![]()
The Prom Fart
By Richard Miller
A
guy never forgets his first car.
![]()
He walks into the study and slowly gropes his way to the desk in much the same way a blind man would, one without the benefit of a cane. Could have flipped a switch to light the room, but didn't. Too much light. Too harsh for this time of night. A soft glow suits him fine, so he tugs on the desk lamp's chain and is instantly rewarded with exactly that: a warm, incandescent globe of light that blankets the desktop and not much else, leaving most of the room lost to darkness.
Tonight, he is dressed in the same attire as he was last night – and the night before that, and the one before that, something his wife calls the 'uniform': white t-shirt, white boxers, white socks, and ugly slippers.
(sigh)
Yeah.
The slippers.
The ones that look like two wide-mouth bass that have swallowed his feet as if they were bait. A Christmas present from one of the kids, but he can't remember which. Doesn't matter. Either way, it's an obligation now, to wear them until the fish either 1) die, or 2) wear out, whichever comes first, at which time he will soak them in gasoline and toss them into the fireplace. His idea of a fish fry, and one that will not happen soon enough.
But fat chance of that happening.
Why?
“These bastards are tough. They’ll never die, and they’ll never wear out. Fucking things will outlive me, even.”
Why?
“Because they hate me as much as I hate them. They'll live forever just to spite me.”
It's a strange arrangement, he and the slippers, and unfortunately, they hold all the cards. They know he won't toss them on a whim or during a weak moment.
Why?
The phone call…
“Hey, Daddy!”
“Hey, baby girl.”
“How’s my favorite person in the whole world?”
“I’m fine, honey” (he lies)
“Still wearing the slippers?”
“You know it, pumpkin. Every night.”
“NO WAY! You serious?”
“As cancer.”
“Aaaaaaawwwwwwwww. I’m so glad. I finally managed to do something right for once in my life. I love you, Daddy!”
“Love you, too, sugar booger.”
(click)
Yeah.
The phone call.
(another deflated sigh)
“It’s just the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. No way I can lie to her about wearing them. Never lied to her before, and I’m not about to start now, so it’s hopeless. I’ve got no options here; I have to wear them. Would break her heart if I didn’t.”
He looks down at the satanic beasts, his feet buried up to the ankles in their mouths. The fish look back at him with their orange, demonic eyes. Eyes that tell him...
“Get used to it, bitch. We ain’t going nowhere. We’re in it for the long haul! BBBWWWWAHHHAAAHAAAHAAHHAHAHA!!”
And the worst part is, he knows they’re right. He knows he’ll never be free of them. It’s a life sentence now. Just one more depressing fact to add to an already dismal and somewhat unremarkable life. His life. A life, it seems, where disappointment has long since become the standard.
But, as bad as the slipper situation is, it used to be worse. Much worse. Way back when their tails wagged every time he walked, like maybe five years ago. Mercifully, however, they finally stopped when the batteries died, but not both at the same time. The left one first, and then the right one maybe a year later.
And to him, this was a victory. That, even in defeat, you can still win. Sure, a small one, maybe, but in his book, a win is a win. What’s more is, he knows the whole thing could have been worse, like if the slippers could’ve talked. A chill runs through him as he pictures the scene in his head…
“Dude, buy some odor eaters, for fuck’s sake! This shit stinks! You’re killing us down here! And how ‘bout cutting the toenails once a year! What are you, a sloth or something? Gonna climb a tree and eat some leaves, are ya?”
So yeah, it could have been worse.
Kinda.
The uniform.
And the thing that truly completes this domestic ensemble? The finishing touch?
The robe.
The blue, terry cloth bathrobe he’s worn every night of his life for the past… Hell, he doesn’t even remember how long he’s had the fucking thing. So long that he doesn’t remember ever not having it. Seems like forever. Doesn’t even remember where it came from or how he came about owning it. Probably another Christmas present from the kids, but, in this case, one he loves and cherishes. One that has practically become part of who he is. And the best thing about it?
“It doesn’t talk or wag anything.”
So yeah, his beloved robe with its ancient collection of stains, and with each stain, a treasured memory. Well, mostly treasured, that is: baby vomit and poop; pet piss; 4th of July BBQ sauce; beer of every type and description... A veritable record of his long, somewhat sad, domestic existence. Could have used a trip to the laundry room ten years ago, but hasn’t seen a washing machine yet, and probably never will.
Why?
For the same reason he loves it so much: his wife hates the thing, with a passion…
“Why don’t you wash the fucking thing, already!?! Christ! It’s got like a quarter-inch crust on it. I can’t believe you can bend your arms!”
She waves a disgusted hand at it…
“And it’s got...it’s got...SHIT growing on it! Like mushrooms, or fungus, or something! And is your nose broken? The thing REEKS, for God’s sake! If I were Stevie Wonder, I would know where you were in the house!”
“Like I said, a win is a win. And in my life, they are rare, the wins.
Rare, indeed.”
For him, life at times seems like a never-ending series of defeats. Be that as it may, he still tries. He never gives up hope.
Why?
Because, in his heart, he wants to believe that his life can’t possibly be one long, continuous losing proposition. So, as rare as they may be, the occasional ‘win’ gives him hope.
“And without hope, what else do I have? I mean, what’s left?”
And the thought of losing that hope is a little more than he can bear, which is why he’s always quick to defend the robe and its permanent crust…
“Gives it character. You know, personality. Makes it stand out from the rest” (as if he attends conferences where blue terry cloth robes are a dress code).
So, he defends it, the uniform, and with the uniform, the robe. Because with the robe, there is always the hope of the occasional win.
“It happens sometimes. Maybe not often, but sometimes it does. Sometimes I win.”
And he thinks…
“So maybe my life isn’t as bad as what I make it out to be after all.”
But then he looks down at the fish slippers…
“Or, maybe it is.”
With the light situation handled, he opens the top right drawer of the desk and begins the search. He knows he’s seen it and is pretty sure that it’s here, in the drawer, as best he can remember. He’s looking for the spare AAA Auto Club Membership card, Emergency Roadside Service. It’s for his wife, Ellen. She managed to lose hers and now needs a replacement.
“Truth be told, it probably got sucked down into that black hole she calls a purse, and she’s too lazy to look for it.”
But he’ll never instigate that argument. Not on your life. It’s a battle he can’t possibly win, and the consequences of losing are too dire. Much too dire. Namely, no anniversary sex this year. Just like last year. And, like the slippers, she holds all the cards. Well, maybe not cards, per se. It’s more like ‘pussy dangling on a stick’, so to speak, so yeah, she holds all the ‘cards’.
Fact of the matter is, he was supposed to look for it a month ago, but is only just now getting around to it…
“Look, it’s a long honey-do list. Longer than most. I know, we compare them. Could be you’re just a little too demanding.”
“Could be you’re just a little too useless! Must not want your anniversary sex this year, just like last year. Or have you forgotten?”
He cringes at the mere sound of the words, at the very thought - missing his once-a-year obligatory sexual favor, just like he did last year. An all too painful memory that still festers in his mind to this day. Punished because he made the fatal mistake of doing the unthinkable, doing the one thing you NEVER do in a relationship…
He told the truth.
And as every man knows - or should know - that’s the one thing you never do, EVER. It has NO place in a marriage, NONE! It is good for one thing, and one thing only - grief of the worst kind. The very worst kind, as he so unfortunately found out in an incident that still burns inside his memory to this day, remembering it as if it happened just this morning...
* * * * * *
She bounces into the living room where her husband is sitting in his easy chair, completely absorbed by the latest issue of Car and Driver magazine, a publication he has subscribed to for over twenty-five years now...
“Honey!”
He replies without looking up, unwilling to divert his attention from the full color layout of Ferrari’s latest automotive wonder, the new GT 308. Red, of course...
“Yeah.”
“What do you think about my new hairstyle? You haven’t said a word about it since I had it done!”
He finally looks up at his wife standing there in front of his recliner, hands perched on her hips, tapping a foot, and patiently awaiting her husband’s attention…
“Well, that’s because I wasn’t sure about it until I got the phone call.”
“Phone call? What phone call?”
“From that Dutch boy. You know, the one that stuck his finger in the dyke?”
“The Dutch boy? Why would he call?”
“Wanted me to tell you something.”
“Tell me something? Tell me what?”
“He wants his hair back.”
“OK, so maybe I could have said it better, like…”
(leaping from his easy chair, dropping the latest issue of Car and Driver as he does)
“OH MY GOD!!! LOOK AT YOU! I can’t believe my eyes! You look…you look…INCREDIBLE!! You’re stunning! It’s like I’m looking at Sharon Stone’s twin sister or something! Oh, and by the way, did you lose weight? Your clothes look like they’re hanging on you!”
* * * * * *
Cha-ching!
“And my reward? A job. Not for me, mind you, but rather, for my poor, mostly unemployed penis. A blowjob. A job that has to last me a good long time, like, maybe forever.
But yeah, that’s what the smart guy would have said. And you know what? I used to be smart, I was. But marriage has a way of changing things, and always for the worse, it seems.”
The whole thing causes him to stop and think...
“My poor penis. Must think I hate it or something. The thing is, it wasn’t always unemployed. There was a time when it could barely keep up with the workload, I remember. But like I said, marriage changes things.”
It’s a perplexing situation, to say the least. A conundrum, even: owning something that, for so many years, provided him with some of the best, if not most memorable, times in his life, only to hang listless and dormant now, and about as useful as an inflatable dart board. Still, it somehow manages to cling to his body, steadfast in its reluctance to leave. It sticks around for no other reason than to serve as a cruel reminder of what his life once was as compared to what it has become; a haunting echo, as it were, from the days when his life was good. In time, evolution will resolve the situation, the way evolution does, by gradually shrinking the unused organ until gone, but that takes millions of years, and he just doesn’t have that kind of time, so he considers his options; namely, finding a surgeon and having the thing removed. Would make sense, but more than that, it would make his life so much easier since you can’t miss using something you no longer own - you know, knowing sex is no longer an option?
“And you know what? I’d do it, I would. But as sure as I do, she’d complain about that, even…”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Sit on the toilet and pee like a woman. That’s so embarrassing! (like she’s going to invite the neighbors over to watch him urinate). Why can’t you stand and pee like a man, like Roger, Diane’s husband?”
“Told you, had my dick removed.”
“What? Why?”
“Useless baggage. One less thing to get cancer and kill me. WAIT! How do you know how Roger pees?”
“Er... Diane, she told me. Yeah, that’s right. She told me.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Like I can’t connect those dots.
Fuck!
And the really sad part? I did have it removed, and what do you want to bet I would have contracted dick cancer and be out of my misery by now.
Fuck!”
“Just kidding about having it removed - my dick, that is. I still have it. Why, I’m not sure. That ‘hope’ thing, I guess. Like, maybe one year I’ll actually do something to earn my anniversary sex, in which case, having a penis will come in handy.
So yeah. That hope thing.”
