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It cost 10 bucks to get 15 tickets, which are used for rides and whatnot, like the ferris wheel and the other 20 or so rides they had (which ranged from costing 3 tickets per person to 5).

We started walking around, looking for shit we wanted to do. All over the place, between the rides, were the games. You know, ring toss, guess your weight, magnetic fish, whatever. I mean, I went within 10 yards of a booth and all of a sudden I had a dude shoving a basketball in my face. Constantly. I would turn them down politely and as we were walking off they carnie would yell something like "Hey! The girl you were with last week wasn't as cute as this one, and this one is white too!"

I tried to get a basic explaination of how the games worked and what I had to do to get a prize, but nobody seemed to have a straight answer for me. Just strange catch-phrases and "just throw the ball, win your lady a prize!"

In any case, I got accosted with a rubber duckie by one booth, it was 5 bucks for 3 chances, so I accepted. The game was that these pools of water were full of floating rubber duckies. Now, my goal was to pick up three ducks and look on the bottom of them. This is as far as my understanding of the game went. The conversation went like this:

Me: So what am I trying to do here?
Carnie: You pick up three rubber ducks.
Me: Yes, but what am I aiming for? I mean, what is my goal?
Carnie: To pick up three ducks.
Me: Ummmm, how do I win?
Carnie: By picking up three ducks.
Me: I'm not sure I understand. Is there a point to this?
Carnie: Just pick up the ducks, chief! Win your girl a prize!

*picks up three ducks, each has the letter S on written on the bottom of them*

Carnie: Now pick out a prize and move along.

I got some cheap inflatable mushroom (which is actually pretty cool) and left, totally perplexed.

We walked along for awhile more. Carnies kept trying to use karen against me as we walked past, and then would make fun of us as we walked away. Some of the rides looked kind of cool I guess.

We went on the Ferris wheel. You have to go on the Ferris Wheel when at a Carnival. It was okay I guess. You go up, then you go down, repeat process. Like a ladder, but with no physical fitness value to it. Total cost = 10 tickets for the both of us.

So we had 5 tickets left, which meant only one of us could go on one more ride. So we were scoping the lame rides they had trying to figure out which of us would go on which ride.

We were walking when all of a sudden some Carnie grabbed me, put a dart in my hand, and shoved me in front of a wall of balloons.

Okay, I think to myself, popping balloons with a dart. Fair enough, looks like it could be fun. The guy is talking to me in some sort of weird political speak, saying nothing but talking lots. So I throw a dart at the board and pop a balloon. Yay. a winner is me. So he shoves another dart in my face and says something like "there ya go, little to medium, medium to jumbo!" So I throw it and pop another balloon. He says "two more darts you get a prize! Even if you don't get the balloon you get a prize!" I said "okay" and popped another balloon. Another dart gets shoved in my hand. I throw it, pop another balloon. He starts saying "small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!!!" I assume now he is talking about the prizes. This is a transcript of the conversation that followed:

Me: Ok, so how much is this costing me?
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!!!!
Me: What? Okay, that's all well and good, how much is this costing me and what grounds are winning the prizes based on?
Carnie: What is 4 and 4?
Me: 8. So for the four throws I owe you eight bucks?
Carnie: What have you got your eye on here?
Me: What the hell are you talking about? You mean what balloon?
Carnie: You have an eye on the balloon? Then throw the dart Annie Oakley!
Me: No, what did you mean? Did you mean what prize I had my eye on?
Carnie: What prize have you got your eye on!?
Me: Ummm, that giant stuffed elephant looks cool....
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!!!!
Me: So which is the elephant?
Carnie: What does green mean?
Me: What?
Carnie: What does green mean?
Me: Go?
Carnie: Go! Throw the dart, hit a green balloon!
*me throws dart, hits green balloon*
Me: So I win, right?
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!
Me: Ummm, so where am I?
Carnie: What does yellow mean?
Me: Slow down?
Carnie: No! It means hit a yellow balloon, win your girl a prize!
*me throws dart, hits yellow balloon*
Me: So did I win a prize?
*Carnie lays out 5 darts in front of me*
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!
Me: So I have to shoot 5 more to get a Jumbo prize?
Carnie: (to karen) I don't think he likes you very much!
Me: Now hold on just a minute!
Carnie: You miss, you don't pay!
Me: But do I lose then?
Carnie: No losers here, sir. You miss you don't pay!
Me: Really?
Carnie: Give it a try!
*throws dart, hits balloon*
Carnie: There you go! What does green mean?
Me: Wait a minute, so I pay to throw a dart, and it doesn't matter if I miss or hit?
Carnie: No losers here!
Me: Yeah, but what happens if I miss?
Carnie: Nothing! Try again, almost there!
Me: Ummmmmm.
*me throws a dart, misses*
*Carnie grabs a dart, pops the balloon himself*
Carnie: There ya go! Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!
Me: Wait a minute.....
Carnie: No losers here! What does green mean?
Me: I already told you.
Carnie: Then throw the dart!
Me: Wait, how much have I spent here?
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!
Me: Where am I?
Carnie: What does green mean?
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Carnie: No losers here!
Me: So is there an object to this game?
Carnie: Small goes to medium, medium goes to large, large goes to JUMBO!
Me: Did I get the elephant?
Carnie: Small goes to medium....
Me: I know, I know. I'm outta here. How much do I owe you?
*insert 10 minutes of hassling with carnie about me not wanting to play anymore*
Me: Look, do you want me to pay or just fucking leave?
Carnie: 24 dollars.
*me gives Carnie 24 bucks*
*karen decides she wants to play*
*16 bucks later, we walk away with two little stuffed dogs*

I am beginning to think that the point of the game was that I hand over 75 bucks and the guy gives me a stuffed elephant that costs 2 dollars.

In any case, we were now avoiding the games, and had 5 tickets left to burn between us. karen was in a bad mood, so I figured I would just go on the haunted house ride and we can go home.

I give over the 4 tickets for the ride, get on a little cart on a track. It takes me into some cheap wooden place that is kind of dark. At one point, a mechanical witch starts waving her hands, but where a broomstick should be is nothing but a hole in her hands. I go through more plywood, and a strange air raid siren goes off. More plywood. A case lights up above me that contains a fake skull. The cart leaves the plywood enclosure and the ride is over.

We go home.

Total time spent at carnival: an hour.
Total money spent: around 75 bucks.

I think I should stamp the word "SUCKER" on my forehead.

Why beat around the bush?

If you ever happen upon a Carnie, punch him in the face for me would ya?

11:30 AM: Get woken up by karen and RiZZ talking about something or other. Try not to be bothered by the fact that we already have company and I am in my underwear. Snooze for another half hour or so.

NOON: Get out of bed and shower and whatnot.

12:30 PM: Get out of bathroom all clean and tidy and find RiZZ lying on the floor. Asked why RiZZ was lying in the middle of the living room floor, he explained that it hurts less that way. When asked why he is in pain, he explains that he had gotten beaten up by his friends the night prior. When asked for further explaination, all I hear is something about getting hit in the balls with a bowling ball and soemthing about a swingset. Further details still forthcoming.

12:40 PM: Call Splat's house, I assume HELL answered the phone. "Hello, ____ household, ___ speaking." "Ummm, may I please speak with Splat?" "One moment. Hold please." Think to myself "these people have unnaturally polite phone manners, even for Republicans." Splat gets on and I inform him because melesse will be running a bit late, to go ahead and meet us at 3:30 instead of 3. Splat assures me "right on, boy howdy".

12:45-1:25 PM: RiZZ and I eat pasta and pass the time by complaining about how hungover we both are.

1:30 PM: Start drinking.

2 PM: RiZZ, determined to stick our guests, takes us outside and we look at the three trees on our block to no avail. RiZZ lies down while karen tells us that there is a forest nearby. We grab pager and beer and head there.

2 PM - 3 PM: We wander around the forest and Civil War trails carrying our cans of Natty Ice looking for sticks to hit our guests with. It is here, not at 11:30 PM, that our title of "white trash" was confirmed. We test out various sticks for strength, weight, durability, and other technical aspects. The test entails whapping the stick against a tree while shouting "How do you do, Splat!?". If stick breaks, it fails the test. If it does not, repeat process until it does break. RiZZ and I finally find the perfect sticks and place them by the front door of our apartment.

3 PM: Leave for bar.

3 PM to 4 PM: Wait around outside bar trying to find splat. Our only clue is that he is bald. This requires us to walk up to any bald men and ask "Splat?" When they say "What the hell did you just say to me?" you realize it is not splat and back away slowly muttering your apology. Repeat process when next bald guy appears.

4 PM: While waiting for a table, the ugliest woman I have ever seen comes up to me and says "have you been waiting here for an hour for me?"

4:05 PM: Get seated at our table, order drinks and an appetizer.

4:15 PM: Get drinks and appetizer. Realize the ugly woman chatting with you from across the table is indeed melesse.

I have made fun of melesse in the past for his incredible overuse of "lol" in posting and chat. Come to find his use of lol is indeed appropriate. The guy laughes pretty much constantly. I declare myself the funniest man alive.

4:30 PM: Splat shows up. Splat looked as I expected, but acted totally differently. This is the man, mind you, that has once told me that "semites smell funny" and has defended everything from drunk driving to the right of every American citizen to possess and bear atom bombs. He is incredibly soft spoken in person and perhaps the politest man I have ever met.

4:30 PM to 7PM: Spend the time chatting with karen, RiZZ, melesse, and Splat while having a few freshly brewed beers. Talk about all sorts of things. The only time I note any sort of alarm in our guests is when RiZZ starts talking about getting beaten up by his friends with bowling balls and a swingset last night. I quickly change the subject.

7 PM: Head to liquor store in a caravan of our cars. Buy more beer, some liquor, and some index cards. RiZZ constantly lies down in whatever public place we end up at.

8 PM: Go back to apartment. Give them the brief tour of our 3 rooms. Show splat the console from which I flame his wife. We mill about discussing various things, doing various shit, and drinking copious amounts of various booze.

Something PM: Fiend calls. He is drunker than we are. Phone gets passed around. Continue to drink.

Something else PM: Hit our guests with sticks. Drink more.

aksjbansenbas KM: Aminal calls from England. He is a Limey. Phone gets passed around. Insert grain alcohol IV.

KMFD: Sit around with splat talking about various political things. Neither of us are making any sense. I finally get him down to the position that all Americans have the right to own and bear atomic bombs and weild them on undesired IRS agents. I am unsure of how to proceed with my counter arguement.

Talk more about various things, continue to drink.

98.7 FM, the Laser!: Karen passes out. We beat her unconcsious body with sticks.

Run DMC: Splat announces he has to go home. We allow it. We miss him immediatly. He was a really fucking cool guy.

In the Not Too Distant Future, Next Sunday AD: karen wakes up. We play that white card game they have all ranted to me about in the past. It is stupid. Game ends on an awkward note when karen draws the "urinate on Melesse" card that I had made.

ADHD: Decide the best course of action is to go wander around in the woods. Stuff every available pocket with beer, have a single flashlight between us.

Wander around woods in the dark. Get creepy flashbacks Blair Witch Project.

Melesse, RiZZ, and I spend much of the time wandering around the trenches that have become natural hills and valleys and argue about proper gun placement and Union orders.

I'm a little teacup, short and stout: Go back to Apartment for more beer. Repeat process a few times.

Round 3ish: Unknown. Apparantly we went to 711 and went back to the woods with burritos and even more alcohol. Apparantly RiZZ and I go off even deeper into the woods and swamps on an alien hunt. Some other stuff probably happened, I can't really be sure.

At Some Other Point: Pass out.

Next Morning: Am woken up by ugly woman explaining he is going home. He looks far too chipper to have had a truly fun night. Vow to myself next time to drug his beer with tequila. He was really fucking cool too.

Go back to sleep.

4ish: Wake up. Notice I have various scars and bruises and odd stains that I can't place. Suspect that my friends beat me up last night. Not sure of the details, but I seem to remeber something about bowling balls and swingsets.

7ish. Start drinking.

He leaned over, clutching his sides, and vomited all over his sleeping bag.

It took him a few minutes to get adjusted to this new state of consciousness.

"Fucking hell," he muttered in his raspy morning voice as he noticed the vomit and then stood up warily. He had to take a few seconds, upon getting to his feet, to grab his balance. Once the immediate physical demands were taken care of, he surveyed the room.

It didn’t look good. Granted, it never did. The carpet was always stained beyond recognition, most of the lights no longer worked, there was little to no furniture, and the windows had all been boarded up….from the inside. He noticed Cassandra still in her sleeping bag in the middle of the floor.

"You the only one here?" Rodney asked. No answer.

"Is Virgil coming back with more?" Still no answer.

The stereo, in whatever room it had ended up in the night before, was still playing the same Sublime CD that had been on for probably a good 36 hours. Some of the lyrics could still be discerned as the quiet music wafted its way throughout the apartment.

Early in the morning, risin' to the street
Light me up that cigarette and I strap shoes on my feet…

Some food sure would be nice now, thought Rodney. When was the last time I ate?

"We still have the basic ingredients for toast, right Cass?"

Rodney made his way to the dark kitchen. He grabbed some bread from the top of the filthy refrigerator and put it in the toaster. He opened up a drawer hunting for some jam, when he caught wind of something rancid, and quickly doubled over the sink and released the contents of his stomach once more.

"Doesn’t anybody clean up around here anymore?" he shouted angrily to Cassandra as he let the tap flow in a rinse when he was finished puking.

He decided to abandon the toast in favor of the bathroom.

He made it within a few feet of the bathtub when he passed out once again.

...24/7 the devil's best friend
It makes no difference
It's all the same in the end...

Laden with connotations.

And Rodney sat up slowly.

Dazed and in pain, Rodney went into convulsions. It was particularly bad, as he felt as if he broke his arm in the fall to the bathroom tile and was using it spastically at the moment.

As soon as he could get a hold of himself, he threw himself into the yellow, mildew stained. bathtub and turned on the shower.

Laying at the bottom of the tub, with the cold water streaming down onto him, did some good. He began to sober up again; the haze lifted some.

"Is this what I’ve become?" he asked nobody in particular. "Fucking hell. How can you tell when you’ve crossed the line? When does fun become death? I can’t even tell which is the user anymore, me or the heroin."

His speech turned internal once more.

"God I hate this city. I could have been, like a farmer in Ohio and shit. Just doin’ my crops, working in the sun, don’t have to worry about any of this shit. Do I do the deal because I want do dull the pain, or do I do it because I am a masochist? I wonder how fine a line that actually is. Man, things were okay back in the day. Prom. Beautiful bubbly lasses with gowns and ribbons in their hair. Getting teased for wearing those lame-ass ruffles. Getting’ laid was the only thing you had to worry about. When did life get so fucking complicated? How did it happen so fast? Or is it just me?"

"Did I start doing the drugs because life got too complicated? Or did life get too complicated because I started doing the drugs?"

"Does it even matter?"

...I feel the break, feel the break, feel the break
And I gotta live it out
Oh yeah un-huh
Well I swear that I, what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, I can't define...

Rodney nixed the thoughts and went back to pure id.

Pulling himself up and out of the tub was a grueling task, but it didn’t compare to catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked bathroom mirror.

And they say a person begins to resemble their surroundings.

"Fuck it, I need to refuel."

He made his way back to the living room, this time with a bit more control over his bodily functions. He spied against the wall the row of rigs that had been used the night before by all the party goers (or was that the night before last?). Lined up like fucking Rockettes. He couldn’t place for sure what belonged to who, and the only people around at the moment seemed to be himself and Cassandra. It occurred to him briefly that everybody having their own rigs is pretty much lip service only to trying to stay safe. When you’re that fucked up, unprotected sex and using the wrong needles are not things that even occur to a person.

"Whatever", he said as he spied his own set.

It only took him a few minutes to realize that he had no more smack.

"So is Virgil bringing back more shit or what?" Rodney shouted once again to Cassandra. This time, he didn’t really care if she answered or not.

...what I really wanna know (my baby)
What I really wanna say, is there's just one way back
And I'll make it
My soul will have to wait...

To his dismay, all the other rigs were empty as well. It bothered him momentarily that he would even check, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A moot point anyway.

"What’s the difference between a bender and an addiction?" he asked Cassandra, though the question was more directed at himself.

He was, of course, killing himself.

Is it suicide if you never think about it?

Or is that instinct?

The door to the apartment opened.

Virgil entered, carrying two bags of groceries.

Rodney realized he was hunched over the row of rigs like a starving animal. He stood up and brushed the front of his shirt self-consciously.

"Hey," was all he could muster in greeting.

"Cassandra still out?" asked Virgil as he closed and locked the doors, fumbling a bit with the groceries.

...just wipe that look off your bati face
you hate me cause I got what you need...

"Ummm, yeah, I think so."

"You look like shit," commented Virgil as he put down the groceries.

"Did you get more?"

Virgil paused for a bit as he laid out the contents of the bag on the floor.

"Of course."

Rodney went for his rig.

"You puked all over you sleeping bag, Rodney."

"I know."

"Seriously man, you look dead."

Rodney brought over his rig to where Virgil, sitting, legs crossed, was beginning to cook up a batch.

"As they say, a person begins to resemble their surroundings," answered Rodney.

"Nobody says that," was Virgil’s reply as he handed Rodney a full syringe.

"Well they should." Answered Rodney between gritted teeth as he shot himself up.

It seems that as I get older, I become more and more afraid of flying. When I was younger, flying never phased me. I am a transient soul, and the thrill of travel quelled any fear of death I had in me in regards to aircraft. These days, however, that phobia seems to be getting stronger and stronger. Oh, the thrill of travel still resides, but at this point, it seems in constant battle with the fear of flying. Thankfully, the thrill continually wins out.

My plane from Virginia to Kansas was due to depart at 7 AM in the morning. Mind you, 7 AM in the morning tends to be my bedtime, but I made it alright. Karen, whose mother is a pilot, has never flown commercial, and was constantly expressing worries and fears, mostly about me losing my luggage. I assured her that I have flown a lot of times, and have not once lost my luggage. I, on the other hand, was concerned about the size of the plane I would be on. I have had bad experiences in the past with little airports, as that usually entails little airplanes, which ALWAYS means big turbulence. She assured me that Newport News hosts a major international airport.

There were exactly four gates in the airport, and no plane seated over 12.

The flight was rough, to say the least.

But I got there in one piece.

I met up with my family. My grandparents, who are the cornerstone of the family and thus all family events revolve around them, live in an upscale retirement home. My grandparents are wealthy, well respected members of the community mind you; this was a nice place. And lucky for us, the retirement home had exactly two guest rooms housed in the basement; 30 bucks a night. My immediate family took both rooms.

The basement was sort of the recreation center of the retirement home. It housed storage, but also the arts and crafts room, a day room, a big dining room that had a 60+ inch TV, and an exercise room that had treadmills, weight machines, a sauna, a hot tub, all of that. What was great was that after about 10 PM, we pretty much had the run of the place (it is a common fact that nobody over 65 is able to stay awake past 10 PM). So while my mother and my 9 year old sister were asleep in their guest room, I would wander about, play around on the exercise equipment, drink beers and watch Conan O’Brian on the gigantor television, whatever I felt like doing. But the whole time, I kept eyeing that hot tub.

The week was pretty busy, though for the most part dull. I found the time to hang out with some old friends, but most of it was spent shuffling around to various familial locales and chatting with old people and less-old people that consider me a fuck up. Fair enough. Your normal family occasion. I had the most fun during the night, when I could drink beer freely and do whatever I liked around that retirement home.

And I kept eyeing that hot tub.

Finally, after about 4 days of this, I said to myself on Christmas night, “fuck it, I want a soak”. I didn’t have a bathing suit with me obviously, but I was drunk and it was nearly 3 AM, so that didn’t stop me. I wrapped a towel around my bare ass, grabbed a 12 pack of beer, and headed for the exercise room. I needed to unwind after a day spent opening box after box of sweaters and dress socks.

The area that housed the hot tub was actually three rooms combined. A room for the exercise equipment, a middle room for aerobics and whatnot, and then a room for the hot tub, sauna, and dressing rooms. The only door to the main hall of the basement was in the middle room, and that door was always open. The lights for these three rooms were shut off after 6, and the only windows to the hall, and thus the only source of light, were in the exercise room. So, I wandered in, set up the hot tub, laid my beer down, closed the door to the hall, took off my towel, stepped in the tub, and proceeded to relax.

It was great. I hadn’t been in a hot tub in awhile, so I was enjoying myself immensely, sipping beer and soaking in the warm jets.

I had been in the hot tub maybe 10 minutes when the door to the aerobics room opened.

Now, at night, there is one security guard, an old black man, who makes rounds maybe once every other hour. I had seen him leave the grounds not four minutes before I set out for the hot tub. But all of a sudden, there he was, in the other room, in plain site of the hot tub. I am not a complete fool, I had planned out my hot tub time for right after he had made his rounds, and I knew that on every other night, it would be a good two hours before he came back.

But apparently, 3 AM on the night of Christmas is a fan-fucking-tastic time for orientation of the new security guards.

So he opened the door, propped it open, flipped on the lights for the aerobics room, and proceeded to shuffle in the 5 other new security guards who were just starting out there. He was giving them a tour, I guess. The old security guard shot me a look, and then proceeded to walk around the aerobics room, giving the new guys tidbits of information about the place and the equipment, as they divided their attention between their mentor and the naked goon in the hot tub in the other room.

I sunk as low in the water as I possibly could.

Being caught in a place where you know you shouldn’t be is pretty embarrassing.

Getting caught naked in a hot tub at a retirement home with a 12 pack of Milwaukee’s Best is another animal entirely.

They didn’t openly acknowledge my presence at first, though it was painfully obvious they were all entirely aware that I was there. The old guard just continued his tour unabated. He showed them the aerobics room, then he went and turned on the lights of the exercise room and talked to them a bit about that.

Then he made his way to the Jacuzzi/sauna room.

At the doorway, he stopped. For the first time, he acknowledged me.

“Are you decent?” was all he asked.

“Ummmmmm. No.” I replied meekly.

He turned the lights on anyway.

I was fucked.

To my surprise however, he didn’t come over. He didn’t call the police. He didn’t lambast or make fun of me. He just continued his orientation.

He pointed out the hot tub without mentioning me to the other 5, he pointed out the sauna, he talked briefly about both, and he took the group into the locker rooms. Oh, they knew I was there. It was impossible not to. I was nude in the hot tub in the dead center of the room. They kept shooting me glances, chuckling under the breath, all that. But nobody said anything to or about me the whole time.

When he was finished with the orientation of the three exercise rooms, the veteran security guard shuffled the group of 5 new guys out of the room, turned off all the lights, and when the orientees were on their way down the hallway, he paused at the doorway and looked over at me.

“Merry Christmas” he said with a grin.

He closed the door behind him and went on his way, leaving me alone and red-faced.

I immediately jumped out of the hot tub, grabbed my towel and my beer, and spent the rest of the week locked in my guestroom.

After a few days, I was on my way home.

The plane ride back was hellish. Bad weather made for bad turbulence, and so during my 3-hour layover at Dulles, I spent most of my time in an airport bar. At some point, a homeless guy asked me for change while I was outside smoking. Instead I brought him inside and bought him a beer. I generally prefer buying booze for the homeless rather then giving them the money outright. You know, so they don’t spend the money on drugs. Just call me Redguard. I would like to tell you the man was honorable and just down on his luck and all that, but he was a fucking nutcase. In any case, a 5 dollar pint is the least I can do to help remedy the oppressive economic structure of our nation.

After an hour, I paid my tab, ignored the crazy homeless guy, and headed for my gate.

And BTW, I did indeed end up losing my luggage.

sorry for missing last week’s update BTW, in case anybody noticed.

Tom was a bouncer at a local club. It wasn’t a real hot spot, few things in Iowa are, but for the area, it was about the only "happening" place that could be found for miles. For that reason, the club he was in was populated by a younger crowd for the most part; college kids really, a class of society that Tom truly despised. Of course, there wasn’t a whole lot that Tom LIKED in the world. He was a gruff sort of guy, a self-proclaimed cynic, though whether he knew what that word really meant or not was a subject of some dispute. Most would call him "hostile" or "abrasive" instead. "Part of the job," would be his reply to that. At least his verbal reply, if he chose to go that route.

He wasn’t all that bad a guy. Not unduly mean, didn’t go seeking out trouble, and was a great guy to have in your corner in a pinch. Good guy to go hunting with, to watch football with, all of that. But he was certainly an acquired taste. A blue-collar roughneck, through and through, not to put too fine a point on it.

In any case, he obviously worked nights; that was his trade. So he found himself sitting at home most afternoons, not doing much of anything. Watching daytime talk shows, sports, whatever tripped his trigger. This tended to leave him in a perpetual state of constant irritation. There just isn’t a whole lot to do at 3 PM on a Wednesday, save sitting on your ass watching Springer, something that Tom had been doing for almost 3 years now and was frankly getting a bit tired off. Besides, they made it so the camera points upward during the fights instead of focusing right on them, which was really frustrating because, what else is the draw of Springer? Not to mention the fact that Tom was the sort that liked to get up and do things. So he was usually, at least during the day, in a pretty foul mood.

This wasn’t helped that much by his living situation. He had a girlfriend and a son. His girlfriend worked odd hours, being a nurse at the ER of a local hospital. Molly was a sweet girl, a bit on the ditzy side, but like Tom, had sharpened senses, was a stranger to blind panic, and was generally a put-together sort of person. And they had a son together, a bright six-year-old named Eric. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fairly tall for his age. He was also a bit on the girly side for Tom, though most children under the age of 15 had that effect on him. Tom loved Eric, to be sure, but the two didn’t get along great. Tom was a stickler for order and discipline. Eric, like most 6 year olds, had other ideas.

But the two lived together on decent enough terms, generally steering clear of each other. Eric had grown to be fairly independent, almost more so then his mother, and he knew that during the day his father was a person to generally be avoided if possible. They played together now and then, threw the ball around, whatever, if Tom was up for it, but Eric knew better then to nag. He had received more then his fair share of spankings due to that. Besides, as Molly worked until afternoon most days, they were pretty much stuck with each other a lot of the time. They tried to make the best out of it.

One day, Tom was in a particularly foul mood. The club had come under new management a few weeks ago, and the manager was a real prick. He was the sort that Tom absolutely despised, a yuppie in lifestyle who tried to make himself out to be gritty and hardcore in personality. Because of that, he was a real asshole to the help, particularly the bouncers. Steve was constantly challenging them, berating them, trying to knock them down a notch to make them realize they shouldn’t act like they owned the place, as HE owned the place. Tom liked to think of himself as being a man of action, that the club floor was his territory, he acted as he saw fit to try and maintain order in a sea of sweaty bodies and booze. The new manager, on the other hand, saw the bouncers as his own personal thugs, and had begun to take the tone of a drill sergeant with the bouncers, trying to "break them in". This of course did not go over well with Tom at all.

The night before, the manager had been particularly nasty to him. While throwing out a patron who had been obnoxiously horny with a bartender, to put it mildly, the manager came over to the door after Tom had done his work and began berating him with the fervor that generally only comes where great personal wrongs are involved. "You fucking goon!" this and "You work for ME!" that, Steve was going all out. The worst part about it was that it was in front of a line of people waiting to get in and two other bouncers working the door. And respect, in Tom’s line of work, was everything. Tom could do nothing but take it, successfully stifling the near overwhelming impulse he had to take the fucking yuppie by his greasy ponytail and ram his head into his knee. Tom sat there and listened to the manager screaming at him about how the horny drunken patron was a big tipper and a personal friend of his and blah blah blah blah blah. What really got to Tom was that he had to sit there and take it, couldn’t argue with the guy as that would only set him off more, at which point those urges may very well become overpowering, and Tom needed his paycheck.

So he took it. He took it like a belittled and helpless man, and for the rest of that night he did his job and absolutely steamed over the incident.

And the next day, he was still steaming.

He hadn’t said a word to Eric all day. Eric, of course, new better then to speak unless spoken to when dad had that look on his face, so he went about his normal 6 year old activities without a word. Tom still hadn’t gotten dressed. He hadn’t bothered; he was still so upset. Eric wondered why his father kept saying things in an angry tone under his breath while watching Springer, apparently upset at the head of security on the show.

At around 3 PM, the normal time when Molly was due home, the phone rang. "For fuck’s sake!" muttered Tom as he hit mute on the remote and went to the kitchen phone, pushing past Eric in the process. When he picked up, it was Molly.

"Hi hun, just to let you know I’m gonna be here for another hour or so. Just got a few carloads of new patients and some of the evening staff haven’t shown up yet."

"Goddammit, Molly! I have to work in two hours!"

"Well," she replied, "That still gives you an hour when I get home around 4. Don’t be pissed, there’s nothing I can do about it."

"But it’s Saturday! I have to go in at least an hour earlier on Saturdays!"

"Well, you’ll just have to be a little late then, it can’t be helped. I have to go now, I’ll see you around 4."

With that, Molly hung up and Tom listened to the dial tone for a minute before slamming the receiver back onto the wall.

Steve will not be happy, Tom thought to himself. Great. Another fan-fucking-tastic night ahead!
"What’s wrong, dad?" said Eric, standing in the kitchen doorway. Tom glared at him.

"I’m gonna get fucked at work cuz of your dumb ass," was Tom’s reply. With that Tom set back for his TV chair, violently shoving Eric to the ground when the kid didn’t get out of the way fast enough, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.

Eric stifled a cry, collected his toys quickly, and went to his room.

Tom stewed in his chair for about a half hour more, until it was time for him to eat and then get dressed before his girlfriend got home and he could leave Eric with her and go to work. He pulled himself out of his chair, adjusted his only article of clothing, his underwear, and headed for the kitchen.

Two steps later he was on the ground, holding his foot and cursing wildly.

Eric, in his rush to collect his things, had forgotten to grab a few Legos he had near the kitchen door. Tom, barefoot, had accidentally stepped square on top of one of them. A stream of curses was flowing from his mouth. Following that was a command: "ERIC!!!"
Dutifully and with more then a little reticence, Eric emerged from his room and approached his father who was picking himself off the ground and still cursing. Tom looked up, saw Eric a few feet away, and with a noticeable limp, lurched toward Eric. In a flash, Tom had punched Eric in the chest so hard that Eric fell back almost a half dozen feet before hitting the ground. Tom limped his way over to the crying boy and kicked him once, this one not so hard, in the back.

"What the fuck did I tell you about cleaning up your toys and shit!!!"

Eric, through tears, apologized over and over again.

"You little shit!" was Tom’s acceptance as he limped back to the kitchen, punching a wall on his way out and leaving a dent.

Eric went back to his room, trying to not cry too loudly lest he anger his father.

In the kitchen, and while getting dressed, Tom started feeling overwhelming guilt for his action. He had never hit Eric before. Sure, he had come close, had spanked him often enough, even got out the belt once or twice, but had never straight out PUNCHED the boy. "Goddammit," Tom started thinking to himself, "it wasn’t the boy’s fault. I’m the one that stepped on the fucking thing. He didn’t deserve that." He was about to swallow his pride and go apologize to Eric, when he heard the front door open and Molly say, "Honey, I’m home! You can run to work now, you’ll only be a few minutes late!"

Tom was out the door in seconds.

At work, it was just as Tom had feared. Another reaming by Steve, for being 15 minutes late on a Saturday. The urge to tear the guy’s larynx right out of his fucking throat had to be quelled once again for the sake of job security. The only thing that kept Tom’s sanity was repeating the phrase "One of these days you Gucci fuck, one of these days" over and over again in his head while he was being berated.

The rest of the night went decent enough, though Tom was still madder then hell at the new manager.

At about 9 o’clock, while Tom was wandering the club, he noticed that drunken asshole from the night before entering the club. This time, Steve went to the door to personally greet the man, shooting Tom an evil look as he escorted the man to the bar and paid for his first two drinks. The man was obviously already drunk. Must have been club-hopping for awhile now. A black guy, pushing forty. Tom hadn’t a clue how Steve knew the guy. Fuck, for all Tom knew Steve had never met the guy before last night and just wanted an excuse to take a bouncer down another notch. The guy looked like trouble to Tom, already that plastered, disheveled, and now getting free shots of whiskey courtesy of Steve.

And it started going the same way it did the night before.

The drunk asshole started harassing the bartender again, a pretty college chick named Lisa. He would lurch at her, try to pork her, only to get shoved away by Lisa. He was talking way to loud, even for a club. He was yelling at other club patrons who happened to garner his immediate attention, spilling drinks, the whole schmiel. Finally, when Lisa was getting another whiskey and thus had her back to him, the drunk leaned over the bar, stretched as far as he could, and slapped her on her ass.

Lisa slapped the guy, he laughed, and she gave Tom that look. That "DO SOMETHING" look that people in his profession new all to well.

"Fuck Steve," thought Tom. "Fuck this guy too."

Tom made a beeline for the guy.

"What the fuck do you think you’re doing?" asked Tom as he shoved the drunk to force his stool to pivot and face him.

"I’m just having myself a good time!" slurred the drunk.

"We got rules here you asshole."

"Hey, fuck you Meester No Neck! You try and kick me out, your boss’ll fire your sorry ass, told me so himself!"

"I don’t give a FUCK, you asshole."

The drunk got to his feet as if he was looking for trouble.

"Come on, I’m throwing you the fuck out of here," growled Tom.

The next few moments seemed to happen over a period of hours. Tom grabbed the drunk by his arm, at which point the man dropped his drink and took to an inside pocket of his coat, producing a blade. "Awww fuck", thought Tom". As Tom started to dodge, the drunk was already trying to stab, a clumsy sideswipe to Tom’s midsection that is fairly easy to counter. Just pivot to the side, get behind him, and pull his arm behind his back. Problem solved.

A split second into the maneuver, as the knife was coming at him, Tom was suddenly seized by an overwhelming pain in his foot. Right where the Lego had nailed him earlier that day, on the ball of his foot, he was suddenly on fire as Tom tried to put all his weight on the sore spot in an attempt to pivot away from the knife.

It lost him a split second.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Before he knew it, the sudden mental focus on the pain in his foot was replaced by a sudden mental focus on the pain in his chest, as the drunken asshole slashed him shoulder to shoulder.

Tom fell to the floor in a second.

He watched with detached curiosity as the patrons screamed in terror, as the other bouncers suddenly jumped the man and proceeded to beat the tar out of him, as Steve headed out a back door, and as Tom bled liters from his chest wound.

"I don’t deserve this," Tom thought to himself.

"I don’t deserve this."

So have a looksee and maybe if we all join forces we can get her to clean her room.

There is nobody around for miles. Nobody that can help.

Holy shit. HOLY SHIT!!!! There is no way I can get out of this one. I’m stuck; I’m fucked. That fucking deer. I should have just hit that fucking deer, plowed right through the sonofabitch. Now look at me. I don’t believe this. This can’t be happening. I hope that deer fucking got hit by a truck. A different one, I mean.

Is there anything I can do? There has to be some way of saving myself. There is always a way, right? Just got to find the RIGHT way and do it in time. Or is it too late for that? Is the window of opportunity already closed for me?

What is the right way?

FUUUUUUCK!!!!!

I hope the car is okay.

I wonder what happened to the deer?

Escape. Is there any? There HAS to be!

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

If I would have left five minutes sooner or later, maybe all of this would never have happened. The fucking deer would have moved on or not been there yet, I would have driven right past the spot in the road. Or if I hadn’t gone to hang with the guys at all. I’d be peacefully asleep in my bed at home, lying next to my wife.

My wife. What will she think? What will they tell her? How will she take it?

Smile. Man she has a wonderful smile. It shines like a spotlight.

Why is she with me? She could have anybody she wanted. But she stays with me. Even through all the bad times, she stays with me.

That black hair. It’s like an organism unto itself. It moves, it flows, as if with a purpose all unto itself. Beautiful. Stunning.

Her taste.

I don’t want to be nothing. I don’t want to be infinite.

That night in Vegas. God was that something.

The bad times.

I still don’t understand why I did what I did. I don’t regret it exactly. But I regret how it hurt Cassandra. I won’t say I should never have had the affair, but I will say how sorry I am for it.

That hair. That smile. That taste. God. I miss her already. That laugh. That commitment. I miss her already.

The boys. Absent a father. What fine young men they will become. Without me. I am sorry not so much that they will lose me, but that I will lose them. Not be able to see the progress, the growth, the fine young men. Still playing with Legos. Captains of industry one day. I miss them already. Will they understand?

They hug me and the world stops.

Family. I have fucked up. I know that. So many “could have’s”, no more time.

But I did what I knew how to do, how I knew to do it.

I don’t really mind my job all that much. The guys are great, the work keeps me in good shape. The routine is….comfortable. It is….life. It is what I know. It is my day. My day. My day.

What time is it? Is it 3 AM yet?

Jill. Boy was she beautiful. More beautiful then Cassandra, in her own way. I had forgotten passion. I had forgotten pure animal lust. I had forgotten “dirty” sex.

Indulgence can be a sin.

I’m so sorry Cassandra.

I’m so sorry.

I have my faults. I have my problems. I have my history.

But I think I am a good man. I was given the tools and I did with them what I could.

They hug me and the world stops.

The world stops.

Is it the tools or what you do with them that make the measure of a man?

I am not a captain of industry. I am a soldier, a soldier of humanity. I do whatever is in my place to do. I do my place. I do what I can. I am just a man. I am a man.

People care about me. I know they do. Friends, neighbors….family. Will they care if I die? Some will. I will be missed by some. Many, even. That’s something. Not that I will be missed, but that some care about me enough to miss me. I am connected. I have effect.

Love and loved.

I’m just a man. That’s it. But on the other hand, I’m a man. That’s something, isn’t it?

Yes. It is.

I remember the beach. How good it feels to be playing with the kids, the sun warming my naked back almost to the point of intolerance. They should do that again.

Experiences.

I have had as many as anybody else, even if mine were more mundane. They were what they were. They were experiences. Mundane or not, they WERE.

That waterfall…

I am connected.

How good that feels.

As a boy. Catching crayfish. Getting bit by that dog. Ha! That was pain then.

The birth of Tom. God we were scared. So many variables. Such perfection resulted. The scrubs, the smell of sterility, the screams of the pain of creation. The creation.

My workbench. The aches in my joints. The creation.

My mother.

The creation.

I’ve done it.

I have experienced.

How good that feels.

No time to be selfish.

I’m ready now.

I’m ready.

Ready.

Henry Josephson, 46, died on impact. The accident was approximately 6 seconds in duration.