estaba soñando
I’d been given a job at Ballmark. My first assignment was to design this year’s Valentine’s Day card and ad campaign. I submitted the following.
This Valentine’s Day say it with baking soda
Donkey (dông-ke) n. pl. keys
The domesticated ass.
An obstinate or stupid person.
I deplore couples
There is not a single thing that strains my blues more than two Islanders that have taken it upon themselves to form a couple Are they not superfluous enough alone? Must they spread their insidious hole?
More eclipsing than a couple? A couple holding hands Worse yet? A couple holding hands in the park, juxtaposing their tragedy amongst the trees, grass, innocent dogs.
Shall I continue? I shall A couple walking on the beach, molesting my view. Sipping wine. Sipping ! Discussing the world of pop. Planning. Feigning.
Worse yet? Those souls that ponder nothing but the abysmal day that they too will be a couple. Must they proliferate? They must.
Most moronic of all? Bastards fortunate enough to be emancipated, yet blinded by the rearview mirror.
This Valentine’s Day, scream it loud, I’m wacked and I’m proud.
At this point Tambourine entered the dream. She told me I was alone and needed thpirituality in my life. The same would not get off on sarcasm if it went down on her.
Nineteen
‘Cracula, come with me please.’
The Cultesse has graduated to a Klondike bar, three-liter root beer.
‘You’re to see Dr. Feelgood now. He’ll tell you the blood test results and do a medical intake.’
Is there a difference?
‘Cracula!?’
Yes Dr. Feelgood.
‘Come in my office!’
Sure.
‘Shut the door behind you!’
When driving, I’ve always been paranoid of a trailing police car. I’m dumbfounded when a foreign land stamps my passport. I’m flat-out dismayed when helicopters don’t land in my living room. BLOOD TEST RESULTS?
‘Cracula, are you a fan of irony?’
I guess it depends.
‘Well I am. That’s why I’ve legally changed my name to Dr. Feelgood. Do you think people leave here feeling good? Feeling better than before they came?’
The world is full of masochists.
‘Cracula, I can see I’m not reaching you. You’re one of those Islander bastards. You think you’re above The Cult, better than The Cult. You actually believe you don’t need The Cult. I’m here to tell you that if you don’t accept The Cult into your life YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!
Now, I have your blood test results, your full blood test results, right here. But we’ll get to that shortly. First, let’s do a quick medical intake. Cracula, do you exercise?’
I live in a third floor walk up.
‘How many cigarettes do you smoke daily?’
Depends on how much yack I’ve done.
‘How much cocaine do you consume daily?’
Depends on how much I’ve had to drink.
‘How much do you drink daily?’
That’s a loaded question. It depends on my current latitude, longitude, same same situation, political climate, last book I’ve read, days since my last heroin overdose, proximity to inventors, financial situation, level of exposure to bad Hip Hop. Have I been forced to watch Hollywood?
‘Cracula, I don’t like you.’
Terribly sorry.
‘Let’s move on to the results from your blood work.’
Please God. Please! I will go to church. I will call my mom, volunteer in Africa, speak the truth. Write in the third person.
‘Cracula.’
Yes doc.
‘It troubles me deeply to inform you that despite your sexual misconduct, illicit drug use, alcohol abuse, chain smoking, and overall freewheeling approach to life…you’re healthy as a virgin triathlete.’
Goddamn that was close.
‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking this will last young man. Your time will come. Now get out of my office!’
Returning to my cell, I’m so giddy I can almost forgive the Cultesse her gallon of rocky road.
Twenty
Eventually I’m admitted to the general population. My roommate is some gay fellow named Audit. By far the gayest gay man I’ve come across. Gay with life, gay with being in Cult Camp, gay with working for the DIE RS, gay with being gay. Every so often he forgets to flush, leaving me a gay log. I don’t care, he does my laundry.
There are quack shacks and there are...Cult Camps. They assign insane persons a schedule, a to-do list. They rate your bed-making ability. If the world is an asylum, The Island is its loony bin, Cult Camp its recycle bin.
I am subjected to schedules, feelings—eating breakfast! And what do we do post-cereal? We nutcases break into groups of public defenders, jurors, defendants—all the while judge and prosecutor.
And how did that make you feel… What were the repercussions of that action… How was your partner affected… What do you think the long term effects on your children will be… What would God do…
feelings. repercussions. partner. long term. children. god.
Are they mad?
Most disturbing is my fellow prisoners’ eagerness to partake— role play. Only their innate ability to embellish keeps me attentive.
‘I guess it all started with my first boyfriend. Well not really my boyfriend, more like my stepmom’s boyfriend…he just kept offering me pills, white wine, triple-X movies. I mean, like, I was only 10 and I was like sure. Then we just kept having sex. How did I feel? Well, I like, loved it.’
All the whackos feign gasps and wait their turn on stage. The proctoring Cultesse chimes in.
‘Georgia, what part did you love?’
‘You mean what part of the sex?’
More feigning.
‘No. The alcohol, drugs, pills.’
‘Well, like, I just figured I was home. Ya know…like I had gone home.’
At this point the Cultesse calls on the other inmates to comment on the southern belle’s plight. The first is this horrible prick from Boston, Counter.
‘Well Georgia, in essence it is a home you’ve always sought, and a home you still seek. The first avenue of a home that was introduced to you, by this horrible gentleman I might add, gave a temporary sense of relief, a home if you will. Since then your entire life has been spent seeking this home, this refuge.’
We, the jurors, sit silently as the retarded mongrel of a judge renders our defendant her verdict. Meanwhile, he’s four days off meth.
‘What you need to do is seek out a new home, a home without preying men, without mind-altering devils, you can find a home in The Cult. I have.’
The bastard sits back, basking in congratulatory eyes. Georgia paints on tears and drools over Counter like a candy cane. I seek flight. The Cultesse, our mediator, asserts herself.
‘Georgia, how did Counter’s elegant proclamation make you feel?’
‘It made me feel, like…well, like I have love here.’
Satan, I need a gun.
‘You do have love in The Cult. Georgia, would you like a hug?’
Georgia, relegating herself to teddy bear, laps it up.
My mind bounces through time and space. I am a Viking, a beer swigging Viking, only I live on Venus and sail oceans of fire. Off the bow is a village of young wenches, young and willing Venusian wenches. They scream…
‘Cracula?’
Yes Cultesse.
‘Would you like to give Georgia a hug?’
Mierda!
This is bad. Downright entrapment. Would this knock time off my sentence? Good behavior and all. What to do?
‘Uh...Miss Cultesse…Proctresse…uh…I’m terribly sorry, but I’m physically unable to perform said act at this time.’
With my declaration Georgia surpasses tears and usurps convulsions. Audit springs to life and performs some sort o
f gay Heimlich maneuver, bringing the belle back to life. My fellow jurors turn prosecuting judge and cast firing-squad eyes on me. The proctresse intervenes.
‘Cracula, what do you see as a downside to Cult living?’
‘Well…the thought of never having an intravenous collision with a random comet of revelation careening toward one of my poles, sure to both handicap and heighten my galactic antennae’s clarity…followed by eons of sucrose-coated conformity, handheld attrition, cerebral circumcision, premeditated mating, and a house in the flatlands? All the while daily force-fed three hot meals of Genericana for eternity? Go fuck yourself.’
Even in the land of loonies, there must be an outcast.
Twenty-One
The nights here are utter terror. How is one to sleep unadulterated? No wine, no comedown. The initial moons fill with regular visitors—demons, vampresses, Satan, white light.
I deduce, empirically of course, that the onset of terror is caused by my newfound and unnatural body chemistry. I alert The Cult leaders to my discovery, they are not sympathetic.
‘Cracula, you know what your problem is?’
The reels play on.
‘You refuse to live in reality. You actually choose to live in the clouds.’
Does one choose his place of birth?
‘Cracula, you just need to take things as they are. You need acceptance. You need to accept The Cult.’
Accepting my quandary, I retreat to my room. Prepare for a night of visitors.
estaba soñando
I was in Cult Camp, in bed. Only with no roommate and strapped in. The concrete walls replaced by bamboo. I could hear a not so distant ocean, calm waves.
I summoned all my loony strength, tried to break free, no dice. These cult bastards could really tie a knot. I suppose this was The Cult way of forcing acceptance.
accepting my demise, i shut my eyes. tried to sleep
On the verge of dreaming, the bamboo began buzzing with life. At first the noise dispersed throughout the wall and ceiling, then purposefully converged in the wooded support beam near my head. My strapped-in head!
Rolling my eyes to the left, I tried to locate the resting place of the buzz. the wooden support beam began to bubble...It was as if the outside had been splashed with acid, prisoners inside seeking escape.
acid and inmates converged, producing one pulsating, impending bubble. Was this real? have the cult bastards hypnotized me?
The bubble made its way down the wooden support beam, coming to a rest inches from my face. The throbbing escalated, picked up speed. Calling for help was pointless. The bastards are probably watching. I accepted the terror, accepted my fate.
on the verge of resolution, the bubble actually made contact with my face. again and again. contact. recoil. eventually
Climax.
My face was blasted with sap. Layers of sweet, oozing sap.
Opening my eyes, I examined the hole that replaced the bubble. The buzzing lessened—seemed to take a collective breath—only to gain strength in the form of one singular roar. What have these cult bastards done?
The roar turned growl, reverted to buzz, and dispersed amongst thousands of flies hovering over the sap. Hovering over my face. The flies broke into attack formation, picked up the volume, and pounced on their midnight snack. Through the buzz—the smorgasbord—I looked back to the hole. One by one, a gang of spiders began making their way—jumping from the beam to my bed, over my strapped-in shoulders. Hundreds of them marched toward the flies. towards my face
rendered comatose, i accepted the spider onslaught, my fate The Cult’s Will
wanting to contribute to this newly formed ecosystem, i consented to the spider bites. they feasted on the flies, on the sap. on me.
‘Cracula. Cracula, CRACULA!’
Hmm…
‘Time for breakfast.’
Twenty-Two
Facing a day of Cult brainwashing, I’ll need my strength. I hit the mess hall, order blueberry pancakes with extra syrup, eggs, bacon, ham, hash browns, and five decaf coffees.
Men and sames are separated during meals, it’s The Cult way. Mess hall conversation never varies. How did you receive your sentence…Where are you from…I did that too…
This always digresses to the search for common ground—pop music, sports, Hollywood. Fucking torture. How do these loonies talk of such things sans yack? Or at least two bottles of red? The interjection of a novel is immediately thwarted by a self-help book or, god help us, a book on thpirituality. Is anything on earth more of a fraud than non-fiction?
Sober, I head to the butt hut—need to wash down the cholesterol and moronic banter with four or five reds. Holding court is the Frenchman.
Yann is the most well-read, traveled, over-educated fellow I’ve ever come across. A wino and cokehead. Speaks fifteen languages, taught at Oxford, was a UN diplomat, published ten books of philosophical critique, a leading French and English historian, composer and playwright. Blames the Jews for everything. To be in his company is to be stranded on a cruise with Voltaire’s shadow.
Coughing, I head to a Cult lecture on physical health.
All the loonies file into The Cult auditorium—men on the left, sames on the right. And who is to lead the lecture on healthy living? None other than the ever-widening Cultesse that roams the halls of the holding cell.
Despite the loonies having taken their designated seats, the Cultesse is in no rush to finish her foot-long dog—cheese running down her cheeks. She sports a Rinsurvainsya State t-shirt that appears life-sized. Her spiel begins with the last bit of leftover cow, mustard, queso, relish, and onions still in her mouth.
‘OK loonies…today…we…are …going to talk…about…’
The Cultesse falls silent, appears frozen. She reaches for her throat and begins throwing her head about like a possessed rottweiler. Not sure if this is a Cult healthy living technique to be followed later, the loonies watch silently and with full attention. A few of the sames go so far as imitating her flailing, standing in place and thrashing the air.
Amidst the confusion a 300-pound bearded Cult orderly barrels down the aisle and pounds on her back, only heightening the confusion. This causes some of the men to breach the aisle, pound sames’ backs. Caught between the spectacle to my right and the Cultesse in front, I almost miss the projectiled remnants of the foot-long dog—cow bits, bun, queso, small children.
With order eventually restored, the Cultesse goes on preaching physical health as if nothing happened. Unable to control my laughter, I’m removed.
Twenty-Three
The endless cycle of eating, smoking, judging, being judged, laughing, and reaping nightmares carries on. After an unspecified number of sunsets, I’m permitted a phone call.
‘Haaalo, who fauk this?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Who fauk this.’
‘Slutskia, it’s me.’
‘Who me?’
‘Cracula, your boyfriend.’
‘Baybee, where fauk u are?’
‘Didn’t you get the note? I’m in a Cult Camp in Rinsurvainsya.’
‘Baybee, I see faukin note. U no I not read English.’
‘Didn’t The Reverend tell you?’
‘Reverend go Africa. Baybee, what Cult Camp? Rinsvain? And where fauk is vodka?’
‘Don’t worry babe, I’ll be home soon. The vodka’s in the freezer. Everything OK?’
‘No baybee, I faukin pregnin.’
Que?
‘Baybee, you faukin hear me? I faukin pregnint.’
‘Well that’s great babe, I love kids. You sure?’
‘Yes, I faukin sure baybee!’
‘OK, OK. So listen, I’ll be out of here soon, and I’ll get back to work, start saving for our son, daughter. Maybe in the meantime you should take it easy on the vodka, maybe cut out the smokes.’
‘Cracula, I not have faukin baybee.’
‘What?’
‘Baybee, how we have deees keed? We not have
eng money. You faukin drug addeeek.’
‘Slutskia, why do you think I’m in Cult Camp?’
‘Baybee, is no possible. I have give money my parents, my seeester. U not fadder.’
‘Slutskia, let’s talk about this when I come home. I’m sure we can figure it out.’
‘Baybee, is not possible.’
‘I’ll be home soon, just take it easy until then. OK?’
‘OK baybee. I lauv u.’
‘Love you too.’
Hanging up the phone I’m high on life. The possibility of life. A new life. I feel my veins pump blood to my face, irrigating out irony. I’m not the least bit concerned about Slutskia’s state of mind, no doubt I could rectify it. I vow to give in to The Cult, accept The Cult. After all, I’m to be a father.
Twenty-Four
The rest of my sentence is served nightmare-free. I wake on time, ready for the torturous breakfast conversation. I discuss pop music, football, gossip Hollywood. I role-play.
I, free and of my own will, accept my turns as judge, juror, prosecutor. When called on, I dole out hugs. At every opportunity I find common ground, I seek low common denominators—live The Fireman. I phone Aeronymous, letting him know I’ve accepted The Cult in my life. He’s pleased. I’m pleased he’s pleased. I please people daily. I’m pleased being a people pleaser. I even go to The Cult gym—body conscious. I phone Tambourine and chant thpiritual chants. I vow not to hold The Reverend’s delusions against him.
As I’ve kept my impending fatherhood to myself, The Cult leaders are shocked and impressed at my abrupt turnaround. They hammer in me not to forget that The Cult is behind my newfound peace, and to cease living The Cult lifestyle would lead to my past dementia. I concur. Upon taking the oath of The Cult, I’m to be released tomorrow morning. But not before my last night’s sleep at Cult Camp.
Lying in bed drunk with the morning’s anticipation, Audit attempts a conversation of sorts.
‘So Cracula, have you always been into sames?’
Oh lord, here we go. Fuck it, I’ll play along. ‘What precisely do you mean Audit?’
‘Well, you know, if like everything was just perfect would you consider…’
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