Mothman Stood Me Up. Again.

By: Nathan Elliot 

I know we’ve been down this road before, but I just need someone to listen. No one else will pick up the phone, and my mom just keeps asking me to come home and “stop trying to fuck the grey man” or whatever. The last two weeks have been rough. I haven’t showered in five days, my teeth are developing some kind of film and I really need to vent right now. And before you ask, yes, this is still about Mothman.

As you know, I’ve been at Point Pleasant for almost three weeks now. After Mothman stood me up for a date a while back, I refused to leave until I got some answers. I probably should have just left.    

Anyway, I spent the first week in a dumpy hotel, and let me tell you, what a shithole it was. You know what a Continental Breakfast is, right? Apparently, no one at the Pleasant Stay Inn does. They had burnt toast and cold sausage and something called “Milk...Later”, but worst of all were the eggs. They had deviled hardboiled eggs, which were just hardboiled eggs covered in some yellow goo that was definitely not mustard. And before you ask, no they didn’t have any coffee. I know, I know. But I digress.

After I finished eating pounds of that trash, I would head out to look for Mothman. I did this every day, except for Saturday, when the Jehovah’s Winesses roamed the town and I cowered in my room. I’ve seen the things they can do, staring directly into my soul and getting dirt on my doormat, whistling, etc. Then, the week ended, and I was told I had to leave. Apparently, you can only rent a hotel room with actual money, as Blockbuster gift cards are an “unacceptable form of payment” to those cowards. So, I’ve spent the rest of my time here sleeping in a makeshift tent near the abandoned TNT factory, which is less than ideal, but pretty much the same as sleeping in the hotel, in terms of eggs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse, though. The day before I was wrongfully removed from the hotel, I’d actually tracked down Mothman. It had been at least a month since we’d seen each other, but he was exactly like I remembered him: grey wings, moth face, perfect body, crimson eyes. I talked for a while, then he buzzed intermittently, and we eventually made plans to meet up and go to dinner. Now look, I know it’s totally pathetic on my part, since I already told you about how he stood me up and then ghosted me when I texted him about my toenail infection. And obviously you know I spent three days crying about it in an Applebee’s bathroom. But people can change! I guess I’m just not sure if a moth-human hybrid who uses curtains to make burritos out of the homeless is people.

The night I finished setting up my tent, I put on my best suit, bought a bouquet, and waited in the nicest restaurant in town for Mothman to show up. When that place closed, I went to the diner across the street and kept waiting. I finally gave up around six the following morning, but not after I downed four house waffles. I may have also cried when the waitress said I couldn’t have any more coffee after cup nine, but to be fair, she also refused to open a successful bar with me.

Twice. That mothy bastard has stood me up twice. Never in my entire life have I felt more disrespected, other than that time a guidance counselor said I should be a guidance counselor instead of a poet. I swear that I will have words with that wing’d fuck.

So, I’ve been spending the rest of my time looking for Mothman, again. And let me tell you, when he doesn’t want to be found, he really doesn’t want to be found. Since he stood me up, I’ve only managed to hear him buzz like once around the woods, but I still haven’t seen him for even a second. At the same time, I’ve run into five Sasquatches and a goddamn Lizardman. Hell, I’ve seen the Jersey Devil three times now, and he doesn’t even live in this fucking state! I mean, he thought he was in Point Pleasant, New Jersey for a doctor’s visit, but how the fuck is he still lost after I told him this is West Virginia? He can’t possibly think he’s in another state that looks like this, can he?

Maybe my dad was right. He always told me I should’ve dated some massive, infinitely-limbed Eldritch horror instead. But, no, I had to be rebellious. I had to go for the guy with the leather jacket and grey, silky wings. I had to leave the tree lady alone at prom. I chose love over sex, and that’s where I fucked up.