The Dirty South (Chapter 1)

Friday

Today is my 30th birthday.

Tonight, I’m going to kill myself.

I hate my life. What a complete waste of fucking time—at least up until tonight. Then it all goes surprisingly well after that.

I fucked up at work again. I got caught checking out Pam’s breasts. Hell, I’m being honest, right? I was staring at her tits. Next thing I know I catch her staring at me. Not my crotch, mind you, although I wish that the story went that way. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked me.

“What?” I played dumb­ poorly. “Oh, that? Yeah, I was just staring off. Didn’t even know I was staring at your breasts.”

“Bullshit, Eugene,” she wanted to see me beaten to death right then and there. “I’ve fucking had it.” She stormed off with a “goddamn pervert” added in.

I never even liked her, really. She’s not even attractive­, especially with her condescending Queen Bitch attitude. But she didn’t have breasts, mind you. Those were tits. Plus, with that low cut top, what the hell do you expect me to do? She knew what she was doing.

Ten minutes later I got pulled into the boss’ office. He’s sitting there with suspenders on and a graying beard. I’m sure he doesn’t need the suspenders. Why don’t you buy a fucking belt?

Next to him is the Human Resources Bitch. She’s got hair that looks like yellow straw. Tits? Oh, no. That woman needs to eat. Grow some boobs and then we’ll work from there. I’d still do her, though.

She’s looking at me like I just killed her dog. Mr. Parker’s mouth was saying many things that I wasn’t really paying attention to. I got caught up in two things. One: now everyone is going to stare at and avoid me. I’d quit, but I’m afraid of starting over again. Two: I wonder if the Human Resources Bitch is a screamer. She probably hates sex.

Sorry if I seem too horny. I was repressed as a kid and told that masturbation was evil and that I’d go to hell and everything. So I still feel guilty. Plus, I haven’t gotten laid in four years. I’ve tried to have friends who are girls. But just as soon as I mention casual sex, they’re out the door. I know it’s wrong before I even open my mouth. But as soon as that one girl says yes, it’ll all be well worth it.

Once I get out of my trance, the boss is staring at me. How long was I away? I hope he didn’t end on a question. “I hope we never have to have this conversation again,” he tells me. “And I don’t ever want to hear of anything like this ever again!” the Bitch added. “How would you like it if everyone was staring at you all day?”

I didn’t answer. They’re already going to stare now­ but not in the way that I’d wanted. I just tried to look sad. I was glad that I didn’t get fired. That was my last day at work.

I lived in downtown Charleston, South Carolina. It’s basically no longer a small town, but they sure act like it is. No one minds their own business. The city is old. But they embrace their history instead of other places that just sweep it under the rug. If you can afford to live here, it’s well worth it. It’s a nice little slice of peacefulness.

However, I lived in the bad part of downtown. Every city has one. It literally transformed itself from nice classic feel with pretty scenery and everything in walking distance to looking down every alleyway and checking over your shoulder at that guy walking behind you. I could barely afford the rent. But the women, thank you, God, for the women.

The College of Charleston is right smack dab in the middle. So, yes, you get college girls. But they’d rather have some preppy jock dick rape them than some balding skinny twerp like me make a feeble attempt at pleasing them. I swear, I just breathed rapist. I definitely looked pathetic, that’s for sure. Sometimes I’d wish that they did notice me, good or bad. They didn’t. It’s like I wasn’t even there. I didn’t belong in this world. There was absolutely nothing in it for me. As rough and tumble as I’m attempting to sound, I wasn’t like that this particular Friday. I was holding back the sensation to throw up most of the walk back to my apartment.

I’ve never really been a drinker. So maybe I knew what I was doing that day. I don’t think it was intentional, though. Maybe it was more like “so what if it does happen? Who would miss Eugene?”

I had this kind of internet girlfriend. Her name was ShyGrrrl09. I didn’t even know her real name. We’d flirt in the chat rooms here and there. Still hadn’t cybered. I was trying too hard to be a gentleman. But the only thing I really wanted to do was cyber. She wouldn’t be online whenever I got home—never was on a Friday night. So I knew that whenever I got home I’d just be drinking by myself. I should have gotten a dog.

I head to the nearest convenience store and pick up whatever had the oldest looking label. Something with a history of getting people shit­faced. I was planning on buying six bottles. Way too expensive. So I picked up four instead.

I was never much of a drinker. Period. I had never been drunk in my life. I had the occasional beer­ which I hated. What I really liked were the girl drinks. The ones in multi­colors with an umbrella topping it off. I was a girl drink drunk.

I started out the door and looked each way to see if anyone from work spotted me. Why I gave a shit about their opinions, I’ll never know.

It’s not that bad of a walk, just long enough that I’ve maintained being a skinny twerp. I have a little bit of a belly, but not that bad.

I live in the predominantly black part of town. Did I mention that I’m white? Most books that I read, I just assume that the person’s white unless they say otherwise. This place is old and the original capital of the Confederacy. So the white people still live in the rich part of town while the black folk live in the rest. Oh yeah, and the white trash live out here, too. I guess that would technically be me.

This place isn’t too bad. Sure, it’s the murder capital of the state. Whenever I walked home, though, I just didn’t stop—for anything. If anyone said a word to me, I’d just pretend that I didn’t hear a thing. It worked. Got called a bitch or a punk a few times, but never seemed worth the trouble.

I wish I could go back in time and kick my own ass. In the mindset I was in that day, I would have definitely killed myself on purpose, though. And this shit wouldn’t have worked.

Between these two houses there was a fight going on. I stopped to look. It was another white guy­ fighting nothing. I figured he was either practicing some moves or he was just deranged. He was wearing army pants­ which I learned later were called BDU bottoms. He was barefoot and shirtless with some dishwashing gloves on. He was skinny, but in shape. If I looked like him, I’d be trying to get laid instead of fighting thin air.

He was really getting into that fight, too. Sweat was pouring off him. The humidity probably added to it, I bet. It’s like 100% humidity almost 100% of the time in Charleston.

After a minute or two of staring, I realized that he wasn’t doing any kung fu moves or anything. He was just brawling with no one. Every now and again when I’d think of a movie or book scene, I’d pretend I was having the conversation. Out loud. Act it out. But never a full on fight scene.

He was kicking like a five-year-old. And although I didn’t see anyone he was fighting, I could tell he just missed.

That’s when some kids were running by me and one bumped into one of my bags. A bottle smashed apart and the paper bag became useless.

“Sorry!” the kid shouted over his shoulder as he went to tag the other kid or whatever the hell kids do. How’s this for pathetic? Even though I was 30 years old that day, and that kid couldn’t have been older than ten, I was glad that he didn’t try to kick my ass. I was sure that if I hit him, his dad would have come around the corner to beat the shit out of me. At the time, I assumed all young men were angry all the time. He was just a kid.

I looked up the alley and the white guy was staring at me. It was weird because he had his invisible man in a headlock at the time. He gave me a nod to say, “What’s up?”

I broke eye contact immediately and began walking home again­ but at a much-quickened pace. That lasted a block until my feet started to hurt like hell. All that was on my mind now was masturbation. Just get me inside of my home and I can feel safe and secure again.

As I walked, I saw more kids playing. They’d stare like all kids do. But all I could think about was jerking off. And being the way I was, I felt guilty thinking about whacking off while looking at those kids. I started thinking dumb thoughts like wondering if I was horny because there were kids playing and I wanted to molest them. Started to feel dirty again—and guilty. Thanks, mom.

My apartment was above an abandoned furniture store. The building was old, at least 50 years. It’s just a one ­room apartment. I had a living room and a bathroom that's way too big. It had all this extra space that could have been used for the living room or something. And the paint on the walls looked like rubber after decades of layer after layer of paint building up over each other.

I had a couch, a recliner, and a TV in the living room. I had the recliner so that in case guests came over they’d have somewhere to sit. I’d never had a single guest in that place. The recliner would have been better to put in front of the TV, too. But in case that girl came over, I didn’t want her to see me as that pathetic. Don’t get me wrong, though­ I was.

I put one bag on the counter and the leaking one in the sink with the dirty dishes. I don’t know if I ever vacuumed that place. I’m positive that I never dusted.

Next, I went from the kitchen to the couch and grabbed two out of the three remotes: the TV remote and the VCR remote. The cable remote wasn’t needed for masturbation.

On top of the VCR was a bright red cassette that I really wanted to watch. I kept pulling the tapes out of the VCR and usually even put them away just in case that girl came over. Wow, this is depressing even me. And that WAS me.

So, I turned on the TV with the power button in front and held down the volume button until it was around the second bar on the screen out of twenty. I didn’t want the neighbors to think that I was a pervert. Next, I put in the tape and took my pants and underwear off so that I was just in a shirt and socks jerking off on the couch. When I was done, I held in the mess with one hand and took off one of my socks with the other. Instant Happy Sock. I wiped the mess off and stopped the tape. I even hit the TV/VCR button so that there would be even less evidence of my deed.

Then I sat there on the couch feeling proud of myself and watched the news. It didn’t take me long to pass out.

I woke up a few hours later. It was dusk. The orange sun was dipping below the church steeples that were my horizon.

I started thinking about Pam’s tits again. Then I started to feel guilty. Then came the depression. Time to get plastered. A lot of the night was a blurry haze of random images. I think I watched Beastmaster. Eventually, I ended up in the tub, taking a bath.

I love baths. It’s the time when I think best. What was I going to do? Show up at work? I kept wishing that I had the balls to stand up to myself and quit that crappy job. But most of all, I was wishing that I were dead.

So I kept drinking. What if I drank myself to death? “Who cares?” I kept telling myself. In the end, it really would have been the truth. No one would have cared. Not a soul.

“Say, Bob, did you hear that Eugene drank himself to death over the weekend?”

“No, Tom. Who’s Eugene again?”

That lame conversation kept creeping in my brain as if it actually happened already. I don’t remember much of that night. I was crying. I was drinking. That about covers it, I think. Eventually, I slipped into darkness. I was halfway through the third bottle.

No clue when I died.