Messiah

I saw a woman with a comb-over today. As I sat down in the uncomfortable window seat in one of the back rows of the bus, I noticed that the driver was a staunch, large person, and I noticed that his or her cream-of-wheat colored hair was combed carefully over the top of his or her head. I didn’t think anything of it at first, as I let my back rest against the seat, but when I remembered that the driver was a woman, I laughed to myself. I didn’t think it was sad, I thought it was great- something I could tell my friends when they came over with cases of beer and a deck of playing cards. We would be in a lull and I would let them know about this balding woman that drove the city bus, and they would all laugh and so would I, at her unknowing expense.
Loser.

Secretly, I love people like my balding bus driver. Hell, those kinds of people are the main reason I ride the bus anyway. I love how I feel when I laugh at them, how it feels to me that there is someone out there who is more pathetic than I am. Sometimes, they make me feel like I am God, and they are my dumpy servants. They worship and love me, because I am something so much higher, so much greater, so much better than they could ever be.

I live alone in a dumpy apartment in the inner-city, I have a stupid worthless job working nights at a broken-down locally owned video store. I love my stupid job, because it is more of a chance for me to see some of those people who I know are worse off than I am. The place has all the newer movies, but that is really just a shiny layer of fake gold paint that covers the seedy interior. No one ever comes into the store and rents movies, not mainstream ones anyway.

The people who come to the video store I work in, they are a special breed. Mostly men, mostly in their forties and up, mostly not even attempting the façade anymore. A new guy, sure, he’ll putz around the place pretending he just came to browse some classics for him and his wife to cozy up to next to the fireplace or some shit, but eventually he’ll get down to what he was there for. Once they have broken that seal, the lies don’t come any longer. Once they have done it once, overcome the obstacle, they don't bother pretending anymore.

These sad, lonely bastards are the most honest people in the whole damn world.

Anyway, I saw this woman with a comb-over and it made me feel good inside because it was just another of those reminders that says four very magical words to me;
It could be worse.

My dumpy apartment doesn’t have much in it. In fact, the only other place so empty I’ve ever seen is my refrigerator. They’re like family; one is big and empty and the other small and empty. I sit on my couch I got from Goodwill for thirty two dollars and scratch at the rash on my arms that I got for free with the nasty thing. I would be watching TV, if I could afford to. Seems that no matter what I do, I can’t ever have enough money to do much of anything. I mean, I don’t know where it goes. I ride the bus to work, work, and then come home and sit on my diseased couch day in and day out, but it seems to me that money never really hits my wallet.

This lady bus driver with a comb-over, she’s gotta have it way worse than this though, right? I mean the woman has a comb-over and drives a bus for crying out loud. She has to drive around all these weird people and me to wherever we want to go and she can’t do a damn thing but drive a bus and comb her hair over her baldness.
Yeah, at least my life isn’t that bad.

I mean, okay, so my apartment’s a little empty, but who needs stuff anyway, when it comes down to it? I don’t much like stuff at all, it just gets in the way. I have a couch, a table, an empty refrigerator, and a nice bed, and that’s really all I need.
All I really need is nothing at all.

Like I said, I’m no big fan of stuff, so having a slightly less than full apartment isn’t all that bad to me. I can sit on my couch, read the newspaper if I buy one, put my feet on the table, and grab the last ice cold beer from the fridge and simply sit back and enjoy life. That’s all I really need. Well, that, and these people who remind me just how good I have it. My bare walls, my shoddy couch, my chipped table, my empty fridge, all the ingredients to my life, mixed with a dash of all the losers in the world making me feel better, and you serve up a truly perfect recipe. For me.

Too bad, really, that in less than a few days, I’ll have to leave it all behind. Not that I am moving, not really. I guess it is kind of like moving, when you look at it with your eyes squinting a bit, but I don’t really think the connection is there. No, I am not so much moving as I am leaving.
What I am trying to say is, in a few days, I’ll be dead.

***

The bell on the door rings as someone comes into the store. It’s the only sound this late in the evening, save the quiet hum of the heater and the nearly-muted movie playing on the screen on the wall of the store. He looks around at the dismal new-releases section of the movies we offer, and I continue to read my magazine as he falsely peruses the selection. I glance at the monitor next to me, the security monitor, and I see the four images on the screen. The images are from different angles in the store; one on the door, one on the main part of the floor, the other in the back, and the last showing the room beyond, the room where we actually make money. I see this guy on the second monitor. He looks to be searching through the classic section for a specific movie, but I know better. He looks new, I don’t recognize him, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve seen this all before.

I take more interest in the monitors and allow a curt smile to peel across my face as I watch the insecure man slowly move down the aisle toward the back of the store in a faux search for some obscure title. He glances about nervously as he nears the end of the row. Just beyond the end of the row is that door, and beyond that door is his destination, his mecca. He takes a look around and spots the door, and I decide to screw with him just a little. It’s of no consequence to me if he doesn’t rent from the store, so if I make him chicken out it’s no big deal. I wait for him to look around again, then call to him.

“Hey, you lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” I ask, in a loud voice.

He jumps, and even from all the way across the store I can see his eyes widen. “Er, no. I mean…” He pauses, toying with the idea of just asking. He points with his thumb at the closed door behind him. There is a sign on it that says ‘Adults Only.’ “What’s back there?” he asks, his voice cracking. Poor guy, he’s nervous.

“That’s the porn back there, man,” I say, as nonchalantly as possible. I noticed him visibly react to the word ‘porn.’

“Oh.” He says, and returns to his fake search. I decide to let him have his way, and disappeared at the front desk, apparently involved in my magazine. I am watching the monitor, however, because I want to see if this guy’s got the balls to do it or not. Not that renting these kinds of films requires balls, no, it really doesn’t. But you think it does the first time you do it. It creates a bit of a rush, really. You feel dirty and awful and yet excited at the prospect. At the time, it’s the ballziest damn thing you’ve ever done.

The door to the pornography section opens, and the man steps inside.

***

I saw that lady with the stupid comb-over again today. Seems she decided to color her hair. It wasn’t obvious enough before, apparently, but now it is just plain impossible to ignore the jet black mess on top of her head. I smiled to myself, this was almost like a bonus. Like I am playing some kind of game, and I just scored a point multiplier or something. So I decided to sit near her and stare at that dead animal she has for a hair style, and I wonder to myself, I hope she didn’t pay much for that cut and color.
Loser.

I ask her her name, faking interest in the bus business. She tells me her name is Maybel. She is fifty-eight, black hair and gray eyes, and a fun adventuresome spirit in search of her life’s next adventure. I think to myself that this is all way too much information, but then again it feels as though it fuels my fire. I’m feeling more kickass by the moment. I ask if she is married, and her response is, ‘why, you interested?’ I had laughed a nervous laugh and said not really. I said not really because I didn’t want to offend her, I think. Anyway, so she goes on and on about her sons in the war and I am absolutely dead tired of listening to this sad old woman just talk so that when we finally get to my stop, I practically run off.

I would have kept running, but running is usually a fatal act in my neighborhood. Apparently a lot of the gangs around my place operate like wolves or some other creature whose killing instinct is fueled by fear. So, I try to walk as calmly as possible, then rush to the elevator to get to my floor. I feel so hurried, like something important is happening and it’s bullshit I’m not there. Meanwhile, all I can think about is the comb-over lady. I felt trapped by my thoughts, as if they were a prison and I was their captive. I wanted desperately to see her again, she made me feel so good about myself. Nobody has ever affected me that way, never given me so much hope for my own self as the old woman with her jet-black comb-over hairstyle. I open my dismal fridge and grab a beer. Plopped down on my stupid diseased couch, I drink my beer and pretend I’m watching television. An hour passes, and I get frustrated, so I head off to bed.
Apparently, even television you create in your mind is filled with the same boring crap that the real stuff is comprised of.

***

When I sleep, I dream.
Not that that is some kind of revelation, I’ve heard that others dream when they sleep as well. While most people seem to have broken, disjointed dreams, dreams about random and different things every night, mine have been the same for almost a month now.

Not exactly the same every time, but it has the same idea. Tonight, I’m in a dark room, the walls made of this ugly paneled wood that has seen far too many years. A single light hangs from the center of the ceiling, gently swaying from some unseen force. A man steps into my view, a crooked smile across his face. He’s wearing a dusty suit, and he's hiding something in his right hand behind his back. He strokes my cheek with his left hand, his smile ever growing. He mouths the words ‘Thank You’ to me, then pulls his hiding right hand out into view. With it, he holds a large kitchen knife. In a smooth motion, he pounds the eight-inch blade into my chest, and I’m thrown back. I don’t wake up, but I feel pain as if I am really being stabbed. He stabs again, and as he leans forward over my body something falls out from his shirt.

It’s a necklace, a silver chain, and the charm attached is none other than a crucifix. He smiles maniacally as he brings the weapon down into me fiercely. I feel the pain, the blood flowing from my chest. I notice myself getting dizzy, nauseous. I hear my heart beat as it first speeds up then slows way down. My eyes start to feel heavy. The man doesn’t stab me anymore, he just watches, that sick smile on his face. In another moment, I feel life slip away from me. The very split second before I am fully dead, I awaken.

So it was a knife today. Other nights, the same crazy looking man kills me with a gun, a rope, a bag. In my favorite dream thus far, he laid my head into the trunk of his car so that my neck laid across where the trunk door came down, and he very slowly decapitated me by slamming the door down as hard as he could, over and over.

Every night, it’s the same different dream. A different weapon, a different place, same man, same words. ‘Thank you,’ he says as he kills me. It feels so real, I know that in some way those dreams are the truth.

Thing is, I didn’t see the date tonight. Maybe, because I have openly accepted my fate, I don’t need to be told that morsel over and over again. It’s not like I have forgotten the date. October 23, 200_.
Now, it's only three days away.

***

Ask me my favorite thing in the whole world. Go on, ask. Don’t be shy, I don’t mind. My favorite thing in the whole damn world. Ever. Even more so than my apartment, even more so than the comb-over lady, even more so than my posse of unknowing loser self-esteem boosters.
My favorite thing in the whole damn world are those magazines.

You know, the ones at the check out line at the grocery store. The ones that people always look at, laugh at, but never buy. The ones that people pretend to be disgusted by, then, when they think no one is looking, they carefully, quickly, and quietly shove the thing into their shopping basket. You know, tabloids. Those magazines are my favorite things ever in my world. They are like fuel to me, life-fuel to boost my self-esteem to heights I never knew existed. These magazines are absolutely filled, brimming, with the abhorrent losers that I so desperately love, but they are celebrities as well. It’s like the icing and the cake.

I know it’s all fake, but I don’t really care. When I sit down with one of those magazines and read about how messed up everything is, I think to myself how great it is to be me, to be this person whom is so imperfectly perfect. I am the best of the worst, as they say, and I love it. I know that the poor bastards in the magazines are worse-off than I am, even if the magazines are fake.
Real or fake, it still has to hurt to have such things said about you.

As a result, as often as I can, I pick up a copy of one of these awesome reads. One magazine can last me a week or two, and it can inspire me to such heights of greatness in self-esteem that I feel I can truly do anything. Screw going to a shrink, all I need to cure my mental issues is trash.

So-and-so is pregnant with her hunky new man’s illicit baby? Wonderful, at least I’m nor pregnant, illicit, or with a hunky man. It makes me feel better just thinking about it even now. God, I think, made those magazines for people like me. Assuming there are other people like me, people who thrive on the worseness of others. If so, then I'm not the only God to these sheep. Somehow, I would be okay with that. Because, no doubt, I would be better than any of these other so-called 'Gods.' I would be the Lord God, and these other losers would be my angels. And whenever we weren't scouring the world looking for losers to raise our godly qualities, we would sit in a smoking room in the heavens and read tabloids together.

Whenever I go to the grocery store and I see a rack of these blessed messengers of esteem, I can’t help but be overcome with giddiness. Hell, I read those magazines before interviews to boost my esteem. And, if I were to ever have a date, I would read one of these magazines first to put my confidence at a level that women respect. Before I go to work, I read an article to boost me slightly, and during my break I always go to the grocery store and buy an issue or two.
Humans are a hedonistic race, and I am just doing what feels good

***

Once inside, the man looks about nervously. I'm watching him on the monitor, watching and trying not to laugh as I see his reactions. The first time you ever enter one of these movie store 'back rooms,' it's a shock for certain. All of a sudden, there's a massive amount of fuel to your sad, perverted fire.

He looks like he has no idea what to do at first, but after a moment, he begins to peruse the myriad titles we had stocked back there. I felt bored and decided to read a tabloid. This issue talks about the romance of the hour, Tom-Kat as they call it, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. They are having a baby, or something ridiculous like that. Just for added measure, they enhanced the wrinkles on Tom's face and smoothed out Katie's, so they look like a perverse old guy/young girl couple or something. I smile to myself, and open the magazine. Just then, I hear something on the monitor.

These places, the movie stores you walk into that are locally owned, they have intense security. I don't know why, maybe it's because they already have it bad enough and thievery would destroy their business for sure, but the cameras and sound in these places is phenomenal. For example, the noise I heard, it was the sound of jeans and skin pushed together. I look at the monitor, and can't believe what I see. There, in the middle of the room, stands that guy, and he's holding in one hand a dvd case of some adult title.
His other hand he's got shoved down his pants.

***

I went to the mall today. I'm trying my best not to worry about my dreams, my freaky-ass murder prophecy dreams, but it's getting difficult to ignore. According to the dream world, tomorrow I am going to die. Sometime late in the evening. What I don't understand is, I work tomorrow night. Does that mean I am going to die in some broken-down, ma-and-pa video rental place in a seedy part of a city that no one really cares about? I don't like the idea of that.
It sounds pathetic.

Anyway, so I went to the mall to get a pick-me-up in the form of watching out for some really trashy people. I saw plenty; people with missing teeth, people in ugly nasty tattered clothing, people crying and chasing after other people who don't care about them, and even someone who made the small maintenence cave under a fountain his place of permanent residence. I was sitting on a bench, watching as all of the ugly and loser-y people went by, and I could feel their minute amounts of energy transfer to me and empower me. If only I had something to accomplish, I would go accomplish it. Sadly, i have nothing, literally, to do, but watch these people. So, instead, I decided the whole point was just to get a plethora of self-esteem. I figured, might as well die full of oneself, right?

The din at the mall is always incredible, all of the losers running around trying to do all of their shopping, shopping they don't even need to do, so they can have more bags than anyone else. The idea of the shopping mall itself just plain pisses me off. It's this stupid collection of over-priced shops that carry all the same clothes but in different colors, and we as a society just flock to them and blow our hard-earned cash on all of this worthless crap. The idea is retarded; that once someone has finally gotten some money the first thing they need to do is go out and buy something impractical, like a $98 sweater, on sale no less, and then gripe the rest of the week about not having the money to pay bills.
It's almost like a conspiracy to get the whole fucking world into debt.

So, I'm sitting there in that mall, brooding about how much the idea of the place pisses me off, and yet feeling extremely strongly in the self-esteem department, when who should sweep into my life but Maybel, the comb-over lady. She's walking over to me, and already I'm feeling better about my whole life. I'm feeling better about myself. I feel my chest puff out, my flabby stomach suck in, and I look fantastic. Even in my third-time-worn-without-washing clothes, and my scraggled hair, I'm feeling damn sexy. She says hello to me, that she remembers me from the bus. I say hello back, and ask how she is doing. All the while, I'm feeling better and better. Her hair is pulled over the baldness of her head, sick looking strands combed across to insinuate much more hair than there really is. Suddenly, she is joined by a man, an older man, in a dusty-looking suit. He asks me what the hell am I doing hitting on his woman, with a disgusted look on his face. I begin to say that I am not doing anything to his nasty woman, when it hits me. That face. It's him, the guy from my dreams, the guy who kills me every night.
I simply ran.

***

I'm so disgusted by this guy with his hand in his pants as I watch him in the monitor I don't even know what to do. But, in the back of my mind, I feel great. This guy is a genuine loser, one of the best I have ever encountered. For whatever reason, maybe he doesn't have the money or something I don't know, but for whatever reason he can't take the movie home and do his thing, he has to do it right there in the middle of the store. I watch the monitor for a moment, thinking, and then decide to do something. I click on the speaker that relays from the monitor i look at to the room he is in, and ask him just what the hell he thinks he is doing.

He freaks, immediately, and looks around. He can't see the camera and speaker i suppose, they are kind of hidden, but i don't think he realizes what just happened. In his panic he dropped the movie onto the ground and stared all over the place, trying to find the source of the speaking. Finally, after a confused moment, he asks, God?

I can't believe it. This guy is so bad he has to masturbate in the middle of a damn movie rental store and when confronted about it he immediately turns to God? This is too good to pass up. I click the speaker again. Yes, I say. I see the guy visibly start on the monitor. He slowly pulls his hand out from his pants and stares toward the ceiling. You can talk to me?, he finally asks. Of course I can, I respond. I tell him that I just wanted to let him know that he is going to hell for being such a perverted sinning freak, unless he finds a way to redeem himself. He asks me how he can redeem himself, but I don't respond. Instead, I get up and start towards the back room, because I know what's coming next. The man asks for God quietly, then shouts God's name loudly. I slam the door open, asking him just what in God's name was going on. He looks at me, then runs straight out of the room, out of the store, and out into the street, where a minivan nearly plows into him. Screaming, he trips and sprawls his away across the street.
Loser.

After the long day, night finally comes and with it, eventually, comes closing time. I lock the doors, clean up around the place, and do all the stuff that I need to do once the shop is closed. After I finished up, a decided to do what I always did every night after work. There was a small tv situated in the office connected to a vcr and dvd player so we could check movies for damages and the like. I went to the drawer where we kept all of the adult movies, selected one at random, and watched it for a good half hour.

In the middle of it all I glanced over at the monitor and saw myself, pants around my ankles, sitting in that chair in that office watching that adult movie. I thought for a moment, just a moment, then turned off the camera monitor and went back to enjoying my evening.
I'm still better than that other guy.

About thirty-five minutes after store close, I'm doing all of the last bits of stuff right before I head outside. I rewind the surveillance camera tapes, return some movies to the shelves, and hit the restroom one last time. Right before I leave, I notice, standing in the window, that man. Maybel's boyfriend. The man who killed me last night. And I wonder, is he here to kill me tonight as well?

***

The creepy guy follows me home from work. I can see him walking just about ten feet behind me, his dirty looking jacket swaying in the calm wind of the late evening. Steam rose from a manhole in the middle of the street, and I glance through it to see a homeless guy living inside of a cardboard box.
Loser.

The man follows me to my apartment building, follows me to the elevator, and gets on it with me. He smells, I never experienced that in the dream, like urine and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. He hasn't said a word to me since he followed me from the store. I'm not too worried about it, because in these last moments I've decided that dreams are dreams and reality is reality. In my dreams, this man may kill me, but in reality, i am so much better than he is.

The elevator stops and I get off on my floor. Again, he follows me. I';m not worried. He can't kill me. I'm God. I want to tell him to ask that man from the movie store if he knows who I am. Then I remember that the movie store pervert probably can' talk very well right now. I walk to my door and pull out my keys, and he stands behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck, and it stinks, like tuna. I ask him if he needs me for something and he simply tells me to open the door. His voice is gruff, intense. If I wasn't so powerful and almighty, i might be afraid of this guy. In the middle of my thinking, he shoves me and tells me again to open the door. So I do. Once inside, i walk over to my kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. The creepy old man wanders off to explore the expanse of my one-bedroom complex, complete with three other rooms, then comes at me in the living room. He is half shaded, half lit, and he looks sort of menacing in that light.

This is the shithole you live in?, he asks me. I say yes, it is. He says, this is so sad man. You live in this tiny, dirty apartment, empty of anything but a fridge, bed, and couch. The walls are peeling, the light's too dim, and you have bugs all over the place. You play God to people where you work, and you jerk off in the night when you think noone is looking. You even prey on innocent old women who drive buses. You, he says, are pathetic.
A loser.

He walks over to me, looking down at me sitting on the couch. Suddenly, he lifts me by the collar and drags me to the kitchen. Holding me with a surprising amount of strength, he turns on one of the burners of my stove. We wait, me somewhat struggling but not really. I feel too powerful for this guy to actually hurt me. But his words dig in deep into my skull. I wonder if I am really so pathetic. I decide, no, God is not pathetic. The burner glows red hot. He quickly slams my face into the burner, and immediately the coil is burning my skin. I feel it bubble and crack on my face, and the only thing I can smell now is the sickening stench of my own flesh burning. I'm screaming, thrashing about, while he holds me down with one hand over that scalding hot burner. With his free hand, he grabs two knives from one of my drawers. Placing one of my hands over the crack between the range and the counter, he drives the knife through my palm and down into the crack. He does the same with my other hand, and I'm trapped. He lifts my legs and places them over the counter across from the range, and takes a step back.

You're a modern day crucifixion, he says, laughing at his own humor. He strokes the crucifix hanging from his necklace as he looks at me thoughtfully. My face is still against the burner, and it's still searing off my skin, slowly melting my face off.

I love people like you, he says. I love how good you make me feel. You pathetic slimes, you make me realize that my life could be a whole lot worse. And when I see you, I get emotional, weepy even. And I decide that I simply must save you from your own pathetic life.

He pulls me off the range and rips one of the knives from one of my hands. With the knife, he carves something into my forehead. After he finishes his work, he drops me to the floor. Blood is washing down into my eyes, and my face burns so badly I feel like I am about to pass out. You die with the word loser engraved on your forehead, he says, and everyone will know it was a sacrifice for your own good, and no one will care that you are gone. With that, he turns to leave.

He stops, just before he leaves the light from the kitchen, and looks down at my crumpled body. I am only barely hanging on to life, when I see him say two very familiar words. Thank you, he says. Thank you for making me feel better about myself. And he walks away, leaves me to die on this cold kitchen floor, my face half burned off. A knife still protrudes from one of my hands, but I haven't got the strength to do anything about it. I feel my heartbeat slow down, feel my body start to relax. The immense pain starts to fade away.

Right before I die, I think about the comb-over lady, and I smile.
Loser.