I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 (7 page)

Dusty collapsed to his knees, his hand vice gripped to mine, his face frozen with horror—pee on his sneaker. My legs did not respond to the signals from my brain—neither did my penis, thanks to the potent Mojo-X. There was a communication breakdown between my brain and sheer survival skills: slo-mo-tion, paralyzing fear, nerves exploding into pins and needles…React. React now. Move, asshole.

I won’t let anyone hurt you, do you hear me? We’re gonna’ be okay.
I won’t let fear make a liar out of me. I hauled Dusty away as quickly as I could. His legs still wobbly from fright gave out beneath him, so I threw him over my shoulder until I brought him into the safety of daylight, never looking back.

BIRDS, BEES,  AND OEDIPUS

Thursday, January 9
^th
, 2014

You know the dream where you’re desperately running through an infinite hallway from some
thing
? Or the dream where you fall from the top of a building and wake up just before you become sidewalk pizza? You ever have those dreams?

I’d wake up terrified, clenching the sheets and soaked from sweating it out. I always wondered what would happen if the boogiemen did get me. Would they tear my heart out and pick me out of their teeth as the Deviants would?

Some people believe you would die in your sleep.

Does it
ever
mean anything?

If you have a dream about having sex with your mom, does it mean you want to fuck your mom?

I mean, I had dreams like that before, and when I woke up the last thing I wanted was to have sex with my mother. I was revolted at how depraved the dreams were. It was the kind of wet dream boys had with women—who were not their mothers.

I had those dreams around the time I was the angriest with her. I was 13 and just discovering the revolving doors of fleshy female analogy at school. I took ALL OF IT in and indulged in every foul fantasy a boy my age could muster over the bathroom sink.

I was vigorously masturbating myself dry to every lingerie catalogue, Jordache jean commercial, classmates, and even my 7
^th
grade homeroom teacher Ms. Tarver—a young French African-American transplant with voluptuous breasts and green eyes. Her skin was a soft, lush, caramel brown and smelled like cake.

When she leaned in over me at my desk, I wanted to nuzzle and caress myself into the crevice of her mountainous firm breasts. When she smiled at me with those plump glistening red lips, I came close to ruining my underwear with my boyish warm goop.

My mother was an attractive and well-dressed woman, but she was emotionally vacant. Most likely from the Valium she was throwing down like Chiclets every morning before breakfast.

I might have had mommy issues at the time, or maybe I had what my therapist called the “Oedipus complex.”

She was going through the motions without a glimmer of light in her eye. My brother and I didn’t get hugs and cookies when we fell and scraped our knees. We never got the talk about the birds and the bees from our mother.

All we got was clean laundry, dinner, and a “go ask your father” whenever we needed something.

“What the hell are you good for, woman? We come to

you because we don’t want to go to Dad. He’s a DICK!”

He would laugh in my face and chastise me every time I’d attempt to speak to him about girls.

“Girls? Ha! You even know how to wipe your ass yet?” or “You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you caught it.” Clearly, I wouldn’t, since I’m trying to talk to you about it, you douche bag.

My friend’s fathers would throw them the keys to the car, a few bucks for their pocket, and kick them out the front door without a curfew (and offered pointers on how to get lucky with the lady friends).

My father instead created a list of chores I needed to do and swat me off like a gnat that pestered him.

I was the last virgin standing among my friends and I never heard the end of it…

“Dude, are you gay?”

“Are ya a fag or sumdin’?”

“You like the cock, don’t you, Charlie?”

No, but I imagine if I threw the date-rape candidates into a closet when they passed out at the parties like many boys did, I suppose I wouldn’t be a virgin either.

I lost my virginity to my first steady girlfriend Rosie Lee Arnold in the dugout on my 17
^th
birthday. Rosie Lee was one of my best-kept secrets. The boys always had the need to try to nail everyone else’s girlfriends, including mine, and pass them around in their little horny relay race. On my 18
^th
birthday, Rosie did the unthinkable. She did things I don’t think I could ever forgive her for.

All my life I felt like I was running from something, but it eventually caught up with me.

It didn’t kill me.

I just woke up to it every day and continued running because I could never feel like I was good enough for anything. I think I’m tired of running now.

I think it’s time to grow up.

SUNRISE AND SATELLITES

Friday, January 10
^th
, 2014

6:52 a.m.

Looking out into the twilight from the roof of the house, I have a panoramic view of THE END from my lawn chair.

The faint columns of smoke in the north rose from the infernos set the night before, standing still in the distance over the wasteland in blends of black and gray.

Satellites in strange activity over the west cascade and zigzag fluidly across the sky like a school of goldfish in a pond. The orbs shimmer and explode with impressive lights, like Fourth of July without the boom.

Oddly, there’s no sizzle, no hum from rotors, no sonic trail from when the planes flew over from Kennedy. I know for a fact from seeing the Thunderbirds air show at Coney Island as a kid that this is not an exercise of jet planes.

Back and forth, up and down, left, right, stop, and off they go again—physics be damned. Here you have it, ladies and gents: the best damn 30-second light show your tax dollars can buy.

And for the grand finale, the aerial rascals will now climb together in an ornate fashion, spiraling in loop de loops, vanishing before your very eyes.

DON’T SEND FLOWERS

Saturday, January 11
^th
, 2014

There are no Cowboys on the horizon, and no one is going to SAVE THE DAY. I think I’ve come to accept that. It’s up to me now. I guess Jerry was right all along—no one is coming. I’m sure they extracted anyone worth saving long ago.

Most of those who stayed probably didn’t meet the criteria that screamed “worth saving.” Trim the fat, thin the herd; we only had a small window for evacuation.

Don’t send flowers, I don’t want them. Save your apologies and excuses for someone else. They would only be insulting when I’ve seen the brutality and malice with my own eyes.

I won’t hold my breath for the
relief fund
,
the memorial
, or your public
vigils
. I don’t want any sad puppy-eyed celebrity crying for me in an over-publicized infomercial either. I don’t care for the answers anymore.

I just want a way out without having to scratch and claw my way through the trenches. That’s the least they can do for us—the courtesy of a choice, but I guess prisoners in general population don’t have the luxury of having choices.

I just wanted a way to be with Morgan and Kate again. If what they say is true about the police abandoning ship and heading to the city, then they’re in good hands.

Morgan’s family has so much blue in it, it’s not funny. Her father is a retired police sergeant, her older brother is a cop, her younger brother just became a cop, and her sister, who used to date a firefighter, is now married to a cop. You get my drift. I’m sure they’re out of harm’s way for now, but I still worry.

It was a simple plan. Tread the marsh under the overpass, get to the freeway as quickly as possible while staying under the radar, and get back alive.

No one had the guts to maneuver through the parks or through the tunnels because it was too high risk with the Deviants. No one could safely cross the bay to the airport because the Coast Guard or the froggies would shoot you dead in the water.

The only alternative was to sneak through the sewers like rats on our bellies.

No questions asked, no questions answered. It’s open season, without warning or any remorse.

I can hear them now—“Shoot to kill! Take no chances and make no exceptions!” The way the jarheads use us for target practice at the borders shows me how expendable we really are.

HOO-RAH!

It was like shooting fish in a fish bowl. How many people have to die before something gives?

They made it look easy, but there’s nothing casual about casualties, is there?

When we left for Willets Point to get to the Van Wyck Expressway, we barely crossed the marsh before the bullets started flying.

There were four of us that night: Savio, Fausto, Julio, and me. We devised a game plan over by Savio’s junkyard to get across without letting the grunts patrolling the bridge see us.

The first bullet whizzed by my head, and the next struck Julio in the face, leaving him dead in the water. The other two men died immediately after, going down like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.

I managed to tread away from the overpass and through the tall grass until I got back to the pier on College Point Boulevard, where I hid in an empty karaoke bar for the night.

In hindsight, the rows of floating human remains and bones collecting in the water should’ve been the red flag that crossing wasn’t a good idea. Good thing I let my friends go first. It serves Julio right for calling me a ‘pendejo’. I didn’t know what my little banditos were saying, but they sure as hell were convincing to me. All it cost me were a couple of bottles of booze and cigarettes to tag along.

“Ok, saddle up, amigos!”

I thought they were good at these things. I didn’t know any better. I assumed Mexicans knew their way around these situations like how I used to think all Asians knew karate. Just how I once thought the Mexican national anthem was
La Cucaracha
. When your dad is a bigot, you pick up slanted truths about other cultures until someone sets you straight and kicks your ass in the schoolyard.

My father once told me all cultures are born with a natural skill-set: Mexicans work cheap, Asians know kung fu, and Blacks are lazy until they’re on a half court.

Well, still no word from the Annex. There is still no vaccine on its way as the President promised.

DEAR GOD

Sunday, January 12
^th
, 2014

11:04  a.m.

Dear God,

Do you remember the time I ran away from home and prayed my parents wouldn’t find me?

You didn’t listen, and I received one of the worst beatings of my life from my father. Do you remember how I’d pray at night to not wake up in the morning?

You didn’t deliver and gave me 34 years of agonizing life.

 I lost faith in You because You allowed two unfit parents to bring two children into this world. Thanks.

Why didn’t my mother take a coat hanger to herself before she decided to have a family and be unhappy? How could my parents stomach each other enough to touch, much less breed?

Then You gave us Stewart, born with “special needs.” Who knew what the fuck ADHD was in the ‘80s? There was no magic pill. My father’s remedy was kicking Stewart in the rear, calling him a
putz
and sending him on his way.

“Get yer’head out yer’ass,” he’d say.

Dear God, You allowed monsters like my father and uncles to roam the earth while my mother and Nana died horrible and slow deaths.

Yes, while I admit I resented my mother, I don’t think she knew what she signed up for when she married into the Dudley family, but You let her die anyway, and I hated You for it.

Then something wonderful happened: You brought Morgan and me together.

Morgan wasn’t a pushover, and she saved me from myself. She was my anchor, my rock...and she was smokin’ hot. She had the strength to put up with my crap, and You sent us an angel.

Kate Rose Dudley.

Thank You, God. I hit my knees and thanked You with everything I had left in my bones. I was faithful. I figured it was only right that I called a truce. For all my suffering, my gratitude to You for giving me my daughter was worth it. I did my part.

So what do You do? You send me headfirst into a cement truck, You son of a bitch. You turned me into a cripple and a drug-dependent dog.
Pathetic
—is that what they say? I couldn’t wipe my ass, I pissed blood, and I couldn’t play with my kid. I couldn’t fuck my hot wife. Fuck You, for all You’ve done has drained me. Two years of doctor appointments, pain management, and greasy lawyers is what I get. My spine looks like a goddamn ratchet set. I know when we are done having this talk You will have signed my ticket to hell….Oh, wait a minute. That’s right— All bets are off, You spiteful bastard. You and I are through. I’m off the team until I get my family back.

FRIENDS, FAMILY, FIENDS, AND FOES

RICHARD (UNCLE DICK)

Sunday, January 12
^th
, 2014

You think my father cared if Uncle Richard made sexual advances towards my brother when no one was around in Nana’s basement?

No.

If you implied Uncle Richard was being inappropriate, you’d get two fists to the teeth and a black eye from my father for showing disrespect.

Stewart didn’t know that when Richard drank too much he liked to show us boys how much he “loved” us, but Stewart let him, because he loved Richard. I didn’t. I would’ve preferred to see Richard dead.