So, this is what it feels like to be hanging by my feet from a balcony. I should probably be screaming right now, or at least pleading for my life. But that seems so cliché and the gag is preventing such measures. All the blood rushing to my head is giving me a nice little buzz. There’s a slight breeze and the clouds, the big and puffy cumulus ones, kept forming into perfect Rorschach designs. No doubt today was beautiful. If it weren’t for that slightly nagging feeling of imminent death, I would really be enjoying this unique perspective of 67th Street.
It was that damned Ignacio. Where is he now? Probably grazing somewhere in the Sheep’s Meadow. Oooh! There goes the 53 cents in my left pocket. I hope there’s no one below me. Am I high enough for a nickel to go straight through someone? What about a quarter? Phew! No people. But who knew such a large dent could be made by something so little. That guy seems pretty upset. I guess I would be too, if the roof of my car looked like that. I’d apologize, but the duct tape on my mouth is getting in the way. If I ever get out of this I’ll leave him a note or something. Wait, how the hell am I going to find him? Oh forget it. If Sweet Tits wasn’t jostling me so much the change wouldn’t have come out of my pocket anyway. He should apologize. Which I’m sure he will right after he sends me plummeting towards my maker.
That stupid frigging goat. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. But he was so laid back intelligent and worldly. And quite well dressed for an Appenzell, I might add. So I went along with him, even though Mr. Bracklestein, my third grade teacher, warned me about hornless goats so many years ago. “Only put your faith in the Capricornus!” I could hear his voice mocking me now.
Seriously Sweet Tits, those were new Oliver Peoples glasses you just forced off my nose. That’s not cute; those things cost a lot of money. If you didn’t have me by the feet like this, I’d kill you. And to think it was just 24 hours ago that Iggy (“Please Ignacio is so formal, call me Iggy.”) sat down next to me at the opening night of Der Rosenkavalier at the Met. I was mid-sentence; trying to explain to Sebastian that the emergence of amateur brain surgery had only been fueled further by the ability to buy proper cutting tools at Home Depot and the easy creation of anesthesia by making a cocktail of bathtub whiskey and over-the-counter medications. All of a sudden there was a tap on my shoulder from a well manicured hoof.
“I hate to interrupt,” He brayed in a strangely soothing voice, “but do you know whether this girl who’s playing the Marschallin has any mettle? If the girl doesn’t have a set of lungs, this will be a complete waste of my time.” He was waving his playbill in my direction. I had told him just how good of a soprano Barnardine Biondello was. I had seen her not that long ago in a brilliant production of Die Zauberflöte in Paris. He raised an eyebrow, readjusted his monocle and went back to reading his playbill.
In fact, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him if it weren’t for the monocle. It had been years since I’d seen one in use, except of course in those flowery Merchant/Ivory productions. It intrigued me. During the second intermission, standing on line at the bar I couldn’t help but ask him about it. Did the other eye need no corrective lens or was the monocle purely for show?
He assured me that the eyepiece was not for show, and in fact his other eye was glass. He continued that wearing glasses seemed overindulgent and since all he needed was one lens that’s all he used. I learned that he was raised on Opera growing up on a small farm in St. Gallen. Having gotten my PhD in Multicultural Management from Universität St. Gallen, there was much to talk about, but the lights started to flicker. It would have to wait. As we returned to our seats, we agreed to go for coffee after the opera. As the curtain rose, Sebastian leaned over and whispered, “The Knicks are up by 8 and there’s 21 seconds left in the fourth.” That should have been my sign that something in the heavens was stirring. The New York Knickerbockers, a team famous for its ability to only go three quarters, were 21 seconds from going up 3-1 in the Finals against the Lakers. I should have known.
Coffee quickly turned into shots at Tequila Flats. We reminisced about life in Switzerland, told dirty jokes in German, and debated whether Schneider on One Day at a Time wore a leather vest or a denim one. “It had to be denim,” I kept telling him as the Patron was flowing, “The man was a super for crissakes!” But the words fell on deaf ears. Ignacio had moved on to the hula hoop contest. And boy, could that goat hula hoop! There was some blonde vapid thing in a short black mini-skirt named Kayla that had put up a fight for a while, but after 14 consecutive hula hoop minutes, Iggy emerged victorious. He had won us a few more free shots and the adoration of three high-haired bridge-and-tunnelers who where sitting at the end of the bar. Gina, the one in the middle looked like she stopped paying attention to fashion in 1987. She had high bangs, frizzy hair, and a jacket with shoulder pads. She stumbled over to us, the margarita in her hand spilling out with every step she took. “Mr. Konigsberg! Where have you been? Us girls have been looking for you.” She nodded in her wake’s direction. So, Iggy knew these women.
He put a hoof on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. After going shot for shot with him, I was feeling fuzzy and the piñatas above us were spinning. On the other hand, the only noticeable indication of the goat’s intoxication was the occasional bleat. Gina’s head rolled back as she laughed at whatever my new friend had told her. Sebastian returned from a cigarette break outside, looked at me sideways and nodded towards the bathroom. I excused myself and followed him into the back.
Standing in front of a wall of postcards advertising Mini-Coopers and the new Tovah Feldshuh off-Broadway one woman show, Sebastian pulled me close. “Erich, is this guy for real? I mean c’mon who wears white before Memorial Day? And what’s with the top hat? You’d think it was glued to his head, it didn’t even move during the limbo contest!”
I glanced back over to Ignacio and the crowd that had amassed around him in the last 30 seconds. Maybe there was something a little off about him. But the white, well it was the color of his fur; there was nothing he could do about that. And he wasn’t a guy - he was from Switzerland, so of course he was a little off. Besides, the tequila was flowing and the girls weren’t bad looking in that Jersey City kind of way.
“Nah, you’re just being paranoid, don’t worry about it. He’s a lot of fun.”
Sebastian wasn’t convinced. He again tried to plead with me that we should just go, but I was captivated and felt that with one Mr. Ignacio Konigsburg anything was possible. I was dumb for not realizing the breadth of my own words. Anything did happen, and here I am glasses-less, wearing one shoe and upside down from the 24th floor. That goat will be dog food. Mark my words.
But last night, possibility rang true and loudly. I had been in a slump since returning from my last business trip to Kinshasa. And here across the bar, it looked like my slump was about ready to end. I slapped Sebastian on the back, a little harder than I meant to, and wished him safe home before heading back to the girls, the booze and the Appenzell.
I was about 4 steps away from them when Iggy got up abruptly and threw my overcoat at me. “Let’s go, I’ve had enough of this bar.” There was authority in his voice, even with the bleat.
I glanced over and the girls were getting up and putting their jackets on. I could barely find my sleeve and after a few moments of wresting with the camel haired deathtrap, I realized I had tried to put the damned thing on upside down. Hoping no one would notice, I quickly took it off and put it on the right way.
Chauncy must’ve snuck out while I was talking to Sebastian because he was already waiting outside leaning against the driver’s side of the white stretch Lincoln Continental smoking a cigarette. He opened the doors and the five of us piled in. Pop! The cork had flown off the bottle of Cristal and came dangerously close to grazing my ear. The girls giggled as the champagne was spilling everywhere. I looked out the window as we sped away; I realized that I had no idea where we were going. But we were heading South it looked like - towards Brooklyn.
I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was the limo stopping outside a brownstone on Remsen Street. I rubbed my eyes, they were hurting and dry, pleading me to stay closed. Iggy knocked on the front door using a strange bassanova type beat. A young guy, 24 tops opened the door, he was wearing a well worn white baseball cap and an Abercrombie and Fitch tee shirt. He and the goat gave each other a quick hug, before he gave the girls kisses on the cheek. He then looked wearily in my direction. Iggy vouched for me and we went inside.
We were led through the first floor and out into the garden. There were quite a few people out there already standing in a circle type formation and screaming and yelling. I figured a brawl had just broken out, and quickly wondered what I was doing at a Frat party. But most of these people were very well dressed and too old to be at a college party. As I looked around, I began to notice that a lot of them were clutching fistfuls of cash. Unsure as to what I had just entered, I pushed my way through the mini-mob. When I made it to the front there were two roosters in a dug out pit pecking at each other. They both had metal spikes attached to them. One was a bloodied mess. The other one, I quickly learned was named Daddy Machete, he had already killed four other cocks this evening. Cockfighting in Brooklyn Heights! I had to get out of Manhattan more often.
There was a pained squawk. Daddy Machete had his fifth win of the night. People were settling their bets all around me, c-notes being passed back and forth. A Samoan with a long black ponytail and a tee shirt that read, “I fucked with Mr. Zero… and won” was scooping away the remains of Mr. Butterbur. Apparently people who raised game-cocks were a literary bunch. Ignacio came over, Gina behind him holding two drinks, one which she handed to me.
“My dear Mr. Rainer, how are you enjoying this evening’s festivities so far?” He was lighting a pipe and paused between each word to take a puff.
“This is frigging nuts! Who knew this stuff happened in New York City?” There was a low murmur as people were waiting for the action to pick back up again. I was also surprised that the goat partook in the tournaments. You’d think he’d have some animal rights issues. He said that he didn’t, it was a sport thing, and we watched grown men beat the shit out of each other in rings all the time. Daddy Machete was his prized fighter. He had won over 30 matches.
Gina cracked her gum. “Yeah,” she said in an accent that was getting thicker with each libation, “cockfighting’s real popular in, like, the Phillipines, but they call it Sabong. Daddy Machete’s father is, like, a hero over there.” The Samoan who “fucked with Mr. Zero” was now carrying a covered cage. There was a frenzy of action around us; money was flying, people were writing things down in little notebooks. Someone shouted, “Bring out the victim!” I checked my wallet and it was flush. My money was on the Machete. I didn’t care what cock was coming out of that cage.
I put 2 grand down with our host whose dirty white hat was unapologetically and non-ironically advertising the University of South Carolina Gamecocks, and rubbed my hands in anticipation. My father had taken me a cockfight in Puerto Rico when I was eight, but I hadn’t seen one since. And now they were letting the red-sweatered bull-cock out of his cage. The Samoan informed that this was Mondego, and had won over 15 fights already. He took the rooster in gargantuan hands and put him beak to beak with Daddy. They were both released and the fighting began. The cheering started up all over again. As the fierce battle progressed the betting became more frenzied. I upped my 2 grand to 8. It was like being on the trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange. People were shouting numbers and handing over papers and all the while these two birds were going after each other with sheer maliciousness.
The adrenaline was pumping through my veins. Mondego was putting up one hell of a fight. I glanced at Iggy who was sipping brandy and smoking a cigar in a very calm manner. He looked as though he should have been having after-dinner drinks by the fireplace in the study, but he was here amongst all of this madness. I downed what was left of my drink and went back over to him.
“Ahh, Erich, I see you put your money on my cock. That was gracious of you. I hope for both of us that you win.” Shouts erupted. Mondego’s right wing was severed and he was bleeding badly. It was only a matter of time before I was 16g’s richer.
“That’s one hell of a bird you’ve got there.” I yelled over the din. I couldn’t take my eyes off the brutality, I was a bloodthirsty as the rest.
That damned Mondego wouldn’t die, the contest had been going on for almost a half an hour, and he was now missing an eye to go along with his useless right wing. The Machete was one mean bastard, and looked surprisingly unscathed. What kind of hormones were they pumping into that thing? Probably the same ones that the Samoan pumps into his veins.
A fistfight had broken out between a woman in a perfectly tailored Prada suit and her friend in a slinky Dolce dress with Jimmy Choo slingbacks. The one in the Prada sucker punched the other just as the Samoan was breaking them up. He picked them up under his arms as though he was carrying two surfboards. They were flailing about, still trying to hit each other as he walked towards the house and, I assume, the exit. It’s a shame too, because had they waited a few more seconds, they would have seen the end of Mondego, and we could have started betting on their fight. Oh well, at least my pockets were about to be heavier.
Iggy slung a hoof around my shoulders and stuffed a congratulatory Cuban into my mouth. After another fight between the underdog Maripoisa and the unusually black feathered Dugan’s Pet (Maripoisa won), the evening’s matches were over. It was 6:10am. I was dirty, drunk and exhausted. And hungry. I realized I hadn’t eaten in hours and the frenzy of the fights had worked up quite an appetite. Brooklyn plus hungry equaled only one thing - Junior’s. It didn’t matter that it was the crack of dawn, I wanted cheesecake. I looked over at Gina. Somewhere in the past few hours, the Staten Island chic had grown on me. Below the wall of aqua-net was an attractive face and a tight body. I ran my hands down my shirt and through my tousled hair.
I pulled her aside and asked if she wanted to accompany me to Junior’s for a little breakfast. She hooked her arm around mine, “Sure thing honey, food sounds like a fabulous idea!”
“Food! How brilliant!” The goat had ears like a bat. And he was cock-blocking. Not cool, not cool at all. Maybe he had history with Gina, but even still. I should’ve known then that an Appenzell that cockblocks cannot be trusted. But the man had the wheels and he did take me with him. If it weren’t for Iggy, I wouldn’t have met Gina in the first place.
So the three of us got back in the limo and headed to Flatbush Avenue. We were seated in a booth in the corner. Gina and I sat on one side, Ignacio on the other. I sipped my coffee and wolfed down my strawberry cheesecake. I was hungrier than I thought. Gina picked at her sausage and eggs - No toast, No homefries, I’m on Atkins - while Iggy was busy texting someone on his blackberry. When he finished he asked me about my business. I began telling the story of my recent trip to the Congo. I had been collaborating with the US Agency for International Development and was down there for a conference. While out touring the villages, my left big toe decided to become a residence for a family of chiggers.
“You don't know relief until you've scratched the itch of a chigger.” As I spouted these words, Gina shifted. The distance between us, which had gotten closer over the meal, had now opened to approximately a mile and a half. With those words went any possible chance I might have had. Figuring the issue was dead, I continued on with my tale. I shared how a local doctor had to cut my toe open and out came all of these little red bugs and eggs. Gina pushed her plate forward. Maybe this wasn’t the best meal time conversation. Breakfast officially over, I picked up the tab. We threw on our coats and walked out into the bright morning sunlight. I hid my eyes behind my sunglasses. It had been quite some time ago that I had stayed out all night. With my belly appropriately full and my hopes of Gina returning to my apartment with me dashed, sleep was beginning to overtake me. Nothing sounded better than my bed, so when Iggy had offered me a ride back to my apartment I didn’t hesitate in my acceptance. We dropped Gina off on 5th Avenue and Carroll Street. In a million years I would have never guessed she lived in Park Slope. We exchanged numbers, but I knew I’d never call her.
We were on the bridge when Iggy asked me if I didn’t mind making one stop before he dropped me off. It was on the way he assured me, and it wouldn’t take long. I didn’t mind. I should have minded. Before I knew it I was standing in Moby’s living room watching him meditate. It turns out that in the early ’80’s Iggy and Moby were in a band called Vatican Commandos together. They had even released a record called “Hit Squad for God.” I hated Moby. Well I never met the guy before this moment, but there was something smug and righteous about him that had always rubbed me the wrong way. And who trusts a vegan?
When he was done chanting and harnessing his chi, Moby gave Iggy a big hug and shook my hand. They reminisced briefly. Moby excused himself and came back five minutes later with a red puma gym bag and handed it over to Iggy. He unzipped it, looked inside and nodded his approval. We said our goodbyes and made our way out of the lower east side loft. Before we got back into the limo, Ignacio excused himself to pop into Starbucks for a minute to use the bathroom, explaining that ever since their years in the band together, he swore he would never use one of Moby’s bathrooms again. That was all he would say on the subject, but I was somewhat unsurprised. He handed me the gym bag and went in, promising a Venti Caramel Macchiato for me upon his return.
As I was daydreaming about the coffee, two men in ski masks and powder blue sweatsidos came around the corner. The last thing I remember is one of them raising a lead pipe in the direction of my head. When I came to, I was in my living room. If it weren’t for the vicious headache and accompanying bump above my left ear I could have chalked this all up to a bad dream. My vision was a little blurry but there were three men standing in front of me, the one in the middle had on a wool cap and a grey hooded sweatshirt. The hood was up. The other two were in powder blue sweatsidos. The one in the middle began speaking in a familiar voice, “Yo. Where’d you get this bag? I mean it, bro, where’d you get it?”
The bag? What bag? I was having a hard time recalling anything. The man in the middle plopped the red gym bag on the table. My memory came flooding back. Moby’s bag. I knew that bastard was up to no good. I smirked. I didn’t know what these men wanted with the bag, but I had no ill feelings about selling the bastard out. I rubbed my head, which was still smarting.
My vision was slowly returning and I was able to make out the men standing in front of me. I recognized the one in the middle immediately. It was Frankie, my morning doorman. I started retelling the story of my evening with Ignacio. He interrupted.
“Wait, you know the Goat?”
I assured him I did.
“The glass-eyed goat who wears the monocle?”
I wondered how many glass-eyed goats were running around without monocles. But assured him that it was the same goat I had been referring to. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, he pulled out his cell phone and started texting a message. When he was done he began grilling me again.
“So the goat was with you when you got the bag?”
I nodded.
“In Moby’s apartment?”
“Yep. Moby’s place, you know on the lower east side we were…”
“Moby gave the bag to you or to the goat?”
I explained how the bag came to be in my hands. He seemed not to believe me. In fact he was using quite a few explicatives. Frankie had always seemed so unassuming and friendly. Who knew he had the mouth of a truck driver? I tried to plead with him. He was pacing back and forth now, muttering that the Goat would never interact with vegans. I started pleading. I told him about the 80’s punk band they were in. All of it was to no avail. One of the goons in powder blue velour grabbed me. I was still groggy and didn’t have time to run. Embroidered in gold thread on his jacket was the word “Sweet”. It was the last thing I saw before I was hit on the head. Again.
This time when I woke, I had tape over my mouth. Frankie and Sweet Tits were going through my pockets. They pulled out my wallet and my cock-fighting winnings. My kindly doorman waved the wad of money in my direction, wondering where I got it from. If he hadn’t interrupted my story earlier, he would have known. I was starting to think the Goat had planned this whole thing from beginning to end. Fed up with me not answering his questions - (How could I with duct tape on my mouth?) - he told Sweet Tits to do with me as he pleased. Now I’m hanging from the Balcony, wishing a horrible painful death on that damned debonair Appenzell goat.
I’ve been hanging here for a few minutes already, I’m dizzy I can’t see and I just can’t make sense of any bit of the last 24 hours. What the hell did my doorman want with the bag, how the hell did he know the goat and Moby? I seriously need to reconsider how much of a Christmas tip I’m gonna give the son of a bitch this year. Shit! There goes my other shoe. Someone else is really going to get hurt here. And Sweet Tits really needs to cut his damned finger nails.
“You ready to fucking talk yet?” Sweet Tits yelled at me as he grabbed my tie and pulled me up towards him. The blood started rushing into the rest of my body again. There’s really no need to shove me like that. Great, now I’m going to have one nasty mark from the rug burn. I can’t see very well at all, but it looks like it’s just me and the big guy. I wonder where everyone else went.
“Let’s go buddy, on your feet.” His oversized hands were in my armpits and before I knew it I was standing. He pushed me forward. Just as quickly as I get up, I wind up on the floor again. This is getting annoying. Hands in the armpits again. This time he shoved me in the direction of the couch, where I land face first. I turned over and tried to configure some semblance of sitting up.
Fuck! There’s going to be no skin left on my face. I put my hand over the newly tape free area, partially to check how much skin was actually just ripped off, but mostly so I could hold back the tears. There’s no way I’m crying in front of this fat fuck. My left eye’s swelling shut. Not that I can see out of it anyway. I briefly consider taking on Sweet Tits, the odds are better one-on-one, but he’s got at least 50 pounds on me, and without vision I’m at one hell of a disadvantage. I try to start explaining the whole evening again, but sometime in the past 10 minutes I’ve developed one nasty stutter. I can barely stammer my way through, “The d-d-d-d-d-amned g-g-g-g-g-g-g-oat.” I give up. My imagination starts considering all of the different ways Sweet Tits might decide to kill me. He could swing me back over the balcony. I could be shot, stabbed, minced, pureed, julienned. I could be beaten with a baseball bat. Electrocuted. Drowned. Drawn and Quartered. I could be covered in honey and hung above a swarm of red ants. I could be flayed. Involuntarily, my body coils into the fetal position. I hear my front door open. I don’t even bother to force my head up.
“Has the little bitch told you anything yet?” Frankie slams my front door. I try again to sit up. Every muscle in my body hurts; even ones I never knew existed. Through my one open but blurry eye I see that he’s carrying the bag. Sweet Tits whispers in his ear, I can make out the breathing but not the words. Frankie sits down next to me on my new pottery barn couch, which I’m sure now has my blood all over it.
He put his hand on my knee. “Look Erich, I need you to be honest with me, I promise that Bones won’t whack you upside the head again.” Bones? Sweet Tits’ name is Bones? Is that a joke? I start to laugh, but then remember that the bruises all over my body are not jokes. Hanging from a balcony is not funny. Bones is a scary mother fucker. “Where’d you get this bag?”
I take a deep breath and begin my story. I tell him about meeting Iggy at the Opera, the cockfights, everything. I ramble on for a good twenty minutes, Frankie doesn’t interrupt once. I really wish my glasses hadn’t plunged all those stories so I could see his reaction. I finish and Frankie sighs deeply. Even though I quit smoking six years ago, I ask him for a cigarette. Thankfully, he obliges.
I fumble with the lighter. He removes it from my hands and lights it for me. My hands are shaking. The smoke feels good as I inhale - the menthol tingles the back of my throat. The cigarette gives my body a purpose again. I ash on my own floor as my doorman decides my fate. I hear him take a deep drag. The bag is resting at his feet. It suddenly occurs to me that I have a spare pair of glasses in my bedroom, I delicately ask for them and Frankie accommodates, sending Sweet Tits to get them for me. I have hope that Frankie may spare my life, that he’s believed my story.
Sweet Tits hurtles my glasses at me. They hit me in the stomach and fall to the ground. I put them on and can finally see out of my one good eye. I laugh, because like the stupid goat, I could use a monocle right now. “What the fuck you laughing at?” Frankie was done being the “good cop.” He smacks me right on my ear. My body automatically recoils. The pain is overwhelming. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I’m crying like an abandoned baby and I have no shame about it.
I feel the cheesecake rise up into my throat. I swallow hard, trying to swallow away the semi-digested food and the tears. It barely works.
“Pull yourself together you fucking pansy. We’re going to the goat’s apartment.” Once again, Sweet Tits lifts me to my feet. Although I can barely hold my own weight, I’m revived by the chance to see where the bastard lives. I know I can muster enough strength to beat the crap out of him.
I follow Frankie out of my apartment and into a cab that smells strangely like freshly ground coffee beans. I look over at the cabbie’s id plaque. Md Maheswaran. How can you have a first name without a vowel? M-d. How is that even pronounced? Frankie shoves me, a signal for me to slide in even further. He barks at Md, “83rd between Park and Lex.” Figures the Swiss bastard lives on the Upper East Side. My head feels like its been ripped off and then stapled back on, but pain means nothing to me. I want to see some goat blood spilled.
We were racing through Central Park when Sweet Tits turns around and starts talking to Frankie about a christening he apparently attended recently. “First off, the priest used the word Jackass like six times during mass. He starts talking about how people choose jackasses for godparents and that some people choose people who are in prison as godparents and prisoners are always jackasses. This was the goddamned monsignor. Prisoners are always jackasses? This priest was a fucking jack ass. And then there was this huge party that was all kinds of catered.”
“So? People throw parties for all kinds of reasons.”
“Nah man, you don’t understand, not only was there a DJ and shit, but they frigging introduced the kid.”
“Introduced the kid? What the fuck is that about?”
“Seriously, the DJ gets on the mic and says, ‘And now for the first time anywhere as a Christian, here’s Maria Katherine Keane!’ The first time as a Christian? Is that shit weird or what?”
I’m sitting here, barely able to focus, bloodied and bruised and these two schmucks are talking about a christening. How is this ok? This is so not ok. I have the serious urge to scream and run from the cab. I need to find Iggy on my own, and figure out what the fuck is going on here. Why the hell am I involved in this? Sadly, there’s no way I can get out of the cab, even when we’re stopped at a red light on 5th avenue. I may know the address now, but in my weakened state I’m no match, even for the goat. I continue to stare out the window as we turn on Park Avenue and listen to the morons holding me hostage ramble on. Its beginning to bother me that the cab drive is so listlessly minding his own business. He’s been talking on his cell phone in Hindi the entire time, occasionally focusing on the streets, and even less frequently looking in his rear view mirror. I have seen my own reflection in that very same rearview. My face looks like the punching bag its been used for. Shouldn’t this guy be concerned for my well being, or at least a little taken aback by my appearance? Only in fucking New York.
I shift because I’m antsy and the smell of fresh coffee beans is making me nauseous. My foot hits the red puma bag that’s resting between me and Frankie on the cab floor. It’s hard, I was figuring there was cash or something similar in there, but against my big toe, whatever was filling the bag felt more like bricks. It occurs to me that I still have no idea what is in the sack. The contents of the bag at my feet are the cause of most of my troubles and I don’t even know what they are.
Frankie’s cell phone rang. Or rather it electronically bleeped out “The Simpsons’” theme song. “Hello…Yeah, I have them.,. Now? I don’t know if I can make it now, I have to take care of something first…. Yes, I swear I have them… Ok…. Uh-huh… I’m on my way. …” He flipped his cell phone closed and directed Md to take us to Prospect Heights. Before yesterday I hadn’t been to Brooklyn in years. Now I’m going twice in as many days. I’m beginning to feel like I’m on some sort of crazy scavenger hunt. I should start leaving hash marks at each place I’ve been to.
Forty-five minutes later, the cab pulled in front of Tom’s Restaurant. Frankie shoved me out of the cab and grabbed the bag while Sweet Tits paid the driver. The diner was crowded with twenty-something hipsters eating large greasy breakfasts. We sat down in the corner, underneath the framed autographed lyrics of that damned Suzanne Vega song. The busboy came over and handed us each an orange slice. Frankie ordered a cherry lime rickey and glanced at the time on his cell phone. My back was to the entrance and he kept looking past me every time the door opened.
Our waiter came over with our beverages. As I poured in sugar, Frankie shifted and nodded towards the door. I turned around to see who we have been waiting for. Walking towards the table was a petite woman in a tweed hat and dangly earrings. She had a perfect peachy complexion and gray eyes. She smiled at Frankie. I checked my chin for drool but then remembered my blood stained tuxedo shirt, black eye and generally haggard look, I slumped a little in my seat. My side was hurting as Sweet Tits kept jabbing his handgun into my ribs. As if I was going to make a run for it.
“Hello Frankie. Bones. Who the hell is this guy?” Her lip was slightly curled and her nose wrinkled as she asked after me as though she were looking at a giant rodent or Tom Arnold. I could feel the disgust in her eyes as Frankie started to explain my presence.
“This is Erich, the guy lives in my building and claims to have been handed the bag by Iggy. We grabbed him outside Moby’s apartment, as Bones and Sheldon were going to grab it.”
“Excuse me? Did you just say he got the bag from Ignacio? What the hell was he doing with it? I thought that he knew nothing about this. Where’d you hear about this?” My future ex-wife stared at me as she slid next to Frankie. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to answer or not, so I hesitated. Sweet Tits jabbed me in the side again with the gun prodding me to respond.
“Know about what? The goat gave me the bag to hold as he went into Starbucks. I don’t even know what’s in it. And I just met him last night” As I spoke it dawned on me again that this time yesterday I was eating brunch on the great lawn with Heidi and Dave. A measly twenty four hours and yet somehow my world was upside down.
She snarled at me again, contorting her perfect features into a witch like façade. “Is he telling the truth?” There was nothing I hated more than people speaking about me in the third person when I’m present. There’s nothing like feeling totally invisible.
Frankie shrugged. He explained that I had repeatedly told the same story even after being hung from a balcony and clocked over the head, “Either he’s really stupid and looking to die, or he’s telling the truth. Although it’s entirely possible he’s protecting Moby and has a vendetta for the goat.”
The two of them continued to speculate over my honesty and while ignoring my presence. I felt like I was 5 again, about to be sent to boarding school for the first time. My parents with martini glasses in hand, were finalizing the details for my going away party and repeatedly told me, “Children should be seen and not heard.” I sat as silently now as I did then. Thankfully, the food finally came. I had ordered eggs benedict, but what was sitting in front of me was not even its poor cousin. Instead of hollandaise sauce there were two melted pieces of American cheese on top. I wasn’t particularly hungry, so it didn’t matter, at least I had something else to focus on. I pushed the eggs around with my fork, and watched the yolks spill out. I mixed the gooey yellow with my hash browns and picked at those.
“The reason I love coming here is the crab cakes, how fabulous are these?” She took a forkful off of Frankie’s plate and chewed slowly and seductively. “Aren’t these to die for,” she asked as she took more of the cake off of Frankie’s plate and fed him. She wiped her chin with a napkin, grabbed my coffee, took a sip and then asked Frankie if he had the bag with him.
He nodded and put it between the two of them on the bench. “At least we recovered the bag.” She unzipped it slowly and then started pulling out old, dusty books with yellowed pages. Hamlet. MacBeth. Henry V. Twelfth Night. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Two Gentleman from Verona. They were all Shakespeare plays. Now I was really confused. What the hell would my doorman want with Shakespeare? What the hell did Moby want with Shakespeare? More importantly what was the big fucking deal, oh and who was the fox sitting across from me? I had more questions than answers and while this had been the case since waking up in my apartment this morning, I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the fact that I was hanging from a balcony over some plays.
They books kept piling on the tables. Antony and Cleopatra. Romeo and Juliet. Taming of the Shrew. All’s Well That Ends Well. Each looked older than the next. The chick had taken off her cap, put on a pair of tortoise shell frames and was examining them as she pulled them out of the bag. The Tempest. Titus Andronicus. Cymbelline. By the time she finished there were 41 volumes stacked on the table, the booth seat, and an empty chair. She counted them several times and then started writing down the names on a piece of paper that she stared at for a few moments. “The Merry Wives of Windsor! We’re missing The Merry Wives of Windsor!’ I was dumbstruck that she was able to figure out which one was missing. She glared at me. “Alright you little fop - where’s the Merry Wives?”
“I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I could. “I really have no idea.” Sweet Tits was sticking the gun a little harder under my ribs. Sweat was beading on my forehead. Up until now I was fairly confident that I wasn’t going to get shot in a public restaurant, now I wasn’t so sure my blood wasn’t going to splatter all over the wall. “You have to believe me, I had nothing to do with any of this, I swear!” My voice was quaking more than I wanted it to. Her eyes were piercing, but after a moment of watching me quake they softened. She turned her head, hair whipping around.
“Alright you son of a bitch, are you trying to fuck with me?” Her malice was sent in Frankie’s direction.
“Baby, why would I ever do that? You know we had a deal, we had a plan. I’m here with the bag, with the books, I could’ve just run if I was going to cross you. What would I want with that stupid book anyway?”
“Fine. Let’s just say for the moment that you’re telling the truth and this metro sitting across from me is telling the truth. We have to find Ignacio. If that stupid fucking hornless goat has the book, we’re having schwarma for dinner - so brush off the grill and bust out the skewers.”
I was never much of a schwarmwa fan, but I was pretty certain it was lamb and not goat’s meat. Of course, I wasn’t going to correct her. I was just happy envisioning Iggy on the spit instead of me. The older waitress came over to our table again. It was the third time she’d come over to see if Frankie wanted more cherry lime rickey. I’ve seen heroin dealers who were less pushy. Frankie declined but asked for the check.
The chick, who I had gleaned was the brains of this particular operation, was on her cell phone calling the goator. Her voice dripped with honey as she left Ignacio a message asking him to call her back. I almost believed her nonchalant voice, I was hypnotized. It didn’t matter that this woman would slit me from neck to nuts without thinking twice, or maybe it was because of it, either way, I was falling in love. I feared that I wasn’t going to make it to see tomorrow and yet I saw myself years down the road with our grandchildren playing at my feet. I didn’t know her name, but I knew I wanted to father her children. I tried to smile at her, but my split lip made it a painful and difficult task. The end result was more of a constipated grimace than a winning toothy grin.
Her brow wrinkled. She suggested we make a quick stop before we head to Iggy’s apartment. These quick stops seemed to be where all of my troubles began, but it wasn’t as though I had any choice in the matter. From the looks of it, neither did Frankie and Bones, both of who looked like they were chomping at the bit to get to the upper east side and simultaneously deferential. My baby’s mother’s words were gospel. She was the pied piper and the three of us were destined to follow her melodious voice. We followed her straight out of the restaurant up Washington Street and eventually found ourselves on Carroll Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
We stopped at a brownstone about halfway up the block. She led us to the front door and hit the buzzer for apartment number 3 (G. Montepulciano). Gina opened the door wearing a sheet and little or nothing else. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the motley crew that had assembled on her doorstep. We were clearly not who she had expected to be standing there.
She looked from Frankie to Sweet Tits to My wife to me. She opened her mouth as though she was going to speak, but no words came out. My Venus pushed her out of the way, Frankie followed, Sweet Tits shoved me towards the door, and I tripped landing face first at Gina’s feet. I sheepishly got up and made my way into the building. I wondered if she recognized me, my face had been quite disfigured since I saw her last, not even twelve hours ago, and even though the clothes were the same, they were dirtied torn and blood stained.
I made my way up the stairs, and walked into chaos. The goddess and Frankie had overturned tables and were in the process of pulling out drawers and their contents. “Denise! You Bitch, what the fuck are you doin’ here?” Denise, my betrothed was named Denise! I sighed a little; it felt good to know her name finally.
Gina looked every which way, and held fast to the sheet wrapped around her body. She started in one direction and then stopped, turned, started in the other direction and stopped again. If she were a chicken her head would have already been cut off. Clothing of all shapes and sizes were flying through the air. A black satin negligee landed on a familiar cage in the corner. Daddy Machete. He began squawking loudly. I was confused, I remember the cage being in the limo with us this morning, that was certain, but I couldn’t recall whether or not she took the cock when she got out of the car. In fact, I was pretty certain the bird was still with us when we went to Moby’s apartment. But, I had been hit on the head pretty hard and more than once since then, so I could’ve been mistaken. I slowly made my way to Gina’s bedroom, half expecting to find the goat. I cautiously opened the door. CLANK!
This time when I awoke, I was surrounded by darkness and lying down. I tried to move my hands but they were tied behind my back. I tried to sit up, but there was nowhere for me to go. All of a sudden, I jerked forward. And then it dawned on me. I was in the trunk of a car - a car that was moving. Was this nightmare never going to end? This had to be some sort of joke. What the hell have I done in my life to deserve this? Please God, if I make it through this day alive I promise to start going to church again, I’ll give more to charity, I’ll do whatever you want, just please let me make it to tomorrow safely. Also, please let me not throw up. My mouth is taped and I really don’t want to go by choking on my own vomit.
The car stopped short and I slammed into the front of the trunk. I vaguely can make out the music playing; mostly I hear the bass line. But I can’t hear any voices.
I’m trapped. I started to kick on the roof of the trunk, hoping that someone would hear me. Maybe we were parked somewhere and there was a traffic cop nearby. The car started moving again and I rolled towards the back. The handcuffs were too tight and my wrists were in a ton of pain. I started to kick harder, maybe I could bust through the trunk. I wanted to feel around for a safety release or something. Car manufacturers thought of everything except how to help people locked in trunks get out of them. I tried to breathe lightly, was I going to run out of air, I wasn’t sure how well ventilated trunks were.
The car came to another halt and the engine stopped. Wherever we were going we were there. Not that I knew who’s car I was in. I began screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping that whoever put me in the trunk wouldn’t forget to take me out. Suffocating seemed like a horrible way to die.
I heard a key go into the lock and a click, the roof opened up. Before I could blink there was the end of a sawed off shotgun almost touching my nose. I looked down the barrel at the hand holding it which was encased in a tight caramel leather glove. My eyes followed up the arm, the shoulder, the neck; I kept going until my eyes were looking directly into the gray irises that belonged to Denise. “You make any more fucking noise and I’ll blow your head off right now.” Sweet Tits grabbed my and pulled me out of the trunk and into the darkness, it was night time. How long had I been out for? Was I in the trunk the whole time?
My eyes adjusted easily from the pitch black of the trunk’s cavern and looked around. Frankie was nowhere to be found, it was just Sweet Tits, who was basically holding me up - once again I found my legs unable to handle my body weight - and Gina. Gina was standing next to Denise, arm on her shoulder. She was barely recognizable from the woman I had met at Tequila Flats. She was wearing black leather pants and a tight short t-shirt that said “Detroit - where the weak are killed and eaten” her hair was tied in a tight low pony tail and she was wearing large hoop earrings. Her lipstick appeared to be the shade of blood although it was hard to tell in the low light. She walked over to me the gravel crunching under her feet. We were in a parking lot surrounded by motorcycles. The building in front of us was a roadhouse. In fact, that’s what the neon sign blinking on the roof said. She gently took my head in both her hands. She pushed my hair out of my eyes and kissed me on the forehead. She looked back at Denise and nodded at the gun. Denise lowered it and pointed it towards the ground. “Look, I wasn’t really going to shoot you, but you were causing all that damned commotion and really we can’t have the cops getting involved now can we?”
I thought we could. In fact, I would love it if the cops were involved. I hadn’t done anything wrong and I was just pulled out of the trunk of a car with tape over my mouth and hands cuffed behind my back. If I could yell for the cops I would. I was tired of getting hit on the head and waking up in strange places. I just wanted my bed, a tall glass of stoli, 6 advil, and the goat’s mounted head over my mantle, was that too much to ask?
“You look like you could use a drink” Gina purred as she grabbed one of my arms from Sweet Tits. Denise grabbed the other. “If we take the tape off do you promise not to scream for help?” She whispered ever so lightly into my ear. I shook my head gingerly, even if I did scream for help this didn’t look like the kind of place where anyone would pay any mind to it. I doubted the bar was filled with upstanding law abiding citizens. Denise gently removed the tape. Once again, I found myself with no words. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Gina took out a small key and released my hands from the steel bracelets. I rubbed my wrists and shook out my arms.
Denise grabbed the door and held it open for me, “We need to talk to you. We need your help.”
My help? I wondered. What could they possibly want my help for? And these two were friends? The last thing I could remember was watching Denise ransack Gina’s apartment. I was completely befuddled. Not that feeling confused was out of the ordinary for me in the past 36 hours. It seemed to be my permanent state.
The inside of the bar was every bit as cliché as I expected it to be. There were a few older men with mustaches and long salt and pepper beards tied into braids. Some were wearing leather vests, some were wearing denim. A few had on sunglasses; they all were wearing a bandana somewhere on their bodies. Denise and Gina were the only two women besides the bartender. “A Boy Named Sue” was blaring on the jukebox. The patrons turned and looked briefly as we entered, but then went back to their beers and whiskeys. The ladies and I made our way to a table in the back, but Sweet Tits didn’t follow. He walked over to the bar, sat down and ordered a whiskey as we were getting comfortable.
Gina started. She explained that she and Denise had been friends for years and years, in fact, she went on, the two were roommates in college. It was only a few weeks ago when they had met Ignacio. It was at Bungalow 8. “You probably have figured out by now that Denise and Frankie are dating. So it was the two of them, me, and Sebastian.”
I did a total double take. My Sebastian? The one that I was with when I met Gina the night earlier? How was that possible, he had acted like he had never seen any of them before? I needed clarification, I wasn’t sure if all the blows to the head had made me start hearing things. “Sebastian Bloom? The one who we were with last night at Tequila Flats? My Sebastian?” She nodded slowly and deliberately. I was feeling incredibly betrayed, but I wasn’t sure by who or why. “How long have you known Sebastian?”
She looked towards the ceiling and paused for a moment. “I guess well over two years. We’ve been dating for almost a year and a half.”
I spit the sip of beer that I had drawn into my mouth. It sprayed everywhere. Two of the Hell’s Angels turned to look in my direction. I wiped my chin with my sleeve and took another sip. I was barely sure of my own name at this point.
Sebastian and I have known each other since we were at Exeter. He had been my roommate for the 4 years of high school I spent in New Hampshire. We went to Princeton together. We shared our first slummy apartment on the Lower East Side with a family of cockroaches that had no fear. How was it possible that I had never met Gina before? Better yet, how did he keep this a secret from me for so long? And why? I suddenly felt very alone in the world.
Gina explained that it was her request that they keep their relationship a secret from everyone. She said that she was in the process of going through a rough divorce and terribly frightened of what her soon-to-be-ex-husband would do to either her or Sebastian if he found out. Even though she knew that if Sebastian told me anything there was probably no way for it to get back to her lunatic husband, they felt it was better to say nothing to anyone. This way they didn’t have to worry about anything slipping when it wasn’t supposed to, to anyone it wasn’t supposed to.
Denise cut Gina’s explanation short. “Look, Erich, Gina and Sebastian’s relationship is only part of the reason you’re here. Like we said, we need your help and without it, the Goat’s going to continue to walk over everyone and everything. So we were at Bungalow Eight with the boys when Ignacio walked in. We wouldn’t have noticed him except for the fact that he was with Puffy or P. Diddy or whatever the hell he’s calling himself now. Here was Iggy, this tall white haired goat in head to toe Sean Jean speaking total street like he was raised in the projects. They went right over to the VIP section and started hanging out. He came over and approached us while the boys were at the bar and we were on the dance floor. He could dance like no goat I had ever seen. And he was smooth. He took us back over to the VIP section with him. We partied with him and Puffy all night, and drank more Cristal than I could ever afford.”
The story was somewhat interesting, but I still wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with me, so I asked Denise as much. She begged me to be patient and hear her out. She told me that soon this would all be clear. Thank the lord, because in the past twenty four hours the only thing clear was the fact that I was going to have to throw out the bloodstained clothes that were still on my body. I eyed the bartender in hopes of getting another drink. I needed something stronger than the Budweiser that was sitting in front of me.
She ignored me. I got up and walked over to the bar. Sweet Tits got up out of his chair, looking like he would pounce if I tried to make my way to the exit. He glared at me as I ordered a shot of Tequila and another Budweiser. I did the shot at the bar. The alcohol burned my throat on its way down and I swigged the beer to chase it. I made my way back over to the table and the explanation that was awaiting my return.
"Are you ready now?" Gina barked with a twinge of impatience.
"Yeah sure, go on with your tale."The words leaked out of my mouth like air seeping from a tire. My world had been turned upside down and I was beginning to feel like nothing could shock me anymore. "You were partying with Puffy and Ignacio at Bungalow Eight."
"Right, so the point is that the goat was so much fun. He could dance, he could drink and even Puffy looked envious of the bling in the goat's ear. It was one of the best nights we had in a long time. So the next day, when I received a dozen red roses and the most beautiful love letter at work, I quickly called Denise on her cell. She was happy that I called, she had some news to share with me. I told her that I had news also, but that she could go first. That's when she shared that Iggy had sent her a dozen red roses and the sweetest note. I asked her to read it. Word for Word it was the exact same letter, except the name was different."
Denise chimed in. "As you can imagine we were pretty pissed. Who the hell did this asshole think he was that he could send us the exact same note and we wouldn't notice? Did he think we were morons? Did he really expect to get away with it? We've both been played pretty hard before, but we couldn't believe the balls on this son of a bitch! That's when we decided to get even. And this is why we need your help."
As far as I could tell, I was sitting in a roadhouse in the middle of nowhere because the goat double-crossed the wrong women. Two plus Two wasn't adding up to four and I still had no idea what the hell any of this had to do with me. But I knew I wasn't in the movies and this wasn't all going to get explained to me, right before the villain walks into the room. I didn't even know who the villain was anymore. But I was starting to feel like the villains were sitting across a sticky table from me. I had been so mad at Iggy, but all he did was go to the bathroom on me. These women and their loving beaus had been the cause of every bruise, laceration and bump on my body. Maybe it was time I stopped blaming Ignacio for everything.
"You need my help because the goat sent you both flowers?" The idea seemed a little silly.
"Well, when you put it that way!No you asshole, it has nothing to do with the flowers. Besides the fact that this hornless bastard destroyed our honor and took us for hussies, he also had no respect for the relationships we're in. Frankie and Sebastian were both pretty pissed off, he ignored them the entire time we were at bungalow 8 and treated them like they were trash."
"Invisible trash!"
"Ladies, I'm sorry, but I'm still not getting any of this. What does this have to do with me getting kidnapped, beaten up, hung from my balcony, and generally abused by you and your boyfriends? What about my honor? I'm sorry but I think maybe you two deserve to get played if this is how you treat strangers!"
SLAP! Denise backhanded my right across the cheek. My already split lip reopened and I was bleeding again. At the rate this was going, I was going to need a transfusion before the day was out.
"Don't you ever insult us! You don't know us, and we had nothing to do with your kidnapping or the ensuing violence. I didn't even know who you were when I walked into Tom's Diner. The past twenty four hours were not a part of the plan. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Didn't I know it? I took another gulp of Bud. I rubbed one of the bumps on my forehead, just to make sure I could still feel pain, the whole thing seemed totally hopeless. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay, how can I help?"
* * * * *
I hit the end button and threw my cordless on the couch. Who did this goat think he was? Not only did he have the gall to hit on me in front of Frankie like that, but then he sends me these flowers as though he's Rico Suave. Seriously, this freaks got some issues. Ugh! And then to try the same thing with Gina. I feel like I just took a bath in grime. It'ss possible that I might need a rabies shot. At least Gina was on her way over, so we could figure out how to get back at this slimeball. No one treats me like a dime store whore.
It was fifteen minutes later when my doorbell rang. Gina came in with her letter. There was no doubt it was exactly the same thing. We sat down on the couch to brainstorm, but everything seemed so cliche. Keying the car. So done. Harassing phone calls. Boring. And then it came to me. This guy needed to seriously be embarrassed. This wasn't about pissing him off or being violent, although it would be nice to get some use out of all those Krav Maga lessons, it was about making him feel so stupid he wouldn't treat women like this anymore. We needed to fool him, lure him in, make him feel like his plan worked and then reveal him for the greasy Eurotrash that he was.
Gina seemed down with the idea and said she would do pretty much anything except sleep with the goat. She wasn't going to compromise herself, I didn't blame her. The thought of even touching Ignacio made me shake and quiver with nausea. I gave Gina a wink, "Added bonus! This is a perfect chance for me to make Frankie realize that his uber-jealousy isn't gonna fly with me anymore!" I got up off the couch cordless in hand and dialed the numbers that Ignacio had left at the bottom of the letter. It took every ounce of strength I had to sound as sweet as sugar on the phone. I had to swallow to make sure I didn't vomit as I asked him over for dinner the following night. He sounded so nonchalant as he responded, "It would be my pleasure to dine with you." I was a bit thrown off at how proper he sounded. The night before he was barely speaking English his slang was so heavy, but now it was like talking to an entirely different goat. He had a slight non-distinct European accent, which I could have easily mistaken for affect, if he hadn't told me the night before that he was from Switzerland.
I hung up the phone, unsure of what I had just gotten myself into. This had all better work. I loved Frankie, I just needed to knock a little more trust into him, I didn't want to lose him.
Gina waited about a half an hour before she picked up her cell phone and dialed the same even digits I had punched into the phone. She calmly thanked Ignacio for the roses, "They were really sweet, I wish Sebastian would do more romantic things like this."
I could barely hold back the gag reflex. She continued that she had made plans with Sebastian for almost every night this week, and so she would have to get back to him as to when they could get together, but she would love to. Damned, that girl could act. She was in the wrong career. As I sat there listening to her, I almost believed she wanted to cheat on Sebastian. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee as we worked out the details of the next couple of days. It was time for payback. Time to get the goat.
I checked my watch, it was 7:15, Ignacio would be here in a half an hour. The salmon was slowly roasting in the oven, the spinach was almost done, I just had to get dressed. I looked through my bulging closet and picked out a simple DKNY black tank and my favorite Diesel jeans. It was my favorite sexy but casual ensemble. I looked at myself in the mirror. Was I really going to go through with this? I must be out of my mind, I hope Gina beats Frankie home, I hope the goat isn't too aggressive. I took a big gulp of Merlot and tried to apply the finishing touches on my make-up, which was becoming increasingly difficult as my hand refused to stop shaking. I came close to blinding myself while trying to put on my eye-liner. I was blotting my lipstick when the doorbell rang.
I looked at myself in the mirror one last time, decided to swoop my hair up with a clip, took a deep breath and went downstairs to let him in. Standing in my threshold when I opened the door, Ignacio could not have looked more different from the goat I had met the night before. In fact, if it weren't for the monocle, I might have thought that it was someone else standing there. He was in a perfectly tailored olive green Armani suit. It looked perfect next to his impeccably groomed white fur. He was holding a bouquet of sunflowers (my favorite) and a bottle of Santa Margharita Pinot Grigio. Clearly the goat knew his wines. I invited him in and gave him a quick tour of my apartment. He opened the bottle of wine while I put the flowers in a vase. I apologized and told him that dinner would be a few more moments. He said not a problem at all, that he had a little business to take care of and excused himself to my living room where he busied himself with his blackberry.
I poured myself another tall glass of wine. The only way I was going to make it through this was if I was drunk enough to not care. I was pretty worried that there was no way I could get that drunk without inducing an alcohol induced coma. The coma was actually sounding pretty good right now. I didn't care how different Iggy had seemed, the goat made my skin crawl. I kept reminding myself that this was all part of the plan.
The timer went off. I pulled the salmon out of the oven, plated the food and invited Iggy to join me at the dining room table. He typed one more thing into his blackberry and then put it in his inside jacket pocket. He pulled my chair out for me, before he sat down himself. It was a little over the top for me. His seriously polished manners were so ridiculous that I was actually able to relax a bit. It reminded me of just how much of a scumbag this Appenzell was.
We were halfway through dinner when my buzzer rang. It was about damned time. I mean the goat was actually a decent conversationalist, and was pretty learned on a lot of different topics, but we had spent the past twenty minutes on Britney Spear's concerts as the epitome of post-modern musical theater. He had to be kidding me, Britney Spears? Post-Modern anything? She was just well marketed sleazy ear and eye candy. Don't get me wrong, she was a guilty pleasure of mine, but having any philosophical worth? The goat was more of a pretentious pseudo-intellectual than I cared to deal with.
Ever since I moved to New York 5 years ago, this was the kind of nonsense conversation I felt I was bombarded with constantly. Everyone was always trying to validate their love of anything popular by giving it some ludicrous alter meaning. As though Justin Timberlake was ripe for deconstruction. Ignacio was one of these insufferable hipsters, wrapped up in a very expensive suit. No wonder he'ss friends with P. Diddy, his sense of self-importance was comparable.
The buzzer was a long overdue and necessary interruption. I appropriated a look of fear on my face and told Ignacio to hide on my fire escape. As planned and right on time (even though she seemed really late because time had all but stopped), Gina burst into my apartment as I opened the door. She gave me a wink as she loudly plodded up my stairs. "Hey I just ran into Frankie at the Gate. He was drinking a whole lot with Bones and the boys. They're on their way over here, and they're pretty damned smashed!" She yelled louder than she would have needed to if we were alone, but she wanted to make sure that Ignacio, wherever he was, could hear her clearly.
It worked, Ignacio reappeared from the fire escape and asked us in a panic to help him hide. I tell him that there's no where really to hide, but that Frankie's gonna kill us both. Gina suggests that he jump off the fire escape. It's only three stories. He looked over the edge, looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and looked back towards the ground at the dumpster that was 30 feet below. "Youwant me to jump?" He asked, his voice cracking on the word jump. I shrugged and assured him it was the only option. He had to hurry, Frankie was going to walk through the door at any moment. He said he'd call and then flung himself over the gate and straight into the dumpster. I covered my mouth to suppress the laughter.
Earlier that afternoon, Gina and I had made sure the dumpster was open and cut all of the bags, ensuring maximum trash immersion on his landing. It worked, he emerged from the dumpster dripping with glop and grime. He was picking a used coffee filter of his shoulder when he looked up. I waved with my arm urging him to leave.
Gina had just sat down in front of Ignacio's plate when Frankie came through the front door. He was followed close behind by Sheldon, Bones and Sebastian. It was definitely odd to see Sebastian, and entirely unexpected. Frankie was slurring, "Denise. I know you've got someone here - you cheating bitch, where is the malook? I'm gonna slit his throat!" He headed straight for the bedroom. The boys dispersed to the other rooms, while Sebastian calmly sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to him signaling to Gina that she should join him.
" I tried to tell him that you would never cheat on him, but he's in some sort of rage. I'm sorry Denise." Sebastian shrugged his shoulders and held up a cigarette for my approval to smoke it inside. "You got one for me?" I asked as he was lighting his Marlboro. Frankie was tearing his way through my rooms. I inhaled deeply, causing me to cough a little bit. I loved the guy, but he was working through some rage issues.
I walked back into the kitchen to our myself another glass of wine just as Frankie was emerging from the bathroom. He came over and wrapped his arms around my neck. His breath smelled like a cornucopia of liquors.
"Baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to question you. I know you love me, I know your faithful. It's just that men are slime baby, and I don't want them putting their paws all over you. You're my angel and I don't want you dirty."
'Paws, Hoofs,' I thought to myself, 'What's the difference?' I was delighted. Not only did Ignacio wind up somewhat humiliated, covered in trash, but Frankie's jealousy was exposed in all its ridiculousness, but it wasn't enough. He continued to grovel at my feet for another minute or two before Sebastian came over to interject.
"Frankie, my man, lets go - we can catch the end of the Knicks game. Pick yourself up, this is pathetic." He tried to whisper, but his breathy voice carried. Bones came over to help and they got Frankie to his feet with little difficulty. Gina showed them out.
I could barely contain my laughter as she shut the door behind them. "Didyou see how stupid Frankie felt when no one was here? That was brilliant!"
"No", Gina offered through her own giggles, "brilliant was Ignacio covered in glop climbing out of the dumpster - you know it'll take him hours to get that smell out of his fur. His suit looked pretty ruined too!!"
It was true, the whole escapade was pretty fabulous, and like an alcoholic who just had their first sip of vodka, I wanted more. I reported to Gina as much. She agreed that we needed to set up another mock date, both to humiliate Iggy some more and to make Frankie feel ridiculous about his own jealousy. Frankie needed to learn trust and I was ready to teach him.
The following afternoon I called Iggy on his cell. I apologized for the events that had occurred and told him that I wanted to make it up to him. I could taste the bile building up in the back of my throat as the words came out of my mouth, but remembered that this was all for a good cause. Getting back at Iggy, and simultaneously controlling Frankie's jealousy was a small step for her, but a giant step for women kind. I knew I wasn't the first to deal with men and their stupid and demeaning behavior and I knew I wasn't going to be the last, but I was going to make a stand, and I was going to do it for mistreated women everywhere. These stupid frigging pricks had to get a clue.
Iggy seemed amenable to having a second date, and suggested we go to Jean Gorges, he knew Jean Gorges personally and would call for a reservation for that evening. I accepted and told him to pick me up at around 7:30. I even told him I was looking forward to it. There should be an Oscar in this for me somewhere. I hung up and immediately called Gina to put phase two of our plan into effect.
The goat was nothing if not punctual. He showed up at exactly 7:30 on the nose. I buzzed him in, I was hiding in the bathroom and shouted down to him, "Hey iggy, make yourself comfortable, I'm almost ready, I'll be out in a second." I wrapped my dry hair in a towel and waited until my doorbell rang again. I could here Iggy scrambling about as I made my way to the intercom.
"Hello."
"Hey, It's me." Gina. Right on time.
I made my way into the living room as Gina came up the stairs. "Yo, Denise, Frankie just called me, he was grilling me about whether or not you were seeing someone else. He's coming over here again, and he's pretty damned upset."
She barely made it through her speech before Iggy appeared out of my linen closet. I was pretty impressed he could fit in there. "The two of you have to help me, get me out of here, but I'm not going over the balcony again, I still smell like rotting milk."
"Well, I'm not sure what to do, Frankie will kill you if you're here when he gets here." Seriously, I should get a SAG card for this shit. Although, Frankie would kill him, that part I wasn't lying about.
“No you have to do something, I don’t want to die, I’m not ready!� The goat was whimpering like a little girl. Man, I wish I had a video camera floating around. This was classic.
“Ok, Ok, I have an Idea. My cleaning lady usually comes around this time. We can dress you up like her, she’s eastern European, and sneak you out of here. It’s the only way if you’re not going to go over the balcony. He’ll find you if you’re anywhere in this house.�
He paused for a minute. “Alright, if I have no choice lets do this, and quickly before I change my mind.�
I looked sideways at Gina, she and I made our way towards my bedroom to get the clothes we had already prepared for the goat. A bluish-gray maids uniform, a black wig, some orthopedic shoes. We brought the clothes to Iggy who quickly changed in the bathroom, and not a moment to soon, as Gina shoved a mop and bucket in his direction, Frankie buzzed and was hollering into the intercom. He had keys, I don’t know why he didn’t just come in. I let him in and he’s racing up the stairs. He’s definitely in a rage. Sebastian is bounding up the stairs right behind him. Seriously, that Sebastian is a good guy, always trying to calm Frankie down, and he treats Gina like gold.
Frankie got to the top of the stairs and saw, Ignacio mopping the kitchen floor. He reeked of pot, and his eyes were all bloodshot. In his stoned state he actually mistook Iggy for Marta, which is funny enough - especially since Frankie was never too fond of Marta and has requested on numerous occasions that she not be there at the same time he was. His inebriated state mixed with rage gets the best out of him and he started swatting at Iggy with a newspaper as he chased him outside.
When he got back up to my apartment, he was fuming but Gina, Sebastian and I were all on the floor rolling with laughter. I almost wet myself I was laughing so hard. I decided to tell him about our plot against Iggy.
He took a seat on the couch and lit a cigarette. He then slowly turned to me and apologized for being so jealous, this time though he launched into his own story and why he'd been in such a rage the past couple of days. He inhaled deeply, exhaled into smoke rings and began:
"So the other day, while we were at Bungalow Eight, Puffy pulls me aside while you two are dancing with Iguana or Infante or whatever the hell that damned goat calls himself. He turns to me and Sebastian and he says, 'Look, I know this seems whack because we only just met, but the goat wanted me to give your girlfriends these poems or some shit like that he wanted me to help him seduce the women. While I'm all for hitting it with the honeys, I don't ever disrespect another man's woman like that. So I just figured I'd give you boys the heads up.' I have to be honest honey I was pissed off. It looked like you were having a good time with the goat, and he had more money in his right ear lobe than I'll ever have in my life, I thought you would go for it. Sebastian tried to calm me down," he looked over at Sebastian who was sitting on the edge of my coffee table, and Sebastian nodded his agreement, "but I didn't want to listen, I was drunk and I was pissed. While Sebastian went off to go dance with you guys I continued to talk with Puffy. I urged him to set up a meeting between me and the goat. I told him that I would give him anything that he wanted in return for setting it up while I was in disguise. I never thought that he would go for it, but it turns out Puffy had been burnt by women once or twice in his life - he made some reference to a fat assed Latina - and he said he'd hook it up and he'd hit me on my blackberry as soon as he knew what the plan was."
I was pretty pissed at this point, I mean yeah, I had deceived him too, but I was trying to teach the damned fool a lesson, he trusted me that little? I took a swig of Merlot from the glass I had just poured myself, I couldn’t say anything if I had a mouthful of wine, and I at least owed it to him to let him finish.
"So the next day, Puffy and I met early at his offices, he was waiting behind is desk and one of his make-up artists who was willing to help put me in disguise was sitting on his leather sofa, a huge silver cosmetic box at her feet. She got up when I walked in and shook my hand. Three hours later Puff and I walked out of his office - I was the spitting image of Moby. We were walking over to Puffy's restaurant Justin's. He told me that he told the goat that the two of us, him and Moby, were going to have a business lunch to discuss a possible remix they were going to do together. He said that the goat and Moby had known each other for years and he knew that he would want to join us. I was a little worried, if he had known Moby for years, wouldn't he know I wasn't Moby? I remember how sweaty I was as we walked into the restaurant. We sat down, ordered some wine, and waited for the goat to arrive.
"Baby, if I could go back and change it all I would, I feel so stupid now, I know that you would never betray me like that, I don't know what I was thinking. But here I am sitting with Puffy and some stupid assed goat and I’m dressed like a bald ass vegan who has no talent. The goat is so stupid he frigging falls for it. So I start going on about how I met you baby at Cielo the other night and how I fell in love with you on the spot. I told him baby that you kept turning me down, that you would never cheat on your boyfriend."
I couldn't believe what he was telling me.
"So then the goat, right there has the balls to frigging turn to me and say that he had just gotten off the phone with you and wasn't it a small world that we wanted the same woman and that you two had a date that night! You can imagine how pissed I was baby, I had no idea that you were trying to make him look like a fool, I just know how much of a fool I felt like. I couldn't believe that he had gotten to you that way, I almost reached across the table and strangled him right there, but then I remembered that I was supposed to be Moby and this flea-ridden sack of shit sitting across from me was supposed to be my old friend. The fucking bastard. He asked me what I was doing for lunch today and thought we should catch up since it had been so long. Puff tried to help out, he told him that we were going to record, and we were going to be in the studio the whole day. The goat told us that he would love to see the studio and that he would stop by.
I spent another fucking three hours in make-up again this morning after I didn't find him in your apartment. When he came to Puff's studio, he was carrying a pizza. It smelled damned good, but any idiot in this city knows that the freakshow I was pretending to be was a vegan. I had to fucking refuse. Apparently, the goat was the only moron who didn't have this piece of information and in fact he seemed pretty pissed that Moby no longer ate meat. It was really weird, he went kind of ape shit, something about not being able to trust vegans that they were dangerous or something. He was actually still ranting when I asked him how his date went with you. That's when he told me that he wound up in the trash but that he was seeing you again tonight!! So baby you can imagine how upset I was. And then Puffy pulls me aside after he leaves and tells me that he found out that there's more to the story than the goat just wanting to bone you. Turns out he's known all along about your rare book collection and he wanted to seduce you to steal some of your first editions. But I was so stupid for believing that you would want anything to do with this slimy bastard, will you ever forgive me?"
It took a few minutes for me to process everything that Frankie had just told me, and although I was still a little bit upset that he had so little trust, there was something charming about his going all out to defend her honor. "Of course I forgive you, you're my little cabbage patch!"
"Cabbage Patch!" Sebastian mimicked and burst out into laughter! "Hah! Cabbage Patch! You're a real tough guy Cabbage Patch!!"
"Baby, stop making fun of him or I'll tell them how I call you Snuggles." The tension in the room was lifted as we all had a good laugh.
But now Ignacio really deserved to be brought down, not only was he a slimy bastard, but he was a thief too. Did he really think he was going to get his hands on my books? We were going to have to come up with a good plan.
