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Paradox (265 hits)

Category: UberMadness! Entry

Rating: 2 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)

Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-12-04 23:40:42 EST

This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.

ReReflecting

Hi there. I've been, umm, I suppose you could say... living. Without much really. Aside from maybe, a real lust for kindness. And some thrift-store clothing. And a little bit of free-loading.

Just sorta, seeing how nice people are, ya know?

It's a great question, by my standards. One of the greatest. Are people good? I speculated yes. And yes, there is more than one way to find out; I just happened to choose the kindness-slash-freeloading-slash-unfashionable one.

"Where ya headed?"

"East."

"How far?"

"'Til I run outta land."

"Well hop in kid -- you're all right."

Just kidding. It never works like that. You gotta fight. Dig in and then fight. Sure, maybe some spots on the 101 are bumping. Maybe you can walk to any reasonable spot on the highway and stick out your thumb and some topless lesbians driving a convertible jag will stop for you. Or maybe you'll get people who take you home and smoke you full of dope and tear out some funky shit on the guitar and feed you organic uncooked vegetables.

But it ain't like that everywhere my friend.

I'll tell you some things, if you'd like. Take a knee, come close, listen up. Sit around the jungle fire and we'll eat some beans and swap some stories.

I'll go first.

It was El Centro, California, man, and as the name might imply, it was dead smack in the middle of California. Well, southern California. And this day, like every day, was a sunny one. It was on account of this fact that I was meeting all sorts of bums with skin like pudding skin.

If you like bums with skin resembling that of butterscotch pudding as it's cooked on the stove and then smooshed -- El Centro, California is the place for you.

Little known fact about bums and menace: the puddinger the skin, the greater the menace.

For example:

"Ain't trying to tell you what to do, but you go to the back of the seven-eleven and you look for these discarded nacho cheese bags. The machines don't suck it all out -- just grab a knife like this, and ya cut it open!"

And that crazy motherfucker stabbed that seven-eleven cheese bag right outta nowhere! He had the knife hiding behind the bag. It was a big hunting blade and it came plunging right through to the other side, along with his hand. Truly a grisly scene -- his wrinkled fist covered in cheese and the carnage of cheap plastic.

Then the fucker told me he was robbing me. "Gimme your backpack," he said. Or something clever like that.

That's when I started doubting the intentions of this man with the pudding skin. Can you believe that? He's holding an exasperated bag of seven-eleven nacho cheese, which he has just stabbed, and his skin looks like the worn stuff on a farm dog's ass, and it just now occurs to me to question his character.

It really did take all those triggers. That's how hard I was trying to be nice. That's how keen I was on kindness. I should have just walked away when he came, but that's what I'm talking about when I say you have to dig in.

"It is all yours, my pudding skinned friend," and I dropped my pack and swept aside with a gentle bow.

With my offering, I assumed came peace.

But Question: How many of us would then stand there on the side of the highway continuing to converse with the homeless man to whom we had just given our backpack, containing everything we required to live -- because he robbed us with a knife?

Show of hands?

Okay, put them down, I get your point.

But still, it takes a special kind of fellow. And that's what I mean when I say you have to dig in.

If you want to get rides, or get free stuff, or free yourself of all sense and responsibility, you must compete with the people attempting to do the same. And those people I will list on the blackboard here:

-The Homeless
-The Homeless Drug Addicts
-The Homeless Schizophrenic Drug Addicts
-The Homeless Homo Schizophrenic Drug Addicts
-The encompassing pudding skin populace
-America

Well, that's the Southwest, anyway. There are slight geographic variations.

Regardless of where you are, you must be prepared to face the insufferable masses. You must be willing to befriend the hobo; to bemoan the rich; to bequeath all possessions. Whatever the fuck that means.

And if you can do all those things -- even the nonsensical ones! -- then you have dug in, and are well on your way to finding freedom.

And this of course, is where the fighting comes in.

Cue fighting. His ring and pinkie fingers suddenly in my mouth, I bit down on them as hard as I could. I could feel the ring finger come clean -- right through the joint -- but the other broke with a grind. The blood and the cartilage and the chunks of bone made me gag and I threw up at the same time expelling his severed digits.

The man with the pudding skin and the hunting knife screamed and I remembered the skin and the knife. I looked down and found it stuck in my thigh. It began to burn and explode and forced my eyes open wide with terror. I screamed and he too screamed and blood was sprinkled all over the on-ramp.

For a moment I felt that he always wanted more than the bag.

What I must admit came as a bit of a surprise to me was a squealing of tires and a pop and an explosion of pain and one dead hobo, his chest now bleeding.

It was a Caucasian-American in a truck. Praise the Lord! -- a Caucasian-American in a truck! He had shot me through the arm, but more importantly, shot the hobo in the heart. An accident, no doubt; he was trying to save me.

"Thank you," I gasped.

Then I noticed he was reloading. My bowels released.

(Pretty soon the fighting starts. Just sit tight. A little drama, first. Love, kinda.)

"You shit yourself," he said.

"You only loaded one more bullet."

"I know."

"And you only had one in there to begin with."

"Yep."

"And you meant to shoot him, right?" I said, knife in my thigh and lead in my arm and still trying to remain optimistic.

"I meant to shoot both you fuckers -- I only had one bullet!" and he snapped the revolver shut.

I squeezed out what little I had left.

"Get in the car."

"You know," I said, "you're the first to stop and pick me up."

"Shut the fuck up."

I did as the man with the cowboy hat and one bullet in his gun said.

The fighting is now coming up. But it's not good fighting. Tell you what, I'll tell you the first part and then you decide if you want to hear the rest.

For now, a little bit more swooning.

"Where are we going?" I dared.

"To shut the fuck up."

Right. Had to shut up. Forgot about that. Knife in my thigh, you know? Bullet in my arm? Yeah. Things were looking kinda grim. And so my head was filled with all sorts of chemicals that only ever get released when you've found something truly exciting. So guess what I wanted to do at that very moment?

Something fun. I was keen on fun and friends and getting free stuff. I was looking for kindness. At all costs. And I'll be damned if I didn't find it.

"We're going to have some fun," he told me.

Oh, why goody, goody gumdrops! Which are sarcastic.

Moving on. To the fun.

Ready?

Hold on tight!

"Still shut the fuck up?" I asked, knowing I was pushing the limits but unable to control myself.

"You have one more sentence."

And I'll be damned if I didn't believe him. I tried to say something real meaningful for my last sentence. Something profound. I said: "What are we gonna do for fun?"

Yep. Swear up and down. That's what I said. Ahem. Kindness. Kindness was what I gave.

And what I got, was Russian Roulette. We were driving to the nearest gas station and in the restroom we were to play.

"Yeah, I play all the time," he said nonchalantly. It almost sounded like he was bragging.

"How the fuck do you play Russian Roulette all the time?"

"I go first," he said, and smiled.

Smiling. Ugh. What an awful thing for a cowboy to do. What an intolerable thing for someone holding a gun to do. I will write letters about people smiling with guns. All because of what happened next:

When I limped into that bathroom and saw him smiling at me from beneath cheap aviators and bucket hat, I really felt rotten. As most anyone would. It was his certainty more than anything that creeped me out. Or maybe it was the bare fluorescent lighting and the mildew-streaked tile. Or maybe the fiery pain in my arm and leg. No -- definitely the certainty. He was looking at me, smiling. Confident. Joyous. Death. He somehow knew that I would be the one to die. And he didn't look all that smart.

And that was fucked up.

I figured the second one would be the one. He had even kinda told me so. It sure wasn't the first one anyway. The hammer clicked. And then he handed the gun to me. I spun the chamber.

His eyes widened and he seemed to grow drunk and giddy. I just lifted the barrel and pointed it to his head and pulled the trigger. The smile was still on what was left of his face as he slumped to the ground. And then, on the mirror behind him, beneath all the globs and chunks and red was my smiling face, holding a gun.

That was the fight. That's why I will write letters about people holding guns and smiling, and this is where I ask you again if you want to go.

No? Then scooch closer.

I was shaken. As you might well imagine. But I was alive. And I had gotten my first free ride. And all of that together felt pretty good, in spite of all the rest. I dropped the gun, heavy and dull right where I stood, and hobbled my way out. The service station was empty, but there were cars at almost every pump. I stood there, wild and silent and weary, until I noticed the clerk's fuzzy head bobbing behind the counter. They heard the shots and saw my blood and got real scared.

There must have been ten people in the store.

"It's okay," I said, "I killed him."

A woman screamed.

"I'm just here to make friends," I assured her, "and maybe get an ambulance."

I heard the clerk dial the phone behind the counter. Three digits, and then some whispering. No one else dared rise either.

I thought that having dug in, and finally FOUGHT, that I would have earned the respect of America. Surely there was someone in here who would offer me a napkin or something to wipe up the blood? Even though I looked like I'd wandered in as the dying hobo from the set of American Psycho?

The budget remake?

"What about you my friend?" I cooed to a young boy clutching his mother behind the candy aisle. I could see them only because I had fallen to the ground.

"I'm scared," he said plainly.

Then I heard the glory of sirens and the store grew dark and an ambulance man told me to relax and I told him that I had a rough one today but there was always tomorrow and he shook his head.

"Give him the gas -- he's fucked."

Those were some pretty tough last words. You try taking those to Saint Peter. You know how the interview goes, right?

"Name?" Gwendolen Meyer.

"Faith?" Agnostic.

"Cause of death?" Loss of blood.

"Last words uttered?" What about you my friend.

"Last words heard?"

There's no fucking way, right? So I'm fighting. Even in my gassed out head I'm fighting. Seriously now, and I kid you not, I could see myself in stars and stripes boxer shorts dancing around alone in a ring inside my head. Literally, inside of my head.

As it was though, it was just that biased jerk pessimism. The medic had only knocked me out. So when I woke up, I was back to high spirits. High, high spirits.

You like Oxycontin, right?

Anyway, the nurses were old but some of them still quite flirtatious and the bed was more comfortable than any sleeping pad on any day. Shit, I was happy. And so I stretched the rules a little bit. Didn't break them! -- just eased them apart enough that I could slip through.

Sure, okay, maybe I made up a few ailments to keep me there longer; no harm, right?

Wrong.

Wrong.

Cue buzzer. Laughing, right? Cue the buzzer!? Sorry. Just come closer. Listen up. It's the best part!

Wrong.

This is America. My health insurance doesn't work down here. And guess what, it didn't work back then either.

One feigned tuberculosis, a case of phantom shingles, two severe flesh wounds later, and I owed the good people at El Centro General Hospital $77,008.56. At least they didn't round up the dollar.

Anyway, that was the end of that quest.

And in hindsight I guess it's more ironic than anything that I went looking for peace and freedom with an open heart and instead got stabbed and shot and robbed for broke.

But I think free bondage is a paradox.

User Reviews

Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:40:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

Stop not being here.

Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:38:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

No Comment

Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:26:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

*high five*