Thursday, December 31, 2009

It's your last post of 2009, Charlie Brown

On the internet there is a report about oil prices.  Oil has reached 79 dollars a barrel. It must be true.  I read it on the Drudge Report.

I am stuffed.  My belly is full of Mexican Rice, refried beans, tostadas, tacos.  The tacos were full of beef, lettuce, onions, and cheese.

I must have had 4 of them and now I am so full I can cannot concentrate on the news that oil prices are spiking again.  I am sure some trader at Wells Fargo is laughing his ass off at me.

I hear the noises my stomach makes.  My stomach makes the creaks and groans of a piñata right before it bursts, unloading its gifts of candy and cheap toys.

Only my stomach is full of tamales and cupcakes. 

After it breaks open it rains buckets of decaffeinated tea down on the children.  Soaking them like the dirty whores that appear in German watersport videos.

It is the last day of 2009.

I am so happy to see it go.  I will look back at this year and it will depress me to remember any of it, except that on the last day possible I read the quote of the year, "This cockroach-like existence is cumulatively intolerable even though on any given night it is perfectly manageable."

Wanna get depressed?  Go read the story.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Don't go reading anything into this post

"It's not imaginary." I told her.  "I don't just make stuff up."

She took one look at me.  She looked at my bald head.  A few stray hairs standing around alike the last survivors at the Alamo.

"We surrender! We surrender!"  I could imagine them saying.

"No quarter!"  The little Mexican Banditos would say.

She looked at my bald head with the few stray wisps of hair and my fat jowls and laughed her vicious little laugh.

"You're just a fat Piggy!" She giggled.

"You do not have swollen noids!"

She was doubled over with laughter.  She was pointing at me with her index finger and brushing the hair out of her face.

"Quit it!"  She bellowed.  "You're killing me!"

"Fuck you!"  I thought to myself.

I thought about last night when I came in her.  How she let me get on top of her.  I thought about her getting up and turning around and doing 'reverse cowboy' on me.

I laughed a little myself.

"I am glad you are not going to be so serious."  She said.  She must have thought I was laughing at myself the way she was laughing at me.

"You don't know."  I said solemnly.

We sat down in the kitchen at the breakfast table.  We did not have a dining room table in the 1 bedroom apartment.  So the breakfast table doubled as the dining room table.

"I guess it triples as the lunch table too!"  I thought.

Great.  I am being snooty to myself.

"Why do people put themselves out there when all they get is ridicule."  I asked her.

"Hell if I know."  She said.  "I am gonna be alone forever."  She said in a mocking tone.

"How do you plan on doing that?"  I asked her a little indignantly.

She looked at me crossly.  She picked up the napkin ring that was sitting in the middle of the table.  She tossed it violently at the living room wall.  It smashed against the wall with a crackle, exploding into a million shards of plastic wood.

"That was fucking crazy."  I looked in the eyes.

"It was a bit dramatic."  She agreed.

Then she shrugged and got up out of the chair.  She walked over to the bedroom and checked on the kid.  He was still asleep.  Apparently he had gotten used to living with his crazy ass parents.

"At least he can sleep."  I said glad that something good could come out of all this.

"No fucking shit."

Teri plopped down on the hide a bed sofa that doubled as our living room sofa.  We got tired of putting the cushions on it so the sofa stayed in bed form most days.

William was stretched out on the sofa watching TV.  William was in high school and I was sure his parents were wondering where he was.

I was not sure how Teri knew William.  I just knew they were "friends."

"Don't be so fucking jealous!"  Teri would tell me whenever I asked her how she knew Will.

"Anyway.  I am allowed to fuck other dudes."  She told me.

"Remember?" She asked referring to our little agreement.

"So are you fucking him?" I asked my cock tingling a bit.

"Not yet."  She answered.

Teri ran her hand under the sheets.  I could tell she was holding hands with William under the sheets.

"I need to get to bed."  I told them.

William looked up at me worried.  "You don't want to drink a few more beers?"  He asked like a scared puppy.

"We're out of beers."  I informed him.

"I wish we had some weed."  Teri added.  She looked over at William and his eyes got glassy.

"Me too."  He whispered.

I had enough.  It was a long walk to work and I had to get up at 6 in the morning.

"Only 4 hours for sleep for me."  I said to no one.

Teri snorted and snuggled up against William.

The TV was blaring Montel Williams.  Some woman going off about her baby daddy.

I got off the sticky fake leather chair.  I walked to the bedroom and opened the door.  I walked in and closed the door softly.  The room was pitch black.

I kicked a toy and stifled a yelp.  The kid stirred a little in his crib, but did not wake up.

I laid down on the bed after peeling myself out of my jeans and underwear.  I kept my t-shirt on to protect myself from the chill in the air.  My nipples were hard and rubbed the cotton t-shirt uncomfortably.

When I got under the blankets I noticed I had a hard on.

I could hear the Montel Williams show go into a commercial.  It was one of those long 2 minute informercial style commercials.  A magic bullet blender.

I tried to imagine what William and Teri were doing on the sofa together.  I could not hear any squeaking from the bed, nor did I hear any moaning.

When Teri came to bed her she smelled like she had given him a blow job.  But she said nothing happened because William said he was afraid of getting caught.  He also said he wanted to smoke some weed and wasn't in the mood to fuck unless he could get some.

"We're out of fucking weed!"  Teri whispered harshly at me.  Her breath coming out at me like a copper penny.

"I know." I reminded her.

"I need to get some fucking sleep."  I reminder her.

"It's already 5 am."  She said with a little too much glee.

"Great."  I told her.  "I am going to be dead at work."

"Call in."  She advised.

"And just what the fuck do we do when rent comes around?"  I snap at her.

"I don't know."  She replied.  "I was just offering."  She added lamely.

"Offering to get us kicked out?"  I turned around to face her pulling the blanket with me.

"Oh, fuck me!"  Even in the dark I knew she was rolling her eyes.

"Are you hard yet?"  She asked grabbing for my dick.

"Not yet."

She put both hands around my cock rubbing furiously to get me hard.

"I am so fucking wet."  She announced.

"I thought I heard the baby move."  I close my eyes and try and will a faster hard on.

"Shhh."  Teri warned me.

She pulled me on top of her.  I slipped in easily.  She let out a quiet moan.

"Did you jack off while I was out there?"  She asked.  Her voice gruff with desire.

"A little." I admitted.

"You better have not cum."  She said sternly.

"I didn't!" I said quickly.

We fucked for a few more minutes and then I let out a squirt of ejaculate on her belly.

"Good Boy."  Teri praised me.  "Don't go getting me pregnant again"

Monday, December 28, 2009

Things would be different.

"Things could have been different."  She said.

"Yep." I answered back.

"Things would have been different."  I said.  I was leaning back against the concrete wall.

"You need a woman to make you do things."  She looked at me and took a drink from the long neck beer she had resting against her waist.

"I do." I admitted.

I looked down at my feet.

"But you would have treated me right."  She said in between drinks of her Bud Light.

"I would have."  I agreed.

"You need a good looking woman to keep you interested."  She accused me, rightly.

"I do."  I told her.

"But you're a different kind of man."  She said.  She took one of her legs and crossed the other leg with it at the knee.

She was still a good looking woman even though she was pushing 38.  She had thin legs.  She had on those snow boots that had become fashionable with all the teenage girls.  Her Levi's were skin tight and tucked into her boots.

"But,"  she continued "You aren't the kinda man that gets distracted by beauty.  You only need one good looking woman to keep you happy."

I don't know about being that good of a person.  But I think I knew what she meant.

"I would-uh treated you well."  I told her.

"I know you would-uh."  She smiled back at me.  Her long dark hair was moving in the breeze like a sail on the most magnificent sail boat you had ever seen.

She dug out a cigarette from her purse and put the cigarette between her chalky white fingers.  Her pink nail polish gleamed in the moonlight.  She lit the cigarette and took a long, deep inhale.  She blew the smoke out of the mouth.  A little of the smoke escaped from her nose.

She shook her head like she was disagreeing with herself a little.  Then she smiled to herself and looked up at me.

Chemistry.  We had it.  I never even had to try with her.  Words came out when they needed.  Actions around her seemed fluid.  Natural.  Everything slowed down to super slow motion.  I just sat there and counted her breaths.

We looked at the pavement a lot when we talked.

"It's funny."  I said.  And we both laughed at the inside joke.

"It is funny."  She said back to me. 

My mouth was dry so I got myself another beer from the six pack we were drinking from.  The six pack was sitting on the asphalt.

After a long while I decided to break the silence.  "I wonder how things would have been with us."

"I do too."  She said softly.

She uncrossed her leg.  She put her hand behind her head and stretched her back out a bit.  She smiled shyly over at me.  Self-conscious.

"You ever kill anybody?"  She asked me.

"Sure."  I told her.  "Why do you ask?"  I wondered.

She did not answer my question. She just asked me another one.

"How did you dispose of the body?"

"Medical waste."  I answered.

"So who do you wanna kill?"

"Marty."  She said.  "I am sick of his shit."

I swallowed a big gulp of beer.  My heart was beating pretty fast.

"You still got that GAT in your glove department?"  She looked over at my truck.

"Yep."  I said as smoothly as possible.  "I still got it."

The gun was not hidden very well.  Everyone knew about my gun.  They knew how I kept it stashed in my glove department and how I never needed to bring it out. 

"I'm serious!"  Her pretty little head was full of pout.

"I'm gonna have to borrow it."

She quit looking over at the gun and the Ram 1500 and looked back over at me.

"A body can be pretty heavy to move."  I said matter-of-factly.   "And it can be pretty difficult to bury by yourself."

She took one final puff off her cigarette and tossed the bud towards the gutter.  It landed a few yards away from the water and burned into the grass, innocently enough.

"You're gonna start a fire."  I told her and laughed.

"I don't give a shit."  She said with an edge to her voice I had never heard before.

"You shore sound pissed."  I told her.

She shrugged her shoulders at me.  Then she headed over to the red colored cardboard carrier and took out another beer.  She bent down to pick up another beer and her sweater opened up at the neckline.  I made no real effort to divert my eyes and I got a look at her bra.  It was black and real lacy.

She looked up and saw me staring at her.  She rolled her eyes a bit at me.

"I forgot what a boob man you are."  She smiled up at me.

Then she brought herself to her full height in her boots.  She stood real close to me.  She was almost as tall me as me in those boots.  I could smell menthol  and lipstick on her breath. 

"You should help me, you know."  She said it to me like she was asking me to help her with the dishes.

Doing the dished is the kind of chore a woman always wants you to help her with.  But as soon as you do she starts fucking the next door neighbor, or your brother.  The she tells you how it's all your fault and how you were never really man enough for her.  She tells you how she hates the way you smell of axle grease and dirt when you get home.  And how you don't ever wash your penis enough and how she always hated the taste of your foreskin.

"That's some bullshit."  I said a little harshly thinking about my ex.

Her eyes looked surprised and she took  stepped backwards from me.

"I didn't really mean it."  She said.

Only I knew better.

"I think you did."  I took another drink from my beer.

We both stood there staring at each other for a second.

Then she smiled at me the way she smiled at me the first time I saw her walking towards me.  Back then she was the accounts payable girl at the mini lube where I worked.

She was walking towards the copier machine.  She had on a short skirt with flat shoes and when I saw her I would swear to you that her hair was blowing just like in one of those shampoo commercials.

I'd never seen a girl as pretty as her in real life.  She had pale skin and dark eyes.  She was dressed so professional.  It was cute because there was no reason to dress so nicely at this job.   The last girl who had her position always wore jeans to work.   On Saturdays the other girl would wear sweats and she would always keep her hair in a ponytail.

"Maria."  I said.  But all I could get out was her name.

She ran her fingers through her hair.  She looked so angry.  Her eyes were steel.  Her jaw was clenched.  She fingered the bottle of beer.  I could tell she was just counting the seconds to make a get a way from me.

"Marty's gonna be expecting me soon."  She said through clenched teeth.  Her eyes drifted out to space.

"I bet he is."  I said evenly.  I did not want to give away my disappointment with how things were going.

A shiver went through her and she tugged at her jacket.  She zipped her jacket up and drank the last half of her beer down.  She looked around to find a place to get rid of the empty bottle and settled on putting it back in the six pack.  That meant she had to walk over to me again.

I backed up so as to let her put the bottle away and as to not let her get any funny business going on.  I had a feeling I could not let her get too close to me. I figured for just another whiff of her perfume I might go in to the cab and grab my pistol.

Before she left me she gave me a last look over her shoulder.  Her long dark hair blowing in the wind again just like the first time I met her.  But this time her pink cheeks were rosy for all the wrong reasons.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Bus Ride With Homeless Guy

The bus ride home should not be this eventful.  I got a homeless guy taking a piss at the bus stop.  Homeless guy is chugging a 40.  Big green bottle of Malt Liquor.  Homeless guy claims to have a job.  Homeless guy just got off work and wants to get his drink on.

"Back in Tucson where I roll we drink and piss like this, it ain't no big deal."

But homeless guy can tell I am not feeling him.  It's not so much that he took a piss in the middle of the bus stop that is in plain sight of a major street.  It's exactly how close he took the piss to me.  Like I could her the splash down.  Like I felt like I had to look down at my shoes for run off.  I dared not turn my head for fear of jabbing something in my face.  I'm protected by the metal barricade bus shelter otherwise I'd of really been pissed.  (haha sorry)

His watery eyes are looking over at me.  He tries to apologize.  He is saying he is sorry.  He says it like 39 times. More exactly he starts saying it like 39 times, but never finishes through an entire apology.
 He stammers and gets some of the words out but not enough of them to make sense or enough of them in order to keep my interest.  The only other question he has for me is when the bus is coming.  "Do I know?"

"The bus is coming soon."  I tell him. 

But he is 75 cents short of a one-way fair ride into downtown Tempe.  I hesitate to ask him what is downtown.  I just hand over 75 cents after I get on the bus and he sits there looking stupid drunk digging in his filthy pants for change and spilling assorted orange Tic Tacs on the bus driver.  Now he is offering to collect them before the bus starts.  He starts to touch the driver but the driver freaks out a bit and yells at the homeless guy.  Homeless guy shirks back like an abused puppy.

I sit at the back of the bus so as I can listen to Miley Cyrus without anyone catching on to what I am listening to.  I don't feel like answering questions today.

Some girl is sitting next to the driver.  She is leaning half out of her seat.  She is telling some story abut how the cops are fucking with her.  They are asking if her car is abandoned, "because it sure looked abandoned to them."

She fights back with lawyer words and tells the cops to suck it because her car has a license plate and her tags are not expired.  "Suck on that coppers!"  She says like we live in the 1920's or something.

I smell something fishy about the whole thing.  Something don't make sense to me.  Like why are you riding the bus if your car got tags and a license?

I ama gonna scratch my head about that one.  All because I might be gettin' some rash on my forehead or something, all this stuff coming down on me making me think I can't put off seeing no doctor no more.

Homeless guy starts paying attention to the girl and fake grabs her ass.  I start laughing my ass off.   The shit was funny because you can see her giant mom purple underwear.  Even though she is like 20 pounds over weight you can see yourself fucking this chick.  Even though she is clearly a crack head.  A fat ass crack head on the bus instead of driving her car.  It must be broke down or something.

I shake my head at the homeless guy as he looks over at me laughing with my headphones on.

"Don't do it." I implore him with my eyes.

I don't know why I'm always stopping myself from having fun.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

It's almost Christmas, so let's start spreading the cheer fuckers

It's almost Christmas.  The weather is playing tricks on me.

It's cold and raining.  Raining bullets like we are at Columbine.

Those guys had the right idea.  Don't just kill yourself.  Kill all the fuckers that start shit with you.  Kill all the fuckers that make your life miserable.  Kill all the people who have it better off than you.

I had an idea for  Suicide Christmas Cards and it went something like that.  Which is why I guess I don't work at a Greeting Card Company writing sappy cards that will tear up ol' Grandma.

I say fuck Granny.  She spent all day shopping for gift bags that have pictures of cute kittens on them.  She does not know how to use the gift card you gave her.  She can't figure out all this modern technology she sees in front of her.  Her fingers run over her cell phone trying to find the slot to put the quarter in.  She gets pissed off when she can't find the privacy booth to talk in.

We weren't supposed to live this long.

I have proof of that in my bowel movements.  The daily dumps all my readers keep telling me to stop talking about like if they were shitting yellow for a week and it suddenly turned black again because they had spent the past few days hibernating in a alcohol coma they could ever shut up about it.

I guess I should not tell you that I got a bruise on my arm.   All I know is it is yellow and squishy like cream corn living under the surface of my arms.

I've got some kind of rash. I think that is making my neck red and bumpy but that could just be the nasal infection I have had since the 8th grade when I moved here.

But some asshole at work told me that my kidney might be failing and I can't stop itching now.

I have a second toe trying for an ingrown toe nail, but I am searching for laptops on craigslist instead of saving money for the doctor.  I still need a monitor and a bigger hard drive and a DVD player on my computer so I think it makes sense to go ahead and "invest" in a laptop that has all that stuff.  I have no idea why that seems like a bad idea.  Really.  I bet I can get a list of podiatrists from my union that work for free.  I bet they can clean all this MERSA.  I bet they fix degrading organs.

I don't want to do that.  I got this flash of inspiration that people like me think about rational shit the same way you guys think of impulses.  Nobody takes impulses seriously.  Every one wants to shoot their three year old in the face.  Everybody wants to tell off their boss.  But nobody does that.  Same with me.  Only the opposite.  I can't seem to think of rational things as anything other than a flash or an impulse.  It all moves so fast.  Good decisions are just a blur for me.  I live some place slower than all you.

Cold, dark, gray light.  Weather playing tricks with me.  I listen to a loop of the first three songs of Foreigner's Very Best and Beyond.

People tell me at work that they don't believe that I am depressed.  I laugh at them when they talk to me like they know me.  I smile at the fuckers in my line to0, and when I notice my voice gets too monotone I adjust it.  I pick up a few decibel levels and I flash a toffee popcorn grin at the cute girls with tarantula eyes.  I love when hot chicks can't figure out the simplest shit like how to apply fucking mascara.

Call me Scrooge.  But this fucking computer types 23 words a minute and I type 34 words a minute.  I have to wait for the god damn thing to catch up with me and we are supposed to be living in the 21st century.  Well all I know is technology is fucked and it ain't getting any better for us on the sidelines.

Today is one of those days.  All the loneliness.  All the panic.  Nothing is here but the itching and the smell of rotten fish.

You know the only thing more annoying that people telling me I am not depressed?  When people think they have a clue as to why I write this blog.  Like I am some kind of suffering Narcissist who can't get enough attention.

Like I want your fucking attention.  Trust me.   If I wanted your fucking attention I would get it.  I am smart enough to get through a few physics and chemistry classes.  I might not get A's.  But you don't need to get an A in BLOWING shit up to BLOW shit up even if that BLOWING shit up would be ME getting BLOWN THE FUCK UP.

I like the company out here on the internet.  Even with all crazy ass bullshit most of you don't call me on it.  You don't sit around fixing me.  You're as curious as I am at exploring the shit you see on the screen.  Maybe it doesn't make sense half the time for you.  But that's okay. The German's have a word for it. We are just exploring 'lifeworlds'.  But I am going to pretend you are smart enough to quote Habermas naively and pretend you have access to big ass dictionaries and Google so I am not going to insult you and mention that word.  I think it brings us together.  How I project you with intelligence.  Maybe dark hair, that you feel the need to nervously finger behind your ear.

God.  You are so fucking gorgeous.

Beauty is the one thing that keeps psychopaths human.  That's why every psycho loves beautiful women.  That's why he shoots them up at L.A. Fitness.  That's why he carves them up in his basement. That's why he stalks them on their way to the bookstore and peaks in their windows when they take a shower and that's why he stares at you across the aisle while you use the self checkout line even though he heard your friend tell you about the open line at the express lane and he saw you brush your hair in front of your face to cover up what your beautiful mouth was saying, that the guy in the express lane gives you the most intense stares you have ever seen and maybe you think he is some kind of Vampire all because he has red, itchy earlobes and it would just be better if you two stayed over at the self check out and try not to stare back at the guy because that kind of shit just encourages him.

You can wonder at me.

But I wonder at myself sometimes.

I wonder why I got through it all.  I wonder when I am going to start waiting for the raindrops to fall on me.

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Totally Homoerotic Adventures of Lester and His Pimped Out Girlfriend Krystal

As soon as Lester turned 21 he was visiting the Indian Casinos.  The "Valley" had tons of them.  Casinos, not Indians.

Though Lester did notice quite a few Indians hanging around the Circle K asking for his pocket change so they could buy another 40.

They would take his money.  Their dirty hands cupped together to collect whatever change Lester felt like giving that day.  After buying beer they would wrap the tall cans surreptitiously inside a brown paper bag like no one knew what they were doing.

The Indians would look up at you with bleary eyes and mutter thank you.  Counting all 37 cents and doing math in their heads.  Wondering if they had enough money to buy another beer, or if they had to keep nursing that bottle of King Cobra that was still 2/3 full of bright green pungent liquid.

But it wasn't difficult to guess what was inside the brown paper bags that littered the parking lot.  Even if you were so stupid that you could not guess what was in the bag, you could smell the alcohol on them before they got within 3 feet of you.

No.  Lester was not thinking about Indians on his birthday.  He was only thinking about their casinos.  Lester had just gotten paid and wanted to turn the small paycheck that he got from working the concession stand at the movie theater into a pile of money.

Lester knew the odds were against him.  "They don't build those casinos from winners."  His momma told him on the way out the door waving at him and his brother as they sat cross legged by the TV eating bowls of Super Sugar Crisp.  The familiar theme song from the Super Friends blaring at them from the 19 inch TV set and obscuring some of what his mother had said to them.

"There were almost never any winners in the casino if you don't count the Indians lucky enough to get those monthly checks from the company that runs all the gambling operations." He thought.

"Not that I care." He said to himself.  "It will get me out of the house, and I need to get out of the house."

The house was not really a house.  It was a motel room that he shared with his girlfriend.  A girl he had met at the movie theater.  They both worked together and it seemed to Lester that Krystal was always looking to change shifts so that they worked together.

He would be stuck together with her all day in the ticket booth. Cramped and surrounded by glass walls for at least most of the 4 and 5 hours shifts they worked.  And he would be forced to come up with conversation.

Krystal liked to talk.  Whenever she wasn't surfing the web, or texting her friends she asking him probing questions that she found on MySpace bulletins.

"What's your favorite color?"
"Do you like cats?"

Lester did not have a favorite color and he did not really have an opinion about cats.  He tried to ignore her questions.  He gave nods and shrugs instead of answers to most of her questions.  He was hoping she would get the hint, but she never did.

She seemed especially interested in knowing the sexual things about him that MySpace Bulletins were full of.

How many partners had he had?
Had he had a three some?

Lester knew if he answered those questions she might get the wrong idea.  Think he was interested in being her boyfriend or something.  She was wrong. Lester could get laid from any number of a half dozen girls (and let's be honest boys also) if he wanted.  And none of those girls (boys) worked with him.  None of them asked him about his shoe size or inquired about the places he had visited. 

The girls "were just nice wet pink holes."  He thought.  So nice and warm that he usually forgot they came with mouths.  That is until one of them took his long, thin cock in their mouths.  Their tongues stumbling across his manhood.

"At least they used their mouths for something other than talking."  He said.

"It was hard to talk when you were gobbling down dick."  He laughed to himself  at the idea.

Lester walked out of the movie theater and into the blinding white sun.  He counted himself lucky that Krystal was busy in the back stock room.  He would not have to explain himself to her where he was going, or what he was going to do with the money after he took his check to the check cashing place.

He walked quickly to his car taking the occasion glance backwards at the automatic revolving doors of the mall.  His car was parked hurriedly and took up the better part of two spaces.  The front tire peaking in to the handicap spot enough to get him a fine or ticket from a prick cop if they so choosed.

The door to his 1987 silver Buick Skylark was stuck.  He had to give the car door a yank before it grudgingly opened.  The sound of his car door opening, piercing, sharp metal on metal, may have embarrassed others, but it did not worry Lester.

Lester plopped himself down on the gray cloth interior and started the car.  He was careful to gun the engine without flooding it and the car responded to his practiced technique by roaring loudly.  The radio turned on and the blown speakers starting blasting a song by Jay Z.

Lester turned the music up and rolled the passenger window down using the silver switch on his driver side door.  The car did not have air conditioning and it was a long drive to the casino.

Lester's ears were ringing by the time he got onto the freeway.  He was in a good mood.  One hand on the steering wheel, he moved casually in and out of the lanes.  The speedometer read 68 miles an hour in the pale green LCD light that was popular in luxury vehicles from the early 80's.

Lester cursed himself.  He had forgotten to stop by the check cashing place.  He had to take the nearest exit and double back towards the movie theater.  He took the McClintock exit and drove to the Check Cash store.

The same obese 40 year old woman who was always working was working the counter.  She greeted Lester with her customary salutation.  Something between a cougar in heat and the concern of of an adopted mother.

"I bet you need your check cashed, huh?"  The cashier asked dumbly.

"Yeah."  Lester smiled sheepishly.  Lester looked down at the check and was humiliated to see that the check was missing a day's pay.

"Shit."  He muttered to himself.  Since he had left the theater in such a hurry he was going to have to wait until next week to get the check fixed.

"What's wrong?"  The check cashing woman asked.

"Oh, nothing."  Lester said as he placed the check under the bullet proof glass.  "They forgot to pay me for a few days is all."  He said depressed.

"That sucks."  Monica said.  At least that was what her name tag said.  Monica.  Lester tried to her will her name into his memory banks.  You never knew when knowing a person's name could come in handy.

Monica stamped the check loudly.  Black ink perfectly copied, she wrote a few initials on the back of the check.  She counted the money out of her drawer carefully.  Twice.  She did not need to be that conscientious, but she enjoyed staring at Lester.

Lester reminded Monica of her son.  His plaid button down shirt shoved up at the elbows.  His unkempt hair matted down with sweat.  Even his ear ring which her son had taken to wearing, probably just to upset her, matched the boy in front of her.  The strange tingling in her loins that Lester gave her was the only difference she could think of between the two boys.

"Any plans?"  She asked.

"It's my birthday."  Lester shared, uncharacteristically talkative.
"And I am going to the casino."

"That sounds fun."  Monica winked at Lester.  Lester smiled broadly and shoved his slipping shirt sleeves to his elbows again.

Lester scooped up his cash and turned on his heels and walked out of the store.  He nodded his head at Monica as the door closed.

In the car and again gunning the engine he took off with a cloud of black smoke fuming from the tailpipe.  Lester managed the car on to the freeway again.  This time speeding in and out of lanes.  His heart pumping and racing along with the car.  He felt he was cheated out of an hour of gambling already.  He had to make up the difference.

Indian casinos in Arizona are not like the casinos you see on TV.  They don't have all the neon signs like Vegas.  The building were non descript.  They blend into the background of red and maroon topography of the valley.

At the entrance to the casino are two security guards.  Both appear to be Native.  The larger is female.  She is obviously Navajo.  The male looks to be Native but he might just be old and weathered.  His skin is beaten red by the sun.  He looks feeble to Lester.

"Old and slow."  He thought to himself and he walked past the two guards.  "And fat."

"God."  He muttered.  "What a bunch of fucking stereotypes."

Lester felt a tug on his shoulder.  A surge of adrenalin went through him.

"Hey,"  A gruff female voice sounded in his ear.  "I am going to need to see your ID."

"Oh."  Lester said a bit confused.  "That's right.  My identification."

Lester pronounced the full word of the acronym and relaxed a little showing the guard his ID from his wallet.

"I need you to take the ID out of the wallet."  The guard said with trace of annoyance in her voice.

Lester complied with a bit of annoyance himself.

"It's my birthday."  He said.  "I am 21."

"Congratulations."  The guard said as she looked up from his ID.  Then she smiled at him and wished him good luck.

"Thanks."  Lester said and walked into the casino.

The casino can be overpowering for  a first time visitor.  The impact of 1,000 slot machines whooping and ringing.  The flashing lights.  The hundreds of people milling around.  The controlled chaos of loose inhibition.  It was enough to make Lester feel out of place.  That maybe he was not ready for all this.

Lester decided to get a beer.  He had heard in Vegas that cocktail waitresses walked around all day and offered free beer or screw drivers to anyone playing a game.  But Lester wanted to wait for a minute before trying his luck at the slots.

He walked past elderly Mexicans playing slot machines.  He walked past white trash smokers at the smoking area.  He walked past the buffet tables and sat himself at the sparsely populated bar and ordered a Bud Light.

He sat there slowly sipping his beer, lost in his thoughts when a man in his 50's sat next to him.

"You mind if I sit here?"  He asked.

Lester took the bottle away from his lips and said, "I don't care."

Lester put the bottle down and fumbled a bit with the napkins the bottle rested on.  The man's presence was making him uneasy.

As if sensing Lester's discomfort the man introduced himself.

"Hi. I'm Pat."  The man offered his out and Lester shook it good mannerdly.

"Lest,"  Lester dragged out his name as if Lester reconsidered telling Pat his real name mid way though.

"Nice to meet ya." Pat cooed back at Lester.

Pat was thin boned and smelled like menthol cigarettes.  For a man Pat's age his arms were unnaturally tight.

"Probably from working out."  Lester thought.

Pat wore black slacks and a black dress shirt that was opened to the third button.  Lester could see his gray chest hair.

"Nice to meet you too."  Lester said.  Though it was not nice to meet Pat.  Lester wanted to be alone.  He needed a few drinks and he wanted to get the lay of the land before he set out to play the slots.

Lester had thought about playing poker or one of the various card games that the casino had laid out before him.  The female staff in low cut blouses were an enticing offer, but Lester knew there was not much of a chance of him leaving with any money if he did that.  It was better to stick to something that was pure chance like slots.  Something he had no control over.  Something he could not screw up.  If he lost.  Then it was fate.  Nothing you could do against fate.

"You play much?"  Pat asked pointing at the slot machines that lined the walls of the bar.

"No."  Replied Lester.  "Never played before."

"Then you just need a bit of liquid encouragement."  Pat laughed at his joke and slapped his knee.  Pat smiled a toothy dentured grin.

Lester looked over at Pat trying to asses him.

"I guess."  Lester admitted.  He took another drink from the bottle of Bud Light that was getting dangerously low on beer.

"Looks like you need another."  Pat said and waved his arm at the bartender.  The bartender walked over and twisted off two caps and placed the fresh bottle of beer next to the two men.

Lester looked up at Pat after this and smiled a bit.  He was happy to have someone buying him a beer.

Pat had a question for Lester.

"Lester, I would like to pay you $10,000 to have penetrative anal sex with you."

This was Part 2. Parts 3 and 4 are on the way. Part 1 brief convo with a prostitute.

Persipration equals preperation.

Sleep pattern is off.  Slept 9 hours on and off.  Mostly off.  A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer.  A back load of posts sit idly ping ponging in the memory of my computer.

I need to shower today, or at least brush my teeth.

Bowling later tonight.

A chance to see her.  The girl with the crucifix tattoo on her arm.  She slings bags of crinkle cut fries into the fryer.  The heat from the small cooking station leaving her sweaty.  Perspiration collecting on her forehead.  She wipes it away with the back of her hand and a smile.

She offers you free refills of Coke and you fall in love.

I have to go pay the electric bill.  I have to return library books.  My reading has slowed down, because of all the audio books I am reading.

I won't embarrass myself by listing them for you.

"But one of them was Twilight."  He grinned mysteriously. 

 As usual I was unable to interpret his grin.

It is dark in my room.  The sun is producing the gray shadows of winter rather than the yellow light of summer.  The world outside looks frozen still.  My window fogs up  like a bathroom mirror in the early morning.  I wipe away the fog with the palm of my hand.  My hand is cold and wet and now.  I place my clammy hands on the top of my forehead and feel for a fever.

My bowels feel squirrely.  Like the animal  is working its way out of me.  A yellow discharge is left in the bowl.  I flush.  I reach my arm behind me and feel the top of the commode for a bottle of preparation-h.  I stand awkwardly from the strain and slather a bit ointment on my buttocks.  I purse them together and yank my underwear back up.  I toss the medicine at the wall.  It makes a dull plastic coated thud as it bounces around and finally lands on the carpeted floor.

I pause for a second.  Remembering a conversation I had with a friend the other night.  He is having a midlife crisis.  He is wondering if all there is to life is having a family.

"Go to work.  Take care of your family.  Clip the yard.  Open your mail."  He says.  His voice is uncharacteristically full of melancholy.

"We are bodies."  I tell him. "It is a wonder we can ever forget that."

I leave the meaning of that statement for him to figure out.

"What ever happened to doing all those things we said we were going to do when were in high school?"  He asked.

"That was high school."  Another friend explains.

"People talk like that in high school." He adds.

"Maybe we never meant any of those things."  I think to myself.

"I feel like I am going to throw up."  My friend says suddenly.
Hidden behind the flickering shadows of the backyard fire he does.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Brief conversations with prostitutes (part 1 first draft)

"Not even for money."  She said.

Her answer hurt my feelings. 

"You won't have sex with me...even for... money?"  I ask again.  My voice rising an octave or two on the last syllables.

"Not even for money."  Came her quick reply.

"She didn't even have to think about it."  I thought.

"But that's what prostitutes do."  I protest.  "They have sex for money."

"Yes."  She admitted.

"But not with you."  She repeated.

"I see."  I said.  But not really.

Was I so disgusting that even a prostitute would not have sex with me?

"Maybe."  I thought. 

"I was looking forward to this." I offered meekly.  "And I hardly ever look forward to things."

I knew how pathetic that sounded.  But I was hoping the hooker would have pity on my.  Not pity per-se.  But sympathy for my situation.  Sympathy which could lead her to empathize with me.  And that empathy might allow her some how to gain some insight into my personality.  Perhaps then she could see the "real" me.

"Because people like me." I though to myself.  "After they get to know me."

"But Kyrstal,"  I begged.  "Pleasssssssse."

Krystal reached into her bag and pulled out an orange and yellow colored bag of Reese's Pieces.   As she tossed the bag around in her hand she explained to me why she was carrying a bag of candy around with her.

Her last "John" did not have all the money he'd agreed to pay her.  So she had gone around the motel room collecting whatever things of value she could find that happened to be lying around.

She was upset about "the john" stiffing her, but I felt like she was proud of the fact that she had managed to get some of her dignity back by jacking an alarm clock along with a few bags of candy from him.  I thought about asking her why she didn't try and look for things of more value, but then I thought better of it.

"You want a bag of candy?"  She asked me.  Her voice was surprisingly sweet.  "I got three of four."

"Ya!" I almost jumped out the bed to grab the sack.

"I love candy."  I told her earnestly.

"I bet you do sweetie."  She said as she patted my hand with hers.  The sound of my flabby hand being slapped reverberated around the cramped room.

Not for the first time I wondered if it was my obesity that was bothering her.  I suddenly became conscious of how sweat drenched my socks were.

My toes curled in against one another and scratched at the soles of my shoes. I had been withholding scratching another itch on my calf so long that the itch decided to file for residency.

I hate scratching myself  in public, but I could not hold out any longer.  I had to give in to temptation. I sighed and exhaled deeply.

I bent forward and struggled to itch my swollen calf.  My belly folded in on itself and mentally I tried to avoid counting how many rolls of fat had just been pushed up towards my gut.  I was sure my face was a bright purple from the exertion, so I stared at the space heater and tried to avoid giving Krystal a direct look when I dragged my body back to its upright position.

I took a few breaths with my mouth open to get my oxygen levels back.  I wondered if enough time had passed since Krystal had asked me about the Reese's for me to accept the bag and tear it open without looking like a fat slob.

All I wanted was a few of the candies.  I wasn't about to eat an entire bag of Reese's Pieces in front of Krystal.  Especially after my reaction to her question about the candy was so obvious.

"Yes, the big fatty would love a bag of candy.  He wants the bag of candy more than sex.  Candy is all he lives for."

I get it.  You don't have to look at me that way, Krystal.  I know loving candy is bad.  Just like I know that eating an entire bag of candy is way bad, and choosing a bag of candy over possibly having sex with a Mexican prostitute is beyond good or bad.  No.  My choice was made for me.

But it's not exactly as if I was choosing the candy over the Mexican prostitute.  If I had a choice I would choose sex with the prostitute.  I could get candy anytime, anywhere I wanted.  There is a convenience store on every block.

If you drive by a block without a convenience store you can bet that out there somewhere is a developer or architect dreaming about finding a way so that you never have to leave the block to get yourself a corn dog or a giant sized slushy.  They will never stop building 7-11's.  There seems to be an inexhaustible supply of strip malls and corners that have yet to be decorated by neon signs advertising 32 ounce Big Gulps for 99 cents.

I think Krystal-the-prostitute waved a bag of candy at me because she hoped that I would take the bag of candy from her and forget all about what I came here for.  Sex.

Well, there was no chance of that.  I was horny as shit.  I shifted my  penis uncomfortably around in my pants.  I was going to wake my flaccid penis up.  Ready or not my penis was performing today.

Krystal's tiny frame jerked around the bed from all my squirming. She steadied herself by placing her hand down on the bed then she crossed her legs.

She was wearing a black mini jean skirt with no stockings and a brown top.  The top had white crotchet flowers sewn all over the front.  From her feet dangled a pair of black slip on heels that had seen better days.  The soles were worn and the metallic straps looked like they had been recently chewed on by a dog.

"Probably a Chihuahua."  I thought.

That last thought was pretty racially insensitive.  I'm not like that.  I am just very tense today.  And actually having to convince a hooker to have sex with me is not exactly helping my stress condition either.

A small electric floor appliance plugged into a nearby wall was turned on and hummed loudly.  From the look of it, the appliance must have been made in the 1970's.   The red hot coils burned your eyes if you stared at it too long.

"It's hot in here."  I offered.

It seemed to me that our conversation was stalling and it also seemed to me that it was HER job to steer the conversation some place interesting, or at the very least sexy.

"Yes."  She said flatly.

Krystal did not speak with any accent.  In fact she probably spoke better English than me.  She sounded vaguely Valley Girl when she talked.

"I hope the Reese's Pieces don't melt."  I added trying to joke around with her.

"You can have them, you know."   She smiled at me and her eyes darted for a bit towards the shiny plastic bag.  "It's okay."  She said.
"It really is."

"Thanks."  I told her and reached for the bad.  I had to use my pocket knife to rip open the bag.  I fumbled first for a few minutes using my teeth after my fingers were rebuffed by the impenetrable plastic.

"These things don't like to open."  I laughed again trying to lighten the mood.

I got the bag open and asked Krystal if she wanted some.  She  declined politely.  I worried that she declined the candy because she was afraid of the knife I was carrying on my key chain.

"It's really dull."   I told her as I closed the small blade.  "I don't think it could cut anything.

"Oh."  She smiled half-heartedly.  She didn't seem to notice the knife after all.

Krystal had been staring at the burning space heater.  Her eyes watered a bit and she turned back to face me.

"I don't want to have sex for money."  She said with a sudden forcefulness. 

"I know."

But before I could finish she interrupted me.

"I mean I don't want to have sex for money with ANYONE anymore." She gushed.

"Oh, great!"  I thought.  "Just what I need.  A hooker with a conscious."

"Wow." I told her.  "What made you come to that decision?" I asked.

What I really wanted to know was WHEN did she come to this decision.  Was it before she walked into the shabbily decorated Motel Room with me?  Or was it after she imagined me naked and on top of her thrusting away with my tiny pencil dick into her gaping wet hole?

"I thought about it after my last trick."   She announces.

The last trick was not exactly a trick.  It turned out Krystal was sleeping with her pimp. Her 'confession' did not exactly come as a shock to me.  I knew from a 60 minutes documentary that most prostitutes had to sleep with their pimps. But things were different in Krystal's case.  Krystal's pimp actually was her boyfriend before she started tricking.

Krystal met her boyfriend at the big screen I-Max where she worked.  She was a popcorn girl, and he sold tickets, or he was a popcorn boy and she sold tickets.  I wasn't too sure I caught what she said.

But anyway, she met her pimp AKA the boyfriend at the movie theater and they fell in love and moved in together.  When the theater they both worked at got bought out by a larger movie chain the larger movie chain fired all the I-Max workers.

Left without jobs and fearing homelessness or worse Krystal's boyfriend convinced her to prostitute herself.

"I always had low self esteem."  She said brushing back a loose strand of highlighted hair.  "It must have been pretty easy for him to convince me."

When Krystal spoke she thumped her shoe to her heel making a slight clacking noise.  The more she grew excited about telling me her story the more the shoe went back and forth between her heel.  The clacking got so loud it threatened to overtake the space heater as the loudest thing in the room.

I was thankful for all the noise.   The space heater made the room insufferable hot and I was mouth breathing.  I hate the sound of mouth breathing.  I just don't seem able to stop mine.

Friday, December 04, 2009

Just when you thought it was safe to go the toilet

I woke up and took a black dump in the toilet today.  Most of the time the dumps I take end up in my underwear, or rubbed into the bedspread.  Something must be wrong with my ass because it leaks, or maybe something is wrong with my stomach to make my ass leak.

I have no idea.  Like you I am not a doctor, nurse, or even  a pharmacist.  I am just a high school dropout.  So far my only accomplishment in life has been graduating from the 8th grade, even though I am smarter than most of the people you know.  It turns out you don't have to be smart to get by in this world.  Most of your lives are evidence of that. 

So I have no idea why I am shitting black for 5 straight days since my birthday, though I blame the alcohol.

I keep thinking about going to the doctor, but going to the doctor will just enable me to live another 20 or 30 years and with my back going out on me yesterday and leaving me incapacitated and surviving on bottles of generic ibuprofen I think you can understand my hesitancy about getting better. 

I say fuck getting better, but I swear off beer and drinking anyway. At least for a few weeks as my liver repairs itself.   I guess I am just a complicated bitch and you will have to understand that and accept me and stop worrying about me, because the kinda broke I am has nothing to do with money it has all to do with a man's soul.

It comes from years of neglect by parental units chomping on lucky stripe cigarettes and soaking themselves in bottles of Dr. Pepper so as to strip away the loneliness and guilt they carry around them like one of those girls who lives in the rain forest who carry baskets on their heads.  A basket on the head feels so natural to half naked girls trudging through make shift paths in the rain forest, but all I can see is 75 pounds of pressure distorting their necks.

As I write this I can hear my roommate's muzzled computer blast The Daily Show in the background.  It's a repeat of a show taped on November 18, 2009.

My finger tips are cold as I type.   I squeeze and flex my toes together in hopes of generating enough heat to warm me up on this bitter cool Arizona mid afternoon.  High temps somewhere in the low 60's today.

I left my bedroom window open last night and now it is chilly 69 degrees in my room.  My computer hums without the fan having to kick on.  The monitor I stare at 6 hours a day is slowly dying.  Down to 75 percent of the screen.  Colors fade out and in.  Mostly black and white.  A bag of opened sunflower seeds rests against the tower.

I am going to go to work now.  Going to work and praying that my back only screams at me today instead of the stabs and makeshift surgery without anesthesia I normally get. 

When I get to work all the young people I know ask me how old I am now that my birthday passed.  I tell them the truth "that I am 39."  Even though I feel older and younger than that at the same time. 

I avoid the full length mirrors decorate the breakroom because they tell a truth I don't need to hear.  That avoiding cola is not making me skinny.  I guess I need to give up the cookies I eat.  One package of cookies every three or four days.  Enough to keep me at 200 pounds.

And 200 pounds is enough to keep me from the good life of going to college and meeting a girl and getting her pregnant, and moving in with her, and getting behind on the mortgage so that I move in to a 2 bedroom apartment without heat, so that makes her leave me, and I am stuck with child support payments, and the white collar job I got just got axed, so the recession is real, which only makes me not understand remember how the recession is just how ordinary people always live. Paycheck to paycheck.

But I already got all that without the hard work of going back to school and without all the additional pain of a broken heart, other than the heart break my momma has to live with every day-seeing her big boy suffering in the desert without a truck and without a college degree- because he's so smart and special even the world went on by without him.

But living this way I get to stay here in my two bedroom apartment with a 15% government surtax.  The tax taking all my money away from me.  Money that I would have used to buy a Motorola Droid (or at least a Env Touch) with.

In the breakroom right before work I am typing corrections  and editing all this on the mousy keyboard of an Env3 like I am the hero. Like you are worthy audiences.  Like all this means something, when we both know that I should just shut up and get on with it, and of course getting on with it has nothing to do with searching for Miley Cyrus pictures.  Especially pictures of her adjusting her bra straps, but fuck it I say, "Those pictures are making me feel horny."

And being horny is the first sign of being alive.  And I love being alive.

Monday, November 30, 2009

It was my birthday last night

I am in need of hydration.  Gatorade, water, whatever.  Something that will quench my thirst and provide the missing potassium.

Here is the part of the blog where I write long boring stories about how no one loves me.

Only, I am still drunk and not hung over.

I drank with a few friends.

And I don't feel "up" to being depressed.

But when did all the free birthday stuff you get from companies disappear?

That's baloney. 

I want my free movie, and my free dinner.

I had to settle for buying a whataburger and watching an episode of Family Guy on my Env3.*

This post is not sponsored by Verizon's V-cast, or LG's Env3.

Because if they were I'd be making money.

On the brighter side of things, the sound quality of my Env3 has greatly improved since I purchased a 16 gb micro sd card for my tunage.*

* I just want you to know that I am not the kind of person who writes or says things like "tunage."  My use of the word was totally ironic or something.

If I was a good blogger I would have linked to back posts where I wined about my birthday, or to the epic Thanksgiving post I wrote last year.

But I am not that kind of blogger.  Am I?

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

On the Industrial Uses of Kittens: Part 1 of Me and My Attorney, Doctor Kittenstein, and the Creepy Faggot That Stares Too Long at Mannequins

After I get the call I stumble out of bed without my glasses.  I open the door to my room and walk down a small hallway.  In the hallway I walk past the "stacked" mini washing machine and dryer.   The bathroom door is open and I walk in.

My scalp itches so I turn on the faucet to the bathroom sink and run my hands under the cold water.  I splash the water in my hands on my face and scrape the top of my head with my finger nails.  I rub the sleep out of eyes and peer into the mirror.

I rub at my bloodshot eyes.  I try and smooth down the swollen bags of tissue under my eyes.  The skin under my eyes has turned black.

"I need to get more sleep."  I tell myself.

I grab a towel that is draped over the shower curtain to dry my face off.  I open the curtain and turn the hot water on.  After a gurgling noise from inside the pipes, water spurts out of the shower head like the semen from a 40 year old man. It sputters, randomly spraying water limply over my hand and forearm.  I withdraw my head and arm just in time to miss the full pressure of the water.

I peel off my t-shirt and dark blue pajama bottoms.  I toss them casually at the closed door.  Next my underwear and socks.  My right sock is sticky from dried blood and I have to yank it a bit to take it off.  I lose my balance, but quickly reach my hand out against the wall to steady myself.

With my clothes off I open the shower curtain again.  I am greeted by a rising wall of steam.  The shower water is hot and it burns my chest and thighs as I enter the bathtub.  I point the shower faucet down and locate the the faucet gauge.  I lower the heat setting so that the temperature of the water is bearable.

The water temperature is still hot and it is making my flesh red.  The water from the shower is coming out hard and fast.  I have to make certain that the aim from the shower faucet misses my penis.  I buckle my knees and bend a bit at the waist whenever a splash of water reminds me by hitting me in the shaft with a forceful blow.

Once I am happy with the water temperature I turn my back to the water.  For a second, I stand still, letting the warm water snuggle with me.  It moves around my body like an old lover.   I enjoy the tingling sensation I get from the splashes of water against my back and the warm air that is rising around me shielding me from the cooler bathroom air.

I open the bottle of shampoo and carefully begin to massage my hair.  The suds from the shampoo are thick and luxurious just like the commercials say on TV.  The suds smell like vanilla and I spread the shampoo onto my goatee and public hair.  I let the shampoo sit for a few seconds and then rinse it off.

Next, I condition my hair with conditioner made for my bottle of shampoo.  The conditioner is supposed to replace all the minerals my hair has lost from shampooing.  I follow the bottles instructions and leave the conditioner on my hair for 3 minutes.  I then rinse the conditioner out of my hair.

After shampoo and conditioner I wash.   I pour a large amount of body soap onto a wash sponge.  I guide the sponge around the length of my body taking care to scrub extra hard on the bottoms of my feet.  I leave my ass for last and wash the sponge under the shower faucet with my eyes closed- to avoid any possible e coli.

I step out of the shower and dry off with the a fresh white towel I get from the linen closet.

I dress in my room.  I put on my best pair of jeans.  A brown belt with a large buckle I bought from Target.  A gray long sleeved shirt and black Chuck Taylor Converse shoes.  From my mirrored closet I take out a navy blue jacket that is styled in the faux manner of an army jacket. The sleeves are too long on me.  Otherwise it is fine jacket.  It is the easily the most stylish thing I own.

I check myself in the full length mirror. I smooth down any wild hairs I find.  I straighten the wrinkles out in my jeans.  After what feels like the best I can do I grab my wallet, keys, bus card, and cell phone and walk out the door to my bedroom.

I stop by the dining room table and pick up my headphones with the adapter needed to fit the 2.5mm  plug that my Env3 uses.

At the bus stop there is a homeless girl.  Her face brightens when our eyes make contact.  She is wearing black platform flip flops and a blue jean jacket.  Her long hair is curly and dirty blond.  Like most homeless people she is jittery.

She scratches at her elbow randomly.  This is followed by a wild scramble through her purse.  She pulls out a package of Camel lights and a purple lighter.

The wind is blowing, so she has trouble lighting her cigarette.  She turns her back away from the wind and cups her hands around her cigarette protectively.

After the cigarette is lit she turns around to me.  She asks me, "If I waiting for the bus."

I tell her I am and I tell her I am about to meet my attorney for drinks at a yuppie bar.

"I don't like meeting my attorney in yuppie bars."  I tell her.  "But sometimes that's what you have to do."

"You have an attorney?"  The homeless girl asks.

She pauses for a moment thinking this admission over.  She nods her head a few times.  Thinking this is a set of circumstances that would come in handy for her.

The girl lets out a loud cough.  From the sound of the cough she must be blowing out chunks of the rat that died in her lungs last week.

"It could be very useful to have an attorney."  She says just a little out of  breath.

"It could be."  I tell the homeless girl.  "If my attorney ever did anything for ...practice law."  I fumble at the volume control setting for my phone.  I mute the audio book I am listening to.  I know the homeless appreciate it when you take the time to listen to them.  I don't take my headphones out of my ear, because I don't want to give the girl the impression that I all I want to do is listen to her.

My attorney is already seated at the third floor balcony of the yuppie bar.  My attorney never sits inside a restaurant. He  sits outside on the patio or balcony.  He never suggests meeting anywhere this is not an option.  My attorney chain smokes Marlboro Light cigarettes, "because cowboys smoke them."

The problem with my attorney is that you cannot tell when he is being sardonic, or when he is making an ass of himself.  I tell him that, "I find this quality of yours to be quite useful in your chosen profession."

My attorney agrees with my assessment, but I am not sure if he is being sarcastic again.

My attorney is waiting for me with two of his friends.  He has invited them to stay for a long weekend of drinking in cabin a few miles north of Flagstaff.  We go to the cabin every year to celebrate the fact that none of them have been convicted for vehicular manslaughter.

That kind of celebration may not make much sense to you.  Since most people have not been convicted of vehicular manslaughter.  But it's the kind of thing we do.

We tell my attorney's wife that we got to the cabin every year to celebrate the anniversary of my attorney's bachelor party, because telling my attorney's wife things like, "We had to dismember part of the homeless girl's body in the back your pickup truck" is not the kind of polite language that the wife of an attorney wants to hear.

Even though we got a way with it.

I can tell the homeless girl wants to have a conversation with me.  I give in to her silent wish.   But the only thing I want to talk about is the dream I keep having.

"I keep having this dream," I tell her.  "About a guy who gets paid 3 dollars for every live kitten he finds."

"I am sure the man is homeless in the dream."  I glance over at the girl and give her a slight nod to show her I am down with her.  "And he's got to do whatever it takes to get by."

"You gotta do what you gotta do."  The homeless girl interrupts.

"Yes."  I wait a second and take a second look at the girl.  Satisfied she is done interrupting I continue, "He collects the cats however he can.  He goes to garage sales.   He looks in day old newspapers for ads giving away free kittens."

"You'd be surprised by what people will do to get rid of cats."  I tell the girl. "Doesn't matter what the advertisement reads either.  Even those that say CATS TO GOOD HOMES."

"It's not true at all.  People get desperate.  Cats have huge litters.  There can be so many left.  Even after the first 6 or 7 kittens get given to smartly dressed men in khakis, or a few to kindly grandmothers..."

"The lonely kind..."

I pause and spread out my hands emphatically,
"or the kind with tag-a-long children in sun dresses...doesn't matter."

"It's not easy.  You can't get rid of them all."  I say.

The girl takes a drag from her cigarette every time I pause to take a breath.  Puffs of smoke shoot out from her lips and nostrils making her look like a 19th century locomotive.

The girl nods her head at me.   Her eyes are wide and her loose curly hair is blowing wildly in the wind.

"People just give up.  They want out of the kitten giving away business."  I say and take the headphones out of my ears.

"People just want something to believe in.  Even if that something is a disheveled looking man in a plaid overcoat carrying a huge card board box offering to take all the kitties they have."

"Yes!  I will take all the kitties.  All the kitties."

"I promise to make them a good home.  All the kitties."

"A good home!"

"It doesn't matter how many times the guy bows like some kind of Japanese envoy from the United Nations.  Sooner or later the parents just hand over the kittens, one-by-one, and place them in that card board box.  They watch as the lumbering old man walks away sweating through his plaid colored overcoat in the mid July heat."

I shake my head at her.  "I have no idea what kind of story the parents tell the kids in these houses."

"No sweat pea, that man is a good man.  Yes it IS unusual to wear an overcoat in July.  But remember how your little friend Timmy wore the same shirt every day for the whole summer last year.  I am sure it is a lot like that."

"What's the man do with all the cats once he gets them in the box?" The homeless girl asks.

I look down the street and see the bright lights of oncoming cars.  They twinkle like stars.  I squint my eyes a bit more and take a look past the twinkling headlights.   As far as I can see every few hundred feet or so the darkness is punctured by a string of street lights.  At first all the cars and trucks coming towards me  look like they are the bus I am waiting for.  But as they approach the lights grow dimmer and the shapes that emerge from the gray background grow smaller.

The bus is not here yet and this is not the kind of neighborhood for a homeless girl to be waiting for the bus.

"Sometimes the homeless man takes the box of kittens to a doctor or scientist."  I tell the girl.

"You mean to do experiments on them?"  The girl gasps.

"ELECKTRO-Shock convulsive experiments?"  I mock the girl.  "No.  No.  Those kind of things are illegal."  I add that last thought hoping that would comfort the poor girl.

"The box of kittens is mostly used for industrial experiments.  So I am sure that it is okay."  I hope the homeless girl is reassured by this.  But somewhere I know a dead Ayn Rand is.

"They test cattle prods."  I say.

The homeless girl looks shocked.

"They test the cattle prods on kittens."

The homeless girl looks even more shocked.

"It's all perfectly legal."  I reassure her.  "If the cattle prods work."

"Basically all they have to do is lightly touch the rear end of one of these little kittens and the whole thing explodes.  The head of the cat pops up and drops in a large bin or container.  The rest of the body just"  I make a magic act symbol with my hands, "poofs and disappears."

"Of course that's if they cattle prod works."  I tell the girl.  "Then they take that prod and sell it to McDonald's or Burger King or whatever."

"The rest of the prods end up down another conveyor belt." I say.

"And what about the heads?"  The homeless girl asks, "What about them?"

"Oh." I am not sure.

"I think they get driven off in huge dumpster trucks."  I tell her.

"Can you imagine such a thing?"

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Lucid Dreaming and Cell phones.

It all started when my roommate decided he did not need to wake up in time to answer the door bell.

Waiting outside in the blustery, wet cold of the morning was a newly trained FEDEX delivery person.  She was ignoring the posted warning sign that read DAY TIME SLEEPER.

She rang the bell.  She then waited for a few seconds and knocked with a firm wrist on the door.  She stood with the impatient attitude of a women pressed for time.  The package in her arm felt light.  She thought about setting the package on the ground so she could get a better knock on the door.

"Use two hands."  She thought.

But then she thought better of it.  She remembered the video she was forced to watch in training class.  The video instructed her to never place her package on the ground if the package was smaller than a shoe box.

"It was unseemly."  Said the instructor.  "You are ENTRUSTED with the care of this package."  The instructor reminded her.

So the driver shoved the package near her armpit.  Her left bicep and rib cage met the box and held it firmly in place.

I was in bed asleep when I heard the rapping on the door.  I was caught in the treacherous borderline between wakefulness and the dreamworld.

I had no idea if the distant sound of tapping I heard was just a dream, or if someone was ACTUALLY knocking on the door.

"I might be Lucid Dreaming."  I thought.

I warned my roommate the fist time we moved in with each other that I was placing him in charge of answering the door in the early part of the morning.

"I suffer from Lucid Dreaming."  I told him.

"Like the Queensryche song?"  He asked trying to impress me with his knowledge of progressive metal bands.

"Exactly!"  I exclaimed.

"Only I was years ahead of those Tate and DeGarmo."   I told my roommate.

I have had an interest in the field of human psychology for as long as I can remember.  In the 8th grade I read B.F. Skinner in the original.  How many 8th graders read B.F. Skinner?  Not many.

But my interest in psychology was not the reason I was drawn to the psyche 101 class.  At the time I was dating a married woman  that I had met at work.  She wanted me to do something with my life and encouraged me to take classes at the local community college.

She always told me how "auditing co-op advertising had no future."

She was going through a divorce at the time, though her husband had convinced her to see a therapist.  The therapist told her to ask me "future" questions.

Where did I see myself in 10 years?  What were my goals in life?

At the time it seemed easy to answer her.

"I am going to be a neuro-psychologist."  I told her.

The day after she asked me her future question I enrolled in the psychology class.  I brought the enrollment papers to work with me the next day to prove to my girlfriend what a suitable boyfriend I was.

It wasn't enough for my girlfriend.  She broke up with me a few days later after I got fired for excessive tardiness.

I told my roommate about my  lucid dreaming as a child.

"I had no idea the concept was scientific or real until I saw a documentary on Public Broadcasting.  The show's content was confirmed by a lecture I attended at Mesa Community College."

"I had no idea that you were a lucid dreamer."  My roommate replied.  "I have the perfect gift for you for Christmas.  A pair of those ridiculous red goggles they make lucid dreamers wear at sleep labs."

He laughed at his own joke and the the mental image he had of me wearing L.E.D. goggles that blinked every time I experienced REM sleep.

"Fantastic."  I said pretending that I thought his joke was as funny as he thought it was.

"I am just telling you this because you need to know that when I am experiencing LUCID DREAMING  I am unable to distinguish whether I am awake or not.  I cannot control my lucid dreaming, so I won't budge if I hear the telephone ring, or a fire alarm going off."

"You'll need to keep an eye out for me."  I told my roommate.  "Watch out for smoke on the stove, or blinking answering machines."

At no time during our negotiations did my roommate suggest that he would not watch out for FEDEX deliveries.

I should have covered that with him.  I guess you could say that was my mistake.  Though personally I feel "answering doorbells"  pretty much covers looking out for package deliveries.

My roommate begged to differ.

"There is no way I am going to be listening for anymore door bells for you."  He told me one day.

"Why the hell not?"  I asked him angrily.  "Did you forget about my lucid dreaming?"

"I did not."

"But I am still not going to answer the door."  He said emphatically.

It seemed that my roommate had gotten himself into a little trouble with the police.  And they were sending over probation officers and bail-bondsmen to harass him.

"If I answer the door."  He told me  "I will have to explain all the beer cans that pile up in my room."  He said.

"You aren't allowed beer?"  I asked.

"Hell, no."  He said.  "If they catch me with beer I will go up the river.  They will lock the doors and throw away the key."

"Don't you know what they do to black men in the system in Arizona?"  He asked.

"Serve them green bologna," was the only reply I could come up with.

It was because of my concern over my roommate's situation with the court system that I let myself believe I was just lucid dreaming when I heard the knocking on the door.

After several sustained minutes of knocking I decided to wake up and get out of bed.  I looked over at the time clock.  It read 11:15 am.

I sauntered over to the peep hole without my glasses.  I peered out into the doorway entrance, squinting so I could see.

"Nothing there."  I muttered.  "I better check the sliding glass door though."   I said to myself.  "Just in case."

I had the vaguest recollection that I had ordered a replacement cell phone online last night.

"There is no way the phone could be here that quickly."

But a sudden rise in panic shook me.  I waved my hands blindly through the veneer blinds.  The slats jumbled together making a loud rattling sound that only added to my sense of panic.

"I don't see a van or anything."  I thought to myself.  But then again I could not really see anything.  I forgot my glasses.  I squinted again through the sliding glass patio door.  I thought about opening the door for a better look, but I was not wearing a t-shirt.  My hairy belly was jiggling in the cool morning sun.  I thought better of exposing my deeply entrenched belly button to the possible ridicule of FEDEX's driver.

Stay tuned for Part 2.  "I get stalked by the amazing hot blond girl who rides the bus with me."

Monday, November 16, 2009

No Strike. A new cell phone. Dizzy. Shades of yellow and purple.

No strike.

All the dirty tricks have been left behind us.  The company hired fake employees to sit around and picket the union.  The media only interviewed the doppelgangers, never any real employees.

It's bad enough we live in a right-to-work state."  I can hear Hunter S. Thompson talking to me from my Env3.

"The man coming down on me.  Squeezing me.  Throttling me like I was 2 year old with shaken baby syndrome."

I want to shake all the Trolls on the internet who  strip away my attachment to humanity.

"I want to find that person."  I say to myself.  "Pummel them in the face. "

"But they are stupid."  A voice in my head calls out for reason.  "And that kind of stupidity often comes as the result of parental behavior." 

"Probably."  Interrupts Oliver Wendell Holmes.  "But three generations of imbeciles are enough."  

"We should have never allowed those parents to inseminate one another.  We should find their kids and bash them against the rocks." 

"We should rip the babies out of their mother's wombs."  He reminds me.  "The bible says we can't keep letting these things breed together."

"FUCK YA!" I shout back at him.

The shouting made me lose balance momentarily.

"I feel dizzy." I said.   "It must be my low blood pressure."

"Maybe you are not getting enough sleep?" Asks the courtesy clerk with the stained arm pits.

"Maybe." I tell her.

But the mirror I face in the morning tells a different story. My face is yellow.   My body is overtaxed.  AID'S, Cancer, MERSA, the toe infection.  The slow leak of toxic poisons has made me jaundiced.

"And now you say I can't sleep."

The area beneath my eyes is puffy and dark purple.   My hair is falling out faster than usual.  It sticks up in funny directions whenever I get out of bed in the morning.  I look the most bald in the morning.

"I think stress is killing me."  I tell the girl bagging my groceries.

"Stress is killing us all."  My customer answers back for her.

I am not interested in what my customer says.

"She should shut her god-damned mouth." Hunter says.  "No one was talking to her."

I may have glanced over at her to include her in the conversation.

"I have to include her." I tell Hunter, "but that's just because my employer hates in when I have conversations outside of the customer/employee mode of interaction."

"We're fucking slaves!"  The voices of Hunter S. Thompson and Oliver Wendell Holmes rise up behind me like a black gospel choir. Complete with swelling organ music.

"I'm just scanning groceries, man."  I tell them.  "I don't want to put up with all this shit!"

"Why the fuck does every one always feel the need to diminish whatever statement another person says?" I think.

"They can't give you your FUCKING PAIN, man!" Thompson cries.
"Otherwise they have to give you the MEDS you need to feel better."

"I don't want to feel better."  I tell Hunter.

"Feeling better is easy, man."  I tell him "Why the fuck do you think they invented astrology?"  I ask him.

Before he can talk I interrupt him.  "And don't give me any shit about how Astrology on acid is real, okay?"

"All right man."

His voice sounds weak.  I can barely hear Hunter and Oliver on the Env3. I watch the old woman watch the girl place her bags in her grocery cart.

I wipe my eyes on the corner of my sleeve.  A batch of yellow sleep rubs off on to my black shirt.

I leave it there.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

I am gonna strike on you, baby, gonna strike on you

The following conversation is not verbatim:

I was standing in the entrance to the break room talking to Harold and making mushy faces to hide the fact that I had to take a shit.

Harold and I were old friends from high school.

I say we are old friends, but it's a little more complicated than that.  We didn't really hang out much in high school.  We attended a few party's together where he watched me get drunk and embarrass myself.

Sometimes I think Harold does not like me very much.  He has never said the words, "I don't like you" to my face, or to anyone else we know for that matter.  But I get that feeling anyway- every time I talk to him.

It's like I am auditioning to be this guy's friend or something.  Sounds bad, but talking to a guy you've know for 20 years shouldn't have to be as uncomfortable as talking to a girl you just met on a blind date.

"So what do you do for a living?"  Blind date girl asks.

"I don't do shit you think is important.  I scan groceries.  I ride the bus to work.  On the bus  I stick my earphones into a dying MP3 player that no longer plays the vocals to any of the music it plays.  So I have to hum the words to myself like some kind of retarded monkey." I tell her.

"I bet you're satisfied to know all that?"  I demand to know.

Sweat is collecting in my fat rolls.  It drains down my armpits and collects around my rib cage.  I can only look at the dinner plate wishing I had bought something less expensive.

Broccoli spears are staring back at me, mocking my pathetic outburst.

In my head I know she is judging me for my choice of dating attire.  I am wearing jeans torn at the cuff, and an outdated short- sleeve button-up collared plaid shirt.

"Fuck! If I knew I things were gonna go this bad, I would have taken you to Wendy's instead of the Pita Jungle."  I tell her.

I feel a clay colored bowel movement coming on.

"We are going on strike next week."  I tell Harold.

Harold response sounds excited.  "Yeah.  I had heard something about that on the news."  He tells me.

I take a sip out of my Super Sized Thirst Quencher of ice tea from Jack in the Box.

"Are you a co-worker?"  The voice is that of my manager.  She sticks her head between Harold and the Snicker's Bar I am holding in my right hand.

Harold looks over at her.  He seems a bit stunned by the question, but he gathers himself enough to say, "No.  We used to be co-workers.  I was just talking to him."

"Oh."  My manager says.  Then she walks off my assistant manager.

"She must have thought I was a Union Representative."  Harold infers.

"I guess."  I say.  "That was a bit weird."  Then I say, "I can't wait to go on strike, baby!"

"Aren't you nervous about going on strike?"  Harold asks.

"I am."  I tell him.

I don't tell him how I have 11 dollars in my bank account.  That my phone just got shut off, and I am avoiding going to the dentist or doctor because of all the co-pays I can't afford.

"At some point." I tell him.  "You just have to take a stand."

Harold nods his head at me.

I unwrap the Snicker's Bar from its wrapper.  "You don't mind if I eat while we talk do you?  I only get 10 minutes for a break."

"I get here late in the afternoon."  I tell him.  "I work through normal eating hours, so I just try and grab something to keep me going."

"It's dinner time."  He replies.

"Packed with peanuts."  I pause and rub my belly.  "Snicker's really satisfies."

I have no idea why I say stupid stuff like that.

"So what are the issues your company is fighting over?"  Harold asks.

"Same old shit.  Companies want to ring out every dollar of value they can from the working man.  They want to get rid of our health care.  They want to start a third tier of wages for new employees.  They want to start the new guys off at minimum wage."

"Jesus."  Harold sneers.

"This job used to be a blue collar job that provided a middle class lifestyle."  I tell Harold.

"I just thought the strike was over the company forcing you guys to pay a 5 dollar co-pay for your health benefits."  Harold parrots the reports he hears from local newscasters.

"That's all you hear on the news."  I tell Harold.  "But as usual the Main Stream Media leaves out the context of the argument."

"28 years ago the meat cutters got hired at a higher pay than the meat guys do... TODAY."

"It's really fucking crazy."  I tell him.

Talking to Harold has revved me up.  I always get emotional when I start talking about the way the working class gets screwed in the country.

"I was at the union meeting this Monday."

I want to tell him how a few times I could not control my outbursts.  How I used the term "ruling class" in one of them.

I was never the kind of Marxist who felt comfortable using Orthodox Terminology.  It always sounded conspiratorial to me.  Also, I thought the working people I shared my breaks with would never accept that kind of ideological thinking.

It was fine to discuss Hegelian Dialectics with my communist friends at the CPUSA meetings, but you had to reach the working class with different strategies than the kind you learned in work shops with 60 year old hippies who think The Battle in Seattle really changed anything. 

"At the union meeting hall it really all came in focus for me."  I tell Harold.

"The workers in grocery stores have seen their wages disappear."  I tell him.  "They made a bargain you may not have made, but one they feel comfortable with.   The bargain they made was to allow their wages to drop, so they could keep their health care.   The health care they so desperately need."

"You see."  I explain.  "Health care gives people  the security of middle class attainment."

"Just a year or so before I got hired the starting wage at the store I work at was $4 more than I got hired at." 

"So you see, it's not that the 5 dollars a week co-payment for individuals, or 15 dollar a week for families is so bad.  It's that workers have accepted DRACONIAN cuts in pay to keep their health care free."

"I see."  Harold nods his head and looks at his watch.

I ignore his hint.

"But that's just the start of it."  My voice raises a bit.

The customers in the magazine aisle are looking over at us.  I think my assistant manager has run over to the DVR control room to record my behavior.

I will get a citation for this I am sure.  But I have to keep going.  I have to explain why it is important that he is on our side.  That he understands the stakes.  That he understand what is going on.

"The company is running commercials telling people that the union is trying to ruin the company.  That we want to strike over 5 dollar co-pays."

"NOTHING could be further from the TRUTH!"  I shout.

"What the company does not tell you is that they are done funding the health care program.  They plan on dropping their support for the fund by 50% in the second year of the agreement."

I grab at the white sheet of paper clipped documents that my employer has given each of its employees.  I shake the paper in Harold's face.

"It's right here in BLACK & WHITE!"

My voice has not reached a crescendo, but it is attracting attention.  A crowd has gathered.  And some of the people are saying, "Yeah!" And "That's right man."

But some of the people are confused still.

"But doesn't the offer we are getting from the company say that current employees don't have to pay extra for health care?"  A voice in the back asks.

"It does."  I yell towards the voice.  I search out the faces for the person who offered up the question.  The faces that look back at me are scared and angry.  Their faces match my blustery, red cheeks.

I wonder after all the corporate shenanigans of the last few years.  The savings and loan bailout, ENRON, oil price fixing, the current Bank bailouts.  How can anyone trust corporate executives to care about anyone but themselves?

Harold has no idea what he is still doing here.

"What the company fails to mention is that the agreement has a clause.   The clause states current employees won't pay co-pays as long as the fund has enough money." 

"But."  I remind the growing audience, "The company has already declared its intention of decreasing their funding by 50% in the next two years."

"Do the math people."  I tell them.  "You will seem premiums go up.  They did in California.  Premiums have doubled so that they families are spending 120 dollars a month to get the same coverage."

I have to get on a roll here.  I want a few of the wanna be scabbers to rethink their position.

"Premiums go up, coverage will go down.  And we get lower wages."

I am shaking my fists now.

"They will take away your health care by making it so unfordable.  We all might as well work at WalMart."

I point up at the sky.

"Billions for wealthy in bailouts!  Millions in compensation for the executives!"  "But what about us?"  "Why must we be made to feel like we are greedy for asking for some basic protection in the world?"

I don't want to say what I am going to say next.  But it is the truth.

"This is WARFARE."  Plain and simple.  "Class Warfare!"

"Why is it when cuts need to be made, the executives always come hunting for your HEALTH CARE?"

"Why do the Vampires feast on our wages?"

"Greedy Boss-Man is dead labor," The ghost haunting capitalism  whispers in my ear, "He is vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labor, and lives the more, the more labor it sucks!"

"He will."  Answers the crowd. "Until we say NO MORE!"