Success Begins With Placing an Order

Matt DeBenedictis

Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald probably felt the same sense of pride over a goal accomplished as I do right now, Pierce thought as he put his hands over the face of his breathing canvas. “Rosy cheeks need god’s designed glitter,” Pierce said as his fingertips slid his ejac juice all over Beth’s cheeks. She smiled, as he played by swirling the mass of his sperm around her eyebrows. His smile was wide but still innocent like an eight year-old home alone for the first time. Pierce’s hands continued to graze and hunt all over her face, but his mind couldn’t break free from the thoughts of Lee Harvey Oswald and the idea of accomplishments. He couldn’t quite get past the feeling that it had to have felt like a dream with a burnt crust of disappointment on the end of it for Harvey Oswald to have to run away rather than bask in a job well done. Pierce had pictured that Oswald had probably past the stairs and made his way around the corner by the time the newly single ex-wife of the Catholic President was holding her ex- husbands head. Now that’s a grey area to contend with that makes you just want to lie around all day. There no point in changing the world if you can’t even enjoy your creation was Pierce’s final thought on the matter. Pierce had never had to deal with such a grey area. He always made sure to give himself the chance to bask in his successes. His moment though was almost done; his liquid center was almost fully rubbed into Beth’s skin. Now he was just standing there enjoying the new feel of her face while she knelt on the hotels drab carpet with her hands kept to her side, as she had been told to do when he paid for her services. As the writer of this story I must confess my trouble with hookers. I rarely know what to have them do besides the fuck and groans they are paid to do. Now don’t misunderstand this interjection of myself here; I’ve met hookers in my life, but due to my lack of a developed hooker character Beth is going to just shut the fuck up. Despite her lack of voice in this story Beth’s own name is something to think about though. Beth’s name is not short for Elizabeth; her mother hated the long form. She always thought the whole name Elizabeth felt very rigged and plain like a white wall, but the end part, Beth, was so beautiful and to the point, which was how Beth ended up in regards to her personality and domineer. You couldn’t miss Beth when you walked by her. Her eyes alone demanded to be obsessed over for being so striking in a world of grey. And of course when it came to business Beth was right to the point, just as Janice, her mother, had intended her name to sound when said. Pierce probably would have yelled out her name when he had painted her face but he never caught her name during their transaction of business. Pierce just yelled out, “I will defeat my machine,” when he exploded with the shot heard round the $65 dollar hotel room. Beth took it to her face and smiled, just as she was told to do. She didn’t hear what Pierce yelled out during climax, because Beth was thinking about how much she missed her mom. Like a mathematical equation everything has its order, its been tested by those who knew more despite being born into a barbaric time. This was how Pierce saw his life, and mainly why he followed the routine of his day. Pierce had become convinced that his life had been lived once before, but by someone else and the one that lived it was successful by keeping to a strict routine that could only result in success. The barista at the coffee shop, next to Pierce’s office, had strict instructions that were given to her typed and signed by Pierce on his first visit to the Java Shop. The certified letter simply read, “If I ever order a different drink and do not have correct change for the drink and a thirty percent tip stab me in my heart. It will not be the me you know. It will be a doppelganger from another universe.” It’s finite routines like this that moved Pierce to write his first best selling book: Success is a process perfected. When the barista who coincidently ran the store read the letter she just smiled and thought of something else as she put the extra foam on Pierce’s drink as he had ordered. Pierce’s first book was a collection of essays he had published in business magazines, economic journals, coffee shop cup jackets and political party papers from college. The book was called Giants Do Live Among Us; everyone thought the title was a reference to giants being people who are successful at working the corporate machine, but Pierce really did believe true giants still do live among us, there not just in the bible he would always think to himself as he would use a high powered telescope to peer into his neighbor’s loft window. The thought was simple. Giants are much older than us and use a magic older than them, which enables them to be seen at regular height, but in truth they are nine feet tall. One time Pierce told a hooker that giants are just pacifist who know if we saw them in their true form a government would make them fight in their wars for money and more footnotes in history books. The hooker he told this to just smiled and said it made sense, but the whole time she was just thinking about how she could get the smell of Pierce’s juice off her skin. He dedicated the book to her and in print thanked her for believing in him. After leaving the $65 dollar a room hotel Pierce went back to the office. He wanted to stop at the coffee shop, but he refrained as he stopped in earlier at his pre-decided time. That coffee break was the only one allowed in his daily routine. Upon sitting at his desk his writing agent was on the phone line, he had called three times earlier but Pierce had been busy at the hotel paying a woman to smile. Once Pierce picked up the line his agent screamed into the phone from across the country, “ It’s time for another book, and this one we have to get the churches behind you as well.” The very expensive agent kept talking and placing his book order. Pierce just smiled and typed: I’m bored with this machine on his computer screen while thinking about a hooker he was in love with.

Matt DeBenedictis gave birth to A Perfect Disgrace chapbook (174 press, 2008) and is a contributing writer for Buzzgrinder where he seeks to prove all music he doesn't enjoy is a waste. Matt lives in Atlanta where his teeth are mounting a revolution over his diet of coffee and red wine. Matt blogs here.