Opening Chapter to a Book I'm planning to write

“You are a useless piece of shit!” A plate whizzes by my head. My mom forgot her meds again. She says she doesn’t need them. There’s a hole in the wall that says otherwise.

“Don’t have anything to say?” she yells. What’s there to say? Any response I have will piss her off more. I avert my eyes. This happens a lot. Inexplicable rage. I’m here, so I’m the target.

“Coward,” she says. Call me what you will, you’re the shit-mother of year. I don’t care what you have to say anymore. I just ignore her. She stomps out, frustrated.

Dad’s not home yet, probably at some bar drinking away his troubles. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were having an affair. I wouldn’t blame him. Before he gets home I gotta clean up. Hide the hole. I’ll slip the pills in her food. Some mood stabilizers, a sedative, anti-anxiety meds. A hodgepodge of drugs. I’ll throw a sleeping pill in there for good measure. Should keep her quiet for a while. Then when he gets home, we can pretend we are a happy, normal family.

You know, the funny thing is, I don’t feel anything after almost being bludgeoned. I don’t tear up; I’m not upset. I’m numb, used to this by now. At the very least, I’ve gotten quite good at dodging. I grab a broom and sweep up the mess. I tell myself, “This is why we can’t have expensive things.” My mom’s outside smoking a cigarette. She says it’s the only thing that keeps her sane. Sane? That’s a pipe dream. I have to start making dinner. As per the usual.

You know, I’ll make a special meal today. It’ll cheer everyone up. I’ll make our family’s favorite, chicken pasta. Start boiling the water. Put a pan on the stove and turn on the burner. I cut up the onions, slice up the chicken, dice up the mushrooms, and crush the garlic. “It’s a bit tiresome, but it’ll be worth it,“ I tell myself. Cooking the chicken, the vegetables and the noodles takes about half an hour. I have to set the table now. The whole process takes a bit over an hour.

Wonder why Mom hasn’t come back in yet. She probably went for a drive to cool off. Well that just means I have the house to myself. I go through her drawers and steal a cigarette. Light up. The smoke comes out in waves. It’s times like these, where I wish I were the wind. I could vanish at any moment, drift aimlessly among the clouds. I would be a gentle summer breeze, caressing the cheeks of young children. I would make leaves dance. I’d probably be a bit of a prankster. I’d flip old men’s comb-overs, sail spit back into people’s faces, and steal hats and scarves. But I’d never steal a kid’s balloon. If only I could simply fly away. If only.

I hear the front door open. Damn, she’s back. Take one last drag on the cigarette, then flick it out the window. My mom walks in with a smile, as if nothing had ever happened. She’ll never own up to her violence. She always acts like she has temporary amnesia, blocking out everything improper. Like I said, everyone likes to pretend that everything’s normal. But it’s not.

She walks in the kitchen, where I’m doing the finishing touches on the meal.
“Hey Cody, I brought food from the nice Italian place around the corner. You know, that cute place with the vines on the outside. Oh you cooked? Well never mind that. No need for this junk.” She picks up the pot of pasta, and dumps it in the trashcan.
“That took me over an hour to make!”
“Oh quit complaining, it’s not that big of a deal,” my mom retorted. I simmered with silent rage.
“Don’t you give me that look,” she snaps. “How dare you give me that look. I went out of my way, paid good money and got this great food for the family, and all you can do is throw a tamper tantrum? I ought to smack your ungrateful ass.”
“No, it’s nothing. Sorry for the attitude.” I walk slowly upstairs.
“That’s right, leave you worthless piece of shit.”
I’m screaming inside. I want to turn around and throttle her.

My Life Story.

I was born. Head was huge. I was fat. Imagine this picture. Brick through window. Birthing was difficult. Mom slightly screamed. Actually a lot. Scared my dad. He’s still scared. My mom’s loud.

Babies are crazy. I’m no exception. I was annoying. Very loud infant. Hellacious little devil. Never shut up. Pissed everyone off. Sisters hated me. I always cried. So they say. Don’t believe them. I’m an angel. And a liar.

Then came childhood. Some ridiculous times. I broke everything. Sigh, fun times! Had no common sense. I ate dirt. I ate newspaper. My mom’s plants. A human dumpster. Voracious and stupid. But very cute. Way too cute. Got my way. A young tyrant. Ruled the household. Sisters hated me. It’s my world. I own it. So I believed. Cocky little jerk. Mom loved me. Dad’s now confused. I enjoyed it.

Went to school. I broke everything. Got in trouble. All the time. Teachers loved me. I was smart. Only in class. Otherwise, always destructive. Still, very cute. Charmed the ladies. Had first kiss. It was kindergarten. I’m that cool. Just a joke. I’m so awkward. To this day.

Got in trouble. Way too much. Now, boarding school. Parents were tired. Bye, bye Mom! Hello cruel school. Lots of rules. Obey and behave. Please be quiet. Or else, brat. I hated it. Bored to death. Too much detention. I set records. 36 consecutive hours. Not much fun. Cleaned up poop. Horrible, nasty work.

I had friends. Really great friends. We suffered together. Some bad times. Mostly good times. We broke everything. Doors, walls, windows. I mean everything. You name it. Ceilings, toilets, lights. Broke every rule. Teenagers are tornados. We weren’t bad. At times, misguided. But not bad.

Played some football. I’m not athletic. I was slow. Like a slug. Couldn’t catch anything. Played “left out”. Or “right bench”. Not much fun. Used to wrestle. Some nice spandex. Really freaking tight. Didn’t enjoy that. Nor the man-love. Really strange sport. I preferred sleeping. And gratuitous eating.

Girls are mysterious. Never understand them. They’re from Venus. I’m from Pluto. So many failures. Every date – disastrous. I’m a romantic. Got thirty roses. Flat out rejected. What a day. Asked someone out. First date – horrific. I got feverish. And passed out. I’m not kidding. What bad luck. This wasn’t unusual.

Pulled grades up. Got act together. Got into college. An astounding miracle. Graduated with honors. Didn’t bribe anyone. Graduation was bittersweet. I’d miss everyone. My best friends. Always living together. Always being silly. They were special. Friends for life. That’s so cheesy. And yet, true.

Welcome to college. Crazy, idiotic roommate. I hated him. Loud, stereotypical rocker. Never, ever slept. So I couldn’t. My grades plummeted. Eventually, switched roommates. No more hijinks. Focusing on classes. Somehow I survived. Goodbye freshman year. Say hello Recession. No more money. Taking year off.

Just starting now. I’m an adult. Inside, a kid. Quite a past. Many growing pains. Many mistakes made. Life goes on. Gonna keep rolling. Not done yet.

Manifesto on the Legendary, Dreaded “I am”

Ever since middle school, writing essays has been my curse, my bane. By essay, I mean the standardized school essay, the educational system’s method of bypassing the 8th Amendment, “cruel and unusual punishment.” When I am awake in the middle of the night, forced to complete yet another droning, useless assignment on whether Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov is in actuality an evil character, or whether he is merely misunderstood, I look to the heavens and wonder; Am I merely the plaything of some otherworldly creature who enjoys tormenting students?

Writing has not always been boring or monotonous; instead it used to be a childhood joy, a means of expressing my inner thoughts. However, I have been forced to endure the oppressive and stifling restrictions of the standard school essay, imposed by the dreaded English department. The five paragraph essay is the imaginary penitentiary of my creative facilities, like an overbearing mother who still pushes her ten year old in a stroller. The dictatorship (this, of course, is an over-dramatization; my English teachers are not quite fascist) teaches a seemingly never-ending list of rules: you cannot use run-on sentences, do not use dangling modifiers, the passive voice is improper etc, etc, etc. However, there has always been a singular restriction that is paramount: “I”, the infamous “I”, the singular letter banished from the confines of proper essay writing. Despite a life long imprisonment, “I” am victorious and liberated. I have finally found freedom in this college essay, in the revolutionary subject, “topic of your choice”, where I am free to simply write. Who is this mysterious “I”, the subject of this strangely philosophical manifesto?

I am a man convicted, inspired, motivated to become something special, something memorable. I am an uncommon individual, a radically optimistic thinker, a person who can look at the world and imagine positive change. I have these dreams of grandeur, but “I” am simply the subject of my autobiography, a self description, or within this essay, a self deprecation.

I am a vast list of oddities: I rebel against conventional thinking, I dislike the drudgeries and consistencies of repetitive assignments. I have the ability to eat enough on a daily basis to put Joey Chestnut, the man who ate 60 hot dogs in twelve minutes, to utter shame. I have the cartoon-like ability to literally annihilate a bucket of chicken wings (extra spicy, of course.) I am a Republican (I deeply apologize, for I have no control). If the reader has not noticed yet, I tend to be overly sarcastic and dramatic. I am no workaholic, no man preoccupied with the drivels of over-exertion. However, I do provide one extraordinarily rare, redeeming quality, hope – hope for originality and hope for change. I have but one ambition, a humble desire to change the world.

“To change the world” is often a meaningless statement made by beauty pageant contestants or an unrealistic, unfulfilled promise declared by so many disloyal politicians. I am no wispy idealist, nor a raving revolutionary; I simply want to make the world a better place.

I am the future. The beautiful, the magnificent I am, not the I was, but the definitive I will be.

The Night's Noises

The light has fallen; the moon arises. A man snores, unaware of his surroundings. The animals of the night appear. Critters emerge. They crawl, creeping out of their hiding holes. Ants awaken. They leave their nest, in train-like procession. A spider, its gangly limbs wandering about, towers above these peons of the micro-world. The ants shuffle forth, knowing their place. The spider looms, ready to strike. He seizes the stragglers of the pack – they go screaming into the darkness. The ants march onward. They cannot stop to mourn the martyrs, for they will be massacred at the slightest pause. Slipping by slowly, and ever so quietly, the ants, sleepless for days, search for their meal. A breadcrumb here, a dust speck there, they scavenge, sweeping the floor. Their people are starving; their children are withering away back at the nest. Their cargo weighs heavily upon their backs, but they continue. They carry their freight in silent pain, struggling to walk, but still they must return home. However, they know the spider awaits his next meal, relishing the agony the ants feel. Clenching their jaws, the gatherers scurry home, hoping the spider has had its fill for the night. Into the darkness, they go. The spider decides to have dessert. The pack leader stops. He is furious. He signals his followers. The ants ready themselves for battle. They shall not endure this tyrant’s reign. The spider must die. They drop their cargo, and charge forth. The spider yells a battle cry, and the two forces collide. Two ants are killed instantly, ripped to shreds by piercing fangs. The survivors lunge for its legs. They clamp on, desperate to fell the murderer. They are blind with rage. He shakes and squirms but the ants hold strong. The spider may be powerful, too gargantuan for resistance, but there is power in numbers. The pack leader stands tall among the carnage, directing his men. One leg falls, then the second. Soon all eight legs have been torn apart, and the spider lies down, crippled. The leader strides forward, and gives the deathblow, hitting the small of his neck. The ant struggles, cursing in his last breath, then goes rigid. They have won the battle, but there will be more bloodshed to come. From the shadows, the spider’s family comes, their eyes red, glowing in the dark. They surround the troops, thirsty for vengeance. The spiders close in, and the ant’s leader closes his eyes, ready for the inevitable.

Drunken Escapades

Here’s a story I heard from a friend a while back.

His uncle was an alcoholic. Chubby, giant beer belly, balding and rosy cheeked. He lived in a small town, and his house was on the edge of city limits, in a quiet neighborhood. To get into town, he had to take a few unlit roads, through sparsely populated areas. One night, he was out celebrating a football victory with his friends at a local bar. Had a couple shots of tequila, chased with a pitcher of Guinness. Hammered by the end of it all. Of course, through his traditional buffoonery, everyone had forgotten about choosing a designated driver. With drunken logic, he decided the easiest course of action was to drive himself home. He had an old wreck of a car, rusty and smelly. Just like him. It was back from the 70’s, and somehow it still ran, albeit with the occasional hiccup. Anyways, he gets in the car, fumbles with his keys, and starts to head home, knocking over a trashcan on the way. Leaves town, gets to the part of his inebriated journey where the streetlights end. It’s pitch black except for his single working headlight. He’s half on the road, half driving through some farmer’s field. His car begins to make a chugging noise and the engine peters out. Son of a bitch car broke down again. He gets out of the car and kicks the tires, hoping it will miraculously come back to life. A pair of headlights blare behind him. It’s a police car. The officer steps out. He’s a young guy, probably in his early twenties, and most likely a rookie.

“Is there a problem here sir?”
“Damned car just died on me.” He slurs and stumbles on his words.
“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“Nu – uh.”

He then pukes all over the policeman’s shoes. The officer steps back – it’s a particularly rancid vomit. He covers his nose, and turns around to get away from the stench. But as the officer is distracted, the uncle has a brilliant idea. He decides to run to his car and make a quick getaway. The tires screech as he slams on the accelerator. The officer is cussing, screaming at the top of his lungs. He can’t hear him, too concentrated on trying to get home. Somehow, he makes it the next five miles to his house. Wonders why the officer didn’t chase after him. The neighbors are all asleep. It’s three in the morning. He drives over his lawn, pulls into his garage, and closes the door. He attempts to make it to his bedroom, but he passes out on the floor. Four hours later, he wakes up to banging on the door. His head is pounding. He has bile in his mouth. A horrible hangover. Answers the intruder angrily. “What?!?” He opens the door, only to see the officer from last night. The officer’s eyes are bloodshot. He has a vague memory of last night. All he can recall is he bumped into a policeman, and drove home afterwards. The officer sheepishly asks the uncle to open his garage. He grumbles a few words, and opens the door. The police car is there. Apparently, this dumbass was too drunk to realize that he took the wrong car. The officer had somehow resuscitated the other car, and had been looking for his uncle all night. He didn’t press any charges. He was too embarrassed.

What makes you feel alive?

What makes you feel alive? It’s a loaded question. I’m not talking about the cheesy, clichéd stuff: roasting marshmallows by a fireside, a lover’s touch, a child’s laugh, a beautiful, sublime sunset. These are all wonderful things. But what makes you, personally, feel alive?
For me, it’s the buzz after eating a two dollar chocolate bar, after a bad day.
It’s the tea in my favorite café.
It’s the feel of pruned hands.
It’s waking up in the winter, when the cold air numbs my lips, and I can just snuggle in my blankets and forget about everything.
It’s deciding to wake up in the morning to walk to the beach and start a bonfire with a couple close friends.
It’s the chill that rises up my spine when I’m around a stranger that fascinates me.
It’s the sound of bubble wrap popping.
It’s the moment when the thunderclap hits, when I count the seconds after a lightning flash.
It’s the smell of grass the day after a storm.
It’s the look of surprise I see at an impromptu visit to an old friend.
It’s the parting handshake with a close friend, knowing it’s not “farewell”, but “see you later”.
It’s when a child beams when they finally understand a tricky math problem.
It’s being alone and laughing to the empty air remembering an old inside joke.
It’s being together with family after a tragedy, realizing I’m not alone.
It’s the catharsis I feel when I figure out that I love someone.
It’s sweaty palms, tense shoulders and flickering eyes at the uncertainty of life.
What makes me realize the world is worth a damn.
What makes you feel alive?

Carried a dead man today.

Carried a dead man today. So fucked up. The experience was not profound – rather, it was altogether unpleasant. First, he was quite fat. His gut hung through his shirt. His shorts, too small for his sausage legs. Fat billowed out. He was a man unaware of his unsightly appearance. His face was still covered by leftover food stains. I’m still in pain from the burden of his weight.

When a man is fat, most of the time, they smell. And he stunk. His t-shirt had yellow pit stains, his crotch soaked in sweat. At death, people emit foul odors. His was especially bad. All his oils, fats and excrement bubbled to the surface. I carried a fat, dead, stinky toad.

I work as a paramedic. I have to deal with all sorts of nasty things. I usually prefer the dead to the living. The dead don’t speak. I hate mothers and children in accidents. They never shut up. Moms wail, always screaming, “Save my child!” Kids cry incessantly. Quite annoying. People in pain moan. That’s comedic. I always chuckle a bit; it’s a funny sound. I hate my job, but it’s good pay.

I usually prefer a stiff than a living, breathing pile of blood and guts – which is always accompanied by lots of noise. But this lardo ruined my day. I’m outside, dicking around on my shift, when I should be “saving lives” Whatever. Earlier in the day, I’m in my ambulance, drinking my coffee and eating a sandwich. My coworker sits next to me, not a care in the world. He’s a layabout. Doesn’t give a crap about his job, waiting to get his degree so he can get out and become a doctor. A real job. Perfect person to share a cab with.

Get the call, “Dispatch, multiple car pile up at 79th and Madison. All units report.” Finish my coffee. They can wait. Once I was done, I turn on the sirens. Only fun part of the day. I race down the streets, skipping every stoplight, cutting people off. Cars frantically change lanes, trying to get out of my way. Hell, this is half the reason I took this job. Never have to pay attention to any traffic laws.

I reach the scene. Late as usual. All the paramedics frantically scurry about, “saving lives.” Hero complex I say. I go to the to the most wrecked cars, with people that aren’t gonna make it. That means all I have to do is bag and tag. Never have to talk to anyone. I go to this smashed up car, front end caved in, a real mess. Look inside, see a bloody man. He’s dead meat. I wrench the door open, hoping that he’s not breathing. But I’m shocked when I see his face. This is the asshole that was sitting behind me during the ballgame yesterday.

I was at the Yankees game. Fun year, we’re demolishing everyone. My favorite pitcher, Andy Petitte is playing. Having a great game. Yankees are up 8-1. I love baseball, it’s simple. There’s a bunch of roided up people whacking at a ball all day. Paid millions of dollars to play such a ridiculous sport. However its always fun to see them flummoxed by a good pitcher, swinging at air. Emasculated in front of a huge crowd. I love seeing them, muscles bulging, sheepishly walk back to their dugouts. Today is a good day, except for this jerk behind me. He’s a boisterous fellow, screaming chants, as if it will somehow help the team, not like they’re paying any attention. His wife is fat, just like him. Two oversized peas in a pod. She’s not interested in the game, just stuffs her face with food. I’m trying to watch the game, but this guy won’t shut up. Worst of all, he smells. Stupid fat people have no personal hygiene. He’s sweating profusely, stinking up the whole section. Inning after inning he’s shouting, blaring the same old chant over and over, like a goddamned P.E system. At first I was just annoyed, perturbed at this man, intruding on my only escape. But after the sixth inning of this nonsense, I was fuming. I tried to drink some beer, get hammered enough that this would all be a distant memory. But he had this loud reverberating voice that kept on and on. I don’t mind an iron lung, they usually fade out when the game is this lopsided. But despite the inevitable outcome of this game, he continued to scream, oblivious at the anger he evoked in me. I couldn’t help but think – if only he had a heart attack, that would shut him up. I wished he would die. I’ve never been so angry. In the end, the Yankees lost, a disgraceful collapse. Pettite gave up two grand slams before being pulled out of the game. I leave the stadium. We lost. What a shitty day.

And here I am, in front of a man I wished death upon. Wish granted. I frown. I had to lug his ass out of the car. His wife had been taken out of the wreckage and was already strapped to a gurney. I hear her cry, grieving for her husband. Usually I just ignore it. But today, that’s all I can hear. I lay the man down on the ground. Can’t take my eyes off his face. He lies there. Yesterday he was just another man. Today, he’s someone I know, dead.

I sit in my apartment, alone. Light up a joint. Today bothered me. I thought it would be just another day at the office. It’s different when you know the guy. Everyone else were just nameless faces, John and Jane Does. But this guy was fat man from the game. He ruined my day twice. But I remember his wife, unable to comprehend the loss of her husband. All I can think; if only I had gotten there sooner. His wife would have her husband. I’ve never really considered the consequences of my actions. Take a drag on the joint. Blow out plumes of smoke. I look around the apartment. I realize – I am alone. Lost. What the fuck am I doing with my life?

Get to work. Get in the ambulance. My coworker is taking a nap. We get a dispatch. He ignores it. I nudge him awake. I tell him, “Let’s go.” Slam on the accelerator. He’s stunned. This will be the first time I show up on time. But I won’t waste this chance. Never again.