This doesn’t work. Every job you add increases contact with females and they develop an increasing regard for your work ethic.
She worked the counter and the phone at the sub shop. She was a red head with real nice tits and ass—a beautiful girl. Tiara was 26 and I was 36. She had a boyfriend and they lived up behind the Giant [Supermarket] on Taylor and they were having problems. They were having problems one night and I asked her if she wanted to go out and get some drinks and she did. Big Ron to the rescue. We went to the Shamrock, the same place I met—well never mind—the place you and I are sitting in right now, only the barmaid was a hell of a lot better looking than this fat kid with pink hair and body odor.
So, we got drunk and I took her back to my place. I was living with my dad, had the whole upstairs, took her back there and basically knocked the bottom out of it.
Right after that she breaks up with her boyfriend. The bottom knocking boast seemingly confirmed.
She left him and goes and moves in with her mother, which is around the corner form me, two houses up from your house.
They broke up. I might have been a trigger, but this bitch breaks up with guys all the time. They broke up and she’s in with Mom. We get off work and we end up at Mom’s house—Mom’s not there—and then back at my place. We’re doing this after work, going to these different bars around there. She tells me about her mother and says she hangs out in these same bars around there and asks me if I know her and I say no, because I didn’t.
A couple weeks into seeing Tiara—a couple weeks tops, maybe ten days—I have off work one night and I’m sitting in the Shamrock and there’s this older woman there. She’s a nice-looking woman with her own blonde hair. She was built nice, nice titties, real nice wide hips, thick thighs, really nice wide hips. She was a nice lookin’ woman, well built for her age, good, wide hips.
The biographer, with the historian’s sense for the inevitable tragedy and the novelist’s sense for serendipity, queries Ron, in hagiographic hopes of establishing his innocence.
Oh, I approached her. I don’t remember what I said. There was no one else in there: me, her, maybe one other person. We get into a conversation and I’m buying her drinks. I tell her I work at the pizza shop after my carpentry job and she says, “Oh, you’re the driver!” she said that with a silly face.
“You’re the driver my daughter has been talking about”—kind of a surprise to her.
Of course, this is Tiara’s Mom. We’re talking and drinking. First of all she looked like her and Tiara had already told me she’s hanging out in these bars and we talked about Tiara and I told Mom she was a nice girl. And Mom wanted to change the conversation from Tiara to me.
The Cougar Question
She was asking me about work and things I do for a living.
She’s got her hand on my thigh.
We’re close, we’re drinking.
Nature’s taking its course.
We talked about her ex-husband, who did the same type of work I did and I actually knew him through an acquaintance.
She said her daughter said I was a real nice guy.
And I wanted to show her I was a real nice guy.
I told her I was split with my wife and that I was working at the pizza shop to keep from hanging in bars all the time and meeting women. Of course, I’m telling her that as I’m doing this. I didn’t say it was a perfect plan, but I was trying.
She wanted to get me back to her place and we went back to the house on White Avenue.
The Biographer relates the trifecta tail tale of a doctor who spent the weekend with a mother, daughter and grandmother, ages 40, 20 and 60, in that order and had proclaimed the grandmother to have been the best time.
I would say they rated about equal, but two totally different styles. They were both wild; like mother like daughter.
We were sitting on the couch with no clothes on, a blanket on us, Mom’s smoking a cigarette and we were drinking some beers. Tiara comes in and looks at the mother and says, “You couldn’t keep your hands off him, could you?”
Mom was laughing and says, “After all, he is the driver!”
Tiara and her mother have a joke about not being able to keep her hands off me and Tiara tells me, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
The mother asks me to stay and I say, “I’m going home,” so I gave her my number.
I see her at work and she said, “I told you my mother was a wild bitch.”
I said, “Where we goin’ after we get off of work?”
That’s pretty much how the relationship worked.
On days Tiara and I worked together, we would go out and have some drinks together and fuck. On other days I would meet up with the mother. So, they both knew, they were sharin’ with each other.
I tried to line up getting them both in bed at the same time. Mom was wrapped with all that hippie, free-love bullshit, but the daughter was just disgusted with the idea and said, “I don’t mind we’re both fucking you, but it ain’t goin’ to be at the same time.”
There was another daughter living in this first floor, one bedroom apartment. She was a mudshark—the other one. She was twenty. One night there was a bunch of dindus over there and Tiara had girls and guys she knew and the mother had these guys that were her age there. Inevitably these three groups have a disagreement and this big brawl breaks out over there a couple doors down from you. This one guy, a friend of the mother, gets hit with a barstool and it slices the top of his ear—in the back of the head, behind the ear, loses the whole top of the ear—I had a picture of it. All the people there took pictures of it. I told the mother to send me a picture, was out delivering pizzas when this all went down. It was a nest of vipers.
Basically this went on back and forth with the mother and daughter for about another month or so, until they got kicked out of the place on White Avenue. They moved into Dundalk and by that time I was moving on with another woman. They wanted me to come down and see them, but I wasn’t running down there. I was already tired of them.
The biographer, with second sight, sees right through this and presses for the entire story.
I did go down once or twice—okay, I hit them both down there, but I got tired of it. I christened the new place, helped them out in that regard; donated some Big Ron.
The writer asks Ron if he was ordering a copy of the book for his wife.
I’m hoping she reads it after I die.
Thriving in Bad Places Kindle Edition
