By:
Alex Russelberg
Prologue
My name is Charlie, and my life sucks.
I don’t mean that in a “Gas is expensive and I’m overworked” sense. In fact, I don’t own a car and I’m unemployed. And I’m pretty damn happy about that. My life doesn’t suck because I have no ambition and/or talent. I’m a beast on the kazoo, and I have a lifelong goal of owning an arcade machine. I am willing to take a
life to realize this dream. See? Ambition.
As far as I’m aware, I don’t have any life threatening diseases, nor any mildly irritating ones. I’m not allergic to dairy products, and I make a comfortable living through the good will of my friends. Namely, their generosity in letting me “borrow” furniture and other assorted objects that I sell online without their consent.
My life sucks because of one, tiny, insignificant moment, in which I decided to do something beneficial for society. It’s kind of a weird-ass story, but you may at least find it interesting. I don’t have anything better to do, and apparently neither do you. I present to you the story of my downfall, and, as with most downfalls, it began in a book store.
Chapter One
“What the hell do you want, Charlie?”
Ron was either pissed or confused. Understandable, I guess. The last time I bought a book was an accident. By the way, here’s a public service announcement: Moby Dick isn’t about what you think it is.
He was sitting behind a table with a large stack of books on it. There were a few boxes next to him, almost all of which were vandalized thoroughly with stick figure pornography. One of them was open, and was filled with more books. All of them had Ron’s name on the cover, under the title “Permanent Installation: A Novel of the Modern Asshole”. A long line of people stretched from the front of the desk all the way to the door.
“Oh, yeah. I remember you working on this one,” I said, pointing to the books. “You kept saying it wasn’t about me.”
The kid at the front of the line, roughly thirteen years old, had his own copy opened, facing Ron. He offered him his own marker. Ron already had a coffee mug full of them, but he took it anyway.
“Do you know this shit head?” the boy asked. Ron’s forehead instinctively fell into his hand.
Ron Carter was my roommate. I needed one because I’m allergic to work. Ron, on the other hand, was an accomplished writer. I have no idea why he would need a roommate. Not to mention why that would be someone as…disillusioned with the societal employment structure as myself. Whatever his reasoning was, he kept me around. I’m fine with that because he can afford nice coffee. And the only reason I knew that I wasn’t just research for the main character’s roommate in Permanent Installation, whose self-absorbed assholery eventually drives the main character (a writer) to suicide, is because he said I wasn’t.
“No,” Ron said. “He’s my room--no. Who do you want me to make this out to?”
“John. Thanks,” said the kid. He shook Ron’s hand, took the book, and walked outside. Ron’s merciless, lethal gaze followed.
“Asshole didn’t buy a t-shirt.”
I hadn’t noticed the merchandise until he said that. In fact, there was another cardboard box sitting on the table, overfilled with shirts with the phrase “Ronald Carter just made me his bitch” printed on them.
“Was he supposed to?” I asked.
“Yeah. If you bring your own book to get signed instead of buying a fresh one. That’s my policy. This isn’t a God damn charity. That bastard kid probably stole it from someone else just so he could burn it. He only came here to give me anthrax. Little fucker.”
Something was wrong. Ron was normally cool-headed and rational. Relatively, at least. It wasn’t like him to blindly accuse thirteen year old children of domestic terrorism.
“What the hell’s up with you?” I asked.
Ron leaned back in his chair. “Fuckin’ Freddy. You know him, right?”
I didn’t.
“Yeah. Of course I do,” I said anyway. “He’s your…son.”
“Brother,” he corrected. “Since he came out of that coma a few months ago, he just hasn’t been the same person.”
I was sure he’d told me about this before. It seemed like something important that I should have known. Honestly, I didn’t have any recollection of him talking about his brother being in a coma.
“Yeah. I recall you talking about your brother being in a coma,” I said.
“Cut the shit. I know you don’t remember. Here’s the basic summary. Freddy’s my little brother. When he was eight, he was hit by a car. That was five years ago. He woke up in January, and talked about having some kind of spiritual experience. Now he’s all Jesus-ey.”
I needed clarification. “The harmless moral kind, or the crazy fascist kind?” I asked.
“Crazy fascist,” answered Ron.
“How fascist?”
“He thinks Darwin was an agent of Satan sent to refute the story of biblical creation. He promotes the idea of a Christian theocracy in America. He believes that gays should be executed. He thinks that the earth is only a few thousand years old, and the dinosaurs are just hiding.”
That was pretty fascist.
“And…he’s only fifteen? Isn’t that a little young to be exposed to that kind of crazy?” I said.
“Thirteen. Eight plus five is thirteen. And he found the crazy himself. Thank you, internet forums.”
He brought his hand up, and did the fake-gun-in-mouth gesture that people do to make light of the fact that they genuinely hate their lives.
