A Devastating Affair
This post contains lethal doses of sarcasm if read irresponsibly.
Mr. Johnson has called me “Consuela” for the last fucking time. I’m not even Hispanic and this joke has been played out since 2005. His casual racism would be somewhat tolerable if he tipped generously, but I received $20 for a “job well done” right before the holidays.
After another day of cleaning, I see a cutting knife resting on the kitchen countertop. Maybe this is a heat-of-the-moment thing, or maybe this is my ongoing psychosis reaching its inevitable conclusion. Menial labor and minimum wage will do this to a person.
I hear a baritone giggle and a faint moan from the living room. I lurch toward the noise, knife in hand, only to see Mr. Johnson’s head pop up from the seat of the sofa. I would presume the lady involved would be the Mrs., but this person takes an unfamiliar form. A mistress? A secretary? A call girl?
I pause for a beat to reevaluate my options. Oh, damn, Mr. Johnson has some moves—he glides his fingers up her thighs and the faint moans quickly escalate into frequent gasps, like she’s drowning in eroticism. This just got interesting.
Well, Mr. Johnson, it appears your life will be spared today, for I will have all the blackmail I need to squeeze a higher wage out of you. NOW IT WILL BE YOU WHO IS THE CONSUELA, BITCH!!!
It’s “The Story of O” for our era.