The One Percenters Read Online Free
Author: John W. Podgursky
freaks there with all the piercings, tats, and zoned-out looks. I highly recommend going to one of these places at least once in your life, especially if you don’t consider yourself the type. Just be sure to take an open mind. A can of mace wouldn’t hurt either.
I was feeling rather lonely and sad that night. I met a tall blonde named Alisha who had an expression on her face to match my own. We talked at the bar for two hours, and we must have been quite remarkable sight—a thirty-something guy in a cheap suit talking to a twenty-two year old girl with streaks of blue in her hair and multiple piercings. Anyway, it turned out that she was going through a rough patch in her life as well.
Page 15
She was originally from Jersey, but her parents had kicked her out when she was eighteen; apparently they had never seen eye to eye. After struggling by herself in the East Coast grind, Alisha made her way out here.
She had run out of money six months earlier, and had lived on the streets until taking a job six weeks prior to our meeting. She wanted to go home to her friends (she still had no use for her family), but that was 2,000
miles and many bad memories away. We’ve all heard the story before. Thankfully, most of us haven’t lived it.
The conversation did wonders for our moods, and the liquor did wonders for our sex drives. We ended up screwing in the club’s ladies’ room. Somehow I don’t think I was her first. Despite the fact that I was still in mourning for Jill, I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt at the time, and I certainly don’t now. Sex is sex. I don’t imagine I was any good, though—drunk, tired, and out of practice.
It’s funny what you remember. The stall we were in was filthy with graffiti. Mostly it was just “I was here” and the “Jeff sucks dick” kind of stuff, but there was one message I remember well. On the door in black ink was scrawled “It’s too late for Linda.” I had no idea who Linda was, but I sure hope it turned out okay for her. A lot of lonely people live and die on the doors of bathroom stalls.
I stuck a twenty in Alisha’s purse when she wasn’t looking. I wanted to help, but didn’t want her feeling like a whore. Maybe she did anyway. Oh, well, at least she wouldn’t be a hungry whore. Not that night.
I got myself involved in a once-a-week poker match. I had played some with my dad, the asshole, as a lad, and I remembered loving it. That had been a long time ago, though, so I bought myself a refresher book.
I found an ad in the classifieds looking for a fourth.
Three losers, no doubt, looking for a fourth. I was their man. The next weekend, I showed up at a ranch that had some of the most spectacular landscaping I’d ever seen. Turned out the homeowner was a horticulturist.
Not a bad person to know on the “got pull” scale. If there’s one thing to remember in life, it’s this: make Page 16
friends with a carpenter, a dentist, and an attorney.
There’s nary a crisis one of those three gents can’t fix, and free is damn cheap, if you get my drift.
Three loser friends greeted me at the door: Don, Terry, and Reynolds. I don’t know if Reynolds was his first or last name; I didn’t care, so I didn’t bother to ask. We were at his house and I remember it smelled of cheese.
I played okay and actually came out a few dollars ahead, but I was bored out of my skull. I guess poker’s not really about the cards, but the company. That’s why solitaire is the finest game: you get to spend some quality time with your best friend.
Anyway, there I was with three idiots who were sitting around talking about the nagging tendencies of their wives. That was not my idea of a good time, especially as my own wife was currently serving as a soup kitchen for earthworms and earwigs. One of the guys had a fat wart on his cheek —Don, I think. I kept wanting to stick it with a pin to see what came out. The beer was bad, though, and bad beer’s good beer when you’re
I was feeling rather lonely and sad that night. I met a tall blonde named Alisha who had an expression on her face to match my own. We talked at the bar for two hours, and we must have been quite remarkable sight—a thirty-something guy in a cheap suit talking to a twenty-two year old girl with streaks of blue in her hair and multiple piercings. Anyway, it turned out that she was going through a rough patch in her life as well.
Page 15
She was originally from Jersey, but her parents had kicked her out when she was eighteen; apparently they had never seen eye to eye. After struggling by herself in the East Coast grind, Alisha made her way out here.
She had run out of money six months earlier, and had lived on the streets until taking a job six weeks prior to our meeting. She wanted to go home to her friends (she still had no use for her family), but that was 2,000
miles and many bad memories away. We’ve all heard the story before. Thankfully, most of us haven’t lived it.
The conversation did wonders for our moods, and the liquor did wonders for our sex drives. We ended up screwing in the club’s ladies’ room. Somehow I don’t think I was her first. Despite the fact that I was still in mourning for Jill, I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt at the time, and I certainly don’t now. Sex is sex. I don’t imagine I was any good, though—drunk, tired, and out of practice.
It’s funny what you remember. The stall we were in was filthy with graffiti. Mostly it was just “I was here” and the “Jeff sucks dick” kind of stuff, but there was one message I remember well. On the door in black ink was scrawled “It’s too late for Linda.” I had no idea who Linda was, but I sure hope it turned out okay for her. A lot of lonely people live and die on the doors of bathroom stalls.
I stuck a twenty in Alisha’s purse when she wasn’t looking. I wanted to help, but didn’t want her feeling like a whore. Maybe she did anyway. Oh, well, at least she wouldn’t be a hungry whore. Not that night.
I got myself involved in a once-a-week poker match. I had played some with my dad, the asshole, as a lad, and I remembered loving it. That had been a long time ago, though, so I bought myself a refresher book.
I found an ad in the classifieds looking for a fourth.
Three losers, no doubt, looking for a fourth. I was their man. The next weekend, I showed up at a ranch that had some of the most spectacular landscaping I’d ever seen. Turned out the homeowner was a horticulturist.
Not a bad person to know on the “got pull” scale. If there’s one thing to remember in life, it’s this: make Page 16
friends with a carpenter, a dentist, and an attorney.
There’s nary a crisis one of those three gents can’t fix, and free is damn cheap, if you get my drift.
Three loser friends greeted me at the door: Don, Terry, and Reynolds. I don’t know if Reynolds was his first or last name; I didn’t care, so I didn’t bother to ask. We were at his house and I remember it smelled of cheese.
I played okay and actually came out a few dollars ahead, but I was bored out of my skull. I guess poker’s not really about the cards, but the company. That’s why solitaire is the finest game: you get to spend some quality time with your best friend.
Anyway, there I was with three idiots who were sitting around talking about the nagging tendencies of their wives. That was not my idea of a good time, especially as my own wife was currently serving as a soup kitchen for earthworms and earwigs. One of the guys had a fat wart on his cheek —Don, I think. I kept wanting to stick it with a pin to see what came out. The beer was bad, though, and bad beer’s good beer when you’re
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