"Mr. Wilson"

 

Mr. Wilson:

 

I tell you what, I’ve been in this neighborhood my whole life, and that house has always been an eyesore. It’s completely out of place. Who wants a big kooky gothic building like that in a residential area?

Its history is something else too…

The house was built by a tobacco baron, about 220 years back. But the very day he was to have moved in, him, his wife, and their two kids perished in a ghastly accident.

The family was en route to the house, riding in a horse-drawn carriage, when the carriage suddenly caught fire, and the four burned to death inside. A lantern had spilled, lit the carriage ablaze, apparently. But this was a while back, before forensics, CSI, and science like that, so it’s impossible to say what exactly happened. Whatever it was, it must have been a terrifying experience.

Worse yet, the driver of the carriage and the family’s butler had tried to pry the stagecoach doors open, but the horse got spooked and galloped away and that dang runaway horse then dragged the flaming carriage all through the town. The townsfolk, their pants scared off, were hollering and pointing and running every which way…

A policeman on horseback finally rode in, chased after the flaming wreck, and shot the runaway horse dead. Tragically, however, none of the family survived. 

I tell you, it must have been a nightmarish scene.

Allegedly the house was built on the spot of a battle, or a massacre, depending on who you ask, involving Pilgrims and Indians. Exactly who massacred who is hotly debated among historians. But it is for sure that many died and were buried on those grounds. The Pilgrims’ bodies were dug up and moved later, given proper burials. Rumor has it that the Indians, though, are still buried there…

For years it was considered cursed, hallowed ground. No one wanted to build anything there. One merchant tried to build a general store, but accidents kept happening during the construction, and he gave up. A couple workers died too during the construction of the house. Both fell from tall ladders, in the same spot, weirdly enough, I read.

After the tobacco guy and his family died in that freak fire, the house and the land sat empty for years. Until it was bought by the funeral folks.

Yessir, I remember back when it was a funeral home. When we were kids, we’d ride our bikes by the house, rubberneck and gawk at it. The funeral home only took in bodies, embalmed or cremated them, at that time, from what I can recall.

It’d creep the heck out of us, watching columns of gray smoke billow up from the chimney, knowing where the smoke was from… There’d be a noticeable metallic odor around the house too, kind of like a roast lamb or the smell of a cooking grill after cleaning it…

No one wanted anything to do with the place, other than gawk at it out of morbid curiosity. No one I knew had ever gone in there, no one I knew had stepped foot inside that creepy gothic monstrosity…

It was a family business for years, the funeral home. Then the family moved on, passed on. I never read about or heard of any accidents or gruesome stories involving the funeral home family, though, the Barkers. The patriarch was said to be a fine man. He was well-respected in the community and donated generously to the local church.  

One of the sons eventually became the undertaker and ran the place. But he didn’t live there and wasn’t active in the community. I remember seeing him. He was a freakishly tall, thin, and pale fellow. The man was pale as a vampire. He and his assistant, another pale, tall fellow, lived on the other side of town.

The two seemed to always be together and no one knew much about them. Given their work and unsettling appearances, no one wanted to have much to do with them. They were an embodiment of death. They looked like ghosts themselves, and there were rumors that they might actually be ghosts.

The two scared the bejeebus out of everyone. I got the heebie-jeebies just at the mere sight of them.

The pair worked there for years until they closed the business after the last Barker died.

You know, it’s off-topic, but I wonder what happens when an undertaker dies? Who buries the undertaker? Must be strange for an undertaker to bury another undertaker. I don’t know. I wonder about stuff like that. My wife says I talk too dang much. Anyway…

Anyway, they sold the property. We thought it’d be torn down and rebuilt, but a young family bought it and moved in not long after the funeral business shut down. It surprised everyone in the neighborhood. We couldn’t quite wrap our heads around why they’d want to live there, of all… You know, the stories of that place…

Everyone had a ghost story about it, about the house. Everyone in the neighborhood would talk about how they’d see strange phenomena, ‘round there. The most popular was the story of a ghost lady in an old-style white dress, and her stomach was ripped open and bloody, as if she’d been attacked, stabbed and murdered in a gory way.

The lady allegedly looked like someone from colonial times; she had a bonnet of some sort, and she’d walk around in circles, on the front lawn of the house, looking confused, like she was searching for something. At least that’s what everyone said. I never caught a glimpse of her.  

Maybe because I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in that ghost hooey. I never cared for scary movies or any of that jazz. I never even believed in God, to tell you the truth. But I never told anyone about that because there’s nothing worse than an atheist. An atheist is one step up from a communist. Or are atheists worse than communists? I don’t know.

I used to hate going to church. I hated pretending to pray. I’d daydream during the sermons. The priests up there in their robes. They were only grown men in pajamas to me. You know, one of them touched the altar boys, and I’d heard about it. Maybe that’s why I didn’t believe in God, because I heard the rumors about the priests. I heard it long before it became a national news story…

I hated the church. I hated it for most of my life.

But after the shootings, I’ll admit that I came to appreciate the community aspect of our church. I must admit the prayer services, candlelit vigils helped me through those dark days, just being with others, at that time, you know?

Still, the ghosts and that jazz, it’s hooey! I think it’s people’s imaginations. I can’t stand those silly horror movies. I really can’t! My wife watches them, but I think it’s nonsense.

And I can’t stand those “ghosthunter” shows on TV, either. I tell you, it’s a bunch of shysters, if you ask me. Hoaxes and hoaxers. All that. All those mediums and exorcists. Those “demonic possessions.” For shame! Those possessions back in medieval times were probably just some poor, mentally retarded kids, kids with speech impediments or folks with mental illnesses. Demons and ghosts, hah! It’s hogwash. It’s sad. It’s gosh-darn sad. Plain sad.

Everyone in the neighborhood figured they’d tear the place down. Not that I believe in ghosts, but still, who wants to live in a former funeral parlor? It’s yucky. It makes me want to throw up, thinking of those bodies in there, rotting and being embalmed and burned. The blood and guts running up and down the pipes in there. Who wants to shower in that? I gotta wonder if they flushed the blood and guts down the same pipes as our sewage. And then… does the treated water go to the same place as our drinking water comes from? The same pipes our house water comes from? I could google it, but it’s probably one thing you don’t want to know… Ick!

But, anyway, they remodeled the house and converted it into a residential property. I’m thinking they removed the funeral equipment before the family moved in, although I can’t say for sure.

Rumor has it the place still has its original furniture, the antique furniture, from the tobacco family, from 1800. Now that must be a sight, I tell you what…

Heck, they seemed alright, that family, the Oswalds. I remember them. They weren’t kin to the, you know, the infamous Oswald, but it must have been strange to share his name. It must have toughened them up, I’d think.

They came to a few neighborhood cookouts. But, tell you the truth, it was always uncomfortable being in their presence. Because they lived in that house. It was like the death clung to them. The spirit, idea of death had wrapped itself around them. Anytime you’d see them, you’d think of the bodies, the corpses being drained of blood or burned or whatever.

Again, I don’t believe in that junk about ghosts. But how could they live in that house? Why would they? Just look at it. Its gothic spires, its Victorian architecture. It looks like something from Edward Scissorhands.

They’d only lived there a couple months before… that happened… and all of them had been looking haggardly and sickly, more so than ever in the days prior...

A couple of the neighbors had caught a whiff of a burning smell coming from the house, similar to when the crematorium was running. Another neighbor said she’d been smelling a puke-like stink wafting out of there, another said it was like burning garbage. But me, no sir, I never noticed anything of the sort. Aside from the folks looking sickly, I never noticed anything strange ahead of that.. that day. That nightmare.  

It was such a nightmare too, when it happened. When the kid snapped. The kid had seemed normal enough, originally. Before he became a recluse. He’d been running around the neighborhood, same as any other kid. I heard other kids teased him, and his siblings, over their house, called them the “Adams Family” and stuff like that. You know how cruel kids can be.

But I don’t know if that was enough to make him snap. I don’t know if there’s ever really one reason. If there’s ever really one sign or there’s many signs. I don’t know.

I blame the parents, to be honest. How do you let your kid not leave his room? How do you let your kid sit around 24/7, playing violent video games and posting gory pics of plane crashes and gruesome murders online? The kid taped black garbage bags over his bedroom windows. He washed himself compulsively. He had no friends. He was pale as a ghost and only wore black. The kid looked like a monster, like a vampire. It was scary. Like sometimes you hear that a neighbor or coworker snapped, and you think, “How could he?” But him? It was like, “Of course he did…” The kid was a freak. He had serious issues.

So why did the parents buy that little freak a gun? A machine gun? It’s not like he’s going deer hunting with an M-16. I can’t wrap my head around it. Really, I just can’t.

I didn’t hear the gunshots. But I was home. I was getting ready for work. I saw the little freak, too, driving his mom’s minivan, on the way to shoot up his school. It was the first time I’d seen him in months. He looked a lot older than I remembered and was wearing a dang wedding dress. His face was blanched, looked made of marble. I couldn’t spot a trace of emotion.

Of course, I didn’t know he’d just shot his whole family and was on the way to shoot up his school. When the police interviewed me, I told them this. I wish, I so wish I would have known. I wish I had a clue. I would have called the cops. Then maybe I could have stopped the little freak from killing those poor kids at the school.

That’s the regret I live with. That’s what I think about. I flashback to that muggy morning. How hot and sticky it already was. How high the sun hung in the clear blue sky, the sun this huge shimmering orange ball. That might have been the hottest morning I can ever remember.

My dang car was like an oven; it was plain scorching inside. The steering wheel in my car felt like it was on fire. I was standing in the driveway waiting for the car to cool down when I saw that little psycho, driving along in his death van.

I think about that, about seeing that kid, that freak. He didn’t look at me. But I looked at him. I almost waved at him, like I do every neighbor, but I didn’t. Because he scared me. I think of that too. What if I’d waved at him and he’d rolled down the window, of that brown death van, and shot me dead in the street, like an animal?

What if that stopped it, though? What if he’d shot me, then the cops came and stopped him from going into that school? I’d rather he took me out than those kids. Maybe I’d have survived, and it’d be me in that wheelchair instead of that kid a few doors down, who’ll never walk again. I’ve lived for 52 years. That kid is only a kid. That kid is only 15, and he’s got to be in a stinking chair for the rest of his days!

I live with that. I live with those thoughts.

In the days following the shootings, I wanted the house torn down. Everyone in the neighborhood did. There’d be gawkers, idiots driving by, snapping photos of it. As if that’s what we needed, after the press, media was hounding us, with all their press vehicles, photographers, slick-talking journalists poking mics in our faces, their news tents pitched everywhere up and down the block.

We wanted to have that ugly house bulldozed once the cops were done with the crime scene. Heck, I’d have driven the bulldozer myself, taken it down. Everyone around here wanted that house gone. 

But not the relatives of the family, some cousin who inherited the house. No sir. He insisted on keeping it and renting it for now. He’s holding out to sell it later, apparently. Maybe he’s thinking the infamy will wear down and he can command a better price.

We, and I mean me and the other folks on the neighborhood council, lobbied the bank to buy the property so it could be torn down. We wanted to build a playground on the site, or start a small farm, a garden, do something to put life there, bring life to that place of unspeakable death.

But we didn’t get our wish. That ugly old horrible house is still standing, high and creepy as ever. And weirdos still are driving by to take photos of the dang thing. It’s a travesty. It absolutely is.   

Now a former NFL player is moving in, renting the place. I remember him playing. The guy was a terrific lineman.

But when I saw him driving up, walking into the house, he didn’t look good. He was limping and his face was sullen. I think he’s fallen on hard times. That must be why he’s living in an old murder house. Poor fella…

I wonder, would a guy like that be afraid of “ghosts?” I mean, he played against the fastest, strongest, most ferocious athletes in the world. What’s scarier than an NFL linebacker? No one is tougher, nothing is scarier than an NFL linebacker flying at you. A dang pumped up, 6’2, 240-pound hot mess of muscle. A meathead with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. A mohawked-maniac stabbed full of steroids, all screaming and flying at you like a bat out of hell. I tell you what, nothing is scarier than that...

Speaking of linebackers, Junior Seau was that fella’s teammate for a couple seasons. Junior Seau! I want to ask him about Junior, the “Tasmanian Devil.” I loved that guy! He was a favorite player of mine, probably my second favorite linebacker ever, after Derrick Thomas.

I’m not sure I could work up the nerve to ask about Junior, though. Not after what happened... I guess it’s one of those things you shouldn’t mention…

"COLT"

 

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“Colt”

 

Dude! I love that our house was bought by Jack Thee Jackal! I sent him a DM, congratulating him on buying the house, offering to show him around, party with him, but he didn’t reply. No probs! He either didn’t read it or didn’t believe it. He gets thousands of DMs, I’m sure. 

I tried making a YouTube channel like Jack’s. I’d grab my bros and we’d go out, do stupid shit, copycat Jackass stuff. We did one where we dressed up in girls’ lingerie and played golf in a graveyard.

And we made another series, where we preyed on victims at school, or around the mall, or the neighborhood. Our goal: to find them, and fart on them. We’d stalk, hunt, hide, and then jump out of bushes, burst out from behind closed doors, or jump up from the backseat of a car or leap down from a tree or fire escape, either naked, wearing only a pair of assless chaps, or in just a pair of briefs, and then we’d unleash ass, point and fire unfiltered farts at friends and classmates.

Sometimes a classmate might open a door to a classroom and find one of us, pants pooled around our ankles, bent over in their direction, ready to launch a stinky ass attack.

Possibly the worst of the videos was the “Fart Alarm Clock,” where a buddhi bandit would patrol the library, sneak up on a sleeping classmate, drop trou, bend over, lean his ass in, and just let out a booming burrito fart, ass mere inches from the sleeper’s face…

“Bare booty fart ATTACKS! The most vicious, NO FILTRATION!” was the title and theme. But no one watched. Except a couple people, who told us that we suck. That we “suck RAW!” I think those were the exact words.

Then I tried making music, rapping. I wasn’t good at that either. I got even worse feedback on that when I uploaded my tunes to the interwebs. In my mind, though, I sounded dope. I sounded like Eminem. I was going to BE the next Eminem. But then I saw the comments I was getting. In fact, one song went sort of viral- but for the wrong reasons. Thousands of people watched my video, cracked jokes about it, called me all sorts of shit, a “wigger,” mostly, “wack AF” and I even received death threats and a couple guys challenging me to fistfights.

All over a free video, a basement rap I slapped together on my computer. A song about smoking weed in my school’s handicapped bathroom!

(Handicapped people were the most pissed about it. One even asked, “Dude, where am I supposed to smoke weed?” Looking back on it, he had a point. It was pretty fucking wack...)

Posting stuff online, I guess it’s pretty easy to discover your limitations when you get that amount of instant feedback. Man, reading hundreds of people telling me that I sucked, I can’t say it was good for my psyche. 

Oh… Well.. Fuck them! I was still living in a house big enough to have its own zip code. I was always aware of that. Particularly since my earliest memories, from when I was a tiny kid, were of being in a cramped apartment, with my parents, back when my dad had first started playing pro football. But once he signed that big contract, ah man, life was pretty easy.

My life has always been easy. Maybe too easy… I’ve spent countless hours just watching and rewatching gangsta rap videos, smoking weed… I’ve never been too motivated… My sister, a few years younger than me, was always a nerd. She was always hitting the books...

Not me, though. I’ve never found a calling. I never took to football, like my old man. I got more of my mom’s DNA. I’m not that tall, only 5’11, and am thin, like her. I’m not super coordinated, either. I’m just not great at sports, which kinda always made me feel like I was a disappointment to my father.

Not that I didn’t try. When I was little, I joined Pop Warner. Dad didn’t force me into it or anything. But I thought he’d want me to be a jock like him. When I sucked at football and quit, however, he never mentioned anything about it. I didn’t know quite what to make of that then. I still don’t.

He was always a bit distant, my Pops, off in his football world. But I respected him, I must say. I looked up to him. He was big and powerful. He gave us a great life. He was gone most of the time, and was aloof, but that’s just his temperament. He’s a quiet man. He lets his deeds do the talking. And I respect that. My dad is cool. He was good to us. I mean, like sure, he’d spaz out, break stuff around the house and scream after games. It’d scare the shit out of me and my sis, but it was never directed at us and he never got violent. He was never abusive.

Him, nor my mom, never really disciplined us, ever, that I can recall. There were a few babysitters and maids who’d get in our faces, from time to time. Usually they’d be on my case for my shitty grades and a couple Jackass stunts the school got upset about.

But other than that, I never got in too much trouble. As a kid, I was pretty mellow. I still am. I think I’ve been in one or two fistfights in my entire life. I’m just laidback. So much so that people might think I’m on Xanax or something. But nah, I don’t take drugs too often these days, aside from an occasional bump or two of the nose candy and, of course, smoking weed, but that’s a plant, not a drug, in my opinion…  

Nah, man, my biggest problem has been, and continues to be, my lack of direction.

I mean, like, at first I’d wanted to be on Jackass. Then I’d wanted to be Eminem. But since none of that transpired, I don’t know what to do. I didn’t have a Plan B or C.

Lately I’ve been working odd jobs. My degree sucks. Like, I went to a party college, got drunk, and copied all my papers from the internet, paid nerds to do homework for me. Even with cheating, though, I still barely graduated college. I failed English. WTF? I speak English! How the hell did I fail English? Damn…

I guess part of the problem was that I was never interested in learning the stuff they taught in school. In math class, I’d be thinking about learning to fix my engine, buying parts for my car. In English classes, I hated Shakespeare, but I liked reading other stuff, like Tucker Max, and thrillers. I love thrillers! My friend in high school got me into Bukowski. His poetry kicks ass. Reading it, I couldn’t believe anyone would actually write shit like that. It’s the only poetry I could ever enjoy.  

But the stuff they assigned me to read in class was terrible. It was always so fucking boring. The only assigned reading I ever liked from English class was Mark Twain. That dude was fucking cool. Emily Dickinson? Beowulf? Nah, not for me. Jane Austin? Yuck. Fuck off!

To me, that’s the problem with school. You’re forced to learn this or that. It’s something about being forced into it that turns me off. If I’m into something, if I want to learn it, I can’t pry myself away from it. I’ll spend hours on Wikipedia sometimes. I’ll dive down intellectual rabbit holes, reading all sorts of shit. I fuck with knowledge; it’s not that I don’t enjoy learning. 

I could just never find that spark in school. Maybe I just wasn’t lucky enough to have a Dead Poets Society jump up on the desk “OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN” type of teacher. You know, a teacher from one of those 1980s movies…

My degree was in Business Administration. But I had no idea what business I wanted to do. I still have no idea what business I want to do. In fact, I don’t even like business. I don’t like the corporate world.

What do I like, aside from pranks and jokes? Women. Oh, man, I LOVE women. They love me back too. I’m not that tall or muscled-up, but I’m sinewy, and have been told I resemble the actor Robert Pattinson… I’ve never had a problem meeting chicks…

Women, yeah, dude, I’m really a fan of their organization… Every time I hook up with a new girl, take off her clothes, I feel like a little kid opening a Christmas present… I love their soft skin, their hair, their scents, their makeup, stockings, high heels; the way they walk, talk, the way they dress, their shapes, curves. Seriously, if there were a job where I could just stare at women all day, that’s what I’d do.

My dream job would be that, or maybe a photographer, snapping photos of models all day. Nude models. Or a pornographer. But I’m not too into the hardcore stuff. I prefer the more tasteful, Playboy stuff, or nude paintings. I’m not into chicks spreading their snatch and doing gangbangs, anal, or weird Japanese stuff... 

To be frank, I’m not sure what I’ll do for work. Before, I never worried about money. But that was before my parents went broke. Now that I can’t count on inheriting millions, I’ve suddenly got to make my own way.

Since I like women, nude women, in particular, I’ve been working as a DJ at an upscale strip club. I got the gig through a friend who bought into the club. I should have bought in with him, scored a loan from my old man, back when he had more cash. Same as my Pops, I guess, I’m not a good businessman.

But, thems is the breaks, as the old-timers say. And I’m doing okay, DJing, rocking trap tunes, looking at fine babes every night, fine NAKED babes.

I’m even allowed to audition “talent,” watch aspiring exotic dancers shake it for me and the manager, other staff. I’ve dated like three of our strippers, but can’t say it’s my favorite thing to do, dating our dancers.

Man, I caught feelings for one, this petite Latin honey. She was chill, funny, and freaky in the sack. A damn dimepiece. The chick had a cobra tramp stamp and killer curves and the most gorgeous face ever. She was stunningly pretty, with that intricate, exotically sumptuous type face that only Latin babes have. She was just stunning, with or without make-up, that hot of a chick. 

We only dated a few weeks, but I fell for her, I admit. And it fucked me up, watching her from the DJ booth, her down on the stage, her doing splits, prancing around naked, wiggling her ass in dudes’ faces, seeing dudes ogle her bare body. The worst was watching her do lapdances, bumping and grinding on middle-aged creeps or fratboy asswipes. The wolf-faced fucks. Dudes running their hands on her body. It fucked me up. I felt like a cuckold.

I mean, man, I dated this Instagram model chick. A butt model. That was all she did, all she did was take pics of her butt, post it on the ‘Gram. Every day, a different butt shot. Bending over, walking up stairs, leaning against a wall, lying on her stomach... She was creative with it, too, like an artist, a Picasso of ass, coming up with all sorts of different contortions, angles, lightings, all sorts of truly ingenious ways to present her butt to the camera. She did things with her ass that I couldn’t imagine possible, for real...  

And look, I didn’t care. I didn’t care that she showed her butt, in thongs, lingerie, and bikinis on Instagram every day. I didn’t care that she cashed in on her looks. I know there were like millions of dudes across the globe jerking off to her. But I didn’t care.

Like, for real, more power to her. She’s a clever and enterprising chick. I could see her one day having a reality show like the Kardashians. I mean, everyone thinks those Kardashian chicks are stupid floozies, but they’re not. They’re smart businesspeople and are raking in billions. I respect that. I respected my butt model chick too. She was fucking cool…

But there was something different, man, seeing my girl on stage, seeing the dudes in person. It was different, seeing their pervy faces, seeing their hungry eyes. It kinda fucked me up, man… It was a kick in the balls…

She didn’t stay long anyway, the Latina. She moved to another city once she’d saved a bit of cash. She told me she was only doing the job to help pay for her dad’s heart surgery... I lost touch with her after she moved, and she deleted me from her Snapchat... 

Thems is the breaks. Better to have loved and lost, right? I’m not sure if it was love, really. But it fucked me up. It fucked me up for a good minute…

After her, I stopped dating our dancers. These days, I’m back on Tinder more, hooking up. To be honest, I’ve never had a serious relationship, only hookups, short term things. If I’m with a girl too long, I start losing interest in her, start seeing her like a sister or something, I don’t know, why. It’s weird. 

But, like, yeah, man, my life isn’t too bad, altogether. The future… I guess that’s what bugs me. I don’t know, for sure, what I’ll do. The more I think about it, the more I feel lost. I just want to have fun, really.

I mean, seriously, man, why is it that we have to do something? Why can’t I just be? The world is so full of demands, complications. It’s never as easy as it is on TV...  

I mean, like, dude, when are the robots coming? Aren’t the robots supposed to come and take our jobs? Do the shitty stuff people don’t want to do? And then Amazon or the government can give us money, and we can all chill, let fucking Alexa, Siri, and R2D2 do shit. Then we humans can just chill, eat and fuck, just live like the French. Yeah, man, I think the future will be awesome. Yo, I can’t wait…

But at least for now, at least until Larry David or Andrew Yang becomes President, like, I don’t know, I don’t know, man. I don’t know what I’ll do.

I spent a couple years traveling the world after college. That was for sure the best time of my young life. I traveled Europe, Asia, South America. I backpacked. I worked bar gigs out there. I taught English. I thought my travels would help me “find myself.” But they didn’t. I didn’t exactly find myself, but I found something else in Tibet. Man, I found something far greater and far more important.

And it’s helped me. Helped me a lot. It really has...