See No Longer

His name is Curtis. His eyes are green. He’s almost gone; I see it. Sometimes Curtis and I work graveyard shifts together in the airport restaurants, or else trade off solitary shifts in the dishpit. The dishpit is underground and smells like hot mold.

The dishpit has a pair of commercial dishwashing machines shaking and churning on the far side of the room. For each machine there is an industrial sink. Conveyor belts jut through the wall in several places and feed filthy dishes onto their warm awaiting surfaces.

Today, as I am trying to sweep the lunch rush sludge off the sink tops, a pristine white coffee cup tumbles out of the chute. Inside, there is a bright-blue sticky note. I’m curious and bored, so I carefully unfold the soaking wet paper.

The ink is runny but I know Curtis’ handwriting, all loops and no space. The note reads: “Where were you last night?” 

Usually I don’t think about anything as I work. Today, I cannot think of anything else. Until recently, this was not like him. Passive-aggressive notes delivered strangely. We were friends. But he has not been thinking clearly lately. Neither have I. 

I once met his daughter, Jenny, and his wife, whose name I forget. Another time Jenny looked at me and didn’t know. She was looking at somebody else. 

And then later I remember looking down at his wife, her jet-black hair gathered on the white sheets beneath her, dark eyes half-closed as our naked bodies pressed together. This was a strange thing – Iwould never have fucked her. Yet I had seen skin, felt hipbones and heard somebody’s laughter. I liked it. No one knew, not even her.

Each time the faces of Curtis’ family look at me, I feel whole. Often, I go back again to see these things, at night and in the day. I go back at work. I reach inside myself and go to him all the time.

Until about a month ago, after our night shifts, Curtis and I met for a drink at the bar on Terminal C. I would drink several lite beers and he would sip a single shot of whiskey with remarkable temperance, staring over at me with those exhausted eyes that never lost their understated confidence. The kind that see down into everything. I wanted to see like that, and often did.

The last time Curtis met me there, a couple weeks before today, he arrived late. He always came early to get back to his family as soon as possible without slighting me. On this particular Friday, instead of taking his customary stool, he remained standing and shifted from foot to hip to foot. When I asked him what was wrong, he glanced up and down the bar, behind us. Leered suspiciously at the bartender, a tolerant college kid we both knew well. Then Curtis leaned in and whispered:

There was another member of the staff, a new guy I’d never met or even seen. He was specific about that fact. I could never have met him. This guy, he said, was moving things around inside his locker. He believed that the new guy was stalking him. Claimed to have seen a figure out front of his house. Curtis said that he often heard the new guy behind him when they worked together, whispering strange comments, and he was always gone before Curtis turned around. And the new guy whispered things in Curtis’ ear that no stranger could have known. Things about Jenny, about his favorite drinks. What it meant when Curtis narrowed one eye and smiled at a person. I loved that.

Then he leaned in closer, and I could smell vodka on his breath — not his drink. 

He said, “I know it’s you.”

When I asked him how it could be possible, a shadow passed across his face. He froze. The TV from behind the bar lit up the whites of his eyes, spread so wide that you could see strips of white along the bottom. He dashed out of the bar. So you see why I prefer to look out from his eyes, and not from mine.

Since that day he won’t meet or speak with me. I peered around the corner of the break room last week and spotted him at my locker, jiggling the combination lock. When I replay our conversation in the bar and think about the note, I wonder what might be happening to my friend. 

All I do is dream my dreams – it’s pure fantasy. Nobody could know where my mind goes when it’s dark. I am safe and innocent.

I work six more hours in the pit, and next to my station a millipede lurks above the trash. I am not authorized to take it to the dumpster, or even leave through any door except the elevator I entered from. Security purposes, of course, you understand. The room is windowless and the vents, although powerful, are clogged with grease. After a first hour of blistering hot water, and the steam generated by droplets against half-eaten shrimp cocktail and empty cups of ice water, all the walls begin to sweat. 

My palms get slippery. I drop a cup. The shattering sound is what a person does after an injury, before they realize there will be pain. A sharp-edge inhale. I think of Curtis’ face. I hear the glass this way and am blaming him for my mind and hating him for his fucking note.

Where was I last night? I was here. He sawme here. I am always down here and I do not admit to leaving.

Usually somebody comes through the elevator to cover me for lunch. The person always used to be Curtis. His face was the first thing I understood on any day. Since the bar, he changed shifts. We don’t see each other anymore. Now I don’t see anyone I can understand. I crave the feeling of a shared glance between friends.

And today, of all days, the coffee cup note day, nobody comes at all. Why won’t somebody come? My break comes and goes, and my eyes begin to float over my hands, their work. I must eat. 

I claw back to the surface of the airport and take my 30 minute lunch alone. I sit over a wet ham sandwich: rye bread with a swirl and a tepid lettuce leaf dangling from the side.

And beyond the plate glass windows of terminal C, I watch the planes glow neon beneath the false dawn cast by downtown Denver. Although I want to give up, I look around for a new employee that could be the one Curtis mentioned. Of course, there is nobody like that. Curtis is working the greasiest breakfast rush in the airport, at Fiesta Taqueria, so I cannot ask him about the note until later. I buy and slam a half pint of vodka, return to the dishpit, and finish my shift submerged in a throbbing liquid silence.

***

When the work is done, I find Curtis in the locker room. My hands are shaking. He’s at the far end, changing out of his black uniform polo.

He turns around and greets me. “Hey, my dishpit friend!” I am shocked by his friendliness, and I am relieved we have seen each other’s faces and not looked away.

I ask him how life is, how his wife is doing, where does that shitty neighbor live again? And we talk. I mention it: “I got a note earlier,” I say.

“Oh, from Jenny? A note from Jenny, eh?” he asks gleefully, with a strange high-pitched cackle that I’ve never heard from him. An uncharacteristic joke, too, both because Jenny is his daughter’s name and we both know Curtis wrote the note. Or is Jenny his wife’s name? This happens when I panic; I forget the details I want to know the most.

“No,” I got a note from us. I got a note from you. You got a note from me. You got a note from me. I got a note. “I got a note,” I manage.

He asks, “What do you mean? What kind of note?” even though he knows the answer already. Narrows one eye. Smiles crookedly. The expression does not mean what it used to.

My head thrums, it is speechless, jaw locked in place until he walks. Away. 

When he is gone I, myself, walk toward the escalator, pursued by the buzzing and the shouting of the world. Each footfall is an accusation, and every mumbled comment a shout directed at me. I run through the crowded terminal, bouncing off families with their baggage, pinballing out into the parking garage. I slam my car door and with a last furious thump, my door muffles all the rage and anxiety of the world, and it pounds down ceaselessly.

As I drive home, the sicknesses of the world begin to fizzle back in through the gaps. The wind gusts, an assault. There is only one way to escape. I go away from my mind, reaching out with thin blue tendrils from the bottom of nothing, the jellyfish tentacles which flail in the void like I am drowning in air. Then relief: the gauzy sound of Curtis singing in the car, “Bad company, and I won’t deny.” I found him. He is driving 90 miles per hour, going the wrong way on Highway 36 South. I pull in closer.

“Bad Company, until the day I die.” I feel the dial as he turns the music up. I smell the coke in his cigarette – I taste the smoke bitter, like a corroded penny. 

Behind us, blue-red-white-blue-red-white light leaps onto the highway and Curtis panics, I feel his panic like a rapidly expanding balloon in the throat, popping, shredding, and he kicks in the gas. The back end of our car slips left to right, he overcorrects, we are losing control and the wheel tears out of the other hand. Inertia is spinning them into the concrete barrier, slamming into it. A tearing sensation. We are separate. I float into dark, all abuzz with colorless white noise. The nothingness behind eyelids.

***

I wake up in my own bed. Dull morning light filters weakly through the blinds. The apartment stinks. Take-out containers, trash, two cardboard boxes that have stayed taped for five years. 

First thing I feel is alone and I try to find the other presence. Curtis is not there, not beside me, perhaps not anywhere at all.

Why should he be? What a fucked up dream. That was not me; I was not there.

The sheets press on my arms. I must rise. Get down the hall. Twist on the shower. The water stings my forearms, speckled purple and red with bruises under the skin, like a grotesque new tattoo. Stumble out of the shower and look in the mirror. My chest is purple. A flat, diagonal, impossible bruise runs from my left shoulder to my right hip. Seatbelt. I was not there. It happened to him, not me. It didn’t even happen!

I want to wake up, wake up again, so I get back under my sheets. They stick to my raw forearms. Stand up. White sheets have streaks of blood. I look down at my arms and they are seeping, bleeding without cuts. Dizzying darkness presses me down onto the bed again. I sleep the static.

***

When I wake up, sweating face-down in the hot afternoon, light is filtering through my fifth-floor window. My sheets are crisp with blood, and my right collarbone sticks at the pillow. I have to know what we did the night before: the man with green eyes, Curtis, and myself.

I drive up Route 36 North from my house for fifteen minutes and back down Route 36 South, but I don’t see any signs of a crash. I turn around to drive North again. I am late for work. Five minutes away from my exit, I am pulled to a stop.

A plastic shard glitters on the pavement just a few yards ahead of the car. Looking closer, I see a shard of reflector from inside a headlight. To the right, down the steep embankment, a youngish tree stands ahead of the rest with a massive gash in its side. The fresh sap bleeds.

And further beyond, hidden in the shadows that gather in forest dusk, there is a low moaning. My first thought: roadkill. A dying deer or dog, maybe, hit so hard that its haunches tore apart the impacting headlight and sent shattered pieces flying along with the carcass down into the trees below.

But then there is the gash in the tree. Too deep a cut for bone-flesh impact. I walk down the hill, drag my fingers through the sap of the tree’s cut as I pass by. A smell cloying, like honey. Not at all pine sap. Something else is wrong, too, first felt. Then the moaning I heard grows quieter. Stops.

I begin to run, my feet crackling along the pine needles. The sound of the highway disappears in the irreconcilable stench of honeyed sap that now permeates the forest. I see another shattered piece of reflector, a splinter of plastic buried in the ground, and a dark tear through the pine needles that cover the rest of the forest floor. Tucked beneath a cluster of trees, I see the still-smoking remnants of the car that Curtis wrecked last night. With me.

Curtis is draped over the warped front bumper, hanging aloft the wreck like so much dripping wet laundry. His eyes are green and pure and dead. I know he was in the driver’s seat because the steering column bent back over itself and extends from the crumpled windshield beneath his body, like another broken limb.

Curtis’s forearms hang down over the bumper, bloodied like mine, scabbing over in almost the exact same places. I take his hand and I look into his face. I saw it all happening. I had been with Curtis as he drove. And I had been there before, behind him as he worked, slept with his wife, loved his child. I was his new guy, standing not behind but beside his mind, a passenger. And now I am whispering to his body about Jenny and his wife and the drinks at the bar and all the beautiful ways that only his face could move.

I only wanted to know every angle of you.

Carefully, leading with my fingertips, I lift Curtis down from the bumper and lay him in the pine needles. His head rolls left.

Down here, among this wreckage, there is nothing for me. I have it all inside. Back to the highway. Listen to the traffic scream past. Wash the dishes, scrub the floors. I will hide myself in the sub-basement, surrounded by the rhythm of airport byproducts. I won’t promise not to do this again.

The End of Most Things

God spoke to me in a dream last night, and I was informed that the end of the world would be much more absurd and a bit less dramatic than most of us assume. It will begin with squids rising from the earth. The squids will be equipped with flamethrowers on each tentacle for some reason. Like teenagers, the squids will be angry, horny, and confused. After they shoot flames and try to mate for a while they will turn into land dwelling dolphins. The dolphins will have caustic urine and full bladders. Said dolphins will urinate on a wide variety of human beings. Half of said humans will dissolve at the touch of the urine, but half will turn into clowns. The clowns will masturbate in public for reasons unrelated to Diogenes. This cycle will repeat for a few days, and then teddy bears will sprout from the ground. The teddy bears will split open, and those murder hornets that you’ve heard so much about will emerge. The murder hornets will carry with them miniature bass guitars, playing ominous basslines while they destroy humanity. 

But wait, there’s more. Even after mankind is vanquished, the apocalypse will continue. Specifically, giant bagpipes will fall upon the earth, cracking it open. Lava will flow over the land. The lava will turn into sentient creatures who will, unfortunately, begin holding committee meetings. While talking, the lava beings will melt the earth’s surface. Eventually, the earth will devolve into an amalgamation of tiny Geraldo Riveras. Then, it will wither away into ash, disappearing from the universe. This is how our world will end. Please plan accordingly. 

Dive Deep

My husband messaged his girlfriend about me. His careless text said she gave better head than me. I told my therapist I didn’t give a shit. But deep down, I gave a big massive shit. And to be honest, I am slightly less upset about my spouse’s repeatedly cheating on me than I am pissed about his criticism of my fellatio skills. He knew I could work my mouth around his cock like a boss, and so, well, fuck him! “Does this make me sound shallow?” I asked my therapist.

My therapist said my marriage is like an inground swimming pool with a deep and shallow end. And I mostly waded in the shallow end of my marriage, where I kept my head above water, breathing freely. I avoided the deep end whenever possible, refraining from diving down too deep to the bottom of things because I knew if I investigated the bottom closely, I would suffocate and drown. “Am I a coward?” I asked.

  A few weeks after finding my husband’s traitorous text, I told my therapist I got drunk, met a cute musician, and blew his fucking brains out in the parking lot of a local Chinese restaurant. The musician said I had “mad skills” as he pulled up his pants and it made me smile. “It didn’t feel wrong,” I admitted.

My therapist asked why I didn’t leave my marriage, a loveless and unfulfilling union. And I said I thought a therapist is supposed to be like a lifeguard, teaching me how to swim and dive deep, keeping me from drowning. But the therapist said it was his job to ask me the questions so I can figure out for myself where and when I needed to dive. “Fuck that shit!” I exclaimed, “I can barely swim!”

My marriage pool continued to fill with stagnate water and disloyal semen, eventually, jamming its filter. Soon I stopped thinking of my therapist as my lifeguard and considered him nothing more than a pool guy who skims and vacuums the pool, stabilizing it with chemicals until the water becomes crystal clear. But my pool remained cloudy and unswimmable, so I fired the pool guy. And then a year after my husband’s betrayal, I threw myself a life preserver and filed for divorce, draining my own damn pool.

Showtime!

The decor in my psychiatrist’s waiting room isn’t retro. It’s just old. And the green shag carpet always makes me sneeze. The worst part is I can’t see his office door from my seat on the stained floral-print couch. Every couple of minutes I wander over to the hallway to make sure Dr. Kildare isn’t waiting for me. 

I clutch the bright blue pill in my hand, Geodon 40 mg. I used to take the lower dose pill, half blue and half white. I must’ve said something wrong at my last appointment—’cause this was what came out of the new bottle. I usually take it with breakfast, but I don’t like when my meds get changed without anyone telling me. So, here I am walking around with it, like it’s a precious gem or something.

 Dr. Kildare greets me from the hallway, “John, good to see you. Thanks for being patient while I finished my calls. Come on back to one of my rooms and tell me what brings you in early.” 

I follow him back into his office. His shoes are terrible: white, clunky and sticking out below his pleated dockers. The soles are worn out at funny angles and just looking at ‘em makes my knees hurt.

 I like the brown leather couch in his office better than the floral print one in the waiting room. At least someone made a pretense of cleaning this one.

“How have you been?” Dr. Kildare asks.

“Okay. Surviving.”

“What’s in your hand?”

“The blue one.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“Yeah—but can I tell you a story first?”

Dr. Kildare repositions in his chair. He sets his pen down on his yellow notepad, which I’m pretty sure isn’t a compliment. He nods for me to continue. I feel patronized and want to clamp shut, to curl back down inside myself. But I don’t get a lot of chances to talk to other people.

“It starts on Friday, when I went to the movies with my wife. After the show, I was using the urinal when this massive guy stands next to me, which was strange ’cause there were a lot of other options. I was doing my best to keep my eyes forward and ignore that this guy is looking over at me, but then he sneezes. It was loud and wet. The germy droplets tinkled down onto my pecker. Which is a weird sensation, if you’ve never had it happen before.”

I look up at Dr. Kildare. He’s not smiling, but he’s no longer staring at the blue pill hidden in my hand. I knew this was a good story.

“Doc, I know we’ve been working on me standing up for myself more in the moment, but I ain’t ashamed to admit that I didn’t say a thing. The guy was twice my size and I didn’t have any one-liners prepared for that particular situation. I just waited for him to zip up and leave. When I went to wash my hands, I wondered if I should wash off down there too, but there were kids in the bathroom. So, it didn’t seem like a good idea.

“I should’ve done something different though, ’cause by the time I got home, my dick was sick. It kept sneezing and coughing away, which when you’re wearing pants, feels as muffled as it sounds.”

Dr. Kildare looks like he wants to stop me. I know he doesn’t like it when I talk so much about dicks—I mean who does? But I gotta get this story out.

“I had to do something. So, I opened a can of chicken noodle soup and warmed it in the microwave. My wife caught me in the kitchen, which was real awkward. Me with my pants around my ankles, pressed against the counter, standing on my tippy toes with my man-parts dunked in the soup. 

“My wife’s a gem, though. She got over the shock quick, bundled me off to bed, and took care of me. Course that meant she got sick too, which wasn’t pretty. You’d think a vagina sneezing would be cute—but it’s not.”

I look up at Dr. Kildare with hopeful anticipation.

He frowns and adjusts his glasses before answering. “I’ve asked you to limit vulgarity in my office. Don’t make me do it again.” He looks at his watch and then back at me. “I have to see my next patient. Take your medication and I’ll check on you when I’m done.”

Dr. Kildare leaves the room with his notepad. 

I stand up to follow him, but the doorway ain’t there anymore. The walls are gone too. I’m on an empty stage with a single microphone. The amphitheater in front of me is filled with the rustle of people waiting to be entertained. The spotlight’s so bright, I can’t quite make any of them out.

I walk up to the microphone, still clutching my blue pill. When I cough, the hall fills with the amplified echoes of my discomfort. I’m nervous, but I’ve always dreamed of making it big.

“You all get charged a copay to get in tonight too?” I ask the quiet crowd. “If so, I hope your insurance is better than mine. Mine seems to think it stands for con-pay. ’cause I’m the only one getting conned into paying anything around here…”

Nothing. Not even a chuckle. I grab the microphone and pace around the stage, trying to think. I’m not gonna get many more chances.

“Did you hear the local university is offering a course where the students watch the Tour de France backwards…”

I pause and count to three. Giving ‘em time to mull it over.

“…It’s gonna be called Reverse Cycle-ology.”

A single laugh. Short and awkward, but still a laugh. It gives me hope and spurs me on.

“I gotta tell you all that while I’m thrilled to be here, I just can’t wait to get home and rip off my wife’s panties…”

I hook my thumb into the waist of my cotton boxers and pull at ‘em. Grimacing real big, so even the people in the nosebleeds can see.

“…’Cause the elastic in these things is killing me.”

That gets me a scattering of chuckles. 

“You all like the wife jokes and potty humor, huh? Well, who am I to argue?

“So, the other night the old lady and I went out for dinner. It was a real fancy place. Didn’t even have prices on the menu. Now I know what you’re all thinking. That’s not such a great idea for an agoraphobic with schizoaffective disorder. But that’s where you’re wrong. How else are we gonna get all these great stories? Can’t argue with that logic, can you? 

“Besides, I had my wife with me. She was wearing a real pretty blue dress with a low-cut white sweater over the top. She’s a real gem. Did I say that already?”

“John,” a deep voice rumbles, filling the room and interrupting my bit. “It’s time to take your medication.”

The spotlight moves to my hand. I uncurl my sweaty fingers. The blue pill glows in the bright light. 

I sigh.

“It’s been a pleasure entertaining ya’ll tonight…but it seems my time has come.”

I try to swallow the pill dry. It catches, a lump in the back of my throat. I gag and it comes spitting back out. I cough up a storm and before I know what’s happening, there’s a sharp jab in my right shoulder. 

I sink back down into the brown leather couch and sit there for I don’t know how long. The amphitheater walls constrict back into the tan-striped wallpaper of Dr. Kildare’s office. A foggy version of him pockets a syringe and small vial. He picks the blue pill off the rug with a tissue and drops it in the trash. His stern face pops into focus, a little too clear, and he offers me an off-white dixie cup. The water’s lukewarm and waxy.

“Feeling better?” Dr. Kildare asks.

“No.”

“Would you like me to call the hospital? A few days inpatient would allow you to safely stabilize on the new dose.”

“No.” 

I’ve been admitted to the psych unit before. It never helps, and I still haven’t paid off the three grand from last time.

“Will you at least promise to take your medication?”

I want to tell him that he’s the one causing all the problems by messing with my dosage. But I know better than to say that.

“Doc, I may be crazy—but I’m not stupid.” 

“Good. The intramuscular Geodon I gave you works quickly, but won’t last as long. Take a 40 mg pill as soon as you get home and I’ll add you on for a check-in Thursday morning.” 

The bus ride home is rough. The medication makes my blood heavy and my gut sick. There’s a kid with big green eyes standing on the seat in front of me. I ain’t got nothing for him. Not even a silly face to make him smile. 

Back in my studio apartment, I go straight to the bathroom and flush the blue pills down the toilet. Crawling into my single bed, I look up the half-life of Geodon. Then fall back onto my pillow. 

Only twenty-five hours ‘til I get back to Showtime!

The City of Angels (as told by Bukowski at the bar)

She was one of the good ones, but she was a whore. They all were. They all are. 

I was young and at the bar. I had worked a long shift at the factory and would often come in this place to wind down, drink a couple drafts, whatever I could afford after a day’s work. This gal comes in. She has this bright beautiful red hair. She’s in a dress, really showing her legs, you know. She walks in. The bar stops. The few other scumbags who are drinking while the sun is still out stop what they’re doing and look at her. The mugs on these guys, all of them: lonely, worn, some more so than mine, some less.

So she comes in and walks past me, and I smell her perfume, and I look at her. And she looks away, scared. I’m not a looker by any means, so I’m used to that look. There are empty seats all around me, but she takes a stool several spots down, I guess not wanting to be too close to this monster. She orders a drink, something red, something classy, you know those drinks sophisticated broads drink. I had four, maybe five dollars on me, so I offer to buy. 

I tell the barkeep, ‘Hey Jimmy, I got it.’ 

The leggy vixen looks at me, and man, she’s a looker, with that fiery red hair and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen, a total gem. Then she looks away and insists to Jimmy that she can pay her own way. 

I say, “Look. I offered to buy your drink. Let me buy your drink.” 

And she says, “Oh, thank you, but you really don’t have to.” 

And she plays with her hair some and looks off uncomfortably, so I insist. I’ve always been persistent when I want something. Why start if you’re not going to finish? 

She tells me “Thank you” and gives me a shy half-smile. 

I had only had a couple, so I was still pretty good with my words. I said to her, “Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to allow someone to be kind.” 

She takes a drink and looks straight at me with those eyes. I have that sense. I know that I just broke through to her, and now it’s only a matter of time for ugly-old-me to wrap those gorgeous legs around me. I ask her, “Where you from?” 

She asks me, “Why do you ask that? I can’t be from here?” 

And I say, “No. You can’t.” Again, I had only had a couple, so I was careful and aware and chose every word I said to her with pure precision. 

She tells me, “I’m from Atlanta.” 

“Ol’ Hot-lanta,” I say which makes her laugh a little. “I’ve done my fair share in Hot-lanta.” Really, I had never been to Hot-lanta. 

The conversation seemed to be there, but there was no movement. She was still way out of reach, several seats away. My beer was running low, and I was out of money, so time was ticking. I said, “Why don’t you come down here, and I’ll allow you to kindly buy me a beer like the kind gentleman I am?” That was it, my final attempt to try and close the deal. 

She sits there for a moment before standing up, picking her purse up off the bar, and walking in my direction. Imagine this bright red fireball with gams out of this world walking toward you. She sets her purse right down from me, orders two drafts from Jimmy, and slides onto the stool next to me. Jimmy brings over the drinks, and I cheers to her and we clink our glasses, and now I know she is mine. My face will be knee deep in that fiery crotch before too much longer. 

We carry on and laugh for a while about something, I don’t remember, and then she calls Jimmy to bring over two shots of whiskey. But she calls it bourbon like the lady she is. I can tell she’s buzzed because her cheeks are starting to match her hair. We take the shots. I look down at those fantastic legs, her dress riding higher than before, showing her magnificent thighs. 

We finish our beers, and I ask her, “So Hot-lanta, where you going?” My words are still there but beginning to lose ground. 

“The hotel I guess,” she tells me and then asks, “You want to walk me?” 

And with that, there’s no turning back for her, now. 

I say, “Yeah, I guess I can walk you. Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this City of Angels.”

We get back to the hotel she’s staying in which is three or four blocks up from the bar. It’s one of those really nice hotels, clean, smelling good. I’m dirty from a long day at the factory and half-drunk so I feel a little out of place in such a classy joint, but that’s okay. We get onto the elevator. The button is pressed. The doors slide together. The elevator begins to ascend, dinging with every floor we pass. I look over at her, and she smiles at me and then looks down, and I’m hoping she hasn’t sobered up enough to realize her situation. We don’t say anything, and I can’t wait to see where those racehorse legs lead to.

The elevator dings one last time, and we get off. She walks in front of me down the hall, swaying, her behind a beautiful piece of art. I’m no looker, you know, so I don’t often get a behind like that. So I’m excited, and I’m beginning to bulge, and I can’t wait to fuck her. I follow that behind into her room. The door closes behind us and she immediately attacks, kissing all over my mouth, aggressively. I rip the dress from her, and she unbuttons my belt, and we get at it. I mean, we really get at it. I worked that gal. I was proud of the job I was doing on her. I’ve got her bent over, over the bed, pushing the mattress halfway off the frame and onto the floor, and I’m slamming her as hard as I can, and she’s loving it and moaning. And then she gets quiet, and I say, “What’s the matter?” 

The next thing I know, she tenses up and constricts around my purple monster, and I keep going, and I’m about to blow. Then, she convulses, her insides tightening even more, and she hurls onto the bed, and I lose my load inside of her as I watch this chunky orange liquid spew from her mouth, covering the bed sheets. I’ve always hated the smell of vomit. Still inside of her, I gag and hurl all over her back. And then more comes. My vomit isn’t nearly as chunky as hers as it’s possible I hadn’t eaten in days. I’m just standing there, now, my cowardly cock between my legs, and she throws up again, that poor gal. 

I guess I fall asleep there, because I wake up the next morning with the sun coming beaming through the blinds of this vomit-flooded hotel room that now stinks like absolute death. She’s awake and dressed and looking like she did when I first saw her. 

“I’ve got to go to a meeting,” she says, “and then I have a flight to catch.” 

She’s looking into the mirror putting in one earring at a time behind that hellish red hair of hers. I’ve never been one to overstay my welcome, so I get up and find my pants and slide them on and then look for my shoes only finding one. I put it on. I pick up my shirt from the floor—there’re some orange vomit stains splattered on it—and place it over my head. I think I put it on backwards, I don’t know. Looking at her, I can’t believe such a beautiful creature graced me with her womanhood. I’m thinking as she looks at me that she is probably thinking that she can’t believe she allowed such a repulsive being to enter her, but oh well. People make mistakes. We all make mistakes. 

She walks me to the door, I’m hobbling in one shoe, off-balance. We walk down the hall, her beautiful behind swaying in front of me. We don’t say anything. We get onto the elevator. She presses the button, and the doors close. The elevator dings with every floor we pass, breaking up the silence. Then it dings one last time, symbolizing the finality of our fragile encounter, and the doors open. We step out and walk toward the entrance. The sun is bright and getting brighter as we approach. We walk outside and she hooks a right, but I need to go left, so I do. I turn back to see her beautiful behind swaying and those thoroughbred calves of hers. I want to call out to her, and it’s then I realize I never got the ol’ gal’s name. 

I stand there watching her, the sun really coming down, her swaying behind getting smaller and smaller before finally disappearing, lost forever in this City of Angels. 

***

Originally published in “Notes for a Dirty Old Birthday – Buk100” from Newington Blue Press

The Cry Shot

Forgot your own name some months ago.  Reinvention is the reason you leave when he asks you to go, from college dorm to his condo to be dressed in organza puffy sleeves, oversized JoJo bows in your hair, turned over to a “nanny” when he leaves — though this one’s only credentials are an obscene imitation in porn.  Plays you one where she spanked her employer with a thick bouquet of blooms in her fingers, offering only the thorns.   

Impressed him enough to procure her, like you, a girl he renames Dove to return to a childlike state to — if not undo, erase what she suffered before. Met you in a neurolinguistic programming chat room.  After he heard your sad incestuous childhood story, he swore to replace it.  Give you a childhood again.  Nap when he tells you.  Confess every fantasy, sin. 

Open your legs to strangers because he knows best who and what’s right.  Bathe every wound they inflict in his honor.  Turn you on and your Hello Kitty nightlight for tales of bad girls he hopes you to turn out to be, raised this time without abuse or Christianity, just consensual use, with some bruises, and some iPhone videoed tears.  

Collates digital files of you sobbing into labeled DVD’s reflecting the seasons and years of indignities.  Revisits them while you are sleeping when he is in need 

of release — how many ways will beauty suffer for your insatiable beast who placates his needs with these records to give you some peace?  Bespoke porn he directs and demands to service his own special niche where the most climatic scene is not a cum shot.  It is the closeup of a splotched, wet, weepy face of a womanchild who should run but will not. 

‘Fingers In The Fan’ is another odyssey about Santiago, a recovering addict, ex-con, womanizer, gambler and ill-fated pilgrim, along with his ex cellmate, loose cannon, alcohol and drug fueled, Colombian carnal, Johnny Rico. 

While working as drug smugglers for a Mexican Cartel, the two encounter situations of structured devastation. This collection of short storíes is filled with the same gritty dialogue, dark humor and adventurous mayhem Santiago has popularized in his previous books. ‘Fingers In The Fan’ complements the Bohemian tales of bizarre and twisted states of mind first exposed in  ‘Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild’ and ‘Quicksand Highway’.

Adding to the book’s irresistible appeal is that these cautionary tales are well written. Santiago’s prose is clear and his language concise: spiced with the Spanish of his streetwise bilingualism. The indelible portraits of even minor characters in other stories of life’s disappointments make this collection something to get high on.

Dave Wolff
Editor/Publisher
Asphyxium Magazine
Cerebral Agony Magazine

BUY A BOPY HERE

5 Star Review

A lot of bad happened to Jimmy in a short amount of time that led to his walk on that lonely, dark road.  He didn’t have a destination in mind, other than a fresh start, wherever that may be.  After his wife had a miscarraige, his whole world broke down drastically and turned to absolute shit.  His drinking amplified, which led to physical altercations with his wife, an arrest, and a pink slip from the factory where he worked.  A court ordered stint at a sober living facility was short lived due to his continued drinking.

As Jimmy walked the desolate road, he pondered the decisions and events that led him to where he was at that very moment.  This frustrated and further depressed him.  He wanted nothing more than to jump in front of the next set of headlights that sped by.  However, the lack of cars on this stretch of road made that plan highly unfeasible.  Jimmy knew that he was damaged and would never be a pleasant memory in anyone’s mind.  He just didn’t see the point in going on living.  He thought, maybe there will be a rocky ravine up ahead.  Then I could just disappear, and never be found.  That thought alone was enough for him to take faster and wider strides toward the darkness in front of him.

A car could be heard approaching from behind and the landscape in front of him became illuminated.  The vehicle slowed and pulled next to Jimmy.

“Hey there friend.  Are you alright?”

“Yeah.  I’m good.”

“There’s nothing out here for miles. Get in and I’ll take you closer to where you need to be.”

“Really, I’m fine.  Go on.”

“Nonsense.  Get in. I insist.”

Jimmy reluctantly got in the car with the stranger.  Jimmy thought, what’s the worst that could happen?  Maybe he’ll be a serial killer, and do the hard work for me.

“My name is Carl,” the driver said, with his hand extended.

“Jimmy,” he responded, as he shook Carl’s hand.

“Where are you headed?” Carl asked.

Jimmy remained looking forward, and said, “West.”

“Ok.  West is pretty vague, but I can get you a little closer in that direction.”

They rode in silence for the good part of an hour, when Carl pulled into a gas station.

“Need to fuel up.  You need anything?” Carl asked, as he got out of the car. 

“No, I’m good.” 

Carl went into the store and returned with a six pack of beer and a pint of whiskey.  He opened the passenger door and handed the items to Jimmy.

“Here.  It looks like you need this.”

Carl began fueling the car as Jimmy opened and turned up the pint.  The entire pint and one of the beers were emptied by the time Carl got back in the driver’s seat.

“Wow. You don’t waste any time do you?  I knew you needed a drink.”

“Yeah, thanks. You have no idea.”

As the two were back on the road, the alcohol allowed Jimmy to open up a little about what had recently transpired in his life.  Carl reminded Jimmy that life had a way of being shit sometimes, but it could always be worse, and that there was a good chance that it would get better.  Jimmy wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk.  He just sighed and continued on the beer.  Carl told Jimmy about a young woman in a purple dress that he gave a ride to recently on the same stretch of highway as him.  How she was at the end of her rope as well, running from an abusive husband.  However, by the end of the ride, he had her smiling and confident in her decision to leave and start anew.

“See.  Sometimes you just need someone else to put it all in prospective for you,” Carl said in a comforting tone.

“I guess you’re right,” said Jimmy, as he contemplated what Carl said.

The horizon began to brighten, as Carl slowed and turned right into a closed restaurant.  There were no cars in the parking lot, and most of the lights on the inside were off.  Carl pulled around to the rear of the building near the back door.

“This is my buddy’s place. I make runs for him roughly two times a week.  He’s not the most social guy.  As a matter of fact, he doesn’t really talk.  I just have to drop off a few supplies and we’ll be on our way.  Come on in.  I’ll see if he has anything ready yet.”

The two of them got out of the car and Carl knocked on the rear door.  A short, fat man with greasy hair and sauce stains on his apron opened the door.

“Bubba. How’s it going? This is Jimmy. Can you fix him a couple of your famous sandwiches?”

Bubba grunted and gave a slight nod.  Carl showed Jimmy to the counter in the front and pulled out a stool for him.

“Bubba has the best barbeque around. He’s been in the paper and even on the local news.  Look at all these awards,” Carl said, as he pointed at framed pieces of paper above the counter.

Jimmy looked around, nodded, and said, “That is a lot. Smells good. I am pretty hungry.”

“Here it comes now.  You’re going to love it. I have to get some items out of the car so he can open up in a few hours.  Eat up.”

Bubba placed two huge barbecue sandwiches in front of Jimmy and he didn’t waste any time digging in ravenously.  Through the order window, Jimmy watched as Bubba and Carl hauled bags of items into the kitchen and walk-in cooler.  Carl poked his head through the square opening and said,

“Pretty good, heh?”

“You weren’t kidding.  The meat is so tender and the sauce is the best I’ve ever had.  Everything is terrific.  I can see why he has all those awards.”

“I told you.  Hey, when you get done, do you think you could help us move a pig from the cooler to the smoker?”

“Sure thing.  I’m about done.”

Jimmy used his last bite of sandwich to sop up the remaining sauce on his plate and leaned back in his stool, full and content.  He took his plate to the back and Bubba motioned for him to put it in the sink.

“Bubba, if I could give you another award for that meal, I would my man,” Jimmy said, as he patted his stomach.

Bubba let out an appreciative grunt, and shook his head in acknowledgement.  Carl came through the back door with another bag, placed it on the counter and motioned for Jimmy to follow him to the cooler. 

“It’s a big fucker.  Might take all three of us,” Carl said as he opened the cooler door.

Jimmy entered the dark cooler and the door slammed behind him.

“Quit fucking around!  Open the goddamn door!”

Jimmy beat on the door and continued yelling in the pitch-black cooler.  Moments earlier Jimmy thought he wanted to die, but now his instinct of survival took over.  He continued beating on the door to no avail.  He started feeling faint and dizzy and staggered around the refrigerated death trap.  Jimmy was losing consciousness and realized he must have been drugged.  He located a pull string and a light illuminated the cooler.  He couldn’t believe the horrific things he saw.  Bags of body parts and buckets of blood surrounded him.  Jimmy lost his footing and fell to the cold floor.  Just before everything went black, he looked into the lifeless eyes of the girl in the purple dress.  

That day during the lunch rush, a dad and his son, who were traveling through town, sat in a booth next to the door.  They finished their meal, and the dad told the waitress that it was the best barbeque that they had ever eaten.  Before leaving, he left a glowing review online.

Jimmy had made a lasting memory in someone’s mind after all.

Kill Them With Kindness 

“Ah good it’s you. Come on in Carmine. I’m glad you’re here. There’s a situation I need to discuss with you. Sit down.” 

“What’s up Capo?” 

“You know Thomas McKenna, the President of First National Bank?”

“Yes sir, the fellow who was arrested by the FBI last week.” 

“That’s right, he’s out on bail. He might decide to make a deal with the Prosecutor and spill his guts. That could be an unfortunate turn of events for us.”

“I understand. Do you want me to make the problem go away?”

“Yes, he’s become a liability. It’s time we dissolve our business relationship.”

“Okay Boss. Who do you have in mind to do the job? Want me to call the guy from Detroit? He’s a no muss no fuss cleaner. Or maybe that cold-hearted broad from Los Angeles, she’s always stealth.”

“No, it has’ta look natural, like a heart attack or somethin’, so if there’s an autopsy they’ll find it was due to natural causes.”

“I know who can do the job, but he’s expensive. You know who I’m thinking about?”

“You’re thinking Petruchio? Petruchio ‘The Gentleman’?”

“Ya. He’s perfect for this job. no guns, no knives, no staged accident, no Jewish Lightning, no blood and guts bullshit. He ‘kills them with kindness’.”

“Exactly, that way there won’t be any investigation or questions.”

“And no suspects.”

“See if you can get a hold of him. Listen to me, don’t get into a conversation with him. Make it short and unfriendly. No small talk. You got it?”

“Okay got it boss.”

“Just thinking about that guy scares the hell out of me. I’ve never met him in person but I talked to him on the phone once, couple of years ago. You gotta be careful. If he starts making all kinds of compliments, you can’t be sure, there might be a contract out on you. And he could be ‘Killing you with kindness’.”

“I’ve been told his method is surefire and he never raises any suspicions.”

“That’s right. Listen, if he mentions how nice your house is, then starts in on how good you look. Or mentions that you look thinner like you’ve lost weight and asks if you’ve been workin’ out cause you look buff and bullshit like that, you’re a goner. Like I said, he ‘kills you with kindness’.”

“Now that you mention it, you do look good for your age Vicente.”

“Okay, enough. And don’t discuss this with anyone else. We can’t have this getting out. I know I can count on you. It’s the reason why I’ve given you the responsibility to take care of this. You’ve been a loyal and trustworthy member of the family Carmine. I’m very proud of the man you’ve become.”

“Thanks Capo. I’ve never told you this but you’ve been like a father to me. I want you to know there’s no one else in the entire world I respect more than you.”

“Okay, don’t you start. It ain’t gonna do any good. You know when I retire next month. I’m turning control of the family over to Arturo. My son will be the next Godfather.” 

“Of course Capo, an excellent choice. No one can ever question your decisions. You’re a wise and ingenious man. You’re made in the image of the great King Solomon. A more honorable and fair-minded man than you doesn’t exist.”

“Thanks for your compliments. No need to voice your appreciation.”

“It’s just important for you to know. I am and will forever be indebted to you for your kindness. You took me in when I had no one. I was alone after my parents were murdered. You took me in and gave me a home, welcomed me into your family. You treated me like I was your son. You have a heart of gold. I will never be able to repay you for your benevolence and unselfishly sharing your home.” 

“Carmine, please stop. Enough with the compliments. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were tryin to ‘kill me with kindness’.”

“I’m sorry Capo. I felt it was time to express my gratitude and declare my admiration for someone who exemplifies generosity. A man deserving of respect and to be regarded with esteem. You are a God among men. So much bigger than life size. A living legacy.”

“Carmine, something’s wrong, I’m not feeling so good right now…”

“What’s wrong Capo? Are you okay? It’s nothing you can’t overcome. You’re stronger than anything in the universe. A Superman. There’s nothing that can harm you. Even God is jealous, in awe of your magnificence.”

“I’m having chest pains. I think maybe you should call me an ambulance.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes! I’m not fucking around!”

“Right away il mío Re (My King). There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for such a great man. I am such a better person for having known you.”

“Carmine, what are you doing? I think I might be having a heart attack. With every compliment I feel chest pains. You’re literally ‘killing me with kindness’.”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

 “My heart, please, my heart. Did someone put a contract out on me? You’re Petruchio, aren’t you?”

“Once again you demonstrate your vast knowledge and extreme astute intelligence. Let me introduce myself. I’m Carmine Petruchio Martinelli, son to his father Giorgio Armani Martinelli and his mother Franchesca Rose Pedone Martinelli, brother to Marco and Elena Martinelli. All murdered in their home in their sleep. My uncle Martini told who the killers were before he too was killed. I took care of Tomaso and Riccardo, your accomplices a few years ago. You remember when they died unexpectedly and within a week of one another. Neither of them begged for their lives, they enjoyed the kindness I bestowed upon them right up until their deaths.” 

“I’ll give you anything you want. Please, I can’t take much more.”

“What I want, my dear man of distinction, is for you to bestow upon me your dying wish. You are the man who showed me that patience is a virtue. My teacher who taught me to reciprocate to those that you have wronged. Although you are the supreme master of vendetta è dolce (sweet revenge).” 

“Arturo, Arturo help come quick! Salvatore, someone! Somebody call an ambulance! Arturo!”

“Don’t strain that lovely operatic tenor voice of yours. Arturo has met with an untimely fate. He had a brain aneurysm this morning after being showered with praise and congratulations concerning his fortunate appointment as Godfather of the Cappelli family. Like the others, he fell victim to being ‘killed with kindness’. Everyone is at the hospital right now paying their respects. I was supposed to inform you but it simply slipped my mind. But being the gracious kind-hearted man you are, I’m certain you will exercise your merciful forgiveness for my faux pas.” 

“Why? Why did you kill my son? You two were like brothers. How could you be so heartless? He was my only son. Please, stop. Show me some mercy, you at least owe me that.”

“Ya, brothers like Cain and Abel I think. Owe you? In all these years you’ve never asked for reimbursement for your generosity and unselfish acts of benevolence.”

“After all I’ve done for you. I even made you a Captain in the family.”

“Once again you showed your incredible managerial skills, rewarding those that have shown loyalty.”

“Tell me why?”

“You think I didn’t know who was responsible for killing my parents? Who murdered my brother and sister? If I had been there at the time, I would have been a victim as well.”

“Please reconsider what you’re doing.”

“Reconsider? I don’t think so. I’ve dreamed about this day for years. Since I first came here at six years old I’ve had to live with the man who made me an orphan.”

“Carmine it was business. The order came down from the bosses in Chicago. There was nothing I could do. I’m going to pass out. Call an ambulance for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“It’s too late for an ambulance. I have no doubt you are an emphatic and compassionate man. You’re definitely experiencing an incredible amount of remorse. Being the religious and God fearing man you are, you’ve asked God in prayer for forgiveness, yet still burdened with guilt. I know that you, more than anyone, will understand that those emotions are just not enough.”

“I’m dying, Carmine, you son of a bitch…”

“Just like you, showing such courage until the end. I’ve always admired your strength. You inspired in me the courage to seek my revenge. You encouraged me to be a man of my word. Now, for the final nail in your coffin. Your death will be double edged. Although I’m pleased by avenging my family’s murders, I will miss your presence, your fondness, your sensitivity and your guidance. Even though you are responsible for the death of my family, I am truly saddened by your own death. I am saddened because I love you. Capo? Capo, did you hear me?”

‘Killed with kindness’