Mike, Reggie, & Dennis, Who Died From Accutane.

By Ashley Bradley

Reggie pushed up to the ATM to check his balance, "It's annoying how you can't withdraw like fifty cents from ATMs.." he said, examining his $.56 account balance. "Shouldn't've bought that horse sex swing."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Bradley
• Release date: Jun 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386950950

Book preview

Wash Your Hands After Taking a Shit

Mike was tryna move out his mom's house. It wasn't even her house. It was his grandmother's, but she had Alzheimer's, so Mike's mom figured if the bitch couldn't too much remember who she even was, how was she going to remember who owned what house?

Exactly, Mike had quivered, afraid, the day they moved in.

It was a decade or so ago, when Mike was still in high school. His grandmother had been forgettin' shit for a minute. First it started with her mistaking grapes for marbles, and the subsequent punishment Mike was put on for calling 911 in response.

"Do you have ambulance fees and medical bills money, Michael??" Mike's mom had asked him, more than likely rhetorically, cuz nah, he was twelve. He didn't even have pretend Monopoly money. They couldn't afford Monopoly. Mike had to settle for the Monopoly rip-off board game they sold at the dollar store, Two Corner Liquor Stores and a Bodega That Sells Only Expired Merchandise Covered In Sticky Dust. It was actually way funner than Monopoly, but Mike had to pretend he hated it. It wasn't cool liking being poor, or the benefits that came with it. It was the same thing with bread sandwiches. Two slices of bread and then another whole slice in the middle? Genius! But Mike had to pretend it was really disgusting and depressing, or else he was doing poverty wrong. Life is so messed up.

After the marble thing, Mike's grandmother mistook his dad for her dead husband. Mike kind of understood, because they were both named Richard. What didn't make sense was why Mike's dad went along with it, ie: copulating with her? Then it was all awkward because Mike's dad was carrying on an affair with his grandmother, which really grinded Mike's gears, because his mom would take her anger out on him, by forcing him to grease her scalp at night and hang her négligée up to dry in the bathroom. Mike hated his mom for buying lingerie from the supermarket out of that bin, and losing the interest of his dad, who ended up leaving them. It would've been okay had he left them for grandma, as at least it would've been keeping it in the family, but nah, he ended up in a partnership with some zesty nigga named Briqùelle. He was a pretty nigga type who had gelled-down baby hair and a pinky ring. Mike was honestly so disgusted with his dad but at the same time impressed. He went gay and he pulled something pretty remarkable, at least in terms of the gay world. Which Mike had to pretend he knew nothing about, even though he watched HBO.

Once it was clear grandma's mind was pretty much gone, Mike's mom swooped in for the kill. Or, she like just moved her and Mike's shit in to her house, while grandma sat rocking back in forth in her rocking chair in the living room, staring blankly out the window at those crackheads across the street arguing with pigeons.

Mike had expressed concern about them just moving in to someone's house just cuz. Like, you don't just take it upon yourself to decide someone else's home is now yours. Even if it was family, and even if they were base a veg. When Mike expressed reservations to his mom, first: she slapped him. Who do you think you are? she was like. Mike had no idea. He didn't think he was someone who deserved physical abuse, but he honestly couldn't be sure, so he just stood there and tried to put on a tough face while choking back tears. If Mike was anything, he was someone mildly terrible at holding back tears.

After the slapping, Mike's mom said the thing about how their grandma couldn't even remember shit, so how was she going to remember whose house was whose. And plus: she needs someone to take care of her. She actually had a nurse and Mike's aunt looking after her, but once Mike's mom moved in, she told them to leave or she'd burn them. She actually said I will burn you. Mike was there when she said it and he laughed, because he thought his mother was joking, until she took out the lighter fluid and started squirting it on her sister's chinos. Mike's mother was a savage and a fucking lunatic, but kind of cool, if you're into that sort of ratchet behavior. Mike was not. Though poor with an overbite, he was classy. Squirting lighter fluid on someone's brand-new chinos from Chico's was unseemly, and Mike felt his mother should be ashamed of herself. However, he was very happy to have his own room. Back at the projects, he and his mother shared a room. A bed, even. She was always eating crackers and shit in bed and crumbs stayed on the sheets. Mike had wanted nothing more than for her to die. Forcibly moving into grandma's made his murderous feelings go away. A bit.

Mike was ready to move out, though. He'd be twenty-seven soon - that magical year where, if you're smart, you off yourself because you realize life is fucking pointless and a lot of people don't wash their hands after using the bathroom, even after taking a shit. Mike wasn't smart, though. He was average-minded, so he wanted to live. He felt twenty-seven would be his big year to do it up. Or to at least lose his virginity. Maybe get his driver's license. Perhaps finally gain up the courage to watch Scarface. He felt, though, that his first move ought to be getting his own place. Or at least moving the fuck out of the place where his grandmother openly pooped on any surface, and mom entertained male visitors.

Mike felt, to be a proper grown man, he needed to not be living with an eighty year old baby, and a prostitute with deep vein thrombosis. Perhaps it was fine to have one as your roommate, but not both. Not both. However, Mike was at an impasse: he had no money. And worse, no job. Mike had never been one for work. He worked at a Wendy's once and got irritated when a customer requested that a burger she ordered not have onion on it. Order one of the burgers that doesn't have onion, Mike suggested with an attitude - it was so simple. But the bitch came back with "Most of the burgers have onion, and anyway, I want the one I ordered, just without onion. Thank you! Mike was classy, so he felt, if you wanted to go somewhere and be particular, take your ass to a place with cloth napkins, not a fucking fast-food restaurant that's mascot is someone's ugly ginger daughter. It didn't make sense to him. And then customer after customer with I want this but not that and I would like order number seven but a million thousand things subtracted or added to it and by the way do you have diet water but gluten-free and it's a chocolate shake??".

Mike quit on his fifth day after some stupid bitch asked for peach iced tea. Mike had gotten an attitude with her like What the fuck is peach iced tea?. He had no idea that actually existed, and thought this bitch was making some shit up as a comedy joke. But then his manager came round and pointed to the fucking peach iced tea button on the register and Mike threw up all over his hand. It was weird how he wasn't even fired and the manager just walked back to the food area to finish preparing an order. Mike quit then and there. Peach iced tea. Mike could not believe the world he was living in.

After his amicable split from Wendy's, Mike got a job working at a dry cleaners. An Indian man and his wife owned this place and their motto was simply: Don't ever give anyone anything they ask for, ever. Mike liked this job at first, because it was funny to constantly be pretending he didn't have customer's clothes in the back, or making it out that their tickets were falsified or they'd stolen them. Things took a not so fun turn when customers began to beat Mike severely about the face and body. So he started actually doing his job. But Raveet and Pringa had given Mike specific orders to never do anything the customer asks for. That was actually his job. Cleaning and steaming clothes and then handing them back to customers when they came to pick them up? When ever did Raveet or Pringa tell him to do this? You're exterminated! Raveet had yelled like Hitler the day he fired Mike. He even did the Heil Hitler hand.

Whatever Raveet, you smell like the apocalypse, Mike had said in his parting words to him. He didn't really mean it, he actually liked Raveet because his roast game was amazing. He stayed clearing customers' bowels, and Mike loved that. Not so much when it was turned on him. He would've died though had Raveet done that You're exterminated! thing to a customer. Objectively, it was just way too funny. Oh well, Mike thought, as he set off to figure out some way to get money without actually working.

Three years later, he has found no such way. If he were cute or gay, maybe he could get a sugar daddy. Mike was even open to gay-4-pay. But he still needed that cute bit. Mike was self-conscious because his hairline was uneven and one time someone told him he looked like D.L. Hughley. So he didn't feel he could go out there and snatch up some thirsty rich nigga. And anyway, Mike knew even if he did secure a spot as a sugar baby, he'd fuck it up by not pretending good enough that he likes anything that's happening. Mike found it really hard to fake happiness and not wanting to kill himself. It always came across as severe constipation. Prob there are some freaks out there sexually attracted to someone who looks like they need to poop but are blocked up, but Mike wanted nothing to do with any Arabs. Maybe that shit was cute in Aladdin, but in real life you'd have to fuck the genie, and that nigga is bruise-colored and out of shape. If Mike wanted to fuck Grimace, he would've when he was offered a chance to get molested at Marquise Brown's birthday party at the McDonald's PlayPlace in first grade.

Mike decided if he wanted to meet his goal of moving out by twenty-seven so he could get some gushy pussy, or at least his own place to cry in peace while watching Scarface, he'd have to rejoin the workforce. He was going to get really serious about it and get a job where he could sit - that's where the real money was.

Mike decided his best shot was signing up with a temp agency. He was worried, though, because temp agencies in the hood usually placed people in escorting positions, or mopping up shit at the old folks home. Mike wanted to sit down! He wanted sitting down money!! He felt because he was classy and watched Arrested Development, that he could show the temp agency he was a black of higher breed, despite his hairline, overbite, and pre-diabetes. He was going to mention in his interview that he read New York Magazine (not the Times, it was too unbelievable)—even if it was only the fluff pieces—and that he juiced (Hi-C counts!!). This would show the temp agency he was interested in improving his life, and not working as a key holder at Deb.

Mike was going to interview with a woman named Bethany. Mike didn't like how Bethany sounded on the phone. For one, she said her name with a lisp. And she talked like she was a Barbie come to life. "Hi, I'm Bethhh-uh-knee!". Mike couldn't understand how she was lisping on the th. Don't lispers th on s words? What was she doing? And also that high, fake ass valley girl accent was really weird. The temp agency was called Malcolm Luther King Boulevard Temp Agency on Crenshaw Next to the Check Cashing Place With the Bulletproof Glass. Why was a Bethany working there? Mike could see a white working there, but not one talking with some Cynthia! She's a really cool dancer! sort of tone. He could see a Kelly with an undercut, oversized hoop earrings, flared-out french tips, and at least three un-lotioned dusk-colored children. But not a Bethany.

It got even worse when Mike met Bethany in person. She looked like Jabba the Hut and had the audacity to be sipping, from a silly straw, Diet Dr Pepper.

Okay, Mike thought, deciding maybe he was smart enough to join the 27 club. He immediately understood there was no reason to continue living.

So, Michael! Bethany smiled and her teeth weren't there. They just were not in her face.

Um.

Guess what? Bethany said and Mike wanted to stab her, but he couldn't even butter a slice of toast without getting a boo-boo, so that was out of the question.

Mike crunched up his face, and that constipated look appeared, ...What?

I have a position for you! And it might be permanent! Bethany clapped but it didn't make a clapping sound. It sounded like a seal placing a slice of bacon on an unheated skillet.

Okay, cool, Mike went, proud of himself for not throwing up, or being like No!! and running away.

Bethany began rummaging through some papers on her desk and Mike could feel pangs of envy - he wanted to be rummaging through papers, too.

Ah, here, Bethany went, holding up a piece of orange construction paper. She looked up from the paper to Mike, "You said on your resume you've seen Arrested Development?"

Yeah, Mike went, leaning forward in his seat.

All the episodes? Bethany asked like some stupid bitch.

Of course, you bitch! Of course... Mike said cooly, but also in between the lines screaming at the top of his lungs that she explain herself for asking him such an offensive question.

Great! There's a greeting card company that just opened up on Bill Cosby Boulevard.

Yikes, Mike went.

Bethany widened her eyes and did cringe face, Yeah, I know. They're a bunch of new agey, alternative types I suppose? The rent over there is non-existent so it's a good place to open up a new business.

Whites, Mike clocked. He wanted to scream with pleasure.

They're looking for a writer. They're asking for someone with 'spice', by which they mean black.

I thought spice was Latino?

Bethany shook her head, White people don't consider Latinos. It's them and us. She pointed to herself when she said us, which caused Mike to squint. Maybe he could see how she'd pass as a redbone. She did have what appeared to be rosacea. Maybe that was just her .08% Cherokee blood shining through. "Spice means urban, which means black. They want a 'funny black guy' for their Urban cards. I thought of you and how you said on your resume you've watched Arrested Development. Have you seen any black comedy shows? I think that will be important as well."

"Uhh yeah...Cousin Skeeter?"

Bethany stared blankly back at him, You're being inappropriate.

Nono!! It's...it's a comedy show! A black comedy show.

Bethany gave Mike an incredulous look, I've never heard of that.

Mike wanted to say it was because she was white, but he wasn't sure because of how she was like us before. Also she was fat. The fat whites don't count like the regular ones do. Probably she knew about Moesha, she just didn't know about Cousin Skeeter, which was fine. Not even a lot of black people did. It's...like the main character is a puppet? But all the other characters are human?? So. Oh, well it's...kind of obscure, I guess.

Bethany perked back up, "Obscure! These types love obscure! Edgy."

Mike nodded, Give me this fucking job now.

They want you to come on for a probationary period. About two weeks. If you produce good ideas during the two weeks they'll extend your stay for three months, and then if you're consistent in those three months, they'll hire you on permanently. You'll be the only 'urban' guy over there, so I suggest you use that to your advantage.

––––––––

Which Mike did. In his first two weeks he came up with a million coon-ass ideas for cards that basically had magpies with gigantic lips slurping on watermelons on every one. And if it wasn't that, it was Shanaynay sassily shaking her head on a hologram card, and inside it'd be like You thought, bitch! You thot!!. Mike was an all-star at Bill Cosby Boulevard Greeting Card Company. Or in the first two weeks anyway. Then he got the thumbs-up for the three month period where he had to keep going what bullshit he presented in the first two weeks. Mike sold-out and become a hack so fucking quick. The real talent at Bill Cosby Boulevard Greeting Card Company was a salty Harvard-grad named Bacchanalian (Bach) (Anal behind his back), who wrote ~prose~ and ~poetry~, and who thought he was Keats, but no one too much wanted Keats. Bill Cosby Boulevard Greeting Card Company wanted Garfield comics meets Kathy with Rerun from What's Happening!! making occasional unwanted cameos. The only reason Bach even had a job there was because his daddy owned the company. Everyone loved how much of a disappointment Anal was to Bacchanalian Sr. Why couldn't he pander like Mike, or Hamish from Accounting who wasn't even officially on the writing team but occasionally handed in offensive cards for Passover and Hanukkah? All that Harvard and he still didn't learn how to sell his soul? Tsk.

Mike comfortably stopped giving any fucks once he passed his three months and was offered a contract. He was the official go-to for urban cards, and also his ideas were heavily requested for the cards being marketed specifically to members of the Third Reich. He'd spend less than five minutes on each idea. He threw them out like tampons. He was putting absolutely no effort into his work, and coasting on being the only black one, therefore, the sole person allowed to fill in speech bubbles for black characters on the cards.

Mike got a little too comfortable, because out of nowhere one day, suddenly there were two new black dudes. And one of these niggas had a jheri curl. Clearly Bill Cosby Boulevard Greeting Card Company was trying to send complacent-ass Michael a message.

The dude without a jheri curl was named Reggie. He had a big diamond earring in his right ear, which Mike couldn't remember if that was the gay side or not, but Reggie always wore tight dress shirts, so clearly he was secure in his masculinity, and obviously straight as a ditch. In which he would dump women, not men.

Reggie had weird hair. But like, he pulled it off obviously. He had these really thick cornrows. Four or five of them. They looked like ram horns. Sometimes he came to work with them covered in a red durag. Reggie was a blood. But only casually, obvi, because he had a proper job and an iTunes account. No nigga really deep into the gang life is paying for music.

Mike thought Reggie was a cool cat, with his snug-fitting (too small?) shirts and bunchy braids. With his durags at work, and loudly munching on Triscuits at his desk. With his red bandana tied around his arm like that was appropriate in an office setting, and occasional loud screaming matches on the phone with his main ho - Reggie was the bees knees, and Mike wanted to be friends with him.

Mike had never had a friend before. One time he almost did in eighth grade when that foreign exchange student from Romania came to his school, but when Mike tried to invite him over for a sleepover he turned into a bat and flew away. Which was pretty rude, to say the least.

Other than that, Mike had been entirely friendless his whole life. He didn't mind too much, as he was a loner, dottie, a rebel. He liked spending so much time alone crying in the dark. He wasn't really a people person and it annoyed him how no one ever got his references to The People Under the Stairs. It was such a classic, how could you not know?! So Mike never really tried. He had some acquaintances here and there, and people he argued with on message boards online concerning breastfeeding, but no one he could call if he got arrested. Mike thought it was too fanciful to wish for a friend who'd bail him out, but could he at least meet someone who'd give him their number?? Just one person!! Mike wanted that one person to be Reggie, who brushed his baby hairs down while hovering over the bagel tray in the break room, and who keeps stealing Pam's meticulously curated for her IBS lunches from the fridge, even though it always says on the bag: CONTAINS LAXATIVES!!!!!!!!. 

The problem was, Reggie didn't pay Mike too much mind. For one, he came through and immediately replaced him as the cool one. Mike was only cool by virtue of being the sole non-white in the office. Now there were three blacks. Reggie got to be the cool one because he was the most intimidating, what with his durags and Triscuits. With his bandanas, baby hair-brushing and lunch stealing. No one wanted Reggie there, but they did at the same time. They just wanted to be amongst his demonic presence. It was exhilarating. Mike understood now how someone like P. Diddy has friends.

Mike was too scared to approach Reggie on some Wanna grab a slice of za ass shit, for fear he'd come across like he was propositioning Reggie. Which he was, but in a normal way! Not in a booty-snatching way!! Mike was at a loss for how to get Reggie to care about him, and while lost in his head trying to come up with all sorts of schemes and maneuvers, most of which presented themselves as beginnings to any gay porn, Mike was snuck up on upon by the other new black hire, Dennis. The one with the jheri curl.

What Mike noticed most immediately and intensely was that Dennis smelled like gasoline. Or maybe it was Vaseline, but the one that's not Vaseline brand, just Petroleum Jelly Product. He reeked of whatever it was, and it looked like it was oozing through his greasy ass pores. When Dennis opened his large mouth to speak, not only did it also smell like what the rest of his face and body smelled like, he also had some disgusting ass country accent. Where the fuck this hickory dickory ass nigga from? Mike thought, wondering if it was legal to kill the ones from the South? He was sure he'd heard something about it was okay to kill anyone who was from Confederate states due to Civil War laws or something? He was sure he read that.

Hey, yew Mike?

Mike's horoscope that morning said an ominous presence would enter his life and stay there until he paid the psychic that sends him the horoscope $259.00 for a tarot reading and some magical anal beads or whatever. Shoulda just paid that bitch her money, Mike thought as he looked into Dennis' smiling, creamy face. He had acne everywhere, but most severely around his mouth area. Mike knew deep in his soul that Dennis did some weird shit to get his acne the