Friday, November 21, 2014

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

At the bar in Philly, the place I call home
I sweep and clean the toilets, and in the basement, I beat the rats to death with my beloved club. My coworkers are sociopaths, narcissistic morons who will do anything for fame and fortune. Our bar is frequented by alcoholics, homeless people, and ladies of the night. My father, whom I live with, owns the bar, and will come down on his fat, squat legs and berate me for not eating garbage with him. He is a troll, a creature better suited to sleeping in a sewer than walking on dry land. You have to pay the toll, you have to pay the toll...sometimes, I sniff too much glue and I cannot remember who I am, or what I am supposed to do. In the night, my dreams tell me that this is just another short stop, a brief sojourn on a journey that will last eons. I take solace in this as I kill rat after rat, my club raining down justice on them. But who am I to judge? Are their lives really worth any more than ours?

In a New York apartment
The sitcom lights burn down on me from somewhere up above. I am in a suit and tie, as I am wont to do. My best friend is complaining about how he cannot get a date; all he seems to do is complain about women. He doesn't realize that he is in love with the married one, the tall, goofy roommate he has lived with since college. I would love to bang his wife, but that is how I communicate with women. I cannot divorce myself from the sexual element, and this has begun to worry me. In my pocket there is a tally of all the women I have slept with. It numbers in the hundreds. I often wonder if there is anything I wouldn't do to sleep with a women, and I come to the conclusion that no, there is not. The city will crumble, as all great cities do, and all I will be left with is my list and scattered memories, some of which I wish would lie buried. It is time to go play laser tag.

In a Seattle apartment
My brother and I argue about an obscure Italian opera that neither of us really knows much about. Our father, a disabled police veteran, sits in his hideous easy chair and tries to drown us out with the television volume. His dog, whom I fear is becoming sentient, stares at us from across the room, his eyes sending dark designs. I pour my brother and I glasses of sherry, and I observe him ogling our English house keeper. My brother is in deep denial about his homosexuality. So am I, I suppose.


In a New York coffee shop
I sit and listen to my short, bald friend, and I realize that he is the worst person I have ever met. His pathetic schemes grow crazier by the day; his inability to relate with other human beings is beyond depressing. My neighbor comes by and tells us about the garbage disposal he installed in his shower. One day, they will find him in a gutter, naked, with strange messages tattooed on his chest. My arch- nemesis, a rotund postal employee, passes by the window, his hands stuffing mail into a trash can. All I do is make pithy observations. What else can I do?

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