These desert nights are bitter cold. Nothing can hold the California sun. The house is full of sand and it’s just the shrubbery and the dog now. I write letters to old friends that I will never sign or send. I’ve got a pocket full of cash no one will accept without the proper forms filed and let’s face it, my record ain’t exactly clean. I try to pass out in the sand to punish myself for being an insane dipshit but the marching band is back flaunting their horns and tuxedos again. Then that damned scorpion returns and flings his lousy shit at me. I rub dirt in my own eyes and go to bed. Being alone is always better when you’re not.
I’m not going to be writing much here that involves a significant amount of effort. I’ll be out of an internet connection for awhile. I’m driving across America in a car with a friend of mine. New York City to Los Angeles. I’ll do my best to make updates here and jokes and what not on Twitter.
I have no idea what to do when I get there. I’ve got no plans and no clear goals. This past year on the east coast has worn me out. I don’t talk about my personal life on the internet much, or off the internet, but I feel as though I’ve entered some sort of depression. I’m looking forward to the drastic change.
It’ll be fun. I’m ready to do it. Oh, we’re taking the southern route. Stopping in Indiana, Oklahoma, and Arizona.
Bye guys.
See you at the beach. I’m wearing my fancy jeans.
We’ve been given permission to use electronics. She’s got her laptop out. I thank god she’s attractive. I nudge her to remove her ear buds.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“Chill Factor.”
“Really? With Cuba Gooding Jr. and Skeet Ulrich?”
“Yeah, you’ve seen it? It’s my favorite movie.”
“Oh my god, me too. I didn’t think that was anyone elses favorite movie.” I lie. Three sentences into our first conversation and I’m already lying. Sure, it isn’t entirely rational to think that more could develop from this chat on a place but stranger things have happened. But with that line of thought, why am I lying? I fucking hated Chill Factor the first and only time I watched it. I cannot believe that is anyone’s favorite movie let alone this gorgeous woman. Now I’m going to finished this three hour flight discussing the finer points of a stupid fucking movie that I don’t actually remember anything about except that it’s stupid and I hate it.
I pray for time travel. I pray for terrorism. I consider coming clean but then I imagine how serendipitous it would be if two people who truly did love Chill Factor met on this plane. I begin to convince myself that I actually did enjoy Chill Factor. I dream up a scenario where we start a life together and every few months we have a special night in where we order pizza and watch Cuba and Skeet save the world. We’re both as happy there as we were on the flight.
The plane lands and we go our seperate ways never to see one another again. I never even got her name.
After being inside away from the rain for most of the day I decided to take a drive. I circled the town. I needed to get out. Cabin fever was setting in. It felt like it’d been raining for weeks. I pulled off at the lookout in the park atop the town. I just really needed to send a tweet. Seriously, it was a great tweet.
I’m not there two minutes and an elderly man in a Nissan Versa pulls up to my passenger side and signals to roll my window down. I don’t. This tweet is going to be gold. Through the downpour I can see his collar: he’s a priest.
The priest backs out, apparently giving up on whatever it was he needed. No. He pulls up to my driver’s side. I lock the door. Seriously great tweet coming. And…sent. I roll down my window.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh. I, uh, just wondered what you were doing down there…” he points at my door.
“Oh! I had a killer tweet.”
“You were…texting?” he asked, confused.
What else would he think I was doing? Oh, that dirty old priestly pervert. He thought I was masturbating. I help up my phone.
“Yup.” I smiled. “Just sending a cool text.”
“Oh. Alright,” his expression dropped and he drove off. I don’t judge him. Just another man looking for companionship in the nasty weather.
I took off in the opposite direction soon after. I wanted to avoid any awkward run-ins. I went home. The rain was coming down so hard now the wipers couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. It feels like it’s been coming down for weeks.
I am sitting on the porch, watching rain patter against old wood. It’s too early for life so it’s just me and the yellow dog. Not much to look at. The house across from us burned down a long time ago and they never bothered to rebuild it. Nowadays it’s a home for black birds and grey sky backdrop. I’m up early because I had coffee the night before but I shrug and have some more. It’s a moment. It isn’t perfect but it isn’t death. I’m alone but I’m content just being here. Just me and the weather and the birds and the brew and the shell of a home and the dog ruining it all by licking his own doggie dick.
“And I knew, when I saw you trip that nerd in the mall food court, you were the woman I’d marry. I even said that to my bros. I said ‘fuck this Taco Bell, I gotta make that chick my wife’. And then you were eating Taco Bell too. That shit was serendipitous. Later that night we hijacked some kids’ kegger party on 4-Wheelers and stole all their Genesee light. We’re so cool. I’m stoked to marry you and lock it down, girl.”
“What are you listening to?” the boy asked. He was too young to know better so I tried not to hold it against him.
“It’s Elliott Smith.” I answered.
“Oh.” His cubby jaw slacked under his fat cheeks and empty eyes. “Why does he sound sad?”
“Well, he was a sad man. That’s why.”
“But why was he sad?” This old joke, kid? Fine.
“Well, because he’d been hurt by a lot of people but most importantly himself. Elliott did a lot of mean things to himself and then hurt a lot of people too. He felt bad about it.”
“Oh. Is he still sad?”
“Well, he isn’t alive anymore.”
“How come?”
The anxiety of conversations with children has been greatly exaggerated by parents.
“He got too sad and he died.”
“How did he die?”
“You see, Gabe, one day Elliott got very sad and he took a knife and stabbed himself in the chest, a very difficult place to get through with a knife.” His jaw dropped even more to my surprise. I was unaware a mouth could get so open. Jesus, I was blowing the kid’s mind. I gave him the Hi-C juice box. Time to turn this around.
“Why would he do that?”
“Elliott thought that if he could punch through his chest with a knife he could hit the pouch on the other side. The pouch is full of confetti and a rainbow. If you hit the pouch it blows up and confetti and rainbows fly out everywhere and confetti and rainbows make anyone happy.”
“Did it work?”
“Nobody knows, Gabe. Elliott died alone.”
“Oh.” He sucked on his juice box and waddled off.
She stood across the kitchen watching him work, feeling completely helpless. He crawled out from underneath the sink and wiped his hands with the oily rag he kept in his back pocket. “That ought to do it,” he said, turning on the sink. “Good as new. I just tightened some nuts and changed the base. You shouldn’t have any more problems here.” She thanked him graciously, of course, but there was one more problem she’d be having with the payments. He took care of that too saying it was okay to make payments. He headed out to his truck and for a second he could feel her watching him through the curtains. Nah, just put that outta your head, Jimmy.
Jimmy Toole got into his rusted old pickup with the “Toole Plumbing” logo across the doors. Not that he needed to advertise around here. You couldn’t ask for a better plumber really. Or a nicer guy. Jimmy could do it all. He was the best they had. He was all they had.
He got back to his shop which doubled as his living space and hung up the tool belt. Water trickled in through the roof. Shingles needed replacing. Jimmy sat down and pored over countless bills of his own and then the many customers he’d let go on payments on account of his own generosity. Anderson: late. Andrews: late. Heck, Bailey wasn’t too far in the hole. Maybe he’d come through. Frustrated, Jimmy crumbled up some papers when droplets struck the thin spot in his hair.
“They’re taking advantage of you, Jim.” No, stop that. Put that outta your head. “They think you’re stupid. She was watching you leave, laughing at you.” No. The water dripped through the hole in the roof making a noise that made him wince. That wood is going to get soggy and the damned floorboards are going to need replacing.
He went to the sink to run some water. The knobs turned quiet as a whisper. The water ran smooth as a spring and he’d know it if he’d ever seen a spring. He splashed some on his face. The grim reality was that it was all over. They were going to take his home and his business and it was too late. Even if all of the bills came and all the people paid tomorrow he was already doomed. This mess was far too big now.
“They made a fool of me. They’d be sorry if I just left. I’m the best they have. Who would fix their shitty lives, their toilets and sinks and clean up after them if I left right now? No one. They’d have to do it all themselves and pay for it themselves. And for a while they’d surely try. And they’d fail too. Then they’d look around for Jimmy Toole and he would be gone. And all the toilets and sinks would back up and the entire town would overflow with a river of grease and shit and horror carrying all of their god damned lives away with it. No, they’ll just hire new plumbers. Ha! They’ll need several to take my place. And by the time they realize it it’ll be too late. They’d be helpless wading through stink and shit wondering where to even begin. Oh no. Where is Jimmy now? He left us because we didn’t deserve him. Yeah. That’s how it’ll be until the entire town is buried beneath it all.”
Anyone passing by the building that evening would have smiled at the idea of the gentleman living inside. Not only a gentleman but a man who truly enjoys the work he does. They’d be completely oblivious to the fact that he is a certifiable crazy person. This is a decent town full of decent people. They prefer to keep thoughts like that as far outta their heads as possible.
Jimmy splashed some more water on his face and quit talking to his reflection. He tore at the overshirt with the giant “Toole Plumbing” patch embroidered across the back down to his sweat stained Fruit of the Loom tee. The water dripping through the roof became quieter as the floorboards became soggy. The desk was littered with unpaid bills. He flipped over the sign to say “CLOSED” and locked the door as if it mattered. “Hello,” he smiled and waved to a passerby. And then Jimmy Toole, the nicest plumber this town as ever known, got in his rusty old pickup and drove with no destination and no intention of coming back.
She and I had it out again tonight. The fights are becoming more and more frequent. It’s not surprising with our entire skulls so full of sauce. She’d abandoned our plans and retired to bed for the night like she does every single time. I left anyway. I didn’t care. I still had this tuxedo on and damn it I was ready to dance. I headed downtown on foot and let the brisk air sting my nostrils like a moron instead of flagging a cab. Maybe I was feeling dangerous. Probably a little too dangerous because right then a hoodlum with a beard/ski-mask jumped out with a knife demanding I “hand it over”. I suppose it didn’t matter anyway. She and I were probably through. The fire was out and things could never be what they were. The robber scowled at me with bloodshot eyes as I handed him my briefcase but something was wrong. A lock wasn’t secure and the case popped open causing my bizarre collection of dildos to pour out into the street. He shook his head in harsh judgement before walking away, leaving me to clean up my freakish sex toys in front of the crowd that had gathered to stop a robbery. Little did they know, I’d already been robbed of everything.
“They’re after you. They’re coming and you can’t escape. Murderous wolves sprinting on their hind legs carrying hatchets in their hands with opposable thumbs because they’re infected with devils. You’re trying to run but you’re too slow. They’re going to get you and eat your heart you meaty boy. You’ve should’ve listened to your mother. You should’ve exercised. The forest is collapsing. The trees are crashing down around you. You could have dodged any of them had you worked out your agility skills. But you didn’t. The game is over. The jig is up. You could’ve done a jig too. But you’re short of breath. Time is up. Demons mine your arteries now. Welcome to life as statistic. Welcome to a world of fear…” — Daniel Eastman, whispering to his brother while he sleeps, hoping to trigger something in the subconscious.