Bad Accident

I took a little drink and I'm feelin' right
I can fly right over everything, everything in sight
There's a slow-poking cat I'm gonna pass him on the right

Transfusion, transfusion
I'm a real gone paleface and that's no illusion
I'm never never never gonna speed again
Pass the claret to me, Barrett

                                                                                                                -- Nervous Norvus, Transfusion

Part I

After spending nearly three months at the Evergreen Hospital Detoxification Center in Grossknot, Connecticut, Louis Driscoll was finally driving home. The temptation to drink no longer smoldered inside him (mainly due to the wonderful medication they had him on) and he was eager (and a little afraid?) to begin the long process of rebuilding his shattered life. Nightmares of the accident had finally, thankfully ceased and Louis felt stronger and more confident than he had in many lost, booze-drenched years...

     The weeks spent at the hospital had been hard. The long nights of despair and suicidal hopelessness had threatened the foundation of his sanity. He relived the accident over and over in his mind (the screams, the sound of shattering glass, the smell of gasoline). The guilt and remorse made him feel as if he were being crushed to death. He suffered seizures, hyperventilated into collapse during panic attacks and woke up screaming with night terrors.

     But eventually (again, thanks largely to medication) things began to clear and lift for Louis. He'd escaped the burning conflagration his mind had ignited. Now he was driving home.      But to what?

     He still had three hours or so before he reached Vermont. He knew his return would be a lonely one. Linda had taken the kids and fled to California. Louis couldn’t blame her but the loss still felt like a deep wound in his chest.

     Louis crossed the Vermont border by late afternoon. His old sidekick, Depression, began to ride along with him. Being back in Vermont reminded him with bitter clarity of the life he’d had there and the tragedy that had occurred. Louis shook his head, trying to keep himself awake and focused on the road. He turned off the highway and started down a smooth narrow street that unspooled through a dense pine forest. When he came to a three-way fork, he struggled to remember the correct route. Unsure, he made a left turn.

     Louis had gone almost a mile when the road began to deteriorate, becoming pitted with potholes and loose stones. He slowed, searching for familiar landmarks. He found none. His memory had been too badly corroded by alcohol.

     The woods around him were thick and dark and the farther he drove the more decayed the pavement became.

     He began to grow hot and anxious and popped a Valium. This was wrong. Taking that left had been a mistake. He decided he’d turn around at the next accommodating soft shoulder.

     But when the condition of the road began to improve, he   shrugged. Oh well. Might as well keep going, he thought to himself. He accelerated, getting his speed up to almost 50. Veering to the right, he rounded a slight bend, cool air drying the sweat from his forehead. He didn’t see the small brown dog until it was too late.

FRAMED!

Quentin Talbot looked up from his newspaper and squinted in the direction of his wife. “What did you say?”

     “I said Mrs. Benson is coming over later to pick up the old picture frames.”

     “Oh. Okay.”

     “I told her we don’t have any use for them anyway...”

     “Use for what?”

     “The picture frames! Honestly, Quentin!”

     “Oh sure, the picture frames. That’s what I thought you said.”

     June Talbot walked into the kitchen for her pills. She returned to the parlor.

     When Quentin saw her he said, “What picture frames are these?”

     “What?”

     “What picture frames?”

     “Those old ones you found in the basement.”

     “Oh, those.”

     “Yes, we have no use for them.”

     “Yeah, I guess not.”

     “Well, of course not!”

     He raised his newspaper then lowered it again. “Uh, June? Who are you giving them to again?”

     “Mrs. Benson. Is your hearing-aid in, Quentin?”

     “Huh?”

     “Put your hearing-aid in!”

     “No, don’t want any lemonade.”

     “Your hearing-aid!”

     “Oh! My hearing-aid.”

     “Yes, Quentin.”

     “It is in, June.”

     “Oh fuh gawd’s sake, Quentin!”

     June swallowed two yellow pills with a sip of tepid water.

     They sat in silence for several minutes.

     Then Quentin lowered his newspaper again. “Who the hell is Mrs. Benson?”

My Bucket List

I. Half a year or two ago, people kept asking me what was on my “bucket list.”

II. It was irritating.

III. Did they really think I was dying?

IV. Anyway, here’s a list of questions I came up with first:

·         1. It’s none of their damn business (technically not a question but whatever).

·         2. What made them think I even had a “bucket list?”

·         3. Did they just assume it?

·         4. Why would they assume it?

·         5. Was it written all over my face or something?

·         6. Did I look that bad?

·         7. Did the term “bucket list” come from that movie The Bucket List (Warner Bros. 2007)?

·         8. Or did it already exist as a thing and that’s where the       movie got it?

·         9. Is Jack Nicholson proud of that movie?

·         10. Is Morgan Freeman?

·         11. Does everyone have such a list?

·         12. Can we trade?

·         13. If you don’t accomplish everything on your list, does that mean you failed life in some way?

·         14. Was that last question existential or metaphysical?

·         15. Both?

·         16. Just stupid?

V. So anyway, without further ado, here it is - MY BUCKET LIST:

·         1(b). Hold hands with a prostitute.

·         2(b). Meet Colleen Stan. Ask her where she gets off.

·         3(b). Get trepanned.

·         4(b). Take DMT on a roller coaster.

·         5(b). Steal the mummified corpse of Elmer McCurdy.

·         6(b). Set fire to an art museum.

·         7(b). Turn base metal into gold.

·         8(b). Greet The Honorable Greebe.

·         9(b). See The Bucket List (Warner Bros. 2007).

·         10(b). Write a bucket list. √   

VI. Pop Quiz:

·         1(c). Without looking, how many items are on my list?

·         2(c). Am I kidding? High? What?

·         3(c). Do you have a “bucket list”?

·         4(c). If you answered “yes” to #3 then U R lame.

·         5(c). Who or what is a “Greebe”?

·         6(c). Is he (or she) really honorable?

·         7(c). Or what?

·         8(c). On a scale of 1 to 10 how would you rate Moon River?

§  A (1). As a song. ( )

§  B (1). As a river. ( )

§  C (1). As a poultice.  ( )

·         9(c). Is this getting on your nerves yet?

·         10(c). Discuss.

And Now a Word from Our Sponsor

It was the fourth of July, just after noon. Already, Billy Evans could hear the pops and whistles of distant fireworks exploding across the neighborhood.

     “Billy!” his mother called from the house. “Come get lunch!”

     Billy turned. “Okay, mom!” He suddenly realized it was Tuesday! His mother always served maggots on Tuesday!

     “Don’t run in the house!” she warned him. “And wash your hands. I’m putting food on the table right now.”

     “Okay, mom!” Billy bounded into the living room. His Grandpa, Emil “Pops” Winfield was dozing in his calico recliner, yesterday’s newspaper unfolded on his lap. “Slow down, kiddo. Where’s the fire?”

     “Mom’s making maggots for lunch!”

     Emil winked at his grandson. “Well, why didn’t you say so. Nothin’ better than your mom’s home-cooked maggots!”

     “Boy, I’ll say!”

     Once the men had cleaned up, they wandered into the kitchen. Billy’s little sister Mona was sitting in her high-chair, already eating from a plate of mashed maggots dusted with brown sugar and cinnamon. 

     Billy and Pops sat down. They all bowed their heads. “Dear Lord,” he began. “We thank you for all our blessings, and for bestowing this gift of nourishment to us in the form of these wonderful maggots. Please keep us safe and happy and may we roll in maggots all our lives, at your Divine discretion. Amen.”

     The others said, “Amen.”

     Billy’s mom began to serve. She plopped big yellow gobs of macaroni and cheese (with maggots replacing the pasta) onto their plates. “Mmm, I love the smell of freshly baked maggots,” said Pops. “You feel that way too, Billy?”

     “You bet I do! Nothing beats mom’s maggots,” Billy enthused, filling his mouth with maggots and cheese.

     “Oh, you two. You’re going to give me a swelled head.”

     “You are swell! And so are these delicious maggots!” Billy said and they all shared in a hearty laugh. Also on the menu that day: fried breaded maggots, a maggot and blueberry smoothie, a salad with bacon bits, croutons and maggots. And bread.

     “What’s for dessert?” Billy wanted to know.

     “Crème maggot brulee,'” Billy’s mom said.

     “Oh boy! Thanks mom. You’re the greatest!”

     “Well, now Billy, I can’t take all the credit. Because I get my maggots from Wertham’s Worms. Every maggot is flash frozen at the peak of freshness. All Wertham’s maggots are farm-raised, so never touch icky decomposing bodies, fecal matter, or rotted garbage. Wertham’s Worms does this, so you can feel better about giving maggots to your family.”

Jingle:

Wertham’s Worms

Is the place to get

Wriggling maggots

For the gourmet set!

 

Time Share

“Auf den Mereen! Aud den Mereen!”

     “Sciffe?”                

     “Nein!”

     I opened my eyes. German words dropped on me from above, slamming into my hangover headache like pounding in a foundry. I rolled over on my back. Two sets of eyes were peering down at me between wooden planks. I was lying under a porch. I could hear the crash and pull of the surf nearby, seagulls screeching, children screaming. I was still at the fucking beach. The time share in Aware, Rhode Island.

     I wondered what the hell happened. I couldn’t remember a thing. Usually, no matter how fucked up I got, at least I retained a few hazy images or impressions in my booze-damaged memory. I’d had blackouts before, but nothing like this. This was just a blank. As if I hadn’t existed for a brief period.

     My skin felt sticky and gritty, sunburned. I slowly sat up, groaning. Getting my head upright took effort and strain and pain. I blinked like a wounded animal at the bleached, burning glare of sand and sky. I was stiff to my bones, my elbows and knees were scraped raw and I noticed my stomach was covered with a red rash. Great, I probably had poison ivy to boot. A bottle of cheap Schitkov vodka sat planted in the sand beside me. I lifted it and drained the last remaining sips. It was at that point that, oh shit, I realized I was naked. The Germans giggled above me as I started frantically lathing sand over myself, burying my genitals.

     More German jeers and laughter.

     I looked around and thank God found my clothes, sand-covered and crumpled into a pile behind me. My makeshift pillow.

     I dressed slowly and achingly. The vodka had helped alleviate the painful pressure in my head (a bit) but I felt battered, exhausted. I wondered if I’d gotten into a fight last night or, more realistically, beaten up.

     I stood up, wobbling.

     “Hey mister!” one of the Germans cried out. “Vatchoo doink down zere?”

     I didn’t answer. I walked, hunched-over like Groucho Marx, out from under the porch.

     “Did you sleep okay, Hanky?” a woman’s voice said and my nervous system zapped into panic. “I’m sorry?” I turned.

     “Sleep. How did you. It’s in that vein.” She was a short, plump young woman with glasses and colorful, Polynesian-looking tattoos (a lot of flowers and parrots and hula girls) covering most of her body. She was wearing a black bikini.

Automatic Hospital Experiment

 Automatic writing while thinking about a recent hospital stay...

Expedition One: Atrophied arms behind locked gates. He hates boats, more specifically he hates drowning. Or the idea of it anyway. “How are you feeling?” I hate ocean voyages. I’ve done all the research. Your qualifications outclass every other anthropologist in this choking weed of an institution. The billowy, albino pockets of throbbing jelly seemed directionless, content to flow and bobble in the calm gangrenous water. The afterglow morning of Thorazine and Seroquel. Nodding into his breakfast. “We detected no head or fins or appendages of any note. It was not preposterous anymore. Then the Captain went blitzkrieg and beat his wife to death. She never saw it organized or heard the Captain’s gasp. The speakeasies, the Charleston, Herbert Hoover. Rafts and submarines. They found the Captain scratching at his face with bloody, studied fingernails while his wife was a crumpled hump in the clean, unfair corner - sweet and thick with the perfumed invitation of assigned putrefaction. Amid crackling thunder and screaming seas the First Mate, Luke, heard a torrent of voices at his lonely door. “I’ve checked and re-checked the data.” I’d have saved myself a modicum of trouble if only I’d realized that the shawls were made of flames.

The old man burst into the pub, his haggard face twisted with truncated dreams like a worm cut in two. His voice had perished, stolen by grim ordeal. He used dyslexic telepathy to tell the others, “Down was I Porter’s Cove was me. A box netted I. A wooden box long. Rusted was the lock shut and barnacles to wood clung the soft waterlogged. Right at it real close looked I and lettering seen I across the top. It said, 

Violet's Visitors

SPINCHBURG, NEW JERSEY, 1976

     “Coming!” Violet yelled, finishing her vodka, pulling her ratty bathrobe tight as she stomped to the front door. She knew it wasn’t the landlord, he was still out of town (and thank Fnerk for that; Violet had been out of work for two months now and was on the tenuous edge of eviction). She drew the curtain aside.

     The Doctor’s face, pale and shiny with sweat, leered on the other side of the window, rabid breath fogging the glass. She stepped back, startled. He banged on the door again; an urgent pounding.

     She twisted the lock free, opened the door. The Doctor stepped into the apartment without saying a word. Joni Nobody was behind him, bringing dark madness into Violet’s home. “Hi,” she said, lighting a cigarette, floating into the room. Violet hadn’t seen Joni Nobody in over five years. Not since they’d all lived together at the Briarpatch commune. The change in her appearance was shocking. She’d dropped a lot of weight. Black circles hung below her sad, swollen eyes. Her hair was filthy and matted. She was wearing a stained red tank top and a short black skirt that revealed bruises, scratches and scabs on her long, pale legs.

     Two young kids straggled in behind her. Violet recognized Benny at once, even though the last time she’d seen him he’d been a mere toddler, barely speaking yet. He had to be around eleven now but was already taller than all of them. His black hair was long, covering most of his face. He was all long limbs, his arms and legs stick-thin. His skin was almost translucent, showing blue veins and the outlines of his bones. If he pulled open his shirt, she was sure, she’d see the purple shadow of his heart pulsing against his ribcage.

     A little girl followed him. She looked like a younger, prettier version of Joni. She was startlingly beautiful but moved like a girl ashamed of being human. Of having a body. She was bent over, almost folded in half. She held her arms tight against her chest, eyes down, seemingly filled with fear. She took little hesitant steps, like a cat in a new room. The girl’s body-language revealed a disturbing ordeal in her recent past.

     Violet said, “Well, hello there,” in her best nursery school voice but all the girl did was flinch in response. No eye contact. No sign that she’d even understood Violet.

     “Nice place,” said the Doctor with his usual sarcasm, pretending to admire the coffee table covered with empty bottles, beer cans and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and roaches. He raised an eyebrow at the kitchenette which was overflowing with dirty dishes and trash, stinking of rotting garbage. A haze of fruit flies hovered over everything.

     Violet shut the door. “Thanks,” she said, hoping (and failing) to match the Doctor’s sarcasm. The place was a toilet, she knew that. The walls were crumbling, water-stained roadmaps, the ceiling an upside-down plain of chipped, peeling paint that snowed onto the faded, threadbare carpet. A carpet that retained the smell of urine and puke no matter how many times she shampooed it and seemed held together only by stains.

     It’s a shitty cesspool, she thought. And I still can’t even afford it.       

     “I didn’t expect to see you guys again. What brings you here for this impromptu reunion?” she asked, trying to keep her annoyance out of her voice.

The Cotton Candy Gas Attack

The Great War

Red Collins opened his eyes just before dawn. It was still raining but at least the downpour had diminished to a fine drizzle. The thunder had ceased and Red was grateful for that. The sky-bursting crashes and flashes of bright lightning had become enemy shells in his fractured, fearful dreams. Even in sleep he couldn’t escape The War and the fatigued fear it brought. Red felt as if he’d been both nervous and exhausted for months. It was no way to live, even if all one wanted to do was live. The war inhabited his aching head so thoroughly that Red worried it would continue to rage there - howling and flashing - even after the last battle had been fought, even after he was safe at home.

     If he even made it home. He was no longer as confident about surviving the ordeal as he had been at the start. How stupid he had been! How helplessly, hopelessly naive. He wanted to stab the horseshit romanticism of war in its black heart. Kill the evil lie.

     He pushed himself to his feet. His comrades were still sleeping in that shallow, intermittent manner that they’d all mastered. Another habit he’d be bringing home with him after The War. How different would he seem to Mary and their daughter, Celeste? Celeste had been only 18 months old when he enlisted. Would she even remember him? The thought of walking back into his daughter’s life a complete stranger broke his heart. He hated the War, and he hated that the War was stealing so many of life’s little gifts from him. Gifts he’d never get back; fleeting little moments that fade and pass like steam from a teapot, often too quickly to seize.  

     He walked slowly along the length of the trench, the mud sucking at his boots.

     He climbed a short set of sandbag stairs, and then four rungs of a wooden ladder. He looked out over the edge of the trench, at the dark flat expanse of puddles and mud. A silent burst of lightning flared in the distance, illuminating the scorched, bare-limbed trees of the Polygon Wood.

     Red stood on the ladder and waited for this dismal, broken landscape to fill with light.

     Grey fog arrived with the grey light of dawn. Red remained perched on the ladder, surveying the muddy plain. The only sound in the world was the crackle and churn in his head.

     Then he heard a distant explosion. A last blast of thunder from the retreating storm perhaps? He waited, listening.

     Then he saw the horizon move.

     Like a soundless, breaking wave of slow ocean foam, it rushed at him, roiling and tumbling upon itself. A heavy, low-hanging cloud of pink smoke.

     Gas! It was a gas attack! He turned and yelled, “Gas! Put on your P-helmets! It’s a gas attack!”

     He turned back to the onrushing chemical cloud as it swept into the trench and he felt it fill his lungs. He coughed and clambered up the ladder.

     Cotton candy. It tasted like cotton candy.

Vorpid Crystalline Binge

    

 I came to with a good hangover.

     No, wait. Scratch that.

     I woke up with a glorious, glistening goddamn miracle of a hangover.

     It happened like that sometimes.      

     Hangovers could either be generous or cruel and they were impossible to predict.

     The pleasure centers of my brain were sweeping with a warm tropical wash and shining, euphoric anesthesia. Pure uncut pleasure.

     I sat up in bed, reveling in the way my spine worked, feeling each vertebrae stretch and pop with smooth languorous release. I thought of a line of dominoes falling in slow-motion.     

      Light was bursting through my window, illuminating a corkscrew strand of hair on my collar (I’d passed out fully dressed – even my sneakers were still on). It wasn’t my hair. Or any of my friend's. In fact, I didn’t know anyone with curly hair. I pinched it from my shirt and held it up. It was black. I pulled it taut, then relaxed it and it tensed back into a coil. I tried to think back but my dim memories of the night were vaporous and full of gaps. I looked at the hair again and conjured a beautiful black woman. Had I met someone? Had I...maybe... 

It Sure ain't 60 Minutes...

Everybody's got something to hide...

1.) A brilliant seedpod about to burst! An apocalyptic splash of brown foam! The badger blood hiding under dirty fingernails! These are all concerns of one Raymond Geoffreys. And Raymond Geoffreys has only one thought, “I feel like moving my eyes across letters!”

     So, if YOU feel like moving your eyes across letters, like Raymond Geoffreys (and like you’re doing RIGHT NOW! ), then move them across the letters in Bleak Holiday!

     If you don’t feel like doing that, then I really can’t help you, man. But read this goofy interview anyway... 

I get my brain medicine from the Medicaid!