Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order)

There are some people you meet in life that are in the chorus of your story and they remain there indefinitely. Such was the case with Mikki Luckinbill for a time. I didn’t like her because she was irritating and was clearly shtuping her way to the middle, but didn’t dislike her either because that would involve caring.

Mikki was the quintessential divorcee who’s therapist suggested she try comedy. It was because Dr. Finkelstein, her Park Avenue shrink, was tired not only hearing about her successful Columbia psych professor ex who was bopping a TA, but about the crabs she got afterwards. According to her “act,” after the affair Mikki moved out of their Riverside Drive apartment and back into the home of her parents: a doctor father who emigrated from India and a debutante mother who went to Radcliffe when it existed and was “rather disappointed” when Mikki was rejected by all the schools she applied to and could only get into her safety, Skidmore.

Whenever she graced the stage, Mikki’s act was a monotonous monologue that couldn’t even pass as tragedy, because alas, tragedy is interesting. Listening to her after one minute made you consider slitting your wrists, and after five minutes you wanted to draw up a warm bath and then throw in the toaster.

Sucking onstage is one thing, but sucking off stage is another, and Mikki was the master at both. A student of Jed Kemp, a one time rising star who coked his comedy career away, he assured Mikki she would be the next great female comedy superstar next to Chelsea Handler. It wasn’t because Mikki had talent, it was because she was sleeping with him and would tell anyone who listened.

As his star student and paramour, Mikki was all over Jed’s website, giving testimonial videos clad in low cut dress that her melon breasts hung out of. Acting as his ambassador, she tried to recruit other comedians to be a part of this “school.” Then Mikki would try to get these students to sign their friends up for a discount, thus creating a pyramid scheme that exploited hopefuls. After a while, she said she wanted to dump Jed because he could only get her so far and wanted a bigger fish.

Mikki was hard to stomach, but we also never had a bad encounter. When I could I avoided her because she was annoying. If I saw her on the street we would exchange a quick hi and kept it there, because that’s how you treat a chorus person in your play, right?

However, Mikki was soon to be upgraded to guest star in a dramatic arc lasting several episodes. Enter Isaac Rabinowitz, my on again/off again flame who I had recently decided burned me for the last time. After a series of events the complicated relationship had lost it’s luster and appeal. Finally, to the relief of everyone around me, especially my mother, I ended it with Isaac once and for all.

Isaac did not take it well. After a text where he accused me of being “cold”, we had a long two hour phone conversation where I was forced to hear about Isaac’s feelings, and I kept telling him to eat shit and go to hell because I was sick of his mind games. Isaac said he wanted to be a part of my life as my friend because he liked me as a person, and I believed him because I felt some of the same.

Despite our differences, when it came to my comedy and my puppets Isaac was always in my corner. As a comedian, every joke writing instinct he had was completely and utterly wrong, but he had a sixth sense as to what bookers would like my act, how to approach them, and ideas on how to guide my career. In return, I was always gung ho to guest host his shitty open mic  if he couldn’t make it. All and all, it was an awesome development, or so I felt.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, Isaac could be a pick but at least he was an honorable one. Extending the olive branch, he invited me to do the guest spot at his open mic which meant I didn’t have to pay $5 to perform. Arriving at the club on that sweltering August day, it was a record breaking high. Not only was the place jammed with sweaty hopefuls, but the air conditioner was broken and the fans were going at full blast. To add to the ambiance, the place, which usually smelled like rotten urine, had an extra pungent odor.

I was icky and grungy, because in addition to the smelly scene the subway had broken and I was forced to trek thirty blocks with May Wilson in tow. My makeup was messed up and my clothes were stuck to my body. If that’s not a way to greet your most recent ex I don’t know what is. That’s when in walks Mikki Luckinbill with her jet black hair styled just so and wearing a low cut white dress, generous bosom bouncing with each step looking better than ever.

As his eyes caught site of her, Isaac ran over and was stuck to her for the rest of the night like Gorilla Glue, leaving his usual hosting corner so he could sit next to her. Smitten with his new squeeze, Isaac auspiciously placed his hand on her leg. I wanted to vomit. Why did it have to be her? On the other hand, it was making me realize I had done the right thing by ending it. I knew better than anyone how Isaac could be. Now he was Mikki’s problem.

Sunday Isaac texted me to have brunch as friends. My instincts told me not to go because the breakup was not only still fresh but I had just started seeing a new guy, Sean, two days before. Isaac and I were just friends, and if I wanted this friendship to work I had to give it a try, right?

I met Isaac at a diner in Murray Hill around the corner from his apartment that his millionaire father financed. As we ate, we talked comedy and our favorite mutual subject, The Marx Brothers. Bruch turned out to be more fun than I thought it was going to be. I said, “I forgot how much fun you were to hang out with.”

Isaac said,  “Me too. I am glad we are friends, April. It’s weird because we used to date.” My instincts had been right after all, “Come on, April, you can’t just pretend we didn’t used to date.”

“I am doing it right now. It’s not that hard, Isaac,” I said.

“How can you say that? I still care about you.” Isaac said.

“Just stop with the games,” I said, angry at myself for not seeing this was the usual Isaac trap of him reeling me back in, me taking the bait, him hurting me and then the cycle repeating.  

“Just so you know, I don’t want to get back with you anyway. I am seeing Mikki Luckinbill. We were talking about you. We both agreed you are self-absorbed, immature and are completely ruthless when it comes to your ambition.”

Now I officially had enough, “I think Mikki is a better match for you. She’s not funny and neither are you. And as for immature, I am looking right at him. So I am going to be the adult and end this once and for all. Have a nice life, Isaac because you are sure as hell dead to me.” I got up, threw my napkin down, and walked out onto the busy New York City Streets free of Isaac and his bullshit.

Two weeks later, Sean and I became engaged because why settle for a love triangle when you can have good old fashioned soul crushing codependency? Upon hearing about my engagement, Isaac became more determined than ever to win me back. He began texting furiously, telling me he was only with Mikki because he couldn’t have me, and if I said he the word he would dump her for real and we could be together. I ignored him and even went so far as to block his number.

To no ones shock except my own, Sean turned out to be a terrible fiancé. Even on it’s best day, the relationship was text book dysfunctional. Controlling and jealous, Sean made me choose between him and my puppets, and I chose him feeling it was time I forget my dreams and become a good wife. When Isaac heard about this development through mutual friends, he confronted Sean and the two nearly got into a fistfight.

Isaac blamed himself for this development in my life. He told anyone that would listen that had he been a better man to me I would never be engaged to Sean. Of course as usual, Isaac was making everything about himself. My bad decisions were my own and my own alone goshdarnit. Meanwhile, Isaac was still seeing Mikki who was growing to steadily resent me.

Back at the ranch, Mikki was not only becoming increasingly jealous of me, but tired of Isaac and his wandering eye. Sloppy as usual, Isaac left his laptop open. This led Mikki to discover that in addition to trying to win me back, Isaac was also seeing two other women: one was Emily, a childhood sweetheart, and the other was my former friend Sharon, who he would later go on to marry, and referred to her in their exchanges as his “girlfriend.” To compound the drama, Mikki had introduced Isaac to her family at Thanksgiving the week before. If this is making you dizzy reading this, try living it.

Mikki’s frustration came to head when she was onstage one night at a show Isaac had produced. Unable to contain her age any longer, Mikki exploded at Isaac confronting him about me, Emily, and Sharon. In front of a free comedy show audience, Isaac denied the accusations. This infuriated Mikki further as she laid into him about his epically small penis size. When her verbal assault was finished, she hopped off the stage, slapped him across the face, burst into tears and ran into the night. While I was not there to see it, witnesses claim this was the funniest thing either had ever done.

I eventually dumped Sean, picked up my puppets, and recommitted myself to becoming a professional ventriloquist. Fortunately I was able to shake that mistake, and it got me a Daily Mail UK article that went viral before COVID made it cool. Each of the other players in this dramatic story faded into the background.

That is, until years later when I saw Mikki at an audition. At first I was shocked because it had been so long, but I was also glad to see she was still in the game. She still looked the same, except the low cut clothing was replaced by an all black motif that most first year drama students wear to look tortured and emotive as they wax nostalgic about Shakespeare and Chekhov.

Because time plus distance equals comedy, I had developed a sense of humor about those painful early days and regarded them as coming of age follies. When I gave her the big hello, she looked at me as if I was the Baby Ruth that invaded her pool party. She said, “I will have you know that I am doing well. Really well. I have an MFA in Acting.”

Before I could respond back she snarled and  stomped off.  For the heck of it, I went to her facebook page to see what she had been to later that day. In a five paragraph rant, she talked about seeing “the ghost from her past who was the succubus who seduced her boyfriend once upon a moon.” Then she called me “fame hungry” and said I was used, “as a regular Method substitution for an evil person.”

In honor of the completion of Mikki’s MFA in Acting I will quote he late, great William Shakespeare, “Life is a tale told by an idiot. The sound and the fury signifying nothing.” With that, I logged off the computer and relegated her back into the chorus of my story.

Deal Breaker

The last guy I dated was nice. Yes, nice. I said it. Nice like the weather. Nice like a day. Nice like a gesture gone wrong that burns down a house.

Nice.

When we got together, we couldn't have been more different. Actually, we had been friends, but not terribly close, for the better part of a year. To say we had very little in common was an understatement. However, he was hot. And women are like men but don't want to admit it. We will overlook the stupidity of a dude if he is HOTTTTTTTTT.......

To give you an idea of how stupid Sam was, he was from South Jersey which says everything. Like the cast members of the Jersey Shore show, he used more hair products than I did. He also doused his body with all too much Ax Body Spray, which was just a kind way of telling me he was with because I was the first thing he could club over the head on his way back to the proverbial cave. But it was also to gently remind me that once he clubbed something else who would probably blow him on the sidewalk, I was gone.

When we went out, Sam was often late. It was because the majority of his time was spent putting endless amounts of gel in his hair, like a high school girl going on a dance date. The male version of that girl too cute to carry a backpack in high school, Sam believed intuitively to be a big word. As a matter of fact, he bragged about being able to use it in a sentence just to impress me, but then thought Benjamin Franklin was a US President at one point.  Just like a dirty old man has arm candy, Sam was my arm candy. And boy was he tasty, especially when he didn't speak around my friends!

One could say I was the man in this relationship, because Sam often liked to talk about his feelings. He was the first to say he loved me which totally weirded me out, and he got upset that I "shut down" on him and "shut him out." Did I mention he was the one who liked the cuddle? Either way, Sam was always reaffirming his male-ness by trying to be Dudley Do-Right and paying on every date, even when I suggested we take turns.

As a "smart girl" who never got a date in high school, I always have had a chip on my shoulder about that. I wasn't allowed to date as well. Both things have left me somewhat feeble in the dating department. Up to Sam and post-engagement, most of my energy had been spent on my puppets and my career.

Despite the fact his knuckles probably dragged when he walked and were somewhat bloodied at times, Sam as I said was generous. He was always there for his friends, and was always right there when I needed him.

Then again, most dumb people typically are.

Everyone questioned why we were even together, because Sam was obviously not my intellectual equal. Heck, I didn't even know. Sam typically liked his women over made up and stupid, and I was neither. It's actually more apt to say that Sam liked straight up trash from Jersey, ass hanging out over underwear, track marks, and C-Section scar on the beach in the summer.

However, I had a pad down the street where Sam hung out and he needed a place to shower while he made it his main mission to get dick suave with other girls behind my back. Okay, he wasn't that dumb. Or as my father says, "Location, location!"

Yet he couldn't successfully cheat because that involves planning. I always told him he was more than welcome to, because I saw how he oogled over other, sluttier women like pieces of steak he wanted to ravage raw. Whenever I offered to give him $20 to get out of my site and mess with someone else he would get mad. I assured him I was just helping him be an efficient dickhead. So when I say he was stupid I do not lie. Man could not even cheat successfully!

Anyway, there was a party where we were watching the first set of the Republican debates. Many of our mutual friends would be there. For the most part, many of us were just watching this battle of nitwits just to mock it. Most of us had voted for Obama not once if not twice, and some of us even voted socialist. Sam was going just to hang out. Deep opinions really weren't his thing, that would involve thought and Sam didn't do that.

We began watching, and making fun of Ted Cruz who is like the love child of Elmer Fudd. Then there was Scott Walker who was just plain repulsive, especially when he began to talk about reproductive rights. After which Marco Rubio seemed like he was almost smart, until he came out against women and gays. Rand Paul and Ben Carson were mere chorus members. And then there was Donald J. Trump.

Trump began his xenophobic rant about Muslims, terrorists, illegals, and building a wall. At that moment, Sam felt inspired. He screamed at the top of his lungs, excited, "DONALD TRUMP IS OUR NEXT PRESIDENT! HE IS THE MAN WHO CAN MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL TO KEEP THE ILLEGALS OUT AND FROM INVADING AMERICA!!!!!!"

At first we thought he was kidding, only to realize he was dead serious.

The room went silent and many of us bit our lips in horror. I got a few sympathetic glances, mostly from people of my same mind set who wondered why I let my moron talk in public. Ashamed, I looked down, horrified and embarrassed. Sam was not done. He continued, "WE NEED TO MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN AND GET RID THE OF MEXICANS AND TERRORISTS!"

When he got no response, sincere and full of zeal, the socially conscious simpleton I was dating bellowed, "WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL AND DONALD TRUMP IS THE MAN TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN!!!!!"

Damn, he had been so much cuter when he had just hung on my arm, smoked a cigarette like a bad boy, and acted tough without saying a word. Now my brain ached at the thought of another moment with him. Brian, a mutual friend of ours who is a writer, made the mistake of trying to fix stupid. This is how their ill-fated exchange went:

Brian: Sam, Donald Trump wouldn't make a good president. He's not a true politician.

Sam: Yeah, but we have had generations of career politicians and they have run this country into the ground. We need a true, leader, a businessman.

Brian: Sam, he's the host of Celebrity Apprentice.

Sam: AND HE WILL MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Brian: No comment.

Sam: WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL!!!!!!!!!! KEEP MEXICO OUT. CLOSE OUR BOARDERS AND DEPORT THOSE FUCKING ILLEGALSSS!!!!!!

Brian: It's not that simple, Sam. Some of them have children that live here.

Sam: DEPORT THE CHILDREN, TOO!!!!

At that moment I lied and said I wasnt feeling well and left. There was no way I would last the whole debate and acknowledge I was there with this imbecile. All night there had been some tartlette parading around in sleazy garb. At one time I would have been jealous but now all I wanted Sam to do was to go home with her and have long hours of sex with someone who would have too failed any high school class. Maybe she would have his baby and they could pollute the gene pool. He was certainly getting sweet over her bad, spray on tan which is all the rage in this cest pool where he is from.

Just then I got a text from my friend Wilson, a pansexual who was often at odds with Sam. It was more because he thought Sam was as dumb as a brick wall, and Wilson was correct. Sam always felt Wilson talked down to him, and Wilson did not because he was mean or nasty, but Sam was that slow to the catch. Mind you, Sam was jealous that Wilson and I spent so much time together, but it wasn't sexual because Wilson was dating a man at the time. Rather, Wilson could use big words other than intuitively, and unlike Sam could have a conversation about something deep.

Wilson said via text, "Don't worry, I still love you. We all do."

That night I prayed to God Sam would cheat on me. I prayed he would find himself in bed with that cave girl. I prayed if not the cave girl this desperate, unsuccessful, needy, aspiring actress named Jenny who thought he was amazing. Maybe this would be the night that she would send him a nude selfie and I could be rescued!!!!! If not Jenny, maybe Julianna, a rich girl who had been to rehab multiple times with her own clothing line. Yes, any one of them. Although broke, I would still pay them. I wanted to be free from the dumb ass clown who was sucking the air that was going to my brain!

Alas, it did not happen. When I got home Sam send me a text wanting to know if he could bring me Advil for my headache. He said the debate wasn't the same without me. I just wanted to scream, "YOU PAGAN WENCHES ARE USELESS! WHY CAN'T ANY OF YOU BE YOUR EASY SELVES AT THE CORRECT TIME!!!!!!?????????!!!!?!?!?!!?!?!?!!?"

Weeks later, we broke up. It didn't end well. How could it? As I mentioned, he was voting for Donald Trump. Although the deal breaker would be he lied, it wasn't about another woman but something else, the end had come weeks before. Sure, he was pretty. Alas, sometimes pretty things are better seen and not heard.


www.AprilBrucker.TV

52 Lines About 26 Men

Inspired by 88 lines about 44 women by the nails, I had to. It's the alphabet with the names of the men I dated. While I tend to roast my exes, they were all actually special in their own way. The truth is, we all make this journey into the continuum of life, and we never know what the next stop is because we aren't supposed to go until we get there. So why not laugh a little.

A is for Anthony, I fell for you bad. I cried when it ended, because I missed your Park Avenue Pad.

B is for Brandon, my 8^th grade crush. Who turned out to be a used car salesman and a great big lush.

C is for Craig, the European history buff that I met at the library one night. You weren’t a great kisser, but you were incredibly bright.

D is for Derek, who I met in the park. On the first date you confessed, you became a werewolf after dark.

E is for Evan, the one I almost missed. You were unremarkable and boring, so you almost got left off the list. 

F is for Frank, I would have given you my heart and soul for sale. The relationship ended when you didn’t tell me you were going to jail.

G is for George Washington, my lawyer ex with the president’s name. Unlike your honest namesake you constantly lied, but weren’t very good at keeping up your game.

H is for Harry, you were always so much fun. That is, until you decided to go to the bank and slipped them a note stating you had a gun.

I is for Igor, the name says it all. He was from Moldova, and was 7 feet fall.

J is for the man I thought I loved so named Joe. When we broke up, I wrote a country song telling him Hell No.

K is for Kevin, the arrogant bad tipper who invented a weird kind of sprocket. Made millions but lost it, during the pop of the stock market.

L is for Larry, you said we would be soul mates for life. The whole realization was shattered, when I got a call from your wife.

M is for Mike, he was handsome, Harvard educated, and perfect, so the story goes. Third date he confessed he got abducted by UFOs

N is for Nelson, a handsome man with quite a situation. He had a plan to overthrow the government, and one for world domination.

O is for Omar, I fell for him hard. Until I discovered he was homeless and needed a green card.

P is for Paul, who was a lot of fun. Things ended unfortunately, because he was a fugitive on the run.

Q is for Quince, who pursued me then went all ghost. Well he married a controlling wench, got fat, and shows that God and I hate the same things most.

R is for Rueben, my freshmen fling from my floor. When the school year ended and you moved, I didn’t see you anymore.

S is for Sean, my former fiancé oh gee. He kind of gave me an ultimatum, “Your puppets or me.”

T is for Travis, with the sparkling blue eyes. The date ended weird when he said, “Hitler was one of the good guys.”

U is for Ucal, who’s parents named him that in hopes he would be great. Turned out he had no job, and made me pay for the date.

V is for Vince, the sexy activist who wanted to find a solution. Thought he stood me up, but turns out he was jailed for starting the revolution.

W is for William, who was also a writer. When I made him cry after a disagreement, it was revealed he wasn’t a fighter.

X is for Xander, a man I met at 14 in AOL chat. If you’ve experienced the internet, you know nothing good comes of that.

Y is for Yahweh, he legally changed it, not my fault. It was a little interesting dating a man who wanted to form his own cult.

Z is for Zach, who wanted to legally change his name to Zach attack. He ended up homeless, because unfortunately drugs are whack. 

10 Things To Remember After A Break Up

This is for all the ladies out there. Yes, the ones who are learning the hard way that break up suck, that men suck, and that love outright sucks. It sucks worse than a night of bad feminist poetry and interpretive dancing.

But here are ten things we all need to remember. 

1. A man is like a refrigerator. He can be replaced. When one goes away, you can find a new one. Go on the street. Look in a travel book. There are only a few billion in the world.

2. All men have the same equipment and do the same 2 tricks. Trust me, he wasn't doing much. 

3. It's a break up because it's broken. Don't try to win him back. He was just a dude and probably a total loser and wash out. That being said get off his lawn. No man is worth a felony charge. (And prison orange is probably not your color). 

4. Of course he is bad mouthing you. All men are sore losers, especially if they were dumped. Even if he wasn't dumped he is still calling you crazy. Men have to win at all costs. It's an ego thing that goes back to the penis. Yes, battleships are a metaphor for penis. If he calls you crazy, it means you were a bitch with a backbone.

5. Other women will try to drag you down, especially so called friends. They will claim you "don't see your role in things." These morons are either dateless, or when they are they are nothing but scrap metal for the boys and overall doormats who relish in any attention a loser gives. They are the reason my people cannot get advancement in this country. Not to mention that yes, it took two to make this all go bad, but it does not negate the fact he lied, cheated, and tried to get over. 

6. Get off the floor and do something with yourself. As in pursue that passion, take that class, make your life about anything other than the idiot you shared a bed with. The best revenge is doing well......and trust me, he and his idiot friends don't know much about that. 

7. He slept with someone else did he? Well let him sleep with her. Let him have all the fun he wants. When she sees riding a bus with Ray Charles driving, and the man is blind and dead mind you, is a better decision, then you can wave as they both crash and burn together. Don't wave, that means you care......oops.

8. Fight back by ignoring. Ignore all pathetic cries for attention. I had an ex attempt suicide by trying to drink laundry detergent. HE TRIED TO DRINK LAUNDRY DETERGENT TO GET MY ATTENTION! If he wanted my attention, he should have taken that detergent and did my laundry. Bottom line, replying means you care and trust me, that subhuman who was a mere Neanderthal and hardly your intellectual equal took too much of your energy already. Don't give him what he doesn't deserve. 

9. Maybe he was friends with every ex he had, aka his pussy on reserve. You put up with it as he shoved it in your face, subtly letting you know you weren't good enough. But now they can have him back, especially the waste of flesh who left all those comments on his facebook pictures. Yes, the one who waxed :). She can feel superior because you had her sloppy seconds, but you just regurgitated her dollar store, pre-digested rainbow meat back in her mouth. Hope she likes the taste. (And she can say all she wants about you, but she's the pathetic loser going for the crumbs from a worthless man. Just remember that). 

10. Be prepared to have his friends try to sleep with you. While you are down, remember you don't hate yourself that much. While he was cat shit, they are feline AIDS. 

To all the former Mr. April Brucker's...........I'm still going and you are still wishing you were Mr. April Brucker. 

Bad Romance (Lady Gaga)

It was the summer of 2014, and my workload had reached a fever pitch. My puppet children and I filmed a pilot for ABC and did a photo shoot for Hearst. As well, I did puppet work for a short film that would later go on to be nominated for a major festival award. In there, I covered the World Cup for an Android app. I also managed to write for a highly trafficked blog while delivering singing telegrams online.

Did I mention I hosted a book signing, released a DVD, and even completed a graduate writing course with an “A+” grade?

Most of the time I was tired and bedraggled. There were no time for real men, just friends. That is when a man named Humphrey Bogart tumbled into my life.

No, that’s not his real name but in many ways is reminiscent of the film legend. Hump, as he was called, worked in my neighborhood doing various home improvement projects for rich people and was a project manager on a night club or two. Whenever he wasn’t working there, he ran an event space with my writer compatriot Stevenson, or Steve for short.

Steve was a Queens kid who spent some time in Pennsylvania, partially because of his father’s job, and also due to the fact Steve picked up a burglary charge as a teenager. Although charged as a juvenile, Steve’s parents felt a fresh start would be good for their son and perhaps avoid a future stint in jail. Plus the neighborhood they lived in, once a working class Irish section, was getting worse and worse. After experimenting with drugs and living as a hobo, Steve cleaned up his act and decided to focus on putting pen to paper.

An expressive writer and wonderful storyteller, Steve had a handlebar mustache and sometimes bleached his dark hair platinum blonde. His arms were covered with various forms of body ink, some detailing his travels and others as just another artistic outlet. While he had a handful of lasses admiring him, some who notoriously left their panties on his night stand, he wasn’t a player of the jerky kind. Rather, Steve was often up front with his conquests. Still, this didn’t mean one didn’t catch feelings and opine her struggles to the local bar owner, Friendly, who was also Steve’s uncle, and would be laughed off the street. And then there was Cassidy who chased him down 9^th Avenue with a frying pan…..

Steve was amazingly educated, attending even some foreign institutions but somehow never maintaining a diploma. He was published in several student periodicals, and his selections were often solipsistic in nature. Still, I often enjoyed his style. When not writing or helping to run the event space up the street, Steve was seen in Union Square rolling cigarettes and playing Beatles tunes on his acoustic guitar.

Hump was the polar opposite of Steve in many ways. Unlike Steve who always had a new woman every week on his arm, Hump often flew solo. Upon our first meeting, Steve had been talkative and we had hit it right off. Hump, on the other hand, was a different story. He had remained quiet, almost brooding during our initial encounter. He had brown, almost black hair that was matted to his head. His eyes were dark, and he held a gaze akin to a vulture. The entire time he smoked a cigarette like a rebel without a cause that really just needed a hug. As Steve and I talked Edgar Allen Poe and other selections most of the world doesn’t care about, Hump stared off into space blowing cigarette smoke. He did crack a laugh once, but I had a feeling we really didn’t connect. I didn’t care and deep down had no idea why Steve was even friends with such a moody mess albeit an uneducated one.

I had no idea Hump had formed an opinion of me either way until I was walking down the street and heard, “YO!”

I turned around and there he was, goofy million dollar mega-watt grin on his face. Cigarette cradled in his fingers, he wore a wife beater exposing his ink. Every mother’s nightmare but probably was in fact fun before he destroyed your life, I waved back hoping to make it short and sweet. This was no judgment on Hump specifically, wait, yes it was in a way, but rather Steve’s company. Yes Steve, who’s other bestie Polo loved skanky women and dropped the term “baby mama” regularly. Steve didn’t prefer trash per se, but as a writer he craved experience. This meant friends like Polo who were mad shady, and nights at a gay bar that no ordinary straight man would ever cop up to.

“You’re Steve’s friend. Your name’s April, right?” Hump said, his voice deep and scratchy layered thick like cream cheese with a New Jersey accent.

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“Oh yeah, you write and do that puppet stuff. Steve showed me a video of yours. You’re funny.”

“Thanks.”

“A little heavy on the man hate, but funny.” Hump observed throwing his cigarette to the curb.

“Thank you. Do you live around here?” I asked, curious. Most of Steve’s friends lived in strange situations or experienced some form of homelessness on the regular.

“Oh, I work a lot at the club up the street, Steve’s space. I technically live in Clear Channel but sleep there most of the time. So yes and no.” Hump answered. We talked for about twenty more minutes before parting ways. Maybe he was nuts, but like many a Steve friend he was quirky and funny.

Over the next several months I saw more of Hump and got to know him better. I found out his astrological sign was Virgo. This meant romantically we would be a disaster based on my past experience with his people. In that span, I also discovered Hump was not only working as an event coordinator at the club in addition to running construction projects in the place, but also was sought out for private jobs by rich clientele. A whiz who was quick on his feet, Hump always made me laugh and also could fix just about anything. Oh, and he was good with animals.

Despite not being an inch over 5’7”, the exact height of Napoleon, Hump was not afraid of a fight. Once, a bigger guy was pushing around a homeless man. At the time, Hump was doing a job at the club. Seeing this outside his window, Hump ran down the stairs and informed the bigger man he would “beat the living shit out of him.” At first the big man was undaunted, but when Hump stepped forward he knew he meant business. After which the big man retreated, Hump gave the homeless man five bucks, and up the stairs he went. I gave him credit, he had balls.

One evening, Steve threw a function at the space. He begged me to go. I knew this was either going to be an epic hit or an epic disaster. Sure enough, it was somewhere in between. At about midnight I departed. As I walked down my street, I saw Hump on the other side. Quickly, I gave him the big hello and we talked for a minute. He informed me he had a private client who was letting him sleep in his high rise apartment down the street while he was away.

I offered to walk Hump home. However, Hump corrected, “It is usually the man who walks the woman home I believe.” Without missing a beat, Hump jounced across the street without even looking both ways. Faster than the speed of light, he landed in front of me on the sidewalk.

“Thank you, but it is the 21^st century and I live only feet away.” I informed my well meaning but crazy friend.

“I insist.” Hump said, flashing a debonair grin.

“Alright.” I knew as one of Steve’s friends anything was possible. There was no way I was sleeping with Hump. While he seemed harmless, Polo was notorious for trying to get into girl’s panties after hello. This evening alone I had seen him get slapped and a bottled water was thrown at him. While I found Polo funny, I also understood why he had more near death experiences than anyone I knew.

We walked together for two more minutes before I arrived safely at my door. Instead of demanding sex a la Polo, Hump gave me a hug and told me to be safe and have a good night. As we departed, a smile crossed my face. I liked my new friend, I really did. Filing him under nice guy, aside from the fact astrologically we clashed, I knew dating in Steve’s circle would be a match made in hell.

Plus at the time, he was entangled in an arrangement with Desdemona Ambrose Honeywell. Desi, as she was known, was a former alcoholic party girl and trust fund kid who had also worked as a stripper. Formerly a Barnard girl, she had abandoned her education and ambition when she met a much older man. Parallel to this, she had been studying Anna Nicole Smith in her Women’s Studies class. At this point mind you she was an atheist.

At Barnard, she discovered alcohol and cocaine and decided to embark on a career in the skin industry. Mind you this was after her country club parents, Buffy and Claude, stopped payment on her trust fund. Thus she got herself involved in a check forging scam with an associate United States Attorney General. He ended up getting 10 years in White Collar Prison, and Desi walked away unscathed with 30 days in jail. Rich family works wonders.

In jail, she heard the message of sobriety and Alcoholics Anonymous. While this was good for her well-being, Desi began to make it her mission to spread the word of God and sobriety but to rob everyone else of their joy. Determined to “carry the message” as they say, she left The Big Book aka The AA Bible in local bars like John Calvin used to do with Bibles in Switzerland. When she saw this was a lost cause, instead of changing her failosophy, she added further to it by self-publishing her own recovery literature.

Her poorly written, spelling and grammar error riddled selections were entitled Can’t Keep A Former Stripper From Strutting to God and of course one selection to especially make one jump out a window, From the Pole to My Soul: A Sober Girl’s Tale of Redemption. As if this wasn’t bad enough, she made youtube videos talking about her drunk-a-logs and other tawdry escapades in a monotone voice. With pitch black hair and a hellish amount of eyeliner, you knew despite her claims that she had changed her life, when push came to shove she could still chain a man to a radiator.

Hump had encountered this disaster through Steve. Yes, Steve had met Desi at a writer’s conference. After a bad date where Desi tried to get Steve to stop smoking because “his body was a temple” he pawned his mistake off on Hump. Who needs enemies when you have friends like that?

In any event, Hump and Desi actually were happy for a minute. As a matter of fact, I even saw them supping at the Pluto Deli and Eatery. While I didn’t know Desi personally, her fervor and the fact she personally let everyone know “God was her employer” gave me the chills. She was reminiscent of the religious fanatics from my hometown that had the “do as I say but don’t say as I do” attitude. But Hump was my friend and I wanted to see him happy. So I wrote off any possible romance.

However, the Desi and Hump were soon to crash and burn worse than the onlookers of the Holy Grail. I found this out when I saw Steve, Polo, Hump and Friendly. While Friendly’s joint did not open until noon, he had the lights on at around 8 AM. This meant either a film shoot or an emergency.

I looked in the window. There sat four men looking like they had been beaten by a demon force. The place had more smoke than a speakeasy. I waved. Steve, looking like he had seen ghosts, motioned me to come in.

“What is going on?” I asked, sweaty from my morning run and only a few paces away from my house and the relief of a shower.

“Would you like some coffee, Doll?” Friendly inquired. He looked like he hadn’t been to sleep either. Rather, this was just dumped on his lap.

“That would be great. Now why are four of my favorite boys looking like they escaped from Army of Darkness?” Now I was curious.

“How apt you mention that Bruce Campbell classic. ‘Die hell bitch’ should be the phrase of the day.” Steve said, his face twisted in a grin that was absolutely priceless.

“What the fuck is she talking about?” Hump demanded. His hair was messed up and he looked like he had a rough night. Then I realized he was merely clad in boxers.

“And where the fuck are your clothes?” I fired back.

“Relax man, you forget April’s our friend. And she’s not the one who tried to capture you and keep you prisoner.” Polo reminded him. “I knew it from the first time I met her that she would try to do this, man. She had crazy eyes.”

“I’m lost.” I told the group.

Steve just started laughing. Agitated, annoyed, tired, and now embarrassed Hump bellowed, “This is all your fault!”

“Woman troubles.” Friendly informed me. His tall lanky frame approaching with a cup of coffee. As usual, his Harley was parked out front and his signature do rag was perched on his head, blood red in color. If I didn’t know Friendly so well, I would assume he was a member of a biker gang. A thin scar lined his left cheek as evidence of a knife fight gone wrong as a rowdy teen.

Then the story unfolded.

The first two dates with Desi had been a swimming success, and like two crossed-love struck teens forced apart by an adult chaperone, they were determined to be together. Sexting and talking dirty, Hump and Desi plotted a third date. The first had been to a movie, and the second to a speaker jam followed by a walk by the water. Desi, saying she was demanding respect, informed Hump who was growing ever so horny that she was not putting out until the third date.

The third date was where the nightmare began.

Hump was forced to go to Desi’s AA meeting, a Park Avenue group that was akin to a mega-church that in some ways had broken away from the fellowship altogether and in a lot of facets resembled a cult. They had come under fire years before when a member, a troubled young woman, was coaxed by a sponsor to forgo her psych meds and to “Go to God to relieve your alcoholism and depression.”

The girl went to God alright…..that is, by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

In any event, Hump was forced to wear a name tag and was “weirded out” by the wide eyed, vacant stares of the adherents. Nonetheless, Desi was a much respected member of the group. Desi’s sponsor and sponsor family knew almost too much information about Hump, and they had all Googled him. This weirded him out, but he said in his defense, “I thought I was gonna get laid. I really liked her!”

The group laughed as Hump’s face fell. Then the tale of woe unfolded further. Hump admitted that sex did occur. It was wild, passionate, and the scratches on his back, still visible, looked like they had been given to him by a werewolf. The two love birds had sex for at least 4 hours. One round, according to Hump, was even anal. By all accounts, this sounded like every man’s dream girl.

Alas, all that glitters is not gold. Hump woke up the next morning with no sign of Desi in site. He saw the clock read 7 AM. He figured by the site of the closed door perhaps she had gone to the bathroom or run a quick errand. As he sat up, it occurred to Hump he had to pee.

Approaching the door, Hump went to open it. However, it was locked. Panicked, he tried again. And then a third time. Figuring there was a mistake he called for Desi. No answer. He then tried her on his phone. To his relief she picked up. However, his joy was short lived when she said, “Glad you are still there. I will not return until nightfall. Stay put.”

When Hump demanded to be released, Desi cooed, “It’s my abandonment issues. My sponsor and I are working through these. I will make amends to you later. And by the way, I did the sober thing of leaving your wallet but took your clothes. That way you can’t leave me!”

With that she hung up. Thinking on his feet, Hump had opened the window and was climbing the fire escape to freedom. However, new to the city he did not know the area. Desperate and in the streets clad in boxers, Hump desperately called Steve. At the time Steve was fast asleep in the arms of a tartlette called Jenny, a conquest that he really didn’t want to stay over but alas, he was too tired to fight. Steve wanted a cheap lay, but she worshipped the ground he walked on.

Steve picked up the phone, realizing that while he was in a woman jam so was Hump. By the addresses, Steve surmised Hump was blocks away from Friendly’s bar. Steve directed the half-asleep but rather shocked Hump. And Friendly, who had not yet gone to sleep, heard about the disaster and opened his door to a friend. Of course, Polo was doing the walk of shame from the home of a woman he could not even remember. But in typical Polo fashion, he wanted to slip out undetected. That is when he saw the gathering and they invited him in. And now here I was.

“Shit, you almost died.” I said laughing.

“Dude, you leave after you fuck her.” Polo instructed. “Hey, unlike that crazy slut I do as I say and say as I do.” I burst out laughing. God I liked Polo. He came correct even if he was incorrect.

 “Alright, the three of you really need to clean up your act. How are you supposed to get a decent girl like April here to talk to you?” Friendly quizzed.

Polo, a third generation Cuban American scratched his head. Despite his Latino heritage he was red headed with pale skin. Short and stout, Polo, between cigarette puffs, observed, “Who says April’s decent?”

“Decent at beating your ass.” I said flicking Polo. The group laughed as Polo threw a napkin at me in faux retaliation.

“Get a room you two!” Steve heckled.

“Oh, I think that’s what got everyone here into the jams they are currently in, so for the sake of all things living most of our fun for today shall be out of bed for now. What do you say fellas?” Friendly suggested. “Do like April, jog instead of murdering your lungs. Shit, what am I talking about? You need some clothes. You escaped one crazy bitch, lets not have you arrested and see a second crazy bitch in jail.” Friendly suggested and off to the back he went to get Hump the outfit he kept in the back in case he was too tired to get home.

Minutes later, Friendly returned with a wife beater and a pair of cargo shorts. While they were slightly large on Hump, the belt made them work. That is, enough to get to the high rise where he was squatting for another week to the majority of his clothes in a bag.

As our gathering dispersed, Hump called to me. “Can I walk you home?” He asked.

“There are no spooks. I am fine. But by the way your life is unfolding I think this time I should definitely walk you home.” I said verbally slapping Hump.

“I am still a gentlemen.” Hump told me.

“The way you were carrying on, one would have thought you were frequenting a brothel.” I told Hump, “And if your boxers werent so conservative, I would have gotten a full peak at Junior.”

“It was a bad night and she tried to capture me. Let’s be fair. Look, I would love to walk you home if you would let me. Daylight or night light, good night or bad night, I am still a gentlemen. But I’m a gentlemen  out of cigarettes. How about this. If you come with me to get cigarettes, I’ll get you more coffee.” Hump offered.

After a stop to the corner store, Hump lit a cigarette. “You got lucky, Pal. She could have had a pet bunny.” I said laughing.

Instead of laughing, Hump sucked down his cancer stick and was deathly quiet. Maybe it was because he had endured a near death experience, or maybe it was because he was tired. Either way, he was back to his moody self, the one that I had met upon our first encounter.

“You’re lucky you got out alive. Sounds like you escaped Iraq.” I said with a loud half laugh. It wasn’t to be dickish but rather just to open up an individual who clearly was not as ready to laugh about this as the rest of his circle of friends was.

Instead of laughing, Hump got even more deathly quiet, and a scowl came over his face. He said nothing and threw his cigarette on the sidewalk. Then my phone pinged. It was Jake Judy, yes the married former classmate things were getting complicated with. He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out because he was coming to town. A smile lit over my face. Sure, I was technically the other woman, but at least he wasn’t unpredictable like Hump.

“Who’s that?” Hump inquired now curious.

“No one.” I replied as we neared my door.

“It was someone.”

“A guy.”

Half-laughing I told Hump the story. Maybe this would cheer him up. Instead his expression remained serious as if he were either attending to a hanging, an electrocution, or maybe even going to the gas chamber himself.

“Sounds like a real asshole.” Hump snapped.

“He’s not a bad guy. Sometimes, things are just complicated.”

“He’s married to someone else and you are dating him. Not that complicated, Sweetie.”

“It’s complicated. And you of all people should understand sometimes things just happen.” I informed my friend who felt the need to judge me and somehow forgot his most recent misadventure.

 “He sounds like a real dickface, fucking around on his wife behind her back with you. You come down awfully hard on guys sometimes, but you pick some real assholes.” Hump seethed, annoyed.

Hump took my inventory, and I was stunned at the double standard of the whole situation. But Hump wasn’t done. “He’s a douchebag. Plain and simple.” Hump confidently stated. “Not all men are cheaters as you say in your videos and blogs. Some of us want to treat a woman decently and have morals.”

“Look, until Friendly gave you wardrobe you were near naked and I saw Junior poking out and love wounds on your back from a syphilis filled slut bag who thinks she can write when in fact she can’t. William Shakespeare would be rolling in his grave if he read the structure of her prose. You have no business using the word decently let alone morals in a sentence for the next 48 hours. Have a nice life.” I said and closed the door behind me.

Good bye and good riddance.

Just then, Jake pinged me back but now I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

For more on me please go to www.aprilbrucker.com

Prison Pen Pals

Several years ago, I was in a bizarre place with my life. Let’s just say my bad boy phase was hit with a bottle of Miracle Grow. I had the former fiancé who was insane and I still have a different mailing address because of. Then after him I had a string of guys on the fast track to no where. Why make one bad decision when you can make a thousand? Of course, after dating a string of defendants I decided to date a defense lawyer. Oh my gosh, he fulfilled the stereotype that all lawyers do is LIE, LIE, LIE!!! This one was supposed to be my rainbow on the Lucky Charms box. No such luck. He was bigger dirt bag than the rest of them.

After we broke up, I was kind of hurt in a way I had never been. This was the one who had the job, had the apartment, was the thing that made my parents relieved that I wasn’t on the same collision course some of my female relatives are with men. Truth, I had cheated during the relationship several times. Still, I felt as if I had let my family down and failed by not sticking it out with this dude, marrying him, and having his kids. Did I love him? I loved the idea of what we had, not how he subtly treated me like a second class citizen and I was so used to that I just let it go.

Of course, looking back, the thing that almost made this near disaster possible was that I didn’t have much of a dating history before my fiancé. In high school guys didn’t talk to me unless they needed answers for English or history homework. Even Bobby Parker, the chain smoking Caddy driving parent’s nightmare that liked me had a girlfriend in another district, and an official relationship never transpired. In college I wasn’t much of a dater until I met the trust funder with the nice apartment and wanted the benefits of being my boyfriend without the responsibility, but even the shelf life on that wasn’t long. So when I got engaged I had very little relationship experience, which is in part why that conflagration happened.

So after some thinking, I talked to a friend I had then named Bettina. A chain smoker who worked as a hairdresser in Queens, Bettina had a similar history when it came to men. We had met when she did my hair and makeup for a short film once upon a time and stayed in touch. Her fiancé could have been mine, except she got a kid out of the deal which kind of sucked. The dude was a deadbeat and refused to work, so she was rocking the single mother thing. Anyway, Bettina was writing a guy in prison. He seemed like the suave  gentlemen women always dream of. Bettina’s beau was in on a drug related charge, and actually seemed rather nice through the letters he wrote.

After ending things with the fiancé, before being swayed by the criminal lawyer who lied worse than his clients, I had dated a few guys out of jail. They are the only ones okay with a girl who’s ex is stalking her, and don’t run like they saw Godzilla. Most decent dudes do, and with good reason. The guys I dated that were out of jail were fun, and didn’t want anything serious. I am actually still friends with a few of them. What made things worse was around this time I found out the lawyer/liar was lying about the reason he broke up with me as well, causing several people who I am no longer friends with anyway to keep their distance. Me having a beefy, manly, muscle driven man would make him so damn jealous and make him pay for lying about me.

Plus I felt more at home with bad boys anyway. Growing up all the so called normal kids were mean to me, and the bad boys never were. They kind of left me alone. The so called screw ups talked to me in study hall, and one kid from a foster home caught another idiot making fun of me. The group home kid decked the idiot. I thought it was so romantic. Needless to say they kicked the kid out of school, damn them.

Either way, bad boys and I always connected. Even in high school when I was on the honors track, we always knew each other in the hall. I wasn’t a big dater then as I mentioned, so I wasn’t a party girl. Sometimes, it was as if they liked me more because of that. My parents were super strict, keeping us under lock and key. The only time my siblings and I could get out was to go to school, our numerous after school activities, and other volunteer work. While time with friends was occasionally allowed, it was on a very limited basis. My mother’s belief was leisure time was the devil and got kids into trouble. Even though I was popular at certain points for all the things I did and had friends in the so called “in crowd,” I always felt like a perpetual outsider.

Looking back, they were perpetual outsiders too. Instead of having no freedom, they had too much. Maybe that’s why Mark McAdams, the class president who I adored, thought it was like being told he had cancer when he found out I had a mega crush on him. On  the other hand, I was walking home from school helpless in the rain. Bobby Parker rolled up in his Caddy, cigarette out of mouth. I jumped in off we went. To them I was chronically helpless and they were my rescuers. And that spawned Bobby Parker fighting with the rest of the degenerates over our friendship. It wasn’t because we were friends, it’ because he got the idea first.

That is when I got the website name from Bettina and decided to go for it. Sure, I was going to pursue men on the outside, but who’s to say I didn’t have a friend on the inside. While things heated up with Bettina’s man, she had still been dating other dudes that weren’t incarcerated before things became official. Either way, it would be nice to have a dude that wouldn’t judge me. All the lawyer and his friends did was judge me. They judged my career, my friends, the mistakes I made. It was as if they had this comfortable superiority. The cons weren’t going to judge me. When you have robbed a bank, burned down a house, trafficked drugs, and killed a few people, you kind of lose that right along with many others the law strips away.

As I went through the profiles, I looked at the photos of each offender. Some looked as if they used their time in prison to get buff. I liked to weight train. Maybe this could be an ice breaker. Others wanted to look more soulful and thoughtful, probably so the ladies would send them money and naked pictures. I had a feeling my pen pal might be asking me for those, but maybe not. Under each photo, the men had whether or not they wanted money or legal help. While all answered no, it was probably a yes.

There was one bank robber who stole my heart, no pun intended. He had piercing dark eyes and a goatee. The man was doing ten years and was more smoking than the pistol he fired. I figured I might write to him.

Under him was an arsonist doing 300 years for burning down a series of buildings. The guy had a tattoo on his face and looked completely psychotic, but in that smoke and fire kind of way. He freely admitted he wanted money and legal help. The dude was honest. While the bank robber was cute, this man was forthcoming which is sexy. Maybe this was my prison pen pal. I was sold. Quickly, I drafted my first letter. Hey, I figured the second he got annoying I could just stop writing.

I had my battle plans until hanging out with my late friend Chacho Vasquez. A former drug dealer, Chacho had since stopped living the life but still acted as if he did. More often than not he would say, “Those bitches, they underestimate me. But I have a lock in my sock and I am ready to rock.” Then he would get out his nail file and go to town, always looking his best. That’s when I would laugh. Sure, Chacho had street swagger and didn’t snitch, but he was as gay as a storm of Skittles and Starbusts.

I told Chacho of my plans during one of his nail filing sessions. As I spoke, Chacho snapped, “Are you fucking stupid?!” Chacho was so aghast he dropped his nail file. This was serious. Then he screamed, panicked, because his nail file had touched the ground. FYI, despite all of his exploits Chacho was a germophobe.

“I would just be writing him a letter.” I told him. “It’s not like I am marrying him.”

Chacho then said, “No, you won’t be marrying him. Instead he will just want money and naked pictures. They all want money and naked pictures just so you know. All you will be doing is spending all his money on him. He should be spending money on you. Don’t be stupid.”

Chacho informed me he knew this from his own experience in the joint. He had seen multiple inmates write to multiple women, and many even concocted little hustles with each side piece he had writing. As he enlightened me, Chacho finished by saying, “And just so you know, before you think his feelings are real for you, after he seals the letter he is meeting me in the shower for some rubber ducky time. Yeah, and he says he’s not gay.” An evil grin spread across Chacho’s face as he finished with the kisser on this new bulletin from the shady. Then my Cuban Ratso Rizzo broke into a cackle seeing I was shocked silent and I sat there slack jawed. He always did this when he knew what he said was too much for words.

 “Why do you think they keep coming back to jail? They keep getting caught because they like the treats.” Chacho explained after he was done laughing maniacally.

Then Chacho told me as a teenager, after being kicked out of his Washington Heights home for being gay, he wrote a murderer who was locked up in Sing Sing. Apparently he got the dudes address from one of his drag sisters who was dating the dude before he was arrested. Anyway, at first things were rosy until this dude insisted Chacho sent him money. “I said bitch, I run my own hustle. I work hard. No hand outs here.” Now I was laughing. Chacho had a point there. Granted, it was a dull one on the end of the pencil, but he had a point.

Sure, Chacho had a head filled with awful decisions himself. Some landed him in jail. Others in the hospital. Then there were those that made him homeless quite frequently. However, in some twisted, odd, and ultimately surreal way Chacho was the voice of reason in this scenario. Chacho of course reminded me that a man’s only purpose in my life should be to spend all of his money on me, take me to fancy eateries, and of course high end vacations. It should not be the other way around. While I am not sure whether or not that is completely true, one thing was for certain, he had stopped a craptacular decision in it’s tracks. Yeah, the lawyer diminished my already fragile ego and kicked my self-esteem which was already dented. However, getting a prison pen pal was not the answer to my problems. 

Chacho also assured me that the lawyer would get his, and downgrade to some "worthless fat idiot." At the time this made me laugh, because Chacho never liked him. Turned out my dearly departed friend was right on this as well. Thank God I didn't degrade myself just to get back at a worthless mouth breather that had a decent job. 

 Bettina looked down upon Chacho and called him a disaster criticizing the frequent food stamp using Louis Vuitton wearing indigent whenever she could. But in the ultimate turn of fate, Chacho would call the disaster play for play that became her life.  Bettina would end up marrying her prison pen pal, and they posed for photos in front of backdrops containing butterflies, bridges, and streams, symbols of the freedom they robbed their way out of, no pun intended. Five months into the marriage, she discovered he was writing other women. To make matters worse, he had her cash a series of money orders in a fraudulent scam that left her high and dry. Oh, and she found all of this out when she got a call from his boy toy on the inside who had developed feelings and was sick and tired of being the second best kept secret. Needless to say, Bettina and her drug trafficker divorced citing irreconcilable differences.

After that, Bettina began seeing an 17 year old who dropped out of high school and sold weed. Seeing she was on the fast road to no where, I began to distance myself from her. While the convict pen pal had been a disaster that should have gotten her an award, this was just plain sad. Not to mention now I was starting to make decisions like someone with a more sane head on her shoulders. Last I heard, Bettina was dating a Latin King. Sigh, and I thought I liked them bad.

I was telling my gay hairdresser friend Carter about my almost prison pen pal experience and the Ballad of Bettina. A little background on Carter, originally from Central Florida, he was mainly raised by extended family because his mother that he no longer speaks to is insane. As we spoke, Carter revealed his mother was a serial prison pen paler. Not only did she routinely write men in prison, but even invite one to live with them when Carter was a kid. The whole thing was a complete disaster, and the dude left after nine months for a better meal ticket.

As if that wasn’t enough, Carter’s mother felt the men in the Florida penitentiary were the problem, not the fact she was writing convicts to begin with. So she began writing inmates in the Midwest. To be with her former burglar that she had become enchanted with, Carter’s mother pulled him out of school and moved house to Kansas City. This too was a disaster. Carter didn’t adjust well, and since all of her money was going to buy her beau whatever because he wouldn’t work Carter went without winter clothes. The whole thing literally exploded when the dude’s former cellie came to visit and the arsonist on parole burned their house down. Mother stayed behind, and Carter returned to Florida to finish high school. Now I know why they don’t speak. He’s better off without his mother.

Looking back, it can all be explained quite simply. Love makes people do crazy things, and heartbreak makes you more crazy and desperate. Bettina, Carter’s mom, and I were just three heartbroken women. Bettina had been engaged to a psychotic loser who refused to work, and had terrible luck when it came to men. Carter’s dad had been a drug addict who left the family and ultimately committed suicide. I had a crazy fiancé and just bad luck with men in general. Eventually, you are so used to table scraps that crumbs don’t seem so bad. At least a crumb is just a crumb, and knows it’s a damn crumb.

While I have firmly put my foot down that the future Mr. April Brucker will not wear prison orange and be housed in a state pen, I know one thing is for certain. There is a country song in here somewhere. I have already recorded one. Maybe it is time for “Hell No, Joe” to have a B-Side. What can I say? Bad decisions equal good stories. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Damaged and Proud

I recently released a country single called “Hell No, Joe.” It was written when I was at the end of my rope. Yes, with men and all they entail. It’s something about being lied to one too many times that finally makes a New Yorker write a country song. Sure, there are women who go home and cry after being lied to. I don’t take it lying down. I get even in a way that benefits me and makes them look like the losers they are.

At 20, I had my heart broken by an older man who didn’t want to be my boyfriend but wanted the benefits package. So I took my act to the comedy clubs of New York and proved funnier than him. Eventually we became friends, but his wife doesn’t like me. She wants to be a writer of some sort. Well, after she stopped speaking to me, I published my book. Hers is still collecting dust in the drawer.

Then we have all heard about the former fiancé to the point where we want to vomit. However, I got back at this abusive prick by putting him in my comedy routine where he will be forever vilified. Not to mention my puppet children, the ones he tried to take away, have joined me on national television. People have told me they enjoy my children, and we will never part ways again. I also think of my former fiancé terrorizing me and threatening to kidnap me when I didn’t return. These things only motivated me more. Now my ex sees me on television and is forced to swallow it. And he told me I was unfunny and no one liked me.

Of course how can I forget the liar lawyer? Yes, the one who I trusted after all that happened to me. The one who I poured my heart out to and told about my dreams. Well, he lied about everything and truly broke my heart. Sure, I was less than loyal but I never completely trusted him. What does he do? As soon as things end, the jerkoff slimes around in my social circle and goes after the fatter, uglier, more psychotic version of myself. I wouldn’t care, except he has pitted her against me, and there have been times her harassment has been so terrible I nearly had to take legal action. No matter, I get my revenge by living well and doing well. She hasn’t bothered me in some time which has been great. But it makes me wonder, why can’t my ex-lovers and their current squeezes leave me alone? 

So when Holden came along, he was the one I truly loved. Sure, he had to leave the area because he had legal drama. Yeah, he was every mother’s nightmare. But he was kind and had a good heart. Holden wanted to be my boyfriend. He didn’t want the simple benefits without the title. Holden was proud of my career and would tell anyone that listened about me. He didn’t make me give up what I loved. Add in that Holden never lied to me, and despite all the issues he had with drugs and bipolar disorder, Holden never pitted his druggie babes against me. Yes, there is a part of me that will always love him. However, there is a special kind of sting that goes with knowing love isn’t enough to remedy addiction and mental illness.

That is when Hell No, Joe enters. Oh yes, the one I thought was going to be the answer to my prayers after Holden. Yes, the one who laid it on real thick and made me feel good about myself. Yes, the one who it turned out tried to use me to further his career and for a place to live. I was the perfect target for that cad. I think that’s what made Hell No, Joe the hardest. It was as if he staked me out. Yes, April the lonely career woman. That is why I snapped and gave Joe his own country song.

Most women would probably jump off a cliff if they had my dating history. Yet I won’t. Nice guys don’t want me and I am okay with that. Many so called nice guys are judgmental pricks with a stick up their asses. The second they hear one of my exes was a fugitive at one point, they put some pep in their step. Not to mention they try to pin my bad luck with men on me. Maybe I do play a role in my shit luck with the male gender, but there is nothing like an entitled dickhead who never had a bad day in their life telling you how to lead yours. Bitch please.

Or add in the so called nice girls who have always done everything right. They are kind of disgusting to me, too. Yes, the ones who married and lived happily ever after. The ones who I scare to death. Newsflash, your husband wants me. He slipped me his number. I didn’t take it because I don’t want you to chase me in your black sedan. You will because you have no existence outside a man and your life is that empty. And it’s his job to sexually disappoint you, I have shit to do.

Maybe this is why my friends are such characters, because I can relate. I don’t relate with someone who lives on the straight and narrow and is easily successful. That person bores me and makes me vomit. I can’t identify with people who have never been so angry that they could choke the bejesus out of someone. Heck, I don’t know how to talk to someone who’s big goal is to get married and have children. Truth, just as I scare that person, that person scares me.

Eh, I have lived a little. So have my friends. Some have been to jail, and I have visited them there. Others have been to drug treatment, and I have visited them there. Then there are those who have made the front page of the news, and I have cheered them on because I identify with their antics. Of course some join cults and I marvel at their stupidity, but then I am there when they ascend back to Earth.

Recently I took a test on BuzzFeed. The quiz was entitled, “What Kind of Pimple Are You?” I answered the question and I got a scar. Yes, I have lived and have some character behind me. However, because I have lived I would give my last quarter to anyone in need, because I know how it feels to be destitute. I would also listen with a nonjudgmental ear to someone in love with the wrong person. Of course I would try to guide them out of that. Not to mention if someone did fuck up big, I would make them laugh about it because unless you have killed someone, nothing in this world is permanent. I will not help you hide the body, but will give you perspective. Felonies are where I draw the line.

In a way, I am glad I have had the shitty things happen to me that have been put in my path. As a result, I am not afraid of anything, even death. My bad luck streaks have always helped push me to the next level, because there is nothing like proving an oppressive bully wrong. I also know that in the end I only have myself to depend on, and lovers are like the tide, they come and go. Of course, I make less terrible decisions these days. However, every bad decision has at least one good story if the bad decision doesn’t kill you.

No wonder I wrote a country song. The Huffington Post Featured my video. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/april-brucker/hell-no-joe-why-i-wrote-a_b_6038728.html

The next level is just around the corner for me. So to all that have kicked me and beaten me down, thank you. Without you I would not be the woman I am today. xoxox

www.aprilbrucker.com

My Date With Nazi

I remember about three years ago, a friend of mine set me up with a guy. The premise was that we were both crazy about history. Hell, I think a man who likes history and the war channel is as hot as a McSizzle on a New York summer day. I still remember seeing John's picture. He was cute with dark hair and lady killer blue eyes. We spoke on the phone beforehand, and he said he was looking forward to meeting me. I remember he worked in finance, a good job with lots of money.

We ended up at this fancy Italian Place, and immediately, he began to show his stripes as a history buff. He claimed he went to Penn, another good school. Right away, we began talking about World War II. I still remember the words I said that set the course for a set of events I will never forget.

As a kid, my father read us Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire before school. What I said was World War II was more about race and national pride, and these issues went back thousands of years. Additionally, history shows Germany and Austria had been violently Anti-Semitic, and unfortunately Hitler's view point gained popularity because of centuries old sentiment. Also, Germany had only been an independent country since 1863 give or take. These were centuries old issues that blew the powder keg. Thus they simplify something quite complicated in schools, thus making people's understandings of the true facts at hand problematic.

That is when John looked at me, Lady Killer eyes and said, "Yeah, I am with you. Most people don't understand the issues at hand. Most women dont understand let alone like World War 2."

"Love the War Channel." I told him.

John then said, "You know, while we are on the subject, Hitler was misunderstood. You see, he wanted to be a good ruler to the German people. Hitler was one of the good guys."

My jaw nearly dropped. In my explaining that World War II was often oversimplified, I didnt mean to imply the dictator that killed several million Jews, gypsies, homosexuals and other undesirables was good in any way. There is no way someone with a rational mind and a decent heart can condone such thought let alone behavior.

"You're kidding?" I asked, hoping he was being sarcastic.

"No, I am not. You see, Hitler wanted to get rid of the Jewish problem. You see, they were like the Hiltons. They just got richer as everyone else got poorer. The Jews controlled the banks, blackballed governments, and were responsible for The Great Depression. They were also illegal immigrants in Europe that chose to stay. You see, they were kind of like the Mexicans and Texas. But the Jews slant history. They always do. They write the history books and make Hitler look like a bad guy, never talking about all the good he did for the German people."

 I was so shocked I couldn't move. He wasn't kidding. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. As if that wasn't enough, John went on to say, "Well the Jews also made up the concentration camps as well. Hitler never planned to kill them-"

At that moment I said I had a stomach ache and had to leave. He offered to walk me home but I said that wasn't necessary and ran out of the place. Breathing fresh air with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors living in some sort of peace was a nice landing back to reality. I don't know what was worse, the hate he was spewing or the fact he believed it? Did he intern for David Duke one summer? Oh and the concentration camps were real, and they did plan on eliminating the undesirables. My great uncles helped liberate the Jews. Yeah, it was worse than the pictures. No, they just didnt sit around making this up to punish the Germans. If they did, they must have had a lot of free time. Oh, and it is so hack and unoriginal to blame the Jews. That is so overdone.

Prince Edward was so handsome and he had such a heart to abdicate the throne to be with his love and we all said how romantic. That is, until it was revealed that he was a Nazi sympathizer. Charles Lindburgh was  a great pilot and a hero. That is, until it was revealed he was a Nazi sympathizer. My date was smart and sexy, until it was revealed he was a Nazi sympathizer. Maybe he found his dream Eva Braun after I left. Either way, the friend that fixed us up became an ex friend.

So beware ladies, if a guy is sexy, get to know him. Make sure he isn't a Nazi. Nothing is as unsexy as a Nazi.


Love
April

Half a Person (The Smiths)

I have always been super, duper shy in a way when it comes to dudes. There were the kids who were pretty kids. I wasn't one of them. You see, I struggled with my weight and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't look like the pretty popular girls. I had cystic acne, and had medication that made my face peel and lips bleed. Oh and then there were the braces with rubber bands that would have food caught in them. My mother also picked out my clothing, which made me super trendy.....NOT! On top of that, really wasn't allowed to date which was translated to April Brucker can't talk to boys which was translated to April Brucker munches rug. And this was outside of Pittsburgh, not New York. To say it was a tad homophobic would have been the understatement of the year.

Never really have been much of a dater. For the first part of high school I struggled with my weight. While I shed a few pounds for the second half, I was too busy. In between being at the cable access station, performing ventriloquism for senior, writing for the youth section of the local paper, the high school musical and literary magazine my schedule was packed. Then there were my Saturday acting and dance classes downtown, and bagging groceries at the supermarket when I wasn't there. Busy.

Plus I was more or less friends with guys. My brother Wendell played football, so I knew all those guys and their families. As a result, I was kind of grandfathered into a circle I would not ordinarily have been a part of, aka The Football Family as they call it. Not to mention I am wired more like a guy. So I would end up talking history and sports with these dudes, and then they would end up going to the dance with someone else. It didn't matter to me actually. I hated the idea of formals, wasting money on a stupid gown you were only going to wear once. I hated how everyone yelled, screamed, and cried over not having a date. Or then there was the drama with one dude was dating one girl and asked someone else. Actually, I was happy not to go.

When prom time came around, I didn't have a date. By that time, I knew I was going to New York and that's all I cared about. My mother on the other hand was a big dater back in the day. She went to an All girl's Catholic high school, and my uncle went to the all boys brother school. When it came to dances they would go with each others friends, etc. Before she met my dad, my mom also dated a lot of guys as well. So when I didn't have a prom date, my mother was losing her mind. It was my mom crying and freaking out as the encroaching deadline approached. Some kids had folders and had been planning prom since Christmas. I didn't care. The more I heard about it the less I wanted to go.

My mother, however, every time she met a random guy who seemed somewhat nice would say, "What do you think of Bob? Wouldn't he make a wonderful escort to the prom?" And then I would tell my mother I wasn't going. Fights would erupt, which hurt because my mom is a wonderful woman and we have always been very close.

Then my mom would say, "I am not going to be sitting at home when all those limos go by."

I told my mom I could go in a group of friends. To which my mom replied, "That's what fat girls do!"

I pointed out I was fat throughout middle and the first part of high school. "You aren't fat now!" My mom wailed. Still, it was one area where we didn't see eye to eye let alone relate.

I ended up getting a date at the last second. He was a friend of mine, and he ended up taking another friend of mine as well. We went in a group, it was fun. It wasn't anything to slit your wrists or cry about not going to though. So I did it, my mom was happy. We could be friends again. Plus my sister Skipper had a lot of guys asking her to formals. She and my mom could go dress shopping and giggle about that stuff.

Well as an adult I made up for lost time. Getting to college, well there were guys who weren't aware of my dork status. However it was a strange road map. I thought when one dude invited me to his room to watch TV that's what he really wanted, big mistake. Then there were some others I hung out with, but it never went anywhere. A part of me got a little depressed, but then a part of me was relieved. Of course, there was the trust fund dude who had a nice apartment who didn't want to be my boyfriend. But he got pissed when I talked to other dudes. I don't miss him. I miss his apartment, complete with wine bar and all. Plus he always had Groucho Marx cigars. Then I was allowed to drink, and alcohol allowed the shyness to melt away.

But then there was blacking out which always left me feeling like I took a ride in the Delorean and had to piece together the past and the future as I fumbled through the present. Jack Daniels also made me kiss a lot of trolls, and then I wondered how the hell I got under the draw bridge. And then when I met the former fiance, I thought I had arrived. Instead, it was a year long nightmare where at the end of it I got a different mailing address so he couldn't find me. He has reached out to make amends several times, but I have no desire to make contact. I forgive him, and played a role in making the relationship bad. But we will never be good for each other, and any contact we have is unhealthy.

Afterwards, my mom put his name and address on the refrigerator in case I disappeared. I should have pointed out he told me he wished he could have taken me to the prom, but I didn't. Instead I embarked on a series of mini-romances that included trust fund idiots, millionaires with drinking problems, ex cons, junkies, and any other degenerate under the sun. When each ended, my mom was more than thrilled. I was dating, right? Whenever I got a decent dude, he would run like he saw Godzilla. Most aren't into being shot by a stalker ex. Others saw I couldn't be nice, so they didn't bother. Or I just cheated on them and treated them badly.

What changed everything was the drug related death of my friend Chacho. Very gay and very out of his mind, Chacho and I both loved bad boys. Once, Chacho had acquired a prison pen pal, and sent the man his underwear. I believe the gentlemen was convicted of murder, and his panties were red. Anyway, Chacho and I had both managed to snag a boyfriend who was in some stage of married. We would giggle about our dysfunctional beaus and check out men. And then my friend died. Yeah, it was after having sex. It's the way we all want to go. He couldn't stop doing drugs and partied himself out of this world. I always wanted to tell him at least it wasn't on the toilet.

After his passing, something snapped in me. I am not sure if it was all together good or bad, but something shifted. Those disgusting guys ceased to lure me in. While the bad boys didn't kill my friend, they were one of the many factors that put the shovel in Chacho's hand as he dug his own grave. I didn't want whatever they had near me. Suddenly I was more driven than I ever was. Out of no where, I was gifted with a series of TV appearances with my puppet children. I always say that was Chaco's parting gift as he left the world. He was proud of me, plus he was obsessed with celebrity culture.

So for the last few years, it has been all about the career. I have worked tirelessly. I won't tell you all I have done because it will bore you. Things are starting to go well in a major way because of all my hard work though. There hasn't been anyone in years except for Holden for a brief time, and I ended that mistake. I have friends, I am a very good friend. In a lot of ways these past few years, I have felt more whole than I think I ever did.

Several weeks ago, my sister Skipper's boyfriend Boomer asked our father's permission to seek her hand in marriage. Now my mother's energies are spent planning this upcoming wedding which is at least two years away. Now once again, she is trying to get me to sign up for EHarmony. I think she is more upset about me being single than I am. Now each day she asks me if I have signed up for EHarmony. Recently, I booked a sweet gig. I called her to tell her.

My mom asked afterwards, "When are you going to sign up for EHarmony? I don't want you to waste that part of your life."

This reminded me of prom all over again. I was excited about NYU, and my mom couldn't stop reminding me that while it was true prom was coming up.

And then the shyness creeps back in. Yeah, I get a lot of fan letters from guys. Answering fan mail is different than talking to them face to face though. Plus some of the fan mail I get would honestly piss a boyfriend or husband off. Had one dude try to make me give up my career, never again. Or the idea of being someone's girlfriend comes into my head as I talk to a dude. At first I can entertain it, but then I just can't. I am back to being that junior high dork. I always think he's going to tell me it's a joke. Or we just end up as friends.

A few weeks back I did a show at a venue where there was another woman comic. When I come in off the streets, I always look like a waif and change afterwards to glam up. I hate looking good when I travel because then idiot dudes talk to me and no thanks, no likey creepos. I got to the venue, and I was the main event that evening. This woman gave me a weird up and down as I came in looking like I should have been begging for change outside. Actually, she kind of threw shade my way. It was like junior high again.

But then I transformed into my show gear, and she changed towards me completely. I think because she realized who I was. And then she offered me food. It was like 7th grade in a way. I was willing to let her start again though, and I was glad I did. We actually ended up hitting it off.

The point being, we all grow up I suppose. So maybe it's time to leave the awkward 13 year old in the past where she belongs. I don't want to ever forget her because she helped make me the woman I am. Maybe it's time to let go of that 21 year old mess who had the psychotic fiance who tormented and stalked her after the breakup, yeah there are good dudes out there. It's just that the good dudes don't want me. And maybe it's time to leave my Stephen King version of the dating game there too. But depending on the day, I feel like a shy teenager or a piece of trash who uses WriteAPrisoner.com. I have a career that is beginning to take off, and fans who love me. I don't need a dude, right?

I have puppets.

Part of me does want human things though like a romantic companion from time to time. So that is when the awkward, MTV watching 13 year old gets a piece of paper. On it she writes: Will you go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe.



Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

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