Nike is pissed. Her anger is directed both at the patriarchal social order in this country that breeds assholes like Vinnie and at Charles. In particular, she’s thinking about how her boyfriend’s lack of emotion constantly annoys her. She doesn’t want to tell him how to lead his life or change him to fit her needs or anything like that. It’s just that his shortcomings are really starting to drastically affect her feelings for him. In fact, sometimes she wonders why she even liked the guy in the first place.

Oh, in case you were wondering, my results were negative, as always. While I was ignoring the Certified HIV Test Result Counselor (what could she really have to say? I mean, I was negative after all), I decided that dreamers are the ones who change the world and realists are the ones who have to live in it while it still sucks. Though, I’m not entirely sure which category I fall into.

Wingy was giving the galleys of her magazine’s latest edition one last look-over. Against her better judgement, she had decided to use a local printing plant this one and only time since the coup in Latin American occurred just as she was about to go to press. In fact, the only reason that she didn’t go down there last week was that her “Letters to the Editor” section needed a bit more material, which is odd since usually every wingnut in the universe sends her some sort of rant. However, because she believes that everyone deserves a forum, Wingy always publishes at least ten pages of letters in each issue. So she waited a couple of days to see if her courier service would deliver any additional letters. Thus, she was not around when the CIA was lethally masturbating in her friends’ homeland (Wingy so rarely thinks about herself that even though she was supposed to be there when the shit went down, she never once thought those “What if?” thoughts about dying {nope, she only ever thought about all those other poor human beings who were murdered for bullshit politics}).

Since she was using a local printing plant this one time, Wingy wanted to be extra careful that the magazine did not contain anything that would catch The Man’s attention. Fortunately, she knows The Business better than most and was easily able to conclude that there was nothing worthy of His censorship in this edition. Actually, it’s a relatively innocuous issue, which kinda made her feel like a sellout. There just didn’t seem to be any amazing revelations in Everyone Really Is Fucking You Over this time around. Still, she’s gotta do what she’s gotta do to get what she can out there for public consumption.

Plus, she’d already started writing a huge story about the Latin American tragedy for the next issue and she was heading off to the Annual JFK Assassination Conspiracy Convention (always a good place for digging up juicy items). So she quickly finished her review and took it off to be printed.

“So, you see, I sorta met this other woman and, well, I guess I’m kinda infatuated with her. I’m sorry I left you hanging there, but I didn’t know what to tell you. This is all so new to me. I had so much fun with you, Sandy. Really, I did. But I feel like this is such a wonderful opportunity for me to explore all those urges we discussed. I’m so sorry. This is just something I need to do at this point in my life.”

“Wow,” I mumbled.

I was stunned. Oddly, I wasn’t as heartbroken as I thought I was going to be. Obviously, I didn’t feel too good. But I didn’t feel too bad. Ambivalent isn’t the right word either (I fucking hate ambivalence, it’s the real cancer of our society {please listen to the Depressed Idealists’ “Ambivalence, Ambivalence, Does Anybody Care?”}). Frankly, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt.

“Are you okay, Sandy? Please don’t be mad at me. I never meant to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted. I mean, I felt closer to you than I’ve ever felt with anyone. But my feelings have just gone totally haywire since I met her. And if I’m doubting my feelings towards you in any way, then I feel like I have to end our relationship. I just can’t go on like this any longer. For the last week, all I’ve felt is doubt. I was so scared and confused I couldn’t even call you. So I finally decided that this is what I want. Please tell me you understand.”

“Kinda. I’m just so flabbergasted. I don’t know what to say. I’m. . . I’m. . . Well, I’m. . . I’m just fucking speechless, Linda.”

Blue, that’s I how I felt. Blue.

“I’m so sorry!”

Covering her face, she starts bawling. Out of instinct, I move in for a hug, but (feeling awkward) I immediately pull back.

“It’ll be okay,” I say as I rub her back gently from a safe distance.

She grabs my hand in a familiar (but non-sexual) way, kinda like a mom holding her kid at the mall during the busy Christmas shopping season (as if she didn’t want to lose me). Her soft flesh feels terrific against my palm. Tearing up myself, I try not to think of our past.

“What’s her name?”

“Jade,” she replies as she releases my hand and grabs a cigarette.

I can’t help but notice that all three of her ashtrays are full to the brim with crushed butts.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“At the only unpretentious café in the greater Columbus area.”

We both chuckle nervously at her reference to our in-joke.

“So what does she look like?”

“Well,” she begins to say as she exhales a cloud of smoke. “She’s tall. Very tall. She has dyed jet black hair. Lots of piercings. Her body’s kinda shaped like an hourglass. She has breeder hips, which is kinda ironic since she’s a lesbian and all. A cute face. Sorta all smooshed together, but in an attractive way. She’s so cute. Oh yeah, her hair’s cut super short and she never wears makeup, which kinda makes her look ambisextrous. Is that even a word?”

“If it isn’t, it really should be.”

“Most definitely. And, oh yeah, her legs are real long and skinny and smooth. And her. . .”

“That’s okay. I think I got a good mental picture now. Thanks.”

“Sorry.”

As she wipes away her tears, I break the tension I’m beginning to feel again in my lower abdomen by throwing a pillow at her. Cussing me out, she responds by throwing the pillow back at me. Soon, we’re engaged in an epic pillow fight. That is, until I realize that her pillows are filled with down feathers (which I’m highly allergic to).

As I sneeze, she punches me playfully in the arm and calls me a “dork.” I call her a “dyke” and we both crack up. I keep forgetting to feel hurt and angry. Man, I wish I could break up with people as well as Linda just broke up with me. She gives me some Benadryl and makes me a cup of piping hot tea for the road. By the time I give her a hug goodbye and head back home, it has completely stopped raining.

Driving his SUV at the posted speed, Charles is heading to the airport (since they are so schedule-oriented, dude fucking adores airports). He needs to be back at his sinecure tomorrow morning. You see, he drove from Salt Lake City to Ohio last week (he really enjoys passing through different cities now that they all look the same), thereby using up his vacation time. He’d expected to be bringing Nike with him back to Utah so that they could start planning their wedding. They were going to fly and have his SUV shipped to keep the miles on it low since it’s a leaser. But now everything’s changed, thanks to Nike’s insane father who managed to throw a monkey-wrench into his plans.

Charles drafts a mental note in his head to remind himself to pay Mr. Steaminson back by giving the crazy old coot a crappy seat at the ceremony. He also decides that he’ll leave his SUV in the long-term parking lot. That way, when he returns next weekend to get Nike, he can arrange for the bill to be paid by the financial advising company that employs him. He will also forego his prior romantic desire to surprise Nike and will instead call her repeatedly until he finally reaches her. Just to make sure that there are no further snafus. Once everything’s worked out between them, he’ll have her drive the SUV back since he won’t have time to do so, what with his busy work schedule and everything. So he’ll get to fly again, which is a plus.

For now, he’ll grab a quick blowjob from a prostitute at the airport (whom he’s done business with in the past) to rid himself of the blue balls that Mr. Steaminson prevented from being treated earlier. Another perfect plan by Charles Watson Skinner.

As Jim steps out of the bathroom, his hair is still dripping wet (like most college students he only owns one towel and it’s currently wrapped around his waist). Even though I’m trying hard to be inconspicuous (I want to make sure I give the guy enough space to work shit out on his own), he spies me immediately.

Without any warning, he lunges at me and delivers a mighty hug. He then proclaims that he totally loves living together and that he’s really missed conversing with me lately. Nodding, I ask if he wants to smoke some pot seeing how our stash is quite full since he wasn’t smoking during his recent hermitage.

“No thanks, I’m done with that shit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man, stoner Jim no longer exists.”

“Wow!”

“You see, while I was in that room, battling my demons, I felt like absolute shit. I was completely heartbroken. I mean, Nike just up and left me for no fucking reason. You knew that right?”

“I figured as much.”

“Well, on top of all that shit, I started going through some intense weed withdrawals. Seriously, all those fools who say there’s no such thing don’t know what they’re talking about. It sucked hardcore, man. I already wanted to kill myself cause of the whole Nike thing. But then I started to like fiend, man. It was un-fucking-believable. Still, I didn’t want to leave my room ever again. Not even for the dank nugs. I feared facing the outside world. So I couldn’t even get to the stash. It all just kept getting worse and worse. At first, I was breaking shit in anger over losing Nike. Then, when the pot withdrawals kicked in, I started fucking shit up just to cope with my need for weed. But, after a while, things slowly improved. Somehow, I managed to chill the fuck out. In fact, I slept like a baby last night. And I woke up completely invigorated. Honestly, I feel like I can conquer the world now. And I don’t need no pot. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I was starting to really abuse that stuff. Eventually, I may smoke it occasionally or something in the future. However, I categorically refuse to let myself become an addict again. Obviously, the Nike thing still totally bums me out, but I figure that if it was meant to be, we’ll find a way. Anyway, how am I supposed to have a perfect girlfriend like that if I’m afraid to leave my fucking room? Goddamnit, Sandy, I feel so fucking good! I think I had my first non-drug-induced JCC experience. My whole outlook on life has changed.”

Having nothing to add, I simply listen to Jim’s story and grin like an idiot. I hope he knows that I’m really fucking glad that he’s back from battling his demons.

Nike pushes the off button on her phone. Her father just informed her that her mother was dead. He didn’t give her any more details, but she didn’t really want to know much else. The idea of her mother no longer existing in the flesh was more than enough for her to deal with. Dead. She just kept thinking over and over about what that meant. A few minutes ago, she was living the life of a normal college freshman. Sure, she was neglecting her folks a little bit, but she knew that they were always there for her. Now, her mother was dead. She tried to form a mental image of her face, but she couldn’t remember what her lips looked like. Now, she’s gone forever. “This must be a dream. I’ll wake up any moment now and everything will return to normal,” she assures herself. Yet, nothing changes. Her mother is still dead. Feeling sick to her stomach, she vomits in the garbage can. On her hands and knees, she finds herself unable to move. Her body is numb, but her brain is in a state of panic. “This can’t be happening. Mommy, why have you forsaken me? Who will I ask when I have a question about life? You know how weird daddy can be. And there are still a few things I don’t know about sex. Mommy, please let this be a dream or one of daddy’s sick practical jokes.” She forces herself to stop this train of thought. She tries to act calm and rational. She glances up at the calendar to see what day it is. “Fuck, it’s the sixth! Midterms are next week. First, I find out that I’m mommyless and now I’m gonna fail out of school. Life fucking sucks. What the hell am I gonna do? It’s not fair. It’s just not fucking fair!” The tears begin to flow down her face. Wobbly, she stands to grab a tissue, but her legs go numb again. She falls backwards onto her bed and weeps. When she can’t cry anymore, she punches her pillow. Once her knuckles start to hurt, she hides underneath her blanket. The fluorescent light of her dorm room is killing her eyes. She desperately wishes to be immersed in darkness. Most of all, she wants to hide from this cruel world. She starts to cry softly again when she recalls a fond mommy-related memory. She was young, like five or six, and her parents were taking her out for ice cream. Excited, she sat on her mommy’s lap for the whole ride there. They held each other’s hand tight while they waited in the long line and discussed what flavors they’d get. She ordered chocolate chip. Two scoops. Her mommy did the same. It was their favorite. They took their ice cream outside to enjoy the warm spring weather. On the way to the picnic tables, her stubby legs tripped on the gravel path and she dropped her cone. When she started screaming, her mommy picked her up with one arm, dusted her back off with the other, and cleaned her knees with a bit of spit. Once she stopped causing a scene, her mommy handed her an unsoiled mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. Ecstatic, she devoured it. But then she noticed that her mommy was picking the chocolate chips out of her ice cream. At the time, she thought this was rather odd since everybody knows the chocolate chips are the best part. Now, she realizes how much her mommy did for her. She’s gonna miss her mother every day for the rest of her life. And that’s what hurts the most. She continues to cry until her exhausted mind finally passes into unconsciousness.

Jim and Van were on the bus heading towards the library to do some studying. It was midterm time and all the OSU freshman were beginning to realize that college wasn’t just fun and games. Well, okay, not all of them, but the ones that weren’t gonna fail out after their first semester were having this epiphany.

Obsessed with learning about the nervous system, Jim was totally digging his anatomy class, while Van (who’d grown accustom to being a small-time drug dealer) was having some difficulties adjusting to the rigors of scholastic life. Though, he too was enjoying his courses on economics, calculus, and theology. It’s just that sometimes he had a hard time focusing.

At the Student Union stop, a short guy with dyed red hair hopped on the bus. His arms were outstretched like he was Frankenstein and his pants were hovering around his ankles. When the bus driver, who was fiddling with the radio, routinely asked to see the guy’s student ID, he replied by screeching: “Zombie!”

Glancing up, the driver told the guy (who now had drool oozing out of his mouth) to “get the fuck off of my bus.” The guy responded by playfully licking the driver’s head and moaning: “Brains, brains, brains.”

Of course, Jim and Van noticed this whole episode (because when you live in the Midwest you tend to notice anything unique {since, well, unique things rarely occur in the Midwest}) and they both thought it was totally fucking hilarious. So when the driver pulled out his gun, they leapt to defend the zombie.

Calmly, they informed the driver that the guy was a pledge in their fraternity and that it was haze week. While the driver pondered whether this story was BS or not, the three of them quickly exited the bus. Though, the zombie did have some trouble running since his jeans were still wrapped around his ankles.

“Hey man, that was a good one,” declared a panting Jim.

“Fuck yeah!” agreed a wheezing Van.

“Thanks. I guess I owe you guys one. You really saved my ass back there. I can’t believe that douchebag actually pulled a fucking gun on me. What a nut! Some people just can’t take a joke. By the way, my name’s Bobby. Bobby Obbs.”

So I got dumped for another woman. It really shouldn’t have been a big surprise. I mean, Linda always used to tell me that she thought she was a lesbian. Sure, she liked guys and all (obviously), but she was also attracted to women. She was just afraid to approach them in that kind of way (you see, around these parts, lesbians are stereotyped as “butch-dyke-feminazis,” as if you have to be some man-like / man-hating female to want to be intimate with another woman {Ohioans have a tendency to be real fucking stupid sometimes [actually, make that a lot of times]}) so she kept her inclinations secret. Seriously, her family had no clue. Fuck, I was the first person she ever told. So yeah, I guess I was glad to see her happy after all this time. I just wish she could’ve been happy with me instead. Oh well, I clearly didn’t have what she needed.

For a few weeks after the breakup, I watched a shitload of TV and listened to a lot of Jawbreaker (the greatest band in the world to listen to when you’re feeling down). Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I was so terribly depressed that I wanted to hide from the world or anything like that. I just felt kinda blue. So I put on my comfiest pair of sweatpants, plopped my skinny ass down on the couch in front of the boob tube, and let my brain rot. And if I’m to believe what the daytime talk shows claimed about getting dumped in this fashion, I was supposed to be: (a) interested in trying kinky threesomes with my ex and her new special ladyfriend; or (b) ashamed of my manhood since I was the one who drove her to women; or (c) psychotically jealous. However, I didn’t really feel like any of these options (probably because most people on those shows are lying so that they can be on television). As I said, I simply felt kinda blue. Like nuts in your diarrhea, I guess this kind of shit just happens sometimes.

Anyway, a few years later, I ran into Linda at our old café. She told me that she’d broken up with Jade and was still looking for the perfect partner. I replied to this nugget of information by nervously noting that my past anguish prevented me from applying for that particular position.

She also confided in me that she’d been sexually assaulted. Apparently, she went to some frat party with a friend and this fucking asshole slipped her a roofie. Then, while she was passed out on the couch, the dickhead raped her. Fighting back tears, she told me all about the horrendous emotional trauma she’d endured (and probably will continue to experience for the rest of her life) because of that one piece of shit.

Talking to Linda again made me feel like a total shithead for not staying in contact with her. And she seemed like she’d really missed me too. So we’ve both made a concerted effort to keep in touch (last I heard, she was going to vet school in Michigan).

And, oh yeah, she told me the rapist’s name. So Jim, Van, Bobby, and I found the motherfucker and beat the everliving shit out of him. It was the only time I’ve been violent in my entire life (even when I was at that “Free Mumia” {Mumia Abu-Jamal is a black journalist who got railroaded by the racist Philadelphia Police and is now living on Death Row in Pennsylvania [the guy really needs to be freed ASAP]} rally in Cincinnati that turned into a police riot and I was getting the shit kicked out of me by the pigs, I still didn’t retaliate with anything stronger than a barrage of “fuck yous”). Seriously, I’m with Gandhi and MLK on this one, I abhor violence in all its forms.

Nevertheless, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. And that motherfucker deserved an ass-kicking, which we delivered. While the rapist was lying unconscious on the concrete floor of the frat house basement where we finally tracked him down, Bobby took off the fucker’s pants and sprayed ketchup all over his dick so that when he came to he would think he’d been castrated. This was by far Bobby’s best prank of all time. Despite our renewed friendship, I never did tell Linda about that little incident. Maybe it was just my way of giving her one last cheesy romantic present, who knows?

Nike was shopping on The Ave (that is, College Avenue, the main drag adjacent to the OSU campus {which is lined with alternative shops {alternative music, alternative clothes, alternative stoner paraphernalia, alternative food, alternative medicines, alternative copy shops, alternative cafés, alternative banks, alternative bars, and anything else that one can peddle and put the word “alternative” in front of [I’ve always wondered what exactly these stores were alternative to since it was pretty much the only main street with stores in the greater Columbus area]}). She was perusing records at the only local record store (FBC! FBC! FBC!) that still sold vinyl and not just compact discs (for more information on why CDs suck, please listen to the Depressed Idealists’ “Fuck Everything Digital” seven inch), when she bumped into a woman whose face was kinda ambisextrous in the A-D aisle.

They were both reaching for an obscure Bob Dylan bootleg from the mid-sixties. Each of them tried to be polite and let the other look at the record first. Of course, they immediately started talking about other Dylan records and bands and the such. And they soon discovered that they had a lot in common. So they decided to continue their conversation at the only unpretentious café in the greater Columbus area.

Flashback #1: I’m working at the Retirement Fun Land where I’m officially a Resident’s Assistant (or, in laymen’s terms, a lowly fucking orderly). Basically, I do all the shitwork that’s necessary to keep the old folks alive and as comfortable as possible. I was pretty stoked when Wingy told me she could get land me this gig since I was getting kinda bored with being a lazy bum. You see, I posses all these lofty ideals, but sometimes I feel like I don’t do jackshit in terms of actually living according to them. So I was excited by the idea of doing something concrete that was beneficial to others for once in my fucking life.

It’s late so all of my peeps are sleeping and most of the staff has gone home for the evening. Me? I’m mopping. As the industrial hum buzzes (you know, that endless drone that is only audible real late at night in huge buildings with harsh fluorescent lights) around me, I try to relax after a long day. I don’t know why, but there’s always something calming to me about doing menial chores. As I glide through the hall, I get completely lost in the splashy circles of my swirling mop.

I must admit that it’s still sorta weird to be wiping someone else’s ass, especially an adult’s. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I can’t even wipe my own ass so good (I think that I might start wiping too soon or something cause there’s usually like tons of poop on the TP for the first few wipes and then the shit gets spread all over the place, which makes it exceedingly difficult to clean myself up properly {I used to think that this was because I stood [an act that can be rather embarrassing when you’re in a public restroom and the stall has no door on it] but, after a thorough investigation, I discovered that about half the population stands while wiping [I also learned that people on average use approximately ten squares of TP per wipe, which begs the question: Why don’t they just make the squares bigger?]})!

In fact, this whole job situation has been fucking with my head lately. It’s like, sure, wiping some old dude’s ass is totally gross, but there’s a lot more weird shit going on here. I mean, I’m doing this to help people, right? At the same time, because of their various maladies, the very people I want to help cause me all sorts of problems through no fault of their own. And it’s just depressing to be surrounded by their withered bodies and minds all day. Then again, that fact just makes me want to help them even more. Though, it’s still a fucking J-O-B. And when jobs suck you naturally hate them.

You see, when I was cleaning old man Homer’s poopy butt, I started to get pissed. At first, I couldn’t figure out what was bothering me. Of course, the smell alone made me want to retch, not to mention seeing a fellow human being just lying there so utterly helpless. I wanted to run away. But someone has to do this shit. So I did it to the best of my ability. Still, to be able to overcome the overall ickiness of the situation, I had to clear my mind and pretend like the old man was not actually a human being but, instead, merely a tabletop with a stain on it or something. Yet, this mental maneuvering kinda defeated my whole purpose of helping another person. And the experience definitely caused me to hate the job, which made me want to blame someone. But I couldn’t blame old man Homer since he wasn’t doing anything except be helpless. So, as I threw his filthy diaper away, I decided that life was really just one big “fuck you” written inside a giant circle that symbolizes everything you could try to accomplish in your pathetic life.

Man, this thought process was driving me nuts. It’s like I can’t even make sense of this shit in my own head, which is kinda ironic since the reason I took the job in the first place was to get out of my cramped apartment where I felt like I was slowly descending into madness. I seriously considered quitting right then and there, but that would just make me a big fucking failure. As usual. So, instead, I mopped.

I just took a mighty leak. It’s funny, but I think I may have the worst plumbing in the history of the industrialized world. Seriously, no matter how much I shake, I always tinkle a few drops when I pull my pants back up. This flaw in my body’s mechanics infuriates me to no end. There’s really nothing as pathetic as sitting in your own urine, especially when you only rock the sweats.

I’m also sitting in a pool of idle frustration. The kind of frustration where you want to do something absolutely brilliant, but when you try to do something, it turns out to be total shit. In the Midwest, this happens all the time. You feel trapped so you try to go out and create something cool. Unfortunately, you soon learn that you can’t really do anything. This is why shit gets broken. God, why can’t we just release ourselves from our self-made cages?

Stan, meanwhile, was feeding a short list of names into his ‘puter. As always, his ass was firmly placed in his comfy chair. He seemed content.