Changing the Base
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.
Evening Reflection
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…
How I Could Have Been a Superstar and Why I Danced Away
For decades we’ve had the technology to genetically alter racing horses within the womb so that a better, more powerful horse can be bred for the track. This can be done with any show animal and many show enthusiasts take advantage of these medical advancements. It’s no different for humans. For the right amount of money a doctor can tell you what imperfections your child will have and correct these issues prior to birth to ensure you have the most beautiful baby possible. This option was offered to my parents and they most definitely had the means. They chose not to. Instead, they opted for a natural birth in a hospital with narcotics and a host of other painkillers. They were going to raise a beautiful child the old fashioned way.
I was most certainly the most attractive child in my elementary school. Other mommies and daddies complimented my extreme adorability with an air of envy. Not that I needed it. By third grade I’d won countless trophies in handsome little boy pageants. By middle school I was winning talent shows for my supremely choreographed dance and lip syncing routines. I was exceptionally proud of these wins because they were based on audience votes and I was home schooled. My parents paid the school to let me perform. Sure, it was exhausting and those people paid a $25 donation for their kids to participate but I was a natural born star. I needed to shine and they never stood a chance.
All of this came at a severe price for me. A lot of people don’t realize the struggle that I had to go through. I had to maintain my body with rigorous exercises like bike riding and dance lessons. My entire family had a strict policy regarding eating habits as well. My mother tacked a note to the refrigerator that read: “You can eat anything you like. Pizza is in the fridge but you’ll look like this…” and what would always follow was a clipping of the ‘before’ picture from a diet ad. Or this:
She did that until I was 18.
“Look at that chunky boy,” she’d say about a fat child. “Looks like he’s got worms eating him!” Then she’d giggle. It scared the shit out of me. My body was so fucking tight. I’d never had so much as a pimple, let alone a stretch mark. I suppose I can’t blame mom for the lengths she went to keep me safe. Her brother Robbie got heavy into snacks during his late teens, mostly cookies. He died four years later from a sugar overdose. This is why I empathize with celebrities who check into hospitals for exhaustion. I can’t imagine how difficult it is to go through show after show with a stadium of people paying $1,000 to watch you dance, sing, and go through costume changes for an entire hour. And then three days on a bus or jet and you’re back at it again. It’s insanity. I have chills from just thinking about it.
Since I was the most handsome boy in high school I naturally had many pretty girls lined up for my attention. Everyone’s hormones were going berserk so they obviously could have used some improvement but whatever. Not everyone could afford a GNC hormonal regulatory supplement like I had. I was turning down blossoming young women left and right even though my own erections were consuming me now but like mother said, “sex destroys discipline and makes us weak” so I didn’t get involved. You’d think I was lying when I say this next thing but I didn’t even masturbate once until after my junior year and mom gave me a flyswatter in case I ever got the urge. But then came the announcement of the divorce and all hell broke loose.
Dad said he was sick of funneling good money into some bastard kid to look like a silly girl when he played football in high school and that mom needs to wake up because everyone is laughing about it. Great. This asshole excuse for a father not only cheats on my mother but has an illegitimate child? No fucking way. I lost it. I stole a bottle of Gorilla Glue out of dad’s tools and glued all my trophies into the shape of a man to create better dad: trophy dad. I raided the closet and dressed him in dad clothes too. I called my mom to surprise her, show her that I’d saved the day and made everything better…
…she was mortified. What the fuck!?
I ripped the fat boy off the fridge and ate all the fucking pizza. That’s right. Every last slice of pizza till I shit my god damned silk pants. Fuck it. I didn’t care. I put on my best pageant tuxedo and my tap shoes and did the fuckin’ moonwalk outta that house. I tapped my way to find a good old fashioned high school party with girls, a rock n’ roll band and a swimming pool and girls with tits.
I walked over to where I’d heard Steve Kerfelder was throwing a shindig while his parents were out of town. Steve played football so I knew he was really cool. I got in there and it was just guys with a case of Keystone Light playing flip cup. That was it? That’s everything I’d been missing out on. No pool, no band, no girls and certainly no tits. Everything is a god damned lie. Also, they said my tuxedo made me look like an enormous penis and I got very insecure because my penis didn’t wear a tuxedo and maybe I’d been doing that wrong all these years too. MOM! I ran to Steve’s bathroom and ripped off my tap shoes, put them in his toilet tank and flushed. Upper decker, bitch. Then I looked in the mirror. Oh, Christ. With the all the supplements and dieting over the years my body was unfamiliar with pizza and grease. My face was enflamed with a massive acne break out. A puberty backlash all over my beautiful face, you could have installed a fucking whack-a-mole game on this thing. My face: Constellations were all over it. Why did you eat the pizza? I needed to get home. I started to cry right there in Steve Kerfelder’s parent’s bathroom. Before I knew it I was masturbating everywhere. I left my tuxedo on the floor and walked home in my shitty, stupid silk drawers.
It was a rocky road back but my parents and I are finally fixing our relationship. I’m seeing a dermatologist regularly who talks about my skin and how to be attractive again someday. I learned a very important lesson during that time of my life. If you live by other people’s standards they can turn you into some pretty fabulous things. But no matter how much you love them, those people’s ideals can’t give you true happiness. Why be a mutated prize horse when you can shit in the pasture and have some peace? I realize that now. I may never have the overwhelming life of a superstar that I could have had. I’m not cut out for it. I don’t want it. But sometimes, when I’m all alone, I still dance. I still dance.
Earth to Jones Beach: A Beastie Boys Emergency
I’m telling this story next week in Philadelphia. This is a “written version” and it is different than what my “spoken version” will be. Good luck if you choose to read this and actually manage to get through it. It is long.
4-A
Three bolted doors stood between us and freedom. Still, it never felt comfortable there. Every night it took hours to fall asleep. The mattresses were always too hard and I knew the guards weren’t exactly watching to make sure we were safe. If a patient looked too cozy the guard would make a note that he was probably faking. No one ever really slept but the guard always made his note. He said we didn’t look too active in bed but they were pumping shit into the food to keep us all flaccid.
“Hey Zach, you awake?” I asked. Zach was always awake. He used to suffer from night terrors but he trained himself to stop sleeping so now he never slept. The doctors tried to give him Seroquel for the episodes and that put him out. He said it made his body lay still but the nightmares were worse. He’d come into meetings cursing and unable to walk straight. Now he just flushes the pills.
“What do you think?” He answered.
“Why do they lock us up here on the fourth floor? What if there’s a fire? Seems kinda dangerous to me.”
“It’s because we’re dangerous. We can’t hurt anybody up here away from everything. And if there was a fire there’s no way they’d get us all out. Fuck it, one less obligation. Shit, at this point, if they let me out of here I’d burn it down myself.”
I stared at the ceiling for a while and for the first time I realized why they put them so high. Same with the windows; if anyone was going to kill himself he had to really want it.
“I just wish I could sleep,” I mumbled to break the silence.
“Oh, man. You should’ve said so earlier. You want a Seroquel?” Zach pulled a pill out of his pillowcase.
The pill frightened me but I was curious and I needed to sleep. I was expecting my worst fears to tear me apart in this self-induced coma. I dreamed of nothing. I was completely weightless. Everything around me was dark. I was watching me floating along from behind myself. It meant nothing. In the morning, when I woke up, I felt as groggy and miserable as any other day. That was when I realized the doctors were giving Zach a placebo. Did he know? Maybe he was just as full of shit as they were.
“I think it’s time for me to leave.” I told Dr. Martinez. She glanced down at her notepad and then back at me. Her legs uncrossed and crossed again.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Nope.”
“Well, are you going to hurt yourself? Are you going to hurt anyone else?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t really want to get better, do you?” She rolled her eyes. “As if there was anything wrong with you to begin with.” I know that her accusing me of malingering is just to dignify what she would otherwise have considered a personal failure.
“I don’t know what I want.”
She exhaled a long drag of disappoint. “I’ll arrange for a cab to pick you up in a couple of hours.”
I rode a Greyhound back to New York. I watched the trees go by and stared at other people getting on and off the bus. I watched the ticks in their faces when they couldn’t do the things they’d normally do out of the public eye like pick their noses, squeeze the juices out of pimples or hack up a nice wad of phlegm.
A few weeks later I got my only email from Zach that read: “Hey man, I’m out too.”
My Last Vegas Escort Gal
Booze, drugs, sex: Vegas. It is every American boy’s dream. It was the summer of 2007, I had recently turned twenty-one and I was going to get it all. Nothing was going to stand in my way. Especially not that Katy Perry and her bullshit pop song. Katy Perry didn’t find breakthrough success until 2008 with her hit single “I Kissed a Girl”. It was just me and Vegas for a whole week. Oh, and my friend Nick who played a lot of poker.
It started out smooth and relatively Vegas-natural. We checked into our room at The Flamingo, I purchased a bottle of Grey Goose and began drinking. We wandered about and stared at lights and ordered some very, very expensive alcoholic beverages. We visited all of those places Hunter S. Thompson talked about to just to find he exaggerated a lot. Nick went off to play poker and I hit the roulette table or in some cases, just threw my money into the street. Yup, just typical, run of the mill Las Vegas.
The great thing about Vegas is all the sex. It’s everywhere. Even the streets are literally littered with sex ads. If you had ever been to Vegas you’d know that. I’m trying to tell a story here, not write a Las Vegas promotional pamphlet. This is not http://www.vegas.com/attractions/. This is real life.
After drinking something like 28 shots of Old Granddad, a football of Bud Light, a dozen Red Bull and Grey Goose, and a single mojito I found myself resting in the room and discussing the phone book with Nick.
“There’s like, lots of stuff people need in here.” I said.
“Yeah, man. That’s why it’s called the phone book.”
“Lawyers, gun ranges, prostitutes. Dude, there’s over a hundred pages of escorts in here.”
Looking into that phone book was like my first time looking into Toys R’ Us. The one in Times Square with the ferris wheel inside, not the shitty strip mall ones that are baron. It should be noted that I didn’t see the one in Times Square until I was 24. Regardless, the escort ads were incredible: “Britney, Jessica, Ashley, Christina, AND SWINGIN’ BETTY!” I wasn’t just drawn to these girly ads. I needed the real thing. Not that I condone the sexual objectification of women but I was drunk in Vegas. It seemed like something people do. I’d do my absolute best to be a gentleman about this. If she got to the room and didn’t seem to be into it, I’d just tell her she didn’t need to do anything she didn’t want to.
Nick left to play poker tossing a dog-eared condom on the bed as he walked out. I drank some Red Bull and downed caffeine pills so I wouldn’t fall asleep on my rental lady. With the afternoon alcohol not yet run out of my system and the heavy intake of caffeine my natural anxiety was running even harder than normal. No sooner do I hit the bathroom before the room phone rings.
“Were you expecting someone, Mr. Eastman?” It’s the front desk.
“Yes. Yes. Send her up.”
I tore into my bag and changed my t-shirt. I checked the mirror. My hair looked messy enough. Stop shaking, Dan. You’ve got this. Make it happen!
Three confident sounding knocks on the door. I took it as a sign of her experience.
She was tall, Asian, and sparkly because of all the glitter. She walked in like she owned the place. I expected her to have a name like Candy or Sicily. She said her name was Amy. Said told me she was 23 but her body looked 33. She was stronger than me. She’d been hardened by the business. Before I could even begin to regret calling her she went to work.
Amy has me face up on the bed totally naked except for my boxers. She asks about music and I tell her that I am cheap so we have to use the radio. Amy switches ON the bedside clock radio and The White Stripes’ “Icky Thump” comes on following a Tinactin commercial. Amy starts grinding up and down my body and doing strippery things like some kind of circus act. Here I was in Vegas about to get it on with a bonerfide – Boom. Get it? – lady of the night. Still, something felt off about it. And it wasn’t just nerves or fake boobs either.
This song rocks, I thought.
“Okay.” Amy said when Icky Thump was over. “That’ll be four hundred dollars.”
What!? Four-hundred dollars’ worth of American currency for a half-assed lap dance? I did not have that kind of money.
“I do not have that kind of money, Amy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stood up, getting dressed and toying with her cell phone. These were the old days. I think she had the LG Chocolate phone. She’s getting dressed more furiously than I’ve ever seen an angry woman do. It’s even more uncomfortable too because of all the zippers on her clothing making angry zipper noises.
As Amy swings her bag over her shoulder my cell phone rings. Oh, it’s probably just Nick curious if it’s safe to come back upstairs. I look at the caller ID: “2486”. How is that even a legit phone number?
“Hello?”
“Daniel.” A gruff sounding man says my name into the phone. He seems to be telling me rather than asking.
“Speaking.”
“Daniel, you have one of our girls over there. Are you refusing to pay our girl?”
Oh, fuck fuck fuck. That’s what she was doing with her phone. Ugh, Amy, that tattletale. I knew something felt off about this. Now would have been the better time for Icky Thump to start playing. I never even gave them my cell phone number! Who was this mysterious man on the phone? I imagined some guy in a tuxedo sitting in a dimly lit room stroking a massive black cat or Dr. Claw from inspector Gadget. Yes, in my mind a faceless cartoon villain is the form a real life pimp would take. Women probably loved him. Now, here I was faced with the possibility of encountering one of his freakish henchmen. Maybe he was a Yakuza.
“No,” I said nervously into the phone. “I just don’t have a lot of money. I didn’t expect it to be four hundred for only a lap dance.” Then I realized that Amy was still there scowling at me. “I mean, not that it was a bad lap dance. I had fun but I still don’t have that much money.”
“Daniel do I need to send someone over there?”
“No. I’ll pay something.”
“Pay her four hundred.”
“Look…” my eyes darted around the room. I should get a drink. Should I offer Amy a drink? How far should courtesy extend? “…hear me out. How does three hundred dollars sound?”
“Don’t ever call us again.” Click. The phone went dead.
“Great news, Amy. That guy, I guess it was your boss, said three hundred was fine.”
I found my wallet and gave Amy three bills. She stormed off out of the room never to be seen again. Not by me anyway. Melancholy washed over me. I felt like I’d let that woman down. I also felt ripped off. Confusion gave way to boozing. I did what any insecure young man would do. I got drunk and called my ex-girlfriend. She hung up on me soon after answering because she was getting married to some dickhead who took her to a Drowning Pool concert. I almost threw up because I realized I slept with a someone before finding out if she liked Drowning Pool. I was out of control. My life had become a twisted mess of lies and betrayal!
I stumbled around the Las Vegas strip for a few hours until someone discharged a firearm nearby and I sprinted for my life back to The Flamingo. I stumbled around the Las Vegas strip for a few hours until someone discharged a firearm nearby and I sprinted for my life back to The Flamingo. I needed to type that sentence twice because it felt both very dangerous and very erotic. I also started praying during that run. Oh dear god that I’m not quite sure I believe in, please don’t let me die in this superficial lightshow Hell! I didn’t come to Vegas to die or mistreat women. The voice that answered was not the one I was expecting.
“Hey, baby. Why you runnin’?”
“Huh?” I stopped to see the angel calling out for me: A short, chubby black woman in a hot pink pantsuit standing at the main bar in the Flamingo.
“Why don’tcha take me to your room and play with me?”
“No way! I know your game!” I shouted. I’d finally snapped.
“Too bad,” she shrugged. “I’da sucked your dick so good.”
“Yeah, for like a shit ton of money.”
I calmed down on the elevator. I stumbled around the hypnotic maze of patterned flooring until I found my room. Nick was asleep. What the hell? Didn’t he want the sick deets about what happened? I mean, I had his condom. I couldn’t think about that. I made it. I was safe. That was it. I swore I’d never take a lady for granted or money ever again. I passed out fully clothed with a shoe on.
The phone rang. Did I set a wakeup call? The phone rang again. These damned hotel phones are so obnoxious. Jesus! Nick was still asleep. What is this guy’s deal? Fine, I’ll get the stupid phone. But I am not going to sound presentable when I do.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Daniel! I’m Bethany, Amy’s friend. Wanna play with me?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah! I’m standing outside your hotel. Wanna play?” She sounded cute. I opened my eyes to check the clock.
“It’s 8:30 in the morning.”
“C’mon. Let’s play.”
“Don’t ever call me again.” I dropped the receiver.
The phone went dead.
Look, I don’t know Jerry Sandusky. I can’t vouch for him. Maybe he’s a cool guy. And I don’t condone what he did by any means. But maybe he was just a dude people liked. But if I saw one of my coworkers molesting a kid I would definitely report it to the police personally. I couldn’t report it fast enough. Then again they’re also really into hair gel, Jersey Shore and some guy named Gucci Mane so they’re criminals already as far as I’m concerned.
http://www.bite.ca/bitedaily/2012/01/comedy-spotlight-daniel-eastman/
I just want to check with you guys, are you as okay with this as I am?
Back in July…
I swore to myself I’d post at least twice per week in this blog until the end of the year. I did it. I did it as a way to prove (to myself) that I could provide constant output and to always be writing. What happened, in most weeks, was that I ended up with more than two posts per week. A lot of those posts were very long. A lot of people probably didn’t read them because they were so long. Sometimes it was a struggle to come up with a topic. But I still did it. It also gave me some of the best comedic stuff I’ve ever written.
Now that I’ve accomplished the task and met the deadline I’m going to keep going. I’ll be less intense on myself with it though. As much as I love to write, it’s not much more than just something I enjoy doing. There isn’t really a prospect of it ever taking me anywhere. If you do read this, thank you. If not, you’ve already tuned out and you’re not reading this: I want to fart in your mouth.
ALSO:
I made a page of my favorite postings and the funniest ones from these months. It is here.
I have also been preparing for the show where I open for Dave Hill on January 12th in Philadelphia. If you’re in Philadelphia, you can find tickets for the show here. It’s at the Tin Angel in Old City which means, douche bags. But inside, there is us.
You can find me on the Twitter too. @danieleastman.
Seriously, thanks for reading and also for being my friend. You are a wonderful person.
-Daniel
