Citizen Journalist Loses Cock
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Samuel Mael | Expats PostThe mystery of Brooklyn Boychick’s life revealed.
March changes everything, and something happened one March morning in the not so distant past that was significant in only a minute sort of way. That morning Brooklyn Boychick woke up with a nasty hangover and no milk in the refrigerator for his Kashi cereal. “Damn if there was ever a right time for a Captain Kirk Bloody Mary, this is it. May as well live life in a desert if I can’t even get a fuckin’ drink served to me this very moment.” Irrational thoughts overcame Brooklyn whenever he sensed a Saturday about to be squandered hastily at a typewriter frustrated about being rendered lazy, unable to negotiate any rhythmic clicking. In a rush to get out of the house to grab a Russian Kompot tea latte down the road he accidentally knocked over the full-length mirror usually affixed upon the south wall leading to his bedroom. He stood over the fallen reflection and looked up at his ceiling only to notice a void that begged for closer inspection. Brooklyn’s Peter, Paul and Mary was missing from the reflection, and discovering this fact was like eating a pumice stone or hearing chuckled whispers from a futuristic sex slave for that matter. He dropped his Yochai Benkler book; he got dressed and hit the streets to go find what was missing. He started with his closest friend to see if he had seen his cock.
“That is a damn shame!” was the last thing Brooklyn wanted to hear from his best friend. But it was the only offering Larry could muster up. “Man, if I don’t find my shit, I can forget about going to the Stripper Steakhouse with you Saturday.” It was no consolation cover-up to the real heartache at hand. “Go talk to that Jewish girl you’ve been spending too much time with lately. I hear there’s nothing a Jewish girl wants more than her man’s cock n balls for her own.”
Larry had taken on a girl from a German mail order bride brochure he picked up free on Herman Street and married her on the spot in 2002. “Thanks Larry, the real problem here is my cock is missing. I don’t want to get involved in your warped political views, I just want to be myself again. You know damn well there’s no match on that dating site for non-penis having writers. And if there is a golden egg here, it is that I still have my balls.” Larry seemed a little uncomfortable, if not completely convinced there wasn’t more to the picture. “It just sounds like, you know, like King Missile. I am concerned on three levels. One, you are either on a lot of drugs, and by that, I mean to include alcohol as a drug. Or two, you are too old or uninterested in life as it exists around your every day. You know, anhedonia is a real bitch of an affliction.” Three. Yes, three would be tough to swallow. Brooklyn was already aware what three was before his idiot friend went there. Larry was damn sure he knew if three was the answer to this riddle, then Brooklyn was telling the truth. “Brooklyn are you 100% sure this isn’t something you could have avoided?” As he left Larry’s over-valued estate he purchased at the peak of the housing boom a couple years ago, Brooklyn put his head down and told Larry, “I’m a little surprised at your doubt in me, man. But don’t worry, it’s not your problem. Anyways, I always kick myself when I listen to your advice.” Brooklyn had always known Larry to run businesses the way GW runs the country – a yes-man with a death-wish and horse blinders on each eye. He would be no help on this front.
“Stop calling me or I’ll slap you with a restraining order Brooklyn. You are sick and nobody really gives a shit to hear your conspiratorial bullshit anymore. It was cute when you thought you knew what you were talking about, these days it just gets more desperate and pitifully pathetic than you realize. Prosaic my ass!” Raintree was pure scum, a Valley girl who played him to the bone in 2007 – and all the while making this cock-less guy beg for more. “Look Raintree, you know I’m not actually blaming YOU for this, right?” She was angry. Twisted. Riled up and breathing fire she said “If you are looking for answers Brooklyn, you should have thought about that last year when you had a chance with me.” Brooklyn never liked looking back, so off he went, without bothering to close the front door or say goodbye. As he fled the scene he heard the screams of an insane woman. “My cats!!”
Mom and dad were logical cock culprits, what with all the shit they had pulled on him growing up. He sat in front of Pizza Goy for a good 20 minutes pulling tiny hairs out of his prematurely punished scalp. But something was telling Brooklyn this story had already been told once before. This thought continued to roam free in his brain and Brooklyn was forced to put his head down in defeat on the hard concrete to take a nap. A few minutes later he woke up paralyzed with fear and he decided to walk over to a local coffee shop with a pen and pad thinking he’d sketch the missing member and post it on city light posts. There was something welling within him, a bitter reminder of what could have been, when suddenly there was heart piercing bang and a brewing commotion before his eyes. “I’m going to kick your ass!” he heard. When he glanced over to the left he noticed a belligerently angry driver, and a very confused black man on the ground next to a mangled bicycle. The strange conversation happened in the middle of the street, where the casual onlookers shouted directives: “No Fighting Guys!” and “Calm down! Can’t we all get along?!” Apparently, the driver cut off the biker and thought the biker screamed that he would shoot him dead were a gun handy. So he ran him down with his small-cock supplement, a giant gas guzzling machine. It all reminded him of a weekend he spent at a bagel shop on Main Street in Santa Monica last year. The smell of those bagels was unforgettable as he remembered something he had heard on the radio about how the olefactory sense is the sense that most strongly evokes memories of the past. “Fuck the past,” he thought out loud, “if I don’t get to the bottom of this I might go crazy.”
So he began to think about his network as a diagram or flow chart. It began with a drawing of his phallice and the connections it had to the extensive forms of collaboration (e.g. “the strange”) that over the years may potentially have had trans formative consequences, carefully cataloged on index cards. “Too deep?” he pondered. Then came a descriptive synopsis. Looking down at the floor where he had scattered all the flow charts and available research, maps and personal anecdotes, he wrote a matter of fact meta-analysis in short-hand. And with that came forth a page long rant, and for the first time in what seemed to be ages he felt a growth. Filled with hope, he checked under his Bermudas only to set off a massive disappointment and then a massive alarm. A curious woman sitting next to him on the outdoor lounge with her child on a leash noticed Brooklyn slyly pulling down his trousers and freaked. She hurriedly ran inside the shop to get the manager. Luckily, the leash got mangled in the revolving doorway, causing a delay when the tyke’s cranium was split when the sharp wing flew past the center shaft. Unaccomplished, and still incomplete, and now in a hurry to avoid litigation, Brooklyn grabbed his shit and took off into the mid-day traffic in search of more clues.
To be continued?
Originally published elsewhere, August 04, 2008.
Citizen Journalist Loses Cock,
Tags: 2008, brooklyn, Bush, cock, confusion, detachable, discovery, friendship, grief, hunt, loss, misery, perfume, riddle, search, strange, trauma
Thank you mystery 2-starer! WHY!?