The Patsy

He’d been suckered again.

He’d been contacted by a strange woman on the internet, who said she lived in the same area as him and was new to the city and wondered if he would like to meet for coffee. He hadn’t responded immediately. Being a consummate pessimist, he doubted the validity of the inquiry. The woman had provided a picture when she wrote and she was attractive and that’s when his skepticism kicked in.

Why would a pretty lady such as herself be interested in me?

He put the whole thing out of his mind and went about his day-to-day affairs.

Several days after, however, he was plagued with an unbearable sense of loneliness and responded to her email. Her email address looked inconspicuous enough and he assumed it might even be real.

So he responded.

That night he went to sleep and reflected briefly on his life. What would she say when she responded? Would they meet up and hit it off? Would his life take a turn for the better?

When he awoke the next morning he checked his email to find it flooded with junk mail. One of the addresses was hers. She had indeed not been a real person, but rather, a spambot. He’d avoided this sort of thing in the past. He’d gotten many such emails and postings in the past that preyed on the loneliness of people as a way to fool them into joining mailing lists for useless products. Many of the emails he received started with similar statements: “I’m new to town. Could you show me around?” and then they provided links to websites that sold vacuum cleaners or college educations or Viagra and Cialis.

He’d been successful at noticing these shameless techniques in the past, but perhaps he’d just been too hopeful this time.

And he was proven wrong.

He’d been suckered.

And somehow that made the loneliness he felt just a teeny bit worse.

However, he took solace in the fact that there where hundreds, if not thousands of other men out there who’ve probably fallen for the same scam. He was now part of a club: The International Association of Perpetual Chumps.

Ah, the internet...

king for a day

sometimes
i say the wrong things,
or the right things
to the wrong people
or the right things to the right people
but loud enough for the wrong people to hear
and that's when things get complicated.
i love her
but not in "that way"
and perhaps she understands
or knows that i'm just a fool
and takes no offense
in loose lips
but i could feel her eyes tapping my shoulder
that night at the bar
and i didn't look back
or try to remedy the situation
because that is not my role.
i hurt more people
by loving the wrong people.
it would be fun to play god for a day
and fix things.
but that's a lot of responsibility
to put on a jester's shoulders.

here, pull my finger...

Yeah? And what of it?

So?! I had an urge to hear Madonna's "Who's That Girl?" I don't know where it came from. One minute I'm listening to "Hello Hammerheads" by Caribou, next thing ya know I'm downloading this Madonna ditty off iTunes. Did I really need to spend $.99 to hear that song in it's entirety? Probably not. Will it ever make it into heavy rotation on my playlists? Definitely not. Do I feel like a sucker? Little bit. But I treat iTunes like a jukebox, where you often drunkenly pay for songs you thought were awesome until you actually deposit your money and hear them again and try to argue with yourself that it sounded different when you were younger, sometimes even convincing yourself that this must be a remix.

Quien es esa nina?
Seniorita, mas fina.

magic trick

pick a number between one and ten.
got it?
now write it down on a slip of paper.
fold it up.
real small, like you're passing a note in class.
that's good.
now pass it to me.
don't forget your number.
this is important.
now i'm going to unfold the paper.
do you still remember what you wrote?
good.
here, i've unfolded the paper.
i'm going to look at it now.

hmm.
that's not the number i was thinking of.

That Old Mix Tape Feeling

The past. What do we do with it? Do we box it up and put it in a far corner of the attic? Do we dwell on it and wish to relive it, rethinking our moves so that we may end up somewhere other than where we are now? Or do we forget it and move on? I've never been one to let go of things easily, and I've found myself running through my life's scenes quite often. Replaying them, studying, trying in vain to find their meaning.
A recent discussion with someone dear to me got me a tad reflective again. I used to make her mixes many years ago. Perhaps this is a lost mix-tape for a long-lost friend...

Reflections for the Summer

A Conversation

Two men stand in front of a loading dock smoking cigarettes.

“’Sposed to be in the nineties all weekend.”

“Jesus. We were wearing jackets two weeks ago.”

“Gonna be a miserable summer.”

“I’m sweatin’ all day. Got my air-conditioner on at home so I get back it’s just a blast of cold air.”

“Least you got air-conditioning. I've got a fan, but no windows. there's really no point. It just blows hot air around.”

A bird lands by them and starts pecking at the ground.

“There’s this fucking bird again.”

“Musta been something there earlier.”

“What are you trying to eat Bird? Nothing there now.”

“Heh.”

“Heh.”

“Oh check this out...”

“What is it?”

“At my building there was this pigeon got sick. He was just stumbling around for, like, days. He just kept bumping around. Sometimes he’d curl up and lay against the wall.”

“Where’s this?”

“My building. My apartment.”

“No. Where in the building?”

“Out front. The entrance area.”

“Oh.”

“So this pigeon is just always there for about a week. Then one day, I’m coming out and there’s this homeless guy out front. He’s EATING the pigeon.”

“What?!”

“No shit. He was just picking it apart in his hands and eating pieces of it.”

“That’s fucking sick. He didn’t even cook it?”

“With what? A lighter?”

“Man, if I ever get to the point where I’m eating dead animals off the street, just fucking kill me. I wouldn’t want to live. Where can you go from there? That’s pretty low.”

“Hey if you’re hungry, you’re gonna eat...”

“Nah, man, I’m jumping in the Hudson and I’m not planning on coming back up. That’s fucked up.”

Life In A Shit Town

I realized these boys meant business when Luke pulled the scrapbook out of the glove compartment. He continued to fish through the small storage space for the Polaroid camera they kept for just this sort of occasion. Kenny passed the scrapbook to me and told me to "check it out". I began flipping through the pages, each one containing "before and after" Polaroids of the bloody remains, with vital information like date and time and location jotted in the margin next to each picture. It was a disgustingly detailed testament to the boredom and creativity of people in my hometown.

Downingtown, Pennsylvania seemed to produce tons of artists and musicians, everyone struggling through their respective arts to stave off the increasing ennui of life in a hick town. I myself was always discontent with Downingtown and what it offered. As a result I was constantly undertaking “projects” as a child, like making movies, drawing comics, writing stories. In essence I was creating other worlds to escape to. Bigger, more interesting worlds. Worlds that didn’t smell.

Upon entering Downingtown, one is immediately confronted with the peculiar odor that hangs over the place. There is something stale and vaguely intestinal about the smell of my hometown. Imagine opening a cedar trunk that you had taken a shit in 30 years ago and never opened since and you’ll have a loose understanding of the sulfurous stench I grew up with. This olfactory assault is provided by the local paper mill and the neighboring sewage treatment plant. On humid nights the acrid airs from these two buildings commingle in an unholy union and cloak the town in a fetid fart fog.

I had just graduated high school and was enrolled in classes at West Chester University. I had to spend a night there as part of my orientation. Kenny Courson, a friend from my biology and art classes in high school, was also enrolled there, but he’d had his orientation the week before. There was a “dance” held in the lobby of the dorm we all were staying in for our orientation. When I saw Kenny and his friends Luke and George at the dance I was surprised. Kenny informed me that they were taking me “for a ride”. Anything was better than standing against a wall all night watching people I wasn’t going to talk to for the next four years hit on each other and drink punch, so I gladly left with them.

We drove around West Chester taking hits from a bowl that George, the driver on this expedition, had stashed in the ripped fabric lining of the driver’s side door. Just cruising around on a boring Friday night, getting high, and telling each other lame stories about what we’d done so far this summer. Then Luke spotted the raccoon.

About fifteen feet ahead of us there was a dead raccoon by the side of the road. The headlights of the car shone on it and its eyes glowed an emerald green.

“Oh shit! There’s one!” Luke yelled.

George started laughing and pulled the car over, slowly creeping up so that the front tire squashed the remains of the dead raccoon. Then he put the car in park.

“Go check and see if we’re on it,” George said.

Kenny laughed and got out of the car.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked.

That’s when Luke began pulling stuff out of the glove compartment. Kenny returned and told George that we were dead center.

“No seriously,” I said. “What’s up?”

Kenny passed the scrapbook to me and I began flipping through the pages. Each page had before and after photos of roadkill around town. The after photos were barely recognizable. Just smears of blood and hair on the road.

George revved the engine and the three of them laughed maniacally. I realized just what was going to happen and let out a chuckle of disbelief.

I’d been pretty bored growing up and I’d done some stupid things like tossing dummies and large sticks off bridges at passing cars, dressing up like dime store superheroes and running around the neighborhood filming my adventures, but this took the cake as far as inane activities done to alleviate boredom.

George threw the car into gear and we could hear the front tire kicking gravel against the underside of the car. That and whatever was ripped free of the raccoon corpse under the tire. We pulled ahead of the raccoon and Luke got out to snap a picture of its desecrated remains.

When he hopped back in the car he said, “Now let’s go to Wawa and get some cigars.”

Hmmm.

Was this the ritual? After hunting down an already dead animal and further destroying it, they kicked back with a few celebratory cigars and recounted tales of roadkill safaris past? I laughed about the absurdity of it all.

When we got to the Wawa market we got out of the car and were confronted with the smell of charred flesh. The raccoon’s scattered parts had roasted and formed a thick slag on the engine. It smelled as if someone had left an uneaten McDonald’s quarter pounder in a garbage can for a whole summer. Perhaps this “game” would’ve been less foul if we didn’t have a car with front-wheel drive.

Other customers exiting the Wawa ran for their cars. People who pulled up to the store and got out of their cars immediately got back in them and opted to drive an extra ten miles to the next store rather than have to deal with the stench. It made the town’s usual stink seem pleasurable.

After that we smoked our stogies and drove back to the university. I said my goodbyes and hurried back to my dorm room. We never really hung out after that night and I lost touch with those guys over the ensuing ten years. I ran into Kenny about two years ago at a bar and I reminded him of that night. He tried to remember the incident but had apparently blocked it out. He agreed that it had probably happened but couldn’t remember it specifically. We had both moved on with our lives and he’d lost contact with George and Luke as well. I moved around to different cities, finally settling in New York, where there’s a little more to do than get high and scout out road kill to run over again. He had finished college and started managing restaurants.

“For some reason that’s the last clear memory I have of you guys,” I said.

“Well, at least you remember us,” he said.

“Yeah but we did a lot of other stupid shit too, right? But that’s the one thing I remember.”

“Well, we were pretty messed up back then,” he said and ordered another round.