Mike Gamms - Chapter Five: Even Winners Can Be Losers

We arrive to Vegas just around sunset.  Eager to continue the buzz we started in the car, me and Roger hit up the liquor store while the girls go get strippered up in the bathroom mirror. I promise Jacki a bottle of whiskey, a task I have to borrow money from Roger to complete.  

On the way back to the room we stop at the casino so Roger can play some black jack. I'm quickly reminded that I actually hate this city a lot more than I had remembered.  I'm not sure if last time I was here I was too drunk to notice or not unhappy enough to be bothered by it, but on this visit I'm already miserable. The people I hate are being celebrated as cool. Those cocky fucks in their designer suits just trying to show off how rich and pretty they are. I'm so poor I can't imagine what it's like to even want a 300 dollar suit, let alone actually own one. The money I make off unemployment and donating plasma barely leaves me enough for a bottle of cheap whiskey.  Seeing people bet even a 100 on a hand of black jack is enough to make me sick.   

10 minutes and a grand later, Roger is ready to go. When we get back to the room, I'm not sure if Jacki is more excited to see me, or the bottle of booze. I already feel like I'm striking out with her.  Whenever I'm around a pretty girl I get nervous.  And surprisingly all the drinking didn't help. I'm not sure if I fell in love with her already or just in love with the thought of a girl that hot even being remotely interested in me. Either way I look pathetic. I know I'm too much of a pussy to get with her sober so I start racing to get drunk as soon as possible.  I can tell by the way she's keeping up that she needs to be drunk to hook up with me too.  I try to pretend like it's because she's nervous but I'm not dumb. I'm too much of a self loathing little shit to not have seen it coming a mile away. I'm not sure why I'm so fucking miserable when we'll probably still fuck anyways.   

I decide it's best not to think about it, and crack open the Grey Goose bottle. Not that I would ever buy that over priced douchebag vodka, but Roger thinks it's cool to show off. Trying to impress his large breasted lady, he invites up a friend who claims to be a Vegas club promoter.  I'm unimpressed because I hate everyone, but to girls as sleazy as these two, club promoters are kings. Especially when they bring as much coke as this one.   

Him and the girls have already done a mirror full of lines and are feeling pretty hopped up.  This is clear when he pulls Jacki's panties aside and licks her vagina. She laughs and doesn't seem to mind. Neither does anyone else in the room, so I shouldn't either. I begin to wonder why I fall in love with girls who flirt and fuck like it means nothing, but I direct my attention to the coffee table lined with blow instead.  

After a few lines, I've forgotten about Jacki, I've forgotten about the bugs, and I've even forgotten about how much I hate myself. I have no concern for what I'm doing. My only worry is having as much fun as possible and feeling as good as possible. At least that's what I tell my self as I try to let the drug take over.  I've had enough of being in charge of my actions and drugs are a get out of jail free card for making bad decisions. I can be whoever I wanna be, do whatever I wanna do, and I have a perfect scapegoat for all of it.  

Roger is just as snow blown as me but on a different planet entirely. After doing a line off his girl's tits, he declares it's time to go. I grab a bottle of wine for the road. Whenever I do hard drugs I think it makes me Hunter S. Thompson. No one buys it, but it sure as hell gets me drunk quicker.   

I'm too lazy to fight for pussy so I just let Jacki have the club promoter if she wants him. She grabs my crotch in the elevator. Clearly ignoring her turns her on. When we finally get in the club my chances with Jacki continue to improve. The promoter is no longer a threat; he disappeared as soon as he brought us passed the line outside and into the club.  He stuck around long enough for what I can only assume was an expensive handshake with Roger.  

The coke high has shifted from extremely elated to arrogant and judgmental. Everyone in the club annoys me.  All the women have matching fake tits and fake personalities. They may pretend like they want to be models, but deep down they just want to a marry a rich foreign guy, and spend all his money drinking with her girlfriends by the pool. It wouldn't be so annoying if all the guys in this club weren't the exact guys who want nothing more than to land themselves a fake empty wife.  This club is a breeding ground for everyone I hate. These people think that being rich or attractive will compensate for being so damn uninteresting, but I don't buy it.  

Jacki makes the rounds through the club leaving me to entertain myself with a head full of coke and a liver full of vodka. We both know I'm her plan B as long as I'm able to keep quiet and not weird her out too much. I keep my distance and venture towards the dance floor.  

When you surround me with people I hate, I get bored easily and make trouble. I start repeatedly stomping on the feet of people around me while I pretend to be dancing. After they get pissed and realize it was no accident, I move onto to a different part of the floor. After I run out of toes to step on, I go find Jacki. I get a rush off the reckless danger and it gives me enough balls to ask her back to the room.  

A few minutes later we find ourselves in the elevator.  I'm not sure if it's out of nervous fear or incredible loneliness, but I try to hold Jacki's hand.  She playfully slaps it away and grabs my cock instead.  She tells me it's big but I know it's out of pity. It's more insulting that she thinks I'm the kind of guy who needs his ego stroked than it would have been if she had just said I had a small dick. I decide it's best to keep my shit together and ignore my issues long enough to get a load off.   

We burst through the door to find Roger and his girl already at it. He hammers her from behind, each hand full of her fake tits. He continues at it as he shouts across the room to us.  

"Hey man don't let us interrupt your fun. There's plenty of room in the bathroom for a good solid fuck!"  

I'm not confident in my abilities enough to fuck in front of a crowd, and she's horny enough to do it just about anywhere, so we take his advice.  

That much coke and booze is enough to slow down even the quickest semen, but I'm still ready to go after only a few minutes.  The only reason I hold it in is for the girl's benefit anyways. I could care less about getting her off at this point; it's not like she's getting much out of it.  I'm too awkward to make conversation and I'm sweating like a pig. But I can tell by the occasional moan she lets out between text messages that she doesn't mind it too much. She's about as into me as I'm into her, but at least she's not so tripped up on her own bullshit that she can't enjoy a simple fuck. Whether it's an ignorant denial of the situation, or a nihilist I don't give a fuck attitude, I'm jealous of her marginal contentment with life.   

I close my eyes and pretend like my dick isn't only hours behind the club promoters tongue for a few more pumps before letting it out. She kisses me on the forehead, says thanks and skips out of the room.  The fact that this girl has come to expect such unsatisfactory fucking only makes me feel more pathetic.  I pop a few sleeping pills I stole from her purse and curl up in the empty bathtub. I won't feel any less lonely than I would in bed with her, that's for sure. The pills kick in fast and I survive another day.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Katie McMahon - Five o'clock

I hate when someone says they know what you mean and then they go on and on about something you don't mean at all. Like they just felt like talking about whatever they were thinking and what you meant really means nothing to them. Or they spout sayings at you, like you're just going to soak that all up.

Everything from now on feels made up, do you know what I'm saying?

On the way home, I saw Jesus walking across the street and he was wearing pants. Khaki pants. He was carrying a cross too, but it didn't look heavy at all. He seemed to have no problem, just carrying it around with him everywhere, like it was a box of crayons or a newspaper just sitting lightly in his hands. And those pants. Fuck khaki pants, seriously. Khaki pants make everyone look miserable. At my first job, when I was sixteen, we had to wear khaki pants. Mine were baggy and always wrinkled up by the end of the day, like so wrinkly I'm surprised I wasn't fired. I worked as a cashier, ringing up groceries and clothes and televisions and whatever you put in front of me, but I was always just standing there, so I don't know what was happening that made them so wrinkly, but always by the end of the day I looked like I had been wadded up and sat on. Jesus looked pretty miserable too, as he carried that cross from street corner to corner, while some middle-aged black man skipped behind him shouting, "Jesus makes me feel like singing!"

This Jesus? Or Jesus Jesus? Was he talking about the same Jesus?

No person or person pretending to be a person makes me feel like singing today. I keep having this dream about this guy I met randomly last week, which is just so strange because I really like him a whole lot in the dream. We really get along. We listen to the same music and we laugh a lot. He cooked for me last night, can you believe that? I remember nothing about what he cooked, but it was awesome. He's so much fun, but not like crazy fun where he might take off his clothes in public or steal jewelry to prove how romantic he is; you have to meet him. In the dream, he makes me feel like singing or like doing something sweet, like singing to him or singing about him or singing him to sleep or singing in the shower, cracking the door open and hoping he's just dying out there, wishing he could see me singing naked in the shower. I like myself naked a lot better in dreams than in real life. He does too. It'll be awful if I see him again for real. I think he lives with his parents and he didn't even know who Don DeLillo was. Christ, that shouldn't be a prerequisite for me, should it? Anyway, if he knew who he was, he might hate him anyway. He might hate everything I love.

But in the dream he's pretty rad.

Anyway, I might hate everything I love too. That's where I'm at right now; looking at my things and thinking, "Who is this person living in this room?" I have six books just sitting there on the ground that I haven't even picked up, but I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to sit in my room so I could look at them and whisper to myself, "I love these books."

I think, quite possibly, I just want to get enough stuff so I can go through it all in two years and say, "Why did I save this?" That's what people say when they move, all types of people, and I want to be just like them. Because they go on to save things and save more things and throw some things away, and that's how people are. That's how I want to be. Just like a regular person.

Everyone in my building is always moving. I have never seen the same person twice. Okay, that is a lie, but really I have only seen a few people twice, everyone else only once or not at all.

There is a woman living in my building that likes to have sex at five o'clock in the morning. I have never seen her in real life, that I know of. She is extremely loud. Deafening. I am sure she is on drugs. I really thought she maybe was dying, until she started using real words in her screams. Five o'clock is both too early and too late to be screaming, "Fuck me!" out into the courtyard. Even when you're wearing earplugs and you've shut the window, anybody can hear "Fuck me!" echoing through the courtyard and into their ears.

I hate when people scream, "Jesus!" when they're having sex. I really do.

Five o'clock is too late and too early for almost everything... except when you're talking quietly and you don't have to work in the morning and your eyes are only halfway open and you're halfway looking at someone you love or at least think that you love. Five o'clock is too late and too early and too lonely to be awake by yourself.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.