dangerous women

DANGEROUS WOMEN

by

Myron X.



         Me and my roommate Raffi were rolling aimlessly about Washington D.C. in his black Trans-Am. I was between production gigs and my money was running low. I missed being in the recording studio and it had only been a month.

         ”You know what we should do?” I said, looking at the crippled neon sign of a tit-bar we sped past, “We should turn around and get a drink in the Zanzibar.”

         “You buyin’?” Raffi asked.

         “You know, the last time you ever paid for a drink was the first.”

         “That’s none of my concern. It was your idea. If I said ‘Myron, you know what we should do? We should go to Chins and shoot pool’, then I would be obligated for the cash outlay--”

         “Fine, fine, fine, just stop talking.”

         He stomped viciously on the brake and twisted the steering wheel in his hands. The car spun violently into on coming traffic. Raffi was one of those people who drove assuming everyone else was gonna stop. He said nobody could afford the insurance increase.

         We narrowly missed taking out three parked cars. He sped back past the bar and found a space a block away.

          The Zanzibar was one of those cheap, low rent clubs that enjoyed more celebrity status than it deserved. Rumor had it that the Zanzibar was popular among Black Panther members in the early 70s, and notables like Muhammad Ali and Richard Pryor stopped by whenever they were in town.

         The Zanzibar didn’t have a cover charge,but it did have a two drink minimum. And they meant it. As soon as you crossed the threshold of the door, you were escorted to the bar by the owner’s nephew, Junior. He got a tryout for the Dallas Cowboys as a Linebacker, and got his knee broken on the first day of training camp. He’s been walking with a limp and anger ever since.

         As the heavy double gauge steel door closed behind us, there were three girls on stage, naked and grinding to a song by the Beatniks, one of the bands I produce.

         We sat at the bar, watching the action in the wall-sized mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles. Raffi went with his usual Whiskey Sour and I took two shot of Cuervo.

         I looked next to me. Hunched over in a blue suit was a young white guy, maybe thirty--clean cut, probably an old money country club brat waiting for his parents to drop dead. He was mumbling at his $75 shoes and sweating heavily. I knew he was desperate; the Zanzibar was a well know watering hole for angry soul brothers like junior and myself; I was surprised he wasn’t laying out by the garbage cans rolling in his own excrement wondering where his wallet was.

         “I hate women,” he said without lifting his head up. He said it loud enough for me to hear him. I thought I knew better than to invite the personal problemas of suburbanite wackos into my own life, but what the hell....I was in the mood for something weird.

         ”Oh yeah? Why?”

         “Because man!” He sat up suddenly. He was fried; toasted; burnt. “I was in love with this beautiful bitch and she fucked me all up inside, messed with my head, she threw my heart on the floor and stomped on the fucking thing!”

         Raffi looked at the guy and began to laugh. Raffi never had too much sympathy for another man’s woman troubles. The bartender, a huge sloth of a man laughed too.

         ”Ignore them,” I said, “Lemme ask you a question. Where do you work?”

         “Down on Capitol Hill. Why?”

         There’s got to be  something about working for the government that makes you insane; every federal employee I knew was deeply disturbed in some pathological way.

         “I met her at a dinner party with some lobbyists. She was perfect, like Marylin Monroe with the brain of Richard Nixon. She could give the pope a hard-on. After talking to her for twenty minutes, I -I had to have her."

         “ The first night I made love to her, The most incredible thing happened to me.....I had an orgasm so hard I saw God! That ever happen to you?”

         ”Me? See God? Sure....all the time.”

         ”After that brother, I was hooked. I bought a condo for her, gave her credit cards; shit, one year I gave her my wife’s birthday present! I would leave work whenever she called; I walked out of a meeting with President Clinton to see her! Man, if that aint love, I don’t know what is.”

         “So what happened?” I asked, ordering two more tequilas.

         “One day I go to the apartment and she’s packing, the shit I paid for, and she goes, ‘I can’t see you anymore. I’m moving to Paris to write a novel.’ Just like that. I’m history, old news. God, that woman was dangerous. I’m not a violent guy, but I’m telling you man I wanted to strangle her. You think....you think I would’a learned by now...but man...

         Raffi leaned on the bar in front of me towards Mr. Capitol Hill.

         “You know, you should call her.” he said.  He pulled his slim black Nokia cell phone out of his pocket. It was a black market knock-off with a scramble chip so there was no hassle of paying a bill. I smiled.

         “Dig it man, gimme five bucks and you can call her right now. Did she leave for Paris yet?”

         “N-no...she didn’t....” He was trying hard to think it over, but you could tell in his state, thinking was like trying to make snowball in a microwave oven. 

         ”Okay bro, you got deal,” he said, digging in his pocket and throwing a pile of wrinkled bills on the bar. I handed him the phone and he began dialing madly. He waited for a second, then as soon as someone answered, he stumbled off his bar stool and began screaming obscenities into the phone. His insults and curses were so loud, it attracted the attention of almost everyone sitting at the bar. The bartender stooped behind the counter and stood back up with a dirty Louisville Slugger in his hand. I handed him the five and told him assault on a government agent was five to life, mandatory. He started screaming again and stumbled out the door. We sat at the bar laughing our asses off until we remembered he had Raffi’s phone.

         We followed him outside. He was standing in the middle of the street, slowing traffic in both directions. He wasn’t  screaming into the phone anymore, just sort of whimpering. I didn’t even think there was anyone on the other end anymore. We reeled him back onto the sidewalk before a cop  showed up. No practical joke was funny when you had to explain it to a law enforcement official.

         “Wow, you know, I feel so much better....You guys are great man, really.”

         We seized the phone and he gave us his card and said to call his secretary around eleven tomorrow about scheduling lunch.

         As we were walking back to Raffi’s car, a black BMW 735 skidded around the corner and two greasy thugs in shiny suits jumped out and pounded Mr. Capitol Hill silly. I guess he was actually talking to someone, someone long on power and short on a sense of humor. I saw the only advantage of poverty; it kept the Dangerous Women away. They went where ever the money was, that was for sure.