Yea, so the word "shameless" makes no sense here. I know.
These are five of my short stories.
They are, in chronologically written order:
Baltimore to Hartford
Everyman: A Line-by-Line Story
The Bus Ride
Late-Night and Waffle-House
The Lions Share
I'll put a small introduction explaining why/when I wrote each one. Maybe some background info if I deem it necessary.
1. Baltimore to Hartford
This was written on a plane-ride (can you guess where I was going?).
Baltimore to Hartford. Seated. Comfortable. No one is next to me yet, so this bodes well. It's rainy outside. I like the clouds and gloominess of it all. Unfortunately, this doesn't allow me to comment on the ever-shrinking landscape, as I had wanted to. Damn. My seat is on the left side with the engine in the view of my window. One more seat forward and the wing wouldn't exist. One seat back and it would be the only thing. The white noise of the plane is familiar at this point. It becomes just that, white noise. Someone asks if her bag will destroy my guitar, I politely say no. Someone sits next to me. FUCK. He's not that big, so it's not too bad, but damn. "Plenty of room in the back" the stewardess says over the intercom. Still, there's a person next to me. This plane is older than the one I was on earlier. The armrests angled steel, the trays yellowed plastic. The plane doesn't accept cash. I knew this already, but it's still infuriating. I don't think I'd buy anything, but still. Two people aren't on board. Two blank spots, at the very least. And STILL, someone is sitting next to me. The lady who was asking about my guitar is talking about me, hrm. This bothers me. The overhead bins close. We push off in 5 minutes. The weather in Hartford is the same as here. YES. An airline man is looking worriedly at the bin with my guitar in it. Hrm. This bothers me. I look out the window at the yellow and red painted lines. I'm not sure what they're for. I see a man take a stroller or something out of the plane. I miss what he does with it. They ask us to turn off our phones. No shit. The guy next to me on the last flight ignored the rules about phones and electronics. It bothered me. The steward lies about a "cell phone detector". Anyone addicted enough to their phones to risk themselves in a plane doesn't give a shit about a sensor. Man in front of me says he dated a girl now in parliament. Keeps changing story. Sounds like shit. Says she almost became head of her party. They baby us through the safety procedures. We push off. We have life vests under our seats. Cool. I already know this, but still, cool. Non-smoking, including the bathroom. No tampering. No standing in the front. Oxygen mask demo. Whee. Third time today. Boring the first. If a small child needs assistance, help yourself first. I know why they do this, but I always see this as selfish. We hobble onto the runway. I fear this part may be illegible, so I strain to keep it intact. The cabin lights dim. I feel guilty for having my light on and window open. This is short-lived. I think we're about to take off. We halt, maybe not. A plane next to us seems to be going first, because we go behind it. We aren't taking off now then. I hope. We hobble further down the runway, no whooshing yet, no acceleration, no liftoff. Just bumping and wavering at a constant speed. I see some coolish buildings. Gloomy as well. We slow down. Dammit. Seat belt lights. We're cleared for departure. Whooshing, almost. False start. I watch the other plane take off, almost, but it's out of view moments before. Damn. We are stopped at the end of the runway. Anticipation. My window is filled with the parking garage, whee. BAM. Whooshing, acceleration. Finally. We zoom fast, and we're off. I see the various cityscapes get smaller, but only for a moment, because we are nearly instantly engulfed in clouds. The view from my window appears to be an ever-brightening white universe, with nothing but out plane in it. It's eerie. Everywhere I look outside, nothing but blank whiteness. Suddenly we're above the clouds, mostly. It looks like an angelic wonderland. We go through the second layer of clouds, and, lo and behold, the sun. The cloud landscape is wonderful. It's a strange sight. 10,000ft. Electronics and drinks. We skate along the tops of billowing clouds, almost enveloped, but not quite. We are fully above them again. I see a 'caution' on the engine. It has to do with leading edge slats. I do not understand. This bothers me. Hrm. The stewardess is sad and broken-down looking, but sounds happy and bubbly. Strange. We turn and the sun is in my eyes. Stewardess arrives. I order a cranberry juice. I look out the window. This is a mistake. There is a green dot of sunlight residue burned in my vision. I blink. It's still there. Pink around the edges. God it's annoying. The window no longer offers entertainment. I can't eavesdrop over the rumble of the plane. My ears pop. I start thinking. I think about who I'm going to miss. I think about her. Sigh. Her. I've been reminded of her about a hundred times today. I've had the fantasy that we'd end up being on the same plane and we'd sit next to each other and chat for hours. This is entirely irrational. I swear, for a second on the second part of the first plane today, someone looked like her, only for a second though. It scared the hell outta me. I "saw" her in someone else yesterday too. Hrm. This bothers me. Methinks I'm just a wee bit obsessed. Hrm. The stewardess gives out peanuts; I decline, so the guy next to me receives two. Lucky guy. I try to avoid going back to thinking of her, but it's unavoidable. I thought about her with most ever song I listened to today. "Something I Can Never Have", "The Perfect Drug", even "The Taste of Ink" somehow. I'm going to dwell on her too much this trip. Shit. Seat-belt sign is off. Drinks are passed out. I put down my yellowed tray. She gets to the guy next to me and leaves for the next batch. Lucky guy. I wait for at least a minute for my juice. I take a deep breath, crack my joints. Yawn. I'm tired. I haven't really slept since 8:30, yesterday morning. Unless you count the five minutes I phased out during "Every Day Is Exactly the Same" when I was listening to "With Teeth" earlier. I finally get my juice. It's good. My lip hurts from the coldness of the ice. Wtf? The sun is gone, I notice. This reminds me of her, somehow. I get a pit in my stomach. Deep breath. I need to get over her. She's made up her mind and I have to respect it. But I like her too damn much. On Wednesday, when Numb Lock was recording for the last time, every single song reminded me of her except "Xenophobe". "With Me", "Undefined Bliss", "Taken Root", all her. For god’s sake, Howie is leaving and I'm going to be waiting for him. "Taken Root" fits perfectly. Why was I thinking of her? I was on the verge of tears yesterday during band practice; I'm going to miss it. Sigh. Deep breath. I take a sip of my juice. Turbulence, but no seat belt sign. Hrm. This bothers me. Ears pop, again. I yawn. Fixed. We're in a white universe again. It feels like we're heading downward already. Hrm. Already? Lights are appearing on the wing. Lots of turbulence. 70 miles out. Beginning descent. I take a careful sip. The fading in-and-out white light on the wing isn't in sync with the orange blinking one. Hrm. This bothers me. Another sip. People behind me seem to be talking about fishing. I had my suspicions before from my overhearing the word 'rainbow'. I assumed 'trout' for some reason. I see rain zoom past the plane. It's awesome. I think we're in a storm cloud. I feel heavy. We must be accelerating somehow. I want to reach my hand out the window. But as I think that, the rushing rain stops. I see a streak of oranged sky. It's beautiful. The person behind me definitely says rainbow trout. Yessss. Another Sip. I need to put the tray up. I try to quickly finish my juice. Drop my pen. Cold cup between my legs. Just ice. Another strip of sunset. Even more brilliant. I see city lights. Yessss. I see thin strips of lit highway. I see moving specks of light that must be cars. I see them magnify. My sense of space is skewed. It seems like I could jump out and just step down 5-7 feet. I envision doing this. The fucking WORD "envision" reminds me of her. We turn. I get a better view. I see a Best Buy. We turn again. The city lights thin out. The wheels are out, I imagine, because there feels to be drag on the plane, as if we'd landed, which we have certainly not done. I see a river. I can see individual cars. Lights thin out further. I'd probably be able to see people if it wasn't so dark. Highways are thick stripes. Many warehouses, we must be close. Houses, tons of 'em. Maybe not close. BAM.I notice we're on the runway and already were landed. We decelerate. It's fucking bumpy. We remain sitting. They thank us for flying with them. They welcome us to Hartford. We taxi messily. Large bumps and jumps. This takes a while, so we must be pretty far from the terminal. Then I see it, s I guess not. We slow ever so slightly and I hear the whir of a halting engine. The white noise lowers. We arrive at gate 2. It looks the same as BWI. The cabin lights turn on. We rise. I get my stuff. I remove the cold cup from my crotch. The ride is over. I've finally arrived.
2. Everyman: A Line-by-Line Story
This was written as an idea for the story behind Everyman, the album. It was based on the songs that were written at that point. Some songs came directly from this story version. To hear me read this aloud go to
0. Null:
I am not important.
I am no one.
I simply explain.
I will narrate the chapters in this story.
This story.
This is no ordinary story
This is not a tale of a glorious hero.
This is not a work of exaggerated fiction.
Though, this is a fictional account.
We will be taking this journey through the life of one man.
One nameless man.
One faceless man.
Only one man.
He is no one.
He is everyone.
He is the everyman.
He is not happy.
He was happy.
A long time ago.
Now he wastes away, in the slums of life.
Dying every day.
Living every day.
This is no orthodox tale.
The rules here are different.
There are no speaking characters, save our everyman.
There are no places, only settings.
Settings in the basest of terms.
No cities, no addresses, no countries, no world.
Only unnamed buildings, streets, and houses.
There is no specific time, but time relative to our character's life.
He is born in the year 0.
He dies in the year 37.
If you want, you can attach “19” or “20” onto the year.
Make it familiar.
Doesn't matter.
This is not a story with conflict and resolution.
There is only conflict.
We will ignore religion, politics, and ethics.
This is a story about suicide, lust, and hate.
It will contain strong language, violence, sexual content, and frightening images.
It is rated R.
If this will offend, go read your fucking fairytales.
Now that the ground rules have been set.
I'll give the background for the beginning.
But first, here’s the end.
1. The End
Walking. No. Running. Cannot go fast enough. Tripping, falling, hurting.
My legs burn, so many flights of stairs to escape this mortal frame, this cursed life, this endless shit.
One final leap for eternal solace.
I'm near giddy with excitement. Near laughing, I'm so happy.
Irony.
My life is full of it.
Finally make it onto the roof of my high-rise business.
Buying. Selling.
Fuck it.
I shut my eyes; I shut them until all I see is red.
Blood red.
I run.
And run.
And then.
Interlude:
This is where we will stop with the end.
This is where we return to the beginning.
This is where I will provide backstory.
Of course, this is not about a specific person.
Thus, this will be a vague section.
Filled with references to “his school” and “the girl”.
No names.
Only generalities.
Backstory 1:
He was born.
He was happy.
He enjoyed life.
Everything was going his way.
He was in high school.
The first time his happiness left its plateau at perfection.
Interlude:
This is the first moment.
This is a story of moments.
This is about his first experience with sorrow.
With unhappiness.
With loss.
2. The Girl
Walking. Pacing. Thinking.
Smiling. Laughing. Talking.
I barely stop to think about anything but myself and the moment I'm in.
Life is good.
Life is great.
I am alone.
I don't care.
I am in perpetual perfection.
I am the golden boy of the world.
I walk from my class.
I am only a teenager.
Naïve. Sexless. Just barely pubescent.
Girls are icky. Girls are nothing.
I see her
She is the new girl; hence, I have never seen her before.
She is beautiful. Lovely. Enchanting.
I stop walking. People bump into me.
She passes. The moment follows suit.
I stand.
I stand.
Eventually I catch myself. Go to other classes.
But my mind stays on her.
I have never been this enthralled.
I am in love.
I don't know what love is.
I want her. I need her. I think of ways to attain her.
She is an object to me.
An object I need. Crave. Lust for.
I try to talk to her in passing.
She does not notice.
She ends me.
I'm cold.
Barren.
Lifeless.
I need her so.
So very unattainable.
By the power in my passion.
I will get her.
Every time I see her.
She peers into my eyes.
Losing herself.
We catch each other's eyes in a deep gaze.
We kiss. Kissing becomes more.
I wake up.
Eventually I overcome my nervousness and talk to her.
She remembers my name.
I talk more.
She notices.
I take her to the mall.
We spend time together.
I take her for a drive.
The next morning I take her home.
I ask her out.
She says “yes”.
Ecstatic. Euphoric. Elated.
Nothing can stop me.
I can't sleep. My smile is stuck.
We go out.
I love her.
We go out.
Pinch me. This is not a dream.
Weeks pass.
Months.
Seven months, two weeks, one day, three hours, six minutes, four seconds.
Gone. In one brutal phrase.
Cruel. Heartless. Relentless.
How could she?
Why would she?
Who is she?
Who am I?
Broken. Shattered. Cold.
Lonely. Shaking. Miserable.
New unfamiliar emotions.
New changing ideas.
Anger. Hatred. Fury.
My heart is full of these.
But then it gets weak. Failing. Breaking.
Cold.
Withered.
Gone.
Help.
Interlude:
That was moment two.
The first instance of misery.
Time progresses in our character's life.
He is a young man, fresh from college.
He has had more heartbreak.
His anger has begun to take root.
Its burning blossoms are blooming.
It's making him into something else.
Something that’s only starting to form.
He is to the point where he wishes there wasn't a societal norm.
A norm that declares, “You must get married.”
“You must reproduce”.
YOU MUST
Now another moment.
A dream.
A dream that is his first time becoming fed up, rising up, and giving up.
A nightmare.
3. The Land
Open my eyes.
Breasts all around me.
I rub my eyes.
I am in shock.
I am dreaming?
I must be asleep.
They come closer.
Drowning me.
Suffocation.
I die.
Without a trace.
I am a slave to women.
I am required by law to fuck.
To reproduce.
I am a slave.
I wish to escape this land.
The land of women.
One nation undersexed.
Underloved.
Under loss.
Oversexed. Overloved.
Over my lifeless corpse.
I hate this idea.
This necessity to be dominated. Controlled. Whipped.
By someone who you want for love. Passion. Meaning.
I say, overthrow this oppression.
But to no avail.
I say, fuck 'em.
I remember a time when women were objects.
Sweet, sweet, objects.
Docile, oppressed.
Now the entire system of dating is a clusterfuck.
Maddening, inciting, depressing.
I can't ever fulfill my life and get laid.
Fucked. Boned. Screwed.
Words that mean both 'to have sex'.
And to be utterly disastrous.
I'm done with it.
Over being ridden.
But then.
Is this also overriding being?
Can I not be a man, without having a woman?
Am I required to be coupled?
Fuck.
Is it wrong that I don't even care any more?
Interlude:
Now we're going back.
Again.
To right before the previous moment.
There is no reason to have skipped it before.
But alas, we did.
This moment is another dream.
A different kind of dream.
An insomniac dream.
Not quite asleep.
Not quite awake.
Scared.
Lost.
4. The Dream
Where the fuck am I?
This must be fake.
This isn't real.
Darkness everywhere.
Nothing concrete.
Nothing to reach for, to hold, to grasp.
Falling.
Landing.
Dying.
And yet, it feels right.
It feels good.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Then I remember.
She killed me.
She ruined me.
She pained me.
She KILLED me.
Sudden shift.
I'm in a room.
A plain room.
Nothing interesting, nothing special.
Nothing to see here.
Move along.
I realize.
I discover.
I look hard.
I stare at it.
I'm in my own hell.
I look panicked.
I see a window.
I bash myself against it.
No luck.
Same with a door.
No.
Fucking.
Luck.
I beat every bit of that room.
My hands are pulp.
I scream as loud as it possible.
My voice is gone.
I sit.
And sit.
...
I accept.
Nullified
How is it
that this
is coming
true. Now
that each
of us had
found joy
in the us
that will
now never
be. Never
ever ever
Repeat as
Needed. I
need life
and death
and to go
and wake.
Wake from
this evil
sleeping.
I am falling
Apart.
I am failing
heart.
I run out of
soul.
I am full of
shit.
Interlude:
This is where our everyman enters depression.
The part where he gives up on life.
He loses hope.
He gains struggle.
He loses faith.
He gains suffering.
He gains her.
He loses dignity.
Alas. This ‘her’ is not the one he wants.
She is who society forces upon him.
Upon his soul.
Upon his provision.
Upon his paycheck.
He now must work even harder.
Here is his depression beginning.
5. The Routine
Q
QWERTY
UIOP
A
ASDFGH
JKL
Z
ZXCVBN
M
Familiar sights.
All too familiar.
Can’t stand them.
Not anymore.
Q
Why can’t I get out of here?
QWERTY
Why did I chain myself to her?
UIOP
What was I thinking taking this dead-end job?
A
Because of everyone else.
ASDFGH
Because of everyone else.
JKL
I thought. Of everyone. But me
Z
Damn!
ZXCVBN
DAMMIT!
M
Why am I so stupid!
I arise.
Look around my monochromatic cubicle array.
My daily life.
No one is happy.
Why should I be?
No one is complaining.
Why not?
FUCK this!
Fuck it all!
I’m done with it
I’m leaving.
I. quit.
I can’t quit.
Alas, my wife wouldn’t allow it.
And I am not my own man.
Thus, I listen.
Obey.
Conform.
I hate her.
I hate her.
IHATEHER.
HTHR
done.
Interlude:
His mind is on the brink.
And after this moment, he is blank.
He has no mind, no memory, no thoughts.
Save small obvious ones.
He speaks only in clichéd lines.
Backstory 2:
Good morning.
I’m off to work.
I’ll have them on your desk.
How was your day?
Goodnight.
I love you
He speaks only in clichéd lies.
Interlude:
This part is not important to see through his eyes.
So we will leave it as the above description.
Now.
Let us travel to the moment
Where it all falls apart.
Where it all comes together.
The straw that broke the camels back.
The last straw.
The discovery and decision to take this.
This shortcut.
To freedom.
From oppression.
To fresh air, to heaven.
Sweet Jesus.
6. The Refusal
I wake up.
Something’s different.
I greet my wife.
Something, is different.
She tries to make small talk.
And I realize what it is.
I don’t care anymore.
I just fucking don’t.
I cut her off.
I piss her off.
I don’t care at all.
I smile, leave, and slam the door.
I push her away.
This is all her fault.
As I approach work.
My body is on cruise control
I have no say, no sight, so senses at all.
It’s nice.
I arrive at my dead-end.
I climb up the stairs.
My wife calls my phone.
How sweet of her.
Inquiry:
What’s wrong?
Answer:
You.
It’s too late for me.
Much too late.
She yells over the phone.
But it’s already out of my hand.
Down the stairs, breaking up, breaking.
I’m going to throw everything out the door.
Off the roof.
Out of life, focus, time.
I walk, and walk, and walk.
Reach the door to the final flight.
Fight everything that says NO.
Succumb to a thriving, beautiful YES.
I open it.
Interlude:
Now, this brings us back to the end.
But there is still one further moment.
His further falling after he hit’s the ground.
His decent into an unwelcome hell.
This is the final moment in our Everyman’s story.
I thank you wholeheartedly.
For you cooperation.
Exit the theater, slowly, carefully.
Alive.
7. The Fall
FUCK
FUCK FUCK
THIS CAN’T BE RIGHT.
This is all wrong.
Where is my freedom?
Where is my sanity?
Where is my beautiful vacation?
Goddammit.
GODDAMMIT!
I followed the light.
In the tunnel.
But the source, was eternal fire.
I lose.
With life,
With death.
WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Anger, fury, hatred.
Forever, and ever.
Amen.
Straight shot, right past life, straight to hell.
Toil, suffering, deceit.
Pain, loss.
Nothing.
FREEDOM
3. The Bus Ride
This story occurred to me on an actual bus ride in Washington D.C. Basically, everything in this actually happened, except for the scary parts, lol.
I wake up.
I look around, heart racing.
No one saw me, no one noticed.
I exhale.
I am very aware of the package on my lap, the gun in my pocket.
The trigger seems to be burning into my finger.
The tour bus carries on.
I look out the window, the Washington Monument half obscured by fog.
It's a gloomy evening.
My left hand is sweating around the handle, nervous twitches around the safety.
I seem to be hearing a ticking from the package.
I know it isn't, it wouldn't be, but it freaks me out.
Every glance in my direction, my heart skips a beat.
After we pass any distinguishing landmarks, I get ready for this.
My seatmate continues to read her trashy novels, ignoring me.
Perfect.
I take out the gun, fire a warning shot into the window next to me.
The bus skids off to the side of the road.
DRIVE, I yell.
I fire a second shot.
The bus driver resumes driving.
I walk up to the front of the bus.
I hand the driver a piece of paper with the address I want.
He gives me a still face filled with horror.
I raise the gun.
I visibly click the safety off, for dramatic effect.
The driver turns back to the road, shaking.
I turn around and view the scared passengers.
I let them know they have nothing to worry about.
I also let them know I'm not fucking around.
I open the package, exposing the contents.
Silence fills the room.
We drive for a while.
No one speaks.
We arrive.
4. Late-Night and Waffle-House
This story was written for fun in the middle of the night. *shrugs* I like it.
Part 1 - Walking:
So, I'm walking down the street. My hands are in my pockets, and I've only got about five more hours until I have to wake up. It's been a long weekend, and at this point, I'm not sure if I should cut my losses and just find a bar or a record store and distract myself from my miserable life, or simply go home and sleep for the remaining time. The red hand at the other side of the street tells me I can't continue walking while thinking. So I simply think for a minute. It's for the best, I'm miserable at multitasking. I take a moment to assess the situation. It's Sunday night. I'm all alone. I have to wake up at 7:30 to get to my job at 8:45. It'll take me 30 minutes at the least to get home. I'm dressed in clothes I could easily wear to work. I would kill for some sleep, but it would be hell to wake up after only 4 or so hours. I really can't decide. Indecision is the bane of my existence. If I go home, I will regret how little sleep I got. If I don't go home, I'll regret not having that. Regret either way, still sleep fucking me over. God, I should have just stayed home tonight. I should have fucking stayed home. The white walking man lets me know that no cars will mow me down if I cross. I trust it. No crisis this time. I continue walking, and I'm not sure where I'm heading now. I notice the chill. I didn't realize the temperature until now. Criminy, I really probably should turn in. Now, on top of being tired and miserable, I am cold. My face is probably turning red right now, goddammit. A car zooms past me. First one in a while. That's probably a sign. I see a Waffle House up the street. Moment of truth, sleep or food. I'm already walking towards Waffle House. Fuck it. I look both ways, I cross the street. Jaywalking though it is, no one is there to give a shit. I make my way to the Waffle House.
Part 2 - Waffle-House:
I sit down, waiting to be served. The waitress finally heads over. She's young, cute. I wonder why she's working the graveyard shift at a Waffle House. "Late night?" I ask. "No shit." She says. I sheepishly order a coffee and a buttermilk waffle. I don't repeat the mistake of talking. I get my coffee pretty quick. I pour a packet of sugar and a packet of sweetener in it, followed by a cream. I'm such a fucking man. I can't drink coffee until it resembles ultra-warm coffee-flavored ice cream. I am so cool. I sip it through the stirring straw thing. The waffle comes a bit later, I wait for the waitress to leave and begin eating it. It's pretty damn tasty, but not enough to assuage my mediocrity. Suddenly that song from Oliver and Company that goes like, "Why should I worry, why should I ca-a-a-are" comes to mind. It's not very fitting, because there’s a clear answer to this. I should worry because I'm up at 3:00 at night in a Waffle House in the middle of nowhere, trying desperately to not come across as more of a fool than I already do to this cute waitress. I should care because this is the best night I've had in a while. I finish my waffle. Now, in this moment, I have nothing to live for. I finally make the decision to not go back home, so I refill my coffee with the intent of caffinating the fuck out of myself whilst also passing the rest of the night. Ten minutes of dead fucking silence pass. I evaluate my life. I'm completely lonely. I'm legitimately considering the waitress here as the girl I could most likely successfully get a date with, and her only impression of me is when I made a stupid and borderline insensitive joke about 15 minutes ago. At least she hasn't seen me depressed. She hasn't seen that side of me. She hasn't been exposed to the shitty side of me. Now I'm wondering if I should legitimately make an effort to flirt with this girl. I preemptively rule this out. I know there's no way in hell some random girl at a Waffle House will just magically go out with me. God, I'm so lame. I surreptitiously glance at her, she's reading some magazine. I can't tell which, but it appears to be an article about some musician. I can't check without being completely obvious about it. I sip my coffee. I'm so pathetic. I really wish I lived in a movie. In a movie, if I was supposed to be with this girl, it would have been obvious from the first moment we talked. Instead I look like an asshole who just tries too hard. Actually, I suppose I've made myself look like I currently do, like an asshole. Shit, why do I insist on making myself look bad? It seems like that’s the story of my fucking life. Always a bridesmaid never a bride. Except I'm a guy, and have no friends, so I can't be bridesmaid to shit. Christ, it's only 3:30 but already I'm wishing I could leave and go to bed. I know if I do I'll regret not talking to her, but I'm also pretty sure I'll regret talking to her if I do. Shit. Shit shit shit. Indecision strikes again. I finish my coffee. I refill it again, remedy it with cream and sugar again. I don't really have anything to do, and she looks bored as fuck. I try to do something other than wallow and over think, so I fumble around in my pocket for some change, get just enough to get one song going on the jukebox. I skim the selection for a bit; pass over "More Than a Feeling" and "December 1963 (Oh, What a Night)" two songs that have nostalgia involved. I enjoy them both, especially the latter. I just feel more like finding something I haven't anything associated with at the moment. I finally settle on "Fun Fun Fun" by the Beach Boys. I wait for "Radar Love" to finish, and then my put in my selection. What a random-ass assortment. I sit back down. The happy song fills the room, but it doesn't lift my spirits as I'd hoped it would. Damn. I glance again at the girl; she's still reading her magazine. I leave a twenty-dollar bill on the table and a card with my name and number. I write under it, "If you get really bored and lonely, and have no one else to turn to. I can't imagine that would ever happen, but if it does, here you go." Signed "The guy who just ordered a coffee and a waffle, and tried to make small talk." I leave.
Part 3 - Work:
I walk to my house. It's 4:13. Shit, there really isn't any point in getting two hours of sleep, but I'm too tired to do anything, and I just ate. I seriously consider breaking my own leg so I can go to the hospital and get some sleep there, but it seems like too much work. Sigh. I lay down for just a second. I wake up four hours later. Shitty shit shit. I take the fastest shower of my life, and run to my car. The motherfucker doesn't work right away. I try again and by some divine providence, it starts. I leave for work; I have about 15 minutes to get there. I speed all the way there, exactly 10 miles per hour over. I arrive almost exactly on time. What a fucking week this'll be. I head into work, heart racing. I nod my head to the corporate fellows I'm supposed to know. I don't know these people, I know of them. I can tell you their names and jobs, but I couldn't tell you their favorite anything. I don't know if they’re married, have kids, live on the street. I don't know what half of them sound like, for crying out loud. This is the most impersonal place, and I hate it. I sit down at my desk, take out my laptop. Type in my password. It's an altered version of my name that I used to use as a user name. That was so long ago, I don't even remember what website it was for. I feel like it was some weird cartoon network thing. You traded imaginary stickers, and everyone wanted the Dragon Ball Z ones. I open my browser, peruse my social networking sites, see if anything important happened. Ah! Someone I don't know commented on an old forgotten friend's status I liked. Whoop-de-fucking-do. I close it. I continue to dick around on the computer whilst I'm supposed to be compiling some shit about our finances from the past three years. I know that when I finally start, I can probably get it done within two or three hours, but the deadline isn't until Wednesday, and they'll just give me more to do if I finish early. I continue my game of minesweeper. I hope someday I'm able to actually play this damn game. Every time I think I'm getting the hang of it, the next click is a mine. This time, so far so good. I click on a gray one, it uncovers a few more. Shit, now either one of these two remaining spaces could be a mine. I decide to guess the top one. Damn, so close. Oh well. I log on to the company's internet to look at the web-comics I frequent. As I wait for the 12kb/s connection to load a picture. My thoughts flash back to the Waffle-House girl. Hmmm. I wonder what she did with my number. I wonder if I should go back there tonight. Knowing me, I’ll still be unable to sleep, so I'll probably wander again. But is it wise to go there again tonight, after giving some random stranger my number? Hmmm. My boss starts heading over, shit. I alt-tab out of minesweeper and back to my spreadsheets. He passes by. Whew. I wonder what her name is. That Waffle-House lady. Probably something straightforward. Like Samantha, or Sarah. Hrm, both 'S' names. Weird. I wonder if there’s some Freudian thing about that. Anyway. I continue to fake-work for a while. At lunchtime, I go to a Taco bell and order three bean and cheese burritos. Damn tasty, even if they are probably unhealthy. I go back to work. The rest of that is a blur of boringness. I go home.
Part 4 - A Dream:
I change into some comfortable clothes. I sit on a couch and watch an episode of Arrested Development. Never gets old. I doze off for a bit. I wake up at about 7:30. I'm pretty goddamn hungry, and I don't know where I should go. Suddenly Waffle House seems like a good idea again. Hrm. Probably not. She's probably not in until later anyway. I decide to stay in. Froot Loops and the last of the 2% milk. Yum. I doze off some more. I begin to dream. I'm in a platoon of 13 men; most of them school friends that I haven't seen in years. We're the last resistance against the oncoming torrents of evil entities. My dream doesn't expressly state what they are. I am armed in armor that I believe I stole the design for from Power Rangers Lost Galaxy. Weird. I realize that this girl I liked in high school is the soldier next to me. Maybe now I'll have a chance with her. She glances flirtily at me. I smile back. We go out to battle, but suddenly the dream shifts to her and my suburban bliss. It's a cliché scene, with ascots and all sorts of bullshit of that ilk. She sets the table, and I kiss her on the forehead. How lovely. In real life, she went to college elsewhere and I never saw her again. I really really liked her, but now I'm no more than a faded memory in the furthest recesses of her mind. She is still the main love interest of my dreams though. Fucking awesome. She leaves to get the food we're gonna eat, suddenly my phone rings. I answer and it's the Waffle-House girl. She says she wants me. I nervously glance at the kitchen, when suddenly my front door bursts open. It's Waffle-House, and she's wearing leather. Goddamn is it hot. I wake up abruptly. I've fallen off the couch. Goddammit. It was about to get to the good part. It's 1:40. I've gotten a fair amount of sleep already. I'm starting to get a mite hungry. I know what I'm thinking I want to do. I also know that that is a horrific idea. She hasn't called, and that means she's not interested. Going back there will just make it all the more obvious that I'm desperate. She looked so bored last time though. Fuck. FUCK. I know I shouldn't, but suddenly I'm imagining going there, cheering her up and sweeping her off her feet. Fuck it.
Part 5 - The Beginning:
I get my coat, and head out. I elect to drive this time, and make it in record time. I nervously enter, looking around half-hoping she's not there. At first glance, she doesn't seem to be. I'm both disappointed and relieved. I sit in the same spot and wait to be served. A few minutes pass, and I'm in no hurry, so I don't mind. I put my head on the table. I half doze off again, but about a minute in; someone taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, Late-night. What'll you have?" She says. I lift my head embarrassingly. There she is. Soft, smooth skin. Piercing blue eyes. Light auburn hair. She has a profoundly joyous aura about her, despite the bags under her eyes. She has a hint of a smile, I think. I realize I should be talking. "I'll have a coffee and three eggs over-easy." I say. She nods and leaves. She fucking remembered me. I try to hide my obvious elation. She comes back a few minutes later with the coffee and eggs. I thank her, she smiles and nods. I consider apologizing for the note I'd left the previous night. I decide not to. After I'm halfway finished with my eggs, she comes over. She sits down in the booth, across the table from me. I swallow my current bite. "Look." She says. "I'm not some whore who'll just bang anyone who comes here late at night." I open my mouth about to defend myself. She stops me. "I'm also flattered that you would do such a thing. And I’m so damn bored." I smile, I plead my case. She laughs. We talk for a few hours. Finally, her shift is over. I thank her for the conversation, and bid her adieu. I tell her to call whenever she needs a conversation. I'll always be 10 minutes away. She says she just might do that. I return home and sleep. I don't have to be at work the next day because of some safety testing stuff. I'm cool with that, I hate going into work. I decide to break out the guitar and see if I can still play. I more or less can, though it doesn't come as easy as it used to. I try to write a song. Fail miserably. Give up. I consider calling Waffle House girl, but I remember I don't have her name or number. I laugh at this. I go outside. It's a good day. Life is pretty good, overall. It's gonna be an ok week. This weekend was long and shitty; Monday had its ups and downs. Things are looking up though. I think I might go for a walk every night. I think I might. Why not? It's not like I’ve got anything better to do. I'm working a shitty job, with a boring life. Why not spice it up with a random stranger? What's the worst that could happen? I put my shoes on and walk out the door. Life is good.
5. The Lion’s Share
A friend and I each gave each other a title of a story. This was mine. It’s meant to be a faux-newspaper article. Hence, the second title and fake author name.
The Lion’s Share
By Evan Reming
Saturday, March 14th, 1959
The year is 1934, and everyone fucking loves baseball. Kids want to be baseball players, adults wish they had been baseball players, and baseball players have the highest self-esteem of anyone, ever. I myself never much cared for the sport, or any sport for that matter. Well, I didn’t until very recently. You see, starting about five or six years ago, a new team showed up. They called themselves the Sathard Lions. They were a group of twenty-five perfect baseball players. The team was literally unbeatable. If it weren’t for their enormous salaries, every other baseball team would have just quit the game forever. Luckily, for the public, money kept it going. The Lions were undefeated for the first 4 years they played. Lions memorabilia started cropping up everywhere. Business was booming for everyone. Even I, who never gave a damn about sports at all, finally started actually caring a little bit. Everyone was absolutely enthralled by the continual victorious streak.
However, this is not the point of my story, I digress. The part that I and the rest of humanity really became interested by was the breakup. This wasn’t some drama-filled ordeal or anything, just a termination of a group. The newspapers said it was the players’ decision to split the team, that it was an attempt to make the game fair again. No one was quite sure what would happen, as the players would all be invaluable assets. A compromise was issued, where each player would pick a new team to be on, such that no team had more Lions players than any other team. There ended up being more teams than Lions players though, so some teams got the short end. However, the teams without Lions players managed to get the best non-Lions players, all of whom wanted desperately to defeat even one of them. The schedule for the first season with the newly divided teams was created such that only one game involving any Lion was occurring at any given moment, so everyone could pay attention to every single one. This was a profitable decision indeed. The first game with a Lion player team after the split was a landslide victory for the Lion-having team. Everyone was happy with this, as now they had twenty-five teams to cheer for. The next four games were the same way, with an utter victory on the Lion-having side. Game five was the next absolutely interesting game: two Lion-having teams up against each other.
The game was almost at a standstill for a long time. Neither team had scored; neither team had even hit the ball without the opposing Lion getting him out. Eventually, after more than a dozen innings, the unthinkable happened: one of the Lions missed the ball. Finally, the Lions were defeatable, albeit only by Lions (as the opposing Lion was the one who had hit the offending ball). I think I am on the same page as everyone when I say that I wish this had been the end of the Lion’s story, that the most interesting thing that happened was that they could be beaten. However, four days after game five, the Lion who had missed the ball was found dead in his home. The autopsy revealed that the cause of death was a heart attack. Foul play was suspected, and all baseball games were suspended until this was ascertained. After a lengthy investigation, local and federal detective and investigative teams came up with no evidence of anything malicious. Baseball continued.
Game six, seven, and eight were again Lion-having versus Lion-lacking, so nothing happened there. Game nine ended after 21 innings (incredibly quick innings, so this isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds. Again, the Lion who lost was found dead within a week, this time due to an aneurism. The same hubbub surrounded the death: games postponed, investigations, a nation on the edge of its seat. Again, no foul play was found, so games continued. This time, however, the Lion’s catcher, a Mr. Franklin Williams, decided that he didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to him. In a statement he made publicly, he declared that he had “no intention of endangering [his] own life any further, and [would] be retiring from baseball effective immediately,” much to the chagrin of his team and fans. There was widespread discussion as to what the other players would do in light of this. The discussion was cut short, however, when Mr. Williams was found dead.
It was at this point that a panic started. How could the Lions be expected to survive if they aren’t allowed to lose a game, or quit entirely? A new schedule was created so Lion-teams would only face those who didn’t have a Lion, but a week later, all copies of the schedule were found to have disappeared, and the one who proposed it went into a coma. The schedule returned to how it had been. Now the teams were trying to figure out new strategies. If the Lion on one of the teams doesn’t play, will he still die? It was a gruesome set of trials, but every one of them failed. If the Lion doesn’t play, he dies; if the Lion isn’t the cause of the loss in any way, he dies; if neither Lion plays, the one on the losing team dies. The rules were changed to allow for tied games automatically after nine innings, but then both Lions died. At this point, there were eight dead Lions, and the nation was in an uproar. All baseball games were cancelled, but on the days that games were scheduled, the Lions that were to play would die. A press conference was held and the board in charge of the League said, essentially, that they had given up any hope of keeping the Lions alive. It was at this time that the original coach of the Lions decided to show up. No one had seen him since the break up of the team, but he was here now.
There was a second press conference held, but this one wasn’t broadcast, lest it be something useless or embarrassing. I had started working for this newspaper by then, and was present at the event. As I recall, the coach took the podium nervously. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. After a beat, everyone in the room started shouting questions at him. He began his speech, “I'm not sure how to say this, but the Lion’s are cheating.” The once rambunctious group of viewers stood stunned at the news. All of the Lion’s equipment had been checked, and they had been held to the same standards as everyone else, so how could they have been cheating? He went on to explain everything, how he did what he did, why he did it. There was no hope left for the unlucky players. He apologized, and everyone there knew that he wasn’t to blame. Now, the final in the series of scary events happened here. Every single writer was eager to write the story about this for the next day news, except me. My column ran, and continues to run, only on Saturdays. Everyone who wrote about it experienced one of three things at the moment of completion: death, a coma, or natural disaster leading to a coma or death. No one ever reported on the press conference successfully. I was the lucky one. I don’t know how I managed to be the only one. I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for this. I figure that if I wait until every Lion, the coach, and anyone in a coma related to this all died, then I could get away with it. I'm still not sure if I will. At this point, I don’t really give a fuck. I'm sick of hiding, and I can’t live with it anymore. If I don’t tell, I’ll burst. You see, he di
Well. There you go.
I hope you enjoyed reading them.
Until next week,
Armac
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