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By Misti Date: 2005 Oct 02 Comment on this Work [[2005.10.02.03.44.31228]] |
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Conrad was a recovering alcoholic living in his brother's basement. It was a nice basement. There was green carpet that wasn't too terribly stained and a king size waterbed. A neon Budweiser sign glowed above the bed. By the basement stairs was a computer desk with a Dell computer on it. Conrad enjoyed sitting at the computer in his underwear looking at photos of naked women. Conrad didn't have to work. He had inherited twenty thousand dollars from his great-uncle Edgar and that was enough to live on for awhile. One day in late October Conrad was bored with the cheap thrills so he decided to surf the web. On a whim Conrad typed "carnival" into the search engine at Yahoo. Conrad had gone to the carnival the night before, popped a few balloons and won a stupid stuffed dog with its tongue hanging out. He had rode the ferris wheel and the bumper cars. It was the most fun he'd had in awhile. "Carnival" resulted in a treasure trove of websites. One of the websites was called It's a Bloody Carnival, This Life. Hmmm, Conrad thought. Sounds intriguing. Conrad clicked on the link. It's a Bloody Carnival, This Life was a geocities website with a black background. The text was tangerine. There was a photograph of a ferris wheel at night, all gaudy and lit up. Conrad read on. The girl who created the site was named Shandi. Shandi wrote that she was disappointed in the cheapness of life. Shandi felt cheated. To counteract the cheapness Shandi wrote poetry. Shandi listed ten of her poems in the introduction. The titles startled Conrad. Conrad had never read much poetry, just the mandatory crap in high school. Emily Dickinson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William Shakespeare. The greats. The greats bored Conrad. He found more meaning in Def Leppard lyrics. The ten titles of Shandi's poems were You Have No Idea How Fucking Wrong You Are, That's Not A Pebble Down There, The Bitches Won't Invite Me To Tea, I Don't Live in a Trailer So Don't Call Me White Trash, Your Girlfriend is Your Mother With Perkier Tits, Xanga is the New Mental Masturbation, Dogs Are Horrible Pets, You Make About As Much Sense As A Duck Playing A Slot Machine, I'm The Slut Your Wife Warned You About and Ringo Was The Best Beatle Hands Down. Conrad chuckled. He decided to read That's Not A Pebble Down There first. He read it and read it again. Then he read Dogs Are Horrible Pets. Three hours later, Conrad was mentally exhausted and elated. He had read every one of Shandi's poems at least twenty times each. Conrad believed he was in love. There were no pictures of Shandi at her website but Conrad could picture Shandi very clearly in his mind. She was short, which was a good thing because Conrad was only 5"7. Shandi had small, perky breasts, another plus because they wouldn't sag later on. Shandi had long red hair like the wig Meg Ryan wore in "The Doors." Shandi was skinny but not bony. She had innocent violet eyes. Perfect tiny white teeth. No zits, just a slight sprinkling of freckles. Conrad decided to send Shandi an e-mail. He clicked on the yellow link that read Send Me Yer Thoughts Or Somethin'. Conrad's e-mail was short and to the point. Dear Shandi, You don't know me yet but I am your biggest fan. Not physically. I'm a little guy (you know what they say about little guys, right?)but I have a huge mind and it has been blown to smithereens by your poetry. You write the truth, girl. I never got into poetry but I'm into it now. Your poetry, anyway. Well, write me back. Hopefully you don't live too far away. We could get together sometime and drink coffee and eat cookies and then have sex. With each other. Panting Love, Conrad Conrad crossed his fingers and sent the e-mail. Then he paced around the basement smoking a cheap menthol cigarette. Conrad smoked two more cigarettes and played his newest mix tape. The songs on side one included "Chinese Rock" by the Ramones, "Texas Women" by Hank Williams, Jr., "Tangled up in Blue" by Bob Dylan,"Your Love" by the Outfield,"Over the Hills and Faraway" by Led Zeppelin,"In the Flesh" by Blondie,"Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday,"Antenna" by the Church,"Devil's Haircut" by Beck and "Don't Try Suicide" by Queen. Conrad could not listen to side two until he checked his e-mail. Conrad checked his inbox with a pounding heart. Sweat dripped down and stung his eyes. Conrad cursed and lit another cigarette. No word from Shandi. Over the next two weeks Conrad continued to read Shandi's poems and send her e-mail, each message more lovesick and ridiculous than the first. At night Conrad dreamed of ferris wheels and rabid dogs. Conrad was dying for a drink but he stayed strong. He consumed cases of Dr. Pepper and went through three cartons of cigarettes a week. He wanted to masturbate but didn't. Finally Conrad received an e-mail from Shandi. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. "From: Shandi Boone." Her name was...Shandi Boone. Conrad howled in ecstasy. Shandi's e-mail wasn't as short and to the point as Conrad's introductory e-mail had been. Conrad. Stop e-mailing me. Please. You are wasting your time. I do not know you. I do not wish to know you. You do not know me. You do not love me. I've been loved more than a few times. I've been loved well. I have a feeling you are delusional and have no idea what love means. Let me spell it out for you. When a man loves me, this means he has smelled me and tasted me not once but several times. He has become addicted to me. He craves my presence. I please him like no other. Not only in bed/the shower/the kitchen/the truck but in the hospital waiting room and in the crappy bar that plays boy band songs and before and during and after his mother's funeral. I say what he needs to hear when he needs to hear it. I give him the touch that soothes when that is needed and the touch that excites when that is needed. And it isn't always warm and fuzzy and Hallmarkish. Love means truth which means ugliness which means fights which means disappointment which means tear which means Fuck You! I Don't Need This Shit. Sometimes. Only when it's real. When it's fake it's shallow and when it's shallow it's easy and insipid like any Paul McCartney song. When there are guts there truly is glory. Maybe you'll know it someday but you will never know it by reading my poems and imagining me to be someone I'm not. I'm fallible. I'm flawed. I'm the meanest bitch you'll never meet and the saddest girl you'll never console. Get some fresh air, man. You will find love in the unlikeliest places. Now leave me alone. Thanks. Conrad read and re-read the e-mail. He laughed. Then he cried. Then he called his sponsor. |