“Woody! Unsweetened iced tea for Woody!” No response. “WOODY!”
Woody Silver snapped out of his gangsta rap induced trance long enough to pull his ear buds out and accept his drink. He did so with a nervous glance around the House of Roses and Chocolates (not a bad name for a coffee bar). He knew these people were gazing at him through figurative microscope lenses. If they adjusted the magnification, they could see his tiny ego shrivel up and die like a chopped off cock.
“What are you listening to?” asked the blond barista with the prettiest of grins.
“Uh…gangsta rap. You know, songs about shooting people in the face.”
The barista darted her eyes around as if she needed to know the nearest exit. “You like that kind of music?”
“Yeah. It’s good stuff. It’s not like I’m the one doing the shooting.”
“…Uh-huh…well, you go enjoy your violent music…Woody.”
This would have been a good time for Woody to put a sock in it and leave with at least a little bit of his shattered dignity intact. But he just HAD to make it worse and even more awkward than before. “Yeah, I get it. When someone commits murder, they blame rap music. When someone commits suicide, they blame heavy metal. Chris Benoit was probably a big fan of Rage Against the Machine.”
All eyes were on Woody now and they were large enough to crush his sense of self-worth ten times over. Whether it was the barista, the lesbian couple near the window, or the little girl and her mother not too far from him in line. After a while of allowing Woody’s anxiety to chill faster than his iced drink, the four-year-old princess said, “You fucked up.” Everyone gave a shocked laugh, though this was a pleasant kind of shock.
Woody didn’t find any of this pleasant. He robotically slumped to the nearest table with his drink, his iPhone, and his ear buds, hanging his head in shame. He wished he could be anywhere but that coffee bar. Even getting hit with a bolt of lightning and being sent to an early death seemed tamer than this incredibly public humiliation. Under his breath, he said, “If this ends up on You Tube, I’m going to be very upset…” Thankfully, nobody heard him and the target on his back didn’t grow a single centimeter.
But a metaphorical target he still had. His stomach turned and boiled and no amount of iced tea could calm his mild nausea. The whole world laughed at him and his defenses were gone. Then again, having shaggy blond hair and dirty clothing didn’t provide much in the way of defenses against scrutiny. But then he reached in his flannel jacket pocket and remembered he had a cure for all of this.
It was a small jar of black jelly beans he found on the internet. He couldn’t remember the name of the website or why these beans were advertised as medicinal. When desperation struck him like that much-wanted bolt of lightning, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He unscrewed the lid and shoveled a handful of black jelly beans down his gullet, not even taking ample time to chew his food. Then again, choking wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him that day.
Instead, the rush of energy he got from this candy was the best thing. His hands stopped jittering. He could effortlessly pick up his sunken head. The cloudy weather outside gave way to sunshine through the windows. His iced tea tasted like magic in a cup. The women around him made his heart flutter in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever he paid for these jelly beans was worth it. He could be broke tomorrow and die a happy man the next day, as evidenced by the blossoming smile on his face.
His newfound eye-brightening joy led him to believe he could conquer the day, one in which he previously had no schedule and no plan of any sort. He could finally talk to the barista and not be an awkward mess. He floated by the seat of his pants to the beautiful blond, who was now decked out in a light blue dress with flowers and jewels adorned everywhere. But before he could open his mouth and allow poetry to pour from his lips…
The barista twirled like a fairy princess and showed off the wedding ring on her white gloved hand. She sang in an angelic voice with the rhythm of a nee-ner-nee-ner tune, “I got married! And you can’t have me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha, ha!”
Woody turned towards the lesbian couple, who were now in matching dark green dresses with forest insignias printed everywhere. Their black gloved hands showed off wedding rings of their own, sparkling like incel tears. “We got married! And you can’t have us!” The same nee-ner-nee-ner tune, the same enchanting high-pitched voices.
And then the mother joined in on the fun with her purple dress, golden crown, and heavenly diamond on her finger. “I got married! And you can’t have me!”
Woody clutched his ears and tightly closed his eyes, running out of the coffee bar and leaving his drink behind. He remembered the iPhone and ear buds, though. The violent rapper’s voice was the only one he wanted to hear…until he had a female guest vocalist who jovially sang, “I got married! And you can’t have me!”
“Oh, come on!” Woody sped down the sidewalk without giving a single solitary fuck who he weirded-out along the way. He was already as small and repugnant as bacteria. He was already lower than the worms crawling beneath the park’s grassy turf. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he actually opened his eyes for a change…
“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a white dress-wearing vixen in the sweetest voice.
“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang Wonder Woman in the comic book shop window.
“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a woman in jean shorts and flip-flops, also in the loveliest high-pitched voice.
“Stop it! I get your point! I get it, I get it, I get it! I’m weird! I’m stupid! Enough is enough!” shouted Woody, though his words only echoed in his head, never once giving the public a shot at hearing his opinion of their love. “Stop it!” His voice grew deeper and more demonic. “No more!” His voice had a hint of ogre-like growling. “STOP!” Except they wouldn’t stop. These impossibly beautiful women from all around closed in on him, reminding him over and over again that they were not prizes to be won by loser men like him.
“Pick up the brick!” shouted an evil bass voice from behind. The clouds grew dark once more, giving way not to a halo of sunshine, but to the brightness of hellfire. The once lovely women in their dresses turned into pitch-black monsters with razor-sharp claws and mocking goblin voices. Woody looked around to see where the original evil voice came from, but couldn’t find the source except in his own head, booming like movie theater speakers.
“The world never loved you anyways. Your parents think you’re a disgrace. Your friends think you’re dragon shit. Society wants to kill you. Pick up the brick and make them all go away. Murder every last one of those undeserving femoids. Pick up the brick, haul back, and let her ho.”
Woody’s anxious sweat quadrupled into a clay-like substance, like his skin was peeling off and revealing a more sinister side to a world that could already see his weaknesses. He gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled black. He listened to the one voice who understood him beneath the lovey-dovey mockery. He had a mission. It was his job to smash the world into pieces with that one brick. He smiled like a villain, though his clay sweat masked most of those features.
He learned down and picked up the brick, which would ordinarily weigh him down, but was so natural in his hand, like it was a gift-wrapped present from the forces of evil. He wanted to use it. He wanted to make the world suffer the way he did. All those times he was laughed at for simply existing. All those times he was rejected for being just mildly annoying. All those punches he took in the name of creep control.
But then as Woody strode up to his would-be victims, he passed his reflection in the comic book shop window. He saw what he looked like for the first time since this transformation…and empathized with those calling him a freak. His face was melting and folding over. His eyes were coal black. His nose was dripping like chocolate off his face. His body was bloated with monstrous red goo. His dirty blond hair resembled a den of snakes rather than a simple unkempt appearance.
“What are you waiting for?! Use the brick and end the world! KILL THEM ALL!”
But no matter how the voice vibrated in his brain, no matter how hard it made his nerves convulse, he couldn’t do it. He slowly put the brick down…because he hated what he had become. All this hatred turned him into something ugly and unrecognizable. Finally, society had a reason to hate him and his own self-hatred wasn’t manufactured either. His stomach burst and boiled. It exploded with bile and death sauce. Acid in his throat accumulated like the clay sweat. And then, he let go of his anger and all of his fabricated grudges…in the form of black throw-up on the sidewalk.
In one vomit spell, he cleansed his disgust for himself. Every horrible feeling within him stretched his insides out as the black goop flooded the concrete. And then…emptiness was all that remained. An empty stomach. An empty soul. But best of all, an empty mind free from the judgment of a booming voice and lighthearted fairy laughter. He sat on a part of the sidewalk that wasn’t drenched in puke and breathed in and out, as if the cool morning air soothed his throat.
Speaking of throats, a familiar voice cleared hers. Woody opened his dewy, red, puffy eyes to see that the barista was there holding the drink he left behind. No royal dresses. No punch-down comedy. No scorn. Just concern. “Forget something?” she asked. When Woody reached his hand up to grab his drink, she pulled away. “Give me those jelly beans.”
“The…the jelly beans? These ones?”
The barista nodded and Woody Silver did as he was told. She read the label and analytically curled her lips downward. “Black pills. Of course. Medicine for the involuntary celibate.”
“Those were black pills?!”
She nodded again before throwing the jar in a nearby rubbish bin like she was shooting a basketball. “Two points. I used to play basketball in high school. You could have figured that out if you hadn’t gone on about your…murder music, and let me talk for a change.” Woody hung his head in shame once again. “You just need practice, that’s all. Not with me, of course. I’m married.”
“That’s nice. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. No backlash? No insults? Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Those black pills are out of your system. Here. Drink this instead. I’ll help your stomach.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed the drink and had a few swallows. The coolness was so gentle on his throat that he wasn’t in a hurry to chug it all. He wanted the easiness to last as long as he could draw it out.
“Guess I’ll see you next time you come in. Word of advice, though: I’d retire that Chris Benoit joke if I were you. Send it to the old folks home in Florida.”
“Good idea.”
“Very good. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. But you can call me Liz.”
“Woody. Woody Silver. You already knew that, though. Nice to meet you.”
“Same. Enjoy your tea!” Liz waved goodbye and strolled away.
When she walked out of sight, Woody said under his breath, “Nice to meet you indeed…” He sipped his tea and relaxed against the wall, not caring what the world thought of his vulnerable state. In fact, they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion at all given how the pedestrians mostly ignored him.
