makingabigdealoutofnothing

[makingabigdealoutofnothing]

CLEAN (part II)

Forgot to post this. Shit. If you need exposition I encourage you to read the previous post, as it is essentially essential to understanding and grasping the importance of part 2… Some say the idea of reading a chronology in the order of its creation is equivocal, but I assure you if you buy into that notion, you're a sad pile of dogshit.

I walked down the stairs from Jerry's spot, and looking back up saw Jerry glaring down at me, lipping the words, “You dirty mother fucker”. I shrugged it off and hit the streets of Hollywood. Walked around, rather. My meter had another hour and 40 minutes, and didn't feel like wasting it. I had nothing else to do with my day than to continue my search for non-skid living. A subtle grumble of hunger, perhaps lack of passion, embraced my body, and, remembering that I was merely 3 blocks away from the In-N-Out, I decided to make the trudge.

I walked past the famous Hollywood High, and had curious Dan-visions of punk rock and Tony Hawk's Pro Skater. Palm trees swaying in my post-homestead dreams of LA, kick flips and cigarettes and hash, anarchy, slapping the bass in front of a drunk orphaned audience.

My nerves turned to a simmer. Everything was fine, I assured myself. Something would come. I had a few other leads, from Little Ethiopia to Koreatown to Los Feliz, home of the happy, something had to come through. Though Jerry, clean freak jewboy fuck, was the only one to have responded thus far.

I crossed Orange Street, and into the In-N-Out, knowing damn well as the name mandates, I'd be back out on the street in no time. There was a line out all the way past the first set of double doors, full of dad-mom tourists and local transplants dressed in full amalgamated fashion of steam punk/lady gaga/vietnam vet/outsiders get-up. So I pulled out my iPhone for the first time since the pre-Jerry encounter.

I had a Facebook message from some friend of a friend, or maybe a friend, what's the difference. There was a spot available in a friend of a friend of a friend's friend's place in Echo Park. Clive, the friend of a friend or friend that messaged me, said there's a ton of other people interested and that I'd better get my ass over there if I wanted to be the number one candidate.

Why not? Maybe it's a steal. Who the fuck is Clive?

I posited my interest and Clive gave me the address.

I hopped out of my place in the line of Hollywood happy asses. My ass was on a mission.

30 minutes later I was at the address. A side street off of Echo Park Ave, about a quarter mile east of Sunset. The house had closed blinds and dead plants on the porch and, contrary to Clive's ardent advice, I was the only one enthusiastically waiting to see the place. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the front door.

Quiet.

I listened. Nothing. And knocked again.

This time I heard some rustling and what sounded to be a small dog's paw-nails skipping towards the door, followed by a not-so-intimidating series of growls and yip-yips.

“What is it, Wrangler?” The female voice addressed her security guard.

The yips became more confident as its owner's steps came closer to the door, and the locks began to open, one at a time.

“Hi. I'm Dan. Clive's friend. You must be Christi.”

“Clive? Who the fuck is Clive?” The girl inquired, with an obligatory yet apathetic confused look in her distant eyes. She was in a Chinese adorned robe and skin was pale. I recognized her from somewhere, but couldn't quite put a finger on it.

“I don't really know either. We're friends on Facebook. He said you have a room available.”

“No matter. Yes, I'm Christi. Come in.”

I followed Christi into her abode. There were vinyls and instruments and furry wardrobe racks littered across the once spacious floors. The smell of incense and something else toasting permeated my senses. I'd smelled it before but it wasn't quite surfacing my mem banks.

“So are you clean?” Christi asked me after she observed my tingling senses.

“Yeah. Clean as a Santa Monica coffee shop,” I responded, with a scripted shit eating grin.

“You're fucking hilarious,” Christi chuckled haphazardly.

“Everyone asks that. I figured I'd make a little joke out of it,” I said nervously. She had a disposition of oooh yeah cool cool entitlement that was a bit unnerving.

“'Cause I'm trying to get clean myself. As you probably know it's not as easy as buying a fucking cortado.”

I glanced around, finally figuring out what exactly I’d walked into. “I sure do.” I needed a place to live. Bad. Even a heroin pad. “It was quite the roller coaster, but I'm clean now.” I guess I just become very agreeable when I'm not in the power seat.

She looked me up and down. We were stopped in the dining room now. There was a torn up couch a few feet from a littered dining table, burnt spoons and empty 2 liter Dr. Pepper bottles scattered. But overall, it was a pretty clean place. A step up from Skid Row.

“Thank god for mental illness,” Christi said.

“Huh?”

“The album. Thank God for Mental Illness,” she said, gesturing toward a suitcase vinyl player spinning and emitting a hardly audible scratchy noise. The volume knob was off.

“Oh right. I knew that sounded familiar,” I responded. “Love those guys.”

“Good. I’m glad you have good taste. And also,” she continued opening the freezer and pulling out some frozen fruit, “there’s some truth to that. I couldn’t afford to eat if I wasn’t on food stamps.”

I proceeded to peek around the house. Christi, who had picked up her little yap-box rat-dog and was stroking it like a kitty, followed me around closely. I could hear her heart pounding.

“I’m guessing this empty room here would be mine?” I asked in a friendly tone.

“Yep, that’s it. Walk-in closet, your own bathroom, AC...Oh fuck! I forgot to ask you to take your shoes off by the door. You mind?”

“Sure,” I resigned, and walked over to the door to stash my Airwalks.

“Thanks. I just vacuumed and mopped everything last week and trying to keep the piss and shit and bugs from the sidewalk outta here. Dig?”

“Of course.” I returned to inspecting my room. I already decided I’d take it if I this junky would let me. Location, perks… and I’d live with damn near anyone over an office job cyclo-square. Hence my current location in Skid Row, and all my lovely neighbors. And the room was great too. Bathroom, walk-in, AC, and… I happened to look up. What appeared to be a dried spray of blood on my ceiling? Whatever.

“I’m very interested,” I told Christi. “When would I be able to move my stuff in?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sounds good, I -” Something pricked my foot. “Yow!” Looking down and jolting up my foot I saw a renegade syringe, complete with blood in the inside of the tube, brooding on the floor where my foot had just been.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Christi looked mildly concerned. “You should watch your step around here.”

“Well, doesn’t look like I’m clean anymore,” I timidly chortled. “I’ll bring the deposit tomorrow.”

I actually don’t think the Part 2 is better than Part 1. But perhaps I’ll write another part to make up for it. Fuck it anyways, it’s just my imagination.

[makingabigdealoutofnothing]

CLEAN (part I)

I needed a place to live. Bad.

I was on the Craigslist housing hunt. Trying to find a place grand enough to fit my modest needs and cheap enough that I could still afford the occasional coke binge. And car payments.

Living downtown in a stretch of Skid Row for the past 2 years had started to grind on my love of life. Everyday a poignant questioning of existence and surreal lack of lust. A grandiose dose of ousted reality. And my roommates never charged my PS4 controllers.

There were fleas in my pad that had been brought in and bred by a mangy little mutt my roommate liked to keep around. My guests would always leave vehemently scratching infected skin.

There were roaches, too. Big ones and little ones. The little ones enjoyed trekking over your dishes; dirty or clean, it didn't matter to them. They were living fast and dying young. The big roaches were gluttons.

Moths lived in my wardrobe, and didn't help with rent. They were lost souls, I liked to imagine.

Along with the fleas and the moths and the roaches and the bed bugs, the multitudes of junkies and quasi-gang bangers dwelling the streets 'neath my Skid loft were bringing me closer and closer to the noose. I always kept one in my drawer next to my briefs.

In the beginning of my days in Skid Row, the homeless were benign in my mind. They inhibited my happiness very little. They're the same today as they were then- the ghetto blasters and rash nature and patronage to the overbearingly loud crack-selling ice cream trucks- only now I'm bit to shit by bugs and want a better job and am fighting for sanity through a month long dry spell. And my diet is shit.

So I responded to a Craigslist ad for a place in Hollywood. The price wasn't bad and it was closer to where I work and the homeless were less in volume and more docile.

I spoke to the proprietor over the phone and he had a wonderful East Coast accent.

“Yeah, yeah- it's a great spot, the spot's great and utilities included, good people- good people only, mind you- you're cool right?”

There was a pause as I wasn't sure if it was a question or rhetoric.

“… Yeah, I'm cool,” I responded.

“Great, great. 'Cause like I said: good vibes only. Good people. Good vibes. And you gotta be clean.”

“I'm a good guy, I promise. And I'm clean,” I purported. By my standards I'm clean as a Santa Monica coffee shop, but my entire adult life I've been scorned by roommates with varied standards of cleanliness.

“Alright. Be there in an hour,” the East Coaster requested. “And… You are clean, right?”

“Yeah, I'm clean.”

Stepping over a downed body outside my building, I walked down 6th towards the van that my ailing van was parked in. I was paying $150/month just to keep my whip off the precarious streets. Fuck downtown, I reaffirmed to myself.

Most of my fellow Skid Row residents didn't like me- because I'm white, I assumed. My daily walk to the parking garage included death threats and racial intolerance. The crooked police men and women used to ask me if I was lost. Perhaps I was.

I made it to my van and exited the garage. Rolling down the window I took a sturdy whiff of the urine stained stench of mental illness and drug abuse and incompetence. I drove off with gaiety.

Arriving in Hollywood outside of my potential new home, I was elated. It looked fantastic, and I was truly shocked that it was only $800/month, utilities incl. and dogs woof woof (though the East Coaster didn't sound like a dog type).

The guy met me downstairs and let me through the freshly painted red gate that served as barrier between the outside world and hopefully my new inside world.

“Come in, come in,” Jerry hastily gestured. He was a wiry curly-haired multi-ethnic looking type- perhaps half Jew, quarter Puerto Rican, and the last quarter a mix of Bronx and punk rock- he wore a black T-shirt with a gold chain and stood about 5'7”.

“So what's your situation? You been in town long? You work? You're cool? You look pretty clean.” His persistence on the importance of cleanliness was becoming a bit foreboding. He smelled like rose water.

“I work in film and am just looking for an affordable place to unwind when I'm not working.” I went on, with Jerry filling in my sentences with 'mhmm, mhmm'.

“Sounds like you're a decent guy. I've shown the place to some real deadbeats- you know, like they sound presentable over the phone but they get here smelling like the gym and asking for a cup of water. First impressions, right?”

“Right.”

“Now I've been living here for 9 years, had roommates come and go,” Jerry went on, “some people have vibed some people have not. I've had to kick some assholes out, some people have left on their own accord- you know, change in passion, want to move to the woods, you know the story.”

“Sure.”

“Now what I can't stand is people that are living under the...” he paused and gesticulated, searching for the right word, “...masquerade of being clean people- but they come in here and set me right the fuck off.”

“How so?” I bit.

“Come oooon, you know. Like putting a beer can down on the cawfee table without a coaster. Taking a shit and not cleaning the toilet after. Sliding the fucking chairs around and scratching the floors… FUCK I just get can't fucking stand that shit.”

“I hear you.”

“Like you can have 10 people over, you know, 15 people. I don't give a shit. Do your fucking coke, fuck your whores, talk shit on Catholicism and niggers… whatever,” Jerry was pacing, perspiring. “But if I go into your room when you're not home and your clothes aren't folded and bed isn't made, I SWEAR TO GOD, I'll fucking merc you!”

This is just an act, I figured. He can't THAT totalitarian. Every place I've moved into it's the same thing, whether it's with friends or strangers via the List: everyone says the importance of cleanliness like it's some sort of dogma. I always just nod, agree, and assure. Which is what I did.

“Dude, I understand. You don't have to worry about cleaning up after me. I'm as clean as a Santa Monica coffee shop.”

[Writer's note: I've repeated that comparison because I'm currently sitting in a very clean coffee shop in Santa Monica.]

Jerry relaxed a little bit. “Good. I'm glad we have an understanding.”

“Where do I sign?”

Jerry tightened back up. “Sign? I told you buddy, good vibes only. You're coming into my place, I'm doing you this favor, and you're asking me about signing? You're a good guy, I'm a good guy- we're vibing. And you're asking me about signing.”

“Sorry man, sorry,” I wasn't sorry. This guy clearly just had an abusive mother. “So what is the process then?”

“It's alright, it's alright. I just get a little worked up over that shit sometimes. Now that we've established that you're a clean, decent human, you just give me first and last and the room is yours. That's it.”

“Alright then- I can give you a money order today-”

“-money order? What the fuck?! I told you buddy, good vibes only.”

“How does a good guy pay a good guy and maintain good vibes?” I inquired.

“Cash buddy. That's the only way.”

The duckies were starting to line up here. Bad duckies. Perhaps I was mistaken, but now it seemed like this clean freak East Coast Puerto Jew was trying to scam me. I was still willing to talk business.

“I can give you cash today. No problem.” I was playing it cool, though I actually wanted to punch Jerry in the balls. “BUT, I need you to take a photo of your ID over your rent agreement and send it to me. Those are my conditions.”

Jerry put his index to his nose, thumb under chin, looked down to the ground and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“I'm trying to not kick you right the fuck off of this balcony,” Jerry said, and I looked down at the cars driving below on Sunset. “You're a clean guy, and decent. I would be fine with you living in my place. But if you want to get through this you're going to need to be more personable.”

“I told you what I need from you, and it's not that much.”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE YOU FUCKING SWINE, YOU FUCKING SHIT-EATING LITTLE PARASITE, YOU WORM!”

I left without responding that swath of insults. I was still considering just giving him the cash. I needed a place to live. Bad.

The second half of this story is better than the first half. Continue reading next time.

[makingabigdealoutofnothing]

A Cosmic Vasectomy

The ice caps were melting faster than a self-immolating monk.

A village in a far corner of Siberia was home to 35 Eskimo and counting- the civilization's population was increasing at about 1/10 of a person every 250 years.

The men would spend most of their days fishing, hunting, and drinking, while the women spent most of their days distilling tundra twigs into alcohol, curing meat and fish, and gossiping about which man held the throne as most ice cold Eskimo.

None of the men could see very well due to the lead content of their moonshine. Drunk and blind most of their lives, the women did most of the neighborhood planning.

Igloos were the way to live.

Some igloos had style, other igloos took the more simple approach. Some Eskimo had style, some Eskimo took the more simple approach.

Overall, life didn't change much for the Eskimo over the past few millenia. There were few aberrations to the bleak, cold townscape, and few Eskimo to think differently than the rest.

Once a year, there would be a fist fight over a loathed woman which resulted in exactly 1 Eskimo death. There were never any Eskimo lost to sickness or natural phenomena, as their immune systems were well adapted to the natural bacteria around them and no outsider had ever come in contact with them, or wanted to.

You can't want something which you know nothing about, though we try but can't seem to find reason.

Their defense against wolverines, moose, and the occasional reindeer reaching a midlife crisis was impeccable. Babies that were birthed with imperfection were boiled into stew.

Far away, in America, business tycoons gathered in a scyscraper just high enough to perceive the civilians walking below as ants. Real “I fuck hookers because I don't have time for a real relationship” types, though they were all married with children. The fortune must live on through little Joe's boots.

“Bad for the environment? BAD FOR THE FUCKING ENVIRONMENT? I told him he can go calculate his way out of the mess we're making for him, and that's that,” one tycoon said, and the rest assumed laughter.

“We're finally seeing returns from the rigs we drilled off the coast of California 8 years ago, Joe.” another chimed in. “The only casualty there was Santa Barbara- and the liberals are acting like it's some big tragedy!”

They all sat around, speaking of “no-brainer” investments and how to save a dime at the grocery store. This that this that this, and that.

Finally the meeting was about to reach its conclusion.

“And y'all know how we do,” Joe bellowed gregariously, loquaciously. “Sacrifice all of society- from Mexican immigrants to Greenwich Village whores to stay at home moms to tiny villages in Siberia- for OUR personal profit. We're in this together, and if any of us loses any faith in our paradigm here, you are putting US at risk, and you will most likely find yourself breathing through a hose- at the bottom of the big ole' toxic ocean. This meeting is adjourned.”

The room stood up, applauding, and returned to their indifferent penthouse hookers.

Meanwhile, back in Siberia, the Eskimo began to take off their jackets for the first time since childbirth. Their houses were melting. Skin was tanning.

The fish were flourishing, as the rivaling polar bears were sitting back drinking tall cans and dying. It was like fishing in a barrel for those blind drunk Eskimos. All was swell.

As the ice melted, long-frozen artifacts and corpses were being uniced as well. The artifacts and corpses left the Eskimo baffled, and led to various forms of new-age dogma amongst the small town. One Eskimo in a drunken stupor slipped and punctured his ass on the perfectly preserved tusk of a wooly mammoth.

But artifacts and corpses weren't the only things being introduced to the civillazation through the melt; ancient bacterias and viruses that couldn't be seen even by the sober female Eskimo were doing what they knew how to do best: fucking up the human lives.

The Eskimo began coughing, vomiting, and shitting blood. Their glands swelling, varying body temperatures began a search for the jackets that had been naively discarded after the first few weeks of the melt. Tempers were unstable as well, leading to more fist fights amongst both men and women, though seizures would stop the altercations short of untimely deaths.

The real battlefield was between the poor Eskimo immune system and the insidious anthrax emanating from the corpses of pre-Ice Age moose and mammoths and Alamo Eskimo from a long frozen dynasty.

The immune systems didn't stand a chance. All of the adults and most of the children were wiped out. The few remaining adolescents couldn't cope with their being thrown into adulthood so prematurely, and turned to the bottle, Tundra moonshine, that is, and drank their little lives into oblivion.

So it goes.

Back in America, profits and revenues were plateuing. The rich weren't getting any richer. They weren't getting poorer, either, but if you're not getting richer what the fuck is the point in living.

Several crusading groups of activists were able to gain enough unity and notoriety to pass some injurious laws on the rich. Something about climate control and limiting environmental impact yada yada… It was all words and numbers to the bone head rich. But it did mean war.

The rich finally developed a plan to fill the government with a team of all-star panderers that the American people absent-mindedly elected.

The rich, then, feeling vindictive over their previous defeat at the hands of scientists and lovers of life, passed a 3 trillion dollar “nail in the coffin” bill to strip the Earth of all remaining resources as quickly as possible.

Their response to the world that preferred to keep the human race running a little bit longer was simply, “Rock n roll. Deal with it.”

Production maximized. Oil drills and mines were reaching 8 miles below the earth, sucking every little ore and ooze and mineral and metal that could possibly have grimy hands groping it.

Cities began collapsing- literally. The mines and wells were jeopardizing the foundations which buildings were built. Rio de Jeniero wasn't built in a day, but it crumbled in one.

As the old biblical story goes, he who builds his house on rock may still someday lose his wit and begin dynamiting the shit out of it.

Part of the bill mandated that every human receive a car, a train, a plane, a personal power plant if they wanted, as long as it was doing something to fuck up the Earth.

Most humans happily applauded this part of the bill, and helped out as much as they could.

Skies were grey and yellow, even through the enormous artificial sun that was built and run by an equal amount of energy used by the cities of Los Angeles, Mumbai, and Guangzhou combined.

There was no need for an artificial moon, as all romantic connections with the original one were lost.

The tycoons were still getting rich, though even they knew that the days for Earth were numbered.

Most people on Earth, aside from loonies and conservatives, knew that Earth was done-zo washington.

There were few that felt it worth the fight to try to bring down those responsible for the current state of things. Security was tightest on the bracket for those brazen tycoon punks.

Among the fighting force, was a young scientist that had been ardently studying global warming since out of the womb, as his father had taught him. He had observed the phenomenon of the Eskimo being exposed to ancient anthrax. It broke his little scientist heart.

He decided that the only just thing to do to get back at those responsible would be to expose them to ancient anthrax.

He knew where to get it.

Back in Siberia, a whole civilization lay in bloody melted ruin. It stank of shit and moonshine.

The young scientist and his team deboarded their chopper, suited in the finest protective suits, and fetched up one of the deceased rotting Eskimo and brought it back to America.

The tycoons met in the skyscraper. The artificial sun barely permeated through the cloud of pollution that groped the earth.

They raised glasses.

“Well boys,” Joe the tycoon addressed the group, “We've successfully maxed out our profits and fucked up the Earth beyond repair.” This was followed by a swath of haughty laughter and approval.

They clinked glasses.

Unbeknownst to the tycoons, a chopper rushed towards the building. A young scientist was gleaming with passion and determination. A rotting anthrax-stricken Eskimo corpse was sitting next to him unaware of the role he was about to play in rectifying the playing field in Earth's current folly.

The chopper gunned it towards the large unshaved shaft that the tycoons roosted in. Their faces turned from glee to confusion as the young scientist hurled the Eskimo out of the chopper. The chopper flew past the top of the building and the Eskimo crashed through the window at about 200 miles per hour, striking Joe the Tycoon and pancaking him against the opposite wall.

Before the others could process this freak occurrence, the anthrax that had wiped out an entire Eskimo village contaminated the tycoons and made them all start coughing vomiting and shitting blood.

They died shortly thereafter.

The artificial sun simultaneously became terminally ill and exploded, wiping out the rest of civilization.

The Earth stood lifeless like rapture at a hookah bar.

So it goes. . .

[makingabigdealoutofnothing]

A Foppish Death

The vial of mercury broke and water began it's hasty escape from the 120 year old pipes it'd been trapped in since the remodel about 2 years ago.

The water knew not where to go or how to handle this freedom. Pressure blasted it out, gravity pulled it down, and it seemed the only thing to do was to begin saturating the fine shag carpet, the antique coffee table, the bananas et al in the fruit bowl, the tempurpedic mattress, and a previously-sleeping girl who experienced quite a wet awakening (not speaking of her third eye, which had never seen the light of day).

“What the fuuuuuuck?!” Tiff screamed in a frenzy.

It was the middle of the night. As any human living in a first world country instinctually knows to do, Tiff scanned the area for signs of fire, smoke, or any other impedance.

Seeing none, aside from the boisterous army of water raining down upon her sanctuary and sanity, Tiff reached for her iPhone as her first line of defense.

Wasted.

The screen was as black and lifeless as Michael Brown.

She chucked it through the glass of her 14th floor downtown window.

She watched in terror has her faux-fur and suede and flapper get-ups drooped with the weight of moist genocide. No more Saturday evenings for these garbs, or casual dry cleaning Sundays; no, the future of these foppish fools looked rather grim.

Tiff led a lavish life. She worked hard most days to portray herself in a hip and reputable fashion. Hair needs to stay kept, as well as physical stature and a proper propelling of life as a moderately successful caucasian woman. Mental stability had to be maintained as well, which was achieved through nightly masturbation and the occasional shallow hook up.

THIS, was not what she needed. The water level in her flat was now about an inch high. Water destroys life quicker than it creates it, as we've seen in the story of Noah's Arc vs. Life As We Know It.

And so it goes… Though Tiff wasn't quite hip with Vonnegut quotes or ideology such as she was with hole-in-the-wall hangouts and up-and-coming bands.

Everything was destroyed, as far as she was concerned, and there was absolutely no way in hell that she could start over from scratch.

Tiff jumped, following suit of her now-surely-dead iPhone- crying tears like the fountain of water propagating from a fire sprinkler.

Billy Joe chuckled to himself as he turned the corner from the alley way onto the street side of the building. This was the fifth city he had hit.

He removed his coat and shook some excess water from it, still chuckling.

The first time he'd credit carded the door of a perfect stranger's apartment and held a lighter to the unsuspecting vial of mercury that serves as sentry to the anxious fire-thwarting water behind it, was in New York 1 month prior. Billy Joe had grown sick of the city he was born and raised in, and decided to cause a little mischief. He took such a thrill from the event that an overbearing paranoia came attached. He hopped on a bus out of the city, and upon arriving in Kansas City MO to his cheap, runaway motel grew restless and decided he had to repeat the mischief.

The cops may have caught on, Billy Joe figured, if he'd repeated the deed multiple times in the same city. So after hitting New York, KC, Albuquerque, and Tempeh AZ, he had to fulfill the manifest destiny in Los Angeles.

Strutting down the sidewalk, heart still beating from the thrill and escape down the stairwell of the high-rise, Billy Joe was halted in his tracks- not by cops, not by a mugger- but by a 125 female body traveling at about 70 meters per second.

Tiff's lust for life and Billy Joe's apprehension of life were perfectly portrayed by their ultimate fates: Tiff on top and Billy Joe- well, you know.