Week Thirteen Journal Two

It had been quite some time since Dale had gone to the bar, and even longer since he had seen Bill Johnson, so meeting Bill in the bar was a little awkward of a feeling. Dale put his car in park and pulled the keys out, mentally preparing for the fifty foot walk to the door, treacherous in the dead of winter in the northern United States.

Pulling open the door, Dale felt a familiar aroma waft up his nasal passages; beer and cigarettes; although the county had outlawed smoking in public places, the Rusty Bronco had yet to conform. He walked along the bar, nodding to the bartender as though he knew him, and finally found Bill, at a table no more than five feet from the end of the bar.

“Grab a chair, old friend, I already got us a pitcher,” said Bill. What a greeting.

Dale turned around and grabbed a chair from an empty table behind him. “So what’s the occasion, man? We haven’t talked for quite awhile.”

“No occasion, I’ve just been getting kind of lonely and you’ve always been a good friend to me, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to reconnect, ya know?” responded Bill.

“Yeah, it’s good to see you.” Dale thought that Bill was only trying to get together because he needed something, which was usually what he did; now, Dale was feeling pretty stupid. Bill was always a good friend, he always had your back, but he was a bit of a mooch. He also hated awkwardly long pauses in conversation, which was a plus.

“So, you still driving those kids around?”

“Yeah, I still drive the school bus. It’s really not a bad gig,” Dale was mildly offended, it wasn’t like Bill ever had steady employment, “Where are you working these days?”

“Funny story actually, I don’t work.”

“Yeah, you were never really much of a worker.”

“Yeah, I know. That old gambling addiction of mine finally paid off though, so you can consider all those years of losing my work. I paid my dues.”

“Congratulations. Did you get one of those giant checks?”

“Naw, I didn’t win the actual lottery, not even a million dollars. I won on one of those scratch offs from a gas station. Two hundred fifty thousand, a little less after the man took his cut,” Bill seemed a little nervous saying this, which Dale felt was strange, but who wouldn’t have a little quiver in their voice after winning that much money.

“Man, I never play those scratch offs, but it sounds like maybe I should start. That’d be a nice chunk of change,” responded Dale, a little bit jealous that his friend had been a slacker his whole life and had it pay off.

“Yeah, would you want to win that?” asked Bill.

Dale was completely confused, “Yeah, of course, who wouldn’t?”

“That’s really why I had you meet me here. See, I have a guy who works for the state lottery. He takes some scratch offs from the headquarters, I’m talking like thousands at once, but makes sure that they still appear as though they were shipped to the proper location.”

“Bill, I never even said I wanted to do this,” Dale was mildly offended that Bill wanted him to do something highly illegal.

“You said you wanted money, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever. Tell me this scam you got going and than I’ll let you know if I’m in. It’s got to be airtight for me to sign on.”

“Okay, so anyways no one even knows these tickets are missing. Than we come in, or rather you come in since I already did it, and redeem one of the winners, give him a cut and get a bunch of cash for doing nothing. Literally, nothing!”

“So, why don’t you and him just cash in the rest, so that I don’t have to get arrested?” Dale was skeptical, but still seriously considering taking the offer, it was good money regardless.

“Because we already did. The odds of winning once is damn near impossible, much less winning twice? Are you kidding me? That’s the only way we’d get busted for it, and we sure as shit aren’t going to tell on ourselves. That’s why he’s getting more people, trustworthy people, like yourself. It’s a one time thing, otherwise it gets way too risky. So are you in?”

Dale would really enjoy the cash; it could keep him out of work for awhile. He thought for a minute, throwing back his glass, he finished the last half of his beer. He decided it was risky, but not too risky to pass up. “Yeah, I’m in; but one condition...your buddy never knows my name, and I never know his, okay? That way if we do get caught, I know that there was only one possible person who could tell, you know who that is?”

Bill was always a little slow, so he asked “Who?” without even thinking into the question. If you threw too many words at Bill all at once, than it was like they jammed up his brain, he couldn’t process much information.

“You, ya idiot. You are the only person that could screw me on this. So don’t do it! Understand?”

“Oh, sorry, yeah, I understand.”

Week Thirteen Journal One

Here is the photo I used for this exercise: http://tomchambersphoto.com/galleries/02/06.php

The water was a mix of brown and red, like a poorly cleaned mall toilet. Of course, this water was this color because of the sand and rocks it lay on top of. We were slowly approaching the house, the only place to get moonshine in these parts anymore, since the state passed a law stating no alcohol content higher than fifty percent. It forced normal people like me into risky situations, but it was worth it, moonshine has been an integral part of life in this area for the past hundred or so years. Sparks, my black labrador jumped up from his slumber on the bottom of my rusty old fishing boat and started barking. He knew we had arrived before I even killed the motor.

I pulled the boat close to the house and tied on. I had no idea how the house had even been built in the middle of lake, but my best guess was that it was built before the plain was flooded for the new dam. Johnboy, the main moonshiner was expecting my arrival, I had talked to him the previous day, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. They usually kept a lookout just incase the police finally bought a boat. I jumped off the boat, through one of the old front window frames on the front of the house, yelling for Johnboy. I noticed a couple cases of moonshine in the corner, so they obviously hadn’t been raided. Walking across the main room towards the stairs, I got an uneasy feeling. Johnboy’s crew usually ran a really tight operation, making sure no one came by who wasn’t supposed to, cops or otherwise.

“Johnny boy! Where are you at?” I shouted, praying for a response.

Nothing.

I moved up the stairs slowly, holding my hand on my gun, a small revolver, but definitely better than nothing in these types of situations. At the top of the stairs were a few smashed jars, smelling like moonshine. I pushed open the door to the main room, and saw Old Bill, one of Johnboy’s men, lying in a large pool of blood, already showing signs of rigor mortis. Whoever was here left some time ago, I thought to myself.

Than my thoughts were disrupted. Disrupted by a gun shot. I could hear the bullet whizzing towards my location. Sparks started barking. Shit! I completely forgot about Sparks. My hand still on the revolver, I jumped up and bolted down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Sparks was still barking, that was a good sign.

I reached the front window that I entered through and jumped directly into my boat, untying it at breakneck speed. I looked at Sparks, who was still barking. No blood, thank god. Starting the motor, I turned my head to what the dog was barking at, directly behind my boat. It was a man, sitting near the top of what you would call the shore, firing a rifle towards us. The red shirt and hat he was wearing was unmistakable, I would have recognized Johnboy from a mile away. He hadn’t been shooting at us to harm us; he was just trying to get our attention. It still didn’t drift my thoughts from the body upstairs, but I turned the boat towards him and hit the throttle. I just wanted some moonshine.

Week Twelve Journal Two

12:34 read the old analog clock in the superintendent’s office. Right in the middle of lunch, Dale could be eating a steaming hot whopper with cheese right now, or a plate of dorito’s with cheese on them. It annoyed Dale that whatever he did wrong, it had to be addressed during his lunch hour.

The big fake wooden door opened and superintendent Beesley walked in, carrying a full manila file under his arm. He had a very stern and serious look on his face, but when did he not? Beesley walked past Dale without saying a word, and plopped down at his desk, opposite Dale. It wasn’t until he adjusted in his seat and carefully pushed aside a stack of pink papers that he spoke.

“Mr. Kesler, do you have any idea why I called you in here today?”

Dale was pretty sure that it was because he bought some pot from that kid on his bus, as that was the only law he broke in the past seven years, much less the only school rule he had broken. Dale felt as though he was back in high school, in the principal’s office, getting interrogated for smoking pot in the bathroom.

“Uh, no I was surprised when I got the phone call. I’ve been really curious, but at least I can put that to rest now, huh?”

“That is our goal, Mr. Kesler. We have a few more questions for you.”

“What do you know about John Simpson?”

“Nothing. I mean, I think he rides on one of my routes, but I don’t know him, like, on a first name basis or anything.”

“Mmmk, mmmk,” mumbled Beesley as he filed through the manila folder of papers he had walked in with.

“Am I in trouble or something? What is with this interrogation?” inquired Dale, starting to sweat a little bit since he knew he was guilty of something. He gazed out the window directly behind Beesley, and saw the saw continuing to fall. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for an answer.

“No, you’re not in trouble…yet. That’s what I’m here to determine.”

“Well, unless you have something specific to talk to me about I’m going to kindly see myself to the door.” Dale started to get up from his seat.

“But we’re not done here.”

“Well, all you’re doing is asking me vague questions, and not even telling me why I am here. I’m just a bus driver, but I can tell you that you are not that adequate of a superintendent.” Dale moved towards the door, sliding his jacket on.

“You leave here and you’re fired!”

“Not exactly for you to decide, we’ll let the head of our district’s transportation decide that. Call me when, or if, you decide to talk straight and tell me what’s up. We’ll set something up on my schedule,” Dale chuckled. He knew now that his little outburst would cause some trouble, but ultimately he had the upper hand.

Week Twelve Journal One

The mall was always strangely comforting to Dale. When his only friend, John Abraam, was busy, Dale would get high by himself and drive up to the mall. Some people preferred alcohol, but that just never did it for Dale, it drove him into a deep depression, although it was always gone by the time he sobered up; pot just gave him a false sense of optimism about the future, but at least he was happy.

Dale walked through the automatic doors, dragging a little bit of mud in with him, and hooked a hard left towards the food court, his usual first stop. He walked up to The Pizza Palace, the only pizza place in the mall, and got in the back of the line. He stared at the menu, even though he always ordered the same thing, until he was standing in front of the cashier.

“Dale, fancy seeing you here at this hour,” said the Clerk, Steve; he always acted like he really wanted to be Dale’s friend, and he was nice, but Dale often mistook one’s friendliness for intrusiveness.

“Yeah, can I get some breadsticks, a coke, and a slice of...”

Steve cut him off mid sentence, “Canadian bacon and pineapple? I know you too well.”

“Yeah, good job, only three months of taking my order and you memorized it,” said Dale, laying the sarcasm on thick. He handed his debit card over before giving Steve a chance to give him the price, he really didn’t care, he just wanted to get away from the bundle of awkwardness that was Steve.

Dale slid down to the far end of the counter. His meal, if you can call it that, arrived quickly and he grabbed the tray and found a seat. There were never many people in the mall when Dale went, usually just elderly couples but occasionally a younger couple; the younger couples were always, Dale assumed, independently wealthy, which is why they were at the mall in the early afternoon. Seeing all these couples often depressed Dale. He caught himself wondering why the hell he came to mall so often, when it only left him longing for someone to share it with.

Finishing his meal, Dale dumped his red plastic tray of garbage into the trashcan. He walked down the dull colored tile towards the movie theater, it always helped to live in a different reality for a couple hours. Plus, the girl that worked there was good looking, although Dale was always too afraid to ask her out; it felt rude since he only saw her when she was working.

Arriving at the theater, he saw the girl, Ronnie, working at the ticket counter. He walked up without giving any thought as to what movie he would see.

“What movie?” asked Ronnie.

Shit, Dale thought. He hadn’t really paid attention to what movies were coming out.

“What’s good?” replied Dale. He thought to himself, that came out completely wrong, it sounded like I’m trying to hit on her. His palms began sweating, and his knees started to weaken.

“Ha, just working, what’s your name again?”

“Dale.” Miraculously, he started to feel a little more comfortable talking to her. Once he broke the ice, it was really easy to talk to her.

“That’s right, you come in here a lot, huh?”

“Yeah, I have a lot of time, and usually nothing to do with it.”

“Well, how about seeing a movie like always. I mean you came up here to see a movie right?”

“Yeah, I have no idea what’s good though.”

“Dark Star’s good, I saw it with my boyfriend when it came out. Don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely not a chick flick though, he made me see it…and pay for it…and drive. Good riddance.”

“Yeah, I’ll see that. Sorry about your boyfriend, sounds like he was a real class act.”

Ronnie grabbed Dale’s card, which had been on the marble counter since he first walked up. She handed him back the ticket and his card.

“Enjoy the show. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, take it easy.”

Dale was excited, even impressed by himself. He had had a few serious girlfriends in his life, but was never really comfortable about talking to girls like that, and besides, she seemed interested in him. He walked to his theater, and sat down. He knew he should have grabbed some popcorn or something, but felt good that he wasn’t going to succumb to his marijuana induced hunger. The previews started to roll, and he felt as though he may have finally got what his life was missing these past couple years, but caught himself before letting his thoughts get carried away.

Week Eleven Journal Two

In Dale Kesler’s pockets you can find…

• First and foremost lint, for some reason he always has about half a handfuls worth in every pair of jeans.

• Keys to his car, his apartment, and his bus (he actually isn’t supposed to take the keys home, so he secretly made a copy one day).

• Matchbook, used, and rendered useless by the sweat that is always soaking through his pants

• Bits of loose tobacco

• His wallet, though it only contains his driver’s license, his debit card, a half punched frequent buyer card from dairy queen, and on any given day no more than thirty two American dollars cash

• Two paperclips (more or less), for cleaning out his pipes, Dale being too cheap and lazy to get a new one, and too deep to stop smoking altogether

Week 11 Journal 1

Name: Dale Kesler

Nickname: none...yet Handwriting:sloppy

Sex: Male Astrological sign: scorpio

Age: 25 Talents: 90 second bong hits

Looks: Husky, unshaven Friends: Not many

Education: College dropout Relatives: Mostly dead

Vocation: High school bus driver

Enemies: His boss, the head of school transportation

Status/money: Fairly poor As seen by others:

relationship: Had a girlfriend of three years, dumped him when he refused to return to college

As seen by self: Loser, but has accepted his role in society

family/ethnicity: Family all lives in different state

Scars: None

Places: Tattoos, piercings:

Possessions: Most prized possessions-his 3 foot bong, his DVD collection

Salary: Around $35k/year

Recreation/hobbies: Smoking pot, watching movies, self loathing secretly

Correspondence:

Obsessions: Marijuana

Beliefs: No belief in God

Politics: Democrat when he remembers to vote

Sexual history: Not much, 3 girls total

Ambitions: Wants to write, produce, or direct movies

Religion: None, was raised in a catholic family

Superstitions:

Fears: Dying alone

Attitudes: Stand offish, avoids confrontation

Character flaws: Uncurable pothead

Character strengths: Nice to others, if he truly cares about someone he’ll do anything for them

Pets: Turtle, his only friend

Taste in books/music: Generally likes classic comedies and dramas (1940s to 1990); reads modern classic books (Hemingway, Kerouac, etc.)

Journal entries:

The bus slowly pulled into the roundabout in front of the high school, stopping just long enough to let the students off, mostly underclassmen,. Dale knew that the bad kids always sat towards the back off the bus, so he waited until all the other students were gone.

“Stop right there, man.”

“What’d we do? We didn’t do anything.”

“No, dont worry, you’re not in trouble...yet,” replied Dale, “I know you kids have some pot..”

He was cut off mid sentence by the student, “I swear to god we don’t.”

“Man, chill out, your not in trouble. Plus, I can smell the stuff on you, smells real good.”

“So if we aren’t in trouble why are we still on this bus?” asked the kid.

“I just want a little sack, man, just because I’m a bus driver doesn’t mean I don’t like to get high every once in awhile. Plus, everyone I know only sells that poopy brown stuff, I know that high school kids always have the most solid stuff. My name’s Dale by the way.”

“I’m John, and how much you want?”

“Just like a twenty, that’s all I got right now.”

“Alright, fine.”

John reached in his pocket, producing a bag. It appeared as though the kid just walked around with a bunch of premeasured baggies. They made the exchange quickly, both of them understanding the consequences if they got caught. There was an instant mutual trust between the two, since it wouldn’t be hard to tell the principal on one another. They could both be destroyed with just one sentence.

“Thanks, man. Don’t be a stranger. Now get to class, ya bum!” yelled Dale, chuckling, but clearly a little serious.

John and his small group of pothead buddies exited the big yellow bus, taking their baggie pants and tie dyed shirts with them. “Shit,” Dale thought to himself, “I can’t believe the weed these kids are getting today. Can’t wait to try it.” The high school started the latest, and Dale never worked afternoons, except on occasion when there was a field trip and he wanted a little extra dough.

Dale slowly pulled the old yellow bus into a parking with a few other buses, it was slowly starting to fill up with all the other drivers getting off of their shifts.

Dale parked in his bus’ assigned spot, A 22, and got out. He slowly moved over to the main garage, which contained the time punch that clocked him in and out every single weekday. He avoided everyone he saw, since they would smell the pot on him, and either tell on him or assume they were invited to the party.

Dale got in his car, a beat up Chevy Celebrity, only held together by the rust that was slowly taking over the car. He tried to start it, but, as usual, it took more than a few turns of the key for it to turn over and sputter that familiar smell of pollution. Dale drove towards his home.

Week Ten Journal Two

Exercise 2 on Page 389

I knew my wife would be worried about my absence, and I had no intention of putting her through such an ordeal. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and decided to write her a quick letter to explain my absence and assure her that I was safe and doing fine. As much as I despised my ex-wife, I desperately hoped to see her again, so I had to lie a little bit.

I started writing.

Barbara,

By the time you read this:

I will be gone, I can’t explain this to you, for your own safety, but don’t worry because I will be back soon.

The hole in the wall will still be there. I’m sorry, but you know I will fix it.

The police may be talking to you. Don’t listen to them, trust only me, it is the only way we can get through this.

My electricity will be shut off, I couldn’t afford to pay the bill. Hope you enjoy the alimony.

The fruits on my counter will be brown and squishy. Eat them if you are hungry.

My alimony check will have bounced. I still don’t understand why I pay you when you are making more money than me.

Anyways, have fun being the soul sucking creature that you are.

Your first husband.

Week Ten Journal One

Week Ten Journal One

I threw three ice cubes into the glass, I was really picky about having exactly three ice cubes in my drinks, and slowly drizzled the scotch over the ice cubes, watching them melt ever so slightly. My doorbell rang, followed by three stern knocks before I could even get out of my chair. Cops, I thought to myself, no one ever knocks like that except cops.

I finally sauntered over to the door and grabbed the knob, I yanked hard because the door was old and stuck all the time. It was a cop, gigantic, he looked like Andre the Giant in his prime, only a little more fit and chiseled. Cowering behind him was two of my friends from last night, I presumed the only one missing was the one with the lead BB in his shin, since none of the present ones had any visible limp.

“Hello sir, Officer Johnston, these boys are alleging that you assaulted them and one of their friends last night.”

“It was really more of self defense, they repeatedly tried to enter my house and threatened me, shouting something about their dead friend. I had nothing to do with him, I hadn’t even talked to Clive for damn near ten years.”

“Well, regardless, these boys are minors, and it is against the law in this state to assault a minor, provoked or not.”

“Well that’s bullshit, there’s no way that someone can kidnap me, vandalize my house and make me go to jail; and they are not minors, they were buying me drinks in a bar before this all happened.”

“Whoa kidnapping?!” questioned the Officer, with an air of excitement. It must get boring being that physically capable, yet having to deal with stupid, petty crimes all the time.

“Yeah, kidnapping, and again they are not minors.”

“Yes, they are, and a grown man such as yourself really couldn’t fend off three high schoolers? What is your name anyways, sir?”

“Julian Ericson,” I replied, I was really good at making things up on the spot, the pressure forced my creative juices to flow.

“Well Mister Ericson, these boys do want to press charges, why don’t you gather you’re things and we can bring you downtown for booking, if you can post bail, which will probably be pretty small, you’ll be out by morning.”

“Alright, just let me put on a sweater and grab my heart pills.”

I did want to get a sweater, it was kind of cold outside, but I had no heart pills, I knew that this ordeal would take too long to play out and I did not want to watch it. I walked back to my room, with the boys and a cop still standing in my front entrance, and tossed on the thickest sweater that I could find. Being as quiet as possible, I slid my window open. I don’t think I had ever actually opened the window, had no reason to, and I could hear the paint chip as it slid up. As I was escaping, my sweater snagged on a nail that my idiot landlord had neglected to finish hammering.

I flew through the alley behind my house like a gazelle, though not quite as majestic. It was at this point that I realized running away was the stupidest possible move I could have made. The situation may have eventually moved to court, but there was no way their case would hold up, unless they hired Johnny Cochran, who was, fortunately for me, retired and deceased.

I had a friend that lived just under a mile from my house, and through the cover of backyards and night, I made my way towards his home, he would at least hide me and help get me on my way in the morning. I hoped.

Week Nine Journal One

Week Nine Journal 1

Taft, CA

Driving down the Westside Highway I felt at ease for the first time in a couple of months. I looked out the passenger window of my car and saw the sun setting behind the low mountain range, it lit up the entire sky and the mountains seemed to only enhance the beautiful effect. I glanced over my shoulder, Jill was still sleeping in the backseat. It annoyed me that she didn’t ever drive, even though she had a driver’s license, but being the gentleman that I am, I had no other options. It still got lonely with no one to talk to.

“You awake yet back there?” I asked, hoping to hear a response.

Nothing. It was so quiet that I could hear her breathing, thank god, because I don’t know if I could handle the rest of this drive alone. I was now quickly approaching some small town, as indicated by the large green sign right in front of me. The sign also told me that there was a gas station at the next exit. I realized that I hadn’t looked at the clock for what felt like an hour, and when I finally glanced down, I realized it had actually been about two hours. I took the exit toward Taft, some small town, and decided to find some gas and shelter for the night.

“Where are we?” asked Jill from the backseat. To my relief she was finally awake, although it would have been nice to have a conscious companion before I decided to call it a night.

“We are just entering Taft, some small town, I think we should call it a night. I’m about to fall asleep behind the wheel and we know that wouldn’t end well.” Taft was, for the most part, a ghost town; all the businesses were closed, none of the lights in the houses were on, no one walked the streets. It felt eerie. I swore I was in a Rod Serling script or something.

“Yeah, it didn’t last time, you moron.”

“We agreed not to talk about that anymore. It’s done.”

“Don’t get mad, it could have happened to anyone but I’ll keep shut about it if it makes you feel better.”

“Not like you ever drive anyways, you asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. I think this is our motel, right under the water tower,” I said. The water tower wasn’t anything special, but was still probably the only memorable thing about Taft. The tower was grey and the paint was peeling, I estimated it hadn’t been painted in at least fifteen years.

We hopped out of the car, ignoring our suitcases, since we were only going to stay for a night. The motel was an awkward building. I opened the door expecting to see a nice front lobby, yet I saw the exact opposite. The bar was filled to it’s maximum capacity, and scanning the room I saw a door towards the back labeled “Hotel—Front Desk.”

“So this is where all the people are,” I whispered to Jill.

“This is creepy, can we just get to our room. I kind of feel like we’re in that movie Deliverance, only no one looks like Burt Reynolds.”

“Yeah, follow me.”

We moved briskly towards the door to the front desk, trying to avoid any contact with the locals. It took us a couple of minutes but we got there and pushed the door open, hurrying through like mice who just spotted some cheese.

The front lobby, which is what I suppose you should call it, even though it wasn’t in the front of the building, was much nicer and inviting than the bar. The walls were all wood paneled, with a brownish carpet covering the entire area, giving it a cozy 1970s feel. I approached the front desk, which had an old man with glasses behind it, he reminded me of the poor younger brother of Rich Uncle Pennybags, the monopoly guy.

“Can I help ya?” asked the old man.

“Yeah, actually we need a room, just for the night.”

“No bags with ya?”

“No, actually we are just in town for a night, making our way to Bakersfield, maybe going down to LA after we’re done there. So you have a room for us?” Due to lack of sleep, I was beginning to grow impatient with the old man, as lovable as he looked, I just wanted to sleep.

“Yeah, I got some rooms fer ya. One queen bed be fine for you two?”

This happened way too often, everyone thought that Jill and I were married, or at least dating, engaged perhaps. We were just friends and had an unspoken mutual understanding of that fact.

“No, we’re not married, so two separate beds would be nice. That is, if you have a room with that.”

“Sorry, you two got that look on ya, that young lover look. What do I know though, I’m just an old man.”

“Old? Since when does anyone consider fifty old?” I was trying to make the old man feel good, so he would just get on with giving us our key and taking my credit card.

“Ha, I’m quite a few years older than that. Anyways, it’ll cost ya fifty bucks for the night, you can pay me now or in the morning, I don’t much mind.”

“I’ll get you in the morning if that’s alright, are you going to be working in the morning,” I searched my brain for this man’s name (had he already introduced himself?).

The old man understood what my pause meant and jumped in to help me out, “Conrad, the name is Conrad.”

“Yeah sorry Conrad, you’ll be here in the morning?”

“Yup, either me or Ella, my wife.” He than plopped the key down on the counter and slid it over to me, as though it was some kind of ancient relic that no one else should see. “Room 218, sleep tight y’all.”

“Take it easy Conrad,” I said as Jill and I slowly slipped away, heading towards the elevator, before realizing there were only stairs in this establishment.

Week Nine Journal 2

Week 9 Journal 2 (Exercise 2 pg. 359)

“What the hell are you thinking, Jon?”

“Dude, we need to get our story straight, we can’t really do that if they are listening in on us can we?”

“No, I guess we can’t”

“Yeah, now you’re thinking.”

“I was kidding you idiot, god I swear you are stupid sometimes.”

“Me? Yeah, I’m the stupid one.”

“Let me recap today for your small little brain, I swear you have no short term memory: We went to the gas station and saw some dude rob the register, the cops are holding us here as witnesses, smashing up the microphone on the table is not going to do anything except make us look like idiots, and possibly get us, well, hopefully you, charged with vandalism.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah”

“But I thought we were in here because I snagged that pack of gum before we saw the robber.”

“Wow. You seriously need to get your brain checked, you really think that some cop would bring both of us in here because you stole a pack of gum?”

“I didn’t know, man, I just kind of freaked out.”

“And you had to smash this microphone, how are we going to explain that to the cop when he comes in here, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me rephrase that, how are YOU going to explain that?”

“Were in this together.”

“Ha, not at all. Oh look, I think that’s him coming now, better think quick.”

Week Eight Journal Two

When I finally woke up, I was in my bed in my house. I turned over and looked at the clock on my nightstand, that familiar red glow, it was only nine in the morning. I remembered going out for a cigarette, but did I really get jumped in my own backyard? Sometimes when I drink I manufacture memories in my head, but I didn’t even drink last night.

Jumping out of bed, I instinctively grabbed for my cigarettes, but they weren’t there. I realized that I was still in my clothes, a little weird considering I had been wearing a suit the day before. I found my cigarettes in my slacks, and headed towards the door, noting a hole that appeared to have been kicked into the wall in the hallway. I don’t know why I would kick a hole in my own wall, but decided that I could deal with it later. I grabbed my shoes, noticing the caked on mud, when I realized my pants, my nice slacks, had been ripped from the knee down on my right leg. Great, I thought, another seventy dollars down the drain.

What the hell happened last night? I could not shake that question out of my skull. I was almost completely out the door, my cigarette half lit, when I noticed a piece of paper on the kitchen table. I stepped over to the table, completely ignoring the half lit cigarette spewing smoke into my house, and grabbed the piece of paper:

Hope you slept well asshole.

Learn to keep your mouth shut.

We still want our money.

Be back soon,

The Large One.

I stepped outside to finish my cigarette, still clutching the note in my hand. I had never heard of anyone that referred to themselves as “The Large One,” nor do I know why I was assaulted last night, and I definitely have no idea why I owe someone money, but since they say they’ll be back soon, I guess it will all be figured out soon. I just have to arm myself and wait.

Week Eight Journal One

Week Eight Journal One

An unsuccessful painter

The basement room is cold but well lit, which gives it an eerie feeling. The far corner of the room is filled with discarded canvasses, maybe five separate stacks, each at least ten high. There is a bed in one corner, pushed all the way up to the walls on two sides, it is clearly ignored and in disarray. Old magazines and art history books are scattered about half the bed, while the other half appears to be where someone sleeps, as there is a slight indent the size and shape of a human body in it. Near the discarded canvasses is an easel, worn and battered, dried paint drips cover the legs near the bottom, and various splatters of paint litter the carpet below. There is nothing on the walls, except for a few small paint splatters, complementing one larger one, apparently placed there out of anger and frustration. The room has a very minimal feel, as though the person who typically occupies it only cares about one thing. There aren’t too many clothes, only a few plain colored t-shirts, and some multi colored jeans, made so by the paints that they are around. When paint and clothes are constantly in the same room, there is no way to keep your clothes clean.

Week Seven Journal One

Week Seven Journal One (Alternate Version)

It was the first week of June, the exact date I do not remember. Bernard and I had gone out to dinner early in the evening, around five. It was my birthday, but of course as soon as we arrived home, Bernard grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the bedroom, grabbing a sack of weed and some rolling papers. I walked in on him finishing up a joint.

“A birthday joint! For you,” said Bernard, overly excited.

“I rarely smoke pot, and why don’t you try asking before you roll up a whole joint?” I was angry, and laying it on thick, hopefully he would get it without me having to say it too directly.

“I rolled it up because I was trying to be nice, but it doesn’t matter because I’ll smoke it with or without you.”

I walked into my room and threw myself on the bed, completely disregarding the issue of cosmo I had read before falling asleep the night before. There was no light in the room, and I started to let my mind drift, overanalyzing any thought that came into my head. Would I be with Bernard forever? Why am I with him now? Bernard is outside getting high, while I’m in here waiting for something. What the hell am I even waiting for?

Sometimes when my mind drifts, I get frantic. It’s why I have panic attacks. It just sort of builds and builds and after twenty minutes of that crap, I am just out of it, completely hysterical. I rolled over in bed and felt something hard in my side. I reached under the sheets and pulled out a jewelry box. The front door opened and Bernard called my name, expecting me to still be sitting in the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Shit, I was gonna come back in for that,” said Bernard.

“Yeah, a little late for that.”

“Well, uh, will you marry me?”

“Bernard, you’re a good guy, but we have been dating for only two months and it’s my birthday. It’s just kind of bad timing. Really bad timing.”

“Ok. Sorry.”

“No, no it’s fine.” I was starting to actually think Bernard wasn’t so bad. He meant well, he just wasn’t very good at showing. I still don’t think I could ever marry him, but he could be a great life-long friend.

“Hey Bernard?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You want to roll another one? I guess I have to smoke it, it’s my birthday, right?”

“Yeah”

Week Seven Journal 2

Week Seven Journal 2

A few friends and myself were playing basketball in a park near my house. We needed a few more people to make the game interesting, rather than playing two on two, so we called a friend who we rarely hang out with, Joe. Joe came up to the park and brought a couple friends who none of us knew. We played basketball and one of Joe’s friends, Sean, was getting increasingly aggressive, even though this was just a meaningless pickup game. On one play, I had possession of the ball and was driving down the court when Sean grabbed for the ball screaming like a bat out of hell, blatantly fouling me and preventing a basket that was undoubtedly going in. He was aggressive, but never really made it clear that he was out for blood or anything. We continued playing until, once again, Sean got too aggressive and elbowed me in the nose. I spun around with both of my fists clenched tight, ready to kick him in the shins and than pound on his face. I had no idea if he had done it on purpose, I mean people take elbows to the face all the time in basketball, but this guy was aggressive the whole game, going out of his way to get at the ball. I took another step toward him, ready to pounce, when I noticed an apologetic look on his face. He began apologizing profusely and clearly felt horrible about letting his aggressiveness get the best of him. He ran and grabbed some tissues from his car, as my nose hard started a slow drip of blood at this point. In the end, I was the one who felt stupid because of assuming he would be proud of elbowing someone in the nose.

Tom had played basketball plenty of times with almost everyone there, except for two, Sean and Brian. He thought about how they played, they looked just like everyone else on the court, neither was freakishly large, and they didn’t seem to have any ridiculous amount of skill. Sean and Brian were clearly sizing up everyone else too, at least those who they had never played with before. The game started and went fine for a couple minutes, until everyone noticed that Sean was getting overly aggressive. On one particular play, Tom was passed the ball after a blocked shot, with no one in front of him, he knew that it was an easy basket. Out of nowhere Sean sprinted towards Tom, screaming, yet still speaking words, seemingly at the same time.

“I want that ball,” screeched Sean.

He dove in front of Tom, hitting the ball and causing Tom to stumble. The other players looked on in amazement, wondering why someone would purposely dive, clearly injuring themselves more than anything, just to stop a basket in a game that meant nothing. It was bewildering.

“What the hell?!” shouted Tom, “Someone’s taking this a little too seriously. Don’t forget we don’t actually get a salary for this.”

“Yeah, whatever, good thing we’re not getting paid or you’d be broke,” retorted Sean.

“That doesn’t even make sense. None of us are getting paid, so yeah I guess I’m broke, just like everyone else here,” said Tom.

“How ‘bout we finish playing.”

The game resumed. It was back and forth, basket after basket, placing them in a tie every other basket. One possession was taking place particularly close to the basket. Tom grabbed the rebound, after one of his teammates had missed. Jumping up to put the ball in the basket, Tom was elbowed in the nose by Sean, presumably trying to block the shot, although who knows why his elbow would be that close to Tom’s face. The sound was louder than anyone could have expected, almost like the snapping of a tibia or some larger bone. The game was stopped, if only temporarily. With Sean’s aggressive play, Tom had viewed this as intentional, although it was not. For a brief moment, it appeared as though a fist fight would ensue. Tom clenched his fists, moving towards Sean. Sean immediately felt horrible, and a genuinely sorry look formed on his face.

“I am so sorry, man. I did not mean to do that at all, is it bleeding? Yeah it’s starting to, I’ll run and grab some tissues from my car. I’m sorry,” said Sean, clearly sorry and maybe even a bit shaken up. With that response, all of Tom’s preconceived notions regarding Sean were wiped away.

Week Six Journal #2

NARRATION

This was the fifth time the white coupe had locked onto my tail, and definitely not the last. The first time he had followed had been at one in the morning on a Saturday, while I was just trying to get home. He turned off his lights, yet when I stopped to get out and confront him, he reversed like the coward he was and drove off into the night. He had followed me a couple more times between then and now, although every time I stopped to confront him he would drive away. Him and his passengers even took it upon themselves to yell profanities at me and my friends, although they could not do anything else. It has become such an annoyance that I took to carrying a old baseball bat in my car since I frequently drove alone and only saw the white coupe with at least three people in the car. My girlfriend told me to stop following them, but this needed to end, and I was determined to end it. I followed them down County Road 1 for a considerable amount of time, constantly on the phone with my friend just incase I needed another witness, maybe even backup; I had no idea what these people were capable of or what they intended to do. Unbeknownst to me, the driver of the white coupe had also called a friend who pulled out behind me in a green sedan. The green sedan got in the lane next to me and slammed on the gas, gaining maybe half a car length on me, and tossed an opened pop can at my car. The pop can hit my windshield and flew away. Now the green sedan was in front of me and the white coupe was making its getaway. This had to end. I now locked into the green sedan, he pulled into a parking lot and I followed, than left, hoping he would follow me. He followed. I pulled into the park a half mile down the road and he followed. I turned around quickly so that I was facing him. I frantically searched around my car for something to throw and found a completely full Taco Bell cup. I quickly rolled down my window and tossed it, a direct hit, old Pepsi dripped down his windshield. I cornered him and got out, demanding answers, which he gave. I now realized I could be in huge trouble seeing as these kids looked like they had just gotten licenses. I got some answers out of the kid and not wanting a hefty jail sentence began to leave. The kid informed me that the white coupe had called the police and that we should probably both get the hell out of there. I left and saw the cops pull him over a quarter mile in front of me. Hoping they wouldn’t notice me, I sat at the light not more than ten feet away from the cops and kids. They came to my window and made me get out of the vehicle. After a lengthy conversation, and a seizure of my baseball bat, I was free to go pending a decision from the kids’ parents of whether or not to press charges. I didn’t care, the maximum charge was disorderly conduct, which in my case would be considered a misdemeanor.

SCENE

“There’s that fucker again,” I said.

“Seriously this is not worth it, it’s just a giant waste of time,” said my girlfriend, Josie.

“No this ends tonight I’m tired of having to put up with this crap.”

“God damnit,” she sighed.

“This kid cannot be serious, he thinks that he’s gonna lose me with that little car ha!” I said, after a prolonged silence.

“We can still stop now.”

“Nope, sorry, I’m in the zone, this is gonna end one way or another,” I responded.

“Shit that car is totally his friend or something, he’s driving like a jackass,” I said.

“Yeah, your right, now I am kind of getting pissed off,” said Josie.

“Let’s see if we can get them to follow us, y’know, give us the upper hand.”

“Alright fine,” said Josie.

“Ha got em in my tail now, lets stop this, I’ll pull into the park.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, I don’t want you going to jail.”

“So who’s your little buddy in the white car, huh, asshole?”

“Uhh, Mick Prudy.”

“And why the hell does he think he can get away with following me like this? Why is he even following me?”

“I..I don’t know. Was the Taco Bell cup really necessary?”

“Was the pop can necessary you fucking idiot, you got off light.”

“What pop can?”

“Shut the fuck up! Your friend needs to watch his back, and if your smart you’ll do the same, and also stay the fuck out of your friends business, it’s me and him and your just getting caught in the crossfire.”

“Okay, okay. He just texted me. He called the cops and their probably on their way so we should both get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah later asshole.”

NARRATION AND SCENE

This was the fifth time the white coupe had locked onto my tail, and definitely not the last. The first time he had followed had been at one in the morning on a Saturday, while I was just trying to get home.

“There’s that fucker again,” I said.

“Seriously this is not worth it, it’s just a giant waste of time,” said my girlfriend, Josie.

“No this ends tonight I’m tired of having to put up with this crap.”

“God damnit,” she sighed.

This needed to end, and I was determined to end it. I followed them down County Road 1 for a considerable amount of time, constantly on the phone with my friend just incase I needed another witness, maybe even backup; I had no idea what these people were capable of or what they intended to do. Unbeknownst to me, the driver of the white coupe had also called a friend who pulled out behind me in a green sedan.

“Shit that car is totally his friend or something, he’s driving like a jackass,” I said.

“Yeah, your right, now I am kind of getting pissed off,” said Josie.

This had to end. I now locked into the green sedan, he pulled into a parking lot and I followed, than left, hoping he would follow me. He followed.

“Ha got em in my tail now, lets stop this, I’ll pull into the park.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, I don’t want you going to jail.”

I pulled into the park a half mile down the road and he followed. I turned my car around quickly so that I was facing him. I frantically searched around my car for something to throw and found a completely full Taco Bell cup. I quickly rolled down my window and tossed it, a direct hit; old Pepsi dripped down his windshield. I cornered him and got out, demanding answers, which he gave. I now realized I could be in huge trouble seeing as these kids looked like they had just gotten driver’s licenses.

“So who’s your little buddy in the white car, huh, asshole?” I said angrily.

“Uhh, Mick Prudy.”

“And why the hell does he think he can get away with following me like this? Why is he even following me?”

“I..I don’t know. Was the Taco Bell cup really necessary?”

“Was the pop can necessary you fucking idiot, you got off light.”

“What pop can?”

“Shut the fuck up! Your friend needs to watch his back, and if your smart you’ll do the same, and also stay the fuck out of your friends business, it’s me and him and your just getting caught in the crossfire,” I said angrily. Anything that crossed my path at this point just pissed me off even more and this kid wasn’t helping

“Okay, okay. He just texted me. He called the cops and their probably on their way so we should both get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah later asshole.”

I left and saw the cops pull him over a quarter mile in front of me. Hoping they wouldn’t notice me, I sat at the light not more than ten feet away from the cops and kids. They came to my window and made me get out of the vehicle. After a lengthy conversation, and a seizure of my baseball bat, I was free to go pending a decision from the kids’ parents of whether or not to press charges. I didn’t care, the maximum charge was disorderly conduct, which in my case would be considered a misdemeanor.

Week Six Journal #1

Getting home was never fun. It meant that I had nothing better to do than sleep and manage my miserable existence.

I never smoked in my small rented house. It cost an extra seventy five dollars a month for that privilege. I stepped out of my side door, since it was more convenient than walking all the way to the front, not to mention it didn’t directly face the street. I grabbed my cigarettes from my pocket and noticed I would be smoking the last one in my possession. I lit it up and didn’t inhale the first drag, a weird habit I had ever since I had started smoking.

I got about halfway through my cigarette and noticed something in my side yard. I could only see its shape, it looked about the size of a raccoon, although it did not move. Curious, I walked out into the yard and bent down for a closer look.

It was just a bunched up bedsheet. Why would someone place a bedsheet in the middle of my lawn? It wasn’t windy at all tonight, so there was no way a whole sheet made it’s way into my lawn.

Something rustled in the bushes to my back. I looked behind me. Nothing. I looked to the right. Still Nothing.

Next thing I knew I was on the ground, instinctively flailing my arms at whatever it was that just tackled me in my own damn yard. Teenagers these days have no boundaries whatsoever, I thought to myself. Thinking was a big mistake, because as fast as I was flailing my arms, there were two guys on top of me flailing theirs, although in a much more disciplined and aware manner.

I was out cold after what I estimated to be thirty seconds.

Week Four Journal 2

“The Making of a Story” Exercise 1 on pg. 127

1. Years I have been using the same electric razor: 3

2. Average number of minutes my sister spent in the bathroom each day before high school: 55

3. Number of times in the past month that I have run out of toilet paper and had to substitute with paper towel: 3

4. Weeks until my birthday: 6

5. Number of cars I have owned: 2

6. Number of books I have read in the past month: 4

7. Average dollar amount of gasoline I put in my gas tank every few days: 20

8. Foreign countries I have visited: 3

9. Consecutive years I have not agreed with most aspects of our government: 6

10. Number of top ten lists I have composed in the past six months: 1

Week Four Journal 1

Week Four Journal

What makes me…

Angry?

People who talk too much

When my sports teams lose

People who have very poor driving skills but are still on the road

Merging onto a highway at 35 mph

Afraid?

The unknown

My future

Another president similar to George W. Bush

Happy?

Friends

Family

Books

Movies

Sports

What do I want?

A successful future

Enough money to support myself, and hopefully others

What hurts?

Physical pain

Betrayal

Week Three Journals

Week Three Journal

Hoax Photo Journal

I could faintly hear the rear bumper being scraped away behind me, if not for the radio blasting into my ear. I thought to myself that this whole situation was a little ridiculous, considering the only reason I was hauling this plywood was to help out my girlfriend’s father, so that him and his friends could have a room to drink their beer and complain about their wives in. The irony of it is that while I’m sacrificing my tiny little Volkswagen to help him out, he’s at his house, barking out drunken orders to his friends, who were enlisted to help with this project.

Looking back in my rearview mirror, I realize that there are a few cars behind me, although they won’t pass me. I check my side mirrors and realize that my bumper is non existent, and that it is now metal scraping against the asphalt. Sparks are spraying at least ten feet behind my car. Pulling onto the shoulder, the other cars pass. I try to pretend like I don’t notice, but of course everyone is still driving slowly, staring at me like I just murdered the pope.

When the line of spectators finally passes, I get out of my car to more closely assess the situation at hand. I realize that the stack of plywood on my roof is weighing me down, but than again, so is my girlfriend. I realize how stupid it is for me to be doing this for my girlfriend’s father. I mean, he’s done nothing for me besides assume I am constantly getting his daughter pregnant.

With a little more wisdom in my head I realize that instead of helping someone else build an entertainment room, I should be building my own, or at the very least be with my own friends. My girlfriend will be angry at me, I thought. Slowly untying the plywood bundle on my roof, I realized that if this is the way she wants me to spend my Saturday afternoons, and evenings, than I don’t need to be with her. I grabbed my cell phone and called my good buddy Linehan.

“Scotty, it’s John, I decided not to help that tool build his room, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, come over the games starting in like a half hour, we got some beer, but you should grab a sixer or something just incase.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

I didn’t even finish pulling the plywood off my car. I hopped in and turned the key in the ignition. Stomping on the gas pedal, I heard something thud behind me. Looking in the rearview, I saw the stack of plywood sliding off the roof, one sheet at a time. I had to get some beer and get to Linehan’s. I didn’t even take my foot off the gas.

Page 38 Exercise-“I don’t know why I remember…”

I don’t know why I remember back in grade school, when I was in the boy scouts for a year, my two best friends, Eric and Ben, and I were running around playing in the gym that the meeting was held in. There was another kid who went to our school and who we knew, but none of us had actually hung out with him outside of school. This kid, Steven, wasn’t a huge nerd or anything, he just was kind of cocky, thought everything that he touched turned to gold. Anyways, my two best friends and I were running around the gym, not really doing anything, just horsing around, when Steven came up bragging about his new hat (which, of course he was presently wearing). Being the cruel, heartless children we were, Eric promptly snatched the hat from his head and ran away, Ben and I following closely behind. Steven ran after us, eventually catching up at the other end of the gym.

“Give me my hat back guys, I just got it.”

The fact that he spoke prompted Eric to toss it to me, and me to toss it to Ben, which quickly turned into a game of keep away. Laughing, we continued to play this cruel game, until a rather large man walked up to all of us, and in a low, intimidating voice, said, “Give him the hat back.”

We all got scared and immediately gave him the hat back, not realizing the man had walked away, disappeared.

“Who was that?” said Eric, Ben, and I, in perfect unison.

“No one,” snapped Steven.

“What, why would no one care if we had your hat?” said Eric

The boy scout meeting began at that point and we were forced to stop talking, or face certain embarrassment. It was only a couple years later, when Steven was in my class at school, that saw his dad and realized that he was the man that had told us to give the hat back. I found it somewhat funny that he was so proud of his hat, but so embarrassed of his dad (for reasons that to this day, I still don’t know). Either way, we were really cruel kids.

Week One Challenge One

“Clive was on the far side of a green pond, torturing a king-crested newt.”

“Was this something that Clive often did?” asked the prosecutor.

“Define often,” I chuckled, hoping to get the same from at least a couple other people in the room, but it was dead quiet. I think everyone may have even stopped breathing, if only momentarily.

I realized that my answer had not been sufficient for the prosecutor and that he and everyone else were staring at me, awaiting an honest answer. “I saw him do it maybe three or four times since I had known him, but I really don’t see how my witnessing him torture a tiny lizard would have anything to do with him murdering that boy, if he even did that.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Judge Hackett, “This court will meet again tomorrow, same time of course.” Judge Hackett was one of those people who have to state the obvious, because they are so nervous someone may, down the road, blame them for the omission, even though we had been in the same court room at the same time for a week now. He said it every single day.

I swiftly pushed open the glass door to the government building with my shoulder, and flew down the stairs, getting to my car in what had to be record time. The time that I had spent in the courtroom over the past week had really taken a toll on me, mainly because it had almost nothing to do with me, yet the prosecutor acted as though the fate of the universe was in my testimony. The whole legal matter was because of a boy I used to play with in my youth, he was one of my neighbors, but now, as a grown adult he had supposedly killed a young boy, although the boy was technically an adult, at eighteen years old.

I started my car and put it in gear, heading towards Paddy’s Bar, the only place that really helps to ease the stress after these long, meaningless days in court.