When Gilbert signed the paper to confirm he was leaving jail with the possessions he had when he was first incarcerated back in Oregon, there were only four items listed on the sheet of paper: one ring of keys, one cell phone, a pair of boxers, and sweatpants. He knew that as soon as he was visible outside the building, members of the press with their camera would get another glimpse at a shirtless, and barefoot Gilbert Vergo. A part of him did not want to be on the outside; he had the feeling all the attention may overwhelm him. The fact that he would be with Blair the entire time comforted him. Unlike his own sister, no matter what happened, Blair would be there, supporting him. It seemed they were both helping each other, even if it was Gilbert that had got the sharp end of the stick.
Nearing the parking lot, Gilbert saw Allen talking to the press. They held up their microphones and iPhones, pointed their cameras, some writing down notes in little notebooks, recording everything his lawyer was telling them. Gilbert planned on not saying a word, and as simply and casually as he could, walk to Allen’s rental car.
“Gilbert Vergo!” one of the vultures hollered. The rest snapped their heads and cameras toward Gilbert like pigeons seeing food dropped on the ground by a slob, and before Allen could finish his sentence, the press darted in Gilbert’s direction. He froze as they surrounded him. It was like a mosh pit. The men and women bumped into each others shoulders, almost fighting to get his attention, asking their questions.
“Mr. Vergo, what do you have to say to the victim’s families?”
“Is it true Paulo Henders told you about the massacre at Shaker Krista beforehand?”
“Who is Blair? Is the person a man or woman? If Blair is a man, then was Paulo Henders your gay e-mail pen pal lover?”
“Are you a member of ISIS, or do you at least sympathize with the terrorist group?”
“Are the rumors true you’re part of an anti-corporate anarchist network here on the west coast with the goal to end democracy?”
“One of the survivors is on life support. Might be in a persistent, vegetative state. What’s your stance on euthanasia?”
“Are you terrorisms first gay terrorist?”
“Do you think weed should be legalized?”
Gilbert was almost in a state of paralysis. His eyes flicked from side to side, looking at the members of the press. There was a moment of silence - except for the sound of cameras taking his picture - as they waited for him to speak. All of them eagerly anticipating which of their questions he’d answer.
“Um,” Gilbert muttered. “I’m not gay.” He caught sight of Allen making his way through the press. “Allen, please help me get out of here. I can’t-.”
“Okay, everyone,” Allen said to them. “Due to the unlawful, unconstitutional incarceration, along with all this media attention, my client is a bit traumatized, and for the moment, deserves some privacy.” He put an arm around Gilbert’s shoulders. “Time for us to leave now, Gilbert. Back away, please, everyone. Make room.”
On their way to the car, the press moving closely with them, Gilbert quietly said, “What kind of questions were those, man?”
“Wait until we’re in the car,” Allen told him. “They might catch what you say.”
The press continued to ask their seemly random questions as Allen guided Gilbert to a black Honda Odyssey, his rental. He opened the back passenger door for Gilbert, tenderly ushering his client into the middle back seat. Members of the press made it difficult for Allen to slide the door close, holding their microphones and iPhones as close to Gilbert’s face as possible.
“Gilbert Vergo, do you wish to make any statement at all?”
“Why are you running?”
“I’ve heard both your parents are dead. Did you kill them?”
With that last question striking a dagger into Gilbert’s sensitive heart, he looked at all the members of the press with all the anger inside himself. Miraculously, he managed to hold back the curses that were about to explode out of him. The look on his face made the journalists more adamant in getting him to talk.
Noticing the emotion Gilbert’s face was emanating, Allen attempted to slide the door closed as fast as he could.
“Don’t close the door on my arm. That’s assault!”
“You’re going to break my microphone. I can sue you, Mr. Johnson.”
“How dare you. I almost dropped my iPhone. You know I’m on contract. Don’t you know how expensive it is to replace a broken iPhone?”
Allen finally got the door closed without any members of the press losing an arm, or breaking anyone’s equipment.
He said, holding up his hands, “Sorry, everyone, but we have to leave. I have to consult with my client on his defense. Thank you for your time.” He then got into the front passenger seat of the minivan. “Let’s go, Ray,” he said to the driver as soon as the door was closed. Easy for him, those vultures did not want to hear another word from the lawyer.
The minivan pulled away from the curb and drove through the parking lot. The driver was bespectacled man in his mid to late twenties. He wore a black fedora hat, and a black leather jacket.
Sitting beside Gilbert was Blair, filming him with a digital camcorder, her back flat against the side of the car.
“Can you not film me right now, please,” Gilbert said.
“We document everything, remember,” Blair said. “That was the deal.”
“Hello, Gilbert,” a male voice said from the backseats.
Gilbert turned around and saw another mid to late twenty-something with a three day stubble on his face, also filming him with the same kind of camera Blair had.
“My name’s Jerry,” the man said, holding out his hand over the back of Gilbert’s seat.
Shaking Jerry’s hand, Gilbert said, “Nice to meet you. Gilbert Vergo.”
“Yes, I know. How you holding up?”
“Like shit, Jerry. Swirling down the toilet bowl.”
Gilbert looked around the inside of the minivan as he put on his seatbelt.
“Hey, why is Ray the only one with his seatbelt on,” Gilbert said. “Allen, Blair, and Jerry, all three of you put your seatbelt on.”
“It’s easier for us to get better angles of you without them on,” Blair said. She wasn’t looking at directly, but through the LCD screen on the camera.
“You can get good enough angles sitting up straight.” Gilbert had an authoritarian tone as if he were there parents.
Allen turned in his seat, and said to Jerry and Blair, “Fine. Gilbert’s right. It keeps us safe. And is perfect so we may avoid getting pulled over by the police for seatbelt violation. We don’t need anymore stress than we already have. Think about what the media would say if they had footage of us being pulled over, and given a ticket.”
“The windows are tinted back here,” Blair said, looking up at Allen.
“Blair, you know how I feel about it,” Gilbert said.
She looked at him, understanding what he meant by his concern, something only the two of them at that moment shared.
“Okay, Gilbert,” she said, sitting up straight in her seat, and securing her seatbelt.
Jerry did the same.
“It’s gonna be a slow right for a bit longer,” Ray said. “The picketers are gonna smother us until we’re on the highway.”
“I didn’t see that many people the day I arrived here,” Gilbert said.
“The crowd has been growing since you’ve been here. Here we go.”
The minivan slowly drove along the road as the picketers rampaged their way up to the car. Some smacked the windows, flipping off the car even though they couldn’t see through the tinted windows. A woman put her face up to Gilbert’s window, cupping her hands over the sides of her eyes.
She yelled, “I see you, fucker. Fucking bastard! You’ll get it right in the ass in the showers, pussy.”
A man got close behind her, yelling, “I didn’t serve my country to have assholes like you destroy it. If only I got my hands on you - you’re lucky I can’t get to you.”
The minivan continued forward.
A girl that must have just turned twenty managed to push people to the side and make her way to Gilbert’s window. He expected her to spit on the glass, but what she did was so very unexpected. She lifted her shirt, exposing her breasts, then rubbing them on the window.
“You’re so HOT!” she screamed. “I want you. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll find you. I want you to touch me. I’m not the only one. Choose me, Vergo, choose me.”
Gilbert looked away, and saw Blair holding up the camera. She was smiling, trying to keep from laughing. He figured it was time to talk into the camera, make his first statement outside of jail.
“This isn’t funny,” he said, looking right into the lens, pointing behind him at the boobs against the window. “First the money-fucking press, now these nuts right outside. Whether they hate or love me, they’re giving attention to the wrong goddamn person.” He turned to look into Jerry’s camera.
Jerry was distracted by the boobs, his camera not focused on Gilbert.
“Hey, you, Mr. Ogle,” Gilbert said to him. “Pay attention to me, not the tits.” Gilbert took hold of Jerry’s camera lens, focusing it more on him.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Vergo,” Jerry said, shaking out of his zombie state of mind.
“Please, do call me Gilbert.” He then said to Allen, “Okay, where to next?”
“We got rooms at The Madonna Inn,” Allen said. “We also got you some clothes. A suit for interviews and your court appearances, as well as recreational. Blair picked those out for you. She knows your taste. But I picked the suit.”
“Madonna Inn?” Gilbert said. “She has her own hotel?”
“No,” Ray answered. “It’s just called the Madonna Inn, because it’s on Madonna road.”
“Sounds nice.”
Jerry scoffed, then said, “Yeah, you could say it is. For a six year old girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the only place available at the last minute,” Allen said, “everything else was booked by the time the LOL had me come out here. This town is getting a lot of business.”
“We’re finally free from the mob, guys,” Ray said.
The minivan turned onto the highway.
When they arrived at the Madonna Inn, Gilbert immediately understood what Jerry meant by the six year old girl.
“Is Cinderella waiting for me in there?” Gilbert asked. “Does every town in California have a hotel like this?”
“You don’t like the pink, huh?” Ray said. “I felt the same way when I first got here.”
“It just seems everyday there’s something new that appears before me that’s weirder than what happened the day before,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “Like a fucking rabbit whole.”
“It has a really nice decor inside,” Jerry said. “I don’t mind the pink. The bars really nice. First round’s on me.”
“Why this place, Allen?” Gilbert asked. “I know there had to be vacancies at other, more normal hotels.”
“Okay, you got me,” Allen said. “The place is mostly for couples on their honeymoon, celebrating anniversary’s, or families passing through, on their way to Disneyland. No one in the mainstream press would think you’d stay in a place like this. Look, if the trial goes on for weeks, I’ll look for cheaper lodgings. Think of your time here as a little vacation. Let Jerry here buy you a beer.”
“What if a journalist is in there and starts to hassle me?”
“Just play it cool, Gilbert,” Allen said in a soothing tone of voice. “Kindly say, ‘No comment,’ and ‘I will make statements and answer questions later.’ Something like that. But don’t cuss at them, don’t get angry, or for god sake, make any kind of seen. Jerry, make sure none of that goes down.”
“You got it,” Jerry confirmed. “I got your back, Gilbert. I’ll talk to whoever comes up to you. You don’t have to say a word.”
Ray drove the minivan through the entryway into the Madonna Inn complex, then parking outside one of the buildings.
Allen turned in his seat, reaching a hand up to Gilbert, holding a hotel keycard.
“You’re in this building, number two, room one-twenty,” Allen said to Gilbert. “The Sir Walter Raleigh room.”
“The what?” Gilbert said, bewildered.
“Each room has its own theme. You don’t know who Sir Walter Raleigh was.”
“Sort of. Name sounds familiar, but not really.”
“I thought you were a writer.”
“A writer, yes, but not an encyclopedia.”
“Anyways, the rest of us will have rooms in building three. Your cloths are on your bed in a brand-new suitcase. The suit I had tailored for you with thanks to Blair’s specifications is hanging in the closet. Go up their, take a shower, shave that stubble, and take a few hours to relax.”
“When do you want to go to the bar, Gilbert?” Jerry asked.
“Asap, brother,” Gilbert answered. “Come to my room in exactly a half-hour.” He looked over at Blair. “You coming?”
Moving her gaze from the camera’s LCD screen, she shook her head.
“Alright,” Gilbert said, sliding open the door, then stepping out.
“Gilbert,” Blair said.
“Yeah, what?”
“Try not to drink too much.”
Gilbert didn’t affirm her advice, and simply slid the door closed.
He walked to his room. If he were not on trial for being an accessory to a mass shooting, he would have viewed this room with astonishing pleasure, but what he felt at the first site of it was the opposite. The room to him just felt inappropriate to have for a lodging while on this strange and chaotic trip he found himself experiencing. On the bed was the suitcase Allen mentioned, as well as a shoebox. He lifted up the shoebox, looked at the label and saw it was his right size and just the type he always wore: black sneakers. He opened the suitcase to find cloths nicely folded inside. Blair must’ve packed it, being it was the type of clothing he wore on a daily basis. A gray full zip hoodie sweatshirt, four t-shirts - two were of rock bands that he liked, the other two were ones with funny texts on them - a pair of blue jeans, along with a belt, boxers, and socks. She knew him very well. He looked at the suit hanging in the closet. It was khaki colored with a dark blue tie, and baby blue shirt. The site of it discomforted Gilbert; not only did he hate wearing suits, but he more than hated those colors.
“Yuck,” he said aloud, holding up the suit by it’s hanger.
He went into the bathroom to take a shower and saw things were set up for him to make himself presentable. On the counter, next to the sink were shaving razors and shaving cream, as well as two tooth brushes. He looked at himself in one of the mirrors over the sinks, exasperated.
“What am I?” he asked his reflection aloud. “A fucking movie star? God, this is getting ridiculous.”
After he was done showering, clean shaven, fully clothed, and wearing his new pair of comfortable sneakers, he sat on the foot of the bed staring at the television, deciding whether or not to turn it on and see what the rest of the country was saying about him. He thought it better if he got drunk first.
A knock on his door. He opened it.
“You ready for beer time, Gilbert,” Jerry asked, grinning, holding two thumbs up.
“Fuck yes, please,” Gilbert said, relieved.
“Cool. Though the decor may be fantastical, the quality of the drinks and the beer selection is quite fantastic.”
Exiting his room, Gilbert said, “Whatever, I need to numb my brain tonight.”
On their way to the bar, Jerry said, “Blair told me to cut you off at some point. She said you normally push it to the limit sometimes. And now due to your current stress level, you may drink to simply black yourself out. I only have so much money anyway. So, please, not too much swimming in the bottle today, okay.” Jerry patted Gilbert on the back.
“You have a girlfriend, Jerry?” Gilbert asked.
Jerry became uneasy at this question, but Gilbert took no notice of it.
“Yes, I do,” Jerry replied.
“You do everything she tells you to do?”
“Yes. Well, I try to.”
“Well, todays a day I’ll pretend to try.”
They arrived at the bar. Gilbert went straight to a bar a pink bar stool, sitting in it, eagerly waiting for the bartender to come up to him. He cared not to observe the decor of the place. In his eyes all he saw was the bottles of liquor on the shelves, and hoping the place had a strong IPA. The bartender came up to them. He immediately recognized Gilbert.
“Hey there,” the man said, “never expected to ever see you in the flesh.”
Gilbert turned to Jerry and said to him, “Make sure this man gets a nice, hefty tip.” Then turned back to the bartender, and said to him, “Please, sir, your strongest IPA, and a shot of Wild Turkey.”
“I’ll just have a coke,” Jerry said. “I think Mr. Vergo is gonna drink for the both of us.”
“Hey, you’re not gonna cause me trouble, are you?” the bartender asked Gilbert.
“Look, whatever’s been said about me - I don’t know yet what their theories are - I am not like Paul whatever-his-name-is.”
“The scumbag’s name was Paulo Henders,” the bartender corrected.
Gilbert was at a loss for words. He lowered his head, lifting his hands.
“Don’t worry, Gilbert Vergo. I’m on your side. One strong IPA and one shot of Wild Turkey coming up, on the house.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gilbert said, sighing in relief.
Gilbert looked up to see the television above the bar on the sports channel, there was a football game, a receiver running down the field, dodging and weaving through the defensive players.
“You know,” Gilbert said, “I’ve never truly been into the game, always had somewhat of a disinterest when people around me would talk about it. But seeing it on that TV screen is so relieving right now. I want to know what’s going on, what the commentators are saying about the players, what the strategies should be to get that touchdown. Now I see how it’s such a damn good escape for it’s audience.”
The bartender brought the drinks.
“Thank you again, man,” Gilbert said to him.
“No problem, Mr. Vergo. If you want anything else, just let me know.”
“Please, call me Gilbert.”
The bartender nodded with a grin on his face as he went to serve another customer.
Gilbert downed the shot of Wild Turkey, then chased it with the IPA. After that first sip of beer, he made a smacking sound in his mouth with his tongue, exhaling with the ultimate relaxation.
“Oh, man, I sure did need that,” he said, then took a big gulp of the IPA.
“Please, do take it easy,” Jerry said, “I don’t want to have to escort you to your room with your arm around my shoulders. Or, God forbid, get Ray to help me carry you. Someone might record a video of it with their cell phones. It’ll go viral in no time.”
“No worries, man. I won’t push it.” Gilbert leaned a little closer to Jerry, and said in a soft tone, “Hey, you think the bartender’s fucking with me? You think he spit in my beer or something?”
“No,” Jerry replied, “there are a lot of people out there that find the charges against you ridiculous. Yes, most are somehow being convinced by the media’s speculations, theories, and assumptions, but they’re doing so because they themselves haven’t been provided with the supposed evidence justifying your indictment. All the media has right now is the statement from the FBI that you made contact with Ultra-tripleX, aka Paulo Heners prior to the mass shooting, and that they have evidence to support it. Look, Allen is working to get the supposed evidence from the DA. He’ll look over it and then talk to about it.”
“That DA was a prick,” Gilbert commented. “What was his name?”
“Stanley Fenway.”
“Fucking ass called me a drunk.”
Jerry quietly shushed him, and said, “Don’t say that too loud in public, dude.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll try to remember to be careful with what I say. I’m not use to this kind of thing, being a kind of public figure.” He sighed, then took a few sips of the beer.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jerry said, appearing a little hesitant with whatever he was about to say. “Something a little personal.”
“What about?”
“It’s about Blair. I’m the one that basically got her hired at the LOL.”
“Cool, man,” Gilbert said, smiling. “Thanks for doing that. She was always into that alternative media kind of stuff, always watching documentaries, doing research. I bet it was the LOL website she visited the most. She even bought a cool digital camera, which pissed me off at first, because we almost couldn’t pay rent that month, but it turned out fine in the end. She really used that camera a lot to make videos for her youtube channel. It really brought a brightness to her that I never saw in her before. She asked me to participate in her videos, but I was never interested in the youtube thing. I just liked to watch it, not actually do it, you know.”
“Gilbert, I’m with Blair now.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re both filming me for your documentary film.”
“Yes. But what I’m trying to say is that we’re seeing each other. We have a…sexual relationship.”
The good mood that Gilbert was finally in since the day Blair left the apartment, and totally squashed when the SWAT team busted open the front door, was gone again by Jerry’s last sentence. He turned in the bar stool, looking darkly into Jerry’s eyes. Jerry stared back at him, anxious, and swallowed, nothing but saliva going down his throat.
After almost a minute of looking at Jerry, Gilbert turned back in his stool to face the bar. He drank the rest of the IPA. When he was about to finish, he beckoned the bartender.
“Hey, man,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Clarence,” the bartender said.
“Clarence, nice to meet you. I’ll have another IPA, and this time a double shot of patron.” He gestured to Jerry. “He’ll pay for it this time.”
“You got it, Gilbert,” Clarence said.
“Gilbert, you want to talk about this, man to man?” Jerry asked.
“No, not with you,” Gilbert replied flatly, without looking at him. “And don’t forget to leave that hefty tip to Clarence.”
“Okay, you got it. Whenever you’re ready to go, just let me know.”
They sat in silence as Gilbert drank two more beers and downed one more shot tequila. After placing the empty shot glass on the bar, Gilbert stood up off the stool.
Waving at the bartender as he walked away, he said, “Thank you, Clarence.”
“You’re welcome, Gilbert. Enjoy your stay.”
Before Gilbert opened the door to the outside, he heard someone whisper, “Was that really him?”
“Yes,” he said out loud, then opened the door and walked outside.
He looked around. He could not remember where his room was.
Jerry came up behind him.
“I forgot how I got here,” Gilbert said. He was drunk, but he was the type that handled inebriation pretty well. It took a lot more drinks for him to get totally shit faced. “Guide me to my room, please.”
“Shit,” Jerry said, “I should have cut you off after that double-shot of tequila.”
“Fuck no, and fuck off with that shit. I needed it, and most of all, deserved it. I feel so fucking alive.” Gilbert raised his fists, and flexed his arms.
“Damn it, Gilbert. Come on, this way.” Jerry walked past Gilbert pointing the way to where his room was located. “We got to get out of sight before someone with their smartphone films you like this.”
Halfway to Gilbert’s room, an middle-aged couple walked by them. Gilbert half turned to see them behind him just because he was curious to see if the wife had a nice ass. The lady had out her phone, the camera facing him. He turned around, walking backwards, and lifted the front of his t-shirt. The text on the t-shirt said: Take a photo. It’ll last longer. Being that he was walking backwards, Gilbert did not see the cement bump in the parking lot outside his room’s building, tripped, and fell on his ass.
“Shit,” Gilbert yelped.
“You all right, Gilbert,” Jerry asked, running up to help him up.
“Get the fuck off me. I can get up myself. I’m a big boy.” Gilbert stood up, still looking at the lady filming him with her phone. He put his hands up, and said to her, “If you care, don’t worry, I’m okay. Hope you enjoyed the little show.”
“Come on, Gilbert. Don’t make a scene. Your room is-.”
“I know where it is, asshole,” Gilbert snapped. “Go back to your room. With Blair. Money-fuckers.”
Gilbert entered his room, slamming the door behind him. He made sure the door was locked. He looked around the room for the TV’s controller, found it, pressed the power button. The screen had the picture of his arrest photo being displayed on a news station. He browsed through the channels to find a music station. When he found it, he dropped the controller on the bed, and then started dancing to music he really hated.
“I guess I’m really shit-faced after all,” he said aloud.
Gilbert picked the controller from atop the bed, turned up the volume on the television, then tossed it back, continuing his dancing.
During the most stressful times in his life, Gilbert would lose control in such a fashion, ending up surrendering rationality by becoming drunk, listening to the pop music of the day, and sometimes abusing his body more by ingesting harsher substances. One time, the day his parents died, he spent that very night getting wasted at some techno nightclub, doing ecstasy, and snorting cocaine in the off a toilet in a bathroom stall. He remembered all of it, from being socked in the face by a hot slut’s boyfriend, scoring with another hot slut in the back alley of the club, to even being yelled at by a bouncer after being caught in the same alley with his pants down. Gilbert luckily avoided going to jail that night due to the fact the hot slut he was fucking from behind slapped the bouncer hard across the face for interrupting her good time.
The memory of that night, the stupid choices he made, the consequences that could have happened which would have caused his life more strain, made him stop dancing in the Sir Walter Raleigh room at the Madonna Inn. He bent down at the waist, knees bending a little, and gripped his kneecaps. He got himself exhausted from the dancing. He stayed in that position for a moment to catch his breath.
“Calm down, Gilbert,” he said to himself as he was catching his breath. “Don’t lose control again. Keep yourself together.”
He then stumbled over to the bend, and sat down next to the television’s controller. He picked it up, and changed the station to one of the major news networks. They weren’t talking about him, but covering something about Russian military intervening with some other country’s civil war. After that they ran a story about student protests going on across college campuses throughout the country to end student tuition.
Then when that story was done, the news anchor said, “This just in…”
Footage of Gilbert falling on his ass in the parking lot outside played on the screen, which happened not even twenty minutes before that moment.
The news anchor dude on the screen said, “Footage of the man, Gilbert Vergo, indicted for being an accessory to the shootings at the college town Shaker Krista shows him taking what seems to be a drunken stumble in the parking lot at a hotel in San Luis Obispo, California. Our sources tell us that this video was recorded after he reportedly left the hotel’s bar. Apparently, he’s seen brandishing his t-shirt which has the text: ‘Take a photo. It’ll last longer.’ Then he trips backward on a cement pump. Then afterwards, his friend attempts to help him up, but hits the other man’s hand away, apparently cursing at him.”
The footage stops on the still image of Gilbert looking at the camera filming in the distance, raising his hands up. To him, and most likely everyone else, it looked like a pose of triumph.
“Is this how you spend your time when you’re out on bail, Mr. Vergo?” the news anchor guy said into the camera, as if he knew Gilbert was watching. “Getting drunk, and stumbling around, making a fool of yourself? Not looking good in the public eye, young man.”
“So fucking what, prick,” Gilbert said to the television screen. “And you know what? I’m gonna have another, and make a toast to the media. Money-fucking bastards. Where’s the goddamn minibar?”
Gilbert got off the bed, looked around the room, and found the minibar. He opened it, grabbed the first beer he saw, and tried to open the bottle.
“Goddamn it, where’s the fucking bottle opener?”
He found it in the inside door of the minibar, popped open the beer, and immediately started guzzling it down. He was halfway done with it when there was a knock on the door.
Upon opening the door and seeing Blair’s face, he said, “Aw, shit.” Then he saw she was holding a pizza box. The smell got to his nose quick. He sniffed the air, his face now bright with glee. He said, “Cool. You brought pizza. You can come in now.”
“When was the last time you ate?” Blair asked, placing the pizza box on the table.
“Breakfast time at the jail,” Gilbert answered, opening the pizza box. “Oh, you know me so well, Blair. Pineapple, ham, and garlic. I’m so pleased.” He took out a piece and bit into it.
“How drunk are you?” Blair looked at him closely.
“Drunk enough to see what the TV’s saying about me. Drunk enough that I’ll probably drink more, and throw up this wonderful pizza later in the toilet. And drunk enough to forget how pissed off I am at what Jerry just told me about you two.”
“You have to stop drinking, Gilbert. I’m cutting you off.”
“Oh, fuck you, and fuck off, woman,” Gilbert said in a childish voice.
“I saw the footage of you outside on the news. You see how fast that went viral, ending up on the television. In this information age, in the kind of situation you’ve been thrust into, you have to be -.”
Gilbert interrupted, “Be what? Normal? This is what normal grownup people do when their heart is shattered to pieces by those they love, and if their is easy access to booze.”
Blair’s head went back as she sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve told you. Jerry told me how you reacted. That’s why I’m here. No cameras, nothing on the record, just you and I to discuss our relationship.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Blair, we don’t have a relationship. I don’t even know if I want to participate in the LOL documentary anymore.”
“You and I can still have a relationship that’s more than friendship. Jerry is the kind of guy that shares.”
“Do I look like a fucking mormon. I don’t practice polygamy.” Gilbert finished his beer, and piece of pizza. He grabbed another piece, and commenced to scarf it down. He wanted to throw up in Blair’s face.
“It’s more like polyamory.”
“What the fucks that? Sounds like a type of Irish Riverdance.”
“No, stupid. It’s where a person has a non-monogamous relationship with someone.”
“An open relationship?” Gilbert said, a little reviled at that kind of lifestyle. “Aren’t you afraid of the STDs you could end up having on your cooch?”
“It’s a relationship of trust,” Blair said. “I trust Jerry. He wears a condom anyway.”
“There is no real trust in this world, Blair. Especially if there is no honesty. You could’ve told me you wanted that kind of life.”
Blair, frustrated, said, “Because I knew you’d tell me no.”
“You are one of the few people that know me the most, and you know I’m no slut. I don’t want to have a different chic to fuck every night I go to bed. I find it revolting, disgusting, and joyless.” He walked over to the minibar to retrieve a beer.
“Jerry wants you in my life,” Blair said. “He cares about me, and thinks it important you and I stay intimate.”
After opening the beer, then swigging it down for three swallows, he said, “Well, woopty doo for that fool. I’m a committed monogamous sort of guy. One great woman - such as you - is enough for me to have in my life until I die. But, you know what, if you so desire, keep living your life of polymangna. I won’t take part.”
“It’s polyamory,” Blair corrected.
“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about being factually correct with such terminology of lifestyles I’m not apart of.”
“It’s nice you think of me as ‘great.’” Blair looked away, her arms crossed. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“No.” Gilbert let out a loud belch.
“Anyways,” Blair said, looking back up at him, “that’s your last drink. I promised Allen I’d cut you off after he saw that footage on the news. I’m also sleeping here tonight to make sure you keep your shit together.”
“I’ll cut myself off when I pass out.”
While swigging down the beer, and swaying as if he were about to dance again, Blair darted at him, reaching out for the beer. Gilbert backed away in time, and held out his free hand to block her from coming closer.
“Back off, woman,” Gilbert commanded. “Don’t come between a Mexican and his beer.”
“You’re only a fourth Mexican,” Blair said, “so it will require only a fourth the effort to get that fucking beer out of your grip.”
Gilbert jumped on top of the other double bed, leaped off it to the other side, spun around, holding up a finger at Blair in an attempt to keep her from running around the bed or possibly jumping over it, and continued drinking the beer.
“Give me that fucking beer,” Blair said, baring her teeth. “You better not finish it.”
“I ain’t afraid of you, bitch,” Gilbert said with tough attitude. “You don’t scare me.”
He was about to swig down the beer, still eyeing Blair. She then moved to her left, while he maintained his distance by moving to his own left. With the look of a predator still on her face, she moved right, closer to the edge of the bed.
“You don’t fucking scare me, woman,” Gilbert said in his most maximum attempt of masculine domination.
Hopping up, Blair had one foot on top of the bed. Gilbert made a run for it to his right, trying to get to the other side of the room. But unfortunately Blair was feinting the leap over the bed, dropped to the floor, and darted at Gilbert, catching him before he could get past her, and with both hands, got a hold of his arm not holding the beer bottle, spinning him halfway around, then pushing on his chest hard enough to cause him to fall on his back on the bed.
“Damn, woman,” Gilbert said, “no need to get so violent. Careful. You made me spill some of the beer, shit-head.”
She jumped on top of him, straddling him, grabbing for the beer. She got it, then started drinking the rest of it.
“Hey,” Gilbert said, “that was mine. Get your own.”
Finished with it, Blair tossed the bottle onto the carpet, then grabbed Gilbert’s arms by the wrists and pinned him down.
“Damn, Blair. I remember you being tough, but not this tough.”
She leaned forward over him, her face close to his. She said, “Stop drinking and making a fool of yourself, and I’ll have sex with you in return.”
Gilbert scoffed, then said, “No. I don’t want your Texan hipster STDs.”
“Jerry doesn’t have fucking STDs, you asshole.”
“Please, get off me. This is assault. I will sue you. My lawyers just a few rooms down.”
Blair moved her face even more closer to his, and said, “He’s in the building on the other side of the parking lot.” She smiled, sensually looking into Gilbert’s eyes. “Kiss me.”
“No,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “You smell nice, you’re sexier and more beautiful than ever, and you’re aura has a confidence that I’ve never in you before. But no. I don’t share.”
She went in to kiss him. He turned his face, her lips meeting his cheek, then she began rubbing them up and down his, sucking a little on the skin. He remained still.
Pulling her lips away, and speaking into his ear, she said, “Remember the night I took your virginity?”
He did not answer.
“We were parked in that spot overlooking the city,” Blair reminisced, “and we made love in the backseat of my car. You were different back then, so full of life and confidence when I wasn’t. It was the very first time I really enjoyed sex. Before I met you I would simply fuck guys like a robot, without passion or joy.”
She began slowly rubbing her crotch on his.
Gilbert turned his head and kissed her on the lips. For a moment it was passionate. Blair breathed heavily, releasing her hands from his wrists to rub his cheeks as they kissed. He took hold of her wrists, then pushed her them back a bit to stop the make-out session.
Looking into her surprised expression, Gilbert said, “And how does Jerry fuck you?”
Blair made a sound as if she were about to say something.
“The real question is whether I even fucking care,” he said. “Now, will you please get off me. I’ll stop drinking, and you can stay here tonight to make sure I don’t get another drink out of the minbar, but we are definitely not sleeping in the same bed.”
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