzio protested on facebook that his community was “a bunch of pussies that couldn’t handle a joke.” While the home audience is always the hardest, Nunzio is still determined to hone his comedy routine. He now has a youtube channel where he makes racist, sexist, transphobic, homophobic and otherwise cringeworthy videos. The upside is he has ten subscribers. Sigh, he finally found some people who share his sense or humor.

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Ghosted

Isaac Rabinowitz had just broken my heart again. Enter Preston Hutchinson, the angry, white, chain smoking import from Dallas, Texas. Before moving to New York, Preston had toured Texas and even opened for Ralphie May. This meant he was a big deal in Texas, but like every other transplant hoping to make it in a big market he was relegated to the role of open micer.

Preston’s comedy was raw, edgy, and funny, easily eclipsing the competition, even the so called “pro” comedians with TV credits. To add to his appeal he was very good looking in that bad decision kind of way. The thought of talking to him produced sweat under my arm pits and butterflies in my stomach, so I just avoided it.

After about a month of playing the role of bashful schoolgirl, I found myself flyering for stage time with him at a watering hole that’s now closed. Preston was getting grief from Will, the producer, about his drinking. When we joined me on my corner I finally got the guts to introduce myself, hoping I wouldn’t puke on his shoes. Although it might not seem the case now, in those days I was extraordinarily shy. As I struggled to even say my name Preston stopped me, “You’re that girl with the Bride of Chuckie Doll!”

May Wilson thought this was just as funny as I did in case you are wondering. I laughed and said a ton of stupid things as Preston did make me weak in the knees. Then the show began, and I worried I blew it because I talk too much when nervous.

When May Wilson and I went up, we were marginal at best as most barker comics are. May will say she killed, I know we were substandard. Note, she will blame it on me.

Preston went up two comics after me, and killed it right away. Part way through his set he said, “Okay, Bride of Chuckie, I see you. Come and get me with your devil doll!” He then pointed back at me, leapt offstage, and then began to chase me around the room. I had no idea why this was happening, but I was having fun and the audience was dying with laughter.

After the show, Preston and I shared a cigarette as the late March night surrounded us, trying to warm up while still seeing our breath. Preston let me share his glove as I took a puff from his menthol pack. We talked about comedy, punchlines, and what a dick Will the producer was. When 1 AM hit, he walked me to the train and kissed me goodnight.

When the train brought me home, I dreamed nasty dreams where Preston and I had lots of wild monkey sex. Waking up, I had a serious case of the giggles. Just as I was about to walk on air, I saw Isaac Rabinowitz had texted me. Curses, could he sense I was happy? The text read, “Sorry about last week. I made a mistake and miss you. Can I have another chance?” DELETE. Sorry cowboy, there’s a new romantic obsession in town.

The next day, Preston and I crossed paths again in the same dingy watering hole for another show. He motioned for me to join him in the back of the room. Splitting a glass of Jack Daniels straight, we shot the breeze. Preston lamented that he was tired from working so much. When I asked where he worked he said he was a waiter at LaGuardia. I said, “Oh,” as I had never met anyone who worked as a waiter at the airport. I didn’t think anything about the response as the liquor was starting to hit my system.

Preston apparently viewed my response as an affront because he said,  “What, am I not good enough for you?” Shocked by his reaction, I quickly apologized puzzled as to what the hell had just happened.

All was quickly forgotten as we ordered another glass of whiskey and Preston chased it with a beer. After my substandard set, Preston was very encouraging, telling me I had the goods to go all the way. This was flattering as he is still one of the funniest people I have ever shared a stage with. It was nice to meet a guy who wasn’t threatened by my drive. After our second drink and shared cigarette, we went back to my place to hook up.

On the train ride back to my place Preston said, “I want to dress you up in a clown suit and kiss you all night long.”

I laughed, but Preston again didn’t find this funny. He said,  “I share my feelings and this is how you treat me!” He was near tears. Quickly I apologized again, puzzled as to what I had done. I shook it off, no one was perfect, right?

What happened between the sheets was hot. Then again, mentally unstable people are always top notch in that department. Laying around afterwards, Preston and I talked about people we had dated. While I didn’t want to talk about what wasn’t even a comparison, I mentioned Isaac. Preston told me his ex, who was ten years older than he was, pushed him to quit comedy and get married. When I called her a crazy bitch, Preston said, “Not really. We were living together and she was paying my bills.” I went to laugh hoping this was a joke, but Preston gave me the look, he was telling the truth.

The only thing to do after sweating it up in bed is to get some food. While we ate greasy diner food, Preston dropped the ultimate truth bomb, “Do you ever get a rush off of stealing something small, like a pack of gum?” That is when he told me he had not one but two shoplifting arrests, and gave me a small trinket he had stolen from a store in the airport. In law enforcement they call these clues, and Preston had been dropping them. Something told me to run out of there as I had just been given stolen property as a gift, but I was still stuck by being hit with his loser love wand that I stayed put. (Yes, they wanted to charge me as an adult). My spider senses told me not to accept the trinket and when I refused it, he told me he didn’t take it personally and wanted to buy me something nice when he had the money.

After he left, Preston kissed me goodbye and promised to call me but never did. At first I assumed he was busy and didn’t want to be “that girl.” A week later I saw him flyering, and when I tried to talk to him he was short, cold, and avoided me. When I saw him he was in the back of the room sharing a glass of whiskey with a rachet would be female comedian who had no punchlines but swore for shock.

The subway ride home was spent crying. One week before Preston had made me feel hot, now he made me feel cheap, dirty and used. What did I do? Was it not accepting the stolen trinket? It was stolen property for Godssakes! Was the rachet girl the one he wanted all along? Was I not pretty enough? Was he still in love with the woman who paid his rent? Granted, I knew I had dodged a firing squad but the heart wants what the heart wants.

Days later I made the decision to stop flyering with said show. Will, the producer, called me to give me inane notes and acted like it was some sacred duty to flyer for his shitty bar show. Plus I was visiting my family for two weeks and wouldn’t be around anyway. Then there was a move and a new job where I would no longer be available. While Preston wasn’t a factor in the decision, not seeing him would be a relief.

When I got back from the visit to my parents and was making my way through the airport, I saw Preston working at his waitering job. I waved, he ignored me. It hurt, but it was also a lesson that if I kept expecting him to act like a human he was only going to keep hurting me. I didn’t want to know why he did what he did and I no longer cared because figuring out someone who makes no sense was a waste of  time. That’s when I filed him under, “Jack Daniels: This Was All Your Fault.”

Of course Isaac texted me again wanting another chance, and I jumped right from the fire back into frying pan because I had to get burned one last time. After one last humiliation from Isaac, I found myself doing another shitty show in the same venue. Outside I heard Preston’s voice and felt as if the universe was mindfucking me again. It was getting late and I needed to get home.

Sneaking out, I tried to skulk past Preston when he said, “Bride of Chuckie, how have you been?” Before I could keep it short and exit he gave me a huge bear hug as if he hadn’t been a complete asshole and dogged me the way he did.

I was polite, telling him I was fine. That’s when he said, “You know, I had a great time with you. I want to hang out again, do you still have my number?”

“Yeah, we should totally hang out,” I said crossing my fingers behind my back, fighting off every nerve to tell him he was a useless fuckwad and loser. Part of me wanted to tell him to get tested for amnesia, but I marveled at the this straight, white, cis male who thought I should just fall to the ground and worship him. After giving him another hug, one which I wanted to strangle him really, I walked into the night. Before I got on the train I got my phone out and deleted his number. Maybe you ghosted me, but I am about to disappear yo ass! BAM!

Days later, I met Sean, the shitshow who would become my former fiancé, giving me 5 good standup minutes and a viral headline. While I lost track of Preston, I found out he was banned from the watering hole for his drinking problem and got fired from his job at LaGuardia for stealing. He moved with friends to LA to try to do comedy, but the drinking problem morphed into a drug problem, getting him kicked out of his apartment and living on Skid Row.

Ultimately, it was the same old girlfriend who put the burn on him to get married that ended up being his savior, driving to LA not only to rescue him but put him in rehab. She took him back to Texas where he got clean, they got married, and now have a 6 year old. Preston no longer does comedy, works at a car lot his wife’s brother owns, and his chain smoking angry white boy bod has been replaced by an out of shape dad bod. All that could have been mine.

I don’t hate Preston, but rather I pity him. To this day I will admit he is probably still a better comedian than I will ever be, but through bad decisions, addiction and self-defeat he squandered his gift and the opportunities he could have had. I truly hope he has found peace and happiness in his new life and is holding his demons at bay. While it hurt at the time, Preston did me a favor. If he stuck around, he would have only ruined my life. Getting ghosted sucks, but trust me, it’s always for the best.

Zeke

When I was 22, I was fascinated by bad boys. Hell, I still kind of am. Anyway, what I think looks dead sexy on a dude is a tattoo, but I dug them even more then. That is what led me to Zeke.

Handsome with pitch black tar colored hair that stuck on his head, Zeke looked like he escaped from New Found Glory or one of those emo bands with band boys that talked way too much about their feelings. He was red hot, dead hot, leave you single and pregnant hot. Zeke had arms covered in all sorts of tats that talked about his travels. His body art was incredible. I remember asking him about it when I met him on the street corner.

Zeke was 25 to my 22. We talked about life. He was from Florida. His dad was dead and his mom was remarried. Zeke hated his stepdad. Young, angry, misunderstood. My love and infatuation would change him.

I asked Zeke what he did for money. He told me he was a tattoo artist. I was fascinated and impressed. I used to subtly stalk Zeke, hanging around his tattoo shop. We would usually hang out afterwards, and he walked me home a few times. And then he kissed me.

IT WAS THE BEST KISS EVER! YUM, YUM, BOW WOW!!!!!

Okay, it was the kind of kiss that said codependent, terrible mistake. Rumor was that he had a drug habit but they had no proof. They said he had been arrested. That didn't deter me. I was a woman in love.

Zeke and I were getting more serious. At least I hoped because he was HOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT. However, God has a habit of doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves. Zeke had no cellphone because it was expensive, and he had no address. A constant couch surfer, Zeke had to move at least once every other week when his friend who was being generous was going to kick him out. Young and stupid, I was more pissed he never asked me than the fact he perpetually never had his shit together.

Needless to say, because he had no phone or address, it became tough to keep track of Zeke. Finally, he was fired from the tattoo parlor for being himself. Since he had no phone I had no idea of where to find him. He had social media, but was never on there really.

I lost track of Zeke.

Bummer because he was HOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTT.....

But alas, hot isn't everything. 

Falling in Love (Miami Sound Machine)

Spring is trying to happen. Winter is like that girl at a party that won't leave. You drop all the hints the party is over. You are taking the table cloth off. You are throwing away the empty plates. Hell, you are even turning on the TV and putting on your PJs and there she is. It's sunny outside but there is this wind. Yes, there she is. Winter, party guest that just doesn't get the hint.

I have been thinking an awful lot about love and relationships for some reason. It has been forever and a day since I had a man. The weather reminds of the last time I had a lover. Actually, he was like Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever. A Brooklyn asshole and perpetual ladies man, he basically lied to me to get whatever he wanted and needed. Yet I found him funny and enjoyed his company. He catted around with anything that had a vagina and a pulse. Yet when I would mention another dude he would flip. I was out and about the other night when his name came up. Someone said they thought he was the best at what he did and admired his body of work. The whole notion made me want to vomit. Do they know he uses women to further his career? Do they know he hasn't been someone since 2007? Do they know I seriously did enjoy his company as I said before he transformed into his asshole self?

The weird thing is, I liked him a lot even still. Tony Manero has been crossing my mind an awful lot. Word on the street was he liked me a lot. But alas, he was a Brooklyn asshole. I did like him and thought maybe he could eventually turn into a boyfriend but that faded pretty quickly.

I also find myself evoking feelings for a friend of mine. Things got crazy between us for a minute. It was the type of thing where he could always read my mind. Kind of crazy kind of sort. I know this sounds like the diary of a high school girl. Anyway, he a major workaholic and is always on thin ice with his woman. Once I heard them talking on the phone and she was screaming at him. I mean yelling. It's not like he was sneaking around. No, he was working. And he was nothing like Tony Manero. Actually just the opposite. He was sweet, very sweet. Outwardly he is different than me. While he is quiet, he is far from shy. Anyway, we had been friends for a number of years and when he tells a story he is fantastically funny. Well a year ago it became apparent he was into me and I was into him. Needless to say, I don't think he was into me because he was into me. It was because he was on thin ice at home, I am more like one of the guys, and I was a woman with a pulse he could speak to.

Anyway, he had another friend who was kind of into me. I was kind of into his friend too who was a bit of a bad boy. Needless to say my buddy got a tad jealous and the two kind of got into it over me. I am not talking all out street fight but they were just doing that testosterone loaded bitchy snipping. Apparently his pal had a lady too. But it didn't stop his pal from catting around. These dudes, sigh.........

I heard from this buddy two weeks ago and he wants to hang out at some point. Maybe he is single. God I almost hope so. It's not that I dislike his lady, I actually kind of like her. I just feel like they are wrong for each other. Even if I didn't have a thing for him somewhat I would still feel that. She's really girly and really demanding. Who knows? Maybe my pal likes getting his ass kicked. I should have asked if he was single. Apparently they are having a party in a week or two. I will find out then. The whole thing was kind of strange when it happened because I didn't think this pal would have ever been into me. He is the type who really has his pick of the ladies when he is single. Plus he's had years to make a move. Who knows? Men are straaaannnnnnnnngggggggeeeee creatures.

The impending warm weather finds me wanting to have a romantic partner just to have nice dinner's with. That's what I miss about the last official Mr. April Brucker. He was a liar and had other downfalls but he knew a good place to eat. I just want someone to take me out to eat and to dress up for. Hell the weather reminds me of the first time I met him. I also find myself replaying the tape of that relationship and how I was just a horrendous girlfriend. Granted, we were also a terrible match. His current lady hates me. However, he was the first man I ever shared my dreams with. I want to drop him a line and tell him about all the exciting things I am doing with myself. About how I am doing all the things we always talked about me doing. Then again, his current fat whats her face has said some terrible things about me so that's not happening.

The other day a hottie from Turkey helped me carry my groceries to my door. That was nice of him, and he was a total young jack. I could have had a spring fling with him. Another guy I met on the street offered me a role in a porno. I wanted to know if the job had health benefits because one can get STDs doing that kind of work. He still didn't return my text.

There is a basketball court across the street from me. The other day a bunch of young dudes with spring fever were taking off their shirts and playing a spirited game. The yelling and cheering was so loud and had so much bro kick to it I could hear it in my apartment. Like a spooky person peering from her window I watched. Hell, I was a spooky person peering from her window.

I figured maybe I could meet my next dream man there. It's better than scouting the methadone clinic like I usually do for rainbow meat. Then I remember I am a broken toy with lots of baggage that has been dropped a gazillion times. I also think maybe I give people too much credit for being normal and don't give myself enough. Then I see the basketball game and realize they are all fifteen and just look really adult for their ages.

Screw the methadone clinic. I am going to the court house to look for defendants. They will appreciate my hot little outfits. Hey, they might not see a woman for the next 20 years and spring is coming up. And when that ends, maybe I can date their lawyer and live happily ever after. Until then, it's too cold for such nonsense. The dream of the fake lover boy will have to wait.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com
Come see me
Metropolitan Room
April 22nd at 7pm

Nice Guy Phobia

I was at brunch today with my girlfriends. As usual, we talked about life and one who has been single for a bit mentioned wanting a man. Meanwhile, I have been single for so long I wouldnt know what to do if I had a guy. Would I walk him? Do I change his water dish? Maybe bathe him and give him food? I forget how the whole thing works really. I have also come to like my freedom. My nights are spent performing, hanging out with friends, and alone if I so desire. I am my own woman. No man to censor my thoughts or my speech. No partner with issues to grapple and trust me they all have them.

We assured my friend she wasn't missing anything. Being on your own isn't terrible. On the other hand, we asked her what she was doing to meet a dude. She said nothing. She just wanted him to show up. Okay, while that might be awesome in theory if a dude came to my door telling me I was beautiful I would call the cops. Then we asked what kind of guys she liked. She said, "I go for guys I shouldn't want. I don't go for the nice ones. They scare me."

That is a feeling shared by a lot of women. It is a nice guy phobia. What happens to us is when we are young we dream of Prince Charming. Disney sells us a lie and we ride with it. Then after that, either one of two things happens. We either meet a nice guy who bores us to death, and we crave the excitement of the bad boy. Or we date a man who is such a horror show that leaves us with such baggage that we are incapable of being nice, and therefore that means no more Mr. Nice Guy.

I know in my experience I went through the bad boy phase. I have written extensively about the former fiance. The nature of the breakup was intense and insane as was the relationship. When that ended, I was my own woman. The problem was, my ex would make it impossible for me to date other men. Stalkers kind of do that. So I gravitated towards bad boys. When nice guys get a whiff of a psycho in the midst they don't stick around like proud warriors and fight. They run like they just saw Godzilla.

Bad boys on the other hand are damaged creatures. They don't judge. They aren't afraid to make a threat. Hell, they don't judge your behavior either. And yes, as far as companions go they laugh more easily and are a lot more fun. For the most part they were always proud of my writing and my comedy. There were people who were frightened of my male companions and I didn't mind that. No one would mess with me. And a guy getting out of jail has excellent manners. It's been forever since he had a female companion so he is Emily Post when it comes to his manners.

The bad boys have their downside. Probation means a curfew and so that means the night ends early. Plans have to be structured around a day program for alcoholism and drug addiction, which gets out around 8 pm on Wednesdays. The presents they give you, well sometimes you don't know if they paid for them. When they tell you to wait outside the eatery, you might be dining and dashing. Lest we not forget psych meds, baby mama drama, criminal records, and the adjective of fugitive. I have had all this fun and more.

The problem with good guys and myself is that I become so conditioned to bad boys I scared them away. They couldn't handle me, and I was weary of them. If we even remotely hit it off my past had a way of reappearing. Sometimes the walk down memory lane was too much for me so I ended things in their tracks fearing rejection. Or sometimes they disappeared on me, scared of what else was to be revealed. Either way, nice guys don't like me and I don't seem to mix with them.

These days I like my freedom a lot as I said. The more I hear about marriage and children the less I want those things. Still, someday the recipe might be different. Someday I might crave the Disney lie. And when I get Prince Charming, I won't be able to erase him. I won't even know what to do, partially because cartoon men don't require food. Do I walk him? Do I change his water? Does he require a cage? Does he need shots?

Either way, I have all these questions and more. That is, if I don't screw this whole thing up by running away as fast as I can first.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

"I Wanna Meet You In a Dark Room"

For the past two and a half years-since being on TLC with my puppet kiddies-I have had guys come out of the wood work from my past to ask me out. Some have been comedians who met me once at an open mic night. Others had known me from a college lecture. But there have been several from high school. One made fun of me really bad. The other I never met. But this recent one had been in  a gym class of mine and hardly ever came.

Yes, we only had two classes together, neither of which he really showed up for. We only spoke twice and I remember generally liking him. But as the years passed and I left home to pursue my goals he became one of the many memories that defined high school. And even then they were faded between play rehearsals, nursing home dates with my Groucho Marx figure, tapings at the access station, articles for the youth section, literary magazine, and of course my weekend job bagging groceries at the Giant Eagle.

Fast forward almost ten years later. I have achieved some of my goals while many are just dreams. One of my goals and dreams was writing and publishing a book. I did. It's available in my local library as well as Amazon. Anyway, I was sending out the invites for the book talk. My former classmate writes me back, "I wanna meet you in a dark room. HMU."

HMU means two things: hide my unicorns or hit me up. Then it occurs to me, this boy is talking about a unicorn, and not the kind children are meant to see.

Meet me in a dark room to do what? It certainly isn't to read. You can't do that in a dark room. When I told my sister Skipper about this she said, "Wasnt he bad?" Well yes and no. He was bad but got in trouble for never showing up to class. So he caused his trouble elsewhere. I remember the bad girl of the Forensics Club trying to accidentally bump into him during the one time he came to frisbee in gym class. Then he disappeared.

So I wrote him back. I figured I would invite him to my book talk like I would any crazed male admirerer and fan. I just have to be careful, but I don't think he's homicidal. That involves showing up and planning. He writes me back and says, "U hav to make the 1st move. I am kina shy." Well the fact you never showed up at school is beginning to make itself apparent in your grammar, Sir.

I don't write back. What am I supposed to say?

He writes me back telling me he is intrigued and misspells the word. While nothing turns me off like horrendous grammar, his bravery is quite sexy. Yes, he has a kid. Yes, he was a high school drop out. Yes, he never came to school and this could only end badly. Yes, I would probably date him. Oh dear God get a hold of yourself woman!!!! Then I see he has a baby mama and I don't do that drama and I decided it was all over.

However, Christmas is the season about giving. While this whole thing made me laugh, it also made that awkward high school girl in me smile, the one with a lot of ambition and a lot of bad makeup. The one who played with puppets, produced TV programs, and proved that yes, too much eyeliner and mascara can be a horrid thing. In a time in my life where a date was a dream that never came true and guys were more likely to ask me for the plot on the book they read for English class than to be on their arm for homecoming, I felt that part of me smile and get a lil sexy.

Perhaps puppets and books are sexy and there are guys in this world who think so, or perhaps thought so all along.

Either way, it gave my self esteem a boost.

Season's Greetings.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Amazon.com



Come to my book signing
December 27 @ 7pm
Bethel Park Library
5100 W. Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA

 

Damaged Goods

Today I was talking with a friend of mine who turned out to have a female Holden Caulfield. His ex turned out to be crazy. She too didn’t take her meds. We both laughed about the outlandish stories they told. I had actually met this ex of his. I mean, she seemed like a nice lady but she too went crazy. We wanted to know, what is it about us that makes people crazy? And then we both agreed it was our spirit. Maybe we are just wired to be a certain way, dancing faster into the wind. Hell, we know that no one decent will probably want us either.

Last week I was out with Kindred Spirit. We were having pizza and talking about the food in jail. I mentioned a friend of mine said the food in jail sucked, however the food in prison was much better. Kindred Spirit tried to impress me by saying he was arrested for a traffic violation. But how could he compete with Darren who actually stabbed someone, or Larry who has tested the judicial system so many times he can act as his own public defender if need be?

Finally Kindred Spirit said, “I don’t want to hear about your jail bird boyfriends!” Sir, Keith escaped from prison and Holden is on the lam. That technically makes them FUGITIVES! Kindred Spirit didn’t like it either when I talked about some of the married guys I have dated in the past. He definitely didn’t like hearing about the ex-fiance. Let’s just say he didn’t like my stories either. Actually, he called them horrible. I mean, what else was I supposed to talk about?

He definitely didn’t want to hear about the weather. Oh and let’s just say he probably didn’t want me quoting Sylvia Plath or Emily Dickinson. Kindred claimed he wanted to hear about my career but that was a lie. Men never want to hear, especially once you start to do better than them. I wanted to tell him to make himself useful and stab someone. I think I scared him away this time, for reals.

When Roger was alive he and I bonded over our love for bad boys and the fact that married men pursued us. We would laugh about it. As a matter of fact, Roger and I were both dating a married guy at the same time. We would talk about it at 2 am when he would call me with the latest barrage of his ever extended bullshit. Roger once even told me that during his stay in Sing Sing his cellie broke his heart. Before that Roger had been writing a murderer and sending him naked photos. I thought about getting a pen pal on convictmailbag. Roger however stopped his, telling me I at least deserved a guy who spent a little money on me, not one who depended on me sending him money in commissary.

My other dead friend Joe didn’t take my like for bad boys so well. As a matter of fact he came down on me hard. One time I was talking about some ex-con I was seeing and followed it by the tale of the married dude trying to make a comeback. Joe responded with a face to palm motion. Then he asked me, “April, do you ever get tired of fucking up your life?”

I know I have been a complete doormat when it comes to guys. There are probably a thousand and one factors. Some of it was that I wasn’t a very pretty kid. Maybe now that I am a decent looking adult with a wild streak they like me. As my mom tells me I’m a creative genius. The part of me that wants to create is the part of me that also wants to fuck up, and to fuck up boldly. Perhaps it was the abusive fiancé in my twenty first year of life. Yes, the one who hit me, called me names, and tried to take my puppet children away.

Since the passing of Roger and Joe, Roger especially, I have cooled it off with married men. But these bad boys still like me. Ross the Deadbeat Daddy stole me perfume. Granted, it was a sample sized bottle but he told me that he wanted me to smell like a lady. He also offered to rob the house of Dimsdale because he had so maligned me in a public place. Too bad he, much like Holden Caulfield, refused to support his children. However, I do believe Ross’s baby mama was a bit of a trash pit and will have children by many different men in her life time. But then again, where else does garbage stick it, in a can lol.

Yesterday I was going to Seder with my friend Bob when I began to tell him about Holden. Bob had no patience for Holden.  I believe Bob, much like my friend Stephen, called Holden a “fucking loser.” He also said Holden had “no redeeming qualities.” I was like pshaw! Holden told me I was beautiful damnit!

Seder yesterday was good, and it occurred to me that Passover and Easter are holidays about washing out the old and beginning with the new. I know it’s time for new ideas. I know I have fans that look up to me.  Fans who tell me that I am the reason they do ventriloquism, like ventriloquism, or sometimes even get out of bed in the morning. Maybe it’s time for me to give up the jail birds once and for all.

On the other hand, who the hell is gonna want me? I know I am no prized package. My love life reads like a script from a Lifetime Movie. There is the psychotic ex-fiance, the prison escapee, the junkie, the felon, the other felon, the lawyer/liar, the illegal limo driver, Ross the deadbeat daddy, and Holden Caulfield just to name some highlights. I don’t even know how to act right. I am surprised when a guy has minimal track marks, has only been arrested for a misdemeanor, and has a job.

Perhaps though, Kindred’s Spirit’s reaction may have been a healthy, normal one to the stories some think are funny. Then again, the people who think those stories are funny also know which prison has the best meatloaf. But the nutty thing is, I didn’t want to tell Kindred about the book I have written soon to be published. I didn’t even want to mention the project being pitched to Hollywood. Oh and we didn’t even mention my music, a burgeoning new adventure. Of course we briefly touched on my spokesperson photo shoot.

But talking about that made me want to hide in the corner, cover my head and cry. I was much more comfortable talking about the shit that went wrong and the shitty people who helped make me possible. I know I have a role in all of this, and perhaps it is time for me to change my ways for real. I know it wasn’t just the drug and the long term health effects plus the black market plastic surgery that killed Roger. I know it wasn’t just noncompliance with his meds that killed Joe. It was the fact that in the end, much like me they liked the bad boys and couldn’t shake them. And I can hear them both yelling at me about Holden from the after life.

Still though, I have had some adventures and won’t beat myself up too much. Hey, I might be damaged goods kids. But Mama Foxxx is still top shelf.

Love

April

A little racy but it makes a statement.........

Should I send this photo to convictmailbag?