(present time)
"It is a well known fact that dirt donıt burn."
"But thatıs exactly why his middle name is Stupid.ı He doesnıt realize that dirt donıt burn."
"So this guy walks around with a name like Ugly Stupid Dirtburnerı like thereıs nothing weird going on?"
"No, no, thatıs the point. He goes around not realizing that everyone is laughing at him."
"And what does Ugly Stupid Dirtburner do for a living?" Kris frowned at the screen.
"Shovels mule shit."
"Sounds about right. Letıs go smoke."
They stood under the overhanging second floor, puffing smoke into the breeze. Across the street a mother scolded her children as they ran around a dust-covered car.
"Howıs work?" Kris asked eventually, flicking ash.
"Okay. They gave me hours this week at least," Travis responded with a snort. "Stupid lady in charge of the night shift screwed me over for a while, but at least thatıs done."
A minute of silence, stretching away into the thin autumn air.
"Daveıs comin in a week from now." Kris puffed smoke into the spines of the hedge. "Karenıs comin back from Oklahoma too."
"Really? Damn. The months just fly by."
The smoke was done. Kris sauntered to his truck and Travis went back inside, without a word.
* * *
The Adventures of Ugly Dirtburner, Mule Shit Shoveler, by Travis Garner
"Ouch!" Ugly yelled, as a brick fell on his head. He would have sat up, but for the boot of the pig-faced guard resting none too gently on his chest. "Whatıs the big idea?"
"You didnıt shovel enough MULE shit yesterday, you rat-faced lump of pus!" the mutant guard screamed, thrusting the barrel of a Remington PT-7000 Plasma Rifle unceremoniously through the bridge of Uglyıs nose. "Now itıs time for you to pay the price, worm dung! Your particular kind of subatomic scum really makes me want to eat my own kidneys, you unclean yellow discharge! Youıll be lucky if you donıt get demoted to assistant toelicker for this!"
Ugly, though stupid and disoriented from the effects of the approximately two dozen shots of Norbertıs Finest heıd consumed the night before, still had enough presence of mind to reach over to the all-purpose Home Defense Console that he had sold his little brother to buy way back last August. Pushing the Big Overly Conspicuous Red Button, Ugly smiled with grim satisfaction as jets of flame turned the pig-mutant into something resembling Italian Meatloaf in a matter of femtoseconds.
Stumbling to his feet, Ugly Dirtburner gazed blearily into a mirror and nearly lost his lunch. Geez, he thought, they donıt call me Ugly Dirtburner for nothing. Passing over several stuck-together photographs of Brittney Bigones, this yearıs Miss Aldebaran, Ugly dumped a pile of dirt from his favorite stash and tried to light it.
The dirt didnıt burn. It was going to be a real bad day.
* * *
(continuing our story)
Sighing, Travis dropped the mouse and rubbed his temples. The Ugly Dirtburner story was going nowhere. He lit a cigarette and pondered the backs of the covers of a dozen computer games that lay scattered around the tiny, filthy bedroom. Spaceships with lasers blazing, knights with ridiculously large swords, giant bugs striding bloodily over blocks of text that read "New Incredibly Realistic 3-D."
Man, it all runs together after a while, he thought.
The dumb lady who ran the night shift had given him hours, which was good. But that meant another thirty-five hours of enduring the stupid chatter of those two idiot cooks, getting yelled at by old women in older Buicks for not putting the right number of barbecue sauce packs in the bag, burning his hands on the splatter of grease from the deep fryer...
But Dave and Karen were coming home in a week, and that was good. Thinking of that, Travis lit another cigarette on the still-glowing butt of the last one.
* * *
(ambiguously earlier high-school days)
"I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL AN IMPROPER INTEGRAL IS," Daveıs calculator told Travis in large block letters.
After two years of boring math classes, they both had learned to keyboard on the TI-83 graphing calculators. Travisı response was swift, and he passed the precious device under the desk into Daveıs hand.
"WHO CARES," Dave was reading on the screen as the teacher droned on about things that would never change the life of even one single human being. "SOMEDAY IıM GONNA GET ME A HARLEY AND CRUISE THE WEST, STAYING WHEREVER I CAN, AND JUST WRITING POETRY."
"SOUNDS A LITTLE LONELY, BUT COOL," was Daveıs answer.
Across the room, Karen had her head down on her table, pink-tinged curls spilling out over petite pale hands. Travis glanced over at her, thought for a second, then picked up the TI-83 and punched a few keys.
"DOES KRIS STILL HAVE THAT HUGE CRUSH ON KAREN?" Dave read, unnoticed by the droning robot teacher.
"YEAH, DEFINITELY. SHE LIKES HIM BACK, I THINK, BUT HEıS TOO CHICKEN TO GO FOR IT."
"THATıS SAD. BUT HEıS GOTTA MAKE HIS OWN LIFE, RIGHT?" Travis wrote back.
"All right, kiddos," the teacher smiled sardonically, causing Dave to quickly clear the screen of his calculator and look up. "Why donıt you stop passing messages to each other and pay attention to something important?"
* * *
List Of Things To Do, by Travis Garner
1. Get a real job that always gives you hours
2. Lose 150 lbs.
3. Train to be an accountant
4. Get well-paying accounting job
5. Pay credit card bill and get the stupid company off my back
6. Quit smoking
7. Beat Mars Mercenary 3
8. Get my nagging father off my back
9. Clean my apartment
10. Replace stolen car CD player
11. Buy a more comfortable chair
12. Buy a Harley
13. Write the Adventures of Ugly Dirtburner or similar character
14. Publish aforementioned literary masterpiece
15. Use money from aforementioned publication to buy Mars Mercenary 4, an even more comfy chair, and an island in the Pacific
16. Girlfriend?
* * *
(back to the moment)
"Dave! Great to see ya, buddy!"
"Good to be back, my friend!"
Two men embraced with much backslapping, one rotund and the other rail-thin.
"Howıs Michigan been treatin ya?"
"Pretty good, pretty good. Been getting good grades, but Iıve been a little lonely, moving out of the dorms." A slight shadow of weariness crossed Daveıs face.
"Well, come on it, you can tell me all about it over a beer."
"Can we have a cigarette first?"
"Sure."
The cigarettes were extracted, and smoke curled away on the wet December breeze. Dave leaned against the brick wall of the complex, taking two-handed, almost religious puffs. Travis smoked his more casually, standing like a wall by the hedge.
"Oh hey, whereıs Kris? At work?"
"Yeah, new computer jobıs keepin him there all day. Between that and me working the night shift, we hardly see each other most days."
"That sucks, man," Dave sighed.
"Not really. We donıt really talk that much," Travis mused, hand on hip. "We donıt really have that much to talk about."
"Suck," Dave said. "Hey, when is Karen getting in? Iım really excited to see her."
"Really?" Travis asked. "I never knew you were that close."
"Weıve been talking a lot online," Dave asserted, staring off into the street, where a man was helping his wife carry groceries up to an apartment. "Yeah, sheıs become a really important person to me."
"Huh," Travis said.
* * *
(the not-so-forgotten past)
Dave and Travis leaned against the brick wall, waiting for Daveıs mom to pick them up. The grass was sparse and badly groomed, spotted with lumps of dirt that stuck up, inert and stupid, from the dry ground. Dave kicked at one of the lumps.
"Dirt donıt burn," he said.
Travis gave a laugh and a start. "Yeah, thatıs true. I guess dirt donıt burn."
"No it donıt!"
They laughed about the statement for a while. Daveıs mom failed to make an appearance.
"Man, Iım so lonely without Sara," Dave ventured.
Travis gave an internal sigh. He had known it was coming. "Cheer up, man," he said, clapping the slimmer youth on the shoulder. "At least you two were together. I donıt think Julie would ever look my way twice."
"No, man, Julie would love to talk to you. You should just go talk to her." Daveıs eyes were full of confidence.
"Well, we talk a lot, just from sitting next to each other and being in the same classes," Travis sighed. "But itıs not the same. You know I havenıt always been exactly the most confident person in the world."
"Youıll get your confidence. Iım sure of it." Dave smiled up at his friend.
"And youıll meet someone better than Sara. Iım sure of that, too."
They smiled, and for a moment, in the cool afternoon of one spring, it was all going to work out just fine.
* * *
Unspeakable, by Travis Garner
Sometimes I think if I open my arms wide enough
The world will flow in, and I shall be coterminous
With all time and space, master of my future and past
Wide enough
For another being like myself to find my Universe
But glass walls pin my arms on either side and my fellows
With open mouths hang unspeaking before me
* * *
(on with the story)
Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan must be tired of falling in love over long distance, Travis decided. He realized that he had seen Sleepless in Seattle, and that, apart from the novelty of email, Youıve Got Mail was offering him nothing new. At any rate, he reasoned, Iım the only one watching any more. Time for some food and a smoke. A touch blinked the screen to blackness.
The pizza was cold, a good third of a large from the last night when theyıd ordered it, and some of the grease had congealed slightly into a pasty film on top of ice-rimmed cheese. Travis wolfed it down hungrily. Well, there goes the diet. Again.
A muffled laugh echoed from Krisı bedroom at the back of the apartment. A manıs voice followed it. Travis sighed, grabbed his jacket and a pack of cigarettes, and stepped outside. On the front porch sat Kris, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, alternating between gulps and puffs. The bottle was the second opened that night, although Dave and Karen had helped with the first.
For a long moment they rested, letting the thin cold air seep away some of the warmth from their hands and ears, Travis standing solid like a monument, Kris sprawling in a dirty plastic lawn chair. The smoke curled around, eventually floating across the street. One by one, the lights flicked off in the complex across the street. Cars thrummed and departed from the curb, bearing whatever passengers they carried to their respective homes, or to wherever. The moon rose against clouds, and the night crawled along.
"Iım sorry, man," Travis said, after three cigarettes.
"Nothin to be sorry about," Kris said, remarkably clearly, in his drawl. "ıS nobodyıs fault but mine, my own stupid God damn fault."
"Donıt blame yourself," Travis ventured. "Theyıre just more suited for each other. Sheıs happy, right?"
"Yep," Kris agreed. "Sheıs happy, heıs happy, everybodyıs happy, so Iıll just sit out here and give myself cancer til the world just forgets about me."
"Donıt beat yourself up, man," Travis sighed. "What happens, happens."
"And what happened wouldnıt have happened if I had said something smart two years ago, like okayı or sure.ı Instead I had to go open my big pussy-ass chicken-shit mouth and say Iım not ready for that yet.ı Jesus H. Christ. I must have been drunker than I am now." Krisı mouth was a tight line of bitterness.
I canıt blame him, Travis thought. His own best friend, in his own room. Thatıs rough. Travisı mind drifted back to an hour before, when everything had loosened up, and the thing that loosened most was Karenıs bra, and then she was giggling and topless in Daveıs lap, while Kris and Travis tried to stare resolutely at the movie. Jeez, Travis thought, not for the first time that night. If we hadnıt made them move, they would have gone at it right on the couch, I know it.
"Two years," Kris sighed. "Four, if you count everything before that. God damn."
"Harsh, man," was all Travis could think of to say.
"Shit," Kris slurred, swaying his head slightly. "Itıs been a while since I took this much alcohol. Iım not sure I can still shrug it off...I gotta get a drink."
"We donıt have any drinks in the apartment," Travis thought aloud, frowning. "You want me to drive you to the Circle K?"
"That sounds like a great idea right about now," Kris said, holding Travisı arm.
"Hey," Kris laughed as they stumbled toward Travisı old powder-blue Toyota. "A body at rest tends to go into motion. Thatıs physics for ya, huh?"
"I think itıs the other way around," Travis said, laughing.
"Thatıll teach me to drop physics," Kris laughed.
"Cigarette?" Travis offered once they were inside the car.
"Naw," Kris drawled. "Iıve done enough killin myself for a few minutes, at least."
* * *
(finally, some continuity)
The Circle K was operated by an Arab man who looked like he was afraid the cops were going to bust him any minute. Travis and Kris were the only ones at the store, poring over dirty racks of sodas and cigarettes like wine tasters at a party. Kris was obviously drunk, and the store clerk kept looking at the two suspiciously, as if ready to expel them at the slightest sign of misbehavior.
"Do we want Winstons or Camels?" Kris called across the store.
Travis paused, hand on chin, a venerable sage pondering a matter of philosophy.
"I think we want Winstons," he decided at length. Kris nodded assent.
Just then, they walked into the store.
Travis and Kris looked up as one as two women and one man walked through the chiming door and approached the snack food section. The man was black, his skin dark and smooth, and mostly exposed. Shaven chest and head, open velvet mini-vest, long flared leather pants studded with some sort of imitation gemstone, cowboy boots. Golden and silver rings, bracelets, and an obscenely large red stone hung around the neck on a thick chain fashioned in the likeness of a dozen naked women. The first of his female escorts was tall and milk-skinned, bleached blonde, with push-up bra and leather jacket, knee-high leather boots, and enough eyeshadow to close the eyes of a cow. The second looked to be slightly Hispanic, red high heels to match the lipstick, tiny miniskirt and long razor fingernails. The three pored over the snack section, speaking in low tones to one another. The Arab proprietor simply stared.
Travis began sidling over from the drink section, failing in his attempts to seem casual. Kris clapped a hand over his mouth, but was obviously losing the battle. Reaching his side, Travis seized Krisı free arm and began to tug him steadily toward the exit. The pale woman looked up at them, her eyes narrowing a bit. She reached a delicate hand to tap the man on the shoulder...
...And Kris burst into wild guffaws. At that point Travis yanked him bodily out of the store as all three of the new arrivals jerked their heads around. Stumbling into a hurtling run, Travis and Kris dove for the car, jumped in, slammed the door, and peeled out of the Circle K parking lot. As they sped away, Travis just managed to catch a glimpse of the other car in the store lot--a 1960s Chevrolet Corvette, tail fins and all, painted in what looked like silver glitter, with four tailpipes protruding from the rear.
They had a good laugh about it on the lawn of their apartment complex.
"I guess the hoıs really needed their pimp to get them some Butterfingers!" Kris gasped, staggering around the lawn bent over, clutching his stomach in laughter.
"Yeah...no joke..." Travis wheezed through tears of mirth. "I guess after givin head all night the girlies need to...wash out...their...mouths..."
"I thought...the pimp...was gonna try to sell em...to the clerk..." Kris stumbled about in a hysterical dance, kicking up sod from the wet ground.
They clapped each other on the shoulder. Kris threw up once, and they both laughed all the harder.
"You wanna go puke inside, buddy?" Travis asked.
"Nah," Kris gasped through laughter. "Iım just fine. Let em have their happiness. Now maybe Dave will be less lonely."
"Youıre a good man, Kris," Travis declared, giving a hug with his draped arm.
"Thanks, man. Besides..." Kris smiled with renewed amusement, "...we saw something much better back there."
"Yeah we did," Travis agreed. "That kicked ass."
"And you know what?" Kris declared. "Next time I wonıt be so stupid. Next time Iıll just say Okay, letıs go for it.ı"
"Damn straight, man."
They sat for a few long minutes, the moisture of the lawn soaking through their jeans, the night breeze gone, leaving only chill calm stillness in its wake. The lights were all out and the cars all dark and silent. The stars gleamed above through the patches in a cloudy sky.
"You know what?" Travis said, grabbing Krisı shoulder and pointing to a lump of sod that peeked above the trimmed lawn.
"What?" Kris asked, blinking.
"Dirt donıt burn," Travis said.
They began to laugh again, and didnıt stop until Kris staggered inside to collapse in sleep on the couch. Travis padded over to the hall closet, took down a heavy yellow blanket, and draped it across Krisı inert form before retiring to his own room. There was a half a pack of Winstons on his desk, but Travis was too out of breath from running around on the lawn. Instead, he turned on his computer and sat in the dark room as the screen gleamed to life. He opened Microsoft Word, typed a few words across the top of the page, then decided to check his email first.
There were three new messages.
* * *
The Further Adventures Of Ugly Dirtburner, Misanthrope, by Travis Garner
The door blew open in a shower of wood and particle board and Vaseline Intensive Care jelly. Through the flaming wreckage stepped a figure clad in Extra Junkpile Battle Armor and cutoff jeans, brandishing a Carnage Nı Death Saturday Night Extra Special Plasma Cannon.
The judge and the pig-faced corporate manager-clone looked up simultaneously from the desk strewn with official papers and implements of foul torture, over which they had undoubtedly been hatching some foul plot to oppress the masses.
"You!" the pig-manager hissed, ichor dripping from nostrils the size of Lake Mendota. "Why arenıt you shoveling shit with the rest of your miserable ilk?"
"How observant, O master of second-person pronouns," Ugly Dirtburner spat. "Now would you like to say any pathetic anticlimactic tripe to take up valuable page space before I convert you to an unsightly reddish smear on the carpet?"
"No I wouldnıt!" the manager shouted. "I mean, I-"
His next words were cut off by a blast of plasma that seriously inconvenienced the cleaning staff for nearly a week. The dirt on the floor smoldered but didnıt burn.
"Donıt let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!" Dirtburner said cheerfully.
"What is the meaning of this, Dirtburner?" the judge stammered.
"I want a name change, you gavel-wielding gastrointestinal ganglion," Ugly demanded. "I want to be named Ugly Brilliant Dirtburner.ı "
"Donıt you want to change your name to something nicer," the judge protested, "like Wilt Chamberlain, or something?"
Ugly narrowed eyes full of fire, rage, and contact lens fluid. "Iıve taken a liking to the rest of the name. Now change it, or risk ending up like amorphous-boy there on the floor. Donıt argue with the man with the assault weapon."
And henceforth, Ugly Stupid Dirtburner was known as Ugly Brilliant Dirtburner. And that was only the beginning of the many, marvelous, magnificent misadventures of the maladjusted misanthropic messiah known as Ugly Dirtburner...
* * *
(this is an optional coda. those whose refined modern sensibilities would never allow them to enjoy an unrealistic and unexplained happy ending should view this section as a fantasy within a fantasy.)
Hey Travis:
I just got back into town. Well, it wasnıt a very long drive, me just going to college at State and all. Anyway, Iım lonely and bored, and I remembered the interesting discussions we used to have. How are you? I want to see how youıre doing, and what youıve been up to since we graduated.
Anyway...yeah. Letıs get together in the next couple of days, if youıre still around. You still live in town, right? Yeah...anyway, Iım rambling. Give me a call at 775-4346. See you around.
--Julie Hartmann