Читать книгу The Anti-Therapist - Keaton Albertson - Страница 4

One of the first patients whom I had assigned to me as a noob treatment facilitator was also one of the most sickening wankers whom I have ever had the misfortune to interview. Not only was this particular shit bag wading waist deep in sexual paraphilia, but he enjoyed his compulsions to the extent of convincing himself that his activities were normal and widely conducted by others, including myself. So it was, I began conducting sessions with this wretched man while being initially exposed to the perverse world of sex offenders.

~*~*~*~*~*~

COMMODE COMMUNION

KEATON ALBERTSON: Go ahead and have a seat there—anywhere is fine.

LENNY LATRINE: [quickly sits down in one of the chairs across from office desk and nervously glances about room]

KEATON: Do you know what we have to do today, Lenny?

LENNY: [focuses gaze upon facilitator] Yeah, you’re going to talk to me about sex stuff like last time.

KEATON: Right. But so far we’ve been talking about your current behavior. Today we need to talk about your past, including some of the things that got you here. Is that okay?

LENNY: Yep. Then I can take a lie test!

KEATON: Once you make a full disclosure of your sexual history then I will schedule you for the polygraph examination. But I don’t want you to rush through this stuff. It’s very important that we get it right. That way, when I present your report to the polygraph examiner, all he has to do is ask you if your account is accurate. You won’t have to go through the details again as long as you get it all out the first time with me.

LENNY: [grins widely and claps hands together] Alright! I can do that. Then I can get out of here, right?

KEATON: That part isn’t up to me, Lenny. That’s up to your judge.

LENNY: But he’ll listen to you. You can tell him I’ve done good.

KEATON: Yes, the judge will probably follow my recommendation concerning your length of stay in the treatment program. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. You have some pretty serious charges here. You’re lucky that you’re not in prison.

LENNY: I just got out of jail!.

KEATON: [leans across desk] I’m talking about something longer than two months, Lenny. The time you spent in there was a vacation compared to what the judge could have sentenced you for.

LENNY: But he wouldn’t do that. My judge is nice. He’s a nice man.

KEATON: That’s right. Your judge is a nice man. So we don’t want to make him upset now, do we? He’s ordered to you finish this treatment program. And a big part of the program is the polygraph. But I don’t want you thinking that this is the last step. The polygraph is the beginning of treatment, not the end. The information that we get from the test will determine what type of treatment you need and how long you stay here. Just because you pass the test doesn’t mean that you get to immediately return home to your family. Do you understand?

LENNY: [looks down at floor in disappointment] I guess so.

KEATON: Alright then. Since we’re talking about your charges, we might as well start there. Tell me about what happened at the store.

LENNY: Which time?

KEATON: The last time when you got caught. I believe that there was a police officer involved…

LENNY: Oh, okay, that one. Well, I was shopping with my parents and my sister. I didn’t really want to go with them but they talked me into it.

KEATON: Pause right there. Why did you not want to go to the store with them?

LENNY: [shrugs shoulders] I don’t know. It’s just boring. I’d rather stay home.

KEATON: You wouldn’t be bored sitting at home all by yourself.

LENNY: Nah-uh. I always find something to do. But my dad wouldn’t let use his computer so I decided to go with them.

KEATON: Why were you wanting to use your dad’s computer?

LENNY: [stares blankly forward with mouth gaping open] Play games. Look up stuff.

KEATON: Which games?

LENNY: You know. All sorts of games. Like, um, that farming game.

KEATON: You first heard about the farming game in group session. You were asking the other group members last week about it. You told them that you’ve never seen it before.

LENNY: Yeah, but there’s other games. I could play those.

KEATON: Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? You wanted to stay home and watch internet porn.

LENNY: That’s not bad! What’s wrong with pictures and movies?

KEATON: I’m just pointing out to you that you need to be honest about your thoughts and behavior. You did not want to stay home and play a farming game on your father’s computer. You wanted to stay home to look at pornography over the internet. So you were not being honest. And if you’re going to lie about something as minor as that, how do you plan to tell the truth about these other things that you’ve done—the much more serious things?

LENNY: Is my dad going to find out?

KEATON: Well, you’re a legal adult, Lenny. We can not give your parents any information about your treatment here unless you give us permission to. It’s confidential. However, since you’re going back to live with them once you finish the program, your parents need to be part of your relapse prevention plan. And it’s hard to plan for something that they know nothing about it. So as we progress further with your treatment I’m going to encourage you to talk about these things with your parents. Does that sound okay?

LENNY: I guess so. I bet my dad’s going to be mad…

KEATON: He might be. But you’ve done far more serious things than attempt to look at pornography on your dad’s computer. Don’t you think he’d be more concerned about those other things?

LENNY: Probably.

KEATON: Yeah, probably. Let’s get back to your story. You wanted to stay home to look at porn but your dad wouldn’t let you use the computer. So you decided to go with your family to the store. What happened there?

LENNY: My sister wanted to go look at clothes with my mom and dad. I didn’t want to go over there so I went to the bathroom instead.

KEATON: Did you really need to go to the bathroom?

LENNY: [looks away and begins to mumble]

KEATON: Lenny. Look at me. And remember to be honest. It’s important that we get this right. Did you really need to use the bathroom or not?

LENNY:[shakes his head]

KEATON: So then why did you go into the bathroom?

LENNY: To look at girls.

KEATON: You went into the women’s restroom.

LENNY: Yeah.

KEATON: And what did you do in there?

LENNY: I went into one of those stall thingies and sat down on the toilet.

KEATON: Did you have all of your clothes on?

LENNY: Sorta. I pulled my pants down a little bit so I could touch myself.

KEATON: Why did you masturbate inside the women’s bathroom? Couldn’t you do that just as well inside the men’s bathroom?

LENNY: I wanted to be where the girls were.

KEATON: You mean that you wanted to see girls come into the bathroom?

LENNY: Uh huh.

KEATON: And then what? What was your plan?

LENNY: Nothing. I just wanted to see them.

KEATON: See them do what?

LENNY: Go to the bathroom.

KEATON: Alright, so you were hoping to find a girl inside the restroom so maybe you could see her with her pants down?

LENNY: Yeah.

KEATON: And that’s it?

LENNY: I guess so, yeah.

KEATON: Help me understand something, Lenny. If a girl is in the restroom with her pants down, she’s probably in there doing some bathroom business, such as urinating or defecating. Wouldn’t seeing that be a turn off for you?

LENNY: But I like to watch them poop. That’s what I wanted.

KEATON: [befuddled expression] You wanted to see them… poop? That’s what you were looking for?

LENNY: Yeah. I don’t just want to see body parts and stuff. I want to see girls going to the bathroom. I like to see them shit!

KEATON: And what does that do for you?

LENNY: It makes me happy. My penis gets hard. Seeing a girl go poop is something I like very much.

KEATON: Alright, so when you went into the women’s bathroom that day, you were hoping to find a girl in there… pooping. But you weren’t waiting or watching. You said that you sat down on a toilet and started masturbating.

LENNY: Yeah, because that’s where they do it.

KEATON: You like sitting where other girls have sat before? Is that it?

LENNY: [smiles wide] Yeah! My ass touches the same toilet that theirs does.

KEATON: What were you thinking about while you were masturbating that day?

LENNY: A girl sitting in the same spot I was in taking a shit!

KEATON: I see. So how often have you done this? I’m assuming that your arrest that day was not the first time this had happened.

LENNY: I did it all over. There’s been lots of places but my favorite is the library. I like the library.

KEATON: Aren’t there younger girls at the library.

LENNY: Uh huh.

KEATON: Do you prefer to look at younger girls going to the bathroom instead of adults?

LENNY: Sometimes, yeah. Their poop is smaller.

KEATON: So you like smaller poop…

LENNY: Yeah. It’s easier to grab. And younger girls don’t flush that much so it’s better.

KEATON: What do you mean by ‘grab’?

LENNY: [motions with hands]You know, grabbing it. Picking it up.

KEATON: And then what…?

LENNY: Are you sure my dad’s not going to find out? I don’t want him to know.

KEATON: I think the last thing you should be worried about right now is your father’s feelings about this, Lenny. You’re telling me that you have been frequenting public women’s bathrooms to watch them defecate. And now you’re saying that you’ve been handling their feces. What for?

LENNY: Well, I don’t always find some every time. Sometimes they flush it away and the bowl is empty.

KEATON: You’re looking in toilets to see if they have been flushed or not?

LENNY: Yeah. But most of them are flushed already when I get there so it’s all gone.

KEATON: What about those times when you find some feces left in the toilet? What do you do with it after you’ve grabbed it?

LENNY: I just hold it in my hand and rub it on my boner.

KEATON: You masturbate with feces that you find in a public toilet.

LENNY: Only from girls, though. Not boys. That’s gross.

KEATON: So that day at the store with your family—did you look into the toilets then?

LENNY: Yeah. I always do. When I walk into a bathroom, I look into the toilets first. If I don’t find anything, I just sit down and touch myself and think about a girl going to the bathroom in there. But it’s hard to keep a boner without stuff. I don’t like using just my hand. So that’s why I like using their shit. I took some lotion one time and brought it into the bathroom with me but it wasn’t the same.

KEATON: I would think not. Most of these behaviors you’re talking about are taking place when you’re alone inside the bathroom. What happens when a girl walks in?

LENNY: I look at them.

KEATON: How exactly do you go about doing that if you’re inside a stall?

LENNY: I just stand on top the toilet and look over the other side.

KEATON: You wait inside the stall with the door closed. Then when a girl comes in beside you, you get up on the toilet seat and peer over the stall wall to see what you can see.

LENNY: Uh huh.

KEATON: And this is what happened in the store that day.

LENNY: Right. I was in there jerking on myself and this lady came in to shit. I waited for her and then stood up on the toilet. I looked over the side but she must have heard me or something. She looked up and saw me.

KEATON: What did she do?

LENNY: She just screamed and ran out of there. [laughs] It was kind of funny.

KEATON: After the woman left the bathroom, what did you do then?

LENNY: I went into her stall thingie to look in the toilet. There wasn’t anything in there. The water was just all yellow. [shivers] It was nasty.

KEATON: Surely you realized that this woman was scared. Weren’t you worried about getting caught?

LENNY: Not until the store lady came in to get me. She yelled at me and told me to get out. I did but then this guy started hitting me when I came out.

KEATON: That would be the husband of the woman who you spied on…

LENNY: Yeah. [laughs again] He was a cop too.

KEATON: [speaks while writing summary of disclosure] So you spied on a cop’s wife inside a public bathroom, attempting to watch her defecate and hoping at the end that she wouldn’t flush so you could masturbate with her feces. Is this correct?

LENNY: Uh huh. That’s about it.

KEATON: And you’ve done this same routine in many public places and stores but your favorite is the public library. Give me a range of how many times you’ve done this in total.

LENNY: Ummm…lots of times… about twenty maybe.

KEATON: Twenty times. And this last incident was the first time you’ve been caught?

LENNY: Right. This isn’t a big deal is it? Other guys do it too. When was the last time you touched on yourself in public?

KEATON: [stares at patient] Never. And this is not normal, Lenny. This is illegal and this is unhealthy. Other guys do not do this. You do it. And that is why you’re here, locked up.

LENNY: Oh. So maybe I should stop then.

KEATON: If you ever want to interact with other people and have a healthy relationship, yes, that would be a good idea.

LENNY: What if I did this at home? Is that okay?

KEATON: What do you mean—like when you spied on your mother or sister?

LENNY: Not really. I mean with my girlfriend.

KEATON: You don’t have a girlfriend, Lenny.

LENNY: I know that! I mean when I get one. Would it be bad to—

KEATON: —no, it’s not a good idea to spy on your girlfriend using the bathroom. And it’s also not a good idea to masturbate with her feces. Whether or not you’re dating the person doesn’t make it okay. And it doesn’t make it healthy. We’re talking about feces here. Did you know that there’s a lot of germs in your excrement that can make you sick?

LENNY: [shrugs shoulders] Can you get sick just from touching it or is there another way?

KEATON: Well, sooner or later you’re going to itch your nose or put your hands up to your face after you’ve held the fecal matter. And then those germs will come off your hands.

LENNY: So it’s unhealthy to have poo on your face?

KEATON: Yes, Lenny, that is an unhealthy behavior. Think of feces as toxic waste. It’s something that your body is getting rid of. You don’t need it any more. And if you introduce that waste back into your body, you’re going to get sick.

LENNY: Oh.

KEATON: What is it? Are you telling me everything?

LENNY: I just thought that maybe I could have my girlfriend… um… you know, do it to me.

KEATON: Do what do you? Watch you go to the bathroom?

LENNY: No. More like go to the bathroom on me.

KEATON: You want a girl to defecate on you?

LENNY: Uh uh. I was thinking maybe on my face or maybe on my dick. I saw some movies about it. There was a bunch of pictures on the computer with this guy lying down and this girl was shitting on his face. I thought it was gross at first but then I started to like it. I wish I could find that movie again…

KEATON: Is this the type of pornography that you’ve been watching on your father’s computer?

LENNY: Yeah. He found some of the pictures I saved and got mad. He said I was disgusting.

KEATON: So you’re not just looking at naked girls. You’re looking at pictures and movies of girls shitting on people?

LENNY: [nods head] Yeah, but they’re kinda hard to find.

KEATON: I feel like I’ve been having to really drag things out of you today, Lenny. I hope that future sessions don’t go this same way. I realize that this information is embarrassing for you to talk about but we have to get it right like I explained earlier. I want you to be more forthcoming about this stuff. I shouldn’t have to ask you for details with everything because if you leave out something, you’re going to fail the polygraph.

LENNY: But I told you what I did!

KEATON: Are you sure you’ve said everything? You’re not leaving out any details at all?

LENNY: Well, there is one thing maybe. But… I really don’t want to say.

KEATON: What is it, Lenny? I’m sure that whatever it is, it can’t be as embarrassing as masturbating with feces found in a public toilet.

LENNY: I didn’t just masturbate with it sometimes.

KEATON: What else did you do with the feces?

LENNY: I… um… sort of tasted it. But it was only once!

KEATON: You put the feces in your mouth?

LENNY: Yeah. [looks away]

KEATON: And once you had the feces in your mouth, what did you do then?

LENNY: [looks back at facilitator] I ate it—what do you think?

KEATON: You swallowed it.

LENNY: Yeah!

KEATON: You collected shit from a public toilet, placed it into your mouth, and swallowed it.

LENNY: Yes.

KEATON: Did you chew?

LENNY: Is the polygraph guy really going to ask me that?

KEATON: I’m asking you. Did you chew up the feces, Lenny?

LENNY: Okay. Yes. Yes, I did. But I only did it once.

KEATON: I’m going to write down that you only did this once. But I want you to know that if it’s more than that, you’re going to fail the polygraph. So are you sure that you want me to submit this?

LENNY: … no, wait. Put down… um.. maybe five times. No… no… make it like ten.

KEATON: Like ten or exactly ten? You can give a range.

LENNY: Alright, make it ten to thirty.

KEATON: So you’re telling me that you’ve done this more frequently than spying on girls in public bathrooms, which you told me you did twenty times.

LENNY: I’m confused.

KEATON: Just relax and take it easy. Let’s just get a range of how many times you spied on people first.

LENNY: Okay. Maybe like fifty times.

KEATON: And how often would you say that you found feces in the toilet and masturbated with it or ate it?

LENNY: About most of those times I guess.

KEATON: Alright. That wasn’t that hard, was it? [places down notes] We made some progress today. You’ve talked about some things that are very embarrassing. And that’s the first step. You did good, Lenny. We’ll pick it up again next week. But if you think of anything else you need to add to what you’ve already told me, write it down and bring it with you to next session.

LENNY: I can do that. But we’ll just talk about the stores and libraries and not my house, right?

KEATON: No, we need to talk about your entire sexual history. And that includes the holes you made in the bathroom door and walls to spy on your sister. We will also talk about you making holes in the shower curtain to spy on your mother. Everything. We’ll talk about it all.

LENNY: [sighs] This is going to take forever…

~*~*~*~*~*~

A few weeks into starting my first job as a treatment facilitator I realized that most of my coworkers were social retards. Of those who were not already undergoing mental health treatment themselves, there were many who were in need of immediate, professional intervention. One of the more well-adjusted individuals whom I chose to associate with outside of work was Gypsy, a burly, middle-aged counselor who prided himself on servicing the needs of many local women. Although I managed to get along quite well with Gypsy, our lifestyles were completely divergent, yet complimentary. Gypsy had lived a transient existence prior to settling down into a steady occupation, as he literally hitchhiked around the globe for the sheer enjoyment of learning about new cultures and interacting with foreign people. With the exception of my college years and my brief proselytizing mission experience for the LDS church, my exposure to sociological diversity was limited to the homogenous, cookie-cutter culture of Mormonville, Utah. Gypsy’s life goal was to save enough money so that he could live in a grass hut on the beaches of Sumatra and watch his multiracial children play in the ocean. My life goal was to become a professional gambler and to live out my days as a playboy bachelor. Gypsy was friendly to the environment; he ate raw potato skins, couscous, and organic foods. I despised hippies and ate maple-flavored bacon, usually one pound per sitting.

After working with each other for several weeks, Gypsy and I began hanging out after work. We visited the local comedy club, trolled for strange around the many watering holes in town, and frequented rock concerts together. During one occasion of our nightly excursions, Gypsy asked me if I wanted to join him and another friend of his to a trip to Boston to watch a world-class soccer match. I was not interested in sports of any kind but I had enjoyed my previous trips to Boston while visiting a high school buddy so I decided to tag along. The plan was for Gypsy and me to fly into Beantown, where we were to meet up with one of his old college pals, Sconce. The three of us were to stay at a local youth hostel, attend the soccer game, and then hit the city for a weekend night of fun.

When the day of the soccer event came around, our travel plans went off without a hitch. Gypsy and I met up with his friend at the airport and we deposited our bags at the youth hostel that we had chartered in downtown Boston. After introducing ourselves to our Australian roommates at the hostel, the three of us took a train out to Foxboro Stadium to attend the professional soccer game. It was there that the trip’s events started to deteriorate.

“How much do I owe you for my ticket?” I asked Gypsy, as we walked with Sconce up to the main entrance of the stadium.

“I’m not sure,” Gypsy replied, “I haven’t purchased them yet.”

“Say what? I thought you told me that you already had the tickets mailed to you.”

“They were all sold out,” Gypsy responded. “I didn’t have enough time to get them.”

The three of us trudged forward toward the entry gates, merging into the crowd that had congregated in front of the stadium. I quickly became annoyed over the present circumstance. “Well, uh, if we don’t have tickets to this here soccer game, why the hell are we standing in line to enter the stadium? No, fuck that. I want to know why you didn’t tell me that you don’t have any tickets before we got on the train to come out here. No, no, no, forget that too. Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t have the tickets before we got on the plane to come out here in the first god damn place?”

“Your friend is really uptight,” Sconce mentioned to Gypsy.

“Relax, Keaton,” Gypsy consoled me. “It’s all under control.”

“How’s that? We gonna jump the fence or something? I’m not sneaking in to see some fuckin soccer game. I don’t even know whose playing. It’s not worth it! I only steal shit that’s somewhat valuable. A gallon of milk, maybe. But definitely not a soccer game.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gypsy reassured. “We’ll get tickets.”

I became completely disconcerted with this statement. “How?” I asked my omniscient friend. “You said they sold out.”

“We’ll scalp some,” he replied.

“Did you know about this shit?” I asked Sconce. “Was this part of the plan to ride all the fuckin way out here to see a game with no tickets?” While I was awaiting a response from Sconce, I noticed that he was staring silently up at the floodlights that surrounded the stadium. I turned my gaze to follow his own, trying to decipher what he was looking at. “Is… is there something up there?” I asked him.

“Those must be upgraded projector lights,” Sconce replied. “Those are not stock flood lamps.”

Nonplussed, I looked back and forth between Gypsy’s bizarre friend and the massive floodlights that were positioned overhead. Seconds later, Gypsy stepped out of line and approached a tall man who was wearing a black, leather jacket.

“Can I help you?” the man asked Gypsy with a deep Bostonian accent.

“I hope so,” Gypsy replied. “We need three tickets.”

“Two hundred dolla’s,” the man replied.

“For three tickets?”

“This is America. If you don’t like the price, go fuck ya self.”

Gypsy eyed the man suspiciously and offered an uncomfortable laugh in response. “Well, you got anything cheaper than those two hundred dollar tickets?”

The scalper pulled out a fistful of tickets and began sorting through them. “I have others but not three in row,” he said.

“That’s cool,” I said to Gypsy. “I don’t have to sit by you guys.”

“Okay,” Gypsy stated. “I’ll take whatever you got in the middle rows behind one of the goals.”

“One-fifty,” the scalper announced.

Sconce and I gathered together our money and handed it over to Gypsy, who in turn purchased three tickets from off the Beantown hustler. With tickets in hand, the three of us filtered into the stadium and found our seats, mine being located several rows behind my fellow travelers.

I quickly became bored once the soccer game began. Players were running frantically across the soccer field, from one end to another, with no points being scored on either side. After sitting and watching the relentless action for over forty-five minutes I abandoned my seat and began wandering through the interior corridors of the stadium. An hour and six sodas later, the game was finished. I had not watched which team had won or what had taken place to achieve the victory. And I did not care. Being quite hungry, my only concern at the time was the acquisition of sustenance. After I met up with my two companions near the restroom area, we discussed our meal plans for the evening.

“So where do you guys want to go to eat?” Gypsy asked Sconce and me.

“I don’t really care, dude, I just need something soon,” I replied. “I’m famished.”

“What about you?” Gypsy asked Sconce, who was found closely examining the coiled bulbs that were lined along the top of a nearby vending booth.

“What’s up with your buddy?” I asked Gypsy. “Does he have some fetish for light bulbs or what?”

“He designs lights,” Gypsy replied. “That’s what he does for a living.”

“That’s real exciting,” I stated with a sarcastic tone. “I mean, I like bugs so I can’t say much but at least insects do cool shit like eat each other alive and parasitize their neighbors. What do light bulbs do besides hang in place and glow? My nuts do that.”

“He’s just checking out how they’re designed,” Gypsy stated in defense of his friend.

“Well, how many different ways are there to make a damn light bulb?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Hey, dude,” I called over to Sconce. “We’re gonna go eat. You wanna come with us or fondle those bulbs?”

Sconce looked away from his intense study of the illuminated coils and refocused upon the goings on around him. “Alright,” he said. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry too. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“I guess we’ll go find a place somewhere back in town,” Gypsy stated.

The three of us took the train back into the city. From there, we went on foot and quickly located an eating establishment not far from the youth hostel. The small diner was a typical burger joint that would have been at home near any university campus. Nevertheless, the meals were rather expensive in regard to their bland quality and the horrible table service that was offered from the waiting staff.

After we had finished eating, the server brought us a combined bill for our three meals. I counted out the dollars that were owed from my portion of the check and handed my money over to Sconce. I then immediately began plotting for our nighttime endeavors once the server had been paid.

“Alright, so check this out,” I said to Gypsy and Sconce. “I came out here a couple years ago when my friend was attending college just down the street. They have this great party district across town. There’s all sorts of bars and clubs. I went to this gnarly place called Axis. It kicks ass. There’s lots of fine trim in there but you have to meet the dress code to get in. So if we get on the T, I think we can take the green line and probably make it there by—”

“I don’t really feel like going out,” Sconce interjected. “I’m kind of tired. Sitting out in the sun sort of did me in.”

I offered Sconce and annoying glare. “You’re not going out? Well, what the hell are you going to do instead? I thought we had a plan…”

“I have a really good book back at the hostel.”

“A good book?” I asked. “It’s Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I was reading it on the plane over here and I couldn’t put it down. It’s a really good book.”

“It’s Saturday night,” I repeated. “In Boston. We’re in a major city on a Saturday night and you want to go back to the fuckin youth hostel to read a book?”

Sconce nodded his head sheepishly and looked away.

“Is this guy for real?” I asked Gypsy while thumbing at his lame friend.

“Well,” Gypsy replied, “you have to keep in mind that we’re a little older than you, Keaton.”

“So, you’re not dead are you?” Gypsy did not respond. Flummoxed, I looked between my two companions. I then returned my focus upon my coworker. “Alright, so your buddy here wants to go back to the hostel and read a god damn book. What do you want to do?”

Gypsy paused before answering my question. Then he said, “Well, I was interested in talking more with those Aussies.”

“The who?”

“Our Australian roommates. They seemed like some cool guys. I want to talk more with them.”

I started to become highly annoyed. “Hold the phone, wait a minute. Here we are. The three of us. It’s Saturday night. We’re in Boston. There’s dance clubs and hot snatch aplenty just across the way there. And you guys want to spend the night reading and chit-chatting with some douche bags from down under? Are you pulling my zucchini or what?”

The two momma boys in front of me looked away without responding.

“Look, we should probably go,” Sconce finally stated after a few moments of awkward silence. He then looked squarely at me. “Oh, and you owe me three dollars, by the way.”

“What the hell for?”

“For your part of the tip.”

“The tip? What the hell? You’re tipping that guy three bucks to bring over our hamburgers and be late with my swigs? I had to ask him four times to give me a refill.”

Sconce scoffed. “No, I’m not tipping him just three dollars. I already gave him nine dollars and three of that is yours. We each paid three dollars for the tip.”

“I didn’t pay him shit,” I asserted.

“I know,” Sconce said. “I paid him for you since there was a combined bill. Now you owe me your share.”

“Dude, our bill wasn’t even twenty-five bucks and you tipped that gimp nine dollars?”

“That’s right. He was a good guy. He seemed nice. Do you know what waiters make?”

“I don’t give a greasy shit what they make! If they don’t like the wages, they can go get another job. Look, man, let me explain something to you. Generally speaking, I don’t tip a motherfucking dime. But, when and if I do, two conditions must apply. First, the service best be above and beyond the norm. That means, whoever my server is, they best be Johnny on the Spot with my swigs. If I have to ask for refills and whatnot, no tip. Second, my server best be a female and she better be cute—preferably with large cones. If she’s not hot, I’m not tipping. Our server was a dude. And he sucked balls. I had to ask for refills. That means, I ain’t paying you or him dick.”

“You owe me three dollars,” Sconce maintained. “I already tipped him.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You already tipped him. I didn’t. You assumed that I would agree with your bullshit tipping philosophy and I don’t. Your mistake, pal. Take your three bucks and go buy yourself another good book to read back at the hostel.” I stood up from the table. “Now, if you homos will excuse me, I’m going to go clubbing. While you two are holding hands with the Aussie bastards and enjoying your faggot reading material, I’m gonna go bury my face into some of New England’s finest titties.” I abruptly turned and strolled out of the eating establishment, leaving the two wet rags moping in their mediocrity.