Author: Bukkhead

I'm the writer here.
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Pub Crawl

fiction by Jason Edwards

We started off at the Regis Arms, where Clarence had a Wesson’s Original and I had a Folby’s 13-Year. Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, serving instead of drinking this time, which meant she had to play nice when I smacked her on the ass. It was like hitting a velvet balloon packed very tightly with expensive cottage cheese.

From there we walked over to the Russet & Merry, where I had three bitters and a sour, while Clarence managed to make a Tiny Tim last through three repeats of “Come on Eileen” on the orchestrina. The landlord frowned at us the entire time but then when I asked for a bag of Denny’s Smash he seemed eager to sell them to me. Left them right there on the bar, I did.

Helen of Leeds was there, which is what we always called her after her dye job made that one bloke with bad acne chase her around for two weeks insisting she knew his mother. I suggested we go to the Duck’s Goiter, and Clarence explained I was thinking of the Lucky Goiter, and Helen of set us both straight and led us to the Lucky Garter. Mine was a Champagne-on-Marbles while Clarence tried a Savoy and Seven. Helen of asked if they carried Coke or Pepsi and when the stiff behind the rails said neither she had a Jamison in a tall glass. Cheeky.

After that, we hit several places in quick succession, tipping cabbies along the way to make sure we never had to piss in the same WC twice. The Gray Bones for a pint of Old MacMillian’s, The Chelsea Cracker for a shot of Grandmother Gilligan, and, of course, no night with Clarence and Helen of would be complete without a stop at The Steeple and Tomato for a Flaming Cherry Cummerbund. As luck would have it, Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, drinking not serving, and when she smacked me on my ass It was like Infant’s all over again.

We snogged until Clarence got a call on his mobile from Clarissa, who said she and some mates where over at The Cooper’s Demise, so we grabbed a handy double decker and offered the driver shots of Purple Passion for most of the trip. He refused, of course, and we only stopped when he let us sniff his thermos. I’m no expert, but if his Earl Greyjoy wasn’t spiked with Little Jack’s Number Eleven, I don’t know my potables.

Clarissa’s mates were alright so we played credit-card bingo until one of them, Clayton I think, said there was a fruit machine over at Medusa’s that was usually good for a tenner. On the way there we hit The Raven and Flower, The Seven Sprinkles, Mr. Marten’s, The White Tiger (where Clarence nearly got into a knock-down with Mike’s sister Clara, who was there delivering cases of Wicked Peter, not drinking or serving) and even a quick half-glass of sherry at The Mine Diamonder, even though Helen of’s been banned there for two years now. They didn’t even see here I don’t think.

The Mule’s Foot was closed to the public for a charity event, but Mike’s sister Clara, who was there serving canapes not drinking, snuck us out a plate of casa-queso-en-pano, which we gobbled uncontrollably until one of Clarissa’s mates, Clementine I think, pointed out that the paprika was from Madagascar, so we all spit it out. We’re not racists, for Christ’s sake.

After that Clarence dragged us up to Commodore Filbin’s where he had a Galloping Theresa while Helen of’s was a Brutal Stone, no ice. I asked for a Teacher’s but they gave me a Philharmonic by mistake. I was going to complain but that was when Clarissa told us her mates wanted to go see Missing Chesapeake, a funk combo that were about to start playing over at The Buttered Onion. So we left before I could make my concerns known, though I was sure to leave a very fierce tip.

Of course they wanted a fiver for a cover to see the band, which goes against my principles, but Helen of said she knew one of the roadies so we all got in through one of the side doors. I made straight for the automat because I was in desperate need of a curry, but Clarence beat me to it and got a shepherd’s stuck in the chute. He tried tilting it back and forth but then one of Clarissa’s mates, Clodagh I think, accused him of taking woman pills instead of man-roids and they started brawling. Or shagging, I couldn’t tell. Up on stage, a familiar voice started belting out an old tune about the best place to buy very expensive cottage cheese, and who was it but none other than Mike’s sister Clara, on bass guitar. Smashing.

When she was done I had that look in my eye so Clarence dragged me out and we headed towards The Jelly Tomorrow but we lost Helen of along the way, and one by one Clarissa’s mates disappeared down alleys and up stoops to bedsits where they were squatting. Soon at was just me and by best mate once again and after a shortcut through Fitzpatrick Park we wound up in front of the Duck’s Goiter, which existed after all. That got us to laughing. It was a pretty good night.

So, listen, people will tell you that a pub crawl in Wichita, Kansas is bloody awful—but I’ve lived here my entire life, like, and I’d never leave it for anyplace else.

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Writing Exercise: Narrated Monologue

The following needs work, a lot of work, but will do for now, as an experiment. More or less I wrote the parts in quotes first. Then I decided to write the rest as if someone was listening and disagreeing. I think it’s a fine exercise, and one I can do again sometime, as it establishes conflict and tension, the basic energy which moves any story. Where it goes wrong is when the narrator starts talking back, instead of just describing. I maybe got a little too close to the subject matter. Oh well.

A big ol’ fat guy, too fat for the little suit he was wearin’, lookin’ like a punk except for punks is skinny little shits and this guy wasn’t skinny, like I said, but you know, he had that punk attitude, call it punkitude, like he was always sniffin’ back and snortin’ cause he thought the world belong on his pinkie ring (he wasn’t wearing no rings, that’s just a description) walked up to the mic and tapped like he wanted to make sure it worked even though we all heard what the last asshole had to say, and then he says:

“We are looking at this from the bottom-up; let’s look at it from the top-down.”

And I’m all like, what the hell? Bottoms and tops and shit like that, this is a government proceeding, this ain’t no philosophy class. Damn it I hate liberals, I really do, like they went and got an education, big whoop, and now they want to use it all the time. God damn. So then he goes:

“Why is that, in this country, a black un-armed teen can be gunned-down without consequence, while a group of armed white men can get away with pointing guns at police?”

Because of statistics you fat dumb shit heel. Looks like you picked the wrong set of classes at that college of yours. Look at the numbers, they’re right there for anyone to see them. Black crime, black on black crime…when was the last time you saw a bunch of white kids walking along the street and another white kid drives by in a mini-van and opens fire? never, you dumb sumbitch.

“Because there’s no single unifying voice for black teenagers. There IS a unifying voice for armed white men.”

Oh really? You’re saying there’s one voice who speaks for all the god-fearing men out there who respect and practice their second amendment rights? You mean, besides Jesus? Don’t get me started, brother. If Jesus was alive today, hell yeah he’d carry. He’d take one look at your suit and your education and your holier-than thou attitude and he’d go money-changer-crazy all over again.

“And it’s as simple as that. What one voice will tell the most people how to vote in the next election?”

Well, you got me there, pardner. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Which is typical– y’all open up your big fat mouths and puke words all over the place and you don’t say a god damned thing. For all your feel-good and do-right and peace-love-bullshit, you sure do confuse the ever loving crap out of folks. And I’m thinkin’ you do it on purpose.

“I’m all for fighting police corruption, dismantling institutional racism, creating better gun laws, and raising the standard of living for all Americans.”

Better gun laws? I think you mean fewer gun laws? Gun laws don’t save lives, jack-ass. Men with guns save lives. Its a war out there, fella, and you don’t fight wars with regulations and rulebooks. You do it with hit lead and body bags. I see a guy with a gun, I don’t care what color he is, black, hispanic, asian, doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. And as for police corruption? You’re going to say some guy who beat up a junkie without reading him his rights represents all of the cops who put their lives on the line to protect us every day? Go ahead, get rid of the cops, you idiot, and we’l;l see how long you last without a gun on your hip.

“But the number one most destructive force in this country, right now, is the voice that lies.”

At last we agree. Well, no we don’t agree, but at least I know what you’re saying now. You are the liar. You’re the one spreads sedition and infamy, to quote the founders. But I’d be flattering you if I told you that you’re the most destructive force in this country right now. I don’t want to give you that satisfaction. Nah son, the most destructive force is the liberal conspiracy to turn all of us into welfare queers and drug addicts. It’s the government that forces us to pay taxes so shits like you don’t have to work. Its socialism, and taking away our guns, and lesbians and comedians on TV bringing up ‘facts’ as a a way to trick people into thinking they’re the problem, not the cure. Well don’t worry, dumbass. I know which side of the fence I’m standing on.

“Want to fix America? Find a way to silence the liars.”

Amen, brother. Now shut up.

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Self-Pity (Don’t Read)

Daily writing at 750words.com. About 18 minutes: 5 150-word paragraphs.

Wrapped up in a snuggie. An honest to god snuggie. A snanklet. Some people will tell you they’re different, but they’re not. They’re both blankets with arm holes and sleeves. They’re a good example of how the middle class has survived so long. Did you know nothing great ever comes out of the middle class? Actors and artists and multi-millionaires, all of them started ahead of the game or so far behind sheer momentum carried them past the hard parts of becoming successful. The middle class are born nearly comfortable. They strive for, strain for comfort, and when they get it, they becomes complacent. The rich won’t use snuggies, as they’re too tawdry. They will use snuggies, but will overused them into worthlessness, and then go back to regular blankets. Or just being cold. Only the middle class will use a Snuggie to watch a movie or read a book.

A knitted stocking cap, an old busted zip-up hoodie, with the hood up. Maybe a bathrobe too. And fingerless gloves, that match the hat. An old t-shirt, was once nice, sort of, now is not so nice, is the kind for sleeping in now. Thin work-out pants. Thick cotton socks, entirely ineffectual. All of my heat, draining out of my feet, onto the floor, to crawl in tendrils towards the heating vent, to curl around it and wait until the heater turns itself off, and then when its off, to seep down and lovingly caress the throat of the heater and choke it to death. A belly full of cheap-ass candy. Headache, back ache, everything ache. If you put a gun to my head right now and said “make an effort” the only thing that might save me is not being able to make enough effort to say “no, go away.”

Ate something the other day. Who knows what it was. Could have been anything. Could have been bad garlic. Could have been a twice-frozen nutella cookie. Could have been just too many carbs in general. Could have been meningitis. Or a kidney stone. Or an iodine deficiency. Or an iodine overdose. Or an accidentally swallowed thyroid medication. Could have been losing a lot of weight very quickly, or not getting much sleep, or some germ from some little kid at a one-year-old’s birthday party. I ate no cupcakes at that party, drank no beer, and now look at me. Snuggie, old clothes, aches n pains, bad food, tired, bored, stabbing this stupid keyboard out of some dumb obligation to write everyday. All wrapped up and crapped out and eyeballing the word count and it slowly so slowly ticks up. Sick as a dog and twice as ugly and hating every word I write.

The smell of something fried, coming from the other room. Nasto, or some word in some language I can’t speak. A generic word, that means “snack,” I think. So it could be anything. It smells good, to my nose, and absolutely evil, to my stomach. Two days without food and all my brain can think to do is shovel pure sugar down my throat so it has the energy it needs to think. And weird dreams all day yesterday, a mixture of fantasy and reality, every image a visual portmanteau of desire and disgust. All wrapped up in a metaphorical snuggie, blurry and short of breath. Choking down a few half-ounces of boiled seaweed, not out of any kind of need or want but just to placase my caregiver. Thats how I say thanks to my caregiver: I choke down the vile slop slapped into a bowl in front of me.

And on the music player thing, some funky jazz. Not sure of it’s funk with a jazz influence, jazz with a funk influence, or something else entirely and it’s my lack of experience in both genres that leads me to their labels when a wholly different label would be appropriate. Its just what came on when I started the music player, and me too lazy to change it, no idea what to change it to; its just there, anyway, to mask somewhat the clicky-clack of the keyboard, beetle’s feet on tile magnified and multipled a hundred times. A snuggie and belly a sickness a smell and clicky-clacky and some organs n guitars on top of slap-happy drums, me with my aches n pains and self pity, you with these words you probably wish you hadn’t read, and if we’re both lucky you didn’t read at all.

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Compulsions

When I’m bored or sad or depressed but mostly when I’m bored, I fantasize about living in a tiny house someplace tropical. A place where I can sit outside, drink beer, eat Spam sandwiches, and read books. Write occasionally, go for long slow runs.

What’s funny is, except for the tropical part, I can do any of that whenever I want to. But I don’t. So what’s the “fantasy.” I used to think it was “having nothing else to do.”

But when I really think about it, it’s not freedom for responsibilities and obligations—it’s freedom from compulsion. Having nothing else to do means I don’t HAVE to do things like see that amazing movie, or eat at that amazing restaurant, or go to the amazing museum.

I know, first world problems. And here’s an even worse example. Steam is having their winter sale right now. I can get A-list video games dirt cheap. $75 titles for 5 bucks… I mean, I HAVE to buy them, right? What an opportunity! And then, I HAVE to play them, right?

I’m 50% through Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the Castle. I HAVE to finish it, right? We’ve watched three episodes of the second season of Homeland… we HAVE to finish the series, right?

All these god damned compulsion. I know, it sounds shallow. But it feels so good to say “no, fuck it” and not feel guilty.

I don’t know about you, man. But sometimes I think I load myself up just so I can say “fuck it” later.

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Popcorn and Powder

Daily pages at 750words.com. About 30 mins.

Remember that time we went skiing? You were wearing that bright red sweater and matching stocking cap, complete with little poof-ball on top. I was wearing all black, very slick, very ninja. You said that. You said, “You look like a ninja.” I was so happy. Then you said “You look like a big fat ninja.” And I was sad. Then you said “But a fat slick ninja.” And slick was in italics, so I felt better. So you know what we did then? You know what we did.

Shredded.

We were like a Michael Crichton novel on the slopes. I don’t mean his famous ones, but his earlier stuff, when he was writing under a pen name. When he was in medical school. The ones he wrote that were so formulaic. We were formulaic. We cut and we slalomed and you were like a fish and I was like a slick black ninja. I hit a tree. I knocked over that tree. And we stood over that tree and we just sort of looked at it and you took off that ridiculous red stocking cap and held it over your heart and we mourned that poor dead tree.

Killed by a fast fat ninja.

Say that nine times fast.

No, don’t.

After that, in the bar. the Double Diamond. You, hitting on the girl serving drinks. Me, hitting on the bowl of peanuts. You thought it would be funny to tell her about our day in surfing argot:

“Cresty was nice but the ankle snappers were groady like chowder and the barneys were charging all the rollers. I tried to back door a grinder but it got so gnarly my chinese pitched a pearl and the party turned into mushburger. You know what I mean? Noahs and men in gray suits, every cap was a dust biter, but you know me, babe, if it’s good enough to get broke off a proper chunk, I’ll take a small piece of some of that funky stuff.”

She gave you a shot on the house. Then she looked at me and I said how there were no prices on the menu, so everything’s free, right? And she said:

“You know how if you cut a crumb in half, you don’t get half-crumbs, but just two more, smaller crumbs? Your wit reminds me of that.”

Later, alone in my room, I wept piteously.

The next day, driving to another slope, another resort, another day of formulaic shredding, I showed you the above, in my journal, word-for-word, and you crossed everything out, except for “I wept piteously.”

“It’s the only part worth reading,” you said.

I laughed uproariously, and you ripped the notebook out of my hands, and crossed out “I laughed uproariously,” You had that look on your face. The one you got, I bet, after you were done with the girl who served us drinks in the Double Diamond. Or later that next night, the girl from The Bunny Slope. We were doing the Endless Winter thing, you in your red sweater and me in all black, you with your wenches and me with my peanuts. My tiny peanuts.

It was the same look I gave a bowl of tiny peanuts when it was finally empty. Tell me. Tell me how I can get so fat on nothing but the free drinks you get off wenches and bowls of tiny peanuts. I ski all day. Every day. There hasn’t been a day since we met when we didn’t ski and go to bars. Why am I so fat.

Why are you so angry.

Judgmental, you said. Standing on the top of Greg’s Drop, still one more ski resort, one more mountain, one more red sweater and me in something stretchy, tight, taut, naughty if I was wearing it, say, in that piss-dungeon where you found me.

Judgmental, you said. After I said you were always tearing me down. And then you decided to tell me how to ski Greg’s Drop using Jai Alai terminology.

“This one looks like a partido, partner, but its more mala than guente. Hit turn seven at speed, go libre on the fuenton, and be careful of the effecto near the trees– we don’t want another dos paredos, not if we’re going to zaguero a bunny at The Mogul tonight. Okay? You got that? Picado, pelotari, pelato, easy as hair pie, with a hellafied gangsta lean, getting funky on the mic like a old batch of collard greens. See ya at the bottom, you fat black ninja”

And instead of weeping, or laughing, I loaded up my MSR and readier her for .338 Lapua Magnum. I don’t know what that means, but I know you hate Latin.

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Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks

Daily writing exercise, 750words.com

fiction by Jason Edwards

My name is Taylor Swift, which is unfortunate, obviously. And I’m pretty much exactly the opposite of a female, thin, tall, beautiful singer. We’re both white, although that doesn’t really mean anything because once you hit a certain economic strata, everyone is white, more or less. But, otherwise, I’m not famous, I’m a guy, I’m short, kind of chubby, and no one would call me beautiful except my mom. We haven’t spoken in years. Not for any bad reason. People just grow apart.

But another thing I have in common with the famous Taylor Swift is that we both wear Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks. There are plenty of people, enough to be annoying, at least, who point this out to me. In my defense, I wore them first. Or, to be precise, I got mine before I knew she had hers.

Who knows, maybe the skinny Swift is friends with Herbert Hainer himself, and he had the design team make them just for her. And she put on the first prototypes, months before they were on the market. Fine, she wore them first. I’m older than she is– I had the name first.

There’s me in a Karaoke bar on a Saturday night. Every other song is a Taylor Swift song. My friend Aaron is there. Aaron Dell. A. Dell. Starting to see a pattern here? Aaron is tall and skinny, and judging from the number of times he’s left the bar not-alone, he’s beautiful, I guess. And every song that’s not a Taylor Swift tune is an Adele song. At least Aaron can hide behind having a full name, and not need his initial unless, I don’t know, he needs an icebreaker to chat up a 43-year-old divorcee.

Not me. I don’t score. Short chubby guys who wear blue jeans, video-game t-shirts, vests, and Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks don’t score. No matter what we’re named. Or drink- Martinis. the guy at the karaoke bar soaks olives in vermouth and adds them to straight gin. They’re strong and they make me forget my name’s Taylor Swift.

And I do, eventually, and even though I can’t sing, I get up there and belt out something by Kid Rock. Badly, but then, whose identity is based on the ability and the pride earned from singing Bawitdaba really well? Who’s going to back to the office on Monday and gliding up to the coffee maker with a grin on his face and when Sheila in Accounts Receivable in her nearly see-through blouse and black bra and just a little too much lipsticks says, why the big grin, fella– who’s going to say “Just riding the high from nailing another Kid Rock anthem at Annie’s Sister Saturday night.”

That’s the name of the Karaoke bar. Get it? Annie Oakley’s sister Carrie? Carry Oakly? Karaoke? I have tried to explain this to literally dozens of 45-year-old Zumba addicts and not one of them has ever understood what I was talking about. And then I tell them my name, and the amount of interest they wear on their faces at that moment is colossal in how much isn’t there.

Then Aaron walks up, and says something cheesy, like “Hey, quit hitting on my friend, he’s just here to ogle the bartender’s olives,” and they laugh, and he suggests a duet and she picks somethings country and he steers them towards something from the 70s, something with a lot of veiled sexual references, and I order another martini, and sit on my stool, and kick my Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks against the bar to the beat of Afternoon Delight.

Which all sounds very sad but, hey, I’ve got a job, I’ve got an apartment, I’ve got three characters up to level 100 in Warcraft, and I’ve got these Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks. I’ve had them for years now, and you know what? They still look brand new. I wear them to work, to the gym, around my apartment, in rain, in snow, for a summer of Ultimate Frisbee, which turned into a fall of disc golf, which turned into a winter of Xbox 360 at a dope dealer’s house, and then a spring of the new World of Warcraft expansion, me in my apartment in nothing but a pair of skivvies, a ratty robe, and these pristine Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks.

Yeah, I know how it is, if the rich Taylor Swift ever admitted to wearing nothing but a robe, a turquoise thong, and a pair of Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks, Us Weekly would go freakin’ nuts. But they’d go nuts no matter what shoes she was wearing. For me, mine are kind of special.

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Neverending November

Postaday for June 16th: Turn, Turn, Turn Seasons change so quickly! Which one do you most look forward to? Which is your least favorite?

Neverending November

fiction by Jason Edwards

There I was at Jay’s Alley, minding my own business, not botherin’ nobody. Eatin a greasy cheese burger and a basket of limp french fries. Kind of a rough day. Lucinda callin’ me every few hours, screamin’ “Child Support!” into the phone and hangin’ up. I just needed some time to myself, a few minutes of peace, right?

And then one of ‘em shows up, and then another, and then one more. Zombies, all dirty and blood crusted and moanin’, green skin and open sores, the whole works. Bangin’ against the front door. Jay himself did the usual, dropped the security bar so they couldn’t get through. Me and three other guys in the little bowlin’ alley restaurant, nobody makes much of a move.

But the noise. They keep pounding on the door and moanin’ like I said. And I’ve been in this situation before. This can go on for hours. So, what the hell. I get up, I grab my shottie, I step out the emergency door, and unload. Take off one head, then another, and the third one I aim low, cut ‘im in half. But he’s still pullin’ himself around with his hands, like they do, so I walk over and stomp his skull with my boot heel. ‘Cause, you know, ammo is expensive.

I go back inside to what’s left of my greasy burger and my limp fries.

Jay himself walks over to me. Filthy apron, fat nose, receding hairline. One arm on his hip, the other cut off and cauterized at the elbow, a zed attack gone bad several years ago. And he’s glarin’ somethin’ fierce.

“Now what did you go and do that for. They wasn’t hurtin’ nobody.”

“I’m tryin’ to eat here.”

“Well what are folks goin’ to think? Pile of dead zeds by my front door? That’s bad for business.”

“So, city’ll pick ‘em up.”

“Yeah, in two or three days. I say you killed ‘em, you move ‘em.”

“Fat chance, man.”

“Asshole.”

And he walks off.

My phone rings in my pocket. Lucinda again, probably. That’s all I need. I ignore it. We used to get into such fights, especially after the zombies showed up. A real liberal, that Lucinda. Voted for all three Clintons, you know. Me, I went to the rallies, say we should burn ‘em all. And Lucinda’s like, “Remember when people hated the blacks? And the gays? How’s this any different?”

“Cause ain’t nobody ever turned black or gay from gettin’ bit, ya dumb hippie.”

Still, it was good for a few years. Little Charlie came along. And then things didn’t work out, I guess. Child support, my ass. I been out of a job for 6 months. Besides…

Anyway. Last bite of my greasy burger. One more limp french fry. I fish out a cigarette, light up, sip my warm beer. This town wasn’t ever anything spectacular. But if you had a job, and a car, and a woman, and a kid, it was okay. Winters were cold and summers were hot, springs was always too wet. But fall could be nice. The leaves and blue skies and all that. I used to like Halloween, when I was a kid myself. Around here, you could still put on a costume and go around to the houses, not have to worry about perverts or gang bangers.

And then some asshole in a lab squirts the wrong solution into a dead body. Or maybe it was some asshole with a holy book who reads one of the scriptures backwards. Or some asshole with a bad flu steps into a nuclear reactor. I don’t know. All I know is, Halloween went real and the zeds started wandering around. And at first it was scary, and then it was fun and games with the shotties and the machetes, and then it was a pain in the ass with the equal rights and the god damned liberals, and now, well, now it’s just tedious and stupid. I’d kill myself if the thought wasn’t so boring.

I put out the butt of my smoke. I could have another one, but those things’ll kill ya. Stand up, go for my shottie, but the phone rings again. I decide to answer it. “What.”

“Child support.”

“He’s dead, Lucinda. I ain’t payin you nuthin.”

“He ain’t dead.”

“A zed got ‘em a two years ago. He’s as good as dead.”

“I don’t care. State says, no DC, he ain’t dead. You owe me three thousand dollars.”

“Oh yeah? Come ‘n get it.” I hang up on her this time. My phone starts to ring again, immediately. I let it ring. Pick up my shottie, walk over to the exit. Go through.

Jay’s outside, tryin’ to pull the zeds away from the door. Poor guy, one arm and all. You’d think he’d hate them more than me. But I feel bad for him. I prop my gun up against the wall and go over to help.

“I got it, man,” he says.

“Yeah, I know you do.” I grab a dead zed hand, drag it over near the dumpsters.

We get ‘em taken care of, stand there for a second under the gray sky. Been cloudy for a long time now. I shouldn’t complain. Summer’s aint so hot, winter’s ain’t so cold. Still. Sunshine would be nice, especially if I gotta take calls from my crazy ex and eat shitty food and drag zombie corpses all over the place. Whatever.

“Well,” I say. “I’ll see ya.”

“Yeah.”

I start to walk away, Jay goes back into his little restaurant. I’m halfway across the parking lot, and I see another crowd of ‘em. Four or five zeds this time. Why do they shuffle around in groups, I wonder. They’re following an old lady. She’s got a trot in her step, so I guess she’s seen ‘em. Probably waiting for the bus, poor thing. And the zombies come along, and now she’s got to run back home, wait for the next one. I could take ‘em out, even though, technically it’s illegal. Technically, marijuana’s still illegal. But ain’t nobody been busted in at least a decade. I never heard of anyone doing time for takin’ out a zombie mob, especially one that was chasin’ an old lady.

But, like I said, ammo’s expensive. And she’s okay. Probably one of those bleeding hearts. One of those liberals with a t-shirt that says Zombies Were People Too. Please. Get what you deserve. I move on.

And then there’s a loud bang. And another one. And two more. Comin’ from Jays’ place. I heft my shottie and run back lickety split.

Bust in through the door. The smell of cordite and saltpeter, and sharp green mold, and heavy grease. Two guys standing over a pile of zeds, third guy on the bottom of ‘em. The two got their hand guns out, the third guy’s lost most of his insides. Its a mess. One of the fellers looks at me, shrugs, sits down and goes back to his bowl of chili. The other one’s on his phone, callin’ it in to the city.

And then I hear it, from the kitchen. “Aw, God damnit.” Jay’s voice. I walk back there.

Kitchen door’s busted wide open, leadin’ to the back alley. Jays sittin’ on the floor, a huge chunk of his remaining arm is gone. It’s already turning black, dark green on the edges. There’s a body with it’s head shoved in the fryer, and the smell is somethin’ terrible.

“God damnit,” Jay says again.

I walk over to him, crouch down, peer at the wound. I’ve seen it’s like before. We all have. “Looks pretty bad,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah. Can’t cauterize this one, I guess.”

“I guess not.”

We sit there for a bit.

Finally, he says, “There’s some cash in the register.”

“So.”

“So, I know you got a few shots left. Take care of me, and you can have what’s in the register for the ammo.”

I sigh. Jay’s burgers were greasy, and his french fries were limp, and his beers were warm. But what, I’m supposed to walk over to Chez Richie Rich? I was going to miss the old bastard. “Okay,” I say. “You got your DC on you?”

Despite the obvious pain, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet. Tosses it to me. I open it up, pull out his Death Certificate. Poor guy.

I heft my shottie. “Any last w-” I say, and pull the trigger. Damn loud in the small space. I check the time, fill out his DC, leave it next to him.

And walk out, ignore the register. Ya see that? A shitty day turned shittier.

Outside, I half expect to see the city trucks, but Jay was right— they’ll be around in a few days, maybe. I walk on home. I’m spent is what I am. I have one round left, though. When my phone rings again, I pull it out, drop it on the ground, and blast it.

Back at my place, I go inside, drop the security bar down, close the reinforced shutters, settle in for the night. I try the TV, but it’s more crap about rallies and marches and bullshit. Grab a warm beer from my fridge. Pull out my own wallet.

My own death certificate, signed and ready to go, just in case. And my son’s. Charlie’s. Filled it out the day it happened. Had to take his head off myself. Still can’t bring myself to file it with the city, or show it to Lucinda. Sometimes I think the way she screams at me is the only thing that keeps us goin’. Guess I’ll have to get a new phone.

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Ex Falso Quodlibet

Postaday for June 15th: In a Crisis. Honestly evaluate the way you respond to crisis situations. Are you happy with the way you react?

Of course “crisis” comes from the Greek word “cri” meaning “to shed tears” and “sis” meaning “female sibling.” Isn’t language weird? It turns I don’t have a sister, and I don’t tolerate crying in my presence. But let’s, for the sake of argument (”arg,” meaning “frustration,” “u” meaning “you” and “ment” meaning “a spicy herb used to make refreshing teas and chewing gum,” which altogether means, “frustrating you with language that you sip or chew on” i.e. “blog”) pretend I do have a sister and I do tolerate weeping. How would I evaluate the way I respond?

I’d evaluate my response as excellent. My made-up sister and I have almost nothing in common. I am a white male, married, in my forties, in need of losing a few pounds, fond of video games, running, and procrastinating on my taxes. My fake sister is Indian, single, in her twenties, skinny to the point of making people uncomfortable, and overly fond of extremely bitter chocolate, staying in touch with the friends she made on the Model UN in high school, and getting her taxes done, on, like, January 2nd. Not that she has a job. Lazy!

We had a crisis situation last Christmas, when we were supposed to travel together to our parent’s ranch in Southern North Dakota. Talk about a Clusterfubar. First, our flight was canceled. So we looked at taking the train. We were on the rails for about 30 minutes when, ha ha, the train wrecked. We walked ten miles in the sun and snow to a bus station. Get on the bus, and we’re attacked by zombies. Great. We fend them off, but all the tires on the bus were popped in the process (my sister’s aim with the shot gun is not what it used to be. I blame her liberal arts college). So we flagged down a farmer in his truck. I paid him cash for it. Everything was fine. We drove for about eight hours.

We’re nearly out of gas but there’s signs saying a gas station is ten miles ahead. We pull in and I fill up while my sister goes in to the use the bathroom, buy some salty snacks, call her boyfriend, and call my wife (who isn’t talking to me because she’s mad at me because it was my idea to book a more expensive flight, which got canceled, and the cheaper, not-direct one she booked for me didn’t get canceled, and when she found out she said to me, “Told you so!” and I replied “You only booked the cheap one because you couldn’t go with us— if you didn’t have to work, you would have booked the more expensive direct flight!” And that made her mad because she knows I’m right.)

I top off the tank and screw the gas cap back in. My sister comes out with Doritoes, Skittles, a diet Mountain Dew for me (probably because after talking with my wife on the phone she took her side, the lazy little traitor) and a virgin Lime Ricky inna can for her. And we get in and we drive off and… yes, you guessed it. We get pulled over.

For drinking and driving! Because apparently just because a beverage is a virgin, that is, has no alcohol, the cops will still pull you over “for suspicion.” And I tell the officer “I’m not the one drinking it! Little miss Bolivia over here is the one guzzling it!”

And my sister BURSTS INTO TEARS because she wasn’t Bolivia in the Model UN, she was Paraguay. This is a crisis situation because I’m pretty sure my sister got me an Apple Watch for Christmas (even though I said this was last Christmas. I’m making this up, remember?) and if she thinks I’m trying to be insulting because Bolivia has 10 million people to Paraguay’s 6.5 million (i.e. I’m calling her “fat.” Women!) then she might not give me the watch after all, and, probably, will tell my wife they next time they talk on the phone that when we were shooting zombies on the bus I even shouted “Take that, Carla!” My wife’s name isn’t even Carla!

But I handled the crisis well. I tell the officer “She always cries like that when her brother is accused of murder.” And the officer goes “Murder?” And I’m all like, “Then why did you pull us over” And he says, “Drinking and driving!” And I say “That’s impossible!” And he says “The guy in the gas station said you bought a virgin Lime Ricky inna can!” And I shout “ENTRAPMENT!” because right then I notice officer “Leyner” has the same last name as “Leyner’s Gas n Go.” HA!

The cop blushes. He let’s us go. He gets in his cruiser and leaves. I turn to my sister and say “I always get Bolivia and Paraguay confused. I should know better. Of course you’d be the country that was the home of the Guarani. Only a jerk would represent those damned Quechua. Please forgive me.”

Want to know how the story ends? Not only did I get my Apple Watch, but my sister also called my wife and took the blame for the flight switch. BOO-YA! Yes I do handle crisis situations very well. Like the time I didn’t know how to respond to a blog prompt. 892 words!

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Traboule

Traboule

These tunnels are like covered alleys, connecting side streets in the old part of Lyon, France. Free to explore– be quiet though, as people still live in apartments accessed from within.

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Literally Page Three, In Medias Res

Postaday for June 14th: The Early Years. Write page three of your autobiography.

knocking over a model ship on table somewhere behind him. Which I find highly suspect considering he was a Navy man at the time, so when exactly did he have the hours to put together a ship, much less the money, considering his weekly pay went entirely to supporting his wife, his brand new son, and, it seems, my voracious diaper appetite? His own fault, if you ask me, giving me so much apple juice!

I kid, of course. Even back then you wouldn’t give a days-old baby apple juice. It would have been wasted on me, if nothing else. Nowadays I love a good apple juice, but on day three I wasn’t self-aware enough to enjoy anything. I still, on that day, had a good threes years of brain growth to go. Unlike horses, who can walk on day one, I couldn’t even roll over.

Indeed, I remember absolutely nothing of that time at all, and can only goes off anecdotes like the one above. So really, who am I to say it wasn’t true? It might as well have been. My parents tell other stories from my youth, although I think they were maybe too sleep deprived themselves in those first several weeks to be able to remember much. I didn’t cry too often. Mostly I just stared at things. I ate what I was fed, required frequent diaper changes, and occasionally gurgled.

There are photographs, of course, of a smushed up, wrinkly thing, all blotchy and unattractive. I look nothing like that now. I mean, I am once again smushed up, wrinkly, blotchy, and unattractive, but in an entirely different way. You’d be hard pressed to recognize me in those old photos. Maybe it was the technology. In November of 1971 even the likes of an Ansel Adams was only taking photos in black and white, after all.

(This is entirely untrue, but I’m writing an autobiography page here, not a history book, the difference being the latter describes what happened and the former describes what I imagined happened. Hence the apple juice quip. I was only three days old, for crying out loud).

At any rate, I was a baby, and stayed that way for a number of weeks, which stretched into months. Those first several days were exciting. A navy man and his navy-retired wife. A little tiny apartment in rural Massachusetts. Winter coming on, and with it, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. I would see them all before I was even two months old. People ask me why I’m so quick to embrace new things, an early adopter, living on the very prow of progress. I point them to this first week of my life, my tiny fist grasping for but still not even close to coordinated enough to grip my father’s beard.

Which reminds me of another anecdote my parents used to tale at family gatherings and the like. It seems our neighbor had an enormous Great Dane called Winston, and my father thought it would be funny to get a snapshot with me posed on the dog’s back. Yes, back in those days, parents didn’t think twice about a newborn child interacting with a germ-coated dog.

So there’s me, three days old, sitting in a puddle of myself on the back of a hound that would literally outweigh me for the next 12 years. So big was Winston, and so small was I, that they didn’t even have to hold on to me— I was balanced quite well on his sizable rump. I guess they’d left the door open, to let in some cool air since the radiator was going full blast. Did anyone know one of the other nieghbors had a cat? I suppose not. Neither did Winston— so when he saw Mr. Jinx, he took off like a shot, and me right