Can You Hear Me Now?

When I first moved to Washington State, I was looking to find a second job and believe me, I was doing a lot of job hunting. I’d been working two jobs for the past few years and it didn’t seem as if I would be able to stop working a second job any time soon.

For those of you who don’t know, I moved to Washington state a little over a year ago, trading the crowded Northeast for the wide open spaces of the Pacific Northwest. It’s beautiful here, the flowers and colors of summer brighten the days; panoramic views of snow-capped mountains; the bay and the sound; the wind and the sky. Everything is so much larger than life here, like the towering pines that reach towards heaven, so massive that you feel humbled to stand in their shadow. By light of day, the air is abuzz with bustling bees and bouncing butterflies, while enormous dragonflies cruise in lazy circles overhead. Our friends come to visit, the finches with their indignant shouts, cackling crows and a little red hummingbird that darts in and out. Other friends drop by; there’s a fat little raccoon that begs for his dinner and the many deer that eat from our hands. They have no fear of us and yet, they’re still a bit timid. If you’re lucky, the deer might let you pet them for a moment, before they shy away. Not that little raccoon bastard, though. That little fucker has some mighty big balls and will actually climb the stairs to the back deck, when he’s looking for a handout. He’s a cheeky little fucker, but he looks so cute, when he begs for food.

As I’ve already mentioned, I’d been doing a lot a lot of job hunting, trying to find something that was part-time and flexible, without having to work at a restaurant. Again. I’d spent days hitting the streets, dropping off resumes and filling out applications. I’d spent weeks online, submitting online job applications and resumes. My resume was posted to every job site on the fucking planet. Hours had been spent writing customized cover letters and tweaking my resume. I’d stared at my phone and laptop screens for endless hours, stared until my eyes had glazed over, clicking and tapping on links to apply for jobs via email and job placement services. I’d taken personality tests, psychological tests and competency exams. I’d spent hours, days and weeks hustling my ass off, trying to find a job. I should have had dozens of interviews and a few offers by that time, but I hadn’t heard a word. No emails, no phone calls, nothing. Not even fucking crickets. That led to a little bit of a crisis of confidence for me. I mean, I know I’m an asshole and all, but am I that much of an asshole that no one would want to hire me? You don’t need to answer that; it was just a rhetorical question.

Never one to give up, I kept plugging away, but I still had the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. Even worse, I was starting to run out of money. Frankly, I was so fucking poor, I’d started rinsing off my paper plates to save money. Don’t judge me.

Meanwhile, my mobile phone had become possessed by some kind of bizarre, batshit and vindictive demon. The phone was throwing temper tantrums and having fucking seizures. When it spoke to me in my mother’s voice, I knew that it was possessed by Satan, himself. The phone would constantly crash and need to be restarted. Trying to find a signal at my house was an exercise in buffoonery, as well as gymnastics. I’d run around and chase the bars outdoors, indoors - from room to room and then back again. Reception would go from five bars to zero, from zero to three and then from three to fuck you, your call dropped in less time than it would take to scratch my balls and say, “What the fuck?” Messaging was hit or miss, mostly miss. Fuck that. It would have been faster to send fucking smoke signals. I shit you not. Staying connected to Wi-Fi was like holding out both of my hands, wishing in one and shitting in the other, just to see which hand would fill up first. I couldn’t receive any voice mails, either, because I’d never been able to set that up and it’s not like I would have bothered to listen to voice mails anyway. When I see a missed call, I return it. I’m not going to waste my time and listen to a fucking message when I’m only going to have to call you back and you’re just going to tell me the same fucking thing. Again. I don’t need to be told twice, so I might as well save myself the time and the effort, by just calling you back. I’m just efficient like that. Efficient motherfucker, that’s me. Sort of like a Terminator of Efficiency. Anyway, I could go on, but I think I’ll just stick to the highlights.

Well, since I had been doing all of that job hunting, I decided that it might be a good idea to get that voice mail issue taken care of, you know, just in case anyone might ever decide that I might be worthy of employment. Highly doubtful, but hey, you never know. I had tried to address the voice mail issue several months before, while I was still back in PA. My lazy ass actually walked into a T-Mobile store and interacted with an actual, live human being that was unable to provide me with any customer service, even though he happened to be a customer service representative. The person whose job title was a lie instructed me to dial 611 for customer care and that I would also have to interact with yet another human being.

Why? Why two? Wasn’t dealing with one human being punishment enough for any given person on any given day? Having to deal with two different people seemed a bit excessive and cruel. Wasn’t there a machine that I could talk to or press buttons and shit? I’m really good at that. The situation was making me anxious. What is this world coming to? Will the horrors never cease for a fragile flower such as myself?

So many questions. I actually have all of the answers, just so you know, I’m just not going to fucking tell you any of them. I’m a selfish prick like that.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

This motherfucker actually expected me to tap three numbers into the phone and then sit there on hold for God only knows how fucking long, just to talk to some dumbass named ‘Biff’, in Bangalore, just so I could get voice mails that I would never listen to? Get the fuck out of here. Jesus, talk about way too much fucking effort. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have procrastinated and just gone ahead and exchanged pleasantries with ‘Biff’ in Bangalore. I mean going ahead and getting shit done actually gets shit done and all, but sometimes the process can take too long and move too slowly and I just don’t have the patience for that kind of shit. Once I’d arrived in Washington, I thought it might be a good idea to finally resolve my voice mail issues and I mustered up the strength to dial 611. It was exhausting. I think I strained my finger a little.

The fucking sacrifices that I have to make.

The phone froze. Of course, it did. Undeterred by this nearly insurmountable obstacle, I restarted the phone, tapping my toes in time with the catchy little tune that I was humming while waiting for my phone to restart. That’s complete bullshit, of course. I was mentally picturing myself smashing that fucking piece of shit phone into its component atoms, allowing it to return to the cosmic dust from whence it came, but I couldn’t, which sucked, because I really wanted to. Living the dream. Yeah, baby.

The phone restarted, I keyed in the number, the phone started to dial and then the call dropped. I tried again and the call dropped a second time. Again and again and again and again and again…

Finally, the call connected and I was too scared to even fucking breathe, afraid that if I did, I’d lose the signal. I was still as a statue, looking all like Michelangelo’s “David” and shit, except that my dick’s bigger than his. A lot bigger. Ladies, I just felt the need to point that out. It’s like the Moby Whale of dicks. I also rent it out for weddings and special events, although most of my exes might say it would be best at a funeral. Meh, tomato/potato.

An interactive, computerized voice answered the phone. Fuck me, I hate those fucking things, but at least it wasn’t a human being. Yet. I hate that fucking caveat. The computerized recording started spouting all of the standard bullshit that all computerized recordings go on about and asked me why I was stupid enough to have to call customer care.

“I need my voice mail reset,” I enunciated, slowly and carefully.

“Did you say that you were calling because you’re an idiot and you don’t know how to use your mobile device?” the computer asked, “Did I hear you right?”

“No,” I replied.

“Let’s try that again,” the computer stated.

“Voice mail,” I tried again.

“Did you say that you want to know how to set up your voice mail? Did I hear you right?” the computer asked in its sneering and mocking tone.

Motherfucker.

“No, you fucking idiot,” I said, my voice rising. “I just want to reset my fucking voicemail.”

“I don’t have to take this shit from you,” said the voice.

No, not really. The computer asked me if I’d prefer to speak to an agent and I jumped at the chance, quickly saying the word agent, like sixteen bazillion fucking times, until the computer graciously passed me along to the agent queue and an interminable wait. Let me tell you, that computer was one arrogant, little fuck. While I was being held captive, a recorded message kept trying to feed me bullshit about some sort of bullshit, but I just wasn’t hungry enough to eat any bullshit. Finally, the recording asked me if I’d like to have an agent call me back, instead of being on hold until I died of old age and it promised that I wouldn’t lose my place in the queue, if I did.

That was a no brainer; sign me up, bitches! Who the hell wants to sit on hold and listen to the same bullshit over and over? Not me. Fuck, it’s almost like reading one of my stories.

I took the easy way out. The recording told me that it would only be two minutes until my call would be returned. I smelled bullshit, but hey, whatever. Since it was only going to be “two minutes,” better known as four times the best thirty seconds of her life that a woman will ever enjoy with me, I sat by the phone and oh, so patiently waited for my call to be returned.

Fifteen minutes later… Nothing.

Thirty minutes later… Still nothing.

Thirty-five minutes later, the phone rang and I answered it. It was some jackass wanting to talk to me about continuing my education. Don’t get me wrong, I like education and school just fine and have nothing against them. I like them so much, in fact, that I went to third grade three times and by the time that I was in fifth grade, I had the biggest penis in my class. I was also twenty-six. As much as I love education, I really just wasn’t in the mood for that bullshit.

“Your mom already taught me everything I need to know.” I said and I hung up the phone.

After forty-five minutes, the phone rang again and this time, it’s T-Mobile customer care. The snotty little douchebag that returned my call wanted to know why I was so stupid that I had to deal with an actual human being instead of being just stupid enough to be able to solve my technical difficulties myself, by using the automated system. The way that fucking asshole kept going on about the fucking automated system, I thought maybe it was like his fucking kid, or something. Shit, I’ll bet that little prick fucked his PlayStation and it gave birth to the automated system; the bastard child of sexual assault.

If my arms were as long as my penis, I could have reached through the phone, throat punched that arrogant little motherfucker and smiled as he turned blue and flopped around on the floor. Oh, if wishes were horses.

I began by explaining that I needed my voicemail to be reset. The call dropped. I resisted the urge to set my phone on fire and instead, I started walking around in circles on the deck, chasing the cell phone signal. I got lucky and found a spot where I had three bars. Glory, glory, hallefuckinglujah.

I pulled out my lighter and flicked it a few times, sprouting flame. I did this within full sight of my phone, making sure that it understood the danger and the threat to its wellbeing.  Fucker. I’m pretty sure it got the message, though, because I was done fucking around.

I called customer care once more, the automated system was engaged and I immediately started asking for an agent. It’s the same story as before. I can either wait on the phone or I can have an agent call me back in three minutes. Whatever. Using my earlier experience as a performance rubric, I figured it would be at least an hour before they called me back, so I tossed my phone on the counter and started doing stuff around the house. Sure enough, the moment that my dick was in my hand (figuratively; okay, literally) is the same moment that the phone started to ring and I had to run to answer it. Run. As in walking quickly, but faster. Fuck, it was horrible. I’ll never do that shit again. Pinky swear. So, if you ever do see me running, you’d best start running too. There’s probably a really good reason for me to be running. Just trust me on this one, okay?

I answered the phone again and this time it was a woman with a very thick accent that I could barely understand. Even worse, “Betty” was a low talker. Great. Yeah… great. Just fucking great. Yeah, no. I could already see that call going sideways. I deliberated hanging up the phone and trying my luck again, in the great customer service agent crap shoot, but I decided against it. Instead, I explained my situation to the agent and she told me that it wouldn’t be a problem to reset my voicemail and that she just needed me to give her the last four digits of the primary account holder’s Social Security number, which would have been my now ex-girlfriend Jen’s Social Security number and a number that I did not know, not having expected to ever need it. I informed the agent that I was named on the account as being able to make any and all changes. She said that was fine, but that she still needed those four numbers to proceed. Well, it was after 10:00 pm, my time, which meant that it was after 1:00 am back on the east coast and Jen was soundly asleep. I certainly wasn’t about to call her and wake her up over something as trivial as my voice mail. Once again, I plead my case to the agent; I explained that I was job hunting and that I really needed to have working voicemail, or I would be living in a cardboard box on the street with my little dog Toto, too. My sad tale of woe must have melted her heart just a little bit, because she told me that she was going to ask her supervisor and that she’d be back in a jiffy. In a jiffy. Seriously. Who fucking speaks like that? It’s archaic as fuck.  Unfortunately, the agent was back on the line in less than a minute and the answer from her supervisor was, “No.” Yeah, fuck you, supervisor and bless your little fucking heart. The agent recommended that I either get the digits from Jen or that I could have Jen call on my behalf. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, but thanks. She then asked if there was anything else that she could help me with.

Bitch, you couldn’t help me in the first fucking place, what makes you think you could help me with anything else? Why is it that motherfuckers who can’t help you always want to know if they can’t help you with something else, too? It’s like, here, I just totally cock blocked you, can I do it again? And they do that shit with a smile, you know those motherfuckers do.

I told “Betty” that no, she couldn’t and then I thanked her for not helping me, because that’s just the kind of polite motherfucker that I am. Discouraged, I hung up the phone.

I called Jen the next morning and I told her what had happened. She told me that she’d take care of it, but that it might take a day or two. No worries. Meanwhile, I still hadn’t received a single call about a job. Wtf? I just didn’t get it and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I’d even started applying for jobs that I normally wouldn’t even consider applying for, but wages out here are pretty decent. The minimum wage here in Washington state is $9.47/hr., but almost everyone pays more. Most jobs seem to start anywhere from $11-$18/hr., unless you’re in the restaurant business, where food servers and bartenders are earning the minimum wage, plus tips. Not a bad deal.

I sent out more resumes.

After a few more days of turning up nothing during my job search, I received an email from a recruiter informing me that they had been trying to reach me by phone and that they had been unable to leave me a voice mail. Of course they couldn’t leave me a fucking voicemail, because I needed my fucking voicemail reset and I couldn’t get my fucking voicemail reset and Jen still hadn’t called T-Mobile. Over the course of the next hour, I received two additional emails from other employers, informing me of the same thing. What? Wtf? My phone never rang. I knew that signal strength was shit where I lived, but I was still receiving calls from friends and family back on the east coast without problems, so I knew that I could get calls, but apparently, no one on the west coast could call me. While that explained a lot, it sure as fuck didn’t solve anything. Wtf? No. Seriously. What the fucking fuck?

Thankfully, I could still make local calls and I called all of the companies that had contacted me and left apologetic voicemails and then I replied to the emails, as well, apologized again and expressed my continued interest in the positions. I started thinking about all of the resumes that I had put out there, wondering whom else might have tried to contact me and the opportunities that I might have missed. And then I started worrying about all of the new resumes that I had just sent out; no one would be able to contact me. Fuck.

I called Jen again and told her what was going on, that I seemed to be able to make calls just fine and could receive calls from the east coast, but when it came to the west coast, I was shit out of luck. Jen told me that she was on the other line with T-Mobile and that she would call me back when she was finished.

After a few minutes, Jen called me back and she told me that my voice mail had been reset and that I would now be able to set it up. Hooray! Jen also told me that my phone needed some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery done to it, in order for the phone to be able to pick up west coast towers and that T-Mobile was also going to send me some kind of whizz-bang doohickey for me to plug into the wall and that this particular piece of technological wizardry would dramatically enhance my signal reception. The only thing that I needed to do to get the whole shit show rolling was restart my phone and the changes would take effect immediately. Then, I just needed to sit back and wait for the postman to deliver the letter, the sooner the better. Oh please, Mr. Postman…

Jen and I said our goodbyes, I restarted the phone and then I immediately set up my voicemail. At least I tried to, anyway. The fucking phone wouldn’t dial and I kept getting a notification that I wasn’t registered on the network. I walked around the house, looking for signal and I finally found a single bar. I jumped up and down, stood on my toes, climbed up the drainpipe and performed awkward, contortionist moves that would have made a yoga instructor green with envy and the fucking phone still wouldn’t dial. I tried over and over until finally, the call connected. I was so happy, I wanted to piss myself with relief. I followed all of the recorded instructions and pressed all of the right numbers. Fuck, it was exhausting work, but I managed. After what seemed to have been hours of strenuous and exhausting effort, I was now at the point where I could record my very own personalized greeting. My friends had talked me out of using my intended greeting, which was a simple, thoughtful and very effective, “Fuck off and die,” by claiming that it wasn’t very friendly and might not be what a prospective employer would want to hear. What the fuck ever happened to freedom of speech? Censorship is such bullshit. It’s all that fucking Obama’s fault.

Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers, everywhere.

Where was I? Oh, yeah…

The personalized greeting thing.

Why did I need a personalized greeting? Why did I even have to speak at all? I didn’t really want anyone to call me, I didn’t really want anyone to leave me a voicemail and I certainly didn’t want to speak to anyone, unless it was about a job. Leave me the fuck alone. I’m anti-social, don’tcha know?

I opted for the option to record my name, instead of a full greeting and let the recording take care of the rest. I made sure to congratulate myself for my own brilliance, because we all deserve recognition for a job well done. Honestly, I thought I deserved a plaque or some sort of honorable mention, but great genius is so often overlooked.

As I started to speak my name for the voicemail greeting, the fucking call dropped. Again.

Motherfucker.

Once again, I fought the urge to smash my phone into its component atoms. I fought that urge a lot, with my old phone, but instead, I reigned in my desire for violence and called my voicemail once again. It had to work eventually, right?

Did you know that Albert Einstein, who was a really smart and important guy, defined insanity as repeating the same action over and over, expecting a different result?

Yeah, it was like that.

Holy shit. I just started page nine and I haven’t even made it to the real story, yet. Fuck. I hope you’ve got some time to spare. Jesus, this is going to be my longest story ever and it’s just about a fucking phone call. It’s all of these fucking tangents.

Baffle them with your bullshit, indeed.

So, I called back and everything worked just as it should and I was able to record my name like a normal, competent person. Easy peasy, right? Nope. I played back the recording and decided that I sounded too serious, stiff and straight, so I invoked a Mulligan and did a do over. I played it back again and thought that I now sounded entirely too gay and that wouldn’t do either. I really didn’t want to sound like a refugee from some bad off Broadway musical. I recorded my name a third time. I mean it’s my name fer fuck’s sake and I still couldn’t get it right. You’d think I could manage to speak my own fucking name, but no, because fuck. I played it back a third time. Crap. That time, poor reception had left the recording filled with static. I tried again and got the same result. And again? Wtf? I’d had enough of that fuckery; I mean; we’re not talking fucking rocket science here. I’m not sure how many fucking tries it took to get it right, but it sure took a lot of fucking tries. I’ve heard that the 173^rd time is the fucking charm and apparently, it is.

Not long after I had finished failing my human competency test, I received a voice mail. A voice mail, a voice mail, I got a fucking voice mail! I was so excited; I was pissing myself with glee. Wait. The phone never rang. How the fuck do I have a voice mail if the phone never rang?

I called my voicemail and listened to the message. The message had been left by a recruiter named Holly, from a major telecommunications company, asking me to call her back in reference to the position that I had applied for. Her voice was hot, sultry and sexy, so I automatically assumed that she was an ugly troll. Trust me on this. It’s been my personal and painful experience that chicks with hot, sultry and sexy voices turn out to be none of the above when viewed in the cold, harsh and unfortunately, sober light of morning. Unfortunately, this seems to be the way it works and life is grossly unfair, but I want you to take this little nugget of wisdom with you and pass it along to future generations. Keep the fire alive, people.

I really wanted this job, so I dutifully dialed back and spoke to the (automatically assumed) hideous troll with the sexy voice. We chatted idly for a bit and then Holly asked me a series of interview questions, which I responded to with my usual wit, tact and charm and yet somehow, I still didn’t fuck things up. Interesting and hooray, for fucking me. I managed to bullshit my way through the rest of the interview and cried the blues to Holly, about my phone issues. She seemed sympathetic and agreed that the switching nonsense could really muck things up. Before ending our call, Holly informed me that I would have another telephone interview at 10:00 am the next morning, with Heidi, a different hiring manager. Heidi, I was told, would be asking me a laundry list of questions that would be different from the ones that I had already answered. I agreed to the time and the interview, thanked Holly and we concluded the call.

The next morning, at 9:50 am, I was seated and waiting for the call from Heidi. I had my phone, a pen and a notebook, in case I needed to take notes (which I did). I played on Facebook while I waited for the phone to ring, mainly because I was bored and I thought it would be somewhat more fun than shoving my thumb up my ass and sitting there in suspense. What can I say? Sometimes, I choose wrongly. At two minutes before the hour, I turned off Facebook and I stared at the screen of my phone, willing the fucking thing to ring.

It didn’t ring.

Ten o’clock comes and goes and I’m still sitting there like a dog in suspense. No bueno. Nope. No bueno, at all.

Wtf?

About ten minutes after ten, a voicemail notification popped up on my phone. The phone never rang. Again. Are you fucking kidding me? Motherfucker, if there’s enough of a signal for me to get a voicemail notification, there should be enough of a fucking signal for me to get a call.

I retrieved the voicemail and it was from Heidi, the HR manager with the major telecommunications company, mentioning our interview and asking me to return her call.

Fuck. This bullshit had really started to get old and it had the added benefit of making me look like a complete jackass, which really isn’t that hard to do, but it’s the type of goal in which I really don’t need any extra help in order to achieve it. No worries, I can do it on my own, but thanks a bunch.

Heidi’s voice, like Holly’s, oozed sex and seduction, but unlike with Holly, I didn’t automatically assume that Heidi was ugly. No sir. Quite the opposite, in fact. I pictured Heidi as having Dresden blue eyes; long, blonde, and braided hair; pert breasts ready to pop through her dirndl; flawless skin and long, long legs encased in those sexy lederhosen that drive all the little boys wild. Ja, ja. Basically, I was picturing the St. Pauli girl, sitting behind her desk with her skirt hiked up and breathlessly awaiting my phone call. You know, the kind of thing that will never, ever happen to me. The kind of thing that I can only dream about. Still, I can dream.

If life weren’t such an unfair bitch, that is exactly what my reality should have been, but alas, life is a fickle cunt and some dreams are just never meant to be.

I fucking hate my reality sometimes.

I called Heidi back and she immediately answered the phone. Her voice purred like a nitrous fueled, turbocharged sex kitten. That voice. Those lederhosen. Take me, liebschen.

I managed to stutter a greeting and I was somehow able introduce myself without sounding like a complete fuckhead. I quickly explained my phone problems and apologized for being so much trouble. Heidi laughed. I hoped that was a good sign.

After recovering from my phone fumble, the interview was off to a good start and Heidi started asking me her prepared questions, such as, “What did you like most about your last job?” and “What did you like least about your last job?” Scintillating shit. Just as shit was getting deep, the inevitable happened and the call dropped, because of course it fucking did. Fer fuck’s sake, sometimes I think that I am the physical embodiment of Murphy’s Law.

I called Heidi back. The phone wouldn’t dial. Of course not. Why the fuck would it work when I really needed it to. I cursed. A lot. Hard to imagine, I know, but I might have said a fuck or twelve. Who counts?

After a bit of rage and frustration, I mean thoughtful and peaceful introspection, I ran inside the house and I grabbed my buddy Luke’s iPhone. Now, you have to understand that my use of any Apple product is an indication of just how desperate I was. Fuck you, fanboys and girls, but I hate those fucking things and I really don’t feel like going off on a four-page rant about just how much and why I hate the fucking things. Suffice it to say, I hate everything Apple. I turned on Luke’s phone and saw that the power level was only at twenty percent, but surely, that had to be enough power to finish the interview. Surely. Fuck, I surely hoped so.

I frantically dialed Heidi back and apologized profusely, yet again, for all of the trouble. By that time, I thought that all hope of ever having St. Pauli girl sex with Heidi was probably out the window, but hey, stranger shit has happened, no matter how unlikely. At least Heidi and I would always have Paris, along with my twisted and juvenile fantasies.

Heidi continued asking me questions and I continued answering them, right up until the moment that I realized that I wasn’t talking to anyone but myself. The fucking iPhone battery had died.

I quickly grabbed my phone, dialed and oh, sweet baby Jesus, the call went straight through.

“Hi, Steve,” Heidi answered. She was laughing, so that had to be a good sign, right? Right?

That wasn’t a hypothetical question. I really needed the reassurance, at the time.

We continued the interview and I do feel that I comported myself well, if a bit awkwardly. Heidi asked me question after question and I always had the proper answer ready. I may be an asshole in person, but I can fake my way through an interview quite well.

Usually. I’ve blown an interview or two in my time.

Heidi started to wrap things up, but she let me know that she had one last question for me. It was a question that almost cost me the interview and one that came close to sending me flying right over the fucking edge.

“Have you ever felt frustrated by a piece of technology?” Heidi asked me.

Frustrated by a piece of technology? Me? The guy that wanted to smash his phone to pieces? No, not at all. Wtf? Hadn’t this woman heard a single fucking word that I’d said? My phone! My fucking phone! It’s possessed! It’s fucking demonic! Kill the fucking thing with fire!

I wish that I could have said all of that, I really, really do. Instead, I thought that shit right to her face, I swear I did. That’s the way it is and the way I am when shit gets real. After taking a moment to compose myself, I launched into a calm and rational explanation of all of the problems that I’d been having with my phone and I made sure to attach a humorous face to my story. I was lying through my fucking teeth, of course.

Heidi concluded the interview shortly after I answered her final question and she let me know that I had made the cut and she would be calling me back shortly to set up an in person interview. She thanked me for my time and I made sure to thank her for her time and consideration, as well as my new sexual fantasy, but I prudently left out that last part.

Not long after I had finished my interview with Heidi, she called back with the time and date of my next interview, a multi-person process that was scheduled for two days hence.

It was one of the most insane interviews of my life.

To be continued…

Did you read the last one?

Dick Breath

One Stick Pony

There I was, riding through the desert on a horse with no name...

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly a desert.

And maybe it wasn't really a horse, either, but I swear it didn't have a name, or maybe the horse did have a name and it was something sordid that was whispered in back alleys in the dead of the night, or maybe, just maybe, I'm completely fucked in the head. You be the judge.

You probably want an explanation. No worries, I'm about to give you one, you poor fucking bastard.

La, la, la, la, la, la... La, la, la

On the first part of the journey...

It started out as a typical, lazy Saturday morning at my girlfriend Hannah's house. By the time I popped out of the shower, Hannah was already downstairs making breakfast for her daughter, Little Moon (not their real names), who is all of eight years old, tall, stringy and blonde, with an infectious and toothless grin. Little Moon is just a bit more than somewhat of a precocious kid, like twenty miles over the fucking line kind of precocious. Anyway, I bounced down the stairs, without falling, wished everyone a good morning and then said something that was undoubtedly cheesy. Cheesy, I say, because that's what dudes who are dads do, we speak in cheese. Dads who speak in cheese, telling their horrid, cheesy jokes are the fucking worst, let me tell ya'. Pure fucking torture. I used to run for the hills, whenever my father got started. It was inhumane; the true face of child abuse. That man couldn't tell a joke. As for my kids, well, they've earned their punishment. I like to have them trapped in the car, at speed, on the highway, when I start telling my cheesy ass Dad jokes. Hell is for children.

Little Moon looked up from her pancakes and rolled her eyes at me. I wasn't impressed.

Hannah and I briefly discussed our plans for the day, she and Little Moon were headed to a friend's house for a swim and I would be headed off on an adventure with my friend Luke, until I reconnected with the girls later that evening, for dinner with Hannah, Little Moon and their friends, but all of that was still hours away. Once our executive level strategy session was out of the way, the three of us talked about whatever kind of humdrum stuff we discussed, until Little Moon told us about a totally cool, super secret spy pen that her totally cool BFF Abby had shown her at school.

"It's not a totally cool, super secret spy pen anymore if she showed it to you," I told Little Moon.

"Whatever." Little Moon replied and rolled her eyes again. "It's just the coolest thing ever. You can write in invisible ink on one side of the pen and it has a black light on the other side, so that you can read the secret messages." Little Moon then went on to explain, in great detail, just why she needed that totally cool, super secret spy pen and that it only cost way more money than it should for a cheap piece of crap like that (but maybe not in those exact words) and how she would be the envy of every child in her school if she had her very own totally cool, super secret spy pen and how she would become a complete outcast, a social pariah needing years of therapy, if she didn't.

"You wouldn't happen to know where to find this totally cool, super secret spy pen, would you?" Hannah asked her daughter.

"It just so happens that I do," Little Moon answered. "They sell it at Fairhaven Toy Garden, downtown, right by Village Books."

Hmmm... Village Books. I'd been meaning to stop in there. The bookstore was supposed to have a machine that could print books on demand, as in print myself a few copies of my stories as a vanity project kind of demand. The rusty gears in my mind started turning. I don't think they turned very far.

Little Moon then went on to explain that she had to have that totally cool, super secret spy pen that very same day, because the toy store was closed on Sundays and she had to have that pen before walking into school on Monday or the world would stop spinning, the sky would fall and everyone would laugh at her, reminding us once again that such cruelty would require years of therapy.

"Little Moon," Hannah started, "Momma has lots of things to do around the house today, before we can go swimming. I don't know that we'll have the time to do that today."

"Please, Momma?" Little Moon pleaded.

"I could take her," I blurted out, in a fit of insanity. "I could take her to get the pen and then we could stop at Village Books and I could ask about printing a few copies of my book and then we could head over to Sweet Art and get some chocolate fudge. This way, we'll both be out of your hair and you can get whatever you need to do taken care of. "

If you talk fast enough, sometimes you can baffle them with your bullshit.  Sometimes. Evidently, this wasn't one of those.

"This is just your excuse  to buy chocolate fudge and you wouldn't happen to be thinking about stopping at a certain little ice cream parlour that just happens to be next door to the candy store? Paper Dreams does sell chocolate fudge, you know and it's right next door to Village Books." Hannah asked me in what I must describe as a very accusatory tone.

"I've had their fudge and I'm not a fan," I said. "The chocolate fudge at Sweet Art is the best I've ever tasted; it's made with LOVE. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about any ice cream, but now that you've mentioned it..."

It was time to bring out the big guns. Remember kids, always cheat, if you want to win. This is why I'm a paragon of fucking virtue.

"What do you think about getting some ice cream too, Little Moon?"

Little Moon was all about that ice cream. She sure didn't roll her eyes at me that time.

The tide had turned. Resistance is futile.

"Who eats ice cream at nine o'clock in the morning?" Hannah asked rhetorically.

"Who doesn't?" I answered, just as rhetorically.

Hannah was sold. Shit, she just about chased us out the door. Sucker. Wait. Maybe I was the sucker. Maybe Hannah just wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet, or something. More likely, Hannah had a few souls stashed away and she wanted to devour them. She is a Ginger, after all.

Hannah handed me twenty dollars and told me that it was for Little Moon's pen and whatever else. I told her not to worry about it, but she insisted. We settled for Hannah buying the pen and I would buy the sweets.

"May I please buy a book with the leftover money, Momma?" Little Moon asked, just as sweet as could be. "I've read all of my books."

This kid was good. What parent is going to tell their kid they can't have a book? Little Moon sure knew her shit. She's got Hannah wrapped around her finger. They make quite a pair, those two and they love the shit out of each other.

"Of course, baby," Hannah told her.

Ha! Suuuuuckerrrrrr.

"Momma, may I please get a plushy instead of a book? I haven't got a plushy of the week, yet," Little Moon reached.

"That's because there's no such thing as a plushy of the week," countered Hannah.

"But Momma," Little Moon shot back, "It's been so very long..."

I was fairly certain that Little Moon had overreached with that last request and I was quickly proven right when Hannah interrupted her daughter.

"I don't think so, baby," Hannah informed her. "That money is only for a book."

"Awww, Momma..." Little Moon replied with typical pre-teen angst, but she let it go..

Nice try, kid.

"The two of you should probably run along and get going, before it gets too late to go," Hannah told us.

Wow, Hannah sure was in a hurry to get rid of us. She must have been anxious to get at those souls. Who eats souls at nine o'clock in the morning?

I grabbed the twenty and put it in my wallet, ushering Little Moon out the door and into my car. We drove the ninety second drive into downtown Fairhaven, because I'm too damn lazy to walk a few blocks and we found a parking space right where we needed to be and that had to be a good omen, didn't it?

Well, didn't it?

Fuck no. Of course, it wasn't, but at least it was predictable.

We exited the car and I scanned all four corners. Village Books, an antique store, an empty store with a For Rent sign and some other shit shop. No toy store. Okay, no problem. I pulled out my handy dandy smartphone and I conjured up the Oracle of Google. How the fuck did we ever survive before Google? The gods smiled upon me and the address popped up and it was at the opposite end of the block, but I didn't recall having passed the toy store earlier, but in Google we trust, so Little Moon and I trudged down the block. No toy store.

The Google had failed me. There is no God.

I called Hannah. She told me that the store was back at the other end of the block, the very corner that we had just trudged from. I casually mentioned that there was no toy store at that location, but Hannah was insistent, so Little Moon and I trudged back down the block to our starting point. We arrived back at my car and I looked for the store again. Nothing. I had a sudden, sinking feeling. Little Moon and I crossed the street and approached the empty store. Sure enough, it had been the location of Fairhaven Toy Garden. I was about to have a very upset eight year old girl on my hands.

Fuck.

"Oh, no!" Little Moon cried.

"Let's see if they've moved," I said. "Maybe they have their new address posted on a sign in the window."

I've never been a praying man, but that seemed as good a time as any to start.

As we came closer to the store, I could see that there was indeed a sign on the window. It said, "WE'VE MOVED" and nothing else.

Double Fuck.

It was then that I noticed my saving grace, a small sign on the front door that had the new address of the store. Meltdown avoided. Thank fuck. Eight year old girls are volatile things. I should know, I tend to freak out like one, so that's two, eight year old girl meltdowns we'd just avoided.

This was turning into the journey of Odysseus.

The new location was only four blocks away. Unfortunately, part of that walk included trudging back down the block that we had just trudged down twice and then trudging down it again on the way back. Fuck me. It was like the Triple Crown of Fucks.

Fer fuck's sake.

We trudged back down the block. We trudged and we schlepped and then we trudged some more, finally arriving at the toy store.

 Walking. Like common people, or something. Who does that shit? It was fucking exhausting. I'm not a fucking animal, you know. Seriously, who does that shit?

We walked into the toy store and Little Moon was like, well, she was like a kid in a fucking toy store. What the fuck did you think she was like? The shit that I have to explain to you people. I fucking swear...

We looked around at this and that, played with all kinds of crap designed to help children to separate adults from their money, but we came up empty when it came to the totally cool, super secret spy pen. Apparently, that thing could hide better than Anne Frank.

Little Moon found a display of stuffed birds that tweeted or made whatever kind of annoying fucking noise that birds make and she made sure that I heard every fucking bird call. Twice. Sometimes, even three times, just for shits and giggles, I guess.

"You're not getting a plushy, Little Moon," I told her.

"I  know," she answered, "I'm just showing you what they have."

She moved on to the next bird. Tweet fucking tweet. I wanted to shoot myself in the fucking head.

"Why don't we ask at the counter?" I suggested to Little Moon. I think I was becoming a little exasperated at that point and I think she knew it and took pleasure in it. Little Moon stared me straight in the eye as she exchanged bird after bird, a smile of savage glee plastered on her face.

"Why don't you?" she replied.

Yeah, definitely exasperated.

We approached the counter and I inquired about the totally cool, super secret spy pen.

The very helpful and friendly sales staff informed me that the totally cool, super secret spy pen was one of their most popular items and one of those very nice ladies came out from behind the counter to help us find what we were looking for.

"They're right over here," she told us, leading the way. "Oh my..."

Oh my? That didn't sound good. Nope, that shit didn't sound good at all. Oh my never fucking sounds good.

"I don't see any," the saleswoman said, "But I'll check the computer."

She went back behind the counter and checked the computer. Unfortunately, they were completely sold out of totally cool, super secret spy pens. Yeah, this was turning into the Triple Crown of Fucks, alright.

Fuck.

Little Moon did not take the news well, but I was able to distract her by telling her that she could pick out something else; anything she wanted.

She ran right to the closest display of stuffed animals.

"Anything but that, Little Moon," I cautioned. "I'm not going to get into trouble with your mom by getting you one of those."

"Awwww...," Little Moon said, but she listened.

Little Moon and I wandered around the store, checking out this and that once again. I swear, that girl must have picked up and hugged every single stuffed animal in that store, telling me how they were all just meant to come home with her.

Good luck with that.

We reached the back of the store and it was loaded with art and craft supplies. Little Moon wasn't interested in much until she finally came across something that caught her eye. It was a diary, with three cartoon owls on the cover and just perfect for a little girl. Plus, anything that encourages a child to write creatively is a wonderful thing, so I was all for it, for the most part.

"This is what I want," Little Moon informed me. "I need a diary and this one is perfect."

Well, it was almost perfect. The only problem that I had with the diary was that I thought it looked a little too childish and that she might outgrow it quickly. Plus, when you buy the very first thing you see, you might end up with a case of buyer's remorse if you spot something that you like better, later on. It's a bit of a conundrum.

I explained how I felt to Little Moon and she did not like my answer. I suggested that before we bought the diary, we should walk back over to Village Books and see if they had any diaries for sale and that she might find something she might like better, over there.

"What if I don't see anything that I like at Village Books?" Little Moon asked me.

"Then we'll walk right back down here and we'll buy this one," I told her.

"Do you promise?"

I promised and we schlepped our way back over to Village Books. Little Moon showed me a shortcut that saved us two blocks. I really wish that whole shortcut thing would have come up earlier, you know, like before my ass was dragged all over downtown Fairhaven. We wandered around Village Books for a bit and then I suggested that we ask where the diaries were.

"You can ask," Little Moon told me.

Not that shit again.

Ask I did and we soon found ourselves in front of a display of diaries. There was a much larger selection to choose from and Little Moon quickly found the perfect diary. It was a much nicer book and was definitely much less childlike than the ones at the toy store; perfect for an eight year old girl.

With her diary in hand, Little Moon and I climbed the stairs to the children's section of the store. At the very first display, there was a book on Greek mythology that just happened to be open to a picture of Medusa. I had to do a double take, because I thought it was one of my wedding photos. Little Moon was off on a mission, bouncing with excitement as she ran ahead to where the new releases were, rounding the corner and quickly disappearing from sight. No worries, she wasn't that far ahead.

As I took my next few steps, I noticed that there was a large wooden barrel filled with stick horses. You know what I'm talking about, it's a stuffed horse's head with reins, mounted on a stick that little kids and demented people like me can pretend to ride on.

Fucking A.

Never missing a chance to embarrass myself in public, I grabbed one of the stick horses and hopped into the saddle, clippety-clopping my way down the aisle behind Little Moon, passing a woman reading a book to her son. They pointed at me and laughed. That happens a lot. I'm used to it.

I galloped down the aisle like Don Fucking Quixote and I darted around the corner, where I pulled up behind Little Moon with a whinny and a neigh, but Little Moon just looked at me and rolled her eyes. Again. That eye rolling shit was starting to be downright fucking annoying, if I do say so myself and I fucking do. Say so myself, that is. Fine. So, I did what any other sane and rational adult would do and I doubled down on the fucking crazy. I galloped in circles around Little Moon, pantomiming like I was a world class rodeo rider, riding a demon bucking bronco. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile cross Little Moon's face, but it may have just been wishful thinking. Instead, Little Moon gave me a withering look that said she thought I was more like a world class ass of a rodeo clown than the world class rodeo rider that I seemed to think I was. Whatever. Tomato, potato.

Don't ever go full potato.

"Do you always have to be soooo embarrassing?" Little Moon asked me.

Duh! Of course, I did. How could she even ask? I was hurt. Distraught. Wounded. I wept.

Are you fucking kidding me?  Pffft... Like I have fucking feelings or something. Nah, fuck that shit.

"Little Moon..." I began.

Run, Little Moon, run. Run as fast as your little legs will carry you and as far as you can, because you're about to get a little life lesson.

The poor kid had no clue what was coming. Heh.

Where were we? Oh, yeah.

"Little Moon," I began, "Always dance and sing like no one is watching and who cares if anyone is. Take joy where you find it. Laugh loud and strong. Never, ever, miss an opportunity to be silly and have fun. Never be ashamed of who you are and don't be embarrassed to be yourself. Besides, this is a fine steed, a true warhorse to carry a valiant knight such as myself into battle. I shall call him 'Soul Eater', after your mother."

What can I say? I'm a motivational motherfucker.

Little Moon's reaction to all of this was...

Crickets.

 It was so fucking quiet that I could literally hear Little Moon's eyes rolling around in her head.

Huh? WTF? I'd just given Little Moon an incredible and important life lesson, words of wisdom to last throughout the ages and she'd completely blown me off. Little Moon had completely dismissed what I'd said and instead she showed me the book that she'd picked out. It was the story of Argos, faithful dog of Odysseus.

Irony can be so fucking cruel.

I hate children. All children. Except mine. I love my children (pinky swear!) and I'm not just saying that because they read my stories. Okay, I am. saying that because they read my stories. Look, I don't want those little fuckers to grow up with some kind of complex, or something. Fuck, I already worry that the middle one is going to be some kind of serial killer or mad scientist that destroys the world, or some kind of shit like that. I'll bet he cackles maniacally when he reads that. Little fucker wants to create a zombie virus that will take a bite out of your ass. He's smart and demented enough to do it, too. You should be worried. I know I am.  Oh, and I like Little Moon too and I'm not just saying that because my girlfriend is a homicidal Ginger who reads my stories and always reminds me that if I cross her, she will kill me in my sleep and eat my soul. Nope, I say these things out of love. I just fucking love everyone. I'm a fucking people person. Really.

It all comes down to one thing, really. Some truths are universal. Kids are fucking assholes.

As you can imagine, I was crushed. Devastated. Nah, that's total bullshit. We've already established that I don't give a fuck.

"This is the book that I'd like," Little Moon told me.

"That's a great choice," I said. "It's from a very old and famous story called, 'The Odyssey'. Do you remember what I said about buying the first thing that you see, though? You might want to take a look around at something else, before you make your final decision."

Little Moon agreed and we decided to look in a different section. As we turned to go, in a voice as faint as a whisper, I heard Little Moon ask, "Can I try it?"

Holyfuckingshitballs, Batman!

I whipped Soul Eater around and I dismounted, handing the reins to Little Moon, who was in the saddle in no time at all. The kid was a natural. Now that I had been unhorsed, I used the magical power of imagination to conjure forth a new mount and Little Moon and I took off down the aisle, clippety-clopping to a full on sound effects soundtrack provided by yours truly.

Little Moon giggled.

As we approached the mother that was reading to her child, I warned Little Moon that we were about to pass people. That stopped her cold and she handed the stick horse back to me, unwilling to be embarrassed and ran ahead, so that she wouldn't have to be seen with me, either. Having no shame myself, I quickly climbed back on Soul Eater and continued my clippety-clopping on my way down the aisle.

As  I neared the end of the aisle, in full stride and just as loud and embarrassing as I could be, a salesperson and a group of four or five people came around the corner and almost ran into me. Thankfully, I pulled back on Soul Eater's reins quickly enough to avoid an unfortunate accident. The salesperson glared at me, as salespeople generally do and I never understand their enmity, but the other people gave me strange looks too, as if encountering a grown man riding a stick horse isn't something that you see every day. It was disconcerting. I really don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

Our close brush with death had spooked Soul Eater and I was more than a little embarrassed at being caught out at being an idiot. I thought back to the words that I had just spoken to Little Moon and wondered if that was what I truly believed, that you should never be embarrassed or feel ashamed to be yourself, or was that just so much bullshit? Fuck it. It took me about half a second to decide as I continued my ride down that dusty old trail, sound effects and all.

Little Moon ended up picking out a different book, surprising me, she compared prices and went with the less expensive option. I was pretty impressed. We were a little over budget, but that was cool. If a kid wants to read, you buy them a book. I put Soul Eater back into his stable and then Little Moon and I headed for the register to get checked out. I inquired about the totally cool, print your own book because you're not good enough to get a book published machine and was told that it was a piece of shit and had been tossed upon the great ash heap of history and no extra charge for the disappointment.

Fuck.

At least I still had fudge and ice cream to look forward to and to wash the taste of that disappointment out of my mouth and that gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I think out of all the food groups, sugar and chocolate are my favorites. Healthy, too. They come from plants, so it's like a salad.

Unfortunately, life is a cunt.

Little Moon and I left Village Books and crossed the street to my car. After we were both buckled in, I checked the time on my phone. Our little jaunt had eaten up all of our allotted time and we wouldn't be able to get any fudge or ice cream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

I really wanted to cry, now. The fudge had been all that I had wanted, the ice cream just an added bonus. I had earned that shit, fought for it, paid for it in fucking blood and now I wasn't going to get any? What kind of fucked up shit was that? It was completely unfuckingacceptable and I was going to get my damn fudge, come hell or high water.

I took Little Moon home, dropped her off, kissed the Ginger goodbye and I went to pick up Luke, informing him that we were headed to downtown Bellingham (as opposed to downtown Fairhaven, even though Fairhaven is part of Bellingham). Luke told me he didn't want any fudge, but I didn't really give a fuck what he, or anyone else wanted by this point, because all I wanted was that fucking fudge and I was sure as shit going to get it.

I drove downtown and was lucky enough to score a parking space directly in front of the store. That had to be a good omen, right?

Yeah, sure.

I could see the fudge piled high in the front window, calling to me like a Siren's song. I could practically taste that chocolatey goodness. I drifted closer, closer; the end of my quest in sight. I approached the front door and smashed my head against it like a ship against the rocks. Dazed, I stepped back and had to wait for the world to stop spinning before I was able to see the sign that read 'Closed Today'.

Fuck me. I just love the taste of disappointment.

The gods are cruel and the struggle is real.

It's All About The Journey

Life is supposed to be all about the journey.

That's some serious bullshit, right there.

I had a rare day off recently and I made plans with a friend to grab some grub at a great little local place that's owned by the friend of another friend from back East and if you ever come out to Bellingham, no visit would be complete without a stop at Homeskillet. Best fucking brunch in Bellingham. Be sure to bring an appetite, because the portions are huge and make sure that you tell them I sent you, because they won't have a clue as to who the fuck you're talking about and will make you look stupid. More importantly, chow down, have fun and tip well, you cheap fucking bastards.

Anyway, the day started out normally enough; it was fucking raining, as usual. Washington state is a great place to live; it's beautiful, has great, friendly folks and a vibrant economy, but it never, and I mean never, fucking stops raining. Seriously. My balls are bluer than the sky around here. It's so bad that I've been looking at DIY Ark plans on Wikipedia, but I'm not hanging around and waiting for the fucking penguins to get here. I'm stocking that fucker with whores and booze. If you want a ride, you'd better be a bottle or have tits.

Tumbleweeds were blowing through the folds of my wallet and I needed to grab some cash out of the bank, so I drove over to my local branch and waited in my car while the lady in front of me was using the ATM. I was waiting in the car because I didn't want to get wet; I had no desire to die the way that my sister had, all melted and shit, because of that little bitch, Dorothy and her little fucking dog, too.

The lady in front of me finishes up and I hop out of the car and over to the ATM, insert my card and out pops a receipt from the previous transaction. I took the receipt, placed it to my left and started to enter my PIN, when I was stopped by the sound of a woman's voice behind me.

"Excuse me, but did you happen to see an iPhone 6s sitting there?" the voice said.

I looked to my left, before I turned around saw that the voice belonged to the lady that had used the ATM before me.

"No, ma'am," I said, polite as you please. I'm such a nice guy; a right little ray of fucking sunshine, I am.

I'm always polite. Super fucking polite, as a matter of fact. I might be a dick, but I'm a very polite dick, usually. Sometimes. Okay, almost never.

"That's funny," iPhone 6s lady said. "It was sitting right there, just a minute ago, when I left it there."

Holy Jumping Fucking Jesus, this fucking bitch just accused me of stealing her, as she put it, "iPhone 6s", because she's so self-important and label conscious that even in the act of accusing me of stealing her iPhone 6s, she just had to mention the brand and fucking model as the latest and greatest. For those of you who know me, you know that I hate Apple products, think that they are ginormous pieces of shit and would never be caught dead using one. I'd rather ride a fucking moped, in public, in front of my friends. The bitch couldn't have said the word phone, either. Oh no, she had to announce her importance to me and the status granted to her by her ownership of an overpriced iPhone 6s. And why the fuck would I want to steal a phone that could be immediately shut down and traced right back to me? If I'm going to steal something, it's going to be worth the jail time I'd be risking and it sure as shit wouldn't be some piece of crap iPhone.

"Ma'am," I said as I pulled out my phone, " I haven't seen your phone and all that I have is my piece of crap Samsung Galaxy s6."

I can name drop too, motherfucker.

She started to say something else when she looked down at her hand. My gaze followed hers and what do you think we saw? If you guessed an iPhone 6s, you win the fucking prize. Here's a fucking sticker. Enjoy.

I watched as she realized what a complete fucking dumbass she was and as her face reddened, she stammered out, "I owe you an apology, I'm a complete idiot."

I looked at her and gave her my best arrogant and snotty smirk.

"Yes, you do and yes, you are," I replied; abruptly dismissing her and turning back to my business at the ATM. I really do hate people, unless you're my friend and then I only hate you part of the time.

My buddy Mark and I had agreed to meet at a local shopping center, since he was driving down from as close to the Canadian border as you can get and it made more sense for us to meet here in town, since we would be heading South. As he was getting his shit together, I noticed that a leather clad "biker" had pulled up next to us on his yuppie Harley. I laughed as I realized that he was wearing chaps and pointed this out to Mark, who told me that this was pretty normal for the West Coast and not to be so judgemental. I very slowly and very patiently explained to him, because I didn't have any crayons with me, that back on the east coast, the only people who wear chaps are the kinds of fellas that hang out in gay leather bars. Not that I'm judging, mind you; if that's your thing, let your freak flag fly, baby.

I turned my head back to the left again and this guy is now bent over his bike and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, he's not wearing any pants and his bare ass is waving in the wind. Get. The. Fuck. Out.

"Is that normal fucking behavior?" I asked, elbowing Mark in the ribs as hard as I could.

"Holy shit!" Mark exclaimed. "I need to get a pic of this."

"Get the fuck out of here," I said. "The guy is wiggling his ass in the air; he's fucking ass dancing. If you want to use the back door, you go right ahead, but I'm getting the fuck out of here."

And with that, I put the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. From now on, I'm avoiding K-Mart. Not really my kind of blue light special.

It was starting to get a bit late in the day, around two o'clock and I mentioned that it would start getting dark in a couple of hours and maybe we were better off heading to the movies to see the new James Bond flick.

"Nah, dude," Mark said, "We'll be fine, let's go for it. We'll have a few drinks and meet some chicas."

It's almost like I've heard that story before. I really, really need to stop listening to other people.

Against my better judgement, we headed south for Anacortes and the San Juan Islands ferry. We got there with plenty of time to spare, so much fucking time to spare that we sat there and waited for an hour and a half. The only fun part of that was sneaking off to hit the flask that I had smuggled along. There's nothing like a fine whiskey to warm your ass on a cold day.

We finally get on the ferry and we find a place to sit for the hour or so that it will take us to get to Friday Harbor, plus whatever time it takes us to find the first bar that we plan on drinking in and I planned on doing some serious drinking and perhaps checking out some of the local wildlife, which we all know would never happen, because not that many women are dumb enough to have sex with me. Still, one can hope and perchance, to dream.

We get settled in and pretty much ignored each other while we fucked with our phones, but then I noticed a slight commotion as an old hippie couple came clattering along, carrying their backpacks, a paper bag and a green, five gallon bucket. They settled in across from us and they were such an odd pair, that they held my attention for longer than a heartbeat. They were captivating; mesmerizing. He was tall and gaunt, with dreadlocks and a long, crazy ass beard. She was thin to the point of emaciation, with long ragged and unkempt hair that swirled about her face. They were going on about all kinds of shit, tree hugging hippie crap and other crazy stuff. My attention began to wane, but they were just getting started. I heard the crunch of their paper bag and I turned my head to see what was going on and I saw hippie chick pull a long carrot out of her paper bag; it still had the green leafy shit attached and you could see that it was covered in dirt. She took a big, loud, crunchy bite, chewing her cud as loudly as she could; chewing with her mouth open and smacking her lips. It was pretty fucking gross. Old hippie dude asked her for a bite and she shot him a look of death, but she grudgingly shared her carrot with him. She started going on about how wholesome and great organic food was and how that carrot had just come out of the ground. This pronouncement didn't surprise me at all, because I was convinced that I could smell the shit that was used to fertilize that fucking thing. For the hippies, it might have been harvest day, but for the carrots, it was armageddon.

It was about this time that there was a shipwide announcement, telling the passengers what to do in case of an emergency and blah, blah, blah, the next thing that I paid attention to was when the recorded announcement mentioned that packages, backpacks and other belongings were not to be left unattended and if you did that, your ass would be in a sling. Got it. Don't leave your shit alone.

That was when old hippie dude told old hippie chick that they should go for a walk around the ferry, but she told him that they couldn't leave their hippy shit unatteneded. Old hippy dude did not like this answer and he started ranting about the man and all that shit. Next thing you know, he's going on about how people need to be put to death for being anti-environment and consumerist. They start talking about bombs and planes and trains and where the fuck are those life rafts again? Great, I'm stuck on a boat with two old, tree hugging eco-terrorists that are hell bent on my destruction. Just fucking great.

A few minutes later, a hapless ferry employee came wandering through and the duo of dirt stopped her and started pestering her with questions about why they couldn't leave their shit and take a walk around the boat. The hapless employee got out her crayons and explained to them why they couldn't leave their things unattended, but maybe they could get someone to watch their things for them. Mark and I were the only other people on the upper deck. The hippies turned their heads in our direction. Fuck. They picked up their things and headed over to us. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Old hippie dude sidles up to me and asks me if I'd keep an eye on their stuff. I was too scared to say no, the fucker might stab me in the eye with a fucking carrot. I'm afraid of sharp weapons and veggies scare me. They only proper use for a vegetable is to feed the shit that I'm going to eat for dinner, but I couldn't tell old hippie dude that; motherfucker was probably a vegan and a stone cold killer, you could see it in his eyes. He probably sang "Kumbaya" while on his killing sprees.

The hippies walked off and I realized Mark had fallen asleep and had missed all of this. How the fuck could someone have slept through that? I kicked Mark in the shin, hard. Surprisingly, he woke right up. I acted all innocent and shit while he rubbed his shin and glared at me. Fuck him, didn't he realize that these two old, tree hugging eco-terrorist hippies were hell bent on our destruction and they had just left their backpack bombs at our feet? Wasn't he the least bit concerned? We were all going to fucking die! Wake up, man! There's danger afoot!

Mark looked at me as if I'd lost my fucking mind.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Mark asked me.

Jedi mind tricks. I had no tinfoil hat to save myself, I was doomed.

"Don't you understand? They're going to kill us. Didn't your mother ever teach you about stranger danger, or did she just teach you everything she knows about turning tricks at the truck stop?"

"I'm going for a walk," Mark said. "You stay here and guard the backpack bombs."

"That's fine, you bastard, but you'll be sorry when the bombs explode, the ferry sinks and the killer whales eat your ass. You'll be some sure, sorry as shit then. You'll see."

Mark headed for the exit at a fairly brisk pace, leaving me alone with the certified organic backpack bombs of death. Fucker.

Well, we made it safely to the first stop and the hippies grabbed their shit and took off. I let out a sigh of relief, knowing that these demented disciples of Ted Kaczynski wouldn't be killing me today.

The ferry took off and made a course for Friday Harbor as the sky began to darken and then turned as black as pitch. I hoped the captain could see well enough and that we wouldn't accidentally run aground or have to worry about a sneak attack from the Canadian navy. Those Canadians are some tricky bastards.

We arrived at Friday Harbor and disembarked, searching the darkened streets for food and alcoholic sustenance. Now, I'm sure that Friday Harbor is a wicked cool place, but on a rainy and windswept Sunday night, after dark, in the middle of November, well, there isn't shit to see or do. We walked hither and yon, scanning the few places that were open and found nothing that was to our liking. Starving, we settled for a place called Kung Fu Pizza. Don't ever settle for a place called Kung Fu Pizza, it's going to be a very bad life choice.

The prices on the menu were beyond ridiculous, but we were famished and we had an hour and a half to kill before we could take the ferry back. I ordered wonton soup and pan fried dumplings and I don't know what the fuck they brought me, but it sure as shit wasn't wonton soup. I don't even know what kind of fucking broth it was in, but there were two things that slightly resembled wontons, but weren't and there were all sorts of unrecognizable things in there, as well as a couple of carrots. Carrots... This was part of that eco-terror plot; fuckers were trying to kill me with carrots. The pan fried dumplings were more like deep fried dumplings. That seems to be a thing on the west coast, these deep fried dumpling things and it's just wrong. Stop it. Just stop it, right now and cook that shit the right way; you fuckers have ruined everything.

Two spoons out of the wonton soup and I pushed it aside; it was that nasty. I told the waiter that I didn't really care for it and asked him to please take it away. He asked me if I wanted a box for it and I asked him which part of I don't care for it that he didn't understand. Why the fuck would I want to take something home with me if I didn't want to eat the fucking thing in the first place? The asshole left the bowl on the table and walked away. Dick. He brought the check, charged me for the soup and I deducted it from his tip. No worries and fuck you too, buddy.

We headed back to the ferry and the mainland. I felt tired, pissy and pretty much disgusted. It had been a shit of a day and all I wanted to do was go home and go to sleep, racing for the car once the ferry docked.

I was trying to make it back home in record time, so of course I missed every turn and exit. Fuck my life. I finally made it back to Bellingham, dropped Mark off at his car and headed for home, crawled into bed and hid under the covers.

I never got my fucking drink, either.

So much for a relaxing day off...

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

All Along the Watchtower

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