Joey Goebel - The Anomalies

These are the people I will never be able to thank enough:

My mother, Nancy, and my sister, CeCe, who know me better than anyone ever will and still love me. I want you both to be happy more than anything.

Pat Walsh, who has taken the risk of believing in me, as well as David Poindexter and everyone else who plays on the MacAdam/Cage softball team with me.

Michael Bruner, the Dillinghams, the Walkers, and Rene and John for the love, generosity, and encouragement theyve shown my family and me for so long.

All of my teachers, especially those English teachers by the names of Craig Barrette, David Bartholomy, Vicki Combs, Ellen Dugan-Barrette, and Susie Thurman.

And all of those who I grew up with in Henderson, Kentucky, who have laughed with me, and especially those who have laughed at me.

It wasnt easy simultaneously mending six billion broken hearts, but I managed.

That is the first line of the book that I am going to write someday. It will be the best book ever, based on my life story, wiser than all tabloids and sexier than the Bible. Oprah will approve.

This very bedroom will be blocked off by velvet ropes, and the carpet stains will become collectors items sold on eBay. And when they who hail from where the phone books are thicker see my humble origins, theyll all be thinking the same thought:

How is it that while cell phones were ringing show tunes, while anxiety disorders were going airborne, while the world was getting so heavy that gravity got redundant, there existed a malnourished boy slashing out such valuable, world-changing thoughts that would later become our anthems, jotting out a revolution per minute in spiral notebooks on a maggot-filled bed in a musty bedroom in a grotesque home on an illiterate street in an incestuous town in such a sad, sad state?

I ask myself the same question with the answer hovering behind me reeking of malt liquor and marijuana. Hes forcing some greatness out of me, this man, this horribly average humanoid.

He taunts me. Youre so smart, you know whum sayin. Then write me one of your stupid songs, you smart-ass, bitch-ass bitch.

With his big gun pressed against the back of my mind, he inspires me. And so I spit out some lyrics as he cocks the gun like the true Neanderthal he is.

You hear people talking about wavelengths. I reckon I have one of those wavelengths thats hard to pick up on. Maybe Im still on AM or something. I dont know. But there are a few hearing me, like this one I got in the passengers seat spitting hawkers at the pedestrians. They think shes cute til they have a wad of her venom running down the side of their face. Then shes not so much cute as she is disgusting. I think they feel the same way about me.

I am ten times as old as Ember, but were still on about the same level. Either shes really mature, or Im really immature. I dont know. I guess the biggest difference between us (besides the seventy-two years) is that I love boys, and she hates em. But that will change.

You know what, girlfriend? I say to my little bitty buddy as shes trying to generate her some more spit. You and me are a lot alike.

No, were not.

Yes, we are! We hate being bored, and were always restless, and I sure am glad I socialize with someone like you instead of eating early-bird breakfasts at Hardees and playing in those bridge tournaments all the time.

Im glad I dont watch bullshit Disney cartoons, she replies.

Thats right, I say. You dont care about those cereal box doodads that the other kids like, either.

We jump out of my station wagon and I take off that stupid velour sweatsuit as quickly as I can. I never let Embers parents see me in my rock clothes, just in case they care. I really doubt they do. They seem to be getting less and less interested in their kid and more and more interested in their theme parties and vacations to islands Ive never heard of.

After I throw my old lady costume in the back seat, Ember and I race each other to the door of the Red Lobster, which she picked. She loves their mahi-mahi. I told her Luster wont like a chain restaurant, but she didnt care. I cant complain, though, because I love their chicken fingers.

Of course, those little legs of hers beat my arthritic ass to the restaurant.

For the first time tonight, I mean my smile. I cant help it. Theres a little girl, like, about seven or eight years old, and shes skipping toward me, and her skipping is kind of in time with the Muzak. I swearshes an angel.

Shes got curly blonde hair, a baby face, and the biggest, prettiest eyes. She kind of looks like that girl off those old Welchs grape juice commercials, only not as creepy. Her parents have got her dressed skanky, though. Shes got on a T-shirt with a monster truck on it, Gravedigger. Its way too big for her and comes down past her knees. It looks like shes not even wearing any pants, which Ive always thought was such a tacky look for a kid. Shes got cute shoes on, at least. Black and white saddle oxfords.

Hi! I say to her.

Hey.

She looks behind her at an old lady walking toward us, probably her grandma. The grandma makes me smile even more, and Im biting my lip, trying not to laugh. She has short but really poofy white hair and wears bun-tight blue jeans, black tasseled cowboy boots, and a T-shirt that says Sex Pistols on it. I cant think of what celebrity she looks like, probably because there arent any celebrities that are old ladies.

Hi! How many? Two?

Then in a loud, high-pitched, old lady voice, the grandma goes, No. Five. The others will arrive shortly.

So I ask for a name, like Im supposed to.

Oglesby.

I ask for a smoking preference, like Im supposed to. But this time, the high-pitched voice comes from the adorable little girl.

Smoking!

And I finally get an excuse to laugh. Im told to compliment the customers as much as possible, but I mean it this time.

Your granddaughter is so cute.

Shes not my granddaughter, says the old lady. And I aint no mammaw.

The dumbass hostess sits us down. Everybody here is dumb. Except for Opal and me. We like rock music. We rock out.

There are some families with moms and dads. There are men and women on dates. And there are some prettyboys. Thats whos here.

A waiter comes up to us. I see Opal looking at him the way she looks at wrestlers.

Hi! My name is Todd, and Ill be your server. What can I get you two to drink?

Michelob Light, I tell him.

Oh! Your granddaughter is so cute!

Shes not my granddaughter, says Opal. And I aint no mammaw.

And I wasnt trying to be cute.

Oh. Im sorry, says our fuckface waiter.

Ill take a Vervifontaine, and give her a Shirley Temple instead of that Michelob.

I dont want a Shirley Temple. I would normally be screaming by now. But I like Opal. So Ill hold off.

Im sorry, says Shit-head. We dont have Verviwhat you just said.

No place ever has what she wants.

Okay. Just Budweiser me, then, says Opal.

Okay. Thanks. Ill have those right out, says Assface. Opal keeps busy looking at the waiters butt. So I play with my knife. Mutilate. Mootilate. Im getting good at not cutting myself.

Now dont you cut off those purdy little fingers, Ember.

I point the knife at her.

Ohhh. Dont hurt me, now, or the Boogie-man will come and get you.

Shit. Ill cut his ass, too.

Ive never been afraid of the Boogie-man. Because there is no Boogie-man. Theres no Boogie-man. Theres no Tooth Fairy. Theres no Easter Bunny. And there is especially no Santa Claus. Im not stupid. Santa Claus is a big, fat lie used to keep kids in line.