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Rated: 13+ · Novel · Comedy · #950377
Life through the perceptive eyes of Walt Stutters.
The Life of Stutter’s

Part One

Allow Myself to Introduce…Myself

My name is Walt Stutters the fourth and I am 18-years-old. I am 6 ft. 3 inches tall and have no defining character traits. I am not skinny and certainly not fat but I also don’t have any muscle tone to speak of. My face is a mixture of unevenness. My nose is large and slants slightly to the right. I have on numerous occasions been mistaken for a Jew. My eyes are almond shaped and the color of the sky; although it is important to note that they are the color of the sky when it is gray and overcast. My mouth is shaped so that it seems I am always frowning. People are always telling me to cheer up and most of the time I want to scream back at them to, “ Shut the hell up!” Instead, I give them my crooked smile that seems to appease them. My hair is dirty blonde and thin and never stays in one place for more than 5 minutes. I have a rather large forehead that makes it look as if I already have the beginnings of a receding hairline. For what it’s worth, I am generally ok with my appearance. I am resigned to the fact that I am never going to be good- looking. But, hey, at least I’m not ugly, dismembered or retarded. I’m not being insensitive here, I’m just thankful that I fall into the category of average or mediocre. Seriously though, wouldn’t it suck to be retarded?

Mr. Smith Goes Berserk

I live in a house at the end of Prancing Angels Street. (I think a queer came up with that name) My house is 3800 square feet of pure boredom. There is no architectural significance to speak of, a structure that exists solely to define one’s social class. The most impressive thing about our house is how effective it is at being unimpressive. There are four bedrooms and three baths. My bedroom is on the second floor and my window overlooks the rest of the street. There are 20 houses that make up our street. We are house number 20. The “custom” built house to the left of ours, looks suspiciously like our own. The house to the left of that one resembles ours also. Each house is spaced exactly 16 feet apart from one another. The whitewashed picket fences that align each of the meticulously manicured lawns show off a gleam that even Tom Sawyer would be envious of. Every other house has the same color scheme. My parents said that we were fortunate enough to get the favorable color scheme, white, with soft blue trim. The less fortunate odd numbered houses received the dreaded color scheme of white, with pink trim. Our next-door neighbor, Patrick Smith, the unfortunate owner of house number 19, is always complaining about the injustice of owning a home with PINK trim. He has written over a hundred letters to the homeowner’s association explaining why he believes it is unfair that just because he lives in an odd numbered house he has to settle for the “sissy hue that unfairly adorns my trim and in the process subjects me and my family to unrelenting scorn and ridicule from the neighbors that live in those damned even numbered homes, with their precious soft blue trim”. He has actually almost come to a physical altercation over the matter, when on one Sunday not too long ago, Bob Deveney, the notoriously macho retired General and owner of house number 16 went for his morning jog. Patrick was out watering his lawn and as the General trotted by he yelled out to Patrick, “Hey, Patty, nice pink trim! Your wife said it matches perfectly with those pink panties you like to wear, you sissy woman!” Apparently, all of Patrick’s pent up aggression over being denied by the homeowner’s association and constant heckling from the “ even-numbered” people exploded in one reckless moment. He dropped his watering hose, and in his robe and slippers took off across the half watered lawn in pursuit of General Deveney. His face contorted with rage and punishment on his mind, Smith took a flying leap over the white picket fence that bordered his yard. There was one glaring problem with that fateful leap. The likelihood of Patrick jumping over a four-foot fence was about as likely as Rush Limbaugh saying something remotely intelligent. It just was not going to happen. Mr. Smith didn’t even clear the first rung of the fence as his right foot caught the shiny white post. He fell head over heels, his hands desperately trying to secure the tie that was beginning to come off of his robe. He succeeded in keeping the robe on, which was until his head hit the sidewalk full force, effectively knocking him unconscious and rendering his hands useless. His robe flew open, exposing every bit of Patrick’s manhood to little old Mrs. Bellow who had come out of house number 17 to collect the Sunday newspaper, and who coincidentally loved every bit of the pink trim that adorned her house.

I See White People

Out of the 20 houses on my street, only white people live in them. There is not one, single minority living within our gated community. That is not to say that there is no minority presence in our neighborhood. In fact, I see the same 3 Hispanic workers every Tuesday when they come to cut everyone’s grass and trim our hedges. They are usually working on our yard by the time I leave for school and I always make sure to acknowledge their presence with a quick hello and a nod of the head. Every Tuesday morning I receive the same response in return. Mexican #1 looks up from his hedge trimming duties and glares at me, points the trimming shears in my direction and mutters something in Spanish. I get the odd sense that given the choice; he wouldn’t have any qualms about gutting me with those shears. Mexican # 2 gives a furtive glance in my direction yet never makes eye contact with me. He seems to think that I have the intention to go grab Mexican #1’s trimming shears and gut him with them. Mexican #3’s response is quite different from the other two. He shuts off his lawnmower as soon as he sees me walk outside the house. He stands there with a blank almost creepy stare, waits for me to say hello, and gives an imperceptible nod with his head. Then, right as I get into my car, he mumbles something to the other two and all three of them laugh hysterically as I drive off. It always makes me feel stupid when they laugh at me and I suppose I could just ignore them when I leave. But, when it comes down to it there is a sort of odd comfort that comes with that laughter. It makes me feel like the minority and for that I am grateful. Heaven knows, I could use being made to feel out of place sometimes. Maybe someday I’ll learn their names. I think I’d like that, being able to call them by first names. Then at least they’d know I view them as human beings. Despite that, Tuesday mornings still remain the most honest interaction I have with anyone during the week. A little sad, I know, but entirely true.


My family is the definition of dysfunctional. Eva Stutters, my mother, who in her own right is stunningly beautiful, is a complete wreck. At 45, she is as lost a person as I’ve ever seen. She has always been a stay at home mom, something that I think my father decided for her, which has embittered her to no end. Some women are just not meant for motherhood and I think she falls in that category. Luckily, I am an only child. Growing up, she tried her best to be motherly but failed miserably in all facets. She cooked, cleaned, did the laundry and even read me bedtime stories. The problem was, her food sucked, the house was always dirty, she shrunk my clothes and worst of all she read me articles from the magazine Cosmopolitan that scarred me for life and is probably the reason I am still terrified of anything involving sex. Anyways, when I was about 10 years old she just finally gave up on all motherly tasks and we hired a live in housekeeper. Marta Dominguez, a buxom Puerto Rican woman has now been living with us for 8 years and has handled all of my mother’s former duties exceptionally well. I actually have a secret crush on her and often pleasure myself to the numerous pictures I have of her under my pillow. I have this unrealistic idea that it is her who will one day smell the sweet aroma of my manflower and usher me into manhood. Or we could just have wild sex. Either one works for me. So, back to my mother. After Marta took over her role as homemaker, she had nothing to do with her life. She decided to turn to the bottle. Yes, she is a lush. Wine is her choice of meal. I do mean meal as in what she has for breakfast, lunch and dinner. To her credit, she does mix it up a little bit. For breakfast she has a Merlot, for lunch she watches Days of our Lives and downs a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and finally to end her day on a healthy note she has a bottle of red wine for dinner. My father and I watch in a mixture of horror and amazement as she chugs the entire bottle as if she had just spent six days trudging through the Sahara Desert with no water. I love my mother more out of grudging necessity than anything. I love her because she is my mother and I have to. That doesn’t mean I don’t find her to be a fucking pathetic loser. If I hit people, which I don’t, she’d be the first person I’d cold cock some sense into. My father’s name is Walter Stutters the third. He, like my mother, is also extremely good- looking. I often wonder why, with their combined good looks, I got such the short end of the stick. I’m sure they wonder the same thing. It’s as if when his sperm connected with my mother’s eggs there was a big angry fight between the two and I was the unfortunate aftermath of the whole melee. Walter Stutters the third is not a warm man. I think he secretly despises me because I am mediocre looking and have never been good at sports. He is also unhappily married to a raging alcoholic who hasn’t slept with him in over a year. I know this because the other night while I was engaged in another round with Marta’s picture, I was startled to hear my dad yell at the top of his lungs, “It’s been a Goddamn year Eva and I’m just about ready to explode! So you either give it up now or I will be forced to find it elsewhere! My mother, in her drunken stupor, squealed back, “Get me some wine, you dick! ” I found this to be a rather disturbing exchange, especially because my parents were discussing their sex lives, or apparent lack thereof, within earshot of me, while I was masturbating. Anyways, my father is a lawyer but not an accomplished one. He hasn’t won a case in over a year and his law firm Stutters Temblor and Associates and Friends and Family is close do going under. My dad is an interesting paradox in many ways. He has more or less given up on his marriage but the few times we have actually had a meaningful conversation, he has always preached to me the importance of a loving, compromising and faithful marriage. Somehow, the words ring hollow when they come from him. Despite all this, I love my father. I love him as much as I can muster. I love both my parents as much as they allow. But you know what? Fuck both of them for not allowing me to love them more.

God’s Plan?

My father’s partner, Fred Temblor, a sufferer of narcolepsy, died four months ago in a terrible fire at their office. In a cruel twist of fate, while Fred was working late one night on a case, he decided to have a cigar at his desk, which he liked to do from time to time. He lit his match and as he put it to the tip of his cigar the narcolepsy kicked in and as his head hit his desk, which was littered with papers, so did the lit match. This started an awesome blaze, which not only took Fred’s life but also burned down their office in a matter of minutes. At least for Fred’s sake he died peacefully, albeit on fire, in his sleep. At Fred’s funeral a few days later the Pastor from the church Fred attended got up to offer a few kind words in remembrance of Fred. In a somber tone Pastor Michael Brianty offered, “Dearly beloved we are gathered hear today, in the presence of God and all that is Holy, to remember our dear friend Frederick Ilyanobronechvichnaya Temblor and all that he was and meant to us. It is with great sadness and joy that we celebrate the devoted husband, loving father and loyal friend which Fred so ably embodied. We are all God’s children and he has a divine plan for each and every one of us. It was Fred’s time to join God in heaven and with that knowledge we should all take comfort knowing that Fred is now in a better place. Let Fred’s death be a reminder to us all to hug your loved ones a little tighter and breathe each passing breath as deeply and as purely as humanly possible. Thank You and God bless you all.” At the time, I remember looking around to the other faces and wondering if they were actually buying the massive amount of bullshit that this guy was spewing from his mouth. It seemed as if they all were. That realization was even scarier than imagining what God had in store for me. I couldn’t imagine it being any worse than what he had planned for Fred, so when I thought of it that way I kind of took some solace in Pastor Brianty’s words. Think about it though. God’s plan? That was what God had intended for Fred’s life? For him to die in a narcoleptic induced fire? To leave his wife of twenty year’s to raise their three children alone? I happen to find that line of thinking a little bit backwards. Maybe God does have a plan for all of us but who is to say? Maybe, just maybe, God’s plan didn’t quite work out for Fred. Maybe, since we are all “God’s children” his plan doesn’t always work out the way he intends it to for all of his children. Hell, take my parents for example. They can’t even raise me right and I am only one person. There are roughly 6.1 billion humans inhabiting planet earth so it is entirely plausible that God gets it wrong sometimes. Give the guy a break he’s probably tired.

Signing Off For Now

Hey, That’s all I have for now. Thanks for listening and stay tuned. I have plenty more to talk about. Until then, take care….
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