I drove to the church first, secretly hoping they would deny my application right away. If they offered me the position I would be obligated to accept it and I would be scrubbing the holy shitter within the week. There was no one in sight when I walked in, so I just wandered around until I found the back office. A fat priest sat at the desk with a judgmental look on his face, his judgmental eyes peering over his judgmental bifocals until I cleared my throat and got his attention. He started explaining right away that they had no soup services until friday afternoon until I interrupted him and explained about the janitor job.

It didn't go well. He commented that he hadn't seen me before, which I understood was a bad thing since this was a supposedly "holy" place, and he could tell just by looking at me that I was one hell of a sinner. When he asked me which church I attended I stood up and told him to fuck off. I had enough of their guilt-laden bullshit as a child and I wasn't going to put up with it every fucking day just to pull a minimum-wage check. He seemed startled, which surprised me. I was sure assholes like him were told to fuck off pretty often.


On the way back to the car I looked in my wallet to see I had three bucks and some change to my name. And I still needed gas. This convinced me not to go home right away and try the elementary school about that job. After all, I probably only had a few mouthfulls of pissy vodka back home anyway.


Walking up to the front offices I was getting winded by the goddamn stairs. I already had my doubts about working at this place even before walking through the door. I approached the desk where a secretary sat behind a desk sorting some papers. The look on her face made it clear that she didn't think I belonged here. "How can I help you?" she asked. Not even a 'sir'.


"I'm here about the custodial position." I explained, trying hard to sound and look presentable. "I applied yesterday." "Oh, yes. Well, I haven't gotten around to reviewing all the applications yet. We got so many of them... the economy, you know?" she said through smiling teeth. "I could probably get you an interview, but maybe you want to come back a little later?" She was still sitting down so I was fighting the urge to stare down her blouse, even though they weren't that spectacular from the looks of things. "Why the fu... I mean, hell would I want to come back?" The moment I said it I realized it came out aggressive. "To freshen up. Frankly sir, you smell like alcohol."


I just walked out of there laughing to myself. She said ahe wanted my name to give me a call when they were ready to interview, but I knew she just wanted to pull my app and trash it. I drove home thirsty for whatever swill I could dig out of the discarded bottles in my apartment. When I opened the door I was depressed. Vanessa was gone, but she had cleaned my place like a fucking madwoman. I bet she didn't leave a single near-empty bottle in the garbage for me to salvage. Then I saw it. A fresh bottle of single malt sitting on the counter with a short note.


"I left a couple dollars in your end table drawer and there is some food in the fridge. You didn't have anything! Give me a call if you ever want to see me again- Vanessa"


There was $60 in the end table. I put the music on and laid into the bottle with a big smile on my face.

I woke up with an unfamiliar and pleasant scent in the air. There was a woman beside me and for once she didn't stink of stale sex from a night of fornicating. I reached down and grabbed my cock, it's lack of soreness confirming last night's chastity, then quietly scrambled out of bed to take a seemingly endless piss in the bathroom where I noticed she had done some essential decontamination last night while I slept. There was even a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging next to the shitter instead of being perched atop the sink counter, something that I hadn't seen in at least a few years. I made the uncharacteristic effort of washing my hands before returning, hoping the sound of running water would disguise my otherwise absolute filthiness.

When I returned to the bedroom she had already gotten up and was making coffee, nude, in the kitchen. From behind I could see the whisps of dark hair from below the base of her ample ass protruding slightly and I became aware of a morning erection.


"You don't have to do that, love" I told her, but she said she was happy to take care of me, and after all, I probably needed some coffee after last night's drinking. I turned on the radio and was happy to hear of some tragic shooting on the east coast. Dozens injured, at least three dead. She brought me a cup and sat at the table where she pulled another cigarette out of her purse and watched me drink it. She had her legs crossed high up as if to preserve some modesty despite her nakedness, and it was giving me fits. I drank the last of my coffee and walked over to her, snuffed her cigarette out on the table and dragged her into the bedroom.


We fucked for the better part of an hour, and she was making quiet whimpering noises that made me think she was either really enjoying herself or I was raping her. Either way it was great. I finished off, wiped my dick on the sheets, and lazily rolled onto my stomach while she ran her fingers over my back. She noticed the scars there and commented that they looked like I was an angel that lost my wings. "If I had wings they wouldn't be the kind that had feathers, babe" I replied, and avoided telling her the depressing truth that they were belt buckle wounds from a childhood event involving a broken window and a drunken father. There was a kindness in her that was foreign to me and it would be terribly irresponsible for me to poison it with my cynicism. I sat there while she petted me like some beaten dog until I abruptly sat up and got dressed. I told her I had to see about a job I applied for yesterday, which was partly true, but mostly I was trying to escape for some ridiculous reason that I couldn't identify. It was only after I started my car that I realized that I might never see her again.

I dreamed of an ugly woman that I was inexplicably in love with that helped me solve the murder of an unrepentant rapist, and woke up with false pride. It's amazing how little you can get done when you have no deadlines. I barely managed to get myself out of bed long enough to get to the liquor store let alone get another job. I thought I had it made until I called my former employer and realized they intended to challenge my unemployment claim. After ten years I thought they could offer me at least the courtesy of collecting a little free money.

Luckily under the laws of my state I was entitled to my final paycheck on my last day and was able to buy 30 days of leeway with my landlord before spending the rest. Predictably I wasted most of it on drink, spending the brief hours between intoxication shivering from nausea and reeling from the headaches. I kept my hands buried in the pockets of my jeans convinced that my fingernails would fall off and rattle like loose change. It was heaven.


But I knew that if I wanted to keep up this glorious lifestyle and avoid sticking my pistol in the face of some poor store clerk I was going to have to find a new job. I prepared to venture out into the job market the only way I knew how, with a coffee cup full of whiskey and a breakfast of dry toast and dill pickles. I checked every liquor store in the area for openings, but the ones that recognized me knew I couldn't be trusted with the stock, and the ones that didn't recognize me thought they did and guessed likewise. I downgraded my employment ambitions to basic labor, and filled out two applications for janitor positions, one at an elementary school and another at a church. Both were places I had no business anywhere near.


My brain was still swimming in the morning's booze and I wasted no time in drowning it again. I was sitting at an unfamiliar bar stool deciding if I wanted a ham sandwich or another drink when she sat down next to me. Her name was Vanessa and she was all smiles, leading me to the conclusion she was probably a prostitute. She wasn't ugly enough to be the type to approach me, but it didn't add up. A whore would notice that I was ordering only well whiskey, a sign of vagrant, and I certainly looked the part, and she even took it upon herself to pick up my tab. We drank together, I ate a sandwich that I sorely needed and she chain-smoked cigarettes. She had kids but made it clear they didn't live with her for some unspoken reason, and stared me down with her giant brown eyes while we chatted. When she got up to take a piss I watched her ass shake pleasantly and I wanted to bury my face in it. The bartender must have heard the thought go through my mind judging by his soft laughter as he shook his head. He was either jealous or he knew her all to well. Regardless I knew it was time to take her home.


At my apartment she wasted no time in tidying up the coffee table like she owned the place. I let her play house while I put some music on and drank on the couch. She was taking care of me. I wondered if she knew just how bad it was with me, or if she even cared, and decided that she was mothering me to make up for some maternal failure years ago as I slipped off to sleep. Unlike the other women I brought home I didn't want her to leave, and figured I had nothing of value to protect from her. Besides, if she wanted what little I had I might be willing to simply give it to her.

When I got home I finished the job I started at the adult book store, drowning out the world with a too-loud playing of Otis Redding's Tramp. I was hoping someone on the floor would pound on the wall and complain, but no such luck. I washed my hands and headed out to the bar.

I was two beers and three whiskeys in before I got the mojo going and started harassing the women. Two walked away before I found one with low enough self esteem to talk to me. I played the gentleman and complimented her. When she pretended to be modest and said she wished she had a chance to clean up after work before going out I leaned in and audibly sniffed her and said, "I disagree. You don't smell dirty enough" When she smiled I knew I had her.


I pumped drinks into her until closing time and then tried to convince her to come to my place and fuck. She resisted hard enough to indicate she thought I was some kind of serial killer or something, but I eventually got her into my back seat. Her breath fogged up the glass until the bar owner banged on it and told us to beat it. Luckily I came inside her before she had a chance to scurry out the passenger door and run off to her car. She was a good lay but she had kind of shallow pussy. It was either only four inches deep or took a hard left that stopped me cold in mid-thrust. On the way home I got all sentimental and thought about marrying her and having kids and shit. I make myself sick sometimes.


I spent the better part of sunday examining my dick and convincing myself she gave me herpes. It was probably just friction burns, something I suffered from weekly but was too paranoid to realize on the fly. Despite my distress I slept well. Well enough to barely make it to work in the morning.


My manager was waiting for me when I came in. He always stood up straight when we spoke, trying desperately not to be five inches shorter than me, and he had terrible breath. His breath was bad enough to inspire self awareness, and besides, he had a wife! There's no way he doesn't know about it. When I have booze on my breath I at least have the decency to exhale through my nose, for christ's sake.


"I need to schedule you for some overtime" he said. "And don't give me any grief, okay? This is coming all the way from corporate, so it's mandatory." Only assholes used the word "grief" like it was a proper curse word. And he was certainly an asshole.


"You know what Wayne?" I said. He went by Scott but his real name was Wayne. "Go fuck yourself!" I looked him straight in the eye when I said it. With a look that forced him to acknowledge that I was more powerful than he was. And more angry. He threatened me with his only power, an HR meeting, before I walked past him and gathered the shit from my desk and walked out. And that was the end of that career.


I celebrated the loss of employment with eight 2oz shots of hard proof rum and a three hour nap on my carpet. When I awoke I couldn't have felt better about it.

Someone was pounding on my door.

I got up and marched to the door in my underwear, ready to scream at the asshole that had the nerve to wake me up at noon on a saturday, but it was just my landlord. She was an old, used up broad. She was probably worth buying a drink for ten years ago, but now she was a novelty fuck at best. The kind that you never told your friends about.


I told her that next wednesday was payday, and surprisingly she left it at that. It was only after I headed to the bathroom to take a piss that I noticed the three inches of my shriveled cock hanging out of my boxers. Good thing I have no shame. I peeled off the five-day-old shorts and took a cold shower, got dressed, then carried two garbage bags full of empty bottles down to the dumpster. It smelled like dog shit and immigrant cum in the alleyway.


I cleaned up the apartment for about two hours, wiping and mopping up every body fluid I had to offer and then some, even washing the dishes and the coffee maker. Then I drove down to Sullivan's, the adult book store and arcade, to jerk off in a booth. I had a computer and my neighbor had an unprotected wifi connection, but I always got harder in a filthy booth, masturbating to 80's porn on a 16 inch tube tv like I when I was a kid.


"Psst!" Some guy whispered, tapping his fingers on the top of the stall door. This was the one downside of the porn shop. Fags always trying to sell blowjobs to desperate men. I pretended I didn't hear him and tried to keep my erection. "C'mon, man. I'll suck yer dick for free, I swear!" I only had eight minutes left in the booth and I was now as limp as overcooked pasta. I unlocked the booth door.


It was a fat asian guy with glasses and a big grin. He didn't say anything, didn't even look me in the eye as he closed the door behind him and reached for my dick. I couldn't punch him. I was too angry. I grabbed him by the sides of the head and squeezed hard, clenching my teeth until I felt one of my molars crack. The whole thing happened so fast, no shouting or struggle, it was like he knew it would be worse if he fought back. I pushed his head down into the tile floor of the booth where he turned onto his side to protect his face. His t-shirt was pulled over his fat gut, exposing the tip of his tiny boner poking out of the top of his sweatpants. I stomped on it hard twice before he got his hands down to protect it. He was whimpering as I gathered myself and walked out of the shop. Thanks to him I will never go back again.

At work the next day a pretty younger girl showed concern when I started coughing to the point of choking. I could tell by her eyes that she was desperate for some man to come along and love her, desperate enough to reach out to an older, fatter, balding man that she barely knew. But I would only use her up. And even though I would love every minute of it I couldn't shake the image of the crucifix she wore between her perfect breasts. I just didn't have the heart to prove to her that God didn't exist. So I assured her I was fine and went about my business.

When I got home I spent two hours trying to cry. I thought of all the horrible things I've done, contorted my face and made pathetic weeping noises, but didn't manage a single tear. I suppose I just wanted to have an emotion that wasn't contempt or anger, but maybe I am too far gone for it. Instead I drank straight from the bottle in my underwear and spent the evening listening to my neighbors scream at each other until I yelled at them to shut the fuck up. When Dave screamed back I threatened to kill him in the hallway and then stood outside their door until it was clear he wasn't coming. They were actually very nice people, normally. I went back to my apartment and finished the bottle before falling asleep on the couch.

I was twenty minutes late for work the next day, and got halfway through my shift before I realized it was friday. It was the last day for one of the receptionists there, and she was going to retire after finding out she was really sick. She told me what she had once, but I don't remember what it was. The staff were all signing an oversized retirement card with the words "Miss You Already!" scrawled across the front, and it made it's way onto my desk. When I signed it I could see that everyone was planning on meeting up later that evening to say goodbye. At least they had the good sense not to invite me, and I knew what bar to avoid that night. I hate seeing people that I know.

I went to the same bar from a few nights ago, and was drinking for some time until I noticed the whore was there again. Luckily she was with some other loser this time, trying her damnedest to make me jealous. But I had already been there, and it wasn't worth visiting again. Instead I flirted with the bartender until she gave me a free drink, the equivalent of patting a dog on the head to a lonely drunk.

After paying my tab the bartender offered to call me a cab, but I explained I would be walking. "But it's raining, mister!" she said. I assured her I didn't mind, and pretended I didn't have car keys in my hand. Male bartenders didn't give a shit if you killed yourself and a family of four out on the highway, but women will call the cops. I drove home carefully.

Walking through my doorway I stepped on an envelope that had been slipped under the door. Apparently my rent was late. I thought about calling the whore back but decided she probably had a dick in her mouth by now. I spat blood into the sink and it left a heart-shaped stain on the porcelain. How romantic.

I awakened again at around 10 o'clock, happy to see that the sun was down. I was much more comfortable knowing most people were sleeping in bed next to their spouse, their judgmental eyes closed to the sight of my disgraceful life. But without any liquor with which to enjoy myself I was at a loss. I brushed my teeth and bypassed a shower again, then ventured out to the bar.

"Double whiskey, and keep them coming." I told the barkeep. With a couple drinks in me and my hands occupied with cold glass I could sound like a genius to the common bar patron. Confidence and intelligence. Lying about both could get me laid most nights. Before long I was in a combination argument/flirting session with an increasingly beautiful older woman. She told me I was insufferable, I told her she smelled like a whore, then we kissed like we were trying to eat each other.

"Take me home" she said. But I hadn't drank my fill yet and I was willing to lose her over it. She understood and let me drink.

I had no idea what ghetto we were in, but she lived there. She tasted like cigarettes and other men, but I was happy to taste. I decided I would never speak to her again when she made a big phony spectacle during sex, screaming like she had something to prove to her neighbors. "Hear that? I'm getting fucked! And you all get to listen to it!" She wasn't massaging my ego, she was massaging her own. And for it she would win even more rejection, as I abandoned her used-up, snoring body and crept past her sleeping kids to make my escape.

At home I ate some canned sausages and crackers, watched a movie about a sled dog race that ended predictably in an inspiring moment of triumph, then went to sleep hoping I would accidentally swallow my tongue. But I woke up in the morning, disappointed.

My phone showed three missed calls and two voicemails. Fuck. I forgot I had given the whore my phone number. I brushed my teeth and washed my cock in the sink, then used the toilet. Upon inspecting the bowl I was not surprised to see the shit was dark like asphalt, reminding me that my ulcers would probably get infected and septic one day from all the drinking. A less-than-pleasant end to a less-than-pleasant life. But I was no quitter. With any luck I could manage a more epic and violent end.

I listened to the whore's messages, deleting the one where she was screaming and saving the one where she was crying. I didn't call her back, confident that a woman like her knew the look of a man's back when he was walking away. In all likelihood she was familiar with being rejected since her father climbed off of her when she was nine. I fed the dog for the first time in two days and got ready for work.

I worked 8 of 9 hours I was scheduled for, smiled at my coworkers like I gave a damn if they lived or died, then hit the liquor store on the way home. Two more missed calls on my cell, but the whore didn't leave any more messages. I decided to only drink enough to get to sleep, then finish the rest tomorrow after work. I wrote a story about a young boy that killed his school bully with a broken bottle, then slept like a baby.

I resented the power my parents had over me. They had the house, the money, and the reputation. I was destined to be a disappointment. I decided long ago I would never see them again and spare us both the awkwardness.

This was the thought going through my head as I lay back in my bed, masturbating for the third time that morning. Even in my fantasies I was pathetic and disgusting. It was a mystery even to myself why I haven't blown the barrel of the revolver in my end table yet. Probably because in the list of my many negative qualities is total cowardice. I came, wiped my belly off, then got out of bed. A good start to any day.

I brushed my teeth but didn't take a shower, then got dressed. Not that I had anywhere to go. The television was showing nothing but sit-coms, which was making me feel sick. I hate comedies because enjoying them means pretending to be happy, which I hadn't been for some time now. It made me uncomfortable to buy liquor before noon, but fuck it. The booze store clerk knew what I was anyway. There was no hiding my addiction anymore. My nose was swollen and red, my breath was sweet with last night's drunkenness, and I was sickly pale. There were probably dozens of other men like me that rang the bell attached to his doorway.

"Jameson please", I said. Funny how you feel the need to be polite to the man selling you death in a bottle. It was like tipping your hangman, not that I wasn't grateful.

Once I had downed half of the bottle I had the nerve to face the world. I climbed into my car and turned on the radio to the nearest politically divisive channel I could find. They always told the truth I wanted to hear, that the world was bad enough to justify my constant attempts to avoid it. Compared to the sound of their angry rants my vomiting was poetry. I wiped my lips, spat twice, then drove through the city fast enough to deserve the attention of the cops and the disdain of the other drivers. When they pulled up next to me at the lights I stared back. They always looked away when they saw the dead eyes I had for them.

When I got to the park I sat alone on a bench and read some Chinaski. It was the only thing that kept me awake, kept me walking through the desert. I looked up only to evaluate the bodies of the passing women, deciding whether I would fuck them. But who was I kidding? I would fuck them all if they would let me, or if it was up to me alone. "Fucking pig!" the fat lady with the baby carriage said under her breath, noticing my gaze. I just looked back at her. I couldn't disagree. Better yet, her comments made me desire her more. I thought about fucking her in the bushes that lined the bike path while she screamed. It made me smile for the first time today. I walked back to my car, hungry for the rest of my bottle.

While leaving the parking lot I drove up and over the curb and cut off the guy merging with traffic from across the street. He honked but I honked longer. I turned the radio up. The drunker I got the louder it needed to be to get through. I shamelessly mouthed the bottle as I drove, unconcerned with the odds of collision or capture.

Seemingly in the next moment I became aware that I was again alone in my room. All around me was the evidence of a sloppily devoured fast food meal and an emptied bottle, telling the tale of the three or so hours I spent blacked-out before taking an involuntary nap. I checked my cell to make sure I hadn't made any embarrassing calls or texts while I was down, and satisfied, I changed out of my piss-soaked pants and went back to sleep. It was 4pm.