Lou Who (I)

This is the first chapter of a story I've been working on for the past month and a half that I wrote mostly for my amusement and I'd like to know your thoughts on it. The story this chapter is from is called "Lou Who" and I hope you like it.

    I've been alive for nine thousand, four hundred ninety-nine days and nine thousand, four hundred one of them can be described as mundane, typical, average and any other synonym for "meh." It wasn't until two and a half months ago that life as I knew it would then be described as surreal, freaky, nearly impossible and any other synonym for "what the fuck?!". I figure that's a good enough starting point as any for my story so I'll begin there.
    People here in Nassau County, New York call me Lou. I work as a telemarketer during daylight hours, peddling the most inane shit to people that yell at me over the phone, things like phones shaped like penises, a microwave programmed to blurt out an audio clip from the Borat movie whenever the timer expires, a clay elephant that can be best described as a 'doobie pipe' and so on, in an office building in Hell's Kitchen. During the night, I'm toking up and watching or playing or eating or fucking something. I don't have a lot of friends, which is fine considering most people suck. I have my dealer Dealy Dan hang with me sometimes. A street walker named Annabell Hole, of whom I've known since high school, swings by some other times to share food she bought or just to vent; we don't fuck or anything like that. The super for my apartment stops by every now and then, usually to bitch at me about rent money or that I bring the electric bill up or to get me to fix something he's too short to reach. As I've said before, life is "meh."
    It started off lightly one morning when I went through my morning routine of getting up, taking an epic piss and a subsequent shower, whacking off twice, eating my daily chewable vitamins and a bagel before getting dressed and snazzy enough to go into my stupid-ass office. It was when I was eating the aforementioned bagel while getting dressed that I noticed, through my apartment's window and into the one window of the apartment building adjacent to mine, that someone that looked eerily like David Letterman was doing stretches in the sunlight, naked and flaunting his asshole. He noticed me looking, stopped what he was doing and walked over to a table, sitting behind it and saying something to the ceiling before darting a gaze that lasted four minutes at me before I closed my window's curtain. As I walked downstairs from my househole, I mulled over what I saw, thinking that the dude might have actually been David Letterman.
    The commute to Manhattan's always a thorn in the ass, even moreso with my shitty Mazda having a busted radiator and AC which means no heat in the winter and no cool air in the summer, which is fan-fucking-tastic with this morning's temps in the seventies with God knows how much humidity. At least the windows and the radio still work. Careless Whisper was playing as I got onto the highway and saw a billboard I haven't seen before. It was of this extremely attractive woman holding two jugs of hot sauce advertising Prilosec or some other antacid, which is nice and all that but did the model need to be there? I was looking at it longer than I thought I did, noting the model's face before it suddenly contorted and twisted into this ugly, malevolent gargoyle face that looked directly at me and shouted "EYES ON THE ROAD!," in a demonic voice. I dart my eyes back to the road too late and accidentally rear-end a car.
    "FFFFFFFFFFUCK," I shouted out. This is all I fucking need. Seeing the driver get out of the car, I decided 'to hell with it', backed up and side-swiped the dude's car as I headed towards the shoulder and passed another car to get back on the highway, hoping like hell a cop didn't see that.
    Once I got to the office building, I took a deep breath to reassess myself. I wasn't getting enough sleep lately and I had been hitting the booze a bit hard this weekend. What I saw wasn't real at all, I told myself. I took another deep breath and went up to punch in for work. The rest of the day was uneventful after that.
    The next morning, where I had seen David Letterman through both of our windows before, I now saw a flashy dart board with a cutout of David's head spinning in the center. Its mouth motions and this time I can hear what it says very clearly: "Our next guest is a returning one, please welcome PEEPING TOM!!" I drew the shades like last time and considered never opening them again. Before I could finish getting dressed, I hear a pounding at the door.
    "Yo, Lou," a voice familiar to me shouts through the door, "It's me. I got chips and the new Battlefield."
    Dealy Dan, my dealer. His real name's Dale Deenly but I know him as the dealer I mentioned prior. I open the door, we do a handshake slap or whatever the fuck's popular with the bros of today and he enters with two bags of Doritos and an obviously pirated CD that says "Battlefield" on it in black marker.
    "You know I work today, dude," I told him as I was putting my shoes on.
    "Yeah, that telemarketing deal. You should sell on the side, you know," he said, plopping himself onto my spare couch, "You could miss a day and just spend it surfin' a groove."
    "I should," I said, "But this pays the bills and I told you before, these fucking people that run this shit want results, numbers and what have you. If I don't meet their quota, I'm out of a job."
    "Then quit," he said, opening one of the Dorito bags he brought and setting it on my coffee table, "These types of businesses don't last long anyway."
    "I don't tell you how to earn your wads, don't do that to me, bud," I told him as I finished up buttoning my work shirt, "Yours is a fleeting business, too."
    "Bitch, call off work today. You got sick days? Vacation days?," he goaded, "Use one."
    "Do YOU have vacation days? Sick days?," I said, annoyed and trying to tie a Windsor knot with my shitty tie.
    "Bro, all days are vacation days," the sneering fuck chuckled, "But I get it, I'll back off. Can I hang here for a bit while you're gone?"
    "All my valuables are in a safe you'll never find or figure out the combination for and if I find out you put that ghetto-ass CD in my Xbox," I said, grabbing my keys and heading out the door, "I'll neuter you. Lock the door on your way out."
    "Love you," DD shouted as I closed the door behind me.

    I still haven't had enough sleep at this point and half-expected that stupid Prilosec billboard to yell at me again but, to my surprise, it didn't do anything. I had a normal drive sweating my ass off to the tune of Simply Irresistible on the radio up until I left the highway. I was switching stations and came across one that was also playing Simply Irresistible when I looked up and saw this naked obese man in the middle of the road, holding up his hands and shouting "NOOOOOOOO!!!" Instinctively, I drove around to avoid him and accidentally hit a limo in the process. I turned to look at the fat man to see nothing there. I shake my head and drive off, maneuvering around the cars to get to Hell's Kitchen. In the rearview mirror, I saw the man again in front of another car jammed in the traffic I just created, thrusting in their direction. The road ahead was similarly gridlocked, which resulted in me being late to work. When I saw the boss, he told me to report directly to the Vice President of the low-budget office space we've been working telemarketing out of. That I even made it or care to make it every fucking day should be enough to keep me out of trouble, but nooooooo, we gotta make Lou more miserable for minimum wage.
    Prior to today, I've never met the Vice President of the company. I saw the President at a mandated employee meeting inside a high school auditorium once, my current boss (whose name isn't worth mentioning so we'll just call him Biffo) at another inside the basement of what was formerly a Toys R Us in Valley Stream and an executive by accident when I walked into an unlocked one-person bathroom and found him jacking off to a blurry picture of the back of some woman's head. Never the Vice President, though.
    I walk into his office, one that evokes the image of the office of Montgomery Burns on the Simpsons. Behind the desk ahead is someone dressed in a Grimace costume.
    "You've caught me at an uncomfortable phase in my life, Louis," a voice boomed deeply and creepily from the lifeless face of the Grimace costume, "Please have a seat."



    "I met your uncle today," I told Annabell in between bites of beef lo mein.
    When I came home from work, Dan had split and had forgotten to lock the door like I asked him to as Annabell was smoking my weed while watching some bullshit Madea movie. Words were said, things were done and now we're at my kitchen bar, eating the Chinese food she brought with her.
    "Yeah?," she replied, "Which one? I have four."
    "The Vice President of my job," I said, "He was in a Grimace costume."
    She chuckled. "That's Uncle Rick," she said, taking a bite out of what I was eating, "It's a sexual fetish of his, that Grimace shit."
    I paused and reflected on what she said, making a bitter face.
    "....what?," Annabell eventually asked after a few minutes.
    "Dude was horny when he told me I'd be on garbage duty for the rest of the month, huh?," I asked aloud, kind of taken aback.
    "Not for you," she said, "For Grimace."
    "That doesn't really help."
    "What all do you have to do on garbage duty?"
    "I don't know anymore."
    "I can talk to him if you want. Get him to ease up."
    "Nah, I can deal. It's not the only fucked up thing I've witnessed these past few days."
    "You have an uncle who gets off to McDonald's mascots too?"
    I glared at her.
    "Sorry," she said in between chuckles, "What do you mean?"
    "Minute shit, mostly," I said, preparing to put the food in the fridge, "Haven't been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Might be hallucinations. Two of 'em banged up my pisshole car."
    "Hallucinations?," Anna asked.
    Before I could answer, the front door was suddenly kicked down by a mob of monkeys armed with AK47s and cats. The cats jumped onto Anna and shredded her apart with enhanced claws while the monkeys opened fire everywhere, unloading the guns into my fridge, ceiling, TV, XBox and every other fucking thing I own. I closed my eyes in fear and reopened them to discover that none of that actually happened. None of my things were damaged and Anna was fine, though she was looking at me with concern.
    "Yeah," I answered, "I think so."
    Anna's phone rang. Her ringtone was Stuck in the Middle With You but just the "Clowns to the left of me" part looped. She answered it, said "Yeah" a few times and hung up.
    "Sorry, gotta go," she said, putting her phone in her purse and getting up.
    "A John?," I asked.
    "Jane," she answered, taking her leave and accidentally leaving my front door open. I went over to close it before I noticed a black cat in the middle of the hallway, looking up at me and thumping its tail.
    "Mow!," it chirped.
    I turned away and closed the door quickly, sort of hyperventilating as I triple-locked it.




    I woke up the next morning and saw a poster of an incredibly hairy nipple with the caption "Got Milk?" under it where I once saw David Letterman through the windows in my apartment. I drew the curtains and fetched my cell phone while I pulled out the Yellow Pages, thumbing through it until I got to the psychiatrist section. I told ten behavioral health centers, therapy offices and the ilk the same story of "I need to see a therapist whenever possible" and got nine answers of "Your insurance isn't accepted here, sorry"; the tenth said "We can put you with Dr. Stone tomorrow afternoon."
    "I have work that day," I told the receptionist on the phone.
    "That's the earliest I can get you in," she explained, "Anything else is two months away. You're pretty lucky to get in so soon, to be honest. Dr. Stone sees about twenty five people monthly as it is."
    I mulled it over for a bit. "Alright," I told her, "Tomorrow afternoon it is."
    "3:30 sound good?"
    "Sounds fantastic."
    I hung up before she could confirm. Out of sheer curiosity, I opened the curtains once again. A huge cut-out of David Letterman's head now obstructs not only the window of the apartment adjacent but the windows of several others. It slowly turned before I closed the curtains again. I've seen enough. Ten minutes after that call, there was a pounding on my door. I initially thought it was Dealy Dan again until the knocker shouted "OPEN UP, LEECHER!". My asshole landlord. He thinks I'm leeching free shit from him but has no proof of it and gets angry enough to bother me about it.
    "Hold your fucking horses," I shout back. He keeps banging on the door until I unlock and open it.
    "I'm not paying for this fucking door if YOU break it," I told Super Man.
    "I want the rent. NOW," Super Man said, beet red about who-the-hell-cares what.
    "I gave you the rent two weeks ago," I said, "What, you blow it on coke already?"
    Furious, Super Man picked up a vase I had sitting near the front door and hurled it at me, missing and smashing it against the wall. "FUCK!! YOU!!!," he shouted, "You rented two weeks!!"
    "You can't just change the lease on a fucking whim like that," I yelled back, "You want me to get a lawyer to explain that to you?!"
    "Don't need one. I just did. Rent money tomorrow or I throw your ass out," he fumed at me before walking away.
    See, this is also a common occurrence. Monthly, I give him the rent on time. Biweekly, he bothers me about it, threatens to throw me out, gets pissed off about something else and forgets he was even here, likely because he's either buzzing off the powder or piss-drunk. Such was the case later that night, when he bothered me again drunk off his ass and shouting through the door.
    "You suck dick, leech?," he giggled, "No rent for three months if you suck my dick. Suck it good, six months."
    An improvement from the last time he slurred shit through the door. He offered three weeks rent then.


    I woke up early the next day, doing my morning routine before calling into work. Instead of my boss, however, I get Mr. Hole.
    "Louis," came his creepy, deep voice, "Caller ID is doing its job well, I see. Please don't tell me you won't be coming in today...we're quite....busy...."
    "I have a doctor's appointment, sir. I can't miss it," I explained in between awkward pauses.
    "I understand....," he drawled, "Surely you can provide a note next time you come into work from your doctor. I'll be sure that your boss is....significantly..aware."
    "Thank you, sir," I said, hanging up quickly. Talking to him is unsettling as fuck. If I didn't get him, I would get Biffo, who would usually threaten to brand my name on his balls with a red-hot poker or some other sadomasochistic action unless I came into work and I'd spend fifteen minutes persuading him not to do it. I don't call off work often, see.
    I spent the rest of that morning trying to go to sleep. I don't sleep enough. Now I have the time to and I still can't do it. I quit trying around noon and, out of morbid curiosity, decided to check behind the window curtain once again. This time I saw nothing there, but heard a muffled "Pop Goes The Weasel" playing from the adjacent apartment. I threw the curtains shut well before it got to the "Pop" part and heard an eerie cackle. Then, silence.


    I got to the medical building where Dr. Stone's office was ten minutes early and made my way to the receptionist's window. The receptionist looks at me, rolls her eyes and puts a handheld Golf game down on the desk before addressing me.
    "Can I help you?," she asked, irritated.
    "Start by dropping the attitude," I frankly said, "Dr. Stone at 3:30."
    Without a word, she turns to her computer, types a few things and looks back at me. "Louis?," she asked.
    "Yeah."
    "What's your last name?"
    "I never gave one."
    "I have four Louises here for the same doctor today. Which one are you?"
    "The one scheduled for 3:30. It's not that hard. Should only be one Lou there."
    "....oh. Date of birth?"


    It's been fifteen minutes since Dr. Stone, a bald dude with a mile-long stare and the fashion sense of Mr. Rogers, took me into his office. I got straight to the point, by which I mean I beat around the bushes a bit before actually getting to it, which ate up about ten minutes. He's sitting across from me now, staring at me as I sit across from him, fidgeting.
    A few more awkward minutes pass.
    "By the way, your secretary out there's a bitch," I said, breaking the silence.
    "Her name is Larissa Caulfield-Stone and she's my daughter," Stone replied.
    "Oh, you speak!," I said, "That's good. I'd hate to think I spent two hundred bucks for a session with a blowup doll."
    "I was waiting for you to finish," he said, "And if I understand what you told me in vivid detail correctly, you did pay two hundred dollars for a sex doll once."
    "It was a hundred eighty. I had Amazon points."
    "Deflective humor, albeit in the lowest form. The point being is that I've asked you one question since our session began, which was 'What's on your mind, Lou?', to which you answered for ten straight minutes. If you were concerned about how your money was spent, you would have said all of that to your sex doll and saved an extra two hundred dollars, which begs the question: Why are you here?," he asked.
    I exhaled sharply. "Because I need feedback," I answered, "I need a theory or an explanation or a diagnosis or whatever the fuck justifies the weird shit I've been seeing and hearing these past few days so that I know how to stop it before it gets worse. I think someone might get hurt one day because I'm too focused on what's not there."
    "Do you really know it's not there?," Stone asked, writing down something on a notepad, "Because if you did, you wouldn't have reacted as strongly as you did."
    "What the fuck do you think I'm here for?," I snapped back, "It feels real enough to me. I know it's not, but it doesn't change the fact that I still see it! I swear, I felt those cat hairs flying and I don't own a cat!"
    He made a noise, nodding his head and jotting a few more things down before replacing his notepad with a prescription pad.
    "One more question before you leave today's session, Lou," he said, swerving his pen to and fro on the script pad, "You paid two hundred dollars for a session with me despite the fact that not only does my office accept your insurance-- something you've described as being turned down by nine other offices before reaching mine-- but that the co-pay for it is typically no more than ten dollars at its worst. Why do that?"
    "You gonna connect it with the sex doll shit again?," I scoffed.
    He ripped off the paper and placed it on the desk before writing up another script. "I'll do you one better," he said, "I'm going to give you a prescription for an antipsychotic called Nyzol. I'm ordering a week's worth of it, though your insurance-- which I suggest you use, by the way, to keep from paying full price-- might give you the generic version.
    "Also," he continued, ripping off the second prescription and handing both to me, "I've prescribed a month's worth of Trazodone to help with your insomnia. Last, but certainly not least, I'm going to have my daughter put you down for an appointment with me next week and will bill your insurance for that visit rather than have you cover the cost."
    "I don't suppose you're gonna give back the two hundred," I said, taking the scripts and getting up.
    "No," he said, picking up his desk phone and paging his daughter, speaking into the speaker part closer than he should be, "Sweetheart, pencil in an appointment for Louis a week from now, would you?"
    "Dad, I told you that you don't need to be that close to the speaker. I can hear you," the Receptionist That Doesn't Like Me answered, "You're booked for three months."
    "Cancel the Gregg appointment, then," he responded, "She doesn't show up for half of her appointments anyway and it's becoming an issue."
    "...alright. I guess Lou's in for 3:30 next week. What do I say to Gregg?"
    "Say I had an anal fissure or something. Get creative, sweetheart," Stone told his daughter before hanging up, turning towards me and offering me a hand, "See you next week, then."
    I reluctantly shook his hand and left the office, noting Larissa glare at me before I boarded the elevator down. The hell is her problem?



    "Louis," Mr. Hole said to me the next day in his office, now in a circa-90's Chuck E Cheese costume, "Your visits to my office are beginning to become habitual, are they not? While I rather welcome the company, I would prefer it be deliberate rather than mandated. Your boss tells me you failed to deliver a notice from your doctor visit yesterday and I can't help but feel.....concerned."
    "I showed him the prescriptions the doctor gave me, sir," I explained, "I hoped that would be sufficient en--"
    Mr. Hole loudly and shrilly sneezed within his costume, effectively interrupting me.
    "Uh...," I stuttered, "Bless you?"
    "Forgive me," he said, making sure the stupid mouse's eyes were looking directly at me, "Continue."
    "....I showed him the scripts," I said after a brief pause, "Isn't that sufficient enough, sir?"
    "Your boss suspects that you forged them through illicit means," the Vice President said, oddly bobbing up and down on his chair, "But it's my belief that you are an honest man that wouldn't do something so.....naughty. I think myself a good....good....judge of character and don't see a reason to pursue your boss's ludicrous allegations any further. After all, you wouldn't.....lie to me...would you?"
    "No, sir," I answered, feeling my spine shiver, "Never."
    "I'm delighted to hear that," he monotonously droned, "You may go back to work now, Louis."
    Before I could thank him, he loudly sneezed again, this time in a higher pitch. I instead waved and left the room. God, I need another fucking job.