Author Archive
I have finally figured out what bothers me about the American show ?Everybody Loves Raymond?. For those of us who don?t watch it, basically Raymond is a full time sports writer, while Debra is unemployed. Raymond never helps out with the house work, as Frank (his father) never did when he was working and Marie (his mother) was at home.
The fact that he never helps out around the house is seen as quite ridiculous. The show seems to create some sort of mood where you think that Raymond is so lucky to have Debra to do all those things for him, because he is practically useless.
But I think that is nonsense. She should cook, clean and pick the kids up from school. He works. He makes the money, from 9-5 (and frequently later) while she stays at home all day. Why should they share the housework? If Debra worked as well, then sure, they should both be cooking and cleaning but the fact is that he works and she is a housewife.
Its her job to cook and clean. This was once mentioned by Frank to Marie and was seen as one of the most shocking things ever said by him. Which is utter crap, because it is her job. Debra should quit complaining that Raymond never does anything around the house and do what she?s supposed to do.
Oh, and if anyone sees this as sexist you?re wrong. Because there is no reason why the roles couldn?t be revered… actually nothing would make me happier then marrying a professional woman and getting to stay home to do the chores.
January 1st, 2005
Author’s note- With the one-year anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks looming just around the corner, the major TV networks are gearing up for a full-throttle slew of retrospectives, tributes, and interviews to give the event ‘meaning’ that it would somehow otherwise lack. Mulling over this, I decided to write my own feelings on the subject, focusing less on the attacks themselves and more on how we, as a society, assimilate disaster.
. . .
With paint in your eyes, it’s hard to focus on the end of the world. Sometimes, it’s easier just to stay in your own little reality, instead.
____________________________________________________________
The radio was playing all the usual corporate rock Muzak as my friend Case and I were painting the poolhouse for the Aurora public pool. In my mind, there was a floating little calendar on which I was checking off the days until the summer season was over for the Aurora Parks Department, because that’s the earliest that I could quit. Case, all misty-eyed from paint fumes and heartbreak, continued to complain about his girlfriend (well, ex-girlfriend). We were both holed away in our own little worlds that meant so much; our own little dramas that our lives comfortably revolved around.
The song on the radio stopped in mid-verse and the station DJ came on. I silently thanked the gods, because whoever that band was, they were crucifying the Beatles with an awful cover of “Eleanor Rigby”. As I thought about this, Case complained that his ex was disinterested in him. Our worlds continued to spin on.
Then the DJ said something that stopped us both.
“Uh, we really, uh, don’t know exactly what is… exactly what’s happening, but it seems that… yeah, it looks like two commercial jets have crashed into the World Trade Center in New York… and we’re getting reports hat a third plane has hit the Pentagon in Washington D.C.”
It’s at this point that a drop of fresh paint fell from the ceiling and landed in my left eye with military precision.
Case stopped in mid-sentence of his anguish and asks, “What’d he say?”
With my face stuck under a water faucet and the raw nerves of my eye screaming in pain, I shrugged, completely forgetting how much I hate this job and how pissed I am about the paint.
The DJ goes on to say, “that this looks like an attack.”
I looked up at Case, who was distorted and blurred because of the water in my eye. We were both trying to think of something clever and appropriate to say, something to fill in this gap of conversation and give this situation meaning, the kind of thing someone would say in a movie.
Fortunately, the opening strains of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” came on the radio and saved us from having to say anything. We probably wouldn’t have said much, anyway. Case couldn’t think of anything to say about his former flame. I forgot what I was so upset about. Our worlds came to a crunching, universe-grinding halt and were frozen on their axis’. We tried to get back to work, but ended up just sitting and listening to the radio reports, shaking our heads.
Later, on my lunch break, I went to my girlfriend’s house to watch the news. It’s a school day, but her classes were canceled because of an anonymous bomb threat. It’s a coincidence that, at the time, I didn’t find so funny.
As we watch CNN, we’re shown the same three clips: two of them show the second plane plowing through the Trade Center at different angles; the third clip showed the destruction at the Pentagon. These clips are on a loop that plays every five minutes. After a few cycles, they begin to seem more like movie clips than disaster footage. My girlfriend says the same thing. Already, we began to digest what has happened, and subconsciously start to accept it. Already, it started to become something far away, projected to us on a repeating pattern of television pixels: red, green, blue.
Red, green, blue.
Angle 1: shot from above.
Red, green, blue.
Angle 2: shot from below.
Red, green, blue.
Angle 3: Aerial shot of the Pentagon.
Already, on another network, a reporter was coughing up vague but meaningful quotes from John and Robert Kennedy. Already, CNN was giving the event an ominous, piano-based theme song. Already, someone in the room was asking, “They ever find the intern that the senator, or whoever, killed? What’s her name? Darva Conger?” Already, the tragedy and scope of what happened began to dwindle. Already, I began to hate my job, and dread going back to work at 1:00.
Everyone’s little worlds were fighting to start spinning again, lest they confront a situation that was just too real to deal with.
Back at work, my boss blames everything on Muslims. Only, he calls them “sand-niggers.” He says how, after work, he’s going to Wal-Mart to buy some ammo for his at-home gun arsenal, just in case there’s an invasion. I ask him if he really thinks that our little town in Missouri is going to be invaded. He stared back at me, confused, muttering, “you never know what those crazy camel-bangers will do.” I thought, tonight he’ll fall asleep with a shotgun tucked between his legs, and he’ll be that much more of a man. I said this out loud, but the sarcasm was lost on him.
Back at the poolhouse, our eyes red from paint fumes, Case and I wondered who could have orchestrated the attack. Then, after a few minutes, I asked, “how many days ‘till the summer season is over?” Case didn’t know. He asked me, “should I call her?”
We fight so hard to maintain a pattern. It’s so much easier to fall in line. It’s easier to disassociate yourself from tragedy than to embrace it, to face up to it. It’s easier to see it all as some far-away movie, something to be watched on TV. It’s easier to curl up with your little worries and dramas that give your life meaning than to accept something that makes you so insignificant in comparison.
When I get home after work, some of my friends come over and watch the coverage on TV, with all the repeating images and pixels.
Red, green, blue.
One of my friends said, “Come see this crash footage. CBS has an angle that the other networks don’t have yet.”
Red, green, blue.
Another asked, “If Bush comes on TV tonight, will they still air Survivor afterwards?”
Red, green, blue.
And I started to wonder if the summer season for the Parks Department ends in September, or is it in October?
Red, green, blue.
January 1st, 2005
Tomorrow is the day you?ve all been hearing about. Yes, tomorrow is the anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the world trade center and pentagon. It?s hard to believe it?s been a whole year already, but what an event filled year it has been.
9-11 is supposed to be a day of remembrance, a day of courage, and a day of patriotism. To this writer, however, the use of the word anniversary is just plain sickening. Anniversaries are supposed to be happy times. We have wedding anniversaries, commemorative anniversaries, our nation?s anniversary, and many others. An anniversary is a joyous time, a time for rejoice and celebration. I see no reason for any of those things here.
Today is merely September 10. For lack of a better word, it has it?s own special anniversary too; A day that is surely not worth celebrating, but definitely should not be forgotten.
Think back to September 10, 2001 for a minute. Save for the Chandra Levy search, nothing really newsworthy was happening. But this isn?t about any significant event that happened on September 10th, oh no not at all, it?s about our way of life and how it was much different then.
For, on September 10, 2001 the Bill Of Rights actually had meaning, it was so much more than the after-dinner napkin the Bush administration has turned it into.
September 10, 2001 was one of the last days where we as Americans were truly free. Since September 10, 2001 Americans have been given new rights. For example:
- The right to have religious and political institutions monitored by government without any suspicion of criminal activity.
- The right to be jailed or detained without having been charged of a crime, and the right to NOT confront witnesses against oneself.
- The right to have all electronic conversations including telephone, fax and email monitored without probable cause or criminal suspicion.
- The right to have all jailhouse conversations between inmates and attorneys monitored and recorded; and in some cases even used against you in court.
- And the right of the public to NOT be allowed access to subpoenaed documents, immigration hearings, or even a lawyer to defend yourself against certain charges.
Yes, September 10,2001 is definitely worth remembering, for it was the day before Americans started giving up rights to protect themselves from terrorism.
It?s the day we allowed the government to do whatever they wanted in the name of ?terrorism?. Take away our rights, Limit our freedoms, House soldiers in our homes and Tax our tea, but for God?s sake, don?t question our ?patriotism?.
Yes, remember September 10, 2001. It was the day before democracy died.
January 1st, 2005
This is a reader submission from True Blue.
Quickly the girl sat up, turning off the radio and taking off her headphones. The tears started to flow freely, she hugged her knees to her chest and sat on her bed, staring at the doorknob. The door?s locked, she told herself. But the memories… the memories of seeing his form hovering over her in the darkness, watching and waiting for the right time…. Her sobs were the silent sobs of one who was accustomed to crying late at night when the house slept.
At a knock on the door she rose, wiping some tears away, and opened the door to let her mother in. Her eyes rose to meet the taller woman?s gaze, then she went back to sit on her bed. Her mother sat down beside her, held her in her arms like a little girl. Her shoulders and her breath shook. She closed her eyes to keep out the fear, but it just came through her eyelids.
“Just cry… let it all out… that?s it. Don?t be afraid to be noisy, just let go…” The girl laughed to herself. It seemed impossible to be noisy now, after all those years of silent crying. Silent solitary crying. Through it all I?ve never had a shoulder to cry on, and now that I have one I almost don?t know what to do with it, she thought. In a way it?s better to be alone, then I don?t have to worry about how what I?m doing affects other people. Or worry about whether the person knows exactly how I feel. But it?s better to have someone to cry with; that way I know I?m not alone. She stopped crying and walked to the door.
“I?m sorry I scared you,” said her mother.
“It wasn?t you who scared me.”
“I know, but I wish I hadn?t been the one to bring it all back to you.”
“Doesn?t matter.” She stared at the doorknob, it wasn?t the one her brother had turned those years ago, it was new. She looked at the refection of light on it?s shiny surface, saw out of the corner of her eye some hair tumbling down from it?s place.
“I guess I?ll go back to bed then…” her mother walked through the darkness to her own bedroom, the girl walked into the bathroom, closed the door and flipped on the light. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was blank, her eyes wide and fearful. For a while she stayed there, as if waiting for something to happen, for some magical thought to click in her head. The bathroom door clicked open, the light switch clicked off. The door to her room opened and closed silently. A light went off inside, and the house was left dark and silent.
January 1st, 2005
Take a minute and think about your stereotype of a ?college student?. Ok, wait a minute, think of the average intelligence of a ?college student?. What type of person is a college meant for? What type of people shouldn?t go to college, and what type should.
Now, does it surprise you that over 29% of college freshman this year are taking 1 or more remedial class? That?s slightly more than 600,000 students. That means that 29% of college freshman can?t read well enough to understand the daily newspaper (let alone this site), can?t write coherent paragraphs, and have trouble adding and subtracting fractions.
Since most of these students are at community colleges, the bill is picked up by you guessed it, taxpayers like you and I! Most of these skills should have been mastered before the 12th grade however, so in a sense we?re paying to educate these ?students? twice!
One solution is to remove remedial education from college classes. Of course, doing this would also remove 1/3 of today?s college freshman from school. The question of course becomes, is this really a bad thing?
I myself say no. Restricting college to the smarter students makes for a better workforce, and creates more competition among scholars. Not wasting time on simple concepts allows for classes and programs to cover much more valuable information, and most importantly the threat of not getting into college might help convince today?s high school slackers that school actually matters.
What do you think?
January 1st, 2005
The door is a kind of green, sort of a puke green. The paint’s flaked and scratched, and there’s writing all over it. The words are written with what looks like marker, ink pen, some are carved in, and one looks maybe like a crayon. What the words say, I’m not sure. I don’t speak Spanish.
So here I am, bleeding to death in a lime-green stall in a public bathroom, south of the border.
And as bad as I’m doing right now, I can’t help but wonder why someone would bring a crayon in here in the first place.
I never really expected to die like this. On a toilet, I mean.
Sure, I can imagine a car wreck or cancer or whatever.
Maybe even a plane crash. Not this, though. I never thought I end up curled in a ball on the seat of some not-so-gleaming toilet. Nope, not once. But I doubt many people do think about that. The toilet thing.
Personally, I always thought I’d die in a car crash. If you must know, I’m a really bad driver. Like, 88-year-old-man kind of bad. So, it just made sense that I’d get in a wreck some day. That was the plan, anyway, but things haven’t exactly been going as I had hoped.
But then, today just hasn’t been my day.
Like I said, I’m stuck in a bathroom stall, and there seems to be quite a lot of blood coming out of me here. Now, I didn’t say that to be dramatic, the whole “lot’s of blood”-thing, but it’s… it’s just that it seems like half my body weight just pissed itself out of my abdomen.
I’m just trying to illuminate how absurdly terrible this whole situation is. Because, really, that’s the only word that describes it: terrible.
See, what I think has happened here is that the bullet, as it was passing through my upper stomach area, ripped and pulled quite a bit of me out with it.
Definitely terrible.
I wouldn’t even really be bleeding like this- actually, at all like this- had it not been for the fact that one of my closest friends shot another friend of mine over a hooker we know. That’s when all hell pretty much broke loose.
That was around 1:30-ish, I think. Might have been closer to two, now that I think about it.
Anyway, there wouldn’t have been any shooting at all had it not been for this prostitute that we met, like, five days ago. Maybe six, I don’t know. I’m usually really good with details, but it’s hard to keep track of little things like timelines when one major detail- like the open mouth I now have for a stomach- keeps fighting for your attention.
Um, ok, look, before we go any farther let me just say that I really don’t mean to keep complaining about the stomach thing… but it’s very fucking distracting. Maybe if I didn’t have the feeling that half the world’s nuclear arsenal is exploding in my guts every time I take a breath, I’d be able to focus a little more clearly.
But such is not the case, so I might as well get on with it. The show must go on, I guess. Fine, fine, fine. I can deal with that.
But know this:
My day.
Is now.
Ruined.
What’s left of it, anyway. Everyone always says, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Well, today is also the last day of my life. So, either way, I’m kind of fucked.
If Robert could be here with me right now, I guarantee you he’d tell me, “Dyl, my fucking thirteen-year-old sister complains less than you,” or something equally eloquent and tasteful. That is, if he was still able to speak at all. Which, by the way, he is not.
Ok, so where was I? Oh, right, the prostitute.
Rosa the whore.
Because of her, I’m right here, spilling my guts to you, and spilling everything else that’s inside me on the bathroom floor.
Sorry. That’s just a little gunshot humor.
Ha ha.
Anyway, if it hadn’t been for that girl. That fucking whore…
Sorry, Lucas.
He hates it when I call her that. Whore, I mean. Or, I should say, he did hate it when I called her that, because Lucas doesn’t feel much of anything now. Not anymore.
But, looking back on it, we should’ve known better than to try and pull this off. Really, who did we think we were kidding? It’s not like we were fucking trained professionals or anything. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’d never had a gun pointed at me before today. How was I- how were any of us- supposed to know what to do?
But I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.
So, ok, I guess this is the part of the story where I should lead you into the flashback that describes how all this happened; something that starts with that fucking cheesy line “It all started about a week ago, when…,” and I tell you what led up to all the people dying on account of Rosa, why I’m stuck in a public bathroom, and etc. etc. etc. All I’ve really been doing is whining about getting shot, so I suppose you’d like me to move on to something else, right?
Wouldn’t you?
Well, I’m sorry if I can’t help but be a little disgruntled at the way everything’s turned out.
Nobody’s happy when they lose their job. No one is happy when their car breaks down on the highway, or when the IRS decides to give them a nasty little audit.
Well, those people were never gutshot. So bear with me, ok?
But if you really want to know why this is what’s what, then I guess I’ll have to take you back about a week ago, when it all started…
January 1st, 2005
Early last year I was in the market for a part-time job. It was pre-9/11, but the economy was already headed south. I was, (And still am), a self-employed web designer. Business was getting thin, and I was looking for ways to make a few extra bucks. I was discussing my plight with an online friend who was in a similar situation. We were joking about odd jobs we could do when she directed me to an ad on Guru.com. It went something like this:
Tarot Readers, Spiritual Advisors, Astrologers, etc. Work at Home
We are looking for tarot readers, spiritual advisors, astrologers, etc needed for our psychic line. This is a work at home position. Must have psychic ability. Must have good communication skills and the desire to help others. For more information, you can contact me at blah@blah.com
I laughed and surfed on.
Then I thought about what a kick it would be to say I had been a psychic, and I went back. I looked at the ad some more. I focused on the line that read ?Must have psychic ability?. Hmmm, definitely a stumbling point. I?ve been called many things, but never psychic. Throwing good sense to the wind, I decided to go ahead and make contact anyway, if for no other reason than to see how they tested that sort of thing.
Though the ad said nothing about it, it turned out I was applying to work for Ms. Cleo?s Psychic Network. That would be the incense-burning, West-Indian-talking lady who slapped down tarot cards and advice at a breakneck pace on infomercials all over late-night TV.
I sent out an email asking some questions and received what may be the fastest personalized response in the history of email. It wasn?t a form letter, but a bunch of specific answers to my questions, and a request for my phone number. Being in a rather playful mood, I sent it to them. Within two minutes I was on the phone with Rachel, the lady who was to become my ?Psychic Manager?, a.k.a. my boss.
Rachel was very polite, if in a slightly business tone sort of way. Very professional, and didn?t give off any of the flaky vibe I had been expecting. It felt more like I was talking to a real-estate agent than a person who traded in spirits in misdirected hope. After some quick questions about my background, my age, and whether or not I wanted to do this full time, she asked me for my fax number. I gave it to her and she faxed me a sheath of papers. The papers listed the rules of the business (no call-waiting on your phone, no explicit discussion of sex, no putting someone on hold). There was also one that described a typical call.
At the heart of each conversation are the 78 cards of the tarot deck. A “psychic” puts a caller at ease, collects their name, number, email, mailing address, and anything else they?ll give us, and then deals out a specific number of cards in varying positions. (There are as many ways to do a tarot card reading as there are people doing them. As you shall see, my personal style varied from orthodox to downright silly.) You then read the cards and try to make some sort of impact on the caller.
The card meanings themselves are insanely generic, monumentally unspecific, and usually hopeful. For example, “The Empress” card carries the following explanation: “A young fertile female. Can also represent material gifts. Maybe a mother having a baby or fertility in your financial situation. Gifts and money in progress. A good money card, or a female influence.” A lot of ground covered here, a wealth of possibilities. Easy to adapt it to your life, especially when you?re desperate enough to be paying $4.99 a minute to hear this reading in the first place.
Money and sex are two fairly consistent threads throughout the cards. Either a lack of, or an addiction to for which most experts will recommend to find a health center, if you need one this page has more information. Sometimes both. There is an occasional negative card, but for the most part they are optimistic; wealth and happiness are the most common upshot. According to the cards, we are all a bunch of success stories just waiting to happen.
So with all of this information in hand, I started my life as a part-time phone psychic. I purchased a deck of tarot cards off of Amazon.com ( This Deck, if you?re interested.) I had a 1-800 number to call when I wanted to work. I called it, entered some pin codes, and then I hung up. Pretty soon the phone would do it?s special three chirp ring to let me know I had a call, and that was when the fun really began.
To be continued…
January 1st, 2005
White light bleeds into the darkness, and I’m floating in it, numb and dreaming. Then a body forms around my thoughts, and I’m standing in a shaft of light. Looking down, I see that my clothes are different; I’m not wearing the bloody T-shirt and jeans anymore. Instead, I’m wearing the dress shirt and slacks that the woman, whose name I don’t know, stole from the dead man’s house.
In this dream, my face isn’t throbbing with agony. In this dream, the muscles in my back aren’t torn and hammered to shreds. In this dream, my neck doesn’t feel like it’s packed tight with sharp gravel.
The way things are going now, I wouldn’t mind staying in this dream forever.
I try to look past the circle of white light (which isn’t very large), but there is nothing beyond it. Not even darkness. This isn’t something that can be described in words.
There is simply nothing there.
I look down and see that there is no ground beneath my feet. The shaft of light just continues to shoot down into forever. I look up, and find the same thing- there’s no source for the light to be coming from, it just keeps going and going.
There is no form to this place. Only void.
Then I see her.
The dead woman, from the Abbey Hotel, room number 23. She’s standing in front of me. One second I was alone here, then- poof- she’s hovering in the light with me.
She’s different here, in the Void. She’s alive, healthy. The bruises, gone. Scratches, gone. The knife, once buried to the hilt, is no longer jutting from her chest at a cock-eyed angle.
She has clothes, now, too. A long, white dress, with a spot of red near the bottom. What that red is, or where it came from, I don’t want to know. I have a feeling, though.
She’s looking at me, her green eyes looking more alive than what should be possible. They look like two burning, liquid green windows that lead to some other dimension. I know that sounds a little sci-fi, but there’s no other way that I can describe them.
-we don’t have much time, she says. Her lips don’t move. Not once.
-what is this place? I ask. who are- were- you?
-who I am isn’t important. where we are isn’t important.
Even in my dreams, I’m still not capable of receiving a straight answer from anyone.
-well, what is, then? I ask.
-who you are is all that matters. you, and the woman with you, and the Other.
-the Other?
She says nothing, and just continues to bore into me with her twin green hammers.
But I know who she’s talking about. The Other.
The Voice.
-who is he? do i know him? do i know you? i need you to tel-
All I’ve done today is ask questions. And every answer I get comes with two more questions. I’m tired of playing this game in real life, so I’m sure as hell not going to do it in my dreams.
-you know what? no. don’t tell me anything. i don’t want to know. unless you start giving me answers, i’m through. and I don’t mean these little zen comments that you and everyone else keeps spouting at me. i want real answers. otherwise, you can count me out. got it?
The woman, her body begins to change, along with her face. She’s getting blurry, her features are twisting and no longer focused. Only her eyes remain intent and clear.
Her white dress turns blue. Her blonde hair, red.
Her body gets taller, wider. Her face expands.
When she comes back into focus, she’s not a she at all.
Standing in front of me with her burning green eyes is the cop. Tom.
His mouth is no longer a pit of teeth and blood. His forehead is no longer open with a bullet hole.
-what the hell are y-
Suddenly he’s right in front of me, kissing distance.
Then he punches me.
I fall backwards, out of the light. I fall into the void, arms flailing while I scream into the face of silence.
I just keep falling, with the unending pillar of light plummeting next to me.
Then, lightening quick and unbelievably a strong, a thin arm shoots out from the light and grabs my left hand, yanking me back.
Only when I re-enter the light, I’m not in the light at all.
I’m in the Abbey Hotel. More specifically, the hallway outside my room. Standing next to me is a woman. Not the dead woman, but the driver, the one who found me. We’re both wearing the same clothes, the dead man’s clothes.
Except I still don’t have a pair of shoes.
I also notice that the black and red swirl patterns in the carpet are swimming and moving, slithering like snakes over and around our feet.
-i think that’s the least of our worries, the woman says.
-what are you talking about?
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she nods forward, at a door at the end of the hall.
Room number 27.
Green light is slipping around the door, through the cracks between it and the walls.
And there’s music. Loud. With a voice- the Voice- singing along.
“Wise mennnn say, onlyyy foooolllssss russshhhh innnn…”
And I become incredibly afraid, more so than I thought possible, of what is behind that door.
I try to peel my eyes from the door to look at the woman, but can’t. Instead, I talk to her while staring deeply into the green light.
-we have to go in, don’t we? is that why we’re here? to meet… him?
But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she begins to change form and focus, just like the dead woman. I’m still not looking at her, but I can feel it happening.
I try to turn and look at her, or what she’s become, but I just can’t look away form the door with the fake gold 27 on the front.
Then, what the woman has become, it speaks.
“Glad you could make it, pardner. Knew ya would. Well- hoped, anyway.”
The Voice.
And I don’t dare turn to look at him. As curious as I am, I know, somehow, that looking at him now would be disastrous.
“You’re right about that, buck-O. You just want to keep looking straight ahead, if ya know what’s good for ya. And I think that ya do.”
He pauses for a moment, and hums to the music that’s still emanating from the room.
“Now, you now what you gotta do when you wake up, don’tcha? You’re gonna come here, right here, to this room, and you’re gonna open that there door. You get me?”
Each of these words is like a bullet of black dread that explodes into my body. This room, number 27, it means death. I don’t know how I know, but I do all the same.
“Oh, stop it with all that death business, ya little pussy. You want to know ‘bout death? Than you just try and not show up here. Then I’ll learn ya everything you can imagine about death.” His every word is punctuated by demonic, insane glee.
“Now, when ya wake up, you tell that little lady where you’re headed. You come on back here to the hotel. Me and you’s got a spot of work to do, and a little bit of conversation’ll be necessary as well, I reckon. So get on down here, y’understand?”
Then, for no reason but unable for me to control, I turn to face him.
But it’s to late. He’s already out of focus, changing and shifting. For the briefest second I see what looks like a smile, hideous and insane, but then it’s gone, too.
The form slowly comes back into focus.
Curly brown hair. Blue eyes, haunted and piercing. A goatee. Thin build, wearing a bloody T-shirt and jeans.
No shoes.
I’m standing face to face with my reflection.
He opens his mouth to speak, but the voice is not mine. It’s the voice of the woman who found me.
Eyes wide and full of panic, he says with her voice, “Oh, no. Oh, fuck! Hey, hey! Wake up, man! H-”
And burning light white tears through this dreamworld and rips it apart as I open my swollen eyelids to reality.
“Hey, man! Wake up! Wake the fuck up! We’ve got a problem here! What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Staring at the back of her head while lying in the backseat of the car, I intend to ask her what’s wrong.
But then I hear the police siren behind us, and my question is answered.
January 1st, 2005
First off, let me start by saying that I am not a criminal. Not exactly. See, what I do is just outside of most people?s moral boundaries. I?m kind of in that gray area, I guess, between wholesome Wally and the Beave ethics and being a real, like, O.J. Simpson-type criminal.
But without, you know, the killing.
I mean, it?s not like I?m robbing from the starving kids of Bosnia or wherever. What I do, it?s more like, ?Well, if I don?t take it, it?ll never be used, anyway.? It would go to waste otherwise. Probably.
Let me explain. See, where I work (ok, worked) is at the Helping Hands Care Center in Phoenix, Arizona. Yes, that?s right. An old folks home.
Go ahead. Laugh. You?ll find this next part even funnier.
Do me a favor and close your eyes. Imagine a white-tiled corridor that seems to stretch for miles into fluorescent oblivion. Imagine every breath you take, you smell rubbing alcohol.
Now imagine walking down this corridor. See yourself winking at the new nursing trainee who was stuck with the night shift. She puts her head down and walks faster. Must be shy.
Imagine yourself stopping at the first door to your left. You just stand there for a minute, staring at the door. You sigh and shake your head. Then imagine yourself taking a little keycard out of the pocket of your white uniform pants. See your hand run the card through the scanner next to the doorknob.
The little red light on the scanner, it turns green when a tiny beep.
Imagine pushing the door open and slipping inside into complete darkness. Then, a shaft of light, bright but pencil-thin, cuts through the darkness as you turn on your mini-flashlight.
You look around, and in the milky, battery-charged light you can see that you?re in someone?s bedroom.
And imagine that you can?t believe you actually accepted this job in the first place.
Imagine a little TV that?s never on. Imagine a bunch of old Reader?s Digest that have been read and digested a million times over, imagine them scattered all over the room. Imagine that rubbing alcohol smell as being even stronger. Imagine faded pictures in dusty, imitation gold frames. Old letters from family and friends long dead, just imagine those lying in piles.
Then, if you have all that visualized now, imagine someone laying in the bed. Imagine a man, looks maybe in his 80?s, lying on his back with the blankets pulled up to his chin. And his chest, along with his bloated stomach, imagine that they?re not moving up and down.
Imagine that he?s not breathing. Doesn?t look like it, anyway.
See, what I do, I?m the guy that has to go into the patients? room in the middle of the night to see if anybody?s died in their fucking sleep.
I?m serious.
They actually pay people to do that here. They call it ?night-care detail.? I guess the term ?carcass-checker? just doesn?t roll off the tongue as easily.
What?s going on here is that the Helping Hands Care Center is basically a care center for the rich. This is the place where the Arizona elite comes to die. It?s the Trump Tower of death.
And God forbid these privileged old fucks see what?s going to happen to them in a few weeks, or days, or hours. So, we have to make these little routine body checks in the middle of the night to remove any dead geezers before the rest of the population knows what?s happening.
Really.
Well, that?s not all I get to do. I also get to clean the bedpans every once and awhile (oh, you want talk about fun? Try rolling some fat manatee-looking bastard over and pulling a bowl of piss out from under his ass), plus, they make me feed the geezers when we?re shorthanded. Hell of a job, kids, let tell ya.
But mostly, yeah, I?ve just got to make sure that no one croaks and is discovered by another patient, or a visitor. Stuff like that usually leads to a ?scene?. And we all know there can?t be a scene in the serene resting place that is the Helping Hand.
It happens more often than not, really, one of the old shits just kicking off in the middle of the night. That?s the way the ?administrators? prefer it, too. No one sees it. No fuss. As if no one knows what happens to the poor fools that get checked into places like this. It?s pretty much a sure thing that when you come in here as a patient, you?re leaving as a? well, as a dead guy. No fucking duh, Mr. Administrator. But then, like I said, this is a very pricey nursing home, the kind in which death is only a rumor among those staying here. It isn?t something that they should have to deal with. Leave that for the youth, like me.
Anyway, like I said, I?m usually the first guy to find them. There?s me, and then there?s the weird, dusty thing just lying there. The room smells like piss and lemon pledge and piss on top of that.
Imagine you?re there with me, and you?re already getting the creeps because the room?s only lit by the moonlight from the window and you?re little pen-light. You can?t turn on the lights in the room, because that might ?disturb? the privileged patient (if he?s actually alive, that is). So you just have to leave the door cracked open enough that some of the hallway light gets in. And there?s no sound. It?s so quiet that you can really feel silence- it?s heavy, man.
And that?s when you do your job.
First off, to make sure the guy?s dead or alive, you take the little square piece of clear plastic the front office gives you, and you put it over the old fart?s mouth and nose.
No fog on the glass? That?s strike one. You don?t get excited just yet. Some people just don?t breath that very hard.
Ok, so then you feel for a pulse. For this you actually have to touch the creepy, leatherskin neck. And that?s disgusting: watching your fingers sink into his neck because his skin is so damn squishy. It?s like dusty-ass silly putty that hasn?t shaved in a week. But you?ve just got to get over it and do your job. Now, feel for a beat. No pulse, not even a little throb? Strike two. Now you?re starting to get a sweat, and you swallow hard. You?re kind of excited and nervous, all mixed and tied together.
At this point you?ve got to get a little physical with him. First, sort of yell the guy?s name. In this case, the name?s Harry. Don?t scream it, or anything like that, just sort of throw the name at him. Scare the old shit into waking up. That is, if he?s only just asleep.
No response? Shake the geezer up a bit. Don?t break his shoulder or anything, just try and jar him up a little bit. And don?t worry about disturbing the patient now. You?re doing this for his own good.
Then put your hand on his heart (I fucking hate that- slipping your hand down the neckhole of the hospital gown, brushing up on the flaky chest skin? ugh, gives me the willies, man. I feel like a goddamn pervert doing this).
Well, nothing? Breathing: nope. Pulse: nada. Heartbeat: sorry.
Shit, that?s strike three he?s out.
And that, my friends, is when I really go to work.
See, if you look around a bit, you?ll find the old kooks have kept every fucking penny they?ve made since the goddamn Treaty of Versailles.
These geezers, they can?t even spend the cash that they sneak in here. It?s not like they?re allowed to go out to the mall anytime they wish. And they certainly don?t use it to fucking tip the staff. I think it?s just so that they can feel like a real person again, know what I mean? They come in here like cows to a slaughter, and they know it, too. So the rich bastards sneak in some of their stash. Their old money just lets them feel like their still important. As if they were still real people, and not just a funeral-in-waiting.
Oh, and they try to hide their cash in the silliest places. It?s almost kind of sad, the way they do it. I?ll find sweaty, crumpled-up hundred dollar bills stuck behind picture frames… or, sometimes they?ll stick almost a thousand bucks in their medicine cabinets, spread throughout the place: inside bottles, behind pill pouches, etc. The sad bastards. I know that I should feel bad for them, but I just can?t see past my own self interest.
The way I see it, if the old guy (or gal) dies, the money?s up for grabs. The dearly departed sure as hell isn?t going to spend it.
?What about giving to the family of the deceased?? you might ask. Well, in my opinion, they don?t deserve a fucking cent. If they?re going to cart off their own goddamn parents to a linoleum-lined hellhole like this, they don?t deserve a damn dime. Fuck ?em.
So that leaves yours truly. This way, at least, the money will be used and appreciated. Yeah, it?s illegal… but it?s not like I?m killing anybody or anything. So relax.
Anyway, this old bastard ends up with over four thousand bucks hidden in his room. Now that?s a pretty large score, a good one. Usually I?ll find around two or two and a half, so four large is very nice, indeed.
And now it?s time to make my exit.
So I?m walking to the door, ready to go alert the main desk for this wing that a patient has croaked, when I start thinking, which usually leads to either trouble or profit of some kind. I found most of this money in the medicine cabinet. The medicine cabinet?
?medicine cabinet?.
?MEDICINE cabinet?.
?MEDICINE?
MEDICINE
And I get a little idea.
Ok, this guy in particular had quite a few little pill bottles in his cabinet. All sorts of stuff: he?s got stuff to knock you to sleep at night, stuff to keep you up all day (I mean stuff to keep you awake, not to keep you ?up?, like your dick), stuff to speed your heart rate up and back down again? We?re talking some heavy pharmaceuticals here, people. And it?s about this time I start to realize I?ve only been taking advantage of about only half this little job of mine. Sure, the money I?ve been taking in (actually, taking out) has been good (especially tonight), but the drug market?s a whole other deal altogether. I could be selling this stuff on the street, just repackage it and call some of it speed, some of it E, you get the picture. And it?s a high-priced, very well paying picture. Because the junkies will buy anything (and pay anything) if you tell them they?ll get off on what you?re selling. Anything to take their mind off of right now.
And if that would make me a quote-unquote ?drug dealer?, well so be it. It?s not as if my moral standing has been at attention, lately.
So I figure, what the fuck? And go for the medicine cabinet.
I?m grabbing all the bottles I can, shoving them into my pockets. Just grabbing and shoving. Grabbing and shoving. Why the nursing home let?s the patients keep all their medicine with them in their own room, I?ll never know. You?d think the dumb old fucks would end up OD?n on this shit. But then, the patients get what they want at the Helping Hand. Their money buys a lot of favors around here.
I was thinking about this for a minute, and that?s about when the lights come on. And, unfortunately for me, there?s no goddamn door separating the personal bathroom from the bedroom.
Who the fuck makes a fucking bathroom without a fucking door on it? Son of a motherfuckign BITCH PIECE OF FUCKIN SH-
?Oh, Harry, baby, I?ve been wanting you all week??
Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, God, no.
I turn around and there?s this mummified old witch standing there, taking those little old lady baby steps toward the bed, a disgusting grin painted with red lipstick on her nasty, liver-spotted face.
?Mmmmmm?. Harry, baby?.?
Not only is this really bad for me, it?s really, really fucking sick, too. This dumb old bat has been riding the old bastard that died tonight. Harry. And she?s back for another romp. Well, she?s in for a jolt, but probably not the kind she was hoping for.
?Harry? Harry??
And even though I know I?m fucked, the first thing I?m thinking of is not to run, but instead, I?m wondering how the hell these old fogies can even find each other good looking, let alone fucking sexually attractive.
But I come to my senses and flick my flashlight off, but by then it?s too late. I?ve got a handful of pill bottles in one hand, along with a few at my feet and some poking out the tops of my pockets, and the old bitch sees me in the corner of her bloodshot eye and turns to look.
ohshitshitshitshitshit
First, she just jumps, like, a mile and sucks in air real loud
nononononofuckinrunrobertyoustupidgreedyfuckerawshitthiscouldbefuckinbad
and her eyes are as big as baseballs and she can see I?m taking the drugs and
don?tpanicdon?tpanicjustactcoolactcooldon?tpanicdon?tpanicohfuckinshitdon?tPANIC
even though I?ve got on my white orderly uniform, the fact that I?m cramming a fucking
handful of loverboy?s drugs down my pants, along with the fact that her boyfriend?s not moving at all and his mouth is drooping wide open, could cause her to lose it.
I take a step forward and try to say something, but all she let?s me get out is, ?Uhhh, ma?am, this isn?t what it looks li-?
don?tscreamdon?tscreampleasedon?tscreamdon?tyoufuckinscream
And then she screams.
fuckfuckfuckyou?regointoprisonprisonyou?regointofuckinprisonawshitfuckingprison
All I know is I?m not going to a prison for this job, no sir. Not for taking some money that wouldn?t be spent, anyway, and a few upper-class pharmaceuticals.
And so I run the hell out of there.
January 1st, 2005
Great, so here we are again, awake and aware. Existing again thanks to one of a variety of electronic or biological alarm clocks we sat the night before we collapsed on our shitty spring mattresses, thanks to one of the following conditions: tiredness, boredom, concussion, or inebriation.
And it hurts so goddamn much to stretch your pathetic excuse of a body. It hurts so much to lift your head to focus on the nearest digital representation of time, silently freak out and scramble from under your cum-stained sheets and throw on yesterday?s clothes and stumble out into the gray, bitter morning only to see the glowing toothpaste ad on your bus ride as it zooms off without you to your place of emotional internment: your job.
Book store, record store, caf?, telemarketing agency, the GAP, Bed Bath & Beyond, bank clerk, whatever the hell it is you do. It sucks, whatever it is. That?s for damn sure. It sucks. It sucks a whole fucking lot. Not like you could have an interesting job like? oh, I dunno. Mortician. There, that?s an interesting job. Get to mess around with corpses all day long; work with the dead, the only people in the world who have any idea if there?s an afterlife. Special folk, the dead. And just think, when you go to a singles bar you can wear a big fucking trench coat and a top hat, leer at the closest big-titted co-ed princess and say, ?I am a mortician.? Shit, she?d be all over you. Fuck yeah. Morticians rock.
But I digress! You are not a mortician. You?re some minimum wage fuckjob with greasy skin and a broken dream, driven to work to keep yourself from going truly batshit and hungry. Oh sure, the management might toss an extra quarter in your salary to keep you satiated, but does that really get you anywhere faster? Does it justify sleeping with the roaches? Does it give you wings, a ripped stomach, a golden tan, and a chariot in which to sodomize your celebrity of choice? Does it? Huh?
Feh. Hope you like ramen, kid, because other than Easy Mac your dining choices are fucked. But you knew this already. You know that the only thing different in your daily grind is chicken, vegetable, or beef. Some fucking good your extra quarter does. Whee, a new TV! Now you can listen to the shitty state of the universe in stereo. Today, people died and our economy is going to shit. Next up, a comedy with a queer. Oh, the hijinks!
Anything?s more interesting than your life. How many bathmats did you sell today? Who cares! In the end, you just stuck another $20 in some rich cocksucker?s wallet which he might use to light one of his Fat Alberts if he doesn?t wipe his ass with it first. Good job! Meanwhile, you and your quarter rot in your shitty apartment, waiting for the next big thing.
And what is it? What?s this great big fucking Thing we?re all looking forward to? What exactly was the bonus we were promised when our mother drunkenly shit us out of her gaping glory hole? What tricked you into becoming a mindless zombie and stop worrying about what?s going to happen when you die of a stroke in the depressing home your ungrateful spawn shoved you in when you started being just a little bit more trouble than you?re worth?
I sure as shit don?t know. I don?t know why I?m fine with being in college without the guarantee of getting a degree let alone a job I?ll enjoy. I could be the greatest Political Sciences major in the universe, 4.0 with the dean?s cock in my ass and straight, white teeth and still end up trying to sell cappa-whatever-the-hell to the poseurs in a Starbucks. No pledge of security! No assurance of happiness! No promise of spending my early adulthood cutting the heads of nether-demons and saving the fucking princess. Where?s my goddamn Seven-foot Sword and Sawed-off Shotgun Voucher?
Nope, not here. Not under the couch or my disgusting stomach flabs. Is it in the new Nickleback CD? Waitaminute, perhaps it?s in the latest Star Wars film. Whoops, not there either. Perhaps I dropped it in Hot Topic next to those cool spiked collars? Where is my validation? Where is my guaranteed uniqueness? I guess I better buy some of this stuff to help me find it. Good thing you got that extra quarter, chump. Buy some more shit.
What what what you can?t afford to buy your name? Not enough scratch to purchase a disposable soul? Well then, I guess it?s time to go back to work. Don?t worry, save up a few paychecks and then you can buy that anti-social, hate everyone, scare soccer moms black tee shirt. Only twenty dollars! That?s right, we?re selling uniqueness at the cost of your originality! And who wants that?
And when you buy that shirt we guarantee you?ll be better. Your dick will swell in size and everyone will love you. You?ll be better, faster, harder, stronger. You?ll be justified. You will be so fucking cool that everything you touch turns to gold. We promise this. That?s why it costs twenty dollars. Hey, uniqueness ain?t cheap, kid.
So don?t just stand there on the street watching the bus roar off. Pick up your feet and run, god dammit! Run! Go! Your validation as a human being depends on that next paycheck! Don?t worry about that big Thing. It?s so far off; who has time to worry about it? Just be sure to come back for your shirt at the end of the month. We?ll keep one in stock, just for you.
January 1st, 2005
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