Category Archives: The Loser Chronicles

Human Traffic psp

I WANT YOU TO HURT LIKE

Earl Petty Jr.

(Part 1 of 2)

So I was out on my ass again, no money, no job, no gas in the tank, no life, goddammit…

The unemployment part wasn’t the worst. I love the freedom, sleeping in, and the drinking at noon. What wrings the life out of me is the search for another job. I hate explaining how I need an extra three sheets of paper for the application to list all the jobs I’ve held in the last two years, why the list of my most recent five jobs only covers the last three months of my life, and that I’ve spent more days out of work than in it.

 

And if that doesn’t take the fuckin’ cake, I have to hang out at the unemployment office and watch a video tape (in English and Spanish) on how to fill out an application that’s already overloaded with useless instructions.

 

So I go to the Plasma Center and I get done filling out another personal history this time asking how risky my past sex life has been, (which informs me if you ever even thought about having sex with a homosexual interveinous drug user from and urban area whose had sexual contact with a prostitute from Haiti who had a blood transfusion you are lucky to be alive to fill out this damn form) only to be sent packing when I tell the eerie nurse who smells like kerosene and lemons that I had a sinister skull with one red eye tattooed on my right shoulder three months ago. She tells me I’ll have to wait another three months before I’ll be eligible to visit again. Possible exposure to hepatitis.

 

You know you are screwed when you can’t even sell your own blood.

 

Then I grab six disks constituting the remainder of my music collection and take them to the used CD shop where they are refused on sight – the pimply faced little counter girl won’t even pretend to look up a price on the computer. I take them to the pawnshop and the withered geezer at the filthy counter offers me a buck apiece. I do the math in my head. Six beers at happy hour. Not a bad trade.

 

So, I go home and dig through the rest of my possessions. I find three copies of Jay McInery’s Story of My Life I bought years ago at the “everything’s a buck” store because they were first editions. I open the covers on each and write, “Best Wishes, Jay,” in the most flamboyant hand I can muster. I figure an autographed first edition might be worth something. I take them to the used bookstore. The bloodless lady at the counter with the too tight bun in her hair offers me three bucks apiece. I take it. I couldn’t stomach any of the copies when I read them anyhow.

 

Nine dollars equals nine more beers. I’m a goddamned human calculator.

 

But now I’m tapped, my assets are entirely liquidated. The “everything must go” sale is over. No reasonable offer was refused.

 

Now I have no prospects. I’ve deeply betrayed so many employers in this town that I’m probably blackballed for life. I’m on everybody’s shit list. I’m a leper staggering through the streets screaming, “Unclean! Unclean!” so people will give me a wide berth and not contract what I have, a terminal case of evil luck.

 

What I decide I need to do is get out of town for a few days. Leave the bad karma golems behind, let them latch on to some other poor bastard and run him out of town.

 

 

COOKOUT

Earl Petty Jr.

FIRST PART

(Part 2 of 2)

I landed on my back about ten feet from the grill. It wasn’t that the world receded from me, I was launched from it. I hadn’t even touched the coals. A huge column of flame was still burning, as if I’d punched a hole into hell and dozens of demons were making an escape. I rolled over and something landed in the middle of the street. I stood up, wiped the dirt off my back and walked over to investigate. It was Beth’s lighter. I either threw it when the charcoal ignited, or the explosion knocked it there. I carefully inspected it. There was a long scratch across Rat Fink’s face. I cursed and slipped the lighter in my pocket.

 

I went back to check the grill. The flames had died down but there was a small blue flamed dancing on the surface of my martini, like a miniature Olympic torch commemorating my gold medal performance in the Idiots with Flammable Liquids event. I blew out the flame and poured what was left on the ground. 

 

I went inside, sat the martini glass on the counter, got out a heavy glass tumbler and filled it with ice and Old Granddad. I sat down on the couch next to Beth. I noticed the hair on my knuckles was singed. I took a drink. It was warm, glorious. The best minds on this planet are the ones running distilling plants. Who the hell needs a rocket scientist? Give me a man who can turn fermenting corn into whiskey, potatoes into vodka, wheat into beer, grapes into wine. He’s the alchemist. He’s the genius. I set my attention on the tv. The drill sergeant was screaming, red faced. Behind him was a wide lake. The scene cut to an alligator cruising through the water.

 

“Recruits!” he yelled. “We are going to hit the water, swim out to the middle of this god-forsaken swamp and make love to that alligator.”

 

Silence.

 

“Are you with me!” he yelled.

 

“Sir, yes, sir!” the recruits screamed.

 

“Sir!” one of the recruits said.

 

“Boy” the sergeant screamed, “You got a problem, son? You eyeballin’ me?”

 

“No, sir!” the recruit said. “But that is a male alligator, sir!”

 

“Well,” the sergeant sneered,  “it looks like we got ourselves a god damned herpetologist here!”

 

“Sir, no, sir!” the recruit responded. He stared off into the distance. “I grew up in Louisiana!”

 

The drill sergeant moved his face just inches from the recruit’s face. “Then you of all people should know that when a full-blooded American male feels the urge to engage in sexual congress with the largest member of the reptile family that the gender of the lizard is of little consequence.” The sergeant stood back and scanned the group. “Recruits!” he screamed. “Follow me in.” The sergeant turned and walked into the water. The group of recruits just stood and looked at one another.

 

I took another drink of bourbon. I looked at Beth. She was pouring herself another martini without looking away from the television.

 

“Maybe you should switch to wine,” I suggested.

 

“I’m fine,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be checking your fire?”

 

“Good idea,” I said. I went to the refrigerator, put the four shark steaks on the plate, brushed them with some olive oil and went out the door.

 

Once outside, I saw the charcoal was gray and perfect. I spread the briquettes with a broken broom handle, then placed the grill over the coals and put the meat over the fire. It sizzled and popped. It smelled good.

 

I sat in the shade and had a drink of my cocktail. Beth seemed to be doing a little bit better. Maybe the meal would pep her up. She needed help. If I could just get her out on the town, out to Gary’s Pub, someone there would be able to make her laugh and maybe break her out of her funk.

 

I stood up, checked the meat, and turned it over. It was white and perfect. A cool breeze blew across the trailer court. I lit a cigarette, took a few drags, and waited for the steaks to finish. My mouth watered.

 

I put the meat on the plate, went inside and placed the food on the kitchen counter. I poured some more whiskey.

 

“Last time I grilled shark I sautéed some onions in butter and paprika. It was excellent. I bought some onions today but forgot to prepare them,” I said. “Well, what can you do?” I got out a pair of plates and sat them on the counter.

 

“Beth,” I said. “If you want to grab some silverware, we can eat in about three seconds.” She didn’t respond.

 

I walked over to the couch. Beth was passed out cold. She had switched to drinking straight out of the bottle. She still clutched it in her hand.

 

I took the bottle, screwed on the cap and put it, and the meat, in the refrigerator. I took Beth’s lighter out of my pocket and put it back in her purse. I found her wallet, took out two fives and sat her purse on the couch. I finished my drink. I lit a cigarette, turned off the tv and the lights, and went to the bar. 

 

 

These stories were a staple on the back page of Sioux Falls’ first Alternative Magazine, TEMPEST. The author has given me to permission to post them. I’ll try to get one up everyweek.

COOKOUT

Earl Petty Jr.

(Part 1 of 2)

You can say anything you want about winter, this last long hideous winter in particular, but at least it keeps the assholes off the streets.

 

The cold had kept everyone in the court trapped in their trailers for the duration of the season. I’d adapted to the quiet, tomblike life in my tin can of a home. I liked it. I never had to talk to anyone or listen to crying children, screeching tires, or domestic disputes ringing out of open windows. The snow had insulated me from the world.

 

 But now spring finally arrived and the sky was clear and the sun was hot and the women wore a lot less. Between the heat and light and dizzying, wonderful display of flesh I felt as if I’d escaped from a long sentence in purgatory to a world of Eden. I’d finally woken from a long, dreamless sleep into a grand lurid technicolor reality. I was being allowed to live.

 

Things weren’t so good for my room mate Beth. About the same time the weather broke, she was fired from her bartending job at the Top Shelf. The boss said she gave too many drinks away and he was right. It had been a long time since I’d paid for a drink there. And I swilled great liquor, no bar whiskey for me, punk. I had Rusty Nails made with Johnny Walker Black. My Greyhounds were made with Grey Goose and Absolut. Now I was going to be a regular paying customer. It’s amazing how a shift in personnel can turn a great bar into a shit-hole. In protest I decided I’d never drink there again.

 

Since her termination Beth hadn’t got out much. She had liked the job and the thought of finding other employment was depressing. She just sat around the trailer watching television, smoking and getting drunk.

 

I decided to get some drinks and some meat and have a cookout for Beth. At least it would be something in her day. I stopped at the liquor store, picked up some German white wine, a twelve of malt liquor (talls), a fifth of gin, a bottle of tonic water and a half-gallon of Old Granddad.  I stopped at the supermarket and the meat department had a special on shark steaks. I’d cooked shark once before and I loved the idea of feasting on the reigning monarch of the ocean food chain, so I picked up four. I also grabbed a quart of coleslaw at the deli, a jar of red olives, two large Vidalia onions and a bag of charcoal.

 

It was dog’s work carrying that shit six blocks to my trailer.  By the time I sat the bags on the kitchen floor, my back ached, my knuckles were sore and I was sweating like a butcher.

 

As I started putting things away, Beth came out of her bedroom sat down on the living room couch and lit a cigarette.

 

“Hey,” I said lifting the gin out of the bag. “I bought you a new pair of wings at the liquor store.” I tossed her the bottle.

 

“You’re precious,” she said. “Thank you.”

 

I sat the olives on the counter. “Anytime,” I said. “And those olives of which you are so fond,” I added.

 

She got up and walked into the kitchen. “Oh my,” she said. She opened the jar, selected one from the top with her long fingernails and popped it in her mouth. “Yummy,” she said. “I could live off of these.” She grabbed two martini glasses and her stainless steel shaker from the cupboard. “I’ll set us up,” she said.

 

“Excellent,” I replied. “I will get the fire going.”

 

I went outside, set up the rickety grill, and poured about five pounds of charcoal in the bottom. I arranged the briquettes in a neat pyramid and remembered I neglected to buy any lighter fluid.

 

I didn’t feel like waiting for the fire so I went to my neighbors shed and borrowed a can of gas. I poured it over and around on my charcoal pyramid. I sat the can on the ground and patted myself down for a light. I didn’t find one so I stepped inside and asked Beth for her lighter.

 

“It’s in my purse,” she said. “It’s my Big Daddy Roth lighter so don’t lose it. It’s a collector’s item.”

 

I dug through her purse and pulled out a shiny lighter with Rat Fink painted on the side.

 

“Thanks,” I said. “You got that drink ready yet?”

 

“Yeah,” she said handing me the glass. “I’m halfway though my first.”

 

“It’ll be about an hour for food,” I said. “You’d better pace yourself.”

 

She took another gulp off her martini, draining the glass. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna watch that show I taped last night, New Recruit.”

 

“What’s that?” I asked. I took a sip off my drink. It was grand, beautiful, crystalline. Beth shook a good Martini.

 

She popped a tape in her VCR. “It’s one of those reality shows,” she said. “They take a bunch of regular people off the streets, send them to boot camp. They film the whole thing.”

 

The tape ran. I took another drink. The show introduced all the participants. “They are awfully good looking to be regular people,” I said.

 

“Of course,” she said. “They are all models and actors.”

 

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” I asked. “Shouldn’t they have lawyers and bums and taxi drivers?”

 

Beth rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette. “How the hell am I supposed to identify with ugly people?” she replied. “If I wanted to tune into ugly people I’d watch the news.”

 

“The reporters and anchors are all models too,” I said.

 

“You’re right there,” she said. She poured herself another cocktail. I went outside.

 

I sat my drink on the table next to the grill. The heat of the sun was making the gas evaporate. The fumes were so thick I could see them. I figured that most of the previous dousing had evaporated off so I gave it another splash of fuel. I sat the can down took out Beth’s lighter. I hit the flint and moved toward the fire. As I passed over the lip of the grill, I heard a deep boom and the world began to recede away from me at an alarming rate.

 

TO BE CONTINUED