Quandary 16

Driver didn’t like the way I was talking to him but I didn’t care, I was well beyond that. It wasn’t a good idea to prod him any further right now, though, there would be plenty of time for that later. I got out of my car and as I walked around to the other side of his car, I swallowed the capsules. It wouldn’t be long before I had nerves of steel.

He asked me what he wanted him to do when we got there. I had slipped on the janitor’s coveralls when I got in his car and I told him he needed to stay really close to the building because I would be in and out in under a minute. He just kept nodding. I flipped down the visor and took one last look in the mirror. I looked like a completely different person, this disguise would work.

It seemed like just a few seconds and I could see the bus station ahead of us. Driver looked at me and said, “Are you ready?” I looked at him dead in his eyes and smiled. “Are you?”

I pointed to the side of the building where I wanted him to wait. We drove right into the parking lot and he stopped. I didn’t hesitate getting out and turned back to him and said, “Fucking stay here and keep this thing running!” I slammed the door and walked briskly toward the entrance.

I walked through the doors and this time there was only one employee and no customers. Perfect. I could tell she had questions for me because I was sloppily dressed as an employee but I strolled right by the desk and headed for the lockers. She said something but I ignored her. I found the locker that had the same number as my key and I opened it up to find everything as I had left it. I took out the case and walked right back toward the door.

“Sir, can I help you?

“No ma’am!” I smiled.

“Uh, do you work here?”

“Yes!” I beamed. And I walked out the door.

As soon as I was out of view of the inside, I started running toward the car. Driver saw me and put it in gear. I hopped inside and we took off. Me calling him Driver notwithstanding, he really was a good driver. He had complete control of the 300 as we sped off toward the interstate. I realized that we wouldn’t be going to his house because I was conscious and in the passenger seat. My only hope was that we would make it to wherever Goggles and Dumpy were so I could kill them all. We drove on in the darkness.

I fumbled around the briefcase looking for the handle and the hasps. I slowly and silently clicked them open and opened the case only enough to get my hand inside. I felt the steel barrel of the revolver and carefully pulled it out of the case. Driver was focused on the road and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to me. That was good for him; he would live a little bit longer.

I was thinking about his thoughts, and wondering if anything in him was telling him that he had already eaten his last meal, and was only going to take one more shit. I laughed out loud when I knew that he was going to shit his pants soon. Driver looked over at me. I just smiled at him.

I asked him, “So, where are we going and when can I go the fuck home?”

“We’re going to meet the other two, count the money, and bring you back to wherever you need to go. But, we have to put you in the trunk again, I’m just being honest.”

I hung my head. I hoped I looked disappointed. “Great. Can I stay awake this time?”

“I’ll say something.” He said compassionately.

So, obviously I couldn’t go into the trunk and risk them looking in the case. So, wherever we were going, was where it was all going down. And I realized quickly that it was all going to happen in about a minute as we exited the highway and approached a gravel road where there was a car parked. And there they were, Goggles and Dumpy, wearing the same clothes they were the last time I had seen them. They didn’t know it, but they were about to die.

Quandary 15

Nightfall was upon the town of Rochester. The overcast sky cast ominous shadows on the tall buildings of downtown. I was driving down Broadway Avenue with my head out the window trying to keep it together. I had left everything back at the hotel and I had the thought that I may never get back to retrieve it. This night was going to the last for three depraved souls. Maybe more.

I had only an hour to kill before I was to meet Driver at the predetermined spot in the Walmart parking lot and I wished I had the desire to eat food. The only real urge I ever had those days was to get high. I did bring three more capsules and a small package I would need for a payment with me. I would take all three capsules right before showtime, to take the edge off. 

Over and over again in my head I replayed the things I would say and do. Unfortunately, every time it changed, whether in the order or the words, it was never the same. In my fantasy, I left the three dead amigos in the car while I walked away with the briefcase full of money and the girl and the car exploded and even though I was still kind of close to the explosion, I wasn’t injured by shrapnel or flame. And as I walked away I would say something cool and trendy like, “Suck an egg!” But in real life, there wasn’t even a girl in the story, and I’m almost positive I couldn’t make a bomb or get it to explode on time. But it killed time, and that’s all I was trying to do.

 I had to make a quick stop at a tweaker house to visit a chick I knew that would be able to help me out with one small problem. I offered her a quarter gram to put makeup on my face as to not attract as much attention. Of course, as with all tweaker projects, it could go really well or horribly wrong. I arrived at the house and knocked at the door and was greeted by Erika Haugerud, a street prostitute and self-proclaimed makeup artist. She gestured me inside and I took a seat on a couch next to her husband Jeremy who was passed out in a recliner with his mouth agape. He was covered and surrounded by cheese puffs and I cocked my head inquisitively and turned to look at Erika. “Well, his mouth is open and he’s been sleeping all day and I got bored.” It made sense. She looked at my face and went into another room to grab her supplies and came back and sat down next to me. Ladies, I don’t know how you do it, but I sat there for almost half an hour getting “made-up.” It was a horrible feeling having that crap on my face, but she was good. I looked in the mirror and for the first time since my teens, I looked healthy. There was no time to reminisce now so I paid her and left for good.

It didn’t take long before I was at the Walmart on the south end of town. I had done more drug deals in this parking lot that anywhere and I was familiar with the layout, and more importantly, where all of the cameras were. I drove all the way through and parked against the large East wall and I waited. And I waited. I started feeling a little anxious and I realized it was because there was supposed to be a timeline for all of the events about to transpire. I settled myself down knowing that none of it was real. Well, some of it was real, but only I knew which parts.

I saw a guy that looked like he was about to shit his pants pull in next to me. I had parked backwards so we were face to face, and our windows were down. It was Driver, and he looked scared for the first time. I liked that.

“So, everything lined up?” He asked with a quivering voice.

“It is what it is, and everything is going to happen the way it unfolds. I’m not doing this willingly, and I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to plan things out.”

He nodded, then looked closer. “you look… good.”

“Fuck you.”

Some New Sh!t

Once again I find myself in a position where I am unable to finish The Quandary because there’re just more important things going on. This was my plan for the weekend! Hey, maybe tomorrow, the weekend is young.

Here’s the deal: On Thursday night my friend Mason, A.K.A. the drug dealing murderer from my fictional work, called me with an invitation to a show. To be more precise, a shit show. To be accurate, The New Sh!t Show, somewhere in Minneapolis. He amused me with stories of creepy men in dresses on a stage with poorly tuned audio equipment, and awkward interaction with the audience. It sounded better than what I normally like to do on Friday nights; sit at home in front of the T.V. Since one of my goals as of late is to be more socially interactive, I said yes.

We arrived at a hole in the wall called the Fox Egg Gallery on Chicago and 38^th on the other side of the river. The windows were literally covered with tarps and the stage was lit with two aluminum work lights adhered to the wall with what looked like duct tape. The place looked packed because it was small. We paid a small donation and took our seats and waited. The house lights dimmed, and the shit show began.

I only took the one picture to capture the venue in its essence. Beautiful, no?

The Sh!t Show has some history. It was started in San Francisco many years back as a way for emerging writers and poets to be heard and the idea expanded to many major cities throughout our country and once it hit Minneapolis the idea shifted slightly to allow any sort of artistic performance, however crude.

As an aspiring writer, I liked the idea.  And I was stimulated by most of what I saw. Last night, as compared to the description of the last show, people seemed to stick to the original concept. There were four walk-ups’ who all shared some form of poetry. They were hit or miss, but it took courage for them to get up on stage in front of forty or so people and spit it out. One man simply read three minutes of a fictional book he had written, and that was it. Hell, I could do that, right?

There was a brief intermission and we sat back down for the main portion of the show.  There would be four performers, each taking the stage for roughly 15 minutes. I was prepared for the show to turn to Sh!t, but it did not. There were two poets who really knew their way around words. I sat there in awe as pure talent drifted down from the stage and filled my ears with inspiration to use words good. In particular, there was a rap song written and performed by a very white, college professor that was an homage to rap, past and present, and he didn’t try to do anything weird with it. Like Mason said afterwards, “Just be a white guy rapping.” And that’s what he did. I thought it was the best part of the night up until then. And the rap was just one of his poems, none of which were like any of the others. I liked the variety of poetry that I never knew existed.

Next up, the man in red. Both Mason and I agreed that he wasn’t really our style. He was overbearing in his descriptions of all things gross. I may have mentioned before that I don’t do well around discussion of blood, needles, or surgery, and when he began speaking I wondered if I would topple over when I passed out, or if I would just stay upright and nobody would notice. I began to see white as the man was describing arm surgery in graphic detail and I sat back in my chair and prepared myself for the inevitable. And, it passed. I was able to channel my thoughts into a different place where surgery is replaced by hand-woven wicker baskets of puppies and chocolate. He went on to several other poems including one about a dead crow, the female vagina, and I don’t remember. I thought it was the miss out of all of the hits. But he no doubt had talent. I thought about it later and realized that I was going to pass out because he made me see all of those bloody things, and his words were intelligent and eloquent, and he paralleled Dean Koontz for elaboration. It just wasn’t my cup of tea.

Last, but most… Cricket. Cricket is a graduate-school aged, rather attractive female who stole the show with her stand-up comedy routine. I felt like I was in the presence of somebody on another level—she had done this before? I couldn’t tell you. But if this was her first effort getting up on stage in front of people, she is going to be famous. She had the crowd going through the entire 15 minutes. There were jokes within jokes, callbacks, and a fair amount of poop material; a crowd favorite. Her timing was expert, her expression flawless, and her wit razor-sharp. I would pay to see her at another venue. I haven’t looked her up on Google yet, but I recommend you do just that and see what comes up when you type in Cricket. Hmmm.   That might not work. Try comedian Cricket. Do what you want.

The New Sh!t Show happens every third Friday of every month. If you’re looking for something new to do, I highly recommend going. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.