Chelsea Handler: My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands

Once we got into my room we did a lot of kissing and heavy petting, and that was pretty much it. We started dry-humping, and I was pretty sure he came in his pants because he passed out about thirty seconds later.

At around eight the next morning I heard sounds coming from the kitchen. My room was on the first floor not far away.

It was my father talking to our dog, Whitefoot. "Are you a good Jewish doggy who was a good little boy the whole ride home? Are you? Do you want to go to Hebrew school with all the other Jewish doggies in the neighborhood? Are you a good boy? Are you a good boy? Are you a good boy?"

Fuck. My parents were home. I looked over at Jerome, who was sound asleep. I quickly got up and locked my door, then reconsidered, put on some clothes, and woke him up. "Jerome," I whispered, "my parents are home."

"Oh, shit!" he said, flinging himself out of bed. "I thought they were in Martha's Vineyard."

"They were. I don't know what they're doing back so soon. Just stay here and I'll find out if they're leaving again."

In order for Jerome to leave through the front door he would have to pass through the kitchen. Things didn't look good. I opened the door and strolled out.

"There she is! Hi, love, what's cookin'?" My dad was in a good mood, and I wanted it to stay that way.

"What are you doing home?" I asked sleepily, as if I wasn't totally awake and alert.

"We met a couple up at the Vineyard who need a car for their son. He's going off to college. I told them I was a car dealer and they want to buy a car. I'm bringing one back up for them. That neat little Civic we've got out in the driveway." He said this as if I hadn't seen the two-door blue hatchback with one of the doors covered in red primer every time I pulled up to the house. He also said it like it was a great car that anyone in his right mind would want to buy. "Those little cars last forever," he said.

"Does it even start?" I asked him.

"Does it even start? Of course it does! It just needs a little help, that's all. I'm gonna go get the oil changed and then drive back up today."

"Good fucking luck," is what I wanted to say. "Is Mom still on the Vineyard?" is what I really said.

"Yes, she is, doll, and she misses you terribly. That's why you can drive your car up so we have a ride home."

"When?" I asked, but before he could answer, there was a loud bang on the front porch outside. I have never spoken to Kato Kaelin, but I'm assuming it was similar to the loud bang he heard when O.J. snuck back in the house after killing Nicole and Ron (or not).

"What in the hell was that?" my dad asked, as Whitefoot spit out his bagel with cream cheese, started barking, and ran to the front door.

"I didn't hear anything, Dad."

"Don't be an idiot, love, of course you did," he said as he got up to go to the front door. I walked behind him, trying to think of a way to keep him from seeing what I could only presume was Jerome making a getaway. But I couldn't think of anything.

As my father opened the door we saw Jerome topless and running down our front lawn. He leaped into his car and drove away.

"What in the hell was that?" my father asked.

I just stared at the sky, hoping for an incoming asteroid.

"Goddamn it, Chelsea. What in the hell have you done now?"

My relationship with my father had been on the proverbial fritz since the time I was fifteen and called the police to report him for child molesting. He had never molested me, but I wanted to have a party that weekend and needed him out of the house. It had been a long time since he had smacked me in the face, his signature move, but I was still nervous. Only a couple months prior he had gone into what I can only describe as a King Kong/Donkey Kong fit of rage where he unloaded all the planters on our back deck, along with their flowers, plants, and soil, onto the ground. This was in response to my mother hiding the remote control for the television and my father being too lazy to get up and turn it on manually.

I backed away from him as quickly as I could and made a run for my room. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Chelsea. A real piece of work. I have a good mind to call the police and report the car he was driving. I'm sure it was stolen," my father shouted following me.

"No, Dad," I said, behind my closed door. "It wasn't stolen, you racist. It was his."

"Goddamn it, Chelsea, open this goddamned door before I break it in. What kind of girl runs around town with a bunch of strangers?" he yelled. "Do you even know that guy?"

"Of course I do," I argued from behind my door. "We met on the Internet."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You know what, Chelsea, I've got news for you. If you want people to show you respect, you don't just give your shit away."

Huh? Was my dad suggesting that I start charging people?

I considered telling my father that Jerome's penis was too big and we didn't have sex, but I didn't know if the word "penis" was allowed. I knew "slut" was because he had just called me that. I looked over and saw my open window and then saw my father's face come through it.

"Aaaah!" I screamed.

"You better listen to me, you little pain in the ass!" My father's head is the size of a beach ball and couldn't fit through the window with a shoehorn, but it didn't stop him from trying. "Your mother and I are sick of your shit, running around with strange men, your half-assed attempt at community college, no job. What the hell kind of life do you want for yourself?" As my father was yelling out one insult after another, I thought about throwing a snow globe at his head. Unfortunately, I didn't have one.

"Get your stuff together. We're leaving in two hours for the Vineyard and you need to follow me in case the Civic breaks down." Then he turned and walked back into the house.

About two and a half hours into the ride, my father's car got a flat tire. I pulled up behind him and watched him try to fix it. Moments later, a Toyota 4Runner stopped by the side of the road and a black man got out. I climbed out of my car as well. We both met at my father's car, and the stranger asked, "Do you need help with that flat tire, sir?"

My father looked up and said, "Yes, that would be nice. Don't know what happened here. I just need to get the spare on so I can have this tire looked at." The tire needed to be thrown in the trash, not "looked at," but this was another case of my father being delusional about the condition of his cars. When my father noticed me checking out the black guy, who wasn't half bad looking, he said, " Chelsea, get back in your car and keep your pants on." The black man glanced at both of us with a confused expression on his face and then kneeled down to start loosening the bolts.

Once we got to the Vineyard, my father gave my mother the rundown of what had taken place.

"Whitefoot and I are having breakfast at the table, and who do you think pops out of her room like everything's coming up roses? Chelsea, that's who. And before you know it, I hear the sbvartzer jump out of her window and steal a car."

"Dad, shut up. You know he didn't steal that car, it was his," I said. I was bored by the replay of events.

My mother came over and sat down beside me. "Melvin, please leave her alone," she said.

"Oh, here we go. Mommy loves Chelsea and Daddy is the bad guy. I'm always the fall guy. I get it, I see what's happening here. It's daddy-bashing time, is that it? I'm the worst daddy in the whole wide world!"

I wanted this whole discussion to be over with already. But mostly I wanted my father to stop referring to himself as Daddy. It was creeping me out. My brother Greg walked in as all this was going on and gave me a high-five.

"Good work, Chels. Nicely done."

"Don't encourage her, Greg. Chelsea, you need to get prioritized, not parade around doing nothing all day but watching your programs and talking on the goddamned telephone. And what the hell is it about the blacks that you like so much? Are you just trying to piss me off?" he asked.