FicWad

New story which should be pretty interesting. Strange concepts lie ahead. Beware. BeExcited. Hope you like it.

I wake up to find I, yet again, crashed with all my makeup still on. I had yawned and rubbed my face, stretching the skin over my skull like elastic and came away with my entire hand covered in white and red. I swear and roll off the pullout bed, cracking my head against the dingy carpet, which adds no padding to the unforgiving floor underneath. This is my morning routine. So far, today is going exactly like every other day.
I stumble to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and squirting what I think is soap into my hand. Something thick, smooth and creamy is all over my face ,which I can only assume is lotion, and it gets into my mouth and makes me gag. I reach frantically for something to wipe my face, clinging to the first piece of fabric that I find. The mystery fabric turns out to be Mikey’s South Park boxers. Lovely. You should know, this is all par for the course.
I make my way to our shabby kitchen, if you can even call it that. It’s more a closet with some paper towels, empty whiskey bottles and a mini-fridge that never has much besides mayonnaise. I dig around hopelessly, praying to a god I stopped believing in a long time ago that there’d be coffee. I, of course, find nothing. I groan and clamour back to the main room, doing what Mikey would call my “Ent walk”.
I drop to my knees in front of our disgusting couch, which, color wise, is something like a sweet potato. I cringe as I stick my hand into the unknown world behind the cushions, feeling many different things which I’d really rather not think about, hoping to feel the smooth, cold surface of a coin but come up empty.
Things already snowballing, I don’t exactly have high hopes for today.
Mikey is asleep on the floor in front of the tv, sucking his thumb. The kid has been sucking his thumb since I can remember- he probably came out the womb with his thumb in his mouth. It’s been twenty years since then, and he is still incapable of sleeping without it. Our parents tried every trick in the book; vinegar, gloves etc . Face like a goddam Botticelli angel, but the guy can’t keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks. Why? Because he can’t keep his thumb out of his mouth.
I kick him as I pass, not too hard, just enough to startle him. He sits bold upright, with that wild eyed look like he’s surrounded by zombies.
“Jesus Gerard!” He gasps. “You gotta stop doing that! I bruise like a peach!” Mikey clutches his side, calling me something choice under his breath.
I snicker as I scour the floor, trying to find my costume. I have no idea what time it is, but I’m just rolling with the usual schedule, which would put me at about twenty minutes late. I tug on my suspenders, fumbling with the oversized buttons. You’d think that after six months, I’d be able to get the outfit on in something like thirty seconds, but the stupid buttons get me every time.
“Bring. Me. Coffee.” Mikey grunts, sinking back down into the pile of pillows and makeshift blankets on the floor.
“Fatchancepal.” I mutter, yanking on my shoes without bothering to tie them. I stuff a t-shirt, pants, and my ever empty wallet into my bag with the rest of my ensemble and trudge to the door, walking like a penguin while I try to get my shoes to stay on.
I walk down the hallway to the elevator. On the way down to the lobby I read the newest graffiti on the elevator walls with the keen interest of a paleontologist studying cave writings. According to the most recent writings, calling 698-234-1622 can ensure you “the best you’ll ever have” as well as that last night Sam finally popped his cherry. I exit the elevator with the same midl disgust mixed with intrigue that I always have after reading what can only be described as insights to deepest part of the human race.
Barry waves to me from the front desk and I wonder how long it’s been since he washed that shirt. I give him the traditional head jerk and continue on my way. Outside it’s sweltering, which tells me that I’m gonna have to sit on top of the dirty beach towel in the car, because I don’t want my ass to get stuck to the seat.
I stopped bothering to lock my car a long time ago, when I came to the conclusion that no one would ever want to steal it. Every kid gets a P.O.S. for their first car. I’m one of the few who actually keeps that P.O.S. car because they either can’t bear to part with it or are financially crippled. My P.O.S. is an ancient El Camino. At one point it used to be black, but now it’s simply rust covered. The door screeches is I open it, tossing my bag in the bag, grabbing the towel off the floor and laying it haphazardly over the seat. I jam the keys into the ignition, and wonder lazily if the it will even turn on. To my surprise it actually does, and I find myself smiling at that infinitesmal bit of luck.
I turn the stereo on and stuff a random tape into the cassete deck. Today turns out to be Morrissey, my favorite and I start to think maybe today might not be so bad. I hum along as I peel out of the parking lot, glaring at the Extended Stay sign as I watch the shitty hotel disappear in my rearview mirror.
I always wish the drive to work was longer. Today’s not any different. I grab my junk from the backseat and make my way to the door, narrowing my eyes in absolute loathing at Bobo’s Birthday Bash, my current office of employment. I trip through the doorway and try to sneak into the locker room and avoid confrontation with my boss, but it’s a complete fail. Barney Mathis turns his watery eyes on me with a look that a child would give to a plate of vegetbables.
“Way!” He barks at me. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Not really sir.” I answer, trying to be humble so that I might get off easy.
His mustache twitches. “Mr. Way, it is 11:45. You are scheduled for a party at 12:00, and I have no replacements. If you don’t make that party Way, you will be outta here so fast the Flash will be jealous of how quick you move.”
I am calling old Barney every dirty name I can think of, and after working here six months, I’ve got a pretty colorful array. However I answer him simply, “Sorry sir. My mistake. Won’t happen again.” I’ve regurgitated that phrase every day for so long that I don’t give it an ounce of thought. I spin on my heel to make my way towards the door, but Barney calls me again.
“Gerard, what is the pledge of the clown?”
I inhale so deeply I think my lungs are going to explode. When I exhaleit sounds somewhat like a horse.
“To turn every frown upside down sir. “ I answer him weakly. He grins a disgusting Busch and Dunkin Doughnuts drenched smile.
“Damn straight, Mr. Way. Now go clown around!”
That’s the departure speech I’ve gotten since day one. It got old pretty fast.


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