The Stink

So it was my birthday.
Whoopity Poop.
It was just another day, in another year, in a calendar that marked off the solstices from an arbitrary date that nobody agrees on.
I was here, but I was just a speck on some bigger speck that was circling around some other speck in a sea of specks.
It didn’t seem to matter much.
But it was my day, so I decided to get drunk.
I put on a sombrero because getting drunk is always more fun if you are wearing a hat. I still had my clothes on for now, but that could change. The poncho and the cowboy boots were just for effect. The rest of me was just a vehicle for the stupidity that was to come.
I grabbed the bottle of Old Weller off the coffee table and flopped down into the couch. The bottle monumented itself between my legs and I stared down into its mouth. My thumbs caressed its lips, I raised it up and then we kissed. I sucked in a mouthful and choked it down.
The burn made me smile.
I drank down another gulp and then another. The poison snaked out across my body and seeped into my brain. It found my happy spot and fogged out all the pain. I was once again that happy kid riding a Big Wheel at Grandma Boyles house. I was a child.
I was Happy and free.
I pedaled out into the fog.
Everything seemed so blissful at first, but as I pedaled on, things seemed to change. A chilly wind started swirling around me and the clouds crept closer and closer. Soon all the colors faded away and I was left in black and white. The world tunneled around me and memories flickered everywhere like angry old movies.
I saw that first play I was in when I drew the part of a skunk. Yeah, I was part of a pack of animals that helped save Christmas, but I was the stinky part.
I saw my self getting teased at Central Elementary because I was the new kid and I wore the same clothes everyday for three weeks because my Dad didn’t bring any others when we moved. I was the stinky kid.
I saw myself fumbling anxiously around in the backseat with Becky until I took my shoes off and brought everything to a screeching halt with the stench. I was the stink foot.
I was reliving my life…
And I was The Stink.
This would not do.
I stumbled up straight and pointed a finger towards a direction I thought was important.
“I got something to say!” I blurted out with drunken authority to precisely five people who didn’t give a pickled goddamn about what I had to say and who weren’t paying the least bit of attention to me.
“I DO NOT STINK!”
I looked around and straightened my sombrero. Nobody moved, but I knew they heard me.
I sank back down into the couch.
I grabbed another pull from the whiskey bottle then let a little silent one slip out.
Just for old times sake

White Knuckles

I felt sorry for The Boy.
I really did.
You could tell he wanted to get it out but he just couldn’t.
It was all Struggle and Strife.
Strain and Pain.
I just wanted to scream “Just let it go you Stupid Mother Fucker! It will feel so much better when you do!”
But I couldn’t.
“Stupid Mother Fucker” is a term that is pretty much frowned upon when referring to your toddler and reason is pretty much a thing that is frowned upon by your toddler.
All I could do was just watch in helpless horror and spout hollow platitudes like “We all do it.” or “Everybody poops!” and other things grown ups say that don’t mean anything to a two and a half year old. I kept talking, trying to find the right words.
But I didn’t have the words that The Boy wanted to hear. In fact he didn’t want to hear any words at all. He wanted action, satisfaction. He wanted it all to go away.
The Boy arched his feet and danced on his toes.
He spun around and did The Poopy Dance.
“I’m cold!” he said and danced into the dining room. I took a couple of steps then reached out and captured him. I bounded down the hall to the bathroom, opened the door and flopped The Boy down. His little wang was all hard and aimed right at my face. As soon as I slammed him down he unloaded and pelted my face with a stream of urine. I closed my eyes and shut my mouth, but he had a whole day of piss in him and that urine hit me with a purpose. It got all up in my mouth and in my eyes. When it shot up my nose I shrieked like a little girl. I got my composure and remembered that I was the Dad.
“Stop!”
He didn’t.
I got a bunch more across my chest and down around my ankles.
He giggled.
I tried to be mad, but it was kind of funny.
But seriously, let’s get down to business.
“I don’t want to!!” he screamed
“You have to.” I tried to charm him
“Come on!”
He gripped down hard on the handles of his potty seat and his tiny knuckles went from pink to white. His eyes were crazy wide and full of pain. The veins on his neck bulged out thick and blue with strain.
“No, No Daddy!” he cried
“You can do it!”
His whole body convulsed, veins rippled like angry octopus arms around his neck.
He looked me in the eye.
A brief hesitation, then a tear trickled down his cheek.
“I can do this.” he choked out.
He straight armed himself four inches over the bowl gripping the potty handles like an Olympic gymnast. There was a grunt, some snot flew out of his nose, and then he shoved out a softball sized turd that had twice the density of lead. The concrete crap rock hit the bottom of the bowl with a thud.
The Boy relaxed and let out a long sigh of relief.
“I did it!” he said with a triumphant smile.
"Yes you did." I said with pride.
“Yes you did.”