Buried Treasure and the Electric Hickey

September 21, 2008 at 3:27 pm (Clairissa, Sweet sticky things, The Easy Chair)

I’ve been keeping occupied this weekend. While ‘productive’ would be a stretch, I’ve been busy tying up loose ends, conquering little problems. Trying to have a little fun in the meantime. It can be a fine line between fun and frustration, and I encountered lots of both.

My original ‘Thing to Do’ this weekend was to see the new Coen brothers movie. The perfect time? Friday afternoon, two hours before the paychecks drop. I can see the film, swing by the office, get my check and beat the 6 PM deadline at the bank. I scurried to get ready and hustled to the bus stop. Waited. Waited. Waited some more. Motherfucker. Even if the bus came, I wouldn’t get there before the film started. I hate not seeing the beginning of a movie. “Piss on it!” I declared to the barking dog on the other side of the fence at the bus stop.

I retreated momentarily. Went back to the house, e-mailed a co-worker and we met for coffee. While we waited for payday, we talked work strategy. (Sacrilege, since we weren’t getting paid, but WTF…) Plunked my check into the bank, and was heading for the bus home when I received a text mesage. It was Chuckles. He was in the hospital, and could I pick up his check for him?

Back to work…

I scored his check, tucked it into my backpack and headed home. I called Chuckles. “We’re in the money, we’re in the money…” singing to the jingle the lottery terminal plays whenever you win something. “I got an extra check this week! It says Charles on it…”

“Funny, motherfucker.”

“So, is it strippers or steak for me tonight? What the hell! I can afford both!”

He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

“What you want me to do with all this cash?”

He stammered, “I have a huge, HUGE favor to ask. Are you near a First United Wells Fargo Washington Bank?”

“I bank with them. Why?”

“Could you PLEASE endorse my check, fill out a deposit slip and put it in my bank account? They won’t ask for ID if you’re just depositing. I’ll owe you forever! I have prepays coming out Monday, and they’ll all bounce if I don’t deposit my check!”

I made him sweat a little, then said okay. Nothing like a little forgery to perk up the weekend. Since the easiest open bank to access on Saturday was near Clairissa’s, it gave me an excuse to swing by the shop. I’m always looking for excuses to swing by the shop.

Her eyes lit up when I walked in. Daddy the dog has been staying at home, so I got no big slobbery kiss on the leg, but I did get a moist, tasty kiss a bit higher up from the lady of the house. “What are you doing over here? Need a place to stop and have a quick drink?” She winked as I pulled out a screw-top bottle of Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi.

“Yup, going fucking crazy, I am.” I took a swig, and retreated to the porch to confess my crimes to Chuckles. His money was safe, and I’d drop his pay stub off when he got back to work. I took the stub inside, and went to put it into my backpack. Clairissa had a short list of clients on deck, so leaving wasn’t an option, but she suggested that if I wanted to hang out and watch the fun, I’d be most welcome.

My backpack has been needing attention for a while now. I stuff stuff into it, forget about it, and then wonder why the damned thing weighs a ton. It was about half an hour until Clairissa had a break, so no time like the present, right? I started pulling stuff out; one pile for the garbage, one for freebies. I had newspaper inserts, dining guides from two years ago. (Back when I went out to dinner a lot with a certain girl. She likes fresh and new, and the best defense was a good offense, so I kept up on the new places. Damn, I miss her at dinnertime…) I pulled out a copy of Games magazine from August 2006. I wonder how many frequent flier miles this thing has on it? It’s been everywhere I’ve been since then.

I offered it to Clairissa. “Ooh, I love these! May I?” Draping her leg over mine sealed the deal. My defenses turn to mush when hot girls rub up on me.

I kept digging, and found a yellow plastic pill bottle in a recessed compartment. What the hell? I shook it, then looked inside. My name was on the script. Holy fuck Batman! I’ve been carrying around five Vicodin for HOW LONG?

Clairissa liked the puzzle book, but her eyes really lit up when the pill bottle rattled. Since she was chasing hers with PBR, I gave her two and took the other three. Evidence destroyed. Buzzy buzz buzz. She had a dye job to conquer, and I had a buzz to catch.

Hopefully, PCS 2 (and delivery thereof) will be the last two felonies I commit this week. Makes for a nice dessert after the forgery…

Once the brain candy kicked in, silliness followed. I cleaned my backpack, waxing nostalgic at the silver dollar from 1921. Mizelle and her first husband’s IDs. (Photocopies, not originals. I forget why I had those…) One of Clairissa’s GFs was watching. “What’s that?” It was my first aid kit; Band-Aids, butterfly bandages, etc… I stuffed the cigar tin full of condoms down low, hoping she wouldn’t inquire about those. (She’s a little more militant in her lesbianism than Clairissa, so I try to downplay the man/pig persona when she’s there.) I distracted her with my rubber chicken. Yes, I have a rubber chicken in my backpack. This brought a bunch of giggles from the girls. It takes talent to make dykes laugh at pecker and chicken-choking jokes. The PBR helped, I think.

While Clairissa’s GF rested under the hair-dryer in her tin-foil hat, Clairissa helped me create a new voicemail greeting. The last one was bondage themed, and people were beginning to suggest she untie me one of these days. I scripted some silliness, and she began recording it. The first take was good, but I thought we could do better, so I suggested she try it again.

She hit the button. “What’s your pass-code?”


“It wants your pass code. Here, enter it if you don’t want me to know it.” She handed me the phone. Somehow we’d managed to lock my voicemail. Since I have no security blocks on the phone, I’d better investigate.

I called voicemail. “Enter pass code.” Not the shiny, happy operator voice I’m used to. This had a ‘stern bitch’ tone to it. She will not budge until you “Enter pass code.” I powered the phone back down, then up again. Same thing: “Enter pass code.”

After trying a couple of usual digits, (I could have put one on during my last bender a few months back; crap!) I gave up. I’ll deal with it when I get home. But first, what’s this?

Clairissa had pulled out an electronic gizmo made of glass, and was showing it to the girls. It looked like a vibrator, only in a 1940s test-tube kinda way. She explained, “Before Rogaine or any of the other hair-restorers, they used this to stimulate scalp growth.” She turned to me. “Stick your tongue out.”

Blindly trusting, I did. She gripped the humming glass rod, and touched the tip of her tongue to mine. Mixed in with the soft sweetness was a spark similar to kissing a nine-volt battery, minus the sting. This was like an extra-French kiss, and stimulated more than hair growth!

“Stick your neck out…”

How could I refuse? She ran the tip of her vibrating tongue from my clavicle up to the back of my ear, ending with a short quick electric hickey. I swooned, and it wasn’t from the pills. “I need to sit down. My knees just turned to butter.”

“It’s low voltage,” she said.

“It’s not the electricity from that-” pointing at the gizmo “-that’s melting me…” I plunked onto the futon, horny out of my mind all of a sudden. But wait! There’s more!

She shut the curtains, flipped the CLOSED sign and locked the door. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s getting the rest of her haircut topless!”

The wifebeater and sports bra came off, and I decided I would remain seated on the futon until the end of time. Or until I could get up without embarrassment. As she rested a boob on each shoulder, she asked her GF, “Hey sailor, new in town?”

I know what kind of haircut I’m asking for next time I’m in town!

After a while, it was cool to get up again. The buses run infrequently on Saturday, so I had to make an early retreat. As the shop filled with girls planning for a night on the town, I gave my electric mistress a kiss on her bare back, packed up my rubber chicken and left quietly. Later, via text message from the bus, I thanked her for a wonderful afternoon. Blue balls and all…

*     *     *

And now? Time to figure out why my phone is being difficult. I called the mega-giant phone company to inquire. My previous conversation with “Juan”, (Juan with the Bombay accent) had yielded nothing, so I tried again. I got a cute gal with a southern drawl. Heck, I can unnerstand you’all! She gave me a hint as to my passcode; it was the simplest, most basic thing and I will be able to remember it. I checked, and it worked perfectly. Then she said the magic words. “Anything else I can help you with?”

I’ve been trying to get ringtones on the new phone, but kept running into obstacles. Even went to a bricks and mortar phone store, but the kid at the counter was dumb as a stump and more preoccupied with his Fiddy Cent mp3 than with helping me. Since I could barely understand “Juan” or “Linus”, I went with Southern Belle. I explained my dilemma.

“Its simple. The original owner of the phone has a web block on it.”

“Can we lift the web block, download my ringtones, then block it again?

“Sure! I’ll unblock it now, you do your thing, and call me back when you’re done.”

Sounds simple, huh? Welllllllll… I downloaded the first, then the second. I received a text message, telling me to click on the link.

Huh? There’s no link, just text.  I’d even meticulously typed the link into my web browser, to no avail. Fuuuck… Dialing tech support again.

“Due to call volume, your wait time will be five to ten minutes. Please stay on the line and your call will be taken in order.” BAD muzak. Bad…

“Allou? Thees is tech support?” Arghh. After much pantomiming (effective on a phone call, fershure) I got ‘Francisco’ to figure out what I was talking about, and that hitting “Go” on the options is the same as clicking on a link. Oh-kay!

A third call (“Due to call volume, your wait time will be ten to fifteen minutes…) verified that one of the links didn’t work, so I should try again.

I did. It worked. It fucking worked!

I called tech support. (“Due to call volume, your wait time will be fifteen to twenty minutes…”) I got the southern Belle again. She turned off the web feature, then told me, “You realize, since you don’t have the web plan, you will be charged three cents a kilobyte for downloading web pages?”

“Huh? All I downloaded was two ringtones! There were no web pages! How much did I just spend on fucking ring tones?”

“I don’t have access to your billing info, but it averages $2-$10 per download. You can check tomorrow on your billing info page.”

“Son of a bitch! Sorry for the cussing, I just thought something as simple as a ringtone would be a lot less hassle.”

Wisely, she didn’t try to upsell me like the kid at bricks & mortar did. (He’d have lost teeth if I’d gone through all this, just to be upsold.) She apologized, I apologized, and we parted friendly, although the Vicodin had worn off and I had a throbbing headache. But I had one more thing to do. I picked up the land line and called myself.

The haunting strains of Tubular Bells will be greeting my fellow bus riders. Text message? The Theme from Halloween will play. Ooh! Scary stuff, kids!

I just checked my bill, and if I read it right, the downloads cost a whole six cents. Phew. Had it been $10-$20, I’d resent it every time I heard it. Instead, I spent little, found a different way to kill 2-4 hours on a Saturday night, and have a ringtone unique enough that I won’t have to listen to my pocket every time a phone goes off on the bus. (Or hear an ice cream truck in the distance. Every time I get a text message, I crave a Big Ed.)

The best part? I’ve still got a full night of fun to be had. Work isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, and I still haven’t seen the new Coen brothers movie. Maybe I should dig through my desk and shake a few more pill bottles?

Nah. I’ll save that for next weekend…

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