The Benny Poda Years
A Novel by Kevin McGowin
Chapter 3 - Sacramento
During those years I had what you might call a problem with manic depression, or then again you might just say I was fuck-diving mad, but either way you'd be right and anyone who knew me's not gonna give you an argument. I'm sure the booze on top of the pills was the lion's share of it, but my lion was a coward and so was I, and this made it harder to get anything done from day to day but work my day job at the Sacramento public library Branch #4, shelving books and helping out old women with genealogy on the microfiche. It wasn't long before I started fucking them, but that's what we might call a "character defect," although I'm not ABOUT to shut the door on it now, and if you think some 60-year-old pussy in the stacks isn't good for the soul, well, you need to go back to the Schopenhauer.
My philosophy, like that of Schopenhauer, was that if a woman will let you in on her genealogy she'll let you into her pussy, and under them more dangerous the circumstances the better. I used to fuck them from behind by those big brown archived and library-bound tomes of Advertising Age, in the "D" section of the Library of Congress section or maybe actually it was the "H" section and who gave a fuck, we'd have quickies and I'd get my rocks off in some post-menopausal twat before you could say Mark Messier and then I'd be back to my shelving and they'd be back on the microfiche machines. This demonstrates a lack of respect for women on my part, you say? Look, these women, the amateur Genealogists, were the cocaine addicts of the middle classesone day at a goddamn time, and if they wanted cock I figured that in my capacity as Assistant Reference Librarian I was providing as much of a public service as those bitches who pat themselves on the ass for spending three hours a week with children who have Cystic Fibrosis or some shit, and be damned if you don't know I speak the truth, too. Hell, these were difficult times for us all, and if I could whip out my dick and sasify those old Constant Comment-swilling bitches just one more time, don't think for a drunken Vicksburg Riverboat Moment I wouldn't do it, either.
And all the while my life was shit and I'd stopped playing pool, so's to be able to get to work on time, telling myself I was doing it for Harriet, and the whole time, I later discovered, she was muff-diving with a ho named Millicent Forsyth and it just goes to show that if a woman ain't giving you pussy but still deigns to hang around your ass, whether she knows it or not she's a clit-twiddler from WAY back, brother, and I want you to make a note of that, as it might save you some considerable discomfort. Now, this would be peaches and herbs if the bitch was up front about it and she and Millie were taking turns riding my Roger, but it just so happens that that's not the way it works, and WHY that is is so clearly spelled out in the writings of Spinoza I doubt I really have to tell you a GODdamn thing but hey, them's the breaks. So why the fuck you think I was soon on the next Greyhound to Richmond, huh? Because I couldn't take the heat?
Well, there WAS no heat, motherfucker, and that's what was caking my ass. But I knew a good pool hall and I wasn't yet 30, and if those two factors are in place for YOU, fuck you if you don't jump at the chance to breathe some exhaust on the way down the open road.