Now, this whole leaving thing did have me a bit scared, to be honest, but having Hush with me changed many things. Hush was such an asshole that being steeped in his company had a real redneck mindfulness to it. The more I was with him, the better everything else would seem. As we prepared to leave and get tickets, we stopped at a rundown eatery called, “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat.”
I heard of people eating crab brains, something some weird Marylanders would do, but here the delicacy was cow brain. Now, I witnessed some awful shit in my life. But at that moment of seeing a plate of cow brain mush on two pieces of bread, something that looked more like a high school biology class than a delicacy, had me beyond nauseous. This triggered Hush’s “save the world” thing.
You really don’t want to know the thing, but it’s Hush’s “gift to the world.”
“Now, Frank, while you chow down your mad cow disease sandwich, I have a plan to get rich.”
“Hush, I am not eating that shit, and don’t tell me this is your cat thing again?”
“Yes, it’s about pussy fur?”
“Do you know how many there are in America?”
“I don’t know … maybe 10 million?”
“Nah, no way. Listen to this. 60 million. I cannot stand them.”
It was sad really, just the sight or even the sound of a cat, especially, would set Hush off. He hated cats, but no matter how many times I’d tell them that many people like cats, that his idea would cause him certain death, there was no getting through to him.
“There is one good thing about cats. Only one. One thing.”
“Oh, not that. That is gross.” I complained knowing too well what was coming.
“Their fur. Yes, Frank, we can make cat hats, gloves, jackets, and there are so many of the little pussies. We can just drive around and lure the buggers off the street.”
Excitedly, he went on, “Think of this, we can call the cat fur jackets “Cat Jaks,” and, wait, listen to this, we can call the gloves “fits just like a good pussy cat.” And the hats, “little pussy giving head heaven.”
I always thought that if Hush was a bit less of an asshole, he could actually be good at marketing.
But this idea was so horrible that my brain, unknown to me at the moment, decided that eating cow brain at the risk of mad cow disease was better than listening to Hush go on about cat fur mittens for preschoolers.
With cow brain dribbling from my lips, “Hush that is a horrible and offensive idea.”
“No. It’s great. We can tell the little kids that they can now take little puss with them wherever they go. We can name the product “Puss and Go,” wherever you go, pussy cat is there for you!”
“Just stop it, Hush, dammit or I am going to regret going along with you.”
I blubbered out, “Is this a product for kids, too?”
“Look,” he said smiling at me with these creepy eyes, you’re eating it?”
At that moment, I realized that Hush was smarter and more of an asshole than I thought. He wasn’t just an asshole, he was a Hall of Famer. He’d pull this shit whenever I was facing something unpleasant, like a brain sandwich.
I came conscious of having formaldehyde-style mad cow brains invading my mouth. I ran out of that place with Hush giggling after me like some horny schoolgirl. I needed to dump what I had eaten in a hurry.
In the process of barfing, the only thing I could see in front of me was a stream of partially liquefied cow brain ejaculating from my mouth. The sad thing was that it did not really taste that bad. But that wouldn’t be the first time taste and common sense wrestled in my mind.
I guess I picked the same bush that little Miss Muffet was fond on shitting near. Now, Miss. Muffet is not a person but a timid little poodle that, come to think of it, looks like a brain sandwich, an off-white, dirtied by the thoughts of time.
It turns out that my cow-brain eruption engulfed poor little Muffet and the poor thing went scurrying out of the bush in mid-defecation across the “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat” parking lot. To my horror and to that of her walker who was ironically named Mrs. Walker, the beer truck rumbled into the parking lot at that very moment.
Undoubtedly, the driver was not expecting a little brain-covered shitting poodle to fly across his path, nor Mrs. Walker, in nothing but a “princess” bathrobe, a broken leash, and a cigarette in in her other hand, waving at him as if she were an air traffic controller.
The spectacle of Mrs. Walker’s persona, a once cute child princess gone cigarette dog-vomit-shit walker startled the driver so much that instead of stopping, he gunned the truck.
Let’s just say that poor little Miss. Muffet became a grey carpet.
Hush was laughing so hard that I don’t know if I was more scared of him or of Mrs. Walker’s anger, but a smooshed poodle seemed a perfect distraction. We ran into my old truck and took off toward the travel agent. At this point, any hesitation of leaving on my part was taken care of.
Hush later found out through Humperdick, via text, that Miss. Muffet survived the ordeal but had a broken hip. She said Mrs. Walker wants to sue me for vomiting on her dog. She didn’t seem to make the connection to the whole broken hip, truck thing, but that is okay.
“I ain’t paying shit. It’s good we are leaving.”
Hush was still laughing.
As I was driving and calming down, I felt bad for mom. It must be hard to be alone after living with someone, even a jackass, for over forty years. I thought, it’s tough to be a parent. All you get to do is screw up, but then again her screwing up felt better than dad’s kind. At least, she watched me screw up, not like my dad. He ran away. And I screwed up, too.
Here I was running away from a cigarette waving woman. Well, okay, maybe I was running away from myself, my present life in hopes of, well, I have no idea, but I was running away but toward something. I was scared, but I knew I could not turn around and go back.
I teared up thinking of mom being alone, of what a loser I was. Embarrassed that Hush may see my tears, my eyes glanced toward him.
I know he saw me.
His eyes caught mine, a tear rolling down my face, and he kind of nodded, as a shy kid does.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. It was true. As stupid and childish as he was, sometimes a guy that laughs a lot on the outside cries a lot on the inside. I guess it’s that Greek mask thing, comedy and tragedy. I think we understood each other. Being with Hush had its moments, and the world did seem much better with him in it so much so that sometimes I even do something disgusting.
To be continued in Series F
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