Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Tastes like trouble: XI

So it turns out the best plan anyone could come up with was to use me as bait. Personally, I felt it was a horrible fucking idea, but Karen wasn't around to back me up. Apparently it was really to dangerous for her to be around, but me, the guy that probably should be dead, is fine.
I'm not fine, by the way, in fact I am quickly approaching the furthest from fine I have ever been. The furthest being the time I was in the far east and met a gal who turned out to not be a gal at all. That was not a very good time at all.
It was my understanding that I was to go about my business as if I had no protection at all. And I probably wouldn't because they didn't want them to know it was a trap. Really, really, really, lame.

So after being shown how to use a gun, I found myself on the street without a gun. I don't even know why they showed me. I am of the opinion that it was just a mindfuck payback for all the verbal abuse I had put them through. Show me how to defend myself from scary abusive mean Nazi and then take the ability away. When this is all over I am going to get some therapy.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Tastes like trouble: X

Trotter, Gregs, John, Jess, they didn't matter, maybe not even Karen. She would beat me worse than anyone else if she heard me think that. We worked, there was something about out push and pull that just made it all fit nice and snug, like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs or something, the more we pulled at each other the tighter we got. Maybe it was time we officially moved in together. I wondered if my apartment was in worse shape than hers. It probably was.

Gregs or Trotter, I never payed close enough attention to be sure, was leaning on the table yelling into my face. It must have been dehydrated because his spitel never actual hit me, it flung bout his mouth like a crazy dog or something.

Did I miss something? Am I a suspect of something, or... Tman, and ahh Gman, did I offend? Don't worry UIO man over here isn't going to expense the breakfast. Its all good.

“You must be the dumbest college boy I have ever fucking seen. How does a dipshit like you get to be wanted by the largest organized clandestine fascists Nazi motherfucking movements since the 50's?”

You haven't seen the little book have you. John? I gestured like Vanna White to the silent man standing by the door.


Get the FUCK out of this room Smith.” I was beginning to think it was Trotter with the foul mouth. It was probably rooted in childhood trauma stemming from his name. As they say, a long time ago our last names were a way of stating our profession. This agent was probably from a long line of leaky assholes.

Smith left the room and Gregs followed him, he came back almost immediately carrying the little book.

So Shithead, whats so goddamn important about you that Smith out there broke his covert status to save your ass two, three times?”

I blew him.

Trotter hit the desk instead of me. Come on man, the desk isn't giving you the run around! MEEEE. You want MEEEE. The desk is innocent, I'll tell you what you want. Just don't hit the desk. I beg of you.

“Fuck this guy, I'm going to kill him. I am going to fucking kill him.”

Ding* subconsciously a bell rang signaling the end of round one. Gregs tapped him on the shoulder and they moved to the corner of the room an whispered at each other. Gregs came out, Trotter stayed in for a time out.

“Were you telling him the truth?” He held the book up. I dropped my guard.

Yeah, I mean as much as I think there were more subs than the history books say. And that one of them had gold.

Why weren't the authorities notified?”

Notified of what? That a treasure hunter told his grade school buddy about a buried treasure myth? I donno, maybe it because it turned into my thesis and he hadn't found it yet. I didn't care if it was blood money. Fuck, its either on the bottom of the ocean or not, me flapping my jaw about would one do me harm.

Trotter came out of his corner for round two, “Yeah, keep flapping it and it will get harmed.”

Screw you Hershey. I let one update out on the thing and my life has been trashed and I have been far to close to death for my liking. I have been a sport about the whole thing so far. So you take a hike bring John Smith back in here.

Trotter left after looking to Gregs for confirmation. TKO fifty-two seconds into the second round and I moved up in the rankings.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Tastes like trouble: IX

He closed the little book and looked hard at me. “You know I want to believe you. Something like this could mean a great deal to a lot of people. Even if the gold has already been recovered its likely to lead us to some very bad people.”

That's interesting, I was under the impression that the bad people didn't have it, hence my extreme makeover. I pointed at my eye, the swelling had gone down. I was now sporting a very purple and yellow face. I looked ready for the big game, it was too bad we weren't at the Mertodome.

There are all kinds of bad people.” My fork had been resting on the edge of the plate. “If you are done, there is someone I want you to meet.”

I shrugged, I could have gone for a slice of pie but my gluttony was usurped by a general sense of guilt. Holocaust gold and murderous Nazi spawn suddenly filled my stomach with stones. I pushed my plate aside and tented my napkin on the plate signaling my unconditional surrender to what remained on the plate. We got up and left, someone other than me payed.

On the street I felt charitable and informed a bum that he was about fourty years to young to have been in Vietnam. As we pulled away I watched as he gave me the bird and change his sign to say Gettysburg. He must have been an art student, I must have missed his point. I am not sure he had a point.

We didn't drive far. Before long we were pulling into an underground parking garage. It was under a nice large plain looking building that had government written all over it. We took an elevator up to the seventh floor. A secretary greeted the UIO and handed me an icepack. I tried to protest telling her the swelling had gone down. It seemed like the place was swarming with UIO men.

John, they have been waiting for you. Trotter is pissed, Gregs is worried.”

I have some answers...” John Said and then pointed to me, “He has some answers.”

I shrugged and mouthed its in his little book, the book has the answers, pointing at his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding the icepack to my eye. My nurse took my real nurse to sit down in the lobby. And by my real nurse I mean my girlfriend. Who still happened to be with us, we didn't forget about her or drop her off or anything.... And I guess if the UIO man has a name everybody might as well know that her name is Karen. Karen went to the a waiting room or lobby or someones office or soemthing with the secretary. The secretary doesn't get a name.

John turned as we went into the meeting room. “Jess, can you get me the files off my desk regarding this case?”

Well shit. Ok, the secretary gets a name too. The secretary's name is Jess, and she is getting files off of John's desk.

She replied, “Sure John.”

It was like they were flaunting their identities.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Personal note.

I am working on something new/old offline. I have notes on this idea going back way too long.I will continue to write 'improve' style like I have been. We will see what kind of ideas I work out.

I bought a white board to put some of the important ideas on it so I can see them all the time. I wanted a bigger one, but 3x4 foot was the largest they stocked in the store. I am going to end up getting a bigger one. I just don't have the attention span to keep it all in my head.

I welcome feedback.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Tastes like trouble: VIII

We pulled off the curb with a reasonable amount of haste. A Nazi car swung in and scooped up the two on the sidewalk. The UIO man cursed and accelerated as fast as traffic would allow. “What the hell? You tell me you have nothing to tell me and give me some bullshit story. I come out of your place and see these assholes,” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing to the car riding the tale-gate. “I followed them to your girl's hospital.” He took a quick left after the light had turned red. The cross traffic nipped the left rear of the car, everyone and their cousin honked, but the Nazi car had been successfully dodged

“I don't like playing catchup.” Then you must hate all this detective work. He threw the car into park. My poor head slammed into the seat. I was certain that I had received irreparable damage. “Not when the answer is sitting in my car. Tell me why they like you so much, or the both of you can pound sand and I will go back to following them.” He looked in his driver side mirror the traffic was clearing up and the light was going to change any moment.

Lets get some pancakes. I wasn't sure if I had said it out loud but the car was moving again and we were still inside. Someone had said something, and I only hoped we were destine for a short stack.

I really only had to say Hitlers gold and we were chummy like the old days. I got to see his little notebook again, his tiny pair of glasses. I was the only one eating... and the only one talking, so things were moving at a slow pace.

My research, is not directly related to and easily confused with with... it's was about escaping war criminals. I exaggerated on one of my updates that involved a lost German U boat and the cargo it carried.

The UIO man wrote that down.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Just too many ideas.

So, I want to write all kinds of stuff. But this is going to get messy if I do it all here. So, I am splitting posts between this and another site. Trouble, and Grace will stay here, and something else is going to go somewhere else. The Ocean is in my Lunchbox is hopefully going to be a collaborative project. For now, its just me.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Tastes like trouble: VII

The UIO man left the door hanging and I went to pack a bag and find men’s clothing to change into. We would leave once she got home. There was a camp grounds a few hours from the city that had cabins to rent. It would be a good place to rest up and sort things out in my head. Oh, my poor head. I had lost count of how many times I had been knocked out over the past thirty six hours, four maybe? Any more than twice was serious enough. Trying to figure out how many was an exercise in futility. I might as well have been in a coma. I knock on the doorframe.

I sit by the window with my backpack. The few things I had in her apartment fit into the one bag. I didn’t dare go to my own. With the way they searched this place, I expected my building to be leveled. In relative safety the few oxygenated cells in may start going to work. Setting aside the obtuse reality of modern Nazi, secret multi-national detectives, and Hitler’s secret gold, left me to realize that all I had was the obtuse realities and the further realization that no amount of trash talk was going to get me out of the situation smelling like new car.

I check the wall clock. She was close to running late. The clock was shaped like a cat, its eyes scanning the room once a second. I questioned him, why he hadn’t backed me up earlier. Left, right, left, right, tick, tock, tick, the time began to wear me anxious. I tossed my papers into the bag and made my way for the stairs.

It was stupid to have waited so long to get her and get out. The entire morning! Giving them a chance to notice me gone, to go look for me, for her. I found myself running down the street despite my injuries. My feet hitting the ground twice as often as the cat scanned the kitchen. I stop, and stand holding my knees as I wait for the train. My head had opened up from the sweat and the pressure, I was dripping. A homeless man reeking of urine gives me some space. He train pulls in. Her train continues on. The platform clears and she is not here.

I remember the sound of my feet slapping against the pavement. I looked like I was running from a serial killer. Half dressed, bleeding, sweating, and sobbing. I looked like a drug addict after a hit and run. Three nine minute miles later I am in front of her hospital. Out of shape, gasping and heaving. I throw up. Through my blurry eyes I see the big and thin man come out the front door. They are alone, unless they get to me. I turn to run and nearly pass out.

I turn back to see them even closer. They are acting very casual, I must look worse than I imagined. They would be on me soon, and it was unlikely that I was going to be able to put up a fight. They split up and move to both ends of the sidewalk. Doubled over I turn and look into traffic. If I make a scene, and don’t get hit, I might get out of this.

I hit the curb and a two toned green Buick nearly hits me. The breaks make a louder noise than the horn and the UIO man sticks his head out the window. Through the rear window I see her climb over the front seats and pop the back door open. “Lets go!” one or both of them yell. I must have looked like the happiest man in the world.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Tastes like trouble: V to the VII

The big one pulled me out of the trunk like wet laundry. We were on the docks. I had never been in this part of town, but I knew where it was. It worried me a little that they were not concerned with me seeing where we were going. Getting roughed up is one thing, kidnapped goes a little further. Getting murdered was crossing a line for me.

The big one felt me consider making a run for it. He had his paw on the back of my neck and was gently directing me to one of the larger ships. When I turned slightly in the opposite direction, he showed me how willing he was to pop my head off like a dandy lion.

“Do you know what this is?” The slimy one was always asking questions. But it worked for him; the big guy had been providing me with their answers. They were perfect for each other.

I chanced a wise ass response as I assumed it was a rhetorical question. Boat?

“Sure, it’s a boat.” The sarcasm dripped from his words. The man literally oozed. He never answered his own question; my answer must have been good enough. We boarded and passed some men with guns. Same haircuts, same tattoos, same guns, same dead eyes. They might have been serious German treasure hunters, but based on their style they seemed organized crimey. I mean things were really leaning towards Nazis, but come on, Nazis? The news headline ran through my mind, with the type writer noise and everything. “Grad student kidnapped by the Nazis in search for Hitler’s lost gold.”

They put me in a room, it smelled like shit, feces, as in someone defecated here. They sat me in a chair that had one leg maliciously bend out of place. It teetered, and clicked against the metal floor. They hit me a few more times to convince me of their hospitality. I made a mental note to add them to my Christmas card list. They left, I tried the door but it seemed locked, or jammed. Using my advanced reasoning skills, I came to the conclusion that anything they weren’t willing to do in the apartment was bound to happen here. I checked my wallet for my insurance card.

Later, a new friend came into the small room. He had the same head as the others, but was dressed more appropriately. Wife beater t shirt, leather gloves, foreign looking jeans, tats, lots of tats. He didn’t say much, almost nothing at all. But despite our slow start we developed a rhythm. “Where is the gold?” He would ask me, then he would hit me, and we would start over again. At some point one of us lost the point. Depending on what he wanted out of this exchange, it could have been my misunderstanding. But at some point he stopped waiting for me to respond to his question, and then after a while the question itself disappeared.

In his defense, and I am not necessarily saying this is where our communicative breakdown occurred, the answer to “where is the gold” is not “fucked your sister”.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Tastes like trouble: V.V

I picked the pieces of myself up and threw them into a pile on the couch. It would be a waste to start being cooperative now. I mean, if I gave up anything now, it would have made the whole beating pointless.

My world was ringing and I couldn’t understand the Nazi bastard. Excuse me, the thin Nazi bastard. I could understand the large one just fine. He was using sign language. I tried to wave him off. I pulled back a sprained, all but broken finger.

The thin one threw me my pants and I pulled them on. Not because he said so, but for my own reasons.

They spoke in German. I don’t know German but I think they said “Let’s take him out back and show him our nice trunk.” I know this because I was now in their very spacious trunk. I tried to count the turns, to figure out where they were taking me. It felt like we took 17 consecutive right turns. That couldn’t have been right.

Twenty-two days since Grace left me.


Everything came apart so fast. The first few days were chaos. Even the people that fancied themselves prepared had trouble holding on to their lives. Some of us were lucky; we were not in a big city. We had been camping, what began as the worst weekend of my life, turned into the end of the world.
My name is Sam Russell. I haven’t seen another living soul in twenty-two days.
I don’t know what today is. It is twenty-two days since Grace died. I didn’t know her. I had been cornered inside a deli; it was stupid of me to go in there. I was hungry. We are always starving these days, but I was just hungry.
I didn’t need to eat. But I went in there anyway. My senses left me and I went into a building I didn’t know, in the dark, without knowing, without thinking. There were so many, as if they were in the walls. She told me it’s the smell, the rotting cuts of meat. They are drawn to the smell. She said that when she saw me go in, she figured I was just tired of living. When she heard me scream, she knew she had been wrong.
She was so fast. Literally three-to-one. I was, I am able to handle myself, but she was a natural savior. She was graceful in it. Eight of them were finished before she pulled me out of that coffin.

She didn’t die that day. It was later that I lost her. It was later after I knew her. And it wasn’t them, it was us. A living man killed her.

It is so much quieter than it use to be. It is like when you wake up just before dawn and you feel like you are the only person in the world. It is like that all of the time now. I don’t know how, but we did it to ourselves. It’s been twenty-two days since I have heard more than the sound of my feet.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Tastes like trouble: Zero or five point three, maybe

I woke up on the sofa with my papers stuck to my face. I was still fully dressed minus a shoe. There was hot coffee and piece of toast on the coffee table. I guessed it was from her, but for all I knew it was a breakfast fairy.

I wiped the cold sweat off my neck and took off my pant as I went into the bathroom. My Pants slung over one arm and the coffee and newspaper in my hands. Equipped as I was, there was no way to close the door. So fighting my manners I left the door open.

It was loud. It crashed and sent splinters across the floor past the bathroom doorway. I wiped, pulled back on my boxer and stumbled at running pace through the door. The pins and needles struck my nerves like being hit in the funny bone. I lost my balance and went face first into the wall. Burglars beware occupants of this apartment may self-destruct.

I woke up on the sofa with a very large man very close to my face. I was fully dressed minus my pants and a shoe. The man backed up and took my piece of toast from the coffee table. He sat down. Another man came into view as I sat up. He was sitting at the little bar attached to the kitchen. He told me to not look at him; to keep my eyes on his friend.

They were both blonde, and both wearing suits. Their heads didn’t look like the sort of hears that would be sticking out of a suit. They looked like the sort of head that would be popping out of an orange jumpsuit.

Guys, I am a student, and my… roommate is just a nurse. We don’t have much. Just take what you want, I won’t call the cops. I laid it on a little thick. I wasn’t afraid, but like dealing with a wild animal err on the side of caution when dealing with large men that lack the ability to knock. Maybe that had been a knock.

“Right, thank you for getting right to it. If you remain cooperative he might not have to hit you.” He hit me, hard, in the face. “Again.” He wound up for a second strike. “NO!” the man at the bar yelled, “I meant he might not have to hit you again.”

It was a twisted version of mice and men going on in here. I wanted to leave them to each other.

“Hitler’s gold. Where is it?” Although this was actually said I neglected to mention it to the UIO man when I later retold the story. “We know it was discovered in your research, so tell us.”

I really wish I could help you. I was going to get hit again. The big one was taking off his suit coat. I wish I could tell you exactly where it is, I just don’t have that information yet.

“I think you are lying.” He nods upward, “Hit him once, and not in the face, he needs to talk.”

My vision began to fail, like an old movie where the iris closes in. I breathed, and as I got more oxygen my vision came back. I slumped over, and chanced a look towards the door.

“There is no escape for you. No rescue.” He slithered off the stool, his feet hit the ground and he stood up straight.

I gave him the bird, call me a liar, fuck you then. I caught part of a punch to the back of my head. I couldn’t see right again, this time it was stars. So, it was a bad idea to tell them off. I got hit again in the lower back; I spun around and got another one in the ribs. My ribs crashed and sent splinters across the floor past the bathroom doorway. Someone must be at the door.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Tastes like trouble: VI

…And then I woke up in the hospital. I finished, my story told. I explained everything, and he wrote exactly none of if in his little book.

“Ok then.” He stood up and moved for the door.

That wasn’t good enough for you? Should I have lied to make it more interesting? None of it good enough for your little book?

He sighed, I had obviously stuck a cord. It sounded like he felt he owed me an explanation. He came back and sat down.

I am wearing women’s clothing. The ceiling fan slowly whooping, constantly moving but never going any distance, and he opens his little book to the first page.

“So the war ended.” He sounded unsure. He flipped ahead a few pages, and then back a few. He might have been looking for a particular note. “The war ended.” This time he seemed sure. He paused again. It was becoming obvious that he had not intended to share this information. He flipped ahead a few pages, and looked up from the book. “I track Nazi.” He closed the book.

That was-I began, but he interrupted, “That was, as useful to you as your story was to me?” He moved to the door again. Come on! No way! I was in a bit of shock. I told him all kinds of useful things about what had happened. I felt like what the Indians must have felt when they realized they sold New York for small pocks.

“You shouldn’t stay here.” He said this as the door fell off the bottom hinge and hung bent and crooked from the top. He was a jerk.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Tates like trouble: V

I came back out of the bedroom wearing a pair of pink sweat pants that ended halfway down my calves. The rest of me was covered in her bathrobe. I had found and taken more pills while I dressed. He was making coffee; he knew the apartment like he had been here before.

The door was re-hung but would not close properly. The couch was returned to the center of the living room and a small bookshelf had been pulled over just enough to keep the door from swinging back open. He handed me a cup and retrieved the coffee table from the corner of the room opposite the door.

He removed his jacket before he sat down. He was wearing an solid olive green shirt. This time it was giving off the perception that his tattoos were growing off the shirt. Their pattern was puzzling to me. I couldn’t quite figure out what they were of, and the fact that they seemed to change was occupying more of my thoughts than I would ever admit.

“You a hard-ass?” He asked as he flipped his foot up onto his knee and eased back into the slashed sofa.

I am… I began, but he cut me off. “You’d have to be. First the beating, then the hospital escape. If I didn’t know any better I would think you were a hard-ass.”

I repeated back to him the first bit of the last thing he said. Didn’t know any better, I raised my voice at the end to turn it into a question.

“And you're not much for volunteering information are you? I mean considering your current state.” I touched my ribs and ran my fingers across my eye. I’m not doing to bad I thought, the doctors must have thought I had insurance or something.

“You see what I mean? Hardly a fucking word comes out of your mouth.”

I moved to the window and told him that she would be back soon, or as he had implied, they might come looking for me. He didn’t look in my direction, he had taken out his little notebook and flipped to a marked page. “ I have a guy out there, and your girl knows me. We have a minute, but the hell if I am going to spend it answering you. Tell me a story.”

I reminded him he wasn't going to hear shit from me without seeing a badge. What he provided didn’t help my muddled head. He had no badge. What he handed me was a small piece of paper the size of an index card. Printed on it was his name with military rank. Under that in larger print was, United Intelligence Organization : Special unit in charge of war crimes. It had his photo and a watermark and stamp. A metal tag clipped onto the lower right corner. A series of number ran down the right side and repeated in reverse order across the bottom. I paid less attention than I probably should have to the thing, there were swirls and underneath it all was his photo. It looked legit but I didn’t have a clue as to what kind of authority it gave him.

Big business card. I said as I handed it back to him. He shrugged and returned it to his jacket pocket. “Big organization.”

So I talked, He seemed unconvinced by most of my story. From what I can remember, here is how it went down.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Tastes like trouble: IV

She avoided my questions in a way that made it seem like it didn’t matter. She dismissed the boat story, and explained the hospital scrubs I had been wearing as something she must have brought home from work. To her, I was exactly where she left me when she left for her twelve hour shift, just worse off.

We couldn’t find any of my cloths among her things, so she put me to bed naked. Exhausted and feeling completely exposed I asked her to take us someplace where we could think everything through.

“Think what through?”

My being pulverized and her apartment being smashed to bits? She is right it must be a coincidence. So that's what I told her. She laughed, then moved around the room talking with her hands. “It’s this neighborhood! Some meth-head or something. Don’t get all conspiracy on me. Some junkies probably broke in here, fucked you up.” Her tone changed and she sat on the edge of the bed, the denial fell away and her sincerity felt like a feather pillow top, “I am sorry you got fuck up, baby. But you’re probably just concussed.”

She got up and slung her giant purse over her shoulder. She had the hippy/shabby chic thing going on. She was a nurse, a force of nature. Life was the tail to her comet.

“I am going to go buy you some cloths, and jell-o. When I get back we can call the cops and report this…” She searched for the right word but in process realized saying nothing was a big enough descriptor. With a wave of her hand she was gone.

I stayed in bed and watched the ceiling. I let my eyes play tricks on me and focused on the ‘floatys’ that swam across my field of vision. The fan in the living room was moving papers around. I could hear them shuffling across the floor.

My papers shuffling across the floor?

My thesis shuffling across the floor… I cringed. And then cringed again as I put my feet on the floor. It was time to play fifty-two card pick-up with a hundred thirty-seven pages, (and counting) of historical data and analysis.

I limped around the corner. He was standing in the doorway to the apartment, trying to re-hang the door. He looked more eclectic this time; he had added a tweed sports jacket to his ensemble. His back was turned to me, and I could see that his tattoos worked their way up the back of his neck into his hair. When he turned around he seemed as surprised to see me as I had been to see him. I covered my inheritance. Had I been famous we were in a six figure snap shot.

“Dude, really?” He itched his head under his hat. “What the hell did you come back here for?” He paused for a moment, obviously rethinking the situation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his little note pad. “We have to talk.”

Monday, October 20, 2008

Tastes like trouble: III

The cab ride supplied me with a second beating. Between the stolen drugs and the honest pain the ride was a blur. I gave the driver a huge tip, or stiffed him. I couldn’t figure out the bills with my one tear-filled eye. The cabbie yelled something as I slammed the door. I replied in kind and was lucky enough to find my balance before the car sped out from under my weight.

I can’t remember the stairs or how I got in the apartment. I washed some more pills down with a warm beer. The lip of the bottle tasted like strawberries. My mind fluttered with images of her sweet smile and beautiful body. I was going to have to thank her for the nicest transition into unconsciousness I've had in the past few days.

She screamed. That is how I woke up. I jumped and howled from the pain in my chest. She screamed again. She hadn’t seen me on the couch and I provided her with a second fright. Her first scare had been caused by the state of her apartment. I hadn’t noticed when I came in but the door was nearly off its hinges. And everything else must have grown legs and run from whatever came in. The place was a mess. It was a toss up for who was in worse shape, 403 cherry lane. apt 214 or me.

I’m standing in front of most of her bathroom mirror. Finally putting a picture to the pain. I was swollen and black and blue. She was trying to put things back together while she looked for her bandages and peroxide. The metaphor of the broken mirror didn’t escape me, but there was no point in putting meaning into it.

She grabbed my ass as she came into the bathroom and turned on the bathtub. I went for the beer. She had blocked the door with the couch and drew the blinds. How much trouble did she know I was in? Did she know what was going on better than me? I couldn’t honestly remember how I got onto the boat or for sure why. I would have to ask, after my bath.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Tastes like trouble: II

The clocked ticked slow, time was stretching as long as it could for me. My left eye had completely swollen shut. I was off the street. Or, still in the street and completely naked. I assume that the bums clothing was probably in better shape than my own. But money was on the hospital.
A blade of light slashed through my iris as my one good eye parted to confirm my state. Hospital. The walls were white, everything was white. I felt like a shit floating in the bowl. Moving was even harder than it had been the last time I was conscious. I was dry, tapped, broken, empty. I closed my eye and put my full weight into the bed, and waited for someone to flush.

Time passes in the normal tick, tick, tick fashion… but less like a bomb. So tick, tock, tick and so on. The nurse comes in. I start to feel better, so she must have slipped me something good. The bed inclines. Something was about to happen. I open my eye to see the nurse leave and a house of a man enter. He wore a MMA t-shirt, it was tight, like his skin had been painted. Tattoos down each arm. His hair was short under an ill fashioned fedora. He sat down in a relic of easy chair that was near the bed. My angel of death was going to take his time? I waited for the clock to slow.
He produced a notepad and a pair of reading glasses. He sat his hat on the floor and put the glasses on. “Can you speak?”

I responded quietly, I wasn’t sure if my voiced worked. I was glad my ears had somewhat recovered. “What is your name?” he asked.

Thank you
, crossed my mind. He wasn’t going to kill me. Or if he was, at least I wouldn’t be buried as a john doe, a number painted on a wooden box in a hole on the edge of town. The people responsible for my current condition knew my name. Being asked my name was a good sign that this guy didn’t come into the room with murder on his to do list. I tell him my name. He wrote it down.

“We thought you were dead, the way you went down in the street. To everyone’s surprise you’re not.” He tapped his pen against the pad and looked over the top of his glasses. “So… tell me your story?”

I asked him if he was a cop. He said no, he was something else. I told him I didn’t have a story and he asked for some gratitude. He heard me say if he wasn’t a cop my name was gratitude enough, and if he was a reporter he could fuck himself.

“I assure you, I am law enforcement. Get some rest. We will talk again in the morning.”

I assured him we might talk again if he produced a badge. He laughed and put his hat on. Once it got quiet I shut my monitors off and found my legs. I looked at my chart. Broken this, bruised that. I had fractured something in my head and my shoulder. I felt each trauma individually as I read them off my grocery list of pain. I wrap the bed sheet around my tattered hide and look for pants. I wasn’t going to stick around.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Tastes like trouble.

It smelled like pain in the small room. The smell was even worse when the light was finally switched on. There was an empty chair in the middle of the small steel room. It was on its side in a puddle of human fluids. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling should have made the entire scene appear cliché, but death hung in the air undiluted. The door was closed but unlocked.
Down the hall men play cards, surely telling crude jokes that would lack humor to sober ears. The caricatures of lost souls gambling away blood money. Each bill they lose, a measured portion of the appraisal of a person’s value. How much is it worth to you to have someone hurt, scared, killed, gone. Standard rates apply.
They didn’t even notice me pass by.
Further on there is a flight of stairs and a steel door. Like the kind on a submarine, a boat? The wheel turns silently, but then again maybe not. Ears are warm and wet with blood, filled with soft white noise. I must be deaf. I should be dead.
It is night on the deck. If the sun had been out it I might have died from the shock. I might have? I probably still will. I miss the water when I fall over the side of the boat. The dock's punch was softer than others I had felt in the night and struggling to my knees I sigh that it could learn a thing or two from the men back on the boat.
My body gives out sixteen miles down the road, at most a city block. It all fades to black. Temporarily. Cross my fingers.
Hopefully I will get arrested.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

An unaddressed letter.

Things crash over and over. It is all work… there is too much.
Noise, its loud and garbled, static that distracts. Sound that blinds.
These thoughts are a giant platter, full of carefully balanced fruit, and there is nowhere to set it down. Every time you think there is a good spot there is something already there. Something someone left in your way, or something you neglected to pick up. Spinning, bending, lifting,, spinning, walking, exhausted.
What is on the platter again? I can’t remember.
I don’t know why I am holding this. I don’t even think its mine.
I am a statue. I am pale and emotionless. There is a smile. A smile stuck on my face. Like marble I am cool and hard. Smooth, and from a distance I look perfect. Pose with me. Take our picture. Put us on your wall. That is all you get.
I am on a bike and the hill looks like it will never end. I can see the top but it doesn’t get closer. Perpetually out of reach. Legs burn, the chain slips. But if I quit, if I stop, I don’t know if I will ever start again. I don't like it here. I don't want to stop.

Monday, October 13, 2008

I have a vision, but no plan.


I rode my bike to work today. I also donated blood. The ride home was spiritual. I am only on the edge of joking when I say that I nearly blacked out. Nearly. I could feel all of me at the same time, and then all the feeling would rush to my head, like waves crashing.

Everything is okay now. I did not see the future, or a past life, or a deceased loved one. But oddly enough, a deceased loved one from one of my past lives told me about the future. But their future happened to be the present so… marbles.

TV, TV, books, books. I want to sit around a campfire and tell stories like they did in long ago times. Travel by foot and horse, when rivers seemed insurmountable at times. Shoot dinner and cook it over an open fire. Surrounded by the smell of leaves and grass, shit, fire, mud, rain, animals and me.

I say we terra-form Mars, and then send a giant ark full of animals there. We wait a few years and follow. We can name the ark ‘Noah’ or something utterly clichéd and an equally cheesy name for the mission. No return trip. We just go there and start over, like the wild west but this time there won’t be Indians to give small pocks to. If there are Martians, we might give them small pocks, but that is just because they won’t like our firewater. I wonder if we would be able to adjust to a different length


Let’s all buy cowboy hats and go live on Mars.

Friday, October 10, 2008

What has to be my fifth attempt at blogging.

This is my second day off. This stay home vacation began on Wednesday night with a trip into the city on the train. Mike and I went to see Satriani at the Chicago theater. ... just saying Satriani makes me think that it might have been an opera or something. Not an opera, just flat out guitar talent.
There was a pretty amazing milf on the train, she locked her keys in her car in the city and was on her way back in with her extra set. I think she worked on the Oprah show. I think that is what she said. Mike would have to confirm.
The walk to the show reintroduced me to shin splints and Qudoba. The first for both in my time in Illinois.
The show ended, the streets were relatively empty. Skateboarders were doing their thing in front of a building. There were kids in the train station on their bikes. I honestly wonder where their parents think they are. Eight out of ten people I saw out at eleven at night in the city were younger than any of the two numbers in this sentence added together. There were also some backpackers. They were dressed like they were trying to hitch a ride on the side of a highway out west, but they were in the middle of State street. I wondered where they were going, and how the one guy could wear a backpack on his front without it falling off. And now I am wondering if I should refer to it as a front-pack.
The train home was full. there were some guys from the south sitting behind me. Their conversation jumped from the porn on their telephones, to perks they get on their credit cards, to guns, and then started all over. They got off at the same stop that I did and one of them hollered, "Taking care of business like how we do in New Orleans." he then pissed on the train station. I think that illustration speaks for itself.
There were another two young guys on the train. They were very greasy, as in dirty. Homeless looking. But they had cellphones. Do the homeless now have cellphones? There was an abused air about them, they seemed damaged. Homosexual almost, or confused in a way that would make them seem that way. One of them was reading a Harry Potter book to the other until he fell asleep.

I went golfing today. I had a score that would be alright if I had been bowling. I seem to be getting it down. I feel there will be a dramatic improvement in the future. Unfortunately there was little chance for odd character study today. Anything interesting could have been contributed to suburban stupidity.

They were equally enjoyable.