Out of Whack (9 page)

AUG. 18: Today my aunt celebrated her tenth wedding anniversary. Well, actually the first anniversary of her tenth wedding.

SEP. 17: Don’t look at me like that.

SEP. 30: Don’t look at me like that, I said.

OCT. 9: Damn you, damn you, damn you! I don’t need this kind of guilt from a stupid diary! I own you, not the other way around! Had I known the misery you’d bring to my life, I would’ve left you on that K-Mart shelf to rot! Rot, you hear me, rot! Let me explain something to you, okay? ME: Master, writer, controller of my own destiny. YOU: Rotten little bastard of an inanimate object, and highly flammable. So screw you and the horse you rode in on!

OCT. 28: Diary? It’s me, Leonard. Please don’t turn the page on me...we need to talk. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not sure what came over me, but I swear it will never happen again. Look, I said I was sorry...what more do you want? You can’t leave me hanging like this! For the love of God, you have to forgive me! You’re nothing without me, nothing!

NOV. 6: I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Diary. I’m going to throw you into the incinerator. You won’t know when I’ll strike. Maybe tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But you’re going to die, engulfed by the hellish flames from whence you came, and I’m going to dance on your ashes! It’s over for you, Diary! Hahahahahahahaha!

NOV. 22: I hope you’re happy, you bastard. I got fired from my job today, because I was brooding about your imminent death instead of paying attention when we were experimenting on that Black Plague virus. My boss was going to give me another chance, but then we found out that a few rebellious teenagers have escaped the quarantine. If they were infected, then mankind is doomed.

DEC. 3: Well, mankind is doomed.

DEC. 18: The end is near, Diary, and you’re the only thing that keeps me going. I watch my friends fall, and I shed tears for their passing, and I fear joining them in death, but I know that you will give me permanence. Through the words you keep inscribed upon your very flesh, I shall live on! My body shall soon become but a lifeless shell, and my spirit shall vanish into the netherworld, but the life of I, Leonard Parr, will be forever preserved! I love you, Diary, and if this is the end, so be it. I am ready.

JAN. 1: Bought an exercise bicycle today. I really do need to get in shape before I die.

“The Summer of Love (But Not For Me)”

Dearest, darlingest Seth,

      
‘Tis your future roommate Travis, finally writing back! I admit it, I’m terrible about writing letters to people, and next time you see me feel free to superglue my nose to my belly button (or somebody else’s belly button) as punishment. Believe it or not, I’ve got some important things to share, which I couldn’t tell you over the phone because my grandma and grandpa take turns listening on the other extension. Someday I’m gonna call a 1-900 sex line just to test their pacemakers.

       Finally got a chance to read the stuff you sent. Especially liked the ding-dong skit. If we ever perform it, I want to play the guy holding the dachshund.

       Was at a bookstore a couple days ago and I picked up this magazine called Gleefully Disturbed. All kinds of strange stuff in it. Lots of weird humor. They only pay in contributor’s copies, but I thought it would be a cool place to send your diary story. (By the way, I really sympathized with Leonard. That pickle thing has happened to me more times than I can count.) I tore out the page with submission guidelines, so you should find it in this envelope somewhere.

       And now, the big news! The previously uncharted territory of the nether regions of the female of our species has been explored, mapped, and claimed in the name of Travis Darrow! And there was no pleading or exchange of money involved! I didn’t even kidnap anyone!

       In other words, Mr. Happy is extremely happy.

       Not at the moment, of course. If I were typing while having sex that would indicate a lack of interest in the act that would turn off most participants, unless they were impressed by my ability to multi-task.

       What’s that I hear? Your voice shouting from Sharpview, shrieking “DETAILS! GIMME DETAILS!” at the top of your lungs?

       Okay, here are the details.

       Her name was Roberta, which is a wonderful name to moan when one is losing one’s virginity. You just emphasize the “Ro,” draw out the “ber,” and gasp the “ta,” as in “Roberrr[pant]ta, Roberrr[pant]ta!” Some people make a case for single-syllable names being preferable in this situation, but I’d take a Roberta over a Gail any day.

       She’s twenty-eight years old, so yeah, she’s a vicious cradle-robber. Blonde hair, tall, not quite bucket material but pretty close. She’s a waitress (a good one—she brought all the extra napkins I needed).

       Basically, I was on my way back from the movies, around eleven o’clock. I really felt like a hot fudge sundae (speaking of which, did Hank ever get the chance to make good on his threat?) so I stopped by this cafe I’d never been to before. Roberta was the only one working there, and the place was just about to close.

       I finished my sundae, which was excellent. The fudge was nice and hot, the ice cream was nice and cold, and the whole thing mixed together in a perfect gooey concoction. You know how sometimes the ice cream melts too quickly, and you’re left with a bowl of sludge? Well, this ice cream held its form admirably well, and I was quite pleased.

       Then I realized I didn’t have any money, because I’d forgotten about the large popcorn I bought at the movies. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but this little moment of stupidity got me laid.

       I went up to the cash register and told her I didn’t have any money. She looked at me for a long time, then said “Well, I guess you’ll have to find another way to pay me.”

       Then I had a Leonard Parr moment, where for a second I thought I was going to have to do a hot fudge sundae’s worth of dishes. I asked her what she had in mind.

       “I thought maybe you’d fuck me.”

       I swear to God I’m not making this up. That’s exactly what she said. It was like a bad porno flick. I could almost hear the repetitive soundtrack in the background. I deliberated for about .0004 of a second and then said “okay.” I mean, I did owe her for that sundae.

       She took me home to her one-bedroom apartment and let me call my grandmother to tell her I was sleeping over at a friend’s house (always the responsible one, I am). Then Roberta asked if I wanted something to drink, or if I’d rather her just get naked first. I expected a boom mike to dip into the frame at any second. I replied that naked worked for me. Then she led me to the bed (queen size, sagging a little in the center), and we proceeded to act out our own sex education video.

       In case you’re interested (which you are, admit it!), here are the night’s statistics:

       ORGASMS: Mine: 4, Hers: 3 (manually derived, unfortunately).

       INTERCOURSE POSITIONS: Missionary (twice), Female Dominant “Riding” (once), and some weird one that’s hard to describe (see attached drawing).

       ASSORTED ACTS: Kissing, tickling, groping, stroking, licking, sucking, slurping, biting, pinching.

       If you’d like, I’ll give you the blow-by-blow (heh heh) description in person, complete with hand gestures. Talk to you then!

Pure no more,

Travis.

* * *

I SET ASIDE THE letter. Wow. The news about
Gleefully Disturbed
was interesting, of course, but the news about Travis becoming a !!!MAN!!! was even more so. He had become one with a woman, and lived to tell the tale. I hadn’t even had a chance to botch my first kiss yet.

       Wow.

       Of course, when I saw Travis in person, I was going to question him relentlessly about each and every pelvic thrust. In the meantime...well...maybe I had nothing resembling a love life (nothing resembling a partner, anyway), but at least I was getting a lot of writing done.

       Grumble, grumble.

       It was times like these that I was almost tempted to gather up my money and head for the nearest brothel, if I’d known where any were, and if I weren’t such a wimp, and if these days visiting a prostitute weren’t akin to inserting my penis into a microwave set on high.

       But still, visiting the sleazy part of a big city did have its occasional appeal, if only as a private fantasy.

        [
Pretend the book is shimmering here.
]

* * *

       “I’ve got your crack!” shouts the drug dealer, showing his wares in an ornate display case. “I’ve got your LSD! I’ve got your stimulants, depressants, and hallucinogens! Lowest prices in the slum area! We will not be undersold! Ask about our special layaway plan!”

       I walk by, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of depravity. “Hello there, sir,” says the drug dealer with a friendly smile. “Would you care to purchase some narcotics for your reality-distorting pleasure?”

       I shake my head. “Not today.”

       “Are you sure? Perhaps I can interest you in today’s special: Potpourri-scented cocaine.”

       “I don’t think so.”

       “How about some high-quality heroin? It’s only addictive if you use it a lot.”

       “No.”

       “Tylenol? It’s the one more doctors give their own families.”

       “I’m not interested in drugs,” I say. “They’re bad for you. I’m looking for a hooker.”

       “Ah, prostitution solicitation is one block to the east. Watch out for the undercover cops. They’re the ones with badges in their nylons.”

       I thank him and walk to the east. The women of the night are out in full force, their cheap wigs sparkling in the moonlight. I approach a slim one in an alleyway, who’s smoking a cigarette and dipping into some chew.

       “Hi,” she says. “I’m Vicky. Wanna date?”

       “I think so,” I reply.

       “Don’t worry, I ain’t a cop,” she assures me. “Actually, prostitution isn’t my real job, either. I’m really a topless dancer—I just do this on the side ‘cause there’s no dress code.”

       I take out my wallet. “What can I get for twenty dollars?”

       “For twenty dollars you can play with yourself while I give you moral support.”

       “Thirty?”

       “For thirty I’ll dress up as one of your relatives and let you lick my boots.”

       I think about that, and decide it’s not quite what I’m interested in. “No thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

       The prostitute nods her understanding, but suddenly I find myself staring down the cold, metal barrel of her revolver. “Give me your wallet,” she says. I can see in her eyes that for me to resist will mean death, so I remove the money and credit cards and hand my brand-new snakeskin wallet to her.

       She runs off with it, leaving me with nothing but the pockets in my jeans to hold my cash.

       A pimp sympathetic to my situation walks over to me. “I don’t think you’re ready for a genuine ho’,” he says. “You should go one block south to the strip clubs.”

       I thank him and head south. The first establishment I see is called Lust & Honey. I approach the large, burly bouncer.

       “Hello,” I say. “I’d like to enter, please.”

       “Perv,” he says with disgust.

       “Excuse me?”

       “I called you a perv.”

       “Why did you do that?”

       “You want to go inside to see naked ladies. That makes you a perv. Pervie pervie pervie. When’s the last time you washed your hands, you perv?”

       “I just wanted to go in for a minute,” I tell him. “If you’re so appalled, why do you work here?”

       “I work on the outside, where stray breasts are few and far between,” he explains. “However, I hear that Momma Helga’s Fetish Delights and Hardware Emporium is always glad to see pervs. Next building down.”

       I walk to the next building down and approach the bouncer. “Hey, a perv, I like that!” he says, and ushers me inside.

       The air in the strip club is thick with the smell of smoke and Lemon-scented Pine-Sol. Horny men sit watching a woman on the front stage bump and grind to the
Dukes of Hazzard
theme song. Her g-string contains several dollar bills and a couple of credit cards. She leans over to allow a man to insert a bill into her cleavage, then takes out a change dispenser and hands him fifty cents.