How did I end up here? My body is burned and I’m laying in a dumpster. I’m too weak to scream out for help. Who would help me anyway? Even God’s own advice was repugnant too me. No self respecting three piece suit could even stand to smell me let alone help me.
Most recently I was enjoyed by a teenage sadist who painted his canvas with gasoline and matches. I guess his x-box and date rapes grew tiresome. He approached me as I sat in a cold puddle in the alley shivering and hoping for death. I should have never looked up to see his dashing grin. His teeth were violations. He explained to me that he worked for the local shelter and was out trying to rescue during this latest of blizzards. I never questioned the validity of this. Not even after his help crunched the back of my skull with a pipe.
How did I end up here? She was a good woman. She had dreams and aspirations. Her name was Twyla and she believed in true love. My name was Douglas and I brought sorrow where ever my shadow fell. The love of a good woman was not enough for me. The purity of an angelic son could not rein me in. Wanderlust was my mistress and drugs and alcohol was a fiddle whose music I could not ignore. How many days did I ignore her? How many days did I make excuses to avoid my beautiful boy? The fiddle would begin to play and I would dance my life away. I would dance for hours and before too long, my loving home transformed into a seedy bar. The fiddle would play on and I would then materialize into backstage bedlam. Strange women’s moans lulled me to sleep and sand paper knuckles greeted me good morning. It must have been here that led me too the dumpster. No, it was before Twyla. Who am I kidding?
How did I end up here? I was 16. My father dropped in and paid my mom and I a visit. I hadn’t seen the old coot for eons. I wondered even then, if he was really sitting before me or some hallucination. Acid was a delicacy then. He told me a tale of mistakes made. Pop shared his failures with me. Epic failures of not realizing the mental condition my mother had. It appears that my mother, God rest her soul, was not “In her right mind”, as he put it.
Sure I remember days when Mom’s threats of suicide disturbed me. One might say it was a giant warning sign that those suicide threats would come after one of my occasional four year old temper tantrums of being forced to live in a soiled diaper. You will also hear no argument from me how it is not in the best interest of the child to burn cigarette butts on him, regardless if the voices told her it was the best way to be rid of the devil’s temptations in my head. I sat there realizing that the old coot had wanted to save me all along. He wanted to save me from this monstrous woman and her monstrous ways. Sad to say though that Pop wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He never expected that when my mother politely excused herself from the dinner table to powder her nose, she was really returning with a double barrel shotgun. She blew him in half right in front of me. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him that I had really loved him. I’m sure that was the situation that led me to the dumpster and the rest of my minutes as a crispy critter.
You know, now that I think of it, I can’t even blame Mom or my half a Dad. Gosh, that was ghoulish of me to say. I was the reason I ended up in that Dumpster deep fried and served up like fast food into eternity. It was my choices and every foot step I plotted, that led me down that road. Here in the funeral parlor of the great green dumpster, the rat gnawing on my burnt finger is the only one left to pay his respects. It makes you wonder. How did I end up here? What could I have done diffe—