Closing the farm after 150 years hurts. My father farmed. His father farmed. His father’s father farmed. Past that I think they owned slaves, so nobody talks about that. I decided to attend college. After a few years of college I earned two bachelor degrees, one in rhetoric and another in philosophy. On graduation day my proud parents almost brought the cow to celebrate. My mother fought to bring the cow, her exact words “Charles! You went from feeding on my nipples to feeding on hers.” Luckily the truck failed to turn over on graduation day forcing them to jump in my old Yaris. Two degrees studying the greatest minds that ever lived on this earth and none of them ever talked about the pain of closing a family business. The years of failing forced a heart attack on my father and the business dying hurt him too. A number of things took my mother away, mainly Match.com introducing her to a 60 year old extreme sports enthusiast. My mother’s Youtube video of her sky diving wedding went viral. The title “60 Year Old Skydiving Wedding/ Funeral” attracted millions, that’s how I found out. She said they only ate lunch together. I think he surprised her or she surprised him, I’m not sure who went first. I stand at the edge of my childhood farm in mounds of school debt, parentless, and with my best friend. Posting this sign in front of an old farm that I grew up on is really hard.
“Love Concurs All: The Mighty Temple of Zulstano”
But when life pushes you in a corner there are only a few things a man is left to do.
“Kind of like a date?” Her face created a surprised look, like dates and kidnapping happened at the same rate. Her eyes changed instantly, but only lasting until the next blink. In that second she felt beautiful.
“Yes a date. You know the guy opening the door for you, then walking you to the door step for at least a hug.” This big, bad, robber just melted into a puddle of mush. The gun meant nothing to her. She saw right through my mask.
“I’m flattered. I really am, but I don’t even know what you look like.”
“True, but you might tell the cops what I look like.”
“You can’t go on a date with me by kidnapping me again and then eating dinner with me while still wearing the mask. I think some places have a no mask rule.”
My thumbs reach under the mask pulling it up over my face. I feel my hairs on my chin pull. I wish I shaved. Her eyes widen once she sees the scar on the tip of my nose. My bushy hair falls out of the ski mask. It feels freeing to not hold all sweat next to my small ears. For the first time our faces look at each other. She surprisingly shows no hatred. “So what do you think?”
“I know why you wear the mask now. You can’t rob someone looking so sweet.” These words make me blush.
“So you’ll go out with me?”
“Calm down, before I agree just tell me why you robbed the liquor store?”
“I needed to steal food for my baby to be.” Her face looks angry. Quick kill her.
“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me out on a date and you have a baby on the way? To think I was going to go out with you. Hell I would have had sex with your right here. But, a baby! There is some pregnant woman with your child in her and now you want me to over look that.”
“Not over look it, just take it into consideration. I didn’t expect to ask you out. It just kind of happened. I knew I should have just had sex with you.” Shoot her and leave, we dug ourselves too deep in your smooth diarrhea like pick up lines to escape. I feel my heart slowing down to a normal rate. The ideas in my head no longer hold the loud presence.
“So you were just going to take me. You would have ripped my clothes off, spread my legs, have your way with me until you were sexually satisfied. I attract the worst guys. You are a thief slash potential rapist slash future deadbeat dad.”
“I would have asked if you wanted to have sex.”
“That’s great you’re a polite rapist, thief, deadbeat dad.”
This woman makes a lot of good points. My life needs an upgrade. That bump lasted longer than expected. “I’m not a deadbeat dad.”
“Yes you are and a scumbag, what a loser you are. I can’t meet anybody nice, all I meet are losers.”
This woman lost her mind, she completely forgot I about the gun in my hand. She talks to me like an idiot. I hate this idiot. The gun in my hand commands a little respect. Her angry face quickly diminishes once the gun presses against her temple. I see that she notices my scar on my nose stretched out over my flared out nostrils. “I’m not a deadbeat dad. Did your dad go out and rob a store to make sure you had enough food? Did your dad think about you every hour of every day? Did your dad listen to your mom’s belly every night hoping that the next President of the United States would pop out of your angry, abusive, mean mother’s twat?”
“No.” The tears quickly fall down her chin.
“Get out.” She opens the rusty squeaky door and hops out.
My foot pushes on the gas. I see her just standing there in my rearview mirror. Then I see the reason behind her standing there. My brake lights flash. Her head rises quickly, looking straight at me backing up towards her. For the last time, hopefully, our eyes meet. “You forgot this.” I pick up her purse to throw at her. It hits her in the face. Her reaction time needs improvement. She just stands there. I know she wants me to say something, I tell her the most important thing that pops into my head, “Don’t tell the cops about me please.”
I hope she listened. The ride home seemed quick, too quick to enjoy. Too much happened tonight. My shirt smells because the sweat soaked through. The door knob sits in the middle of the door and I need to find the key to enter my own heavenly torture of a life, but right before I turn the key to continue the downward drainage of the toilet I live in I turn to look at the sky one last time. The moon looks peaceful. The stars stay still, except one that shoots across the sky that I wish upon before calling it a night, “I just wish my life means something after the birth of my kid.”
I never know what to say in times like these. We already exposed our self, just talk. “So do you have any kids? I have one on the way. I’m not a bad guy, I donate to charity.” Perfect she knows that the guy that shot her boyfriend donates to charity. “I’m sorry for shooting your boyfriend.”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend.”
“Excuse me? We date and fool around, but besides that he doesn’t want a relationship.” Her eyes fill with memories of dim hope that disappeared in the evening of the cold lonely camp fires that single people go through.
“I’m just saying you can do better than him. You don’t want to date a guy with two holes in his ass that just makes him twice the asshole.” I laugh hoping to see at least a smirk on her face. After the longest three seconds in history she chuckles.
“He is kind of an asshole. I always want to order pizza and just stay in when we get high and screw. But, he never wants to cuddle. It’s always we should go out or stop holding me it’s hot. Dude you were just inside me! I know it’s hot I suffocated underneath you.” Her eyes lit up showing angry fire.
The single world tires everybody, eventually the desperate exodus towards love leads to a path that the pain shoots out. The fun parts of the single world sit at the top of a hill. Some hills tend to sit higher than others, but all hills tire people down. The girls that party every night, receiving free drinks, dancing all night, sleeping at random guys’ houses that they deem worthy. They feel the pain of lonesomeness at the darkest period of the night. The nerdy desperate guys sitting in their room, chatting online, trying to figure out the right words to tell the girl he “likes” every picture on Instagram in order to take her on a date that leads to a plan of Instagram pictures uploaded of their own family. These guys feel it every minute of every day.
The single lonely feeling holds people’s hand, whispering that it feels good not reporting in to anybody or that putting their career first means more than anything at the moment. Staying single makes anybody mad. In every meaning that “mad” holds in the dictionary. Mad at the world turning dark, giving its back to the moon. Mad that people desire them, but nobody needs them. Mad that nothing makes sense except the broad general stereotypes because the love stories they hoped to achieve in their own life turned into bad jokes of all men act like dogs and all women act like bitches. Dogs probably hate the comparison to humans.
“Should I be sorry for shooting him in the ass?”
“I think so. I didn’t hate him enough to shoot him.”
“I didn’t hate him either. I kind of had to or else they would have followed me.”
“Why did you take me? They are going to follow you anyway.” She starts to circle her finger in her hair. Usually this means a girl feels comfortable.
“No like I said I’m going to drop you off at the corner. Under a different circumstance I would drop you off at your house. Like a date or something.” Honestly lets drop her off, we look pathetic asking her on a date like this.
My hand slides up her firm, silky, cold thigh. My heart beats faster with every inch my fingers cover. I imagine she loves this. Her eyes wide open looking at me, anticipating my next move. I want her to grab a handful of hair, pulling me in to whisper all the fantasies that cross her mind at night. Yes, let us keep moving. Put the gun on her head and turn her around, then pull her sweats down to her knees. Our amazing plans, keep listening to us, we left the store caring everything and then some, now let us enjoy the sweet treats. After we bend her over, taking our pants down leaves no worries of her identifying our face. That makes sense. Let us take off our mask.
“Hi I’m Rod, I think you’re wonderful and I am sorry for kidnapping you.” That sounded a lot better than I thought. “I know you’re Emily and you go to school so don’t worry about introducing yourself.” Under normal circumstances I think she might like me. We ruined it. Now she knows our look. Her report to the police stands in court without any question. Let us forget about raping her. Just drop her off.
“Thank you, but are you going to let me off soon?” She says that scooting up against the car door. I hope she stays in the car, jumping at this speed ensures a harsh landing with plenty of skin tearing and bruising.
“Don’t jump out. I’m going to let you off at this stop sign.” The stop sign looked far, now it moves closer faster than my eyes want to realize.
Stupid me! In cold weather people never take off their sweater. Just breathe slowly. Say something soothing to ease the tension. Hi Emily, sorry for the huge inconvenience, people call me Rod. No that sounds dumb. Emily I think your smile turns the world. I hate this part in meeting women. The entire introduction of me to her seems juvenile. The fear of small talk drives the increasing numbers of people logging on to find a date.
Reading everything about someone, their likes, dislikes, interest, even their sexual preferences takes a load of worry off. Every woman puts up that she prefers an honest man. Women love honesty. Wearing a mask destroyed any hope of trust in our future relationship. These thoughts make no sense. She hates me, all hostages hate their captors.
Keep the mask on. It makes us look mysterious and dangerous. The gun makes us look dangerous. Let us keep the element of surprise. Obviously the next step in our plan leads to us just taking her. Like Stanley in A Street Car Named Desire. Perfect setting too, our car driving on the street and our desire sits next to us named Emily. She looks horrified. Horror flows through her veins, a man wearing a mask holding a gun scares anybody. It scares her in a good way. Look at her breathing, her chest expanding then decompressing drives us crazy. Put our hand on her thigh. We want to more than anything in this world right now. Remember no regrets, live in the moment.
Touching her thigh sends sparks flying through my hand. All the nerves in my body desire more. The goose bumps that lift her skin feel like a love letter in brail telling me to go further. Though her tears say otherwise.
“Put your damn seatbelt on.” My aggressive tone takes me off guard, but the precaution of a seatbelt means life or death at times. The mess in the car embarrasses me. Speeding off down the road crossed my mind, taking every turn and running stop signs makes sense. Flee the crime scene quickly. Every minute I take feels like destiny forcing us closer. Forcing us closer? Not us, but Emily and I.
Emily and us, we saw her, we took her, and now we lust over her. Take control of the situation. The wife we go home to hates us. This lovely specimen of God’s power in creating beauty sits right next to us. Let us reach across to come close to God’s gift. Some only dream of touching a gift like the Sun or happiness, we just need to extend our arm. Icarus tried touching the sun, he ended up in flames diving towards the earth.
His father watched him go up and down. The wanting of more lead to his fall, escaping prison left a thirst that only some quench through failure. Leaving it good enough never hurt anybody. Let us go home to our angry wife. We accomplished more than we planned. Leaving the house we only thought about money, but then we took diapers and pickles increasing our haul to nearly three times the amount we wanted. Fine let’s cut our losses. Just ask her a few questions and if her answers make us unsatisfied then we no longer need her around, drop her off, drive away, go home.
“Emily. Thank you for your cooperation. I’m sorry for shooting your boyfriend. Please forgive me, it had to be done.” She seems comfortable. “Is it too cold for you?” I hope not.
“Um…no, no, it’s not. Thank you.” Her voice stutters out timid and humble. I knew that the temperature made her happy. We make her happy. Let’s not put the left food ahead of us twice. Slow and steady steps, jumping to conclusions like that brings embarrassing moments that last forever.
“If it’s too cold you can take off your sweater.” Good move, let’s make her comfortable.
The thought of taking a beauty like Emily in the heat of lust turned my stomach. All the ugly inside of me reflected at the thought of her struggling tear filled screams. The coke brain shouted and screamed at us to take advantage. A gun in our hand, the intoxicated girl, and a dirt road quickly appeared in my mind. Coke or no coke my brain built a plan, an evil shameful plan that rose out of lust.
Lust destroys lives every day. Husbands marry their wives out of love, they cheat out of lust. A weakness that overpowers all senses, it starts at the most sensitive area of a man and leads to a crumbling disastrous end. Women function out of lust too, except their bodies function differently. The rise of lust in them moves like an oven. It rises slowly, measurable, enjoyable; they choose who or what to release it on. Men handle lust like a fire; it ignites instantly leaving a panic to find something wet enough to put it out. I miss my days that myth of lust only lived in older friends stories.
The days that love meant more than anything else passed quickly. One day I dreamt of my princess walking into my life then almost instantly overnight I wake up surprise to see my penis up, waiting on me. After that day a princess meant some girl that touched me the right way, even the wrong way, just a touch brought the idea that this girl now means everything to me. A foolish thought that slowly drifted away forcing me to fish in the assumption that lust meant love. That took years of trial and error to figure out. Now at my age I know the difference between love and lust, and I know that I love Emily. Seeing any harm happen to her puts no satisfaction in my soul. I love Emily, but in a few miles everything I know about Emily evaporates into a memory I left at the side of the road.