chapter 17: 8 little piggies

Yesterday I got too drunk. I started to drink some of the beer out of the cooler because I was anxious about going to the man in the brown hat’s house. While I was drinking a commercial for Unicef came on tv. Something about the commercial made me mad. It doesn’t seem right to film children who are dying even if it is for a good cause. I wouldn’t want to be photographed if I was dying. I actually don’t let anyone take any pictures of me, and I’m not dying or starving or anything like that. I’ve never looked at a picture of myself and felt better. That’s just the way things are.

I called Unicef and said I would like to donate twenty million dollars and that I was an American billionaire. I said I made money for a living. They asked me what I did. I said my company basically just printed out money and that is how we got rich. I said we didn’t make anything other than money. The lady on the phone yelled at me. She said “Who prank calls Unicef?!” She called me a jerk and said I was the worst person she had ever talked to. She said she was reporting me to the authorities. I don’t think she actually will, but it still makes me nervous to think about.

I’m watching tv now and having some irish coffee, with an extra shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey. It makes me feel good. I’m watching a tv show about serial killers. Some of the things people do I just can’t believe. I always think that if someone randomly picked me out in a crowd they could kill me. I can be really paranoid when I’m sober. I always think: what if some guy just decided to pick someone out of a crowd and kill them, and then he focused in on me? He could follow me around and track my habits and wait for the perfect moment. Then one night when I forget to lock my door he could break into my house and stab me or shoot me or do any number of horrible things. I heard about this one killer who stuck tacks under people’s fingernails. Another killer kept this woman in a little box under his bed for seven years. Another killer used a blowtorch to melt a woman’s eyeballs, and then he kept her alive in his basement for months. I heard about this other killer who nailed a man to a wall and then he fed him lettuce and water, and the man lived for over 40 years nailed up to a wall. He died of old age. He could torture me for days or years and I don’t know if anyone would know. I mean maybe the red-haired girl would notice. Tanner might stop by again, but I wonder how long it would take for someone to notice I was dead. In these shows usually your employer reports you as missing, and I’m currently unemployed. I hope the man in the brown hat isn’t a serial killer. If a random person just killed me and didn’t leave any DNA evidence then they would never know who it was. They would probably pin it on someone close to me. They always do. There are probably so many serial killers out there while innocent spouses serve life in jail. They would collect evidence that fit the narrative of a loved one. Maybe the red-haired girl. They would say it was a crime of passion. She would become a monster. An American fascination. A beautiful girl who secretly was a psychopathic, sexual, sadistic killer. Which is ridiculous because she is asexual.

I remember that I told the red-haired girl that I would hang out today, but I don’t feel like it. I need to go and track the man in the brown hat today since I put it off yesterday. I’m always putting things off, and then because I put them off I have to put other things off, and before long I have so many plans piled up I just stop responding to anyone. Anyway, I text the red-haired girl and tell her that I have strep throat which should buy me a few days. I tell her I really miss her, which isn’t untrue. I think I do miss her, but I get so nervous thinking about spending time with her it almost makes me feel relieved knowing I can put her out of my mind for the next few days. It’s so complicated with her right now and every little thing means secretly means something else, and today I just want to relax and drink and not think too hard about anything other than the man in the brown hat.

A police siren sounds outside of my house. I panic. What if the woman from Unicef actually did report me. Are the police here to question me? What law did I actually break? I’m sure what I did last night could be considered a hate crime. I start to feel terrible. I go into the kitchen and fill up a glass with whiskey. If I’m going to talk to the police I’m going to at least be drunk when I do it. I down the glass and then I very carefully look out the window in a way where they cannot see me. Across the street there are eight officers who are questioning a black man wearing a Cleveland Browns trucker hat. I don’t think it takes eight officers to talk to one man. But that’s how cops do it. Police officers are such pigs. All eight cops look exactly the same. They are all heavyset. They are all bald. Like a hairless pig. They all have goatees. They all are wearing Oakley wrap-around sunglasses. They all appear to be fairly short.

I wonder why you never see a police officer with long hair? You never see an officer with hippie hair. I guess long hair suggests some form of rebellion or anti-establishment. It’s weird that it does. Long hair always represents freedom. Cops hate anything even remotely rebellious, and they absolutely hate freedom aside from their own. I feel like they all were in the military, and then they became pigs. They don’t question anything. They’ve been indoctrinated since they were teenagers. I guess they wouldn’t be good at their job if they questioned the corrupt laws they enforced. Something happens in the military that either makes men rebel or give in. Cops are just products of the government, and they all have a uniform they wear and a uniform brain. It seems like cops always have one syllable names too. It’s weird. Their names are always Bill or Mike or Bob or Jeff or Bruce or Ken. Maybe they shorten their name when they take an oath to protect and serve the members of their community. It seems like you never see a cop protecting or serving the community.

Last night I had another one of my lonely dreams. I’ve been having them almost every night. I’m always back in my hometown. Population: 267. I’m living alone. Everyone I know has moved away or died. It’s never bad at first. In fact, I would kind of love to live in a world without people for a little while. It would be so freeing. You would have all kinds of time to think. You could walk around outside and not worry about all the people staring at you. Looking at your body. Eventually though in my dreams it gets lonely, and I look everywhere for people, but I can’t find them. Then I start crying and I can’t stop crying which is weird because in real life I almost never cry and I don’t can’t figure out why this is. Loneliness can always find you in the most surprising places. Usually in dreams.

On the bright side, last night I had another wet dream about Nico in her prime. Iggy Pop was a lucky man. Nico is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I love the haunting sound of her voice. I always think about the way she died. Her whole life she battled a heroin addiction, and even got her son addicted along the way. Then she died while she was sober and riding her bike. She just fell off and hit her head and died. I bet she wishes she had kept using heroin. For some weird reason this reminds me of a story my high school Chemistry teacher used to tell us. He said one day this dog showed up at his house. The dog’s hind legs didn’t work, so he walked on his front two legs and dragged his back legs. One day his wife convinced him to take the dog to a vet. The vet had told him that for $600 he could fix the dog’s back legs. There is always a price. I guess after the surgery the dog walked normally. The day after the operation, the dog ran into traffic and got hit by a car. The dog died. Mr. Sullivan says he always wished he hadn’t got that operation, because the dog would still be alive. I think he loved that dog. Sometimes doing the right thing ends in tragedy. We always think we will get rewarded for doing the right thing but life isn’t like that. Life is completely random, and only humans believe there is a correlation between events. I think that’s why thinking about Nico reminded me of that story. But then again that's just me making patterns out of completely random events.

I keep watching outside my window. The police give the man in the Browns hat a ticket and then all eight of them get in their cars and pull away. I guess they are going to go harass someone else. I remember that I have Adderall in my desk drawer. I take one that is 20 mg extended release and then I start to drink some beer. It’s always important for me to balance out amphetamines with alcohol or my mind starts to move too fast. I begin to feel like I should be doing something. I go back to my desk and take out a notebook and pen. I begin writing ideas down. The first idea that comes to my head is: “A symphony made out of sounds of a copy/fax machine.” I think that idea is so funny and would make a cool art project. I’m going to tell the red-haired girl about it. I think she would like it. I start to feel jittery so I switch to whiskey and then start doing jumping jacks in my living room. It feels good. I start to run in place. Sweat starts to drip from my armpits. I hate the way that feels so I sit down. I sit down and drink some more whiskey and I start to feel relaxed again. I turn my tv back on. They’re talking about the serial killer named Dean Corll. He’s called the candyman killer and he kept men down in his basement on racks for weeks and slowly tortured them. He would insert glass rods into their urethra and then break the glass so they slowly died of an infection from the inside. It makes me feel really weird to watch. I write down: “tomorrow you are going to watch the man in the brown hat.” I can’t wait until tomorrow. I’m going to stake out 231 W Bakersfield Ave. I wonder if James, or Jim, or Jeff has some weird rack down in his basement. It excites me to find out more about him. I really need to know why he’s been camping outside my house. I’m going to track him like a wild animal. I’m going to watch his movements. I’m going to write them down. I’m going to find patterns in his behavior. I’m going to be able to predict his decisions. I’m going to know him better than he knows himself.

I decide that if the opportunity presents itself I will sneak into his house when he’s gone, but only if he leaves the door unlocked. I write down “find out what is in James, or Jim, or Jeff’s basement.” It’s all been written down which means it's been decided. I drink some more whiskey and watch tv. I can’t wait for it to be tomorrow. I wish I hadn’t taken this Adderall because I don’t know if I’ll be able to fall asleep, and I’m ready for it to be the next day. I decide to take some Benadryl. It’s probably going to take three tonight to help me fall asleep. I bet it’s kind of dangerous to take that many, but I need to fall asleep.