Sometimes. It

Sometimes. It.

Sometimes, it is most of the time. However. most of the time, it is someone, rather than something that prevents it from being all of the time, but quite regularly it is and then there really is nothing much to talk about and the crowd that had gathered to witness the spectacle, shuffles away silently. But the times that it isn't, then there is nothing more enjoyable. The subtle shades of the human condition truly reveal themselves in the faintest of hues; beautiful. Delicate nuances that litter the heart and the soul and allow one to paint gorgeous masterpieces of emotion all over the floor.

As I vomited.

I woke up a few hours later lying facedown. Could be worse. I thought. I turned over, knocking an empty glass with my hand, the cheap glass shattering the moment it hit the cold tile floor. I need to invest in a heater. Or at least a pair of slippers. Not the type worn by respectable businessmen, wearing their smoking jackets and their Sherlock Holmes pipes listening to their favorite evening news program in their favorite easy chair. On Tuesdays. No, that style is reserved for the few upright men that have achieved something in this life. Me, I would wear the non-slip type. The ones that old women wear in homes with other old women. For I have accomplished the sum culmination of a lifetime achievement equivalent to that of a senile old squaw. With no grandchildren to come visit and politely inform me that I smell like Lysol and yesterdays’ roast beef. Call me Ishabella.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. I glanced at it, hoping that whomever was on the other line was as equally dissatisfied with their particular lot in life as I. I find it easier to talk to the peculiar amongst us. for I am their leader and they respect me. It is an ability that we posses to be able to distinguish each other through the barest amount of conversation. I picked it up and said nothing.

“Hello.”

It was a woman.

“Hi.” I put on my disinterested voice. They respond better to complete and total indifference. Act like I had something better to do. Which isn’t true, I was sitting naked on a cold kitchen floor in February.

“Mr. Clark…”

and the phone went dead.

Shit.

Talk about ruining a good morning masturbation session. She had sounded sexy. I adjusted myself, and began to stand up. Hoping my eyes would become accustomed to the weak light coming from the dirty window above the kitchen sink. That way, I would not have pull shards of glass out of my feet. I liked the window. it offered me a view of the street and the warehouses across my porthole to the world. They were old and unused and it kept things quiet.

I looked around the room for something that could double as a coffee cup and found the remnants of last night’s temporary friend, a bottle with a finger or two left. I located a Styrofoam cup with some cold coffee left in it, threw in some whiskey and nuked the fucker. After a minute, took it out, topped it off with some more ‘creamer’. I reached for a cigarette, wondering where my pants were and if had I gotten naked for an audience or upon my own accord. Many questions on this cold day. As I drank my coffee I wondered what I had to do today. if anything. No real work. Not till Sunday. And my agent, my actual agent had not been returning my calls lately; I thought of when he was trying to get a hold of me, and I ignored his calls. the bastard. We all lose someday.

I dressed. went to the bar. Ate and got drunk. again.

In the abnormal style of living by bobbing and weaving against the beat of life, you are not so much complaining about the current beat. No, it’s not that, so much more of you screaming to anyone who will listen, that dammit, your beat is better. And it’s really not that you want others to dance to yours, it’s just that to you, theirs sucks, and presumably. they would only fuck up yours.

I woke up in my bed. Weird. I rolled over to be greeted with the sight of the back of a brunette head. Weird. I only lived a few blocks away from my bar and must have tempted a debutante back with me. My allegiance to this dive was won upon hard nights with slow drinking. at a dump with terrible service and an equally unhappy clientele. But we all got along through the mutual understanding that the world outside those doors was not our friend. and it helped that we didn’t like the bartenders. who didn’t like us. It was a happy family.

The phone rang. In an attempt to stave off the inevitable uncomfortable moment where I would have to identify my bedmate by name, I jumped up and went to kitchen to answer the phone at this ungodly hour. I picked it up.

“Hello.”

It was her.

“What’s the score here? Why are you calling me?” Might be too much. Alright, I thought, remain aloof.

“Are you sitting down Mr. Clark?”

Why yes I am. Attempting to keep my morning wood active actually, go on please. “I am. what are you doing? And how do you know my name” Subtle, very subtle.

I paced the kitchen, doing double duty of trying to keep her talking and masturbate, when I felt the familiar sharp pain of a piece of glass being forced up into the bottom of my foot. fuck.

“Mr. Clark, I am afraid I have some bad news.”

“Well you had better spit it out before you hang up again.” Trying to balance on one leg and jerk off while holding a phone is a talent, and if there were an Olympic sport, well . . . I woulda been a contender.

“What? You hung up on me last…”

And she was gone.

Somewhere. someone. or something. is fucking with my head. And I don’t appreciate that.

I hobbled over to the table and after clearing one of the seats off of a month or so accumulation of bad stories and unfinished essays, I sat down and took a look at the protruding piece. It wasn’t too deep, and looked strong enough to pull out by itself. After removing the offending member and staunching the blood with a piece of newspaper, I turned and looked at the bed. Who was she? Of course she was laying facing away from me so I couldn’t make out any identifying scars, tattoos or barcodes. She rolled over and by the looks of it, she was attractive. Nice. Maybe I could do something with this morning motivation. She yawned and opened her eyes faintly, attempting to wake up. I went back to bed and fucked her before the awkward questions began.

I woke up and she was gone. Ah well. At least I didn’t have to tell her goodbye. She was fun; perhaps she will want to do that again, sometime. back to bed.

And nothing happens for two days.

I woke up, made some more whiskey with a hint of coffee and jumped into my 1983 BMW en route to my real job. Me and god agreed on one thing. We both hate getting up early on Sundays.

That one. She looks promising. Her haircut was terrible and she had on the type of large glasses usually reserved for sight assistance for the elderly at Bingo. See, I was into delayed revenge. The awkwardness and embarrassment are always sweetened through the years. And you can find one every time. Maybe it’s the one who cannot stop picking her nose. Or the fat boy with a falsetto voice and terrible acne. I mean. I don’t know who any of these little shits are, and they won’t remember me. until they play this tape for their friends at one of those awkward pre-drinking high school basement parties at your parents house. Then. They will say, ‘remember that creepy cameraman?’ ‘Oh, yeah, that one. That guy was weird.’

“All right now class, settle down now.” Ms. Hartline, said, ushering her second grade students, working her way down the line, attempting to keep it straight and quiet. Why can’t those bastards ever listen, dammit?

She walked further down the line to where I was getting my shot and smiled at me, interrupting my simultaneous thought of wondering if my breath smelled half as bad as my mouth tasted and if there were any sounds that force air out in the phrase ‘do you hhhhhhave a piece of gum.’ Damn that body was too perfect to be in a church. The vision of violating her in a confessional/pew/on the altar that refused to go away was almost enough to make me drop my camera. But, as the good people of St. Agnes were about to find out at their children’s first communion, I am a professional.

Watching the kids process in was always my favorite part of the job. Just wondering who. Who is going to meet a creepy older man on the Internet in about, oh, say six years? Who is going to have a restraining order placed upon them by an overzealous parent? And don’t even get me started on the potential jailbait pictures that are going to arise when one of them snaps a shot on their expensive cell phone of their prepubescent breasts and sends it to some poor lucky sap. Ah, the pleasures of youth. Goddamn I needed a cigarette.

I walked out to my car during the homily, Father Don had a tendency to get a little longwinded and nostalgic at the first communions. My humble opinion was that it was the moment of his downfall, and was in so many ways that did not actually include him coming out and telling the students that this peculiar ritual was the reason for his unnatural attraction to small children and angels and single malt scotch. The poor bastard had never experienced the finer things in life, like a woman, holding your hand and saying, ‘poor thing. You poor, poor thing.’ All while drinking cold beer. in Akron. Sublime.

No one ever rewatches the homily anyways, and hell half the audience tunes out the first edition. My trusty and painstaking market research has found that over 83% of first communion tape viewers fast forward through the homily. The small minority consists of hardcore Catholics and Mormons curious of other religions initiation rituals. Mormons are very curious and always on the lookout for new ways to improve their hodgepodge religion. I went to the trusty beamer and found a note on my windshield. Peculiar. Usually the leaflets left on my car were from adult theatres and advertised live sex shows with subtle hints of the debauchery that could be purchased dependent upon the right amount of money and the level of soullessness one possessed. It was folded up piece of printer paper. Odd. It read:

“It seems that they have figured out who I am. Have you?” On the bottom was a large black ink mark, as if someone had written something and then decided better about it. I hate second thoughts.

Now this presented quite a conundrum. I could let this bother me or . . . I rolled it up, lit it on fire and used it to light my cigarette. If I let little nonsense like this throw off my arcadian rhythm then hell, I would have been locked up in a padded room a long time ago. Hmmm.

I walked in and finished filming. A crazed degenerate perhaps am I, but I do have to at least be able to fund my antics.

With a flourish of fanfare and a triumphal march out the main aisle, the service was done. I went and got drunk.

With nothing to do and nowhere to go. And a penchant for extreme violence and paranoid behavior. I was born into a time where such deeds were looked upon with a sense of disdain. A time when open moves against polite society were met with frowns and mutters concerning the sanity of our humble narrator. Wishing for someone that understood the secrets of this foul culture that we innocuously inhabit. And who wants to walk by quietly in the night? Concerning yourself with matters of the heart is always venturing into dangerous waters. full of sharks, barracudas and women claiming paternity. And who listens? Not me, for I am too busy with the mundane details to observe such lofty goals and ideals. Do my pants match my socks? How about my belt? Do they properly identify with my mindset and my particular objectives for the day?

Because I wish to plan ahead. Second thoughts only incur the wrath of khan. They make us wish for pleasant Tuesdays, upon which we realize that the reason for being is the slow and sad death that You can only hope will not be alone. But, hell. One can merely wonder if the thoughts and the minds of the disturbed are worth a damn, because they are not, and you point at your passport, claiming your citizenship, screaming to anyone that will listen that yes, dammit you do belong. They usually rebut that nah, fool, you be wrong.

The herd instinct is so strong in the mentally of the average American that all the lemmings make the leap.

Not me. For I am for a professional. And three lefts make a right.

I need to stop drinking and trying to ramble on. If these things had made sense, then I would have been stopped a long time ago.

The phone rang. I realized I had developed a problem when I dashed up from sucking down my beer and watching porn on mute to answer it. I had been staring at a blank piece of paper for about twenty minutes now, judging by the current sex act preformed. They all follow a basic time structure, usual for keeping track of time. Corny intro, oral sex for the male, oral for the female, vaginal intercourse, anal intercourse, and bam, half hour comes and goes and facial. Nice round, even numbers for the dispossessed. The phone was still ringing.

I picked it up and said nothing.

“Hello, hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?”

Christ.

“Yes, This is she.” I shot back. ho hum, let the bastard sit on that.

“This is no time for games, dammit Sam, pull yourself together, we have work to do.”

Damn her voice was sexy.

“What do you want? This is getting to be a bit ridiculous don’t you think? I mean who are you?”

“Meet me outside the Big Boy on 5^th and Jefferson in twenty minutes. Don’t be…”

And she was gone. Man, this is getting obnoxious.

So once I was presented with a choice? Do I go? I don’t want her to get the upper hand, but I do want to figure out what the fuck is going on. And she does have a sexy voice. Perhaps she will match it. My experience says she won’t, but I do have a short memory when it comes to sexy voices.

With the streetlights flashing by like so many warning bells telling me to turn around, I found myself driving the long road into town. I lived in the industrial wasteland known as gamely by the locals as ‘Cancer Corner’ by the locals due to the myriad of infectious products made at one point in the cavernous empty factories, testaments to the western industrial complex. Asbestos? Check. Lead Paint? Yup. We got that, all day. The way to town was paved with the hearts and hopes of many, nameless, unfortunate fools lost to the annals of history. tossed aside with a certain disdain not unlike an empty pack of cigarettes or a used condom.

***

She thought it late enough to call him. It was what was known as the witching hour. Only the true evil of this world was awake. Only the truly restless, uncomfortable with their place in life were conscious of the true ugliness of the hour. She knew he would answer.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Mr. Clark…”

and the phone went dead.

Goddammit. Now how was She supposed to talk to the embodiment of pure iniquity when her phone was cutting out on her? again. But she knew that these things arose when Murphy’s Law was most applicable. And now was such a time for such behavior. She walked from her small kitchen to her equally small sitting room, sitting on the couch, and interrupted the slumber of two ugly cats who shot her a reproachful look. Perhaps she would call again, soon. But maybe he had hung up on her? Maybe he already knew her vicious agenda and couldn’t face the music. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, her mom always told her. And she listened to her momma. Always had.

She went to sleep watching an infomercial about the benefits of cremating the dead. with visions of sugarplums dancing through her head.

Awake. It was early but maybe now was the time to catch him.

She picked up the phone and dialed his number.

“Hello.”

“What’s the score here? Why are you calling me?”

“Are you sitting down Mr. Clark?”

“I am. what are you doing? And how do you know my name”

“Mr. Clark, I am afraid I have some bad news.”

“Well you had better spit it out before you hang up again.”

“What? You hung up on me last…”

And the line cut out. Damn. the dogs had found out her purpose. A purpose she herself even had the faintest idea of. She only knew he was the only one who could help her. Conventional methods of abortion were unavailable due to the price and she believed him to be the best in the business. He had no track record of professionalism in this area, she just knew. She had seen him at work. The thought struck her at her one of her enemies’ weddings a few months back. that perhaps this was the man who would take the life inside her. Maybe it was his stance. Maybe it was his utter contempt for society that seemed to emanate from his disheveled appearance, one that was sure to win him big points with potential clientele, looking the part of a photographer.

Of course, She lacked the courage and fortitude to be able to do it herself. It had taken her this entire time to work up the gall to merely call him. She had grown tired and despondent and bored with this world and could not bring herself to add another worthless soul to the foul mix of primordial soup. She was ready for the next great adventure and motherhood was not it. Life offered her no thrills. No morning dew cheered her. No reason to be. She was curious of the Bard’s second part of his rhetorical question. To not be.

The girl had done her homework. She had found his website and knew that he was to film the first communion at St. Agnes that Sunday. She found his car and left a note. It read:

“It seems that they have figured out who I am. Have you?”

Ambiguous. Mysterious. She wrote down her name. Thought better of it and crossed it out, sufficiently hiding her identity. There was time. Let him ponder this and get it on his mind. Perhaps then he would be more receptive to her eccentric request. Was it so much to ask? A perfect stranger? ‘Excuse me, you look like the man I want to end my child’s life.” “I want you to surprise me with it.” “I don’t want to know the hour. Come like a thief in the night.”

Sounded reasonable enough. Right?

She let two days go by.

She called him. It was late, but she knew he would be awake. The malicious cannot lie to themselves, therefore, they cannot sleep. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. He answered right as she was about to hang up.

“Hello, hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Yes, This is she.”

“This is no time for games, dammit Sam, pull yourself together, we have work to do.”

“What do you want? This is getting to be a bit ridiculous don’t you think? I mean who are you?”

“Meet me outside the Big Boy on 5^th in twenty minutes. Don’t be…”

She had no idea why she picked that particular location. It had sounded so romantic in her mind. A perfect setting to plan the perfect murder. She began to get cold feet. Was she really going to go through with this?

Yes. she was.

***

I lit another cigarette and turned up the radio. What the hell did this bitch want? Why on earth would she keep calling me, leaving me notes on my car, which by the way was extremely creepy. How did she know my car? How the hell did she know where I would be. That’s why I am going. Right? I couldn’t rationalize any other reason.

I got there a little early. I hadn’t eaten all day. scotch and cigarettes have been my diet the past couple of days. Its not a diet I recommend, but the soul, she has her own wants, no? I went inside and ordered. and waited. The woman obviously already knew what my car looked like, better to not give her any more of advantage then she already had in this rendezvous. She had all the power, and it made me nervous.

Twenty minutes came and went. What the hell? Had this just been a figment of my imagination? Just more evidence of my increasing instability and overall decline in my sanity? Or was there something more foul afoot? I decided to mull it over a milkshake. Strawberry that is.

***

She pulled into the parking lot, trying to find a spot by his car. She felt more comfortable by his side. She barely knew him but. she knew that he was a kindred spirit. And she drew strength and courage and all those other bullshit feelings that humans feel.

In she walked.

***

He instantly recognized her from across the room. At first he didn’t know whether to see if he could leave without her seeing him or that he should call out. He just knew what she wanted before she even had crossed the ketchup stand.

***

She saw him and headed towards him. He didn’t rise when she got to the table and she sat down.

“Hello, Sam.”

Damn she had a sexy voice. “And you are?”

“Rebecca. And I think you are the only one that I can turn to.” She knew at this point full disclosure was the only way to go about things.

“What the hell do you want? And does it have anything to do with you calling me? Night and day? And who are you? a better question?”

“Do you have any experience in abortion? I can’t go to a doctor due to financial reasons. And I can’t go through with this pregnancy.” She laid it all out on the line.

I was stunned.

How exactly do you answer that question? Years of practice with the lowest levels of human scum have not prepared me for this request. And that’s saying something. I always felt myself prepared for anything. Even boy scouts do not have a merit badge for this shit. I answered the only way I knew how. “I believe I can help you.”

She looked pleased.

I was still confused. “What did you have in mind? Like coat hanger and vacuum type nonsense?”

“That’s why I chose you. I think you can be the one to make the appropriate course of action. I mean hell, you can handle this? Right?”

I said, “Stand up.”

She stood up, unsure of the next move, but for what she was asking him to do, she might as well be able to acquiesce a simple request to stand.

The target was too inviting to pass up. She looked about three or four months pregnant. Still small and petite with an amazing body, but beginning to show with a little bit of a baby bump.

I punched her. hard. in the stomach.

Once. Twice. Three time’s a lady.

She didn’t know what to do. She felt like she had been hit by a train. She doubled over and slumped down into the booth.

I was hoping the bitch wouldn’t scream. I picked up my tray, walked to the garbage and emptied it. I walked out the door without looking back. If I had had the chance, I would of washed my hands.

It was all of the time.

Well Shit. doc

“Well shit doc. i don’t really know why I am here. i mean . . . i don’t really think i am any crazier then you. and i mean you gotta be crazy. you just sit and you just sit, you just. . . listen. all day. you don’t say anything. its. its just not right.” I pulled out my cigarettes, knowing he doesn’t smoke. hates smoke. cannot stand the ethereal beauty of faint wasps drifting to the heavens like so many souls of the damned. inhaled into ones’ lungs. enjoyed with the greed of a small child. i offer him one. He accepts. I am
blown away.
I begin to pace. never able to think sitting down. terrible. “cleanliness is next godliness.” I say in my best weatherman’s voice, looking around a clean. calm. idyllic. office. It cannot be more than seventy-five feet to that liquor store. I think to myself, cocking my head slightly to the side. my eyes looking. becoming blurred with lost. they observed a window that had, with little to no doubt in my supposed frail mind, been cleaned within in the past week. maybe month. well dammit it had been cleaned sometime recently. “The autonomy of the Tibetan people is what’s really getting me doc. No reincarnation of the Dali Llama? Where are we to go? Hell. That’s where.”
I am still pacing around the room. well more specifically him. He seemed unperturbed. But its all right, i mean him no harm.
I grind out my cigarette into the ash tray and look expectantly at the Doctor. he has matched me. drag for drag. with an air of finality he grinds his cigarette out onto his thigh, the flame slowly igniting the surrounding fabric. No. wait. there are two cigarette butts in the ashtray. and no burn in his $59.95 Bergner’s dress pants.
“It takes two to tango. doc,” I don’t think he understands me. But no worries, he is not charge of this room. I have been dominating the discussion so long now, I doubt that he has the ability to even muster a word now.
“Tell me about your dreams.” he speaks. caught me off guard.
The question seems troubling. only a delinquent would pose such an inquiry to another fool. and two wrongs make a right. but never the matter, the matter was raised. “I don’t know anything about my dreams. The longer i think about such things. the blurrier it gets.” I freeze. place the ball in his court. goddammit.
he makes no response. The stock photograph of the old man in the picture frame. i bought yesterday makes no response.

i begin to panic. why is he not saying anything? that is his job. he must not have anything more to say.

“Rome was not built in an a day.” I mutter. maybe to myself, but nevertheless utter the phrase, carelessly. He makes no moves to acknowledge i had spoke at all. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. No one ever calls me. nope. no one there.
“I believe our time is done here, mr”

And Why Not?

This spring break was good. A full week, with all the trimmings of a classic Roman drama: drunken shenanigans; vicious campaigns; tales of brotherhood and betrayal, compassion and anger; losing hope in the cause, finding it once again . . . victoriously, all to sing the songs of our fathers in Bruiser’s basement arm in arm…mourning for lost comrades, only our eyes revealing the depths of sheer madness and terror . . . New loves were made, old flames rekindled, pride, jealously, lust, gluttony…. and every other seemingly so grand and epic notion that have long since plagued the human psyche were encountered this break. The things that true reprobates always inevitably forget during a weeklong binge.
It began normal. quiet. innocuous. With no real strong indicators of the impending trials and tribulations that were set to unfold over the next seven days. The drive home was short. uneventful. Caught a ride back with Nails, which is always uncomfortable because he drives a truck and when Big Tim decided to head back too, we all suddenly turn into some strange form of wild hillbillies rarely seen outside of low-budget horror films; raving drunk, pissed as all hell, prepared for war . . . announcing our departure of the hills wherever we went with feral screaming and gnashing of teeth. You run that risk with rolling three deep in a regular cab. Different folk.
The first night was spent at two different locations. A novel idea, one might say, but in actuality it was quite a hoot. Without naming any names (loose lips, sink ships); we first set sail at a friend’s house - friend lives with his parent - friend gets in fight with parent - friend jumps ship - we damn the torpedoes and cry, “steady as she goes!” - friend’s dad places out welcome mat for a place to stay the night, annd . . . we scatter like small puppies before a Hoover. There was six cars, every driver a drunk, all caravanning down University. If only Peoria really knew what goes on. I was pilot Little Miss Can’t be Wrong’s dinghy and was in excellent position. Third for a large portion of the race, I pulled into second with a deft lane change somewhere around Glen. It was I and Cenji all the way down Austin, the homestretch, the finish line in sight and just as she was turning onto his street, I went for the glory and the girls. Took the inside corner and broke for the lead. It was The Fast and the Furious all over again, but maybe The Intoxicated and The Idiots sounds better. A few upstanding citizens were offended, namely Rick Kirby, but nobody really paid much attention.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:
1. Purchase of Alcohol by a Minor
2. Possession of Fraudulent Identification
3. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
4. Driving Under the Influence
5. Open container of Alcohol in a Moving Vehicle
6. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia

Nothing too exciting happened the next few days; either that or I can’t remember it if anything did anyways . . . so that’s neither here nor there. A rough estimate, recalled under the influence to report to you is Sunday/Monday we got drunk at Bruiser’s house, sitting around till four or so in the morning. With the assholes. So that Tuesday, we decided that a beautiful day deserves a cookout and planned ahead. Crisp had set out six or seven pounds of deer meat he had shot over the course of deer season out to thaw and we began cooking around noon. You have got to love a morning session, everyone all fresh and bleary eyed from the night before. So after a delicious meal and a couple of great cigarettes, our thoughts turned to the day and we transpired for something to do that would keep our pursuits legal, ethical, moral and outside. We settled on shooting guns. Crisp loaded up the cache, and we rounded up the minutemen: Deadeye, Nails, Crisp, I and Big Tim all headed out, armed to the teeth, half crazed on nicotine and testosterone. My favorite part of the trip out there is that we all met at Bruisers and waited for the right moment to load up what Crisp had dubbed, “the mother load of all arsenals.” Just as we think the street is at its calmest, we make the switch into Big Tim’s car. Picture Crisp walking swiftly across the street, arms laden with munitions, and BAM, two cars going opposite ways on the street appear, a dog walker rounds the corner and then the mailman pop up and catch the entire scene with front row seats. Like something out of Crime Stoppers. We had between us: three 12 gauge shotguns, two 20 gauge shotguns, two .22 millimeters; one rifle, one revolver, and one .44 magnum handgun with mother-of-pearl handgrips, stolen straight off of some long forgotten dead Nazi. It was a very successful trip out to Funkytown. First time I had ever shot a shotgun, and let me tell you, it is everything and more.
We had such a good time we went back the next day. This is when things turned interesting. They say a pig will go feral faster then any other previously domesticated animal, “Domestic pigs that escape from their pens or are released into the wild begin to turn feral within weeks. Their snouts and tusks will elongate into flexible, tough, flattened snouts and...” But high school literature class says otherwise, witnessed in Lord of the Flies. And I don’t refute those claims because we all witnessed one another find the tribe in us all in a matter of minutes that day. When we opened up the gates and strolled through our already conquered territory, I spotted a pair of Canadian Geese out on the floating wooden dock in the middle of the pond. These bastards are a nuisance and shit all over the property. They had probably just landed from a long flight out of St. Petersburg, Florida (where the real geese kick it), and were excited about their new private pond to raise a family. Fuck that shit. On previous ventures out to Funkytown during the early of spring, I have come across other nests. After successfully scaring the parents away by use of rocks, pebbles, etc. etc. . . . we have upon direction of my lovely grandmother, burnt the nest, smashed the eggs and pissed upon the ashes. Grrrr . . .
Me: “They’ve got to go.”
Crisp: “You can’t shoot them, they’re not in season. You don’t even have a license.”
Me: “Can’t stay here . . .” As I pumping shells into the chamber. They were going down.
Crisp: “Well . . . Alright. If they’re still down there when we get there, we can shoot at them. I get first shot with a deer slug. If this shit hits, that motha fucka will explode.”
Me: “Awesome.”
Upon our arrival to the patio and the beach overlooking the pond, the geese had swum across to the other side and were looking very quizzically at us from the land. Big mistake. While Crisp sighted up a 12 loaded with a deer slug, I took aim with a very nice little number, a 20-gauge over/under. He shoots first, misses, I shoot, miss, he shoots, misses; I connect on the second shot, picking the ol’ boy off on the wing, where at least he got a sporting chance. It caught the wing of the fool and dropped him in the drink. Crisp immediately grabs another 12, runs over to the flapping bird and pumps three shots into the pathetic creature from point blank range. He turns and looks at us after reaching in and picking up the dead animal, holding it aloft by its limp neck, “ I think he’s dead.”
Now the question becomes, what to do with the corpse. The first thing I did was reach for a cigarette. It was good. Crisp grabs the kill and begins to dash up the hill to the woods, shotgun in arm, bird flopping limply in the other. I turned to Nails, “On a scale of 1 to 10 of how illegal that just was…”
“Well, put it this way, if anyone would’ve seen that, everything we have here would have been taken, we all would of gotten felonies, you probably would’ve gotten multiple, paid a huge fine and most likely served a week or two in jail.”

Nice.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:
7. Poaching on a Out of Season Migratory Waterfowl
8. Hunting Without a License
9. Illegal Handling of a Firearm by an Unlicensed Person
10. Shooting of Firearms within 50 yards of the Interstate (didn’t know about this one.)
11. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
12. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia





The true culmination of break came the last Friday. I remember that Saturday very clearly. It was terrible. There was this overwhelming feeling of just . . . emptiness is probably the best word for it. The night before was so special, so magical, it was almost as if we blew some strange dopamine receptor not known to the general public, held secret by an elite group of international scientists. Like some sort of naked-running gland. Bruiser decided to host another party, and when a keg was thrown in for, it had the budding for something wonderful. Not that many people showed up, mostly the normal miscreants that crawled out of whatever gutter they found themselves in that morning to make an appearance that no really paid much attention to. It was smooth sailing for most of the night; I played like shit in beer pong all night, which was really the first night that I can remember being terrible all night. Ah well. It was about 2:30 in the morning and while everyone was still going strong, the general consensus amongst the deckhands was mild to highly inebriated. Dr. Feelgood was in prime form, and had been all night. When he gets real drunk, it is truly a sight. More often then not the first signs of his drunkenness usually show themselves during smoke breaks. He gets this hunched over stance and leans real far forward, with a look on his face that betrays his knowledge that falling is an inevitability, but has just enough sense of mind left to counteract the strong desire to face plant by leaning backwards at the crucial moment. This will go on for quite some time. Then after that stage has been conquered, the intrepid traveler that he is, thirsts for more. The end of the night at Bruiser’s has had many different outcomes for him; from needing to get fireman-carried out after inadvertently exposing himself to a sustainable number of innocent people that clearly did not need to see such things - Better left out of sight, out of mind-, to vomiting over his shoulder, laying on his back in his boxers…in the front yard. So somehow or another he came up with the brilliant plan for he and Big Tim to race.
“Hey, hey!” Pointing at Big Tim, a drunken sheen on his face, eyes near bloodshot, appearing like some half-crazed drunken Viking with enough mead in him to loot and pillage for hours. “Get two cups, fill up and… we are racing. Around the house.”
“What?” With a hefty giggle, Big Tim tried to look around the room to see if anyone else is witnessing the spectacle that was going on in front of his eyes. “Aright, you wanna race? Lets go…let’s do it. You think you can take me, you got nothing.”
“Oh no . . . absolutely not! Absolutely not!” Dr. Feelgood does not take criticism well.
I was sitting by and laughing the entire time, but then, why not? I decided I wanted in. Everyone should get in. So I gathered up Cunt and Crisp and began moving towards the exit when Cunt let loose with the inevitable next step: “Hey lets get naked, everyone get naked!”
Now there are some readers here who will automatically recoil in horror at the mere thought of our actions. What? Are you crazy? This is a terrible idea! But let me tell you. This is nothing homoerotic about the actions that will follow. The pack attitude is one that is hard to resist. The call of the wild, if you will (or even if you don’t goddammit), that strikes a man at least once in his life is so primal in its very essence and appeals to the darkest recesses of one’s heart. It cannot be taken lightly. The overwhelming sentiments of the group were Yes. This is right. This is good.
The group consisted of I, Big Tim, Dr. Feelgood, Drunkass, Crisp, Grandpa and Cunt. We all walked outside and there was a brief moment of hesitation. Are we really going to do this? But fortunately for this herd of lost sheep, we had a collie in our midst, Dr. Feelgood, who happened to be just drunk enough to not really give a shit. There was a flurry of activity and everyone began stashing clothes where it was objectively supposed that no one would fuck with them. No call for that nonsense. We all assembled into what took to be the starting line on a concrete platform in the back corner of his yard, everyone carrying two cups full, and Dr. Feelgood with a pitcher. I turned around and was surrounded by six other naked guys. Big Tim, the only idiot in what has gone in history as the “Tour de Roark” to wear shoes, had his back turned to the group and added to the chorus of whoops and hollers, “I AM PISSING NAKED!” And so he was.
We had a rough 3-2-1 and with a flourish, we all took off. I immediately took the head of the pack with a great start, run through a side yard of an unsuspecting homeowner and emerge out into the road, shockingly fast, staggering drunk, and buck ass naked. Being followed by a host of the like.
There were calls to simply round off the house and take the short road back, but I was having none of it. I figured if I went, they would follow. And follow they did. By this time Big Tim found himself in an unfortunate state. When asked afterwards, “When you guys all left, I was still pissing. So I had to finish that doing a little crab shuffle for the first house. And then I just started vomiting.”
In front I hear some terrible, terrible, death vomit from the rearguard. And then just laughs. He was continuing the run, vomiting over his shoulder on the move. What Drunkass has dubbed “the epitome of an overweight middle-aged white guy”, was naked, spewing the contents of his dinner in the middle of suburbia. I would’ve kept moving too.
But the funny part was it continued throughout the run. We were dashing through front yards, dodging trees and avoiding twigs on the ground, which hurt like hell barefoot. I was still in first and Grandpa ‘I-didn’t-know-it-was-a-race’ bringing up the rear. Then I heard one of the funniest sounds of my short and twisted life. The terrible sound of one hundred and seventy pounds of human flesh hitting a driveway and a terrific bang. I knew instantly; there could be no other explanation. Dr. Feelgood had fallen.
“His physiology was never meant for it in the first place,” they will say, nodding their sentiments away, shaking their heads with a look of sad acceptance of the fact. “He just, just…” trailing off with a distant look in their eyes. Everybody knows what the other is thinking; no one really needs to bring up the past once again. “You know he can speak French?” They will murmur to their neighbor, moving away to lighter topics and leaving other sensitive subjects behind.
When the moment came for him to make the transition from yard to driveway, he stumbled. He tripped. He fell. He supermaned the driveway. He slid face first into home plate. And nobody stopped.
I could tell something utterly amazing had happened. The noise from the rear was too loud, too raucous for just the normal humor found in naked races around residential neighborhoods. I could feel the opposition gaining ground and when we finally turned to corner and began the home stretch, I was passed by Cunt. There were about four houses left and by that time both of us were damn near walking. A flying Crisp made a mad dash at the end to seize the lead and finish first. As soon as he stopped running and threw up his hands in triumph, he immediately bent over and hurled all over the ground. The final order was: Crisp, Cunt, I, Drunkass, Big Tim, Grandpa. And Dr. Feelgood. We were all frantically trying to re-clothe ourselves and avoid piles of vomit that seemed to be appearing with alarming frequency, all while on the camera of one of Hollywood’s finest paparazzi photographer. He claimed to be laying low in Middle America while the whole Britney Spears thing blows over. “Dangerous climate now for photographers,” he had said solemnly, “anywhere you get close enough to take a decent shot of some cleavage or maybe, god-forbid, a nipple slip or a glimpse of beaver, their bodyguards intervene,” a tired look coming across his face.
He had been saying this terrible story all night to whoever was unfortunate enough to fall into conversation with them. Wild, horrible tales of fellow photographers getting hauled off into the desert and never being seen again. Nobody really believed anything he said, but just smiled and walked away saying, “That’s nice…”
When Dr. Feelgood finally made it back five minutes later, he was had two massive road rash cuts over his chest and two cuts on either arm. But as he proclaimed victoriously upon arrival, “I didn’t spill!”

Upon hindsight this was terrible idea. No part of this plan was to lead to any good outcomes. All other possible endings of this tale are bad, most involving massive fines and/or bodily injury. The number of laws that were broken is quite astounding. Assuming that we do get stopped by the police, the first scenario that would happen is we would’ve all scattered. A group of naked guys running from the police, which even has a more comical image attached to it. Think about jumping fences in our state. Much general ugliness. But after we were rounded up like so many Christians under Nero, they would have found out about Bruiser’s party. Then . . . our ship would sink. A few would cry in terror, searching for life vests and ways off, but for the most of us, the true degenerates, we would be calm. Silently watching… facing the sunset with a look of quiet acceptance on our tired faces, yearning for the next great ride through this short life. Where only brief moments of sheer unadulterated joy puncture through our otherwise safe. mild. bland. existence.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:

12. Public Indecency (Registered sex offended. Picture online . . . Yes.)
13. Open Alcoholic Container in Public Area
14. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
15. Disturbing the Peace
16. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia
17. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled substance with Intent to Distribute
18. Hosting a Underage Drinking Party

Some Metaphorical Association

The second part of my last name is cone but it isn't pronounced like crispy ice cream cones mimicking musicial microphones in a strictly non-auditory manner.

So the muted singer yells into his choco-caramel scoop, textured like a spherical waffle, and his saliva drip drops onto the electronic megaphone like phlgem-infested syrup. A crazed fan, intent on recieving oral from him, spread her legs one night and croaked gleefully, only to find her pissing apparatus sealed and stuck from the very tongue that once ushered it open. But this is besides the point.

It's important to note his spit's lava-esque hue, maroon in color. The tunes continue; he believes his mouth, the very vessel of his voice, is a volcano's orifice, and his melody erupts along the waffle-phone in molten ashes and molasses. Yes. He belts the melody now; but that isn't to say he restrains it, as some belts do with pants, but that he heaves and belts and pants like a passionate vocalist. He nearly eats his Eggo breakfast at the falsetto.

And She Lit Up A Cigarette...

Are you curious as to how one can spend $4.15 a day? Or if the old adage of one cigarette = five minutes off of your life is true (when researching for this, I found multiple articles that actually cited 11 minutes. Oh boy), then at least one hour subtracted from your already drastically shortened life? Well there are names for each one of those cigarette, those smokes, those squares; all the way from that fresh pack bought at 9:30 in the morning, taking yourself at least five minutes out of the way and five minutes late to class, but goddamn. You now are the proud owner of twenty cigarettes, twenty looseys.

1. The Fresh Pack Cig
You knew you didn't have any cigarettes left from the night before. You sort of had to conserve towards the end of the night. From anytime after 1 am, the box starts looking a little low. So you hold off for a little bit, savoring one usually after big events; be it finishing a drink, playing a game, or narrowly avoiding the cops. But you always leave yourself one left for that walk home. Since you were out late drinking last night, you are late getting up for that 11 o'clock class, you fuck showering and run to the store for a pack. Thank god its not that far out of the way, but nevertheless you will still be a little bit late. Eh? This is always one of my favorites, I mean I love them all, but this one is special. You now have almost a full pack. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 19}

2. Walk to Class Cig
This is one, that depending on the situation could also be called Get Out of Class Cig if you are done for the day. But generally this is the first thing done when exiting a building. I know its tough to rationalize, but being stuck inside of a building listening to a teacher babble on about whatever their unfortunate field of choice is, is not really my cup of tea. So you need that cigarette to calm your self back down, get all the anger out; say the things you wanted to scream at at them sitting up in front of the class, so smug and arrogant. But the beauty of this cigarette is that, even if the teacher does happen to be entertaining, does happens to host an educated and informed class, then you need that cigarette to savor the moment. So depending on how many classes you have that day will directly affect your count here. On average I have about three, so their is usually give or take 5 to 6 smoked over the course of the day-before class and after class. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 14}

It only about 2 o'clock.

3. The Watterson Cigarette
This is a ISU specific smoke. I never really encountered it before living inside arguably one of America's oldest and toughest prisons; basically right along the lines with Folsom or San Quentin. But it takes so damn long to get to my room, that usually when I do reach it, I immediately want a cigarette. The stress from all the collegiate bullshit is enough to drive any upstanding citizen to smoke. The elevators are always packed, always inevitably stand next to the guy/girl that happens to have the peculiar odor of stale dorm air coupled with the fact they have not done laundry in a few weeks. Fuck. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 13}

4. The Pre-grit
Another one of my personal favorites. This is usually before the afternoon smoke, often in the confines of a private little nook surrounding Watterson. You have a couple options: Stand-up Crevice, Full Body Crevice, or The Crevice. Any of those suit your fancy? But, this is the cigarette that you smoke coming out of Watterson, and having just dealt with that nonsense, need a cigarette. This is the cigarette to prepare your lungs for the hitters you are about to bang. Basically this is the appetizer for the main course. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 12}

5. The After grit
Enough said. For the record, anytime you can't stop coughing from smoke irritation, simply smoke a cigarette. Cures all sorts of respiratory problems. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 11}

Yeah its about 5 o'clock

6. The Full Body Cig
This is a mandatory cigarette. After you go to the Watterson Cafeteria and get uncomfortably full, this is the smoke that cleanses your palate. Gets the nasty taste of reheated, barely-edible-by-lab-rats food out of your mouth. This cigarette is always in Full Body, a little cove that is an large window into the hallways leading up to the cafeteria. Could not design a better people watching spot than here. Most people are unaware you are staring them down, and if they do realize, then they generally get pretty uncomfortable and speed up, avoiding any potential for eye contact. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 10}

7. The Leaving Smoke
Usually about 9 or so, you are leaving to go to a party and having just successfully transversed the straits of Watterson, you now need a cigarette. Sometimes depending upon the length of the walk, there is occasionally a Walk cig, but that is only under extreme circumstances. Generally walks lasting more then 20 minutes or so. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 9}

8. Arrival Smoke
Congratulations! You made it! Have a cigarette. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 8}

9. Party Smokes
Yes, plural. This is for all the random cigarette breaks during drinking. Dependent upon the weather, this is normally an outdoors smoke. A nice chance to break away from the rest of the party and talk normally to another smoker. Yes there is a secret code of conduct. Don't ask, I won't tell you. But if you are playing a drinking game, more often then not, its an inside affair. Can't interrupt the flow of the evening. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0-1}

10. The Leaving smoke
Another mandatory. If need be then you may have to bum one from a fellow compatriot, but nevertheless you have to have a smoke one on the way back. This cigarette offers something most other cigarettes can't: utilitarian value. Usually just reaffirms the musk of O'de Tobacco to you and removes all other noxious odors generally accumulated through an average party. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0)

And the cycle continues. But in my defense, I work with cigarettes. They give encouragement to actually go class. Numerous times I have been laying bed, hung over like a derelict wino, and the only reason I get out of bed and make it on time is to have a cigarette before. Were synergistic goddammit.

Three Inch Horses, Two Faced Monsters

Blowing a smooth stream of smoke out of his nostrils, he reached forward and turned up the already blaring music on the radio, tapping his long, slender fingers in time to the beat. After the song had ended, he turned it down to an acceptable level and flicked his cigarette butt out the window out onto the highway, where the last dying embers glowed until extinguishing, illuminating the dark night like so many little fading flares. “I am fucking starving.” He glanced over at The Driver, who was constantly twitching his head; bobbing and convulsing to an inaudible rhythm, dancing some archaic heathen ritual long since lost to the rest of civilized man. “Knock that shit off man.”

The Driver did not respond, but with a look of concentration on his gaunt and sallow face, made a visible effort to control his movements. It must have been too much for his constitution, simply too overpowering to resist. After a few minutes the jerking began again, as if he was unconscious of the movements.

“Seriously, we need some food.”

For the first time The Driver spoke, “let’s wait till we need gas, it’s been like two hours since we last filled up, we need some soon and we can stop there and eat. Might have to be gas station food though. Should be something around here somewhere.” his method of speaking quick and jerky, releasing all the words in one violent torrent not unlike verbal diarrhea. “Do a line. That’ll do ya for a little bit”

This last remark hung in the air like a cloud of smoke and as if a manner of response, The Passenger lit another up cigarette. The silence resumed in the car, so he turned up the radio.
“Check the map, find some bumfuck town with a restaurant or something, I mean hell, there has got to be something around here. Like people need to eat and shit right?” The Driver said with a twitch.

With a troubled look on his face, The Passenger studied the map, trying to understand the concept of the folds. He began to open it unsuccessfully several times, nearly ripping it in two. After a few minutes, he threw it away disgusted. A large billboard for an all-night diner saved him the embarrassment of not being intelligent enough to open a map. “Bingo.” he said with a grin. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small mirror. Reaching into a pocket on his red flannel shirt, he withdrew a small bag of white powder. He scooped a little out with a Good Sam RV membership club card and dumped it onto the mirror, situated two lines, snorted one …… and put it up to The Driver’s face, handing him a cut-off straw as well. Without his eyes leaving the road, he too did his …… and lit up a cigarette immediately. The Passenger did the same, leaned back and looked at The Driver. “I got to eat something man, fucking starvin. Let’s stop at this diner.”

“Dammit. That’s just what we need. A 24-hr joint. Some white trash waitress named Trixie or Roxie. Gotta have red hair. It’s like a goddamn uniform. How far until we actually reach some form of civilization?” The Driver was not happy. “Plus, you really don’t wanna eat that shit. Who knows what we will be eating. I don’t wanna eat some goddamn road kill or some possum. Eh, you like that shit, uh? Some fuckin Possum?”

“Nah, this’ll be fun. What time is it… like two, the place will be empty, and we can have some fun with this Trixie or Roxie. You don’t even have to eat anything.”

With his twisting and jerky movements, a smile slowly broke over The Driver’s face. A slight, high-pitched giggle seemed to force itself out of his lips, only to retreat quickly where it came from. It was the eerie wheezing that is begotten only when excess amounts of speed and nicotine are consumed for many years “Hmmm…we don’t have much left to drive tonight. We could get drunk. I mean if we get too plastered, we could always stay there all night and drink ourselves back to sobriety.” The Driver said all this in a manner of seconds; quick rapid bursts of speech, all strewn together in a single thought. As if his mouth had trouble catching up to the random flow of ideas that were coursing through his brain.

“Yeah, yeah…” and suddenly, “fuck yeah! Lets do it,” The Passenger said, grinning from ear to ear. “Another line?” …… ……

Walking through the empty parking lot, they were like moths attracted to a streetlamp. The diner looked like any diner on the side of any road. It had a homey feel and except for a bleary eyed waitress smoking a cigarette at the counter the place was dead. As they walked through the front door, she begrudgingly rose from her seat and went to the front desk to greet them.

“Hiya, my name is Cassie. How many, two? Smoking or non?”

“Well, judging by the cigarette that is lit and I happen to be thoroughly enjoying right now, that shouldn’t be too difficult of a question, now should it?” The Passenger, giggling incessantly, shot back at her with a grin on his face as if this would the most fun he would have in a long time, and knowing this, was going to make it last.

With merely a sleepy glance, the waitress silently led them over to a booth. Handing them an ashtray and some menus, “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”

The Driver continued his strange, almost rhythmic and scripted twitching, bobbing his head to some invisible beat that only he was in tune to. He too, seemed excited and was moving a little faster then normal but was sitting silently with a blank look in his eyes. He lit a cigarette, and leaned over the table and spit on the floor.

“Ahh, nice. Hey… Cassandra!” The Passenger yelled at the vicinity of the kitchen. “Dos cervesa, por favor! Vamos!” He continued giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

The waitress drudged back to the table, bringing with her two bottles of cheap, domestic beer.

“What can I get cha?”

“Why, Cassandra, I will have the numero uno, and another beer,” The Passenger said, his beer half empty with a large pull. The Driver followed suit with a slight head twitch and a large swallow.

“And my humble friend will have another beer also, and a side of your finest potato chips.” The Passenger said while looking at her with the same grin. The waitress merely looked blankly at the two threatening looking kids. The Driver said nothing.

“My, have I told you what lovely eyes you have?” The Passenger said with a grin. “You ought to be in showbiz. Do you have an agent? I imagine you have a beautiful voice. Are you interested in Broadway? ‘Cause I can see it in your future.” The waitress seemed not to be least bit surprised by his sarcasm and collected their menus without responding.

The Driver grinded his cigarette out onto the table and reached for his pack for another. After lighting one, he began to flick his lighter, opening and closing it rapidly. Apart from the slight twitching of his head and the noise from his lighter, there were no other signs that the place was alive. “She wants me.” The Passenger seemed to close to tears at his own joke.
“You think so? I could tell she was kinda looking at you. I just thought she was wondering what a dumbass like yourself was out past your curfew?” The Driver looked across the table, his eyes dark and hollow, bloodshot with many days of no sleep.

“Nah man, you got it all wrong. Just give it another round, and she’ll look a whole lot better.”

The Driver merely shrugged, a movement hardly discernible in between all his others. An almost oppressive silence fell over the restaurant.

Abruptly the ceaseless clicking of the lighter stopped, and The Passenger looked up excitedly. Both of them turned their heads in unison to the kitchen door that had swung open. The waitress was walking out, and no sooner had she cleared the doorway and began heading towards their table, when The Driver immediately stood up in his chair and launched his empty beer bottle towards the ceiling above the door. It went over her head but close enough to frighten most god-fearing christians. The waitress let out a scream and dropped to the floor, covering her head with both hands. The tray, fully loaded with their food, shattered to the ground and instantly covered the linoleum floor in broken glass and fragmented china plates.

The Passenger was the first to recover, mouth-hanging open; he was almost too surprised to talk. “Holy Shit! Ho…Holy shit. What the hell was that?”

The Driver said nothing, but threw back his head and laughed.

Felons on Friday...

So after I realized that that my bus decided to not show and simply drive right by, sans me, to St.Louis; and after I realized that purchasing a ticket riding the rails down there ($27) and a ticket returning ($27) together would be $73.50; after I talked to my mom and cleared everything up, I finally walked back outside into the cold to have that cigarette, that delicious cigarette. A train had just departed- coming from the Lou... of course-and there was still a sizable amount of people piecing their life back together as they disembarked for what was sure to a welcome weekend spent in the cold of Central Illinois or destinations elsewhere just as miserable; there was no where pleasant itinerary that included a pit stop in Normal. No one really looked forward to walking outside in this weather for very long. The cold was so bad it'd make your hands go numb in minutes, with wind to cut through any number of cheap department store knockoff fleeces almost immediately.

"Hey man, mind if I borrow your phone."

I heard this and pulled out an earplug of my iPod and turned to address the speaker. It was a middle-aged man, a little bit stockier and shorter than me and was dressed in a plain blue coat and sweatpants. He had a nylon string bag full of other shirts and a bible. But he was smoking, and therefore, was logically incapable of being uncool. Only cool people smoke cigarettes.

He looked unassuming enough. "Sure man, not a problem." I handed him the phone and he held it for a minute and looked at it.

"Wow, sure are making these things small anymore."

I didn't really the need to respond to that and after helping him work the keys, (in his defense, my large fingers are also difficult to work with too. Drunken texting by me? Not a chance.) he made his first call. "Hey Steve!, Its me, Joe!" Yeah man, I just got out! They let me take the train back because of some snowstorm down south or somethin..........Hey man, is anyone coming to get me?.........Well where's Karen?..........What'd you mean no one's seen her?...........Well I am stuck in Normal man, you gotta send someone to get me......................What?......Give me your brother's number, yeah Tim!........Alright."

He turns to me and motions me to take a number down. Damnitt, my weakness. So I take the number down and he hangs up the phone. "Where ya heading man?"

He took a drag from his cigarette and turns to me. "I just got off the train from St.Louis. Trying to find a ride to Galesburg"

"Nice, nice, what were you doin down there?"

"I just got out of prison. "

Oh.
So...its like that. I knew immediately I was not going to ask what he was in for. Not my business. If he brings it up, than so be it, but not by my hand.

"Well congratulations man. Feel good?"

"My man, you have no idea. Everything is just a little bit prettier." And than he starts launching into this tirade of how he wasn't going to drink or "fuck around wit them drugs or nuthin," I sorta zoned out and nodded my head. It was hard to pay attention to him anyways as I had just ripped four hitters to the dome about twenty minutes ago...Plus I mean save it for the parole board. I would love for you to get you life on track, but really, really? I don't care.

"Plus I think my wife is cheatin on me. She is still on that junk shit. Shit'll kill ya quick. She is supposed to come pick me up, but no one has seen her for a few weeks"

Its now about 8 'clock and I still have over an hour to kill before my train comes. We go and sit inside the busy lobby and wait for a while. He's all fidgety and can't sit down to save his soul.

He turns and looks at me, "So they busted me witha case full of machine guns man!" Big old grin on his little face, "got me with a ten spot man."

"You just got out of prison for ten years?"

"Yup."

"Damn, am I one of the first actual conversations you have had on the outside?"

"Yeah man, and that was the first cigarette I have had in loong time."

I guess one of his friends squealed on him. He hinted at knocking on a few doors when he eventually made it back home. The rest of conversation was pretty worthless after that, we just talked about being in prison, he showed me a few tricks that maybe coming in handy one day, god-forbid.

He never did find a ride, at least while I was there. He asked me to point him the direction of the highway, figured he at least walk. "Man, I don't know if you should walk, its dangerously cold out there".... "Nah, I am a survivor, I'll make it." Yeah.

His name was Joe and was from what I saw a generally nice guy, even if he did bum a few of my smokes. But if you ever find yourself in the area of Galesburg and in need of a sizable cache of weapons, he is your guy. Or maybe, not anymore.