11

I was always given the next week’s work order the weekend before.

I always worked alone.

I was up at 5:30 in the morning, out the door at 6, I’d get to the address typed at the top of the day’s work order and everything would be laid out in the driveway. Or piled up on the lawn. Or stacked in a shed or something.

I imagined there was a kid that was just like me, driving around at night, all fucked up, dropping off buckets of paint, brushes, ladders, tarps, all the rest with a bunch of his friends in the car, smoking joints and laughing- the lucky prick. I wanted his job.

Instead of that, I would pull two lines, set up my materials, and paint. It wasn’t bad. The only thing that made it tough was the sun. I sweat easily, especially when I’m tuned up. I’d get on the ladder; wet the tip of the brush, stroke up, stroke down, up, down- and the sweat would start. It was real heavy, right from the beginning, soaking my shirt, running into my eyes; sweat would collect in my pubes, drip off my balls and run down my thighs, it was in my socks and between my toes.

12

The fences weren’t only 15 feet high; they also ran for 50, 100, 200 feet across, were wrapped around acres and acres of land, and sometimes these guys wanted two coats, also a sealant, or I’d have to bleach the wood first- these guys had money to spend.

13

Meanwhile I was typing more stories at the creative writing program. I always took whatever assignment there was and twisted it, perverted it, changed it around into something I could work with. That’s what everybody did.

14

The assignments dealt mostly with candy-assed topics like lost trail hikers, overweight cats, Mexican food, dinosaurs, unicorns, or space exploration. I’m serious.

I remember the unicorn assignment.

One girl wrote a story about going on a camping trip with her father. She wanders away from the campsite and finds the secret den of a unicorn. She enters the den and we learn that the unicorn can talk. She then asks the unicorn some very deep questions about human consciousness. The unicorn answers her with a string of bullshit copied out of something like The Secret of the Golden Flower. Or maybe it was the I-Ching. From what I remember the story ended with the girl dry humping the unicorn to orgasm. Afterwards they’re lying side by side and the girl realizes that the unicorn’s penis looks very familiar to her. Then the unicorn lights a cigarette. The girl becomes suspicious. She says, ‘I didn’t know that unicorns smoked.’ The unicorn starts laughing, and the laugh also seems familiar to the girl. Then the unicorn pulls its head off and it turns out that it wasn’t a unicorn at all but her father. He was wearing the unicorn costume just to see what she would do. He then calls her a tart; she gets up, runs away, and spends the rest of the camping trip crying in her tent while the father catches small mouth bass and rainbow trout in a nearby lake.

15

Back to the job: painting. It was usually a big house. There was usually a drunken housewife, she would watch me sweating through big bay windows, she’d wear a light summer dress and there would be a glass in her hand, there would be ice cubes in the glass and her eyes would be glazed over. Around noon she would come outside, (“Could I get you some lemonade or water?” (I’d look her over, and if she looked like a party girl…) “I’ll have what you’re having.” “Oooh, will you still be able to paint?” (I’d smile.) “Like a young Picasso.” (But I never managed to get it in. Either the husband, or the kids, or I’d say something stupid to foul the whole thing up.))

16

I would fantasize about the housewives. In my mind they were reading romance novels that were borderline erotica. They would skim through the storyline in a rush to get at the sex scenes. They’d find one and the rhythm of their breathing would change (yes, that was it), they’d take another sip of the white wine sitting on the night table, they’d lie back, reading and re-reading each sentence slowly. Soon there would be an itch.

In my mind they would put down the book and pull a shoebox out from under the bed. In the shoebox would be a shiny metal vibrator and a small bottle of KY. They would think about the young man painting their fence (sure, what else would be on their minds), they would be lonely, under loved, in need of excitement, they would lube up, work it in, start moaning…and I would be on a ladder, holding a paintbrush, with a hard-on tucked under the waistband of my pants.

17

Every Sunday was payday. I’d go to the main office and get 720 dollars in cash. No taxes taken out. No waiting at some bank to deal with a paycheck. Perfect. I also found that when I was working I only went through 1 gram a day instead of the 4- it was an improvement. I’d be so dehydrated after the 12 hours of painting, sweating, also inhaling all those fumes…it worked to kill my cravings.

18

I started paying off my debt. It got smaller and smaller each time I took that ride out to Queens. I was amazed at myself. I also took the writing class more seriously. I turned out better stories, I wrote sharper poetry; the professor called me focused and told me that my work was full of insight (somewhat sober?). I lost weight because I wasn’t drinking as much since I wasn’t doing as much coke. That’s a misconception that people have; that you lose weight when you’re on coke. It’s a hoax, at least if you’re a drinker. On a normal day I drink between 10 and 15 beers. When I was on the 4-gram-a-day kick that number would jump up to a case and beyond. Even the mornings were different. I wouldn’t wake up to all that guilt in the mirror or all that blood in the shower when I blew my nose.

19

The summer was winding down.

The creative writing program was almost over.

There was a reception for the students that participated in the program. Certificates of completion were handed out, honorable mentions were made, and 2 students were asked to read their work. I was one of the 2. I told my parents about it and they showed up at the reception. When it was my turn to read I found them in the audience and saw that my mother was working a tissue into the corners of her eyes. I got through the reading, got my certificate, and met them in the auditorium.

“It’s just that we’re so proud of you.”

“I know ma, thanks.”

“Oh, you’re growing up so nicely.”

“I’m trying.”

“And an honorable mention! There were only a few others.”

“Yeah.”

“We want to give you something, a present.”

“That’s alright dad, you don’t have to give me anything.”

“But we want to, just name it.”

“Well, I was thinking of going away before school started up again, maybe you can help me out with the plane fare or something.”

20

            I had come up with a plan. I didn’t even realize it. My back brain, my elemental need, my backbone more lab created chemical than intrinsic skeletal structure, all these things, they had done the work in less than a few seconds. The following algorithm was used:

Addictive Personality + Easy Money = John on a Binge