Am I There Yet?

© 1996 Black Hole Media Co. All Rights Reserved.

She kind of likes her menial job at Denny’s. She Puts in her 
graveyard shift, 8 hours, then back to the residential hotel. A lovely 
Victorian piece of deterioration with a picturesque view of a swill-
soaked alleyway. As she wonders if it’s a good night to score some
heroin, she counts her tips and softly makes an appeal to God.
 
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
 
Bill ran out of medication this morning. His state medical
assistance was cut off last month. He’s starting to hear those voices
again, just like when they found him out by the river. Presently,
they’re telling him that the CIA knows he’s still got the chip the 
aliens implanted in his thigh, and the agents have been putting
sodium penathol in his tap water. He knows they won’t make him 
snitch, but then there’s a knock on the door; he thinks it’s a pair of
agents come to grill him at last, but actually it’s the landlord and 
the hotel manager coming to collect the rent. He suddenly runs to 
his window, leans out and bellows at the top of his lungs.
 
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
 
It’s an okay job, as far as jobs paying what he gets paid tend to go.
A little puke or piss to clean up once in a while, or a drunk or
deadbeat to kick out occasionally, but that’s not too often. He was
reading a story in the Weekly World News about how members of 
the Knights Templar were the ones really in charge of the
Trilateralists, the Catholic Church, and the Monkees reunion tour,
when the guy in the hooded sweatshirt walked in. There wasn’t 
even any words, no “stick ‘em up” or anything, the guy just 
produced a Smith and Wesson .38 and discharged the weapon once 
in the bartender’s face. At the one crucial last moment frozen in
time as the poor kid stared at the seemingly endless tunnel of the
handgun’s barrel, the question suddenly and inexplicably entered
his head.
 
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
 
Giuseppe was hauling ass out of the door of his condominium. 
fresh in town from the relocation at the behest of his father, the 
reputed mob boss Don Jacuzzi, he was the poster boy for the
Optimist Society tonight. Hopping like an Olympian over the door
of his Ferrari convertible, his mind was clearly fixed upon the 
evening ahead. It was time to meet for coffee with the freak he’d
met through the personals section of the local weekly free 
newspaper. Nearly maintaining an erection from the anticipation
alone, he turned the ignition.
 
BOOM.
 
Ciao baby.
 
Within 2 hours, the FBI, the ATF, the local and the state law
enforcement were carefully combing the scene, scooping up 
microscopic bits of explosive material and Giuseppe as well. Don
Jacuzzi received the call late that. He thanked the agent on 
the phone, hung up and stared at the Long Island Oceanside.
Suddenly, he clutched his chest, and the most beautiful cherubic
winged figure came forth from a tunnel of light and held his hand,
and suddenly everything seemed all right.
 
Later, at the double funeral of her husband and son, Mrs. Jacuzzi
related to friends and relatives that when she entered the room, the 
Don was just laying there moaning and groaning something that 
she swore sounded like he was saying… 
 
 
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