COLUMN SEVENTY-THREE, JULY 1, 2002
(Copyright © 2002 The Blacklisted Journalist)
MY DAY WITH HEATHER
Heather were hanging around one day starving. It was February or maybe March and
we were starving. Heather was pregnant, 23 years old and working on methadone,
crack, and pill baby number 3. It's fuckin' cold out, and drizzling, but she
works the streets anyway peddling that skanky ass of hers.
Catholic church on the next block, they give out bologna sandwiches and generic
warm lemon-lime sodas.
Heather, ya wanna earn your keep? Come to the Catholic church with me."
it ain't my skanky broad or unborn fetus, and what am I? A charity organization?
She puts her
flabby white ass with red zits into some ripped panty hose and a wool skirt that
shows off the merchandise and hobbles out to the street with me like some
retarded girl in high heels playing dress up. She's on so much Elavil,
methadone, and Xanax that you expect her to fall on her face any second, she
We go to the
door on the side of the church, it's a cold gray Jersey City day, and it's a
weekday. All the Puerto Ricans, Dominicans,and the last few surviving Irish of
the neighborhood are at their jobs as security guards, forklift ops, fry cooks
and video store clerks, while me, the intelligent white boy from the West Coast
can't hold a job more than a week. When I come in so high, I sing songs and
giggle like a schoolgirl, or when I have hatchet marks on my face from what I
call "falling down," it arises suspicion.
We're at the
door. The parish priest is an old Puerto Rican who speaks English with a
resentful tone, as if the language itself is as immoral as this whimsical,
decadent culture he's lowered himself into--but only to save the pitiful sinning
wretches, of course.
me and Heather through his thick black glasses with all the judgment and
contempt the lord surely has for us. His muscular--coulda been a streetfighter
but instead I fight for Christ--arms crossed as he barely contains his contempt
which seems to border on violence.
hab yob yet?"
"Naw man but I'm looking," I say, as an indifferent middle aged woman hands me and Heather
ju don' even hab a yob!'
each a crumpled brown bag with the bologna on white bread sandwiches
and a warm Hansen's lemon lime soda in the can.
ju are a stockbroker? Why ju no fine yob?" demands the priest.
I reply, not
realizing just how high I am today, until I slur out: "Uh, the market went
and rolls his eyes.
look, father, this is my girlfriend
and she's pregnant!" I say, motioning at Heather, as she clutches her bag
and soda struggling not to drop it with eyes almost completely shut as if she's
asleep standing up.
regard her like a stray dog with mange, me wide eyed and seeking pity, the
father with disgust.
her pregnon an' ju don' even hab a yob!"
Now this is
some crap that really blows his holiness' mind! I mean tons of his fellow
Catholic Ricans do the same thing but at least THEY don't TALK about it! I mean
being in a local gang, dealing dope, having 10 illegitimate kids that he
can understand as long as you don't talk about it, and you're brown because then
it's because your poor and Latin and Catholic and oppressed, and NEVER stoop to
getting a FREE SANDWICH!
those dirty blancos they SELL the shit to!
Father man? Can we get another sandwich and soda since she's pregnant? SHE needs
you da father?!?" he says, not even trying to conceal his contempt for
these dirty white folks.
throws up his hands, let's out a "Hhrrumph!!!" and, as if
telepathically getting permission, the volunteer woman indifferently gives me
another sandwich and generic soda not even looking at my face, as they both now
seem to have some sort of awareness that Heather in her stupor does not give a
shit about the sandwiches, and is so out of it she barely knows where we are and
why we're here.
says as we stumble away: "Ju go an' get a yob!"
grinning, nod at him, he knows it's all a con but he's not sure how exactly.
from the half-opened Dutch door, Heather thrusts the crumpled bag with one
bologna on white bread sandwich and some stale Oreos into my hands as she
clacks, and staggers on her high heels. I don't look back but they must have
seen, and I can just hear the priest say to himself "Ju goin' a hell!"
And I feel
rich with my three bags of bologna sandwiches and stale Oreos and my three warm
lemon-lime sodas as we trudge across the parking lot with its patches of filthy
black snow and we pass some local winos going to church for their breakfast of
don't need 'em anyway she buys some Mickey D's with her cocksucking money. I go
home with her, and she passes out on her couch, as I devour my sandwich
wholeheartedly, as I listen to some 60's reggae, and steal one of Heather's
cigarettes, and try to figure out a way to get more pills, but still I feel
victorious, having found a use for a pregnant strung-out hooker who won't pay
rent, because you moved her in under the pretense that she's homeless, broke,
pregnant, and can't get a place.
Me and the
priest both know that that's what sympathy gets you.
realization that three bologna sandwiches is not all that great of a victory, I
steal some Elavil out of Heather's stash to turn out all the lights in my head.
But they don't kick in immediately. Heather took off her ripped panty hose and
wool skirt and is passed out on the couch in her dingy panties, legs spread to
reveal a faded brick red period stain.
reason the pure depravity and filth of the situation turns me on.
I lay on the
couch with her and with great difficulty from her state of rigor mortis I touch
her pale, prematurely saggy tits with one hand and fondle her loose pussy with
the other. I'm in jeans but I can't resist rubbing my dick through the denim
onto her mushy ass. She mumbles incoherently, eyes closed as I invade, but don't
penetrate. I get a grinding rhythm going against this bounceless marshmallow of
a rump, and get a slight perverted thrill out of molesting this piece of sexual
trash. It's the sexual equivalent of finding leftovers in the garbage and eating
them, but that turns me on even more!
feeling the friction for a while I start to think of ways to get in and then
By now my
Elavil has kicked in and I pass out in my own bed, it's 2pm, the day is done and
boy did it have it's fill of sex drugs and rock n' roll and fine cuisine and in
an exotic locale to boot!
hit the bed face first before I can climb in, the classic result of Elavil and
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