LKC FictionShort stories, big ideas, strange thoughts
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Reminds me of this story where a guy is sitting by a campfire, wife and kids already in the tent settling in to sleep. Mother is telling a sweet bedtime story as the kids coo and ask sweet questions. Father smiles to himself and feels the warmth of life's good fortune. His swigs at his beer and listens. To celebrate this wonderful feeling he slams a couple more cans of beer. Maybe a couple more after that.
He drinks to the point where is stumbling to make it to the tent when bedtime comes around. His memory is spotty after that decision to go lay down in the tent,however, thankfully, the three people inside of said tent have vivid recollections of it. It goes something like this.
"Like a moose was attacking our tent. We awoke, in terror,
to the noise of fingers pawing on the side. Once he finally found the zipper
the tent started to shake violently. Then the sound of the zipper jerkingly
unzipping. I'll never forget", said his wife.
Once I did finally get myself all of the way inside the doorway I immediately fell
over the inflatable mattress and landed on them. I was unharmed by the fall, but my stomach and most of that PBR got all bubbly.
Long story short, puked all over everything and everyone inside of the tent. Even the dog. And since we forgot the flashlight at home, this all happened in the pitch dark.
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Silver Lake
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Dollar pile-up
by Adam Mikos
I used to go to Vegas to live in a dream world for a few days. As my last visit was winding down on a draggy, dull pain Sunday afternoon I was trying to ramp things up at a bar at the center of the casino. My features seemed exaggerated, more than most times. My attention drifted to a pudgy man a few stools away who was giggling into his sleeve. If you have ever been to Vegas you are prolly familiar with the exaggeration of certain qualities in humankind, especially the ones you find disgusting. Fat butts, toupee's, cankles, and, in this case, gutteral giggling. Looking away I tried to focus on the free Corona in my hand. The giggling continued and broke into my quiet space. I tried to really dive into the migraine grinding between my ears. The pain in there proved a worthy defense against his noises. Somehow though, like watching TV with the sound off, I was now able to enjoy the little show he was putting on. The reason Pudgy Man was laughing slowly revealed itself to me.
Through half closed eyes I watched the performance taking place four stools down. Pudgy Man was throwing dollar bills on the floor around himself at the bar. The area directly behind us was a main walkway in and around the casino and people were streaming through. Sunday or not, Jesus or Allah or Jerry Falwell or Rev. Farrakkhan or otherwise, folks were getting their gamble on. All these people were unknowingly providing a huge amount of entertainment to Pudge. The longer I watched half hidden behind the squeeze of blood pressure in my brain it started to get me giggling too. I resisted at first because Pudgey laughing had annoyed me so much, but it was impossible to not.
With his back to the crowd, he would wad up bills and fling them into the walkway. After three or four he would spin around on the stool and sip on his drink like he had a fever, and wait. It never took more than ten or so seconds until people walking by would notice the greenbacks on the floor. If it were some city street or mall I doubt folks would react quite like this. In Vegas, a single dollar was elevated to life changing status. That random chance that could wisk a poor sap with student loans and car payments onto easy street. The appearance of free money, that brought with it an opportunity to taste the good life, caused quite a commotion. The wads had barely stopped rolling and men and women were lunging for them. Not only lunging, but pushing other people out of the way. The less-than-athletic among them were grabbing and shoving knowing that unless they had a wide berth there was no way they could bend over quickly enough to outmaneuver the slimmer and younger. The overall effect of this ten or eleven foot long scrum was hilarious. All walkway traffic ceased immediately. No one could come or go as asses and elbows were all that was visible. Women would squeal, yell and grunt. Men were huffing, cursing and threatening one another. Much like in the Serengeti, the victors would clutch their quarry and quickly move off to a nearby slot machine for a shot at immortality. In their wake the unlucky mass would slowly begin to move again and the walkway would once again begin to flow with flesh. As a description, the above is accurate but woefully unable to convey the true absurdity of the spectacle.
As I mentioned it was not possible to see the cause unfold without enjoying the effect. The first couple times I witnessed the "dollar pile-up" my attention was locked on the participants, the passersby who risked safety and integrity. It wasn't an all out laugh that was produced, like watching Americas Funniest Home Videos or the cognitive roar that Chris Rock creates. No, it was more along the lines of barnyard animals being filmed having sex. An awkward, purely reactionary act that is really best left between those immediately involved. Having said that I couldn't pull myself away as over an hour passed, during which at least seven pile-ups took place. At first it was hard to believe it would work so many times in such a short san of time. The walkway though was delivering fresh meat constantly. Even people that had come to a halt thirty or forty yards away due to a previous pile-up, without knowing what had happened, would easily fall prey to a subsequent one once they passed by our little bar oasis.
I'm not sure if my laughter eased my headache or if it was the steady flow of beers I drained while watching the fray, but my mind was clear. As the only two at the bar, Pudgy noticed that he had my full attention. He started playacting a little as he flicked the wads. Sometimes dropping the bills right next to his stool legs or tossing them close to mine.
It reminded me of my first trip to a trout fish farm. It was around the age of twelve or thirteen and I went with my Mom. She was looking for a place to drop me off while she was at work, since it was summer vacation and school was out. I loved to fish then so it was more than fine with me. The place had a small pond about the size of a good Midwestern driveway with a little shack at one end. I was eager to get to the edge of the water and bought a quarters worth of fish food out of one of their gum ball like dispensers. As we approached the surface of the water was glassy and still. I tossed half the hand full of pellets into the middle of the pond, all of nine feet away, not knowing what to expect. It was usually my lot to spend hours and hours throwing bait in a lake with little or no effect at all. At a trout farm things are different. The first pellet had just begun to make a ripple and the top of the water boiled. An expanding ball of fins and mouths made as much noise and spray as a toddler swimming class at a YMCA pool. The effect at that bar in Vegas was exactly like that except I was sitting smack in the middle of it and almost getting knocked off my stool by the trout.
It didn't really matter where the balled-up bills went. People freaked out. It never failed.
As the saying goes, too much of a good thing can spoil it. The novelty and revulsion of the pile-up began to wane. My head had stopped making a commotion and with the help of beer, began to feel quite light in fact. The ill will I harbored against Pudgy no longer existed either and I decided to thank him for the previous hours entertainment.
If I could identify a moment in my life where good should have triumphed over evil this would be one of them. People are regularly posed on the brink of bad decisions. Some by choice, some by chance, each time there is a degree of control available and in this case it was completely within my hands to not start up that first conversation with Pudge. The alarms were going off in my mind, but being in Vegas, that was a constant background noise for the previous three days anyway. In fact I usually made a point of doing whatever was setting off my caution detection in Vegas. So over to him I walked.
"That's a pretty sick trick you've got there", I said to him. "My name is Dolans, thanks for letting me watch."
"No problem. It's actually funnier when there is a crowd. You wanna try it?"
"Nah, not really my style", I replied.
"Boy, do you always lie to people right when you meet them? After you sat there and watched and laughed for five minutes I could tell it was exactly your style. Just 'cause you didn't throw the money doesn't mean you're not an asshole too. You're prolly more of an asshole for thinking you were better than me because I was doing it", he said cutting me open with his stare.
This caught me off guard, way off guard. My confusion lead directly to my second mistake with Pudgy in less than one minute. "Uhh, sorry if it came across like that. I didn't mean to say anything about you. Just sort of making small talk and introducing myself."
"I can't stand small talk and the last thing I need is some overweight drunk trying to be my friend. Why can't some hot girl try to introduce herself to me? Or some rocket engineer? Maybe one of those German lion tamers? Forget it, I gotta piss. How 'bout I piss in your beer? Then we can be friends."
Thankfully I recovered my wits by the time he finished talking. I knew my beer was empty so I looked him in the eye and lifted it up to him. The scowl that he had leveled at me didn't waver for a second as he took the bottle from my hand and brought it down to his waist. Still looking me in the eye he unzipped his fly, right there at the bar with people still walking by, he started pissing in the bottle. Hand to God, he even had that little shiver at the end so I knew he was finished. He zipped up and placed the now refilled beer bottle on the bar.
"The names Mickey," he informed me. "Let's split. Smells like piss in here."
Chapter 2
Mikey Dolenz had been waiting to come home for the last two weeks. Considering he had only been out of town for three weeks it wouldn't be overstating to say he was excited to return. The vacation had been somewhat forced on him and was originally supposed to be ten days long. Around the sixth day his publisher phoned him to tell him there was some kind of typhoon tearing through the small Filipino island where their cut-rate printer was located and that he should stay a bit longer. Dolenz was emphatic that he wanted to make an entrance just as the book, his book really, was released. Nothing would be worse than going back home and sitting around waiting for the thing to get there. At least in Jamaica he had ways to take his mind off his impatience; sand, sun, bikinis and some wonderful cookies the resort maintenance staff started giving him. At first they gave them to him, but now they asked for a couple dollars for them. Dolenz didn't care though, it didn't amount to much in American currency. They told him it had a root or leaf or flower bud in it that made it so good. Not the taste, but after a hour or so it was like being drunk and asleep at he same time; very relaxing and unpredictable. Throw a couple glasses of Planters Punch on top and the days just melt away. Good as that was his ego and his anxiety soon got the better of him. He had been working on his book for six months straight. It had felt like harder work than he had done in years.
This might seem understandable, but Dolenz hadn't actually written a word of it. He was the subject of the book, not the writer. He was also the one funding the project and had found the writer. Actually, it was a ghost-writer that was supposed to appear to be a fan of Mikey's that had undertaken the entire thing as a gesture to him as some kind of a tribute to a hero. This doesn't jive with the old fashioned notion of the integrity of the written word, but that hasn't meant anything to anyone since television and news cycles came into being.
This odd arrangement would hopefully remain unknown among the masses of his audience. Paying someone to write a vanity book about you while pretending to be fan or someone who worships the ground you walk on is a little strange. Maybe egotistical to such a degree that the word itself isn't adequate. Megalomaniac. He wanted the attention more than anything else. He also felt there were lessons he had learned that others would benefit from greatly if he were to share them. Almost like teaching the people. In his mind, there were so many reasons to buy his new book. Reasons upon reasons in some of the chapters.
Chapter 3
As we walked next to each other heading out of the casino, it really hit home that I had no idea who this Mikey guy was. Outside of the alcohol sphere that surrounded the bar we were sitting at a moment came for trying to identify just what kind of person I was leaving the casino with. Trying to get a handle on what kind of situation was evolving with each step. Mikey turned to me and asked if I felt like going to a breakfast place.
"No ", I responded. "We need to go somewhere with a bar". "Or some kind of alcohol".
"How 'bout Hooters? They have their own casino so we can eat, drink and gamble at the same time", Mikey fired back.
"Oh, Hooters has a casino?" Not only did I know that Hooters had a casino in Vegas, but I had been there three times in the last 24rs..
"Who believes the shit that comes out of your mouth?"
Again, my lie was detected. In my defense I didn't really sell it like I could have.
"Yeah, Hooters sounds good. Short cab rode too."
"I thought you didn't know they had a casino?"
Time for a new subject. Unable to think of one quickly enough I just started ignoring him, pretending I couldn't hear. This went on for a minute or two, until we reached the front doors.
"I'm gonna go get my car out of the garage. Meet you there in twenty minutes." Pudge yelled at me, exaggerating his response as a thank you for my feigned deafness.
"Can I get a ride? We are going to the same place."
"No, I'll meet you there", he responded, possibly offended that the question had been asked.
We parted company abruptly. There at the front doors another moment of opportunity presented itself. While together it seemed perfectly natural that we leave my hotel casino and go to Hooters. To discus... I don't know what. Right at that moment, as the spell was broken, I could have walked away. Don't show up at Hooters, don't get mixed up any further with Pudge. But what else did I have to do for the next three hours until my flight? Nothing wrong with going to Hooters again. Nothing wrong with nude hosiery and orange shorts. Not secretly, at least.
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