FatKidsLie

My cousin Louis was mentally handicapped. Since I normally use “retarded” as an insult I’m not going to call him that. Because I thought he was an awesome guy.

He was a creepy looking dude, dressed all in black with a black trench coat and had long messy stringy greasy hair and a scraggly beard and watched Startrek and was just gross and weird and awesome. He looked like one of those guys that would listen to Nine Inch Nails or Type O or whatever, only I don’t think he listened to much music. I think he was just creepy looking.

He claimed he couldn’t read but I’m not so sure. How else could he have learned CB radio lingo, and given directions for a whole convoy of truckers to encircle my block by offering them cut-rate pep pills and blowjobs? Hell… How’d he find a hand-held CB radio anyway?

He couldn’t find his way around his neighborhood in Queens, yet he figured out how to escape from the institute (can I just say “asylum”?) by breaking into the HVAC ducts and shimmying his way out. He then walks up to his house and sits down at the kitchen table like nothing out of the ordinary’s going on.

Then there was the time that he went to Puerto Rico.

This was back in the days before 9/11 and everything so you could just… yaknow… get on a plane and fly. SOMEhow he gets to JFK airport and starts talking to the girl at the ticket sales counter: “Hey… I’ve heard Puerto Rico’s really nice… how much is it to go there?”; hands her all his money; gets on the plane and flies down there like you or I would get on the bus and go to the mall.

A day or two later his mom (my aunt) gets a call from a woman who says that Louis is sitting on their porch, in Puerto Rico, with no money to get home. The dude was sitting on the beach, in a black trench coat and hat, all dazed and confused (because of the heatstroke) and this woman took him in. My aunt thinks it’s a hoax, but then realizes that her son is weird enough to do shit like that.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for weeks but I keep getting caught up on doing school work and cleaning up my apartment and walking my dog and earning enough money to buy malt liquor to dull the pain and shame of my life.

Anyway, there’s a lady that walks around at night playing a saw. Yes. A saw.

Like the kind that lumberjacks use.

… I think I’ve gotta move out of this neighborhood.

I’m assuming that she’s in a band. Or something. because there’s a guy that walks around with her playing bongos and singing opera with her.

The first time I saw her was coming out of the coffee shop across the street when it was closing for the night. She was in a floral mumu, hair-curlers and galoshes. He was wearing a tuxedo and a straw hat. They played a wonderful adaptation of David Bowie’s Man Who Sold The World. But i think he was singing in Esperanto.

The other night it was warm out, but not warm enough for the air conditioner. I was awoken to the sound of the screechy saw, and a harmonica. They then started playing a medley of 1980’s Saturday morning cartoon songs. I watched them as they entered the hipster bar on the corner. They couldn’t have been in there more than one minute before i heard them arguing with the bouncer.

I asked around and, the bartender told me that she got into a fight with the DJ that was playing that night. She wanted the stage and when he wouldn’t relinquish the floor, she started cutting his cables with her saw.

The other day I was working late, getting home at 1am. I saw her sitting on a park bench by the baptist church’s parking lot. Playing a sad sad song. Humming to herself. Not even in the same tune that she was playing in. Her bandmate/husband/brother (maybe one of those, or a combination of those who knows) was sleeping on the other bench next to her. He woke up, looked at me and threw a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup at me.

As i ran away I saw him pouring a sort of borderline of syrup on the ground. The next day I saw that he poured syrup all over the benches. Just like how a dog or a cat marks their territory.

I haven’t seen them in a while. Most of the crazies in my neighborhood stick around, and I can sort of get an idea of where they live or spend their days when they’re not being your average street creepies. These people? Not so much.

They change outfits, even though they keep with the same uniforms: I’ve counted at least 7 different Mumus, 4 different galoshes and 9 different straw hats, so I’m fairly certain that they’re not homeless. I think that there’s a possibility that they are guerilla street performers. Or maybe time travelers.

But I miss them. They were a crazy noisebrigade mariachi couple. With maple syrup defense systems.