Hard Evidence- The Collected Bawdy Writings by Kevin Keck

Author:Kevin Keck [Keck, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0970780273
Publisher: M2 Press
Published: 2013-11-14T05:00:00+00:00

I met Daryl at Jackalope's—a bar down the street from my apartment that catered to a clientele who enjoyed trying to watch twenty-seven athletic events at once on televisions of various dimensions. It was not my kind of bar, but they had my kind of waitresses, and I so I often went there and pined through pints, flirting anemically—my lack of competitive drive has permeated even my romantic sensibilities, and while I enjoy a modest amount of pursuit I quickly lose momentum if matters don't fall easily into my lap. I've found waitresses to be a particularly difficult dating demographic for me, much like strippers: part of their job is to give you a sense of possibility, and it takes a real pro to read the proper signs. I am by no means a pro.

And besides, after leaving the bar my nightcap consisted of returning home to a drunk girlfriend whose demeanor was a crapshoot: drunk and horny, drunk and angry, drunk and passed out—what were my choices if I did get lucky, with a waitress or a patron? There was no going back to my place, and if I lingered too long elsewhere, I would surely be missed at th place where I was supposed to be.

But I'd reached my breaking point. The death of my grandfather had the effect that death often has on people close to the deceased: it made me want to take advantage of my own time. Lorraine had been a bust for a long while, and it was stupid to think our relationship was going to get better. I'd been rationalizing things for a nearly a year, in much the same manner as all those battered women who make excuses for their violent partner.

Of course, I wasn't dealing with any of this in a healthy manner, but was instead sneaking out of my apartment (I told Lorraine I was going to spend the evening helping my dad sort through my grandfather's clothes and would be home late, to which she replied, "I don't fucking care, douche bag."), conspiring to meet some type of willing vampyress (I assumed), and then slink back into my apartment hoping not to get my ass kicked. Oddly, the whole scenario seemed very normal to me at the time.

When Daryl arrived he didn't even order a beer. I couldn't blame him; he was terribly out of place in Jackalope's—he looked as though he was on his way to an upscale meeting of Dungeons and Dragons enthusiasts: leather pants and a leather jacket on top of what could only be described as a pirate shirt. He looked out the window facing the street as he waited for me to finish my drink, and when we stood to leave he looked at me and said, "I like your shoes."

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