In Cest We Trust

Sometimes I forget whether I live in Huntington Beach, California or Hicksville, Louisiana.

Case in point, I had a customer come through the drive-thru yesterday and order a chicken grilled stuft burrito with nacho cheese in it. He came up to the window and said the following to me:

"You gonna put that nacho sauce in there right? I like the cheese, I just can't have the chips because I ain't got no front teeth."

First of all, I'm loving that double negative. Second, after he said that, he opened his mouth and flashed me a very disturbing smile where he gave me a front-row view of his toothless upper gum, as if he thought I didn't believe that he ain't got no front teeth, or maybe he thought I needed further visual aid in order to get his dilemma across to me. In any case, I'm scarred for life. You would be too if you had this leering at you a mere couple of feet from your face.






I done seen you starin' at mah tooth!

The Grammar Police Are On Duty!!

About a week ago, I wrote my first attempt at a "serious" short story for my creative writing class. It is entitled Darkside, and you can read it if you haven't already by scrolling down past my last two recent posts. Today, it was read out loud in class by a girl who volunteered, since my teacher doesn't allow the authors to read their own story in class. I had to make 25 copies of the story so each student could have one to read along with and make comments on.

We spent from 11:30 AM until 12:10 PM on it. The girl read it, and then the teacher and my classmates discussed it and made comments about what they thought of it. Afterwards, everyone gave me back their copies so I could read the comments they wrote.

First of all, while it was being read, the class was pretty much silent while they listened and jotted down comments on their copies. Everyone was pretty much engrossed in the story as far as I could tell. And then we got to the part where the main character sat down to watch some television.

At first, with the Jerry Springer excerpt, only a few people chuckled, because not everyone was fully aware that this whole half of a page was put in as comic relief to give the reader a chance to relieve some tension, or to wake up and yawn, whichever. Then the soap opera excerpt drew a few more people into laughter, as they realized what was going on. And then the knife infomercial excerpt was read, and the whole class just became unglued. My teacher was laughing so loudly that the girl who was reading the story was drowned out, and she had to stop reading for a second because she was laughing too hard also.

So yeah, it is a "serious" story in that its overall plot is serious. But because I wrote it, it can't possibly be 100% serious. And I guess my class liked it, because they were discussing and praising it for nearly half an hour. One older student came over to me and said, "I thought yours was the best one of all the stories we've read." And there were just a whole lot of good things said about the story in general, and I really enjoyed hearing all their different perspectives.

Now, on to the more personal comments that my classmates wrote on their papers. Please bear in mind that this is a college level English course, therefore I assumed that most of the students enrolled in the class have at least a decent grasp on basic English grammar, and the English language in general. I had no idea just how wrong I was.

These are actual comments written by actual students on the actual copies of my actual story. I have meticulously copied everything exactly as it was written by the students. Have fun.

"I came in late to class and only herd 1/4 of it. and new what this story was aimin toward. Awsome delivery soft and the begging hard punch in the middle and smooth drive at the end."

"Dude, I loved the story. I loved the ending even more. Its hard to write about things using the first person perspective, bravo. Crazy to think something like that can actually happen. But yeah great dialog and once again awesome ending. Jesus Rocks." (And then he drew a picture of a cross with flames shooting out of it from all sides)

"I can see his point of view. Good persceptive."

"Good Beginnig"

"Your writing is very witty and I like that. This story scares me though! That this could happen maybe even from drugs - A lot of other people never even think of that - I like your message of awakeness." (Awakeness?)

"I've been waiting for a person to say all this! Thank You!" (Someone wrote this next to my TV excerpts part)

"it was a good story it was unicue and creative I hope their is no truth in it. I liked it :)"

"I like how it is so suddle" (Nice phonetic spelling...)

"The story leaves people wondering about wether or not such a possibility is possible + about the important things in life...which is the sign of a good story!" (Hmm, a possible possibility...)

"I like the honesty you can tell this character isnt completely sain"

"Does street monkey pay very well?"

"Right f*ckin' on!" (A girl underlined street monkey and wrote that above it, except it wasn't censored. Then, at the end of the story, she drew 2 crosses and in the middle of them wrote, "AWESOME". She must be a sweet and moral Christian girl...)


2 students underlined the part where I wrote "cherry-red Porsche" and wrote "Nice car" next to it. Yes, they were both guys. In fact, they were the same two guys who wrote the first two comments above (The guy who came to class late, and the "Jesus Rocks" guy). Great minds think alike, no?

Also, the girl who read my story out loud (and I must say that she did a really good job too) wrote this on her paper at the end of the story:

"I wasn't expecting that @ all. I love your story and the weirdest thing...recently, I found out what my "void" was as well. =) "

Taco Bell Stuffs, and Things to Come

If you know me, you know I like to see people ask/do/say stupid things, because it makes me laugh, and I like to laugh, hence the reason I write this blog. And tonight at my work, a customer took the proverbial cake for the Taco Bell Award for:

Winner of the Award for the "Stupidest Question Ever Asked"

I was at the first window tonight where I collect the money, juggle rolls of paper, twiddle my thumbs, and sleep. My manager, Reyna, was at the second window, taking orders. A lady came through the drive-thru, and was looking at the menu, trying to decide what to get. I could hear some inaudible whispering going on as the driver was talking to someone else in the car to try and figure out their order. After 15 seconds or so, the lady pipes up and asks Reyna a question.

"What's that thing with the sauce on it?"

As I peel myself off of the ground from laughing, I realize Reyna has finished taking the order, so I collect the money, and turn around to see Thaddus, my other manager, walking towards me. I meet him halfway, look him in the eye, and ask him, "What's that thing with the sauce on it?!?!?!!?" He just laughs and says, "That's half our menuboard."

If you ever want to make a drive-thru restaurant worker's day, stop by and make a total fool of yourself so we can laugh at you. C'mon, what was that lady thinking? Anything? Could she possibly have been anymore vague? Can anyone ever top that level of ignorance? I suppose only time will tell...

_-^-_-^-_-^-_ (Nice topic break, eh?)

At Taco Bell, we have tray liners which are pieces of paper that cover the dine-in trays to avoid contamination or something. I mean really, is a thin piece of paper going to protect you from anything? If there's some big ugly germ festering on the tray, it's not going to be deterred by a flimsy piece of paper. It will just laugh at you as it seeps through, jumps on your food, and makes its home in your intestines for the next month.

Another thing, that piece of paper gives people the impression that the tray is no longer just a convenient plastic barrier between your food and the table. It is now a trough with a replaceable covering that gives them implied permission to toss all manners aside and go nuts. Not only that, but the entire restaurant turns into a squalid farm where you can finally fulfill all your piggish fantasies. Suddenly, you become too lame to find one of the 7 trash containers in the store and are forced to throw your trash on the ground, or leave it on the table next to you thinking no one will be the wiser. You leave spilled taco sauce, soda, burrito squirtings, half-eaten food, and other inhuman messes for someone else to clean up. You begin to enjoy wallowing in your own crapulence, you notice a curly tail sprouting out of your behind, and you discover that the only audible sounds you can make are "Oink, oink, OINK!!!!"

Anyway, here's an interesting tidbit about the tray liners. They advertise the steak soft taco and have pictures of some of the ingredients that come on it. And there is a slogan in Spanish written on the lower right-hand corner of the paper. It reads, "No solo de pan vive el hombre". For those of you who don't remember your Spanish too well, or were foolish enough to take one of the joke foreign language classes in school, like French, Pig Latin, or Geometry, it means "Man shall not live by bread alone".

Now, I know Taco Bell means something else by it, but when I first read it, I thought about how interesting it was to see that at my work. Too bad they didn't finish it..."Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God" (Matthew 4:4). So Taco Bell is using it as a slogan to try and get more business, oh well. Maybe someone like myself will read it and be reminded of the Bible verse it comes from and be inspired by it.

_~-~_~-~_~-~_

Lastly, my story, Darkside, has not been read in class yet. Hopefully it will be this coming Tuesday though, and I will update with how my class liked it. Also, I am in the middle of working on a 3 minute play for the same class. I had a writer's block while trying to work on it, so I decided to come blog. Go figure. I will post it here when I am done with it in a day or two. I don't want to give too much away (considering I haven't gotten too far on it yet anyway), but lets just say it involves our good prehistoric friend, Blog the caveman. It will also be read outloud in class. I can't wait.

Who Needs Drugs?

So today, an hour before I went to work, I had a big slice of double layer chocolate cake that my mom made during one of her routine cake-making celebrations. These usually fall somewhere between her brownie-baking bashes and her pie-cooking parties. In other words, almost never.

But that's understandable. She has to work 12 hours days, which in the nursing world, means from 7 AM until a) All your patients have either died or escaped, or b) It's getting close to that time where the hospital has to pay overtime, so you'd better get your butt outta here...I don't care if you're in the middle of giving that old man a sponge bath, you can bathe our elderly patients on your own time if you care that much! What do you mean he isn't a patient?

Anyway, I had that piece of chocolate cake. And for the first time in quite a while, I was reminded of the simple joys of a sugar high. I got to work, and I was practically running from place to place, my hands were shaking, I was jumping up and down, bouncing off the walls, whistling, talking loudly, and just being extremely hyper and happy. I had the energy of a four-year old and some to spare. Not that I'm not energetic normally, it's just that I felt like I had my personal energy tank filled with Liquid Schwartz. But, just like there's a downside to every Schwartz, no sugar high lasts forever. (By the way, if you haven't taken the hint already, go watch Spaceballs. Right now. Well, after you finish reading this.)

So it occured to me that sugar could be the answer to many of life's problems. Don't get me wrong, I have lots of fun at my job, but having that extra energy boost really made things a lot more enjoyable during the couple hours I had my sugar high. Maybe you should try it sometime. Just eat a bowlful of sugar before going to work and see how much differently you act.

Something else I don't understand...when I was a kid, I ate candy like there was no tomorrow, and never got a cavity. As I got older, my candy eating days grew shorter and less frequent, especially when I got too old to go trick or treating anymore. I loved to go trick or treating, but I used to hate it when some little old lady would answer the door and ask you some smartass question like, "Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?" But hey, that's why God made toilet paper, eggs, and fragile pumpkins.

But somehow, even though I ate less candy than when I was younger, I still managed to get my first cavity a few years ago, as my little diagram illustrates the progression of events:

Increase in Age ---> Decrease in Candy Intake ---> Baby's First Cavity

My mom said it's probably because my teeth don't have the same protection from cavities as they used to when I was younger. Personally, I think my diagram holds the real answer. The reason I got a cavity was because I ate less candy, so my teeth were not able to build up a candy-based cavity-immunity from other harmful cavity-causing substances, like celery and spinach. So to all you soon-to-be parents out there, let this be a lesson to you. Learn from my mistakes. Never let your kids stop eating candy or sugar, unless you want them to have poor cavity immunity. Season your food with powdered sugar, stuff your Thanksgiving turkey with Milk Duds, spread icing instead of butter on your bread, make a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Jelly Sandwich, and never ever drink milk without chocolate syrup. Just be creative. Soon you'll be confectioning like a pro. Be sure to invite me over for dinner.

Oh, and speaking of sweet... (Check out the nice Paint editing)


Happy 17th Birthday Erica!!!!!!!!

Darkside - A "Short" Story

This is a short story I just finished writing yesterday for my creative writing class. It will be read outloud in my class by a volunteer (The author is not allowed to read his own paper) either Tuesday or Thursday. Once that happens, I will update this post with the reactions I receive from the class. Until then, enjoy the story. It is my first real attempt at a "serious" short story, so it was a real learning experience for me.

DISCLAIMER: This story is 8 pages long when double spaced, so if you have a short attention span, please take this opportunity to set aside the next 5 minutes of your life and glue your head to your monitor so you will not get distracted while reading it. I appreciate any comments you might have since short stories are new writing territory for me, and I can use any advice I can get. I hope you enjoy it...


Darkside


“Good night Anna.”

“Good night Dr. Stevens. See you in the morning.”

Anna is a good secretary - very organized, prompt, and reliable. She was the only one who didn’t make a pass at me during her interview. I do all the job interviews myself, seeing as how I’ll be working with them five days of the week, and considering how this is my own practice – Dr. Russ Stevens, Psychiatrist. That’s right, I’m a head doctor. My job is to deal with all the loonies of this world and somehow alter their self-perception to the point where they swear I’m a genius and practically throw their pocketbooks at me. I’ve always liked helping people, even if they are stark-raving mad. In fact, that just makes it more fun. I’ve always been proud of being level-headed, rational, and sober-minded, and I think that rubs off on my patients and is part of the reason my practice has been so successful.

I am 29 years old and have been told I am rather physically attractive, but I am not married nor am I looking. After having to listen to so many stories of heartbreak and ruined relationships in my six years of practice, I am of the belief that having a significant other just isn’t worth the emotional baggage.

I get into my cherry-red Porsche and drive away towards my house. I live alone in a nice neighborhood in Southern California, in a gated community. My house is big enough to comfortably have another person live in it besides myself, but not big enough to make it seem lonely or empty. I park my car in the middle of the 2-car garage, and enter the house from the adjoining door. I look at my watch. It reads 8:37 PM. I am not physically tired, just mentally tired from having to converse with so many patients today. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have such an easy job. All I have to do is listen to and talk with people. But what if I had some ball-busting-manual-laboring-type job, like a construction worker or a street monkey? Although I suppose even those jobs have their upsides…I could go on disability the minute after I break my legs from falling down an open sewer, or possibly after getting hit by a wrecking ball, and never have to work again. Ah, the tough decisions we have to make throughout our lives. I decide to grab a bite to eat, and go to bed.

As I lay in my bed, I think to myself. I think of myself as being a rather witty and smart person, always using humor to my advantage to get the best of any situation. But there’s a part deep inside of me that just feels empty, like I’m missing out on something critically important in life. I’ve been trying 29 years to fill that void with alcohol, drugs, women, work, school, anything - I’ve tried it all, and nothing has filled it for more than a few fleeting moments before it empties out and makes the void even deeper. Sometimes I wonder how I ever made it as far as I have. Sometimes I feel like I should be the one lying on the couch listening to the psychiatrist, instead of the other way around. Don’t get me wrong. I am a happy person. I enjoy life and am generally a nice person; it’s just that everyone has a dark side to them.

******************

I wake up, drenched in my own sweat; my heart feels like it’s trying to rip itself out of my chest. I look at the clock that sits on the nightstand next to my bed; it reads 11:57 PM. I have just been disturbed from my sleep by a recurring nightmare that I have been having at least once a night, without fail, for the last eight years…

My older brother Jason and I went to a local club, the Drug N’ Chug, to celebrate my 21st birthday. It was his idea. I didn’t know at the time since we were never very close, but Jason was dropping acid and doing other dangerous drugs on a regular basis, and he brought some acid with him to the club that night. Jason and I both dropped the acid together. This particular trip, combined with all his previous brain-alterations, caused his brain to short-circuit as he freaked out at all the excitement and activity inside the club. He pulled out a knife and just began slashing at anything, and anyone, within reach. The last thing I remember before passing out was seeing my brother being restrained and beaten to submission by the club security. I don’t remember much else about that night, but I remember waking up in a hospital bed, my shirt and jeans covered in someone else’s blood, and having a nurse tell me that my brother was dead. It was at that moment that I decided I would never try to fill that void inside of me with drugs again.

The recurring dream I have been having that has just woken me up again tonight was a short reenactment of that moment, only I am the one wielding the knife. And the part that scares me the most is that I have this leftover feeling of bloodlust and rage each night I wake up from the dream, and I really enjoy the feeling, even though I know I could never do something like that in real life. I wipe the sweat off of my brow, and return to sleep.

“Aggghhhh…”

A painful groan escapes my lips as I roll over onto my side to look at the clock. The luminous red lights say that the time is 8:13 AM. It’s too early. I roll back over onto my back, and in the process, I discover that not only am I exhausted, but my entire body is aching. I try to sit up but a sudden pang shoots through my abdominal muscles, encouraging me to stay right where I am. I place my hand on my stomach and discover I am wearing a T-shirt, even though I don’t remember putting one on when I went to bed. As I feel the shirt, I notice that it is a little damp on the front. As I lift off my covers to inspect it, I let out a scream.

The entire front of my white T-shirt is dark red, saturated with what looks like blood. Momentarily forgetting about my soreness, I quickly jump out of bed as if it had suddenly burst into flames, and discover that I am fully clothed – with a bloody T-shirt, a pair of jeans also complete with blood stains, and a pair of my old tennis shoes. I lift up my shirt to see if the blood is my own, but I have no lacerations that would constitute that amount of blood; however, I notice several bruises on my stomach, and as I inspect myself further, I find many other bruises and small cuts along the length of my body. Baffled, I try and remember what happened last night. I think back to my haunting nightmare, and wonder to myself if just this once, somehow, it hadn’t just been a dream.

******************

Unable to accept the notion that somehow I may have done the unthinkable last night without even having the slightest memory of it, I stumble out of my room into the living room, and plop myself down onto the couch. Still dressed-to-kill so to speak in my bloodied attire, I turn on the television to try and take my mind off of my worries and suspicions, not to mention my aching body.

“…walked in on mah girlfriend and I done saw her getting’ it on wit’ mah cousin, and…”
Jerry Springer, what a load of crap. I change the channel.

“…right Chet, we need to tell Bubbles that she is carrying your child…”
Soap operas. Seriously, who watches that crap and thinks up those names? Those writers need to be fired. Next channel.

“…demonstrated, this revolutionary knife can cut through shoes, bricks, telephone poles, bowling balls, and even this slab of cement! Watch how easily it *SNAP* …oops. Bill, is it supposed to do that?”
Idiots. I could sell elephant dung in bulk better than those numbskulls could sell that flimsy knife. I never realized how much daytime television really sucks. One more channel.

“…police say they have obtained the license number of the suspect’s car from a witness and are in the process of tracking him down. Witnesses describe him as being a white male, in his 20’s or 30’s, of average build and height, wearing a light-colored T-shirt and jeans. The name of the bouncer who was murdered at the Drug N’ Chug has not been released to the public yet.”
I turn the television off and set the remote down on the couch. It couldn’t be. It must be a coincidence, a horrible coincidence. My head starts to spin and I become disoriented. My head suddenly feels extremely heavy, as if my neck can no longer hold it up, and I rest it on the back of the couch. I wish I had someone to talk to.

******************

I am awakened by a loud rapping at my front door, and I hear someone yell, “Police, open the door now!” This is not happening. I pinch myself to try and wake myself up from this dream, but the very real pain greets me as I realize that in fact, this is no dream, but is surely a real life nightmare. I am still wearing my bloody shirt and pants. I’m as good as convicted if I open the door right now. I decide my only option is to get out of sight, and quick. I run as fast as my body allows me into my room, open the closet door, squeeze in amongst my formal suits and shirts I have to wear everyday, and close the door.

Seconds later, I hear a loud crash as the wood that used to be my front door shatters. My heart races as I hear footsteps pounding their way through my house. I hear voices shouting to one another, but I am too scared and confused to make any sense out of them. Soon enough, I am able to catch the tail end of an exclamation, “…out, we will release the dog.” Oh great, just what I need - bite marks to go with my bloody clothes and bruised body. I figure I’ve been through enough today, so I open the closet door, stick my hands in the air, and surrender myself voluntarily.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes sir,” I replied to the officer who had placed the handcuffs on me.

“Do you know why you are being placed under arrest?”

“No sir, I do not.”

“You don’t? Well, why don’t we ask your shirt?”

“I don’t know where that blood came from.”

“Probably from the bouncer you murdered at the Drug N’ Chug last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what you did.”

I didn’t. I don’t remember a single thing about last night besides the dream I had. I’ve read of people experiencing altered states of consciousness where they are awake but are unaware of their actions. But most of those people are druggies or mentally retarded or both, and I am neither. Could it be that my job is finally getting to me? After hearing so many stories of things that have gone wrong with other people’s minds, has my own mind lost its grasp on what is reality and what is fantasy? Being a construction worker doesn’t sound too bad right about now.
I arrive at the police station a short while later. After what seems like an eternity, I am brought into a small room presumably for questioning. A short and stocky man enters the room a few minutes later. He introduces himself as Lt. Perkins, and says that he will be conducting the questioning.

“Mr. Stevens, where were you last night at 2:10 AM?”

“In my bed, sleeping.”

“Is there anyone who can verify this?”

“Just myself.”

“I see. And how do you explain the blood stains on your shirt and pants?”

“I…can’t explain them. I don’t know how they got there.”

“Oh, well let me enlighten you. According to the police report and witness testimonies, you were seen at the Drug N’ Chug last night at 2:10 AM. Apparently, you drove there, parked your car in front of the club, walked up to the bouncer standing at the door, and stabbed him with a knife repeatedly. In case you don’t know where all those bruises on your body came from, you apparently took a pretty good licking from the other bouncers who were trying to restrain you, before you were able to get in your car and drive off. Fortunately for us, a witness remembered your license plate number, and we tracked you down in no time.”

“If you’re so sure I did it, why am I being questioned?”

“It’s standard procedure. If you’d like to forego the questioning and proceed right to jail, be my guest.”

And so I did. I was sent to jail for a murder I have no memory of ever committing. Some quack later diagnosed me with a neurochemical imbalance thereby supposedly explaining my altered state of consciousness. It seems like just yesterday I had everything I could ever want – A good job, a big house, lots of money, a fast car. It amazes me how fast it was all taken away from me on that infamous night. It made me think of how fleeting life is, and I started wondering if all those material things in life were really worth wasting 29 years to get when they could be taken away in an instant. I began to wonder if there was more to life than just pleasing oneself. And then it dawned on me. I remember one of my patients telling me once that she was a devout Christian and that whenever there was something wrong in her life, she would pray a certain prayer, called the Jesus Prayer, and it would fill her with hope and help her through her daily struggles. That concept has baffled me up until this point in my life, but I think I’ve finally found the thing that I’ve been searching for to fill that void in my life with…

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”