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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (April 11, 1997)
Heather LAMPE 1-900- -ROKE require money to start After several paternity tests and a number of unfortunate restraining orders, I have recently discovered that Warren Buffett is not my father. The jury is still out on whether Bill Gates might be, but threats of straightjackets and padded rooms have nude me reconsider any more attempts to persuade him. I may be forced to accept my lowly financial status. So, in the spirit of the American dream, I have devised a plan to become a millionaire. Since I currently only have assets that amount to $27.93, I’m going to have to be thrifty and start small. I’ve enlisted the help of my Uncle Beefy in the development of a line of Marshall Meatpacker dolls. They come complete with their own cleaver and emit a pungent smell of pork when squeezed. We’re hoping they will take off like the Tickle Me Elmo dolls. Lode for Marshall on store shelves next Christmas. But just to insure my wealth, if the doll idea should fall through, I also ordered one of those infomercial real estate kits. It comes with a 45-minute videotape and a pamphlet that instructs you on how to buy and sell million-dollar hones. Still, my first real estate outing has convinced me that this may not be my ideal avenue to wealth. To buy real estate, you must first have assets and cash. And as I’ve said before, I currently only possess a broken futon and a crusty toaster oven that I swiped from my grandmother’s garage sale. Most of my early wealth, birthday money and allowances, was lost in the 1980’s PTL scam and an unlucrative investment in the record company that produced Menudo. My current shoe-selling career hasn’t fared much better for me either. So when I went to purchase one of die homes in Lincoln’s prestigious “Ridge” area, my down payment of $119 was only enough to buy the mailbox. I did make $5 when one of the residents thought I was collecting for UNICEF, but I was subsequently arrested for loitering and solicitation. Trying to sell million-dollar real estate isn’t much easier than buying it. If you’ve never resided in a home with more than one toilet, a house with eight flushers can be quite overwhelming. On my first outing, I became so excited at the sight of the jacuzzi and adjoining wet bar that I began to foam at the mouth uncon trollably. I inevitably scared my potential buyers away when I saw the Olympic size swimming pool and stripped down to my skivvies to dive in. I’ve also ordered an information kit on how to set up my own 900 number. I believe this is where my real success may lie. There are a million more perverts willing to pant into the phone for three hours than there are millionaires willing to buy a house from me. To make my 900 number success ful though, I must decide on the kind of line I want it to be. Right now you’re probably thinking “PHONE SEX, Heather, the public wants phone sex!!” But my research has concluded that there are too many phone sex providers out there. The market is only large enough to accommodate so many 1-900-HOT LEGS numbers. The recent cult suicide has inspired'me to set up a 900 line that would direct people to reputable cults. It’s going to be much like 1 800-Dentist. But instead of finding callers dentists, I will be putting them in contact with cults that are compatible with them. “OK, Mr. Jones, do you enjoy small animal sacrifice or would you prefer an organization that worships UFOs? The Heaven’s Gate group has closed shop, but we do currently have an opening in a new cult that believes Bob Barker is. the next. messiah. There is no castration or suicide requirement, but they request MattHaney/DN that you know how to spin the wheel.” The things I’ll do to make a buck. Lampe is a senior news editorial and English major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist. Anne - ; j- HJERSMAN Small pint ABCs of alcoholism a hard lesson for little girl “Daddy.” The word’s hollowness echoed in her head. “Daddy?” k Nothing. No answer. At the age of 4, she looked very small, but she spoke very big. “Daddy,” she said, standing between them—her red-faced father and her mother, white with fear. “Daddy, I want you to be my daddy, but I don’t want a daddy who hurts my mommy.” ■ She reached up, almost on tiptoe, and turned the worn brass doorknob with both hands. She peeked into the hallway. A dull glow filtered through the dust and dead bugs that lined the old light fixture. Her mother had told her father to “clean that damned thing.” But her father hadn’t gotten around to it yet. She rubbed the sleep from her 6yes and squeaked out a yawn. Her hair stood matted on the back of her tiny head, and her father’s wrinkled T-shirt hung on her. Brown circles marked both armpits. Her mother had told her father he couldn’t wear “the filthy thing.” Her mother had tried every soap in the house. Nothing worked. When her mother wasn’t looking, riie dug it out of the trash. The monsters stayed in the closet when riie wore it. She reached behind her and grabbed Barkly by one of his large, floppy, orange ears. Her stuffed dog, which was three times her size, dragged slowly behind her as she crept down the hall. The heavy shag carpet easily absorbed her footsteps. She didn’t have to worry about waking him. She tossed Barkly onto the floor, turned the television knob and tiptoed into the kitchen. Bottles scattered the floor. She stepped cautiously around them. If she stumbled, he was sure to wake up. Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. She peeled her little feet from the sticky spill stained linoleum with every step. Her father wasn’t much for cleaning up after himself. She tugged open the heavy bottom drawer and stepped up onto it, glancing over her shoulder. No, she hadn’t awakened him. With one hand on the counter, she steadied herself and reached into the cupboard far her favorite green tumbler. Her mother had made apple juice the night befoe. As she was crawling down off the drawer, the cup slipped from her hand and bounced with a hollow clunk. She froze. Her face grew hot. Her tiny fists curled around the drawer handle, and her eyes squeezed shut. She held her breath. Her ears pounded. Nothing stirred. She jumped nervously from the drawer and faced it crookedly closed. She snatched up the cup and hurried over to the refrigerator. She “air-conditioned the whole kitchen” as she pushed aside rows of silvery cans and brown bottles to pull out the Tupperware pitcher that had been shoved to the back. The sweet brown juice gurgled into the cup. It was nice and cold — just the way she liked it. The television murmured in the next room, and she hurried out to see what she was missing. Big Bird was looking a little green. She figured her father must have adjusted something. She set her cup on the edge of the television stand and flopped lazily onto her fuzzy friend. “S,T,0,P,” the fat little cartoon said, reading the large print. “Sss... ttt... ahh... ppp..., ssstt.. opp.., sstop... STOP!” She buried her mouth in Barkly’s ear and giggled madly, as a tmck came out of nowhere and crashed into Sound-It-Out man. “Stop?” ■ “Annie?” Oh no! He’s awake. She hugged Barkly with all the strength in her little body. Please... let him be OK today. “Annie Nickels,” his muffled voice croaked from the bedroom, “you out there?” “'Yes, Daddy ” she squeaked. “What?” “I said, yes, Daddy,” she called to him. She could hardly breathe as the floor creaks grew closer. “1 thought you were out here...,” he belched. She didn’t look up. He took hold of Barkly’s hind legs and pulled the dog out from under her. She tumbled to the ground and tucked herself inside the shirt. His fat fingers dug into her ribs as he flipped her to her back and pinned her arms and legs down. His sour breath poured hotly over her face, and her stomach lurched. “How’s my Annie Nickels?” he snickered. ■ It started almost as a whimper, then a giggle, then a laugh, then a guffaw, then a howl, then a shriek. “Stop, Daddy, stop!” She thrashed about, trying to get free. He snorted. “Daddy, I’m gonna pee!” She gasped. “Please! Stop! Daddy! STOP!!” His whole body shook as his deep belly laugh pounded her heart. “DADDY!” Her hand swung free, and cold apple juice splashed to the floor. The wet T-shirt clung warmly to her thighs, and she shuddered. “What the hell?” Her father kneeled beside her. “Jesus, Anne!” He roared and smacked her aside. “Son of a bitch! You peed all over yourself, you little shit!” His foot cmshed into her side, and she strangled the sobs that tried to free themselves from her throat. He stormed into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door swing open. Bottles clanked, and he finally slammed out of the house. Tears streamed down her face, mingled with the apple juice in her hair and dropped to her wet under pants. ■ When she finally looked up, Sesame Street was over: “Today’s letter, boys and girls, was the letter Y.” Y. Y. Y. Y. Y ... Y ... Y ... Y.... Y.... Why? m “Daddy?” The word’s hollowness echoed in her head. “daddy.” It was not until years later that she understood. Hjersman is a senior news editorial and English major and the night editor and a columnist for the Daily Nebraskan. MattHaney/DN
