One Bloody Day

 

I’m broke again. There are only two things wrong with money— too much or too little. And here I am down at the too little stage again, and you can't live on luck.

My mobile phone rings, 

hello, I answer,

Henry baby, how ya doin?

It’s Rico Shoe, the publisher of The Headbangers Ball, a hip New York rag, 

I’m busted, Rico, 

Well, it’s your lucky day my man, I've transferred 2 grand to your bank account for a story, 10 pages or so, email it to me.

You’re a lifesaver Rico, love ya baby. 

Henry, write freely, a dirty philosophic bit. 

You got it, Rico.

Dirty philosophic? What the fuck is that, maybe Rico Shoe read

F*ck sEx, or Cunnilingus is Dangerous.

I'll write a story about the day, spontaneous prose.

I step into the shower, and slip, bruising my shin, getting out and walking it off like a soccer player. 

Slipping in the tub is a sign of things to come.

Sitting on the bed in front of a mirror, I braid my hair like  Sitting Bull. Among Indians, long free flowing hair represents freedom of life. That's what I want, independence from the need for money, that's a laugh.

Dressed for the beach in cutoffs, a Hawaiin shirt, and rubber slippers, I step outside, locking the door to keep the thieves out, I don’t want any homeless bums getting at my stash of beer and whiskey.

In minutes I’m sitting at Frank’s Bar, on Duvall, drinking 3 Boilermakers, dropping shots of whiskey into mugs of beer.

I’m no Charles Bukowski but I love beer and whiskey.

Have you heard people say? 

Nobody gets in fistfights or robs banks on weed. 

Well, how the hell do they know? Robbers and brawlers can be on anything, most likely Methamphetamine. 

Frank asks, 

what you up to, Henry? 

I’m gonna write a story on the day's happenings for a New York rag, whatever comes down the track.

You're quite the philosopher, Henry. 

Frank, a writer needs to be inventive. 

I pay for the drinks and walk to Higgs Beach, a nude beach, getting naked like everyone else and thinking, 

people come in all shapes and sizes. There are fat and thin folks, women with boobs the size of basketballs, ladies who have huge nipples but no chest. Thin guys with wrinkled skin that are hung like burros, and fat guys who don't have cocks at all.

I’m thin, nice to look at, but not hung, I don't like paying for dates. 

I rub sunblock on my body, and sit in the sand, smoking a joint and trancing out on the mind-blowing teal color of the Sand Keys Channel.

Hot, I run towards the sea, taking a spill in the sand, it’s a dead giveaway that I’m soused. The nudists think it's funny.

Standing up, I give it another shot, diving into the breaking waves and swimming out far enough to paddle in place, rubbernecking like a fool for a Great White to show and gobble me up like an Hors D'oeuvre. It’s the fucking pot, it makes you paranoid. 

I feel tiny fish, Gara rufa, nibbling on my legs.

Wading ashore, I put my shorts and slippers on, walking south past Higgs Beach. 

A pathway into the jungle triggers my attention. I walk into it foolishly without a machete.

They say there are Rattlesnakes in the bushes and poisonous trees with sap that can kill you if you brush your fingers and suck on your fingers.

Soon I’m lost, feeling like the bushes are wrapped around me like 2 giant arms. 

The area is full of potential hazards, but what does me in is the large thorns of the Aurel Greenbrier bushes, puncturing my skin. At this point, I’m hurting and pissed, so I run like a maniac toward the sound of the waves and dive into the sea. The seawater absorbs the blood and stops the bleeding for a while.

Walking the shore past Higgs beach people look at me in the oddest way, like I'm a zombie.

I make my way to Key West Medical Center, walking, I hate ambulances because the drivers are uptight you're going to puke in their vehicles.

After my wounds are treated I take a cab to my bungalow. In the study, I type the day's story on my laptop and email it to Rico Shoe. 

The following day Shoe calls, saying

Henry, baby, the story couldn't have been better if a Great White bit off your arm.

Ha ha, Rico, funny man, funny man. 

Henry Consults Jesus

 

I’m poor, worthless, miserable, and sick, my hot-tempered father used to beat the shit out of my mother and me, once kicking my mother and breaking her leg, I guess I should have called the cops, but I was in shock.

No wonder I’m depressed.  

So I go to a shrink, Dr. Dipshitz on Duvall Street.

I sit on a hard plastic chair, it must be 90* in the waiting room. For entertainment, I eyeball the other headcases, who tremble and look down, fearful of eye contact. 

An hour later it's my turn, I'm sweating and smell like a wet dog. 

Mr. Lucowski, Dr. Dipshitz will see you now.

Sitting in front of the doctor’s desk, I stare at taxidermic Parrot Fish, as long as your arm, that's plastered on his wall. Then the questions begin.  

Henry, what was your early family life like?

It was a total shit-storm, Doc, I’m lucky I got out alive.

Do you have any friends? 

Real friends you can touch, no, but I have 20,000 followers on Twitter. 

Are you a loner? 

Well, I’m different for sure. I’m a writer, I think artists tend to be loners.

When was the last time you cut your hair, is the messy hair a statement?

Is your balled head a statement Doc? 

It’s genetic, my mom's uncle was bald. 

When was the last time you had sexual intercourse, Henry? 

A month ago with a Cuban hooker. 

Was it satisfying for you? 

No, she smelled like mackerel. 

How do you spend your time? 

Laying in bed writing and listening to music on my laptop. 

Do you watch TV a lot? 

Yes, 

How about exercise? 

None, whatsoever. 

Henry, your depression is the result of your hard-hearted early family life, and your sedentary lifestyle sitting in front of your computer and TV. I’m going to prescribe electroshock, and   Lexa-Pro, 40 Mg per day.

That sounds frightful Dipshitz, do I have a choice Doc? 

Yes, of course, Henry,

No.

As I'm Walking out of the clinic, it’s hot, midafternoon, so I duck into a Catholic church, Iglesia De Dios Restauracion. It’s empty except for an old lady dressed in black who lights a few candles and splits.

I eyeball the crucifix on the west end of the church behind the altar— carved from maple wood. 

Compelled I lower the cushioned hassock and kneel, looking at Jesus on the cross who has Jamaican features. 

I freak out as Jesus speaks, his wooden lips opening and closing, saying, 

Henry, don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today,

You got that right Jesus. 

I'm nervous and Jesus knows it saying, 

fear not Henry, I am with you— don’t be dismayed,  I will help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

I feel like Jesus can see through my soul, asking Him, 

Is it lonely on the cross? 

The image on the cross is a vehicle, so we can connect. At this moment I’m seated at the right hand of God who has placed all things under my feet. I can feel everything in every way. 

So, end suffering, Jesus.

Cunnilingus is Dangerous

Reading On the Road by Jack Kerouac buffaloed me. Kerouac and Neal Cassidy had a license to do whatever they wanted because they figured white bread America was bogus, and they were the pioneers of a new way of life.

A Russian friend of mine, Victor, who freelances for the Moscow Times, told me, 

Nobody wants to read about the Beats anymore.

The Beats paved the way for the hippies in the 60s. The hippies were a delusional lot who believed they were remaking the world, into what? None of them knew.

Meanwhile, scientists at Stanford University were developing microchips and personal computers, birthing the internet, innovations that continue to alter our way of life.

Long hair is the hippie's major contribution to society. I haven’t had a haircut in 10 years, and I told a pal on Facebook that if I didn’t comb or wash my hair eventually I’d have dreadlocks, and he says, 

You’re not Black, never happen.  

He didn't know Whites could grow dreads.

Our government is a mess, running on automatic pilot. The House and Congress are full of seasoned bullshitters that talk the talk but rarely do the walk.

Which side is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez on? She is so fucking hot, she can say anything she wants, I don’t give a shit, do you think she watches porn with her husband in bed at night? 

The rest of the squad doesn’t do a thing for me. Ilhan Omar, who wears a Hijab, has put one bill through the House and Congress while in government— a bill to repeal the discriminatory Muslim Ban, which is cool if you're not Ayman al- Zawahiri

On the Republican side, there’s Fox News the #1 news source for white bread America. 

Fox News people like to listen to themselves talk and look in the mirror, but the network has the sexiest anchor women in the universe. If I could get my cock up I’d love to poke Megyn Kelly.

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is cool, I love the guy, but what’s with the gravelly voice? Does he smoke cigars? Michael Douglas claims to have caught throat cancer from eating pussy.

It Makes sense to use female condoms, or baggies if you are eating pussy.

I can do cunnilingus until my neck begins cramping, but women can cum hundreds of times, and they never want you to stop, as though your tongue is a machine.

I’m single and like it, when women come on to me on Facebook, the thought of having to go through the funk of having an old lady leaves me flat.

In Thailand and any ugly old dude can get a Thai girl if he has a few bucks, but once you’re with her you find out she has a needy family.

A pal of mine, Muzzy, told me the other day, 

my girlfriend’s family’s roof blew off so I had to buy them a new one. 

In the evening I drink 0.0 Heineken beer and watch Netflix. The series and movies often bewilder me, I enjoy comedy films, but most of the films are chock-full of carnage.

There are times while watching Deathflix that I  have to remind myself the killing isn’t real, it's just a film.

When I see someone offed on Deathflix, I think about how their past and future are instantly erased.

I’m not religious so I have no idea what happens to the newly dead.

Maybe, when you die your soul departs the body, in limbo until your reincarnated into the next life.

Dying could equate to nothingness. That'd be okay with me.