The Egotist Read online

  Lemus smiles and lifts a finger, reaches into his back pocket quite smoothly, and removes a yellow, folded, post-it note. There is lint and smudge stuck to its sticky part, and it makes me queasy. He peels it open, looks around once for good measure, then tells me.

  “I don’t believe it!” I exclaim, shocked for the second time in one conversation.

  He nods. “It’s true, we can’t keep the thing stocked on the shelves. It’s flying out the door, and our flyers with it.” He smiles largely, folding the paper and sticking it back into his linty butt-bin.

  “Well,” I say, recovering, “that’s quite impressive, my friend. You’ve done well here.”

  I reach out a hand and pat him on the shoulder. He smiles all the wider and I can’t help feeling a sudden rush of dominance come into me, washing through me gloriously, turning all my innards to gold. I have rarely felt such power, and it’s usually only after tearing down another individual. In this case, I feel like I’m tearing down morality itself. It feels brilliant! I am a knight in shining black armor, heavy broadsword at my side and spear at my horse’s hip. Invincible . . . I think. How beautiful the sound of that word.

  I snap out of my delusion of grandeur and slip back into Lemus’ world, where my downtrodden bedfellow has taken on the loll of a gopher, or some other earthly beast. Tired and besmirched, he seems like a shell rather than a man, and I wonder if he can possibly hold up during this entire ordeal.

  I also wonder how long this thing could possibly go on for? I mean, when you think about it, how long do wars really last? Longer than men, I suppose . . . but that’s just me being philosophical, pay no attention.

  Why I Carry A Gun

  There are two kinds of freedom in this country, and I’ll shoot whoever tells me differently with one of the numerous guns I keep in both my home and automobile.

  The first type of freedom involves that of religion and science. It’s the type of freedom that allows me to pray during the seventh inning stretch of a baseball game. The kind of freedom that lets me play my kids’ birthdays on one of those Super Lottery tickets with the last two dollars in my pocket.

  The second type of freedom involves my personal security and overall well-being. This is the freedom that allows me throw people off of my personal property, and I pay taxes to ensure that a force of armed police officers, if requested to do so by me, are standing ready to enforce my every whim involving my personal choices.

  This freedom also allows me to set my own rules, be my own boss, and travel the road of my choosing. When the owner of a bar tells you you’re cut off because you’ve been drinking too much, he’s really sticking his finger into your chesthairs and saying, “You can’t drink in my bar. I own it, I pay the taxes to keep it open, and I set the rules. You don’t like it, shove off - or I’ll get a cop in here to shove you off. Because that’s what this country is about: my freedom of choice and your freedom to follow those choices.”

  Why not? It’s his bar, I’ll get a six-pack from the corner mart and sit on the sidewalk and drink. But I wouldn’t want to get too comfy on those sidewalks, would I? The day will come when the government is going to decide what’s good for me and not good for me; and they own the sidewalks. Soon, I’ll be sneaking in a cold one while sitting on my toilet behind the locked bathroom door. And I better Scope afterward, because there’s going to be beer on my breath, and I really can’t be sure how much longer my private property and the laws that “protect” me are going to outweigh my own personal safety and overall well-being. After all, suicide’s a crime, even in the privacy of your own home or privately owned place of business.

  Let’s face it, the government owns a piece of everything, and it’s just a matter of time before a few stand-in-line whistle-blowers give the boys in black the momentum they need to step right up to my front door, pull the bell handle, and request that I put out my stogie, because, after all, it’s my third one today and there are children in the area. Second-hand smoke, you know.

  Men and Women like that bar owner are setting rules that they may feel are worthwhile, but they’re also setting precedents that a few well-meaning citizens are going to take to heart, and the next thing you know movie theaters are going to start insisting you wear ear plugs to protect you from the intense volume of your favorite action picture, shopping malls are going to put limits on your shopping time so that you don’t wear yourself out, and bookstores will discourage the browsing of mature subject matter to young adults and children.

  Don’t you see? Freedom is abuse if it’s not handled properly and with great care. Although I’m all for keeping a double-barreled shotgun beneath the counter, I have to wonder if a non-smoking rule is infringing upon my rights and the rights of those around me. Next thing you know we’ll all be carrying billy clubs instead of magnums, the rich won’t be able to access preferential medical treatment, and we’ll all be wearing gray instead of those bright pastels and pretty purples.

  Tell me I’m being paranoid, just don’t tell me to put out my cigarette or dump my beer in the bushes, because choosing cancer for myself and my loved ones is a loophole of my freedom and an unwritten amendment in the constitution, and if I want to hire a criminal to burn down the headquarters of the Better Business Bureau, God bless me.

  Freedom is choiceless, tasteless, and baseless. It has no value, and it is incomprehensible.

  Do not take it for granted, never forget it exists. Most importantly, always keep one good eye on what it’s doing, because you never know where or with whom its loyalties will ultimately lie . . . silky bitch.

  My Last Day on The Job

  After extended torrid affairs with my water cooler pal, Karen, all of which I have written about extensively (Due to the graphic subject matter of these writings, they have been omitted from this collection - Editor), I decide to call it quits on both her and the stupid job I have been forced to take with this pansy-ass clerk office. I’ve been feeling more and more like some sort of Kafka reject in my khakis, stripes, and faded twills. Some sort of J. Crew catalog model gone mad, a mannequin with a vengeance. Never in my life have I cowered so before authority - not due to intimidation, mind you, but more from my own shame at having succumbed to their level. Like a small town girl who moves to the big city and finds a job in the local brothel, selling her body and smiling at the men while shunning the other women, hiding her naked shame as they ridicule her for her lost ideals of morality - so is it with me and my place here with my dustjacket friends, their red coats fitted nicely and their riding crops in hand, whipping me, their frenzied steed, into action to chase down the sly fox. Around me dogs howl and wail, nipping at my once glorious hooves, now shod in steel, a disgrace to my race.

  Last night I showered, releasing my soul to the water, letting the soap scrub away my blasphemous skin, now so covered with the boils of this poisonous society. Never shall the wounds fully heal, but thankfully the scars will be slight, and I will RAGE against the wave surrounding me! I will beat my fists upon my heavy chest and bark and brawl with the gods above. I will ride against the strongest wind, break my back pulling the heaviest weight, and steel my will against all of the multi-colored hypocrisies . . . for I am Man. I am Will. I am solid, and I refuse to be bent any further like a light willow in a wind, wasting my time in the bayou of this cesspool of fraternity hi-jinx these apes call work. I laugh in the face of my employer, I ride the highest crescendo of a thousand violins, each playing Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique” on strings of silver, their stinging notes shredding the thin paper-like walls of the brotherhood, this facade. I am invincible!

  Ah . . . my ego is intact yet. Beware, little persons, for I am the wrath you have feared all of your years. I am the Grim Reaper and the tip of the Scorpion’s tail. I shit on you and curse you all. Worship me or perish!

  Ha-ha-ha . . . writing laughter has always seemed so trite, and yet I cannot resist, because I am laughing aloud now, like a burly little nymph emerging from my tree, my nakedness covered in an aur
a of gold, my giggles like songs the world has never heard.

  The office is empty as lunch is upon us, and vengeance has captured my soul . . . angrily, I take a stack of paper that is to be recycled, piling it so high on my desk that I cannot see the other side of the room. I walk quickly to an adjacent wall and check to see if anyone’s watching - no! Now, in a quick stroke, I bring my fist against the glass box of the fire alarm that is stuck to the wall.

  The alarms wail. I pull a book of matches from my pocket, light one, and toss it into the five-foot stack of shredded and balled-up paper on my desk. I laugh hysterically as I run through my office, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Fire! Fire! Run for the hills! It’s a blazing holocaust, there’s no escape!”

  The small apes who remain come out of the woodwork and run like a herd of hamsters tossed onto a hardwood floor. They scatter and scrape their little claws in an effort to reach the exit. I stand there laughing, totally failing in any effort to seem concerned. I see smoke begin to billow out of the room in which I have started the fire, and I begin to wonder if the whole building should come down - wouldn’t that be a sight?

  I start to move toward the door and see Karen by the water cooler. Enchanted, I run up to her, grabbing her by the elbow. She turns to me, hysterical, mascara-blackened tears streaming down her face.

  “W.? We’ve got to get out of here, there’s smoke everywhere!” she wails, her eyes wild. She gives a little cough for effect, and I wonder what I ever saw in her.

  “No-no,“ I say, “We’ve got to try and save the building. The forms, we’ve got to save the forms!”

  With inhuman strength, I reach out and grab the large water cooler bottle. Hoisting it over one shoulder, water spills over both of us as I grab her firmly by the bicep with my free hand. I lead her into the smoke-filled office, throw her to the floor, and douse my now flaming desk in water, extinguishing everything. I then cover my tracks by throwing myself into the mushy soot, wiping it off the desk with my arms and into the black plastic trash can that sits nearby. I grab the trash can and turn back toward Karen, who’s on the ground watching me in shock. I kneel down, putting myself right into her. Wet soot drips off my tie, landing in plops on her blouse and skirt.

  “Listen, Karen, I just wanted to tell you that I’m quitting this job. Today will be my last day.”

  She just looks at me kind of funny, as if she can’t comprehend what I’m saying, or why I’m saying it.

  “Oh, and by the way, I don’t want to see you anymore.” I try to think of something ‘toppy’ and can’t. “Sorry.”

  At that, I turn and begin running like a madman out the door, knocking men and women down as I tear like a bat-out-of-hell for the stairs.

  “I’ve got to get out of here!” I yell, the broad grin on my face and my soot-sopped suit giving me the appearance of a bonafide lunatic. “I’m burning up. I’m bur-ning up!”

  When I reach the sidewalk outside of the building I can’t stop laughing . . . I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  My point?

  My point is that the last day of a job is never easy, and transitions are often difficult.

  Lemus Will Be Raped

  I think that I will always remember today.

  For today is the day that my friend, Donnie Lemus, was arrested.

  Donnie is the first of my friends or acquaintances to have been properly arrested, and I find myself intrigued by the whole thing. Not but two days ago, Donnie was over here at my place, writing me out a check for approximately four hundred dollars, the results of two months of his and my hard mischievous labor.

  The PLV had certainly been a hit. Lemus was receiving money from all over town from people who had taken time out of banging their heads against the walls to write him a check, sometimes with an accompanying letter.

  Per my request, Lemus had never shown me the checks or the letters, though he spoke excitedly about them whenever I ran into him, either in person or on the phone. To be frank, it would simply sadden me too much to look at hard evidence that fools do exist in everyday places, and I’d rather just live in the fantasy world that all of these idiots aren’t really people at all, but ficticious names who have emerged from the pure earth to send us encouragement, after which they sink back down into their dirty depths. It’s silly, I know.

  I had not deposited my handsome check, but rather had cashed it at some corner welfare mart, sorting my way through the budge-budge of homeless waifs and incompetent hoppers who were trying desperately to get their own checks cashed, although I couldn’t believe that any of them would have a check sum of any particular significance. I got my money, took it home, and placed it in my small safe, where it still comfortably sits. I think I’ll use it to pay my rent this month, and that’s a good thing since I decided to leave my job a few weeks ago.

  When Lemus called me from jail it was the most pathetic thing I’d ever heard. I didn’t hang up on him (although I wanted to) because I don’t treat my good friends that way. I often need to remind myself to be good, for I’ve been feeling rather arrogant lately. It could be because I just had a birthday and I’m feeling more mature. Or, I suppose, it could be my success at beating the world at its own game, for which lately I’ve been on an extremely stellar pace. I think the real reason is the women, however. I’ve been knocking them down like cheap champagne and I’ve rather enjoyed tossing the glass into the fireplace at the end of it, if you know my meaning. It’s dastardly, I suppose, but isn’t life?

  So I listened to Lemus as he explained his situation, and I have to admit that I was impressed by the quantity and authority of the charges they had brought against him. It was quite a mixed bag - a regular potpourri of criminal justice. It was exhilarating for a time, I admit, living on the edge like that, and talking to a real criminal brought me to a place I hadn’t been for a while. Although, despite its charms, I wouldn’t fancy myself in that predicament. I swore to be more careful with some of my tomfoolery, such as this business with the PLV. I could wind up in a very nasty trap if I’m not cautious.

  At the end of the day, I did what I could to help Lemus: I flipped through the yellow pages and found a lawyer, called him and gave him the scoop. He told me his fee and I assured him Lemus was good for it. I gave him the station house number and address of where my Lex Luther-esque friend was being held, and left the rest to the wind. Quite a day’s work, when you think about it.

  It seems now that the big battle has been fought, and I’m not sure whether I’ve won or lost. I made some money, and I didn’t get tossed in jail, so that’s good. On the other hand, Lemus is facing five-to-ten which leaves me incomeless once again. Seeing it as a battle, I’m sure I’ve won…or at least fought to a draw. There will be more battles to come, I’m sure.

  For now I can only wonder if I’ll be accepted for unemployment. While debating, I think I’ll get a coffee and enjoy my freedom.

  A Moment of Weakness

  When I was young I had an Uncle Fredo, who was the older and only brother of my father.

  Uncle Fredo fought in the Vietnam war, and after the war he lived with my father and I. I knew him only when I was a child, because he killed himself in his bedroom one night when I was twelve. It didn’t really bother me at the time, and it doesn’t really bother me now.

  I guess I’m thinking about it because I remembered something so odd the other day that I had to strain myself to recapture the distorted memory.

  When I was young, very young, I used to hang out with Uncle Fredo on numberless occasions. As a boy, I found him humorous because of his ailments. He had been hit in the head with a bullet during the war, and because of this he couldn’t talk. He also couldn’t use one of his arms.

  Regardless, I used to play with Fredo all the time. I would run around him, shooting him with a toy gun, and he would play dead. I pretended that I was with him in the war, that I was the Vietnamese and he was the young American soldier who had just walked into the wrong place at the wrong time. I was
one mean Johnny, and I meant to prove it.

  One day Fredo came up to me while I was drawing in this stupid doodle book, a book I carried around with me everywhere I went for about a year. I was using one of those big oversized pencils that they gave to kids my age, and the only way I ever sharpened it was with the pocket knife that my dad had given me. I used to think that was pretty cool.

  I think I was drawing Mickey Mouse, and, if I remember correctly, he was a giant evil Mickey who was tearing down a metropolis. Despite the best efforts of the jet fighters and ninja assassins who attempted to thwart him, Mickey just laughed and ate people and smashed skyscrapers.

  Fredo laid on his stomach and stuck his head into my book, checking out the destruction. He looked very interested in what I was doing, and it made me think of a connection.

  “Is this what Vietnam was like, Uncle Fredo?” I said, pointing to the scribbles.

  Fredo looks at me for a second, and I remember that he had a real weird expression on his face. Oddly, I think that he isn’t looking at me at all. Either that or he is looking at me and thinking I am someone else. Because it is an “grown-up look” Uncle Fredo gave me that day, not a look you see directed toward a little kid, not much anyway, and I didn’t know how to take it.

  Fredo didn’t answer, but he does something really weird. He takes my big pencil out of my hand and turns the page of my scrapbook to get a blank sheet. He writes a single word in my book:

  Lonely

  I look at the word and then at Fredo, who gives me a weird sort of smile, like a retarded person would give if he or she were pleasantly confused. I don’t know what to say, so I just lay there and say nothing. After a second, Fredo scrolls another word in my book, then gets up and leaves me alone. I pick up my pencil and look at what he wrote. Below the word lonely, he had written tired.