GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #756: THE LIGHTER

 

When it came to substance abuse my drug of choice was alcohol, but I can't do that anymore. I've been using cannabis since the State of Illinois made it legal, and it was fun to partake while I was still drinking, but I can't do that, anymore, either. I was always an edibles guy because smoking is a habit I never picked up.

Well, not too long ago I went from edibles to smoking cannabis. (And, if I have the day off the next day, I take an edible and then smoke up.) I was still in the process of packing up my things when I came across the lighter you see above, and I've been using that to light up. And now it's on its last legs, almost out of fluid. Suddenly I remembered why I have this thing in my possession.

Rewind almost 30 years. Well, more like 27. At any rate, almost all of my friends back then smoked cigarettes (and, you know, some other stuff, but mostly cigarettes). I was usually the only nonsmoker present at any gathering.

While I'm casting my thoughts back to that era, I thought it would be important to note that I was the youngest of those friends, but I looked older than they did, so guess who bought their smokes for them? Oddly enough, most of them look like their parents, and I look younger than they do. Weird.

Anyway, what happens if you talk to a smoker long enough? They pull out their pack of smokes and put one in their mouth. Then, if they're lucky, they get their lighter and then light up. If they're not lucky? They start patting their pockets and muttering curses under their breath. Then, whatever shit you were doing at the time, it grinds to a standstill until a lighter can be procured.

To save time I bought a lighter of my own, and I kept it around for whenever it was needed. More importantly, I kept my eye on it. How many times did a smoker subconsciously try to pocket it? Envision the beginning of Reservoir Dogs. The conversation about "Like a Virgin." How many times?

At some point I must have socked it away and didn't find it until a few months ago. Weird how it feels like an artifact now. And sad because it's almost done with its purpose, a purpose it should have served a long time ago. What is the life of a cheap 7-Eleven lighter? I'll bet it's not 27 years.

I already have its replacement, but I'm almost a pack rat. It's probably going to take a lot of strength to throw away this relic of the past.

The world is about to move on . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #755: AN UNWELCOME GUEST

 Someone sat at my desk while I was out of the office. I could tell due to several things. I'm kind of OCD, so I always know when something's off. The first indication that I had was that my chair was pushed off to the side instead of under the keyboard, where it usually is. Well, maybe the janitor moved it to vacuum. Possibly.

But then I saw all the grit on my desk. That used to happen at my old desk but only because they were building a new office literally a half a foot away from that desk. No such thing happened this time. I'm OK with others using my desk while I'm not there, but fucking clean up after yourself.

And then I noticed the cardinal sin. Whoever it was put their drink down on my pad of paper. The very pad of paper that I had a bunch of stuff written on. I'd written that stuff down because it was fucking important. It was a list of sales leads I intended to follow up on, now smudged and tacky because of the goddam sweat ring that beverage left behind. That's just fucking inexcusable.

At this job? I have never sat at someone else's desk. At other jobs? Sure. And when I sat at those desks, I touched only the things necessary to doing my job, and I put those things back the way I found them. If I messed anything up, I cleaned it up. What the fuck kind of scumbag does this kind of thing?

Yeah, I'm frustrated. But at least it's Friday. Which means tomorrow will feel like a slow and agonizing death, but it's the last of my trials and tribulations before I have a day off.

Jesus fuck.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 15

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nightbeat looked all around him. There were ten goombas, and they surrounded him completely. Cat, grinning, sauntered off and turned, hands under his chin. “This is going to be wonderful!”

“Yo!” they said in unison. Then they shouted out their own in a cacophony, jumping up and down, excited.

Nightbeat glanced at Cat. “You knew they were waiting for me.”

“Of course!”

“You led me into a trap.”

“It’s not my trap, but I like it nonetheless. I wonder what you’ll look like when you’re dead.”

Nightbeat looked around at all of his enemies. Don Snowy sat on his corpulent ass apart from the goombas, watching them do his bidding. The other toys were nowhere in sight. Nightbeat thought of a movie he’d once watched when Wally was a kid, High Noon. If he called out to Angel, would he help? Would anyone?

“Am I the only one invited to my death?” he asked.

“Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!”

“Yo Nightbeat!” Don Snowy said. “Take it like a man, and we can put this to rest, yeah?”

“Where is everyone else, Snowy? You pay them off?”

“Maybe they knew better than to get in my way,” Don Snowy said.

The closet was the only place they could be. Nightbeat looked over to see that someone had put a wedge under the door. He could hear the others in there. He wondered what they would do when they got out and found him dead. Or would Don Snowy just end them, too?

Maybe he could stall them, get enough time to yank that wedge out. He turned to Don Snowy. “Speaking of taking it like a man, why have your goombas do this? Afraid to get your hands dirty?”

“Hey! I’m a made man! I call the shots! That’s some pretty stupid thinking for a detective.”

The whole time, Nightbeat had been moving from foot to foot. Slowly, he’d been able to get just that much closer to the closet. The ring of goombas just readjusted itself to his movement. If he could keep Don Snowy talking, maybe he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

“You shouldn’t have killed Joey,” Nightbeat said. “That’s unheard of for a toy. You’re a disgrace. You should be unstuffed.”

“Yo! I’m not the one dyin’ here! Goombas! Finish him!”

“Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!”

Shit. So much for that. Nightbeat slugged the closest goomba and jumped through the gap where it had stood. He sensed the others closing in on him, but he concentrated on getting to that wedge. Even when he got there, when he tried pulling it out, he paid them no mind. Not until they arrived and the first one bashed him on the back of his head. He staggered forward, hitting his head on the door this time. Sparks of light fluttered in his vision, but he shook his head, intent on getting this done.

Just as he yanked at the wedge again, two goombas latched onto his arms, pulling him away. He flung both arms back, and one shook loose, but it was quickly replaced by another. They flooded around him, pushing and shoving. He couldn’t get a grip on the wedge. There were too many. Over their heads he saw Cat watching, grinning. He had his tail between his legs, stroking it like it was his cock.

Nightbeat crouched down, allowing a few of the goombas onto his back. He then jumped up, arching backward, flinging at least three of them away. It gave him some wiggle room, which he used to kick two more aside. That gave him enough time to grab the wedge again. This time he felt it give a little. He thought he could hear someone on the other side pushing at the top of the wedge. He thought if he could give it one good yank . . .

The goombas went for his feet, sending him sprawling. They climbed onto his back, pinning him down. He felt like suffocating as his face pushed against the carpet. He turned his head slightly and saw that the wedge wasn’t too far behind him. He tried kicking at it, and he barely made contact. He tried slithering back, but the weight was too much. Weakness overcame him almost as badly as when Man-E-Faces tried to kill him. In a last ditch effort, he kicked back with all of his strength.

He hit the wedge hard enough to dislodge it. The closet door popped open, and Angel and Spike jumped free.

“NO!” Don Snowy shouted.

“I don’t usually pick on someone smaller’n me,” Spike said, “but . . .” He kicked at the goombas, and Angel did the same. Nightbeat felt lighter, and he pushed himself to his feet.

“It’s over, Don Snowy,” he said.

“Yo! It’s never over! Get those bastards!”

The goombas circled the trio, who now stood back to back with each other, ready to take on whatever the goombas had. Others shuffled from the closet, chief among them Don Draper. He had a dazed look on his face.

“Pete Campbell better not be behind this,” he said. “I’ll have him run out of Sterling Cooper on a rail. Honey? Where’s my scotch?” He uttered a quack and fell on one of the goombas. It yelped, trying to get out from under his bulk, but Don was too heavy.

“I’ll help you!” Fox cried out. He leaped from the closet, ready to fend off the goombas, but Cat swept up in front of him.

“Just who I wanted to see,” he said.

Fox trembled. “I’m not scared of you! I’ll—”

Cat rushed forward and grabbed Fox by the throat, snapping his neck immediately. He made nom-ing sounds as he nibbled at Fox’s corpse.

Felix’s sons and wives rushed out and took shelter behind the bedroom door. Don Snowy saw this and lumbered over, no longer interested in the fight. “Yo! Show me your titties, my kitties!”

Felix stumbled after them and grabbed Don Snowy by his fluffy back. “Hey, Snowy! Keep your goddam hands off of them!”

Don Snowy kicked back, and since Felix had more booze running through him than anything else, he fell, unconscious.

Jack Bunnyson stepped in front of Don Snowy. “That wasn’t nice, man. And leave the chicks alone. They don’t want you, get it?”

“Yo, fuck you!” Don Snowy pushed at Jack Bunnyson, but he didn’t move much. Instead, he slugged Don Snowy across his carrot nose, sending him to the rug. “Yo! My dose! You broke my dose!”

“There’s a lot more where that came from.” Jack Bunnyson bobbed and weaved, his fists held in the air. He moved to kick, but Don Snowy shoved a foot into his crotch. Jack Bunnyson gasped, out of breath, collapsing onto his front. Don Snowy slipped behind him, to the pocket in his back, and yanked it down. Jack Bunnyson howled, and his ears hung down, the sunglasses off. Bunny said, “Noooooo! It hurts! Why?” He continued moaning until he mercifully died.

As Spike and Angel fought the remaining goombas, Nightbeat got one of his own and held it down, seeking purchase in its plush body. He found a faded area and jammed his hand into it, ripping the goomba open. It screamed as he tore the fabric up further, yanking out all of its stuffing. The scream turned to a moan until it stopped making any sound.

“These things killed Joey,” Nightbeat said. “We have to unstuff them.”

Spike nodded. “Say no more.”

The goombas, now aware of their peril, doubled their efforts to take the trio down. Spike and Angel were too big for them, and Nightbeat was too strong. The heroes worked together and managed to come up with a system. Spike fought with all his might, taking point while Angel struggled with each goomba, holding them down for Nightbeat to perform the unstuffing. As soon as the goombas figured out what they were doing, it was too late.

Angel, Spike and Nightbeat stood together, huffing and out of breath. Nightbeat recovered first. “Now it’s time to get the mastermind.”

“Who’s that?” Angel asked.

“Don Snowy gave the order to take out Joey. And me, incidentally. We have to unstuff him before it’s too late.”

They turned to Don Snowy, surprised to discover that Felix’s wives had already subdued him. He struggled to get out from under them, but he struggled harder to cop a feel. One wife sat on his throat, and he tried to maneuver his carrot nose into her bottom.

“Yo!” Don Snowy shouted. “Gimme a trial! I have rights!”

“You don’t, actually,” Nightbeat said. “Rights are for humans, and you’ve done the unthinkable. A toy should never kill its child.”

“You gotta prove it! Yo!”

“It’s proof enough that you bloody locked us away,” Spike said.

“It was Cat that locked you up!” Don Snowy cried. “Not me! I didn’t do it!”

Cat now munched away at Bunny’s corpse. “I was in the Catacombs. Nightbeat can vouch for that, yes?”

Nightbeat nodded, absolutely hating himself for giving Cat an alibi, even though it was true. “There is no getting out of this, Snowy. Is there anyone here who doubts that he didn’t kill Joey?” He glanced around. Bunny and Fox were dead, being eaten by Cat. Don Draper and Felix were passed out, stinking of booze. With the goombas dead and unstuffed, no one spoke up for Don Snowy.

Nightbeat shrugged. “Looks like the end of the road for you, asshole.”

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #754: RON WIGINTON

 

I went to Elmhurst University back when it was still called Elmhurst College. Class of 2000. During my last two years there I worked on the newspaper and the literary magazine. I was a double major, English and philosophy, so naturally I took a few courses taught by Ron Wiginton. He also advised the newspaper, so I worked with him there, too.

Almost no one reading this will remember, but back then I had a writing partner on the paper, my high school friend, Jesse Russell. Together we were GonZo and THE STRAIGHT, and we investigated the primitive underbelly of Chicago. We called ourselves, unsurprisingly, Primitive Underbelly. Today I got a text from Jesse notifying me that Ron Wiginton had died of a heart attack on his way back from vacation. My first thought was, "At least he didn't make it back to work first."

But I thought I should talk about him a little tonight because of all the creative writing teachers I've had, he had the most influence on my writing.

I remember when I first met him. It was for an American Lit class. He was a bald guy with a ponytail, and he didn't have a lot of teeth. He looked like an aging hippie, but aside from his love of playing bongo drums, he didn't act like one. I remember thinking, who the hell is this guy?

I think he came from Tallahassee before he got his job at Elmhurst. He'd worked there as a journalist, if memory serves correctly, which made him the one and only creative writing teacher I ever had who made a living as a writer. He was a no bullshit kind of guy. He was harsh, but he was that way because of love. He wanted his students to be the best writers they could be.

Now that I think about it, I've mentioned him before in Goodnight, Fuckers. He was the professor in question from this column. He believed in tough love when it came to learning how to write, emphasis on the love part of that. He taught me to be tough with my own work, so I thought I'd list a few things I learned from him as a memorial tribute.

I made a horrible blunder while I was reporting for the Leader. I was assigned a masturbation story. I swear it was not my idea. It was the editor-in-chief's idea. It's just, well, you all know me. Who else would work on that kind of story? I was supposed to interview people about how normal masturbation is. Part of that was interviewing the college minister. The minister wanted to see a copy of the article before publication, and I said I'd do it. I was lying a little bit, though. I figured I'd slip it under his door the morning the paper was supposed to be printed so it would be too late to STOP THE PRESSES! STOP THE PRESSES! I did that only to learn that there was a problem with the printer, and he was able to stop the presses and get the article kicked out of the paper. Dr. Wiginton took me aside and told me to never do that again under any circumstances. The subjects of your article should read it in print, not one second before.

I also wanted hate mail pretty badly. Yeah, that's kind of a weird thing, but that's what I wanted. I never got anything UNTIL I wrote a negative review of The Blair Witch Project. Everyone on the planet at the time was talking about how awesome and scary the movie was. I said that I'd give it an A if it was a student film, but as a movie it did nothing for me. I finally got hate mail for that, and I wanted to respond, to open a dialogue (which was code for "get in a flame war over something that doesn't matter"). He told me to never respond to hate mail. NEVER. If you're responding to hate mail, you're fucking yourself as an author. Never do that. Ever. Did I mention that you should never respond to hate mail?

Now for some creative writing stuff. When in doubt, cut it out. If something doesn't fit into a story, get rid of it. It doesn't matter how brilliant you might think it is. If it doesn't serve the story, it has to go.

Character motivations are important. That I already knew, but he wanted me to constantly ask myself this question: Why today? Why did the character decide to do the thing today instead of yesterday or tomorrow or whenever?

He also said that you've always got to care about what you're writing. It seems kind of obvious, but take a look around. Think about the things you've read. You can always tell when a writer is phoning it in, right? When you catch one red-handed (and, I might add, he was a big crusader against clichés), you always have to wonder why they bothered. If you don't care, don't write it.

He gave a lot of other advice, but those are the big ones.

Most of my creative writing teachers focused on teaching their students how to express themselves. I suspect that's because getting students to commit to that kind of thing is like pulling teeth, especially if they're just there for an easy course credit. Of them all, Ron Wiginton alone wanted to teach me to be a better writer. For that I will always be grateful.

Thank you, Dr. Wiginton. Rest in peace.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #753: WALTER WHITE

 

So I had occasion recently to feel like Walter White. No, I didn't become a meth kingpin with a ridiculous amount of corpses under his belt. It was all about a fly.

I don't know how it happened, but before I got my hand surgery my kitchen got infested with flies. They were fucking everywhere. They even got in my my refrigerator, and I have no idea how that happened. My brother suspects that it was because of the crisper. I had to wonder about that because I have never, in all my time living in this place, thought about the crisper. That's because fruits and vegetables go in crispers, and I don't eat those wretched things.

It occurred to me that my brother doesn't, either. So no one would have looked in the crisper since the last time my grandmother did. She's been gone for more than a year, and near the end she wasn't one to poke around the fridge. I can only assume no one has been in the crisper for years.

Maybe it was that. I don't know. But I spent days on end killing flies in the kitchen with a rolled up Fine Print, which is the Elmhurst Public Library's periodical. And every day I fought the flies, one always got away. It's sheer madness to think it's the same fly that eluded me every day, but I think it really was the same.

It made me think of this episode of Breaking Bad. Granted, my kitchen doesn't have a scaffold for me to fall off of, but just about everything about the situation made me think of Walter White.

And that motherfucking fly was a bastard, too. He knew what I was up to, what I wanted. That piece of shit divebombed me every chance he got, and he only landed on things he knew I'd destroy if I tried to hit them. Or it would backfire on me. Like the ceiling fan. Or a window. Etc., etc., etc.

I never did get him. I don't know what the lifespan of a housefly is, but I imagine that scumbag getting away like Kevin Spacey at the end of The Usual Suspects.

It would be nice to go an entire summer without some kind of insect infestation at my place. Whether it's houseflies, ants or bees (yes, BEES), I'm sick of being Walter White.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #752: SOUNDS FROM 290

 I live by the viaduct between Elmhurst and Berkeley. That's where 290 and 294 pass through. For most of my life there has been a wall up between the expressways and the residential area over here. But not too long ago a construction company tore down those walls and started tearing down the viaduct, too.

They're rebuilding the expressways and changing them so I don't even recognize them, but because that wall is gone, I can hear all the fucking traffic over there. If some asshole decides to gun his muscle car thinking he's Vin Diesel or some such at 3 am, then that fucking sound is going to wake me up. Goddammit. And I can hear him (it is almost assuredly a him) for about a minute after, too. Piece of shit.

I can only assume they're building the walls again. That would be nice because I haven't gotten very good sleep in a while. The first three hours are pretty solid because I'm usually high, but by the time the cannabis wears off, it's not even close to dawn. And I hear all sorts of dickheads revving their engines. Or cop cars chasing said dickheads with their sirens on at full force.

I thought the worst of this construction would be the inconvenience of driving through it between Elmhurst and Berkeley, but nope. Even with my windows closed and the AC on, I can hear just about everything that happens on 290, which is the closest of the two.

I can't wait for that shit to be done.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #751: A FELLA CAN DREAM

 Last week at work we had a meeting of the minds for our supervisors. We have three national call centers, and I work at the corporate headquarters, so the sups from the other places all came visiting. They had a lot of meetings, so leads had to pick up the slack. And that left the leads' slack to pick up, and I was one of those who helped.

I'm not a sales guy, and yet I keep falling into these sales jobs. I wasn't meant to do this kind of thing. I come from a customer service background with a tech support flavor, so sales is not my strong suit. I'm good at it. Not great, but good. I would much rather not do it, though.

Two days last week I got to do something else. My call count suffered, as did my quota. I suspect that I'm not going to make my monthly quota for September because of it (I took a lot of time off for surgery and one day for Printers Row). It might have been worth it, though. There was little to no stress in doing a lead's job while he was busy doing a sup's job. It felt good do sit at my desk and not take calls from angry and desperate people who refuse to listen to anything I say unless I've said it three completely different times first.

It was relaxing, actually. And it was kind of fun. I'm a problem solver. I like to dig in, look at evidence and figure out solutions. I wasn't exactly solving homicides or anything so noble, but still. I got to dig into little mysteries, and I was able to solve them all. Many were very easy, but the last one I worked on was very difficult and required several different phone calls, but goddammit, I got to the bottom of it.

I miss getting that kind of shit done. The symposium is now over, so from today into the foreseeable future, it's back to sales. Although now I'm starting to wonder if maybe I could get a job as a lead there. I'd have to wait for someone to leave, which would be annoying, but I think I'd be considerably less miserable if I didn't work in my current position.

A fella can dream.