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Sauce*Box Fall 1998
March 5th
The dream again. The smell of cinammon and hairspray surrounded me as I sat in an old kitchen. The kitchen where I gew up; the kitchen of my dead mother. As I sat at the scarred, rickety, old maple table and wondered what I was doing there, she called out my name.
"Ryan!"
My dead mother was somewhere in the house, and she was looking for me. I shuddered involuntarily. Something gnawed at me, a tiny squeaky little voice deep within my brain told me this was only a dream. But I was too petrified to realize that. Then, it came again. Louder, and closer,
"RYAN!"
The old, rust-colored door from the living room opened, and there stood my mother, in all her macabre glory. Her flesh was nearly completely rotted away, except for the bits that were hanging by translucsent strands of dried pus around her face and hands. Her empty eyesockets glowed with a bright neon yellow, and they bore right into me. Her hair was long, tangled and rattyjust like it had been for the 16 years she had raised me. Unlike then, however, now she wore nothing.
Normally, my dead naked decomposing mother walking into a kitchen I haven't been in for 14 years would frighten me, but in this case it was kind of mesmerizing. Besides, the nakedness didn't really belong to my mother as I knew her. It was more like some old biology-classroom skeleton that happened to have my mother's voice and overbearing demeanor. It occurred to me that this was a more fitting visage for her than any form she had ever taken in real life.
"Ryan," she hissed, "There you are. You little shit."
I shrugged, and kicked my feet against the table. For some reason, it was easier to be defiant in front of her dead undead self than it ever was to her live self. I just looked back at mother.
"Ryan, I'm shocked at you," she lurched towards me, extending her putrescense-covered hands. "Get your feet off the table! Didn't I teach you anything?"
I slowly took my feet off the table, if for no other reason than having my throat ripped out, even in a dream, was not a road I wanted to take.
"Why, Ryan?" she barked at me.
I just shrugged again. I was going to say something about how I should probably be going, but again,
"Ryanwhy?"
I just looked at her. She always DID like playing these little games. Then, louderbrasher, more hysterical,
"Why? WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY?"
On and on she howled, and it was driving me crazy. I could feel my grip on sanity slipping away as this thing screamed in my face. Mother's hot breath bathed me in an odor of cheap gin and death. Her blazing yellow eyesockets somehow seemed to look right into me, asking questions that I would never be capable of answering. She grabbed me around the throat. I knew it! The old bitch had been reading my mind.
"Now, Ryan. Now..."
The hands began to squeeze, I could feel the pus running from her hands down my throat.
"Now, it's your turn."
I awoke from this about an hour ago, absolutely bathed in sweat. I grabbed a beer and tried to relax, but damn if I couldn't still feel those bony fingers squeezing my neck. I sit here now, drinking a beer at 5 AM, and add this to the journal. Maybe someday I'll figure this out, and maybe I'll understand why I keep having these dreams.
March 7th
What a day. Love at first sighta trite and sickening expression. I used to think so anyway. But now, today, I found it. The woman of my dreams smiled and has claimed my heart and soul.
It started this afternoon at the market. I was bringing some groceries from the store to my car. While walking in the parking lot, a car backed out and nearly flattened me. I had dropped the bag of groceries and put my hand out to brace for the impact, but the car saw me at the last minute. The bag shattered on the greasy blacktop.
The car door opened, and out walked the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She quickly came to me and asked if I was okay. I mumbled something, and she began saying how sorry she was, how much of a hurry she was in, can I please forgive her. I wanted to say that her simply being alive and gracing me with her beauty was enough, but I just nodded and whispered that it was no problem. She smiled, got in the car, and left.
That smile! The sun grew brighter and all colors and life became more vivid with that smile. Her dark brown eyes seemed to say, "You're the one, Ryan. You're the one I've been looking for." Her gorgeous mouth looked as if it were created for no other reason but to kiss my lips. Soft, brown hair that hung past her shoulders begged me to carress it.
As she left, I thought of only two things. First, I would have to go back into the market and whine for them to replace my broken Budweiser beer bottles and pop tarts (my staples of life). Second, I would have to find her again. As her old brown Ford Escort leftI memorized the license plate: GLE-348. Those digits were forever branded into my brain.
March 8th
"Why Ryan?"
I was sitting on the old puke-green sofa in the living room of my dead mother's house. No, not a sofa, a davenport. My mother always insisted calling it that, as if a fancy name would change a couch that looked like puke, and smelled worse. I had been looking around the room, all the trinkets and collectibles my mother doted on. Everything in the room was worth less than the damned couch, but my mother, God rest her soul, cared more for these things than her own children. I was looking at an old crystalline statue of a girl holding a bird, with a little plaque on the base that said, "Share The Sunshine." I started laughing at the irony, when her voice shook the room with pure, unadulterated, nagging evil...
"Ryan, you little ass. Where are you?"
I was about to get up, but it was too late. In she floated. At least this time she wore a dress, an old red dinner gown that showed too much cleavage. Normally, I'm a fan of cleavage. But when I have to look at my mother's age-spotted, shriveled, wrinkled bosom, it takes the fun out of it for me. In this case, however, the dress hid (and showed) nothing but bones and gook. Probably for the better. Her yellow eyes focused on me, and said,
"You bastard. You better not be touching my things!"
For some ungodly reason, I jumped to my feet, and grabbed the little girl figurine. I held it above my head as if to drop it. She moaned, and stared at me with murderous intent. I smiled, and threw it to the ground for no reason other than to watch it shatter and piss her off.
She screamed and rushed me. I picked up an old fireplace poker, and swung it at her head. The head popped off with a sickening sound, like that of a hundred cockroaches being stepped on. The head miraculously landed on the poker, and slid towards my hand. I dropped the utensil, but her screaching head managed to leap to my face and bite my nose. I began to wonder if this would seem comical if I were a distant observer, but then the pain set in. Her jaws clenched on my nose with the force of the undead, and she began to scream, "WHY WHY WHY" through clenched teeth. Her gin and death breath filled my nose as a mixture of her saliva and pus ran down my chin. I could feel my nose ripping from my face when I awoke screaming in sweat and agony. This was about an hour ago, and only now, writing this and drinking a beer, am I starting to recover.
March 9th
Ah yes, the industrious shall rule the earth. Using my considerable computer skills, I was able to find my love through the Department of Transportation vehicle registration system. (And my mother said I'd never amount to anything.)
Claire Daniels, 12 Ash Street. Claire Daniels! What a perfect name! Of course, she would change it to Lablansky after we marry. She strikes me as the old-fashioned type; not one to keep a last name that sounded like a first.
I've already begun to think on how I will woo her. I know that I am less than attractive. I have a bit of a gut, and my complexion is not the greatest, probably due to my steady diet of pop-tarts and beer. My charm, intelligence and wit should be enough to at least get in good graces with her. From their, it's a walk in the park.
In any case, Claire is a completely different woman. She obviously has compassion, sensitivity and an unending supply of love. We are birds of a feather.
March 10th
I drove by Claire's house today. It is, of course, utterly perfect. It's a little ranch, with a white picket fence surrounding it. There's even a little swing set in back, and children's toys scattered around the yard. She's probably a day care provider. And I also imagine she'll want someone to take care of her after she takes care of others all day long!
After I write this entry, I am going to write my letter of courting. Not sure what I'll say yet, but something about destiny, love and how great the world has become. After my words sweep her into my arms, my real life can began. I feel as if I've just been waiting all these years. Most of my life is pretty meaningless. It takes a woman like Claire to change all of that.
March 11th
"Why, you little rodent? Why??"
I was sitting on her old, lumpy mattress in her weird little room. Her bedroom had all sorts of old pictures of people I never knew. Once again, I was back in the house, my mother's house.
"Ryan, get out of my room! What the hell do you think you're doing?!??"
She stood in the doorway, the background of the orange-flowered wallpaper behind her making me dizzy. She began to float towards me.
Tonight, Ryan. Tonight the piper gets paid. With the sound of metal against bone, a curved, rusty old knife emerged from her neck. It was a strangely fascinating sight, eight inches of razor-sharp metal protruding out of my dead mother's throat.
"Come here, give me a hug."
Her mouth somehow smiled. Hugging her would mean death, of course, with that knife now within inches of my throat. Closer she came, but I couldn't move. Like most bad dreams, my feet were illogically cemented to the floor. I could only sit and watch her as she smiled. Finally, the tip of the gleaming blade rested against my adam's apple.
"It?s been too long, son. I've missed you."
The knife pierced my throat, and I could feel it slice through my neck.
March 15th
Life is too short to wait around. I drove by Claire's house again, and on a whim, decided to stop. She surely had the letter by now, and was probably dying to meet me.
I knocked on her door, and took in the smells. Wildflower and baby powder filled the airsuch a wonderful aroma. The window near the door was draped, but I could see a bit inside the house. Toys on the floor, a little girl intently watching a kid's show on the TV. Then, the door opened.
Once again, the sky opened and blue sky surrounded me! I was in heaven, and her face was the sun. She looked at me, not recognizing me, and said, "Can I help you?"
I just smiled. I waited f or her to recognize me, but it just wasn't happening. She looked at me again, and said in a bit of a shaky voice (from the excitement of the moment, I imagine), "You're the one who wrote that letter, aren't you? Youre the guy from the store."
I laughed in delight, a bit louder than I intended. The little girl jumped in surprise, and came to the door and said, "Who is this, mommy?"
Mommy? Well, I suppose the kids like to call her "mommy" when their parents are away.
"Go away, Theresa. Go get some juice, okay."
The little girl nodded and walked away. Good, finally some quality time.
"My lady," I began, "the earth can now close in upon itself. Time may end, and life can die. But I have found you, and that is all that matters. Let me say..."
"I'm married, sir," she said (I'm married?!?), "Please go away." With that, she slammed the door, and I heard the clickings of locks being turned.
I just stood there, dumbfounded. I heard her muffled voice in the backgroundprobably on the phone. Probably calling her friend to let her know that the man of her dreams has finally come.
I laughed as I walked back to the car. Married, my ass. I've heard of this kind of thing. Women use it because they think it makes them harder to get. Kind of like wearing a wedding ring because the opposite sex seems to have some secret lust for things already taken. I once fell for a woman who wore a ring.
It happened a couple of years ago. I was working my job as a service coordinator at a local restaraunt. As I worked the register, up walked an incredibly attractive woman. She gave me her order, but I simply stared at her. Big blue eyes, wispy blond hair, incredible bodybut married by the looks of her ring. She looked around as if to get help. I finally said, "Lady, you are the light of the universe. If you should ever need a soul to confide in..."
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in the back of my skull. I turned around to see Dick, the manager of the place. He had a metal spatula in his hand, and was waving it in my direction.
"Confide in, my ass. If you don't want another of these up the side of your head, you'll take her order and shut the hell up."
The woman who I had been talking to smiled and snickered. She was probably trying to comfort me, but it wasn't working.
I simply removed my paper hat, and laid it on the counter with as much dignity as I could muster. I walked out the door accompanied by Dick's curses and threats that I was fired.
A few months later, Dick bumped into me on the street. Literally. He had been walking back from a bar in the area, and I had been simply walking along, pondering the meaning of life. He pushed me again, and said, "Hey, you little fucker. You think you can just walk out on me like that?" He drunkenly made as if to hit me, but somehow managed to fall forward.
I rolled him over, and noticed a knife sticking out of his back. Of all the luck! Someone must have been trying to rob him, but left me unharmed. Perhaps there is justice in the world. He tried to grab at the knife, but he couldnt quite reach it, and he was obviously losing his strength. He looked kind of silly, clutching at air behind his back. His glassy eyes wandered to where I was sitting, and he just said, "You...you...?"
I got down on my hands and knees, and whispered, "You you you..." into his ears over and over. I began to yip like a little nervous dog. He probably thought it was pretty funny in retrospect. I know I did.
Police actually came to my door a couple of days after that, asking me what I knew about his death. I had no wish to be involved in the ugly matter. They stood around for quite awhile, asking questions, but eventually left. He's better off dead anyway.
March 25
A knock at the door woke me out of, thank God, a dreamless sleep. A man handed me a letter and said, "You've been served." Served?
I opened the letter, only to see what is a delightful prank from Claire, or Air, as I've begun to call her, because she is just as important to me as oxygen, or food, or beer for that matter. Some nonsense about a restraining order; something about staying 500 feet away from her or face legal action. She's a kidder, that one. That's just one of the reasons I'm in love with her.
So, I drove over to her house to see her again. This time, a big guy answered the door, big and muscled to the point of being deformed. He had small beady eyes and a jutty jaw that reminded me of my brother, before his untimely death.
"I'm her husband. Fuck off," he said.
Pretty funny, I thought, but then it occurred to methis man was another suitor, like myself. Well, if this oaf thought he could compete...
"Sir," I said condescendingly, "You have no idea how out of your depth you are. I..."
He struck me hard, that man. A fist the size a ham connected with my jaw, and I dropped like a sack of lead.
"If I see you anywhere near her again, I'll call the cops." Loser?
Now I get the picture. This fellow is probably holding her against her will. He is probably some oafish boyfriend who is abusing her, and as much as she wants to, she can't leave. Luckily, I have the courage and stamina to set it straight.
This wasn't the first time I've been bullied around. In fact, my assholish older brother was absolutely devoted to making my life a hell. The day that really stands out was just after my 14th birthday. Jack was about 2 years older than I was, and had that jockish protruding jaw and beady brown eyes that made people think he was tough.
We were out swimming at a grimy little pond near our house. He was taunting me as usual, slapping me around, dunking my head, splashing water in my face. He dove off the old plank, and did a pretty good somersalt into the water. He tried to get me to try it. I sensibly refused, but he kept goading and taunting me.
Poor fellow, next thing I knew he was under water screaming his lungs outliterally. Bubbles of his air were bursting as they rose to the surface. I fancied that each little bubble carried a little scream of his, and that each time it popped I could hear an instance of his torment. I did everything I could to pull him up, but it was no use. He seemed unable to get his head above water.
March 28th
"I should still be living, you little FREAK!"
I was sitting, of all places, on the ancient stained toilet in the bathroom of my dead mother's house. The old rusty water was bubbling underneath me, and I could hear her voice coming through the water.
I stood up, and looked around again. As much as I hated the place, it was always interesting to catch glimpses of my past. The old Reader's Digests laying in a wicker magazine stand. The green soap she made us use that made us smell like old men. The old toilet that seemed to have a life of its own, making noises and rumblings at the oddest times. The room was covered in wallpaper, great splotches of purple and dark green flowers ominously covered the walls.
With a tremendous splash, my mother's dismembered head leapt out of the toilet and came straight at me. Thinking quickly as usual, I whipped open the medicine cabinet which hit her head, sending it spinning into the wallpaper. I grabbed an old musty brown toothbrush, and jammed it in one of those yellow eyesockets with so much force it embedded the head into one of the purple flowers on the wall.
She looked at me with the other eye and screamed, "YOU KILLED ME! YOU KILLED ME! You'll burn...you'll burn...I'll feast on your soul." Her tongue waggled so much that I thought it would come loose, and of course, that's just what it did. In the blink of an eye it shot out from her mouth and embeded itself in my mouth, jammed in the back of my throat. I couldn't breath, and I was about to drown in my own puke.
It's 3 AM now as I sit drinking my 3rd beer. If I'm not careful, my sleeping is going to be all off-kilter.
March 31st
Just got back from the store. I picked up some things that will set everything straight.
Pistols are fascinating, aren't they? I must say the smell of metal and gun oil just lights my fire. This particular beauty is a no-name 9 millimeter pistol.
As I drove home, the problem of my dreams began to really eat at me. What the hell was going on? Did I deserve this...Craziness! I had to laughand laughand laugh. The vision of my mother, crumpled in a silent (finally!) heap at the bottom of the stairs. What the hell was she thinking, yelling in my face like that? Screaming how much of a loser I was, how I was going to wind up a psycho somewhere, that she thought I was responsible for Jack's death, blah blah Blah Blah BLAH BLAH...
Finally, just when I thought I would lose my mind, it ended. She misstepped and fell down the wooden stairs, breaking her neck at the bottom. Poor soul, for all the grief she caused me, I had almost felt sorry for her. Of course, the cops questioned me, but being only 16 and such a frail young thing, they let me go pretty quickly.
I once heard of a tribe in Africa that kills their enemies only out of utmost respect and love. They feel that by killing them, they capture their soultheir essence. Apparently, if you hold the person as they die, their soul becomes forever intertwined with yours. Romantic, isn't it?
As I sit here, carving "Ryan &Claire" into each perfectly shaped 9 millimeter bullet, I can't help but feel all warm and fuzzy and giggily inside. I look upon the row of 20 bullets, 20 beautiful, shiny little soldiers standing at attention awaiting my orders. I ponder these little givers of love that I've already painstakingly inscribed, and think to myself...What a wonderful world!
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