American Ghosts

He lit up a joint and looked out the window. It was a beautiful day outside. But if he wanted to go out, he'd have to take a shower. Then he'd have to wait for his hair to dry. Then he'd have to shave. And he'd have to look for clean clothes. He had enough pot to last until tomorrow. No point in going through all the hassle to leave.

Mickey walked into the room. Half of his head was still missing. "Shawn," he mumbled as he collapsed on the couch. "I think you should do more drugs."

Shawn blew some smoke against the window glass. "Don't tempt me. You know I would."

"I know, and that's sad," Mickey grumbled. "Half my brain's been fucking blown out, and I still have more than common sense than you."

"Sure, question my common sense. Because we all know you had a lot of common sense to blow your head off," he shot back.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go again. Always playing the 'blew your head off' card. I've always regretted what I'd done."

"But it must've seemed like a good idea at the time," he pointed out.

Mickey chuckled. "Yeah, well you voting for Nader must've seemed like a good idea at the time too."

Shawn crushed the joint into the window pane. "You know what Mickey, go to hell."

"This apartment is my fucking hell!"Mickey shouted back. "Who would've known hell was full of pot, porno and videogames."

He was not kidding. The apartment was a shrine dedicated to cheap 80's porno and Super Nintendo games. Magazines full of scantily clad women, cars, and video games littered the floor, surrounded by empty baggies and wrappers from every food chain known to the American civilization. To balance it out, he had a single shelf of books in the corner of the room. Most of them were celebrity biographies. But a book was still a book.

Shawn sat down in front of the TV. A tower of DVD's he had assembled collapsed to the floor. He didn't mind. He fished the remote from underneath his lazing body and clicked it at the TV. Channels darted past him as he scanned their titles. Years of watching had increased his ability to deduce what was watchable, and what was shit. He need only to see the first few letters of a show's title on the top of the screen to know what to stop on. He'd see 'Wheel of fo' and before he could finish reading, he'd switch to the next channel, in that instant deciding that he was in no need for Pat Sajack. But when he spied the letters 'Antique's Roa' he immediately let off the remote. He was in the mood for antique appraisal.

"Oh shit," Mickey mumbled. "What a heterosexual show to watch."

Shawn raised his middle finger.

"Yeah, give the finger to a dead guy," Mickey snorted. "That ain't fucking crazy at all."






AMERICAN GHOSTS








He is going crazy. That is what he believes. The drugs don't help. He sees a ghost every day. More than that. Every hour. It's his best friend who blew out his brains. He never did find them. He lives in a city. He sometimes forgets which one. They all seem the same. He smokes a lot of pot. He doesn't remember why. But it makes Saturday Night Live seem a lot funnier. He knows a lot of people. He doesn't have a lot of friends. He thinks better than he speaks. He likes sex but he thinks it's weird. He tries to be normal about it. He loves movies. He loves music. He was in college but he didn't like it. His laziness outweighs his intelligence. He wears T-shirts of popular TV shows. He wishes he was more attractive. He wants a better car. He needs a dental plan. He wants to travel and see the world. He's American. He doesn't hold that against himself. He loves to read but he hates books. He says he never cries but he does. He's sarcastic because he wants attention. He misses his parents. He wants to see his brother more often. He doesn't believe in god. He uses big words because he can. He has a job. He hates it. He's writing a book. It's terrible.













He listened to music as he typed. His masterpiece. Or that's what he thought it was. A scathing look at the life of an American in these dark and foreboding times. He knew it all. He knew what it was like to see a country fall apart. He was on the forefront of a nation crumbling. That's what he told himself. Chapters on President Bush. Hurricanes. Censorship. Loss of freedom. Rednecks in the South. Yuppie douchebags in the North. He'd seen it all. On his TV screen, on the Internet, in the music. He was an eyewitness to the fallout of a nation. Well, kind of an eyewitness.

"I'm going to write a chapter on suicide. I'll mention you," Shawn spoke without drifting his eyes away from the screen.

There was no response.

"I'll say heavy metal music made you pick up a gun," he smirked. "Marilyn Manson made you blow your brains out!"

He heard nothing but the hum of his computer. He sighed a little bit. Standing up, he glanced over into the living room. Mickey lay on the couch, his eyes closed. His arms were scrunched up into his sides. The hole in his head was not gone. Shawn stared at him. He didn't say a word. He decided on a different chapter.

---

The car was freezing cold when he slid behind the wheel. His body shivered as he jammed the key into the ignition, his breath visible in the chilly air. The car started up after a little stutter. The radio began to blast U2 out of it's speakers. Shawn cringed and turned the knob. Dire Straits' 'Money for Nothing' came up on the classic rock station. The gods of music were shining down on him today.

"And my chicks for free," Shawn sung along under his breath as he pulled the car into the street.

It was Monday. At least he thought it was. Days had seem to blend together lately. The weekend had gone in a blur. He knew he had watched Simpsons on Sunday. So that must've meant he had to work today. TV was his best source of time and it's passing.

"That was Dire Straits and 'Money for Nothing', "the DJ's voice broke in on the radio. "Classic Australian rock. At least I think they were Australian. Who cares. They're from a different country, and they rock. That's all that matters. Up next, we'll have some classic tracks from Pink Floyd, Cheap Trick, and maybe a little classic 80's U2."

Shawn pulled up to a stop light. A large van pulled up in front of him. An old woman turned and gave him a quick glance in her rearview mirror. He stared back. The old woman had a nicer car than him. She could probably barely drive. The light turned green. Shawn stared as she drove off. The loud honking of the car behind him broke his spell. He stepped on the gas and sped through the intersection. He stopped behind the old lady's again van as she waited to turn into a diner parking lot. He took his hands off the wheel and brought them up to his mouth, blowing some hot air on them.

"I'm talking to her dead husband "Mickey's voice came from the backseat. "He says she shouldn't have her license. She can barely see."

Shawn let out a sigh of relief. "God, you scared the shit out of me."

"I have that effect on some people,"Mickey replied, the wound in his head opening and closing as he spoke.

There was a silence as a commercial ended on the radio.

"He says you should go and sit down at the diner with her. She's lonely,"Mickey spoke as he closed his eyes.

Shawn looked in his rearview mirror. "Her husband. He's in the car right now?"

"He most certainly is," Mickey grinned. "You've got a few onlookers back here."

Shawn rubbed his forehead as the old woman in front of him continued to wait. Snow began to fall.


---


His eyes were glazed over. He stared vacantly at his cubicle wall. A co-worker had tacked up a Dilbert comic to it. He kept it up to remind himself that he was funnier than it. It smelt like air conditioner in the entire building. Fluroscent lights up above melted his retinas.

The computer screen in front of him was filled with numbers. Loads of them. He know he typed them there, but he could hardly remember why or what they did. Work is shit. But what did he care, he was baked, he stared endlessly into the screen as if it held some deeper meaning underneath the glass and wires.

"Heeeeey, Shawnie!" a familiar voice screeched. "Goddammit man, why didn't you tell me you got here!"

Corbin Lanroy stepped into the small space. He looked very normal. His goatee was carefully groomed, just like his short orange hair that was spiked up at the front with greasy gel. He wore a black suit, but it was the only one he had. He wore it every day and changed the tie.

"You were supposed to come to the bar with us last night, what happened man?" Corbin questioned as he slumped down on Shawn's desk. "You pussy out on us?"

Shawn looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, I pussied out on you," he replied sarcastically. "Dude, you're like 32 years old, why the fuck are you still going to clubs?"

Corbin huffed. "I was just trying to get you to have some fun, and you just piss all over my face," the last comment made Shawn's eyebrow raise in bemusement. "You just haven't been to the right clubs, that's why you hate them."

"No, that's not it," Shawn mumbled, getting agitated. "I just plain hate clubs, because it's the same experience over and over again. I wait in line for half an hour. I get fucking searched by some black guy at the door who thinks I'm carrying a gun on the top part of my leg right under my cock. Then I get inside, and I'm bombarded by the absolute worst music I've ever heard in my life. And this shit is just blasted as loud as possible. I try to have a conversation with someone, and it's just fucking impossible because there's a goddamn lameass remix of an already lameass Usher song being blared into my ears. I try to dance with a girl, but that's impossible, because I'm a white male, I cannot dance! I can do the robot, but that doesn't really impress anyone, does it? I'm surrounded by 800,000 fucking people who are trying to talk into their cellphones, despite the fact that it's impossible because it's so fucking loud, yet they still try over and over again as they all scream 'Hello? I can't hear you, sorry' in unison! Then just when I start to have a little fun, one of my drunk buddies will puke on the dancefloor and I'll have to drive them home while they lean out the window of my car and vomit all over the side of it."

"Jesus dude," Corbin shook his head. "Lighten the fuck up."

Shawn glanced up at the clock. Still a long time before his next break. With Corbin here, a long, long, long time.

"Corbin, I really got to get some work done," Shawn grumbled as he turned back to his computer. "I got like...shit to do and stuff."

Corbin bent over and stared into Shawn's eyes. "Fuck man, you're stoned aren't you."

Shawn sighed. "Yeah, I am. Who cares, it's just pot."

"I didn't know you toked!" Corbin let out a hyena laugh. "Dude, one day, we gotta buy like a bunch of pot and just hotbox this entire office. It'll be wicked."

Now this was something that bothered Shawn. He loved marijuana. He really did. But he hated it when idiots smoked it. They were the reason it was illegal. Fucking morons.

"Let's not and say we did, "Shawn groaned.

Corbin chuckled. "No wonder you're able to get through working here every day without blowing your head off. You're always coming in baked!"

Shawn started tapping his fingers on his chin. There was silence. Corbin still didn't leave.

"Did you see that episode of Family Guy last night," Corbin didn't pause to wait for a response. "It was fucking hilarious. They brought back the guy in the chicken costume."

Shawn sighed.


---


He walked up to the counter. The girl behind it continued to stare at the Lenny Kravitz CD sitting in front of her. The nametag on her blue vest read 'Darla'.

"Hi there, I was wondering if you could help me," Shawn asked politely.

Darla looked up from the CD. It looked like she had 8,000 pounds of makeup on. "Sure thing."

"Uh, I was wondering if you have any Elvis Costello CD's. I was just looking in the C section, and there were none," Shawn pointed to the C section. He didn't know why, she knew where it was.

"Let me check the computer, "she mumbled and faced the monitor sitting on the counter next to her precious Kravitz CD. Shawn wasn't sure, but he was almost certain he heard her humming 'Mr. Cab Driver' under her breath.

"Nah, we'd have to order one in for you," she read off the screen. "Did you want to do that?"

"Not really. I'm pretty sure any other music store would have Elvis Costello CD's," Shawn replied.

"Suit yourself," she said as she looked back down at her CD.

There were a few seconds of awkardness as Shawn just stood there in silence. He backed away from the counter and walked back to the CD section. The wall of TV's sitting next to him were all showing 'Finding Nemo'. He bent down at the Y section. There was only one CD there, a rap album by the Ying Yang Twins. He stood up and walked back to the counter.

"Hi there, "Shawn interrupted. "Sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if you have any Neil Young CD's?"

"I don't know, "she mumbled. "I'll have to check the computer."

"Really? You should know if you have Neil Young. He's one of the biggest artists of the past 30 years."

She gave him a blank stare.

"Fine, whatever. Check the computer."

She stared at the computer screen. And stared. And stared.

"It says here we do have some Neil Young," she didn't take her eyes off the screen. "Dust never sleeps."

"Rust never sleeps," Shawn corrected.

"It says Dust on the computer."

"Well, the computer is wrong, because it's rust. I have the album," Shawn corrected.

"If you have it, then you don't need to buy it."

Shawn sighed.


---


Nathan ripped off his blue vest and tossed it on the floor. "Jesus Christ, do I fucking hate that place."

Shawn sat still on the couch. "God, I know. I went to go pick up some CD's, they got shit all there."

"So you saw Darla there?" Nathan grinned. "She's pretty fucking hot."

"She looked like a clown whore with all that shit on her face,"Shawn mumbled. "And she didn't seem like the sharpest tool on the shelf."

Nathan pulled a spliff off the coffee table. "Whatever, man. Like you know anything about hot chicks. Your last girl was like 400 pounds."

Shawn stared him at him. "She only weighed like, 150."

Nathan's eyes went blank for a second. "Oh...right, right. I'm thinking of Daryl's ex."

Nathan lit up the joint and leaned back in his recliner. Shawn slowly stood up and grabbed the blue vest off the ground. A 'Welcome to Wal-Mart' button was stuck on it. He tossed it on to Nathan's lap.

"Want a beer?" Shawn asked as he walked into the kitchen.

"Nah, I'm cool," Nathan replied back, the joint in his mouth bobbing up and down as he talked.

Shawn opened the fridge. Next to the bottle of ketchup, Mickey's head stared at him.

"Jesus," Shawn said startled. "This is a new low for you."

Nathan rubbed the joint into an ashtray. "What'd you say?"

"Ah, nothing. Just talking to myself," Shawn yelled to the living room.

Mickey grinned. "I'm proud of myself for this one. It was a lot easier to hide in here than I expe-."

Shawn shut the door. He could hear Mickey scream 'Hey!' from inside.

"So how's your book coming along, "Nathan asked as Shawn plopped back down on the couch.

Shawn twisted the cap off his beer. "I started a new chapter yesterday called 'Beheading Buddah'. I got the idea this one night when me and Dougie were drunk and talking about religious fanatics."

Nathan leaned back, eyes glazed over. "It's about time someone writes a book about all the stupid funny shit we talk about."

Shawn took a sip of his beer. "That's why I'm doing it."

There was a few minutes of silence as TV spoke. Nathan spoke without looking away."Hey man, you going down to Dougie's show tonight?"

"Oh, shit," Shawn mumbled. "I forgot all about that."

Nathan chuckled. "Dude, he'd be fucking pissed if you didn't show up. He thinks this band is the best."

"Ha. Yeah, they're the best. Everyone loves a band that plays nothing but Guns N' Roses and Pearl Jam covers."

Nathan gave a slight smile. "You should go down there. Dougie needs the encouragement."

"What about you," Shawn asked. "You going?"

Nathan didn't reply for a few seconds. "Uh...no...no, I don't think so. I'm just gonna chill at home or something."

"Then fuck it. Dougie doesn't need encouragement for his band."


---


Shawn stepped into the bar. It smelt like Keith Richard's liver. It was empty tonight. A group of rednecks huddled around the bar. Their filthy Lynrd Skynrd t-shirts and trucker hats seemed to reveal that the trailer park they crawled away from didn't have any washing machines. Sitting around a table in a corner in the opposite side of the room were Shawn's friends. The stoners. Black toques on their heads and heavy eyelids gave them away.

"Shawn, wicked of you to come," Dougie smiled as Shawn walked up to the table. "We're gonna fucking the rock the socks off this place tonight."

Shawn dropped down on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. "You better throw in a cover of 'Freebird' tonight the keep those trailer trash dicks over there happy."

A few people at the table laughed. Including Nathan, who Shawn suddenly noticed. "Hey, Nathan. I thought you were staying home tonight?"

"Uh, nah. I changed my mind, felt like getting out," Nathan stuttered a bit.

Shawn's eyes looked a little bit to the left of Nathan. Darla sat next to him.

"Ohhh, hey Darla," Shawn grinned. "Nathan didn't tell me he was bringing you here."

Darla's mind raced back to see where she could remember Shawn from. "Oh, you're the Neil Diamond guy."

Shawn squinted. "Neil Young."

There was silence. Shawn broke it. "You know Darla, Lenny Kravitz isn't playing tonight."

Her and Nathan replied with blank stares at Shawn. He laughed on the inside.


---

They all stood outside after the show. Dougie held an amp in his hands, it was covered in alcohol and spit.

"You guys were great," Darla spoke, her makeup was running down her face, making it look like it was melting. "I loved your cover of Welcome to the Jungle."

Shawn rolled his eyes. Nathan smiled, "Man Darla, you listen to cool music."

She smiled back at him. Shawn suddenly felt lonely.

"Goddammit, those rednecks got whiskey all over our fucking equipment. Pricks, "Dougie grumbled as he held up the amp to look at it. "This shit'll never smell the same."

Shawn laughed, "I told you to play 'Freebird', that's the only song fucking pricks like them can understand."

Unfortunately, one of those pricks were coming out at the same moment Shawn said this. The man's beer-soaked beard turned to face him, a mustard-stained NASCAR shirt holding in his fat gut.

"Hey, you little fucking cunt, were you just saying something about us," the man growled at Shawn, his breath reeking of booze. "You got a problem with me and my buddies?"

Shawn tried to seem cool. "Nah, not at all."

The man grabbed Shawn by his collar and pushed him into the cold brick wall of the building. "Come on you little faggot, I heard what you were saying. Why you trying to deny it?"

"It's a free country. I can say what I want."

"Oh really, then I can say what I want, "the man let go of Shawn's collar. "You and your cocksucking friends here can all go straight to hell where you belong. You're dragging down this entire fucking country, spending all your money on useless shit and smoking weed and doing nothing with your lives. Go join the army and do something for your fucking country."

The man spit in his Shawn's face and spun around. Shawn's fists tightened.

"You know what, "Shawn screamed as he grabbed the man's shirt and spun him around. "Is that what you think we are? A bunch of neo-hippies who do nothing but smoke pot all day and circle jerk each other off? You don't know anything! You got your 'Support the Troops' superglued onto the back of your fucking pickup truck which you drive every goddamn day to Church to worship Jesus and pray that he comes down from heaven and fuck Osama right up the ass!"

The man's face turned red. Rain began to fall. "You're saying I don't know anything!? I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!? YOU LEARN ALL YOUR FUCKING NEWS FROM WATCHING LATE NIGHT TV AND SOME LONER LOSER ON THE INTERNET! My brother is in fucking Iraq right now, defending your freedom you little shit. He is willing to die for a worthless, dickless faggot like you. What're you willing to do? You're willing to abuse every single fucking thing he's fighting for you to have!"

Shawn swung at the man. The punch barely registered. The man wound up and cracked his fist right against Shawn's skull. Shawn crumpled to the ground.

"Goddamn faggot!" the man screamed as he kicked Shawn in the ribs. "You goddamn prick!"

Nathan and Dougie grabbed the man and pulled him away from Shawn. They threw him into the street, and he rolled onto the ground as the rain really began to fall. He stood up, stumbling around from the alcohol, and shouted something no one could hear over the roar of thunder. Then he disappeared in the darkness.

They lifted Shawn up. Blood ran down his face from a gash on the top of his forehead. But not as much as the makeup pouring off of Darla's face.

"Jesus Christ, call an ambulance, "Nathan cried out as he held Shawn up with Dougie.

Shawn violently shook his head left and right. "No. Just call me a cab. I want to go home."

Dougie sighed. "Dude, you're fucking bleeding from the head! You need a doctor."

Shawn broke free from Shawn and Dougie's grasp with surprising strength. "Just call a fucking cab! He screamed, wheezing loudly from the pain in his ribs right afterwards. "It's just a small fucking cut! Get me a damn cab!"

Nathan began to approach him. Shawn pushed him in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards to the ground, scraping his arms against the pavement.

"Goddammit Shawn, if you wanna go fucking home like this, then go!" Nathan yelled, rubbing his arms as he sat on the wet sidewalk. "We're just trying to help you."

Shawn stumbled a bit as he turned around and began to walk down the street. "Just let me go home, "he screamed nonsensically. "I just wanna fucking go home!"

Dougie began to walk towards him. Nathan shouted and told him to stop. "Let him go be a fucking prick. He brought this upon himself, he fucking pushed that guy into beating the shit out of him."

Darla took a step forward. "You're a fucking stubborn prick, Shawn!"

Shawn spun around and gave her the finger. "Cunt," she mumbled him under her breath.


---


Shawn stumbled into the apartment. The lights were off, he couldn't see. Everything was blurry. He bashed his leg into the coffee table, cursing like a sailor. His hands finally felt the couch, and he collapsed onto it. He didn't know whether it was rain or blood soaking through his clothes. He didn't care. He was tired.

"Jesus fucking Christ, "Mickey bellowed as he entered the room. "What the hell happened to you?"

Shawn mumbled with his eyes closed." I got into a fight..."

Mickey shook his head. "Fucking hell. You should be at the hospital."

Shawn chuckled, blood trickling down his mouth as he opened it. "Not me, man. I won. The other guy should be in the hospital."

Mickey sat down on the couch next to him. He leaned back next to him. It went silent. Both men stared at each other's head wounds.

"You started the fight, didn't you," Mickey asked, staring off into space.

"The guy called me a faggot," Shawn spoke through the blood. "What the fuck does he know, he's some fucking dickless redneck."

Mickey sighed. "You were willing to get beaten to death for that?"

Shawn's eyes darted open. "He was saying I didn't know anything. Nothing about the war, the world, or anything. That I'm just some pot smoking deadhead. Wait 'til he reads my book. I'll fucking show that prick."

Mickey felt something for the first time. He felt bad for his friend. "Shawn, What do you know?"

"What the fuck do you mean?" the blood stopped flowing.

Mickey faced him. "You're no different than him. You're no different than anyone. You think everyone else is wrong. YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!"

Shawn clenched his fists. "I'M WRONG!? So you think it's right for soldiers to go off and die fight for this country which isn't worth saving? This country that's full of dumb rednecks and in-the-closet Scientologists and bad actors and shitty bands is worth saving! I'm trying to show everyone how fucked up this place really is!"

"THIS IS THE ONLY FUCKING COUNTRY WHERE A PRETENTIOUS, STUBBORN FUCKING DOUCHEBAG LIKE YOU WOULD EVEN BE ALLOWED TO BE A COMPLETE DICK LIKE YOU ARE!" Mickey screamed as he stood up offt the couch. "People are fucking killed in other countries for trying to have their own thoughts! People are sent to jail for life for smoking pot! You think you know what it's like to live in a country that's headed for dark and foreboding times? YOU'RE LIVING IN THE ONLY GODDAMN COUNTRY THAT WOULDN'T FUCKING EXECUTE YOU!"

Shawn sat in silence. The couch was drenched in blood and water.

"Call an ambulance," Mickey said point blank. "My mom doesn't need to go to another funeral."

Shawn stared up at Mickey. For the first time, he cried for his best friend's death.