Ambulance – Kurt Eisenlohr

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 5, 2011


by Kurt Eisenlohr

“Okay, now look desperate, like you’re about to jump!”


“Look desperate!”

I felt desperate. I was leaning over the railing of the Ross Island Bridge, a river of cars racing by, doing some photo work with a guy I knew from the bar. He was a corporate photographer who made his money photographing oil drilling operations around the world. He’d go to various countries, document shit for their trade rags, and return home, flush with cash. He’d been doing it for twenty years and was getting bored. Now, against the advice of his agent, he was trying his hand at stock photography. He was paying me fifteen dollars an hour to model for him. He liked my look, my look being anxious, depressed, genuinely miserable. He had me sitting in dive bars looking sad. He had me wandering the streets with my eyes to the pavement, lost in a haze. He had me loitering on the sidewalk in front of porn stores, strip clubs and whack shacks—a typical day for me, in many ways.

Now he had me on the Ross Island Bridge.

“You need to look more desperate!”

“Fuck off, I’m coming down!”

I loosened my grip on the support cable I was holding and jumped off the railing and back to the bridge while passing motorists blew by well above the speed limit.

“Did you get me almost getting hit by that car?”

“Yeah, that was great!”

“Let’s get out of here. I have to go to work soon.”

“Where do you want me to drop you?”

“The Matador. You got that thirty bucks?”

It was slow at work that night so after getting high with my co-workers in the break room, I volunteered to go early. I was on my way back to the Matador, hoping to find a woman named Jasmine. I knew more Jasmines than any healthy person would, but I knew that this particular Jasmine more or less lived at the Matador. We drank together now and then. She was crazy. Under the right circumstances, I almost loved her.

I was half loaded and looking for her.

I passed a guy sitting in front of the Taco Bell on Burnside and 21st.

“Hey, you got a buck?”

I gave the guy a buck, kept walking. I had just given fifty cents to a guy standing in the parking lot of the supermarket a block back. Before that, I had given five dollars to a woman who was a shopping cart full of everything she owned in front the bar I had recently been transferred to. It was a big bar with a big staff and a horrible clientele consisting primarily of mainstream college aged Chad’s and Joey’s and the cheerleaders who adored them. I hated the place, like everyone who worked there, but I think I hated it a bit more than the rest. I wanted to burn it down, blow it up, hang the capitalist hippies who owned the chain.

A kid with perfect teeth, hundred dollar shoes, and a skateboard under his arm asked me for a quarter as I waited for the walk light at 19th.

“Fuck off,” I told him.

“Give me a cigarette.”

“Fuck off.”

He called me a fascist. I gave him a Nazi salute and made it to the Matador without paying any further tolls.

The guy working the door was naked save a child-sized jockstrap, cock hanging out one side, balls squeezed purple out the other, checking IDs—a friend of mine. It wasn’t a gay bar. It was just his thing.

Jasmine was the way she usually was: hunched over the far end of the bar in animated conversation bordering upon argument with a total stranger.

I sat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered a drink. After work, it usually took me three or four or five drinks until the anger began to dissipate. Until then, conversation was impossible. I’d drink and stare into space, waiting for the alcohol to take the edge off, hoping to come to life again. People were hard to take when you were sober, and I had to take hundreds of them a day. Waiting on them, pouring them drinks, serving them food, listening to them talk. It had been eight months since I’d lost my glasses in a strip club. I just couldn’t get around to replacing them, which was okay, really. I didn’t need to see clearly anymore. I didn’t want to see clearly. Things were too clear to me already. I’d have gotten a job in a place more suited to me, but I didn’t know how, or what that place might possibly be, or if there even was a place more suited to me. I would have rallied and gotten my life together, just a bit. But I didn’t know how. Knowing that nearly drove me insane sometimes.

She grabbed me from behind. I spilled my drink.

“Hello, Jasmine.”

“Sorry about your drink! It’s good to see you!”


She waved a credit card in my face. “What are you drinking?”

“I can buy my own.”

“No, let me buy you a drink. I’ll open a tab.”


We were in trouble now. Once the credit card came out, money no longer seemed real. Conceptually, you were drinking for free. And the drunker you got, the freer it seemed. Jasmine had credit cards. Her parents had money. She ordered us some drinks.

“You already have a tab open on another card,” the bartender told her.

“Do I?”

“You opened it when you came in. That guy down there is still drinking on it.”

“Which guy?”

“The guy you’ve been talking to for the past hour.”

“But I’m not even sitting there anymore!”

“You told me to put him on your tab.”

“Well take him off!”

“Okay, he’s off.” He looked at me, then back to Jasmine. “You want me to put this guy on your tab?”

“Of course, he’s my friend.”

“I’m her friend,” I said.

“You sure have a lot of friends, Jasmine.”

“That’s enough,” I told him.

He wandered off to smoke a cigarette. A dozen or so people needed drinks. He leaned against the register and opened a newspaper.

“He’s right,” I said to Jasmine. “You shouldn’t be so generous.”

“You mean careless?”

“People take advantage.”

“I’ve seen you blow plenty of cash in here. I’ve seen you buying drinks for people you don’t even know.”

“Yes, but when that happens I’m drunk and not thinking correctly. You do that too often, people take you for a sucker. And they’re right.”

“I hate talking about money. I hate thinking about money.”

“I have to think about money. I’m always one paycheck away from losing my apartment.”

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to worry about me.”

“Sweetie, I would never let you go homeless.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you well enough. I know you want another drink.”

I drank with Jasmine and her credit card for close to five hours. Then she started babbling about 9/11.

“I have to go home now,” I told her.


“I’m seeing double. And it’s last call.”

“Let’s have one more. Then we can go to my place.”

“Forget it, I can’t even see straight.”

“Here, try on my contacts.” She popped her contacts out into the palm of her hand.

“It doesn’t work like that, our eyes are different.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m guessing.”

“You’re not even going to try?”

“It isn’t going to help.”


“Okay, okay!”

“Goodie!” she said. “Tilt your head back and look at the ceiling. Don’t blink.”

I tilted my head back and almost fell off my bar stool.

“Hold still!” she said.

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder!”

She was drunk and she had sharp fingernails. She kept poking me in the eyes, trying to force the contacts into place. I could feel them under my eyelids. They felt like fire ants. I jumped up screaming and rubbed one of them out onto the floor. The other one seemed to be lost in my left eye socket somewhere.

“GET IT OUT!” I told her. “YOU’VE BLINDED ME!”

She was laughing so hard she could barely hold onto her drink.


“Oh, come here, you big baby!”

She dug around in there with her fingernails until she found the thing. I sat at the bar, rubbing my eyes, tears streaming down my face.

The bartender walked over with Jasmine’s tab, threw it down in front of her. She signed it. He looked at me.

“You’re a dumb-ass,” he laughed.

“I’ve already figured that out,” I told him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jasmine said.

“Where do you live?”

“Four blocks from here. I live in the 911 building. That’s the address. Isn’t that weird?”

“It wasn’t weird a month ago, was it?”

“Yeah, it was weird even then. I brought these Arab guys over one night. I met them here. When we got to my building they all laughed when they saw the address. They told me not to go anywhere on 9/11. They told me to stay at home.”


“It’s true! After it happened, I was scared. I’m still kinda scared. I keep thinking they’re going to come looking for me.”


“I don’t know–the government?”


“Because of what I know!”

“What do you know?”

“I don’t know!”

“Did you stay in that day?”

“No, I had to go to work.”

“Do you have to go to work tomorrow?”

“I have to be there at nine.”

“Then we’d better get out of here. Where is this place, anyway?”

“It’s really close.”

We staggered out to Jasmine’s car and drove there.

Her alarm clock went off at 8 a.m., the shock of it sending waves of pain and nausea throughout my entire being. I hit the snooze button, rolled over and spooned her. I had a hard-on. It was poking against her ass. “That feels good,” she said. She spit on her hand and worked it over my cock, rubbing the head of it along her labia. She got wet and I jammed it in there. She was medium tight. I pumped away like that, sideways, for a while. The alarm clock went off again, my stomach turned, then settled. I pulled out and hit the snooze button. I rolled her over and ate her pussy for a few minutes, but I was too hung over for that. I suggested we get out of bed. I bent her over the dresser and banged away Bronco Bill style, sweat poring out of me, chest pains, short of breath, the son of the son of a gas station attendant. Her head was bobbing up and down like a Slinky toy. She kept screaming “Come! Come! Come!” But I couldn’t get off. It was the Paxil. It was maddening. I pulled out and tried to stick it in her ass.


“I’m fucking you in the ass!”

“Like hell you are!”

The alarm clock went off again. I unplugged it. “It’s hopeless,” I told her.

“Come here,” she said.

I walked over to her with my anti-depressed erection. She knelt down and swallowed me to the balls, porno-style. She was good. I felt like I was in a Mitchell Brother’s film. I grabbed the back of her head and pumped it in and out as the tears streamed down her face. We’d both seen too many movies. I pulled out of her mouth just as I was about to come. She grabbed the shaft and jerked me off onto her face, neck and chest. She was thin and blonde and somewhere in her thirties; no kids, a husband that had blown his brains out over the phone one night, a good body and a pretty face, a drinking problem, a job to go to.

We found our clothes and she rubbed my come all over her breasts before putting on her bra. “I want to feel you on my tits while I’m at work today,” she said. She gave me a kiss.

This woman is going to be a problem, I thought.

She got into her jeans, put on a t-shirt that said fuck the pain away.

“Where the hell do you work?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“I hope I haven’t made you late.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

We locked up and left. Outside, I noticed the address.

“See,” she said, “911.”

“It’s a coincidence, Jasmine.”

“There are no coincidences. Let me give you a ride home.”

We walked to her car and got in. It was a pretty nice car. I wondered how fast it could go.

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