Futility

My friend Phil told me a disgusting story today. He tells me a lot of disgusting stories, which I usually forget right after I’ve heard them. I forget them because they’re depressing, and I don’t like recalling things about Phil’s depressing life because although Phil is a great guy, I don’t want my life to be anything like Phil’s – so I forget his disgusting stories so they don’t stick in any part of my brain that could influence my behavior.

I’m always at risk, you could say.

He told me about a friend of his, a guy I maybe know a little bit, who was engaged to a girl for a little over a year. They were already in serious wedding negotiations, these two. She was maybe already planning to pop out of the floor at Russo’s in Howard Beach, although I doubt it, because popping out of the floor at Russo’s is a gratuitous reference I threw in for comedic purposes – which doesn’t make much comedic sense because only people from Queens, Brooklyn or Long Island would ever laugh at a Russo’s reference.

And maybe only half of those would really laugh, because there are millions of people in Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island who take popping out of the floor at Russo’s in Howard Beach very seriously. I think about moving away for precisely this reason.

Anyway, Phil’s friend went on a business trip that was supposed to last a week. The trip was cut short, and the guy came home a few days early. Thinking he’d give his fiancée a happy surprise, he went straight to her apartment looking for what an old Jewish insurance guy I once caddied for called “The Sex.” This guy also called golf, “The Golf.”

He also told me a joke once. He said, “What’s the difference between a c—-t* and a pussy?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hirsch. What’s the difference?”

"A c—-t* is a woman on a golf course. A pussy is the guy who brought her there.”

Phil’s friend knocked on her door. She opened it a crack. He said, “Surprise! I’m home early!”

She said, “Oh…great! I’ll be right out!”

He said, “What d’ya mean you’ll be right out? Why can’t I come in?”

The door was only open a crack, remember. She said, “Uh…well…you can’t come in right now.”

He turned around and walked out. Then he parked his car in a place where he could see the front door. A half hour later, the guy came out.

This was some crazy shit. Phil told me she tried to get back together with the guy. She went plum damned crazy trying to get back together with the guy, to the point where he had to change all his phone numbers, including his work number, to avoid having to deal with her.

“She’s corrupted at that point,” Phil said. “She’s been fouled.”

“That’s no good,” I said.

“They’re all fuckin’ savages. That’s what they are.”

“That’s me,” I said, “I’m kickin’ the fuckin’ door in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She had a chain lock on the door?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s me, that’s comin’ out of the wall.”

“Why bother?”


* I’m not supposed to say the c-word. I’ve been told it’s not nice.