It is called: Word
Listen to this while you read it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_1qGzqSgEM
His response was, "Word."
Well, fuck, if that isn't that the most versatile solution to modern language, I don't know what is. What other word can express an infinite amount of emotions solely based on the tone with which the word is delivered? And, is it not perfect that the word, is fucking word? It's like a mad lib puzzle where you can replace it with anything, and make it work.
For example,
Jackass One: "Dude! My evil grandma just died and I inherited four thousand dollars!"
Jackass Two ; (Enthusiastically) "Word!"
Or:
Jackass One: Dude, I am pretty sure that my girlfriend is cheating on me, and just using me for free rent and my food stamp hook-up."
Jackass Two : (Solemnly) "Word."
I wanted to say all this to him and clearly explain that I thought he was a more socially evolved creature than I was, but instead I just said, "Yeah, I pretty much think I am fucked."
Wait. Rewind a second. It might be better to explain this with some context. I was in love, but I was always in love, and usually with more than one person, and usually in more than one way.
It was a paradoxical situation however, because I had felt these feelings so often I began to doubt that "love" would ever be genuine. It was just a trick of nature.
Jump back to me blowing and getting blown by my fellow seven year old guy friends in the shed behind my parents house. It seemed, and probably was, harmless and of course we were too young to cum, and I don't even remember if we had hard-ons. I just remembered it felt good, and sometimes Nintendo can't satisfy all of ones needs. This was not love.
Jump forward, climb two ladders, and fall backwards ten spaces on a chute to tenth grade, when two girls I thought were exceptionally attractive got word of my bragging of flexibility, and challenged me to prove, that I in fact, could give myself a blow job. I got sixty bucks for my efforts, and maintained (or continued the degradation of) my reputation. I don't think I can do it anymore. This was also not love, and also not a secure career choice.
I am shocked back to realty by the buckling knees of the bus, whooshing and groaning and leaning towards me and for a moment I hope it will inexplicably topple down and crush me and end this boring excuse for what I shamefully call my life. But it doesn't, so I throw my cigarette I just lit, get on.
The situation is normal for an 8:30 bus ride. There is no fucking reason I should be up so early, but since I haven't slept since Wednesday afternoon and it is Saturday now, it really isn't "getting up" it's really just "going outside". Sleep deprivation is one of the most wonderful drugs I have found. Don't get me wrong, I am not putting down the plethora of amazing drugs that one can imbibe, but sleep-dep is free, and one is always acutely aware of their own intoxication. The hallucinations are mild, little visuals, mostly just auditory things. Shattered fractions of sentences spoke by people who aren't in the room. Bits of pieces of songs that are not playing anywhere nearby. Sometimes, usually during the late part of DAY TWO or the beginning of DAY THREE, an extra little buddy will sit with you, but only in your peripheral vision, and you will be keenly aware of their presence, but when you try to speak to them, they are gone. Which is a shame, because most of the time when I think of something clever to say, my imaginary friend is gone before I can tell her/him about it. They don't seem to have a definitive sex. It probably wouldn't matter.
This still isn't love, this isn't even borderline obsessed. This is fucked.
It's hard to come up with a good reason to talk to someone you want to, unless you are provided with good excuses or don't mind looking like a fucking creep.
A down-syndrome lady-child gets on two stops down from mine, and she smiles at me when she passes, her scrunched up face cracking to reveal malaria colored teeth, beneath the beady eyes of a sci-fi snake person. She must be relating to me, or probably feeling sorry for me. I smile back, which hurts a little bit, and she sits behind me. Great, I think, and I rotate directly forward to as avoid any possibility of conversation.
A finger touches my back. A short yet distinguished probe—a gentle gesture—but with focus, confidence. I rotate painfully, keeping my knees still pointing straight ahead. Torso only, then head.
"Hey there you and hello this morning." She said, and her words were emphasized awkwardly on "you" and "this". She said "you" like she knew me, which she definitely didn't, unless I met her when I was blacked-out, but I am pretty sure even on my worst nights I don't end up at social gatherings where retards are chilling. She was smiling and I was not, and for a brief moment it made me feel incredibly childish about my pessimistic worldview.
"Hey." I said, which was quite a few more words then I had wanted to say this morning.
"Where are you going? I see you everyday on here." She slurred out her words with a benevolent smile that made me either want to vomit or marry her.
"Uh, well, I am going to get some coffee." I said, which was true, although I really hate coffee.
"Uh-huuh, why do you do that every day? Even on weekends? You work?"
What was this? The fucking retard pioneered inquisition of normal people? Why was I being targeted? What right does she have to harass me like this? Huh?!
But instead I said, "It's complicated, I guess."
This seemed to satisfy or confuse her, so I turned back around to look at the bus driver through his rear view mirror, and wonder for a moment what his sex life is like, if he could still see his penis when it was flaccid, or if he ever yearned to see his toes. I had only a moment to delve into this downward spiraling pondering of perversion before the focused, determined fingertip pressed gently, but firmly into my back, slipping off my shoulder blade.
I rotate. Torso only, then head.
"The next stop is mine. Nice to meet you this time. My name is Chelsea." Her words were heavy, deliberate, mildly forced. She extended her hand, her fingers small and splotchy pink. I took it in my hand and we made eye contact.
Her eyes were a deep green, marbled with white fracture points, like one of those stupid electricity balls that rich people buy when they need reasons to spend money.
The doors open, she stands up, smiles, I might have, I say nothing, she gets off the bus.
Coffee shop. I am sitting facing out the floor to ceiling windows, watching the second wave of awake-ness hit the downtown area. The coffee dispensing douche-bag asks me what "my story is", and for some reason I slip, tell the truth and say it, "I am in love with someone I can't bring myself to talk to."
His response was, "Word."
Pinch of faked understanding.
Splash of pity.
Give me release, give me drugs, give me sleep. I sigh, because I am so hungry for that drug but no chemical or love can get me full.
She passes. Almost every day, I only get about eight seconds of her. But I keep doing it. She works full time, at a bagel place on the main drag of the downtown area. She works six days I week. I sleep Saturday nights, always. She passes by, sporting all the right styles of this, previous, and future eras. She wears jeans with colorful skirts over them, sometimes little pieces of metal, little trinkets representing events I could never have had been there for, but will forever wish I had. She wears cowboy button-up shirts with a thin hoodie over them, and sometimes a fur-lined mini parka, like the ones people wear on MTV, who wouldn't exist if I could kill people with my mind. It's a good thing I can't though, cause I am pretty impulsive.
Flash.
Fast forward.
It's approaching my fourth consecutive sunrise, and I am moments away from crunching my articles out before deadline. My room is laminated with a healthy, powdery coat of ashes. Type, type, type, type, type, type, type, type, type, break for masturbation, type, type, type, type, type, type, finished. Submit article, masturbate, pass out sitting up with my dick out, cum dries on my shirt and stomach.
Jump back.
Writing papers in college, I figured, I might as well try to scare the squares. Use words they are uncomfortable with. I wrote stories about fucking my dad, his bristly facial hair scratching the shit out of my back like sandpaper as he fucking pounds me into the ground with his engorged and ferocious cock. This never happened, (unfortunately), and I always felt a little insulted by it, was I not a sexy child? Couldn't my innocent, unpenetrated body attract even those who were by law, culture, and social structure, not allowed to fuck me? I have always liked challenges, and this was the ultimate rejection. I couldn't go back. Needless to say, it didn't make me a lot of friends, which was fine with me, because usually I wanted to go home and jerk off anyway, not "hang out".
Flash.
Monday night. Shitty bar. This place is where the pretentious indie music kids and overgrown kids go to get psyched about their small town celebrity status and get drunk and sing karaoke. I don't care, because they don't talk to me about their stupid, unsuccessful mini-tours, their shitty-ass albums that *might* sell 200 copies, or their obsessive Myspace fans. I come here for cheap tequila, which greatly increases my chance of blacking-out, then passing out. I always end up home, and always end up on the 8:30 bus. The bartenders like me, I behave well, and only fall asleep occasionally. It's crowded, cause there are only so many places indie-fucks can go to be super-heroes, and some blonde motherfucker sits down in my mini-booth. His hair is like an anime character, swirled up in concentrated tips of crashing waves that don't know where the beach is, it's either unwashed for a considerable amount of time, or single-handedly-ozone-layer-destroying-aerosal-can-abusing styled. I don't care. He smiles at me and sticks his hand out, I take it, he doesn't know it is coated in semen. This gives me a slight pleasure. Black-out.
Jump Forward.
Bus stop. I finish my cigarette before the bus arrives. I think it's Monday, no, wait it's Tuesday, tequila night is Monday. Knees buckle, air whooshes, and again, the bus does not topple over to kill me.
Too bad.
Two stops down Chelsea gets on, and today she sits next to me. I don't really mind.
"Hey you friend," she says, "you look like shit today!" And then she laughs because I think she is just teasing me, but I laugh too, because at least I am not retarded.
"Hey there Chelsea, how are you today?" I say, and for a brief moment, I actually care.
"Okay, okay, okay," she says, "ready to wash, wash, wash, dishes." Everything in three's. Maybe she is autistic too. She might have an incredible grasp of prime numbers. Maybe she could tell me what day of the week I was born. Maybe she knows who has won every world series, or memorized the entirety of the Seinfeld catalogue. Probably not.
"Where do you work?" I ask.
"The bagel place!" She says, too loud and too excited for my tastes, and then she laughs as if life is all some big fucking joke. Maybe she has the right attitude. Maybe I could learn something from Chelsea.
"Oh." I think, maybe this is the excuse, maybe this is my break. How do I manipulate this situation into meeting the girl I think I love, but can never talk to, whose name I don't know, whose past I want to study, and whose future I want to be apart of?
"Here! I brought you something!" She is excited, claws open her backpack, and procures a Hello Kitty type wallet with some sort of cute squinty-eyed seal on it. I think its name is Mr. Seal, or something. Out of the wallet she grabs two punch cards, with all the holes removed to the last one. What I think this translates to is two free bagels. I don't really like bagels, but at this point, I am not sure if I really like anything except being bitter and masturbating. So I take them.
"Thank you, Chelsea, that is really sweet of you." and I smile, which is an unfamiliar movement for my muscle-memory, so maybe I sneered.
"We have coffee there too. I can get you a cup for free." Chelsea was beaming, and I guess it was infective; I was starting to feel pretty good too.
I walk with Chelsea to the bagel place, which is actually right next to "my coffee place" ie. my voyeur look-out. I wonder why we never got off at the same stop. She starts work at nine and works Monday-Saturday shifts until mid-day. The same exact shifts. I sit down at the window, facing street. Chelsea walks straight into the back, brings me a cup of drip-coffee a moment later. Then she waves, and sort of snorts as she walks back, wrapping the fabric cords of her apron around her body that would inevitably avoid fantasies.
She walks in, looks at me for a moment. Jingle, jingle, jingle of her metal trinkets sewn into her skirt.
"You get 86'd from your normal place?" She teases. She noticed me. I am not sure if this is good.
I can't really respond so I take a sip of the coffee, which is too hot, and I drool it back onto my lap. Nice job self, really good move. She moves on.
Once I recover from my social disaster, I walk towards the counter and produce my freebie ticket. She eyes me with some sort of teasing distrust. "How come you have a punch card, with eleven holes in it, and I've never seen you here before?" She holds the punch card up, and looks at me through the holes.
"I sort of won them." I say, not sure if I need to be covering Chelsea's back, or if this kind of thing is cool. I am not willing to blow it with my new best friend yet.
"Uh-huh, what kind do you want?"
I point. She nods. We wear robot smiles.
Right as I shove the last piece of bagel into my mouth and lick the cream cheese off my fingers, which taste a little like cum, big surprise, that blonde haired motherfucker pushes the door open, brandishing a red rose in his fucking perfectly straight eggshell white teeth. What. The. Fuck.
That is not for Chelsea.
He sort of does this skip, hop, mini-dance thing to the counter and leans over with the rose in his mouth.
She laughs, kisses him on the lips and they pass the rose.
Fuck.
Give me genuine heart wrenching surprise. Give me the last two months of 8:30 bus rides back. Give me mind murder powers.
They chat for a while, all cooing, baby talk, as I gulp down the last half of my cold coffee and try my hardest not to vomit, cry. I don't really know what I expected, but the timing is all fucked. Things were going so smoothly. It's easier to be dramatic when you lie to yourself.
As I get up to leave, Chelsea runs out from the back to give me a high-five. I don't want a high-five. I think they are stupid. I miss her hand anyways and hit her forearm. I think high-fives are stupid because I suck at high-fiving. I blame my parents.
This little interaction breaks the love spell of indie-fuck and the girl who broke my heart but had only said twelve words to me. They look at me and Chelsea, appearing to be entertained.
Splash of embarassment.
Pinch of suicide.
Dash of gratitude.
See, I can have friends too, even if they are retarded.
"See you later Chelsea."
"See you on the bus!"
No Chelsea, you won't, I have no reason to take that bus anymore, because in all likely hood that blonde asshole is fucking my dream girl. But instead, I just nod.
Fast forward. Hit stop, rewind.
It's fifteen seconds later and I am lighting a cigarette right out the front door when it bursts open and clips the back of my shoes. My least favorite person comes out and chirps, "Sorry!"
Then he looks at me and goes, "It's you! We met two nights ago!"
Oh, I guess it's Wednesday. I must have lost a day somewhere.
"Yeah, at the bar." I remember shaking his hand. Too bad I don't have any sweet STDs I could've given him.
"Yeah, well I guess the cat's out of the bag!" He laughs, sort of nervously shoves his hands in his pockets.
What cat? What fucking bag? Who puts cats in bags? Is that to drown them?
" I couldn't bring myself to tell you then that the girl you were," he does little quotations with his fingers, "in love with was my fiancée Melissa."
Oh. Shit.
Give me four paws, burlap sack, cold river.
"But I really, really enjoyed our conversations! Dug up some interesting social theories, didn't we?"
I bet.
"Well, if things wouldn't be too awkward, we should really hang out sometime!" He fishes a small black card out of his front jean pocket. He has a card. He carries them in his front pocket. I hate him more.
"Sure. Yeah, let's do that."
"Want to give me your number too?" He seems charming, like pit vipers are charming.
"I don't have a phone." I say right as my cell phone vibrates audibly against my keys. Fuck. It's probably my mom, text messaging me inspiring quotations from dead people.
He looks a little hurt, or maybe he didn't hear it, and I say, "Well, I hope I see you around soon." This is definitely, definitely, a lie.
He makes a fist with his thumb and pinky sticking out, sort of the surfer "hang loose" thing and puts it up to the side of his head and wiggles it back and forth. Oh, I get it, it's a telephone. Clever boy, I see why she likes you.
Flash.
I am back at my apartment, I feel too bummed out to masturbate, so instead I start drinking to pass out. It's ten thirty.
I consider calling, let's see, Sam Black of "Rosebud Graphics" just to tell him he's an asshole, but instead I leave an add in the free section of the local paper for a 32 inch television and a trampoline and put his phone number there. Fuck you Mr. Rivers, fuck you.
So, unlike the rest of the shit I will post, this one is pure fiction.
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