I wouldn’t say he was a crackpot or nothing, maybe a wee scrambled in the head, but that’s about it as it is and all. The first time I sees him he’s reading the National Geographic on the bus, the number two bus, bus, sitting not too far from me on a seat not too far from this lady with one of those push and pull carryalls. I figure he must be scrambled in the brains as he’s actually reading the National Geographic, something you don’t all see that much of, considering that most people, most people I know at least, just read the stuff under the pictures, that kind of reading, not full-fledged reading like the kind you do in school or from prayer books on Sundays or Saturdays depending on whether you’re a Christian or not. Guys like him, you figure if they haven’t had their brains tampered with a knitting needle, that sort of shit that happens, so I hear, in asylums and crackpot hospitals.
Poor bastard might even have a bump or something on his brain, right underneath the eye socket where they push in a knitting needle, kind of tamp it in there like they’re doing some knitting or crocheting, that kind of shit, shit like that. I even heard that they even goes as far as to cut out pieces of the brain, like coring out an apple or a cantaloupe, that kind of tampering and buggering about, in someone’s brain, for God’s sake. Its no wonder, really, that the sad cunt reads the whole National Geographic and not just the underneath stuff. Really, when you think it over, which you do, cause it is worth thinking, guys like him probably don’t understand a word their reading, not a fucking word of it, really. Sad fucking world we lives in, fucking pathetic if you want my opinion. Then you never know whether you might end up like him, all scrabbled and knit into a fucking sweater, it could happen--it just could, you never know, for sure that is.
I know my opinion isn’t worth much, probably shit, whose is, really, I mean when you get right down to it what most people say is shit, pure shit, me included. So he’s sitting across not far from me and this lady with the fucking carryall who looks pretty dim herself. I mean man the shit you see on the bus, too much to take in at one time, that is, all at once and without a break, a breather, let’s say. If I had it my way, which I never will, I’d take a fucking cab or walk, that is if it weren’t too far, I mean too far or up-hill. But the chances of me having it my way are slim to nil, so I’m pretty well fucked from the get-go, fucking carryalls, not much use when you got to lug the fuckers up-hill or round and round like a merry-go-fucking-round, now is it, just not worth the energy or bother, fuck no. Sleeping now that’s foolish, a waste of time, anyone worth they’re weight in saltpetre knows that. All sleep does is remind you just how much shit you have to do and how much time you wasted sleeping when you could have been doing it. Like reading the National Geographic or knitting a fucking sweater. There just aren’t enough sweaters, at least not enough to go around. I couldn’t think of a homelier way to read than wrapped up in a sweater, all woolly and cinched up round the bobbin of your neck. That cowfish of a lady, the one with the carryall, she’d look exceptional in a sweater, all that wool and dye and lanolin next to her skin, a sight for sore eyes, better yet, an eye for sore sight. I can be pretty magnificent when I want, when I put my noggin to it, like now, like right this fucking minute. Salt-fucking-petre, now that’s some nasty shit, makes what goes up come down, a fucking free-for-all. That sad bastard, sadder than a fucking tumour, sitting close by not far from me and that cowfish lady, the carryall lady, reading the National fucking Geographic, the whole fucking thing, not just the shit under the pictures. Makes you wonder, makes you wonder what the fuck he’s going to read when he finishes the Geographic. Bastard’s sadder than a cowlick on a cow, down right pathetic, really. But my opinion is worth shit, so why listen the fuck to me?
If I knew anything about anything I’d be the first to speak up, but I don’t. I can speak, I just don’t have anything to say, anything worth saying. Speaking when you should keep shut is what most people do, and I don’t want to be most people. I know people who speak just so they can hear themselves, like a fucking broken record, all cracked up and scratchy. I don’t want to be one of them, most people that is. You’d catch me reading on the bus before you’d catch me talking when I shouldn’t, opening my yap just to hear myself, that’s fucked up, in more ways than one. I suppose there’s lots of fascinating shit in the world; all I’m saying is I could care less about it. Some things seem out of place, for example this guy riding the bus with a dagger tattoo on his forearm, just below the crook in his elbow where guys with dagger tattoos crank heroin or Drano or some shit like that; all that shit is corrosive, shit you find in a janitor’s closet, with the mops and dusters, that kind of shit. I knew this chick that shot up Drano thinking it was crank or crack, the kind of shit that makes your head go all dim and fucked. I mean when you get to that point in life, when you’re shooting up Drano, your life is pretty much over, pretty fucking dim. Not that it makes a difference, but this shit is getting me down.
It’s sort of like the chicken bone that gets stuck in your throat; craw bone is what my granddaddy called it, not a wishbone, cause wishing and hoping are pointless, like a dagger tattoo or cranking drain unclogger. It’s all pretty much pointless, in a dim fucked up kind of way. Life is like a chicken bone, not pretty, but effective. My grandmamma made chicken pot pie with crinkly crust and soap mix. She said the key ingredient was the chicken bones cause they added flavour to the pot-pie. I was the poor sod that always got the chicken bone, or a piece of chicken gristle or skin. One time I half-swallowed a bone, a breastplate or one those finger-like bones that keep the wings from flapping out of control. My granddaddy had to whack me on the back with the heel of his hand; otherwise I would have choked myself to kingdom fucking cum, and that would’ve been shit. For the love of it I can’t stand loud noises, they drive me round the bend, further sometimes. I’m what you’d call sensitive to noises, all sorts and kinds of noise. I’m pretty much deaf in one ear and loosing it in the other, down to a few measly decibels, which are running short real quick. The doctor who looks after my ears said I’d be pretty much stone-deaf by the time I hit fifty, maybe sooner if the world gets noisier and people louder. It’s all pretty much pointless, cause the way I see it the shits going to hit the fan long before I hit fifty, and even if it don’t, they’ll be other shit lined up waiting to take its place, maybe worse shit, shit that’ll make the other shit look measly and small. Most shit is shit anyhow, so there really isn’t any point to worrying about it, really. The way I see it they’re be more people yelling and hollering and acting like dim fucks long before anything changes, and even if it does, changes that is, the shit’ll already have hit the fan, so what’s the point.
I figure its time to start telling a story about something other than pot-pies and pointlessness. Someone said that we all have stories in us, but I figure that guy was a storyteller to start with, so it was no big deal for him to say something, that when you think about it seems rather pointless, stupid even. I figure that storytellers take this sort of stuff pretty much for granted, and others, me for example, don’t have the luxury of taking much of anything for granted, not even anything worth taking for granted, cause in the end it’s all pretty much pointless shit, and isn’t worth a hell of a lot, not really.
Her name is Martha. The lady on the bus with the carryall, I think. I’m not much for names, never have been, but I can tell you all about someone’s face or the shoes they’re wearing. I like to keep things pretty much simple, that ways there isn’t much room for mistaking one thing for another, another thing for another, that sort of mistaking. I guess it comes with age and worsening hearing, cause if you don’t pay attention the first time you’re fucked, then you can’t remember a thing, nothing, nil. Mind you, I could forget the guy reading the National Geographic with the dagger tattoo, but that’s unlikely, really. Once he’s in my mind’s eye, my brain, he’s pretty much there for life, maybe longer. My grandmamma told me that I have what’s called a photographic memory, as in once I see something its there for life. Some people dream in colours, me, I don’t have dreams at all, maybe little ones but that’s it, nothing worth talking about. Anyhow dreams are overrated, mostly nightmares and shit, so why bother. As you might have figured out, by now anyhow, I don’t have a mother or a dad, both of ‘em died when I was a baby, or at least real little. My grandmamma said they died in a house fire, got all burned up and black. Of course I don’t remember, and even if I did it’d be horrible stuff, like burned bodies and black faces and frizzy hair, so I guess I’m better off not remembering, at least that.
I had a sister, but she ran away. After the house fire, the one that burned up my mom and dad, she up and fucked off with a guy who had a Pontiac Firebird and a birthmark on his forehead. The reason I’m telling you this is cause I think the guy on the bus reading the National Geographic was the guy who fucked off with my sister. I know I said that it was the first time I saw him, that time on the bus, but I could be mistaken. I make lots of mistakes, some bigger, and some just little ones that really don’t count as mistakes at all, but are just sort of slips of mind or thought or something. The way I see it if it was him he wasn’t driving a car, and if he was, or even had a car, it most probably wouldn’t be a Firebird, on account of the fact that they fucked them up, made ‘em all round-looking and cheap, and a guy like that, with dagger tattoos, wouldn’t be caught dead in a round cheap-looking car. Come to think of it one a those carryalls wouldn’t likely fit in the back trunk of one of these newer cars, on account of that the trunks are so small you can’t even put a full grocery order in one. I suppose the Japanese buy smaller groceries, and that ways don’t need a bigger back trunk for to put them in. Anyhow she up and fucked off and never did stop long enough to say goodbye or anything like that. Not that I would have expected it, that she say anything, really, but the thought might have been nice, or at least the idea of saying goodbye or something along those lines.
The social worker, the one that came after my mom and dad burned up in the house fire, asked me if I wanted to live with my aunt, my mom’s sister, or my granddaddy and grandmamma. On account of the fact I didn’t know how to play pinochle, which is all my aunt did, I picked my grandparents, and on account of the fact your grandparents tend to treat you better than your aunt does. My grandmamma played Gin, my granddad Hearts, so I figured they’d be easier to learn, maybe that’s why, but I could be mixed up I guess. My grandmamma cheated, my granddad played blind, like a dog on a bone. Anyhow our dog burned up in the house fire, under the couch next to the television that was always on. I think that hurt my feelings almost more than my mom and dad burning, cause at least the dog liked me and didn’t call me fatter than a house. It’s odd, in a weird sort of way, how the house burns down without me in it, me being fatter than a house and all. It always stymied me that gip-rock would burn brighter than a 4th of July fireworks. That’s what I was told; anyhow our house was crappy, one a those stucco ones with a shitty yard in a shitty neighbourhood. I don’t figure most people missed it when it burned, all clapboard and shingles and our television still on.
‘Cats in a hotbox’, is what my granddad used to say. That’s the way he used to talk when he wanted to get my attention, even if it didn’t make a lick of sense. Of course I’d listen, even though I knew he was making fun of me, which was better than being called fatter than a house or dumber than horse sense. I can’t well at all remember exactly when he’d say it, but when he did I’d prick up my ears and pay heed. You see he liked his Triple Star Whisky, from a kitchen glass, a green one with a paler green label on it. My grandmamma didn’t all at all like it when he said dumb stupid stuff like ‘cats in a hotbox’, but put up with his shenanigans cause he was getting blinder and deafer by the day, and probably wasn’t aware of what he was saying. She used to tug on the strings of her apron whenever he said something improper or dumb, or simply screw up her eyes and say something herself under her breath. The way I saw it, it was better than playing pinochle, even if she played honest and didn’t bend any of the rules. My aunt had these tiny little vials of medicine she took with juniper water, something to do with having rickets when she was young and never getting proper medical help. I guess back then there wasn’t much medical help at all, and that that there was, was probably more harm than good. You’d see kids with wooden logs between they’re legs buckled at the hips with straps and hinge-screws. It was on account of the fact that they’re legs hadn’t grown properly, either they was all bendy and frail, or twisted round like willow branches. Either way, they had to scrabble and chip they’re way down the street, some using wooden crutches, others holding onto the arms of they’re mothers or a school friend.
I saw a Brahman, a monk or something, riding the bus; he was chewing, chewing gum and listening to a Walkman or an I-Pod or something. He was in the customary orange thing, a smock I think it’s called, and wearing a woollen toque. I figured monks, Buddhist one’s at least, aren’t allowed to read on the bus, but are allowed to listen to inspirational tapes, maybe music, but it was hard to tell on account of it was too low or my hearing’s getting worse. Orange is an odd colour for someone like a monk, figuring that they don’t want to draw attention to themselves, cause they’re always meditating or praying or something, and orange is a pretty really bright colour. He was really quite small, almost like a dwarf, but not quite that small; maybe a premmy or one of those people whose bodies don’t grow according to plan, like they’re bones are too little or the muscles don’t form properly. As I haven’t seen too many monks up close, far away even, I could be mixed up.
So I’ve been wondering lately what all the fuss is about the Catholics and Protestants and the like. Not that I know much about religion, nothing actually, but people tell me that the Catholics and the Protestants don’t get along, see eye to eye, so to speak. I never seen them fighting, or throwing fits, but then again I’m not round churches and places like that very much, not at all actually. This one kid I knew who lived on our street, before our house burned, was one of those altar boys, the guys who carry the Bible and hand out leaflets and prayer books. He said that one day the priest asked him to go get the sacrament stuff, the wafers or biscuits or whatever there called, from the refrigerator in the rectory. When he opened the fridge door he found bags and bags of these wafer things, the body of Christ I guess is what they’re called, with numbers printed on them. When he looked closer he saw that the numbers were dates, like February or June or something, with those lines what’re suppose to be codes or something. When he brought the sacraments back to the priest and asked him what the numbers were for, the priest said, ‘they’re expiry dates, my son, so we can know if the Host is still good and fresh’.
At don’t think the orange monks eat wafers and stuff; I think they’re more passive then that, then the Catholics I mean. They’re more into praying and keeping quiet and doing things with those long bamboo sticks, the ones they play fight with, those ones. I wonder if that fellow with the crab tattoo knows anything at all about bamboo sticks? He was sitting next to the monk reading the newspaper. He was reading the newspaper, the guy with the crab tattoo, not the monk, on account that they aren’t allowed to read nothing on the bus, the monks that is. I’d be pretty hard to tell if the monk had any tattoos, cause their clothes hide most of themselves, and even if he did have one who knows what’d look like. I’m not all that fond of crab, its way too salty and the shells and claws and antennas are gross looking. I meant unsavoury, but didn’t want to come off sounding like a know it all. I’ve know a lot of know it alls, and all of them were a fucking a pain in the royal ass. Not that royal has anything to do with it, but anyhow these fuckers are real royal pieces of work. If my dog hadn’t have burned up in the fire, nasty thing fire, I’d sick him on these simpletons and have ‘em running for daylights. Sad thing is my dog was way too passive for that sort of thing, you’d have almost thought he was a monk or something, the way he was so nice and kind and not a loud barker and the like. He was a petter, meaning he like to have his ears scratched and the top of his head rubbed with the heel part of your hand, real hard like you were going to rub the fur off, like that, real slow and hard like. Poor fucker, probably didn’t hear my mom and dad hollering cause he was asleep next to the television, probably on some late-night missionary show or something close like that. I can see now how come the Catholics and Protestants don’t get along, always elbowing in on one and the other to get better television space, almost pathetic in a pathetic sort of way.
It’s getting hotter, like in the weather and the sky and the temperature, hot like that. The way I figure it its way too hot to ride on the bus, so I’ll leave that for now, riding the bus and all. I could walk, I suppose, but I’m way too lazy for that, and on account of the fact that my feet get all swollen and puffed out and crabby looking. I knew this guy who refused to walk anywhere if the slope, I think that’s how it’s called, was too high, as in an incline or a hill going upwards. He took a taxi or simply stayed put, sometimes not leaving the house for days on end. It’s sad, when you think about it, how some fucker can’t even walk up a tiny hill without figuring it’s too high and way to costly on energy. As far as I’m concerned they might as well call it quits, fuck off, I mean just stop all the blubbering and complaining. Jesus made the world with hills and slopes and inclines and the like, so why bother complaining or giving it a second thought, really? Of course who am I to talk, really, I mean I can’t even leave the house if I think it’s going to rain, cause if it does, rain that is, I’m pretty much fucked cause I don’t have an umbrella, and there’s nothing I hate more than getting all wet and soggy, well maybe being scaled with scalding hot water, but that’s about it.
One thing I like about the rain is the thunder and lightening, it reminds me sort of like when I was a kid and used to sit under the porch stoop listening to it. The crashing and bolts, I think that’s how you call it, of lightening were like fireworks, not you normal general kind of fireworks, but the kind what’re made by Nature and Jesus, like. I’d hide under the porch stoop with our dog, him licking and slobbering on my face, all screwy looking in the eyes on account of the fact he was scared and all. On occasion sometimes I’d bring some matches with me and fire them off like rockets, striking them against the striking part and tossing them into the air. The best thing about being a kid was not having to listen to your mom and dad; mind you, I suppose I did miss it after they burned in the house. And me fiddling round with matches underneath it couldn’t have been all that smart, not by a long shot I guess. Its not that I particularly like the sulphur smell, but the fact, I guess, that I could do it and get away with it. My grandmamma said it was cheating, or lying, or something like that, but I could care less, cause it was fun and a fun thing to do under the porch stoop in the rain with our dog. Sometimes doing fun stuff is way better than listening to your mom and dad, sometimes I guess, but not always.
I remember throwing stones and watching that poor girl trouble her way down the street, the girl with the hearing-box strapped to her chest. She was pretty much deaf so had to wear this crazy looking contraption on a harness or something, it was sort of tied round her back and strapped round the front, like a rucksack or a schoolbag. It made this buzzing sound like bees in a peanut jar, and there was this tiny green light that flashed and flickered, so she could tell if it was on and all I guess. I’m pretty much sure that she had crappy eyesight, too, cause she had these real thick-looking glasses on that had an elastic band round them, sort of like the ones that athletes wear to keep they’re goggles and stuff from falling off. I’m pretty much ashamed to admit that me and my friends made fun of her, making crazy screwy-eyed faces at her or saying something when we weren’t, but just moving out lips like we was. I hope she’s okay now, now that she’s all grown and doesn’t have to have us as kids living on her block. I’m not too happy about that, but when you’re a kid you do stupid things just to get the other kinds to like you; and most of the time they don’t like you anyhow, so it seems rather pointless, really. Now that I remember it, me and my friends uses to catch bees in peanut butter jars; you just flipped the jar over on top of them and slid the jar top back on. We used to have millions of them in one peanut jar, buzzing and smacking they’re wings against the peanut butter jar glass. You could always find them cause they hovered over honeysuckle plants, on account of the fact that that’s what they liked to eat, and there was plenty of honeysuckles on the lawn in front of the church across the street from our house, before it burned down of course. I’d been better had the church burned down, cause I didn’t care much for the minister or the guy who ran the AA meeting.
One thing I know for sure is that thinking isn’t worth a damn. It seems like the more I know the more confused I get about all those other things I think I know I know. That sort of shit, confusing shit. Like the time I was thinking about this nature show I saw about bees and hornets. Well it turns out it wasn’t about them at all, bees and hornets, but ants, except I thought they were bees and hornets on account of I don’t see too well when the television gets all blurry and static-like. I just figured they were bees and hornets that’d lost they’re wings or something. My grandmamma said it was on account of I sit way too close to the television and it was scrambling up my brain patterns making them think I was seeing one thing when I was really seeing something else, something different than what I thought I was seeing. That sort of shit, confusing shit like that. Granted I did need spectacles--that’s what my granddad calls them--but the social worker said there wasn’t any money in my grandparent’s account to pay for them. So the way I see it, which is quite confusing, really, there really isn’t all that much difference between bees and hornets and ants, not when the television is all blurry and your eyes all fucked to shit, not much of a difference at all, really.
It’s what you don’t know that really matters, all those things just waiting to be thought. Something’s you know you think, but really don’t know at all. Or sometimes it’s thinking that you think you know when all you really know, for sure, that is, is that you’re thinking about thinking those very same things, the things you thought you knew but don’t, never did, really. I get sort of stuck in between, between the things I think I think, the something’s, and the things I think but haven’t really thought, the no-things. Having thoughts is like when you drink an ice-slush too fast and you’re head freezes all up and you feel like you’re going to passout or something. I can do without that sort of shit, honest.
Our scout master was a fat bastard; scout masters are either fat bastards or real skinny ones; ours was the fat bastard kind. Sewing badges on sashes is for sissies and kids that play chess and wear glasses what’re too big for their faces. I’m saying this because if I was to keep it inside I’d explode like a one of those helium dirigibles, and that’d be a shame, me all busted up and floating round in the sky in pieces. Now you can see why I’m not so big on thinking, especially if this is the kind of crap I’m always thinking thoughts about; me all busted-up floating round in the sky wearing way-too big glasses and playing chess with fat kids.
This one scout master with mint crumbs in the corners of his mouth, not humbug mints, but those white pocket-mints that old people chew on like candy, I didn’t care much for, not in the least, really. When some of the other scouts, the ones with way more badges sewed on they’re sashes used to whack me in the ass with they’re moccasins he’d just keep chewing and chewing like the fat bastard he was, fat shitty bastard. I had all these welts on my backside, moccasin-shaped welts that hurt like bee stings, and that fat shit scout master just sitting on his fat ass chewing on mints and making hacking coughing sounds when he swallowed one down the wrong hole. I almost got the orientation badge but lost my compass just near the end so they said I was way too clumsy and didn’t deserve a badge for something that meant you were well-oriented.
Grandmamma had this theory about getting old, as long as you don’t think you’re old you isn’t, it’s the codlings what’re fucked from the get go. On account of the fact I don’t have a bank account I’m considered little, littler than my grandmamma what has two, one for groceries and the other for pinochle. Sometimes she dips into the grocery one when she needs money for pinochle. Thing is she plays pinochle more than she does the grocery shopping, so having two different bank accounts seems sort of stupid. She might as well just have one and pretend she’s buying groceries when she’s really playing pinochle. She’s probably way littler than she thinks, but can’t say it out loud in case my granddad hears and makes her feel silly and like a liar. Our scout master was a big liar and a bastard so I can stop talking about him, for now at least.
Poor bastard might even have a bump or something on his brain, right underneath the eye socket where they push in a knitting needle, kind of tamp it in there like they’re doing some knitting or crocheting, that kind of shit, shit like that. I even heard that they even goes as far as to cut out pieces of the brain, like coring out an apple or a cantaloupe, that kind of tampering and buggering about, in someone’s brain, for God’s sake. Its no wonder, really, that the sad cunt reads the whole National Geographic and not just the underneath stuff. Really, when you think it over, which you do, cause it is worth thinking, guys like him probably don’t understand a word their reading, not a fucking word of it, really. Sad fucking world we lives in, fucking pathetic if you want my opinion. Then you never know whether you might end up like him, all scrabbled and knit into a fucking sweater, it could happen--it just could, you never know, for sure that is.
I know my opinion isn’t worth much, probably shit, whose is, really, I mean when you get right down to it what most people say is shit, pure shit, me included. So he’s sitting across not far from me and this lady with the fucking carryall who looks pretty dim herself. I mean man the shit you see on the bus, too much to take in at one time, that is, all at once and without a break, a breather, let’s say. If I had it my way, which I never will, I’d take a fucking cab or walk, that is if it weren’t too far, I mean too far or up-hill. But the chances of me having it my way are slim to nil, so I’m pretty well fucked from the get-go, fucking carryalls, not much use when you got to lug the fuckers up-hill or round and round like a merry-go-fucking-round, now is it, just not worth the energy or bother, fuck no. Sleeping now that’s foolish, a waste of time, anyone worth they’re weight in saltpetre knows that. All sleep does is remind you just how much shit you have to do and how much time you wasted sleeping when you could have been doing it. Like reading the National Geographic or knitting a fucking sweater. There just aren’t enough sweaters, at least not enough to go around. I couldn’t think of a homelier way to read than wrapped up in a sweater, all woolly and cinched up round the bobbin of your neck. That cowfish of a lady, the one with the carryall, she’d look exceptional in a sweater, all that wool and dye and lanolin next to her skin, a sight for sore eyes, better yet, an eye for sore sight. I can be pretty magnificent when I want, when I put my noggin to it, like now, like right this fucking minute. Salt-fucking-petre, now that’s some nasty shit, makes what goes up come down, a fucking free-for-all. That sad bastard, sadder than a fucking tumour, sitting close by not far from me and that cowfish lady, the carryall lady, reading the National fucking Geographic, the whole fucking thing, not just the shit under the pictures. Makes you wonder, makes you wonder what the fuck he’s going to read when he finishes the Geographic. Bastard’s sadder than a cowlick on a cow, down right pathetic, really. But my opinion is worth shit, so why listen the fuck to me?
If I knew anything about anything I’d be the first to speak up, but I don’t. I can speak, I just don’t have anything to say, anything worth saying. Speaking when you should keep shut is what most people do, and I don’t want to be most people. I know people who speak just so they can hear themselves, like a fucking broken record, all cracked up and scratchy. I don’t want to be one of them, most people that is. You’d catch me reading on the bus before you’d catch me talking when I shouldn’t, opening my yap just to hear myself, that’s fucked up, in more ways than one. I suppose there’s lots of fascinating shit in the world; all I’m saying is I could care less about it. Some things seem out of place, for example this guy riding the bus with a dagger tattoo on his forearm, just below the crook in his elbow where guys with dagger tattoos crank heroin or Drano or some shit like that; all that shit is corrosive, shit you find in a janitor’s closet, with the mops and dusters, that kind of shit. I knew this chick that shot up Drano thinking it was crank or crack, the kind of shit that makes your head go all dim and fucked. I mean when you get to that point in life, when you’re shooting up Drano, your life is pretty much over, pretty fucking dim. Not that it makes a difference, but this shit is getting me down.
It’s sort of like the chicken bone that gets stuck in your throat; craw bone is what my granddaddy called it, not a wishbone, cause wishing and hoping are pointless, like a dagger tattoo or cranking drain unclogger. It’s all pretty much pointless, in a dim fucked up kind of way. Life is like a chicken bone, not pretty, but effective. My grandmamma made chicken pot pie with crinkly crust and soap mix. She said the key ingredient was the chicken bones cause they added flavour to the pot-pie. I was the poor sod that always got the chicken bone, or a piece of chicken gristle or skin. One time I half-swallowed a bone, a breastplate or one those finger-like bones that keep the wings from flapping out of control. My granddaddy had to whack me on the back with the heel of his hand; otherwise I would have choked myself to kingdom fucking cum, and that would’ve been shit. For the love of it I can’t stand loud noises, they drive me round the bend, further sometimes. I’m what you’d call sensitive to noises, all sorts and kinds of noise. I’m pretty much deaf in one ear and loosing it in the other, down to a few measly decibels, which are running short real quick. The doctor who looks after my ears said I’d be pretty much stone-deaf by the time I hit fifty, maybe sooner if the world gets noisier and people louder. It’s all pretty much pointless, cause the way I see it the shits going to hit the fan long before I hit fifty, and even if it don’t, they’ll be other shit lined up waiting to take its place, maybe worse shit, shit that’ll make the other shit look measly and small. Most shit is shit anyhow, so there really isn’t any point to worrying about it, really. The way I see it they’re be more people yelling and hollering and acting like dim fucks long before anything changes, and even if it does, changes that is, the shit’ll already have hit the fan, so what’s the point.
I figure its time to start telling a story about something other than pot-pies and pointlessness. Someone said that we all have stories in us, but I figure that guy was a storyteller to start with, so it was no big deal for him to say something, that when you think about it seems rather pointless, stupid even. I figure that storytellers take this sort of stuff pretty much for granted, and others, me for example, don’t have the luxury of taking much of anything for granted, not even anything worth taking for granted, cause in the end it’s all pretty much pointless shit, and isn’t worth a hell of a lot, not really.
Her name is Martha. The lady on the bus with the carryall, I think. I’m not much for names, never have been, but I can tell you all about someone’s face or the shoes they’re wearing. I like to keep things pretty much simple, that ways there isn’t much room for mistaking one thing for another, another thing for another, that sort of mistaking. I guess it comes with age and worsening hearing, cause if you don’t pay attention the first time you’re fucked, then you can’t remember a thing, nothing, nil. Mind you, I could forget the guy reading the National Geographic with the dagger tattoo, but that’s unlikely, really. Once he’s in my mind’s eye, my brain, he’s pretty much there for life, maybe longer. My grandmamma told me that I have what’s called a photographic memory, as in once I see something its there for life. Some people dream in colours, me, I don’t have dreams at all, maybe little ones but that’s it, nothing worth talking about. Anyhow dreams are overrated, mostly nightmares and shit, so why bother. As you might have figured out, by now anyhow, I don’t have a mother or a dad, both of ‘em died when I was a baby, or at least real little. My grandmamma said they died in a house fire, got all burned up and black. Of course I don’t remember, and even if I did it’d be horrible stuff, like burned bodies and black faces and frizzy hair, so I guess I’m better off not remembering, at least that.
I had a sister, but she ran away. After the house fire, the one that burned up my mom and dad, she up and fucked off with a guy who had a Pontiac Firebird and a birthmark on his forehead. The reason I’m telling you this is cause I think the guy on the bus reading the National Geographic was the guy who fucked off with my sister. I know I said that it was the first time I saw him, that time on the bus, but I could be mistaken. I make lots of mistakes, some bigger, and some just little ones that really don’t count as mistakes at all, but are just sort of slips of mind or thought or something. The way I see it if it was him he wasn’t driving a car, and if he was, or even had a car, it most probably wouldn’t be a Firebird, on account of the fact that they fucked them up, made ‘em all round-looking and cheap, and a guy like that, with dagger tattoos, wouldn’t be caught dead in a round cheap-looking car. Come to think of it one a those carryalls wouldn’t likely fit in the back trunk of one of these newer cars, on account of that the trunks are so small you can’t even put a full grocery order in one. I suppose the Japanese buy smaller groceries, and that ways don’t need a bigger back trunk for to put them in. Anyhow she up and fucked off and never did stop long enough to say goodbye or anything like that. Not that I would have expected it, that she say anything, really, but the thought might have been nice, or at least the idea of saying goodbye or something along those lines.
The social worker, the one that came after my mom and dad burned up in the house fire, asked me if I wanted to live with my aunt, my mom’s sister, or my granddaddy and grandmamma. On account of the fact I didn’t know how to play pinochle, which is all my aunt did, I picked my grandparents, and on account of the fact your grandparents tend to treat you better than your aunt does. My grandmamma played Gin, my granddad Hearts, so I figured they’d be easier to learn, maybe that’s why, but I could be mixed up I guess. My grandmamma cheated, my granddad played blind, like a dog on a bone. Anyhow our dog burned up in the house fire, under the couch next to the television that was always on. I think that hurt my feelings almost more than my mom and dad burning, cause at least the dog liked me and didn’t call me fatter than a house. It’s odd, in a weird sort of way, how the house burns down without me in it, me being fatter than a house and all. It always stymied me that gip-rock would burn brighter than a 4th of July fireworks. That’s what I was told; anyhow our house was crappy, one a those stucco ones with a shitty yard in a shitty neighbourhood. I don’t figure most people missed it when it burned, all clapboard and shingles and our television still on.
‘Cats in a hotbox’, is what my granddad used to say. That’s the way he used to talk when he wanted to get my attention, even if it didn’t make a lick of sense. Of course I’d listen, even though I knew he was making fun of me, which was better than being called fatter than a house or dumber than horse sense. I can’t well at all remember exactly when he’d say it, but when he did I’d prick up my ears and pay heed. You see he liked his Triple Star Whisky, from a kitchen glass, a green one with a paler green label on it. My grandmamma didn’t all at all like it when he said dumb stupid stuff like ‘cats in a hotbox’, but put up with his shenanigans cause he was getting blinder and deafer by the day, and probably wasn’t aware of what he was saying. She used to tug on the strings of her apron whenever he said something improper or dumb, or simply screw up her eyes and say something herself under her breath. The way I saw it, it was better than playing pinochle, even if she played honest and didn’t bend any of the rules. My aunt had these tiny little vials of medicine she took with juniper water, something to do with having rickets when she was young and never getting proper medical help. I guess back then there wasn’t much medical help at all, and that that there was, was probably more harm than good. You’d see kids with wooden logs between they’re legs buckled at the hips with straps and hinge-screws. It was on account of the fact that they’re legs hadn’t grown properly, either they was all bendy and frail, or twisted round like willow branches. Either way, they had to scrabble and chip they’re way down the street, some using wooden crutches, others holding onto the arms of they’re mothers or a school friend.
I saw a Brahman, a monk or something, riding the bus; he was chewing, chewing gum and listening to a Walkman or an I-Pod or something. He was in the customary orange thing, a smock I think it’s called, and wearing a woollen toque. I figured monks, Buddhist one’s at least, aren’t allowed to read on the bus, but are allowed to listen to inspirational tapes, maybe music, but it was hard to tell on account of it was too low or my hearing’s getting worse. Orange is an odd colour for someone like a monk, figuring that they don’t want to draw attention to themselves, cause they’re always meditating or praying or something, and orange is a pretty really bright colour. He was really quite small, almost like a dwarf, but not quite that small; maybe a premmy or one of those people whose bodies don’t grow according to plan, like they’re bones are too little or the muscles don’t form properly. As I haven’t seen too many monks up close, far away even, I could be mixed up.
So I’ve been wondering lately what all the fuss is about the Catholics and Protestants and the like. Not that I know much about religion, nothing actually, but people tell me that the Catholics and the Protestants don’t get along, see eye to eye, so to speak. I never seen them fighting, or throwing fits, but then again I’m not round churches and places like that very much, not at all actually. This one kid I knew who lived on our street, before our house burned, was one of those altar boys, the guys who carry the Bible and hand out leaflets and prayer books. He said that one day the priest asked him to go get the sacrament stuff, the wafers or biscuits or whatever there called, from the refrigerator in the rectory. When he opened the fridge door he found bags and bags of these wafer things, the body of Christ I guess is what they’re called, with numbers printed on them. When he looked closer he saw that the numbers were dates, like February or June or something, with those lines what’re suppose to be codes or something. When he brought the sacraments back to the priest and asked him what the numbers were for, the priest said, ‘they’re expiry dates, my son, so we can know if the Host is still good and fresh’.
At don’t think the orange monks eat wafers and stuff; I think they’re more passive then that, then the Catholics I mean. They’re more into praying and keeping quiet and doing things with those long bamboo sticks, the ones they play fight with, those ones. I wonder if that fellow with the crab tattoo knows anything at all about bamboo sticks? He was sitting next to the monk reading the newspaper. He was reading the newspaper, the guy with the crab tattoo, not the monk, on account that they aren’t allowed to read nothing on the bus, the monks that is. I’d be pretty hard to tell if the monk had any tattoos, cause their clothes hide most of themselves, and even if he did have one who knows what’d look like. I’m not all that fond of crab, its way too salty and the shells and claws and antennas are gross looking. I meant unsavoury, but didn’t want to come off sounding like a know it all. I’ve know a lot of know it alls, and all of them were a fucking a pain in the royal ass. Not that royal has anything to do with it, but anyhow these fuckers are real royal pieces of work. If my dog hadn’t have burned up in the fire, nasty thing fire, I’d sick him on these simpletons and have ‘em running for daylights. Sad thing is my dog was way too passive for that sort of thing, you’d have almost thought he was a monk or something, the way he was so nice and kind and not a loud barker and the like. He was a petter, meaning he like to have his ears scratched and the top of his head rubbed with the heel part of your hand, real hard like you were going to rub the fur off, like that, real slow and hard like. Poor fucker, probably didn’t hear my mom and dad hollering cause he was asleep next to the television, probably on some late-night missionary show or something close like that. I can see now how come the Catholics and Protestants don’t get along, always elbowing in on one and the other to get better television space, almost pathetic in a pathetic sort of way.
It’s getting hotter, like in the weather and the sky and the temperature, hot like that. The way I figure it its way too hot to ride on the bus, so I’ll leave that for now, riding the bus and all. I could walk, I suppose, but I’m way too lazy for that, and on account of the fact that my feet get all swollen and puffed out and crabby looking. I knew this guy who refused to walk anywhere if the slope, I think that’s how it’s called, was too high, as in an incline or a hill going upwards. He took a taxi or simply stayed put, sometimes not leaving the house for days on end. It’s sad, when you think about it, how some fucker can’t even walk up a tiny hill without figuring it’s too high and way to costly on energy. As far as I’m concerned they might as well call it quits, fuck off, I mean just stop all the blubbering and complaining. Jesus made the world with hills and slopes and inclines and the like, so why bother complaining or giving it a second thought, really? Of course who am I to talk, really, I mean I can’t even leave the house if I think it’s going to rain, cause if it does, rain that is, I’m pretty much fucked cause I don’t have an umbrella, and there’s nothing I hate more than getting all wet and soggy, well maybe being scaled with scalding hot water, but that’s about it.
One thing I like about the rain is the thunder and lightening, it reminds me sort of like when I was a kid and used to sit under the porch stoop listening to it. The crashing and bolts, I think that’s how you call it, of lightening were like fireworks, not you normal general kind of fireworks, but the kind what’re made by Nature and Jesus, like. I’d hide under the porch stoop with our dog, him licking and slobbering on my face, all screwy looking in the eyes on account of the fact he was scared and all. On occasion sometimes I’d bring some matches with me and fire them off like rockets, striking them against the striking part and tossing them into the air. The best thing about being a kid was not having to listen to your mom and dad; mind you, I suppose I did miss it after they burned in the house. And me fiddling round with matches underneath it couldn’t have been all that smart, not by a long shot I guess. Its not that I particularly like the sulphur smell, but the fact, I guess, that I could do it and get away with it. My grandmamma said it was cheating, or lying, or something like that, but I could care less, cause it was fun and a fun thing to do under the porch stoop in the rain with our dog. Sometimes doing fun stuff is way better than listening to your mom and dad, sometimes I guess, but not always.
I remember throwing stones and watching that poor girl trouble her way down the street, the girl with the hearing-box strapped to her chest. She was pretty much deaf so had to wear this crazy looking contraption on a harness or something, it was sort of tied round her back and strapped round the front, like a rucksack or a schoolbag. It made this buzzing sound like bees in a peanut jar, and there was this tiny green light that flashed and flickered, so she could tell if it was on and all I guess. I’m pretty much sure that she had crappy eyesight, too, cause she had these real thick-looking glasses on that had an elastic band round them, sort of like the ones that athletes wear to keep they’re goggles and stuff from falling off. I’m pretty much ashamed to admit that me and my friends made fun of her, making crazy screwy-eyed faces at her or saying something when we weren’t, but just moving out lips like we was. I hope she’s okay now, now that she’s all grown and doesn’t have to have us as kids living on her block. I’m not too happy about that, but when you’re a kid you do stupid things just to get the other kinds to like you; and most of the time they don’t like you anyhow, so it seems rather pointless, really. Now that I remember it, me and my friends uses to catch bees in peanut butter jars; you just flipped the jar over on top of them and slid the jar top back on. We used to have millions of them in one peanut jar, buzzing and smacking they’re wings against the peanut butter jar glass. You could always find them cause they hovered over honeysuckle plants, on account of the fact that that’s what they liked to eat, and there was plenty of honeysuckles on the lawn in front of the church across the street from our house, before it burned down of course. I’d been better had the church burned down, cause I didn’t care much for the minister or the guy who ran the AA meeting.
One thing I know for sure is that thinking isn’t worth a damn. It seems like the more I know the more confused I get about all those other things I think I know I know. That sort of shit, confusing shit. Like the time I was thinking about this nature show I saw about bees and hornets. Well it turns out it wasn’t about them at all, bees and hornets, but ants, except I thought they were bees and hornets on account of I don’t see too well when the television gets all blurry and static-like. I just figured they were bees and hornets that’d lost they’re wings or something. My grandmamma said it was on account of I sit way too close to the television and it was scrambling up my brain patterns making them think I was seeing one thing when I was really seeing something else, something different than what I thought I was seeing. That sort of shit, confusing shit like that. Granted I did need spectacles--that’s what my granddad calls them--but the social worker said there wasn’t any money in my grandparent’s account to pay for them. So the way I see it, which is quite confusing, really, there really isn’t all that much difference between bees and hornets and ants, not when the television is all blurry and your eyes all fucked to shit, not much of a difference at all, really.
It’s what you don’t know that really matters, all those things just waiting to be thought. Something’s you know you think, but really don’t know at all. Or sometimes it’s thinking that you think you know when all you really know, for sure, that is, is that you’re thinking about thinking those very same things, the things you thought you knew but don’t, never did, really. I get sort of stuck in between, between the things I think I think, the something’s, and the things I think but haven’t really thought, the no-things. Having thoughts is like when you drink an ice-slush too fast and you’re head freezes all up and you feel like you’re going to passout or something. I can do without that sort of shit, honest.
Our scout master was a fat bastard; scout masters are either fat bastards or real skinny ones; ours was the fat bastard kind. Sewing badges on sashes is for sissies and kids that play chess and wear glasses what’re too big for their faces. I’m saying this because if I was to keep it inside I’d explode like a one of those helium dirigibles, and that’d be a shame, me all busted up and floating round in the sky in pieces. Now you can see why I’m not so big on thinking, especially if this is the kind of crap I’m always thinking thoughts about; me all busted-up floating round in the sky wearing way-too big glasses and playing chess with fat kids.
This one scout master with mint crumbs in the corners of his mouth, not humbug mints, but those white pocket-mints that old people chew on like candy, I didn’t care much for, not in the least, really. When some of the other scouts, the ones with way more badges sewed on they’re sashes used to whack me in the ass with they’re moccasins he’d just keep chewing and chewing like the fat bastard he was, fat shitty bastard. I had all these welts on my backside, moccasin-shaped welts that hurt like bee stings, and that fat shit scout master just sitting on his fat ass chewing on mints and making hacking coughing sounds when he swallowed one down the wrong hole. I almost got the orientation badge but lost my compass just near the end so they said I was way too clumsy and didn’t deserve a badge for something that meant you were well-oriented.
Grandmamma had this theory about getting old, as long as you don’t think you’re old you isn’t, it’s the codlings what’re fucked from the get go. On account of the fact I don’t have a bank account I’m considered little, littler than my grandmamma what has two, one for groceries and the other for pinochle. Sometimes she dips into the grocery one when she needs money for pinochle. Thing is she plays pinochle more than she does the grocery shopping, so having two different bank accounts seems sort of stupid. She might as well just have one and pretend she’s buying groceries when she’s really playing pinochle. She’s probably way littler than she thinks, but can’t say it out loud in case my granddad hears and makes her feel silly and like a liar. Our scout master was a big liar and a bastard so I can stop talking about him, for now at least.
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