Ernst Tedwell

A Short Story- End by Sharp Cornered Triscuit

Ernst Tedwell was a lazy bastard. He was also a curly headed dweeb. Maybe it wasn't all his fault. His mother meant to name him Ernest but when she misspelled it on the birth certificate, she didn't want to bother with the hassle of changing it. Laziness is hereditary. So is curly hair.

            Ernst had been moseying along a beachfront for the past couple of hours. No shoes on, tan khakis rolled halfway up his calves, Hawaiian beach shirt left open in the front to show off his medium build of flab and chest hair, and of course his greasy, dark curls flapping in the wind. It took him a few hours of trudging along this coast before he even realized it was odd for him to be on a beach. He resides in the small town of Fakersfield, South Dillinois for heaven’s sake.

            Just as this dawned on him he decided to pluck the wedgie he had building up in his ass crack. He had once heard someone refer to this as 'plucking the one stringed harp'. Ernst loved that and now he is no longer embarrassed to play music in public.        

~~~

            The last thing he could recall was sitting at the piano in his basement, attempting to practice Frederic Chopin's “Prelude No.4” for his recital the next day, while shoving Triscuits with summer sausage down his throat. Well, wait. He recalled one point in time when all his minimal practice was beginning to pay off, but then he heard “Who’s that Pokemon!” blare from the TV. Ernst loved this part of the episode, when the show goes to a commercial break it gives a shadow outline of a Pokemon and the object is to guess correctly which Pokemon it is. As Ernst spun around on the bench and attempted to yell “Snorlax!” a Triscuit was sucked down and wedged into his esophagus. Down it went, scraping and slicing. Speed of travel slowing until it decided to lodge itself just short of the diaphragm. It was very painful to be stuck there. But at least it was far enough down that it wasn't affecting his breathing. That was until he coughed it back up a little.

            Ernst remembered thinking that he was fucked at this point. And he was. I certainly wasn't going to hop right in there and give him the Heimlich. And his mother wouldn't be home from the Extreme Couponing Workshop for another couple of hours. He grabbed his phone and punched 9-1-1. He couldn't speak to the operator but the ambulance had no chance of making it in time regardless. He hung up the phone and lay on the floor trying not to struggle. Staring up at the ceiling, the eyes of Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf, Johann Stamitz, Dmitri Shostakovich, Frederic Chopin, and of course Nobuo Uematsu glared back at him (not metaphorically, he had their posters on the ceiling). They were telling him he had failed. He had done nothing with his 44 years of life to be proud of.

            The commercial break finally ceased and the TV screeched “Snorlax!”

~~~

            “Where did you obtain those tentacles?” Ernst asked the dead octopus that he was nudging with his big toenail.

            “My mother I suppose.”

            “I heard life is rough for a young octopus, mind shedding light on your experience?”

            “Out of about 57,700 Giant Pacific Octopus eggs that my mother glued to the roof of our den only three of us lived longer than a year.”

            “Well you're dead now regardless of how much gumption you thought you had.” Ernst said with one hand on his hip, the other scratching his greasy scalp.

            “Have you ever tended to children, sir? Have you ever had a male octopus ejaculate inside of you and then swim for your life in hopes that you wouldn't be eaten by him?” Octopus asked.

            “I've dabbled. Why do you ask?”

            “Because that's what killed me. I'm not boasting or prideful in the fact that I survived what 57,697 of my siblings—‘’

            “That's enough,” Ernst cut her off. “I'm done listening to your pornography. You think you’re better than me and can't wait to throw more statistics at me, right? Well, I'll tell you right now that if you’re not inclined to change the subject I will walk away.”

            And that’s just what Ernst did, without even giving Octopus a chance to respond. Ernst abruptly twirled about in the sand, continuing his way down the coastline putting Octopus in the forgotten memories portion that weighed down his brain. His fingers nimbly fluttered in the wind as he rehearsed the latest symphony he'd been putting together for the main theme of the 16-bit role-playing game he was designing, soon to be available for free (or rather, paid for by pop-up ads advertising online colleges) for all major mobile platforms, also available on Steam, however, the Steam version will run you $5.99.

            Ernst had no idea that his ultimate purpose was to find me. His mind only seemed to work on one process at a time. As long as he kept flailing his hands around, I doubt that he would even remember he was on a beach of no note, utterly lost and alone, compiling an impressive trail of footprints behind him.

            About one-hundred yards down the coast Ernst noticed a little beach hut that had the potential to serve adult beverages. He assumed someone there could help him come to a conclusion about his current state of affairs. But the hut was dismal. No one was there at all, but the place still seemed welcoming enough so he sat down at the bar and poured himself a gin and tonic with lime.

            “So, the last thing I remember was choking on a Triscuit, a dead octopus attempted to assert her superiority over me, and the sun here is bright as hell.”

            “Au contraire,” Lime said.

            “And why would that statement be to the contrary of anything? Is it not all true?” Ernst said mockingly to the citrus wedge.

            “A statement can be true as well as contrary. But 'the sun is bright as hell' couldn't be farther from the truth in this current situation.”

            “I don't think so. It is bright as hell,” Ernst said squeezing the pulp out of the lime and flushing down the rest of the gin with one gulp. “Back to the beach!”

~~~

            A crab puffed a pipe.

~~~

            Getting closer to what he once believed to be the sun, this intense origin of light continued to enlarge and come into focus. It no longer appeared to be only a mass of light—begging and calling out— but a pristine synagogue emitting a radiant glow that he only now realized had been attracting him all along.

            “What have I stumbled upon? Montezuma's tomb? Or perhaps the Zora's Water Temple? Whichever it may be, Nathan Drake or Link, respectively, would be very envious of me right now.”

            Entering the immaculate front facade of the building it was obvious that the entire maintenance budget for this place was blown on the exterior. The smell of mildew and Spanish rice fornicated and formed an odor that singed the wispy hairs right off of Ernst nipples. The place seemed to have been neglected for some time and the large warehouse showed its age in every way imaginable. The walls were yellowing and cracked like an old man’s toe nail. There was no a/c, only a few rusty fans twirling at inconsistent angles. The lights continuously flickered on and off and were so dim that the negligible amount of natural light spilling through the broken window panes that lined the top of the walls canceled it out entirely.

            A ticket booth of sorts stopped Ernst from proceeding any further. An older woman of about 67 sat in the booth. Ernst wasn't the type of man to judge or make assumptions based solely on appearance, but if he were forced to in this situation, he would assume that when this woman opened her mouth to speak she would sound like an old gypsy woman who smoked a pack of cigarettes every morning before inhaling her deep fried waffle sticks.

            Looking up at the sign behind her head he read:

                                                                         Enter Heaven:

Muslims $8.75

Buddhists $9

Atheists $10

Anti-theists $6.50

Deists $6

Christians $8.50

Jews $8

Everyone else $4.99

(all prices listed are per person, no refunds or exchanges, tax not included)

            Ernst stepped up to the booth and pulled some money from his pocket.

            “I stepped up to the booth and pulled money from my po–? Why are you narrating my every move?”

            Isn't that what God should do?

            “God? I guess so, old lady. Heh.”

            Yes, God. What do you think this whole experience has–Ernst scratched his left ear–been about?

            “Wait, so you have to narrate everything I do?”

            ‘Have to’ is not really the correct verbiage. But, I do.

            “And just what experience are you speaking of?”

            What experience!? Walking on the beach, talking to things, the light that continually got brighter. Do you not remember choking on –Ernst purposely shit his pants–a Triscuit?

            “You do know my every action! Interesting and odd. Well yes I do remember that, quite vividly. It was a horrid experience for anyone to go through, that's not something that can just be forgotten.”

            Well, you died.

            “I don't know about that...oh and I apologize for thinking you would sound like an old New Jersey diner waitress-gypsy-smoker. Your voice is actually quite elegant. You sound a lot like Elaine's boss on Seinfeld, even though you are a woman…” Ernst said plucking the one stringed harp.

            “That was not a pluck. It was only an itch. How could I possibly have a wedgie after shitting my pants, God?”

            It was a pluck. But, my apologies Ernst. I have never had that experience.

            “I see. I’d like to enter this crummy establishment but could you at least show me around first, give me a tour of sorts? You know, so that I get to see what I am getting for my money?”

            Well, that has never been done before but I really don't see a problem with it. Sure, you can go ahead and take a look around.

            Ernst wandered up and down the aisles of the warehouse perusing all the items that were stashed here. A bunch of pirated DVD's, aisle after aisle of used kitchen ware, fake Air Jordan's, Ernest Hemingway novels, nothing of note really. Until one thing in particular caught his eye. Ernst yanked a dusty tarp off of what appeared to be another pile of junk to reveal the most beautiful Yamaha Portable Keyboard he had never had the privilege to play.

            After rummaging through a few boxes full of Pogs and Pokemon cards Ernst shuffled his way back to the ticket booth (quite literally, he picked out all the holographic cards from the box and was shuffling them).

            “Hmm... I only have one question for you after my glimpse of heaven.” Ernst said touching the brown stain running down the seam of his paints.

            Let’s hear it then.

            “Are there any pants in there?”

            I believe there may be some Adidas swishy track pants back there somewhere. Oh, no, I forgot, Satan came and took them the other day, said they were the only flame-retardant pants around.

            “OK. Well, I will need to go find some new garments. I’ll be back shortly.”

~~~

            Ernst made his way back to the beach, dragging his feet along in the sand as the waves lapped at his long crooked toes. He soon noticed a large, cream colored, 1950's inspired American Dream™ type home standing on stilts right at the beach shore with its back to the ocean. The waves reached all the way up to the house ebbing and flowing back and forth underneath it. A small sail boat was tied to one of the stilts supporting the house. It wasn't secured very well as the boat washed in and out with each wave. Ernst prayed to God for the poor souls who lived there that a tropical storm never brewed near this home. The American Dream would surely be awash if so.

            As he approached the front door Ernst noticed the odd garden arrangements placed about. An enormous sea shell about the size of washing machine (which may or may not have been real and may or may not have had the ability to wash clothes) and a large leather-bound book out of which a little babbling brook ran from the pages and funneled straight to the ocean. Or perhaps the ocean water was flowing into the book, but Ernst didn't get close enough to observe the waters direction of travel. Then he noticed the unique guttering system on the house. Running along the edge of the roof and down the corner of the house appeared to be hollowed out octopus tentacles recycling rain water into the ocean.

            And the front door, this was one feature of the house that was sure to not be missed by many. The color was unmemorable rusty red but it seemed to be flickering just as a camp fire would. Considering what the warehouse he had just left seemed to represent, the prospects of a flaming red entrance were quite scary.

            Yet, this flaming rusty red door beckoned. The other place was just a large smelly warehouse, this place felt almost like a home. A place a man such as himself could kick back and relax.

            Ernst felt the front door and although it looked it, it was not hot. So he turned the knob to let himself in, but it was locked. Ernst knocked five or six times pausing to give the owner time to reach the door between knocks, but no one ever came. Humming to himself Ernst spun around and descended the steps.

            “This will be my house one day. However, I will start by remodeling these atrocious stairs. No house of mine will have an AstroTurf carpet runner going up the front steps. And I adore the tentacle conduit system used for irrigation. The man who built that system must have found the cure to rigor mortis. No, no, I take that back rigor mortis would probably help to do the job under these constraints.”

            “Sir, can I help you?” A nasally voiced boomed (at least as much as nasally voices can boom) from the front door.

            “Oh, hello, I thought no one was home at the moment... Are you by chance thinking of selling this home anytime soon, I would love to buy it. And why do you look like the Pokemon Snorlax?”

            “I can't sell the place, this is the boarding house for tormented souls, of course. And I look like Snorlax because you love Snorlax.” The big round blue furred man with a huge white belly, white face, and blue kitty ears said, sitting in a Buddha like manner, except he had on Adidas swishy track pants.

            “I do love Snorlax. Tormented... well, could I be a tormented soul then? I think it would be wonderful to live in this beautiful establishment.”

            “Sure you can, we have no problems there. Just come in and sign the paper work.”

            “I can tell by your Adidas swishy track pants that you must be Satan. God told me you came to get those pants from his warehouse.”

            “Yes I got tired of walking around naked. People always stare.”

            “Snorlax has no genitalia though,” Ernst said pausing, puzzled. “Anyway, in what way are those pants flame-retardant? God said that was why you chose them.”

            “Flame-retardant? No, I am sure they are just normal pants. They shall burn like all others. You see God is a liar she likes making up things sometimes. Pointless things like that that hold no real significance. I am not sure about her purpose for doing such things… but otherwise, she is a good lady, easy to get along with.” Satan said lighting up a cigarillo. “And there is no fire to speak of in this home other than the tip of my smokes here, so any pants would work just fine for me.” Satan Snorlax said with a squinty-eyed smile.

            “Ah, on the topic of pants, I seemed to have pooped mine. And considering you had to go to God's warehouse to get a pair for yourself I assume you have no more. See, that was my purpose for coming here, to the boarding house of tormented souls. I am looking for a new pair of pants myself.”

            “No, I'm sorry. Pants are a hard thing to find around here. So... would you like to step inside and sign the lease?”

            “Thank you for the offer, but I better continue my trouser search for now.”

            “Very well, feel free to stop by any time you like, sir. Goodbye now,” Satan Snorlax said as he scooted back into the doorway and slammed the rusty red portal.

            As Ernst began his march back to God for further guidance on acquiring pants, the sail boat tied underneath the house caught his eye.

            “A very intriguing and ingenious idea has struck me. Now why should I play by their pants rules? It makes no sense. Pants are only necessary because of the other people around me. If it was up to me, I could easily be pant-less and happy.”

~~~

            “OK God I'm back and I am ready to pay and enter.”

            Alright then just choose your religion from the board behind me and pay accordingly.

            Ernst contemplated this for quite a long minute.

            “Can you break a ten?”

            No, I don't have change.

            “Well, damn.”

            Why don't you just pay the ten dollars and enter as atheist?

            “Ehh... I don’t know.”

            For God's sake what's the difference?

            “I only have a 10 and it says tax not included.”

Just give me the damn 10 and I’ll keep the change for whatever you decide to pick from the board. You don’t even have to tell me.

“I want my change! Wait, let me ask you something. If I am really dead, then prove it. I seem alive. I can do all things that I could do before the Triscuits assaulted me.”

            I don't need to prove anything. If I have proven one thing up to this point of the Earth's existence it is that I do not feel the need to prove anything.

            “Then I won't believe you.”

            And that is going to help you in what way?

            “I can just continue to live my normal life.”

            Alright, so what? Are you going to pay and come in or not?

            “OK.”

            Ernst barged through the entrance to my warehouse. And I decided not to say anything since I already knew he wouldn't stop.

            “Yes, you are right about that. But you are saying something, so why are you saying you're not saying anything?”

            I am not saying anything per se, that is just the running narrative of your actions Ernst, remember?

            “But you are saying it.”

            If I didn't say it, it wouldn't happen.

            “But you are only saying what I do”

            And you are only doing what I say. And Ernst continued through the warehouse to where he had seen that wonderful Yamaha Keyboard, yanked it from the shelf, and tucked it under his smelly left pit.

            “I'll be taking this.”

~~~

            “Yes, this is how things should be, I do suppose.”

            Ernst only had one more stop to make and he would no longer feel the need for pants ever again. The sun was beginning to set over the water and the beach seemed to be turning orange. The waves were getting higher and they were jostling the small sail boat back and forth under Satan's house a little harder now. Ernst walked over to where the boat sat in the sand. The waves grabbed hold of it and dragged it towards the front of the house leaving Ernst in thigh deep water. The boat would reach the end of its leash and continue to pull hard trying to get to shore, putting a lot of tension on the house's stilt. Then it would come rushing back at him and get lodged in the sand right at his feet.

            He took the keyboard out from under his arm pit and tossed it in the boat. Then the waves came and carried it away from him once again. Staring out into the seemingly endless ocean Ernst splashed at the top of the water as it settled around his thighs. Then felt his feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand as water rushed away from him. He let the boat get near him and get dragged away again and again. Each time that the water rushed out to sea and the boat came back within reach, his feet burrowed deeper into the sand holding him in place, stopping him from moving towards it. But it was only him standing stationary which caused this hole to get deeper and more difficult to escape from in the first place.

            Once the bitten cookie-sun was dipped halfway into the milky ocean the boat stuck in the sand right next to him again. Ernst reached out and untied the end of the rope from the boat. The waves carried the boat landward one more time. When the waves retreated back to the ocean the boat landed back at his feet, he nudged it farther away from shore and attempted to use it as leverage to pull his feet from the sand and hop in. But his feet were dug in entirely too far. The sand was half way up his shins and he was cemented in place.

            The waves pushed the boat further from shore than the rope would have ever allowed. Ernst just watched the boat float away. Moon coming out, tides rising, and sinking deeper into the sand, the water was beginning to wet the curls at the nape of his neck. Snorlax sat on the back deck of his home above Ernst, puffing his cigarillo. The lit end of it was the only thing visible in the dimming sunlight. As the boat was about to disappear underneath the moon, Ernst's pants raised like a pirate flag from the mast.