Chapter 14
BOYZ ON THE HOOD
I was beginning to worry. I wasn't recognizing anything, and I had no idea where we were going. I felt a slight paranoia coming over me, but I made a conscious effort to hide my apprehensions, after all, if I was being kidnapped, I couldn't have picked a better kidnapper than the eye candy sitting next to me.
We had been driving for nearly 20 minutes, making small talk and listening to music, and the further we drove the more relaxed I was becoming with my Latin chauffeur. Not only was Herman incredibly gorgeous, but he appeared to be very intelligent and had a quick wit. In the coarse of our conversation I discovered we had several things in common: like me, he loved to play racquetball then cruise the showers; his favorite music was heavy metal; he pre-ordered his Guitar Hero Metallica for XBox360 at BestBuy; and we both grew up going to Catholic schools, so it's suffice to mention we both had experienced, first hand, the tormented wrath of a bitter old nun's scorn--plus, we were both attending the same university. He was majoring in media communications, and hoped to eventually move out to Hollywood.
Meanwhile, I was adoring his deep, thick accent and found myself asking him things just to hear him talk to me.
I finally realized where we were when Herman took one of the university exits getting off the freeway. Within minutes we were pulling into one of the parking lots at St. Luke's medical center. It was a well lit area on the east side of the hospital campus. The street lights gave me a much better insight into the supple intricacies of my driver's appearance, and I could see he was wearing flannel pajama pants with little pictures of Sponge Bob Square Pants all over them and a pair of steel toed construction boots with ridiculously long laces left untied, randomly laying about the floorboard.
Earlier on the freeway I noticed he had a tattoo across his abs, but now in the light I could see it was a word. Only the first two letters were visible from the side; I saw an 'R' followed by an 'I' spelled out in the fancy regalia of Old English lettering. I leaned forward trying to get a better look.
"So what does your tat say?"
Preoccupied with trying to find an empty parking place, Herman replied, "It says, rif" swiveling his torso enough to give me a full frontal view.
It was all in capital letters, and although it was spelled without periods separating each, I assumed it was an acronym for something. Impulsively I reached my hand out to touch it.
"Mmmm, nice...Tattoos are so sexy." I exclaimed, with the flirtations elegance of a two dollar whore on dime night--tracing each letter with my finger tip, I was impressed at how solid his abs were.
"Which stands for?"
He seemed a bit confused with my lazy vernacular. Realizing something in my question had gotten lost in translation, I quickly rephrased, "Does 'rif' have a special meaning for you?"
This time my words made sense and he smiled, "Ah, si, yes. It is initials of the businesses I own. It is guitar hero reference too, no? Oh, I see empty spot!" He yelled out, suddenly swerving the truck into a parking hole while spontaneously adding, "Weee."
Turning the engine off with an air of satisfaction, he lifted his right knee onto his seat, leaning back against the door to relax and bask in his accomplishment. Facing towards me and offering a wonder view of his crotch, he began to explain our mission; telling me we were there to pick up a friend of his that works at the hospital, and we also had to get a box that was supposed to be stashed inside a dumpster that was about fifty feet from where we parked.
Having arrived early, we were going to be waiting nearly half an hour, giving us plenty of time to retrieve the mysterious package before our passenger was to arrive. I saw at a glance the digital clock on the dash read 4:33a.m., but it seemed much earlier. We had parked in a nice, shadowy area under some trees. It was relatively dark and quiet, and although the parking complex was virtually full of cars, there wasn't a soul in sight.
I leaned back against my door as well. Herman's head was turned peering out the front windshield scanning the perimeter, so I took the opportunity to scan the unmistakable bulge in his pajamas--It was an impressive gift and I was tickled to notice the endowment was sporting a smiley, bug-eyed Sponge Bob. Piercing the silence, I resumed our prior topic.
"Guitar riff? Sure, I see that, and it certainly gives off a heavy metal vibe--makes you look bad."
"I am bad." He assured me.
"You seem totally bad." I pledged.
"I am." He stated, with a competitive snarl. "Bad."
"I can tell." I replied, and in a sick attempt to test his tolerance for the absurd I briskly added, "You are bad."
"I know this, that I am bad. You no have to tell me this." He claimed, clearly displaying his 'smart ass' side.
"I was just saying, so...we're done." I snapped, then determined to have the last word, I included, "You bad."
"Si, bad I am..." He instantly proposed, sensing I had a connoisseur's appreciation for his fine (albeit bent) sense of humor, then reiterated, "bad..." pausing momentarily before stretching it out one more time to finalize our juvenile exchange with an obscure Slim Shady reference, circa 1999,
"...if I wasn't, then why would I say I am, bad?"
I hollered, "Shut the fuck up!" in an attempt to shake his calm, almost robotic playfulness.
It worked and he flinched, erupting into laughter, "Ha ha ha ha, I win, no?"
"Only because you're BAD!, you crazy fucker." I blasted, then smiled contently, changing the subject to something more mature and constructive, "So what kind of business do you own?"
"I have two that I am owning, actually. I am entrepreneur. Is perk of being bad."
"So let me get this straight; you're the CEO of two companies and you're sitting on a parking lot in the middle of the night in your jam jams? And, by the way, I love that cartoon. Sponge Bob rules. So what do you make at these companies you own?"
"About two hundred thousand last year, but we are expanding operations that should triple profits. And, Sponge Bob IS God!" He proudly proclaimed.
"No, that's not what..." I said, making a mental note of how irresistibly attractive he was at that moment while simultaneously trying to conceal my immense enthusiasm at discovering his financial prowess--gorgeous, smart, fun, AND he's got a butt load of money! My shallow nature forced me into the development of a gianormous hard on.
"I meant; what does your businesses make--you adorable dork. And, I hate to rain on your parade, but Scooby Doo IS God, so Square Pants must be like a cherub or an angel or some shit. Sorry, but you had to find out sooner or later."
"Ha! I am only playing--I tease you." He boasted, with a charismatic confidence. "Please accept my apologies. And I own tattoo shop in Midtown, name the Rogue Ink Fux (or R.I.F.), just north of underpass on Sunshine and Ninety Third Street,..." I gathered each syllable as the words flowed and bellowed from his tongue with a slight chill like rose petals in a cool September breeze.
"...across from Dixon Brothers Pontiac and Nissan dealership." I was well aware that He was taking advantage of my undivided attention by including all the bells and whistles of a proper infomercial. Still, I hung on every word, hoping he could sense how badly I was trying to impress him with my listening skills, even checking for drool on my lower lip at one point. Had he asked for a Visa or MasterCard, I would have been hard pressed to deny him.
"...maybe you have heard of this? I put TV commercial for RIF on Channel 19 during late late show with Tank Zillion Jr. Ha, you know, that Tank, he is a funny man and makes me laugh, but you know who is not so funny? Scooby Doo. He is no funny at all...in fact, I would venture to say, Scooby Doo is a bitch."
Still trying to process his mini-rant and mentally select which tattoo to get first, I fudged my rebuttal, "Scoob isn't either a bitch, and what does your other company do? Pick strawberries?"
"Ho ho! You did NOT just go there sister! Don't make me to come over seat and kick your gringo ass." He playfully submitted, "And Scooby Doob is too a bitch, have you ever seen his dick? How he never wear some pants, yet I have no ever found his cock? Tell me this. He is obviously a bitch, no? I am the partner of production company for filming and distribution in alternative adult oriented entertainment."
I must have had a stupid look on my face at that point because he paraphrased it for me.
"We make dirty movies."
"Oh, I know what a production company does, I was just thinking how pretty your eyes are, and how good a cup of coffee would taste right now."
"Oh, I love coffee, but we can not leave yet, so you can stop with the trying to flatter me. I am not that easy, I am bad, remember?"
Luckily, Herman had a small cooler of RedBull energy drinks in the rear of the truck behind the back seats, so we formulated a plan that involved me making a quick run for the trash bin to get the target package while he grabbed us each a RedBull out of the ice chest.
"On three, no? One...two, good luck amigo, three." With his playful humor, Herman counted down to both our doors swinging open, and each of us embarked on our separate missions with a stealth and determination that would have made Sean Connery swell with pride.
When I returned from my dumpster dive with the box tucked under my arm, Herman was sitting on the hood of the truck sipping his energy drink with his legs hanging off the fender and his boot laces dangling down, touching the asphalt pavement. There was another icy cold can of RedBull sitting next to him. I tossed the silver duct taped package into the front seat and stepped up, squeezing between his legs.
"So did you touch many dead body parts in this dumpster?" He asked me, with a tiny belch at the end.
"Some." I lied, laying it on even thicker as I went. "There was a foot, but the toes were still twitching, so I didn't touch it."
I grabbed my beverage from the hood, popped the tab open and gulped down a good dose of it before pausing to perform an unusually loud burp.
"Damn. Excuse me." I said, smiling with a certain pride that guys have at the sudden well forced expulsion of trapped air and gases.
Then, as if to proclaim his competitive superiority, Herman leaned slightly to one side, lifted one knee an inch or so, snarling his nose in a childish embrace of anticipation and cut a thundering fart.
"You fucking pig!" I managed to exclaim after we split an initial burst of laughter right down the center. It was a loud bubbling eruption of flatulent gold. A masterpiece of immaturity that vibrated the truck's hood and slowly blistered the clean night air with a green scent. I had to step away while the stink dissipated, taking with it my fleeting memories of Herman's brief charm.
"God damn dude, you are fucking nasty." I insisted, over his unbridled laughter.
He was rolling around on the hood laughing so hard, his eyes were watering. Then when I finally managed to get closer to the truck he launched himself off the fender and landed in front of me, leaning forward for a kiss. I stood strong, holding my breath and loosened my lips for the thrusting plunge of his erect tongue.
A hand pounding on the hood echoed from the other side of the truck causing us to scatter like roaches.
"Ready?" our passenger inquired, having gotten off work early.
"Oh joy," I recall thinking, as I staggered towards the truck door, head still spinning, trying to throw any guilt that might be clinging to me.
Perfect timing.
[to be continued]
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