Divorcing Myself from Myself Ch. 06


Note: This story is part of a small volume of stories that I have posted here previously. They will appear with different names as chapters (10 in all). I think these stories stand alone well, but they are meant to be read as part of a larger work entitled “Divorcing Myself From Myself.”

This chapter,

, is called “The Lost Car.” This is the first time it has been posted here.

Thank you in advance for checking this out, and I’m looking forward to hearing what you all think.


P.S. Please drink responsibly.

The Lost Car

Work was stupid yesterday.

Really fucking stupid.

The Laurence Olivier, Michael Jordan, Rolls Royce of stupid.

I was “let go” from my temp job at an architectural firm because I “lack a professional appearance and attitude.”

By a memo left on my desk before I arrived in the morning.

Meaning I got out of bed, showered, put on clothes, had a cup of coffee, a bowl of Wheaties for breakfast, and then walked 11 blocks to this office building near Westlake Park, took the elevator to the 17th floor, and was about to sit down when I was informed – by a piece of paper – that I had been dismissed.

The office manager couldn’t have called me the day before?

Better yet, broken the news to my face?

I guess not.

He had to go through this whole routine, rather than delivering the news to me personally.

And of course, the aforementioned office manager, who made the decision and authored the memo, was conspicuously absent when this memo was delivered.

He had a meeting to go to, I was told.

How convenient.

How courageous.

So no one could explain first hand why all of this happened.

Other than my services or presence in this office was no longer required.

Or desired.

I was fired.

By a piece of paper.



The reasons the memo cited for this conclusion that I “lack a professional appearance and attitude” are my long hair, beard, and the fact that I seldom wore a tie to the office.

In that order.

Admittedly, they had a point.

I did often showed up to work smelling like a brewery with baggy bloodshot eyes, and didn’t really talk to anyone in the office.
I didn’t exactly fit in with the office culture, so I don’t blame them if they decided to fire me.

But those facts weren’t cited, curiously enough.

Just vague bullshit this brave office manager pulled out of his ass so he didn’t appear to be accusing me of something I could contest.

What was curiouser (and enraging) though, was a guy named Jym (his full name is James, he goes by “Jim,” yet he spells it with a “y” for some reason) whose office was across from my cubicle, often showed up in the morning smelling like a brewery, with baggy blood shot eyes, and wasn’t always Mr. Gregarious.

He also had a little flask he nipped from, now and again.

He often returned from 2ish hour long lunches three sheets to the wind.

He too, seldom wore ties, save for those skinny square end ties that were all the rage in the early 1980’s.

He had a mullet, a porn star mustache, a scruffy Miami Vice style beard, and a rat tail dangling down his back.

On casual Fridays, he’d wear a sleeveless David Bowie “Serious Moonlight Tour” t-shirt, jeans, and puffy white Adidas shoes.

He was the rebel of the office.

He was also a role model.

You could hear his name mentioned enviously by his co-workers in the break room, amazed at how he got things done.

His maturity was admired, too.

He said the right things when the Escort bayan boss bragged about his natural gas-powered car, or when a colleague talked about how his kid is deciding between UCLA or Berkeley, or when another colleague talked about his intense racketball games.

He was the go to man in the office for advice on professional, even personal matters.

One of the secretaries was often in his office, explaining the latest complications in her relationship (his persistent demand for some rumpy pumpy), and how she just wasn’t attracted to him.

“He’s always talking about sex!” she would complain.

Jym would sit and listen with rapt attention as he sat back with his feet up on his desk, tossing an apple in his hands.

He would look at me askance when I told him I wasn’t sure of my future plans when he’d ask about them.

“You’ll figure something out, right?” he’d say with a condescending smile


So, as irresponsible as I may be, he is hailed for his maturity, wisdom, and professionalism, while also being a functioning alcoholic, but I’m shitcanned by a piece of paper due to my “lack of professional appearance and attitude.”




Eat shit and die, Jym.

I could care less.

I’m going to drink.

A lot.

Because that’s the only thing I care about doing right now.


Susie’s out of town, so I go stag.

I head out into the driving rain, and after warming up my truck, I tool on over to the Comet, where I find parking around the corner on 10th.

I go inside and take a seat near the pool table and empty kegs.

I get a shot and a beer and I down them.

Then I do it again.

Then I do it a third time.

As the alcohol blurs the events of today, this chick with dark hair sits down next to me.

Long, thick, dark hair soaking form the rain, and big dark eyes.

Full red lips.

She introduces herself.

I think she says her name is Kim.

Maybe Karen.

I never really hear her say it, and I don’t ask her to repeat it.

She asks what I’m drinking, and I tell her Jameson and beer.

She’s already well on her way.

She says she only drinks German beer and laments that neither the Comet nor any of the bars on the hill have any good German beer.

I tell her they have Stroh’s.

She laughs and rolls her eyes.

She’s settled for LaBatt’s because she won’t touch Stroh’s or any other American beer with a ten foot pole, she tells me.

I keep her glass filled.

Mine too.

She talks.

A lot.

About herself.

Her job, her roommate, her brother, her car, her checking account, her apartment.

You could connect a turbine to her mouth and power the city.

I can barely get a word in edgewise, but I don’t care.

When she has exhausted her directory of topics, she tells me I’m cute.



In that order.

I tell her flattery is not necessary.

Then I wink.

She laughs again.

Her brown suede-like jacket is wet from the rain as well.

She’s wearing a black sweater, a black skirt, black stockings, and black ankle high boots.

She’s got a bit of junk in the trunk, but it works for her.

And me.

She also has behemothic breasts.

She models them for me, volunteering that they’re DD’s.

She asks me three times what I do for a living.

The first two times, I answer, “I exist.”

The third time I tell her I’m an astronaut.

She laughs yet again.

I am becoming Ralph Malph.

We keep Bayan escort drinking past midnight and the crowd thins.

Her fingers dance on my hand from time to time.

She brushes up against me from time to time.

Then she asks me if I have a girlfriend.

I say, “Not really.”

She says, “Good, because I could use a good roll in the hay.”

Her eyes sparkle, and her smile blinds.

She turns my head towards her, cups my face in her hands and gives me a wet drunken, kiss, and says, “Let’s get out of here.”

We pack up and stumble over to my truck, and drive over to her place on 15th.

I park about three doors down from her building.

We go inside.

She grabs my crotch and starts kissing me.

She is an excellent kisser.

Her mouth tastes great.

“Get naked,” she commands as she pulls off her top.

I take off my shirt and undo her bra.

Her tits bounce out, and she undoes my jeans and practically rips them and my boxers off.

I remove her skirt, stockings, and panties.

Her skin is very soft.

It’s cold in her apartment.

The steam heater is clanging, but not generating much heat.

She has goosebumps.

Her large nipples are erect, and I twist them slightly.

She squeals.

She smiles and looks down at my Willy and looks back at me with a twinkle and then drops to her knees.

She blows me for a couple of minutes until I am rock hard.

“Are you ready to fuck me?” she says after stopping to look up at me.

“Yes,” I reply.

She goes to her drawer and tosses me a condom, which I open and put on.

I love chicks who are prepared.

She gets on her bed and opens her legs.

Her moist pussy gleams.

I mount, insert, and thrust.

I pound away.

She moans.

And groans.

Her breasts jounce back and forth.

I go faster.

She moans louder.

I go even faster.

Her moans turns to a scream.

Then I shoot.

I drop on to her.

I catch my breath and get up to go to the bathroom.

I take off the condom and drop it in the toilet.

Then I wipe my Johnson with toilet paper and drop that in the toilet.

Then I pee a gallon on top of all of that and flush.

I come back to bed, and she’s drifting off.

I fall asleep.


At 7 am, she is snoring next to me.

My head is pounding, and I look around, disoriented.

After a few minutes, I piece it all together and realize where I am, and how I got here.

Then I realize I’m not positive I know what her name is.

I think she said it was Kim, but it could also be Karen.

I am briefly unnerved when I realize I’ve boned a complete stranger about whose name I have no clarity.

I lay there a few minutes, trying to remember her name.

Then I stop caring

She keeps snoring.

Then I decide the best thing to do would be to get up, get dressed as quietly as I can, and get the fuck out of there.

It’s shitty.


Like the boss who fired me by means of a piece of paper.

But I’ve had drunken one night stands with complete strangers before, and it’s awkward in the morning.

She will undoubtedly go bananas when she realizes what’s happened.

She may demand I leave and threaten to call the cops if I don’t leave, which actually happened one time.

A boyfriend could knock on the door, which also happened one time.

She could have a husband that she conveniently neglected to mention.

Those are situations I don’t want to experience.

Conversations I don’t Escort wish to have.

So I get up, quietly gather my clothes, and tiptoe to the bathroom, not pulling the door shut, lest the latching sound wakes her up.

I put my boxers and pants on, along with my shirt, which I button unevenly.

I put on a sock.

Then another sock.

Then a boot.

Then the other.

Fortunately, I never took my keys or wallet out of the pockets.

I tiptoe back out into the bedroom.

I grab my coat, which I had tossed onto a chair, and slowly put it on, keeping my eyes locked on her to look for any movement.

She is still out.

I’m ready to go.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom into the living room, thanking God both rooms are carpeted.

When I get to the door, I open it very carefully, but it starts creaking.

“FUCK!” I say under my breath.

I pull it open a little bit more, and it creaks some more.

A little bit more open, and a little bit more creaking.

Eventually, there is enough room for me to step out.

I say fuck it and pull the door closed, turning the doorknob to keep the latch back, and slightly releasing it for the latch to go into place.

Then I bolt.

I walk down damp 15th Avenue until I come to Pike and then turn left, heading west down to Bellevue, where I turn north, and after crossing Olive and passing three buildings, I find my homestead.

I open the door, go inside, and head downstairs to my apartment.

I go inside, take off my clothes, flop on the bed, and crash.


At about 2 pm, I stir.

I have successfully slept off most effects of what would otherwise be a wicked hangover, but I am overcome with a craving for hot, greasy food.

So I throw on my clothes from last night, and head out the door, and up Olive Way to

Broadway, where Ernie Steele’s waits for me just up from the corner.

I grab an old newspaper, take a seat at the counter, and order a cheeseburger, fries, and diet coke to satisfy my mean hankering.

After a few minutes, my food and drink are brought to me, and that first bite of the hits the right spot, and I am in heaven.

And then I am in hell.

Because while I am eating, bits and pieces of last night’s events come back to me, including realizing that I drove last night.

And that my truck is just down the street from Kim/Karen’s building back on 15th.


I’m not positive, but I have a hunch that it is there.

Or is it just a hope?

I have no certain memory.

Only a hunch.

And if my truck isn’t there, then where the hell is it?

So I pay the bill and leave immediately, running over to 15th Avenue, praying out loud that my truck is parked there…somewhere.

I mainly pray that there aren’t any new dents when I do find it, or on the neighboring vehicles parked in front and in back of it.

My prayers are answered when I see my old green Chevy truck, as well as the neighboring vehicles unscathed, and parked about halfway down the block off Union.

I get in and am about to start the engine when I notice something on the passenger side floor.

I pick it up and look at it.

It’s an ID.

Her ID.

Her name is, in fact, Kim.

I check the address on her ID and see that her building is close by, so I hesitatingly get out and walk up to the front door, which is thankfully propped open.

I go inside and see a row of mailboxes in the lobby, find hers, and drop the ID inside.

Then I go back to my truck, get in, start it up, and drive home.

When I get back, I sit on the couch and feel great shame.

Realizing how lucky I am that I didn’t kill someone.

Or myself.

And about ditching that woman.

Then I grab the TV remote and turn on a basketball game.

I move on.

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