Scott Evans's Page

My life is not so much a life, as a series of awkwardnesses.

“I'm The Pretty Pie Girl. I'm The Pretty Pie Girl,” the TV blares her chipmunk voice as she waltzes with a chocolate cookie. Her adorable face sirens, “You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie.” Computer generated smile happier than human. She's a pie with tiny gloved arms, and booted legs. She twirls. “You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie.”

Her dark partner croons in lowest bass, “I'm your Ookie Ookie Cookie.”

I select a box from the cupboard, The Hexachocolator, a six sided cake with six kinds of chocolate. In bright yellow letters it proclaims, “Zero Grams Trans Fat.”

The giggling pie slides down the side of the bowl, and shouts to the world, “Kooky Cookies are part of a nutritious breakfast,” and splashes into the milk.

Crack two eggs. Use olive oil not grease. The box says one cup, but use half. One cup, that's crazy. Beat the mix with wooden spoon.

The “real” children, one fifth as cartoonish, bang their silver to the musical and chant, “Ookie Ookie Cookie!”

How many impressionable minds watch this whorescrappening? “Ookie ookie cookie!”

A woman's voice says, “Capsulsgrave Confections are made by mothers, for mothers.”

The Pie Girl squeaks the last word, “For the love of food.” The commercial is over. The volume drops to inaudible. We now continue with our regular programming.

Pour batter into stainless steel bowl. Bake at 375.

Go upstairs. Barry is on his bed, so fat he struggles not to roll off. I feel skinny by comparison, lithe and fierce, like a tiger.

Lie on my bed. Open the logic puzzle magazine. Draw chart in bent spiral pad, low on blue ink, which makes solving puzzle too easy. Bored. Get up.

What can I say to Barry? Good luck with your operation? He's so fat, they have to cut his legs off at the knees. He's going to be in a wheelchair. I will not end up like him. I will eat normal portions. It's not that hard. Work out an hour a day. No seconds.

Get off bed. “Good luck with your operation.”

He says “Thank you,” between breaths, oxygen hose in nostril.

Look down at my coat at the bottom of the winding banister. Burt is in my pocket stealing a cigarette.

Go to office and tell Diane, perfect face and body, no chance she would ever want me. Staff can't date residents, but even if they could, she wouldn't. Her baby doll eyes, button nose, and puckering lips tell me, “Official West House policy is not to leave things out.”

Sit on couch in TV-room to fill out an application for the Office of Disabled Services, so I can go to school.

Pat sits on the other couch with blond French poodle hair, and smokes, every so often turning her head to the side and back, like a chicken.

Oh boy, here we go: ETHNIC GROUP. They don't even ask name first. Two boxes--one for white, one for black. Draw my own box, up and to the left, and check it.

Pat snores. Cigarette in mouth burning.

“PAT.”

Nothing.

“PAT!”

“Huh? What?

“Your cigarette.”

“Thank you.” She taps off the ash, turns her head, and puffs.

Second question-Age. Write fast and legible, 40.

Third question-Describe how your disability prevents you from working? You're asking me? Ask the doctors; they have file cabinets full. It's hard to put in words. I think and think. Crumple paper in ball, and throw in basket. Nice shot. JORDAN!

Step out for air. The guys are smoking. Davey is squatted down with his back against the side of the house. He can stay like that comfortably for a long time, because he's skinny. If I tried, my legs would snap. A rollie burns between his blackened fingers, he spits mucus on the blacktop between his legs. Isn't he disgusted? Spit to the side, numb nuts.

Burt has a long handlebar mustache and bushy black hair. He smiles and says, “What's up, man?” He talks funny.

Tall strong Dennis offers me a Red Pyramid 100.

“Thanks Dude. I don't buy cigarettes. It helps me cut down.”

It tastes awful, cheap, and mostly cardboard.

Chubby cheeks Nate says, “He just mooches off of other people.” Burt and Pretty Tony laugh.

Burt hesitates when he talks,“I … got … fie women … in Canton … Ohio.” He has trouble pronouncing certain sounds.

Pretty Tony raps, “I can get you ho's.” His camel face drools, when he laughs and grins. Nate chuckles, and Davey guffaws.

Nate and Tony stop, but Davey is still belly laughing. He is a boyish forty. His voice is slow, pleasant, and rhythmic, “God bless you, Fox.”

“How are you, Dave?”

“Oh, fine. Fine. Fine.”

“What you up to?”

“Vivian kicked me in the butt.”

“I see. You shaved.”

“Trimmed Miss Martha's bushes yesterday.” His face brightens, “Oh, Miss Martha is a pretty girl.” He giggles and mumbles unintelligible syllables as he brings his face into my face. I back up. Don't spit in my face.

“She gave me five dollars.”

“I hope you invested it wisely.”

“I got these and a pop.”

“So, what are your plans for today?”

“Oh, Nuthin. Nuthin.”

Why does everyone keep saying that?

“Nuthin.”

“What ya doin?”

“Nuthin.”

“What's new?”

“Nuthin.”