The Real Olive Garden

I’m hiding in the woods off the shoulder of the expressway with the old security guard’s body. I brought the old security guard’s body with me because I figure an absent body is less alarming than a present dead one, and he didn’t leave a mark anywhere, there was no blood, because I strangled him. It was surprisingly easy. I lobbed one of his arms around my shoulder and I stuck my own around his waist and dragged him along beside me, Weekend at Bernie’s style. Not like there are a lot of people out at 4 AM in the morning. When I saw him in the school hallways, squinting in the dark to make out my figure, to figure out who I was, and I freaked, I chased him down, tackled him, pressed one hand on his throat while the other arm, the forearm, jammed sideways into his mouth to muffle any noises, and waited. Part of his uniform came undone in the struggle, and underneath I could see the white text over the red fabric… the letters “pa.” “I’m a proud grandpa.”

I’ll leave him in the woods when I move again. On him was a gun, a wallet, a walkie talkie, one of those extra simple cell phones for seniors, some gum. Not much else that’s useful. The walkie talkie hasn’t made a peep, neither has the phone, and I am focusing a lot of my mind power on making sure they keep it that way.

*

It’s a stupid question, Did I think it would be an issue. Of course I didn’t think it’d be an issue. When the reps visited, corralled our entire town out onto the bleachers of our high school football field, trouble was the last thing on anyone’s mind. They were so upbeat, those reps, so good looking, so at the peak age of alive, they seemed so natural and appropriate, it put us all at ease. Granted it felt like a cheesy seminar but they were aware of that, too, made jokes at their own expense, said things like, “Cheesy, I know, but…” and we accepted them. We would’ve accepted them even if they weren’t like that, because we had heard about towns that hadn’t cooperated, but this was the gracious placement of lube before entry, and it made us feel as if we were in their debt.

They talked to us about the verb, “To be.” “What does it mean to be something?” they asked, and fielded responses as if it were a giant classroom. They asked us if we were proud of being certain things in our town, providing certain roles for those around us, proud of who we were, and we all said yes. Then they singled out some of us to specify.

“A schoolteacher”

“A fireman”

Then they stopped to explain that we didn’t have to define ourselves by our jobs. “That’s only one part of your life,” they said. Then they asked again.

“A class clown”

“A movie buff”

I remember my mom getting chosen and saying “A proud mom,” and looking down at me, aptly, proudly.

*

When we got the paperwork, the page where we described who we were contained a drawing of a tee-shirt. “Proclaim who you are below,” read the caption at the top, sort of smugly, in retrospect. “We’ll take care the rest.”

My parents were concerned when I showed them mine. It was supposed to be a creative play on the idea of “being” something. Instead of “being,” I was “seeing.” There was the homophone thing going on, sure, but I thought it was saying more than that, because “being” something felt so static, and “seeing,” on the other hand, took action, required a person to go out and do something other than to stand in a space shouting “HERE I AM.” And I thought the Dr. Pepper reps would appreciate that. Maybe they’d even be impressed enough to hire me a a marketing executive or something. So I convinced my parents it was ok for me to submit, “I see a bright future in every day.”

*

I don’t know what they’ve done to my parents. All I got was a single text from mom while I worked the graveyard shift at the bakery:

“Don’t come home. Don’t text back until you hear from us. They are looking for you. We love you”

Nothing since. After the text, I left work early, around 3 AM, and broke into the middle school to steal supplies from the cafeteria and an AM/FM radio from the A/V closet. It was a Saturday, so I knew I had a night before I had to leave.

The next day I spent avoiding custodians while listening to broadcasts about me. How I had set off a bomb in Wal Mart, killing a mother and her daughter. How they had unearthed blog accounts of mine calling for the end of capitalism by any means necessary and headshots of Howard Zinn and Timothy McVeigh photoshopped over glittering hearts. How, in my bedroom, they had found a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook, a number of tools needed to build bombs, live ammunition, but no guns. I spent a lot of that day crying, out of rage, out of grief, then back to rage, before night fell again, and I found myself strangling a Proud Grandpa.

*

I hear the cars buzz and cluck past me in either direction. I know if I keep near the expressway, in the direction of traffic, the next town’s in 35 miles. I have some water but little food. The Proud Grandpa lies next to me, stiff. What I am coming to terms with right now is that there is no turning back. There is no way to absolve myself of any accusations. I have murdered, and there is a chance I will have to murder again. I can only hope there are others like me, and we can help each other. The past is dead and ought not to be dwelled upon. All I see now is the future.

New book trailer for Ways I Could Be Living. Song by Unrest (Angel I Will Walk You Home).

deepbones:

Book trailer for Ways I Could Be Living

My friend Bryan Lowry made a video about me and my book Ways I Could Be Living coming out this spring. I say “uh” and “um” a lot but I say some cool things.

My man likes me with a little extra padding. I don’t see a problem with that. Sometimes I get winded walking up stairs, or walking for a little, but that’s minor stuff when you think about it, I mean, it’s not like I’m a professional athlete or anything, so there’s that, so who cares. I want to make him happy. Besides, I don’t really mind eating a little unhealthy. Who wouldn’t? Shit, if I can eat a milkshake and not feel guilty about it, you better believe I’m gonna. Sure beats the alternative, with all that granola and organic crap, tastes like effing cardboard.

And how much guff can you give me? Really. When you got women starving themselves to look like Tyra Banks. Bulimia and all that self-image stuff, and Barbie. Paying ten grand for boob jobs so some dentist’ll marry them. Let people talk. Everyone talks about everyone else, anyways, so what do I care? The day people stop talking behind people’s backs about every little thing they can think of is the day I start caring. You know? People are gonna find something to judge against you no matter how hard you try. In fact, the more you try, the more they’ll judge you for that! For trying too hard! It’s a catch-22, so whatever, let people talk, big effing deal.

For breakfast, if I get up early enough, I’ll order from Eddy’s. I looove Eddy’s. They got good biscuits and gravy. I’ll order that with one of those coffee-flavored frappes, maybe a side of hash browns depending on how I feel, for pick up. Sometimes I’ll get the Hungry Man, but I’ll admit I tend to avoid it on account of the name. Then I head over to work and eat at my desk. I can tell some people in the neighboring cubicles are a little bothered by it, but until they say anything I have no intention of stopping. After that one of my coworkers always goes on a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee run around 11, so I’ll ask him to grab me a chocolate glazed and an iced coffee. I get lunch around one. All around our office are these places with great lunch deals. Buffalo Wild Wings has this awesome buffalo chicken sandwich with pepper jack cheese for seven dollars. Pecky’s, they’ll let you get 5 pieces of fried chicken, two sides, and a coke for six bucks. And then there’s Panera, Potbelly’s, Gigio’s… I mix it up at lunch time, for sure. Then maybe later in the day a bag of chips and a coke.

My friend Sondra’s been trying to get me to go for walks during lunch but most of the times I’ll get my food delivered or have someone pick it up for me and eat at my desk. Gotta give Sondra credit though. “It’s not about image,” she tells me. “It’s about health.” I listen to her because she understands why I’m doing it, and she’s got a point. I mean, I know all about all that stuff, like diabetes and heart disease, so I have been trying for her, at least, I try to go out for walks with her on nicer days, it’s just exhausting, and shit, on the hot days, I have no problem saying I sweat pretty good, I don’t like coming back to the office all glowing and sticky.

My doctor gives me a hard time, too, but right now I got more pressing situations to take care of before I can start looking into trying to find a way to eat healthy while keeping my shape. Bills to pay. My lease is up in three months, and they’re talking about upping the rent, so we might have to move. And I might have to look into getting a new vehicle soon. Not to mention my man. My man, he sees me with a fruit salad, he’ll start getting concerned. Like I’m fixing to go bean stalk on him or something. Oh, you better believe he’s an enabler. I haven’t even mentioned dinner.

At dinner we mix it up, sure, typically it’s Chinese or Mexican, but our favorite place is Domino’s. We’ll order a large pie, half pepperoni (me) and half sausage (him), and an order of cheesy bread, and always, he’ll deny this, but always, he’ll have like one bite of the cheesy bread, and then sort of make me have the rest. Not “make me”, really, that makes it sound like he forces it on me. But like once we’re finished with the pizza he’ll get this little devilish grin on his face and pick up the cheesy bread and like, feed it to me out his hand. I think he thinks it’s sexy. And just recently Domino’s stuffed the inside of the cheesy bread with cheese too, so what’ll happen now is he’ll feed me a bite, and when I bite into it a big old strand of cheese won’t break off from the rest of the cheesy bread when he pulls it away, sort of like the spaghetti in Lady and the Tramp, or really even more like a thread of saliva, and he’ll take the hand not holding the bread and wrap the loose strand of cheese around his index finger until it snaps off and it looks like he’s got this juicy moist cast round his finger, and he’ll stick his finger into my mouth, and I’ll, you know, suck it all off, and because I know he likes it, I’ll make some sexy noises, and we’ll keep doing that until the bread’s all finished. But you should see the look he gives me. It’s the look I’ve dreamed of a man giving me my entire life, as stupid as it sounds it makes me feel loved and wanted.

And I just take it day by day. I’ve been taking it day by day for the past two years with him, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy. If something health-related happens, we got insurance, we’ll take care of it. But you can’t live your life afraid of that stuff all the time. Everyone has their habits, vices, whatever. So like I said, let em talk, you know? We love each other.

When I first started dating Lenore she told me I’d know when she fell in love with me. “Trust me,” she said with a small smile while we sat at a fancy French restaurant. It was as if she already knew I’d fallen in love with her, and now it was a matter of waiting for her to catch up. And this was true. I fell in love with Lenore after our second date, her confidence, her conventional beauty, her smile, her sense of humor, but I don’t know how she discovered it. I must’ve given off some pretty obvious vibes for her to make such a self-assured remark. And I kept it in mind. I thought about what she told me every time we met, straining my ears for a hint that the feelings I had for her were reciprocated.

Was she into weird sex stuff? Molested as a child? Maybe a drug addict. Maybe a CIA operative. Hermaphrodite?

Ha. The things I thought.

But she was right. I knew it as soon as she said it because it was beyond whatever I could’ve imagined. When she explained it to me, it reminded me of that joke, The Aristocrats. I told her that and she nodded and laughed.

“Yeah! I always thought of it that way, too.”

And still, despite its bizarreness, there was no shaking in her voice when she told me. No fear of me leaving her. Maybe it was the fact that she showed she was in love with me. Maybe that sort of softened the blow of what she just explained. Because I was happy when she told me; in my mind, she loved me first, and the cat orgies, they were second.

The next week we went over to her parents’ house. The whole family’d be there. We had already talked about marriage at this point. She told me she told them she thought I was the one, and it made me glow.

Before we went over she offered me a tab of ecstacy. Seeing as it was my first time and all.

“They won’t mind?” I asked. “I want to make a good first impression.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re going to make a good first impression. Believe me.”

I was rolling pretty hard by the time we pulled up to the house. I kept grabbing the inside of Lenore’s thigh and she swatted it off.

“Save it for later.”

I asked her if it was ok for me to tell her I was horny. She shrugged and told me it was fine without taking her eyes off the road. “Ok,” I said. “I’m horny. This ecstacy is great. I’m ready to do this Lenore. I love you.”

She nodded in approbation.

“You’ll do fine.”

Her mother opened the door, or I assumed it was the mother, she looked like Lenore but older so I guess it was her, but before I could introduce myself to her her mouth was over mine, tongue counting my fillings, poking the hole where my wisdom tooth had been removed, and I was kissing back, brought her in up against me, and I heard Lenore on her father in the same way. The four of us promenaded into the living room, constantly kissing and groping with occasional glances down the hallway to make sure we didn’t bump into anything, and as we promenaded our partners kept switching. Next it was Lenore, then Lenore’s dad, then Lenore’s mother again, and in the living room was Lenore’s sister and brother on the couch, the sister splayed out with her hands over heard while the brother pleasured her orally.

My jacket was off and so were my pants and someone’s mouth was on my member when we heard a proclamation from the top of stairs, stately, regal, stentorian, your choice.

“Here I come.”

We all removed our mouths and genitalia from whatever mouth and genitalia they were attached to at the moment to listen. We heard the quick steps down the steps, heard his paws click clack over the marble tiles, and then there he was. Mittens the cat. Decked out in a monocle and a top hat, he sauntered in to the living room and took in inventory. Licked his lips.

I’ve never been penetrated before and I’m glad the first time was Mittens. His member was that of a normal cat’s — not very large at all — so that I got more sensation out of his furry body bouncing off of my buttocks than the actual intercourse. While it happened, I thought, This must be what it feels like when a baby gets his bottom powdered.

Lenore explained, much like a toast, these orgies did not finish until mouth and genitalia had connected with everyone’s mouth and genitalia, so obviously it took some time. When it did finish all of us were sweaty, naked, and pleased. We stood up and wiped fluids off our skin and smiled at one another. It felt like the end of a well-played soccer game. I even had the urge to shake everyone’s hands and say, “Nicely done.”

We sat down to a delicious roast beef dinner in the dining room. Mittens didn’t, however. After the orgy he sauntered back out the way he had sauntered in, mewling “A pleasure!” over his shoulder before he turned the hallway and went back up the stairs.

Everyone at dinner seemed to like me. I tried to pay the same amount of attention to each and every member of the family. None of us had put our clothes back on. We’d get dressed while Lenore’s mother made coffee and served dessert, and a month later Lenore would tell me everyone thought I was wonderful, and I was welcome back any time, and I felt very good about this.

*

I still hadn’t proposed to Lenore when we moved in together but I told her I would when the time was right, much like she told me I’d know when she was in love with me. We got a lovely house in a lovely suburban gated community that was close to my workplace. We’d go to Lenore’s family’s house every other month to do the same thing we always did. The only thing that differed was Mittens’ entrance and departure speech.

“Hello, you beautiful people!”

“Hasta la vista.”

“Oh, let’s get things started!”

“Time for a nap.”

“It’s Mittens time!”

“Thanks, guys. ‘Til the next one.”

Lenore told me that Mittens was as old as her mother, Marta. Maybe older. Marta got Mittens as a child, and Mittens never aged. Mittens started talking to Marta when she hit puberty. Single sentences much like the ones he said before and after the orgies. And soon Marta found herself enamored with the cat. She hid this from her family but decided when the time came for her to get married and raise a family, they’d learn to love Mittens the same way she did, which was physically.

Lenore admitted to wishing she could bring Mittens to the house, but she knew her mother’d never approve. “They’ve been together too long,” she’d say sadly, one of the only topics she addressed that actually seemed to hurt her. “But I love Mittens just as much as she does.”

I’ll admit, too, that I had developed a strong affection towards Mittens. Something about him made you want him around all the time. He made you want to give yourself up completely to him, let him do with you whatever he pleased. A mysterious, hypnotizing cat. A one-of-a-kind.

So I started to research. I looked up cat orgies online. Ageless cats. Cats who can talk. I finally found a site, an occult site (surprise surprise) that provided folklore about demons manifested in feline form that went back as far as the ancient Egyptians. It was told that only a handful of these cats still existed today, many of them drowned or burned throughout history in a series of what some may call feline pogroms, and it was unclear how these cats came to be, when, or if more could be created through eugenics. I contacted the owner of the website to see whether he had more information but he didn’t. I didn’t let him know about Mittens, seeing as he was apparently such a rare and potentially coveted after commodity.

It pained me to see Lenore sad. I wanted to find a new Mittens for her, as a surprise. I went to her parents’ house for an unscheduled visit alone. I told Lenore I needed to pick up some things.

Over a cup of coffee in the living room where the orgies took place I talked to Marta and Edgar — Lenore’s father — about Mittens. “Your daughter would love a Mittens of her own,” I explained.

They looked at each other uneasily when I told them, mid sip, then supped, and put their coffee mugs down on the porcelain coasters. Edgar cleared his throat.

“We’ve tried,” he explained to me, answering a question I didn’t need to ask. “For a long time we tried. We wanted to give all of our kids one, to pass onto future generations. But Mittens, it seems he’s sterile. We’d find a lady cat in heat for him, they’d go at it, and no results! No litters. He must’ve fucked every cat in town, to be honest. We’re at as much of a loss as you are.”

“And I’d give him up,” Marta said, “but I don’t even think it’s possible. I don’t think he’d approve. Honestly, there are times where if I’m away from him for too long…”

She stopped, looked down, and supped. Edgar finished for her.

“She gets sick. Nausea, headaches, pain all over her body. It seems Mittens and her are attached in some way, spiritually, and they’re gonna be together for the rest of Marta’s life.”

I bowed my head in exasperation, tried to conceal the lightbulb that went off over my head.

*

Mittens watched me as I set up his playroom. I put a scratching post in one corner, food and water dish in another, kitty litter another. Against one of the walls I put a ladder for him to climb with a mousey toy dangling from the ceiling. Also in the room was a button Mittens could step on, calling for more Fancy Feast in his plate any time he pleased.

“It’s a nice place,” he told me.

After the room was put together to satisfaction I put the proposal charm around his neck. He yawned.

“I’ll get used to this,” he said.

And then we waited together for Lenore to get home.

I heard the door open and called for her to come over. When she walked into the room and saw me and Mittens the car keys and shopping bag dropped from her hands and hands shot to mouth in a joyous gasp. “Oh my God!” she said, and the tears were already coming down her cheeks.

I smiled. Mittens licked his lips stoically. I told her to pick him up.

“Oh Sam oh Sam you’re the best Sam oh Sam.” And when she picked him up and saw the proposal etched on the pendant she yelped again and looked at me, laughing, crying, everything. “Oh, Sam!” she said, dropping Mittens and putting my head in her hands.

“Yes!” she said between kisses. “Of course! Yes!”

I’d take her to where I buried them later that night and she’d feign remorse but it would be all too clear she was happy with what I did.

She learned to enjoy the wheelchair after a few months. It brought back vague memories of being a child in a stroller when he pushed her around town on a nice day. Except, she remembered, the stroller, it was more of a home than the wheelchair, it sort of wrapped you up and made you feel safe and protected, and these walks, these strolls, didn’t really make her feel like that. She wished she could have a wheelchair she could sink into, with canvas on either side, and maybe one of those transparent hoods you saw that protected children from rain. She wished those existed but they didn’t because she asked him to check it out online once with no luck.

She could only really go on walks if the pain wasn’t bad that day, and even then it could start while they were going about town and they’d have to rush back home and give her her pain meds. If she was in pain, the slightest bump underneath one of the wheels could travel throughout her whole body, make her shout out, helplessly, causing others around them to turn and look, and give those looks she despised, of pity, sadness, disgust.

If she had the energy the words out of her mouth were typically along the lines of “I would understand if you wanted to leave me,” which hurt him, so she rarely spoke, even if she could.

The doctors warned her against abusing the drugs and she wondered why it mattered if this was going to be this way the rest of her life. It seemed silly to tell someone in her condition not to abuse anything that could help her escape a common and excruciating pain. She tried not to, anyway. Whenever she did take more than she needed he never protested and she was happy he didn’t because it meant he had a good understanding of what she was going through.

He could leave, though. She really wouldn’t hold it against him. She easily could get an aide paid for by the state to take care of her. He knew that, she was sure, but he was still around, and she liked to wonder, how much of it was out of loyalty, how much of it was him trying to be a good person, how much of it was him achieving moral high ground over others. They’d only been together for eight months when it happened. Not for a short period, but not necessarily very long, either. A weird limbo period, and they both knew it, but never discussed it.

She wished she could pay more attention to him, watch him when he wasn’t thinking about being watched, get a better idea of what he was thinking, but her condition kept her from doing so. She could hear him in other rooms preparing meals or cleaning the apartment but she could not see his face, she could not see whether he was happy or trying to be happy. All she could do was sit still and hope he got into her field of vision. Until then, watch the television, though sometimes she liked to sit in the den with a book on tape playing over the stereo with her eyes closed.

And then one day it finally happened. He lifted her out of her wheelchair and sat her down on the soft carpet of the den, propped her body against a mountain of pillows and blankets placed against the foot of the couch, and he sat Indian style in front of her, his hands constantly reaching up at his face to claw rub and massage.

I love you, I don’t want us to not stop seeing each other, but…

She knew it was coming. It made her happy. Tears started coming down her eyes, and it killed her because she knew he wouldn’t be able to tell that she was happy, or maybe he would.

When she started crying he started crying. He fumbled out a small jewelry box. I wanted you to have this, he said. To remember me by. He opened it. A small modest gold ring. He shook his head. I don’t know. I don’t know how I was supposed to go through with this. Everything’s already arranged. I took care of it all. Your parents know, too. I plan on visiting, believe me when I say that, but it’s become too much…

Still crying, she muttered, nodded, It’s ok.

That was all he needed to hear, and for the next five minutes they sat together out of a twisted feeling of relief, happiness, a tension deflated across the entire apartment.

He took her hand in his. It hurt but she made no noise. He took her ring finger like it was air, and that hurt too but she made no noise. It was only until the ring was on, the feeling of the metal sliding against her skin like a knife slicing off the upper level of the skin, that she screamed, a high pitched note held out over the two of them.

I keep praying one day you’ll come back. I think that’s what keeps me going. One day we’ll wake up and you’ll turn over, smile, say “Good morning, honey,” instead of giving me that stare, confused, scared, a little amused, before saying “Who are you?”

But I guess that’s why you get married. So that if something happens to me you take care of me and if something happens to you I take care of you, and it happened to you. That’s what I’m here for, I’m here for you, the same way you’d’ve been there for me, so, ok. Is it really you, though? And at this point — does it even matter? Why bother myself with questions that can’t be answered, excuses that are just a way to rationalize my own selfishness. I won’t go down that road.

We did have, what, 25 good years together? Great years even. Most people don’t even get that. They get divorced, they get cheated on, they die, they get bored. 25 years is good. It’s great. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d even take you just remembering our walks in the park long enough for you to tell me at the end of them that You had a good time. These days, I’d take you remembering a single entire pleasant moment with me. Just a simple squeeze of the arm and a smile and a Thank you. If I could just have that I’d be happy. Before you forget again.

We have a house and the house is filled with memories, photos, souvenirs, newspaper clippings, and sometimes after you’re asleep I’ll go downstairs, maybe with a glass of scotch, and walk the halls like it’s a museum, picking up things, studying them, recalling their moments, remembering enough for the two of us. At least I’d like to hope so.

Your parents visit once a week. We play Scrabble while keeping an eye out for you. They make me feel better, too. Your mother, she looks just like you sometimes, and talking to her, remembering, I can trick myself into believing that it’s you I’m talking to, like you never disappeared, and the way they are so happy with me, appreciative of what I’m doing, helps a lot. I think I’d ask them to move in with us if I didn’t think it’d sound so weird. But they’re retired. They’re enjoying their free time. And as much as I hate to say it the doctors said maybe seven years, tops, so it’s not like the rest of my life’s with you, unfortunately, maybe not so unfortunately, I loved you and I miss you, but You now is not the same, it’s a moral obligation, sometimes I imagine lighting the house on fire and the two of us burning alive together, it feels like it’d be the right way to handle things some times, as if, if you’re not going to remember, what’s the point of remembering myself, why not cut to the chase.

For now, though, for now I’ll cling out to my hope, and it might be a fruitless hope, but crazier things have happened, right, people disappear, reappear, people predict tremendous events, are predicted to die and then miraculously recover, so Why Not You, who says it can’t happen to You, maybe it’d be enough to make me convert, ahem, God, ha ha, I’m just joking though, who am I writing to, I’m writing to you when you come back, I guess.