Tuesday, July 17, 2007

The Time I Took An Idiot for a Thousand Dollars

I don’t know where my mother met Kristopher Blake, but I’m about 97% sure it has something to with the night she and Aunt Kiki went out and got so wasted that the valet parkers at the Bubblegum Kittikat ended up driving them all the way home. I think this because my mother would have had to have been wasted to find Kristopher Blake even remotely entertaining and she would have had to have been with Kristopher Blake to end up at the Kittikat, where he was a regular and she certainly wasn’t. At least not yet.

I had been in Florida under a month when one day my mother got up from the computer and actually got dressed in something other than a leopard print towel.

“We gotta go out and see this guy I know.” She said, and since I had absolutely nowhere to be except home wallowing in misery I got up and got dressed too.

“Where does this guy live?” I asked when we had been in the car for what seemed like a long enough time to make it to the Alabama state line.

“Out by the swamp.” My mother replied.

“What is he, like some kind of alligator wrestler?”

“He’s a multimillionaire.”

“What the hell kind of multi-millionaire lives in the middle of the Everglades?”

“The edge.”

“Yeah, ok.”

So, she was right, sort of. Kristopher Blake lived on the EDGE of the Everglades and not in the middle of it, but when I saw the place, I realized that was just a technicality. Everglades is freakin’ Everglades whether it’s the edge or the middle or underneath it.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

I don’t know about you, but I have a totally different mental image of multimillionaires’ houses than what we encountered. I picture, you know, mansions with fountains, gates, maybe some landscaping. SOME landscaping, a little, you know, maybe a tree that has actually been trimmed in the past five years, like once. I also picture pools, other houses perhaps, and although I realize this may be asking too much, I expect there to at least be a driveway, especially if one has two Lamborghinis and a Ferrari just sitting in the front yard. Ok, it wasn’t even a front yard. It was some torn up patches of land in front of a gigantic, though utterly uncared for home.

The gigantic, utterly uncared for home looked like it might have been spectacular back in 1984, which was clearly the last time it had been painted, pressure washed or repaired. Perhaps back then there had even once been a driveway, which had now apparently been reclaimed by the Sea of Grass. You could have scraped the mildew in sheets from the barrel tiled roof and I didn’t know if the house was supposed to be grey or if it had just turned grey. In any event, the house was grey.

“I’m not walking across that yard.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“It looks like where alligators would hide.”

“It does not.”

Trust me. It did.

“Where do you find these people?”

“Do you know how much money he has?”

“From the looks of this house I’d say not much.”

“Do you know how much those cars are worth?”

I didn’t care how much those cars were worth.

“What if he’s a serial killer?” I asked, and I wasn’t kidding, “There’s no way we could escape. There aren’t any other houses.”

“He has to live out here.”

“And why, pray tell?”

“For protection.”

“Against?”

“The government.”

Oh for Christ’s sakes, my mom and her government paranoia crap. This was a great time for it to kick in, when we’re miles from civilization, about to be killed by some lunatic with fancy Italian sports cars and fed to alligators. I could have used some government intervention. And for the record, I’ve always believed that if someone has reason to fear the government, it’s more than likely because they did something wrong. Ok? So yet another reason to fear this Kristopher Blake character.

We trudged through the tall grass and up to the front door with me jumping around like I was on fire because I was being simultaneously attacked by seventeen different varieties of mosquito plus some fire ants and I was absolutely positive that I had at least nineteen ticks stuck to various unseen crevices of my body.

“This is really not ok.” I mumbled.

“SHHHH!!”

We rang the doorbell repeatedly. No one came.

“I know this asshole’s home.” My mom said.

By the time someone answered the door, mosquitoes and other blood sucking parasites had drained my body of 60% of its blood supply and I had become anemic.

“Where’s Kristopher?” my mother asked a seven foot tall Seminole Indian, who led us up a flight of stairs.

I don’t need to waste a lot of time describing the inside of the house do I? It looked as bad as the outside, except that it had no furniture and every square inch of surface was covered in once white, wall to wall carpeting. We went to what would have been the living room (I guess) and sat on the floor, because there was no couch. There were, however, some of those badly framed movie posters that you get at cheap souvenir types of shops, propped up against one wall. The Sopranos glared out of the plexi-glass next to Tony Montana. The house smelled like a drug binge.

“You want an Uncrustable??? ANYONE???” a high pitched, emasculated man’s voice yelled from another room, maybe a kitchen.

“How ‘bout a Nutty Buddy? Croissant Pocket??” said the voice.

“Umm, no thanks.” I ventured.

“OH MY GOD! WHO IS THAT??”

The voice wanted to know who I was.

“My daughter. She just left her fiancé and now she’s down here with me and her Papa.”

“OH MY GOD!! Why do you let her dress like that? Tell her to lose some weight. I would totally take her shopping if she lost ten pounds.”

How did the voice see me? And who did this voice think it was asking me if I wanted a Nutty Buddy and then telling me I needed to lose ten pounds?? This voice needed its ass kicked.

“Excuse me??” I called back to the voice, preparing to kick its ass.

My mother jabbed me in the arm.

“Would you shut the fuck up!”

Who else’s mom tells them to shut the fuck up? Anyone’s? I’m just curious.

The voice belonged to the biggest jackass I had so far encountered in the Sunshine State and since this happened exactly two weeks before the prostate massage guy who stuck his finger up his own ass, Mr. Blake was about to get a run for his money. In the many years since, I have met about a thousand other competing jackasses, but Kristopher Blake still remains in at least the top 10. I’d even venture the top 5.

He was short and around 40, but he thought he was 22 and extremely hip and cool and stylish, but he was tragically none of the above. Kristopher Blake was E. Short, fat, sunburned, effeminate, tacky, addicted to pills and crack and a god damned fucking idiot. Kristopher Blake probably needed to be killed because the world is entirely better off without people like him, who inherited assloads of money from their innocent, naïve parents just so they can proceed to waste it all on whores, drugs, cars and Seminole body guards. He could have at least spent a little of his money on pressure cleaning the damned roof or planting a couple of Areca palms around the front door, but he didn’t because Kristopher Blake had no pride, and what little pride he did have I was about to obliterate.

My mother made me sit there on this moron’s floor next to his Scarface posters while he screamed and yelled on his cell phone to one of a set of twins whom he was dating. I gathered that the twins were 18, were hookers and were taking this guy for as much as they could because he seemed very willing to take them to the mall whenever they wanted. While we visited Twin One got upset because he had fucked Twin Two longer the night before and because Twin Two told Twin One that Kristopher took her coke stash. Somehow it all ended with Kristopher promising to take Twin One to the Versace store. Then, Twin Two called in tears because Twin One told her Kristopher was taking her to the Versace store and Twin Two wanted to go too. He promised to take them both because what good is a slut in South Florida without some gold lion heads on her thousand dollar tank top?

Do not ask me why my mother insisted we go visit this idiot. To this day I have no idea. None. There are some things to which we just cannot apply logic or reason. My mother is infinitely more compassionate, forgiving and generous of heart than I am. She called him a poor soul, whereas you have just read all the things I called him.

When Kris settled the Versace Twin Drama, he opted to show me his snake. No, not that one. Thank God. He had a tank with a python in it and it was one of those nasty, awful looking yellow ones that looks like someone accidentally washed it with the whites and it got bleached. I’m not a sissy about snakes. One day I will tell you about the snake I babysat. I think snakes are actually kind of cool. I get unbelievably excited if I see one in the wild, but this one was gross and at the same time really pitiful in its tank with a fluorescent light, a warmed up snake rock and Kristopher Blake hovering over it smoking a joint. Poor ugly, yellow python. What a horrible existence.

This got me to thinking. How is it that someone can not have any furniture, let his house fall apart, but still manage to buy some posters and a python? How does this happen? And obviously he grocery shopped too because he had a bunch of frozen crap from the dumb ass section of the store, but I just can’t imagine someone like this food shopping, or waking up one day in his furniture-less house and being like – screw the couch, I need a snake. But I also don’t get a set of twins sleeping with the same guy either. These are just a few of things which perplexed me about South Florida back then and which I have now just given up trying to figure out.

A few weeks later Kristopher Blake decided that he needed to take my whole family out to dinner to one of those fancy steakhouses that serves $50.00 steaks and makes you buy a $10.00 a la carte baked potato to go with it. This is one of my ultimate pet peeves, besides having to go to dinner with someone like Kristopher. I think if you buy a $50.00 steak that you should get a baked potato or a salad, or actually both, along with it. Maybe this is the Millpond in me. Anyway.

My Dad thought Kristopher Blake was hilarious because my dad can laugh at any jackass, whereas I tend to laugh to a point and then get irritated. I went from zero to irritated in 3.9 seconds. Kristopher showed up an hour late, causing a scene at the valet when he squealed up to the entrance in one of the Lamborghinis, twins in tow. He wore a royal blue jacket with a tee shirt underneath it, royal blue pants, and pink ostrich boots. I think he may be the long lost son of Liberace. His blonde hair was sculpted into a superbly stupid pompadour. I prayed not to run into anyone I knew.

The twins looked like something out of a Quentin Tarantino movie. They were Japanese, Japanese blondes, and probably 85 pounds put together and they were each wearing matching Versace outfits complete with gold lion heads, which were stretched out from the force of their gigantic fake racks. If only, I thought, If only I could find a firing squad.

Through Caesar salads, filet mignons, 10$ baked potatoes and lobster tails, I sat there silently and listened to these buffoons talking shit. The Twins didn’t eat, but every thirty seconds they had to go to the bathroom to powder their noses.

“Is she live or is she Memorex?” Kristopher asked my parents. The Twins tittered, as if they even knew what Memorex was. They weren’t even legal drinking age. I wanted to ram the entire bread basket down their throats.

The server came and recited a lengthy list of dessert items. There was no dessert menu, so you had to hope something either caught your attention or you had to ask the server to repeat the list over and over until you decided you were too full for dessert.

“I’d give someone a thousand dollars if they could repeat that word for word!” shouted a drunken Kristopher Blake.

“I can do it.” I said.

Kristopher Blake didn’t know what he was getting into making a bet with me. I’m like Rain Man. I have a near perfect rote memory ordinarily. When it involves desserts, my rote memory is flawless.

“You can’t repeat that.” Said Kristopher Blake.

“Oh yes I can.” Said Me.

Mr. Blake had the server, who had the desserts written down, be the judge. The server didn’t think I could do it either.

“Carrot cake, New York Cheesecake with strawberry coulis, warm chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream and Chambord sauce, praline bread pudding with warm bourbon cream, Kentucky Derby pie, apple tart with cinnamon ice cream, coconut banana crème brulee and the chef’s assortment of homemade ice creams and sorbets. Tonight’s signature flavors are Tahitian vanilla, dark chocolate, Mexican cinnamon, mango, passionfruit, peach champagne and blackberry.”

Kristopher Blake almost fainted. The Twins didn’t titter. My dad suppressed laughter and my mom told Kristopher Blake he better start counting out my money. The server confirmed my accuracy.

“Pay her!” my dad demanded.

Kristopher Blake counted ten hundred dollar bills into my palm and I thanked him very much. This was the last time I saw him. That night Kristopher was picked up for speeding on Alligator Alley. Drug charges followed. Last I heard he sat in jail, broke.

So now, one thousand dollars wealthier and having silenced a raging jackass, what do you think I did with that money, dear readers?

Did I save it or give it to charity? Did I buy a pair of panties at the Versace store? Did I pay bills or feed homeless bunnies? No.

I went to Jamaica. And I deserved it.

29 comments:

Anonymous said...

YOU GO GIRL!!!!!!!!!

Anonymous said...

YOU ROCK!!!!!!!!!!

i adore you, subservient no more!

what a wonderful ballsy thing to do with that grand. you deserved it. you did exactly the right thing. as always. :)

hee hee hee.

oh, and i too had to suffer through one of those dreadful "high class" steakhouse experiences myself recently, where you have the $50 steak and then all the sides are another ten bucks apiece. my dinner from hell was up here at del frisco's in the denver tech center. it was a friend's birthday so i couldn't bail on her and it was excruciating from start to finish. the restaurant was loaded with pompous-ass stuffed shirts and their bleached blonde bimbos thinking they were all that and a bag of chips, with the little plastic clippy thing on top.

i can't memorize from hearing the way you can, but i never ever forget a face. and i'll make sure i'm never around any of those arrogant yuppie scum again!

Talula0658 said...

Damn straight! I love the last few lines of all your posts. They always get me.

tazzie said...

Yay for Jamaica!! Look at it as good hard earned babysitting money. That's what I would do!!

anonymity said...

My mother has told me to shut the fuck up before and get the fuck in this kitchen, etc. The word fuck is kind of her trademark, in fact. :)

Mim said...

Good for you! I would have done the same thing.

Faithful Reader Guy said...

I love this story. Your life never ceases to amaze me.

I'm guessing you tell the truth which cannot possibly be matched by anyone's fiction.

Anonymous said...

"He promised to take them both because what good is a slut in South Florida without some gold lion heads on her thousand dollar tank top?"

That might be the best line i have EVER read! I'm so glad you are still writing. I check your blog every morning at work and it just wouldn't be the same without you!!!!

NicoleinAZ said...

You GO GIRL, Now THATS what I'm talking about.

Kristopher Blake sounds like a Wide Lawns reject.

Anonymous said...

Oh you deserved it, all right. You deserve everything wonderful and good and peaceful and fullfilling and SANE that this life has to offer, and then some.

What a life. Thanks so much for writing about it for us. You are absolutely awesome.

MP said...

I enjoy reading your stories SO much. I thought guys like that were only in the movies. Your mom picks up so real characters.
I also love that you spent the money on a trip for yourself!

Marie said...

SNM

For the first time I just fell in love with a woman. Thanks!

Marie

Anonymous said...

Can't wait to hear about Jamaica and how you got your groove back!

OMG... I just love that I'm over here in my chair laughing hilariously and DH is over there in his chair going, "what? what?" You are too funny, girl!

Elizabeth said...

"He promised to take them both because what good is a slut in South Florida without some gold lion heads on her thousand dollar tank top?"

Ohh man, flashback to Naples Florida... where I will be on friday! >:)

jeff said...

Sweet. That was exquisite at the end. Did you ever figure out why your mom was hanging out with this person.... and did involve illegal substances like I expect it did?

Dave said...

I loved the story but I would have said you were full of shit if this wasn't Miami! Only Miami seems to draw the Kristopher Blakes of this world like a gigantic electromagnet

ADW said...

Yes, yes you did deserve it!!! Plus what a douchenozzle. Seriously. I absolutely know people like him and they rub me so wrong that I want to take them outside and stomp on them. Taking them for a grand is a much better idea. I have so much to learn. *wink*

Anonymous said...

AWESOME! I'd love to totally live like that; thinking of myself first and going on an awesome vacation. Good for you! :)

-Brenda

Subservient No More said...

Jeff, it wasn't illegal substances. My mom hasn't been around that in over 25 years. She seems to just like strange people to hang out with because they are interesting to her, I guess. I think she thinks they are fun perhaps.

Emily said...

I just wanted to say that you are amazing. I've been reading your blog for a while now, and have really enjoyed it. When you transformed to SNM, I wasn't sure what would happen to the blog. But your experience with your ex, and moving home, and then this with douche bag...You DEFINITELY deserved the trip to Jamaica. That was awesome, that you remembered the list and that he actually paid up. You sound like you have a crazy family... good luck getting back into the 'normal-ness' of life while you're back home. (And keep up the craftiness...your mosaic hearts sound/look great!)

Anonymous said...

Loved this story. Can imagine the whole scenario...big mouth comb-over type being stupid in front of the twin tarts. He sounds like a total worthless human being in need of a good incarceration in a Florida jail.

BoscosQueen said...

I've just discovered you. I took two days to read the last three months you have archaived (while working,;) and it just has to be said, you are remarkable. I would love to read any novels you write, but I don't know who you are. They way you write, to transform what appears to be harrowing life experiences into something profound, meaningfull, and comedic is truly a gift to the literary (and blogging) world. Thank you and look forward to absorbing more!

Leonesse said...

I haven't been able to comment for awhile, but have been reading. I am so looking forward to your books.

And your life... mirrors mine or similar. My step-Aunt called her daughter You Little Bitch; I patched my dads knife wound after a bar fight, sat up waiting for him to come home on weekends from the bar and when he did I was the bartender for the party.

Interesting, I suppose, but I wanted nothing but a 'normal' life. And to anyone trying to tell me there is no such thing as 'normal', as a child you do not know that.

Now, it was what it was. The Lion King shakes his head often when discussing my childhood. He cannot understand it, growing up Mormon as he did.

Jen & Rob said...

Once again, you're my hero.

I have to know, can you recite We didn't start the fire as well as it's the end of the world as we know it and INXS Deviate, from memory? I can't offer you anything other than a fellow neurotics nod of approval. ;)

Subservient No More said...

I might be able to sing its the end of the world as we know it, if its on. I had this friend in high school who made me sing the backup part, so I never really learned the main part though.

Ms Robinson said...

Brilliant story, well told.

Anonymous said...

well, being from so. fla myself, seems i may know this jerk myself. sorry to say he seems kinda familiar! ;)

nice one! hope you enjoyed the trip!

Heather said...

Are you really mad at your mom this week or something? Not that you don't have a right to be, but it seems like this piece is far more angry than the others you've written. Are you writing these to be viewed as individual vignettes, or as a whole story? Because seen as a whole, this unflattering portrayal of your mother throws me off a bit. It's just too angry.

Subservient No More said...

Im not mad at my mom. I love her dearly, its just that she isnt a perfect saint at all. And neither am I.

She does amazing charitable things and has great volumes of wisdom, but she also can be eccentric and can get on my nerves like all moms can.

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