Guppy
Sam, there are lots of things I ain't gonna miss one bit about that city, lemme tell ya. I sure ain't gonna miss the smell—that vague sewer stink hauntin' every parkin' garage and streetcorner—matter of fact, fuck 'vague'—whole town reeks end-to-goddamn-end like an army latrine after burrito night. I sure ain't gonna miss the lack of good coffee—yeah, they got a Starbucks on every block if you want to break a Ben Franklin for a cup half full up with whipcream and toasty coconut sprinkles and whatever the hell else they squirt in there to cover up the shitty burnt taste—but where the hell can you find a decent diner for a plain old cup of coffee? I mean, Christ Almighty, this is America isn't it?—what kinda fruity European name is Starbucks anyhow? Isn't that some guy from Moby Dick? You tell me what the hell a giant squid has gotta do with making coffee anyway, huh? Nope, not one decent diner in town. And while I'm on that track, I'm sure as shit not gonna miss every restaurant inside the city limits being closed on Sundays. I mean, just where is a self-respecting pilgrim supposed to get his Sabbath-day booster shot of bourbon and steak when the only game in town is an Interstate IHOP with a fifteen minute waiting line full up with shivering single moms and strung out crackheads? And good luck trying to tell the waitresses from the customers: they're all too busy stuffing their pants with them little tubs of syrup, stealin' them for babyfood or worse—won't even make eye contact half the time, never mind takin' your order. I won't miss that bullshit one little bit and I won't miss the locals. All added up, I was on Pinkerton's snapshoot-and-stakeout duty for near-enough six months: six months of rent, six months of buying meals and cigars, six months of bowling, six months of whores. And the plain fact was that when I punched the clock at the end of that six months we’d learned to tolerate each other, the locals and me, but they just never really seemed to warm to me much. Their loss. I might've left better tips if I'd seen a smile or got a handshake even just once. Not that the feeling wasn't mutual, mind you. Maybe that's racist, maybe it ain't. I'm no hard-to-please guy, but no matter what I tried to tell myself, I just plain didn't like them. I didn't like the way they stared at me, I didn't like their pipe music, I didn't like all them grandmothers wearing those Old Country veils over their faces all the time and I didn't like seeing little girls with droopy eyes and flaky scalps. I didn't like their midnight fishing boat convoys, I didn't like their candlelight prayer vigils and I sure as shit didn't like the local cops or dogcatchers - especially those sonofabitch dogcatchers. No sir, I didn't like them and I don't much care who knows it. Hell, if anyone local reads this, you all should make a note: treat visitors with a little more respect next time one comes through. We just might respond better to a neighborly nod than that mutter-and-mumble-to-yourself shit—and you could try to speak English for chrissake. This is still America last time I checked, am I right? But you wanna know the number one thing I'm not gonna miss about that town, Sam? The water. The goddamn water. It didn't just stink—and don't even get me started on that again—no, the smell I almost got used to. It was the colour. Yellow. Every sink tap and every cruddy drinking fountain and every goddamn shower in every motel, all that mustard colour. Water should be clear. And, thing was, it gave me a goddamn rash all over, itchy as shit and it still hasn't gone away. Just this morning when I'm shaving it looks like it might even be gettin' worse, what with them little red bumps, getting sore where I shaved on the sides of my throat, but itchy all over my fuckin' arms and neck and chest—on my dick for chrissake—you'd think I got crabs or ringworm or something like that if you looked, but I used that shampoo the pharmacy gave me and it didn't help, so they figure it must be from the water. Now just how are you supposed to attract tourism dollars when your motels are crawling with rash, huh? I mean, this is supposta be America, not goddamn Russia. Town council's got all their thumbs jammed up each other's asses with that prayer meeting shit. You bet your bottom dollar that Cape Cod woulda had a health inspector all over that violation by now. They know the bottom line when they see it. Fuckin' disgusting, lemme tell ya. No sir, Max, there are a whole lotta things I ain't gonna miss about old Innsmouth. But lemme tell ya, I wouldn't complain in the end—like you always said, every cloud's got a silver lining, right? I mean, who ever woulda guessed an ugly pug like me would strike gold, and on a job of all places? Call it luck if you want, but I figure I still got my tough guy charm. I just hope the new Missus doesn't wanna visit her family too often, especially after the baby comes — her'guppy', she calls it. Yeah, Marina's sure cute as a button and sweet as sugar, but she's a bit funny about things, you know, a bit shy, a bit superstitious. I just hope the kid doesn't get them weird allergies too. |
