I'm really not digging this

As you can see I haven't posted anything on here for a while. The format just doesn't work for stories on this site unless one has the time to go through and make everything perfect. I don't. Try reading at your own risk.

The Ones we’re Given

Fourteen minutes after the oven’s alarm turned off Sam heard three sharp knocks at the front door. Thunderous thuds on the heavy wood door were the calling card. Union knocks. A laborer’s pound echoed throughout the basementless cottage. Local union 347 had been the brotherhood since 1976. After Vietnam. Before Sam’s birth.
“Its only 3 o’clock,” he said to himself. “He isn’t supposed to be here until 5. Shit, he’s probably been drinking since dawn.”
The knocks on the front door transmuted from an antsy banging to an authoritative walloping within half a minute. That was the Marine in him. Two tours equaled a fake leg and the mentality of a Gila monster. Patriotism and poison flowing inside him. Swished on the rocks and cold on the teeth; warm venom in his body’s configuration.
“You better not be sleeping, boy! Working men, real men, don’t sleep in!” his father yelled into the front door. His voice was so strong it seemed to tear through the wood door. It could have punctured a child’s eardrum. “You didn’t learn that shit from me. Now open up the door so I can start making my stew and mixing drinks.”
“What the fuck, I am working,” he said. His father did not hear him. Sam made sure of that. He put down the mixing paddle on a paper towel and wiped his hands on his pants. I should get multiple pairs of plastic pants, he thought.
His father had driven up to Lydick from Kokomo for his birthday. They had planned on spending the weekend together. Sam’s boss was going to let them use his
cottage on Chain-O’ Lakes in the Northern Indiana town. This opportunity also allowed them permission to party on the pontoon boat, take advantage of a 16’ fishing boat with a
Johnson trolling motor for trout, bass, sunfish, bluegill, and perch, access to over forty fishing poles (even ones for ice fishing), a 20’ pier that was shaped like a “L” and had a comfortable bench with a brilliant view of drunken sunrises, a garage with two mopeds and a fridge full of beer, a satellite dish that needed some branches trimmed out of its way, a fireplace, horseshoe pit and nicely painted shoes for the different teams (black and red), and other enjoyable amenities throughout the property.
He remembered his dad saying, “What, no jet skies?”
These novelties had always been at Sam’s disposal, but he’d never really thought about taking advantage of them before this weekend. He knew it was something his father would love and respect. Possibly transform their own relationship into something more than biological. An honest-to-god manifestation into reality from daydream darkness. It had to be more than a load of sperm breaking through a barrier and creating a foul-mouthed purveyor of irrationality, one who cries during soup commercials. You know, the ones for Chunky with football player’s “mothers” serving up hearty soup to professionals in the locker-room. The commercials are supposed to make us feel comforted by their soup because a “mom” is serving it steaming hot, home style, as only a mother could. Sam never knew his mom, or hell, his dad for that matter. The two of them survived the falling rocks in Tennessee, on their way to Disney World, but his mother was crushed instantly. Her head was left mushy like an old gourd rotting in the last of October heat.
Two more pummeling fists struck the door. “Come on, boy! You better get your ass up!”
Sam opened the door. His father’s eyes were slightly bloodshot. His navy blue polo shirt was wrinkled and he carried a box in his right hand. The box was cardboard and large. It was labeled “eggs.” It contained two half-gallons of Beefeater gin, three two-liters of tonic, homemade moonshine, limes, potatoes, carrots, celery, corn, green beans, beef, and a 40oz of Natural Light for the morning’s fishing attempt.
His dad’s left shoe was untied. The previously white lace meander through some leafs and stones on the sunken cement porch. It reminded Sammy of the time he found a dead garter snake bleached and dried from the summer sun. It crumpled under his tennis shoe when he stepped on it like crunching snow in the frozen morning. The sounds that are made walking to the bus stop at 6:45 am.
“Well, what took ya so long, son?” His dad pushed passed him and headed for the kitchen. The box brushed against Sam’s shoulder and snagged part of his sweater. “What, were you out partying or something last night?” his dad said. “Probably chasing loose skirt or some other waste of time.”
“Well, actually, I’ve been up since eleven preparing and cooking the food for dinner.”
“Well, why didn’t ya yell or something. Hell, instead you’ve got me makin’ a scene out in the front yard. We may have to see these people all weekend. Have a little respect.”
This response didn’t surprise Sam. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Most of them are out on the lake or in town loading up for the weekend, or down at the 19th Hole drinking and eating.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a bar and grill that sells ostrich, caribou, venison, buffalo, and seasonal reptile burgers,” Sam said. “They’re pretty cutting edge.”
“Yeah, well, whatever happened to beef and pork? Normal food. Where are the glasses? Knives?”
Sam’s dad searched mercilessly through the cupboards for highballs and the drawers for a sharp knife to cut up limes, vegetables, and meat for his stew. When he found the items he put them onto the counter. Then he marched to the refrigerator and opened the freezer and grabbed a white ice tray, closed the freezer door, and put the tray on the counter next to the other requirements.
“You drinkin’ anything yet, son?”
“No. Not yet. Why?”
“Cause I’m gonna mix us up a couple,” Sam’s dad said. “Gin and tonics first. Then the hard stuff.”
“Hard stuff?”
“Yep. A Marine brother of mine makes up a secret family recipe of moonshine. The goods are raced straight from West Virginia.” Sam’s dad put ice in the glasses. He reached into the box and apprehended the bottle of Beefeater, a two-liter of tonic, and a lime.
“Where’s a cuttin’ board, son?”
Sam walked over to an island that had two drawers and a cupboard on each side. It was made of wood and had a generically patterned Formica top. He cleared a couple of barstools out of the way from the cupboard’s door, opened it, and pulled out a wooden cutting board. He went back to his father and handed it to him.
“Thanks, son. This is manly cutting board. I’m proud of you.” Sam’s dad plunked the board down on the counter next to the ingredients for his special concoctions.
“Lord knows I try,” Sam said.
Sam’s dad put the lime on the board and cut it into eight wedges. He placed one wedge in each glass of ice and the rest of them in a small white bowl. With his right hand he grasped the knife. Chicago Cutlery identified the brand on the wooden handle. It was a gift from Sam’s Aunt Brenda. Twelve very sharp knifes positioned in a cherry stained wooden holder. To the left of the butcher knife was the blade sharpener. It starts off cubed at the base and then like a stalactite it spirals conical into a sharp point. An ice pick to maintain the lancinating power of the blades that assist in the creation of such treasures including sandwiches, vegetable trays, omelettes, seafood/lake food entrées, and much, much more. However, Sam’s Aunt Brenda filed her finger nails with it a few Easters ago.
“Ah, shit!” Sam’s dad said. “I forgot to grab my kettle for the stew out of the trunk. I’ll be right back. You got a hose here?”
“There should be one in the back,” Sam said.
“I’m gonna get the kettle. Will you get the hose ready and I’ll wash it out?”
Sam’s dad went out the front door. How big can the kettle be, Sam thought. He turned down the heat on the stove and went out the back door, towards the lake, to find the hose.
Sam walked around to the side of the cottage. The hose had been left perfectly rolled by his boss on the winder. It was hypnotic the way the sun’s reflection off of the lake hit the center of the coiled hose. Loud, imposing voices killed the trance.
His dad’s vociferation inundated the cul-de-sac. The reverberations were a bona fide pissed off manifesto of masculinity, testosterone, and pride. He could see the neighbor family looking at his father. The husband was a few yards in front of his wife and kids. Sam made his way towards the front yard. He could see his dad banging on his car and yelling loud enough to scare the fish. The man then pointed towards his dad and was saying something.
Jesus, what the fuck now, Sam thought.
He heard his dad say, “Mind your own business, pal. This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t, buddy. You’re on my friend’s property and he ain’t home,” the neighbor said. “Now, answer my question. Whuddya doin’?”
Sam came around the corner. His dad looked at him and then back to the neighbor.
“You threatenin’me?” Sam’s dad said. “I’m an ex-Marine, goddamn it!
“Are you threatenin’ me? I don’t give two shits who you are,” the neighbor said. “I once ran with the bulls and harpooned a humpback in Inuit country.”
“Whoa, dad! What’s going on?”
“Get back inside, Sam. Dad’s gonna handle this.”
“Handle what?” the neighbor said. He then turned to his wife and told her to take the children inside. She wrangled up her children and went running over towards Sam when her husband starting walking toward Sam’s dad. “You’ve got to do something,” she said to him.
“Come on, these kids shouldn’t be seeing this. I’ve got some cake in the house. We can eat it at the picnic table,” Sam said. “You kids want some Angel food cake?”
The kids cheered and the men started their bout. Maybe they thought that the innocent merriment was the bell to start fighting. A couple of weak punches were thrown. Even less landed. It didn’t take long for them to end up on the ground. Even in their anger, one could hear faint juvenile giggles. The heavy-breathed sonance was reminiscent of children or puppies. It flooded the lakeside.
The neighbor’s wife escorted her two children to the table and got them situated. Sam brushed his hair with his fingers and then brought out the cake, spatula, paper plates, and a box of plastic utensils. The kids were salivating for cake; their mom wanted to eat it too. Much more than cake.
The two men, husbands, sons, combatants somersaulted and molested each other. The manliest fondling was on exhibit for their families. Miraculously, not a neighbor in sight. Or the law for that matter. Just loved ones. Insignificant specks of dead skin and hair like the bundles that collect in corners. Behind dressers and wastebaskets; occasionally munching on cake without milk.
The four of them sat at the paint chipped table and savored the cake. Sam and the wife rubbed feet and looked into each other’s eyes while the children, cake falling from their mouths, watched the two men wrestle around on the lawn like flopping fish partying on a Lilly pad.

It Happens All the Time

“Whatcha reading?” Mickey said. “I mean, who are you reading, lately?”
“Well, actually I’ve been reading a lot of biographies. Pieces on the Civil War,
Twain, Lincoln, and Churchill. Official and unofficial,” I said. “I also thumbed through
a couple of High Times, a Maximum Rock and Roll and a Low Rider over the last
couple of weeks. But, other than that, I’ve been reading Carver, Barthleme…”
“Which one?” Mickey said. “Which Barthleme?”
“Donald. And I’ve just finished a fine piece of work by Stine.”
“Stine? Stine who?”
“Jovial Bob Stine.”
“What’d he write?”
“Spaceballs: The Book.” I said.
“Seriously?”
“Shit yeah. I’ve always loved the movie and it only took me one hour to finish,” I
said. “You want an Old Style?”
“Of course. Hey, who do you think is going to win the World Series this year?”
Mickey said. “My money’s on the Yankees. I hate um, but Steinbrenner will buy a trophy
in a heartbeat.”
I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge and grabbed two Old Styles and a
thing of French onion dip. Or are we calling it Freedom onion dip? The chips were sitting
on the counter with a red clip keeping the foilesque bag airtight. Mickey had thrown an
empty plastic bag onto the kitchen table earlier. It had held crackers and came in a yellow
cardboard box. The bag looked like a large mouth bass. Its opening looked like the mouth
and I could almost make out its eyes and gills on the crumpled bag.
The Old Style cans have the Cubs’ logo on them again this year. I always try to
save at least one of the promotional cans from each year, but I tend to drink them all until
the season ends up being over and I have to wait until the next year’s edition.
“I agree, but I don’t think they’ll win it this year,” I said. I went back into the
living room and gave Mickey his beer and set the chips and dip on the table next to this
week’s classifieds and a Ziploc full of weed.
“Don’t tell me you think that the fucking Cubs will win,” Mickey said.
“Yeah, right. They’ll never win. I’m pulling for the Devil Rays this year,” I said.
“Did ya hear about Gregg and the shit he got into the other night at The Longview?”
“No.”
“Well, he, Shannon, Dale and Marcus were down there drinking on two dollar
Bloody Mary night and some guy started going on about the Minnesota Twins and what
not,” Mickey said. “Anyway, you know that Gregg is a White Sox fan, right? Well, he
was getting all pissed off at this guy for answering questions right on Jeopardy and told
him that he and the Twins can go get fucked. Well, as you can only imagine, the guy also
got all pissed off and they got into it verbally. Well, come to find out, the guy was also a
Green Bay Packers fan. Why do you suppose he’s not a Vikings fan?”
“How should I know?” I said.
I was trying to take in all the action that was being fed to me by Mickey. The
thought of Gregg’s whiney drunkenness started to make me want to back the other guy.
“And of course Gregg is a Bears fan, right?” I said.
“Yep, and Gregg really got all red-assed when he heard the guy brag about the
Packers’ success and the Bears’ dismal existence since their Super Bowl victory. He got
so infuriated that he grabbed the guy and threw him off his stool. Then he said to him
something like, ‘I’ll punch you in your god-damned Cheesehead face. I don’t care! This
is Pale Hose land!’ then Sarge…”
“Who?”
“Ah, Sarge. He’s a new bartender, but anyway, Sarge tells Gregg to shut the fuck
up because this is Cubs land and to help the guy off the sticky floor and to buy him a
drink or get out,” Mickey said. “Well, Gregg loves that place and he is always trying to
get in as good as possible with the bartenders for free drinks. So, of course, he did exactly
what Sarge told him to do.”
“No shit? Just like that?” I said.
“No shit. The guy drank his free drink and then got the fuck out of there. He even
left his Zippo and Chap Stick laying on the bar in-between his empty glass and the black
plastic ashtray full of his Parliament butts.”
The thought of Gregg having to help someone up and then buy them a drink made
me all giddy inside. He was such a whiner, that one never felt bad about wishing him
unpleasantries. In fact, I truly believe that people turned it into some kind of religion of ill
will worship upon him. If only they’d run around naked in the woods and howl like
wolves and scavenge like jackals. I’d join them and handle their legal counsel and
financial obligations. I’d talk them into petitioning for the legal use of mushrooms,
peyote, other psychedelics, and Sunday alcohol sales in Indiana. I once heard about a
church in Denver that won the legal right to smoke pot in a park because it was part of
their religion. Much like snakes, wine, or a book in others.
Mickey reached into the bag and grabbed out an overwhelming handful of chips
and set them into his lap, he then grabbed them one-by-one and plummeted the chips,
liberally, into the white dip. Scooping up heaps of the gelatinous chip enhancer that was
decorated with pieces of green confetti and shoving them into his mouth while still
laughing at Gregg’s situation. The chips left a grease spot on his shirt. It was larger than
the cigarette burn slightly across from it.
“Had anyone ever seen the Cheesehead before or was he just some one-timer?” I
said.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but I’d ask Marcus, Dale or Shannon if you see
them. They can probably fill you in better than I can.”
“That’s cool. I don’t need to know that bad,” I said. “I don’t really care for any of
those people.”
“Didn’t you fuck Shannon once?” Mickey said.
“No, not at all. You’re thinking of Bobby or Jim.”
“Maybe,” Mickey said.
I finished my beer and got up to get another.
“You need a can?” I said.
“Naw. I’m heading out as soon as I kill this one.”
I was looking forward to being alone in my apartment for a change. There was
always someone stopping by. Announced or unannounced (almost always a horrible
experience) people came by. Mostly, they were good visits full of conversation,
drinks and smoke, but there was always the chance of annoyance and mistrust. Especially
on Tuesdays and the weekends. There’s nothing ever to do on Tuesdays and the
weekends always provide too much time for things to do.
I hit Play on the stereo and decided to listen to a compilation that was given to me
by an anonymous donor. The first song was the Sex Pistols’s version of “My Way.” It felt
like a good song to have blasting while I started to figure out what I was going to do with
myself for the rest of this overcast day. The only thing that is certain is that there is
definitely no time for a shower. Hell, there’s barely enough time to eat. However, if I was
a lizard, I’d take the time to eat all of the ladybugs that have penetrated tiny holes in my
place, and climb the walls. I’d strive to snatch them up with my tongue, right before they
descended down into my lamp’s shade to attack the bulb. I don’t even think these are real
ladybugs. Actually, I think someone told me they were some kind of Japanese terrorist
beetle. Their kamikaze dive bomb on our plants and flowers deteriorate the landscape.
“I hate those impostors,” Mickey said.
Mickey slammed down the rest of his Old Style, stood up, burped, and said, “Talk
to ya later.” He then grabbed his umbrella, unlocked the door, went outside, and slammed
the door behind him. He went back into the real world. Mickey has always done really
well out there. He has always liked doing things. He went back to school after ten years
off and had a job. He roamed with the rest of the public through society’s corridors. The
other day he was telling me about some of the students, “You should’ve seen it. The gay guys were dancing around in dresses and the bible kids were all upset. The lesbians just
walked by and hated on the penis. It was great!”
I jumped over the couch and locked the deadbolt, the handle, and the chain. I
peered out the window shades and there was a man in his fifties or so, walking a Saluki
through the parking lot. But I was confident that there would be no interruptions. I
plopped into the recliner, with a beer in hand, and stared at a painting that a friend did
and listened to the music.
I took a drink from my beer and thought about taking a nap. Waste time, my way,
I thought. Why not? Got lots of it. Maybe smoke a cigarette. Oh wait, there’s only some
cheap, nasty rolling-tobacco and one American Spirit that some dumb hippy chick
dropped the other night. I’ll pass for now. I’ll need those later. No one is here so there is
no way for anything to be taken from me and that, in itself, is worth celebrating.
“You lucky little shit. I’m gonna get a newspaper and smash your ass,” I said.
The faux ladybugs recaptured my attention. “No mercy for you. I’m the new eradicator.”
I think that they call this spreading democracy in some circles. I call it
preservation through permeation.
Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Waitin’ for a Train” was next. One of only a few that could
make yodeling sound cool. Hank Williams Sr., too, of course.
I went toward the dining room table to see what kind of periodical could be used
to crush the foreign invaders. Choose the weapon, turn up the stereo’s volume, and end a
reproductive process.
Right after I decided on last weeks’ Parade, there was three knocks on the front
door. I smacked the pause button on the stereo and hit the floor, instinctually, forgetting
exactly which of the front curtains I had left open. Luckily, I was safe from the visitor’s
view. However, if my curtains were open, they would have been able to see me,
panicking on the floor, through the wall mirror, like a puny milksop. They’d have a leg
up on me, psychologically.
I’d bought that mirror from a thrift shop on Michigan St. I loved the carvings in
the wood frame, but the thing had almost exposed my solitary feint.
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo! I’ve come for you!”
It’s a huge bird, I thought. Four sparrows and two robins have flown into my
picture window and I’ve been too lazy to put up some kind of deterrent. I figured my lack
of window washing would have given them the heads-up. They must mean business. I’m
pretty sure I can stay out of the mirror’s range for a closer look at what’s at my door.
I went under the table and found someone’s contact lens, even though I don’t
remember anyone ever mentioning losing one. Maybe it was like finding their pride. Dry
and brittle; folded up, fetal in the carpet without saline.
Three more bangs pounded on the hollow front door. The rapping echoed the
previous ones. There were no words spoken this time, but there was the distant sound of a
train’s whistle and a Blue Jay. The neighbor’s cat must have been foolin’ around by its
nest or something. I don’t think I could ever kill a cat, but I want to kill this one.
Humanely, of course. This one needs to go because it tries to kill the multiple birds,
squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks that hangout and socialize with each other in my
courtyard. I give Mickey money to get me Wild Bird Seed.
I tumbled across the floor towards the cover of the back of the couch. I rolled
along like nervous dice tossed for the mortgage. The last summersault landed me in a
defensively strategic spot for scouting the potential trespasser and any possible threat. I
could make out that it was a woman with round, white sunglasses looking back and forth
down the row of apartments, and then back down towards the street. Then she looked at a
torn piece of graph paper. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and it stuck out
about three or four inches off the back of her head. Its tip was bleached blonde by tons of
peroxide. Her skin seemed bloodless. She had extremely dark freckles. They looked like
chocolate chips, and her pouty lips bloomed crimson. She had two small silver hoops in
her ears and one in her left nostril.
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” the voice repeated. However, this time it was more feminine
and motherly. “I’ve come for you, sweet pea.”
Sweet pea? Was that a code for some previous agreement? I put my left eye to the
peep hole and looked out. I’m not sure why I used my left, because it is weaker than my
right. She zoomed into my view like lightning. Her features exploded and stung my
senses.
“I can smell your breath behind the door. You eat horses, don’t you?”
The voice startled me, but I was relieved that I’d secured all of the locks after
Mickey left.
“Please, let me in. No, just acknowledge that you’re in there. Hit the door, the
wall, or cough. Anything. Please, baby.”
Her voice was innocent enough, but this was not the time for an unannounced,
midday visit. There was supposed to be time for me to waste in today’s schedule.
“Who is it? What do you want?” The words fled my mouth. They were
determined to take charge of the situation. My own mouth blew my cover.
“I knew it. Let me in, silly. People might start to stare.”
I needed to know what was going on, but was too afraid to open the door. I
peeked back into the peephole. It brought her face close to me. Is this love? Is she a bill
collector? No way. I haven’t had any in over nine months. Everything is paid for. God
bless trial lawyers.
That’s it; she’s probably a lawyer checking up on my situation. The firm sent her
over to make sure the payments were on time and that everything was working out for
me. That’s why they make the big bucks.
“Who are you with? The checks always arrive on the fifteenth. I’m fine.”
“Open the fucking door. Stop running and hiding,” she said. “I didn’t wear any
panties. I know how you like to see my treasure when I’m sitting Indian style.”
“Who are you looking for, ma’am? You have the wrong apartment,” I said.
“Please go. You’re consuming my happiness and pilfering my wastable time.”
“Baby, I’m pregnant,” she said. “It’s yours.”
“I haven’t had sex with anyone in over a year. Now, leave! Leave, now!”
“Fine. So fucking what? I’m not pregnant,” she said. “Is it a crime to be a liar? What are you going to do about it, call the cops?”
“No. I don’t have a phone, but you’re trespassing and my neighbors have
probably called them with their phones.”
“I came all the way from Beloit. Why won’t you at least look me in the eyes?” she said. “I miss your ability to make me lasciviously tingle. My mommy parts are only for
you, sweetie.”
“Karen! What the fuck are you doing? Get away from that door,” a man
screamed. “That’s not even my apartment, you dumb shit.”
Through the window shade I could see a man a few years older than me pointing
his finger at the woman at my front door. He appeared to be no more than forty or so. He
was the guy that rode the Harley. He had tattoos that ran up and down his arms. His
sleeves consisted of naked women, guns, skulls, and flames. He wore sideburns, black
Ray Ban-rip-offs, and usually sported a black leather jacket with patches that elevated
words and typical biker images. Other times he wore a denim vest that bore a red cross on
its back.
I slinked back to the table by my recliner and grabbed my beer. It was half-full
and getting warmer.
“Get in there,” my biker neighbor said. “Were you talking to someone in that
apartment?” He pushed her towards his apartment and unlocked the door.
“Yeah, and he’s in with the cops,” she said. “A real goody-two-shoes.”
“Shut up and get into my apartment.”
He shoved her through the open door.
“I have to make amends with my neighbor that you’ve probably scared half-ta-
death. He looks fragile, man,” my neighbor said. “I’m closing and locking this door. If
you open it, I’ll beat the shit out of you. I’m going next door. I’ll be right back. I’m glad
to see you. Damn, you look fine.”
“Are you going to take care of my mistakes, daddy?” she said. “I’ve really been
bad and maybe I should apologize to him, personally. Spank my ass in front of him.”
“Whore, we’ll do no such thing. I’ll take care of it,” my neighbor said. “Get in
there and make me a chicken-pot-pie.”
I heard the door bang shut much harder than Mickey had slammed mine earlier. I wish he’d let her come over and apologize. He’d better start offering me some of his
beers when we cross paths in the hallway from now on.
I could see the dark figure being projected on my shades and disappear at the
ingress. My neighbor’s knuckles struck against the door twice. “Hey, buddy, sorry about
everything,” he said. “Can we talk? I hope it’s cool.”
No, it’s not cool. You and your woman are really ruining my day. I’ll go to the
door, though. End it now and then grab another beer and go lay in bed. Waste time.
I thought about turning on the stereo and resuming the compilation to find out
what song was next.
Suddenly, there was three knocks this time and my neighbor said, “Hey, guy, open up. I want to make amends for your inconvenience. She ain’t even my wife or
nothin, I swear.”
I crept toward the front door and stopped myself from starting to unlatch my
locks. I undid the chain first because it’s the weakest.
“It’s cool. I’m opening up my door,” I said. “Don’t worry; I didn’t call the police
or anything.”
“Why would you?” he said.
Why would I? Hmm, maybe because of that crazy woman who thought I was you,
perhaps. I unlocked the handle because it’s the second weakest.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about anything,” I said. “No need to apologize, really.”
“Don’t be a hard-ass. I need to take responsibility for a past mistake that
should’ve never included you.”
I hesitantly unlocked the deadbolt and opened my front door. Slowly, my
neighbor’s tan faced appeared, equipped with sunglasses, sideburns, hair gel, black
leather jacket, tight jeans, and black boots with studded lace loops. A born tough guy. I
could see a cut on the bridge of his nose and bruising under is left eye. He also reeked of
gin.
“Don’t worry about your friend. Really, it was no big deal,” I said.
“Don’t be a pussy. She fucked up and has probably been tormenting you for
hours, huh? There’s no reason to lie to me. None of this is your fault, man,” my neighbor
said.
“Oh, I know. It’s just that I’ve got stuff to do and would like to get to it, is all.”
“Yeah, no problem. As long as we’re cool and all can be forgotten. Don’t worry;
I’ll straighten this bitch out.”
“Sure, but there’s no reason to get carried away. It was a simple mistake. It
happens all the time.”
“Whatever. Sorry, brother.”
He extended his right hand and I shook it. He then turned to his right and went
storming back to his apartment where that woman was waiting. I don’t believe mercy was
his main focus, but the absence of the police was a positive sign for him. Usually, if
they’re not around in twenty-five minutes, or so, you’re probably in the clear. Or
screwed, if you’re on the other end.
I closed my door, locked the dead-bolt, the handle, and then the chain. I tried to
listen through the walls to see if he would start roughing her up. She talked tough outside
of my door, but he’s not me. I don’t wear a leather jacket or a denim vest for that matter.
I heard shouting along with heavy and light pounding. I didn’t hear breaking
glass, but I saw a couple of bowling trophies flung out the door, crashing into parking
spots.
“You, bitch! Don’t ever touch my trophies!” my neighbor said. “You need to be
taught discipline!”
My neighbor’s words reminded me of that guy who was walking his Saluki
earlier. She’d been bred and groomed similar to the show dog. Her look was unique, yet
cloudily traditional. She had traces of obedience, but one could tell that she’d been away
from her handler for a while. Someone has got the papers to prove her lineage, too, I
suppose.
The situation next door didn’t seem too out-of-hand so I went to the kitchen for a
couple of cold beers and rolled a small cig with the rolling tobacco. I crouched down and
turned the stereo back on and turned the volume up to three quarters. After the Jerry Lee
Lewis song was over; Albert Collins’s “I Ain’t Drunk” was next.
“I ain’t drunk. I’m just drinking!” I sang. I tried to be loud enough to cover the
shouting next door. I stood, looking at the stereo, and smoked the thin cigarette. I wanted
to blare, “It’s Cheaper to Keep Her” by the Jerry-curled Johnny Taylor into my
neighbor’s wall, but I didn’t feel like digging for it. Music in all playable forms were
scattered across my apartment.
My little cigarette was inhaled quickly and burned up. The tobacco seemed dryer than normal. That’s probably why it was conveniently forgotten by someone eager to
open up their new, airtight package and breathe in the tang.
My cigarette was getting tiny and with every inhale, I could feel the desiccated
harvest burn through the fingers, lips, tongue, throat, and lungs. The exhale glowed from
my nostrils and my insides felt blistered. I tossed it into the ashtray.
I heard a loud growl from my neighbor’s apartment followed by something
bumping into his wall. Probably her head, I thought. I’d definitely wear a helmet if I ever
went out drinking with him; however, there’s really no chance of that happening. I
slammed down my beer and opened the other.
I started to get a good buzz going after that brief interruption, but I could predict
that the neighborly intrusions would bring nothing but spoils. Every so often there
would be a bang against the wall or someone would shout “Fucker” or “Whore.” Then
there would be silence for a few minutes.
I walked back towards the kitchen and bumped into the door frame prior to entry.
I put the beer down on the kitchen table by a really thick, green ashtray. I grabbed one of
the chairs from the table and flung it around and sat on it with its back against my chest. I
leaned my chin on my arms which were resting on the top of the chair’s back. Willie
Nelson’s “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” started escaping the speakers. I
thought about my neighbor and his lady friend. America’s finest evidence of why some
people shouldn’t be able to breed.
I reached down into the ashtray and pulled out a roach. It was just about an inch
long. The tips of my index and middle fingers, along with my thumb, were black with
moist ash from the bottom of the ashtray. Beads of moisture must have dripped off Old
Style cans to form a sludgy substance covering its base. I was more like a spittoon. I
threw it back.
Listening to Willie Nelson’s voice through the speakers, which have been covered
with stickers to give them a wood appearance, reminded me of seeing him live. He was in
an old auditorium that had five brass chandeliers that were draped with crystals. The
chandeliers also adorned garland and tinsel left over from Christmas. There were two
makeshift bars in the lobby that served decent liquor brands and bottles of “Premium”
beer. The lines were long, due to the fact that there were only two bars for two thousand
people who needed drinks and the Red Headed Stranger. However, patrons weren’t
allowed to take their drinks into the recently remolded seating area of the auditorium. My
friend and I were forced to slam down four beers and a couple of whiskey shots before
Willie’s set.
While I was thinking about the concert I was interrupted by high-pitched voices
outside. I looked out the window and could see four boys and a girl between the ages of
eight and eleven, I’d guess. They were shooting frogs, with single pump BB guns, in the
pond across from woods that borders the apartment complex’s property. Just on the other side of the parking lot. My brothers and our friends all had those guns growing up and we
would fire bottle rockets out of their barrels. They were our missile launchers.
I opened the door and yelled at the kids.
“Stop shooting those innocent frogs. Get on outta here, kids. Leave um alone and
go back home.”
“Go back inside, ya old bastard,” one kid hollered back.
Bastard? Why that little cocksucker. I killed my beer and threw the empty can in
the direction of the kids, but they were about a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet
away. The can floated about nine feet before being blown another twenty feet to my left
by a gust of wind. The kids laughed and told me to go inside. I did.
I went in and opened the other beer that was already sitting on the counter. I
popped the aluminum ring on the top of the can and there appeared to be smoke billowing
from its mouth. I took a hard pull from the beer and set it back down. I stumbled over to
the hall closet and found my old wrist rocket. It was in a box with old letters from ex-
girlfriends. I grabbed it, closed the box, and closed the door. I went into my bathroom and
pulled out about ten or so water softener pellets from their yellow, plastic bag. I put them
in my shirt pocket.
I put my beer back in the refrigerator and I walked over to the front window and
could see that they were still shooting frogs. I skipped over to my back door and undid all
of its locks. I attached the super slingshot to my arm and hid it under my sleeve. I went
down the back staircase and out the back door of the building. I kept low and made my
way over to an unkempt bush. I took cover.
The children were still there laughing, socializing and bonding through carnage. I
could see a bunch of skin colors throughout the munchkin murder group. All five of them
were circling the pond, firing and pumping, then firing again. They repeated this process
about a hundred times. The BBs penetrated the water and pierced the frogs like torpedoes
hitting unarmored vessels. I swore I could see smoke spilling from their barrels after
every shot.
I fingered my shirt pocket for the salt pellets. I pulled about five or six out and
started to crumple them up to make them smaller. Shrapnel for all.
I put the pieces into the leather ammo holder that was in the middle of two rubber
straps. They were still tight after all the years in storage.
I crouched up, about a foot or so, to get a better view of my target. I steadied
myself and pulled the leather holder back as far as I could and pointed the slingshot up
toward God. The straps were tight and my arms shook a little from the tension. I let go of
the leather holder and the pellets jettisoned astronomically from the Earth. They tore
through clouds and ruptured the atmosphere while traveling up and then back down.
The pellets came raining down all over the children. Guns were dropped and little
hands tried covering prepubescent heads. My ammo spread like buckshot and it ripped
the youth’s skin and the salt punished the wounds. I grabbed the rest of the pellets and
fired directly on the juveniles again. The shots crashed upon their heads, necks,
shoulders, and backs. Their screams were violently in tune.
“Mommy, help!” a boy cried.
“I can’t see!” shrieked another.
The girl continued to cover her head and picked up her BB gun and gave it a
pump. She took off running, elfish, in the direction of her house, perhaps. She pointed the
gun behind her and fired it. She pumped it again and fired another blind shot over her
shoulder. She continued this until she found cover behind a dumpster. She popped up
from behind it, fired off a shot where she thought the shooter was, and took off again.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” she said.
I went back inside my apartment. I opened up the closet and put the slingshot
back in its box. I went over to the window and peered out towards the pond. I could see a
couple of BB guns lying around and a tackle box left open on a rock. I looked down the
parking lot and could see people starting to come out of their dwellings, sleuthing around
for clues.
I went over to the fridge, grabbed my open beer, and another, and went back to
the window. The anonymous donor’s compilation was now playing Floyd Dixon’s “Hey
Bartender.” I liked being my own bartender. I had no lines to wait in nor did I have to
leave a tip. I controlled the mix ratios, cutoff limits, and closing time.
I walked back over to the window and took a drink from the white can. I could see
the little girl and she was pointing in the general direction of my apartment. She was
bandaged and smoking a filterless cigarette. She had either had a dimple or part of her
cheek had been torn off by the salty bullets. She tossed her cigarette to the ground and
picked up two Daisy single pumps and started shouting orders to adults and other kids. If
it’d been darker, I figured them to be waving torches and pitchforks. Eager for blood and
a soul.
I sat on the arm of my recliner and read the Cubs’ facts printed on the can. I read
some shit I’d already known and took a drink. One of these years they should print why
the fuck they haven’t won a World Series in almost one hundred years. Maybe more
importantly, they should print why I’ve been wasting my time rooting for them my whole
life. Hanging on to every promise, every can’t-miss-potential-rookie-phenomenon, and to
next year.
I gaped through the curtains and the outside was quiet. The mob must not have
figured me for the sneak attacker. I could hear some ducks flying over head. They were
heading north.
I then heard voices, again, getting louder. I kept looking down at the parking lot
and could see the people gathering in the handicapped spots. I’ve never seen anyone park
in them. The group looked unwashed, tormented, penniless.
The ducks were growing louder. You could hear the spring and summer-time
elation that honked from somewhere in their feathered chests.
Everyone in the group was looking up. They were twisting their heads around to
see through and around trees. They were trying to shade their eyes from the sun. Then I
saw the little girl point to the sky with the two air rifles.
“Pull!” she said.
Following her order, the rest of the group pointed their guns to the sky and shot
teeny metal balls weakly into the heavens. The group of airborne ducks began to break
apart. Some of them were doing spiraling nosedives while others never looked back.

The Storm’s a Blowin’

“The storm is coming on strong. It’s supposedly gonna hit pretty hard,” I said. “They’re callin’ for hail, flash flooding, tornados, and there’s even the possibility that there will be a hurricane.” I looked around at the empty, red drunken faces that encompassed me. Mostly just rich fucks from Chicago and summer dwellers from around the Midwest. Alcohol and pill-powered yachting, sailing, and family love filled this space. Shit, I hate these places in the summer.
We were in New Buffalo, Michigan drinking at Casey’s. Dennis Farina hangs out there, occasionally. It’s right down from the rocky beach that those New Buffalonians were cursed with. Definitely not the worst on Lake Michigan, though. On a clear day you can see Milwaukee. I think.
I repeated the report to a few familiar faces and the rest of the strangers suffocating me. I did so, so that they might be able to brace for what the balding weather guy was calling “Nature’s worst.” I was fortunate enough, one night, to be in here when Guy Peters (the weather man) bought a round of drinks for the whole bar. I had a Bombay Sapphire and tonic. I waited around to see if he’d buy another, but he didn’t so I decided to call it a night and take the back roads home.
I don’t think they cared too much about the situation at hand. Most of them failed to react. It seemed odd, considering the storm warnings were coming from everyone. The local police, and the Coast Guard. The remaining dumb-downed, lethargic, jello-mass-molds located in the bar were thinking about the last things that they would do right before they died. This meant lots of hetero and homo-sexual talk amongst the most surprisingly open friends, associates, co-workers, tourists and strangers. The banter turned most of the participants into an involuntary sticky goo matter that dripped into wrinkled creases which was caused by lazy dresser-drawer stuffing. I would’ve been better off trying to pick up one of the hammered babes slinking around, but I really couldn’t see any fun in that.
I’d been listening to their conversations and knew that somewhere in the back of their collective minds was the fear of death and uncertainty. I could smell it in the air. It was pasty and scaly and hurt to breathe in. It was like welcoming a vampire into your home. However, it was fish. Dead ones and dying ones, flopping around like mousetraps being sprung. They’d been washing up to shore. The culprit of death’s aroma.
“I know that there might be a possibility of a hurricane, but I’m not leaving,” Conner Watts said. “I’m getting another scotch.” He was a man who was thought to be academically and eccentrically important to some, but missed the anchor’s snapping grip that tugged at his own pre-historic mainframe. His vessel broke clean and was allowed by the natural forces to become liberated and left for the judgment of the sea and the rest of the unimportant, upright walking, roach denizens. Thumb baring tool users, left to our subscripted thoughts and opinions. Renaissance man to some and pussyfooting fool to others.
Watts was a local writer and painter who had tried numerously to become Poet Lauriat in many states, cities, towns, providences, and villages. He saw it fit to submit all of his work, considering he’d already done it anyway. Some of his poems and short stories had been published in a couple larger, more creditable lit-mags, but most were
carried in local and regional zines. The “underground” kids loved him. These were self-satisfying and, according to Watts, “kept the pain of writing alive.”
As for his paintings, they had received various criticism and praise throughout the years. At only twenty-nine he had traveled all over the country, gallery-to-gallery, to be in art shows promoting his style and vision. He had also had a well received one-man show in Vancouver, British Columbia, but never spoke of it for some reason when asked about it. I had heard that he never wanted to be known for his paintings. Only for his words. What a coward.
Most relatives and close friends figured he’d eventually hail the family’s cab company in Indianapolis or become an architect or a salesman of fabricated goods of some sort. Maybe become fluent in Chinese and participate in textile dealings or maybe electronics.
Watts almost always had his two assistants (toadies or bitches would be a better description) with him. They were fraternal twins, 36-years old, and their birth names were Sven and Trapper Dort. There bodies were very similar, but their faces were completely different.
“They look as different as Van Gogh with an ear and Van Gogh without one,” Watts once said.
They were about five or so when they came across from The Netherlands. Roughly before the birth of disco. They were known as the “Window Lickers” to most because that’s what they always did to the windows of the candy shop next to Max’s produce stand. They now helped Watts with whatever he needed or wanted.
I remember that Watts wanted to see death photos of Lenny Bruce, John Beluschi, Brian Jones, G.G. Allen and the rest of wasted talent that civilization was blessed to witness. He also told them to look for photos of John Gotti, but obviously they were never able to scrounge up those photos. Watts laughed. I think that he actually regretted mentioning Beluschi. Probably Bruce too, but I don’t know for sure. He sometimes goes into his own.
Well, Sven found some pics on the internet, had them blown up to about 12”x 8” and framed them for Watts. He liked them and was grateful, but thought that it was disturbing to have them blown up and framed. Watts couldn’t bare to hang them up so I took the frames, which had a deep Cherry finish, and put some black and white photos of multiracial, retarded orphans in them. They were taken by some Romanian woman. They looked good in my kitchen.
“What in the hell is going on?” A tourist from Toledo said. “How can there be a hurricane on the Great Lakes? It’s scientifically impossible.” He appeared as if he was close to pissing himself. I figured him gay or at least curious about sweaty, naked man-love. I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or the blonde guy with a small mustache and fake tan next to me. I was about to say something to the guy, but Watt’s stormed through and butted into the conversation.
“More of this talk? Why don’t you all just go home and open up a bottle of wine or something? Take a load off,” Watts said. “The worse it will be is a severe thunderstorm. Maybe a tornado or two. A couple of days off work is the way I see it.”
“What if it’s true? Why not just leave,” I said. “We can drive down Red Arrow Highway; hop onto 12 and take it to the Indiana bypass. Hang out in South Bend until things blow over. Get to higher ground, if ya know what I mean?”
“No pun intended, right?” Watts said.
“Exactly. I’ve got some friends there,” I said. “They’ll show us a great time. Maybe head down to Indy or Louisville. I’m down to go anywhere dry and that doesn’t reek of decomposing fish.”
“Let’s go to the gambling boat,” Watts said. “If we’re going to be beaten, it should be by natural causes like dealers and Pit Bosses. If any of the Boats are open I’ll cover the first $200 for the four of us.”
“The gambling boats are on Lake Michigan, dipshit. How will we be escaping the storm if we’re on the lake?” I said. “We’ll be sitting ducks. It’ll be primitive chaos to the fullest if anything should go awry. ” I walked over to the bartender, Tammy, to get another beer.
“Screwing nature up ever since,” Watts said. “Tammy, another Bass, por favor.” He had followed me to the bar.
“I heard that there were Fire Ants forming into geometrical spheres or raft-style modes of transportation through the flooded streets. Then they attach themselves to whatever stable, dry platform that they can lock onto. They can eat through a person and it hurts,” Sven said.
“Sitting ducks? Awry?” Watts said. “What in the hell are you even jabbering about? We’ll be partying, laughing, drinking and winning money to spend on our trip to Louisville or, I know, how about Nashville and listen to some music and slam down several cold ones. Memphis could also be a possibility. Check out Graceland.” He offered everyone a cigarette and then lit his with his silver Zippo that had the Presidential Seal engraved on it. What a patriot.
The writer, the Window Licking twins, and I walked out past fire hydrants and street lights. Every third one of them was off. It was getting darker and the wind slammed plastic bags, leaves, and other debris in our faces. A bird’s nest whipped across my left shoulder. I think that there were still chicks in it. We went to see if the pharmacy was still accepting paying customers and those with top-notch insurance plans. If only we could have scored some scripts to use at the pharmacy.
“Here comes the hail from Hell!” Sven said.
“My umbrella is broke. It’s not going to stop shit,” Trapper said. “Hey, Sven, what if the fire ants attached themselves to poisonous snakes that could swim and traveled all over the place conquering the world?”
“I suppose that they could easily dominate unless they ran into a group of worse fire ants that rode hawks,” Sven said.
“Blarny’s Pharmacy appears to still be open. Maybe we can get some umbrellas for a discount since there won’t be anyone in town for while,” Watts said. “Plus, he sells warm beer, tobacco, and other miscellaneous supplies in there, too.”
“I’m banned from there for loitering and pick pocketing,” Trapper said.
“Blarny’s manager, Milt, only banned him because Trapper beat him at a rigorous Ping-Pong match one year at summer camp,” Sven said. “Oak Owl Lake Park, or something, right?”
“Yeah. That’s right. That asshole has been on my Shit List for damn near thirteen years,” Trapper said. “On and off, that is, but one of these days he’ll get it.”
“Fuck them all,” Watts said. “I’ll go in there and get us some umbrellas and whatever else seems useful. Cough up some money. I can’t cover it all.”
“Get me some acne medicine for my back,” Trapper said. “It breaks out worse when I’m uncomfortable and stressed.” Trapper handed Watts a wrinkled twenty and sixty-seven cents.
“What about you? Whatcha got?” Watts said to Sven.
“Fifteen dollars and thirty-three cents,” He said. “I got some coupons for some miscellaneous items that aren’t yet expired. Here.”
“The mist and fog won’t set in for another three hours. It runs in perpetual cycles,” Trapper said. “That sounds like something I might have read in Reader’s Digest or something. They don’t lie, ya know.”
“Look, the two of you sit down on that bench while I go in. Don’t move,” Watts said. “I’ll be right out. You coming?”
“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t take being around the Window Lickers anymore.
The Window Lickers sat on a blue painted wood bench that had an advertisement sign for Otis Trang’s law firm. Mr. Trang covered renter’s grievances, workman’s comp, copyright infringement and immigration. They looked like they were waiting for a bus or
something. Their arms were folded and their heads were looking down. The hoods of their windbreakers couldn’t stop the sideways mist that was making them feel as if they were being drenched in the produce section of a supermarket. They were nervous and lonely and starting to get soaked.
“I thought that you just mentioned that it was going to be three hours or so until this shit started,” Sven said.
Watts turned from the three of us and cut through the bank’s parking lot to get to Blarny’s. The wind had really started to kick up and the rain was pounding the sides of our faces. I didn’t feel like getting any wetter than I had to, so I ran towards Blarny’s front door as fast as possible. I had my inhaler.
While cutting through the bank’s manicured lawn, I splashed across a puddle that was caused by a broken sprinkler. My socks and tennis shoes were soaked. When I was finally sheltered by the store’s vinyl canopy I could see, through the smudged reflection of the glass in the door, the Window Lickers running for a nearby fake palm tree in the bank’s parking lot. The tree spread out wide and kept them sheltered for a while. I opened the wood framed door that held a pane of thick glass in the middle of it. Bells the size of tennis balls jingled when I walked through as if I was collecting for the Salvation Army or something. The old pharmacy had regained quietness after the chimes silenced. I could smell BenGay.
There was some shitty smooth elevator jazz overhead, but its volume was minimal. I heard a cough back by the camera section. Then I heard Watts trying to get old man Blarny’s attention. “Excuse me, sir,” Watts said. “Where are your umbrellas?”
Mr. Blarny didn’t pay any attention to Watts or me.
I grabbed a cart and pushed it over to some cases of bottled water and grabbed one of them. The sign said that they were 50% off.
“Sir,” Watts said. “Umbrellas, do you have any?” He was walking down aisle 5 heading to the camera department with questions not related to film or shutter exposure time.
I continued to push my cart through the canyons of processed foods and cheap plastic goods that I’d never purchase.
I grabbed some cases of Budweiser and some cheap bottles of vodka and scotch, two 2-litres of 7-Up, two 2-litres of Pepsi and a box of blush wine. Five liters for only seven bucks is doable, I thought. Plus, the bladder that holds the wine will make it easier to drink it in the car. “Are you accepting debit cards,” I said.
“Pops, where is Milt?” Watts said. “Can ya hear me? Are ya still alive?”
“Whaadge ya say?” Mr. Blarny said. “I think I should close.”
“That’s fine, but sell us some umbrellas and whatever he’s loading in the cart,” Watts said. “We want to get out of here as fast as you do. Where ya headed to ride out the storm?”
“My basement,” Mr. Blarny said.
“How far south do you live from the water?”
“On it. I got a wonderful view.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, Pops? Officials are telling folks to flee at least twenty miles south,” Watts said. “Get up into higher ground or just plain farther away. You’re talking foolishness and suicide.”
“I aint leaving my trains behind. You can bet your ass on that,” Mr. Blarny said.
“Sixty-seven years of collecting aint gonna be washed away to sea without me at least putting up some kind of fight. I didn’t have enough time to get some of my trains properly evacuated from my house.”
“So you’re going to stay in your basement when the storm comes ripping through this place?” Watts said. “You’re crazy. I would imagine that you at least secured the valuable ones.”
“What is valuable? Our definitions differ, I’d bet,” Blarny said.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said from the greeting card isle. “Nonetheless, if the experts are right, we need to leave very soon.”
“That’s the problem with you kids and your lackadaisical generation,” Mr. Blarny said. “No guts. No gusto. You don’t know how to live.”
“Hey, Mr. Blarny,” Watts said. “How about hooking us up with some Morphine, Oxycodone, or something. You know, just in case something happens and we need some pain killers for some unfortunate souls that we may run into along the way.”
“Nice try,” Mr. Blarny said. “I stopped fixing junkies years ago. I thought that I was helping to ease their pains and sicknesses, but I was just causing and magnifying it.”
“Neither one of us is a junky, Mr. Blarny,” I said. “Look at my arms. No tracks.”
Two hours later we were at a boat in Michigan City, Indiana. It was the first one that we found open, taking money with a smile, laughing hysterically and holding its side. So were we. Mr. Blarny gave us some Morphine. Lots of it. Thankfully in pill form.
“We need a sailboat,” I said.
The casino knew 85% of these pathetic people were without shelter and/or the mental capabilities to get them across the street, let alone, place a winning bet. Watts and the Window Lickers lost about a hundred a piece, but I walked out up $300. I won it all pulling slot levers. Plus, Watts had paid for all of my beers while we were there.
“DING DING DING DING DING!” bounced through my head for a couple of days after that night. The sweetest dreams that I’d had in a long time.
The people that were stuck in that Northwestern Indiana town were complaining about not being able to leave because the airports and marinas were shut down, the rental cars had all zoomed away, and all of the gasoline had been gulped down.
We left to meet up with some friends in South Bend and figure out our plans. Watts was driving down State Road 2 at about 95 mph to make good time. Right after we passed up a sign that said “Heston Bar” on it, a State trooper raced up on us from behind, flashed the lights and sounded the siren. Watts signaled right and pulled onto the graveled shoulder.
“Where in the fuck do think you’re going?” the cop said. “Do you have any idea how fast you were traveling, sir?”
“No, sir, I don’t, but we are fleeing the storm. It’s on its way,” Watts said.
“Give me your license and registration. That goes for you other boys. Give me your identification.”
We all gave up our licenses. I was fine. Watts received a speeding ticket for going forty mph over the speed limit. The Window Lickers, however, were arrested because they both had bench warrants for miscellaneous, petty crap that they pulled a few years back. I was glad to have them gone. They really started getting on my nerves after we forgot Trapper’s back acne lotion.
Watts and I got to my friend Jerry’s who invited us to crash for a few days if need be. We were very grateful to him and gave him the rest of the wine. We hadn’t touched much of it because we somehow forgot ice. Amateurs.
After a few hours of hanging out, Watts said that he wanted to go see an old fuck-buddy from high school that stripped in downtown, South Bend. He never went anywhere that wasn’t at least 20 miles from Lake Michigan’s coastline. Well, unless he was driving to another Great Lake coastline. He wouldn’t hesitate to drive northwest to Isle Royale National Park or Northeast to Mackinaw City. Watts promised to do his best at getting some of his friend’s co-workers to come over.
After he left I flipped on the T.V. On the news there were interviews with people waiting for the storm and its effects in cities and towns around Lake Michigan and the other Great Lakes.
“Shut down? You mean a massive hurricane dare come through an unorthodox weather pattern without clearing it through corrupt politics?” an old-timer from Highland Park, Illinois said. He clearly looked deranged.
“Your money can’t save your souls now! You’re all lucky if it doesn’t mutilate where you all live and work,” a Moroccan finger-snapper said. He came over to the U.S. and moved to Chicago in August of 1984. After that NFL season he became a Bears fan.
“Get out of the storm’s devastation vicinity. Leave your womb cocoon,” came from a loud speaker atop of a mini-van in Saugatuck, Michigan. It was covered with stickers from camp sites located in different State and National Parks.
I pointed the remote and turned off the television, recapped my empty beer and thought about kissing a woman. I thought about the many that I had kissed in the past and the many more floating in the future. I thought about the chaos that was occurring around the Great Lakes and all the people who would be caught off guard, their bloated bodies fed upon by sturgeon and bass. These images forced some saline seepage through my black eye lashes. The mix of beer and morphine assisted the salty water’s maneuver from my ducts to my dimples. Maybe they had been caused by a yawn I hadn’t paid attention to.
“Thank God for South Bend, eh” Jerry said. “You know it used to be part of Michigan.”
“Nope. I sure didn’t.” I said.
The black phone on the wall rang. Jerry banged the last two toes of his left foot on the corner of a large bronze statue of a nude woman that his ex-girlfriend made him.
“FUCK! Why did she have to make this so huge?” Jerry said. He left it there when they broke up because of its size. He limped over to the phone and snatched it up.
“It’s Watts. He wants to talk to you.” Jerry gave me the phone. I miss corded phones. There is a little bit of security in them.
“Yeah? Really? I’ll be ready,” I said to Watts. I handed the phone back to Jerry. He put it to his head and listened before hanging it up.
“What’d he say?” Jerry said.
“He’s on his way over to pick me up. We’re going back.”
“What are you talking about?” Jerry said.
“There’s not going to be any hurricanes or tornadoes, but there is going to be massive waves that will wipe out some areas. Others will be spared and those places that the waves will demolish have already been alerted.”
“So, the innocent will be spared?” Jerry said.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but the strong will.”
“Huh?” Jerry said.
I turned the T.V. back on and sure enough there were surfboards, bikinis and giant inflatable beer cans anchored into the cement, blanketing various beaches around the Great Lakes.
Watts had told me that some sports channel was in town to film the surfing event once it was ruled that hurricanes weren’t coming. The best surfers from the entire world are flocking to the Great Lakes like Canadian geese. Lake Michigan, particular. The best waves seem to be crashing there.
“It was kind of like an intuition or a planned-out schema that had always been,” some surfer said. “I’m totally stoked to rip up Huron.”
“Yeah…sure…whatever,” Jerry said. “Thanks for visitin’. It was good to see ya and your friend.”
“You, too. You’re more than welcome to ride back with us and watch the surfers. I mean, they’re world class, ya know?” I said. “Plus, there is probably some beer company sponsoring the event. Who knows, maybe there’s some samples flowing.”
“Fuck it; I’ve got a three-day weekend. I’m down,” Jerry said. “So, what happened to all of those hurricane threats and the end-of-the-world talk, anyways? I thought it was going to be catastrophic.”
“It was ruled that they’re scientifically impossible,” I said. “Get ready, Watts will be here soon.”
“I’ll grab my sun block,” Jerry said.

Your Momma

“Mitchee boy, get me a drink while you’re up,” Max hollered. He scratched his balls and snickered at something on the television screen.
Mitch and Max were half brothers who shared the same dad and craving for alcohol. Mitch preferred top shelf booze and imported microbrews from small college towns. Max couldn’t give a shit about anything except for how retarded his drunkenness made him. His favorite indicator was when he would locate women that he perceived to be perfect tens, but friends, and strangers, would stare and laugh at him as he sloppily made out with them. It would happen on the ripped leather cushions of booths in the back of dives engulfed by violent aromas. Or, on the couches of trendy, downtown martini bars while being lassoed together by the cigar smoke of posh hipsters, capitalists and other idealistic professionals with sham laughs.
“Mitchee, what the fuck’s takin’ so long. I’m drying up over here,” Max whined.
Mitch still didn’t answer Max’s repetitive demands. He just sat on the old white toilet which they had had since he was in the fourth grade, put down the newspaper and wiped. He remembered how their dad had to get a new one because Max had flushed numerous M-80s, with waterproof wicks, down the old one. The blast blew out the base of the toilet and the connecting pipes. Their dad bought it used for fifteen dollars at a church bazaar.
As a boy, Mitch remembered dreading a used toilet that possibly could contain someone’s poop stains or butt hairs on it. Thankfully, his dad had equipped it with a new
plastic seat and some fresh turquoise carpeted floor mats for the bathroom.
Max didn’t even care it was used. He just loved sitting on the original cushioned seat, Mitch remembered.
Mitch sauntered through the constricted hall of their dad’s post World War II slab house. He looked to his right and witnessed his half brother sitting in a lounge chair and drinking a beer while watching the God channel.
“Where were you? I needed a beer,” Max said.
“I was taking a shit and thinking about you.”
“Thanks. Hey, watch this guy heal cripples and other people by smacking their face,” Max said. “It’s pretty cool.”
“I’m missing my last Barton Bridge Wheat Ale,” Mitch said from the kitchen. “This ale is sixteen dollars a six pack. I had to order it on-line.”
“Sorry. I gave it to that girl who stayed here last night. Like you, she also hates beer in a can, Max said. “You can have one of my Wisconsin’s Favorite.”
“You gave it to that nasty whore! She doesn’t deserve to drink a bottle of piss, let alone, award winning ale.”
“I’m the whore. Leave her out of it.” Max said. “Besides, she said she’d bring some more of that over sometime for a pre-party of some kind. She said she might stop by later, if we’re hanging out. Maybe she’ll bring some friends.”
Mitch grabbed two pilsners, brewed in Philadelphia, went out the back screen door, and headed for the hammock on the Northwest corner of their lot. Almost everyday he laid in it and drank at least two beers since the day their dad died of lung cancer.
Before their dad became too weak from the chemo sessions, he would lie out there and have no less than two beers after he got off of work.
Their father was truck driver and had impregnated two different women in the same year. Both women were coke-head strippers who wanted nothing to do with kids. Their dad raised them the best he saw fit which meant letting them figure out life for themselves. After their dad died, Mitch and Max inherited the house and an unbelievable life insurance check that was put into a trust fund-style account because their dad knew that they’d blow it all in Vegas or on some bad microbrew investment.
“I can’t believe he let her drink my beer,” Mitch said as he downed his second.
Mitch hopped off the hammock and walked around to the front of the house to get the mail. He was hoping for the newest edition of Microbrew Illustrated to be folded, like a half pipe, under small envelopes containing bills, crap from credit card companies, and lawn services. When he opened the mailbox, which was shaped like a large mouth bass, he saw the pile configuration that he wanted. Unfortunately, it was one of Max’s jerk-off magazines on the bottom of the envelopes that had cellophane covering their address.
He walked in the front door and threw Max’s magazine at him and headed for the kitchen.
“Finally,” Max said. “This was supposed to be here yesterday.”
“You couldn’t wait one day?”
“You wouldn’t be able to wait for this either,” he exclaimed as he thrusted the magazine up in the air.
Mitch grabbed a Dizzy Donkey Pale Ale from the fridge and looked up. He could make out the image of naked black woman spread eagle on a rickety Ping-Pong table.
“Perhaps,” Mitch said. He slammed down a quarter of the amber bottle.
“Ya wanna smoke this doober with me? It’s some sticky hydroponic that I scored from Mitts,” Max said. He then started rolling a joint with the amateur assistance of a five dollar bill.
Mitch was an occasional pot smoker, but that, like alcohol, was only if it was of premium quality. Max usually was holding shwag, but when he had potent, dank weed Mitch rarely could refuse a hit or two.
“Here ya go Mitchee boy, fire it up,” Max said as he flipped through the channels removing the spiritual head smacking that had earlier illuminated from the forty-eight inch set.
Max had spent some of his inheritance on the TV and a 1974 Toyota Land Cruiser. He also bought a 1983 BMW motorcycle that he wrecked a week after buying it. He had taken three Percocets and drank six cans of beer when he hit the side of a short bus full of handicapped kids from Clinton Elementary. Somehow, he’d gotten out of any possible legal or medical problems. Max had always had some good angel, omen or luck paying attention. Maybe he sold a forged copy of his soul to the devil.
Mitch sparked up the joint and took a couple of long, clean hits and passed it back to his brother. When he exhaled the plume of smoke, it rose up to the ceiling fan, was shattered, and sent across the room. Almost instantly, he could feel the THC enter his brain and bloodstream.
“I want to play a video game,” Mitch said. “I’ll kick your ass at something.”
This actually threw Max off because Mitch hadn’t challenged him to a video game since their historic Nintendo battles of their youth.
“I can put Super Tecmo Bowl in,” Max said.
“It still works?” Mitch said.
“Hell yeah, it still works,” Max said. “I get controller one.”
Simultaneously, they both remembered the “your momma” jokes that they would say to each other since they had different moms. They loved doing this in view of the fact that neither of them knew their mother, so they didn’t care what the other said. They also remembered how the games would bring on extraordinary arguments and fistfights when one of them would get fed up and try to get the game to reset by pulling on the controller’s cord. Their dad would watch and tell them that life is tough so they had to be, too.
“Fine. I get San Francisco,” Mitch said.
“So. I’ll take the Oakland Raiders. Battle of the Bay, punk,” Max taunted.
“Montana and Rice will destroy you.” Mitch said.
“You’re so high. You have no idea what the hell you’re even talkin’ about,” Max said. He then turned his attention to the game consol and did the traditional blowing ritual to assist with the technological booting process. “Go fill that little cooler over by the sink with ice and beers while I bang on this Nintendo to get the game to register.”
“Remember, blow back and forth twice on the microchips on the game and give three strong blows directly into the system. And for Christ’s sake, don’t spit on anything,” Mitch said. He then proceeded to encase the bottles and cans of beer with ice
cubes in the plastic and mesh cooler. He grabbed the cooler’s strap with his right hand and a pizza box, which contained the leftovers of an extra-large pineapple, pepperoni, and jalapeño pie that Max received in a trade for joint and a couple of airline bottles of Hot Damn, with his left.
Max would have been a hell of a fur trader, with his own bartering post on the bank of some unclaimed river territory or some other kind of entrepreneurial wilderness man wearing dingy leather pelt outfits, lined with the fur of the sprawled out, diseased road kill, frozen stiff by freight and expired mortality during the exodus west, Mitch thought, while securing the beers and food on his way to relive a pleasurable part of his past.
“I remember when you won that cooler at the family reunion a couple of years ago,” Max said. “You and Uncle Pete were the only ones that didn’t drop an egg during the toss.”
“You made it pretty far with Aunt Fran’s boyfriend, Carl, but then you blew it.”
“I did it on purpose. Carl is a prick. I threw it hard at his weasel face. His reflexes sucked and I think he got a little shell poked into his retina or cornea or something.”
“Yeah, well, I was just surprised that this cooler held twelve cans plus a reasonable amount of ice. The only downfall is that it leaks when the ice melts,” Mitch said. He handed Max a can of beer, from one of his thirty packs, that he purchased warm for $7.99 at the liquor store on Lime Street across from the driving school.
“Alright, the system is up! Prepare to get stomped by Oakland’s rushing attack,” Max said and then shot-gunned the beer that Mitch had just given to him.
“You want another one?” Mitch said.
“Yep, but my fingers are still sticky from breaking up that weed,” Max said. He then started rubbing his fingers together trying to get the gummy substance to form removable balls of resin to flick in Mitch’s general direction.
Better than earwax or boogers Mitch reckoned.
The animated players and officials ran to the center of the field for the coin toss. Mitch won the toss and decided to kick the ball of to Max so he could receive the ball in the second half. Mitch’s fingers were stiff from his lack of practice.
“All right, hold on a sec. Let me figure out the controller and its’ buttons before I kick the ball off to your sorry ass,” Mitch said.
“Take all the time you need, loser. I’m just gonna put this roach in the bong and fire it back up,” Max said unflinchingly. He freed the weed from its wrapping and dissevered the compacted cylinder of marijuana so that it could be stuffed into the bowl of the bong.
“Let’s go! My plays are set I’m ready to kick the ball off as soon as I finish my beer.”
Max, while in the middle of a staggering cough session after hitting the bong, raised his left thumb in acknowledgement and his right middle finger as a psychological gesture to his opponent.
Mitch hit the red button on the controller, triggering the animated player to kick the ball off. Their strife was reborn.
By halftime, Max’s Raiders were winning 24-19.
“If it wasn’t for that cheap fumble, you’d be down by at least fourteen. Throw me one of my beers from the cooler,” Max said.
“Seriously, why did you give one of my beers away? You knew that there were others for her to choose from,” Mitch said. He handed Max a beer.
“Settle down, ya stingy tight-ass. She said she’ll be back later to repay the generous hospitality.”
“Hospitality? I don’t ever recall offering her any of my beers,” Mitch said. “If I’m not here to do the offering, tell your buddies that you can only provide what’s yours.”
“Kick off the ball already. You’re always bitching about something irrelevant. I said she’ll be here later, with supplies.”
Right after Max said this to Mitch, the game disappeared from the screen and sundry solid blocks of vivid colors flashed repeatedly until Mitch threw his controller at the system, causing the screen to sojourn to blue. Mitch stood up irritated, paranoid, and buzzed out-of-his-mind. He walked over to the picture window and took a hard hit of his beer.
“Look at this woodpecker banging away at these tree limbs,” Mitch said. He took another drink. “I think the woodpecker is my favorite bird. It’s like there’s little beings riding them and exploiting them for construction purposes. Their pay is tiny insects.”
“You’re still pretty high, eh?” Max said. He then began to bang on the side of the Nintendo hoping to get it to reboot.
Mitch walked into the kitchen and grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator. As he was closing the door, the phone rang and Max answered it.
“Of course we’d love to have you over tonight. Sure. Eight would be perfect and your gifts will be deeply appreciated,” Max said. “See you then.”
“Who was that?”
“It was the girl who enjoyed your overpriced beer. She and a friend are coming by later with a case of your precious wheat beer along with some wine from where her friend works. They’ll be here in about two hours or so,” Max said. He lit a cigarette.
“We should probably start cleaning up a little,” Mitch said. “Maybe start with all your shit on the floor.”
“How about you clean everything up, since, well, you’re better at it and I’ll go get a bottle of scotch and some condoms,” Max said. He started looking for his keys.
“Hell no. I’ll clean up most of it, but you’re cleaning up your cereal bowls and soiled clothes that have been piled up in the corner for two weeks. Plus, I need a shower.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be back in a few,” Max said as he banged into the doorframe on his way outside. “Ouch. Go take a shower. I can smell you from here,” he shouted from the sidewalk.
After Mitch got out of the shower he got most of the house presentable enough for female visitors. He took a few plies of toilet paper and wiped the toilet bowl clean of any errant pubic hairs, piss (wet and dry), and did the same around the bottom of the toilet. After he flushed the paper, he put down the seat and the cover, sprayed some air
freshener, and checked the rest of the house for evidence of their uncultivated drunken lifestyle. He turned on the stereo and Bowie’s “Golden Years” started blaring from the night before.
He wiped off their speckled, Formica counter-top into his left hand and dumped the crumbs and twist ties into the trash can.
I better wash our drinking glasses, Mitch thought, while searching for his favorite shot glass that he had stolen from a punk bar in Chicago nine years earlier.
Max returned about an hour later with the scotch, condoms, chips and salsa, and a tabloid magazine that featured a picture of a former President shaking hands with the severed tentacle of the elusive giant squid somewhere on an island in the South Pacific. Max put the stuff on the dining room table and commented on how the tentacle had its own hand to shake with and said to Mitch, “I bet that tentacle could kick the shit out of that boy who was half bat.”
“You’re crazy. How in the world could a severed tentacle, with only one hand, stand a chance against an evolutionary freak of nature like batboy?” Mitch said. He punched Max in the shoulder.
“Watch out. Don’t be pushin’ on me, tough guy,” Max said. He then shoved Mitch onto the couch.
Mitch got up and picked up the tabloid. He turned it to the story about the orphaned limb. In the story the tentacle stated that it had decided to stay alive just to spite the rest of its ex-body and claim all of the fame and celebrity statues that would follow after the tabloids’ publication. When the former President asked the extremity about how
it became independent from the rest of its body, the tentacle explained that the giant squid ripped him from the rest of the body while trying to free itself from baited hooks which were equipped with deep-sea cameras. They were placed there by scientists so that they might capture the first ever sighting of a live giant squid in its natural habitat.
The tentacle said, “I cannot comprehend how introducing temptation, in the form of baited hooks equipped with hidden cameras, was designed to embody our unmolested habitation. I mean, seriously, do your scientists actually believe that we would subsist near those deathtraps?” Mitch figured it would have a snooty accent. Maybe British or something.
“Unbelievable. People somehow believe this shit,” Mitch said. He turned to the page that featured the cat that was a bingo wizard. “How in the hell could it have known that B7 was going to be called?”
Mitch started to turn to the next inconceivable story when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Is Max handy?” said a scratchy voiced vixen.
“No he’s not. He’s in the shower at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Who’s this?”
“Mitch, Max’s brother. Who’s this?”
“This is Caroline. Will you please tell him that I won’t be able to make it over tonight? Something’s come up.”
“You’re the one who drank my Barton Bridge Wheat Ale when you stayed over the other night. I can’t believe he let such an unreliable whore like you drink my beer.
“Whatever,” she said. He heard the dial tone.
“Who was that?” Max said while peering out of the bathroom.
“It was that nasty skank you gave my beer to. She isn’t coming over.”
“Oh well, that sucks.” Max said.
Mitch went to the refrigerator and hulled out some twelve grain bread, peppered turkey, yellow mustard, some sharp cheddar cheese and made a large sandwich. He put the remainder of the items back into the fridge and pulled out three beers and put them in his pant pockets. As he made his way toward the backdoor he grabbed a couple of Max’s cigarettes and lighter and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.
“Where ya going?” Max said. “Ya wanna go out tonight? Maybe hit some bars?”
“No. I’ll be swaying in the hammock tonight.” Max said and walked out the backdoor.

I Could Use the Fresh Air

We’re in the days of fad diets, self-help remedies and a shit load of people telling you how to achieve the ultimate happiness. These facets are consumed and regurgitated faster than they’re published and promoted. Put it all on a talk show and fight it out for yourselves, is what I’ve always thought best.
“Eat meat,” one side informs you.
“Don’t eat meat,” the other pitifully begs.
An old guy, named William, came up to me and broke my concentration by whispering, “an alcoholic can never be constipated because of the way liquor burns through a man’s system.”
“Luckily for me, I have a vagina and usually only drink beer and wine,” I whispered back.
“None the less, you’re an alcoholic like your great-grandma. Your vagina probably stinks like hers, too,” he said.
“What’s that?” I said. He got up and grabbed the coat off his stool that he’d been resting on. He struggled putting it on and then put a cigarette into his tight mouth which looked like an asshole.
“I’ll tell your grandma that you said hello when I see her in hell,” he said. He tipped his hat to me and someone behind me and hobbled out the back door.
I spun around from watching the old guy’s exit and noticed the half eaten cardboard-people moving in geometrical patterns in and out of the front door. Others were cramming the jukebox full of metal circles and their impatience. Their plasticity looked as if someone in Taiwan had pulled them off the production line to give them a test run for the investors. “Look, they’ll play all of your hits.” Some poor suit would tell them.
Someone fired four shots from a .22 into the ceiling and screamed, “THE TIME FOR LIFE IS AFTER THIS DEATH!” Another laughed, pointed to the holes and puked.
“Bill, that guy that just left, was right you know,” a moldy, golden oldie in her eighties said to me.
“Excuse me.”
“He was right about your great-grandma being a drunk with a smelly kitty,” she said with a wink and walked away.
As I was trying to figure out what all these old people were telling me, two Coors bottles whipped past my head. One hit a wood paneled wall that supported the payphone. The other crashed into the head of the old woman that had just spoke to me. She fell to the ground with an awful thud and her chin bounced like a dropped ping-pong ball to the beat of a Prince song.
The bottom of the bottle ricocheted off the old lady’s cranium and tore through the bar for a few feet and crashed into a business man’s face. The blood from the spectacle splattered across the uniforms of three cheerleaders and a mailman.
Like a corkscrew, the old lady coiled up into the fetal position while cursing God. Behind me I heard another gunshot and Velvet Underground blasting through the bar’s speakers.
“Vivian! Oh, Vivian. Are you ok?” was heard coming from a middle-aged woman who had hopped down from dancing on a table and started running to the back of the bar toward the haggard old lady. I could see that she’d been partially scalped. The blood flow was breathtaking.
A small invalid bald man scooted by with non-dairy creamer in his Kahlua and pinched my ass. I took a swing at him, but my timing was off from the booze and I missed, spilling my drink on my sleeve.
“He’s lookin’ fer freaky sluts who like crippled men with bumpy dicks,” a man said. He had a nose that looked like on of those New Yorker caricature drawings of W.C. Fields or Ted Kennedy.
“That’s fine, but if he touches my ass or any other part of me for that matter I’ll cut his lumpy dick off and shove back into the wound.”
“He might like that so I’d keep that kinda talk down if you don’t want him to hear ya,” the man said.
I made sure that my five inch buck knife was in my back pocket and that I ordered bottled beer for the rest of the night just incase I needed a quick weapon. I surely wouldn’t hesitate to cut that sick fucker or anyone else for that matter.
“Bottle of Bud please,” I told the bartender.
“Ya don’t want anymore well drinks? They’re on special,” the bartender said.
“No thanks. I’ll stick with beer for the rest of the night.”
“$2.50,” the bartender said.
“Keep it,” I said while sliding $3 across the glossy, maple bar.
“Where izz da cricket people? All that sexual leg rubbin’ leadin’ to squealing and a sticky grappling jamboree,” a man, who spoke with the assistance of a robotic voice manipulator, said from behind me.
I turned around and looked down at a one eyed midget with a yellow bandanna tied to the top of his head. He had just removed the voice box with his right hand and inserted a Merit methanol 100 into his trachea hole with his left. He appeared to be about 4’ 9” and Hispanic. With his cigarette in the mini-abyss in his throat, he used his left hand (which was missing his middle finger) for leverage while trying to pry free an open space at the bar. He was able to achieve this when a married, but secretly gay city councilman thought that a fresh faced tanned college kid walked by, brushed up against ass and outer-thigh and whispered something about a car in the alley. He quickly hopped of his stool and followed him to the back of the bar where the debauchery had occurred earlier.
Another gun was fired directly into the ceiling, sending plaster and wood splinters across the tavern, falling into the bar-back’s hair and onto some guy talking to his wife on the bars’ phone. There were three gender specific screams following the reports. There was a man’s, a woman’s and the councilman’s who had previously applied make-up, a wig, a dress and even put on torn pantyhose. He was doing this because the fresh-faced tanned man denied his sexual advancements. He then thought it best to wait for the boys to get drunk and then get them while they couldn’t control what they see or think.

After a tug on my jacket, I heard muttered, “A joint smoked along the river route would be a welcomed enhancement to a normally boring and skeptical remaining full moon morning.”
I turned around and saw a guy that I barely knew, but had friends that hung out with him. He was one of the only, somewhat, normal looking drinkers in the place. He had an honest look about him. Kinda cute, too.
“Do you have one or are you just mumbling?” I said.
“Yeah. Shit yeah,” he said. “Would you like to take a walk around the river walk with me and burn one? It’s pretty high quality.”
“I’ll fucking kill you if you even try anything remotely close to something that makes me uncomfortable.”
“I figured as much from watching you. You have a special aura about you,” he said. “Smoke?” He held out a Camel Light and I put it in my mouth. He lit it and I thanked him.
“Well, if you’re interested, I’m gonna take a walk after this beer,” he said.
“I think I might. This place is getting crazier and crazier,” I said. “Maybe it will calm down in about a half hour or so.”
“Maybe it will, but this place is never really calm. It just simmers down enough to shock a person to death,” he said.
“That’s why I love this place. I was pretty much raised here,” I said. “We used to have a house so full of birds that we could understand them and as a result, we had to split and make this our new domicile.”
“Really? How and why did that happen?” He said.
“Well, my uncle used to be managing partner with a cousin of mine, by marriage on the other side, and my parents were always here drinking and playing cards, pool, darts. Whatever,”
“That’s cool, but I meant the bird thing. What did you mean by understanding them?” He said.
“Well, I’ll explain that memory after we get back from smoking that joint you were talking about,” I said. “I’m definitely down with leaving as soon as you finish your drink. I could use the fresh air.”
“Me too. There’s nothing like a late night walk,” he said. “I’ve got a pretty fat joint. It might last us about a half hour or so.”
“Whatever. I’ve got nowhere to go,” I said. “It’s early and there shouldn’t be too many weirdoes down there. Well, maybe except for us.”
The bar’s scene faded as we went out the front door. We took a right and headed towards the wooden stairs that lead down to the river walkway.
A gust of wind blew cigarette butts down the sidewalk and into the street. I stepped on a couple of Merit butts by the sewer cover. The streets’ pavement was as cracked as the sidewalks’ cement. Small dandelions sprouted through. We made our way down the warped wood that made up the staircase that leads to a walkway and hobo fishing spots. He pulled out a shiny metal flask that said IT BURNS, and smiled at me. “Scotch, if you’re interested.”
“Sure.” I grabbed the flask and slammed a little down. It was a good.
He lit the joint and passed it over to me and I gave him back the flask.
“If it tastes a little odd, it’s because the papers are supposed to be bacon flavored. I don’t think that it tastes like bacon, though,” he said.
“Bacon? I’ve heard of paper flavors that taste good, but I would have never put bacon in that category.” I hit it hard, coughed and my eyes watered. I heard laser blasts and oinking in my head.
“It’s the only papers that the gas station had. Besides, it won’t affect the smoke’s potency,” he said. I handed him back the joint.
“I love bacon, but why wouldn’t they make filet mignon or lobster?” I said. I watched him has he inhaled his hit. Something about him seemed more familiar than just chance encounters. It seemed like we had more history than we were led to believe.
“I think it’s just a novelty. The smiling piglets give it away,” he said.
I took the joint from the shadow of his fingers. An apartment’s parking lot spotlight shined down on us from the across the river’s bank. We were only about halfway through the joint when I knew that I was cooked. “I’m cool. Here, take it from me.”
“Told you,” he said. “Don’t mess around with the homegrown pig-in-a-blanket that we grow.”
“More like pig-blanket wrapped,” I said.
“Huh? Ya wanna head back to the bar?” he said. “I could use a beer.”
“Yeah. I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m fucking stoned and need a beer and have to piss.”
As we turned around to head back the thought of us being in an anti-drug commercial flashed through my mind. It would inform kids that Life on drugs gets you nowhere or Drugs keep people moving in circles. It would show some people like us and they would just smoke dope all day, walk around in circles, be jobless and have huge smiles on their faces. Sounds perfect.
I had noticed that the wooden planks of the walkway weren’t as warped as the stairs, but were definitely more heavily splinted. I thought about mothers and grandmothers bringing their little ones down to the river to look at boats and nature. I thought about the children running or riding bikes without training wheels. They’d never make it. They’d certainly crash violently, descending down being pierced and torn apart by sharp shards of cheaply treated wood. They’d probably sue the city. I would.
We happened to see some homeless men fishing under a bridge. They were standing on crumbling cement bridge supports that kinda looked like fat cigars and their fire in a metal trash can brightened like its cherry. We hadn’t noticed them when we came down the stairs because they had been behind us, but now we could see them laughing and sharing small bottles of booze. Well, that’s what we’d figured they were sharing.
“They’re not going to eat those fish, are they? I’m pretty sure that the water is polluted,” I said. “Look at it. It’s all slimy and shit.”
“If they’re homeless they probably eat it. What else are they going to do?” he said. “I just can’t figure out why in the hell they buy those little bottles instead of just
saving a little better or find some more cans and get a bigger bottle. Don’t they know that it’s usually cheaper that way?”
As we got closer we noticed that there were two older black guys and a middle-aged looking white guy. Both of the old black dudes had white beards and white hair that stuck out of their ball caps. They were the ones holding the fishing poles, laughing and sharing cheap booze. The white guy looked confused like a kid that had confirmed Santa’s nonexistence. He just was sitting on a flipped over bucket looking straight at us, silently. He was demented, but too young to have been in Nam.
“Let’s go talk to them,” he said. “It would help the night make sense.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve gotta piss and want a beer besides, they’re bums that eat fish from the water and the white guy is creeping my ass out.”
“Alright, well thanks for coming with me. I think I’m gonna go over here and hang with these guys for awhile. I’ve got my flask and they’ve got their flask sized bottles,” he said. “Maybe I can share the rest of this joint with them for the chance to catch some fish.”
“Are you serious? Because if you are, I hope that you eat whatever you catch, get sick and die a horrible death.”
“Thanks for the company. You’ve been a real doll,” he said. “Here, take this.” He handed me two more cigarettes. “I’ll probably be around later.”
“I won’t, but thanks for the smokes. Be careful down there,” I said.
I watched him walk towards the bums. He was probably thinking about how he’d greet them or something that wouldn’t make him stick out too much.
As soon as he got onto the cement platform the white guy stood up and screamed. The black guys turned around and started shouting at him and I could tell that he was trying to show them the flask and the half smoked joint. The white guy sprung off his bucket and tackled him. I think that the white guy started to devour him. Not in a zombie-braineaters way, but more like a mother that has to eat her young way. The black guys just turned back to the river. I turned around and ran up the stairs faster than I’ve ever moved in my adult life. I was praying that I wouldn’t slip, fall, and penetrate myself on the neglected wood steps. I made it up to the busy intersection and ran back towards the safety of the bar. I was going back to the womb.