Free The Busting Out of an Ordinary Man by Odie Hawkins

refrigerator door open.
    How long had it been going on? he reflected, the standing-in-the-window-for-the-airline-stewardesses-naked-thing.
    Just after I got in here, he answered his thought, pulling out a box of chocolate chip cookies and a wedge of gruyere six, no, eight months of me exposing my dick to them crazy bitches, guess I’ll hold off for another month and then gon’ on over there and fuck everybody in the house, one by one.
    The thought caused him to have a semi-erection.
    Cynthia! damn!
    He snatched a couple cookies from the box and dropped the rest on the kitchen table, rushing to shower and shave, to be smelling good when his main lady, his banker, showed. A leisurely, warm, needle prick shower, a smooth, close shave, a dash of Canoe and the short trip back to the sack for another joint, a full length tuskie this time.
    He carefully arranged himself on top of the covers in his midnight blue, three-quarter length robe, head getting lighter with each hit.
    Damnit! he jerked himself into a sitting position, hopped off the bed mumbling, puffing furiously on the half-smoked joint as he hurried into the living room to put some music on. Leaning over his record racks, he tried to figure out what his mood for music was something swift by Hubert Laws? Some funky ’Trane? Miles’ New Directions? A lil’ of the Latin scene with Armando and Mongo? What?
    The cold hands over his eyes frightened him so badly for a second that he almost screamed. He recovered quickly, stood up slowly to get his nerves together and turned to face Cynthia Moore, the current sponsor of his lifestyle.
    â€œCynthia,” he gritted his teeth and tried to look down in her face as meanly as possible, “I’m gon’ kick your ass one o’ these days, doin’ that kinda shit to me.”
    â€œScare you?” she asked gaily, pecking him on the chin and tossing her full-length baby calfskin across a nearby chair.
    He looked at her tripping around the room, lighting a cigarette, tossing her ash blond, shoulder-length locks over her shoulder, Clairol style.
    â€œNawww, you didn’t scare me, you damned near froze me to death with your cold ass hands,” he answered finally, turning away from the sparkling blue eyes, the fading Florida tan, the Norwegian turtleneck and the tailored slacks, to put some music on. He thumbed through the records, feeling, as usual, vaguely irritated that she had a key, a right she insisted on, under the circumstances.
    â€œGot any more of that good odor I smell?” she asked over his shoulder as he stuck Black Byrd on the turntable.
    â€œYeah, look under the bed,” he said, placing his roach on the album cover. He watched her twist away to the bedroom as he went in the opposite way to the kitchen. Bitch must be richer ’n Carnation cream. He sliced a couple pieces of cheese and gobbled a couple cookies, stoking up to rap.
    â€œYou don’t have any rolled?” she called out to him from the bedroom.
    â€œBring it here!” he called back to her, making his voice sound harsher than he felt.
    She turned the corner of the kitchen holding the shoe box, half full of finely grated, stem-free, Laotian marijuana out to him sheepishly.
    â€œYou know I just never seem to be able to roll a good joint.”
    â€œNo, well, where I come from, if you couldn’t roll, you couldn’t smoke sit down and watch again.”
    Cynthia Moore, her Gloria Steinem glasses tilted provocatively on her aquiline nose, sat across from him at the kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl.
    Chili rolled a couple cigarette-sized joints, carefully, pausing at each point in the process to give her the benefit of his expertise. “Now, you do it,” he said to her, pushing the box over to her as he lit one.
    He sucked in deeply and blew a soft stream of smoke into her face as she fumbled through the process. Bitch buys the best smoke in the world and