Csupo Flickers

            by Jacob Rubin!!

 

            Ruffles was with a Pomeranian on the fire escape when I woke up. Usually, I manage to tune it out and go back to sleep, but he had found himself a real yapper, and more sleep was impossible. The hammering of her legs on the railing reverberated in my skull, and instead of subjecting myself to any more, I opted to get up. Ruffles seemed to be in rare form.

I showered and shaved. There was a little more beard on my chin than I remembered. I decided to keep it. It kinda made me look European. But, you know, in a good way. I chose to be a hipster today.

There were three missed calls on my cell phone. One was from Shelly; the other two were from Mom. I ignored all three and went to work.

 

I’ve noticed something interesting in my life. Typically, when meeting new people, the first thing they ask you is what you do for a living. Of course, when I mention I’m a member of the programming personnel at the Food Network, they get interested.

“Oh!” they say. “He’s in show business! Have you ever met Emeril? Or Wolfgang Puck?” No, of course I haven’t. They have better things to do than meet the guy who decides what commercials go in the breaks of their shows when they’re reran on Thursday afternoons. I did meet Rachel Ray once, but it was at an industry party, she was slurring her speech, pronouncing my name wrong, and was searching for her contact lens in a plate of deviled eggs or fried artichoke hearts every other time I looked over, easily.

            I get to work at nine. Most of my “programming” time is spent in my cubicle with a list of possible episodes to rerun (we always do the Italian ones on Thursdays, which I’m in charge of; it really seems to resonate with the shut-ins) and commercials to… okay, I’m boring myself just discussing it. There’s a reason I don’t have much “programming” time, as it takes me twenty minutes to do a full day’s work, thanks to micro-managing. And since my best friend is the supervisor of my department, he takes work away from me so we have more time to hang out in his office and I can watch him do drugs. I’m in there most of the day, and that’s where I decided to go at 9:12.

            There’s an unfamiliar woman outside his office. Oh, right, he mentioned he was getting a new secretary. The other one was threatening to tell the guys upstairs about the forty-five grams of Columbian hashish Terry keeps in his filing cabinet for company. Thank God she didn’t know what’s behind it. I’m about to enter through the enormous mahogany doors to his office when the new secretary yells to me.

            “Um… excuse me. Excuse me! Do you have an appointment?”

            I’ve never had or needed one before, I think. “Oh, no, sorry, I don’t,” I say.

            “Mr. Sherman’s on a very important conference call right now.” Conference call is code for pot break. Or is that ecstasy break? “Can I pencil you in for ten?”

            It’s then that she moves. Before, she was almost completely still, but now she’s leaned her body backwards and pulls out her absolutely voluminous breasts from behind her computer monitor. There is a slight “ffft” of air escaping as gravity compresses them onto her ribcage. Of course, that’s impossible, but just looking at this spectacle, I hear it in my head. I can sense her difficulty in attempting to see his appointment sheet around those things. She has to lift the paper up and prop it against her pencil cup. Every slight movement is a seismic crash on her chest. Terry’s motives are clear as bottled water, and he’s fulfilling every stereotype in the “Bad Boss” handbook. That mastermind.

            “Oh!” she exclaims suddenly. “Are you Cus-oo-po Flickers?”

            “Ah, it’s pronounced Csupo. Choop-oh. It’s Welsh,” I lie. These conversations about the origin of my name have lasted hours.

            “Wow. That’s, like, so weird. You’re late. You’re supposed to be here at nine.”

            Well, she wasn’t letting me in a second ago, and I’m certainly not going to rock the boat. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Um. Okay.” Just before I make my way into his office, I take another glance at her. She’s not really my type, no, but she seems to be some sort of amalgamation of all of Terry’s ex-girlfriends. Everything he holds to his personal image of the female Adonis is sitting at his secretary desk, trying her damnedest to check her e-mail. I push on the previously stated enormous mahogany doors and enter.

            Terry’s office is the size of my apartment. I’ll never understand how a man who doesn’t do any work and spends nearly eighty percent of his paycheck on recreational drugs can afford everything in his office to be ensconced in velvet.  When I enter, he’s polishing off a six-pack of beer. With the amount of drugs hidden and consumed in this place on a daily basis, no matter what year it is outside, Terry Sherman’s office is always set firmly in 1983.

            “What’s-Her-Name let you in easily enough?”

            “You don’t know her name?”

            “I’ll figure it out. I fucked your sister last night.”

            “Oh. Wow. Great. Wonderful. Remind me again why you’re dating her?”

            Terry pauses to roll up a joint. “So I could fuck her.”

            “Tell me about What’s-Her-Name out there.”

            “What’s there to tell? She types sixteen words per minute, often has trouble remembering the alphabet, and is built like someone overstuffed Tara Reid. I mean, Charlotte was pretty much as hot as this new one, but she was, you know, smart. Smarter than me. Almost got me fired, right? Sometimes you just need someone who’s both easy on the eyes and can’t find Canada on a map to keep me out of shit. Y’know?”

            He makes sense. Of course, it might be the PCP talking.

            “Oh, and some dicks from upstairs are coming down to make sure everything’s on the level. You’ve gotta be at your desk until lunch. Wait, take this.” He throws me a little plastic bag with a tab of acid in it. “Makes the three hours seem like an instant. Just don’t let it near your eyes.”

           

I go to my desk as instructed and wrap up everything I have to do today. Within two minutes of finishing, my phone rings.

            “Hello?”

            “Oh my God. Is this Csupo Flickers?”

            “Yeah,  who is this?”

            “Bobby! Bobby McCoy! From high school?”

            “Bobby McCoy… uh… sorry, I don’t think I…”

            “You gotta remember! ‘I’m Spartacus!’ ‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ Mr. DeJean’s 5^th period World History class?”

            “Oh, right! Bobby McCoy. Yeah. I gotcha now.” In high school, I had a tightly knit group of six friends. Bobby thought he was one of them.

            “Oh, man, you have no idea how long I’ve been trying to track you down. You were, like, the most popular guy in school, but you don’t go to the reunions or anything. People think you just kinda flew away or something.”

            “Yeah, that’s… that’s what’s going around, isn’t it?”

            “Oh, man, you have no idea! I’ve, like, modeled my life after you, dude. Tell me something, are you free for lunch today?”

            At least once a month, someone from high school calls me up to chat, and we end up going to lunch. These lunches are my personal vision of staring into the face of Lucifer himself, eyes blazing, teeth coated with flesh, and hearing him say, “Dude! Remember when you stole the mascot’s suit, filled it with eggs, and dropped it off the gym? That was hysterical!” Then, as I panic and run, he grabs me by the legs, growls, “I’m not finished with you yet, Sparky!” and bites down on my throat very, very slowly until I’m forced to recite the names of every girl who asked me to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance, all twenty-two of them. Yeah, I don’t like these lunches very much.

            (Yes, it comes as a surprise to many people. I, Csupo Flickers, was arguably the most popular kid in my high school graduating class. I refer to myself as a victim of circumstance. That horrible event with the mascot suit wasn’t even me, but somehow the evidence in the investigation by the Forensics Club pointed all blame squarely on my head. I tried as hard as I possibly could to re-direct everything, to show everyone it was my friend Devon who loaded Carl the Croc with eggs and hurled him right in the middle of the cheerleading tryouts on the football field, but I gave up when I realized girls thought it was really hot. Since I was running under the influence of hormones, Devon got yanked out of the limelight he would have been in complete control of and I rolled around in it like it would kill me if I didn’t. That Devon didn’t stop, though, and everything he did was eventually traced back to me, through something as infinitesimal as a gum wrapper from my favorite brand, or as large as my mom’s station wagon, which he borrowed to carry every history textbook in the school to the quad, and made a sizable pyramid out of them. Devon died seven months after graduation, trying to convince his friends at Creed University he could ride his motorcycle at one hundred miles per hour all the way through town at 4 AM without stopping, and was shot by a stray bullet from a convenience store robbery. Y’know, in case you were wondering where he ended up.)

            Unfortunately, if Bobby is anything like the rest of them, and I decline the invitation, the conversation will end with, “Okay, well, let’s get together sometime!” and I can expect a call every other day asking if I’m free to lunch or, sometimes, horribly, brunch, which is like lunch, except there’s no determined start or end time, and it can go on indefinitely. Good thing I’m prepared for these.

            “Actually, hmmmm… let me see… I think I’m good for lunch, yeah. What do you think of seafood?”

            “Great! Sounds great! Yeah! Awesome! Um, so, where were you…”

            “Bailey’s. On the harbor. Let’s say 12:30,” I made some paper-shuffling noises on my desk. “Look, I’m just about to go into a meeting. I’ll see you there.”

            He keeps talking, but I’ve hung up. My cell phone rings seconds later.

            “Hello?”

            “I’m in love.”

            “Hi, Shelly.”     

            “Csupo. Oh my god. Terry is the best thing to happen to me since forever. Every moment I’m with him, I just, I, I, I feel lighter, happier, like everything bad that’s happened to me or to anyone can just be swiped away with a glance from his big, beautiful brown eyes. Just being around him, just, just, just knowing there’s something that perfect and that amazing in the universe is enough to give me hope for everyone else. God, I don’t eat, I haven’t slept more than a few hours in the past week, just because thinking about him takes all my pain away. I see him when I close my eyes… and when I open my eyes… Csupo, tell me, is this love? What I’m feeling? Is this love?”

            Sounds more like she had some of Terry’s ‘Shroom Salad. “Probably. Terry’s, um, he’s a born romantic.”

            “Oh, god, and the sex! The sex is amazing!”

            “So I hear.” I really really really want to hang up. “So, ah, what inspires this call, Shelly?”

            “… I just told you. Terry is the best thing ever. I… thought you’d want to know, I guess. You introduced us.”

            It’s true, I did. She came with me to the office Halloween party and I introduced them to each other out of politeness more than anything else. How was I supposed to know she’d end up giving him head in the ladies’ room by the end of the evening?

            “Right. Of course. Um, I’ve got a lunch thing soon. Can I call you back? Great. Thanks.”

            “Okay! Bye!” Shelly hangs up before I can. I look at the clock. It’s not even ten yet. I slink down in my chair and am about to nap, the only thing I can occupy my time with if I can’t be in Terry’s office (besides the acid, of course), then Marcus intervenes.

            “Hey there, Choop-a-Doop. How’s it rollin’, hombre?”

            Hoping somehow he won’t notice I was about to nap, I spin around and try to look like I’ve got some serious filing or e-mailing or faxing or programming or something to do, but my desk is clear and my mind is blank. His head hovers slightly over the top of the divider between our cubicles and I am forced to reply.

            “Hi… Marcus.”

            “So you’re big with the dude at the end of the hall, huh?”

            “Terry?”

            “Yeah, man. Yeah, dude. What’s the deal with his secretary?”

            I can honestly say I have no idea. And I do. “I have no idea. This is her first day.”

            “’Cuz the last one was a fuckin’ piece, man. I’d like that swing on my front porch, y’follow?”

            “Barely.” He doesn’t notice he’s been insulted.

            “But this one… I don’t know ‘bout you, bro, but I love tits. Tits tits tits. Fuckin’ massive mammery milkbags, right? Yeah? Y’see what I’m saying here?”

            “You like her breasts.”

            “Fuckin’ A I like her breasts. Fuckin’ A, hombre. And shit, dude, I could write the Great American Novel on those things. Bettin’ I will, too.”

            Judging just by appearances alone, Marcus doesn’t seem like the type to say these things. I only met him about two years ago, when he started here, but in my mind, as a child, if you smacked a pair of glasses on him, he’d be the smart kid in the live action kid’s movie. The one using the forty-dollar words when the ringleader, the sidekick, the muscle, and the required girl and minority kid discuss how to get back at the bully who keeps giving them wedgies and taking their lunch money during recess. Of course, that’s just going by looks. Marcus might be quick thinking, but having a fast brain and having a useful brain are two different things. By now, he’s stopped talking and has been reduced to orgasmic grunts and moans until his inevitable high-pitched squeal representing climax. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s actually masturbating behind the cubicle wall.

            “Manohmanohman, there’s no part of her I wouldn’t spooge on. Heh… spooge. Oh, hey, how are you dealing with that treat Todd-From-Promotions left in your coffee mug?”

            I’ll give this to Marcus: he has more confidence and faith in himself than anyone I have ever known. In his time here, he’s pulled at least eighty disgusting and incredibly well thought-out pranks on me, often working with Todd-From-Promotions. Four days ago, they created an eerily convincing fake bottom made of sugar for my coffee mug, the one that says “Csupo” on it (Shelly thought it was cute), and underneath it they placed pubic hairs. When I poured in the coffee, the sugar slowly dissolved and the pubes floated free, rushing right into my mouth once the mug was tilted. Marcus and Todd-From-Promotions couldn’t contain themselves and left early, putting Marcus’ work in my lap.

There were about three months in there when Marcus stopped pulling pranks or, for that matter, speaking to me altogether when he drilled a hole in the cubicle wall and put his penis through it, right behind my stapler. I noticed it pretty quickly and duct taped it to my desk. But, of course, he went back to his usual ways when he thought the heat was down, and soon enough, Todd-From-Promotions would mosey past my cubicle with something that smelled delicious to get me out of there and Marcus would cover my stuff with Post-Its with drawings of genitals on them about every other day. Sadly, Marcus is a convicted felon, and keeping him around is really good for the company, public relations-wise, so I’m stuck. His attention has suddenly diverted from my pube coffee to Terry’s new secretary again.

            “Yeeeah. I’ll be inside her by the end of week two.”

            I really need to shut his enormous hole. “I wouldn’t try. She’s… a lesbian.”

            “Pffft. Didn’t stop your mom.”

            Marcus Reilly, everybody.

            “Well, Marcus, I’ve got a serious lunch date. I’ll see you later.”

            “It’s ten in the morning.”

            “Oh, yeah… okay, the thing is, I just don’t like you.”

            Good Christ do I wish I said that. I actually sputter out something about it being more of a brunch sort of thing and said the guy was on West Coast time and a lot of other excuses I should have held onto for later use. I grab my coat and rush down the hall to Terry’s office, ignoring What’s-Her-Boobs, and see him filling up balloons with cocaine and rapidly lowering them out the window in a basket. His hands are covered with the stuff.

            “Getthefuckoutgetthefuckoutgetthefuckout!!” Ah, there’s a little on his nose, too. I do what he says and take his secret exit to the parking lot, the one he’s used to evade the Feds numerous times, and drive home.

           

Ruffles got into my liquor cabinet again. He and a guest I’ve seen him with before, a shiny Golden Retriever twice his size, are conked out and covered in their own juices. Last time this went unattended, they attracted flies. While I’m hosing them down, the phone rings. I screen it.

“Csupo. We need to talk. If you don’t fucking call me back you will live in a universe of pain for the rest of your god damned natural life. You have my number.” I’m very, very glad I screened that.

It’s only 10:40. I’ve finished my work for the day. I can’t talk to Terry until the guys from upstairs are done poking around. I don’t have anything to prevent Marcus from talking to me, like work or a gun. I suppose I could go visit Shelly while she’s working at the Apple Store, or I could call that person back.

I think I’ll take a nap.

 

When I wake up, it’s noon. Bailey’s is about a half hour away, so I have to get up and drive to the harbor. Every time these lunches roll around and I have to do what I do, I swear to myself it’ll be the last time, and I’m just going to be courteous and deal with the horrible, horrible retellings of all the bullshit I didn’t do in high school, but every time I decide it’s not worth it. Every damn time. Eh, well. I’ll give him the usual fifteen minutes.

The guys at Bailey’s all know me. I come here with people from high school so often they can practically smell me. I meet up with Bobby McCoy, who hasn’t grown one inch in height but about three in mustache length, and we’re placed at my usual table by the edge of the dock. There are a few loose nails in the railing.

“So, Bobby, what are you doing now?”

“Ah, um, well, I’m a college professor. Archeology, specifically ancient South American civilizations. They’re my specialty. You heard about the, um, the discoveries about the Olmec justice system recently?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Dude. It’s righteous. You could get the death penalty for anything down there.”

Bobby’s a nice guy, but he’s overenthusiastic, and no matter what, he’s going to make us be friends. He might have a sort of novelty now, but by the second lunch, that railroad spike will slowly begin its passage to my vital organs. I can almost feel it, slowly rotating around the space between my ribs, just about ready to take the plunge into my lungs. Where the hell’s my soup?

“Hold on one second, Bobby.” I gesture slightly to a nearby waiter. He knows what to do. “I always get this soup here. Spicy Crawdad. It’s delicious.” Please don’t order it, Bobby. I’m praying for you not to order it.

“Ooogh, spicy food? Not my thing, bro.” Good.

My soup that definitely isn’t the Spicy Crawdad soup arrives in about five minutes. In that time, I’ve learned all about how the Urdu peoples were a noteworthy leap in, like, localized irrigations systems, dude. He’s failed the fifteen minute test.

“Ah, good. My soup’s here.” I throw in a dash of pepper and stir it around with my spoon. “Hope it’s not too hot. I burned my tongue this morning.” I get a big spoonful of pepper dust and broth and shove it down my gullet. Now, I show the world what a fantastic actor I am.

“AAAAAAAAUUGGGGHHHH!!!!” I kick out of my chair and whack the table, spilling the soup on the floor. Sprawling backward, I jitter up and make a mad snatch for my water, but it crashes on the floor with my soup. Bobby’s aghast.

            “Hey! HEY! Someone get this guy another glass of water! HEY!” He’s out of his seat and not looking at me anymore. This is going great. I run around to the spill and look like I’m trying to lap the water off the table, then slip in the large spill on the floor and go crashing through the wall, into the deep.

            Everything’s nicer underwater. Sound travels faster down here, so everything’s louder, but there’s not that much to hear. I can’t hear a lot above me, on the surface, but I can’t assume anything. I swim down and get the dummy I had made of me a few years back and put it in my clothes. It floats like a person. I dive deeper until I’m positive I’m out of sight, and then rise up so I can hear what’s going on.

            “… have to ask you to calm down, sir.”

            “Calm down? Are you fucking with me? Your soup just fucking killed a man! He’s drowned! He’s dead!”

            “Yes, we know what’s going on and we are in complete control of… awright, here’s the deal: you keep your fucking yap shut, right?” They must have cleared everyone else off the dock. “You say anything, you breathe a word of this to anyone, and we’ll find you. We’ll cave your shit-sucking skull in with our bare fucking hands. We have an understanding?” I hear something that sounds like someone sharpening a really big knife. I love this place.

            “Yeh-yeh-yeah, man. I hear you. I’ll-I’ll-I’ll just be on my way, then. All right. All right. All right. All right. No, this-this-this-this-this won’t be, uh, be, uh, a problem, guys. Yeah, man. Great. This, um, great, man. All right.” Bobby staggers his way off the dock, and someone up there knocks four times on the floor. Time to go. I stay down for about another ten minutes, resting on the warmer-than-you’d-think coral, breathing comfortably. I should do this more often.

            Dustin Bailey is in the back with my change of clothes. He peels off the scar he puts on for threatening.

            “Gimmie like a hundred n’ fifty bucks. Slow day today.” I forge Terry’s name on a check and slip it in Dustin’s pocket. “And next time, for Christ’s sake, don’t break the water glass. Just kinda tip it so the water spills out, okay? We have to get those from a specialty store to match the flatware.”

            I thank Dustin and rush back to work. Hopefully, those guys from upstairs are gone.

 

            My cubicle is covered with Polariods of Todd-From-Promotions’ butt when I get back around 1. Thankfully, Marcus isn’t here, so I don’t have to restrain myself from making a chain out of staples and wrapping it around his throat until he dies. Yeah, good thing he’s not here.

            The guys from upstairs left about twenty minutes ago and there were no problems here, so Terry is celebrating with a big pan of LSD brownies he cooked up in the breakroom. He cuts his initials into it and runs away into his office to have it all to himself, but invites me in for a piece.

            “How was lunch, Choop?”

            “Fine. Faked my death again.”

            “How much did I pay?”

            “Hundred fifty. Not that bad, considering I made more of a mess than usual.”

            “I don’t blame you. Remember that one time you brought me? Shit, I wish I could breathe underwater.”

            “It really doesn’t come in handy as often as you think.”

            “Yeah, but, you know. Mermaid sex.” He laughs once, very hard. “Dude, I’m completely tripping balls right now.”

            “That’s great. Pace yourself. The new secretary might not like being puked on as much as Charlotte.”

            “Speaking of puking, let’s go to the Ruthless Raven tonight. I mean, you can, right?”

            The Ruthless Raven is the quote-unquote “hot spot” in town. It’s where we middle-upper-class twentysomething socialites go to get up our asses on alcohol, lounge on pleather furniture, and say how they’re better in bed than you. Terry goes about three times a week and I’m there about half the time he goes, but that’s not to say I enjoy it. I go for the pretty good live music, cheap drinks, and so Terry can come with a friend and not look like a creepy loser. It used to be called “The House”, but the name changed when a raven somehow got inside and spread a disease that hospitalized six people. It’s never been clear to me why they wanted to change the name and thereby pay tribute to that bird, but people are strange.

            “Yeah, I can go. I guess. But we’re driving separately. I don’t want you ditching me again like last week with that crazy Wiccan.” They dropped some hallucinogens and she convinced him she could heal any wound with a touch, so they took the car and drove up to Bohusk Peak to throw rocks at beehives.

            “Fine. I’ll take my Hummer. You take your tiny little impotence car.”

            “You mean my Mini Cooper? Arguably the coolest and most fuel-efficient non-hybrid car on the road?”

            “Yeah, the one with the backseat the size of a shoebox. Try fucking in one of those things. The Hummer’s built for fucking. You could have sex under the hood if you needed to.”

            “Whatever. What time?”

            “Nine. And, ah, are you planning on keeping that beard thing?”

            I pull on my hipster chin. “Um… why?”

            “Nothing. It’s retarded is all. Why ask why?”

            Huh. “Uh, no reason, I guess. I think I should get back to work.”

            “You don’t have anything else to do. I dumped all your shit on Marcus. All he did today was take pictures of some dude’s ass.”

            “Oh.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “Um, right. Thanks.”

            Terry and I don’t have awkward silences often.

            “So… since you don’t have any more work… want to play some Smash Bros.?”

            Thank god for Nintendo. “Hell yeah.” And that’s what we do until quitting time.

 

            Ruffles isn’t with another dog when I get home, he’s with two. Those little toy poodle twins from two floors down have finally returned his advances and he’s looking smug as hell. He’s spry for a Schnauzer. I have another message.

            “Why the fuck haven’t you called me back? You must have gotten one of my messages. You think you’re miserable now? You have no idea what I can do to you. I will haunt your nightmares. Call me back, fucker.”

            I delete it and my cell rings. It’s Shelly.

            “Csupo, are you and Terry doing anything tonight?” She doesn’t sound as perky as she did this morning.

            “Yeah, he’s dragging me along to the Ruthless Raven. Again. You want to come?”

            “No, I shouldn’t. I’m not feeling so hot. My boss kept sneezing toward me today. I think I caught whatever he has. Still, I didn’t talk to Terry today, and he usually calls me for phone sex around three.”

            Ooooooogh. “He was in a meeting with corporate. I’ll tell him, um, that you missed him.”

            “That’d be great. Okay! Bye!” She hangs up before I can again. I go to my closet to start getting dressed, but I realize I don’t have anywhere to be for three hours. I microwave some leftover pasta and sit around until it’s time to go.

 

            I’m at the Ruthless Raven by nine-thirty. As expected, Terry’s still outside, buying ecstasy. He sees me, but only makes eye contact. He pops two blue ones, musses his hair, nods to me, and we enter.

            The Raven’s packed for a Wednesday. I spot a few of the people I’ve had idle chatter with while Terry was trying to get in some girl’s pants and I was alone, but they’re all off in their own worlds, probably also chemically assisted. As predicted, considering every other time we’ve come to the Raven, the first person we talk to is Fuck-Fuck Frank, who fills up my entire view of the bar.

            “FUCK! Guys, it’s fuckin’ Terry and Csupo! Fuck, man, where the fuck have you guys been? It’s been a fuckin’ age, motherfuckers!”

            “Heya, Frank! We just got here. Csupo’s playing it sober tonight.”

            Fuck-Fuck Frank, real name Franklin Pinochelli, is a massive brute, capable of crushing sealed beer cans to the size of a garden snake in his fist. He looks like Bluto from “Popeye”, complete with beard, squint, and tiny legs. He’s the person I’d least like to get into a fight with.

            “Terry, you fuckin’ got any shit for me tonight? I fuckin’ need to get fucked up, man. This shit is fuckin’ lame if you’re not fucked up.”

            “I hear you, brother. Close your eyes and stick out your tongue.”

            Fuck-Fuck Frank is nothing but obedient when it comes to drugs, especially when they’re from Terry, and he feels his pallet overflow with powerful lysergic acid diethylamide. In the few years they’ve known each other, Terry has never given Frank a drug that didn’t serve him well, and Frank has paid Terry back with popularity, women, and, whenever he needs it, muscle. Two simultaneous overdoses and one painfully awkward threesome with a German prostitute later, the only person Terry’s closer to is me. I don’t much care for Frank, but he’s at least tolerable.

            “Fuck, dude. I’m fuckin’… I’m fuckin’… I’m fucked to fuckin’ Fuckville Station, hombre.”

            “Am I wrong? Have I steered you wrong, my friend? C’mon, let’s meet some chicks.”

            “Careful, buddy. Make sure they’re not pros this time,” I say.

            Terry laughs, but Frank doesn’t. He turns.

            “… What?”

            “Well, you know, remember? The German hooker? You guys had a…”

            “I fuckin’ remember what happened, fucktard. What the fuck’s so funny?”

            “I mean, it’s just a… a funny situation, right? You guys didn’t even know she was a hooker until…”

            “Don’t you fucking tell me what happened! I was fuckin’ THERE, fucker! That whore gave me fuckin’ herpes! You think that’s fuckin’ FUNNY, man?!”

            “Um, uh, it’s just, I joke about that with Terry all the time. He laughed. I mean, isn’t it…”

            “NOT FUNNY! YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

            Oh, shit. I think I just got into a fight with Fuck-Fuck Frank.

            “Fucking say something! Apologize, fucker!”

            He’s reaching for his belt. Oh god. He’s got a gun.

            “Apologize! I’ll fuckin’ cut you, motherfucker.”

            Oh, good. It’s just a knife. Wait. Still bad. Wow, I’ve never seen the Ruthless Raven be this quiet before.

            “Okay, Frank, listen, man, you’ve gotta calm down.”

            Terry’s mouthing something to me from behind Frank. I can’t tell what he’s trying to say.

            “You fucking think this shit is funny? You fucking think I’m going to fucking calm the fuck down? What the FUCK do you think I think, fucker?”

            His mouth is huge. What the hell is Terry saying?

            “Hey! Hey! Fucking look at me! Fuck, man!”

            He’s given up. Now he’s just mouthing one word. “Run.” And bam, I’m darting around in the parking lot, looking for my car. Frank’s right behind me.

            “Get the fuck back here! Hey! I’ll crush your fucking skull!”

            He can, too. There’s my Mini. If I didn’t have a solid head start, he’d be on me already. I’m in my car and out of the parking lot within moments. The road looks pretty much clear of all traffic, but of course, Frank’s behind me in his Explorer, high above the road. I keep expecting him to honk, but he’s too smart for that. He has me, he just knows it. I hit a hard left onto the freeway, and, of course, my cell phone rings.

            “Hello?”

            “Csupo? Where are you?” It’s Shelly. She’s gasping out words between sobs.

            “I’m, um, I’m leaving the Raven. Why, what’s wrong?”

            “Terry, gasp, Terry dumped me.”

            I’d slam on the brakes if a lunatic wasn’t behind me. “What? Are you serious? When?”

            “Right after I talked to you. Oh, god, Csupo… this… this ruins everything. My life is over.”

            Geez, she’s never been this broken up before. I really can’t talk to her now. “Look, Shelly, this really, really isn’t a good time. Can I call you in, like, an hour?”

            “Um… I guess. But this is really important.”

            “I know. Just… hold on. Please.” Then this comes out of fucking nowhere. “Hey, I love you, all right?”

            “Ah, okay. But, Csupo, I think I’m preg­…” I click my phone shut and change lanes. Shit. He’s right behind me. My phone rings again.

            “Hello?”

            “Choop? Dude, are you okay?” Terry. Of course.

            “Yeah, he’s way too close. What the fuck, man?”

            “What? What?”

            “You fucking dumped my sister! What the hell?”

            “Oh, yeah, I mean… y’know… hee hee hee hee…”

            “Are… are you laughing?”

            I hear something muffled, like he’s whispering to someone else. “Um, uh, yeah, dude, someone brought some Whip-It’s, and… man… dude… have you tried this? Hee hee hee… it’s… hee hee hee… it’s the best.”

            “Hey, Terry, do me a favor.”

            “What’s up, man?”

            “Go fuck yourself.” I slam my phone shut hard and squeal onto an off-ramp toward downtown. I think I might be able to lose him in the buildings. God, if he has a gun, I’m screwed.

            I’m looping past the hotel district and my phone rings again. I forget to check the caller ID.

            “Hello?”

            “Csupo. You don’t call me back. This is so fucking important. What the hell’s your problem, you little shit?”

            Damn. I should have screened. “Hi, Mom.”

            “You know what I talked to Shelly about the last time I talked to her? That fucking dealer of a boyfriend she’s gotten herself attached to. Terrance something. Looks like he eats pot and shits peyote. Fix this.”

            “Mom, I don’t think this is going to be a problem anymore.”

            “What? Why not? Oh, shit, are they getting married? Csupo, so help me, I will not be responsible for my actions toward you if you don’t do something about this. I’ll cut off your dick with a fucking meat cleaver and serve it to that nymphomaniac dog you’ve got while your damn pecker’s still attached. I’ll bring that druggie down with you if I have to. She’s a good girl! Too good of a girl to wind up with something that… something that fucking… you’re not letting this happen. You’re not. I’m your god damn mother, you piece of shit.”

            “Mom, listen to me.”

            “No. Fuck that. No more listening. I want some god damn action on your part. What do you do? All I ever hear about you doing is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. You sit around your shitty little apartment, napping or watching your dog fuck something. You’re worthless. You want in my will? You keep this marriage from happening. Ugh, honestly, I’m sick to my stomach just thinking about it. I feel bile. There is the taste of bile in my mouth. This is what you’re doing to me. You and the piece of shit boyfriend of Shelly’s. You make this right, okay?”

            I’ve given up. “Okay.”

            “Damn right you will. God damn right. Okay. See you at Thanksgiving.” She slams the phone down violently.

            I look up in my rear-view mirror. Hey, I’ve lost him! I guess I’d better drive home. I start to turn right, toward my building, and hit someone in the crosswalk.

            “Shit!” I hop out of my car. The guy’s lying in the middle of the street, holding his left leg, his right pointed out behind him. Oh, Christ. It’s Marcus.

            “Aaaahh! My leg! Aaaaahh, fuck! What the hell were you… Csupo?”

            “Marcus, aw, man. Um…” Oh my god. Am I really doing this? Am I seriously considering leaving another human being with a broken leg in the middle of the street when I caused the leg to be broken in the first place? Have I grown to be that heartless? My answer comes rather quickly when I see Fuck-Fuck Frank driving at least a hundred miles per hour toward us, down the street I’d be taking home.

            “Hey, what’s that guy doing? That’s… oh, shit, man, he’s gonna hit us!”

            “Not us.” I run back to my car and open the door. On a whim, I reach for my wallet, as if to take it out and throw Marcus some money so he can get a cab or something, but I decide against it. I slide in my car and drive off. In my rear-view, I can see Frank drive over Marcus’ other leg as he crosses the intersection.

            I hit a left turn hard, nearly going up onto the sidewalk. The way I’m going, I’m headed straight for the harbor. He’s too close now to lose again. I need a permanent solution.

My phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Marcus. I roll down my window and throw the phone out.

Frank’s head is outside his window. He’s yelling something, but the wind’s too strong. Unfortunately, it dies down and I can understand him.

“Why the fuck do you keep running? I’ve got you trapped, motherfucker! Pull the fuck over and end this!”

I can’t. Something about this particular circumstance, something about everything that’s happened my entire life, every single problem that’s happened today or yesterday or at any other point since I was born seems to be connected to this one chase. Somehow, everything’s on this one little point. If I screw this up, I’m a failure. I’ll be devastated, emotionally and physically, after he’s done with me.

I make another right turn and I can see the harbor. Man, if I keep going straight, I’m going right into the ocean.

Hey…

“What the fuck are you thinking, Csupo? Stop your fucking car!”

Fuck you, Frank. I’m done with you. I’m done with everyone. I force my gas pedal to the floor and I’m off like a god damn rocket. Of course, he’s on my tail for most of it, but once I hit the wood dock, it’s over. He screeches to a halt and just watches. I mean, I can only assume. When he hits that full stop, I’m bouncing down the pier, pushing that needle over seventy, with no intention of stopping. And then, just like that, I’m over.

I’m in the air for three, at most five seconds, but it’s the longest and most meaningful three to five seconds of my life. I think about everything. I think about high school. Man, Bobby McCoy. That guy wasn’t actually as bad as most of them. I could have stuck it out, but I’m still glad I didn’t. There’s nothing about those four years that isn’t worth forgetting. Plus, I don’t get to go swimming very often.

I think about Marcus. What a dick.

I think about Terry. Man, I wish I realized what a dick he was earlier. To think, that’s probably the only person in my life I’ve really trusted. I’m blind and I’m stupid.

I think about Shelly. You know, I think she’s going to be just fine.

I think about my mom. She, along with everyone else, will be nice to not see again. As much as I’m going to miss some things, the thing I’ve noticed most strongly in my life is that, frankly, I just don’t like other people. I’ve always been a fan of my solitude. From now on, I’m spending my existence in another element. I’m finished. I’m out. I quit.

 

Oh, shit. I forgot to ask someone to feed Ruffles.

Splash.

 

End