How to Piss in Public (25 page)

I hurried back to the office completely ignoring TJ and when I walked through the front doors I yelled, “Who wants heroin?” to the whole office while holding up the bags. For nonaddicts like myself, heroin is just some stupid powder that kills sad people. For recovering addicts it is an omnipresent force that haunts their dreams and is constantly floating through their minds. Suroosh hadn’t gone near any drug or booze for a decade, but he still had to attend meetings regularly and told me about frequent nightmares. “Hey, man,” I said, walking over to him with all ten bags, “you love this shit, right?”

Suroosh pushed away from his desk the same way TJ had. “Is that real?” he asked like I was holding the three-inch-tall goblin that tried to kill my mother. TJ had walked in behind me and was nodding. They both stared at it with scared smiles. Then they said, “Holy shit,” at almost exactly the same time. I looked at my watch and realized it was time to take this to the next level.

“So it’s valuable to you guys, right?” I said as I tore open a bag and let it slowly sprinkle to the dirty floor. For years they’d been trained to worship every granule of this stuff, so their Pavlovian instinct was to yell,
“No!”
and try to stop it from falling. As they clamored to protect it, I spread the powder all over the floor with my shoe while saying, “Oooopsie!” Then I danced around like an asshole holding the other
nine bags and singing, “I have heroin! I have her-o-in!” TJ and Suroosh couldn’t wrench their eyes from the floor.

I pulled out a key, dipped it into the bag, and scooped out a bump. “Come on, guys,” I said, holding the key to their noses, “just one sniff.” Again with the “holy shit.” Can’t junkies come up with anything better than “holy shit”? Before I knew what I was doing, I had snorted the heroin up into my own stupid head, which destroyed TJ and Suroosh. I basically had shoved a cross in Jesus’s face and said, “Remember this?”

They staggered back to their desks and tried to get on with their day and I laughed at them and … wait a minute … why am I wearing an anvil for a hat? Why is my face itchy? Why do I feel like I’m going to barf? I mumbled something to our secretary about making sure nobody touched those bags—especially TJ and Suroosh—and walked in slow motion to the bathroom, where I barfed so violently, I was worried the toilet would split in two. It didn’t feel bad, though. It felt like taking a big shit out of my mouth.

I wobbled out of the bathroom and spent the next two hours doing the two-minute job of snapping one picture of the heroin before flushing it down the toilet forever. I had only done a bump the size of a pencil tip, but I felt like I drank a salad bowl of vodka. “I gotta go home,” I said like a sleepwalking Orson Welles, and TJ nodded while shaking his head.

When I got outside, the entire city was underwater. Everyone was speaking backward and the sidewalk was moving. I was only a few blocks from the train but I might as well have been stranded on the top of Mount Everest. Then Blobs called. “You ready?” she asked in the perky tone of someone who wasn’t on heroin.

“Whuuu?” I replied like a talking snail.

“For dinner—we gotta go meet David. Did you already forget? Jesus.” She said a bunch of other stuff, but people talk fast when you’re on heroin and I was still trying to wrap my snail antennae around the first part.

I had recently started hanging out with comedian David Cross and didn’t want to risk our delicate new friendship by blowing off some dinner plans he had made weeks ago. David is so into barbecue, he
has a tattoo of a pig who just ripped his own ribs out and is handing them to you on a platter. The dinner was at a popular soul-food place in Chelsea called Maroons and I was already late. I ran down the stairs before realizing I wasn’t running at all but barely walking, so I stumbled back up and called a car service. It showed up almost immediately and after mumbling the address to the driver, I slumped into the backseat and fell asleep with my eyes open. It was like being in a music video made for dead people. When we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge I looked at the Manhattan skyline with the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building standing above their peers like steel gods and thought, “That’s nice.” As we drove through the East Village and passed ratty dope dealers and Puerto Ricans on their third generation of welfare I thought, “That’s nice.” As we crossed town on Fourteenth Street and passed methadone clinics, I remembered the thousands of junkies who had already died in this town and thought, “That’s nice,” and I was there. I was relieved to see Blobs standing outside because the only way my driver was going to get paid was if I could spit out the words “Please pay him” as I handed her my wallet.

David was inside dealing with the table and before I could greet him he said, “What the fuck is the matter with you?” I had no idea I was doing anything unusual but Blobs told me later I was standing like an ape with bended knees and my knuckles dragging on the floor. I tried to get it together and snap out of it but fuck, man, the air was made of transparent licorice. How’s a guy supposed to move around in that? Getting to our table was a huge imposition, and Blobs had to order for me as well as handle all the conversating.

I couldn’t believe how fucking fried I was and there were no signs of its wearing off. When you do cocaine, you’re high for ten minutes and then things go back to normal. This was more like changing into a different life-form. It didn’t add a little spice to the evening. It swallowed the entire evening like a gigantic bullfrog.

When our meals arrived, Blobs and David were thrilled. Apparently fried chicken is delicious or something but I might as well have been gawking at a sweater knitted to look like a meal. I didn’t want to put anything down my throat besides my finger, which reminded
my stomach that it was again time to hurl. “Excuse me,” I stammered while heading toward the bathroom. I could feel barf walking up my throat and I almost knocked over a table near the bathroom door as I threw the door open and dropped to my knees. The restaurant was very small and this tiny bathroom was a few inches from the nearest couple. A waiter politely closed my door and an earsplitting vomit geyser came hurling out of my guts, splashing against the bowl. Before I could inhale some oxygen and recover, another pile of vomit roared out of my face. I couldn’t stop. After a half dozen monster pukes, I rolled off the toilet and let my face enjoy the cold tile floor. I was lying in the piss of a thousand New Yorkers and it felt great—so great, it was putting me to sleep. As I dozed off, I wondered how many meals were ruined by my 120-decibel barf concert.

When I came to, I crawled up the wall and tried to steady myself. I opened the bathroom door and apologized to the couple who was inexplicably still sitting there. Apparently some time had passed because the check was paid for and my meal was waiting in a doggie bag. Blobs was not impressed and David was laughing and shaking his head. “You are a piece of work,” he said, handing me my food. I tried to think of a witty comeback but all that came out was, “That’s nice.”

Yet Another Asian Threesome (2003)

A
s I let on earlier, Blobs had no faith in our relationship and every time she succumbed to my advances, she’d kick herself and tell me to get lost.

These “breaks” were often lonely places to be, but then the phone would ring. This time it was my partner in sex crimes, Sally Woo. It’s not considered very cool to be into Asian chicks. It’s usually a pursuit reserved for weak nerds with tiny dicks, but my dick is so big, it makes “my person is so small” jokes. Pair me up with an Oriental, and it’s like a happy person popping Prozac.

I had been in a particularly long dry spell so I got right to business. “I’m so horny, I got a boner you could tie a bow on,” I told her. She said she’d love to oblige and I upped the ante with, “I got a boner you could tie
into
a bow if it ever got soft, which it won’t, so fuck your bow and fuck you.” She seemed confused so I added, “And fuck me while you’re at it because, like I said, I’m horny.” Sally giggled and told me she was going to be in New York in a few days for her “requisite spanking.” I told Sally I’d be happy to hang out and said it in a very standoffish way,
because chicks like that. I sat down on the couch and hatched a plan. I was going to set up a threesome with Sally and Yoo-jin.

Yoo-jin was a shy Korean girl who didn’t like me as much as I liked her. Luckily she was also an alcoholic so if I could pour five beers down her little yellow bird beak and convince her to come home, I was in for some of the best fucking this side of the Pacific Ocean.

When Sally arrived, I told her my genius idea. She was going to find a bar near her hotel. Then she was going to text me the location and I was going to show up there with Yoo-jin. “After a few hours you’re going to walk in,” I told Sally, “and I’m going to shit my pants. ‘Sally!?’ I’ll ask incredulously. ‘I haven’t seen you since high school. What the fuck are you doing here?’ Then we’ll have some more drinks and a few shots and eventually you’ll convince Yoo-jin and me to come up to your hotel room because it simply has to be seen to be believed.” Sally liked the plan as usual but she was worried about her lackluster hotel room. “Of course, your room isn’t going to be that impressive,” I assured her, “but once we get Yoo-jin into the hotel, all questions will be flushed down the toilet.” The plan was multifaceted but I was at the point where I needed something that interesting to keep it interesting.

It was colder than a dead slave’s eyes that night so I made sure I met Yoo-jin at a bar that was a quick walk to where I had planned to meet Sally. Yoo-jin’s a tiny girl who looks like a movie star but dresses like an old lady right down to her beige orthopedic shoes. She had on green socks, a knee-length denim skirt, a librarian’s blouse, and a wooly cardigan that matched her socks. After carefully monitoring the time, I headed to the secret spot and Sally walked in after about another hour of boozing just like she was supposed to. Sally was dressed like she was going to a senior prom with strappy heels and a long gown. Her hair was like Yoo-jin’s, long and black, but she had lopped off her bangs so ridiculously short, it made her look almost comical.

I fake-freaked-out when Sally walked in and she seamlessly continued the gag by not recognizing me due to the mustache (nice touch). We all got along great because booze’ll do that, but I must have looked idiotic pretending I couldn’t believe she was there. “How long has it been?” I asked like we were on a Canadian after-school special.

“Oh, shit, fifteen years?” she replied without doing the math. Eventually, I’d be able to drop the charade and talk to them like human beings. A few drinks after that, Sally said, “You guys absolutely
must
see the hotel my company booked. It must be a thousand bucks a night.” I said we could check it out if it was nearby and Yoo-jin shrugged before passively following us out.

As predicted, the room was a very small suite that was nothing to write home about. Yoo-jin was unimpressed. I could see my dick staring up at me, pissed off. I imagined him with a face like a very zitty Steve Buscemi saying, “You betta not blow dis!” Closing this part of the deal is like juggling on top of a moving car. You need to maneuver quickly and can’t show any fear. With my stomach in my chest, I “confidently” told Sally to take off her dress. Yoo-jin was not so easy to manipulate. She seemed bored by Sally’s perky tits and it was clear this juggler’s vehicle was about to slam on its brakes so hard, my balls would be wrenched from my hands for good.

In a last-ditch attempt to rescue this dying scene, I grabbed Yoo-jin and started making out with her. Yoo-jin was FOB (fresh off the boat) so she was used to having curveballs thrown at her. She had only recently discovered the Rolling Stones, so my hope was that all these weird sexual opportunities would incubate long enough in her decision chamber for her to say, “Why the fuck not? Everything about this country is just as weird.”

Sally could see we were losing her. I gave her a look that said, “Get out of here, NOW,” which she did. Then I pulled out my defibrillator: pussy eating. As I munched on Yoo-jin’s cunt, it felt like her pussy lips were the edge of a cliff and I would plummet to my death if I made one false move. After about a minute of Olympic-grade tongue figure-skating, I looked up and saw a Korean cadaver staring back at me. She was about as amused as Queen Victoria and it was throwing me off my game. I was getting bitter and her vagina was starting to taste like pinworm medicine. Buscemi gave me an evil eye that burned straight into my soul.

So, I stopped and threw up my hands. Sally walked back in all smiles with a bottle of white wine and three glasses. But I had totally
given up. Fuck this shit. Fuck me. Fuck her. It’s not like I’m here to rape anybody. I’m offering two women nothing short of an internal massage.

My main man in the sky decided it was time to intervene. Like Zeus entering our atmosphere as a swan, God floated down into Yoo-jin’s body and took over. “You don’t think I’m horny!?” she suddenly squawked like a child possessed. Sally and I both looked at each other in shock. Yoo-jin then did a strange dance where she tugged at her skirt like someone who had to pee bad and was ashamed of it. (This is giving me a boner right now.) I felt an enormous bucket of joy wash over me and I attacked those bitches like white on rice.

I grabbed Yoo-jin and we all started kissing and feeling and tugging on things. I fucked them one at a time and took pictures of them tangled together. At one point I had Yoo-jin stacked on top of Sally in missionary and pumped Yoo-jin until Sally made a guttural moan and her paraurethral ducts squirted out an enormous puddle of vagina juice. Even in the heat of mad passionate primal lust Yoo-jin and I sort of turned to each other like, “What was that?”

I came all over their faces and collapsed into a ball of “there I did that.” They shot some more photographs and giggled as I sat there like a used condom. When it was time to go Yoo-jin asked what I was doing and I answered her by passing out. I asked her later what she thought of that night and she said I ruined the whole thing by not leaving with her. I tried to give a shit but it just wasn’t there.