The Viscous Cycle



After my show I poured a whiskey-cola, premixed in the two-liter Dr. Bob bottle, and ate a two-and-a-half-pound block of cheese. I started out cutting sensible slices, nibbling on them as I paced the house. Then I discovered that if you cut three pieces of cheese you can pile them on top of each other and create a carb-free cheese sandwich, not that I’m a low-carb guy. The sandwich thing helped for a while, let me keep up the illusion that I wasn’t going to start gnawing on the dwindling cheese block like a zombie on a pile of entrails, attacking it as if it was going to melt if I didn’t eat it fast enough. It’s a little quirk of mine. I eat when I’m nervous. Also when I’m sad, angry, depressed, happy, excited, or awake.

There’s a name for this. It used to be I was just a fucking fatty. Turns out I suffer from binge-eating disorder, or BED—at least according to an ad I saw on stupid Facebook. I got no idea how Mark Fuckerberg knows about my eating disorder, unless his minions have been tracking how much I spend at Aldi’s. At least they don’t know about the GERD and sleep apnea. Yes, I’m going to die but at least I’ll die unhappy.

I had to lie on the floor a spell. Your stomach don’t settle when it’s full up of generic cheese and bottom-shelf, plastic-jug whiskey. You’ll throw up or die but if you lie on your back you can buy yourself some time. In my case it was enough to allow me to get up, waddle to the computer, and press the button that allowed my computer and the Internet to work their magic and birth the latest edition of my podcast, The Viscous Cycle, out into the world.

Nothing like a proper hurl to work up the appetite, so I decided to make macaroni. I don’t mean this as a slur against Kraft, but there was a mouse turd in my Kraft macaroni. I stared at the box for about ten minutes. I would not be deterred. I am fat and vulgar, kind of whiny and very lazy, but I ain’t no quitter. I’m a perseverer. The macaroni may have been tainted but the cheese packet was still secure. I heated a slab of butter on the stove, then mixed in the powdered cheese product along with some milk, stirred until it was thick and creamy, and made nachos. It was too early to check for comments so I finished the whiskey-cola, chugging straight from the bottle, and went to bed.

I’m not an alcoholic or a drunk, just an alcohol enthusiast. Drinking is a hobby, like target shooting or stamp collecting. It’s a much cheaper hobby than target shooting, especially with the cost of ammunition these days. And it’s convenient. I can do it anywhere. Yes, it’s bad for me, but no one criticizes rock climbers, even though their hobby is extremely dangerous. Having your skull crushed or your back broke is as bad for you as drinking, maybe even worse.

Sunlight streamed through the window blinds like an evil mist in a horror movie, but what woke me up was the pounding on my front door. I thought it was a SWAT team invading the wrong house again. That happened here a while back. We just have one cop in town and he’s part time and only got the job through nepotism so they had to bring the big guns in from the city. They had the right address but the wrong town so Bob Peterson’s house got busted all to hell for nothing. He deserved it anyway so I guess I shouldn’t be outraged. The only illicit substance they found was some expired pills. Raymond Chandler wrote, in The Lady in the Lake, the best thing anyone ever wrote about the pigs: “Police business is a hell of a problem. It’s a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there’s nothing in it to attract the highest type of men. So we have to work with what we get.” Round here we don’t get much. If you think the cops are dumb where you live, come to Purgatory. I’d catch hell from my momma if she heard me call them pigs. We respect the police in these parts (long as they only hassle black folks and Mexicans).

Share: 
Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Share on Reddit
Pin It
Embed

About Alan Good


Follow
2 4
I am an independent writer, which is code for someone who can't get an agent. But you know what? Agents are annoying. All they want is a bunch of YA and sexually confused zombies. My work has been published in Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Bookslut, Atticus Review, Perversion Mag, The East Bay Review,...read more The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Word Riot.
0 comments
Discussion
There are no comments yet...

People who liked this also liked

The Music of the World

Poem of the Week

Loop The Loop

Story of the Week

Bottom of the Ninth

Most Popular

Dig a Hole

Poem of the Week

Loop The Loop

Story of the Week

Bottom of the Ninth