Hole-In-The-Wall

HOLE-in-the-WALL

By: Doug Gealy

         You know you’re afraid when you can smell your own fear.



         Billy Donavon, June 12th, 2018, Paris, at the stroke of midnight, could smell his own fear.



         Mr. Donavon’s nostrils bathed in the thick fog of his own true terror. He sat in a molding, deteriorating, blood red booth, staring at the only other customer on the exact opposite side of the hole-in-the-wall diner. I only call this establishment a diner for lack of a better word. I suppose a more accurate description would mention health violations, paranormal activity, and shady characters that likely crawled off the page of your antisocial neighbors unpublished novella. It may also mention unnatural and unknown aromas that can not only be inhaled, but also seen, and likely touched, if only someone had the courage or a single legitimate reason to do so.

         It appeared as though Mindy (the owner of the diner) was driving her RV down the street one-day when it broke down. With little money in her pocket she made the only logical decision she could think of at the time. She pushed the heap of trash on wheels onto the seldom, used heavily urine stained sidewalk and painted the singular word ‘Food’ in large red letters over the doorway. The street itself didn’t have any street signs or even a name to call it by, nor could it be found on any known map in existence. Off the grid if you will, which is the precise reason Mr. Donavon made an effort to eat there at least once a week.

         The other customer was pale, paler than any one Billy had ever seen before. The pale man, sweat profusely. A constant flow of excreted bodily liquids lined his unusual face. Active hands, clenching napkins, wiped his forehead at a breakneck speed. The pile of used napkins on his table where growing at an unfathomable rate. Mr. Donavon lived a life outside of the normal, general, and average guidelines that society had grown accustomed to. But even he found the scenario to be incredibly odd. A one eyed peacock singing the national anthem in a hair salon, if you will. When he looked even closer, this ‘other customer’ possessed pure black and deep all consuming eyes, as if both his eyes were entirely pupil. What worried Mr. Donavon the most was what would happen if the quaint undersupplied diner ran out of napkins. He feared, at the very least, this man would leap across the room and suck his blood. He wouldn’t relent until a dried out carcass with a face frozen in pure shock was all that was left of him. Maybe he would start singing a Jonas Brother’s song, completely accurately, word for word… now that would be the next worst possibility. Billy had a reoccurring nightmare about their music. He found their songs to be dreadful, and their lyrics to be rubbish. In fact, out of the thousands of manuscripts he sent to publishers over the years, the only one that was accepted (and later published in ‘Transition of Music, Magazine’) was about that very subject.











         The following are highlights from Billy’s article, “If Only I Were Born Deaf” (If you wish to view the entire article before venturing onward I suggest you view the last page of this questionably curious story.) :



         As a child my parents would play bands to the likes of The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and The Beatles over our surround sound speakers. The pure energy and purpose behind their sound waves would ripple through our two-story home bringing music to our ears and smiles to our faces. Traveling in and out of my being, while leaving a grain of purpose behind for my soul to contemplate and appreciate for the years to come. As I grew into a man I found many other bands such as Citizen Cope, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, and The Black Keys to have a similar effect on me.



         One day however, I had the tragic misfortune of hearing a supposed song, by a supposed band entitled The Jonas Brothers. If my ears could have bled out of pure agony, discomfort, and displeasure they would have. Since they didn’t, I can only assume this to be outside of the realm of possibility.



         Until Disney the puppeteers, and their Jonas Brothers puppets fall from their false thrones I will hold onto the hindsighted thought, “If only I were born deaf”.





(End of highlights)











         The customer across from Billy wearing a large black over coat that reached down to his pointed ankles didn’t return his glances and seemed entirely uninterested in him.

Thank goodness.



         Billy Donavon, a six foot tall, brown haired, blue eyed, twenty-eight year old, had, never claimed to be a brave man. He had always shied away from conflict. Not because he was a coward or a pacifist…no simply because he enjoyed his privacy. Something that was hard to come by with a camera at every corner, rooftop, and streetlight. Not to mention the recent probe technological advances that allowed governments through out the world to spy on each other and their citizens through nine by nine inch flying orbs. The drones numbered in the hundreds of thousands in the once great city of Paris. Terrorism stripped us of our liberties long ago. It’s just now that this solemn fact has been made apparent. It was for that very reason that Mr. Donavon decided to become a writer. If he had no choice, but to be observed, he to would become an observer in his own right. What separated Billy from the surrounding cameras and drones was the often underappreciated, human soul. This gave him the advantage. Instead of sharing the information he gathered with various political branches and individuals he kept it to himself. And maybe a few nuggets of truth appeared in his so-called fictional writings.



         The lone waitress and owner wearing a nametag baring the name, Mindy, in red bold letters stopped by his booth. Placing, his plate, complete with his two sunny-side up eggs on the table next to his ashtray. The eggs stood no chance. They were devoured in the matter of a minute. Billy never really got in the habit of chewing his food. No, the beer gutted, nearly thirty year old, man preferred to inhale his meals and carry on with his daily activities as soon as possible. His intention in coming to such a tiny, grimy, whole-in-the-wall diner was to enjoy a mediocre meal… alone. Never before had he seen another customer in this place. He frequently came here, to do some reading or writing in peace and quite. Plans had obviously changed, however. On the bright side, this man would make for a great character in the book he was writing.



         Mr. Donavon took the note pad and pen out of the left back pocket of his tan and unwashed cargo shorts. He began with a list of characteristics to create an image for the readers; the readers he would likely never have.





• Five feet tall

• Pale white skin

• Pure black and deep consuming eyes

• Bare feet and hands (that appear to be webbed)

• Fingers and toes that don’t appear to have nails

• No eye brows

• No eyelashes

• No lips and only one undersized nostril that the mere tip of a pen would find difficult to penetrate



         The list of unusual traits could have continued, but the book was intended to be a mystery, not a thriller, or horror. The next step was to write his initial opinion and speculations of this man:

          ‘Maybe he was terribly burned? Born prematurely with physical defects? Or maybe he grew up near a nuclear power plant?’

         The only other thing he could think of was absurd, outlandish and ridiculous, so he didn’t even bother to write it down. Little did he know, as he will later discover, the absurd, outlandish, and ridiculous thought he didn’t write down, was one hundred percent accurate.



         Mindy headed towards his table. Her straitened grey hair danced in a non-existent wind as she walked over with a grace that hardly fit their current setting. She refilled his coffee for the seventh time in an hour. Mr. Donavon put down his pen, rubbed his eyes, looked up and thanked the rail thin, ill nourished, and heavily tattooed elderly women. Billy respected Mindy for her grit, the inner strength that one could only assume to be necessary to run a place such as this. He placed a genuine smile on his face, and picked up his pack of smokes off the dirty table in front of him. Opening it he realized only two cigarettes remained. His ashtray was nearly full. Somewhat disappointed in himself (given that the pack was full when he first arrived a mere hour ago) he shrugged and lit one of the cigarettes or cancer-sticks as his friends grew accustomed to calling them. Billy placed the last cig behind his left ear for later.



         Feeling at ease for the first time since he laid eyes on the mysterious stranger he sipped his coffee and unclenched his brow. Writing always did have a way of calming his nerves. No matter how much coffee he drank. Needing a fresh image of the strange man, he looked across the diner once more as a haze of smoke, bellowed and swirled through the cramped air, like a dancing spirit on a moonless night. In doing so, he found two black beady eyes staring back at him. With an, intensity so fierce a blind man would know some one was peering into his very soul. Billy’s relaxed state was short lived. He was now back, to his original state of pure, unabashed, horror. The eyes were attached to a long and thin ovular head. Connected to a long and thin neck, that was turned to an angle he hadn’t thought humanly possible.



         At this point, the mountain of used napkins on the opposing customer’s table, nearly reached the dust and cobweb infested ceiling. Waiting to collapse with even the slightest breeze. Just then a Jonas Brother’s song began to play. It crackled, hummed, and hissed over the grungy diners blown out speakers. The napkin dispensers were bare. Both of Mr. Donavon’s initial fears had simultaneously come true. Mindy herself was very surprised for she didn’t have any such CD, nor had she pressed play on the CD player that was currently set to off.



         Mindy didn’t so much as shrug before she went back to doing whatever it was that she did other than refill his coffee mug. Billy had an entirely opposite reaction to the series of events unfolding.



         The rattled man thought furiously, “Should I leave? Should I stay act preoccupied and pretend I didn’t notice him staring at me like I’m a perfectly cooked piece of steak?” As if answering his questions the stranger stood up from his booth. Although limping, he walked over with the speed and tempo of a preying lion. The being sat down on the apposing side of Billy’s seasoned, red cushioned booth. They stared at each other for what seemed to be an hour. More likely five minutes had passed. Mr. Donavon stared at the unspoken truth. The one thought he did not write down on his leather banded, overly cluttered, and unorganized notepad was undeniably true. This man was no man at all. The other customer, who once sat at the opposite end of the diner and now sat directly across from him, was not of this earth. The Alien’s skin was not pale or even skin at all. White slimy scales covered its rail thin body. The large black overcoat he wore disguised this from a distance, but in close quarters his inhumanity was quite apparent. The creatures face was now steaming as if the sweat or slime he was now covered in was burning through his scales down to the flesh. He smelled so strongly of sulfur Billy could taste it. The combination of the Alien stench and his own rotten fear made his eyes water and his stomach quiver.



         The being, proceeded to look down at the table and then back into his eyes. Mr. Donavan instantaneously realized what was happening. A stack of unused napkins sat in a pile on top his empty plate. Assuming this creature didn’t speak a lick English he nodded his head. Billy picked up the unused napkins with his clammy and now violently shaking right hand. Lifting the apparently prized commodities off the dirty dish. He placed them in the unknown beholders white scaly open palm. The emotionally adrift man did so as slowly and calmly as he could possibly manage in the mist of such an anxiety, provoking instance.



         Not to be inconsistent, just as the alien got up and ventured over to him portraying a preying lion, the creature got up and journeyed back to his own booth. Moving just as an appeased lion would, returning to his den with a freshly caught meal. He sat down at his table covered and now nearly surrounded by the pile of used napkins. Once more wiping the slime off his foreign face. Thus preventing his scales from any further burning. Mr. Donavon lit his last cancer stick. Inhaling the thick grey smoke as if it were oxygen that he had long since been deprived of. Unwilling to find out what would happen when those napkins were used up Billy left a bill far out weighing the cost of his cheap and mediocre meal on the table. It was the least he could do, for he feared Mindy wouldn’t live long enough to spend it. He exited the quaint diner just as the Jonas Brother’s song ended.



         Opening the front door to the hustling, humming, and whistling brightly lit city he calls home, he stepped outside. Closing the door to the hole-in-the-wall diner behind him, one last time. A singular napkin was stuck to his sweaty back. The three story tall industrial building, directly across from were he stood had an electronic ticker screen rapped around the second floor. The words that scrolled across it read: ‘Jonas Brother’s overdue retirement officially announced.’ A Jonas Brothers song rang loud through the buildings abundant supply of exterior speakers. Billy’s ears began to bleed. Mr. Donavon was, never seen by another human being ever again. At least, not from this Universe…



















Transition of Music

Featured Article

April 1st, 2018

‘If Only I Were Born Deaf’

By: Billy Donavon





         As a child my parents would play bands to the likes of The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and The Beatles over our surround sound speakers. The pure energy and purpose behind their sound waves would ripple through our two-story home bringing music to our ears and smiles to our faces. Traveling in and out of my being, while leaving a grain of purpose behind for my soul to contemplate and appreciate for the years to come. As I grew into a man I found many other bands such as Citizen Cope, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, and The Black Keys to have a similar effect on me.



         One day however, I had the tragic misfortune of hearing a supposed song, by a supposed band entitled The Jonas Brothers. If my ears could have bled out of pure agony, discomfort, and displeasure they would have. Since they didn’t, I can only assume this to be outside of the realm of possibility.



         They whine, they cry, their brothers, teenagers, and stereotypes. They are, Disney. Apparently, Nsync and the Backstreet Boys set an unbreakable tone for future generations to follow blindly into a truly musically void abyss. Teenagers call it singing. Teenagers call it music. I call it whining without a purpose. I call it exploitation and destruction of youths and their future musical aspirations and expectations.



         From a financial perspective Disney made a smart and lucrative decision to create a band with the sole purpose of opening up little girls and their caring mothers pocket books. They buy T-shirts, sweaters, CD’s, music videos, movies, tickets, coffee mugs, and anything else carrying the Jonas Brother’s label. All purchases based on the appeal of three over advertised, teenage brother heartthrobs that each happen to play a separate instrument, with below average musical ability. Why might they appeal to any one at all you might ask? Well at the beginning of their careers they were young boys, with the ideal image that developing young women look for in a crush. They were thin and wiry with thick curly hair. Therefore making them cute, cuddly, and nonthreatening.



         I could let my grudge against Disney and the Jonas Brothers go if their lyrics, musical style, advertisement, and fashion weren’t merely designed to subliminally manipulate and exploit young minds into spending their allowances on meaningless junk. I could also understand if the parents of these children eventually realized the truth of the Jonas Brother’s existence and stopped supporting their hollow motives. There for making the band a phase that served as a lesson to them all. That however, has not been the case. The band members are millionaires in their late twenties. To this day stealing allowances from helpless, unknowing children from all over the world. In some ways I feel bad for the Jonas Brothers. Knowing that some, day when one of them begins to bold, or grey, the false world they have been living in for so long will crumble away with the best years of their lives. Leaving them alone with their mansions, fast cars, and trophy wives. Without a single, solid, significant, or positive accomplishment that could possibly outweigh the harm they have done the youths that once admired them.



         I blame Disney for the Jonas Brothers. I blame Parents for submitting their children to a hollow, materialistic, greed fueled scheme that has, with out a doubt diluted the meaning behind the word, music. Until Disney the puppeteers, and their Jonas Brothers puppets fall from their false thrones I will hold onto the hindsighted thought, “If only I were born deaf”.



(End of article)