Mud. Mud!
It had been raining for fourteen consecutive days, and for Stanley Reepchew there appeared to be no end in sight.
Fourteen fucking days, he thought. This is Al Gore’s fault. I don’t know how, but this is fucking Al Gore’s FUCKING fault.
He didn’t mean that. In fact, were any of his opinions worthy of public notice, the public would’ve gladly noted that Stanley Reepchew voted for The Good Guy in 2001, and would’ve gladly done it again in 2004, 2008, and any 2000 between now and when Mr. Gore’s Prophecy of Doom comes to fruition. Somewhere in Stanley’s subconscious, these same thoughts were brewing...
If Global Warming is really real, and this is really Global Warming, then I’m going to be really globally PISSED if my apartment is underwater in six years.
The specialists did indeed predict drastic climate changes—one of which just might cover downtown New York City with an Atlantic Ocean of water—but mud? No one knew where it came from, and whether it was conspiracy or just apathy, the Government didn’t seem to care. Stanley did, though, because he lived in Chinatown, and while he did not know how much dirt they had in China (there are no childhood rhymes about that) he did know that there is not normally much dirt on Canal Street. Just Chinese food, Chinese people, and assholes selling watches.
“Rolex! Rolex!” exclaimed a small crunchy-looking man, as he thrust a generic gold-colored watch in Stanley’s face.
“How much, old man?” asked Stanley.
“40 dollars.”
“Oh, forget it. I don’t have a job. I don’t have any mo—”
Before he could finish the “knee” in money, the man had already turned to his next valued costumer. He must work on commission, thought Stanley.
It never ceased to amaze Stanley how worthless a beggar can make you feel when you actually lack any worth yourself. It made sense, obviously, but you’d just think they’d have a little more sympathy, no? In the six weeks since the esteemed Dominos Corporation determined that Stanley Reepchew was a lackluster and therefore “unstable” employee, he had gotten to know the local beggars all too well.
Each morning as he pretended to walk to work (he was really walking, it was just his destination that was make believe) he would look up from under his broken umbrella and examine his fellow bums. They’re so well groomed, he often marveled as he scratched his increasingly Kazinsky-esque beard. By now, New York City’s homeless were savvy to Stanley’s plight. They smelt his desperation, even in the rain, and each time he passed they would look up and open their mouths, as if to exclaim “Spare change?!” but then, upon eye contact, promptly and rather uncomfortably avert their gaze.
Awwwwkward.
Even the bums had no use for Stanley, and incase you’re wondering: that’s a seriously big sign that your fall from grace is complete. The sad part is that he would have gladly embraced this newfound invisibility, were it not for this fucking rain.
How did the mud get in my fucking socks?! MY TUBE SOCKS!
The B51 was running late, and if Stanley really had a job to get to by 9:15 then he would really be in a bind right now.
Lucky me. My only problem is that every time I lean on my right foot, mud seeps out the top of my shoes. My tube socks! They’re ruined. Now where the fuck is this bus?
He knew that his wife, Marcy, would be quite upset if Stanley was late for work. Of course, Marcy left Stanley approximately two years ago, but if you’re gonna go crazy then you might as well go crazy about it. You’re sleeping on the couch tonight, Stanley! Oh, and Joe Montana owes you 400 dollars, and gravity is something that the Republicans are finding a way to use against you.
Mud. Mud, mud, mud!
It was all he could think. The rain was relentless, and Stanley honestly couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sun. As it fell through the broken half of his umbrella, dripping off the brim of his hat and streaming down into his mouth, the taste of the rain reminded Stanley of fishing. Fresh water fishing, back home in the South. Precisely where in the South eluded Stanley, but the memories flooded his mind—just like the clouds and the rain and all of this goddam Mud. Suddenly Stanley was a young boy catching trout with friends, using poles fashioned with string and sticks. He was trying to decide if this was a real memory or something he read in a Mark Twain novel when Stanley looked down at his feet. Panic struck, as Stanley discovered that the level of the mud had risen to his knees.
Jesus fucking Christ! Not that I believe in you, but...Jesus!
How would the bus ever make it in these conditions? At this point, his faith in the MTA far exceeded that which he held in the Savior he just called out to. World’s were colliding, the Heavens were non-responsive, and worst of all there were no buses in sight.
“Are you alright, mister?” asked a small Asian boy.
“It’s this mud!” yelled Stanley, loud enough to turn a few heads (were there many heads to turn).
The bus stop was relatively empty considering how late the bus was running. Other than Stanley, the boy, and a young woman reading New York Magazine, there was no one in sight. The volume in Stanley’s verbal ejaculation seemed to have an effect on the girl, because for a brief moment she glanced up from behind her magazine and looked him in the eye. It was the first time since his wife left that a woman initiated eye contact with Stanley, and he liked it. He grinned, widely.
“Are you crying, mister?” asked the boy.
“It’s rain! It’s in my eyes!” erupted Stanley, matching the volume level that garnered him this woman’s affections in the first place.
“Here,” he said, “take my umbrella, kid! You’re gonna need it!”
The gesture surprised the child, but Stanley figured that this act of chivalry would surely impress the young woman. Instead, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat and went back to her reading.
Just like the goddam bums. Unless she’s playing hard to get…
“What the—!” Stanley ejaculated (verbally) one last time before his knees buckled under the sheer pressure of the mud. It had risen up above Stanley’s waist—even above the faces of the seated sex-goddess and Asian boy. His head spinning, Stanley gasped for air but could only feel the cold, thick mud slide down his throat and into his lungs. This was it: The End.
The End reminds me of eating brownie mix. Bitter, bad brownie mix…
He opened his eyes but saw nothing but the mud which both surrounded and penetrated him. Rapidly losing consciousness, he reached out desperately from what vaguely felt like the bottom of the mud-pit (the bus stop pavement) and latched onto what seemed like a small, Asian leg.
“Hel—phhhhh,” he gargled through the abyss of water and dirt, “Help me!”
It took all his strength, and for all the mud that spewed out his mouth an equal proportion seemed to go straight up his nose and right back down his throat. His will to survive bent and began to break, and as he closed his eyes for the last time he thought of Marcy. Sweet Marcy.
How will she get by if I’m not here to take care of her?
And just then, as the natural world that only he and Al Gore seemed to care about began to fade from existence, he felt the hand of God reach down and save him.
It feels Asian.
“Here is a five,” said the boy, “you could use it to buy a new umbrella. I mean, in case it starts to rain.”
Tim Clancy is a 24 year old writer/waiter hailing from Hell's Kitchen, NYC. He graduated with highest honors in Creative Writing from one of the top 25 state universities in New York and utilizes this degree every day, when he uses proper English to ask tourists if they've saved room for dessert.
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Great Read
By: Eric Payne () on 19-03-2008 14:18