That's Not True!
A place for the stuff I make up.Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Untitled and Unfinished
Routines are very comforting. Reassuring. It's nice to know that certain things will always happen at certain times. I don't know how to process surprise, I think. Somehow, I'm lacking that part of the brain that allows one to go with the flow. The flow can be quite treacherous if one isn't prepared. Being prepared negates going with the flow. I can't make my brain unravel that puzzle.
My alarm is set to coax me awake at 5:27am. Every day except my birthday. On my birthday, I sleep until 6:27, because that's what time I was born.
I lay and listen to the outside sounds for 3 minutes. It helps me maintain equilibrium. Tells my mind and body what to expect from the day, and eases my transition from the dream to the reality.
I can feel the sun on my face, and I know it's warm outside. I believe the weatherman said today was to be a scorcher. I sigh. It will be difficult to find clothes to wear today. Work will no doubt have the air conditioning on full blast. The recycled air will be forced through the office at top speed. I need to minimize the amount of skin coming into direct contact with all that nastiness. Cold germs and skin flakes, dandruff and mites. I shiver and nearly cut my three minutes short to get to the shower more quickly. But no. Deviation from the norm brings about destruction.
I flip my legs over the bed, stuff my feet into my slippers. I have my Day calendar near the bed. Each day is its own page, and I can document each thing I need to do. Other than my 3 minutes, this is the most important part of the day.
Although my day-to-day routine rarely varies, it's helpful to have it all written down. I don't simply record my obligations for the day, doctor's appointments and the like, but my meals as well. It's easy to be distracted from a healthy diet. Especially in an office environment! Showers and birthdays and weddings, oh my! Cake has a miraculous power to bring together coworkers that are barely civil to one another. It can also negate 30 minutes on the treadmill. If I choose to indulge, I must make sure that I have free minutes enough to add extra time at the gym. Or, painful as it may be, remove several items from the rest of the day's meals.
Maintaining control over one's life is a difficult endeavor, but it's a necessary one.
Today, I smile in anticipation. If there was a day for indulgence, it's today. I have lunch with my Knight! Jason Fredrick Reynolds. It's been 3 months and 27 days that we've been together. I'm excited that this special day ends in 27 and we are having lunch together. He isn't a lunch date sort of guy! He's very busy as a Network Technician, and his lunches are valuable private time during a demanding job.
It makes me giddy that this man likes me. Of course, it's a chore keeping all these little quirks of mine to myself. People like to think that I'm strange. They make little jokes about my OCD. They think it's silly to move things around on my desk when I'm not looking. They don't realize the panic this creates. They don't understand that these things make it difficult for me to breathe. My throat seizes up, and my heart clenches in my chest. Until what's wrong is right again, I feel as though I could die. I know they think I'm crazy, but they just don't understand.
My Jason doesn't know today is a special day for us. It's more for me, really. It's a tremendous change allowing another human being into your schedule. Things have to be shifted, reprioritized. It can truly be agonizing. Sometimes, it's hard to contain the anxiety having a new person around can create. Those times it's best to say something mean. Or "let the crazy show!" as I like to call it.
One former beau made the fateful decision to show up at my home unannounced. I was on hands and knees scrubbing the floorboards as I did every other Thursday. The unexpected knock sent a flurry of panic through my veins. It was too late for deliveries, I certainly don't associate with my neighbors. Unexpected knocks only bring disaster, and I grabbed a chef's knife before answering.
The fool stood on my doorstep, with his foolish grin. I stood silent, glaring, and watched his grin falter. When I felt he was suitably confused, I stepped toward him, and whispered, “I hate when people show up unannounced. Hate it.” I practically hissed.
He tried to explain himself, then he noticed the knife. His flushed face quickly drained of color and he beat a hasty retreat. He was a smart one, he never answered when I called. Everyday for a month. Good for him.
Jason can be a little spontaneous, too! We had a talk, and he knows I need to plan my days. He is under the assumption that this need to adhere to a schedule is work related. I'm happy to let him keep this belief. While he is wonderful and sensitive and funny and handsome, I don't know if he could truly understand. And that's ok. I know that the crazy has to show sometimes. As meticulous as I try to be, even I can miss a detail. Moreover, it's the subtleties that tend to give it away, and I realize I have little control there. So, I will try to contain it as long as possible, and enjoy his company as long as it lasts.
He has persuaded me to try some new things. It's thrilling, tasting new foods, and going to new places. I go through a lot more hand sanitizer since we've been together! It's so much fun, though. I really had been unaware how much fun could be had, I'd been avoiding it for so long.
He's very gentle and sweet with me. It's exhausting. It's sensory overload, and I wonder how long I can maintain the enthusiasm. With each new adventure, another part of me wants to lock myself away. There is only so much danger one can avoid. Each adventure was tempting fate, and it's only a matter of time before all that luck catches up to me and something terrible happens. Or Jason realizes something isn't right, and takes his leave.
For now, I think he appreciates me. I clean his apartment. I do his laundry. I had to organize his CD collection. They were everywhere! What if he really wanted to listen to his Black Crowes CD one night? How would he ever find it? Now it's filed under B's and he'll always know where it is. I'd attempted to created categories, much like a record store, but he said it wasn't necessary since his musical tastes weren't diverse enough. He called me his silly organized lady and kissed my forehead.
Once I've reviewed my Day calendar, and taken a shower, I work out. After all, if I don't have my health, what else is there?
After my workout, I select from one of three outfits laid out the previous night. I find laying out three allows for better options in case of a sudden storm or finding a stain. Sometimes a color just doesn't feel appropriate for a given day, and it's best to have a replacement at the ready.
Then another shower, breakfast, and off to work!
This morning didn't flow like clockwork though. I was a bit thrown off not having to pack a lunch. It's much more cost effective to make my own lunch everyday. I also don't need to worry that my chef didn't wash his hands. Or worse. But today? Today, I'm having lunch with my Knight.
I try to focus on the pleasing warm feeling in my stomach this gives me instead of how to best allocate the 10 minutes I saved not making myself lunch. It's stressful having those minutes hanging there! Maybe I can throw caution to the wind and take the long way home from work tonight.
I get to our lunch date, 3 minutes early, and he's already there! He looks sharp in his crisp white button down and grey pinstriped slacks. He's really learned how to iron well in the time we've been together. He has mousy brown hair, it curls ever so slightly just above his ears. He smiles shyly when he sees me, and adjusts his glasses. It's a cute little nervous habit he has, always fixing those glasses. He stands up as I approach the table, and kisses me gently on the cheek.
"Thank you for meeting me for lunch," he begins, hesitantly it seems, "I know it's not always easy for you to get away on short notice..."
"It's ok, I was glad to do it today. It's a nice change of pace." I reassure him.
I have to adjust the salt and pepper shakers before I can properly focus my attention on him. The staff here can be really sloppy during the lunch rush, and little details fall by the wayside. I turn my plate so the largest flower in the etched design is directly at the top. I arrange my silverware so the bottoms line up evenly. Finally, I swoop open my napkin, fold it into a crisp triangle and drape it across my lap.
I look up into Jason's smiling brown eyes. "How is your day so far?"
"It's good, but, um. I asked you to come to lunch because I need to talk to you...We need to talk." He clears his throat a lot in such a short time. I say a silent prayer that it's nerves and not a pending illness.
I feel my throat clench. I take a breath to calm myself.
"OK. Let's talk!" I hope the cheer in my voice doesn't ring as false to him as it does me.
"I know we haven't been together very long," Jason stops to clear his throat again. He takes his napkin and puts it on his plate, and everything around me moves in slow motion. I hear a tinny ringing in my ears. It's growing louder and threatening to block all other sound. My palms sweat. I can see the moist imprints in the napkin on my lap. I feel my blood pounding through my veins and wonder if I could have a heart attack from the stress.
He stands, and smiles at me uncertainly. He drops down to one knee.
I can't see. I think the pressure from holding my breath must have caused the blood vessels in my eyes to burst. I still can't breathe. And I'm trembling. I scan the restaurant for a way out. I need an exist, an escape. I need to be at home behind my locked door. It's all I can do to remain seated.
"I'm completely in love with you," he whispers. His voice trembles ever so slightly. I watch in slow motion as he moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue. I see the air drawn into his mouth as he inhales. He breathes, "I want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you."
I don't say anything. I just stare at this ring in his hand. He bought me a ring? He thinks we should get married?! That's not right. This isn't how it goes.
It begins with noticing little quirks. It's fleshed out with reasons we won't work. It's capped off with offers of friendship. Certainly not marriage. Why, that's crazy talk.
"Just hear me out!" He's turning red, it's bothering him that I haven't reacted.
What can I say? What should I say? He doesn't realize how much he's asking of me! How dare he? How dare he presume to interfere that much in my day to day life? That's a lot of change he's asking of me. Who does he think he is?
I can't unstick my mouth to reply. I can't make my brain remember sentence formation. I can't remember who I am.
"Really, listen! I think we'd be wonderful together. I'm crazy about you! We can be engaged for a year, get married next year today...Wouldn't that be beautiful?"
I see fear and confusion in his eyes. I still have no words. Just fury. Hot, building in my stomach, making it hard for me to see. And fear. There's fear, hiding beneath that anger. How much would I have to go through to be married to him? How could he want to stay married to me when he sees how mad I am? Maybe he's mad, too. He must be mad to throw me into such a predicament. He must be mad to think he loves me.
“I don't know what to say,” My voice is unstuck, but feeble.
“Say yes!” He laughs his nervous little laugh.
I remember the other people in the restaurant. They're watching us, grinning, pointing. They're on the edges of their seats. What is he saying to her? What is she thinking? What does the rock look like?
A blood red oval surrounded by bright green circles. Rubies and emeralds. Our birthstones.
“Yes,” I whisper.
My alarm is set to coax me awake at 5:27am. Every day except my birthday. On my birthday, I sleep until 6:27, because that's what time I was born.
I lay and listen to the outside sounds for 3 minutes. It helps me maintain equilibrium. Tells my mind and body what to expect from the day, and eases my transition from the dream to the reality.
I can feel the sun on my face, and I know it's warm outside. I believe the weatherman said today was to be a scorcher. I sigh. It will be difficult to find clothes to wear today. Work will no doubt have the air conditioning on full blast. The recycled air will be forced through the office at top speed. I need to minimize the amount of skin coming into direct contact with all that nastiness. Cold germs and skin flakes, dandruff and mites. I shiver and nearly cut my three minutes short to get to the shower more quickly. But no. Deviation from the norm brings about destruction.
I flip my legs over the bed, stuff my feet into my slippers. I have my Day calendar near the bed. Each day is its own page, and I can document each thing I need to do. Other than my 3 minutes, this is the most important part of the day.
Although my day-to-day routine rarely varies, it's helpful to have it all written down. I don't simply record my obligations for the day, doctor's appointments and the like, but my meals as well. It's easy to be distracted from a healthy diet. Especially in an office environment! Showers and birthdays and weddings, oh my! Cake has a miraculous power to bring together coworkers that are barely civil to one another. It can also negate 30 minutes on the treadmill. If I choose to indulge, I must make sure that I have free minutes enough to add extra time at the gym. Or, painful as it may be, remove several items from the rest of the day's meals.
Maintaining control over one's life is a difficult endeavor, but it's a necessary one.
Today, I smile in anticipation. If there was a day for indulgence, it's today. I have lunch with my Knight! Jason Fredrick Reynolds. It's been 3 months and 27 days that we've been together. I'm excited that this special day ends in 27 and we are having lunch together. He isn't a lunch date sort of guy! He's very busy as a Network Technician, and his lunches are valuable private time during a demanding job.
It makes me giddy that this man likes me. Of course, it's a chore keeping all these little quirks of mine to myself. People like to think that I'm strange. They make little jokes about my OCD. They think it's silly to move things around on my desk when I'm not looking. They don't realize the panic this creates. They don't understand that these things make it difficult for me to breathe. My throat seizes up, and my heart clenches in my chest. Until what's wrong is right again, I feel as though I could die. I know they think I'm crazy, but they just don't understand.
My Jason doesn't know today is a special day for us. It's more for me, really. It's a tremendous change allowing another human being into your schedule. Things have to be shifted, reprioritized. It can truly be agonizing. Sometimes, it's hard to contain the anxiety having a new person around can create. Those times it's best to say something mean. Or "let the crazy show!" as I like to call it.
One former beau made the fateful decision to show up at my home unannounced. I was on hands and knees scrubbing the floorboards as I did every other Thursday. The unexpected knock sent a flurry of panic through my veins. It was too late for deliveries, I certainly don't associate with my neighbors. Unexpected knocks only bring disaster, and I grabbed a chef's knife before answering.
The fool stood on my doorstep, with his foolish grin. I stood silent, glaring, and watched his grin falter. When I felt he was suitably confused, I stepped toward him, and whispered, “I hate when people show up unannounced. Hate it.” I practically hissed.
He tried to explain himself, then he noticed the knife. His flushed face quickly drained of color and he beat a hasty retreat. He was a smart one, he never answered when I called. Everyday for a month. Good for him.
Jason can be a little spontaneous, too! We had a talk, and he knows I need to plan my days. He is under the assumption that this need to adhere to a schedule is work related. I'm happy to let him keep this belief. While he is wonderful and sensitive and funny and handsome, I don't know if he could truly understand. And that's ok. I know that the crazy has to show sometimes. As meticulous as I try to be, even I can miss a detail. Moreover, it's the subtleties that tend to give it away, and I realize I have little control there. So, I will try to contain it as long as possible, and enjoy his company as long as it lasts.
He has persuaded me to try some new things. It's thrilling, tasting new foods, and going to new places. I go through a lot more hand sanitizer since we've been together! It's so much fun, though. I really had been unaware how much fun could be had, I'd been avoiding it for so long.
He's very gentle and sweet with me. It's exhausting. It's sensory overload, and I wonder how long I can maintain the enthusiasm. With each new adventure, another part of me wants to lock myself away. There is only so much danger one can avoid. Each adventure was tempting fate, and it's only a matter of time before all that luck catches up to me and something terrible happens. Or Jason realizes something isn't right, and takes his leave.
For now, I think he appreciates me. I clean his apartment. I do his laundry. I had to organize his CD collection. They were everywhere! What if he really wanted to listen to his Black Crowes CD one night? How would he ever find it? Now it's filed under B's and he'll always know where it is. I'd attempted to created categories, much like a record store, but he said it wasn't necessary since his musical tastes weren't diverse enough. He called me his silly organized lady and kissed my forehead.
Once I've reviewed my Day calendar, and taken a shower, I work out. After all, if I don't have my health, what else is there?
After my workout, I select from one of three outfits laid out the previous night. I find laying out three allows for better options in case of a sudden storm or finding a stain. Sometimes a color just doesn't feel appropriate for a given day, and it's best to have a replacement at the ready.
Then another shower, breakfast, and off to work!
This morning didn't flow like clockwork though. I was a bit thrown off not having to pack a lunch. It's much more cost effective to make my own lunch everyday. I also don't need to worry that my chef didn't wash his hands. Or worse. But today? Today, I'm having lunch with my Knight.
I try to focus on the pleasing warm feeling in my stomach this gives me instead of how to best allocate the 10 minutes I saved not making myself lunch. It's stressful having those minutes hanging there! Maybe I can throw caution to the wind and take the long way home from work tonight.
I get to our lunch date, 3 minutes early, and he's already there! He looks sharp in his crisp white button down and grey pinstriped slacks. He's really learned how to iron well in the time we've been together. He has mousy brown hair, it curls ever so slightly just above his ears. He smiles shyly when he sees me, and adjusts his glasses. It's a cute little nervous habit he has, always fixing those glasses. He stands up as I approach the table, and kisses me gently on the cheek.
"Thank you for meeting me for lunch," he begins, hesitantly it seems, "I know it's not always easy for you to get away on short notice..."
"It's ok, I was glad to do it today. It's a nice change of pace." I reassure him.
I have to adjust the salt and pepper shakers before I can properly focus my attention on him. The staff here can be really sloppy during the lunch rush, and little details fall by the wayside. I turn my plate so the largest flower in the etched design is directly at the top. I arrange my silverware so the bottoms line up evenly. Finally, I swoop open my napkin, fold it into a crisp triangle and drape it across my lap.
I look up into Jason's smiling brown eyes. "How is your day so far?"
"It's good, but, um. I asked you to come to lunch because I need to talk to you...We need to talk." He clears his throat a lot in such a short time. I say a silent prayer that it's nerves and not a pending illness.
I feel my throat clench. I take a breath to calm myself.
"OK. Let's talk!" I hope the cheer in my voice doesn't ring as false to him as it does me.
"I know we haven't been together very long," Jason stops to clear his throat again. He takes his napkin and puts it on his plate, and everything around me moves in slow motion. I hear a tinny ringing in my ears. It's growing louder and threatening to block all other sound. My palms sweat. I can see the moist imprints in the napkin on my lap. I feel my blood pounding through my veins and wonder if I could have a heart attack from the stress.
He stands, and smiles at me uncertainly. He drops down to one knee.
I can't see. I think the pressure from holding my breath must have caused the blood vessels in my eyes to burst. I still can't breathe. And I'm trembling. I scan the restaurant for a way out. I need an exist, an escape. I need to be at home behind my locked door. It's all I can do to remain seated.
"I'm completely in love with you," he whispers. His voice trembles ever so slightly. I watch in slow motion as he moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue. I see the air drawn into his mouth as he inhales. He breathes, "I want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you."
I don't say anything. I just stare at this ring in his hand. He bought me a ring? He thinks we should get married?! That's not right. This isn't how it goes.
It begins with noticing little quirks. It's fleshed out with reasons we won't work. It's capped off with offers of friendship. Certainly not marriage. Why, that's crazy talk.
"Just hear me out!" He's turning red, it's bothering him that I haven't reacted.
What can I say? What should I say? He doesn't realize how much he's asking of me! How dare he? How dare he presume to interfere that much in my day to day life? That's a lot of change he's asking of me. Who does he think he is?
I can't unstick my mouth to reply. I can't make my brain remember sentence formation. I can't remember who I am.
"Really, listen! I think we'd be wonderful together. I'm crazy about you! We can be engaged for a year, get married next year today...Wouldn't that be beautiful?"
I see fear and confusion in his eyes. I still have no words. Just fury. Hot, building in my stomach, making it hard for me to see. And fear. There's fear, hiding beneath that anger. How much would I have to go through to be married to him? How could he want to stay married to me when he sees how mad I am? Maybe he's mad, too. He must be mad to throw me into such a predicament. He must be mad to think he loves me.
“I don't know what to say,” My voice is unstuck, but feeble.
“Say yes!” He laughs his nervous little laugh.
I remember the other people in the restaurant. They're watching us, grinning, pointing. They're on the edges of their seats. What is he saying to her? What is she thinking? What does the rock look like?
A blood red oval surrounded by bright green circles. Rubies and emeralds. Our birthstones.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Sleepless
I watch the cigarette drift lazily to the water's surface. Everything is dark and quiet, my favorite time of night. It's too late for most people to be out anymore, too early for alarms to ring. It's the perfect time for introspection, so I light another cigarette. I'm not supposed to be smoking. I told everyone I'd quit. It's ok, I tell myself. This bridge, this night, is for me, and I'll smoke this whole pack before I go back home. No one will know. Fuck it if they do. I like smoking. I rest my elbows on the rails and take a nice long drag. What else should I do when I'm wide awake in the middle of the night?
Sleep isn't my friend anymore. No longer a refuge after a long, hard day. My bed taunts me now, and rather than struggle, I walk. I pace the quiet streets, chasing dreams that won't come. Often I'll walk for hours, trying to make myself so tired I can't help but fall asleep. Usually, I end up on this bridge watching the dark waters swirl.
Idly, I wonder if it would hurt were I to throw myself over the edge. Would I die on impact, or would I drown, broken and bruised?
I laugh lightly to myself. I feel like the teenagers I talk to everyday. Wanting to die because their parents didn't understand them. Girls who fuck any boy that looks their way because daddy didn't love them enough. Boys who fight, steal and lie. Was it because mommy wasn't there for them? Maybe she breast fed too long, or not long enough.
I'm supposed to tell them to embrace these years. After all, this is the best time of their lives. They're teenagers! They get to figure out who they are and where they're going. They get to be obnoxious and self-centered with no real consequences. I don't have the heart to tell them it's all downhill from there. Just one let-down after another. They'll work day in and day out for people they hate. Someone will rip their heart out and stomp all over it. They'll realize this life isn't what it was made out to be. Not what they were promised. And they'll cry. They'll rage. They'll suffer. Maybe they'll find solace in a bottle, or in the beds of strangers.
I light another one. I draw the smoke in deeply, savoring the harsh, bitter taste. I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose. It burns a little, making my eyes water. The rest pours out of my slightly parted lips, the smokey waterfall. It smells sharp. And hot. Wet ashtrays and sour clothes. Safe. Everytime I smoke now, I hear my mother. You really should stop smoking! Her voice and all the commercials urging me to quit, "today!" They can help! I don't understand why everyone gives such a fuck. Who am I hurting besides myself? Aren't I my own to hurt if I want to? And besides, I like smoking! It calms, comforts and inspires. My smokes are my best friend. I know that's the junkie in me talking. Supposedly, nicotine addiction is much like heroin addiction. All addicts know the junkie handbook, excuse after justification after defense. We pretend we don't, but we all do. We all have our little junkie thoughts, like how much we enjoy our chosen drug. Even though we know it's tearing us down from the inside out. Even though we know addictions don't end well when left unchecked. Fuck it, I like being high.
People need vices. Everyone has one. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to justify my weakness. I am the supreme hypocrite. Smoking, and telling teenagers not to. Telling them drugs are bad, and it's unhealthy to get drunk. Drinking should be done in moderation! I get drunk. I'll hit a joint if it's passed my way. I have a Just Say No bumpersticker on my car. That's much cooler than DARE. I'll get a MADD sticker if I ever breed. I mean, people shouldn't drive drunk. Especially mothers! It's not like it matters, anyway. These kids come to me because their folks make them, their schools force them. They go home and drink and fuck, just like me. They know it's all bullshit, but we're trying to convince them it's true. Even though we know it's bullshit, too. Sometimes it's nice to get fucked up. Sometimes it's the only thing that feels right. Hey, Mr. Junkhead, how ya doin'?
When I was in high school, Mr. Cohen let us have a question and answer session on the last day of class. He told us we could ask him whatever we wanted to. Jack Shaeffer asked if he thought marijuana should be legalized. Jack was a latter-day hippie, extolling the virtues of pot and condeming the man. Mr. Cohen said he thought that it should be legalized, but only for medicinal purposes. Jack whispered to me that he was so disappointed. Later he explained his realization that no matter how cool they seemed, all adults were the same. He said he realized that from then on, life would all be a huge let down. He said he'd fight it the best way he knew how; he'd always be cool. Jack thought he'd had a little epiphany. I thought Jack was being silly. He gleaned all that from a teacher saying marijuana is only good for cataracts? It's not like Mr. Cohen could just say, "Pot is awesome! It should totally be legal!"
I had missed the point. Growing up, we had adults we filed away into cool and not cool categories. We knew which grown ups we wanted to emulate. We shook our heads at the stupid ones. We'll never be like that! Jack had just realized that it was all bullshit. Everyone plays the game. No matter what your personal beliefs were, you had to play by the rules. Say the right thing, project the right image. Command respect. Make everyone like you. It doesn't matter if that costume doesn't fit right, if it's uncomfortable. You have to wear it, and when you're old enough, you'll help younger people into theirs.
That's what I do. I'm a wardrobe manager for the stage of life. I convince kids that these masks look fantastic. This outfit will help you glide through life, happy and worry free. I tell them it's much easier for everyone involved if they'd do this without fuss. Come on, some nice pastels, and everyone will love you! With this on, no one will look at you too long. No one will stare and make you uncomfortable. You'll blend right in. It's what everyone does. It's safe. Who wants to stick out? Who wants to be the odd man out? Crazy people, that's who. You're not crazy, are you?
I don't tell them the mask will chafe. The costume will constrict. They'll figure that out soon enough. And they'll figure out ways to deal. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Maybe some will embrace it, find a way to make it work to their advantage. These are those well versed in theatre. Politicians. Actors. Salesmen. Some will shrug and accept it, effortlessly playing the part, and letting it go just as easily. They're the lucky ones, they know it's a game, and there's nothing to be done. So they play. The not so lucky ones, who can't play, they get lost. They can't make themselves fit, so they retreat to the play in their mind. At least that one is understandable. Some will try to refuse and replace it with tattoos and colorful hair. They don't realize that's just a different sort of costume. You're not an individual when you look just like millions of other people.
They make me laugh, the punks and goths. So full of angst, the only place to go is the mall. Where else can one stand in defiance wearing slashed up jeans and fishnet shirts? Where else would it make sense to paint black swirls on your face, and feign indignation at people staring? They sit in silence together, glowering over their Nachos Bell Grande. I want to watch them. I like watching people hanging about, living their lives. I can't watch these kids though. They're on the lookout for stares, so they can meet your eye and demand to know why you're staring. They rarely let that guard down, so I'm forced to accept that they're miserable, sensitive creatures. Nothing will bring them joy. I know this is bullshit, but they've got the act down. Check them out sometime. They constantly scan their surroundings. One will tug another's sleeve, "Look, that guy is staring at you!" Crafting the perfect display of disgust and offense, they'll glare back, begging for confrontation. Desperate for confirmation of their outcast status, but hating us for ostrasizing them.
I light a new cigarette off of the butt of my last. I flick it up and out over the water. I exhale my sigh as the water absorbs the ember. This time I cough a bit. How many have I smoked? I flip the top of my pack open and see I've got one left. That explains the ache in my chest. I take another deep pull, grimacing past the rawness of my throat. Trying to reign in my cough, I exhale slowly, steadily through my nose. I'm ok until I take a deep breath of the fresh outside air. It burns through my throat and sets my lungs aflame. My body takes over, and tries to violently expel the poison I've consumed. I'm gasping in painful breaths, and forcing them out before they can take hold. Before I've recovered from one cough, I'm thrown into another, with no real time in between to breathe. I'm drowning. My hands shake as I uncap my bottle of water. Good thing I brought it with me. The cool water calms the burning, and slows my breathing. I brace myself against the rails and shake the dizziness from my head. One last cough, thick heavy spit, and I'm good. My next drag is more shallow. I nearly set off another coughing fit, and flick the cigarette out into the river.
Well, the horizon is brightening, and I decide to head home. I stifle a yawn that burns my lungs. The breeze is damp and cool. I love this weather, the first stirrings of fall when you can almost smell the snow way off in the distance. Maybe I can throw my windows open and let the fresh clean air lull me to sleep. I hear a jogger's footsteps rapidly approaching. I'm always a little bemused and a little envious of joggers. I should jog. I will jog! Eventually. Now, however, I light my last cigarette, and cough a little. I smile at the jogger.
"Hey, how's it goin'?"
"Good. You?"
"Good. Thanks!"
We both know it's bullshit.
Sleep isn't my friend anymore. No longer a refuge after a long, hard day. My bed taunts me now, and rather than struggle, I walk. I pace the quiet streets, chasing dreams that won't come. Often I'll walk for hours, trying to make myself so tired I can't help but fall asleep. Usually, I end up on this bridge watching the dark waters swirl.
Idly, I wonder if it would hurt were I to throw myself over the edge. Would I die on impact, or would I drown, broken and bruised?
I laugh lightly to myself. I feel like the teenagers I talk to everyday. Wanting to die because their parents didn't understand them. Girls who fuck any boy that looks their way because daddy didn't love them enough. Boys who fight, steal and lie. Was it because mommy wasn't there for them? Maybe she breast fed too long, or not long enough.
I'm supposed to tell them to embrace these years. After all, this is the best time of their lives. They're teenagers! They get to figure out who they are and where they're going. They get to be obnoxious and self-centered with no real consequences. I don't have the heart to tell them it's all downhill from there. Just one let-down after another. They'll work day in and day out for people they hate. Someone will rip their heart out and stomp all over it. They'll realize this life isn't what it was made out to be. Not what they were promised. And they'll cry. They'll rage. They'll suffer. Maybe they'll find solace in a bottle, or in the beds of strangers.
I light another one. I draw the smoke in deeply, savoring the harsh, bitter taste. I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose. It burns a little, making my eyes water. The rest pours out of my slightly parted lips, the smokey waterfall. It smells sharp. And hot. Wet ashtrays and sour clothes. Safe. Everytime I smoke now, I hear my mother. You really should stop smoking! Her voice and all the commercials urging me to quit, "today!" They can help! I don't understand why everyone gives such a fuck. Who am I hurting besides myself? Aren't I my own to hurt if I want to? And besides, I like smoking! It calms, comforts and inspires. My smokes are my best friend. I know that's the junkie in me talking. Supposedly, nicotine addiction is much like heroin addiction. All addicts know the junkie handbook, excuse after justification after defense. We pretend we don't, but we all do. We all have our little junkie thoughts, like how much we enjoy our chosen drug. Even though we know it's tearing us down from the inside out. Even though we know addictions don't end well when left unchecked. Fuck it, I like being high.
People need vices. Everyone has one. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to justify my weakness. I am the supreme hypocrite. Smoking, and telling teenagers not to. Telling them drugs are bad, and it's unhealthy to get drunk. Drinking should be done in moderation! I get drunk. I'll hit a joint if it's passed my way. I have a Just Say No bumpersticker on my car. That's much cooler than DARE. I'll get a MADD sticker if I ever breed. I mean, people shouldn't drive drunk. Especially mothers! It's not like it matters, anyway. These kids come to me because their folks make them, their schools force them. They go home and drink and fuck, just like me. They know it's all bullshit, but we're trying to convince them it's true. Even though we know it's bullshit, too. Sometimes it's nice to get fucked up. Sometimes it's the only thing that feels right. Hey, Mr. Junkhead, how ya doin'?
When I was in high school, Mr. Cohen let us have a question and answer session on the last day of class. He told us we could ask him whatever we wanted to. Jack Shaeffer asked if he thought marijuana should be legalized. Jack was a latter-day hippie, extolling the virtues of pot and condeming the man. Mr. Cohen said he thought that it should be legalized, but only for medicinal purposes. Jack whispered to me that he was so disappointed. Later he explained his realization that no matter how cool they seemed, all adults were the same. He said he realized that from then on, life would all be a huge let down. He said he'd fight it the best way he knew how; he'd always be cool. Jack thought he'd had a little epiphany. I thought Jack was being silly. He gleaned all that from a teacher saying marijuana is only good for cataracts? It's not like Mr. Cohen could just say, "Pot is awesome! It should totally be legal!"
I had missed the point. Growing up, we had adults we filed away into cool and not cool categories. We knew which grown ups we wanted to emulate. We shook our heads at the stupid ones. We'll never be like that! Jack had just realized that it was all bullshit. Everyone plays the game. No matter what your personal beliefs were, you had to play by the rules. Say the right thing, project the right image. Command respect. Make everyone like you. It doesn't matter if that costume doesn't fit right, if it's uncomfortable. You have to wear it, and when you're old enough, you'll help younger people into theirs.
That's what I do. I'm a wardrobe manager for the stage of life. I convince kids that these masks look fantastic. This outfit will help you glide through life, happy and worry free. I tell them it's much easier for everyone involved if they'd do this without fuss. Come on, some nice pastels, and everyone will love you! With this on, no one will look at you too long. No one will stare and make you uncomfortable. You'll blend right in. It's what everyone does. It's safe. Who wants to stick out? Who wants to be the odd man out? Crazy people, that's who. You're not crazy, are you?
I don't tell them the mask will chafe. The costume will constrict. They'll figure that out soon enough. And they'll figure out ways to deal. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Maybe some will embrace it, find a way to make it work to their advantage. These are those well versed in theatre. Politicians. Actors. Salesmen. Some will shrug and accept it, effortlessly playing the part, and letting it go just as easily. They're the lucky ones, they know it's a game, and there's nothing to be done. So they play. The not so lucky ones, who can't play, they get lost. They can't make themselves fit, so they retreat to the play in their mind. At least that one is understandable. Some will try to refuse and replace it with tattoos and colorful hair. They don't realize that's just a different sort of costume. You're not an individual when you look just like millions of other people.
They make me laugh, the punks and goths. So full of angst, the only place to go is the mall. Where else can one stand in defiance wearing slashed up jeans and fishnet shirts? Where else would it make sense to paint black swirls on your face, and feign indignation at people staring? They sit in silence together, glowering over their Nachos Bell Grande. I want to watch them. I like watching people hanging about, living their lives. I can't watch these kids though. They're on the lookout for stares, so they can meet your eye and demand to know why you're staring. They rarely let that guard down, so I'm forced to accept that they're miserable, sensitive creatures. Nothing will bring them joy. I know this is bullshit, but they've got the act down. Check them out sometime. They constantly scan their surroundings. One will tug another's sleeve, "Look, that guy is staring at you!" Crafting the perfect display of disgust and offense, they'll glare back, begging for confrontation. Desperate for confirmation of their outcast status, but hating us for ostrasizing them.
I light a new cigarette off of the butt of my last. I flick it up and out over the water. I exhale my sigh as the water absorbs the ember. This time I cough a bit. How many have I smoked? I flip the top of my pack open and see I've got one left. That explains the ache in my chest. I take another deep pull, grimacing past the rawness of my throat. Trying to reign in my cough, I exhale slowly, steadily through my nose. I'm ok until I take a deep breath of the fresh outside air. It burns through my throat and sets my lungs aflame. My body takes over, and tries to violently expel the poison I've consumed. I'm gasping in painful breaths, and forcing them out before they can take hold. Before I've recovered from one cough, I'm thrown into another, with no real time in between to breathe. I'm drowning. My hands shake as I uncap my bottle of water. Good thing I brought it with me. The cool water calms the burning, and slows my breathing. I brace myself against the rails and shake the dizziness from my head. One last cough, thick heavy spit, and I'm good. My next drag is more shallow. I nearly set off another coughing fit, and flick the cigarette out into the river.
Well, the horizon is brightening, and I decide to head home. I stifle a yawn that burns my lungs. The breeze is damp and cool. I love this weather, the first stirrings of fall when you can almost smell the snow way off in the distance. Maybe I can throw my windows open and let the fresh clean air lull me to sleep. I hear a jogger's footsteps rapidly approaching. I'm always a little bemused and a little envious of joggers. I should jog. I will jog! Eventually. Now, however, I light my last cigarette, and cough a little. I smile at the jogger.
"Hey, how's it goin'?"
"Good. You?"
"Good. Thanks!"
We both know it's bullshit.
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