Oddtober 2024: Haunted Houses by Kathryn Hemmann

Told y’all we’d be talking about some Oddtober-related ‘zines! I know we just got finished with ‘Zine September but the first few Oddtober 2024 entries have been a bit heavy. I need something lighter to end the week and Haunted Houses by Kathryn Hemmann fits the bill. It’s got a creepy bite to it, but if a ten-year-old kid picked it up, they could flip through it without ruining their childhood.

Haunted Houses is an extremely pretty ‘zine, with drawings and seventeen pieces of flash fiction. The inside cover says:

The seventeen short stories in this collection dwell in haunted places. If you get lost in the words, you might be alarmed at first, but you’ll get used to it.

You live here now.

Kathryn Hemmann wrote the stories and created the drawings and through them explores different ways places can be haunted. She explores how people can be haunted, too. Though this is pretty and all together less horrifying than the two books that started Oddtober 2024, there is some very creepy darkness in it as well. An endless hallway that rivals the five and a half minute hallway in Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves, decaying neighborhoods that swallow people, a person who creeps through houses at night so he or she can smell people when they are sleeping, and more. My favorite is the extraordinarily effective and creepy “Final Project Proposal.” The story is very short, micro-fiction actually, coming in at under 200 words. In that short piece, Hemmann incorporated the trope of the mad scientist, the evil dungeon master, and the miserable experiment forced to live penned up. So effective and so horrible. It’s perfect.

Because this ‘zine is flash fiction, I cannot engage in the in-depth dissection approach I prefer to take when discussing works here. But if you are a fan of the deceptively creepy, always wondering what unnerving things lurk in offices and old homes, you’ll like this little ‘zine. I wish I had not ordered this specifically for Oddtober because I would have loved to give Mr. OTC a copy for Halloween and since he proofreads my entries here, it would have ruined the surprise. If you’re interested in a copy, you can get one here.

Hemmann also continues with the goodwill I’ve come to expect from ‘zine makers, and included a couple of gratis items, including a lovely bookmark. Said it before and I’ll say it again: ‘zine makers are some of the most generous people with their work.

Be sure to keep an eye out for next week because I think I may actually have a book or two even the most ardent horror fans may not have seen. Bug chasers. A Komsomol girl versus a serial killer. Folk horror. And more! See you Monday.

Blow My Colon #3 by Anthony Vegue

For weeks, I tore up my office, closet and various bookshelves and could not find this ‘zine. I decided to discuss another ‘zine in it’s place, but before I truly committed I finally asked the long-suffering Mr. OTC to have a look. He sauntered into my office and five minutes later came out with Blow My Colon Issue 3 in his hands. I was relieved that he found it for a variety of reasons but not least among them is that in its place I had planned to discuss the 2020 compilation of The Deprogrammer, which is a hoot (and culturally interesting), but, in tackling it before another election involving Trump, I feared it would result in comments threatening to tar and feather or lynch me and I don’t have the time to run risk assessment. Maybe in 2026.

Blow My Colon Issue 3 holds few qualms in that regard because the target audience of this ‘zine are too tired to give a crap. BMC3 is the delightful “Clerks” edition. It was released in 1996, when Kevin Smith’s 1994 Clerks was still experiencing a lot of social cache and word of mouth. Back then movies could remain in the public consciousness for years. It was a simpler time. When I bought this, I had just quit managing a shoe store in Dallas, a job that left me feeling utter contempt for my fellow man and a new understanding of what causes workplace violence. I departed from that job with an angry nihilism combined with an almost-psychic ability to peg an aggressive asshole or condescending classist in an instant. At the end of the job, a thief could have come into the store with a Red Flyer wagon, dumped the contents of the cash register and half the purse displays into it, and walked out and I would have robotically told them to have a good day.

But this ‘zine reminded me that things could always be worse.

This ‘zine is devoted to the men and women who staff gas stations and convenience stores, especially the night shift heroes who get to deal with drunks, bathroom shit-smearers*, and counting the cigarettes. Always counting cigarettes. Even with the massive change in technology we’ve experienced since 1996, these three issues still plague the lives of the convenience store clerk. This ‘zine tells the stories of the people who work these jobs and the derelicts and deviants who make their lives miserable.

And right about now I feel that I need to warn readers that if you are easily offended or angered, stop reading now.

I think you have to have cleaned a bathroom on Christmas Eve after a person with questionable hygiene had violent diarrhea while everyone else is at home, cozy and drinking eggnog, to fully understand the human experience. The stories of these brave men and women are sobering but mostly hilarious, though a bit gross at times.

For example, take Dave, who worked at a gas station in Erie, PA. He got the job just to stretch out his unemployment benefits, showed up absolutely stoned for every shift but was still praised for picking up the job details faster than anyone else in the store. The only way to make the job more challenging was to get even more stoned. When “massively high,” he’d work slowly, causing the line to pay to become very long.

That’s where it was helpful to wear a hat – keep that bill pointed down, never look the customer in the eye, laugh maniacally to yourself.

Dave also goes on at length about his coworkers and the more annoying customers who treated him like a therapist or vented their repellent political opinions at him.

Click to see a larger version.

Scoth from Indianapolis mentioned the three things that are present in almost all accounts of late night convenience store or gas station jobs. Free coffee, which a clerk must drink until their hearts began racing so quickly there was no discernible time between beats. Second, relentless theft, by employees and customers alike. Third, the cigarettes. Always counting cigarettes.

Josh from Oregon elegantly summed up the customer service experience:

Unless you’ve lived it, you can never fully understand the total impact of this hell on earth. I gained thirty pounds, an additional chin, and bags under my eyes that could pack a family of four. I worked graveyard so my bitterness is perfectly understandable.

He describes a terrible customer who threw milk at him and the utter indignity that waited for him:

He threw the milk jug at me on the way out. I don’t think the dude knew just what that meant to me. Not only was I forced to get up off my lazy ass and clean up the fuckin mess, but I was left with an over-ring. But worse than all the fucking pricks like that was counting those goddamed cigarettes every morning.

Adam from Santa Fe confirmed a lot of things many of us suspected about those in such service jobs:

Sometimes now I piss in the window cleaner. Then I watch all those dumb fucks wash their windows with it all day.

Even worse:

I spit everywhere. Coffee pots and ice machines and in the sandwiches we sell.

And, as always:

The worst thing about this fuck job though is counting the cigarettes.

Such jobs alter the way your brain works, as explained by Joe Gallo from New Jersey.  One night when a seventeen-year-old girl accidentally drove through the front of the store, nearly taking out a line of people waiting to buy Lotto tickets, Joe’s reaction was interesting:

First thing I said: “Holy shit!” Next thing I said: “Awesome!”

Someone helpfully laid out their usual work tasks.

Also hilarious were the product reviews:

Waxie’s Gelled Rite-Away

Ok, this shit claims to remove “graffiti within 6 hours.” Sounds great if your graffiti is lipstick. Or erasable pen. Or a pencil, Or better yet, a piece of paper with “Chaka” sprayed on it, taped to the wall.

Since the clerk knew his boss would “shit a horse” if he saw some painted graffiti on the wall, he booked it to the stall with Waxie’s Gelled Rite-Away and when he was finished, the white paint was stripped down to the metal but the graffiti remained.

The ‘zine also includes a nice list of films from the eighties and nineties that depict the clerk experience, the weird gum you can find at convenience stores, shopping cart racing, a helpful list of ‘zines to read on the clock (featuring Fringe Ware Review, which is worth mentioning because I am almost certain I purchased this at the old FringeWare store on Guadalupe), and many humorous observations about cops.

And in case you were wondering, yes, the clerks frequently have sex in the store. Or at least they did in 1996. I suspect it is more difficult but if the coolers in back are not surveilled, you can probably bank on the fact that if you are waiting five minutes for a clerk to ring you up at 3:45 am, chances are he or she is in the cooler or a random storage closet expressing their love for their partner in a physical manner.

The nineties were the last time when people could be free to engage in compensatory retaliation. Yeah, yeah, spitting everywhere is unsanitary** and “you’re getting paid to work you communist” but I don’t care because being micromanaged with cameras on you from every angle as you spend half-an-hour with a religious fanatic Protestant, who is upset that you are selling Catholic glass canister candles, begging her to give you her credit card so you can charge her so she can leave, is worth a stolen six-pack or a furtive blow job under the counter. Cutting off the working person’s ability to blow off steam at work is probably why we as a nation are ready at a moment’s notice to kill each other. This ‘zine reminds me that I’m kind of old these days, but it was fun remembering the activity that radicalized me more than any politician or religious figure could – working the register.

Unfortunately finding a copy of this  ‘zine will prove to be difficult but sometimes just knowing something this incredible exists is enough.

‘Zine September now comes to a close. I may do this again, especially if I get some good ‘zine recommendations. I also have some ‘zines I want to discuss in October. Except next month is ODDtober, where I hope to discuss creepy and frightening ‘zines, music, books and films.

 

*I once worked at a Half-Price Books. Best job of my life, I loved it but I was seasonal, and I would work there again in a moment, even taking into account the bathrooms. The women’s bathroom was a nightmare. Twice in my brief time there, someone smeared shit all over the ladies’ room stalls. The manager of the store was a rock star of a woman and  and felt it was her responsibility to clean up when that happened but the second time I did it. I volunteered to do it because the manager had just learned she was pregnant. The ladies’ room also suffered from women not using their Diva cups with consideration for their fellow man, leaving period blood smeared on the doors and faucets, and one time, a defiant woman left huge blood clots clogging the bathroom sink.

But the best bathroom cleaning experience came from the men’s room. Someone had peed all over the wall outside of a regular stall, as well as all over the inside of the stall itself. As I was mopping up, I noticed sneaker prints on the back of the toilet – the store was old so the toilets were the sort you find in homes, with a tank with a lid and a regular flush mechanism. Smallish sneaker prints. I am not a forensics expert but I am reasonably sure a pre-teen boy stood atop the toilet tank and just peed all over the bathroom. I could not even be mad at it. I could just feel the degenerate glee that kid must have felt as he soaked the place in piss and wished him well in his future job in finance.

** If you’re eating gas station-prepared food anywhere but Buc-ees, some stoner spitting on your sandwich will be the least of your problems.

BeastMeat by Seth Goodkind

Today’s look at ‘zines is going to be a short one, by necessity because it’s an art/comic ‘zine with very little in the way of dialogue.

Let my crankiest cat show you what is what with BeastMeat by Seth Goodkind.

“Do you see the beast? Have you got it in your sights?”

BeastMeat is a fun and fairly nasty mini-zine/comic hybrid. It’s a little bit of gross horror that is meant to be enjoyed for its grossness, but, believe it or not (believe it because I will explain myself shortly), I was able to associate elements of this ‘zine with a recent presidential candidate’s struggles.

BeastMeat consists of black and white drawings of a man who has some sort of worm in his head, speaking gibberish to him and driving him to madness. He shoots himself in the head to rid himself of the worm – I have no idea why I immediately thought “planarian” but suspect it’s just high school biology rearing its less-than-helpful head – and the worm tries to escape, only to be caught by a goat-looking creature. The goat, whom I assume to be the “Beast,” engages in a struggle with the worm and then the man, and I assume they are the “Meat,” but I’m sort of old and have no real idea what is happening. Then the Beast lays or craps out some sort of larvae sac into the man’s neck. The End.

Meet the Beast. Irritate a cat. Make unlikely associations with politics.

But here’s why I absolutely had to discuss this ‘zine. A man has a wormish creature crawling around in his head, shouting nonsense and driving him to madness. He rids himself of the worm but a Luciferian goat comes and makes things even worse with a nastier worm-thing. Is there anything in this comic that reminds you of some current politician? If the Beast had been a bear or a whale, would the association I’m making be clearer?

This comic ‘zine was created in 2014 but I think we all know that Seth Goodkind looked into the future, saw Robert F. Kennedy’s worm-infested brain and his struggles with political darkness and drew this comic to warn us. And the upside to this totally coherent analysis is that you can assign members of the political right and left to the role of the Beast, which means you don’t have to leave me angry comments accusing me of being a Soros-funded degenerate or a Russian Trumpette asset.

I have absolutely no idea where I got this ‘zine but Seth Goodkind still sells this comic ‘zine in his Etsy store. He also has an interesting-looking Instagram account. He appears to be a tattooist, and has inked a card from the Edward Gorey Fantod Pack onto someone’s arm. This means he is awesome and I will send a Fantod Pack to the first person not married to me who knows what Edward Gorey character I have tattooed on my own carcass and posts the answer in the comments. Contest open until someone wins or we all succumb to the brain worm and become BeastMeat or succumb to BeastMeat, the comic wasn’t clear.