Eric Dimbleby - White Out

“I’d be much obliged to join you for some supper,” I say. Two obliges already. I might seem uhhhhhhh… over-zell-us . I gotta pull back a bit. Yep, yep.

He nods, smirking. This guy’s one of those rare hitchhiking jackpots. He shifts his car into gear, smiling from ear to ear as he introduces himself as Teddy. I introduce myself as Edgar. My name isn’t Edgar, but I tell everybody that. “My mother named me Edgar, after the writer.”

“Poe?” asks Teddy.

I always throw them off with my response. “Nope. Burroughs.” This always gets a nod, even if they’re not sure who I’m talking about. I saw the name in a bookstore once. I don’t know what the fellow wrote, but I like his name: Edgar Rice Burroughs. A real nice name, wouldn’t ya say? If I could have picked my own name, I would have picked that one. So I guess I sort of ended up doing that, didn’t I?

“You like chicken stew? I’ve had it going in the crock pot all day,” says Teddy. Look at Martha Stewart over here. This is the first time I detect a bit of the whispy poofy-poo in this guy’s lurking smile, as if he’s sizing me up for a roll in the sack, and suddenly it all comes together.

He thinks I’m a prostitute.

It must be the boots. Maybe that’s one of those sneaky little calling cards, like tapping your foot on the floor in a bathroom stall or sticking your rod through a greased up glory hole.

Poor Teddy. He doesn’t smell it coming. I can’t wait to cut Teddy’s throat open with the first sharp thing I find in his kitchen. I can picture myself sitting at his kitchen table, drinking a light beer out of a can, watching him bleed out on to the linoleum while I eat his chicken stew with a big old spoon. I envision myself pouring salt and pepper all over the stew, because I love me some seasonings, and I don’t believe much in moderation. And I can hear a sound clicking inside my imagination; the sound of me tapping my boot heels on the floor, finding that rhythm that I’ve got screamin’ and howlin’ deep inside of me.

This is how it went down:

“So you’re from out of town?”

They always ask that question. There’s something romantic—not just that hop-bang-boom in the back of a Camaro kind of thing—about a shit-stain like me. Fun to look at, but they don’t like to keep it ‘round too long, scared it might make them get to thumbin’ just like this here fellow. They always ask that, and I always reply the same way.

“Yes, sir. Thing of it is… I’m a wandering man. I’ve been wandering ever since I was old enough to do so in the legal sense. Nothing like the open road. Know what I mean?” I said to Teddy. He smiled at me. I didn’t like the way he smiled. Like he was hiding something. Shit, ain’t we all hiding something?

“I went backpacking in Brazil once. It was so hot, I could have died right there on the road,” Teddy said, looking as if he wanted to make some additional statement on the matter, but instead, he changed the subject on me cause he seemed like a snaky cunt. “Where are you heading next?”

“Wherever the road takes me. I don’t walk the road. The road walks me .” They always love it when I say that. I’ve used that one at least a hundred times. Folksy sayings work ’em over real nice. It’s what them smarter fellas might call the icing on the cake.

“That’s refreshing, Edgar. Really refreshing. I envy you so much; you have no idea.”

“No need to envy. Doesn’t serve y’ any. Just get out there on the road like me. Don’t make excuses like most folks. Just say you’re gonna do it, and then ya’ do it,” I said to Teddy.

That was when Teddy really got inspired by me, his face lighting up like a fuckin’ slot machine that’s spilling coins on the floor, and I suddenly regretted the fuck out of my whole wise-and-humble act that I put on for folks. Sometimes, just once in a while, they get like this.

“I always say I’m going to do things like that, and I never do. I used to be so daring… when I was a little kid I mean. But then all this unexpected fear kept welling up inside of me. Every day it grew and grew, and I couldn’t keep a hold on it. It’s like… like I had something important to do. Something important to say. But the words never formed properly in my mouth. The thoughts in my head were just sort of swimming around and around and around, never going anywhere, and…”

Never going anywhere? Yep… I hear that shit, hombre. Yadda yadda zing .

Needless to say, Teddy didn’t last too long. Fella ran his mouth a lot, as ya’ can tell. We started out with some garlic bread, which he said was for dipping in the chicken stew. Whatever. I dip my shit where I like, no recommendations needin’. He said it in a way that I didn’t much like, something I can’t even put my finger on.

Since I couldn’t put my finger on it, I put my knife on it instead.

He bled out pretty fast—sort of pretty, like fireworks blastin’ off on New Year’s Eve. I like when they go out quick like that, so I can move on to other things. Nothin’ like somebody looking like they’re dead and then they start crawling for the door, or for the phone. They reach for it, like they’re actually gonna put my ass in them handcuffs, and that’s when I stomp it out of them. That’s when I take what’s mine.

I got that freewill comin’ out my ass.

So here I am, getting’ my grub on; Hungry Hungry Hippo that I am.

As I slurp on my chicken stew, steppin’ over his body, clutching a ceramic bowl to my chest for warmth. I wander around Teddy’s house, takin’ in the sights. The dude loves paintings (or should I say, he loved paintings, I reminded myself to put that fucker in the past tense already), so much so that every last wall in his house is covered in them. They’re all different styles, different colors, and different levels of silly bullshit. Bright greens, yellows, and pinks. Every last painting sort of reminds me of a fuckin’ Trapper Keeper on the outside. Remember them things? I used to keep lil’ bags of pot in my Trapper Keeper. I’d sell it to all the other kids in the seventh grade, ‘fore I dropped out. I knew how to make a buck.

I take my knife to a couple of the ugliest paintings. Rather than give some fancy-mouthed review on them paintings, I do things the old-fashioned way. One crappy painting really gets me fired up and pissy. It’s a picture of two angels, hugging each other in these neon green clouds. They’re smiling, patting each other on the ass it appears. Can you believe that shit? Jesus would be super angry if he knew two boy-angels was pattin’ each other near the brownie holes. I know they’re boys because they have these eensie-weensie dicks, lookin’ a whole lot like little baby dicks. Not only do I slash that paintin’ down the middle, but I put it on Teddy’s fluffy blue carpets and I piss all over it.

A man of boundless free will gotta make a point sometimes.

I refill my stew ( damn tasty, almost as slick as m’boots ), grabbing some more of the garlic bread. Gonna make my breath stink, but I ain’t going out anywhere, not anytime soon. Once I take care of all the paintings, the joint might be livable.

I start rummaging through the cabinets looking for something manly to drink. I find some red and white wine, which I’ll drink but only on rare occasions, like if it’s the end of the night and I’m not completely shit-canned yet.

There is one beer in the fridge, but it looks like one of those beers that fancy college boys drink. No thanks, I like my beer to look a little bit of red, white, and blue.

I check the basement, where I find more of those God-awful paintings. One of them looks like that guy from The Doors, all blues and whites and oranges and hippy-ness. Another one is more of that baby angel noise, except this one is smoking a cigarette and watching television. It actually isn’t so bad. I can get behind that kind of angel, as long as he’s not touching other angel’s asses.