wound up publicly accusing her boyfriend of some three years of being a homosexual. This little imputative nightmare took place in a dive bar on Pittsburgh’s South Side, while we were playing electronic darts on a Friday night in the middle of hockey season among scores of shitfaced, pissed-off Penguins fans, who had just witnessed a hard-fought loss to the New York Rangers.
Caitlin’s accusation seemed preposterous, but was in fact, as we were about to discover, wildly and unpredictably true.
Poor Kent.
It turned out that he’d been in love with Glose for several months and that the reason he’d been putting on weight was that he knew Glose preferred fat girls. Kent had grown particularly heavy, pushing 250 pounds (at a generous five foot ten).
He came out to Glose roughly at midnight, the night before our Pittsburgh show, in Glose’s Holiday Inn motel room, as Caitlin, Sheila Anne, Morris, and I were getting stoned and streaming a Three’s Company marathon on my laptop in another room. I think Kent got inspired by my sudden, impulsive marriage to Sheila Anne.
According to Glose, this is what happened:
Wearing a tight sleeveless T-shirt featuring a Shazam thunderbolt, perhaps to highlight his plump pecs and bulbous tummy, Kent Orzolek professed romantic love to his longtime rhythm section partner. Glose, in response, vomited his Dairy Queen double cheeseburger, root beer, and vanilla shake onto the fire-retardant carpeting. Then he (Glose) freed his uncircumcised penis from his underwear-less pants and proceeded to urinate on the plot of regurgitated matter, at which point (according to Glose) Kent actually went to his knees. This, I assume, was probably out of desperation or relief or horror, or some combination thereof, as those extraordinarily heightened moments in our lives have a tendency to naturally lower our center of gravity, thus the need for phrases like “She took my legs out” and “He made my knees go wobbly.” Glose, however, obviously misinterpreted Kent’s genuflection as an inspired offer of fellatio, and according to Kent, Glose struck him square in the face with the cheap digital clock radio he’d aggressively snatched from the bedside stand. Glose claimed he thought Kent was coming by simply to huff a little glue and watch reality TV, something they’d been doing ad nauseam the entire minitour. (As an aside, Kent swears to the God of Rhythm and Blues that Glose has three testicles.)
The following morning, while Kent was out gophering coffee (it was his turn), Glose went straight to Caitlin and told her everything, which Kent, of course, despite his inflamed and bruised face, vehemently denied, calling Glose a liar, an iconoclast, and, of all things, a hairy, emotional Nazi.
That evening’s gig at the legendary Gooski’s, in Polish Hill, was, for good reason (and to put it lightly), a sloppy, unfocused mess, and we lost the room halfway through our set. The rhythm section was a horror show. Glose refused to look at Kent, whose eyes were bulging with tears. To make matters worse, because of his recent weight gain, Kent was short of breath and double-chinned and sitting on his amp the way old people sit on buses, and he was making a lot of faces that the middle-aged antihero stroke-victim character tends to make in American films just prior to having to go to a knee at the wedding reception for his estranged daughter who hates him but will likely grant him forgiveness.
We muscled through the set and broke our gear down in front of a disappointed crowd and sold a whopping four CDs and maybe three T-shirts, and only half-a-dozen people signed the e-mail list and we loaded into the van and headed back to the motel with our collective tail between our legs.
Later that night, Caitlin’s Inquisition reached its peak at the aforementioned dive bar on Pittsburgh’s South Side. Through several rounds of Iron City Lights, Kent couldn’t convince his girlfriend of three years that Glose’s
Caitlin’s accusation seemed preposterous, but was in fact, as we were about to discover, wildly and unpredictably true.
Poor Kent.
It turned out that he’d been in love with Glose for several months and that the reason he’d been putting on weight was that he knew Glose preferred fat girls. Kent had grown particularly heavy, pushing 250 pounds (at a generous five foot ten).
He came out to Glose roughly at midnight, the night before our Pittsburgh show, in Glose’s Holiday Inn motel room, as Caitlin, Sheila Anne, Morris, and I were getting stoned and streaming a Three’s Company marathon on my laptop in another room. I think Kent got inspired by my sudden, impulsive marriage to Sheila Anne.
According to Glose, this is what happened:
Wearing a tight sleeveless T-shirt featuring a Shazam thunderbolt, perhaps to highlight his plump pecs and bulbous tummy, Kent Orzolek professed romantic love to his longtime rhythm section partner. Glose, in response, vomited his Dairy Queen double cheeseburger, root beer, and vanilla shake onto the fire-retardant carpeting. Then he (Glose) freed his uncircumcised penis from his underwear-less pants and proceeded to urinate on the plot of regurgitated matter, at which point (according to Glose) Kent actually went to his knees. This, I assume, was probably out of desperation or relief or horror, or some combination thereof, as those extraordinarily heightened moments in our lives have a tendency to naturally lower our center of gravity, thus the need for phrases like “She took my legs out” and “He made my knees go wobbly.” Glose, however, obviously misinterpreted Kent’s genuflection as an inspired offer of fellatio, and according to Kent, Glose struck him square in the face with the cheap digital clock radio he’d aggressively snatched from the bedside stand. Glose claimed he thought Kent was coming by simply to huff a little glue and watch reality TV, something they’d been doing ad nauseam the entire minitour. (As an aside, Kent swears to the God of Rhythm and Blues that Glose has three testicles.)
The following morning, while Kent was out gophering coffee (it was his turn), Glose went straight to Caitlin and told her everything, which Kent, of course, despite his inflamed and bruised face, vehemently denied, calling Glose a liar, an iconoclast, and, of all things, a hairy, emotional Nazi.
That evening’s gig at the legendary Gooski’s, in Polish Hill, was, for good reason (and to put it lightly), a sloppy, unfocused mess, and we lost the room halfway through our set. The rhythm section was a horror show. Glose refused to look at Kent, whose eyes were bulging with tears. To make matters worse, because of his recent weight gain, Kent was short of breath and double-chinned and sitting on his amp the way old people sit on buses, and he was making a lot of faces that the middle-aged antihero stroke-victim character tends to make in American films just prior to having to go to a knee at the wedding reception for his estranged daughter who hates him but will likely grant him forgiveness.
We muscled through the set and broke our gear down in front of a disappointed crowd and sold a whopping four CDs and maybe three T-shirts, and only half-a-dozen people signed the e-mail list and we loaded into the van and headed back to the motel with our collective tail between our legs.
Later that night, Caitlin’s Inquisition reached its peak at the aforementioned dive bar on Pittsburgh’s South Side. Through several rounds of Iron City Lights, Kent couldn’t convince his girlfriend of three years that Glose’s
Similar Books
Odd Girl Out
Rachel Simmons
Crash Landing
Lori Wilde
Handyman
Claire Thompson
The Voiceover Artist
Dave Reidy
A Model Romance (True Love Book 3)
Betsy Anne
The Inner Sanctum
Stephen Frey
Damaged Love (Bound Series Book 2)
Layla Stevens
Hard
Jamieson Wolf
Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland
Frank Tayell
Sleepwalker
Karen Robards