Category Archives: Short Stories

Love Hurts, Love Scars

I am definitely too something to be in this club: old, fat, ugly, out of touch, dumb, horny.

There is a large dance floor with mostly small groups of women doing their thing. Their techniques are more shadow-puppet party than booty shake but it still creates the desired effect: lust. The remainder of patrons, mostly small groups of men, including me, circle the floor while slamming back overpriced beer. Our techniques need work.

The fine ale I am currently on was paid for by neglected tips at the bar.

Stop judging, bartenders are the doctors of the working class.

Flesh. Dark. Teeth. Dark. Flesh. Dark. Eyeballs. Dark. Life. Dark.

I scour the area and spot my friends at the bar through the dancing hands and shitty light work and detour to find a friendly stranger. The smell of weed has climbed my nostrils and has knocked the reek of body odour and desperation to the ground. The bloodhound has his scent.

I am pulled towards a group of ladies. There are two joints being passed among them and they are having the time of their lives. This is an intimidating situation for any man.

I know exactly what would take the edge off.

I slice into the circle as the two joints cross over. No time to think, I put them both in my mouth and start sucking in the sweet herb with gusto. The girls turn into a cheerleading section for their new friend. I finish the haul of my life, exhale and cross my arms and pass the joints in opposite directions while bouncing up and down to the music. When did I get this cool?

My body is relaxed. The wet from sweat and spilled drinks and my brick feet turn into experienced moonwalkers. I am the sun and these female body parts are planets rotating around me. Pretty eyes, tits, shoulders and thighs circle me in sync with the beat of the music.

I look up and realize there is no ceiling here. I see straight up into the galaxy which I now know I am the centre of.

I am certain all the girls in this group are in love with me. I tilt my head down to face my harem.

Whoa, the rotation has changed to spinning and gravity no longer exists.

I slowly get down on all fours. I am surrounded by a field of ankles with one good pair in the crop. The thick ones make me feel comfortable about this situation, they seem motherly. I look up expecting compassionate loving eyes, instead I get laughing and snickering.

Bitches.

I’ve seen the real you. You’re a bunch of middle-aged Italian women, you cankled whores.

I try to write my number with saliva on the calf of the slim-ankled one. She kicks me in the ribs but her skinny leg only manages a tickle.

I roll over onto my back and start giggling like a baby. I should have predicted a situation like this, a white shirt was a stupid choice.

Where is the local adoption agency? I don’t like these moms.

Thanks to a couple strong brothers I am flying through the club like Superman. Onlookers cheer this heroic sight: A god among mortals.

What are these two doors under bright red letters?

BOOM!

I open the door with my face and land on chipped concrete and cigarette butts.

I have just been thrown in the staff’s ashtray.

Superman can’t be stubbed out this easily.

Charged with adrenalin, I launch myself from the ground into the back of one of the goons who tossed my lit ass. His nose slams into the door we just exited and it sounds like a tire popping on the highway.

This is not a bad decision–I had no choice.

Blood. Blink. Black.

My cheekbone kisses the pavement long and hard like a desperate lover and my hands are cuffed together behind my lower back.

This goon is a fucking cop.

The three-course meal of dirt, ash and humiliation is definitely not the tasty dish of pussy I desired. I bet this cop never goes down on a girl, probably only fucks doggy-style.

The bouncer/cop/goon/doggy-fucker tells me a cruiser is on its way to take me in for assaulting a police officer. Fuck me.

How early on in life did he decide the crew-cut was it?

My friends are hiding behind dumpsters across the the alley, their heads pop out once in a while.

Are they entertained? Scared? Mad? Curious? Are they plotting an escape for me? Do they give a fuck?

Barely-dressed female bartenders come out for a nicotine fix while I wait for my limo. Handcuffs are like spanish fly to these women but G.I Joe steps in, flashes his badge and tells them to get moving. My being a witness is probably the only thing stopping him from actually flashing them.


I belittle the size of his dick in my mind.

The girls turn away. There is no way I was wrong about these ones, Crew-Cut is just a shitty-ass wingman.

The cop car comes, finally. The ladies here suck.

“It might get pretty violent where you’re going, we’ve had to pull a lot of gang-bangers off the street tonight.”

Good, sounds like a place where a man can definitely pick up.

Fingerprinted and standing behind bars, I take a look around at my fellow bad-asses. They all appear to be here for worse reasons than too much weed on the dance floor. I knew I should have worn my muscles and tattoos tonight, this white shirt is really haunting me.

The only other white guy in the cell is making his way towards me. I really hope he does not say the words ‘white power’.

“Hey man you got a girl?” KKK asks me.

“No.”

“Smart brother. Bitches are nothing but problems. Tonight I was in my ride with this real nice piece of ass when my wife starts knocking on the window. I always tell her to not bother me in my truck. Rude cunt never listens. So I get out, and give her a nice one right across the face. You know how that song goes man: ‘love hurts, love scars…’ ”

Please stop singing wife beater.

I find some personal space, puke, feel my raw cheekbone, look at my chafed wrists and realize this domestic abuser and his favourite song are right.

When did those massive puke-stained boots invade my personal space?

Fuck.

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Heaven and Hell

“No five,” the cabbie says to me. I am already in the front seat. He can’t be serious. It is three in the morning and raining out, he has a car and we do not, we are drunk and he is not.

This inhumanity will not stand. I know I can reason with this guy, that’s why I like to place myself in the front seat of a taxi.

There are splatters on the glove compartment.

The air is thick. I have to get my window down. The smell of this bog is tormenting my sinuses and squashing my buzz. I catch the driver looking at my fingers trying to work the window button. This bastard has them locked. The fare goes up as we sit in this cesspool. Does he think just one of us will leave?

His eyes reveal a night of hardship, the creases around them show more than that. I get the feeling he would prefer to break the law by killing one of us rather than driving the illegal five.

Still, I cannot stop myself. “What the fuck asshole? Just give us a fucking ride!”

I am a born leader and humanitarian.

“No five, against the law!”

There is a twinkle in his eye. I avert his stare and look directly down at the floor. Are those salt stains on the mat leftover from the winter or from his last passenger’s tears?

He is just a cab driver Harvey.

I take a deep breath and catch a whiff of all the degradation, humiliation, and aggression left in the air from the drunk undergrads, the cheating spouses, the asshole Bay Streeters, the racists and the cunts. It’s a stench far worse than the vomit fuel I expected. What will I leave behind?

I finally turn towards him, his red eyes stand out in the night like hemorrhoid induced blood spots on shit smeared toilet paper.

Those splatters! This is not just a taxi driver.

Why is his face so close to my face? Why is my face so close to his face? A portrait would reveal a vase. His coffee breath meets my beer exhaust and the two surging forces light up our faces and fills our vase with hate.

The bile pours out of both our mouths at once and he pushes hard on the accelerator.

I knew this was a man of reason. I had nothing to worry about. Relief, we are headed home.

What’s with the absence of applause and gratitude from the back seat for the negotiator? I look, there is no one there. We are two isolated men bathed in diarrhea hurtling down the slick moonlit pavement. Home is not on the itinerary.

Thanks for leaving me with this crazed psychopath friends. Or maybe they thought they were leaving him with one?

My ugliness caused this, my darkness shaded this picture. I probably have more in common with the man across from me than any of the people who slipped out of the back.

“You’re going to die!” The driver yells with sweat exploding from his volcanic head.

I have finally fucked with the wrong guy.  Where is he taking me?

“I cut you into little pieces!”

Strike being used as ingredients in a Chinese food dish off the list.

The car slows for a turn. This is my only chance, I open the door and roll out. The applause I hoped for earlier now comes from three strangers standing at the corner. I am not sure how I am standing unscathed in front of them, but I think I need to give thanks to public school gym teachers for pushing the front roll so hard. I guess they know we will all have to eject ourselves from death’s door at some point in our lives.

The moon and street lights give the yellow taxi an orange hue as it darts into the night like a disappearing flame on a match head.

I find an awning to shield the rain. There are not many people out, just the lonely, homeless and fucked up. I fit into all these categories right now. My buzz turned to happiness turned to ugliness turned to hate turned to fear turned to adrenalin has now turned to remorse. Tomorrow; self-loathing.

“You want to smoke some hash?” a gentlemen about fifteen years my senior asks me.

Well hello Jesus Christ, yes I do.

There is a doorman at his building. I feel a little underdressed in my beaten up leather jacket with one button, frayed jeans and holy boots.

I shake the doorman’s hand, and from the look on his face I don’t think this is normal fare. You don’t shake a doorman’s hand Tiny Tim.

In the elevator, my savior hits the top-floor button. We are going to the penthouse suite. I hope my friends are enjoying their shitty apartments.

I am seated in front of a floor-to-ceiling window and Prince of Peace hands me an engraved wooden box with a lot of hash and some papers and a pipe. He heads to the kitchen. I start working to get the bequeathed medicine ready for ingestion, easy labour for this kind of living. The couch is an off-white, this is a man who knows how to keep his dirt tucked on the inside.

Pop!

He arrives at the marshmallow sofa with an uncorked bottle of champagne and two flute glasses. I know the term for these glasses because I once worked at a bar.

I am smoothed out and warm from the dope and sparkling wine, I must remember this combo. I am revealing things to this guy I haven’t told my closest friends, those ones who left me to die, the ones that I need to apologize to tomorrow for turning a beautiful night into an ugly one. Or do I?

I feel righteous, my guilt has disappeared. The lights look like candles, they surround the main room. I get up and slide across the hardwood floor looking out over the dirty city below like a skier on fresh powder up in the mountains. I feel just as free.

I have to take a piss, JC shows me to the washroom. Everything shines in here. I imagine my shit would sparkle in this place. Before walking away, he points out the hot tub and says we should strip down and get in later. No one has moved from the ski-hill to the lodge quicker. While peeing, this seems like a good offer, my clothes are still a little damp.

There is a new bottle of champagne in the living room, and some music playing when I return. Sounds like smooth jazz. There is probably a brass section stuffed in a closet somewhere employed for these occasions. The host emerges from the bedroom in a silk robe.

“There is something I want to show you.” He beckons me towards him. I pick up the bottle of champagne, take a swig, and head on over. We walk into his bedroom. The bed could house a small village.

“If you get tired, you can see there is plenty of room.”

I take another swig. “Thanks.”

One guy wants to lay me down to rest, another wants to lay me down for anything but rest. The night has almost disappeared.

We finish off the next bottle of champagne watching the sun rise over Lake Ontario through his window. The view with this new light reveals a peace I rarely see in the city. I talk about poetry and literature. Why do I want this generous man to fall in love with me?

It is time to leave.

I walk by the doorman and he gives a look like this isn’t the first time a younger man has left this harbourfront penthouse at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. I hope he believes I was paid for.

I walk home, the sun is warming. I review my champagne breakfast in Heaven. I can’t recall a better date, I mean night.

I hope Jesus is jerking off right now.


Medical School

The soft rock playing in the waiting room reminds me of anticipating dinner in my parents’ living room as a child.

This is my first visit to the doctor’s since becoming a real, honest-to-goodness adult. I even had to find my own licensed practitioner.

To do this, you have to have an in.

Getting a doctor is like trying to get made in the mafia, you need to be recommended for everything. Just having a third breast or a volcano erupting from your esophagus is not enough.

Lucky for me, Marla has been a practising adult for some time now. She has travel insurance, health insurance and a doctor. On her recommendation I get to see her family physician.

I told her I was having chest pains. I have other reasons for being here.

The atmosphere in this place does not inspire beliefs that you are going to leave feeling any better than when you arrived.

There is an older gentleman across from me whose face has less colour than a lemon/lime soda. His mouth seems unable to close and reveals a tongue like a chalkboard eraser. I must remember to Google ‘chalkboard tongue’ when I get home, see if it is contagious.

The receptionist doesn’t stop answering the phone, filling up months of appointments. This industry is booming!

I second guess my education. I really should have gone with secretary school.

The lady closest to me is about to fall on the other side of middle age. Her makeup leads me to believe she got up in the middle of the night to start working on that canvas. Her skirt is showing me a little too much skin. I wonder if she wants to fuck the doctor.

A Whitney Houston song plays on the radio, she starts mouthing the words. She definitely wants to fuck the doctor.

Beside Lemon/Lime is a woman with a child in her lap. She doesn’t look like she has had a wink of sleep this past year. The bags under her eyes could carry bowling balls.

I was here before everybody else in the waiting room. I could be next.

Fuck.

I can’t swallow. My heart is pounding. Every piece of clothing feels too tight. Lemon/Lime and Bag Lady just keep sitting there cool as ice.

How is everybody in here so calm?!

The clown-faced lady gets called. She looks like Chad the quarterback just asked her for first dance at the prom.

I have not been in a medical facility in a long time but I know how life works. I was here first motherfucker and there is no way I am going to continue sitting here having a panic attack.

I bound up to cut off the clown before she can get to the hallway. We arrive at the doorway at the same time. The doctor and the clown stare at me with question. I look at them and feel like I am the bad kid in a demented Stephen King story. Life doesn’t work the way I think it should.

Doc is probably a date rapist. Better go suck his dick, clown.

I grab a style magazine and go back to my seat. I feel everyone’s urine filled eyeballs on me. Sitting here inside these sanitized white walls I feel like I am a red wine stain on a dress shirt.

The cover of the magazine indicates there will be good looking women inside. I read an article from three years ago about the benefits of a good fitting bra. My dick perks up. Maybe I will bring a surprise boner to the doctor.

He finally walks down the hallway. The man is full of swagger. His coat sways with each perfectly placed stride. He is a white-caped superhero coming to take one of the inferiors away. My penis deflates.

Doc stops in the hallway, looks down at his clipboard over his glasses sitting on the end of his nose. Cocky prick.

“Harvey.”

“Yup.”

I get up and rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. Why does this feel like a first date?

I follow the doctor to one of the cells.

“Have a seat, I will be back in a minute.”

“Yup.”

I guess he has to go back to fucking the clown.

I need to figure out a manly way to sit before he returns.

I believe I have nailed it. My right foot on my left knee with a casual lean back. My left hand slightly grasps my right foot and I put my right index finger over my top lip while the rest of my hand covers my mouth, very contemplative.

The doctor comes back into the room and sits down across from me at his desk. He opens a file.

“So you live with Marla?”

“Yup.”

“How is she?”

“Good.”

“You haven’t seen a doctor in a long time.”

“Nope.”

“What is the problem today Harvey?”

Here it goes.

“Why won’t you give Marla a recommendation to a female gynecologist?” I yelp like a pubescent kid.

The doctor pushes himself back in his chair, stands up and closes the door to our cell.  If I were my cat I would look evil and spontaneous, my hair would be standing up straight, ready for battle.

MY HAIR DOES SHIT!

The doctor sits back down and stares at me over his glasses. Should I repeat my question? Should I rephrase it? Ask him why he is so possessive over my girlfriend’s snatch?

Silence.

He takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk between us. His eyeballs recede into his head like black holes. He resembles the Godfather. I am going to get whacked over a fucking pap smear.

“I do all gynecological work on site, there is no need for a recommendation Harvey.”

This guy is a vagina hoarder. Quarterback Chad, king of the fucking school!

I have to say something. Do I talk louder or quieter since he closed the door?

“I don’t think she is comfortable with a man examining her down there,” I say in a hushed tone.

The doctor puts his glasses back on, stands up and opens the door. The son of a bitch is letting me know the conversation is over.

“Is there anything else Harvey?” the doctor asks standing at the door while pointing me in the exit direction.

I always figured if I was going to get into a fight over Marla, it would be with someone fucking her. My tail is arched and bristled, but also like an angry cat, I struggle with the english language. God damn my education!

With nothing to say I put my tail between my legs and start to leave. My maturity never ceasing to sink in adult situations, I bump Chad with my shoulder on the way out.

Dumbstruck I walk through the waiting room and lock eyes with Lemon/Lime. ‘Everything I Do, I Do It For You’ by a young Bryan Adams plays on the radio. Today I was supposed to be Bryan Adams–doing it all for her. Instead, I feel like a guy who looks like a can of citrus soda.

This shit will not stand!

I turn back and catch the Godfather’s eye. I know there is vulnerability there, every Don has his day. This guy doesn’t even have a nurse to call in his patients. I know what I have to do.

At home in front of my computer, the Google logo stares back at me.

Fucking doctor Chad thinks he is better than me?!

Time to get a new education, I type How to do a pap smear at home and press enter. Marla is going to be so proud.

Do thrift shops have lab coats? I think I want a black one.


Drinking Games

I play tennis. It is the white man’s basketball. I have owned the same racket for 20 years. You don’t need much training to be adequate and it gets the heart racing. Tennis balls are everywhere. I play tennis right next to a dog park, so the dogs and I always have something to play with.

Playing sports hungover is a roller coaster ride for your body. Today I am playing good cop/bad cop and it wants to confess to a murder it didn’t commit.

I try to play three or four times a week and I am hungover half the days out of the year, so playing tennis in this state is inevitable.

Beyond inevitable, it is normal.

The phone is ringing, which means it must be 10 am and four hours since my last drink- several giant swigs from a leftover box of white wine. I faintly recall thinking it would wash the whiskey out of my mouth.

My tennis partner has been up for a couple hours, digested a nutritious breakfast and is ready to play.

I hope there is wine or beer left.

I discover some vodka, struggle with some ice cubes and make a not-too-orange-looking screwdriver. Breakfast is served.

The sun is directly over the tennis court. Sweat is pouring out of me at an extraordinary rate. My feet are swimming in the Atlantic.

Since I am battling against an opposing player and a hangover I consider this match two against one. I won’t feel bad about losing.

On the underside of my slick skin my nerves are trembling. My nerves are doing a tap dance underneath my skin and the only way to get them off the stage is to feed them some liquor. People on stage are notorious addicts.

I plan to beat this hangover fair and square. Same with my opponent in this tennis match.

If I do both I will treat myself to some beer. I’m going to be a fucking hero today.

We finish warm-up. I feel like I have run a marathon.

To start the match I am returning serve. My hands and feet feel a lifetime away from my brain, I have no idea how I am going to communicate with them. I think of Marla and I eating dinner.

My opponent prepares to serve.

Timeout!

Like a bazooka shot, the tennis ball fires off his racket and hops right into my gut. Evidently I did not communicate to my mouth and voice box to call a timeout.

I think about Marla and I having sex.

There is a wave pool in my belly, complete with screaming kids.

Win or loss I deserve a drink after this.

I walk to the other side of the court and take off my shirt to combat the heat. With the moistness and welt, my pale gut looks like centre ice from a freshly flooded hockey arena.

My rink body gives me the chills, I shiver all over. I can’t think anymore.

“Serving is all about physics.” A middle aged man yells across the net to his elderly and barely mobile dad playing opposite him in the court next to us.

I want to yell something witty and condescending at him. I don’t know what either of those words mean right now.

I put my shirt back on to combat the shivers and bounce up and down waiting for the next serve. Bouncing like this makes me feel athletic and professional. Being clammy and having my brain knock around my skull does not.

“For a great serve, you need muscle memory, so you throw the ball up in the same position each time.”

Is this middle aged man trying to torture his father?

My opponent must have been listening to these tips, because his serve whizzes right by me.

Eighteen minutes later I am down in this match 5-0. I am desperate not to be shut out. In the park behind me a dog has been barking for the last three points. The owner keeps yelling for the dog to shut up and sit. If the old man beside me had any vocal chords left he’d be yelling at his son to shut up and sit.

If I get shut out I will quit drinking. If not I am getting a pint at lunch.

A waft of dog shit comes my way as I deliver a beautiful and lucky volley just over the net for my first point. 5-1.

The run to the net combined with freshly ripped dog shit does not sit well with me. My legs feel like rubber and my brain feels like a basketball player is spinning it on his finger. I crookedly walk back to the baseline and start violently puking.

I do not try to hold anything in. I hope everyone in and around this court can sense my disdain. First the screwdriver comes out, then all of yesterday’s imbibing.

I heave and wheeze to a finish. The dog and son from hell are finally silent. “It’s all about physics” I yell, then pull a ball out of my pocket and serve.

6-3 is the final.

Off to lunch for a beer. Tomorrow that guy is mine.


IOU

I didn’t get Marla wet enough before stabbing it in. I know we both like a forceful penetration from time to time, but I also know it is going to take longer to get Marla off.

I didn’t make her cum the last time we had sex.

When this happens I have to write her an IOU

Embarrassing? Yes.
Emasculating? You betchya.

Over the course of our relationship, when I give her multiple orgasms, I try to establish the same accounting but to no avail.

I stopped giving her multiples six months ago.

If I ever drop the ball twice in a row I end up in the sexual doghouse. No blow-jobs.

The pressure is on.

When we first started living together I developed a technique that would get her fucking crazy and blast off in minutes. Stride, depth, angle, hold, I had that shit down. Over time this wasn’t good enough for me. I started to feel like a typecast actor. But director, I can do drama, I’ll grow a beard.

I don’t know why I thought two people getting off in three minutes was a bad thing, but I did.

I also wish I was six feet tall, my dick was bigger, and that I would never lose another bet in my life.

This took us to some strange places. Exhilarating places, deviant places. Oh yeah, that’s why. That’s why the IOU was born too.

Exploring the unknown is not always going to be successful, but without it you are going to miss out on a lot.

I have pointed this out to Marla to dissuade the IOU. I have reminded her of the time I put two fingers in her ass, applied a choke hold and gave her just the tip before power fucking the shit out of her while stuffing a dildo in her mouth from my mouth. I brought her to the brink of passing out because her orgasm was so powerful.

Airways be damned!

She places the IOU’s on the fridge. For the last two days, I have been reminded of my failure every time I get a beer.

I have friends who ask me what the IOU’s are for and I can’t tell them. They ask me why I never carry money around, why I don’t pick up the check more often, they don’t know. They don’t know the pain of pleasure.

Do I go back to my fail-safe technique?

I slowly manoeuvre Marla into that perfect angle.

I am cheating. I am a lazy cheater. I am disappointed in myself. I suppose these are the natural feelings of someone in debt.

I am not a bum at the horse track. Is that how Marla thinks of me?

Harvey, you can forget ever getting your dick sucked again if you fail today!

Harvey, I will break your fucking legs if you don’t get me off this time.

Harvey, if you don’t make me fucking cum, your dick is going to end up in the fucking river!

How do you fuck someone in the mob? I roll us both over so she is on top.

“Slap me!” I yell staring at her right in the eyes.

She does. Her face goes flush, and her eyes roll slightly back in her head. She starts pounding down on my cock and slaps me again.

I feel powerless and powerful at the same time. Marla starts screaming in ecstasy. She looks sexy as hell.

I am in trouble now, I know she is going to be cumming in moments but I need to cum right now. I close my eyes and think about having my ear cut off.

Then I think of my sexy mobster cutting my ear off naked.

She clenches and screams. We made it. I squirt.

See ya at the track.


Man Vs. Cat

The fan kept me cool all night. I am refreshed. The air smells like opportunity and not like stale beer farts. For once I am ready to open my eyes and take on the day.

Fuck!

My cat’s asshole stares back at me.

I close my eyes too slow. Why would she do this to me?

I’d choose the barrel of a gun over that.

With my head stuffed into the pillow, the cat’s anus painted on the back of my eyelids, I wish for stale beer farts.

I am a man. This cat’s moxy is not going to take my day from me.

I peek open my left eye. Maybe, just maybe there will be a loaded rifle opposite it. I see the alarm clock, no rifle. It’s 12:34 in the afternoon, well past the feline’s feeding hour.

The bastard chose not to cry or slap me to wake me up, but instead planted her personal sunrise in my face for when I got up. Conniving bitch!

When did she come up with this idea and how long had she been waiting like that?

I wish I had the discipline of my cat. I would have a college diploma, a real job, and a dog.

Pulling myself up to a sitting position I remember doing sit-ups. That cat’s asshole vacuumed my potential right through my fucking eyes.

She sees my lifeless body in the sitting position and brings her full-frontal attack. Her eyes normally cute, now had the look of someone on a gin bender, the line between right and wrong does not exist for this cat anymore. I remember this look in the mirror from my younger days.

The quickness of her paws and the screaming of her voice make me think of Bruce Lee. This cat is a drunk Bruce Lee. Or am I drunk and she is Bruce Lee? Lucky for me she only weighs seven pounds.

Fuck you cat. You’re hungry and you can’t eat without me. You should have thought of that before setting me up for that brown eye.

I knock the rabid beast onto the floor with the power of a fucking sasquatch.

Now to the washroom. I struggle to get there-a boxer in a 12-round battle to the death looking for his corner.

I can’t shake this fucking cat. This Muhammad Ali-Bruce Lee motherfucker. She follows me while bitching me out. I am Tina to her Ike. I don’t want to face her hunger cries while I shit. I need to shake her. I need my corner. I need my seat.

The pain of all the abused and battered people out there gives me a surge of energy. I will make a stand for us all!

Donations accepted at the door.

I fake a move to the kitchen, pull a quick spin and shut the bathroom door with the grace of a ballet dancer. The cat is locked out. Sucker.

I settle onto the warm seat, a nice perk of the summertime.

It’s not so bad.

Next to the toilet is the kitty litter. It is full. The shit/piss to actual litter ratio is very one-sided. When did I last clean her litter? I don’t fucking know.

It would suck to have to shit on old shit and piss on old piss. I can understand why the cat is upset. If my toilet couldn’t flush for a week I’d be sure to show my landlord my dirty hole.

I flush my personal shit down the toilet. There is such simplicity with human waste management.

I can hear the cat growling for food over the the running water.

I can’t feed her before cleaning this litter. She always shits right after her breakfast. Her metabolism is higher than a marathon runner.

She’ll take one look at this box, turn up her nose and unleash her fury all over the floor.  I’m not going to give her the opportunity to turn this place into the bathroom of an Irish bar.

I will have a coffee first. I owe that to myself. I must regain my title of owner in our relationship.

I own you! I picked you! I feed you!

Newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other, it is clear who is the boss. Smooth like a Brazilian wax, this coffee is bringing me the satisfaction a man deserves in the prime of his life.

The paper is from the last time I cleaned the litter, but I find it comforting that tomorrow’s weather forecast has the same chance to be right.

Why is it a Brazilian wax? Does that make Brazilian women very smooth or very hairy to begin with?

“You’re a lazy ignorant asshole!” My cat screeches in my ear.

You fool! You think I will feed you before cleaning up your shit!

I won’t let her see me cleaning up her shit. I have worked hard enough to get the power back in this relationship. I have to get back to the washroom without her seeing me.

You ever play chess kitty?

You ever been in a drinking contest kitty?

You ever wrestled a man naked kitty?

You ever raced for your life kitty?

I sprint to the washroom and slam the door. The coffee has given me a human-growth- hormone like jolt. Thud! The cat hits the door. Ha! A drunk Bruce Lee is not so dangerous after all.

I scoop all the droppings and breathe in victory.

Man, there is hardly any litter in there.

Is there enough for the cat to use?

I spread it around evenly and there is barely enough to cover the bottom. I have to pile up the remaining litter near the front of the box. It is very useable.

I wash my hands and head back out to the battleground to feed the maniacal loser pet. She is grateful. Humbled pets are the cutest.

I need a shower to wash away all the asshole, shit and piss that started my day. The water pours over me and I feel good about what I have already accomplished this afternoon.

Man, Brazilian women are sexy.

With no tissue needed for cleanup I feel environmentally responsible, that’s a green load. I turn off the water feeling great about myself.

Pipes cleansed and body cleansed, I get out of the shower. Life is in my control.

I look down for the bath mat and see a freshly smeared shit staring up at me from directly in front of the litter box.

Time to go back to bed.


Good Fortune

Two hours ago I was selling a painting. I didn’t make much more than what the materials cost, but it felt good.

Now I am cleaning shit off a toilet seat, and not the underside of the toilet seat either.

Nobody likes to clean shit, but there is at least something enduring about anonymous shit. Unfortunately this time I know the asshole this shit came from.

She sits in the shop for hours at a time.

I have seen her here every day since I started this job. Every day I smile and make her coffee and every day she takes her coffee away without a glance at the tip jar. Today I scrub the rot from her bowels off the top of this toilet seat. I suppose she saved up her tips for this one grand gesture.

Her family would put her in a home before cleaning up the waste from her aged and loose intestines. Here, I am making just a sliver over minimum wage doing the repugnant job.

I am fucking depressed.

Pucker up Harvey, you’re the potty trained one. That poor old bag can’t even get her shit into the toilet. Yeah, you’re the lucky one Harvey.

That would have worked better in an English accent.

Earlier life smelled like roses. Now my nose is rammed right up against a pile of old-lady shit. Her feces spread on porcelain looks alarming. I’d recommend her to see a doctor if I wasn’t wishing for her death so badly.

I used be able to do work like this no problem: Gloves, bleach, wipe, done.

I used to be able to tell myself I am paying my dues. But, at this point, I could have served a term for manslaughter and been back on the streets. Debt to society–paid.

How many assholes will I have to clean?

This shit is weighing on my shoulders and when that weight smells like a dead rat buried in cow dung it is time to do something about it.

I make the bowl spotless, remove the gloves and throw them and the paper towel in the trash and tie the bag up. On the way out of the store I notice her sitting with a newspaper.

I cannot believe she is still here after making that mess. She must have balls like a whale.

Fuck her!

I drop the bag next to the old hag, open it and toss in some dirty napkins. Before tying it back up I make sure that fucker has time to breathe.

Does she recognize the smell of her insides? Can she feel the venom darts shooting from my eye sockets?

She looks at me as I pick the bag up. It brushes her arm. I swing the sack of hag feces as hard as I can right across her saggy face. Her skin contorts like a crumpled ball of paper. The bag rips opens. The soiled paper and shit remnants fly all over the café, into customers’ cups, on their laps. She is blinded from the corn she ate last night. Shit is smeared all over her face and her head looks like a ball of used toilet paper. Her insides are on her outside. Finally, a shit shower for all the people who overpay for their coffee to have their asses wiped.

This seems right.

I imagine a voice over a loudspeaker:

“Ladies and gentlemen please remain where you are and stay calm. Someone will be right out to remove any unwanted material from your coffee and body. A second person will be out to wipe you and your mug down, followed by a third to refill your cup, comb your hair, and do your makeup if needed. Please remember you are more important than most other people, and you shall be treated that way.”

Unfortunately it did not rain shit on these assholes. But as I reach the dumpster outside I cannot stop smiling.

I drop the bag in the bin, take off my apron and do the same with it, and keep walking.

The fecal encrusted boulders on my shoulders roll right off my back. They are someone else’s problem. I do not need this shit.

There is only one asshole I have to worry about now. Sure money might get tight, but at least I have plenty of stolen toilet paper to keep one thing always taken care of.