Rites of Passage
Rites of Passage
Two weeks post my eighteenth birthday, I was escorted by a friend to the porn store for the first out of the three times I would visit anything similar to these places of business. The two visits that followed in later years were merely for novelty’s sake. Visit number two was for the purchase of rolling papers to help support an under-aged friend’s illegal habits, and visit number three consisted only of the purchase of an obscene birthday card for another acquaintance. But, most importantly is the very first trip to this business of vices and sexual exploitation.
My lack of attendance to this sex shop was not based on a fear of nudity, or a shielding of oneself from the fact that people both seek out and desire pleasure. It was simply that I never had any need to purchase pornography due to an awkwardness I felt when viewing other people’s intimacy. It baffles me how one can achieve a sense of pleasing themselves at the site of this. Maybe this mindset makes me strange, but I just find watching porn to be as uncomfortable as walking into a room and witnessing any two (or more) people fucking. Not only that, but within these movies you also observe all of the horrible and embarrassing dialogue leading up to the visit from the well-endowed pizza delivery boy. And sometimes the secretary and her boss’ in-office affair.
It can be assumed that my friend who played the role of the over-eager adult shop usher on the evening that fell two weeks after my birthday was for some reason or another under the impression that browsing through aisles of sex toys and absurdly explicit publications was a significant portion of my becoming an adult. Perhaps it was a trail to manhood of some sort. He was the type of person who was fairly insecure, and, as a result, was very overly-heterosexual. Kids in our high school found a sense of excitement in drilling him with accusations of being gay, so in retaliation he saw a great need for flaunting his love for the female gender (as well as his lust for certain universally desired parts of their anatomy) at any given opportunity. Regardless of one’s sexual preference, I did not see the point in anyone, let alone myself, making such an inane trip at a very blasphemous hour. But then again, I also did not see any sense in reaching that prophesized holy-land of adulthood that was assumed to be encompassed in this trip. I guess that this scenario is where that classic expression of incomprehension is beaten into the ground like dead people or cigarette butts. To each their own. I just felt that my path in this undesirable process towards the cliché nine-to-five-wife-and-kids could do without the documentation of fake tits and grade F acting.
His Toyota pickup pulled into the dimly lit and exceptionally sketchy parking lot in a certain low-income area of town shortly after three o’clock in the morning. I clutched my fingers around the oh-shit bar below the door latch in utmost terror as we found a parking space approximately twenty five yards from the main entrance. Pale-faced lurkers, graced with green-tinted skin and black rings around their eyes, circled the lot like vultures. Their movements mimicked the slow totter of the flesh-eating zombies I had seen in cheesy, low-budget horror movies.
“Shoot the head, kill the ghoul,” I whispered, in an attempt to humor myself under the hum of the engine as the keys turned the air to silence. The stillness was interrupted every few moments from one of the creatures staggering and dragging their feet at a pace which dusted the gravel land. A promise of safety could only be achieved if a gun was nearby.
Shoot the head kill the ghoul.
Realistically a gun may have been a little bit too harsh. Surely, we could have also been insured a safe and short walk to the door had there been a neighboring methadone clinic. I was then forced to follow the plan of option number two since we lacked both proper zombie-fighting equipment and heroin-battling facilities. This involved opening the car door, quickly placing a firm hand overtop of the door lock, promptly exiting the vehicle, slamming the door shut, and then making a quick dash for the porn store entrance.
After some thought and careful planning followed by the actions according to the chosen strategy, option number two was a success. I tugged the entrance door open, and quickly jerked my hand away. It felt as though there was a coating of some horrible grease or Vaseline along the surface of the handle. Appalled, I dreamed of a sink to wash my hands in that was not a sink inside the bathroom of a porn store. God knows what the bathroom door handle could have been coated in.
After we walked through the doors and into the store, my friend reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He ripped through the Velcro like he was opening a Christmas present, and then shifted from his excited movements to a careful unfolding of the nylon. He proudly reached into his billfold and handed me a twenty dollar bill.
“Happy birthday,” he said, looking at me, followed by insinuating glances towards the rows of ungodly sexual exploitation that existed to my back’s view. I assumed that my present was supposed to come from one of the shelves.
“You should probably get a video… you can always get magazines from gas stations.”
“Thanks,” I said in an uninspired tone, not knowing exactly how to properly react to his awkward presentation of a gift. Would it be rude to decline his suggestion and ask him to take me somewhere less discomforting at some other time? The level of uneasiness and embarrassment was comparable to molestation. This had to be illegal. A gift-rape of some sort.
Before I could ask any questions of possible alternatives to the money-spending option he had given me, he had vanished in the blink of an eye. He then reappeared in the following blink approximately twenty feet to my left. He was picking up what seemed like every video within his view. His eyes grew wide at the grotesque images adorning each movie’s cover, and a slight smirk crossed his face. I stood still in terror, taking on the role of a deer staring into the headlights of failed Hollywood aspirations, excessive plastic surgery, and the false pride these women possessed to mask their low self-esteem.
With a shit-ton of hesitation, I tried to mimic his expertise of porn store etiquette. However, even with my desperate attempts, I could not seem to clearly focus on the plot description of such films as Anal Submarine 2. Maybe I was just distracted by the cover photo of a naked woman standing on top of the submarine. Or perhaps my embarrassment was rooted in the fact that I could not properly reinterpret the child-in-the-toy-store excitement he obtained within each and every step. Either way, I was stuck wandering the aisles aimlessly while questioning my masculinity based on a sheer level of disgust I encompassed from the site of fetish videos and blow up dolls.
Suddenly, I was further robbed of my consistent breathing pattern as a hand grabbed my shoulder and frightened me to the borders of defecation. In my head, I was moments away from being forcibly removed from the premises, eaten alive by the undead, and then penetrated in a very violating and nontraditional sense in some grimy, dumpster-ridden back alley. Instead of the monster my imagination had created, it was just my friend with a look of joyful unearthing in his eyes.
“Dude, you have to check this out,” he said in a tone that seemed to be a little bit too excited. Based on his voice, you would have thought he was presenting me with a copy of documented cinematic genius. As it could be imagined, sadly, I was very wrong. Instead the box held the title Ream His Midget Rectum.
The title was far less graphic than the cover’s image, which depicted a large woman, who was scandalously clad in leather bondage attire, artificially penetrating a certain male individual who was lacking in height. I was truly speechless towards his finding, or probably more so disgusted with the delight he acquired from his discovery. It was impossible to even attempt to forge an ounce of enthusiasm in some sort of cheering tone, congratulating him on his keen porn detection skills.
In a desperate attempt to avoid inflicting any sort of verbal retaliation, I turned around and hurriedly walked towards an inviting sign that read, “Value-Rack.” My eyes never left the neon poster board display, as I ran my hand along the outer edge of the video cassette cases. I randomly selected a video after counting to eight-Mississippi, and then walked in a determined step to the counter located at the front of the porn store.
The lady who worked the register glared up from her romance novel and into my face through her dying eyes and reading glasses. Her whites were grays, and her irises possessed a color that I was unable to comprehend. Veins bulged through her hands and ran to her knuckles. They operated her fingers like a marionette show.
“Babewatch, huh?” she asked in a quaking voice.
“I guess so.”
The register presented me with my total cost, so I handed her my belated birthday twenty dollar bill. My dirty money. The drawer let out a victory chime as the transaction was completed, and I grabbed my plastic “thank you” bag and walked to the door.
In the process of leaving, I discovered that the goddamned exit door handle was coated with the same greasy shit as the entrance. I grunted out a burst of pissy disgust, and began scrubbing my palms over the top of my jeans. Goddamn porn store. I vowed never to return for any reason whatsoever.
I stood in the doorway for another few minutes while waiting for my friend to finish his purchase. He had two or three movies in hand, as well as a magazine. It was probably an entire week’s worth of pay placed into the acquisition of parading his loneliness and solitary pleasure. He declined the plastic “thank you” bag, as if he was ready to flaunt his newly obtained items to me, or whoever else might have been serving as a spectator to the desperate people leaving the building. Perhaps the truck driver who was standing in line behind him would be somewhat impressed.
I rested my sight on the passenger door of the pickup truck, which was parked approximately twenty-five yards from where I stood. My eager-to-leave mindset declared that car door to be my only escape from the four walls of debauchery I had just experienced. My friend made quick and awkward small talk with the bearded trucker in the red mesh cap, and then he slowly made his way to the store’s exit where I was waiting. Once he was outside, my footsteps to the car were fast and determined. We reached the door of his vehicle, and the interrogation began.
“So, how does it feel to no longer be a porn store virgin?”
“Violating.”
“Didn’t you like it?” he asked.
Honesty was now posing as a lack of appreciation towards his belated birthday present. I searched for a response that could be both honest and grateful, but my quest for words was cut short by a blood curling scream from across the parking lot.
My upper torso quickly turned one hundred and eighty degrees, only to witness one of the parking lot vulture-junkies biting into the neck of the truck driver. Cream-colored teeth sunk deep into his skin, and blood fell like a waterfall, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Milliseconds later, more of the pale-skinned undead began staggering out from behind the corners of the building. The street light projected swaying shadows onto the face of the building, and the zombies’ pace slightly quickened as their deep-sunken eyes grasped focus on to the helpless bleeding and bearded man. He lay on the concrete and screamed for any sort of help, resting in a pool of his own blood and insides. The rotting fingers and teeth ripped through his navy blue button up shirt and into his stomach and chest, tearing him into tiny bits and pieces. I stood helplessly and watched him die. His screams slowly faded, as his body and life were consumed by the horrifying creatures circling around him. When they had finished, I could do nothing more than stare at the maroon stain on the parking lot asphalt. I was a helpless statue to their nearing wrath.
When I was able to regain control of my thoughts and motions, I spastically tugged at the passenger-side door handle of his truck. The plastic to metal pounding woke my friend from his trance of disbelief, leading him to hurriedly and shakily pull his accumulation of keys from the side pocket of his jeans. My repeated door handle tugging continued. The zombies were now a mere cars-length away from us.
After a brief sorting through the large compilation of house and work keys that were on the small metal ring, the key dedicated to the opening and operation of his truck was then discovered. He inserted it into the drivers-side door, jumped into the car, slammed the door shut, and then cranked the engine.
“Let me in, you fucker!” I screamed through the closed window.
He glanced at me apologetically, as his right foot slammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. My grasp was ripped from the handle, and my fingertips squealed along the side of the departing vehicle. He drove fast, beyond the single streetlight, and his taillights soon disappeared with the sounds of the motor into the moonlit early morning streets. The undead approached. They were an arms length away, and I felt their fingertips against my face. Their skin felt like it was encrusted with Vaseline.
As I was beginning to accept my death (or perhaps, my un-death), their hunger-pained moans were shattered by the sound of gunfire. The night began raining blood, as the skulls of my killers began exploding, one by one. I felt the weight of their headless, greasy bodies fall onto me, burying me in a mess of red and decaying flesh. What was once my vision lit by a solitary street light, was now blackened by the large pile of dead bodies overtop of me.
The weight soon lessened, and light cracked through the black. An opening circled by the silhouette of various motionless appendages was formed, and I saw my potential escape. As I surfaced, I saw the dying-eyed clerk standing at the bottom of the mountain of zombies. She held a smoking pistol in her hand as she smiled at me from behind her reading glasses. Her whites were grays, and her irises possessed a color that I was unable to comprehend. The marionette show on the tops of her hands saved my life.
She carefully walked me inside of the porn store, and then to the storefront. I rested my back against the wall. She brought me a blanket and a glass of water as we waited for the police to arrive.
“You’re lucky that I got there in time,” she informed me.
Though her statement was nothing shy of obvious, I thanked her again for saving my life. She stood beside me as I sat with my shoulder to her knee, and I felt safe. I was a toddler resting at the feet of my mother. Nothing could harm me here.
Moments later, we saw the blue flickers skipping on the walls. Two unmarked police cars were parked by the entrance, and four men with suits and sunglasses walked from the automobile doors and into the shop. No awkward hellos, or small talk ensued. My temporary mother nodded as the men helped me to my feet.
“You’re going to need to come with us,” said one of the four men. I did not see which one had spoken, but it might as well have been any of them. They all dressed the same. Dark suits and dark glasses. They all moved the same. Fast paced and with a purpose. Simple and repeated intimidation must be the only thing necessary to maintain regulation in the case of our world’s various ridiculous incidents.
We all began walking, and I was placed into the cozy leather back seat of one of their Crown Victorias. The car started smoothly, and as we drove, I admired the city’s skyline. The tall buildings’ roofs peaked overtop of the hills and curves in the road. I watched it shrink through the rear window as the trip progressed, until it was buried in the dips and turns we had taken. All of outskirts’ trees and trailer parks had swallowed the display of my prior location. After a fairly long drive, I was taken to their law enforcement headquarters. Upon my arrival, I was escorted to a white room, where I was then placed in a steel chair at the end of a long white table. Two of the four men in suits and sunglasses stood beside me and explained the story behind the local epidemic that was bringing the dead back to life.
“Nobody knows why it has happened, but the city has had them quarantined for research’s sake. Due to a reoccurring electrical short in the protective fence, the undead occasionally escape.” And apparently, the investigative facility was located two blocks from the porn store, and they were, for some reason or another, drawn to the florescent light that was projected from the street lamp.
After further explanation, I was asked not to mention this to anyone I knew. If the truth about the existence of paranormal studies within city limits got out to the rest of our community, there could be a potential uprising of citizens relocating to other towns. This unrest would, of course, be based on a universal fear of mankind being harmed by the dangers of the unknown. Due to my exhausted state, I agreed without hesitation in an attempt to get some sleep as soon as possible.
“Is there any chance that one of you could drop me off at my house?”
“Remember, no one can know about this,” the cop commanded.
I nodded.
The drive home was much shorter than the trip from the porn store to the police headquarters. I was given a written excuse from the officer, which allowed me to miss the following day of school. After stepping out onto the comfort of my own driveway, I closed the car door quietly and waved to my chauffer. After the headlights were invisible from my driveway, I walked my belated birthday plastic “thank you” bag to the green trashcan. I buried it under empty cereal boxes and the week old leftovers that had been thrown out of the refrigerator. It was now time for bed.
The department had called my house immediately after the incident and told my family that I had witnessed a convenient store robbery and had to be detained throughout the course of the evening for the purpose of questioning and identifying the criminal. So that not only gave me a day of rest, but some sort of interesting hero status amongst my family as well. I experienced an incredible undisturbed slumber until two o’clock the next afternoon. My mom brought me some toast, grits, bacon and eggs. I sat upwards with my back against the headboard, and ate my late breakfast. In between each bite, I struggled with the inventive answers to the millions of questions that my mother had. After about five minutes of describing the robbery according to the way the police told me it should have happened, I told my mother that I was tired and did not really want to talk about it anymore. She apologized and took my empty plate. I tucked myself back into bed and slept until the following morning.
When I woke up, life returned to normal. Between school, life outside of school, and a continued absence from the porn store, I kept myself both entertained and occupied. Shortly after saving my life, the dead-eyed clerk had quit her job as the clerk. She now works at a used book store. I see her occasionally and we talk about our favorite authors. She likes Hemmingway. I like Bukowski. So we both get along fairly well. I finished up my high school career and moved onto college. Just as the gods of the porn store experience had prophesized, I was also another step closer to the world of adult hood. I did not talk to my friend who had abandoned me anymore after the incidents of the night two weeks post my eighteenth birthday. After I graduated high school, I was told that he had moved into a one bedroom studio apartment, came out of the closet, and became a magician for children’s birthday parties and church functions.
I was dragged to a bar by some acquaintances two weeks post my twenty-first birthday. It was not one of the quaint, friendly bars where you can have a drink or few to inspire intimate conversation with the surrounding people. I had already been there several times. It was one of the nightclubs where the music is bass-driven and entirely too loud. No one talks; everyone just dances like they’re fucking, and flirts through their appearance. Maybe someone gets to take someone home at the end of the night. It seemed to be easy and silly. I was not totally sure how the typical college nightlife worked, but knew enough not to want to take part in it.
We approached the neon-colored club doors. We could feel the kick from the bass that existed inside the building. There were visible flashing lights through the tinted windows. Two large men, complete with goatees and tribal tattoos, stood in a position blocking our immediate access.
“See some I.D.?” one of them said in a falsely deep voice. The voice was artificial based on the fact that it is the kind of voice that twists reality and enlarges the size of his biceps and body mass. I was about ninety percent sure that his voice was close to a half an octave higher that it appeared to be. We were rightfully intimidated by this facade, but followed his simple instructions. I withdrew my driver’s license from my wallet.
We were granted admittance, and I walked in front of my friends in order to reach for the entrance in an over-exaggerated manner of gentleman-like sarcasm. As my fingers began the action of clutching the steel, I felt them sink into what felt like a layer of Vaseline coating the door handle.