What kind of question is that?

24 05 2008

So I woke up a few minutes ago, dizzy, disoriented, and terribly thirsty. I may have exhausted myself earlier while running–I got lost in some neighborhood and probably ran an extra two miles as a result–and my brain is still pretty fried. So, being thirsty and half-asleep, I decide to walk up to the main office, underneath which they have a Gatorade machine. 

On the way there, I pass a building with three girls and one guy sitting out on the balcony. 

“Hey,” calls the fatter one of the four. It was a pretty close competition, in that respect.

“Hi,” I mumble in response.

“What are you doing up so late?” You know, as if they knew my regular sleeping habits, and were surprised at this unexpected burst of insomnia.

“I’m thirsty!” I yell as I walk past. 

“We’ve got bottled water!” echoes the reply from behind me. Ugh. Two things I find quite distasteful, especially when I first wake up: fat girls and bottled water. If God had wanted me to fuck around with a bunch of fat girls, he would not have made fresh water so readily available in lakes, streams and rivers.

I arrive at the Gatorade machine to find it unplugged. 

“Fuck,” I say, attempting to reason with the machine. “You goddamned lazy communist cocksucker–why did come all the way down here for this?”

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me at the door. 

“Hey!” comes the fatty chorus. “We wanted to make sure you didn’t get raped.” Giggles from the girls, and a mean ugly look from the guy. Apparently, even in the cities Texans tend to look down on potential cattle rustlers.

The three globs are apparently in the throes of a fairly heavy MDMA trip–owl-like pupils, sweat pouring out of every available open gland, teeth grinding, eyes rolling in pleasure. I can spot a person on an X trip a long way off, not that it would be hard to see this crowd at a distance. The girls’ male companion seems to be more or less sober–or else he’s used to the drug and doesn’t “roll” quite as hard.

“Um, no, no rape here,” I mutter, still trying to finagle the fucking machine, which is still obstinately unplugged. 

“Not yet, anyway!” a wild cackle bursts forth. 

“So,” begins the second-fattest, a brunette through the sickening squelch of grinding molars. “You want to come over and chill? We’re lonely and no one else is awake.”

Ouch. The poor little fucker with them seems not to take this personally, but I know he must feel like shit. He’s got the perfect scenario to become the fourth wheel of a fatty fuck-bus, but here they are more or less propositioning me in the dirty apartment laundry room. 

“No, I’ve got a girlfriend. I don’t think she’d like that.” Yeah, and she also might not take to being thrashed in the kidneys with a tire iron.

“She doesn’t have to know. She’s still asleep, right?”

Jesus Christ. I’m being bullied into sex by a clutch of profusely sweating BBWs who are fried out on a drug that turns your corpus colossum into jelly.

“No, thanks. I don’t do shit like that,” I say firmly, while making a selection of Minute Maid Lemonade. 

“Oh come on,” pleads blonde fatty number two. “We’ll give you a tab.”

Yeah, I think. That’s exactly what I need. One hit of ecstasy and I’ll be railing these three tubs like fucking Peter North until someone finally drags me off of the jiggling, moaning mess twelve hours later. Probably the guy, too. Poor bastard. Best not to consider that one.

“I don’t fuck around with that shit anymore,” I say, becoming agitated. “It fries your brain, and besides, I wouldn’t even be able to get anywhere if I took one.”

Blank identical expressions on their faces. I knew what they had to be thinking: here’s some half-asleep white dude who just automatically assumes that they’re asking him to take a tab with them so that he’ll go light speed pornstar and impair their ability to walk for a couple days. The brunette, the leader of this sweat-drenched daisy chain, speaks up:

“What, you think we’re going to fuck you?” The effort at righteous indignation is undermined by her friends’ panicked expressions, and the look of pure hate on the face of the poor “guy friend”. “Please. We were just trying to be nice.”

Okay, I think. That helps me considerably.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you guys.” I push through the crowd with obvious impatience. 

The bitchy comeback hangs in the air behind me like a filthy banner, the pointed rejection palpable, until one of the other fatties says: 

“Can we at least see it?”





From the new apartment!

14 05 2008

Writing from the apartment now. Very strange to be sitting out here on a concrete balcony in the middle of a foreign town not seventy miles from home, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes and waiting for Life to catch up to me. Strange stuff, kids.

 

Stranger still to be smack in the middle of a group of long-lost and long-abandoned friends and acquaintances all huddled together in this very same town, all brought here by design or circumstance. People have a way of spreading apart like ocean-top detritus; like that same stuff, they have a way of converging where the breakers rise up and the driftwood settles. It’s unsettling to know that I landed here a mere victim of Life.

 

Bills, bills. Even only five days in, the looming black cloud of Responsibility hangs low. Electricity, cell phones, rent.  Christ, Almighty. Jobless, too? You bet, kiddo. I’m a longtime resident of the Uncomfortable Edge of Poverty. I’m never completely in my element until there are ludicrous amounts of Unsettled Debt hanging in the balance.

 

Odd neighbors coming and going like German cockroaches. None of them seem to have any direction, but damned if they’re not rushing off to…somewhere. Most look like college students or fuck-struck newlyweds. Maybe both, but who knows? Either way, they don’t pester me much, which is all I that can ask.

 

It’s slightly uncomfortable to be surrounded by so many damn people after the relative solitude of the country. Cars coming and going, people milling about, the constant stench of gasoline and bad weed. No stars at night, only close, pink-black sky, like a 100x view of late-stage lung cancer cells. Or maybe colon polyps. Fuck, who knows? I’m no oncologist, not in any medical sense. I’m a student of social oncology. I like the cancers of a crowd, the carcinoma of human herds.

 

What I don’t like are rumors of an old friend gone astray. Funny how that word looks so much like “ashtray” when you’re not paying attention. No sir, rumors of Old Friends burning themselves up on the old Ghetto Destroyer do not sit well with me. It’s a very close bet as to whether the rumors are true. Well, if they are, that man and I have a long-standing agreement: partying is one thing; Addiction is another. Louisville Sluggers cost a little more than they used to, these days, but the Reasons for putting them to use have stayed a relative constant. Beating sense into one of your oldest and closest friends is one of those static things that never change. Hope the rumors are wrong, for both our sakes.

 

Holy Mary motherfucker. You don’t really know what kind of feeling it is to be squealing down a windy wet two-lane in a car you don’t yet fully understand, roaring in third gear, tires spinning uselessly against slick blacktop…backwards.

 

You may say you understand, but I know the real truth about the matter: you fucking don’t understand at all. Until you’ve done exactly that, I’ll hear no murmurs of understanding. Fuck you. You don’t know.

Do you know what it’s like to look head-on into the oncoming rear bumper of some short-wheelbase Chevy monstrosity that go for around fifty grand and clock in on fight night at just near two solid tons of steel? all the while you are crippled by an ill-timed burst of torque, unable to do little else but scream and drift sideways into oncoming downhill traffic? DO YOU?

 

It’s not pleasant. 





It’s 3 a.m. and I must be lonely

24 04 2008

Just kidding. I’m not going to get all maudlin or post Matchbox 20 lyrics. It’s just three in the morning, and I’m wide-fucking-awake. That probably won’t be the case two or three hours from now, since I’ll be at work.

I pulled a muscle in my back this afternoon by dragging around whoever-is-reading-this’s mom, and couldn’t get to sleep. So what did I do? Why, I took two of my brother-in-law’s migraine muscle relaxer thingies, of course. Two of these little red and white bombs make him “loopy”, so I should be flat-out circular in a little while, since he outweighs me by a good forty pounds. Oh well, at least my back won’t hurt.

Anyway, I wrote a thing about the dog. It’s on the laptop, but I’m not, so you won’t be reading it tonight, by God. It’s kind of funny, I guess, in a weak sort of Garrison Keillor kind of way. Speaking of which, have you ever seen that guy? Christ Almighty. I wrote a thing about my pug, then immediately referenced an author who looks like one.

Don’t believe me?

     

There. Told you.