page 1 / 2 / 3 / 4
September 9, 2006 (with author's note)
I didn�t have anything soporifically poststructural to read that night, so I decided to go to Sluggerz and gawk at the crowd. Yes, I was going to a place whose name ended in Z. Before leaving I put on my tank top, the camouflage one I�d stenciled NO MORE WHITE MAN CULTURE across the front of in black spray paint. (I�m white myself.) I also didn�t wear any makeup or shave my armpits, but I did put a pink barrette in my hair.
When I got there I went to the bar and bought a Homer Foamer, a glass of beer with diarrheic-looking chocolate sauce swirling in it�a pretty tasty drink, actually. I took my drink and sat down in a booth. No, I sat down in a dugout. That bar called its booths dugouts.
Ten minutes later this white guy with translucent blue eyes, a blonde buzzcut, pale skin and a small reddish growth on his right nostril walked up to me. �Yeah, no more white man culture!� he said. I could tell he was drunk; he overenunciated in that verbally-staggering way some drunks do before losing the power of speech altogether.
�Yeah, no more white man culture!� he repeated a bit louder. �All that sexism! All those cheesy combovers!� He stood deep in thought for a few moments, then blurted out �I like, uh, what�s her name�Annie DiFranco!�
�It�s pronounced �Aw-nee,�� I said.
�Sorry. I was never the pro at pronunciation. I grew up poor and my family could only afford dictionaries with defective parentheses.�
I was starting to like him and not just in a Special-Olympics kind of way. He looked sort of handsome and had actually heard of Ani DiFranco. He�d actually heard of parentheses.
Suddenly Troy appeared out of nowhere. He was the bouncer�six-five, lumberingly burly and always just a little bit buzzed. He wore that white baseball shirt with SLUGGERZ printed above the left boob in fluffy gold thread. (All the employees had to wear that shirt�one reason I didn�t want to work there.) He slapped his hairy hand onto the guy�s shoulder with a loud thwack. �Go somewhere else, buddy,� Troy said.
�But we�re just talking,� the guy said.
�And you�re bothering her. Go somewhere else.�
�Aw. Well, be seeing you,� he said to no one in particular. The guy walked away.
�You didn�t have to do that,� I told Troy. �He wasn�t bothering me.�
�Well, consider that a preemptive strike. I don�t like guys who bother lesbians�.My sister�s a lesbian and has to put with crap every day from guys like him.�
�Uh, Troy, I know you meant well, but I�m not a lesbian�.Really, I�m not a lesbian. I look this way just to repel guys. Guys who are jerks?�
He looked disappointed. He walked away without a word.
I got up and spent a minute or two walking around the place looking for the blue-eyed guy. I couldn�t find him.
Half an hour later I was standing in front of the jukebox that hung on the wall, looking for something Southern and irritating to play. I�d almost scanned the entire songlist when something smashed into my right side, knocking me sideways. A searing pain shot through me as I turned around and saw Troy with a cricket bat. A cricket bat in a baseball bar?
�You shouldn�t look like a lesbian if you aren�t!� he yelled. �It�s disrespectful! They have to put up with a lot of crap!�
The other bar patrons looked on in shock. I thought I could calm him down by saying I was honoring lesbians. �No Troy, I��
He swung his bat at the side of my head. I moved away, and the swing hit my jaw. I could feel one tooth excruciatingly loosen as if it were crawling out of the primordial soup onto land. Before I could notice he swung at my head again, at the exact same spot, making contact with my skull. I hit the floor headfirst. As I lay on the floor in those few seconds before losing consciousness, I could feel that tooth�or a different tooth?�pop out of my gum.
GARRICK
�Jean-Marcel is driving me crazy,� Zane told me during our cigarette break that morning.
�What else is new,� I said before blowing a smoke ring at the orange plastic trash can nearby. We were standing outside Coffee Clutch, the coffeehouse where we worked.
�No, really, he�s reached new levels of drive-me-crazy,� Zane insisted. �Ever since he became a vegan he�s been on my case about living a cruelty-free lifestyle. Not just with my diet, either. Last night he had me get rid of half my wardrobe, my best stuff too. No leather belts. No suede jackets. Not even wool pants cuz sheep are killed for their wool.�
�Wait�I thought sheep were just shaved for their wool.�
�I thought so too, but he thinks otherwise. He must have seen some factoid on the Web or something. Anyways, I get rid of all the offending apparel, and I think I�ve shut him up for a while? But that while doesn�t last very long, cuz this morning he tells me I should get rid of Bruno.�
�No! Not Bruno!�
�Yes Bruno.�
Bruno was Zane�s pet hamster. Well, former pet hamster. A year ago it had died of old age at the age of two. Zane had then had it stuffed by some taxidermist and mounted onto a genuine walnut panel.
�Jean-Marcel said that Bruno deserved a proper burial or cremation,� Zane said. �Jean-Marcel said ��Ow would you like eet eef your corpse were put on deesplay een some leeveeng rheum?��
�Would depend on the position, I guess.�
�Heh heh, yeah. So you know what really drove me crazy about Jean-Marcel�s dead hamster crusade?...I agreed with him.�
�Really?�
�Yeah. I guess it is pretty insensitive to treat animal corpses that way. But I didn�t mean to be insensitive. I really did like Bruno, and I wanted to honor him. Honor his memory.�
Zane inhaled upon his cigarette.
�I love you,� I said.
He exhaled some smoke.
�I love you,� I repeated a bit more slowly. �No, really. I�ve loved you for quite a while now. I wasn�t sure at first, but your hamster story clinches it for some reason�.I know you don�t love me, you love Jean-Marcel, but I don�t care. I love you.�
�How sweet,� said our assistant manager Mr. Crandall. We turned around and saw him standing behind us. �Could you gentlemen put your romance on hold and get back to work, please?�
We got back to work.
Crandall was a sneaky bastard. He could sneak up on us without a sound, and his parents had never married. One or both of those facts may or may not explain why he�d turned into a family-values fanatic. We knew he would fire our faggot asses if he could. Only the senior manager could fire anyone, and our senior manager was Ms. Labutto, a straight woman who walked in the pride parade every year with her lesbian sister, that investment banker famous for her pirate-ship infomercial. Ms. Labutto also had a straight brother, that bouncer about to stand trial for beating Zane�s sister Kassie with a cricket bat.
By the way, Zane avoided me the rest of the shift. So much for spontaneity.
FROM THE RIVERS SIDE WITH STEPHANIE RIVERS, SHOW #89
CALLER: �You catch the press conference by Kline the clown this morning?�
RIVERS: �No, he tends to make me puke, and I�d just eaten a real tasty bacon and cheese croissandwich.�
CALLER: �Ha ha. Well, he announced he would be the prosecuting attorney at Troy Labutto�s trial next month.�
RIVERS: �Wow.�
CALLER: �Yeah, wow. It�s such a high-profile case it deserves his personal attention.�
RIVERS: �Well, you gotta hand it to Kline. He never misses a chance to help the cause of political correctness.�
CALLER: �Yeah, ha ha, don�t bother with murder or drug dealing. We gotta protect the lesbians instead.�
RIVERS: �No no no, the fake lesbians. The girl who got the beating, Kassie Brogden? She�s not a lesbian, she just looked like one, and not a very attractive one at that.�
CALLER: �Ha, yeah. An attractive one, that woulda been different.�
RIVERS: �You know what you like, don�tcha Hank?�
CALLER: �Ha ha.�
RIVERS: �Well, anyway...the legal department says I gotta cover my butt, so let me make clear, this show doesn�t advocate the use of violence against anyone. However, this incident, this beating, might make certain girls think twice before venturing out in public. Put on some makeup, shut up, and walk home without contusions.�
CONTINUED ON PAGE 2
Author�s Note�September 6, 2006
I did not base the above characters upon any actual people, though I did borrow the NO MORE WHITE MAN CULTURE slogan from a button I�ve seen.
I don�t hate feminism. I consider myself a feminist, in fact. (Women and men should have equal chances to improve and/or ruin their lives.)
I don�t hate lesbians, either. I have no use for homophobia.
And I don�t intentionally try to offend my readers.
Baseball? Or folk songs about Bilbo Baggins' duodenal ulcer?...Fiction, Home.
� 2006 David V. Matthews