Heaven and Hell: Forever Our Spot

January 27, 2009 at 2:47 am (Clairissa, Sweet sticky things)

It was a wonderful weekend. I dined out, and had a full social plate as well. I spent time with no less than three lovely ladies, survived a snowstorm and barely slept until Sunday night.

Sounds fun, right? It was not without its risks. I fed an ear to the hound dog from hell, and got stabbed in the eye with a pitchfork for my efforts…

It all started off Saturday with a trip to Raven’s, to drop off a VHS copy of Cecil B. Demented for her late-night amusement. What started as a hit-and-run visit turned into a pry-myself-away conversation which I hope to continue later. Cerebrally amused, I moved on to my next stop; meeting an old friend for dinner. (Sorry, not a Hannibal Lecter reference about the severed ear. Wait for it…) We went to an old-fashioned Italian joint, where I had a marvelous calzone while she consumed dirty martinis and Fourplay wine. Gotta love a restaurant where the lady orders foreplay before dinner.

Sunday night was my dinner date with Clairissa. We’d been building up to it for a month, and the night finally arrived. The ARCTIC BLAST left snow on the ground, so I declared school closed, canceled work and spent the night at my friend’s house. (Good thing everyone listened. My powers only work on weekends.) My daredevil friend had a hankerin’ for meat, so we braved the turgid tundra and drove out to Gartner’s on Killingsworth. They had glorious looking pork chops, so I procured dinner for Monday, resigned to the fact that I’ll be hauling pork chops wherever I go. Sigh.

Then I saw the sign: In-house jerky, $16 a pound.

Clairissa is a funny girl, and as you’ve probably deduced, more of a tomboy than most of the girls I run with. She told me a long time ago, “Don’t bring me store-bought flowers. I’m not into candy either. If you love me, bring me meat!”

I ordered up a half-pound of jerky. That’s when I saw the pig ears, a whole basketful on top of the meat counter. I picked one up, clacked it against the glass. I could see the veins in its translucence. I wondered if Daddy would be impressed? For a buck and a quarter, let’s find out.

I’d bartered a ride to dinner in exchange for my friend getting a haircut, but hadn’t asked Clairissa. My friend is a client of Clairissa’s and sends lots of business her way, so I made assumptions. If Clairissa charged her, I’d buy gas.

We showed up about 5 PM, and the shop was full. A client was leaving, and two more were standing around, drinking Bushmills and passing the time. Nemo was there, I got a big hug before she disappeared into the back room. Clairissa started chopping down my friend while I pulled out my butcher paper-wrapped goodies.

“Oh Daddy… I should probably take a picture of this before he figures out it’s-”

“Too late!” Clairissa laughed. Daddy was front and center, his eyes glowing and chops licked. He knew…

I dropped it onto the floor, where it clattered like a plastic saucer. He pounced upon it, gave it a couple of crackly chews, and hopped up onto the futon next to me. He was occupied for a while.

My friend pulled out a check. “How much do I owe you?”

Clairissa waved her off. “You’re giving us a ride. And I wasn’t gonna charge you this time anyway.”

“But I’ve already written out everything but the amount,” she protested.

“Okay, make it for $6.66. I’ll keep it forever. Don’t record it.” It now has a permanent spot in her Hall of Fame, probably close to the picture of me with the Devil horns…

Haircuts done, shop closed, it was time to go. I didn’t want to haul pork chops wherever I went, so my friend drove us to my house. I ran into a gas station and bought Clairissa a six pack of PBR. I offered her that, along with the jerky. “Aww… he knows me! I told him never to bring me candy, always bring me meat-”

“Yeah, he told me,” said my friend.

“See? You’re getting a seven-course meal before we even have dinner.” The jerky went into an inside pocket, and soon we were at my house.

Clairissa has been to my house before. My dog goes whacko when she comes over, partly because of the Daddy-scent, but mostly because Clairissa lets her jump on her. They rough-house and share rambunctious doggy love. We escaped to my room, Clairissa with a tall-boy and me with a Diet Cherry Coke. Wild night ahead!

“Where’s Freddie?” she asked. I pointed to the mantle where our love child/dead frog sat quietly.

As she looked at my collection of random nick-nacks, I had a thought. “Stand on my bed.”

“Boots and all?”

“Boots, yes.” I let the sentence hang, hoping she’d take the hint. As I dug out my Devil’s pitchfork from behind the easy chair, she peeled down to wife-beater and sports bra. I handed her the pitchfork and she stood, looking over my collection.

I pulled out my camera, turned, and she stabbed me in the left eye with the pitchfork. “AAH!” I said, or something like that.

While I was busy checking for blood, Clairissa was laughing and trying to apologize at the same time. “Are you okay? I was trying to stick it in your ear and you moved!” There was no damage, but she rubbed my cheek and kissed me right on the eyeball. *That* was an interesting sensation.

“I want to see your baby pictures,” she said. I dug around, but couldn’t find my oldest pics. I found the little photo album of Clairissa, and showed her my stalkings. “I’m charmed! I get my own photo album?”

“You should see what I have on my computer…”

She pulled out her shirt and looked down. “I’ve seen ’em.”

I found a couple of photo albums, and we sat on my bed as I reminisced, showing her glimpses of my past. She was kind when my fat pictures came up, merciless when a mullet photo would appear. “Dude, you would NOT have left my shop with that hairdo. I would have held you at razor point until that shit was gone!”

I did kinda look like the teenage son on Squidbillies.

After a couple of beers and cozy conversation, it was time to go to dinner. BIL gave us a ride to Our Spot, a bar off 82nd that reminds me very much of the bar in Pulp Fiction. As we drove past the front, I saw what looked like a tarp lying in the gutter in front of the place. “Look, a dead body!” I joked.

Turns out it wasn’t dead.

As I pulled open the door for my lovely date, we heard a moan. I looked over at the ‘tarp’ and instead saw an older man in a leather jacket with blood running from the corner of his mouth. He was powerful drunk, and reminded me of a zombie worthy of George Romero. A concerned passerby asked us what had happened, but since we knew nothing, and she seemed more concerned than we did, we left her to tend to him.

Inside, the bar area was quiet. Several booths were open. “Where do you want to sit?” I asked her.

“You pick.”

I chose a booth halfway toward the back, with a view of the bar, the door and the bathroom. It was 82nd, and shit happens. I want to see whazzup.

“I knew it! My dad picked the same booth, and this is where we sat last time we were here. Have you been here with anyone else?”

“I came here once, to get a shot of whiskey and use the bathroom while waiting for the bus. As to dining, I’ve only been here with you.”

“Aww, this really is *our* spot?”

“Yes it is.”

Our waitress was a nice old gal, someone you’d expect more as a greeter at Wal-Mart than a cocktail waitress in a seedy Felony Flats bar. She referred to Bleu Chesse dressing as Roquefort, walked like her feet hurt, and knew her stuff with margaritas. She hooked up Clairissa without IDing her, which gave me something to tease her about. As Clairissa sipped her drink, we heard the story of the bar fight that led to the old man on the sidewalk. Cops and firefighters came and asked questions, all to a soundtrack of Kiddie Karaoke in the background.


The rear lounge had been taken over by tots, and I learned things about Clairissa that I’d never known. For example? She knows the entire catalog of Shania Twain songs. (Growing up country has its pluses and minuses.) I looked at her blue hair and tried to keep my head from exploding. She told me the story (again) of how she ended up in Portland, and the sweet story of the tattoo on the back of her neck.

We reminisced, holding hands across the table. I hadn’t realized how much of a sounding board I’d been for her. As the reality of us no longer being an hour apart settled in, the puddling began. I lost count of how many times she said, “I’m not gonna cry…” I didn’t cry, but I feel it building. I predict a breakdown of massive proportions coming; I just hope it’s not when I’m in public. There’s a storm rising…

The steaks came, large blood-oozing slabs. She picked at my shoestring fries, lording over me that she’d gotten mashed potatoes and gravy. We made lascivious comments about me dipping my fries in her gravy-hole, shared bacon bits from the green bean side dish, and she finished just before me. She recited our order, committing it to memory. I’ll bet she tells me what we had many years from now.

There’s no way she would not have won this race. I wanted this date to never end.

We said goodnight to our kindly waitress, and went out into the cold. Her bus zoomed past across the street, so our parting was postponed for a moment. Nemo had been calling, and Clairissa wanted to get home to do damage control. Seems I’m not too old to inspire a little jealousy!

We walked past a strip joint. “Wanna go inside? I’m buying!”

“Nah,” I said. “Maybe if I hadn’t spent most of the last 24 hours in bed. I’m pretty used up tonight.”

“Too bad. Strippers love lesbians.”

Since I had half an hour until my bus, she accompanied me to the grocery store across the street. As we stood inside by the cashiers, I tried to finagle another ride from BIL while she toyed with me. Suspicious eyes watched us. She put a finger up my nose.

“Are you picking on me?”

“On you and in you, baby.”

“Stop it, you’re giving me a boner!” Guess I wasn’t as spent as I thought. I moved away from watchful eyes to the hardware section. (Aptly named.) She made little bulges in her pants, rubbing up on me. She teased me as I bought bananas and apples, and played with my ass as I checked out. (I’m guessing I was beet red as I stepped away from the register and she snapped my waistband.) She butt-bumped me all the way out the door, and I told her of my adventures shopping in clown makeup a while back.

I’ll be remembered at this store for a bunch of interesting behavior…

We went back to the bus stop in front of the bar. She called a cab, and I waited for the bus to my house. The wind howled, and she stood close to me. I wrapped her in my hoodie, and she was quiet. I tipped her chin up and saw the tears. I kissed a fingertip and touched her nose. (Outside.) “I’m gonna miss you,” she said.

“I’m going to miss you more than you’ll ever know.” I pulled her close, and felt two familiar bumps against my chest. “And I’m gonna miss your boobs.”

She laughed and wiped an eye. “It’s not like you don’t have enough pictures of them.”

“I’ll never have enough pictures of them.”

We stood in the cold wind, cuddling quietly. Soon the cab came, and I held the door for her. We kissed again, soft and sweet and lingering. I closed the door and watched her pull away. I couldn’t tell if she was looking or not, but I made sure she saw I was waving. I hope and pray it’s not the last time I see her.

As the cab lights disappeared, my bus came and it was time to go home. The bleeding bum tried to get on the bus, but couldn’t stop vomiting long enough to board. Thankfully the driver left him there. The bum will purge the evening much sooner than I will.

And now? Clairissa said at one point, “You’re going to have to replace me, you know. You’ll meet another freaky girl who’ll fill your thoughts and make you horny.”

“You will never be replaced. I will find other things to write about, but you… will…not…be replaced.”

She smiled, puddling again. “Of all the people I’ve known, loved, slept with, you’re the only one who has written about me. I’ve been fucked, drawn, painted on, tattooed, but nobody has ever written about me. That makes you, makes us, special.”

“That’s because you are special, very special to me. I’m going to go crazy without you across town.”

I’m left with a very full feeling in my heart. As the reality of her not being there anymore sets in, the dark days will come. And they will go. Then? I’ll get a call or a text, telling me she’s coming to town and where to meet her. I will meet her with a sixer and a bag of jerky, I will get hugs and kisses and rub up on those glorious boobs.

It’s not goodbye, it’s so long. And we’ll always have Our Spot to go to…

1 Comment

  1. windbreaker said,


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