True Stories

Collected by Steve Hughes, Stupor Magazine

Male: Detroit
I was waiting in a smoke-choked bus station with my backpack which contained all my possessions. What do I own? Nada. Two pairs of dirty underwear, some dirty socks, a watch with a broken band, and a book called DECKS, about building decks. The wind drove the rain in spitty gusts which streaked the windows. The droplets clung like snot to the cars. And on top of it I had a nasty hangover. I met her at the pop machine. She drank diet Pepsi. Got an extra buck, I said. She did. She slid it in the slot and said, "Get what you want. Go on." Thanks. She was round like a coffee can, her head in the center of the lid. She sat on her bag with her legs crossed, and she no longer looked like a can, but a crushed and bent can. Where you going, I said. "Lansing for some dancing." It sounded like something my grandpa would say. Dancing? You're a dancer? I said. She looked at me and said, "Let's smoke. Do you?" She pulled out a pack of Newports, not my brand. Actually, at this point, my brand was the longest butt in the ashtray. So I fell in love. I don't know another way of describing it. When the bus came, we got seats in the back near the crapper. And she told me everything about her life, most of which I still remember. I have an great memory. People hate me for it, among other reasons. You never know about a person. I mean what they've been through. She told me that she once got shot in the head and the bullet was still in her, melting lead pellet. A raisin in the sun. A fly on an orange. "God, I want a cigarette," she said, "will you kiss me please." I did. "That was nice. Will you sing me a song?" I started humming to her and mouthing the words against her ear. "Today's Tom Sawyer he gets high on glue, the space he invades gets by on you." It's always been Rush's best, you know. Next thing I knew, her hand was under my shirt and tweaking my nipples. I hoped I didn't smell too bad. No matter what, I know I smelled terrible. A skunk with garlic breath. I hadn't showered for some time. I really needed a shower, that's one reason I was visiting my brother. She seemed to accept my kiss as an apology for my bad smell, and we were trying all these contorted but friendly positions. It's a complicated procedure making out on a bus. It passed the time a lot nicer than talking. The couple across the aisle was cool about it. The lady slept and the guy watched, I tried to ignore him. It didn't matter. My hand was in her clothes, hers wandered through mine. It's the most fun I've ever had on a bus. By Lansing she had pulverized me. I was tenderized. She was no coffee can, she was a barrel full of monkeys. This is all between Southfield and Lansing. She got off there. She wrote her phone number on my hand. "You'll lose it when you shower." She kissed me. Yeah. I watched her go. A man was waiting for her. He took her bags and tossed them in the back seat, and they kissed a sloppy kiss. The rain had started again. It stuck to the bus glass like a sneeze.

Male: Detroit.
We were in the library. Everyone is so quiet in there it makes me want to yell. Wake up you idiots. There's nothing in those stupid books anyway. Wake up! And I'd slap my friend on the back of the head. And we were fucking with the librarian. My friend made farting noises in the stacks and then we sneaked away before the librarian could find us. Then it was my turn to pull a prank so I walked up to the librarian's desk and she had a cup full of pennies. I picked one up. She said, "Can I help you." See the penny, I said. "Those aren't yours. Put it back." Make me, I said. Keep your eye on the penny cuz I'm fast. I tucked it against my palm, turned my hands in the air, spun around and shoved the penny up my nose. So where the fuck did it go? "Young man, this is a library, not some venue for undisciplined boys to go running around disturbing people who are genuinely trying to get work done. Now give me back that penny," she said. My friend was laughing his ass off. Of course, I didn't give her back the penny. Dumbass bitch. I was keeping the penny. Sorry, I said. And me and my friend walked out and just at the door, we made a huge farting noise. We took the bus home. There were a couple of decent looking girls on it but nobody I'd really want to fuck. But my friend was getting all horny over some chick with an umbrella. No it wasn't raining. She got off way before our stop. Fine, who cares, whatever, my nose was starting to hurt. I didn't let on that I still had the penny stuck up there. At home I went straight to the bathroom and fished around with some tweezers. I could feel it but I couldn't seem to find an edge. Later I asked my mom if it was a bad thing to put a penny in your nose. She called my bluff. "Do you have a penny in your nose?" Yeah. I tried to explain. I couldn't really. We had to go to the Emergency room. I've got an X-ray from it still. You can see my skull and then right in my sinus cavities there's this black coin. So they called in the specialists, who was a total dork. It took them about 8 hours poking around in me. Doc said there were nerve clusters up there. It might hurt. It did, it killed me. It took like everything I had not to punch him in the face. Meanwhile the penny felt like it just kept getting bigger and bigger. Like it'd never come out and I was like fine, leave it . I can work around it. I didn't understand why they couldn't just get some fancy medical tweezers and pull it back out the way it went in. Guess I shoved it up too high. They ended up pulling it out through my mouth. It was covered with blood and slime. They washed it off and gave it to me. My mother wasn't sure if I should be able to keep it, but it seemed to me that I'd earned it.

Female: Detroit
I was at a show with my boyfriend. He was being a dick again. He gets that way. So I went and sat in the car. It was too loud in there anyway, and the smoke was getting to me. So screw it, I said. I get back to the car and there's already these two guys and this strange girl sitting in there. I guessed they were friends with old stupid head. So I got in and they were passing a joint. I just passed it. And they were all so dumb. The girl drew hard on it, then kissed one guy, and then kissed the other. I snorted. Do I know you? I said to the girl. "Yeah," she said, and started laughing. She looked like a bug, the way she had her hair in these antenna-like twists. Where do I know you from? "From school. From English class." I wracked my brain. I don't remember you. "Whose fault is that?" she said, and she kissed the first guy again at which point the other guy leaned toward me like I was a trash can to throw his tongue into. I don't think so, I said. "Aww, don't be such a mud puddle." MUD puddle? This isn't even your car. "That's cool. We're just playing spin the tail on the cooch hooch." I don't think so. This isn't really my idea of a good time."That's cool," he said, "we'll just pretend you're not here." Fine, you're not here either. I had the key so I turned on the radio. Whitney Houston was hitting notes clear as bells. Effortless. Beautiful.

Male: Detroit.
My mother made me clean the basement. Me and my brother. The problem was nobody had been down there in years. You couldn't walk. There were no shelves, just piles on the floor. We stuffed what we could in heavy-duty garbage bags. Shirts, underwear—all my dad's stuff. After he died, my mom couldn't deal, so it all went down into the basement where it soaked in water and sewage that backed up through the drain after heavy rains. I'm tired, thinking about it. Smelled like a porta-john. Mildew. We filled bags and took them out back. The dresser was broken, winded. It crumbled in my hands. Dad's old wheelchair had crusted into a permanent state of collapse. Then there was the old fridge, the stains, rust and food slime remained, blackened. We carried out the washing machine and the tubs, the pulp of magazines. Now it fills our yard, a massive heap of sunbaked shit. It's been two months. Gradually it's taken on a life of it's own. The washtub, filled with rotting yellow water, houses a swarm of iridescent flies. Rats too, I know they're out there, tunneling and burrowing in the mess, gnawing through the bags, nesting and birthing in the shredded clothes. We threw a bunch of poison in the heap. So far all we killed is one of the neighbor's cats, although it could have eaten poison from anyone's yard. I watched the garbage men come by. They loaded up a couch from the neighbor's side of the alley. A bucket of paint. The jaws of th e truck compressed and thick white fluid came running from its innards. Splattering the alley. No one will take our stuff. I asked for their help. The garbage men shook there heads. "It's not bagged right. Put it in new bags." It's true. The original bags have all been torn open and picked apart. Now my mom's inside smoking pot. She doesn't go out in the yard anymore except to start up the grill, and then she doesn't even see the pile. But at least for a few short hours it smells nice around here. Charcoal and chicken.

Male: New Orleans
We all had the flu. It was the middle of the night and I was on the top bunk and crying for Mom with my brother, telling me to shut up. I was freezing with sweat, and fever dizzy. I couldn't help it. I started puking. It splattered all over the hardwood floor and my brother's bed too. He hollered. He was going to kill me. Finally the light in the hall came on, and I could hear her footsteps. She opened our door, but didn't switch on the light. So she couldn't see it, and she stepped in it. I remember the horrible crash as her body hit the floor. "Oh, my God," she sobbed, sprawling, and my vomit began to soak through her underwear. She raised her hands to her face, and the smell choked her. She threw up, all out heaving, straining, arching back, coughing up more and more. My brother started crying. My Mom started crying. I was totally scared. I'd never seen her so sick. Please, Mom, please, was all I said. I don't remember much else, except then we got to sleep in her room. By the time the puke got cleaned up, it had stripped the finish off the floor. You could see spatter marks for a long time. It was like a scar or a tattoo. That was years ago. But when you vomit, you are the same person, in the same place, at the same age, as every time you have ever vomited.

Steve Hughes published Stupor magazine, an amazing collection of wild and true stories. He's retired the magazine, but you can still get back issues from him. Just drop him a line at stuporsteve@yahoo.com

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