Some jackass was pounding on my door at 10:30 in the morning. I opened up and a man stuck out his hand.
“I’m Gay,” he said.
“Gayson Peters. I’m your new neighbor across the street.”
He was wearing an orange button up with khaki cargos and socks pulled all the way up to his knees.
“What do you want from me?” I asked. “Some money?”
“No. I’m inviting you to a barbecue that I’m having this afternoon.”
“Eh, I’m hungover,” I said. “Can’t make it”
“That’s okay, I’ll be serving free alcohol. Just come over and get drunk again.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I threw on a clean pair of pants (no underwear) and flipped my shirt inside out. I grabbed a bag of pretzels so that I didn’t look like a complete asshole for not bringing anything.
When I arrived, my new neighbor handed me a plate. “No thank you, Gayson,” I said, “I’m just here for the booze.”
“Please, call me Gay.”
I got really drunk. As I was hanging out in the backyard trying not to barf, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Got a light sweetheart?” she asked.
I handed her my lighter. She was about 50 something. Blond hair. Definitely had a smoker’s voice.
“Have you known Gay for long?” she asked.
“Since this morning.”
“I’m his mom.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
I walked up to the hot tub and barfed my guts out. When I finished, I walked back to her.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “So you’re Gay’s mom. What’s that like?”
“He’s an asshole,” she replied. “Got any kids?”
“How old are you?”
“I dunno. Somewhere between 28 and 74.”
She took one last drag from her cigarette then flicked it away. “Well this party is pretty lame,” she said. “Why don’t you come on over to my place and have some drinks? My name’s Lucinda.”
“Sure thing, Lucinda.”
Her apartment was a converted storage unit. It was littered with old Penthouse mags, newspapers, and an endless supply of glue. She stepped out of the shower and walked into the kitchen. In fact, the shower was in the kitchen.
“Sorry that my tits are flopping out,” Lucinda said. “I have no clean towels.”
“That’s okay. I haven’t had an erection in years. Too much prescription meds and internet pornography.”
She seemed to blow a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she said. “I can’t have sex. Vag is all dried up.”
I poured a drink and raised a toast. “To my dead ass dick!” I said.
We sat down on the couch and I began flipping through the channels.
“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “But the only thing this TV picks up is Designing Women.”
I turned my head and looked deep into her eyes. “I love Designing Women,” I said.
There was some energy between us. We shared a moment.
When Major Dad came on, I had to take a shit. “Do you need any toilet paper?” she asked.
“Nope. Never used it.”
As I blew up the toilet behind paper thin walls, I though that I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.
“I clogged the toilet,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t going nowhere.”
I sat back down on the couch. As we laughed at Gerald McRaney’s shenanigans, I reached out to hold her hand. She rested her head on my shoulder. Then she let out the most disgusting fart.
“I need to change my underwear,” she said.
It was the happiest night of my life.