Fuckin' Fiction

The next day Marion wasn’t at work. He searched for her on the schedule but she must have been listed under her last name or something. The next day she wasn’t there either. He wondered if it was a dream. Marion was there the next day. As he was walking by her in the kitchen he waved and mumbled “hi”. Marion didn’t acknowledge him. This continued for the evening shift. He began to feel not only rejected, but just like a shit head, violating someone else’s privacy, someone else’s life. He served his shift, make less than meager tips, most likely because of his morose attitude…oh who the fuck was he kidding he always felt like serving her was like working at a shit hole, maybe just tonight it shined through more. At the end of his shift he went into a closet, it had racks of coke syrup boxes on shelves like the one’s Marion had been setting on the night that he met her, except these went to the ceiling, other than these racks and the ice machine, and himself, nothing else fit in this closet. He locked the door. He through his mandatory vest against ice machine then punched on of the syrup boxes hard…to hard, syrup spurted all over his shirt, he was stick and gross and full of hate for himself. He sat there with syrup squirting, then finally just dripping all over him. After he felt sorry for himself long enough he left the closet, calmly grabbed a new syrup box to replace the broken one. A cook asked “What the hell happened!!”, “It just exploded on me, I don’t know”. He replaced the syrup box, and through the old one away. He walked out the back employee exit covered in syrup caring his relatively clean vest. And Marion was standing there smoking a cigarette. He stopped stunned. “What you think just because you let me sleep at your place once, I owe you something” she paused, took a drag and continued “Cause that’s not the way it is”, “No I just, that’s..”, he sighed and started to walk away. “What the hell are you covered in?”, He stopped, “Oh it’s syrup, the syrup exploded.”. “That’s rough”, “Yeah, you know shit happens”.”Hey look, my roomies are at again, you mind if I stay at your place again….I’ll help you get the syrup out of that shirt, I know those tuxedo shirts we have to wear are expensive”. “Actually, I’d like that very much”. They took his car to his apartment. The car ride was awkwardly silent. Like awful awkwardly silent. When they got there he asked if she wanted something to change into, and she said she wanted a baggie t-shirt. So when he came back he had changed into an old black tee with a few holes in it. And through here a large T-shirt with a Bukowski print he had gotten from etsy. She pulled her tuxedo shirt off, and embarrassed he quickly turned around. She helped him through his sticky tuxedo shirt and black pants into the dryer. And they set down. He put some yo la tengo on the record player. And something happened. They started to talk. They talked about similar bands they liked. They talked about goals and the future. They talked about their parents….they both got upset. He shared about how his mom was delusional from drinking to much and taking pills prescribed from multiple doctors she had tricked. She talked about her abusive father. He started to tear up…..Then it happened. She told him about how, she didn’t feel like a woman at all, that she felt like she should be a boy, man. They both cried.

That night, they made love. Everything changed. Everything was different. Everything was odd. Everything was uncomfortable, but everything was better. And he loved Marion.

We lived in the city. I had lived there since graduating from a private University, the option was to go back home to the folks, or to get an immediate job and work towards something better. I became a server at a semi upscale restaurant, where the business people rolled on in a lil before five, to stuff themselves with fourteen dollar appetizers, martinis and imported beers. I had a nasty attitude about them with the other servers. I was polite to them of course, but as soon as I was in the kitchen I would make jokes about how they were getting plastered so laying down with their wives tonight wouldn’t be so bad. I really thought I was a witty guy. One night a lot of that changed. I was finishing up my shift I can’t passing someone who was sitting on the racks of soft drink boxes that feed into the carbonation machine. Their face in their hands. I asked one of the servers, “What’s his deal”.”I think she just got dumped or something, she’s been crying like that for an hour, someone’s covering her tables for an hour.” I approached …Marion, and I asked what was up. And could then here gentle sobbing. “I just want to be alone, just LEAVE”, “Woah, hey now  What’s up do you need anything?”. She quit crying, and she looked up at my face. her eyes were a little swollen from crying, but she was gorgeous, despite it. “Look, I can start doing my closing duties in a minute, and I’m outta here”. I suddently became aware that I was a “shift leader”, or some imaginary title that supposedly gave me power but no raise. “Oh no don’t worry about it, I’ll get those taken care of you, you have a car or a ride home”, she let out a single sob or a sign, I’m not sure which. “I..I walk.”, “Alright I’ll give you a ride home, you stay here, I’ll get everything taken care of”. I walked away into the dining area, and found my buddy Jimmy, he was from Boston, but you could only tell when he said “car”. “Hey Jimmy, you need some extra cash”, “Hell yea…err”, he paused realizing customers were around. “You do my closing and the new girls I’ll give you ten bucks”. “Dude, ten bucks?”, “Alright, 20″. “Sounds more like it, you do my closing tomorrow?”, “Don’t push it”,”Alright, Alright”.

I made my way back to the kitchen to find Marion and she wasn’t where she had been sitting I glanced around and didn’t see here, I hollered at a chef “Where’s the new girl”, he pointed towards the back employee exit. I ran out the exit. She was walking away from the restaurant through the massive parking lot. “Hey I yelled”, she didn’t respond. I ran after her. “Hey what’s up, I’ll give you a ride home, no big deal.”, “I don’t want to go home.”, “Oh where are you going?”, “I don’t know”, “Well why not go home?”, “I hate my room mates”, “Well you need a place to sleep, or somewhere to be”, “Just leave me alone” tears started to stream down her cheeks, though her facial expression was as stoic as I had ever seen. “Look this is weird I know, but you could sleep at my place”, “What are you some kind of creep”, “No it’s just that turnovers bad, and before you…quit serving tables, you were doing well, and I’ll sleep on the couch, I sleep on the couch anyway”. “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU”, she screamed then slid to her knees bowing her head. At first he thought she was crying but she wasn’t. Apprehensively he bent down, grabbed one of her arms and slid it over his shoulder.He assisted her to his car, a beat up, 1987 Grand Marquis.He placed her gently. In the passengers side. He closed the door, and drove them to his apartment, he would glance over now and again, and just be calmed by her beauty. It was on the third floor and it was difficult to assist her walking to his apartment. As promised on entry she noticed the couch had full bed coverings including a sheet, a quilt, and several pillows. He walked her through the hallway to the bedroom in the back of the apartment, the room was totally sparse except and elegant wrought iron bed frame, and mattresses on top of it. He laid her on the bed, and left the room, He came back with covers and said, “My name is Tyler”, she responded “I’m Marion……Are you going to rape me?”, Tyler chuckled, and he said, “No, I’m going to love you, and that’s much worse.” Little did he know that statement very well might apply to both of them. He put the blankets at the foot of her bed and left the room.

He turned on some light music from a little stereo he owned, he  played something from the band “Low”. He couldn’t sleep for a bit, but eventually faded to slumber. A few hours later he awoke to Marion squeezing on the couch with him. He pretended to sleep, and once she was settled he put her arm over Marion’s stomach.

He awoke to Marion leaving, he had so much he wanted to say. He felt that someone had just disemboweled his emotions. He said nothing, because he had no idea how she felt. He hoped that she would be working tomorrow his next shift.

I’ve been dating her for about 7 months…maybe him, I don’t know. Hmm…You’re probably going to need an explanation on that. She was..he was… man this stuff makes me a little uncomfortable. Anyway Marion, feels that though she was born a woman, that her gender, her role, is that of a man. I don’t talk to my friends about this, I don’t know how Marion would feel about it, I don’t know how I would talk to them about it anyway. She has short hair, and wears t-shirts and shirts that button up. What you might imagine, I know. I have always been attracted to skinny women with short hair. I don’t know. Anyway today is worse than others. Sh…Marion is crying, she is confused, torn up that she doesn’t know herself , that she doesn’t know what to do or how to be…I guess, I’m inferring a lot, she tells me what she can, when she’s ready, I have to extrapolate a lot. It’s hard, it must be worse for her of course. I love Marion. It’s the only thing I know for sure anymore.
Sometimes after sex, s..Marion cries. Sometimes she just rolls over and doesn’t look at me. When she cries, sometimes I hold her because that’s what I think she wants, and sometimes I don’t because I think that’s what she wants. And sometimes I hold her, even though I think, I know, she doesn’t want it, but I need it.

It’s interesting that I grew up to become exactly what I wanted when I was a child. I wanted to be look oh so many cartoon nerds. Like Donatello, the tech concierge of the turtles, or Dexter from dexter’s lab or even Dexter from Freakazoid, perhaps Gadget from Chip and Dale’s Rescue Rangers.

Gadget’s a good fit, maybe the best. I grew up, and I started creating little inventions, gadgets if you will. I have a host of handheld computer devices, such as a nokia 770, an ipod Touch, and a PSP. At least two of which offer skype. But no practical gadgets like a nice cell phone. Just like gadget never had a gun, just various suction cup shooters.  But those cartoons never showed you the whole picture. I don’t know that if they did it would change anything, but it would have made me think a little deeper. If they showed gadget, with a one sided relationship with Dale. Crying herself to sleep while nursing a bottle of Johnny Walker. Maybe even pining for Monteray to whisk her away. But I guess I shouldn’t be getting my life lessons from cartoons, or aspiring to be them.

The blood wouldn’t stop coming. It was pouring out my nose, it had been for days, but I had stuck paper towels in it to prevent the blood from distracting me. I just needed to make it through another week of work. It was crunch time, they needed me. I needed them, I thought. But the blood was streaming out of my nose. My roommate suggested the emergency room. She was looking out for me. “No it will stop, I’m fine” I said. I tilted my head back, and shot the scotch in my mouth. I navigated the computer with one eye on the screen. The other eye wandering from her to the scotch. Back and forth taking a drink occasionally. We started watching Chris rock on the 42 inch plasma monitor I was using as the screen for my computer. I started laughing. Oh god the blood. Then I coughed.. and I coughed…..and I coughed some more. This thing shot out of my mouth huge and girthful. Some sort of amalgamation of blood and mucus and…maybe something else. It was huge. It landed on my pants. I laughed some more. I meandered to the kitchen so the blood would fall on tile and not carpet. At some point during this process my we named the creature, “Happy”. I laid down on the floor. She climbed onto the counter above me and took pictures. Some time passed and I decided to get up. I coughed again, “I SEE PURPLE.”. “We’re going to the emergency room” she said. I agreed. As we climbed down the patio stairs, I announced that I was fine and we could go back in and my nose had stopped bleeding. She said we had to go, I insisted I was fine. Then the inevitable stream of blood started again. We drove off. We stopped for gas, it was fun, another “Happy” was born during the ride. As we drove towards the ER, I saw a guy with no shirt, but a big bandage over his adomen. It was an omen. We shouldn’t have went in.

We did go in. We were laughing hysterically because the whole thing seemed so absurd. My nose quit bleeding. I asked to be checked in, and we sat down and waited. While we waited, the police came in and talked to the receptionist. Apparently they had lost a patient DURING surgery, the police were looking again. She and I began laughing hysterically again. Discussing the mechanics of losing a patient during surgery. How was that even possible? After 30 minutes or so a nurse checked me into the ER. She asked a series of questions. Each one, deepening the seriousness and what-the-fuck-titude in her face.

“How long has your nose been bleeding”
“I don’t know, maybe three days I think”

“Why didn’t you go to the Doctor?”
“It didn’t seem like a big deal, doctor’s are expensive, I couldn’t miss work, I’ve been working about 80 hours a week for the past three weeks”

None of those answers sated her. I quit searching for one that would.

“Any other symptoms?”
“Yeah, intense headaches”

“How long”
“About Two weeks”

“Have you taken any drugs or alcohol tonight”
“I had a few shots of scotch”

“Alright”

She assisted us to our private ER stall.

There was a guy next to us, who had messed up his leg really bad. I can’t remember his story, but we laughed. Everything was absurd. We laughed. Another nurse or doctor came in, he asked what the problem was, I explained it to him.
He asked if I had done any cocaine, I said no. He listened to my heart, he asked if I had done cocaine again. I said no, I haven’t. He said “Well your heart rate is really high and that is unusual?”
I responded with “WELL THERE IS BLOOD SHOOTING OUT OF MY FACE, that would cause that right”
He looked at me incredulously.
He gave me a cup to pee in.
I went to the restroom and peed in the cup. I don’t know if there was a sign there, but I remembered in most places I had taken drug tests there was. It said don’t flush, if your taking a drug test. I do remember I didn’t flush, regardless of whether the sign was there.
I wondered back to my ER stall. She told me someone came in there looking me. We laughed our asses off about how they had lost us already. This should have been a sign as well. We should have left, but they were supposed to be trained to deal with emergencies, right?

Hindsight, is 20/20.

A nurse finally did come and get me, and my nose started bleeding again. They were going to scan my head. The nurse gave me a half size towel. Before I got to the machine it was maroon with blood, from edge to edge. The nurse appeared concerned. She handed me a full size towel this time. I laughed, I also told her to tell the other guy that my nose bleed was serious because he did not seem concerned with my nose bleed. She layed me down on the scan machine. Each time as it would get close to the end of the scan I would spit the blood out and it would ruin the scan. This happened three times. She brought me a new towel, again this one was covered from edge to edge. I would only need one more half size towel that night. She told me I had to figure out some way not to ruin the scan or they would have to keep doing it. Instead of spitting the blood this time. I wished the mouthful around and swallowed. That scan was good. I went back to my ER stall. The man returned.

He announced “You didn’t do cocaine”.
I cackled the way I do when something is painfully obvious “I am aware of that”.
He asked if I had done speed.
“NO.”
Cough Medicine? Sudafed?
“NO. I HAD SOME SCOTCH.”

“Well there isn’t any reason for your blood pressure to be this high.”
“ISN’T THAT PART OF WHY I AM HERE?”
He scuttled off.

My room mate and I began laughing hysterically, again. He returned. He told me that he had to give me two shots in the ass, he didn’t use those words. I pulled my pants down…concerned about my room mate seeing the cleanliness of my ass. Nothing was mentioned about that. He stabbed me in each cheek. Then said “We have to put them in different places or if they combined, they would crystallize.”
This was hilarious.
Another bout of laughter ensued.
After he left we discussed crystallization in my ass. It was funny. But then whatever he gave me started to kick in. Things were no longer funny. Just slow. He never told me what he gave me, but I assume it was some sort of demerol cocktail.

The lights started to shut off in the ER. Eventually the lights in our stall went off. My room mate seemed concerned. We started yelling “Hey, we’re still back here” and the like, eventually the man found us. He moved us to a room. He asked for blood to see if I needed a transfusion. When he returned he said that I didn’t I had some blood left. I couldn’t laugh anymore. He said that my blood pressure had dropped enough, and that I would be leaving soon. As though we were just waiting for them to let us leave. I believe my room mate looked concerned. I fell asleep. I don’t know how long we sat in the room. A lady came in, I don’t know if she was a nurse or a doctor, we hadn’t seen her before. She said that I had a tear in my nose and I had cluster headaches. She gave me a perscription for some thing for the headaches, it would later turn out to be an anti-depressant. My room mate looked at her “HE DOESN’T HAVE A TEAR IN HIS NOSE, THIS ISN’T RIGHT”. I signed the release forms, and we went home.

I like Christmas music. It’s depressing. Why is it depressing? Because on a deep level it reminds people there savior died, and on a more superficial level, it reminds them that it’s Christmas. Most people go shopping during the winter. And they hear that awful music. Some people have to work with that awful music. No on likes it. But me.It’s as though Christianity though by slapping a holiday on the winter solstice, the worst time for human beings, they could keep people happy. But instead they made things worse. And I’m not even talking about the consumerism. It’s like, hey it’s the worst time of the year. Your starving. Your cold. Guess what Jesus died too. So stay happy people. But seriously pick up the Christmas album by Low. It will make you happy.

Sometimes when I am sober. I see things in third person, and as though I were on acid. I analyze the patterns that can’t be there. But they are there. I see myself arguing with someone. But then I see to monkey’s screaming in different voices. I can tell by the screams of the monkey’s who is wrong in the conversation, and who is right. It isn’t as crazy as it seems. Because what I am really doing is breaking the arguments down, collapsing them into what may be math. Deciding who is making the more logical argument and giving the chaos and order sounds in the monkey screams. But I do it so quickly I don’t think about anything but the screams. When I determine I am wrong I quietly admit it. To my dismay most people tend to be very loud about being right, but I have found being equally as quite, will make them lose there loud self praising. I don’t do this as often as I should, as I am quite stubborn.

They don’t tell you everything in school….or when you get a misdemeanor alcohol charge for underage drinking and you have to go to class, or in rehab. They tell you, you lose braincells from drinking, from drugs. They tell you, you will become dumber. They don’t paint the whole picture. Throughout the entirety of my life I have had one talent, one skill, that has never left and to my knowledge never had to be worked on. It was damage control. Whether it come to school work, trouble with the law, or health. The ability to clearly see the horizon and determine, the way to incur the least amount of damage, in bad situations has always been natural to me. So when my grammar declined, I expected that. When I had more and more frequent spelling errors, I expected that. That as your body decomposes from drinking a bottle of liquor every night, as you start to have diarrhea every day. You just generally feel bad. Some organs start to hurt. You shit blood on a regular basis. You expect these things. But when you quit drinking, to recover your physical body. And it turns out your central nervous system has been so bombarded that it is in a state of hyperactivity. That because of this, you can’t make new memories….you don’t expect that. And there is no one to talk to. Your closest friends don’t even want to hear it, no matter how entertaining you try to make it. You don’t expect that. And after so much you didn’t expect happens, you start to quit trusting old abilities. You walk outside, in your pajama’s, screaming, I am beating you. I am conquering you. I should have known, since I didn’t have the nightmares this time, I should have remembered. You should always remember. There was a reason you drank every day. There was a reason you shot up, there was a reason, you ate pills. And when you walk outside in your pajama’s, when you have laid your sword and shield down. That’s when the beast comes up right behind you. That’s when he attacks.

Hopefully you understand why this story is fragmented now. Have you changed your mind about me? Maybe in my moment of weakness I am less of a psycho, or less abhorrent? I tell you the important parts… when I remember them. Not in order. Your going to have to figure out the order. Your going to have to separate the exaggerations from the truth. The mania from, the pain. It’s not up to me, I am just writing it, your the one judging.

There are two more skills, I possessed, one of them I developed early on in life. It’s the ability to tell a story. The ability to use the right hand gestures, to exaggerate the right parts to make it entertaining. I developed this at a pretty young age. Probably from seeing my father entertain a room, of course at the age of 5, do you really know your dad’s been drinking. Maybe you do. But this was one of the skills I was proud of, the ability to entertain a group. I was no good at one on one communication. But I could make a group laugh, I could make them interested, I could manipulate a group. The last part I didn’t know or use until much later on. In fact I became better at one on one communication in that last department. The ability to use words, and false body language, to confuse, confound, manipulate, and change the opinions of others. These two skills, probably make me seem like a monster. Someone you hate. They weren’t developed intentionally, by any means. However, I did use them to successfully navigate Maslow’s Hierarchy. Some nights I had everything, some nights I skipped steps in that pyramide. Some nights I was hungry but had physical intimateness, some nights I wouldn’t even call it that. There’s only one last skill you need to know about…

Eric posts will update regularly on Monday’s. All other posts will update irregularly.