Monday, June 16, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 10c)

"Crocket," Christian orders, "bring the Weinermobile around."
     Thank goobers, for a second there I was afraid he was going to ask for the Batmobile.
     "Oh, Christian," I say, and giggle affectionately at his little joke, but when we get to the ground floor, dang if there wasn't the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked at the curb, like a hot dog waiting for its master.
     He holds the door open for me and I get in. Christian, always the gentleman, pretends not to notice the Weinermobile tipping in my direction from the added weight. Christian gets in from the driver's side, which makes sense since he is the driver, and the vehicle immediately rights itself from the more even distribution of weight.
     He puts a CD into the stereo system.
     "How 'bout that Slim Whitman," he says as the music roars on. "Did you know he's sold more albums than the Beatles?"
     "Really?"
     "Well, that's what it said in the commercial." He begins to sing. "I remember you-ooo!"
     I didn't know he could yodel. Is there not nothing this man can't not do? Wait, how many negatives is that? I think I'm okay.
     "Why me?" I suddenly ask the question that's been on my mind, stuck somewhere between the bratwurst and the polish sausage. "Why not just hire a prostitute to service you when you get your sick urges?"
     "I thought that's what I was doing."
     "Huh? Ah? Wha?"
     "You see, I care more for the produce I grow in my garden than I do for the produce I buy at the grocery store. I feel with you the kind of closeness you can only get in prison with your cell mate."
     I don't know what he just said, but I think it means we're going to eat soon. And we do.
     We stop at El Paso's world-renowned Chico's Tacos for an order of their specialty. A double order of rolled tacos in a tomato-y sauce and topped with a small mountain of cheese.
     "Can I have a hot dog, too, Christian?" I say, my stomach growling in agreement.
     "No."
     That's too bad, because their hot dogs are a specialty, as well. They're made using hamburger buns. Yum.
     As we sit down to eat, we engage in the normal kind of small talk that normal people talk small about.
     "Why are you such a pervert?" I ask him, sticking the rolled taco in and out of my mouth suggestively. Mmm... tacos.
     I take a sip from my soda. Hmmm, diet. I open four packs of sugar and pour the contents into my drink. I stir the soda carefully to dissolve the sweet granules without disturbing the amount of carbonation in my drink. Christian is saying something. I guess I should pay attention.
     "It all began with my father, I suppose," he confides in me. I look over at the next table. Hey! That girl got a hot dog. It looks good, too. No fair. I grab two more packets of sugar. "I was a mere lad of four or five, when I accidentally walked in on my father masturbating. I was shocked, needless to say, but my father, the loving parent that he was, saw it in my face, called me over and told me, 'Son, this is a perfectly natural thing for men to do, and you'll do it soon as well.'"
     "Because that's what boys do?" I ask.
     "Because his arm was tired. Growing up, I had the kind of good looks that attracted come-ons from my mother's friends. Unfortunately, her friends were Michael Jackson and Jerry Sandusky. If that sounds pathetic, let me assure you that it is. Getting women in bed has always been easy for me. I have the looks, the charm, the Vulcan nerve pinch. The problem has always been that these women then try to attach themselves to me the way that plaque tries attaching itself to my arteries. I'm on my third heart now."
     "Can I have one of your fries?"
     "No."
     After eating, we drive the rest of the way to my apartment in silence. What am I to make of this man and all that he's told me? Yes, I have a lot to digest. Not food-wise, one order of rolled tacos by itself does not a meal make. No, I'm talking about the information he just parceled out to me like a rich UPS man. More pieces for me to assemble into the picture that is Christian Grey. If only these pieces would fit as easily into one another as that vacuum handle fit into my hand. So much emotional dandruff, so easily brushed away.
     He dropped me off at the front of my apartment building.
     "I'd see you up," he tells me, "but I don't want to."
     The apple doesn't fall far from the womb.
     And he drives off.
     In his Weinermobile.
 
 
Fifty Shades of Satire
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