Crazy Larry loved beans almost as much as he loved different types of mustard or pop tarts. Larry could spend all day at the grocery store searching the rows and rows of canned beans for the secret ingredient that would make his belly happy. Most of the time he settled for a regular generic brand of baked beans with ham and a hint of brown sugar. He occasionally ventured down to the less expensive, but more difficult to prepare, bags of beans. Those beans needed to be soaked and treated with tender loving care before they could be consumed. Not only were beans good for eating and other personal amusements, but Crazy Larry found that a bag of beans could be a healthful alternative for his rage than say his good friend Jack Kass. Larry could take a bag of hard black-eyed peas and fill up one of his mother’s large glass jars. Then he would take a long slender steak knife and stab the jar of beans until the knife got stuck. This would often take a while, but it allowed him to relieve himself of the urge to stab something and it gave him a sense of accomplishment when the knife would stick and he could pick up the entire jar of beans by holding the knife. Late one night, Larry was cleaning out his last of six cans of baked beans when he found a new way to relieve himself of the urge to stab something. He started stacking the empty cans of beans in the living room and decided that he needed more cans. Crazy Larry’s mother was fast asleep while he was performing his next act of self help. He went out to the box out near the trash can and picked out as many cans as he could. Larry brought them back inside and stacked them up as well. He continued stacking empty cans of beans for the better part of the night until he had a very large wall of empty canned goods in the middle of the living room. He stood back and felt better already, even though the best part had yet to commence. It was about 3am when Crazy Larry’s mother was awakened to a great crash from the living room. Larry had donned a football helmet and crashed himself into the great wall of canned goods and onto the floor. Larry’s mother was dumbfounded at the scene in the living room. Bits of bean and other food particles left in old cans that Larry had collected were all over the floor and Larry was sitting in the middle of it all fast asleep. She guessed that he was better off than if she were to wake him up and try to understand what the hell was going on. She turned around and went back to her bedroom. Crazy Larry was ok and would sleep fine now that he had satisfied his inner self-destruct demon.
Jack’s internal clock told him that it was pretty fucking late at night, or early in the morning depending on how you looked at it. His instinct told him that he had to get rid of the van as quickly as possible. He could sense that the sky was slightly lighter on the distant horizon. He realized that he must be at some elevation if the horizon looked lighter somewhere lower in his field of vision. There would not be a lot of time to ditch the van and find out where in the hell he was or how to get back. He poked around the cab for a few minutes looking for anymore clues as to his present location. A wad of poorly folded paper in the passenger side door pocket caught his eye after lingering on the open tool box full of oddly shaped surgical tools. He grabbed the stack of paper and was glad to see the lines and locations indicating some type of map. Unfortunately his hopes for discovering anything useful faded when he started reading the maps and found out that they were from several different places. There was an old boat compass mounted on the dashboard of the van. He tapped it gently and the inner float bobbed slightly and resumed pointing east. He guessed it was somewhat accurate if the sky was in fact getting lighter in front of him. Then Jack noticed a small folded piece of notebook paper in the center console between the driver and passenger. He set the stack of maps down on the seat next to him and unfolded the paper. In a scrawled handwriting he read the following directions: “Highway 12 east to exit 337.” “State Route 1539 exit right 15 miles.” “Gravel road entrance on left after 3rd cattle guard.” Jack thought for a minute and cursed under his breath. If he was going to get out of this place, he would probably have to go back the way he came because he did not know how far his current direction would take him or where it would take him. “Entrance to what?” Jack thought. Slowly, a plan formed in his mind. He would ditch the van and hike back through the woods using the gravel road as a guide. It was getting noticeably lighter and the first rays of sunshine were coloring the clouds behind him shades of purple and pink. He looked for any sign of food or water inside the van, but nothing was there of any value except for the surgery-in-a-box tool kit. He grabbed the toolbox and set it outside the van. He started the van again and drove it into the woods a little. He then noticed a steep drop-off into a canyon below. Not wanting to cause a lot of noise at the present time he decided to rig up a crude time-delay brake system that would allow the van to roll out over the cliff after giving him a chance to make some distance between him and the van. After setting up the van at a downward slope and setting the parking brake, he figured out a way to use some of the blocks of ice and snow around the base of nearby trees to brake the van. Later, when he was certain that the ice wheel blocks would hold, he slowly let out the parking brake and let the full weight of the van rest on the blocks of ice. Because the van’s engine was still running and relatively hot to the outside environment, he fashioned an exhaust tube system out of spare items from the van and a roll of duct tape he found underneath the passenger seat. Jack took a moment to observe his contraption and wondered if it was smart to spend so much time doing this when he had no food or water and several miles to travel before he might be safe. Jack hoped that the re-directed exhaust fumes would melt the ice blocks and release the wheels and allow the van to travel at a high rate of speed over the nearby steep slope down toward a canyon below. He abandoned the whole mess and picked up the box of weird surgical tools and headed back toward the spot where he gave his former captors the split.
Jack heard voices in the cab of the van. The front cab was sealed off from the compartment he was in, but he could tell it was another argument. The sounds of accusation and defense escalated into a heated exchange none of which he could make out except for the final agreement between the two unknown kidnappers. “Fine” said one. “Fine” said the other. With his fate unknown to him, yet decided on by his captors, Jack heard two doors open and slam shut. He must be in a secluded spot he thought as he reasoned that the argument and slamming of doors would have attracted some attention in a more densely populated area. Jack knew he had to try something to get out of his current situation. He did not want to stick around and passively await the final outcome. He moved silently and scooted his body closer to the rear doors of the van. Lying on his back, he raised his legs to a position above his waist and reminded himself that he would get one chance. His feet and hands were still bound together, but he was able to brace himself with his palms underneath his lower back, placed flat to the floor of the van. In the darkness, he heard two sets of feet crunch the gravel toward the rear of the van. Jack took a deep breath and prepared himself for the imminent blast of cold outside air. A set of keys clinked as they were brought to unlock the rear doors. Jack heard a final word from his captors as they too readied themselves for their next act. As soon as he heard the click of the door latch and caught his first sight of a lighter shade of darkness, Jack drove his legs with all his determination into the center of the opening rear doors. His feet were stinging with cold and pain, but he could tell that he hit at least one body when the doors flew open unexpectedly on his would-be assailants. Jack raised his legs again and paused. He listened for any noise. He heard a faint moaning, but nothing else. He waited for another minute and cautiously pushed open the van doors with his feet. The cold air was intense and he had little to shield him from the weather. He scooted himself to the edge of the van’s rear and sat upright to survey the scene. What he saw shocked him. To Jack’s left was a petite blonde female with what looked like a white ski outfit on lay sprawled out on her back with blood trickling from her nose. She was definitely out cold. On Jack’s right was a larger male who was moaning and grasping for his head where blood was oozing out of a fresh gash courtesy of Jack’s van door karate kick. Jack quickly hopped up and out on to the sharp gravel where his feet continued to tell him that it was cold and painful right now. He ignored his feet and shuffled to where the man lay grimacing in pain. Jack raised his hands and stiffened his elbow and aimed it directly at the bridge of the man’s nose. He positioned himself so that he could throw himself down on the man and strike with the only mobility he had. Jack crouched slightly and leaped up in the air and directed his elbow at the man’s nose and his hip at the man’s belly as he performed his first ever full-body slam. Granted, he would have preferred the comfort and safety of a wrestling mat for his first time as opposed to a life or death situation on a gravel road, the result was disgusting. Blood spurted out from the man’s nose and face as he gurgled once in pain and then passed out. Jack saw that the rear bumper of the van was metal and had an edge. He rolled off of the man’s now limp body and moved his feet toward the metal bumper. Jack started working his feet back and forth across the bottom edge of the bumper as he tried to cut through the rope. It wasn’t working like he had hoped and after several minutes, he noticed that he had not made much progress. Only a few strands had loosened themselves after all of his effort. The winter air stung his face and body, the gravel dug into his side as he lay next to the van. He looked around and saw nothing but dense forest and the gravel road. Determined not to die or wait until his kidnappers regained consciousness, he focused his attention back to his freezing feet. This time instead of using the edge of the bumper, he used the bumper’s metal corner that was folded back along the side of the van. He pulled his feet over the metal corner so that it caught the rope and he pulled. A few more strands were cut. He continued using the van’s metal tooth until his feet were numb with and drained of blood as they were slightly above his body for the better part of an hour. He finally cut through the rope and freed his feet. Jack’s sense of relief was enough to keep him going. He got up and lowered his hands, then stepped backward over them so that they were now in front of him, but still bound. Jack went over the the man’s body and took his jacket and put it on, then removed the man’s boots and socks. He put them on and felt the warmth. Jack saw the keys still in the van’s rear door and grabbed them. He closed the van’s doors and got in the front cab. He then started the van and drove off, not believing what he had just done. The kidnappers would probably be ok, but fuck them he thought. He drove for a little while not knowing where he was going, but glad to get away from danger. He pulled over on the side of the seemingly endless gravel road and put the van in neutral. He had to get the rope off of his hands. Jack started to rummage around the interior of the front cab looking for a knife, or a pair of scissors or something with a sharp edge. He saw a toolbox on the passenger side floorboard and opened it. Inside was a precise looking set of stainless steel surgical tools. Shuddering at the thought of what his two assailants would have done to him, he seized the tool with the longest blade and released his hands.
On the Island of Twelve there was depravity and sunshine. The sand on the beach was rough and uncomfortable to walk on. There were broken sea shells and bits of rock strewn about the shoreline so that anyone wishing to travel across it would need a protective covering on their feet. The island was only 15 meters across at its widest section, but the dense landscape and volcanic formations gave the impression that it was much larger. Located in a remote region of the Pacific Ocean, the climate was temperate and on any other occasion life here would be considered to be paradise. The twelve individuals who found themselves stranded on the island were in such a state of desperate isolation that the situation began to unravel itself too quickly. There was no such concept of civility or even sanity when the food ran out and Mother Nature mercilessly continued her deadly game. The situation had only developed over the course of a two week period since they gathered themselves at the mouth of the cave upon arriving. The confusion and sense of loss was clear as they saw themselves in ripped clothing and bleeding from superficial wounds. “Where is so-and-so?” they would ask each other as they searched for other survivors from the cruise ship’s demise. Six hours after they awoke to the morning wreckage of their vessel, only a handful had made it to the island. The sea swallowed any evidence of their former selves and kept them from their loved ones. As the end of the first day approached, it became clear that there would be only twelve of them on this island in the middle of the ocean. The anguish was intense as their hopes faded with the setting sun. With strange sounds and stunning views of the heavens came the black of night. The giant void that was the ocean at night consumed their final hopes and prayers and so began their stay in an oasis of torment.
A can of peanuts caught on fire due to the large quantity of gasoline poured on it by a boy that was only12 years of age. He stood back when he flipped the lit match toward the can as he expected the fire to flame up. The gasoline on the surface of the can of peanuts was burning quite hot and the paper label and plastic cover were both incinerated quickly. The smell of burning plastic filled the air, but there was a faint odor of peanut too. The boy picked up a garden hose and twisted the nozzle open. He doused the fire out and went to look at the can. Inside the can was a mass of black with bits of brown. The experiment seemed to be a failure. The plastic lid was the mistake. He figured he should have left it off and replaced it with tin foil or something that could withstand the heat. After a while of poking at the charred mass, he buried his failed experiment in the yard. He put the gasoline back in the shed and then went back inside the house to see what else he could find that might relieve his boredom. He went upstairs to a room that had two closets. The closet on the left had clothes on hangars and shoe boxes and smelled of moth balls. The closet on the right had boxes of board games and toys for younger children and a large wood bat. He selected two items, the wood bat and a metal toy truck. He went outside to the yard again and set the metal toy truck up on a tree stump.
In the hallway of the small house was a bookcase filled with reading material. There were paperback books, hard back books, magazines, sections of newspaper, spiral-bound notebooks and various other forms of paper with writing on it. There did not seem to be a system to the organization of the bookcase. It was just a mass of material. Jack selected a small book hidden among the larger volumes. The title said that it was a field manual for air conditioning maintenance and repair. On the cover of the book was a 1950’s style drawing that showed a friendly looking, bright smiling man dressed in a crisp blue service uniform with an official hat to match. Next to the service man’s head was a dialogue bubble that pointed at the character’s mouth and read “Freon is For Fuckheads.” Apparently, this book wasn’t what it seemed, thought Jack as he flipped the book over to see if there was anything written on the back. The only item on the back of the book was a finely printed line near the bottom that indicated that the book was printed by Killer Bee Publishing. Jack opened the manual and began reading the table of contents, all of which indicated that this was some type of political propaganda put out by some group wishing to convince people that their unnatural use of natural resources could one day wind up wiping out all life on planet Earth. On page 37 was a picture of a happy family of four, smiling cheerfully at the reader while the picture showed their hands and feet bound by rough looking rope and their bodies strapped to the front of a large vehicle being driven very fast by a large barrel of oil. It looked to Jack like the manual was a collection of political cartoons and short articles explaining political arguments related to environmental causes. Jack was amused, but set the book down and browsed some of the other material on the bookshelf. There was a large dictionary and a brochure for a set of steak knives. One of the magazines was a National Geographic magazine with a large and colorful close-up photograph of the sun. The space surrounding the sun was black and empty. The sun itself was a massive, continual explosion with loops and jets of fire leaping from random areas on the surface. Jack brushed his finger over the cover half-expecting it to be hot to the touch. He set the magazine back on the shelf and examined a box in the top corner of the top shelf and reached up to grab it. The box was black and made of heavy card board. He blew dust off of the top of the box and slowly opened it. Inside was a small envelope that he picked up. Inside the envelope was a set of safety deposit box keys and an aged, yellowing piece of paper that had the name of the bank.
A hard rain continued to fall and smack everything in sight with the wet slap of countless individual water droplets. The sound that came from the rain was loud and determined. The precipitation would not stop until everything dry was glistening in the broken moon light with the reflection of fresh rain. LaVonda could hear the rain hitting the corrugated tin roof of her family’s shack. The smell of earth and water drifted into her bedroom where she and her two brothers slept. She could not sleep in this weather, but her two older brothers were out cold as she noticed their slow, measured breathing and complete stillness. LaVonda turned her attention back to the sounds and smells of the action outside and yearned to get out of bed and go to the window where she could get a better view of the rain. But she was paralyzed with apprehension at the thought of stepping on the wood floor beneath her bed. It would sound out of place and harsh in the relative silence of the room and probably wake up her brothers. She pulled her blanket up a little closer to her head and closed her eyes and dreamed of falling rain.
Walking along the edge of the trail, the mule saw nothing but a steep drop-off into the canyon below. He dropped his load on the trail and continued on his way. Flies buzzing in the mule’s ear quickly left the tasty innards of the ear for the tasty droppings on the trail. Hikers would later pass the road apples and marvel in the smell’s staying power. The mule’s breakfast was clearly visible in the fresh green chunks of body waste. Bits of hay and other plant matter poked out of the firm clay-like clumps. However, the freshness and odor of the warm manure could not compare to the stark reality of the headless rider stiffened into place on the mule’s saddle. The mule was not aware of the dead weight he was carrying, but continued on along the trail anyway. The rider’s head was many miles below the current position of the mule and his dead body. The steel cable that snapped and whipped the rider’s head off was dangling harmlessly from the bridge. It was an unfortunate series of events that led to the rider’s current situation. However, he did not really care at the present because he had passed on to the world beyond if such a world ever existed. Singed and smoking, the wreckage was the only evidence that an accident had taken place near the bridge. The earth was blackened and scorched with smoke still rising from the point of impact. Snow dotted the ground around the crash area and made the smoldering wreckage look almost cozy in comparison. Across a the canyon, behind a rocky ledge was a man concealed by his desert camouflage fatigues and simply constructed, desert concealed hide-out. The man was observing the entire area with a pair of high powered binoculars. He broke away from the close-up of the scene and wiped at his eyes with a baby-wipe. The man took a sip of water from his portable water container and stretched his neck. The temperature inside his hide-out indicated to him that the sun was at its maximum angle of attack for the day. When he went back to the binoculars, the most distressing event next to the accidental beheading occurred. He saw a van moving downhill on a gravel road leading to the bridge. The van seemed to be moving at a slight angle away from the entrance to the bridge. He saw the front wheel catch on a huge rock as the van veered off of the gravel road. The van’s posterior flew up a few feet and bounced back down causing the van to begin wobbling out of control. The wobble escalated into a full-fledged tumble as it picked up speed moving without concern for life or limb. The van’s undulations ceased when it went over a ledge and fell weightlessly to the small river below. The man did not expect to see what he saw, but it happened, and he stopped the recording and noted the time that the footage was taken with his digital video equipped binoculars. The digital video of the series of events was transmitted over a highly encrypted satellite communications link which was picked up at headquarters where a team of scantily clad female super-heroes reviewed it in detail before deciding that they all needed to take a shower together to help brainstorm a course of action. Lots of soap and shampoo were used to help them lather each other up. After a brief interlude, they towelled each other off and proceeded back to the situation room where they made a decision using their high-powered brains.
The card table was on fire, but barely noticeable. The rubbing alcohol spilled across the model airplane’s balsa wood frame and became alive with blue fury. Resisting the urge to panic, Crazy Larry stood up from the table and gave it an open-handed smack, smashing the airplane and burning his hand all at the same time. Jack grabbed a towel from the floor and smothered the entire mess. Larry looked at his project and cursed himself. He wanted to fly with the wind, but he had poor eyesight. He wanted to build something that could fly with the wind instead, and now he had crushed his own dream. If Jack hadn’t been flicking lit matches at his friend, this little incident might never have occurred. But Jack’s intent was only to distract Crazy Larry, not set the house on fire or see his friend’s sad face staring down at his splintered handiwork. Larry retaliated in the only way he knew how. He stabbed Jack in the shoulder with the hobby knife that was knocked to the floor in the rush to put out the fire. Although the wound was deep, Jack knew it would be ok. Blood flowed down his arm and Jack saw it run to the end of his palm, form a drip and splatter the floor. He had never seen his own blood and it frightened him. He passed out and fell to the floor. Although this was the first of many stabbing incidents to come, Larry and Jack became brothers after nearly killing each other with stupidity.
Jack’s audio cd arrived exactly nine weeks to the day after he shipped the diamond-studded hot sauce to New Delhi. Big Jim was on vacation at the time, so the small package arrived in his mailbox much to his dismay. “What if the diamonds are traced back to me because the Big Idiot sent my instructions to my home address?” he wondered to himself. Jack threw the package in the back seat with the rest of the junk mail. He was upset and wanted to get out of town. After a few minutes of driving around town and avoiding his apartment altogether. He drove to a fast food joint, ordered and then ate the greasiest nastiest item he could find on the menu, a deep fried cheese burger. It calmed him down immediately after coating his conscience-inflamed stomach ulcer with nice, warm grease. Not many fast food restaurants offer the deep fried cheese burger. You can get your chicken fried steak burger or your chicken fried chicken sandwich, but for an establishment to throw caution into the wind and just deep fry the whole cheese burger was unheard of. They didn’t fry it for very long however. Instead of the thick breading used on chicken fried chicken sandwiches, they used a thinner tempura-like batter and quickly fried the entire thing for exactly one minute. It was long enough to get the shell of the cheese burger nice and crispy yet allow hot fat to work its way deep into the middle of the cheese burger. You had to have guts to eat this monstrosity. Guts and a lot of napkins because when you bit into the crispy outer shell, you got a mouthful of gooey goodness and chinful of wet grease. Jack wiped his chin and realized that he could not go back to his apartment. Yes, the audio cd was in his hands, but the risk of someone else possibly talking too much gave him the willies. He decided to move into the roach motel next to Pops Waffle Stop for the time being. He would keep a low profile, as best he could and wait it out. About two weeks went by and the junk mail and other oddities of Jack’s backseat began to pile up. He finally decided it was now or never. He was going to listen to the audio cd and get his instructions. He hadn’t heard anything from Big Jim, Poonam or the others, so that meant they were either caught and spilling their guts or not caught and enjoying their money. Jack put the cd in the Malibu’s audio deck and waited for the chanting to begin. The first thing he heard, or thought he heard was the word “eternal” repeated four or five times. It was so heavily accented though, that he was unsure if the person was saying “he turned all” or if he had inadverdently found a fellow word-experiementer. Then Jack wasn’t sure if the first sounds were chanting or instructions. He wrote the word “eternal” down anyway. After hours of chanting and scribbling down the words he thought he heard in between each track he had compiled the following list of words: “eternal, life, building, keys, top, exit, light, rock, second street, main, awaits, you.” Jack was highly perplexed. This useless list of words that he was unsure of in its entirety or accuracy was all that stood in the way between him and his loot. He felt as if he should have left the disc in the backseat with the rest of his trash. He looked at the list of words and wondered at what they meant. What the hell was an eternal life building? Unless it was just supposed to be “life building.” He gathered that he was going to have to use some brain power to decipher this message. Clearly, he saw that the building at the intersection of second street and main near the Foxtrot Community College would have to be the logical place to start. The only other building nearby that might have an exit on the top of it would be the Taco Bell on the opposite corner. The life sciences building would have to do. Jack replayed the events in his head. Why did he have to go through hell to get to heaven? All he wanted was a few extra bucks to help out a friend and possibly check himself into Thousand Oaks. Yeah, right he thought. He wanted the money so he could quit pushing cardboard boxes around and retire on a beach somewhere. He was kicking himself for not being more careful when he heard the two people in the front get out of the van and slam their doors shut.
Brush your teeth everyday. And, as the saying goes, only floss the ones you want to keep. It’s easy to sit back and dole out this advice to people, but as an everyday activity, it’s much harder to practice. It is also made that much more difficult when something has happened to your pearly whites that makes you wish you never grew any stupid teeth in the first place. People lose their teeth for a variety of reasons. Most have the means to have something done about it so that the defect is corrected and they can go on smiling. But if you do not have the means, you may have to go toothless for a while. It’s not as bad as popular opinion makes it out to be, but you notice that people greet your mouth with a certain amount of disappointment. Alica got the shit knocked out of her at least three times a day. Her bastard husband, Frank, was a truly worthless individual. When he wasn’t scamming the elderly out of their life savings at the nursing home he worked at, he was usually at home looking for some excuse to beat up on Alicia. Her only escape was her work at Pops Waffle Stop. But she dreaded the end of the day, when she would have to go home for her evening cleansing. The beatings were never too severe that she couldn’t cover them up somehow the next day. But her face told the truth about her unhappy home life. Frank took his role too far the day he decided that he would try to improve his situation by robbing the nursing home residents and get the hell out of town. He was always trying to sell some of the residents his bogus life insurance plan. Only one or two fell for it and he was able to get a few hundred dollars. But he decided that it would be much faster to hit up the cash drawer in the front office and leave town. He was surprised to find that there were several thousand dollars kept up there. Frank never understood why, but he didn’t have to. He was done with his crappy job, and he was going to run with the money. His supervisor, Charlie, walked in on him and saw him next to his bag of money and picked up the phone to call the police. Frank yelled for him to put the phone down, but his supervisor just stared at Frank in disbelief. Frank hit Charlie with the only thing he could find within his reach, the stapler. Unfortunately for both of them, he threw the stapler so hard that when it hit Charlie in the head it killed him instantly. Then all was quiet in the little office and Frank calmly closed his bag of money and left the building. When he got back home, he turned on the television to see if the news had picked up on his robbery. Nothing but commercials as he flipped from channel to channel which made him upset. He became even more afraid when he thought he heard sirens in the distance. Alicia was in the bathroom when he came in, so she was unaware of his heightened frustration. When she came out of the bathroom and walked in on him looking out the window he turned on her. “Did you call the fucking cops on me?” he accused her. “What?” she said, suddenly frightened at the prospect of another beating. “I’m trying to help us and you go and turn me in.” he said. “Frank, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got home from work.” He turned toward her and dropped his bag of money. “Please don’t baby, I didn’t call anyone.” she pleaded with him. Frank opened his hand and slapped her across the mouth. She turned to get out of the way, but his hand caught her anyway. He began using his fists when the sirens sounded from the driveway. The police burst through the front door just as two of Alicia’s teeth were knocked out from her jaw. They pulled him off of her and called for an ambulance. Frank was going away for good this time. He killed Charlie, robbed the nursing home and brutally assaulted his wife. No chance in hell Frank was going to see daylight as a free man again. When the paramedics arrived they quickly treated Alicia for her physical pain, but her emotional pain was excruciating. Not only was she still in shock at just having two of her teeth knocked out after being beaten up by her supposed life-partner, but she was on the verge of complete psychological breakdown at the realization that things were not going as she had envisioned them when she tied the knot with Frank. She couldn’t believe all that had changed in Frank in the last few years and all that had changed in her in the last few minutes. Frank was arrested and taken away by the police. She told the paramedics to go away after they treated her and then tried to take her to the hospital. She sat on floor and felt the silence of the room and the dull throbbing pain in her jaw. Alicia felt she had to get away. There was nothing in this place for her now. She would go to a friend’s house for the night, but she would never return to this room again.
Although Pops Waffle Stop had a well stocked menu with all of the American diner favorites, there was a short list of items not on the menu that Mike Z. was more than happy to prepare upon request. Among his favorites was a sandwich unequaled in the world of sandwiches. The T.O.T. or Tomatoes On Toast. Most important in the preparation of the T.O.T was a sharp knife, a juicy red tomato, two slices of fresh bread and mayonnaise. Mike Z. could make himself salivate at the simple thought of slicing the tomato or placing the bread in the toaster. If a diner were to order a T.O.T., Mike Z. made a new friend. The preparation was simple enough, two pieces of toast with mayo on either side, a healthy serving of sliced tomatoes, a sprinkle of salt and pepper and voila, a T.O.T. One day a trucker had stopped at Pops Waffle Stop for a bite to eat and had heard of the famous T.O.T. He ordered one as an appetizer before his steak dinner. After taking the first crisp and juicy bite he declared, “Mike, put this damn sandwich on the menu!” The trucker finished his meal and then spent an hour in the men’s room doing who knows what with the heated-air hand dryer. When he was finished he noticed that someone had scratched the initials SPQR above the stall. He wondered who in the hell had a four-name name and what the fuck did the Q stand for. Little did he know that the initials stood for a Latin phrase used during the time of the Roman Empire and later by Mussolini. It stood for the Latin phrase “Senatus Populus Que Romanus” which basically translated to “The Senate and People of Rome.” This kind of nonsense disturbed the trucker and he vowed to find this SPQR and help bring him to justice of some kind. Vandalism had to be a misdemeanor or his name wasn’t Joeseph T. Riley. But his vigilantism would have to wait until he got back from driving out his next haul. But right now, he had to thank Mike again for that awesome T.O.T. sandwich. Mike Z. considered himself to be Italian. Although it was his Grandfather’s great-grandparents that immigrated to America, he knew that the SPQR flowed through his veins. He was proud that the manhole covers in present day Rome reflected this sentiment regardless of who was responsible for stamping it in the metal. His lineage was a connection to the past and it gave Mike Z. great pleasure in knowing that his actions in his everyday life, no matter how insignificant, were a direct result of the actions of his ancestors. Furthermore, he relished the thought that his actions today would influence the future and possibly bring about a time of peace and tranquility among nations. His sandwich would please mouths not even born into existence yet. His sandwich would live forever, because it tasted very good and could stand on its own merit. This sandwich would save the world.
Everything had to be done extremely carefully. Each foot had to be placed on firm ground. Every movement was deliberate and well considered. The objective was to retrieve a small morsel of green leafy lettuce only a few short feet away. The turtle had many factors to consider. There were the birds flying nearby, one mistake and he’d be toast. There were the other animals lurking beyond his field of vision, waiting for their chance to pounce and make him their meal. Safety and self-preservation were his operating guidelines toward the sweet and succulent scrap of lettuce. The turtle looked about for several minutes, then picked one foot up and placed it in front of him. His rear foot duplicated the motion, and his other two feet followed as well. The turtle inched closer and closer, then stopped. His head poked out a little more as he stretched his neck out toward his goal. The piece of food was inches away, but in a dangerous position. There was a ledge near where the lettuce leaf lay. Not wanting to possibly tumble down some unknown distance, the turtle weighed his options. Continue toward the food despite the danger, or look elsewhere for food. If he continued, and were to tumble, he might end up flipped on his back. If this were to happen, he could die before sunrise. But, if he abandoned his pursuit and tried to look elsewhere for food, he might not eat before sunrise. Such is the woe and worry of the turtle. Our turtle was a risk taker. Once when he was young he found himself on the edge of a great precipice with a great body of water in front of him. The sea raged, yet here he stood proud and unafraid. A wave slowly rolled toward him and when it receeded, it carried him out into the water. He kicked his legs and found himself swimming. Later, a wave carried him back to shore and he crawled onto a rock sitting in the sun. He basked in the sun and marveled at his glory. The turtle snapped back to the present and decided to go for the piece of leafy lettuce. He moved closer to the food and discovered that the legde was just a dent in the earth. Easily passable even if he were being chased. He siezed the lettuce with his mouth and enjoyed his meal. He would not be flipped today.
The large field was lined by tall pine trees on every side. The small group of workers approached the field from a small break in the tree line from the corner of the perimeter of the field where the old truck was parked before they arrived. The crop of purple hulled peas was slightly overgrown with weeds of various heights scattered among the crop. But the long purple and green pods were everywhere in front of them. Each worker had a large container expected to be filled, emptied and re-filled until the sun set or the massive truck bed was full. The dew covered every blade of every plant in the early morning light. They gathered together and said a prayer. Everyone was aware of the work before them, and resolved to make it happen. They began picking the purple hulled peas, pod by pod and each filled their basket, bucket or bag. Being careful not to cut their bare hands on any of the razor sharp saw blades of the weeds known as Bleeder weeds because they either choked nearby plants to death by bleeding the ground of all of its nutrients or they actually had blood on them from cutting through human flesh. The workers fingers and hands started out wet from the dew, but quickly began to turn green from the constant pinch, pull and pluck at the base of each pea pod. Their pants legs were wet and uncomfortable as the sun began to rise and bring hell upon their necks. But the wet pants helped prevent bites and scrapes from the sharp edged living nature that surrounded them. They carried their first load of peas back to the old truck and dumped them in the back. It was disappointing to see that the first hour of work barely filled one corner of the huge truck bed. The harvest was covered with a canvas tarp and they returned to the field determined to work until the truck was full. The next several following loads seemed to move somewhat faster because a big white cloud wandered near and blocked the harsh rays of the sun for a few minutes and a slight breeze cooled them momentarily. A few of the workers brought their full containers back to the truck but did not immediately return to the field and the number of workers out in the field began to dwindle. Finally the last worker picked up the pace enough when he realized that lunch was being served and he was hungry. Lunch for everyone was the same. A peanut butter and jelly sandwiche, an apple, a peach and a stack of four Oreo cookies. Water and punch were available from two large drink coolers that sat on a small wood bench along with a package of wax-covered paper cups. Most of the workers sat on the ground in the shade of the truck and ate. As they finished eating and drinking, some went into the woods for a bathroom break, while others lay down and covered their eyes. After one hour had passed, the workers began to get up again and head back out to the field. The afternoon wore on and the truck was slowly filling up. Each time they picked up the tarp to dump their pickings into the back, they saw that the pea pod hill was swelling and rising in the back of the truck. Just as the sun began its march toward the horizon, but before it hid behind the tree line, the workers had filled the truck as much as it could hold. Their hands were raw with dirt and plant matter. The dew that had moistened them in the morning was replaced by sweat over the course of the day. And now they had finished. Exhausted and fatigued, they began the long walk back home where they would spend the remainder of the day preparing the peas for dinner. When they arrived back at their home, the workers spent several minutes refreshing themselves with cold water on their hands, faces and necks. Rinsing the dirt and grime away in preparation for the task before them. They gathered around the truck that they had filled and seen driven away from the field to their small camp. Someone grabbed a hose and sprayed the entire truck bed full of purple hulled peas to rinse away any dirt or other undesirable plant matter. As they had filled the truck, they began to empty it until each worker sat on a chair, stool or bench with a large pile in front of them. They began picking up a single pod at a time and opening it with the thumbnail from one hand while the other hand held the pod just right. As soon as the pod was opened, they could run their finger down the inside of the pod scraping out all of the peas into clean bowl. Two workers to a bowl made them fill up fairly quickly until the bowls were emptied into a larger container that would be delivered to the main kitchen as soon as they were finished. The sun began to set and the shadows inside the camp began to grow. In the fading light the fingers and hands of the workers were getting dark with the purple juice of the hulls. A few songs were sung by a few of the workers to help with the job. Even the ones that didn’t sing, enjoyed listening to the songs. When the two street lamps that illuminated their camp flicked on in the dimness of dusk, they stopped and covered the remainder of their harvest in the truck with the canvas tarp. Some carried the fruits of their labor to the main kitchen where large pots of boiling water awaited the peas. Others moved the now emptied hulls to the compost heap and prepared themselves for dinner.
Jack was unconcious, but awake in his head. He began dreaming and forgot where he was or what had just happened. His physical body was stiff and shut. But in his mind he began to hallucinate. There were stars, planets, a large gaseous nebula and net covering his field of vision. Spiders began crawling toward him. Their hairy legs tapping and scraping the hardened mud-caked ground. Several palm trees were bent backward by a noisless torrent of wind. His mind screamed. Something very bad was happening and he was unable to understand what it was. He tried to open his eyes, but his commands were useless and the images before him turned to darkness again. Jack woke with a start. His head was throbbing and he couldn’t see anything. But he heard an engine being accelerated and felt the lurch everytime someone hit the brakes right before a series of bumps that jarred his head again and made him wish he was still unconcious. He tried to see where he was, but was only aware of what he could touch with his hands and his feet. He realized that his shoes and socks were gone. He could feel the grooved flooring of what seemed to be a large van or truck. He tried to move his hands and realized that they were bound behind his back. The metal surfaces he began to notice were ice cold and his mind began to register pain from several areas around his body. The vehicle turned again and accelerated. This time it was on a gravel road. The ride was much smoother now, except for the sound of crunching gravel and occasional pop and snap of rocks hitting the underside of the van. It must be a van he thought. Jack saw two huge doors near his feet. He thought he might be seeing things in the darkness, but the outline was barely visible. His pain told him he was not imagining it and that he needed to escape.
The tall building was five or six stories tall. Jack had climbed the stairs all the way to the roof exit one day. The door was locked, so he was unable to get to the roof. It would have been fantastic to see the world from up there, but the door was locked and he had no where to go but down. Each floor had a few odors that were very strong, but there was one odor that overpowered the rest. Jack wandered into the hallway on one of the floors and walked past several rooms that looked like laboratories. There was a black formica table with a sink and a natural gas spigot in one room. Another room had a small inflatable play pool with murky green water in it. The room he finally walked into to get a closer inspection had wall-to-wall shelves full of various sized bottles and jars. Each glass container had a light brown liquid in it and some strange looking creature. Most were fish specimens, but there were a wide variety of creatures as well. As he looked around the room, he noticed a large dark brown glass jar near the front of the room. It was marked with a picture of a skull and crossbones and had the word “poison” written beneath the picture. A flaking piece of yellow masking tape described the chemical contained inside the jar. It was Formaldehyde. There was a second door inside the room he was in that had an incandescent light shining from within. Suddenly there was a large crash from behind the door. Jack’s instinct was to get the hell out of there, but he froze and waited for what might come next. He heard muffled voices that were escalating into an argument. “Jesus Christ asshole!” said one voice. “I told you to wait a second!” said the other. “You can’t do it that way, get some paper towels!” said the first voice. “The teeth, get the teeth!” said the second voice. Jack decided it was time to move, fast, but when he turned to leave he almost walked into a large white lab coat with two huge arms and a barrel chest. He saw big hands coming toward his face and then black nothing. Then silence.
“Boy, you are hard-headed” said Nate as he gave a stern look at his lunch partner. “Yes, but the peanut butter would have helped” Jack replied. “I ask you about the bait you used and you give me some story about peanut butter?” Nate was astounded. Jack stopped eating his barbeque sandwich and looked at Nate in the eye. He thought he was answering the old man’s question, but apparently he had diverged onto some unrelated topic. “I used crickets, but I didn’t catch anything.” Jack finally said. “I’m telling you, try a fishing lure” said Nate. They both returned to their lunches and carried on a while about fishing. When they finished, Nate drove Jack back home. Nate seemed to have a disappointed look on his face, but Jack was happy at having been able to spend some time with the old man. Nate steered his wide Cadillac back on to the street and drove off. Then Jack went inside and had some Neopolitan ice cream. He was very careful to make sure he had some of each flavor. He could never decide which flavor tasted better, the chocolate, the strawberry or the vanilla. Jack usually ate them by taking turns with the flavors being sure to give his palate time to savor each one. On occasion, he took his spoon and mixed all three flavors together and ate that. Whatever flavor that was, that is what Jack felt like.
Fifteen years ago, the grass covering the baseball fields of suburban Alabama was of the Saint Augustine variety which thrived in the humidity of the southern climate. In fact it was used throughout the southeast because of its hearty nature and ability to grow thick and green. The only problem with St. Augustine grass was that if you rolled around in it, your skin began to itch and the urge to scratch became uncontrollable. Most people did not spend their time rolling around in their front lawns and ballfields, so it did not affect that many people. The group of people it affected the most were school aged children. That group was most likely found rolling around in grass any day of the week. The other problem with St. Augustine grass was that it could grow extremely thick in some areas. It could get so dense that it could cause a lawn mower blade to stop turning and kill the mower’s engine. This problem is what led to the following discovery. Upon having one’s lawn mower stop due to thick grass, the previously mowed section of lawn would become a massive movement of activity. It was as if the crickets, ants and other insects knew that the mower was safely stopped for the moment and they used the opportunity to collect themselves and try to pick up the pieces of their recently destroyed homes. One such episode of this disruption gave Jack the opportunity to catch a large quantity of crickets. He liked to go fishing and crickets were, in his opinion, the best form of bait. Jack put all of the crickets he could catch into a small brown paper bag and carefully folded the top over several times to keep the little critters inside. He set the bag aside, and finished mowing the lawn. After putting the lawn mower away, he came back to pick up the bag of crickets. Because it was still early in the day, he grabbed his fishing rod and headed down the street toward Clint’s house which backed up against a wooded area. When Jack got to Clint’s house, nobody answered the front door. So he walked around back and climbed over the chain link fence to get to the beginning of the woods. He had to fight his way through a mess of weeds and sticker bushes, but eventually came to a narrow path that began a slight descent toward the small creek hidden beneath the dense tree canopy. Jack found a spot near one of the bends in the creek. The spot was quiet and far enough above the water to avoid most of the mosquitos and other biting flies. He set up his fishing rod and carefully isolated one of the crickets from his bretheren inside the bag. He re-sealed the bag and pulled the lone cricket out. Jack took a moment to look at the cricket’s bulbous black eyes and marveled at the way the sun glinted off of each individual microscopic hexagon that covered the surface of the cricket’s eye. He then picked up the fishing hook and inserted the barb into the cricket’s abdomen. After casting his line into the water below, he waited. He watched. He wondered. There were no immediate tugs on the fishing line. After several minutes Jack started to wish that he had brought more than just his pole and bait. He was starting to get hungry and had zero appetizing food with him. The crickets inside the brown paper bag were making their individual escape attempts by jumping noisily inside the walls of the bag. Each futile attempt at escape sounded a slight scrape against the paper. Jack checked the line once more and slowly reeled in his baited hook. He pulled the line out of the water and saw that the bait was still there. He cast the line again and waited some more. There was a slight breeze that occasionally made its way through the trees and onto his face. It felt refreshing, but his pangs of hunger were increasing in intensity. Finally, he grabbed the paper bag and pulled out another cricket. This one was fat and wriggly. Jack squeezed the insect firmly between his thumb and forefinger and tossed it in his mouth. He bit down promptly on the cricket before it could start jumping around his mouth or down his throat. The juice of the cricket’s insides was warm and slightly salty with a tinge of bitterness. It tasted like eating a saltine cracker with a juicy chicken-flavored wild mushroom on top. Jack could vividly imagine what the gourmet hors d’oreve would look like at a fancy party. A fine crystal platter with a pleasing arrangement of delicate salted tea crackers each with a neat placement of a piece of roasted chicken next to a wild mushroom covered with a sprinkle of finely chopped green onions. He laughed and finished the bag of crickets.
Welcome to you most valuable customer! We have all of your shipping needs to be taken care of here in our one stop shop. Want to send your Uncle’s family a shiny new mountain bike for a special celebration? Miss your Mama’s curry spices and want her to send you a sample of her secret blend? Then you have come to the right place, my friend! Seven Seas Import Export Service can keep your goods around the world for a reasonable fee that will make you desire to return to our impeccable service again and again. “Please fill out an order form from the box on the right hand wall.” instructed the clerk at the front counter. Jack went to the right side of the small shop and examined the wide variety of colored forms. All he was required to do was send one of the multiple cases of homemade hot sauce to an address in New Delhi. The hot sauce was what the poker game was all about. Poonam had intercepted a large order of diamonds several weeks earlier. Poonam had found out about the diamond shipment because he worked with Big Jim in international shipping where the contents and value of each package were available to them. The hot sauce was a trial business venture that they had invented as a cover for shipping the diamonds to India. The diamonds would be concealed in small sample-sized jars of hot sauce made with several types of peppers each with a different sized seed. The idea was that the diamonds would be mistaken for seeds if they happened to be scanned by an x-ray machine. Before Jack could collect his money, he had to ship the case of hot sauce to New Delhi and wait for one of five return packages to be delivered by Big Jim. The return package would be an audio compact disc of the chanting prayers of the Mahayana Buddhist monks who were observing Saga Dawa. In between each track on the disc would be a small set of key words that when combined together would describe the final steps necessary to collect the money. Jack selected the green form with its yellow, pink and white colored duplicate pages and began to write out the address.
In the backseat of Jack’s car was a pile of junk mail. Some of it was opened and some was not. Jack had to collect his mail on the drive into his apartment complex and ended up tossing most of the junk mail in the backseat. Underneath the mountain of differently sized and colored envelops was a small, rectangular package that Jack had forgotten about for a while, but kept it’s presence barely alive somewhere in his head. When Jack originally agreed to deliver the package he was in need of some quick cash and a dude from international shipping hooked him up with this side job. There were always a variety of side jobs available to those who were interested. Most involved doing something that looked like ordinary shipping or package sorting work, but in reality were various schemes aimed at stealing the contents of a fraction of the packages that flowed through the sorting facility everyday. The most common scheme involved printing a duplicate label for the package targeted for redirection, but with a different destination address. The package would then be delivered from the sorting facility legitimately and without question, but not to its rightful owner. The risky piece of the whole scheme was the act of concealing the phony label prior to its application. The security team was only interested in keeping firearms or other metal weapons out of the work area and only performed a metal detection screen when employees arrived for work. They did not usually have to hand search the employees’ pockets or lunch bags, so it was a relatively easy task to sneak the bogus labels into the sorting facility. Furthermore, if a supervisor did find one or two extra labels on a sorter, it would not be that uncommon and typically would not be a cause for alarm. But if the sorter had several more labels all with the same destination address or something like that, the supervisor could bring the whole scheme crashing down. Still, the redirect was considered low-risk. Jack had pulled a few redirects over the years. Mostly for items like televisions and other high-valued electronic equipment. He never felt quite right about it, but figured he was only screwing over some large faceless corporate tyrant who would have the insurance plan ready to cover a few missing televisions anyway. But redirects only paid about ten percent of what the item was worth, sometimes even less and Jack was in need of some big bucks at the time. His acquaintance from international shipping was known as Big Jim because his supervisor’s name was Jim too, but the supervisor was called Mr. Jim. Big Jim caught up with Jack in the employee parking lot after a long shift one night and asked if he was going to make the poker game next week. This was the well known code phrase for “how much money do you need?” Jack was a little nervous about taking a big job, so he tested the waters with the coded reply, “how many people are playing?” Which was meant to ask two things, what would the level of risk be and how much cash would be available to score. “You’re looking at about a five person table, two cigars per person.” said Big Jim. Jack couldn’t believe it. Cigars were rarely mentioned in side job negotiations and Jack had a moment to consider if Big Jim was simply inviting him to a real poker game next week and forgot to remember the whole idea of having a code phrase dialogue. But considering how rare the usage of the word “cigar” was and the unflinching look in Big Jim’s eyes, Jack knew it was what it meant. A real cigar is something to be enjoyed in a peaceful and laid-back setting. A fine smoke can help facilitate a deep and meaningful conversation between friends or it can gently stimulate a sense of thought provoking relaxation. A real cigar, given the time and ability to partake in one, was an event to be cherished and highly valued. A cigar’s meaning in side-job negotiations essentially translated to an extremely valuable amount of cash. Its rarity was such that the risk involved in the operation would make Jack’s stomach turn for weeks. But the prospect of potential reward made Jack accept the risk. With five people involved there was a big chance that someone would screw the pooch or otherwise say something which would likely get them all caught. But he felt that he needed the money and this would set him up quite nicely. “I’m free next week, where’s the game?” Jack eventually replied. “Poonam’s at 7pm. See you there.” said Big Jim. Jack watched Big Jim turn toward his truck and leave, and Jack’s stomach began making subsonic vibrations. It was his conscience. His damned conscience made him ill every time.
If there were an experiment that Jack could perform anywhere in the world it was the word experiment. All that he needed was a word and a place where he felt comfortable making a fool of himself. The objective of the experiment is to repeat the word aloud as many times as it takes for the word to lose all meaning. Jack had tried this with many words such as “toast” or “antelope”, but had always had a fascination with the word “banana.” It took a certain level of ability to say certain words over and over again. The word “banana” was one of these words. It made no difference what word one picked. It could be a very simple word or a very complex word. Usually, what Jack found was that the easier words would take longer to lose all meaning while the longer and more complex ones took a shorter period. To Jack, for a word to lose all meaning was an excellent method of travelling back in time before the word was even invented. However, it was also a dangerous game to play because if you fooled your brain too many times, you could eventually lose the ability to communicate altogether. Jack had attempted to run the experiment with the word “banana” several times in the past, but had failed in the goal of the trial. He either got tongue-twisted and made himself unable to say “banana” or he was interrupted by some other random event. Today would be different. He was going to go to a place he had never attempted to perform the word experiment. A Catholic confessional. He realized of course that this may cause some backlash from the clergy at the church, but he was determined to attain a state of not knowing what the word banana meant. Jack chose the church, Our Lady of Sacred Heart on Fourth Street as his destination. He chose a weekday afternoon to walk in and offer himself for confessional. But what he found out was that he didn’t need to go to the confessional at all. He found that he was able to choose one of the many pews that were empty and take his seat and begin muttering to himself slowly and deliberately the word, “banana” repeating it over and over again and so on. There were a couple of times where he thought someone might be approaching him. He didn’t want to be interrupted, so he pulled out a hymnal from the pew’s holder in front of him and held it close to his face so that no one was able to see his lips moving and repeating themselves word after word over and over again. This went on for at least an hour. Jack was having great success at not getting tongue-twisted, but the word was too simple and needed more time. He could tell that the Reverend was coming over because several of people near the front of the sanctuary had become concerned for him as it looked like he were praying very intently. Jack decided to give up on this particular trial and choose another place where he could find the same quiet concentration, but without the potential for interruption.
When two cars enter an intersection there is a certain amount of tension that seems to fill the air between them. The amount of tension each driver feels is directly related to the number of collisions he or she has been involved in. For example, a camel walking at 8 mph cannot be expected to change course very quickly. But if that camel were headed toward a field of fully matured corn, you might think that a left turn were in order. This naturally is not the case when the corn has been sitting there for weeks because somebody forgot to pay the oxygen bill and all the snow melted on top of Mount Kilimanjaro. However, the division of resources can make the job of convincing the camel to change direction seem less complex. This solution can be repeated with many results none of which are exactly identical. One word of caution, an experiment such as this must not be repeated in one’s back yard as the evidence from Mr. Worse has shown. Many words do not make a book just as many books do not make a dictionary.
Jack spent an entire weekday afternoon staring at the second hand movement on the wall clock in the emergency room waiting area. The place was full of people waiting to be waited on. Some were obviously in pain, while others seemed to be there for no reason at all. Jack found it to be another opportunity to practice his people watching skills and to hone his sense of paranoia. However, this was slightly challenging to accomplish because his hand was throbbing with dull pain. Crazy Larry had stabbed him with a fork when Jack tried to tell him that he was being stupid about this whole work situation. Larry was making a good effort at staying calm and polite when Jack first offered him the Pop Tarts. But Larry was not easily convinced. The problem was that Larry knew he was acting foolish, and when confronted with the truth, he lashed out. Jack’s hand just happened to be in the way. It hadn’t hurt as bad as the last time Larry stabbed Jack. But it hurt enough for Jack to sit there and reconsider his whole Pop Tart therapy approach. Larry would eventually take Jack’s advice and later thanked him for it. But the initial shock of receiving such wise advice from a fellow human being was too much for Larry to absorb. He never lashed out at anyone else like that before. It was just the way that Jack said things. It made you want to stab him real bad. While Jack sat and contemplated the second hand, trying to avoid his own reality, he began to escape. Each silent tick moved him closer toward something, he just wasn’t sure what that was. “Jack Kass….you may approach the treatment window now” said a voice. Jack hauled himself out of his plastic seat and walked to the wide window near the back of the waiting room. The treatment window was developed to assist in the protection of medical health professionals after many became innocent bystanders in violent crimes being carried out in emergency rooms across the city. The treatment window was bullet-proof reinforced mirrored glass that enclosed a semi-private room. Individuals could walk in and be treated by a pair of gloved hands that hung from one end of the enclosure. Patients could not see who was performing the treatment, and the hospital staff was somewhat protected. In cases of severe trauma, a separate room was designed to allow hands-on treatment in an isolated environment that was physically off-limits to anyone walking in off the street. “What seems to be the problem Mr. Kass?” asked the voice. “Hurt my hand earlier today.” said Jack. “How did you hurt it?” the voice inquired. “I was cleaning a fish, and used a fork where I shouldn’t have.” Jack said matter of factly. “Thank you, please hold still while your hand is treated.” The voice replied. Jack felt his hand being brought closer to the mirrored glass while a needle appeared and scared the shit out of him as it was brought closer to his wound. “This is for your pain.” explained the voice. Although he could not see where it emerged from, a bandage was being applied across the back of his hand covering the four holes left by the fork. The whole procedure took a total of three minutes and he was out of there for now. He wondered why they asked him every time he showed up with a stab wound. What were they going to do? Find out who stabbed him and bring that person to justice? Jack didn’t think so. A lame and vague excuse seemed to do the trick everytime.
When the full moon is about to make its appearance, some people can actually feel the change. Even though most of the time, it is difficult to tell by sight when the actual full moon is because on either side of the full moon are phases that look almost full, but are not by definition full. Not only does this phase change affect people but animals as well. Jack’s cat, Snickerdoodle, was one such animal. Snickerdoodle went completely insane during these times. He would start by flicking his upright tail and crouching low to the floor. Then he might look wildly around the room with large dilated cat-eyes as if he were following a bird flitting about the room. As a grand finale, Snickerdoodle would run around the apartment using any flat surface as his point of acceleration. He would launch horizontally from his crouching position on the floor and head toward the living room sofa. Here he would quickly change direction by making a right turn off of the side of the sofa and digging his nails into the upholstery for added traction. At this point in the action, it was always best to get the hell out of the cat’s way just in case he decided that your leg would make a convenient launch surface. These outbursts would usually last only a few seconds. But the speed and accuracy of each wild looking maneuver would astonish even the most devoted dog-lover. Snickerdoodle’s outbursts also served to warn Jack that the full moon was out in full effect.
Crazy Larry had twelve types of mustard in his refrigerator. That, along with three types of hot dogs and two types of buns made for an interesting evening last Tuesday. Actually, he only had one type of hot dog bun and the other was a makeshift bun in the form of a large flour tortilla. Larry was a hungry fellow and was not to be interrupted during his mustard tasting event. Since his recovery from the passing out episode at work, Crazy Larry was left free to his own devices on his employer’s suspicion that he would be able to wholly entertain himself and not entertain any ideas of pursuing a lawsuit either against his employer or against the pharmaceutical company that shipped the poorly designed medical containers. They knew him too well and they were right. The first thing Larry did when he left the emergency room was head to the grocery store to select his mustards. He figured he could explain away his passing out at work by claiming that it was something in his lunch as opposed to something he may have dropped or damaged. But, he had to find out which mustard would give him the worst reaction. Not only was Crazy Larry an odd person, but he was also a very caring person. He didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings and felt that if he could blame himself for passing out, the government wouldn’t take out too much of his taxes on his next check and his boss at work wouldn’t get mad at him for making the big box leak. To sum up, Larry and his boss each wanted the other to look the other way and forget that anything unusual had happened. Jack on the other hand was painfully aware of what was going on because his sense of paranoia had been tingling since he was assigned the extra holiday work shifts. Other co-workers were also aware because they would be the ones trying to convince Larry that he had the right to sue, but they also knew that Jack was going to actually do something about it. Jack knew that Crazy Larry had a thing for Pop Tarts even though he wasn’t allowed to use the toaster at his mother’s house. Jack picked up a package of some frosted chocolate-filled Pop Tarts and headed over to Larry’s mother’s house. He had to let Larry know that he was going to help him. “Hey Jack…boy, you need a haircut!” Larry’s mother said as she greeted him at the doorway. “I got some Pop Tarts here….is Larry around?” asked Jack. “He in the kitchen playin’ with his mustards again.” She said. “Mind if I talk to him?” “You the only one he listens to…go on…see if you can get something through to him.” She sighed. Jack smiled and went inside toward the kitchen and saw Larry at the table surrounded by his vast assortment. He shook the box of Pop Tarts before entering the room to get Larry’s attention. Larry gave Jack a big toothy grin and asked Jack to pull up a chair and put on a plastic bib. Jack thought to himself that he was going to need a gallon of beer to wash this shit-ass situation down.
Certain types of mold are easy to recognize. Bread mold is greenish-white, cheese-mold is a darker green and coffee mold is a whitish-grey. Jack found some type of fuzz on his rear-view mirror and thought it was just some dust that had collected in weird place. There was enough dust on the dashboard to fill a pepper shaker, so it was only natural that he assume that it was the same stuff. While waiting for a stoplight, his eye was drawn toward the fuzz and he noticed tiny spheres at the tips of minute spines. Jack’s first thought was that it was mold. A horn went off behind him and he saw the driver behind him shooing him to move his ass. He looked up at a green light and went through the intersection determined to stop at the next available parking lot to get a closer look. He stopped at a convenience store and put the car in park. The fuzz on the rear-view mirror had spread. Well, it was all over the back of the mirror where he never really looked or cleaned before and he just became aware that it was growing away from the original spot that he first noticed. “What the…” he muttered to himself. Jack went inside the store and scanned the traveler’s toiletry section for some cotton swabs or some kind of cleaning agent. That shit was too expensive so he settled for a cup of hot water and some napkins. He went back out to his car and began to clean the rear-view mirror off by dipping a napkin in the hot water and wiping at the fuzz. He examined the results of his efforts and was disturbed that he was unable to figure out how it got there.
The remote to the television had a multiple personality disorder. Sometimes you could press the channel up key and get a variety of responses from the television. Usually the channel number would change by increasing as expected. But some of the more interesting behaviors were the channel number going down, the volume being adjusted, the contrast being changed or in some cases the television shutting off. Jack considered the possibility that it was the television itself that had the problem of interpreting the signals correctly from the remote, but he had other remotes that worked well with this television. The remote to the video recorder seemed to work the best, but he began to like the randomness of the television’s own remote. Sometimes if you change your perspective by tricking your mind you get unexpected results. It is similar to the effect that one gets when approaching a box of cereal that has been sitting on the counter for a while. You don’t know how heavy it is going to be, but your brain thinks it knows and tells you to use a certain amount of force to pick up the box. Occasionally, you use too much force and the box is not as heavy as the last time you picked it up and you usually get all anxious that you tricked yourself. Jack needed the random input to keep his boring ass life from kicking the shit out of him on a daily basis. The television remote was only a small example of that type of influence. He also kept a stack of pennies on the window sill next to his bed. He could usually stack about one hundred pennies up and let it sit there unnoticed for weeks. But at some random point in time, the stack would fall and shoot pennies in every direction on the floor. If it happened while he was sleeping it served its purpose by waking him up and scaring the shit out of him. If it happened while he was away, it served its purpose by giving him a surprise when he walked into the room. He never knew what the crazy remote or the crazy stack of pennies would do.
Jack had a decent job. It wasn’t high-paying or glamorous or even all that interesting, but it helped him stay afloat and maintain some order in his life. It also gave him the necessary income to afford a few luxuries such as his frequent visits to Pops, or the occasional nudie magazine, or even a few hours at the dog track. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he was fascinated with the crowds that came and went on any particular race night. Some people looked like they were just visiting for the first time while others seemed to be living in the clubhouse restroom. He went to the track and he placed a few bets, watched a few of the races, but mostly he watched the people. Women screamed sometimes when they lost or jumped up and down when they won. Men with slicked back hair-do’s smiled out of the corner of their mouths and nodded if they came up big. The bartender eyeballed everyone with an equal amount of suspicion. The bettors boxes were abuzz with the flow of money and the main gallery was full of shit-eating grins. One day at work, Jack’s supervisor approached him and informed him that the holiday rush was going to require everyone’s help and handed him a recently revised copy of the schedule. Jack was assigned to take on five more shifts per week for the next couple of months. The supervisor also informed him that an official copy of the schedule would be posted in its usual place and a second copy would be mailed to his address. He reminded Jack that as usual, it was his duty to check and recheck the almighty schedule at his convenience. Jack grimaced at the prospect of long hours, but relished the thought of extra pay. As long as his back and knees held out, he’d be sitting pretty just in time for New Year’s. On that particular day, the shipments from a pharmaceutical company were being quarantined due to some kind of containment failure. Apparently, a few sorters were overcome by fumes leaking silently from one of the shipments. The area was shutdown, and an emergency crew was sent in to determine the details of the problem. Jack’s sorting area was the one that was shutdown, but he had not seen anyone pass out while sorting packages. He did see the emergency workers go in with their hazardous material suits on and was surprised that they were able to reopen the sorting area within the hour. He later found out that Crazy Larry was the one and only employee that had passed out from the fumes. Jack also found out that there were only a dozen large boxes that were determined to be the ones possibly affected by faulty interior containers. Jack had some doubts about the real number, and whether they actually cleaned up the mess properly. This job definitely helped fuel his sense of paranoia.
Jack pulled into the half-empty parking lot near Pops Waffle Stop and parked the Malibu. He killed the engine and enjoyed his moment of bliss. The time elapsed between the loud music being silenced and the ringing in his ears to dampen out. He exited the car and considered his choice before walking toward the restaurant entrance. A single lonely plastic supermarket bag slowly scraped its way across the pavement crossing his path. The wind that pushed the bag was very slight, yet very constant because the bag made no other movement as it scratched its way toward a chain link fence. It was the smell of garbage that got him. Only a faithful patron of Pops would even attempt to eat there given all of the obstacles set before him prior to even looking at a menu. First of all you had to have the courage to park near the alley between Pops and the roach motel next door. Second, you had to walk next to the foul smelling dumpster to get to the front door. And finally, you had to walk through the hallway where the restrooms were located to get to the main dining room. If after passing all three trials successfully, the faithful diner was usually rewarded with a hot and tasty meal courtesy of a somewhat friendly cook named Mike Z. Jack didn’t know his last name because Mike’s nametag only showed the last letter of his last name and Mike didn’t like to talk too much because he was afraid that space aliens might snatch up his gold capped tooth if he opened his mouth for too long. But, because Jack had been eating here for years, he knew a few things. Jack went to his usual booth and nodded for Alicia to bring him some coffee. Mike waved a quick hello as he went back to his morning cleaning routine. Jack sat down and glanced out the window facing the parking lot where his Malibu sat. The plastic shopping bag had almost escaped the top of the chain link fence where a weak burst of wind must have lifted it up, but not quite over the top. The shopping bag was caught by a single twisted tine and gently shuddered to escape.
The stereo speakers were at their maximum volume capacity. As loud as he could get them to go without having to endure any unpleasant feedback from the speaker housing or from the vibration against the rear window. Jack’s car was a well-used Chevy Malibu. It was much more presentable than his apartment kitchen at the moment. And with the now familiar chords of his beloved Metallica beginning to sound, he diverged his brain. The only goal he had was to create enough venues of escape for his clouded mind. If he allowed his mind to rest, the thoughts of isolation and paranoia would overtake him and he would have to resort to a trip downtown. Jack wanted to avoid that mess. He knew he had some kind of mental disorder, but the music pounded and drove the self-doubt away. Jack stopped at a payphone near an old gas station. It was the type of place that most people would pass up given that the rusted out propane tank near the payphone looked like it was on the verge of a colossal failure. With the Metallica beats stabbing their way through his head, he quickly got out of the car and called the News Now station’s Viewer Hotline just to see if he could pique any interest. “News Now Viewer Hotline Welcomes You Loyal Viewer! Thank you for your call! It is loyal viewers like you who keep us in the News Now!…press one to report News Now in your area…para Espanol marque el numero dos…” Let’s see if there really are any six-legged dogs running around thought Jack as he pressed the number one button on the keypad. After a moment’s pause, a female voice began to speak…”Hello Jack, I have three words for you…Quit calling us!!!” It was Cindy the News Now Viewer Hotline operator. “How’d you know it was me?” “Metallica stinks even worse over the phone.” Jack mulled this over and recognized his oversight…car door open….car stereo volume loud. ”Could be anybody though…right?” he asked. “Jack, you call from the same number everytime…we know this number…do you have any actual news to report or are you just here for some free advice?” “Well, Cindy, I was on my way to work when I thought I would call and tell you about this six-legged dog I saw laying by the side of the road.” “Jack, there is no such thing as a six-legged dog. Today’s earlier news report turned out to be somebody’s illegal pet monkey that got away from its owner and went looking for its real family.” Cindy reported. “Oh. I knew there was something not right about that story.” said Jack. “Look, if you need to talk to somebody, try calling the Thousand Oaks counseling center. They have actual doctors trained to help you and they’re open 24 hours. Let me get the number for you….” Her voice trailed off as he hung up the phone. Jack suddenly had a craving for bacon and eggs. He got in his car and took in the music again. The wall of sound was enough to drive his thoughts toward his next destination…Pops Waffle Stop.
Someone from the news agency, News Now, had observed one or two unusual looking animals wandering aimlessly in the wooded area directly north of the supermarket near Jack’s apartment. It was actually far enough away that Jack was able to relax in the face of the ultimate fear, fear of the unknown. But, close enough to home for him to perk up his ears and listen for the cues: “small dog-sized body with six legs” “unknown origin” “animal control officers are on the scene” “park officials have closed the area to the public” “barbed-wire being used to seal the perimeter” “a hospital and a supermarket are the only establishments nearby” Jack wondered what the hell all the fuss was about. It was probably a couple of kids playing a prank on someone or just a case of mistaken identity. These idiot news reporters will do anything to scare as many people as possible he thought. The truth was, Jack only turned the News Now program on because the background noise gave his mind something else to focus on instead of the high-pitched whine coming from his neighbor’s place upstairs. The noise usually began around 6am and lasted for about two hours. It wasn’t loud or over-powering, but it had a foreign quality that made its presence uncomfortable. Jack had never met his neighbors so he didn’t know what the deal was. Could have been a bad television set, a dialysis machine, or a computer. Whatever it was, the News Now program gave him another target for his misfortune. Today’s news however, got him thinking about his isolation again. What if the News Now program was actually the only thing holding society together? If he hated it so much, why did he feel the need to consistently choose it over any other source of background noise. The faucet in the kitchen sink was usually too loud for him to have it on while placing a pizza order. The portable box fan could create enough wind noise to make him think he was taking a boat ride. And his stereo system was of course another possible source of masking background noise. However, there was something more comforting about the News Now program in the constant production of sensationalistic material. Jack turned the television off and went outside.
Five minutes before the alarm went off, Jack woke up. A strange dream indeed. But Jack could only remember pieces of the dream and even those glimpses into his subconsious were fleeting. He remembered being in two different homes at the same time. Someone walking upstairs with a prostitute while her pimp waited for his chance to rob the house. He remembered being yelled at for putting chlorinating tabs in a lead acid battery case. Not easy, but in the dreamworld it made sense. In order to correct his mistake, he abandoned the foaming mess on the side of the highway. He saw people he knew doing things that they probably wouldn’t normally do. And soon he was left with no memory of the dream but the feeling of utter chaos.
Jack was puzzled and in dire need of a cup of hot coffee when Sugarloaf’s song “Green-Eyed Lady” started blaring from his clock radio. Perhaps it was the twelve-pack of beer or mountain of pizza and wings he had the night before, but in addition to the hot cup of coffee, Jack needed to have a crap. He hauled himself off the floor of his apartment which is where he spent most of his sleeping time these days. The bed was usually too far away at the time that he felt like sleeping anyway. The floor had an assortment of makeshift bedding available for him to nest. But when you’re a budding alcoholic, anything horizontal makes a good bed.
Coffee can take a variety of forms, but the best is when it is freshly made for you at the exact moment that you want it. Jack had no such luxury. His kitchen was a complete disaster from last night’s binge episode. The empty pizza box was straddling the empty beer box which had its side torn off leaving a gaping hole to its interior. A pool of grease had formed under one corner of the pizza box. Jack thought that if the pizza box could have absorbed that much grease, how much had he consumed? There were various plates and cups and pots and pans occupying every available section of counter space, but last week’s brew of coffee was safely contained in its protective domain. It was actually only three or four days old, but a couple of minutes of microwave radiation would take care of any potential problems. If of course the white fuzzy floaters had started to appear, Jack would have brewed another pot. But on this particular morning Jack needed caffeine as quickly as possible. The fog on his brain would seem less dense and his bowels needed priming.
