The Anomalies
Authors: Joey Goebel
The Anomalies
A Novel by Joey Goebel
ebook ISBN: 978-1-59692-942-5
M P Publishing Limited
12 Strathallan Crescent
Douglas
Isle of Man
IM2 4NR
via
United Kingdom
Telephone: +44 (0)1624 618672
email: [email protected]
MacAdam/Cage
155 Sansome Street, Suite 550
San Francisco, CA 94104
www.macadamcage.com
Copyright © 2003 by Joey Goebel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-931561-29-x
Jacket and book design by Dorothy Carico Smith
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated in loving memory to
Adam Joseph Goebel Jr.
“I could have been someone…”
“Well, so could anyone.”
—The Pogues
A novel by Joey Goebel
Contents
Luster
It wasn’t easy simultaneously mending six billion broken hearts, but I managed.
That is the first line of the book that I am going to write someday. It will be the best book ever, based on my life story, wiser than all tabloids and sexier than the Bible. Oprah will approve.
This very bedroom will be blocked off by velvet ropes, and the carpet stains will become collector’s items sold on eBay. And when they who hail from where the phone books are thicker see my humble origins, they’ll all be thinking the same thought:
“How is it that while cell phones were ringing show tunes, while anxiety disorders were going airborne, while the world was getting so heavy that gravity got redundant, there existed a malnourished boy slashing out such valuable, world-changing thoughts that would later become our anthems, jotting out a revolution per minute in spiral notebooks on a maggot-filled bed in a musty bedroom in a grotesque home on an illiterate street in an incestuous town in such a sad, sad state?”
I ask myself the same question with the answer hovering behind me reeking of malt liquor and marijuana. He’s forcing some greatness out of me, this man, this horribly average humanoid.
He taunts me. “You’re so smart, you know whum sayin. Then write me one of your stupid songs, you smart-ass, bitch-ass bitch.”
With his big gun pressed against the back of my mind, he inspires me. And so I spit out some lyrics as he cocks the gun like the true Neanderthal he is.
Opal
You hear people talking about wavelengths. I reckon I have one of those wavelengths that’s hard to pick up on. Maybe I’m still on AM or something. I don’t know. But there are a few hearing me, like this one I got in the passenger’s seat spitting hawkers at the pedestrians. They think she’s cute ’til they have a wad of her venom running down the side of their face. Then she’s not so much cute as she is disgusting. I think they feel the same way about me.
I am ten times as old as Ember, but we’re still on about the same level. Either she’s really mature, or I’m really immature. I don’t know. I guess the biggest difference between us (besides the seventy-two years) is that I love boys, and she hates ’em. But that will change.
“You know what, girlfriend?” I say to my little bitty buddy as she’s trying to generate her some more spit. “You and me are a lot alike.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are! We hate being bored, and we’re always restless, and I sure am glad I socialize with someone like you instead of eating early-bird breakfasts at Hardee’s and playing in those bridge tournaments all the time.”
“I’m glad I don’t watch bullshit Disney cartoons,” she replies.
“That’s right,” I say. “You don’t care about those cereal box doodads that the other kids like, either.”
We jump out of my station wagon and I take off that stupid velour sweatsuit as quickly as I can. I never let Ember’s parents see me in my rock clothes, just in case they care. I really
doubt they do. They seem to be getting less and less interested in their kid and more and more interested in their theme parties and vacations to islands I’ve never heard of.
After I throw my old lady costume in the back seat, Ember and I race each other to the door of the Red Lobster, which she picked. She loves their mahi-mahi. I told her Luster won’t like a chain restaurant, but she didn’t care. I can’t complain, though, because I love their chicken fingers.
Of course, those little legs of hers beat my arthritic ass to the restaurant.
For the first time tonight, I mean my smile. I can’t help it. There’s a little girl, like, about seven or eight years old, and she’s skipping toward me, and her skipping is kind of in time with the Muzak. I swear…she’s an angel.
She’s got curly blonde hair, a baby face, and the biggest, prettiest eyes. She kind of looks like that girl off those old Welch’s grape juice commercials, only not as creepy. Her parents have got her dressed skanky, though. She’s got on a T-shirt with a monster truck on it, Gravedigger. It’s way too big for her and comes down past her knees. It looks like she’s not even wearing any pants, which I’ve always thought was such a tacky look for a kid. She’s got cute shoes on, at least. Black and white saddle oxfords.
“Hi!” I say to her.
“Hey.”
She looks behind her at an old lady walking toward us, probably her grandma. The grandma makes me smile even
more, and I’m biting my lip, trying not to laugh. She has short but really poofy white hair and wears bun-tight blue jeans, black tasseled cowboy boots, and a T-shirt that says “Sex Pistols” on it. I can’t think of what celebrity she looks like, probably because there aren’t any celebrities that are old ladies.
“Hi! How many? Two?”
Then in a loud, high-pitched, old lady voice, the grandma goes, “No. Five. The others will arrive shortly.”
So I ask for a name, like I’m supposed to.
“Oglesby.”
I ask for a smoking preference, like I’m supposed to. But this time, the high-pitched voice comes from the adorable little girl.
“Smoking!”
And I finally get an excuse to laugh. I’m told to compliment the customers as much as possible, but I mean it this time.
“Your granddaughter is so cute.”
“She’s not my granddaughter,” says the old lady. “And I ain’t no mammaw.”
The dumbass hostess sits us down. Everybody here is dumb. Except for Opal and me. We like rock music. We rock out.
There are some families with moms and dads. There are men and women on dates. And there are some prettyboys. That’s who’s here.
A waiter comes up to us. I see Opal looking at him the way she looks at wrestlers.
“Hi! My name is Todd, and I’ll be your server. What can I get you two to drink?”
“Michelob Light,” I tell him.
“Oh! Your granddaughter is so cute!”
“She’s not my granddaughter,” says Opal. “And I ain’t no mammaw.”
And I wasn’t trying to be cute.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” says our fuckface waiter.
“I’ll take a Vervifontaine, and give her a Shirley Temple instead of that Michelob.”
I don’t want a Shirley Temple. I would normally be screaming by now. But I like Opal. So I’ll hold off.
“I’m sorry,” says Shit-head. “We don’t have Vervi—what you just said.”
No place ever has what she wants.
“Okay. Just Budweiser me, then,” says Opal.
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll have those right out,” says Assface. Opal keeps busy looking at the waiter’s butt. So I play with my knife. Mutilate. Mootilate. I’m getting good at not cutting myself.
“Now don’t you cut off those purdy little fingers, Ember.”
I point the knife at her.
“Ohhh. Don’t hurt me, now, or the Boogie-man will come and get you.”
“Shit. I’ll cut his ass, too.”
I’ve never been afraid of the Boogie-man. Because there is no Boogie-man. There’s no Boogie-man. There’s no Tooth Fairy. There’s no Easter Bunny. And there is especially no Santa Claus. I’m not stupid. Santa Claus is a big, fat lie used to keep kids in line.
I hate the holidays.
I wanna bone this chick.
She rolls in with some big, goofy-looking black dude. I’m thinking they’re not a couple because they don’t look right together. He has, like, big Jheri-curled hair and wears a T-shirt with a poodle on it and bleach-streaked blue jeans and white dress shoes. He kind of looks like the black dude off Saturday Night Live but with no facial hair.
Meanwhile, she’s white. Creamy white. She’s got long black hair and wears a tight white dress and fishnets. She’s got the perfect amount of make-up and the perfect amount of cleavage. She kind of looks like that girl off of Baywatch only prettier and realer. Too bad she’s in a wheelchair. Still, though, I don’t care. She could give me a blow job, if nothing else, and you know I’m all about blow jobs.
What’s really weird is that the hostess I boned takes the wheelchair chick and the black dude to the table with the weird old lady and the weird little girl that’s not her grandkid.
I approach the table again.
“Hi! My name is Todd, and I’ll be your server. What can I get you two to drink?”
I try not to look at the hot chick’s boobs, but I fail. Damn.
“I’ll have a Hawaiian Punch.” She sounds soft and breathy like Marilyn Monroe.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have Hawaiian Punch.”
“Then I’ll just have a root beer.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have root beer, either.” Boobs.
“Water.”
“Okay. And for you, sir?”
“I would like to drink a glass of Coca-Cola Classic, please.” He doesn’t talk like a black guy, or a white guy, for that matter. He e-nun-ci-ates each syllable like he thinks I’m stupid or that I have a hearing problem or something.
“Is Pepsi okay?” I am supposed to ask every time, just in case. Then he stares me down like I just made fun of his mama or something.
“No! No, it is not okay, you jumping-to-conclusions mother fletcher! Just bring me milk!”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll have those right out.”
Dude. Good thing I asked.
People work there. People eat there also. I walk in, wanting to buy food and eat it publicly. A girl at work there smiles a big one at me. I smile one back and walk quickly toward the eating. Making her yell at me.
“Wait! Sir, how many?” I hear before I can reach the eating room.
I turn around to the girl.
“I don’t understand.”
“How many are in your party?”
I stare at her, thinking, flipping through my mind. Parties. How many.
“How many people do you plan to eat with?” she asks in a slow, loud voice like I am a retard baby. I hold up four.
“Smoking or non?” she asks.
I think with care before answering.
“I don’t understand.”
“Sir, do you like smoking cigarettes, or would you prefer not to be around anyone who does like smoking cigarettes?”
And then I remember how you have so many choices here. They separate eaters by their smoking here. I love this! But I just want to eat.
“I prefer being around a young black man, a little girl, an elderly woman, and a pretty girl in a wheelchair.”
The girl smiles.
“Oh. Okay. I think I might know which table you’re talking about.”
She wants to laugh but holds it. She thinks I don’t see the humor in this situation.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any freakier, this pudgy gay-looking middle-aged foreigner comes in. This dude is flamin, prancin in wearing flip-flops with white socks, really short khaki shorts, a cut-off shirt, and a denim fanny pack. Plus a big black mustache. Otherwise he’s your typical dark-skinned Middle Eastern–looking dude, but with no beard and no towel on his head. He sits next to the old lady wearing the shirt that says “Sex Pistols” on it.
“Guys, I never thought I’d see this day,” I say to my boys. “We are no longer at the cool table.” They laugh. I kick ass.
So I’m thinking this must be like a field trip from wherever they keep crazy or retarded people or something. Shit. There’s gotta be some explanation for them to be together like
that. Who’s gonna show up next? A rabbi? A midget? A robot?
My boys and I continue to watch them as we finish off our Rolling Rocks. The little girl almost lights herself a cigarette before the old bitch takes it away from her and smokes it herself. This must have reminded Josh and Jeremy to light up, so I light up also.
“I’ve never seen so many bad haircuts at one table,” I tell my boys. Another laugh. I love it.
That one bitch is hot, though. Too bad she’s in a wheelchair, ’cause I’m sure by the way she looks that she’s a major ho. The little girl will probably be hot someday. I bet the old bitch was hot like seventy years ago.
Dude. I swear the wheelchair slut is looking over here. She’s all over my stick.
Josh’s cell phone rings to the tune of an old Jay-Z song, the one where he samples from that song off of Annie. This should be the call we’ve been waiting on from Josh’s dealer, Jerome. My wife should be putting the kid and herself to bed in a couple hours, freeing up the crib for my boys and me to party in later. I think I’ll ask that hostess that I boned in high school to come party with us.
“I bet that group really knows how to party,” I say to my boys. Not a huge laugh, but I’m still the man. I laugh really loud at myself to compensate.
Then the black guy suddenly turns around, so we kind of stop laughing and look the other way to be polite.
If I had eyes in place of nipples, I’d be losing a staring contest
right now. But at least I’m not the only one they’re gawking at. My friends divert some of the stares, which is one more reason to remain friends with them.
“Ooh! Let’s make a toast!” I suggest after the waiter brings Ray his Mountain Dew. I’ve recently become fond of toasting because it’s one of those things you can do to make yourself feel more grown-up without spreading disease.
“Yeah. Good thinking,” says Luster. “What should we toast to, little Ember?”
“Vaginas.”
“I like that. To vaginas,” says Luster.
And we all raise our glasses and say “to vaginas,” which I’m not too comfortable with.
I’m at an awkward age and have been for nineteen years. And it keeps getting worse. For instance, at my dad’s parties, there’s the problem of talking to his friends. Numerically, I am old enough now to be expected to carry on conversations with them, but I never know what to say, and I always end up feeling dumb. Sometimes I think I should be like my sister the slut and move to California. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with things like my dad’s parties.
At least I don’t have to worry about feeling dumb here, though. I can say whatever comes to mind.
“Your hair looks flippindicular, Opal,” I say. It has been freshly permed.
“I know. I just got it done today,” she replies.
“I was thinking about going back to blonde, but black goes better with the whole Satan thing,” I say.
She simply nods. I’m accepted here, and I’m actually happy to be around these people. I see these friends as being like the vending machines in the basement of a hospital.
Back when my mom was dying, and Dad and my sister the slut and I would visit the hospital, the only source of pleasure or escape I could find there were the vending machines in the basement. Everything else was sick or sanitized, beige and horrible, and underneath such unflattering lights. But then there were the vending machines in the basement, full of happy, colorful packages, just like you’d find them outside the hospital.
As I’ve gotten older, candy doesn’t even taste as good as it used to, but that’s beside the point. The point is that I am capable of coming up with metaphors.
At this point, I am positive that those guys are staring at us. I know this type of guy from high school, and although they look to be in their early twenties, I’m sure their mentalities never made it past the twelfth grade. These were the guys that would cut in front of everyone in the lunch line as if it were their divine right to eat before the lesser people. These are the guys that had to be on the front row for the senior class picture so everyone could see them flipping off the camera (how rebellious!). These are the guys that rode with their windows down playing rap, always driving with the exact same pose, their left elbow resting on the door, their left hand coolly draped over their mouth, almost as if they were posing for a senior picture. I didn’t want any part of them then, and I don’t want any part of them now. That’s why I refuse to go to college, to avoid being around young people.
