Jake: The Child Demon

          Children: the life-sucking, soul-sapping, dream-stealing figures in all of our lives.  A child doesn’t have to be mine in order to take away my happiness, burn it, then gleefully dance a top the ashes.  No, a child – any child – can do that because disguised inside their tiny frames is a sort of viciousness and evil that comes straight from the 7^th circle of Hell.  Some see happiness and love when they look at a child.  I see a ruined meal at a restaurant because little Timmy likes to express himself through senseless screaming, table shaking, booth climbing and fork throwing.  Some people see innocence and the future within children.  I see a horrible movie theatre experience because little Bernadette and little Bernadette’s littler sister prefer crying and whining to shutting the hell up during the feature presentation.  If Dennis from Dennis the Menace had been my child the name of that comic strip would have been Dennis grows up in Foster Care.  It’s not that I hate children - I actually like kids - it’s that they all hate me and do whatever they can, wherever I am, to make my life miserable.

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“Aiden would you watch him for a few minutes?  I have to meet with Scott.” Beth breathlessly inquired, obviously in a hurry.

I looked up from the mess of paper work strewn over the desk where I sat and blinked a few times.

“Um, what?” I asked.

“Can you watch Jake while I meet with Scott?  It should only take 10 minutes or so.” Beth inquired again.

I looked out into the small corridor leading up to the office where I was working and there, like a little cocaine-drugged maniac, crept Jake. 

Jake was about 7 years old and was small for his age and appeared to be disheveled and wild with unkempt hair and a runny nose. He was wearing green corduroy pants and a small blue tee shirt.  Attached around his waste and legs was a yellow harness of some kind cordoned to a nylon leash that Beth held tightly in her hand. Obviously this little monster was cut from a different cloth if such drastic and debilitating measures were needed to control him.  I also noticed he was only wearing one shoe.

“It’s missing a shoe and wearing a leash.” I said pointing to the child’s barefoot and attached body harness. 

“IT’S not missing anything, HE left it in the car and HIS name is Jake.  And it’s not a leash; it’s for his protection.  Jake is Autistic, Aiden, and likes to wonder off sometimes.  Please just watch him.  It’s my day off but it was the only time Scott had available to meet with me.” Beth pleaded.

“Uh yea, whatever I can watch it.  What does it like to do?” I inquired.

“HE likes racecars and trains.” Beth annoyingly responded, obviously not liking my repeated references to her son as an “it”.

“Real fucking original Beth – cars AND trains?  How do you find time to work while re-writing the entire concept of parenting?  How about you challenge him? How about you ta…”

“Watch your language around him! Will you do it or not Aiden?!” Beth interrupted not wanting to hear my thoughts on child rearing.

“Yea I will watch HIM.”  I sneered, “Go do your thing.”

Beth bent down and looked Jake in the eyes, “Now you be good for Aiden. Ok? Mommy has to have a meeting but I will be right back.  Why don’t you show Aiden your racecar?!”

“O-K” Jake mumbled and began mindlessly fishing through his pockets. 

Satisfied with her parenting pep talk Beth stood up and walked from the office on her way to meet with Scott.

I don’t care about you or your little racecar I thought to myself as I turned my attention from Jake back to my paperwork.

“LOOK.  HERE LOOK.”  Jake half shouted holding a tiny toy racecar in his hand while stumbling well within my personal space.

“I can see it. What about it?” I asked scooting back in my seat so as to create some room between Jake and I.

“LOOK.  It’s my car. I like to race it.” Jake mumbled while making a vroom sound mimicking a racecar engine.

“Oh yea Jake?  How do you race that car?  It’s fake and you can’t race a fake car.”  I gladly pointed out to the 7 year old.  “You want to know what else is fake, Jake?  Santa.”

Jake was not listening anymore as he was too busy walking in circles in the middle of the office, arm out stretched, holding his tiny toy car lost in some small minded day dream filled with fast racecars and straight-aways.

I turned back to my paperwork.  This babysitting thing was easy.  Just give a piece of plastic with wheels attached to it to a kid and let the imagination take over.  I guess he wasn’t that bad afterall.  Jake had yet to cry or scream and seemed content on just playing with his toy car and spinning in circles.  Easy.

I glanced back over to check on Jake except something was wrong.  Something was very, very wrong because I was the only one in the office.  Jake had vanished.

Shit! I thought as my eyes darted across the room, corner to corner.  I stood up and glanced behind the door.  No sign of Jake.  I walked out of the office and into the back corner of the warehouse.

“Here Jake! C’mon boy! Come here Jake!”  I shouted in a high-pitched animal type call – in my experience dogs had responded to that type of beckoning and I didn’t see why Jake would be any different.

“Here Jake, Jake, Jake! C’mon out boy!”

Silence.  There was no sign of Jake.  My heart began to race.  Sweat beads bubbled up on my forehead and the unexplainable feeling of knowing I misplaced a human child set in.  It was gut wrenching.  I stumbled from the corner of the warehouse and began methodically combing up and down each aisle.  It was the worst possible place to lose sight of a child – a working warehouse filled with motorized forklifts, power equipment and tall racking stuffed with heavy boxes.  The only place worse to lose a kid would be a park populated with pedophiles wearing trench coats and short denim shorts.  I shuttered at the idea and picked up my already panicked pace of locating Jake.

I frantically staggered from one end of the warehouse to the other and back again.  Jake had been missing for what seemed like hours if not days.  The reality that I was going to have to tell Beth - that a 28-year-old man had been out smarted by a 7-year-old Autistic boy wearing one shoe and a leash - was sickening.  As I made my way to the back offices I suddenly heard the undeniable sounds of a tiny toy car being driven across an imaginary staright-away.  Vroom indeed.

Jake was tucked behind and half inside of an empty Appliance cardboard box, completely unaware that his negligent actions had nearly caused me to have a heart attack;  no sense in trying to make Jake understand the consequences of his actions.  I bent down and asked Jake to come out from his hiding spot to which he, not surprisingly, refused.  I reached into the box and grabbed the leash attached to Jake’s harness and simply pulled him out and began dragging across the warehouse floor back toward the office.  It was in this moment Jake the person ceased to exist and the demonic and wicked beast inside of all children took over.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The beast-boy snarled, snot and spit oozing from his face.  “I DON’T WANT TO GO!”

Jake allowed his undersized body to go limp in an attempt to stop the forward progress away from his cardboard wonderland.  His tiny hands grabbed and lurched at every item within reach causing a wake of destruction to follow us.  Realizing his dead weight act was not slowing my pace the demon stood and tried to run in the opposite direction all the while screaming and hollering of the injustices and infringements of the moment as only a 7 year old can when not given their way.

We arrived back to office and the battle with Beast continued.  Anything not bolted to the floor was fair game and if he got his hands on it was certain to be thrown in my general direction.   There was no reasoning with this dark and belligerent creature and so for the preservation of my own personal safety I began to tie Jake up.

I took the leash and by pushing his tiny and spiteful hands down to his side I was able to loop the leash around him several times, fashioning his arms to his side.   With the remaining slack I tied it to the handle of a large metal filing cabinet in the corner of the office. I cinched it tight so Jake could not move more than a few inches in any direction. 

Jake’s screaming mellowed to a dull whimper and he began crying for his mom.

“I want your mom to be here too Jake.  She can deal with you and your craziness.” I assured him.  I noticed Jake was still holding his toy racecar.  I walked up to him and snatched the car from his little destructive hands.

“Guess what Jakey, bad kids don’t get toys.” I scoffed as I began to pretend to play with the toy car.  “Vrooooooom!  This is so fun.  This is now my car Jake. And you can never have it back.  Jake is a bad bad…”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO MY SON?”  Beth shouted.

I spun around and there stood Beth in the doorway.  Visibly angry she marched past me and began untying Jake.

It sort of hit me then how it might have looked – a small autistic child having been tied up and attached to a filing cabinet was being provoked and harassed by his adult baby sitter through the empty promise of taking his prized possessions and never giving them back.  Yea, no doubt, it looked bad.

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM AIDEN?!”  Beth screamed

Not wanting to miss his chance at pay back Jake began to cry and recount the terrible tribulations of being unnecessarily dragged over the dirty and concrete floor of a warehouse – as only a 7 year old can. 

“He ran away and I didn’t want him to…” I stammered, not really sure what to say.

“So you tied him up and told him you were going to take away all his toys?  Are you crazy?!  Beth barked back at me  “That’s not ok Aiden, you have issues. We’re leaving!” 

Beth and Jake exited the office and started making their way down the connecting corridor when Jake stopped and asked Beth about his racecar.  I realized I was still holding it and called after him, motioning for him to come get it.  This was my chance to apologize.   Beth was right in being upset.  Had I lost my mind?  In what world is it ok to tie a child up as a measure of disciplinary action? I needed to make this right.  I needed to apologize to Jake.

As Jake approached me I bent down and held the car out for him to take. 

“Hey Jake, look buddy I am really sorry for taking your car.  You’re a good kid. Ok?”

Jake slowly retrieved the toy car from my out reached hand and took a step back.  Then without warning he looked me straight in the eyes and spit into the palm of my outreached hand; a small, hateful smile spreading over his face and the twinkle of a demon in his eye as he turned and rejoined Beth.  The child demon had won.  

My cell phone hates me...and I hate it.

Like many humans I have a cell phone.  In fact I have a "smart phone" but my phone isn't smart - it's lazy and pretty damn stupid.  Ok - it's really stupid. The movie Waterworld was “smart and entertaining” in comparison to how stupid my phone is.  I once talked to a girl who, for 20 minutes, argued leap year had an extra MONTH in it (Septober! You know - that crazy month that pops up once every 4 years) and while defending her argument she was smarter than my smart phone.  

What special needs phone do I own?  I own the HTC Hero with Google and this thing is too stupid to be a paperweight.  Aside from its handicapped battery life that requires 2 FULL charges everyday is the fact my phone stutters and freezes more than Hellen Keller's blubbering ass did while learning to read and talk (keep in mind she was a blind, deaf mute).  IF my phone has enough battery life and IF my phone is stable enough it will - wait for it - make a phone call!!! No, no...not every time or most of the time or even some-of-the-fucking-time...no.  Not my special little guy.  It sparingly and seemingly begrudgingly makes phone calls only when it deems them appropriate or necessary - about 20% of the time.  

If I were in some sort of emergency that required an urgent form of distressful communication I would pick the following methods/devices to notify help before even considering using my phone:  Screaming and shouting. Throwing my shoes in the air. Throwing my cell phone in the air.  Lighting a dumpster fire.  Lighting myself on fire. A whistle. Two Goddamned cans and a whole lot of string. Banging a wooden spoon against a metal pot. Carrier pigeons. Lighting the pigeons on fire. Telepathy. Anything - ANYTHING - is more reliable.  It's a vibrating, ringing, drooling, error code producing, stuttering mess of technology - and it's all mine.  


Texting on this finicky bitch is as frustrating as it is fascinating. For example: the predictive text creates its own words and saves them in the custom dictionary then tries to force me to use these imaginary words when I type real words.  Or the snail like pace I have to type a text message because going too fast can cause the phone to: 1) make up it's own god damn language 2) freeze 3) Produce one of seemingly endless error codes of why it's not feeling like working that day 4)  Turn off.  Yea this little jem of technological craftsmanship will actually go into full shut down mode if I string words together any faster than a slow text mumble.  (And you thought I was kidding with the  Hellen Keller comparison)

Here are a few fun error codes that I deal with on a daily basis:

Shortage?  The only thing short about you is the bus you take to school.  I hate you phone. 

Cause Code: 64/Error Class 2???  This thing is so riddled with mistakes and errors it has to provide a subclass designation in order to tell me why it's an even bigger piece of shit than I already thought it was!  Cause code and error Class???  WTF!  You're a phone.  A PHONE! 

Error Code 78 and 67?? Network and Registration failures?    Make the call and send the damn text.  That's your only job.  I guess if you don't hear from me until next Septober you now know why...FML.

A Little Locker Legend

I remember the scream.  Danny's shrill ear-splitting scream that cut night apart like a surgeons scalpel.  It echoed off the dark trees with a sort of vigor that can make even the bravest of men quiver with fear and self-doubt.  One of our female companions stood frozen in horror unable to fully comprehend what her eyes were telling her brain. 

“PUT IT DOWN!” I shouted, feeling the blood race through my body at an uncontrollable rate, “PUT THE DEMON DOWN DANNY!!” 

“I CAN’T!” Danny half cried, half pleaded, “HE’S BITING ME!”

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When I was in high school there was a locker competition among a group of us that shared a common locker area dubbed “The Pit”.  The winners of this contest would receive free lunch for a week at the expense of the losers and the distinguishment of being christened a “locker legend” – something that for me carried far more personal glory and gain than a week of free mashed potatoes and mystery meat.   I wanted to be a legend. I needed to be a legend and immediately knew all conventional laws that govern our society and keep mankind from tearing itself to shreds would have to be taken off the table and kindly discarded.   I had win and I would make sure of it.   

The rules were crude and vaguely stated but to the power-thirsty and moronic minds of high school seniors it was as though Martin Luther himself had scratched out the parameters and nailed them upon the walls of The Pit. The winner, the rules elegantly stated, would be the team receiving the most number of votes by 23 randomly selected underclassmen judging only on “actionable locker décor”.  Let the games begin.

As the contest proceeded the stakes were continually raised by my fellow comrade’s engineering feats all deliriously obsessed with outdoing the other.  Lockers fitted with fish tanks and multi-colored Christmas lights powered by car batteries became regular sightings.  Fold out locker kitchens complete with homemade mini-mini-mini fridges started to appear – one rigged with a working toaster.  There were Radios and CD players along side disco balls, strobe lights and subwoofers. One team was even building an in locker Tesla Coil.  Yes, the competition was ratcheting up but to be a legend one must rise above such childish and conventional exploits and think how a true locker legend, nah – locker god - would think.  My partner, Danny, began to get worried as the contest end date drew closer and closer and we had yet to even design anything.  I kept assuring him I had a plan but was waiting on a single piece of information destined to assure us victory.  My idea was simple.   Brilliant really.  Every competing idea to that point had been electrically or mechanically powered.  In order to win we had to go bigger, better.  We would have to do something that no one else would even imagine or have the balls to pull off. We needed to go human.

A midget can very loosely be defined as: very small or of a class below usual size.  The key words in that are: “class”, “small” and “below usual size”.  Considering the key words, one can take it a step further and argue a rough translation to mean a midget has no inalienable rights or civil liberties.  Therefore a midget is an entity or “class” of organism below human specifications and thus can be treated as such – especially if that meant being immortalized as a locker legend.  At least the 17-year-old version of myself was able to make that connection and misguided rationalization.   My idea hinged on the concepts of portability and interaction – a midget possessed both - so when the judging occurred our locker would slowly and dramatically open, out strolling the “Locker Jester” juggling and singing the praises of the underclassmen judges that stood before him. 

“A fish tank and mini-mini-mini fridge doesn’t have shit on a walking, talking, fucking juggling locker midget outfitted in a jester costume and top hat!” I remember excitedly assuring Danny when first telling him of my plan. 

Danny was a big guy, standing about 6’4’’ and 190 lbs.   His laugh was machine gun fast and sounded like a stuttering tire being driven across highway rumble strips.  He had brown curly hair, a large nose and huge hands that would swallow up anyone else’s during a handshake.  He also had an unusual and unhealthy obsession with the band U2 and had seen them something like 24 times all over the world.  His face would go red if anyone ever badmouthed the band and once he even hit a kid for calling Bono an “overhyped, talentless Mick”.   The only thing Danny loved more than U2 was guns, knives, and danger.  His family, fully taking advantage of (and in my opinion the exploitation of) the second amendment, had over the years purchased dozens and dozens of firearms.  Handguns, rifles, semi-automatics and fully automatic weapons were just the beginning.  I was pretty convinced that his family owned a tank or at least a large supply of powerful explosives – something Danny would never confirm nor deny. They were radicals.  But it’s what made Danny - Danny.  I was lucky to have such a quirky and unpredictable individual for my partner.  He was the only person I knew, other than myelf, crazy enough to commit first degree felony kidnapping for 10 dollars of high school cafeteria food and a made-up honorary title of no actual significance outside the four brick walls of our high school.  Ah, misspent youth.

Weeks earlier I had hatched my dubious plan by soliciting several classmates on the whereabouts of any mini munchkins working the seasonal haunted house circuit.  I nonchalantly explained I had an unexplainable and irrational fear of little people and wanted to avoid them at all costs should I fancy a stroll through one of the area freight fest factories.   Weeks past and there was no news of any lurking little people until a confirmed report came back to me identifying one such place.  Allegedly at the end of a locally operated haunted woods site there was indeed a midget working.  His shtick, albeit simple and old fashioned, was to sneak up on any thrill seeker brave enough to venture through the woods and scare the bejesus out of them at the end of a very long and narrow path.   It was discussed and agreed that Danny and I would act that weekend.  So as to not look out of place we asked a couple of female classmates to accompany us as our dates and with their unknowing help we would walk the woods where the little hunter was about to become the hunted. 

Saturday finally rolled around and everything was in place.  Danny had secured a thick black fabric bag and a large tub of animal crackers and gummy bear candies.  

When I asked Danny what the crackers and candies were for he matter-of-factly responded, “Midgets love sweets. Everyone knows that.” 

“Were not searching for a god damn elf Danny, leave the candy here!” I exclaimed.

The black bag was where we would hide our locker winning midget until we could get away from the other patrons and employees of the haunted woods and get to the safety of our vehicle.  Once there we would ask the midget for his cooperation in assisting us with our locker contest.  If he refused we would put him back in the bag and drive him to obscure mountain cabin where we would use the threat of besetting an illegally obtained vicious spider monkey on him in a fight-to-the-death-gladiator-style-brawl (Danny’s idea).  In reality there was no mountain cabin, just Danny’s parents tool shed and there was certainly no illegally obtained spider monkey; but Danny did have a pretty big cat.  We talked the operation over one last time and didn’t anticipate any problems with our shock and awe midget removal plan so we jumped in Danny’s car, picked up our dates and drove to the haunted woods.  What could go wrong?

We arrived at the haunted woods just before dark and to our disappointment there was a long line of fellow thrill seekers snaked around a poorly constructed waiting area.  As we stood in line Danny entertained our dates with stories of U2 shows and how he and brothers would light old wrecked cars on fire in the west desert of Utah.  My mind raced and I reviewed the details of our plan over and over in my mind.  When the midget approached us on the long path Danny would pretend to trip and fall to the ground and, in a hurried attempt to stand up, would quickly reach out and pick the midget up.  I would then rush over with the bag and together we would stuff the little munchkin into the black fabric void, effectively securing our legacy within the members of The Pit for decades if not lifetimes to come.   It would work.  It had to work.

Finally it was our turn to pay the admission fee and enter the haunted woods.  Our dates hung on our arms, screeching at every turn, as we slowly and methodically tottered our way through the dark and spook filled forest.  There were hidden ghosts and chainsaw wielding maniacs coming at us from every direction.  Swamp monsters and crazed clowns danced along the route tempting us to make eye contact so as to provoke and justify further harassment.  Hidden speakers hung from the towering tree branches repeating recorded screams and evil laughter.  None of this mattered of course.  I was on a mission and all the poorly costumed ghouls in the world would not keep me from obtaining it. 

Suddenly the trees tightened in around us and we found ourselves on a long and narrow path.  All the haunted woods actors had seemingly disappeared and we could hear the yelps and shouts of the patrons behind us being menaced by their efforts.  The midget was here, somewhere, watching us.  Waiting for us to pass so he could creep along and at the right moment expose his presence for that last and final scare of the haunted woods.  I couldn’t help but smile a large and menacing grin.  The sense of victory washed over me like a warm blanket.  He was close – I could smell him.  We inched along the path slowly scanning the surrounding scenery looking for any indication of our lurking little person but found none.  I glanced up and painfully noticed we were nearly to the exit point.  My scan of the forest quickened and my heart raced.  Where was he?

Without warning Danny fell to the ground and let out a heavy sigh.  The signal!  I spun around and there, charging full bore at us, was the midget.  Standing maybe 3 and half feet short he was dressed in an old 1900’s prison jail costume.  His eyes were wild like fire and his hands were contorted into some ghastly hook formation.  His legs fiercely pattered along the path as he ran toward us, screaming his awful and awkward little person war cry.  Our female companions screamed at the sight of such a small yet terrifying image.  Danny rolled to his side then without hesitating lurched forward; hands out stretched and caught the tiny little belt wrapped around the waist of our tiny little man.  The midget, obviously confused, tried to turn around but Danny was all ready standing up in the process lifting him high above the ground. 

“BAG HIM!” Danny screamed, unable to bottle his excitement.  “BAG HIM NOW!”

Without saying a word I removed the black fabric bag from underneath my jacket and shook it open as I leaped toward Danny.

The midget, now perhaps fully realizing what was occurring, did something neither of us ever expected.  The midget began to fight.

His short arms and small fists swung wildly like wind blown pinwheels and his feet began to kick. Profanity laced sentences danced from his mouth ordering us to let him go or else.  The situation was horrifically spiraling out of control when the unthinkable happened: the midget sunk his teeth into Danny’s arm. 

I remember the scream.  Danny's shrill ear-splitting scream that cut night apart like a sharp surgeons scalpel.  It echoed off the dark trees with a sort of vigor that can make even the bravest of men quiver with fear and self-doubt.  One of our female companions stood frozen in horror not able to fully comprehend what her eyes were telling her brain. 

“PUT IT DOWN!” I shouted, feeling the blood race through my body at an uncontrollable rate, “PUT THE DEMON DOWN DANNY!!” 

“I CAN’T!” Danny half-cried half-pleaded, “HE’S BITING ME!” 

He began to shake his arm violently trying to free himself from the midget’s murderous mouth grip.   Then as quickly as it had all occurred it was all over.  The munchkin released his bite, falling to the ground and scampering away into the darkness of the forest.  Our female companions were nowhere to be found or heard from again and poor Danny had teeth marks covering his forearm.  My mouth hung open and eyes blinked rapidly struggling to make sense of the fleeting moment.  I heard footsteps, lots of footsteps followed by the voices of large men wearing uniforms with badges ordering us to the ground.  I felt helpless and scared.  I was now the one being hunted by larger men. I was now the midget.

After what seemed like hours Danny and I were able to talk our way out of the whole situation through a series of poorly constructed lies and half-truths.  We fumbled our way through a hazy reenactment of the preceding events that included lies like mistaken identities and amnesia.   In hindsight I think the arresting officer just didn’t want to deal with the whole bewildering situation anymore so after a strict lecture and lifetime ban from the haunted woods we were on our way.

As we drove home, beaten and defeated, the reality of the night hit me like a ton of bricks: what the hell had I just done?  I had just tried to kidnap someone for the self-satisfying title and nearly inedible food prize of a high school locker competition.  If I had just spent the time designing something legal we probably would have won!  What kind of a monster had I become in the face of competition?  Jesus, what was wrong with me?!  I looked at Danny to share my eye opening epiphany but before I could get a word out Danny looked at me and disgustedly sneered, “I told you Aiden! I told you I should have brought the gummy bears!”

Lady Dump

Providing customer service was something I was obligated to engage in being that it was my job.  For 5 years I worked at The Home Depot, and for those 5 years my disdain for the general public steadily grew – at times reaching mind numbing levels.  Having held various managerial positions I had the displeasure of witnessing nearly all aspects of the human experience from the tragic to the painfully pathetic.  However nothing could have prepared me for what is now referred to as “The Dump.”

             

Near the end of my employment I was asked to assist a customer with an electrical question regarding exterior lighting control.  Begrudgingly I agreed and soon arrived to offer assistance.  The customer, let’s call her "Lady Dump", was a woman in her early 60’s with snow white hair, facial liver spots and posture that would make a scoliosis patient cringe.  Wearing a sleeveless grey top and orange triangle patterned Bermuda shorts I could not help but notice that Lady Dump had possibly not been exposed to sunlight since before I was born.  I asked what I could help her with, and in a voice that eerily resembled a goat impersonating a frog she explained her lighting predicament.    

           

After hearing Lady Dump drone on about her problem I brought her to the appropriate aisle and selected the item best suited for her situation.  Standing a mere 3 feet from her we played verbal volleyball which consisted of me repeating myself over and over and her agreeing then disagreeing to the same information I had been regurgitating  for the past several minutes.  As in any social interaction a natural pause took place in the conversation, and it is here where my life changed and faith in humanity came to a bitter and screeching halt. 

            

Given that I always tried my best to avoid eye contact with the customers I helped (I found eye contact created a sense of trust and openness I will never have nor care to have with complete strangers) I found myself, per usual, staring at the merchandise’s packaging.  This also gave me a unique view of the floor and Lady Dump’s legs.  As my inattentive gaze settled in on her vitamin D starved knee caps a glob of what resembled dark brown over-beaten mashed potatoes materialized from beneath the hem line of her shorts and began to drool down her leg until it reached the floor with a silent yet audible thud that only I could ever hear.  Time stood still.  Somewhere in the distance a baby cried, and as my mind struggled through what was happening a second glob appeared and snailed its way to the floor joining its mashed potato brother.  The sickening realization of what was occurring gave way to horror – Lady Dump was shitting her pants. 

            

One can only imagine the expression chiseled on my face, probably something along the lines of “Ohmygod Lady!  You’re fucking shitting your pants!” but I’ll never know for sure because as quickly as the defecation occurred the clean-up began.

         
Without either of us saying a word Lady Dump proceeded to select the item I had just explained and with her opposite hand wipe the brown potato trail from her leg, pick up the pile of dung and place it into her Bermuda short’s pocket.  She than inexplicitly shrugged her misshaped shoulders as if to say “So what?” about-faced and marched away - hand and poop in pocket.

            

Later I found out Lady Dump actually paid for the item, the cashier thinking it odd that she never removed her hand from her pocket, and much, much later I found myself slightly envious of the old lady who never gave one shit about sharing two with me.  

Pink Christmas - Part 1

She came running and screaming like a rabid dog  from across the double wide, each step angrier than the last.  Her arms were outstretched, flailing about her body like propellers pulling her through the turbulent air that had been created when I refused her offer of a homemade candy sucker.  The glow of a pink Christmas tree provided the only light and as I glanced up from the deadbolt I was desperately trying to unlock I realized the monster was nearly upon me.   Unspeakable terror gave way to the tragic understanding that I was going to die at the hands of a pornography addicted, drug dealing, pedophile with bad teeth and a lisp.  This was it; this was the end.

Online dating is the dicey deal you make with the devil when the bar scene dries up, and you find yourself oddly attracted to 3AM infomercial pitch women.  It’s a world entirely unto itself where the rules of normal human interactions no longer apply. It’s a place completely built by the destroyed dreams, unrealized potential and nagging insecurities inside of all of us.  The creepy beauty and twisted satisfaction of all this, however misguided and unethical, is the notion you can be anything you want –and I mean anything – and find love, sex or whatever fills your emotional void.  If a profile says one has 31 doctorates and makes a billion dollars a year, well, by god it must be true, because even though basic logic tells us this is not possible, at the end of the day we desperately want to believe the lie. It’s all a con, and when I was 21, it was the perfect place for me for one simple reason: I wanted to write. I had always wanted to be a writer and thought the more I forced myself into dangerous and morally questionable situations the more I would find myself past the brink of human experience.  It was here, after most people turn away ashamed, beaten or both, when the real stories would emerge for me, and somehow online dating provided this chaotic and misguided opportunity. 

“Are you really, like, a brain architect?” she inquired.

“Of course I am, but I’m just finishing my neurosurgery fellowship so I have a few more years here before I can start the business and really make the big bucks,” I assured her over the instant messenger that kept us connected like the terminally ill.  Just how dumb was this girl?

"Radical Nuro Transmission Displacement Theory" was my newest online fallacy that I had created in order to meet rich, gold-digging cougars and to this point had proven everything but successful.  In hindsight the lie of being a doctor that could duplicate someone’s mind and place it inside of inanimate objects was just too much to believe – even in the distorted, hazy online dating world.

“So…you can put my mind into things – like dogs?!”  I sensed her building excitement within the question and immediately knew she must have animals, something I would undoubtedly use to my benefit given the opportunity.

“Not exactly, it has to be inanimate – like a toaster – the object can’t think on its own or possess predetermined feel...”

“Toasters can think!” She interrupted. “How else does it know when to let go of my toast?”  

This was going to be like taking candy from a baby. I proceeded to agree with her notion of a toaster’s ability to think and various other aspects of life. I told her about my time studying medicine in France, a country I have never actually been too, and my love for animals - especially dogs. It was then with an almost curious amount of predictability she invited me over to her place. 

As I drove across town toward her house I realized I knew almost nothing about the woman I was meeting in the middle of the night.  She was in her late 30’s and loved animals - specifically dogs.  She had described herself as a slightly heavier Nicole Kidman who, until a recent 4-wheeler accident, had liked to hit the bottle. Short of that I knew nothing – not even her name.  What the hell was I doing?  Why was I doing it?  Good questions to ask oneself while driving through a snowstorm at 1 AM to meet a complete stranger, but those inquisitive instincts would not be developed in me for several more years so onward I pushed until I arrived at the address she had provided.

“A fucking trailer?” I thought as I parked my car in the narrow doublewide’s covered car port.  I double checked the address and then noticed the glow of a pink Christmas tree radiating from the side window – an unmistakable landmark she had described to help me find her “house”.  As I walked toward the front door frightened paranoia suddenly washed over me and the urge to leave crept into my mind.  I dismissed the feelings as a case of the unknown jitters and knocked on the door. 

Suddenly the inside of the trailer sprang to life.  Dogs barked. A woman’s voice screamed for their silence.  Footsteps – heavy, slow footsteps - creaked from the rear of the trailer until they stopped on the other side of the door.  The clickty-clack of locks being undone filled the doublewide’s car port, the door handle slowly turned and as the door was opened I got my first look at the greatest online liar in history.

Shaped like an acorn-dradel hybrid she wore a white tank top that almost covered her soft cookie dough torso.  Her blue pants – purchased at what appeared to be Baby Gap – extended to her ankles, one of which possessed a law enforcement issued monitoring device.  Her hair was sandy brown and stretched into some kind of bird nest design found only on obscure undiscovered tropical islands that civilized society would never understand.  Her hardened sweat-stained face remained cold as I introduced myself.  Her glossy, red-stained eyes blinked slowly as she dragged the crook of her elbow across her mouth wiping the white filmy drool that had accumulated during my brief introduction.  Silence, terrible, mind-wrecking silence ensued.

These were uncharted waters, and I certainly possessed the wrong type of vessel to maneuver such a situation but I found myself thinking, “What would Buckowski, Kerouac and Vonnegut do?” The answer was simple: press on.

“So…” I stammered, still standing on the poorly constructed wooden steps of the entrance, “What’s going on?”

Without warning her eyes widened to the size of silver dollars, and her demeanor deflated to that of a blown bicycle tire.  “Come in,” she hissed, and without giving a second thought to my own personal well-being I entered the double wide trailer as she locked the door behind me…


<To Be Continued>

Andys

Andys Bar

It was February.  I was searching for hookers and cocaine, and by that I mean a Blockbuster Video, along a lengthy and darkened stretch of forgotten Salt Lake City roadway when unexpectedly the cold, blue, glow of a neon lit sign washed across my face. The sign simply read “Andys” situated above the decaying arch entrance of a red-brick, dilapidated two-story building.  A conveniently placed Budweiser sign blinked from one the side windows - all covered by large, forbidding iron bars.  Suddenly my search for nose candy and happy endings seemed silly if not irrelevant.  Around the back of Andys I found a parking spot in what can only be described as “murder alley” and quickly made my way up the side of the crumbling building and through the front door.

I was immediately greeted by the pungent stench of human sweat, cigarette smoke and failure.  The atmosphere seemed tense despite the fact Tom Jones was being pumped through an old multi-colored jukebox.  The walls were a yellowish-tan, beaten and half rotten from a lifetime submerged in second hand smoke and human tragedy. The worn carpet was a conglomerate of oranges, browns and what appeared to be speckles of vomit - not necessarily that of the human variety.  In front of me stretched a long and narrow wooden bar with shelves of liquid courage and misfortune neatly situated behind it.  As though any self-examination was needed in such a depraved and helpless establishment, long and piercing mirrors were hung next to the alcohol shelves stretching the remainder of the bar, allowing any paying customer a glance of themselves and perhaps a thought of “Just how the hell did I wind up here?”   Brown, laminate-topped, circular tables were placed around the room in no particular order accompanied by orange, circular, cushioned stools that curiously invited one to take a seat and forget about whatever troubles existed – both imaginary and real.  A lone pool table was awkwardly placed in the corner of the room – its green felt top obviously mangled from misuse and spilled drinks.  Pictures of beer advertisements and feel good slogans were hung throughout the bar screaming to be noticed but rarely considered or given any thought at all by anyone who ventured within the four walls where I now stood.

“What’ll it be?” barked the bartender a man of aging complexion and riddled with anxiety and an immediate and obvious distrust for myself.

“Whiskey.” I replied - it being the only drink possibility that may set the man at ease and soothe the moment’s pending hostility.  I was right. 

The bartender nodded and loosened his bulldog demeanor, silently assuring himself I would be no trouble or at least fit in with the regular clientele – an unsurprisingly rough and derelict group.   To either side of me sat Native American men barely conscious of my existence, completely consumed by the dark draw of whatever had been poured into their glasses.  All sat heavily burdened and downtrodden, crushed by some inescapable, invisible force.  Hushed groans escaped their mouths after each numbing sip of their beverage.  Further down to my right rested a man seemingly beaten by the stark realities of whatever demons tortured him, silently speaking to his drink and content with whatever answers it wielded.  His shaved head and tattooed, Nazi-sympathizing exterior coupled with what appeared to be a large and unforgiving knife tucked into his sock informed me he was not a creature to be reckoned with and at all costs avoided.  Two other men of various nationalities sat in the far corner engaged in a heated, table-shaking debate speaking a language I will never know. 

I sensed acts of violence were no stranger to this place.  I could almost taste the spilled blood of intoxicated men who had come here searching for an escape or answer to their failed American dream but found no such solace. Instead they would drown their countless insecurities with whatever booze they could afford until the lines of humanity dissolved and their deep seated primal instincts came rushing out followed by the terrifying violence of an alcohol-fueled rage.  People had died here; I was sure of it. 

How long could I maintain my unnoticed presence before one of these raving lunatics descended upon me?  Why was someone feeding these goddamn vultures liquor? Certainly these men understood this was no escape from whatever pitiful existence they had woven for themselves and the grim comforts they found within Andys would surely be stripped and spit upon as soon as they reemerged into mainstream society. 

My thoughts were suddenly and deliberately shaken from me as the bartender slammed my whiskey down and demanded payment.  I paid the tab and silently absorbed my drink - the burning comfort of whiskey warming my entire body.  “Rest easy.”  I thought as I ordered another shot too curious and oddly attracted with my surroundings to leave after just one drink.  I sparked up a cigarette and surrounded myself within the calming blue hue of melting nicotine.  Another drink led to three more and the bar that had presented itself as lacking all human decency suddenly seemed not so bad.  After all, I was no better than the generation of men seated before me and their hideous, hidden transgressions however thoughtfully tucked away yet always lurking within their minds.  We all had things we were running from and places like Andys provided a pause, however brief, from the cruelties and bitter beatings life has a distinct way of handing out. 

I moved away from the bar in search of the restroom which was located at the top of an eight-step, corkscrew staircase.  As I entered the small room an odor of baked urine and decade old shit burned my nostrils.  The wood-paneled walls were peppered with fist size holes telling stories of drunken madness and the unimaginable rage that had been worked out within the tiny area.  A filthy toilet sat connected to the even filthier carpeted floor that had not been cleaned in my lifetime and clung to every missed drop of urine, vomit and stool that had ever been produced within the confides of the space.   I no longer had the desire to use the restroom and walked back down the staircase and out the font door.

I had been duped; Andys was a zoo of men.  My initial distrust and criticalness had been correct.  True we all are running from something but the self-loathing, self- deprecating black hole of Andys interior was much more complex and disturbing than a mere break from life’s hardships.  It was while walking back down “murder alley” that I realized what differentiated me from them – I had the rest of my life ahead of me – not behind.