Who Motivates The Motivator? Chapter 3: “Garbage Men”

After training Johnny, I received a phone call from Raul to meet up for food. Due to Bailey’s trying to rape my paycheck, I didn’t have that much cash. But so what? I had credit. And that’s what America runs on—credit.

Raul had worked as a server at “Zany’s” a prominent ‘date night’ restaurant until some undercover asswipe cop busted him. Instead of using our hard earned tax dollars finding violent criminals, the police force squandered it on sending 20 year old, wrinkle-faced, coming-out-of-a-dysfunctional-home, police officers with full on facial hair out to bust bartenders. Raul, a decent guy and butcher of the English language, comes from a country where the legal drinking age is 18, and people fry guinea pigs for supper.

“Rich Dad, Poor Dad” Robert Kiosaki


If you saw Raul, he would remind you of Robert Kiosaki, as his eyes and mouth are small, and his cheeks take up about 65% of his facial features. His face is both long and wide. If someone wore a Raul Espinoza mask and stood next to Raul, I don’t think I would be able to tell them apart until I realized the mouth on the mask doesn’t move.  Raul recently found a job at a more prestigious restaurant, and he often returned to Zany’s to get hooked up with a few drinks and chit-chat with old coworkers and friends.

I parked my car in the mall parking lot that led up to Zany’s. As I walked, I nostalgically stared up at the “Forever 21” sign on the huge monolithic building that was another anchor store to the mall. It was the “Claire’s” of “Express”. Forever 21 is a clothing store hell-bent on selling women with tattoos and C-sections, who are well over 21, all types of shiny shit and disco-bunny clothing. I remembered my ex-girlfriend who was 28 used to shop there. Oh well, I guess that would be like me wearing an Aeropostale shirt. I stopped my mental critisizm and kept trucking.


I GAVE RAUL DAP and took a seat at the bar next to him. I noticed him winking at one of the younger female servers there. She gave him back a half smile. That’s Raul. He reminds me of the Dos Equis guy in spirit, though not in swag. After we ordered a few beers and shots, I started my rant.

So whasap jo’? How’s work doo? (what’s up, Yo, how’s work dude?)” Raul asked.

“Man I had trained Cindy today and I noticed something off.”

“What happened?”

“Remember I told you I had a client who was an absolute MILF–the white woman—big, but shaped like a hornet?  With tiny waist but huge hips and ass?”

“That was the cheek (chick)—the one all the black doos were looking at when you stretch her right?”

“Yea, that’s the one. She’s sexy with a proportionate plumper body—meaning that if she ever did lose weight, she would still retain that sexy hour glass shape. But anyway, I had just finished working her out and I put her in a glute stretch—where she lies on her back on the table and I get on top and bend her leg at the knee. Then I push her knee back towards her chest as almost if I were going to dive bomb straight into her pussy—“

Raul nodded his head. Sometimes I have to check with Raul to make sure he understands what I’m saying, because he is infamous for nodding his head but not understanding what the fuck people are saying. I know a lot of non-native English speakers like that. Maybe they don’t want to be embarrassed to act like they don’t know, but I rather him say “can you essplain?” (can you explain?) or “Slow doune doo” (slow down dude) than to nod and act like he knows. This time it wasn’t worth it, I was going to finish my story.

“—So I smell something funny, you know, down there.”

“Ju mean her poosie?”

“Yeah her ‘poosie’—it smelled like she had some nutt in it. You know how chicks let their man cum inside them?”

“Jyeah, I doune it. Jijiji! (hee hee hee)”

“Well it smells like after she had sex with her man the night before she probably didn’t let all the nutt drain out, so it stays overnight.”

“How ju know that she had sex with the guy last night?”

“Because the nutt didn’t smell dead. You know how dead nutt smells—it smells just like rotting worms. But the smell she had was kind of—cloroxy. That’s what nutt smells like when it’s in the pussy, it– ”

Just then my train of thought was interrupted by the bartender—actually bartendrix. Her name was Wilma, a Salvadorean criolla (Hispanic woman with European Ancestry—or very little native blood). She was a shorty, had ample tits, and beautiful green eyes. She was a little chunti but I would have balled her up like a butterball turkey and used my turkey baster to inject mad flavor into her. The only thing about her was that she had large canine teeth on top.


I Vant Tu Sohk Ur Blaahd!!


Some people called her chela (white looking) but to Raul and I she was known as vampira.

“–hey Raul you up—ay ay Wilma baby, can you come here for a minute? I said batting my eyes.”

She hustled on over to see what we wanted.

“Hi—can I get you guys another drink?”

“Of course, and while you at it, why don’t you write down your phone number on the check?”

Wilma batted her eyes at me and cracked a big smile. There goes the vampire teeth. But I would have let her bite me all day—just not down there.

Raul and I watched as the golden brown liquor spurted out of the bottle. And Vampira was generous. After the pourer stopped at the measured ounce, she made sure the shot glasses were full. She inserted a lime on the lip of each shot and walked them over.

“You like salt too?”

“Naw, Raul tiene que cuidar su presion (Raul gotta watch his blood pressure).”

I said. We all laughed together.

“Hey Vamp– , uh Wilma, do a shot with us?”

“You gonna get me in trouble.”

“C’mon, Reggie is buying.” Raul interjected.

“Yeah I’m buying, c’mon.”

“Next time guys.”

“Aww well you’ll always be my favorite bartender lady. A toast—to Wilma, the best got-dammed bardender in Montgomery—Alababma!”.

Wilma cracked a big smile and we all laughed.

After that next shot, I had become substantially inebriated and was thinking about calling Vuuth for some white girl. But I pulled my thoughts back, since I had work in the morning.

“…Women make stupid decisions because they are torn between two worlds?”

“What are those?”

“The need for sex and the need for stability—that is the brunt of mother nature’s cruel joke.”

“Like what?”

“Well I have this theory—women are attracted to energy. In this society, generally speaking, a man makes more money as he gets older—“

Raul nods his head the affirmative.

“But the paradox is that as a man gets older, his testosterone levels or energy declines. Isn’t that fucked up?”

“Yeah I see what ju saying. When ju a teenager, ju always hard, but ju got no mahney no car, so all ju do is beat ju meat. But when ju get older, get a yab, get a car, a house, ju not as horny.”


I said as I clinked glasses with Raul.

“A toast!”

I said as I raised my shot glass filled with tequila high like Prince Adam turning into He-Man. We threw the shots back and I continued.

“So what women seem to be attracted to is a guy that has enough energy to bang her brains out, but enough stability to have a place for her to sleep afterward. This is what makes the ideal bachelor. See you see reality shows like The Bachelor  but niggas has always been bachelors since 15! The reality what the women want is an “eligible bachelor” or  a dude with it all— “

“Yeah ju right—they want everything.”

“Yeah, and the thing about it is, the stupid bitches either don’t know, or don’t want to face the fact that the bachelor gets to have his way with all the women. Then they complain that dudes are dogs and shit. After they’ve been shat on by guys like that, they come crawling around looking for ‘nice guys’—”

Raul was simply nodding and laughing, so I continued:

“—this is why the smartest bachelor is the one who holds out the longest—the one who sells the dream of marriage and commitment the longest. All he has to do is hold that carrot in front of them, and they chase after it, all the while he’s fucking them both. They don’t get it until later—after they’ve had a couple kids, or a psychological breakdown, or gained like 50 pounds. By then you know what they’re looking for?”

Raul stopped laughing to look up.


Take another shot and I’ll tell you. Raul and I took another shot.

“I Remember ju tol’ me that the girls after the get fat and unlucky that they want something?”

“Oh yeah, they’ll be looking for…drumroll please….”

Raul and I tap the table vigorously with our hands.

“..a black guy!”

Raul damn near spits out his beer.



“See Raul, it seems to me that at a certain point, they had considered us, black men, as the “garbage men” of the dating world.  The current predicament is that sometimes a black woman will see a black man with a non-black woman and suck their teeth. But I tell you, no other group of women is guilty of taking black men than fat white women!”

Raul is dying laughing.

“Next is fat, older, and/or chunti Hispanic women, and then last are old Asian women. If the black guy is not a football star or makes mad loot or is real good looking, these are what he can expect to get if he is over thirty and planning on an interracial dating. You know why? Because at this point these women are back on the market after exhausting all of their “youthfulness” (I made quote marks with my fingers) in their own ethnic groups. When it comes to keeping the family bonds together women are usually the ones to do it. So when they are not socialized, say in their late teens early twenties, they are going to rebel, and date younger black dudes with the dreads and skinny jeans and shit. But as they get older and think about the future, they’re gonna realize they want to marry, say about at age 26 or 27.  At this point they look for a successful man around the same age in their own ethnicity. Then they have his baby, go through shit with him, get comfortable, gain weight, and let themselves go while he bones his intern secretary. Then they get a divorce with the house, car, varicose veins, stretchmarks and c-sections.  Alas, they are on their own. Then in the midst of daily life the thought hits them like a linebacker: “I haven’t had dick in a while””

Raul is cracking up. I continue my inebriated rant:

“Then they go back on the market. They’ll go out to their local bars to find out that all the girls there are about 10 to 15 years younger than them– “Newer models”: women who still have the tight skin and whose tattoos aren’t warped by gravity, and have not been psychologically scarred by the prospect of dropping their kid off at a “neutral spot” to exchange with the baby-daddy or ex-husband. Now they realize that they have to make drastic changes physically to compete, or settle for something less. Now with wider waists they are ready to widen their horizons.”

We got the check and paid the bartender. To my dismay, she didn’t leave her number on the check.

“That’s okay, I’ll get at her again.”

I said to myself. Raul and I parted ways; wishing each other well and giving each other dap. I hit the highway and watched as time and the highway lights passed by.

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