XI. Epilogue: Leaving Ugly…True Love and Tuna Fish…The nature of the Beast in theA Chapter by E.H. Monroe The tail end of the Male Pattern Bullshit series. True love in its purest form. You have reached the final exit in Ugly. Thank you and enjoy your trip at wherever your final destination may be. Big Spoon, or lovingly known to his friends as Big Country, was having a fine night. As sole owner of one of the premier gentleman's clubs in the area, he has done battle with land issues, the new depression, and Russian strong arms trying to take his business. The saying "don't go messing with a country boy' was given new life in 2007 when a few unruly gang members tried to wrestle one of his star girls to the ground on his shift. He detached a small speaker and pulverized them into the hallway and out the door. Ms. Confusion was on that night. Sunday at a gentleman's club reeks of day old halibut and stale steam. It usually houses anywhere from 10 to 50 married, lonely souls who are only there so they don't fire upon their families with a nail gun and bury them in the garden. I pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from my jacket and asked for two tall glasses and a few napkins. The waitress glared at the Baroness and I. We had sticky blood caked to our faces and a look like we just watched a behemoth trying to rape someone then get pelted with angry rubber bullets. She left and returned with two Solo cups, a bucket of ice and some stiff bounty paper towels. The other patrons looked in horror and disgust, even at the Baroness, who was too beautiful for words. She resembled an ivory statue that cried blood for the good of mankind and the grace of God. They would have none of it, as they backed away by at least two seats and scorned us for our place in the world. I popped the top off the bottle and poured a hearty glass. The Baroness snatched the bottle from my hand and drank directly from the neck. She was in serious disdain mode for anything with a dangler between the legs. I was the exception, as the way it is with friends. Real good opposite sex friends see each other as Ken and Barbie dolls. All plastic, no input, and always smiling. "Wow," a familiar voice said from behind us. "You two look like s**t." Ms. Confusion, in 6 inch heels, a tiny purse and a shirt that read "jail bait" hugged us both and fell down into one of the chairs. The air inside was rank and stiff. The pleather chair covers stuck to her legs and made a tearing sound when she moved. We relayed the tale, and she looked on in horror. She was baffled by the chain of events and wanted no part of the bad ugliness for she was having her own, gripping tight to 40$ after almost 7 hours of sweating, catering to masochistic d****e mongers and putting on her nightly show. Exotic dancing is a mean racket full of deceit and incalculable gains and losses. It spikes and dips worse than the Dow, and the nights are never certain. I have personally watched girls get bit while dancing, chased by half naked men, and ripped off stage by jealous wives looking for an answer as to why their husbands are always working the late shift. The dancers themselves all suffer from acute disassociate identity disorder and all deserve Oscars. Ms. Confusion has played the dumb blond, the dominatrix, "jail bait," the virgin, the w***e and the first time dancer every night in the span of an hour. Rotation is key and keeping all your regulars happy is the sign of a good night. In this game, most of the ladies have two phones, which is why you, the sorry sack of man s**t you are, can always score a dancer's number. It is not because she is into a toad like you, but has a 39.99$ plan to cover all your nasty texts and phone calls and keep you coming back. Pure brilliance. If strippers ran the government, we would have the deficit covered and everyone would be bathed in fine oils. No one on the planet loves like an exotic dancer. They have seen it all, fall for nothing, and are the last bastion of the great search for love. The mix is full of acid, because they also have to play the role of entrepreneur, and that always comes first. "You want to find real love," she started, "look over there." She pointed into the VIP room. The blurred silhouettes of two people, intertwined in an unmoving embrace, were behind the shadowed glass. The man had her close and placed his neck in the nook of her shoulder and lovingly rubbed his fingers across her back. The girl, a fine young thing with long brown hair and spray tanned legs, was wrapped into him, hugging him around the neck and caressing the back of his head. The scene was out of place and distant. I felt like I was watching an old movie, pre credits, after two long travelers who found one another through the grace of Aphrodite. The scent of love was back and I could faintly hear their single heartbeat. The Baroness leaned over to me and hugged my arm and leaned her head on my shoulder. "You feel that," she said, kicking an odor of roses into my nose. I looked down at her and she was dreamy eyed and hopeful, like so many hours ago. The feeling was comfort, like watching lightning explode into blue bits on impact. Ms. Confusion put her elbows on the stage and watched with us. The three of us were engaged with this statuesque couple erupting some sense of beauty and love into the room. The depressed house husbands and fiends didn't feel it, because they never knew it. "What's their story," I asked, pulling out a little pad, scrawled with notes and mashed up ramblings. "Marie and Joseph," she said without moving or changing glances, "They do this once a month." "What just....hug each other," The Baroness inquired, taking another long swig from her bottle. "Yup. He comes in and buys a room, they go back there and just hug like that for an hour." The old ugly detector was up again. The waves of weird were coming in, but getting repelled by the genuine feelings these spirits behind tinted glass threw into existence. I asked a question I already knew the answer to. "They aren't together...Are they?" Little Miss dropped her gaze, only for a second and sighed. "Nope. He got married a year ago and she has been alone ever since. I mean, she has had her share of walk in relationships, but that one...that one was the one." "What happened," asked the Baroness. "They moved too fast," Little Miss began, a tone of regret in her voice, almost as if she in fact was in the relationship. "One of those rebound things. They jumped in quickly and made a series of bad calls. The love was the only thing keeping them together and then..." We waited, as one waits for some serious twist ending in a movie. The music was dulled and the mist from the smoke machine gassed out one long call, spilling a long ghost into the room that crawled along the floor like a serpent. "...love broke them up." My stomach wretched and new revelations hit me. Bullets from a nightmare gun gripped by the bogeyman. Love too little, stay together, love too much and that love becomes an anomaly, pushing apart instead of pulling together. I have had this experience, and so had my two companions. Everyone has left one, the one, behind in a heaping pile of emotions, scared to move and too dizzy to put one foot in front of the other. That one great love comes and goes like a good buzz, too strong for words and too jagged to hold for too long. "They give themselves an hour every month. I have never seen them talk to one another. Not once. She goes back and he meets her back there. Then they hug for an hour. One solid, moving emotion filled hour. Then he goes home and she sits in the back and makes tuna." The Baroness and I looked at each other in wild thought. "Uh...tuna,' The baroness asked, still gripping to my arm. "Yup tuna," Little Miss confirmed. "He used to make her tuna and leave it for her in a Tupperware container when they lived together and she worked the way night shift. Every night she would come home and he would flatten out the tuna and make a heart out of bread crust. She would take a picture of it and eat, then crawl into bed next to him. He would always be sleeping, but even asleep, he would reach over and hold her until morning." The Baroness' eyes teared and she began wiping it off on my sleeve. The mixture of blood and tears make a pink stain of swirls and blotches. Canned fish had never been romantic until that moment and more than likely never would be again. I was going to ask how it all went down, but didn't think I could stomach the answer. The answer was simple and clear and full of fire. It was a harsh love and a real lesson in it. The love that comes fast, like an earthquake, always leaves destruction. It shakes the core of those involved and when it is gone, it is gone. THAT is the true love and it cannot be sustained by two people for long. That kind of love is too big for two people to have. It's pure danger and it’s measured in trauma levels. You have found your true love, stayed with them, shared with them, but you never stay with the one you are meant to be with. The electricity would kill you both. Enjoy the time you shared, then sulk in the fact that it will never return again. Ask Joseph and Marie, or any of your friends. They know it well and it hurts like a clicking ankle injury or a stubbed toe. It won't kill you, but will always make you flinch when near it again. "Why does she keep making the damn tuna," asked the Baroness, swaying slightly due to not eating and drinking heavily in small spurts. "It’s the way old love is," Little Miss said, unsticking herself from the seat and readying herself for the stage, "Even the good times you don’t want to remember become painfully necessary to repeat." "And you just can't stop doing them," I finished, pulling my glasses down low and spilling a little Jack Daniels for the love that was lost. "Bingo. Ok lovelies, duty calls. Just enjoy the night, ok? I'll tell Big Country you sent your love." With that she pulled on her best smile and pranced around the stage, flitting like a fairy and, with a muse touch, magically enchanted the downtrodden house husbands to join her in the back for a twenty dollar 2 and a half minutes of false love and hidden motion sickness. The Baroness and I finished the swill that remained at the bottom of the bottle and moved to the exit. Like Orpheus, I looked back one more time. Marie and Joseph held each other tightly, her shoulders quivering due to a fresh round of tears, and his hand pressed white against her tan back, making foolish promises that all would be ok and they would meet again.
In some other time.
In some other place.
Where the love would be just the right size. For the Tuna, E.H. Monroe © 2011 E.H. MonroeFeatured Review
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E.H. Monroehate your f*****g guts, NJAboutS**t eating fuckbag of the crapocalypse. Dystopian Bard and general word rapist. like me here, and i'll kiss you on the face.. http://www.facebook.com/pages/EH-Monroe/226600554032025 Its here .. more..Writing
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