An Early Ambition

In his youth, the Complete and Total Loser toyed with the idea of being an artist.

It didn't matter to him that he had no talent for composition, no sense of color, no concept of how to translate an idea into an image, and drew poorly; he liked the idea of little work that would pay well and give him an air of being above those who settle into the ranks of workers.

Then there were the women. The Loser had (and has) no ability to get them. "Artists," he thought, "don't need to be good looking or well dressed. Their passion appeals to women."

And the type of women drawn to artist were, he thought, his type. Exotics with tawny limbs, free spirits who would disrobe in the woods and have sex at odd times of day and in unconventional positions. Supportive women with hair in their eyes, casual about a threesome. 

The Loser even picked art for his college major. His topics were unfocused and, despite their frequent graphic sexual images, timid.

Not long after college, he threw away everything he'd done. 

The Loser's Cave

Last fall. Was it last fall? Yes, it was, the Complete and Total Loser is sure of it. That's when the city put more streetlights on his safe city street. Three.

The lights emit yellow light, the color of a sick man's urine. They change other colors in the dark, muting reds, flattening blues. Powerful. The Loser's roman shades glowed bright yellow when closed. Why, he wondered, do lights intended to illuminate the street—streetlights—shine so strongly into his third-floor apartment's two windows? It's one of those questions he can't get an answer to, like why do so many parents these days put perfectly able bodied four-year-olds in baby carriages, even as children get fatter and fatter?

"I can read by the light, that's how bright it is," the Loser told his coworkers. They'd shrug or say "Huh," and continue doing whatever they were doing.

Bent on a solution, the Loser found that his shades, segmented pieces controlled by string, could sandwich something opaque, thus blocking the light. He bought yards of thin vinyl at a store selling textiles, thinking that with a few stitches he could do this, or maybe with a glue gun.

The rolled vinyl sat on his floor for weeks. Months. It's in the Loser's closet now, he thinks. Or under something.

Meanwhile, he came up with a simpler solution. Cardboard. He got cardboard at work from the boxes he empties as part of his stupid, loser, low-level job. It worked. He did all but three bottom sections of one window, the one where his window fan would go in summer.

The drawback is that he can't raise and lower the shades now, and his cluttered, dingy apartment is dark even on bright summer days. This depressed the Loser at first. Later, he found it fit his way of life, alone and in perpetual dimness. Now he wonders why he didn't think of it years ago, streetlights or not.

Hottest Summer

It's been so far and will likely remain the hottest summer ever on record in the Complete and Total Loser's East Coast city.

The Loser has no air conditioner, though he could easily afford one and the electric bill that would follow. Yet he stubbornly refuses to make the purchase, opting instead for one large fan in the window and a small, noisy one he puts on the edge of his desk so it blows directly on him as he sleeps, unsheeted, on his twin mattress during the summer's short, sultry nights.

This lack gives him opportunities to boast in his self righteous, loser way. "I live in a third floor apartment of a three-story rowhouse," he tells anyone who will listen. "It get's like an attic in there." He even wrests environmental credit out of not having an air conditioner, saying that getting one adds to the problem, with its increase in burning fossil fuels.

"If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." He has actually said that, the Loser.

He continues to exercise in the heat. His bicycle rides. He gets back to his shoebox apartment, showers, and still drips sweat on the cheap plastic kitchen floor as he prepares his simple breakfast or dinner. Then he has a headache for the rest of the day or night. He deserves that.

The sign says STOP but they're young and in love, so forget it.