|Not this Donna Loren|
There once lived a waitress named Donna Loren (not that Donna Loren) who worked at a restaurant called The Steak Trough. She was good at her job. When she wasn’t busy with tables she helped the dishwashers, which seemed like a nice thing to do.
One night the manager discovered that the reason she helped the dishwashers was so that she could eat the debris off the plates. He yelled at her in a demeaning manner and she fled the restaurant in tears. On her way home she stopped at McDonald’s and ate two burgers out of the Dumpster. Solace.
My rehab roommate was a heroin addict named Rupe. He didn’t scream or sweat or suffer like The Man with the Golden Arm. He was calm. He kept to his bed. Rupe received three experimental, mystery shots a day. I noticed a change after every injection. His eyes grew distant, as if peering into something vast. His skin started to sag. On the third day, his face began to change – a softening of features. On the fourth day he was comic Morey Amsterdam.
I was going to request another roommate but I didn’t want to miss any of his jokes.
I’m stranded in an area so rural, so remote, that I don’t recognize any of the product brands on the shelves of the general store (the only store). Healey’s Dead Duck Potato Chips? Ripped Suture Root Beer? Barbara Lemieux’s Sugar-Therapy Donuts? Cause-of-Death Hot Sauce? A whole line of Vulture-Stain condiments (no relish, but seven different kinds of ketchup). Fibromitosis Mixed Nuts. Abe Lincoln’s Corpse brand beef jerky. Raw Sewage Coffee (with crystals!). And Dead Baby Sunflower Seeds.
The name of the milk is so bizarre, grotesque, disturbing and tragic I can’t bring myself to mention it. Let alone drink it.