September 29, 2007
Renal Failure
Well, after all that lying and conniving with Lacey, she insisted I make this stupid charity thing legitimate, so I spent all of yesterday sitting in the back storeroom of the Den Himmel Clinic in Studio City, waiting to pop the cherry on Girth McDürchstein’s Sweet Treasures, my charity for wayward girls.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have many takers yesterday. The health professionals knew if girls matched a certain psychological and physiological profile (i.e., crazy and hot), they should recommend the girls have a one-on-one chat with me. I spent most of the day sipping Coffee Bean americanos while browsing amkingdom.com in an attempt to better understand the women I’d meet.
I counseled a few girls, mostly fans who wanted my autograph or something more, but the whole day turned out to be a bust—until 3:30, when I heard a timid knock on the door. A scrawny teenage girl dressed in a skintight leather catsuit (very similar to the one I used to wear during concerts) stood in the doorway. I zipped my pants and clicked off the Internet, then said, “Hello.” It took a moment to register that she looked familiar, though I couldn’t quite place her.
I gestured at the chair set up across my tiny desk, which took up the entire width of the narrow storeroom. The girl squeezed along one row of shelves to get into the chair.
“So…” she said softly.
“My name is legendary rock star Girth McDürchstein,” I said as an icebreaker. “I didn’t hear as many screams as usual. Did you back out at the last minute?”
“Actually,” the girl said, “I came here to see you.” She had a heavy Southwestern twang that came across the more she spoke.
“Another fan?” I asked. “Look, I don’t have any more strips of underwear to autograph and give out—”
“No,” she said. “My name is Renal.”
I looked at her with faint recognition.
“Renal Rojas?”
“Were you a roadie with us a few years back? Because there was this your daughter,” Renal blurted.
“Um—”
“Why wouldn’t you meet me in the motel room?” she asked. “I covered everything in black silk, and I lit some black candles and wore my crotchless undies, but you never came, in more ways than one. So…you wanna go get some pizza and lie on the beach?”
“My God,” I whispered. “More than anything in the world.”
We went to Sfaccini’s and spent hours talking on the beach—talking about everything, her entire life, my entire life, our mutual interests, mutual dislikes, the slight differences. I’ve never felt such a deep, powerful connection with anyone—not even Margo. Then, something strange happened. “I don’t know,” she was saying, “I know everyone thinks he’s a has-been loser, but I still think Chinese Democracy is gonna be the best album of all time, even if it doesn’t have Slash or—”
And then I kissed her. Wildly and passionately, and she kissed me back, and then I felt her below me, and before I knew it our clothes had disappeared and she was gripping me and slipping it inside, and it was wonderful. More wonderful than I could have possibly imagined.
The sound of gunshots awakened me in the dim light of dawn. When I finally opened my eyes, I heard a young woman screaming something about her baby as she ran along the walk. I looked at the other half of the blanket. Renal was gone, just like I usually am.
I had a very unsettling thought then. She really is my daughter.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 29, 2007 11:13 AM
Permalink |
Don't Call Me Daughter
| Digg It
Post a Comment
Powered by Ajax Comments