Ramblin Rambo

I think I’d kill myself to Claire De Lune.

But I don’t know which part I would do it at. Should I end it alongside the climax of the song? Or the sweet symphony of the piano at the start. If I kill myself at the start, I won’t get to hear the entire song. Maybe the last thing I ever hear is the gun going off, or the noose tightening all the way through my skin.

This of course is all dependent on whether or not I bop myself off. I do get down there sometimes, but right now I’m feeling fine. It’s always good to have a plan, just in case. Don’t want to leave a mess behind.

And it’s always over a girl, isn’t it? That heart breaker of a brunette. That Oxford red sweater girl. The kind that just passes by; not knowing what she does to the victims she gazes upon. I had never felt my heart melt like that before. And honestly, I don’t want to feel that kind of vulnerability ever again. Men who embrace that feeling either shoot themselves to Clair De Lune or watch as their woman pulls a strap over her legs and humps till Wednesday is no longer in the middle.

She was so perfect when she spun and looked around. How does someone look so good in movement? For most self-conscious people with a strong mask, they need to be completely still, and have at least five attempts. She wasn’t even trying, just spun around, with that brown hair and those brown eyes and that clear skin, fuck her, she was eating chocolate a few minutes later and had no breakouts. I look at anything sugary and puberty decides to punish me for just having a gander.

How did I get here? God, I ramble sometimes. You know it reminds me of that time in third grade when I called that girl a carrot cake… Look, I’ve done it again.

If you’ve come here for a concise story, you’ve come to the wrong page of the wrong book.

What’s my point? Who knows, I’m just trying my best.

Madeline. She’s the kind of girl you wish you could forget, but only because you never had a chance in hell to talk to her, let alone take her out.

I hate Chinese food, but if she loved it, I would walk around with a bag of vomit in my stomach, kiss her, take her home, and then head straight for an alleyway to feed the rats.

I hate Chinese food. The containers are pretty cool, but the smell, holy cow. Now see, I do like Indian cuisine, very hot, very spicy, just to my liking.

Chinese food smells as good as it tastes, like a dog’s balls in a chastity belt. It’s not like I’ve never tried it. I’m not one of those sheepish people, the stereotypical person of my generation. I can actually think for myself, stand up for myself. I once called my math's teacher a cunt. Just stood up in the middle of class and said “Hey! Listen here, you bald doctor Phil looking cunt. I’ve had enough of your condescension. Take your calculations back home, call your mother, and tell her that you’ve won the biggest cunt award.”

That got me kicked out of school for the fourth time. Luck of the Irish, I guess. I don’t even know if I am Irish. But they fuck like rabbits so I wouldn’t put it past one of my ancestors shagging a young Galway girl. The only race of women that could call you a cunt in bed and it’d be sexy.

Where was I again? Ah, thinking for myself. Oh yeah, and my disdain for Chinese food. My mother always said I never liked it. I threw up in a Chinese man’s restaurant once. He paid me a compliment, and then I repaid him by returning his ingredients in a form that was not served to me. Another notch against Chinese food came from my father. Why are there so many cunts in my life? I’m not saying I’m a pussy magnet, far from the truth. But if you could tell me why so many cuntish people have made their way into my life, I’d appreciate it.

My father. Not the biggest cunt, but nevertheless, still a cunt. He said we were having Chinese for dinner. I specifically told him I don’t eat Chinese food. He and my mother were divorced by then. He had some new whore with him, she had given birth a year after my parents split. Anyway, he was adamant on Chinese food. I decided to convert to Buddhism, I was going to starve myself. Anyway, Chinese food comes, I refuse to eat it. He snatches the back of my neck, I’m like five mind you. He snatches the back of my neck and shoves the food down my throat. Nasty smelling shit. But he wasn’t gentle with the food or the fork. I have this distinct memory of the fork raging in my mouth. I can still hear the metal of the fork rattle against my adolescent teeth, it’s like he’s a ringing bell, go-go, go Johnny go-go.

It didn’t take long. My stomach turned into a violent rage. I sprayed the room with my insides, made my father the central focus of my canvas. I wonder what ever happened to that Basquiat painting. Anyway, not a nice memory to remember, having a fork rattle and bash against your teeth, having a horrible father, having a cunt of a math's teacher.

Speaking of shitty teachers. I once had this English teacher who would eat in class and mark your work. She would sit there ticking and crossing, but most of the time with me she would just glare, contemplating whether or not to ask me if this paper was written in English.

Anyway, while she would sit there and mark your work, she had this fanged tooth. You know the one we all have; well, we have two of them. The canine teeth, the ones you run your tongue under to feel a little bit of pain, or kink, if that’s your thing. Look, I’m not here to judge. I’m just tryna tell you about this teacher, Okay? She had this fanged tooth, but it was wobbly. I wished I had punched the cunt in the face, helped her with the wobbly tooth, and my nightmares. She would just sit there and latch onto that wobbly tooth and twist and play while she marked your work. And there was nowhere else to look while she did it. At first, I thought it was a joke. She looked as comfortable as a baby sucking its thumb. She would twist and pull and twist and twist, then let go, tell me how bad of a writer I was, then go back to the goddamned tooth and pull and twist.

I guess the reason I did so bad that year in English was because how the fuck can you pay attention to what you’re doing wrong in your essay while a two-bit knock off dentist performed on herself every day, and in the middle of her surgery, she forgot the rest of the procedure and just gave up. That poor tooth. She’d pull, twist, let go and repeat. I thought it was rinse, spit, and repeat, not scar your students for life with your dumb fucking tooth. The moral of the story is, take good care of your teeth, don’t suck your thumb, pick your nose, or be an absolute cunt.

I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine. I don’t care about your name, but if you’ve made it this far, I’m sure you’re wondering what to call me. Just call me hot stuff. Chicken Little’s braver cousin. Kid Dynamite. Joe Mama. Pill Cosby. Kim Jong Uno. Call me what you want. My real name is Rambo Dillinger. I don’t really like Rambo. That was my first mistake. When you tell people, especially teenagers, things you don’t like, for instance, being called Rambo, that’s all you’ll ever get called. It’s the same Rambo as the one you know. My father was a maniac for Sylvester Stallone. My mother never had the guts to tell my father how much of a douchebag he was. So, I’ve been stuck with this name for eighteen years. And I don’t like it. I mean, it’s a good conversation starter, but other than that, it’s useless. I’ve never even seen the film. Is it the one where he goes “Get to the CHOPPER, get out-get out!” But when I say that, why do I hear the governor of California?

Anyway, Jimmy calls me Ramblin, Ramblin Rambo. As you can probably tell, I jump from one thought to another. Jimmy’s the only one that can keep up with me. He’s the only friend I’ve got, not like you need too many friends, that’s a bad idea.

The only people who can survive with big groups of friends are the ones who can grow eyes on the back of their head.

Its late. Like nine o’clock. Jimmy got invited to a party, I get to tag along. Jimmy’s the extrovert between the two of us, I wish I were extroverted, I can be, sometimes. Other times I just fumble and mumble. Basically, I ramble so much that people just seem to walk away. The new thing I’m going to try is just shutting up. So, let’s see how far that gets me.

‘Stop it. Its spreading over to me.’ Jimmy smacked my knee. My foot fell off the seat in front of us and hit the ground, but it kept bouncing and bobbing. ‘Why are you so nervous?’

‘I only know one person there.’

‘yeah well, ah… Same here.’

‘What? Is it a crime to be nervous?’

‘When you start annoying others and then make them nervous, then yes, it’s a crime.’

‘Suck your mum.’

‘Suck your mum, twice.’

‘Suck your dad because your mum doesn’t love you.’

‘At least I have a dad.’

‘Touché.’

‘Fuck your touché, I believe that’s called check-mate. So, suck your mum.’

Jimmy and I are headed by train to this party. My foot’s still rambling on the ground. When my mouth shuts, the foot starts.

We stopped for chips on our way there. You’ve got to get drunk on a full stomach, it’s an absolute must.

‘What’s up Chief!’

Look at that extroverting. Doesn’t even know the man. Has never even been to this shop before and he comes out with Chief. And he gets better service than the last twenty people.

‘Let me get two large buckets of chips, please. Two fried dim sims, and a pack of Marlboro.’

‘Anything else for you two gentlemen.’

‘The winning numbers to the lotto if you’ve got them.’

‘If I had them, I wouldn’t be here.’ Jimmy and the clerk shared smirks.

See how smooth he is. Look, in my head I’m extroverted. I’m a cool Casanova type. But as soon as vibrations try to speak for me, it all goes up in smoke, and I start rambling like a schoolgirl. But tonight, I’m trying that new thing. Shutting the fuck up.

We left, and the bell of the door rang behind us. It’s the middle of winter and the rain has settled. The street has this soft level of liquid coating every bit of concrete in sight. The chips are hot, the dim-sim is tasty. It’s the only Chinese food I’ll eat, mainly because I didn’t know it was Chinese until like a week ago. It’s cold. Me and Jimmy are rugged up. He has good taste and money. He takes me shopping from time to time. We can see the steam blow from our mouths as we eat the hot chips and try not to burn our tongues.

We’re waiting for the bus. The long post says another ten minutes, so we hound down our food and puff a smoke. Jimmy’s got short blonde hair, its thick. It’s the kind of blonde with an undertone of brown. He’s good looking. It’s not gay for me to admit that, if you saw how many girls came up to him, you’d think I was lying. And their friends come up to me, but they usually leave. I guess it’s the rambling that’s off putting. To be honest, I don’t even know why Jimmy’s friends with me. I guess I’m good company. Is that like when a girl has no tits, so they say she has a nice personality? Is that it? Am I just boring? Do I really bring nothing to the table?

One time, Jimmy was picking up this ten, an absolute ten. She was so hot, so gorgeous. A little daft, but you could look past it. An absolute stunner. But with her, he used my name instead. It’s probably the only time I ever liked having the name Rambo, but the benefits were not reaped by me. And any attempt made by me, did not end the same way.

I put it like this. Jimmy’s like a wave. Everybody loves the ocean. And he just looks so graceful as that wave. He never pushes or pulls against it; he just flows with it. He and the ocean are the same thing. Whereas me, I guess I want to control the ocean. The ocean needs to be perfect. Let’s get philosophical with the three minutes of silence and time waiting for the bus. They say it’s not our darkness, but our lightness that most frightens us. It’s probably my own fear, self-doubt, and lack of self-acceptance, that actually stops me from becoming Jimmy. Wow. Mind blown.

I guess that idea comes from this thought that I’ve had for the past year. Some of the greatest artists to ever exist have died tragically at the hands of drugs. Now some say, reality is for those who can’t handle drugs. That’s up to you, I can handle paracetamol pretty well.

Back to the darkness thing. What if heavy drug use is an artist’s way to cope with accepting the level of their genius. What if it’s never the drugs that helps them create the art. What if the drugs help the artists cope with the fact that their artwork, that thing of beauty, came from them, that they birthed it. What if the drug, the thing they think helps them make the art, has nothing to do with the art, and everything to do with accepting the inner lightness that it came from. That the possibility you could create something so special, did actually come from you and no one else. I’ve had that thought for a while now.

The bus is here. It’s fairly empty. Its Friday night. Jimmy’s freshly nineteen, I’m only eighteen, and were headed to a house party. Jimmy’s got a black shirt on and a green army jacket covering over it. I’m wearing a rugby shirt, it’s quite thick and it’s bloody warm. Jimmy bought it for me. The jacket he’s wearing is actually mine. The place I live isn’t too bad, its nothing like Jimmy’s house, but he doesn’t like spending too much time there. He’s always at my place. Mum loves him. She knows he looks after me.

The bus is halfway there. Our first smokes were left at the bus stop. Jimmy’s put his second behind his ear. I think I’m fine for the next few hours. I don’t smoke much. I notice that Jimmy smokes when he’s nervous, I guess that’s why he whacked my foot off the train seat.

‘Why are you so nervous tonight?’

‘What are you on about you Muppet?’

‘I know you pretty well J, what’s going on with you?’

He looked at me, decided whether to yell and insult me or just straight up whack me. He did neither. He was the ocean, he danced with it, and tonight it told him to be honest.

‘She’s gonna be there tonight.’

‘And who’s she?’

‘As in the person who invited us. It’s her party.’

‘You said Andy invited us?’

‘I haven’t seen Andy in three months. I knew if it was someone you didn’t know or hadn’t heard of you would’ve made some excuse and ditched me.’

‘What do you care if I come or not?’

‘Because were friends fuckface.’

I guess I deserved it. Not the fuckface, the whack over the back of the head that came thundering down. Me acting like I didn’t know whether or not we were friends was seriously starting to piss Jimmy off. Jimmy had plenty of friends. But we were always with each other. People would come and go, but me and Jimmy were a constant.

I guess it’s my lightness that most frightens me. Give me a break, I’m working on it.