The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (15 page)

Brock
and I stopped our hammering. Glares flew at Bryan from the rest of the crew
like he’d lost his mind. Not only was it unprofessional for someone in his
position to speak so rudely to a subordinate, but this was
Sheeta King,
for fuck’s sake. She was taking facials from Dobermans before he was even panty
residue! The woman was a legend and he was calling her out on something that
should’ve been handled behind closed doors after the scene.

Sheeta
popped Dave’s meat from her lips, the donkey braying loudly with
disappointment. She maintained her fortitude through the embarrassment.
“Oh...um...I’m sorry, Bryan. I didn’t know. The yeast infection went away and I
thought it was minty fresh.” She turned her head and spoke to me over her
shoulder. “Innis, honey, do you smell anything?” Her tone indicated that I come
to her immediate aid.

I
looked passed her profile to Brock’s sweaty, uncertain face. I gave an
inaudible sigh, hating myself for what I had to do. As much as I wanted to be
Sheeta’s knight in naked armor, this was my job.

“Sheeta,
I’ve had my dick in your asshole for half an hour, baby. All I smell is poop.”
Bryan was my boss as well and I couldn’t lie.

He
admonished Sheeta harshly in front of the cast and crew, firing her on the
spot. Brock and I saw the argument to come and quickly withdrew our members
from Sheeta’s cavernous holes, leaving her and Bryan to go at it like a couple
of rabid meerkats. Poor Dave wilted from the washout and he was led away to his
trailer.

***

Later
that evening, Sheeta barged into Dick’s office to talk to him about Bryan’s
actions, her black “GOD IS IT” t-shirt stretching over braless double D mams to
bend the white lettering. She was told, and I quote: “Well, Sheeta, he
is
the boss now. There’s not a whole lot I can do about it.”

Sheeta
was quick to educate Dick on his standing in the company. “Yes, Dick! There’s
literally
every
thing you can do about it! He’s your cousin and
you
own the place!
Help me out here!”

Dick
leaned back in his creaky restaurant chair and shrugged his shoulders with arms
extended, palms turned to the ceiling in forfeiture. “Sheeta, what do you want
from me? He’s Director of Dongs now. I have to back his plays. How would it
look to the rest of ‘em if I didn’t support his decisions? I’d have anarchy on
my hands.” He removed his wire glasses, leaning forward and setting them down
by a stack of papers. Cradling his right fist with the palm of his left, he
bowed and let the mass of flesh support his forehead. While staring down at the
month’s financial reports, he mumbled, “Besides, he’s family.”

That
panty-waisted bitch.

Realization
loomed as the truth fell from Dick’s smut-peddling mouth. Sheeta let her arms
dangle to the hem of her flowery mini-skirt, seeing it would be a meaningless
argument. Her shoulders slumped, the bottom lip quivered. “I can’t believe
you’re gonna hang me out to dry like this, Dick, not after all the ups and
downs we’ve had.”

Betrayal
never hit so hard. Sheeta had given her youth to dick for Dick. It was all
she’d ever known. Now, when she needed him the most, he was casting her out
like a pair of cracked assless chaps.

Fireworks
began to explode behind her eyes, the emerald ringlets blazing into circles of
heated rage as she realized what it all meant:

She
was on her own.

Sheeta
dug deep, straightened, clearing the ten feet to Dick’s desk in a few pounding
steps. Her pointing crimson fingernail was an icepick, her voice louder than
eighteen-wheelers in a head-on collision.

“I’ve
been with you since you were filming barely-legal runaways in the back of that
shitty Econoline van you used to have, motherfucker! When AIDS broke loose and
everyone else quit,
I
was the one who stayed and used the condoms with
strangers off the street! In ‘87 when you were about to go under,
I
was
the one who went hooking to save your ass! Do you really think I
enjoyed
being squashed by fat, sweaty lawyers who wouldn’t shut up about their damn
alimony payments?!

“I
thought loyalty counted for something around here, Dick! But you know what? Fuck
it! If you wanna take his side over mine, do it! But mark my words,
Wienersmashin”—stabbing her finger on the desk—“if you let Bryan stay in that
position, you won’t have anybody working here! He’ll either can them for
something stupid or they’ll get fed up with his bullshit and
leave!!
”

With
that, she stormed out of his office, crying inconsolably, grabbing her award
for Best Anal by a Cougar from Dick’s trophy case as she left. She marched to
the locker room, packed what little belongings she had on top her golden
memento, and hurried through the lobby to her Camaro in the parking lot. Sheeta
King was gone from Feisty Fista Studios forever.

Sheeta
had given twenty-five years of her life to Dick and his company. You’d think
her devotion would’ve forged a bond—if not personal, at least a strong
professional tie. But you’d be wrong. She was curtly dismissed without so much
as a severance package for padding.

To
add career insult to financial injury, Bryan grapevined the incident throughout
the city, embellishing aspects of the story, fabricating outright lies when the
mood suited him. He defamed Sheeta’s reputation so bad she couldn’t get a gig
blowing a leper colony.

I’ve
never forgotten my beautiful raven.

***

Big
and burly as he was, Bryan never attempted any of his browbeating with me. Not
that he would’ve gotten far had he tried. I’m fairly certain our unspoken
agreement was the crux of his hindrance: he didn’t pull his rhetoric and I
didn’t pull his arms off his fucking body.

Bryan
unleashed his tyranny one too many times. I drew the line when he suspended
Sabrina Sparkles for letting a drop of semen hit the ground during a swallow
scene. (Her male counterpart was known as “The Load.” What the fuck did he
think
was going to happen?) That was it for me. I went into Dick’s office and turned
in my resignation. When he asked me why I was leaving, I said that Bryan’s
domineering hand was too much to endure, adding that if I wanted mistreatment I
would’ve stuck to being a birthday clown.

***

Bryan’s
malevolence toward his people continued and Sheeta’s prediction rang true: it
got to where there was only one employee on the payroll—him. He’d fired a
majority of the stable for the most frivolous of violations. The ones he didn’t
run off cut ties because he was an unconscionable douchebag.

While
Bryan’s actions brought shame on the Wienersmashin legacy, the mismanagement of
his cousin’s company led to ruin in Dick’s wallet; he had no stars for his
movies thanks to him. Dick’s commitment to family had left him broke, in debt,
and a hopeless alcoholic who couldn’t even afford his own liquor. His beloved
film company gave a final curtain call when he filed for bankruptcy.

***

After
the fall of the Feisty Fista Empire, Bryan was reduced to swimming through the
seedy floor of Hollywood like a scum shark, always chomping for work but coming
up short due to his toothy character. His infamy followed him everywhere,
stalling his efforts to land roles even a beginner would turn down. In the end,
he lost his mind and screwed the pooch as only he could.

No.
I mean he actually put his dick in the Dachshund of a well-respected circuit
judge and was busted humping the poor thing in His Honor’s backyard. The last I
heard, he was in the Los Angeles county jail awaiting sentencing.

Damn,
Bryan. Even Hollyweird has its limits.

Let’s be honest: sometimes you don’t even give a shit enough about
your job to go in and give the boss a backhand for bothering you.
No matter
how many times that bastard calls the house seeking your whereabouts—waking up
that
beastly
one-night-stand in the process—you don’t even care enough
to invent a semi-believable story and lie to him like the flea-bitten bitch you
are.

“Why
does he need to know where I am?” you ask as you lie in bed staring at the
caller ID. “What am I, a fucking organ transporter? It’s not like my job is
that important.
Jerry
can wear the Chuck E. Cheese suit today,
goddammit.”

Your
soon-to-be jobless ass is not alone, my friend. Apathy nurtured by reckless
behavior has been the basis for shirking many a shit job ever since there were
jobs and the irresponsible shits who shirked them. It is commendable that
you’ve elected to continue that tradition in such fine slacker form.

I
mean, when you think about it, it’s not as if you had much of a choice, right?
Your abhorrent lifestyle has given you a
slew
of reasons not to go to
work:

You’re
hungover.

You’re
stoned.

You
need to get stoned to cure the hangover.

You’re
now hungover and stoned.

You’re
trying to figure out why that chick you brought home from the bar is standing
up to piss.

Dear God her Adam’s apple is huge.....

***

Point
is, fuck ‘em. You’re not going. And if they want to fire you for not calling in
then that’s their prerogative. You’ve had enough of being run into the ground
by a faceless machine. You’ve decided to stand up to the oppression by lying
down on your Tempur-Pedic mattress and getting so high you hallucinate
ambition. Aside from bursting in with automatic weapons, there are numerous
ways for a person to show that they give dog shit about their employment.

And
today, you’re utilizing
all
of them.

Now
you being a peon, your dispassion is understandable. If you’re not at work,
they’ll just find another simpleton to scrub the toilets and forget you ever
existed. What throws everything into upheaval is when the guy
in charge
says, “Fuck it.” By definition, the boss responsible for the decision making in
your department cannot exhibit carelessness, if for no other reason than
avoiding an unhinged employee trying to lance him with his erection like a
toothpick through
an
hors d’oeuvre.

Not
giving a damn about employee satisfaction can be as dangerous as wearing piranha
rubbers (or
rubber
, since you’ll never have to wear one again).
Hindsight being 20/20, an old boss of mine would probably agree.

If
he could talk.  

***

I
assume you’re familiar with the art of ballet.

I
know fuck-all about it myself. Couldn’t tell you shit.  

What
I
can
regale you with is the time I was wrapped up in a criminal
organization whose tentacles reached every corner of the globe. When I was part
of a vicious juggernaut that is still active in virtually every illegal
enterprise. A network ran by Men of Honor who made their living from scandalous
black-market activities—from human trafficking and narcotics sales to political
corruption and contract murder.

***

I
was at the top of my game as a celebrity bodyguard, sheltering such notables as
a still-bangable Pamela Anderson all the way to Brad Pitt when he was still
tackling meaningful roles, circa
Fight Club.
I took pride in my work and
enjoyed it thoroughly, as I met famous people who finally gave me respect for
my itchy trigger finger. Be that as it may, my last assignment had eroded my
affinity for the job.

The
contract had left me jaded, disillusioned. The client, being an exceptionally
spoiled and willful little wretch, had wrung me dry of my virility, leaving me
a shell of my former self. She incited mobs wherever we went, invited strange
men back to her home for syrup parties, and eluded me in public to go pull
trains in meth houses for days at a time.

Being
a chastity belt for a twenty-something Kim Kardashian was fraught with peril
because that slut made it im
poss
ible to adequately fulfill my duties.
The finale of that contract was like the welcome end to awkward drunksex.

I
abandoned my enterprise to seek personal fulfillment. Taking a cue from Conan
the Barbarian, Fred and I roamed the land seeking adventure and loose bitches.
Our journey led us to New Orleans where we found the good drugs and cheap
whores we’d always known were out there. I rented an apartment outside the
French Quarter, whiling away my time in the streets, loving every bit of ass
that seated my face. But still, I felt a hollowness that yearned for something
meaningful.

***

It
was winter in the Big Easy. Walking along the outskirts of Woldenberg Park just
after sunrise, I was approached by a gentleman in dark jeans and a black
leather jacket with hair of galvanized steel. The jagged white scar slashed
from the rim of his upper lip spoke of a once much-needed cheiloplasty. His
introduction said the name was Marco Poliona. Told me he’d seen me on one of my
walks the week before and had been occupying the wrought-iron benches every
morning thereafter, watching me as I trudged through. It was fact; the corners
of my eyes had taken him in, but I thought he was just a mugger scoping for a
mark (his stares hadn’t garnered concern from me
or
my .45).

He
made small talk as I smoked my large joint. It was colder than a dead man’s
dick and my eyes narrowed at his interruption. They slitted thinner when he
commented on my hefty size and asked if I knew how to handle wood. I began to
suspect he was hitting on me.

I’ve
seen
Cruising,
man. Pacino told me about the yellow bandana and I wasn’t
falling for it.

My
fears were abated when he revealed that he was a
Made
Man in the Italian mafia, a
Caporegime
in charge of a neighborhood crew
who was looking to add muscle to his throng of soldiers. My conjecture was
apparent when I queried him about the yellow bandana in his pocket. He laughed,
stating it was for a bug he was fighting. I relaxed when he used it to wipe his
nose, also relieved to find that his “wood” comment was an allusion to swinging
a baseball bat.  

The
air rolling off the frigid Mississippi bit my nuts as we spoke. I was freezing
and asked if I could have some time to consider his proposal. I’d meant in
terms of days. Marco gave me only a moment to mull it over.

It
was made clear to me that I had two choices: a) agree to his terms, or b) wind
up in an oil drum at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. He said it as slick as
reciting a grocery list.

What
balls on this fucking
dago.

I
gave the park a quick once-over. It was early—too early for tourists and
families with small children. No cops. The only people around were the hobos
sleeping on the benches and they wouldn’t care what happened next.

This
was New Orleans, man. They’d seen it all before.  

I
dropped my joint and slid my hand to the small of my back. He slid his through
the open zipper of his jacket, reaching for the shoulder holster.

The
cold air made my already-rough voice sound like Redd Foxx gargling broken
glass. “Marco, if you got plans for an oil drum, it better be big enough to
pack a fat man and a vengeful goat.”

Fuck
him. I wasn’t going to take a threat from anybody, especially some stranger
dripping of olives and Old Spice.

He
stood stock-still with his hand on the weapon and voiced his rationale. I
suppose from a criminal’s standpoint, it made sense: in under five minutes I’d
been made privy to sensitive information, and I couldn’t very well be expected
to walk around with it should I decline, nevermind that I hadn’t asked for
any
of that newfound knowledge.

The
tight grip I had on my pearl-handled 1911 pressed white knuckles into my spine
as we both held our positions by the water.

The
ridges of Marco’s eyebrows jutted forth like a Neanderthal’s. “So what’s it
gonna be, Innis?”

Ventilating
the skull of a mafia captain in the early hours of the morning wasn’t the way to
win friends and influence people, especially when those people were members of
a crime syndicate who’d seek revenge for the murder of their boss. The only
citizens I’d met since my arrival were the dealers on Bourbon Street, and if
this went south, I had nobody to turn to for help. Even if I ran, his crew
would track me; just because there was no one around to see it didn’t mean it
wouldn’t
get
around who did it. For no matter how bad a man thinks he
is, it’s impossible to wage a one-man war on the mob, even with a mentally
broken goat picking up the slack.

Against
every instinct, I cried uncle, dropping my hand back to my side. He slowly did
the same and jerked his head toward Cafe Du Monde. We walked side-by-side to
the open-air restaurant for beignets and particulars.

Despite
his threat of stuffing me in a metal container for eternity, Marco proved to be
a valuable instructor in the nuances of the criminal underworld, teaching me
the all but indecipherable codes of the mafia, and educating me in the history
of its many traditions.

He
also revealed himself to be a dastardly backstabber who got what he deserved.

***

The
son of humble Italian immigrants who owned a small cafe, Marco was given the
wet end of the breadstick the instant he slid from Mamma Mia’s pie. Besides
being born a club-footed, hunchbacked, twelve-fingered monstrosity with a
sneering hairlip, his parents were a couple of uneducated foreigners who’d
gotten their little bundle of horror late in life. Of course, none of that
mattered to the Polionas. Though Marco was an abomination before God, they
loved their son without question. Even so, their love failed to curb two harsh
truths:

One,
they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed; with Marco being their thirteenth
child, the financial hardship would be just too great. Two, their other
children were pretty thick; the Polionas were getting on in years, and couldn’t
bear
the chore of chasing another mental deficient away from the street
sweeper.

After
much praying, they came to a painful decision: they’d give the boy a better
life by any means possible. It wasn’t their first choice, but they could
swallow their emotions for little Quasimodo to have a brighter future. Still,
this ray of sunshine came with a dark side. It meant a change for the family as
well. They’d be forced to leave New Orleans, fleeing the urban swamp to avoid
reprisal from the authorities.  

This
wasn’t like casually giving someone a cigarette. Or the clap. They were gifting
a child to a stranger without overture. As far as the law is concerned—and my
father when the whiskey has flowed like wine—“that’s as wrong as two boys
fuckin’.”  

Choosing
the proper trustee for Marco would be difficult, for there were some factors to
consider: who would give him the proper guidance? Who would teach him to be a
man? Most importantly, who wouldn’t instigate a nationwide manhunt for the
family who “forgot” one back home? The answer came in the most unlikely of
benefactors.

On
a warm evening in July, a prominent figure in the community called in a large
order. The senior Polionas, bustling in the kitchen, froze in their tracks when
they read the customer’s address.

They
knew that address.

Everybody
in the neighborhood knew that address.

Mr.
Poliona shook the shock from his head and yelled the numbers to the rest of his
family who were working in different parts of the restaurant. The dim-witted
Poliona children dropped what they were doing, blank stares given to one
another in the dining room, the information slowly sinking into their
gelatinous brains.....

…..

…..

…..

…..before
setting the wheels of their plan into motion.

The
customer’s order was put together with extra attention to detail. The clan knew
this was the last meal to be made in their café, and their final dishes had to have
a punch. Mrs. Poliona slaved away over cast iron cookware. The men of the house
took to clearing out irate customers. Marco’s sisters gently bathed him in a
water bucket filled with lilac soap, preparing him for a new life with siblings
who didn’t forget they had indoor plumbing. After coating him in olive oil and
baking flour—Marco giggling as the flour tickled his hairless nuts—they
sheathed him in wax paper (I’m telling you, these children were
stupid
),
placing him next to the food in a handmade wicker basket made especially for
the occasion.