This story has HEAVY use of “FUCK”. It’s also REALLY detailed. Sorry, I felt it was better to over-explain than to raise questions that distract from the continuity.
Freaky Friday for sure! The silhouette of a man with a phone to his ear belongs to my ex-apartment manager’s douchebag hus
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That’s as far as I got before the guy was back at the door to my peepshow booth. His name is Sam and he’s a genuine, authentic, piece of shit. He is the person I signed my lease with on my first LA apartment, which I also think of as my first experience with the “LA has 2 modes: deception and disappointment” phenomenon. He is the person who gave me the creep-eye whenever he came into my apartment to not fix shit that I needed fixed. He is the person who told me that I wouldn’t get my deposit back (despite the good condition in which I left the place. I filled my nail-holes, for fuck’s sake.) when we did a final walk-through as I moved out of that apartment.
Cut to Friday afternoon, 1:30ish. This guy strolls into the peepshow, and stops at my booth. I say hello, he tries to say something through his shock at seeing me there, and comes up with “Ummmmm…uhhhh….hi…so did you get your deposit back?”
To which I responded, “You know I didn’t.”
“So…uhhhhhh….you work here?”
Dumbshit. Fucking dumbshit. Fuck, fuck, fucking dumbfuckingshit.
So he starts asking me about the place, says he works next door. I explain it all. He says “Maybe I’ll get money and come back.”, I nod and he walks away. He stops by the back door and makes a phone call.
This is the point when I took the first picture, intending on writing a tiny little blog about how funny it was to see him there, how clearly uncomfortable he was, and how happy that made me. If I were into blatant cliched foreshadowing, this is where I’d use it, to make you keep reading.
I begin to write, and as I was typing the word “husband”, I looked up to see him back in my doorway.
“Ok, let’s do this.”, he said.
I explained how it works, he went in his booth. The clerk came over the loudspeaker, announcing that he needed to pay admission. I went to the front, explained I knew him and asked for his admission to be waived. A kindness that he didn’t fucking deserve.
I did the peepshow. As I was getting dressed afterwards, he banged on the door to my booth. I opened it, and he asked for a lapdance. I finished dressing, found him (chatting with another girl), and told him to go up front to pay for the lapdance he wanted. He did, and I stayed and chatted up the other girl, telling her what a douchebag he is, and how I was gonna get my fucking deposit back, $13 (the amount I receive from a $20 peepshow) at a time. He returned, handed me 2 receipts (sometimes the guy gives us his receipt, which would denote what length of dance he bought) for $10 each. Now, I know that a $10 receipt is either a 4 or 9 minute dance, but I was confused as to why he had 2 receipts. I figured that he had a 9 (because he wouldn’t have 2 receipts for $10, if he only got a 4), so I took him into the lapdance booth, set my timer for 8 minutes (screwing him out of 1 minute, I thought, because fuck that motherfucker), and began the dance. After 1.5 minutes, I looked down, and saw a timer from the cashier counter sitting next to him, set for 4 minutes. I stopped and asked him if he got a 4 or 9 minute dance. He said 9, but since I don’t trust this fuckface to tell the truth, I paused my timer (I use my phone to time, never the store timers), and called out to the girl sitting near the lapdance area. I asked her to go find out how long he paid for, she came back and called back to me from her seat, “He has 8 minutes left.”, thus making me think that he did pay for a 9.
Towards the end of the dance, he began asking for my phone number. I refused to give it, he asked what would make it worth it for me. I said “Getting my deposit back”, and laughed. He ignored that, and kept pressing the phone number issue, following me back to my room with it. He kept asking “What if it was worth it, I don’t mean with dick, but just…you know…worth it?”, I kept replying, in increasingly detailed manner, “There is NO way it would EVER be worth it, there is nothing you could ever offer me that would make it worth it, because there is NO arena where anything you could offer would make YOU worth it.”
Finally, he leaves. I walk up to the front counter, chat with the clerk about what a dick Sam is (and as stupid as the sun is bright, he actually bought 2 4-minute dances -equaling 8 minutes- for $40, instead of 1 9-minute dance for $30), and ask for my money from the lapdance. Now here’s how the lapdance payment works: sometimes the customer pays the clerk all of the money, and they hold it for us until after the dance, and sometimes the customer pays the dancer her portion directly. This is more of my awesome foreshadowing. My earlier dance was one of the former, and I thought that this particular clerk was consistent in that manner. I was wrong.
“He didn’t pay you?”
RED. I see red. I see blood fucking red.
This fucking motherfucker who kept my fucking 2-months-rent-and-pet-deposit had screwed me one more time. For $20. For work I did. For work he was on camera receiving. No.
The security guard/jizzmopper went to the appliance store next door, where Sam works, to get my money. The clerk and I watched them arguing outside of our front door. She joined them, adding another voice to the argument. Sam said “She (the clerk) never told me, so I don’t have to pay.”, and I thought “Hey, this concerns me, and I’m a logical woman in her 30’s, I will go explain the situation in a non-argumentative way, and surely he will give me my deserved payment.”
No, seriously, that’s what I thought.
But, somewhere between taking my first step, and arriving at the doorway, that logical woman checked the fuck out. I saw his ugly fucking face, heard him refusing to pay me, and lost my shit. LOSTMYSHIT.
I opened my mouth and nothing but a continuous stream of “Give me my motherfucking money! I want my fucking $20! Bitch, you will pay me my motherfucking money! You motherfucking piece of shit, you owe me $20! Pay me, motherfucker! You got your fucking lapdance, where is my motherfucking money?” (and on, and on, and on along the same theme) came out. Loud and proud, it came out. Poured out of my mouth, hung in the air, swarmed around his head like a bunch of pissed off bees. My arm had raised with my finger cocked, ala DMX. Y’all had indeed made me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.
He threatened to call the cops, and pretended to, holding his phone to his head and still arguing back, only halfway pretending to talk to the cops.
I added “Yeah, bitch, call the fucking cops, YOU owe ME money, YOU have stolen from ME, YOU ARE IN THE FUCKING WRONG HERE, DUMBFUCK!!” to my litany.
He tried to provoke me into hitting him. You have no idea how hard it was to resist. I wanted to decimate that piece of shit. To immolate him. I wanted to burn him to a dead crisp and sweep his ashes into the dirty gutter as an offering to the patron saint of fury. I held my ground, and continued to scream at him.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his fat fucking wallet “You want your fucking $20? FINE!”, he pulled out a Jackson and threw it on the ground.
I bent down, picked it up, came back up and screamed “You are the worst person EVER, you FUCKING PIG!”, turned and began walking away.
“Oh, I’M the pig?”, he oinked out.
“YES, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”, I yelled without stopping my pace.
I got to my room, closed the door, pulled my shade down, and cried my fucking eyes out. I cried from the adrenaline. I cried about the ugliness. I cried about who I turned into. I cried for the life that didn’t include this incident as a possibility. And I cried for the one that now did. Mine.