“Black has depth.. you can go into it.. And you start seeing what you’re afraid of. You start seeing what you love, and it becomes like a dream.” ― David Lynch, Lynch on Lynch
There has been a lot of internal back and forth about this one. The things I wanted to write about. The things I wanted to avoid. And yeah, a good bit of it fits neatly into the middle of the Venn diagram. That murky little center that doesn’t get too warm but isn’t exactly cold either. All of those places built and designed with the muted color palette. I know that’s where my mind goes off to wander. To explore. To escape. I used to make an effort to try and find it. These days, I find it’s best to just let it go. It always comes back. Hell, do I really care if it stays away? I suppose I won’t know until it happens. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. That’s the beauty of it in a way. Life chugs along and they believe everything is stuck to the correct track. Moving forward. But if you’ve done your reading, then you know that Blaine is a pain, and that is the truth.
Physically, I’m on some sort of right path. The days are mostly made up of exhaustion and pain. That’s more than enough, I know, but that’s just how it is right now. I’m working with the pain management clinic to get all of that business under control. The exhaustion is — and always has been — a constant staple. At this point, I imagine I could do several lines of cocaine and be able to catch a nap within the hour. That would make for an interesting experiment.
The last few rounds of blood work have shown some rather significant improvement. I don’t know what all of it means but from what I gather, these new treatments are working. So there’s that. I was never given any sort of timeline for how long I’ll be getting them (I just show up when they tell me to and hope for the best). The last time wasn’t too rough. Took a few days to catch up to me. Fevers were manageable. Biggest thing was pushing through the weakness and fatigue. But, as I said earlier, that’s basically an every day task now. I find a comfy spot on the couch and just let myself exist. Someone asked how things were going (this was a few weeks ago) and I said I was living on ‘pain pills and popsicles’. And before you ask, I’m well aware that neither are good. But they do make a good combination. I’ve just been getting the cheap bag of popsicles from Wal-Mart/Kroger (the variety pack). Our freezer still has a good number of blue ones left (not one I enjoy all too much).
You know, right from the onset of hearing that I had cancer, I knew that the mental battle was probably going to equal the physical one (if not exceed it in some ways). I don’t find myself craving sympathy (never have and never will). I prefer that attention gets paid elsewhere. Yes, I write these little entries and make my rare post on Facebook about it, and then I move along (apologies to those who comment on this stuff…I don’t do a lot of social media and I’m horrible at responding when I do). But yeah, it’s a daily challenge to keep an even frame of mind. And no, that doesn’t entail bouts of self-pity or any of the usual ‘woe as me’ stuff. That’s not in my wheelhouse. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I never sit and ponder ‘why me’ (spoiler alert…there isn’t a real answer to that question…not for anyone). Shit happens. And that leads to another spoiler alert. Shit will always happen. That’s just how our narratives are structured in this weird little thing we call life.
I’m sure for the lot of us, there is some sort of genetic predisposition to health problems. That goes across the board. I still often see it as this random thing that just happened. It’s not like we can pick and choose what ailments will strike us down. If that were the case, I think I would have gone with something a little cooler than bile duct cancer. Yawn.
But let’s not confuse me with someone who has the ideal and best outlook on things. Don’t group me in with the folks that push forward and try to make a real difference. I struggle every single day. I’ve had doctors suggest therapy and support groups and I’ve shut them down every time. And it’s not as though I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. I just know it isn’t for me. I also know that my way of dealing with things is probably on the lower half of what’s considered healthy. I feel my mind wander and I feel my consciousness drift and I just know when it’s time to hide away from the world. There are days when my patience doesn’t exist. When every tiny thing gets to me — almost like someone is needling me with a drill bit designed specifically to torture and annoy — and most of the time I just lose my shit. I hear sighs and groans and complaints and my eyes immediately roll up into my skull and I want to disappear. I want to be completely removed from the situation. And right there is the mental split that I still don’t fully grasp. I’ve had several people apologize to me for complaining about things and I always tell them that it’s ridiculous to even consider apologizing for something like that. We all have our problems and issues and I don’t ever consider one to be worse than the other (obviously some are — that’s just a given — but in terms of perception and importance, I try to see everything from a level playing field).
Then there are times when some people just go over the top with it and I have a hard time seeing any real issues. It’s like, ‘look at what I’m going through…you don’t hear me complaining and bitching…just shut up and deal with your life’. Where is the fairness in that? Granted, I’ve always kept those reactions and opinions to myself. And I always will. Point being, I’m not fond of the divide that I feel for that kind of stuff. I always want people to know that they can come to me with whatever is going on in their life. Whether it’s for advice or just an ear (or a couple of nearsighted eyes). Yeah, I’m sick. I’m dealing with a horrible thing. That doesn’t lessen the importance of others. And me writing about it isn’t some backdoor way to silence anyone. It’s just a thing I struggle with from time to time and I think it’s important to acknowledge it.
Treatment yesterday came and went. I made it about an hour or so after I got home before the ceiling caved in and wiped me out. Spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the couch. Didn’t make much headway in getting anything done. I watched one episode of Demon Slayer and the ESPN 30 for 30 on American Gladiators. I can’t quite recall when I finally mustered up enough energy to crawl into bed. It was late and the cats were asleep. The house was quiet. Didn’t take long to pass out and saunter into the void. I tried to do some self-reflection and failed miserably. I may opt to try again this afternoon. Then again, that isn’t always the best idea. I can already feel the sharp edges of a not-so-pleasant mood trying to dig into the back of my skull. Looking at everything when the view is obstructed and caked with gunk and dark thoughts is tough and it won’t lead to any positive answers. It is often easiest to flip the switch, listen to mindless humor, and await whatever sleep has in store.
Panthers/Knights in the Cup Final. Who saw that coming? I sure as heck didn’t. It should be a fantastic series. I’m looking at the Panthers to win it. They have been on an absolute tear since the playoffs started and I don’t see any signs of them slowing down. Not now. Will the long layoff hurt them? Possibly. They could come out flat in Game One. Or we could get the complete opposite and they wipe out Vegas quicker than the poor shmucks at the blackjack table lose their paychecks. Look for Matthew Tkachuk to win the Conn Smythe if Florida does win the series. To me, Vegas doesn’t have a clear MVP (at least not yet). Sometimes it takes that final round to see who really stands out. But in terms of complete team play, Vegas has been nearly unmatched. Jack Eichel and Jonathan Marchessault are both playing some of the best hockey of their careers. Final prediction? Florida in 7.
(I just want to see it go 7 so I can watch the entire game and not be interrupted with petty things like work).
Watched Sisu last weekend. Quite fun. Imagine a version of John Wick in post-WW2 Finland. Add Nazis. Sprinkle in a dash (or a hefty gallon) of ridiculous violence and gore. And there you have it. Let’s be honest. Seeing Nazis get destroyed is an absolute blast in any medium.
There are a handful of pictures I’ve got on my watch list. I need to get out to see The Machine (Bert Kreischer). Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse and The Boogeyman are being released this weekend (as in tomorrow – June 1st). We’ve got The Flash on June 15th. DC releases don’t often excite me all that much but this looks fantastic. And who doesn’t love to see Keaton back as Batman? And we’ll cap off June with Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. I’ve done an admirable job at wiping away most of my memories regarding the last Indiana Jones film. I hope this one falls into the more favorable area of memory (where the first 3 reside).
I’ll leave off with some random thoughts.
-Not everything needs to be attached to a “verse”. Singularities can and should exist.
-Ignoring that last thought, I would like to see these universes start to collide. Give me Fast and Furious smashed together with Transformers.
-Telling strangers (or anyone) what you would do in particular situations does not make for interesting conversation. No one knows what they would do in any given situation until they are right in the thick of it (and most don’t know what to do at that point either).
-Pyramid schemes still exist. Have we not learned anything? Have we forgotten our shapes?
-TikTok and Instagram are horrible places to get news.
-I will never flash my lights at oncoming cars to alert them that a cop is somewhere behind me. I hope you all get pulled over for driving like idiots.
“I hate it that Americans are taught to fear some books and some ideas as though they were diseases.” ― Kurt Vonnegut
It’s been a little over a year since everything changed.
Ugh. Such a cliché. I wonder how many stories have started with that exact line. Too many, I’m sure. That’s almost as bad as, “I bet you’re wondering how I got myself in this situation”.
I’d hoped to find my way back to this place with a little more regularity. Such has not been the case. April was a particularly nasty month and coming back here never really moved past the realm of very dim thoughts.
I found myself back in the ICU during the first full week of the month. I really hadn’t been feeling well prior to taking my second helicopter ride to a hospital but I really didn’t think much of it. One go ’round with a GI bleed gave me enough insight to know if and when I was in trouble. Plus, it was WrestleMania weekend and I was set on having a very good time with family. Things didn’t quite go as planned. The shows were good, yes, but I knew something was a bit off. I couldn’t eat. I had bad fevers every night. I couldn’t muster up much excitement (or energy). I saw a very dear friend make his WrestleMania debut and all I could do was crack a tiny smile and send off some words expressing how happy I was to have seen it.
We’ll push the timeline up a few days to Tuesday the 4th. Early morning saw me get off the couch to use the bathroom and that’s when all of the panic alarms went off. I’ll spare you all the gory details. I lost a lot of blood in quite a short amount of time. Ambulance got me to the Weirton Medical ER. There wasn’t a lot they could do for me there and they were up front about that. I had 2 IV’s, an accessed port, and a central line for all of the medicine and blood they needed to give me. Got all of that done just as the helicopter arrived to take me to Morgantown. As it was before, I didn’t have my damn glasses, so I couldn’t really see much during the trip. It was quite nice outside so that was a bit of a downer. The pressure change also caused one of the blood bags to kind-of-explode all over me. Also a bit of a downer.
My time in the ICU was a nightmare. Again, I’ll spare you the details. I was in rough shape. They decided that I needed an NG tube shoved down my throat (which was done incorrectly and made life an even bigger version of hell). But it drained about 400ml of blood from my stomach. So there’s that. It wasn’t until I had a full blown panic attack that the nurses finally gave me something to wet my lips and mouth. I was set for a procedure on Wednesday and that meant nothing by mouth. Except I was horribly dehydrated and the procedure wasn’t going to happen until late afternoon. So you can see why I was a bit on edge.
They took me in for another ERCP (my favorite). Turns out the tumor in the duct was bleeding. And from what I gathered, it had slowly been doing so for a good while. I wasn’t clotting well so it just kept going. They inserted a second stent into the one that was already there in the hopes that the pressure would make it so that situation never happened again.
I made it to the 6th floor on Wednesday night and everything got much better after that. Nurses were absolutely wonderful. I had my own room (spacious too). Food wasn’t the best and I really didn’t sleep much but that’s standard procedure when you’re in the hospital. We took things day to day and I got to feeling better. I made it home on Monday the 10th. Oddly enough, the same day when Britt was admitted to UPMC for a kidney stone. Funny how life works, right? But, hey, we’re both on the right side of things. Her more so than myself but that’s to be expected.
I know for some of you, this is the first time hearing of this story. Please don’t take it personally or anything if I haven’t talked about it. I wasn’t in a good place for a bit and talking to people wasn’t exactly high on my list of things I wanted to do. And even though I’ve come to share a lot on this blog, I still don’t feel entirely comfortable spilling my guts about this kind of stuff. I do it because it helps me cope sometimes. I also do it because I never know if something I say or do will provide any help or insight to someone who might be struggling with the same crap. My hope is that it does. Or will one day. And if nothing else, perhaps my dry, sarcastic humor can get a laugh somewhere. We all need that these days.
I don’t have much in the way of cancer updates. This new treatment has been a challenge. The first time around was fine. The second, well, not so much. I felt like an energy vampire snuck up behind me and just drained everything I had. When I got home after round two, I was freezing. I turned up the heat and sat on the bedroom floor with my head pressed against the wall. I think I was there for about two hours before sliding down onto the floor. Our new nightmare of a kitten joined me (she is obsessed with heat) and we laid there for about another hour. Once I gathered enough energy, I crawled out into the living room and made camp on the couch. It was the first night of the NHL playoffs after all. You’d have to kill me to get me to miss that. Now, yeah, sure, it wasn’t the best of times. I could hardly move. 102.6 degree fever. We started running low on popsicles. But the games were solid. And that was enough to get me through.
I had a CT done the other day. Blood work scheduled for today. And then back for treatment on Monday. Fingers crossed that I get to avoid the train that ran me down last time. We’ll see how these tests look and go from there. With the GI bleed gone, I have felt a bit better. I still have days where I’m exhausted and drained. But I chug along and rest when I need to. I’ve made myself get out and about a little more these past few weeks. The fresh air helps. Exercise does as well. Moderation is key. I also know that I’ve been a total slice of shit lately. A nightmare to be with and to be around. So it’s important to take the extra steps to correct that. I have every reason and excuse in the book to be a miserable bitch but that doesn’t mean I have to be. Honestly, no one does, but we all have those moments and sometimes that part of the brain takes over and doesn’t let go.
We got to see Evil Dead Rise. I loved it. It starts hard and does not let up for one minute. If you are an Evil Dead fan, go see it. Ridiculous gore. Plenty of homages to the earlier films as well.
I bought myself a pretty sweet birthday present as well. Lord of the Rings. 4K. Both theatrical and extended editions. Once we get a decent curtain for the window behind the television, the marathon will commence. To be honest, I haven’t watched any of those films in their entirety since they were originally released in theater. And this year marks the 20th anniversary of Return of the King. So. Yeah. I know folks have moved away from physical media and I get it (most of my library is digital). But trust me on this one. True 4K is absolutely fantastic. You aren’t getting that with any streaming service. It’s close, yes. I still see a difference between something on Netflix and a 4K blu-ray. I certainly don’t need to entertain the idea of building a 4K library but I do need to expand on what I have. Just a little.
We’re really speeding backwards through time, eh? Separation of church and state doesn’t seem to be a thing anymore. Extremist politicians are banning books, taking away access to necessary medical care, and working their absolute hardest to convince us that folks in drag are the devil. Guns are more important than kids. Hell, there are some bills being introduced in various states that make it OK to discriminate against the trans community. But yeah, sure, ‘Murica is number one.
Kind of makes you realize how ridiculous cancel culture is, right? It’s easy to send out a tweet and pretend to care about a subject when a celebrity says something that goes against the culture’s opinion. But when it comes to the lunatics with the ability to do actual harm, our brave little keyboard fighters are nowhere to be found. Desantis could shoot a trans person in the middle of the street but you guys will sit back, say nothing, and wait for JK Rowling or Dave Chapelle to make a comment that you “find harmful”. Make sense to me.
We’re in the second round of the playoffs and the games just keep getting better and better. I’m still going with the Oilers as the ones to win it all. Florida looks good. Dallas looks good as well. At this point, you really can’t discount any team. My picks and predictions have been very very wrong so I’ll avoid that business. Best just to sit back and enjoy the ride.
“Too smart for your own good Too sweet, too logical Statistics round your head Tried to teach me about baseball My favorite was the part when they make it home I like it when they steal, and when they make it home” -Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band. One of My Kind. 2012.
We’ve already knocked two and a half months off of the 2023 calendar. Time has a funny way of speeding along as we grow older. Sometimes you notice. Sometimes not. The last few months have certainly flown by quicker than I would have liked. Went back to work (post-surgery). I did not miss it. The people I missed, yes. If you’re stuck somewhere for 8 hours or more at a time, it’s ideal to be surrounded by like minded folks. Good ones at that. Working nights and being too mentally and physically fried during the day is a bit yucky. A change in pace is welcomed, sure, but if I had it my way, going back to work wouldn’t be the way to do it. Alas, our wonderful health care system demands that I have health insurance. Also, apparently bills do not pay themselves. Just a helpful tip for those of you who weren’t sure.
There isn’t much new to report on the cancer front. Tests here and there. Stents replaced in the ducts. The new chemotherapy regimen is set to start next week. I am certainly not comfortable just floating around in limbo but that’s the way of things for now. I think if limbo had better seating, then my disposition would probably be a little better. These cushions need a good fluffing.
I do, however, greatly appreciate the kind words, thoughts, and well wishes. It has never been easy for me to be open about — well — anything. Last entry took a little prodding but we got there. As it always is, the future is fuzzy. A blur. Anything can be right around the corner and none of us are ever prepared. We lie to ourselves often and think we are but we aren’t. And that’s okay.
To be honest, I try to keep from looking too far ahead. And that’s nothing new. Obviously, now, things are different and with that comes a lot of different thoughts. But I’ve always tried to keep my focus on the now. Or at least as close as I can get. If you let the present get out of control and crumble, then what kind of a future are you setting up for yourself? Sure, some days aren’t the best. We all go through that. I do. Often. But the only way out is to go forward. And maybe get a snack along the way.
I’ve been diving into a lot of mob films and television lately. Goodfellas. Casino. The Irishman. The Sopranos. The culture is fascinating to me. I certainly don’t want to glorify any of it — it’s just done a terrific job at holding my fragile attention. And it helped get the gears turning a little for a project that I’ve had simmering on the back burner.
I chuckled a little writing that last part. I’ve been thinking a lot about self-sabotage lately. Even as I work on this, my body is trying to push me away. It happens every time I sit down to write. Eyes get really heavy. My thoughts drift. The world slows down and gets blurry. I feel like I could put my head on the desk and fall right to sleep. But I guarantee the second I move my attention away from this (or whatever I’m doing), those symptoms subside and I’m back to whatever my weird version of normal is. There has got to be a name for it, right? Something clinical and fancy (I hope).
That bit above was cut short because I got too tired and couldn’t put together a coherent thought. Was I actually tired? No. Does any of this make sense? No. The project I’ve had on the back burner has already found its way back there. It’ll sit. And wait. And wave occasionally.
So the news is just jam packed with awesome stories. UFOs. Toxic train derailments. Schools being shot up. The eternal dick measuring contests among our brave and brilliant politicians. Everyone completely ignoring the whole ‘separation of church and state’ thing. Possibly on the verge of WW3. I don’t know, man. I think we may need to get some new writers for this show. I’m not really digging any of it.
That’s all for now. I’ll see you next week. Or next month. Or next year. We never know.
“In an era of stress and anxiety, when the present seems unstable and the future unlikely, the natural response is to retreat and withdraw from reality, taking recourse either in fantasies of the future or in modified visions of a half-imagined past.” ― Alan Moore, Watchmen
The suggestion for this blog was to talk about my father or a father figure in my life. I think we’ll skip that. Also, I can’t recall if I used the quote above in an earlier entry. I suppose it doesn’t matter — seems a bit fitting.
I’m starting this on December 20, 2022. It has since seen several modifications.
I spent most of 2022 fighting cancer. Bile duct. Nasty business. It’s certainly capped off this trilogy of years as the worst I’ve dealt with. But, hey, we’ve all had our challenges.
Aside from a few random cat photos on Instagram and trying to fill up my fantasy hockey league, I’ve been radio silent on the ‘ol social media platforms for almost this entire year. For the three or four folks that read this thing, you know that I am known for going months at a time without as much as a peep or squeak. That’s nothing new. Normally, I’m just void of ideas. Or neck deep in a project that requires all of my creative attention.
This time around was a little different.
In February, I started experiencing some pretty gnarly pain in my stomach. For those who know my history, you know that pain is a rarity when it comes to my health. Most Crohn’s/Colitis patients have their fair share and I am certainly a fortunate exception. On the other side of that, I know my body well enough to know to expect changes at any time. At first, I kind of figured it was just one of those things that would work itself out. It kept on with my usual day to day and just pushed on through. The pain settled in and decided to get a bit worse. Some nights I couldn’t even stand up straight. Others just saw me with my head on my desk as the world turned and turned. When you go through life without a part of your digestive system, you quickly learn to just roll with the changes and punches. Still, something about this seemed a bit off.
So I broke down and consulted with my GI. Usual business followed. Blood work. Ultrasound. We’ll skip the episode where I was told to go to the ER only to sit there for three hours without ever being seen. A nightmare of an evening.
In the middle of this, on March 21, my Aunt Jean passed away. Jean was my mom’s younger sister and her passing was completely unexpected. The last time I saw her was at my wedding in 2018. I won’t sit here and pretend that we were close. I certainly do wish that had been the case. I should have known her better. Distance in miles and ways of living do not equal good enough reasons. But, unfortunately, that’s just how things turned out. But I can say that she was a wonderful person. Kind. Generous. She certainly deserved the best that life had to offer. And I hope she had it. And I hope the afterlife is everything she wanted it to be.
We’ll just jump ahead to when I was admitted to Ruby Memorial in Morgantown for a few nights. This was near the end of March. They wanted to do some more tests to figure this thing out. MRI. ERCP. A lot of blood draws. An IV placed in a part of the arm that should never seen a needle. It was a bit much. But I’m not one to complain.
Doctor comes in one morning and says they didn’t like what they found. MRI and ERCP showed some suspicious areas in and around the liver. Not uncommon for someone with PSC (Primary sclerosing cholangitis is a chronic liver disease in which the bile ducts inside and outside the liver become inflamed and scarred, and eventually narrowed or blocked. When this happens, bile builds up in the liver and causes further liver damage — the more you know). I was a little taken back at first. It was the first time anyone had floated the possibility that this was something outside of my usual norm. And that’s all it was at the time. A possibility. We still had to run through the gamut of tests before a firm decision could be made.
Obviously we reached the decision. Cancer. That dreaded word. The diagnosis that people just never want to hear (and one that far too many people get every single day).
So where did that leave us? Treatment was essential, yes, but what about the surgical options? I was presented with two choices. Operate and get that part of the duct removed. Or. Liver transplant. I hadn’t really considered the latter as a possibility. I knew–as I have for years–that a transplant would be needed at some point. With the PSC, that’s really the only way to go. But PSC can move at the speed of a glacier and folks really don’t have a solid timetable on when that is going to go down.
Transplant made sense. A far bigger risk, yes, but it solved two problems at the same time. At least that’s how I saw it. The liver was going to have to go anyway. Might as well just chuck it now.
So that was the start. I spent the summer seeing doctor after doctor after doctor. Had 30 radiation treatments coupled with chemo (just the pill form). Took a tiny break. Started IV chemo in October. Then Britt and I got Covid. How about that, eh? Managed to avoid it and then it just decided to creep in at a very inopportune time. So that set me back about 20 days. And yeah, for those who haven’t had it, trust me, it sucks. A lot. But we got past it and moved along. I had my last chemo treatment on Tuesday the 20th (when I started working on this entry).
I want to say this. I got lucky. Very lucky. We caught this thing early. And I certainly got the easier end of the shit stick when it came to treatments and side effects. It was still garbage but I know it could have been 100 times worse.
I want to add a second layer on top of the lucky bit. And this is where this entry has taken an unexpected plot twist. I was approved for a liver transplant in the fall. UPMC just so happens to be the leader in what they call living donor transplants. Basically someone comes in and hands over half of their liver. Mine gets cut out and I get the half. After a few months, donor and recipient are back to life with completely regrown livers. Yes, it is as cool as it sounds.
The lucky bit comes into play here because my sister-in-law, Kayla, stepped up and offered to do this for me. No one asked. No one floated the idea. She just did it. I was floored. My heart was full (and still is). She went through the entire process and yeah, she was a match. Everything had fallen where I needed it to.
January 3rd. 5:00 AM. We’re at UPMC and we are prepped for surgery. She was nervous (rightfully so). I was just ready to get things over with (again, rightfully so). The road had been long, bumpy, and I just wanted to get out of the car for a bit.
But as we all know, life doesn’t always work the way we want it to.
We knew going in that if the doctor’s found any cancer outside of the duct, then the transplant wouldn’t take place.
And that’s exactly what happened.
They sliced me open, removed a couple of lymph nodes, and busted out the microscopes. And sure enough, we had more cancer cells. It’s important to focus on the word cells there. Not masses. Not tumors. Just cells. That’s a positive.
Yeah, so that’s where we are. I got out of the hospital a few days later (with a massive incision going from my navel to my side). The next steps are already being worked out. Do I know what lies ahead? No. Does anyone? I doubt it. That’s why we go at life a day at a time. Sometimes even slower if need be.
I kept myself occupied as best as I could from the onset of everything. I stayed working. Night shift is a pain as is. Throw chemo and radiation and all that other business on top and you’ve got yourself a recipe for a grumpy Gus. I rediscovered my enjoyment for gaming after successfully tackling Elden Ring. I kept with my usual tradition of falling horribly behind on television and movies (a thing I’ve stated numerous times that I plan on fixing during my downtime). I fell behind on reading as well. And we won’t even broach the topic of my own writing (spoiler alert — it just didn’t exist this year). My usual activities are a challenge sometimes. Focusing is tough. My memory has been spotty. I usually exist with super low energy as is but even that has dipped.
I also kept most of this from the public. To be honest, I really didn’t want to tell anyone. I don’t care to open up about myself or my life. Some people knew, yes, and believe me, they were invaluable. And I knew that it would be a bit tough to keep the secret in the shed once I got into the thick of it. I just didn’t want it to become a thing, you know? And I still don’t. I think that I keep coming back to this silly blog when I need to get my head right (a way of saying this is just for me in a weird way). I don’t want to be a hashtag. I am not seeking sympathy (or any type of reaction really). It’s best that we all just keep moving forward.
Oh, yeah, our landlord decided to sell the house we were renting. This was back in November. Right in the middle of chemo treatments. Luckily, we worked out some stuff, and got into a new (and better) place. I was (again) mega fortunate to have a ton of help with the whole moving process. That whole thing kind of chewed into my ass a little bit. But, it’s all said and done, and we’re better off for it.
I don’t really need to get into some long winded speech about the value of life. I see it this way — you shouldn’t need some life altering diagnosis to change your outlook on the world. It often works that way, I know, and that’s a shame. Things aren’t always going to work out. You aren’t going to get a hit every time you get up to the plate. That’s why it’s best to enjoy it when you do. Has any of this changed how I see and feel and act? Maybe. I still have bad days. I still retreat from reality on occasion. I go days without talking to anyone. But I only see this ending one way and that’s with me standing tall. There are no other options. No other choices. I am going to win. I look at cancer like I look at damn near everything else. It’s just one more thing to get past. One more obstacle that I get to knock down and step over. I won’t ever win the Stanley Cup. You’ll never see me with the WWE title at the end of WrestleMania. But you’re sure as hell going to see me take this victory when it comes.
Best advice I have for today and for every day — don’t waste your time. Not on anything. Or anyone. We only get so much of it, you know. So, yeah, use it and use it as best as you can. Move at a reasonable pace, think, and find the direction that is going to put a smile on your face and an even bigger smile on the faces of those who love you.
Kayla, I am eternally grateful. I love you and I am more than lucky to have you as a sister.
That’s it. All I’ve got. We’ve surpassed daytime soaps in terms of ridiculous.
I kept telling myself that the reason I put off writing in this thing for 6 months was because I needed to focus on my other projects. That was a lie. I think I just wanted to avoid contributing to the already toxic social conversation.
So, yeah, whatever. Drink bleach. Bathe in Lysol. Top your eggs with horse de-wormer. Copy and paste memes and tweets and regurgitate opinions that have no factual weight. Take your medical advice from Joe Rogan. Argue about freedoms that don’t exist and keep taking hefty shits on responsibility. Let those pies cool on your window sills. Toss your hate at the old white guy in charge. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. The other side will get their turn in a few years and nothing will change. We’ll still be paying for Netflix, Disney +, and Covid MAX. Go on and keep wondering why the pandemic won’t end despite the constant pushback against masks and vaccines. That one guy from high school definitely has the insider knowledge on how the dark schemes are unfolding and he’s the only one capable of opening our scared little eyes. Bah. Bah. Sheeple. Bah. Bah. Truth is out there. Blah. Blah. Insert current TikTok trend here.
I bet if you told people that the Covid vaccine prevented abortions and kept their kids from being gay, the pandemic would end that very day. Right on the spot.
Should we expect any plot twists this season? Probably. Will anyone care? Doubtful.
Spider-Man: No Way Home was incredible. I won’t get into it now. Some folks haven’t seen it yet and spoilers are a big NO NO.
Dexter: New Blood was very cool. Removed a good chunk of the bitter taste left behind after Season 8.
I’m currently watching Yellowjackets. I’m not trying to stretch it out — I just have a shit time at managing my time these days. It’s good so far. Looks to be another Showtime hit.
The Department of Truth definitely wins comic of the year for me. I’d recommend it for anyone who enjoys the classic conspiracy theories. Stillwater is also a great read. Something is Killing the Children has been stellar.
It’s cold and I haven’t slept much. Hoorah.
Keith, I’m glad we got to have Christmas dinner together. I know I was shit company but at least we could share in our dislike for the holidays. Rest easy.
I almost came to a point where I scrapped this whole thing. Just crumbled these papers up and tossed ‘em into the fire pit. Sobriety nudged me into changing my mind, of course. Sort of ashamed to admit to how many cans and bottles I’ve put to bed since I started reminiscing about Ducky. Don’t know how he’d take to me going through all of this again—he was the type that stuck to the motto of ‘dead is dead’. Guessing he’d probably have leapt right back into the path of the speeding drug train if I’d come to him with this when he was still alive and kicking. I’d thought about it a time or two—in those fleeting moments where we’d shake hands or hug (if it had been more than a month since we’d crossed paths). Friendship has a weird way of storing memories. You muck around from day to day and sometimes you forget where you put your glasses or you forget how to change the clock on the microwave but then that random spark will ignite somewhere in the back of your head and you’ll run through hours and hours of time you spent with the people that mattered the most. And sure enough, you probably won’t miss many of the details either. Like the old home movie reels still work and you don’t even have to worry about any of the scenes skipping or missing altogether.
Ducky had changed a bit after that night in the woods. I didn’t think much of it—he was always a little on edge and sometimes his moods changed more than an actor’s wardrobe on Broadway. When school got going for us, he seemed fine. Not great. Not terrible. Just…fine. School always made him nervous, he said. He was never completely comfortable around so many people at once. And it didn’t take more than a five minute conversation with the guy to realize that he wasn’t working with the sharpest tools upstairs. He hovered around the lower forth of the class; a C and D student who put in as much effort as he could afford. Which, most of the time, wasn’t a whole lot. That bastard of a father he had really took him for more than he needed to. And Ducky didn’t have the spine to stand up for himself; at least not when it came to matters at home. Which, I suppose, is why my parents never once openly questioned (to me) why he was at our house almost all of the time. Adults have that sense when it comes to kids that are in trouble. Well, the adults with a functional electrical system attached to their necks anyway. I always loved them for that. I knew—well, hindsight knew—that things for Ducky would have probably blown sky high a lot sooner than they did if he didn’t have our family to come to.
I knew that something was going on with him—that being around the first week of school or so—when I found him in the boy’s bathroom during our lunch break. He’d been busted for smoking about half a dozen times by then—not that the punishment from the school had even teetered toward discouraging him from continuing. His old man, well, that was a different story. Frank Simpson didn’t exactly doll out punishment in the form of detention and suspension. He was more of a fist and screaming disciplinarian. I found a great example of it that day at lunch. The black eye was so swollen and discolored that you could have put ‘ol Ducky on one end of a football field and a few of us on the other and just about everyone looking would have seen the damn thing.
“There’s something wrong with ‘em, Rod,” Ducky whimpered. He’d been crying—I could see it all over his face.
“Your dickhead dad? Yeah, there sure is,” I said. Anytime Ducky came around with a new bruise or welt, I felt the same on the inside. A very unhealthy mixture of anger and sadness that liked to work its way up my gullet until it started to bottleneck. By the look of him that day, I had leaned toward the idea that Ducky was probably going to be even more of a permanent resident at our house.
“Not this. I mean, yeah, he’s a piece of shit for this. But it’s something else, man. He hasn’t been the same since…since…shit…”
“Since that night in the woods?”
Ducky nodded. “I don’t know what happened out there. I heard a lot but I really don’t have a clue.”
He started to look around—taking a few seconds to make sure we were totally alone—and then he pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to me. I saw him look away and start to shake a little. I unfolded the page and I swear…I do swear…I heard something crack behind my eyes—that’s how damn wide they got.
It was a sketch of a tall figure covered in a black sludge. It had what looked like long fingers on about three or four different hands. The slime covered thing stared back at me with yellow eyes—whoever had drawn this up had taken the time to color in the eyes. A dark tree line sat in the distance.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
“Don’t you know? It’s Mr. Goopy,” Ducky said. Another tear rolled down his face and he hastily swiped it away.
“Duck, I always appreciate your art skills. I do. But this pretty weird. Even for you.”
I thought he was going to get pissed at that—there was that sort a vibe between us in that moment. But no. Ducky just smirked.
“My old man did it. That one and about forty more.”
That caused me to take a little bit of a pause and take another run at looking over the drawing. I don’t want to make it seem like what I saw on the page scared me—it didn’t—but I sure didn’t feel all that great about it either. Once Ducky told me that his dad was the artist, I got a real deep sinking feeling in my gut.
“I figured…you know…what they done out there that night had to have fucked with some of ‘em. Eckhart quit the force, did you know that?”
“I’d heard,” I said.
“You know why?” Ducky asked. I shook my head. I’d spotted the headline in the paper and that’s about where I’d left it.
“Ed Taylor was over at our place a few nights ago. I heard ‘em talking—couple other guys down there too that I didn’t know. They said Eckhart hadn’t been the same since that night in the woods either. Kept talking about how he was drinking non-stop. Even going out on patrol after knocking back a few.”
“I’m sure killing a man takes its toll on a person. Maybe a bit more if you pretend you’re a bunch of fucking cowboys looking for frontier justice,” I said.
“I thought the same. Lot of soft-dick little boys toting around their guns like they used to when they was kids. But it was my dad that spoke up after. Said that all of ‘em there knew what had happened—what had really happened. He told ‘em that Eckhart just needed some time to work through it all. He’d been the one that had gone in front of all them reporters and cameras and told the whole town—the whole area—that they’d nabbed their man and that was that.
“Then I heard one of the others start to talk. He said that everyone was just on edge ‘cause there was a chance they got the wrong guy. Said that getting all worked up and in a huff wasn’t going to change what they’d done. And it wasn’t going to bring them back.”
“Hang on. What do you mean they might have gotten the wrong guy? And who’s them?” I asked. There hadn’t been a whiff of talk or rumor about anything like that. At least none that had found their way over to me. The bell rang right then; it was time to pack it up and get on to our next class.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ducky said. “There is a lot more going on than you realize.”
Of course, Ducky didn’t need to tell me anything ‘cause I found out that bit on my own. Just like I found out about the three folks they found in the woods.
—
There was a bit of news that got lost in the shuffle once the town had settled. That being the three missing men. Now, I guess this memory aint so spectacular like I thought. Had to go back and do a little research to get their names. James Hawkins (42), Randy Linger (58), and John Tyler (25) was the three that ended up being reported missing by their families. ‘Course, I couldn’t help but think about what Ducky had said he’d overheard. That getting all worked up wasn’t going to bring them back. Teenage me quietly wondered if the two situations were connected. Ducky said that there were a few guys out in the woods that night—he’d only laid his eyes on a couple. There was searches for those fellas that stretched all through the summer months. Officially speaking, the cops had stopped looking for those men about less than a week after they’d been reported missing. There were little contingents of townspeople here and there that took a few hours every day and scoured different sections of the woods. Volunteers mostly—men and women who either knew the guys that were gone or just wanted to be good neighbors. ‘Course, as expected, there was plenty of hearsay and chatter concerning why each of ‘em was gone. Popular rumor had James Hawkins on the run ‘cause he got caught with his pants down (literally) with a fifteen-year-old girl near the Leeton Elementary School playground. Randy Linger—a noted drunk and problem gambler—had supposedly been spotted in the Pittsburgh Airport getting ready to board a plane to Las Vegas. Much like Henry Simpson, Randy Linger had come back from the war missing a few chunks of himself (and his left leg). There weren’t any juicy or salacious stories about John Tyler. The only rumor that made the rounds was that he’d left his girlfriend (Anna; who had been six months pregnant at the time) and ran off to join a cult somewhere in California. That’s just more sad than anything.
Day after Ducky and me had our little bathroom chat is when they found those men out in the woods. I’ll say this much—the timing was eerie. Maybe more than eerie in a way. Coincidences have a way of making things look much bigger than they really are. Still, when I heard the sirens kick up, I remember that empty feeling filling up my guts. And yeah, this came before the phone call from Ducky. Suppose you’d call that an omen. A warning. Or maybe—just maybe—part of me knew that there was a monster storm on the horizon and it’d come calling with a siren.
I couldn’t tell you how I found out the real story ‘bout those men getting found. And that’s not from some secrecy pact or nothing—I just don’t remember. The pieces that decided to stick paint a picture like this: a father and his two daughters were on an early morning hike through them woods. We were removed from the murders and Leeton police had made countless assurances that the woods were once again safe (from wild-eyed murderers, that was). I do remember asking why the girls weren’t in school and my recollection tells me that they weren’t public school kids. Home schooled or ones that got shipped off to one of those fancy ass private schools. Not a point of major importance. The three of ‘em was hiking down near the creek (which they called the Silver Eye Creek back then) and one of the girls stopped ‘cause she thought she saw something swimming in the water. It wasn’t exactly something swimming as it was something floating. Happened to be an arm—one that the authorities believed belonged to John Tyler.
Few hours after, all three bodies had been recovered. They’d found what was left of James Hawkins pinned under a couple of large rocks close to where the creek dumped into the river. John Tyler—sans arm—had been found tangled up in a thicket of bushes about fifty yards from the creek bed. Randy Linger—going by what I’d heard—had been found not too far away from Hawkins—his head turned almost all the way around. Police were quiet on the whole thing; outside of identifying the men to the paper once the families had been notified and all. Official word was that the trio had gone out to either camp or fish (perhaps both) and had gotten lost. Red flag shot right to the sky there; most folks in town knew that the only way Randy Linger would get lost is if he’d managed to go blind. And even then, some believed he could still navigate his way back home. Linger—as I was told—was part of a special navigation team when he was in the service. He’d also spent his entire life in Leeton and out in those woods. The whole thing smelled funny. Didn’t matter though. That was the story and the boys in blue stuck to it. They made the claim that a wild animal (or several) was responsible for their deaths. Look, I aint no wildlife expert or nothing but can you name me an animal that can turn a man’s head all the way around?
There was a piece that never made the official reports or papers. It sort of floated in and out of mouths around town for weeks and months but I guess no one on the force would admit to any of it. The whole case was one of those hush-hush deals. Even my parents tried to keep their conversations about it quiet and to themselves. But as stories go, word finally got ‘round in school about what the whole scene had looked like. Wasn’t much changed in how the bodies was found—that stayed just about the same. It was what they supposedly found near the deceased that had everyone in a tizzy fit. Found near and on, so I was told. A whole lot of black sludge.
I couldn’t help but think of Ducky when I heard that. It fit right into his version of the story—running under the grand assumption that there was something else out there in the woods that night. What came next, well, it put enough of the puzzle together that I didn’t need to look at the box in order to finish it.
—
Police had arrested a man by the name of Jerome Alsner just outside of Philadelphia roughly about two weeks after Eckhart and his rag-tag team of bloodthirsty vigilantes had gone into the woods with their guns and pitchforks and torches. Alsner—according to the papers—had been spotted trying to break into a car around 4:30 in the morning. Normally an offense like that would have landed a man in jail, sure, but when the arresting officer noticed the fresh blood on Alsner’s jeans, things took a bit of a turn. When things settled, Alsner admitted that he’d just come from killing a woman in an apartment building somewhere in downtown Philly (name was not given). There wasn’t much debate on the truth behind that confession—Alsner had a bag on him when the cops had spotted him trying to get into the car. At first glance, it was a bag full of junk. Cheap watches. Gaudy jewelry. Pieces of clothing that didn’t match. Strange, sure. Alsner said that he’d been drifting for about eight months. He’d started out of Cleveland, Ohio and slowly worked his way east. Anyone out and about that long is bound to pick up a few trinkets. It was the ten-inch hunting knife that caught the eye of the arresting officer. According to Alsner’s statement, he’d ‘grown tired of walking and killing’. When pressed, Alsner claimed that he’d slain at least twenty people along his trek towards the coast.
“The best crop of bodies was in this little town called Leeton,” Alsner had said on record. “That place was a goldmine for death. I wasn’t a shy cowpoke when I rolled on in there. No sir. But I knew if I had been, then I would have still been able to do what I done. Stabbing them throats gave me more of a rush than being with a woman.”
The conversation Ducky had overheard seemed to have a bit more weight to it; at least from the point of thinking that those men had indeed killed the wrong man. If Alsner had been responsible for the murders in Leeton—not Bob—then the guilt must have been enormous for Henry Simpson, Eckhart, and the others.
Guess I already knew what was going to come next. I had tried and tried but getting that fucking image of Goopy out of my head was as close as impossible as anything I’ve ever tried. Swear, for weeks, it was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep. Those giant yellow eyes just staring down at me from some dark hole in the universe. Oh, how Ben would have laughed and laughed if he’d caught wind of any of that. “You’re such a fucking sissy, Rod,” he’d say. Perhaps that autumn, I was being a bit of a wuss. Airing on the side of caution that yielded the most benefit and the least risk had often been my singular path through life. One that some would say is rather dull, I’m sure. But I seemed to get along just fine. Still, that damned sketch followed me around corner it seemed. It would even slip into my nightmares on occasion. Long stretches of restless dream that saw me running from something in the woods—something that I could never quite see but always knew was just a step or three behind. Always told myself that I needed to keep running. Never, ever look back. Just go on forward and never stop. ‘Cause I knew if I did, I’d see those evil yellow eyes back there just ready to strike.
—
End of that week, I got over to Ducky’s place just before the sun came crashing down. After our talk in the boy’s room, I didn’t see ‘em for the next few days. I called a couple of times and always got told the same thing. ‘He’s just under the weather, Rod. He’ll give you a call when he’s feeling better’.
Now, looking at the situation from my perspective, I knew the chances of Ducky actually being sick were about as good as a Playboy model knocking on my bedroom window at 2:00 in the morning wanting me to show her a good time and then some. That’s not to say that Ducky wasn’t feeling bad—I’m quite sure he was—just not from the flu or whatever the hell story his mother had drubbed up. She knew what Henry was like just like the rest of us did. I don’t know what they call it when a mother won’t stick up for her own kid when he’s getting thumped around; ‘course, we always figured that Mrs. Simpson probably faced her fair share of knuckles and curses too. Doubt she cared to share that but maybe—and this is a dark, dreadful thought—but maybe she never said nothing ‘cause she didn’t mind getting a break from Henry’s wrath. Seemed, too, like little George had always managed to skirt around his father’s wrath. But, again back to a horrible truth, I never paid much attention to George Simpson. He was there, sure, but had a quiet way to him. He wasn’t like Jen—a sticky note that glues itself to your shadow and refuses to leave.
As soon as I laid eyes on Ducky that afternoon, I knew why he’d been out of sight all week. Suppose it’d be tough for anyone to go out sporting two shiners and a lip that looked like a bobcat had tried to tear it off. There were splotches of yellow and purple on his neck and throat. He would have been the ‘other guy’ in the standard ‘you should see the other guy’ spiel.
“I don’t even know what to say, man,” I said. Now, I knew I had plenty to say. Probably a couple sheets of paper worth of expletives and angry ramblings. But what good would it have done? He knew what had been done to ‘em. He certainly didn’t need me standing there preaching to him about saving himself. Ducky wasn’t the type to sit there and act like he was the one at fault. He didn’t try to measure out his mistakes in conjunction with the beatings he was getting. There was something keeping him at that house—something that I could see lingering behind the little black dots in his eyes.
“Things are getting worse,” he said. “I think he’s going to kill us soon.”
Pretty sure all of the blood drained out of my face at that point. I’d kind of gotten used to seeing him all mangled and bloodied. But when he said that he thought his dad was going to kill them, it was like someone had stabbed me in the back with an icicle and left it there to melt all over my organs.
“If you think he’s capable of that, then why don’t you call the cops?” I asked. Ducky just shrugged. He fucking shrugged—like, ‘I don’t know…I guess we’ll see what happens’.
“Ducky, man. Come on. This is serious. Look at you. Not a damn thing right with what he’s done,” I said in a fury. My blood had been set to boil and I knew if Henry Simpson had walked in at that moment, I would have leapt at him with everything I had in me (that’s what I kept telling myself anyway…the mind of a child operates in realms of naïve foolishness).
“What are the cops going to do, Rod? Think! What the fuck are they going to do?”
Even more of that chill had spilled down into my legs and up into my throat.
“Christ, everyone in town knows that your dad is a whack job. And I’m sure they all know how he takes it out on you guys. One look at your face and he’ll be sleeping on a metal bench for a good while.”
This moment—the one here—still makes me break out in bumps and worry. Ducky looked at me and he started to laugh. Like, he really let it off. He sat there and howled and howled like we were watching All in the Family or The Tonight Show.
“My old man is a prick. And a killer. But it’s not him I’m worried about.”
It took me back a way hearing him say that.
“Then who?”
“Mr. Goopy. It’s real, Rod. Goopy is fucking real. And it’s coming for my family.”
I remember standing there for what felt like hours. Like, somehow, time itself had been stretched well beyond how we perceive it to function. Ducky’s expression never changed either. I didn’t know if he was just doing a bit or if he truly believed in what he’d said—though as we went along, I sort of leaned toward him being incredibly serious.
“Look at these!” Ducky said, shoving a handful of papers into my face. I had to take a few steps back before snatching them from him. “Don’t you see how close it is?”
He’d handed me more sketches of Mr. Goopy. Or something that was supposed to represent Goopy. I didn’t know then. Sure don’t know now. But I sure as shit didn’t want to look at those damn drawings anymore. Dreams were bad enough after just the one—this was at least twenty. Maybe more. I didn’t exactly stand there and count ‘em. But it was almost like I didn’t have a choice. Pretty obvious that they’d gotten stranger. Every time I turned to the next page, the figure seemed to get taller. Well, no. Think a better way to put it would be that it looked like it was getting closer. And of course, Ducky’s old man had taken the time to color in the eyes. Those sickly yellow eyes. Sort of felt like I was holding one of them flipbooks—you know, you hold onto the corner and let the pages go so it gives you a moving picture.
“I want to show you something,” Ducky said. “Out back.”
He marched us into the backyard and pointed to a sunken in patch of dirt near the flowerbed his mother kept during the summer.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“Footprints,” Ducky said. “They started back by the fence. Came up here. And then…”
He pointed over toward the stone steps that led up to the tiny landing that acted as a back porch. It was like we’d fallen head first into a Hardy Boys story and were just about to crack the case (though I don’t remember too many of those books containing monsters).
Sure enough, there were another set of prints on the landing. ‘Course, they weren’t typical looking footprints. Can’t even tell you that they looked like marking a foot would make. What we was looking at was…longer. Like they was made by them silly clown shoes or something. Extra-long streaks of dirt and mud.
“Found those the other morning. Fresh ones are on the other side of the house,” Ducky said. ‘Fore I could even ask him a single question, he’d already made his way to the side of his house. I didn’t follow ‘em right away. I had to get one more look at the prints on the landing—assuming that’s what they was. I made myself bend down to get a closer look. Certainly was an outline of…something. Plenty of dirt and mud. But there was something else too. I almost stuck my finger to it—just to see—but common sense slapped me upside the head and told me to back away. Figure I really didn’t need to touch whatever it was. Rather obvious once I got my eyes focused in on it. Looked like oil. There wasn’t much of it, mind you, but there was just enough. I hated to admit it, but I hadn’t really believed what Ducky had been saying. And his thoughts on the matter set aside, it sure looked like someone—or something—had been standing near that back door. Maybe even close enough to be looking inside.
“What are you doing?” Ducky asked. He’d come back to fetch me, I guess. I apologized and followed him around to the side of the house. It was like following a little kid who’s very eager to show you a flower or a frog that he just found. There was that childlike enthusiasm to the way he moved. Perhaps it was just excitement that stemmed from him finally sharing his theory on the matter at hand. Not sure how else I’d describe it. I think Ducky had been carrying a big bag of secrets for a really long time and it felt good to unload some of them.
“Window to my parent’s room,” Ducky said. He pointed down to a spot just below the framework. The grass there had been crushed almost totally flat. And just like the other spots, there were long depressions that certainly looked like footprints. Ducky hadn’t been fooling around when he said that those ones were fresh. Seeing as how we was looking at the grass, I couldn’t really differentiate the dirt and the crud from what may have already been there. Didn’t matter; the sludge was thick. And there was plenty of it. My mind brought up the same image as earlier—something standing right outside of the window. Getting in a spot so it could look inside. And then what?
“I’m scared, Rod.”
“Duck, I mean…you think…you can’t think this was Goopy,” I said.
“Why not?”
“That’s a story, man. It isn’t real.”
“Then what is this? Explain this!” he shouted. I hated making him mad. I also hated that I couldn’t just take a step back from my own perception of rational thinking. This was a time when my friend needed me and the only thing I could do for him was try to convince him that he was making it up.
“It’s dirt and mud. I don’t know what you want me to say. Look, maybe your parents were just out here doing work? Or maybe your dad was out at the bar and came home late and stumbled around?”
Ducky shook his head and I knew he was trying to fight off that feeling of being totally helpless. He never liked to cry in front of anyone—especially me.
“I hear it out there, Rod. Almost every night. I hear it walking around. I hear those same damn squishing sounds that I heard in the woods.”
“And it’s rained almost every day. Duck, come on. You’re just letting your imagination get away from you. Swear, I think your old man has knocked you around one too many times.”
See, that was the tipping mistake right there. Looking back, I don’t know what kept me from sticking to Ducky’s side that day. Hearing him out and trying to see things from how he saw ‘em. You know, I never cared much for what other folks said and thought. That’s the easiest way for things to get all bent outta shape and twisted ‘round these parts. Survived this long just being my own person and staying out of everyone’s way. But I always cared about what Ducky thought. Especially about me. But that day, I swear, he could have told me that the sun was yellow and the grass was green and I would have fought him on it. I don’t think it was much of a matter of not believing him. It was more of not wanting to believe him. ‘Cause if I took him at his word, then what did that mean? That I was idling along my own edge of going whacky? I didn’t want to believe that he’d even seen a shadow of a shadow. Kids tend to jump at every loud noise and tree branch scraping against their windows during a wind storm. Moonlight comes in the right way and catches an animal—well, you probably gonna see all sorts of stuff. Mind works funny like that sometimes.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Ducky screamed. He was red in the face with the kind of hurt that only comes from betrayal. I saw it in his eyes—that pain that swells when your words fall on deaf ears.
“Ducky…man…maybe you need…uh…maybe you need to see someone?” I said.
“See someone? Like a shrink? You think I’m crazy, right? Well fuck you, Rod! I’m not crazy! THAT THING IS OUT THERE!”
“Goopy isn’t real,” I said. My voice had dropped almost to where I couldn’t even hear myself speak. “It’s a story. Just a story. Your old man is sick in the head. He needs help. You all need help. Come back to my house, man. We’ll get away from all this.”
Ducky shook his head.
“Go. Just go home,” he said blankly. I’ll never forget how his eyes shifted away from mine. How they stared at the trees behind us. It reminded me…ugh…it reminded me of how Henry looked when he was drunk. Far away.
The grenade had been dropped on our friendship and yeah, I’ll take the blame. All of it. Believing or not, I should have done better. I can’t speak for Ducky but I often thought that I was the only person he had in the world that he truly knew he could count on. And when things got shaken up and tossed in a batter of ugly, unexplainable shit, I turned tail and barely held out a hand to help him come along. Things like that stay with a man—knowing that you took the road most often traveled and willingly left behind someone that you cared about. Ducky knew something was wrong and he knew something was going to happen. And there aint nothing comfortable about any of it. Wasn’t back then. Still isn’t now. See, legends—stories—like Mr. Goopy get that way ‘cause people don’t want to face facts ‘bout other people. Ducky’s old man got away with killing another man—four in total, if you believe the next part. But it ate at him. Had to. Dug into his soul like a rusty hoe. Henry Simpson sat ‘round drawing Mr. Goopy, getting drunk while he did it, and then when the getting was good, he took all that anger and piss out on his family. On his wife. On his oldest son. And eventually, things got to be too much for ‘em and he snapped.
And yeah, sure, maybe a part of me thought that Henry and Eckhart and those other guys saw something in the woods that night. And maybe a part of me considered that Goopy had followed them afterwards. Stood by just watching ‘em. All of ‘em. Anyone could make the case for the strange prints at Ducky’s place. And the same sort of case could be made for the weird gunk that they found in Eckhart’s car after he’d gotten blackout drunk and crashed head-on with a telephone pole. Or how they found Ed Taylor hanging in his barn—oil and sludge all over him. Even coming out of his mouth. Maybe if Goopy was real, it would have been a lot easier for folks to stomach all the bad shit that happened. Process goes a whole lot smoother when you got a patsy to pin all the troubles on—even if that patsy is a tall tale.
—
There came a time when I got real close to asking Ducky to forgive me. But I never did. And somehow I knew he never would. After all, he came to me when things were just nudging and nuzzling close to the end and I couldn’t bring myself to believe him. And we’d stuck to our own little worlds after that. Ducky had basically dropped out of school to take care of things at home. His dad had let everything fall apart. Bills had gone unpaid for months. Food was scarce; the bulk of the grocery money (while they still had some) had gone to liquor and cartons of smokes. Ducky managed to get hired on at Makar’s—a two-pump gas station that used to sit right on the north edge of town. ‘Course, that didn’t last very long. Three weeks maybe. Could have been less. Time is strange when you’re looking at its contents from far away. Point being, this is when I got the phone call from Ducky. When the nightmare slipped out from the dream world and landed on my front porch.
Two accounts of what happened to the Simpson family exist. The official story and the one that I managed to get out of Ducky years later (and I ‘spose my own theory makes a 3rd). Media painted a picture of a family in crisis. A father with lingering mental wounds that followed him all the way from Korea. A man who drank too much and finally succumbed to the pressures of the world. Police ruled it a double murder/suicide. Henry Simpson had killed his wife and his youngest son that night. Somehow—by the sheer will of luck or divine intervention—Ducky had managed to survive albeit losing an eye in the process. The family had sat down for dinner that evening and the events that unfolded led all four parties into the kitchen. A tragic ending to one of the bloodiest summers in Leeton’s already gore-soaked history.
It didn’t come as much of a shock when we heard the news. Unfortunately, there are obvious preludes to acts of violence and we (as in, me and my family) sat back and watched every bit of it unfold and never once lifted a finger in the hopes of maybe making a change. We all knew the kind of person Henry was; me more than the others when you take into account Ducky’s story about him lending a hand and a gun the night the night the drifter was killed. Does that make us partly responsible? Did we have a duty—as friends and as human beings—to try and step in before things took the turn they did? My dad used to tell me that folks often stuck their noses in places not meant for ‘em. That sometimes it was best to take a step back and let things go as nature intends. I always thought that was his way of saying it’s best to keep to you and your own. But perhaps it was his way of saying that some folks aren’t built for confrontation. That maybe regret and hindsight are easier to handle than the courage needed to make a stand. I never got the chance to ask him what he really meant by that.
—
If you want my version of what I think happened, here it is: Henry Simpson was psychotic. And after that night in the woods, his already fragile psyche had finally snapped like a twig. He’d allowed his conscious mind to be infiltrated with a running delusion that he had seen Mr. Goopy and that the creature had followed him—and the others—back home. Perhaps Henry even took it even further. He could have covered himself in oil and mud and God knows what else. Spent time during the twilight hours making it look like one of Leeton’s most disturbing urban legends was true. And when the night came and his damaged, sour brain had enough, he took a knife and stabbed his wife. He followed suit with little George. When Ducky tried to intervene, Henry got in a few parting shots and taught him one final lesson by removing his eye with the same knife. He covered the kitchen in that same mixture of sludge that he’d been covering himself with. And then, to seal the deal, he took the knife and ran it right across his own throat. I think that Ducky suffered from some of the same issues as his old man and allowed the whole Goopy situation to consume him as well. I went back to that phone call time and time again—snipping what I heard and pasting it into the narrative that I wanted to believe. Henry Simpson—done up in his own Goopy “costume”—going after his own family. The thought of it didn’t sit well then. Still doesn’t now. Brings on a certain feeling of despair, I guess. A slap in the face from hindsight. Ducky was terrified from the start and I sat there like a fool and listened and kept it at that. I never acted. I never stuck my neck out for the one person who would have stepped in front of the firing squad for me. And all because of what? Because I didn’t want to believe a story about a monster? Because I refused to accept the notion that things aren’t exactly painted in black and white?
Ducky never returned to school. Not being of age yet, he was put into the state system. He toiled ‘round in that maze until he turned 18. Then, just as quick as they’d snatched him up, he was cut loose and told to fend for himself. As you can figure, there was plenty of talk ‘round the halls of Leeton High ‘bout what happened. Was Ducky a victim meant to be pitied? Or was he actually responsible for the death of his family? I wish I hadn’t heard that particular rumor (landed me a three day suspension when I punched Davey Lewis in the mouth after he asked me what it was like having a best friend that was a killer). What I should have done is just stepped back and told him that Ducky wasn’t my best friend anymore. That I’d royally screwed the pooch.
Now, like things tend to do after a while, the talk slowed to a simmer and eventually stopped altogether. There were other matters that leapt up the importance ladder (things like prom and graduation and those first breathless moments when you finally made your way to the backseat of your car). I tried my very best to keep Ducky from fading away in my mind. But I aint perfect. Not by a long shot. But something told me—that little voice that hangs out in the way back—that I’d see Ducky again one day.
And I did. Took seven years. But I did.
—
Been dreading this part. You’d think some of the earlier stuff would have been tougher but somehow it spilled out like I’d just knocked over a cup of coffee. I’ve been putting this off for days and days. Left this notebook just sitting on the desk and paid it no attention. But that nagging little voice came back and told me that I needed to finish Ducky’s story. That I needed to get his version of the truth out there. Will it ever get that far? Aint for me to say. Always figure if something is meant to be known, it’ll find its way out for the world to see.
1981. I’d left Leeton behind and started a new chapter in life. Graduated from University of Pittsburgh with decent grades. Started a viable career working for UPMC (I’d somehow found my way into psychiatry if you can believe it). Had myself a little apartment downtown. Things was alright as they could be. Even started dating a real sweet girl named Hannah Dowling (we met in our final year at school). Didn’t last more than a few years but they was good years. Strong years. ‘Spose compatibility wears out after a while. Seems to be the case for the folks in my life anyway.
(For those wondering…I was married from 1987 to 2010. And if there is a Heaven, I know my dear Laura is looking down on me now as I work my way through all this. Miss you, dove).
But this aint ‘bout that. 1981. April. Was a pretty cold morning when I got that call that most folks are terrified of getting. It was Jen telling me that dad had passed away overnight. Complications with his heart. An outcome we’d knew was inevitable. But just ‘cause something is bound to happen don’t ever mean that you’re ready for it. How death works, I guess. It isn’t gonna give you a letter ahead of time letting you know the particulars.
I was surprised to see Ducky at the viewing. Didn’t quite recognize him at first. He’d let his hair grow ‘bout halfway down his back. Bushy beard that was speckled with plenty of gray and white—quite odd for someone who’d not even turned 22 yet. I remember thinking he looked too skinny. Almost like something had come along and sucked just about everything out of him. Big black eyepatch covering the hole in his skull. He had on a wrinkled pair of jeans and a dress shirt that looked to be a few sizes too big. It was actually Jen who pointed him out to me.
“You should go talk to him,” she said. I knew she was right but I couldn’t outright admit it. Far too much shame in that. To me, it was almost looking at a ghost and hearing him ask the same question over and over.
Why didn’t you help me? Why weren’t you there when I needed you?
“There’s no way he wants to talk to me,” I said.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” she said. “I think it’s time you two patched things up.”
I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t as simple as just shaking hands and agreeing to dump the past into the river. I wanted to explain to her that Ducky had rightfully held a grudge for years and that I had no good way of explaining myself. She’d already started talking to an older couple who had approached to offer their condolences and a viewing was no place to hold any sort of argument. Much like this story, I had no idea where to even begin with Ducky.
Thankfully, he started it for me. For us.
—
“Real sorry about your dad,” Ducky said. His voice had changed since we’d last spoken. There was a phlegmy rawness to it—like he’d taken to smoking a few packs a day.
(By then, he had…and then some)
Standing that close to him, I really started to notice how much older he looked. There was no overlying vibrant youth. His eye was narrow. Sunken. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His skin—quite tanned—looked almost like old leather that had been left out in a rain storm. It was though time had treated him far different than it had the rest of us.
“Thanks,” I said. I felt an avalanche of words rolling around in my head. “He’d be thrilled to know you came.”
“Almost didn’t,” he said. “But he was always so good to me. It’d be disrespectful to stay away.”
Something in me wanted to correct him but another didn’t. So I kept my mouth shut.
“He was a good man. A good father. Shame he had to go already,” Ducky said.
“Dad loved you. He never said it but I don’t think he ever needed to. There was a big hole in the family after…”
I made myself stop talking. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded forced. Fake. Did my father love Ducky? In his own way, I suppose. He never complained about him being around as much as he was. And Ducky was one of the few who would talk baseball with him.
“Funny word…love. Pretty sure it means different things for different people,” he said. I felt the weight of his words slap against my chest like an open palm covered in nails.
“Ducky, I…”
“Guessing there is a good bit that you and me need to put straight before you speed off again,” Ducky said. There was mild contempt in his voice. And a little relief, I would say. He’d lived through the unimaginable and I believe that sits with a person forever. I think even if he hated me, he still wanted to get everything off his chest and out in the open. And he did. We both did.
—
I’d agreed to meet Ducky later that night at his place. I managed to make it through the rest of dad’s viewing without as much as a hiccup but once I got out to my car and lit up a smoke, all of that ridged confidence slipped away from my shoulders in an instant. I threw up once in the parking lot. Then, again, about half a mile from mom’s house. After seeing Ducky, it was like something had dropped into my stomach and then swollen to the size of a watermelon. Years of repressed regret, I suppose. Realization that you can’t simply run from the past—at least when a part of it is still alive. I was on edge for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. There was no way for me to know what to expect when I went out to see him. Perhaps he really just wanted to talk. Clear the air. Or, maybe, he wanted to break my jaw. Either seemed likely. And probably well deserved.
Davidson’s was a mobile home park that used to sit along the north end of the Silver Eye Creek (opposite end from where they found the bodies in ’74). Can’t say I was surprised to find out that Ducky had been living there. His old house had been bought and sold a few times over—though I didn’t think he’d want to go back there anyway. When I pulled up, I was greeted with a deep growl that came from the porch. Again, that lump in my gut seemed to grow and I almost turned around right then and there. If Ducky hadn’t come out, I may have.
“Relax, Lou,” he said. The growl had come from a German shepherd; one that continued to stare at me as I got out of the car.
“Lou aint fond of strangers is all,” Ducky said. He patted the dog and bent down to whisper something into its ear. The dog seemed to relax after that; its ears relaxed and its tail started to wave.
I tried to keep my nerves in check but the closer I got to the trailer, the harder it was. I still had no idea what was to come. Lou trotted towards me as soon as I got near the steps leading up to the wooden porch. I held my hand out just to confirm to the pup that I wasn’t a threat.
“He’s a good dog. Keeps an eye on things,” Ducky said. “You want a beer?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He led me inside. Now, mind you, I aint the most organized person. Always something that needs cleaned or put away. Hell, there are a sink full of dishes in the kitchen now. But Ducky’s place was…well…it was a wreck. Dog hair covered almost all of the furniture. There were holes in the couch—from what looked like claw marks and cigarette burns. The carpet was a shade of brown that I was quite sure I hadn’t seen before (or since). The coffee table was buried under bottles and cans and open bags of chips. Ducky motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen area.
“I just stocked up today,” he said. There was almost excitement in his voice when he said that. I think I wanted to be disappointed—knowing how much he hated his old man for being a drunk—but I couldn’t bring myself to feel that way.
“How long have you been living out here?” I asked.
“Less than a year now. Had one of the apartments downtown for a spell but that didn’t quite work for me. Too much noise. Too many people around.”
He handed me a beer and grabbed two for himself.
“This place is shit but it serves its purpose,” he said. I followed his lead and sat down. His kitchen table was a narrow strip of wood held up by blocks on either side. Much like the table in front of the couch, it too was merely acting as a shelf for discarded bottles and cans—as well as two full ashtrays and a couple of little baggies that certainly looked to be holding cocaine. White plastic chairs held us as we took a moment and finally looked eye to eye.
“Ducky, I…I want you to know how sorry I am,” I said. Somehow I knew that we weren’t in for a rousing discussion about life and what we’d done with it in the years that had passed. My hands had already started shaking by then. I was quick to down about half of the beer in the hope that it would help settle me a little.
“It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think?” he asked. He relaxed and finished off his first beer before I had time to even think about what I wanted to say next. I was more than uncomfortable. I was ready to leap out of my skin and go running back to Pittsburgh.
“Probably. But I needed to say it anyway,” I said. The taste in my mouth was hot and sour and made me shrink and shudder when I thought about taking another drink.
“Sure. Yeah. Sure. You say what you feel you need to say.”
I certainly knew it at that moment—the Ducky Simpson I used to know had gone away. It wasn’t my old friend sitting across from me in that moment. I didn’t recognize him anymore. Not his body. His face. Not even his voice.
“What do you want me to say? I screwed up. I shit the bed. I mean…Jesus, I had no idea what was going to happen.”
“I told you what was going to happen. I told you that it was coming for us. And it did.”
There was an icy calmness when he talked. Like he’d fully come to terms with his beliefs and would not be swayed into ever thinking otherwise. And, like a stupid asshole, I finally let my tongue go loose.
“It was damn terrible what your dad did. I can’t imagine ever going through something like that. Never. And if I could go back in time, I would. I was scared, Duck. Your old man was already on edge and then you come to me with all that Mr. Goopy bullshit. How else was I supposed to react? What else was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to be my friend. You were supposed to listen. You were supposed to believe me when I told you that we were in danger.”
“I couldn’t protect you from your imagination. Hell, I’m not even sure I could have done anything to protect you from that piece of shit you called a father. We were kids, man.”
Ducky had already started into his second beer. There was a look on his face that still haunts me to this day. A look of joy that shouldn’t have been there. I swear, I saw his good eye glimmer just as the smile crawled across his face.
“Look, if you’re gonna sit here and tell me that I made up the whole thing, I’d kindly suggest that you just get the fuck out. Get back in your car and drive back to your perfect little life in the big city. I’ve had it drilled in my head over and over that I didn’t see what I saw. Do you know what that’s like? To be the only one that knows something is true? My family knew it was true. That night, yeah, they knew. And now they’re all dead. My old man was a bastard. There’s no secret there. But he knew what was coming! He knew it ever since that night in the woods when Goopy took three of his buddies and tore them to pieces.”
“Oh, piss on Mr. Goopy!” I shouted. My voice carried loud enough to get Lou’s attention—who in turn shot me a look that said, ‘do it again and there’s going to be a problem’.
“Typical. Thanks for stopping by, Rod. Wish I could say it was good to see you,” Ducky said. There was still a smile on his face; one that I’d guessed wasn’t from some inner joy in seeing an old friend or rehashing the past. I saw so much of his father in him in that moment. It was almost scary. That same wide vacancy behind his eye (sure it would have been both if, well, you know). Sure he’d had plenty to drink before I showed up. Maybe a bit of indulgence with the fine powder he had sitting on the table too.
“Flip it ‘round. Would you have believed me if I came to you with a story like that? If I told you that Mr. Goopy was hanging out in my backyard? Just waiting for a good night to come on in and have itself a snack? Huh?” I asked. I heard the dog shuffle around a bit on the other side of the trailer. Ducky stared at me with that glazed look—the gears in his head turning and turning. I wanted to leave more than anything but I knew if I did that I’d just be saddled with more regret. I’d saunter off to my life in the city and repeat myself by leaving my friend behind. Not that I’d been under some grand assumption that Ducky’s life would have been better if I’d stuck ‘round—things were gonna happen as they happened. Call it whatever you like. Fate. Destiny. I never thought every minute was guided under some mystical force but I sure thing some of the big stuff is.
“Follow me,” Ducky said. I’d expected him to get up and physically toss me out the front door. Or encourage his pup to go for the throat (or worse). But he just stood up and started walking down the tiny hallway to my right. “And grab another drink. You’re gonna need it.” I don’t know why but I did as he asked. Noticed then that the sun had slipped deep behind the clouds. The trees beyond Duck’s little plot of land casted gnarled shadows on the thin wooden wall as I followed behind. He pulled a small silver key from his pocket and jammed it into a doorknob. He’d gone inside and turned on the light just seconds before I entered myself.
It was a good thing I had a pretty tight grip on the beer bottle ‘cause once I saw what he had in that room, I ‘bout lost every bit of my strength. It was like I’d stumbled right into the thick of a crime scene. There was three large corkboards nailed to two of the walls (one on my right and two on my left). On each of ‘em was countless sketches of Goopy. So much of ‘em that some were stuck on top of one another. The window—which should have been straight on ahead from the door—had been boarded over and covered in dozens of newspaper clippings. Articles ‘bout missing person’s cases in Leeton and a few of the other surrounding towns. Faces of men and women and kids—all full of smiles captured in moments long past. Next to the board to my right was a huge map of the woods covered in different colored pins and little scribbles that I assumed belonged to Ducky.
“What is all this?” I asked. Sure, I had a pretty good idea, but the question came out anyway.
“Been tracking it for a few years now,” Duck said. He’d saddled up next to a tiny desk that was pushed up against the left wall—right below all the drawings. To my surprise, there was absolute organization with everything he’d put together. It almost looked professional—like he’d hired someone to come in and set up the whole thing.
“Came real close last summer,” he said. I’d already succumbed to a horrible bout of the chills and could only stand still as he spoke. “But it’s fast, man. Real fast. Probably why there aren’t many accounts of folks actually seeing it anywhere.”
I let my eyes roll around to every inch of the display in front of me. It was almost like a shrine to the creature—a detailed rundown of every sighting and description ever given about it. Unknowingly, I’d somehow allowed myself to break loose from the stillness that had held me just seconds before. I stepped over to the wall of news clippings and immediately my attention was drawn to three long strips of newsprint that told the story of the Simpson family. Ducky must have caught on to what I’d been looking at ‘cause he made a point to clear his throat.
“It killed mom first,” he said with a cigarette dangling from his crusty lips. “One of the worst things I’d ever seen. The way…the way it just tore into her. Like an animal getting its paws on a piece of raw meat.”
I turned to face him and I swear, there was an instant flash moment where I saw Ducky as he was when we was kids. The kid that used to tease me ‘bout liking Samantha Clark. The kid that raved ‘bout my mom’s pasta salad and would put away helping after helping ‘fore pretending to fall out of his chair ‘cause he was too full. I saw the boy that taught me how to fix a bike chain and string up a fishing pole. And, yeah, I saw the kid that tried to tell me that his life—his family’s life—was in danger.
“I’d just come back from my shift at the gas station. Mom had cooked a pot of chili and made up some cornbread. Couldn’t tell you how happy we all was that we was gonna get a hot meal. It’d been a bit. Man, I smelled it right as I got in the door. It was sweet and hot. ‘Course, I also heard my old man yelling ‘bout something. No idea what—some parts of that night are still a little blurry—but he was carrying on. George…George was upstairs and he popped his head out from the banister when he heard me come in. Told me that mom had made cowbread—that’s what he called it.”
(I wouldn’t admit it to him—even hate doing it now—but I can’t really remember what little George looked like. It was almost like he was talking ‘bout a stranger.)
“Happened quicker than a snap of the fingers. Mom called us into the kitchen to get our plates and such. The old man was still barking and spitting curses. George stood at the top of the steps and…and I told him to come down. Told him that we’d get our food and go eat by ourselves if we had to. Henry was usually good ‘bout going off on his own when he’d tied on a few too many. But sometimes he’d just stand there and yell and shout while the rest of us was trying to eat.”
Good bit of the color had drained out of Ducky’s face by then. I remember seeing his hands—weathered and covered in scars and sores—just shaking away. Like fragile leafs clinging to a branch during a wind storm.
“I heard the squishing sounds the second I stepped into the kitchen. Then the banging started. I knew it—right then I knew what was gonna happen. That’s when I called the cops. Told ‘em that we was gonna be attacked. And then…I don’t know why but that’s when I called you. I just…just thought that someone needed to know the truth. I tried…tried to tell George to run. To get outside and to run as far and fast as he could. But he couldn’t move. The back door just exploded open. Like someone had come at it with a tank or something. Henry was too drunk to know what had happened but…but I think he knew. He knew just like I did. And that was it. Goopy killed my mom in seconds. Then…then it…then it did the same to George. Picked him up like he was a toy or something. I heard his…heard things inside him crunch and pop. He couldn’t even scream. Poor kid couldn’t do nothing but stare up at the ceiling. Mouth hung wide open. Goopy tossed him against the wall after it was done with him. Little brother just…just discarded like a chicken bone that had been picked clean.”
It was strange how he told his version of the story. I could hear him stumble and start to choke up sometimes. And other bits came out so nonchalant—almost like he was just reciting a passage in a book or something. ‘Spose the years in between had hardened him a bit. Figure, too, that he’d gone over that story probably hundreds of times. Repetition can make things monotonous, I’d wager.
“I aint never seen something so horrible in my life. Never. That…that thing was…I don’t know. Unholy would probably be the best word for it. It was huge. Just like this unnatural force snatching up everything in its path.”
One look in his eye told me that he believed what he was saying. Which meant he was either fully committed to a delusion or the story was real.
“Henry had gone for his gun but he wasn’t quick enough. It got him right in the throat. Dropped him like that,” Ducky said, snapping his fingers. “Not even sure he knew what happened.”
He’d turned away from me at that point and had opened the door to the closet that was to the left of the desk. I was stunned and frozen—like something had come along and injected ice into my bloodstream. I wanted so badly to rewind the clock. To just go back to earlier in the day and make a different choice. I still didn’t know if he had other intentions in mind besides recounting the single most horrific day of his life. In that moment, part of me expected him to come out of that closet with the very shotgun that his old man used to carry around. But he didn’t. He brought out a wide glass jar that was about a third of the way filled with some sort of black gunk. It looked like a mixture of oil, mud, and chocolate syrup.
“I got this out of the woods last month,” he said as he handed me the jar. The look on my face must have been one of pure disgust.
“It’s a jar. It aint gonna bite.”
“Where did you get this?” I asked. He’d already said he got it from the woods but I couldn’t help but question the specifics. I felt dirty holding that jar. Like it was something that shouldn’t have ever been handled. It was warm to the touch—which just didn’t seem possible.
“Found most of it near the side of the road. You remember that access road that was behind the playground?”
Of course I did.
“I’d been out that way a few times and had never come across any sign of it. Couple of the neighborhood kids said that they’d heard something big moving ‘round in that area so I kept an eye out. After ‘bout three days of wandering and looking, I found that close to where the road ends. Just a big puddle of it. Trail led into the woods a ways. Found a little bit more on the base of a tree. Spent the rest of the day following that trail. The gunk disappeared after a mile. Came across a few dead animals. But no Goopy.”
There was no real way to measure my disbelief and worry in that moment. I handed him the jar and tried to pull any sort of response out of my head. I was dumbstruck and he knew it. He saw it written all over my face.
“You know, after it killed Henry, I was so sure that I was next. I told myself, ‘this is it…this is the last thing you’re gonna see…this monster’.”
“What happened? I mean, why didn’t it kill you too?”
“I always wonder the same thing. Some nights I lie awake and keep re-living that night over and over. And I ask myself that question. Why didn’t it kill me? Why did it snatch the eye from my skull and then just leave? By then, the neighbors had heard the ruckus and called the cops. Maybe the sirens spooked it. Or maybe by the time it got to me, it was already full and figured an eyeball would make for a good snack.”
“Or maybe it left you alive on purpose,” I heard myself say. “Maybe it wanted you to be able to tell your story.”
Ducky laughed at that. His face turned red and he spent the next five minutes swapping between laughter and a coughing fit.
“Lot of good that did,” he said. “I’ll be long dead in the ground ‘fore anyone believes me.”
I knew that was another light shot at me. At our past. And towards his own past, I suppose.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not, Rod. I stopped caring years ago. I know what happened. I know what I saw. I aint crazy like Henry was. Lot of fucked up stuff has happened to me but I am still put together upstairs. And one day, I swear, I’ll prove you and all the others wrong. I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch and drag its corpse right down Carolina Avenue. Might not be today. Might not be tomorrow. Might not even be for another twenty years. But it’s gonna happen. I’ll find it and I’ll kill it.”
—
Sure you can already guess that Ducky never got his wish. Time never came for him to prove to the town—and the world—that he had been right from the word go. I saw him from time to time over the years (a little more often after I moved back to town). He always looked ragged and worn. And older. Always so much older. Still can’t explain that one—though I ‘spose that years of heavy drinking and drugs aren’t ever gonna make a person look better. Anytime we’d see each other out and about, things were civil. Even friendly. But Ducky was always on his guard. Always looking over his shoulder. And he always came ready with a story. How he’d come this close to getting Goopy. Or how he’d spotted it somewhere.
I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead or nothing but I felt sorry for him. He stank of desperation almost all the time. Like he had nothing in his life but this maddening quest to prove himself as being on the right side of things. As the years sped by, I would often dread the thought of seeing him in town because I knew that he was going to start right back into his theories. Did I expect him to let things go after a while? Perhaps. But Goopy had become his true obsession. His singular goal and purpose. I felt bad because I could see his life just wasting away—much like his body was, I ‘spose. Trauma tends to compound on itself if you go on your way without taking the time to acknowledge it.
Was Ducky right about Mr. Goopy? I don’t know. Don’t ‘spose I’ll ever know. Sure, there are still stories that get passed around ‘bout the thing. To this day. And you bet they’ll continue until time comes to an end. Is Goopy real? Some believe so. Others just laugh and wave off the notion entirely. I can’t say one way or the other. If I had to make a choice—like if it was forced on me—I’d probably end up landing with the group that doesn’t believe. Not sure I can ever let myself make such an acceptance. ‘Cause if something like Goopy is real, then what does that mean for all the other stuff we shrug off as fiction? As fairytale?
A terrible thing happened to my friend and his family. No taking away from that. I still stick to my guns that Henry Simpson was the one that did ‘em all in. And, sure, I ‘spose that means I’m leaning towards Ducky being crazy. And it breaks my heart to write that. To think that. Surely isn’t something I’d have said to his face. But you can’t escape the truth. None of us can.
That’s Ducky’s story. And mine, I guess. You know, it’s funny, but I still catch myself staring outside sometimes. Double checking the yard and the back porch—just making sure those clown shoe sized prints aren’t out there. And sometimes, if I’m out for a walk and I happen by the woods, I’ll stop and listen. I’ll close my eyes and just listen for whatever wants to make a sound. What does that say ‘bout me? Just as good a question as any, I ‘spose.
Where to start? Stories like this usually have a good starting point. Well, ones I’ve read have. Matters like the ones I’m writing ‘bout, well, they don’t often get blessed with good starting points. And that’s mainly ‘cause the fogbanks have already rolled right over the fields of memories and left some pretty thick layers behind. And we’re not talking something like the layers of an onion or a cake. Think more like the Earth itself. You get the idea to dig deep and you’re gonna need some heavy duty equipment and a heck of a lot of time.
So where to start? The murders in ’74? The urban legend? Or what happened to Ducky Simpson? You’ll have to forgive me if you’s reading this—I aint exactly a scholar of the language and I certainly aint a grand storyteller.
Well, okay. Sure, I knew Ducky Simpson. Most folks did—in varying degrees anyway. Ducky was that guy in Leeton; the one everybody knew but really knew nothing about. Ask folks a question ‘bout him and I doubt they’d be able to give you a right answer. Or any answer period. Last few years, Ducky had been a bit more settled. Not bouncing from job to job. Had a tiny apartment above Ralph and June’s Antiques. Got himself cleaned up—though I heard he was still keen on putting away a six-pack here and there. But he’d quit the hard stuff and I suppose that was good enough. Life had been a prickly pear bitch to Ducky. And yeah, what happened in ’74 followed him everywhere he went. For the sake of fairness, I’m inclined to think that if what had happened to Ducky that year had happened to anyone else, they’d still be looking over their shoulder too. Assuming, that is, they survived. The whispers and rumors would always park next to them at the market. ‘Course, it doesn’t matter much now that Ducky is gone.
It really took me back when I heard the news of his passing. When you get to be my age, friends start dropping off the radar quicker and quicker—which is par for the course, I ‘spose. Still doesn’t make it hurt any less. And yeah, Ducky being gone hurts. Not just ‘cause my friend is dead but ‘cause of the way I left things with him. Regret is ugly and it doesn’t mind pushing its way into your life and taking up that empty spot in your bed. And trust me, I’ve been sleeping in empty beds for most of my life. Regret does a shit job keeping you warm at night.
I don’t know if I’m going to be able to finish this whole thing. I’m really thinking and when I think, I can’t help but nurse a bottle of whiskey. Got one right next to me now. Think I might need a good bit of it if I want to see this to the end. Not mourning Ducky; I done got that out of my system. But telling his story—well—that’s a whole different breed of wild animal. And just like Ducky, it’s a bit strange and damn near unbelievable.
—
I knew Ducky since he was ten-years-old and didn’t have a hint of hair on his face or his balls yet. I knew that his real name was Herschel and that he hated that name. I mean, really hated it. Always figured he was going to march down to the courthouse when he turned 18 with all the name changing documents ready to go. ‘Spose he was okay enough with the nickname. His granddad that started calling him Ducky. He told me that he used to carry a little stuffed mallard with him everywhere he went back in the days when he was still shitting in diapers. And, you know, like things tend to do, the name just happened. I liked it—Ducky Simpson had a cooler ring to it than some generic, run-of-the-mill name that you could pick out of a book. Granted, when we was in school, all the teachers still called him Herschel. Swear, sometimes, you could see little trails of steam roll out of his ears when he heard that name.
It’s important to know this next part. That being that Ducky’s old man was a mean son of a bitch and the reason Ducky dropped out of school right in the middle of sophomore year. Didn’t take more than one look to see that Henry Simpson was what the old timers called a ‘functioning drunk’. Henry managed to make the daily drive to the old pottery over in Harper’s Point and still contribute to the pensions of every major beer and liquor manufacturer and distributor in the tristate area. And I don’t even know if most of them folks even have 401K’s and all that—my point being is that Mr. Simpson was a drunk. Ducky always said that his old man had come home from the war with about half his mind and none of the patience and kindness he used to have. Now, of course, Ducky had heard that business second and third-hand ‘cause he didn’t come around until 1959 and Korea was already getting put in the history books by then.
I always remember feeling like Henry Simpson was the kind of guy that you really didn’t want to cross. Not even with a bad joke. When I think ‘bout him, I always see that same look on his face. A sort of vacancy that made you think he was lost in some faraway place. Seeing that as a kid had a way of putting the fear of God into you. ‘Course, if you look at the whole picture now, it makes sense to say that Henry was just liquored up almost all of the time. He wasn’t a deep thinker or a spiritual man who liked to look within himself for guidance. No. Henry Simpson was the guy who always smelled like cigarettes and stale beer. If the sun was in the sky, and he didn’t need to be at work, Henry had a beer in his hand. He was the guy who didn’t mind partaking in screaming matches with his wife after midnight had already struck every clock in town. ‘Ol Henry was also the guy who did most of his real talking with his fists and whatever household objects were nearby. This is the part when I would say that you could ask Ducky. Or Betty, his mother. Or George, his younger brother. But, no, you can’t. None of us can. Not anymore.
—
1974 brought a nasty storm of death and chaos to Leeton (wasn’t the first and certainly not the last). Started with the murders (if this ‘ol noggin is working right). Seems to be that way. Started with the murders and ended with the Simpson family. ‘Course, everything that happened in the middle was seared into my mind with a bit more permanence than I cared for. Bad things have a way of sticking ‘round a lot longer than the good stuff. Not sure why that is—we always say we’re longing for the good ‘ol days and the warm memories but when we’re pressed to think ‘bout the sweet and fuzzies, usually all we get is a bunch of scattered pictures without much context. And yet, often times when we lay our tired heads down on those worn, flat pillows, it doesn’t take much to summon that speeding locomotive carrying every horrible memory we got stored away. And those bastards are all the way put together. Every excruciating detail is played on an endless track and usually, we can’t even come close to hitting the off switch.
This whiskey is not helping much.
So, this part happened around November of ’74. Like I said earlier, I aint no real writer. So you’ll have to forgive me for the leaps and jumps that are coming. But I think it’s important to tell this part now.
We was about a week away from Thanksgiving. The weather had just turned over and we got the first real snowfall of the season. Wasn’t much—though my old man acted like I’d committed the ultimate sin when he saw that I hadn’t shoveled the driveway ‘fore he got home that evening. We’d been let out of school early that day (a little head start to the Thanksgiving break). Ducky and me, well, we hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms then. Since he didn’t like to be home much, Ducky had become sort of a staple ‘round our house. A part of the family that got presents for Christmas and birthdays but somehow managed to skirt by without doing chores like the rest of us. But no matter. I liked having him there. We all did. Jen especially. Always thought he had a little crush on him—though if you’d ask her, she’d just stick out her tongue and stop talking to you for hours.
But like I said, Ducky and me wasn’t talking. And that wasn’t something that had been sitting too well but considering all that had been happening, I guess I understood. Not sure I’d be talking to me either after…well…suppose that’s best left for later.
Tough to forget a night like that. Real tough. Think what I remember the most was how scared I got when I heard the sirens. I mean, emergency sirens and Leeton go together like bacon and eggs. What got me was what Ducky had said to me on the phone just minutes before.
“Rod…it’s Ducky.”
He’d sounded out of breath—like he’d just finished running up a big hill or something.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” I asked. I was surprised to hear from him. And my expectations had immediately leapt to believing that things between us were going to be whipped right back to normal.
“Listen…I don’t have much time. The cops are on their way.”
See, this is the part where things took a turn. When he said the word cops, I got that sick feeling in my gut. You know, like when you realize you’re about to get caught doing something that you shouldn’t. That kind of empty feeling had my insides in a bind right there and then.
“Cops? What are you talking about?”
“Shit…shit…it’s coming…oh God…I told you…I told…”
“Ducky? What the hell is going on?”
My swearing and scared shitless voice was enough to bring both of my parents sprinting into the kitchen. Ducky hadn’t responded; the only thing I heard on his end of the line was a static feedback and what sounded like clicking.
“Ducky!” I shouted. The grip I’d put on the phone cord had turned my hand almost entirely white. The commotion had even brought Jen out of her room. She told me later that the look on my face had terrified her so much more than the yelling. She said it looked like someone had dumped an entire bucket of white paint over my head.
“It’s here…oh God no…Rod…it’s really here…”
The line cut up with more static and popping—so much that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. I thought if I’d actually listened to it for another second that I would have gone insane.
“Please…” Ducky cut back in. He spoke in a whisper that chilled my bones. “Oh God no…please no…it’s in the house…Rod…it’s Goopy…it’s here…”
Line went dead after that. ‘Course, that’s when the sirens started up. And that’s when I knew that things had changed for good. Lot of folks get those moments in life when they realize the fork in the road is miles behind ‘em and they’re strapped in tight going about 100 miles an hour. It’s not a good feeling, you know. ‘Course, if you’ve been there, then you know. You know damn well.
—
Mr. Goopy. That’s what this whole thing is really about. Man, that’s a name I haven’t thought about in years. With Ducky gone and me peddling away in this notebook, figures that I can’t really think of anything else. Goopy. It’s such a kiddie name for a thing, isn’t it? That’s where it comes from though—kid stories. One of those legends that floats around the playground at recess to the eager eared little ones who stop their games of basketball and tag to get a listen. Sure you know the stories; imagine every small town has at least one or two. And I’d be willing to bet the farm that you heard ‘em all when you was just knee high to your parents and had to drag a stool across the floor just to get a little glimpse of the treats they kept in the high cabinets. Might say, too, that some of those stories scared the piss right out of you. Maybe not in front of your friends. Bravery is currency in those years. But when you got to bed after hearing one of those tales…well…they started to sink in a little more, right? Maybe you gripped your blankets a little tighter? Covered your head with a pillow? Double and triple checked under the bed? Begged your mothers to leave a light on—even for just a little while?
Kids can be total shits but to them, they’re just having fun. So they say. It’s supposed to be fun to be scared. Which, if you ask me, don’t make a hen’s head worth of sense. But to each their own. I try to stick to facts and good ‘ol honest truth. Though, when you talk about stories like Mr. Goopy, I suppose you have to throw all of that business out the window and open up the mind a little ways. Sometimes the light don’t always shine in the places you expect it to.
Jen and me, we learned about Mr. Goopy from our cousin Ben. Now, thing about Ben you gotta know is that he wore about three different faces almost all the time. On the surface, he was a straight lace. Never got in any trouble. Always attending church. Praying to God. Brought home report cards with nothing but A’s. But he had plenty of other sides. When it was just you and him, Ben was no saint. Not even close. Always saying bad words and yelling and breaking stuff. One time—and this was, say, summer when we was around 11 or 12—we’d been around town for most of the day. Ben had found some cigarettes and was trying to get me to join ‘em in smoking. ‘Course I didn’t want to but I did—fucking habit stuck with me not long after. Ben kept the pressure on, though. Not sure if he really wanted me to smoke with ‘em or if he just wanted to know that he could talk me into doing something. Suppose either was possible. So, we was out in Leeton all day and came across the Jones Towing and Auto Shop. Used to sit on the edge of town—about around where that Mexican joint opened a couple months back. Ben, on a whim, just starting chucking rocks at the windows of their garages. Stood there and broke every single pane of glass he could see. Just because he could. Mean, who does something like that? Ben was that type a person—just casually dipping his toes in destruction. He made it so you never knew if he was telling you the truth or just wiping his ass and smearing it on your face. The boy talked out of every corner of his mouth and you best believe he never let on that he was anything but a sweet little angel.
(They made a movie years back that reminded me of Ben. Had that little fella from Home Alone. Think it was called The Good Son. Swear, that was Ben on the screen. Damn chilling.)
We’d all gone to our grandparent’s house for a cookout. Mother’s Day, maybe? I can’t quite remember. This would have been the same summer where he smashed all the windows. Could have been the 4th. No matter. Us kids—we was playing around in the backyard—and that’s when Ben asked us if we’d ever heard about Mr. Goopy.
“What the hell is a Mr. Goopy?” Jen had asked. She never took Ben with any sort of seriousness. Always said he was the guy who gave snakes in the grass a bad name.
“Mr. Goopy. Come on. You dicks are telling me that you haven’t heard of him?”
“Nope,” I’d said. I remember seeing that devilish smirk roll across his face—same one he’d get when he’d light a firecracker and toss it at a bird.
“Well, you guys at least know that Leeton is haunted, right?” he’d asked. Jen and I both shook our heads—though we did have some underlying idea that the town was overflowing with ghost stories.
“Christ on a fucking cracker. Okay. Well that’s the first thing you have to know. This whole town is bad. Like, real bad. Goes back to when the place was founded. Mid 1800’s. History books won’t tell you the truth but there weren’t a lot of good people that settled in this area. Lot of bad men. Women, too, so don’t get your panties in a twist about fucking equality, Jen.”
“I thought this was about Mr. Goompy,” Jen said. She’d rolled her eyes, too. I remember how much that used to piss off Ben. She knew how to get him riled up.
“Goopy, dumbass. Goooooopy.” Ben said.
“Whatever.”
“1952. A young boy went out into the woods. And just like that, poof. He was gone. Not a sight. Not a trace. Just gone. Cops spent days out there looking for him. Townspeople too. Nobody found a thing. Week goes by and the kid just shows up at his house.”
“What happened to him?” I’d asked.
“They didn’t know. He hadn’t been hurt or nothing. But they could tell something was wrong with him. The boy just refused to talk. Hardly moved. Wouldn’t eat. Like, he was seriously fucked in the head. Word got around that when he came back, his mother found him on the porch and he was covered head to toe in this thick, black slime. Like someone had come along and doused him in oil and lard.”
“Gross,” Jen said.
“Your face is gross,” I’d joked. Took a good punch to the shoulder for that one.
“What happened next?” Jen asked.
“Kid didn’t speak for months. He just sat up in his room and stared out the window. Night and day he’d sit out there and look. And watch.”
“What was he watching for?” I’d asked.
“He was just watching the woods. See, where his house was, you could see into ‘em real good. Right through their backyard, actually. Kid’s parents didn’t know what to do. The whole thing had them shook up pretty good, you know?”
“What do you think he was watching for?” Jen asked.
“My best guess was that he was watching for whatever he saw out there. Waiting for it to come back to get ‘em.”
Now, according to Ben’s version of the tale, the little boy in ’52 stayed in that catatonic state. Got to the point where his parents decided it was best to ship him over to Pittsburgh. Used to be a big mental hospital out that way—they just packed him all up and left him there. When I heard that bit, it did make me sad in a way. ‘Course I didn’t cry or nothing—guys just don’t up and shed a handful of tears when they hear a sad story. But I just felt like no kid should get left alone like that. Even the messed up ones deserve love, you know? The boy clearly went through something in the woods. Kids don’t just up and stop living like that unless they saw something bad.
“So what happened to him?” Jen had asked. I knew it just by looking in her eyes—she was intrigued. Mesmerized, maybe. The girl always had a knack for the weird and the weirder.
“Well, the boy spent the next few years in that asylum. Doctors didn’t know what to do with him. Nurses got tired of trying—he still wasn’t talking or anything. Even the orderlies just brushed him off to the side. Even stopped cleaning his room after a while. They just let him sit in there all day in his own shit and piss. Staring out his window. Now, this is where things get odd. A nurse was the first to report it to the staff. She was in with the boy one afternoon and found some of that black slime under the kid’s bed. Didn’t think much of it—it was an old building after all and they was used to finding gunk from time to time.”
“Was it the same black stuff he had on him when he first came home?” I’d asked.
“Yeah. And the folks in the hospital kept finding it in random places. A lot more of it, too. On the floors and walls. One night they even found that it had clogged up a few of the toilets. Made a real mess. Doctor’s and all wanted to blame the boy—they had a room for him in solitary confinement all prepped and ready—but they realized that he’d never once left his room. Not even a little peek out the door.”
“So how’d the slime get there?” Jen asked.
“Nobody knew. Not a single clue. Sometimes it would just appear.”
“What then?” I’d asked. I hated to admit it but my curiosity had been sparked. I didn’t even care if Ben was filling our ears with shit—it was interesting shit and it passed the time.
“August. Still in ’52. The kid got out. Real nasty scene up there. He stabbed a nurse and stole her keys. Took off on foot. But what got people worried—more so than they were about a mental patient escaping—was how they found that poor nurse. She was all cut up and bleeding. And they found the black slime coming out of her eyes.”
“Christ,” I’d whispered. I always remember the image I brought up in my head that day. After hearing that story, I thought about what that poor nurse might have looked like. Alive, and admittedly, dead. Just didn’t seem right—work in a place where you help people only to have one of them same people do something so horrible to you.
Ben finished the story by telling us that the kid supposedly walked all the way back to Leeton—leaving a trail of that black slime the whole way. Police from a few of the different counties and towns came to town to help scour the woods for ‘em but nobody managed to turn up anything but a few traces of that gunk. It was like, once the boy finally made it to the woods, his trail went cold. They declared him missing (again) and plastered his face all over town. Flyers. Bits in the paper. But no one ever saw him again. Not once.
Now, you gotta excuse me ‘cause I know you’re thinking, “Holy shit, you’re talking the longest road possible to get back around to Ducky”. I do tend to trail off from time to time but it’s important to hear the story about the kid in order to understand Mr. Goopy. The straight ahead story of Goopy is that it had lived out in the Leeton woods for centuries. Wasn’t human or animal. Just a thing made up of that black slime. Some people would tell you (if you heard the story and got too scared) that Mr. Goopy just lived off the animals. Rabbits. Squirrels. Things like that. Now, if you wasn’t about to piss your pants or cry to your mother, then more of the story got told. Some of the lore said that Goopy would eat anything. That sometimes it would come into town…late at night…and look for something a little tastier than the local wildlife.
Now, the way Ben told it, the boy was never found because he ended up becoming part of Mr. Goopy. I know—that don’t make a whole stick of sense. Guess the best comparison I can make is to that old movie where the blob thing rolled around and sucked up everything in sight. Mr. Goopy was supposed to be like that. Well, sort of. Ben always made it a point to say that Goopy wasn’t picky when it came into town—people was people. But every so often, according to Ben, Goopy needed to get a kid. ‘Course he couldn’t really give us a good reason why. Just how he told the story. And truth be told, Ben was a jerk. He liked being mean to us. Really liked trying to scare us—‘specially Jen.
Part of me wishes Ben was still around—if only to tell the story the way he told it. I aint so good at conveying things. Not like him, anyway. Imagine as time went along, Ben probably told that story over and over. ‘Course, now he’s probably sharing stories in whatever sort of afterlife he believed. Few years back, guess he got mixed up with some of the wrong people over there in New York City. Unfortunate but not surprising—guys that don’t always look at you with the same eyes are apt to wind up dropped in an alley behind a Thai place with four bullet holes in the head. I didn’t make it to the funeral. Jen sent flowers. Life works that way sometimes, I guess.
Ben was right on about one thing. That being that Leeton is…I don’t know. A bad place? Cursed? Haunted? I aint one for believing in curses or ghosts—fiction is best left for the tabloids and the paperbacks. But I certainly can’t deny that this town has a long history of things going sideways. Crops of missing folks from time to time—which gave more fuel to the Goopy stories. Legends grow when there aint no one around to tell the events like they happened. Easy to look at something from far away and plaster your own reasoning to it. Stories like Goopy get passed down from generation to generation and there is always a new addition. Then, anytime something bad happened, the kids could turn to their friends and say, “See, I told you Goopy was real.”
—
Summer 1974. Few months away from Oakland winning the World Series and Nixon resigning. Also the summer where six Leeton residents lost their lives. And the summer that saw the (eventual) end of my friendship with Ducky.
This was in the early part of the summer—that sweet spot where the heat aint suffocating and you still have that excitement in your belly when you wake up every morning and remember that you don’t have to get moving to catch the bus. Those good feelings went away pretty quick once the killings started. Shit, looking back, ’74 was a god awful year for the town. But, see, once people starting dying, that’s when our parents really made a point to tell us that the woods was off limits. They didn’t care for us going anywhere out of sight but kids aren’t always so adaptable to leashes and rules. So things were alright as long as we stuck to the neighborhood, avoided the woods, and got a good running start if we saw anyone strange just hanging around. Ducky and me was headed into freshman year, so the whole ‘stranger danger’ business was common sense by then. I knew the worry was more for Jen then us boys; though we did our best to keep an eye on her best as we could.
There was always two places we wasn’t supposed to go when we was kids. My sister and me—and Ducky, eventually—were always told to stay clear of the house on the corner near the playground. Back then, that playground was our little slice of paradise. Swings. Seesaws. Even had a little baseball diamond where the bigger kids usually held their pickup games and happily excluded anyone that wasn’t in their running circle. But see, there was a long row of houses behind that playground. And as a kid, rules that forbade you from going somewhere didn’t make a whole lot of sense. If it was such a bad house, why was it near a playground? Why was it right where any little kid could just wander over and peek his little head inside? I mean, all us kids spent lots of time out there and I didn’t ever once see no one bad going in or outta that place. Plus, it was all burnt up. Not exactly a fun place for kids to play. Explore, sure. And it was harmless. I think. Jen, my sis, always said that mom and dad just didn’t want us getting hurt. They couldn’t understand why the town had just left the place standing. Wasn’t much left to it really. And like I said, it was right near the playground. Nothing bad should have been near a place like that. Dad told me—and this was a good while after we grew out of playing outside—that the house had belonged to an old man named Dennis Colter. And, from what my dad said, Dennis Colter was rather fond of cocaine and girls that came with a cheap price tag. Long story cut to pieces, let’s just say that he owed the wrong sort of people some money. And when that happens—especially in Leeton—things tend to get out of hand. And, yeah. Someone came along and burned down the house. With him inside.
But back to it. Jen and me were also on strict orders to stay out of the woods (as I noted earlier). Not everywhere, you see—there were little sections here and there that were fine. There was this access road that you could get to—from the playground actually—that ran back about two miles or so. Maybe more. I was never much good with judging distance with my own two eyes. If you walked through the baseball field and kept on straight through left field and hopped the fence, you’d wind up coming across a little dirt path. You took that path for a little ways and eventually you’d come out on the road. I couldn’t tell you what it was for—not then or now—but it was there and we never saw as much as a bicyclist ride past. Wasn’t much out that way. Couple old warehouses that sat empty. Plenty of empty land that just stretched on and on. The wooded area was on the right side of the road (if you was coming from the playground). You know, we walked the whole thing one time. Me and Ducky. Road just sort of stopped. Big metal rails marked it—all covered it tall weeds and junk. We certainly never saw anyone in the woods. Lots of trees and trails and poison ivy (which was always the smoking gun that got me in trouble…sort of tough to hide that shit when it spreads). But again, when you’re a kid, you just can’t grasp the danger that’s always lurking. Just can’t.
Ducky wasn’t the one who told me about Mr. Goopy (covered that). He told me about Bob, though. And if I’m being honest, the story about Bob had me a bit more scared than Mr. Goopy. At first, anyway. Ducky said that the reason folks were leery about the woods was because of the guy that lived out there. Bob. He was a drifter—or, if you took my dad’s word, a hippie fuck who probably wanted to diddle some of the neighborhood kids. No one seemed to know much about him. Folks that saw him in town said the same sorts of things. Always looked ragged and dirty. Real long greasy hair. Big fluffy beard that came down to his stomach. About as skinny as a pencil—attractive as one too. Heard he always had sores on his hands and face. I heard a lot of that—bits of story that didn’t quite make much sense to me when I was a kid too. You know how rumors get going. One asshole says that Bob is probably a kid toucher ends up leading to fifty people swearing on their grandmother’s graves that they saw him eating wild animals and trying to lure kids into the woods so he could do rituals with ‘em.
Now, thing is, Bob and Mr. Goopy go hand in hand. Past that, the whole business ties into Ducky’s story.
—
“Heard my old man talking,” Ducky said. “They think that drifter is the one out there doing the killing.”
“The one you told me about? Bob?” I asked.
“Yep. Someone said they saw him in town last week arguing with that Cruz guy. Looked to be a pretty good spat too.”
Jose Cruz had been the fifth victim found that month. Looked about the same as the others—single stab wound in the chest and another along the base of the neck. The Smith family was the first three—Bob, Amy, and Sarah. Deputy Paul Collins was four. And…um…shoot…oh, right…the Taylor boy had been number six. The pieces seemed to slide on in together after that and more and more folks started to look at Bob for the murders. And you know, that’s a tough spot for a kid to exist in. Matters of life and death touch us all at one time or another, sure, but trying to live day to day in a time when some maniac is roaming the very streets you walk down every day is pretty shitty. Especially for a couple of boys in their teens who just want to ride bikes and talk about girls and smoke the cigarettes they lifted from the convenient store. We didn’t know any better; though, perhaps, we did and just didn’t want to believe it. The adults, well, they did know better. And it didn’t matter in the end. They got their man and that was that. Until, of course, it wasn’t.
We jittered and jived and tried to keep eyes on all sides of our head that month. That whole summer, really. But June and July especially. There was always that creepy crawly feeling on the backs of our necks anytime we was outside. Papers and the news kept a steady stream of consumable bad news; so much so that I stepped out of the room if I happened to be there when the 5:00 news came on Channel 4. After a bit, your guts just can’t take no more stories about death and mayhem. Police went around acting like they had no real leads—a staple in the past and most certainly in the future. Chief Adams had taken off for his usual summer vacation right before all this bad shit started and left a fella by the name of Tim Eckhart in charge. Now, from what I could tell, Eckhart was one of the so called ‘good ‘ol boys’. Kept his hair high and tight. Always made sure you saw his gun when he sauntered around town. Switched between toothpicks and chewing tobacco almost every week it seemed. He was the type of cop that would have certainly been a fixture in the news nowadays if he was still in law enforcement. And as you can imagine, I’m not talking about the sort of fixture that is up for medals and accolades. Eckhart was the sort of guy you didn’t even want to make eye contact with—he had no issues trying to throw around his perceived weight. That was especially true when he stepped in Chief Adams’s spot that summer. He was a small man trying to wear big shoes.
On July 8, 1974, Eckhart held a press conference and declared that the perpetrator behind the slayings in town had been found deceased somewhere in the woods the night before. I remember watching that day and seeing the look in Eckhart’s eyes. It was pride in full bloom. Staring right into the camera as he told every reporter and every concerned citizen at home that Bob (no last name given) was responsible for the murders and, after a standoff with local police, had met his end after an officer (that would not be named) had shot him. I guess you could say we was all pretty relieved; it seemed like a viable ending and that was the one thing people wanted a little more than answers. Sometimes it’s best that things just stop.
‘Course, that wasn’t exactly the whole story. And Ducky Simpson knew it. He knew it because he saw what really happened that night.
—
Day or so later, Ducky is at my house earlier than usual. I didn’t mind the company—we was best friends and all—but I hadn’t slept all that great the night before and hearing him pound away on my front door at 7:30 AM damn near set me right off. I stumbled my way downstairs and almost pulled the door off the hinges (not so much but you get the idea).
“Jesus, Ducky. It’s not even 8:00 yet…” I managed to get that much out ‘fore I saw the look on his face. Pale white—like he’d seen a whole gaggle of ghosts and then walked right through ‘em. At first I thought he was going to start bawling right then and there. He just had that look, you know? He was sitting right on the verge of losing it. I rushed him inside; wasn’t ready to explain to the neighbors (or my parents) why Ducky Simpson was on the porch having a crying fit before most of the birds had even gotten going with their days.
I knew something was wrong with him; he wasn’t normally so timid and fearful. Almost was like he was on high guard. Waiting for something to come for him.
“What’s up, pal? You look like you just caught the Devil pounding your mom.”
“I’m not even going to ask if you can keep a secret, Rod. ‘Cause I know you can. And will.”
The way he talked that morning was unlike anything I’d ever heard come out of his mouth before. Usually Ducky was the type to just joke around; even with the serious business. But there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on his face.
“Sure, yeah,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“They’re lying. They’re all lying,” he said. I remember he kept turning around to look behind him—like he was expecting someone to have just up and appeared there with something heavy and hard to keep him from talking.
“Who is lying?”
“Eckhart. The cops. Man, it’s bad. It’s so bad.”
I waited for him to keep going—sort of how we took to our conversations back then. Not a whole lot of questions. Just a good bit of listening. Ducky asked for some water before he got on with it. Seemed to calm him down a little but there was still something behind his voice the whole time he spoke. Fear, I suppose, though it wasn’t what I was used to with him. Seen him scared plenty of times. That morning, well, he was something else entirely.
“Heard my dad talking the other night. About 3:00 in the morning. Don’t know if that’s what woke me or not. Doesn’t matter. I really didn’t think all that much about it…you know how he gets sometimes. Never really sleeps much. So I got up to take a piss and heard him downstairs rummaging through his stuff in the back room. You know, the one between the kitchen and the back door? I went down to see what he was doing…just curious…but he’d already gone out back. And he had his shotgun. Now that got me thinking a bit…it’s not hunting season or nothing. So I got my shoes on and I followed him.”
I remember thinking that Ducky had made a big time mistake going out that night. ‘Course, he did too, but hindsight had already tanned his backside and he knew he got off lucky with that one. I figured if his dad had caught him trailing the apple cart that night, Ducky wouldn’t have been in any sort of condition to talk.
“Where did you go?” I asked. Admittedly, I wanted to hear the story. I still treated gossip like gold back then. Bit easier to do that when you didn’t really think much about the consequences and all.
“Followed him out to the woods. I stuck around the edges; I knew if any of ‘em saw me that my ass would be cooked for good.”
“Them? You mean there were other people out there?”
“Yeah. Quite a few. I only saw my dad, Eckhart, and Ed Taylor. But there were more guys with ‘em. Probably seven or eight in total. They were all packing, too. Big guns.”
(I didn’t find this out until years later but when the police found the Taylor boy, Ed’s son Eric, well…he’d been…well let’s just say he’d been killed and then some).
“What were they all doing?” I asked. Granted, I had a pretty good idea of where Ducky was headed with his story. But I still wanted to hear it. I still wanted him to tell it because he had been there. Because he’d witnessed a real crime. Not that it matters all that much now—every one of ‘em is long dead and as far as I know, you can’t charge a dead man with a crime.
“They went after Bob. I mean, I didn’t know that at first. Those guys were full of piss and fire, man. I had no idea what was going on until I started hearing the screams. But that wasn’t it…I mean…you’re gonna think I’m a few cards short of a full deck.”
(I considered telling him that I always thought that—part of me truly did, I think—but looking at the state of ‘em and listening to how he talked, I figured it best to just leave things be).
“I don’t know how long it took for them to find Bob. Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes or so. Whole thing happened so fast, I didn’t even think to grab my watch. But they did. They found him. And it didn’t sound pretty. And Rod, I tell you, even that didn’t make much sense to me. You and me have been out in those woods a hundred times. Do our voices carry very far?” Ducky asked. Strange; it was like he was hearing my thoughts at the same time he was talking.
“Not really,” I said. “Maybe in certain areas more than others.”
“Sure. Down by the creek. And around those big rocks.”
“Sounds about right.”
“This was damn near on the opposite side of all that. And there wasn’t a hint of wind in the air.”
What Ducky was saying made sense—to me anyway. If those men had walked a straight line for ten minutes or so, it would have been pretty tough to hear what was going on. Gunshots, sure. That shotgun that belonged to Ducky’s dad had a nasty crack to it; you’d probably hear it on the outskirts of Harper’s Point if he unloaded a few rounds in just the right spot.
“It sounded like they were right next to me. The whole bunch of ‘em—just tearing into that poor guy. One by one. Taking turns on him. It was…Jesus…it was one of the worst things I’d ever heard.”
“I’m sorry, man. That’s…that’s terrible,” I said. I really didn’t know what else I could say. To say I felt bad would be a gross understatement. I almost felt sick and all I was doing was listening. Ducky had been out there. He’d heard all of that with his own two ears.
“You know…you know the sound your shoes make when you step in mud? Like, real deep mud?” Ducky asked. I nodded. Of course I did. Anyone who spent any real time in the outdoors knew that sound. “I heard that. Something wet and squishy…just moving through the trees.”
“And? Probably just one of the guys out there.”
“That’s what I thought too. At first. But…they was coming from a different direction. Like…like whatever was out there had been a few feet away from me…and then once they got to Bob, it started moving out towards them.”
“I don’t get what you’re trying to hit here, Duck,” I said.
“I’m saying…I’m trying to…man…there was something else out there with us all. Something huge and fast. And wet.”
I didn’t think it was possible but Ducky looked even paler when he got to that part. Like something had already drained him of his color and then went back for seconds.
“When is the last time it rained here?” Ducky asked. I had no idea—which meant we hadn’t seen a good shower for at least a few weeks.
“Exactly. So you tell me where those sounds came from if it wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what?”
Ducky just looked at me with those distant, foggy brown eyes and I knew he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind. He didn’t want to admit to what had him scared half-to-death. He wanted the words to come from me.
“Mr. Goopy?” I asked. “You can’t be serious.”
Ducky buried his head in his arms and started to weep. Took him a while to compose himself again. Really took notice to how he looked then; hair in a wild, pointed mess. Shirt was wrinkled to hell and back. His eyes looked like they belonged to an old man who hadn’t slept in weeks.
“When…when that thing moved out there…that’s when the real screaming started. And the shooting. A lot of it, man. Like they unloaded everything they had. But the screaming didn’t stop. I…I took off once I heard everything. Got my ass back home. Right back up to my room. Couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes later when I heard the back door open. My old man came in just huffing and puffing. Like…like he’d just run for his life.”
“Facts are meaningless. You can use facts to prove anything that’s even remotely true. Facts schmacts.” – Homer Simpson
I have occasionally wondered what sort of things I’d be doing with my life if I were a teenager/young adult right now. Social media obsession/addiction? Filming myself doing everything in the hopes that real effort is never required to make a living? Would I use fun words like ‘stan’, ‘woke’, ‘lit’, or ‘sus’? Would I spend hours a day arguing with strangers online? Perhaps I’d try to lead the charge in an attempt to ‘cancel’ someone. I’d go all out to collect attention and praise. I’d have the running delusion that my ‘content’ is brilliant and providing a service to the world. Man. What a life, eh?
A lot of talk lately about the Covid vaccine. A bit more now that the CDC has given the green light for vaccinated folks to ditch the masks in most situations. I got my vaccination out of the way last month. Will I go out in public without a mask? Probably not anytime soon. And that just stems from my constant lack of trust when it comes to other people. Yeah, we’re cresting a very important hill on the road to getting past this pandemic. That’s great. But there is still a large chunk of the population that doesn’t care a bit about any of it. The same chunk that operated under the idea that it was a “fake pandemic”. That it wasn’t “that serious”. It’s not a blanket statement but I’m fairly sure that there will be a few wonderful people out there who pretend to be vaccinated. Maybe they’ll even go as far as getting a fake vaccine card. You know, if our country acted this way when Polio was a thing, well, we’d probably still have people coming down with Polio. I mean, we’re a few weeks removed from people filling up bags with gasoline. That says it all.
Some of the hesitation comes from the idea of the unknown. What might happen to me down the road if I get the shot(s)? What sort of side effects are going to pop up later in life? It’s a fair question and a fair concern. I get it. Our species has always been terrified of the unknown. Of the uncertainty that awaits. And I’d never judge anyone for having those worries and fears. Hell, sometimes I worry that my stuffed animals are going to come to life and kill Britt in her sleep. Thing is–and I try to live by this idea–our futures aren’t going to be great if we don’t make the efforts right now. The present dictates the future. If we’re constantly looking ahead, then we aren’t giving the now the attention and care that it needs. Could the Covid vaccine screw us up later? Maybe. Can getting Covid now screw us up? Definitely. That isn’t an unknown. That’s reality.
But to touch on a point that sits on the other side of this. I find it laughable that possibilities and maybes are driving people to sit back and not get this vaccine thing done. And I say that because for a good bit of folks, engaging in horrible, unhealthy habits is a daily thing. Okay, yes, you’re dealing with more established outcomes. Smokers know they’re going to get lung cancer. Alcoholics know they’re going to destroy their livers and other organs (and families). Drug addicts know that death can be waiting right outside their door and they still go for it. The obese know that a heart attack could be imminent and they still put in that order at McDonalds. I know that sugar is no good and I still break down and have that bowl of cereal in the morning (not every morning…I’m trying). It just begs the question of how much we really care about our bodies. Perhaps the comparison is not exactly fair. I don’t know. It just sort of seems like a loose reason to try and hang your hat on is all.
I want to give a special shout out to the guy who ran the stop sign coming off of Rt. 8 a few mornings ago. I appreciate you doing that right in front of me. May your coming days be filled with horrific bouts of public diarrhea.
But to jump back to the whole worrying about the future thing. Don’t get me wrong, I think about it a lot. Where I want us to be. How I want things to look. Hell, even the idea of children has been floated around a time or two. And yeah, like a good bit of you, I am saddled with the lingering regrets of mistakes that happened in those days long gone by. That’s life. Pretty sure that there will be plenty of mistakes to follow. Again, life. I’ve dealt with my share of headaches; the mean ones that come from living in three different times at once. The ones that wrap around the skull and squeeze until all of the juice is out of the orange. I am both prepared and not prepared. I demand a future–and a present–that is built on hard work and honesty and not compromising on the things that matter most. And then I drop those demands onto the floor because I am far too tired to function. The cycle repeats itself. Sometimes the audience laughs. Other times, they do not.
The NHL playoffs are in full swing. The Pens look to keep their season alive tomorrow night in what I’m sure will be a very tense game 6. I don’t know what the hell happened last night. All I know is that it wasn’t good. I do see them taking the game tomorrow and forcing a game 7 back in the ‘Burgh. We can debate until the sun goes down about the things keeping the Pens from potentially moving along. I do think it’s important to remember that the Islanders are a pretty good team. That tends to play a big part in things.
Edmonton is out. Done. See ya next season. I still can’t put that one into words. Two of the greatest players in the world and they looked like they didn’t belong. Perhaps the time has come to ignite a bomb within that organization. McDavid isn’t going to wait around forever to have a real shot at winning.
I did pick Nashville to upset Carolina. And after games 3 and 4, I am a bit more convinced that they can do it. Very excited for the tilt tonight. Carolina is sneaky good. Outside of their own market, you don’t often see much coverage in their favor. They are loaded with talent. If Nashville wins tonight, I say they take the series.
It’s Knight Time in Florida. Can the rookie help the Panthers complete the comeback? Absolutely. Will it happen? I don’t know. Tampa is frightening. And they look like a team that is ready for another championship. But a rookie goaltender going on a hot streak has worked out several times for teams that ended up winning the Cup. Either way, Florida has a super bright future ahead.
Obviously, the ideal final sees Pittsburgh and Colorado going at it. Crosby vs. McKinnon. Best friends competing for the ultimate prize. Come on. That has storybook written all over it. But with the intensity we’ve already seen, I don’t think it’s going to matter who winds up in the finals. We’re in store for some damn good hockey.
I’ve noticed a great increase in the number of very large birds in the area.
The creative side of things is still at a crawl. I thought I was close to a breakthrough a few weeks ago. Turns out I was being fooled. I blame hunger. And my gem of a stomach. I’ve been trying to cut sugar from my diet for about a month now. And in the expected case of Ralston Luck/Irony, I’ve felt rather terrible. Makes sense, right? Sure. The brain suffers as much as any other part of the body when you’re putting trash into it. Add those extra lovely things like poor sleep, a night turn schedule, and not having a hefty supply of the Limitless drug or cocaine pancakes and you’re going to have yourself a hell of a good time. You’ll get to do fun activities such as staring into space for minutes at a time, nearly falling over when moving from room to room, and the always enjoyable moments of nodding off while driving.
And speaking of, I suppose it is time to sign off. Be good out there. Stick to your own business. Your own life. Enjoy what you can. Find happiness in the little things.
Cashier: According to your background check, you’ve been in a mental institution. Homer: Yeah. Cashier: Frequent problems with alcohol. Homer: (Chuckles) Yeah. Cashier: You beat up President Bush. Homer: Former president. (reads background check) “Potentially dangerous”?! Cashier: Relax. That just limits you to three handguns or less.
I don’t feel like there is a single part of me that wants to sit here and write this. Not one. Nope. I’m exhausted and empty. But if I didn’t do things when I didn’t feel like it, well, then nothing would ever get done. Which, to be fair and honest, is usually why I don’t ever get things done.
It’s April 27rd. Snowed last week. A good bit too. Sure, okay. We’ll all be melting come summer so I guess this is fine. I managed to get the grass cut last Tuesday. That was about the extent of my activity for the day. Nodded off a few times during the Pens game. Completely crashed during the Stars/Red Wings game. That’s about typical for my first day off. Wednesday came and went with a few yawns and plenty of poor dietary choices. Then I once again entered the weekly work cycle. That’s really the structure of life, yeah? Cycles. We all get trapped in them. It’s the same things day in and day out. You’ll get a little variety here and there but not much. Sometimes I think my fictional Carousel world has more to offer than an addiction to a false reality. Imagine we could all use a break once in a while. A vacation from reality. Guess that’s what they were going for in Total Recall. This “weekend” is shaping up to be about the same. Though, I think the weather is looking a little nicer.
Chauvin was found guilty on all three counts for the murder of George Floyd. Good. I can’t imagine he’s going to survive prison once he gets there. Suppose we’ll see how it all plays out. At least this is one small step towards justice. One tiny push forward for racial equality. I’m still of the belief that these things will never truly end. Obviously that is a belief that I would love to be wrong about. It just seems like people are permanently tied to their thoughts and feelings when it comes to that sort of stuff. It’s as though they don’t realize there is always room to grow and change. Or, perhaps, they don’t want to. There really isn’t a reason or argument that will hold up either. Growing up in an environment that fosters racism isn’t an excuse. My father was not often shy about expressing his ideology and believe me, it wasn’t really the best. And yet, here I am. I can’t speak for my brother but I’m fairly sure it’s the same. You see, we’re all taught lessons and behaviors as children. That’s why racists still exist. Thing is, once we all reach a certain age, we realize that we’re capable of forming our own thoughts and opinions. So to try and pin your horrible feelings on things you grew up around is a bit of a weak attempt to keep yourself upright.
You know, I’ll say this, I would probably have a bit more respect for people if they just came right out and admitted to being terrible. Honesty carries a lot of weight. I mean, it won’t make you any less horrible, but at least the truth is out there. It’s important to be comfortable, right? We’re cruising right along in this new age of self-care and whatnot. Embrace it. Be forthcoming. Fly those white supremacist flags high and proud. Fill your Facebook feed with comments that highlight how you really feel.
Wait, what’s that? Can’t be outright racist? What? Too afraid of taking that next leap? Subtlety is key? Worried about what family and friends will think? Well, um, shucks.
More folks are out there killing other folks again. I can hear the ‘rabble, rabble, rabble’ of both sides now. Sure if you open a window and listen, you’ll hear it too. Guns are bad. Guns are good. Guns are sexy. My gun keeps me warm at night. I really don’t feel the need to launch into this whole thing again. People love killing. It’s that simple. Anti-gun groups will tell you that all guns are bad and that we need to get rid of them. Pro-gun groups will deliver the opposite message. Both sides are more worried about inanimate things than they are about the preservation of life. Maybe come together and find a good medium? Perhaps find a way to keep weapons away from dangerous people? I don’t know. It really isn’t the American way to work towards a solution that benefits the most people. We’re addicted to our divisiveness.
The European Super League fell apart pretty quickly, eh? Can’t say that it seemed like a very good idea from the start. Obviously, that sentiment was shared by A LOT of other people. All six Premier League clubs pulled out (Chelsea, Manchester City, Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, and Tottenham). I am nowhere close to an expert of the sport and my fan card is still in the ‘pending approval’ phase but this just seemed like a big time cash grab disguised as…well…something else. Time to move on.
This is usually when I plug a new project or offer an update or two on what I’ve been working on lately. I wish I had better news on that front. Writing has dulled. The ideas are there but there is something putting a huge gap between brain and fingers and paper. The Madison Seminary investigation video should have been done months ago and it is still unfinished (not by a lot…you should see it in a week or two). There really isn’t anything new to be said about creative blocks and self-conscious worries. Those are common threads that tie the lot of us together. Doesn’t make it any better.
I finished The Falcon and the Winter Soldier last Friday. Absolutely fantastic. Especially the final episode. Marvel is doing its characters a tremendous service by branching out into television. It provides them so much more room to grow and move. They’re able to find a depth to these people that you can’t always get in a movie. The slate of upcoming shows is ridiculous as well. Loki. What If. Hawkeye. Moon Knight. She-Hulk. Armor Wars. Secret Invasion. So on and so on.
I’ll end this by sharing something that a friend of mine posted on Facebook. Might even frame it one day.
“All it comes down to is this: I feel like shit but look great.” ― Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho
I can feel that sweet 5G just coursing through my veins as I type this. It’s glorious, really.
I got the second round of the Covid vaccine out of the way last Tuesday. By the time I finally got to bed that night, I had been awake for 27 hours and was a tad sleepy. So I don’t have a clue if I slept through the worst of the side effects or not. Wednesday, however, was not as kind. I added a lot of time to my sleep total for the week and not by choice. I was zapped clean of energy. And that’s no exaggeration. There were times when I couldn’t even roll over to answer my phone. I felt like those kids in the pot commercials from a few years back — lifeless and flat. Everything had been sucked away.
By 2:30 AM on Thursday, I was somewhat back to normal. At least enough to get up and get a few things done around the house. Sleep caught me in its wonderful web again around 6:00 AM and I was just fine with that. The rest of the day was business as usual. I’m happy that it’s all said and done. And to be honest, I really don’t care all that much if there are side effects down the road. If I grow another arm or eye or something weird, well, that’s just the way it’ll be. Until then, I will rest easy knowing that I’m on the right side of this wild mess. At least until some nasty mutant variant emerges. I’m guessing we’ll see a handful of those in the coming months. Probably even one from some unknown origin. The Bermuda Triangle variant. Area 51 variant. The Extra Spicy Brazilian variant.
As you may have noticed, this whole blog thing has been less than tended to lately. I had planned to put a new entry in every week. Almost two months later and here we are. There just hasn’t been a lot to discuss. At least things I want to discuss. We’re subjected to enough nonsense and bad news from the media (I know…I know…I’m guilty of it too). Movies and books have not been a big priority (shame…shame…). There are plenty of interesting work related stories to tell but those aren’t exactly for public consumption. Writing has suffered. Short term memory is dull. Complain, complain, complain. Where are the super brain drugs when I need them?
We got out to the movies last weekend. It was an enjoyable time. There weren’t exactly a plethora of options so we decided on Nobody. Bob Odenkirk. It’s basically an action movie that seems to take place in the John Wick universe (or a place very similar). Ridiculous, fun violence. Definitely worth a watch if you’re a fan of that stuff. As usual, too much popcorn was consumed. And, like the smart folks we are, that popcorn was later topped with way too much sushi. We were both miserable on the ride back home. And yeah, trying to nap on a packed stomach was no fun either. Ah, the prices we pay for enjoyment.
I recently finished The Fisherman by John Langan. This book had been hyped and hyped and recommended. Naturally, I was a little worried that it wouldn’t quite live up to the expectations that had been set. Fortunately, it did. The story is centered around two widowers who have taken up fishing as a way to deal with their grief. But, as these things tend to go, they are started down a path that takes them both towards something magical and horrific. Their tale provides the bookends to a story within a story: the events that took place decades before that brought about the whispery legends of Dutchman’s Creek. Definitely give this one a read. It’s the sort of horror that builds and takes root in your bones before you really know what’s happening.
Both DC and Marvel Comics are putting out PRIDE related books in the month of June. The titles will feature characters and creators that represent the LBGTQ+ community (it’s quite a list of talent). And, as expected, there are plenty of raspy, sad little voices trying to yell into the digital void in the hopes that someone will pay them just a little bit of attention. You know, comic books are supposed to be for everyone. It’s literally the perfect medium for representation across the board. And trust me, no one is going to shove them into your face and force you to read them. It might be surprising to hear this, but, no one’s orientation in life is anyone else’s business. The bible thumpers–and those who try and mask their ignorance with the excuse of religious ideology–will stand on their fragile soapboxes and proclaim that it goes right against God’s will to be anything but a straight, same colored couple (as they simultaneously turn around and ignore their religious officials constantly diddling children…but that’s a conversation for another day and time). I’ve never really been able to wrap my head around that type of hate. I suppose that’s just the cyclical nature of humanity. Dislike what isn’t exactly identical to you. Hate what’s different. Lash out when you realize that you aren’t happy and have absolutely no control over your own life. Ignore it for a bit. Then hop right back on the flaming train. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I’m tired. So I’ll leave you with this new clip from Ghostbusters: Afterlife.
A Total Mess -- A Blog by Travis Ralston 