The Weather Girl

by Horny Philly…

I was down at this bar called Southdowns the other night when all of a sudden I run into Jim McCaffrey.  You know Jim.  He’s the lead anchor over at Channel 12 News.  The old guy.  The one who’s been there for what seems like a million years.

In reality, McCaffrey’s been around since the 1960s.  He’s been the lead anchor for at least thirty years.  By day, he gives blood, volunteers at the homeless shelter, even sponsors that big brother thingy.  By night, apparently, he’s a complete souse.

I was with my good friend Melanie Maskov at the time.  Melanie is from Russia.  These Russian women are beautiful, but moreover, they’re tough as nails.  They don’t fuck around.

Melanie and I go way back, as far back as kindergarten even.  We went to the same high school and now we’re even in college together.  Don’t get the wrong idea, though.  Mel and I are just good friends.  Bar-hopping friends.

The moment I introduced Mel to McCaffrey, that’s when the free drinks started flowing.  Shots on the house!  Actually, they were on McCaffrey.  Apparently, news anchors in small-town markets make more money than I thought.  That, or McCaffrey was a total letch.

So there we were at the bar doing shots and McCaffrey couldn’t take his eyes off Mel.  His hands, either.  I guess when you’re provincially famous, you get the idea you can paw the merchandise.  That, or when you’re that old, you know you’re days are numbered.

The next thing I know, up walks this really cute girl and I swear I know her from somewhere.  I do.  She’s the weather girl from the Channel 12 news.  Not the regular weather person from Monday through Friday, but the weather girl from the weekends.  The cute one.  The little blonde with the adorable Southern accent.  You know, the one that does the TV ads for Wholesome Milk and was in that big abstinence campaign for the Catholic Church?  You know who I’m talking about.

First thing McCaffrey does is introduce me to her, but I don’t get her name.  No matter.  The music was too loud, anyway.

“So,” says the weather girl, “where are you from?”

This girl was cute.  I mean, girl-next-door cute.  Young.  Innocent-looking.  I would soon find out she wasn’t so innocent at all.

I start going through the whole boring speech, but she’s not paying attention.  Next thing I know she’s asking me if I have any coke, and she’s not talking about Coca-Cola.

“Coke?” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, “Jimmy says you’re holding.”

Jimmy?  Oh, yes.  McCaffrey.

“So,” she says, “are you?  Holding?”

The crazy thing is, I am.  I am holding.  Cocaine.  I didn’t know the proper term was Holding.

I show her my vile and she becomes giddy.  She starts bouncing up and down, saying “Gimme gimme.”

“Right here?” I say, and before I even finish talking she’s got the little spoon up her nose.  Wow!

We start doing shots and it isn’t long until she’s jonesing for some more coke.  “Not that silly little spoon,” she says.  “Let’s do a couple of fatties.”

“Where?” I say.

“Follow me,” she says.

She then takes me into the women’s bathroom, straight into a stall.  So this is what the ladies’ room looks like.  I’d never been in the women’s bathroom before.

Next thing I know, she pulls out this little mirror.  Not a compact, but a little mirror with white residue already baked in.  She sits me down on the toilet and straddles on top of me like I’m some kind of horse.  It’s pretty obvious by now: this is not her first rodeo.

Before I even know what’s going on, she’s got my vile and the coke all lined up on the mirror.  She makes two lines and when she said Fatty, she wasn’t kidding.  Okay, I think, one for her and one for me.  Not exactly.

She mows down both lines like some kind of snow blower in reverse.  Doesn’t offer me some, not even one, doesn’t even give me time to ask.  It all happens so fast, all I can do is watch in amazement.

Next thing I know, she’s got my pants undone, her panties off, and she’s riding me like some kind of bucking bronco.  A little coke would have been nice, but that’s okay.  The whole thing goes down faster than I can say Hallelujah.  All I can think is: God really loves me!

She gives me a quick kiss.  Then, faster than you can say Monica Lewinsky, she’s got her panties up and she’s outta there.

I slip into the men’s room and guess who I see there?  That’s right.  Mel.  She’s fixing her hair and in the stall next to her is?  Yep, you guessed that too: old man McCaffrey.  He’s passed out cold.  Maybe a better description is: he’s been cold-cocked.  Mel’s got one helluva right cross.  Believe me, I know.

Mel holds out her hand and I give her the vile of coke.  Why not?  It’s hers.

“What did I tell ya about these TV news types?” she says.

“You’re right,” I say.  “What about him?  You’re not worried he’s gonna call the cops?”

“You’re so fucking naïve,” says Mel.  “He’s a total letch.  Besides, I told him I was fifteen.  How else do you think I got him into the stall?”

“How much did he have on him?” I say.

“Three hundred,” she says.

“Nice.”

“Did you score with the little slut?” she says.

“You bet,” I say.  “And then some.”

“Told you.”

Mel was right.  Mel was always right.  We got the hell outta there.

All in all, I’d say it was a pretty good night.  Free shots, three hundred bucks, and I even got to fuck the weather girl.  All the credit goes to Mel, however.  It was, after all, all her idea.

Not a bad night.  The best part was, it wasn’t even midnight yet.  Our night was just beginning.  Mel says she knows the bar where all the elementary school teachers hang out.

“You think TV news chicks are bad,” says Mel, “wait till you get a load of these kindergarten teachers.”

I could only imagine.


Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by NY Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas.  http://PhilipLoyd.com

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