My hands are almost raw, yet I still think that my shirt and hands still taste of crimson after scrubbing them for so long. I never knew that this stain was so hard to get out! Persistently egged on my that cursed ringing in my ears! Apparently if you own a Honda, that sickly horn comes along with it and exists to endlessly torment other's souls with that sound of a diseased squeak toy. It wouldn't let up! I tried to drown it out, but the radio just wasn't doing its job. That mutated squeal came through the closed windows and permeated through the radio at full volume. Then came the screams. The cursing of my dear mother. Last I checked I wasn't a son of a dirty whore, but apparently today I was.
It was one of my favorite shirts too. The white one with the pseudo tribal graphic that I got on vacation last year. It didn't make me look fat, as white shirts usually do, but instead it hung loosely in the right places and clung snugly to emphasise the better areas. Now I think its ruined. Should I burn it? Just tossing it may come back to haunt me. Yes, I should burn it. Besides, if I scrub any harder, I'll just start staining it in my own blood.
To think it started off as such a normal happy day. I slept in, got up, had a big bowl of Happy O's while I watched whatever tragic news occurred while I slept. The usual overnite calamities; a house fire on the east side, a shooting resulting in one death in a strip mall parking lot and one suicide in an affluent north side housing community. Apparently spending all of mommy and daddy's cash to live the rock and roll lifestyle couldn't cancel out poor Chip's lack of purpose in life so he checked out with 10 times the normal dose of depressants. The newscaster said there was a suicide note, probably along the lines of " Goodbye cruel world, I forgive you daddy for molesting me when I was 6...yadda yadda yadda".
My cell phone is ringing again. it's been going off for the past 3 hours straight. No doubt it's work for me not showing up today. Well I'm sure that cock of a manager at Freddy's can find another stockworker to shelve and price point cans of corn for him. Todd...that putz of a manager. I'm sorry, but anyone named Todd has got a deathwish. Every Todd I knew has been a giant bag of douche. I bet its on his birth certificate.
First Name: Todd.
Middle Name: Bag O'.
Surname: Douche.
To think I actually was motivated enough to come to work early. I had my reasons. I was even going to bring my friend to work today, and Mr Todd was going to hear exactly what my friend was going to tell him. Just my luck we never got to have our little "talk". It was all that idiot's fault in that Honda!
I know for a fact that my turn signal was on to go into his lane! I gave him plenty of room, but I guess I cut too close inside his little bubble. That damn horn! I ignored it for about a quarter of a mile before I was stuck in front of him at a light. He was so persistent! There wasn't any more short beep beeps. It was as if he took vengeance by laying on that horn for a minute straight.
"Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"
"I am not a son of a whore!" I screamed.
I just stared ahead, trying as hard as I can to tune it out. It was relentless! Like a tiny weevil bored in my ear carrying a tiny chalkboard to run nails all over it in my head. Then it just stopped. It was peaceful again, yet tense. It reminded me of growing up during hurricane season in Galveston. One would blow in for a few days, but for a hour or so when you ride in the eye, the chaos just stops. Yet you know more crap is coming your way. You just know it.
The hurricane came back. I got startled back into reality by a hammering on my driver's window. A plethora of profanities erupted out of the man's sweaty, greasy inbred mouth that would make a pirate blush. My adrenalin was going into my veins at an explosive rate. I think one of the last lucid memories I have is of rolling down the window and seeing his doughboy hands reach through and grab my shirt.
I vaguely remember the sound of my shirt collar start to rip a bit. I guess my friend had enough and had to do something. I saw a flash of white light. I guess that's where I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I'm here hovered over the bathroom sink, scrubbing my shirt and hands raw.
I really need to burn it. Maybe in doing so it will get that sulfuric metallic saltpeter smell out of my nostrils. I have to get this done. Phone's ringing again.
There's a knock at the door now too. I stick my head out the bathroom door and look out the window down the hall to see the back end of a black sedan parked out front. As long as its not a Honda I don't think my friend will cause any more problems. I'll have to burn the shirt after I get the door.
