Featuring Curtis Gwinn
Shit, I’m stressed out. This is probably the most stressed I’ve ever been. And stress is a constant in my life, but usually there’s some sort of break. Some sort of breather so you don’t drown in all the bullshit. I mean, what the fuck? When does it end? How will it end?
Dead Dick was supposed to be dead, and now, apparently, not only is he not dead, he’s the one who set up the setup. Is Shit Bird telling the truth? I don’t know. Shit Bird’s probably the biggest liar I know, but to lie about your dead lover not being dead… that would be a hard sell even for such a primo piece of fucking scum. Especially if the liar is weak-minded, and there ain’t no weaker mind than old Shit Bird’s. He’s impressionable, the type of guy you could persuade to blow a mountain lion that hadn’t eaten for weeks. He’s like that feather in that stupid Gump movie.
I tie him up and leave him in his cozy little bed. I might come back later to untie him. Might not. Depends how I’m feeling. All I feel right now is stress. I need some good ol’-fashioned good times. Some simple fun that doesn’t have anything to do with hustling or running. A safe haven. A place to think and release the worry. Only one place to do that: Shamrock’s.
Shamrock is the best. You can always count on him to brighten your day. A lot of people say this about their stupid fucking friends who they think are the funniest thing since Milton Berle’s cock, but I mean it. Shamrock is fucking hilarious. Everything the guy says leaves me on the floor. I almost can’t handle it, but you bet your ass I wouldn’t give it up for a gazillion rim jobs.
I grow excited as I drive. Ain’t nothing like good friends. They’re about as hard to come by as a hooker who don’t charge you extra for clampin’ her nips. The other thing you need to know about Shamrock is, he’s one of the most loaded guys in town. He started out doing everything all of us assholes do. He hooked, he robbed, he might have even popped a few junkies who didn’t pay up, but after that he did it smart. He invested. That’s what I should have done. But I’m a fucking idiot. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be getting into messes all the time.
I pull up to Shamrock’s, get out of the car, and knock on his door. It opens.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Toupeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Shamrock doesn’t disappoint. Gives me a Grade A hug. I’ve never been one for physical affection, but when Shamrock grabs you, you feel like you’re the king of the universe. Fuck, it feels good.
I start to give him the lowdown on my toils and troubles. He laughs: “Aw, there’s always something with you.”
There he goes again with that good ol’ Shamrock wisdom. He’s right, but he doesn’t say it in a way that makes you feel like a turd. He makes you realize we’re all turds dropped from the same ass, and we’re all headed toward the same sewer.
We immediately start cokin’ it up and out, and it feels good. It feels right, like friendship. He pukes in the pool. Anybody else did that, I’d think they were a complete piece of shit. Not Shamrock. He pukes and it’s like he’s God and he’s making it rain.
“Aw, there’s always something with you,” he says again. He’s right. There is always something with me. I’ve always had some problem or other. Something’s always fucking wrong. I’m so tired of it. I want shit to be right. I want things to be good. I want my life to be like Shamrock’s.
So I decide right then and there that I will end all wrongs, solve all my problems. I’m going to find Dead Dick—that is, if he isn’t dead. And if he isn’t dead, and he really did set me up, I’m going to make him fucking deader than any Dead Dick has ever been dead before.
Shamrock gives me another hug. Feels even better than the first one.
“You’re fine, Toupee,” he says. “You’re more than fine. Hell, I wouldn’t let you in my house if you weren’t fine. I don’t hang out with losers. I only hang out with the best and the brightest. And you’re the best of the best, and the brightest of the bright. Free yourself, Toupee. Free yourself.”
Soon I’ll be free. I’ll be free of the past. I’ll be free of who I am. I’ll be the freest fuck that was ever free. As soon as I show them that they are nothing, as soon I put them into their most attractive state. I’ll kill ’em all. Every last one of ’em. And then… poof. No more problems.
Check here for previous installments of Toupee, Brett Gelman’s novel about baldness, disgusting depravity, and being on the lam.