The sound of a miniature chainsaw briefly, yet lengthily molested the tympanis of my ears.
Because it was so abrupt, and because I was so asleep, I immediately and in a panic sat upright in my bed—my heart is well acquainted with the palpitations that followed; for many years I used an alarm clock that would violently yank me from the world of dreams and spit me out into disappointment; my heart would be livid in its chamber of being. I looked with disgust upon the device that I had thought was a chainsaw—it was just my cell phone, obviously. And the real culprit behind all of this was Patrick, my friend. He had sent me a text message. It read:
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
I looked around the room and sighed. I checked the time and saw that it was 6:06 am and I responded:
“what the fuck is that supposed to mean and why is it 6:06 am”
I turned my phone on silent because I realized that he had opened up a dialogue that would easily surpass the span of three or four messages; I did not have the tolerance or really the curiosity for such a dialogue. I went back to sleep. I awoke again at 9:27 am. At this point he had filled my inbox practically with message after message, 11 in total.
“why is it 6:06 am? It just IS 6:06 am, are you retarded?”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
“Tonight I will do more with my penis than just pee.”
He literally sent it over and over again and spaced them out so that I received one message every five minutes. I was sort of confused. He had stopped sending them a bit before I woke up.
I lied in bed a while and wondered what he was talking about. I suppose he must have meant that he is going to have sex tonight. The routine motions that a male goes through with his penis are urination, masturbation, and copulation. Since he said that what he will be doing is more than just peeing, I immediately crossed that act off of the list. That left masturbation and copulation. I went out on a limb and assumed that he was not referring to masturbation. That is simply because friends rarely discuss their masturbatory lives with other friends, and it would be extremely odd I suppose to discuss through text message with a friend at 6:06 am. So, copulation must be the more than peeing that Patrick will be doing tonight. Men are often pretty excited about the act or prospect of copulation, so that sort of solves the mystery of why he would be informing me of this at such a strange hour.
“who you gon fuck?”
I sent, naturally, and waited for a response.
In the meantime, the sun filtered into my window through a rectangle of glass broken into columns by the wrought iron lines that run parallel to one another. I could hear the sound of a massacre of verdure being committed across the street by some neighbor’s lawnmower. Genocide—No, upkeep. I heard a buzz.
“Francesca.”
I smiled. Francesca is the girlfriend of one of our good friends, Kevin Ralston. It all made sense now—the odd hour, the emphasis, the strange wording. Patrick and I had been harboring secret crushes on her since…Well, always, I suppose. The wallpaper on my cell phone is a candid pic of Francesca lying on her side drinking a Monster energy drink. How did he manage to swing that?
“What how u do dat?”
We all sort of joked about it out in the open; either Patrick or myself would talk about how one day we were going to run away with Francesca and start a family. Kevin would laugh and think it was funny and we would do the same.
“idk. les mots.”
Les mots. Whenever we talk about girls it’s always les mots:
“Jesus Patrick how did you get her to go out to dinner with you?”
“Les mots,” he’d say with a smile.
Or,
“Christ Patrick, she had sex with you? She looks like such a bitch, how the hell did you manage that?”
“Les mots,” he’d say after creating a noise with his lips that sounds like “tsk” and a look on his face that meant “shit, don’t you know this already?”
I responded to his message,
“lol. Where u gon do it?”
I was really curious. At this point I had gotten up and gotten dressed and began thinking vaguely of coffee. I noticed that my eyes lingered for quite some time upon the magnetic knife rack on the wall by the garbage can in my kitchen. Maybe I was just tired. My thigh twitched:
“kevin’s apt. he goin out of town tonight haha.”
I grinded my teeth a little then smiled. I thought that I should probably go out and get some coffee at this point since it was almost 10 am. I figured I should polish one of the heavy stainless steel butcher’s knives first though.
“lol jesus ur psycho.”
I polished the large knife with care and then I put it away in my back pocket, I guess. I left my house at 10:07 am and decided that I’d go to Java Joe’s because everyone knows that’s the best coffee in Binghamton. I figured maybe I’d pick Patrick up—you know surprise him, because he likes coffee too. So, I headed to his house on the East side.
I left Patrick’s house at 10:26 am and went to Java Joe’s and enjoyed a coffee and raspberry parfait. I read the Press & Sun Bulletin for a little while. All of these quotidian devices like clocks and the news got me down so I turned myself in at the Binghamton Police Department located downtown and told them what happened.
This has been my confession.
12:06 pm.
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