TROPICAL DEPRESSION

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"I can see paradise by the bug-zap light..."



Oh, finally... Here begins our epic adventure, my grandiose tale of surviving the hurricane, and everything that conspired against life...and the menace of the Nothing that so filled it. We'll begin with a little background, to put the irony of all to come in context. Prefaces are boring; but it makes the wild ride wilder in the end. Enjoy.

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Episode I: (r)ex-nihilo (or, "a tropical depression")

“Ass-casket,” I scribble. “Yeah—that’s it,” I mumble madly in mid-tweak, “Definitely write that down. Hmm….lessee, what else…” I pace into the night, heart racing with the rot you’re reading now. “Squishmitten…wigglepit. Meatsleeve…yeah, that’s good. I’ll put those down…”

“Babymaker…splattering ram…no, wait—Babymaking Splattering Ram. Yeah…that one’s a hit.”

My head is filled with words, and many of them vile. It might also be caffeine; but then, that pot of coffee was fairly vile, as well. At least it was three days ago, when I first brewed it. Now it’s just the bile that jolts my neurons when I retain presence of mind enough to pour a sludgy cup.

I’d been struggling with writer’s block all day, if not for weeks; but it seemed the fog had lifted, be it briefly. Sadly, I had other things to do. It was less than seven hours before work, and I also had an interview to transcribe. Don’t get me wrong—I love being a Rock Hack. Were I paid more regularly for it, I’d be stoked and pleased as pussylice at a flea-infested Furry con; but I’m paid about as much and as often as a talent scout for bath attendents, and require some sort of “real” job in the day. My girlfriend, whom I moved here for, has a job…insomuch as actively waiting for her father to die is work; thus I must be the breadwinner for now. I am counting down the minutes with each word—a deadline, even self-imposed, will make or break one’s craft. One day I’m going to make it; but tonight, I’m merely broke.

If frustration were teeth, I’d play with the Electric Mayhem. If angst were soul, I’d be James Brown.

I hate my fucking job. I was supposed to be bartending; it seems pedestrian, but the money is total pimp-cash, without the funny hat. But a little while ago, my workplace instituted a (disturbingly commonplace) no-male-bartenders rule. But I can cook, right? The cooks there make decent pay… Unfortunately, the arrogent, Clint Black- and Toby Keith-loving, bigotted backwoods blowhard Republican-for-no-good-goddamned-reason meatshit pisswhisker gristlewad of a Head Cook hated me immediately upon catching site of me. He kept asking if I was “hippie or something,” and if I "smoked the crack cocaine" or “worshipped Satan.”
Did he get the “hippie” idea from discussing environmental politics or disarmament with me? No; he simply didn’t understand why a man would have long hair, unless he was a dope-smoking peacenik. He didn’t understand how a guy could wear an earring unless he were “a fruit or something.” And the Satanism? Did he get that from discussing Nietchian “man and superman” polemic or Libertarian Agnosticism and Church-State politics with me? Guess again; he assumed this because I wore black, and said I didn’t like country or gospel when asked what radio stations I would tolerate. Afterall, any long haired counterculture type who doesn’t like “American” (ie country) music and the worship of his ancient undead Hebrew Lord must be some kind of Commie Pagan, right?

The long, short and curly of it all is that he refused to even train me, and whined about me to management. Management, who actually sort of liked me, refused to fire me simply because he was a dick. So they offered me a different (and supposedly temporary) job as a mere Prep Cook, until the head cook became more comfortable with me being there. This, of course, would never happen.

I was the only non-Mexican prep, and thus unable to be paid in warm tortillas and a sixpack of Corona…which, in a southern Gulf Coast town, means six bucks (or less) an hour. Six dollars an hour doesn’t even pay for our electric, much less my ego. And because Texas is a Right-To-Work state, and my lovely island abode is technically Texas, I get to work 12-18 hour shifts—mandatory overtime—without overtime pay, much less a “thank you.” I also don’t get lunch or smoke breaks. Hey, jobs are scarce on the island—what am I going to do, complain? That would be like an imprisoned effeminate latino hairdresser, with bedroom eyes and girl hips, complaining to the warden that a strange man eyed him up.

Oh, wait...I'm supposed to be funny here; terribly sorry--I'll get back to that eventually...honest.

So here I am…a stranger in a strange land; I am culturally alien, and surrounded by immigrants. I am the only English-speaking prep cook. My immediate superior, the Head Cook, is a total cockwipe who smells of navel-paste, cheap beer. and ham--and now intentionally plays country and gospel just to annoy me and break my battered, sinking spirit. I dismember crustaceans and chop stale vegetables, standing for twelve hours at a whack on a bad knee, for six fucking dollars a goddamned hour. I have no hope of promotion, and no time to find anything better on the mainland. Mother would be so proud.

At the true heart of my misery is that booger-eating redneck meatwad bully, the Head Cook. If flopsweat had a face, it would be his. If skidmarks and the bacon strips of filthy shorts could have a voice, they would sing his favorite song. His extremeties are swollen, dangling sausages. His every heaving, greasy flap of fat is ripe of sweat and smegma rolls, like some fetid rotund mummy wrapped at burial in the foreskins of a thousand Jews. Hotdog-shaped lumps and rolls scale down his hammy, clammy neck like fleshy, rounded stairs. He shaves his head in heat, that the numbing psychic imprint of his cluelessness and ignorance might radiate that much clearer from the sweeping blah-blah-blah of his HeeHaw-and-Tim McGraw-loving mind, like a banjo-playing telepath searching for a rape-cave in the woods. His eyes relate a smug, simpering indifference to anyone-or-thing that might not be like him. He can’t and won’t communicate intent, except to bellow in blind idiot frustration, or tell unfunny jokes. He lumbers like a jigsaw heap of random clumps and shifting slabs of sloppy meat, shuffling madly into darkness with a toothpick in his mouth. I don’t really like the guy.

My friends and folks are far away, scattered to the wind in the Midwest. My girl and I are like an old married couple, couped up for far too long, and expressing our resentments through the thermostat. And because women are from Venus, she must approximate the surface temperature of her homeworld. Our tiny shoebox of a stilt-house is like a looming, wooden lollipop of shame. And if there were anything less to do in this town, I could ontologically disprove my own existence.

OK…boo-hoo…you get it: I’m not happy... But, you see, I don’t really want to go anywhere, either. My writing career isn’t going anywhere—why should I? And if opportunity should ever knock—and not giggle, leave a flaming bag of poop, and run this time—I’d like to be where it can find me. I’m in the book. Unfortunately, it’s the Thrifty Nickel.

One night, I drunkenly roll home (everything is downhill for me, you know). The breeze is warm and violent; the Gulf is blocks away, and I can smell it’s salty, crashing waves. I stare up into the empty sky for hours, counting all the stars—so vast and visible in the desert—and imagine the sheer and tremble-worthy joy of seeing one…just one…come crashing toward the earth. I stumble inside, and read my e-mail. An article is due—the one I really didn’t want to do. It’s so windy out, I think; I wonder if a storm is on the way. Bah…they always miss us.

I continue to read my mail. Inside, I ponder, “How could things get any fucking worse?”


“Gabriel,” my girlfriend calls out, as if on cue, and seemingly in panic, “quick—turn on the news…”

Oh...oh my. ..

Oh God. Oh dear. Dear lord.

Sweet Pickled Jesus.

Shit.


TO BE CONTINUED…

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