There was a young man who we’ll call “Ronald” to make this story a little more amusing. In fact, I think we’ll call him “Ronald Blackfoot” because he probably needs a last name to be a believable character. Anyway, Ronald was no George Clooney but he wasn’t a bad-looking young man. Well, it wouldn’t hurt his looks if he’d shave off the pencil thin mustache that teetered above his upper lip. You see, Ronald was an aspiring artist and idolized Salvador Dali like so many fledging artists seem to do. He wasn’t a very good artist..well, he had a natural talent for drawing, but Ronald had never fine tuned this ability, so his sketches were only slightly better than Rob Liefeld’s malformed, misproportioned comic book characters.
Because Ronald couldn’t draw very well and probably would never even attempt to sell a work of art, his nights were filled with drinking after work in dark, steal smelling bars. Ronald worked in a profession that so many other alcoholics, drug addicts, and sex fiends find themselves in…he waited tables. Anyway, one night after walking miles under the roof of a restaurant owned by two fat, abusive Greek brothers, our young hero drug himself to the bar next door. At closing time Ronald stumbled home. Upon reaching the apartment complex where he lived Ronald came across a sweaty dirty looking guy who appeared to be dancing in place. Yes, he was a crack head but it didn’t register with Ronald at the time.
After a brief conversation, Ronald entrusted the crackhead (Foolishly) with 20 dollars for a bag of weed that of course had to be retrieved from another location. I’m sure anyone reading this will not be surprised that the crackhead did not return with our hero’s pot. After a while, Ronald marched home to fetch some large kitchen knives and he somehow managed to conceal them in his slacks. Ronald steamed back to the area where the crackhead had left him and he knocked on the door of an apartment where the his adversary had stepped into for a moment during their earlier conversation. The scruffy young fellow who answered the door surprisingly let Ronald inside, after all, our hero looked like a nice enough fellow. Soon after, with kitchen knives in hand, Ronald persuaded the three young men inside to tell him everything they knew about the crackhead. They obliged him promptly and didn’t hesitate to be helpful. Ronald even asked one of the young men to record the information in a notepad so he wouldn’t have to put down his knives and the kid began writing. Ronald felt empowered. Not only was he armed with two large, sharp kitchen knives, but also with information. Ronald had the crackhead’s name, which was Patrick, and knew where he lived. Ronald had Patrick’s phone number, and if that wasn’t enough, the three frightened young men had also given Ronald Patrick’s job information.
Ronald waited in the apartment with the three frightened youths, but as you can probably imagine reader, the crackhead Patrick never returned to the apartment, so around 7 a.m our young hero walked to a pay phone and dialed the # of the crackhead’s employer. Someone answered. It was a man. It was Patrick’s boss. Instinct kicked in. Ronald spoke into the dirty, scratched up mouthpiece of the phone and introduced himself as Charlie Contreras, and went on to claim that he was in fact, Patrick the crackhead’s bail bondsman. Ronald then explained that Patrick had missed his court date that morning and that he, or rather Charlie Contreras, was trying to locate Patrick due to his bond being forfeit.
The employer asked, “What did he do?” “Well, I can’t tell you that sir, but let me ask you…do you have kids,” Ronald asked the man on the other end of the phone. “Yes, two little girls,” the man answered. He then said, “Why do you ask Mr. Contreras?” Ronald paused for a moment and then said sternly, “Well, if I were you…I’d keep Patrick the hell away from those girls of yours sir.”
Ronald and the man on the other end of the line, spoke for a little longer and then they hung up. Ronald walked home in the early hours of the morning. The sun was rising and the sky turned blue and pink. Birds chirped. Traffic was starting to hum as people made their way to work. Ronald felt satisfied that he’d really fucked Patrick the crackhead over for stealing his 20 dollars. His employer who happened to be a father of two little angels believed Patrick to be a pedophile and would of course fire him immediately. It was really all too easy. Retrieving the information to strike had been much simpler than he had thought. Also, Ronald remembered nothing of concocting the “Bail bondsman” story earlier, during his hurried blitz to the pay phone. The story just popped in his head out of nowhere. The threat of violence against the youths seemed like reflex. It all came so natural. By the time he realized all of this, Ronald found himself standing in front of his apartment. He unlocked his door and instantly collapsed on his old worn out couch. The exhilaration had already begun to leave his body and Ronald quickly drifted off to sleep.
Later that morning our young hero gradually came to. The headache quickly started and he could feel his heart beat inside his head. It sounded like a bass drum. He felt like someone had poured sand down his throat while he slept. The dehydration was awful. His body felt like a shriveled husk of a prune. Ever so slowly memories of his actions on the previous evening began to creep up on him and then they stopped their slow seep and hit like a sledge-hammer. The hideously hung over young man remembered everything that took place. There had been no blackout to conceal his deeds. Ronald had done a horrible handful of horrendous things and he shrunk in terror as he half expected the police to kick down his door at any minute. He spun his head toward the scuffed up-end table, covered in cigarette ashes and beer bottle caps, and then he looked at the red fragmented numbers on his crappy digital clock. He had one hour to shake off his hangover, get dressed and arrive at the Greek’s Restaurant for his 8 hour shift. Panic set in but then something strange happened.
The young man’s heart slowed as he remembered the previous night’s events. The memories that initially set off his anxiety suddenly seemed to sedate him. Ronald said quietly to himself, “Fuck it..I quit” and he did. Our young hero didn’t even bother to pick up the phone and call to inform his former employers of his decision. After the previous night, Ronald realized that he was wasting his life drawing malformed figures unintentionally and working at shitty dinners serving food to the elderly and overweight for 2 dollars and hour plus shitty tips. Our young hero would seek out a profession that allowed no – encouraged him to excel at his new-found talent for fucking people over! Ronald Blackfoot would become a banker, a doctor, or lawyer, maybe even a politician!
Until next time,