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Monday, February 28, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 27 Enter The 9th Circle


The cats are very interested in the sink filling with soap and water. I’m sure that some of them have never seen this before, so I understand the fascination factor. Picking up whatever resembles a dish, I drop it either into the sink or into the bag that’s headed for the garbage.

“What the fuck are you doing out there?” he screams from his room. “Something you have never done,” I yell back. He cackles that smoky cackle of his, followed by a phlegm-filled coughing fit. “Ick,” I think to myself as I look at the yellow walls. It is hard to breathe in here, so while the dishes soak I decide to tackle the litter box.

I pull my shirt up over my nose. The cats stopped using their litter box long ago and have now taken to relieving themselves in whatever space they can find. My philosophy is to just do the chore and not get caught up in how gross it is. If I think about it I will pass out, and then wake up on the floor in this mess. I decide it’s better to remain conscious.

“I cleaned the litter box the other day,” he screams out. “Uh-huh,” I respond. I am sure that he is confused as to what year it is, not to mention what day it is. “Goddamned cats won’t stop shitting,” he adds. “They tend to do that,” I say, as I use a spatula to remove an especially tough piece of poop from the floor.

I get up most of the cat shit but the ammonia is burning my eyes, so I decide to return to the dishes. The chore takes about 45 minutes of my time, but it’s also 45 minutes that I am not making any money. While drying the last dish, I decide that I’m done here for today, but I figure there’s time for one more chore before I need to get back downstairs. Walking over to the fridge, I put my hand on the door and bracing myself for what I might see, yank it open. I am not sure what I’m seeing in there but the smell alerts me that something had “gone south” years ago. My worst fear was that I would find severed body parts; this smell is even worse.


“Um… When was the last time you ate?” “What are you writing, a book?” he screams at me. “Someday, I hope to,” I yell back at him, “but right now I’m just trying to solve a crime scene.” He cackles, followed by coughing up something and spitting it out. Thank God I’m not looking at him right now. “I get such a kick out of you,” he says. I imagine him wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Walking into his room, I come around where he can see me. “I am going to buy you groceries and deliver them tomorrow before I come to work.” For just a moment I see a crack in his façade, but it only lasts a split second and then he is back again. “Are you after my goddamned money?” he screams. “Are you after my goddamned money?” He repeats this over and over. I wait for the tide to settle. “Yeah, I can see that you are living in the lap of luxury,” I say, my face barely moving. His hand shoots out and he reaches for his cigarettes. “Everyone is stealing from me,” he says, a tear forming in his eye. I do my best to ignore this behavior because I am not sure how to process it yet. I grab the lighter off the table and light his cigarette. It shakes between his trembling fingers.

I walk back into the kitchen and look for a pad of paper to write down what he would like me to pick up for him. ”Do you have a pad of paper lying around that I can use?” I don’t get an answer from the other room. “Hello?” I say again; still no answer. Walking back into the room, I find that he has fallen asleep, the cigarette burning in his hand.

I gently take it out of his hand and grind it in the ashtray. I see this as my getaway, and walking gently across the floor, I open the door and step out into the hallway.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 26 Enter The 9th Circle

His grip tightens on my wrist and I relax. Looking deep into his eyes I can see fear. It’s the type of fear that comes from slowly becoming helpless year after year. “What do you need me to do?” I ask. His eyes look around the room. “They are trying to kill me,” he says whispering. “Who’s trying to kill you?” I ask, reaching up to cover my nose with my free hand. His stench is overpowering.

“They are, the ones downstairs,” he yells, spraying spittle into the air. I lean back to avoid getting hit by the spray, but he has me in a death grip. “Oh, okay,” I say, not really sure if they are or he has lost his mind. Right now I’m thinking that it could be a little of both. “It will be okay,” I say. Reaching out with my free hand, I try to pry his fingers open, but he holds on. “They sell drugs down there,” he says whispering again. “Do you think?” I ask sarcastically. “Goddamned right they do,” he screams, throwing his head back and letting loose with a cackle. “I have an idea,” I say, slowly wrapping my hand around his hand, trying to pry up his fingers. “What do you say if you let me go, I walk out of here and never tell anyone what I saw?” “You ain’t going nowhere,” he screams shaking his head back and forth.

“I have another idea,” I say slowly. “What if I take that pillow out from behind your back, put it over your face and kill you?” With this said he cackles like a lunatic. “You got spunk!” he says, releasing my hand and laughing uncontrollably. “You don’t need help,” I say stepping back. “I do,” he screams facing me. “The only thing you need is a bath.” With this said I step back and walk into the kitchen. “That, and some Windex,” I add. “I can’t get off this bed,” he screams. I can hear him trying to flip over and face the kitchen.

I am standing in front of the sink looking for a sponge. Maybe I will help him out. What’s it like to be so helpless? I see a bottle of dish detergent that looks like it hasn’t been touched in a while and I grab it. Moving all the crap out of the way, I turn on the faucet and squeeze the soap into the sink. While it starts to fill up I walk back into the bedroom and open a window. “They sell drugs,” he says, craning his face toward me. “No foolin’?” I respond, struggling to pull back the drapes. “You think I’m old and crazy, you think I’m an idiot,” he says, following me with his eyes. “Right on both counts,” I say, picking up several overflowing ashtrays in the room and carrying them back into the kitchen. I can’t locate a garbage can so I make do with a bag half-filled with newspapers on the counter and empty the mound of butts into it.”

“They lie to me,” he says, the panic rising in his voice. “What do they tell you?” I ask. “They tell me I’m crazy.” I silently mouth the words “you are” to no one in particular. “Listen, I’m going to help you out a little at a time,” I say. “I am going to clean a little something every time I come up here.”

“No one visits me,” he quickly adds. Popping my head back into his room I ask, “Would you like me to visit you?” He nods his head and looks at me with sad eyes. “Ok, I will come and visit you whenever I get a chance, does that work?” He looks like he’s about to cry and nods his head up and down. “Good. It’s official,” I say and turn back into the kitchen.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 25 Enter The 9th Circle

The buzzer started to sound with alarming frequency. I was afraid there was a fire in his apartment and he needed help. Everyone at the bar was staring at the buzzer and when I glanced at Don he was shaking his head from side to side. Skip, who was bartending the other end of the bar, pointed at me, and then pointed towards the ceiling. His message was clear, and I was on my way.


Don immediately set up the tray with water, cigarettes, and empty Mason jars. My dinner of one lone banana lurched in my stomach. “Dead Man Walking,” I yelled out, crossing the floor with the tray. I got to the door, looked at Don, and was buzzed into the stairwell. Climbing the stairs, I passed an old man humping Stinky in the corner. Stinky looked at me, nodded, then glanced at his watch. It was clear that he charged by the hour.


Arriving at the second floor, there was the usual cocaine-fueled party happening in the bathroom. I could tell that it was packed to capacity and could hear a choir of voices all trying to hush each other. It’s hard to keep about ten men quiet while they are crammed in a tiny bathroom, putting blow up their noses.


Walking up the stairs tonight seemed like the longest passage of time to me. Allegedly, the man upstairs pressing the button, living in his own filth, was the owner of the bar. I never saw him outside of his room, but legend had it that he used to sit with Janis Joplin when she hung out at the bar back in the 1960s. I was told that he turned a blind eye to everything that went on downstairs as long as he got paid and was taken care of.


I didn’t want to go into his apartment tonight; that was clear to me and my brain. I didn’t want to have to feed him, or worse yet, clean up after him. Just the thought of it made me grab the banister and hold on for dear life. I let out a chuckle, because at this moment I was reminded of the movie The Sentinel, where Chris Sarandon is stroking the cat while Christina Raines gets let in on the plot line that she lives at the Gates of Hell and the demons are busting to be a part of the world. Every night, the owner trapped in his room is the guardian of the Gates of Hell; of that much I am convinced.


Arriving at his “Go Away” sign firmly attached to the door lets me know that I’m here. Well that, the smell of rotting human flesh, and the sounds of the cats. Grasping the knob and turning it in my hand, I use my hip to push open the door. The stench rolls over me in waves. It seems to have increased since my last visit.

Looking around at the sea of cats swarming me, I can see an unusually large number of Mason jars filled with yellow liquid. The sight and sound of the room makes my head swell. Quickly putting down the tray, I run to the sink and cough up my previously-digested banana.


I hear him in the other room. “Who’s here?” he yells and then begins screaming it over and over again. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I call out, “It’s Geoff.” Without missing a beat he screams back, “What the fuck took you so long? I was ringing that bell for hours!!!” Popping my head into the bedroom, I see him lying on his side, facing away from me. He looks so fragile, like a baby bird. An old dirty piss, soiled, shit-stained-smoky baby bird, with a million cats, and questionable personal hygiene.


“Did you just barf in my sink?” he yells, while trying to roll over. “If you fucking messed up my house I will throw you out the window!” I figure that it would take a helluva lot of work to mess up this house, but the thought of cleaning the house with gasoline and a pack of matches needs to get pushed out of my mind.


He immediately starts with his list of demands. “Feed the cats, bring me my cigarettes, and hold that jar while I piss.” When he says this, he breaks into hysterical laughter; something seems to have tickled his fancy. Spittle flies everywhere.


Suddenly he stops laughing and tries to roll over onto his back to look at me. Once he has achieved that, he resumes screaming orders. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open catching flies,” he yells. “Feed the goddamned cats!”


I walk back into the kitchen. Cats come running from everywhere to get fed. “Food is in the fucking cabinet,” he snarls. I reach towards the cabinet door. I pause and swallow hard. The handle has years of filth clinging to it. I grab and yank it open. Half of the contents avalanche onto the counter. “Don’t mess up my fucking house,” he screams. “Sorry, I’m just redecorating,” I say. This strikes him funny, and he cackles away. “You’re a goddamned comedian, a goddamned comedian,” he says.


I empty the contents of several cat food cans onto slightly used paper plates and put them wherever I see a cat. Then I grab one of the Mason jars, go to the fridge, and throw some ice into it. Walking back into the bedroom, I put it down next to him. “Tell Jerry I want to see the fucking receipts,” he says, trying to lean up on his elbows. I reach around him, grab the pillows, and help him sit up. “Are you trying to break my ribs?” he screams, inches from my face. “That’s it,” I yell. “I’m out of here!" “I can’t do this anymore, I’m done!” I start to stand, but quicker than a flash of light, his hand reaches out and grabs my wrist. His eyes lock onto mine.


“Please don’t leave me,” he begs.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 24 Enter The 9th Circle

The crowd parts slowly as the Nazi and the six-foot-tall drag queen in the veil start to walk to the back of the bar. The looks on people’s faces cannot hide the shock they feel. When the couple reaches the mid-bar point, another, slightly shorter drag queen enters the bar. The crowd parts again and this new drag queen runs to catch up with her friends. As they get close to me, the shorter drag queen links arm with the Nazi, looks at me and winks. “Scott,” I hiss completely in disbelief. I can tell it’s him by his eyes. I don’t recognize the other drag queen in the veil but the Nazi is clearly Dennis. They continue past the juke box and sit down at one of the tables.

Slowly, and still in disbelief, I walk up to the table. “Errrr….” I stammer, “can I get you two ladies anything to drink?” I look right at Scott and say, “What are drinking tonight, Mrs. Braun?” Scott shoots me a “fuck you” look. “Two sloe gin fizzes for us ladies,” he orders, swirling his hair with one finger while motioning his head towards Dennis, “and he’ll have a vodka and tonic.” I put my hand out to the drag queen in the veil. “Hi, I’m Geoff.” This drag queen reaches up and pulls her veil to the side, revealing a giant handlebar mustache. “I’m Tony,” she says. Taken slightly aback, I think it’s uncanny how much Tony looks like Freddie Mercury. “Coming right up,” I chirp, pretending that this not out of the ordinary, and I turn on my heel.

Walking back to the bar, I can see that everyone is craning their neck to keep an eye on the strange threesome. “Oh boy,” Don says when I give him the order, “how did they make it here without getting killed?” “Do we have a policy about wearing a swastika arm band in here?” I ask. Don just laughs. “Oh, do me a favor,” he says, pointing to a table while making the drinks, “get that homeless bum out of here.” Following where he is pointing I see that a slightly skinny blond-headed kid has sat down at one of the tables. He is slowly dozing off while holding a cigarette. “He’s homeless?” I ask. Don nods his head.

I walk over to Scott’s table and start to set down the drinks. Scott looks up at me and bats his eyes, I burst into hysterical laughter. Scott gives me the “fuck you” eyes again. “Don’t you think I look good?” he asks. Now I can’t stop laughing. It comes rolling out of me like a wave. It is very clear that Scott is insulted, but I can’t stop. “I’ll be right back,” I try to say, but the laughter makes it hard to understand what I am saying. “Stop laughing!” Scott yells, his eyes turning to slits. This only makes me laugh harder.

I walk away and approach the homeless kid who is dozing off. “Hi, can I get you a drink?” He pauses in space. His head stops inches from bumping onto the table in front of him. His eyes pop open and he looks at me. “No, no thanks, I am waiting on a friend.” I look at the bar and see Don watching me and motioning with his thumb for me to give the kid the heave-ho. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to order something if you want to sit here.” With that he stands up. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask, reaching out to steady him. He nods and takes one step forward. Thinking my job is finished, I head back to the bar. “All done,” I say to Don. “Oh really,” he responds, looking back at the table. I look back and see that the guy has only taken the one step before dozing off again. 


That’s when the buzzer goes off, signaling me that I am needed upstairs.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 23 Enter the 9th Circle

I’m running. I wake up late and realize I only have a half hour before I am supposed to be at The Ninth Circle. Somehow, I slept through the alarm; it had been going off for over an hour before it woke me. Flying out of bed, I almost bang my head on the ceiling of the loft. On my way to the bathroom I slip and almost fall in another puddle of cat urine. If this is the way the night is going to go, I might as well just turn around and climb back into bed. 


This poor Siamese cat that my “out of town roommate” has left me is inches away from meeting its maker. Seriously, not that I would really take it to its maker, but it’s about 100 years old in cat life. I haven’t really been home long enough to know if it’s suffering though. I am aware that it can’t seem to make it to the litter box in time and has been peeing and pooping everywhere. It does howl constantly but then, on the other hand, it’s a Siamese cat. Apparently, that’s their thing. I will continue to monitor how it’s doing and will do what needs to be done when the time comes. So now, after cleaning up the cat urine, cleaning up the cat with paper towels, and jumping into the shower, I have twenty minutes to get to work. I snatch a banana off the top of the fridge, head out the door, grab a cab, and we zip across town in an effort to get me there on time.

Entering The Ninth Circle, I see Brian at the top of the stairs. “Hey, asshole,” he yells out when he sees me. “You thought you were pretty funny pulling that stunt the other night.” I walk by him as if I don’t hear a thing he is saying. “Good luck trying it again tonight,” he says grabbing my arm. “I will definitely get you,” he adds leaning in close, inches from my face. I pretend that I don’t hear him and head to the back of the bar.

Don is sitting there waiting to take over. I thank God that Don is working and Jerry is leaving early. Jerry is extra twitchy and wound up. I watch him and notice that he can’t stop moving. “You,” Jerry says and points to me, then motions his finger to tell me to “run”. I walk over. “If that buzzer rings tonight,” Jerry says, spraying spittle into the air, “You go upstairs immediately and take care of him.” His eyes glance at the ceiling. I know he means the guy upstairs but secretly, I was hoping that the guy upstairs died before I arrived at work, but apparently, no such luck.

I’m also hoping that Bob will stop in. An hour later the bar is in full swing and I am running my butt off. Looking at the bar, I realize that there’s the usual cast of characters, all sitting where I left them the last time I worked. I am beginning to believe that they are at the bar every night. The only ones I haven’t seen yet are Dennis and Scott.   

Two hours into the shift John walks in. He scans the room, sees me and waves. I return his wave and push my way through the crowd to get to him. When I’m a foot away, I can see that he has been crying again. “Are you okay?” I ask. He sniffles and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I am here because someone told me that my boyfriend is dating someone here as well.” “Jesus, that sucks for you,” I tell him. “I couldn’t imagine having my boyfriend running around town. I’m so sorry.” I take his elbow and walk him through the bar. A seat opens in front of Don and I push John onto the stool. “Don, buy John a drink on me,” I say. Don sees John’s bloodshot eyes, looks at me, and rolls his eyes into the back of his head.

A commotion starts at the front of the bar. I stand up on the bar rail to look over the crowd. All I can see is someone dressed in a Nazi uniform, next to a six-foot-tall drag queen wearing a veil.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

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