277 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
277 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
|
|
ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #517
|
|
`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
|
|
888 888 888 888 888 "Random Generic"
|
|
888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
|
|
888 888 888 888 888 " by Neko
|
|
888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 3/16/99
|
|
o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
|
|
[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
|
|
|
|
I spent two whole entire minutes adjusting my hair. It's gotten
|
|
long enough that now I feel it somewhat necessary to run my hand down the
|
|
middle and try to part it on either side. Maybe I can look like someone
|
|
sexy or something rather than having my hair all flop down on my face.
|
|
|
|
It doesn't work. I still look like me.
|
|
|
|
Out of frustration I light up a cigarette. Marlboro Red. Just
|
|
like the Marlboro Man, I want to be a cowboy. I want to be rugged. I
|
|
rub my fingers across my chin. Stubble. Nice. But whenever I let the
|
|
hair grow out, it comes in too light and looks like glorified peach fuzz.
|
|
|
|
Strike two.
|
|
|
|
Stubbing the cigarette I turn on the TV. Who can I be today? I
|
|
see Phil Hartman reading the news on the radio. Too bad he died. He was
|
|
a fine actor. Anyway, I could do radio. Then my mind tunes the music
|
|
back in. I already do radio. Isn't the crappy indie rock blaring on my
|
|
stereo enough to signify that? "Lost in my sleep, downtown I creep."
|
|
Sounds like fucking Alice in Chains. Some bullshit that is.
|
|
|
|
Click.
|
|
|
|
Ooh, the guy on channel four is telling me to be a Christian. I
|
|
had better donate some money so that I don't end up in hell. Tough luck
|
|
buddy, I'm already going there. If there's a God -- the God you believe
|
|
in -- I guess I'll see you then. How do you think He would like the fact
|
|
that you're pimping his name on TV for a buck?
|
|
|
|
Turn that shit off. My headache is beginning to go away. Hoo-ray
|
|
for medicine. Hoo-ray for the crunchy cookie I am eating.
|
|
|
|
Hoo-ray, hoo-ray, it's a lovely lovely day. Some song. Some some
|
|
some song. Heard a grindcore cover of it once. "HOO-RAY, HOO-RAY" yeah
|
|
rock n roll baby.
|
|
|
|
Heard a grindcore cover of "I Touch Myself" once, too. Not too
|
|
shabby.
|
|
|
|
Do I really believe this will have any effect on anything ever?
|
|
The answer, simply put, is no. This is not a release, this has no
|
|
meaning, I am doing nothing more than vomiting on the keyboard.
|
|
|
|
Fact? Fiction? Don't know, don't care. Can't be bothered with
|
|
minor details like that, I've got work to do. Work work work work.
|
|
|
|
You see, I am a fisherman. And, if you know nothing else, surely
|
|
you know that the fisherman can!
|
|
|
|
I CAN! You hear that? I C! A! N!. Can. Krautrock. Me.
|
|
I. Can.
|
|
|
|
So I read this book recently about the guy who hosted the Gong
|
|
Show. He was a fucking CIA agent. Seriously. He'd chaperone the trips
|
|
that the winning contestants of the Dating Game went on and he'd kill
|
|
some enemy of the US over there. Can you believe that shit? I can.
|
|
Because I am the fisherman. Not just *A* anymore, but *THE*.
|
|
|
|
What makes me The? Funny you should ask. Three letter make me
|
|
the. T, H, and E. You wanted more than bullshit reasoning? Maybe
|
|
that's all you'll get. That's what you get for asking questions. Didn't
|
|
anybody learn you some manners, boy?
|
|
|
|
Once my grandmother sent me a book on manners. I was very excited
|
|
to get a package. I was expecting something cool in the mail. I don't
|
|
remember what it was, but when I was 16, it was something cool. So I
|
|
tore open the envelope and out fell the manners book. My friend Dryla
|
|
told me later that I looked visibly shocked and depressed to see what
|
|
fell out. In my daze I handed the book to Dryla and when she opened it,
|
|
a ten dollar bill fell out. Thanks grandma.
|
|
|
|
Dryla and I often shared laughter over the book. She'd come over
|
|
for a meal of fried hot dogs and we would read proper etiquette on how
|
|
I should seat her, feed her, and treat her. Then we'd blow off all the
|
|
silly rules and fuck.
|
|
|
|
When I was 16 I thought it was nothing more than a physical
|
|
relationship. It wasn't until later, one day out on the lake, that I
|
|
began thinking about Dryla, pining for her. I reeled in a 20-pound
|
|
catfish and the damn thing was flipping around so crazy that it smacked
|
|
me in the face. I dropped my rod in the bottom of the canoe and realized
|
|
that I had been in love with Dryla. The way she smiled. The way she
|
|
laughed. The way she sucked cock. Ouch. Suddenly my brain hit itself.
|
|
The way she sucked cock. Ouch again. Hmm. The way she explained things
|
|
to me that I didn't understand. No pain. The way she used to run her
|
|
fingers through my hair. No pain. The way she screamed when I'd eat her
|
|
out. Ouch.
|
|
|
|
My brain wouldn't let me think impure thoughts about Dryla.
|
|
That's how I knew I'd been in love with her. Scratch that -- that's how
|
|
I knew I still was in love with her. I picked up my paddles and started
|
|
rowing to shore. I *had* to find Dryla. I moved away my senior year of
|
|
high school, from Chicago to San Francisco. Later in life I ended up
|
|
here, in Montana, but that's of little importance at this point. The
|
|
night before I left, we fucked -- no, made love -- like never before.
|
|
She spent the night, and when my parents woke me up the next morning they
|
|
didn't even say anything.
|
|
|
|
She came with us to O'hare airport. She didn't speak the entire
|
|
drive. I looked out the window, saying goodbye to each and every part of
|
|
the city as we passed it. Goodbye Wrigley Field. Goodbye Comiskey Park.
|
|
Goodbye Soldier Field. Goodbye expressway. Goodbye loop. Goodbye,
|
|
goodbye.
|
|
|
|
Inside O'hare, Dryla somehow managed to come all the way to our
|
|
gate with us. She looked like I'd never seen her before. She wasn't just
|
|
pretty anymore, now I know. She was beautiful. She hugged me and held
|
|
me tight. And she cried. That was the worst part. I didn't get it, and
|
|
it made me feel weird deep down inside. She told me she'd write me every
|
|
day and extracted the same promise from me.
|
|
|
|
Then I got on the plan and was amazed by it's interior and
|
|
exterior and the ensuing trip. I don't think I thought about Dryla during
|
|
the entire trip. We landed in San Francisco and rented a car to take us
|
|
to our new house. I resumed my old habit of checking the mail box every
|
|
time I arrived at home, and, to my family's surprise, I found a letter
|
|
from Dryla.
|
|
|
|
I don't know where the letter is anymore, but I think I can
|
|
remember most of it:
|
|
|
|
"Dear Jason Thomas Dusing,
|
|
|
|
Hi Jase, I bet you're pretty surprised to hear from me this early.
|
|
I know I would be. I wrote this letter a couple days before you left so I
|
|
could be sure it'd reach you when you arrived in San Fran.
|
|
|
|
How's the weather out there? The newspaper says it's in the 80s
|
|
this week. Must be nice to leave Chicago in a sweatshirt and arrive in
|
|
San Fran in shorts weather!
|
|
|
|
Anyway, I already miss you. I know you're still here (well, not
|
|
anymore), but it seems like you're gone. I want you to know I think about
|
|
you all the time. I think... well, I'll tell you some other time when I
|
|
know for sure.
|
|
|
|
Well, I hope you made it OK, Jase. Don't forget to write me
|
|
every day, ok????
|
|
|
|
Love,
|
|
|
|
Dryla."
|
|
|
|
Something in that letter scared me. I got quite a few more over
|
|
the next month or two. I never responded, and each one became more and
|
|
more desperate. Then one day the letters stopped. By that time I wasn't
|
|
really reading the letters anymore anyway, just skimming them and throwing
|
|
them away. I had a new girlfriend in San Francisco, a Julie, I think.
|
|
She never told me she loved me. Then again, neither did Dryla, but at
|
|
least Dryla tried. I think.
|
|
|
|
So here I am now, almost 15 years later, thinking about Dryla, whom
|
|
I have lived half my life without. And the thought won't go away.
|
|
|
|
After a week or two of continuously thinking about her, I decide
|
|
to fly to Chicago. I had enough money saved away that I could skip work
|
|
for a week or two, so I didn't have to worry about that.
|
|
|
|
I don't know what I was thinking. I rented a car and drove
|
|
straight to her house. I don't know why I thought she'd still live
|
|
there, but that's where I went. And even if she did still live there,
|
|
why would she want to see me?
|
|
|
|
But those thoughts didn't cross my mind at the time. The only
|
|
thought was seeing beautiful Dryla and proclaiming my love for her.
|
|
|
|
I pulled up to her house, an old brick two-story, 766 Candlewick
|
|
Lane. I nervously put out my cigarette and walked to her door. I rang
|
|
the doorbell half expecting to see Dryla run out and jump on top of me,
|
|
half expecting to see some man come out and ask me what the hell I was
|
|
doing on his porch... but I never considered what I did see. Dryla's
|
|
mother came to the door.
|
|
|
|
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Thomas. I was wondering if Dryla was here?"
|
|
|
|
"Jason -- Jason Dusing? Is that you?"
|
|
|
|
"It's me, ma'am." I guess I did learn something from the etiquette
|
|
book.
|
|
|
|
"Let me get in the car and take you where you can find her."
|
|
|
|
So we got in the rental car and drove. Turn left here. Right
|
|
here. Left at the corner store. Straight on for a few blocks, now right
|
|
at the gate.
|
|
|
|
I slowed down for a second to read what was written in iron above
|
|
the gate.
|
|
|
|
"Fields Cemetary"
|
|
|
|
"Does Dryla work here?" I asked.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Thomas didn't answer. She just rolled down her window and
|
|
lit a cigarette, pointing me to follow the right fork in the road.
|
|
|
|
After she had smoked half her cigarette she threw it out the
|
|
window and told me to stop. I didn't see Dryla -- or anyone, for that
|
|
matter -- around. "Where is Dryla, Mrs. Thomas? I thought she worked
|
|
here."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Thomas led me to a headstone about three rows back from the
|
|
road. I saw the name. "Dryla Thomas". Surely this was a cruel trick
|
|
played upon me. Did someone call to tell her I was coming? She always
|
|
was a prankster. The date on the headstone read "1969-1986". I left
|
|
Chicago at the end of 1985... two months later would've been 1986...
|
|
what the hell?
|
|
|
|
"She wrote you every day, Jase. She would run to the mailbox every
|
|
day looking for mail from you. She got so depressed that you never
|
|
wrote."
|
|
|
|
"Did she... did she kill herself?"
|
|
|
|
"Over a boy? Ha! You should've known her well enough to know she
|
|
wouldn't buy into any Romeo and Juliet sort of bullshit. No, Jason. She
|
|
tried to alleviate her depression by dating another boy from her high
|
|
school."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Thomas pulled out another cigarette and lit it with a book of
|
|
matches, shaking off my offer of a lighter.
|
|
|
|
"They went out to a party one Friday night. I told her to be home
|
|
by midnight, and her father and I didn't wait up for her. We trusted her.
|
|
When I went to wake her up on Saturday morning for her piano lesson, I
|
|
didn't find her in bed. I called the other boy... Michael I think his
|
|
name was... I called his house to see if she was there. Michael's father
|
|
answered and told me he hadn't come home all night either."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Thomas flicked the cigarette toward a neighboring headstone.
|
|
|
|
"I called the police to report my daughter as missing. They told
|
|
me I had to come down to the station, and to bring a picture with... so
|
|
they could identify her. I guess they had a double meaning in mind, but
|
|
I figured they'd just send a copy of her picture out, you know, an APB.
|
|
I thought maybe she'd tried to drive to San Francisco to see you or
|
|
something."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Thomas started to cry a little and lit another cigarette.
|
|
I didn't even bother offering my lighter this time. Fuck etiquette.
|
|
|
|
"When I arrived at the station, the police took me aside and
|
|
explained why the needed the picture. They were going to use it to
|
|
attempt to identify a body they'd found in a car accident. It turned out
|
|
it was Dryla. Michael's car was hit by a drunk driver. Michael and Dryla
|
|
were completely sober. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing. But this drunk
|
|
asshole killed my daughter, Jase. He killed her."
|
|
|
|
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, somewhat self-centerdly.
|
|
|
|
"I called your mother... she decided it'd be better not to tell
|
|
you."
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. Thomas, I loved Dryla. I still love her."
|
|
|
|
"I know, Jason. I know. We all knew. Everyone but you." She
|
|
turned and walked back to the car, to give me a minute alone.
|
|
|
|
It all hit me so suddenly. Everything was so new to me. Dryla was
|
|
as dead as the catfish that lay in the bottom of my canoe the first time
|
|
I thought of Dryla. Dead.
|
|
|
|
I am the fisherman, and that is why.
|
|
|
|
[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
|
|
[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #517 - WRITTEN BY: NEKO - 3/16/99 ]
|