Blowing My Wad — Part 5: The Wonder Years

PART 5 OF ANDY SWEAT’S EPIC ADVENTURE OF PLOWING THROUGH CASH AND ASS. GET THE BACK STORY HERE.

This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. Since then, I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now. This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.

I woke to songbirds chirping. I had a used condom stuck to my face. This wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary except this time I was outside and had a Stetson-sporting nine-year-old boy pointing a Smith & Wesson at my face. I stared at the barrel, unsure of where the hell I was or how the hell I got there. I spotted my water bottle on the dirt ground near the boy’s feet.

“Sippy cup,” My dry lips muttered.

“What you say?”

He cocked the Wesson.

“Sippy cup.”

I motion to the water bottle. Boy handed it over and I sucked the liquid dry as the gun remained pointed at my face. The boy grabbed it and sniffs.

“Moonshine!”

“Maccallan 18.”

“What you doing on our property?”

“Where are we?”

“Driftwood. Driftwood, Texas.”

I looked around and noticed in the distance a sign at a nearby establishment: Salt Lick BBQ. My hands were covered in sauce. ”I guess I had a craving for BBQ.”

A used but drivable John Deere lawn tractor was parked next to him.

“How much for the John Deere?

“What?”

“I’d like to buy the John Deere you got there. How much?”

After thinking for what seemed like forever.

“Five hundred.”

I pull out of wad of money stuffed in my black jeans.

“I’ll give you a thousand if you also get me some more of those beef ribs.”

Looking like a very much less dignified Richard Farnsworth in The Straight Story, I drove the John Deere on a road near the highway. Black shades on, chewing on a rib between sips of a 6-pack the boy got me. Tractor max speed: 5mph. My plan was to drive it as far as I could, heading towards the airport, before it either broke down or I got arrested for drunk driving a tractor. Luckily there wasn’t too many cars on this road and it did move parallel to the highway. I got my fair share of looks and middle fingers by nearby farmers and drivers as I would finish a rib and chuck it aside.

As I was moving along the road in my mower, my mind began to drift into hallucinatory state of memories like most drunk minds do. Oddly, the farmlands around me reminded me of the place I grew up: San Jose, California. Once known for its rich farmlands in the 40s and 50s is now synonymous with technology. Born into a Catholic family. My father owns a tire shop. My mother a stay-home housewife. Numerous siblings. Went to Catholic elementary school and all-boy Jesuit high school. I always thought of my childhood — like many others — to be the wonder years. Suburbs, family oriented old-traditional values filled with memories that every kid has. First kiss. First pimple and the 12 after that. First homerun. First car crash. First time running away from home.

As I’ve grown older, my childhood seemed just like everyone else. It saddened me as if it seemed like I missed my only opportunity for a truly unique childhood. Even knowing I was born into this mediocrity, I still felt guilt. I felt cheated. Just another cog in the wheel slated to die of a heart attack like any other Joe at 56.

Driver Blonde + Passenger Blonde

The tractor ran out of gas and I had only made about a 10-mile dent in my 30-mile trip to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport‎. I sat on my tractor with my thumb out hoping to catch a ride. After about a half-hour, two University of Texas girls pulled over in their beat-up pickup. Both young. Both athletic. Both blonde. They could be disguised as murders and I would be an idiot not to take a ride. I left the tractor there and hopped in.

As we moved from the road to the highway, I sat in the back seat with the girls up front. Passenger Blonde asked me:

“Where you going, hun?”

“Nowhere.”

The following two minutes of silence meant my answer freaked them out a bit. I can’t blame them. The vagueness sorta freaked me out as well, but the drunk honesty just spat out of my mouth. I found a beer rolling on the truck floor and cracked it open.

They talked about needing money for some trip they wanted to go on with their friends. They argued about working longer shifts. Asking parents for money. Getting another credit card. The same conversation I would’ve had four years back, when in college with my friends.

“I’ll give you two grand to play with yourself.”

This again shut the car up. That this business deal fell into their laps from a drunk, rib eating tractor perv was a shocker. They whispered to each other and finally came to an agreement. Passenger Blonde spoke for the group:

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

I sipped my beer as she started to undo her dress.

“Not you. Her… while driving.”

What a pervert I’d become. The confidence to ask these stranger blondes to play with themselves was nothing at all to me after bartering with whores over the past eight months. I saw it as a transaction of desires. My pleasure for their desire for cash.

The girls wanted three grand and I agreed. I leaned forward and shifted the rear-view mirror down towards her Driver Blonde pussy. I instructed her to move her side mirrors in pointing at her tits. Passenger Blonde felt left out. She said: ”What do I do?”

“You just watch.”

She made a disappointing tisk noise.

“Okay. Fine. You play with yourself too.”

For some reason that damn Meat Loaf song began to play in my head as Driver Blonde began to play with herself. I just watched, scanning back and forth between rear and side mirrors as she switched hands whenever one cramped up. I was a horror movie perv.

Passenger Blonde went at like she was shredding deli ham. Moaning too loudly. Knees banging on the car door. It was fucking annoying.

“All done!” Passenger Blonde belted as if this was a fucking race or something. It didn’t matter anyways. I didn’t care for her. My eyes were dead set on Driver Blonde. I shifted the rear view mirror up to look at her eyes. She stared at me in the rear view. Me at her. My eyes stayed dead set on those eyes in the rear view. Driver Blonde breathed heavy and heavier and finally came. I gave them the three grand and put my black shades on.

“Austin airport, please.”

At the airport, I exited the pickup and could feel the Blondes eyes staring at me. Before the automatic doors opened, I turned, faced them and took a bow. I half-smiled and walked into the airport.

“One way. First class ticket to LAX.”

“It’s Southwest, sir. There’s no first class. Any baggage?”

“A lot.”

I had about 8 mini Glenlivets on the flight, and a double when I landed.

“Monsieur Andy”

I hopped into a taxi that took me back home to downtown LA. When I got home I was greeted by Francoise Hardy “Je changerais d’avis” and Sylvie.

“Monsieur Andy, you must try this!”

Standing completely naked, a young French girl stood excited to see me as she held a fork pierced into a piece of steak. I had paid for one night and it has now turned into a bit of a long month relationship with me, of course, paying her. Her escort name was Sylvie Gainsbourg after her two favorite French singers. Sylvie wants to be a famous singer, but wasn’t really any good after she insisted on playing for me. I enjoyed her delusional mind. I told her to spend some time with me and I could make her a famous singer and model. I had no such power or connections to do so. But I wanted her. I was feeling older, weathered and I wanted her youth around. I’m a selfish bastard. So I paid her 15 grand to spend the month with me, cook, fuck and remain topless at all times.

I took a bit of the steak she has made and replied, ”Savoureux.”

I slumped on my 106″ Kensington leather sofa and Sylvie went down on me. With the taste of BBQ still lingering in my mouth, I thought about Driver Blonde. I thought about how powerful and hot it was to make this girl do this. Not a hooker. But an average girl with career ambitions and life goals. I thought about how it will probably leave a lasting memory on her life. A memory she wouldn’t dare share with anyone outside of that pickup truck. How I’d never forget it either. I came on Sylvia’s tits and retired to a bath.

I look back on these moments and memories in amazement and wonder. And maybe my perspective will change as I grow older, as I advance in my career and life. But in a way, I considered this to be my coming of age story. Sure. It wasn’t typical. But isn’t that what makes coming of age stories unique? The memories and explorations I had in this two year span of rich to broke has been the most insightful and life changing moments of my life. For good and bad. I got to see and experience life in a not so average manner, something I was neglected in my youth.

Slightly removed and sorta still dipped in it, I look back at these events like they were my wonder years.

The Wonder Years

 

Related on The Smoking Jacket:
Blowing My Wad Part 1: How I Got Hit By a Dodge Minivan and Pissed 500K on Booze,
Whores, and Designer Furniture 

Blowing My Wad Part 2: Chicago Whores 
Blowing My Wad Part 3: 2 Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May 
Blowing My Wad Part 4: Muerto in Bocas Del Toro 

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