- when I saw the body at the bottom of the basement stairs.
I should explain.
A naked ass was the first thing I saw, when I came up the second-floor stairs a good ten hours earlier. Sure, it was a young naked ass, but it was anything but a pretty naked ass. It was the kind of naked ass that you see on rough-trade guys, whores who've been fucked so many times, they can't even feel toys anymore - unless, of course, the dildo was lubed with Tabasco Sauce.
The ass was the guest of my roommate - a renter I'll call "the Stoner." The Stoner was talking to my second roommate - a medicated, bipolar, schizo-affective "Psycho" - and the two were discussing the possibility of a three-way with the "ass" - hereby known as the "Trick. " The Stoner wanted to tag-team the Trick (with the Psycho), but the Psycho didn't want to because he felt the Trick was a "train wreck" (based on his experience hooking up with the Trick almost three years before). I came into this discussion at the tail end, and once the Stoner & Trick saw me eavesdropping, the conversation stopped cold and they returned to their rooms. I was left alone to stare at the Trick, and his mouth full of gingivitis.
This all happened at roughly 4pm on a Thursday.
I'm the "Drunk," btw…
Fast-forward ten hours to two in the morning. I'm asleep in my first-floor bedroom, when I hear a CRASH from my living room. Upon investigating, I find the Trick - wasted - giving crabs to my couch, next to a broken lamp and a spilled potted plant. He's holding a damaged iPad, and I don't know if he had just broken it now - or if the glass had shattered earlier, during sex. Whatever the case, he looked at me and - yecch - smiled. I scowled disapprovingly, and returned to my bedroom in silence.
Ten minutes later, a second crash occurred when the Trick stumbled into my bedroom, having mistaken my frown for an erection. I shouted "GET OUT!" from the bed, and the dude staggered backwards into the dining room, slamming my table and chairs into the wall. I heard him recover, then lurch into the kitchen. The Trick somehow managed to pull the drapes from the wall before losing his balance and falling down the basement stairs (and into the pool of water & bleach, described in my previous blog). "Protecting my property value" was the ONLY thing that made me get up to check on him, and I found myself standing on top of the stairs, staring at what was indeed a train wreck…especially when I noticed that the Trick's big toenail had come off during the fall.
I suspect that happened due to fungus.
I suppose that at this particular moment, most people would have done something like…oh gosh, I don't know…CHECKED TO SEE IF HE WAS OKAY. But the only thought that crossed my mind was: "Seriously...I got out of bed for this?" I stood on top of the stairs in silence, my eyes following the debris trail of Hamburger Helper boxes and canned vegetables. (We use that stairwell as a pantry.)
What bothered me most about the experience wasn't that a person might have injured himself. It was the fact that - at the tender age of 44 - this event was something normal to me, a common enough occurrence that I didn't even shrug my shoulders. I've battled alcoholism myself for 21 years, and God knows I've had my share of embarrassing moments. But even as a drunk, I felt no sympathy at all as I saw this dude in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his clothes growing lighter as the bleach ruined the color.
I was disgusted - not for him, but in myself.