-1–
Waking Up
Some hero.
A foreign smell burned my nostrils as I began to come to. I had been bound to a rickety
wooden chair presumably still inside the sweat box. I couldn’t be sure of my
surroundings because it was difficult to open my eyes. My clothes were soaked in
something and my head throbbed from where I had been blindsided. I could feel the
warmth of blood trickling down the nape of my neck yet I was certain it wasn’t blood that
I was coated in. Then I recognized the smell. It was gasoline. The fuel stung my eyes
though I eventually managed to pry them apart. Slowly, I lifted my head and locked eyes
with my enemy. He sat just ten feet from me atop a wooden saw horse with a cold and
arrogant smirk scrolled across his lips.
My eyes darted across the sweat box only to discover that I was all alone. What about
my friends? Jesus, why did I bring them here? This was never their fight. The sickening
feeling of defeat crept into my heart. We had come so far and lost so much and now the
hope that I had been clinging to this whole time appeared to be moments away from
being seared right out of me. A laugh briefly escaped my captor’s mouth as he rolled a
gold plated Zippo over the fingers of his left hand. Fleeting optimism whispered that this
wasn’t yet over; we can still win. But it faded just as quickly. I had lost. We had lost.
Some hero I had turned out to be.
*****
Fabulous.
That’s the feeling that surged through me that brisk October morning. Sure it had
started like every other drab and dreary day in my life but, for some reason, this just felt
different. Purposeful almost. Oh, and I’m Darrin by the way. Darrin Near. I’ll be
narrating this little cautionary tale you are so enthrallingly wrapped up in. One thing you
must know before we go any further is that I happen to be gay. Like, super gay. Not just
kind of, sort of gay but really, flagrantly homosexual. The two partially clothed fellows I
was sandwiched in between could attest to that fact. Still, Andy and Stewart had been
common fixtures on my headboard for months now and, though capable and attentive as
they may have been, I couldn’t attribute this zeal to either of their performances.
After sitting upright in my bed I took a long, deep draw of that crisp morning air
and darned if a cheesy little smile hadn’t found its way to my face. Now, up until this
point in my life there had been two constants. The first, and potentially most important,
had been my love of energy drinks. That’s something we’ll get to later. The second was
the fact that I suffered from constant, unrelenting PMS. I’m talking an all day, everyday,
bad fucking mood. Not that AM though. I probably couldn’t have frowned if I wanted
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to. Right then I decided that there wasn’t a chance I was wasting a second of this. I
slapped my teething toys on their backside and politely asked them to vacate the
premises. Their services were no longer required and I had lots to do.
The reasons for my pissyness became painfully evident once I took a lengthy look
around the basement bedroom that I had called home for so many years. My walls were
dull and painted a smoky gray. The curtains and blinds that covered my lone window
were coated in thick grime that to this day is still unidentified. I disapprovingly shook
my head and decided that this environment was hardly a suitable setting for a fellow as
saucy as myself. Still, college registration was tops on the agenda for that particular day
so an extreme home makeover was going to have to sit on the back burner for a bit.
I had just managed to squeeze the last of my squeezes through my teensy window
when my attention was torn away by the smell of a glorious breakfast emanating from
our kitchen. Instantly I felt famished but before I could indulge in one of my mother’s
mouth watering morning meals I needed to wash the smell of sex and corn syrup from my
body. If Big Ben were to catch a whiff of that he would surely brandish his prized
shotgun on me and I had no intention of dying that day. I hopped into the shower and,
the second I felt fresh enough, hopped right back out. A jazzy outfit later and I would be
right as rain. Yep, something jazzy would have been pretty okay. Not in my closet.
It took about a second and a half after peering into that room for me to start
pondering why I hadn’t already digested a bullet. Though I had riverdanced out of the
closet years ago, that tiny 4x4 hole in the wall couldn’t have possibly housed any more
depressing and colorless clothes. If it looked like something that a member of The Cure
would wear you can bet that I owned two of them. A new wardrobe would surely need to
shoot up my list of things to do. Blindly plucking one of the countless death metal shirts
from a hanger, I tossed it on along with a pair of tattered blue jeans and bounded upstairs
for some much needed sustenance.
The scene every morning in my house was another thing that seldom changed.
My parents were in their usual positions with Big Ben thumbing through our local
newspaper and Mom dishing him out a plate of food. We called him Big Ben because he
was, head to feet, an absolute beast. He stood 6’5” and had to be at least that wide.
Being a construction man for most of his life his bulk came in handy and made him
considerably good at his job. I could never figure out why I didn’t get a single one of his
genes. Since as far back as I can remember I had always been built like a bulimic
teenage girl. This was one of the reasons I could never get that close to him. It just
seemed like I never measured up to what his image of his son should be.
My mother was quite the opposite. She was small and slender and looked as if a
stiff wind could wisk her away at any moment. When I was little I always laughed at the
idea of Big Ben and mom being together because it reminded me of King Kong. The big
hairy ape romping around the city with the pretty blonde clutched firmly in his massive
paw. To this day they never knew what I was chuckling about at those oddball moments.
Looks can be deceiving though. While my mom may have made a fluffy kitty look
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intimidating by comparison, she had Big Ben wrapped around her little finger and she
knew it. They had always been good together though. Their marriage of twenty years
may have been tested at times but their vows to one another stayed as strong as the day
they took them.
“Good morning folks.” I gleefully said as I hopped into the seat next to Big Ben.
“What’s on the menu today?”
Because my breakfast typically consisted of a Monster Energy Drink, a bagel, and an
oafish grunt that vaguely resembled a goodbye as I headed out the front door, my parents
were stunned at my kitchen table appearance.
“Oh, same as always. Eggs, hash browns, and some sausage links.” My Mother curiously
replied. “Are you feeling okay Darrin?”
“Yeah I’m feeling pretty fabulous mom. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just, well; I could have sworn that I heard you in the shower this morning. And it’s
Tuesday so… Isn’t that kind of early in the week for you to be showering?” She inquired.
I sort of shrugged my shoulders at her inquiry and poured myself a tall glass of milk. My
hygiene had been lacking at times.
“Well sweetheart, it is nice to see you clean and bouncing around the house this early in
the morning. If I didn’t know better I’d say you had gone and found yourself a good
mood.”
“Yeah,” Big Ben chimed in, “a good mood alright.”
I could feel him staring a hole through me so I tried like heck to focus on my food and
avoid any unsavory conversation. That lasted all of five seconds.
“What the hell’s gotten into you boy?” He bellowed.
“Well, last night about 7 ½ inches of…..” Oh God. My eyes widened the moment I
realized what I had just let slip to my intensely homophobic, intensely gun crazy father.
Sheepishly I looked at him and smiled. “Cotton candy.” I pathetically tried to offer. “I
had a few inches of real good cotton candy last night and it’s just made happy as a lark.”
Jesus that was lame.
“Cotton candy huh?” He doubtfully replied. “I’ve had my fair share of cotton candy
before boy and it never made me moan like a retard in a wading pool. I was hoping like
hell them sounds was coming from your TV.”
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An awkward silence followed. Disgust polluted Big Ben’s face before he fixed his eyes
back on his Quad City Times. At this point an intelligent person would have kept his
pretty little lips shut but, nope, not this guy.
“If it makes you feel better Dad I’m usually the big spoon.” I said trying to make light of
the matter.
“Well,” my mom loudly started as he returned the skillet of eggs to the stove and placed
her hands on my cheeks, “whatever the reason, it sure is good to see you smile once in
awhile.” She then laid a kiss atop my head and seated herself beside me.
It was a moment typical of my mother and maybe that’s why I always took them for
granted. Her affection for me never once waivered yet all too often I brushed it off. But
right then, it felt pretty good.
“So.” Big Ben said. “You’re registering for them college classes today right?”
“Sure am. I’m actually really excited. It’s a big day today.”
“Kaplan University.” My mom gushed. “I’m very proud of you Darrin.”
“This is a damn good opportunity for you boy. Kaplan’s a big time school. Don’t go
screwing this up by whoring around and fucking all the football players.”
“Dad, Kaplan doesn’t even have a football team.”
“Well good.” He added. “Don’t go fucking the debate team either. Matter of fact don’t
fuck anything. Just keep your nose in those books. Maybe you can be the first queer
president some day. Aim high boy.”
“Criminal Justice though Darrin.” My mother disapprovingly said. “Being a cop is an
awfully dangerous job.”
“Yeah but it’s such an honorable one. How can you go wrong helping others? And
besides, nobody handcuffs troubled young men quite like I do.”
My joke had barely been finished when Big Ben spit his mouthful of hash browns all
over his sports page. I relished the opportunity to needle him like that. Lord knows he
took his fair share of cheap shots at me.
Feeling that the family bonding had run it’s course, I politely excused myself
from the table to finish getting ready for the day. My hair was the very definition of a
disaster. Long and unkempt, I was super ashamed to leave the house with it perched atop
my head. Before this day’s end I vowed to have it shampooed, styled, and saucy. For the
time being my tresses and I would have to agree to disagree. I had to make it to Kaplan
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early enough to get registered for all the classes I wanted. Plus I needed a Monstee in the
worst of ways.
Just so we’re clear, Monstee is the street name given to Monster Energy Drinks.
They were just as addictive as I could imagine any narcotic being and from my very first
sip I was captivated. I can still remember that moment. A sweltering June day and the
gas station up the street had run out of Iced Ginger Tea. The attendant, who if memory
serves was an absolute dime piece, recommended them to me.
“I’ll give you something tasty to swallow.” I remember him stating. It may have been
said differently but that’s the way I always like to recollect.
He then reached into a nearby cooler and pulled out an ice cold, black can with an
orange M printed on the front. I’d be lying if I said the look of the drink didn’t initially
intimidate me. They called it a Monster Khaos and I’m almost certain they misspelled it
on purpose to give it a gritty, urban feel. I anxiously paid the dreamboat as I was
devastatingly thirsty. The moment I popped the top on that beauty I knew that I was in
for a life altering experience. That sweet orange nectar hit my lips and my once droopy
eyes sprung open. Sips soon became gulps and before I knew it I had consumed the
entire drink. Wave after wave of vigor surged through my body. Without thinking I
crushed the empty can into a tiny aluminum ball and chucked it over the counter. I just
wish I had used better judgment on the timing of my Monstee cherry being popped. My
poor date wound up in traction that night. Been drinking them ever since.
Anyways, I needed one.
My parents were now perched in their matching beige recliners for the morning
news. Oh how they loved their morning news. While they did enjoy being informed on
the comings and goings in the world, the real reason they watched so religiously was
WFAQ’s foul-mouthed news anchor, Andrew Moore. This guy was a walking, talking
catastrophe who seemed determined to offend any and every one of the local viewers.
The nutty thing is that everyone ended up loving him for it. Maybe that’s why he was
never booted off the air. Usually his segment was in the latter part of the show. Today,
however, he was on first with a story unlike any we had ever heard.
“This is Andrew Moore, WFAQ News, and I’m reporting live from the scene of a bizarre
incident at the Jersey Ridge Dentistry. Seven people were accosted last night in what law
enforcement officials are calling some of the most fucked up shit they’ve ever seen. While
details remain sketchy, it is believed that two men entered the dentistry practice shortly
after 6 pm carrying with them an unidentified chemical. The occupants of the practice
were then strapped down to the dentist’s chairs and the substance was poured into their
mouths. Though the chemical is not believed to be fatal, it has rotted away the teeth of
those who were forced to consume it. The most shocking part of this crime is that no one,
at any time, was molested or raped in any way. We here at WFAQ will stand by to bring
you the very latest on this tragic tale.”
5
“Oh goodness.” Mom faintly said while grabbing Big Ben’s hand. “What has this world
of ours come to?”
Big Ben shook his head while running his fingers through his thick white mustache.
“Now you see Barb? Why do you think I always keep my shotgun at arm’s length?
Because of these goddamn whack jobs running loose out there.”
“How could anyone do something so horrible?” I wondered out loud. “To just random,
innocent people?”
“The same reason Jeffrey Dahmer did what he did. And OJ after him.” Big Ben replied
with a stoic look. “Same reason John Gacy dressed up like a clown and killed all them
boys. Some people just ain’t wired right. You mind the company you keep Darrin.”
Our attention was then drawn back to the tube as Mr. Potty Mouth returned to offer more
details on the attack.
“Andrew Moore here with WFAQ News. I have just been handed information regarding
a cassette tape that was left behind at the crime scene. It is believed to have belonged to
the assailants and was discovered by Detective Brad Ryan. Detective Ryan is here with
us now and hopefully he can shed a little more light on the contents of this mysterious
cassette tape.”
“Here we goddamn go!” My father bellowed, visibly agitated.
“What’s the matter Dad?”
“I can’t stand this uppity son of a bitch. He’d sell his mother to Al-Qaeda if it got him on
the evening news. Mark my words, what should be a five minute interview just became a
twenty minute speech. I guaran-goddamn-tee it.”
“Detective Ryan, what more can you tell us about this heinous ordeal?”
“Well Andrew, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. This has been one of the most
difficult things I’ve ever been exposed to. And being the seasoned, stellar detective that I
am, I’ve seen a little bit of everything.”
“Elaborate please. Was someone in fact molested?”
“No Andrew. For the last time no one was molested.”
“And exactly why was no one molested?”
“That’s a question I honestly can’t answer.”
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“Here’s where I’m confused. For the viewers at home, these people are unconscious,
incapacitated, strapped down, and unable to defend themselves in any way, and nobody
was penetrated at all? Not even fondled? No nipple tweaks? Nothing?”
“No sexual assault of any kind I’m afraid.”
“Well it’s a damn good thing I didn’t wander into that office cause I can assure you if
that had been me there would have been some soreness in the morning.”
The reporter then blankly gazed into the camera lens before realizing that his interview
may have just taken a turn for the worse.
“Okay Detective Ryan, if no one was raped or killed, what exactly is it that has you so
spooked?”
It was really weird seeing the Quad Cities’ top cop so shaken and uncomfortable but he
struggled and stammered through a description of his newly found evidence.
“The assailants left a tape behind that uh… Well, I um, I’ve never heard anything quite
so sick and depraved. If the people on that tape are the same ones responsible for this
incident then we may have encountered the most twisted criminals of the 21st century.”
“Please, continue.”
“This particular cassette tape was found behind a toilet in a private office of the dentistry
a couple of hours ago. We don’t know if it was left there intentionally or not. After it
was discovered, it took our officers another hour or so before we could figure out just
what was on it.”
“Why so long?”
“Why? Because it was a goddamn cassette tape. That’s why. No one that I know now
owns or can quickly gain access to a cassette tape player. Andrew, am I correct in my
assumption that it’s the year 2009?”
“By my math, yes, it is 2009.”
“That’s what I figured. Now right off the bat I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what this
thing was. I mean, the last time I held a cassette tape in my hand was when I picked up
Paperboy’s debut album.”
“Oh shit!” The reporter exclaimed as they reminisced over the 1992 classic.
Then, in unison, they lightened the mood considerably by breaking into song.
“Yo, this is how I'm comin' for the nine deuce
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Another fat, fat track
So Rhythm D, pour the orange juice
And let's relax while sippin' on 'gnac
Because it's like that
I'm cautious of ho's,
So Paperboy wears prophylactic
I wear a jimmy for the skins
Cuz it's a long trip
Front row seats,
aiyo I know she's on the nine inch
Just to get a piece of the green
But she's an undertaker
Now know why the Paper
Is an around the world heart-breaker
Do the ditty if you want to
Because then I can see
If I want you
Just do the ditty-ditty
If you want to
Because then I can see
If I want you.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” Big Ben stated while disapprovingly shaking his head. He absolutely
detested rap music. “That right there is just unreal.”
“I know right?” I replied. “They totally nailed that.”
After pounding fists in celebration of their impromptu karaoke session, the reporter and
cop refocused on their interview.
“Alright, um, where were…..” Andrew had clearly lost his train of thought. “What a
great fucking album.”
“It is. It really is.” Detective Ryan readily agreed. The problem is that it’s not 1992
anymore. No one uses cassette tapes.”
“But Detective, what exactly was on this particular tape? Demands? Future threats of
violence? Lady GaGa?”
“Beats Andrew.” Detective Ryan replied with the color running from his face. “Terrible,
terrible beats.”
“When you say beats, do you mean rap music?”
8
“I’m sure there’s some dumb shit out there probably calling it that. But the truth is that
what was on that tape could quite possibly set hip hop music back thirty years. I’ll tell
you Andrew, I played that thing and it was like a goddamn train wreck. It was so piss
poor that I just couldn’t stop listening to it.”
“Could you elaborate? What about it was terrible? Was it the lyrics, the hooks, the lack
of bass? Did the rapper not come correct? What was it that made this rap music piss
poor, as you so eloquently put it?”
“It really wasn’t any one thing; this tape was an equal opportunity piece of shit. The
lyrics were garbage, you know, incoherent. If I had to compare to something I’d say;
think Warren G’s follow-up to Regulators.”
“Sweet fuck!” The reporter gasped.
“Exactly. I probably could have downed a fifth of Crown Royal and chased it with a half
gallon of bong water and made more sense then this jackass. The hooks sounded like
ghetto nursery rhymes and the bass was more like a fat kid farting into a karaoke
microphone. It’s my professional opinion that the person who made this tape is clinically
retarded and needs to be put down.”
“Is there anything that could save this tape? Any remixes or producers?”
“The great Dr. Dre himself couldn’t fix this mess. This guy, whoever he is, makes K-Fed
look street credible.”
“Not even Diddy?”
“Not even who?” Detective Ryan asked his microphone wielding counterpart. “Let me
tell you something, Diddy should be working at a Finish Line somewhere selling Reeboks
to inner city youths. You mention that name again and I’m going to pistol whip about
thirty pounds off of you.”
“Well, certainly strong words from a decorated member of the Davenport Police
Department. This is Andrew Moore, WFA………”
The reporter’s sign off was cut short by the brazen young Detective grabbing the camera
lens and focusing it directly on him.
“What’d I tell you?” Big Ben asked. “Attention starved bastard.”
“To the people that did this, take a long look at my face. My handsome, handsome face.
This just became my case. And you just made my list of things to do.”
“He is rather stunning.” I unknowingly agreed. “I’d jump on that list.”
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Whoever said the truth hurts wasn’t lying because Big Ben responded by planting a
punch on my left leg that would almost surely gimp me up for the rest of the day. That’s
fine; I wanted to watch the rest of the interview from our shag carpet anyways.
“Fuck stick thinks he’s Charles Bronson.” Big Ben remarked.
Then, much to the dismay of the reporter, Detective Ryan violently slammed the camera
to the pavement below.
“Well I’ll be damned!” Big Ben exclaimed as the now floored camera revealed that our
favorite WFAQ reporter just happened to be wearing a furry pair of pink house shoes.
“That sum bitch has got more fruity juice running through his veins then you boy.”
Before I could even dispute such a ridiculous claim, the humiliated broadcast journalist
dropped to the ground like a ton of bricks. With the sound it made, it had to have hurt.
Still, with his cheek pressed to the pavement and a slow trickle of blood running out of
his nose, he stared into the nearly broken lens and completed his network sign off.
“This is Andrew Moore, WFAQ and it would appear that someone at the news station has
stolen my ridiculously expensive penny loafers thus explaining this awkward mishap.
Don’t judge me.”
Leaping to his feet, the reporter then gave chase. For wearing a pair of furry slippers, he
was really moving. Though we lost sight of where he was heading, we could faintly hear
him in the background yelling at his Detective friend.
“Nice fucking job Brad! Now everyone in the Quad Cities knows I wear Hannah
Montana slippers to work!”
“Then why wear them if you’re so damned ashamed?” The Detective inquired.
“Because you asshole, they’re like little pillows for my feet. The comfort is second to
nothing.”
“I love watching that dumb bastard.” My father said after switching off the television.
“Gives me hope for you Darrin.”
“Thanks Pop. That’s easily the nicest thing you’ve said to me in my short time on this
Earth. Oh wow!” I exclaimed upon realizing the time. “I’ve got to fly if I’m going to get
all the classes I want this semester. Wish me luck guys.”
“Good luck sweetheart. When you get home I want to hear all about it.” My mother
replied.
“Yeah you better get your fancy pants in gear boy. It’d be a shame if you missed out on
that sword swallowing class they’re offering. That’s an easy A right there.”
10
Touché Big Ben. Touché.
Time may not have been on my side that morning but once I stepped out onto our
front porch I had to take a moment to gaze over our neighborhood. I had spent my whole
life on this block and never really paid any attention to anything about it. Davenport was
part of a group of four cities that comprised the Quad Cities. Of the four this was
probably one of the safest areas you could grow up in. Still, this city was deteriorating.
It seemed like crime was a more attractive career choice to my generation then any that a
college was offering. If you believed the pundits, neighborhoods like mine would be
extinct sooner rather then later.
I jumped down my front stairs and swept the hair from my face. No sooner had I taken a
step toward my car then the neighborhood’s dwarf demon sped into my front yard on his
Huffy.
“Hello come chugger.” He sneered while stopping his bike just a few feet from me. “I’m
surprised to see you walking on your own considering the size of those dudes you
brought home last night.”
His name was Tommy K, the scourge of 66th St. Standing a mere four and a half feet
tall, the kid was no kid at all but rather a 30 year old troll who still lived at home with his
overprotective mother and her twelve cats. For whatever reason, this putrid pigmy had a
considerable amount of hatred towards me and wasn’t shy about sharing it.
“Honestly, how much DNA do you think is swimming around in you right now?” He
asked while mockingly peddling around me in his favorite Michigan Wolverines hoodie.
“Any chance you got knocked up last night?”
“Shouldn’t you be home combing your mom’s pussies?” I shot back while trying like
heck not to produce such an image in my head. “Is that a new booster seat?”
“That better have been a cat joke jerk off. You only wish you were this height. Then you
wouldn’t have to spend so much time down on your knees.”
Alright, I’ll give him a point for that one.
“Any other morning I would be all about sticking around and making fun of how
undersized and utterly useless you are but I need to go sign up for college. You know, a
level of learning you should have completed about a decade or so ago.”
His bike came to a dead stop in front of me and his patented tantrum scowl shot my way.
“Luckily for you and the rest of the gay community I just got the new Worlds of Warcraft
game and I promised myself I’d level up today. But you should be careful driving that
11
turd you call a car, it’d be a shame if some vertically challenged bad ass were to have cut
your break lines. Later pillow biter.”
He laughed that creepy, Munchkin laugh of his and peddled back to his house which was
mercilessly right across the street from my own. That’s how he knew who I brought
home and when. Fascist.
He had a point about my shell of an automobile though. My 2001 Ford Taurus
was a reliable family sedan back in 2001 but now more closely resembled something that
had been gang raped by drunken Decepticons. I used a flat head screw driver as both the
door and ignition key to my trusty stead. Honestly little Tommy K cutting my break lines
was the least of my concerns when it came to piloting this death trap. To make matters
worse it was painted a putrid brown that often elicited cat calls about its resemblance to a
certain bodily function. That’s how it became affectionately known as the Deuce.
With screw driver in hand, I pried open the door of the Deuce and prayed that she started.
I closed my eyes and, after a slight turn, the Deuce came roaring to life.
“Holy balls!” I exclaimed.
I wasn’t so much stunned at the fact that it started as quickly as it did but rather the way
that the engine suddenly sounded. I gave it just a little gas to see if it was truly as
powerful as it sounded. As advertised, the engine hummed like a well built race car.
“Goddamn street racers!” Big Ben yelled while bursting through the front door with
shotgun in tow. After a quick glance around he then looked back to the Deuce. “Boy, is
that your goddamn car making all that goddamn noise?”
All I could do was nod my head.
“How in the hell is that? You ain’t been going down on grease monkeys for engine work,
have you? Damn it Darrin you know them boys ain’t clean.”
I smiled and shook my head. I totally should have thought about that sooner.
“Well drive that sum bitch in the garage and let’s have a look at it.” Big Ben yelled.
“No time.” I yelled back. “Maybe later.”
After shifting the Deuce into gear, I laid about a quarter inch of rubber on our
neighborhood street. I still wasn’t convinced that his whole morning hadn’t been a
figment of my imagination but I couldn’t get to my new school fast enough to see what
other wonders lay ahead.
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