The White Turd by Walter Rogers

Chivo and I got into my Pontiac 6000, a car I named the Exxon Valdez because it leaked so much oil, and we headed west on Interstate 30 to Las Vegas Trail in west Fort Worth.

“Does Frank have the shit?” Chivo asked.

“He said he did. I hope so. But you know Frank.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Chivo was a little nervous about our trip to Drug Land, which is any area of town where lowlifes, gangstas, white devils and the worst of women live, even though he knew kung fu. He could take nunchucks and do that Bruce Lee shit with them. But, for whatever reason, I never asked him how he learned how to do that shit. His two young boys took karate classes. Anytime they tried that black belt shit on me I’d just push them down onto the floor.

I wasn’t nervous at all going into America’s version of the dark jungle because I wanted some fucking weed and if Frank didn’t have it I’d be pissed off. I never had a problem of being scared. I was lousy at life so I didn’t give a fuck. It made no difference to me whether I lived or died. I just wanted to dull my senses from reality and to do that I needed some green.

Frank said he had a half an ounce he wanted to sell so he could use that money to pay for a whore who lived at his apartments, The Villas at Sierra Vista, a Section 8 dump, full of white and black trash and some illegals. The whore was a middle-aged black lady in an apartment in the building over from Frank’s. She’d given him head before for a couple of joints. He liked it. Now he wanted to score a touchdown by sticking his dick into her nappy haired pussy.

“Think we should stop at the 40 ouncer store before we hit Frank’s?”

“Yeah,” Chivo said. “I need some beer and smokes.”

I got off of I-30 and turned south on Las Vegas Trail. The ‘Lil’ Trail Store was on our right one block down. I pulled in and we got out and went inside. The place was a 7-Eleven wannabe but had shit in it for extremely poor people to buy by using food stamps and Texas’ CHIP cards. A coin operated laundromat, a MetroPCS store and a beauty supply place was in the same half block strip “mall”. I was at this place before when visiting Frank and some gone terribly wrong Mexican lady with sun weathered skin and jet black hair, making her half Spanish conquistador and half Native Indian, asked me for cash for her CHIP card. I asked her if I could buy smokes and beer with it.

“Si, si, si. Yes.”

I knew she was lying but it was a good deal. Pay her $30 bucks for a $50 dollar CHIP card. But you can’t buy jack shit with those cards unless you’re in a ‘hood store and ‘Lil’ Trail Store wasn’t ‘hood enough to do that. They were on the borderline of ‘hood and was really considered ‘hood lite. Cops prowled the area because of all of the Section 8 housing complexes around, and this being a predominantly white part of Fort Worth, and they knew to keep a look out on CHIP abuse at this convenience store. Now, if I’d been in the Stop Six area, east Fort Worth, on Riverside Drive, I would have bought the card no problem to help the illegal out because those wannabe 7-Elevens there wouldn’t question you buying 40 ouncers and a few packs of Basics with it and the cops in that part of town, where the Bloods and Crips entrenched themselves in the 1980s, resulting in fantastic murder scenes, including an after hours bar debacle that resulted in 8 dead on its floor, and made national news headlines for the brutality of the event, like a Wild West shootout from Fort Worth’s historic wild and wooly western past, that included visits by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and their Hole In The Wall gang during the town’s Hell’s Half Acre days, had more important shit to worry about, like going home to their wive and kids.

Me and Chivo went through the store’s steel barred glass door. We headed to the back for our beer. I stopped to glance at the girly mags. One after another were the same thing as I flipped through them, girls laying on beds legs spread wide. I wasn’t impressed. I’d been married twice. And divorced twice. Women weren’t a mystery to me like they had been in my ’20s.

I used to go to the only porno mag store on the side of Fort Worth I lived in. It was located at Camp Bowie Blvd. and Lackland Road. The girly mags were in the back. It was embarrassing to go there. Every guy in the place knew why every other guy was there, to get images to jack off to. This was long before the Internet so you had to buy a hard copy back then. Basement dweller geeks today get to click a link to see fucking and sucking on PornTube but lonely guys in the old days had to own a cheap vehicle, called a shit ride, drive to an iffy part of town, park, walk into a shady place, be in the company of pussy-less guys just like you, women-less losers, and buy porno mags. And none of us got the lame, ad-laden glossies like Playboy, Oui or Penthouse, filled with wannabe intellectual articles nobody bothered to read. We reached for the plastic sealed packages that contained five dirty mags for 10 bucks, with titles like Swank, Juggs, High Ball, Slam-Bang, Gallery, Balling, Magnum and Barely Legal.

I put the Asian Sluts jack off mag back in its place and joined Chivo looking at the beer cooler. He grabbed some Miller High Life Tallboys. I got three 40s of Colt 45. We got the cheap cigs made from the tobacco that fell onto the cig factory floors, and sold for $2 a pack, with our beers and headed over to Frank’s place, a long touchdown pass down the road.

I pulled into the rundown apartments and some mixed race kids were running around. They were always running around. Riding bikes, chasing each other, kicking a soccer ball or shooting a basketball into a netless hoop. They yelled and screamed and jumped and ran around in circles. Just kids being kids.

No different than I was when me, my mother and sister lived in a Section 8 apartment off of Loop 820 and James Ave. in the mid to late 1960s. I was always outside playing with friends, riding bikes, going down to the creek on National Geographic like expeditions to find frogs, crawdads and minnows, playing football, having hide and seek tournaments and throwing baseballs around. When someone would use a stick and knocked a ball into an apartment window and it busted in many pieces of glass we’d tear ass and run like motherfuckers being chased down by a horror movie mass murderer. We’d stay away until the sun went down then slowly make our way back, carefully going around corners and staying close to the bushes, like we were Navy SEALs in Fallujah hunting down Hajiis, and sneak back to our single mom, no dad in sight, apartments.

We exited the Exxon Valdez. Frank’s place was right in front of us, which was very close to a dark green Dumpster. Frank’s apartment had a little cordoned off porch area, pretty high faluting for a Section 8 abode. Like any old ass apartments these musta been something back in the day, mapping in little courtyards for some of the units. A gay couple, I thought, probably lived here in the ’70s, until it all went to hell with white flight to the suburbs. There was a 10 gallon round plastic container without a top on it sitting in this concrete courtyard, along with ruined child’s toys, a beat to fuck doll of some kind and a tricycle that looked like it had been bumper thumped by Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500.

A big dead frog was at the top of the trash heap in the container. We inspected it further and found rotten food, a dead rat, chicken bones and ripped clothing. We stopped inspecting the shit at the dingy tighty whities. It stunk like someone’s death scene on Law & Order.

“Fuck, man, he’s 30 feet from a Dumpster and leaves this shit outside of his door?” Chivo wondered.

“C’mon,” I said. “We both know Frank. His white trashness far exceeds ours.”

Chivo knocked on the door. Frank’s brother, Lester, answered.

“What the FUCK do you two motherfuckers want?”

“We’re here to see Frank.”

“If I didn’t know who you were I woulda shot you both, god dammit.”

Lester was a fucking fruitcake. He worked down the road at the Lockheed Martin military industrial complex in their F-35 assembly plant. He was old as Bible people, complete with the white stringy beard and face crevices. He was the most hateful human being I’d ever met. He despised humanity. He’d work then come home and go into his room and watch tv and did absolutely nothing else, except walk a mile down the road to a grocery store and walk the mile back. He hated cars. He hated parades. He hated men, women and kids. He hated Christmas. He hated the Fourth of July. He hated trees. He hated dogs and cats. He hated Mickey Mouse. He hated cartoons. He hated Hot Wheels. He hated rainbows. He hated donuts. He hated crosswalks. He hated dolphins. He hated Cheerios. He even hated you, in absentia. His hate exceeded the national debt.

He had someone from his job pick him up each day to go to his job and supported Frank with the good salary he had at Fort Worth’s longtime defense contractor because Frank had no interest in working — and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know Frank wasn’t gonna get hired to do anything. He was the laziest motherfucking white person I’d ever known. He wasn’t dumb. He was just fucking lazy. A bum with a roof over his head.

Lester let us in. He was decked out in an ill fitting pair of white Fruit of the Looms and a food stained tee shirt. He legs were pasty white. Long hairs grew out of every orifice. He walked back to his room and slammed the door shut and turned up his tv’s sound. I could hear he was watching a Texas Rangers baseball game because of the play by play coming through the door.

“STRIKE THREE. HE’S OUT.”

“GOD DAMN,” Lester bitched. “THAT MOTHERFUCKER CAN’T HIT FOR SHIT!!!!”

Frank, a slob who weighed in at around 400 pounds on a 6 foot 6 frame, long beard and longer hair, was sitting on his filthy couch, surrounded by fast food bags, empty chip bags, empty plastic bottles, dead roaches, empty beer cans, an assortment of sundry papers, past due bills and fast food discounts, and everything else a scumbag would leave on the floor without picking it up. He was a hoarder of trash and not junk.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” he said to me, the usual smile on his face, a smile founded in “I don’t do shit to live a life of zero and I like it that way”.

“What else? A shit job, with an asshole boss I kill in my fantasies with a Dirty Harry handgun, that I need to forget with drugs.”

Chivo removed some dead insects and a McDonald’s Big Mac box from a chair and sat down. I brushed off some sickening shit on a recliner and rested my legs.

“Good thing Les doesn’t see you in HIS chair.”

“Fuck Les.”

“He’d kill you.”

“Yeah, he already said that. Tell him I’m ready for the other side.”

Chivo broke open a pack of cigs and popped open a beer and took a slug.

“Yeah, that hit the spot. That first one of the day always hits home.”

I twisted the cap on my 40 and did the Bukowski pull.

I half choked, said, with a pained expression, “Damn, that shit is nasty but it works fast to ease the pain.”

Frank changed the channel on his television. It was now on the History Channel. The show was yet another documentary on Hitler. Frank loved Adolph Hitler. He loved all the WWII shit on that channel. Since Les worked on war planes Frank was a fan of them. He’d point to the screen and tell us what plane was what.

“That one’s a bomber, it killed a lot of British. That one’s a fighter, it took down a lot of the long range bombers doing runs on German cities. Hitler had the best minds developing his aircraft. He was working on a UFO before the Russians got to him. They said he escaped in the one UFO that worked and landed in Argentina. He lived a long time after WWII.”

Frank liked the fact that Hitler killed a lot of Jews. I imagined he got that frame of mind from Lester. I thought, “Thank God Lester wasn’t a dictator.”

“So, do you got the shit?”

“Yeah, man. It’s right here.”

Frank reached under a messy couch cushion and pulled out a Glad sandwich bag half full of weed.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Chivo chimed in before popping open another can of beer.

I reached into my back pocket and got out my Pulp Fiction BAD MOTHERFUCKER wallet. I took out some bills and handed them over to Frank. I took the plastic bag from him, opened it and immediately put it up to my nose and inhaled.

“Hmmm. Not bad. Better smelling than that dirt weed I got off of a scumbag dealer in that run down house near TCU last week. That shit was a rip off.”

Frank said the weed he had was from a wannabe rapper a few apartments down from his.

“The brothers always have better shit than Mexicans,” Chivo said.

Me and Chivo sat there watching Hitler drop bombs on England and drank. Frank smoked a cigarette.

“I gotta take a piss,” I said.

I went to Frank’s bathroom and shut the door. I stood over the toilet bowl and got my dick out and aimed it. That’s when I noticed a white turd slowly circling around in some Three Mile Island nuclear waste toilet water.

“Gawd damn! Fuck me. What the FUCK is that shit?” I thought.

I finished and hit the flusher. Nothing happened. I hit it again. Water didn’t move.

“This shit is sick. How these two lowlifes take a shit and not flush it?” I thought. “I knew Frank and Lester were nasty bastards but I didn’t know THIS. Man, I’m usually not bothered my disgusting shit perpetrated by fellow human beings but this take’s the cake and the prize. This turd must have been floating in that toilet bowl for months for it to have turned white. This is a goddamn outrage. It’s despicable. This is comic book villain shit.”

This macabre bathroom scene reminded me of a Chris Rock joke. He told it during one of his HBO specials. It was about the white people he was around as a kid.

He said, “I got bused to school into a poor white neighborhood. A neighborhood worse than the one I lived in. And everybody’s scared of black people, everybody’s scared of Puerto Ricans. Yo, there ain’t nothing scarier than poor white people… Yo, these muthafuckers, they lived under the trailer home, alright. They weren’t white trash, they’re like white toxic waste.”

I walked back to Lester’s recliner and sat down in total shock. Not much disgusts me but that vile white turd did. I couldn’t even look at Frank. I thought, “What the fuck is WRONG with you and Lester, man? You two are the most unbelievable pieces of shit in human history. Caligula would gladly invite you into his cauldron of debauchery.”

It was Bryan’s turn to take a leak. He came back a minute later and didn’t say squat but I could see he wanted to by the expression on his face. But you don’t say shit to someone who is providing you with weed in case it might offend them and then they won’t answer your calls when you’re itching for more.

We finished our beers.

“Well, we’re gonna go to my place and get fucked up. You gonna fuck that whore?”

Frank got up from his filthy couch and went over to his phone. He dialed and looked at us as we collected ourselves. He smiled that goofy smile of his when he was up to something disgusting and untoward.

“Hey, is Felicia there? Okay, I’ll wait.”

We stood there. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. That felonious white turd and Lester’s penchant for wanting to murder people had me in a hurry for the road home. I could tell Bryan felt the same way. He had already walked out onto the courtyard and was looking at the dead frog we’d seen earlier. He had picked up a stick and was examining it, flipping it on its back and looking at the decayed guts.

“Hey, Felicia, it’s Frank. Gotta time for me? Okay, I’ll come by tonite. See ya, honey.”

Frank hung up and smiled.

“Gettin’ laid, man.”

“Cool. Wear a condom so you don’t end up like Easy E, with the AIDS and shit.”

“I’m disease proof. I got a good build up from germs already.”

I chuckled, and thought, “No shit,” and went out the door.

In the car Bryan said, his voice weak, “You see that white turd in the toilet?”

“Yeah. I almost couldn’t take a piss staring down at it. My dick started to retreat up into my asshole.”

“It looked like a beached whale, all bloated and shit. I tried to flush it but the god damn toilet doesn’t work. Those two are really fucked up.”

I shook my head in agreement and turned the engine over. We got on the road and headed back to humanity.

  • Tony Byrer

    When I was a kid, I had an uncle who shit white turds. His belly was the size of a beach ball. I’d poke him in the belly and say, “Wow, you’re fat!” He laughed like hell. Then he died.