gotta pee.txt
July 10 2004
Foreword: One Saturday evening, towards the business end of a bottle of Jack Daniels, I decided to write a story. I was at Jarrad's house, and he told me that he wanted me to write him a story to use for some spoken word. Somehow I don't think this is quite what he had in mind, but I think it's an interesting insight into the way my mind works when drunk. Of course I have a lot of experience with my mind while it's sober so this comparison is easier for me to make. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did the first time I read it, which was when I woke up. It's apparently called "gotta pee.txt" because halfway through it, well, you know...
The red sun rose, coating the eastern skies with a pale orange glow. David watched it rise with an ominous sense of anticipation. Today was his day. Today, was independance day. Unneccesary highlighted, made important for all the wrong reasons. This was his woman moment, but, for him, he was a boy. Yet, no, no, his man moment. He was a man. A MAN.
"MR DAVID."
He smiled to himself, imagining his title, displayed, possibly, on a business card or name tag. Catapulting into the sub-concious of passers by. "I AM MR DAVID. I AM A MAN!" The whole concept, foreign to him a week ago, now seemed as regular as the harmonica chords and drum beat which drilled away into his mind. Sediment. Years of flow had led to this, and nothing could stop him. He had a date.
"I have a date!" he proclaimed, self righteously, unimportantly, the pharmacist just stared at him.
"A date!" he repeated, including the exclamation mark.
"This has never happened before?" asked the dude, bearded and generally appearing as uncaring, though not necisarrily so. Appearances can be deceiving.
"I'm not sure...." started Dave, so nervous that he included an extra period on his elipse. It went unnoticed.
"You have a date," repeated the pharmacist back to him, urging him to accept the fact that seemed so surreal to him and to move on to his actual amnbition. "Surely you have some sort of secondary goal?"
Dave stared at the floor, scuffing his feet against the sea-blue carpet in attempt to maintain some sort of nervous stereotype. The beard widened to reveal a smile.
"Just ask me!" the beard yelled at him. Not the actual person, just the facial hair. It was like some sort of testosterone pumped personal tinkerbell.
"I..." Dave stuttered. He stuttered like he was atom by atom being crammed into a television sitcom, forced to comply to the rules of simple amusement. Forced to struggle with what should be, while somewhat disconcerting, a simple request.
Dave struggled internally a minute more, before expellling:
"I need some condoms!"
Why did this seem such an unreasonable request? Why was this so hard to ask? The beard didn't seem too perplexed or unnerved by the demand, instead, he asked how many.
"I don't know." Said Dave.
"You what?"
"I don't know." Said Dave. It was true, he seriously didn't know.
"What?" said the beard, unable to comprehend the naive events unfolding before him.
"I have a date!" Dave told him, resorting to the artillery that he had brought into the battle, refusing to redraw the battle lines, refusing to adapt.
"How many do you want?" the beard asked him, earring glistening in the fluroscent lights.
"I don't know, how many do you think I need?"
"You mean, how many do you think I think you want?" asked the beard, an evil laugh not present yet somehow implied through the conversations topic.
"umm, sure," slurred Dave, not yet used to these unpredictable social circumstances, just going with the flow. The flow. It was repeated for effect.
"I don't know."
"Well," began the beard, behind the counter of the pharmacy, somehow taller and bigger than he first seemed, and growing exponentially, as if feeding off David's nervous demenour, "Would you like one? or a whole packet?"
Dave stood, frozen on the spot, as if Xena, Warrior Princess, had somehow appeared and screamed her warrior cry at his very testicles.
"I... I'm not sure how things will go," murmered Dave, "Perhaps a whole pack will be the best bet."
"Mmmm hmmm" said the pharmacist.
"It's not like it's expensive" explained the beard, if you buy in bulk, you save!"
It seemed like a 'tm' was absent from that phrase. Dave wasn't capable of examining the convultated sentences that were continually ejaculating forward from the beards lips. Did it matter? It didn't seem so.
"Just give me a multipack!" semi-exploded Dave, a polite yell, if there were such a thing. "What's the worse that could happen? I have a hot date, if I need 12 condoms then SO BE IT!"
It seemed that Dave had finally summoned his courage, possibly using a 'summon courage' potion, and got it all together.
"If it takes 12 condoms then it will take 12 condoms. It will all be going on. Oh yeah? Oh yeah."
There was an unspoken, internal high five.
HORIZONTAL RULE
EXTRA CARRIDGE RETURNS
AND THEN HENCEFOURTH
IN CASE ANY AUDIENCE MEMBERS HAD BEEN UNAWARE THAT A PERIOD OF TIME WAS TO PASS
EXTRA
CARRIDGE
RETURNS
End Upper Case.
David, though afllicted by no foreign substances within his bloodstreams, teetered up towards the front door. Nervously he fell upon the doorbell. It rang, alarming loud. Inside, there was some part of Dave that had hoped that the doorbell would go unnoticed and that he could go home, albeit alone, but without exposing himself socially for others amusement.
Seconds passed, it seemed like years, possibly because he wasn't wearing comfortable shoes. Time always seems longer when your shoes aren't padded for comfort.
Suddenly, with warning, though not enough for Dave, the door opened rapidly. It wasn't like busting open a castle door to reveal a black night and 100 virgins. Instead she stood there. The harbringer of doom. The Holy Grail (unneccesary capitlisised once agian, though for effect), The eternal goal, the non-jewish Mecca. He stood dumbfounded, not wiling to make an action, just happy with presenting a reaction when the opportunity presented itself.
"Yes?" came the answer to the door, in motherly form, a woman, slightly shorter and skinnier than Dave, yet somehow capable of erupting a dominative prescence over the situation.
"I CAME TO SEE YOUR DAUGHTER FOR DINNER!" Dave told her with middle-school teacher like authority. It wasn't like he'd planned this dominance, it just seemed better than being meek at the time.
The mother, though taken aback, wasn't taken aback that much. She was perhaps taken aback 65%, tops. Maybe even less. It didn't even matter.
Dave was led into the house. Once inside he met Tiffanny, his date, his first place trophy, his ultimate prize in the field of ultimate prize accumulation.
And so it was passed. Dave sat down, close to Tiffany, yet not violating any sort of space that would incur her parents to shout aloud "Terrorist Alert Orange" in the field of daughter-boyfriend relationships. This (italics) was (end italics) his first visit to her parents, he wanted to make a good impression.
They all sat down to dinner. The mother of tiffany brough forward a sacrifice to the potato gods, in the form of a potato bake. As this was the 1990's, and any meal eaten without some form of potato side dish was scorned apon with much, well, scorn.
The table was wide. It was covered with a table cloth, and spread upon it was dishes of multiple types, ready for consumption and, inevitably, digestion and excretement, though nobody EVER wants to talk about that.
But that didn't stop talking.
Dave sat close to tiffany, shaking slightly, nervous slightly. Yes? For sure. Or "Fo' Sho'", as the negroes would have proclaimed it.
Tiffany's brother sat on her other side, her mother sat on the opposite side of the table. Her father sat at the head.
"We will now say grace," announced her mother. Immediately David started chanting hymns of Lord Loving and Self Preservation.
"David?!," exclaimed Tiffany, happy to use two forms of punctuation followed by a comma because the situation required it. "I had no idea you were so religous!?"
"Yeah..." stammered David, not taken aback for a second this time, looking at the beard for less than a second, "And I had no idea that your father was a pharmacist!"
The silence engulfed the table, purely for the sake of using "engulf" within a story.
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