Oh S**t I Didn't Think of a Title

Tied for 2nd in the 2nd UEMB writing competition

It wasn’t supposed to have been this way. It didn’t need to be this way. You looked down at your hands

with regret; wishing beyond hope that it had not happened that way…

“Wish in one hand, s**t in the other, brother,” said the man sitting next to you on the bus. You grunted

in reply. You must have been talking to yourself; it was only Tuesday, but you were exhausted beyond

reason; you had gotten out late from job number one, and though job number two had no time clock,

you knew they would notice your absence, and retaliate. I wish there was more to life than the hustle,

you thought to yourself again; sure to do so silently this time.

Still, the man turned to you. “I mean it brother, s**t in your hand.” You looked over at the man, disgust

surely evident on your face. By his appearance, he had probably taken his own advice more than once.

“Indeed I have, brother,” said the man as a wry smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “And I

wished in one hand too.” The bus slowed to a stop. Your stop, you realized, as you hurriedly grabbed

your sack and departed, intending to not spare the man another thought. As you ran the remaining

blocks to your cash-paying non-union cheese sandwich factory job, however, he gnawed at your mind. It

felt almost literal, as if the hot oily stubble of the s**t-hand-man hovered just far enough away from the

back of your neck to go un-noticed as he lovingly mouthed the contours of your parietal lobe. You shook

off the thought; then shook again- as if the thought of the man was in fact attached like a leach to your

brain. You were still shaking as you pulled open the doors to the large nondescript corrugated steel

building where sandwiches were born.

They beat you that night.

The fellow scab who had covered your position in the assembly line now began to remove your pieces of

cheese and throw them to the floor. “What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” shouted another scab

across the line. “Boss this a*****e is throwing cheese everywhere!” another shouted as he pointed

towards you.

“Listen here you little f**k,” said your manager as he grabbed you by the collar and pointed to the

cement floor, stained with yellow streaks of congealed vegetable oils with cheddar powder added.

“Every goddamn piece of cheese on this floor is worth more than your s****y little life.” With a heave, he

tossed you to the ground.

“I wish I could throw you into the gears, like they did in the old days,” your manager growled as he

walked away. “I’m taking a piss,” he shouted back at the other employees as they shut down their

stations momentarily. “Y’all go ahead,” he reached down to pick up a stray wrench that OSHA would be

very upset to find. “Enjoy a nice break.” He hammered the wrench into the wall as he left the building,

resulting in an echoing metallic clang. Your fellow scabs began to crowd around you where you laid on

the floor.

Time passed by quickly during the beating and immediately after, and soon it was time to return to job

number one. As you stood in the cold waiting for the bus, you felt it again… the gnawing.

Still wishing for something more? Said the man’s voice in the vignette which played out in your head; a

fantasy in which he had stepped from a darkened ally to address you. As if the disheveled bum held

some sort of mystical secrets to imbue. ‘S**t in your hands’ you though to yourself mockingly as you

boarded the bus. Sage advice that.

“You’d be surprised where the best advice comes from,” said the bus driver as he nonchalantly looked

your way. The mass of bodies behind you surged forwards, pushing you onto the bus and into your seat.

You were tired, your head ached profusely from the beating. Did you have a concussion? Were you

disoriented?

Were you oriented? Had you ever even been oriented? Had you been to the orient? You shook your

head again; seemingly having picked up a new nervous tick to add to your hoard of neurosis. Your head

continued to shake, seemingly of its own accord, when you felt it again; the imagined oily stubble of the

s**t-hand man hovering over your shoulder. You could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, the

tickle of his upper lip as his mouth opened, the wet sounds of his suckling close enough to your

trembling ear to register over the sound of the crowded bus. You could feel him as he took a mouthful

of your hair and began to chew.

You could feel him as he took a mouthful of hair and began to chew.

The scream was trapped in your throat as you strained with every available calorie of energy in your

exhausted body but you could not pull away. Like a snake swallowing prey much larger than itself, the

s**t-hand-man slowly worked his way up the chord of hair he held in his mouth, until finally his chapped

lips pressed themselves against your scalp. He began suckling now, the force of his suction bypassing

your flesh, bypassing your skull. You felt him anchor into your brain.

“This is all a hallucination,” he said as you looked around at the now empty bus.

And it’s true; you’ve only just imagined this. You’ve been drugged: I drugged you. My words have, in

your mind, created a world. Within that world, we have created a man. We are a triumvirate. Myself,

the father; the creator. The s**t-hand man; our prodigal son. You, the reader, the observer, the holy

ghost which breathes life into the work.

“I am as you have made me.” The disgusting man said as he faced you with arms spread. “What do I look

like? How do you see me?”

You would have seen him differently had I told you to.

What now then? Are you still disgusted by this man we have made together? Are you upset that I have

put him into your mind? I did not force him onto you; you took part in his creation willingly. Embrace

him. Feel his warm breath, the tickling nibble on your earlobe. He loves you. Realize that he loves you.

Realize that he is part of you now, that the thought you have given him is your thought. Realize that

your thoughts are incomplete without him.

Seize him: he is your Sword. He is the wise old man in the cave. He is the light. Carry him in your heart;

use his strength to do what you know what must be done. You didn’t want it to be this way, but you

know you must come full circle. Look down at your hands with regret. Take a deep breath. Thy will be

done. Make your wish.

…

…

Did you really just do that?