- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Commercial & Creative Writing»
- Creative Writing
Blue Country #9
Act 1 comes to a close...
The doorbell rings and I get out of the tub to go and answer it. I swing open the door and what’s waiting behind it is a blonde woman with a pink party dress on. She’s carrying a dog, and there’s a bottle of Stoli peeking out from her handbag.
“Hey.” She says.
“Hey Paris Hilton.” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I read your thing on the internet. You said that I could stay at your house if I needed to.”
I look at her. Even though I wanted to watch the Magnum P.I marathon tonight, I did promise Paris Hilton that she’d always have a place to stay at my house, and reneging on that vow isn’t something I’m prepared to do.
“Allright.” I say.
“That’s hot.” She answers, brushing past me to the kitchen.
She makes herself this big fucking pastrami sandwich, wraps it in some of the wax paper that we keep under the sink and stuffs it in her purse.
“Umm… there’s mustard in the fridge.” I say.
“That’s hot.” She says, brushing past me heading to the bathroom.
I can hear her shit hit the water from upstairs. It sounds like a week old loaf of bread falling into a bucket of jello. She’s screaming “OH MY GOD!” followed by another earth shattering splash.
She stumbles into my room, reeking of vodka.
“Where’s my fucking dog?” She asks.
“Did you check downstairs?” I ask.
“Obviously.” She answers.
“Did you leave it in the bathroom?”
“Do you have the movie Point Break?” She asks changing the subject.
Were watching Keanu run after the guy in the Nixon mask when Paris Hilton starts growling. She’s looking cautiously around the room, eyes darting from wall to wall, and she’s on her hindquarters staying perfectly motionless.
“Is…something wrong?” I ask.
Paris Hilton pounces like lightning snatching the mouse from under the bed with the speed of a jaguar.
“I could sense him.” She says. “I could feel his animal spirit.”
I’m going into my closet to get a dustbin to put the mouse in. I finally find it and I turn around, where to my surprise, Paris Hilton is standing an inch from my face with a deadly serious look on her face.
“He’s paparazzi.” She whispers, holding the mouse up for me to see.
I look her in the eye, staring deeply into the cornea, gazing past the blue contacts. I look for a sign of humanity but I can see that Paris Hilton is on some serious kind of trip. All I see are reptilian pupils shining with an insane brilliance, lighting up the surrounding area with a shimmering grace.
“You have to eat the mouse. Digesting it…is the only way to destroy it.” She says.
“Are you sure we couldn’t just throw it away?” I ask, but before I can list some other ideas for disposing of the mouse, Paris Hiltons arm is in my mouth up to the wrist and the mouse has been forced past my esophagus and into my stomache.
“Oh fucking Christ.” I say when she finally removes her arm. I’m gasping for air, trying not to vomit from the knowledge that I just swallowed a rodent whole.
“Do you have popcorn?” She asks.
“Get…the fuck…out of my room.” I say. I can feel the bile rising.
“DO-YOU-HAVE-ANY-POPCORN?” She asks slowly, spacing each individual word out.
“Downstairs.” I say. “In the kitchen above the stove there’s a little cupboard. It should be there. If not just ask my mom.” My throat feels like a sea of blood and fur.
“That’s hot.” She says.
It’s nine in the morning and though I’m surprised to find myself awake at this hour, I feel oddly energized, not hung-over, (thank Christ) despite the massive amount of cocaine and whiskey everyone was mixing last night. I was up until 4, convinced that the drugs were killing me, begging Peter not to call an ambulance, which he didn’t want to do anyway. The couch I’ve gained consciousness on is the yellowish patchy monstrosity from Jill’s pool house, but the room is the loft above Peters garage, neither of which factor strongly into the bits and pieces of memory that remain from last night. These memories: Threatening a blonde boy who’s here visiting his old friends from before he moved away, talking to a girl who was convinced that she had written the greatest play in the English Language. She called it ‘The Pussy Thief” and wanted to know if I was interested in reading it for some reason, and if so, informing me that she had a copy of it with her. Snorting Xanax to finally get to sleep. A mesmerizing conversation with a half-Mexican, half-asian kid, that I don’t remember, only recalling the words that became increasingly difficult to understand as the Xanax (which admittedly had been too much to inhale all at once) slowly shut down my brain, rendering any coherent response to any of his statements impossible, and me not really caring because what he was saying was completely inane and pointless any way. Closing my eyes and waking up two hours later and pissing on the television, an action I was aware of but unable to stop doing. Marc laughing hysterically while I do it, me turning towards him and smiling but not knowing why.
I take two steps off the couch and am completely stricken by fatigue and parched by thirst. I trip over a chair, and fall headfirst on to the table smashing through it and I think that it’s actually pretty comfortable in that spot.
I wake up, not knowing what time it is, my eyes burning from the brightness of the light being trained on my face from Peters megawatt flashlight. “Hi.” He says, focusing all the energy of the beam from the flashlight on my forehead. “Ugh.” I reply.
“Don’t you have a job or something?” He asks.
“I…don’t think so.” I say.
I think about the fact that I haven’t been to work for four weeks, having said that I was going out of town for a little while, and my boss, James, nodding understandingly and saying it was fine, even adding that he thought it would do me good to get away for a little. I didn’t know what he meant by that.
“Well, you need to go home and shower.” He says.
“Maybe.” I reply.
He doesn’t say anything to this; instead he drops the flashlight on my lap, without turning it off first, and heads towards, most likely, the kitchen. The clock above the television is loud enough for me to hear it. The phone hanging off the wall, the words “R.I.P Vashon” are written in orange chalk next to it. A bird runs into the window and bounces off, unhurt.
I wonder what Tom Cruise is doing. Does he ever wake up like this? Do people tell him about thing’s he can’t understand because the cocaine flowing through him makes him too jumpy and paranoid to focus? Does he get high? Would he get high with me? Would he like me? What’s it like to be that famous?
I step outside into the extremely bright sunlight, and for a second I look for my car until I remember that I hadn’t driven here last night, and I think for a second about asking Peter to drive me home, but opt to just walk it instead. There’s a rainbow arching over the town, dividing the sky into two identical halves of deep cloudless empty, blue, space. I remember that it’s like that because the sky reflects off the ocean, pause, start to think that that doesn’t sound right, shake my head, continue walking.
I lose my way four times on the journey, even though the walk is essentially a straight line. I turn onto streets with names like ‘Bloody Field’ and ‘King’s Green’ for no reason other than I feel like it. I wave to every car that drives by me even though I don’t recognize any of the drivers, and only four of them wave back. I sing songs from Les Miserable’s, then Oklahoma, and then the first three songs off of Everlast’s solo debut.
I plan my day: it revolves around scoring more coke from Eric.
I walk and I sing at random intervals, sometimes starting a verse of a song, starting a new one and then finishing the first one in the middle of the new one. I count everything, I make lists, and I juggle trivia and I mentally picture fights between different members of congress but since I don’t know any of their names it’s really just me fantasizing about fancily dressed people trying to give each other paper cuts with copies of legal documents. If one thing enters my head, I nourish it and keep it’s substance spinning for as long as I can, constantly occupying any dead air that might come though my mind, desperately trying not to think about what Tom Cruise is doing right now.
(Normally there would be a chapter here with horrible gratuitous violence. Basically you find out Kevin is a serial killer. It's pretty shocking I suppose and I think is really a watershed momkent in the piece but, rules is rules and I'm pretty sure Hubpages wouldn't be too happy with it. Any way back to the story-DB)
“Who’s to say anyway?” sang the man with the big bad hair. “How’s that working for ya son?” He asks me, me just a simple country boy, he asks, “you feelin fucked up yet?
“Uh-huh,” I answer.
“That’s good then boy. That’s just fine and dandy, or my names not Brown Skin Randy.”
I’ve just bought, and subsequently eaten, shrooms from a man who Joe assured me was good people.
I look at him. He’s a stocky looking man with his old tough looking jeans and his hat tilted just right to suggest a frontier warrior-gentleman cowboy. He’s a black man, carrying a sizeable mother of pearl handle 44. Magnum, but he wears it like a badge. He’s probably never even fired it.
“Looks to me like you’re a little lost little boy. I say you look as scared as a little newborn cat. Little scared boy, calm yourself.” Slung over the bench, resting in this park, he calls out to me as I walk by him. I try to ignore him, but he follows me.
“Hey scared little boy, you want me to show you a magic trick?” He yells, cupping his hands into a megaphone. “C’mon little boy, come watch my trick and I’ll leave you alone.”
I turn to him and I tell him that I’m not a little boy. He laughs and waves a pack of cards at me, “C’mon then big man, I want to show you a magic trick. Hustle back here or you’ll miss it and I’ll follow you around for a week.”
I sigh, look at my watch, and wonder why this man is fucking with me like this.
“So, you’ll… leave me alone after the…trick?” I ask, getting annoyed. I notice the hookah that he smokes has a carving of a pair of dice, and I smell the sweet scent of opium.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
He laughs and smiles, wafting smoke from his mouth.
“I don’t think you’re really, like, allowed to do that man.” I say pointing to the dice hookah. “Especially not in this park, and definitely not in …broad daylight.”
“Nobody looks little boy, nobody cares. Brown Skin Randy does just fine living in this park. You can live like a king in a park if you just know a few things… about a few things.”
And he laughs, shooting out jets of long thin smoke, and he coughs three times, long soulful desperately happy coughs of a man slowly dying and cherishing every last second.
“Ok,” I say. “Let me see.
I walk over to him and he’s leaning against a pine tree, shuffling a deck of cards from hand to hand. He puts down the hookah line and laughs another smoky, dry laugh.
“OK,” he says suddenly more alert, smiling like a salesman. “Think of a card.” He instructs.
I picture a queen of hearts.
“O.K,” I say. “I have one. Should I tell you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You can if you want to.”
“Well should I or shouldn’t I?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t matter.” He answers, flippantly.
“Fine,” I say, deciding not to say my card.
“Watch as closely as you can now.” He says.
He throws the cards in the air, letting them fall at random in the grass and dirt around him, blown by the wind, some of them going as far as the street.
“Now pick up as many cards as you want.” He says, coughing from his chest.
I walk around and pick up three cards, the three closest ones, and I turn to ask Brown Skin Randy what to do next.
“Turn em’ over.” He says. “Look at the cards.”
I turn over the three cards, revealing a joker, a King of Diamonds, and an ace of clubs.
“Ok…” I say, turning to him for more instructions, but he just looks at me and nods approvingly.
“Umm…” I start. “Is that like…it?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He answers, smiling.
“I don’t get it.” I say. “What’s the trick?”
He looks at me smiling, his eyes wide as saucers and twinkling like stars and he says, “There isn’t one.”
“There isn’t…” I say out loud, confused.
“Yeah,” He answers quickly, “Ya get it?”
“…Not, like…really man.” I tell him.
“Sounds like a problem on your end then little boy.” He says smiling.
“So the trick is that there’s no trick.” I say, in a voice that I hope sounds understanding.
“Well that’s part of the trick, the rest is that I had sex with your sister.” He says.
“My sister…” I say, thinking hard. “I don’t have…. a sister.”
“Fine your wife then.” He says, without looking at me, all ready starting to walk away.
“My wife? Whose wife? I don’t have a wife.”
“Ok, then.” He says, still calling over his shoulder. “Who’s your closest female relative then?” He asks.
“I guess my…mom.” I say.
“Well, guess what? I had sex with her.”
“So the trick is that you… had sex with my mother?” I ask confirming the situation.
“It’s a pretty good trick I’d say.” He calls out and he fades into the foreground.
“What an asshole.” I say out loud and continue my walk.
My thoughts: What’s the best way to unclog a drain? How much is my life worth? Does god ever get boners? Are ghosts real? Can ghosts get boners?
Are boners real?
Is anything real. A statement.
Cash money, clothes, dogs, clothes for dogs, a gold watch, new diamond earrings, a shopping spree at a Gucci store, unlimited money, endless supplies of money, and every day off, everything perfect, everything given to me, everything on a silver platter, forget work, forget duties, forget all responsibility, lose yourself and don’t bother to find out where you went, the world revolving around me forever.
I want Couture and Prada and I want a gold cigarette lighter. I want silver plates and catered parties, catered breakfast everyday and catered everything all the time. Every day should be a party that never ever stops and flows and flows and flows and it’s always go, go, go, and I need it now, now, right now.
So I’m like watching TV, Hot Celeb Exclusive is on, and there talking about Julia Stiles and how she can legally commit a murder in France because of something called Pierre’s Law. Two minutes later and I’m already in my shower and I’m thinking about what I should do today. Obviously get cigarettes from the store, check my balance, maybe go down to the town square and buy a quiche. The water starts to get cold after fifty minutes and I turn it off and get out.
I check my cell-phone, I have four missed calls but I don’t bother to return any of them.
I look at the newspaper and see the headline, “Four Found Mutilated, five in critical condition in deadly break in.”
I read a little into it. A family was found hacked to pieces, not too far from here actually. I grab a coffee cup and start a pot on the boiler.
Another article about the rumors of a duck-pigeon hybrid that’s been terrorizing the town’s dogs, slashing them open with its razor sharp bill. The picture is convincing.
Four dogs found strung up by their intestines, tied together like shoelaces and thrown over a power line.
An article about the dangers of a high fat high sodium diet and how Tim Allen nearly lost his life in a scandalous incident involving three buck toothed Indians and an orgy they were all involved in that ended in eight deaths and a kidnapping. The news stations makes jokes, say he’ll probably go to rehab, but then I read that the state is considering the death penalty for all involved, including three witnesses and the arresting officer.
Later, I’m at lunch with Stephanie, Jill and Hannah, and I’m thinking that maybe I should just eat power bars and drink water from now on. I don’t want to get scurvy so also I’d eat limes.
They talk about the rumor that a monster is running around killing people, and the rumor that there’s this new drug that can drive you permanently insane if you just look at it for too long. Supposedly if you listen to it, you go into frenzy and chew your own lips off.
“That doesn’t sound…too far fetched.” I say, laughing to myself. “I believe everything…that I hear.”
Jill is talking about something she did with her brother and I’m staring at Hannah, studying every last inch of her. I stare so long that her image starts to twist into different shapes, the light refracting in my teary eyes, morphing her into first a purple puddle, and then a talking purple vial of cocaine.
The vial smiles and finishes her food. She tries to play footsie under the table with me, but I’m so horrified by the way she looks that I can only smile oddly and look away.
I leave Bob house and take a drive up to the cliffs just so I can stare out at the forest and watch the sun come up. Trees line the landscape in endless rows, hiding the life on the forest floor. The sky turns red, then dark gold and dark blue, and it happens so fast it almost seems like a special effect. I just stare. I see something that looks like an eagle swooping over the pines and dogwoods, in a razor sharp arc. I watch clouds drifting on the invisible wind and the crisp morning air soothes my nerves and heals my broken spirit for only an instant. In that same instant a boy in Africa dies of AIDS, a miracle occurs in India, a field trip bus full of nuns crashes in Cleveland maiming more than fifty people, and a tiny beetle in the forest looks up from the leaf he’s eating and doesn’t think anything. I breathe in the air, and with the air comes a torrent of life, the residue that all things have, and it fills my lungs making them feel crystal clear and brimming with a metallic cool energy, all greased lighting and slick rounded edges.
I head back to town and I call Bob and, to my surprise, he picks up. “Hey.” I say, as I fix my rearview mirror.
“What’s up Jilly?” He asks, his voice is tired and slurred but friendly.
I smile and light a cigarette. “Nothing.” I say. “I just wanted to say hi.”
I have to throw down the phone, and turn sharply to avoid a man who just suddenly bursts out from the woods and runs across the road. He’s wrapped up in what looks to be a bearskin, dripping with fresh blood, and he has a necklace that looks like it’s made of tiny foot bones. I swerve in time and just miss it, but the man screams in anguish and darts back into the woods, carrying, I now notice, what looks like a woman’s severed leg, and there’s something familiar about the man.
I pick up the phone, but nobodies there, and I don’t bother to call Bob back. I lock my doors and continue my drive home.
And it will never be enough because even if they worship me it’s just not going to fill the hole. If I stopped and I went back to the life I had before I could never forget how it felt to have that control over someone, how it feels to look into someone’s eyes and tell them that they’re going to die, showing them the knife that your going to use to skin them alive. The only emotions I feel are envy, jealousy, and anger. I…need…attention. I need a sense of fulfillment. Every time I’m passed by without a second glance, every time I’m ignored or talked over, every time I make a joke that nobody laughs at, the hole get’s bigger. For every person that doesn’t look at me, somebody is going to die.
I want someone to feel my pain, to let them into my head for one minute and have them feel the ice cold blood that pumps through my body and the thoughts that burn like napalm. I want them to try and ignore that insatiable bloodlust that grips me more and more often. I want someone to …understand what I’m going through, and see if they can tell me I’m wrong.
(Again, more awful descriptions of violence. Maybe It's better to self edit like this as I go...-DB)
I think back on years of wasted moments, hours of playing and partying and drunken high school parties and I think of not being a murderer and I realize that there is simply no way. Every time I see a celebrity getting an award I gnash my teeth, every accolade that isn’t mine, I want. I want everything, and I know that, despite my best efforts, I will never be happy, because nothing could ever be enough. There is no way back, it’s a one-way street.
My mask: my sunglasses, my frosted hair, and my smile. The voice that says things that I don’t think, my eyes that look you in the eye straight through the back of your skull, my mouth which breaks into smile at random intervals, all part of a body that betrays me and doesn’t let me even enjoy the ripping and biting, a voice that tells me I’m wrong, but the voice is so quiet and calm. The fact that I know what I do is wrong and that I just…don’t…care. The persistent and convenient thought that every body is just meat anyway, and I can smell burning flesh wafting through the house and the tears that form at the corners at my eye and the short choking sobs, that I don’t understand because I’m not sad, or mad, or happy or anything. I am the blank canvas, the white wall; I am nothing, and everything horrible at the same time.
Every last little thing just pisses me off. I just want everybody to die and I am out of my mind.