The Sweet Nightmare

2:33pm, Deacon is in his living room eating cereal and thinking. The phone rings, Deacon hears the sound, It's been a while since he's heard it's tone, and he's unsure how to react. He panics a bit and drops the cereal onto the floor. He enters the kitchen and stares down the phone, it still rings determined to get through. Deacon rights himself and prepares for disappointment, he reaches down and picks up the receiver, a sheepish Deacon inquires "Hello?" A kind voice on the other end responds, "is this Mr. Cassidy?" A telemarketer, Deacon thinks to himself; but still someone to talk to. "Yes" he replies with anticipating disappointment looming. "Hello, Mr. Cassidy this is John Douglas with Elm Street Shipping Supplies, we received your resume and we would like to have you come down for an interview, how does tomorrow at noon sound?" Deacon freezes, is this a joke? a ruse? He's suspicious but hopeful, "Sounds great" Mr. Douglas responds "Excellent we will see you tomorrow!" There's a click and the call goes dead, Deacon stands in his kitchen unsure of how to react. He stands there receiver in hand listening to the sound of dial tone play in his ear. He eventually returns the receiver to the stand, and walks into the bathroom. He takes a long hard look at himself, bloodshot eyes, yellowed teeth, mangy beard, and straw like hair. "I need to prepare" he utters. From his bathroom cabinet he produces a hair clippers and a razor, unsure of how to cut hair properly, he shaves his entire head. The floor is littered with brown and gray hair clippings, and a small dusting of dandruff. He then takes scissors to his beard, trims it down to a manageable length that he can get with his razor. The process is long and his shaking hand lends him with a few razor cuts, and some missed patches of scruff; but he's much cleaner. He enters the shower and turns on the water, it's cold of course; but it's what's needed. He washes away the remains of dandruff, blood, and the smell of rot, he feels alive again, powerful. He enters his kitchen and swings open the freezer door. Takes a long pause, and a deep breath, he then snatches the gin bottle from the freezer and pours it directly down the drain, as the contents pour out he places two fingers into it's stream pulls them back, licks them and takes a sniff. Deacon spits in the sink, runs the water from the faucet over his hands, and throws the bottle in the trash. Deacon returns to the mirror, looks at himself clean and proud. He's ready, this has been a long time coming, and he's ready, Deacon smiles... A car alarm goes off in the middle of the night, Deacon rolls to his back, feels his face, he's stung by his mangy beard, reaches up to feel his stiff straw hair, reaches down to find his bottle of gin... utters to himself, "What a sweet... nightmare."

The Wait...

Deacon sits in his dark apartment, it's roughly 2:37am. Next to him is an ashtray full of discarded cigarette buts, a near empty fifth of gin, and his telephone. No fancy smart phone or cell phone, just an old model early 80's touch tone phone, black in color. Deacons waiting for a call, a very important call, and he'll be here all night if he has too. He's nervous, his hands are shaking, not quite sure what he's going to say when the call comes, in the back of his mind he's convinced himself he will ruin the whole deal; but he must get past that. His hands are clammy, his brow has dots of perspiration across it. He takes a swig from his bottle and a long haul on his cigarette. He regains composure for only a few moments. His mind races back to his younger days of youth and confidence. He was handsome once, and strong, spoke his mind out loud, and was often rewarded with praise, and the promise of good fortune, those days are gone now, and the smallest of victories is the world to Deacon. He gets to his feet to use the bathroom, he urinates long and hard, he's been holding this for a while, he keeps the bathroom door open and occasionally leans back to monitor the phone and make sure he doesn't miss it's impending ring. He flushes the toilet and returns to his seat, he lights up another cigarette, takes a swig and lets his mind wander. He smiles for a moment as his mind shifts to the exact reason he is here waiting by the phone, with such hopeless desperation. Two weeks ago Deacon was at a shopping market, he was purchasing his usual groceries for the week, microwave pizza, eggs, pickles, and cheese. As Deacon went through check-out he noticed the cashier was very pleasant to him, said things like please and thank you, have a nice day, she took great care in bagging his groceries. She was older in her late 40's, had the look of a woman that may have once been a high school cheerleader. Deacon was smitten by the woman and could no longer endure her obvious flirtations. When he received his receipt he mustered up all the courage he had and wrote his number across it and handed it back to her, to which she replied "Ok". Deacon's mind snaps back to the present and looks at the phone, he checks it for dial tone, puts the receiver back on the stand, lights up another cigarette, and waits...

The Cat

Deacon steps outside his low rent apartment, it's a cold night, Saturday, Deacon has been up to his usual deeds, stretching, counting cans, and drinking. He's been doing this for quite a few days now, he goes unnoticed by the neighbors, and cars passing by. He steps outside to take in a cigarette and inhale away the stress of nothing going on. Each night he has a visitor, a curious cat that steps out from an alley to see what's new in it's world. Deacon doesn't like cats, and the cat apparently doesn't approve of Deacon. However, there they stand 20 feet from one another, judging, and staring. Deacon makes no attempt to befriend the cat, and the cat reciprocates. The cat just stares at Deacon, unmoving, unafraid, just judging... It's a small cat, black and white, unloved and alone, this cat has no interest in making friends or being brought inside, similar to how Deacon feels, it just stares relentlessly as if it had something to say; but it's words would be wasted on a loser. Deacon in perhaps a drunken gesture, drops to a knee and beacons the cat to him, the cat doesn't move, just stares, a cruel stare, as if it knew something Deacon does not. Deacon with effort rises to his feet, snuffs out his cigarette, and proclaims to his only friend, "See you tomorrow".

Quotes

Getting drunk for the second time today -MIB-

Every Asian girl that dates a White guy is in an inter-racial relationship, Every Asian girl dumped by a White guy has an Ex-boyfriend with an Asian fetish -MIB-

"Tips"

Deacon heads for home, he's just finished a 16 hour shift, busing tables and running coffee and eggs for the late night crowd at the local diner. Mostly privileged college kids and trust fund hipsters. He has about a 3 mile walk ahead of him, he's missed the last bus of course. It's about 40 degrees and a daunting wind and rain bites into him, he's had worse, tucks his head inside his jacket as best he can and picks up the pace to that of what a weathered middle aged man can. Along the way he encounters some college frat boys harassing a homeless man, he's seen this man before, Vietnam vet, slightly crazy, likely drunk, calls himself "Jim". The young men taunt the Vet, push him down as they salute, then begin to urinate on the poor bastard. Deacon could easily go another way, they haven't seen him yet, and he doesn't owe "Jim" a thing. Deacon's weary legs turn to the West a longer route but safer to much extent, about 20 paces into his retreat, his weary legs and heart betray him again, and they turn back East, towards "Jim". As Deacon approaches the assault he cries out, "Leave him alone... he's a veteran". The young "men" waste no time in turning their attention to Deacon. Deacon sighs, and raises his hands for possibly the last time. The assault is quick and whats to be expected, Deacon is surrounded, taunted, Deacon lets fly a decent punch that finds it's mark on a young "man's" chin in that moment he feels young again, capable, relevant, strong, but a mere moment later he is clipped in the knee from behind, and his weary old body betrays him yet again, he feels old, weak, and vulnerable, as his body collapses to the ground and he succumbs to  kicks, punches, taunts, and forced urination of the young "men", Deacon asks himself, "why"? As the assault comes to a close, and Deacon's face is right with blood, he begins to come to, a "Man" reaches inside  Deacon's Jacket and relieves him of the 80 dollars he made that night. Deacon wipes away the blood from his eyes, and sees "Jim" lurched over his body, cash in hand. "Jim" says, "next time,...walk away". Deacon, rolls to his back and lets the rain wash down his face. He quietly exclaims, "gotta be at work in 4 hours"...

"A lying politician is an honest employee" -Deacon Cassidy-

"Why can't I be allergic to some people?" -Deacon Cassidy-

"I don't mind children, but I hate their owners" -Deacon Cassidy-

"My boss complains about my work, whoa so original!" -Deacon Cassidy-

Next Stop...Pain.

Deacon plants himself in his favorite seat, takes a deep breath, exhales, and smiles. He's at peace now, resting comfortable amongst his beloved friends he's known; but never met, on a steel bench right behind old Bus Stop 88, outbound. It's Wednesday, 8:35pm, a sad day, and a loveless time. People at this time take the bus because they have to, not out of some Eco conscious choice, they have no choice, as for Deacon... he's with family. Sure, they have different nationalities, skin colors, sexes, sexual preferences; but yet they all wear the same face, a sad, morose mask of woe, and that is the tie that binds. There's "Larry" the 40 something year old accountant, who's loneliness and depression has rendered him with two DUI's, and an on again off again alcohol addiction, if the bus is more than two minutes late "Larry" will enter O'Shea's across the street and Deacon won't see "Larry" until next week. Another favorite of Deacon's is "Julian" the awkward homosexual. A gay man cursed with no fashion sense, clever retort, and the body of a 50 year old truck driver. He has no fag hags, no boyfriends, no sense of being, just drifts from day job to mom's house, occasionally taking pleasure in pornography. Then there's "Barbara" the mother of the group, one of the saddest; but only Deacon and she know it. Talks to anyone that will listen, says things like "hump day" and "T.G.I.F" laughs at the end of every sentence. However if you bother to listen to "Barbara" drone on about her son the surgeon who's so successful but lives far away, you'll notice her voice change, and she clutches onto something in her purse... it's your cell phone, isn't it "Barbara"? Your waiting for Mathew to call, aren't you Barbara? He's not going to, is he? It's evident they haven't spoken in years. The Mathew story never changes, Mathew moved away, Mathew's very busy... Poor Barbara, old and alone... waiting for her Mathew to call. Every bus stop has a thousand stories, and a million tears, these are Deacons people, the cast offs, the unwanted, the sad, this is Deacons home. 8:43pm, the bus pulls up to the stop, the family lines up for pick up, one by one they file in paying their toll, sighing their sigh, another day down, and nothing to show. The doors close, the bus pulls away from the curb, Deacon does a final headcount, drops his head to his chest, exhales, and mutters to himself... "see you next week "Larry".

Photographs

Photographs... unless it's a crime scene most pictures capture a moment of happiness, pleasure, a good time. Deacon looks through an old shoebox of pictures, in every picture he's smiling with friends, posing in hugged position with a girlfriend or ex-wife, toasting a beer... "printed lies" he murmers to himself. For you see, Deacon doesn't experience the feeling of a joyful moment captured on film, printed on a picture for him to enjoy for years and years, no he sees the lie's the film failed to expose. He see's the weak smile on his bosses face in the company BBQ's annual picnic... two months before massive layoffs, He looks at a picture of him and his best friend clincking beer mugs in Cancun, His firend's smile is full and bright but his eyes are sad. Deacon utters "I should have known" a week later his best friend would be found dangling from a rope in his attic. Finally, Deacon looks at his wedding photo, his young wife all beautiful and dressed in white, embracing him with seemingless endless love, and joyous possibilities. He then takes a long look at his own face, his own posture, the positioning of his hands... Deacon exhales and breathes out "I knew it even then... don't trust her". Deacon places the lid back on the box, tucks it back in the closet, on the floor behind his ice skates. Sit's down on his folding chair, picks up an oversized beer mug with dark contents in it, an inscription on the mug reads "Living La Vida Loca!" -Cancun 99-, he takes a drink, and rests the mug on his knee. Deacon reads the inscription to himself, exhales, "I should have known".

Happy New Year

Deacon Cassidy exits the liquor store, he has a 12 pack of Budweiser cans tucked under his arm, he's smiling, he thinks to himself, "2013 will bring good things". He turns right on the street and heads to the bus stop. Three steps out the door he bumps into a man, dark haired, small, and angry in the face. "What did you say to me?" the man asks, Deacon replies, "what?" from his jacket pocket the man produces a box cutter, slashes Deacon across the stomach. Deacon collapses to the cold, hard, concrete, gripping his abdominal. As warm, wet, red blood seeps out Deacon's body, the man stoops down, collects Deacons beer and whispers, "Happy New Year". As the man runs away, Deacon rolls to his back, looks up at the night sky and replies, "same to you".