The Nosepicker

This is a very rough draft of a story I made up somewhere along I-90. A note to those of you with delicate sensibilities, this story contains salty language and adult content. Reader discretion is advised.

The Nosepicker
By Alec Brown

Tim saw it first, through the trees. He and Ron were scouring for edible berries to snack on. The smooth leaves were tiger-striped green. They were almost perfectly round. The strange plant grew in the center of a circle of tall trees. It was almost as if the trees were protecting it with their wooden bodies. Or trying to get away.
It was Tim’s first backpacking trip with Ron and Lester. They had been going into the woods together for years, doing God knows what. Tim was always a little jealous. They were the Three Amigos, had been since high school. Tim wound up going to college in Boston, while Ron and Les stayed in Washington. That was when they started backpacking.
At first, Tim didn’t really mind. He was never the outdoorsy type. He would rather watch a good (or bad) movie on a hot day than float the river. But as the years passed, it began to irk him. For one thing, their excursions were now almost a monthly occurrence. Rain or shine, his friends would head into the woods. And when they got back, they never really talked about it. It was as if they were on a top-secret mission. They would barely even acknowledge that they had been gone. It drove hum nuts.
On the long weekends when they were away, Tim had nothing to do, no one to talk to. They were his only friends and even his parents had their own social life now that his little sister was away at college herself. For some reason, they didn’t see the need to entertain their almost-thirty-year-old, still-at-home son. So he sat alone and played Xbox in the basement, where he lived. His dad wouldn’t let him hook it up upstairs, so he sat in his sad little cave, shooting middle schoolers in their faces and sulking.
Before Lester got married, he and Ron went on a week-long camping trip. Les called it, out of his fiance’s earshot, of course, his “last taste of freedom.” It was the closest thing to a bachelor party he had and once again Tim sat alone in the basement and stewed.
When they returned, Tim confronted them. “Guys, I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to try camping.”
“Really?” Said Ron. “You do know there’s no video games in the woods, don’t you?”
“I can bring my DS, but that’s not important. I want to see what all the fuss is about. When you guys leave, I have nothing to do. It’s boring.”
“Oh, I’m sorry we hurt your feelings,” said Ron. “Would you like me to get you a kleenex for your weeping vagina?”
“Shut up, Ron,” said Les, always the diplomat. “Tim, we never even realized you had any interest in camping. Of course you can come.”
“Yeah, of course. It would be awesome.”
“Are you sure I wouldn't be interrupting your circle jerk, Ron?”
“There’s always room for one more on Brokeback Mountain, Tim.”
Ron and Les promised to take it easy on Tim for his first camping trip. They waited until they could count on sunny weather. Tim wanted his first trip to be memorable for all the woodsy fun they were sure to have and not for shitty weather. Lisa, Les’ wife, dropped them off at the trailhead. The trail ran roughly parallel to the road in the direction of a charming little hamlet called Williamsville that could barely be called a town. In four days, she would pick them up from there.
The first day had gone smoothly. Backpacking was fun. Tim had found a lot of old camping gear of his dad’s in the basement and he felt well-equipped. It was a little bulky compared to the ultra-lightweight stuff his friends had, but he had no problem shouldering the load. They broke off from the trail and followed a small stream. The sunlight reflected off the surface of the slow-moving water. The birds were chirping. Being outside was actually pretty cool. The environments were so much more dynamic than on Xbox.
Tim had downloaded a plant app to his phone. You could take a picture of a plant and it would scan a database and then tell you all the information you could ever want to know: it’s name, whether or not you could eat it, all it’s potential uses, who first discovered it, on and on and on. Tim had great fun pretending to be an expert, telling his friends random facts about every leaf or moss they found. You could take the dork out of the woods, but you could never take the dork out of the dork.
They made camp that night in a clearing. Les dug a fire pit and lined it with some large stones from down by the stream. After they ate, they stood around the fire, shooting the shit. Tim was pleased to find out that the campfire had a confessional nature. Anything you said around the campfire would not leave the campfire. There was no judgment. It was wonderful.
The next day was when Tim found the strange plant. “Hey, look at this,” he called to Ron. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the plant.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” said Ron. “Look at the underside of these.” On the underside of each leaf was a pattern of small orange bumps. They were smooth, but had a slight leathery texture.
“Hmm. The plant companion can’t identify it. It says ‘no signal.’” Tim started the cellphone dance and attempted to find a pocket of space that would provide a wireless signal. So far they had been lucky. There was consistent cell coverage in most of the areas they had been. The other men were slightly annoyed by this fact, for Tim had had his phone glued to his palm for most of the trip.
“I got it! I’ll try to identify it again, Ron. Ron? Jesus, Ron. Again?” Ron liked to poop in the woods. More than that, he liked to sneak off to poop. But he wouldn’t go far. Oh, no. He liked to poop near the action, so he could talk while he did it.
“I’m over here,” said a voice close by. “What is it? The plant?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t know. Why do you have to do that?”
“What? It’s perfectly natural, buddy. This is how most of the world does it.”
“Yeah, but why do you have to do it so close? Don’t you want privacy?”
“Everybody poops. What’s more private than pooping in the woods? Besides, Mr. Privacy, you pick your nose constantly.”
“I have a lot of boogers.”
“You’re picking your nose right now. I can hear it in your voice.”
“No I’m not.” Yes he was. “I’m an activist. Everybody picks, I’m just willing to admit it to the world.” In high school, when he thought that kind of thing would work, Tim was known to try to impress the ladies by putting quarters in his nose. He was still single. All the years of digging for gold had blessed him with large, elastic nostrils. He could even pick with his thumb. So far this camping trip had yielded some nice boogers. There was a lot of dust and pollen swirling around the forest and he had found some nice rare brown ones. “I say, don’t be ashamed of your boogers.”
“We’re quick! We Pick! Get used to it!” Ron emerged from the bushes, pumping a fist in the air.
“Shut up, Ron.”
“I saw some blackberries back there, we should go get them.”
“I’m not eating those. We’ll find some that aren’t near a pile of poop. Fuckin’ shitberries.”
That night at the campfire, there was tension in the air. Les was quiet as usual, but Ron was also strangely silent. This was almost unheard of. “What’s wrong with Ron? He run out of shit to talk?” Asked Tim.
“He has something to tell you.” Ron shot Les a dirty look. “Why don’t you ask him yourself.”
This wasn’t good. Ron was the least serious, most open person Tim knew. He had no natural inhibitions. If there was something he didn’t want to talk about... Shit, it must be bad. Tim felt a quick twist of pain in his forehead. Tentatively, he approached his friend. “What’s up, Ron?”
“Thanks, Les. Thanks a lot.”
“You need to tell him. Just do it.”
“Once again. What’s up, Ron?”
“OK. OK. Remember Les’ wedding? How drunk we all got?”
“Yeah, but honestly, I’m surprised you remember it.” It had been wild. Both sides of the new family drunk, happily dancing to lame wedding DJ songs- The Macarena, YMCA, The Electric Slide- stumbling all over the floor, laughing their asses off. “You were the first one to pass out.”
“Well, I woke up and returned to the party. After you finally crashed. And. Well...”
Tim didn’t like where this was going. Another spark of pain flashed behind his temple. “What, Ron? Say it.”
“Well, Cassy was still around, trying to find some more champagne or something.” The son of a bitch. No. “And, well, we... Hooked up. I’m sorry, Tim. I slept with your sister.”
“Motherfucker!” Tim hit Ron in the jaw. It was a weak blow, but Ron acted as if it hurt. It was what Tim needed. “You’ve fuckin known her practically her whole fuckin life! She’s like your sister! Not cool. Les, you knew?”
Les didn’t spaek, but the light of his headlamp bobbed up and down.
“I’m sorry, Tim. We were drunk and we both realized it was a mistake. She didn’t want me to tell you. But we’re friends and...” It was silent for a long time. Tim was getting a headache. Les stared into the fire, the diplomat with nothing to say. Finally, Ron tried to break the tension. “Cassy has gotten pretty hot in the past few years-”
“Ron, no.” Les tired to stop him.
“-since she went to college.” That was it. Tim lashed out with another weak punch, this time to Ron’s gut. This time it really did hurt.
“Go fuck yourself,” Tim spat. “Fuckin creep.” He stormed off into his tent. There was no door to slam, so he angrily zipped his zipper. Zzzzip! Zip! ZZZZZZIP!
That night, Tim didn’t sleep. He couldn’t believe that his oldest friend in the world had betrayed him like that. He still remembered Cassy’s fourth birthday party. They had been jealous of all the attention she was getting, so they decided to show her what’s what. They got some milk, sugar and dirt and mixed it all together. They told her it was oatmeal, her favorite. Special birthday oatmeal. She ate the whole bowl. They both got their hides tanned for that stunt. Now, he wanted to do more than tan Ron’s hide. He wanted to remove it and make a lampshade out of it, make Ron-hide toilet paper and wipe his dirty ass with it.
Sometime shortly after dawn, he decided he hated camping. He decided to pack up his shit and bounce. He began to dismantle his tent. He did it loudly, for he wanted his “friends” to wake up and try to stop him.
“Tim, what are you doing?” It was Ron. He had unzipped a corner of his door and was looking at him with bleary red eyes. Apparently, Ron had trouble sleeping as well. Good. Tim continued to pack, ignoring Ron. “You gonna leave? Don’t be stupid. You’ll get lost.” No response. “Look, I’m sorry... You can sleep with my sister, if you want. She’s fifty and in a committed lesbian relationship, but I offer her to you in apology.” No smile. Nothing. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you broke something. My stomach hurts something fierce.” That was true, and his confession raised the corners of Tim’s mouth slightly. But not enough to be considered a smile. More like a grimace of satisfaction.
By now, Les was awake. He emerged from his tent cautiously, with his hands raised, palms out. Like a hostage negotiator attempting to diffuse a tense situation. “Look, Tim. You don’t need to do this. Let’s just calm down and talk.”
“No, Les. I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.” But still totally try to stop me. “I hate fuckin camping. I’m done with Ron and his bullshit.”
“You don’t know anything about wilderness survival.” It was Ron. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Shut up, Ron. You’re not helping. Think about this. Where are you going to go?”
“My phone has GPS and compass. I’ll follow it to the road and walk to Williamsville. I’ll stay in the motel until Lisa comes to pick us up in two days. I’ll be fine.”
“Tim, don’t. Just calm down.”
“I’ve had all night to calm down, and you know what? I just got madder and madder. Fuck Ron. And fuck you for not telling me sooner. I’m done with this shit.” With that, Tim donned his father’s old oversized 1970s-style backpack. “I’ll see you assholes in a couple of days. And then I’m done with you guys. I’m outta here.”
Tim started walking. Ron rose from his tent and tried to block his way. He moved slowly, one hand gripping his stomach. Tim stared into his former friend’s eyes and said, “Les, tell Ron to move or, so help me, I’ll beat the holy living shit out of him.”
“OK. Fine, go. Go sulk in the woods by yourself. I hope a mountain lion eats you.” Tim cocked a fist at Ron’s gut. Ron quickly moved aside.
The trek through the woods took longer than Tim thought it would. His phone’s map was accurate, but they were about five miles into the forest and the going was slow with all the bulky gear he had. When he finally approached the road his head was pounding and his legs were about to give out. He sat by the side of the road to have some water and rest. As he ate the last of his supply of granola bars, his phone rang. It was Ron. He declined the call and thirty seconds later his phone beeped to let him know he had a voicemail. He deleted it without listening. He rose up and began the long walk into town.
He arrived at dusk, tired and hungry. The motel had plenty of rooms available, but unfortunately the only restaurant in town had just closed. He ate a meal of peanut butter crackers and an Almond Joy from the vending machine. He tried to watch some television, but it proved too difficult with his headache. The guy on the Food channel was visiting a small diner much like the one that had been closed. He was biting into a specialty sandwich made of alternating layers of bacon, roast beef, cheese and fried dill pickles. It was all too much. The grease running through the guy’s fingers. The sound of him loudly chewing. Tim had to switch it off. His head was killing him. Goddamn Ron.
He laid on the bed in his dark motel room. Through the gaps in his curtains there was red light from the motel’s neon sign spilling across his floor. He could hear the ice machine churning out cubes through the thin walls. He could smell the stale smell of decades of tobacco smoke permeating every inch of the room. His left eye throbbed and leaked tears down the side of his face onto his thin, smelly motel pillow. It felt like someone was boring a hole through his skull. He had had headaches before, but this was something else. Maybe he was getting a sinus infection. Maybe he should stop picking his nose.
He slept restlessly. Normally he was a side-sleeper, but his headache insisted that he sleep on his back.
He was awakened by his phone piercing his brain. This time it was Les. He must be calling to check on him. He really was a good guy. Tim decided that when he was done being mad, he would still be friends with Les. But he didn’t want to answer yet. He hit the decline button. He knew that when the phone went directly to voicemail without ringing the requisite four times, Les would know that he had pushed the button. That would tell him that Tim was alive, but still mad.
He rolled out of bed. His eye pulsed with his heartbeat. It felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds. His left nostril was completely stuffed up. Scouring his backpack, he found a first-aid kit. Amongst the yellowed band-aids, bee sting ointment and tick tweezers he found what he was looking for. The aspirin had expired in 1988, but it was better than nothing. He washed down four bitter pills with water from an individually wrapped plastic motel cup.
Once the throbbing subsided, he decided to try to blow his nose. He knew it would still hurt like the dickens, but being a semi-pro nosepicker, he couldn’t stand to have a stuffy nose. He doubled up on sheets of rough tissue, pinched his right nostril closed, and blew. Suddenly, his brains were trying to escape out of his ears. The pain was so intense, he had to sit on the corner of one of the double beds. Nothing came out. Not even a drop. Steeling himself for more pain, he blew again.
This time he could feel something dislodge, but the tissue was still dry. There was a booger in there. A big one. Probably one of those hardened fuckers that would come out attached to some nose hair, making his eyes water, making him sneeze. He extended his pinky, his most delicate instrument, and carefully inserted it into his clogged nasal passage. It was like a desert in there. Dry, cracked and pleading for moisture. As his probe found the tip of the booger, his phone rang again, startling him. His finger jerked out of his nose. It was Les again. Damn Les, get a clue. He silenced his phone and prepared to re-enter the abyss.
When his finger found the spot where the booger had been, he was surprised to find it was no longer there. It had moved. That was good, that meant there was at least some airflow going through. He swiveled his wrist around to allow his finger to ascend higher into his sinus. Ah, there it is. He could barely feel the tip of the booger. He was right, it was a hard one. And the little bastard was deep. He took a deep breath through his mouth and made one final push to retrieve the errant piece of dried mucus. He had it. He adjusted positions again, so he could use his nail to scrape it out. It was almost out, when he felt a sharp pain on the tip of his finger. Snot began to flow around his finger. Good, he had opened the nasal passage. He decided to attempt another blow before he tried for the booger again. When he removed his finger, he was shocked to see that it was not snot that had begun to flow, but blood. Deep red blood from a small puncture on the tip of his finger. What the hell kind of booger was this?
He placed one of the aged band-aids on his pinky. His head hurt worse than ever. His eye pulsed. He thought he could hear the bones within his skull creaking as his swollen brain expanded. Every slight movement enflamed the pain. He fell back onto the bed and slipped into blessed unconsciousness.
He was dreaming. It was the night of Les’ wedding. He was dressed in a white ninja outfit and bird mask, carrying a blade made out of blue steel. Somehow, his white outfit kept him perfectly camouflaged in the dark night. He was standing outside of the hotel room he had shared with his parents. Only now it was Ron’s room and adorned with pink leopard-print curtains and matching sheets. Ron was a vampire and he had hypnotized Cassy. He was about to suck her blood when Tim burst through the window, the sunlight reflecting a million rainbows in the broken, falling glass. He stabbed his wooden sword through his former friend’s chest, pinning him to the green zebra-striped bedspread. As Cassy screamed at the monster she now realized Ron had become, ninja Tim commenced kicking vampire Ron’s ass. It was his only weak spot, for Ron was an ass-vampire and everybody knows the only way to kill an ass-vampire is by kicking him in his vampire ass. With each kick, the Ron creature wailed. Tim kicked harder and faster, using his ninja training to defeat the fiend. Tim looked down and saw that he had kicked the vampire’s ass so hard that it was starting to come out of his mouth. Ron could no longer scream, his mouth was choked with his own inside-out ass. But Cassy was screaming. At Tim. No, no, I love him! Don’t! She had called the police. The sirens were approaching, coming to take Tim to ninja jail, coming to take Ron to the vampire ER. No! My poor Ron! You bastard! The sirens got louder as Cassy beat upon her Ninja Brother’s chest. No no no no no-
Tim woke with a start, still hearing the sirens from his dream. But they were fading into the distance. He sat up on the bed and looked across the room to the mirror. His left eye was red, beyond bloodshot. His nose looked like that of a kindergartener who had shoved three or four gummy bears up there. And- and he could see something poking out of his nostril. When he stood to approach the mirror for a closer look, the bloody booger retreated into into its cave. It was alive. He could feel it move, not just in his nose. No, it seemed to be moving around behind his whole face. His eye welled up with tears of pain and anger.
“That’s it, motherfucker. You’re mine.” Tim rifled through the first-kit for the tweezer. He saw the tiny bottle of pills and decided to take four more aspirin before attempting to remove whatever it was in his nose. As he waited a few minutes for the pills to kick in, he could see his nose undulating. Something was trying to crawl deeper into his face, but whatever it was, it was too big to make much progress. He stood up and approached the mirror.
Grasping the tweezer in both hands, he inserted the tip of the tool carefully into his nose. He felt the thing in his nose try to avoid the device, but it had grown so large that there was nowhere for it to go. When he grasped it with the tweezer, it thrashed frantically. But the thing was caught. It couldn’t escape.
Tim counted down in his head.
Three- he took a deep breath.
Two- he tensed his muscles.
One- He pulled with all his might.
The fire exploded inside his head. This was worse than the time he crashed his bike and one of his testicles had receded into his body. The thing would not budge. It was strong, but Tim was stronger. He redoubled his efforts, took one last breath, and with a mighty scream, he pulled again.
He could see bright white spots in his vision. He was passing out. Suddenly, he was falling into a tunnel, the bright incandescent lights of the motel room’s vanity disappearing into distant blackness. Still he pulled. The cartilage in his nose was cracking, the bones in his face were breaking. It felt like his nose was giving birth. Finally, whatever was inside him let go. Suddenly, the world burst back into view. It was so bright, so wrong. He could see his own torn, stretched nostril. A geyser of blood erupted from it. The world spun. This had to be a dream, how could you fall out of your own nose? At the same time he saw the tweezer in his hands, as he extracted the creature. They were grasping a wriggling, writhing worm-thing that was covered in blood. The thing had a large, white sac clenched in its powerful pincers. As it struggled, caught in the tweezer, it dropped its egg sac. The bloody white globe bounced once on the counter and rolled into the basin of the sink. Tim realized what it was.
He had pulled his own eye out through his nose.
He fell dropped the squirming worm-thing and crushed it beneath his bare foot with all his strength. He fell to the floor in a heap, victorious yet defeated. His phone began to ring. It was Les’ ringtone. He didn’t have enough strength to pick up the device, but he was able to sweep it off the counter and on to the floor, where it landed upside down. With the last bit of his will, he flipped the sleek gadget over and swiped his finger across the screen to answer, leaving a trail of fresh blood smeared on his beautiful phone.
“...ello? T...m? ...s Les. Hello?”
“Hoss. Bital. Need. To go.”
“...at? ...an’t hear ...ou! We ...oing to the hos...tal now! Ron ...urt real...bad.”
“No. Me. Hospital now. Please! Take. I-” He was fading. He could barely speak.
Over the static of the phone, Tim thought he heard Les talking to someone else. But then he must have passed into an area of better reception because suddenly, Les’ words were coming out clearly. He was speaking loudly, as people with bad cell reception tend to do. “Tim, I am going to the hospital with Ron! Something terrible has happened! Do you hear me?!”
“I. Need. Hospital, too! Help. Please, Les.”
It was silent for a couple of seconds. Before he lost conciseness, Tim heard Les say from the distance, “Oh, no. You didn’t wipe your ass with those strange leaves, too, did you?”