The Probability of Having Sex With Cindy and Mary Was Always Looming...

Part 12: Cindy Called. Butch was Back in Prison & She and Mary Needed a Place to Stay...

Moose and I had been hanging out on the Lauderdale strip for a couple of months, almost exclusively on the opposite side of the street from the spring breakers, who had just recently descended on the strip. We knew we didn't stand a chance with college girls, but where we were parked, the sidewalk was always stocked with a steady flow of local talent that only wanted hits off a joint and a ride on the back of a motorcycle. It was easy gettin' them on the bike and back to the house; the real challenge was getting them to leave in the morning…  

The house was a typical Florida ranch: a concrete single-story two-bedroom with a slab foundation, a low-pitched, clay-shingled roof, a narrow single-car garage, and in the backyard, a thick concrete patio and one orange and one grapefruit tree, which, when we were flat broke became breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The Florida grass was dry and prickly, and the small shrubs were full of tiny lizards that were weird-looking but harmless.  

There wasn't any air conditioning, but there were Jalousie windows throughout. They're crank-out windows made up of multi-panels of parallel glass louvers that could be easily adjusted to let the perfect airflow into the house. Between the concrete construction and the Jalousie windows, the house was always comfortable.

We rented the house completely furnished down to the sheets and silverware. There was even a two-slice toaster left on the kitchen counter.  

The house had two good-sized bedrooms at one end, one in the front and the other in the back. There were full bathrooms just outside each; the front included a multi-colored tile shower stall, and the back had a full-size, blue cast iron tub.  

The formal living room was in the front of the house, next to the front bedroom. It had an orange, L-shaped couch, a rectangular wood coffee table, and a strange-looking orange, textured-glass funnel lamp that was hung on a brass-plated chain. The living room flowed into the dining room, which was at the back of the house. It had an oval-shaped wood table and matching chairs under a cheap chandelier with a rattan shade.  

There was a small den squeezed between the kitchen and dining room, separated only by the off-white Formica peninsula of the L-shaped kitchen counter. A small console TV was pushed up against it. The room had a matching retro-looking couch and loveseat set that faced each other and a leather reclining chair in the middle of the room that became an obstacle when making drunk runs to the bathroom. The den was where we hung out the most, and the recliner was the best seat in the house.   

There was a door at the far end of the kitchen, next to the electric stove, that led to the garage, where we kept the bikes and my weights. A brand-new washer and dryer were in the back of the garage. 

The front entrance to the house opened into the living room at a ninety-degree angle and from a very small concrete stoop with one gliding aluminum chair. At night, we could hear it gently swaying in the breeze. The next-door neighbors told us that was where the owner's husband spent his days, and when people walked by and asked, "How are you doing?" he simply replied, "Any day now…" 

After he died, his wife moved in with her daughter, and we became the first to rent the house. 

Moose took the front bedroom, and I took the back… 

I had become a big fan of Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan, and Lou Reed, and not because of their commercial successes, but because they were all poets. Just after graduating high school in '74, I bought poetry books written by each, and I read them from cover to cover, over and over again. That's when I started writing poetry that was heavily influenced by them. 

Once we were settled in the house, when I wasn't drinking, smoking weed, or pumping iron in the garage, I started writing again. I was internalizing everything, and writing about it helped me maintain some sense of sanity.

I taped my finished poetry to the wall above my bureau so I could read it whenever I wanted. Writing poetry helped me stay grounded, or at the very least, it prevented me from spiraling out of control.

With Butch back in jail, a member of the bike gang he belonged to dropped Cindy and Mary off in a faded green Econoline van. To most, the sight of two good-looking girls, one with huge cans, carrying their suitcases into your house would be a good thing, but I had a different feeling about their arrival. Sure, the probability of having sex with them was always looming, but at what cost?

John had been sleeping on the couch in the den, and now that the girls were here, where would they be sleeping?

Things were about to get very complicated…

Time to live
Time to lie
Time to laugh
Time to die

Take it easy, baby
Take it as it comes…

To be continued…

*All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental…