Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 4

                         All Because of Bacon


         I felt terrible for feedin' Jesus that breakfast burrito. How was I s'posed to remember Jews ain't allowed to eat bacon. I mean I didn't do it on purpose. After all, I didn't eat the bread he pulled outta thin air without askin' him first if he made sure to pray for gluten-free loaves. You gotta let people know if you got dietary restrictions; that's all I'm sayin'.

                               

         All day long after that, Jesus kept sulkin' and givin' me the stink-eye. He didn't say one word to me the whole ride up to the hotel, and he just kept on goin' with the silent treatment till, finally at dinner, I had to say somethin'. 

         "Your father ain't gonna send you to hell on account o' me accidentally feeding you some bacon, is he?" I asked.

         "I thought I told you not to ask stupid questions," he said. I know it sounds weird, but you get used to Jesus sayin' that kinda thing when he's around and, pretty soon, it starts bouncin' right off you. It took a while gettin' Jesus to talk without hidin' behind all the put downs, what with him sayin' stuff like it'll be worse for me than it was for Sodom on the day o' judgement and all that, but he finally came around to tellin' me it wasn't the bacon he was mad at. He just couldn't believe I forgot he's a Jew. Said he never meant to spread the gospel to gentiles in the first place, and now he comes to a world where people "literally" swear by his name and they don't even know what it's like to be a good Jew.

                                    

         What happened next was somethin' I shoulda saw comin from the time I picked him up back at that truck stop out near Boulder. I asked Jesus a simple question just like I do every time right before he makes me feel like I should'na opened my dang fool mouth... Well, let me back up a smidge.

         All I did was ask him why he'd even bother if he couldn't get the chosen people to follow him. First he tells me, "You gotta take what you can get," and I was fine with that. But then he went into some stuff I never heard before.

         "That's why they call me the Bridegroom," he said, and he stopped talkin' right when he saw the look on my face. It was prob'ly pretty obvious I did have a dang clue what the hell he was talkin' about. Then he said, "The Kingdom of Heaven is like a wedding party?" But he said it like he was testin' me or something. "The people who were originally invited pulled a no-show? Does any of this ring a bell?"

          "That makes perfect sense," I told him, and I just knew I was in for it 'cause I could tell I was lookin' at him all bug eyed, like when you get lost in the Mexican side of town and and you stop and ask for directions just to have some little dark-skinned fella speak to you all fast and mumbly, and you just wish to high heaven that you could understand one word they was sayin' to you. Anyway, it goes without sayin, he wasn't satisfied with my answer. 

         "This shouldn't be anything new to you. You say you're a Christian?"

         I just couldn't let Jesus down. I had to let him know I'm a believer and ain't no two ways about it. "Yes, sir," I said. "A Christian through and through. Born and bred. Yes, sir." But that didn't make no nevermind to him. He went right on like a drill sergeant,  askin' me how much I read of the holy scriptures and how much I knew about the law and the gospels and I told him what I knew, which I thought was plenty. I said to Jesus that I knew about the creation, the commandments, and the patience of Job...

         "The patience of Job?" he said, and now I just felt like I'd been talkin' straight outta my ass. Which, according to him, I guess I was. "Job didn't have a choice. Job was given the option to sink or swim; Job was persistent." Then he went and slapped a Bible in my hand and told me to get busy reading.

         I don't know what kinda time he thinks I got to spare, but I've got ground to cover and cargo to deliver. Still though, it'd seem pretty ungrateful on my part to tell the ever-lovin' Messiah that I'm too busy to learn how to be a good Christian. I mean, after he died for the sins of the world and everything. Although, I gotta say, after reading a little outta this here book, I'm gettin' a real fuzzy picture o' what that's s'posed to mean.

            
           

Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 3

                 A (Very) Small Miracle

         It was clear sailing all the way to Georgia and we got into Atlanta with more than enough time to spare till I was due to check in at the loading dock. Jesus fell asleep the last stretch o' the ride and he looked about as peaceful as a baby, all rolled up half in the fetal position and clutchin' on to some blankets I had in the back of my cab. With all we'd been through together, I thought it'd be a nice thing to do, if I finished early enough, to surprise our lord and savior with a piping hot breakfast burrito. 
                       
                            

         Only problem was, when I pulled my trailer in to unload my cargo, the dock was too small. I felt just terrible waking Jesus on account of a technical difficulty, but I knew he'd been with me for a reason and there was just no way I was gonna deliver that cargo without some kinda small miracle. Now, it might not surprise anybody to know that Jesus can be a little grumpy when you wake him up first thing in the morning. But I never in my life thought he'd flat out refuse to help me in my time of need.

         "This isn't your time of need," he told me when I finally got him awake enough so he could wipe the drool off his face. "And besides, I can't be performing miracles left and right anytime life gets a little complicated. Do you have any idea how much attention it attracts every time people bear witness to a miracle?"

         I guess he had a point. But the least he coulda done was clear up the static on my C.B. radio so I could get through to dispatch and let them know what I was goin' through. Instead, all he did was stay out there alongside the truck messin' with me like it was the funniest thing on Earth that I couldn't do my job. 

         He started splashin' around in a puddle and sayin', "Look, Delmer, I'm walking on water!" Then he started takin' my brand new coffee mug over to the water fountain and turnin' the water into cream soda. I hate to say I was relieved when he disappeared for about a half hour 'cause, leastways then, I could have some time to get my head together. Then, outta nowhere he showed up with a dolly and started unloading the cargo hisself. 

         "Here's your miracle, Delmer," he said. "A dolly!" I told him it was a little more complicated than that. I could get into serious trouble if I hurt myself doing labor in a workplace that isn't up to snuff. So he went up to all the homeless people he could find and got them to help him unload my cargo in exchange for my coffee mug full of cream soda. 

         It's one of the few times I thanked my lucky stars for Jesus' short supply of patience. He wanted to get outta that loading dock so bad, he went and performed a small miracle just so we wouldn't be stuck there all day.

         After all the hubbub, we went through that morning, it was still only 10AM and I thought it'd be nice to get him that breakfast burrito I planned on. And boy was he grateful.

         "I've never had anything like this in my whole life," he said. "What's in this?"

         I told him it was just some eggs, potatoes, and bacon and he stopped cold. 

         "Delmer," he said, and he was serious as a heart attack when he said this. "What are you trying to do to me? I'm Jewish."  

Stranger than Non-Fiction: Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 2

Stranger than Non-Fiction: Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 2: Chapter 2: Graven Images              All things aside, it was pretty nice having Jesus in the passenger seat of my Peterbilt 379. Sur...

Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 2

Chapter 2: Graven Images

      
      All things aside, it was pretty nice having Jesus in the passenger seat of my Peterbilt 379. Sure he could be a handful at times, but we were making good time on the road from Boulder City to Atlanta and I literally had the Lord by my side to guide me through the tough times and help me out if things went wrong. And wouldn't you know; one of my gas tanks started to act up and Jesus just stepped outside and zapped it right back into working condition.

     We covered two states in just about ten hours, riding steady along I-70, and the sun was just about to peak up over the horizon. Jesus hadn't said a word in about an hour and there wasn't a sound except for the motor running and I had a real peaceful feeling in me. A feeling like things were gonna be all right. 

     Then, just like that, he started in all over again, raising hell over some decal of him on a cross. Though to be honest it was kinda graphic, what with the blood dripping from his wrists and the crown o' thorns and all.

     "What the fuck is the matter with people?!" he screamed. The problem is, I didn't know what he was sayin' at first. All I heard was screaming. Hell, I thought he was trying to tell me I was about to run someone off the road or something.

     I told him, "Look Jesus, you've gotta cool it, man."

     "Well how would you feel?" he started in. "What would you think if everywhere you looked people were flaunting images of your grizzly demise?!"

     "I don't suppose I would care too much for that."

     "No. I suppose you wouldn't."

     "Well you've got to get a hold of yourself, Jesus. I thought you were trying to warn me about something in the road. I almost just about ran us over the side of this mountain!" 

     Jesus apologized and said it was going to be hard getting used to all the crosses and sad, bloody Jesus faces on bumper-stickers. I tried to tell him they don't know any better. They were just trying to honor the sacrifice he made, is all. 

     "I don't know how you do things in the twenty-first century," he said, still kinda raising his voice. "But where I come from, people don't like to be reminded of that kind of thing! You don't see portraits of John Kennedy with half his head missing and his brains spilled all over a '61 Lincoln Continental!"

     He told me, the reason they put people up on them crosses is so folks could see the looks on their faces as they shat themselves for the last time. He said that's why people weren't s'posed to worship graven images; 'cause ten times out of ten, they'd screw it up. 

     He said he wandered into a church when he first got here and he damn near threw up when he saw the statue they had at the front of the room. Said they had a life-sized image of him in a loin cloth, feet and hands nailed down and breathing his last. 

     "Well that ain't nothin' nice," I told him.

     "No Delmer! It's not nice! Nothing gets by you, does it, Delmer?" He was about ready to have a conniption fit, so I asked if there was anything I could do to calm him down and he asked if I had any beer in the cab. I told him I didn't figure him for a drinker.

     "Delmer," he said. "I turned water into wine. Does that sound like someone who's too good for a drink?" So I gave him a can from a twelve-pack I had stowed away in the back of the cab and I asked him if he could please keep it low 'cause I could lose my license just for having an open container in the vehicle.

     All he said was, "This is piss beer, Delmer. Is this all you got?"

     "Beggars can't be choosers, Mr. Jesus," I said.

     "You speak the truth," he said.

     

Riding Along with Jesus: Episode 1

Chapter 1: Divine Providence

         Now to tell the truth, I found it hard to gauge a first impression on Jesus. He was calm as a Hindu cow at least half the time, but he had an edge to 'im, like anything could set 'im off at any time. At first I thought it was just me. Like maybe there was something about me that rubbed him the wrong way. But he said he liked me and that he wouldn't have jumped in a truck with a guy he didn't like. Still though; he had a funny way o' showin' it.

         "Do you think you're special?" he asked me.

         "No," I told him, and I couldn't help but feel like he was havin' a go at me. 

         "No, you don't. You think you're like everybody else?"

         "Well what do you suppose everyone else is like?"

         "Exactly! That's why I like you, Delmer."

         "The name's Cal. I think I told you that."

         "You know what Peter's name was?" he asked.

         "It wasn't Peter?"

         "No. It was Simon. But I didn't like that name, so I called him Peter. Now they don't say, 'Simon's gonna be waiting for you at the Golden Gate,' now do they?

         "I s'pose not."

         "No. They say, 'Saint Peter at the Golden Gate.' That's got a nice ring to it, don't you agree?"

         "I can't say it makes any difference to me."

         "Trust me. I've got a knack for this kind of thing. Branding, Delmer. That's what it's all about. How do you wanna go down in history?"

         "I don't," I said. "Why would I want to go down in history?"

         "Exactly! That's what I like about you, Delmer. You know you're just a guy. You don't think you're going to be famous or a millionaire. Most people out there think they're it."

         "It?"

         "Don't ruin this special feeling for me, Delmer," he said. "It. You know: chosen, special, or just plain exempt from the rules of reality. Do you know how many people out there think that they're somehow going to escape death? Or how many of them think they were actually born believing in me? I don't even want to get into that stuff. People who think they can be shitty to each other and just shout my name over and over again and that'll make it all better. I specifically said to love your enemy. I specifically said to turn the other cheek. What did I say about casting the first stone?"

         "Wasn't it something like, 'Let he who is without sin-"

         "I said don't do it!"

         "Now calm down, Jesus. It won't do you any good to get all fired up about it."

         "I'm sorry. You're right. I've just got a bunch of judgmental pricks out there screwing up my brand. You know what the problem is?"

         "No, sir."

         "Yes you do. They're stupid, Delmer. People in general are stupid. And you already know that. That's why you're smart. That's why I like you. And that's why I get so pissed when you ask stupid questions."
      
         "I'm not sure I follow." I said.

         "It's all right. You don't have to, Delmer."

         "The name's Cal."

         "No it's not."

Riding Along with Jesus: Meeting Jesus-- An Introduction

         I met Jesus at a truck stop outside of Boulder City on my way to the east coast. He looked just like any other guy except he had that look on his face like he could see right through my soul. I went right up to him, not knowing who he was, and I asked him,"Hey fella. Do you know somethin' I don't know?"

         "That's a stupid question," he said. "Do you know the capital of Maine?"

         "No. Not right off the top of my head."

         "Well there. I guess I know something you don't."

         "That's not what I meant. I-"

         "Do you know how to double-clutch?"
         
         "As a matter of fact, I do," I said

         "Well I guess you know something I don't know. How do you like that?"

         "Hey look," I said. "I'm sorry if I offended you in any way."

         He told me I didn't offend him, even though it seemed to me like I struck a nerve. Then he asked me if my mom never taught me to think before I speak. I asked him who the hell he thought he was and he said, "I'm Jesus H. Christ, that's who!" And that just about blew me away. I asked him to prove it and he flat out said no. Then he said he knew what I meant to ask and that the answer was "yes," he knew the mysteries of the cosmos but that it wasn't going to help me none because it wasn't going to teach me how to spend more time with my family instead of burying myself in my work all the time.

         I know it sounds stupid but I believed him. They always said when he came back, he'd come like a "thief in the night," and I've harbored a couple of fugitives in my time. That's why it made perfect sense to me when he asked if he could hitch a ride to Buffalo, New York. I told him I'd love to, but I was headed down south to Atlanta to drop off a load of construction material to a contracting firm starting a new project down there. He said, "Yeah, I know. I know where you're going and I know where you're going to end up. So what do ya say? You wanna take on a stowaway? You look like you could use the company."

         "I guess I could use the company," I said. "Sure. Why not?" And I've been riding along with Jesus ever since.

  

Captain O'Mally's Last Stand

         Mother of Christ Preparatory High School sits on an unlikely corner of town. Nestled between the discount grocery store and the Spanish meat market, the high walls of the Catholic prep school stand four stories tall, just north of the railroad tracks that divide the city into rich and poor. The edifice looms across the way from the economically priced and densely packed apartment buildings, almost as an affront to the community who cannot afford to send their children to the school named for the virgin mother and holy son whom they so often worship.

         On the south side of the railroad tracks lie the beautiful homes with green, fresh manicured lawns and three-car garages. Their driveways are adorned with statues, ponds, and fountains. The residents on the south side of the city all attend the Episcopal Church on Sundays, even though they send their children to the prep school on the other side of the tracks. But they have good reason; it's the best school around, and it's the only school in the area where their children can be educated in the teachings of Jesus Christ.

         After church they go to barbecues where they eat, meet, drink, and smile at each other. They leave business behind and know that they can be in like-minded company. But all the like-minded people don't always get along. There's the doctor, for instance, who is friends with the commercial property owner and they both hate the lawyer because he's always representing people in suits against them. The lawyer on the other hand, knows all the wives and they all like him well, except for the new bride of the advertising executive because he talked her husband into signing a prenuptial agreement following the lawyer's affair with her that went awry. 

         Then there's police captain Shamus O'Mally, the only Catholic in the bunch. He knows everything about everyone and makes a handsome profit on the side from the dealings that stem from these knowings. He's the one who told the doctor to beware when a young man complained to the police about the shady dealings between the hospital and the chiropractor. He also referred the same young man to the lawyer. Later on, it was O'Mally who convinced the advertising exec to get married after the lawyer refused to pay the standard referral fee.

         Let's get it straight however; the captain is not without his weaknesses. Sure he takes the odd bribe or kickback, but that's neither here nor there. But it's been said of the good captain that he spends so much time watching the snakes in the yard that he knows little of the spiders in his house. Namely, his wife and daughter.

         O'Mally's first wife was a woman of sense and diligence and she stood by his side when times were tough. And though her spirit was vibrant, her flesh began to age, and so the captain traded in his old wife for a newer model. A trophy wife with white veneer teeth, saline breasts, and a plastic smile. His daughter April, for whom he assumed custody for no other reason than to spite his ex, never quite forgave him. Having nothing but disdain in her heart for the good captain and his new wife, April grew rebellious.

         Although being the daughter of a police captain made it hard to get arrested, the local newspapers grew fond of April O'Mally and her antics. Her drunken episodes had the consistency of a weekly comic strip, and her vandalism was typically playful and harmed nobody except for the captain's reputation.

         On the other side of the tracks lived a handsome young boy who could strum a guitar and pluck its nylon strings as though he were commanding nature. It's only fair to mention that he made a modest income out of playing on the sidewalk of the art village south of the tracks, and the inhabitants knew his music and his face very well. His skills were so adept as to have earned him a full-ride scholarship at Mother of Christ Preparatory High School. 

         Nicholas the flamenco guitarist was a fish out of water when he first entered the prep school. His coffee-shaded skin and dark, untamed hair made him stick out of the texture like a grain of pepper in an ocean of non-dairy creamer. But nobody could resist his musical charms and when he began to sing, he caught the attention of beautiful, young April O'Mally.

         April and Nicholas met and found that they had much more in common besides their inherent ability to be hypnotized by music. April invited Nick back to her house, because she wasn't allowed to roam far from home these days. Her father's recent run for public office had influenced him to place her on a two-month unconditional restriction and the hope was that it would keep her rebellious attitude away from the public eye. Still, she was able to escape while her father was busy, which was most of the time, by way of blackmail. April had hidden a motion sensitive camera in her stepmother's drawing room and was able to produce lurid pictures of her sharing some personal time with her personal trainer. April used the photographs as leverage to get what she wanted at home, but she was careful not to overuse them. 

         In an odd coincidence, the captain had been home on the day April invited Nicholas to the house, and he was furious. The thought of a street minstrel from the wrong side of the tracks having relations with his daughter filled him with blind rage.

         From that day on, Captain O'Mally decided to have his daughter followed. He would know her every movement from that day on. In addition, he ordered a narcotics investigation on the home of Nicholas and his parents, knowing full well that the mere implication of a drug charge would cost him his scholarship and his future. Nick and April were able to steal moments together, but they didn't speak outside of school. They became the greatest of friends, but the truth is, their relationship was completely platonic.

         April knew she was being watched and was able to seek out and seduce her observer. Then she forced him to pay her for their frequent rendezvous under penalty of notifying the authorities as to the nature of their relationship. In the same way she was able to photograph her stepmother, April produced concrete evidence of her affair with Tony, the captain's lackey. It's not that she had any use for the money. In fact, she gave it to Nicholas because he could no longer play his guitar at the art village, or anywhere south of the tracks for that matter, and she felt somehow responsible.

         The day came when Captain O'Mally ordered a full scale drug raid on the house of the family of Nicholas. The newspapers were called to report on the raid by an anonymous source. It seemed like a good story to follow, being that the captain was currently running for public office. Sure enough, when the police arrived, there was a small bag of marijuana on the premises. There was a scale in the kitchen that his mother used for weighing food and sandwich bags in the kitchen drawer. Along with the small stack of hundred dollar bills that April had given him from her exploits with Tony the lackey, it looked for a second like a clear cut case of possession with intent to sell. 

         The parents were separated in their own home for questioning. The father in the kitchen stared despondently at the floor while an officer on either side of him fired questions faster than he could process them. The mother in the living room bit her lip while her son lay face down on the floor in front of her,one officer on top of Nick, and another shouting, "Bad mother!!" as if scolding a dog.

         Then Nicholas spoke.

         "Everything you're looking for is in the vent inside my bedroom wall!"

         The house went quiet. Then a voice exploded from Nicholas' bedroom.

         "Captain O'Mally! Captain, come quick!!"

         The good captain was handed a small stack of pictures that he quickly shuffled through and then stood quiet. He threw up in his mouth, swallowed it, and then threw up again all over the bedroom rug.

         "Call it off!" they yelled. "Everybody get the hell out! Call it off!!!"

         "What about the papers?" one detective asked.

         "Screw the papers! Give the captain some space!"

         Inside the heating vent on the wall of the boy's bedroom were a small stack of pictures. Some displaying his wife in her drawing room naked alone with a well-built man who was also naked. Some with a fat man lying naked, face down atop a tangled mesh of arms, legs, and hair. At a second glance, it was Tony, the captain's lackey. Then the last photograph. April O'Mally mostly disrobed, her hair a mess, and holding a cardboard sign in front of her chest with a message written across in felt marker.

         In big, bold letters, it read, "Hi Dad!" 

       

         

          

Giant Gerald VII (Of Winners and Losers)

         There was a moment of conundrum for Gerald. Barbara was being decent to him. He found her personable, genuine. Maybe it was just a bit of kindness that she needed. The thought was quickly dismissed. G.G. spent his afternoons witnessing people kindly regret the day they ever addressed Barbara. Recollecting the sordid and tragic past she recounted to him earlier, it was clear to him that she was the same as she had always been. Like the sirens of ancient mythology, luring men with a sweet song only to devour them whole. No pun intended.

            There would be no turning back. Mercy was not an option.

            After they returned from the spa, Gerald flipped on the television and put on his nastiest porn DVD in hopes of regaining control of the situation. Barbara sat squarely on the floor, mesmerized in front of the TV set. He took her. Right there, the movie still playing. He couldn’t afford to give himself time to think.

            The things he did with her, to her, on her, are unimaginable for most people. Filling her vagina beyond capacity, he received a face full of her grateful, aromatic juices. Apparently, Barbara was a squirter. He then switched orifices. All the while choking her, slapping her in the face, breasts, and ass. Her shrieks were ear-piercing, and whether they were shouted in pleasure or pain was not in any way discernable to the human ear. There was however, no call for putting a stop to things.

            He continued on, spitting on her and calling her names. This was no longer part of the plan. It was all of the hate G.G. had for this contemptible woman concentrated into four hours of fluid exchange. A hate fuck.

            “Dirty slut!!” he bawled out. “That’s what you need. Gonna fuck some sense into you!” Finally, feeling that he had done enough, or possibly that he could do no more, Gerald gave her the piece de resistance. Coup de grace.

            Only seconds before finishing, he pounded viciously away at her backside, the smell of shit and raw body stench filling the air and permeating to the outside area. He removed his penis from her rancid and unholy orifice and beat her senselessly in the face with it. In the chaos of it all, Barbara’s left eye had been hit as though with a closed fist. G.G. was spent. The sex had been arduous and the sun was about to peek its weary, judgmental head over the clouds which rested obliviously along the horizon like rows of neatly plotted resting sheep.

            “You need to go home,” he said, falling limp the way a tree might be felled in the forest. His floor-bound plop shook the building so that the windows rattled.

            “You alright to drive?” he became absent of the fact, in his inebriated state, that he had driven them to his place.

            “I’ll get a cab,” she said agreeably.

            “Good.”

            The affair that transpired between Giant G. and Barbara D. could be more accurately characterized as an excursion. Gerald drank himself half to death that night. Besides the severe dehydration typically associated with massive alcohol consumption, the prolonged act of sex drained anything that may have been left in his body in the way of moisture via sweat, spit, and semen, Rehydration would take 72 excruciating hours.

Consequently, he had to take some sick days from work. The recuperation process would be fraught with nightmares that forced him to continually relive what he came to feel had been his sin against nature. The stench of the supposed beast clung like death to the walls and rug of the apartment for one week; every day of which, G.G. would be slapped in the face with the unforgiving reminder whenever returning from outside. Despite his fondness for preparing meals at home, he ate all his meals out that week.

            Upon returning to work that third day of resurrection, Gerald received mixed attention. He could not quite place it and didn’t much care to ask. His intention was to wait out the week and only then point to the apparent fact that Barbara was no longer a regular guest at the bar.

            Happy hour ended that afternoon and there was no sign of her. Then came the dinner rush, and in she came. Stumbled actually, Barbara. She was sore, for the first time ever, having had the sense fucked into her, as G.G. put it. It was then that Gerald was filled in. During his absence, she had been limping in everyday, asking for him by name. She was also getting into the habit of coming in for dinner instead of happy hour; all the time wearing sunglasses.

            Donning a powder-blue dress that caused her to resemble a big baby, she limped her way up to Gerald and lifted her sunglasses to reveal a black eye. The rest of her face looked as though she had gotten in a fight with Mary Kay and lost. A pungent perfume crowned the image and announced her presence in place of her former signature musk that was so reminiscent of sour milk and sardines. 

            “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said and smiled. Gerald was beside himself. His plan had backfired in the worst possible way. “What are you doing later?”

            He did not answer, but was in utter shock. Barbara, however incognizant of the fact, talked up a storm with the people seated adjacent to her. She discussed sports and celebrity gossip and was absolutely sweet to everybody for the rest of the evening. She ordered a steak that she complemented with a lovely French table wine, and even tipped above the minimum rate. This change in demeanor on Barbara’s part would continue indefinitely.

            Gerald on the other hand would not ever be regarded quite the same. The girls at the bar were all too familiar with the name brand stumble that was worn with pride by the former client from hell. Part laughing stock and part local hero, his reasoning was a cause for debate. Nonetheless, he did not dare confirm the deed. Not ever. To him, the intention of malice was plenty shameful without subsequently confessing to his masochism in the matter.

So was he cast into a personal hell. Henceforth he would be subject to little come-ons and unwelcomed flirtations. The beast was tamed, and was to become the sole burden of Giant Gerald Letrowski.

Giant Gerald VI (BallsDeep)

Barbara kept quiet for the remainder of the evening and did not dismiss herself at the end of happy hour the way that was routine. She stuck around until closing, pondering herself and the path which had led her to her current state of stagnancy. When the bar closed, she waited outside for Gerald, who felt that he had started something that absolutely needed to be finished. Barbara, as far as he was concerned, would not return the following day or any other day for that matter.

He thought about his pornography films, and all the things he wished he could do but was afraid to inflict upon a woman. It was a golden opportunity for him to kill two birds with one stone. Gerald would have his utopian work environment. Slipping the closing cocktail waitress a twenty dollar bill, he asked if she could please close the bar for him, that he had a pressing matter to attend to. When asked, he only answered, “I’m going to take one for the team.” In all actuality, he was going to give one for the team. Not wanting anyone to know his ultimate sacrifice, he offered no explanation beyond the vague cliché. He only gave a smile and a peace sign.

He went outside to meet Barbara who was barely visible beyond the thick shrubbery of a parking lot island that was just out from the glass front doors. He found her unusually approachable, yet solemn. He had made his way into her brain. She was sitting on the curb of the island with her head down, in a state of deep reflection.

“What’s your story?” he asked, earnestly. To get her talking was the only goal for the moment.

“Why?” She looked up. “Do you have a few hours?”

She was vulnerable and eager to express herself.

“I do if you wanna come have a drink at my place.” She did not answer but simply stood up and followed Gerald to his car. He opened the door for her. She was grateful.

G.G.’s plan was simple. He couldn’t be rude to her at work and he knew she relied on that fact. She knew that she could come into any customer service environment: a restaurant, a bar, a coffee shop, and she could be as awful as she wanted to be to everyone who worked there and they would just have to take it. Because they were on the clock. The way she had to take it when she worked behind the butcher’s counter. But Gerald could fight fire with fire. He could spend this time with her right now, off the clock, and show her some side of him she wouldn’t ever want to see again. He could make her feel so awkward and so ashamed, she couldn’t ever look Gerald in the eyes again.

So he drank. He took her up to his apartment and Barbara spouted off the tragic minutiae of her sordid past. And Gerald drank. Stripping away his inhibitions with vodka, lime, and triple sec, he prepared. What would it take?

“Oh Gawd,” he thought. He knew exactly what it would take.

The women with whom he had been sexually intimate thus far were pretty little things with life in their eyes and a gentle, effeminate aroma about their skin. Here was a smelly pulp of a woman. To put it kindly.

In light of her personal odor, he proposed they go visit the Jacuzzi located on the apartment grounds. It was late enough for security guards to have ceased patrolling the area so long as the two kept quiet and avoided resident noise complaints. With desolate privacy as their shelter, they did so in complete nudity. They brought their drinks along, which further enabled him to look straight at her tousled corpse with some ease.

Before they disrobed, he asked her one question.

“Do you want to know what the ‘G’ stands for?”

He dropped his pants.

“God! Oh… God!”

“Shh,” he cautioned her. “No. It’s Gerald.” To his dismay,  she exhibited no signs of social discomfort beyond her initial state of shock.

They chatted a bit more while they became acclimated to the heat of the steaming water. Gerald did his best to remain nonchalant and keep the conversation moving ahead.

“So, DeMolde,” he said. “What is that, French?”

“No. It’s fake.”

Barbara’s driver’s license and all of her credit cards said DeMolde on them.

“It’s an alias. You know, like gangsters have.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The state and the banks don’t care what you wanna call yourself. All they care about is your social security number.”

Some years ago, Barbara had thought it would help her paternity suit against the DeMolde men to have already adopted the last name. This, she did not care to explain. It was one of the reasons why the case wasn’t taken seriously.

After the fact, she hoped the name might bring some redemption to her downward spiral which precipitated immediately following. Just like the redemption that Donald Lutz had brought into her life. The difference being that she was alone this time. There would be no prince to whisk her away on a white horse.

“But why would you…”

“There’s nothing to understand, okay. It’s just a souvenir, and it’s just Barbara.”

Gerald hid the fact that he expected her to be embarrassed about her body. He was certainly embarrassed for her, now conjuring images of the Kool-Aid man and Humpty Dumpty’s illegitimate daughter. His previous sex partners, attractive as they were, had been ashamed of any little imperfection on their body, be it mole or an appendectomy scar.

The entire time, Barbara’s gaze would not stray from his penis. The rest of his body was also well-maintained. Eventually they sat comfortably inside the Jacuzzi, at which point he asked her another question.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“Time me.”

She smiled and dove hungrily for his loins. Gerald stabbed her in the back of the throat, thinking that it was all he had left to do to send Barbara stomping off in anger, or at least shame. Two minutes later, she came up.

“How long was that?”

Catching her breath, she stared into his face expectantly. His expression was indescribable. He was both sexually satisfied and mentally perturbed. It was a can of worms he opened if it wasn’t Pandora’s Box.

Either way, banishing Barbara would not be the cut-and-dry task he had originally anticipated.

“I don’t know,” he said, jokingly. “I lost count after the first half hour.”

Never in Gerald’s brief but rampant sexual history had a woman been able to fit him entirely into any orifice. He’d stopped short of ejaculating inside her esophagus only because he was saving that for something special.

“That was like, a minute.” She giggled childishly.

“It was more than a minute,” he said, still wide-eyed in disbelief. “I’m sure of that.”

Round one was nearly a loss for G.G. Reevaluating his strategy, he whisked Barbara back up to his apartment. Slaying the beast would take all he had.

There would be no rest, however, until she could no longer bear to look at him.

Giant Gerald V (Kill Her with Kindness)

            These thoughts raced through Gerald’s head while he continued hastily cleaning the cocktail glasses.

'What if I was a faggot?' he thought to himself. 'I would've been even more offended!'

Turning away from the moment and the rack of dirty glasses, he looked Barbara up and down in appraisal. There must be something, one thing, worth complimenting about her.

She wore orthopedic shoes that resembled hospital issue slippers. That meant her feet were swollen and rough as hammers. Nothing worth mentioning there.

Her face was pale and greasy looking from overuse of anti-aging cream. No compliment there either.

Her breasts hung like flat tires atop a junk heap.

She was a human train wreck from head to toe. Even her insults were witless and ignorant at best.

Then he found the one thing that time could not steal from Barbara.

“I never understood how eyes that lovely could harbor a frown underneath everywhere they go.”

Now it was Barbara who was dumbstruck. She looked up at him with the confusion of a small child just discovering its reflection in a mirror. Gerald, having successfully gotten her attention, just said, “Only the girls call me G.G. The guys call me by my name.”

She didn't know his name and he knew this.

“What did you say to me?” she muttered after a lengthy pause.

“Your eyes,” he said. Then he echoed a line she heard ages before, from a young man with a poet’s heart whom, until that moment, she had simply regarded as another notch on her proverbial garter belt.

“They’re blue like the sky after a rainstorm.”

The patrons at the bar overheard the exchange and backed up a little, like they were about to witness a fight.

“Resembling,” he continued. “tiny eclipses of the sun.”

Gerald kept quiet after that and went on about his business, deciding to quit while he was ahead.

Barbara was clearly taken off her guard. She finished off the glass of cheap red wine that sat directly in front of her as though it were a shot of whiskey, grimacing afterward in reaction to the rush of tannins. A tear ran from her eye and she hid it, adjusting the makeup she wasn't wearing.

She had not heard a genuinely kind word in ages.

“I’m going to the restroom.”

Her voice sounded crippled.

“Could you please pour me a glass from the reserve bottle for when I come back?” In the history of her patronage at that bar, Barbara had not ever said ‘please’ to anybody.

She entered the ladies’ room, waited patiently for a woman in there to finish  her business and leave, then sobbed openly in front of the mirror. She washed her face profusely, anticipating that someone might enter at any moment and catch her in the middle of a nervous collapse. When she finished, Barbara went into a stall briefly to masturbate. She truly could not remember the last time she'd been touched. This emotional disaster a human being exploded within contact of herself and felt beautiful all over again for ten seconds. Then she remembered that, even as a curvaceous man-eater, she was ugly then too – that she had always been ugly.

Barbara washed off her lipstick and face cream, deeming them, and herself, ridiculous. She collected herself and went back to the bar. Gerald sensed progress on his part and did his best to continue on the same note. He was not at all certain where this was going, but he didn't intend on backing down. This was all out war.

“Enjoying the finer thing, aye, Ms. Barbara?” he said, referring to her selection of wine. For Barbara, ever since her fall from supposed grace, it had always been the cheap stuff. From well liquor to black coffee to house wine. Everything was for effect – not for flavor.

“Might as well taste it.”

She smiled, her voice was still weak, and her mind still in shock from her miniature episode in the bathroom.

“Might as well enjoy it,” Gerald concurred.

Giant Gerald IV (The Plot Thins)

            Barbara would not regain her flawless figure once the baby was born. She attempted to file paternity suits against the DeMolde men, but the blood tests said that it was anybody’s guess who the father really was. The case was laughed out of court. She knew darn well who the father was and the baby was relinquished to him within a year of having been born. Barbara despised her own mother and never really wanted to be one.

            Dora was her name and she was well taken care of. Her natural father loved her, took great care of her and put her through Christian school, where she would learn that people like Barbara, Harvey, and Nigel did not exist in the world thanks to the fulfilled prophecy of a flood that took place so many thousands of years ago.

            The butcher’s counter at a local grocery store was Barbara’s final destination. She never had to deal with people before, the way she did at the market. Answering ‘thank you’ with ‘thank you’ and taking orders from people who were younger and dimmer than even herself. Quickly she grew bitter and would handle the meat grinder zealously pretending all who passed by were screaming for their pointless little lives, being processed into burger patties or sausage.

            Ambling drearily into Gerald’s bar at happy hour, she would size up all the patrons in disgust. They would have opened the door for her – when she was young. They would have bought her drinks – when she was beautiful. Men and women alike would have given double takes, glancing at reflections in mirrors and glass doorways in order to catch an indirect glimpse at the curves of her body, much like looking into the sun.

            Her shape was now that of a teapot with breasts resting lazily upon it. Lipstick was worn heavily to overcompensate for the shapelessness of the rest of her body. Almost as though her lips if painted emphatically enough could draw all focus away from her now disheveled carcass.

            She barked at people instead of talking to them. “Hey,” she would call, rather than learning their names. Showering and brushing of the teeth were done strictly on an ‘as needed’ basis, which caused Barbara to stink of rotten milk with a hint of sardines. As a result, a social perimeter equivalent to three feet in every direction kept her further isolated. Especially at the bar, those with sufficient experience did not care for her to waft over in their general direction.

            Terror overcame the staff and clientele alike when her car cruised into the parking lot.

            They would call her, “Oh shit.”

            They would call he, “There goes the neighborhood.”

            “Moldy Barbara” was a popular favorite.

            The only shred of memorabilia stolen from her glory days would serve to personify Barbara’s living state of decomposition. A shred she stole for reasons unknown even to her and clutched with a rigor mortis grip. Other pseudonyms were not as forgiving.

            Of all people, Gerald could not once get her to crack a smile. The man with the shiny attitude and heart as pure as diamond was prone to receive sideline comments, such as, “You really like yourself, don’t you?” and, “Do you smile because you’re stupid or because they pay you?”

            “Both, I suppose.”

            There was little else to answer, lest he risk his cozy job. Gerald loved his boss. He loved his bar guests, and his coworkers even more so. It was for these reasons that it troubled Gerald all the more to be powerless, absolutely powerless to the shadow cast on his all-but-utopian work environment for three hours a day on weekdays.

            Happy hour.

            Now with his thriving sex life, Gerald was more baffled than ever as to how people could find it within themselves to be ugly to one another.

            They called him G.G. again. The girls did anyhow, and he liked it.

            “It’s cause you’re a faggot,” Barbara called out. Gerald had had enough from Barbara.

            “I think I’m allowed to ask you to leave for saying something like that, sweetie.” Gerry only said ‘sweetie’ when he was upset. It was a nice way of saying bitch, and it was reserved for only the most extreme circumstances, of which there were few in his uncomplicated life.

            “It’s why you smile so much. I heard the girls calling you Gigi. That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”

            “It’s not G-I-G-I. They’re initials.”

            “Huh?”

            “Initials, they stand for something else.”

            “What’s it mean?” she asked, uninterested.

            “It doesn’t matter. I’m just a stupid faggot.”

            Gerald said this with as big and sarcastic a smile as he ever wore. He busied himself by cleaning some dirty cocktail glasses so as to not continue feeding the flames of anger now crackling in the pit of his stomach.

            Now it became crystal clear. Gerald was going to banish the shrew. Forever. Could he kill her with kindness? The feat had been attempted before, at their first acquaintance, against fair warning from the resident staff.

It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it.

“Just pour the drinks, wise guy. Everybody know I don’t tip good.”

The words hissed out of her mouth with as much disgust and contempt as one human being can have for another. And it was true. For all the stress and stepping on eggshells, Barbara typically left a dollar. Sometimes two, counting any excess change she didn’t care to keep in her purse.

G.G. had been dumbstruck by her venomous energy and generally took big steps to avoid her ever since. This included allowing her to pour her own wine and initiating new employees by having them tend to her in his stead. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Being utterly kind to Barbara would be a game. He was going to go all in. Balls deep.