"Running with my pants down" is a perfect metaphor for the life of one Logan Hunter. Emotionally scarred by the faith forced on him by the traditions of his wildly dysfunctional Catholic-centric family, Logan sets out to blaze his own trail. After a young marriage that everyone knew was doomed to failure, he moves on at a breakneck pace to drink in all that life has to offer, literally and figuratively. His life becomes ruled by the three Bs: business, bed-hopping, and booze. Somewhere along the way, he meets Misty, the sex kitten; Kat, the young, unpredictable one; Liz, the cougar with a voracious appetite for younger men; "Champagne" Washington, the sultry nightclub singer; Connie and Amanda, the gorgeous, sophisticated, and carnally experimental women who give him a night he'll never forget; "The Wild Things"-Delta Sue, Kitten, and Lola; and the always-intoxicating Spanish beauty, Carmen. Could there be more? In an ironic twist of fate, Logan's best friend, Eddie, starts down an unexpected, life-altering path that begins to mirror Logan's. Neither could predict just how a couple of chance meetings would change the game for each of them.

Running with My Pants Down

A NovelBy JIM CUBA

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Jim Cuba
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2172-7

Chapter One

A wake-up call

I jerked. My eyes flew open. It was one of those moments ... you know ... you've probably been there at times yourself. Disoriented, like when you've dozed off on a flight or in the waiting room of a dentist's office and then are awakened with a lurch. Where am I? I've had it happen on my own sofa at home, lulled to sleep on a Saturday afternoon by some inane program like a soccer match on T.V. and then ... BOOM. I snap awake and for a brief time I have no idea where I am or how I got there.

This time it's even more disorienting. I'm in a bed ... it's not mine. In and of itself, that's not an unusual occurrence for me at this stage of my life. I'm lying on the right side of the bed, under the covers, resting on my right hip and shoulder, legs outstretched. I'm staring past a decent looking nightstand at a blank wall a few feet away. Still no clue.

There is someone or something in bed with me ... behind me ... resting against my body. Slowly ... ever so slowly, I scoot farther to my right, perilously close to the edge of the bed and then I quietly rotate to my left one hundred-eighty degrees, like a six foot-two inch, one hundred-ninety pound, blue-eyed, curly-haired, highly confused rolling pin. The anticipation of what I was about to discover is mind-bending.

Wow, it's a woman and three positive things immediately race through my mind: she's great looking, she's not underage and she appears to be breathing. I quietly lift the covers and peer underneath. Holy areola; we're both naked and she has one kick-ass body. No tan lines. Tattoo-free. Wash board abs. Nice belly ring. I just hope when she bought those gargantuan, yet very nicely done boobs, she didn't have to pay by the pound. But hey, good for me, I guess. I wonder who originally coined the term "Fun Bags". A word-smith, to be sure ... worthy of a Pulitzer Prize for ... word-smithing. But I digress.

I lowered the covers and scanned the room for clues. Hotel room ... nice ... tastefully decorated, no indication of what brand. Shafts of morning light streaked through the partially closed drapes piercing the darkness of the room. She stirs but settles quickly back into a restful sleep, making noises through her mouth and nose that resembled the snort of a wild boar. Hmmm, reality suddenly supplanting fantasy.

Clothing is scattered all about the room: skinny jeans, high-heeled sandals, a cropped-off tank top. No wonder I ended up here; but when and how?

A bottle that once held a vintage Pinot Noir is on its side, one used glass on the nightstand, another on the floor. I quietly slipped out of bed and moved about the room. A purse is haphazardly dumped onto a small desk in the corner. I crept toward it. There's a room service receipt on the desk for the wine ... seventy-five dollars. Big spender.

A women's wallet is hanging half-way out of the purse and I quietly extract it. I undo the snap closure and flip it open. Staring back at me, one above the other, are two I.D.s. with particularly unflattering photos of the same person; the girl in the bed. One is a Texas driver's license with the name Delta Sue Johnson, twenty-eight, Dallas address, five-eight, blonde / blue, 129 pounds. I had to wonder what she'd weigh without the magnanimous boob job. Well I guess she had a tradition to uphold; you know ... everything's bigger in Texas.

The other is a United Airlines employee I.D., ... flight attendant. I snap the wallet closed and replace it. Some answers, still many more questions.

My head doesn't hurt very much so nobody slipped me a "Rufie". The last thing I clearly remember is meeting a friend at the Cardinals game, and afterward heading to The Broadway Oyster Bar for some mussels steamed in garlic and white wine. By the way, I also remembered almost getting into it with a couple of loud, obnoxious, piss-stained pecker heads whose breath smelled like a combination of roasted peanuts, stale beer and pot. Oh, and the Cards beat the Cubs three-zip on a one-hitter thrown by some six foot-seven Arkansas plowboy just up from Triple-A. But, once again, I digress.

I remember having three or four beers at the game and several scotches at the bar ... wait a minute. I sort of remember talking to a couple of ladies at the bar. Yeah, my friend and I sent them a drink and they joined us. The rest is pretty foggy. This is certainly not my first rodeo, but ... will I ever frickin' learn? My recent track record says no-can-do ... more like, yes-can-do-but-never-will-do.

I walked into the bathroom to take a whiz. Oh sweet mother of God, there's a pair of women's lacey pink thong underwear wrapped around my head. I didn't even feel it up there. Turning on the cold water to a slow, quiet trickle, I splashed some on my face. It felt really good but I still had no clearer recollection of the details of this escapade. I breathed into my hand. Whoa; my breath could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. Mussels in garlic and wine, beer and scotch, more wine in the room. Oh, and I almost forgot about the hot dog at the game, loaded to the gills with onions, mustard, relish and sour kraut. Mystery solved. My mouth tasted like I just ate the ass-end out of a skunk, but why no cranium-thumping hangover? I guess I'm just getting used to playing hurt. It's the rule rather than the exception these days.

Returning to the bedroom, I checked my former bedmate; still out like a light. Quietly, I began collecting my clothes and sliding into them. My underwear was on the lamp shade, one sock was under the bed, the other hanging from the ceiling fan. My jeans were crumpled on the chair in the corner, wallet and change strewn on the floor below them. My shirt was perched on the corner of the flat screen T.V. Opening the desk drawer, I found some letterhead and a pen. Marriott Pavilion Hotel ... decent place ... another part of the puzzle solved.

I snatched a piece of the paper and scribbled a note:

Dear Delta Sue,

Thanks for a great night; you were magnificent. I'm leaving my business card for you. Whenever you pass this way again, I'd really like to see you. Hopefully, next time we'll actually be able to have a real, official, grown-up date.

I have an early appointment and didn't want to disturb your sleep. By the way, it's cute the way little bubbles come out of your nose when you snore.

Be safe in you journeys. Call when you can.

Logan

That ought to do it. I wrestled one of my business cards out of my wallet and added it to the note, propping them up against the purse. Then, I checked the room for any other of my personal possessions; none in sight. My exit was like a cat burglar.

Now what? I have absolutely no idea where I left my car.

Rummaging through my pockets I found a restaurant receipt for a hundred and sixty-six dollars. That must have been some big-ass bowl of mussels or else I bought the entire bar a round of drinks. No cell phone. I hope I didn't leave it in her room. Shit. Hold on ... what's this? ... a valet claim check. Apparently I'd valet parked my car somewhere at one-thirty-six this morning. You sure couldn't prove it by me.

I hustled down to the lobby and headed toward the registration desk, looking for someone who might be able to help. A bellman looked at the ticket and acknowledged it belonged to the Marriott. He summoned a valet guy who went after my car. Man, this could have really been ugly. I was still clueless about how I got here.

Returning with my car, he laid three things on me: my cell phone; that he claimed was on the driver's side floor, a bra; claiming it was hanging from the rear view mirror and he thought it best to remove it, lest I be embarrassed. Wow, I didn't even know Victoria's Secret made an "E" cup. It had so many hooks it could have stumped Houdini ... maybe even turned him gay. The other thing he gave me was an overnight parking tab that resembled the National Debt. Hotels are such goddamn a rip-off.

The valet kid was an arrogant prick. I paid the tab, cut his tip in half, and let him keep the bra as a souvenir. He can make up his own stories. Hell, if things get bad, he could always live in one cup and rent out the other.

I started to climb aboard my Range Rover and then stopped. It's not often I get a chance to be downtown in the early hours of the day. Hell, often? I can't remember ever doing it. I let my senses take in the sights, the sounds and the smells. It was quite astounding, really, and not necessarily all in a good way. As if by the pull of a magnetic field, my collective senses drew my gaze to the east. A St. Louis morning and everything it has to offer ... Everything.

Chapter Two

Please allow me to introduce myself

The sunrise formed the perfect backdrop for the "Gateway to the West". The magnificent Jefferson National Expansion Memorial, better known as the Gateway Arch, glistened in the morning light; a monument to the Louisiana Purchase and a symbol of St. Louis being the gateway to Western expansion. This is an architectural masterpiece of a design that engineers said could never be built. Architect Aero Saarinen knew better. Unfortunately he died before its completion in 1964.

Across the big muddy Mississippi River to the East, is the western boundary of the State of Illinois. Just to the South of the arch on the east side of the river is the little corrupt town of Sauget where the Monsanto chemical plant belches a noxious, foul smelling, ozone destroying plume into the morning sky. Air pollution at its most egregious and no one is doing one damn thing about it. Somebody's palm is getting greased. Money always speaks louder than good, common sense.

St. Louis is an enigma of sorts. It's a large city with a small town feel. The people are typically Midwest friendly, the city is predominantly Roman Catholic. The influence of the church spreads its tentacles far and wide, virtually controlling everything from the politics to the landscape.

Perhaps it's time we get to know each other a little better. My name is Logan Hunter. Actually, that isn't entirely true but we'll get to that. I'm roguishly handsome, functionally irresponsible, charmingly irresistible and irritatingly smart-assed, all in an irreverently devil-may-care kind of way ... at least that's a collection of what I've been told by more than one person, on more than one occasion. I guess at least some of it must be true. Who am I to judge the unbiased observations of others who probably know me better than I know myself? I know this for sure; at my core, I'm restless and easily bored. On top of that I'm tragically flawed ... but I'm diligently working on that one. As you might expect, that diverse cluster of symptoms can be extremely problematic, as I continue to be reminded on a daily basis by life itself.

St. Louis is my city, at least for now. I was born and raised here; spent most of my life here and it's the city where my entire family still resides. For some reason, we didn't wander far from our roots. In time, that may very well change, at least that's a long-range part of my game plan. Living in the tropics and sailing the waters of the Caribbean is where I'll eventually end up if all goes as calculated.

Now, you may think that I have an unusual first name; Logan. It is, I suppose, but it's actually more complicated than that, but again, we'll address that in time.

The short version is that Logan is the surname of a distant relative; an aunt somewhere down the line, I'm told. She ran a brothel in New Orleans and had a reputation for being a tough old broad and anything but a lady. I'm certain that naming me Logan was designed to piss off somebody in the family, but I never got the whole story. "Mum" has always been the word. My sense is that had I met Aunt Molly Logan, she would have been my favorite relative ... ever. She must have been a "pisser" and I can relate to that. There's a lot to be said for the gene pool.

Being raised Catholic, I come from a large family; five children who lived, two miscarriages and one still birth. It's a pretty typical Midwest family, I guess; save for some undiagnosed mental illness that always seemed obvious to me.

There was no practice or even a thought of birth control other than something called "the rhythm method". Apparently my parents had very little of it; the right kind of rhythm that is. Each pregnancy was considered a gift from God. Well, rain is also a gift from God but when you get too much of it it's time to wear your rubbers, don't you think?

Blinded by their faith, my parents just lived and breathed the doctrine and continued breeding like gerbils. After all, it's the Catholic way, the guilt-free way, the only way, according to the church. You have 'em, don't worry about how you are going to feed and clothe 'em, and don't forget our ten percent cut from your paycheck every week. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. I'll get into that in much more detail as we move along on our little journey.

My dad worked as a construction foreman, toiling long and hard to keep his growing family afloat. He's a big, ham-fisted guy with no tolerance for misbehaving boys. He had a fuse shorter than Robin Williams' attention span. Corporal discipline was the rule rather than the exception. We loved him. We feared him. Trust me on both counts.

He was a good dad, overall. He provided as best he could, was generally quiet, dead-bone honest and faithful to my mother. He's the kind of man you would meet and five minutes later, you knew could trust him with the farm. In that regard, especially, he set a good, solid example for his expansive brood.

My mother, on the other hand, is completely off the chain. She is gregarious, to be sure. She's also kind, more than a little ditzy and constantly in motion. We should've had a stage in our house because she was always performing. Hell, at my high school graduation party, she popped in wearing only a grass skirt and a coconut bra, bare feet and a plastic hibiscus flower stuck in her hair and started dancing with all of my friends ... male and female. I almost died of embarrassment. My friends thought she was the coolest mom they'd ever seen. There's no accounting for taste. It was then I realized that I needed to get some new friends.

Mom, on the other hand, has a million friends and keeps track of each one of them by the number of greeting cards she receives each year on her birthday. She has a heart of gold but is apparently hard of hearing. A conversation with her requires a lot of listening and very little talking on one's part. If she has something on her mind, you had better be ready to hear it. You have little choice. I haven't talked to my Mom in a couple of months. I didn't want to interrupt her.

To her credit, it was always mom who would fight to have our dad-issued, highly reactive and overly severe punishments reduced to time served. Sometimes it actually worked. Dad never told us what the punishment would be before we did the crime. I guess he liked to improvise.

"Let's see, Logan, you didn't cut the grass on time, so let's spin the wheel and I will render one of my inappropriate, over the top punishments that I've just pulled out of my ass. What are the choices this week, Johnny Olsen? Wow, life in prison without parole, the amputation of one limb, an arranged marriage to a Russian trans-sexual, having his appendix removed with a shoe horn or thirty days in solitary confinement with an insurance salesman. Okay, Johnny, give it a spin and let's render young Logan, here, his fate."

You think for a single moment that I'm kidding? Want to trade childhoods?

Besides mom and dad, the family consisted of my surviving siblings, two boys and two girls. The whole breeding and birthing process took nearly twenty years to complete. Did I mention we were Catholic? I love my siblings but if given the choice, I would have opted to be an only child; at least back then. I had to share a basement bedroom with my two brothers. It was a living hell. You will understand why in short order. Through it all, we remain close. There is a deep, unspoken bond among us. We have each other's back and we usually don't attempt to stick a knife in it.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Running with My Pants Downby JIM CUBA Copyright © 2011 by Jim Cuba. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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