Read Online The Glass Factory by Kenneth Wishnia - Free Book Online
Authors: Kenneth Wishnia
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stools over when I come in.
“Have trouble finding the place?” he asks. “You should have let me pick you up.”
“I got stuck in the middle of a stampede. You ever seen a herd of bull Cadillacs in rut? It isn’t very pretty.”
“Ha ha ha!” He laughs, forcing it to justify a friendly slap on the shoulder that lets his arm linger around me for a moment. “Let’s take a table. Say, that’s some sexy outfit.” He lets out a kind of snort.
“You just come out of hibernation?”
“It’s just nice to be with a real woman for a change.”
“You’ve been dating transsexuals?”
He laughs again. Must be I’ve got something he wants.
“No, no, but most of these babes, you know, show them a good car stereo and their eyes pop out.”
“Yeah—what else pops out?”
Snicker.
“Sounds like you’ve been dating teenagers,” I observe.
“Some.”
“And you prefer a good challenge.” And he’s in for one.
He smiles a satyric smile, half sits, checks himself and comes around to pull out my chair for me. “There, you see? Not too many women appreciate gestures like that.”
“Let me derail this runaway trolley car of a conversation before it hurts somebody, okay?” I say.
“Okay, so what direction do you want it to go in?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
That takes up most of dinner. I stick to my absolute limit of one glass of wine. Jim Stella does not appear to have a limit. I learn more about the features on his car than I thought I’d ever know and I have to remind him that I’m a bit more mature than most of the women he has evidently been dating, and that I’m not impressed with the fact that he has a car with a fifth gear. So he switches to the other topic his mildly inebriated cerebellum can handle.
It seems that most guys have a “standard size” prick, but he claims to have a “legal size” prick that thrills and delights all the women he screws. I think he says “women” to show how liberated he is. Does this really work on these local gals? Somehow I doubt it, but his confident manner implies it’s been working just fine. What do I know? Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit. I’m beginning to feel strangely like this whole evening is a fiasco. The cutie he was working at the bar when I came in is bouncing on the bar stool, talking to some guy and looking for a piece of paper, which she can’t find, so she gives the guy her phone number on a dollar bill. This is all falling apart. Get me out of here.
“Why’d you become a cop?” he asks. That’s a bolt out of the blue.
I don’t bother asking where he got it from. He probably knows some more things about me, too, given a lawyer’s resources and hyperactive testosterone.
“Because they wouldn’t let me become a priest,” I answer.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Who? My parents, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my confessors, my school teachers, my Popes, my presidents, my saints, movie stars, millionaires, men, women, beggars—other than that everybody else supported me.”
“Somehow I just can’t picture you carrying handcuffs and a nightstick.”
“You and a million others.” He probably can’t picture me blowing Morse’s brains out, either.
“Tell me about it,” he says.
I stare at him for a second.
“I mean about how tough it was to get pimps and perverts to take you seriously as a cop.”
Oh.
Don’t lose it, girl. I think for a minute, have a sip of wine, and chase it with some Long Island water. “One time this big, burly truck driver was gassing the whole block—there’s a city ordinance against idling, and the EPA says that prolonged exposure to diesel emissions increases the risk of lung cancer by about forty percent. So I told him to shut off his rig. ‘Make me,’ he says. I repeat my statement. He repeats his. I write a ticket. He tears it up. Now, he’s a huge guy, enjoying it, looking for a fight. I should really call for backup—the rule book says so—but the guy’s whole
“Have trouble finding the place?” he asks. “You should have let me pick you up.”
“I got stuck in the middle of a stampede. You ever seen a herd of bull Cadillacs in rut? It isn’t very pretty.”
“Ha ha ha!” He laughs, forcing it to justify a friendly slap on the shoulder that lets his arm linger around me for a moment. “Let’s take a table. Say, that’s some sexy outfit.” He lets out a kind of snort.
“You just come out of hibernation?”
“It’s just nice to be with a real woman for a change.”
“You’ve been dating transsexuals?”
He laughs again. Must be I’ve got something he wants.
“No, no, but most of these babes, you know, show them a good car stereo and their eyes pop out.”
“Yeah—what else pops out?”
Snicker.
“Sounds like you’ve been dating teenagers,” I observe.
“Some.”
“And you prefer a good challenge.” And he’s in for one.
He smiles a satyric smile, half sits, checks himself and comes around to pull out my chair for me. “There, you see? Not too many women appreciate gestures like that.”
“Let me derail this runaway trolley car of a conversation before it hurts somebody, okay?” I say.
“Okay, so what direction do you want it to go in?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
That takes up most of dinner. I stick to my absolute limit of one glass of wine. Jim Stella does not appear to have a limit. I learn more about the features on his car than I thought I’d ever know and I have to remind him that I’m a bit more mature than most of the women he has evidently been dating, and that I’m not impressed with the fact that he has a car with a fifth gear. So he switches to the other topic his mildly inebriated cerebellum can handle.
It seems that most guys have a “standard size” prick, but he claims to have a “legal size” prick that thrills and delights all the women he screws. I think he says “women” to show how liberated he is. Does this really work on these local gals? Somehow I doubt it, but his confident manner implies it’s been working just fine. What do I know? Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit. I’m beginning to feel strangely like this whole evening is a fiasco. The cutie he was working at the bar when I came in is bouncing on the bar stool, talking to some guy and looking for a piece of paper, which she can’t find, so she gives the guy her phone number on a dollar bill. This is all falling apart. Get me out of here.
“Why’d you become a cop?” he asks. That’s a bolt out of the blue.
I don’t bother asking where he got it from. He probably knows some more things about me, too, given a lawyer’s resources and hyperactive testosterone.
“Because they wouldn’t let me become a priest,” I answer.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Who? My parents, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my confessors, my school teachers, my Popes, my presidents, my saints, movie stars, millionaires, men, women, beggars—other than that everybody else supported me.”
“Somehow I just can’t picture you carrying handcuffs and a nightstick.”
“You and a million others.” He probably can’t picture me blowing Morse’s brains out, either.
“Tell me about it,” he says.
I stare at him for a second.
“I mean about how tough it was to get pimps and perverts to take you seriously as a cop.”
Oh.
Don’t lose it, girl. I think for a minute, have a sip of wine, and chase it with some Long Island water. “One time this big, burly truck driver was gassing the whole block—there’s a city ordinance against idling, and the EPA says that prolonged exposure to diesel emissions increases the risk of lung cancer by about forty percent. So I told him to shut off his rig. ‘Make me,’ he says. I repeat my statement. He repeats his. I write a ticket. He tears it up. Now, he’s a huge guy, enjoying it, looking for a fight. I should really call for backup—the rule book says so—but the guy’s whole
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