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Tales From

Wilton Manors


8 (2015-09)

The Mind Is A Terribly Easy

Thing To Waste (Final Part 3)

– Short Story Series by

FishSpit The social worker

had interviewed Bess (and me

a little bit), and gone off to find

a spot in one of our

overcrowded psyche wards.

Too many lunatics! What

irked me was that no one ever

came in to give us a little peak

into how things stood. What

was still more irksome was

listening to a flock of doctors

and nurses out there that had

nothing to do but shoot their

gobs off about stupid shit and

fuck around. Waiting for the

burn victims to pour in I guess.

But when you are on a

bummer (and I was the only

one on a bummer now . . . Bess

was in Ativan bliss), and you

are just supposed to be with

your gal on a 4 th of July, it’d

been nice if a nurse would of

poked her mug in every hour

or so to tell us where we

stood . . . how things were

going. I decided to go out to

the giggling gaggle of nurses

and docs to ask about it all.

Jesus! What a stink eye I got!

You’d think I’d just asked

them for shot of morphine!

“Who the hell was I?” “Some

sort of trouble maker

certainly!” “An impertinent

bastard!” That’s what I saw in

their eyes. Then this

goddamned uppity broad

nurse says to me, in a stern

voice as if she were

addressing a hydro encephalic

hoodlum child, “Chuck is

trying to find your friend a

bed! He’s doing his best!

You’ll just have to be

patient!” Well, “fuck you too,

nurse snappy puss!” What I

should have said went unsaid,

and my belief that a person is

a person in a hospital and has

a right to ask a goddamned

question was shot down and

so I slunk back to my room . . .

chastised. Back to my little

chair in my little corner . . .

God what a drag! Hours later

(hooray hoop whoop!), a bed

was found. It was in the next

hospital over! Ha ha! 20 feet

away! Just a push shove and

Bess a bed was now in a

ward . . . and I finally got to go

home to my gal. But this was

just the beginning of my week

long adventure of Bess being

locked away. Bess has been in

the mental health system all

her life. Literally! At the age

of two she was in a car that got

creamed on the highway and

she suffered serious brain

damage. Nothing had been

right since. 40 years later!

Soft in the head! Her

apartment, since she was a

hoarder and never got rid of

anything, had decades of pill

bottles in it . . . filled, empty,

partially filled . . . old and new.

It was a regular pharmacy.

And I like pharmacies! I like

to do a little sampling of all the

goods. See where they’d take

me! I had no computer access

so most of the time I didn’t

know what the hell I was

taking. I’d just pop a few pills

from a bottle and see where I

went. I spent most of the week

in that apartment, with them

three cats, going up, down,

and sideways . . . sometimes

turning into a tongue chewing

babbling idiot . . . sometimes

bouncing zing zong about the

apartment. And the cats

watched in awe. What made it

all the more weird was that

Bess would call every day

because she still needed

something. Half a dozen

suitcases filled with her shit

and she still needed

something! The first night the

pillows and blankets weren’t

right there at the ward . . . so

the next day, after popping a

handful of her Adderall with a

mix of Pregabalin, I headed

down to the hospital to chat

with her and bring her a pillow

and blanket. I remember I was

dressed real suave that day,

and I think this nurse had her

eye on me. She was awful

kittenish. But . . . hell . . .

well . . . maybe it wasn’t an

amorous eye . . . maybe it was

a watchful one . . . as if, “Jesus,

this guy belongs in here too.”

I won’t go all soppy poofterish

on the beauty of how nice it is

to leave a place when the poor

other bastards can’t. But

that’s freedom! And I don’t

mind going to psyche wards if

can leave at will. I actually

enjoy it. I’d return to Bess’s

condo and my three pussy

cats, and I’d get more twisted

and the next day a call would

come from Bess. I was on pills

that I had no idea what they

were . . . by now I had a system

and a color code for what pills

took me up . . . which pills took

me down . . . and which pills

took me to the moon. I’d mix

the uppers and the downers to

hit “just right.” Simple, nonpill

poppers, think uppers

cancel downers and viceversa

. . . no . . . they work on

different plains, giving you an

even keel on a higher plain . . .

an even better “even” than

anything reality can supply . . .

and, of course, it has nothing

to do with a spiritual plain . . .

just a “high” higher plain. But

the calls kept coming. The

next day Bess needed

detergent because she was

allergic to that used at the

ward. Off I went with the new

detergent. The next day she

needed her lipstick case . . .

which when found had 57

lipstick tubes . . . a hoarders

lipstick treasure . . . some had

to date back 20 years. And the

pills were being a popped and

the calls kept coming! The

next one? Oh . . . they weren’t

giving her enough Suboxone

at the ward! Would I bring som

about it? Make sure none of the s

to her as we had a nice chat abo

still to suicidal to come home and

a few more days. Tim, Fi Fo Fum

food and pets . . . when they l

experimentations . . . in that we

with decades of stuff that Bess

was only one clear spot in the

available to sit in. Again, like in

to a tiny chair in the tiny corner

come to its end. Bopped up on b

ward when they’d discharged h

bottles of pills to add to her col

reader . . . two fuzz brains return

I left Bess to drool in her corner o

filled with different pills so I co

got home. But let’s not leave you

of such whackadoodle pillsoma

might beloved peruser . . . and yo

let’s look in to the future just a

and my vileness. It ended! Yes d

today I am clean and sober. Don

been made . . . and now I regular

psyche ward and do right by her

It’s just so damned hard to fin

hoarder’s treasures, so I can mak


e? And would I be extra sneaky

taff knew. Sure! I slipped them

ut how they’d decided she was

wouldn’t I care for the cats just

, and Rumsie got their tuna, cat

et me . . . and I continued my

ird apartment . . . overflowing

just wouldn’t get rid of. There

entire apartment . . . one chair

the urgent care, I was relegated

. Like all things, insanity must

op pills I picked up Bess at the

er. There she was with 7 more

lection. So ends my story dear

ing to a jungle of an apartment.

n her only chair . . . my pockets

uld keep experimenting when I

my sweet reader on such a note

nia. Judge me as a fiend you

ur judgments are justified. But

bit and see what became of me

ear reader . . . I found sanity . . .

’t touch the stuff! Amends have

ly take that nut case Bess to the

, Tim, Rumsie, and Fi Fo Fum.

d those cats in the stacks of a

e sure they get their Friskies and

Catholic School Boys In Trouble

(Part 7) – Short Story Series by

Brett Butler Pickles was head over

heels in love. He and Louis did

everything together. Louis even

taught Pickles how to play softball.

I was a total spaz in that

department and Jordan had

become my personal trainer. He

was going to make me a sportsman

before the summer was over. I

couldn’t fight my feelings for him.

Maybe it was because Pickles was

so in love and I wanted the same. I

e-mailed Luke, but he seems to be

MIA. So as Jordan taught me how

to hold a bat, my feelings were

going to burst. Even in sweats he

looks good. I could hear Pickles

warning me not to go for him and to

wait for school to start to see about

Luke. But it was the air, the birds,

and may I dare say, the smell of

Jordan’s sweat.. I even made

myself sick as I dropped the bat

and ran back to the bunk. I lay in

my bunk so confused and wanting

Pickles’ help, but I knew I needed

to trust my own feelings. Luke was

a god and Jordan was the devil. I

took a cold shower and walked into

the bunk in just my towel. Jordan

came in and grabbed me. We

started to kiss. I wanted to push

him away, but I couldn’t. We fell

on top of the bed, he took off his

shirt, and we kissed again. Then I

heard Pickles yell “Oh my god,”

with Louis standing next to him. I

pushed Jordan to the floor. I

pleaded, “it’s not what you think”,

as I adjusted my towel. “Really

poppy, it looked like you two were

going to do it”, Louis said as he

made hand gestures. Jordan stood

up. I could tell he was

embarrassed. “It was horse play.”

Pickles put his hands on his hips.

“Horse play with your tongue

down his throat?” “Yeah, I need a

shower”, Jordan said as he grabbed

his shirt and ran out of the bunk.

“Oh sweetie, I can’t leave you

alone for a minute”, Pickles said as

he walked over and sat next to me

on the bunk. “We’ve got a word for

boys like you were I come from.

It’s called puta,” Louis said and

left the room. I felt awful and

confused. Should I have my

summer of love with Jordan, or

fight these feelings and wait till I

see Luke Roberts when school

begins. Jordan came back to the

bunk in shorts, with no shirt on

and his black hair combed back.

Pickles was like a mother bird

protecting her eggs. “You need to

stop playing my friend,” Pickles

said fixing his hair. Jordan came

over to us. “Why don’t you let

Blair decide what he wants?” I

looked down at the floor. Jordan

bent down and looked into my

eyes. “Me and you, lunch alone,

and it’s a date”, he said and left

the bunk. “Oh god sweetie, you

can’t go on a date with him. He’s

trouble and you are so close to

getting Luke.” I stood up.

“Thanks for the advice, but I am

going on this date, and I ain’t no

puta.” I got dressed as Pickles fell

against the bunk beds in shock

from my decision. Louis entered

the bunk and ran over to Pickles

to help him up. “What did you

do, puta,” Louis said giving me

the evil eye. I got dressed and

walked outside. For the first time,

I was enjoying my summer at this

camp. Next time: Luke Roberts

shows up at the end of camp.

Father of The Year (Part 3) –

Short Story Series by Brett

Butler As I’ve mentioned

before, I have been single for a

very long time since my

partner is now gone. Now I

don’t live in a cave or anything

like that. I have gone out on

some coffee dates, even to

dinner, and on a very rare

occasion, and I mean rare, a

one-night stand. It’s hard to

date when you have a twelveyear-old

son. I would like to

find that Mr. Right again and

spend, I dare to say it, my

golden years with him as I

watch my son grow up and

start his life. I was invited to an

Art Show and I took my son,

because he has started to paint

and seeing other artist’s work

inspires him. As we toured the

show, I bumped into an old

friend that I had not seen in

years. I must say, I was

attracted to him. We had dated

before I met my partner. We

talked and laughed and I wanted

to ask him out. How strange

though, I felt like I was in high

school and I really don’t have any

game plan to snag him, and I was

also scared of being rejected.

Afterwards, my son grabbed me

and pulled me away from

everyone. He was upset. I asked

what was wrong and he told me I

should have asked that guy out on

a date. I told him that I was sure he

was not interested in me, but my

son told me I was blind and that

he was totally checking me out. I

told him he was wrong, so he

gave me this simple bit of

wisdom. “This is why you are

alone, because you don’t go out

on dates, Dad,” and he walked

away. Damn, that kid is smart.

This is yet another reason that I

won’t be Father of The Year.

Our Other Publications:

Welcome Tales From To The Wilton Doll

Manors House Zine (Free)

eBooks For Sale:

1. Valley of The Barbies

(An Original Screenplay)

by Brett Butler

2. The Adventures at

Toxic Beach (Attack of

the Killer Eddies) by

Brett Butler

3. The Rhythm of Youth

by Brett Butler

4. (Coming Soon)

Alternative Nation

by Brett Butler

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