Failure As a Way of Life

by Andersen Prunty

  The rash is horrendous. I inspect myself in the mirror. There are now a couple of patches on my face. It’s on my earlobes and down both sides of my torso. All down the inside of my arms. My palms. My knees and shins. The tops of my feet. It’s in the crack of my ass and, oh fuck, even on my cock. So not only is it itchy as hell, I’m turning into a fucking monster. And since it’s on my cock I assume it’s something sexual in nature. Probably something from Alice. Maybe this is why she’s never acknowledged it.

  My phone vibrates loudly on the vanity.

  It’s a text from Jen: “Hope you got my message.”

  I assume she means the rock her brother threw through my car window.

  I don’t think it warrants a response but know if I don’t say something I’ll keep thinking I should say something and this will create anxiety, which will probably make the rash worse.

  “I’ll send you what I have,” I text. And it’s not a lie. I’ll send her what I have when I pay the bills at the end of the month and what I have will be exactly nothing. Just like it is every month.

  “Maybe your dad could help out,” she texts.

  What do I say to this? I don’t want him to help out. I’m already a forty-year-old man who barely feels grown up. I haven’t asked my dad for money in years and really don’t want to start now.

  “Not an option,” I text. “Maybe yours? Gotta go.”

  “You’re a FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

  I fight the urge to throw the phone on the floor and get in the shower. I run the water hot and scrub at the rash with the washcloth, knowing my skin will feel dry later and the rash will be even worse. Maybe I need to get some lotion or something. Do I even have money to get some sort of lotion? If I had to put it practically all over my body, how long would a bottle even last? In the shower used to be one of the best times to think of story and book ideas. Now I’m incapable of thinking about anything other than the dark turn my life has taken and the even darker turns guaranteed in the future.

  I step out of the shower and scrub myself dry with the towel. It’s a way of scratching the rash without actually touching it. I step out of the bathroom and take a couple steps to the bedroom. I don’t hear Alice in there so I open the door. She’s on her back with the laptop on her stomach but doesn’t seem to be working. The bedroom smells really bad.

  “Why does it smell like farts in here?” I ask.

  “Some guys like it,” she says absently.

  “Like the smell of farts?” I don’t really mind the smell of my own but have never been too into smelling other people’s.

  “Well, I don’t think they can really smell it. They like to hear girls do it.”

  “You’re not going to say ‘fart,’ are you?”

  “I don’t like that word.”

  I pull a drawer out to grab some underwear.

  “So . . . guys like to hear you fart? They pay for that?”

  “Most guys are into a lot of weird things.”

  “I think if that’s what they’re into then they’re trying too hard.”

  “It’s not like they can help it. They’re into what they’re into.”

  I quickly put on some shorts and a t-shirt. She still hasn’t mentioned the rash and I find myself dressing quickly around her.

  Now that the rash has spread to my cock, I’m not sure we’ll ever have sex again. Maybe that will help me clear my head. I’ve considered asking her to leave before but then we would end up having sex and I’d feel guilty for asking her to leave. We’ve been together nearly a year. I actually didn’t think she was going to move with me when we found this house. It was like, once all of her stuff was packed, I thought she would realize it could just as easily be moved anywhere. Now I figure it’s just a matter of time before she stockpiles enough money to get a place of her own or finds someone else who could give her a remotely decent life. Maybe someone with a future or even a present that isn’t some kind of existential nightmare.

  “I’m gonna fix dinner. You want anything?”

  “Nah. I had a few almonds earlier.”

  I head into the kitchen.

  It’s Party Pizza time.

  13

  The Heist

  I make it to work in my car. I forgot to research how to remove the spraypaint from the window so I decide to just let the windshield wipers run continuously and try to wear it away. It’s not raining so the squeaking sound is unbearable for the first few minutes of the drive and I have to turn the radio up loud enough to drown it out.

  At work, Jolly lies sprawled in the parking lot. He must have lost a bout with one of my co-workers. I imagine Gus as a triumphant victor, standing proudly over Jolly’s unconscious body, but when I get into the hut I see Larry Bims, one of the two salesmen who works in the front office, rubbing his hand and looking self-satisfied. His face is flushed and his normally perfectly coiffed hair is slightly askew.

  “Congratulations,” I say before heading into the filling room.

  His self-satisfaction turns into a wide grin and he offers only a quick nod.

  Gus isn’t there. The only person in the filling room is Diane Marbles. She sits to my right and is usually crying. I don’t know anything about her other than that, aside from crying a lot, she listens to books on tape via an old knockoff Walkman she keeps in a fanny pack around her waist, stores a case of Coke under her chair, ritualistically leaves notes on said Cokes warning people not to steal them, and eats a sad sandwich every day for lunch. The sandwich is always wrapped in foil and looks like it contains a single slice of cheese between two pieces of rumpled white bread. I’ve never been jealous of her sandwich.

  I give myself a scratchdown and take a seat at my faucet.

  I pull the first bottle from the case to my right, fill it, and place it in the empty case to my left.

  I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I push the thought away. It’s the same thought I’ve had since about my second hour of working here.

  I plug my earbuds into my phone and turn on some electronic ambient music, really loud, to block out the sounds of the running water and Diane’s sobs. I wonder if she listens to sad books or if her life is just in ruins.

  Gus shows up a few hours later. He taps me on the shoulder and asks if I want to go to lunch. I say “Sure” and we head out to his truck. Following behind him, it looks like he’s lost weight.

  Jolly’s no longer in the parking lot. He’s probably in his teepee drinking it off.

  We go to the brewery. They don’t really have food unless there’s a food truck in the parking lot. There isn’t so we each get a beer and a large bag of potato chips to split. It’s a nice day so we take it out to the deck in back. We’re the only ones there.

  “I didn’t even think this place opened until like four,” I say.

  “It doesn’t,” he says. “Tarot works here. They already know me pretty well. There’s usually someone here brewing or whatever, I guess.”

  “Tarot’s the girl you met the other day?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been going out. She’s pretty cool.”

  “You look like you’ve been losing weight.”

  “Maybe. I don’t own a scale or anything. I have noticed something, though.”

  I take a sip of my beer and wait for him to tell me. He doesn’t so I have to ask, “What have you noticed?”

  “I’m pretty sure my cock is bigger.”

  A man runs down the bike path in front of us. He’s dragging a rickshaw that contains two children and two dogs. He looks very fit and determined.

  “How’s that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, man. I think it’s from being in the Well of Purity.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. Think about it: the raise, meeting Tarot, losing weight, a bigger cock. I think it all comes from the well. I’m hoping it doesn’t wear off.”

  I’d wondered the same thing but hadn’t thought about it wearing off.

  “I guess just run with it while you can.�
��

  “I’m trying. I don’t want to think about it wearing off. What if it’s one of those things where things go back to being even worse than they were before?”

  “It wasn’t so bad though, was it?”

  He laughs a little. “I guess not if you’re used to it. But, come on, I’m an overweight forty-year-old guy who works in a dead end job and lives with his mom. That’s pretty fucking bleak.”

  I guess he’s right. My situation probably isn’t much better but I don’t want to make myself sound that pathetic. I don’t want to cast a shadow over his current good fortune.

  “I’m thinking of finally moving out though. Tarot still lives with her ex and Mom’s not really cool with me bringing girls around and she never leaves so we feel kind of trapped. Eventually we’re going to get busted hooking up on the bike path.”

  “Maybe not.”

  He takes a big drink of his beer and smiles a little. “You’re right. Maybe not. It is kind of fun.”

  We finish our beers and Gus goes back into the bar and orders a couple more. We sit out on the deck in the sunlight and watch people jog and bike and walk past. After we finish the beers we head back to the campus.

  There’s a sour taste in my mouth and I’m desperately trying not to dig into my rash.

  When I go inside to my station I see the last case of Godwater I filled still sitting there.

  I’ve never stolen anything from Dr. Jolly’s. I’m not sure why. I’ve stolen things from just about every place I’ve worked, sometimes probably felonious amounts of stuff. Maybe fancy water had just never interested me enough. It’s always seemed super boring. But I think about the turn Gus’s life has taken and think it can’t really hurt.

  I pick up the case, find the salesmen distracted in the front office, and head quickly out to my car, hoping I don’t run into Jolly on the way.

  I put the case in the back seat and pile some of Alice’s clothes over it.

  I feel like I’ve won something.

  14

  Bring On The Metamorphosis!

  There is blood all over the bathroom, especially around the toilet but also around the sink and on the mirror.

  Alice is in the bedroom, lounging with her laptop and a cigarette.

  “Why’s there blood all over the bathroom?” I call.

  I think she mumbles something but I can’t hear what it is so I go to the door of the bedroom.

  “What?” I ask.

  She stares blankly at me, her earbuds in.

  “Huh?” she says.

  “Why’s there blood all over the bathroom?”

  “Period stuff,” she says.

  By this I assume she means she’s on her period. We never have sex when she’s on her period, meaning it will be at least a few days before she discovers the red bumps on my dick that she will undoubtedly interpret as herpes and freak out about. Other than that, I know she’s had a number of periods since we’ve been together and I can’t recall her being unable to control her blood flow. Maybe she’s taken to free bleeding. If so, part of me wishes she’d started it a long time ago. I could have saved a small fortune on tampons.

  She takes my confused stare and lack of speech as further questioning and says, “I have this one guy who’s really into it, okay? Don’t judge. He tipped huge.”

  “I wasn’t judging. Just . . . maybe you could have cleaned it up?”

  “That’s part of it. He’ll pay to watch me do that too. But he likes it when it’s hard and crusty. So he’s a guaranteed return customer.”

  The bathtub seems to be mostly clean. That’s what I’m most concerned with anyway.

  “Was that a case of Godwater you brought in?” she says.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Fancy. Bring me a bottle?”

  I want to say no, thinking I’m going to need every fluid ounce of magical power it contains, but because I’m a conflict-hating pussy, I just say “Okay” and dutifully retrieve a bottle from the case in the bathroom and present it to her.

  “Why’s it in the bathroom?”

  I’m too lazy to lie. “I’m going to bathe in it.”

  She glances at me and says, “Can we really afford that?” and this just reinforces my theory that, even though she occasionally looks at me, she has stopped actually seeing me a long time ago. If she ever did in the first place. To her, I am like the outline of a man labeled ‘Ryan’ and there aren’t really any more details than that.

  “I stole it,” I say, again because it’s easier than lying and might make me seem slightly edgy.

  She uncorks the bottle and says, “Try not to lose your job, okay? We need it.”

  I swallow down my anger, deciding I’ll probably jerk off while I’m in the tub. Then I think better of it. My semen would only taint the purity of the water, turning it into a cesspool of my mutant unborn.

  She takes a sip of the water and makes a gaggy face.

  “This is really warm. Not even warm. Hot.”

  “It’s been in the car all day.”

  “Bring me a glass of ice?”

  I want to tell her this defeats the purpose. Pouring hot Godwater over ice just means it’s going to be fifty percent Dayton municipal tap water, which cannot be good for you. But I don’t care. I go into the kitchen and dutifully retrieve her glass of ice. When I get back to the bedroom, the door is closed and there’s a note on it that says, “Plz leeve ousside the dor.”

  I grimace and set the glass on the shitty laminate floor.

  * * *

  My hands are raw and nearly blistered by the time I’ve uncorked all the bottles, despite the patented E-Z Cork technology, and the bathtub is not nearly as full as I thought it would be.

  Still, I’m hopeful.

  Look how it had transformed Gus. All I want is a simple rash removed. It doesn’t even have to disappear. I just want it to stop itching.

  I strip off my clothes and avoid looking in the mirror.

  I step into the bathtub. The water comes to just above my ankles and immediately turns a sort of brown-gray from the crud on my feet. I plop down into the water. I’m going to have to flop around in the tub like some sort of swollen, turgid sea mammal just to completely cover myself. How long will I need to stay in here? Gus had stayed in the well nearly all night and had achieved nearly total transformation. I don’t know if I need that. I don’t want to be too greedy. Still, I’ll need to remain in here a few hours at least.

  I quickly realize that, as with most things, I’ve been overly romanticizing this moment.

  I’d envisioned myself as being submerged in the waters from the Well of Purity, engulfed by the scent of an earthy spring. Instead, I find myself reclining in a tiny bathtub, the water barely tickling the bottom of my scrotum, engulfed in the scent of menstruation.

  Alice comes in every couple of hours to use the bathroom and I silently beg her not to defecate.

  15

  Dark Fate

  Someone has slashed all the tires on my car.

  There is an old photo of Charle taped to each of the hubcaps and another under one of the windshield wipers so I don’t have to think too hard about who might have done this.

  Bart.

  I should be righteously upset, which I kind of am, but quickly look down the street to make sure he’s not still around. Fucking with my car is awful, but at least it doesn’t physically hurt.

  The Monarch regally saunters up to me, a cigarette in his left hand and what looks like a box of wine in his right. He has the car ashtray clipped to his belt like a fanny pack dedicated to lung cancer.

  He waves his cigarette at my car and says, “It was that guy in the truck again. I seen him do it. Just got right down and—slash, slash, slash,” he pauses, “slash!”

  He rests the cigarette in the ashtray, tilts his head back, lifts what I’m now sure is a box of wine and depresses the nozzle, unleashing a stream of deep red into his mouth.

  “Do you think maybe you could call the cops the next time you
see him do something like that?”

  Then I have to wonder if getting the cops involved is really something I want to do.

  “I woulda,” he says, “but my phone’s out for repair.”

  He offers the box of wine to me.

  I take it and try mimicking his technique but manage to only get some of it in my mouth while sloshing the rest across my chin and down my shirt.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He casts a glance at the house and says, “We should hang out some time. My boys and I like to have fun.”

  I’m not a very social person and don’t know what fun is but I think about the deafening loneliness of living with Alice and the fact my best friend is becoming someone I resent too much to comfortably hang out with.

  I resist the urge to give myself a vigorous scratchdown and say, “Sure. Come by anytime. It’s mostly just me and my girlfriend. She works from home a lot so we might have to hang out on the porch but, yeah, I’d be up for it.”

  “I’ll swing by some time.” He again gestures at the car with his cigarette and says, “You’re in the same boat as me now. I need to find someone who can do tires. I got a stack of em in my yard.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  “I better take off. I gotta couple windows I need to board up.”

  With that, he takes another healthy swig of wine and turns back toward the other end of the street.

  I call Gus to see if he can pick me up.

  He sounds groggy.

  “Were you still asleep?” I ask.

  “Yeah, man, salary.”

  I’m still not sure he’s grasping what this means but what do I know?