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Episode 6

The heat just exacerbated his hangover. Even this short walk up the street seemed to take all of his will. How much longer could he keep doing this crap? He didn’t know. He would never know. He spent his days hoping for some miracle or sign to guide him; a vision that would never manifest itself. He spent his life swimming in darkness; a darkness that was either imposed by some glitch in his brain chemistry, or the darkness that he imposed upon himself. In that darkness, no light could enter.
He entered the Laundromat with a full hamper in one hand, and a bottle of inexpensive detergent in the other. Upon entering, he was immediately seized by the number of olive faces in his presence, which was extremely unusual in this white-bread town. Throughout the laundromat, eight immigrant woman; the wives and mothers of migrant fruit-pickers, were tending to their broods as they loaded and unloaded multiple washers and dryers. Aside from one elderly caucasian woman lurking by the change machine, his was the only pale face in the joint.
As he searched for an open high-capacity washer, he was immersed in a language he couldn’t hope to understand, and he just KNEW they were talking about him. Realistically, that was very unlikely. Just keeping track of their kids was a far bigger concern for these migrants than anything Rudy had to offer. To them, he was just another rich, lucky gringo. He didn’t know whether he should feel relief from overcoming this bout of paranoia, or be even more suspicious of these people. Their comfort with, or simple lack of attention to the situation made him feel even more uneasy. Why didn’t he matter anywhere? For all they knew, he could have been the head of INS, but they didn’t seem to worry about it. Que Sera, Sera. Persona non grata or persona who cares; he had about as much impact as a marshmallow, and he knew it.


The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

The Price is Right

It’s been a long month. The intensity of my classes at the university have taken up a lot of my time. Even so, I know I’ll feel great when I can finally walk out of its doors for the last time this summer, and thumb my nose at it; then I’ll just look forward to dodging their donation requests for the rest of my life!

It’s dealing with the unwashed who have been trying to buy my Chevelle that has been the real drain. It’s getting to the point where I think I’ll require credit scores and background checks before I’ll consider communicating with them.

The right car, at the right price is just waiting for the right buyer.

Episode 5

Rudy awoke in the late afternoon to the din of neighborhood kids over the incessant hum of the largely ineffective air conditioner. Like a punch-drunk Rocky Balboa, he eased himself up from the linoleum canvas. Head pounding, and mind devoid of all thoughts except those of human necessity, he shuffled into the kitchen. He opened up the refrigerator and removed the second of the “Buy One, Get One Free” iced teas he had purchased the previous evening’s grocery excursion. After a long, greedy drag straight from the plastic container, he retrieved the bottle of store-brand ibuprofen the kitchen counter and popped four tablets in his mouth and swallowed. Nothing tastes like a bargain.
The splitting headache and joint pain didn’t matter. He needed to clean up the mess in the bathroom and bedroom. God knows it’s already two-thirds of the way dried on. He grabbed the carpet cleaner, trash can, and two rolls of paper towels and set to work. The smell and sight of the former contents of his stomach set him retching again. Rudy bravely choked down the brew of bile and iced-tea, started breathing through his mouth only, and soldiered on with the task.
After twenty minutes of arduous wiping and scrubbing, the bedroom carpet was returned to its former quasi-clean state. He grabbed his supplies and moved onto the bathroom, warily scuffing past the offending door jamb. Thankfully, this job was a little easier. He methodically wiped the outer part of the toilet with the paper towels and then squirted the inside of the American Standard with foamy cleanser. A few quick circular rubs of the toilet brush, a flick of the flush handle, and mission accomplished.
After stowing the clean-up tools, Rudy removed his offending clothing, tossed them into the hamper, and returned to the bathroom. Mind still devoid of all but necessary thoughts, he deftly adjusted the temperature of the shower to a little less than warm and climbed in. To the rhythmic thrum of the water on the shower curtain, he lathered and even managed a smile devoid of any malice; a rare occurrence these past few months.
After a quick towel off, Rudy donned underwear, olive-drab cargo shorts, and a well worn t-shirt. He gathered his wallet and keys, along with the hamper and laundry supplies. Rudy opened the outside door and his senses were immediately assaulted by the outdoor environment. Stifling heat and humidity immediately set his brow sweating. He could feel the sweat building on the top of his shorn head like rain beads on a freshly waxed car. Heat rose from the asphalt of his building’s parking lot in shimmering waves, and he inhaled the aroma of hot tar blended with noxious vehicle exhaust from the adjoining street. He heard the thrum of cars idling at a near by intersection. It was like a slap to the senses, and caused him to totter slightly.
He continued across the lot and down the street towards the laundromat. He saw the pack of children he had heard earlier riding bikes, and had a fleeting moment of childhood nostalgia. He wished life was that easy again, but was it ever?

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Shinola!

For a short time, my ire was focused on those suffering from Big Rig Syndrome (BRS). After my experiences the past couple of weeks, I have a new target that we should all focus our gall upon: the Time Waster.

I’m sure you’ve all encountered them… the people who offer false promises, false hope, or simply just get in the way. They are the discarded douche-bags at the bottom of the societal heap. THEY are the time wasters. THEY are the ones that slow us down, and rob us of precious time and sanity.

My frustration with selling my Chevelle has reached a crescendo. In all honesty, I can afford to keep it, and I do love it. Like many hobbies that have passed before it, I figured I’d just sell it to some lucky soul, walk away from it, and move on to the next phase of my life. For that is what I do…I’m like the Phoenix of hobbies; reborn from one interest to the next. If I were rich; you could rightfully call me eccentric.
So, to my point: the Time Wasters became involved, and you all know the type… people who really can’t afford to buy my car, people who don’t know shit from Shinola, or just the run-of-the-mill tire kickers. All of them have conspired to waste my precious time. I have to take time to return their emails, return their calls, and worst yet: wait for them to show up. Stop the insanity!!! I can hardly wait for the day I can find a realistic buyer

Shinola

For a short time, my ire was focused on those suffering from Big Rig Syndrome (BRS). After my experiences the past couple of weeks, I have a new target that we should all focus our gall upon: the Time Waster.

I’m sure you’ve all encountered them… the people who offer false promises, false hope, or simply just get in the way. They are the discarded douche-bags at the bottom of the societal heap. THEY are the time wasters. THEY are the ones that slow us down, and rob us of precious time and sanity.

My frustration with selling my Chevelle has reached a crescendo. In all honesty, I can afford to keep it, and I do love it. Like many hobbies that have passed before it, I figured I’d just sell it to some lucky soul, walk away from it, and move on to the next phase of my life. For that is what I do…I’m like a Phoenix being reborn from one interest to another. If I was rich; you could rightfully call me eccentric.

So, to my point: the Time Wasters became involved. You all know the type… people who really can’t afford to buy my car, people who don’t know shit from Shinola, or just the run-of-the-mill tire kickers. All of them have conspired to waste my precious time. I have to take time to return their emails, return their calls, and worst yet: wait for them to show up. Stop the Insanity!!!

Episode 4

With his attempt to get to work on cleaning the spew, the spins only increase in their intensity. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, as not to disturb the neighbors who lie just past the paper-thin drywall in their own white-trash paradise. The spins. He could deal with the headaches and the effects of dehydration which were sure to come later, but the spins were an entirely different matter. The spins were by far the worst part of excessively imbibing alcohol. Hell, it wasn’t even so much a spin, as it was a shaking of the visible universe. Spins were like a carnival ride; shaking was just wrong. Just like some 9.0 earthquake striking the Far East, but instead of the ocean cresting into a great tsunami, the vomit would crest from your esophagus in great, painful, heaving torrents.
“Ummph!” He jumped into action, trying his damnedest to keep the oncoming torrent at bay. In the dark, he managed to bang his shoulder on the bedroom doorway. While moving full-speed, Rudy’s little toe caught the corner of the bathroom door jam, sending bolts of pain; pain so exquisite he could see it in white flashes before his eyes like heat-lightening. “Ummmmmmmmmmmm,” he groaned loudly while trying to keep his trap closed. So much for not waking the neighbors; oh well, fuck’em.
Rudy made his way to the toilet and relieved himself of his gastric burden in many painful, heaving spasms. Once done, he stayed kneeling, sweating, and reeling from the exertion. A solitary tear dripped from his left eye. Drunk or no, he still had to question his motives, and his sanity. “Why do I do this shit,” he croaked, half expecting an answer from a deity whose existence he more than doubted. In His/Her/Its own strange way, that deity granted Rudy mercy. He fell unconscious on the bathroom linoleum for the next two hours.


The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Episode 3

He’d probably have been better of smoking weed than attempting to drown himself in eighty proof alcohol. It would have had less negative side-effects and would have allowed him to him to sleep well into the morning. For some reason, the stomach just can’t handle as much as the lungs. He was just too damn upstanding for that illegal shit though; at least the felonious shit. Even so, it’s not like the depressed really need more depressants; they just need something to take the edge off so that they can face another day. In that strange sense, the things that destroy us can be the same things that keep us going.
With an audible sigh, he faces the clean-up task ahead. It’s better to get it done now, shitty as he may feel, then to let it dry into the carpet and be forced to clean it up completely sober, or have to worry about the $400 dollar rental deposit. Screw it. His mind vacillates between living and dying like some ethereal coin flip. Is this shit worth it? Is any of it worth it? Do I waste the effort, or not? Where’s Christ or the Dali Lama when you need to answer this crap? So is life, or death, for that matter. Our existence can come down to something as seemingly insignificant as our willingness to clean up puke. Yeah or nay. Do or do not.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.