There was hardly any visibility in the park due to the intense density of the fog, but the rustling drew closer until the beast finally slithered and squirmed into view.
“Yeah, it’s all over you. You think you feel sick now, wait ‘til you see what’s swimming inside of that thing. It’s gross,” I said as it passed, referring to the collection of objects digesting inside of the slug’s jiggling chamber of organs.
I think I identified half a person, grass, and sludge from where I stood as the filmy, gelatinous creature sat there sucking up the muddy soil, twisting and contracting its body like a wet muscle.
It looked like a used condom wrapped around a flooded restroom at a truck stop; spouting and belching scum and globs of jelly from orifices located on its sides.
The slob had no eyes and made thick wet slurping suctioning sounds with its tentacles as they extended out in our direction from its head, inspecting us as we stepped back and continued over the squishy mire. The ground was slowly moving and churning beneath us.
I heard others. I think this thing had a family, and they were somewhere in the short distance on each side of us.
My brother and I used to keep worms and insects like these in jars when we were little and then burn them with our magnifying glass until they curled up into little balls of ash. I don’t think I have a jar big enough for this one.
We finally reached the baseball diamond beyond the woods where tall bottlenecked mounds of dirt and ditches populated the entire field. I just couldn’t believe my eyes….Giant fucking ant hills?!
This was my field, and now it’s nothing but giant fucking ant hills! It enraged me! “Those motherfuckers!”
“Are you crying?” Jane asked. “You’re crying.”
“These are man-tears, you can’t understand, it’s not like when you cry.”
No, she couldn’t understand.
The field was my youth. It was teenage Americana. It was summer romance. It was little league, it was baseball; it was hot dogs and hamburgers. It was EVERY THING a boy could ever want and now it was gone.
I lost my virginity in the dugout to Rosie Lee, I smoked my first joint in the bleachers, and I cracked bones on home plate to win three championships for the team. This was the last straw, YOU DON’T KILL BASEBALL. You don’t kill GLORY.
xxx
‘TIL DEATH DO US PART
Wednesday, February 5th, 2014
The morning Morgan left I stood on the porch in mesmerizing disbelief as the movers hauled her boxes out of the house and into the moving truck. Everyone was playing it cool, trying not to wear our emotions on our sleeves.
Morgan had finally cut the cord, but I was in denial. “We need space, that’s all,” I told myself. “She’ll be back before you even know it, Charles.” “Denial ain’t a river in Egypt,” they say. No, it’s worse—it’s a sweeping tsunami of shit, and I’m drowning in it.
The girls looked so beautiful that morning. Kate was wearing a lemon yellow summer dress with matching hair twists, and Morgan wore tight fitted jeans with a low-cut Rolling Stones t-shirt that fell over her left shoulder.
“Why do you have to look so damn hot on the day you leave me?” I asked Morgan as she walked past me leaving behind a lingering trail of “Fuck You” vapors in the kitchen.
Morgan was wearing the perfume she used to put on that signaled we were going to have sex that night. It was my favorite. I called it the “Whore Spice.” We kept it underneath our bed in a sexual treasure chest along with other toys. Her wearing it used to indicate that we were going to have the kind of sex I liked to refer to as “naked cage fighting” with my wife.
This was Morgan’s big sendoff as she stood on her toes trying to reach the top shelf for something in the cupboard, revealing the tattoo of shamrocks on the small of her back, a Cancun tramp stamp, and extending her legs outward. She was playing dirty and my libido didn’t deserve this.
She was the only girl I ever knew who could twist a knot in the stem of a cherry with the tip of her tongue and punch a man out with a single shot.
I wanted to hold her, but Morgan hadn’t allowed me to touch her since the day she decided she wanted to leave. She would say, “No Charlie, we can’t, it will just confuse things and make it complicated,” while pushing me away.
There was nothing complicated about wanting to touch the woman I loved.
I didn’t know why she was leaving me. I understood why she wanted to leave, but I never thought she would actually do it. My mother never left my father and he’s twice the bastard I am.
She just lucked out and died. Divorce was taboo when I was growing up. Now everyone is divorcing at neck breaking speeds.
Our marriage was dangerously close to the edge, and she took the initiative to leave.
I didn’t agree with her method, but it was the best idea to leave me in my current state…the man-child’s mid-life crisis.
Morgan and I didn’t have the money for our dream wedding, and I refused to have her cop dad pay for it. Instead, we eloped when Morgan found out she was pregnant with Kate, and she moved into Nana’s house with me. We were young, rebellious, and over the moon for each other.
We would lay on the hood of my T-bird, smoking pot and drinking beer by La Guardia airport’s runway, listening to Rock n’ Roll as the planes took off and landed. There’s nothing like making love to the roaring jets of a 747 as it takes off.
The movers finally removed the last box from the house, and it was time to say our goodbyes. All three of us stood on the porch in silence, fighting back the tears, as the truck drove off.
“Please tell me you’re coming back,” I said, as I let Morgan go.
“No. It has to be this way, Charlie, please understand that, and I promise to have Kate call you when we’re settled in, okay?”
I didn’t know what to say, we just stared each other until we embraced, kisses all around, possibly for the last time.
“I’m sorry,” I told her—damn, she smelled so good. I tried getting one last feel in before she left, but she firmly smacked me on the wrist.
“Don’t be a pig,” she said and kissed me goodbye on the cheek.
Morgan’s sister finally arrived to pick them up, and I held onto Kate, fighting back the tears—sucking back down whatever it was that wanted to come dripping out of me, but I was too proud to show it.
We waved until we were out of each other’s sights, and that was the very last time I saw Morgan and Kate before the fallout.
I turned and walked back into my cave. The house had nice acoustics now that it was half-empty. But now, the walls were too white, the floors were too bare, and the dining room was just an empty space you had to walk through to get to the kitchen. I was alone and lost.
So what do I do?—I drew all the shades closed, locked all my doors and indulged in a three-day bender for my thirty-fourth birthday. I just wanted to be alone— just me, myself, and I—‘til death do us part.
OVER MY DEAD BODY
Wednesday, February 5th, (cont’d)
I stared at the cordless phone anticipating her call all day. I wouldn’t leave it out of my sight—until she called. She promised she would after they settled in, and it still hadn’t sunk in they were gone for good. I was nervous to speak to my wife.
I didn’t want to sound too desperate even though I had already drowned myself in the sauce, and by the way I slurred my words, I’m sure she knew I was up to no good.
“You’re gonna’ be fine, Charles,” she reassured me, and I cringed when she called me by my name.
It would be pretentious to think she would carry on calling me babe or hun’, but it stung like hell when she called me Charles. It was one of the coldest nails in the coffin when she did it.
“Can-you-come-home-now-please?” I wasn’t too proud to beg. The few hours I was alone in the house had already proven how much I depended on her and what a fuck up I could be.
I learned my lesson, you win, I frantically waved the white flag, but her
answer was still a firm NO.
You’re on your own, scumbag.
Okay, she was still upset, I understood, but when she cooled off, she’d come running back home, I just knew it—or I hoped.
An awkward silence lingered between us before she asked me, “How much have you had to drink tonight, Charlie?” her voice teetered between indifference, caring, and boiling. The drinking was one of the reasons she left me, and here I was confirming it on the phone.
“Uhhh, not much,” I lied. “Not much,” but I poured more vodka into my glass to fend off the dry, heavy knot that formed in the back of my throat.
“Well, we’re getting ready for bed, so I’ll give the phone to Kate, okay?” I sensed she was annoyed, and any chance of her second-guessing her decision to leave died with this phone call.
“Okay then, well, uhh…Morgan…I…uhh…I love you.”
“Yeah, you just take care of yourself, Charles. Here’s Kate. Goodnight,” she answered, as that knot climbed higher into my throat.
“Hi, Daddy!” Kate yelled into the phone.
“Hey, baby girl, how ya’ doin’?” I said, steadying my voice.
“Good, Daddy. I miss you.”
“Yeah, I miss you too, sunshine.”
“When am I going to see you again?” she asked, and by that time, the tears and snot gushed their way out of my head in streams.
“I don’t know, darling. That’s up to Mommy and when she’s feeling better.”
“Uhm, okay, I love you, Daddy. Mommy said I have to go to bed now, but…I’m scared,” she whispered into the phone as if she was telling me a secret.
“Scared? What’s the matter?”
“The boogieman.”
“Oh, Baby, you remember what daddy told you about the boogieman, right?”
“Uh-huh, he’s not real, I know,” she exhaled.
“That’s my girl. Go get some sleep now, I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay, Daddy, I love you. Goodnight!”
“G’night, sweetie. I love you too.”
I waited to hear Morgan’s voice again, not realizing she had already hung up several minutes before.
If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.
The booze couldn’t hit the bottom of my stomach soon enough. And I kept them drinks coming all night long. The initial buzz wasn’t doing it, and I needed something to chase the painkillers. Before I knew it—I melted into the bowels of the couch and faded away.
At times, objects, especially the television screen, would shrink and then appear closer before my very eyes. I was lost in TV Land for hours, talking life with the likes of Ralph Kramden, Mr. Belvedere, and the gang from Cheers. When my mouth dried out, I drank more. When the pain attempted to fight its way back through the sedation, I took another pill and repeated steps one and two over again. It was my birthday after all—Fuck the World.
When I wasn’t blacking out, I was binging. I was drinking, throwing pills down my throat, eating processed foods, and jerking off to 80s starlets out of self-loathing.
I guess the shame subdued my sense of abandonment for all of two minutes before smearing my junk off on the side of the couch and falling back asleep. It’s not weird to want to cry while masturbating, is it? I was my own lousy lover and didn’t need anyone else here to prove it.
Drink. Pill. Smoke. Jerk off. Cry. Sleep. Drink. Pill. High. Low. Smoke. Blow out the candles. Black out.
I vaguely remember Jerry stopping by weekend and the phone ringing, but can’t recall who was calling, or if I even picked up. It might have been Morgan, but the memories came in short bursts of squiggly distorted images.
I can’t remember showering, taking a leak or a shit for that matter. I know I didn’t shower because I stunk up the joint, but not from using my pajamas as a toilet.
The only evidence of me eating was the empty pizza box on my kitchen counter and the encrusted badges of marinara sauce on my shirt, but I don’t remember eating at all. I know I smoked more than a Russian prostitute by the trail of empty cigarette packs scattered across my coffee table and cigarette butts spilling over the ashtray in heaps.
My breath smelled like old piss in a rotting stomach. And this…this is what I had to offer Morgan and Kate, to come back home to.
WILD FIRE
Thursday, February 6th, 2014
Bryce said we were all just waiting around to die, and those words ring truer now than ever. The Deviants breached the schools, churches, and bingo halls that had been converted into shelters for families.
The Crusaders had to torch the middle school last week when they discovered hundreds dead inside. Hoarders broke into the school to steal supplies and had left the doors open letting the Deviants to get in while everyone was asleep. Good job, assholes.
“Adapt or die,” they say. Adapt and then what? The virus must have reached all boroughs, widening the death toll like wildfire by now.
The people used to talk about an exodus, walking up to the city gates and kicking its doors down even if it meant dying to get there. Hell, it beats dying here.
The radicals talked about an all out war against the enemy and who exactly is the enemy? What are the alternatives? Live long enough to die by a Deviant, become a hero and join the failing chivalry of the Crusaders, become a hoarder, scavenger, mole person, beggar, rapist, murderer—I’m already half those things on the list.
There are no HEROES or VILLAINS here. You’re either one of two things: dead or alive. It’s that simple. You do what you can to survive.
More neighborhoods have gone dark, and fewer remain with power now. At night, the natives set buildings and homes ablaze; the fires light the skies. I have seen them burn out of control, jumping from one house to the next, burning an entire street to ashes.
SHMEGURT WAS A GAGGLE
Friday, February 7th, 2014
Jane was the first to discover “Shmegurt” a couple of weeks ago where he sat atop the shed looking around aimlessly with his wild, haggard eyes, queer feathers, and sharp talons. He looked like a crazy chicken.
Most Gaggles appear that way. Some are flightless birds who prey on smaller animals like vermin and rodents. They aren’t very good at catching their food unless it’s already dead.
Every morning since then, we are jolted awake to the sound of quick and repetitive tapping from the top of the shed. That was Shmegurt the Gaggle. He sat there every morning, quickly striking down, puncturing holes in its roof with his odd, splintered beak.
“What’s that on the roof?” Jane asked that morning looking out the kitchen window.
“A Gaggle, they’re like mentally retarded birds that can’t fly, I don’t know.”
“Oh, what’s his name?”
“How would I know?” I said. “Why would I care?”
“He looks like a Shmegurt!” Jane clapped, happily naming the hopeless bird tearing up my roof. Looking out through the slits of the bars of the kitchen window, I thought—sounds about right.
“Don’t get attached. If he keeps putting holes in that shed, I’m going to have to take him out myself.”
And that’s when Jane asked about Peter. I was hoping she’d forgotten about him.
“Do we really have to talk about this now?” I asked.
“Yes, Charlie, you’ve had a dead body in your shed for weeks now. Don’t you think it’s time to get rid of it?”
“Yes, I know what’s back there. I put it there, remember?”
I suppose she was right, but I keep forgetting. I didn’t mean to snap at her, but the thought of going back in the shed where Peter’s body remained unnerves me.
“It smells in the yard, Charlie. The grass is growing wild. You should cut it, too,” she added.
“Yes, dear, is there anything else?”
“Just one more thing,” she said.
DOWN THERE
F
riday, February 7th, (cont’d)
“Where’s this door lead?” asked Jane from the kitchen, curiously jerking the knob on the door that lead to the basement.
“The basement. Stop! Stop, and get away from the door!” I said, forcefully pushing her hand away. It was an overreaction on my part; the kind that would make the other person jump back and say, “Whoa, what’s your problem, crazy person?”
“Sorry, we don’t go down there, ever, just leave it alone. There’s nothing down there. I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just don’t want you touching this door, ever,” I said scrambling to build a blockade, putting a chair and flowerpot in front of the door. As if it would have ever stopped anyone from getting by, but I had to get my point across…no one is to go down there.
“Okay, the basement, sorry I asked. Let me guess, another dead guy,” she snorted.
“No, smartass, not another dead guy. A lot of bad things happened down there when I was a kid that I’d rather not talk about, so don’t ask,” I said, scooting her away into the living room.
“Okay, I won’t ask.”
“Fine. My grandfather died down there.”
Jane spun to face me, “Charlie, oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it, and plus my uncle touched my kid brother down there too, so I’d rather not talk about the basement, if that’s okay with you. It’s just a bad place.”
“You’re the one talking about it. You had to touch the door!”
“It’s a door. I touched it, so what?”
“You don’t get it. The door was closed and you didn’t need to touch it, that’s all I’m saying. You don’t always need to go snooping around people’s stuff.”
“I wasn’t snooping, and for someone who doesn’t want to talk about it, it you’re saying a lot here. What did your uncle do?”
“Hello, here we go. I said what I said, but it doesn’t mean I was about to tell you my life story. Christ, Jane, my grandfather died going down the stairs because that’s where my grandmother hid his candy, in the basement, okay?”
I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 Page 15
