“Mister Johnson,” called the young blonde in scrubs, from a doorway.
There was no answer.
“Mister Johnson,” she repeated, slightly louder.
Still, nothing.
Fred Johnson, couldn’t register his name being called, because of an earlier encounter that changed him forever.
Fred arose at his usual time of 6:00 am. He had a routine, and since his wife passed, he’d stuck to it religiously. After a cup of coffee, a shit, shower, and shave, Fred would walk to the store to get a paper. He liked to read the paper with his second and sometimes third cup of coffee. His late wife would always criticize him for having that third cup of coffee, so now he usually had three.
On the way to the store, people passed him. Fred looked into the faces of the humans that surrounded him on his walk. He observed a multitude of lackluster beings with preoccupied narcissism. Some were taking pictures of themselves, other people, or even their food. Others were just walking or standing, head down, melded and melted into the little screen. Not as much as an ‘excuse me’, when someone bumped into you. This saddened Fred.
When he made the left toward the corner store, he noticed a multitude of people with heightened energy out front. Some were screaming and others were holding signs. Others were just milling about. He started through the crowd into the store. The mob began calling Fred names, such as, kidfucker, childfucker, monster, lunkhead, etc. Someone actually threw a cup of hot coffee on him just before he entered the store.
“Goddamnit!” Fred threw out, unlike himself, as he got the door shut behind him. “What in the hell is going on out there, Gerald?”
Gerald halted slicing some Tavern Ham to address him.
“Fred, it’s fucked up, man. It’s all fucked up. Three little neighborhood kids come in like they usually do, but they had a new kid with them this time. No big deal right? Well, he went home and told someone that I gave him, and all of the boys, my meat.”
“Well you did, didn’t you?” Fred inquired.
“You’re always giving me samples.”
“Yeah. Yeah! I guess you’re right, Fred. Goddamn, I’ve got nothing to worry about. Shit, thanks man. Take the paper, free of charge, and you can go out the back.”
On the way back to his residence, Fred saw a starving, little kitten. He knew the nicest Asian lady, just up the block, that would love to have it. She ran a shelter, and Fred actually helped her print and hang her flyers around town. She loved animals, enjoyed feeding them, and was a tremendous cook as well. Fred enjoyed many dishes made by her in the past. Each being a delicious, but interesting culinary experience to say the least. Very exotic and international, as Fred described it.
Now back home, he finished his third cup of coffee and went to the bedroom to jack off with his late wife’s panties. After that, he usually napped, or watched old home movies.
A reminder went off on his phone. He stopped his video and looked at the screen.
‘DOCTOR 1:45’
He then clicked, ‘will arrive’ to confirm his appointment. This wasn’t something Fred planned for, but this was something he had to do. He wanted his brain fixed for years now, and this could be his time. The treatment that he needed was now made available, and he was anxious to get it under way.
On his way to the doctor, he thought about his late wife Eva. She was the calm to his storm. One that kept him grounded. Satiated to an extent.
Fred pondered her death. He wondered if he ultimately had something to do with it. This sat particularly heavy on him at this moment. Their pastor gave him an elixir to give to her, but adversely, it made her worse. She became very ill, and never recovered. He prayed about it daily.
Fred couldn’t be bothered by that at this moment. He was about to be reborn to an extent. This was the first doctor that offered true promise, a future. Fred made the corner with the doctor’s office now in sight. This brought a smile to his face, just as a speeding bus smashed his entire being into complete, cellular nothingness.
The small girl, then summoned, a bellowing, stern, yet slightly agitated, “Mister Johnson.”
My wife and I attended, Satisfaction: The International Rolling Stones Tribute Band concert the other night. It was a fine show, with my only real critiques being, no horns and no black female voices in a few songs where they are prevalent.
I’ve enjoyed The Stones (70’s era for the most part) since I was very young, and one particular memory stands out.
My parents had some of their hippie friends over, and I was young enough to still want the door open when I went to bed. As ‘Bitch’ from the Sticky Fingers record entered my ears, I began to smell a peculiar smell, and feel different. Different in a fun way. In my young, child mind, I described the experience as “the dark is getting farther away”. It was a profound and memorable happening, setting the stage for a love affair with inebriation, as I drifted off to ‘Sister Morphine’.
As soon as the show began, I teared up a bit. It wasn’t the song they were playing particularly, but memories from the past flooded me with emotion.
When they played, ‘You can’t always get what you want’, I teared up again. My lesbian aunt, who could draw really well, who used to bring me Slim Jims and Mad magazines, who worked in some projects as an unarmed security guard and took a brick to the head, and who hit a thief walking out with a 12 pack in the back of the head with a can of Beenie Weenies when she worked at a Circle K, always talked about that song being played at her funeral. I think she was cremated, so she didn’t get what she wanted. I guess she just got what she needed.
Also, it’s rare for me to feel like the young one anywhere I go, but that was definitely not the case this night.
The old folks came out in droves, clapping, dancing, running up and down the aisle, with one silver-haired guy even twerking.
At one point, faux Mick, was singing, “This might be the last time. The last time.”
I leaned over to my wife, nudged her, and said, “For some of these people, it definitely will be their last time.”
The air is stale and mood is low as blue smoke encompasses the dark room
A cracked mirror behind the bar reflects the faces of the cursed, the lost, the disheveled, the downtrodden
Staring into their drinks, seemingly looking for any hope, help, or answers in the foam
The music, like the people, sad and slow
The floor is a mess with the night’s failures, falls, fights, and fornication
Stockings that were once flaunted as sexy are now just bunched up socks
Makeup that was previously applied meticulously is now running and smeared
A sexy saunter has devolved into that of a teetering toddler
Joyous laughs and smiles drastically changed to tears and screams
Friends from hours earlier turned to fist-flailing lunkheads
The bartender pours something cheap, brown and strong into a glass that probably won’t get washed
Only a few steps outside the door, a madman lambasts a parking meter, calling it a thief, and a heartless machine — he’s not wrong, but neither is the meter
I had a heart calcium score test done where coronary arteries are scanned to show any potential buildup that may lead to a heart attack or stroke in the near future
the results…not optimum
not optimal
definitely not optimistic
I was driving home when I got the notification
having only left the lab ten minutes prior
I knew that zero was a good score
meaning no blockage whatsoever
anything from 1 to 100 wasn’t good, but something to keep an eye on
with over 300 resulting in the likelihood
of a major cardiac event in the next 5 years
my score…876.82
I appeared to be a walking timebomb
of course I searched and scoured
everything available online
if the calcification doesn’t completely
shut off the flow of blood and kill me
there’s always a chance a softer piece
could break off and cause a heart attack, stroke, or blood clot – resulting in….
I read that nicotine calcifies the coronary
arteries and I’ve been a heavy user for years
recently on strong milligram pouches
two days after my test I put nicotine down
only the occasional pipe and cigar now
the instinct in me doesn’t like the idea of
possibly dying 10, 20, or 30 years before
someone with no heart issues
the realist in me realizes it’s natural and
such a non-event in the ‘scheme of things’
when a person is faced with a grim prognosis
there are three ways to handle it
try to reverse it to the best of your ability
continue doing everything the same
or completely fall off the deep end and disregard health and any concern
because all is lost — NO HOPE
I’m trying to go with the first option and
hang around as long as possible
my wife, on the other hand, was shocked
she said, “I thought you would finally hop that train and get a heroin addiction.
I’ve been a huge drum and bass music fan for some time now. From going to local and regional dance parties, buying and spinning records myself, and watching events online, drum and bass has been an immense part of my life. I frequently read an online drum and bass music forum based out of England. The site reviewed new tracks and allowed users to discuss and communicate. That’s how I met Jackson. His screen name was SkankinJax. He was a fan of some of my favorite djs and producers, and we hit it off swimmingly. I ask questions about his life across the pond. We spoke of the underground dnb scene in his city and surrounding parts. I was extremely jealous when he talked about the massive parties at clubs like Ministry of Sound and Fabric. I’ve only read about and seen these places online, and he was actually living it. Jackson knew more about America than I did England, so I was the one asking more questions.
Jackson told me that he was going to be coming to America for work training in a few weeks. The convention that he was going to attend was about four hours from me. I told him that he should come visit after the convention before he went back home. He agreed and made arrangements to do so.
A few weeks passed and Jackson called me one evening.
“Hello,” I answered.
In a profound English accent, Jackson spoke.
“Hey, mate! Done with that shitshow and headed your way. I need a bloody drink.”
“I got you there, my friend. I’ll text you my address. See you then.”
Jackson arrived approximately three hours later. He came through the door with luggage, visibly agitated.
“Bloody hell. I don’t know why you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road. I almost flattened a bloke when I pulled out into the left lane by mistake leaving the petrol station.”
“Well, we’re going out later, but sit down and take a load off. I’ll get you a drink to take the edge off.”
“Yes, that sounds good, mate. I’m just so bloody knackered from that drive. A drink sounds proper nice right about now.”
I poured us both some good bourbon and put on a few drum and bass records. We sat and chatted about the work convention, drum and bass, American and UK girls, and he bitched more about driving in America.
“I was miffed with all those wankers blowing their hooters at me. How was I to know that you can turn right on red? Anywho, I need to hit the loo then wash me bollocks. I’ll be on the pull tonight for a fit American bird.”
Jackson wasn’t in the bathroom long, when he cracked the door and yelled down the hall.
“Mate! I need a bog roll in here. My arse isn’t self cleaning, and I don’t see a bidet.”
After Jackson adequately wiped his ass and washed his balls, we were finally ready to head out. I decided to take Jackson downtown where the bars and restaurants were. It was a Friday night, so I assumed that area would be jumping. I wanted to show Jackson a good time in my city. It’s by no means as large as London, but it’s also no country-ass B.F.E. neither.
We parked and had a small walk to the dive bar where we were going. As we walked, I observed rainbow flags and colors hung about. I noticed a few women that were taller than average and extremely colorful clothing. That’s when I remembered that it was Pride week. Now I don’t have a problem with gays. You can do whatever makes you happy, as I couldn’t care less. However, I knew Jackson wasn’t as liberal in thinking as I was on the subject.
So far so good, I thought, as we arrived at the front door to Hives. I thought to myself, just let us get inside of Hives and everything will be ok.
I opened the door for Jackson, and as I looked around, I thought, fuck.
Surprisingly, we had a great time the first 30 minutes we were there. That is, until the cigarette incident.
Jackson and myself were sitting at the bar conversing and laughing with the attractive female bartender, a couple of well dressed guys to our left, and a few of those tall girls to our right, when the unthinkable happened.
Jackson pulled out his pack when he noticed that smoking was permitted. He looked at the pack, then at me, then back at the pack, and with great emotion, boisterously said,
“I’m just so bloody sick of these goddamned fags!”
It’s like time stood still. Absolute silence and shocked, staring faces surrounded us in a good ten foot radius. However, Jackson was oblivious, still staring down at the pack. He turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and slurred,
“Alright, mate. I’m going to break the seal. I’ll be right back, unless I have to paint the porcelain.”
Then, Jackson dim-wittingly sauntered off to the bathroom, leaving me to beg apologies and give explanations on his behalf. After offering perspective and somewhat justification on the situation, most understood and had a good laugh.
I ordered another drink and continued looking over my shoulder for Jackson. I decided that I would tell him about it being pride week, just so we had no more uncomfortable moments. If he wanted to leave, we could just get a bite on the way back home.
Jackson must’ve had to shit, I thought, as he had been gone for at least 20 minutes. I finished my drink and walked toward the back where the restrooms were. There was a small line, but it seemed to be flowing, with people entering and exiting. I stuck my head inside and didn’t see Jackson. I gave his description to a few people in the line and asked if they’d seen him. No one was of any help. I even stuck my head inside the women’s bathroom just to check. I didn’t see Jackson, but I did see two half naked girls bent over snorting coke off the counter. I apologized for the interruption as I slowly closed the door.
I exited the side door by the bathrooms to look for him on the street, with no luck. I pulled out my phone to call him, when I noticed that he had tried to call and also left a voicemail. The voicemail said,
“Mate. You’re not going to believe this. I was waiting in line for the pisser, when I met this amazing bird, and we had a proper chin wag. Anywho, I told her that I’d like to buy her a drink, but I was totally skint for the night. She said that she had plenty at her place down the road. So we’re headed there now. I’ll probably need a ride in the morning. I’ll call you. Cheers.”
I attempted to call Jackson a few times with no answer. I was a little pissed that he just bailed on me like that for a girl. Selfish bastard, I thought, as I walked toward my truck to leave.
I stopped at an all night drive thru and bought a burger meal from an apparent witch in a hairnet. Once home, I turned on the T.V. and spread my food out in front of me. As I devoured the burger, mayo and grease ran down my chin, and a skinny, bald man on the tube was trying to sell me spray paint that fixes holes in boats.
I woke up on the couch with the phone ringing. I looked at the clock and it was 5:30 in the morning. I answered, and it was Jackson.
In a chipper, but half slurred tone, he said loudly, “Mateeeeeeey! How are you, friend? I didn’t wake you did I? Could I kindly ask for a ride my good man?”
In a condescendingly, mocking tone, I replied, “Oh, noooooo, mate. I’ve been up all bloody night waiting on your fucking call.”
“Brilliant, mate. You’re the best. I’m at 474 Carryhawk Lane. I’ll be out front.”
I knew exactly where he was.
I arrived around 6, and saw Jackson, swaying on the sidewalk, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I pulled up with a scowl on mine. He got in the passenger side and we drove off.
“Mate. Let me start by saying. I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have left you at the pub last night. For that, I’m sorry. And I should have answered my phone. But you know I was looking for a shag or jobby.”
I stared off into the darkness as I drove. I realized that I wasn’t really pissed. I had no right to make this person behave in a way to suit my own happiness.
I turned and faced Jackson, and with a wide smile, inquired, “You know that woman you were with?”
“Yeah, mate. A real sexual deviant. A lady in the street, but a true freak in the sheets. She gave me an amazing jobby and even played with my bum. After that, without hesitation, she put me right in her ass. I’ve never…”
I cut Jackson off, “You know that person was trans, right?
“I didn’t know when I met her, no. Didn’t know while we were drinking at her place. Definitely didn’t know when she was ravenously sucking me. Thought I may have felt something in reverse cowgirl—slapping and whatnot. I put that out of my head and soldiered on. But then, she stood up and I put it in my mouth.”
I wasn’t expecting to hear this and was in utter shock.
“You put it in your mouth?”
“Yeah, then she buggered me.”
“She fucked you?”
“Yeah, I was initially hesitant. Until I did all those drugs. After that, it was easy peasy. She even called some friends over to have a go with me too. All in all, a good night. Hey, mate. Can you stop here? I need a…a…um…cigarette.”
Gloomy Forebodings 