My Mother is almost breaking down. She just got the call from Marcus, my older brother, saying that he hasn't seen me in a week. None of my relatives have. The phone is still off its cradle from when Ma dropped it 15 minutes ago. Dad isn't home yet. He's still working at his pawn shop. Ma is sitting on the floor, almost in tears. She doesn't know how to cope with the death of her child. She'd get up to call Dad and tell him the news, but he wouldn't understand her through the sobbing. Tears roll down her face, which looks older from the years of drugs. Her hair, brown and grey, is frizzed out from running her fingers through her hair so many times in sadness. Far from the hippy dreadlocks they used to be. She picks up the phone. Punches in the numbers. Waits for someone to pick up.
Dad hears the news, and rushes home, his wrinkled face holding back tears, his beard soaking up the ones that fall. He tries to comfort ma, but it doesn't work. She's still frantic. Dad calls in the rest of the family. They drop what they're doing and come as quickly as they can. Marcus(rain), Jesse (cosmo), Alice (fern), Alan (ziggy), Mira (daydream), Chris (moonlight), and Abby (marigold) gather around to hear the news, and comfort our mother. Dad calls my apartment, Chris talks to my co-workers, and Marcus talks to the police. Nothing is found.
The police search for days. They bring in countless people, search everywhere I could have been, and even look in the bay. They don't find me. My parents get by on the assumption that I was kidnapped, and I'll show up soon. The siblings start to think I'm already dead, but nobody knows for sure. Mom and Dad try to calm down with the old standby: drugs. The rest of the family mourn. Samuel drinks away his pain.
Another week, and I'll be pronounced dead. They'll hold a funeral ceremony with an empty casket. My stuff will be divided among the family. My apartment will be put up for rent, and someone else will ponder about putting up a famous P.I.'s name on the door. Someone else will take a position selling photocopiers to people who don't need them. Someone else will start drinking at The King's Head. Someone else will start playing SOCOM online. Someone else will have to learn Sam's code.
Isn't it strange how easily I can be replaced.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Part 3
I walk into the bar to see the same faces I've seen since I started here 4 years ago. Ted, the bartender from small town Iowa who wanted to become a psychologist, but never had enough money to attend university.
Jane, the former pornstar who was fired once she got knocked up. Put a c-section birth ontop of that, and she'll only be doing work for the niche work. Fetishes and whatnot. Apparently they don't pay that well.
There's Jerry, the Nam veteran who tells the horror stories of his long dead military friends, because all he did was verify the news that was coming in.
People I've come to know from 4 years of drinking here, and having to put up with co-workers I can't stand.The people I try not to talk to. Sam doesn't come around alot. Him and Ted don't get along.
The average night of Sam and I drinking at our preferred watering hole, The King's Head, goes like so: Sam drinks. I drink. We debate something stupid...like time travel, or Superman v.s. Harvey Birdman. I get bored. When I'm drunk and bored I decide to do some stupid things. I once woke up in Sam's bathtub with some girl I didn't know on top of me and a box of dragonfruit on the floor. How the hell I found or could even afford a box of dragonfruit is beyond me. So, Sam and I decide to do something dumb, like go over to the jukebox and put on some Pink Floyd. Probably end up screaming the lyrics to "Have A Cigar". Ted cuts us off. Sam gets pissed. Sam gets into a fight with Ted. Ted gets Jim, the closest thing The King's Head has to a bouncer, to throw Sam and I out. Sam and I spend the rest of the night going to other bars, trying to convince the bartenders to give us more booze.
But Sam isn't here tonight.
I drink with my insufferable co-workers....have I told you how much I hate them? They chat about the minor annoyances of the day. They talk about their kids. They boast their homes and cottages. I sit quietly. I don't have the lcd TV's, the expensive cars, or the soundsystems that they have. I don't want those things. I don't want to live the American Dream, having 2.5 children, living in Barbie and Ken's dreamhouse, and driving a fine American automobile. I'm happy with the simple things I have. The most expensive object in my house is my computer, and I only bought it so I play SOCOM without having to be in Sam's apartment. In retrospect it was a terrible idea. With the ability to play video games over the internet, I can barely pull myself away from the computer.
I stay later than most of the people I came with. Ted asks me why I didn't say much. I tell him that I really don't have much to say. Tell him about how little I relate to the peolple that surround me. Nothing he hasn't heard before. I ask for a scotch before I go. He grabs the dusty, brown bottle of vile liquid from the shelf and pours a shot. I slam it back and ignore the taste of wood and the burning sensation in my throat. I watch the recaps of Baseball from earlier. The Cubs lose to Boston, 8-1. No surprises. As Eddie Vedder wrote "Someday we'll go all the way."
I leave the pub through the back door, into the alleyway. It's closer to my apartment, so Ted lets me leave out the back. There's a dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a while. It smells of rotting fish and potatoes. I walk by, with my hand over my mouth and nose to keep the putrid smell out of my system. Once I'm out of the smell zone, I'm able to open my eyes. The first thing I see is my shoes, as I inhale to get the smell out. The next thing I see is a figure in a trenchcoat with a can of spraypaint, tagging the wall. I yell at him to stop. He doesn't listen. I yell again. Nothing. I move closer. He pulls out a gun. I freeze.
I expect to see my whole life flash before my eyes. It doesn't. Why? Because I'm too fucking scared to think. I freeze, with a stupid face waiting for the few seconds, that seem like an eternity.
I see him pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the small explosion, propelling the projectile out of the barrell. I feel the impact it makes in my chest. I cock my head to the side. My brain registers that I've been shot. I pass out.
Jane, the former pornstar who was fired once she got knocked up. Put a c-section birth ontop of that, and she'll only be doing work for the niche work. Fetishes and whatnot. Apparently they don't pay that well.
There's Jerry, the Nam veteran who tells the horror stories of his long dead military friends, because all he did was verify the news that was coming in.
People I've come to know from 4 years of drinking here, and having to put up with co-workers I can't stand.The people I try not to talk to. Sam doesn't come around alot. Him and Ted don't get along.
The average night of Sam and I drinking at our preferred watering hole, The King's Head, goes like so: Sam drinks. I drink. We debate something stupid...like time travel, or Superman v.s. Harvey Birdman. I get bored. When I'm drunk and bored I decide to do some stupid things. I once woke up in Sam's bathtub with some girl I didn't know on top of me and a box of dragonfruit on the floor. How the hell I found or could even afford a box of dragonfruit is beyond me. So, Sam and I decide to do something dumb, like go over to the jukebox and put on some Pink Floyd. Probably end up screaming the lyrics to "Have A Cigar". Ted cuts us off. Sam gets pissed. Sam gets into a fight with Ted. Ted gets Jim, the closest thing The King's Head has to a bouncer, to throw Sam and I out. Sam and I spend the rest of the night going to other bars, trying to convince the bartenders to give us more booze.
But Sam isn't here tonight.
I drink with my insufferable co-workers....have I told you how much I hate them? They chat about the minor annoyances of the day. They talk about their kids. They boast their homes and cottages. I sit quietly. I don't have the lcd TV's, the expensive cars, or the soundsystems that they have. I don't want those things. I don't want to live the American Dream, having 2.5 children, living in Barbie and Ken's dreamhouse, and driving a fine American automobile. I'm happy with the simple things I have. The most expensive object in my house is my computer, and I only bought it so I play SOCOM without having to be in Sam's apartment. In retrospect it was a terrible idea. With the ability to play video games over the internet, I can barely pull myself away from the computer.
I stay later than most of the people I came with. Ted asks me why I didn't say much. I tell him that I really don't have much to say. Tell him about how little I relate to the peolple that surround me. Nothing he hasn't heard before. I ask for a scotch before I go. He grabs the dusty, brown bottle of vile liquid from the shelf and pours a shot. I slam it back and ignore the taste of wood and the burning sensation in my throat. I watch the recaps of Baseball from earlier. The Cubs lose to Boston, 8-1. No surprises. As Eddie Vedder wrote "Someday we'll go all the way."
I leave the pub through the back door, into the alleyway. It's closer to my apartment, so Ted lets me leave out the back. There's a dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a while. It smells of rotting fish and potatoes. I walk by, with my hand over my mouth and nose to keep the putrid smell out of my system. Once I'm out of the smell zone, I'm able to open my eyes. The first thing I see is my shoes, as I inhale to get the smell out. The next thing I see is a figure in a trenchcoat with a can of spraypaint, tagging the wall. I yell at him to stop. He doesn't listen. I yell again. Nothing. I move closer. He pulls out a gun. I freeze.
I expect to see my whole life flash before my eyes. It doesn't. Why? Because I'm too fucking scared to think. I freeze, with a stupid face waiting for the few seconds, that seem like an eternity.
I see him pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the small explosion, propelling the projectile out of the barrell. I feel the impact it makes in my chest. I cock my head to the side. My brain registers that I've been shot. I pass out.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
part 2
I look at the clock. Damn. 3:45. I suffer another hour and 15 minutes trying desperately to sell piece of shit photocopiers to another company that probably has enough photocopiers to xerox the collective ass of the state of Illinois. I once thought about complaining to the Better Business Bureau, citing how boring this job is.
Samuel peers over his cubicle in a way that reminds me of meerkats. "Squawk One!", he says. "Fox One, this is The Rooster.", I reply. We play a lot of SOCOM.
"Strange Wind today. My hat stayed on, but my head blew away"
"There's a polar bear in my refridgerator and my sister is for sale"
"Backwards Bill did WHAT?"
We get back to work.
Confused?
Sam says he has tickets to a show at The Strange Wind, a nice little club on Michigan Ave. I say I don't want to go and that I'd rather go to the pub, have some drinks, and go home peacefully. Sam complains that If I don't go with him, he'll be stuck with Bill. Bill, as one could expect, Is a little backwards. We think he's clinically paranoid, but we don't have any actual evidence of this.
Oh, yeah, the weird code. It's a little weird to explain. We can't even explain it. Sam and I came up with it one night after some heavy drinking, among other activities, varying in legality. That was the day I met Sam, I believe. Frosh week. I was a freshman, and he was a sophomore. I just got my ass handed to me in a snorkel race, and I went over him to steady my weary legs. I ended up puking on him.
For those of you who didn't attend Wesleyan University, the snorkel race is part of the "initiation ceremony". Here's how it works: two or more people are given diving masks, one that restricts breathing through the nose, and a snorkel. The older, douchebag frat boys with popped collars who are initiationg you then pour beer into the snorkel. The winner is the person who drank the most beer through the snorkel without breathing. I got 2 oz before puking after trying to breathe in and getting a throatful of cheap russian beer that one of the older guys found in his basement.
Sam was all around larger than I. The kind of guy who looked like he won more than a few snorkel races in his time. Real scruffy, and had a very round face. He kind of reminded me of a younger Billy Mays, but with puffier cheeks. I was about 6'1", 120 lbs, with long hair and a stupid hippy look on my face. We look much different now. We look like guys who have to wear a suit to work. Clean shaven, instead of scruffy or stubbly. Short, combed hair instead of long or shaggy hair. I hate it. I wish we could go back to those days. Sitting around drinking and listening to old Pink Floyd on the record player in our room. Sam couldn't live without his record collection.
Oh, look at the time. 5:00. Off to the pub with me.
Samuel peers over his cubicle in a way that reminds me of meerkats. "Squawk One!", he says. "Fox One, this is The Rooster.", I reply. We play a lot of SOCOM.
"Strange Wind today. My hat stayed on, but my head blew away"
"There's a polar bear in my refridgerator and my sister is for sale"
"Backwards Bill did WHAT?"
We get back to work.
Confused?
Sam says he has tickets to a show at The Strange Wind, a nice little club on Michigan Ave. I say I don't want to go and that I'd rather go to the pub, have some drinks, and go home peacefully. Sam complains that If I don't go with him, he'll be stuck with Bill. Bill, as one could expect, Is a little backwards. We think he's clinically paranoid, but we don't have any actual evidence of this.
Oh, yeah, the weird code. It's a little weird to explain. We can't even explain it. Sam and I came up with it one night after some heavy drinking, among other activities, varying in legality. That was the day I met Sam, I believe. Frosh week. I was a freshman, and he was a sophomore. I just got my ass handed to me in a snorkel race, and I went over him to steady my weary legs. I ended up puking on him.
For those of you who didn't attend Wesleyan University, the snorkel race is part of the "initiation ceremony". Here's how it works: two or more people are given diving masks, one that restricts breathing through the nose, and a snorkel. The older, douchebag frat boys with popped collars who are initiationg you then pour beer into the snorkel. The winner is the person who drank the most beer through the snorkel without breathing. I got 2 oz before puking after trying to breathe in and getting a throatful of cheap russian beer that one of the older guys found in his basement.
Sam was all around larger than I. The kind of guy who looked like he won more than a few snorkel races in his time. Real scruffy, and had a very round face. He kind of reminded me of a younger Billy Mays, but with puffier cheeks. I was about 6'1", 120 lbs, with long hair and a stupid hippy look on my face. We look much different now. We look like guys who have to wear a suit to work. Clean shaven, instead of scruffy or stubbly. Short, combed hair instead of long or shaggy hair. I hate it. I wish we could go back to those days. Sitting around drinking and listening to old Pink Floyd on the record player in our room. Sam couldn't live without his record collection.
Oh, look at the time. 5:00. Off to the pub with me.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Failfic
Let me start out by saying I am NOT a hero.
I work a boring-ass job, selling photocopiers over the phone. It's not what I wanted to do, but I realised that playing drums for a living isn't going to pay the bills. I had to take a REAL job. I hate this job. I stay here because...well...I think I forgot my reason for leaving this hellhole. Also, I really don't have the skills to work anywhere else. I hate my co-workers. They're a bunch of high-strung yuppies who all want a spot at the top, so they kiss ass all day to "level up" in the company. Not me. I just do what I'm told. Another faceless drone in the corperate hive. Why don't I want an upper management position? When I was a teenager, I adopted an anti-consumerist attitude. Partially because I was raised by hippies. Partially because I was one of those kids that hung around the AV club too long in high school. After grade 10, AV club loses most of the nerds and becomes a hangout for the social rejects and weirdos. The kids who are more likely to be behind a shooting. They had a great influence on me. Told me about Monty Python and Hunter Thompson. We pulled great pranks. Pushed a Volkswagon bug into the library, Hired a stripper to perform at grad...spliced single frames of porn into the year-end video.
Where was I? oh yeah, co-workers. I hate them. If you see them, don't tell them. If they think I'm their friend, they'll continue including me in the daily round of drinks after work. Alcohol is the only way to cope with them. When I drink, I become more sociable. I hate all of them, except Samuel, who I've known since college, and the one girl who works in the complaints department. She's named after one of those eastern european countries...Estonia, Turkey, Armenia...Can't remember for the life of me. Probably because I've never worked up the guts to talk to her. If I did, she'd probably know me as that one cynical fucker who really doesn't talk to anyone, and when he does, he's pissed about something. She's short, sweet, and annoying...completely the opposite of my type. She's hyperactive...I'm not. I guess I see her hyperactivity as a challenge. She's like a creature I have to tame. I can talk about her all I want but that's not going to get me any closer, now is it.
All this changes, one night when I leave the bar, and some guy in a trenchcoat comes up and...Oh, wait what the hell am I doing? Starting into the story without even telling you my name, or backstory? My birth certificate doesn't say Chuck Palahaniuk, so I doubt I could get away with that kind of thing.
Name: Edgar James Wilson Graham III Or, as my hippy parents named me, rivers apple leaf saturn. Yeah, there was alot of weed in the house. Good thing my 'prude' grandfather stepped in and gave me and my 7 siblings real names. That's right, 7 siblings. Dad couldn't keep it in his pants. I'm 27 years old. Second of the 7 siblings. To put some context in, The youngest child, My sister Abby, Is just getting into High School.
We're from Seattle, by the way. It's where we spent most of our lives. Now, I live in Chicago. I live in an apartment that looks like it could be a 1930's private detective's apartment. I almost put "Michael Flemming" Over the door. For those of you who don't know Micheal Flemming was the hard-boiled private investigator in Raymond Hammet's detective novels. I used to pour through those things about two books a week.
What else do you need to know...I covered that i'm a drummer, I'm from Seattle, living in Chicago, hippy parents, 7 siblings. I'm single, if you haven't guessed. Ma's always after me to find a nice girl and settle down, but that's not going to happen any time soon. I'm too introverted...well, was too introverted. Then all this happened. I changed, let's just say that to avoid ruining the rest of the story.
I work a boring-ass job, selling photocopiers over the phone. It's not what I wanted to do, but I realised that playing drums for a living isn't going to pay the bills. I had to take a REAL job. I hate this job. I stay here because...well...I think I forgot my reason for leaving this hellhole. Also, I really don't have the skills to work anywhere else. I hate my co-workers. They're a bunch of high-strung yuppies who all want a spot at the top, so they kiss ass all day to "level up" in the company. Not me. I just do what I'm told. Another faceless drone in the corperate hive. Why don't I want an upper management position? When I was a teenager, I adopted an anti-consumerist attitude. Partially because I was raised by hippies. Partially because I was one of those kids that hung around the AV club too long in high school. After grade 10, AV club loses most of the nerds and becomes a hangout for the social rejects and weirdos. The kids who are more likely to be behind a shooting. They had a great influence on me. Told me about Monty Python and Hunter Thompson. We pulled great pranks. Pushed a Volkswagon bug into the library, Hired a stripper to perform at grad...spliced single frames of porn into the year-end video.
Where was I? oh yeah, co-workers. I hate them. If you see them, don't tell them. If they think I'm their friend, they'll continue including me in the daily round of drinks after work. Alcohol is the only way to cope with them. When I drink, I become more sociable. I hate all of them, except Samuel, who I've known since college, and the one girl who works in the complaints department. She's named after one of those eastern european countries...Estonia, Turkey, Armenia...Can't remember for the life of me. Probably because I've never worked up the guts to talk to her. If I did, she'd probably know me as that one cynical fucker who really doesn't talk to anyone, and when he does, he's pissed about something. She's short, sweet, and annoying...completely the opposite of my type. She's hyperactive...I'm not. I guess I see her hyperactivity as a challenge. She's like a creature I have to tame. I can talk about her all I want but that's not going to get me any closer, now is it.
All this changes, one night when I leave the bar, and some guy in a trenchcoat comes up and...Oh, wait what the hell am I doing? Starting into the story without even telling you my name, or backstory? My birth certificate doesn't say Chuck Palahaniuk, so I doubt I could get away with that kind of thing.
Name: Edgar James Wilson Graham III Or, as my hippy parents named me, rivers apple leaf saturn. Yeah, there was alot of weed in the house. Good thing my 'prude' grandfather stepped in and gave me and my 7 siblings real names. That's right, 7 siblings. Dad couldn't keep it in his pants. I'm 27 years old. Second of the 7 siblings. To put some context in, The youngest child, My sister Abby, Is just getting into High School.
We're from Seattle, by the way. It's where we spent most of our lives. Now, I live in Chicago. I live in an apartment that looks like it could be a 1930's private detective's apartment. I almost put "Michael Flemming" Over the door. For those of you who don't know Micheal Flemming was the hard-boiled private investigator in Raymond Hammet's detective novels. I used to pour through those things about two books a week.
What else do you need to know...I covered that i'm a drummer, I'm from Seattle, living in Chicago, hippy parents, 7 siblings. I'm single, if you haven't guessed. Ma's always after me to find a nice girl and settle down, but that's not going to happen any time soon. I'm too introverted...well, was too introverted. Then all this happened. I changed, let's just say that to avoid ruining the rest of the story.
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