The Turd: An American Journey, Chptr. 6 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.
Ernest walked down Cornwater Street with his hands in his pockets, fists clenched, compressing the grime on his palms into diamond dust. How could Lysette do that to him? He didn’t want to be jealous and he ran it through and through in his mind that he wasn’t jealous, that it was the principle of the thing, but he knew principle weighed half a gram and it was never the thing.
He tucked into the Downtown Market and Deli, which was neither downtown nor a proper deli, but it made due in San Eldra. A Sears and Roebuck for squeeze mustard and marked up olive oil. Even Ernest had an order in regularly, a six-pack of Pop Cock, a cherry soda brand made in an old firehouse in the city. But that day he was searching for adult goods.
“A pack of American Regulars,” Ernest said. “No, fuck it; make that Lancasters.
No sense being tight.”
Clancy, the owner and cashier, reached back and pulled out a shiny red, white, and green pack that gave the world cancer through advertising.
“Never seen you not tight, Ernest.”
“Just no point.” Ernest held the pack in his hand softly, preferring it to diamonds.
“I guess we’re in the money now.”
“You win the lottery?”
“My wife did, I guess.”
“Probably a thing you should know.” Clancy punched up the register, an old manual which even he didn’t need anymore but for the nostalgia of it. “That’ll be sixteen bucks.”
“Jesus, when did they go up?”
“Yesterday, a week before… These things are like pork-bellies but they never tank.”
Ernest pulled out a twenty and asked for matches before he took off for the five blocks back home.
When Lysette first suggested getting a Sponsor account, Ernest thought she meant a Sugar account, and he was fuming, which for him looked like ignoring Lysette and wandering the house for stuff to fix. Lysette had to show him other Sponsor sites before he’d stop renovating the house. It was mostly artists and writers, people who genuinely needed sponsorship. Eventually Ernest became her most passionate supporter, even brainstorming with her.
When Ernest agreed to stay home to be Lysette’s engineer, it was a big risk. They weren’t pulling in regular checks, but they were pulling in regular bills. They lived off of Ernest’s savings from his time at the garage, but that was running out. But with Lysette going to Ideas.com, Ernest had to do something.
Apparently, so did Lysette.
He walked by a woman shoveling dog turds in her purse, zipping it shut and patting it, giving Ernest what could best be describes as a seductive look. He scrunched a smile and turned the corner to his block, letting his anger flush his face.
“Lysette?” He called out when he got in the door. “We gotta talk.”
“I’m busy,” he heard her say. “I’m, uh, indisposed. I’ll be right out.”
When Lysette married Ernest, it was for rich or poor, good times or bad, sickness and in health… disposed and indisposed. Ernest crept upstairs and opened their bedroom door to see Lysette in her lingerie, holding a solar toaster in her left hand, rubbing her body with her right.
“Ernest, I said I was indisposed.” She turned to the camera. “This is my engineer,
Ernest. Say hi, Ernest, on your way out.”
“Lys, what the hell is this?”
Lysette put the toaster down. “Time to see a fight, folks.”
“Maybe you should just turn that off.”
“Maybe I can do what I want.”
“So you were just going to get on about with the lingerie I bought you and give it up for what? Someone buys your idea they get a personal visit?”
“Ernest Kreb, you’re an asshole,” Lysette said. “Why I didn’t tell you in the first place.”
Ernest sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why?”
“Ernie, I told you,” she said. “I’ve had this for six months, and all I get are guys asking me to show them my tits.” She turned to the camera and cupped her breasts in case anyone was lurking. “I’m just giving them what they want. They see me all dolled up and suddenly they’re buying blueprints. It works, Ernie.”
“One of the guys that bought your blueprints, I just worked on his car. He pointed you out like when they draw a map of a cow’s meat. I almost beat him up. How much of that am I going to have to put up with?”
“My stats are up, Ernest. It works. I’ve sold nine sets of blueprints just today. I don’t have to sell to IdeaBank. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah. I’m sure it pays well.”
“Really being an asshole here,” Lysette said.
“I just started working on cars again,” Ernest said. “We can have money coming in. You don’t have to do this.”
“You haven’t shit in over five weeks. I don’t know if I want you under an engine and pass out or whatever. Let’s save money to get you to the hospital, and then maybe
I’ll stop.”
“So what I can’t shit? All I’ll ever get is a big cramp, maybe shit my pants. I can still work on cars. You want me behind a desk? Fine. You put your clothes on, I’ll get behind a desk.
“Ernest, I know you’re not going to like what I’m about to say one bit, but I kind of like this. Not the guys individually, but the attention. People are buying my blueprints. Even if they think they have a shot with me, it’s still better than sitting here feeling worthless.”
Ernest walked up to the camera. “She’s married, you assholes. To me. But go ahead and buy her blueprints. Cause they’re all good and they’ll revolutionize your lives, and it’ll be the smartest simp-move you ever make.”
“And please help my husband shit,” Lysette said. “Five percent of the proceeds will go to help Ernest shit. Five weeks, folks. End this misery.” Ernest chuckled. “Yeah, folks, help me shit.”
***
Jasen had met many an influencer in his time at VidYou. Rather, he met many an influencer’s enticing nipple. He’d banned them all but a rare few who he thought had good general taste if not good specific taste. And that was big, the passing on a ban, because Bradley never hesitated to point out one of Jasen’s mistakes. His job was see a nipple, ban a nipple, and nothing else. They didn’t pay him more than they should’ve for him to be a judge. They really paid him more than he was worth to keep him from being lead hacker somewhere else.
Bradley was trying to fuck Genevieve anyways. She was a lesbian. Bradley didn’t care; kind of guy he was. So he let some nips slip through the net, and he knew at least two successful influencers. But not Tristan Miller. He found out about her the way he found out about most of the people in his life; he stalked.
One of the things about influencers is that they put themselves out there. Which was absolutely necessary for image and promotion, but terrible for stalking. Tristan shared her friends who weren’t as internet famous as her, and with Ophelia’s straight computer skills and his slick phone performances, they found out that Tristan was going to be at the Southside Morningview Center, a homeless shelter in northern San Mateo County. It was a drive, one piloted by Ophelia at her urging. She’d driven with Jasen to get Empanadas off-campus, and that was it for her being hapless copilot.
She gripped the wheel like the road was all spike strips. Even Jasen’s car was dangerous to her. Jasen engaged in every relaxing move he could make in the passenger seat, including taking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the dash.
“Do you realize how messed up you would be if we got into a wreck?” Ophelia asked. “You’d be paralyzed or in traction at least.”
Jasen tipped his index finger her way. “Do you realize if YOU drive right, we won’t get into a wreck in the first place?” He tipped his finger to his lips and tapped them twice before pointing out the windshield. “Let’s be proactive.”
“Your feet stink.”
“You got sauerkraut in your little baggie there. I shower everyday. My feet don’t smell. They don’t smell like sauerkraut. How do you even talk to people after eating that nasty shit?”
“I like hot dogs,” Ophelia said. “Hot dogs like sauerkraut. So by the transitive property of food, I like sauerkraut.”
Jasen chuckled. “Transitive property of stinky ass shit.”
“Are you sure this Tristan is going to be there? We’ve been on the road for two hours already, an hour to go.”
“If I wasn’t sure, you’d be eating those fart cannons on campus.” Jasen scratched a scab on his leg. “Her best friend thinks I’m a TV producer wanting to see her in her natural habitat. Plus, I offered her five hundred to recruit Tristan. She couldn’t wait to betray her best friend. Awful.”
Northern California wasn’t like L.A., when one thinks about California. It was mountainous and wooded, interspersed with towns and cities that were constantly on the lookout for wildfires. Daly City was their destination, the homeless shelter on the outskirts.
When they got there, eventually, as Ophelia refused to use GPS, they found a parking lot full of yesteryear’s cars except for one, a hot pink Mazda convertible, with anime animal stickers ruining the back bumper’s perfect paint. Jasen knew that was her car. She showed it off enough in her videos, complaining about how frustrating it was to manage heated seats and back up cameras. They pulled in and got out.
“See, if I smoked, this is where I would have a cigarette.”
“Yeah, those smell too,” Ophelia said. “Let’s just do this.”
They walked into the shelter and Jasen identified himself as a newspaper reporter gathering material for a Christmas piece. The reception that he got told him that he could’ve gone up to the counter and said that he was Krampus come for the naughty children, and he would’ve gotten the same wave through.
The crowd assembled were a mix of the shabby and the still trying. And Tristan, with pink braids, rainbow eyeshadow and glitter cheeks, stood behind a counter with boxes of cookies, snack cakes, and juice. The people in there would go to her leery and grab a snack, except for a few who were more starved of company than of food. Tristan guided an elderly woman to the bathroom while Jasen and Ophelia waited for them, which was minutes and not seconds. They came back, Tristan on her phone all smiles until she hit the stop button, then bored disgust.
“Hey there,” she said. “Have a snack cake. If you want to earn a hundred dollars, come into the bathroom with me. We’ll shoot your poop.”
You’ll what?” Jasen said.
“Shoot your poop. It’s for a bit I’m doing. We go in, and I get your poop on camera. I swear to you, I am an artist with this. I will make you look like the marble statue of that guy with his chin in his fist.”
“The Thinker.” Jasen said.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Look, we’re actually here to see you. We know who you are.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “You’re not like some stalker super fans, are you?”
“No,” Jasen said. “We heard about you from a coder at VidYou, Colby. We just have a few questions for you.”
Tristan let out a breath, a call that said she was just out. “I don’t have time for questions, honestly. My rank is sinking, and if putting out homeless shits can’t raise it, what the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?”
“Look, we want to know whatever you can tell us about the piss algorithm. It’s important.”
“I don’t have it,” she did. “What would I do with computer code? I’m lucky to remember my passwords.” A smile played across her lips. “I did have it though, a while back. I gave it to some guy because he said it would help his band.”
“What did you get for it?” Ophelia said.
“Who cares?” Jasen said as he picked up a box of snack cakes. “She doesn’t have it.”
Tristan grabbed the package from Jasen’s hand. “He was Uggs Maguggs,” she said. “I got desperate one night. I gave it to him and he promised never to tell anybody we smashed.”
“So who is he?” Jasen said.
“Okay, you’re not cops, so I don’t have to tell you shit. You know what? You want to know his name? Bring me something good. Get me rank, I’ll get you Frank.”
“That’s not his name,” she added before she went back to schlepping for toilet cinema.
More from Liam Sweeny…
