Johnny Wraith Stories

As usual, Ronald woke up just after 6:00pm. His large, lumbering form entered the main room from a darkened hallway. His belly hung over his greasy sweatpants and his hair was an uncombed rat nest. He kicked through a bunch of old magazines, newspapers, pizza boxes, wrappers, buzzing flies, and empty beer cans. Then he plopped down into his battered recliner. The springs squeaked. He coughed into his fist, like a walrus, cleared his throat, then grabbed his cigarettes and lighter off the end table. He lit up. Had a few long drags, then looked over at me. Smoke started filling the room. I was on the couch, watching CNN, using my hands to eat only the beef patties and cheese from 6 Burger King double cheeseburgers, $1.00 each, on special. Ronald grinned at me with perfectly straight teeth. They had turned yellow and dark from drinking, puking, and smoking too much. I nodded to him and smirked.

"Why the fuck aren't you eating the buns?"

"Atkins diet."

"That will kill you. Lot of trans fat."

"Not if you're in ketosis."

"God Damn! How many beef patties are you eating?"

"12."

"That WILL kill you. We'll see who dies first, and I have a brain tumor."

"I work out. And I'm in ketosis," I insisted. Then I finished the last bite of beef and cheese and wiped my fingers on paper napkins.

"Aw, bullshit. Your heart is going to plug with fat and you'll die early. Now give me those buns. I'll eat them," he insisted. He put out his cigarette end and held out his hands.

I got up and handed Ronald the paper sack filled with the 12 buns, wadded wax paper, and greasy napkins. I sat back down. He eagerly reached into the sack and started pulling out buns, two at a time, and squishing them together. A meal missing the beef and cheese, but the ketchup, mustard, and pickles were still there. "Carbs are good for you," he said between bites. Each meatless burger only took him three bites to choke down. He was a big guy. 6'3" at 280lbs.

"Carbs are the mother of your belly," I said.

Ronald looked down at his belly. It looked like he'd swallowed an over-inflated basketball, and crumbs and sesame seeds were falling onto it as he ate. He looked back at me and grinned. Ketchup and mustard showed on his teeth. "We have any beer left, to wash these burgers down?" he mumbled with masticated bread in his mouth.

"No, but those hookers left a few wine coolers the other night."

"Get me one?"

I got up and went to the fridge, pulled out two raspberry Bartles and James coolers, flipped off the lids, let them fall to the dirty linoleum and spin to a stop. I handed a frosty beverage to Ronald and sat back down on the couch with my own. He had a swig and belched loudly. So did I. We looked at one another, grinned and nodded. We watched CNN while he finished all the buns.

"I don't get it," Ronald said, while he wadded up the bag. Then he threw it into a corner where flies were buzzing around an old pizza box. I turned and looked at him. He continued, "I party a lot, act like a heathen, and wallow like a pig in decadence. Smoke, drink, stay up all night. Do the tube steak boogie with innumerable dangerous and nasty women. And you do the same."

"Yep," I nodded, "but I don't eat carbs, and I work out."

"I've been walking 5 miles a day since the van broke down. That's cardio. All you do is lift weights."

"Well, I don't eat carbs."

"Johnny, I'm telling you, that fucking Atkins diet will kill you. But that's not my point."

"Alright, what is it?"

"If we throw out this carbs thing. Just don't consider it for the sake of this argument. Then compare you and me," Ron sat forward and shrugged with his hands. "We pretty much live the same way, like damn barbarians. We do nothing but burn the candle at both ends."

"Yeah, that's true," I admited.

"You see. It isn't fair. Look at me. My house is in foreclosure. I have a fucking inoperable brain tumor that will kill me any day. I don't have any money. My broken down van will soon be repossessed. I work at a convenience mart, part time, and can't get any more hours. My body looks like shit."

"You have rugged good looks."

"Ah bullshit! Case in point:" Ron paused mid-sentence and tried to remember something, then threw up his hands and shook his head. "That hooker… what's her face?"

"Which one?"

"The one with the fake foot."

"Yeah, I remember her. Her name was Jade."

"That bitch said I looked like Herman Munster."

"Naw, bullshit!" I lied.

Ronald narrowed his eyes, shook his head slowly, and went about lighting another cigarette. He stared into space, puffing smoke. A serious look was on him. I watched some more CNN, gave him time to think.

He finished that cigarette and started another. "Anyway, let me make my point," he said. Thick smoke was seeping from his mouth and nostrils when I turned to him to listen. "Like I said, look at me, then look at you. I'm a mess. You, on the other hand, you always have money, can get up early and go to school on two hours of sleep. You have muscles and a flat stomach. The girls like your looks. Yet you party down just like me. Why the difference? All this shit just sticks to me, eats me alive. But not you."

"Can I have a cigarette?" I asked.

"Sure," answered Ronald, and tossed the pack and lighter to me.

I caught it and lit up.

Ronald pressed for an answer. "Well? What do you think is the reason?"

I took a drag and searched for an answer. "Dunno. Guess some of us die easier."

"That's a stupid answer!"

I shrugged.

Ronald aimed and shook his cigarette at me. Some ash fell onto the carpet at his feet and burned. "You're like a duck. It all just runs over your feathers and you don't get wet. I don't have any feathers."

"Why not?"

"Johnny, I give a damn."