Now we come to Loathsome Creatures. Eeew!
Loathsome Creatures shows the abrupt, real-life dissolution of my parent’s marriage, the rumblings of which began in mid-1996, hit an elongated crescendo from February to August of 1997, and ended with an afterclap in December of 1997. (Oh, the good-old days!)
In late 1996, my mother asked me to stick around because she feared for her life from my imbecilic father. So I stuck around, knowing that it was entirely possible that the imbecile could murder her, having been raised by him.
It turned out that he was smitten by Nicky, a chunky, cheesy stripper who frequently cleared “gentlemen’s clubs” when she began to strut her stuff and who supplemented her income through prostitution, and he was acting up worse than usual.
And so, through her, my enlightened father consorted with an array of fun-ny, fun-ny people!
He’d come in the door, plop his stinking ass on his couch at six in the morning, sleep, wake up, then jot down notes and work them into a novel. He spent most of his day typing his novel on an electric typewriter. The never-finished novel highlighted all his fascinating exploits with Nicky and her fascinating friends. She was his cynosure.
Naturally, being a writer, I saw a comic novel in the works, yet was irritated with the old fool because he was bringing my mother to the brink of financial disaster, and was curious: I read most of his droppings (i.e., his notes and novel), and pieced Loathsome Creatures together from eighty percent of them.
Actually, this is an old story: an old buffoon becomes disenamored with his good and faithful wife of many years and sallies forth to show the world that he’s a grand fool. I’d heard and read this old story, knowing of it intellectually, but it’s quite a different sensation when it’s actually happening in your personal life.
Loathsome Creatures is pure comedy. The only guideline I use when writing comedies is stupidity is funny. Stupidity is funny.
Here’s an excerpt:
The dancing at The Rear End started at two o’clock in the afternoon, but Eugene showed up at one. The club was empty except for the bartender, who served Peetotski a Coke. Just as he never had a definite plan for anything he had done in his entire life, Peetotski had no definite plan as to how he was “going get” a woman. He had a vague outline, though: he was “going buy” the dancers drinks after they performed. He was “going sit” there at his table with a stack of twenties in front of him and have them flock to him and be nice to him. One or more would realize that he was a good provider and would fall in love with him. The first step, however, the most important step, was to attract them. He was “going have” most of the women at his table. He dreamed of being hated by the other men in the club and he relished their future malevolence.
But at one‑thirty, Nicky walked in. She wore blue jeans and a shirt.
“You’re not dancing tonight,” the bartender told her.
“I know.” Nicky bit her lip apprehensively. Her eyes shifted from his face to the tap. Her voice was tight and inflectionless. “Can I have a drink?”
The bartender served her a drink.
“Have you seen Erica?” she asked.
“Is she dancing?”
Nicky gulped half her beer and glanced around nervously. She pinched her lower lip with her left forefinger and thumb and fidgeted with her purse on the bar.
“Can you give me a ride?”
“No.” The bartender stared intently at her and leaned against the back of the bar with all the bottles of liquor behind it. He unfolded his arms from his chest, took a white towel from the front pocket of his apron, and spread his arms, setting his hands on the edge of the bar, resting more of his weight on them.
“I need a ride,” Nicky told him.
The bartender shrugged.
“Come on! I dance here. You know me. It’ll only be ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes there and ten minutes back and I lose my job.”
“It’s not like this is the only job in the world!”
He remained silent.
“Oh, come ooon! I have to get to my probationary officer. I’ll go to jail if I don’t show up!”
“Call him. Use the phone.”
“I can’t! I begged out of my last meeting.”
When Eugene heard “Tough shit.” from that insensitive boor behind the bar, his bleeding heart had heard enough. Here was a young lady, a very, very unfortunate, sensitive young lady, an attractive lady, a Snow White, a princess in distress, who needed help. And if that brute behind the bar would not help her, he, Eugene Peetotski, would!
So he pranced forward like a jackass and sat next to Nicky. (It had been years since he had sat so close to a real woman!) He was already in love with her and, when he spoke, his weak, fool’s voice sounded even more weak and more foolish.
She began her second gulp of beer.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he offered.
Nicky had her head tilted back and was almost through with her beer. She froze and stopped swallowing when she heard Eugene’s voice. Only her eyes moved, shifting to the right for a couple seconds, then she slammed her beer. She set the empty mug on the bar, caught her breath, and wiped her mouth with the back of her right hand. She sized Eugene and his offer up at once, noted to herself that she would give him a good beating and have him arrested if he tried to rape her, and asked him if he would buy her a beer.
Eugene bought her another beer and watched her guzzle it like a thirsty elephant at a watering hole, then she slammed the empty mug on the counter and belched in a manner unbecoming of Snow White. Amazement and shock—and Dopey was heels‑over‑head in love with her!
“Are you ready now?” His soft voice announced that he was smitten by the love bug.
“Yeah—almost. I gotta piss.”
A quick squat‑’n‑squirt, then Nicky and Eugene left The Rear End. Nicky slouched in the passenger seat.
“Ah …” Eugene began timidly. “Ah, where are we going?”
Nicky was half asleep. She opened her eyes.
“Where—I mean—where should I drive you?” Eugene was so excited! A woman in his car!
“Oh. Roll up the windows.” Nicky put her feet on the dashboard.
Eugene noticed the sexy curve of her round ass. Just at that moment that sexy, round ass sounded off like a note from a violin, a note that started off high, continued at the exact same pitch for two seconds, then concluded abruptly on a higher note. A bizarre stench filled the car.
But it didn’t matter! Eugene was in love! He wanted to shout for joy! To lift his hands to the sky! To sing! To dance! To climb the highest mountain! To swim the deepest sea! To fuck!
Yes, above all—to fuck!
And so the chivalrous Peetotski asked her where her probationary officer was.
“Huh? Proba–?” She laughed and laughed. “No. Just drive.”
“Right or lef’?”
“I don’t care. Just drive.”
“I’ll turn lef’ …” Eugene turned his head halfway toward her, seeking approval, but Nicky just stared at the dashboard between her feet.
They were surrounded by farms and farmland.
“So … what’s your name?” Eugene prodded timidly.
“Nicky Kimmeldorf. Just call me Nicky.”
“An’ I’m Gene. Eugene Peetotski. I’m glad to meet you.”
They drove for a minute in silence, while Eugene struggled to begin a conversation.
“I really don’t have to see my probe officer today. Actually, someone threatened me at work. He said he’s going to get me. He wants to fuck me up … Bad. He said he’s going to get me tonight at the club. But I don’t dance tonight. I dance tomorrow night. I have to watch out for him.”
“How ode are you, Nicky?”
“Twenty‑one. How old are you?”
“Sixty‑three.” Then, proudly: “I’m a high school teacher!”
“Can I smoke?”
They rolled their windows down.
“All my friends are deserting me,” Nicky proclaimed.
“I haven’t had a friend in years!”
“They’re bustin’ each other out. To the cops. The pigs!”
“Yeah, friends can be pigs sometimes.”
“I meant the cops.”
“Oh? Cops can be pigs?”
“One of those sexually repressed assholes went through the drive‑thru at McDonald’s and ordered a Big Mac, french fries, and a shake. He put it on his lap, opened up the ketchup thing. He tore it wrong and it squirted all over the front of his cute little uniform. While he was cleaning up, he knocked his shake over. It spilled out on his crotch. He soaked up what he could with a napkin and asked for more ketchup and napkins.
“In the meantime, he decided to put the mustard on his Big Mac. He opened that packet wrong and ended up squirting the mustard on his uniform, too. He began to wipe it off with his hands. By now, he had new packets of ketchup and several napkins. He asked for more mustard and another strawberry shake because the first one wound up on his crotch. He got his new strawberry shake.
“Now he was all set. His french fries had salt and ketchup on them; his big, juicy Big Mac had all the ketchup and mustard in all the right places, and his strawberry shake was secured in its little holder thing. He took a bite out of his Big Mac, stared at it lovingly, and eased his car forward into a car that was halfway backed out of its stall. Pissed off, he threw his Big Mac out the window. It skimmed the top of some kid’s head and stained the back of his mom’s skirt yellow and red. The kid thought the cop was playing games, so he picked up the Big Mac and hurled it at the cop’s face.
“The cop put his car in park and pushed his seat back to make it easier to get out of his car. He got his sleeve stuck down on the side near the lever. He wrestled with it for a while, then decided to stop looking like a fool and turned on his red and blue lights because he was going to jump into action. He struggled like hell to get his shirt cuff unstuck.
“Somebody said, ‘Need help, Officer?’
“‘No, I don’t need help!’
“And to show everyone watching that he was in charge and knew what he was doing, he turned on his siren. Finally, he got his arm free. He opened the door and stuck his two feet on the ground, then he reached back to turn off his siren. But the switch broke and the siren wailed on.
“The first thing he did was write a citation for the mother of the kid who threw the Big Mac back in his face. Then he apologized to the woman whose car he bumped into. (He crushed her right taillight.)
“‘Aren’t you going to write up a report?’ the woman asked.
“‘Hell, no. I’m not writing no report! Just file a claim with your insurance company.’
The woman was so pissed off that she called the cops. She called the cop some dirty names. The cop told her she was pissed off because she had caused an accident. She was to blame because he had the right‑of‑way. When he turned around, he got another hamburger in his face—from the same kid as before. The mother sacrificed her lunch for the pleasure of seeing the cop get hit with another hamburger.
“So the cop still hadn’t eaten lunch. He was crying his eyes out. He parked his car on the street and stormed into McDonald’s to try it all over again. He ordered his Big Mac, his french fries, and his strawberry shake, and waited. His shirt was drenched in ketchup and mustard and stained with pickles and it was torn at the left cuff. His crotch was wet and stained pink with a strawberry shake, while his siren blared and his lights flashed in his car outside. He sat on the hood of his car, finished crying, and ate his meal. The cops showed up fifteen minutes later.”
“Did they order lunch at the drive‑thru? Huh‑huh!” Again, his standard laugh at his own “funny.”
“No. This really happened. One of my friends works at McDonald’s.”
“How long have you been a stripper?”
“I’m a dancer. I’ve been a dancer on and off for three years.”
“How ode are you?”
“Twenty‑one. How old are you?”
“Physiologically, I’m sixty‑three; mentally, I’m twenty.” He flashed her a big, foolish grin.
“You’re old enough to be my grandpa.”
Offended, Peetotski’s grin froze, then:
“You’re old enough to by my granddaughter!”
His idiot’s grin returned with doubled intensity. He laughed and resolved that he was “definly going rememmer” that comeback.
“Do you give lap dances?”
Nicky darted a viper‑like glance at him, her brown eyes measuring him.
“Ye‑es,” she affirmed hesitantly, then added quickly: “For forty bucks.”
Eugene drove in silence, working up the courage for his glorious request. Nicky remained quiet, knowing what “grandpa” was going to ask for.
Two minutes passed.
“I have forty bucks.”
Nicky unbuttoned her shirt and spread it, revealing her large breasts that were intimately embraced by a pair of lacy D‑cups. She twisted toward Peetotski, resting her left arm across the distance between herself and Peetotski. Her left hand touched his shoulder. Her left ankle was tucked under her right thigh.
Eugene was very excited and very happy. He could feel her staring at him. He was “going get” a lap dance! It was so hard to keep his eyes on the road!
“You want a lap dance?”
Peetotski nodded with the energy of an oversexed, underlaid lackey.
“Yeah—yeah! I want a lap dance, Nicky!” Eugene was ready to lay down his life to prove his devotion to her, even before he got his lap dance.
“Well, let’s find a motel.”
They found a motel.
“Sit on the bed.”
Eugene sat on the bed.
“The rules are that you don’t touch me unless I give you permission.”
“O.K., Nicky. I won’t touch you, Nicky. I obey everything you say. I’m your slave.”
“The forty dollars?” She held out her chubby hand with its plump fingers.
“Oh, oh—yeah. Here, Nicky.”