Blackest Black Birthday
This cold and dusty night. This pretty mountain town. This real weirdo comes down the mountain and hops into bed with me like a homicidal professional. I can already tell: he’s done this before and, mark my words, he’ll do it again.
“Showtime!” he howls.
And the impact — it feels horrible.
And then he starts to take my life — he’s such an expert strangler.
Oh! Wow! Shit! This guy knows how to cut to the chase! Like! Really! Fuck!
This, for him, must not be a big deal, it’s probably his every night.
Before this, I was sleeping peacefully?
Before that, I successfully masturbated myself to a wet hot porno starring The Girl Who Cried Wolf and The Wolf Who Cried Yes Please.
He doesn’t want to strangle me all the way. He releases his grip. He leaves me choking. And then it happens all over again. What the heck am I going to do?
At some point, I vomit up the submarine sandwich I had for dinner.
A side of onion rings, too.
At some point, this real weirdo has me on the floor of my bedroom, begging for my life, crying for my mother — this guy means very serious business.
Should I tell him it’s my birthday? Because maybe that’ll help my cause?
“See,” I cry, pointing to the supermarket flowers I bought myself this afternoon. Those flowers are resting on my dresser.
Suddenly, without warning, he starts sparing my life. What a miracle, reversal, cluster. Suppose he can relate? He has a birthday too?
“If it was any other day!” he shrieks, throwing his hands up. He paces the room. He starts shrieking again. “Great! Now you'll never want to be friends!”
He exits through my bedroom window. He leaves behind his DNA — it’s in me, swimming. He leaves behind a used packet of Key Lime Pie chewing gum. He leaves me with whiplash. He leaves me with cuts on my head, lacerations on my eyes. And I’ve been raped, literally.
I drag myself to a mirror, strain my neck, and recognize the miniature suns of cigarette burns on my back. I think of the words critical but stable condition.
Everything hurts. I am in excruciating pain. I put my pajama top back on. The weirdo ripped it off. The cotton sticks to the cigarette burns.
A few seconds pass, the century ends, I call up the nearest FBI Field Office, and a woman with the sexiest voice picks up the phone — she sounds like a total sex fox bomb. I explain what just happened to me. I describe the weirdo. I feel like a really terrific witness. I’m doing a pretty good job. I’m a real live victim. I’m a fatigued survivor. I’m so dizzy, bruised, and polite. I’m looking at my bed. I’m at the scene of the crime. I’m just talking on the phone. I’m feeling so goddamn busy. Some days, I don’t even have time for breakfast.
I’m lounging against the windowsill. I’m sweating through my pajama top. I’m all of a sudden wondering what phone sex looks like.
My neck’s sweaty, the world’s inside me, somebody’s finally listening, it’s the first time ever.
And so I tell the sexy voice that I’m a young adult male.
I tell her I was born on January 14th, 1998.
The same day the Yugoslav Army ambushed a group of 140 Kosovo Liberation Army militants attempting to smuggle weapons and supplies from their base in Albania into Yugoslavia.
I tell her I’m a licensed youth worker. I tell her I’m basically in love with working with young people. I tell her I’m all alone. I tell her I’m very shy. I tell her I'm not that strong. I tell her I'm not that smart. I tell her I’m convinced I was deprived of oxygen at birth. I tell her I’m not sure how long I was deprived. I tell her I’m constantly beside myself with lust. I tell her I’m hard on myself for whatever I’m hard on myself for. I tell her I probably hate my face the most. I tell her I wonder what my face will look like next year.
I tell her this real weirdo was so typical. I tell her he wore the ski mask. I tell her his eyes were black, black, blacker. I tell her he brandished the biggest knife. I tell her he was so strong, so unforgivably dirty. I tell her there was food on his shirt, alcohol on his breath. I tell her he must have been raised in the foster system.
I tell her he must have been thirty-two years old. I tell her he must have been thirty-three years old. I tell her he must have been thirty-four years old.
I tell her he must crave dirty bookstores. I tell her he must get off on wearing argyle socks and patent leather shoes in the courtroom. I tell her he must have a masters in criminology. I tell her he must adore the chase. I tell her that anything short of possession must fail to satisfy him. I tell her I did manage to smack him with a mass market paperback. I tell her there was never a dull moment. I tell her his tonsils were gigantic. I tell her his penis was bigger than Timbuktu. I tell her I don’t want to talk about his penis anymore. I tell her I screamed so hard I broke the blood vessels in my eyes. I tell her it’s actually surprisingly easy to scream during a real life nightmare. I tell her I don’t think anybody heard my screams. I tell her I’m not that used to screaming. I tell her it felt like twenty women were screaming inside me. I tell her I have the lungs of a chronic dope smoker. I tell her I migraine easily. I tell her I’m not sure how many credit cards a person should have. I tell her about the weirdo’s unbelievable sense of mercy.
I tell her I might need some sewing up. I tell her this whole situation — especially the rape scene with the weirdo — is so humiliating, so emasculating. I tell her I’m probably never ever getting over this. I tell her the damage will probably be endless, well beyond the long-term, he took away my left nipple. I tell her this was a murder situation. I tell her no doubt about it.
“He was going to end up murdering me,” I tell the sexy voice.
“He was going to cut me off at the legs,” I say.
“It was bad. It was heinous. It was very not good,” I say.
“He was exceptionally deranged. He wanted both arms. He wanted to play with my brains,” I say.
“Honey, what the heck did you expect?” she shoots back.
“I, um, don’t know — but it’s my birthday?” I give.
Because, what the heck else can I say, you know?
“Well, congratulations and everything, but we all have one,” she gives back.
Then she hangs up on me forever.
One of my eyes spasms wildly.
I am in a real bad way.
Then I call up a man old enough to be my father.
“Why don’t you like me?” I ask.
“You know what, honestly, I don't even know anymore,” he answers.
Jesus! What a stunning moment of honesty! Sheer honesty!
Then I hang up on him forever, but I forgot to mention it’s my birthday.
He's still mad at me for dropping out of Cornell. I dropped out of Cornell because I couldn’t get laid to save my life. I never got invited to the alcohol parties. I suffered nocturnal emissions of biblical proportions most nights. Everyone has sex at college, but not me, I did not.
At Cornell, I was looking for sex with ditzy girls, rough boys, big dogs, fat cats, real weirdos. It didn't matter. I like girls the most. But girls won't ever look at me.
I’ve heard the gym’s terrific for meeting girls.
I’ve always been embarrassed to eat in front of girls.
If I were a girl, I would wear the most scandalous outfits.
If I were a girl, I wouldn’t think twice, I wouldn’t blink over anything.
Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t mind eating salads in front of girls.
When I told the man old enough to be my father about my sexless college life — how there was no point in continuing my education, how Cornell was nothing but a dead end — he lost it all over the place, he even kicked the dog.
And I don't even know how I got into Cornell. It must've been a mistake on their end, a big mix-up at the admissions office, an admissions officer got plastered, had a stroke, or something.
And I don’t want to talk about my lovely mother. I don’t want to talk about alcoholism, major depression, tonic-clonic seizures, too many pills scattered all over the place.
I don’t want to talk about her lying in her puke on the cold hard bathroom floor — I’m nine years old, I’m asking if she wants a glass of water, I’m already the worst idiot possible.
I don’t want to talk about severe car crashes. I don’t want to talk about mother replacements. I don’t want to talk about stuck-up mongrel stepmothers named Brenda Manson.
But the dog was named Donna Ball, and she was a great girl.
We lived in an upscale bedroom community. I remember when that one nasty rumor spread all across the neighborhood. The rumor was that Brenda Manson couldn’t get pregnant.
And it made me grin.
I was thirteen when Brenda Manson suffered a stroke and died. I was grinning again. I was cuddling Donna Ball. I was playing with her paws. I was looking out the window at the first spring flowers. And my silly heart — it felt soooooo light.
But the man old enough to be my father was absolutely devastated. Serves him right. He loved that stuck-up cunt more than my mother. But his marriage to my mother would’ve gone belly up anyway. They never got along, fought all the time, really doesn't matter.
Also, the man old enough to be my father is still mad at me for smoking dope in middle school. He doesn’t understand addiction. He doesn’t understand that sometimes we need to self-destruct in order to rebuild. The guy needs to get with the times.
He works for the State Department. That’s his job. He loves working for the State Department. He invests in gold every day. That’s his hobby. He loves investing in gold every day.
I hate him so much. I hope he gets anal cancer.
Seriously. I would not mind. At all.
His parenting style is bonkers. He has a very limited imagination. He makes it a policy to be an asshole. He’s always been an engenderer. He’s always been such an awkward and extreme complicator in my life.
For example, he was never the type of man old enough to be my father, to purchase me cheap inflatable pools for the hot summer months. Make of that what you will.
But smoking dope, for me, is relaxation.
I cannot stop smoking dope all the goddamn time. I’m a full on, full time dope addict, and I’m all right with that.
Growing up, I smoked dope at this construction site that never stopped being a construction site; that’s where the man old enough to be my father caught me. It was the drug bust of the century. Let's just say that no stoner hilarity ensued. Let's just say that this was another murder situation.
Nobody heard my screams then either.
The man old enough to be my father was so disgusted he sent me to this therapeutic boarding school in Maine. I guess that was when my life got torn properly.
I was fifteen.
On the drive up to the therapeutic boarding school, the shit-eating fucker said, “This is what happens to lawbreakers.”
He said, “Look at you.”
He said, “Look at everything about you.”
He said, “My only son: a fucking faggot drug fiend.”
He said, “This wouldn’t be happening if you had just put in an ounce of effort.”
Then he repeated the cost of tuition.
Goddamn. That amount. Drilled into my skull. Forever.
“You’re welcome,” the shit-eating motherfucker said.
The school was made up of severe brown houses and stuffy yellow rooms. The teachers and students gave me haircuts that weren’t haircuts. They called me ugly, stupid, and fat. They called me fruitcake. They called me fuckface. They called me virgin. They called me a hormonal pothead. They even called me a computer nerd, but I’m terrible at computers. That for me was group therapy. No sharp scissors. Just hard words.
There, I always saw something terrible happening. Torture happened in front of me. Nervous breakdowns went down in the corner of my eye. The screams always put the hairs on the back of my neck straight up.
I also felt an intense loss of privacy.
I have nightmares where I wake up at my old school, nightmares where I have to start the day at my old school.
On the first day of my old school, this super skinny boy from Illinois tried showing off his break dancing moves, and I never saw him again. He was there for shooting meth mixed with vitamin C. He was such a skillful break dancer, but the teachers took him away forever.
Oh man, I heard they crucified him, literally.
Goddamn and Jesus Christ: this one pizza-faced fat boy from New Jersey got the worst of it. He was therapeutically executed every day. He was there for eating like a pig. He was there for dope smoking, too. Eventually he tried suicide with a ballpoint pen.
This one girl from Kansas — funny enough, her name was Kansas — got slut-shamed to death. She was absolutely beautiful. Her hair was red, rich, and long. Her hair went to the floor.
And this one little blond boy from Kentucky. He bit and chewed himself. He mostly ate his arms. He applied dirt and whatever he could get his hands on to the open wounds. He mostly mixed blood and dirt. The boy wanted a great big ferocious infection. He told me he just wanted to pass away. This boy made me want to work with kids. He’d find me during outdoor time, and we'd sit under the maple tree together. I felt strangely tender inside. He made me want to lie to him. He made me want to tell him that everything was going to be okay. He made me want to put my arm around him, but touching wasn’t allowed, and we were being watched and the boy died.
Just dropped dead. Like some grandma.
Oh boy, I still think about your poor arms, Steven.
By graduation day, a balmy June afternoon, my nerves were drainage pipes.
On graduation day, the squirrels screaming, the clouds laced with God, the man old enough to be my father extended his hand, and I walked away from him, and into Cornell University, because he was a fucking disease, because he is a fucking disease.
For lack of a better word.
I've gotten pretty good at swallowing every bad thing in my life as a sort of pill, you know?
And what's my situation right now?
The situation tonight?
Well, a real weirdo raped me, a real weirdo began to murder me, and I’ll pretty much put up with anything.
And I love living in Colorado, the mountains are beautiful, and my aunt died from anal cancer last year.
My aunt was extremely wealthy.
Last year was a couple weeks ago.
I was a Philadelphia-based youth worker, but I quit. It was so hard to say goodbye to the kids. A few of them cried when I left. And my boss gave me a big hug.
She said, “Come back when you get tired of the mountains.”
My boss’s smiles were big and toothy. Her name was Sarah Doerr. Her breasts were ginormous. She made my palms sweaty.
And then I moved to Colorado to take care of my aunt. I moved into her luxury condo in the university district. Let’s just say it's a place I certainly couldn't afford on my old youth worker’s salary back in Philly.
She passed away on a Wednesday morning, but it felt like a Saturday evening.
Don't get me started on Saturday evenings.
My aunt, at 26, in 1971, was the only female broker on New York's stock exchange. My aunt was a strong woman. My aunt was such an incredible person. My aunt was close friends with Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. They loved her.
My aunt was smoking hot.
My aunt was so goddamn fine, she took away my constitutional rights.
I was honestly very sexually attracted to my aunt. She looked just like Chrissie Hynde. And she loved it, whenever I repeated that compliment, which was often, all the time.
I was so absolutely devastated when she died. I cried so many handfuls of tears. I couldn’t get up off the goddamn floor. I was her favorite nephew.
If I was a girl, I would’ve been her favorite niece, no doubt about it.
My aunt told me that most people don’t kill themselves when they get some terrible cancer diagnosis. She said they’re all talk. She said they all immediately start believing their terminal cancer situation is survivable. She said without exception.
My aunt left me money. I inherited a lot of money. She left me everything. I inherited everything. I have parked the money at a good, safe place. I am taking my time deciding what to do with it.
I also bought a yellow sports car.
And I live in my aunt’s luxury condo, too.
Now, there were some roaches at my previous apartment in Philly — some mice, too — but there weren't any bloodthirsty weirdos! I’ll tell you that much!
Me and my aunt, we smoked dope together all the time. She was stoned. She was dying. She was my best friend. We held these tremendous conversations all the time.
Me and my aunt, we had our own special goodbye. I’d say, “See you later, Crocodile,” and she’d say, “In a while, Alligator.”
Me and my aunt, we only had sex a few times. She was very sick. She was seriously nearing the end of her life.
But I worried, if you have sex with a dying person, is it necrophilia? How far off is it?
Her kisses were so sloppy. She was on so many goddamn drugs. We both wanted each other so badly.
I didn’t fuck her though. I made soft love instead.
Maybe I don't want to talk about the sex me and my aunt had anymore? Maybe it's too much?
Gosh, I’m just a human being with a pulse, I'm just a horrendous excuse for a young adult male.
The man old enough to be my father is mad at me for inheriting his sister’s fortune. The man old enough to be my father is mad at me for having sex with his sick dying sister.
Sure. These things bothered him. You could say that.
And he walked in on us once. Now that really wasn't very great. It felt like middle school. It felt like when he caught me smoking dope at that construction site.
It was a special surprise visit. My aunt had known he was coming. She had forgotten he was coming. She didn’t know he was coming. I don’t know what the fuck she knew. She was on so many goddamn drugs. She was dying. She died. She didn’t drop dead like some grandma. She died respectably and peacefully. It was a graceful passing. It was Wednesday morning. I was on the floor.
* * *
And then I smoke about a cigarette's worth of dope. And then I brush my teeth for what feels like half an hour. And if I was a thumbsucker, I’d be sucking it hard right now. And then the most sexy voice, that FBI lady, calls me back. And my wounds — they still hurt.
“It’s a crime to make things up,” the sexy voice says.
She says, “And it’s most certainly a crime to waste my time.”
She has some unfinished business. She spits it out. She cuts to the chase. I have really got to hand it to her. She’s just like the weirdo.
And the accusation is that I’m a lying liar, and my gums — they’re bleeding.
“What do you mean!? My asshole is killing me! I got properly royally fucked up the ass!” I yell at the sexy voice.
“Must you be so vulgar! Must you!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, “but that’s just what it felt like.”
She pauses. She takes a deep breath.
She goes, “You know what? You know what you are? You’re a fucking virgin freak.”
I’m not! But boy, I really cannot tell her about my aunt — it’d be a terrible idea,
then she’d really go to town on me.
And but goddamn the world because she’s still asking questions.
“Are you really a licensed youth worker?”
“Does that weirdo even exist?”
“Is it even your birthday?”
She’s trying to paint me into a corner with her question mark army. She’s wanting to light my pants on fire. She seems super mad at me.
Dead to rights. No way out. Don’t want to start acquiescing. I am so mad at her.
And I wonder what the punishment will be. And I wonder what the punchline will be. And her voice — it’s not sexy anymore — I take it back a thousand times.
I can’t help myself. I never could.
I saw an advertisement for a local rug store yesterday: DON’T ASK FOR LOVE, BE THE LOVE.
“Sorry,” I tell her, “I’m just still a little on edge.”
But, she won't understand, because they never ever do.
And so I change the subject like a professional subject-changer, and it’s a joke that I am just dying to tell, and it’s a joke that I have been dying to tell my whole entire life.
“Hey,” I blurt, “what did the ocean say to the shore?”
“What?” She spits.
“Nothing,” I go, “it just waved.”
But there’s no laughter. And the line goes dead. And I’m still bleeding all over myself.
And a swarm of FBI Agents swarm into my bedroom — my aunt's old bedroom, where I made soft love for the first time — and, in unison, they go, “SON! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT!”
SON?
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
And then the FBI Agents start to say what gets said to people like me.
To victims like me.
To me — a person such as I.
And their guns are soooooo big, and apparently a few neighbors did hear screaming, and I’m outside with my wounds now, and all the men, women, and children inside my head.
I'm so weak in the knees. An agent is letting me lean on him. You’re safe now, he says. I’m wrapped in the fluffiest hospital blanket imaginable. I'm surrounded by sirens, flashing flights, big shot television reporters, paramedics touching me carefully — it's all so heavenly.
It’s another wet dream.
It’s the blackest black birthday ever.
It’s my whole entire life all over again, I swear to God.
Then I think it’s called an ambulance, but maybe I’m already dead, and you know I’ve been wrong before, right?
Photos by Ryan Rusiecki
