Me and Myself and My Son: A Shitty Story

A man was defecating on my England hotel room floor as I walked in.

He looked over and squinted at the new light surrounding me from the hallway. I shut the door and said,” The bathrooms over there, buddy.”

It was All Hallows Evening and I wondered if this was a trick or a threat. I don’t know how he got into my room, either. He must have been friends with that German bellboy downstairs.

The man was wearing a white shirt with green paint splattered all over it, and no pants. His face was skewed and gray from lack of light.

He stood hunched over, his knees shaking as he held himself over an imaginary toilet. A long, stubborn turd tangled and then dropped. He looked at me, calm and relived.

“Would you show some compassion and get me some tissues?” he asked.

I threw him one of my undershirts that was lying on the bed. The only light now was coming from the bathroom, where I noticed an arm caught in rigor mortis jutting out from the bathroom floor.

“And what’s that?” I asked pointing to the arm. I knew what it was, but I wondered if it was just the arm, or was it attached to a body.

“It’s an arm, and the whole body, too,” he said as he tugged my shirt like saw between his scrotum and his buttocks.  “Have you ever seen a dead body before?  Check it out. They look different when they’re dead; they change colors, like chameleons.”

I looked over at it again. It was turning a pale bluish green, almost yellow. “Ah, so I see.”

“Are you done then?” he asked me.

Was I done? Was I in the wrong room? But then… no.   “This isn’t real,” I told him. “This is just a dream, isn’t it?”

“Could be, but then whose is it?”

“I think its mine,” I said.

“How would you know?”

“Because…I just know, you know? Because I’m thinking.”

“Yeah I know, because so am I,” he said. “Just because you’re in a dream doesn’t make it yours. But then again, it could be yours since I’m pretty sure I’m awake. I’m taking a shower. Leave the light on when you go.”

I was pretty sure I was awake, too. I moved to the bed and rested against the headboard and flicked off my shoes. The T.V. turned on by itself, showing a black and white security tape of the man who shat on my floor—before he shits on my floor.

The man bursts into the room dancing with a woman. They looked like a couple fresh in love. They kissed and the lady went into the kitchen and out of frame. The man went to the corner and rummaged through my suitcase. He came out with my saxophone and took it into the kitchen.

Fuck it. It was a shitty sax anyway.

The room was empty and lonely looking. Thick lines of tracking fuzz flowed up the screen, and then the woman suddenly ran out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. I could see her mouth open and vibrating, most likely pleading for her life. The man ran after, sax raised high in the air like an axe ready to do some messy bludgeoning. “Good,” I said to the dead woman in the T.V. “Because you’ll be safe in there.”

A hand fell suddenly and limply into view, the same hand that was now turning strange rainbow-like colors in the bathroom. The man stepped out and went back into my suitcase. The T.V. turned off.

Damn it. Probably found my stash. A buzz reeled inside my head that needed to be suppressed. I needed something, anything, but by now the streets were probably lined with goblins and masked mad men begging for candy. The city had to be dry by now, too; however, the room was starting to smell like a bad case of dysentery, and I knew a clown who lived around downtown who was bound to turn my frown upside-down. What? Just happened? Clowns growing in a farm downtown? No No No…

Ah, that’s right. Never mind, a passing case of severe amnesia I guess. So it was decided. I hit the streets, and, of course, left the light on for my new friend.

When I came back the man was sitting on one of the beds with a can of air freshener next to him. He was staring at the T.V.; at the white fuzz of a non-existent channel.  His hair was wet and was now wearing my shit stained undershirt with still no pants. I was starting to contemplate just giving him the shirt, and maybe getting him some pants.

I threw myself on the adjacent bed and offered him some of my smoke.

“Hell no,” he said without taking his eyes off the glaring white static. “I don’t do that.”

“Then you didn’t take my other stuff?”

“No, no yeah I did.” The man then began spraying himself with the air freshener like it was bug spray. The aerosol fizzed out as he used the last spurts of mist on his uncovered genitals. After the last sprit, he gave the can a good shake and tried again, then chucked it across the room.

It went silent; his gaze went back to the T.V.

“So, who’s the dead lady,” I finally asked.

“Your wife.”

“No shit,” I said, taking a long drag on my roach. I knew I recognized her from somewhere. Just going shopping for some shoes, huh? Serves the cunt right.

“And you know that green stuff on my shirt you thought was paint?  It was blood—your wife’s. She was an alien… but I’m only assuming because of the green blood.”

“Nooo shit,” I said offering him the last of the blunt with an outstretched hand. “It’s good stuff, laced with H, or something good.”

“If you insist,” he said leaning over, carefully squeezing the delicate, glowing roach between his fingers. The man inhaled deeply. “You know, I didn’t want to kill her. All I wanted was to play her a romantic song on the sax, but the wrenched thing was out of tune.  She laughed and I got mad and swung at her. When she ran out screaming and making a scene, I wanted her face smashed; I wanted the damned tuba smashed. Then I had a grand idea: Why not smash two birds with one stone?”

“…Absolutely,” I said.

He paused for a second, and then exhaled a sizable cloud resembling the hourglass figure of a woman.

“I couldn’t stop,” he began again. “I just kept hitting her, and hitting her and… then the next thing I knew she was dead.” He went for another puff, but there was nothing left but crushed ash between his fingers. He twisted around and tossed the charred remains under the pillow he was sitting on.

The more I observed him, the more I began to notice something very familiar in this man; I knew him from somewhere. I didn’t want to seem rude, but I needed to ask.

“Who am I?” He said startled. “Oh, forgive me, I thought you knew.  I’m you… no I’m kidding… but no, really—I am, and along with your son, too…”

“No shit,” I said once again, taking another hit out of another roach I found in my hand. The silence and steady scramble of the non-existent channel curtained in peacefully as I sat with my apparent self -son, wondering, hoping this was just a dream, anyone’s dream.

Xena

My socks smell funny.

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