[fiction work in progress]
[twosome, late-model slate SUV with windows down near a rural park]
“Okay, listen, this is what I want you, us, to do….”
“You are so bossy for a dude, did anybody ever tell you that?”
“You’re a pretty bossy chick.”
“I hate to be called a chick.”
“Listen. You want to get that motherfucker, don’t you? The asshole?”
“Okay, so this is what we do. You get him in a compromised pose — haha, get it, a pose — ”
“Unfunny, dude, you are so unfunny sometimes.”
” — and we easily get pictures using our very own self-filming deal which we have set up in your bedroom, or did, and still do, right?”
“Are you sure? I took a long time setting that up for us.”
“I’m sure. So I have to get close to the asshole again and pretend to — uck — I dunno — ”
“You can do it!”
“I can’t do it. He’s so-o-oo repulsive.” [shivering]
“Maymay, you can too! Did you not say he just bragged about what his net worth would be when it all goes through? Disgusting one-percenting fatherfuckers. [absentmindedly] Workingman ain’t gotta goddam chance.”
“So we tell him, ‘We’ll tell your wife’?”
” ‘We will show the pictures or videos to your wife proving your connection, unless you give us X amount of dollars once a week, every week‘ — or something like that.”
“From what I can tell, she doesn’t care two rat anuses for him. Nobody does. He’s lost all the friends he ever had. His wife doesn’t even live with him and his kids don’t visit. He wouldn’t care. So it wouldn’t work.”
“Are you sure? No other relatives?”
“Twin brother in Florida, ill with COPD. Poor I’m sure.”
[long spell of no talk — sounds only of smoking with some male and female coughing jags, bottles a-clink. Sighs]
“Are you sure it won’t work?”
“He has no reputation to tarnish, is what he says.”
“Oh and when did you talk to Mister Repulsive last?”
“I told him his aftershave smelled like something named Repulsion by Calvin Klein.”
[from a Holiday Inn near Marion, Illinois — raging snowstorm pecking at the windows]
“Okay now what smart guy?”
“Go over there and talk to him.”
“What are you my fucking pimp?”
“I’m not asking you to fuck him, I just want you to tell him how it is now that he’s so goddam rich he can’t help but shit silver and gold. He’s gotta come off some of that money.”
“A-a-a-and what exactly is the threat you wish me to deliver?”
“That we-we-we — will — ”
“You have no idea.”
“We will ruin his life.”
“He has no life to ruin, dude, don’t you see, didn’t I tell you? Do you not listen? He spent a shitload coming up here. He said his wife gets it all because of something in the whatever clause. He barely has enough for the train ride back. This is all so pointless. Both of you are such asswipes.”
“The whatever clause. A technical legal term, I’m sure.”
“No point in us arguing, is there? How will that help?”
“How do you know he’s not lying?”
“In any event, it’s a fucking blizzard and he’s stuck over there and we’re stuck here but at least we have enough edibles to get us through the night, right? Does he . . .?”
[at the cheapest, shoe-sticks-to-the-foot room in the dreary Drury Inn of nearby Marion, Illinois]
Holy Titty-fucking Jesus, am I high. I write that not as a rhetorical question, and of course I’m reading into my phone recorder not writing, to tell the truth. And to tell the truth, that is what I am doing right now. I am telling the truth.
Here’s how it started. Let me get my 3 by 5 cards. [sounds of stumbling]
Wa-a-a-a-ay too many of those milk ‘n’ cereal bars. But it’s still a nice buzz. Cerebral.
I’m not horny.
Cerebral. I don’t think about lost things. Like my keys. Like my love. Where’s my guitar? O fuck I didn’t bring it. I think about terrible true things — that’s the name of one of the songs, it was a killer song in E minor which tells, in roundabout fashion, the story of a man with, essentially, three loves in his life — one for a woman named Lavinia, one for cannabis and one for the Oxford comma — no, really. Except the Oxford comma isn’t in that sentence. So I must be a writer and I must love writing. Yet I’ve published exactly jack shit. I should title all the accumulated miscellany in one big tome and call it “Jack Shit.”
[hours of recorded snoring, a few taps at the motel door that go unheeded]
Allright allright okay okay I’m awake now; the storm is over here in, in, in wherethefuckever I am, looks like northern Iowa or the blue-and-white pocket of a baaaad Peruvian marching powder addict.
I do remember this: a hiss is just a hiss: she said she was coming over with an ultimatum in a while. I hope she doesn’t bring simpatico malicioso with her, ’cause I’m thinking I can talk her into leaving him, see, yeah and coming with me back to New Orleans (the Carbondale train, just a few miles west of here) to live because that’s where I want to live.
Online I see where it’s 42F in that town and minus 14 here. I suddenly feel very cold like a baby that a mother’s thrust aside (for whatever reason, mothers have their reasons, it might not be that she’s a self-centered mother tired of holding the baby, you, me, the baby’s weight growing so intense that she just has to leave it there on the bed for awhile, waa, waa, so what).
I did have the same bowl of THC cereal for breakfast. What of it? Who’s objecting? Who was that goddess of the grain again? Demeter? Lotsa cornfields in — unh — Spillertown! Look over there! Medical dispensary! Good place to get some cereal, man! I’m a Headshead. I play them loud.
I’m running out of money and my next stipend check doesn’t arrive for oh shit —
I just need a few bucks. I might go out and panhandle my books on the sidewalk but it’s too cold to do it in this burg.
I’m lost. I am so lost. Look at that mirror person, trying to look like me.
[abrupt chain-rattling patterned knock at the door: three sharp WHACKWHACKWHACKs — a pause — one long hard WHONK, then the three WHACKWHACKWHACKs]
I’ll just let them kill me. There is no money. They can whine to Barbara all they want, she’ll laugh in their face like in that movie with Danny DeVito. I’m not kidnapped, after all, I met them here of my own volition. Ex-banker Slain in Weird Triadic Twist. Page 2.
[. . .]