The first time I was introduced to this sub-culture, I was 17. I call it a sub-culture not because it branches off from some artistic origin; in fact, it is so vast but eclectic that finding an origin has proven to be impossible. Some folks point to it as the origin. I wouldn’t stoop that far.
I refer to this setting as a sub-culture because it is subordinate to any culture. It appropriates, it steals, it innovates, it modifies, it exploits, it inhabits, it rapes, everything and everyone that comes in contact with it. Porn is porn, and does fester as a catharsis among its participants; but it does not encapsulate all.
I was extremely familiar with porn by 17, but it mostly consisted of whatever was on the front page.
We had a neighbor who had a son that was a couple years older than me. His son killed himself two weeks after turning 19. We were mild acquaintances, but he didn’t buy or sell weed so we didn’t hangout very often. He was a refuge during block parties or neighborhood BBQs though. The only one at the party who was down to talk about whatever porn we were watching or videogames we were playing. He was alright, but kind of straight edge and nerdy so when he died I was shocked more than upset.
My parents went to his funeral. I lied about having pep band practice so I could hangout with my girlfriend at the time. Funerals weirded me out, and I was just figuring out how to finger someone.
A couple days later, my parents cooked a casserole to send to my neighbor’s house. My parents were both at work when I came home from school, and saw the casserole with a note telling me to deliver.
My body tensed with the prospect of going to see a grieving man. I thought of every possibility of how I could get out of it. The moment I fantasized about flushing it down the garbage disposal and leaving the dish in my room for a week or so, I grabbed the lukewarm Pyrex and headed out the door.
They would surely ask about it when passing him down the frozen food section at the grocery store, where they would then search my room (again) to find a moldy casserole dish under my bed.
I honestly would rather be perceived as insensitive and lazy than a fucking monster when it comes to chicken casserole.
Clenching my teeth, still wearing my backpack, I trudged through the un-shoveled sidewalks to his front door. I instinctively rang the doorbell and knocked a short rhythmic beat.
My current job was selling lawncare estimates to people around my area. Business was slow, but I was 17 and just saw Wolf of Wallstreet, and cared about how I presented myself.
The neighbor, I’ll call him Tim, answered the door with withered eyes but a warm smile. The house smelled like old garlic, hot pockets and dirty laundry. He greeted me, and while I looked down at the casserole I could feel him staring.
“Come in. It’s too cold outside,” he said stepping into the hallway behind him. After kicking my boots under his doorframe, I stood awkwardly at the entrance like a stunted statue.
“Shit, I’m a dick. Let me get that for you. Close the door.” He grabbed the casserole from my hands and I started the ritual of taking off my leather boots with straps instead of zippers.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m cleaning tomorrow. Sorry bout the mess, come on in.”
After half-heartedly scraping the slush and mud onto his entrance matt I tracked in behind him. Only the kitchen light was on and I saw the TV playing How It’s Made. The counter was riddled with Dr. Pepper cans and a couple empty Crown Royale boxes. He set the casserole on top of the oven when the microwave beeped.
“Thanks for coming over and delivering this, and thank your parents too. Bill and Angela are angels. How are they?”
“At work.”
“Yeah I guess they’re making the world go ’round. How about you? How have you been?”
“Fine,” as I nod and frown pretending to look casual instead of horribly anxious and bored.
“School going good? Being a senior and all.”
“Yeah. It’s the life.” I scream internally and restrain my body from continuously bashing my head into the corner of the countertop.
Tim lets out some air from his nose and leans on the counter looking at the ground. He crosses his arms; “I get it. You don’t want to be here, and I’m probably bumming you out. Honestly, I don’t want to be here either.”
Before my eyes get too big, and I bolt for the door he looks at me and smiles.
“I’m not talking–,” he points to his head with a finger gun and raises his eyebrows, “I’m talking like here, specifically. If you could go anywhere besides your home where would you be right now?”
“My girlfriends, probably.”
“Ok wise-guy, kick a man when he’s down.” Before I can say sorry he laughs it off. “Shit, ok. I’m sure this casserole tastes great, and I don’t want to offend your folks. So don’t tell them that I ain’t eating this fucking casserole. Look at this shit.”
Tim opens his fridge packed to the brim with various shapes of Pyrex and Tupperware. He catches one on top before it falls.
“I mean, what the fuck? I didn’t have this much food when Andy was around, I’m sure not going to eat all this by myself. I can’t even stomach half the shit y’all make. Again, no offense please don’t mention this to your folks, but fuck casseroles. Who has ever gone to a restaurant and ordered a fucking casserole? How many times do you guys eat casserole at home? Really, I’m asking you.”
I can’t stop laughing to respond, but I shake my beet-red face.
“Exactly! Fucking exactly! I organized this shit; casseroles here, enchiladas here, which may I add is just a different kind of casserole. Let’s not give the Mexicans that much credit. Uh, potatoes here, just fucking potatoes. We got the roasts over here which take up the most space. And, this bitch oh my god, this ugh I’m not going to say who it is but this wom- I mean, person gave me the ingredients and recipe for a crock-pot roast. I don’t have a fucking crock pot. ALSO! Why the fuck would I want my house to smell insane every day? I cooked one yesterday, shit by the way, and I still can’t get the garlic smell out.”
Grabbing onto the countertop I am wheezing and almost doubled over laughing. We take a moment for both of us to stop chuckling before he offers me a paper towel. I clear up my eyes and blow my nose.
“Aw man shit. Hey don’t worry I’ll take care of that,” and takes the used paper towel and chucks it in the trash behind him.
“Look, I need to get out of here and get a burger. Want one? It’s on me.” I can’t think of a reason fast enough to say no while still catching my breath. I nod, yes.
“Cool, we’re going to Big Don’s. They have the best BBQ bacon cheese in town. Think of this as a bribe for letting me vent. But if I hear any shit about how my trash smells like your mom’s cooking; snitches get stitches.”
Tim grabs his keys and we head to his garage. We get into his Range Rover and pull out of the driveway.
He turns down the Guided by Voices CD, and motions towards the gas station, “I gotta pop in real quick. You want anything?”
“Beer.”
“Screw you,” he chuckles and pretends to punch my arm. We pull in to the station and I play Chuzzle on my phone waiting for Tim.
“Here,” said Tim as he tosses a ginger beer on my lap. He throws the rest in the back seat where I glimpse the floor covered in Dr. Pepper cans.
We walk up to the counter and order two BBQ bacon cheeseburgers with buffalo fries, and two drinks. Tim hands the cashier a $50 bill; she marks it with a yellow pen and holds it up to the light.
“You’re stressing me out,” Tim said making the cashier chuckle.
“Just making sure. You never know with this one,” the cashier smiles at me and gives Tim the change.
“The day I learn how to counterfeit, is the day I stop eating at Big Don’s,” they both snort air out their noses and we go to the drink station. We find a small table and Tim starts gulping his Dr. Pepper while I chill with a Sprite.
We talk a little about good burger spots, where I work, and what I do in my free time. Not long passes when the cashier delivers our meals. Tim thanks her and gets up to fill up some cups with ranch.
“Any other burger, pizza, chicken, whatever spot would charge you $10 for this amount of ranch. This is the only place that understands ranch is a human right.”
We get about halfway through our burgers when we run out of ranch. I take the initiative and go fill up some more cups. When I get back, Tim has finished his burger and placing napkins over his tray.
“Hey, thanks for getting burgers with me. I don’t want to be weird but it kind of reminds me when I would take my son here.” Tim looks away from me.
“This is going to sound really weird. And please, feel free to say no but–,” Tim sits up straight and takes a deep breath, and then burps.
“Shit, not that. Ha. But me and Andy would always go see my mom on Sundays. She has dementia, can barely remember her name or recognize me. But, she always talked with Andy. Whenever he wouldn’t be there she would ask about him and sometimes think the CNA was Andy.”
Tim turns his eyes to meet mine for the first time, stops for a while, then gazes at the machine behind me.
“You kind of look like him. Not really, but you’re a young kid that’s about as tall as he was. I know this is going to sound so weird and again, please say no if you’re not interested, but I haven’t been to see my mom since it happened. I just can’t find the logic in breaking her heart only for her to forget moments later.”
My burger turns cold and my hand stays in place dipping a fry.
“It’s her birthday this coming Sunday, and it’s a hard day for her. It would only be a one time thing, just this Sunday, and I can pay. You’d only be there for less than an hour, and you wouldn’t have to say much, just listen. After that, I’ll tell her Andy went to college or something. This just happened so fast, and I’m in a tight spot.”
Old people never bothered me. My grandparents were sweet until the end. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
“You’re a lifesaver. Come by mine around noon.”
I get a to-go box while Tim refills his Dr. Pepper. He drops me off, and while I’m walking towards my garage he yells.
“You’re forgetting something!” and holds up the ginger beer.
“Screw you!”
ZCUMCORE 
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