Theo Speaks, Sort Of

Okay, so Theo, the self proclaimed king of the internet and boyfriend of the girl that I’m suppose to be tutoring has found out about this blog.

He was not happy.

I told him the blog is my attempt at documenting my life in case I meet an “unfortunate” accident. He was not happy.

I told him I was not really writing “about” him, but merely “of” him. He was not happy.

I told him this blog could become a literary classic and he would be remembered with the likes of Pap Finn, Fagan and Nurse Ratched. He had no clue who I was talking about and was still not happy.

Theo then explained that if I did not let him “have his say” inside The Lazlo Files that he would tell Jessie Byrd all about it. She would “fucking flip” and then “kick my ass” and stop going to school, ending my employment.

Faced with corrupting my art or losing my steady stream of income I did what Hemingway, Joyce and all the great writers have done — I chose the money.

The following is exactly what Theo dictated to me about himself, his life and his relationship with women.

“This blog is bullshit and Lazlo is a fucking faggot. Seriously, I am this close to kicking his ass from one side of Houston to the other. I can totally do it and I might do it this week. When I do break him like a bitch I will take photos and shit and put them on this stupid fucking blog so everyone can see what a pussy he is.”

“Fuck you Lazlo. This is bullshit.”

(Theo proceeds to inhale a very large bong hit)

“First off, I don’t play World of Warcraft all day long. So what if I do? World of Warcraft is not gay in any way. World of Warcraft is just like real life except its totally bad ass. This game is hard and losers like Lazlo are just mad because they are too stupid to play and too broke to afford a computer. I have organized killer raids with up to 20 warriors. I would like see Lazlo try to do that. No way could he have raided the Monastery Keep or run through the Crystal Palace dungeon. That shit took like 2 days to plan.”

(more marijuana consumed)

“I don’t beat off, dude. That’s fucking retarded that you even said that. I’ve never beat off in my life. So what if I look at porn? That just means I’m not a faggot like you, Lazlo. Your name sucks. I look at porn maybe once a week and I only do it to come up with more ideas on how to fuck my girlfriend. Why would I beat off when I’ve got, like, the hottest fucking chic ever living in my house. Lazlo, you beat off. You don’t even have a girlfriend. You’re probably just pissed off cause I got Jessie all you have is “Lefty” and “Righty”. Hold on.”

(takes some time to pack another bowl full of marijuana)

“Dude, I don’t beat off. That’s crazy. I have sex with Jessie non-stop. She’s always like, “Theo, fuck me again” and I totally do cause I get, like, 9 boners a day.”

(now smokes the fresh bowl of marijuana)

“I don’t smell. That’s so stupid you even said that. Jessie wants me all the time. I only stay home cause whenever I go out I get like 3 or 4 girls trying to ride my johnson. Some girl totally showed me her boobies and was like “Come and get ’em boy” but I was like, “Yah, you’re hot but my bitch is hotter back home” and that shit happens to me, like, once a week.”

(Theo is off the couch and looking out the window into the backyard)

“I’m fucking rich and don’t have to work and you’re just jealous cause you went to college and don’t have shit. Look at me, my name is Lazlo, I have stupid fucking name and went to college but I’m still retarded.”

(I then asked him if he had anything else to add to his part of the blog)

“No, I have to take a shit. Wait, yah. I want you to say you’re faggot, like, 25 times and then say “Theo Rocks Balls” and add in something about Jessie being hot.”

(I ask Theo if he wants me to show this to Jessie)

“Are you fucking high? No way dude. Jesus. I’ll be back. I’m totally going to crap my pants.”

So there you go, Theo has now mounted his self defense. Frankly, I’m surprised he can read.

Stalking is Fairly Easy

There are exactly 176 people named Turner in the Houston phone book.

I started trying to find Jessie after I sobered up in the afternoon.

I was lucky, because the names Theo and Theodore seem to have died out along with Hee Haw and leisuer suits. There were, however, a number of T. Turners.

If there is one thing I learned as a reporter, it was how to be a stalker. There’s a host of people you have to track down at any given moment in a newsroom. The relatives of murder victims is always an unpleasant task. Worse yet is getting a hold of the suspected killer’s mother.

“So, Mrs. Siveli, do you think your son killed that girl they found in by irrigation ditch?”

There’s no “right way” to ask that question.

Just in case this “Theo” still lived with his parents I called every Turner listed. I slowly made my way through the list. Each time I reached a real person I simply asked, “Is Jessie there?” They all either hung up or told me I had the wrong number.

I hit pay dirt after 30 minutes when I called the number listed for  M. Turner.

“Is Jessie there?” I asked, trying my best to sound like I knew she lived there.

“She’s not here.”

“What about Theo?”

“Who is this?”

Bingo. I hung up the phone and jotted down the address on an old reciept near the phone.

Seriously, I could be a professional stalker.

I down loaded a map of the adress, took a shower and headed over to the house.

The place was on Little John off of Memorial Drive. I pulled up in front of a large stark white modern style house with a large circular driveway and block glass turret slapped to the front. The house was laid out like a “V” and was poorly landscaped. There was only one long and narrow plate glass window stretching across the northern front of the house.

It was an eye sore.

The house stuck out like a wart among  the tudor and colonial houses that surrounded it. It seemed like someone pulled a really bad Miami Vice set and dropped it on the block. I’m sure it’s very existence completely pissed off the rest of the street.

That being said, I sort of liked it.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Silence. I jammed my finger into the door bell and finally heard a haggard voice say, “I’m coming.”

Three sets of locks had to be opened before I was greeted by a short, brown skinned man with a clump of dark hair.

“Howdy,” I said. “Are you Theo?”

“Yes,” he said, squinting his eyes slightly.

I judged him to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. But it was hard to tell his age.

Both of his cheeks were marred with deep acne scars. His eyes blood shot eyes contained black pupils. He was dressed in flannel pajamas even though it was 80 degrees outside. A large coffee stain ran down the right side of his chest. He looked like Colonel Kadafi and Manuel Noreiga managed to breed together.

The stangest part was an angry red rectangle angled across his forehead. The mark seemed like he had been slapped with a ruler or got in the way of a paving brick

I spoke quickly and loudly with carnival barker voice.

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Do you by any chance know a Jessie Byrd? You see, I’m here to help. I’m here to help you. I’m here to help her. Her father has sent me to see if you need anything.”

“Huh?” he said.

The redness in his eyes. The jack rabbit approach he had to answering the door. This guy was stoned. This would be easy.

“I am here to help Jessie,” I continued. “Jessie Byrd. Is she here?”

“She’s not here,” Theo finally said in a dazed fashion, still wildly confused by my presence.

“Well then, let me come on in and we can talk about what you two kids need, eh?”

And like that, he let me in. Theo was either incredibly stupid or he had been pulling bong tubes all morning. I decided he was a little of both. No one in Houston would just let a stranger into their house.

After all, this is town where any knock on your day might be made by a someone trying to push their version of Jesus on you.

Or worse.

That knock on the door could be from a rapist. Or a robber. Or a salesman.

Theo was lucky, I’m just a tutor.