A mind most unquiet

It's not that Edward wanted to hate on the customers. In fact, it was his people skills that had gotten him this job in the first place. Now, it was a different story altogether. If anybody had met Edward prior to his employment, they wouldn't have noticed much of anything striking, or remarkable about him. For all purposes, he seemed like any other friendly thirty-something year old man just getting by. In recent months, however, he had slowly begun becoming someone else entirely. He didn't open up to anybody about it, and as a result it had developed into an odd set of personality traits he designed for dealing with life in general.

Edward's “Most people are good at heart” theory, had been flipped at some point in his journey. The idea of it all now seemed devastatingly tarnished, and long since expired. The more he was exposed to the public, and their rotten habits of selfish and greedy intentions, the more he felt that notion was just something he once said without thinking about it, much less having any evidence to support it.

When it came to working as a clerk in a convenience store, Edward had witnessed it all in some fashion or another. This area was a leaking bucket of runny diarrhea that was assembled by some of the weirdest, entitled, and all around assholish characters that mankind could have ever manifested into human form and promptly farted out into this unfortunate toilet bowl of existence. Every abortion that lived who sauntered through that handprint smeared glass door that went “bing-bong”, was some new sort of mentally defective asshat just waiting to shit on everybody else's day…

Especially store clerks.

Edward took to writing jokes and stories about life, and the world as he had come to experience it. He felt it was much more of a productive coping mechanism than beating some drug addled, enima canue to death with a T-shirt bag full of topped off pennzoil containers. Even if one did sound potentially way more fun than the former.

Edward was nervous about later that evening. He had never done standup comedy before, and was conflicted with himself as to how he should perform it, as well as what jokes could work in that specific capacity. He had always been a huge fan of the standup philosopher George Carlin as opposed to the typical run of the mill comics like Dov Davidoff. Much like his idol, Edward wanted to write thinker's jokes. However, he also knew that a five minute set at an open mic night could only work in so many ways. Mastering it the first time out would be well above his abilities for now.

As Edward scanned through his notebook, and made notes to his routine, he was interrupted by a drunkard with a lip full of Copenhagen, a body odor that could gag a surfeit of horny skunks, and wearing partially tattered army fatigues over yellow stained under clothes. This “gentleman” was another annoying regular of the station. Edward didn't know his name, nor did he care to learn it. Edward just referred to him as “Bubba” in his own thoughts. “Bubba” the racist, and conspiracy theorist of the scummiest order.

He wasn't the fun kind of “wouldn't it be weird if…”, or “isn't it kinda interesting that…” type of person that might be entertaining on a podcast. Nope. “Bubba” was convinced that certain parties of government were bugging sex toys, and jack rags in an effort to: “spy on Mexican terrorists”, and that “the illuminati owns and controls strategic parts of the senate designed for hiding Hollywood sex traffickers”. The type of nutbag that even foil hatters crossed the street in an effort to avoid. Listening to “Bubba” for more than a full minute felt like being tased in the face with 250,000 volts of concentrated stupidity, and for whatever reason Edward couldn't explain, nor fully understand, “Bubba” felt he just HAD to impart these pearls to Edward every fucking time he came in. Edward began refering to his lunacy as a complicated from of “ear-rape”, seeing as how it was never consensual.

“Bubba” asked for a can of long cut, and proceeded to count out the $7.38 from a questionable sack of sticky nickels, and rusted pennies. His grimey shaky hands hovered over the scratch ticket display window as he miscounted the total three separate times. All Edward could think about was how he now had something to write about, and Adolf here couldn't count to fifty without using his goddamn feet. Plus, a line was now forming with each person getting madder and madder at Edward for it.

After the greasy drooling boob had finally counted out all his cash, it came up fifty-two cents short… shocker. Edward told “Bubba” that he would “cover the difference”, and then attempted to ease him out the door. Edward did not offer help “out of the kindness of his heart”. He did this so “Bubba” could ooze his way back to whatever hole he had slithered from, and Edward could get back to his real work. Most people would see the line, accept the gratitude of loaned money, and go on about their day with a skip in their step, and a song in their heart. “Bubba” saw this as a perfect opportunity to get atop his metaphorical soap box, and start spouting racially motivated political word vomit to everybody within earshot.

Edward tried to remain professional. Most seemed to understand that it wasn't an ideal scenario for anybody within shouting distance. Most patrons gave Edward a look of “somebody shoot this ignorant prick”, which Edward would contort facially with an “if only…” expression. Then “Bubba” decided to go off on some bigot tangent wailing session about how the nice sikh couple that owned this establishment were “commie towelhead terrorists tryin’ to take away our freedom”.

That was it. Once those words escaped that cracked goose asshole in his face, the gloves were off, and Edward decided it was time to act.

Edward didn't call the police anymore. In fact, the few times before when he did have to call them, they grilled him about how he handled a situation. After enough time being looked down on, he began to address the cops with his special brand of “award winning personality”. Needless to say, the cops typically treated Edward worse than the criminals they had been called in for. Edward decided to deal with unruly customers directly, and with his own form of justice, and without the pesky interruptions from law enforcement.

“Bubba” had been rather animated with his gestures, going into his phobic tirades about whatever, and as a result his chew can had slipped out of his dirty fingers, and flew like a redneck hockey puck behind Edwards counter. Edward decided to be a “good clerk”, and fetch it for “Bubba” while a meth head came in and was shooting the shit with the greaseball.

Edward had found the can, but stayed low to add some “flavor” to his dip. Edward fumbled in his book bag, and felt around for the glass bottle he kept for “special meals”. Finding it, he pulled it out. Ah, yes: “Baals Asshole Rippin’ Reaper Sauce. 11,537,000 scoville units of butt blowin’ thunder!.” Edward removed the lids, and peppered the whole can with a few healthy squirts of sauce. He then recapped everything, and gave the can a really good shake.

Bubba: “jya fin ma chaw, boy?”

Oh, I found it, “Bubba”. You have come to the wrong side of “flavor town”, ya goddamn podunk hick. This side of the tracks gets you gang fucked in the face, and then in the back alley behind it.

Edward stood up, and handed over the can while quietly awaiting the fireworks. Edward had absolutely no sympathy for him. “Bubba” was an infected polyp on the hindquarters of mankind, and were he anymore of a tool, would have “Harbor Freight” tattooed across his forehead. From Edwards estimation, he deserved even less empathy than childhood cancer cells.

Edward watched as “Bubbas” pork pie digits twisted off the cap of Copenhagen, and offer some to the toothless meth head. They left the store together to go to “Bubbas” apartment just across the street. Most likely it was to plan for a klan meeting, or jack off with “Bubbas” new gun. Either way, Edward hoped like hell he put a kibosh on their bullshit, whatever it was. Edward wanted to see the fallout, but it was satisfying enough knowing they would have to try not to shit, spit, cry, and puke everywhere for the night.

Eventually Edwards shift ended, and he went home to change clothes and fine tune his notes. Edward had been staring and flipping through his scribbles for the better part of an hour, and it was making his eyes fuzzy. The more he tried to edit, and add, the harder he was finding it to be. Edward desperately needed to start somewhere besides a rundown gas station on the asscrack end of Skidrow, and it started with fixing his comfort zone.

Edward knew he needed to take a breather, and decided a shower, and a cold beer was a good start. Perhaps some self-care, and getting away from the notebook for a second might help him mentally build on to something that he was just entirely too close to for the moment. Edward walked to his vintage fridge, and after pawing through some leftovers, located his six pack of “Gusher Mountain Lager” beer. Edward took two bottles, and went to shower. He wasn't sure when he started drinking beer while showering, but it had become his favorite way to idle down.

Edward had a couple of thoughts, and an epiphany on how he should perform tonight. He hammered out a couple of small things, some he highlighted, some he crossed out. Edward decided one last beer would help him sand the edges, and give a slight polish to the act. Edward timed himself twice. The first time, he did around a paragraph and a half. It was clocked in at about 3:17 not accounting for laughs. The second time was clocked at 3:27. Edward decided to add a smidge to the half paragraph, and include an observation. Edward had written it into about two solid paragraphs, and a fair closer. He clocked the set three times, again. Without laughs, he was at 6:25, 6:33, and 6:07. He decided to cross out the closer.

Edward was on a last revision when his neighbor knocked on the delopotated screen door to Edwards apartment. Edward took a swig of his brew, and observed Kurt waiting to come in. He stood up, and swept cat hair off his lap. Lickey the cat meowed as Edward opened the door.

Edward: “Get back, Lickey! You're too bald for Kurt.”

Kurt: (sarcastically) “Ha Ha. Scrotum poker. You're just brimming with originality, today.”

Kurt walked in, and Edward closed the door after him. Lickey the cat jumped up near Edward, as he retrieved a beer for Kurt.

Kurt: “So what's up with you today, Eddie?”

Edward handed Kurt the beer, and went back to his notebook. Edward knew that Kurt was taking a piss calling him “Eddie”. It was an ongoing joke between them about how Edward felt about the nickname “Eddie”. Kurt could usually gauge how Edward was feeling by how he responded. If Edward said a new comeback, he was okay that day. If he repeated a retort from before, Kurt knew Edward was feeling down.

Edward: “The name is Edward, Kurt. It's not ‘Eddie’. Do I look like I drive a white spray painted van offering free proctology exams with my penis?”

Kurt: “I mean….”

Edward: “I don't wanna break your heart, Kurthew, but even if I was gay, I could do better than you.”

The way Edward didn't like the name “Eddie”, Kurt detested it when Edward called Kurt “Kurthew”.

They called a truce, and chatted a little about evening plans.

Kurt: “So, whose night are you planning to ruin?”

Edward: “Those with fair hearing in the vicinity of ‘Colonelz Comedy’. It's open mic night. Wanna come?”

Kurt: “Nah, man. Can’t tonight. Beth has some tickets to a one armed vagina ventriloquist, or some-fucking-thing. I promised her, and Stacy we'd go this week.”

Edward: “Sounds commendable.” Edward said, returning back to his notes.

Kurt: “How's your dating life?”

Edward: “Dotto bird plentiful.”

Kurt: “Are you even trying?”

Edward: “Nope.”

Kurt: “ Why not?”

Edward: “If I want to be rejected, and feel stupid for asking, there's still plenty of credit cards I could apply for.”

Kurt chuckled and gulped his beer. He could see Edward was deep in thought, and knew he should probably get ready for his “date” with Beth.

Kurt: “Well, I guess I best start getting ready for Beth, and Stacey.”

Edward checked the clock. He himself should also start getting ready. The club opened in about forty-five minutes, and it was at least a thirty minute walk. Edward looked over his notes, and decided pencils down. No more add ons.

Edward: “Yeah, I suspect I should get on with it myself.”

Lickey the cat weaved between Edwards feet as he escorted Kurt to the door. Edward and Kurt finished their beers, and placed the bottles on the counter. Kurt opened the door, and turned to Edward.

Kurt: “You know, I could put in a good word with Stacey for you if you wanted.”

Edward: “Nah, better not. I've seen her. She wouldn't look twice at me if I was screaming her name while I was on fire. Besides, I still have a couple more credit card applications to try out for first.”

Kurt gave Edward a friendly nod, wished him luck, and left. Lickey the cat followed Edward into his room, yowling about who knows what. Lickey the cat was an asshole, and would protest whenever Edward seemed like he was leaving. Edward pulled on some fraying jeans, which Lickey decided were his personal plaything. Edward often wondered if his jeans would be normal were he not a pet owner.

Edward walked into the club, and immediately he could feel the stares. Edward was not only a sarcastic wanna-be comedian, he also was not one to let people dictate what fashion should be. He wore frayed jeans, bright colored dress shoes, a neon hawaiian shirt of cat faces, and a sport jacket that's lapel was lined with random enamel pins.

He looked around to see how busy it was, and decided to pay no mind to everybody after that. His nerves already were being grated into annihilation. The last thing Edward wanted was for his brain squeezing limes on the remainder.

Edward found the D.J. to sign up. He gave all the information, and asked about how long before he was up. The D.J. guessed about 15 minutes, give or take. Edward shook on it with him, and meandered to the bar for a drink.

Edward sat and waited. He sipped his gin and tonic, and cleared his mind as best he could. Edwards' brain could hear everything, but he was in a trance. He had to be for this.

D.J.: “Up next, he's a first timer on the stage! That's right, ladies we got us a virgin, so be gentle! Let's see what he's made of! Give it up for Edward Dean!”

The audience applauds were as warm as an unpaid unsatisfied hooker for services rendered. Edward walked up on stage, unclipped the mic from the stand, and went straight to it. He didn't give a greeting, nor did he waste a single second.

Edward: “Can anybody, and I don't give a shit who, explain to me the philosophy behind camouflage car seat covers? What the hell are these goddamn things supposed to be for? Do these hunters really think that Bambi is gonna be foraging in the cab of their F-150, and they'll catch it off guard from the backseat and take it down with a fuckin’ cigarette lighter?”

“Camouflage.

I see guys in camo at the convenience store all the time. You know, stalking energy drinks, and lottery tickets in their natural habitat. My only thought is: ‘you're a big game hunter, right? Then why don't you go out and find your slim jims and peanutbutter cups out in the wild, ya fuckin’ pricks?’”

“Signs.

I loathe signs, man. I really do. Know what sign really makes me wanna dropkick a newborn into a turbine? It's these signs that people have in their yards that say ‘drive like your kids live here’.....

No…. I'm not gonna fuckin’ do that! Why is your inability to pull out in a timely manner somehow now my goddamn burden? Trick question, fuckrag, IT'S NOT MY GODDAMN PROBLEM AT ALL!!

I also have to mention the irony with these signs, right? That being, that these gaping crotch rots that own these damn things, are also the same people that treat your fuckin’ neighborhood like a drunk driving demolition derby. They own these signs because they know how THEY THEMSELVES drive, and insist you don't do that where they live… the fuckin’ nerve of these pricks!

Now, I run over them whenever I see ‘em. Seriously. Taint demons present or not, I'll drive right on over them. Look, to be fair, I don't pay any mind to the real signs that the government insists on putting everywhere, okay? Do you really think I care about that plastic bullshit just because it's in YOUR yard?

NOPE!

Get fucked, be fucked, and stay fucked!

If others driving bothers you that goddamn much, then tell your little sticky pricks that YOU chose to shit out, to stay inside YOUR HOUSE!”

“My name's Edward and that's my time ladies and gentleman! Thank you, and goodnight!”

Edward had bombed like Hiroshima.