Capitali$m $uck$ (TM)
Chapter Two
Read Chapter One Here:
https://gebryan.medium.com/capitali-m-uck-tm-part-2-59fd7cba6f58
The Short History of Another Five Years
Monday, August 30, 2021, 8:00 am, New Journal
Dear Journal,
How are you, my BiPolar pal?
Happy birthday, I am fine. How are you?
I am freaked the fuck out, just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. I think I’ve been robbed. First day of staycation, I sleep in until 7:45 am, go into the living room and my TV is gone, my projector, my bike, my X-box. There’s now a safe in the media room, no barcalounger, and somebody hung up my Frankenstein picture. Even the sheets on the bed I was sleeping in are different. Did they drug me? Who would do that? Just…why?
I don’t know. Did you call the police?
No, my phone is gone and my iPod, iPad, and computer are also gone. The fridge is full of weird drinks and I found a gun in the freezer. My meds are gone, who’d steal my crazy meds? I looked out the window and my car’s gone. It’s been a piece of useless, dead scrap metal the last three months, so, how did they even take it?
I don’t know, why would…
Let me vent, me.
Fine.
Not only that, I look out the window and most of the cars are gone. That dumb piece of shit truck next to the garbage cans, the garbage cans…also gone. Plus the air is thick, almost smokey. Summer haze.
Are they coming back? There’s all these posters up about capitalism, are they anti-capitalist robbers? Stealing from the poor to give to the other poor? Fuckers. I’m afraid to leave my apartment. Today was supposed to be a celebration of living five years past my expiration date. The start of a glorious nothing.
Tell me about it.
That’s what I woke up to do. I can’t think. I should be doing something. Write. Write. Write. Get bearings with the familiar. Write what I was going to write today. Should I go back to sleep? Start over?
No, tell me about it. Write.
Ok, My name is Bryan Gahagan and today is my 55th birthday. Five years ago today, at this very time, in this very room, I tried to kill myself. Fun stuff, right?
Go on.
The gun was in my mouth for what seemed like an hour. My girlfriend left me three months earlier, job was a dead end, my son doesn’t talk to me, shitty apartment and the crazy meds weren’t working. The pot didn’t help, can’t stay stoned all the time. Up down, up down, up down, up down. Suicidal thoughts, my constant companion for the last 30 years. Dexter’s Dark Passenger except the only person I wanted to murder was me. Every day a different weird engine running me up or down. Manic, depressive, manic, depressive, manic, depressive.
But, my motto has always been side one, track one Elvis Costello’s This Year’s Model:
No Action.
Never take an action toward taking your own life. Right?
Right.
But in an extreme mixed state — depressive and manic — -I bought a gun at the pawn shop just a block away. Mixed is the worse. Depressed, so the thoughts are there and manic, so the action is there. But who would let me do that? Buy a gun? Run a background check, jerks. Don’t they know what I would do? The same gun I had in my mouth five years ago today.
And what saved your life?
A joke. I thought of a stupid, fucking joke. A coward’s joke, my darkest joke. It’s not even funny or clever. I don’t know why I even thought of it. The cosmic mystery of a grand coward.
Tell it.
It goes, The day before I die, I’m going to buy a fondue set and a gun.
Why?
So the last thing I taste is the taste of delicious, rich and creamy chocolate. I mean, you have to treat yourself sometimes.
Dumb.
Right? But, I laughed, the gun slipped and I murdered a book on my shelf, Catcher in the Rye. Me and John Lennon, huh? Then the coward in me took over and I threw the gun away that afternoon, right in those missing garbage cans.
Then, no action. And I thought, the moment’s past, I can’t go back now.
So, three months later, my doctor lucked into the right mix of crazy meds. Suicidal thoughts, gone. Massive daily mood swings, gone. Weird internal motors, gone. A miracle. A fucking scientific miracle. And I had insurance to pay for it.
Life turned around.
Life turned around. That idiot Donald Trump was president, so the news junkie in me was the only manic junkie instinct left. News ADHD. Addicted to the stupid. Thank Cthulu, he was so incompetent, hopefully, no long term damage was done. Bland Biden is here to recorrect the course. Back to good old fashioned imperialism and slightly regulated capitalism.
Life turned around. The job seemed better, secure. I wrote, even if it was just to me.
Thank you.
Uh, yeah, no problem. Put up some posters. Decided to be single, not even look for pointless commitment, just make friends. And I did. Joined a writer’s group. Even though reaching out to my son was a bust, I tried. Stopped pot and alcohol. Regular fucking success story. Mr. Straight Edge. The American dream.
I’m not even that pissed I got robbed or whatever the fuck this is. Just a little freaked out. I need more crazy meds, I’ll just call the doctor tomorrow and get more. And insulin. And talk to the cops. I hate cops.
So, fast today, fix tomorrow, nap now.
$$$
Monday, August 30, 2021. 3:30 pm
Dear Journal,
How are you, my BiPolar pal?
I am fine. What happened to your face?
I’ll get to it. Long nap, dreams of werewolves. Life has gotten weird pretty quickly. LSD in last night’s meds? No, too concrete, not shifting enough. I found a micro-cassette recorder in the junk drawer, just like I used to use as farm director at KAWL in the nineties and one dusty and shrink-wrapped new micro-cassette. Decided I needed it. I also took ten bucks from my key bowl — no wallet or keys — and left the door unlocked. I walked over to my work to call the cops and tell co-workers I was robbed or whatever.
And work was gone. Same building, but now it was some kind of store. WalZon Express:
“Get Into The Zon!” was their motto, I guess. I walk through the metal detectors, hear a soft ‘bing.’ I felt dumbfounded, confused. I walked past the one self-checkout station. No one was in line. It seemed empty. Sparkling new, but empty. I walked past the stairs down to what used to be sales and saw the sign:
Downstairs:
Women for Sex: 40 Bezos
Women for Talk: 20 Bezos
Men for Sex: 20 Bezos
Men for Talk: 40 Bezos
Sorry,
No Children for Sex or Talk at This Location.
Other Sundries.
And the WalZon logo, now a penis surrounded by jism:
J-Lo’s (?) version of Beyonce’s Single Ladies wafted up the stairs and the soft moans of fucking and talking.
But, Instinctively, mindlessly I walked straight to my work station in master control. Walked past rows and rows of WalZon branded boxes of pre-processed mac and powdered cheese. Many different flavors besides cheese. Mac and powdered spaghetti sauce. Mac and powdered beef. Mac and powdered Caffeine Alfredo. Mac and powdered tuna. And what seemed like hundreds more “mac and powdered ‘something’” flavor. Each flavor with a normal, instant and deluxe version. 3 Bezos for normal, 4 for instant, 6 for deluxe. The deluxe box looked like it had some kind of squeezable paste with the powder. I didn’t see any freezers, vegetables or meat. A hanging sign said ‘All Coke’ near the back of store. Maybe they have a phone someplace in a back office I could use?
I was lost in the dream of it all, looking for the solid mooring of the area I was just in on Friday. The place I spent ten hours a day, five days a week for the last 15 years. The comforting row of TV monitors and headset chatter. When I got to master control, it was now two rows of mac and powdered shrimp. I fell to the same concrete floor that was still there and stared up at the now stucco-less ceiling and began to cry. Are the crazy meds already wearing off or is this real sadness, I thought.
But what happened to your face?
I’m just about there.
After about thirty seconds of increasingly louder sobbing, a fireplug of a man appeared over me. He was wearing a WalZon branded shirt and had a name tag that said “Steve, Franchisee Owner.”
I started the micro-cassette recorder, hidden in my shirt pocket:
“Sir, are you here to shop?”
“I guess.” Snot was flowing freely through the crying into my beard.
“Then shop. And please leave. Where’s your Pay Patch? Or have you had the surgery?”
“The…What?”
“The Pay Patch. We accept Bezos Bucks with no surcharge. And with a 10 percent surcharge: Bitcoin, Dogecoin, Spamcoin, VisaMaster, and McMoney. No cash or gold. Too unstable. No Barter.”
“The Pay Patch?”
“Yes, the Pay Patch. You can get one for 100 Bezos, deducted after installation. You need your social security card, birth certificate and the Bezos Certification of Work with a verified pay stub e-mail.” He was reciting from memory.
“I don’t have that. I was robbed.” I was gulping air, trying to breath and stop sobbing. The Pretenders covering The Kinks, Stop Your Sobbing Now suddenly in my head.
It is time for you to stop all of your sobbing, right?
Yes. Don’t distract.
“Then, you’ll have to leave. I’m sorry, sir.” The fireplug shifted from foot to foot and stabbed his stubby finger in my direction.
“But I just need to use the phone, call the police.”
“There’s a free Verizon Phone Station across the street. Use that. Now please leave.”
He bent over, pulled out a gun, a .45, from a hidden holster in his pant leg.
He began reciting again, “As the franchise manager and legal property owner of this WalZon establishment, I am now invoking WalZon’s Stand Your Ground policy and am within my full legal rights to now shoot you until dead.”
He paused, also in a rehearsed manner. “However, I am a religious man. And my religion tells me that shooting a man is problematic, God-wise. So, I will now just punch you until unconscious as is legal by WalZon policy. You’re welcome.”
The world goes into bullet-time. I stand up, trying to steady myself. The fireplug, gun now butt-foward in his right hand and brass knuckles, brass fucking knuckles in his left, punches into my gut with his right. I double over and with his left hand he upper cuts me in the jaw ripping up my cheek. Everything goes dark, noir-style.
I wake up on my stomach, cheek bleeding in a pool in the WalZon parking lot. My jaw sore. I see the words ‘WalZon’s Customer of The Month’ stenciled into the parking space.
Wow.
Yea, I stumble across the street. No traffic. The US Bank is gone, now replaced with just an automated Well’s Fargo ATM Center and a large parking lot. Next to it is a plastic-enclosed phone booth, also phone booths — -WTF?, with a black and white sign ‘Verizon Phone Station.’ There’s no handset, no buttons — just an inset monitor, in-counter scanner and speaker.
I start the micro-cassette:
“Hello and welcome to the free Verizon phone center. We’ve partnered with Progressive to bring you great values on Insurance…”
“Hi, I’m Flo from Progressive Insurance, home of bundled insurance and great rates. As the number one insurance company in America, Ha, Ha, well, we’re the only insurance company left, we’re able to provide you with all the great bundles from over 30 former insurance companies. We’re now offering The Slacker Bundle, for those refusing to work. It includes limited medical coverage, car and rental insurance and Acts of God coverage. And best of all, we accept cash and barter. Plus all forms of digital currency. For only two months of your time at our Retainment Center, you can get a full year’s worth of bundled insurance at up to seven percent off. Hold on the line to connect to a representative and you’ll even hear how great your new 24/7 retainment job can be. Or say ‘Phone’ to receive your free 30 second regular phone call or one minute emergency call. Charges apply after a minute. And your phone call will be monitored for both quality assurance and consumer opportunities…”
“Phone.”
“Please scan your hand,” I run my hand over the scanner.
“No Pay Patch found. Error. Please scan your hand again or if this is an emergency, tell us your Social Security number and we’ll connect you to 911.”
Suddenly, I didn’t want to give them my Social Security number. So, I gave them the only other one I could remember, “506–96–9696.”
“Thank you, Mr. Perry J Carnes. We’ll now connect you to Emergency Services…”
“Hi, this is Flo again from Progressive. In an Emergency? You could use the protection of our all-purpose emergency insurance for only 30 Bezos Bucks a month. Of course, we do take cash or barter. Hold on the line for a representative or say ‘phone’ for 42 seconds remaining on your free call.”
“Phone.”
“Hello, Lincoln Police Plus — voted Lincoln’s best police force,” The woman had obviously had broadcast training, “What’s your zip code?”
“68502.”
“Oh, there’s an extra surcharge to high risk areas. Also, it seems, Perry J Carnes has a listed Omaha zip code which is out of our contractual jurisdiction.”
“Um, I’m in Lincoln visiting a friend. He’s been robbed.”
“Is Perry J Carnes the legal property owner?”
“No, but..”
“Hi, Flo again, Your 42 seconds are up. Please scan your hand, so you can continue this call…”
I walked away. I heard, on repeat, “Please scan your hand,” as I sped up toward my apartment.
Get up, get down, 9–1–1 is joke in this town.
Yea. I looked back and saw these three, similar, towering signs. The McDonald’s logo, The McDonald’s logo with a fish and a McDonald’s logo with a sombrero. All attached to different buildings. I can’t draw.
So, did you get a hold of the police?
Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Bye, Bye, Bi.
$$$
Monday, August 30th, 2021, 9:35pm
Dear Journal,
How are you, My BiPolar pal?
Pretty good. What’s up?
Well, happy fucking birthday to me.
Yes. Happy Fucking Birthday to You!
I’ve spent the last few hours going through my apartment, originally making a list for the cops, but that seem’s like folly. But the list is interesting and I’ve come to a conclusion.
What is it?
You really don’t understand the concept of a tease, do you me?
Who are you teasing?
Touché. So, here’s a list of changes in my dumpy apartment:
Bedroom:
New sheets, black; old lumpy mattress from NFM returned; about half the clothes as before, mostly jeans and black generic T-shirts (Did Louis CK live here? Ewww.); two newish black suits in a smaller size; same 25 year-old digital clock; same old home-made dresser now with ‘Capitalism Sucks’ stickers all over it; and blankets, maybe ten to twelve thick blankets in the closet.
Living Room:
Same old couchette, covered in blankets; candles and matches; missing about half my board games, only games from 2017 or earlier; no bike; no cassettes; no TV; no stereo; still have the funky old lamp; a blank desk with just a few paper bills from the gas and electric company and a stack of face masks, no keys or wallet in the same old metal bowl; no iPad, iPod or MacBook Pro; no internet router or spare hard drives; and the bookcase has most of my books with a few new books on economic theory; also there’s a whole row of journals with dates on the spine, I recognize the early ones from 2016 as mine, just never labelled the spine. And the new ones have my handwriting.
This is boring.
I know, But I feel like I gotta start keeping records so I don’t forget. This may evaporate, who knows?
Kitchen:
This gets more interesting.
OK.
No microwave; no air fryer; only a few pots and pans and half the silverware; the junk drawer only has some nails and that micro-cassette player. The old stove and fridge were still there.
Ok, the fridge; nothing in the freezer, but in the fridge, just cans and cans of different kinds of Diet Coke: Diet Coke Neutral, just caffeine — Now three times the amount of caffeine; Diet Coke Mellow, with liquid THC — It’s always 4:20; Diet Coke Original, with Cocaine — The Coke with Coke!; Diet Coke Fast, with Speed — For the Working Man!; Diet Coke Jack with Whiskey — Bar-time, Anytime; Diet Coke ’Shrooms, with mushrooms — Vacation in a Can; Diet Coke Dance with Ecstasy — Happiness in A Can; and Diet Coke Weird, with LSD — Yea, man, yea.
The only food in the kitchen were bags and bags of Huel Gold — 100 Percent Independent, Now Powered by The Protein of Mashed Crickets. I used to eat Huel, it’s like drinking thick pancake batter made out of soybeans.
You are what you eat.
Oh, I have insulin again. About three months worth of the old vial insulin with syringes. No cool pens or sensor or even test strips. Still…
I turned on the faucet and a black and brown goo came out for about ten seconds before it mostly cleared up. All the pans on the stove looked like they were just used for boiling water. I wondered if the water would catch on fire like in the documentary Gasland.
Bathroom:
Nothing, no meds, no toothpaste, nothing; just a toilet, shower and black shower curtain and Burt’s Bee’s Shampoo and Body Wash and generic toilet paper.
Media Room
No projector, but still the screen; no stereo; no X-Box; no Barcalounger, my two shelves were still there with all my old CD’s and DVD’s and my movie posters were there, all pre-2000; and a black and gold old-timey looking safe. I tried the combination. It only took there tries. 36–24–36. Geez, the safe equivalent of having ‘Password’ as your password. Inside the safe were 6,350 dollars in cash, a metal keychain with my house key and laundry room key, my birth certificate and Social Security card, an empty wallet, a few manilla envelopes, sealed, with the word ‘Contract’ on them in my handwriting.
I also noticed all the electrical stuff in the whole apartment were pre-2000 and unplugged except the fridge and stove. It’s all pretty depressing. At first I thought maybe I went back in time to some alternate past, like Deadlands, but nah, this is the alternate present. I’m me. It is August 30, 2021 in Bizaaro-World. That’s my conclusion.
Well, duh.
Shut up, you’re gonna get weirder and weirder, the more the crazy meds wear off…
Also, well, duh.
I’m gonna go have a Diet Coke Mellow, some cricket food and read those journals and sleep.
And sleep some more.
And maybe I’ll wake up in a better world.
Bye, Bye, Bi.
$$$
