NOTE: This piece has several adult themes including extensive discussions about drugs, sex, racism and homophobia. There are lots of crude topics and It had to be this way to accurately tell my story. I grew up in the 619 when Hemet and Palm Spring shared San Diego’s area code. It was still the inland Empire and migh as well been the (909), for alll the good four digits dd for the (619)
Fontucky Fried White Trash:
Tales of Urban Blunder in the (909)
He was 35 and his life was a study in downward mobility, and all that this implies. Irresponsible was an understatement. Yet he had a discipline, albeit tied to his neurosis. Every morning, like clockwork, the fat toothless man woke up and rolled himself out of his army cot, where he slept alone on superman sheets. The fat man’s pillow was an Oscar the Grouch doll he’d had since forever. It was no longer green, but a brown color, similar to dirty avocado-it matched an alligator hide.
After a couple deep breaths, he blasted two strands of greenish snot from each of his nose. He wiped his nose cleans of any lingering slimy with his fingers then wiped these clean on his wife beater. The wife beater was already filthy. It had a veritable universe was already stained with the collective residue of his filthy dwelling and the dive bars he circulated in a rotation. The beer, cigarette ash, blood and snot, but that’s just a start.
(There’s also AM/PM nacho cheese, but that is an entirely different story.)
Gathered, kind of, he stumbled awkwardly towards the doorway. Blurry eyes, and woozy, he summoned his senses as best he could and managed to navigate his way into the hallway, where at the end his bathroom awaited him for the daily ritual. He took a sinuous path, played tag with the most hideous paneled walls in the history of bad 70’s wall panel systems.
Evidently, he hadn’t found them hideous enough, so he painted them chartreuse with ox-blood seams, both paints high gloss oil. He got them for cheap from the Cajun in Beaumont, who sold old paints and solvents, if you can believe it. His powers of perception left something to be desired, thus his tastes were quite odd.
The walls extended throughout the entire apartment and accented with lemonade yellow curtains, hung ungracefully from ye old clumsy brass curtain rods-pitted, scraped, bent and dented. I say clumsy because they couldn’t stay up the way they had been designed, so he had to affix them to the aforementioned panels with duck tape. He painted over this duct tape with forest green, high-gloss, paint. It matched nicely the cottage cheese ceilings-with silver AND gold flecks, no less. No less indeed, for the double dipping, “nanny state suckling” bureaucratic “jacket” racket called entitlement system. Wait, was that “jacket” or “jack it” or was somebody just plain old getting jack? I guess it depends patronage systems or fluid, flux and mobile. I remember once when my first Mexican girlfriend taught me to say, “Hola, Yo Soy el hombre y el mas conejo de los conejos. ”
Currently there are no comments related to "Fontucky Fried White Trash: Tales of Urban Blunder in The (909)". You have a special honor to be the first commenter. Thanks!
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!
