The Cat's Meow - Prologue

NaNoWriMo: PROLOGUE.  The set-up to my new novel.  Moving right along, so far.  The doldrums come about week 3

Dead

I'm dead.

I guess there's really no sense in burying the lead, here. There will be no Bruce Willis ending. I'm not going to make you go back and find all the not-so-subtle hints pointing you to the fact that I'm nothing more than lingering spirit.

This isn't one of those stories.

There aren's going to be any Shamalayan sized twists, though there are bound to be a few surprises along the way. What's a good story without a surprise or two anyway? I wouldn't be much of a storyteller/narrator if I didn't incite a gasp or two. If I didn't get your tearducts flowing or make you laugh out loud to yourself during your candlelit soak in the tub.

When I tell people that I'm dead...wait, let me start over. If I were capable of telling people that I'm dead, I assume the first question everyone would undoubtedly ask me is: “What's it like?” Humans, after all, are the only creatures on the planet that not only acknowledge their own mortality, but presume to detail the possibilies that lay beyond. Psychologists even break the process down in to stages.

Science is always breaking things down into stages. More on that later.

Well, I don't really mean to disappoint, friends, but I have no true idea what lies beyond. This whole story occurs before my death, you see. This is confusing, I understand, as I did open this little chapter with the whole bit about being dead. As I will discuss later in this little wandering prologue to my pre-death, post-life, otherworldly tale of tragedy, happiness, despair, and joy, time is relative.

And everything is relative to time. More on that later.

Quantum Mechanics proves that I'm not dead though. At least I think my rudementary understanding of the basics of your typical paradoxical existence dictates such. Or that I am both alive and dead at the same time, if nothing else. Perception is one's true reality after all.

The everyman can't even begin to wrap his mind around Quantum Mechanics. More on that later.

What I'm trying to get at is that you shouldn't text and drive. Let me expand that to say you shouldn't drive distracted. Statistics have actually shown that more people get in accidents while eating and driving than texting or talking on their phone. Though as the tech industry and prevalence of mobile communications continues to expand, these numbers will likely shift dramatically.

People don't want to die alone, and texting and driving ensures they won't. More on that later.

It's a commonly held belief that in the second before your own demise, your whole life flashes before your eyes. My story takes place in that second, simultaneously proving and disproving this whole theory. What I mean by this statement is that this concept is small beans in comparison to what actually happens.

The life or even lives that could have been will all pass before your eyes. Much more on that later.

You live, you die. The End. More on that much, much later.

The Bowman Transcript

Thank you, http://w3r3.blogspot.co.uk for the idea (writer's borrow).  This was fun.

The following is a now declassified transcript from a June 9, 1959 audio recording. The interviewee is Colonel Frank Bowman, only recently realized as truly the first human to pass Earth's atmosphere into orbital space. The interviewer, whose name has been voluntarily redacted by this publisher in the interest of protecting both her and her family, was a high ranking member of the CDC. The location of the interview has also been redacted, though in this case, not by choice of this, or any, publisher.

June 9, 1959. Mrs. *redacted, level 5 administrator for the *redacted Center for Disease Control. 456*redacted, Chesnut *redacted. Would the subject please state his name for the record.

Am I suppose to--

Yes, sir.

Frank Bowman, Colonel in the Unite--

The name will do just fine. Do you understand what this interview is all about, Mr. Bowman.

Colonel.

Colonel Bowman?

Yes?

Do you--

Yes, I understand.

Then, we will proceed without further delay. If you would, again merely for the record, please explain the nature of your most recent mission.

My most recent mission was to travel beyond the our Earth's atmosphere. Further, in a manned spacecraft, than any have previously traveled. I was to observe and collect data from my station aboard the rocket. Then, shortly thereafter, I was to jettison in the attached shuttle, splashing down in the mid-Atlantic ocean.

The data.

Yes?

What was the data you were meant to collect on your mission?

Simple atmospheric readings. Pressures, weights, elemental components.

Anything out of the ordinary?

In what regard? (silence) Look, the readings were all standard. They met any and all expectations.

And then?

This is all pointless.

I can assure you Mr. Bowm--

Colonel.

Colonel Bowman. This is all standard protocol. If we are to get to the bottom of your (extensive pause. Sound of chair scraping the floor.) condition, we need to understand any and all of the environmental conditions.

This is pointless.

As I have already stated, Mr. Bowman, protocol dictates--

No. You don't get it Mrs. *redacted. This, this is all pointless. Not just this goddamn farce of a bureaucratic interview. This is all protocol. And protocol, if nothing else, is something I have come to understand from my years of military service ma'am. But this. All this is pointless.

Okay then.

Okay then.

Let's have it. (silence.) Mr. Bowman?

You know my rank, Mrs. *redacted, why is it you continue to fail to recognize it. And furthermore, am I not to be presumed innocent until proven otherwise?

Of course--

So, what is your question?

(13 seconds of silence)

What, or who did this to you?

If you are refering to the marks upon my body, I do not know. The blue glow, which I assume you are refering to? The one highlighting my veins? The glow was a new revelation to even myself upon my regaining consiousness. After what I have only recently come to understand was over 14 hours after my shuttle splashed down, I roused myself to the feeling of a (silence) tingling flowing through my entire body. As my eyes focused in the dim flourescents of your quarantine bay, I noticed the veins.

The blue.

Yes, the blue glow. What do you suppose it is?

We're not sure, that's why we're conducting this interview. I thought you understood.

No, I do. Just wondering if there were any (silence) leads.

What is the last thing you remember from before?

Before launch?

No Colonel. The last--

I know what you meant. Just playing the semantics game. Maybe a signifier of my returning sense of humor.

Perhaps. (silence) Well?

The last thing I remember?

Yes.

Them.

I'm sorry?

Them. The (silence) creatures (silence) no, beings, entities, forms.

Colonel, I remind you that this is all on record. Any and all statements will be subject to purjury laws if you are ever put to trial.

Have I done something wrong?

Have you?

Not to my recollection, no. No I haven't. But this talk of trials. I'm not sure why such things would even be--

We just want to cover all the bases Mr., er, Colonel.

(12 seconds of silence)

Where is my crew?

What is the last thing you remember?

The beings. There, encircling my crew, the beings watched us. Our weightless forms floating there in the main bay, our muscles motionless from the shock of what we were seeing and hearing.

Hearing?

Yes. Their voices.

They spoke to you?

Yes, of course.

In English?

Well, yes. I assume. They didn't have mouths.

I'm sorry?

Mouths, there were no mouths.

Could you explain what the creatures, the beings looked like?

No.

Pardon?

I don't know what they looked like. I was just aware of their presence.

Just aware?

I just knew that they were there.

And they spoke to you?

Yes. Well, in my head they spoke to me. There was some sort of (silence) link, I suppose. They were on my neural pathways, or the like.

(15 seconds of silence)

Colonel, are you aware of your crew's whereabouts?

My crew. Yes of course, where is my crew?

That is what I just asked, sir. Where is your crew?

(laughing) My God. They chose option one.

Option one, sir?

(laughing) Why in the hell would anyone choose option one? I thought they were so much brighter than that. Perhaps I had just been giving them too much credit.

Sir, if I may be so forward as to assert: I am genuinely concerned about your mental wellbeing.

My what? Oh my, no. I'm just fine. Listen, you want to know what happened? Here it is, cut and dried. The beings appeared, or made themselves known at least, to myself and my crewmates. They told us who and what they were and gave us the information that unlocked the nature of our very existence.

(Cough from Mrs. *redacted)

Are you okay ma'am?

Please continue, Colonel.

They told us everything we could have ever wanted to know. Filled our heads with all the known, and previously unknown history of any and all existence in the universe. There was so much information entering our minds, it felt as though our physical forms might expand to the point of actually bursting. Answered the questions philosophers have been asking since the dawn of man's time. Simultaneously proved and debunked every thought, theory, and religious doctrine.

Colone--

They told us everything in the span of a millisecond. Then, they gave us three options, with less than millisecond to respond. All a part of the show. They wanted us to understand just how truly relative time actually is.

Three options?

I took option three.

Option three, sir?

(laughing) And those poor hapless sons of bitches took option one.

Sir?

(Sound of chair smashing to the ground, screams from *redacted.)

Option three. Do you see, now?

Guards!

(Sounds of boots against cement. Struggling. Heavy breathing. Colonel Bowman's laughter.)

You will see!

My God! My arm! My veins! What have you done, Colonel? What is God's name have you done?

(A gunshot. Silence. A gunshot.)

End of Recording.

The Lecher

I've been sitting on this one for a bit.  I'm a bit embarrassed about the ending, though it was always the intent for it to go there.  I don't regret taking it there, nor do I think that a such a drastic tone shift is the wrong way to go, I just feel sort of "weird" about it.  Not really sure why.  Enjoy reading, and as always, I welcome all comments.

The Lecher

Oh my God, this story is so embarrassing! I can't believe I'm even telling you this, but I think you should really know. It explains a lot about how you and I got this far. You know, how we were able to build this relationship and everything. And, as sure as I am that you will just laugh at me, and possibly even hold all this over my head, I still think you ought to hear it in its entirety.

So, you remember my little “phase,” right? The time right before you and I really started talking, or maybe more accurately, before I actually started listening. The whole “I'm so dark” thing, right. Burton movies and... black everything.

My hair was dyed black. Eyeshadow: black. Lipstick: black. I would wear those weird silk black gloves up to my elbows, my legs covered in black fishnets. My skirt, a far-too-short little black piece of cloth. It makes me want to crawl up and hide under the covers just thinking about how I looked back then.

There was nothing but death metal in my CD changer.

I was even dating that bassist from The Bleeding Pussies. Remember, “the pincushion without a personality”? You were right, much as it pains me to say it. There was nothing behind those dead eyes. It was probably the heroin.

Don't freak out, we never “did anything.” Probably, again owing to the heroin. Or the fact that he was very obviously gay. He was just my version of arm candy, anyway. Rebellious teenage arm candy.

So, this was about the time that I got my first job. Mom and Dad always just supported me, even with my...odd decisions and decision-making processes. Just kept funding my purchases, my lifestyle. They actually would continue to for a few years after too, but I wanted to cushion the steady flow of unearned cash with a bit of my own supplemental income.

Weed money, if I'm being completely honest.

I thought the best place for someone like me to work at this time would obviously be where someone like me would fit in. A place where no one would question the way I chose to dress. Where no one had boo to say about the make-up I wore. Where no one would ever plug their nose at the smoke and sweat smell pouring off of me.

The obvious choice of course was that little counterculture haven, Hot Topic.

Yeah, yeah, I know. But that's the way I saw it at the time, okay? We all have these awkward little moments in our lives where we see the world through an unchangeable, skewed lens. This stretch of time when we are confident that we are alone in the the ways we feel, and that no one will ever understand us. That period when we are just trying to figure out who the hell we are. Times when we seek to fit in.

Those of my ilk, of course, wanted to think that they were doing the opposite, as many young people still do, and probably still will through the remainder of our species' time on this rock.

This was my time of self-discovery, thank you very much. Judge not, Lest ye....and all that.

Back to the story, before I get too far off track here, though. I applied first and only to Hot Topic, before exploring other potential avenues of employment. And of course, by exploring I mean looking at storefronts and repeating some indictment of corporate infrastructure (or some such buzz-term) that I'd heard from one of my many “anarchist” friends.

I pestered the manager daily.

He was this beast of a man with dreads and a lipring. Oh, yeah, and he had those big, thick-framed black glasses with the classic cheapy “Coke bottle lenses” that amplified the size of his eyes by, like, 5 times. He was always so pseudo-nice. He would always tell me in this low gravelly voice how he'd already moved my application to the top of the pile and would call me the second something opened up. His breath was so awful it still seems to be lingering deep in my olfactories.

And so I waited. And I waited. And I pestered some more.

This went on for at least six months until I finally got a call, went through the interview process, and was subsequently hired. In hindsight, my being hired was nothing more than the direct result of the half-blind, bad-breathed, aging butt-rocker managing this location wanting to stick his little dick in, on and around me.

Yeah, I know you don't want to hear all that, but that's just the way it was. Just a simple dose of the “way of the world,” as it were. I'm really just attempting to prime you for the things to come. Because, rest assured, it gets much, much worse. When I tell you some of the stuff Sasha said...

I'm getting ahead of myself. Just relax, okay. Sometimes the true beauty is in the warts, scars and imperfections. You taught me that, and it rings truer here than you could ever imagine.

So, yeah, standard job stuff. Training, paperwork, videos. I ran tons of computer-based modules and simulated hypothetical service situations. I remember thinking at the time that there sure was a lot of what I saw as “corporate-mindedness” in the way this business was run, but my confidence in the counterculture and the anti-estabilishmentarianism inherent in my new job was not to be shaken by a few stock customer service training videos.

Before I knew it, it was day one of the sales floor. I was stocking the shirts with logos of video game and comic book characters from when I was still in grade school. Folding and refolding.

I was refilling spinner racks with dangling cross earrings, like the one Keifer wore in The Lost Boys. I was organizing the sew-on patches for bands I considered capitalist pig sell-outs and simpleton posers.

And that was the first day I worked with Sasha.

Sasha, who swore more than anyone I had ever met before. No sentence would leave her mouth without having a “fuck” attached somewhere. My all-time favorite Sasha sentence: “That fucking fuck fucked the fuck out of this fucking bitch I went to fucking summer-school with.”

Beautiful.

Sasha, who talked about her promiscuity so candidly. She was first person to ever make me question the “slut” label.

See, back then, even with all the “damn the man” approaches I had to life, the idea of anything but a monogamous relationship was still the most damning thing to one's character to me. To put it lightly, I painted the scarlet “Slut” across the chest of many a female foe. Sasha made me question this convention.

“Basically, if he shows interest, he's not a douchey athlete or daddy's-boy rich kid fuck...I'll let him take a shot,” she had told me, leaning on a glass display case. The store had been packed with customers, but Sasha “didn't give a fuck,” and for our customer base, that was just part of the appeal. The shoppers would just smile as she raised her voice, saying “fucker just better not expect me to swallow his load.”

I'd known her for fifteen whole minutes.

Cue Herman. The whole thing was so surreal. Day one of my employment, period, and here was Sasha, talking about how she would under no circumstance, swallow the spunk of any man. Then here comes Herman, moving in through the steel-and-glass archway of our little anti-establishment. He's hunched over his cane and moving in the sort of slow motion induced by the crippling effects of time. His eyes already attached to me, Sasha stopped her cum-babble mid-sentence, her jaw agape.

“Oh fuck, girl.”

“Huh?”

This is all I could squeak out in response to her. I know what she's referring to, but I'm scared to ask what her reaction really means.

“Herman, bitch. He's locked the fuck on.”

“Herman?”

She looked to Herman, then back at me, back to Herman.

“Oh shit, you look just like her.”

“What? I look like who, now?”

Before she could respond, Herman was two feet from me. He was taller than me, but the effects of age and gravity had bent him below my even eye level. His hair was combed neatly atop his head, and the pastels and khakis he was covered in were foreign to his present environs. He was the classic stranger in a strange land. And yet, he seemed so utterly comfortable in here. Like this was where he truly belonged.

“My God,” he had said to me directly, not breaking his glossy stare into my eyes, “you look just like her.”

“Lecher,” Sasha coughed into her hands behind the counter.

Neither myself or Herman reacted to this.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, young lady. I was just looking for a nice set of ear gauges for my granddaughter.”

I couldn't help but smile. This old foreign object was acting in support of something he clearly didn't know or understand. Out of pure love, probably. He just wanted so badly to make his granddaughter happy, even if he had no concept of why one would seek out any type of “body modification.”

“What gauge are we talking?”

“The director told me double zero.”

“That's pretty big, sir. Are you sure she has stretched that far?”

“Well, like I said sweetheart, its what the director told me, so who am I to argue.” His smile was warm and genuine, his tone absent of that condescension I had become so accustomed to in men of his age.

I grabbed the jingling set of keys hanging from my belt. Fortunately I had just filled the rack, so I immediately knew which key I needed. There's nothing worse than looking like the new guy, clueless to your basic job functions. Deftly popping the case open, I pulled out a set of double zeros and handed them to the old man with the gravity-ravaged spine.

“These are Mohogany. Very beautiful, handcrafted in Venezuela,” I told him, really selling it. I was appealing to the consumer's assumed tastes, just like the videos had told me to.

“Heh. Its just something to hold those giant holes in her ears wide open. Keep the lobes from sagging. But, thank you young lady. You have my eternal gratitude. These are going to be perfect.”

And with that, He went to Sasha behind the register, reaching for his wallet and never so much as looking to her face. She completed the transaction, all the while mouthing sexually explicit things in my direction, feigning orgasms and fellatio as she handed back his change.

And just like that, he left.

“Do you know that guy?” I asked her, once he was out of earshot.

“That dirty, old lecherous fuck is Herman. He's been coming in here almost every fucking day for months. Used to always come in and chat up that fucking girl you replaced, actually.”

“Who do I look like?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I looked at her, confusedly. “You both said I looked like 'her.' Who is the 'her'”

She laughed, and I wasn't sure why. “Amber. The girl you fucking replaced! Look, the way I see the shit is this: Old motherfucker realizes his life is drawing to an end, right? Starts trying to fucking sew his wild oats or some shit. Catches sight of some BDSM fucking in a porno mag, and starts to seek out his very own little plaything.”

“Ew.”

“No fucking kidding, 'ew.' So, this old deviant fuck wants to try something new with some waify little goth chick that looks like the ones from his sticky pages, right. Ball-gags, cat-o-nine-tails, assplay, et cetera, and fucking so on. He's all prim and proper, sexually, though. His wife just kicked the bucket, and they only ever fucked missionary style,” she was humping the counter when she said this, rattling the glass case with each thrust.

The customers were starting to look at items closer to our conversation, pretending not to eavesdrop on Sasha's colorful characterization. And me, I was just nodding and smiling at this point. Playing it cool, disturbed by the picture she was painting, but intrigued. Like a car crash, or rather, like a full-on pile-up.

“So rather than going into sex shops, or hitting up craigslist or adult friend finder, assuming the aged little fuck even knows what the internet is, he comes into our safe little storefront in the middle of commerce-town. The safety net of the fucking mall makes this lecher feel okay ogling the barely legal stock girls.”

“He didn't really seem to be ogling me.”

“Shyeah! Motherfucker was picturing tonguing your browntown. He's just from an age of fucking gentlemanly conduct. Put on that vinear, show some fucking class, you know. 'Just put on the smile and elderly charm, and don't tell the bitch about your rape dungeon.'”

I couldn't help but make a face at this. Even the growing flock of customers, semi-circled around us and pretending to browse, all squirmed a bit.

“A rape dungeon? That's a bit severe.”

She tongued the ball of her vertical labrea piercing and raised her eyebrows.

“What do you think happened to Amber?”

“What?”

“The bitch you replaced..”

“Yeah?”

“She got murdered.”

“You're just messing with me, Sasha. It's really not funny, either. I can be as dark as the next guy, but hat old man did not kill some Hot Topic stock girl.”

She reacted like I'd offended her deeply.

“Bitch, this is fucking real. Read a paper. They just found her body in the woods yesterday, tied up and raped just down by Dash Point. Some fucking jogger found her.”

“Bullshit,” I fire back, joining the profanity party.

Rolling her eyes, she rocked back on her heals and folded her arms across her chest.

“Don't believe me then.”

I said nothing and went back to folding some shirts, as Sasha stormed into the backroom like a child having a tantrum.

“That girl really did get killed,” some pitchy teen squeaked into my left ear. I looked at him silently, giving him the “really?” eyebrows, teaming them up with a nice little “yeah right!” pout.

“No really,” he told me. The boy couldn't have been more than 15, so I really had to give him credit for even talking to me. However, the fact that he was head-to-toe laden in Juggalo gear put my judgmental thoughts into high gear. Pink hair, cloudy contacts, and a hatchet-man jersey 3 sizes too big were laughable, even to the pseudo-anarchist, black-clothed, black-thought metal hounds in my crew.

In hindsight, it was a “six of one, half dozen of the other” scenario.

“I used to see her in here all the time,” he continued. “Then when my old man was reading the Times the other day,” this was back when people still regularly read print, “and I saw her face staring back at me. She looked different, 'cause it was like an old High School yearbook photo. Before she had all the black make-up and shit.”

I could feel my face dropping. I could recognize that lying served no purpose to this little clown.

“I had a little crush on her, truth be told.”

“Is that right?” I responded in my coldest, monotone voice. “Well, dead or no,” I told him with a dead stare, eyes half closed, “that man didn't kill her.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He was getting the message, clearly just trying to put in the last word before he left. Making sure his impression was strong. It was sweet, in its own way, his true intentions notwithstanding. But, also, altogether the whole thing pretty pathetic.

“But he's right. You look almost exactly like her.”

–

I only thought about this little claim that the kindly old visitor had attempted to seduce and had ultimately killed my young predecessor for a few days. It was only after the whole thing had left my mind that I saw him again.

Sasha had gotten over her tantrum pretty quick, back to her usual verbal excess before the shift's end that day. She had even insisted that we began hanging out together. I found her interesting, to say the least, so of course I went along with it. Besides, I remember thinking, if my expression of doubt to the validity of one story caused that reaction, there was no telling how she might react if I denied her a relationship outside the work environment.

And so we became friends. Mostly just so neither of us were smoking our weed alone, but we were hanging out regularly nonetheless.

The day I saw Herman next was actually prefaced by a bit of foreshadowing, relating to this newly formed friendship. That's why I'm mentioning it. It is relevant, I swear.

So we were sitting in her little shitbox of a car, a rusty little Geo Metro or something. We were just sitting in the middle of the mall parking lot, the power of youthful indiscretion leading to a scenario in which we are just passing a pipe back and forth, filling the enclosed space with skunk-scented smoke.

Its called hot-boxing. I'm just saying, I don't know how familiar you ever made yourself with the whole weed-culture. Gravity bongs and knife hits and all that.

In the middle of this parking lot, in a car filled with marijuana smoke, khaki donning baby boomers casting disapproving gazes in our direction, Sasha told me more about Herman's relationship with Amber.

“I'm not just fucking with you when I say I think he killed her,” she told me.

I was mid-light, staring absentmindedly at the flames as they coated the dark green nugget in the bowl of the pipe. I heard her, but my focus had narrowed so fiercely from the THC that I wasn't really involved in the conversation yet. I locked eyes with Sasha and passed the pipe toward her, holding the hit in my chest.

You hate this part, I can tell. I just want to paint the picture, you know. And, I will never convince you, but its not really some evil drug. This is just part of my life. Part of the reason I am who I am. Besides, I haven't touched the stuff for ages. Paranoia and all. I think this might have actually been the last time I... Just listen, you'll understand in time.

I was holding my hit, keeping the side of the plastic lighter over the bowl so the nugget didn't burn out and Sasha is looking at me angrily, asking if I heard her. I did, but only now are the words actually connecting. But, I was starting to forget them.

“I am genuinely worried about you,” she said, putting the pipe up to her lips and attaching the flame back to the blackening ball of weed.

“I think he's going to try the same thing again with you,” she told me with the smoke still in her lungs, holding it so as to increase the effects of the drug. “I think he wants to pump and dump your ass.”

“Sasha!” I offered back blowing a huge cloud of smoke into the closed box.

“What? The fucker wants to tie you up and fuck you.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Look, its Wednesday right,” I nodded, not really sure in my cloudy-headed state whether this was actually a true statement or not. “Herman used to come in to see Amber every Wednesday. She loved it. She had built this sick fucking relationship with the old lecher. Just fucking hugging him when he came in.”

She was killing my high so much that I waved away the pipe when she offered it up. Shrugging, she just went in for another hit.

“There is zero evidence from what you have told me that...”

“Herman,” she filled in, holding another hit.

“Herman. There is no evidence that Herman killed Amber. She probably just got involved with some of the wrong people. Maybe she got into some heavier shit: Coke, or heroine, or Amphetamines, or something.”

Sasha shook her head and took another puff.

“You're filling in the blanks with what you want to be true.” I told her, starting to really get upset, “There is no, like, detective work involved in your conclusion. An old man, like, sometimes coming in to visit a...a...a... young woman at work is not, like, damning evidence in a murder trial Sash.”

“He. Fucking. Did it.”

That was the end of it. The long and short of it. I spent so much energy getting upset with Sasha and her unsubstantiated accusations, and it was most likely just because I didn't want her to be right. The unfortunate truth was, I did find the whole thing a bit suspicious.

The dark truths that lay beyond the shiny over-polished surface of everything was where I dwelt. The dark recesses of humanity were the core truths of humanity to me. For some reason, though, even as I believed the world to be so much more fucked up and awful than anyone could actually perceive it to be, I had such a hard time believing Sasha's truth about Herman.

After 15 more minutes of stoned silence in her car, we emerged and made our way into the mall, not ready in any way, shape, or form to put in our measly five hour shifts.

–

Herman came in every Wednesday. Just like Sasha had told me he would.

It made me feel uncomfortable, just as I had imagined it would.

He never seemed capable of Sasha's implied actions, but really, they never do.

Shit, Ted Bundy used to fake all sorts of injuries/handicaps to get his victims' guards down.

But, Herman was always sweet, giving me a Werther's Original every time he came in. I would always tell him I wasn't allowed to eat on the sales floor (which definitely wasn't true), then pocket the candy for later disposal into the break room garbage. He would just smile and tell say, “that's alright sweetie, you eat that whenever you like.”

The lecher was coating the candy in something, I just knew it. Some sort of Roofie or the like.

I wasn't just going to hide from him, though, running to the back as soon as I caught sight of him like prey fleeing a predator. This was a safe place and I would not let him intimidate me. I was so much stronger than that.

When Herman started looking sick, I still kept my guard up. This was pathetic. He really was taking pages right out of Ted Bundy's “How to Kill Young Women.” With each successive week, I would just amp up the happiness and excitement at his arrival, showing Herman that I would not fear him, and no false sickness was going to get me to in his van.

He never asked, but I knew that he was going to. It was just over the horizon.

When his skin started looking more yellow, I started hugging him. I would not be intimidated.

When the circles under his eyes darkened, I kissed him on the cheek. I would not be intimidated.

When his hair started falling out, I held his hand. I. Would. Not. Be. Intimidated.

When he stopped coming in, I looked him up.

I found him with ease. I knew his surname from our many conversations, and there it was in the directory.

When the number was disconnected, I breathed a sigh of relief.

–

Three weeks after Herman stopped coming in to see me at Hot Topic, these two well-dressed thirty somethings came into the store. Their entrance was not welcomed by our patron, to put it lightly. There were practically boos and hisses as they approached Sasha at the counter. From the folding table at the back of the store, I tried to read their lips, failing only until I saw the man's mouth form my name.

Sasha's finger went up in my direction. Our relationship had faded into professional nods to one another, owing mostly to my aversion to pot ever since she had took a big shit on my high. As she pointed to me, I could see the disgust in her face, but I wasn't sure if it was related to how she now felt about me, or if it was more about these unwelcome guests.

The young, suited man approached me slowly. Behind him, the young lady hung her head and followed, keeping her distance. Verifying my identity, he handed me and envelope. He placed his hand on my shoulder, as if to console me, then turned and left.

He never even bothered to identify himself.

If you don't mind, I'd like to read you this letter. Herman wrote the whole thing by hand, mind you. Its hard to express, in these times, how sweet...how endearing that truly is.

If you are reading this, Then I am afraid I am no longer with you. My dear, I wanted to thank you for everything you have done for me in these past few months. You have shown me a level of warmth no stranger has ever shown, let alone most members of my own family. The only exception to this being my dearest granddaughter Amber, who was taken from this world far too early. I never questioned any of decisions that our dear Amber ever made, believing then, as I still do even now that everybody needs to make their mistakes in order to learn from them. This being said, the only mistakes we might not learn from may be the ones we don't know we are making. When was the last time you gave your father a call? Your mother? Your Grandfather?

With Fondest Regards,

Herman

I called you, that night Grandpa. And Dad. And Mom. As you lay here in this bed, and I know you can hear me, I just wanted you to know the true story behind our relationship, warts, scars and all.

I wanted you to know about Herman. I wanted you to know that even during the times we think are our darkest, the unpredictable kindness of strangers can change everything. And when it comes time for you to leave us, I will know that I dodged what could have possibly been one of my biggest regrets. I learned more from the greatest mistake I didn't even know I was making, than any I ever knew.

I love you.

Career Day

This little ditty I just hammered out in two days.  Its lighter (for me.) and hopefully its funny.  I laugh at it, and I hope you will too.  Have fun and give a brother some feedback.

Career Day

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Someone said that to me once. Then, someone else. Then, someone else.

One of those little pearls of wisdom that spreads like a virus, crossing generations, infecting us with sickening optimism.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm alright, think I just came down with a little case of positivity...nothing the antibiotics can't handle.”

Side effects may include but are not limited to: nausea, vomiting, vertigo, profuse sweating, compliments, upward muscular spasms of the cheeks, singing in the rain, victory dancing, and occasionally...hugging.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Like the acne-covered pubescent boy applying for a job flipping burgers in a three-piece, double breasted Armani.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Silly little words. I've never taken them to heart before today. They've never meant what they were meant to mean. The sum of the parts worth no more than the parts themselves.

What makes today so different? Today, I want...excuse me...I need people to see the job that I want. Today, I need people to not only see the job that I want as the job that I want. I need them to think that the job that I want is in fact the job that I have. I need to be so convincing in my dress that they believe. I need to be so spot on with my costume, right down to the footwear.

This is where the leather moccasins come in. These are just part of the uniform for the modern self-employed, work-from-home gentleman of leisure. Fur-lined, leather moccasins, hand threaded – in an American workshop – by today's modern footwear artisans. Above the slippers, fleeced plaid pajama bottoms, tied relatively tight at the waist. Tight enough to maintain station above the pelvis, of course, but not so tight as to interfere with the wearer's comfort.

Above these beauties, a vintage Star Wars T-shirt. Original Poster artwork on a pre-treated, pre-worn charcoal gray base. The tag certifies the garment is nothing more than a Taiwan-made undershirt run through a giant screen-printing machine. Fifty shirts printed every minute. A real high-quality piece of apparel.

And the pièce de résistance, a robe, nay, housecoat slung loosely – haphazardly even – over the shoulders. The built-in belt hangs loosely at the sides, untied. Part of the fashion really, just a little attention to detail meant to show a lack of attention to detail.

The hair is product-free. Uncombed and sloppy. Fresh off the pillow. The armpits and taint are unsullied by soap, deodorant, and baby powder. Fresh with the stink of yesterday's inactivity. Elegantly tacky. Fashionably unfashionable. And most of all, thoroughly convincing.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

The laptop, nothing more than accessory, compliments the uniform perfectly. Tucked under one arm, the gray shell of my prop is covered in stickers of bands, TV shows, movies, and companies that I love. Cheap decorations covering an expensive, extremely useful piece of modern machinery. It says to onlookers: “I care what you think, but really I don't”

The final prop is a coffee cup. A beautiful little standard-size ceramic number, with big block-lettering emblazoned across its side, declaring myself to be the one and only “#1 Dad” in the world. Its a little reminder of why I'm doing this whole thing after all. A nod to the boy.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Sitting down at the table for breakfast, the decision is made that I will make this official. If I'm going to claim I do my business from home, I might as well actually crack the lid of this thing and get right to it. I should put myself into the mind of my character, a nod in the direction of Stanaslavsky's method.

I pour a measured cup of soy milk over my organic bran flakes. I look at the series of boot screens bringing my old friend out of hibernation. Then, that feeling creeps into my gut. You know, the feeling that not only is someone looking at you, but they are doing so disapprovingly. That feeling that hits, and surpasses your basic sixth sense.

Raising my eyes from the computer, I look to the bowl of quietly crackling bran. It's not staring disapprovingly at me. It's minding its own business, as far as I can tell, soaking up my milk quietly. Quietly, I think, but realistically, its being a tad louder than it should be. Nodding gently, I shush the bowl in my mind. Pushing the bowl's rude disturbance to the background, my view shifts up further still, looking across the table in the sincerest of hopes that I will find the source of this increasing ache in my gut.

There it is, or rather, there he is. Randy. His big shining blue saucer eyes fixed on me, darting from the sloppy bedhead, to the housecoat, to the “vintage” Star Wars tee, to the bedhead, housecoat, tee, cup, tee, housecoat, bedhead, cup, tee, and so on.

“Yes?”

He frowns at me. “Did you forget?”

“No.”

His stare is firm, drenched in accusations. This is a tactic he has pulled from the pages his mother's field manual. Its the classic “guilt before the crime” move. A sloppier execution than I'm used to, but who can blame him, he's only 8.

“Well then,” he continues.

“Yes?”

I can outplay this kid. This amateur. I've been studying Mom's field manual for 9 years now, and he thinks I haven't got a defense for this little maneuver? He's got another thing coming, I tell you.

“Are you planning on getting ready?”

“I am.”

“You are planning on it?”

“I am ready.”

“For what?”

“You know.”

“You did forget.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not times infinity.”

“Did too, times infinity plus one.”

“Career day.”

Boom! I win, sucker! I'm right – you're wrong. And in a few hours, in just a few hours time, little man. In a few hours, I will rise like the phoenix from the ashes to reclaim my rightful position on the throne as your one and only hero.

He sinks into his chair, not breaking eye contact, but definitely breaking that accusatory gaze. He's thinking this through, I can tell. He wants to see where this is going. Visibly intrigued is the best way to describe the look now painted across his smooth face.

“Okay,” he says. “Eat your milk and cardboard and let's go then.” He punctuates this with the crunch from his last bite of toast, pulls his backpack onto one shoulder and hops away from the table. Its all one fluid movement like some choreography from an old Chinese kung-fu flick. Awe-stricken, I blow the virtual dust off a file “Last Modified” more than a month ago and begin shoveling the now-soggy fibrous flakes into my maw.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

The classrooms of Second-graders are leagues beyond those of First-graders. A Second-grader's classroom has class. No more Bush-league finger paintings on the walls. This is the real deal Holyfield. This is where math formulas are born. Where chapter books are the norm. This is where dreams are made...and sometimes broken. Where if you don't keep up, you're just left behind.

This...is where it all. Gets. Real.

We file into the classroom real orderly-like. Myself, Randy, his classmates and all the other parents walking, nearly marching equidistantly from one another, surveying the battlefield. Sizing up the enemy. I put my hand on Randy as he leads me to his desk, but for God's sake I never stop looking at those parents.

The competition is as fierce, if not fiercer, this year than it was the last. There are the familiar faces like Motorcycle Dad, Farmer Dad, and Pantsuit Realtor Mom. Then, of course there are the newcomers like Oilslick Lawyer Dad, Fireman Dad, and Sheriff Mom.

I hate them all. Every success-story little fake with a gold-clip wad to blow on brand-name shirts, and hats, and coats, and footwear. All for their little mirror images, who won't even fit into this year's $400 wardrobe come summertime. Little well-planned pregnancies complaining in the following Fall that the new $350 budget is “unreasonable.” They'll be demanding that this year's Nikes match this year's South Pole, match this year's Zoo York match this years Dickies...

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

I come out of my hate-trance, realizing only now that I've not been paying any attention to Randy's prattling on about the contents, location, size, and shape of his desk. The entire reason for my being here has been shadowed by my self-involved desire to impress a pack of 8-year-olds and moreover, their parents.

To think, all this because I was a little boring last year.

Oilslick Lawyer Dad laughs loudly at something his dumpy little daughter says. The laugh is loud. Painfully loud.

Louder than bran cereal soaking up milk, that's for sure.

I breathe to quell the onset of another hate-trance. The teacher, Mrs. Smith, or some such, takes the floor, calling for silence. Then, Mrs. Some Such explains Career Day in great detail, as if we are all oblivious to the significant role it plays in the future of the known universe. I'm struggling not to wag my head, roll my eyes around, and circle my wrist and pointer in a rolling motion to usher on some. Kind. Of. Point.

If we can't be boring parents on one day out of the year, then she certainly shouldn't be allowed to either. Maybe its an act of mercy, though. A layer of primer to make the colors really pop. Set against the monotone sounds spewing forth from Mrs. Some Such, anyone's life would seem interesting.

I'm lost in these thoughts when she calls Motorcycle Dad to the head of the class, but the subsequent claps of kids impressed by anything with a combustion engine brings me back.

Motorcycle Dad is just as impressive as he was last year. Pointing to his son and making big sweeping gestures, he's rattling off parts like an auctioneer. All I hear is gibberish and numbers followed by oohs and aahs. There is no possible way these kids know what he is talking about, but they know that all that means is that he really knows his stuff.

And he works on motors. And he rides around on a dangerous instrument of potential death and carnage. And he has entire sleeves of tattoos. And long hair. And a long beard. And dark sunglasses. And he's probably all jacked up on Ice.

Damn. I think he might actually be my role model.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

His time ends and its Oilslick's turn. He's just the yuppie scumbag stereotype I picture. A real Bret Easton Ellis archetype. I think I'm going to throw up in my mouth if he quotes A Few Good Men one more time.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Pantsuit Realtor Mom must get cramps in those cheeks. Her smile is frighteningly stretched to capacity, framing her too-big veneers. They look like they're trying to escape her mouth. I stop judging just long enough to tune in to what she's saying and I swear to God she's trying to explain the housing market crash. To second-graders.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Fireman Dad actually has me doubled over in pain. My stomach cramps up when he recollects the supermarket tracheotomy. The “awws” of the children bring bile up into the back of my throat when he recalls the cat in the tree, returned to the old woman.

Wasn't that in a cartoon?

Tear-inducing pains shoot like bolts of electricity through my groin. He's telling that old tale of defibbing a gaggle of elderly at the scene of the worst bus crash he's ever seen. You know, the one he's told dozens of times, never failing to jerk the collective tears out of the eyes of any room.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

I'm in the fetal position on the floor and the clapping is dying down from all the standing students, parents and random faculty who have now just wandered in. They're all wiping their eyes, wrapping up the third standing ovation when I hear Mrs. Some Such introduce me from behind the curtain of students.

And its all eyes on me. Still curled up, I survey the room of transfixed eyes and blank expressions, laughing nervously and throwing up a little wave. I stand, mock brushing whatever may have gotten on me from the floor off my uniform, and retrieve my props from the table beside me.

Dress for the job...Oh boy.

Ohboyohboyohboyohboy.

I'm walking the length of the classroom and it feels like three football fields lined up in front of sixty miles of highway. I'm sweating already.

“Dead man walking.”

Oh boy.

When I turn to face them, I see the recognition in the familiar students faces. The students who have stayed with Randy through their scholastic advancement remember me. Their eyes are already drooping. Bore-induced sleep looms on the horizon like the setting sun.

“Alright!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Let's hear it for...” Damn. I've forgotten his name. “The King County Fire Department!” They clap, confused.

Jesus, I'm leaning on my opener.

“Okay. Well, Like Mrs....Like your teacher mentioned, I am Randy's father.”

A kid clears his throat. I'm drenched in sweat. I'm dying up here.

“And I. Am. A *ahem* writer.”

The silence still lays heavily, like a warm, wet blanket place over a burn victim, rescued by Fireman Dad. I can hear the beads of stinking fluid leaving my pours.

“I get to dress like this – ”

“How many books have you published?”

The voice comes from some girl in the middle of the room, but I didn't see her ask it, so I'm not sure who the culprit really is. Could be Glossy-Eyed Leopard Print, or Big-Eared Unibrow. Might have been Bucktooth Polka-dots.

I look to Mrs. Some Such for a red flag on the whole speaking-out-of-turn thing. I'm quietly hoping she'll give a five-yard penalty for delay of game. Nothing comes, and I'm on my own again.

“Yes, well. Good question. I've actually not published any books per se.”

“Short stories then?” From Obese Runnynose, stage left.

I laugh nervously. “Not really my forte, I'm afraid.

“What is, then? Your forte? Is there somewhere we can read your work?” Blondie Four-eyes.

“My work. Yes, well. I'm not sure anything I've done is really ready to see the light of day. Everything still needs a bit of polish.”

“It's a hobby then.” A British kid? Really?

“No, I'm trying to do this for a living, kid.” The cracks are showing. I can't get mad. Can't lose it. Can't let them see weakness.

Blondie Four-eyes chimes back in, “got your feelers out, then? Submissions in the pipeline?”

Dress for the job. Dress for the job. Dress for the job.

“Yeah, sure. Well, not really. Like I said, still polishing and all that.”

“Just a hobby then.” Damned Brit-boy.

“Not a hobby. I'm trying to do this for a living”

“Doesn't seem like you're trying very hard, then.”

Somewhere between trying to push back the urge to choke an 8-year-old child and formulate some sort of clever response, I black out.

...the job....you have...dress...want...job...have....not...dress

When I come to, my arms are being held tightly by two faculty members I recognize from Fireman Dad's rousing speech. My jaw is aching and I can only see out of one eye.

“God, he stinks,” one of them complains.

“Wha Happeh?” I ask through a swollen lip.

“I have never heard such language in a Elementary School, sir. I'm afraid I don't think you're going to be welcome on our campus again.”

“Aw,” I sigh as they prop me up on the curb. “Wha I say? Is Ranhee Okayuh? Who beah me up?”

The two men in cheap suits are breathing heavily. Baldy McPockmarks blows a gust of air out like a deflating balloon and narrows his eyes at me. “Do you really not remember?” He asks, “Sir, are you telling me... Are you telling us, that you have no idea what just happened less than 5 minutes ago in your son's classroom?”

“Aw, jeez. I dih sohthig bah dih I?”

“Something very bad, yes. After a string of expletives aimed at no one in particular,” Baldy recounts, “you punched one of the student's fathers in his mouth as he tried to calm you down. As you fought – or attempted to fight – the resulting melee of parents trying to subdue you, you began swinging wildly like a drunken asylum patient.”

“Oh Boy”

“Yes sir.”

“I so Suhry”

“That's all well and fine. Lets just have you sit right here and wait for the police. We are going back inside to talk to some of the other parents. Let's hope for your sake none of them want to press charges.”

“Telluh theh ah I Suhry!” I holler after them, wondering if they even heard, let alone understood.

After they've gone, I spend a long stretch of time considering the potential results of my running. On the lam seems far better than this. Anything seems better than this. This is going to make the papers. Real writers are going to tell this story, for sure. I'm in a serious bit of trouble.

Just as I have started on the outline my possible Kerouacian life on the road across the country, pavement clicking footfalls are approaching from my right. Heavy boots, jingling metal with each step. My right eye still won't open, so I have to turn my head awkwardly far, a searing whiplash style pain resulting from the move. Motorcycle Dad is coming for me. Probably to kill me.

I'm dreaming of the ways he'll do it when he takes a seat on the curb next to me. “A shiv?” I accidentally ask him out loud.

“What?”

I don't know what to tell him, so I don't say anything. I wince when he reaches his hand into is denim vest. Pulling a pack of Marlboro Reds from within, I settle back onto my elbows, allowing the painful tension to wash free from my body. I'm breathing deeply when he pushes the pack in my direction.

As I take a stick from the box he's holding open for me, a flash of my outburst shoots across the back of my ever-swelling, closed eyelid. It's like a projector being turned on for no more than a second. Long enough, still, to reveal an image of my fist loosely flopping across Motorcycle Dad's cheek. It's an embarrassing punch.

“I nevuh beh ih a figh beefuh,” I choose to tell him, not really sure why. He lights my cigarette, then his.

He takes a long drag while I wait for him to berate me. “I know,” is all he says.

Then after shooting a long stream of smoke out, “me neither. I just wasn't ready to be made.”

He starts pulling hes tattoos off. Long tubes of fabric stretched over his arms. The elaborately drawn dragons and Chinese symbols bend and fold revealing blank, hairy, pasty arms beneath. Then the long hair comes off. Then the beard.

“You really want to be a writer?” Another drag from his stick. Mine is burning, but I've pulled nothing more than the original puff necessary for the lighting. Looking at it contemplatively, I take in the first actual drag since my mid-twenties.

And cough it right back out, violently. I'm nodding my response between hacks. Yes. Yes, I really want to be a writer.

“Yeah, I really want to own a shop too. Tired of selling shoes, to be perfectly honest”

He laughs, takes another drag, then blows it out. I laugh my now signature nervous laugh.

“Dress for the job you want,” he says.

“Nah fuh the jah you hah,” I finish.

He pats me firmly on the back.

“If you wanted them to believe you, you should have done this last year. Year one is the time to start the lie. And for God's sake, if you're going to lie about being a writer, why wouldn't you just claim that you're published?”

“Whah if theyuh folluh up?”

“They're kids.”

“They askuh if I hah 'submishuh in thuh pipelieh”

“Yeah, they're business-minded, this generation. Easy fix, though. You just say your stuff is in Playboy. Little bastards can't look into it.”

I laugh at what a simple response this would have been. It hurts to laugh, so I smoke some more. Then cough some more. This hurts even more than laughing.

“They're all just pretending in there anyway. You think a freshly-pressed pantsuit, false teeth and a Sub-Prime mortgage explanation lifted from Wikipedia a Realtor makes?”

I shrug.

“Firedad. His stories were pulled right out of straight-to-video Christian love movies and old Warner Brothers cartoons.”

I nod.

“Lawyer? That dude was more Patrick Bateman than Christian Bale. His law terms and movie quotes wouldn't stop crashing into each other. None of that holds up. If you asked Slick Rick if he passed the Bar, he'd probably tell you he passed a few on his drive here.”

I chuckle.

“But not one of those kids challenged it. Know why? Because we got them when they were young. We hooked them, and they will never challenge our claims. Because we got them. When. They. Were. Young.”

I nod again. He pulls and pushes smoke from his stick again. Mine is a solid line of ash nearly down to the butt.

“It doesn't matter now, anyway.”

He takes one last drag then flicks the butt into some nearby gravel.

“Whyuh?”

“Nobody's going to be able to follow that,” Motorcycle Dad proclaims, blowing out a billowing puff and pointing in the direction of Randy's classroom, “ever.”