Anything You Want – Foster Siren
May 1, 2012
An astronaut. Fireman. President of the United States of America. A Monkey. Burt Reynolds. Anything You Want.
A desk. Wooden, old. A 17 inch imported computer monitor, made in Taiwan. A mouse, off-white, with dirt-ridden scratches. Grey cubicle walls, upholstered in polyester to absorb the barely perceptible noises of virtual strangers sitting four feet away.
The pledge of allegiance, followed by a lesson on Antarctica. A He-Man lunch box, a banana. A PB&J sandwich. Recess. Sweaty and boisterous, freezing in the air conditioning now and not caring at all. You shiver and the sensation is amazing.
A meeting. Budget forecasting. Synergy. A cheap, shit tie gently choking you to death. Hung. Over. A strange fear fills you, at any moment, another human, one with an inordinate amount of control over your destiny, your happiness, your checking account – this human may ask you a question – and your answer will define the perception of every person in the room. They will love or hate depending on…
Lunch. Mom has removed the crust from your PB&J and the J is cold and the white bread is fresh and not squished. You sit with Ricky – you sit with Ricky every day – and the girls bother you a little bit today but not too much. In spillout you punch Jessica in the arm and run away. You think you love her but you’re not sure yet.
Lunch. There is a hole-in-the-wall sports bar three blocks away and you know no one will be there but you drive there, roundabout anyway… incognito. A sandwich and only two beers this time, Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum. You are full, and the beer makes walking into the office easier but you sneak into the upstairs bathroom and quietly masturbate. On the way back to your desk you don’t think she noticed you staring at her breasts and you grab a Coke to mask the lingering taste of the beer, but it only makes it worse.
The bell rings. You buy a pencil and an eraser at the school book store and some sort of atomic candy that will rip the taste buds from your mouth. The car ride home, watching the clouds and cars float by from the panoramic window of mom’s station wagon, pointing your finger – an imaginary pistol – at a stranger driving a sports car. He winks and shoots back.
4:37 PM. Twenty-three minutes early. Leg is shaking. Fuck it. Freedom. Hustle to the car, sneaky. Smoke is lit as you pass through the back door of the office. To the bar. A beer. A shot. A smoke. Decaying hops and something that used to be liquid attach your forearm to the bar. In the near darkness you can hear the silence beneath the classic rock blaring from the Wurlitzer.
Home. Snack Time. Sweet, red, cold juice and cheese-flavored crackers. Fresh apple slices and a cartoon. Your bike is calling from the garage and you answer it, press the button and watch as the musty darkness and car smell explode in sunshine. Going as fast as you can, the air is stinging your eyes but the tears feel good.
The room is not quite spinning. Vomit flavor and fried – something – in the back of your throat, and the last cold sip of beer does nothing to change this fact. To the bathroom. A line of blow, another. Which key is it? Roll down the windows and light a smoke. Chew some Wrigley’s. Your eyes bounce up and down from the halos around the bright lines on the black asphalt to the speedometer.
At the dinner table. Mom made chicken (again) and broccoli. You don’t want any of it but be a good boy and finish your dinner, honey. Reward: dessert. Sweet, sweet, vanilla iced cream with Hershey’s chocolate syrup and brown sprinkles. A mud volcano. During dinner your sister had taken a WHOLE TREE of broccoli and chucked it at you, and you kicked her under the table. You were mad but you laughed anyway.
A motel. The odd scent is not overwhelming, but it is also not pleasant. She is naked already and her teeth are a little fucked up but her body is still OK, and you can’t see the acne in the darkness of the room. She tries to put it in her mouth before the condom but the room still isn’t spinning – are you fucking stupid – and you put it on and you are in her. You can’t come because… how many dicks have JUST been where yours is right now? The ghosts of hooker pussy past. You leave what you think is a fifty and a crumbled wad of ones. A smoke on the way to the car.
The bathtub is gigantic. A sailboat floats by. The water is warm and icebergs made of bubbles feel like clouds. It smells of heaven. Mom is there, and she pours shampoo on your head. You protest but it feels good anyway so you let her scrub your hair. The towel envelops you and you pick your PJs from a vast array of cartoon character printed, freshly washed cotton goodness.
The shower is freezing. The bill for the water heater repair sits in a pile of shit strewn on some dust covered surface somewhere in the other room. Floodlights through the window from the busy street outside illuminate the Herbal Essences conditioner from some broken ex-relationship which you are happy you had because you don’t have anything else to wash off the pussy stench.
Story time. Dr. Seuss – Horton Hatches The Egg. In your wildest dreams you would have never imagined that an elephant would sit in a tree for weeks just to make sure that a tiny egg stayed warm. Mom is reading slowly and softly and you fall asleep without realizing it before the story is over… an ELEPHANT in a TREE.
Naked on the couch atop a pile of clothes. Head pounding, alone. Watch a violent porn, the bitch is getting choked and sucking a cock with another in her ass. You finish what the hooker couldn’t. It is warm and nasty on your stomach and some article of dirty clothing wipes it off before being deposited back on the filthy carpeting. The coke is wearing off. Passing out is a memory you won’t have but the smell of your own shit breath tastes the same when it wakes you up before the sun rises on a Tuesday morning.