I feel as if I am wasting away. Stagnating like a piece of rotting wood floating in a dank, scum-filled pond. A dead carp drawing flies. A bag of atrophied muscles. A Mason jar brain full of molding honey. Eyes sunken, radiation burned. Cramping fingers and sore wrists. Nothing to smell, nothing to taste, no feeling, no feelings. Trash ready to be burned. I try and try to lift myself out of this funk but I eventually realize that it's not my doing. It's not within my power to change it.
I don't want your sympathy. I only want your money.
I don't need for you to tell me that I should get my shit together. You think I don't already know that? Don't you think I've made it the grand mission of my life to get my shit together? Let me tell you something. I had it together yesterday.
I don't blame you for not wanting to get inside my head to find out why my engines are so rusty. I wouldn't, if I were you. If the shoe were on the other foot I assure you I would walk as far away from this crime scene as I could. In fact, I don't WANT you fumbling around in my mind. It's mine, and I really don't want to share it. It's enough for me to keep a handle on it my own self without giving permission to pick it apart to every Tom, Dick and Harry who just happen to have a ticket they bought from a less than reputable scalper on eBay. It's too late to get a refund, you three stooges. You'll find no grand scheme in the chambers of my imagination. I would say you get what you pay for but if you spent even a penny you got ripped off.
It's okay, mom. I don't blame you. I never blamed dad, either. I don't blame anyone. I don't play the blame game. I'll just sit back and ignore you for the rest of my life. I'll sit by the phone and wait for a call. I'll leave that WELCOME mat out in front of the door. I thought that by now it would have been filthy with the mud from the bottoms of your shoes.
I live in denial. A day will come. I will regret so much until time passes and teaches me that it was a two-way street and maybe, who knows, just maybe, could it be that everything evens out in the end?
Or it could be that I've got really bad heartburn.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Movie w/Dylan (Scenes 1-3)
Scene 1: Bob Dylan sits on top of an old, worn-out tire. Just some piece of junk he found in the backyard of an dilapidated automobile salvage yard. His bare feet don't even touch the ground. Slumped over in the traditional pose of "folk guitar player", the pick he holds in his right hand, when strummed across the strings, causes vibrations that end up all together in the A minor chord he holds in his other hand. There is an angelic, prayerful expression on his face. A light of inspiration glowing from the inside out. He ain't singing about Johnny mixing up any medicine. "Forever Young", likely.
Scene 2: Bob sits in a smoky pub, smoking pot with Paul McCartney, who is sporting some of the grooviest sunglasses to ever hide a pair of bloodshot eyes. Paul seems to be yelling something at Bob, not really being heard over the noisy (and slightly inebriated) crew at the bar. It looks like everyone there is toking doobies, even Mickey Dolenz, who hides directly to the right, almost obscured behind Macca's head. No matter what any of them might tell you, the stone cold fact is that every single one of these trendsetters (J.P. McCartney right along with 'em) are only here for one reason:
ZIMMY.
B.Z. slouches unconcerned, his eyes riveted to the big screen television that sits on a shelving unit directly above the Restrooms. No one seems to care about what he's watching.
More fool them.
It's the seventh game of the World Series and Robert's got $500 in his pocket that says the Yankees will pull it off. There is a certainty, if that money has told a lie, that Dylan might actually have to resort to crashing at McCartney's pad. Or if that proves too difficult perhaps Mr. Dolenz will oblige. That would sure give him something to talk about when he hooks back up with Mike, Peter & Davy on the first day of shooting 3 new episodes of the show.
Yeah, Dolenz it will be. Dylan thinks it over and decides against even asking Paul. He doesn't like Linda very much.
Scene 3: Young Bob has ditched the entire pub lot, having decided to abandon any attempt to procure rooms from the cult of hangers-on. Instead he walks two miles out of town until he finds an old, white house with a beautiful picket fence all around. He's not sure if he actually knows anyone who lives here. If he does he's forgotten about them long ago.
Everything turns to black and white as he knocks on the door. He is perfectly willing to do whatever must be done to secure a room for the night. Maybe a few vittles for his growling stomach to boot. Anything at all for some grub, up to and including premeditated murder, if the situation calls for it. He actually kind of hopes it will come to this. It has been a long, long time since Dylan last killed. It wouldn't hurt his reputation one bit to add another notch to that belt.
Alas, none of these opportunities present themselves. It is a young boy who answers the door and first sees the lanky stranger with the big nose. The kid can't be much older than six or seven. His hair is tasseled and long. It falls across the back of a loose white t-shirt. The shirt looks like it's been worn a lot of times.
"Howdy, feller," he says to Bob Dylan as he sizes him up. "Is there something I can do to ease your weary load?"
An old soul, no doubt. His frank words of compassion are disarming.
"Well, son, what I really need is a place to hang my head for the night. A soft goose down piller if you've got one. My head's heavy and I've just come from a congregation of followers who would think they were dreaming if they saw me here begging for a room from a little tyke such as yourself. It drags on me, I tell you. It pulls hard. But it must be done. If you want me to cut to the chase, I will...I'm tired and I'm hungry."
"I guess I could fix you a sandwich or something."
"Sandwich would be just fine, if that's all you've got. I mean, if that's the only choice I have. I would prefer something that would stick to the old ribs better than a pithy sandwich, but if that's as close as I'm gonna get to bein' fed, well, mister, slap some 'o that mustard on a couple of slices o' bread." Zimmy starts to contemplate the possibility that, for all his bitching and moaning, a sandwich actually doesn't sound half bad. Maybe a nice pastrami with Swiss, or a thin sliced honey ham on Rye with 4 or 5 sliced bread and butter pickles. Provolone cheese. Maybe even some lettuce and tomatoes, if such extravagances were not out of the reach of this kid's obviously impoverished family.
"Kitchen's in here. You gonna have to fend for yourself"...and with that he hurls a small bundle of foodstuffs at Bob. Everything anyone might need to make one fine sandwich. A tasty sandwich, the likes of which even Bob Dylan must shout the praises of. French's classic yellow mustard. Miracle Whip. Various slice meats including corned beef, roast beef, salami, bologna as well as the afore mentioned pastrami and honey ham. Oh, and there's turkey, too. Bone dry white meat turkey that would be impossible to eat without some kind of side dish, like instant stuffing or between two condiment drenched slices of toast.
A fit feast for a king.
It isn't too long before the sandwiches are made and not too much longer until they're gone to crumbage. A decent scrap of eats chased down with a can or two of Schaeffer's beer.
"Here, kid...have a brew," says Bob Dylan, tossing a cold can at the youngster's head.
He snatches it from it's trajectory before it beans his forehead and cries out, "I can't! I can't, you devil. I am only seven years old. It might make me sick. My dad would kill me."
"Where IS your dad, if I may be so bold to ask?"
"He's gone our drinkin' to the Hammer Head...the last time he done that he didn't come home until 9:00 o'clock the next mornin'."
"Well, then. What's the big deal? Bottoms up, you feisty little whipper snapper."
And with that he forces the can to the child's mouth and pours it's acrid, piss yellow contents into his mouth. With much spurting and gagging the boy finally swallows the last gulp and Dylan lets him go, watching his jelly-bellied body lightly thump to the ground.
"I'm gonna be sick, sir. I'm gonna be real, real sick."
"Bite the bullet, you little bastard. If you're gonna dine with me you're gonna act like a grown up. You're gonna swill that beer like a pro. You're gonna guzzle until the time comes when guzzling doesn't feel like guzzling anymore. Do you like my hat?"
"Ughaugha....kachoooo...gurg...pfipt...you're...uhuhuh...claccccc...your hat, mister?...gggaaaaagg...spitoo-ee...what about your hat?"
"I ask you if you liked it."
"If I like it?"
"Oh come now, ostentatious youth. How can I make myself any clearer than that? My white hat with the swoosh back brims. The one I stole from John Lennon the night he came over and asked for a light. I thought it was a beautiful hat the first time I ever saw it. Yoko had it on her head and it made her look positively regal. I said at the time, 'I've got to have that hat. I've got to make it mine.' I tried offering him money, but he wasn't having any of that. 'This hat's not for sale," he says. So I punched him with a broomstick, knocked the wind right out of him. He dropped this hat, you see, and the rest is history. It's ownership passed hands at that very moment, and now I'm asking you, knowing what you now know, if you LIKE it."
"You want to know...now let me get this straight...you want to know if I LIKE that hat on your head...the one which, it may be serendipitous to add, was at one time owned by one of the biggest legends of all time? Now that it's perched on your head you want an outsider's opinion of just how retarded it makes you look?"
"Hey, I was a rock and roll legend, too, once. I just want to know if you dig the hat, that's all."
"I guess it's fine," the kid said. "It's not really your style, though."
"Well who's style is it, then?"
"I don't know. Might look good on another retard."
Scene 2: Bob sits in a smoky pub, smoking pot with Paul McCartney, who is sporting some of the grooviest sunglasses to ever hide a pair of bloodshot eyes. Paul seems to be yelling something at Bob, not really being heard over the noisy (and slightly inebriated) crew at the bar. It looks like everyone there is toking doobies, even Mickey Dolenz, who hides directly to the right, almost obscured behind Macca's head. No matter what any of them might tell you, the stone cold fact is that every single one of these trendsetters (J.P. McCartney right along with 'em) are only here for one reason:
ZIMMY.
B.Z. slouches unconcerned, his eyes riveted to the big screen television that sits on a shelving unit directly above the Restrooms. No one seems to care about what he's watching.
More fool them.
It's the seventh game of the World Series and Robert's got $500 in his pocket that says the Yankees will pull it off. There is a certainty, if that money has told a lie, that Dylan might actually have to resort to crashing at McCartney's pad. Or if that proves too difficult perhaps Mr. Dolenz will oblige. That would sure give him something to talk about when he hooks back up with Mike, Peter & Davy on the first day of shooting 3 new episodes of the show.
Yeah, Dolenz it will be. Dylan thinks it over and decides against even asking Paul. He doesn't like Linda very much.
Scene 3: Young Bob has ditched the entire pub lot, having decided to abandon any attempt to procure rooms from the cult of hangers-on. Instead he walks two miles out of town until he finds an old, white house with a beautiful picket fence all around. He's not sure if he actually knows anyone who lives here. If he does he's forgotten about them long ago.
Everything turns to black and white as he knocks on the door. He is perfectly willing to do whatever must be done to secure a room for the night. Maybe a few vittles for his growling stomach to boot. Anything at all for some grub, up to and including premeditated murder, if the situation calls for it. He actually kind of hopes it will come to this. It has been a long, long time since Dylan last killed. It wouldn't hurt his reputation one bit to add another notch to that belt.
Alas, none of these opportunities present themselves. It is a young boy who answers the door and first sees the lanky stranger with the big nose. The kid can't be much older than six or seven. His hair is tasseled and long. It falls across the back of a loose white t-shirt. The shirt looks like it's been worn a lot of times.
"Howdy, feller," he says to Bob Dylan as he sizes him up. "Is there something I can do to ease your weary load?"
An old soul, no doubt. His frank words of compassion are disarming.
"Well, son, what I really need is a place to hang my head for the night. A soft goose down piller if you've got one. My head's heavy and I've just come from a congregation of followers who would think they were dreaming if they saw me here begging for a room from a little tyke such as yourself. It drags on me, I tell you. It pulls hard. But it must be done. If you want me to cut to the chase, I will...I'm tired and I'm hungry."
"I guess I could fix you a sandwich or something."
"Sandwich would be just fine, if that's all you've got. I mean, if that's the only choice I have. I would prefer something that would stick to the old ribs better than a pithy sandwich, but if that's as close as I'm gonna get to bein' fed, well, mister, slap some 'o that mustard on a couple of slices o' bread." Zimmy starts to contemplate the possibility that, for all his bitching and moaning, a sandwich actually doesn't sound half bad. Maybe a nice pastrami with Swiss, or a thin sliced honey ham on Rye with 4 or 5 sliced bread and butter pickles. Provolone cheese. Maybe even some lettuce and tomatoes, if such extravagances were not out of the reach of this kid's obviously impoverished family.
"Kitchen's in here. You gonna have to fend for yourself"...and with that he hurls a small bundle of foodstuffs at Bob. Everything anyone might need to make one fine sandwich. A tasty sandwich, the likes of which even Bob Dylan must shout the praises of. French's classic yellow mustard. Miracle Whip. Various slice meats including corned beef, roast beef, salami, bologna as well as the afore mentioned pastrami and honey ham. Oh, and there's turkey, too. Bone dry white meat turkey that would be impossible to eat without some kind of side dish, like instant stuffing or between two condiment drenched slices of toast.
A fit feast for a king.
It isn't too long before the sandwiches are made and not too much longer until they're gone to crumbage. A decent scrap of eats chased down with a can or two of Schaeffer's beer.
"Here, kid...have a brew," says Bob Dylan, tossing a cold can at the youngster's head.
He snatches it from it's trajectory before it beans his forehead and cries out, "I can't! I can't, you devil. I am only seven years old. It might make me sick. My dad would kill me."
"Where IS your dad, if I may be so bold to ask?"
"He's gone our drinkin' to the Hammer Head...the last time he done that he didn't come home until 9:00 o'clock the next mornin'."
"Well, then. What's the big deal? Bottoms up, you feisty little whipper snapper."
And with that he forces the can to the child's mouth and pours it's acrid, piss yellow contents into his mouth. With much spurting and gagging the boy finally swallows the last gulp and Dylan lets him go, watching his jelly-bellied body lightly thump to the ground.
"I'm gonna be sick, sir. I'm gonna be real, real sick."
"Bite the bullet, you little bastard. If you're gonna dine with me you're gonna act like a grown up. You're gonna swill that beer like a pro. You're gonna guzzle until the time comes when guzzling doesn't feel like guzzling anymore. Do you like my hat?"
"Ughaugha....kachoooo...gurg...pfipt...you're...uhuhuh...claccccc...your hat, mister?...gggaaaaagg...spitoo-ee...what about your hat?"
"I ask you if you liked it."
"If I like it?"
"Oh come now, ostentatious youth. How can I make myself any clearer than that? My white hat with the swoosh back brims. The one I stole from John Lennon the night he came over and asked for a light. I thought it was a beautiful hat the first time I ever saw it. Yoko had it on her head and it made her look positively regal. I said at the time, 'I've got to have that hat. I've got to make it mine.' I tried offering him money, but he wasn't having any of that. 'This hat's not for sale," he says. So I punched him with a broomstick, knocked the wind right out of him. He dropped this hat, you see, and the rest is history. It's ownership passed hands at that very moment, and now I'm asking you, knowing what you now know, if you LIKE it."
"You want to know...now let me get this straight...you want to know if I LIKE that hat on your head...the one which, it may be serendipitous to add, was at one time owned by one of the biggest legends of all time? Now that it's perched on your head you want an outsider's opinion of just how retarded it makes you look?"
"Hey, I was a rock and roll legend, too, once. I just want to know if you dig the hat, that's all."
"I guess it's fine," the kid said. "It's not really your style, though."
"Well who's style is it, then?"
"I don't know. Might look good on another retard."
Brutal Juice
"What's in that there can?"
I heard these words whilst walking down the sidewalk on my way home from a brief visit to Shadowplay record store. They frightened me a wee bit, not having known from whence they came. Moreover, the gruffness and deep, throaty tones of that voice sent shivers down my spine. There was no denying it. This man wanted information, he craved knowledge, he was not afraid to risk ridicule in his quest to know the key ingredients in the can that I was swigging from.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked, looking in the general direction from which I thought I heard the voice coming from.
"You da only sucka on da street sportin' a can o' beverage!" His tone was slightly condescending. It rang hard on me. "All I be wanting to know is WHAT PARTICULAR BEVERAGE is crossin' yo lips tonight, home slice butter top wheat?"
I called back to him. "Why are you talking that way? You sound ridiculous."
"Now you just wait one goldurned minute. I talk this way because it the way my mother taught me. Are you saying you got a problem with the way my mom raised me or even a grudge against the woman herself? Because if that be the case, m'nigga, you goan have to step to may. Let's get it on."
"What in the fucking hell are you talking about?" I was sincerely inquisitive. "I don't have a problem with yo mother, nor yo father, nor anyone else who had to put up with you during your troubled childhood. I wouldn't call that bitch lucky by any stretch of the meaning. You sound to me like you most probably be happiest in a room, alone with a mirror. Having a conversation with your reflection, for once truly speaking to the only one who gives a damn about anything you have to say."
"You a wordy mutha fucka," he shouted. His accusation carried some merit. "You a little too long in the TOOTH, now ain't ye? You got more to say than there is people who want to listen to it. You wanna know how I know these things? Do you really want to travel so far deep within a mind that, I assure you, is infinitely more depraved than any that you may have ever known before in your life? Is that what you're wanting to do, because if it is I need to know. I got plans tonight and I cannot break them and I will not break them and you have no control over what I say right now you are in a zone right now that has never had to dust your footprints from the welcome mat that lies and lies and lies."
"You got a lot of nerve to call ME a 'wordy mutha fucka'...I ain't even close to being as verbose and, to borow your words, long in the tooth as you are." I felt like I had a strong case to defend my position, if I could only find the right words to state it. Just the right words, you know It's the deal-breaker. "Dude, I don't know why you wanna argue and get into some kind of trouble with me, but if that's what you sought out to do this evening, well I'm fair game. Bring it on. I ain't shying away. If there's only one thing in the world that I have in common, it's that neither one of us is going to back down. Hell, no. Step yo sorry us UP. I don't know how I can say this any clearer. Fisticuffs? That's what you're after? Well put up yer dukes. You put 'em up and I'll be sure to teach you a lesson like you haven't experienced in a long time, if ever. "
"What's in the can, man? Beer or pop?"
"Huh? What? What are you talking about?"
"I want to know the contents of the aluminum can you are currently transporting."
"Well, it's a Dr. Pepper can, as you can see?"
I took him at his word.
"Well, hey, do you think I could get a drink from that, eh, guv'nor? I am on the brink of death by dehydration...you just may be saving the life of this thirsty man."
"Well, uh... you see...it's full..."
"Don't think twice. I don't mind. I won't take too big a sip. It'll still be 'almost' full."
"No, no, it's not that. You see, I've..."
"I see, I see. You may be worried that your germs, a huge lot of them at this very moment having a hell of a great orgy right there on the brim of that can, might be passed on to me and consequntly infect me with all that is ailing you. I assure you, it will not turn out that way."
"You've got it wrong, mister. You're getting it all wrong. You've got to hear me out. It' not about..."
"Silence. Silence, I command. You worry of getting your own set of germs from me. It's only natural, mind you. My only request is that you bestow a swallow or two from your can there. I like Dr. Pepper a lot, actually. I know there are people out there who say they can't stand Dr. Pepper, but I guarantee you this, if the Coke runs out and there are still a couple of Dr. Peppers in the refrigerator, they will lower their tolerance for the stuff right then and there. "
"Okay. I guess so, seeing as how you have put so much effort into making it crystal clear to me. Take it all, I'm being generous tonight, people."
"Thankee, Crown."
And with that brief expression of gratitude he lifted the can up to his lips. You could hear the liguid flow over his tongue and the sound of the swallowing...
...followed by a steady stream of projectile vomit as the guy realized, all too late, that a Dr. Pepper can does not always, and does not of necessity, contain Dr. Pepper.
In this case, indeed it did not.
The Dr. Pepper can had long since been drained of the original 12 ounces of it's name sake. In their stead was about 4 ounces of Skoal spit. It was fresh, pungeant, warm, pitch dark with the gooey gelatinous feel of thick saliva. I'm surprised the cat didn't know what was coming. Maybe he had a cold or something and could'nt smell the stuff. Whatever it may have been, he drank it down long enough for quite a bit to get into his stomach.
This was the root cause as to why he was so sick for the next few days. Though it must be stated, and he would tell you, that the constant vomiting and the foul taste of the tobacco diluted gob was the worst of it and that anything else that migh have happened in the near future, unbearable as it might be, could not hold a candle to the overture of nausea.
"I tried to tell you, you dumb shit. Why are you incapable if taking orders? I assure you that your dignity remains intact. It is not shameful to exist under the tyrrany of a faithful leader. You have my permission to bow down and worship me."
And so he did. I didn't expect him to. Don't go away thinking that I did. It was only a form of expression. But that motherfucker sure took it to heart, didn't he? So I let him do what he wanted to do. I let him get down on one knee and acknowledge that the great god of Baal commanded his sole devotion. I watched him bow, surrendering his integrity to me and my tormenting habits. Crouching, hunched over an altar I'd constructed in my mind for just such an occasion of this. His face expressed nothing less than total sorrow and repentance for what he had done. A tear glistened as it grew into a puddle that flowed down the side of his nose, to meld into the snot that has started running out of your nose...not just one but both nostrils...Having already sampled the taste of the light greenish snot, it will be quite an eye-opener to see what the snot/tear combo tastes like.
"Okay, you can get up now." I was being much more generous than he deserved. "Up with you, Cap'n. Arise from this degrading position you have somehow found yourself in. Bite the bullet. Let's see your face."
He arose and boy let me tell you what. His face looked HIDEOUS. It was a technicolor nirvana mix of teardrops, snot, sweat, blood and a mixture of Skoal spit with dense salival juices.
"My God, good God, O Lordamighty. O, Lordy, lordy. Praise Lordy!"...it was almost as if he was in a religious mood. "That was some BRUTAL JUICE!"
"Yes it is, my friend. Yes, it is. As you say."
"Well I'll be damned. The last time I had Brutal Juice I was living in a facility that provided lodging and health care for the developmentally disabled individuals in the community. I wasn't doing too good back then. I was struck mute, which was the icing on the proverbial cake. I was the target of much abuse, my friend. Never assume that there's a single one of 'em there that don't play with your minds or take out their frustrations on you in cruel, unthinkable ways.
"Had this guy working, he had a mean streak in 'im. Really mean and a drunk to boot. Trouble followed him, especially on nights when he brought in a bottle of the cheap whiskey he preferred to the more expensive brands. You see, Jim Beam had taken his woman away and Jack Daniels had drove him to bankruptcy. He was pissed with those bastards. He drove to the liquor store and became acquainted with a man named Evan Williams. He's a right stand-up guy. He's not quite as fancy as Beam or Daniels. But he knows how to party and his bark is never bigger than his bite. He's got as much proof as either of those spend thrifty SOBs. Class of 80. It's the real deal.
"What I'm tring to say, squire, is that he brought Williams to work with him all too often. He brought that glass bottle one night decided the time was right to risk losing his job and he was in the mood to beat on one of my retarded frtiends.
"Whack! Thwack! Schmack! Crack! Thump, the sound of a fist penetrating the air space of a belly. He made the guy pull down his pants, had him change his clothes in front of him. For years he lived with the realization that the only reason he did that was because he was so in awe of the guys large penis. He was jealous of it It's length and girth held a strange fascination in his soul. He felt he needed to punish the dude because he had this incredible cock and yet he was too fucked in the head to be able to use it.
"He would pour cold water on my back as I lowered myself into it. He would make a special effort to ge water in a cup from the fountain in the hall, as it was much, much colder than the tap water from the bathroom sink. He would pour that ice cold water on my back and laugh at the way my body would tense up and how I would jerk out of the tub. Then he'd say, 'Do you want some more?'"
"I thought I would be punished if I said 'no'. I played along. I nobbed my head. Did I mention that I was mute in those days? I did? Good. Because it's hard to fully grasp the things Im trying to say here without that information.
"He did it again. And again. And yet again, till I could not play along antymore. When I finally shook my head
'no' he erupted into fresh gale of laughter, fueled by scorn of someone who would submit so easily.
"One day he brought me a cup. Some styrofoam vessel he stole from the cafeteria or, more likely, pilfered from trash cans. There were several in the building to choose from. Inside the cup was a thick liquid the color of blood. He told me to drink it. I wasn't so sure, as I didn't like tomato juice very much, and I sort of smelled a waft of pepper or other strong spice.
"Go on. Knock 'er back. You'll like it. It's BRUTAL JUICE!"
"Apparently 'Brutal Juice' was the trade name of a concoction that mixed tomato juice and Tabasco sauce in equal portions. It was hot, hot, so hot I felt like the inside of my mouth was having the flesh melted. I lost all sensation in the back of my throat. I could, however, still taste the crackling flame.
"My friend, with God as my witness, I have no need of keeping secrets. I will not need a priedt at my death bed as all my dues have been paid, forged in the crucible of the real world. I will gladly represent you and spread the word to the Native American masses, THIS WAS, I ASSERT AND ATTEST, WORTHY OF THE NAME BRUTAL JUICE!"
I don't know how it came to this, but by now I almost felt sorry for the guy... I should have kept the can away from him. It really IS my fault.
"If all this is true," I asked. "How did it come to be that you were once a mute retarded man and yet now you converse with those even as lofty as myself? Oh, how you endured years of torture at the hands of a man whose only excuse was 'Because his dick's bigger than mine'. What happened that now you stand before and converse with one whose sheer mental powers are registered with the U.S. Government as lethal weapons. How do you presume to keep up with one such as I?"
"It was a stone cold miracle, that's what it was. It was a god damned stone cold miracle, by God. One day I was living out a Stephen King nightmare existence. Then the next I'm fit as a fiddle."
"Maybe it was the Brutal Juice."
"Hmmm. There's much reason in that. Compelling, indeed. I suppose the more reasonable of us would admit it...it was probably the Brutal Juice."
"Brutal Juice."
"Yeah that's what I said."
"Brutal Juice."
"Uuuhhh, yaw dude. Brutal Juice.
"Brutal Juice"
"Okay, dude, you're really freaking me out here. Why do you keep saying Brutal Juice? What's that all about?"
"Brutal Juice."
"Man, you're making me mad. I'm really getting angry. I can attest to the fact that I am getting very, very angry. A might pissed off, if you've got time to want to know. One more 'Brutal Juice' out of you and I'm gonna remove this switchblade knive from this convenient pocket hidden inside my vest and I'm gonna use it to test the strength of your blood veins. I'll take a punch at your very heart and ram this regal blade into that organ until the damage it inflicts takes you to a place you'd heard about but only seen in dreams. I'll suck the very life out of you, sir. I'll drain you of everything you need to survive. Are you really going to tempt fate by disobeying my most reasonable request that you stop foolishly repeating the words 'Brutal Juice' like a fool. Are you dumb enough to take a chance the I may not be downplaying the situation one bit at all, but that, there may well be the chance that I'm rock solid on the level, and that you're very life is at stake. One wrong move and it's to the gallows with you, my friend. Hang 'em high, high and dry, high and mighty...You better think twice and measure your words very carefully before you answer this here question I'm about to put to ye.
"Answer me, oh by the powers of Jesus Rice Pudding, be honest and forthcoming in your answer. This is life or death. I pray that you answer me when I ask...
"By the love of every living thing, every breathing thing, every moving thing, every wounded thing, every one on 'em...what have ye got to say for yen, Crown?"
"Brutal Juice"
...and so it was.
I heard these words whilst walking down the sidewalk on my way home from a brief visit to Shadowplay record store. They frightened me a wee bit, not having known from whence they came. Moreover, the gruffness and deep, throaty tones of that voice sent shivers down my spine. There was no denying it. This man wanted information, he craved knowledge, he was not afraid to risk ridicule in his quest to know the key ingredients in the can that I was swigging from.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked, looking in the general direction from which I thought I heard the voice coming from.
"You da only sucka on da street sportin' a can o' beverage!" His tone was slightly condescending. It rang hard on me. "All I be wanting to know is WHAT PARTICULAR BEVERAGE is crossin' yo lips tonight, home slice butter top wheat?"
I called back to him. "Why are you talking that way? You sound ridiculous."
"Now you just wait one goldurned minute. I talk this way because it the way my mother taught me. Are you saying you got a problem with the way my mom raised me or even a grudge against the woman herself? Because if that be the case, m'nigga, you goan have to step to may. Let's get it on."
"What in the fucking hell are you talking about?" I was sincerely inquisitive. "I don't have a problem with yo mother, nor yo father, nor anyone else who had to put up with you during your troubled childhood. I wouldn't call that bitch lucky by any stretch of the meaning. You sound to me like you most probably be happiest in a room, alone with a mirror. Having a conversation with your reflection, for once truly speaking to the only one who gives a damn about anything you have to say."
"You a wordy mutha fucka," he shouted. His accusation carried some merit. "You a little too long in the TOOTH, now ain't ye? You got more to say than there is people who want to listen to it. You wanna know how I know these things? Do you really want to travel so far deep within a mind that, I assure you, is infinitely more depraved than any that you may have ever known before in your life? Is that what you're wanting to do, because if it is I need to know. I got plans tonight and I cannot break them and I will not break them and you have no control over what I say right now you are in a zone right now that has never had to dust your footprints from the welcome mat that lies and lies and lies."
"You got a lot of nerve to call ME a 'wordy mutha fucka'...I ain't even close to being as verbose and, to borow your words, long in the tooth as you are." I felt like I had a strong case to defend my position, if I could only find the right words to state it. Just the right words, you know It's the deal-breaker. "Dude, I don't know why you wanna argue and get into some kind of trouble with me, but if that's what you sought out to do this evening, well I'm fair game. Bring it on. I ain't shying away. If there's only one thing in the world that I have in common, it's that neither one of us is going to back down. Hell, no. Step yo sorry us UP. I don't know how I can say this any clearer. Fisticuffs? That's what you're after? Well put up yer dukes. You put 'em up and I'll be sure to teach you a lesson like you haven't experienced in a long time, if ever. "
"What's in the can, man? Beer or pop?"
"Huh? What? What are you talking about?"
"I want to know the contents of the aluminum can you are currently transporting."
"Well, it's a Dr. Pepper can, as you can see?"
I took him at his word.
"Well, hey, do you think I could get a drink from that, eh, guv'nor? I am on the brink of death by dehydration...you just may be saving the life of this thirsty man."
"Well, uh... you see...it's full..."
"Don't think twice. I don't mind. I won't take too big a sip. It'll still be 'almost' full."
"No, no, it's not that. You see, I've..."
"I see, I see. You may be worried that your germs, a huge lot of them at this very moment having a hell of a great orgy right there on the brim of that can, might be passed on to me and consequntly infect me with all that is ailing you. I assure you, it will not turn out that way."
"You've got it wrong, mister. You're getting it all wrong. You've got to hear me out. It' not about..."
"Silence. Silence, I command. You worry of getting your own set of germs from me. It's only natural, mind you. My only request is that you bestow a swallow or two from your can there. I like Dr. Pepper a lot, actually. I know there are people out there who say they can't stand Dr. Pepper, but I guarantee you this, if the Coke runs out and there are still a couple of Dr. Peppers in the refrigerator, they will lower their tolerance for the stuff right then and there. "
"Okay. I guess so, seeing as how you have put so much effort into making it crystal clear to me. Take it all, I'm being generous tonight, people."
"Thankee, Crown."
And with that brief expression of gratitude he lifted the can up to his lips. You could hear the liguid flow over his tongue and the sound of the swallowing...
...followed by a steady stream of projectile vomit as the guy realized, all too late, that a Dr. Pepper can does not always, and does not of necessity, contain Dr. Pepper.
In this case, indeed it did not.
The Dr. Pepper can had long since been drained of the original 12 ounces of it's name sake. In their stead was about 4 ounces of Skoal spit. It was fresh, pungeant, warm, pitch dark with the gooey gelatinous feel of thick saliva. I'm surprised the cat didn't know what was coming. Maybe he had a cold or something and could'nt smell the stuff. Whatever it may have been, he drank it down long enough for quite a bit to get into his stomach.
This was the root cause as to why he was so sick for the next few days. Though it must be stated, and he would tell you, that the constant vomiting and the foul taste of the tobacco diluted gob was the worst of it and that anything else that migh have happened in the near future, unbearable as it might be, could not hold a candle to the overture of nausea.
"I tried to tell you, you dumb shit. Why are you incapable if taking orders? I assure you that your dignity remains intact. It is not shameful to exist under the tyrrany of a faithful leader. You have my permission to bow down and worship me."
And so he did. I didn't expect him to. Don't go away thinking that I did. It was only a form of expression. But that motherfucker sure took it to heart, didn't he? So I let him do what he wanted to do. I let him get down on one knee and acknowledge that the great god of Baal commanded his sole devotion. I watched him bow, surrendering his integrity to me and my tormenting habits. Crouching, hunched over an altar I'd constructed in my mind for just such an occasion of this. His face expressed nothing less than total sorrow and repentance for what he had done. A tear glistened as it grew into a puddle that flowed down the side of his nose, to meld into the snot that has started running out of your nose...not just one but both nostrils...Having already sampled the taste of the light greenish snot, it will be quite an eye-opener to see what the snot/tear combo tastes like.
"Okay, you can get up now." I was being much more generous than he deserved. "Up with you, Cap'n. Arise from this degrading position you have somehow found yourself in. Bite the bullet. Let's see your face."
He arose and boy let me tell you what. His face looked HIDEOUS. It was a technicolor nirvana mix of teardrops, snot, sweat, blood and a mixture of Skoal spit with dense salival juices.
"My God, good God, O Lordamighty. O, Lordy, lordy. Praise Lordy!"...it was almost as if he was in a religious mood. "That was some BRUTAL JUICE!"
"Yes it is, my friend. Yes, it is. As you say."
"Well I'll be damned. The last time I had Brutal Juice I was living in a facility that provided lodging and health care for the developmentally disabled individuals in the community. I wasn't doing too good back then. I was struck mute, which was the icing on the proverbial cake. I was the target of much abuse, my friend. Never assume that there's a single one of 'em there that don't play with your minds or take out their frustrations on you in cruel, unthinkable ways.
"Had this guy working, he had a mean streak in 'im. Really mean and a drunk to boot. Trouble followed him, especially on nights when he brought in a bottle of the cheap whiskey he preferred to the more expensive brands. You see, Jim Beam had taken his woman away and Jack Daniels had drove him to bankruptcy. He was pissed with those bastards. He drove to the liquor store and became acquainted with a man named Evan Williams. He's a right stand-up guy. He's not quite as fancy as Beam or Daniels. But he knows how to party and his bark is never bigger than his bite. He's got as much proof as either of those spend thrifty SOBs. Class of 80. It's the real deal.
"What I'm tring to say, squire, is that he brought Williams to work with him all too often. He brought that glass bottle one night decided the time was right to risk losing his job and he was in the mood to beat on one of my retarded frtiends.
"Whack! Thwack! Schmack! Crack! Thump, the sound of a fist penetrating the air space of a belly. He made the guy pull down his pants, had him change his clothes in front of him. For years he lived with the realization that the only reason he did that was because he was so in awe of the guys large penis. He was jealous of it It's length and girth held a strange fascination in his soul. He felt he needed to punish the dude because he had this incredible cock and yet he was too fucked in the head to be able to use it.
"He would pour cold water on my back as I lowered myself into it. He would make a special effort to ge water in a cup from the fountain in the hall, as it was much, much colder than the tap water from the bathroom sink. He would pour that ice cold water on my back and laugh at the way my body would tense up and how I would jerk out of the tub. Then he'd say, 'Do you want some more?'"
"I thought I would be punished if I said 'no'. I played along. I nobbed my head. Did I mention that I was mute in those days? I did? Good. Because it's hard to fully grasp the things Im trying to say here without that information.
"He did it again. And again. And yet again, till I could not play along antymore. When I finally shook my head
'no' he erupted into fresh gale of laughter, fueled by scorn of someone who would submit so easily.
"One day he brought me a cup. Some styrofoam vessel he stole from the cafeteria or, more likely, pilfered from trash cans. There were several in the building to choose from. Inside the cup was a thick liquid the color of blood. He told me to drink it. I wasn't so sure, as I didn't like tomato juice very much, and I sort of smelled a waft of pepper or other strong spice.
"Go on. Knock 'er back. You'll like it. It's BRUTAL JUICE!"
"Apparently 'Brutal Juice' was the trade name of a concoction that mixed tomato juice and Tabasco sauce in equal portions. It was hot, hot, so hot I felt like the inside of my mouth was having the flesh melted. I lost all sensation in the back of my throat. I could, however, still taste the crackling flame.
"My friend, with God as my witness, I have no need of keeping secrets. I will not need a priedt at my death bed as all my dues have been paid, forged in the crucible of the real world. I will gladly represent you and spread the word to the Native American masses, THIS WAS, I ASSERT AND ATTEST, WORTHY OF THE NAME BRUTAL JUICE!"
I don't know how it came to this, but by now I almost felt sorry for the guy... I should have kept the can away from him. It really IS my fault.
"If all this is true," I asked. "How did it come to be that you were once a mute retarded man and yet now you converse with those even as lofty as myself? Oh, how you endured years of torture at the hands of a man whose only excuse was 'Because his dick's bigger than mine'. What happened that now you stand before and converse with one whose sheer mental powers are registered with the U.S. Government as lethal weapons. How do you presume to keep up with one such as I?"
"It was a stone cold miracle, that's what it was. It was a god damned stone cold miracle, by God. One day I was living out a Stephen King nightmare existence. Then the next I'm fit as a fiddle."
"Maybe it was the Brutal Juice."
"Hmmm. There's much reason in that. Compelling, indeed. I suppose the more reasonable of us would admit it...it was probably the Brutal Juice."
"Brutal Juice."
"Yeah that's what I said."
"Brutal Juice."
"Uuuhhh, yaw dude. Brutal Juice.
"Brutal Juice"
"Okay, dude, you're really freaking me out here. Why do you keep saying Brutal Juice? What's that all about?"
"Brutal Juice."
"Man, you're making me mad. I'm really getting angry. I can attest to the fact that I am getting very, very angry. A might pissed off, if you've got time to want to know. One more 'Brutal Juice' out of you and I'm gonna remove this switchblade knive from this convenient pocket hidden inside my vest and I'm gonna use it to test the strength of your blood veins. I'll take a punch at your very heart and ram this regal blade into that organ until the damage it inflicts takes you to a place you'd heard about but only seen in dreams. I'll suck the very life out of you, sir. I'll drain you of everything you need to survive. Are you really going to tempt fate by disobeying my most reasonable request that you stop foolishly repeating the words 'Brutal Juice' like a fool. Are you dumb enough to take a chance the I may not be downplaying the situation one bit at all, but that, there may well be the chance that I'm rock solid on the level, and that you're very life is at stake. One wrong move and it's to the gallows with you, my friend. Hang 'em high, high and dry, high and mighty...You better think twice and measure your words very carefully before you answer this here question I'm about to put to ye.
"Answer me, oh by the powers of Jesus Rice Pudding, be honest and forthcoming in your answer. This is life or death. I pray that you answer me when I ask...
"By the love of every living thing, every breathing thing, every moving thing, every wounded thing, every one on 'em...what have ye got to say for yen, Crown?"
"Brutal Juice"
...and so it was.
April 2002
I was wrapping up the last hour of my shift when she walked in. Greeting her like I did every customer who came into my store, it took me a couple of seconds before recognition kicked in. Not because she'd changed so much...she really hadn't...but it had been so long since I last saw her. More than 25 years, and yet I was not surprised to see the youthful gleam in her eyes. I'd always remembered her as a very beautiful girl, but now she was stunning...a truly magnificent woman.
Linda was the center of my universe when I was 15. It wasn't just her good looks that drew me to her. Lots of guys thought she was attractive and most of them would have jumped at the chance to go on a date or maybe even...*gasp*..."go steady" with her. I was no different, but I was painfully shy. And, maybe, just maybe I didn't think I was good enough for her.
The most I had the guts to do was call her on the phone. Just to talk. No agenda. I only wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her. She may have led a normal, uneventful life up till then, but to me it was fascinating. For better or worse I had her perched, in my mind, on a throne with a tiara on her head and wielding regal authority over me and my heart.
The telephone conversations became an important part of my day...every day. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that we spoke to each other every single day of the week, sometimes for 15 or 20 minutes...but just as often we gabbed for several hours at time. What we were talking about for all that time is a mystery to me now. I do know that a lot of that time I was working up the nerve to tell her how I felt. Easy enough, right? Just three words. But God, the fear that she would reject them was debilitating.
Eventually I threw caution to the wind and spilled the beans. I like to think that my profession of love meant something to her. Maybe it did, but Linda thought of me as a friend. A good friend, a best friend, a special friend...but "only" a friend. Knowing she felt like that meant a lot to me...but not enough. I wanted more. When I found out that she thought highly enough of me to call me "best friend" I spent days practically begging her for a romantic relationship. She insisted that our friendship was better, more important, than that. It would only screw everything up were we to get more serious. Yes, she was quite savvy for a 15 year old.
It was an unusual arrangement. From all our telephone talk you'd think we'd be inseparable as friends. Yet we never spoke to each other at school, other than a polite "hello". I always thought I saw an expression in her face that told me it was okay for things to be that way...that it was normal...that it could be no other way under the circumstances. It still chafed me. She may have been right, but I thought it was a messed up situation.
To make things worse, there were a couple of boys in our class that she found herself attracted to. One of them wound up being her "steady boyfriend". There are not words strong enough to express the combination of frustration, disappointment, despair and hopelessness I felt at this turn of events. Yet we still continued calling each other every night. Things were different now, though...much of the time she spent gabbing about her new beau, asking me for advice, all that kind of stuff. I helped out where I could, and wondered if she realized how miserable it made me.
One night it all became too much for me to bear. It was about a year and a half after our first conversation. By that time she had 2 or 3 boyfriends. The "Can't-We-Just-Be-Friends" option was wearing thin. I thought I should be given the opportunity to see if it would work, if we could make it as a couple in the real world. And so an ultimatum of sorts was presented to her. The kind of stupid "either-or" choice that only an immature teenager would demand a response to.
Linda maintained that it would be much better for all involved if we didn't take things to the next level. I turned it all around in my mind for a long time afterwards. Why? Was there some reason she didn't want me to know for the way she felt? Was it me? Would she have been emberassed being seen with me? She told me a couple of times that she loved me, were they just words to her? Maybe words used so that I would get off her back with all my own professions of love?
At any rate, Linda and I drifted away from each other. I stopped calling her on the phone. I eventually fell in love with another girl and began a long term relationship. But all that time I still carried a torch for Linda. Within a few years I was wise enough to understand the value of a good friend and how she was right about romance often screwing up a good thing like that.
Time passed. Eventually the memories I had of her were all but replaced by the ones I'd made since we parted ways. I never even thought of her anymore. Those were the fabled days of our youth and they were gone, long gone. You look back to those times and you realize just how little you knew about "love". Not that what you had wasn't a powerful, almost palpable emotion. But "love"? I don't think so. That kind of "embryonic love" comes once in a lifetime and when it's gone, it's gone.
At least that's what I thought until she walked in the store that day. It all came back to me in a flood of those memories I thought I'd buried. I was overjoyed to see her again. I could tell she was delighted to see me, too. She had driven from Fort Worth to Kansas City just to visit me, to see what I'd been up to, to reminisce, just to spend a little time with an old friend.
It was difficult to make conversation in the store where I still had 30 minutes of work left to do. We made plans to meet later that evening. Not much to do in Kansas City on a Tuesday night, but it didn't matter. I'm sure both of us would have been happy just driving around enjoying each other's company.
We ate dinner at a very nice restaurant. It was one of a chain of steakhouses that Linda managed. We joked about the employee discount! But this much was no joke: I walked in that place with her on my arm and I felt like the King of the World. I was so comfortable with her that I began to pine for "what could have been" way back in our high school days. I don't believe in "soul mates", but if there are such things I was convinced, in that moment, that she was mine.
We made some small talk during our meal. Then we spoke of more important things. Before the second course had arrived we were confiding our deepest secrets to each other. We filled in the gaps between the 25 years since we last saw each other. It was fascinating. I began to deeply regret breaking off our friendship "way back in the day". We could have really supported each other through the tough times we'd both lived through. I would have learned so much from her. She could have confided in me when the pressure of every day living brought her down. Maybe I could have said just the right thing to cheer her up...like I did when we lived a good portion of our lives with telephone recievers pressed to our ears.
We decided to go for a drink. I knew of a very nice up-scale establishment on the east side, so I took her there. I led her up the stairs onto the second floor. There was an awesome view of the City through the full length glass walls. There wasn't a big crowd, just a few guys watching a football game on the big screen television. None of them seemed to pay any attention to us, and we returned the favor.
We had delved into each others lives for so long this evening that it was easy to simply relax and enjoy each other's company. We lamented the fact that she had to return to Fort Worth the next morning. There was the very real possibility...no, probability...that we would never see each other again.
Then...out of nowhere...I swear I had no idea it was coming and that I never expected it...
She kissed me.
Without a doubt, the most passionate kiss I've ever been a part of. What prompted it? I will never know. She didn't tell me and I wouldn't have asked anyway. I didn't care. All that mattered at that moment was the rush of emotions, the intensity of passion I felt, the desire that bubbled up to the surface, the way all the good and bad things from the last 25 years were temporarily forgotten as her lips pressed against mine.
The television was blaring and the guys watching the game were a noisy lot...but all I could hear was the rhythm of her breathing as we embraced and kissed again. I held her body close to mine. She wrapped her arms around me so tight that I felt like she might never let me go. As if I wanted her to. She was much shorter than I am, and she had to crane her head up to reach my lips. We both thought it was funny, but it was so endearing to me, just one more reminder of how much I really did love her long ago. It made me think there might be one more chance for the kind of relationship I thought I wanted in my 15th year.
Linda excused herself and walked downstairs to the ladies room. I stood up and walked to the glass wall, surveying the bright lights of Kansas City. Something I've seen a thousand times. And yet it all seemed so different now. A better place. I actually felt like the star of a romantic movie, something like "Casablanca" or "Love Story". The atmosphere was charged. Ecstasy. Elation. Eroticism. I hoped she felt the same.
Alas, as all things must pass, the evening came to a close. We both accepted the events of the night as if they were only what usually happens on a good date. Which is exactly what it was (though the word "good" is a little weak to describe it). She drove back to Fort Worth the next morning, to the life she'd made for herself during the last quarter century. I went back to the store, to my own.
In one single evening, in one particular moment, in one special kiss my life had become more bearable. Enriched. Enlightened. I would not forget her this time. I wouldn't forget the steak that was slightly undercooked but I didn't complain, just ate it, because it was the last thing on my mind. I wouldn't forget the smooth jazz we listened to on her stereo driving to the club (she said she hated it, that she needed me to get her up to speed on all the good music she was too busy to check out herself). I wouldn't forget that she ordered bloody marys for us at the bar. I wouldn't forget all the little things from that night. I relished them and placed them almost on the same level as the kiss because I wanted to savor each and every second of that night.
And I do.
Linda was the center of my universe when I was 15. It wasn't just her good looks that drew me to her. Lots of guys thought she was attractive and most of them would have jumped at the chance to go on a date or maybe even...*gasp*..."go steady" with her. I was no different, but I was painfully shy. And, maybe, just maybe I didn't think I was good enough for her.
The most I had the guts to do was call her on the phone. Just to talk. No agenda. I only wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her. She may have led a normal, uneventful life up till then, but to me it was fascinating. For better or worse I had her perched, in my mind, on a throne with a tiara on her head and wielding regal authority over me and my heart.
The telephone conversations became an important part of my day...every day. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that we spoke to each other every single day of the week, sometimes for 15 or 20 minutes...but just as often we gabbed for several hours at time. What we were talking about for all that time is a mystery to me now. I do know that a lot of that time I was working up the nerve to tell her how I felt. Easy enough, right? Just three words. But God, the fear that she would reject them was debilitating.
Eventually I threw caution to the wind and spilled the beans. I like to think that my profession of love meant something to her. Maybe it did, but Linda thought of me as a friend. A good friend, a best friend, a special friend...but "only" a friend. Knowing she felt like that meant a lot to me...but not enough. I wanted more. When I found out that she thought highly enough of me to call me "best friend" I spent days practically begging her for a romantic relationship. She insisted that our friendship was better, more important, than that. It would only screw everything up were we to get more serious. Yes, she was quite savvy for a 15 year old.
It was an unusual arrangement. From all our telephone talk you'd think we'd be inseparable as friends. Yet we never spoke to each other at school, other than a polite "hello". I always thought I saw an expression in her face that told me it was okay for things to be that way...that it was normal...that it could be no other way under the circumstances. It still chafed me. She may have been right, but I thought it was a messed up situation.
To make things worse, there were a couple of boys in our class that she found herself attracted to. One of them wound up being her "steady boyfriend". There are not words strong enough to express the combination of frustration, disappointment, despair and hopelessness I felt at this turn of events. Yet we still continued calling each other every night. Things were different now, though...much of the time she spent gabbing about her new beau, asking me for advice, all that kind of stuff. I helped out where I could, and wondered if she realized how miserable it made me.
One night it all became too much for me to bear. It was about a year and a half after our first conversation. By that time she had 2 or 3 boyfriends. The "Can't-We-Just-Be-Friends" option was wearing thin. I thought I should be given the opportunity to see if it would work, if we could make it as a couple in the real world. And so an ultimatum of sorts was presented to her. The kind of stupid "either-or" choice that only an immature teenager would demand a response to.
Linda maintained that it would be much better for all involved if we didn't take things to the next level. I turned it all around in my mind for a long time afterwards. Why? Was there some reason she didn't want me to know for the way she felt? Was it me? Would she have been emberassed being seen with me? She told me a couple of times that she loved me, were they just words to her? Maybe words used so that I would get off her back with all my own professions of love?
At any rate, Linda and I drifted away from each other. I stopped calling her on the phone. I eventually fell in love with another girl and began a long term relationship. But all that time I still carried a torch for Linda. Within a few years I was wise enough to understand the value of a good friend and how she was right about romance often screwing up a good thing like that.
Time passed. Eventually the memories I had of her were all but replaced by the ones I'd made since we parted ways. I never even thought of her anymore. Those were the fabled days of our youth and they were gone, long gone. You look back to those times and you realize just how little you knew about "love". Not that what you had wasn't a powerful, almost palpable emotion. But "love"? I don't think so. That kind of "embryonic love" comes once in a lifetime and when it's gone, it's gone.
At least that's what I thought until she walked in the store that day. It all came back to me in a flood of those memories I thought I'd buried. I was overjoyed to see her again. I could tell she was delighted to see me, too. She had driven from Fort Worth to Kansas City just to visit me, to see what I'd been up to, to reminisce, just to spend a little time with an old friend.
It was difficult to make conversation in the store where I still had 30 minutes of work left to do. We made plans to meet later that evening. Not much to do in Kansas City on a Tuesday night, but it didn't matter. I'm sure both of us would have been happy just driving around enjoying each other's company.
We ate dinner at a very nice restaurant. It was one of a chain of steakhouses that Linda managed. We joked about the employee discount! But this much was no joke: I walked in that place with her on my arm and I felt like the King of the World. I was so comfortable with her that I began to pine for "what could have been" way back in our high school days. I don't believe in "soul mates", but if there are such things I was convinced, in that moment, that she was mine.
We made some small talk during our meal. Then we spoke of more important things. Before the second course had arrived we were confiding our deepest secrets to each other. We filled in the gaps between the 25 years since we last saw each other. It was fascinating. I began to deeply regret breaking off our friendship "way back in the day". We could have really supported each other through the tough times we'd both lived through. I would have learned so much from her. She could have confided in me when the pressure of every day living brought her down. Maybe I could have said just the right thing to cheer her up...like I did when we lived a good portion of our lives with telephone recievers pressed to our ears.
We decided to go for a drink. I knew of a very nice up-scale establishment on the east side, so I took her there. I led her up the stairs onto the second floor. There was an awesome view of the City through the full length glass walls. There wasn't a big crowd, just a few guys watching a football game on the big screen television. None of them seemed to pay any attention to us, and we returned the favor.
We had delved into each others lives for so long this evening that it was easy to simply relax and enjoy each other's company. We lamented the fact that she had to return to Fort Worth the next morning. There was the very real possibility...no, probability...that we would never see each other again.
Then...out of nowhere...I swear I had no idea it was coming and that I never expected it...
She kissed me.
Without a doubt, the most passionate kiss I've ever been a part of. What prompted it? I will never know. She didn't tell me and I wouldn't have asked anyway. I didn't care. All that mattered at that moment was the rush of emotions, the intensity of passion I felt, the desire that bubbled up to the surface, the way all the good and bad things from the last 25 years were temporarily forgotten as her lips pressed against mine.
The television was blaring and the guys watching the game were a noisy lot...but all I could hear was the rhythm of her breathing as we embraced and kissed again. I held her body close to mine. She wrapped her arms around me so tight that I felt like she might never let me go. As if I wanted her to. She was much shorter than I am, and she had to crane her head up to reach my lips. We both thought it was funny, but it was so endearing to me, just one more reminder of how much I really did love her long ago. It made me think there might be one more chance for the kind of relationship I thought I wanted in my 15th year.
Linda excused herself and walked downstairs to the ladies room. I stood up and walked to the glass wall, surveying the bright lights of Kansas City. Something I've seen a thousand times. And yet it all seemed so different now. A better place. I actually felt like the star of a romantic movie, something like "Casablanca" or "Love Story". The atmosphere was charged. Ecstasy. Elation. Eroticism. I hoped she felt the same.
Alas, as all things must pass, the evening came to a close. We both accepted the events of the night as if they were only what usually happens on a good date. Which is exactly what it was (though the word "good" is a little weak to describe it). She drove back to Fort Worth the next morning, to the life she'd made for herself during the last quarter century. I went back to the store, to my own.
In one single evening, in one particular moment, in one special kiss my life had become more bearable. Enriched. Enlightened. I would not forget her this time. I wouldn't forget the steak that was slightly undercooked but I didn't complain, just ate it, because it was the last thing on my mind. I wouldn't forget the smooth jazz we listened to on her stereo driving to the club (she said she hated it, that she needed me to get her up to speed on all the good music she was too busy to check out herself). I wouldn't forget that she ordered bloody marys for us at the bar. I wouldn't forget all the little things from that night. I relished them and placed them almost on the same level as the kiss because I wanted to savor each and every second of that night.
And I do.
Livin' Thing (10-11)
10.
His skin is blue. Every inch of his body surrounded by a light aura of indigo. Surrounded, too, by blazing tongues of fire. It's as if he's stepping into this reality from a hellish gap between worlds. This is his destiny, to focus the nation's attention to the realms from which he came. To catch their collective eye and point it in the general direction of the Masters.
The blue man swirls and sways in a mad dance. His four arms reach out, alternately offering and receiving. White fire dances on the palm of one hand. Another waves a greeting. Another proffers the back of his hand to be kissed. But what's that in his other hand? He clutches it so tightly, as if reluctant to consign whatever it is to a rightful fate. What is it and where did he get it? The thought crossed my mind that it might be an urn filled with the ashes of some drug-dealing guru. Or maybe it's a vessel for drinking? I don't know that it matters. Could be a dog turd for all I care.
He stands at the top of a highest mountain. He is framed by the majestic and beautiful clouds that soar atop the world. Beneath his foot...an enemy, perhaps? An interloper? Just a friend letting the blue man use him as a step-stool, maybe?Only thing for sure is that he is blue, too. Asleep or dead? You decide.
But I cannot stare at the beautiful apparition for hours. I must turn from it's healing power. One last look, though, at the smile on his face. Surely, ye mankind, he must be happy, or content or maybe in a vary good mood. That is just as well, friends. I bet he can weild all that fire behind him. No doubt he's got a formidable amount of fire power channelin' those flames through his body, through those hands and into anything that gets in it's way.
Yes, one long last look. I'll never forget these things: The fellow wore some delicious smelling cologne, the scent of which lingers still in my olfactory. His blue skin was the result of a rare condition that the best medical minds in all of India had been unsuccessful in understanding it's cause or it's treatment.
Even though there were enough flames behind him to completely torch a small community his presence seemed to emit a very cold gust of wind. It was bizarre, and it made me question the reality of the vision. Every time I thought I'd convinced myself it was only a fragment of my imagination, I would get side-tracked by the blinking of the blue man's eyes. It woke a man up, it did.
11.
What's that sound? It came from the right. It was an ominous sound. It was a sound that promised violence. Is it no wonder I'm terrified? I just got out of the shower, you know. My hair's still a little wet. If you think I'm going to go looking for whatever's responsible for that sound in this condition, well, you are one confused individual.
What are you looking at me that way for? You got a fuckin' problem with me? What you think I'm gonna let someone look down their nose at me like that? You have got a lot of spine to think such a blank expression is going to make me believe you aren't putting out anymore. I know you better. I know when the winds blow in and when they blow out I know where they go. And I know this: five days out of the week you are gonna get fucked. You've tried going with less, maybe cutting it back to 2 or 3 times a day...then there were the times when you'll go hog wild and ride a whole month's worth of cowboy...for good or ill, the cycle always comes back to 5 days a week, give or take 4 or 5 days in the month during your menstrual period.
So don't stare at me like you're gonna cut me off. You don't fool anyone. One look into those pouty peepers and anyone can tell that you're in dire need of a piss stop. The trip has proven tedious and long. You're about to drop dead from boredom. This is the part where we find a nice clean restroom at the Rest Stop near the 200 mile marker on I-40 East. The one where all the trucker whores hang out. At this point I will wipe that spiteful expression right off of that cherry bomb bangin' face of yours.
Or maybe, if you ain't down with dat, how 'bout if I pulled this here car o'mine over to the curb? What would you think if I reached over the seat, ran my grease dirty hands through your hair and squeezed your tear moistened cheeks, flush with new found fever?. What will you think when I open the door and regally request that you remove your fat ass from my automobile?
Because that's what I'm about. Get the hell out my wheels, yo in another hood now and it ain't one that you want to get caught in at 9 in the evening. Here it is, 9:15 and I can see a mack thumpin' crew who have, to a man, noticed you. This is just the posse for you.
Now skee-daddle, wacky doodle. Get out. Get out of my life. Get out of my sight. Take that hate filled mug shot and quietly get the fuck out. You don't even have to go quietly, if yo don't wanna.
His skin is blue. Every inch of his body surrounded by a light aura of indigo. Surrounded, too, by blazing tongues of fire. It's as if he's stepping into this reality from a hellish gap between worlds. This is his destiny, to focus the nation's attention to the realms from which he came. To catch their collective eye and point it in the general direction of the Masters.
The blue man swirls and sways in a mad dance. His four arms reach out, alternately offering and receiving. White fire dances on the palm of one hand. Another waves a greeting. Another proffers the back of his hand to be kissed. But what's that in his other hand? He clutches it so tightly, as if reluctant to consign whatever it is to a rightful fate. What is it and where did he get it? The thought crossed my mind that it might be an urn filled with the ashes of some drug-dealing guru. Or maybe it's a vessel for drinking? I don't know that it matters. Could be a dog turd for all I care.
He stands at the top of a highest mountain. He is framed by the majestic and beautiful clouds that soar atop the world. Beneath his foot...an enemy, perhaps? An interloper? Just a friend letting the blue man use him as a step-stool, maybe?Only thing for sure is that he is blue, too. Asleep or dead? You decide.
But I cannot stare at the beautiful apparition for hours. I must turn from it's healing power. One last look, though, at the smile on his face. Surely, ye mankind, he must be happy, or content or maybe in a vary good mood. That is just as well, friends. I bet he can weild all that fire behind him. No doubt he's got a formidable amount of fire power channelin' those flames through his body, through those hands and into anything that gets in it's way.
Yes, one long last look. I'll never forget these things: The fellow wore some delicious smelling cologne, the scent of which lingers still in my olfactory. His blue skin was the result of a rare condition that the best medical minds in all of India had been unsuccessful in understanding it's cause or it's treatment.
Even though there were enough flames behind him to completely torch a small community his presence seemed to emit a very cold gust of wind. It was bizarre, and it made me question the reality of the vision. Every time I thought I'd convinced myself it was only a fragment of my imagination, I would get side-tracked by the blinking of the blue man's eyes. It woke a man up, it did.
11.
What's that sound? It came from the right. It was an ominous sound. It was a sound that promised violence. Is it no wonder I'm terrified? I just got out of the shower, you know. My hair's still a little wet. If you think I'm going to go looking for whatever's responsible for that sound in this condition, well, you are one confused individual.
What are you looking at me that way for? You got a fuckin' problem with me? What you think I'm gonna let someone look down their nose at me like that? You have got a lot of spine to think such a blank expression is going to make me believe you aren't putting out anymore. I know you better. I know when the winds blow in and when they blow out I know where they go. And I know this: five days out of the week you are gonna get fucked. You've tried going with less, maybe cutting it back to 2 or 3 times a day...then there were the times when you'll go hog wild and ride a whole month's worth of cowboy...for good or ill, the cycle always comes back to 5 days a week, give or take 4 or 5 days in the month during your menstrual period.
So don't stare at me like you're gonna cut me off. You don't fool anyone. One look into those pouty peepers and anyone can tell that you're in dire need of a piss stop. The trip has proven tedious and long. You're about to drop dead from boredom. This is the part where we find a nice clean restroom at the Rest Stop near the 200 mile marker on I-40 East. The one where all the trucker whores hang out. At this point I will wipe that spiteful expression right off of that cherry bomb bangin' face of yours.
Or maybe, if you ain't down with dat, how 'bout if I pulled this here car o'mine over to the curb? What would you think if I reached over the seat, ran my grease dirty hands through your hair and squeezed your tear moistened cheeks, flush with new found fever?. What will you think when I open the door and regally request that you remove your fat ass from my automobile?
Because that's what I'm about. Get the hell out my wheels, yo in another hood now and it ain't one that you want to get caught in at 9 in the evening. Here it is, 9:15 and I can see a mack thumpin' crew who have, to a man, noticed you. This is just the posse for you.
Now skee-daddle, wacky doodle. Get out. Get out of my life. Get out of my sight. Take that hate filled mug shot and quietly get the fuck out. You don't even have to go quietly, if yo don't wanna.
Mamlet
1.
He wanted to conquer nations, to be remembered as a king, a grand figure in the history of Western Civilization. Lofty goal but he honestly believed he could pull it off. He had been surrounded by genius all of his life, it was only a matter of time before his superior nature emerged.
But for now he was busy trying to find his way home through a demented jungle of Edgar Allen Poe’s complete works. It was a chamber of many doors, behind each one a different path he could choose. But his decision would change the course of history. Every choice, any choice would be of his choosing. It didn’t make things any easier.
He eventually chose to fall with the house of Usher, that grand and noble house. It’s comings, goings, legends and mythology, it’s denizens and the account of their lives so vividly conjured through the pen of Poe. Yet he remembers none of it. Nada. It had just been too many years since he had last scanned it. He couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.
As his memory was being refreshed, locked between the pages of a nice green volume of literature on my bookshelf, he had a glorious thought. “What”, thought he, “would it be like to wake up one day and find ourselves in the world and the artistic vision of that gifted Frenchman Salvador Dali?” As he pondered this question he looked to his left and noticed that the clock on the wall was melting.
“How very odd,” thought he once again. “What strange creatures stalk the land and fill the sky with their black crow darkness swirling ‘round.”
It would appear that he crawled out of Usher’s timeless confines to slither into Dali-wood. As to his motives for doing so, the author cannot reveal, even if he were to know them. Which I’m not saying he does. But if anyone did it would obviously be me, right? And I just don’t know. That’s my bottom line.
So. The “real” world coagulated like blood and vinegar in a Mason jar. Nothing was where it should have been. It boggled the mind. It begged description. Faces like jelly. One of those things. With putrid carcasses and elephant heads tethered to the earth by hemp rope, strong and tight, harnessing it’s helium from it’s urge to flight. The situation is under control. That was the message they should have been sending. But they had seen it, too, and they felt pity for the man with the grasshopper fastened to his neck Who is eating who, you want to know? The answer, my friends, will elude the human race for eons to come.
It must have been 30-40 hours after Henry Mamlet passed out in Dali-wood. He’d entered the state of Nirvana. It was with fierce force of will that he tore himself away from it to spend another few weeks on this greedy planet. All the messed up clocks, all the drug references. The brilliance from a mind that must have been constantly possessed of such bizarre thoughts as to make the towne foole seem a saint. “Goodbye, strange abode. So long, dream-like landscapes that twist my senses. Your surreal atmosphere will be missed as will be the days when LSD was legal.
2.
“Hey, babe! I’m Creamy Slut Pie! Thanks for calling the Creamy Pie erotic phone sex service, where it’s been our pleasure to please you for the last 20 years. I’m assuming that you got our phone number from the back of a wrinkled and torn copy of Hustler magazine. If so, it would stand to reason that you are old enough to be engaging in this sort of lascivious, desperate telephone conversation. Am I correct in my observation?”
“You are correct. I am old enough to utilize your valuable service, though many would say that I’m too old to do these things. Think me a loser, if you must, as long as you give me what I paid for, it that understood?”
“Easy, soldier. No need for you to bust a gasket. You’re gonna need all your gaskets soon enough. Pick your battles, Gomer Pyle. I get that you’re old enough. I never doubted it for even a moment. We have to say that stuff, you know, the lawyers tryin’ to cover their basses, see?”
“Ok, I’m alright. I may have over-reacted. I’m sorry if I did, but you need to understand something about me. When I was a small child I used to swing dead cats in the air, then let ’em go to see how far they would fly in their rigor mortis hardened conditions. We’d find planks of two-by-four lumber and beat the lifeless body with them. I only did it because I was scared. Scared to death. Scared of death. This feline, whose heart had stopped beating at some point in the last seven days, left behind a body that provided a great deal of boyhood pleasure to someone you never even knew. A legacy. A token shell left behind, as if the cat-heaven bound kitty had sacrificed it for some cause only known by Cats.”
“Well, okay, Mr….” she said as if inquiring, lost for a name she’d just heard not two minutes ago.
“Mamlet, ma’am,/ Henry Mamlet.”
“Now that’s one hell of a name you got there, Hank.”
“Don’t call me Hank,” he sinisterly intoned.
“Well, why-ever-not? Hank’s as good as anything else. And it’s one less syllable. Rolls of the tongue a little easier. Makes you sound tougher than you really are. Has that “good old boy” tang to it. You have no idea how far you can go on that schtick. Hank,” she said,” now there’s a name for a REAL MAN. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to be referred to with such a regal nickname as…oh, my, how I love to say it…Hank! Hank! Hank! Hank!”
“I told you not to call me Hank. I wasn’t shitting you. I don’t give two shits and a holler for your invaluable opinion about what constitutes the realness of a man. What a worn out old bed rag you must be, laughing behind my back and telling the other prostitutes that I’m not the breed they want to tangle with. Just don’t call me Hank. I’ll thank you if you don’t refer to me as Hank for the entire duration of our relationship, be it confined to the upcoming phone sex session or, by some twitch of fate find ourselves exploring the nether regions of forever together.”
“Sounds interesting, Hank. Now what can I do for you? Have you ever called us before?”
“No, this is actually not the first time. I wanted to call a few times. Even dialed the number and heard the phone pick up. But I never had the guts to stay on the line. I felt I would make a fool of myself.”
“You ARE a pussy, Mamlet,” said Creamy Slut Pie, representing the infamous Creamy Pie phone sex emporium. “So why did you stick around this time? Why didn’t you wimp out then, you weak scum.”
“I just don’t care anymore. Tell the whole world that I’m a lonely creep so desperate for companionship that I’ve found the logical end with a telephone receiver stuck to my ear and a greasy Hustler in my left hand. Tell ’em I don’t even masturbate while they try so hard to arouse me. As they pretend they’ve been waiting on my call for the last week. Their heavy breathing and well choreographed grunts of lust have absolutely no effect on me whatsoever. I may kill myself next week, so I didn’t want to die without having phone sex at least once in their lives.
*******IF I MAY HAVE YOUR ATTENTION*********
In an attempt to promote this work of fiction I have decided that it might be good idea to launch a campaign on behalf of the phone sex union to start a trend in which the following phrase is to be capitalized on:
“I DON’T WANT TO DIE WITHOUT HAVING HAD PHONE SEX AT LEAST ONCE IN MY LIFE”
…and maybe print of some tee-shirts, spread the gospel, what do you say? “Phone sex: I’ve made peace with my Maker” or even “Phone Sex: Reach out and touch someone, for once in your life” or “I’ll die a happy man! How ‘bout you?”…unlimited, people I am not lying.
Exploit this fashionable new trend I am starting. Spread the word. One time in a lifetime, whether it be filled with wealth and prosperity or burdened by poorness, disease, and haste, doing the one thing we’ve always known we’ve wanted to do: make a call to Creamy Pie’s. Do do it, damnit! Creamy Slut Pie was not shitting when she insinuated earlier that all men who are afraid to use their services without hesitation are pussies.
Which doesn’t really make a damn one way or the other as far as this is concerned. Because all I want you to do is start a trend. I want you to author a new fad. I want you to get out there and hustle like the John Paul George and Ringo. I want the fruits of your labor to benefit my own financial gains. It won’t be hard. Just say to your co-worker or fellow church goer, “Yo, Granny. You had yo phone sex yet? Better hit it up, baby, cause it don’t look like your liable to have much time left.
Start that trend, I re-iterate. Lets make this pithy tale fly on it’s psychedelic ride to mass recognition and acknowledgment of the author’s genius.
Remember…Phone sex. I wanna do it just one time before I die.
Solid…
Gold.
He wanted to conquer nations, to be remembered as a king, a grand figure in the history of Western Civilization. Lofty goal but he honestly believed he could pull it off. He had been surrounded by genius all of his life, it was only a matter of time before his superior nature emerged.
But for now he was busy trying to find his way home through a demented jungle of Edgar Allen Poe’s complete works. It was a chamber of many doors, behind each one a different path he could choose. But his decision would change the course of history. Every choice, any choice would be of his choosing. It didn’t make things any easier.
He eventually chose to fall with the house of Usher, that grand and noble house. It’s comings, goings, legends and mythology, it’s denizens and the account of their lives so vividly conjured through the pen of Poe. Yet he remembers none of it. Nada. It had just been too many years since he had last scanned it. He couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.
As his memory was being refreshed, locked between the pages of a nice green volume of literature on my bookshelf, he had a glorious thought. “What”, thought he, “would it be like to wake up one day and find ourselves in the world and the artistic vision of that gifted Frenchman Salvador Dali?” As he pondered this question he looked to his left and noticed that the clock on the wall was melting.
“How very odd,” thought he once again. “What strange creatures stalk the land and fill the sky with their black crow darkness swirling ‘round.”
It would appear that he crawled out of Usher’s timeless confines to slither into Dali-wood. As to his motives for doing so, the author cannot reveal, even if he were to know them. Which I’m not saying he does. But if anyone did it would obviously be me, right? And I just don’t know. That’s my bottom line.
So. The “real” world coagulated like blood and vinegar in a Mason jar. Nothing was where it should have been. It boggled the mind. It begged description. Faces like jelly. One of those things. With putrid carcasses and elephant heads tethered to the earth by hemp rope, strong and tight, harnessing it’s helium from it’s urge to flight. The situation is under control. That was the message they should have been sending. But they had seen it, too, and they felt pity for the man with the grasshopper fastened to his neck Who is eating who, you want to know? The answer, my friends, will elude the human race for eons to come.
It must have been 30-40 hours after Henry Mamlet passed out in Dali-wood. He’d entered the state of Nirvana. It was with fierce force of will that he tore himself away from it to spend another few weeks on this greedy planet. All the messed up clocks, all the drug references. The brilliance from a mind that must have been constantly possessed of such bizarre thoughts as to make the towne foole seem a saint. “Goodbye, strange abode. So long, dream-like landscapes that twist my senses. Your surreal atmosphere will be missed as will be the days when LSD was legal.
2.
“Hey, babe! I’m Creamy Slut Pie! Thanks for calling the Creamy Pie erotic phone sex service, where it’s been our pleasure to please you for the last 20 years. I’m assuming that you got our phone number from the back of a wrinkled and torn copy of Hustler magazine. If so, it would stand to reason that you are old enough to be engaging in this sort of lascivious, desperate telephone conversation. Am I correct in my observation?”
“You are correct. I am old enough to utilize your valuable service, though many would say that I’m too old to do these things. Think me a loser, if you must, as long as you give me what I paid for, it that understood?”
“Easy, soldier. No need for you to bust a gasket. You’re gonna need all your gaskets soon enough. Pick your battles, Gomer Pyle. I get that you’re old enough. I never doubted it for even a moment. We have to say that stuff, you know, the lawyers tryin’ to cover their basses, see?”
“Ok, I’m alright. I may have over-reacted. I’m sorry if I did, but you need to understand something about me. When I was a small child I used to swing dead cats in the air, then let ’em go to see how far they would fly in their rigor mortis hardened conditions. We’d find planks of two-by-four lumber and beat the lifeless body with them. I only did it because I was scared. Scared to death. Scared of death. This feline, whose heart had stopped beating at some point in the last seven days, left behind a body that provided a great deal of boyhood pleasure to someone you never even knew. A legacy. A token shell left behind, as if the cat-heaven bound kitty had sacrificed it for some cause only known by Cats.”
“Well, okay, Mr….” she said as if inquiring, lost for a name she’d just heard not two minutes ago.
“Mamlet, ma’am,/ Henry Mamlet.”
“Now that’s one hell of a name you got there, Hank.”
“Don’t call me Hank,” he sinisterly intoned.
“Well, why-ever-not? Hank’s as good as anything else. And it’s one less syllable. Rolls of the tongue a little easier. Makes you sound tougher than you really are. Has that “good old boy” tang to it. You have no idea how far you can go on that schtick. Hank,” she said,” now there’s a name for a REAL MAN. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to be referred to with such a regal nickname as…oh, my, how I love to say it…Hank! Hank! Hank! Hank!”
“I told you not to call me Hank. I wasn’t shitting you. I don’t give two shits and a holler for your invaluable opinion about what constitutes the realness of a man. What a worn out old bed rag you must be, laughing behind my back and telling the other prostitutes that I’m not the breed they want to tangle with. Just don’t call me Hank. I’ll thank you if you don’t refer to me as Hank for the entire duration of our relationship, be it confined to the upcoming phone sex session or, by some twitch of fate find ourselves exploring the nether regions of forever together.”
“Sounds interesting, Hank. Now what can I do for you? Have you ever called us before?”
“No, this is actually not the first time. I wanted to call a few times. Even dialed the number and heard the phone pick up. But I never had the guts to stay on the line. I felt I would make a fool of myself.”
“You ARE a pussy, Mamlet,” said Creamy Slut Pie, representing the infamous Creamy Pie phone sex emporium. “So why did you stick around this time? Why didn’t you wimp out then, you weak scum.”
“I just don’t care anymore. Tell the whole world that I’m a lonely creep so desperate for companionship that I’ve found the logical end with a telephone receiver stuck to my ear and a greasy Hustler in my left hand. Tell ’em I don’t even masturbate while they try so hard to arouse me. As they pretend they’ve been waiting on my call for the last week. Their heavy breathing and well choreographed grunts of lust have absolutely no effect on me whatsoever. I may kill myself next week, so I didn’t want to die without having phone sex at least once in their lives.
*******IF I MAY HAVE YOUR ATTENTION*********
In an attempt to promote this work of fiction I have decided that it might be good idea to launch a campaign on behalf of the phone sex union to start a trend in which the following phrase is to be capitalized on:
“I DON’T WANT TO DIE WITHOUT HAVING HAD PHONE SEX AT LEAST ONCE IN MY LIFE”
…and maybe print of some tee-shirts, spread the gospel, what do you say? “Phone sex: I’ve made peace with my Maker” or even “Phone Sex: Reach out and touch someone, for once in your life” or “I’ll die a happy man! How ‘bout you?”…unlimited, people I am not lying.
Exploit this fashionable new trend I am starting. Spread the word. One time in a lifetime, whether it be filled with wealth and prosperity or burdened by poorness, disease, and haste, doing the one thing we’ve always known we’ve wanted to do: make a call to Creamy Pie’s. Do do it, damnit! Creamy Slut Pie was not shitting when she insinuated earlier that all men who are afraid to use their services without hesitation are pussies.
Which doesn’t really make a damn one way or the other as far as this is concerned. Because all I want you to do is start a trend. I want you to author a new fad. I want you to get out there and hustle like the John Paul George and Ringo. I want the fruits of your labor to benefit my own financial gains. It won’t be hard. Just say to your co-worker or fellow church goer, “Yo, Granny. You had yo phone sex yet? Better hit it up, baby, cause it don’t look like your liable to have much time left.
Start that trend, I re-iterate. Lets make this pithy tale fly on it’s psychedelic ride to mass recognition and acknowledgment of the author’s genius.
Remember…Phone sex. I wanna do it just one time before I die.
Solid…
Gold.
i look into the abyss
I look into the abyss. Slow down the spiral, stare deep into darkness that shines, envelopes, embraces, caresses. I'm searching for a story. Hoping I'll see a ghost. Wanting to follow the seldom trod path that would take me to imagination. I want to see movement, progression, something I can remember. Something I can sing about, something I can write down, something that makes sense.
I'm tired. I'm so tired of trying to twist and fold the moment. I'm sick of being so goddamned impressed. So sure that I could do no more, that there could be anything more to do.
I thought myself a sage. I convinced myself that I was a poet. Yet my deepest fear was that someone would understand my poetry.
Still, even now the snow whirls a static blizzard 'neath the glass. What I wouldn't give to infuse form and color, solidity, to mold the void into living dream.
I'm tired. I'm so tired of trying to twist and fold the moment. I'm sick of being so goddamned impressed. So sure that I could do no more, that there could be anything more to do.
I thought myself a sage. I convinced myself that I was a poet. Yet my deepest fear was that someone would understand my poetry.
Still, even now the snow whirls a static blizzard 'neath the glass. What I wouldn't give to infuse form and color, solidity, to mold the void into living dream.
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