CEREAL AFTER SEX

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Content warning: Adult situations

I sat at the control panel in the red room. I was looking over digital charts and trying to plot out the best course for the continuing journey on the love ship. She kept coming onto the bridge to show me something or tell me something or maybe she was just flirting. She was wearing a tight pair of light gray leggings, you know, the kind that cling to everything, and she definitely had everything going on.

I was trying to focus on the ocean of space through the wide viewing window in front of me, but then there she would be, right beside me at the helm, smelling good, and I couldn’t help but to look over at that sweet caboose packed so tightly in those leggings.

She was tapping into her little electric pad and the look on her face was far too serious.

“Why don’t you turn around a bit and let me get a good look at that,” I said to her.

“Captain? Look at what,” and she was turning herself around and around trying to see if there was something stuck to her.

I made a twirling motion with my finger as she slowly rotated. “Wait. Stop. Stay just like that.”

“Is there something wrong, Captain? What is it? Is it a spider?”

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong. In fact, it’s all right.”

“Sir? I don’t understand?”

I reached out my hand and took a good squeeze of one firm cheek. “Mmm, that’s what I’m talking about. Nothing like a nice piece of ass.”

“Captain!” she said with a slight hint of alarm in her voice, her face reddening.

“That’s right. I’m your captain. That means you have to follow orders. Don’t you agree?”

She took a step back. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at, sir.”

“What I’m getting at, lieutenant, is that I want you to wear those leggings all the time. In fact, that’s an order.”

She reddened more and awkwardly tried to change the subject, her voice trembling. “Have you gotten today’s Wordle, sir?”

“Wordle? The only game I want to play is handball against that firm backside of yours. Wordle can wait.”

“Captain… You’re making me very uncomfortable in the workplace.”

Like all good captains, I knew I was perhaps pushing it a bit. It was time to slightly shift gears to soothe her growing anxiety. “How would you like to learn how to fly the ship, lieutenant?” I slyly asked her.

“But I’m a communications officer, not a flight officer. That’s not within the scope of my duties.”

I looked around the bridge. It was very early in the morning and none of the other members of the crew had yet arrived. “It’s fine. Nobody will ever know. And besides, it’s not that hard. Most of the controls are automated.”

She bit at her bottom lip and looked around as she considered my offer. “Okay. I’ll give it a try. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to steer this big thing.”

“I bet you have,” I mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“I said that’s perfect. The only thing is, you’re going to have to sit on my lap,” I told her.

“Your lap, sir?”

“I need to be able to help you with the controls. I need to give you proper instruction.”

She set her electric pad aside and climbed aboard the platform. I had her turn around in front of me, that delicious rump roast staring right at me, and then she slowly worked herself down upon my lap. I immediately felt her heat. I reached around her and held her wrists and moved her hands toward the controls. “Now,” I said. “This one is to slow the ship down… And this one is for thrust,” I breathed into her ear, and I bucked my captain’s log against her.

She immediately jumped up. “Captain! You have no intention on teaching me how to fly the ship, do you!? You just want to be a dirty boy in space. I’m sorry, sir, but order or no order, I will not be taken advantage of like that. I will not jeopardize my career as an officer… And neither should you.”

I looked at her, puzzled over why she was rejecting me. I mean, I’m the captain. She can’t deny me like this. “Let me get this straight, lieutenant. Are you saying you don’t want to work my throttle?”

Sher rolled her ocean blue eyes at me. “Do you really think that’s the way to win the favor of a woman? By acting like a spoiled, full-of-himself fraternity prick who uses naughty talk? I’m here to tell you… It’s not.”

I got up from my seat at the helm and walked toward her. “Now, now lieutenant, speaking to your captain like that could land you in the brig. You wouldn’t want that, would you? You wouldn’t want to spend your remaining days of soaring through the universe like that. You’ll go mad. I guarantee it. Things would be much better for you if you just gave in to my desires, and yours… And besides, deep down inside, I know you really want to get sucked into my tractor beam. I can tell you ache for my burst of plasma. Release yourself to me now, and later, when you are comfortable in your quarters, you will be able to reflect on a far better day than if you continue to turn away from me.”

The director suddenly called out “Cut! … Excellent work. Take a break guys, we’ll pick it up in twenty.”

I smiled and got closer to my co-star. Her name was Jennifer Los Angeles. She was a real fox. “You did great,” I said.

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. I would never have guessed this is your first science fiction porno.” I rephrased it when I could tell she was a bit dismayed by the terminology. I knew she needed to feel better about it. “Adult film is what I meant. This is real art what we’re doing here. Real artistic cinema. It’s a very unique genre.”

“Right. Just naked,” she purred with a hint of innocent distrust in what I was saying.

I pointed a finger at her and smiled, making a clicking sound with my mouth. “Some of the best things in life are done naked,” I reminded her.

“I suppose you’ll be getting on top of me here pretty soon.”

I chuckled. “That’s what the script says. And I just have to tell you… I’m really looking forward to blasting you with my proton torpedo.” She tried to laugh. “I want to do this scene with you more than any other scene I have ever done in my entire career,” I said with all sincerity.

“Do you mean that?” she asked with wide and naive eyes of bleached lapis lazuli, a hopeful, absorbent look on her face. “Or are you just saying that to make feel better.”

I moved closer to her and played with the blondish platinum locks that fell down upon her shoulders, a light rain of the softest yet broken ringlets. “I mean it. Wholeheartedly. You’re one delicious babe. And you have a great ass. I really love it.”

She smiled sweetly. “Thanks. That’s very nice of you to say.” Jennifer Los Angeles looked around as she struggled to find something else to talk about. “I suppose I better go freshen up before we get back to it.”

“Sure. I’ll see you back on the set.” I started to walk away to get myself a Fresca when something truly genuine and real suddenly hit my brain. I turned and rushed after her. “Hey,” I nervously started off, because this was going to be something real. “Do you want to come to my place tonight. I’m starting this new show on Netflix, and I really want someone to watch it with me. And I hope I’m not being too forward when I say… I want to share the experience with someone special.”

She smiled shyly. “And you consider me someone special?”

“I do. Very much so.”

“What’s the show?”

“It’s called 1899.”

She looked beyond me as the gears inside her mind whirred and whizzed, and then her eyes returned to my face, and she looked at me strangely. “But captain… We’ve already done that.”

END

By
Aaron Echoes August
Red Star, Blue Plate

Who am I but silent scream
who am I but dizzy dream
drifter in the daylight
mummy in the night
who is there to make it right
right, right
what is right
what is wrong
don’t know what I am thinking
a long, broken song
running through my head
nerves all a twisted and surreal
neon is lightning
pauses are thunderstorms
solid becomes liquid
liquid becomes melting
shaking becomes catastrophe
big orange bombs bursting inside of me
knuckles red and dry
burning sensation in the eyes
what is happening
changing yet dying, again and again
living, not breathing
every morning a train wreck
every night a balloon ride to space
every dawn a handshake
every moon a distant plate chock full of unanswered destiny, a van driving north, south, east, west – sunset seeker, mountain keeper, a drizzle, a fog, pounding my head wondering where it all went wrong – all gone, gone, gone

Red stars and atom bombs
gas globes spinning in the heavens
dripping flawless arms of colored smoke
the sun startled the blue plate awake
a dinner of history set in stone
a playground for the mastodon
a curtain of pure beauty
out east somewhere
far from the roads
far from the buildings
far from the dust storms
stinging at my skin
the aroma of beer
and cigarettes
illuminates the interior of the vehicle
as I sit
in sun-splashed happy horror
the moon dangles there up high
in its casket of deep blue
a lone pearl
cast from the string of space
an ivory stone
embedded deep within the sky’s bruise
spinning motions all around me
wash machines and black tires
crazy drug laced eyes
peering deep into the belly of a dirty tumbler
the earth itself
spinning motionlessly
and there’s some sharp-edged wedge
stuck deep in my back,
deep in my neck
cutting off the circuits
that make others human
and I taste like anti-freeze
spitting out the thing
that clogs my veins

But I am merely choking on the memories of LA, blue dead Vegas, the frozen North, the lava islands
where the cars run roughshod over grooved freeways slick with oil and the sweat of the sun, great mighty machines boiling over in the dense sense of pollution and crimes, dying down on Vine, the lepers and the shark-skin suited monks wiping their wallets on the palms of dirty phone booths, palm trees swaying to the pop music of this pop culture in a pop-ignited fury furnace with its breast nestled gently against the shoulder of the Ocean Pacifica

Jesus tries to pacify me
with a hamburger and a Coke
it’s a Christian monopoly
with Buddha playing pieces
priests raping babies
and sinners serving soup
to the poor, the homeless, the disheveled
presidential nominees
and silver-spooned dynasties
racking up the big bucks
while single mom sells a suck
the price of everything keeps going up, up, up
while my means keep going down, down, down
proud to be an Amorikan,
proud to be starving
and losing the fight
give me a library card
so I can check in my brain
throw away my umbrella
so I can drown in the rain
stop walking,
you better run
this heart is stretching its seams
this heart is stopping
at the end of this dream

Red star, blue plate
alarm clocks are boiling over
as I am about to go to sleep
one more nail to pound
one more tear to stop
time to say goodnight,
it’s heaven-o-clock at the terrace plunge.

By
Aaron Echoes August
The Lobster Guy (Four)

Photo by ELIZAVETA CHAYKO on Pexels.com

After gathering his meager belongings from his locker at the Neptune Pop-In Shop Food Market for the very last time, Truman went outside and retrieved his childish bicycle from where it was attached to the OUT OF ORDER kiddie horse ride.

He didn’t want to ride it, instead he just pushed it as he walked. He was too dejected to enjoy the lullaby roll. He went along the cliche American main drag that catered to interstate travelers with its overplayed fast-food joints and gross hotels. He crossed over near the lemon-yellow Super 8. He kept walking north, past dirty fields, abandoned retail spaces, broken down houses and discarded furniture on the curb.

Puffed-up traffic headed toward I-80 and out of town was whizzing by on his right and every once in a while, a car packed with bastards would honk at him or throw food or empty beer cans at him as they passed. Truman let it all bounce off, like he always did. He didn’t care. He felt he deserved to be pummeled with the worst that life had to offer. Part of him wanted to step out into traffic so he could be run down, smashed, squashed, pressed into the pavement like repeatedly run over roadkill.

The sun was beginning to fall toward its daily stupor when he finally arrived home. He let his bike tumble to the ground, and he went inside. He closed all the curtains and turned on a few lights. He went into the bathroom and studied the empty tub as he urinated in the toilet with the lobster seat cover. He decided against taking a bath and instead put his lobster pajamas on right over his dirty skin. He went to the kitchen and fetched out an old phonebook from a bookcase he had there. He opened it to the B section and ran his finger down the page until he found her.

BARRYMORE, M.

His fingers worked the dial of his red plastic table phone shaped like a lobster, the headset being a claw.

It rang.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Maggie?” Truman shamefully squeaked.

“Yes, who is calling please?”

“It’s me, Truman Humboldt, from the chicken plant.”

“Truman? How did you get my number?”

“It’s in the phonebook.”

“Phonebook? You still use a phonebook?”

“Yeah… You obviously still use an old-time phone because you answered,” Truman snipped.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m not up on modern technology. I like the classic things in life. So much simpler… But why are you calling? What is it can I do for you? Is this some sort of an emergency? Are you having a personal crisis, Truman?”

“Oh, dear Maggie. I had a very horrible and bad day and was wondering if you’d like to come over and talk. I have some feelings I need to disperse.”

“Truman, you know I can’t do that. It’s very unprofessional. Why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow and we can set up an appointment?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come over? Or maybe I can come to your house if you don’t feel like coming out into the world to befriend someone in need.”

“No, Truman, you can’t be doing this. You can’t be calling me. You can’t come to my house. I could lose my job. You could lose your job. It’s unethical and against the rules of my profession.”

“I don’t really care about losing my job anymore,” Truman said. “I’m on the brink of catastrophe. I just want to see you. You’re so fetching, and I had such a miserable day. I need to be held.”

“I’m sorry Truman. That’s just not possible. I have to go now. Goodbye.”

Maggie Barrymore hung up on him.

“Froot Loops! Froot Loops! Froot Loops!” Truman screamed, and he tore the connective wire from the wall and threw the phone against the kitchen floor with monstrous and barbaric force. It made a hollow dinging clang as it bounced oddly across the linoleum that was patterned with lobsters and ships and cold ocean water and waves.

Truman called in sick to the chicken plant the next morning and then rode his crappy kiddie bike to the local car rental office and rented a car. He threw the bike into the trunk and drove to Clover, the next town over where they had a bicycle shop, and he traded his ride in for something more manly.

He stopped at a bar in Clover and had a few lonely drinks. It was dim and smoky, and the people were mostly quiet and hunched over in despair. No one talked to him. He didn’t care because he was too busy daydreaming about Maggie Barrymore and how she rejected him. His foolish heart hurt. He wanted to win her love. He paid his tab and drove back to Neptune.

It was near 5 in the p.m., and Truman was parked outside the chicken plant main office waiting for Maggie Barrymore to emerge. When she finally did come out, Truman’s heart thumped, and he got all shimmery in his hungry stomach. He watched her closely as she strolled through the parking lot, stepping lightly but with purpose, one arm gently swinging a briefcase at her side. Truman considered her to be a luscious goddess headed to a festival for luscious goddesses. He wanted to be her Zeus and mate with her. He wanted to fertilize her deeply so that she may bring forth to the world a demigod. A demigod with the impenetrable power of a lobster.

Maggie Barrymore got in her car, started it and drove out of the parking lot. Truman began to follow her through town, being careful not to get too close for fear that she may recognize him. She made a right, then a left, and then another right and into the belly of a more upscale neighborhood – as upscale as Neptune, Nebraska could get. She pulled into the driveway of a neatly kept little house. It was humble, but sophisticated. Cookie-cutter for sure, but tasty like Christmas, Truman decided. The garage door opened, and she pulled the car in. The garage door went back down, and she was swallowed up by dark domestication, the kind that often brews salacious thoughts and deeds.

Truman was parked across the street as he stalked her like some creep from a dark documentary on Netflix. He retrieved lobster-shaped binoculars from a lobster-decorated daypack and positioned them against his eyes. He aimed them at her house to see if he could catch a glimpse of her, perhaps undressing, or maybe, hopefully, she just walked around the house nude all the time. Truman grunted with disappointment when no such view came into focus.

He strummed at the steering wheel with his fingertips as he carefully considered his next move. A move that would get him closer to his delicious crush. And then, like a sudden burst of cocaine and wayward dynamite, a fabulous idea struck him, and he quickly drove away and went back home, the sudden glee in his guts flying like war shrapnel.

Once there, Truman began shaving his face as he filled the tub with hot, hot water. Once the grimy and unkempt whiskers were cleared away, he splashed water on his face and then looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. It had been a long, long time since he had seen himself without the scruff. His skin was pale, but smooth like the belly of a slippery seal.

He set a small mirror and a pair of scissors on the edge of the tub and got in. He dipped his entire head in the hot water and then came up for air. He took a comb and ran it through his thin, spaghetti-like blonde hair. He twisted some strands together in his fingers and snipped it with the scissors. He did this again and again and again until his hair was very short. He studied himself in the mirror. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Now I look like a real man.”

He scrubbed at his body with a new bar of soap. Then he rinsed. Then he let the water start to drain from the tub. It made a gurgling sound like the end of life. Then he rinsed again. He climbed out of the tub and dried off. He spread after shave lotion all over his face, across his arms and chest and over his private parts. He smelled himself and he thought that he smelled very good.

“Now that’s what I call super fresh,” he said, pointing to himself in the mirror and winking like he was Mr. Cool from Albuquerque. Then he brushed his teeth and swirled green mouthwash around in his mouth.

He walked into his bedroom and opened the closet door. He pulled out his one nice pair of pants and his one nice button-down shirt and threw them on the bed. He put on fresh underwear and socks and then the shirt and pants. He worked a crisp belt around his waist. He dug around in his closet for his nicest pair of shoes. He found them, but he had to blow the dust off them.

Once completely dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror again. “Damn, I’m one hot guy,” he said proudly to his stunning reflection. The mirror thought otherwise and whispered back, “No you’re not. You’re hideous. Absolutely atrocious. You make women violently puke.”

Truman ignored the disturbing voice in his head. He grabbed the keys to the rental car and rushed out. He drove to a nearby liquor store to buy a bottle of love wine. Then he was off again, back to the beautiful side of town, his soul adrift in blossoming romance. He was going to surprise Maggie Barrymore with a very special visit.

TO BE CONTINUED

In case you missed it, you can read the previous part of this story HERE.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.

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Zoo Candles

Photo by Craig Adderley on Pexels.com

I awake to the finale soundings of a dream, pears crystallized by heaven’s lamp of heat and love, the disco spills out onto the street at 4 a.m., stars bungled and bundles above. I lie like a body floating in the bed. I talk to the ceiling, I chat with the windows, I argue with the red walls, I yell at the floor. Scuffling forth toward the day of wood, coffee brews, madmen stew, angels on pyres burn, rainbow wings like volcano ashes, the swimming clouds, the broken bones, the mad shopping frenzy on Holiday eves, the eaves of the neighborhood roofs tinted with a white glaze of frost, Christmas trees chopped and bundled, presents dissected beneath its branches, love a mystery, missing, a flowing and wanting ache at times, other times a wishful hope, a tender kiss, her eyes like blue waterfalls, her warmth beside me, love is more than anything one could ever know, the penultimate leaping circus, the penultimate cherished touch, the penultimate heartbeat.

Some days I think all is lost. Some days the future of life seems slightly bright, like a torchlight in darkness, and those times when I look ahead at a world without me, I wonder where I will be, where will I float endlessly, what colors of the sky will I see, that is, if there will even be a sky. The hum of existence rides like trains on rails, the gentle rock, the hypnotic sway through a countryside of rolling green and small villages, mountains and curving streams, lapis lazuli skies above Nepal, the long valleys of green and ice and towering mountains. That day I found a plastic bag of money outside Kathmandu. It was all foreign to me and I didn’t know how to speak. I ended up in a restaurant and had ravioli and wine. People were laughing, people were covered in ice and bruises. They talked about that earthquake that changed their very existence, changed the landscape, buried souls and dreams and buildings. Everything in life seems lie an aftershock at times.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to fly in a plane and look out the window. The clouds below me instead of always above me. To float on a funeral carpet of magic, to feel altitude changes in my guts, to eat peanuts and choke because my 7-Up was drained. A snoring idiot across the aisle. I couldn’t understand why she was content in missing the blessings of sight and feeling. Where do I float to now? Most of the time I don’t know. Maybe I never know. My guts are restless. These aged guts twisted in agony and contentment at the same furrowed gravity time space. Would it be easier to just be medieval? It’s never been easy. This road we walk upon, these bricks are not always golden.

I looked down out of the plane now. It was finally dark. The planets and the stars were up there in our way. The smear of melancholy lights below atop the Earth, pinpricks of existence, of life, of movement, of pain, shame, being insane. The zoo candles flickering among the fur and cages. The animals howling for freedom and food. They just want to be loved like all the other living things. Love fills the distance between hope and fear. Her blue eyes cast wishes I cannot always fulfill, but they also cast a love I never knew.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.
The Lobster Guy (Three)

Even though he was running late, the oddity that is Truman Humboldt took his time biking to the Neptune Pop-In Shop Food Market to work his cashier shift. He could not stop thinking about Maggie Barrymore though, her sensual curves, the way she tapped a pen against her pillowy lips when she listened to him talk, the way she filled the entire office with her feminine scent, the way she crinkled her petite nose when she made a face of disgust toward him… And at one point in his daydreaming ride, Truman closed his eyes completely and just sailed peacefully through Neptune, Nebraska as if he were on a lobster boat on the big, big ocean, hugging Miss Maggie close to him in the wind and salty sea air, her hand down his seafaring pants. But when Truman opened his eyes, his daydream ended abruptly, foiled by reality, and he found himself crashing into a big wall of hedges encapsulating someone’s ornamental front yard.

“Damn it all to hell!” Truman cursed, as he picked himself up off the walkway and slapped shredded greenery off his now torn pants. He got stuck with sticks as well. His arms were covered in red scratches. One nearly missed his eye.

A pack of wild teenagers loitering in front of a house on the other side of the street pointed at disheveled Truman and burst out laughing. “Hey moron, watch out for the bushes!” one of them yelled. “Nice bike, weirdo. Is it your little sister’s!?” another boy added.

Truman tried to ignore them, but he was boiling on the inside as he got back on his bike and rode away. The pack of wild teenagers just laughed at him, and their laughing caught the wind and followed him as Truman went, his legs pumping harder for more speed so he could just get away from them, even though part of him wanted to turn around and go back to kill them.

When Truman arrived at the Neptune Pop-In Shop Food Market he was a sweaty, riled mess. He chained his bicycle to the OUT OF ORDER kiddie horse ride outside the store and rushed inside, nearly knocking over an old woman coming out of the store carrying her groceries.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you jackass!” the old lady snapped at him.

Truman clenched his jaw. He wanted to turn around and punch her right in the face and then throw her damn groceries all over the parking lot. But he did not do that.

Instead, he was screaming like mad on the inside as he walked into the employee lounge and punched in for his shift. “Damn it! I’m twelve minutes late!” Truman yelled out.

Some of his co-workers who were sitting around a table drinking Coke and munching popcorn snickered among themselves. Suddenly, as if by magic, the store manager, that being Mr. Guldencock, was standing right behind him.

Guldencock was a definite cock. Some nicknamed him Mr. Mustard, a play on Gulden’s Mustard, and because he always smelled like mustard for some reason. It all worked out perfectly for those who made fun of him. Mr. Guldencock had a spicy personality, but not in a tasteful way. He was grossly tangy. He sweated a lot. He had horrible breath. He lingered around the female employees way too much. He was touchy feely in a creepy way. Everyone hated him.

And now Truman faced his stern grossness. Mr. Guldencock’s thick, overly hairy arms were folded and resting on his blubbery belly. His pale eyes bore through Truman’s soul.

“Jiminy Cricket! You scared the jeepers out of me, Mr. Guldencock,” Truman said.

“You’re nearly 15 minutes late, Truman, and we’re busy as hell out there,” Mr. Guldencock said. “Where in the world have you been? We got customers waiting!”

“I’m sorry sir, I got tied up at my other job, and then I had a bicycle accident. I couldn’t help it.”

Mr. Guldencock looked Truman up and down with a hint of suspicion mixed with disgust. “You look like hell. Now go get yourself cleaned up and get on register one. And for God’s sake, comb your hair.”

“Hello. How are you today? Did you find everything okay?”

“Hello. How are you today? Did you find everything okay?”

“Hello. How are you today? Did you find everything okay?”

The moronic monotony of it all was murder, Truman thought to himself, as he robotically scanned groceries, pushed buttons, and took money.

Then a certain item caught his attention as he ran it over the scanner. He looked up at the customer, a chunky woman with a bad complexion and tattoos all over her chubby arms. She’s no Maggie Barrymore, Truman thought to himself. This chick is gross.

“Excuse me, mam,” Truman said. “But do you realize this is imitation lobster.”

The lady annoyingly smacked her gum and looked at Truman with odd wonder.

“Yeah, so what?” she said, somewhat offended.

“Well, it’s not real lobster. It’s fake lobster, says so right here on the package.”

“Well, I don’t care if it’s fake lobster and I don’t care for your opinion about my groceries, cashier man. Now just ring up my shit so I can get out of here.”

Truman clutched the package of imitation lobster and just stared at her.

“Well?” the lady shrugged, “Are you going to do your god damn job or not!?”

Truman looked around. Everything seemed so damn crazy to him. His line was growing longer, and people were becoming grumbly and impatient. All the noise and rattle tattle of the place became one blaring sound and even his vision got a bit fuzzy.

“Hello!” the chunky woman said, waving her hands in front of Truman’s face. “Earth to dipshit. Anybody there?”

“I’m sorry, mam. I can’t let you do it,” Truman said. And with that, he threw the package of imitation lobster as hard as he could across the store. It must have hit someone in the head.

“Hey!” someone yelled from far off.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” the chunky woman yelled. “I want to speak to your supervisor right now!”

Truman got on the intercom and spoke nervously. The feedback initially piercing in the air.

“Umm, hello, is anyone there? Mr. Guldencock, please report to register one for customer assistance. Over and out. Have a nice day… And stuff.”

The chunky woman who tried to buy imitation lobster turned to the customer in line behind her. “Can you believe this whack-a-doodle shit?” she said, shaking her bloated head.

“Ugh, I know,” the other customer said. “This guy is the worst cashier they have. He’s so awkward and weird. I hate coming here.”

The imitation lobster woman laughed, revealing her mouth with a few missing teeth. “Tell me about it,” she said. “They need to just fire his stupid ass.”

Mr. Guldencock waddled over to the checkout stand with his usual faux smile plastered to his fat face. “Is there a problem here?” he cheerfully asked.

“There sure as hell is,” the woman complained loudly. “Your moron cashier here started giving me crap about buying imitation lobster, and then he threw my damn package across the store. I think it hit someone.”

Mr. Guldencock looked at Truman with evil eyes of utter disappointment, and then he sighed, the air around him reeking from his breath. Then he got on the intercom. “Register backup to one please. Code Truman. Thank you.”

Mr. Guldencock tapped the tip of his pen on his desk and just stared at him. Truman shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Mr. Guldencock leaned forward. “Well, I have no choice but to let you go, Truman. Your behavior this evening was inexcusable. I mean, what the hell were you thinking? Throwing a customer’s food selection across the store!”

“I was just trying to save her from making a terrible mistake,” Truman mumbled.

“What!? Speak up. Why can’t you ever just talk like a normal person?”

“I said I was trying to keep the customer from making a terrible choice! She was going to buy imitation lobster! That means not real lobster! That’s ridiculous. I had to stop it. I just had to.”

Mr. Guldencock shook his sweaty head and sighed deeply. “We don’t pay you to make choices for our customers, Truman. We pay you to ring up their shit and take their money and act like you love doing it. That’s it. You have no opinion on anything. Your voice does not matter in my grocery store. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?”

Truman looked at the floor dejectedly. “I guess I’m nobody.”

“You know what? You’re probably right,” Mr. Guldencock said with a scalding chuckle. “Now go clean out your locker and get the hell out of here. I don’t ever want to see you in here again.”

“But where am I supposed to buy my food then?” Truman wanted to know.

“I don’t give a dead moose’s last shit where you buy your food, just don’t ever come in here again!” Mr. Guldencock bellowed. Truman just sat there and took his boss’ abuse. Then he started to cry.

TO BE CONTINUED

In case you missed the previous part of this story, you can check it out HERE. Thanks for reading and supporting independent writers and creators.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.
The Lobster Guy (Two)

In the mechanical cacophony beneath bright lights and with the scent of poultry death in the air, Truman Humboldt reluctantly worked.

“You know, I really wish we were shelling lobsters instead of breaking chicken necks!” Truman Humboldt said loudly to the stout Mexican woman working across from him.

“Huh?” she said, with a puzzled look on her face, the noise of the factory floor making it hard to hear him.

“Lobsters!” Truman repeated with frustration. “I wish these were lobsters!”

“Lobsters? These aren’t lobsters, fool. You el pollo loco,” the Mexican woman said to him, waving her blue rubber-gloved hand at him in a dismissive gesture, and she went back to work, completely ignoring him.

Truman didn’t fully understand what she had said. “Thanks a lot!” he yelled back, and he smiled his awkward, yucky teeth smile, a smile that did nothing to improve his burning red complexion.

At lunch break, Truman sat by himself at a long table in the cafeteria looking down at the plastic tray in disgust. He spoke aloud to himself. “Chicken sandwiches. I hate chicken sandwiches. How many times do I have to tell you people I HATE chicken sandwiches!”

The chatter in the cafeteria died down and people stared at Truman and whispered.

One of the supervisors noticed Truman’s outburst and went over to him. “Everything okay there Truman? You seem a little tense.”

“Yes, Mr. Munich, everything is fine. I just wish we had some better menu choices.”

“Well, you know, it’s a free lunch. The company wants to be sure you are well fed because we care about our employees. But, you get what we give you. If you don’t like it, why don’t you bring your own lunch?”

“You know Mr. Munich, thank you, I think I may start doing that,” Truman said, the answer being tainted with a hint of sarcasm. “The only problem is, Mr. Munich, I couldn’t get a decent lobster in this God-awful town if it came right up to me on the sidewalk and bit me on the ass!”

Mr. Munich laughed and patted Truman on his bony shoulder to help soothe the situation. “Don’t you mean claw you on the ass, Truman,” he laughed. His loud, annoying chuckle was plainly insincere. “You know… Because lobsters have claws.”

Truman was unimpressed and somewhat insulted by Mr. Munich’s lighthearted joke. He feigned a snicker and rolled his red, swollen eyes.

“Oh, come on, Truman. It’s funny. Laugh a little once in a while,” Mr. Munich told him. “You’re much too tense about all this lobster stuff. We just want you to be happy here. You are happy working here, aren’t you?”

“Well, I guess so, it’s a job,” Truman answered. “You know how it is these days.”

Mr. Munich sat down next to Truman. He retrieved a white handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his sweaty brow. It was always too hot in the factory.

“You know, Truman, we do very important work here,” Mr. Munich began. “We process chickens for people all over the country. Why, just this morning, you may have broken the neck of a chicken that will be enjoyed by a thankful family in… Florida, for example.”

“Florida is hot and muggy and there are too many bugs and alligators and old people there. I hate Florida,” Truman snipped.

“Well, okay, wherever then. How about Maine? You always talk about going to Maine.”

Truman grew angry. “How dare you Mr. Munich! People in Maine only eat lobster! Lobster god damn it!”

“Hey, hold on Truman, settle down. There’s no need to get your tailfeathers in a ruffle. I’m sure some people in Maine eat chicken. They must. I mean, people in Maine can’t eat lobster every single day.”

“I could, and I would if I lived there instead of this shithole. I would eat lobster every damn day, and you know what, if you came to visit me, I wouldn’t let you have any lobster at all. I’d say to you, ‘No lobster roll for you, Mr. Munich,’ and then I’d tell you to get the hell out of my restaurant.”

Mr. Munich stood up and just shook his head.

“Okay Truman, you win. If you’re going to be like this, I’d rather not talk to you right now. You’re a good worker, Truman, but I think you’re losing your marbles. I would like for you to report to the company counselor this afternoon before you leave for the day. I think you need to talk to someone. A professional. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

Truman Humboldt lightly knocked on the half-opened door of the counselor’s office in an upper part of the chicken plant where he had never been to before.

A soft female voice answered. “Come in.”

“Hello,” Truman shyly said, his heart thumping, as he looked at the well-dressed woman sitting behind a cluttered desk.

“You must be Truman, right? I’m Maggie Barrymore,” and she stood and extended her hand.

Truman grasped her hand with his and he got nervous in his gut, for her skin was very soft and warm to the touch. His was cold and damp.

“Please, sit down,” she said to him, and she subtly wiped her hand on her skirt.

Truman took a seat across from her. He became even more nervous when he saw how attractive she was, how perfectly professional and pompous and pouty and precious she was. How completely unlike himself she was. He wanted to taste her despite how distasteful she was to him. Just because she would never have anyone like him.

“So,” she began, adjusting the smart glasses on her flawless face and readying a pen to take notes. “Mr. Munich told me you had some trouble in the cafeteria today. Do you want to tell me about that?”

Truman looked down when he spoke. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it trouble. I was just a bit upset about having to eat a chicken sandwich again.”

“Truman, you can look at me, I won’t bite.”

“Unless you want me to,” Truman heard her soft voice inside his head say, like a radio in another room.

“Oh, I’m sorry, mam, I’m not always good around people, especially nice looking and put together people such as yourself. You have a fantastic vibe, sort of.”

“Well, thank you Truman, but we’re here to talk about you and what happened today.”

Truman heard her sensual voice in his head again, the radio turned a bit louder. “Do you want to take me to bed? I’ll let you do anything.”

“Well, like I said,” Truman nervously stammered. “I was mad about having to eat a chicken sandwich again. I just wish they had other things for us to eat. But then Mr. Munich suggested I should bring my own lunch from my own home if I wanted to, and I think I may just do that, mam. That’s about it.”

“You can call me Maggie; you don’t have to call me mam. That makes me feel old.”

Truman once again heard her mystical voice in his head, and he began to shake and scratch at his face. “I want you inside me Truman, right here, right now. Give it to me on my desk.”

“All right then… Maggie.” Then Truman brightened when he suddenly felt he had something meaningful to say, to a woman. “Do you happen to like Seinfeld?” he asked her.

“You mean the TV show?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty funny I guess, but let’s talk more about…”

“Would you like to come over to my house and watch it with me some night?” Truman nervously blurted out. “I could fix us dinner and maybe you would let me kiss you at some point in the evening. It could be like a hot date.”

Maggie Barrymore was a bit stunned and cleared her throat before she spoke again. “Now Truman, that would be highly inappropriate, and I would appreciate you not ever saying anything like that again. We work together. We are to act professional. Is that understood?”

Her imaginary voice penetrated Truman’s mind again. “You can kiss me anywhere you would like to, Truman. And I mean anywhere.”

“I’m sorry Miss Maggie, it’s just that you are… So beautiful. Like a perfect lobster just pulled from the chilly waters of the Atlantic.” Truman let his eyes close as he paused to imagine a life with someone special and beautiful beside him. “I would love to butter you up and eat you.”

Maggie Barrymore pretended to ignore his odd remark and nervously shuffled through some things on her desk in hopes of ending the meeting as quickly as possible.

“I was going through your file, and it looks like you’ve been with us for about four years?” she said.

“That’s right,” Truman answered, returned to reality.

“So, what brought you to Neptune, Nebraska? Seems like an odd choice for someone who’s so into lobster.”

“My grandfather owned a house here, and he left it to me when he died, and I had nowhere else to go after my folks kicked me out of their house in Lincoln, so I came here to live.”

“Why did your parents kick you out?”

“They were tired of me being weird and living in the basement and always talking about lobster and wanting to go live my dream life in Maine. My dad wasn’t my real dad though, he was just a step, and he was mean to me sometimes. He would tell me that I wasn’t a real man, but that I was just a scared little pussy in a man’s body. He just wanted it to be him and my mother by themselves. I never had a real dad, I mean, not that I know of.”

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry to hear that,” Maggie said, feigning empathy. “Do you ever talk to your mother anymore?”

“No, she died not too long ago. She had cancer in her brain, and of course my stepdad doesn’t want anything to do with me. So, here I am Miss Maggie, in Neptune, Nebraska, just trying to survive life while I chase my dream.”

“I’m awfully sad to hear that about your mother, Truman. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”

“Hadn’t we all Miss Maggie? Hadn’t we all.”

TO BE CONTINUED

You can read the first part of this story HERE.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.
The Lobster Guy (One)

Truman Humboldt walked into the Neptune Clock Shop in downtown Neptune, Nebraska and firmly tapped the tip of his walking stick on the tiled floor.

“Uh huh, be right with you,” said the old man behind the counter who was busy dissecting the insides of an old clock and trying to make repairs. He stopped, wiped his oily hands on a rag and looked up.

“What can I do fer ya?”

“I was wondering if you might have a lobster clock for sale.”

“A lobster clock?” the old man asked with a quizzical grunt. “What the hell is a lobster clock?”

“Well, simply put, it’s a clock that looks like a lobster,” Truman replied, and he struck a strange pose with one arm straight up and the other out to his side to imitate the hands of a clock. “And the hour and minute hands look like lobster claws.”

The old man scratched at his head as he looked Truman up and down; he noticed that the 30-something man was oddly tall and skinny and that he had an odd face that looked sunburnt, and that his smile was very awkward. He noticed the long, stringy blonde hair coming down from atop his oily, pinkish head, and if it weren’t for the scraggly beard upon his face, Truman could have easily been mistaken for a very ugly woman.

The owner quickly scanned the walls of his small shop, looking at all the clocks he had hanging there, all ticking away in unison.

“No, sorry. I don’t have any lobster clocks,” the old man said, and he started going back to fixing the broken timepiece spread out on his workbench.

“Well, do you think you can order one for me?” Truman asked, a bit exasperated.

The old man put down his tools and sighed. He looked under his counter and pulled out a small white card and pushed it in Truman’s direction.

“Fill this out and I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Truman looked the card over suspiciously.

At the very top it said: SPECIAL ORDER REQUEST. Beneath that it asked for his name, address, phone number and nature of the request.

Truman filled it out sloppily, for he had terrible penmanship because he was always so shaky, and then he handed the card back to the man.

“Thank you,” Truman said. “I eagerly await your response.”

And with that he tapped the tip of his walking stick on the floor again, turned and walked out the door.

Truman holstered his walking stick, clumsily boarded his red bicycle, and started riding through downtown, his stringy blonde hair flowing behind him. He had a great sensitivity to light and the bright sun made him squint and that made it hard for him to see. He took a right at Main Street and pedaled up and across the cement bridge that went over the dirty rail yard below. He coasted down the other side and took a right on Corn Street. Truman lived at the very end of the block in a very small house painted red. He rolled into the driveway, set his bicycle against the chain-link fence that surrounded his small yard, and went inside.

Truman closed all the curtains and went into the bathroom where he went to work filling his bathtub with very hot water. He lit a few candles. Then he went into his modest kitchen where he sliced up some lemons and put cubes of butter in a small pot to melt over the gas stove top.

When the tub was nearly full, he turned off the water and poured in the melted butter. Then, one by one, he squeezed juice from the lemon slices into the water and threw the well-rung pieces into a trash bin near the tub. He clicked on the small CD player that sat on the counter near the tub. It played ocean sounds, nothing but ocean sounds.

Truman stripped off his clothes and dipped his lanky body into the scalding water. It hurt at first, but then his body got used to it. His body always got used to it. His hot lemon-butter bath had become a regular ritual lately and he thought he might be going absolutely nuts. He put a wet washcloth over his face and leaned back in the tub. He felt the heat penetrate his bones. He could smell the lemon in his brain. He could feel the butter making his skin oily and slippery. He stayed there in the tub like that for 24 minutes.

When he got out, he studied his naked body in the mirror. The skin that covered his odd bones was a burning red color. He tilted his head to one side and watched as the water dripped off his head, through his hair, down onto his bony, narrow shoulders, across his concave chest and over his somewhat bulging belly.

“I’m grotesque,” he said aloud to no one, and he switched off the light.

Truman walked into his bedroom and pulled out the third drawer of his lobster-decorated dresser. He removed his neatly folded lobster pajamas and put them on. He shuffled into the living room and plopped down and sank into his comfortable red couch, the pattern of the fabric being a mix of lobsters and the heads of bearded sea captains with big pipes in their mouths.

Truman watched only one thing: Seinfeld. He had the entire television series on DVD, and he proudly admits to everyone that he has seen every single episode at least 101 times. His favorite episode of all time? The Hamptons, of course. That’s the one where Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer visit the ugly baby couple in the Hamptons and Kramer snags lobsters from commercial lobster traps and they all enjoy a great lobster feast and George has a problem with “shrinkage” from being in the cold water and Jerry’s girlfriend makes fun of him and George exacts revenge by putting lobster in her scrambled eggs at breakfast because she’s allergic to shellfish — yadda, yadda, yadda.

“Hah!” Truman laughed out loud, as he watched The Hamptons for the 102^nd time.

It was 6 in the a.m. when Truman arose from troubled sleep. He forced his body up and sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window at the endless, boring view of the flatlands filled with seemingly endless fields of corn. He lit a cigarette with his lobster-shaped lighter and blew the smoke into the air.

“Why?” he asked aloud, “Why can’t I awake to a beautiful view of the ocean, instead of… This? Why do people even live here? Why am I living here?”

He sighed heavily, for it was Truman’s dream to move to Maine and live right there on the edge of the ocean and have his own lobster shack where he would serve the best lobster rolls in the world. And then he giggled to himself.

“And if they don’t order right, I will say ‘No lobster roll for you!’”

He stood tall and stretched. His bones popped here and there, and he walked into the kitchen to eat some breakfast.

“Today I will have Froot Loops,” he said in a high, quirky voice. He got out his favorite cereal bowl, the one that looked like a lobster, and poured the cereal in slowly, all the while singing: “Froot Loops, Froot Loops, Froot Loops.”

He munched and crunched and stared out the kitchen window above the sink.

“Damn it!” he suddenly yelled, pounding his fist on the countertop. “I don’t want to go to work today! I hate chickens. They’re so nasty.”

Truman had two jobs. The main one being working at the chicken processing plant where he spent all day breaking chicken necks and then placing the birds on a grotesque conveyor belt that whisked them away to other torture chambers.

“Snap, crackle, plop!” Truman queerly yelped. “Snap, crackle, plop, plop, plop.”

His second job was working part-time as a cashier at the Neptune Pop-In Shop Food Market. He didn’t mind the job too much, except for the fact he always felt his co-workers were laughing at him behind his back. Which they were. Everyone laughed about Truman Humboldt. He was the town oddball.

“Froot Loops, Froot Loops, Froot Loops,” Truman repeated as he wandered through the house not really knowing what the hell he was doing until he finally realized he needed to pull it together, get dressed, and ship off to the factory.

TO BE CONTINUED

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.

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The Laguna Bungle (Session 5)

Photo by The Lazy Artist Gallery on Pexels.com

The Desert Therapist

I was motoring toward a town called Feldspar, out there on the edge of the nothing land, that deep, crusted sandbox of California, the dim and salty place where the heat stirs like a devil and your own loneliness is echoed. I wasn’t too sure what was going on in the belfry lately, the bells were there and gently clanging, at times misfiring, must be my neurons or electrons or the emojicons in my brain. Regardless of what the science is, I’m never the same person all the time. I am liquid. I am fluid. I break and spill. I flow and damage. Other times I am as still as an unmuddied lake beneath an azure sky, brushstrokes against a canvas of lapis lazuli. It was always difficult to uncover my own thoughts, let alone decipher them.

Driving can be therapy. There’s something soothing about driving alone in the middle of nowhere. It’s akin to survival almost, because what would happen if the car broke down and I was miles from anything. What would happen to me? I would have to survive. That’s a sort of ridiculous notion considering all the eyes on us always — the cameras, the satellites, the snipers with their cell phones. It’s not the 1800s. Someone would find me sooner or later, that is, if I wanted to be found. Sometimes, I do not. Sometimes, I think it would be better to just sink down into the Earth and never return.

As I drove, I started thinking about astral projection and dreams and wondering if they were the same thing. I had a dream last night where I was playing volleyball with balloons, and I wasn’t very good at it. My strikes were continually misguided, and the other players were down on me, so down on me that it came to the point if the ball was coming toward me, they would yell for me to just get out of the way. I quit, walked away because I was purely fed up with people being down on me. I went off to some haunted house and looked out some windows at weird people looking in at me. It was unsettling. I woke up. The sheets were crumpled. Her scent was gone. I looked to my left. Her skin was gone. She was gone. Was it forever? I remembered I had a job to do. I had a case. I was hunting a wayward husband. But maybe she deserved it. Then again, maybe no one deserves it.

And then my cell phone rang. Carola Strawberry’s name illuminated.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Smoke. It’s Carola Strawberry. How are you?”

“I’m fine. How can I help you Mrs. Strawberry?”

“Carola, please. For some reason being attached to that last name leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Right. So, what can I do for you?”

“My husband is planning a weekend getaway to Palm Springs. Something about golfing or whatever again, but of course I don’t believe him. The only holes he’s really planning on dropping his balls into belong to someone who is not me. I’m talking about another woman if that wasn’t clear.

“It’s very clear.”

“I thought it might be a perfect opportunity to launch your investigation. I mean, it may all be just a smokescreen, but I thought it was important to let you know.”

“Of course. Do you know what country club he was planning on casting away his vows at?”

“That’s an odd way to put it.”

“I’m a natural when it comes to putting things in an odd way.”

“He prefers the Far Wind Resort.”

“Far Wind… Got it. Anything else I need to know?”

Carola Strawberry paused on the other end. Was she shattered or would she stand up on her own? I wondered. She cleared her raspy South American throat. “I know that all this will break my heart, Mr. Smoke, and I know it’s what I want you to do, but if you could, be easy on me with the details. He was still my husband, so of course, part of me wishes it to be untrue. Does any of that make sense?”

“It makes sense. I’ll do what I need to do, Mrs. Strawberry… Carola. I’ll be in touch.”

I ended the call and grabbed the steering wheel with two hands and just hung on as the machine burrowed its way toward the sunbaked playground of the rich and the weak and the broken-souled.

As I looked out at that chalky chocolate expanse of place, I started to wonder if the world was just done with me from the very start. As one gets older, one has more to look back on. The messes start piling up. The regrets fill every vessel. The guilty things start stabbing your heart. Why do I feel so damaged? Why has the world sat on me so often? Why do dreams always die?

I don’t know why, no one answered. But what about the good things? Why don’t you ever think about the good things, John Smoke? she said. Who was she? My phantom love, that fallen angel with the open arms. Did I pass right through them?

I had to get my thoughts back upon the road. This isn’t about me right now. I turned on the radio and flew upon the miles that waited for me.

TO BE CARRIED ON

You can read the previous part of this story HERE.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.
The Chick-fil-A Witch Project

The day was gray and cold, the sky the color of frozen steel and whipped cream dipped in a downward spiral of war perhaps. My hot cheeka beside me, the one I continually long to mount like an animal, suddenly got a craving for a fruit bowl, but at all places… Chick-fil-A.

We were in the big town this day, the town that has a Chick-fil-A and all the other things of consumption-fueled modern life, many in triplicate, fourplicate, fiveplicate… And so, our loving guts tell us to take advantage, to taste everything we can, when we can, however we can.

I pulled her in for a long love kiss, her lips winter warm, and then I pulled the car into the long drive-thru line, as it always is, winding, binding, crammed and cramped. Chaos. I am always amazed that this many people are so desperate for a chicken sandwich that they will sit in a line 4 miles long and waste half of their day, half of their life, waiting, for a mediocre chicken sandwich doled out by breaded bigots.

But my woman wanted a fruit bowl. And I decided I would become one of the overcrowded crowd and said, “What the hell, I’ll get a chicken sandwich. How about a spicy one?”

She looked at me with grave concern. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, with everything that happened with your guts last night.”

I thought about it. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should take it easy on the spicy food. I gave in to her wisdom and utter beauty. “All right. I’ll just have the regular chicken sandwich. What kind of crap do they put on it?” I asked my lovely because I am not always wise about such things.

“Just pickles.”

“Pickles?”

“Yes.”

“Who wants pickles on a chicken sandwich? That’s evil and wrong. Someone needs to put an end to that.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be the one to do it,” she said.

The line inched forward.

I looked past the big windows and into the dining room of this particular Chick-fil-A, and there I saw all the people stuffing their tired faces with chicken sandwiches, nuggets, and waffle fries, alternating bites between sucking sips of their big soda pops through red plastic straws. Slurp, slurp, chow chomp, chow chomp …A feeding frenzy of madness, sadness. I wondered what stupid things they were talking about. I imagined the cacophony of societal collapse contained tightly within that box. My eyes went to the front counter and the madness there as the workers desperately tried to survive the onslaught of orders and demands and complaints… “I’d punch someone in the face if I had to work in there,” I said to the steering wheel. My hot woman was looking at her phone. I put a hand between her warm thighs.

The line inched forward.

My anxiety was kicking in as we approached the young woman standing outside in the cold and holding her order machine. I always get nervous in drive-throughs because I’m afraid I won’t be able to remember everything to say or the right thing to say. And then all those people behind me breathing up my tailpipe. There’s too much pressure to order quickly and precisely.

I rolled down the window. There was no happy smile upon this Chick-fil-A worker’s face. There was no greeting of love. In fact, she was as cold as the late autumn day that encapsulated us and everyone else around.

“Name for the order,” she barked like a bitch seal stranded on an ocean rock.

I gave her my name. Had to spell it as usual so they wouldn’t jack it up: AARON.

“What would you like?”

“A regular chicken sandwich,” and I stressed, “NO pickles.”

She angrily tapped something into her computerized pad.

“What else?” she heartlessly wanted to know.

My hot babe leaned across me. I breathed in her scent as she said, “A fruit bowl.”

“Small, medium, or large?” the young lady snapped at us as if we were a complete inconvenience to her Chick-fil-A existence.

“Large?” my wife said with some confusion for she did not realize there were so many various sizes of fruit bowls.

The bitch seal punched some more stuff into her electric order pad and rattled out the total. I handed her a credit card and she bawled us out for such a faux pas. “You pay at the window!”

I pulled forward within the stream. I felt crushed, embarrassed. I didn’t understand. “Then why is she even out there with her stupid little electric pad with its card reader?” I asked my woman.

She shook her head. I wanted to be on her. I loved her madly.

As we inched around toward the window, which was a doorway, my thoughts drifted to the recent Chick-fil-A commercial I saw on the television. It was one of those commercials with deep feelings between a customer and a worker. You know, where they sit on some comfortable Chick-fil-A couch, and they relate a traumatic Chick-fil-A story and there’s tears and hugs and love and it all culminates in a stupid life-long friendship.

In this particular commercial that I was thinking about, a woman was having a hurried, frenzied day and she forgot to take the shake she had ordered when she left the restaurant. Well, have no fear lady because Lupe, or whatever her name was, is coming after you with that damn shake. In fact, Lupe is going to chase you down with that shake. Lupe is going to run two blocks to make sure you get that shake you ordered. Why? Because she has the Chick-fil-A spirit. She has Chick-fil-A soul. She has Chick-fil-A gumption. It’s because she loves you lady, she wants you to have your shake and enjoy it. She wants you to be happy and fulfilled.

As long as you’re not gay, of course. Which is weird because in the commercial there was so much giddiness and joy going on between these two women that I thought they were going to start making out.

So, I told my wife, in reference to the young lady that just took our order, “There’s no way in hell she’d run two blocks to bring us a shake if we had left one behind. No way in hell.”

“She’s no Lupe,” my babe said.

“That’s for sure. What a bunch of bullshit those commercials are,” I complained.

It was finally our turn at the doorway and the young man there politely took our payment and handed us our bag of food. “Thank you,” I said, and I pulled out into the madness of the world.

My woman undid our food bag as I drove. She spread my chicken sandwich open like sex to inspect it because she loves me and wants me to have what I want. “They put pickles on it,” she warned me.

I flipped out. “That bitch. She did it on purpose. She didn’t care about my Chick-fil-A experience at all! Why is nothing ever true!?”

My wife pulled the pickles off before handing the sandwich over to me. That’s love I tell you. She touched pickles for me. She may have even eaten one. I like pickles, but I like them where they belong. Like on a hamburger, not a chicken sandwich. Sometimes I just don’t understand this world.

“I should be in a Chick-fil-A commercial,” I said. “But instead of love vibes on the couch, I’ll be bitching about pickles.”

My wife was busy poking around in her fruit bowl. “You do that, my love,” she said as she put some strawberries in her mouth. She sure does love that fruit bowl, I thought to myself, and then we Took it to the Maxx over at T.J. Maxx. But that’s another story.

By
Aaron Echoes August
Independent writer and photographer.