The Autobiography of Commie Lee Speed

As told to Diallo Tyson

CHAPTER II

“Dude, I gotta go.”

“I told you—we ain’t stoppin’ until we get back to campus.”

“Dude!  Fuck it.  Hey Mike, open the door.”

“What?”

“I gotta piss, so either open the door or take off your shoes.”

So the night just got weirder and weirder.  It must’ve been some sight.  A white van driving down the highway, doing eighty, with the door open, and a drunk-ass college student pissing across the wind.  Who knows how many windshields were addressed with Hennesy-induced urine?  Who cared?  I know I didn’t.  I was glad my damn bladder didn’t explode inside me.  I was also trying to make sense of the night and figure out where to go from there.

*   *   *

Now, I have to warn you.  If you’re offended by the words nigga, bitch, ho, fuck, pussy, cocksucking motherfucker, and sonofabitch bastard I suggest you stop reading and go pick up Harry Potter.  This is my life, so what do you expect?  I’m about to give you the lowdown on how my life changed.  From this point on, the shit gets real interesting.

*   *   *

Two years before my freshman year at Morehouse, the Greek life for all intents and purposes was killed.  The Kappas got kicked off campus because several entrepreneurial brothers decided to start a credit card scam.  They had a brother who worked in Gloster Hall, the admin building, who could get at people’s personal information.  They used other people’s identities to apply for credit cards and ended up defrauding various institutions out of about half a mil.  Needless to say, when administration got wind of this punishment was swift and exacting.  The Alphas really fucked up, because they killed a dude.  I don’t mean a pledge died during hazing.  I mean three brothers straight stomped a nigga from Morris Brown to death.  It damn near touched off a riot.  Once again, swift and exacting punishment.  Those unfortunate incidents meant only the Sigmas and Ques were left on campus… and they weren’t about shit.

After seeing School Daze, I couldn’t wait to get to college and experience Greek life.  But when I learned what happened, I was hurt for a minute.  That is until I met Chris Watts.  Chris and I were roommates as freshman, not to mention kindred spirits.  When we both arrived, we noticed that we had the same iron, same detergent, same shampoo, and the same birthday.  His favorite pro basketball team was the Lakers, and so was mine.  We got so close that we started calling ourselves the wonder twins.  Because we thought alike, we could tell the other was missing something out of college life, without even saying it.  Yeah, we checked out the Sigmas and them motherfuckers are whack, plain and simple.  They couldn’t pull any hos and their parties blew.  The Ques were just weak.  There were only like eight total on campus.  One day we decided to take matters into our own hands.

*   *   *

“Fuck going through the administration.  Right now, if we wanted to throw a party all we’d have to do is apply for it.  It don’t matter if it’s a group or an individual.”

“Yeah, but legally—” I said.

“Fuck legal.  It’s about having fun—bringing some life to this campus.  But mainly it’s about fucking top notch bitches.” Chris countered.

“Yeah.  Top notch bitches will be a perk.”

“So you ready to do this?” Chris asked.

“Hell yeah.”

*   *   *

And so it was.  We decided to start our own fraternity.  Now don’t let Chris’ hyperbole fool you.  We wanted to uphold some of the traditions of giving that other fraternities held.  We believed in community service, tutoring, mentoring, and raising money for charity.  During the week, we were about business, but on the weekends, it was freak central.

We decided early on not to include Greek letters in our name.  We were gonna be different.  Some punk-ass nigga snitched us out to the administration.  They put pressure on us to apply for status as an official club.  So we had to pick a name that would ingratiate our selves to them.  We chose O.B.B.A., which officially stood for Only Battle-tested Brothers Allowed.  The administration liked that, had a warrior’s mentality kind of ring to it.  They got off on that shit.  What they didn’t know was O.B.B.A. really stood for Only Bad Bitches Allowed.

That was what we were about on the weekends.  We had strict criteria for letting chicks into our parties.  Pure and simply, they had to be 8 and above.  Didn’t matter what color or race they were, just as long as they were gorgeous.   Chris’ dad was a Vice-President at American Express, so he had access to some cash.  Our parties were better than going to a club.  Chris made sure of that.  So chicks from every college in Atlanta were dying to get in.  Guys knew the clientele of our parties, so they’d do anything to get in.  They offered money, drugs, favors, girlfriends, etc.  It was beautiful.  We were the most powerful guys on campus.  In a year, membership grew to fifteen brothers.  By my senior year, we were thirty-two strong.  We were even mulling over plans to expand to colleges in other cities.  Life was good.  Then life got strange.

*   *   *

Five young sophomores sat at attention.  They were a little nervous, not sure what they were getting themselves into.  Chris stood in front of them giving them their individual assignments.  We didn’t believe in hazing.  I thought it was stupid and really didn’t say anything about the person.  Anybody can take twenty licks and then sit in a bed of salt.  Did that make you worthy?  No, we did things a little differently.  Each pledge had to complete a schedule of tasks.

“Both Nikita and I will accompany each and every one of you as you complete your missions.  That way we know if you’re the real deal or just some cocksucking motherfucker trying to dilute the ranks.  So, you have your assignments.  I suggest you start getting your mind right.  Now, leave.” Chris said as the youngsters slowly rose out of their chairs.

“Except for you Mr. Gavin.” I said.

“Me?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, stay put.”  We just stood there and looked at him until everyone cleared out.

“You’re mission starts tonight.  Nikita and I will take you around the city.”

“So soon?”

“You scared, boy?” I asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I suggest you tighten up your panties and let your nuts hang.  Tonight’s make or break.” Chris said.

“Trust me.  I’mma be straight tonight.” Mike said as he left the room.

*   *   *

Our status was pretty much unmatched on campus.  We had it both ways.  We did more community service than United Way.  Over three years, we raised over a quarter-million dollars and tutored and mentored over 500 kids.  The administration loved us for it.  Some in the administration loved our parties as well.  They gave us the occasional favor for letting them in.  Consequently, we had entree into almost every department on campus.

*   *   *

“Damn, nigga what happened to you?” I asked.  He had a nasty looking cut on his lip and a swollen jaw.

“Got my asked kicked.  What it look like?” OH-10 replied.

“The fuck happened?” I asked.

“I had to take my sister to the airport this morning.  Sam wanted to ride to.  So we sent her off and on the way out the terminal both of us had to take a piss.  So we go in there, and after we finished, this big albino dude walks in.  This nigga is white as a sheet, so we start fucking with him.  He a big motherfucker, but we figured he ain’t go’n do shit in a public place.  Man, this dude walks over punches Sam then kicks him, then kicks me.  I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Damn, be the last time you fuck with an albino.”

“Fuckin’ right.  Anyway, so I guess you need a van, huh Nikita?” OH-10 said.  OH-10, Oswald Harvey, work studied at the maintenance building.  They had two trucks and two vans at their disposal.  Chris and I were able to secure keys whenever we wanted to.

“Yes sir.” I replied.  OH-10 stepped away from the counter and went into the back.  A couple moments he came back with the keys.

“Space number 3A.  Oh and Nikita, try to fill this mug up this time.”

“Will do.”

*   *   *

Young Mr. Gavin’s mission was to get five top-notch cuties to get into the van and come back with us for a party we were having.  It didn’t matter how he got them in, as long as they got in and went to the party.  Really, only one of us needed to accompany him but neither of us wanted to pass up the experience.  Whenever we did this, things got real interesting.  One time a pledge pulled out a fake gun and told a chick to get in.  Needless to say, we had to cut him loose.

*   *   *

It was around 8 when we picked up Mike.  He had two hours to complete his task.

“So, where to?” Chris asked.

“Ahh, I thought—”

“Hey, this is your show.  We’re just driving the van.  You drive the exercise.”  I said.

“OK, let’s start down Peachtree.”  Mike said.

“As good a place as any.”  Chris said.  So we got rollin’.  Chris drove, with Mike in the passenger seat.  I hung out in the back.  Mike looked a little nervous, yet determined.  I liked that about him.  He wasn’t the most confident, but ultimately he wouldn’t let you down.

“I’m just tired of black and white chicks.  I need to get up on some new hos.”

“Hispanic?” Chris asked.

“Naw.  How about half Puerto Rican and half Italian?” I said.

“I’d definitely buy that for a dollar.” Chris said.

“My first girlfriend was Indian.” Mike said.

“Red dot or feather?” I asked.

“Red dot.  She kind of looked like Paula Abdul.  We tried some—hey turn around I saw a girl.” Mike said. Chris circled around the block and we came up on her.  She was a cute little chick, standing at the bus stop wearing a mini-skirt.

“Showtime.”  I said.

“Excuse me miss.  Can I have a moment of your time?”  Mike said.  The respectfully cordial approach.  Not a bad way to start off.  The girl thought so to, because she walked up to the window.

“Can you guys give me a ride?” she asked.  That kind of caught all three of us off guard.

“I’m already late.  I’m supposed to be at this party by now.”  Mike looked at Chris for direction.

“It’s your show.  You call it.”

“Please.  Please, please, please.”

“You say you’re going to a party?” Mike said.

“Yeah.”

“You know some of the girls gonna be there?”

“Yeah, some.”

“They look as good as you?”

“Better.”

“Shit.  Hop on in.  What’s your name?”

“Stasia.” She said as I slid open the door. She hopped in and we were off.

“Stasia, this is Chris driving and that’s Nikita back there with you.”

“Nikita.  Are you Russian?”

“I don’t have to rush.” I replied.  Stasia cracked a sly grin.

“Is that so?”

“So where are we going?” Mike asked.

“1469 Emerson St..  It’s right off of Fulton Industrial.” she replied without taking her eyes off me.

*   *   *

Stasia and I talked the whole way to the party.  At first I wasn’t sweatin’ this chick but then I started telling her about the frat.  Her eyes got as big as saucers.  I don’t know why I was telling her, it’s not something I shout from the mountaintop.  We kind of ran a clandestine operation.  Anyway, the more I talked the closer she leaned into me.  This chick obviously dug power.

*   *   *

“You got an hour and a half Mr. Gavin.  Time to get to work.”  Chris said.

“Let’s do it.” Mike replied.  With that, we exited the van.  The house was pretty big.  Not big mansion-wise, but still pretty big.

As soon as we stepped in, we were in another world.  Girls were everywhere!  Incredible looking chicks of all races wearing next to nothing.  They were either walking around or cozied up next to some nigga in a clean suit.  Music was blasting.  Everyone was in the midst of great conversation.  Couples were making out.  We were definitely out of place, but nobody paid attention to us.  They were in their own little world.  All of a sudden, this one cute little Asian chick walked passed me, giving me the “suck you dry” eye.

“I think I’m gonna mingle.”  I said.  Before I got mingle out of my mouth, Stasia grabbed me by the neck and planted a wet one on me.

“We haven’t finished talking yet.” Stasia said.

“Guess not.  You’re on your own fellas.”  Stasia took me by the hand and led me to the bar.  We got a bottle of Hennesy for free, and two glasses.  We then headed for a place to sit.  I’m still not sure what Mike and Chris did next.  They never told me.  Anyway, we find a little love seat and plopped down on it.  I poured a glass of the Hennesy and guzzled it.

“So what do you want to talk about?”

“So you say people will do anything to get into these parties, huh?”

“Yeah.  Niggas let us borrow their cars, give us money, let us use their houses, all kinds of shit.”  I said as I poured another shot.  Free Hennesy is hard to pass up.

“You don’t sell drugs in these parties?”

“Naw, nothing like that.  We just have the absolute best looking women in Atlanta there.  We don’t just let any old guy in there either.  So if you want to get into the place to be, you come up off something.”

“How do you get these women? “

“Word of mouth sometimes.  Sometimes we recruit them.  Just drive around the city and pick them up.”

“Huh, so even rich guys do favors?”

“They’re the biggest ones.  Shit, these parties are kind of too big now.  We don’t even get that many college students.”  I said as I poured another.

“You don’t say.”

*   *   *

The Hennesy was talking to me, so I didn’t understand at the time how Stasia was coming at me.  She kept talking and asking questions and I guess I kept answering.  When I’m drunk I go through three stages.  First I get sleepy and lethargic, then I get belligerent, and then I get lucid. I was still in Phase I when Chris and Mike came over.

“Are you faded?” Chris said.

“Hennesy.” I said as I held up the bottle.

“I see.” Chris said.

“Let’s get out of here.  I can’t get any of these chicks to come with us.  They’re all wrapped up in these other dudes.”

“I can call a few of my friends.” Stasia said.

“Can you?  Oh is that in the rules?” Mike asked.

“Five girls need to get in the van, how is up to you.”  Chris said.

“Great.  Stasia, call some of your girls.”

“We need to go to my hotel.”

“Where’s your hotel?” Mike asked.

“Just up the road.  C’mon let’s go.  Help your boy up.” Stasia said.  Mike and Chris each grabbed an arm and lifted me up.  I was still in Phase I.  As soon as we turned to leave, we ran into Father Moses.  Father Moses was tall and slim.  He leaned to the side as he stood and talked in a singsong like manner. His fingernails were long and better manicured than Stasia’s.  I was slipping into Phase II.

“Bitch, didn’t I tell you not to bring yo ass here!  ” he said as he grabbed her arm.

“Hold up nigga!  Who the fuck you talkin’ to?  You better put some respect in your voice.” I bellowed.

“Listen, li’l nigga.  I own this bitch.  Understand?  She don’t walk away from me, until I say.  I told this bitch she ain’t go’n be coming to no ho draft.  Ain’t no muthufucka pimp gonna take this pussy away from me.  Definitely not a runty square-ass wet behind the ear mu’fucka like you.”

Keep in mind that I was still holding the bottle of Hennesy.  It was starting to get real heavy in my hand.

“You don’t have no papers on me.  I choose Nikita.  Not you.  So move, nigga, get out the way.” Stasia said.  Chris and Mike were kind of frozen in their shoes, waiting to see what I was gonna do.

“Fuck this li’l—”

Then the bottle came crashing down on his head.  He fell to the ground with a loud thump.  Surprisingly, this didn’t cause a big stir in the “party.”  Everyone was still doing their thing.  Chris and Mike grabbed me by the arm and we got the fuck out of there, with Stasia in tow.  I detected a smile on her face as we exited.

Phase III.

“You’re a hooker?” I said as we climbed into the van.

“Damn, you fucking crazy.” Chris said as he peeled out

“Yeah, I am.” Stasia said.

“I guess I still need five girls?” Mike asked.

“Shit—yeah.  I guess the night can’t get any crazier.”

“Where’ s your hotel?” Mike asked.

“Make a left right here, then go through three lights and make a right.”

“That ‘s your pimp?” I asked as things started to make sense.  Thinking clearly, I realized we had just walked in and out of a ho draft.

“Was my pimp.  As you heard, I chose you.”

“I’m not a pimp.”

“In some ways you are.  You basically hook guys up with women in return for favors.  You just need to take it to the next level.”  I knew I wasn’t drunk anymore, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse for her statements making sense.  She did kind of have a point.

*   *   *

The hotel was your basic run of the mill fleabag.  When we pulled up, there were some guys standing around outside.  I should’ve paid more attention, but I was thinking about what Stasia was telling me.  In some ways, Chris and I were pimps.  We had access to the baddest chicks.  We had power.  Hell, pussy sells and there was money to be made.

“What are you thinking about?” Stasia said as she dialed a number on the phone.  I sat on the bed next to her, while Chris and Mike sat at the table.

“Just running through some ideas in my head.”

“Well, I have—” Stasia started to say but suddenly dropped the phone and jumped on my neck knocking me off the bed.  Immediately afterward a flurry of gunshots exploded in the air.  Several bullets came through the room, shattering mirrors and lamps.  However, the action seemed to be taking place in adjacent rooms.  Chris and Mike almost jumped through the floor.

“I saw a guy with a gun through the window.”  Stasia said, anticipating my question.  “There’s a window in the bathroom.”

“OK.”  We crawled army style to the bathroom and proceeded to throw our assess out of the window.  When we ran around the complex to the van, we were greeted with the sight of a guy being shot several times as he tried to leave a hotel room.  Mike, Stasia, and I leaped into the back of the van as Chris cranked up the ignition.  He then sped off like Evel Knievel on uppers.

“Holy fucking shit, that was intense!” Mike exclaimed.

“Thanks babe.” I said and gave Stasia a big kiss.

“We ain’t stoppin’ til we get back to campus!”

*   *   *

After draining my bladder, I had an epiphany.  I talked to Chris and he was all for it.  We thought about the money we could make and kicked ourselves for not thinking of it sooner.  We had primo connections and could get to all classes of clientele.  If it wasn’t for Stasia, we probably wouldn’t have taken it to the next level.  The next morning we started to work on a plan.  We decided to get Stasia out of the game and give her an executive role.  It was her idea after all.  We decided to bring Mike in on this operation as well, since it was his eye that caught Stasia.  Of course we kept O.B.B.A. going strong, but Chris and I had bigger fish to fry… like becoming the most successful pimps in the history of the world.

I think we did OK.

Smokin’ Me Out

By

Diallo Tyson

Rafael walked up the motel stairs, mentally preparing himself for the smell.  Every time he went to see his dad, he had no choice but to breathe through his mouth.  The oppressive omnipresent cigarette smoke made breathing through the nose impossible.  The closer the door approached, the deeper he inhaled.

Room 218.

“What’s up boss?  Thought I’d have to put an APB out on your ass.”  John said as he stood shirtless in the doorway.

“You don’t have those connections any more.” Rafael said as he walked into the room.

“Sheeeeeit.”

Room 218 never changes.  In the far right corner, sit twenty books stacked in no discernible order.  The far left is the home to various articles of clothing, CDs, and even more books.  The closer you get to the door, the worse it gets.  Various food items, coolers, bear cans, more books, and more papers occupy the near left corner. The computer desk is engulfed top to bottom in papers, folders, DVDs, etc.  How John is able to sit at his desk and actually be productive, is a question Raphael will never be able to answer.  Consequentially, Rafael is assured of where his “organizational” skills originate from.  The room looked the usual.

“What brings you up here?”

“I had to pick up my car from Nalley.”  Rafael said.  As he sat in a free chair, John plopped down on the bed.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Don’t know.  It just cut off the other day.  Wouldn’t turn over.”

John reached over onto the nightstand and grabbed a pack of cigarettes.  He began to tap the pack into his palm as he thought.

“How long you had it, again?”

“Since last October.”

He stopped the tapping, and pulled out a square.

“Hmm.  Could be the starter.  Maybe the spark plugs.”

Lighter touched filter.  Rafael subtly took a deep breath through his nose, and began to breathe gently through his mouth.

“Yeah whatever.  I don’t know what it is.  I’m not mechanical.  That’s their job.”

“I keep forgetting you ain’t good for much.”

“Just food and chicks.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Momma says I’m becoming more and more like you everyday.”

“Scares the shit out of you doesn’t it?”

“Got me ready to jump off a tall building.”

Both men laughed.  The bond between John and Raphael is quite unique.  John doesn’t try to be a “father,” so Rafael doesn’t bitch about him not being there.  They talk as if they’re old friends.  Very rarely will they have a father and son chat.  Rafael likes it that way, and senses John does as well.

*    *    *

Half an hour into the smoke session and Rafael had hung in there.  He occasionally sneaks a quick breath through his nose, however, they are few and far between.  The breathing gymnastics never prevent him from enjoying the conversation.

“Been fishing lately?” Rafael said as he saw a fishing pole sitting in the corner.

“Been meaning to for about two years.”

“Waiting on a Federal mandate?  The rapture?”

“I’ve been working seven days a week, 10 hours a day for the last two months.”

“Stop.  All you do is sit in the office and read.  You might get what? One person checking in a night?”

“Like I said, I’ve been working my ass off.  Mr. Patel don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Raphael rubbed his eyes and yawned.  He was running low on air.  His ability to hold a conversation while showing no signs of the torment his body was going through is borderline preternatural.

“Whatever.  It’s not like you’re cleaning rooms or anything.”

John inspected an empty pack of cigarettes.  Undaunted, he waked to the bathroom area.

“Actually, I have been helping Laverne lately.” He got a fresh pack and began tapping it in his palm.

“Why’s that?”

“About a month ago, we lost our cleaning staff.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone except Laverne.”  He said as smoke bogeyed from his lungs.  “There were two chicks and a guy.  One day they just came into Mr. Patel’s office and said they quit.  Old boy damn near had a aneurysm.”

“He figured you’d have to pick up the slack.”

“You may be young, but I will pick you up and dump you on your ass.”

Rafael just laughed it off.  It wasn’t an official visit until John threatened him with deadly force.  Raphael’s throat was the consistency of sandpaper.  He sheepishly eyed the water fountain, knowing that it would produce no permanent relief.

“What I can’t understand is how you can clean up other people’s room, yet live amongst this.”  Raphael said as he held his arms out.

“Cleanliness doesn’t equal order.  I can go to any place in this room and find whatever  I need, with minimal effort.  What messes me up, is when Laverne comes in and starts straightening shit up.”

“She’s brave enough to come in here?”

“Shit.  This ain’t nothing.  You should have been here yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

*    *    *

It was about8:00Wednesday night, and Tim was on the desk at the time.  I didn’t come on until around10:00.  Anyway, so he comes out the bathroom and sees the alarm ringing for 215.  It goes off whenever someone dials 911.  So Tim goes to check on the guy.  Well, by that time, the ambulance is already pulling into the complex.  I guess Tim was taking a burrito shit or something.  Anyway, he figures everything is copasetic and goes back to the office.

When I came on, he told me that the guy had called an ambulance earlier in the night.  So after about an hour, I went to go check on him.  I got to his room, peek through the window, and see him sitting on his bed.  Didn’t look like anything was bothering him.  So I’m like, “looks all right to me,” and went back down to the office.  Well, the next morning the guy checks out.  And of course we gotta get the room cleaned.  So I decided to clean this one by myself.  I think Laverne was down on the first floor.  Anyway, I go up to the room, put my key in the door, and opened it.

“Holy fucking shit.”

There was blood all over that damn room.  The entire room was soaked in it.  Looked like a pint of blood on the bed, bloody footprints leading from the bathroom to the bedroom, bloody hand prints over the night stand TV, drawer, sink, walls, chairs, and table.  In the sink there was even more blood.  In the bathroom?  Big fucking pool of blood in front of the toilet.  There were bloody smudges on the toilet, the wall next to the toilet, the shower curtains, and on the tub.  I had never seen that much blood before in one place in my life.  The only thing I can think of is dude is a hemophiliac, fell off the toilet, and busted his head on the tub.

*    *    *

 Rafael busted out laughing.

“Yep. That’s what Tim did when I told him.”  John said as he lit another cigarette.

“Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  I got a couple of questions.  Ok?  First off?  What are you doing that would make you fall off of a toilet in the first place?  Second, how do you fall off a toilet?  Third, if dude is a hemophiliac how did he spill that much blood and still live?”

“Had to have been a new kind of drunk. Or on PCP. Or a nutjob.”

“But still.  How do you cause that much damage?  When your drunk and lose your balance, you fall slow.  Not fast enough to crack your head open.”

“Lisa said he had stitches above his eye when he checked out.  I bet anything that he busted those stitches open.”

“Shit.  Ya’ll had to clean that?”

“Did we?  When Laverne saw all that blood, I mean she got sick.  Real sick.  Never seen a sista actually turn green before.”

Rafael began to laugh, which was really a hacking cough disguised as a laugh.

“I know she was hating work that day.”

“Shit, you don’t know the half.  The blood on the bed was soaked all the way through to the mattress.  Had to throw the damn thing away.”

“How could you even stand it?”

“Didn’t have no choice.  Had to get it clean.  That was money lost. Shit, I think we had about four big bottles of bleach.  Couple of thick brushes. We had to scrub our asses off.  Laverne was cussing so damn much.  I didn’t know she could put together such combinations.  ‘Sonofabitch bastard.  Motherfucking goddamn fucking nasty ass shit.  Fucking motherfucker.’  It was something to hear, jack.”

“Ya’ll even had them white clean up suits on and everything?”

“Yep, had to go the medical supply store.”

“How long did it take to clean it all up.”

John took a deep puff and looked up at the ceiling.

“Shit it must’ve taken us about four damn hours.”

“Ain’t no way all that blood can come from one body, and that dude is still alive.  He probably killed his wife or something.”

“If he did, he damn sure got away with it.  Cause the evidence is gone.  I took a bunch of pictures just in case, though.”

“You guys let a murderer slip right through your grasp.” Rafael said as he took his glasses off to rub his eyes.  He was starting to get a slight pain right between his eyes.

“All we were thinking about was getting that damn room clean.”

“I would not want that job.”

“Shit.  That ain’t the half of it.  You hang around here long enough, you run into some strange shit.  There was another time when a guy called an ambulance.”

“What is it about this place?”

“Strange-osity, son.  And tons of it.  Anyway, so after the ambulance arrives, I go down to check on it.  Before I get to the room, I bump into Darryl and Barney.  They happen to be near the motel when the ambulance comes in, so they come through just to see what’s what.

So when I roll up on them, they giggling like school girls.  I’m like “What’s so funny? Dude OK?”  Darryl then drops it on me.  Homeboy called the ambulance, complaining about stomach pains and how it felt like his stomach was gonna explode at any minute.  EMTs get there to examine him, when dude tells them he shoved three D cell batteries up his ass and super glued his asshole shut.  He also glued his dick hole shut.

“I guess that makes 1002 uses for super glue.” Rafael said.

“No shit.”

“What happened to him?  Did they get them out.”

“Man, I could not tell you.  I had put that shit out of my mind until five minutes ago.  Batteries up the ass deserve no follow up. ”

“Can’t find fault with that.  Anyway, guess I should apologize.  You should get hazard pay. Or weirdness pay, one.” Rafael said as the headache intensified.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty shit people do in rooms.  This guy one day-”

*    *    *

Three hours had passed, and the smell of fresh air was a distant memory for Rafael.  The headache was almost unbearable, and his eyes were barely open.  It was finally time to cut bait and leave the gas chamber.  As usual, Raphael stayed longer than he had intended.  Very often, pain is life.

“I’m glad you came by.” John said as Rafael got up to leave.

Both he and John knew it would probably be another month or two before they saw each other, if not more.  Somehow it was worth the pain, to trip out with his old man.

“I’ll give you a call next week, probably.” Rafael repeated a line given to him on many an occasion.  Often there would be no call.  Rafael was probably not going to call this time either.  Both knew that and were cool with it.

*  *  *

“I was just like, fuck it.  Tonight ain’t go’n be for the weak.”

“What you get?”

“Green Apple Twist.  Smirnoff.”

“That ‘Noff?”

“That ‘Noff.”

“Damn son.   You set that bitch to DefCon 5 didn’t you?  That ‘Noff damn near put us in traction last week.”

“Yeah.  But that was raspberry.  I got a good feeling about this one.  Trust me.”

And so began one of the most bizarre, disturbing, and all around fucked up nights of my life.  Things started off innocuous enough.  Just two guys making plans to celebrate my birthday on a lovely Friday evening.  Even though a couple of more of my boys were going to kick it with us, we were planning on getting toasty before heading out.  So far, so good.  No complaints to speak of.

* * *

“Damn, she pulled the lazy card on you.” Justin said.

“Real talk.” I replied.  At the time, I worked for an Engineering firm that helped the Navy write procedures for removing equipment from submarines.   The work was OK, but my boss?  This chick was on some other shit.  For real.

“And then… she calls me a liar.  To my face, dude.  I was like…yo seriously?  She almost got knocked out.  If woulda hit that bitch in her mouth, she’d shit enamel for about two weeks.”  Yeah she was a bitch, but I was probably overreacting.  Probably.

“Naw, you don’t wanna do that.  You played it right.  Just shut up.  Bide your time.  You’ll be out of there in a minute.”  Justin was right.  Nevertheless, the conversation had me riled up, so I needed to release some tension.  And how do you relieve tension?  By ingesting copious amounts of alcohol, of course.

“Fuck it.  It’s time to hit this ‘Noff.”  I got off the couch and headed to the kitchen to find something to mix it with.  Normally I would’ve drank it straight, but the previous week we had a bad episode drinking Raspberry Smirnoff straight.  It was brutal.  I didn’t get out of bed until 5:00 the next day, and my head didn’t stop ringing until 10:00 that night.  I don’t know what it’s like to get hit by a Mack truck, but I’ll take that over drinking Raspberry Smirnoff any day of the week.

“Sean and Penn should be here in about 15 minutes.” Justin said.

“Cool.”  I said as I opened the refrigerator.  There wasn’t a whole lot to work with.  Just some Mango ‘Tampico’ juice and a little more than a swallow of Cherry Limeade.  I figured apples, cherries, limeade?  Why not?

“You know we never decided.  Black club or white club?” Justin asked.

“White club.”

“Or…Visions?  It’s Middle Eastern, Indian, Asian night.” Justin said.

As I contemplated the dilemma, I began concocting the concoction.  Six cubes of ice.  Poured ‘noff an inch above ice.  Poured just enough limeade to change color.  Stirrred with knife.  Tasted.

“Damn.  This shit is tasty as Hell.”

“For real?” Justin responded.

“Dude come check this shit.”

“It’s like that?”

I took an ever bigger swallow.

“I might be falling love.  Seriously.”

Justin got up off the couch to see what the racket was about.  He understood loud and clear once he took a sip.

“Damn!” Justin said.

“I told you.” I replied.

“What’s in this?”

“That ‘noff and cherry limeade.”

“Damn, son.  It’s got my jaw tight off of one sip.  Best drink ever?”

“Maybe.  Definitely top 5 material.”

So I kill the glass in maybe 10 seconds.  Splash…

“Dude.  This shit bout to have me speaking in tongues, yo.  Like I’ve been baptized.”

“You feel born again?” Justin asked.

The next few words may haunt me for the rest of my life.

“I got the perfect name for it.  Holy Water.”

“Nice.  The perfect drink to wash away your sins.”  Not quite.

* * *

The fantastic concoction known as Holy Water transformed the rest of the night…for the worst, I’d like to add.  After guzzling my drink, I called Sean and Pen and told them to pick up another bottle of cherry limeade and Green Apple on their way over.  We were planning on some serious drinking.

As Justin and I waited, Travis and Geoff, the white guys from upstairs, came down to see what was up for the night.  They walked in sipping on Crown and Cokes, wondering why the fuck we weren’t drinking.  I told them to wait a few and all would be made clear.

Justin turned on some music and opened the front door.  After a few minutes the girls who were hanging with Travis and Geoff, stopped by.  Right on their heels were Sean and Pen.  It was on.  After dapping the fellas up, it was showtime.

“Everyone.  Everyone.  Gather round.  No pushing.  There’s plenty room for all considered.  This is a very privileged group, because you are all about to witness something like no other.  Please feast your eyes upon this counter top.  You’ll see only three simple ingredients.  Yet these ingredients are special.  Very special, indeed.  I have ice.  Green Apple Smirnoff.  And Minute Maid Cherry Limeade.  Please follow along.  I fill a glass with six cubes of ice.  Smirnoff goes past the level of ice.  An inch.  Maybe a bit more if you’re feeling particularly randy.  I add just enough limeade to smooth out the sourness and change the color.  A stir.  And hoila!  I give you Holy Water.  Here you are fine sir.”

I gave the glass to Travis.  He took a sip and gave it to his girl Stephanie.  She took a sip.

“This is good.  Real good.  Like, it gets better the more you drink it.”  Stephanie said.

“Another satisfied customer.”  I said.

“This is the best drink I’ve had in a while.  I can’t even lie.”  Travis said.

“Who’s next?” I said.

* * *

And so it began.  Holy Water poured forth as if Christ himself had kissed Niagra Falls.  I just put my shit on repeat for the next hour.  Make drink for guests.  Make drink for self.  Over and over and over again.  I probably had about six or seven full glasses.  They go down real easy.  In retrospect, probably a little too easy.

“I’m telling you.  Leopard Lounge is gonna be off the hook.”  Travis said.

“I don’t know dude.  Last time?  I ain’t have no fun.”  I said.   My jaw began to tighten up and I started to blink, which are both signs that I was on the road to obliteration.

“Yeah, we were thinking about Liquid.”  Sean said.

Life is an ironic playground.  The black guys wanted to go to a white club.  The white guys wanted to go to a black club.  So we split the difference and decided to go to The Compound, which is an everybody club.

At that point, I was feeling pretty decent.  And by decent, I mean I was buzzing like Mya the Bee.  Nevertheless, I caught a case of “fuck it” and whipped up a half glass of Holy Water before we left.

“What, is that your seventh?” Justin asked.

“Uhh..fuck if I know.  Might be more.  Maybe less.  Who cares?”  I replied.

“This guy’s a machine.”  Pen said.

“Damn skippy.”

Travis’ brother ran a limousine company, so every now and then he would let Travis use a car on a slow night.  This is why you gotta keep at least two white friends at all times, people.  That shit comes in handy.  Anyway, all eight of us piled into a stretch Expedition.  The driver turned up the radio as soon as we stepped in.  I was having a ball.  I was with good friends.  I was riding in a free limo.  It was my birthday weekend.  Heaven.

* * *

So we arrived at Compound, and as we climbed out I noticed the long ass line.  I then noticed that “Big” Steve was working the door.

“Oh shit…my boy working the door.  Hold on.”

“You gonna make it?” Justin asked.

I semi-stumbled over to the door where Big Ron is standing.

“’Sup pimpin’?  You here now?”

“Mr. Faircloth.  What’s the deal?  Yeah, I’m done with Visions.  Tryin’ to handcuff a mu’fucka.  Know what I’m saying?  Had to kick rocks.”

“That’s what’s up.  So yo?   What’s up?  Can me and my crew roll through?”

“Fa sho.  Come on.”

“Ay, it’s cool.  Let’s roll.”  I yelled to my compatriots.

Big Steve wasn’t the most intellectually gifted person enrolled at our college.  During senior year he was struggling through Business Policy, an incredibly difficult class you had to pass in order to graduate.  Knowing full well he wasn’t up to the task, he paid me $100 to do his final project.  It got an A, he graduated, and he’s been indebted to me ever since.

***

So after we get in, my jaw is super tight and there was a slight breeze blowing between my ears.  I was wobbly.  My eyelids were heavy.  People and objects were starting to become formless entities.  It was a wrap, and I should have just been cool and chilled, but since everyone immediately headed for the bar?  Fuck it.

Everyone ordered cocktails, but I ordered a Corona.  I figured that to be a safe choice.  So we got our drinks and began the obligatory walk around the club.  The place was packed to the brim.  The bass was pounding.  Women were wearing the bare minimum.  Walking was a bit of a chore, because I has having problems focusing.  It was then that the damnedest thing happened to me.  The Corona bottle just fell out of my hand.  It just slipped out, as if the muscles in my hand had atrophied to the point of nothingness.  That had never happened before.  Trust me.  Heaven forbid I drop even a teaspoon of liquor.  That’s alcohol abuse, and I didn’t believe in that.  Needless to say, that’s when I knew the night was not going to end well.

* * *

So I end up dancing with a chick for what seemed like an eternity.  The only way I could keep my balance was to hold on to her.  Everything, and I do mean everything, was a blur.  I didn’t even know what the chick looked like.  But she was into me.  She was into me so much that she put my hands on her chest.  I squeezed.   Soft.  I squeezed a little more.  No resistance.  Without thinking,  I gently glided my hands down to her nether region.  She was into it.  The next thing I know, she slipped me the tongue.  It was so on.

We kissed and did other things for God knows how long.  Mind you, I had no idea where my boys were, but I was having fun.  Well…at first I was having fun.  At some point things went awry.  I got this unusual feeling in my stomach…which lead to an incredible feeling of control loss throughout my body.  I was in dangerous territory.  Never having been that drunk before, I didn’t know whether I was about to throw up or die.  I wasn’t quite sure which one I preferred.  At this moment of weakness, she whispered into my ear.  I have no idea what she said.  Scout’s honor.

“I think I love you.” I responded.  Yep.  People do really stupid things when drunk.

She then snatched me by my wrist and led me outside.  I couldn’t keep my head from rolling around like a cerebral palsy patient, but I was game for following this chick to wherever she went.  When we got outside, my eyes were pretty much closed, my knees were shaking, and I think I could taste my brain fluid in the back of my mouth.

She introduced me to some guy and I’m pretty sure I shook his hand.

“Blah blah blah blah blah blah.”  The guy said.  Or something to that effect.  My ears weren’t really working.  I could kind of make out the guy’s face, but he was still blurry.

“I.  Need to.  Lay.  Down.” I said.  Or something to that effect.

Next thing I know, I’m hopping in the back seat of a car with this chick.

“Wait.  I…my boys.  I.” She then shoved her tongue down my throat, reached into my pants, and said hello to Captain Kangaroo.  My pants pocket started to vibrate which added to the effect.  I’m pretty sure the protesting stopped.

* * *

In seemingly seconds, we are at her apartment door. As soon as we stepped in, she started leading me to the bedroom.  At this point, I’m a little bereft of detail, so I can’t give the blow by blow.  Actually, I’m kind of happy about that.  The less known, the better.

So she threw me down on the bed and hopped on my chest.  She’s totally naked in what seems like a second.  She then hopped on my face, and started grinding like a diamond cutter.  Stay with me.  It gets better.  Trust me.  This goes on for I don’t know how long, but at some point I feel a mouth on my dick.  Don’t remember another person entering the room.  Don’t remember my pants being removed, either.  I do remember it was a great blow job, though.  So life was good until…

The chick got off of my face.  I remember being curious about seeing the chick that was doing such a good job of shining the silver.  I force my eyes open and try to focus.  Slowly but surely the picture came into view.

IT WAS THE GUY FROM OUTSIDE THE CLUB.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

He stopped.  Stood up.  And left the room. I do believe I blacked out at that point, because as far as the rest of the night goes, I can’t distinguish between dream, reality, and nightmare.  I have vague recollections of grabbing hair and falling off the bed.  I may have had a conversation with the Devil, but I can’t confirm.

* * *

The next morning I woke up sober as Hell.  And no, there was no searing pain or anything untoward in my posterior, so no one plunged into my dark tunnel.  However, I have no idea of what I did and to whom I did or didn’t do it to.

She was asleep with her head was under the covers, which was perfect for my escape.  I put on my clothes and walked out of the door.  And wouldn’t you know it?  I was actually in my apartment complex.  I had to chuckle.  Then a sudden shiver ran down my spine.  It was…

THE GUY FROM OUTSIDE THE CLUB.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

I ran to my apartment faster than Ben Johnson on a steroid-speed cocktail.  I didn’t even bother to take off my clothes.  I just jumped in the shower, turned the water on, and tried to wash away my immense shame.

* * *

So, OK.  I got stupid ridiculous drunk, let some guy blow me, and didn’t really object that hard.  But that does not make me gay.  It was a one time thing, never to happen again.  I blame it all on the Holy Water.  That is why I, then and there, decided to give up drinking…and started smoking weed.  I never heard of anyone smoking out and getting so high that they let a guy blow him.  It was difficult, because I was a fool for liquor, but God was obviously trying to tell me something.  I decided to listen for once.

The only thing that still eats at me is, I still don’t know exactly what the chick looks like.  I went by the apartment a couple times, but I never saw anyone come out of it or go into it.  I asked around, and no one could tell me the name of the people that lived there.  That’s the crazy part.  It’s like they don’t even exist.  But I know for a fact that they do.  Shit, I probably bumped into them while getting my mail, and the sick fucks didn’t have the decency to say anything about it.

Anyway, I’d like to end this chapter with a couple lessons learned from this fuckery:

1. Holy Water is the Devil’s elixir.  Seriously, he will appear and talk mad shit about you and your mama.
2. Drinking is the road to Hell.  Can’t be argued.  At. All.
3. Getting blown by a guy one time, while under the influence, does not make you gay.  I really can’t stress this enough.  This does not make me gay, in any way.

There you have it.  I’ve given you the recipe for Holy Water.  If you’re feeling particularly ‘bout it, go ahead and give it a try.  If you end up in a dumpster, naked, with a tattoo of an elephant’s dick on your face don’t say I didn’t warn you.

                This is a modest apartment, yet impeccably clean.

                The kitchen. There are no dishes in the sink.  The counter tops are sterile. The cereal boxes are neatly organized next to the stove.  The stovetop is spotless, with oven mitts folded meticulously over the oven handle.  Martha Stewart would wet herself. 

                The dining room.  One walks out of the kitchen into the dining room.  It is simple.  A small table for two sits next to the wall.  The place settings are rigidly organized and straight.  There isn’t a blemish to be found.

                The living room.  This room houses a nice sofa, love seat, and computer desk.  Different pictures and paintings adorn the wall, which are white and spotless.

                The bedroom.  The bedroom is much like the rest of the apartment; simple, highly organized, and very clean.  Only this room isn’t uninhabited.  The owner of this immaculate contraption is Brian Mack.  Brian is in his early twenties, and has been a neat freak since the early nineties.  His mother was the biggest influence on his neatness.

                On this particular night, Brian has a dinner date with his girlfriend.  He is all set to leave, but he notices something and decides that he needs to vacuum.  His impromptu cleaning fit makes him late, which in turn, makes Simone unhappy.  Thus she gives him a call.

                “Hello.  Yeah, I know.  I just had to vacuum right quick.  I know, I know.  It’s just, there

was a little lint on the carpet and… yeah, I know.  I’m on my way.”  Brian says before hanging up the phone.  He’s  had similar conversations with Simone before, however, he can’t help the way he is.

                Brian eventually finishes vacuuming his bedroom.  He wraps the cord around the machine, places it in his closet, and grabs a pair of dress shoes.  He doesn’t put them on, however.  Instead, he takes them with him out of the room.  As he moves through the living room, he inspects the furniture. Any lint or other debris is promptly removed.  He notices that one of his pictures, the one of the Golden Gate Bridge, is slightly turned down at an angle.  He moves the right corner of the frame, maybe an eighth of an inch upwards.  The “normal” human eye wouldn’t even notice the change.

                “That’ll work.”  Brian says as he walks towards the side door with shoes in hand.  After checking that the kitchen is completely satisfactory, he finally decides to leave his apartment.  Only after completely walking outside, does he decide to put on his shoes.  Afterwards, he pulled out a bottle of liquid soap, and washes his hands.  He then reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a surgeon’s mask.  The Atlanta smog is becoming a problem.

*    *    *

                “He was vacuuming.” Simone says to Maria, who is incredulous on the other end of the phone.  Brian and Simone enjoy a very healthy relationship.  The only issue that has ever reared its head in their seven months as a couple, is Brian’s obsessive compulsiveness.

                “Let me guess.  There was one strand of lint on the floor.”  Maria said.

                “You got it.”

                “That’s your boy.”

                “Yeah.  I don’t know what it is.  I can’t get any luck.  Brian’s about the best boyfriend I’ve had since sixth grade.”

                “Noah Ryan.”

                “Yeah.  But his obsessive compulsiveness is kind of a problem.”

                “Does that make it easier to tell him about Chicago?”

*    *    *

                As Brian makes his way up 75N, he goes over in his mind how he is going to tell Simone about his new job offer.  While he was going through the various scenarios, he gets a call on his cell.

                “Hello.”

                “B Mack.  What’s up Playboy?”

                “Tre’ five seven.  What’s up?  Where are you?  I tried to call you about an hour ago.”  Brian says.

                “Me, Travis, and the Gangsta are at the Waffle House.”  Clarence says.

                “What on Northside?”

                “Yeah.”  Clarence says.

                “How you can eat at that place, dude?”

                “Whatever, dude.  This chicken plate is off the hook.  I’d bang one of these chefs to get the recipe.”

                “I know how much you like women with more facial hair than you.”

                “Hell yeah.  But anyway, we were gonna come through, but I see you aren’t there.”

                “No, I’m on my way to Simone’s.”

                “You gonna tell her?”

                “I’m gonna try.”

                “I don’t see why you’d wanna leave Atlanta, dude.  The cost of living is great, great nightlife, bomb chicks, great—hold on… ha ha ha!  Travis said Atlanta’s got the best sluts in the country!  Dude, why would you want to go to Chicago?”

                “I just feel this is the best thing for me.  It just feels right, you know?  I just hope Simone takes it well.”

                “Man, she is going to fucking trip.”

*    *    *

                “I love Atlanta, but this is a great opportunity.” Simone says.

                “Have you thought about what you’re gonna say?” Maria says.

                “I don’t know yet.  I think it’ll come to me as the night goes along.”

                “You don’t want to leave him do you?”

                “I do love him.  I don’t want to choose, but what can you do when something like this is just given to you.”

                “You—”

                “Yeah, I know.  I complain about his quirks, but—”.

                Brian’s car pulls up outside her apartment.

                “Oh that’s him.  Gotta go.  Ba-bye.”  Simone says as she hangs up the phone.

                Brian takes his mask off before getting out of his car.  It kind of freaked Simone out the first time she saw him with it on.  It was their first argument, and probably the most awkward.

He walks to the door and gives it a knock.  Simone’s beauty strikes him as soon as she opens the door.

                “What’s up?” She said.

                “You.” Brian replied.

They hug and give each other a kiss.  Simone walks toward the kitchen as Brian is left at the door.  After he closes it, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the soap.  Simone turns around just in time to catch him.

                “Mack?”  Simone asked.

                “Yeah?” 

                “What are you doing?”

                “Washing my hands.”

                Simone gives him the raised eyebrow.

                “Yeah, but it’s just … OK.”  Brian relents.

He puts the soap back in his pocket and heads toward the dining area.  As he passes through the living room, he notices that the magazines Simone has laid out on the coffee table are not organized.  Of course, he must rectify that.  After straightening up, he takes a seat on the couch. 

                “So how was work today?”  Simone asked.

                “May have actually earned my paycheck.  I six…maybe even seven hours.”  Brian responded.

                “Seven?  Damn, that’s like five hours of overtime.  You must be tired?”

                “It was rough, but I think I can make it.  I’m going to need a hearty meal to get my strength back.  What are you cooking?

                “Crab cakes, cheese potatoes, and green beans.”

                “Ah, I think that may do it.”  Brian says.

                Brian gets up and walks to the kitchen, as Simone makes the final preparations.  Everything looks good to him, as he wraps his arms around Simone’s waist, kisses her on the cheek, and rests his head on her shoulder. 

                “I need to tell you something but—” Simone says.

                “What is it?”

                “After dinner.”

                “C’mon tell me now.”

                “After dinner.”

                Brian was immediately intrigued at what Simone was going to tell him.

*    *    *

Brian and Simone have finished eating, and are sitting on her sofa “smooching.”  Brian initiates this love session to give himself more time to think of what to say.  Simone is relieved once Brian started in on her.  All through dinner she couldn’t quite put the words together.  After fifteen minutes of heavy petting, she figures it’s time to bite the bullet.  She finally pulls away from him.

“Whoa, what happened?” Brian says.

“We need to talk.” Simone answers.

His diversion hasn’t lasted long enough because he still has no idea how to break the news to Simone.

“Why—what?”

His mind goes into overdrive. 

                “There’s something very important I need to talk to you about.”

                “What’s that?”

                Up until that moment, Brian had been thinking about how he was going to break the news to Simone.  Suddenly, however, something else pops into his mind.

                “I have been killing myself thinking of a way to tell you.”

                It begins to gnaw at him.  He’s forgotten to do something.  But what?

                “You know I’ve been trying to get a job at E & Y, but for here in Atlanta.  Well, they offered me a job… and it’s in Chicago.”

                Bingo.

                “Oh shit.”  Brian says.

                “I know baby.  Listen. I—”

                “I forgot to do something.”

                Simone looked at Brian incredulously.

                “Did you just hear what I said?” Simone asks.

                “What?”  Brian says.

                “You’re kidding right?”

                “No I—”                               

“I don’t believe you.  What is it this time?”

“I—”

“No, no, no.  Don’t tell me, it’s more fun if I guess.  What could it be?  Let’s see, you didn’t wipe down the counter tops.”

                “Of course not.  You know me better than that.”

                Simone has a list of things Brian could’ve forgotten to do.  As her annoyance reaches critical mass, she moves farther and farther away from Brian.  So far, in fact, that she might as well be in the bathroom.

                “Heaven forbid.  Well, what else could it be?  You—”

                “I’ll save you the trouble.  Earlier today I was drinking orange juice, and I think I left the cup in the bathroom.”

                Simone rolls her eyes, turns her head, sighs, and puts a very sour look on her face.  Brian’s mind is somewhere else.

                “I can not believe we’re having this conversation.  I mean—am I here?”

                People addicted to drugs often feel compelled to continually do the drugs, even if they feel the drug abuse is hurting them.  You can look into their eyes and see that they don’t want to do it, but something that they can’t overcome forces them to do it.  That is the look in Brian’s eyes.

                “We’ve had a bad ant problem lately.  I—just—you know, it’s gonna eat at me if I don’t do something.”

                “Shocking.  Well… if you must, you must.”

                “I know you’re upset, but it’s—”

                “Just.  The way. You are.”

                “It’ll only take a minute.  I swear I’ll be right back.  Then you can tell me—cause I have something to tell… right.  OK, I’ll be right back baby.  I promise.

                “Ba-bye.” Simone replies.

                Brian gets up and sprints out of the house.  Having never been so disgusted, Simone gives up.

                “I guess I better get some snow tires.”

*    *    *

                “Fuck!”

                Pissed and relieved at the same, Brian barrels through traffic.  After leaving in such a hurry; he didn’t have time to put his mask on.

*    *    *

Brian doffs his shoes, and enters the apartment through the side entrance, which leads into the kitchen.  Upon closing the door, he hears a noise coming from the back of the apartment.  Nervous, he drops his shoes, and looks around for a weapon.  He ends up grabbing a butcher knife and walks slowly towards the bedroom.  As he enters the living room, he is horrified at the site he beholds.  Sofa cushions are upturned, pictures are on the floor, and papers from his desk are scattered.  It looks as if a small tornado has swept through his house.  He momentarily lets his guard down as he laments the state of his living room.  So mortified is he, that he almost doesn’t notice the man running into the living room trying to attack him.

When he finally does see him, the intruder hits him with a cross body block, knocking him to the ground.  The knife flies out of Brian’s hand as he hits the floor.  Thinking Brian to be dazed; the intruder tries to make his escape.  Brian may be anal retentive, but he’s also a strong S.O.B.  Grabbing an ankle, Brian trips the intruder and gains the advantage.  Springing to his feet, Brian wraps his arms around the intruder’s head, and tries to throw him down on the ground.

The two of them toss and tumble all over the living room, further ruining the apartment’s aesthetic value.  The thug eventually grabs Brian around the waist, lifts him in the air, and slams him to the floor.  Brian gets the wind knocked out of him, and doesn’t get a chance to recover.  The burglar picks Brian up by his head, and commences to throw it into one of Brian’s previously white walls.  Brian slowly sinks to the floor as the burglar makes his way out the side door.

*    *    *

Eventually Brian regains consciousness.  As he looks around his apartment, the carnage absolutely devastates him.  He slowly picks himself up to get a better look at things.  He walks to the bedroom and sees that it is virtually identical to the rest of the house.  He’s got a couple things he needs to do.

*    *    *

                “Damn, I could make this stick if I had some scotch tape.  I knew I should’ve bought some today.”

*    *    *

                “Yes, I’d like to report a robbery at 154 Northside Dr.”   

*    *    *

Dale Jackson has been on some strange calls as an Atlanta Police Officer.  Historically, burglary calls are usually routine.  This one, however, is rapidly becoming stranger and stranger as Dale stands outside of Brian’s apartment with his shoes in his hands.  Dale communicates through the door, because Brian doesn’t want the Atlanta air getting in to his apartment.  Yes, this was a strange call indeed.

                “OK, Mr. Mack they’re off.  Will you let me in now?”  Dale says.

Brian opens the door and lets Dale in.  Dale is quite stunned to see an apartment that is immaculately clean.   Nothing is out of place.  Nothing is in disarray.  By all appearances, Brian is calm.  At least from the looks of the living room nothing is out of the ordinary.  Except… for that smell.

                “Mr. Mack is that pine sol I smell?”

                “Yes.”

                “Mr. Mack, have you been doing any cleaning?”

                “Yes, I mopped the kitchen floor.  The burglar left dirt tracks all through it.”

                The only thing keeping Dale from laughing is the utter insanity of the situation.

                “You’re kidding.  Did you do any other cleaning?”

                “Yes.  I straightened up the living room and my bedroom.  They were in disarray.”

                “God help me.  This is gonna seem like a dumb question.” 

                “There are no dumb questions.”

“Right.  Well, here goes.  Why on earth would you clean up a crime scene?”

                “Well.  I just—I just couldn’t stand someone seeing my apartment in the shape it was.  It was just very unsat.”

The officer looks at Brian like he is Bigfoot. 

                “I need a drink.”

*    *    *

                Throughout his eight years in the Navy and ten years on the force, no one has made quite the impression on Dale, that Brian has.  He can’t decide whether to arrest him for obstruction or just call the whole thing off.  Brian, on the other hand, is just relieved that everything is back in order.  Everything except his picture of the Golden Gate Bridge.  The frame split and he had nothing to hold it together.  So, he placed it in his bedroom closet. 

                After taking Brian’s statement, Dale decided that he couldn’t until he learned a little more about the guy he affectionately called “The Cleaner.”  They sit in the dining room shooting the shit.

                “So that’s why you’re so obsessive.”  Dale said.

                “Yeah.  I guess she beat it into me—literally.”

                “No shit.  Well Mr. Mack, I do believe it’s time for me to go now.  I don’t think we’ll find the intruder, since you removed all traces of his existence here.  But I’ll set an appointment, so our artist can do her thing.  Good night and good luck in Chicago.”

                “Oh shit!” Brian shouts.

                “What?”  Dale asks.

                “She got a job in Chicago.”

                “Who?”

                “My girlfriend.  That’s what she was trying to tell me.  Holy shit, that’s so cool.”

                Brian is genuinely happy.  It appears as though their plans will coincide.  Suddenly, however, a tidal wave of horror washes over his face, as he remembers the other events of the night.

                “Oh no.  Oh no.  Oh God.  No!”

                Brian jumps up and rushes over to the phone sitting on his computer desk.  He frantically dials the number.

“C’mon, please be there.”  Brian pleads.  Nevertheless, her answering machine picks up.  Broken, Brian hangs up the phone.

                “What?  What happened?” Dale asked.

                “You got a minute?”

                “A couple.”

                “You’re not gonna believe this.”

                “Coming from you… probably not.”

*   *   *

So I’m stuck somewhere in Southeast Georgia.  I have no money.   I have no friends.  I have no place to stay.  And I have no idea what I’m going to do next.  All I have is a .45 and twelve bullets.

*   *   *

The Greyhound bus dropped me in off in a place called Kingsland.  Funny, doesn’t look like too much royalty around here.  I knew I was in trouble when I saw that the bus stop shared space with a hardware store, that was in the same building as a butcher’s shop.  Oh well.  A mission is a mission.  Or so I thought.  I wasn’t really sure how I was gonna handle it though.  I’d never killed anyone before.  And wasn’t all that anxious to get started.

*    *    *

What makes you believe the Devil resides in Hell? When I heard those words… let’s just say my life took a serious turn at that point.  I lived in Atlanta and worked at the Cartoon Network.  I was a brand new producer, brought in to create adult-themed cartoons.  I say this to inform you of my vivid imagination.  So as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, and saw the man appear out of thin air I just knew I was dreaming.   Or at the very worst, hallucinating.  The cartoon I was developing was about a ghost, so I thought my mind was just playing tricks on me.

                “Do you believe the Devil is real?” he said.

I quickly turned my head only to find that the bathroom was empty.  However, when I turned back around, there he was.  Exact same place.  Hadn’t moved.

“I said, do you believe the Devil is real?”

How do you respond to a question like that?  To a guy that isn’t there? 

“Uh—well I… it’s never come up in a conversation before.”

“It’s come up now.”

At this point I’m thinking about not eating after 7:00 ever again.  I’m also trying to figure out what to say in response, but I can’t take my eyes off this guy.  He’s black, about 6’5”, with long black hair straight down past his shoulders.  He looked almost like Sam Jackson in “Jackie Brown. “ He was definitely a bad motherfucker, or one hell of an illusion.  I couldn’t tell which.

“Yeah.  I suppose he’s real.  There’s a Hell isn’t there?”

Then he had to say it.  Back then, I had never really opened myself up to that possibility.  We’re taught from the time we’re little kids about Heaven and Hell, and God’s in Heaven and the Devil’s in Hell.  So I’m thinking what in the world would make him say that?  What did it have to do with me?  Was he the Devil?

*    *    *

Barry Reed.  Standing in the half-bus terminal half-Hardware shop I opened up a phone book.  It wasn’t that thick, so I figured I might be in luck.  Alex Reed.  Andre Reed.  Brian Reed.  My luck didn’t kick in quite how I had hoped.  Never mind the fact that I didn’t know what the guy looked like, where he lived, where he worked, nothing like that.  I was put on a crowded, smelly, festering Greyhound bus, and the next thing I know I’m here.  

“You wouldn’t happen to know a Barry Reed, would you?”  I figured it was worth a shot.

“Barry Reed, huh?  No… don’t think I know a Barry Reed.”  The counter clerk said.  He was a short old white man, maybe about 55 years old.  He looked like one of those guys you always see in the movies that knows everybody’s business.  I was certain he was in the know.

“Thanks for—” 

“Now hold on.  I’m not done, just yet.  I was fixin to say, maybe he’s kin to Greg Reed.  I do know Greg and I believe he’s got a brother.”

“Really?  Great.  Do you know where I can find him?” 

“Yeah.”  He said as I waited for him to fill in the blanks.  And I waited some more, as he looked straight into my eyes for at least thirty seconds without blinking.  It kind of freaked me out.

“Can you tell me?”

“Yeah.” 

You’re on a mission.  You’re on a mission.  I kept repeating it in my head, hoping not to get completely frustrated by Matlock.  Damn those eyes.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I’m a damn site brighter than the dimmest.  You get off a bus with no luggage.  Not even a handbag.  Nothing.  You come in here ask for a phone book.  Don’t make a call.  But the next thing you ask me is do I know Barry Reed.  Nothing about a hotel, or a restaurant, or even a liquor store.  All you want to know is where you can find Barry Reed.  Not to mention how you’re dressed.  I ain’t Jewish, but I know when something isn’t kosher… Newell.” 

I stood there frozen as he began to smile at me. 

“I’m not gonna make this easy for you.  I want them as much as you do.”

It took a Herculean effort to unlock the muscles in my body, but when I finally did I ran out of that hardware store faster than Usain Bolt with a lump a hot coal in his back pocket.  Once I hit the outside, I continued running down the street until I found a convenience store.  Gasping for air, I walked over to the beverage section and opened a refrigerator door.  As the cool air washed over me, I thought about what the old man said to me.  I then came to the realization that the words of my visitor were hauntingly ringing true.

*    *    *

                My life used to be so much simpler before that crazy night.  Like I said before I was a producer at Cartoon Network.  It took me two years of interviews and weasling my way in, but I finally landed the job.  I figured it was the only logical next step.  I’d been an artist since I was eight and I have a pretty fantastic imagination.  That’s about the only character trait I have that stands out.  See I’ve been told on occasion that I’m boring, moody, unfunny, uncaring, stilted, robotic, uncaring… I think you get the point.  I lead a rather unremarkable life.  I drive a beige Honda accord fully unloaded.  I don’t really dress flashy or have an Ikea catalog for an apartment.  I must take umbrage with one criticism, however.  I think I’m quite funny, boderline hilarious.  Although, no one really knows this about me, because I tend to be rather short with people.  Don’t think that I’m complaining or begging for help.  No, I’m pretty OK with myself.  Well I take that back.  I was… until I shot someone between the eyes for the first time.

*    *    *

                I must have been giving the girl at the counter a bad vibe, because she was giving me the evil eye.  As I caught her glance, I closed the door, and walked toward the counter.  When I got there I was about to ask her a question, when a newspaper caught my eye.

“GREG REED PROMOTED TO HIGH SCHOOL PRINCIPAL”

                Excited, I picked up the paper and read the story.  Mr. Reed had been the Vice-Principal at Camden County High School, but obviously a scandal involving the 53 year-old Principal and a 15 year-old boy made the School Board reconsider his occupational worth. 

                “The library is down Hwy 40 about two miles on the left.  You can read the newspaper for free down there.  Here it’ll cost ya 75 cents.”  The girl said.  I couldn’t tell if she was serious or sarcastic.  Must’ve been the accent.

                “I don’t have any money.”

                “Looks like it’s the library for ya, then.”

                “Actually.  Can you tell me where the high school is?”

                “You’re not from around here are you?”

                 “Really?  What gave it away?”

                “It’s eighty degrees outside and you’re wearing an overcoat.”

                Oh yeah.  There is that.

*    *    *

                “So what do you think?” The Visitor said.  At this point we, well mostly him, had been talking for several hours.  Same positions as when he first appeared in my mirror.  I really couldn’t move at that point.  What he had just told me… well it was beyond deep.  I was also a tad speechless. 

                “I—it’s… I—you can’t…”

                “It’s a lot to grasp isn’t it?”

                “Yeah.”

                “You’re wondering, why you right?”  Then he suddenly disappeared.  I spun around quickly, and there was nothing there.

                “Hello?”  Nervously I looked around the bathroom, but I was alone.  I chalked it up to the chili I ate before I took my shower.  It had to be a hallucination or dream.  But if it was, the things he said…  anyway, I was feeling a little better until I spun back around and looked into the mirror.  A shiver the size of Alaska ran down my back when I saw The Visitor’s reflection instead of mine.

                “The point Newell, is that sometimes things happen for no apparent reason.” He said.  I shook my head and blinked but there he was shaking his head and blinking his eyes.  It was obviously his body, but when I moved, his body made the exact same movement.  I raise my arm, his raised to the exact same level.   

“Events defy logic and explanation.  No matter how hard you scratch your head, you won’t come up with an answer.  Sort of like our current situation.  No matter how much you try, you will never figure out why you currently see what you see.  The question is, will you do what has been asked of you?”

How could I not?  If you knew what I was told… oh yeah.  I’ll get into that at a little later.  For the moment, let’s just say that I was an involuntary volunteer.  I didn’t really want to do it, but I really had no choice.

“Yes.  I will do it.”  Suddenly everything went black, and I felt like I was being lifted in the air.  My body started to spin.  First slowly, then faster… and faster.  I was almost ready to vomit when I stopped spinning and immediately found myself on a Greyhound bus. 

I was sitting next to a woman that smelled like—well I don’t have a good description but it was horrible.  It was then that I noticed the overcoat I was wearing.  Inside, I was a nervous wreck and scared half to death.  I hoped no one noticed, but the rest of the bus appeared to be in a daze.   At any rate, I calmed myself down, and started going through the pockets of my overcoat.  I reached into an inside pocket.  Whoa.  Even though I’d never held one before, I knew what a gun felt like.  I had to go to the bathroom.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”  I said.  She had the nerve to look pissed at me.  She slowly got up and let me out, anyway. 

When I got to the bathroom, I reached inside my coat and pulled out the .45.  It was magical.  I pointed it at the mirror.  First, with one hand.  Then, with two hands.  I was amazed and terrified at the same time.  I knew I would have to carry a gun, but it didn’t sink in until I actually had it in my hands.  Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was no clip in place.  I reached into another pocket and pulled out a small box of bullets. 

I opened the box and there they were, twelve of them.  They seemed unremarkable, until I noticed the writing on them.  Each bullet had a name transcribed on it.  I picked up the first bullet, and looked at it.

“Barry Reed”

I put it back in the container and tried to pick up the next one, but I couldn’t.  I paused.  Then I tried to pick it up again.  No dice.  So I continued to look in my pockets.  There were only two things left in there: a small book with a nondescript cover and a bus ticket.  The destination on the bus ticket said Kingsland, Ga.  The book was thick but with no writing on the pages.  I kept saying, “What the fuck?” over and over again.  Eventually, I just collapsed down onto the toilet and stayed there for a few moments.  It was so much to take in at one time.

*    *    *

                Walking down a highway in 80 degree weather in south GA wearing an overcoat, is jacked up.  I just wanted to point that out.  Anyway, the girl gave me directions, but I was dying in the oppressive heat.  I had to get myself together.  At that point, I decided that money, food, shelter, and air conditioning were more important than finding Greg Reed.  I knew where he was going to be, so I decided to switch focus.  I needed to get my hands on some money, and fast, because I needed a place to stay.  I suppose you think a big Producer-type like me has a wallet full of Gold and Platinum cards and tons of cash.  That would be the case if I had a wallet.  But I had nada.  It was going to take either trickery or force to get what I needed.  I was hoping for trickery, but hope doesn’t always spring eternal.

*    *    *

                “…And ever since, he has been tormenting Man.  Trying to stray him from God’s word.  Which brings us to why I’m here.”

                “I was hoping you’d get to that.”  I was actually hoping he’d leave, but an explanation was nice.

                “You’ve never been to Heaven, so you’re under the impression that there has only been one angelic revolt.  To the contrary, there have been quite many.  Many were insignificant and God handled them as such.”

                “More angels have rebelled?”

                “Many have rebelled.  What makes you think Lucifer was one of a kind?”

“Well, I figured the first smackdown would-“

“You think capital punishment deters crime?”

“Fair enough.”

“What I have to say is very serious.  Unless you do what needs to be done, there will be another revolt.  But this one will have repercussions beyond your wildest dreams.”

“What do I have to do?”

“There are twelve angels, inhabiting human form on Earth, that you must find.  When you find them, you must kill them.”

                I opened my mouth to speak.

                “Before you say anything.  Listen to what I have to say next.  It is very important.”

*    *    *

                I walked a little further down the road, eventually running into a Best Western Motel.  Walking up to the front door, I tried to think of short cons I could run to possibly get into a room.  Yet, my mind was blank.  I could hardly think of anything.  The ideas I did came up with would take some resources, of which I had none.  So I would have to use force of some kind.  I tried to psyche myself up, because I would eventually have to commit worse crimes than hitting someone over the head. 

I walked around the back of the motel.  I didn’t know why I did it, but I just did.  Walking up the stairs, I saw a door opening up.  Instinctively I ran to the door.  As I got there, a woman was just stepping out of it.  I rushed through the door and knocked her down.  After closing the door, I pulled the .45 and pointed it at her. 

                “Now I don’t want to hurt you.”  My hands here shaking so badly, I looked like I was having a seizure.  I tried to sound tough, but I wasn’t tough at all back then.

                “Oh my God.  You are going to do it.” She said.  That wasn’t what I was expecting her to say.

                “I’m sorry?”  She wasn’t the least bit afraid.  She calmly stood up and walked over toward me.  I frantically gripped the gun with both hands.

                “Get back!  I’m serious, I will shoot you.”  I nervously extorted.

                “Newell, I know the gun isn’t loaded.”  Another one.

                “Jesus Christ.  Lately, too many people know who I am.  Well, who the Hell are you?”

                “I am Jessica.  I’m here to assist you.”

                “Assist me?”

                “You are looking for the Lost Angels aren’t you?”

                “Yeah?”

                “How do I know?  It’s a long story.  Here, sit down.  Let me explain as best I can.”

                I put the gun back in my jacket and slowly walked over to a bed and plopped myself down.  Jessica came and sat down beside me.

                “OK, here’s the short version.  I am an angel.  For reasons I won’t go into right now, I was sent to Earth.  I have been waiting for what seems like forever for you to find me so that I can assist you.”

                “What—forever—what are you—”

                “Shush.  While you are looking for the First Angel, I am here to assist you.”

                “How?”

                “By protecting you from the multitude of demons that will try to stop you.”

                “Oh my God.”  I was five seconds from going apoplectic. 

                “Don’t worry, I will protect you.  I have to.  See it’s the only way I can get back to Heaven.”

                “What. The. Fuck?  Can my life get any weirder?”

                “Yes it will.  This is just the beginning.”

By Diallo Tyson

                Turner Jefferson Colleton isn’t what one might call an early riser, on Sunday mornings.  More often than not, his head is buried underneath several pillows of questionable softness well past lunch time.  He’s not lazy.  He just needs his sleep.  He cherishes his sleep.  If he could make love to sleep, he would.  So one can imagine the chagrin that passed over his face, when loud noises from across the loft awoke him from his slumber at 6:30 in the morning.

                “What. The Fuck.  Jay?”  TJ said in disgust.

***

                “Yeah.  I wouldn’t say it’s a problem, but it could be getting there.”  Jasmine Williams says.

                “I thought you were cool with it?” TJ replied.

                “I am.  I was-I-it’s…complicated.”

                “That makes no sense.  Explain.”

                At this point in her life, Jasmine had not been in flagrante delicto with a man for sixth months.  This period of chastity coincides perfectly with her current relationship with Joe Spezo.  Mr. Spezo possesses an exceptional knowledge of the bible.  He was called “The Gospel Rain Man” in high school for his peculiar ability to perfectly recite a bible verse upon being given the Chapter and verse number.  Lest one thinks Joe to be a fundamentally religious stick in the mud, please understand that he loves to have fun.  He just doesn’t believe in the type of fun that comes from bumping uglies.

                “We don’t have sex.”

                “Yes.  I know.” Tj replies.

                “Therefore I have to relieve my sexual urges in other ways.”

                “Masturbation.”

                “Yes.  In the past six months, I’ve masturbated more than all the kids at Warren G Harding Middle School combined.”

                “That’s-that’s a lot.”

                “Dude.  You have no idea.”

                “Well, I might-“

                “Anyway, fingers don’t really do the trick.  I need a vibrator.  And there’s the rub.”

                “Literally, if you will.”

                “Ha. Ha.  The thing is…when I…when I achieve orgasm…I tense up, I guess you could say.  Get what I’m saying?”

                “No.”

                “OK.  My [points downward] gets so tight that it…stops the motor of the vibrator.  If I do this a lot, which I do, then it wear out pretty quickly.  I go through 2 or 3 a month.”

                A look of shock, curious amazement, appreciation, and supreme reverence washes over TJ’s face in a matter of seconds.  He realizes that his mouth is hanging open, there are no sounds exciting, and that he looks like a recovering stroke patient.  Nevertheless, he really can’t help himself.

                “I’m gonna go…I gotta…yeah about that…I’m gonna leave you to your devices on that one.”  TJ says as he slowly rises from the couch, stealthily turns his back to Jasmine, and slowly yet painfully walks to his bedroom.

                “Pussy.”  Is all Jasmine can muster.

***

                7:00.  Still going.  TJ finally gives up on sleep and turns on the tv.  Totally clueless about what the small screen has to offer at such an early time, TJ surfs for what seems like an hour.

                7:05.  It only seems like an hour due to the increasing volume of gasps, moans, and “Oh my God’s” coming from across the loft.

                “You cannot be serious.”

***

                “So?  Carraba’s or Macaroni Grille?” Joe asks foolishly.

                “Top 5 dumbest question you’ve ever asked?  No.  Maybe top 10 though.”

                “Macaroni Grille has better calamari.”

                “You can go to Macaroni Grille.  It’s a free country.  I’ll text you from Carraba’s.”

                “El oh el at you, silly girl.”  Joe says as he lays a delicate peck on Jasmine’s forehead.

                This is where Jasmine loves to be.  She and Joe spooning on his sofa, watching a DVD, while simultaneously talking shit to one another.  The cinnamon coated breath on her neck, always puts Jasmine into a relaxed frame of mind. 

                “So yeah, spiedino de mare.  I want it on my plate.” Jasmine says.

                “I got ya.  Bowling afterwards?”

                “Of course.  I love extending your winless streak whenever I can.”

                “It comes to an end tomorrow.  I can’t go to Vegas sporting an o-fer.”

                “Right.  That’s a losing battle babe.”  

                In a few short days, Joe will be heading to Sin City to participate in a few decidedly un-sinful activities.  A church retreat in Las Vegas?  Some might say that is simply playing with fire, but Joe thinks that it is the perfect situation.  What better place to affirm your faith than in a town that makes the Devil go to bed early?

                “As long as I get to spend the evening with you, I’m good.” Joe says.

                “Good answer.”

***

                8:30.  TJ has exited his bedroom.  The loft he shares with Jasmine is quite spacious.  There is the living area, the dining area, both tenants’ respective work areas, kitchen, bathrooms, etc.  The bedrooms are separated by some distance, which makes the auditory showcase being witnessed by TJ all the more impressive.  As he creeps slowly towards Jasmine’s bedroom, the pit in his stomach grows exponentially in size.

                “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Jasmine screams as TJ recoils in shock and disbelief.

                “Who is this dude?  Is he shooting her?  The fuck?”

***

                “OK babe.  Have fun.  But not too much fun.  I-I know.  I was being ironic.  Really?  You’re giving me a grammar lesson?  Get off the phone jackass.  Love you.” 

                Jasmine clicks off and plops herself down on the couch and tries to relax, which would be a lot easier if the sounds of metalworking weren’t ringing in her ears.  Unfortunately for Jasmine, TJ fancies himself to be something of a master builder.  He is always in his “workshop” welding, hammering, nailing, beating, or pounding something or other.  Even though the racket can be nerve wracking at times, his skill is legitimate.

                “TJ?!?!”  Jasmine screams.

                Silence.

                “TJ?!?!” Jasmine reiterates.

                The racket stops, and Mr. Colleton steps from behind the curtain in full welder’s regalia: welder shield, leather smock, Kevlar gloves, and steel toe boots.  He flips up his shield.

                “Sup?”

                “What are you building, dude?”

                “My masterpiece.  You’re gonna dig it.  Promise.”

                “OK?  I can’t wait?”

                TJ takes of off his gloves and has a seat next to Jasmine.

                “J Dub, you’re gonna love me.”

                “I will, but I don’t think the paperweight you’re building is gonna be the reason.”

                “Ain’t no paperweight sweetheart.  For damn sure.”

                “Ok?  Can’t wait?”

                TJ is beyond giddy on the inside.  If Jasmine only knew what he was planning, she’d lose her shit, at least that’s how TJ feels.  Only another day or so and his masterpiece will be complete.

                While TJ’s inner monologue waxes poetic about his welding prowess, Jasmine quietly stews in her own curiosity.  She wonders how her straight laced, milk drinking boyfriend is handling Vegas.  Will he be eaten alive?  Will his faith persevere?  Will he preach to an Elvis impersonator?  Ultimately, she just hopes her booskie makes it homes safely.

***

                “Oh my God.  Really?”

***

                “This can’t be what it’s like.”

***

                “I…don’t know how to respond to that.”

***

                “Umm…OK?”

***

                TJ and Jasmine have a Saturday tradition.  Jasmine makes breakfast, usually greasy and lots of it, while TJ skims several newspapers and picks out interesting topics for discussion.  This particular Saturday held special significance for both.  Jasmine will be welcoming the return of her dear Joe to her loving bosom.  And all of TJ’s hard work will have paid off, as his Masterpiece is finally complete and ready for delivery.  It shall be a momentous day for the duo.

                “Joe Cool comes back today huh?” TJ asks.

                “Yep, can’t wait.  Week’s way too long to be away from him.”

                “So what’s up?  Has he liked it?  Hated it?  What?”

                “He hasn’t talked too much about it.  I think he’s been miserable, and just been-you know putting on a good face.”

                “Miserable in Vegas.  Imagine that.”

                “Probably has more to do with him being away from me.”

                “Yeah that’s it.”  TJ says with an eye roll.

                “Fuck you.”  Jasmine says right before she launches a biscuit at her roomie’s head.

                “Stop playing, girl!  Your biscuits are like mortar shells and shit.”

                “You’d rather the knife?”

                “I’ll pass.”  TJ says as the two enjoy a laugh.

“There’s no need for violence, cause I got something to show you.”

                “Ohhh.  Your side project, that’s been keeping me up at night.”

                “Yes ma’am.  Now close your eyes.”

                Jasmine obliges, as TJ scoots over to his workroom.  Several moments later, he is standing next to Jasmine with his Masterpiece firmly in tow.  His smile is ebullient.

                “OK, you can open your eyes.”

                Once again, Jasmine obliges.  She opens her eyes. 

                Shock.  Amazement.  Bewilderment.  Slight disgust?  Awe?

                “Ummm…is that?”

                “It’s a-“

                “Wow.  I…really don’t know how to respond to that.  That’s-wow-that’s…yeah.”

                TJ’s proud smile is quickly waning.

                “It’s your…deux ex machina, so to speak.  I made it because you-“

                “Yeah I-I get it.  It’s just-it’s probably the most…wow.  Not really what I was expecting on a Saturday morning.”

                “Well, maybe it’ll grow on you.”

                “Literally?  Is that possible?”

                “Actually, I have-“

                “Wow.  Ummm, thanks TJ.”  Jasmine says as she gives him a slight hug.  She picks the contraption up as if it were covered in swine flu, and takes it to her bedroom.

                Awkward.

***

                “I need you to run that by me again.  Just one more time.” Jasmine could hear her dad’s voice coming out of her mouth.  The anger was welling up inside of her chest.  Her reunion with Joe was not going, at all, how she had planned.  Here they stand, offset from baggage claim, having the most ridiculous break up in the history of ridiculous break ups.

                “Vegas opened up a world to me.  I can’t explain it.  It was like being baptized.”

                “You have been baptized motherfucker.  You know?  The church.  Remember them?”

                “I’ll never forget my faith.  I feel…it’s like the Amish.  As teenagers they’re allowed-“

                “I don’t give a fuck about no damn Amish.  I’m talking about you and you wanting to break up with me so you can fuck bitches and drink liquor.”

                “I know you’re upset.”

                “You have no fucking idea.  Do you know how fucking selfish this is?”

                “I’m sorry Jas.  It’s just-I had sex!  Do you know how great sex is?”

                The blood vessels in both of Jasmine’s eyes begin to swell, as her heart pounds like a herd of elephants on the rampage.  Does she know how great sex is?  Does she?  Jasmine’s brain begins to search for the right combination of profanities to fully get across the animosity bubbling up within her soul.

                “You.  Motherfucker.” Is all she can come up with.

***

                “Holy fucking shit.” Is all TJ can come up with.

                “This motherfucker.  So damn virtuous.  So virtuous.  Wanna drink?  ‘No babe, I’ll never touch the stuff.’  Sex? ‘No babe.’  Third base?!?  ‘No babe, I have to wait until marriage.’  For third base?  Third motherfucking base?  But now.  Now everything is on the table?  You selfish fuck!”  The passage of time often allows us to collate our disparate thoughts into some semblance of rational reasonable elocution.  Jasmine’s thoughts are definitely collating.  The elocution, however, is neither rational nor reasonable.  TJ is captivated by this blathering, profane version of his roommate.

                “Ok, wait.  Take a breath.  If that’s possible.  Tell me what the fuck?”

                “Ok.  Ok.  So he’s in Vegas, right?  Everything is everything.  He’s at the bar in the hotel lobby.  Why?  Who the fuck knows?  He’s there, nevertheless.  Drinking Evian, I guess.  But here’s the thing.  Get this.  Just, get this shit.  He’s sitting down, right?  The bartender is walking down towards the other end of the bar, with two drinks in his hand.  He slips.  Fucking slips.  The drink from one glass flies through the air, and hits Joe dead in his wide fucking open mouth.”

                “Are you serious?”

                “Dead.  Serious.  The next thing he knows, he’s ordering drinks, gambling, and banging strippers.”

                “He had sex?!?”

                “He had a lot of sex.”

                “Wow.  So, wait.  What’s the problem?  Why did he dump you?”

                Jasmine forces her lungs to take a deep breath.  The next part is especially painful.

                “A new world has opened up to him.  A world he knew existed, but was blind to, and afraid to enter.  But now?  Now his eyes are open.  He needs to explore this world.  To see if he was wrong for shunning it for so long.  But in order to fully appreciate this new world, he must cut all ties to the old one.  I am one of those ties.”

                “What an asshole.”

                “Fuck him.  I’m going out tonight.  I’m bringing somebody home, and I’m fucking him cross eyed.”

                “That’s…wow.  He might not-naw he’d probably like that.”

***

                Loser.

                Bad breath.

                Too skinny.

                Too cool for school.

                Too fat.

                Too gay.

                Toolbox.

                Gold teeth?  Really?

                Already cross eyed.

***

                Jasmine had gone to Concepts 21 with only the worst intentions in mind.  She was going to find a guy, spend 10 seconds talking to him, then drag him home, and knock his lights out.  If the road to Hell is paved with the best intentions, what sort of road do bad intentions pave the way to?  Massive disappointment, apparently.  Maybe she wasn’t as entirely up to the task as she tried to convince herself she was.  If she were really that adamant, maybe she wouldn’t have been so busy illuminating the various flaws in her potential suitors.

***

                1:04 AM.  The long trek back to the loft has Jasmine dejected and feeling completely alone.  After  slowly moping to her bedroom, she slumps down on the bed.  She readies herself to curl up into a ball of piss and tears, when something catches her eye.  It’s just sitting over there in the corner, where she dumped it earlier that morning.

                “Nah.”

                She’s slowly talking herself out of it.  Because, really?  Who actually uses those things?

                “Nah.”

                But?

                “Hmmm…”

                With much trepidation, she gets up off of her bed and cautiously approaches it as if it were a cornered opossum or a wounded lion.

                “Oh boy.  TJ…what am I gonna do with you?”

                She picks up the technological terror and places it on the bed.  No instructions, so she’ll have to figure this out on her own.  No way she’s going across the loft to get a “How to” lesson from TJ.

***

1:18 AM.  She thinks she has it figured out.

***

                1:22 AM.  She definitely has it figured out.

***

               2:09 AM.  Really starting to get into it.  Jasmine has to adjust and readjust a little, in order to get comfortable.  By now she is getting real comfortable.

***

                3:12 AM.  Joe who?

***

                4:36 AM.  Jasmine’s pupils are slowly moving inward, pointing to a spot some 4-5 inches in front of her nose.

***

                5:15 AM.  The agony and the ecstacy.   More ecstacy than agony.  Jasmine thinks about quitting, yet there are several more options to explore.

***

                8:22 AM.  Hoarse and lacking the energy and basic motor skills to even brush her teeth, Jasmine trudges on.  Not even the bright morning light can dissuade her from completing her mission.  She has no clue what the mission ultimately is, but she’s going to finish it, regardless.

***

                9:18 AM.  Second wind.

***

                10:34 AM.  No. Energy. Left.

***

                11:04 AM.  Jasmine is drained of all energy.  She has no sense of the world around her.  No sense of time.  No sense of anything, really.  She lay motionless in bed, unable to do even the simplest of arithmetic in her head.  She will definitely thank TJ, once she gets about 12 hours of sleep.

***

                TJ hadn’t realized when the noises finally stopped emitting from her bedroom.  After three or so hours, they just blended in with the world’s aural signature around him.  It wasn’t until around noon, that he noticed that the screams and “Oh my God’s” had stopped.  TJ plopped himself down on the couch and waited for his roommate to emerge.

***

                4:00 PM.  Jasmine slowly makes her way out of her bedroom.  Groggy, tired, sore, and hoarse Jasmine, nevertheless, meets TJ’s shit eating grin with one of her own.

                “So…interesting night we had, huh Jay?”

                “Dude.  You are the man.”

                “I am?”

                “Yes.  That contraption you made?  Umm yeah, it’s kind of the shit.”

                “You used it?  You were like-“

                “Nah dude, I was wrong.  That…thing is a Godsend.  I was on it for like 10 hours.”

                “10 hours?  My God.  That is impressive yet disturbing at the same time.  You got issues.”

                “You could say that.”

                “So.  Are you officially over Joe?” TJ asks with a smirk.

                “Yeah, I think I’m gonna be just fine.” Jasmine says as the roomies break out into laughter.