I visit a strange man in the middle of the night. He lives in a tiny house at the end of a long dirt lane in the middle of nowhere. He tells me he knows I want to eat the onions in his refrigerator but if I do I’ll end up in the hospital. Suddenly I want nothing but onions. I tell him this. He throws open the refrigerator door and says, “Have at it.” I pull an onion out, plop it down on the counter, and grab a knife to slice it. I cut the end of my finger off. I turn and ask the man if he can take me to the hospital. He says he can but all he has is a cart he’ll have to pull. We go outside. I climb into the cart and he hoists the handles. The cart smells like onions. I put the tip of my finger into my mouth and think about the one I lost as we head out into the dusty night.
-
Drugs
My balls are swelled up. I am in the bathroom about ready to puncture my scrotum with a huge needle, figuring the swellage must be something fluid-related, when the doorbell rings. It startles me and the needle flies out of my hands and into the bathtub. “Shit,” I think, “this is going to be really embarrassing.” I rush to find the baggiest pair of pants I can and cross the house to answer the door.
Upon opening the door I am a bit startled to see four men in dour gray suits standing on my porch.
“Mr. L?” the man in the forefront asks.
“No, I’m Mr. C.”
“Is this 2300 Rosewood?”
“Yes it is.”
“I think we need to have a look in your basement.”
“May I ask what for?”
“Hiding something, Mr. L?”
“No, no, not at all, it’s just, well …”
“Drugs, Mr. L. We’ve had complaints of drugs.”
“I assure you that’s ridiculous. You’re more than welcome to have a look.”
I walk them over to the door of my basement, my legs slightly bowed on account of my huge scrotum. A casual glance over my shoulder reveals they are traveling in a single-file line. I open the door and click on the light, standing aside to let them enter. They all go down into the basement. After a few moments, I hear one of them call, “You better come down here, Mr. L!”
I walk down the steps. At first, the basement seems impossibly bright. As soon as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize why.
The entire floor is covered in marijuana plants that reach chest-high. The ceiling is lined with sun lamps.
“Impressive,” I say, and then, “I know absolutely nothing about this.”
“We’re going to have to confiscate your house, Mr. L.”
There is no argument. Even though I know nothing about it I am clearly cultivating a drug field in my basement.
“Yes, of course. Will you be taking everything else in the house, also?”
“Well, we’ll be taking all of this marijuana.”
“I see.”
We all go upstairs. The man in charge makes a few calls with my phone. The others periodically shoot accusing looks at me as I struggle to move the couch out of the house. This task is made all the more difficult because of my swelling. I get the couch out to the curb and sit down on it, homeless, both my back and my balls hurting immeasurably.
I can’t resist checking on my condition so I stand up and glance down into my pants. Amazingly, my underwear is stuffed with the marijuana leaves. The men are coming out of the house, the man in charge tossing the keys up in the air and catching them. They stand at the curb and make casual chit-chat until a bus comes and they all board.
They come back later that night with their wives, girlfriends and children. The next day a moving van brings all their stuff over. They leave the house every morning smelling like pot. People of all ages visit the house at all hours.
Two days later, the garbage man comes and tells me he has to take the couch. “It’s on the curb,” he says. I reach down into my pants and hand him the marijuana, moist from being in my crotch for days.
“Please, one more week,” I plead.
-
Teething
My teeth revolt and decide to leave my head. For five hours I am collapsed onto the floor as each of my teeth painfully remove themselves from my gums. Blood drips from my mouth and onto the carpet. I stand up, woozy from the pain, and stare down at my liberated teeth. The left incisor, marked by a gleaming white filling, seems to be the leader. Together, they march out the door, leaving behind little bloody toothprints. The wisdom teeth, contrary to their moniker, are slow and clumsy, fat and dimwitted.
I sit down on the couch and think about the loss of my teeth. I’m incredibly angry. I look at the carpet, at the large bloodstain that marks the beginning of their revolt and all the little spots they made when they left. The rest of the evening I spend removing the carpet, ripping it up from the floor and tossing it out into the yard. Exhausted, I retire for the night.
Thoughts race through my head. I can’t just go about my life with no teeth. I’ll have to get dentures. But I can’t afford dentures. What will I do until then? Perhaps I could grow a large, Nietzschean mustache. It will only be a matter of time, however, before my lips and cheeks begin to curve inward and I’ll look like all those homeless guys downtown.
I call in to work the next day and tell them I need a week off. When they ask what for I tell them I can’t feel my legs and can’t see out of my left eye. They tell me that sounds serious and I tell them it is. I put orange peels in my mouth, like kids do, only I don’t smile. I keep my mouth closed. The peels are only there to give the illusion of teeth. I go to the store and stock up on soups.
The next two days pass in a wave of black depression.
One night, as I’m lying in bed, my teeth come back to me. Most of them do, anyway. The left incisor, the ringleader, reeks of liquor and cheap perfume. The right incisor smells like smoke. The left eye tooth smells like the outdoors. Perhaps he went camping or something. I think about criticizing them, telling them I’m going to have to get braces. Something about them distracts me. The wisdom teeth are absent and I’m assuming they had to leave them behind. But there’s something else. At first I think I’m just seeing double and then realize what has happened. My teeth have come back with spouses. Save the missing wisdoms there are twice as many of them. I don’t know how they’re going to fit. I don’t know how painful it’s going to be when they re-insert themselves into the gums. I try not to think about it.
I open my mouth and let all the newlyweds enter.
-
Florida
I hitch a ride to Florida with an ominously flatulent, chainsmoking nun. I’m standing by the road with my thumb out and a worn cardboard sign that reads, “Florida Please.” The nun pulls her giant wood-paneled station wagon to a stop and rolls down the window.
I lean into the window. A terrible smell wafts from the car. “Going to Florida?”
“Wherever.”
“Mind if I catch a ride with you. I’ll give you, like, a dollar.”
“I gotta move all these cats first,” the nun says.
The front seat is littered with cats. There must be a dozen of them. She grabs each of them by the scruff of the neck and tosses them into the back seat. The part of the wagon behind the backseat appears to be covered with kitty litter and lumps of cat shit. I realize this is going to be a hostile environment and think about backing out but I really can’t. My arch nemesis’ vessel is currently situated off the coast of Florida and this may be our last chance at battle in quite a while.
Once the nun has all the cats cleared off the seat I open the door and sit down in a cloud of cat fur. My throat closes and my eyes begin watering. I unleash a volley of sneezes as she pulls from the curb. She promptly rolls up all the windows. The air conditioner runs full blast. She pulls an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack and lights it, ashing into the overflowing ashtray. She hacks and coughs a lot. Tells me her name is Candy. She’s thirty-four years old but looks seventy-six. The cats are spiteful, batting at the back of my head and hissing. After a few minutes I black out. I come to the next day, lying in an alley, my clothes strewn all around, crosses covering my flesh in dirty ash.
“Gah,” I mutter. My mouth tastes like a cigarette and a cat’s ass. I pull on my clothes and stumble out of the alley. The sea and blinding sunlight besiege me.
My arch nemesis, John Crux, waits on the beach.
“Hey there,” I say. “You ready to do this shit?”
He smirks and takes off his heavy fur coat, so cool. Crux is my arch nemesis because he is my exact opposite. Cool. Collected. Calm. Not a drop of sweat on him. His naked torso is bronzed, each muscle defined. His hair is blond, long and flowing.
I decide to take off my shirt as well. I’m pale and flabby. Hair thinning. Weak.
“This time to the death,” I say.
“This is a farce,” he says, approaching me. I cower away.
I don’t remember exactly when our epic struggle began. Perhaps it was in grade school. I was under the assumption he had stolen something vital to my existence although I can’t possibly think of what that might be.
“‘Farce’?” I chuff out. “That’s a fancy word.”
“You’re an idiot,” he says. “Let’s just call a truce.”
“Like hell. I have to destroy you.”
“Why? What did I ever do to you?”
I don’t have an answer for him so I pick up a handful of sand and throw it in his face. He steps back and wipes the sand from his eyes. Then he punches me in the nose. I collapse onto the sand, wave my hands in the air and beg for mercy, for him to spare my life. He kicks sand at me in a furious storm. I roll over onto my stomach and cover the back of my head. Once the sand stops pelting me I look into the distance to see his vessel heading into the deep blue of the ocean. I pull my shirt back on, shake the sand out of my hair and wander off to find a phone and maybe a drink. I think about following Crux to exact my revenge and realize I’m far too lazy for that.
-
Prince
Prince sits at the table.
I’m running on virtually no sleep because he’s kept me up with his incessant keyboarding and screeching. He sits complacently, as though nothing is wrong. He is eating a piece of toast. Small flakes of it are caught in his mustache and, as usual, scattered all over the table in front of him.
Prince has been living in my apartment for the past three months and I’ve gotten tired of him. He never picks up after himself. He doesn’t help with the rent. I’ve tripped over his high-heeled boots countless times. He throws parties every time I’m away, people of questionable genital health undoubtedly having sex on my bed.
“You gonna be out tonight?” he asks in a rich baritone, taking a bite of his toast and chewing it slowly.
“Look, we need to talk,” I say.
He stops chewing his toast. A look of hurt glazes his eyes.
“What’s the problem?” he asks.
“I think you know what the problem is.”
He flings the uneaten toast onto the plate but it shoots off into the middle of the table where it will remain untouched unless I decide to clean it up.
He is near tears. He stands up, his buttocks making a kind of squeaking sound as they separate from the seat. I’ve already went through two bottles of disinfectant since he and his buttless pants showed up, turning every chair in the apartment into a toilet seat.
“If you didn’t want me living here, you could have said something a long time ago.”
He runs into his room, buttocks jiggling, and flings himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow. I didn’t realize he would become so maudlin. I can’t stand to see him like this. I follow him into the room and sit down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry, man,” I say. “You stay here until you get back on your feet.”
He grabs my arm. “It won’t be much longer. I know you got a lot on your mind. Just please … don’t take it out on me.”
I realize I have been ruthlessly manipulated again. Regretful, I go back into the kitchen and begin cleaning.
-
A 3-Legged Dog Dying of Cancer
My dog died. He had cancer of the face.
I took him outside to toss him up into the tree. I grabbed hold of him and my hands were consumed by his dense fur and then by his skin, until they were inside of him. The dog was filled with witchcraft and sea water. I got it all over my hands. I rinsed them off and decided to use tongs instead.
I could not get the dead dog up into the tree. I was going to tell him he was a bunch of dead weight but then I remembered he was dead and couldn’t hear me and probably wouldn’t have thought it was funny anyway.
I moved the trampoline over from the rusted out ice cream truck.
Using the tongs, I clasped the dog around the neck and the hind leg and bounced him onto the trampoline. He bounced into the air and his fur rained down and his teeth clacked as he landed on the trampoline in a heap.
This wasn’t working either.
I went inside to call my friend Ben. Ben was a director of films. His latest was called Sperm Jug, about two twentysomething guys who embark on a cross-country road trip with their grandmother. The movie ends at the Grand Canyon, the guys dousing the old woman in semen before throwing her over the edge. I think it’s a comedy.
Ben was busy but he gave me some sound advice. He said to try cutting the dog into smaller pieces and throwing them up into the tree individually.
I said: “But Ben, what am I supposed to use to chop up the dog?”
And he said: “Use your fucking dick,” and hung up on me.
I didn’t think that would work so I used a pair of poultry shears.
When I was finished chopping up the dog, I hurled the pieces as far up into the tree as I could. The only thing left was the cancer—dark and glittering. I carried that over to the sewer opening on the curb and dropped it down.
Over the next several days, the dog pieces turned black and oozed from the tree like a rain of cinnamon-flavored tar.
I took the dog inside. He climbed into my nightmares, a black shadow beast, and left steaming piles of worm infested waste everywhere.
Then he was gone and it was time to get a new dog.
So I bought a new dog and he was pretty much just like the old dog except he had an extra leg. So I called Ben and asked him what I should do about it. Ben told me I should take it to a butcher and he would get the dog fixed up.
So I did.
-
The Story Monster
A man hates to read. He hates to read and he hates to see people reading. Whenever he’s at work and someone is reading the paper or a trashy paperback novel, he likes to taunt them until they put it down. Reading is not functional. It is a waste of time. He doesn’t even read contracts or anything like that. He just signs his name at the bottom after asking whoever is offering the contract if they can give it to him “in a nutshell.” Once he discovered how much he hated reading, he realized how ubiquitous words were. Ubiquitous and meaningless.
One night, as he crawls in bed next to his browbeaten, mostly illiterate wife (she was feral when he located her in the wilds of the island of Semp), a giant man enters the room. Actually, it’s a monster. Huge and hairy, not wearing any clothes.
The man, aside from coming completely unhinged around words, is not a very confrontational man. He thinks if he lies there quietly the monster will go away. But the monster doesn’t go away. It takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed. It smells rancid. Like sewage and something unidentifiable but worse. The man tries to nudge the monster off the bed but the monster is way too large to move. Suddenly, the monster lurches into a story. It is a story unlike anything the man has ever heard. And the monster’s voice, for belonging to such a giant, reeking beast, is smooth and relaxing. The man finds he likes the story and he likes the monster’s voice. He stops trying to shove the monster off the bed, rolls over onto his back, and enjoys the story. He is asleep by the time the monster finishes it and, upon waking the next morning, the man realizes he is okay with falling asleep not knowing how the story ended. Because it wasn’t really the kind of story where the ending was important. Surprisingly, the man wants the monster to come back.
That night the monster returns. He comes before the man’s wife is asleep. She, not understanding this wretched beast is here only for their entertainment, panics and begins throwing objects at the monster. The monster cowers in a corner of the room but he doesn’t leave. The man’s wife asks him to make the monster leave but he tells her he is not going to do that. She doesn’t understand his explanation and hurls herself at him, claws bared, trying to gouge out his eyes. The man fights her off with a pillow and tells her it’s over, pulling out the divorce papers he has kept in his nightstand since marrying the woman. She signs her name and he gives her a one-way ticket to Semp. She angrily drags all her clothes from the closet and puts them on, stuffs her shoes into the clothes, spits on the monster, and leaves. The man never sees her again.
He crawls into bed, pulls the covers up to his chin, turns out the light and pats the side of the bed, telling the monster it’s okay. The monster stands up, sits down on the bed, and begins telling another beautiful story. This cycle continues for several months. Then the monster stops coming. The man is confused. He feels lost. He doesn’t know what to do. Now he has no wife and no monster. No stories. One day, quite by accident (he’s buying some butane and condoms from a newsstand) he discovers the monster has written a book. He is curious. The monster is on the front cover, wearing a tie and smoking a cigarette. He wonders what stories are in there. Are they the ones the monster told him? He thinks about buying the book and then thinks better of it. Maybe, he tells himself, the monster will come back someday.
-
CTN
My girlfriend sits on the couch and begs me to come and watch the Craig T. Nelson movie. “He plays a free spirit!” she calls, naked, eating a giant hamburger. Glops of mayonnaise tumble out onto her breasts, slowly sliding downward before dripping from her nipples.
And I am somewhere very far away, fixing a television with a butter knife, slathering love upon a hateful world. Thinking of nothing else to say, I call out: “Just a minute! I have to tie my shoes!”
The movie is a drag, five hours long and all the dinner scenes are drawn out in painful detail. I go to sleep that night, dreaming of Craig T. Nelson as a sexual shaman, giving my girlfriend lessons in love.