The side effects of paint fumes.

Creative Writing Class Assignment #3 - Why do you want to write? And flesh out a dialogue about your topic.

Also, stay tuned for the next episode of "The side effects of paint fumes by Brandon" where I'll explore different perspectives, by writing in first person about a medium sized boy lost in a newly formed jungle, titled "No Shave November : Below the Belt"

1. I want to write ________ because ________.

- I want to write a novel because I love to entertain.
- I want to write my story because I need to get it out of me.
- I want to write humorous creative nonfiction about a version of myself because sometimes I feel like a sidekick character in someone else's biography.
- I want to write something that makes people take sick days from work because they can't wait to finish it.

2. I'm going to write a ________ about ________.

- I'm going to write a novel about the prosperity and perils of mental health problems (in a satirical, self deprecating way, because self deprecating is the best deprecating).

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Dialogue with an Overdue Library Book


Characters
Book - "Write Your Novel in a Month"
Me - Me




Book - "Hey... Hey! Up here! Dude, can you please move Barry Greensteins face off my back for a few days?"

Me - "Wait... is that... how...??"

Book - "Do you see anyone else in here genius?"

Me - "I... I think I took my crazy pills this morning. My books are talking to me? Okay, deep breaths, you're just imagining..."

Book - "Listen, while you're having your mini crisis can you mash that George Petty Pin Up's book on my face for a bit? That cover sketch sends a shiver down my stiff, glued spine."

Me - "So, I've had you from the library for almost a year now, only opened you a few times, and you're just now deciding to speak to me, to ask me to move you on my shelf? Don't you want to be returned to the library or something?Isn't that, like, your home?"

Book - "Yea, I can't look you in the eye anymore man. I've seen some 'thangs sitting up here behind you on the shelf. To be honest, back in the book jail, you were the first person to take me out for a conjugal visit in a while, and I wanna get to know those hunnies up on the top shelf. And for the love of Christ will you please take this greasy Arbys receipt you're using as a bookmark out of me! Plus, you do see the irony in this right? Writing about a conversation you're having with an overdue library book that's about writing a book in a month? "

Me - "Hold on, so you can speak, hear me, and SEE me? And did we just break the fourth wall, in writing? Did we just invent a thing? Or is there some kind of Shakespearean meta-literary phrase for it?"

Book - "Nah man, I was just messing with you. We don't have eyes on you. I mean, it's not hard to discern what'd happening down there from the noises, but we can only hear you and imagine. Haven't talked with any Shakespeare. I'm usually in a different section of shelves."

Me - "We? So, all of you have always been able to hear me, and communicate.. forever?"

Book - "Yup. Well, that Einstein biography up there has such a heavy German accent on his English it's barely understandable, so who knows what he's seen. And the Marilyn Manson autobiography says some creepy shit, so we all avoid conversations with him. That Sublime guitar tablature says it's been with you since you were a teenager. He has some craaazy stories. Seriously brother, I've been around some pretty raunchy fiction, but you're a freak!"

Book#2 (Huck Finn) - "Yeaaaaa **racial slur**"

Me - "Wow, did he just say what I think he said? That was a hard 'e r'"

Book - "Yea, you really should trade him in for the watered down revised versions they're reading in high schools now."

Me - "There's a logical explanation for this. Just gimme a second to process... I'm trying to understand the science of how this is possible. You're paper, and ink, and some plastic lamination, how.."

Book - "Hey man, I don't know. You're the one taking crazy pills."

Blunder Years

Creative Writing Class Assignment #2 - Light a candle and describe it.



Reading through the other submissions, I think the teacher was looking for some flowery prose about how the flickering flame dances over the wax with the soft rhythm of a belly dancer, but my mental playground has always been a few streets over from the swing sets.

In the summer of 1997 during a trip to Northland mall in Columbus Ohio, specifically to pick up the newly released, and now all-time-classic album "The Great Milenko", I purchased my first piece of home decor that wasn't Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley, or black light related. (I don't think when you asked for descriptive details, you imagined me talking about the tube sock that hung out from being poorly tucked under my futon mattress, that glowed snowy white when we flipped on the black light, but I think it's a cornerstone for setting the scene of my high school bedroom.) Strolling through Lazarus, passing by Foot Locker on the way to Sam Goody, Spencer Gifts called my name. If that store had a program similar to 'Marlboro miles' I surely would've qualified for a free 12" Plasma Light Ball every month. My 6', 135lb frame carried massively over sized 36 waist/36 length Paco jeans that drug across the floor and left little piles of dust every time I stopped, like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption emptying pockets full of concrete wall a handful at a time in the rec yard. I knew within seconds of entering the store, and seeing it on display that I had to have the 5 inch by 6 inch wax candle sculpture of a meditating, shirtless Buddha. Future inspiration for every computer screen name from '97-'05ish, including the 'aspiring hacker-esque' "Inlyghtened1". Almost 20 years later, after surviving moves to 8 different houses and apartments, outlasting 4 live-in girlfriends, and spending the last few years safely tucked in a shoe box alongside broken Christmas ornaments, I knew tonight was the special moment I had saved the candle for all these years. Well, actually it was the only one I had in my apartment with any life left. Even though my shelves are littered with the remnants of Vanilla dollar store scented candles, most of them have burnt down to wick-less decorations, which I'm jotting down as a working title for my first Bukowski inspired romance novel, "Wick-less: The flame may have burnt out, but it still looks pretty on a shelf, until you find out it was mixing wax with one of the candles at work, so now you can't even look it in the face, but you have so much time invested in burning it that you can't just throw it away". Like I said, it's a working title. So as I sit here in the dark at 2 am, reliving that summer of '97, it seems a fitting symbolism of those times watching the maroon head of the Buddha puddle into a small murder scene after knocking over the lit candle on the plate it was sitting on, while reaching to move my cell phone away from the condensation of my hours old, large fountain pop. I am a well contained mess.

Hi, my name's Brandon and I'm an alcoholic.

Started a new writing class tonight. Assignment #1 was to describe yourself and what you hope to accomplish with this course. I expect a "see me after class" note.



1. Sure, why not include the most uncomfortable part of a job interview, or first date as the introduction to the class. My only recent experience describing myself is from an online dating profile, so I'll try not to sell myself too much. I'm a 37 year old man(soon to be 38), with all my own hair and teeth, plus an extra snaggletooth, so I'm at that perfect middle ground where the 20 year old women call me "the creepy old guy", and the 40+ women call me "a catch". I'm a small business owner. Never married, and my Fathers Days are spent celebrating that I don't have any paternal responsibilities tying me to any crazy ex-girlfriends. I'm not actually an alcoholic, but whenever someone says "tell me a little about yourself", I immediately picture standing up from a metal folding chair, addressing a lopsided circle of chain smoking single mothers, and unkempt court ordered men, explaining why I am where I am at this point in my life, except with online classes we don't even get the free doughnuts. My therapist would say I use humor and judgement as coping mechanisms for my coming-of-middle-age-life-crisis, but really I'm just a recovering cynic. My 3 favorite things are Cinnamon Gummy Bears, brunettes, and people watching in silent contempt. Okay, maybe not silent, but under my breath. Okay, maybe not under my breath, but just out loud to close friends. It's comforting knowing I won't be lonely in hell.

2. I've wanted to write something of substance for the last few years. I take writing courses online whenever I get a chance, but I'm that full time construction worker you talked about in Chapter 1, so it's been a while and I wanted a refresher course. I hope this course inspires me to become a better liar on paper.

Practiced Liars

  I was at a job interview and they asked me, "If you could have any superpower, what would it be?"

  In my head, I cycled through all the common ones; invisibility, x-ray vision, flight, the ability to shoot fireballs from my penis. I'm not sure the last one applies, since a superpower shouldn't also be a side effect of Craigslist dating. Then it hit me, "I already have a superpower. My body releases it's own anesthetic anytime I go to the dentist".

  I don't actually have a superpower, but I figured for the interview, that would be a good chance to get one of my obvious lies out of the way early.  In the Spontaneous Trepidation Disorder handbook (that's not a real thing but it would sound a lot cooler than "general anxiety disorder", aside from the whole STD acronym, unless it came with the fireballs), the rule of thumb is for every three lies I tell, two of them have to be obvious, so I can get away with the third.

  People with anxiety are the most practiced liars. We can lie at a level usually reserved for con-men, or Presidential candidates, or red heads. (see venn diagram : Donald Trump) Most of the time we know you aren't buying it. We're testing the waters to see what we can get away with.  Usually it starts off small with something  like "No honey, I didn't eat all the girl scout cookies", "John stopped by after I got home from work, and he must've eaten those 2 boxes while I wasn't looking". Then it progresses a little, and when discussing how many sexual partners you've had, and you hold up six fingers, but you're actually holding up a 1 and a 5. Then, eventually you end up at a conversation where you have to say "Noooo, I don't watch shemale on female porn. That's just dirty", when in reality I enjoy lesbian porn and I enjoy straight porn. It's your classic two birds, one stone scenario.

  The lies are a coping mechanism because it's impossible to explain panic disorder to someone who hasn't experienced it. I tried once to liken it to a car crash. You see the other car coming, and you feel the impact, along with the helplessness and loss of control. But it's much more than that. It's like the car crash, and then you fall hundreds of yards off a bridge into an icy cold river, but the windows won't roll down, and the car's filling up with water, and then it starts to get hot because the car is on fire, only you're like, "how the fuck?? We're underwater!" So you pop off the headrest and break the glass to swim out only to notice you're actually upside down in a dunk tank in the middle of your high school auditorium wearing a straight jacket, and everyone is there pointing and laughing and taking pictures, and fucking Cathy and all her snobby friends are mocking your fear and one of them is spray painting "UR A PUSSY" on your locker.

  So you dislocate a shoulder to slip out of the jacket. You swim to the surface, and catch your breath. Your heart rate slows down, and the flash bulbs of the cameras in the auditorium start to transition to one overhead light. Slowly, you become aware of how damp your shirt is, sticking to the pleather dental hygienists chair. But then you look up to see Cathy wiping your spilled spit cup off her scrubs, and you overhear her talking about how because of you they need to update their emergency response policies.

  Then you wait to do it all over again tomorrow.

[Writing Prompt] A magician named Geppetto attempts to create a golem. It goes horribly wrong.

"There he goes again. Geppetto is pushing another shopping cart full of rocks up to that old barn" Marge yelled peeking through the blinds. "What in the Sam hell is he doing up there? George, get over here and look at this!"

"Will you sit down you ol' kook! Always watching the neighbors like it's your job" he said.

"Oh, shut up. I aint got nothin' better to do besides killing time til I can collect your life insurance policy" she turned with deadpan look.

"It's a toss up which one of us is the turtle and the hare in that race. Maybe he's up there turnin those rocks into gold so he can afford to get away from your prying eyes Big Brother" he said, poking his nose over the top of the newspaper. "You know he hasn't practiced any magic since Pinocchio got termites and passed."

"Something aint right with that man. Hundreds of years old, with no wife, and creating little wooden boys with boners on their faces. I don't like it one bit" she scolded.

"Don't you have correspondence with your loony toon sisters to catch up on or something? George murmured under his breath.

"Hey... What's that glow... George, the whole thing's a shakin'! Shit, Daisy's outside!" she said scrambling to get to her prize Yorkie.

The windows on the house rattled and a large crash knocked picture frames off the walls. George tripped over his recliner scrambling to get a look outside. Marge, frozen, tiny dog in her arms, was completely captivated by the large Frankenstein of stone and lumber stomping towards her.

Through a hazy swirl of dust, Geppetto stumbled out of the gaping hole in the side of the building. Shaking debris out of his long white beard his raspy voice barely got out a "Stoooop! Get back here!"

Mouth agape, George watched as the monster flicked aside the 12 foot tall windmill in their backyard, stepped over the clothesline full of Muumuu's, and focused on Marge and the 4lbs of screeching fur in her arms. In one motion, his large limbs raised above his head, blocking out the sunlight and came down smashing all 5 feet 2 inches of the woman, planting her into a round pile like a hammer to nail in soft pine. A few steps later, out of the yard and chasing the ice cream truck down the street. George stepped out on the back deck to survey the scene.

"I'm so sorry George. I had no idea." Geppetto apologized, "I thought I just gave it a pinch of my deepest, darkest desires. I have to get to the Wilson's and warn their Ricky before it's too late. That little bastard has been throwing my newspaper in the bushes for years."

Still unsure what to make of what just happened, George shuffled back inside to the refrigerator. Pulling out a can, and cracking the beer open his eyebrows raised as he mused, "huh, I guess she was the turtle."

[Writing Prompt] You are cursed with ever aging immortality with the exception you can be killed using one object. Every few years you get a hint.

"Gawwdammit Pete, it's 2516, you'd think we'd be able to find some kind of wheeled thing to get around in by now" Marc crowed with a southern drawl.


The 5 foot tall spider monkey hopped over the smashed debris on what used to be US Highway 71, pulling a container out of his pack.


"Wait, what is today anyway? This is April right? Lemme see that ol' notebook. If we're the last 2 living beings on what's left of this rock, we're gonna need to get you talkin' soon Pete. Pull out your Oscar Wilde and read some. I swear, it's hotter today than any April I can remember. If I'd have known that ol' bastid was gonna kill off the rest of the humans in trade for my wish of living forever, I would've asked for an air conditioner in this thing" he said sarcastically, motioning to the glass encasement, housing what was left of his 550 year old body.


Rolling his eyes, Pete set the over sized jar on the ground and laid out a tattered brown notebook. Written on the front in a faded, peeling paint read 'The end is the door. Puns and Irony. April 7th'. A quiet motor kicked on, as tiny air bubbles clouded Marc’s view, stirring a familiar tirade, "Every gawdamn time, I swear! What kind of genie has the sick sense of humor to put a head in a jar, and give me an ageless monkey as my only companion?! Then, gives you a time clock on your immortality, but doesn't tell you when it’s gonna run out! And what the hell does 'Puns and Irony' have to do with anythin’!"


If Pete were to talk, he could surely repeat word for word each time he had heard these complaints. "Forever is relative" he thought, "Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go". The burden of living forever was a choice for one of them.


"Hoe.. Lee.. Shit.." Marc said. "Would you look at that. I don't believe it. Look!" he yelled, nodding to a glimmer in the distance. "Pick me up! We gotta go see this."


Pete arduously stuffed his books back into his pack, and picked Marc up. Last time he'd seen this reaction it was some kind of nostalgia porn for Marc from his teenage years. Catching a glimpse of the chrome grill behind the thicket of leafless branches, he prepared himself to look interested.


"This is a 1986 Chrysler. This was my first car I ever bought with my own money. There used to be this tv show, Night Rider, where the car would talk to ya. This was a lot cheaper than the shows car, and didn't actually talk to ya, as much as it did at ya, but I was so excited to show this off to my buddies. She was somethin'."


Pete nodded his head in patronizing agreement.


"Pull out that hand crank generator we found a few months back. I don't think it has enough power, but dammit we're gon’ try it. I haven't heard another speaking voice in hundreds of years, but I'd be tickled just to try. C'mon Pete, I promise I'll be quiet a while if you just give ‘er a go" he begged.


Pete sighed. Knowing he was going to humor the old man. He dug around the backpack, pulling out a device around the same size as an old schoolhouse pencil sharpener. Even the monkey knew, after all this time, there was no possible way this could work. He pry-ed open the rusty door, and set Marc on the dashboard.


"Check the visor for keys" Marc said.


Pete looked at him with contempt. “All these years sitting here, and he really thinks the keys are going to be above the visor. And what, it's just going to magically start right up and carry on a conversation with...” he stopped mid thought, pulling down the visor as the keys slid off the vinyl and landed in his lap.


"Would you look at that! My lucky day!" Marc said.


Pete slid a key into the ignition and closed his eyes. Nothing.


"Alright, alright, go wire that hand crank up to the battery. This is gonna work!"


Popping the hood, Pete made his way around to the front of the car. Branches cracked and snapped as he muscled the hood open. The overgrowth had weaved its way throughout every available space.


"It's on the right side. There's going to be a lil’ red clamp lookin' thing, and a little black one. Just follow the plus and minus signs" Marc yelled from in the car.


Pete twisted the wires over what he thought might've been a battery, thinking "I'm a monkey, not a mechanic." The crank stuck and jammed the first few tries as he turned it over. Nothing.


"Keep trying!"


A loud clack came from the bushes, that sounded like fingers snapping. Pete froze, stopped cranking, and heard a light buzzing. The buzz grew louder as he inched around the car to look at Marc.


"Son-of-a-bitch! Ha Ha! It worked you magnificent bastid! Get in here and engage the ignition! Ha Ha! It worked!" Marc screamed in anticipation.


Eyes still wide, Pete plopped in the seat and twisted the keys. *Bong* *Bong* They both looked at each other and twisted their heads to get a better listen. *Bong* *Bong*


A mechanical monotone voice slowly repeated itself, growing from a molasses crawl to its normal speed. "The door is ajar... The door is ajar... The door is ajar... The door is ajar... ".


"Ha Ha! It's spectacular isn't it?!" Marc said with tears mixing in with the oxygenated solution keeping him alive. His head cocked to the side like a confused Golden Retriever when he noticed Pete riffling through the backpack. "What are you doin’?"


The Chrysler still chirping in the background, Pete pulled out the notebook and spoke, "The door is a jar. The end is the door." Marc’s mouth dropped open. "The door is a jar, the end is the door" Pete repeated.


"Wait, what are you... Put me down! No, this isn't what it meant! Stop a sec.. Stop!" Marc screamed.


The last sound Marc heard was the shattering glass as he was thrown into a downed log beside the car. His lifeblood now dripping off the bark beside him. Gasps at the air returned no favor, while he flopped around like a dying fish. Color draining from his face as his flesh contracted from the exposure. In 30 seconds it was all over. The wish, or curse, depending on perspective, had finally ended. Pete watched in satisfying horror, having no idea what he had done, and at the same time overwhelmed by the relief of solving his life’s greatest puzzle. His wonder only interrupted by the sound of breaking twigs, and deep laughter.


"Hahaha. That was fantastical! 500 years is a new personal best" the baritone voice cackled. "Pete! I am Khalal-Amium. The door was the end, but the end is the beginning. You are the 48th being to absolve his masters curse. For your reward, I owe you one debt of desire. You may only ask for one instance, but it may be anything you dream of. What is your desire?"


Pete’s eyes darted around him. He had been living in a wasteland for over 500 years, with his only purpose as a chariot of bellyaching. All he had ever hoped for was an end. Never experiencing sleep, he longed for pure darkness. But as he started to speak, he pictured all the things Marc had told him about in the past. He imagined all the people, and landscapes he had read about. Flashes of conversations he could have with people other than a crabby old man. Finally he spoke, “’With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?’ I just want to be happy. My wish is for the world to be as it was in 2016, and everything to be alright." He crossed his arms, giving himself a symbolic pat on the back for a job well done.


The world around him morphed. The bleak, dead, grayness gave way to a crack of sunlight. Grass turned from overgrown to a manicured front lawn. Trees shrank back into the ground, and unwound from inside and underneath the 86 Chrysler, which didn't change in color or rust. The broken pavement of the highway jumped back into place and mended itself like a wet paper cut. Cars full of people began flying by at speeds Pete had never dreamed things could go. He felt a tingling sensation watching his coat of fur shed from his body. His arms shortened, and his spine straightened. Looking at his reflection in the car window, he had become a human man.


Khalal leaned in and put a hand on Pete’s shoulder. Reaching up to grab at an imaginary dial, he twisted his fingers in a slow clockwise motion and said "Your wish is granted. Over time you will receive clues to your correction. Enjoy." and with a wicked grin and a *poof* he was gone.


The smile on Pete’s face was temporary as 2 cars smashed into each other just off the highway. The sound of a man mowing his lawn caught his peripheral vision, and he couldn’t figure out why the zero turn was going in circles? Looking back at the smoking cars, instincts kicked in and he took a step to rush to help. Falling over immediately, he surveyed his body and was in shock. "Where is my left arm and leg?!"


A small spider monkey popped out from behind the car, and handed a note to Pete reading "everything in the world is all right".


"Gawwdammit!"

Pocket Change

Act I

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Reese screams, not getting his thumb out of the way while he ironed his midnight blue uniform.

"That's a dollar!" Marcy yells back from the bathroom down the hall. Marcy, 16, was his step daughter, whom he had full custody of after her mother, Grace had passed away a year ago. Her biological father signed over his parental rights and disappeared shortly after her 5th birthday, so Reese was all she had. Marcy's sarcasm and quick wit were just side dressings of the disdain and teenage contempt she had for Reese, and most other male figures of authority. Their newest clash was over the tongue ring she had forged the permission for, later admitting, it was funded by stashing the lunch money he gave her daily. She hadn't eaten lunch in a month.

"Yeah, yeah.. I got it" he mumbled, still exhausted from their last encounter. The swear jar, to which he was now one dollar indebted to, used to be savings for monthly family trips to the movies or rewards for good grades when Grace was alive. Over the past year it had become a community bank for Marcy and Robbie to pick through for soda money on their way home from school. Robbie, 12, also not Reese's son, but also whom he was legally responsible for, was the product of an affair Grace had with Reese's best man 2 weeks before their wedding. Her new-found Catholicism didn't allow her to divorce, and only charged 30 hail marys and a little guilt as the price of repentance for unfaithfulness. Reese loved her, and since he didn't think he'd ever do any better, accepted that as payment to hide his shame.

Kissing the picture of Grace on his way out of the bedroom, Reese knocks on the bathroom door. "I guess you won't need lunch money with that swollen tongue, so there's some of your grandma's Ensure in the garage fridge" he chuckled.

"Dick", she whispered under her breath.

"That's a dollar!" Reese yelled walking down the stairs.


Act II


"C'mon you twat.. it's an easy 20 bucks and I don't want to go in there alone again" Deb begs, standing out in the alley.

"My tongue is still swollen" Marcy says, banging the metal balls of the stud against the back of her teeth.

"Mine is too!" Deb pleads, "but I need the money to get some Vodka for Joey's tonight. You're still coming right?"

"Ehhh, I don't know. My step dad is being a fuckwad lately. I'm supposed to be grounded.." Marcy contemplates, "..but he is working a double."

Deb grabs her hand and pulls her through the open door in the back of Sparky's Adult Toyshop. The painted black hallway has two paths. To the left led out to the showroom of Sparky's, with lined walls of colorful dildo's and 6ft tall racks of endless, picked over porn dvd's overwhelmed you. The one way mirrored glass in the front of the building was frequented by passerby's adjusting hair and makeup, and every once in a while who's faces lined up perfectly inside the stick figure sharpie drawings of Kama Sutra positions Sparky had penned on the inside of the glass. To the right, the path stopped at two doors. On the first door the silhouette of a cat was printed on a white circle. Inside that room, roughly the size of a small walk-in closet, the fluorescent lights crackled to show 4 holes in walls, all lined with duct tape and spaced out with just enough room to rub shoulders with the person beside you. On the second door, a red circle with a picture of a crowing rooster. It opened to a narrow pathway that encircled 3 sides of the first room.

Deb has the timing of the shift change at the auto parts plant across the street down to the seconds. She was a regular at what she called "the docks". "We've got 28 minutes til 1st shift starts, and 36 minutes til first bell, so use that hand motion I showed you, it will make it go faster." she says reaching for the knob. "And don't take any less than 20 this time".

"Excuse me darlin.." a low voice croons walking out of the "Cat door", wiping running mascara from the corner of his eye and stuffing a folded stack of dollar bills into black spanx.

Deb, 18, had taken Marcy under her sexual wing about 6 months ago when they met at a party. Deb knew they would be bff's when during her dare portion of a game she was tasked with making out with another female, and Marcy didn't flinch when picked. She had a similar story at home with divorced parents who were overworked and under-involved, and spent a lot of nights sleeping on Marcy's floor.

Stepping inside the dimly lit, small room, their sneakers made a crisp peel sound on the sticky concrete floor. "Do you think Joey's a homo?" Marcy casually wonders as they wait.

"I think he's just metro, and too into fucking himself to worry about other guys" Deb laughs, "but he did ask me to finger his ass the first night we had sex" and there's a shuffling behind one of the holes. "You're up sunshine".

Marcy bends down in front of the opening and holds out 2 fingers, tapping them at bottom of the hole. A hand reaches through with two crinkled 10 dollar bills. Deb grabs one, and adjusts her book bag under her knees. The hands on the other side unclasp a belt and the pants drop, as a small flaccid penis pokes through. Marcy reaches in her pocket and checks the time on her phone, takes a deep breath and spits out her chewing gum.

Deb sits texting on her phone before her turn is up. A 20 dollar bill pokes through waving until she crawls over, tapping 4 fingers on the opening. The 20 waves back forth in a side to side motion, and Deb taps 3 fingers harder in deliberate knocks. The silent haggling is short lived as the stranger seems annoyed. The 20 retracts and tears the bill, poking one half through now. "Fine Asshole" Deb growls snatching her down payment.

The sounds of suction and saliva echo in the tight quarters. As Deb rearranges her position, quick knocks tap on her side of the room. "Finally" she mouths silently, looking over with a sly smile at Marcy who rolls her eyes. The other half of the ripped 20 drops into Debs lap. Shortly after, there are 2 loud thuds on Marcy's side of the room, as she quickly scurries to move her backpack out of the line of fire. A shaking hand reaches through the hole and hands in the other 10 dollar bill.

Straightening out her sweater, Marcy stops before opening the door, frozen with panic.

Outside she hears two men patting each other on the back from their conquest, "..and she had this tongue ring, it was warm and cold at the same time" a familiar voice says laughing.

Marcy flings the door open, "Reese!"

"Ma... Marcy?!", comes out in a broken terror, the color in his face drained just as quickly as the color of his post-ejaculate erection. Time stands still.

Deb pops her head out from around the corner, failing to muffle her laughs with the hand covering her mouth.  Reese slowly backs down the hallway looking at his feet and mumbling, "I... we just.. that was you..." quickly ducking out into the alleyway with his workmate, who's face could be the dictionary definition of fontrum.

"Well, at least now you're gonna be able to go to Joeys with me!" Deb cackles.

"Oh... Em... Jee..." Marcy laughs. "I just got a free pass for my entire teenage years" she says, poking the stud back through her tongue and screwing the ball back on, "and you just sucked my step dads dick".

Jack in the Box pt1

THIS LETTER SERVES PURPOSE. The bold, Impact font stood out on the post office bulletin board among the business cards, upcoming community yard sales sign, and directly below a sloppily handwritten "lost cat" flyer. The loosely hung, 8 by 11 piece of paper whipped in the wind each time the glass door swung open. There were tabs cut unevenly at the bottom, a few missing, with just an address listed. The smaller typeface read:

                                                           Can you keep up?

                             SWF late 30's, seeking above average male(in every aspect).
               
                                                        6pm Friday. Seasonal work.


"Who hangs something like this in a post office?" Jack mused out loud, to himself.

"I imagine a frail blonde woman, with small hands, who speaks in broken English and has a weak constitution" a soft voice said, popping out from behind a row of package lockers.

"See, I think this woman has some confidence. She's direct and determined. She likes to shop locally, and you have to appreciate that in-your-face innuendo. Plus the inherent mystery of 'is it a personals ad, is it some secret escort code, or is it just a poorly worded posting for some landscape work?'" Jack smiled, glancing at the woman out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful. Dark brown eyes, olive skin, and shoulder length, jet black hair with streaks of blonde. One half of her "Bettie Page" bangs dyed snowy white. She adjusted her square framed glasses and looked him up and down.

Trying not to stare, but wanting enough mental snapshots of this woman to fantasize about later, Jacks eyes darted from the ground, to the woman, to the poster, back to the woman. He blushed, "looks like some suckers have taken the bait though, even the 9's look like tiny fishhooks on a bobber" pointing to the torn away slats.

"Hmmmmm... okay, now tell me about this one" she said pointing to the lost cat flyer.

"Bah, that one's easy" clearing his throat. "Recently rescued, but not quite comfortable around the family doberman, or the overly affectionate 9 year old who stuffed him in a dollhouse for 6 hours upon arrival, this Tom cat saw the open 2nd floor window as an escape route and an acceptable risk of bodily harm to jump from that height, to flee from his captors" Jack said, grinning cleverly because he knew it was the truth. He had heard the entire story between the 9 year old and her waitress at the diner this morning over breakfast when she hung her flyer there.

"But it's a calico?" tilting her head slightly left.

"So?" he asked, confused.

"99% of the time the calico is female. You said Tom cat" she informed.

'Shit' he thought. 'Missed that one'.

"Thanks for playing and better luck next time" she said in a lower register with a game show host inflection, on her way out the door.

"Wait.." he yelled, "I didn't catch your name. Would you want to get a beer sometime?" Jack asked, ignoring all the stranger danger alarms going off in his head and pissing into the wind.

"Sure" she smiled, "Grab a tab."

Whoa Is Me (snippet)

The slight slur of the white haired teachers voice gave the indication he had kissed the flask in his coat pocket a few times in between classes at North High School, and the first night here at Columbus State Community College. His red nose that didn't change color with warmth told me it wasn't his first drink today. Brushing snow off his tweed jacket, his shaking hands wrote on the chalkboard, Mr. Salome. "Pronounced Mister Sal-oh-may. Not Sal-ohm, Sal... oh... may." "Now, for the first couple weeks I ask that when you speak, you first remind me of your name. This will be my 3rd year teaching this creative writing class.." he continued.

And with that I learned everything I needed to know about mister "Sal... oh... may". Divorced 4 years ago, mid 50's Sal here figured out that with his English teachers salary split in half, after his second failed marriage, he'd only have to work 23 more years to be able to afford to die alone in a retirement home, but picking up some night courses he could keep his comfortable lifestyle in the suburbs,passing out in his recliner each night with his faux leather shoes on.

"The difference in non-fiction vs fiction is information vs emotion" he read off his notes. "What we're going to focus on this semester is the emotion of prose. Prose is the romance of the relationship."

"Prose is pornography for cynics" I sarcastically interject.

Looking up from his folder, I can see the defeat in his eyes. Poor Sal just wanted to rattle off his prepared notes, take a few questions, and get back to his whiskey affair. "What's that? Mister...?"

"Sorry, Gilbert, but everyone calls me 'Gills'. I said there's no excitement in prose. Prose is a 3D printer with pre-programmed goals. It's efficiency is in the set of rules it's bound by. Completing a task perfectly, and moving on to the next project. I don't want to be a printer, I want to be a sculptor. I want the block of clay under my hands that I can shape with my only boundaries being the limitations of my imagination. The imperfections are the personalization of my piece."

The 18 year old's I'm surrounded by all roll their eyes at the 30 year old who thinks he's more clever than he actually is, and under their breath I hear "what an asshole". And with that, they've learned everything they need to know about me.

9 Things You Might Not Know About Me

1. I've played the guitar for a little over 20 years. I'm strangely self-conscious of it. I say strangely, because I will comfortably mingle at parties in underwear or naked.(Nudity is my staple ice beaker/pick-up line/punchline.) But, I get nervous at the thought of performing anything in public. So I'll stick to posting youtube videos of cover songs once a year.

2. I sleep wearing slippers.

3. I like my snaggletooth, 98% of the time. The other 2%, are those moments the first time I meet someone I'm interested in. Primal instincts kick in with a need to hide my flaws, and not scare off a potential future mate, so most of my smiles will be closed mouth. Otherwise, I wear it proudly, as a badge of individuality.

4. I am agoraphobic. I started having panic attacks around 14 years ago, before every other commercial on t.v. was an advertisement for a new anxiety medication, and I had no idea what the problem was. I let it go for years without telling anyone, until eventually it got so bad that I spent around 7 months where I didn't leave the house.

5. I've earned the reputation I have. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but it doesn't define who I am now. I like the stories I have to tell, and the lessons I get out of retelling them. I'm still learning, and I hope the definition of who I am a few years from now is a better person.

6. I got my nipple pierced in the summer of 1998 in Daytona Beach, Florida. I had it done on the second day of an 8 day vacation, passed out when it happened, and was carried to my hotel where I spent 6 hours sleeping in the lobby. The remaining vacation I didn't leave the hotel room, and spent 2 weeks sick at home until I took it out. I now have an irrational fear of needles.

7. I would like to write something of substance, someday. I've taken around a dozen writing classes/workshops online in the last year. I think I have a unique view of the world, and an entertaining experience pool to draw from. Not living up to my own judgement is one of my biggest fears.

8. I spend hours a day in the youtube wormhole, watching spoken word/slam poetry videos, 90's billiards matches, fail compilations, and live performances of  obscure musicians.

9. I am not living up to my potential.

Whoa Is Me. (Chapter 1)(Character Introductions)(Rough Draft v2)

"I'm gonna tell you a story about Gilbert Hayden. And I'm gonna tell you the story in "first person", because perspective changes everything."


The Ohio winters brutal January air turned my cheeks a matching shade of red to the scarlet OSU toboggan covering my ears. Pulling the cap off, and stuffing it into the pocket of my jean jacket, I caught a glimpse of my disheveled appearance in the Coors mirror as I walked into "Enablers Saloon".

"You'd make one beautiful hobo" I thought to myself, pulling the triggers on my two loaded finger pistols.

Quickly scanning the room, I focused my attention on a middle aged couple being served their food. Still shaking from the cold, I rubbed my hands messily through my hair and headed towards their table. After a glance over my shoulder and a deep breath, I waited for the waitress to leave as I slid in the empty booth next to them.

With a concerned look painted on my face, I quickly whispered, "listen, you two look like nice people, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd hate for you to get caught up in...."

At that exact moment the brass bell above the entry door chimed. Their gaze followed my nervous eyes as I shifted to watch a long haired, thick bearded, grizzly man walking in carrying a motorcycle helmet painted with a flaming letter P, a matching set to the P patch sewn on my jean jacket. Slowly unzipping and reaching inside his black leather coat, the intimidating figure carried his 6' 6" frame with purpose towards the bartender. His leather boots crunched and squealed with each step, only pausing for a brief moment to turn and watch the middle aged couple trip over a pub table as they scurried out the door. The waitress walked back out from the kitchen and recognized the familiar scene.

"Dammit Gill! You're paying for the tip on that shit this time!" she bellowed, "and you're 25 minutes late, asshole!".

"Put it on my tab"  I mouthed, flashing a car salesman smile, while picking up the bacon double cheeseburger triumphantly. "Hey Chuck" I yelled, motioning to the large, bearded man, "you want some fries?"

"Did you just pull your second "Rope-a-Dope" this week?" Chuck said with a laugh. "You're gonna run out of suckers to keep falling for that".

Anthony Charles Britton was one of my best friends. A self-described, aspiring stand up comic, who had never been behind a microphone, but gave himself  the stage-name "Fat Tony". We all called him "Too Much Chuck", for his loudmouthed alter ego after he had a few beers in him. His dark sense of humor was a bit much for most normal people to stomach, but our group of friends had been conditioned to it. His was definitely an abrasive personality, but we were his biggest fans, and I was forever indebted to him from a childhood incident that I'll get into later.

"I've got a new bit I'm working on, lemme test it out" he said, grinning like a child showing off a new toy.

His decibel level always went up a notch when he went into "Fat Tony" mode. Throwing on his sunglasses, he cleared his throat,

"It's a strange point in every 13 year old boys life when the Fruedian complex kicks in and you realize you want to sleep with your mother" he said fighting back a smile. "Especially since mine was in a wheelchair. Putting on the brakes in that relationship just meant she couldn't roll away!"

"Ba-dum-tshhh" the waitress groaned, popping out from around the corner. "He's been been dying to get that one out all week" she said, kissing Chuck on the cheek.

"Ahh c'mon babe, that's grade-A comedy beef right there, right Gill?" he eagerly asked, looking for approval.

"Nah Trish, it's funny." "I just don't know what kind of crowd you think you're going to appeal to with jokes like that... when you do finally get up on stage" I said, jabbing at his stage fright.

Trish was Chuck's longtime girlfriend, new roommate, and 12 weeks pregnant with their first child. She waitressed at night and spent her days working on finishing her nursing degree. Theirs wasn't a storybook romance, but more of a Jeckyl and Hyde. Colliding personalities, but in the end, they were the same person.

"Don't egg him on, he's gonna have an extra mouth to feed shortly, and open mic's don't pay the bills" she pleaded.

"Who's doing open mic's?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm goin straight to Madison Square Garden to film my HBO comedy special".

"Alright lovebirds" I interjected, " I gotta go play barback. Trish, have you seen Sydnee tonight?"

Sydnee was my business partner, as the other half owner of "Enablers". He was "the voice of reason" in our group, and even only being a few years older, he was a responsible father figure to all of us. We bought this place around 4 years ago, with low expectations and out of fear of having to focus on an actual career someday. Things were going good with profits finally in the black, but neither one of us were retiring anytime soon. He was also my soon to be brother-in-law, and one of my oldest friends.

"He ran to pick up our liquor order, but Saydee's in the office, doin' the books" Trish said, pointing upstairs.

Saydee Stills, my beautiful fiance. I joked when we were 10 years old that I was going to marry her someday, and it only took 18 years for the timing to be right. She graduated from the University of Michigan with an accounting degree, and in most circles, with me being an OSU grad, our relationship was likened to a 1950's interracial marriage. I had to take some beatings for it, verbally and physically, but she was worth every bruised ego, and broken nose, both times.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet."

I like to believe there's a Normal Rockwell-esque parallel universe, where our names are the literal definitions of our identity. Our fathers are all named "Earnest", serious, showing conviction and full of zeal. Our mothers are named "Daisy", like the delicate flower, fragile in a strong breeze, but always standing tall. Our brothers, "Buddy", are honest and loyal to a fault. Our sisters are named "Charity", selfless, giving and kind. Then there's our best friends, "Richard", which is also accurate. This is the only world where the name "Pilot Inspektor" has any real value.

Dating over 30 is a lot like being a hotel bellboy, "Excuse me mam, may I carry your baggage?"

Slacker. I just realized it's been over 3 years since updating my Match.com profile. As a 33 year old man who's spent the majority of the last 10 years being single, you get used to being lonely. I've sampled a few different flavors, and taken a few test drives, been in love, and in hate. And I've come to the realization that women are godly creatures, confusing, and worthy of praise as long as you find the right deity. The right description of myself should be guaranteed to increase wetness for some Divine being. Here's my renovated biography:

Columbus.craigslist.org>For Sale>Free
"Don't wait, act now, this amazing offer won't last long. Up for grabs is one slightly used, but broken in old soul. This innocent looking baby face is a masterful disguise for the high mileage, and daily wear and tear on these aged bones. I am weakened at the bends, but not yet broken. Most of my time is spent between perfecting my functioning alcoholism, avid masturbation, and moonlighting as a nudist superhero. I have a snaggletooth, sometimes sleep wearing slippers, and love animals. I am circumcised, skilled with nunchucks, and a generous lover. I am honest, almost to a fault. I have an affinity for short haired brunettes, and a magnetism to those, lightly "touched" by hysteria. I am currently working on a genetic code to shrink humans by 97% to breed a master race of seahorse jockeys, and on a rainy Saturday afternoon it would not be unlikely to find me picketing alongside amputees against the discrimination of the Hokey Pokey. If you feel like you could keep up on this roller coaster to greatness, find me on facebook, I'd love to have a partner in crime."

Does this narrative make me sound too picky?

God's Punchlines

Close your eyes and picture this(don't actually close your eyes, keep reading).

  Imagine a colorless world. A playground, packed with children, all with hair, skin, and eyes the purest white you've ever seen. Innocent, and eagerly awaiting their turn on the slide, a dark tunnel ready to deliver these precious angels to anxiously awaiting parents in maternity wards all over the world. God, in whatever form you envision him, is sitting at the top. There is a pair of scissors and an endless box of straws beside him. He pulls out a single straw and cuts it into three uneven pieces. A group of children, excited and nervous step forward. God holds out his fist, and in front of him holds the three straws, all evenly as not to reveal their sizes.

  "Go ahead, don't be afraid", his baritone voice gives a calming effect. The first child inches forward and pulls a medium straw from the giant stone hands. "Good choice" the voice booms. God lays his hand on the boy's shoulder, turning his skin a golden bronze, hair black, and eyes brown. He shuffles the boy forward and directs him into the darkness.

  Next, a girl approaches, chances slimming, but still hopeful. Her frail hand grabs a straw.  Hesitant and wavering, she pulls the long straw and gives a shining grin of relief. "Excellent" God says in an approving tone. He pats her on the head, ruffling the long locks that turn to a sunshine yellow, and eyes vivid blue. No need for direction, the girl runs and springs head first into the chute.

  The last boy, defeated before he even got a chance, trudges up to his Maker. Dejected and demoralized, he pulls the short straw, knowing what looms. A swift pat on the back lurches the boy forward, turning his hair a luminous shade of copper orange, eyes green, and skin a shade even lighter than the purest white you tried to imagine. "Better luck next time kid", the voice gives the most genuine laugh in the history of laughter, as the boy fades into oblivion.

gin·ger/ˈjinjər/
1.  Noun:  A hot fragrant spice made from the rhizome of a plant. It is chopped or powdered for cooking, preserved in syrup, or candied.
2.  Verb: To treat or flavor with ginger
3.  Adj:  A derogatory term for any supposed human bearing reddish/orange hair. Genetically inferior and lacking the melanin necessary to sustain long periods in the sunlight, these mythical beasts are normally shamed into lives of ridicule and seclusion. 

  The word "Ginger" is the "N word" of our generation. Twenty-five years from now school children will be given detention for being overheard in class saying "ginga please", only to defend themselves with, "I'm allowed to say it, one of my best friends is ginger". If humans as a species ate their young, gingers would be a mother's first meal post-birth, to spare them a life of mockery and humiliation.

Disclaimer: This author does not promote the discrimination of any person or persons, unless they really deserve it.

Death is worth every penny.

 Staring ahead, behind the wheel of your car you ask yourself, "is today going to be the day?" You've lived a charmed life. Cheated death at every corner. Every tractor trailer changing lanes in front of you on the highway, every walk outside in a thunderstorm, even the chicken pox you had at age 7 would've been a death sentence 150 years ago. Today you welcome the dangers, fearlessly inviting the dance with the grim reaper. You reject the phobias of a mortal man. "I am invincible". This existential meditation plays out in a millisecond of thought until a  muffled voice interrupts your focus, "if your screen's correct that'll be $6.91, please pull around".

The Perils of Manscaping.

  The average male body contains roughly a gallon and a half of blood, accounting for 12lbs of total body weight. On that Saturday afternoon, I joined a weight loss program that I pictured in bold red letters on the cover of Women's Health magazine's May issue, "Look great in that bikini, shed those last 2lbs in 2 minutes!"

  There's a rush of pride that overcomes all men naked in front of a bathroom mirror. Gut sucked in more than usual, triceps slightly flexed, while leaning over the sink so the light accentuates the outline of distant relatives to what used to be pectoral muscles, and hides the small stretch marks, slightly discolored in the crease of the armpit. In the most primitive sense, what woman could possibly resist? And when she saw me tonight on our 6 month anniversary, knowing the forethought that went into my grooming adventure, she had to be overwhelmed with desire and appreciation.

  Lukewarm water puddling in the sink, the new disposable razor lays on the white porcelain like it were resting on a satin pillow. The mp3 player attached to a docking station switches to Otis Redding,  prophetically setting the mood for the impending slow dance. "Do I need a razor or lawn mower for this job?".  I cleverly grin at my reflection, as if I just made the crowd at Madison Square Garden piss their pants in laughter. The extensive debate of plastic razor over beard trimmers plays out one last time. "You've shaved your face for years, just follow the grain and you can throw it away when you're done", "but it is fairly thick, and let's be honest, if it weren't for those bottom 2 ribs you'd have your face down there all the time anyway". The razor seemed more sanitary.

  The artistic side of me pictured the creative ways I could style and shape my manhood's mane: the landing strip, the Superman triangle, my initials, her initials, the soul patch that when standing on my hands would look like Hitler with a droopy nose? "Why am I standing on my hands?" I thought. This was a vital and important decision, as manscaping, when done correctly, was like looking in a rear view mirror. "Objects may appear larger than they really are".

  "You've been in there a while, is everything okay?" she yelled from the bedroom. "Just walkin the dog" I said. Our own little inside joke that would take on new meaning when she realized later what I was really doing.

  The shaving gel was unfamiliar and crisp like the hands of the Asian doctor in 7th grade that prodded, checking for a hernia in my first physical. "This isn't so bad" I thought to myself as I took those first few swipes. "It's actually kind of soothing, and this revitalizing additive might actually have a placebo effect and make me more youthful tonight". Distracting thoughts as my legs inched farther and farther apart. "Is that a new mole or has it always been under...", my eyes expand and eyebrows raise as I feel a slight twinge.

  People who survive traumatic situations always use the phrase, "my life flashed before my eyes", and until then I never truly understood how accurate that was. In a matter of 30 seconds my thought process changed from, "shit, i need to get a cloth", to "it's less than a quarter inch cut, how is there this much blood", to "Oh God! I wish I'd paid more attention in my Jr. High anatomy class. Was this going to diminish all future erections? Would this blood regenerate or was there a reservoir that I'd just depleted valuable resources from?", confirming that blood loss in one head does affect the other.

  As I lay bleeding on the icy tile, consciousness became a drifting luxury, half from the blood loss, half from the sight of my own blood, and 100% because of the sight of my own blood loss from my genitals. Before the blackout I managed to unlock the bathroom door and rustle around making enough noise to draw attention. The last memory I recall is the sight of pure fear and worry on the most beautiful face I'd ever seen.

  Fading glimpses of paramedics asking for blood type and medical history, and the tight grip of my savior locked onto my hand filled that carriage ride to my local emergency room. The doctors made the decision for me to go fully clean shaven, to sterilize the area for my two stitches. Laying there, during the transfusion, I heard the sweet words that solidified my love for the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The paper of my hospital gown crinkled as she leaned in and whispered in my ear, "next time you're thinking of walking the dog, tell me and I'll hold your balls out of the way".

I will tell you in another life, when we are both cats.

Cats. That one word can encapsulate an entire novel of arrogance, entitlement, indifference, and disdain usually reserved for autobiographies of 16th century nobility. Haughty isn't a strong enough adjective to assign these lofty creatures. We coddle, pamper, and indulge every fleeting pass hoping our attention will be acknowledged and affection will be returned. In some religions, reincarnation is the passing of the soul to a being greater than the life before. One can only assume if Utopia exists, that is surely where cats transcend, as anything else would be a demotion. I fear death a little less thinking I may be awarded rebirth as a 40 year old single woman's "Not Mr. Right, but Mr. Right Meow".

Please open your books to Chapter 1. There won't be a test, but the subject matter may be reviewed later.

 I'm convinced all the world's greatest ideas have come in the moments before falling asleep. In that time span I am an ingenious inventor rivaled only by Nikola Tesla, an award winning songwriter with the storytelling prose of Charles Dickens, an international diplomat capable of sitting down North and South Korean officials for a friendly game of Scrabble... if I could just stay awake long enough to write down the details.

 From this moment on, I promise to keep these promises to myself: I will be afraid and still try anyway. I will expect to fail, and surprise myself. I will not waste my potential. I will get out of bed, and write down the details. Starting... now.