I donít need love right now

 

I come here because I donít have to hear the old bullshit about how many trucks I didnít finish in my eight hours of slave labor from a bus who drives a Mercedes home at five when I drive a ten year old rusted out Ford.

No one here asks if I am married as long as I can afford to keep buying drinks.

The Coke Girls are out of my price ranges so I get stuck with the alcoholic dogs.

I donít mind.

Sometimes they can be good for a spin or two in the Fordís back seat.

No one needs to know what I say when I get home.

I donít repeat any of the crap I hear at home because I donít want to get mad all over again, and beat my wife twice as hard and get myself locked up again.

So I keep it all locked up inside my head.

Five nights a week Iím as regular as the revenue man, here at five fifteen Ė five-thirty if trafficís bad Ė and out of here by nine so Iím home by nine-thirty.

Sometimes the old lady pisses me off enough so that I come here on Saturday night, too. Then I donít leave until closing.

Anyone that comes here on a Sunday is generally a loser. So Ė until lately Ė Iíve kept my distance.

Iíve always liked Friday nights best because we see a better mix of people, not just coke heads and boozers, but real college co-eds who giggle a lot when they go for a ride in my Fordís backseat.

Until recently, Iíve made a point of never taking the same girl outside more than once, figuring once is enough and after that it becomes an attachment.

The last thing I need is some silly chick falling in love with me and breaking up my marriage.

My wife might be a bitch, but after all the time Iíve spent breaking her in, I donít fancy having to start all over with another future bitch.

But tell that to the silly blonde at the end of the bar who suddenly gets it into her head that Iím her road to salvation, and demands to occupy my Fordís back seat on an exclusive basis.

I try to tell her no to a second time, but it is like one of those dark and dismal nights with a rain that makes me ache all over especially inside my head, making me feel so down and lonely and horny, I would fuck a turtle so I take up with her instead.

Once I agreed to the second, I canít say no to the third, and after that itís all down hill, and Iím with her every time we happen to come into the bar at the same time, which turns out is every night.

Itís when she uses the ďLĒ word that I tell her to stop.

When she wonít stop, I beat her Ė but outside where nobody can see.

I think maybe that solves the problem because I donít see her for awhile. But then, she shows up and sheís even more in love with me than before.

Go figure.

And no matter how hard I beat her, she wonít stop.

Now changing bars is almost has hard as changing wives, but what else can I do?

So I go up to the corner bar, figuring she the shed the blonde bitch.

But she comes and gets me and drags me back, telling me that I have to ask my wife for a divorce.

This is the reason why I sneak my pistol out of my house and when I get to the bar, ask the blonde bitch out of the car for a ride Ė not in the back seat this time but the front, and not to the chapel of love, but to the Jersey swamp.

No one hears the shot.

I know no one will find the body.

So by the time I get back here, Iím feeling pretty high on myself.

After all, I come here because I donít want to hear the bullshit, but when a barfly wonít take no for an answer, what else is there to do?

You tell me that?


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