I arrived at the station my usual fifteen minutes late and walked in and sat down on the safe. I was concerned about the water pump either going bad or being completely destroyed in the Probe, but my worry was soon replaced by an air of weirdness in the room. Pedro was sitting at the side of the desk drinking whiskey from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag and Toad was drinking his usual vodka and Mountain Dew cocktail. They were both extremely drunk. Poopie was usually closer to being on time than I was, but he hadn't gotten there yet and I had interrupted an especially poignant moment between Toad and Pedro and they ignored my entrance into the office.

Pedro took a swig from his brown paper bag, "...yeah man, there's something to that shit.
Like those people who let snakes bite them and they don't get hurt. And people speaking
in tongues."

Toad reddened, put his hands over his eyes and started bawling, "I've seen tongues!" He
got out of his chair and wobbled into the restroom to yank a tissue off the roll. He dabbed at his teary eyes, "I've seen tongues!" He closed the door to the restroom and all I could hear were loud howls of emotion.

Pedro began to weep, evidently equally touched by the Holy Spirit. Goddamnit, where was Poopie when I needed him? I just sat on the safe and watched this train wreck in quiet fascination.

One of our regulars pulled in. It was "Belly Boy" - so named because of his enormous gut which he proudly displayed by wearing his shirt completely unbuttoned. Toad called him "Belly Berdella," after Kansas City's notorious serial killer, Bob Berdella. Belly Boy was short and balding with blonde hair around the sides of his head that curled outward at the ends. He had a blonde mustache and wore glasses. He liked to flirt with us. I hadn't officially started my shift yet, as nobody had counted their money or read the pumps, but even Belly Boy was better than what was going on in the office and Belly always used a credit card, so I wouldn't have to make change.

Belly Boy got out of his car while I started his gas and cleaned his windshield. He was wearing his usual blue flip-flops and I determined he must be in high spirits, as his belly was round, firm and deeply tanned. He was telling me all about his wild weekend at the "Winnebago" which I guessed must have been some sort of gay dance club popular with the forty-plus crowd. Once I finished the windshield, I saw Poopie getting out of his car. I smiled, knowing what he was about to walk into.

As I was finishing up Belly's gas, Poopie came outside with a look of horror on his face, "what in the hell is going on in there?"

I shook my head and shrugged; I'm sure Poopie realized no halfway reasonable person could possibly be expected to answer that question. Belly gave me his credit card and, as I took it back inside, he tried to talk Poopie into coming over Friday night for a beer. I wondered if there was any place on the planet that was free of psychotic enraptured drunks and serial killer homosexuals.

There must have been something in the gas vapors that night. As I sat trying to watch the television, Poopie insisted on pestering me with the details of his love-life, or lack thereof.

"Man, I need a woman."

The thought of Poopie with a woman sent chills down my spine and the logical conclusion - what could be created if he did have a woman - was unspeakably offensive. I considered it my duty to give my very life in order to keep Poopie from procreating.

"What do you want a woman for? They're nothing but trouble."

"Oh, that's easy for you to say, you have Tracy. I need some lovin'!"

"Oh my God."

Something sick and twisted bubbled up from the depths of my subconscious. This could be extraordinarily fun. I was passing up the opportunity of a lifetime here! What the hell was wrong with me?

"You know they have personals in the Pitch. I think it's free to place an ad. You should put one in there and see if you find someone."

The Pitch was a local alternative newspaper. The personal ads in it reminded me of advertisements I'd seen in comic books as a kid.

Poopie's eyes lit up, "That's a good idea, man! You like to write stuff, help me write an ad!"

"No."

Poopie struggled for the rest of the shift to craft the perfect personal ad. He mentioned his love of "Beavis and Butthead," obscure goth bands and the "Crow." After tormenting my eyes by reading over the short blurb and correcting numerous spelling errors, I told Poopie I thought it was ready for the public.

Shaking, he dumped a quarter into the pay-phone and dialed the number. He read the ad to the poor fool on the other end of the line. It reminded me of one of the dumb kids trying to wade through a paragraph in a book when the teacher made us take turns reading aloud in school. Poopie was given an access code he could use to check his personals "mailbox." The ad would appear in the paper the next day and would run for a week. I could barely contain my excitement. If nothing else, I would get to witness the dregs of Kansas City society through Poopie's dating adventures.

My excitement had to take a back seat to other concerns, though. I needed to replace the water pump on the Probe. I went down to the auto parts store and set about installing the new pump. Whatever customers hadn't been chased off by the pixies were being run off by Poopie, so I had few interruptions.

Once the new pump was installed, I started the car and noticed a horrible wheezing sound coming from the engine. I got out and analyzed the situation under the hood. There was exhaust bubbling up into the radiator overfill tank. This wasn't a good sign. The Probe wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.

Fortunately, Tracy didn't have to work that night and was able to give me a ride home. We stopped at a pub on the way and sat in a quiet booth. Tracy ordered several beers while I drank Dr. Pepper.

"Darren, you have to promise me to get the Probe running. My mom drove that car," She took a gulp of Jagermeister.

"Don't worry. I'll do everything I can."

Tracy motioned for the waitress and got another beer.

"Don't you think you've had enough of those?"

"You're the last person to be talking about taking too much of anything."

I shrugged, conceding her point before realizing that I wasn't being hypocritical, I was trying to help her to not make the same mistakes I had, "Yeah, and I know what taking too much of anything can do to you. Do you want to walk around swallowing your own vomit?"

Tracy eyed me glassily. It was too late. At this point, she had enough beer in her that nothing I said would get through to any part of her consciousness. She was operating from a different part of her brain now.

Two girls walked up to the table out of the darkness of the pub. One put her hand on my shoulder, "Do you go to CMSU?"

"Ummm. No. I went to Park College for a bit. But I dropped out."

Tracy gave the girl a look that almost caused my intestines to squeeze their contents into my underwear, "Fuck off, bitch!"

"Tracy! Chill out! Fuck!"

The girl patted me on the shoulder, in what seemed like a gesture of pity and walked away with her friend. Tracy glared at them until they disappeared into the darkness.

"So, what, you're fuckin' other chicks now?"

"Tracy, what?! Come on. Let's go."

"Fine."

I paid for the drinks and helped Tracy into the passenger side of her Jeep. I drove us to my mother's place where we both slept on the small nest of blankets I had collected as a bed on the floor. At random points throughout the night, I would awake to the sound of Tracy heaving and then spend twenty minutes cleaning her vomit off the carpet, blankets and her long, black hair.

* * *

The next day, I had Toad look at the Probe with me. He told me he suspected the head had been warped from the overheating caused by the bad water pump. He helped me remove the head and took it to a shop to have them check it out, leaving me with Poopie and his personal ad mailbox number.

"Darren, will you check my mailbox for me? I'm too nervous!"

"Dude?"

"Come on, please?"

"Fine."

I dialed the number and navigated the simple menu system until I was prompted to enter the mailbox number. I punched in the digits and waited a few seconds while the computer on the other end no doubt laughed to itself at the incredible lameness of Poopie's ad. Eventually, a taped voice replied, "You. Have. ZERO. Messages."

I laughed and hung up the phone.

"Well?"

"You. Have. ZERO. Messages."

"Goddamnit!"

"Oh don't worry, Poopie. It's the first day. You still have a whole week."

"Yeah, you're right! I have to go shit!"

"Good luck with that, Poopie."

Posted by DevilMonkey at 10:23 PM

Print Friendly · Digg it · del.icio.us · StumbleUpon · Netscape

Comment Policy:

Anonymous comments are allowed. All anonymous comments and comments from those not registered with TypeKey are moderated. They WILL NOT appear until they are read and approved by a moderator.

It is strongly encouraged that you sign up and login with a TypeKey account. Once you do that, your comments will be immediately posted.

Comments

Posted by: Mitch at December 8, 2006 10:45 PM

Posted by: Jeffy at December 8, 2006 11:50 PM

Posted by: Wayland at December 9, 2006 12:00 AM

Posted by: brihan at December 9, 2006 01:51 AM

Posted by: Draconomaus at December 9, 2006 04:21 AM

Posted by: MD at December 9, 2006 12:32 PM

Posted by: Nikita at December 9, 2006 05:10 PM

Posted by: Mitch at December 9, 2006 11:22 PM

Posted by: anon at December 10, 2006 02:02 AM

Posted by: YixilTesiphon at December 10, 2006 01:01 PM

Posted by: zach at December 10, 2006 04:18 PM

Posted by: Jake at December 18, 2006 09:33 PM

Post a comment

Name:

Email Address:

URL:
Remember Me? YesNo

Comments:

Please type the phrase 'devilmonkey' in the box below (required):