Opportunititty Knockers

By Gordon Dick

When a breaking point pushes him out of his waiter apron, through the restaurant's double glass doors, past his girlfriend's grief, through a bourbon bottle, and onto an airplane, John lands in Manila eager to answer the call of karaoke, quaff a few cold ones, and maybe meet a maiden who hasn't found feminism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Privilege Press
• Release date: Jul 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735251318

Book preview

Gordon Dick

Opportunititty Knockers

First published by Privilege Press 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Gordon Dick

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Gordon Dick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

This novel is a tall tale. The characters and incidents portrayed in it are a melange of the author’s memory and imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, corporeal, corporate, or dearly departed, is either an inevitability of humanity’s sheer mass, evidence of mutual influence via the collective unconscious, or artistic appropriation.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-7352513-1-8

Cover art by Adam Rudd

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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Contents

I. THE RISE

1. The Sleepwalker Awakes

2. Rebel Reborn

3. Night Flight

4. Manila Knights

5. Dolphin Safe White Meat

6. The Whore from Heaven

7. Hearts Healed

8. Family Freud

9. The Club

10. Maidens on the Mount

11. Opportunititty Knockers

12. Bungling the Beat

13. Stumbling Star

14. Three Sizes

15. A Lease and a Leash

16. Christmas Comes

17. Party People

II. THE FALL

18. King of the Club

19. God’s Gift

20. Begending Again

21. Sexyphus

22. The Second Cumming

23. Leaving Elysium

24. The Wanderer’s Woes

25. Patient Zero

26. Faithfully Friends

27. Time Turns

Acknowledgments

About the Author

I

The Rise

1

The Sleepwalker Awakes

You’re not happy, the siren exhales, pressing herself into my side.

No, I agree, staring out at the sun slipping into the sea like a suicidal Christmas bauble bound to a brick, coloring the clouds like period blood in a cream pie. I’m not.

Then run away.

With you? I whisper, turning my head to behold her unbearable beauty.

You must cut your own chains, she replies, empathy oozing from her almond eyes. I have to go, she sighs, craning in to kiss me goodbye before rising to walk towards the water.

Please stay, I implore.

Surf lapping her legs, she turns her sultry self to me, the hint of a headshake bringing a bittersweetness to her ephemeral full bloom. You must free yourself, she shouts.

I struggle up to stop her, but my legs lock as if mired in mud.

Cut your chains and you’ll be free, she yells, flapping her arms and soaring towards the sunset.

Fluttering furiously, I hover hardly a foot from the sand, looking like a chained parakeet pulling towards a painting of a palm tree.

Sinking back into my blues, a lightning bolt of bliss spirals from my spelunker up my spine, and I look down to see a lass’s lips locked to my lion.

Monday, November 18, 2013, 12:17 p.m.

Sarah looks up with oddly innocent eyes, as if turning her attention from a lollipop to an airplane.

Dreaming about me? she asks, sitting up astraddle my stiffy.

Mm hmm, I mumble, wishing she were mute so I could imagine my phantasmic temptress on top of me.

You were hard as a rock when I came in, she coos, come hither eyes casting their serpent spell on my spitter. Were they good dreams?

Uh huh.

12:23 p.m.

Pull out! Sarah snarks. I don’t want your cum oozing out me all day.

Is she so snooty as to snub her sweet’s seed inside her? Is the pill not preventing her withering womb from bearing my bambino?

Pulling out is a pain. A burden we men bear to give the gift of our gloveless glory. When reasons aren’t so wanting, we also live with the liability. Hit one egg with your little army and you’re either forking out a fortune or the father of a murdered fetus, all at the whimsy of a woman whose rationality ranges from naught to negative with the march of the moon.

My ploinker pulls out, splashing his sploodge in the bowl of her belly button.

You’re so gross!

So sentimental.

Here, let me clean it up.

I clutch the closest soiled clothing, my work apron. Whatever, it’s laundry day and I don’t work til five. With a southward swipe, I leave a lacquer of love all the way to her woo.

"Did you use your work apron? You’re so gross!"

1:07 p.m.

That’s twice in a week Her Cuntliness came home to lunch on my lion. The trend wouldn’t be troubling if those weren’t the only times we porked in that period.

Is she burning to bone her boss? Is that it? Alleviating her lust with my loins?

I’m quaffing my coffee, getting up the gumption to endure all the drudgery between now and tonight when I cut loose at karaoke.

My cellphone rings. My boss. Against better judgment, I answer.

Can I come in early? Brandy’s brats are sick or some shit.

6:45 p.m.

The father on table two is flailing his ham hands and shouting waiter, as if his agitation alone wouldn’t have obtained my attention. His corn-fed features support the supposition that Homo Sapiens and Neanderthals swapped sploodge, just not the part about Homo Sapiens being the primary providers of pedigree. My hypothesis is proved by his porcine progeny, busy making a mess of their bread for the busboy as mom’s fat face remains fixed to her Iphone’s Facebook feed.

Remind me to stop by the drug store for a home vasectomy kit.

Against all odds, I fail to notice the missing link’s melodramatics and move on to the cuckly couple at table three.

"Waiter? Excuse me, waiter? the pantywaist appeals. Do you know how much longer it will be?"

Very soon, I reply, not about to bring up the burst pipe or backed up dish-pit drain, the cooks mopping madly at the lahar of sudsy food scraps flooding the kitchen. If their pizza was on its way, then I dare say I may detect the bouquet of its burning amidst the melange.

You said that last time.

And it’s even sooner now.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Perhaps you and the lady would like another round while you’re waiting?

"Alright… but our pizza is coming soon?"

Quite. Another round of the same?

"Actually, could I have my martini a bit less dry? That last one was too dry. And maybe just a tiny bit dirty this time. Oh, and could I switch to Tanqueray?"

Of course sir. Another lemon drop for you madam?

"Oh… I don’t know, she sighs, feeling the hard won weight of her agency and hoping a man might deal with the details. I want something citrusy, but not a lemon drop. What do you recommend?"

Another vodka drink? Or a different liquor?

"Oh I don’t know! she flusters. What do you like to drink?"

I like bourbon, neat, or rye on the rocks.

I’ll take a beer in the bottle, or ten if they’re on tap.

Almost anything with alcohol is acceptable.

Except tequila. That shit is poison.

How about a tequila sunrise?

Oh, why not. Sounds festive.

It is madam, like waking up in your lawn to the sprinklers going off.

You sure you want that hon? the idiot interjects. "Remember the last time you had tequila?"

"Can you let it go? she snaps. Reassuming her pseudo-classy composure, she squeezes my forearm, smiling like a trophy wife offering the pool boy a cookie. Don’t mind him, I’ll have the tequila sunrise." The justice is not lost on me. Something stirs down deep.

A smirk. She’s earned it. Of course madam.

I move on. The port commissioner is requesting me to come and kowtow to his commands. Lucky enough to have noshed before our culinary Krakatoa, the curmudgeon might care to pay for his repast.

No, he will deign to pay the damage, as the dickhead will deign to tip me ten percent whilst acting as if his chump change is charity.

Would you care for some dessert sir? Perhaps an after dinner drink?

No thank you, he grumbles.

Shall I grab your check then?

That chicken made my hands sticky. I need a moist towel.

Really? Does the dirty old dickhole even know what need means? But of course sir.

Containing my contempt as I set forth for the server station, I grab a soup bowl and a bleach white bar rag, wetting it with hot water. Inspired by the spunk adhered to my apron, I clean up the crust with the fucktwat’s towelette, getting a gust of giddy from the moment’s magic, but not lingering long, lest my little gift grow cold.

Your moist towel sir, I announce, setting it forth with a flourish.

"Thank you!" he patronizes, rubbing the towel around, taking extra time to wipe the webbing between his fingers. I detest few things more than a disingenuous ‘thank you,’ an indignity I endure daily. It’s especially insulting when I’ve gone so far for the sake of service.

I must… I can’t… I shouldn’t… fuck it. My face slips into a psychotic smile like a clown on a coke binge. You’re so very welcome sir! I say, super sickly-sweet like frosted sugar on a shiv. It’s such a pleasure serving such a pillar of the community! Perhaps I may have the pleasure of cupping your balls while you wipe the grease off your hands?

Jaw dropping at my daring, terror fills his face, his towelette falling to the floor as he clutches his heart.

As I stare at him stupefied, sympathetic citizens hurry to help. Shit! Fuck! Fucking motherfucking shitballs what the fuck! Okay, okay, okay, okay, calm your clams and riddle this rationally, as dire straits deserve at least poorly plotted plans. Of paramount importance is the moribund commissioner, but since my princely presence would only up the odds of the attack being terminal, his plight must be purged from the program, leaving first and foremost the fact that I’ve never been fired before and must resign immediately to maintain my track record.

Offing my apron as the manager materializes, I offer it unasked. Best of luck, I say, holding my hand out for a shake which he is too stunned not to take.

Glad to be leaving on good terms, I walk off into the wet northwestern night, the sound of sirens echoing my anguish.

Fuck! What if the coroner finds my cum on his fingers?

A primal scream lets loose from my lips, an eruption of suppressed suffering commanding the clouds to turn their tap from drizzle to downpour.

Proactively protecting my ego from the evening, I place the blame for my breakdown upon my parents for having not properly prepared me for the drudgery of adulthood. Between my mother, a canine acupuncturist, my father, the outlaw organic farmer infamous for inventing the log cabin composting outhouse and feeding the fruits of his family’s feces to clueless farmers market frequenters, and a homeschooling spent blowing through banned books in our garden’s gazebo, I’d no notion how soul numbing the working world would be.

When fate found our farm defending its composting in court, we lost our land to a class action lawsuit. As our formerly faithful customers symbolically bleached their bellies with store bought foodstuffs, I turned 18 in a tricked out school bus, all that was left of our old life. Doing what any whiz kid would when running from the roost to find his fortune, I picked up employment too dull to distract me from destiny’s designs. Reputations ruined, my parents packed up what was left of their livelihoods and moved with my little sis to the San Juans.

Eight winters I’ve wasted since first washing dishes by the waterfront, and though time has trampled my dreams into dust, perhaps the flakes are still fertile.

7:15 p.m.

I belly up to the bar dripping rain and restlessness, a pit stop in the progression from breakdown to rebuilding.

Holy smokes! exclaims bartender Jay, overplaying his impression of my manic mood with a shiver of shock. You look like you need a drink!

Jim Beam neat, double, I reply.

Tough night? I don’t usually see you this early.

I got off early.

How’d you manage that? he asks, grabbing the bottle off the shelf.

I walked off.

Just left? he enquires, pouring a compassionately topfull tumbler. Just like that?

Like the building was burning.

Huh. Got another job lined up? he asks, setting the bourbon before my fidgeting fingers.

Nope, I reply, drinking it desperately down to half full. I’m a free agent.

Doing what?

I dunno, I shrug. Life I guess.

Jay sucks a lime wedge and shakes his head, as if the fruit had failed to embody life’s bitterness. "You always have another lined up. Jobs are like women, they only want you if you’re taken."

Yeah, I mutter. If jobs are what you’re into. What do I owe you?

This one’s on me bud. You’ll need your money for your premature retirement.

Thanks Jay.

Sure thing bud, you’ve always taken care of me.

Gotta please the tip gods, I reply, pulling out a five for a tip. Though I’m not sure I believe in them after tonight.

You gonna tell me what happened?

I tell him my tale, divulging every indignity but the scuz scrubbed from my man skirt.

"You asked him if he wanted his balls cupped?"

Yeah.

"And he had a heart attack?"

I think so.

"What were you thinking?"

Why you gotta bring thinking into it? I ask, downing the last drops and slipping from my seat. I’ll be back for karaoke later. Gonna go see if Sarah’s finally seen a dermatologist about her resting bitch face. If not I’ll be back sooner than later, probably single. Pray for me.

Who to?

I dunno, I shrug. "Dionysus?"

7:42 p.m.

Sarah looks up from the chick lit held between her hands, her empty green eyes giving me a glower. You’re home early.

I got off early.

"How’d you manage that? she snarks, resentful for her romancesturbation’s interruption. I thought you were closing?"

I just left.

"Just left? You just left? What the fuck you mean you just left?"

I don’t think using unladylike language and patronizingly repeating yourself will make me say it any simpler Sarah. I didn’t feel like being there, so I left.

"So you’re unemployed now?"

You could say that, but I think free is more fitting for my current condition.

"Free? Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Depends who you ask. Personally, I feel great."

"Oh do you? Well we need to talk."

"No Sarah, you need to talk, I correct, cruising to the cupboard for a jigger of Jack. The word we implies that we both share this need, when I would much prefer sweet sweet silence to your nagging nastiness."

"What the fuck John? Why can’t we have a rational conversation?"

"Because a rational conversation requires two rational individuals. I reply, sipping my spirits and sighing exaggerated satisfaction. Would you care for a rational monologue?"

"What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means the only rational bone you’ve ever had in your body is mine."

"Ha! Ha! she scoffs, in calculated career cunt disbelief of my daring. And I suppose you’re rational? Quitting your job and getting drunk? Sounds like you’re the one with problems."

"Which problems would those be Sarah? I enquire, shlucking my shot and pouring another to temper my tension. You’re the one whose after work whine fest drags on til bedtime, at which point if I’m lucky you’ll let me pump you while you parrot porn lines in a tepid parody of passion. Sounds like it’s you I’m drowning out."

"At least I have a job, a real job!"

"Ha! Real job? What? Paralegal for a divorce lawyer? If facilitating the fracturing of families is more real than helping people who can’t cook eat a meal that wasn’t microwaved then I don’t want a real job."

"At least I have money! At least I don’t live paycheck to paycheck like you!"

"Fuck you and your obsession with money! You’re not good with money. Your family is. You only have a savings because of those checks your grandma sends you. At least my money is my own fucking money!"

Now John-

"Don’t do that! Don’t tell me I’m out of line cause I’m just getting started. I’ve had one shit show of a shift, but your act takes the cake. One day – and it won’t be long sugartits, it won’t be long – your princess tiara will have no one to admire it but a herd of cats. Every Ben and Jerry’s pint will have a bottom, a bottom as hollow as your heart. I bound about as I berate her, filling my backpack with what I’d least like deposited in the dumpster. But hey, at least you’ll have your sisters in self-delusion, with their Facebook likes and mimosa brunches to cheer for you on your cock-carousel cruise to cat ladyhood. Oh don’t be dramatic about it. Some milquetoast might marry you despite the rash of red flags. But it won’t be me Sarah, it won’t be me."

"I hate you! I hate you!" she fumes, flailing her arms in frustration, a quaking choler bringing her body to the brink of blowup.

Now that’s a start-

"Fuck you!"

I’ll return tomorrow for the rest of my shit-

"You’re a fucking asshole!"

I’ll leave my keys then.

"I hope I never fucking see you again!"

I saw a cat in the alley if you’re ready to start your collection. If looks could kill… well, too bad sugartits. "Goodnight."

Shit! My Jack Daniels. As I chug the last shlug she quivers on the couch in a sorrow I’d assumed her constitutionally unequipped. "Wait! she wails. John!"

Shit! I must flee before this simulacrum of sentiment coaxes my cock to console her. This had better be important princess, cause the clock’s ticking and I’ve got a big wide world to see.

I love you.

Me too.

8:21 p.m.

When frustration forces you to cast off constrictions, the cosmos