The Real Laguna Beach It looked so beautiful, covered in the finest silk. Only the best for this. Twenty four karat rattles and it was still too weak to blink, rather entertain itself. It was centered in a Victorian style cage with a swinging door for easy access. It only deserved the greatest. The walls were painted happy. Horses upon fairies upon fucking cartoons. The room it situated in was designed by the pro’s. Strategically placed toys and gadgets just to keep this thing amused. It even had one of those twirly things dangling from the ceiling to make it sleep better at night when it spun. This thing was a walking Toddlers R Us advertisement. It girgled name brand and drooled picturesque. Things were too perfect and peaceful to stay the way they were. A man stood in the doorway to the most elaborately conceived room in the house. He watched his baby sleep and muttered to himself, “This thing is going to be something one day.” Fifteen years later and this man was still working the same nine to five with the same faces. Everybody went by Johnson or Chip. The only social event was the congregation of 4 or so people backed up at the copy machine because somebody jammed it with bondage porn. Of course, the suspect was nowhere in sight. Slinked away in some cubicle somewhere phone ordering some more happiness. He still ate at the same bakery every lunch break and saw the same hobos begging for change so they can drink themselves to a stupor. He came home every night to the aroma of home cooked dinner on a dining set that cost a couple pay checks. Who cares though? It keeps the neighbors competing and something to talk about during PTA meetings. An entire turkey was cooked to golden perfection judging by the steam rising off the glossy headless corpse of a slaughtered hunk of meat. There was his wife. Cheery. Animated. A little too much for the liking. You know you can spot one of those people who look like they smile botox. The wrinkles on her forehead never moved and the dimples on her cheeks never recessed to wrinkles. She smiled chemical perfection. “Dinner is served,” she gritted through pearly whites. The ones stained to beauty with a home bleach kit for teeth. She had the best lipstick. The kind that doesn’t rub off on your teeth. It was ruby red. It matched the Martha Stewart apron she purchased for cooking. But don’t worry. She had a shade for every outfit and every designer handbag in her walk-in closet. Prada pink for those days shes feeling risky and Gucci gold for those nights at the opera. Tonight they stayed in. Their conception walked in the dining room, dressed in Italian threads that she couldn’t even pronounce. But it’s okay, the price tag had enough figure to make up for hers. Full figured and cosmetically pretty. She was the essence of glamour without the paragon. This man resented his sperm. How this little thing made it’s way first to that fucking egg will escape his mind every night. This man must have had a clan of sperm that were dormant when they flushed into his wifes baby maker. This little bastard caught the gold when everybody was sleeping. It’s the only way. She was born after just an hour of labor. It was just dying to get out of their. The fluids were making her complexion look bad. It cried because the birth got her hair wet. Dinner was always spent as a spectator. The daughter and the wife babbled about the latest fashion ware and celebrity news. “Have you seen how fat Britney Spears is getting?” the mom questioned. “Like, yeah. She must be having twins or something. I’m never having babies if that’s how fat I get,” retorted the daughter. The father looked at a never ending tennis match. A court constructed of 18th century Louis XVI period walnut. He was the line judge at a dining table. He was there to make sure nobody went out of line. The mother conceded to the daughter after the argument over whether Brad Pitt was more attractive than Colin Farrell. 15-love. Daughter ahead. The daughter left the table and princess stepped all the way to her room and own phone line. The mother brought the dishes to the sink. Rinse. Cleanse. Dry. The man creeped up the stairs, secret in hand. Up the front flight of stairs in the atrium of the house, he proceeded to make his way towards the music. It was loud and poppy. He could hear her giggling on her pink bed sheets. He got to the door. The sign her mother got her still hung there from 2nd grade. “Do Not Disturb. Princess Sleeping.” Cringe. Jolt. Adrenaline. Hatred. Regret. The man was sweating. Anticipation. Slowly, Safely. The door slide open. He squeezed through because beyond 30 degrees it started squeaking at the hinge. Perfection. Stealth. The little bugger was facing away, tucked in fetal position with her head sandwiched between pillow and the cutest pink phone you ever did see. He tip toed across the brand new carpet. It cushioned the noise. He was there. Right next to her. This little testicle discharge had grown into such a vile creature. Heartless and hopeless. The man held desire, sheathed in his belt loop. It was 12 inches long and sharp on one end. He drove it straight to the bedsprings. The little **** didn’t make a noise. “Honey…honey. Where’d you put the chef knife?” “Huh? Oh, right. Here it is. I was just seeing if it needed to be sharpened. I’m going to bed. I’m tired.” Letdown. The stale taste of post day dream. He walked by her room on the way to his. The door was ajar. There she was. Completely vulnerable. Defenseless. It was so inviting. Save it for another day he reassured himself. He slept in past his alarm. He was late. Bob was sure to be at his desk with some new memos and a toned down office rule ass-reaming. He was getting sick of this job. All day. Punching numbers. Insert table. Delete column. Add shading. File, Print preview. Center aligned. Size ten Arial font. It was easy on the exec’s eyes. Plain. Boring. Yawn. Office standard. Submerge head into tub of boredom. Inhale. Choke. Bend over for upper management. The basic cycle by which cubicle communities operate by. He took the rest of the day off. “You are home early,” his wife exclaimed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s just fine. Say honey, could you run to the store and pick something up real quick?” “I guess.” Something was fishy. In more ways than one. There was a car outside, newer than his, that had never been there before. The bathroom light was on upstairs. The wife looked as if she had just woken up. She had the freshly fucked sense about her hair. No make up. Glossy skin. He went upstairs, looking back at the sleaze gazing back with a helpless look at him. He was almost excited. He heard a fumbling in the bathroom. Down came the door. Up came the fists. He had nearly strangled this home wrecker with the shower curtain before the wife managed to pull him off. He made his way calmly downstairs to the front door. He walked out, picked up a few of the masons stones that were supposed to be set for the new front porch. A fifteen pound brick does a hell of a job to a windshield and to the finish of a pearly white paint job. Release. Gratification. This was ecstasy. He passed the barely kempt, slightly bruised and bloody intruder on the way back. He averted his eyes. Wise choice. The tramp was standing in the door. Crying. Sobbing. Uncontrollable. Hysteria. “It was just this one time. I swear,” he managed to put together through a series of short, broken sentences. She spoke in uneven syllables. It was an act. He knew it, too. “Save the bullshit.” “I love you honey. It’s just that I get so lonely. Please don’t tell our daughter.” “Oh, I won’t. You’ve corrupted her enough.” The daughter came home from school. She was rolling in a black sports car driven by a meathead in a varsity letterman. It was covered with badges and patches. A perfect representation of how the stupider you are, the higher up you are on the social ladder. The daughter this wife created stepped out of the car in 100 dollar flip flops and those gigantic dark sunglasses that look like huge rectangles on your face. She was wearing a skirt that so low, the cheeks of her ass peeked out with every sway of the hip. The jock looked on through tinted windows. Free show. The daughter walked in. Didn’t say a word. She walked up to her father and handed him a piece of pink scented college ruled paper. Vomit. Blood curdling. She was gone and he knew it. It was her big 16th birthday the next day. He could only guess what was on this paper. Expectations. Demands. It was like a ransom note. It was full of absolutely ridiculous requests, most of which the wife had already fulfilled. The brand new 3-series convertible was sitting in the garage. She never went in there so it was hidden. The grocery list of labels summing to a couple grand. A brand new room. She wanted the master bedroom. After all, she was the queen of the house. On and on and on. The credit card was still warm from the shopping spree his loose wife went on. Loose with cash. Loose with herself. She was unraveling. This man had an awful day, to say the least. “I’m going out. I’ll be home no earlier than midnight. It’s half off Bloody Mary’s at the Wild Horse. Nobody over when I’m not home, honey. You know the rules.” He went into the garage to get the SUV. That way, if he crashed on the way home, he’s more protected. Six airbags and about 2 feet higher than anybody else. He’ll run over anything he accidentally hits. He got to the bar. He couldn’t remember the last time he was there. Memories. Hazy. Blurry. Adolescence. Immaturity. Lightweight. Three shots of Jack. It was a pick-me-up. He took off his jacket. It was going to be a long night and he was just getting ready. Pretty soon, the better looking by the minute bartender, gave him the bottle of Absolut and just told him to tell her when he was done. He eventually tied the arms of his jacket around his waist and looped it around the back of the car after the 4th time he slipped off the stool. He checked his tally card. Somewhat unclear and illegible. He could make out the columns. Samuel. Jack. Absolut. Jose. There was 4-5 chicken scratches underneath each. Warm and fuzzy. He had the budget for champagne but the taste for something a little harder. Let’s face it. He came here to get drunk. Success. Somewhere in the mid twenties his head hit the bar. TKO. He woke up and that is when it hit him. Light bulb. He started screaming incessantly about Albert Einstein and that’s when he was thrown out. After collecting his thoughts and balance in the gutter for a good 10 minutes, he picked himself up. One foot after the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. So smooth. His daughter was going to get the best birthday present ever. What a lucky little daughter she was to have a father to care so much about her. Brilliance. Genius. Mastermind. Imagination. He stumbled to his car. Nothing could stop this man. High spirits and optimistic. The only thing that could bring this man down is a cross walk full of kids on his way home. Somehow, he managed to idle his way down his neighborhood, and make sure he didn’t make a mistake. The garage was too tight of a fit. He’d have to leave the car outside. Next morning, work could do without him for another day. After all, it was a very special occasion. He had a hookup. Some weird guy in his science class that never really got past home lab kits and chemical reactions. He had just what he needed. Titanium Tetrachloride. Check. Glycerin. Check. Sodium flouride. Check. Highly concentrated bleach. Silver nitrate. The list went on. He was like a kid in the candy shop. He could not get enough. He went home with viles upon tubes of biologically hazard labeled containers. He was in a state of euphoria. Elation. Rapture. Elevation. He was high. Maybe it was the fumes. Maybe it was his ideas. The time had come. He kicked his wife out of the house for the day. He needed privacy as much as she had. She went shopping or something. He could care less what money she wasted now. He had the house to himself. A whole prison to booby trap and sabotage. He brought in his collection from the trunk of his car. He never felt so proud. Not even at the birth of his daughter. They say rebirth is far more meaningful. Now the madness begins. His tool kit and chemical kit hand in hand. He was on a mission. He had purpose. He started with the shower head. He unscrewed it. He got out his paint brush. He made sure the inside was covered in Titanium Tetrachloride. This was perfect he thought. On to the make up. The bronzer she used on her skin was missing an ingredient. A little silver nitrate would do the trick. The moisturizer could use a little spike too. Into that went the sodium fluoride. He was getting way into this. He never felt so pleased. He felt a little more needed to be done. He noticed something in the mirror. Face cream. He could hear it begging for some glycerin. In that went. Stir it in. She’ll never notice. One last thing. In her mascara, he mixed some bleach. Close contact with eyes can be hazardous. He couldn’t help but find irony on all the warning labels on these concoctions. “Avoid contact with skin.” “Call doctor immediately if chemical comes in contact with eyes or ingested.” His deed was done. Now he played the waiting game. Three o’clock rolled around. The bitch walked in. “My birthday better be good. I deserve the best.” “Oh, you know only the best for you, baby.” “Well, that’s the way it should be. I need to go get ready for my party tonight.” In walked bitch number two. This was perfect. Bliss. Things could not reach greater heights. Now he was going to have an audience. The wife went in to the kitchen to occupy herself with a copy of Cosmopolitan she referred to as The New Testament. He watched her daughter walk up the stairs. It was going to be a slow and painful decline. She went into the bathroom. He smiled to himself and casually strolled into the family room to relax. Point of no return. Point of no regrets. Satisfaction. The princess walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She needed to primp herself very nicely for tonight. It was a very big night. She just could not stop thinking of all the extravagant things she would be getting this year. She opened the make-up cabinet and got out all of the necessities. Jergen’s skin moisturizer. For dry and cracked skin. The face cream. After all, she needed a nice glow around that pudgy little face of hers. Lipstick. Eyeliner. Mascara. Bronzing lotion. It was all laid out on the counter. She was completely oblivious to the damage she was about to construe. Time to get ready. She placed a big dollop of cream on her hands and thoroughly covered every pore on her face. It soaked in so nicely. Then she undressed and proceeded to cover her entire body, first in moisturizer, then in tanning lotion. Her skin transformed to a nice brownish tint. Now for the application of some makeup. The boys were just going to go crazy tonight. She just laid it on her face. She was not the same person with makeup. She had the resemblance of an overly deliberate drag queen. She noticed something. There was a sting in her eyes. It was getting way worse. Her vision was blurring and she could not stop tearing. She looked in the mirror. All of a sudden, she was stricken with abdominal pains. This could be one of two things. The reaction of fluoride she rubbed all over her skin or the sight she saw in the mirror. As we all know, silver nitrate, when reacting with skin, has the ability to make the skin jet black. She was beginning to look like Santa Claus in a sooty chimney. There was nothing jolly about this picture though. By now, she was nauseous and was having wicked tremors. That would also be an effect of fluoride. Her face felt as though it was melting off the bones. She noticed flakes of skin peeling off her forehead and cheeks. A side effect of glycerin. It was working all too well. She let out an awful scream. She put on the water and jumped into the bath tub. Take a step back. Back to chemistry class. H20 + titanium tetrachloride = hydrochloric acid. The potential to cause complete circulatory failure and collapse. She curled up in a ball. By now, the wife was running up the stairs to find what was wrong. What she found was disgusting enough to bring a homicide detective to his knees. Then the second ear piercing scream came out. The man knew he had succeeded. He ran up the stairs. There she was. Steaming in a pool of her own vomit and bowel discharge. She had lost control of all bodily functions. Her skin was jet black and resembled a marshmallow that sat in the fire too long. Puffy and charred. He noticed the water was filling up. It was cloudy but he could see the clog. The dead skin from her daughter was flaking and covering the drain. The uncontrollable drooling and convulsing soon followed. The paramedics were there in less than three minutes. They were stunned and somewhat hesitant. The man kept a low profile in the background and waited until she was brought outside to the ambulance. He could hear medical terms being thrown around. Pulmonary Edema. Skin burns. Corneal burns. Inflammation. Respiratory tract ulceration. Gastric hemorrhage. Lethargy. His wife was collapsed in a ball in the hallway. She was always getting in the way. He went with the paramedics in the ambulance. She still had a pulse. The doors closed. It was just him and his daughter. Her eyes were red, completely bloodshot. The skin was black and cracking. There were tubes coming out of every orifice and into every limb. Dehydration. Hypotension. Mucous membrane corrosion. Oliguria. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” the driver said. I’ve never been so content he thought to himself. He had made a masterpiece of his own daughter. He had made a Picasso out of living canvas. He unwrapped the gauze around her ear and whispered into it. Soft and gentle. Soothing. Harmonious. Quiescent. “This is the price you pay for beauty.”
Copyright © 2006 Tom M Fisher |