zestypinto

zestypinto @ 2014-02-24T13:39:00

2014-02-24T18:39:31Z

So it seems the theme this month is death: the girlfriend's lost aunt, the news with Phylip Seymour Hoffman and (as I type this) Harold Remis, even my LJ friends. It feels like 2014 is purging life, one personal string at a time.

I don't entirely fear death. I have enough grasp of it to not live wantonly, but enough to accept that my fate is predestined to expire. It took me years to realize that the panic attacks that came from this originated not from a fear of dying, but of dying alone. I suppose if I should be so lucky as those that have lost, I know that there would be people to remember me, whether it was as a somewhat decent guy, a mopey regular, or just some entitled know-it-all asshole who never knew when to shut up.

I never did discuss the events about The Girlfriend. The last three day weekend I spent with her on a trip to Boston from Burlington. The premise was simple: road trip. We drive down, we stop wherever the hell we like, we only go down based on certain guide points and if we see anything that looks remotely interesting, we stop there to looky-loo.

The news of her aunt's death came at 3am. She cried in the hotel bathroom in the hopes it wouldn't wake me up, but I could still hear it. Harboring my own disgruntled sensation of little sleep and plans gone afoul, I drove back and tried to do what I could for her before sending her off to the airport and trying again. See, I needed to go to Boston for an actual reason: I still had a lot of crap there back when I worked at the house. After dropping her off at 3pm, I took to the roads, acclimating to the atmosphere of highway driving after such a long hiatus away from it. The lack of stop and go and speed, and cruise controlled luxury made it easier, easy enough to miss a toll lane and hit and EZ Pass. Son of a bitch.

I made it into Medford at 7pm, exhausted. The ceremonial sendoff was short. I brought a package of organic granola because anything else I could find along the way wasn't healthy enough, and it was accepted with just as little fanfare. I took a trip to Burlington, MA not because it shares the name of VT's largest chunk of civilization, but because it was close to the H-Mart. I wanted to get her dumplings so she'd have something to look forward to on returning, and I am never sure if I have the time to make them at home. In retrospect, maybe I would if I bought skins, but I have gotten so used to making the skins by hand that it felt silly.

Anyway, I picked up a hotel room and McDonald's, where I made the cashier laugh when I realized my nerves were so shot that I could not even handle money easily. I slept comfortably but with concerns about getting my car robbed, and woke up with a migraine, the sort that you can feel even as you dream. One stomach clenching fight with Excedrin later, I picked up dumplings, got a haircut, and visited my friends in Hull, whose little hairless infant had grown hair and was already used to scooting all over the place on those platforms that would look at home in "The Flintstones." The drive back home was less frustrating on me.

I forgot what it was like to live independently and there's not much to say about it at the moment just because I feel bad about using her car too much, so I can not really trek to parks at the moment. I did visit Central Burlington, however, and saw people walking on the lake. I was tempted to consider, but decided it was not a time for adventure. I did get a good workout out of it though, which disturbs me since it means I am *that* out of shape.

Yesterday was a last minute trip for groceries. I drove to "O Bread," this bakery built in a repurposed barn that looks like it would be used in a future set of "Downton Abbey" and now houses a school and a bakery academy. The bread, by the way, is fantastic and worth the drive over- I was told they mail order this stuff, so it might explain why it's so good if people are willing to mail order for it.

The trip home was some cleaning(really need to vacuum), making chowder, and replenishing salsa, which is cheap and, if done right, can outlast regular salsa pretty easily.

More importantly, I downloaded CeltX for the first time in awhile. I'm going to see about typing up some script ideas I have, maybe work on some incomplete drafts. We'll see how it goes, just need to push myself during my off time when I'm not working or cooking or helping out around the house.

The Girlfriend will be back in 9 hours, and I will look forward to it! Just hope I can nap before she gets back...

comments

Proper Use of a Vending Machine

2013-01-23T03:44:48Z

Second piece I just submitted, got to work on another to think of.

There you are, minding your own business, when it hits you: hunger. You gently chide the beast, for you have tackled this foe before! Few alive still remember your virgin days against the mealtime menace back when you lay astride a wooden cage, declaring to the great heavenly mother of being ravaged by the great emaciating beast while your closest comrades, Snuggy Boobums Bear and Big Blankie were helpless to save you from your struggles! No, those days are long past you. You’re a man (maybe), and like all men(maybe), you know how to handle this.
You spot the welcoming glow of your port-of-call: a machine in black holding goods of fine vituperative properties rest within for the modest sun of pocket change. So, as you step up to the machine, you find a bag of crisped potatoes with a delightful artificial cheese coasting on it, and you count its price as your hand scoops coins. Ah ha! Just enough. With mind set, you roll three coins into its silver slot, press two buttons, and await satisfaction. Await satisfaction. Await
OH HELL NO.
Phase I – The Declaration of War
So you gave away your hard-earned money away and the machine did nothing, did it? Well you would not be the first to be cheated by the illuminated box of lies. Oh, it’s not always so bad. Sometimes it behaves, and you leave happily satiated with good food and excellent service. Those are happy times, those wonderful salad days when you believed that machines would not betray you like mechanical abominations from a postapocalyptic future.
Let’s not be too hasty. Perhaps the machine is delayed. Perhaps you need some time for it to actually fathom how important it is to provide excellent service. Maybe all it needs is one long, intent, stare into its psyche to jar some repentance into its cold, mechanical, soul before it realizes the error of its ways. One long stare and any moment it will do it. Any moment and it will relent and you will have chips. You can feel it start to relent that metal spring and it will be rightfully yours. Just five more seconds. Staaaaaaaaaartiiiiiiing…
Now. No? Now. Give it five more to soak in the moment. Now. Right about…

Phase II – FORGET IT
This is not the end. Sure, you could call that number on the side mentioning that you can reach them for maintenance issues, but that sticker is a banner of surrender and you know it and you, YOU, are no coward to petty demands! You will have satisfaction and it will come to you with a mighty taste of justice one crisp at a time!
Clearly though, this has gone beyond diplomacy, this means war! Prepare an arm to push the panel. Now, push the button. Again. Again! The LCD display will say to insert coins, but you will ignore this! Press it until it feels like it feels like giving in, you know that you are doing the right thing. Now tap the glass. Do it with all three out of five fingers. That’s right, press it! Tap it again. Feels good, doesn’t it, getting revenge? Tap it again. Now… push!
Next, look for the nearest fire extinguisher. Grab it and proceed to give the machine a light tap. Now a hard one. Harder. Watch with cathartic joy as it dents up. Now bust it open. Laugh in joy as the glass shatters with a beautiful splash of crystal. That’s the satisfying experience of revenge. Now pick up the military issue flamethrower and prime it, taking precautions as dictated by the guidelines for proper use of-
Oh wait, hold on.

Phase III – The Fuzz
You didn’t actually *do* the things I told you to, did you? Wait, it might not be that bad, it doesn’t look like security.

Phase III – Not The Fuzz
Be cool, she probably doesn’t even know what you are doing. No wait, don’t be cool, she might be trying to get your chips. Best to watch her. Watch her… no, don’t watch her that much, she might think you’re a molester! Look at the panels. Look like you’re trying to use the machine, the evil thief machine. The vending machine will play along, since it’s the original guilty aggressor to this entire crime to begin with.
Oh god, she’s looking at the machine. She might be trying to come and take the chips. You must stop her! Press the buttons some more, act angry. Angrier. Remark to yourself on how the stupid thing ate your chips. Angrier! No, not that angry, now you just look stupid. It’s okay, she’s walking away. Maybe it was a good thing to look that angry. No, wait, she’s using her cellphone, she might be calling the campus police. You were too angry! Why do you have to be so angry?!

Phase IV – FINE
You know you considered getting a second one before, maybe you can get two with one stroke. Maybe it will fix itself. Maybe this is a buy two for two scheme inspired by the conglomerate of snack item companies forced to make you buy more because they think you need to eat more. Remember that stuff about how you only needed one? Yeah, forget that, we’re going for two. Reach into the pockets, pull out your remaining change, you definitely have more than enough. Start inserting coins. Keep inserting. Hey, is that a wheat penny? Hold on to that one, that’s pretty cool. You still have enough coins? Keep inserting. Hmmm, this might run close. More coins. More. Let the hypnotic sound of the coins going in fuel your need to feed it more. Just not the wheat penny. Almost there. Wait, you really only have that much? Oh well, feed some more. It’s not like there’s a dollar slot here, but keep putting more. Wait, what do you mean there’s no more coins? Even the wheat penny? What the hell, man. Wait, how much more do you need? Five cents? There might be a way around this.

Phase V – The False Surrender
Remember that this is false, we do not give in to terrorist acts of chip withholding. No, but you will prostate before the machine. Look underneath. Ahh, that’s right, underneath there it is: a nickel. The bastard knew this would happen. Reach your hand in. Remember that scene in Temple of Doom where the lady has her hand reaching into this pit and it’s full of hundreds of multi-segmented bugs with pincers crawling all over and scrambling slowly onto her skin and into her hair she’s trying to reach for the switch? Try not to think about that as you push your hand into the unknown orifice. Feel anything that seems coin like? Okay, good. Now pull it out. It isn’t sticky, is it? That’s so gross if it is.
Now insert the nickel. If you failed to put it into the slot, then maybe the machine deserves to steal your money. Just enough. Now, press those two magic buttons to make it work.
What do you mean the buttons don’t work right? Well yeah, pressing the buttons repeatedly like that might make them act up, which was a dumb idea. Okay, try again. Press harder. Okay, maybe slowly, but firmly. Just press it like you’re trying to crush an M&M with a finger. Still not doing it? Damn it. Okay then… is there anything else that looks all right? Fine, try the chips again. Okay, is it working? How about now? Now? There’s those cookies over there, try those. They’re only one day expired, you can still eat those. Now reach in. Hey, there’s cheese-flavored chips in there!

Phase VI – Enjoy
Dig in, enjoy. You deserved it. Crack open the refreshing sound of the bag and dig in, reveling in the crisped goodness. Enjoy knowing that you have earned this pleasure as each bite crinkles in your mouth with the aftershock of each lingering flavor that comes with each bite. As you finish each one, enjoy and think to yourself only one thing: you have thirty more minutes until lunchtime.

comments

Crime of The Year

2013-01-19T00:30:11Z

My first real attempt to writing a story in awhile, this was a second rewrite after I didn't like how the angles went. I'm still not too pleased at this story result, but I felt like it was moving too straightforward for what I'd like it to tell and tried a different angle to push some depth. Keep in mind, I'm also bound by a word limit of 1,300 words and I'm already pushing it right now.

Crime of the Year
Donald Lee

0751
“Deviled eggs,” the coroner would announce five hours later, but you could tell with one look at the stain that gurgled out of his lips, stained his clothes, and pooled into the alley as that swirling, gray-yellow mass. The beat cops think it’s heroin. Dirty needle four inches away, what else could it be, but then I asked them what he used to find the vein and they were speechless. Of course they would be. Homicide was never supposed to be easy.
Why did Denny have to pack deviled eggs of all days? Guarez would eat them because he hates to see food wasted but I already spent yesterday hearing him talk about nothing else but his nutritionist and his cholesterol. Son of a bitch never said anything about it when he was visiting Jacob and took a slice of cake, though. Needed to go back to the office and file my report.
CALL REPORTED AT 0713 FROM LARRY HESS WHILE JOGGING. BODY WAS REPORTED DEAD ON ARRIVAL AND FOUND LYING FACE UP MISSING SHOES, CONTENTS OF POCKETS, AND ANY FORM OF ID WHEN ARRIVED AT SCENE AT 0723 TO CLOSE OFF CRIME SCENE.
VICTIM APPEARS TO BE IN MID-TWENTIES WITH NO SIGN OF VISIBLE TRAUMA OUTSIDE OF VOMITING STOMACH. USED HYPODERMIC NEEDLE FOUND AT SCENE OF CRIME FOUR INCHES AWAY WITH THREE FINGERPRINTS, TWO BELIEVED TO MATCH WITH VICTIM. BODY SENT TO CORONER AT 0752 FOR FURTHER ANALYSIS.

0843
Not a lot of people up at this time that haven’t already left for work. Two people recognized the face of the victim as Roy Scholl. Owned “No Place Like Home”: the diner where he died in the alley. Never ate there, myself; never had a reason to until recently. Guarez never knew the place existed and Manny always kept thinking about retirement before spending money. If this was a cop film, he would be the first guy to get killed. If this was a cop film, we could also blame everything on the foreigner with the goatee and everybody would be happy. Search warrant request filed for his apartment and restaurant.

1018
Third fingerprint identified to a Harry Wathwick. Some reports on him involving public indecency, no assault nor drug charges. Last report was four months old, no real idea where he’s been for the last few months. Another request filed from his social worker as well as any nearby clinics where he was seeing treatment. Finally, some beat patrols checking with drug dealers for any possession issues or heroin sales.

1043
Guarez passed word that Harry Wathwick was found in a hospital. Nurse reported that it was critical condition, but his pockets had a wallet containing Roy Scholl’s ID, cards, and forty-three dollars. Found in a park passed out and was ready to be taken away until it was found his coat had blood stains on his back. We looked at each other and nodded, time to roll.

1103
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“The Mets. You think they’ll get it this time?”
“Isn’t it early for that?”
“Oh come on, just because you’re a detective doesn’t mean you don’t get to guess.”
“I don’t know.”
“This case can’t be on your mind that hard.”

1143
Harry Wathwick was breathing through a respirator tube. No sign of consciousness. Doctor’s reports found two perforations they stitched up on the back. Traces of drugs in his blood: morphine. Not a lot, but enough for any junkie. Too little for a suicide, nor any reason. Might have been to keep the pain of the wounds down. They didn’t look like they were made with a strike, more like he was hung.
Clothes were taken for inspection, doctor couldn’t predict when the man would come back around ,but it wasn’t going to be soon. Either way, items needed to go to the lab for inspection.

1302
“She made deviled eggs, didn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“I could tell. Let’s get a burger. Oh wait. Shit. Jake’s on.”
“What?”
“Jake Guiraldi, one and three on the top of the sixth.”
“Do you have to listen to the radio?”
“Sorry, you know me and my Mets. C’mon, let’s get a burger it’ll be my treat.”
“There some reason for that?”
“Yeah, the reason that I saw this morning’s case with you. Save them for tomorrow and let’s get something real.”

1401
Coroner found the cause of death with a 2mm bubble in the heart. Embolism. Call from the landlord, got the OK to visit Roy’s apartment.

1435
Landlord warned us that the place was a mess. He meant it facetiously. The apartment had squirrels on stringed on branches, a raccoon in mid-fight with a bobcat on a wooden table, and a white terrier that stared at the entrance of the door in a red and green Christmas sweater with a permanent toothy white smile that emphasized its canines. Landlord said he did it partly to scare away any robbers.
Everything was clean and in order. Some magazines on wild game, a couple of books on taxidermy on the shelf. No record of gun ownership on file. Everything here in whatever order this was supposed to be. Landlord said outside of Roy’s hobby, was a decent guy. Paid rent on time and never had complaints about or from his neighbors. Bedroom was immaculate, fridge strangely bare. No one else lived there. Kitchen counter had a layer of dust. Picture frame was knocked over and dusty, but no one familiar looking in the frame except maybe the dog. Trash only had basic waste, may have also been unused for some time. Landlord mentioned that he spent lots of time at his restaurant.

1452
“Yeah? Don’t know, waiting on a few things on a case tonight. I don’t know. I don’t know. I really don’t know. How’s Jacob? Yeah, but I just wanted to ask. Yeah. I guess so. Nothing from the counselor? I’m just asking because I want to be sure. Uh huh. Uh huh. I’m sorry. Okay, I’ll tell you when I get an idea, but today’s not so good. Uh huh. I love you too. Bye bye.”
1524
Owner of the restaurant contacted to give an OK for search warrant. Forensics blood tests found small traces of morphine, but much higher traces of doxylamine and acetaminophen. Cough syrup. Study on the body showed some sign it was under the effect of a cold at the time.

1553
Restaurant looked like a 50’s style place except modified with corduroy seats, some memorabilia of old photos of random people in random places, and a stuffed raccoon or two on a branch, staring out of the windows and dressed in Christmas sweaters. Some Christmas lights were strung up, but none of them were lit.
Back of the kitchen were some eggs and wilted vegetables on a metal table. An open counter let you see into the diner, where some of the raccoons were positioned in a way that kept their glass eyes staring into you as though trying to find something out.

1554
“Something’s stuck on a grate here.”
“Hold on.” “Uh huh? Uh huh.”
“This is 12-3 calling dispatch, we’re at 314 Johnston Ave, requesting backup to block off area.”
“What? Why did you let him do that? Yes, I trust him, but why would you let him why would you allow him to?”
“This is 12-3, there’s.” “Oh god. Dispatch, call in a coroner. Expect a few bodies.”
“Fine, I’ll talk with him. He’s all right, he’s all right. I’ll see about heading home.” “Hey, Guarez, I. Oh shit.”

1555
I went for a smoke outside. The sky outside was a mess, and in that mixture of cigarette smoke, the yellows and oranges and grays all mixed together, and made this sickly colored mixture. It was hard to breathe out the stress, like it all wanted to come out. I stared into the sky some more before I would head off, thinking how much the horizon looked like a giant deviled egg.

comments

Christmas/Halloween Dream?

2013-01-13T13:52:06Z

I dreamt it was Christmas, but it was a haunted Christmas. I headed to a friend's house (reference point, Nelsons), and I got them a new X-Box or whatnot because I felt that they deserved it for their hard work. Their family's friends were there and I hung out there for a while as I watched them play for a bit. One of their friends, Jason, said he wanted to play since he was so good at it anyway. Then I went downstairs and the room was empty. A couch in a heavily decorated room lit with the endless strings of Christmas lights adorned above them and an old style TV showing an episode of Smurfs. I think at one point, Gargamel tried to talk to me, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I stepped away back upstairs and noticed one of the boys get captured by a white long haired spirit, but as it smiled trying to eat it, it stopped and startled out, "You're- you're one of us!" His face was confused for a moment, but understood quickly. I don't remember what happened after that: I was already stepping outside of the house to a sky filled with dreadfully dark gray weather.

From there I walked into a municipal building, a rather dreary industrial thing that may have been turned into a school but was choked up with rust despite it being clean inside. From the third floor I could see there was a hurricane coming, and that it was one so wild that it sparkled with lightning.

I stepped out, which led to a garden, where hedges were neatly trimmed into a Victorian maze. An alderly lady in khaki ensemble and librarian glasses slowly led a group of people through the history of the person who had owned this place. I saw my parents and tried to warn them that there was a hurricane, but they smiled and did not seem to understand, so I tried again. Nothing.

The garden reached over into a yawning blackness that was a bridge. I could barely see how far it ran into the distance over the smooth land, and it was wider than anything I could fathom, as though it could hold houses if need be. I gave up on trying to encourage my parents to be careful since I figured that at least the bridge would offer some protection. The guide looked with surprise when she announced that there was a twister. I turned and, sure enough, guiding around the coming hurricane was a twister. Worse still, it was coming faster than I anticipated. I yelled to everyone to brace for impact and then the endless pounding of million metal beads punching into cloth, given an emphasis of tenfold more in the darkening sky. I noticed how the wooden deck that we stood on changed colors and someone yelled, "Why don't you take a photo already?!" I realized they were right, and I went to my bag, opened it, and found myself unade to pull out my camera. It was stuck in a flap on my bag's opening and I tried to jerk it out. By the time I managed to figure out how to undo it, it was too late though and the terror of the hurricane and twister had mulled into nothingness.

I decided to follow the group, who traveled past the wooden deck into another structure where it was the home of someone famous: an artist of sorts, as paintings and the like hung, one even rested propped against a chair. Some of the things here looked to be made of wire metal and I found the entire thing curious, almost creepy. Sure enough, the flicker of spirits began to show through here. The crowd was fascinated, and I was ready to be careful, but then realized it was the same spirits I dealt with before: everyone will be fine. If anything, the dreary weather and the spiritual presence brought out a beauty to what I saw. A peal of lightning turned everything outside the windows monochromatic for half a minute and mirrors glinted with spiritual activity. And then the rain stopped and cleared away to a bright sky and the spiritual presence was no more.

Outside of the window was a street that was wet with rain but quickly drying away. I stepped out and walked the street. A 7-Eleven rested around the corner and I realized I was hungry for something, so I walked in. Inside was a pair of silent indian dudes who exuded all the rudeness expected of a pretentious french restaurant. I said hi, offered greetings, mentioned the weather, and they seemed to pay it little more attention than a slow, judging, gaze on me.

I gave up on it and figured to just get some food and leave. The hot dog machine and its condiments had been wrapped in foil, and I pulled it free to get what I wanted. Behind the foil of one was the rolling cooker that revealed several frankfurters that seemed smooshed against the rollers like they were pink sticks of dough. A tiny metal tub held a dollop of mustard and shreds of hot dog buns cut in half and left that way. The entire experience confused me and I asked one of them if there was a way I could get a bun since what's here is torn up.

When I mention this, one of them turns and immediately rushes over to inspect what happened. He then proceeds to chew me out and blame me for everything that has happened here and asks me why I would do something like this. I get more confused and try to correct him, but he does not listen and then tells me to get out or he'll call the cops. The exchange continues enough for me to lose my temper and snap back at him that it was his fault and that I wasn't running this store and that someone had decided to pack these things this way, all at the top of my lungs.

This finally shuts them up. I threaten them to call the police so I can show them how this is their mistake and how they're treating me like this. In my pure anger, I tell them about how I would never eat here, how I just wanted something to eat, how their service is terrible, and how they shouldn't even be running a store... the list goes on and I finally leave, but not before I think one of them breaks a window.

After that, I wake up.

comments