I ask Whirloch if he can tell me if Bud’s attack was worse than mine, just so I know what I’m dealing with. All he says is yes, in some ways it was worse.
APRIL 6
Maude. Ugly Maude. Hideous, revolting, slob Maude. Fat dumb bitch Maude, with cankles and demon egg sacks growing in her gums. Hooved Maude. Fingerless piss sucker with a hive of pussies between her thighs. Maude who crawls around like a freak. A repulsive piece of shit of a woman. Ann Coulter with the face of Ann Coulter without makeup on. Cher with typhoid. Like a fucking burn victim with babies’ decapitated fingers for eyelashes. With breath like rotting fish and a trail of fur running up the backs of her legs and two giant claws for tits. I’ll bet she only eats wasps and sleeps on a mattress filled with a thousand scalped dick skins. Princess and the fucking PEAnis Maude. Come over again, you queen of dog pus. Where are you where are you where the hell are you? Come over again, you harpy coward. You daughter of an infection. Where are you, you cloaked crone? Where the fuck are you Maude what are you
APRIL 10
Bud sat across from me today and just listened in group, like he’s done every Monday. Quiet. Passed on talking. I did the same. Wasn’t feeling like sharing. Some weeks are worse than others. Some weeks I can stand on my own two feet. Some weeks I am reborn without legs. Like getting out of bed and standing was never even in my repitoir. Repitour? Fuck it I don’t know how you spell that. In group I listened to Bobby talk about anger. It was really moving. He quoted this guy Krishnamarty who said, “Anger has that peculiar quality of isolation; like sorrow, it cuts one off, and for the time being, at least, all relationship comes to an end. Anger has the temporary strength and vitality of the isolated. There is a strange despair in anger; for isolation is despair.” (I asked him to read it to me again after group and I copied it down word for word.)
I know despair. Known it for years. I’ve introduced it to my family and spent holidays with it. I argue with it about how to load the dishwasher. I watch TV with it at night. I take a shit in the morning by its side. I go for long walks at dusk and let it spew its foul thoughts in my ears. I take it to the doctor when it’s not feeling well. I ride home with it after every show I do, especially the good ones. That’s when despair really likes to be there for me. To remind me it was just a fluke. I thank despair for keeping me honest. For never lying to me. I take it up to my place for a nightcap. I fuck it to feel better. I wake up a bitter man.
Bud was at the waffle table after group so I went up. What the hell do I have to lose. Just a coupla rapeys hangin’ round the flavored-syrup bar! No baseball cap this time, but a Red Sox jersey. Number 24. I know that number. Told him how I’d lived in Boston for a while. Told him Price is my favorite player too. Ask if he knows the Dwight Evans story. He says he doesn’t. I tell him how the Sox retired the jersey, which was Dwight Evans’s . . . until Price came along. Price wanted Dewey’s number and Dewey said he’d only give his blessing on one condition: Price had to beat his record in home runs. Bud smiled and liked the story. I ask if he’s ever seen the Sox play, he says no. I tell him they’re the best and if he’s gonna see them he’s got to see them in Fenway Park. Where they’re from. It’s the best stadium out there. That stadium is the heart in the whole body of baseball. He says thanks and we shake hands like regular guys. Like no particular men.
APRIL 11
KrishnaMURTI not MARTY idiot
Order Krishnamurti book on anger
Order fertilizer
Gotta stop drinking coffee too much heartburn
New Latin words I’d like to coin:
Oligarchery: A fun new game for dictators
Dichotautonomy: Easy word for separation of church and state!
Emeritolstoy: Never having to read that asshole again
Alibisexual dumb
Cum Laude Latte Also dumb
Antibelluminosity: The glorification of war-destroyed cities for the sake of tourism
Carpe per diem: Give me my fucking money or else
Monolilithfair terrible
Christ these are all puns
APRIL 11
I just looked up a bunch of articles about Bud. I wasn’t sure I’d want to do that but I’m glad I did. Myles said in some ways his was worse but from what I can read there’s no way that’s true. Sounds like the guy just had a bad and bizarre night of screwing. Jamar talked to her over three different sessions on a dating site. On a live chat-type deal. They set up a time to finally meet but she said she could just come over to his place instead and they could hang there. What guy’s gonna say no to that? She came over with a wolf mask on. What the Mother Teresa actual fuck? She gave him one too. Some kind of role-playing thing maybe. They got drunk. She had all the lights off and they started going at it on his couch. He told Whirloch she bit him and he didn’t like that so he tried to stop her but she told him to shut up and just enjoy it. What guy’s gonna say no to that? So he let her keep going even though he wanted her to stop. After they finished he fell asleep for a few minutes and when he woke up she was gone. He was still in the dark. When he turned the lights on he saw blood everywhere. A lot of it, all over his crotch. All over his couch and floor. A trail leading to the front door. But he wasn’t in any pain. So it had to be hers, I’m guessing?
It also says the bite marks were not made by human teeth.
I need a drink.
APRIL 12
Dreamed my mother was trying to breastfeed a lion cub. It was half lion, half prehistoric . . . thing. With scales on its lips. I knew I had to kill it before it killed her. She didn’t understand what it would grow up to be. I wanted to protect her from it. Just a terrible dream. It said my name as it died. Ma screamed.
APRIL 15
Sox got a game coming up at Fenway against the Yankees. I fucking hate the Yankees. They have a brand of cologne, for fuck’s sake. They’re a bunch of chauvinist dopers. Anyway, got two tickets. Thinking of inviting Bud. Don’t know yet. Maybe.
APRIL 17
Today in group I decided to try out some new material. Thought that could be two-birds-one-stone-type situation: test material while also engaging in group. (Bevypetrum? Latin for a bunch of birds and a rock? Maybe. Least it’s not a pun.)
Bud didn’t show today. Hope the kid’s all right.
APRIL 17
Just woke up it’s 3:15 a.m. couldn’t sleep wanted a snack so I went to the kitchen and a red light was blinking on Coral which was weird because I never heard the phone ring once while I was sleeping so how could there be a new message? Played it and it was like some weird noise. Some animal giving birth or something, some low howling. Maybe a messed-up phone frequency.
Wait. No.
Crying. Like a man crying.
APRIL 18
Didn’t sleep much. Talked to Myles. Apparently the FBI’s got its dick in the investigation now. Jesus. I ask if it’s that serious and he says yeah pretty much. He asks how I’m holding up. I say fine. He asks about Bud. I tell him he didn’t come in yesterday. I say I read about Bud’s assault and it didn’t seem worse than mine by even a long shot so I wasn’t sure why I was the one to be doing all the reaching out. Myles sighed that big fat man wheeze of his and said, off the record, did you read about all that blood we found? I say yeah, the bitch’s blood. He says no. It belonged to an animal. A dead animal they found in the hallway. A cat.
I’m gonna puke.
I don’t understand, I tell him. She poured dead cat blood all over him? No he says.
I say I still don’t understand. He says yes you do.
Let’s just say we found bodily fluid—Jamar’s—in the deceased animal.
God
Fuck
APRIL 19
Didn’t sleep last night. Not hungry this morning. Want a cigarette. And a Scotch. What Ayn Rand I wouldn’t read for a Scotch. I’ve been sober for almost a year, and I’m thinking of breaking today. Thinking about moving also. Going back to Santa Fe. But first I’m going to Home Depot to buy new locks. I’m gonn
a add more locks to the front and back door. A padlock at least, for each. And bars on the windows. That will take a little time but I’ll find a company to do it. Also, a gun. Gonna get a gun today.
APRIL 19
Was at Home Depot getting locks when I saw a bunch of young sweetbays in Gardening. Didn’t even know they were in bloom yet! And not just any magnolias but light blue ones, which is something I’ve never seen before. Only ever seen the white and pink. But blue! Like a faded teal color almost. Cheered me up. Little blue fuckers. I grabbed a couple and some supplies and came back here and started mulching. The whole day got away from me.
So get this: When I got home Coral had two messages for me. One was from a collection asshole but the other one—get this—the other one was from a guy named Donald Ellis. Yeah, that Donald Ellis. The dad guy they found behind a dumpster. He said he got my number from the phone book. I didn’t even know those things existed anymore. He wanted to know if I wanted to come to some march he’s holding. A vigil for survivors of sexual assault. Survivors? I thought we were victims.
They’re meeting in Albany I guess. I don’t know about all that.
Did I ever tell you why I call her “Coral”? It’s short for Coral Reef. I call her that because she’s ancient, practically extinct, and human beings shit all over her. (Now that they have super cool cell phones! Who needs a landline!)
Plus, she has a name because it’s just nice to have someone in the house to say hello and goodbye to.
APRIL 20
Looked up info on missing pets in Albany. Cats, in specific. Not that many.
Lots of cockatiels for some reason.
APRIL 21
Joke idea: What regular guys use to jack off with compared to what schizo-rapists use to jack off with. Socks compared to fresh roadkill.
Nope.
APRIL 24
Bud was back today. For the first time, he talked during group. Mostly just about work and family. He makes websites for a living. Talked about his hovering white hippie mom and low-key black dad who works for the Department of Motor Vehicles. Says his sister has been really great through everything that happened. Wish I had had a family member like that. His sister is the reason he came to ACC. Then Bud tells everyone why he’s there, what I’d known all along. Not any details, just that he was one of Maude’s victims and didn’t want to talk about it, just wanted to get it out in the open. All the guys gave supportive grunts and nodded their heads. A bunch of eyes turned toward me, of course. How could they not? Bud kept his on the ground when he spoke. After group he came up to me at the waffle table. Kind of a nice surprise. He told me he read about the Evans story but I got part of it wrong. Evans didn’t tell Price he had to beat his record if he wanted number 24, he just had to win a World Series. Look at this little shit, correcting me! Love it. I tell him about the Sox game in a couple weeks and how I got tickets if he wants to go. Boston’s only a couple hours drive from here. He says thanks but no, he’s not going out these days. I say I understand completely, believe me. I felt like a moron and stood there silent for half a second, which felt like half a decade, before I took my banana-nut waffles and pissed off.
APRIL 24
Left ACC and couldn’t quite shake a feeling. I was driving home with the Replacements on full blast but still something wasn’t right. Chris Mars’ drums on “Kiss Me on the Bus” were kicking harder than usual, harder than a herd of hyena hearts. Or a bevy or whatever the hell those things are called. Something’s not right, I’m thinking. The drums. The drums aren’t right. There’s too much bass drum, too many feet on that one little pedal. Or extra pedals or something, I don’t know. I turned it up louder and listened. Not right. Then the rhythm wasn’t right either. Not even on tempo. That’s when I turned it down and realized the sound wasn’t in the song but coming from my car. From the trunk. Something was pounding on the trunk from inside. Who’s in my fucking trunk? Should I pull over? Should I wait to check when I get home? Thought about the new gun I have at home and decided to get it first, then pop the trunk. I parked in my driveway and loaded up the pistol. I’m so fucking clumsy with bullets, they just aren’t for me. I’m all mouth and no murder.
Who’s in there, I yelled. Tell me your name. Bang. Bang. Bang.
No answer. I cocked the pistol, unlocked the trunk, aimed, and stepped back. But it was just a bird. A crow. It flew out and into the trees. Heart was pounding. How did a crow get in my fucking trunk? Figured I must’ve left it open when I came back from Home Depot.
I went to shut the trunk and inside I saw . . . birds. Dead ones. Dozens of them.
Different kinds of dead birds everywhere.
APRIL 24
Didn’t feel like being alone tonight so I picked up some company and brought her home. She and me and despair go way back. I got the most expensive one I could afford. The more expensive, the better she’ll treat you. I brought her into the house and showed her around the place. Not much to show. The collection of awful racist coffee mugs I’ve acquired across the country over the years. My library of books: mostly botany-related and memoirs from kings like Carlin and Martin. I prefer memoirs to biographies because there’s no fun in reading crusty academic writing about the life of, say, Bill Hicks. Who wants to read that? I don’t want to hear about the ’91 Relentless tour from some guy who wasn’t there or even some guy who was there. I want to hear about it from the guy who WAS the ’91 Relentless tour. Hicks didn’t write a memoir, but still. I’d rather listen to his albums than read a soulless trough of assumptive sentences on the man.
I showed her my collection of Andy Kaufmans. Bobbleheads. Ugly misshapen Kaufman knit patchwork dolls. Bizarre fan figurines of Kaufman with lima beans for eyes. All in Andy’s image. I’ve found the weirdest shit over the years. Some guy made a statue of him out of glued-together hot sauces. Wasn’t going to buy that and have it shipped from Tennessee though. A lady in Arizona had a swimming-pool float of his face. All kinds of things Andy probably would’ve fucking hated. Or maybe loved. Hard to say.
I took her into the kitchen and pulled out two glasses. Helped her out of her brown wrap and tossed it on the floor. Told her to make herself comfortable. She insisted on sitting on the kitchen counter. That made me happy. I told her I was pretty fucking down today. Told her how I’d been to group and talked to Bud. How I came home to my handsome blue magnolias blooming away in the front yard, shitting leaves all over the place. About finally getting invited to do a showcase for Jimmy Fallon’s people. But something was still missing. There’s a cave in me. A hardened opening I don’t want and don’t know how to close. She sat there listening, looking beautiful. Felt good to be listened to like that. No judgment. Then she said one word. “Dynamite.” What about dynamite, I asked and moved closer. She whispered, that’s how you get rid of a cave you don’t want. I smiled. You want to be my dynamite, baby, I said and put my arms around her. I delicately took off her plastic and unscrewed her head, then I poured her legs into my glass and drank her until I could feel the fuse ignite.
So drunk. Drunky drunk fuck my funk im up im up!
My name is maudy potty pussy mouth monster. I wear dresses
and have a huundred thumbtacks for kneecaps.
I’ll squirm across your stomac and puncture your organs
like water balloons.
I will fuuuuuck your death hole into a coffined mind.
I am 25 yers old have a long face like two horse heads sewn together
and hair that drags a mile long behind me.
Ha!!! One long fucking hair they found! Six feet of shferwww
Fuck you I can spell wasted
I am maudeyy and I am 38 years old and want to come into your house
and break
your fingers with my husked wings.
No one knows how fucking old I am! I could be a vampire!!!!
I am 41 and covered in bear shit
and lipstick and talk with a mouth full of breeding mice.
I’m fiftyfuck ye
ars old and hate men
like I hate showers
like I hate fingernail files like
I hate sports
and sex and guys named peary bear.
I’m 85 years old and I am a wrinkled spawn.
I am the illiterate clitoris of a temptress.
Take that sentence and shove it up your pee hole, Poe!
Who’s the fucking poet now you raven licker
My name is maude
and I have one eye and one slug to look with
and I have one lip and one piece of mold to kiss with
and I have one ear and one dead bat to hear from
and I have one hand and one squid tentacle to hold you
my name is maude and I’ll rape all the little boys I want to, thank you.
I have a gun, pretty bird
I have a gun now come
and get me you ghost
rot come and try me you fuck shit
I will sneak up on you in churches! At your daddy’s! When you sleep! Water your lawn little cowboy no one’s watching. Not Maudy no! I’m nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.
Any Man Page 5