This End Up
November 6, 2009
$4.02, no I don’t have change. I am ready to accept my abundance of change.
Part One
The Barista is overly bouncy with a hiked up A-shirt. Her arms have a thick layer of blond hairs the same way a naked mole rat is considered “hairless.” Whipped cream, yes, chocolate syrup, yes. She tabs open the paper nose of the milk carton. “Soy milk. No real milk, please.”
Since I’ve been at college, I put on weight. I already had that little pooch of baby fat on my face, forcing me to keep a constant state of scruff so I don’t look like I’m still in high school. I remember the summer before, my brother, the personal training weightlifter poking my chest and grabbing at fat, pulling away with handfuls of air. “You are going to get so fucking fat dude. Freshman 15.”
The fifteen pounds the school board says most freshman will gain because of new eating habits, change of atmosphere, new freedoms. But what the fifteen really compensates for is depression, fear, adaptation, stress. Why do you think school cafeterias can never keep anything in their freezers? Bon-bons, Hershey’s ice cream bars with peanuts, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches. It’s comfort food. I didn’t get depressed, but I did gain twenty pounds.
Erin’s car is a 1997 Protege. From my bed I hear her drive up, not clear the speed bump, bottom out. The fucks that follow. I take a Bawls energy drink from my mini fridge.
Nutritional Facts:
Serving size: 1 Bottle
Calories: 120
Total Fat: 0g
Sodium: 35mg
Total Carbohydrate: 32g
Sugars 32g
Not a significant source of other nutrients.
As I drink, I can feel the insignificant nutrient source liquidating the small muscles in my under arm. I know Erin is going to say something about this, again. Just like every carpool Wednesday.
Her car smells like new plastic. Plastic from combat boots she is lacing over jeans on the non-SRS airbag certified dashboard. “$24.95, these are from Vietnam, cool huh?”
“Yeah, what are they for?”
“I’m dressing up as Alex from Clockwork Orange.”
“Good choice of shoe to wear to work. Can I dress up as the rape victim?”
She smiles, stirring her coffee with a V5 pen. “I was gonna ask, ya know, but I thought it might be awkward.”
“It’s really awkward. I can’t believe you were going to ask.”
Gnnnnnkkkkhhh goes the Protege.
“That’s the wrong gear, retard. Do you hear it flooding?”
I shove the stick shift to the right then towards the dashboard. It whiplashes us back into the beige cracked-leather seats. “I hate driving your fucking car.”
“Shift into first, you’re in neutral, asshole.”
“Thanks, twat.”
The car comes to a sudden and violent stop just outside of the grocery store parking lot. “Screw it, I give up. You park.”
With one combat boot on and the other foot bare, she hops around to the driver’s side. “You’re useless, Fisk. You’re fat and you’re useless.”
I leave my energy drink on the street and get back in on the other side.
It’s 11:53 and the night crew are all piling in from the back room. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and let them adjust to the white lights of aisle 15.
All night grocery stores stock at around 12-2am. The few employees that stay around for the midnight shift, stand in blue parkas, zipped to the neck with their hoods up. They stand waiting in the middle of the night for massive trucks that bring heavy things to throw their backs out with. Faceless brown boxes that give vague instructions like the image of a penguin and an arrow pointing up. They slump around with little push carts, they stock hair dye, they sweep the aisles. Their little worlds, cooled by recycled air and dairy freezers, controlled by demanding old ladies pointing shaking fingers at high shelfed items and college students trying to crack the plastic security tips off bottles of Jack Daniels with Honda Fit keys. Their life soundtrack, “Hits of the 80’s” playing quietly all night long over the ceiling speakers. A midnight grocery store symphony.
From the push cart in the back room, I’m watching Erin put stickers on peaches. The heels of her boots raising and touching the tiled floor. She hums to Queen’s “Don’t Stop me Now” static tune from the swiss cheese ceiling speakers.
Rick nudges my push cart. “Come on Fisk, we’ve still got three flats of cum to go through before 2.”
I check expiration dates, stock the high shelves and clean up any break, spill, or otherwise dropped product in the store. On my paycheck it says my job title is “Dairy Clerk” but amongst the employees, Jessica tells me, it’s “Cum Monkey”. “Cum” because half the milk I check the expiration dates on has already congealed, “Monkey” because I climb the shelves to stock them.
“Also Sara called the store phone asking for you, your cell dead or something?”
I must have left it at my apartment. Damn. “I’ll tell her not to call here, sorry man.”
“That phone is for work emergencies only.” Says Rick who lost three of his fingertips to a meat slicer. Not being able to find them, he bagged the half pound of hickory smoked ham.
“Yeah, she’s just lonely.”
“How’s she like her school in, where was it?”
“England. She doesn’t really like it. It’s hard to make British friends.”
“So I’ve heard. Arrogant fuckers.” Rick scratches his bald spot. “Go take care of those crates, yeah?”
I cut open the crate with my safety box cutter, the rubber handle rubbing a blister into the web of my thumb and forefinger. I picture Sara throwing herself around her dorm room 5456 miles away. I should have brought my phone to work. The triangle blade follows a dotted line. I pull out gallons by the arm full, placing them on my cart. This is the first time I’ve left my phone since she’s been away.
You wouldn’t believe how little the expiration date on your milk carton means. “Fresh” organic milk with the smiling cow and rising sun, believe it or not, is not straight from the cow’s tit when you buy it. No, it’s not warm because we just shipped it here from the farm. It’s warm because Jessica left the dairy freezer door open so she could hear Rick’s radio from inside while she had a smoke break.
Tonight a portly man sporting a full chest-beard greets me with a smile. “Mind if I take one of those off your hands?”
“Not at all.”
He takes a 2% from under my arm. “Ooh, look at that, warm and fresh like the days of the milk man. I bet that was before your time though.”
I smile. “Excuse me, I need to get in here.”
He moves and I start stocking.
“I’m lactose intolerant so I’ve got to take these little Lactaid pills.” I hear him fiddling with something plastic in his plaid pocket. “These little bastards.”
I look back and give him a nod, “yeah, I hate taking pills.”
“It’s not as bad as the drops. My wife used to have me on these Lactase enzyme drops.”
Lactase enzyme drops, 15.5ml. Over-the-counter drops you can pick up for around $20.00. When your girlfriend has you pick them up from work every Friday, you get used to the price. It doesn’t seem so bad. $20.00 a week to avoid the hours of bloating, self-pity, gas, anger, cramps, and diarrhea. It doesn’t seem so bad after you drink gallon after gallon of whole milk with enzyme drops shaken into them. You get used to it. You even start to like that it tastes nothing like milk.
“They always made me gassy.” The portly beard-man tells me. “I couldn’t keep any milk products down. What’s good about life if you can’t have a strawberry quick milkshake now and again?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“I was a dentist for thirty-one years so I know that sugar stuff is bad for you. I guess my body doesn’t like any of it, haha, but I’m a stubborn old bastard.”
Two crates more to go. Who let this old man out of his house? Customers like this are the talkers that have nothing better to do but audibly rape any willing or unwilling listener. The safety box cutter sounds like a good way out to this conversation.
“I’ve got a bunch more milk to stock tonight, sir, it was nice talking to you.”
He shakes me hand with a limp greasy bear paw. “I don’t mind keeping you company, go get those milks and we’ll do it together.”
“That’s so nice of you. But really…”
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
I know you won’t.
Erin grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the back yelling over her shoulder, “the store is on fire, everyone for themselves!”
Sitting cross-legged on the bench, Erin massages her feet. “These boots are so uncomfortable. Bad choice on my part.”
“I told you that, retard.”
“Shut up, you owe me. Rub my feet.”
The expiration date is an expression, like an anecdote that makes you feel better about yourself. It’s been sitting in that carton, somewhere for longer than you’d like to know. And between that somewhere and to your fridge it’s about as fresh as the powdered milk in your pantry, you know, that box that’s still waiting for the Apocalypse? About as fresh as Lactaid enzyme milk.
Erin smells like collard greens and sweat. The collard stickers line up her arm to her white sleeves. The cycled wash sprays on the vegetables left a layer of mist on her pale arms. Her feet are soft and she closes her dark eyes as I massage them. She looks at me with green eyes, crosseyed like all girls with heavy eye liner. “Have you eaten yet?”
We all have expiration dates. From ages 0-10 years old we’re milked, 11-20 we’re shipped, 21-40 we’re on the shelf, we rot, we die. We keep telling ourselves that we’re fresh. 40 is the new 20 is the new teen.
“No, I’m still trying to do that diet.”
“What, the don’t eat anything diet? You don’t need to lose weight you’re just self-conscious.”
“Yeah?”
She touches my rib, and feels down to my stomach. “No, you’re a fat ass. You just want to be anorexic for Sara.”
“I don’t think she’d give a shit.”
Erin pulls her foot away and walks to her locker. “I’m probably gonna get breakfast with Allan and Derrel at Denny’s. We’re going dressed up if you wanna come along.”
“I don’t have a costume. Derrel’s going?”
“Yeah, I convinced him to go as Rocky from Rocky Horror. How awesome is that?”
As awesome as seeing Derrel’s junk through gold hot pants. “Ha.”
“Well, let me know if you want to come. I’ve got to get back out there. I’m sure your friend is gone from the dairy aisle so you can work without getting audibly raped.”
She smiles at me, slipping on her back-up shoes.
It’s 1:30 and the dairy aisle compliments the off-white floors. The wine section is roped off because of a Burgundy disaster area. Knocked off the Burgundy display stand. Just inches from the boxed wine, Rick keeps telling the empty store, just inches.
I drag the heavy metal sign outside and lock the sliding glass door. “Please use the other door, thank you!” I roll quarters and put them in the safe, trying hard to remember Rick’s code. 0-0-0-0. In the back room, I sit against the wall, rolling dimes into a green sleeve. Sonny and Cher echo through the store. I’m sure by now my phone has vibrated off of my desk onto the office style Beaulieu junior executive apartment suite floor. Apartment 302b, paid for by custom made checks, little green hearts surrounding a sepia couple. A thin girl with black hair, her smile awkward because of no natural smile lines. A guy holding her from behind, chubby to say the least. Husky maybe. It was her idea, the checks. The study abroad. My diet.
The break room phone rings. I stare at the yellowed received, watching the red light blink. She is so inconsiderate. She’s been calling all night and she won’t stop. The ringing stops and the red light pauses, then flashes again.
It’s 3:42; Erin and I sit on the loading dock drinking from a cracked Burgundy bottle we can’t sell anymore. It’s a 2003 Jaques Lassaigne, on sale for $59.99. Erin is wearing her Derby hat with white jeans and long-sleeve collared shirt. She swings the cane back and forth between her hanging legs. I sip the Burgundy out of my Dixie cup and feel my face go red. “So how was your night?”
“I nearly stomped a baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Around 2 a mother came in with her baby, when she left there was a used diaper in the cabbages. Under the diaper was a five. She tipped me.”
“How thoughtful of her.”
“Only three weeks left, so I’m not gonna kill everyone here, yet.”
“I might beat you to it.”
“If you do go postal, just don’t kill me. Make me your partner in crime.”
I finish the cup and set it down. “Sara called all night. I must have left my phone at home.”
“Aren’t you a good boyfriend?”
“I shouldn’t have left my phone, it’s just so hard to talk to her. She’s going through some stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it, she’s a tough girl. She’ll manage on her own over there.”
“I’m not worried about it.”
She drops her cane. “Shit.”
Jumping down to get it, headlights light up the parking lot. Erin runs over to the 1988 LeBaron. Her and Darrel talk through the passenger window. I pour myself another Dixie cup.
“Fisk, Rocky is kidnapping me, wanna come to Denny’s?”
“Nah, I don’t have a costume.”
“Aww, come on emo kid, it will cheer you up!”
“I’m good.”
She gives me a little smile and gets in the car. The off-brown jalopy mumbles into the distance.
It’s 5:05 and I’m standing in the order pick-up line of our store’s Starbucks.
“Dairy clerk, clean up on aisle 14.”
I take my fattening frappuccino and make my way back to the impending mess that some asshole has left for me.
Sure enough it’s a large woman in an electric wheelchair. Her grabber still in the air, frozen in time at the exact moment the Ragu dropped. Her eyes are locked in that of disbelief and awe by what just happened. She sees me and her look switches to anger. “You stock boys shouldn’t put the sauce so close to the edge. It could have killed me!”
I awkwardly smile and do my job, sweeping the broken glass into the dustpan. I don’t think she should be afraid of sauce killing her, I think she should be afraid of diabetes.
“It’s carelessness! A complete lack of care for the customers!” She rambles on. “It’s the apathy in your generation. I swear, my kids are just like you…”
I bite my tongue and nod along. If she only knew how much I cared. As I scrape up the rest of the sauce revealing the off-white checkered tiles I wonder what her shelf life is.
© 2007-2009, Nick Rester All rights reserved.
Insomnia
February 20, 2009
The insomniac
Dreams only in fantasies
While the whole world sleeps
Dmitri The Sheep
February 4, 2009
Dmitri stands
four inches tall
sending me
good thoughts
from my bedside table
His thoughts
are brief
introspective
and to the
point
“Leave”
his eyes say
like the desperate
repeating eyes
on an abandoned
roll of
photo booth snapshots
“Leave”
says the toy sheep
never having left
my table
“Leave”
says the tiny muse
of wander lust
He is the phone call
I will not make
telling friends
and family
I’m leaving
He is the train ticket
I will not look at
but go
wherever
it takes me
He is the reason
I can hate work
I can hate my life
I can hate my friends
“Leave”
he says
with his frozen mouth
sending shivers
through me
like the death rattle
of a sinking ship
“Leave”
he says
like
tortured notes
of a silent
raging
orchestra
“Leave”
he says
“and never come back”
© 2007-2009, Nick Rester All rights reserved.
A conversation between a man on acid and a chair
October 20, 2008
“You never let me hold you, you’re always pushing me away like I’m made of ice!”
The chair glared across the room, folding its arms.
“Tell me once, just once when you were there for me. Hmm? What about when I was arrested?”
The chair sighed loudly letting a cacophony of springs be heard.
“That’s right, you can’t think of a time. You’re just like my mother.”
Not wanting to get into this subject, the chair reclined in its corner and drifted off to sleep.
“Me neither. Let’s not even start the journey down shit creek. I can write novels on abandonment. I can write plays and fill journals. I could cover walls and…”
The light bulb in the room shorted out.
“Oh Christ!”
The chair sprung up, worrying for his friend. It lit a match and saw the man was now cowering under an end table. The chair gave a sigh of relief then immediately burst into flames.
“No!” Screamed the man trying to douse the flames with his member’s only jacket, “I’m sorry for what I said, you’ll be okay man!”
They cried together in the empty apartment, holding each other until the fire went out.
By the time the firemen broke down the door what they didn’t see were two loyal friends sticking it out to the end. What they did see was an incinerated drug addict fused to a blackened La-Z boy.
Dairy Clerk
October 20, 2008
$4.17, no I don’t have change. I am ready to accept my abundance of change. Here’s a ten.
Mocha frap, the Barista is overweight with a hiked up A-shirt. Her arms have a thick layer of thin hairs the same way a naked mole rat is considered “hairless”. Whipped cream, yes, chocolate syrup, yes. Since I’ve been to college I put on weight. I remember the summer before, my brother, tall and toned, short blond hair, poking my chest and grabbing at fat, pulling away with handfuls of air.
“You are going to get so fucking fat dude. Freshman 15.”
The fifteen pounds the school board has decided most freshman will gain because of new eating habits, change of atmosphere and new freedoms. But what the 15 really compensates for is depression, fear, adaptation, stress. It’s comfort food. Why do you think school cafeterias can never keep anything in their freezers? Bon-bons, Hershey’s ice cream bars with peanuts, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches. Comfort food. I didn’t get depressed, but I did gain thirty pounds.
All night grocery stores stock at around 12-2a.m. The few employees that stay around for the midnight shift, stand in blue parkas, zipped to the neck with their hoods up. They stand waiting in the middle of the night for massive trucks that bring heavy things to throw their backs out with. Faceless brown boxes that give vague instructions like the image of a penguin and an arrow pointing up. They slump around with little push carts, they stock hair dye, they sweep the aisles. Their little worlds, cooled by recycled air and dairy freezers, controlled by demanding old ladies pointing shaking fingers at high shelfed items and college students trying to crack the plastic security tips off bottles of Jack Daniels with Oldsmobile keys. Their life soundtrack, “Hits of the 80’s” playing quietly all night long over the ceiling speakers. A midnight grocery store symphony.
I check expiration dates, stock the high shelves and clean up any break, spill or otherwise dropped product in the store. On my paycheck it says my job title is “Dairy Clerk” but amongst the employees it’s “Cum Monkey”. “Cum” because half the milk I check the expiration date on is already congealed, “Monkey” because I climb the shelves to stock them.
You wouldn’t believe how little the expiration date on your milk carton means. “Fresh” organic milk with the smiling cow and rising sun, believe it or not, is not straight from the cow’s tit when you buy it. No, it’s not warm because we just shipped it here from the farm. It’s warm because Jessica left the dairy freezer door open so she could hear Rick’s radio from inside while she had a smoke break. The expiration date is an expression, like an anecdote that makes you feel better about yourself. It’s been sitting in that carton, somewhere for longer than you’d like to know. And between that somewhere and to your fridge it’s about as fresh as the powdered milk in your pantry, you know, that box that’s still waiting for the Apocalypse. When the world really is reduced to Twinkies and cockroaches I know I for one, will crave some powdered milk.
“Soy milk please”.
The Barista nods her curly head and gives me my change.
We all have expiration dates. From ages 0-10 years old we’re milked, 11-20 we’re shipped, 21-40 we’re on the shelf, we rot, we die.
“Dairy clerk, clean up on aisle 14.”
I take my frappuccino and make my way back to the impending mess that some asshole has left for me. This is my time to shine.
Sure enough it’s a large woman in an electric wheelchair. Her grabber still in the air, frozen in time at the exact moment the Ragu dropped. Her eyes are locked in that of disbelief and awe by what just happened. She sees me and her look switches to anger.
“You stock boys shouldn’t put the sauce so close to the edge. It could have killed me!”
I awkwardly smile and do my job, sweeping the broken glass into the dustpan. I don’t think she should be afraid of sauce killing her, I think she should be afraid of diabetes.
“It’s carelessness… and a clear lack of care for the customers…” she rambles on.
I bite my tongue and nod along. If she only knew how much I cared. As I scrape up the rest of the sauce revealing the off-white checkered tiles I wonder what her shelf life is.
Pirates of the very shallow chlorinated water
June 2, 2008
“Set sail to the furthest horizon! You shall not know the smell of the sea until you’ve sailed as I have and I will not rest a weary eye until you have done just that!” the captain yells, his thick neck rumbling with his words like a washing machine. His pants are worn thin around the knees and bottom, his shoes are black spray painted Nike’s. On his knit white captain’s shirt there’s a name tag that reads, “Duckston’s Amusement Park- Hi! My name is Captain Ahab“.
A group of tourists in different colored duck hats look around confused as what to do.
The captain lifts his great peg leg on top of a box of “stolen booty” and looks up to the sky, shading his good eye, “Grab the oars men! Row!! Row like your life depended on it! You think it doesn’t? Who told you it didn’t?!”
The tourists do just that, they each take an oar and row like their lives depended on it.
A voice comes over an intercom that’s been disguised to look like a skull encrusted with jewels, “Please keep your arms and legs inside the moving ship at all times.”
The captain lets out a barreling laugh, “The gods are pleased!”
The boat shakes and begins moving on its underwater track.
“Yes!” he cried, “We move like the wind on the back of a great stampede of whales! By this rate we’ll be in Albania by nightfall, but wait!”
He shades his eye once again and his hairy grimace drops to a most forsaken frown, “Pirates!”
Another ship adjacent to theirs scattered with animatronic pirates shake their fiberglass swords and yell angry jests recorded thirty years ago. Their cannons begin firing bursts of air, flashing yellow and red.
The captain draws his mighty sword, “Men! Do not abandon hope! It is my oath to my loyal crew that these damn pirates will not board this ship! Send them home with broken peg legs and ripped eye patches! Hoorah!”
One of the tourists whispers to his friend, “You know I think that sword is real.”
And with that, the overweight captain swings screaming, clutching tightly to a knotted prop rope to the other ship. Swing after swing he fights with the pirates. Doing most of the moves himself, he ends up sweaty, swinging wildly, knocking off heads and voice boxes over the edge of the ship and into the shallow water. The tourists look on in awe. Every once in a while they hear him gasp for air, saying something along the lines of “Nothing personal! Not everyone can be a hero!”
All of the sudden the clouds cover the sky, a dark mist flows over the shallow water and fog drags in thicker than blood. The animatronics stop, the ships slow and finally rest to a complete drift in the water. The sounds of the amusement park fade and only the captain and the tourists are left in complete silence. Captain Ahab wipes his sword clean of battery acid and places it back into its sheath. His hands sweat, his cape blows settles and clings to his back. Silence, waiting, he’s nearly holding his breath. Through the fog he sees a figure, monstrous and dark. As it approaches the first thing Ahab notices is the shape of his hat, curved and tall, a long peacock feather sticking off the left side. The closer he steps the more he recognizes. From legend. Tales of pirates passed down from ride operator to ride operator. His boots genuine leather, a black vest and sea worn jacket. Chains and chains of gold, silver, and bronze hang from his wrists. Cubic Zarconia rings on his fingers. And a name tag that just confirmed Ahab’s fears, The Dreaded Pirate Craig.
“So, it is you. Captain Ahab” he says with a thick Scottish accent.
The captain smiles wide and half bows over his gut.
“In the boots.”
“Or” the dreaded pirate Craig says with a smirk, “should I call you Eric.”
The captain immediately draws his sword, “no one calls me by that name that values their life! Prepare to die a most rueful demise in the wench that is the sea.”
The dreaded pirate Craig draws his sword as well, “then so be it, this is where it ends.”
Lightning crashes as the two figures clash and jump, duck and stab. Blood and horror in the sky above the tourists. Their faces locked in a stun, not knowing what to think of the situation. The rain pours down and the fighting men. Their eyes never lose contact, their steps perfect, lunges to cue, their sword fighting is an unprecedented art to the modern world. A battle that had waited lifetimes, finally the fight between good and evil commencing in our times, the pirate apocalypse and only one would walk away. Leaving a bloodstained trail for all that would follow. Nothing would survive this battle. There would be no purpose to wars, governments, or laws. This was the struggle to end all other struggles. Many tourists cried, some couldn’t watch. The dreaded pirate Craig never loses concentration, the great Captain Ahab never backs down.
The rain fills Ahab’s lungs, he fights on with the fury of a thousand men. The dreaded pirate Craig follows in the footsteps of all the world’s most evil men. But just as pride sets over Craig gets too cocky. The dreaded pirate half steps instead of quarter steps putting him off balance, sending him spiraling into the dark waters below. Lightning crashes and his screams fade into the deep.
Captain Ahab stands, big and robust, his sword already rusting. The clouds part, the sky becomes sunny and the smell of cotton candy fills the air.
The jewel encrusted skull breaks the silence, “Thank you for joining us aboard Pirate Tours, please wait until the ship has come to a total and complete stop before exiting. Have a nice day.”
My take on Chuck Palahniuk’s new book, “Snuff”
May 29, 2008
I was first introduced to Palahniuk’s writing, as I’m sure most are, by the movie Fight Club. I was immediately induced to read his works because of his witty writing, great story telling and well researched characters. Since then I’ve read six of his books, Choke, Survivor, Fight Club, Haunted, Lullaby, and now Snuff.

Snuff focuses on a retiring porn legend named Cassie Wright. Some of her most famous porn movies include, To Drill a Mockingbird, The Wizard of Ass, The Italian Hand Job, and of course Chitty Chitty Gang Bang, maybe you’ve heard of them. Acting on a lark to end her career with a bang and break the world record for most sex acts on camera, Cassie plans to suck, drill, stroke, and bang six hundred guys on camera.
The story focuses on four people:
Mr. 72, a confused nineteen year old kid who is obsessed with Cassie to the point that he has worked summers and winters, day in and day out, just to spend his hard earned cash on vagina replicas, plastic boobs, and a used surrogate all designed after Ms. Wright’s body.
Mr. 137 is a washed out used-to-be hit television star that always carries a greasy autograph hound everywhere he goes. His big success was playing a cheesy detective on daytime television, only to have his career ended because of questionable things he did in his past for money.
Sheila is Cassie’s go-to girl, simply referred to as “the talent wrangler”, she works her ass off to satisfy her needy boss and spends her time trudging through naked hairy men and their excrement of barbecue chip powder and bronzing lotion.
Mr. 600 is another famous porn star who goes by the name “Branch Bacardi”, he’s old and saggy, but he’s still got a perfect body and an all over tan. Thing is, he might be the illegitimate father of someone stuck in that porn studio basement.
The book starts off describing the disgusting men that will be keeping you company for the rest of the book, don’t think for an instant you’ll be escaping the detailed description of ranch dressing and boners. The dialog is some of the best I’ve read in his books, he is really on top of it this time and it shows. Something I’ve noticed about Palahniuk is that he loves getting into the heads of his characters. I couldn’t tell you how many times Mr. 600 said “dude” or how many times Sheila said “true fact”, but I also found that the dialog is so believable with these characters that it turns out sounding genuine. I really felt like Chuck knew this washed out porn star. Which makes this whole book, which is very much a character study of four different people, something unique.
There are many techniques that Palahniuk used for Snuff that I had never seen done before. Each chapter was narrated by a different character and instead of having a chapter title it simply said the name of the character we would be hearing from in first person. Rather than having the common feel of a novel, it felt more like a conversation which added to the reality and believability of these absurd situations.
Snuff was nothing less than a fun and disgusting read. Palahniuk is really on his game with this book and it shouldn’t pass unnoticed. From start to finish, this book is absolutely licentious, crude, and hilarious. It’s not something for your reverend godfather, but if you’re into that sort of thing check it out.
Suffocation for your Inner Child
May 2, 2008
“Now bark.”
The collar on the boy’s neck tightens, he lets out a pitiful squeak.
“I paid good money for you boy, BARK!”
The boy barks loudly, then again.
A smile comes across the fat man’s face.
The TV flicks off.
The owner of Peter’s Sexemporium looks over at Alex.
He places his ‘World’s Best Dad’ coffee mug on the counter and undoes his suspenders.
Pushing the beads out of the way, he motions for Alex to follow him.
His thick Russian accent smothering the words. “It’s in the back, here.”
Alex doesn’t make eye contact with the man, he just stares at his shoes.
Quietly he says, “My.. friend, he wanted me to pick this up for him.”
The Russian laughs loudly and unlocks a black spray painted door.
Inside, it’s colder than Alex thought, he hugs his arms close to his body.
“I will need to see some ID” the Russian says, shuffling through some boxes.
“Of.. of course.” Alex says as he digs in his trench coat.
The Russian stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow.
In his arms he holds a white styrofoam cooler.
“I hear from Smenton you are good guy. I will give this to you cheap. $1200 American.”
Alex pauses, then nods.
The faded brown door to Alex’s 3b underground complex closes hard behind him.
Rain drips in black globs off of Alex’s over coat.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’s never met or was related to hang on his walls.
He clicks the light switch on under a picture of Barry Manilow.
Setting his mail down on the counter, he balances the styrofoam container with one arm and pulls a frozen dinner out of the freezer with the other..
Washing his hands, he glances over at the box and smiles.
The rest of his house is empty, no furniture, no designer art.
Just a TV in the middle of what would be his living room.
With steaming microwavable Hungry Man dinner in hand, he switches on the TV with his foot.
The Price Is Right fills the dark room with light.
But Alex ignores the TV and walks into the bathroom.
He places the dinner on the edge of the sink and sits on the toilet facing the bathtub.
“Meatloaf tonight hun.”
His bathtub is filled to the brim with dirty brown water.
A pale saturated hand hangs awkwardly over the edge of the tub, the tips black, the fingers unnaturally skinny.
He raises the fork with the steaming dried out meat towards a black gaping mouth.
“No fuss tonight, I’m not in the mood.”
He clicks his teeth and smiles, running out of the bathroom.
He comes back in with the styrofoam box.
“I got it.”
Alex stares into the tub, then looks away sadly.
“You said.. you said if I got it you’d let me go.”
A smile comes across his face.
The tiles underneath his feet part, forming a dark hole in his bathroom floor.
“Thank you.”
Alex steps through the hole, holding the box tightly.
He lands on his feet in a hotel lobby.
The floors carpeted red, the ceiling a gigantic mirror.
People in tuxedos dance in the ballroom across the lobby.
Alex smiles and stares forward at an endless wall of elevators.
The elevator in front of him dings and the golden doors open.
He steps inside.
The doorman, a small humble man with a stepping stool as a seat takes a long drag from his hookah.
“Where to?”
Alex ponders for a moment.
“I’m not sure.. Where should I go?”
“That depends completely on where you want to go.” says the doorman indicatively.
Alex looks down at the box in his hands.
“I have to give this to a friend.”
The doorman looks up at him, his eyes deep and shiny.
“To the sanitarium.”
He mashes a button into the wall and the elevator moves with a jolt.
The doorman leans back and takes another drag, listening to the repetitious elevator music.
Alex stares at the ceiling of the elevator, a painting of a cat on a windowsill.
He smiles, remembering an old tabby he used to own in childhood.
“Elmo.”
“What?” asks the doorman.
“His name was Elmo.”
The doorman smiles.
The painting on the ceiling fades and turns to black.
Alex frowns and puts the box on the ground.
The doorman starts coughing, quietly at first, then loudly.
He holds a handkerchief over his mouth to stay polite,
The coughing turns to hacking, then vomiting blood all over the elevator floor.
Alex picks up his box and takes a step back.
The doorman hits himself on the chest then grabs and squeezes his throat, but to no avail.
The blood does not stop coming, soon Alex is up to his ankles in blood and phlegm.
The doorman falls with a plop face first, his clip-on tie floats away.
Alex stares in shock across the elevator.
The floor creaks then breaks open, sending Alex, the doorman, and everything else screaming down the elevator shaft.
Screams, shattering glass, then darkness.
Channel 5, morning cartoons.
Sitting in front of the 70’s TV, a small boy in cartoon astronaut foot pajamas and a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal.
Every Saturday morning the Channel 5 plays this cheesy little melody. “It’s a new day!”
This is the song Alex wakes up to.
Gasping for air, he quickly looks around the room.
A generic hotel. Nothing unique.
Nothing unique, except Alex is wearing cartoon astronaut foot pajamas..
He steps into the bathroom, looks himself in the mirror.
He turns on the faucet to wash his face, but no water comes out.
Looking around the bathroom he notices there’s no toilet, no shower, just black and white tiled floor.
He walks to the closet and pulls hard on the wooden doors. They don’t open.
Alex pulls hard on the window curtains expecting there to be no window. But there is.
And outside it’s dark. Only lit by multi-colored neon lights in every window of every shop, apartment, even neon streetlights. He takes his styrofoam box and leaves the room.
The hotel lobby is small with black and white tiled floors. One front desk by the door.
No one stands at the desk.
Alex rings the service bell.
“Hello??”
No answer.
The black phone on the desk rings.
Alex hesitates then picks up.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other side is staticy and distant, sounding like a 50’s radio, “Welcome to the Midnight Hotel, did you sleep well?”
“Yes.. where am I? And.. what time is it? There’s no clocks.”
There is a long silence on the other end.
“Well, this is Nowhere, sir, and it’s the middle of the night. Feel free to come back any time you like, we always have vacancy.” the phone clicks.
The street is wet and empty. No people, no cars.
As Alex walks he looks into the windows of the stores and department buildings, completely empty.
“How odd, an abandoned town lit up like this for no one.”
Rain begins to fall, he takes refuge under the awning of a coffee shop.
The door next to him opens, startling him.
A guy around 20, wearing a black and white sweatshirt with a collar going up the length of his ear walks out holding a cup of coffee.
“You, are late.”
Alex puts his hand over his heart.
“Who are you?”
“Let’s walk.” the guy says.
Alex pauses a moment and looks into the coffee shop which is dark and empty.
He follows him.
The guy sips from the coffee cup, he makes a face of disgust and throws the cup into an alley.
“I’m Cat, the muse of dreams. Here to help.”
Alex stares at his sharp k-9 teeth as he talks.
“I don’t understand.”
Cat puts his hands in his front pockets.
“What’s in the box?”
Alex had almost forgot that he was carrying it.
“I’m bringing this to a friend.”
Cat stretches his arms.
“Okay, well I’m suppose to help you find that friend. I know this place pretty well.”
He chuckles.
“Before I can help you find him, I need to make a quick stop.”
Alex nods.
“Thank you.”
“No, Thank you.”
Cat reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cookie, he hands it to Alex.
“Hungry?”
Alex takes the cookie and smiles.
They make their way to a large circular building with the numbers “1-27-32” on the front.
Cat opens the large metal door and lets it swing open.
“Come on.”
Alex is amazed at the size of the inside. He could swear that it was much larger than the outside of the building.
The ground is wooden and shiny, the walls draped with black and white paintings.
As the two walk all that can be heard is clicking of their shoes. Everything else is dead silent.
In the middle of the room sit two old men on an old gray couch playing chess.
Cat stops walking, he leans over to Alex.
“Careful of what you might think of in here.”
“Why?”
Cat keeps walking.
They make their way to the middle of the giant room, Cat leans against the chess table.
“Alex, may I introduce you to the Muse of Art and the Muse of Literature.”
The men don’t look up.
The Muse of Art moves a pawn and mutters, “Who is this?”
Cat puts his hands in his pockets. “A friend.”
“You don’t have any friends, you don’t even exist.” the Muse of Art said angrily.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew who he was.”
The Muse of Literature looks up with dark blue eyes and studies Alex through his glasses.
“Yup.” Cat said cockily.
The Muse of Literature smiles a very jagged smile, “The very creator of this place.”
Alex looks very confused at this.
“I.. don’t understand.”
Cat takes Alex aside and tells him to wait for him by the back door of the building.
“I just need to ask these guys for help getting to the Sanitarium.”
Alex makes his way across the room again.
Towards the back of the room, the light fades out and all that can be seen is an “Exit” sign.
In the darkness it’s cold, he flips his collar up and hugs his chest.
Beneath the Exit sign, he feels for a door but there is none.
He feels a small hand touch his back in the darkness.
With a jolt, he steps backward and puts his back to the wall.
“Do you remember me?”says a little girl’s voice.
The coldness overtakes Alex and his knees buckle, he sits down on the floor.
The brightness of the room fades and he’s left in complete darkness, only lit slightly by the Exit sign.
A small figure sits on his lap, he can feel it breathing.
“Do you remember me?”
He closes his eyes and looks away.
“Yes.”
She touches the lid of the styrofoam box.
“It wasn’t your fault I died. I never should have questioned you like that.”
He doesn’t open his eyes.
“I’m sorry I made you so angry. I should have let you keep me in the basement.”
She stands up and takes a step back.
A hand grabs him by the shirt and picks him up, pulling him out a newly formed door.
“Thank you for remembering me.” the small voice says in the distance.
Alex sits in the waiting room of a sanitarium.
The flickering florescent lights reveal a dirty linoleum floor and a nurse sitting at the front desk.
He wipes the tears from his eyes.
Cat stands in front of him, holding the styrofoam box.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you to stay out of the darkness.”
Alex stands up.
“Room 3B, Alex.”
He remains silent while walking down the corridor of the old hospital.
Cat’s boots click loudly.
The elevator at the end of the hall opens up, Alex hesitates.
“Can we take the stairs..”
Alex opens the blue door to the stairwell.
Cat takes a step back.
“This is where I leave you, Alex.”
Alex stares at the ground. “What will happen?”
Cat hands the styrofoam box to Alex.
“I don’t know. The denouement is just for you.”
Cat holds the door open for Alex.
“Ciao.”
And once again, Alex is alone.
The stairs are not like any stairwell he’d seen before.
Instead of spiraling around each other, they ascend straight up, vertically, like a ladder.
Alex makes his way up the staircase, styrofoam box in hand, waiting to see a light at the top.
What seems like minutes turns to hours, his legs tired, but he keeps going.
Finally he reaches a faded brown door at the top of the stairs with the marking 3B on it.
He opens it slowly.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’d never met before or was related to hung on the walls.
In the empty living room where the TV used to be sits a hospital bed with a woman in it.
The loud solid tone of the heart monitor fills the silence of the room.
Alex slowly walks to the bed and places his hand on that of a long and skinny hand with blackened fingertips, unnaturally skinny fingers.
He sets the styrofoam box on top of the bed, he removes the lid.
Dry ice oozes from inside the box, Alex reaches into ice and pulled out a bloody bag.
He stares at the lump of flesh, a human heart.
Pulling back the blue blanket, he uncovers a gaping chest, a hole where the heart should be.
The skin around the opened wound is singed black, smaller holes scattered amongst the chest.
He carefully pulls the heart out from the bag and places it where the old heart was.
The machine beeps slowly, then faster.
Alex smiled.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and stands, staring at the woman in the bed.
Her eyes open and she stairs up at him.
Her skin regains color, the wounds on her chest disappear.
Alex stands, holding her hand in the darkness of his apartment.
“I’m sorry.” he says quietly, “I’m sorry for everything.”
She says nothing, but smiles.
He reaches into the bathtub and pulls the drain.