Passions: A Love Story, Part Four

29 Nov

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

October 16, 2012

from: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

to: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

Filbert,

Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)

How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date.  Please do this right now.  If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.

Fuck.  The fucking car payment.

October 16, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

to: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

Dear Angela,

Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota.  A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you.   You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars.  Because you liked the color.  Metallic teal.  And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome.  You fucking whore.

You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer.  It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends.  What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car?  Grey’s Anatomy?  God forbid you should pick up a fucking book.  I should have killed you when I had the chance.

(delete delete delete delete)

October 16, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

to: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

Angela,

Shalondra must have made an oversight.  I will get it straightened out.  Wilhelmina’s payment will not be an issue since the due date for that one is the 29th.  Remember, we purchased the cars at separate times, therefore the payments are due on separate dates.  Your mother’s payment is due two weeks after yours.  I have explained this to you.

I will make sure it is taken care of.

Respectfully,

Filbert

(send)

Shalondra had not made an oversight.  Shalondra was in charge of virtually all his other household financial transactions but he could not bear to let her know that he was till paying off his wife’s and mother-in-law’s cars.  This was because she was attractive.  Either through the natural genetic gifts of the greater Ashanti tribal group of East Africa or through diligent training in squats, lunges and deadlifts, or perhaps both, Shalondra’s posterior was a perfectly shaped crescent of softly padded muscle, which she was very aware of and made sure to shroud in only the most flatteringly form-fitting and yet still professional skirts.  Shalondra got out of a lot of work this way.

He could have just had it routed out of his bank account every month but when the arrangements were being made he had still held out a faint hope that he would not have to continue paying for the absurdly overpriced toy cars of his wife and his mother in law.  The metallic teal Toyota Camry with two slightly different body panels on it that raised the price by forty thousand dollars, and a V8 that she had probably never taken above second gear.  The pearl-colored Cadillac that, God willing, the old lady would take at high speeds into a farmers market some time soon.  Except he would probably have to pay for that too, when this half-blind crone and first generation driver whose primary form of transportation in youth was a water buffalo mistook the accelerator for the brake and woke up in a room full of mylar balloons that said “Get Well Grandma.”

But no such luck.  He was stuck with the fucking payments and he had missed his wife’s by ONE day and immediately the dealership calls.  Months and months of payments made early or on time, but the instant the second hand rolls over to “late” they send an alert to some call center out of Bangalore.  Because it doesn’t cost them any money.  And they’re not worried about alienating you for future purchases.  Those are cars that people buy for their wives.

Shalondra had not made an oversight except not changing her name from “Shalondra.”  He wouldn’t have hired her for this reason, except he had been so swamped with applicants named LaQuisha, LaTonya, Shalyndra that he hadn’t had a choice.  Maybe it was some beach where she was conceived.  People can’t give a thought to their child’s name past words that sound nice to them in the seconds after giving birth.  Some day this person will have to fill out a job application.  “Aquanetta” is not going to get her the clerkship at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals.  D’Brickashaw.  D’Brickashaw Ferguson was so named because his mother had like the character of de Bricassart on the 70’s miniseries The Thorn Birds.  But she could not research the correct spelling of “de Bricassart,” either by checking the novel The Thorn Birds out of the library, a novel that one would assume a fan so dedicated to The Thorn Birds to name her firstborn after one it its characters would be interested in reading– either by reading the novel, or failing that researching printed materials ABOUT the Thorn Birds television miniseries, or picking up the VHS release of the miniseries that one would assume such a dedicated fan would want to own, and reading the back of the box, or looking at said VHS case in a video store– she was so passionate about The Thorn Birds that she named her child after de Bricassart but could not do any of these things.  She could merely blurt out a half-remembered slur of syllables to some semiliterate nurse in the deep South when asked what do you want to name your baby, as though it would never be brought up again.  Now tens of millions of people had to read the word “D’Brickashaw” on the back of his jersey every week, and think “what the fuck?”  Or more likely some racist sentiment.  If she had taken two seconds to get it right then, or at any time thereafter in his first eighteen years of life, or if anyone had in her orbit had been a fan of The Thorn Birds and corrected her, the world could have been spared.  But no.  “D’Brickashaw.”

He got up to get a coffee.  Passed Shalondra’s desk.  On it was a book called Help My Flesh Needs Discipline by Rev. Dr. Creflo A. Dollar.  No comment.  The phone rang.   Or it– there is no word for the sound this office phone makes; it’s like an alarm from a science fiction movie when our heroes have impregnated the impregnable base.  Like an airhorn blasted next to your ear when you pass out at a frat party.  She kept the fucking thing turned up to maximum even though it was eighteen inches from her face.  He waited to see who it was.

Filbert Kim’s office… yes, one moment please.  She pressed hold.  Reza Sadeghi on line 1.

(Yes, I know it’s line fucking one, I am looking at your fucking phone.)

OK, I’ll take it.

He’ll be with you in just a moment.

Fuck.  Again with this.  The smelly old bastard could sense when he went to get a god damn cup of coffee.  He would want to talk and talk until Filbert had a long white beard, about the excruciating details of his slumlord apartment bloc transactions.  Filbert had tried to foist his day-to-day off on Tricia Wong, thinking the nubile-for-a-lawyer Tricia might catch his interest, form a relationship, and he wouldn’t have to endure the endless barking in that guttural accent.  Just sit back and collect the checks.  But Sadeghi was too smart for that.

This is Filbert.

What the fucking fuck, man.  what is this fucking shit.  You’re trying to fuck me.  I leave Ronan, Queen for you and now you fuck me with this fucking bullshit.

Reza, no– what… what are you even talking about?

This fucking bill, I could buy a fucking Rolls Royce with the fucking thing.  There are more hours on this fucking thing than there are on the clock–

Reza, we bill very care–

YOU LET ME FUCKING FINISH!  More hours than is physically fucking possible– are you working faster than the fucking speed of light?  And the expenses.  That is for fucking TAKE OUT, not for you to fucking eat caviar out of some naked Japanese girl’s pussy.  And fucking six hundred dollars for dis-boorse-ments?  What the fuck is dis-boorse-ments?  This fucki–

Reza, disbursements are costs like copying, post–

WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST TELL YOU, you fucking weasel?  YOU LET ME FUCKING FINISH.  You are FUCKING me.  I am not paying this motherfucking shit.  I am–

Reza, Reza– stop.

I am fucking fir–

Please.  Stop.  I am going to take care of this.  I am going to do a full audit of your account.  We are going to double check every hour and every expense and explain everything to you.  Please, let me make this right.  If there’s a mistake, give me a chance to correct it.  You are my most important client.  I promise I will do right by you.

…. OK. OK.  See if you can knock something off this shit, eh?  Fucking ridiculous.

(click)

If Reza walked he was fucked.  One guy’s quasi-legal slum empire paid half the commissions for the entire firm.

October 16, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)
to:  (All GFLLC Associates, All GFLLC Assistants)

All,

I need all associates in the conference room in fifteen minutes.  That means if you are an assistant, and your boss is in a meeting or on a call, go pull them immediately.  I also need you/ them to bring every piece of backup for every billable hour, every expense receipt, and every disbursement report that is in ANY way related to Shiraz Enterprises for the thirty days beginning August 14.

Respectfully,

Filbert

When was the last time he was happy.  He was about to say “as a child” but he realized it had been this morning.  The ten minutes after hitting the snooze button, with Astrid’s warm back against him in his bed.  Before that the forty five minutes the spent watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo on the couch when he got home late, before they both passed out.  This is the maximum you can expect out of a woman, for her to give you the one good hour out of your day.  But god damn, once in a while they deliver.

*********************************

Her brother was a carnie.  He had two kids, two different mothers.  That ah know about.  Both the girls had been fifteen.  You get ‘em pregnant, you don’t go to jail, you just have to send the price of a twelve pack to the mother’s parents’ home where she stays every two weeks.  These children were also conceived in cars.  Love finds a way.

The next time you shed a tear for the poor man remember that he  lives like a sheikh in terms of pussy.  When was the last time you had unprotected sex with that sweet hot teenager in the daisy dukes at the county fair, just came in her.  Never.  You never will.  That moment alone is worth your whole life.  Imagine what his dentition is like, growing up eating Slim Jims without fluoridated water.  Imagine what he talks like.  Imagine where he took them, what he bought for them.  Barbecue flavor Pringles.  You think it would weigh you down, you’d be on the hook for eighteen years.  No, he packed up and moved on.  Too late for you now.  Your life was wasted.

The fetish guys had dried up and she was back to working for the Russians again.  Yuri and Sasha.  They were perfectly reasonable, not like the brutal Russian pimps you are imagining.  They stood no risk of having their musty warehouse’s door kicked in and being beaten down by Steven Seagal.  They hadn’t even tried to fuck her to test her out, they just looked at her naked.  She had had a kid; there were stretch marks, a C section scar that looked as though it had been performed on a civil war battlefield, but they just nodded.  What would it have taken to turn them off, she wondered– Kuato?

For two thirds of the money, they booked the gigs and gave her a driver.  A driver who could have helped out in a fight would have been nice but instead it was a school lunch lady who listened to country music.  Astrid had tried to talk to her about Guy Clark once but she had only grunted.  Hers was more “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” country.  Or songs where you could tell they really wished they could use the word “nigger.”

Vikram was a new client.  He lived in a courtyard cottage where Armenian ladies with impossibly distended neck skin sat in folding chairs fanning themselves well into the night.  Think of the guy who owns the liquor store where the packs of gum are behind bulletproof lucite and that’s him.  He opened the door and looked her up and down, soupy lizard eyes.

How old are you?

Twenty three, she smiled.

You are not twenty three.  But come in.

He had her there, but what the fuck was she supposed to say.

Take your clothes off.

When she was naked, he groaned through his nose, and then snorted like a dog who had inhaled a grass seed.

I tell them, I want a young girl.  What is this.  I am customer for many years.  What is this?

I’m twenty three, she said.

He sighed and took his pants off.  Made a jerk off motion to her.  She applied some Body Shop® Orange and Almond Massage Oil to her hands and started.  It got half hard, like a little brown toad.  It smelled like oranges mixed with sweat and farts.  Now you  suck it.  There was a brief argument over a condom before he gave in and sighed.  Then he was fucking her, her bent in half and laying on her side on his bed.  The odors.  He was wheezing.  His skin was oddly cold, like touching a reptile.  I can’t finish.  I can’t fucking finish.  Just go.

The car started up and Toby Keith told her he didn’t know the difference between Iraq and Iran.

*********************************

I’m in love with someone else, she said.

He put his fork down.  Someone behind him was talking about her daughter’s horse.  Were such and such stables a good place to board him.  It was that kind of restaurant.  He felt his eyes water.  Swallowed his pumpkin ravioli.

But you know he’s not going to be with you.  I don’t see how this matters.

Of course you don’t.

He chewed his asparagus.

You need a place to go.  You need money.  You need someone who can take care of Kevin.  I have these things, obviously.  I don’t even see what there is to talk about.

I can’t do this anymore, she said.  She got up to go to the bar.

The bartender was cute, in a Casper Van Dien sort of way.  The restaurant must get a lot of old gays.  They flirted.  He was a good flirt, the way a guy who is going to fuck the hostess in a walk in freezer later tends to be.  She gave him her number.  By the time she was done Filbert was tapping her on the shoulder.  Let’s go home, he said.  She told him give me one minute.  He went to pee.

Asian guys, said the bartender.  They’re always pushy like that.

She let him take her home.  He listened to pop music on the radio.  Katy Perry.  Novelty music for slow children; for girls whose minds hadn’t really advanced past “Baby Beluga.”  And him.  He liked ordinary television shows, popular music, and televised sports.  His soul was a white tube sock.  He started crying on the way home.  She had had a stick forced in her anus when she was six; that was less uncomfortable.  They pulled up to her house.   Let me come in, he said.

When they got to her bed he started strangling her.  His big flabby sandbag weight on top of her, his thumbs half-crushing her windpipe.  Then he let go and tried to kiss her.  Then he sat on the bed and cried.  You really should go, she said.

OK.  Can I see you again?

You can see me if you pay me.

He cried a little more.  Then: If I pay you, I get to do whatever I want.

Well yeah, if you pay me enough.

From now on, this is how it’s gonna be.  I’ll pay you, but you’re gonna do what I want.

OK.

Maybe he would buy her tits, she thought.  He sat and blubbered a little more before walking out into the night.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

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3 Responses to “Passions: A Love Story, Part Four”

  1. RT Webb November 29, 2012 at 5:56 pm #

    I once knew twins named Quaneisha and Quansheisha. True story.

  2. aneroidocean November 29, 2012 at 7:12 pm #

    God Damnit Filbert, you fucking asshat, I am glad I’m not you. I want to exterminate any Filbert from myself.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Passions: Interlude– Custom Jerkoff Encouragement « delicioustacos - December 9, 2012

    [...] Part 4 [...]

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