The Pink Walrus and The Wonderland Van

May 25, 2012 by

Old 67 welcomes our newest contributor – Spider McQueen.  She is the gun-toting ex-girlfriend you don’t bring home to mama. Born in Los Angeles and raised all over the country, this bosomed beauty garnered her storytelling abilities from the many people she befriended as a young vagabond during her days as a runaway at the tender age of fifteen. Barely making it out of the Army on an honorable discharge, she has been on the filthy roads of alcoholism and drug addiction and been in enough institutions to make Lindsey Lohan’s publicist jealous. A painter, a musician and an author of many abstract concoctions, Spider prefers to remain in her circle of the weird and the eccentric. With her heels sky-high and her skirts hitched up even higher, Spider makes the churches cringe and turns housewives into flaming bisexuals almost overnight. Her mission is colorblind and chock-full of tough love, her glass is always topped off.  In other words, she’s Good People.


It sure would feel good to take a shower right now and sooth the fresh scars on my legs, but coincidentally I can’t seem to get this snoring, sweaty, pink walrus of a man off me and my eight-thousand dollar tits. As I lay beneath the oily drops of his sweat, something clicked inside the center of my mind like a cooking timer that after being twisted all the way to the beginning had at last come back around and hit the buzzer…at that moment I knew that what was left of my soul was finally gone.

Waiting till the wee early morning hours, after an agonizing night of flatulence and different varieties of snoring patterns, did he finally move enough to allow me to escape from underneath him. I scrambled out of his grasp to grab up my gold and leopard print Coach bag sitting on the empty dresser of the hotel room, cut a right into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The ventilation fan began to hum when the lights came on, I quietly shut the door so as to not disturb the snore pattern of Mr. Pink Walrus who lay spread eagle and naked on the messy king-size bed.

After draping a towel over the long, bathroom sink, I began to pull out the contents of my kit and placed them quickly, but gently, in order in front of me:

  1. A clean mirror kept safe inside a velvet Crown Royal bag.
  2. A beverage straw…cut in half
  3. A voided credit card.
  4. A hollowed-out vial of lipstick stuffed with the finest Floridian cocaine this side of Miami.

I tapped the vial onto the compact mirror and the white crumbles spread out like coarse salt onto its reflection as they were immediately crushed and separated into two thick lines of breakfast cheer. Just then, as if by magic, my phone vibrated inside my purse. It was probably Frieda checking up on me again.

How did she even know I was up?

Oh well, I’ll call her later I thought to myself, as I leaned over with my handy straw and snorted both lines…one for each nostril.  The chemicals hit my brain with a jolt causing me to stand straight up like a dick on Viagra. I leaned my head back and let the juice run down my throat.


The phone vibrated again. This time I searched throughout my bag, found it and answered before she hung up.

“Yeah..?” I whispered so as to not wake up the monstrosity lying in bed in the other room.

“Al?” Frieda blared on the other end of the line.

“Yeah…hold on,” I whispered again and turned down the volume on my phone, “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Hey, Hoe!” she exclaimed jokingly in between her habitual gum chewing, “I’m calling to see if you needed a ride, Bitch.”

“What the fuck are you doing up so early?” I whispered back, “Nevermind. Yeah, come get me,” I grabbed a bar of hotel soap from the sink and scanned the label. “I’m at the Continental on Biscayne. I’m walking out now.”

“Alright, I’ll call you when I get there. Meet me out front.” Frieda demanded and popped a bubble in my ear.

“I’m already there.” I hung up and proceeded to pack all my shit in my Crown Royal bag. No need to shower or anything redundant like that. I could easily redeem myself after I’ve gone home and counted all this money I made from last night. Of course, I was naked and dirty enough to make use of the shower at hand, but it was still dark, and early enough to find my dress and get the fuck out of there before I had to force small talk.

And I don’t do small talk.

With my bag tucked under my arm, I turned off the light and slowly opened the door to the hotel room and the panoramic window of early morning darkness.

Mr. Pink Walrus had stirred a little, but his snoring was persistent as he lay there like a rotisserie chicken on the ruffled sheets. His terrible mouth hung open and leaked saliva against the poor, helpless pillow under his head.  For one moment, I stood there as if staring into a lava lamp, wondering how a person could ever let themselves go like that. I was caught in a surrealistic daze as I watched him struggling to breathe beneath the weight of his massive rolls and his pinkish-white flesh. It solidified the shocking fact that I had no limitations to my bed partners as long as they had no limitations to their bank account. I tore myself away from these startling self-realizations and scanned the room for my slip of a dress. It’s a shitty shame that I hardly remember even wearing a dress after a night of drinking at the bar downstairs in the lobby.

Fuck! Where was it?

Did I come up here naked?

Then I saw it.

My black dress peeked out from underneath his massive left man-boob.

I knew right then there was absolutely no fucking way that I was going home with that dress. I scanned the room for an alternative piece of clothing that I could wear that would get me past the concierge without suspicion. The only thing I saw was Pink Walrus’s large navy blazer which hung neatly over the chair by the desk. It was so large that the shoulder span of the jacket cleared the outline of the chair entirely and looked as if it were standing upright on its own.  I tiptoed to the desk where his laptop rested and proceeded to unplug and slide it into my bag before wrapping his blazer around my body like a burrito. My heels were under the bed beside him, but I decided to walk barefoot out of the room and quietly close the room door, and made a beeline to the stairwell at the end of the elegantly-carpeted hall.

I fell into the darkened stairwell, clutching tightly to my beautiful Coach bag, and ran a marathon down the seven flights of stairs, barely producing an echo. There was no way I could run that fast down the stairs in heels and I was glad I let him have my cheap shoes as a harsh reminder to never leave expensive shit out the morning after paying for sex.

Sadly, the door at the bottom of the stairs led to the equally elegant, carpeted lobby instead of the parking lot that I assumed it would take me to instead. I mentally prepared myself to walk past the front desk as casually as I could. Forget the fact that I was naked, barefoot and swallowed-up inside a man’s blazer seven times my size. I leaned against the door inside the stairwell and pulled out my phone to call Frieda.

No answer.

I dialed again. This time the phone went straight to voicemail.

Fucking perfect.

I was NOT going to spend a whole lot of time waiting outside a three-star hotel looking the way I was looking. I mean, I was a brand-new whore, but that didn’t mean I had to look like the crack variety. God only knew what my hair looked like after being pinned beneath the Leader of the Obese for three hours.

My phone read 6:15 a.m.

The sun might not be up just yet.

Perhaps, I could slip past the front doors into the early morning darkness undetected and meet Frieda in the parking lot somewhere…if she picked up her goddamn phone.

Adrenaline began to mix with the cocaine in my blood, and my heart sped up even faster than usual, as I grabbed the doorknob to the lobby, prepared to strut, when my phone vibrated again, nearly placing me in cardiac arrest. The number was from an unknown caller.  Frieda was known to call from a payphone if her gas station cell phone ran out of minutes.

“Goddammit, Frieda…!” I whispered as loudly as a whisper could be and still be called a whisper. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Amy?” replied the just-waking voice of the animal from upstairs.  “Is this Amy from last night?”

I hung up and proceeded to powerwalk through the elegant lobby; my eyes dead-set on the clear, glass doors that led outside to valet parking. I prayed Frieda didn’t get pulled over or something. How did Pink Walrus get my number? What was I thinking to give this fool my real number anyway?

AND my real name?


I must’ve been wasted out of my fucking mind last night.

Lesson learned, you stupid bitch.

At least I had the common decency to wear a condom.

I brushed past the grand piano sitting to my left, past the eyes glaring at me from the business section in the seating area by the cobblestone fireplace to my right…past the long marble front desk where the lady behind it took one look at me and called out, “Miss, Miss?” then immediately grabbed the phone to assumingly alert some type of authority of my apparent thievery and solicitation. My bare feet moved quickly past the automatic glass doors out into the windy drizzle of the morning.



Thanks again, Florida!

Frieda’s burgundy conversion van was nowhere in sight as I scanned the empty valet parking area beginning to dot with the up and coming storm.

“Miss?” I heard another male voice call from behind me. I didn’t even waste time turning around to see where it came from before I took off into the parking lot littered with expensive sedans and luxury convertibles. My bare feet slapped against the cold, wet asphalt. Crouching between cars and squinting through the rain for the closest way to the free shuttle across Biscayne Boulevard, I cursed under my breath at my tardy roommate.

I figured there was absolutely no way I had the time to call her until I made it to the train anyway, and I didn’t want to ruin my phone from the rain. Since my heart was pumping so fast inside my chest I didn’t see the point in calling unless she brought the ambulance with her. My hair began to stick to my face, I wiped it away with my free hand, keeping a death-grip on my Coach bag with the other as I strained to see which direction I was to haul ass in.

The phone vibrated inside my bag. This time I was too terrified to answer it. I had to get the hell out of this parking lot before I was caught. God only knew how many surveillance cameras were hiding in the bushes and on the street lamps, so I took off without thinking; towards the sound of the morning traffic leading me out onto the sidewalk onto Biscayne Boulevard. I felt the eyes of every last driver in Miami on that busy street as they passed. My foot walked onto a broken piece of a beer bottle and the blood immediately began to flow out onto the sidewalk, marking my path. I had to get off the sidewalk with bare feet. Luckily, Bayside Park spread out for about a mile on the right side of me. I plucked the glass out of my heel without missing a beat and proceeded to fumble around in my purse for the phone while looking for a tree to stand under and wait. Frieda answered on the first ring as soon as I speed-dialed her number.

“Amy, where are you?” This time she was whispering, “There’s cops pulling up and shit. I know it was you, Bitch.”

I know she was half-joking, half-serious. She knew me too well.

“I’m at the park already. I thought I was gonna have to get on the fucking shuttle waiting for you. “

“You oughta be glad I called you this morning, Hoe!” My loving partner in crime replied, her gum popping in my ear. “Okay, I’m gonna get the fuck out of this sketchy-ass parking lot and back onto Biscayne. Stay on the phone till I see you.”


“What the fuck happened anyways?”

“I’ll tell you when we get back to the house…just hurry.”

Cradling the phone between my shoulder and my wet face, I quickly searched through my bag, found my cigarettes and popped one between my lips. I spotted a tree to stand beneath and limped over towards it as my foot- blood colored the grass. Annoyed at how my morning was materializing, I finally pulled out a working lighter and attempted to shield the flame beneath the huge blazer to light my cancer stick despite the unfortunate weather. The smoke in my lungs calmed me down a bit and stopped my heart from racing. I stood around watching the homeless fail miserably as they tried to get out of the rain.

“Alright, I’m out of the parking lot and back on Biscayne headed toward Bayside.” Nina declared,” Tell me you went that direction.”

I nodded before I realized she couldn’t see me. I took another drag before I confirmed that she was indeed headed in the right direction.

“I’m walking in the grass now, away from the sidewalk.” I told her between drags of my cigarette. “Learned my lesson from walking on the fucking sidewalk without shoes. Cut my foot pretty bad.”

“Well, where’s your goddamn shoes?” Frieda asked matter-of-factly.

I pulled in more smoke from the slowly dampening cigarette and scanned the traffic for her large, sketchy van. “I don’t see you yet…” I replied, ignoring the question. Then I saw her. The large, red conversion van with the HELLA fog-lights on top, held up the traffic as Frieda attempted to get to the far right of the street. I flicked the burning embers into the rain.

“I see you.” I waved in her direction. “Here I come.”

Hanging up the phone, I hobbled toward the curbside van as quickly as I could before she could hold up any more traffic. Both the windows were rolled all the way down despite the rain.

“Hey, Hoe!” Frieda smiled with wild abandon, her voice barely audible over the rain that was getting heavier and heavier with every second. I opened the passenger-side door and jumped in just as soon as she sped off down the street, nearly knocking me off balance.

“Cunt!” I shouted angrily and slammed the door. She laughed maniacally in response and made a quick left onto Flagler Street toward our shared motel room in Little Havana.

I proceeded to hang my feet out of the window and let the rain lick my wounds.

Fuck the seats.

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