Johnny Wraith Stories

I was 28. The archetypal fear of AGE 30 hung over me like an executioner’s axe. I’d just quit my job, practicing law, moved out of the house, filed for divorce, and enrolled in MBA school at Arizona State. I left everything behind, but my clothes and an old Nissan Sentra. A MasterCard kept me eating. It allowed me to survive until the student aid check came.

I moved in with a friend, Ronald. He’d been a probation officer. He and I used to smoke cigarettes out in front of the jail while waiting to see our clients. I defended the criminals; he kept an eye on them. I paid him $300.00 a month for a bedroom in his house. The place was a mess. The swimming pool coated with slime. Two German Shepherds lived in the backyard and nobody cleaned up the shit.

Ron was 38 and had quit his probation officer job four months before I moved in. His wife had left him because he’d run up the credit cards to about $50,000 and the mortgage hadn’t been made for months. He couldn’t help it. He’d been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, right between the eyes. Somehow, the tumor had turned him into a madman, affected his brain and judgment. As the tumor grew, he’d gone from devoted husband, green-thumbed gardener, and churchgoer to absolute madman. He’d spent the last four months gambling, chain smoking, drinking, and cruising the streets for hookers. He slept all day and howled all night.

One Friday, about 6:00 pm, Ron stumbled out of his bedroom and down the hall. He was coughing from the belly like a walrus and shirtless. His hair was matted and his stomach hung over his sweatpants. I was watching T.V. in the living room, resting from a day of class, in a recliner with feet up. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the kitchen counter, smiled across the room at me, took a drag.

Smoke left his nostrils. He spoke gruffly, “Last night was a good one. I picked up a hooker on Van Buren.”

I nodded, looked back at the T.V. Ron coughed deeply, cleared his throat, spat into the sink onto some dirty dishes, and took another drag.

“How much did you pay this time – and for what?” I asked.

“Just a blowjob. She started out high. Wanted 20 bucks, but I pulled out my wallet, opened it up and showed her I only had 8.” Ron offered a Cheshire grin. He had perfect, large teeth, but now they were turning yellow. He again coughed hard from his belly into his closed fist, then chuckled, took another drag. He flicked some ash into a bowl half full of cereal and milk. It had been sitting there, growing lumpy, for two days.

“She swallow?”

“Yup, and could really open her throat. My 7 inches vanished in that sucker.”

“That’s cool.”

“Tonight I’m going to go play poker at the casino. I’ve got a new strategy I think will win - a way to count cards and apply advanced mathematics. Want to come along?”

“No thanks. Casinos aren’t my gig. Let’s hit the taverns tomorrow night.”

“It’s a date! I’ll win tonight, and buy the drinks tomorrow!” Ron saluted me with his burning cigarette. Some glowing ash fell into the carpet and fizzled.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be home about 4:30.” I said.

“O.K. Wake me up. I feel a dump coming on, so I better get to it.” He hurried for the hall, took a few steps, but turned back. “You know, there’s a trick to taking a crap so you don’t get shit smeared in your crack.”

“How’s that? Eat more fiber?” I inquired.

“Nope. When you go to sit on the pot, spread your ass cheeks apart. They’ll be held wide open, out of the way.”

“I’ll have to try that.” I rubbed my chin and pondered the technique as he vanished down the hall.

Ever since that day, I’ve saved a lot of money on toilet paper.