Doomer Diaries: Rodney's Temptation

**Intended for Mature Audiences**

Graphic Language

Substance Abuse

Gambling

Masturbation: a necessary biological function. Doctors know this, medical professionals of every kind will swear up and down to it, and the wisest of village elders condemned entire generations due to its “undeniable power over the youth.” Rodney Lambert knows it intimately as well as he stares down at a platoon of plastic-housed contraptions lurking under the thousand-count eggshell bedsheets. Their fine silk texture shelters five silhouettes resembling large-headed flashlights as Rodney runs his hand over them. The drawer in question lurks all the way at the very bottom of the bureau and half-obscured by the dirty clothesbasket.

“It’s really just a matter of time before we start dropping these off at the bank,” says Rodney as he starts to pull back the sheets. “Might as well,” he sighs. “Not like anyone’s having any kids in this dating market anyway.” He makes his selection and closes the drawer. The door swings open to the bedroom as Rodney manages to drop the contraption into the dirty clothesbasket just in time.

“Hey, that new Squid Game show’s on. You comin’?” asks Debbie, Rodney’s sister.

“Nah, I’m gonna hit the gym,” says Rodney as he slides a clean hoodie from off the bureau onto the clothesbasket, camouflaging the contraption.

“You should pick up some more of those gummies while you’re out.” Debbie closes the door as Rodney shoves the dirty clothesbasket out of sight with his foot.

“Yeah,” Rodney sighs.

#

The aroma of hickory sunrise soothes his nostrils as Rodney pushes past the laundry room into the garage. The triumvirate of lit candle wicks cast their small amber flames from atop a large Yeti ice chest amidst a rather clean, tidy garage. Rodney picks up a smaller, red Playmate ice chest, sets it on top of the Yeti, and fishes out a freshly packed pipe. He lights it and inhales deep as the soft crackle emits over the modest amount of slowly burning sativa. 

“That’s how they’re gonna do it,” Rodney says aloud as he exhales and paces in slow rhythm. “They’ll slowly phase in the electronic vibration as a standard feature and do away with the crude, plastic housing as an ‘offensive’ and archaic design. Within the next decade or so - and electronics as cheap as they are - they’ll just be able to incorporate an equally cheap, easy-to-clean, rechargeable, vibrating housing with an automated, cryogenic collection chamber and matching kit that you can just drop off…no…mail off…no…”

    The door swings open to the garage. “Why do you have the light off?” as Debbie flicks on the light switch. “You got another one.” She holds up a large carboard box as Rodney exhales a large cloud of smoke, still deep in thought. “The Korean doll killed over half them bitches.” 

Rodney exhales and nods. “She typically does. You can set it on the ice chest. Thanks, Sis.” Rodney dabs out the flame on the pipe.

“You’re welcome. C’mon, Buck!” Debbie practically squeals the words with excitement as she departs back through the laundry room with a brindle coated boxer. Rodney hops in his Charger and fires up the ignition. He rubs one of his dreadlocks as the garage door takes its time.

#

Billboards whizz by as Rodney ponders. ThunderKat plays over Spotify. “Drift on by…” Rodney looks out onto the horizon as the new moon bathes an empty plot of land on the side of the highway. He doesn’t slow, but time itself seems to freeze in stasis as the Charger rolls down the blackened tarmac, the fresh paint and prismatic reflectors a heavy indication of the road’s continual upkeep. A family of five deer look up from grazing as Rodney gazes back at their stark contrast against the frost-rimed grass. “Eight point,” remarks Rodney as he mimes the headshot with the finger pistol.

#

The Vape Shop comes into view as Rodney parks the Charger one spot to the right of the handicapped spot. He looks over to the left at the casino as ThunderKat finishes the lyric “Time to shed some skin…” Rodney turns off the ignition and walks into the store. Black walls, violet décor, and UV fluorescent lighting give a strong impression of retro-noir mixed with Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. The selections seem rather modest behind all the glass display cases, but Rodney’s comfortable-looking familiarity with Delilah, the goth-laced employee, indicates that she knows exactly what he’s looking for.

“Heavyweight XL gummies?” asks Delilah.

“Yes, please,” replies Rodney.

Delilah reaches down. “Strawberry kiwi again, or—"

“Delilah, what’s your honest thoughts on the dating market?”

“No.” Delilah grabs a plastic container labeled “Strawberry Kiwi” with danger sign tape decorating the container advertising “Legal Cannabis.” Rodney persists.

    “This isn’t a coy attempt at flirtation, Delilah.”

    “Says you. Besides...no fraternization.”

“Delilah - great word by the way - I’m being serious. For instance, don’t you think social media and dating apps are being a tad counter-productive for…all of us?”

Delilah rings up the gummies. “Says you. I let the market do the talking.”

“Uh-huh.” Rodney produces his credit card and touches it to the chip reader. He removes it just before it finishes reading and points behind Delilah. “I want that shirt.” Delilah goes to the wall and removes a black shirt with a clown’s face drawn on a Lite-Brite board that’s being sucked into a spiraling void. The patterns stand out vividly within the UV lighting. She rings it up as both endure the awkward silence. The credit card completes the transaction.

“That shirt is ridiculous.” Delilah hands Rodney the receipt.

“Says you.”

#

    Rodney pulls into the casino parking lot and lets the Charger idle over music that’s now segued into a dark, dystopian atmosphere of synth pads and mechanically droning ambience. He scrolls through a wall of 109 matches for the month of November on a dating app. Six of the matches show on his smartphone screen, all six with opening lines by Rodney, all six with no responses. Rodney scrolls down through a whole wall of names. “Let’s see, 67 with no response, 22 bots, 10 cam girls, 4 escorts, and 6 actuals. Not bad.” Rodney goes through half a dozen more dating apps all with the same asymmetries, all with the same lop-sidedness. The synth pads of sable suns and a darkened cosmos vibrate over F-minor as Rodney closes the dating apps. “There’s no way women get this many bots,” remarks Rodney as he takes out two one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Let’s double up and get the fuck out this time.”

#

    The dealer takes the new, blue deck from the automatic shuffler and presses the red into its own separate bin as the shuffler “takes the elevator back down” into the table’s hidden compartment. Rodney looks down at his stack of twelve hundred dollars in seven neat stacks of red chips and one stack of green. A full table of ten, the dealer fans out the cards.

“Hell of a run for...hell, how long you been here? An hour?” asks a gentleman in the seven hole across from Rodney. The man sports a dark black hoodie and matching baseball cap, and Rodney also notices he’s probably about the same age as himself: thirty-five. The dealer, Connor, finishes pitching the last two cards to Rodney on the dealer button. A $1/$2 Texas Hold ‘Em table, the small and big blinds check their cards.

“Yep. That aces over kings hand was a big one,” remarks Rodney as he looks down at his hole cards on the button. “Should’ve left after that one,” he says to himself. The under-the-gun player tosses out two reds for a raise to ten dollars. Three players immediately fold.

“Thirty-five.” The dark player tosses in a green chip and two reds. Rodney checks his hole cards once more: two black tens. The action folds to him as two more players pass.

“Call.” Rodney puts in seven red chips. The small and big blinds both come along and the original ten-dollar raiser makes the call as well. “One-seventy-five,” thinks Rodney to himself.

Connor pulls in the chips and knuckles the felt. “Five players to the flop,” he announces as he burns a card off the top of the deck and deals out three cards face up: five of diamonds, nine of hearts, ten of hearts. The blinds both check and the original ten-dollar raiser leads out for seventy-five dollars. Everyone at the table sits with a thousand dollars minimum in front of them, including the dark hooded man with thirteen hundred, just barely covering Rodney.

“Three-twenty-five,” says the dark hooded man as he slides out thirteen greens: one stack of five in the middle, and two stacks of four on each side of it. Rodney stares out at the board and remains statuesque.

“Call.” Rodney puts two red stacks and five greens out in front of him. The small and big blinds both fold very quickly as the action turns to the original raiser. “Should’ve just shipped it and took it down,” Rodney thinks to himself. “No way this dude calls. Fold.” The under-the-gun player finally relinquishes his cards into the muck as Connor rakes the chips into the middle. “Top set. Nine hundred in,” Rodney says in his head. “Eight-forty behind.”

“Heads-up,” says Connor as he burns the top card and lays down the turn: the ace of hearts. The dark hooded man knuckles the table. “Player checks,” remarks Connor.

Rodney gazes long over the board before him. His white ear buds continue the long drone of dark ambience. “A flush is so within his range. I should’ve shipped it on the goddamn flop. He’s probably sitting on king-queen of hearts and is gonna snap me off instantly. Why the fuck didn’t I get up?” Rodney grabs five red chips. “All in,” he exclaims as he sets the chips over the line.

“Player is all-in” announces Connor.

“Call” announces the dark hooded player as he immediately turns over the king and queen of hearts for the nut flush.

“Shit, nice hand,” exclaims Rodney as he turns over his set of tens. The original under-the-gun player winces in pain as a few others also voice their surprise at the massive cooler on display. Connor knuckles the table and burns a card off the top of the deck.

“Hold one time,” exclaims the dark hooded player with an anxious look in his eyes. Connor lays down the river card: five of hearts. “Oh, come the fuck on, Connor!” as the dark hooded player slams a hand down on the table before spinning his chair sideways and finally putting his hands in his face. Several players exhale in shock yet again.

“Full house. Tens over fives,” as Connor pushes the five of hearts, five of diamonds, ten of hearts and Rodney’s black tens out on the felt together.

“How much he got?” asks the hooded man as he reaches for his chip stack. Connor puts the five red chips back onto Rodney’s stack as he counts the neatly aligned towers.

“Eight-forty,” announces Connor. The hooded man removes four green chips and slides the rest of his stacks into the middle. Connor pushes the $2580 pot over to Rodney. Rodney slides a green and a red over to Connor and quickly begins racking up as the hooded man stands up and pockets his four remaining greens.

“Nice hand, man,” remarks the hooded man as he knuckles the table and walks away.

“Nice hand,” replies Rodney as he continues racking. “I’m out too, Connor. Quick question though,” Rodney slides Connor two more green chips. “What’s your thoughts on dating apps?”

“Well, you were about four-to-one to catch that boat,” sighs Connor as he takes the red deck out of the automatic shuffler, “But I’d just as soon jump in that black hole with Bozo there than take them shit odds.”

#

    “Which building is it?” says Rodney to his Charger’s UI screen as he pulls into the apartment complex.

    “4E. Hurry up! Can’t wait to see you!” responds the UI’s voice. Rodney looks down at his Fitbit that reads 8:59PM.

    “Here, walking up,” says Rodney to the UI as he turns off the Charger. He grabs the brown paper bag in the passenger seat as he exits. Rodney strides over the wood chips of the neat, tidy lawn with the dogwood tree branches nearly barren of their blooms. He walks up the concrete and metal steps of unit 4E and apartment 222 slowly comes into view. Five paces away, the apartment door opens as a young woman peeks out her head, her alabaster and onyx beaded braids draping down as she does so.

    “Helllooooo!” exclaims the young woman as she slowly steps into the doorway. Rodney stops dead in his tracks and the hollowed-out expression on his face strangely evokes little in the way of any noticeable response from the young woman. A few seconds pass and Rodney lets out a small exhale.

    “Um, who are you?” utters Rodney as his eyes continue to adjust over and over with his mouth slightly open.

    “Um, Amber, silly.” The young woman’s tone continues to remain elated, though her eyes tell Rodney a slightly different story.

    “No. No you are most certainly not.” Rodney reaches into his back pocket as he sets down the brown paper bag.

    “You’re being ridiculous, Rodney. Why don’t you just come inside?” The young woman begins opening the door a little wider.

    Rodney lifts his phone with the screen aimed directly at the young woman. “Who is this?”

    “Umm, me,” she replies.

    “No. No it isn’t.” Rodney swipes the phone screen to the left.

    “I can assure you it is,” she replies.

“First off, ‘Amber,’ your ass is about three shades darker than this bitch.” Rodney pushes the phone closer to Amber as he steps a little closer. The picture on the screen shows a woman much lighter in skin tone. “Which is not even mentioning the fact that she’s clearly younger and way thinner.”

“It was in the winter, asshole.” Amber forms a scowl.

“Really? We just had Thanksgiving and you’re dark as shit now.”

“I was in Canada.” Amber clacks her onyx nails against the door frame.

“And? Was it also the winter of your senior year at Toronto because that bitch ain’t a day over 21 and your profile says 33, and I’m starting to think that that’s bullshit too.” Rodney swipes to the right on his phone again.

“You’re being over—"

“And who the fuck is this?!” The profile picture on Rodney’s phone shows a very petite, athletic, young woman in a leotard. “This has never been you,” remarks Rodney through clenched teeth.

“Oh yeah!? And how the hell do you know ‘Rodney?!’” Amber stares daggers into him.

“Because that’s Sapphire Sinclaire, you fuckin’ poser! What?! You didn’t want to risk impersonating an actual starlet?!” A look of shock washes over Amber’s face. “Nah, like to go after the amateurs don’t ya?”

“Go to hell.” Amber closes the door. Several seconds pass as Rodney fumes.

“Too late!” shouts Rodney as starts to walk away and picks up the brown paper bag. He looks back at the door and removes the bottle. “Here! This shit suits you perfectly!” Rodney sets down the bottle of Jägermeister on the Siamese cat welcome mat.

“Your shirt is fucking ridiculous!” shouts Amber through the door.

“Says you!” Rodney storms off down the stairs.

The door opens back up as a hand with onyx nails grabs the bottle of Jägermeister.

#

The sky-blue Charger roars back into the garage as the door slowly falls back down. Rodney lets it idle for a moment as he takes in the lush sounds of the doom metal playing over the stereo. He kills the engine and gets out, the aroma of hickory sunrise as soothing as ever as he opens the red Playmate. A slight squeak from a grinder emits as Rodney opens one with an “I” written on a crude piece of white masking tape. He reloads the pipe with a generous helping of indica as the door swings open.

“You’re back early, Bub. Your date go alright?” Debbie grabs the container of gummies from Rodney and takes one out of it. She nibbles off a small piece.

“Nah, she totally catfished me.”

“Wow, what a bitch.” Debbie gets a big drag off the pipe and chokes just as big.

“Out of curiosity, what’s your thoughts on the dating marketplace, Sis?” Rodney takes a hit himself, the ember glow at three times its normal size.

“You know, I just want to be a trophy wife.” Debbie remarks as she pets Buck. Buck’s tail wags fiercely as he holds a rope chew toy in his mouth that’s been demolished three times over.

“How are you going to manage that at 42, half-broke, obese, living with your brother, with your shitty-ass hygiene, and wearing the same damn three outfits every single week? That ain’t a trophy, Sis. That’s a chewed-up prize at the bottom of a fuckin’ Crackerjack box.” Rodney finishes the bowl, blows a heavy smoke cloud, and dumps out the ash in the white plastic trash basket. Debbie grabs the rope toy and leads Buck back inside.

“Thanks. That shirt looks fucking ridiculous by the way. Good night.” Debbie closes the door. “Love you, asshole!” she shouts through the door.

“Love you too, Sis.” Rodney blows out the candle.

#

Rodney empties out the contents of his black denim jeans onto the bureau and stares at the wad of $2500. He takes off his shirt - the clown’s heavily lit face still spiraling into the blackened void – and flexes his striated form in the bureau’s mirror. He reaches into the bureau drawer as he kneels before the dirty clothesbasket, pulling the hoodie back from the contraption. “Who needs the real thing anyway?” Rodney whispers as he lubes up and dives right in.

The End