In Haste

So Joyce finally hit her limit and asked herself, Why is that depraved, depressed little weirdo still in my life? It had been twelve everfucking years now. Twelve! Longer than most marriages! Longer than most lozenges. Their relationship should have faded away long ago. Fade away or collapse. Or explode. Or was implode the correct term for the fucked-up situation they had situated themselves in? Their relationship was hard to describe. That sound you get from the bottom of a glass when your straw sucks up the last of the liquid. THAT was the sound of their relationship—a lot of air and a speck of taste. A not-very-satisfying final gurgle from the bottom of the glass.  A flat, tepid death-knell.  

     Flogging the dolphin. All that was left to do was acknowledge that this final (?) ordeal came out of nowhere. Again. Well, in truth there’d been several small skirmishes along the way but Joyce and Walt inevitably teamed up again and cleaned up the caustic, hateful debris they’d hurled at each other like pizza sauce, and returned to the weird relationship that didn’t make sense to either of them but was—for some loony reason--important. But Jesus, sometimes he was just exhausting.

      But they needed each other, right? Christ, maybe not. Walt hated to think it might all come crumbling down due to a ringing phone in the middle of the night.

     Everything was done by telephone. Walter and Joyce had met on an online writing community and their relationship never moved beyond that. At least in a geographical, spatial sense. They were 1,314 miles apart yet obsessively close together. They talked and laughed and wept and fought and fucked and got as close as two people could get without actually meeting. They helped each other through trauma and loss: The death of a pet. That time Walt got cancer. When he lost his job. When Walt was lost in the hospital, arms sore and punctured like a voodoo doll, hers was the number he wanted to call. When Joyce went in for one of her endless arteriograms (Joyce had a blood-sucking hole in her brain) Walt tried his best to make her laugh. Tried to make it seem less frightening. They played like children sometimes to alleviate, if only for a few dewdrops, the horror of existence. They were as close as they wanted to be. Neither one was booking flights or planning a cross-country drive. Their magic moved through the sizzling intimacy of telephone lines.    

     The freakish[1]* magic that held them together was borne out of some mysterious alchemy forged from transmission signals and electronic membranes. Migraine headaches.  Drunken foolery. Frenetic, sugary, disaccharide molecules flavored the air they breathed, air that transmitted delicate personal information. Boy did they know each other. They felt like invisible, forever-babbling entities, and spent hours sharing their lives and analyzing things. It was easy to share long-distance. They didn’t have to look each other in the eye but they could never hold hands. A lot of stuff was made up. They wanted to hire the Banana Splits to play at their wedding. They spent long hours dissecting the behavior of serial killers. The songs on their (imaginary) jukebox would part your hair. They agreed that No Reply by the Beatles was about a creepy, possibly homicidal stalker and not a song about lost love. They quoted lines from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Taxi Driver, (1976) and Goodfellas (1990). They both used the Marx Brothers as directed—to stave off fear and despair. They developed verbal shorthand which started to morph into a new, private language. Sometimes their conversations were so short-handed and kinetic it made their hair stand on end, their compass needles go weird, their bunnies flee, and once, even TIME ITSELF sat down and slowly froze to death like crazy Jack Torrance in The Shining (1980).

     There was power to their friendship. In the early days they’d talk for eight or ten hours. Batteries would die. They couldn’t get enough of each other. They would recite poetry or favorite passages from favorite books and Walt still remembered with fondness their first phone conversation. They talked about A rebours with such giddy, delighted surprise. They felt like they had found someone new and revelatory yet strangely familiar. They were in their 40’s when they “met” but turned into teenagers in each other’s company.

      All over the phone. Give it up for Alexander B.

      But things were different now. The word impasse came to mind and Walt tried to sweep it away. He didn’t want to dwell on his many mistakes, how freaked out he was to talk to her. All the times he tried to run away or push her away, all the times he was weak and pathetic in front of her. The times he confided his darkest impulses...

Joyce was forcing herself to get exercise (for some arcane medical reason) by walking around Lake Walnut. Her doctor—a devout, bald man—recommended she take up jogging. She said, “Okay,” but knew jogging wasn’t in her future. She refused to jog. It was a matter of dignity and self-worth. All those women straining and sweating and struggling up and over endless, merciless hills. And don’t even mention power-walking. Every time a power-walker passed by, Joyce wished for a sniper in the trees, aiming at the walker through the scope of an assault rifle.

     Joyce was the kind of gal that used to sneak a smoke during gym class, hiding on the distant side of the track. Once, in art class, she and her best friend Rita managed to share a joint simply by opening a window (which wasn’t allowed) and releasing the smoke through the screen. It was audacious and scary (if caught they would have been royally screwed) and they got away with it. Of course they did. They were fearless.

     Joyce smiled at the memory, remembering Rita. It was only half a mile around the lake (Lake Walnut should have been called Walnut Pond or, better yet, Walnut Puddle). A gaggle of chatty women ran past her and Joyce remembered the term “runner’s high,” something to do with endorphins producing euphoria.

     Joyce had been addicted to Percocet for several years. She knew all about euphoria and was quite sure she couldn’t achieve it by running around a puddle.

     She walked around the pond once and then bounced. She fled the scene in her red Mazda Miata, tires spewing pebbles and sand behind her. That was enough for today. She wondered if Walt would call. She really read him the riot act. Would he even remember? Everclear abuse had worn holes in his head. They both had holes.

Walt was at work. Walt was hungover. Walt worked at FedEx. The Graveyard Shift. He took packages and moved them around. He placed them according to lettered codes on the labels. For example: JBC went to Franklin. PVD went to Providence. You would think WST would go to Westboro or Worcester but no, it went to Providence too. It was best not to ask too many questions. Walt worked in what was called The Sort.

     The Sort was housed in a big building full of machines growling and grinding. There were conveyor belts and chutes all over the place. Guys drove forklifts, guys handled hazardous stuff, guys stood way up on scaffolds scanning barcodes. “Guys” meant women too. There were a lot of women that worked on The Sort.

     Walt was standing at his spot in front of a conveyor belt and packages going past. Walt stood there and read the codes on each box that glided by. He had three codes that were his responsibility: HYA, BDL and good old JBC. When a package came by with one of those codes, Walt would shove it off the belt and it would slide down a chute and then it was the next guy’s problem.

      There were people that the managers selected to be “team leaders.” They could boss you around. Walt’s immediate team leader was a black, mountain of a man named Jesse. Some of the package handlers hated him, others feared him. Walt was somewhere in the intimidated middle. Jesse always seemed to be under tremendous stress. He could kid around and laugh but mostly he just worried and barked orders. He had to. He was a team leader. One of Walt’s coworkers, a friendly, verbose guy who drove a white panel van, told him that Jesse’s personal life was as miserable and stressful as his job and he spent his off-hours alone, swilling whiskey in the dark. Yeah, but Panel Van Guy’s gossip couldn’t be trusted. He hated Jesse and once confided to Walt that he wanted to stab him in the face, the eyeballs. Like a prison hit. Walt just nodded and eased away.    

     Walt looked at the clock even though it was pointless. The shift ended when all the freight had been sorted and shipped. Walt looked at the clock again anyway. It was two o’clock in the morning and he had never needed a drink more ruthlessly. He needed to talk to Joyce with such desperation he felt embarrassed by himself. But he was afraid to call her. He had seriously fucked things up (again).

     See, Joyce lived with people now. Walt couldn’t just get drunk and call at all hours anymore. People were sleeping. He had become a natural disaster. Unpredictable. A befuddled invader. Joyce was right to be furious. No one needs a screaming phone at two in the morning. And Walt was no help. He couldn’t remember a thing. He looked at the clock again. It was still two o’clock in the morning. Endless packages, endless time.

Joyce couldn’t work because of her condition and passed the time doing scrimshaw. She used bone instead of ivory. She could lose days etching and scribing into the bone. Her current project was carving the cast of The Mary Tyler Moore Show into a moose hip. Scrimshaw ate hours.  Sometimes her hands hurt from repetitive motion.

     She had left home at 16 and moved in with her pot-dealer boyfriend, still managing to complete her education. Now, at 50 she was living with her parents again. She started to tackle Gavin MacLeod, etching his head into the polished bone.

When Jesse the Team Leader finally yelled, “Third shift all set!” Walt felt close to collapse. Package handling was hard work. It was hard on the body, all that activity and heavy lifting. He punched out and urged his aching form out the door and into the pre-dawn dark. It was three o’clock in the morning. Birds were screeching in the trees. “I hate those fucking birds,” said a disgruntled guy behind him.

     When Walt got home the telephone was sitting there. He cracked open a beer and turned on the TV. Looking at the phone. Calling Joyce was impossible, of course. He wanted to talk to her, tell her about his workday. A new guy had lost three fingers to a conveyor belt. A hazard guy had to clean up after him wearing a spacesuit. It was exciting. The guy who lost his fingers remained eerily calm as he reported the accident to the dispatchers. We figured he was still in shock. That would explain his calm. Three fingers, Jesus. An amputation too mangled to repair. Walt drank his beer, casting an occasional glance at the empty phone.

1,314 miles south, Joyce decided to call it quits. She put away her scrimshaw tools and then hit the hay. She wondered if Walt would call. He didn’t. Neither one of them was reachable anymore.

---

[1] Freakish here is used as a positive attribute.

Pinhole

                                                                                                                              pinhole

Amy's Arms

My poem Amy's Arms in Horror Sleaze Trash!


Horror Sleaze Trash 

God's Little Miscarriage - Part One

Joe discovered the big green fetus beached on the edge of a small, heart-shaped lake in the littered thicket behind Fontaine’s Shopping Centre. It was the size of a Saint Bernard, glowing with a green haze. It was obviously dead (or possibly dormant? Best not to think about that...).
      
A thin drizzle settled like poison over the trash-strewn woods. It was a cold, misty morning. The sky was a sagging gray tarp. Fog disguised the landscape. Joe, who had been picking through the Dumpsters behind the buildings, was heading home. The Dumpsters gifted him with nothing. Aside from a few crushed soda cans, they were bankrupt; spewing worthless paper and rotted garbage. Nothing he could pawn or use or eat.

     
He approached the giant glowing fetus warily, his heart pounding with arrhythmic fury in his chest. By God, it looked human. Joe felt too old for this kind of macabre shock. His ordinary life was grotesque enough. He reached down and brought up a muddy, broken crutch. He held it like a lance, moving closer until the thing’s full, monstrous details emerged.

     
Its eyes were black and open. It was swathed in a gelatinous coating of green slime and emitted a dim glow. Its huge, awkward head was pale, bulbous, and running with a tangled network of purple blood vessels. It was posed like a pugilist, its bony back hunched, hands curled into fists. It had ten tiny fingernails. Joe could make out the hazy shapes of dormant organs under the glossy, opaque flesh. It was also male, he saw.

     
He wondered where the hell it might have come from. It looked ancient, primordial, and possessed a power that traveled through time. But there was also something vaguely familiar about it, as if it had slipped loose from a damaged dream.

     
He poked the giant fetus with the crutch, prodding it like a curious kid and for a split-second he thought it moved and he almost screamed and took off running.

   
But no, it was still dead. He poked it again, feeling resistance in the meaty mass. The drizzle had turned to light rain, transforming the gray lake into millions of ripples. Joe wiped moisture from his thick gray beard and thought about how he was going to get the thing home.

     
The idea of taking it just occurred to him—popped into his hungover head. He didn’t wonder why. It was just another thing he needed. He didn’t want the empty day to be a total loss.

     
He dropped the crutch and placed both hands on the monster. It was cold and wet and dead. It smelled like sulfur and rotted beef.  He tested it by gently pushing against it and was surprised at how easily it rocked back. The thing looked heavy as a bull, but it was light, as if composed of nothing more than faded contours and empty air. Joe looked around to make sure he wasn’t being watched and then embraced the thing with both arms. He lifted it, guessing it weighed around a hundred pounds. He held it like a bridegroom holding a bride and took a few hesitant steps. The rain increased. He headed back to his shack hidden deep in the woods. He carried the thing easily, across two pathless miles. He walked over wet leaves and rocks and roots yet his sneakers never slipped. He didn’t falter or pause or stumble. It was as if he held a guardian angel in his outstretched arms.

     
He made it back to his home; a jumbled shack he’d hammered together from discarded debris. He was a scavenger par excellence. He carried the thing inside.

     
He set about lighting his lantern and then stopped when he realized that the thing gave off enough illumination to light the room. He sat on his mattress to admire it. For the first time he wondered if it might be valuable. Maybe he could sell it to some sideshow impresario. It was a freak of nature, like a three-headed mule. People liked stuff like that. Whatever it was, it was important. Like a space alien or a sea monster or a god. God’s holy miscarriage.

     
His discovery might make him famous. Or at least get his name in the news. He imagined himself showing the thing off on The Today Show. It was better than a yeti.

     
He removed his cap and saw that it was full of his coarse white hair.

     
What the hell?

     
He reached up and brushed his hand across his scalp, coming away with a fistful of clumps. He tugged his beard, likewise filling his hand with hair. He moaned and felt his teeth suddenly loosen and move. He spit a tooth to the floor. And then another. And another until he was staring down at nine dead teeth. He slid his tongue over slick empty gums.

     
He began to panic.

     
The thing in front of him seemed to glow more brightly. Was the damn thing radioactive? Was it killing him? Leaching away his energies? He looked at his trembling hands. His fingernails had abandoned their anchors and began to slip off the ends of his fingers. He shook his hands and the nails clicked into the pile of teeth on the floor. God, he was falling apart. His eyesight dimmed.

     
A heavy weakness stole over Joe and he fell back on the mattress. He could feel his muscles atrophy and dissolve. He felt his bones settle into themselves and then crack and fracture and wither away.

     
And then he felt nothing at all.

     
The glowing thing quivered and blinked. Its huge heart stammered to life.

     
Another one.

    

      

HIGH IN THE RAIN IN THE RAIN HIGH

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By

Hank S. Kirton

Joseph remembered the time he got high with his mother. It was a weird, painful, bleeding memory. It taught him nothing. He was fifteen. His mother, Estelle, worked over at the lightbulb factory in Chelsea. She worked third shift. His dad had died when Joseph was four. He’d been a janitor at the high school and sometimes Joseph felt grateful that he had died so he wouldn’t have to say “Hi,” while his dad mopped up puke in the hall. He felt guilty about these feelings but there they were. Joseph couldn’t always control his thoughts.

     Joseph had been smoking weed sporadically since the sixth grade. It was no big deal. He didn’t smoke often, usually just with his friend Billy, and sometimes Raoul and his sister Shjma.. He never got high alone. He got high by himself once and it horrified him. He saw his whole personality. Besides, weed was an expensive commodity and hard to come by. Billy was the only other kid he knew who had a drug connection. And even that was pretty weak and unreliable. They called it “Acapulco Gold” (whatever that was supposed to mean) But the product was grassy and harsh. They did a lot of coughing around Billy’s  rip-off crabgrass.  The high was barely existent. Billy stole the rag-weed from his parents and had to be discrete; he had to be stealthy as shit. You didn’t fuck around with Billy’s parents. No sir. His folks cultivated the stuff in the basement and they did it all wrong. But hey, it was better than nothing

     Joseph kept his drug activity hidden. He sneaked around his mother’s antique, Audubon world, snickering to himself in his sneaky little head. He honestly enjoyed the keen feeling of getting away with something forbidden.

     One drizzly Wednesday afternoon, Joseph got home from school to find his mother sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. “Hi honey,” she said, in an odd, deep voice that was out of character. And what was she doing up? She should be in bed, warming herself with the glowing stories on the television. Resting before another shift with the lighbulbs. But she was up now. Strange.

     “Hey, mother.” Yes, Joseph had been trained to call his mother “mother.” He was often ridiculed by his friends for this weird formality.

     His mother was wrapped in her ratty gray bathrobe, her eyes swollen from sleep. She had just gotten up. Her work schedule was upside down. She lived like a vampire.

     She said, “I know what you’ve been doing.”

     Joseph grabbed a can of Coke from the refrigerator, snapped it open and took a quick slurp. “What?” he said.

     “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

     “Uh, what are you talking about?”

     She swept strands of oily hair out of her face. “I know you’ve been smoking grass, Joseph.”

     He was stunned for a second, then he lowered his head and said, “Oh.” He saw no reason to deny it. Getting caught was always a danger. It was part of the thrill. But how did she find out? He was so careful. He didn’t have a stash in the house. In fact, he hadn’t smoked since he and Billy Rodgers got high behind the sand pits. That was weeks ago.

     “What do you think I should do?” she said.

     Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know.”

     She stood up. “Come with me. I have an idea.”

     She led him outside to the back porch. They stood under the green canvas awning. The rain came pattering down. They faced each other. Joseph’s hands turned into fists. He braced himself for her verdict. There wasn’t much she could take from him. Getting grounded wouldn’t break him either. No way would she get the police involved.

     Then she smiled. “I have something for you. You can think of it as a punishment or a reward. The choice is yours.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and removed what looked like a fat, tightly-rolled joint. She had a blue Bic lighter in her other hand. She plugged the joint into her mouth, lit it, and took a long drag. Then she held the joint toward Joseph and said “Here.” The word came out in a croak as she held the smoke.              

      Joseph looked at the joint, shocked. The familiar smell of the pot was so incongruous to the situation he felt like he was dreaming. He had no idea what to do. He’d never seen this side of her. It was new.

     He hated it.

     His mother finally released the smoke and said, “Go on. Take it.”

     He slowly shook his head and said, “No thank you.” His voice had lifted, gotten higher. He sounded afraid. Hell, he was. The situation was scarily surreal.

    She scowled. “Joseph! You listen to your mother. Smoke this fucking joint, NOW!” She stabbed the joint toward his face as if trying to burn him and he flinched.

     He took the joint. He looked at his mother and said, “Really?” Everything seemed warped, sliding to a burning afterlife. He wanted to run. There were demons behind him.

     She nodded. “Yeah, really.”

Ripped from the Pages of Cocktails & Cancer (Formerly Anosognosia)

Here's another brief excerpt from my upcoming book, Cocktails & Cancer (Formerly Anosognosia). This is the part where my testicular cancer is medically acknowledged for the first time. It was a weird day...

-4-

Imagine me in a hospital bed. The room is bright with morning sun. My roommate lies snoring behind a curtain. When he’s awake he doesn’t speak English. The TV is on. Some program director with personal problems is taking out his hostilities by running a nine-hour marathon of Mayberry RFD. I had regained my mind only to lose it again to the Tube.

     Delirium eventually shrinks like a puddle in the sun, leaving only a parched plot of mantic crust, the cracks of which can be read like runes. The dry bed of my recent delirium exposed new evidence in my personal fossil record (we all have one) and I saw the thought of worms again, twice (although I was still uncertain as to their significance) and the puzzling girl with the Louise Brooks haircut. The teabags took on greater importance. And I had chicken McNuggets on my mind all the time. What it all meant was still up for debate but I meticulously catalogued it all. Each small detail carried an equation. I was certain.

     So. I’d been diagnosed with testicular cancer (also chronic alcoholism but that wasn’t a big surprise). The doctor[1] that brought me the bulletin was young, flabby and pale. He looked like a Christian ventriloquist. He asked me to call him Eddie. Sure, Doc. He was nervous and probably thought he was bringing me devastating news and I played it that way but I couldn’t help thinking that cancer was the lucky break I’d been waiting for. I experienced no existential crisis, no fear, anger or sadness. I was, well, sort of elated, actually. Comforted (relieved) that the sad little movie of my life might have a surprise happy ending. My circumstances had finally caught up to my self-pity. That night I slept like a baby on Valium. Finally, I thought, the release and liberation of death without leaving behind the ugly confusion of guilt and anger that suicide ignites. I saw myself comfortably wasting away in front of the TV, huffing medical marijuana, drinking wine, and watching George Weiss movies. And when death finally gathered me up, I’d leave behind only reflective, diminishing grief.

     Whereas, if I were to blow my brain apart with a shotgun, leaving a fleshy mess and some vague, superficial “Goodbye cruel world” note...

     Well, that’s just not nice.

     A nurse came silently into the room with hushed white shoes. She checked my IV and then turned to me and said, “How you doing, Henry?” Her nurse-shirt had colorful bunnies all over it.

     “Okay, thanks.”

     “Do you need anything? You want me to help you wash up?”

     “No thanks. Maybe later.”

     “It might make you feel better. And it’s no big deal. This is my job. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I do this every day.”

     “Oh, no. It’s not that. I just. I’m watching this.” I pointed to Mayberry RFD.

     The ultrasound I’d endured the day before had cured me of any modesty.

     After cooling my DT heels in the bustling hospital hall, I was moved and kept kenneled in an examination room for what felt like an hour and thirty-seven minutes with nothing to look at or do except sit and think. Four white walls enclosed a small sterile area utilitarily decorated in a Spartan medical motif. Mysterious little gizmos and empty fluorescent space. There was a chair. A padded table covered in deli paper. The white no-smell of cotton. A room designed to be dull. Even the calendar (the sole civilian thing on the wall) offered nothing more than a month’s worth of vacant dates.

     The doctor, Edwin, came into the room behind a quick, perfunctory knock.

     “Hello, Henry. How you holding up, my man?”

     My man? “Okay,” I said.

     “Great. We’re trying to get you set up with a room. It’s been crazy today, more than usual. In the meantime, let me take a look at you. Can you lie back for me?”

     I did. He pressed my abdomen with a gloved hand. “Does this hurt?”

     “No.” Should I tell him?

     He pressed left. “How about here?”

     “No.” When I was a kid my mom got me Kojak bedsheets...

     “What about now?”

     “No.” I have to say something.

     “Okay, we’re gonna take you back outside for awhile. Hopefully a bed will become available soon. We’ll get you some more Valium too. You seem a little agitated.” He pulled off his glove with a snap.

     “Wait. There’s something else,” I said.

     “Oh?” he said. He dropped his gloves into a black canister, raising the lid with a foot pedal. Then he turned toward me, waiting with raised eyebrows.

     “Um,” I said. “One of my testicles is hard. Swollen. And I come without ejaculating. It feels the same but nothing comes out.” America’s sweetheart is a dead manatee on a dead-end street in a dead town.

     “Okay. Let me take a look,” he said, putting on fresh gloves.

     I pulled aside the hospital gown. “The left one.”

     For the first time in my life someone else’s hand was feeling my gonads.

     “Hmmmm...”

     I stared up at the gray ceiling of dead galaxies and thought about reincarnation. Instead of tumors and biopsies, I thought about a nervous, irritably-bowelled Virgin Mary yelling at Joseph. That putz. I remembered the episode of Ironside when the hippie housewife smokes a joint laced with something and in her narcotized confusion puts her baby in the oven and the Thanksgiving turkey in the crib. Or was that from a Dragnet?

     Doctor Eddie asked me questions about my balls, still probing, looking. I thought about something else.

     Finally, he stepped back and peeled off his gloves again.

     “Okay, Henry. I’m going to send you down for a CAT scan and an ultrasound. We need to get this looked at as soon as possible.”

     “What do you suspect?’ I asked, fastening my metaphorical seatbelt.

     “Nothing to be afraid of,” he lied.

---

[1] Dr. Edwin Blankenship

Arlene Martel in The Twilight Zone

  
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Lest ye forget, this novel is still ripe. 236 pages and the word "vampire" never appears. Madcap morbidity and minimum-wage surrealism. You have never seen the likes of RAZOR WIRE KISS! And that's really my X-ray on the back cover. Nuff said!

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