Conversations With an Angry Embryo

Reads: 126  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Conversations with an old friend who happened to be a poet, who metamorphisized into a success

Submitted: December 03, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 03, 2011




Conversations with an Angry Embryo
Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is strictly coincidental

The Bard..." I guffawed. "A teaching job.....and almost dismissed for a breakage of a "Morality Clause"...
It tickled the cuckholds of my heart....

"I fell in love with a student...." he explained.

"You are just a horney person." I deflated the romantism. "You are a little CuntHound...." I chuckled, narrowing my eyes. "A little puppy dog for the women." His bedroom looked like a dog kenneled there.

"IT WASN'T MY FAULT!!!!" he screamed, maniacally. (That was supposed to be the last word on the subject....and, like a spoiled child, when he screamed, others generally gave up. He and I went back a long time so I held my bite like a bulldog...)

"It probably wasn't...." I ran on. "but being an assistant professor/associate is a trial period to test your professionalism and, from what you explained, you failed the test." (He could scream and rant all he liked....)

"I know...I know!" he admitted. "You never had these don't look like are tall and the women all like you....I am so jealous of screwed that beautiful German waitress back in Ohio. NO ONE COULD TOUCH HER! What was her name?" (Grunhilde, Elke...somthing like that. Oh my god, she had great legs...)

(Her name was Gretchen...but he didn't need to know that...her great legs were enough to make her memorable to him.)

BESIDES IT WASN'T MY FAULTTTTTT for falling for my intern!!!!"

"Blame it on the Bossa Nova...." I quipped, not believing him.

(Jealous of me????)

"That is why I have had no women that stayed with me or loved me be my signifigant other....I haven't had a lover in months." What was to envy?

I should have mentioned to him then that friends are never jealous of one another. They wish each other well and do not covet one anothers' good fortune or talent. He is jealous of everything he imagines others have that he has not.

"She was there...." he ran on. "She became my intern....she was like a secretary...." he looked at me and saw the chagrin in my eyes. "...and I began to rely on her.....then she came home with me one night. I got drunk at the GeeDung on Jameson's and she stripped and lay naked in front of me on my bed. (She had the cutest little cunt that smelled for all the world like fresh tomatos. Know what I mean?)

I didn't like when he tried to enlist my experiences into his explainations. To me, it was exploitive. "Not like seafood?" I asked, candidly.

"When love cogeals,
It soons reveals,
The faint Aroma,
of performing seals"
-Cole Porter" I announced.

"No..." he pouted. "More like tomatos...fresh tomatos...."

"Looks like tomatoe-sssss...." I sang out. "Bareley Man-Enough...." I joked. (Barry Manilow)

"C'mon Ort...." he cajoled. "Its not funny...."

"OK" I confessed. "....but I think its funny as hell...." I whooped. "You got got your ropes pulled. Could've got canned from the college for the morality thing but....what the Hell! We're artists! If we didn't break the rules once in a while....we'd get little respect. I salute you, old friend."

"By the way," he said to me, offhand. "I fucked Brenda...."
"Who?" I asked, absentmindedly. "Brenda." he smiled slyly.
"Brenda who...?" I asked, forgetfully.
"THE POET" he tried to jog my memory...."You and she were quite an item."

"So much so....she is forgetful to me....." I confessed, sincerely trying to remember.

"I fucked her." he chuckled and looked at me with a smug expression. "When I was back in Ohio."

Recognition dawned on me. "Her?" I laughed. "Wait a minute.....I remember now. She was a blow-job artist, no? How do you keep a Jewish American Princess from giving head? I asked. Answer: Marry Her!!!"

I laughed like hell. "Her mother made me eat LOX!" I remembered. "I was feeding her Italian food at my brother's restaurant....her mother resented the Ginzo ethnicity and made me eat Jewish food...."

"I fucked her...." he said in a serious voice but he frowned at my disrespectful memories.

"She gave good HEAD...." I exclaimed. "How'd my dick taste?" I teased. "She would rather suck than fuck-as I recall."

I had trouble remembering her. It troubled me that he thought this would hurt me. I guess it hurt me that he wanted to hurt me in this way. Fortunately, it hurt me much less than when I dumped the girl. (and dump her, I did! Poets are always self-proclaimed. Lets face it. They spend too much time waiting to be respected as real poets. When finally, they seem to gain that muse's laurel they are way too self-important and surreal to ever be contemporary again. I saw it coming and she's bad news for whoever she's with today. And/There, for the grace of God goes Ortley....)

"You really don't remember her?" he asked.

"I DO!" I said recollecting. "She wore a white jump suit that had zippers on the inside of the legs and the outside. I was curious to see if they really worked or were cosmetic. I came on to her a little."

I was delighted to see they worked (the zippers) and I unzipped her and got a blow-job in my Triumph Spitfire. Then later on I took her out quite a bit and enjoyed all the icing on the cake.

....She could hold her liquer like a man....she did have big tits, Oh Man! ...she was flighty and could destroy a sincere person like myself. I didn't see myself getting hurt by her. I shuddered. "Her poetry was more important to her than a love relationship or anything as mundane as a man. (Raised by lizards....) Call it an "Insight". Dump her, I did. So quick her head spun. Wham blham....thank you, Maam..."

"Whatever memories she has of me are probably locked in the pages and verses of poetry dedicated to "men-behaving-badly"...I laughed again but pitied her for being so locked into documentary that she couldn't live an experience-to the point of it losing its importance if it couldn't be converted to verse.

"I fucked her..." he said again, gloating.

"God bless you..." I exclaimed.

"Ortley," he asked sincerely. "Do you think she'll come back to me?"

"Brenda?" I asked, puzzled.

"No, Susan....." he hissed impatiently.

"How should I know...." I confessed.

"No, but you have inner perceptions...." he looked intent. "...tell me she will."

"I have no idea." I told him. "But from your absolute need and mania for her it makes me think you are well better off without her. It's unhealthy. Besides.....she's like twenty and you are like...fifty-something-get real! Where did you think it would end? ...with her holding your hand in a geriatric ward? I'll bet her father wouldn't mind meeting you. You might be older than him"

"Her father is dead..." he fessed.

"Glad you did your homework." I quipped, thinking I never gave him credit for this much foresight and guile.

"Don't say that." he rubbed his fingertips over his massive forehead. "Please don't say that....Do you know she had her new boyfriend call me last night and tell me not to call her anymore? Said he would call the school and get me dismissed. Conduct unbecomming."

"You're probably making a pain in the ass of yourself..." I began. "You left yourself open to THAT...don't blame anyone else."

"NO!!!!" he shrieked. He threw the covers off himself like he wanted to fight and I could feel my adrenaline kick in like I was going to be in a street fight from my past. "All she had to do was tell me TO MY FACE..that she didn't want me to call her anymore...and I wouldn't. She had to enlist his aid to add finality to it and to hurt me. I want to die. I want to get a know a lot about guns Ortley...can you get me a gun?"

"Remove your fucking finger from my chest, little prince..." I cautioned "or your house or not, I promise I will break it off and shove it up your squat ass."

"If I had a gun...." he pounded the wall. "I would kill both of them."

"A gun is the last thing you need." I told him.

"I want to die. I want to kill myself....I want to die." he sobbed in a way that broke my heart.

"You will some day." I confessed sadly.

"I want to die now." He laid back down in his bed and began to cry.

"Seriously, can you get me a gun? How do I get a gun?"

"Well first off..." I began. "To do it legally, you have to file for a permit. It costs about $125 and they do a background check on your reliabilty and mental stability. Since you have previously self-committed yourself to hospitalization for severe depression you might not be able to swing it unless you can get five people to swear to your mental competance and fill out the proper are just talking crazy. You don't need a gun."

"Look man." I hissed like a snake. "The only thing that can get you over a woman is another woman. That is the truth. Find yourself another one." I grinned, conspiritorially.

"You don't understand...." he said. "You are a misogynist..." he asided.

"I'm a realist." I countered.

"Yes, but you believe that women have no souls..." (This is true...)
"That they are elementals like mushrooms or plants...."

"They ARE..." I replied. "Their charm and abilty at illusion is about 99 99/100ths per cent. You've been fooled like many men are and will be until the end of time. I was....others will be....I can see through their collective bullshit and lies. I still love them...Why do you think they hit on me? ...word of this gets out and they will be finished. You think its because I'm taller than you? ...or better looking?
I have been through many bad break ups before and I took it as hard as you...early on -gets easier the 19th or 20th time you go through this bullshit. They break up with you or you break up with them...."

"I am not like you." he said. "I'm not a "hard-guy".

"...hard Guy?" I laughed aloud. "I took it about as badly as you are now but I didn't die or go to the hospital. It made me stronger. So much so that they (The Women) have sicced the "Ultra-Cunt" on me. Like having a professional hit man after you...."

He chuckled, obligingly. "The Ultra-Cunt?" he asked, dubiously.

"Yes!" I admitted flatly. "...and don't laugh...there is such a thing!"

"Oh Ortley", he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. "You are being stalked by the ultra-cunt?"

"....and every so often SHE gets close." I admitted. "...and I don't want to talk about the ultra-cunt anymore. We'll save that for another time. OK? Goodnight! Good morning!" I corrected, seeing the sky turning oyster-pink in the Eastern horizon outside his window. "I'm going to go downstairs and sleep on your couch." My blood-pressure was up and I could feel my heart pounding and a nasty headache was coming on.

"Thank you Ortley." He said. "I know you are just trying to cheer me up but I just have to go through this..."

"Don't put yourself through anything you don't have to suffer."

I went back downstairs and heard him laughing in his room.That was good. I didn't like when I heard him sobbing or crying out to God or slamming his fists/head against the wall. "It is called "Clinical Depression". he explained to me.

"It is called blatent "self-indulgence"....I wanted to reply. ...and acting like a spoiled baby that couldn't get his own way. I was wondering if it had been a good idea to visit him to begin with. I fell asleep on his couch.

* * *

"NERO!!!!" I shrieked, waking myself from a dead sleep. I shook my head from side to side and recalled where I was and the conversation I had with my friend earlier.

"I am reminded of Nero..." I thought vaguely. "Why is it always the short men of the world that start problems: Nero, Napolean, Hitler, Woody Allen..."

The inches don't matter; they extracate their lack of height into a misery for the entire world. Some people should have been shot in the cradle. His mother would have done the world a favor if she had strangled him with his own embelical cord when he emerged into the world. Now, whose problem is it? Certainly not his....a little talent can go a long way if you extrecate it, protract it. He had gained notoriety, not with any genius but through a careful and studied manipulation of those around him. Honed it to a fine degree....made himself so outrageously demanding and gregareous that he couldn't be ignored. At the heart of it though was there anything worthy of intellectual consideration? I sighed and rolled a cigarette.

His Belgian "housekeeper" came down the stairs sounding like the mummy, Kharis....slowly, trying to be silent but too large to fit in the small twisting corridor of the stairs. She was a pleasant, athletic looking woman who I could envision on a soccer field clumsily falling on teamates and creating chaos on the grid. "Alice?" I queried.

She came from the shadows and grinned widely putting a finger to her lips. Her teeth were so white they glowed in the dark.

"He is sleeping now..." she said in a hushed voice.

To me, a hangover feels like your brain has become an eggyoke floating in a liquid sea. Each movement of your body makes the egg shake around violently and there is the ever present fear of vomiting. I threw the blanket over my shoulders to warm myself from the grey cold of dawn and bowed my body, nuturing the cancer I was unaware I was incubating in my bladder. I shouldn't have come here, I thought. This was a bad idea. There are reasons some friends become obscure. I had sought him out. I alone valued the "friendship". There are reasons why some people let you grow obscure to them. I am just not useful enough to them, for them to stay in touch with.

Alice slept in a room the size of a small closet. She had a matress thrown on the floor and many half read books and a laptop within reach. It also reminded me of a dog kennel.

Once, in the woods, I had lost my dog for three days. I hunted for her and was afraid because there had been a fierce blizzard. I found an old fallen in foudation of a cabin in the woods. Some dog creatures had hosteled there. Maybe coyotes. I could see the blow holes they had made in the canopy of snow and, even more curious, I found "Toys" the creatures had improvised to pass the time. Nothing elaborate but little balls of paper and foil that I could see they had made sport with while waiting out the storm. I was touched with a shiver of pathos and thought had I been there I would have wanted to play also. They pushed the foil balls back and forth to each other. A room that looks like a dog kennel is just that. It has a haunted lonely feeling that bites. The foil balls are the ipods, boomboxes, the laptops...books. The frozen smiles as they play more a rictus. It is only the passage of time.

It wouldn't be fair to say he had little talent. I had never met a more talented person. Genius almost. But, like most genius, thwarted by little everyday things that most of us have little trouble with. Tying his shoes, losing his car keys about 25 times a week. Walking around all day with a booger hanging from his nose. He would shove his money in his side pockets and lose dollar bills everytime he searched for his keys or a match. In many ways like a child. His depression worried me. I remembered when he put his hand through a plate glass window when he was enraged and ended up having to go to the ER and get stiches. He was in his twenties then. I always use humor to get myself out of depression. It generally works-for me. I don't know how to do anything else for a depressed person than that. Try to let them see the humerous side of their problems-even if they are horrible.

When he awoke later he came downstairs and made the annoucement that he intended to no longer be depressed. He put a fake smile on his face and asked: "How's this?"

"Life is wonderful. Oh, what a wonderful day it is. It is wonderful, don't you think?"

He looked at Alice and myself as we gawked at him.

"This is how I'm going to be from now on. Life is is a new day. A wonderful new day. A wonderfully, wonderful new day..." he beamed at us both.

"Real Cute!" I said flatly.

No, he motioned with his hand. "Everyone wants me to be cheerful and merry. I intend to oblidge them. This is the new me. I like the new me...I think the new me is going to get a nice cup of coffee. Yes, a nice cup. A wonderful cup."

He was being a real pain in the ass, but this is what you have to deal with when you are a guest. After a while I got very annoyed with him.

His "housekeeper" looked at me askance and the realization dawned on me that she was NOT his housekeeper but rather another uninvited guest who relied upon his a bit more successful and a "Made-man" at the college. Me, I was collecting unemployment and was looking to be with a good old drinking buddy I knew 30 years ago.

The "Creative Minds Days" (Flashback)

I had met him when I first moved into my first art studio. Initially I did not like the man. He was about 22-23 and overloud and boisterous.

I was sharing a studio space with an American/Bolivian transplant called Pedro. He was Pedro's classmate-not mine.

I respected Pedro as an artist but did not respect this friend I will call "Handjob" for the rest of the narrative. He was outside the studio was were old dentist and doctors' offices at one time. We were loctaed atop the third floor of The Ritz, an old Art deco theater that had now grown defunct and heralded only office rooms. Zoned for office use only there were many illegal immegrants that made do with some of the more cruddy offices but, in truth I did not want to share a studio with anyone and was looking forward to renting the old dentist's office out front that had a big window and Noirth Light.

"You wanna go down there and let him in?" Pedro said to me, handing me the outside key. I had not got a key yet. "No" I answed coldly. "He is a "Jerk-Off" and....I don't trust him.

I kind of trusted Pedro but thought his taste in friends-frivolous. "He is your friend. YOU go down and let him in." In the end I went down and let the little snot in.

"Where's Pedro?" he asked, not thanking me for opening the door. "He's sleeping like all people are doing at this hour. Why don't you do the world a favor and get the fuck out of here!" I put on my ugly face.

"Pedro!!!" he shouted in the vacant hallway. I disliked him emmensely and he had no consideration for anyone but himself.

Once back in the studio proper I helped myself to a glass of red Paisano from a jug. I had been sleeping soundly on the couch in the studio and I eyed him balefully as he settled himself comfortably on the couch and asked Pedro for a glass of wine. Pedro looked at me sideways and said: "It's Ortley's wine. ...ask Ortrley. "Can you drink a glass of wine or will you puke? You smell to me of many beers and I think you had enough...."

"THEY THREW ME OUT OF LYNCH"S PUB!" he screamed. "The nerve. You know how much money I spent in there tonight?" he asked pulling a string of bills out of his side pocket. "I went in there with $230 dollars and...the barmaid...she has fast hands...she peeled me off a couple of twenties and gave me change back for a ten...."

I picked two fives and a ten off the floor as I handed him his wineglass. "You'll lose more tonight if you're not careful." I said handing him a glass of wine and throwing the bills on his lap.

© Copyright 2018 Ortley Cane. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Fan Fiction Essays

Booksie 2018 Poetry Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by Ortley Cane

Popular Tags