leftover carnage

I am sitting in this chair, leaning forward, bad posture, elbows resting on my knees. Staying as close to myself as possible. Looking intently but trying hard not to stare. There is a couple here, with a child. Well I guess you couldn’t really call him a child. He is a full grown adult, some facial hair, a little bit of a home made haircut, the kind of clothing ma and pa pick out. Legs are thin, overly thin, upper body is average. Wheel chair ridden. I would say probably mid thirties, random guess, 35. He can feed himself, I know this much, I watched the process for about 20 minutes. Feed himself as in hand to food, food to mouth, nothing more to it, nothing else needed matter of fact. Visually the whole sight and situation is nothing out of the ordinary. There are probably some morbid facts out there on how many people are handicapped daily, and I’m sure it is plenty. This is not the point of my whole thought process though, I realize I am kind of spacing out, hopefully they do not think I am gawking, I am not. His parents are older though, his father is obese, his mother too. I look over and analyze the food on their plates, low in carbohydrates, high in things like carrots, celery, an apple on both plates, piles of ranch dressing. Maybe on a diet, or with the statistics these days, diabetes? As far as I can tell, they are most likely going to die before him. I mean that is what anyone would guess. So the thing is, what happens when they die? This full grown adult can not even manuver his wheel chair let alone cook, go to the bathroom, get into bed, wake up on his own, the whole deal. He cannot live on his own he is completely codependant. Maybe they have some kind of fund for him, so when they do die he has the money and the means to live with a caretaker or in an assisted living home. I also wonder if he will understand death. It is probably some sort of instinct that is born into every living object. Something that has been around your whole life, suddenly gone, is probably associated with what we call death. Gone, death same thing. Maybe some mammals with a more heightened sense can smell it, hear it. Completely lacking the warmth of life. I Wonder if he cries or if he will cry.

There is static on my television. The VHS has rewound itself and ejected. I swing my foot around and push the tape back in. I can sleep through the whole entire movie at 40 volume but not white noise. The tracking goes on for about 5 minutes until the picture is finally straight and the sound even. I peer down at the television screen I have seen this movie 12 times at least in the past 2 days on and off of my sleep cycle. You couldn’t even really call it a sleep cycle it is almost constant sleep. Sometimes I wake up and jerk myself off, wipe the mess on the motel sheets and turn back over on my other side. The whole process wears me out more, I read somewhere men lose a lot of B vitamins when they ejaculate, probably some article on the internet. If it is true no wonder I am constantly fatigue. I checked into this motel with a woman, it is a dingy motel the walls are peeling, the carpet is stained, they don’t take credit cards, or check ids. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, hardly a woman, a girl, or maybe she just acted like it hurt. She could read what I liked in my eyes. Whores are good at that. The company in the lobby did not stare in an awkward way, knowing I was taking a hooker to room 38, but instead they followed her beauty. She smelled clean, enormous pouty lips, deep blue eyes, perfect porcelain skin all over, you can see it crawling up her legs, under her skirt, under her, everything. Blonde, not my usual taste, but I could not get past this girl. She charged by the hour, expensive, I figured I could maybe make it half an hour until she said 150 dollar minimum. I can swing that, whatever, just get in the car. There are hardly any words to describe the intercourse, I could pull out a thesareus and look up the word good, but I won’t, it was good. I will never forget it, no matter how long I live, no matter how much alcohol was on my breath as I swerved the car into the next parking lot I could find. I did not expect the parking lot to be a motel parking lot, I just wanted it right then and there in the car so when she stepped out I was confused. She said “Let’s get a room”. I looked up, fuzzy vision, lucky break. I linked arms with her, not to look like a couple, for stability. Room 38, 20 dollars, something like that. The lanky counter man pulled a key out of the boxes behind him. She wrapped her fingers around it, perfectly manicured nails, not the fake manicure even, just real perfect nude nails, lovely. She’s shaky, I wonder if this is her first time, she sure doesn’t look like a hooker, she doesn’t smell like a hooker. I fell onto the bed and she started to undress I asked her what her name was, she said Trixie. What a fake hooker name. Her real name was probably Annabelle or something sweet and southern like that, she looked like an Annabelle. Her mother probably loved her, her father probably raped her. I’d guess most hookers were raped as a child. Can I call you Annabelle? You can call me whatever you want to, money first. I pointed to my wallet which held at least 600 dollars, Annabelle turned, frowned at me, and only took the proper amount for some reason. There is sweat, tension, and noise. So much racket, I would even go as far as to say this girl does not know when to shut up. After wards I walk into the bathroom and rinse my dick off with some pocket mouthwash I carry around from work. I saw it on a movie, or read it in an article somewhere, I never learn from experiences. I reach up, touch my face. Facial hair, I have been so clean shaved I didn’t even know I could grow it. I am glad to make this discovery, I am glad there is no mirror in this bathroom.

Obese, morbidly obese. I can hear his breathing heavily even outside my door, he could not have had that much of a work out. From a rundown old van, to the mailbox, from the mailbox, to my office. His odor lingers over my desk, swirls it’s way through my papers and seemingly fills up the room. Clothes hang off of him, not because they are too large, because they have been stretched with days of wear, weeks of wear. Laughs in his neck, and through his nose, the oxygen can hardly squeeze itself out. He is balding from the center of his head, has a version of a longer, stringier, monk haircut. He runs his pudgy fingers through it and then wipes the grease on his pants. The suckers on my desk are calling him, he fingers through them, picks a red one, that’s all people ever seem to like. Tearing the wrapper off like a starving wolf he shoves the sucker inside his mouth and begins to roll it between the spaces he is missing teeth. His lips curl, eyes are yellow. Clicks the sucker against his teeth, biting down. He does not know how to savor the taste of things, only feed, and overfeed.

I’m sure she was young and glamorous at one point. Burning paper and tobacco resting between her fingers giving her a little bit of a bad girl sense. She fills the room, her presence, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Smiling the pearly whites she’s managed to keep thus far. She doesn’t inhale for the first year, just sucking in the smoke and blowing it back out again, but no one notices, not anything but her lips wrapped around the end and what color lipstick she leaves behind. Mostly red, I’m sure always red. Now down the line, couple years later, she is pregnant, getting fat, getting wrinkles, dirty fingers, enamel is wearing away. Her voice is regressing into something throaty. Buns in the oven, she sucks, inhales, exhales, sucks, inhales, exhales. Only half a pack a day, but still buying them by the cartons. Still later, here she is right in front of me. Weathered, is the most polite way to put it. The formation of her lips around filters for such a long period of time had taken their toll. There are more lines than fingers, toes, and limbs in general. And, here she is, her voice is no longer “something throaty” but in her throat coming right from a hole they had punched. It looks like such a primative way of fixing things, just punching a hole in your skin. I can hardly focus on what she is saying and I do not like to say what numerous times because I know it is just emotional jabs. She breathes heavy, sort of breathes, I can feel the air from her stoma blow onto me, It does not smell rancid like I had expected, really does not smell like anything at all. I am surprised. I nod my head to fake listening and she smiles, pearly whites, fake.

I saw Dominic again today, that is his name, the boy in the wheelchair. His mother obviously does not know how to cut hair, but I doubt it is that simple while he is constantly flailing his head around. They also keep a mustache on him, for the age appearance I guess, or perhaps they are getting lazy. His wheelchair was rolled right in front of my office door today, facing the television. The situation begged for me to look. He moves a lot more than I realized he could. His legs often twitch in the chair and he raises his arms to pet his head in a scratching like motion. Eyes don’t seem to pay attention to the tv but to the doors, and to his surroundings. He is aware like an animal ignoring the distractions, where as normal functioning human would be indulged in the television. In some ways the fact that he has not advanced is superior in itself. Dominic’s Mother turns the door corner and asks me if I could watch him while she goes on the patio to have a cigarette. I nod my head, nothing better to do but stare at my computer screen. She looks like she cries a lot, the kind of slow rolling tears that get caught in her eyes and then roll down and follow a path along the woman’s smile lines to her lips. Sticks her tongue out, licks her lips, and tastes the salt. She has probably stopped wearing make up noticing she just ruins it everyday when she looks into her son’s eyes. Mother’s day is soon.

I run my fingers along the grout in the tile. Cold, damp, everything is this time of year, the ground, the air, the temperament. Underground while the sun is rising I haven’t faced the light in days sleeping through what forces me to see my surroundings. Against my nails, scraping these creases, my hands begin to tremor at an artificial breeze of bodies and subways. Something with me, nothing ever seems real or absolute until it is staring me down in the face, mocking me as if I didn’t see it was coming. Not that I didn’t, I just always figure everything will end after today. My free hand is subconsciously tearing at the edges of my boarding ticket, directly attached to my being, I never wanted to leave. I am simple to not realize the luxuries edging instincts of blood, of caring and gentle. Comfort such as takes eons to fall into, warmth in humans is so hard to find I think often until I do. How many more chances can I have left for someone to nurture my filth? So blind to believe I am independent. That is not the word, but alone. This movement is the repercussion of my entity.

Sometimes it’s lonely. Even with other bodies constantly in motion around you. I miss the people I know often. Building new relationships is the most difficult process. I feel the need to change for acceptance but I have been putting forth a great deal of effort to stay true to myself. Although the people I formerly surrounded myself with may not be the best in fact they could possibly be the worst there was a comfort zone, some kind of unspoken connection. I miss and love them for the comfort that time created between us and time again is the only answer. I can work so excessively toward that ideal feeling again, but it would only be in vain. Time brings true comfort in life because learning takes time. The human brain never quits absorbing information and time stops for nothing. The two most infinite things in life, time and knowledge.

There are some days where family brings no hope, where there is no joy or innocence in children only foul smells and random sticky substances. Some days turn into months and months snowball themselves into yearrs. Years of dead end jobs, a sexless marriage, and your balding husband jerking off in the shower. You find yourself checking out diet books from the library, watching Dr. Phil with puffs brand kleenex in one hand. All those fried pork chops seemed to have softened your heart for daytime television, while slowly softening your butt, thighs and anything else formerly attractive. Working towards that American dream while those funky new liberals are raising the divorce rate and the population at the same time. An American dream, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no crusts, a mini van, house slippers, a mid life crisis. Days are numbered, every time you forget that just look at your calendar.