Destination: Bulgaria ~ fiction by Jim Meirose

Out I-80 Longshoremenne VonderLee reliuctantly relocated her men to truck-and-road duty. Bing the professional she was she took them to new quarters equipped with smart-flywheel rollers to glide up under the innerside of her designated Interstates. Cause; yah; cause having been tight-clued that contractee “Horse” had gained additional dockspace ‘long her total reaches of interesting control, hup! Oh; arriving just in time and sharpened tight in, praise God, at the right exact, moment a craft hitchhacked down as Kevin said, Here I come where am I guide me in “Horse” has summoned me to ride along-down in the with him kind. God willing it be true what I have thumbed up will prove quick and smooth. Blessed be, here he is—slowed, stopped. So now’; mount. Do your duty, Vonderlee. I have heard good things by you. Underslipping blackwater-flowing of the inrolling road surface replacing the calmly lying coveholding quayside watersurfaced deep floatmass.

Ideity-fy yourself, she replied. Every particular of the known vessel “Horse” is registered by we need to gather your specific. Easier on to make you eck we will make do with merely the skeletal basics required to maintain a securely insured and generally legal environment for my longshoremen and menettes. First, my sweet vessel of a boy; your legal name.



Yosh Butcherboy. In some circles.

Basic inner loadname?

Flesh bony n’ hot live semisolids.

Transferring data?




Body weight?

Uneven from moons to moons—but straight-natured.

Depth fully loaded?


Height fully loaded?

Five foot nine.


July morning festival in Bulgaria.


At midnight on July first every year people gather around fires, play music, and wait for sunrise on the Black Sea shoreline of Bulgaria. Uriah Heep’s July Morning is played freely. I aim to take part in this festival.

Okay. Payment method?


Soft or hard.


Tender proffered?

Airy vibration of the kind usually hoped for.

Okay! So. Kevin-Rant. Wants to get to July morning. Is only a pawn in somebody else’s drama. An honest man seeking safe arrival at some end. Kevin’s dream of immersion in July morning is his first step toward a simpler life. Happily he feels to unload to the Sympathetic Longshoremanette Ms. VonderLee—but—more somehow’s needed boo-but. Kevin paused one hand on the door latch and waving the other toward VonderLee, saying, Wait. This is new and different and hip-too good for my truth, sidewise. Butt down a moment. Your job sums into exactly what again hey?

My crew transfers goods from you safely and undamaged and on time—meaning swiftly—up into this vessel here you have hitchhacked downside this Interstate. Get ready to mount up to the cab while—lead chief longshore-foremen, gather your men! Load this Kevin up in and on that big seat swiftly!

The Kevin looked up down both ways of straight reflecting that there’d neverfore been something like this chief long fore-man or something equal to—if fuzzy comparison-stats are observed during finely drilled interpretation of this data, yes she seemed to be speaking ut speaking to her innerself only, but oh, gas! Kevin’s sweets had told his boy version back somewise earlier that if unsure of a thing, don’t do! Do is a command—Do in the forty-rand plug-glamming lingspoke but there’s no floating hover of a wire-less keyboard to pound the commands in so he decided to spill crudely his guts in her first, saying, Hold! My face I’ll push in yours! I am simply trying to reach my friendlies. This attempt began back-hind down May. Or maybe April—as a monsa’ a mon’a a fact you could see me comin’ way back when tyje swinging dick cried, ah! Yes Ms, eh, oh, I know—yes Ms. Eh ah eh ai’ no. What? What do you call yourselves today madame? Pray Tell—no disrespect intended, y’understand—I am wise ‘nuff to divine the odds are not gripped up to favor your name actually be-being Pray Tell, swe-e-e-e-t laydee—hup! I have been picked up. Kavarna’s Rock Festival is where I push push to ultimately be, but. I’m made by turns anxious, frightened, confused, and concerned—flip to the word that covers all negatives to describe what my world had become. True, tickets to every event in Bulgaria is my future goal, but today I simply want to reach the July morning festival—my step toward freely attending bigger and better events by the Black Sea—then to progress further beyond that like that—but I don’t see what I have done to be so thwarted so immediately. I have struggled like in a dream where I got to call somebody now, it’s life death or worse—Kavarna is the rock capital of Bulgaria, but, now it’s—where—oh okay, got the phone. Punch in the number, shit—missed, try again but but but—the keys are somehow smaller—got it wrong first time again floating in the panic say, three meters high eh—punch, crap! Such festivals as Kavarna help rediscover Bulgaria as an attractive tourist destination—I want to take part, b-b-b-b-ut. The keys to press in the phone are even smaller yet. A death or worse is forward surging et et closer deadlier smaller can’t get it—the panic flow’s rising and—then I wake, and I say, oh. Great events are regularly organized in Kavarna Municipality, whose Mayor Tzonko Tzonev is renowned for his love of rock and metal music. And that great future I will be part of—but now there’s going to be fun and relaxation and the death of fear and pain at July morning, so. Out to the roadside. Famous artists and bands visit Kavarna year-round. I will get there yes, but got to start somewhere—but now to thumb a ride. Okay, here. Thumb’s stuck up eh, and yes, here comes one big boy semi. But this one’s crazy. Like the next. Like that phone. The keys are big. Key it in thumb one down, shit, miss; this one’s crazy. Panic calm, again; the keys are smaller. Key it in thumb one the driver’s down, miss, crazy, over and over and over again et, eck. Hippo! The number’s wrong. All’s nightmarish. So Ma’am; tell me why this one’s going to be different. For God’s sake; more than forty world-famous artists have played on the stage of Kavarna’s RockFest and I want to join that scene, so. Thank God you claim you’ll facilitate this—what’s your name again? Oh, yes, I ‘member—VonderLee—hey can you hear me?

Of course I can hear you. I’m right here. Are you done?

Done? What do you mean done?

You done ranting and raving? You ready to be loaded in? My men cost much per hour and here they sit idle. Don’t look shattered. I sympathize with your dream of sitting stage center first row at the Polkovnik Serafimovo—then moving on to attend Sofia Rocks, FunCity, and the Nature All Hip-Hop. The lure of Bulgaria, I get. I do—but my men need to get going. If the “Horse” over here does not leave on time the investors and owners will lose money. The goods packing his trailer will lose shelf life. The retailers who’s shelves depend on on-time at low cost and with quality will need to reorder earlier. Plus much of the goods will go to landfills instead of to consumers—there may even be shortages. So what that Bulgaria isn’t short on hipster events—when there may be hunger where never before. So what that you do achieve your dream of someday attending Meadows In The Mountains each year—when all ‘round you jobs will be lost since retailers with empty shelves will not need people. They will slash jobs. Unskilled people who could drag up a couple of minimum-wage jobs to get by before, will lose that option. This will lead to poverty. This will lead to lives of crime, for some. There will be murder thievery hijacking carjacking raping and pillaging and you will force—yes you, Kevin—if you and others like you stall fine men like mine into missing objectives and deadlines—you will force the rise of a race of leaders with no choice but to be brutal, dictatorial; to rule with deadly iron fists by fear and brutality murder torture bestiality so—you, Kevin—had best get your ass into gear.

Any questions?

Yes. You, Ms. Vancerlalianne or whomever else you think you are—know I am just one. But—I am one of many. Do you not know who I am? When I yearn as I do for festival after festival combining music, workshops, camping and colorful sceneries in places like the tranquil Rhodope mountains? All that aside—many concerts occur yearly over in Kaliakra stadium. And it’s my mission to go and take part. But, instead you’d strap me and mine into a system requiring lock-step marching by the clock in uniform all regimented packed full of stepwise daily work done exactly the same; slavery to the clock, obedience and worship to the dollar, most of which will pour over somebody who’ll never say thank you but just pile up the money higher while less and less come to me and mine—but there may be two of me. Even fifteen. Even fifteen over fifteen or—but how’s ‘bout a thousand? Or ten? Or a thousand—or millions—millions, eh, ut. The modern stadiums in Bulgaria have thousands of well-padded seats. That’s the type of attainment you’ll never know. Keep at it. And your fate will be that the fat-packed bundlers of highest-denomination bills ‘cross all nations who bed down every night sure that each day will be bigger and fatter and every other kind of ‘r will—be found drifting iced-down balls all a-tumble over tumble in interstellar space because—‘ecause and ‘cause and ‘ause and ‘se we will have built up enough anger that one night maybe not this night or the next night but yes some night there will be—a pop of the world going gone but that they—who built the pressure so high as to pop reality like a fat shapeless infected half live half not superballoon—will not even need to suffer through the final blast ‘cause ‘ecause and ‘cause and ‘ause and ‘se—they will have been anesthetized by greedy fat slimy banknotes; to die quietly is not something they deserved but at least death claimed them death of their own making eck—and then we being rid of them can— ‘cause the Kavarna rock-stadium can be reached by foot from Dobrotiza square— ‘cause Bulgarian artists such as B.T. R., Signal, and Hipodila are among the top stars that have appeared—‘cause the Concert Portal of Kavarna Municipality houses many necessarily inconvenient truths all must know and climb to their tops upon—tops so high that you and yours will be cast aside long before you will ever even dream how high you may have gotten if only you had shed your shit-sacks and striven side by side with us and and and—


Where the hell is the truck?

Oh shit.

Crap. Looked like a cushy one, too.

Well. There’s always others.

Take that!

Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at and @jwmeirose on Twitter.

Show Jim some love via PayPal at jmeirose(at)optonline(dot)net.