Valentinte's Day and the CIA

So I said before that I intended to cheat furiously on my NaNoWriMo project. It looks like I'm not going to have to; with 21 days to go, I'm nearly at the halfway point. God bless bourbon and Baby Einstein, in no particular order.Anyway, since my last post sparked absolutely NO discussion, and since I'm drunk enough (and therefore egotistical enough) to think I merit more than one post per week. . . .Another excerpt. This one is funnier, and less depressing, but really, really gross. And funny. Did I mention funny?February 14th, 1998It was Valentine's day, and I had a date. A real, live, actual date, not a hookup, not an impaired and over-lubricated tumble on the futon, not giving someone a ride to a keg party so he could hook up with some hot chick. A guy, a dealer, but not mine, and not an addict himself, was going to take me out. Dinner. Movie. The whole nine yards. I hadn't had one of those in almost two years, and goddamn was I looking forward to it.I spent the afternoon picking out clothes, refreshing my auburn dye job, plucking my eyebrows, putting my hair up in curlers, and just generally being giddy. It was like being a normal person for once, and it felt divine. So Otis was supposed to pick me up at seven, then we were going out for Chinese food and to catch a late movie. I had slept for something like eighteen hours the night before; I didn't want to be strung out. I'd been very deliberately saving my last bit of speed for just before we left, so I could be fabulous but not truly tweeked, and at six-thirty I scraped the last line out of my quarter-gram bag and lined it up on the mirror, then waited patiently another fifteen minutes before snorting it. I was out now, but no worries; Otis, when he visited to talk and just hang out, always left me a parting gift, and I had no reason to think that tonight would be any different, especially since I had plans to screw his skinny brains out when he brought me back home. By seven-fifteen I was telling myself for the fifth or so time that he was just running late, probably had gotten a call on his cell on the way over from a customer, and he was, above all, a concientious businessman. By seven-thirty I was peering out through my peephole twice a minute or more, listening intently for the sound of his car pulling into the parking lot just outside my door. By eight I broke down and called; it went straight through to voicemail.Sonofabitch. Probably the prospect of deflowering yet another high school girl had presented itself. He could have called, at least. Bastard. Fucker.But I still didn't pull my hair back into its customary knot, still didn't change out of my pretty but uncomfortable clothes, still didn't kick off the high heels. There was a very solid possibility that he might drop by after seeing his latest conquest home by curfew, and although I was mad as hell, I would listen with good will and laugh at the appropriate places when he regaled me with the sordid details, as was his habit. He did, after all, give me free speed.Eleven thirty rolled around and I was thoroughly dejected, half-heartedly scrawling at a poem detailing in lavish adjectives and melodramatic metaphor just how despondent I was. I may have even pressed a pale wrist to my wan forehead a time or two--that's just how very Gothic I felt.There came at the door a rapid pounding, wordless shrieking, incoherent but eloquent of panic. I looked out the peephole out of habit, and made out the vague shape of a large female knocking and looking frantically behind her. "Who is it?'"Let me in! Oh, please, dear God, let me in! They're trying to rape me, they're right behind me!"I didn't think twice, but quickly shot the deadbolt back and flung open the door. The ugliest woman I have ever seen came barreling into the living room, carrying with her what seemed like dozens of plastic shopping bags stuffed full of various clothing."Oh, Jesus, thank you, thank you, they want to rape me, you saved my life!"She dumped her bags on the floor with no ceremony, began to peel off several coats, jackets, and sweaters. Even without the added bulk, she was huge, sloppy fat, pendulous breasts hanging to what I could only assume was her waist. Her hair was jet-black, thick and long and straight, and had it not been filthy and tangled would have most likely been beautiful. Her skin was rough-textured, pitted and pock-marked, a huge craterous moon, and dark-complected, with large bushy eyebrows and an unmistakeable shadowy moustache. Her eyes were wild and rolling about like those of a horse who smells smoke, her arms dark with purplish sores, others that had faded to a permanent dark brown, scaly with dryness or some sort of condition like eczema. Without invitation she plopped herself down on the sofa, in MY spot, at that, and helped herself to one of my cigarettes. Then she sprang to her feet again, and began pacing.I was about to ask what all the panic was about, since I had been looking cautiously out the barely-cracked door, fully expecting at any moment to see a band of armed thugs rounding the corner into the lot, in pursuit of their prey, although honestly, why anyone in their right mind would want to rape this caricature of undesireability was absolutely beyond me. But I hadn't yet learned enough suspicion, I still believed people when they told me things, especially when those people were so obviously in distress and the things they were telling were so very dramatic. Anyway, the parking lot and the street beyond it remained empty and silent, not so much as a passing car.But I didn't need to. Pacing, if her lumbering near-waddle could be called that, she began spouting her tale of woe."Motherfuckers! My own daughter! I knew she was evil, knew it when she was a baby. Bad shit happened when she was around, she made it happen, I knew it. She set the kitchen afire before she turn a year old, just thinkin bout it, I saw it with my own eyes. Shit!"She then turned and began addressing the space directly beside her, tilting her head upward as though talking to a much taller person. "You tell me, Jesus, why this shit gotta happen to me? I been good. I say my prayers. I tell folks about Your glory. Why you gotta send me this devil baby? Why you gotta make my life so hard?"She listened a moment, her head titled thoughtfully to one side, then screeched and began waving her hand dismissively in the direction of this invisible person. "No, no, fuck that, that don't account for nothin'. You listen to me, now, something wrong with that girl. I ain't talkin to you no more, you ain't makin no sense."She turns to me and shrugs extravagantly, setting her long breasts to swaying hypnotically. "Girl, I love my Lord and Savior, but sometimes he talk pure bullshit.""So. . ." I begin, not having the slightest idea how one goes about conversing with an obvious schizophrenic. "Who was chasing you? Someone was trying to rape you?"She shrieked again, a high and bloodcurdling noise, then flung her cigarette to the floor and ground it out under her shoe. "My own goddamn daughter, that's who! My own flesh and blood! Comes over with one of her dyke pals, says they work together, but me, I know better than that. And her with three babies of her own to look after. They come in and start making themselves drinks, and she say, 'Hey, Momma, why don't you try one of these?' So I take a swig, it tastes all wrong, she done went and put somethin in it. I get to feelin all funny-like. My own daughter! My flesh and blood, tryin to drug me! And don't think I don't know what they would've done to me once I got out of my head, no sir, I knows all about what those sick dykes do to poor ladies when they're helpless. I always knew that girl was evil, yes I did.""Um, so they chased you when you left?""Oh, yeah. Unh-huh. She comes runnin outta the house after me, screamin 'Don't go, Momma, where you gonna go this time a night?' But no, sir, my boy Aaron done told me you was a good girl, and told me where you lived, everybody knows this place. I come straight here, Jesus said you'd take me in."Oh, shit. I made a mental note to kick Aaron in the balls if I ever saw him again. Vaguely, I remembered him saying something about his momma not being quite right in the head, at least not when she went off her meds. "Where's your bathroom? I gotta take a shit."Well, what was I supposed to do? Hell, I thought she'd probably squat down and do it right on the floor, so I hastily pointed her in the right direction.She didn't bother closing the door, just pulled down her filthy pants and unspeakable tent-sized panties down around her swollen ankles and plopped that gigantic ass down on the seat.I have never in my life heard noises that even come close to the ones that proceeded to issue from this lunatic's colon. Amplified by the concave porcelain of the toilet and my own shocked disgust, it sounded like the end of the world as narrated by Rimbaud. Great stacatto blats of flatulence, horrid squirtings and squelchings, and the grunting. The groaning and praying and incessant grunting. (Once, during my labor to deliver Penny, I began to think that the wounded-moose bellows issuing from my own throat sounded vaguely familiar, and between contractions I racked my brain until I remembered where I'd first heard that sound. This is it.) At times it sounded like she was giving birth to some abominable Cthonic nightmare via her anus; at others, like her entire digestive tract was being torn loose and voided in great gushes of filth.And the smell. Jesus tits, the smell. I know that the phrase "It smelled like something crawled up his ass and died" is utterly cliched, and it doesn't even begin to describe that stench. Like an equitorial abattoir sealed up for a month and then stumbled upon haplessly, that unspeakable reek was a tangible mass advancing through the open door like the spiked wall of a shrinking room in an Indiana Jones movie. I have stumbled across the rotting and bloated carcasses of animals when wandering through fields as a child, have been present when my father had to deal with some problem that required opening up the septic tank beside the house. Once, when I was young, we left on a week's summer vacation to Texas and when we returned, we found that a nine-foot blacksnake had become caught somehow in the attic, and died, probably about the time we left. There was a puddle of rotting slime on the floor of the utility room, where its ichors had soaked through the acoustic cieling tiles and dripped down. That smell was Chanel No. 5 compared to the vapors emanating from this lunatic's rectum. There was a lot more wrong with this woman that just the chemical imbalances in her brain. No human being should be able to produce those kinds of odors.I went to close the door, but she shot out a hand to hold it open, the better to continue her rambling. As I began lighting every scented candle and stick of incense I could find, cursing for the first time that the one window had been nailed shut and painted over, she took up her tirade again."Oh, it's not just that bitch daughter. They all want it. I got somethin no man can resist. I got it, girl, I didn't ask for it, but the good Lord chose to give it to me just the same. I can't even start tellin you the trouble it's brung me. All my life, they been chasin after me for a piece of what I got. They can smell it, even through the phone. They come runnin and they won't leave me alone. I can give a man what he wants, all right, but I just don't want to no more. NO MORE, Jesus God, no more!"I located a bottle of Vicks Vap-O-Rub in a cardboard box shoved in a cabinet. I scraped its contents out into a saucepan, added some water, and put it on a burner to simmer. I wondered if I would have to throw out the couch, and anything else made of fabric that couldn't be laundered in hot water and bleach.Finally, with one last prolonged explosive spurt, she groaned with the satisfaction of a job well done. I sneaked a look into the john, in time to see her perfuctorily wipe, absentmindedly and but once, back-to-front, and was very, very glad I had nothing left in my stomach when I saw her dimpled and saggy asscheek, adorned with streaks and droplets of excrement, exposed for a moment as she stood to pull up her drawers.She left the bathroom without flushing, much less washing her hands, and I steeled myself against the stink, deciding that since it was already coating my nasal passages, the back of my throat, even my tongue, with its tangible film of rank fetor, I might as well go in, and flushed the toilet. And then flush it again. And again. When I finally, somehow, managed to get this maniac out of my house, I would have to attack the bathroom with Clorox; the bowl and seat of the toilet, and several inches of floor surrounding it, were splattered with shit. How she managed to get it on the floor is still beyond me, but then, I had been trying not to watch the process itself. I had enough material for sleep-stealing nightmares, thank you very much."And they all know about it," she continued, fishing another of my cigarettes out of its pack. Silently blessing my mother, who regularly bought me groceries and cigarettes and filled the tank of my car but refused to give me cash, I opened the freezer and withdrew a fresh pack. I was trying to keep a running tab of what she touched and would therefore have to be thrown out."Oh, yes, they all know. The gov'ment, yes sir, they're after me, too. Girl, I can't tell you how many times they done took me and I had to escape. Me, I'm a Cherokee princess, you know, soon as my daddy dies I get myself a casino, and my momma, she was a witch, so I just put the hoodoo on them, and they let me waltz right out. But it gets so HARD!"At this she collapsed on the floor, an avalanche of rippling fat and dirty clothes, fell to her knees, then thrust down her arms, and before I knew it she was lying face-down in my living room sobbing with heartwrenching sincerity. Had she not just transformed my meticulously clean bathroom into something that looked like a stall in the CBGB john, I would have hugged her, most likely (I'm a sucker for crying), stroked her hair and told her everything was okay. As it was, however, I just looked on in horrified fascination, sitting on the couch with my knees drawn up and my arms wrapped around them. Within minutes her crying didn't so much subside as stop suddenly, like someone had flipped a switch. She hauled herself off the floor, and this time she was pissed. Her eyebrows lowered and bunched together, the eyes beneath them afire with irrational rage. I was scared witless; she outweighed me by a good two hundred pounds, and I was in seriously deep shit if she decided that I was one of "Them". I held my breath and tried to look as harmless and yet sympathetic as I possibly could, but I needn't have worried.She turned again to the same spot she'd been talking to before, her fists clenched and thrust down at her sides, planted her feet wide apart and let loose an admirable stream of expletives. "Goddamn you to hell, you son-of-a-cunt! Fuck you! You shit-heel sumbitch! I'll put my foot up your ass, you don't start givin me a good reason, right the fuck now! Go on, you just try and tell me why you do this to me when you supposed to love me so much?" She paused, and again did that oddly bird-like head tilt. "Nuh uh, nuh uh, that don't cut it. No sir." Another pause, then, "Will you just shut up a minute and let me talk? I been good. I done raised my babies right, I made em say their prayers and beat em when they was bad. So why you gotta put this heavy load on my back? Why you gotta make it so I can't even get peace in my own home without my own daughter, my own flesh and blood, tryin to drug me up so she and that dyke can rape me and do any ol thing?"She turned back to me, the rage vanished, replaced on her face with anguish. "Girl, you don't even know. Don't nobody know what I been through. The CIA, they done took me again last year. Said I had to go on and serve my country, an if I didn't, they'd cut off my check."Another impossible shift--the grief washed away, her eyes went smoldering and cunning. "I got it, yes sir, I got it like you wouldn't believe." Her bloated hands began wandering over that vast heap of flesh, caressing her breasts, thrusting between her legs before withdrawing and sliding back over her bulbous belly, up her squat neck, to fluff her matted hair in a parody of wanton sensuality. It was a burlesque done by John Waters, and it was so grotesque I couldn't laugh even if I hadn't been afraid to. "Mmm-hmm, the men, they all want it. Now even my own goddam daughter can't keep her hands off me. So the CIA, they says I gotta go over to Russia, let the commies get a good whiff of me, keep them so busy chasin after what I got that they forget all about them damned bombs. But I don't let no white man touch me, see, I only go after niggers, they know how to give me what I need."Well, that explains Aaron, I thought, his chocolate skin and the hint of Native American bone structure that sculpted his face into such attractive planes. I think that she must have been quite pretty, even beautiful when she was young, before the diabetes and the schizophrenia and god only knows what drugs and liquors ravaged her flesh and her form. She begins to look at me more closely, the delusional lust in her eyes bleeding out to be replaced by suspicion. "You startin to get ideas, girl? You think you can get a piece of this?" I shake my head frantically, terrified again that her paranoia might turn towards me, but then she cocks her head and listened for a minute, and said, "Uh huh, okay, Jesus done told me you don't mean me no harm. He got plans for you too, girl, God help you, but you can't run away from what's been writ."The last thing I wanted was to hear what her Jesus had in store for me. The show had been fascinating, all right, but I began to realize that it was very, very important for me to get this madwoman out of my apartment before Jesus changed his mind about my trustworthiness. But how?And here's where I get clever. "Did you hear that?" I asked, starting upright in my seat. "Hear what? He talkin to you too, now? Oh, Lord, I don't wish that on nobody. What's he sayin?""No, no, outside. There it is again!"I jumped up and ran past her to the door, screwed my eye up to the peephole, then drew back with a terrified gasp. "Oh, shit, they're here! There's two ladies, and they've got a whole bunch of men with them. Men in suits."She screamed, then immediately began to pull on the layers of outer garments she'd shed upon entering. "Lord, lord, girl, you can't let them get me, you don't know what they do to me with their wires and their machines! You gotta hide me, you gotta tell them I ain't here!""There's no place in here to hide, it's too small, besides, they have machines that can tell if you're lying," I frantically improvised. "Tell you what, if you go out that back door, the one in the kitchen, there's another door that leads up to the second floor. You go up that, then go down the hall, and then back down the stairs in front and get out the main door where the mailboxes are. I'll stall them as long as I can, then tell them you went out the back and over the fence when I can't anymore.""Girl, God bless you and keep you, Aaron was right about you, you's a good girl. You be careful, don't you dare tell them 'bout Jesus and his plans for you, or they'll be after you, too." She gathered up the many plastic bags she'd brought with her, and while her back was turned I surreptitiously kicked the hollow aluminum door. "Oh, God, they're gonna break it down!"And with that, she scurried out the flimsy kitchen door, which I shut behind her, and then locked, although the lock didn't work properly, and as an afterthought, drug a chair from the bar over and wedged it under the doorknob. Only then did I sink to the floor, exhausted, bewildered, wondering how the hell I went from getting dolled up for a date to participating in a schizophrenic delusion in the space of six hours.I started laughing, hysterically, shaking with the absurdity of this farce that had just played itself out in my cramped apartment. I thought about turning it into a poem, or maybe a story, but it was just too ludicrous to be put to words, or so I thought at the time. Then I hauled myself up off the floor, tied my hair back, changed my clothes, and spent the remainder of that Valentine's day bleaching every surface that batshit-crazy woman had even come close to.It wasn't a date, it wasn't roses and chocolates, but it was. . .well, it was something.


Michael Austin 17 years, 6 months ago

Yes, amazing. But why did I read that at lunchtime. Looks like I am on a diet today!!

I am so glad to have never had an experience like that. I think I would have moved,... that night!

cfdxprt 17 years, 6 months ago

When I spent my summer working floor crew at Walmart I used to wonder how people seemed to be able to shit everywhere but in the god damn toilet - now I know.

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

I usually don't let people I don't know into my place, but there was just the instinct to do so when she was screaming "They're gonna rape me!" It's my inner Amazon, I think ;)

Michael Austin 17 years, 6 months ago

I think everyone has their Walmart/service job horror story about bathrooms. I won't add to what Misty had, but my experience delt with too men huffing paint, then one deciding the other was hogging it all, so he promptly beat the crap out of him while he still had the bag over his head. Blood, paint and who knows what else was splattered all across that bathroom, and we had to clean it up.

Misty, you should have saved this one for Valentines. It's a heartwarming story of romance, the CIA, and bowel movements. What more do you need?

And as usual, great writing. I just finished reading my first Chuck Palahniuk book, "Invisible Monsters", and it deals with a lot of the same subject matter. You really don't hold back and write in exquisite (though gross) detail! Good work!

Terry Bush 17 years, 6 months ago

In the many years I spent as a janitor for an office building (great job - hours wise, but it seriously sucked in all other respects) I came to realize that WOMEN often made the bigger messes in bathrooms. Never could figure out why.

Thanks for the laugh. And is there anyone out there who has ever had a worse Valentines surprise?? Geez. Misty should get a prize or something!?

Marcy McGuffie 17 years, 6 months ago

Oh the visual images. Ick! LOL

Women make the bigger messes? That's a curious observation...

cfdxprt 17 years, 6 months ago

I will second ladylaw's comment about women's restrooms. We used to flip a coin on who got that duty.

Heather Tellez 17 years, 6 months ago

that is the coolest valentines day story I have ever heard.

I will have to respectfully disagree about the nasty bathrooms, having been cleaning bathrooms half my life I found the mens to be nastier.

Terry Bush 17 years, 6 months ago

Well, the bathroom messy meter may depend upon several factors - time, place, patrons etc. I cleaned bathrooms (and the whole office building) from 1967 until 1974...and without fail the women's room was much worse. Sure, the men missed when they aimed. But so did the women (how that is so often done when sitting I do not know...) PLUS they spattered water and soap everywhere, smeared makeup on counter tops, and used about 3 times the paper towels. Men may be pigs who don't wash their hands (that would explain a lot) but the mess left behind was worse in the women's bathrooms. At least where I cleaned up.

Misty, did you ever find out where Otis went? And did you ever tell this crazy woman's daughter that her mom made a visit?

Todd 17 years, 6 months ago

I thought it was common knowledge that as far as public restrooms go the women's room was dirtier. (at least germwise)

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

Yeah, Otis was off deflowering some jailbait that night. He was a pig.

Aaron came over a couple of days later with profuse apologies and several big fat joints to let me know how sorry he was his crazy mother looked me up, and thanked me for taking care of her. She turned up back home sometime the next morning, and from that day forward wouldn't get off his back about marrying me ;)

Melissa Lynch 17 years, 6 months ago

oh the imagery! my goodness! i would have freaked out, left the apartment and called the police. but that just wouldn't do in that situation i guess, because if she was that scared of imaginary foes then what would she do if the cops showed up? and your friend aaron probably wouldn't have been to friendly after that, either... hmmm.

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

Yeah, I wasn't too into having cops in my apartment, anyway. . . the beer bottle full of used rigs under the sink made me a little paranoid ;)

Honestly, I never once thought about calling the police---I did think about trying to call someone to come over and help me out, but I didn't want her to think I was calling "Them". That would have been bad, bad news. . .

Melissa Lynch 17 years, 6 months ago

way more than a little paranoid, i should think. : )

i guess you did the best you could have. i would hate to think what would happen if she went even crazier...

Michael Austin 17 years, 6 months ago

To have such wild thoughts, and then remember what such a nice girl you are.

Nice trickery, I probably would have started earlier with the stories to get her out, I don't think I could have had the patience (fear?) that you did. Might not have let her in in the first place.

thetom 17 years, 6 months ago

I'll step outside the comfort of our mutual disain and tell that you KICK storytellin ASS.

Thats all I'm sayin.

Kelly Powell 17 years, 6 months ago

Ifin you was a speed junkie, that was the first shit that happened in your toilet in ages'.....I know, after over three months of living off of chick'o'sticks, sports shakes, dr. pepper and magna cigarettes you get used to the rabbit like pellets or thin watery ecscrement that speed junkies call poop.

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

Why thank you, thetom. That means a lot, and it made my day.

buddha, you said it. I myself was living off of Basic menthols, Mountain Dew (can't touch the stuff anymore) whole milk, and prenatal vitamins left over from my upstairs neighbor's latest pregnancy.

But damn, did my hair grow FAST.

Terry Bush 17 years, 6 months ago

And for anyone out there who happens to agree with thetom's assessment of Misty's writing/story-telling talents....and knows a viable publisher....she will soon have her first full length 50,000 novel finished (way way ahead of schedule) and be ready to start writing pure fiction of the sort that actually has a saleable market (with 6 total book plots already laid out in her brightly blue colored head)....So have your publisher friends contact her and "Stay Tuned" to see her be rich & famous! We hope!

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

Um, ladylaw, 50,000 words is more of a novella, really. . . . and I don't plan to publish it under my own name. . . .

morganalefay 17 years, 6 months ago

Great story, Misty! And very well written!

Re Women's bathrooms being so dirty. I've heard that there are a lot of women who "hover" above the toilet seat instead of just using those paper covers or lining the seat with toilet paper for fear of germs. So they "miss" and just leave their germs all over the place. Weird.

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

Ah, yes, the beloved hover-squat. I remember as a really little kid, my mom was HUGELY phobic about germs, so she'd hold me above the toiled while I "tinkled". Well, most of the time, I "tinkled" all over the damn place. Heh.

morganalefay 17 years, 6 months ago

As far back as I can remember my mom just put toilet paper on the seat. Maybe she didn't want to hold me above the seat for fear that I would..."miss" and hit her instead!

your_mileage_may_vary 17 years, 6 months ago

I thought this was boring, hard to read, and not funny. (And it's only because I love your previous blogs, that I say that.)

I find the blogs that you write to reflect your life today to be much more enjoyable and entertaining. I have recommended your blog to many. I'll be glad when NaNoWriMo is over and your ownself returns.

Aufbrezeln Eschaton 17 years, 6 months ago

That's cool, your_mileage. My "serious" (and I use that word lightly ;) prose isn't for everyone, and that's more than OK with me. It's not going to make me rich, and it's not going to make me popular, but it WILL probably save me thousands of dollars in therapy. I mostly post it here because I'm completely, first-crush-ingly wrapped up in the blush of creating a lengthy novel, and because I don't have much time for "regular" blogging while I'm riding this particular high. Also, a lot of other people seem to find it entertaining, so why the fuck am I apologizing to you???

your_mileage_may_vary 17 years, 6 months ago

hehehe, was that an apology? If it was, hehehe, I love it. I want the shirt:

Misty told me: "fuck off bozo"

(but to set the record straight? That's not why I wrote what I did.)

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