Weird Bob slowly regained consciousness, aware that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. His
head was on fire. His brain burned between his ears. Bob clenched his eyes tight, refusing to open
them. Not wanting to know where he ended up. His bones ached and his joints were locked. He felt
like he’d been hit by a truck, or stomped into the ground by a football team jacked up on
amphetamines and steroids. The fire faded, and he detected sunlight filtering through his closed
eye lids.
His body was bathed in cold sweat, and heavy morning dew soaked through his flannel shirt and
faded blue jeans. No, he wasn’t dead, just hung over. The strong taste of bile made him aware that
he had puked sometime during the night. The sound of chirping birds and the crisp clean smelling
air, assaulted his senses.
The last place he remembered being was in the cemetery, he blacked out as he was leaving.
Weird Bob, still refused to open his eyes, not wanting to know where he was, not yet anyway. A
sick twisted feeling rocked deep in his soul. Something went terribly wrong last night. He lay there in
the cold wet, grass, fighting for his memory to return.
Bob knew years of alcohol abuse had permanently damaged his memory.
“Go back to the beginning Robert.” A voice prodded inside his head.
“All right, I will.” Bob answered, not questioning where the voice came from.
Bob remembered leaving his house around 8:30 p.m., as the sun set, and darkness fell. He
headed to the cemetery, on the tenth anniversary of his parent’s death. They died two weeks
before his high school graduation.
His father Robert Sr. was a car salesman, and a respected member of the community. Bob’s
mother Mary was on the school’s Board of Education and an organizer of P.T.A. fund raisers. Their
untimely deaths grieved the entire town and they were greatly missed by all, but Bob missed them
the most.
He loved them the most because they were perfect parents. They were rich, and powerful, with
plenty of prestige, and best of all Bob had everything he wanted. In return they expected Bob to
follow in his father’s footsteps. His parents were very proud of him up to the day they died. Bob got
straight A’s, and was a member of the honor society. He excelled in sports as a football, basketball,
and baseball star. He screwed a cheerleader named Betty Lou, was popular among his classmates,
and was involved in school politics. He even worked at the car dealership on weekends making big
money doing absolutely nothing. Bob had it made, until the day they died, anyway.
As their only child Bob inherited everything the owned, the house, cars, boat, and all the money.
The first week went smoothly. The funeral and reading of the will went off without a hitch. Everything
seemed to go so well that Bob forgot all about graduating, going to college, screwing Betty Lou,
bathing, and just about everything, except the liquor cabinet.
Weird Bob now remembered how the loneliness had set in, slowly at first like a cold coming on,
then suddenly like a shotgun blast, knocking the wind out of him. His parents had always been there
to tell him what to do, and now they were gone. He was lost. Fear set in, and he refused to leave the
house.
Two months later Bob was forced to leave the house when the food and booze ran out. That was
when the cemetery visits began. Their grave site was the only place he felt secure for the next ten
years. There he could weep, drink, and beg for their return. He yearned for them to come back and
take care of him, but they never did. Bob just got wasted and passed out there. The local cops
would take him home and tell him it was a favor to his old man. All the town folk thought he was
crazy, called him Weird Bob, and wrote him off. His life was empty and wasted.
Then it all came rushing back to him. He was angry when he left cemetery, pissed off that they
didn’t come back, mad as hell that they died and left him alone. He was going to kill himself. He
drank from his fifth of whiskey, and burned rubber as he screamed out the front gate. He sped over
the back roads looking for the perfect tree to crash into. He rounded a corner, tried to heave the
bottle out his closed window, lost control, hitting a ditch and flipping his car. He smacked his head
hard on the dash and the steering wheel smacked his ribs, but he was alive. Bob kicked the door
open and crawled to his feet. He took off running through the woods as if the Devil himself was
chasing him. He repeatedly fell and got up running as the tree branches whipped his torso. He
came to a clearing, fell to his knees and passed out. Bob now knew it was safe to open his eyes. He
knew exactly where he was.
He sat up too quickly and blood rushed to his battered skull. Bob choked back the wave of
nausea. “I need whiskey, but doubt there’s a liquor store out here in the woods.” He thought.
“Open your eyes Robert.”
Weird Bob recognized his father’s voice. Bob opened his eyes and watched the blurry figures in
front of him take shape. His vision cleared and standing directly in front of him in the clearing were
his father and mother. They were different, dressed in their burial clothes. They wore blank
expressions and waxy skin making them look like white chocolate Easter bunnies.
“Now Bobby we’re very disappointed. Didn’t we always tell you to wear clean underwear in case
you were in a car accident? You are so dirty; you look like the white trash living on the other side of
town.” Said mother.
“Yes Robert, You smell like the winos that sleep in the park, like feces. We thought you would be
a running the lot by now, married to Betty Lou, impregnating her with our grandchildren. Yes Robert
making us proud.” Father said.
“What in God’s name happened to you?” They said simultaneously.
“Wait one God damned minute, you happened to me. I’ve wished you would come back for ten
years. You left me. I did everything you asked, and all you can do is give me shit. I need a fucking
drink.” Bob spat.
Weird Bob felt a lifetime of resentment bubble up to the surface. He could now see how his
parents were when they were alive, empty and transparent, ugly on the inside, only concerned with
how they appeared to the outside world.
“What have the neighbors been thinking? You were so perfect. Now you are a disgrace.” Mother
squealed.
“Bull fucking shit.” Bob screamed at them.
“Now, Robert you know we don’t approve of gutter talk or drinking. That beard is ugly and you
need a haircut. Why are you sleeping outside? Oh Jesus you didn’t lose the house, Did you?” she
screamed, turning away from Bob.
“Now Robert, we gave you the best of everything. We wanted you to be better than the other
kids. Son you fumbled the ball, and never picked it back up and ran with it. If I were dead I’d roll in
my grave, at the sight of you.”
“You are dead, both of you are dead. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!”
They vanished; Bob momentarily convinced himself that he imagined it all. He stood in the
clearing, Tears streamed down his cheeks soaking into his beard. It was over and Bob knew it. He
was free…
That’s when Sheriff Howard and Deputy Jones broke through the brush into the clearing.
“Hold it right there Bob.” The Sheriff yelled, pointing his gun at Bob.” We’ve found your car in the
ditch down the road. It’s a damn good thing you started hollering. We were about to head back into
town to grab dough-nuts. Now don’t think about resisting. Cuff him Jones.”
“Sure thing Sheriff. Jones responded in a mechanical tone. “Damn straight, DUI, leaving the
scene of an accident, open container of alcohol, and disturbing the peace, and I bit if we call in the
state investigators with their fancy DNA kits we could even get you for violation of the sewer
ordinance. I’m sure you pissed out here somewhere.”
Bob let the Deputy put cuffs on him. The three men were silent after that as they fought the brush
back to the patrol car. In the patrol car the Sherriff turned and stared at Bob, as if Bob were
something he’d just scraped off his shoe.
“What happened to you, you were a good kid…once. You’re parents were model citizens. If they
knew what a bum you turned out to be they’d die a second time.”
Deputy Jones nodded. “Sherriff’s right. You are one stupid son of a bitch.”
Weird Bob ignored them, and stared out the widow, not wanting to talk for a long time, and they
thought he was crazy. He sat still as the Sherriff drove on down the back road.
Every day I ride the bus and it’s always the same. There is an old woman who sits in the front of the
bus. She smells like stale urine, and rambles on about the declining morals of the country. She says
that we are godless sinners, and that the war in the Persian Gulf is God’s vengeance on us for turning
our backs on him. The old bitch blames us for destroying what her generation built for us... Every day
she manages to piss off everybody including the bus driver.
This is nothing new. We have heard her speech before. I don’t agree with her, but it is a free
country, and she can say anything she wants. Usually I can ignore her, but it’s February and the
windows are caked with road slush; preventing me from staring mindlessly at the passing scenery. If I
had my walkman I could tune her out.
Today my attention is on her, and she is starting to drive me crazy. I wish she would shut her damn
mouth.
The black coffee in my gut is sloshing around, and the nicotine from the cigarettes is making me
shake. Riding the bus is bad enough it’s enough to push me over the edge.
The Bus is approaching a stop light, slowing down, and stopping. A clean cut college student
stands up directly across from the old woman. His right hand is inside his jacket, and he’s sweating
profusely. He leans towards the old bat and screams.
“Shut up! Damn you! I’m sick of your shit.”
Every one is staring at him, and no one is talking, for the first time the old woman is silent.
The bus driver’s head is cranked around even though the light is green. The cars behind the bus
are honking their horns.
“He has a gun.” A woman screams.
“Shut up. I’m doing what should have been done a long time ago.” He yells.
He turns and fires. Shots rip into the old woman’s body. Blood splatters on everyone in range. I hear
her body slide off the seat and land in the aisle. There is total chaos. Some people are crying. Some
people clap and cheer. Most people are stunned. A man pukes on a person sitting next to him. I can’t
believe it, it’s as if I’m watching a bad movie.
“She had it coming. There’s you wrath of God, bitch. He screams into her dead face.
I watch unable to look away as he puts the gun to his temple. Bang! Blood, skull fragments, and
brains are sprayed in my direction. His lifeless body sags and lands in the lap of a screaming woman.
The well-dressed woman is hysterical. The blood spurting from the hole in his head is drenching her. I
doubt she will be at work on time today.
Somebody behind me is tapping me on the shoulder. I turn to see a vaguely familiar face.
“I can’t believe it. He smoked her and blew his own head off. Awesome.” He says.
“No shit. I have eyes.” I reply.
The bus reeks of blood, gun powder, and puke. Sirens are wailing in the distance…Drawing closer.
The bus driver must have radioed it in. I realize that I’m smoking a cigarette, ignoring the no smoking
signs. Passengers are leaving through the back door. I’m feeling light headed so I head for the exit,
too.
I stand outside the bus and decide that I won’t be going to school today. I’m still trying to make
sense of my morbid curiosity and inability to turn away from this grisly scene. It could be the same
reason that a crowd has started to gather, trying to find out what has happened.
The police have arrived, taking statements, and attempt to control the crowd. The ambulance is
here now to remove the deceased, and help the shock victims. Soon the reporters will be here grilling
glassy eyed witnesses for the evening news. Feeding on this disaster like vultures.
I have to get the hell out of here. As I breathe the fresh air I notice the sun is shining. I feel lucky to
be alive. I turn my back on the catastrophe and walk away. My legs shake and it’s as if I’m gliding
across the pavement.
The adrenaline rush is exhilarating. Who would have believed we would have such nice weather in
February.
