James Moats - 03/03/2006

"man, talk about a wet wednesday. the rain out here is unlike anything i have ever seen. you know?"

. . .

"seriously, though, this place is nothing like i expected. how can it be this cold with rain and not snow?"

i shuffled the pile of papers on the front seat of the car into a semi-neat pile, but thought better of it and threw the whole stack in the back.

"what a mess."

. . .

"could this road be any more flat and straight? my hair is turning gray. long beard and shit. nothing to see here, eh?"

. . .

to my left, a pile of bones wrapped in clothes. stunning conversation though.

"you don't talk much. i talk a lot. you probably noticed. i come from a big family. that's probably why."

. . .

"i talk a lot, i mean... that's why i talk so much."

. . .

what the fuck am i doing here? who am i talking to? does this thing think? does he understand a word that is coming out of my mouth? does he care to?

"i'm going to need you to pull over in a minute. find a bathroom, you know?"

. . .

"it's been three hours. non-stop."

. . .

"the turtle's head is coming out, you know what i'm saying?"

i laugh at my joke, but... still nothing.

"yeah... you sure do talk."

. . .

"listen. hey. hello? bathroom. when you get a chance. don't mean to rush you. just about to shit on myself, is all."

. . .

was that a sigh? i wonder. silently, of course. i talk so damn much, i don't do much of anything silently these days. except wet-farting when i'm about to shit myself because some asshole doesn't want to pull over long enough for me to relieve a burning urge.

"that was an exit."

. . .


. . .

i begin to wonder if continuing to talk is in my best interest, here. i wonder if the more i talk the less i am listened to. i wonder if i am actually an intellectual. you wouldn't be able to tell if i was, with all the shit flowing out of my face most of the time. i have gotten some horrified looks, i tell you what. i wonder if that's when it started changing for me. i'm the kind of guy that tries to never make the same mistake twice. i actually repeat-offend from time to time, but i do try. right now, i am trying to stop the flow of lava that was my breakfast


. . .

nobody can get called a fuckface and keep from laughing.

"another exit, this guy. am i a hostage now?"

the only thing worse than being laughed at is not being laughed at when you have seriously earned it.

maybe it's cheap beer too late at night causing this disruption. maybe it was kidney bean pie with corn bread crust. could be the big grab of chili cheese frito's that was my breakfast.


i yell, then realize it couldn't have made any sense, because the first part was only in my head.

i'm not afraid of fucking up, though. that's the most efficient way to learn. if you don't mind everything being fucked up all the time, which in my experience, always has been anyways, you don't forget. you might slip up once in a while, slip up, fuck up, depends on how bad the 'up' is, slip or fuck.

"seriously, this car has got to stop."

it hit me. hard. third grade. gym class. inside, because of the rain. kick ball. i hate fucking kick ball. i have never been so humiliated in my life. the principle's secretary stood outside the bathroom for me, keeping guard, while my aunt was on her way with a clean change of clothes.

"this car has got to stop. my ass being corked and shaken has got to stop. PULL OVER!"

i forced the words out through clenched teeth.

and fucked up again.