People In Places In Problems

MARK LEWITT

I don’t know why I cheated on my wife. All I know is that I couldn’t help it. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have gone to that bar. I know I shouldn’t have talked to that beautiful woman. But I was yearning for something new. If you really wanna know, it’s a bit of a story.

It started with me in bed. I had just finished having sex with my wife, Mary. I had tried that thing that I usually do with two-hands, but that time I did it with zero. She wasn’t pleased. She sat in bed, staring up at the ceiling, with her arms crossed.

“Mark, you know what your problem is?”

I exhaled smoke from my cigarette and looked down at her. The sheets were placed neatly above her chest. She had dirty-blonde hair covering her shoulders. “What?”
“You’re a chore.”
“A chore?”

“Yes, and you smoke in bed after I’ve told you that I don’t like it.”

“Okay I know that, but why am I a chore?”
“You’re shitty in bed—“

“Well maybe if you were hotter and more into it—“
“You’re shitty in bed, you don’t call me on your way home from work—“

“Because there’s nothing to talk about! You really want to hear about me typing away in my cubicle? Really?”

“Let me finish, Mark.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“See? Now I have to remember where I was at.”

“Take your time, Mary.”

“You don’t call me on your way home from work, you never take me out on dates, and you keep talking to that neighbor girl.”

“She’s twenty-years-old, it’s not like I want to date her.”

For the record, the neighbor girl was the one I slept with. Alright, we can continue now.

Mary turned on her side and looked at me. “You also spend all of your time on your book—“

“I’m writing the next great American novel. What’s wrong with that?”

“You’ve been writing it for five years. Five years, Mark. Five. Years. If it was gonna be any good, it would’ve already been done. Five years.”

“Infinite Jest was written in ten years.”

“You’re not writing Infinite Jest, you’re writing about a train company! You have no ambition on anything that actually matters, alright? You are a chore!”

“So literature doesn’t matter? Have you read Moby Dick?”

“No, Mark,” Mary said in a condescending tone. “I haven’t read Moby Dick because I have a life. I go to bars, I hang out with friends, I fly out to San Francisco and see Alcatraz.”

“Yeah, and you fuck the bell-hop.”

“He gave me his number for business! I am an investor in his start-up company!”

“You’re fucking him.”

“I am not fucking the bell-hop!”
I grabbed the blanket and flung it off of me. I jumped out of bed and began putting my slacks on. “You want me to have a life? Fine. I’m going to the bar, what do you think about that?” I opened the bedroom door and started heading down the hall when Mary began to yell.

“Yeah, go ahead and drink yourself to death! Maybe I’ll find a man with actual balls!”

I grabbed my hat off the stand, and opened the door.

* * *

The bar I went too was this little dive-thing on Newman street. It was an irish-bar, and thus, had paraphernalia from the land of Ireland all over it’s walls. It also had a karaoke machine where drunk men and women would spend a night embarrassing themselves.

Most sat at table chattering about to their friends. I sat alone, at the counter. I ordered a glass of whiskey and took sips of it, desperately trying to forget about my life. Alcohol is cure for any problem you’re having. That is, if you drink the right type. Some alcohol makes you sad, some make you happy, and some make you completely invulnerable to the fear of talking to women. You can guess what type whiskey was from my next action.

I turned my head to the left, and guess who I saw? That’s right. I saw the neighbor girl, who’s name was Alison. I saw the way her blonde hair flowed down to the small of her back, I saw how the jeans she wore were tightly fitted, revealing the shape of her bosom, I saw the black straps of her bra, and I saw her loose-fitting, gray, t-shirt. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to be one with her and her to be one with me. I wanted us to be joined together in unholy matrimony. I wanted… her.

“Hey, I didn’t expect to see you here.” I muttered softly.

“Oh, hey!” She smiled, a big gleeful smile, and waved to me. “How is your novel coming along?”

“Oh, you know, it’s slow.”

“The best novels were written slowly.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

What followed was a pause. I tried to prepare a neat little speech about or something romantic, but it wouldn’t work. I said the first thing that came to mind: “Do you want to head to a motel?”

She giggled and paused for a moment, thinking. Red rushed to her cheeks. She turned to me and said, “I have something else in mind.” She looked at the bartender and said, “Can I have that can of whipped cream?”

Whipped cream? What the hell was that for?

“Yeah. You want it?” The bartender said.

“I’ll give you ten-dollars for it.”

The bartender grabbed it and placed it on the counter. “It’s yours.”

Alison grabbed the can of whipped cream, and headed into the bathroom. I stood up, downed the rest of my whiskey, and followed her.

There she was, standing against the sink with her black bra laying on the floor, whipped cream can in hand. “I want you to eat this off my tits.”

My jaw dropped. “You want me… to eat whipped cream off your tits?”
“Yes. But one thing first.”

“What is it? Actually, I don’t care, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, and I mean, anything.”

Alison reached into her pockets and pulled out two long and dried out mushrooms. “Eat these.”

“Mushrooms? What, is it like food?”

She giggled. “Kind of.”

I grabbed the tabs out of her hand and placed them in my mouth. “God, these are hard to chew.”

Alison laughed. “You gotta eat them whole. Don’t spit anything out, or we’re not having fun.”
I swallowed the horrible taste and looked back up at Alison as my eyes began to water. “Okay, they’re swallowed.”
Alison took off her shirt and let it drop to the ground. She took the can of whipped cream and began spraying it on her chest. I delved into the feast.

* * *

We sat on the tiled floor, half-naked, sweating, and smoking cigarettes. It had been a short-affair. I didn’t use a condom, so I’d have to get her some plan-b. Sometime during the affair, I had used that no-hands trick I told you about. Except this time, the woman actually enjoyed it.

The entire bathroom stunk like a mixture of sweat, shame, and betrayal. Graffiti stained the

walls and mirrors. Mold grew in the cracks of tiles. This was definitely an interesting way to cap off a shitty night. I never expected something like this. And, come to think of it, all of my nights were shitty then.

I began to get this sinking feeling in my stomach. What the hell had I done? I had done the one thing you are never, ever, supposed to do in a relationship. Yes, I know that my wife is a grade-a bitch, but she wasn’t always like that. There was a time when we were happy, and full of love for each other. But for some reason, over time, that feeling had faded. Now all that was left was betrayal and spite. Do all relationships end like this? In a sea of flames? Is love just some fickle thing, not meant to be eternal? Have I always been lied too like this?

I took a drag of my cigarette and turned towards Alison. “What were those mushshrooms you had me eat? What was that even for?”

“Give it some time, you’ll find out.”
I nodded and exhaled smoke. We fell into silence. My mind drifted to the scent of the whipped cream, and back to Mary, who was spending this night alone. I wondered what she was doing now, or how she was feeling. To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether I hated or loved her. Probably a mixture of both.

I broke the silence by asking a question that only dug me deeper into the grave. “You ready for round two?”

Alison shrugged. “Fuck it, why not?”

“We should get a motel first, though. This bathroom floor isn’t too comfortable.”

“Agreed.”

We stood up and walked out of the bathroom, where we were met with curious and judgmental eyes from the bar’s patrons. We didn’t care, though. We walked out the door and into my car.

Now, I was born in L.A, and I lived in it for my entire life. The roads had never been good. Unless the superbowl was on, the roads were always crowded with traffic. But we needed to get to a motel fast, so our horniness wouldn’t expire. It would take fifteen minutes to get a motel, and a lot can go wrong in fifteen minutes. The woman could get a call from a long-lost lover. Or maybe she’d get too drunk and puke in my car. That would certainly kill the mood. Once you’ve seen a girl puke, you’re suddenly aware that they are human just like you, not some pristine goddess sent from heaven. You suddenly realize that they fart, poop, and burp just like the rest of us.

As we were driving, I swear that I could fear the guitar of the music. It was as if the vibrations of the strings were literally hitting me. “What the hell is that?” I said.

Alison didn’t respond, she only giggled.

“What? Do you feel it too?”

“It’s hitting.”

“Wait, the shrooms? What the fuck did you have me eat?”

“They’re psychedelics. You took about two grams, you’re gonna have a nice trip.”

I began to panic. Psychedelics? I had never done that in my life. Now here I am, with a girl I barely know, high on drugs. “I shouldn’t be driving.” I barked out. “Can you take over?”

“We’re about five-minutes away from the hotel, Mark. You’ll be fine, just enjoy it.”

“You are batshit insane. Why am I doing this?”

“Because you’re secretly in love with me.”

I was suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to giggle. My panic faded away and soon all colors were much, much, brighter. I couldn’t contain the giggles anymore, I had to let them out. I burst into a fit of laughter as everything around me seemed that much more happy and beautiful.

And then, finally, they fully hit.

Trapezoids and shades of magenta-purple swirled and swarmed around my skull. The vehicles to the front of me, seemed to grow heads of reptiles and forked tongues. They were out to get me.

“Try to hold it together, Mark.” Alison spoke. But that was not Alison. No, far from it, in fact. She was a succubus sent from the depths of fire, destined to consume all stars and love and bright things in the galaxy.

I was a human man in theater, in a play, having the act of a married human in an evil and unholy relationship. Alison plays the temptress, she plays Lilith, Satan’s wife and lover.

This is a study of the mammalian brain. This is the ramblings of an animal. This is the light that I follow. This is the prayer of an ornithological insect, a half-man. This is my dream of a life somewhere where no one knows me. This is a man with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. This is the red lingerie you left hanging on my dresser. This is art. This is my body dancing naked beside a fire while the full-moon is out. This. Is.

Just over a hill, are rows of oak trees. Their leaves flutter and flail in the wind, like a limp body. The dirt road wavers and wanders down a mountain of gravel, and to a road. This road is like a blood vessel. It carries down little metal boxes around the lungs and organs of the Earth. Everything is one, and I am that one.

I have learned that I am too respect all living things, else I be cast into damnation, and sent to feed on the rats. This life is my punishment for a world gone wrong eons ago. The meaning of life? Well, the meaning of life is shoestring. Yes, shoestring. That, my friends and aliens, is the meaning of life.

And, to be perfectly honest, that’s all I remember.