From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
I could have done nothing. I could have feigned an excessively violent sneezing attack. I could have just sat at my desk, idle, pretending to be in the midst of a dream about a thrilling McNugget caper. It was a moment of weakness, and I’m now having trouble looking at myself in the mirror and being able to see that beautiful, selfish narcissist who I’ve become infatuated with over the years.
Disgusting, I couldn’t muster a single excuse; I’m disappointed that I didn’t even try. Fabricated spells of non-sleep apnea, late-onset debilitating depression over the cancellation of Charles in Charge, my no-prisoners style bout with gout—none came to mind as I counter-intuitively rushed to assist an obese coworker who could have died and would not have been missed. My inner utilitarian balked; that unlikeable, bitter, non-festively plump, Rascal-riding fuck could have been put out of his miserable, mouth-breathing existence. I would have been lauded as a hero, truly the man who did everything by doing nothing and effectively cleansed the office from his foul, cheese breath, his audible eating habits, and the residue of sweat mixed with Cheeto dust he leaves on every doorknob he touches.
There I was, quietly sitting at my desk, when that bulging butterball shoots me a look from across the room. He may have been looking for a spotter, he may have just wanted an audience, but gripped within those kielbasa-like fingers of his was an entire pork chop. He shot me a little wink, a gesture I found revolting and offensive, then proceeded to exclaim, “shotgun,” before then attempting to devour the entire meat brick in a single bite.
Stoically, I remained in my seat gaping, essentially frozen in a state of fear, disgust, and repulsion.
His overly-toned jowels churned at the torrid pace like a prized piece of livestock. He was a flesh machine engineered for consumption. A surge of sweat flooded his brow in a display I had only before witnessed when we were at a sub sandwich shop and he watched in great anticipation as they filled one of the au jus containers with mayonnaise for him to dip his meat wrap in. A rush of blood to his neck-less head alerted me that his brain was straining to process the immense amounts of pleasure he was experiencing; honestly, I think there was a part of him that wanted to go out this way.
His eyes bulged with a furious passion, reminiscent of a protective mother grizzly or Edward Norton. Petrified and rapt with abhorrence, I oddly sprung to my feet when he began to choke. I never help people; it’s much easier not to generally.
My wiry arms, weak from years of apathy and movie marathons, wrapped nearly all the way around the pasty, land whale. His white dress shirt was uncomfortably moist, as if he had just been on a log ride at an amusement park or had participated in the most nauseating of wet t-shirt contests. I was finally able to part enough of his rolls to find a middle passage and get my arms completely around him.
The first squeeze did nothing except saturate my shirt with more sweat from this behemoth. A more forceful second squeeze resulted in only freeing a disgusting noise from somewhere within his body. I’m not sure if it was a toot or just a pocket of stale air being released from within his many folds. I’m also not sure if I ever want to know the truth. On the third attempt he finally coughed up the entire pork chop onto a stack of papers on his desk. Gasping heavily, he reached for the meat, which was now covered in this gravy-like coat of saliva that resembled a foul kind of coconut sauce. There was a bit of blood on it too, not sure if it was just undercooked or the result of his overly aggressive eating habits. Either way, I shuddered when he tore the piece in half, held one out to me, and asked, “splitsies?”
Confused and shocked, I shook my head. He gave a quick shrug and then ate both halves with a minimal amount of chewing. Knowing full well that he had learned nothing from the ordeal, I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him straight in his beady eyes and announced, “That was your one time,” before retreating to my desk.
Monday mornings, taxes, and Garfield movies: truly three universally despised entities. Perpetually looming, we exist in a state of dread, waiting for them to strike so that we can try to persevere and return to our lives with only minimal post-traumatic stress and consequences from composing and delivering threats against people’s lives.
We all realize Monday mornings are rough, but I believe that some people are blessed with either a degree of narcissism or adult autism that compels them to share the most mundane personal anecdotes from their weekend every week. All of us feign interest and empathize with their ramblings about they were upset that the car wash didn’t honor their expired coupon, but on the inside we’re all realizing how precious life is and that we’re now three wasted minutes closer to death. Frankly, it’s a sweet release when their jowls and tongue tire from spouting such inane stories and I can return to punching data into a machine
Marta, we get it; you’re your own biggest fan, but you don’t seem to realize that your gusto isn’t shared, and is genuinely abhorred, by everyone else in the office. We sit, disinterested, because social norms dictate that we don’t tell you to “kindly shut your pasty food chute before anymore of that linguistic garbage gets in my ears.” No, we are all cowards and have been tolerating Marta for too long to change anything now. It’s become like the constant threat of terrorism, rising gas prices, or Ellen DeGeneres—truly an annoyance we perpetually deal with now.
Strategically, I came in late this Monday and Marta was already into your tirade about an evening out. Three long faces of coworkers surrounded the overly excited Marta, faces like when they open one of those shipping containers filled with starved illegal immigrants trying to come to America. She sees me come in and says that she’ll start the story over so I can hear it all. Fantastic, now there’s blood on my hands. I’m now at fault in these coworkers’ eyes for subjecting them to a second hearing of a story that did not merit a first hearing.
Now Marta does her work on time and, judging by her personal photos, is well-loved by her friends and family, but I’ll be damned if every day her coworkers don’t fantasize about her being punched in the throat and never being able to speak again.
This story has started to drag before it’s even begun. She’s backpedaling with the details of setting the scene. She’s no Quintin Tarantino when it comes to non-linear storytelling, no, she’s just fucking awful at telling the story. Literally describing your routine to get dolled up to go to Chili’s are details that do not need to be included. Also, Chili’s does not warrant looking fancy—I’ve witnessed a man eat there wearing a shirt made from a burlap sack with a child wearing no shoes and nothing but an oversized t-shirt. You don’t need five-inch heels or a dinner jacket to go stuff loaded potato skins into your craw that’s already brimming with ranch dressing, Marta.
Why is she describing the weather and traffic patterns on her drive to Chili’s? This lack of narrative economy is infuriating and I’m just going to mentally check out and think about the effigy of Marta that I’m planning on running over with my car and burning later.
I check back in and she’s ranting about how nice the waitress was being to her husband. Ooof, now she had to bring her weight into it and turn this into a tirade about the unrealistic standards the media sets for women. Stop, just stop talking about your weight like it’s a disability your can’t control, and, please, stop comparing yourself to a civil rights leader again for speaking out on this topic—truthfully, I’m becoming embarrassed to even be associated with you.
I don’t think she realizes how a restaurant or flirting works. When the waitress gives your husband suggestions for salad dressing it’s generally not because she is trying to show him that she is the only one who knows how to satisfy him. And it’s not that she is trying to impose on your relationship built on “action movies, waffles, and quick sex in the dark,” as you so eloquently divulged.
Marta’s becoming animated now, she’s really trying to sell her rage at this “eighteen-year-old hussie who’s trying to turn my beloved neighborhood Chili’s into her personal sex brothel for married men.” I’m not buying Marta’s accusations that the waitress was trying to get her nipple to fall out, or that she was trying to give Marta food poisoning, or had any intent other than describing a specific entrée when she dropped the words “big meat.”
I knew I couldn’t keep listening; I was beginning to fear for the safety of myself and the others in the room. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do and just succumbed to the stress hemorrhage in my stomach before spitting up some blood, excusing myself, and retreating to my car to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.
I’m disappointed and heartbroken. I’m baffled and tired of crying. Fancy James’ Fancy House of Burgers, you’ve hustled this nomadic meat cowboy and your transgression will not soon be forgotten. My taste buds, my only true friends in this world, have been scorned by your rancid flavors and the bond between my buddies and I has been weakened significantly. Frankly, Fancy James’ Fancy House of Burgers, these bleak, hopelessness emotions haven’t been conjured up since CBS announced their mid-season lineup and for that I will be writing a most unfavorable Zagat review.
It’s disgraceful that one can’t get a quality burger anymore. Honestly, I see this as a blatant lack of respect for a man who has created countless war heroes for this country—seriously I slave over those sandwiches that I send off to the troops working at the recruitment office.
There’s no repressing this anger—no, I’m way too upset to push it down, maintain my composure, and wait until I get home to punch my mailman in the throat again. I was screeching, squealing, and demanding retribution of the offenses suffered on my behalf, but no, I was merely escorted from the premises without apology for the culinary injustice.
Everything about the entrée was unacceptable; this is America, we know how to cook meats and craft them into tasty sandwiches, but Fancy James is clearly unaware of ethos. Even the presentation was wrong—if you’re going to operate a fancy house of burgers, you should shoot for extravagance, not minimalism. It was as if Werner Herzog had plated the food to remind me that there is nothing in this universe except sustenance, disappointment, and fear.
For a fleeting second, I considered that the presentation was designed to be emphatic. One burger and nothing more—it didn’t require garnish, respect, or love, no, as long as we have meat sandwiches we can perpetuate the species. However, I soon realized this was not the case.
The first bite extinguished all notion of this burger serving as a beacon of humanity. The bun was dry and moist all at the same time, like it had been under a heat lamp for too long before being set on a damp dishrag. My jaw ached and my mouth tasted like sandy, gritty regret.
A pungent, buttery taste grabbed my attention and I assumed I had bit into a pickle slice. You’d have thought being immersed in brine would preserve them, but these pickles tasted more like they were just drifting aimlessly in a bathtub filled with salt and hot tub water for months before they found their way into this technically-edible horror. Truly, they were like old men at an Obama campaign stop—withered, sour, and, I’m speculating, racially insensitive.
This ketchup wasn’t helping distract me from the cacophony of distaste in my mouth. It was too runny and tasted like iron, so, it’s possible that it was actually not ketchup and was just extra blood from the cow, a slaughterhouse worker who was the victim of a goof gone wrong, or maybe just from a line chef in the back who kept sneezing while he had a bloody nose. Oh, I’ve been there, buddy; those days were always wacky! Regardless of your line chef’s comical pratfalls, this burger is far from fancy, James. Why use blood for a “fancy” burger when you could just use fancy ketchup?
The meat was by far the worst. Overpowering, it was as if the burger was cooked on a grill that was filled with menthol cigarettes instead of propane or charcoal. It didn’t taste like beef; it was gamy, like a woodland creature, a possum, a muskrat, or like several field mice ground up. Truly horrendous though, but at least I knew my gag reflex still worked.
Fancy James, I will never return to this fancy house of burgers’ location. Zagat.com and anyone else who is willing to listen will be privy to the injustices I have suffered. Yes, it was a free, no, it wasn’t cooked to my liking, and, true, I did find it in the dumpster in the back of your parking lot because I didn’t want to pay for food, but I still found it objectionably detestable and will inform the Internet to prevent them from being subjected to such atrocities.
A clang rattles somewhere in the distance and I’m suddenly awake and sweating more than I am usually. This perspiration, like a gooey afterbirth, covers me fresh from my slumber, as I realize I am in a world I do not remember existing in.
The fluorescent lights flicker and my temples throb with pain and incomprehension; my mouth’s desiccation reminds me that I have no idea how long I have been here. I’m truly parched, my mouth tastes dry and filthy all at once, as if an obese individual filed their sloppy craw with a handful of rancid sand and spent the entire time I was asleep open-mouth kissing me while their sweaty rolls scrubbed across every one of my surfaces, like brushes in an ineffective and disgusting car wash.
Fate has begun to torture me; I’m covered in moisture, that I’m beginning to suspect may not all be entirely mine, but my mouth is bone dry. It’s become a smelly, little desert full of the taste of rancid yawns, congealed chunks of unidentified meat, and a wicked sinus infection that makes my voice sound like a clinically-depressed John C. Reilly—all symptoms I had only experienced two years ago during my most recent exclusively-bologna cleanse.
With my hot, little mouth aching for sweet relief, a remark I knew I should have phrased better, even if only for my inner monologue, I suddenly stop and I’m frozen in fear. My blood runs cold, even though my confines are excessively humid; I look at a hanger with my shirt and jeans dangling from it—I don’t remember changing clothes, but it appears that someone else may. I’m terrified and feeling the potential embarrassment already, like if someone puts this on TV and America become privy to my ever-apparent penchant for self itching and my tendency of killing boredom by describing overly-erotic fictitious adventures of Henry Winkler and a promiscuous body pillow who just always seems to be begging for it.
How did my clothes get changed? My captors must have motivation; maybe human trafficking, maybe they’re preparing for an annual organ harvesting festival, maybe it’s mere disdain for my now-apparent lack of style—it’s anyone’s guess truly. Also, why did they leave the new pants at my ankles; is this how this sicko gets his or her kicks and yuks?
The odor of my confines has become overwhelming. It’s like peppery mold crossed with a pig farm, just enough that my dehydrated tongue can taste it with every breath. It’s a thick, stale almost fog that lingers, however, suddenly a fan kicks on and my focus becomes sharper.
The fan roars and the cell becomes more bearable. I change back into my clothes, thinking this will irritate my captor into explaining these cramped quarters, as no explanation or escape is clear. I’m scouring for clues, hints, anything that could give some insight to the purpose of this. Suddenly, one wall starts to rattle and muffled screams start coming from the outside. The light flickers again before shutting off for good and leaving me in pure darkness.
Unrestrained terror rushes through my body, I’m desperately trying to snap out of this nightmare, but the authenticity sets in—I’m conscious and far too powerless for this to be a dream. The reality is setting in and I’m immersed in fear and uncertainty.
The banging intensifies and the dampened shrieks build. I’m freezing on the inside and sweating on the outside but neither has my attention. This is my fate; whatever is on the other side of that wall, one way or another, will be my escape from this purgatory. My stomach flips like I’m on a carnival ride gone haywire, I reach for the mysterious clothes that I had shed and cough up bile out of nervousness.
Memories flood back, little, petty items I wish I could take back, now fully appreciating the brevity of delicate nature of an individual’s existence. I’m breaking down, suddenly filled with the thought that I’ve contributed nothing to my former world except troves of Who’s The Boss fan fiction, more than my share of sewage, and hundreds of discarded chicken buckets.
A second voice joins and the thundering clamor is broken by a shrill, piercing sound of metal on metal. Unexpectedly, a calm washes over me and I feel ready to accept my fate. With a low crank the wall breaks away and the small cell becomes flooded with a blinding light.
My pupils contract and soon I realize I’m staring down a large man holding a staff or some sort and a smaller man with a name tag that reads “Dennis.”
“Are you kidding me; why the crap were you in there for so long? Are you that selfish? Jeez, are you telling me we broke the door down for nothing?” starts an irate Dennis in a whiny voice, “You’re going to have to pay for those clothes you know.”
The larger man, now disinterested, take his what appears to be a crowbar and shuffles away. I stand up and Dennis continues his diatribe, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not dead or dreaming, I just fell asleep on the toilet after dropping some seriously wicked dump-dump at J.C. Penney’s again and they had to break down the bathroom door out of concern for me not being dead and the potential lawsuit.
What, I don’t see anything wrong with my actions. Doody calls and I’m now recalling that I was wondering what I would look like wearing the Hawaiian shirt and tuxedo pants I took in there—I’m now remembering that look isn’t as hilarious as I had initially thought.
Dennis is still going at it—something about how I’m going to have pay for the door and the clothes now because the garments have been “irrecoverably and detestably sullied” from my aggressive bathroom habits.
Yeah, you’d think this experience would change me for the better, but, really, I’m just going to hide these puke-riddled clothes, avoid paying J.C. Penney’s, and the flee to go eat a family-sized bucket of chicken by myself in the food court.
I don’t blame you, AAA, no; I blame myself for trusting you. You’re a charlatan, a snake-oil salesman, or that magician in Ohio who stole my identity for six months. Scarring, grotesque, reeking of eggs and mayonnaise, all words and phrases I would use to describe my hotel experience at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep along I-80—a place you gave one diamond rating to and wrote a review that made generous use of phrases “up to all building codes”, “open”, and “technically satisfactory”.
I arrived mid-afternoon, eager to see what my $26.75 plus sheet deposit bought me for the night. In the past, nearly twenty-seven dollars has been proven to buy a lot of fun, be it in the form of a twenty-seven-dollar case of breakfast meats covered in yolks, one-hundred-and-eleven gumballs, or one photo of me dressed up like a cowboy—truly Big Rudy had his work cut out for him.
AAA had described the lobby as having a “Mediterranean” style to it, but from the missing plaster, concrete floor, and chain-smoking clerk missing an arm I’m going to assume AAA was referring to the Syrian part of the Mediterranean. Technically correct, I suppose, AAA. However, being correct doesn’t stop it from being disgusted while watching that tiny child repetitively lick a pink stain on the counter after being told not to several times from the clerk.
With his one good hand the clerk gives me a slip of paper with “41-7-22” scribbled on it. Expecting a key and confused, I round the corner into the single corridor with about eight rooms on either side each with a combination padlock affixed to their door. Swanky, AAA.
On my third try the rusted lock pops off and I start speculating they aren’t going to have complementary tetanus shots. The room itself is decorated in a classic Russian decor, meaning that there’s a single bed, nothing on the walls, and a desk with a phone and toaster nailed to it—perfect for a family of seven to share during a cold Moscow winter during the 1950’s while they sat sipping their last jug of potato water and picking at the carcass of their pet crow.
The bathroom is nothing more than a single toilet-sink fixture like you’d find in a prison accompanied by a tub consisting of more hair than porcelain. I close the door hastily knowing I’ll never be able to return to a point in my life where I didn’t know that tub entity existed.
Okay, so I’m not here to spend time in the room anyways, and AAA did say this place has a pool, a restaurant, and an entertainment center. I’m going to explore, and, ideally, I’ll just fall asleep once I’m back in the room after I barricade the door with the desk-toaster-phone.
I take my book and make my way to the pool in the back. I survey the above-ground monstrosity, complete with broken chairs and old stumps strewn about the area. I approach the pool wall and discover there’s only about six inches of brown, filth swill at the bottom of the pool. My eyes pan up and at the deeper end and I immediately shudder—it’s an overweight Italian man with a gold chain, thinning, yet greasy, hair on his head, and pseudo-rug of midnight black strands covering the rest of his body. He’s in the water up to his shins and he’s making passionate love to an equally overweight woman whose pasty thighs resemble stained-glass works made of varicose veins.
The woman notices my embarrassment and as I’m scampering away with my head down I hear the man bellow, “Lighten up; we just renewed our vows!”
Truly, there is so much beauty in this world. However, none of it can be found at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep.
I make my way back into the building, hoping the entertainment center will have a bar where I can repress this memory with a mason jar filled with whiskey and bleach. Sadly, when I ask the clerk which way to the entertainment center he merely points to the pinball machine and cigarette machine sitting in the corner of the room.
When I inquire about the restaurant he gestures to the heat lamps at the other end of the room that are currently warming a bowl of dirty muffins and a trough of something curdled. I wasn’t hungry, just curious, but I doubt I’ll ever be hungry again.
Out of sheer anger, I’m able to sleep for a few hours. I wake up cold and disturbingly clammy. In a silent, yet frantic, rage I grab my backpack and walk out to the lobby where I give the clerk the sheet of paper with the combination scribbled on it. With his hand he grasps it and says, “checking out?” in a way that implies this is a legitimate hotel. I respond with a grunt and he asks, “breakfast?” and again points to the heat lamps at the end of the lobby.
There’s the couple from yesterday, piling paper plates with a yellow sustenance and a white paste that I’m guessing is the eggs and mayonnaise I smelled when I walked in. The fat Italian man gives me a nod and a wave. I storm out of the building.
You really hustled me, AAA.
