The Coat Hanger Blues

>>> The Lady's Shave
By staff writer NG Hatfield
August 7, 2006

Let me tell you about this girl I used to date.

Her name wasn’t Amy, but because I’m not one to enjoy lawsuits, I’ll call her Amy. She was a tall, skinny dirty-blonde who was born in Germany and moved to the United States at around 12. She was a good looking chick, but unfortunately, she was also very crazy—something I tend to avoid…unless the girl is ” yeah boy, that's YOUR PUSSY” crazy and not ” let me introduce you to my vagina, Doctor Strangelove: her profession is neurologist, and she enjoys caviar and French film” crazy. And trust me, she was type two crazy. Over our four-month span of dating, we broke up at least twelve times, mainly because we hated each other. Alas, because the sex was damned good, it was pretty hard to stay broken up.

Our whole story goes like this: We started dating in early June and after a few weeks of good sex and mediocre dates, she went on some amity bullshit trip to Australia through July. I'll admit that her presence was sort of missed, but most of the time she was gone, I was at our hangout back in Cumberland…doing other things. Anyway, when she came back, well, that's when the fun really started.

“Dan made the point that 7-14 in the pen is better than 18-21 working at McDonald’s and coming home to a nagging wife and crying baby.”

Apparently, Amy had missed me terribly, so we fucked like rabbits for a good couple of weeks. During this nice little streak of Welcome Back, Kotter sex, there was one night in particular that I completely fucked up. We came back to my apartment after a big party at my buddy Matt's, and I was SMASHED. I “forgot” the condom. Hey, condoms REALLY suck and I was drunk, so don't give me that MTV “no balloon, no party” bullshit. The only time a good party even has fucking balloons is if you’re doing whippets.

“No. I'm LATE,” she said.

“Oh,”I replied. After a long pause, the audience gasped. I guess they wanted me to comfort her. Unfortunately, all I could say was “paternity test.” Of course, she got pissed and said it was “definitely” mine, but the logistics of the whole thing were… well, look at it from my perspective:

So, after she stormed out, I called up a few of my friends and told them the story. They weren't exactly supportive. A few asked if they could be the godfather, a few offered to kill Amy, a few gave me ideas for leaving the country; but, overall, they were dicks (as I expect and appreciate). Luckily, after the first few days of panic and 24/7 ripping from the guys, I became somewhat calmer about the whole idea of being a daddy. I wasn’t happy about it, but I stopped considering suicide.

One night, I was smoking on the balcony when my buddy Dan came out to have a chat. Dan's a year-and-a-half older than me, and treats me like a younger brother. The bastard shocked me with a tazer once. I hit him in the knee with a golf club in response. That's the best example of our friendship I can give. While that might seem strange to you, that's how my good friends are, and Dan is no exception. He's always one to give good advice, especially when it comes to violence, so he asked me the question everybody was asking: “How do you know if it's even yours?”

“Well, she's been with Aborigines for the last few weeks… so, I guess if it comes out clickin’ with a bone through its nose, then I know that I'm not the daddy.”

Then he asked if I needed cow hormones.

“Why would I need cow hormones?” I replied.

He said that it'd make the little bitch slide right out. Also, he could easily get them from his dad's farm.

I gave that a generous amount of consideration. Then I asked if the cow hormones were tasteless.

“How the fuck should I know?” he said. “I'm not going to drink that shit, I'll grow a fucking vagina.”

“Well do cows like…wince…when you give it to them?”

“No. They're cows. They don't wince when you break their brains open with a sledgehammer, you stupid bastard.”

“Hmm…”

We sat for a few more hours debating the legality of dumping hormones in her Slim-Fast or Ensure or whatever the fuck women drink. After much reflection, we both doubted that a precedent had been set for it (perhaps in Alabama or something), but realistically, I'd probably serve 7-14, if convicted. Dan made the point that 7-14 in the pen is better than 18-21 working at McDonald’s and coming home to a nagging wife and crying baby. I agreed, but cited my anal virginity as a good reason for life outside the poky.

During our discussion, my buddy Jackson came out to talk. He told me that he thought Amy probably fucked an Aussie. Also, he kept saying that I shouldn't have dated her because she fucked me on the first date… despite the fact that I was wearing mismatched socks. She had to be a huge slut for fucking a guy wearing mismatched socks, he said. “Don't say that about my baby's momma,” I told him, and lit a cigarette.

Jackson asked me if I had any wire coat hangers.

“Yes, I've got coat hangers you sick fuck.”

“You don't have to use them, just get her to THINK that you're going to use them. Then her ass'll get a passport and get the fuck out of the country.”

I sucked in the smoke and let it out saying, “Jackson, you're a genius.” Not quite his idea I‘d use, but now I did have one of my own.

When I got back to my place, I called her up and threw everything I could at her.

“Hey Amy, listen, could you terminate the pregnancy? Because that would be really convenient for me.”

“No. I want to keep the baby.”

Shit. Well that was out. Then I thought maybe if I could really creep her out, she'd at least have all my visitation “privileges” taken away. So I said, “Well. I guess there are good things about having babies…. Like, they have really soft hands right? Mmmmmm. Yeah, and really supple skin. Yeah.”

“I know you're not a pedophile, Nick.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because your dick is too big for my vagina, let alone a baby's.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere,” I said, blushing.

“Speaking of which,” Amy said, “if my friends start calling you ‘Nine’ or ‘Nine-Inch Nick’, don’t be freaked out… I sort of told them a few things.”

“I think I love you. Come over and let’s have sex.”

“Alright.”

After that, Amy and I started talking again. She came over, still “late,” and we fucked. While we were laying in bed, post coitus, I realized that the answer wasn’t fucking with her head or dumping cow hormones in her coffee, it was in the pregnancy test.

“I’m going to go get a pregnancy test for you and you’re going to take it when I get back.”

“No, let’s wait a few days.”

Wait?! No fucking way was I going to wait. I left the house immediately and drove about a mile to CVS. It took me over twenty minutes to buy the most expensive pregnancy test and leave the store, not because I couldn’t find it, but because the old whore at the counter kept asking me questions.

“How old are you?” she asked, eyeing the squirt guns that I had bought with the test.

“I’m 19.”

“Wow, and you probably just ruined your life.”

“No, I mean, if she is pregnant, I’ll make her get an abortion.”

“So you’re not a Christian?” She tilted her glasses down with her hand. I remember those things so fucking well. They had very red, oval frames and the fluorescent light’s reflection off them almost blocked every square inch of her eye.

“Well no, I went to a Catholic school for most of my life and getting girls pregnant is my way of lashing out against a cruel, Christian-based society.”

“Is this how you get girls? You insult them?”

“Yes. I’d like a pack of Marb lights too, if you could.”

“A new father shouldn’t be smoking.”

“Just give me the goddamned cigarettes and I’ll pay and you’ll never see me again.”

Finally, she complied, pushing her eyeglasses up to read my ID. Thanks Bible Belt.

Back at my place, Amy had gotten dressed and was ready to piss on a little plastic stick. I gave it to her, and she strolled into the bathroom. Afterward, we both went outside and I lit up another cigarette. Three, long minutes awaiting my sentence.

Or fragment, as in that case.