by Joey Goebel
“You’re really gonna have to stop talking to yourself like that,” I says. “I’ve had reports of you scaring some customers. And by the way, I’ve been walking alongside you for ten minutes, you crackhead.”
“Joe is a redneck. It says so on his truck,” says Johnson. “But Joe does not have to advertise his social status on his vehicle. Even if he rode a moped and walked around with nothing but his Kentucky cap on, his position as pure white trash would be evident just from the empty look on his face, the same look that eighty-five percent of the people in this town possess. Roger that.”
“Shut the fuck up, Johnson,” I tell him. Shit, that boy pisses me off, but he’s a hell of a worker—I’ll give him that. And for some reason, there’s something comforting about having him work for me. Plus, he’s been here longer than me even—nearly ten years.
“Hey, man, you can just put that beer in the back of my truck,” says a patron. I smile and laugh. I wouldn’t mind getting that beer in the back of my own truck, to be perfectly honest.
“Joe, I am just trying to get through the nightmare day,” says Johnson. “If I had someone to talk to, I would talk to them. For instance, let me talk to you, Joe. Let me ask you: Do you have any dreams?”
“No.”
“I do. I want to rock it for the sake of goulash on the conch shell caviar table of life. I am playing for keeps, but not in the geometric sense of the word.”
Johnson laughs at himself in that big, annoying laugh of his.
“Shit, boy. I sure would like to be on whatever you’re on,” I tell him.
“I hate it when people say things like that.”
“Shit. Come on, boy. It’s only fair that I’d think you was on drugs by the way you act.”
“Hey, man, I’m parked right outside,” says another patron. I just kind of laugh politely since I heard a similar joke a minute ago. Johnson shakes his head.
“I guess you would find it unfathomable if I told you that I have never done drugs in my lifetime,” says Johnson.
“No, I couldn’t fathom that. Not with how you are. And specially not after hearing your brothers are drug dealers.”
Another customer spots the beer being pushed by.
“Hey, man, my truck—”
“Shut the fuck up!” yells Luster at the customer. “You people act as if you have never seen beer before! I appreciate your attempts at reaching out with humor. I really do. But you are not being original! You people are stale. You people are stale!”
“Johnson! Shut up!” I says. “I’m sorry, sir. He’s on drugs.”
Luster
Aurora, Ember, Opal, Ray, and I got dressed up tonight in formal evening wear (shirts untucked) and went roller skating all over the downtown streets. We are tired now, so we loiter on the sidewalk outside a local hangout, Rookies Sports Bar, occasionally making grotesque faces at the patrons inside.
I am so sick of my pointless job. I almost got fired again today. I think I will quit.
“You say that every day,” says Ray. My effeminate Iraqi friend speaks the truth.
I know, but I mean it this time. It is time I crawl out of this life and start getting big. Statement: In order to do so, our rock band is going to have to start practicing more.
“It’s not our fault,” says Aurora. Despite her confinement to a wheelchair, she still wears roller skates. “The only time we get to practice is when your house is free.” My beautiful Satanist friend speaks the truth.
We had our first band practice five months ago. Since then we have only had five practices because we have to work around my brothers’ schedules. As long as only one brother is at my house, our practice can go on smoothly. But if there is more than one brother present, our power-pop new wave heavy metal punk rock music cannot compete with their animalism and ridicule. Besides the problem of my brothers, I also have to work around the schedules of my bandmates’ “real world” obligations, those obligations to family, work, etcetera, etcetera, nut sack, nut sack, nut sack, nut sack.
To say the least, five practices in five months is not the proper amount of attention that my hopes and dreams deserve.
Maybe we could try playing at Opal’s again.
“You saw how my old neighbors called the cops on us!” says Opal. My elderly rock and roll friend speaks the truth.
Ray lives in an apartment, so that is no good. What about your house, Aurora?
“I’m still fighting with my dad. He won’t even let me have friends over, let alone have a band playing in his house.”
“What about my house?” queries Ember.
“No, little skittle,” says Opal. “We can’t risk your parents finding out that I let you run around with all these guys. They just wouldn’t get it, and I’d be liable to lose my gig babysitting you.”
We will just have to continue practicing at my shack. We will just have to build Rome.
“I can’t wait ’til we play a show,” says Aurora. “That’s the only thing I miss about my old job, being on stage.”
“I’d be missing giving the sailors lap dances, myself,” says Opal.
I think that gradually my bandmates will come to associate this band of ours with the future good or the good future, the tomorrow that can drag us through today. They have just the right amount of discontent and individualistic life force to drive us upward, and more importantly, the humanoids in the “real world” are showing no signs of letting up on The Conspiracy of Mediocrity, the two-hundred-year plan that The Thoughtless Confederacy subjects us to daily. The humanoids don’t know that it’s every ounce of insincerity and ignorance that fuels the hope rockets we keep within our amplifiers and p.a. speakers, those ambitious mechanisms which can propel us out of dead end town.
IV. She’s Got Spunk
Opal
They got us sitting in a big, happy circle like little kids in a kindergarten class. Some of us are in wheelchairs. Some of us are hooked up to machines. Some of us have grandchildren who haven’t visited us in two years despite the checks we sent them.
But not me. And I’m not dressed pathetically like them either. When people get this old, it’s almost like they give up on fashion altogether. Their outfits are so plain that I can’t figure out whether I’m underdressed or overdressed.
The group therapist fag takes roll and doesn’t mention the fact that one of us died since the last meeting. Then he pulls out some papers and says “take one and pass it over” like he always does.
“Okay, group. First off, this handout has a list of signs and symptoms of depression,” he lisps. “Now, as I read them off, I’d like for you all to consider whether or not you’ve been experiencing them. Okay?”
“Lay ’em on me,” I say. It’s not like anyone else’s keister was going to respond.
“Okay. Symptoms of depression: decrease of weight, increase of weight, loss of motivation, sleeping too much, sleeping not enough, uncontrollable crying, thoughts of suicide, becoming slower at everything, loss of concentration, loss of interest, and isolating yourself from everyone.”
Just as I had reckoned, everyone in the world is depressed. The half-dead folks sitting in this circle are no exception. You can already smell the formaldehyde.
“So those are just some things you can be watching for to help you decide whether you’re depressed or not, or to see just how depressed you truly are.”
As it usually goes at these therapy sessions, there’s complete silence. I don’t know. Nobody really needs to say anything, I reckon, because the looks on their faces say it all. They’ve got shriveled dispositions and wrinkly brains and blank stares. And Kip’s left with the task of filling in the blanks, but he’s not too good at it.
“Wow. You all look like you’re in really deep thought. Would any of you like to share with the group what you’re thinking?”
Of course no one wants to share anything. I decide to say something just because I can’t stand the silence.
“I’m thinking if this is gas in my stomach or
what,” I say.
“Hmm. Well, did this feeling start after you ate?” He always has a follow-up question.
“Don’t worry about it, girlfriend. I’ll make out. You asked what we were thinking, and I told you. Move on to someone else.”
“Well, Opal, I don’t think we should skirt the issue. Your gas problem might be a cause for concern because it might be a side effect of your medication.”
“Honey, trust me. It’s gas. I’m not on any medication.” I just wonder exactly how many cocks this guy can fit in his mouth.
“Well, okay then. Whatever you say. Now, Trixie, the last time we met you said you had stopped taking your medication, and we talked about how it’s important that all of you stick with the medicine that you’ve been prescribed. So have you started taking your pills again?”
“I can’t,” answers Trixie.
“Why not?”
“Because Jesus has been taking them.”
“Okay. Like I told you last week, Trixie, you’re going to have to confront Jesus. Jesus has to realize that your medication is for you.”
“I know. I’ll talk to him tonight.”
Shouldn’t we be laughing right now? That’s a question that’s always on my mind. Not laughing at her or with her, but for her, I guess. But the princess has already moved on.
“Now Blanche, how is your new medication working out?”
“What does it mean when it feels like my ears are on the bottom of my head?” Blanche replies.
I look around to see if anyone else is wanting to laugh. They’re not.
“Well, I’m not sure,” says Kip. “Do you think your new medication is causing you to feel like your ears are on the bottom of your head?”
“Yeah. I think so. Either ’cause of that or ’cause I’m a horrible person, and I’m going to hell.”
“No, baby. You ain’t goin to hell,” says Trixie. “You just need to invite Jesus into your life. The only thing is, once he’s there, you can’t get him to leave.”
I can’t take it anymore. I let out a big laugh that had been building up as bad as the gas in my belly. Trixie laughs some too, along with a few others. It’s about the only signs of life this group has shown in the three months since I’ve been going here.
“It’s good to laugh,” says Kip. That’s the most helpful piece of therapy he’s ever given us, and he may have just had the breakthrough he’s been hoping for.
Therapist
I remember from my college group therapy classes how important it is to maintain control of your group, so I try to steer things back on course. I’ve found the best way to get out of these sticky situations is to just change the subject!
“Now I think we better move on to Carl. Carl, last week you told us you wanted to die.”
Carl is sooo grumpy! He refuses to smile!
“Yes. That’s right, and thanks for bringing it up again in front of everyone.”
Well, excuse me for doing my job! “Uh-huh. Now, do you still feel this way?”
“Yep. I still want to die. I’m tired of this life. In fact, I would like to die as soon as possible.”
“Okay. Well, Carl, hearing you say that really saddens me, because I care about you, and so does the rest of the group. We don’t want Carl to die, do we, group?
They just kind of mumble “no.” They are no help. (As usual!)
“You said the same damn thing last week and the week before that,” says Carl. “I just don’t care anymore. I’m old and I’m tired and I’m sick of you telling me that I should live when I don’t want to.”
“Well…I want to help you.” I really do.
“You people just don’t understand. ‘I want to help. Can I help you?’ No. If you really want to help, pray to God that I die. Say, ‘Lord, please kill Carl.’”
“Well, I’m just not going to do that, Carl.” I think back to my favorite textbooks. “Hmm…Okay—scenario: What if you could have one wish—anything in the whole, wide world. What would it be?”
“To die before noon,” he replies.
“Hey, it’s 11:45,” says Opal. “You better watch out, Carl!”
“Opal, please! Don’t be so insensitive. Carl is hurting right now.” She is awful! I wish she would go someplace else.
“That’s okay,” says Carl. “I don’t mind. It is kind of funny.”
“Well, I don’t think it is. Carl, remind me before you leave to have you sign a suicide contract for me.” He waves his hand dismissively at me. “Well, okay. Let’s talk about you then, Opal. Have you made any lifestyle changes since we last met?”
“You mean have I quit gettin some derriere? No! At my age, what difference does it make?”
“Well, your nieces sent you here because they were worried that you were being a little promiscuous, and they thought that was a bit abnormal, and to be honest, I would have to agree.”
“What’s wrong with being abnormal?” she asks defensively. Okay, Kip. Stay in control. Keep it together.
“Well, nothing. I guess I shouldn’t have used that word. Maybe I meant ‘unhealthy.’”
“Lay off, Kip.”
I might be mad if she hadn’t called me by name.
“Well, let me ask you this: Why do you think you behave the way you do?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Think fast, Kip.
“But I haven’t been spending the night with strange men that I met in bars.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
That old bitch! The whole group is laughing at me now, even Comatose Connie, as we at the nursing home like to call her. This is the most life the group has ever displayed.
“Okay. Very funny. You won this round. But you never answered my question. Why do you think you behave like you do?”
“I don’t know. I guess ’cause I just have a tarlit load of wild oats to sow. Luster tells me I’m aging backwards.”
“And Luster is the young African-American gentleman with whom you socialize?”
“Yeah. The black guy.”
“Okay. Well, that’s interesting. Why do you think you associate with someone so markedly outside your own social group?”
“’Cause I’m loony in my old age. Is that what you want to hear?”
“No. I want to hear the truth.”
“He wants to hear the truth,” echoes Carl, mocking me. The group laughs. Urgh!
“Fine, Kip. Truthfully, I reckon I am loony. I guess you could say I always have been. Never bothered marrying a man. Never could start up a family. Never had the desire to be called ‘mammaw.’ I don’t know. All I know is I’m eighty years old, and I don’t want to die.”
As Opal is talking, I notice that she has the entire group’s undivided attention. I wonder if I should cut her off as she rambles on and on.
“And why not go wild in your twilight zone? Why screw around, spring breakin when you’re a stupid kid and you gotta live with yourself and your mistakes for sixty more years? My time is right now. I drink, I smoke, I get laid, and I’m alive, goddammit. If you got a problem with that, then you can just kiss my elderly white ass.”
Poor thing. She probably doesn’t even know what she’s saying. After hearing her talk like that today, I’m afraid her nieces were right in wanting to put her in a nursing home.
“Okay. Well, that’s nice, though I really wish you’d tone the language down. But let’s move on to Gertie. Now, Gertie, you’ve been having trouble keeping your oxygen from getting disconnected. Why do you think that is?”
Opal
I don’t know why we have to hang around at the public swimming pool, what with how so many people secretly piss in it. But there’s nothing else to do in this poor excuse of a town, and at least Ray likes it here. Ember and I brought our basses since neither of us likes to swim, and I’m teaching her some Maiden. Meanwhile, Aurora’s playing that game she likes with the guys.
“Are you more like fleece or leather?” she asks.
“Fleece,” s
ays Luster.
“Leather,” says Ray.
“Are you more like pancakes or waffles?”
“Waffles,” says Luster.
“Waffles,” says Ray.
“Are you more like a bath or a shower?”
“A bath,” says Luster.
“I just can’t know. I just cannot answer that,” says Ray.
I make Ember play “Innocent Exile” with me. She’s really getting good. She has a crudload of potential.
“That’s good!” I say. “You all, this girl gets better every day! I’ll declare, she can play as dirty as Cliff Burton.”
“Rock onward, rabid child,” hollers Luster.
“I sure do hope we can go on tour or something with this band,” I say. “I’m thinking by the way they’ve been talking, my nieces and that therapist boy are wanting to lock my rear up in a home.”
“We won’t let them,” says Aurora.
I won’t let ’em, either. I’m not gonna let ’em do anything with me, just as long as I can remember who I am.
While I was talking, Ember ran off to splash water on the tanning people, and now Aurora has resumed her game.
“Are you more like bacon or sausage?”
“Sausage. Definitely sausage,” says Luster.
“Sausage,” I agree.
Ray doesn’t answer, though I’m fairly sure he would say bacon. He’s mesmerized by some mustached fellow across the way who’s rubbing on suntan lotion.
“Excuse ’ems,” says Ray, and he prances off toward the man. I gotta give it to him. That Ray sure does have stick-to-it-iveness. With a spirit like that, one of these days, he’s gonna find exactly the man he’s been looking for. Course, that never did work for me.
“There he goes again.” Aurora and I watch Ray do his thing. “So how are things going with you and the Ken’s Fried Chicken guy?”
“Ooh! Great!” says Aurora cheerily. “I really think he respects me. He’s easy to work with, and he hasn’t even asked me for a blow job.”
“Maybe you’ve finally found a good one,” I say.
“God, I hope so.”
