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WILD PIRATES. Part Three. Volunteer Day

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“Bloody Lynne, wake up.” MAD mumbled outside my tent.

“Mumph,” My voice was muffled by a mouthful of pillow. “Areyouserious?” I whined with great consternation. The raucous song of all those infernally nocturnal animals was hardly the lullaby needed for sleep. I finally reached that magical land behind my eyelids when it all faded entirely from view. They sang throughout the night, chattering, chuckling, and burrowing beneath the ground around me.

“Yeah, I am.” She answered sullenly, hearkening me back to the bleak reality of morning. “We have to be at the bar in an hour. Big day.”

“I’m up.” I pulled my head out of the pillowcase, donned my fuzzy blue bathrobe and dragged myself out of the tent. Stuffed in one pocket was an energy drink and the other a breakfast bar. The two of us boldly trekked to the head to get ready. It was Volunteer Day.

As part of the Con our crew signed up to help rebuild the Lower Ninth Ward. We met at the pub at 6:30 in the morning as scheduled. The earliest I have been at a bar before, ever. Especially on a Monday morning. There was an interesting array of us assembled, ready and wiling to work. There was a folk band from Canada, proprietors of a pirate magazine, and an affable couple from California. The crew caravanned to headquarters. Lowernine.org, a non-profit organization allows volunteers to plant neighborhood fruit-bearing trees and help rebuild homes destroyed in the hurricane. There they sanctioned us off into teams and we were each handed a shovel and a map. Like pirates on a treasure hunt, only we were planting trees and not digging for gold we marched in step six abreast down the sun-baked streets with shovels slung over our shoulders. Our shirts matched. A few people asked what we were up to as we passed through the poorly populated parish. “You know, volunteering, planting trees, being pirates.” We’d answer cheerfully and gave them the information to the organization so they too could have their own fruit bearing trees which were already there when we arrived. There was roughly five of them in total. All we had to do was dig the designated holes and give them a home. For some of us, this was the most manual labor we had in while, myself included, having a desk job at a college publication. Then it was on to the next house. We got more than what we signed up for at the last stop. The lady recanted her life story as we planted her trees. We also hauled some rubbish to the roadside and the dumped stagnant water from her truck-bed compartment. In turn for our hard work she offered to give us a ride back to base. Seated on the wheel-well, I held on for my dear life. Mud and the dregs of dirty brown water sloshed and the shovels slid and smacked at our feet. We were launched on a torpedo tour of the Lower Ninth Ward. Sightseeing as we rocketed down the road, I was making friends with my buddy in the back of the truck, the one with the horns super-glued to his forehead. “This guy, he’s still talking,” I said to myself in wonderment, desperately trying to hear him over the rush of the wind and the screech of the tires. This guy was all right. The truck jostled and jumped. Any sense of direction was lost. Even after trekking through these very streets all morning there was no telling where exactly our driver was taking us. Not back to headquarters. Left turn, right turn and so on. Then we came to a skidding stop. Bodies and shovels collided and all conversation ceased. Before us stretched a great green mound and behind it the murky outline of the Mississippi River. Something some of us have only heard about, but have never actually seen. Not from this angle. Up close and in person. We sat there a second in silence until someone said the word “levee.”

“Its not a levee that broke, but you get the idea.” Our driver and tour guide said. “Go on have a look.” The volunteers disembarked on shaky legs from the vehicle and climbed up to get a better view of the busy port. Standing on top, one can only imagine a structure like that bearing the brunt and breaking under the sheer brute of nature. The landscape swallowed by so much water. We nodded in agreement and made our solemn descent to the vehicle and headed back to base.

At Lower Nine headquarters there was but a brief reprieve in between work. They fed us sandwiches, offered us a place to sit a spell and sent us back to work. Laying sheet-rock and slowly rebuilding houses that were still abandoned. Psalms and bible verses were scrawled on the exposed framework in permanent marker acting like wards and charms against further tragedy; an indelible addition to the infrastructure.

It was late afternoon when they no longer needed our services and the volunteers were set free. Sore, sweaty, dirty, wretchedly smelly and undoubtedly exhausted the three of us headed back to the bayou. Sadly, after such a hard day’s work there was only a matter of hours to regroup, shower, rustle up some dinner and a costume change before the next big event. Not enough time for a nap. It was the first time that two Curvy Dogs from Central New York and a Cincinnati Captain Jack Sparrow would make our piratical debut. For some strange reason, I had a nagging anxiety about the whole ordeal. Poised to enter and be counted among our kind I couldn’t help but wonder what if we weren’t accepted? Then I thought for second, we’re pirates for fuck’s sake, and we bravely boarded the bar. My fears were unfounded, washed overboard by the obscene amazement of $4 pitchers of PBR and a California-based pirate rock band called The Pirates Charles. It was lust at first sight. Once again drunk and overly stimulated I tossed and turned inside my tent. Sleep was still elusive.

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WILD PIRATES. Part Two. Recon and Surveillance

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Bar, strip club, bar, bar, bar, voodoo shop, cafe, bar, bar, bar, strip club, bar, restaurant, bar. Bourbon Street lay before us in all of its wet and well-tred glory. Throngs of partying pedestrians armed with grenades, and plastic cups spilled on to the streets. Music blared from every doorway. Buskers and brass-bands littered the sidewalks. We rolled down the road at barely 5 mph plodding through the foot and carriage traffic. Eyes wide and heads practically pressed against the window glass we were overstimulated and desperately searching for a place to park. It was all I could do to resist the urge not to run madly into the fray. This was Mecca, this was Valhalla, this was Babylon. I got my wish. The parking garage was cash only. Someone had to run out and hit up an ATM machine. “We’ll drive around the block and-” Our wheel-man Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence when the door slammed shut behind me. I ran into the fray, blending into the Bacchanalia.

We reconvened at the parking garage, Larry Sparrow sported an oversized sombrero. “Where did that come from?” I asked in wonderment.

“Over there.” He pointed to an empty parking spot.

“I love this place!” I still reeled from my solo excursion.

The three weary travelers clung to to the shadowed side of the street, shying away from the sun. We dodged and weaved winding our way through the thick pedestrian traffic. Multiple layers of music clamored in our ears. “Should we keep walking or-” Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence.

“Barrrrrgh” The two Curvy Dogs madly interrupted, we were perilously parched, wired tired and far too frazzled for senseless sober walking. Sadly, if we set out in costume, we would have never found refuge in the nearest drinking establishment, especially with Cininnati’s finest Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator in our midst. He’d be stormed by women in seconds. Suddenly swept up in a sea of screaming fans, followed by a flurry of photos. “Oh my god! It’s Johnny Depp!” they’d all shout while MAD and I would wait on the sidelines for the first wave to pass. Then we’d be free to take a couple of steps further before the second wave rolls in and so on.

Under-dressed and therefore unnoticed, we sidestepped inside as swiftly as possible . It took a couple of minutes adjust from the harsh light to the dark interior of The Funky Pirate. When I could see I couldn’t believe what I beheld. “Dollar shots! Of Pirate’s Revenge?!” There it was, an illuminated sign on the wall. A brilliant beacon beckoning us to drink.

As the afternoon wore on, this town looked more and more like a place I’d want to call home. Body and mind were greased and eased by live Delta River Blues, rum, gin, some sweet drink that Larry Sparrow sipped, and quite a few those vengeful grape-favored shooters. After an indeterminate amount of time, we landed once more on the street absolutely astonished to see the sun sink. “Dollar shots! Get your dollar shots of Pirates Revenge!” The day’s allotment of alcohol left our companion MAD harassing passers-by, brandishing the sign she stole from the guy whose job it was to sit outside the bar holding it. “Dollar shots! You know you want to drink them! You must!” She shouted like a pretzel vendor at a Ren Faire. Her enthusiasm was admirable. After about ten or so minutes of harassing and pulling patrons into the nearly empty bar, we made our weary weaving walk back to the parking garage. The bayou was waiting for us.

Hey, this isn’t that bad at all, I mused as I rolled out the bedrolls and settled into my tent for an early night. We had a long and work-filled day ahead of us; sleep was of the utmost importance. Luckily, the previous night’s panic and paranoia dissipated entirely. We survived the first full day. We were fine, and I laughed at myself for thinking otherwise.

“Listen to those animals,” I thought aloud hearing the bayou awaken. The still evening air filled with nature’s nocturnal cadence. All around us, beasts chuckled, chirped, and brushed up against the tent. The incessant high-pitched hum of a mosquito swarm and a chorus of coyotes resounded out of the darkness. “Listen to those animals…”

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WILD PIRATES. Part One. Freak-out in the Bayou

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(Saturday)

As soon as the sun sank over the bayou, I was confronted with the gravity and the depravity of our current situation. Up until that point, the three of us were having a great time. Rejoicing in the fact that after a fifteen-hour drive Larry Sparrow, Mad Anne Dandy, and Bloody Lynne Flynnt finally arrived in New Orleans. What little sleep we caught was at a truck stop in Birmingham at seven in the morning. MAD had to pry my hands off the steering wheel when we pulled into the State Park. Travel addled and beyond bedraggled and we still had to make camp. A torrential rain tore through two days ago, flooding most of the sites. Tents were assembled amid receding puddles. There I found I wasn’t the only one vying for the dry ground. “Ants in my pants!” I whooped, hollered, and jumped up and down.

“What?!” MAD and Larry Sparrow stopped shocked at my strange and sudden utterance.

“Ants!’ I threw down my tent poles and shook my leg furiously. It didn’t stop the bastards from biting me. At first I thought it was an exceptionally painful sunburn, until I looked down to see all those little red dots crawl up and under my pant leg. Booking to the water spout, I kicked it on full blast, and doused myself. “What?” I looked back to see MAD and Larry Sparrow staring agape.

“You okay?” MAD asked.

“Yeah, I stepped on some ants. I’m gunna change my pants.”

“Shot first?” She offered me a drink.

“Yes please.”

We were taking shots of $2.99 bottles of Rico Bay Rum mixed with dollar store juice jugs while we worked. “Fleur de Leurs” we jokingly called the drinks. It was a surprisingly palatable concoction. We named them after the votive holders/ shot glasses acid etched with Fleur de Lis to mark the momentous occasion of vending at Pyrate Week 2009. We kicked off this business venture cheap, after all we were there for a week. It was a meager dinner of franks and beans. Then we toured the campsites looking for the waterfront cabins that the brochure boasted only to find the tattered remains. Foundations poked out of the murky shoreline. The rest had been demolished in the hurricane. Through the tinted backseat window glass of my mates HHR the view looked even more brackish and ominous in the failing light. Luckily, I couldn’t see what MAD and Larry Sparrow witnessed in the front. Flies, mosquitoes, millions of them. The water was alive there were so many. The surface breathed. The water danced.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Larry Sparrow said.

“Yeah, no shit.” I added as a grave wave of inexplicable and powerful paranoia began to take hold. We pulled back on to the road and drove past row after row of parked Rvs. Were we the only ones stupid enough to camp in tents here? Where the hell are the other pirates? Families settled in for the night. An retired couple walked their small dog. Alligator bait, I thought morosely. They waved at us as we passed. Larry Sparrow muttered the word “locals” and I unhinged. In my messed up mind he was right, they were locals. We were tourists. Worse, we were pirates and everyone was out to get us. There was a flood of films where hapless holidaymakers that met a fearful fate in a faraway land, films that I’ve never bothered to watch. I couldn’t help but think of my very own bed more than a thousand miles to the north.

“Did you see this place?! Security patrols, padlocks, dump stations, a water park? Where are we? A minimum security prison?!” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My madness spilled out. “How cold is it supposed to get tonight?”

“43 degrees.” They said dry from the front.

“That’s bloody cold. Say, did you notice any fences to keep us away from the alligators?” I had only seen alligators in zoos and nightmares. “When I booked the campsite at Bayou Segnette State Park, I didn’t really think we camping in the actual bayou.” My voice rose an octave.

“We could just spend the night in the HHR.” MAD added. It was a brilliant idea and it made me wonder if my apparent panic was contagious. Ironically, having grown up in the back woods of Upstate New York, I was a fairly seasoned camper. This was her first time. I wasn’t setting a good example.

“You know, by the time we get our bedding and everything in here we could just go to sleep in the tents.” Larry Sparrow interjected with a voice of reason.

We were having none of it.

“You said so yourself, we we should have a movie night while we’re down here. Why not right now.” There was no way in hell I was leaving the vehicle, except to fetch my bedding. Swiftly and cautiously, I skirted puddles and sidestepped the little holes that littered the uneven ground. I hadn’t noticed them before and dreaded to encounter the creature that bore them. Keeping a weary eye on my surroundings, I pulled the sleeping bags from my cold unused tent. By the time I made it back to safety, the mosquitoes began to swarm. With the hatch open, I kicked into gear, fighting to make sense of the jumble of bedding before the insect invasion got worse. “Okay, this goes here, that goes there and there and-”

“Whoa, relax,” MAD steadied me.

“Mosquitoes,“ I muttered. “There are a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us.”

She left, braved the bayou to visit the head. Content spending the night bundled up safe in a vehicle that resembled a mini hearse, I briefly entertained the notion of venturing out to find our missing mate before our neighbors did. I saw the way they watched us set up our tents. She emerged from the shadows and sealed ourselves in for the night. Bathed in the glow of the laptop we were too exhausted to pick anything we settled on The Simpsons.

My mates slept stretched out vertically snoring loudly. I curled up between the wheel-wells, atop a pile of blankets, hard pressed for sleep and wishing there was something stronger than a Benadryl to knock my crazy ass out. My mind was thrown into override. I tossed about for the remainder of the night. Sporadically sweating and wracked with chills. Comfortable one minute, cramped the next and then everything would go numb. All the while wondering what the hell I was doing there. Unable to retire I took it upon myself to keep watch. Occasionally glancing out the back hatch, on the look-out for undead midget clowns stealing the quarter panels off the HHR. Thanks to a nightmare Larry Sparrow had in Birmingham that very morning I had to look out for those sonsofbitches too. For the sake of reality, I saw the news, stories about “tent cities” springing up as the economy spiraled. With homelessness on the rise, people called parks like this home- desperate people. I on the other hand was desperate to escape.

Morning came and the sun slowly crept up the window glass of the back hatch, baking us. The air was stale, stinking of sweat and our regrettable choice of supper. Ready to claw my way out like a premature burial, I gasped and grasped for the gusty gulf air.

“Mmmf- feet” I mumbled as Larry Sparrow stretched his legs on top of my face. Bound and determined, I crawled over my passed out mates to the hatch, forced it open, and spilled on to the ground. Breathing heavily and stretched out on my back, I saw it was a beautiful day in the bayou. Overhead the Cyprus trees were in full leaves blown by the temperate spring breeze. The morning sun peeled back the untold terrors we encountered during the night, revealing the same safe place that we found when we arrived. “This is a good camp.” The night was not without it’s casualties. The trusty HHR was dead in the water from a drained battery. In order to make room for more cargo it was someone’s brilliant idea to leave the jumper cables behind . It was our creepy RV neighbors who came to the rescue. We returned the favor with ample glasses of Rico Bay. They reprimanded for us watching cartoons with the daytime running lights on all night.

After entertaining every worst case scenario through the night it seemed the rest of our little excursion should be all sunshine and cypress trees. We successfully skirted our duties and didn’t have to check into the vending hall until the following day. Sunday was at our disposal. “So, what do we do?” One of us asked as we sat armed with instant coffee and hand-rolled cigarettes. We stared at each other for a moment. The answer was unspoken, an axiom as true as The Constitution. We said it anyway. “Bourbon Street.”

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House Rock

by

 I nearly drowned at a job interview. Who was I believe that after one trip down that very river years ago would deem me experienced enough to be gainfully employed as a whitewater rafting guide? My plans to escape the continent for the summer, following in suit of my cousin who ran off to South Africa with the Peace Corp., were lofty and unrealistic as were my hopes of heading west. I was still unwilling to let my precious time off go to waste as my sophomore year at art school ended. Growing increasingly despondent about spending another summer languishing in a ghost town when one fateful afternoon I happened upon an ad in a college publication. Whitewater Challengers sought the aide of poor, miserable, and unemployed students such as myself. In my mind, I was already rafting for the summer. Living in a tent in the Adirondack Mountains, an encampment that I already named “Camp RiddaLynn.” A clever play on my middle name. I thought it was very clever.

“So you’ve been down the river before?” The owner and operator of this outfitter, a man called “Bone” asked as we sat in his office. It was the second time I met with him and so far he seemed all right.

“Yes. Well once, like three years back. I was roped into going with a church camp.” I confessed. “Is my lack of experience going to be a problem?”

“No,” he said assuredly and perhaps appeared a little pleased. “We like new people. We’ll get you suited up and see what you can do.”

“What? Now?” I had never been one to back down from a challenge but all my idle fantasies of whitewater rafting for the season came crashing into fruition. Would I be able to rise to the occasion?

“Craig will go as your guide.”

Craig stood in the doorway nodding slyly.

I swallowed my anxiety, crossed my arms, and saw no other option. “All right, lets go.”

 Seated in an inflatable kayak and stuffed snugly in a wetsuit and life vest, I adjusted my helmet and gripped my paddle. It looked as if I would navigate the boat down the river alone for my guide was to ride behind in his own vessel. We left the bank and the grip of the current sent us on our way. It was early Thursday morning in April, the water roiled at 6 feet still frothing from winter’s run off. The voyage was more than half-way through and I miraculously managed to stay in my boat. Perhaps, I would make it to the end unscathed, I thought. We rounded the corner confronting a rapid called “House Rock.” My guide and I skirted past the boulder, the namesake of that particular stretch of the Middle Moose River. “You go on ahead,” Craig said and I unwittingly obliged. Partway down the rapid, my boat took a hard turn sideways. Water poured in capsizing it in an instant. Dashed about on the rocks underwater I was besieged by the undertow in what I came to closely know as a hole. Struggling, I surfaced for a second’s reprieve to breathe before the current regained its relentless pull. For a few rounds, I rode the crest to undertow. Strong hands hands gripped my vest tugging me up for air, my eyes met my guide’s before I saw the bottom his boat. Hard-pressed to breathe, I violently kicked and gripped and the river-slick stones gaining purchase on what I prayed to be the shore.

Finally out of harm, I pulled myself up on the rocks. There I sat and sputtered feeling ashamed about the abrupt course of events. My boat, paddle, and even my helmet disappeared from view carried by the current. Regaining my breath, my eyes met my guides again to see his growing look of disbelief. “Sorry, I lost my things.” I muttered.

“That was awesome!” he exclaimed. “Tell me that wasn’t awesome!”

“Huh?” I stared past him into the rapids. I, the fool who leapt blindly off the cliff defied the river that could have claimed me. “That was awesome…. Holy shit. That was fuckin’ awesome.” He left me on the rocks and went to retrieve the missing equipment. Pulling myself to my feet, I stood there staring into the tumult of churning whitewater that thundered in my ears. I tried to think of a better way to spend a Thursday morning but couldn’t.

Once I regained my things. The rest our route went without event. Back at the base, I changed into dry clothes and went to meet Bone. Craig had already told him what transpired. “I heard you took quite a spill.”

“Yeah, I did. I found a hole.”

“And you kept your head and got yourself out of it.”

“I lost my helmet.”

He smiled and asked when I could start working. 

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Gratuitous Violence

by

There is something insidious about the morning rush. The invasion of headlights coming into view on the crest of a small hill on the edge of the highway, bring a battalion of early commuters arming themselves for the work day with gasoline, cigarettes, coffee, newspapers, energy drinks and lottery tickets. Constant chirping of the door alarm, the beeps and dings of the POS machine and gas pumps pervade the morning air that was so stiflingly quiet no more than an hour ago. With the change machine filled, the trash emptied, all the coffee pots on, the roller grill stocked and the counters clean, I stand behind the register fending off the onslaught. The last two hours of my shift end abruptly as if they were mere minutes. At around five, I resign to my post and abandon hope of completing the rest of the night’s tasks, desperately wishing I had back those hours I spent procrastinating in the beginning of my shift.

The rest of the world wakes when the sun starts to lighten the eastern horizon; I trek home across the parking lot and jump the gully into the housing complex, mentally preparing myself for the next battle- sleep. Even with the new airbed, the bustle of activity behind the counter, the mad cashier dance of exchanging change and pleasantries leaves me too wired to immediately retire. Even in my dreams, it seems, the sanctity of sleep escapes me.

Clown cars of customers cram my unconsciousness. “You can’t reach me here,” I try to remind my sleep self. Unfortunately, it’s too late, they’ve invaded my bedroom and impatiently wait for the jumbo dogs and polish sausages to cook. Hoards of commuters stand outside their cars with nozzles hooked to gas tanks, but no one is there to activate the pumps, so they just beep and beep and beep. Once, I found myself standing in the middle of my room with my arm raised at the ready, “pump one…” I muttered and woke myself up.  I’ve even tried to ID the cat when he wanted in. These phantom episodes of customer service riddled my subconscious for weeks until they came to a particularly gruesome head…

Continued in Dark Days on the Dixie Highway: Diary of a Third Shift Zombie 

 

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Lovecraftian Tales of Porn Shop Horror

by

The Phantom Whacker

Customers left the room in single file. I thought I that was the last of them. Greatly relieved I finally had the store to myself; I started to close the doors after them. With the store key in hand, I stalked to the back room to kick the viewing booth doors closed. It had been months since taking this job, I’d grown accustomed to that ripe spunk smell. What assailed my ears, however, took me by surprise. Standing frozen to the floor, just short of the corner, I heard the distinctive groan and grunt to know that onscreen some guy’s wife was reamed by a monster black cock. The first viewing-booth was occupied. The door cracked open suspiciously and the red bulb glowed overhead. The undertones of wet slapping and a metal clanking sound made me creep back to the safety of the sales floor.

Minutes crept as I waited for the “whacker” to leave, and I hoped no one else would enter. Perilously parched, I planned a daring a five minute break. A dash down the block to the gas station. Once the store was empty, I was free to lock up and leave. Minutes passed, and I turned down the music. The faint noise of the movie clip stopped and there was still no sign of him. Perhaps the store was empty all along. Once again screwing up the courage to check and close the door, I stopped thoroughly perplexed. All was quiet except for that noise. How could it be? Doesn’t he know that the movie stopped? Perhaps I was hearing things. Is that guy still in there? I turned and fled, swiftly and silently as possible. Hoping he should be finished soon.

The second hand crawled, I checked the time in small increments. Pacing and checking the video monitor beneath the counter for signs of life. My friend had not emerged. I was still alone with the whacker. No one else entered, “hurry up and zip up!” I muttered impatiently. The night shift was wearing on me. In my mind, I was hitting up the liquor store, and pouring airline bottle after airline bottle into a soda bottle.

I would have to close up shop anyway to use the restroom, regardless of the noisesome one jacking off. I locked the door and took the keys with me. Preventing this pervert from leaving with merchandise. An empty store awaited me when I returned. “Good God man!” Surely, he can’t still be in there. How long has it been since the movie ended? Was I mistaken? Was I hearing things? But why that dreadful noise. It was my job to mind the booth traffic. Smile politely and slide singles across the across the counter. Who was this man! I thought that perhaps he was the one that liked to sit naked, lathered in lube, seated on the booth floor, waiting. Or the other memorable characters from many memorable tales that frequented the store. With new resolve and an increasingly unbearable thirst. Sobriety weighed greatly. I rounded the corner and faced the familiar cracked door and prepared myself for what horror, I may finally encounter. I reached my foot out and forcefully kicked, sickly hoping give him the scare he deserved for playing so much with my poor jangled nerves. What I found was an empty booth.

Vittles

He must have pretended not to hear it, the sound of serrated plastic, sawing into rare meat. It was a gruesome wet noise. I calmly regarded the only customer as he perused the teen porn mags one by one caressing their covers as I arduously hacked into the steak. I tore through the tendons, and pockets of fat. The cheap plastic knife wasn’t going anywhere, and the fork strained severely under my grasp almost to the point of snapping. He bent down to go through the lower rack of magazines. I took the opportunity to abandon utensils. Picked my dinner up, locked jaw and tore away a mouth full of the meat. And another. Reaching for a napkin, I let out a satisfied growl. My customer was already at the counter by the time I turned around. “Vittles,” he chuckled.

“Dinner” I spoke through the napkin as I wiped away the blood. “I just killed it this morning.” I wanted to say, but held my tongue.

The Thing in the Sewer Pipe

Weeks passed but the horrific event still stained my brain. I should have listened to our esteemed jizzmopper’s parting words that night. He warned me not to venture into the bathroom. “Put up a sign,” he said, “TOILET IS CLOGGED. OUT OF ORDER.” I stood in front of the door, poised to tape up the printer paper warning. The dire words of caution were written in thick Sharpie marker. A series of exclamation points followed. Who knew what terror lay behind the half-cracked door? Something scary always lurks. I shouldn’t have looked. But I had to see where I put my hand to shut off the bathroom light. The last thing I wanted to do was to slap blindly on the sticky white walls of a porn shop bathroom. The fetid odor stole my breath. The floor was slick, thickly coated in whitewashed mop water. There was an overflow. Gagged by all the spunk and spume, I floundered for the lights, slammed the door and slapped on the sign. After running outside, I slowly recovered, taking in a lungful of fresh air and a quick cigarette. There was an hour left of my shift, bar hopping with friends was next. After that a drink was definitely in order. I replaced my work shirt and entered the martini bar, where I welcomed my companions. “So, did you have an extra jizzy day?” One of them remarked snidely. The bastard thought he was funny.

It was two in the morning when I finished the nightly merchandise inventory, counted cash and closed the register. The smut hut was shut. I was ready to arm the alarm and leave. Everything was in order. All accomplished on autopilot. My mind was elsewhere entirely; drifting incongruously between a horror-filled dream world and my own bleak reality. The day held both jobs, a bitter disappointment for I was not allowed to venture out to the bars afterward. I damned my unfortunate coworker for getting himself fired on a Friday. Because of him I had been working straight since nine the previous morning. A small break to introduce a steak to frying pan before I set off to peddle porn until the wee hours of the morning. In between the sparse yet steady stream of customers and viewing booth “whackers,” a compilation of Lovecraft’s tales filled the rest of my time. It preyed upon my imagination. As the night wore on I wondered if it was the wisest choice of reading material. Almost ready to leave my porn shop prison, I made one last break for the bathroom. It was dark and I missed the sign, a sharpie marker warning against flushing. I should have known that with the sordid past this toilet held. This time wasn’t going to be any different. Sure enough, I absently flushed, and nothing moved. Damn, I thought, wondering if I should attempt it again. From the floor came a noise; a guttural gurgling sounded from the sewer hole. It stayed my hand and made me jump remembering the spunk-soaked floor. In times past, I encountered a mysterious foam, erupted from the dank depths. God only knew what clogged the pipe this time. I didn’t wish to encounter what lurked beneath the porn shop floor. What monstrosity could possibly mutate from so much semen? Gallons and gallons of ejaculate. I left and slammed the door behind me after leaving a note of apology upon the counter; I set the alarm and exited. I was ready for bed and to give my weary head a rest.

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Happy New Year

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I put up the register-closed sign and was readying the final safe drop when the cop walked in and approached the counter. He strode with purpose, not just stopping in for a pack of cigarettes,a cup of coffee, a doughnut, or can of Copenhagen. He was on the job, and deep down I had a feeling that I was going to lose mine. This is how it ends, working as a third shift gas station attendant. Canned on New Years Fucking Day. It had to happen sooner or later. In the business, there are sting operations with underage kids coming in and buying beer and cigarettes. We lost a co-worker that way during the summer, didn’t bother to ID, the cops came in and she was fired on the spot. Emails circulated among the other stores in the district, copies were printed out and posted by the registers. “‘Tis the season for Cigarette and Alcohol Stings,” was the subject line, instilling a great wave of paranoia in with our holiday cheer. There were three violations in one night just the week before. I had been hyper vigilant and extra paranoid for the holiday season. I must have slipped didn’t ID, probably when I was too worried about my own damn stomach acting up, or if the stupid bagged onions would ever get changed over. I looked to the co- manager as she stood beside me scanning the scratch-off tickets and gave her a “nice knowing you” look. Seems I won’t be handing in a two- week notice after all, I thought grimly.  “Hello officer,” I tried to keep my voice calm.

Continued in Dark Days on the Dixie Highway: Diary of a Third Shift Zombie 

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Night of the Twister

by

 

Lightning forked illuminating the parking lot. I chanced a glance out the window to see if there were any more customers sodden and staggering in seeking shelter. Zombies, I shuddered and ducked for cover when a car pulled through the parking lot. Every single fucking one of them, zombies. I was fairly confident I’d survive, surrounded by an island of gasoline, and locked up tight in a store with all the beer and junk food I would ever need. My more realistic chances were that during the zombie Apocalypse that I would be looted, blown up, and then fired because of the loss of merchandise.

The emergency lights flickered and blinked. If it wasn’t for the incessant beeping that accompanied them, I’d be asleep curled up on the cushioned rubber mats behind the register using a wad of Wypalls as pillows and dreaming of a proper night’s sleep in a real bed. Instead, I forced myself to finish the evening tasks regardless of the lack of light and prayed no more customers came knocking. An hour later I was bored to tears and wondering how the Awful Waffle across the street fared on this dark and stormy night. Grabbing a lighter and a cigarette I wandered outside to watch the storm clouds race by. A warm front collided with a cold front right over the horizon. It was the stupidest thing I ever did. Even with my makeshift key, an Allen wrench I ganked from the soda fountain brixing kit, there was no way I could reenter the building. “No!” I screamed, kicked, and pulled at the double front doors. They were locked tight. 

Continued in Dark Days on the Dixie Highway: Diary of a Third Shift Zombie 

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OPERATION: THE PIGEON HAS LANDED

by

Strange things happen when you snort ephedrine, I found that out my freshman year of college. We were at the Brownstone again, the one with the blood splatter in the elevator, the nameless smells emanating from the lobby and the suspicious looking awning out front that my friends and I lovingly called “The Rape Tunnel.” The back of the building looked like a sanitarium from a bygone era, comprised of severe straight lines and corners rounded with turrets. Six stories high, it stood out against the city skyline like a great ghetto fortress. That brownstone apartment building was our second home. The tenant and host of that evening’s festivities had friends in from the north. They were treated like visiting dignitaries. The ephedrine burned like taking instant coffee crystals up the nose. I imagined it combining with the mucous in my nasal passages and creating a coffee sludge in the sinus cavity. “We really should do something,” someone asked while I wondered why the hell I didn’t just eat the pill, but no, I wanted to fit in.

“Oh, we’ll do something alright,” our host replied grinning broadly. He had been waiting a long time for someone to make that very statement and added all to gleefully, “we are going to break in the asylum.”
“What?” I asked to make sure I heard him right.
“We are going to break into the asylum,” he repeated. “Are you in?”
The great glob of coffee reached my brain, “oh hell yeah.”
“Good because we’ll need your car.”

The local asylum was decommissioned in the middle of the century, there was no place to put the patients so they just let them out and the building laid abandoned ever since. Rumors circled around the campus and breaking in was a badge of honor among first and second year art students alike. Seated in a circle around the living room the lot of us set the plan in motion. First we chose our nicknames, our host was “Doctor Mayhem,” and his guests, “Captain Crowbar” and “Explosive Wombat.” There was also “Most Blunted,” “Atomic Dreadlock”, “Boo Berry,” and “Lucky Leprechaun.”
“You should be called Firefly,” said Explosive Wombat, eying me.
“Well, I do like fires”
Next in matter of importance we decided to draw up a sign, something to post immortalizing our excursion. It featured a bird in a tree in sharpie marker and the words THE PIGEON HAS LANDED. In turn, each of us signed our aliases and then it was time to get to business. We were sanctioned off into teams: Breaking and Entering and Recon and Surveillance. Atomic Dreadlock and Boo Berry opted to be on lookout parked outside the asylum in a nondescript rusted out maroon Oldsmobile. My nondescript rusted out Oldsmobile, and the rest of us were going in. Lucky Leprechaun, however, started looking green. “I don’t think I can make it.” She said feeling like she’d puke and pass out. The ephedrine hit her in a bad way. That left me feeling rather uncomfortable as the only girl in a boys club of old friends.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” I asked hoping she’d change her mind.
“My head really hurts, I’m gunna go back instead and try to go to bed. “
“Maybe you shouldn’t go either,” said Most Blunted. “You’ll just freak out and get us all caught.”
If there was anytime for my better judgment to kick I n this wasn’t it. My pride got in the way of that. “I will so not freak out. “
“Good,” said Doctor Mayhem, “we have to go to Wal-Mart.”

The next thing I knew we were in the checkout line. “This doesn’t look suspicious at all,” I said to Explosive Wombat beside me.
“Shh,” Most Blunted shushed but the apathetic third shift cashier barely looked up as she bagged and scanned the items: Flashlights, batteries, a burlap sack, a couple of ski masks and a crowbar.
“Oh, don’t bag that,” said Captain Crowbar with the giddiness of a child at Christmas, “I’ll carry that.”

We reconvened back at headquarters at 2300 hours, grabbed our walkie-talkies, split into our groups, and commenced with OPERATION: THE PIGEON HAS LANDED. No more than twenty minutes later, our mission came to sudden and surprising end. Doctor Mayhem, Most Blunted, Captain Crowbar, Explosive Wombat, and I Firefly darted across the grounds in the cover of darkness when headlights rounded the corner. “Security, quick hide!” ordered Doctor Mayhem and the lot of us scattered, ducking into shadows and darting into bushes. I held my breath as I hunched over inside a shrub waiting for security to pass on through. Someone was breathing down the back of my neck.
“Oh Jesus!” I turned around to see Explosive Wombat standing right behind me. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“You’re shivering,” he observed, “are you scared”
“Of getting caught, yes, plus its cold out here.”
“Would you like to go out sometime?”
“I don’t think this is a good time.” I answered through gritted teeth. Before things could get too awkward Doctor Mayhem gave us the all clear and we emerged from hiding.
“We have to go back to the apartment,” he said.
“Why is that?” we were disappointed that our mission was cut so short.
“We have to regroup, that was way too close, and Captain Crowbar forgot his crowbar.”

We once again circled like birds in the living room while Doctor Mayhem drew up a map of the premises. “Recon and Surveillance, you stay here so you can see someone coming in all directions. If anyone approaches you, just start making out. Security just passed through, so we should be good for a couple of hours. There is a barbed wire fence here, that is why we got the burlap, and a side door that we can pry open and enter the building from there. Is everybody ready?” We all nodded somberly for OPERATION: THE PIGEON HAS LANDED just got serious.

At 2400 hours we disembarked from our vehicles and Recon and Surveillance set up watch in the allotted parking spot. Silently and stealthily we darted across the lawn and approached the fence. It stood roughly eight feet high, topped with razor wire. Doctor Mayhem climbed up and slung the sack on top, swung up and over and the rest of us followed in suit. “Um, guys?” asked Most Blunted from the top of the fence, “I’m gunna jump off but some one has to catch me.” I stuffed a chuckle and took a step backwards. It seemed no one wanted to take the brunt of Most Blunted’s bulk if he landed on us. “Fine,” he said realizing that no one wanted to come to his rescue. He leaped and landed bodily on the other side. Keeping close to the ground our battalion reached the boarded up side door. A sharp crack splintered the still night air as the plywood gave way under Captain Crowbar’s tool. Then one by one we crept through the broken window, a sign that we weren’t the first to attempt this daring mission, nor would we be the last. If we succeeded we’d join the ranks of those who came before us, immortalized in the annals of art school. If we get caught- it was best not to think of that. Hunched over in the window the last to enter, there was a sudden clamor in the entryway. Startled, I jolted upright and felt glass shatter over the top of my head. It could have been bad, but I had the foresight to borrow hat back at headquarters. That hat very well could have saved my life, but that was the farthest thing from my mind as I hurriedly climbed all the way inside. “Cops” I whispered and my crew silenced me. They stood stalk still barely breathing and listening sharply. That is when I heard it too; footsteps rang out clearly from somewhere inside, accompanied by the distant din of disembodied voices. A couple of seconds later they faded and the silence swallowed us. Its probably someone else breaking in, I wondered as a we proceeded to recede further inside the building. Oddly enough, our own footfalls were muffled by nearly a half a centuries accumulation of paint chips and dust. It carpeted the floor at least a couple of inches thick. When it was safe to turn on our flashlights we did so and the heavy darkness opened up to reveal a long cavernous corridor. The hallway stretched farther than the scope of our light and the dense stale air gave it the impression that it had no end. Narrow doorways opened up on either side to reveal small compact cells. We split up and ventured a look in a few of these rooms to see they had been stripped clean. We rummaged through the cabinets to find that they were empty. Part of OPERATION: THE PIGEON HAS LANDED was to bring back souvenirs. We all had hoped for something cool like medical tools, straight jackets, electrodes or lobotomy jars. It was beginning to look like that wasn’t the case for too many people went rifling through this buildings nefarious past already. We regrouped back in the hallway when the walkie-talkie clicked on. Over the static we heard Boo Berry, “You guys alright in there? What’s it like?”
“Dude, its creepy as fuck,” answered Doctor Mayhem. As soon as we got in we heard footsteps and voices. Are you sure no one else is here?”
“No shit. It’s all clear out here man, looks like you got the place to yourselves. Did you find anything cool yet?”
“Nope nothing.”
“Check the basement, I hear that’s where they keep the good shit.”
“The basement it is then, over and out.”

Sometime later we found the narrow stairwell leading down to the bowels of the Old Main. “We’re not going down there,” said Doctor Mayhem making an executive decision. “That is way too dangerous.” The stairs themselves were encased in an uneven sheet of ice, forming a treacherous slope of death. The winter’s accumulation of precipitation clung to the walls in frozen rivulets untouched by the milder air of early March. In one of the rooms we ventured into the ceiling had partially collapsed revealing the acrid orange glow of the city overhead. Winter still clung to the old asylum. “You’re shivering again,” the Explosive Wombat said from behind and I jumped.
“Yeah, it’s pretty damn cold in here,” It was cold enough to see your breath.
“Here, take my jacket.” Before I could protest pulled off his duster and draped it over my shoulders. I had to admit traipsing and trespassing in an abandoned sanitarium wearing a duster felt pretty badass. I was beginning to think there was something endearing about the Explosive Wombat, and he didn’t look half bad in a ski mask.
In lieu of the basement we decided to venture up to the second floor to divide and conquer. These stairs were much more passable. Moonlight filtered through the dusty glass and wrought iron window bars as we marched upwards in single file into what appeared to be the dormitory. Captain Crowbar approached a directory plaque mounted on the wall, and pried it off to have a look. “Yup, Girls Dormitory,“ he said assuredly and shoved it under his coat.

“There’s nothing here but rubber tub stoppers and wall decorations,” I muttered to myself as I contemplated plucking a construction paper posy off the bulletin board. The rooms themselves resembled typical college dorms across the country minus the bars on the windows, a bedroom with a couple of shelves and a joining bathroom. I yanked a rubber tub stopper and broke the chain that tethered it to the sink and placed it in the duster pocket. Back in the hallway I came across a retro no smoking sticker and thought about peeling it off the wall, it wouldn’t be difficult to do so for the adhesive was at least thirty years old. Paint chips flaked off the walls just by walking past. Dust fluttered down like snow. Someone was behind me. “Jesus Christ, Explosive Wombat. This isn’t the best place to go around sneaking up on people!” I whirled around to reprimand him, only to see that I was alone.
“ Are you freaking out over there?” asked Most Blunted from the doorway down the hall.

“Heh, heh, no.” I finally mustered feeling flustered. “Is that where everyone is?” I asked pointing past him.
“Yeah, someone painted on the wall in that room. It looks like a fucked up child did it. It’s creepy.”
“Nice”

At the end of the hall, we reached something that resembled a solarium, a wide-open room that was almost all windows. I rubbed the dust away with my shirtsleeve and peered through the grimy glass to see my car below. I picked up the flashlight to signal surveillance but the light only wavered and died. “Stupid Wal-Mart flashlight, stupid Wal-Mart batteries.” I smacked it hard in the palm of my hand turned it on and off again. We just bought them a few hours ago and none of our lights were working right all that night. While we were up there the walkie-talkie rang out for the sixth or seventh time in a row. “Will you stop pressing the call button,” Doctor Mayhem contacted Recon and Surveillance.
“We’re not pressing anything,” said Atomic Dreadlock on the other end, “we can say the same shit-“ the line of communication was severed.
“Well gentlemen, and lady,” said Doctor Mayhem as we assembled in solarium of the sanitarium. “This seems like a better place then any to raise our sign. Captain Crowbar if you will?” Captain Crowbar pulled the sign out of his pocket, flattened it out and ceremoniously wedged it on the window between the iron bars and glass, facing outward for the rest of the world to see. “Let it be hence forth known,” said Doctor Mayhem, “this is where the pigeon has landed.”
“ The pigeon has landed!” we cheered waving our wavering flashlights about.
Our celebration was cut short when the walkie-talkie clicked on. “Get out! I repeat, get out now.” Atomic Dreadlock urged us on the other end. “Security just stopped and asked why we were parked here. Told ‘em we were having relationship troubles and we came here to talk. He told us to leave so we drove off and we’re parked out front by the main entrance. Evacuate the premises immediately, retreat! And what the fuck are you doing waving your flashlight like that through the window he totally could have caught you!”
“Good work guys,” commended Doctor Mayhem. Then he turned to his troop. “Okay, you heard her, move! move! move!”
“Oh shit,” I muttered as we tore down the hallway kicking up a rooster tail of paint chips and dust in our wake. “Quick like a bunny!” Doctor Mayhem urged us on. “Hop!” We bounded down the steps three at a time raced to the exit and shoved each other through. We didn’t stop running until we reached the getaway car. I don’t remember how we got over the fence, what exit we took out of the old asylum or if our feet ever actually touched the ground while we ran. The sun was rising and everything looked better outside, fresher. I turned to glance back at the building, standing tall in cold concrete majesty. The long and lighted driveway wove up to the Greek revival entryway and the looming ionic columns of the Old Main. Doctor Mayhem, Captain Crowbar, Explosive Wombat, Most Blunted and I Firefly escaped unscathed. The ephedrine wore off hours ago but the adrenaline was something else entirely. I caught my breath, standing there staring for a couple of seconds before a hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the back seat of the car. “Hi Firefly,” I looked down to see I landed on Explosive Wombat.

Back at the brownstone we sat in a circle around the living room. In the center we piled our pilfered goods, musty and moldering merchandise that hadn’t seen daylight in decades. There was a wooden dorm sign, various wall art, a floor plan plaque, old broken bottles, a no smoking sticker, and other ill-gotten gains from the Old Main. “You can keep my shit here,” said Most Blunted to Doctor Mayhem. “That’s just fucking creepy, I don’t want anything to do it.”
“I don’t want it here either,” said Doctor Mayhem’s girlfriend. Not long after, we decided to part ways and call it a night. OPERATION: THE PIGEON HAS LANDED was deemed a success.

“You guys were this close to being fucked.” Said Atomic Dreadlock from the passenger seat as I drove her home. “The cop even asked if we were on look out for someone inside. We said no, and if he turned around he would have seen you dumbasses waving your flashlights around. We had to take the batteries out of the walkie-talkie and stash it because the call button kept going off.”
“Same here, we totally thought it was you.”
“No man, we didn’t touch it. What’s it like in there anyway?”
“Old, musty, dirty, dormant, as soon as we got in we heard footsteps and voices. The footsteps were pretty loud, which was funny because there was a blanket of paint chips and dust bunnies on the floor like this thick. It was way colder in there than it is outside. Our flashlights were fucking up all lover the place and I kept feeling like there was someone behind me. Most of the time it turned out to be Explosive Wombat. But this one time on the second floor there wasn’t anyone there. Do you think that place is haunted?”
“Oh hell, yeah. Mental health was notoriously fucked up back then. I bet that place is as haunted as hell. Speaking of the Explosive Wombat, he really likes you.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to do about that. He asked me out while were hiding in the bushes from security.”
“Yeah, how’d that go?”
“I told him it was a bad time.”
“You’re still wearing his duster.”
“So, I am.” I dropped Atomic Dreadlock off and made my way back to campus. Reality slowly sank in. “I can’t believe I did that!” I patted myself on the back and lit a celebratory cigarette. This close to being fucked… haunted as hell… Atomic Dreadlock’s words echoed prophetically in my mind. I tried not to dwell on that for too long, as it stood, I didn’t think I could sleep for a week.

I pried myself out of bed at seven that night. It was Saturday and the dorm room parties were in full swing. Music throbbed and pounded through numerous rooms and the third floor hall smelled like a melange of aerosol air freshener and marijuana smoke. I thought about going on a scouting mission to see the Explosive Wombat and give him back his duster but decided to check on Lucky Leprechaun across the hall first since she got sick and bailed out early. “Now’s not a good time,” Boo Berry answered the door. His girlfriend was in there and apparently in the middle of a psychotic break, sitting cross-legged and naked in the middle of the living room floor staring catatonically. She had been that way for an hour. He said my friend was down the hall in her on again off again boyfriend’s room.
“Thank God you’re here,” Lucky Leprechaun said in the doorway and pulled me inside. “Can you watch him for a few, I have to get some air.” She said hurriedly and left.
“Hey” her on again off again boyfriend said from the couch as I slumped down next to him. “I’m so wasted.”
“It’s only seven at night. That’s early.”
“I know.” He smiled triumphantly. Beads of sweat ran down his face in rivulets. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. A gurgle rose from his gullet and escaped his lips. That’s when I noticed the garbage pail on the floor at his feet. “Good god man!” I reached for the bucket and slapped it down on his lap and leapt out of the blast radius. “Watch your aim!” I shouted perched on the arm of the couch. I closed my eyes tightly but still heard the splash. It smelled like regurgitated fruit, something sweet like Pucker’s or Boone’s Farm. I felt my own bile rise.
“I’m so wasted.” He gargled looked up to the ceiling, made a loud hoarfing sound and buried his head in the bucket.
“Pink lemonade, pink lemonade, its not vomit its pink lemonade.” I repeated over and over trying to convince myself otherwise. I closed my eyes and covered my ears but still heard him sputter.
“I’m so-“
“I know!”
hoarf. splash.
“That’s it!” I shot off the arm of the couch and scrambled for the kitchen. “I’ve had enough!” I threw open the fridge and found the beer cans in the crisper. “I’m taking a beer. You’re not drinking anymore.” He gurgled and groaned in reply and I pocketed another just to be safe. I poked my head out of the door, waiting for Lucky Leprechaun to return. Further down the hall someone argued loudly. This wasn’t a good night for anybody. There was badness in the air; it throbbed in the fluorescent lighting and bounced off the sterile white walls. The madness was palpable. “Oh no.” I went back inside to check on my ward, he slumped over on the couch and thankfully stopped puking for the moment. I moved the garbage pail off his lap so it wouldn’t spill; it was a little more than half full. The thought of it made me gag again. “I’m – have to go for a couple minutes, but I’ll be right back to check and see if you’re still breathing. Are you going to be okay?”
“…wasted,” he muttered and I headed for the exit.
Down the hall the music throbbed, there was a badness in the air, and it was my fault. I threw open the dorm-room door and made my way to the bedroom dresser. I opened the drawer and finished the first beer and started on the second. Buried in the back beneath my clothes was a jewelry box. “You,” I said and picked the object up by the green metal chain and the rubber tub stopper dangled before me in all its grimy glory. “We should have never stolen anything from that place. We brought something back.” I had to find Most Blunted. Lucky Leprechaun was in the hallway. She looked agitated. “I was just going to check back on him. Did you know your roommate is catatonic?”
“Yeah, I know,” she sighed.
“Weird night.”
“Yeah, why do you have a- oh, Jesus Christ,” she threw her hands down exasperatedly and ran off down the hall. I looked past to see her on again off again boyfriend passed out in the hallway.

Most Blunted was in the bathroom. “Some bad shit is going on around here.” I dangled the asylum rubber tub stopper in front of him while he sat on the rim of the bathtub. “We got chicks naked and catatonic in the other room, and what’s his name is puking his fucking guts and passing out in the hallway. And you know what? I just woke up. We broke into the asylum last night stole some shit and brought some crazy back with us. I swear!”
“Hey,” Most Blunted looked up from the tub, joint in hand, and surrounded by a handful of my classmates.
“What.” I said still dangling the rubber tub stopper.
“You’re freaking out.”

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The Easter Fetus

by

It didn’t look like early Easter Sunday at the gas station. It isn’t all Jesus and Easter baskets. All holidays are drinking holidays. The family congregates, observes, and gets stupid. At night the twenty-four hour convenience store transforms from a bustling hub of commerce into an outpost for the fellow third-shifters and the dregs of society. As the sole clerk manning the registers it was my solemn duty to observe these perishers and parishioners. Any childhood wonderment I once held for the sacred day shied away clinging to the very vestiges of my soul.

Continued in Dark Days on the Dixie Highway: Diary of a Third Shift Zombie