She keeps looking, staring, wanting some acknowledgment. I just want to escape.
“Super extra plus, Tom.”
Only 6 more hours of this and I can go and train. Perhaps a 4 hour session with a heavy bag will drain me of dread.
She stares, waiting. I begrudgingly capitulate in the throes of cappuccino boredom.
“Hello. How are you?”
The soft, saggy candy lights up, smiling like she has heard from an old friend. We have been friendly, when I have served her coffee previously. Nothing deep. Nothing real. I usually nod and imagine how attractive she was 10 years ago, before her large chestiness started heading down to compete with the lumps popping out in the mid of her physique. Clearly, there was an age when she was quite a sweet and succulent package of tasty delightness.
“It's been a tough weekend.”
Nooooooooooo! I don't care! It's your life, do whatever the hell you want with it. Please, just keep me out of your world. Please! Please. Please? But those are words not spoken. The kindness that is true and discouraging was all that escaped. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Short, fat vanilla for Loud Linda.”
Oops. Linda was her name, Loud Linda was our nickname for her. She took her coffee, pouting.
“My husband was arrested. Did you see it on the news?”
“What are you waiting for?” God, let's move her drink to the front of the line.
“Don't worry, I'm in no hurry.”
I smile, becoming anxious like a trapped animal preparing to gnaw off a limb. I might have to kill to escape.
“He lost his job last year. Then he became addicted to the painkillers he was taking for his back. And then yesterday he threatened to kill himself. In front of the kids, can you believe that?”
It's got to be one of these.
“Tall, non-fat caramel, extra whip, double. Susan.”
This has to be hers. Come on...Yes!
“Thank you.”
She picks up her cup and steps closer to the counter to continue our insipid conversation.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” my mind shouts, while I simply smile.
“Chai latte. Barry.”
Another friendly pick-up.
“I don't really know what to do. He's a good dad, he just seems to be having problems now. Pretty much ever since he lost his job he has been having problems. Then about a month ago he went crazy when he found out I was chatting with an old friend, an old boyfriend. He's just losing it.”
What?! The ears were focused. She wants sympathy? Just a couple of details to flesh out.
“What sent him over the edge yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-factly calm.
“I don't know. Even though we are living together, I have been telling him it's over, but when I didn't come home one night, he went crazy.”
What?! She didn't come home? Just a few more details...
“Must be tough for the children. How old?”
“7 and 9. The boys adore him, but its not going to work.”
“So he knew you when you were in your prime?”
She blushed. “We met right after high school. I've only had one other boyfriend, that was my high school sweetheart.”
“The one you have been 'chatting' with?”
“Yeah.”
Evil. It is everywhere. When its form is physical in manifestation and presentation, battle is sweet and pure, but all too often evil is clothed in kindness, innocence and naivete. Apparently, this evil wanted absolution from the coffee guy...unfortunately for her, she encountered the wrong coffee guy.
“This is all soooo horrible,” I dripped with thick sarcasm. “Were you very good at math in school?”
“No, why?”
“Well, we've got a 1+1=2 problem here that is clearly beyond the rudimentary skills you acquired early on, so I am wondering how to approach my response.”
A glaze washed her aging face.
“It is interesting how both of these men knew you when you were in your prime. You know, us men being visual creatures, we love beauty we once captured, seeing it as it was forever, in our dreams and fantasies.”
She started to say, “Thank you,” but brought the cup to her mouth, not sure if she was being complimented. She needed to be disarmed.
“Would you like to hear a similar story about a cousin?”
“Yes,” she said too excitedly about the subject change.
“Soy, sugar-free, cocoa. Fred.”
“Well, the cousin had a rather large inheritance. She was married when she was rich, young and beautiful. She had a couple of kids; a bout of severe postpartum depression; gained weight; and, was swindled out of her inheritence by her mother.”
“That's horrible.”
“While she was going through all of that, her husband decided to take up with another woman, who was young, beautiful and well-off.”
“How horrible.”
“Really? You think so?” I was unable to stop myself from asking.
“Absolutely. Her husband didn't need to do that when she was going through all that.”
“Really?” I had to say again, shocked at evil's ignorance.
“Well, it gets worse. Her husband left her and took the kids. She loved those kids more than anything, the only thing. It surprised no one when she ODed and died.”
“How sad.”
“Yes. But it is going to get worse.”
“How, she's dead?”
“I am going to see that he pays the price for his deeds, that he suffers.” This was not a response she anticipated, and became appropriately uncomfortable.
“Your husband is down on his luck, struggling with his worth as a man with his job and his worth as a human with his pained body. He is down. And a woman he sees as beautiful and the world sees as long past—unlike that woman over there who has 10 years on you and somehow has the perfect figure of a 27 year old—has decided to kick him aside and find the only other man who remembers her as a young beauty, and who has not had to put up with the day-to-day living with a retard.”
Finally, she is willing to leave, silently taking a step back. But the honorable words of helpful wisdom were not complete.
“If you would like my help, if you truly care about your husband in any way, send him my way for advice. I will guide his choice and let him know of the beauty that exists, of the loving women who are beautiful inside and out and that he does not have to destroy himself because you want to play games and have men fight over an archaic vision of yourself. He has seen the ugly, now I can teach him he and your children deserve more than a needy whore. Of course, only if you are interested in helping him.”
She turned, quietly walking away with her head down.
“You really are just like my cousin's husband, so I don't understand why you felt bad for her, though I could understand why you would say you feel bad for her.”
But she was out the door.
“Dude, that was rude, calling her a whore.”
“Did you hear the whole story?” I asked before deciding whether or not to jump over the counter and vent my frustration with evil by pummeling this carrier of a timid voice with paper cups and swizzle sticks.
“No, but...”
“Then shut-the-f...heck-up,” I whispered forcefully, in less than fashionable goodness. The ignorance of a citizenry so unwilling to see their reflection was soiling the good side of my darkening soul. “Shut-the-fuck-up,” I whispered to myself.
Taking my pain, the agony of dreams destroyed, a gentle voice of generous candy whispered in the kindest way, “Take a break.”
I turned and looked into her soft, fresh young face. “You are good. Thanks.”
She smiled, warmly, generously. “Sometimes, love breaks my heart.”
“There is no other kind,” I replied.
We looked at each other, absorbed in the moment, leaving the rest of the world as an audience to our connection.
“You don't belong here.”
“I know. But for now, apparently, this is where I am supposed to be.”
She wrapped her arms around me, calming my with her sweet, chewy goodness.
“Hey, isn't this a coffee shop? Where is my damn coffee?”
The calm disappeared.
I took off my apron as she prepared Mr. Impatient's coffee, and headed toward the exit for a break, but I could not let it go.
“Be patient, it's a virtue.”
“Fuck off!”
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to calm.
“Back off!” he shouted, shoving me.
His shove made me feel better.
“Thank you. I'll be outside and I can tell you about the perfect girl for you...and we can discuss things, like your shove...and beauty...and feeling alive, and doing the right thing, or the wrong thing. It is going to be a beautiful conversation.”
Mouthing something from behind the counter, she of kind calmness caused me to focus on her luscious moving lips.
“Let it go,” she mouthed respectfully, calmly, releasing the claims of the world.
She was right. I do not care about Mr. Impatient. I would rather save that ignorantly evil woman's husband from letting himself be destroyed by her, and there is one way of doing that: I have to let him know that sometimes life is really, really hard and it feels like you are drowning in the urine and feces filled bowels of an outhouse, but tomorrow is not yet written. Survive today, giving life the best of what you have, even if it taunts you to find the worst in yourself and become that which are were never meant to be. Choose to smile at the absurdity of the wounds inflicted by a stupid old whore, even though you bleed. Choose to feel the pain, and survive, because then you are open to the joy. Choose to be better than your circumstance, no matter what it may be.
Life is hard.
Life is beautiful.
Life is.
You are.
I am.
Life is hard.
Oh well, how boring it would be if it were easy, and boring is truly for the dullards.
Life is.
Why expect more?
Live.
To hell with circumstance.
Live.
I can taste tomorrow. There is a tinge of bitterness, but there is more...a flavor I long for...yes...something more...
“Super extra plus, Tom.”
Only 6 more hours of this and I can go and train. Perhaps a 4 hour session with a heavy bag will drain me of dread.
She stares, waiting. I begrudgingly capitulate in the throes of cappuccino boredom.
“Hello. How are you?”
The soft, saggy candy lights up, smiling like she has heard from an old friend. We have been friendly, when I have served her coffee previously. Nothing deep. Nothing real. I usually nod and imagine how attractive she was 10 years ago, before her large chestiness started heading down to compete with the lumps popping out in the mid of her physique. Clearly, there was an age when she was quite a sweet and succulent package of tasty delightness.
“It's been a tough weekend.”
Nooooooooooo! I don't care! It's your life, do whatever the hell you want with it. Please, just keep me out of your world. Please! Please. Please? But those are words not spoken. The kindness that is true and discouraging was all that escaped. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Short, fat vanilla for Loud Linda.”
Oops. Linda was her name, Loud Linda was our nickname for her. She took her coffee, pouting.
“My husband was arrested. Did you see it on the news?”
“What are you waiting for?” God, let's move her drink to the front of the line.
“Don't worry, I'm in no hurry.”
I smile, becoming anxious like a trapped animal preparing to gnaw off a limb. I might have to kill to escape.
“He lost his job last year. Then he became addicted to the painkillers he was taking for his back. And then yesterday he threatened to kill himself. In front of the kids, can you believe that?”
It's got to be one of these.
“Tall, non-fat caramel, extra whip, double. Susan.”
This has to be hers. Come on...Yes!
“Thank you.”
She picks up her cup and steps closer to the counter to continue our insipid conversation.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” my mind shouts, while I simply smile.
“Chai latte. Barry.”
Another friendly pick-up.
“I don't really know what to do. He's a good dad, he just seems to be having problems now. Pretty much ever since he lost his job he has been having problems. Then about a month ago he went crazy when he found out I was chatting with an old friend, an old boyfriend. He's just losing it.”
What?! The ears were focused. She wants sympathy? Just a couple of details to flesh out.
“What sent him over the edge yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-factly calm.
“I don't know. Even though we are living together, I have been telling him it's over, but when I didn't come home one night, he went crazy.”
What?! She didn't come home? Just a few more details...
“Must be tough for the children. How old?”
“7 and 9. The boys adore him, but its not going to work.”
“So he knew you when you were in your prime?”
She blushed. “We met right after high school. I've only had one other boyfriend, that was my high school sweetheart.”
“The one you have been 'chatting' with?”
“Yeah.”
Evil. It is everywhere. When its form is physical in manifestation and presentation, battle is sweet and pure, but all too often evil is clothed in kindness, innocence and naivete. Apparently, this evil wanted absolution from the coffee guy...unfortunately for her, she encountered the wrong coffee guy.
“This is all soooo horrible,” I dripped with thick sarcasm. “Were you very good at math in school?”
“No, why?”
“Well, we've got a 1+1=2 problem here that is clearly beyond the rudimentary skills you acquired early on, so I am wondering how to approach my response.”
A glaze washed her aging face.
“It is interesting how both of these men knew you when you were in your prime. You know, us men being visual creatures, we love beauty we once captured, seeing it as it was forever, in our dreams and fantasies.”
She started to say, “Thank you,” but brought the cup to her mouth, not sure if she was being complimented. She needed to be disarmed.
“Would you like to hear a similar story about a cousin?”
“Yes,” she said too excitedly about the subject change.
“Soy, sugar-free, cocoa. Fred.”
“Well, the cousin had a rather large inheritance. She was married when she was rich, young and beautiful. She had a couple of kids; a bout of severe postpartum depression; gained weight; and, was swindled out of her inheritence by her mother.”
“That's horrible.”
“While she was going through all of that, her husband decided to take up with another woman, who was young, beautiful and well-off.”
“How horrible.”
“Really? You think so?” I was unable to stop myself from asking.
“Absolutely. Her husband didn't need to do that when she was going through all that.”
“Really?” I had to say again, shocked at evil's ignorance.
“Well, it gets worse. Her husband left her and took the kids. She loved those kids more than anything, the only thing. It surprised no one when she ODed and died.”
“How sad.”
“Yes. But it is going to get worse.”
“How, she's dead?”
“I am going to see that he pays the price for his deeds, that he suffers.” This was not a response she anticipated, and became appropriately uncomfortable.
“Your husband is down on his luck, struggling with his worth as a man with his job and his worth as a human with his pained body. He is down. And a woman he sees as beautiful and the world sees as long past—unlike that woman over there who has 10 years on you and somehow has the perfect figure of a 27 year old—has decided to kick him aside and find the only other man who remembers her as a young beauty, and who has not had to put up with the day-to-day living with a retard.”
Finally, she is willing to leave, silently taking a step back. But the honorable words of helpful wisdom were not complete.
“If you would like my help, if you truly care about your husband in any way, send him my way for advice. I will guide his choice and let him know of the beauty that exists, of the loving women who are beautiful inside and out and that he does not have to destroy himself because you want to play games and have men fight over an archaic vision of yourself. He has seen the ugly, now I can teach him he and your children deserve more than a needy whore. Of course, only if you are interested in helping him.”
She turned, quietly walking away with her head down.
“You really are just like my cousin's husband, so I don't understand why you felt bad for her, though I could understand why you would say you feel bad for her.”
But she was out the door.
“Dude, that was rude, calling her a whore.”
“Did you hear the whole story?” I asked before deciding whether or not to jump over the counter and vent my frustration with evil by pummeling this carrier of a timid voice with paper cups and swizzle sticks.
“No, but...”
“Then shut-the-f...heck-up,” I whispered forcefully, in less than fashionable goodness. The ignorance of a citizenry so unwilling to see their reflection was soiling the good side of my darkening soul. “Shut-the-fuck-up,” I whispered to myself.
Taking my pain, the agony of dreams destroyed, a gentle voice of generous candy whispered in the kindest way, “Take a break.”
I turned and looked into her soft, fresh young face. “You are good. Thanks.”
She smiled, warmly, generously. “Sometimes, love breaks my heart.”
“There is no other kind,” I replied.
We looked at each other, absorbed in the moment, leaving the rest of the world as an audience to our connection.
“You don't belong here.”
“I know. But for now, apparently, this is where I am supposed to be.”
She wrapped her arms around me, calming my with her sweet, chewy goodness.
“Hey, isn't this a coffee shop? Where is my damn coffee?”
The calm disappeared.
I took off my apron as she prepared Mr. Impatient's coffee, and headed toward the exit for a break, but I could not let it go.
“Be patient, it's a virtue.”
“Fuck off!”
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to calm.
“Back off!” he shouted, shoving me.
His shove made me feel better.
“Thank you. I'll be outside and I can tell you about the perfect girl for you...and we can discuss things, like your shove...and beauty...and feeling alive, and doing the right thing, or the wrong thing. It is going to be a beautiful conversation.”
Mouthing something from behind the counter, she of kind calmness caused me to focus on her luscious moving lips.
“Let it go,” she mouthed respectfully, calmly, releasing the claims of the world.
She was right. I do not care about Mr. Impatient. I would rather save that ignorantly evil woman's husband from letting himself be destroyed by her, and there is one way of doing that: I have to let him know that sometimes life is really, really hard and it feels like you are drowning in the urine and feces filled bowels of an outhouse, but tomorrow is not yet written. Survive today, giving life the best of what you have, even if it taunts you to find the worst in yourself and become that which are were never meant to be. Choose to smile at the absurdity of the wounds inflicted by a stupid old whore, even though you bleed. Choose to feel the pain, and survive, because then you are open to the joy. Choose to be better than your circumstance, no matter what it may be.
Life is hard.
Life is beautiful.
Life is.
You are.
I am.
Life is hard.
Oh well, how boring it would be if it were easy, and boring is truly for the dullards.
Life is.
Why expect more?
Live.
To hell with circumstance.
Live.
I can taste tomorrow. There is a tinge of bitterness, but there is more...a flavor I long for...yes...something more...
How am I going to do this?
I can't do this.
Pretending is so fake...no, insane.
I do not fit as a bit actor in this polite play.
What is the point?
This is life?
This is not life.
“Large mocha, extra shot, Irene.”
Such purpose.
Rude people.
Nasty people.
Nice people.
Damaged people.
Honest people.
True people.
Evil people.
All people pretending to be just like the fake posture of one another. Everyone wanting to be the same in their insincerity.
“Non-fat vanilla latte for Theresa.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Sincere. Sweet. Beautiful. A look into her vibrant eyes and there is a passion, controlled to fit in and be like the rest, but she's clearly something more.
“Black. Jim.”
The brown stain on a 6 day old pair of tighty-whitey underwear, but I am polite, pretending he is just another guy like all of the rest.
I am going to snap.
What's the point?
I know it's my fault. If I were to sit on the sofa and eat chips and drink beer like a good little fat, ignorant consuming machine, I could more easily play my bit part in life's boring drama. When I return to my home and spend hours training myself for unpromised physical combat and spend the down time preparing my mind for competition that is nature, I am refining the tools gifted by nature, and nature yearns that they be used to test and improve skills. If I were to spend my time watching uberhomoerotic musicals while eating ice cream sandwiched between rich, chocolate, fudgy brownies, I could be happy spectating...but “ifs” are such a waste of time. We cannot be other than who we are.
“Fat double. Oshi.”
Pretend.
I must pretend.
Pretend!
Stop asking why.
Just play your part.
The lines are simple.
They're all the same.
We're all the same.
You can be one of them.
Pretend.
Just pretend!
“Don't be an idiot, just order!” the edgy guy at the counter told the pretty young woman looking at the board detailing the coffees that are supposed to have exotic stories about their journeys from warm, moist parts of the globe and their various roasts — marketing for the masses...if they only knew, but who wants the curtain pulled back.
“I don't know what to get,” she answered innocently, meekly.
“You're so fuckin' stupid! I'll order.”
“K.”
“Did you want tea of coffee?” I said loudly to the sweet candy from my distant side of the bar, catching a glare of disapproval from my effeminate co-worker transacting the order at the register.
The man and woman both looked my way, him scowling, she smiling.
“I got it,” he said firmly, paying for their order.
“Tea, actually,” she sang.
“Well...” I began before being so rudely interrupted.
“I said I got it,” he told her sternly, cutting me a mad dog, back off look.
“Excuse me, sir, but I was speaking to the nice woman.”
She began to glow.
“I feel like tea, actually. I do. Do you have any suggestions?”
“We have a blueberry tea I enjoy.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“You have to really like blueberries?”
“I do.” She turned toward her friend, looking him in the eyes.
“Change that. She'll have the tea Mr. Friendly over there is talking about.”
“Mr. Friendly,” heshe chuckled.
The man thought heshe was laughing at him and that he was the butt of an inside joke. You could see him tense up and his eyes begin to twitch.
As they finished the transaction at the register, the sweet candy made her way to my processing station, where her tea had been bumped to the top of the list.
“Thank you for your suggestion,” she whispered, trying to conceal she was talking to me from her partner.
“What are you two talking about?” he asked, scurrying up behind her.
She did not reply, but looked at me with a personalized smile.
“And for you,” I passed the tea over the counter to her waiting, frail hands.
“Thank you.”
I waited for her to taste the blueberry tea.
“That's wonderful. Thank you.”
“Anytime. If you ever have any other questions, please feel free to ask.”
“Come on, dude, back off. Where's my drink?”
“It's coming.”
I went about taking up the queue.
“Mona, skinny latte.”
“Thank you.”
Nice smile. Sincerely friendly.
The toilet paper coloring crayon was getting angry.
“Christine. Tea and a black.”
“Dude!? Where's my coffee?” he snapped.
“Don't be an idiot,” I quickly replied, smirking at him.
“What did you say?” he challenged.
“Just repeating what you said to her a few minutes ago.”
“Dude, mind your own fucking business and get me my coffee, and if she has any questions about your coffee, she'll ask the coffee man.” His voice dripped with condescension.
“Um, dude, she can ask me anything she wants, I know something more than the grounded desires of coffee.”
“Right. Just give me my drink so I can get out of this place before I kick your ass.”
“Are you promising that if I don't give you your coffee you are going to kick my ass?”
“Dude, just give me my fuckin' coffee!!!”
“Here you go, sir,” the generous and kind voice of a young female co-worker politely offered.
“Thank you. You need to do something about this dick.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Though she was friendly to thee, her expression made it clear she was exasperated by my clearly appropriate actions. “Take a break,” she ordered.
A break? Yes. A bit player in a drama where the lead actors are overtly impressed with their pompous ignorance.
“Thank you, again,” the sweet candy purred.
“Come on! Stop talking to that idiot!”
I shook my head in disapproval, while making myself a coffee from beans voluntarily ending their lives before boarding first class flight halfway around the world. After removing my apron, I took my coffee and went outside to vacuum up the fresh air and clear my anguished mind. I refrained from saying anything to either of the perfect couple as I walked past them.
Standing in front of the store, I had to make a decision. I could position myself to antagonize him as he left the shop or I could stop wasting energy on the Stus of the universe. I chose the illusion of peace and went off to the side and purposefully placed the chiseled mass of the back of good shouldering to the door.
Sipping the coffee, I cringed at the bitterness. “Appropriate,” I thought, laughing to myself.
“Asshole,” I heard a voice whisper behind me in a whine.
“Come on, let's go,” sweet candy told her mate.
I wanted to turn around, but why. I do not want to get fired...not yet, at least. I hate my life, but I tell myself I am working toward something, toward stability. I don't know, but physical confrontation with such a fool is a waste of time and goodness...and a good time. Yet, I cannot stop myself from saying something, from stirring the stew a couple rounds. “Have a great day!” I said aloud, raising my cup to the voices behind.
The voices began to bicker in a hushed tone. There would be no confrontation, but always be prepared. I placed my cup on the table, closed my eyes and listened for footsteps or some other sign of an assault headed my way. Nothing.
It began to quiet. I noticed a bird singing. I picked up my cap and enjoyed the bitterness. Just like life, it may be bitter but it's mine and can still be enjoyed.
I cannot help but ponder what has happened in the life of the sweet and tasty that made her think that such a “man”, a toilet tool, was the appropriate companion. It is not my desire to rescue ones from themselves, but the candy looked so tasty sweet...but it would have undoubtedly been sour once completely unwrapped.
Damn, this coffee is bitter crap...cream and sugar will give it a whole different experience, and that is the choice.
I can't do this.
Pretending is so fake...no, insane.
I do not fit as a bit actor in this polite play.
What is the point?
This is life?
This is not life.
“Large mocha, extra shot, Irene.”
Such purpose.
Rude people.
Nasty people.
Nice people.
Damaged people.
Honest people.
True people.
Evil people.
All people pretending to be just like the fake posture of one another. Everyone wanting to be the same in their insincerity.
“Non-fat vanilla latte for Theresa.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Sincere. Sweet. Beautiful. A look into her vibrant eyes and there is a passion, controlled to fit in and be like the rest, but she's clearly something more.
“Black. Jim.”
The brown stain on a 6 day old pair of tighty-whitey underwear, but I am polite, pretending he is just another guy like all of the rest.
I am going to snap.
What's the point?
I know it's my fault. If I were to sit on the sofa and eat chips and drink beer like a good little fat, ignorant consuming machine, I could more easily play my bit part in life's boring drama. When I return to my home and spend hours training myself for unpromised physical combat and spend the down time preparing my mind for competition that is nature, I am refining the tools gifted by nature, and nature yearns that they be used to test and improve skills. If I were to spend my time watching uberhomoerotic musicals while eating ice cream sandwiched between rich, chocolate, fudgy brownies, I could be happy spectating...but “ifs” are such a waste of time. We cannot be other than who we are.
“Fat double. Oshi.”
Pretend.
I must pretend.
Pretend!
Stop asking why.
Just play your part.
The lines are simple.
They're all the same.
We're all the same.
You can be one of them.
Pretend.
Just pretend!
“Don't be an idiot, just order!” the edgy guy at the counter told the pretty young woman looking at the board detailing the coffees that are supposed to have exotic stories about their journeys from warm, moist parts of the globe and their various roasts — marketing for the masses...if they only knew, but who wants the curtain pulled back.
“I don't know what to get,” she answered innocently, meekly.
“You're so fuckin' stupid! I'll order.”
“K.”
“Did you want tea of coffee?” I said loudly to the sweet candy from my distant side of the bar, catching a glare of disapproval from my effeminate co-worker transacting the order at the register.
The man and woman both looked my way, him scowling, she smiling.
“I got it,” he said firmly, paying for their order.
“Tea, actually,” she sang.
“Well...” I began before being so rudely interrupted.
“I said I got it,” he told her sternly, cutting me a mad dog, back off look.
“Excuse me, sir, but I was speaking to the nice woman.”
She began to glow.
“I feel like tea, actually. I do. Do you have any suggestions?”
“We have a blueberry tea I enjoy.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“You have to really like blueberries?”
“I do.” She turned toward her friend, looking him in the eyes.
“Change that. She'll have the tea Mr. Friendly over there is talking about.”
“Mr. Friendly,” heshe chuckled.
The man thought heshe was laughing at him and that he was the butt of an inside joke. You could see him tense up and his eyes begin to twitch.
As they finished the transaction at the register, the sweet candy made her way to my processing station, where her tea had been bumped to the top of the list.
“Thank you for your suggestion,” she whispered, trying to conceal she was talking to me from her partner.
“What are you two talking about?” he asked, scurrying up behind her.
She did not reply, but looked at me with a personalized smile.
“And for you,” I passed the tea over the counter to her waiting, frail hands.
“Thank you.”
I waited for her to taste the blueberry tea.
“That's wonderful. Thank you.”
“Anytime. If you ever have any other questions, please feel free to ask.”
“Come on, dude, back off. Where's my drink?”
“It's coming.”
I went about taking up the queue.
“Mona, skinny latte.”
“Thank you.”
Nice smile. Sincerely friendly.
The toilet paper coloring crayon was getting angry.
“Christine. Tea and a black.”
“Dude!? Where's my coffee?” he snapped.
“Don't be an idiot,” I quickly replied, smirking at him.
“What did you say?” he challenged.
“Just repeating what you said to her a few minutes ago.”
“Dude, mind your own fucking business and get me my coffee, and if she has any questions about your coffee, she'll ask the coffee man.” His voice dripped with condescension.
“Um, dude, she can ask me anything she wants, I know something more than the grounded desires of coffee.”
“Right. Just give me my drink so I can get out of this place before I kick your ass.”
“Are you promising that if I don't give you your coffee you are going to kick my ass?”
“Dude, just give me my fuckin' coffee!!!”
“Here you go, sir,” the generous and kind voice of a young female co-worker politely offered.
“Thank you. You need to do something about this dick.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Though she was friendly to thee, her expression made it clear she was exasperated by my clearly appropriate actions. “Take a break,” she ordered.
A break? Yes. A bit player in a drama where the lead actors are overtly impressed with their pompous ignorance.
“Thank you, again,” the sweet candy purred.
“Come on! Stop talking to that idiot!”
I shook my head in disapproval, while making myself a coffee from beans voluntarily ending their lives before boarding first class flight halfway around the world. After removing my apron, I took my coffee and went outside to vacuum up the fresh air and clear my anguished mind. I refrained from saying anything to either of the perfect couple as I walked past them.
Standing in front of the store, I had to make a decision. I could position myself to antagonize him as he left the shop or I could stop wasting energy on the Stus of the universe. I chose the illusion of peace and went off to the side and purposefully placed the chiseled mass of the back of good shouldering to the door.
Sipping the coffee, I cringed at the bitterness. “Appropriate,” I thought, laughing to myself.
“Asshole,” I heard a voice whisper behind me in a whine.
“Come on, let's go,” sweet candy told her mate.
I wanted to turn around, but why. I do not want to get fired...not yet, at least. I hate my life, but I tell myself I am working toward something, toward stability. I don't know, but physical confrontation with such a fool is a waste of time and goodness...and a good time. Yet, I cannot stop myself from saying something, from stirring the stew a couple rounds. “Have a great day!” I said aloud, raising my cup to the voices behind.
The voices began to bicker in a hushed tone. There would be no confrontation, but always be prepared. I placed my cup on the table, closed my eyes and listened for footsteps or some other sign of an assault headed my way. Nothing.
It began to quiet. I noticed a bird singing. I picked up my cap and enjoyed the bitterness. Just like life, it may be bitter but it's mine and can still be enjoyed.
I cannot help but ponder what has happened in the life of the sweet and tasty that made her think that such a “man”, a toilet tool, was the appropriate companion. It is not my desire to rescue ones from themselves, but the candy looked so tasty sweet...but it would have undoubtedly been sour once completely unwrapped.
Damn, this coffee is bitter crap...cream and sugar will give it a whole different experience, and that is the choice.
A couple of days after Fred's rude behavior, fortune noticed our schedules collided and that I would be closing with him. Justice was knocking and expected me to let it in...and who am I to deny justice.
As fate of manipulation would have it, a few minutes before closing the gentleman Fred had so rudely disrespected and defiled publicly appeared in the coffee cafe with Fred and myself. While Fred stood askew, mouth open, aghast, I turned off the security system and locked the front door.
Fred's mouth began spewing insult upon insult at Gentleman, but the target was unflatteringly unfazed. Gentleman walked up to Fred and slapped him across the face.
“Bitch,” he said calmly, taunting in a near whisper.
Fred was startled, then went insane, and though he was wearing another one of his t-shirts proclaiming his tough, bad-ass affiliation, Gentleman beat the rudeness out of him. He beat him so badly, Fred was crying. He was pummeled in such a way — beaten about the kidneys, ribs, stomach — that there was little outward physical evidence, aside from the inevitable bloody urine.
“Stop!” I shouted. Fred, in his eternal confusion, thought I was looking out for him, but it was actually a code word worked out with Gentleman previously.
Upon hearing the code word, Gentleman rolled over and pulled Fred on top of him. Excited at his sudden dominance, Fred began swinging away at his foe, completely unaware that his co-worker was recording a video of his pummeling of a customer for more than posterity's sake.
Having a sufficiently damaging video record, recording was stopped and another code was shouted. “Come on!”
Again, Gentleman heard the cue. He effortlessly tossed Fred aside and began beating him until he was crying again, then began begging Gentleman to stop. (Actually, there was a dash of recording of this exchange for purely private consumption.)
It is amazing how fast a video goes viral when a manager at a coffee shop is seen beating a customer. As much as Fred tried to tell corporate otherwise, in the name of just rightedness I had to confirm Gentleman's story that he came in for a cup of coffee and was assaulted, completely innocent, and in actuality, when one strings the events together, there was plenty of evidence of Fred's abusive behavior toward a loyal and kind customer, of whom it was said was an innocent gentleman. Fred is now without a job, which does not explain why he had one for so long, but that is something for which the uppers will have to suffer the consequences. Gentleman is receiving a large cash settlement, of which he has promised the nurturing hand of justice a chunk. (Enough to buy the a compound?)
Good will find a way and if you employ evil, you are evil, and the price for your collaboration will be paid. Justice is busy, as the sheet is long, but patience...evil is always visited...eventually.
For whatever the reason, sleep is much better...the suffering of evil in the balancing of scales is truly quite relaxing.
As fate of manipulation would have it, a few minutes before closing the gentleman Fred had so rudely disrespected and defiled publicly appeared in the coffee cafe with Fred and myself. While Fred stood askew, mouth open, aghast, I turned off the security system and locked the front door.
Fred's mouth began spewing insult upon insult at Gentleman, but the target was unflatteringly unfazed. Gentleman walked up to Fred and slapped him across the face.
“Bitch,” he said calmly, taunting in a near whisper.
Fred was startled, then went insane, and though he was wearing another one of his t-shirts proclaiming his tough, bad-ass affiliation, Gentleman beat the rudeness out of him. He beat him so badly, Fred was crying. He was pummeled in such a way — beaten about the kidneys, ribs, stomach — that there was little outward physical evidence, aside from the inevitable bloody urine.
“Stop!” I shouted. Fred, in his eternal confusion, thought I was looking out for him, but it was actually a code word worked out with Gentleman previously.
Upon hearing the code word, Gentleman rolled over and pulled Fred on top of him. Excited at his sudden dominance, Fred began swinging away at his foe, completely unaware that his co-worker was recording a video of his pummeling of a customer for more than posterity's sake.
Having a sufficiently damaging video record, recording was stopped and another code was shouted. “Come on!”
Again, Gentleman heard the cue. He effortlessly tossed Fred aside and began beating him until he was crying again, then began begging Gentleman to stop. (Actually, there was a dash of recording of this exchange for purely private consumption.)
It is amazing how fast a video goes viral when a manager at a coffee shop is seen beating a customer. As much as Fred tried to tell corporate otherwise, in the name of just rightedness I had to confirm Gentleman's story that he came in for a cup of coffee and was assaulted, completely innocent, and in actuality, when one strings the events together, there was plenty of evidence of Fred's abusive behavior toward a loyal and kind customer, of whom it was said was an innocent gentleman. Fred is now without a job, which does not explain why he had one for so long, but that is something for which the uppers will have to suffer the consequences. Gentleman is receiving a large cash settlement, of which he has promised the nurturing hand of justice a chunk. (Enough to buy the a compound?)
Good will find a way and if you employ evil, you are evil, and the price for your collaboration will be paid. Justice is busy, as the sheet is long, but patience...evil is always visited...eventually.
For whatever the reason, sleep is much better...the suffering of evil in the balancing of scales is truly quite relaxing.
Denial of human nature cannot be promulgated by anyone other than the most desperately failed. Human nature is, and shall not be denied. Inasmuch as so many wish to believe otherwise, we are machines of deceit; we are liars, and the for the most part are lying only to ourselves. So be it, that is who we are.
In this universe of roasted beanness, there is ample opportunity to see people as they are and as they wish themselves to appear. Sitting in a comfortable chair reading and drinking a protein, non-coffee health drink that tasted like banana flavored chalk, I watched truth rear its perfectly ugly head.
A couple old enough to want less drama in their lives came in for their usual. A few times a week they came in for some coffee and pastries and the wife would flirt with the female interested men behind the counter. The husband, a hulking, gentle man, kept his head down and ignored her call for attention. Today, the routine was disturbed, thanks to Fred.
An area manager who liked working behind the counter, Fred was a greasy fat man with a big mouth who could get away with speaking to customers like no other because of his senior rank. Simply put: he was wanted as much as used toilet paper in a third world country. Fred knew little about the couple and saw the wife's flirt as a sincere invitation, an opportunity he was too fugly to forgo.
By the time the two were done ordering, Gentleman was about 6 feet from his wife, waiting to pay. Fred had already insulted his intelligence, his appearance and his manhood. The young men behind the counter with their boss laughed, uncomfortably, but it was clear Gentleman saw a gang of rude sports challenging him, eyeing his wife, his prize. He was using all of his self-restraint to not react, especially when his wife began to laugh, fueled by their desirous energy.
“How much?”
“Are you going to let us get away with this?” Fred taunted.
“How much?”
“Maybe you leave me that beautiful woman. We call it even.”
“What!?”
“She deserves some men that aren't, you know...” Fred answered, making a “V” shape with his fingers and holding it over his crotch.
Gentleman prepared to snap. He knew it. His wife knew it. I knew it. Fred was clueless, emboldened by the mentality of mob rule protection.
Laughing hard, Fred and his men went and sat on a well padded bench in the corner. A man in a suit went up to her and whispered in the woman's ear. She laughed as her husband began to glow, his blood boiling.
“Come. Come sit with us,” Fred invited the wife, patting a 3” wide space between him and another worker.
The wife looked at her husband, gave an immature, little girl giggle and went and sat in the small space. She could not fit, so she slipped her body behind the two men who gave one another a high-five hand slap.
“Well, I guess she wants to be with us...unless you want to do something about that?”
Gentleman was ready to kill, rightfully so, but he did not need to ruin his life over her, even if they were man and wife (the worst will come when you promise yourself for “better or worse”).
Standing and moving quickly to head him off as he made a beeline toward Fred and the rude crew, I put my hand on his massive shoulder and said, “Excuse me, but...”
He turned, looking me in the eyes, prepared to engage in battle for the indiscretion of my ill timed touch of temerity. Before I could explain, the strange man in the suit came close to interrupt.
“Go, be a man. She wants you to claim her, to fight for her. Go, be a man.”
“Shouldn't you be wearing a bowler?” I asked the suit.
Gentleman now had too many targets and was too enraged to speak — a scrawny, effeminate man in a suit just told him to be a man.
“He's right. She wants you to fight, to claim her. She wants you to fight a group of men. She wants you to risk yourself not for justice, not for righteousness, not for good, but for her pleasurable, for the reassurance of her venal vanity. Are you prepared to lose it all for someone who cares so little about you?”
I felt his shoulders drop, relaxing. The rage was dissipating. He knew the words being offered were sincere, truthful. “No,” he answered in a heavy sigh of relief.
She laughed. Fred and the rude crew laughed. Their laughs were forced, not comfortable.
“You could kill them all, beat them to pulps, and tomorrow you will have been flagged by the government toadies for storage in a concrete building. Is that what she wants? You could fight them and slip, or one of them could get in a lucky punch and hurt you. Is that what she wants? You can't win.”
“I know.”
Gentleman had an epiphany. The rage was leaving, as was her ability to ruin him. When she saw him recognize the truth of who she was, a look of panic paled her smile. He noticed, looked me in the eyes and nodded an appreciation.
As he passed the suited man missing a bowler, he paused to glare at him dangerously, promising to remember. The last thing he did before exiting the bean squeeze was turn to look at his wife and whisper, “Whore,” ashamedly.
She was broken, but giggled in the hope her new friends would only notice her fun flirtiness and continue their pandering pursuit.
I wanted to follow the man out and help him excuse his pain, but he seemed like a capable man. I returned to my seat and watched the absurdity of life crashing in a coffee shop while I threw calories of sustenance into my wanting mouth of masticating madness.
I finished my shift without any real interaction with Fred or the members of the rude crew, but eventually Fred and I were the only ones left, and my mouth had nothing to chew.
“When do you think it's going to happen?”
“What?”
“The hussy's husband. He's gonna thrash you.”
“That fuckin' pussy? He's about as scary as you. He ain't gonna do shit.”
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're going to pay for that.”
“Fuck you! He's not gonna do shit. Guys like that never do.”
“If I hadn't stopped him, you'd have been dead hours ago.”
“Right. Sure, you saved the day.”
“Thank you for noticing, but I am suggesting you still watch out. We pay the price for the truth of our deeds. You'd better watch out.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You're my boss.”
“Is that why you saved me?”
“Actually, in the name of full factual disclosure, I saved him.”
“See, even you know I'd make him my bitch.”
“No, he would have killed you. I was saving him from ruining his life over...you.”
“You're pussies. I'll fuck you all up!”
“What is it about wearing those mixed martial arts t-shirts that make guys like you think they can fight because they wear them?”
“Fuuuuck you.”
“Just askin'.”
“You're lucky we're at work and the security cameras are on.”
“Yeah, that's why they call me Captain Luckyhead. But, being a gentleman myself, if you would ever like to meet someplace quaint, more neutral, just let me know. It would be my honor. I'm sure you train somewhere.”
“What the... I haven't had time, lately. Come on, finish cleaning so we can get the fuck outta this dump.”
“Yeah. Still, be careful out there.”
“Just clean.”
And the conversation ended. We cleaned, randomly looking and glaring at one another in preparation for combat. He was sure it would never come. I just wanted to refrain until I was ready to leave my career as a bean presser behind. Still, justice must be served, and it is best served fresh.
I left the shop when done and headed on the path I knew Fred to take, preparing to lurk in the darkness. I followed, keeping in the shadows so he could not see my face or figure clearly. The man was afraid, and I was alive, excited at the possibility of justice.
I followed.
Opportunity did not arise.
But justice in the shadows of darkness again began to lurk.
Evil is everywhere, we must at least make it uncomfortable, shaming it whenever possible.
If you wait, you will be thrust upon by the good character of men who wish to make a difference, no matter how dashing you look with or without a bowler.
Feel alive, do the right thing.
Feel alive. do.
In this universe of roasted beanness, there is ample opportunity to see people as they are and as they wish themselves to appear. Sitting in a comfortable chair reading and drinking a protein, non-coffee health drink that tasted like banana flavored chalk, I watched truth rear its perfectly ugly head.
A couple old enough to want less drama in their lives came in for their usual. A few times a week they came in for some coffee and pastries and the wife would flirt with the female interested men behind the counter. The husband, a hulking, gentle man, kept his head down and ignored her call for attention. Today, the routine was disturbed, thanks to Fred.
An area manager who liked working behind the counter, Fred was a greasy fat man with a big mouth who could get away with speaking to customers like no other because of his senior rank. Simply put: he was wanted as much as used toilet paper in a third world country. Fred knew little about the couple and saw the wife's flirt as a sincere invitation, an opportunity he was too fugly to forgo.
By the time the two were done ordering, Gentleman was about 6 feet from his wife, waiting to pay. Fred had already insulted his intelligence, his appearance and his manhood. The young men behind the counter with their boss laughed, uncomfortably, but it was clear Gentleman saw a gang of rude sports challenging him, eyeing his wife, his prize. He was using all of his self-restraint to not react, especially when his wife began to laugh, fueled by their desirous energy.
“How much?”
“Are you going to let us get away with this?” Fred taunted.
“How much?”
“Maybe you leave me that beautiful woman. We call it even.”
“What!?”
“She deserves some men that aren't, you know...” Fred answered, making a “V” shape with his fingers and holding it over his crotch.
Gentleman prepared to snap. He knew it. His wife knew it. I knew it. Fred was clueless, emboldened by the mentality of mob rule protection.
Laughing hard, Fred and his men went and sat on a well padded bench in the corner. A man in a suit went up to her and whispered in the woman's ear. She laughed as her husband began to glow, his blood boiling.
“Come. Come sit with us,” Fred invited the wife, patting a 3” wide space between him and another worker.
The wife looked at her husband, gave an immature, little girl giggle and went and sat in the small space. She could not fit, so she slipped her body behind the two men who gave one another a high-five hand slap.
“Well, I guess she wants to be with us...unless you want to do something about that?”
Gentleman was ready to kill, rightfully so, but he did not need to ruin his life over her, even if they were man and wife (the worst will come when you promise yourself for “better or worse”).
Standing and moving quickly to head him off as he made a beeline toward Fred and the rude crew, I put my hand on his massive shoulder and said, “Excuse me, but...”
He turned, looking me in the eyes, prepared to engage in battle for the indiscretion of my ill timed touch of temerity. Before I could explain, the strange man in the suit came close to interrupt.
“Go, be a man. She wants you to claim her, to fight for her. Go, be a man.”
“Shouldn't you be wearing a bowler?” I asked the suit.
Gentleman now had too many targets and was too enraged to speak — a scrawny, effeminate man in a suit just told him to be a man.
“He's right. She wants you to fight, to claim her. She wants you to fight a group of men. She wants you to risk yourself not for justice, not for righteousness, not for good, but for her pleasurable, for the reassurance of her venal vanity. Are you prepared to lose it all for someone who cares so little about you?”
I felt his shoulders drop, relaxing. The rage was dissipating. He knew the words being offered were sincere, truthful. “No,” he answered in a heavy sigh of relief.
She laughed. Fred and the rude crew laughed. Their laughs were forced, not comfortable.
“You could kill them all, beat them to pulps, and tomorrow you will have been flagged by the government toadies for storage in a concrete building. Is that what she wants? You could fight them and slip, or one of them could get in a lucky punch and hurt you. Is that what she wants? You can't win.”
“I know.”
Gentleman had an epiphany. The rage was leaving, as was her ability to ruin him. When she saw him recognize the truth of who she was, a look of panic paled her smile. He noticed, looked me in the eyes and nodded an appreciation.
As he passed the suited man missing a bowler, he paused to glare at him dangerously, promising to remember. The last thing he did before exiting the bean squeeze was turn to look at his wife and whisper, “Whore,” ashamedly.
She was broken, but giggled in the hope her new friends would only notice her fun flirtiness and continue their pandering pursuit.
I wanted to follow the man out and help him excuse his pain, but he seemed like a capable man. I returned to my seat and watched the absurdity of life crashing in a coffee shop while I threw calories of sustenance into my wanting mouth of masticating madness.
I finished my shift without any real interaction with Fred or the members of the rude crew, but eventually Fred and I were the only ones left, and my mouth had nothing to chew.
“When do you think it's going to happen?”
“What?”
“The hussy's husband. He's gonna thrash you.”
“That fuckin' pussy? He's about as scary as you. He ain't gonna do shit.”
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're going to pay for that.”
“Fuck you! He's not gonna do shit. Guys like that never do.”
“If I hadn't stopped him, you'd have been dead hours ago.”
“Right. Sure, you saved the day.”
“Thank you for noticing, but I am suggesting you still watch out. We pay the price for the truth of our deeds. You'd better watch out.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You're my boss.”
“Is that why you saved me?”
“Actually, in the name of full factual disclosure, I saved him.”
“See, even you know I'd make him my bitch.”
“No, he would have killed you. I was saving him from ruining his life over...you.”
“You're pussies. I'll fuck you all up!”
“What is it about wearing those mixed martial arts t-shirts that make guys like you think they can fight because they wear them?”
“Fuuuuck you.”
“Just askin'.”
“You're lucky we're at work and the security cameras are on.”
“Yeah, that's why they call me Captain Luckyhead. But, being a gentleman myself, if you would ever like to meet someplace quaint, more neutral, just let me know. It would be my honor. I'm sure you train somewhere.”
“What the... I haven't had time, lately. Come on, finish cleaning so we can get the fuck outta this dump.”
“Yeah. Still, be careful out there.”
“Just clean.”
And the conversation ended. We cleaned, randomly looking and glaring at one another in preparation for combat. He was sure it would never come. I just wanted to refrain until I was ready to leave my career as a bean presser behind. Still, justice must be served, and it is best served fresh.
I left the shop when done and headed on the path I knew Fred to take, preparing to lurk in the darkness. I followed, keeping in the shadows so he could not see my face or figure clearly. The man was afraid, and I was alive, excited at the possibility of justice.
I followed.
Opportunity did not arise.
But justice in the shadows of darkness again began to lurk.
Evil is everywhere, we must at least make it uncomfortable, shaming it whenever possible.
If you wait, you will be thrust upon by the good character of men who wish to make a difference, no matter how dashing you look with or without a bowler.
Feel alive, do the right thing.
Feel alive. do.
I do not have a choice but to be here. If I could be elsewhere, wouldn't I? All the events, nuances, turns and indiscretions and this is where I am? I control my fate about as well as I control by bowel movement — you can only clench for so long, eventually darker matter is making its move.
Here I am, standing behind the counter in a coffee shop. I am too old for this shit. I have nothing to my name except a name I will not yet claim. The faces of customers blur together, morphing into this soft shadowy, pasty figure with bark breath and a forced smile. I am polite; that's my job. I am a machine, a robot, an automaton. Free will? Right, this is where I'd be, behind the counter taking coffee orders — less accurately than the alternative system the younger customers prefer interacting with, but with a polite voice and smiling face to help extract revenues from customers. Clearly, this is where free will has taken me.
“What can I get for you today?” I don't need to look up. I've already take 200 orders in less than 90 minutes.
Damn! The SOB is going to make me look at him. Some customers are such control freaks, not giving you their order till you look them in the eyes and acknowledge them, as if they are somehow different than the last insignificant customers.
“What can I get for you today?” I try again, even less interested in the answer. Still no response. I have to look up, make the eye contact.
“What can I ge...” I begin, then see the customer. It's a doppelganger...or is it? Nothing else exists, my vision becoming myopic staring at the man across the counter. He is looking through me as if I did not exist in any way without his knowledge.
“Hi,” he said, knowing full well how I was.
Here I am in a filthy apron and across the counter is a man who could be mistaken for me, though by the looks of his attire and accessories, I would rather be mistaken for him. But the charade must continue. He is on his side of the counter and I am on mine. Free will? Then this is where I want to be, so I might as well get about my being.
“What can I get for you today?”
“Small coffee.”
“Would you like a pastry or something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“A small coffee. That will be $27.14,” I absurdly toss, taunting.
“Ouch. Must be really good.”
“If by 'really' you mean 'sorta' and by 'good' you mean 'average', it is.”
“Oh well, here's fifteen cents and twenty-seven dollars.”
“Okay. That will be one cent change.”
“They'll stop making those soon enough. That'll make your job easier.”
“Yeah, but let's hope I am out of here long before that.”
He smiles with a contemptuous smirk. No more smalltalk, no banter, just a “you're here forever, loser” smirk.
“Have we met? Do I know you?” I had to ask Mister Lifeisgood before he walks away.
Still smugly smirking, he answers, “I know you better than you know yourself.”
Normally, a statement such as that would be a call to action, but the way he said it, with such assurance, I must uncomfortably recognize my lack of doubt in the veracity of his statement.
“Then answer me this: You look like a comfortable man with few worries, how do I change places with you?”
“You don't change places with me, you become me, you become whomever you want to be, whomever you need to be. It's up to you.”
“Free will? Right. You were probably born with a silver spoon up it.”
“Don't be crude, my friend, it's not necessary.”
“Right. Crude. Thank you. Have a great day,” I dismiss.
“You can write your own ticket. You don't have to be here any longer than you want.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slender, pointy object and tossed it toward me. Fearing this man in no way, I treated the object flying toward me as harmless and caught it in one hand. An old fashioned pen, a fountain pen.
“I didn't know they made these things anymore. And what do you suppose I do with this?”
“Write your own ticket.”
“Right. Free will.”
“I don't know about 'free will'. If I had to guess, it would appear destination is already set, but the journey, that is yours, write it.”
Maybe I do not have free will, but the ability to determine part of my journey, that suffices.
“Thank you,” I offered with humble sincerity.
“See you around,” he answered, smiling.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders, for who knows when I will decide to forgo this counter.
“Dude, can I order my coffee? And don't give me that $27 bull!”
Back to automaton.
I continue taking orders, holding the pen the man who knows me as I know myself provided. I have to touch it, feel it, caress it, to remind myself that I can write parts of my own journey, even if the destination has already been determined.
Enjoy the journey, my friend, and thank you.
Here I am, standing behind the counter in a coffee shop. I am too old for this shit. I have nothing to my name except a name I will not yet claim. The faces of customers blur together, morphing into this soft shadowy, pasty figure with bark breath and a forced smile. I am polite; that's my job. I am a machine, a robot, an automaton. Free will? Right, this is where I'd be, behind the counter taking coffee orders — less accurately than the alternative system the younger customers prefer interacting with, but with a polite voice and smiling face to help extract revenues from customers. Clearly, this is where free will has taken me.
“What can I get for you today?” I don't need to look up. I've already take 200 orders in less than 90 minutes.
Damn! The SOB is going to make me look at him. Some customers are such control freaks, not giving you their order till you look them in the eyes and acknowledge them, as if they are somehow different than the last insignificant customers.
“What can I get for you today?” I try again, even less interested in the answer. Still no response. I have to look up, make the eye contact.
“What can I ge...” I begin, then see the customer. It's a doppelganger...or is it? Nothing else exists, my vision becoming myopic staring at the man across the counter. He is looking through me as if I did not exist in any way without his knowledge.
“Hi,” he said, knowing full well how I was.
Here I am in a filthy apron and across the counter is a man who could be mistaken for me, though by the looks of his attire and accessories, I would rather be mistaken for him. But the charade must continue. He is on his side of the counter and I am on mine. Free will? Then this is where I want to be, so I might as well get about my being.
“What can I get for you today?”
“Small coffee.”
“Would you like a pastry or something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“A small coffee. That will be $27.14,” I absurdly toss, taunting.
“Ouch. Must be really good.”
“If by 'really' you mean 'sorta' and by 'good' you mean 'average', it is.”
“Oh well, here's fifteen cents and twenty-seven dollars.”
“Okay. That will be one cent change.”
“They'll stop making those soon enough. That'll make your job easier.”
“Yeah, but let's hope I am out of here long before that.”
He smiles with a contemptuous smirk. No more smalltalk, no banter, just a “you're here forever, loser” smirk.
“Have we met? Do I know you?” I had to ask Mister Lifeisgood before he walks away.
Still smugly smirking, he answers, “I know you better than you know yourself.”
Normally, a statement such as that would be a call to action, but the way he said it, with such assurance, I must uncomfortably recognize my lack of doubt in the veracity of his statement.
“Then answer me this: You look like a comfortable man with few worries, how do I change places with you?”
“You don't change places with me, you become me, you become whomever you want to be, whomever you need to be. It's up to you.”
“Free will? Right. You were probably born with a silver spoon up it.”
“Don't be crude, my friend, it's not necessary.”
“Right. Crude. Thank you. Have a great day,” I dismiss.
“You can write your own ticket. You don't have to be here any longer than you want.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slender, pointy object and tossed it toward me. Fearing this man in no way, I treated the object flying toward me as harmless and caught it in one hand. An old fashioned pen, a fountain pen.
“I didn't know they made these things anymore. And what do you suppose I do with this?”
“Write your own ticket.”
“Right. Free will.”
“I don't know about 'free will'. If I had to guess, it would appear destination is already set, but the journey, that is yours, write it.”
Maybe I do not have free will, but the ability to determine part of my journey, that suffices.
“Thank you,” I offered with humble sincerity.
“See you around,” he answered, smiling.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders, for who knows when I will decide to forgo this counter.
“Dude, can I order my coffee? And don't give me that $27 bull!”
Back to automaton.
I continue taking orders, holding the pen the man who knows me as I know myself provided. I have to touch it, feel it, caress it, to remind myself that I can write parts of my own journey, even if the destination has already been determined.
Enjoy the journey, my friend, and thank you.
Routine has never been a specialty of thee. Actually, there were those not so distant years of routine where I was a displaced crusader of superior presence living amongst the homeless. Still, routine is not something I do prosperously, but to rise above the depths of despair, it is a mountain that must be assaulted.
Routine:
Snuck out of stolen house.
Take small pack with all belongings on bus to place of employ.
Work. (Eating available scraps and sharpening dulled skills of observation.)
Read anything available during breaks.
Return to stolen home, house.
Shower.
Sleep on lounge chair.
Repeat.
The journey will take me somewhere. I want my compound back. I want to feel alive. I want to right...and I must admit I accept I will do wrong. I want to bathe in stickiness. I want to be shoved into a wall. I want to feel my elbow across evil’s jaw. I want to be. I want to feel. I don’t want to be alive, I want to live...I want to forget the word I...and that journey requires routine...for now.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
There are times I am afraid nothing will change...and there are times I am afraid of nothing...
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
There is a purpose for this journey, I am sure.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Someone must die. Death is inevitable.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I am going insane.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I must be retarded, there is no way the world is as stupid as I seem to think.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
A good book.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Looking up at the stars, telling myself that the repetition of emptiness leads somewhere, I heard grunts on the other side of the wall surrounding the backyard. It sounds like men fighting, but they seem to be having fun.
Though I hear them most every night, I have not looked over the wall because of the need to keep the house stolen for the purpose of rebuilding a life found. But the incongruity has drawn curiosity and monotony of routine has increased the level of acceptable risk.
Sometimes I’m afraid nothing will change because I’m afraid to change the routine required to change.
The decision to stick my head over the wall made.
Grunt.
Groan.
Crash.
Looking over the wall, it was bright enough to see the traditional backyard was not for this house. Where most would find lawn or a pool or a patio, an outdoor space was covered with mats. On the mats were two well padded men bathing, while a third stood off to the side, watching, occasionally offering single word instruction.
“Tight!”
“Back.”
“Arm.”
“Out!”
The two were going at it, until their coach stopped coaching and stared at me.
“What’s up?”
The tone indicated challenge, the question being irrelevant. What was to be determined was whether I wanted this to be an opportunity or an incident.
“What’s up?” I answered.
“Can we help you with somethin’?”
“Nope. Just checking out what all the commotion was about.”
“Now you’ve seen it?”
“Yeah. Can’t help but watch. Haven’t been on the mat in a long time. Kinda miss it. Not even sure I remember what to do.”
And the door was open.
The young men saw me as a potential training dummy, and within a couple of minutes I was over the wall and rolling around the mat in pants — I had no other gear. They beat me to a pulp, but with every move I felt my instincts slowly return. I began to remember what I should do and my lame muscles slowly responded. The beat me, and I came to life.
Trying to stay focused on the path of rebirth, I said little. Apparently, they knew I had stolen the house I was living in and offered to rent me a room from them for a few bucks and some coffee grounds, and I could train with them. It would be nice to be able to come home through a front door, and the rent was absurdly cheap, so I could continue to save for a replacement compound.
“Sounds good. I’ll take it.”
And with that, I found a room in a legitimate home, where I could feel the pain of my body being pushed through the birth canal of training as a passage to rebirth. And the room is furnished with a TV?!
Routine:
Same + violent, physical training.
Things are improving.
Sore.
Work.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Pain.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Damage.
Repeat.
Muscles burn.
Repeat.
Black eye.
Repeat.
God, it feels so exciting, yet so calming to be alive, to feel.
Repeat...
Repeat.
Routine:
Snuck out of stolen house.
Take small pack with all belongings on bus to place of employ.
Work. (Eating available scraps and sharpening dulled skills of observation.)
Read anything available during breaks.
Return to stolen home, house.
Shower.
Sleep on lounge chair.
Repeat.
The journey will take me somewhere. I want my compound back. I want to feel alive. I want to right...and I must admit I accept I will do wrong. I want to bathe in stickiness. I want to be shoved into a wall. I want to feel my elbow across evil’s jaw. I want to be. I want to feel. I don’t want to be alive, I want to live...I want to forget the word I...and that journey requires routine...for now.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
There are times I am afraid nothing will change...and there are times I am afraid of nothing...
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
There is a purpose for this journey, I am sure.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Someone must die. Death is inevitable.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I am going insane.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I must be retarded, there is no way the world is as stupid as I seem to think.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
A good book.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Looking up at the stars, telling myself that the repetition of emptiness leads somewhere, I heard grunts on the other side of the wall surrounding the backyard. It sounds like men fighting, but they seem to be having fun.
Though I hear them most every night, I have not looked over the wall because of the need to keep the house stolen for the purpose of rebuilding a life found. But the incongruity has drawn curiosity and monotony of routine has increased the level of acceptable risk.
Sometimes I’m afraid nothing will change because I’m afraid to change the routine required to change.
The decision to stick my head over the wall made.
Grunt.
Groan.
Crash.
Looking over the wall, it was bright enough to see the traditional backyard was not for this house. Where most would find lawn or a pool or a patio, an outdoor space was covered with mats. On the mats were two well padded men bathing, while a third stood off to the side, watching, occasionally offering single word instruction.
“Tight!”
“Back.”
“Arm.”
“Out!”
The two were going at it, until their coach stopped coaching and stared at me.
“What’s up?”
The tone indicated challenge, the question being irrelevant. What was to be determined was whether I wanted this to be an opportunity or an incident.
“What’s up?” I answered.
“Can we help you with somethin’?”
“Nope. Just checking out what all the commotion was about.”
“Now you’ve seen it?”
“Yeah. Can’t help but watch. Haven’t been on the mat in a long time. Kinda miss it. Not even sure I remember what to do.”
And the door was open.
The young men saw me as a potential training dummy, and within a couple of minutes I was over the wall and rolling around the mat in pants — I had no other gear. They beat me to a pulp, but with every move I felt my instincts slowly return. I began to remember what I should do and my lame muscles slowly responded. The beat me, and I came to life.
Trying to stay focused on the path of rebirth, I said little. Apparently, they knew I had stolen the house I was living in and offered to rent me a room from them for a few bucks and some coffee grounds, and I could train with them. It would be nice to be able to come home through a front door, and the rent was absurdly cheap, so I could continue to save for a replacement compound.
“Sounds good. I’ll take it.”
And with that, I found a room in a legitimate home, where I could feel the pain of my body being pushed through the birth canal of training as a passage to rebirth. And the room is furnished with a TV?!
Routine:
Same + violent, physical training.
Things are improving.
Sore.
Work.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Pain.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Damage.
Repeat.
Muscles burn.
Repeat.
Black eye.
Repeat.
God, it feels so exciting, yet so calming to be alive, to feel.
Repeat...
Repeat.
It is not an easy task to stand behind a counter extracting espresso from coffee grounds and feel as if life matters. The charade is necessary, having learned that those without are excluded from the whole of society — and how active can the pursuit of goodness be when one is removed from the giant cesspool of citizenry? At least behind the counter, doing what a vending machine could do more precisely, I can observe those who wish to belong.
In the corner, sharing a sofa with a friend, a woman who was referred to as Claudia complained about her missing husband, whom she referred to as Dan. If the Captain had fully returned as the man once captained, it sounded like a perfect role of good purpose. The Captain would become Dan while Dan copulated with women who did not bear him three...four...five children. But that seemed too gentle and sweet a cause for the darkness that visited the man who once was. Nevertheless, listening to Claudia’s story of abandonment by her well educated and successful doctor husband caused smirk behind the espresso machine.
How fortunate man is to have woman. It if were not their desire, their necessity to see more than our true calling, civilization would not exist. Unfortunately, the base needs of the noble male cause much misery amongst those who love those strong with desire — good and evil. To be a gentleman, it would be kind to set this sweet Claudia straight about missing Dan’s most probable desires.
Remembering that she was drinking a triple shot skinny vanilla latte, one was delivered as a means of bringing the voice of truth.
“I’m sorry, but I think I made a mistake. I think the one you are drinking is a double, not the triple you ordered. I made you another.” I lied, offering her the fresh cup.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised.
“You’re welcome,” I replied as we politely exchanged cups. Lowering the voice of reason so only she could hear, wisdom was offered: “Also, I just wanted you to know that Dan is fine. As soon as he is done with his freak festival, he will return.”
“You know Dan?! Where is he?”
“Dan? Your Dan, I don’t know, but really, all men are Dan.”
“What? So you don’t know Dan?”
“Oh, I know Dan, and I know your Dan, I just can’t attest to meeting him personally, if that is your query.”
“What the...,” she began, before being pulled away by her friend.
“Claudia, let’s go,” the friend with child bearing hips so rudely interrupted as the kind words of compassion were comforting her worry.
Looking with an expression of disbelief, Claudia could be nothing but grateful as she left, knowing Dan was well. She can now await his triumphant return in peace.
We think we do not understand why people around us do what they do, but that is only because we lie about who we are, who they are. The truth is they are who they are and not who we want them to be, and we are who we are, not who we want to be seen as. To embrace such simple truth takes one dedicated to...the obvious.
In the corner, sharing a sofa with a friend, a woman who was referred to as Claudia complained about her missing husband, whom she referred to as Dan. If the Captain had fully returned as the man once captained, it sounded like a perfect role of good purpose. The Captain would become Dan while Dan copulated with women who did not bear him three...four...five children. But that seemed too gentle and sweet a cause for the darkness that visited the man who once was. Nevertheless, listening to Claudia’s story of abandonment by her well educated and successful doctor husband caused smirk behind the espresso machine.
How fortunate man is to have woman. It if were not their desire, their necessity to see more than our true calling, civilization would not exist. Unfortunately, the base needs of the noble male cause much misery amongst those who love those strong with desire — good and evil. To be a gentleman, it would be kind to set this sweet Claudia straight about missing Dan’s most probable desires.
Remembering that she was drinking a triple shot skinny vanilla latte, one was delivered as a means of bringing the voice of truth.
“I’m sorry, but I think I made a mistake. I think the one you are drinking is a double, not the triple you ordered. I made you another.” I lied, offering her the fresh cup.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised.
“You’re welcome,” I replied as we politely exchanged cups. Lowering the voice of reason so only she could hear, wisdom was offered: “Also, I just wanted you to know that Dan is fine. As soon as he is done with his freak festival, he will return.”
“You know Dan?! Where is he?”
“Dan? Your Dan, I don’t know, but really, all men are Dan.”
“What? So you don’t know Dan?”
“Oh, I know Dan, and I know your Dan, I just can’t attest to meeting him personally, if that is your query.”
“What the...,” she began, before being pulled away by her friend.
“Claudia, let’s go,” the friend with child bearing hips so rudely interrupted as the kind words of compassion were comforting her worry.
Looking with an expression of disbelief, Claudia could be nothing but grateful as she left, knowing Dan was well. She can now await his triumphant return in peace.
We think we do not understand why people around us do what they do, but that is only because we lie about who we are, who they are. The truth is they are who they are and not who we want them to be, and we are who we are, not who we want to be seen as. To embrace such simple truth takes one dedicated to...the obvious.
“You bitch,” the returning heard whispered into his ear in squealing tone.
What does one do when threatened by a fragile effeminate man in the work environment? Laughing at the insignificance of his purpose would be considered mean, and there is no need to be mean to someone who is harmless to others and cruel to himself; so a simple ignoring was appropriate. Of course, that simple inaction invites his escalation as I worked the espresso machine.
“You are such a bitch,” he whispered, coming behind me and affectionately slapping my arm. “You know someone else here really likes you, and that slut was just using you.”
Slut? Slut! Slut. “I did not know she was a slut,” the returning politely answered.
“Such a big slut. She’s always talking about getting pregnant, trying to find the right guy. I hope you covered that little bad boy with some protection,” the femme whispered, brushing his hand gently against the apron draping the returning’s crotch.
The returning grabbed the toucher’s flimsy wrist, squeezing tightly, and pulled his gentle co-worker close. “You don’t get to touch me! Anywhere, ever. Do you understand?”
The frightened flame nodded in agreement.
The returning let him go to continue work at his assigned station.
“Aren’t we a tough guy,” the small, squeaky voice gleefully giggled.
After a while, the returning’s new friend approached, “What was that about? And, uh...thank you for last night.”
“I think he’s jealous of you.”
“Does he think...does he know you’re not gay?”
“Gay? I have been as happy as they come and I will get there again. I will be gay again!”
“No...no. I mean, does he know...”
“I don’t care what he knows. But you should know that I think I am shooting blanks.”
“Blanks? What do you mean?”
“In an earlier incarnation, I think I had a vasectomy.”
“A man like you without kids? What a shame.”
“I have dozens of kids. I just cannot claim them to all be from my loins.”
“Well, you can fix that, because I would not mind some of that special seed of yours.”
“Fixed?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Get it reversed and I can grow someone quite special.”
“Me? I thought you were a slut?”
Instinctively, she wanted to slap his rudeness into respect, but did not want to get fired. “That was really rude. Because we were together doesn’t make me a slut! Maybe you’re a slut? Fuck you anyway!”
“I’m sorry, that’s what heshe told me.”
“He’s such a little bitch.”
“I guess we’re all bitches,” the returning answered, but she was too angry to hear his attempt at humor.
“Uh huh. I am looking for a special seed. I think you might have the manliness it takes. If not, I still like being with you, and I am not seeing anyone else, so... And I am not a slut.”
“Of course not,” the returning reassured.
She walked away to confront her smaller adversary, while the returning continued to make drinks at the espresso station, considering his new place in life, longing for the peace he was once able to find in a place he called “the compound”.
There was a lot for the returning to consider. His muscles, flesh and mind were more vibrant since his gorging on candy. He knew he was coming to life again, and who was returning. He also knew he was returning to a darker place. And now he had to consider unraveling the severed ties that withhold the seeds of goodness from the free world.
Decisions: part of choosing to live. Purpose: byproduct of choosing to live. Combat: a willingness to not be a pawn in someone else’s plan. Violence: a natural part of living. Ecstasy: an exclamation point on living.
Bathroom break.
Walking past the treat of the prior night, a question had to be asked. Pausing as the bodies passed, a simple question was asked: “Do you think of me?”
She looked at him, smiled and nodded.
“Then I must exist.”
What does one do when threatened by a fragile effeminate man in the work environment? Laughing at the insignificance of his purpose would be considered mean, and there is no need to be mean to someone who is harmless to others and cruel to himself; so a simple ignoring was appropriate. Of course, that simple inaction invites his escalation as I worked the espresso machine.
“You are such a bitch,” he whispered, coming behind me and affectionately slapping my arm. “You know someone else here really likes you, and that slut was just using you.”
Slut? Slut! Slut. “I did not know she was a slut,” the returning politely answered.
“Such a big slut. She’s always talking about getting pregnant, trying to find the right guy. I hope you covered that little bad boy with some protection,” the femme whispered, brushing his hand gently against the apron draping the returning’s crotch.
The returning grabbed the toucher’s flimsy wrist, squeezing tightly, and pulled his gentle co-worker close. “You don’t get to touch me! Anywhere, ever. Do you understand?”
The frightened flame nodded in agreement.
The returning let him go to continue work at his assigned station.
“Aren’t we a tough guy,” the small, squeaky voice gleefully giggled.
After a while, the returning’s new friend approached, “What was that about? And, uh...thank you for last night.”
“I think he’s jealous of you.”
“Does he think...does he know you’re not gay?”
“Gay? I have been as happy as they come and I will get there again. I will be gay again!”
“No...no. I mean, does he know...”
“I don’t care what he knows. But you should know that I think I am shooting blanks.”
“Blanks? What do you mean?”
“In an earlier incarnation, I think I had a vasectomy.”
“A man like you without kids? What a shame.”
“I have dozens of kids. I just cannot claim them to all be from my loins.”
“Well, you can fix that, because I would not mind some of that special seed of yours.”
“Fixed?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Get it reversed and I can grow someone quite special.”
“Me? I thought you were a slut?”
Instinctively, she wanted to slap his rudeness into respect, but did not want to get fired. “That was really rude. Because we were together doesn’t make me a slut! Maybe you’re a slut? Fuck you anyway!”
“I’m sorry, that’s what heshe told me.”
“He’s such a little bitch.”
“I guess we’re all bitches,” the returning answered, but she was too angry to hear his attempt at humor.
“Uh huh. I am looking for a special seed. I think you might have the manliness it takes. If not, I still like being with you, and I am not seeing anyone else, so... And I am not a slut.”
“Of course not,” the returning reassured.
She walked away to confront her smaller adversary, while the returning continued to make drinks at the espresso station, considering his new place in life, longing for the peace he was once able to find in a place he called “the compound”.
There was a lot for the returning to consider. His muscles, flesh and mind were more vibrant since his gorging on candy. He knew he was coming to life again, and who was returning. He also knew he was returning to a darker place. And now he had to consider unraveling the severed ties that withhold the seeds of goodness from the free world.
Decisions: part of choosing to live. Purpose: byproduct of choosing to live. Combat: a willingness to not be a pawn in someone else’s plan. Violence: a natural part of living. Ecstasy: an exclamation point on living.
Bathroom break.
Walking past the treat of the prior night, a question had to be asked. Pausing as the bodies passed, a simple question was asked: “Do you think of me?”
She looked at him, smiled and nodded.
“Then I must exist.”
The anxiety of being alone with a vibrant young woman in a welcoming position of a compromising nature caused my heart to flutter. Not romantic flutter, but an “I am having heart failure!” flutter. But to turn down the sweet candiness of life would be tantamount to committing seppuku. Performance anxiety can be dealt with, especially when considering performing.
When arriving at the small cottage hidden under trees and behind bushes, I thought she was living in a child’s playhouse. The building was such a bright, clean yellow, you did not want to touch the door. But there was candy on the other side, so a rapid, powerful knock was in order.
She was a perfect hostess. The possibility that this was a sympathy dinner had to be considered; I was immediately seated and served a home cooked meal. A home cooked meal! It all came rushing back, the hours spent in kitchens cooking with loved ones. The food, festivity and passion warmed the heart. Again, an action taken for granted until gone. An orgy of color, taste, texture and smell presented as perfectly prepared pork chops, asparagus and potatoes. And a glass of wine, or course.
When drinking alcohol while living under the abandonment of residence under the stars, it is not to savor flavor. You drink for the kick of the alcohol, and the stronger the better. With this elegant meal was a small glass of wine perfectly paired with the food. The wine was to be sipped and had flavor that added to the meal. The kick was not the purpose, it was a message of the mind to drown any remaining tension. Having done nothing more than share a simple meal, it was more passion than I had dared to hope to experience again when sleeping in the stench of the great outdoor life of a vagabond.
When the meal was complete, the fresh, glowing hostess placed a rich chocolate dessert before my drooling eyes. There is nothing greater in the candied universe than to submit to chocolate desires. Unfortunately, if I were to succumb to the chocolate, my body would be lost to ecstatic gluttony and the fresh young woman who had been so deviously ramping up my arousal for the evening would be unable to experience the fullness of my great desire. Perhaps later, as — if I recall correctly — I am hungry after expending sexual energies. Perhaps one bite...
“I can die now,” I whispered in shame. It was the most perfect desert, bringing my mouth to the full of its unspoken purpose.
“Excuse me?” she laughed.
“I can die now.”
“It’s just a dessert, but thank you.”
“I have not lived in your world for some time. I long ago dismissed all enjoyment of the senses. To taste this meal is to live, not just be alive.”
“Wow, you really know how to flatter a chef.”
“I’m just being honest, and my words are feeble. There is no way I can speak words that would properly thank you for this meal.”
“Maybe you should not use words?”
“I...” began, then understood.
She came to me and pressed her full, soft body against me while running her hand through what little hair still found itself loyal to my head.
There was hesitation, the heart fluttering with failure, but when she lifted her bare leg and placed her knee gently into my crotch, I knew this was not just about the meal. I touched. I placed my hand on her tight, smooth thigh, feeling its soft perfection. Instinctively, I moved my hand up her leg and...my head has more hair, but now I know what it would feel like bald.
Awkward and heart racing, flirting with over-acceleration and the disaster which accompanies, we managed to get to her small bed. Our clothes disappeared. My hands, the whole of my body wrapped the sweet candy. There is nothing more pleasurable to the mouth than the licking and caressing of sweet, fresh candy. It felt so warm, so fresh, sticky, moist with momentum.
Where have I been?
After tasting every nook and cranny of the sweet, cooing goodness, she whispered an invitation: “I want you in me.”
The heart skipped. The slightest touch would cause an uncontrollable eruption of finality. Protection would solve the sensitivity problem, and protect the Cap...me from...not sure what, anymore.
“I should wrap this candy,” I answered, embarrassed.
“I want you in me,” she whispered more forcefully, pulling me toward her.
“But it’s been a while, and the slightest touch...”
“That’s okay. I want you in me.”
With her request, I granted the mixing of sweet and sour. I dipped hard candy into warm sticky sweetness and felt...and felt...and...felt. There are no words to describe the meaning of life for a man.
To be truly alive you must live. Existence is for those afraid of being alive. It is good to be living again...okay, sooooooo goooooood!
When arriving at the small cottage hidden under trees and behind bushes, I thought she was living in a child’s playhouse. The building was such a bright, clean yellow, you did not want to touch the door. But there was candy on the other side, so a rapid, powerful knock was in order.
She was a perfect hostess. The possibility that this was a sympathy dinner had to be considered; I was immediately seated and served a home cooked meal. A home cooked meal! It all came rushing back, the hours spent in kitchens cooking with loved ones. The food, festivity and passion warmed the heart. Again, an action taken for granted until gone. An orgy of color, taste, texture and smell presented as perfectly prepared pork chops, asparagus and potatoes. And a glass of wine, or course.
When drinking alcohol while living under the abandonment of residence under the stars, it is not to savor flavor. You drink for the kick of the alcohol, and the stronger the better. With this elegant meal was a small glass of wine perfectly paired with the food. The wine was to be sipped and had flavor that added to the meal. The kick was not the purpose, it was a message of the mind to drown any remaining tension. Having done nothing more than share a simple meal, it was more passion than I had dared to hope to experience again when sleeping in the stench of the great outdoor life of a vagabond.
When the meal was complete, the fresh, glowing hostess placed a rich chocolate dessert before my drooling eyes. There is nothing greater in the candied universe than to submit to chocolate desires. Unfortunately, if I were to succumb to the chocolate, my body would be lost to ecstatic gluttony and the fresh young woman who had been so deviously ramping up my arousal for the evening would be unable to experience the fullness of my great desire. Perhaps later, as — if I recall correctly — I am hungry after expending sexual energies. Perhaps one bite...
“I can die now,” I whispered in shame. It was the most perfect desert, bringing my mouth to the full of its unspoken purpose.
“Excuse me?” she laughed.
“I can die now.”
“It’s just a dessert, but thank you.”
“I have not lived in your world for some time. I long ago dismissed all enjoyment of the senses. To taste this meal is to live, not just be alive.”
“Wow, you really know how to flatter a chef.”
“I’m just being honest, and my words are feeble. There is no way I can speak words that would properly thank you for this meal.”
“Maybe you should not use words?”
“I...” began, then understood.
She came to me and pressed her full, soft body against me while running her hand through what little hair still found itself loyal to my head.
There was hesitation, the heart fluttering with failure, but when she lifted her bare leg and placed her knee gently into my crotch, I knew this was not just about the meal. I touched. I placed my hand on her tight, smooth thigh, feeling its soft perfection. Instinctively, I moved my hand up her leg and...my head has more hair, but now I know what it would feel like bald.
Awkward and heart racing, flirting with over-acceleration and the disaster which accompanies, we managed to get to her small bed. Our clothes disappeared. My hands, the whole of my body wrapped the sweet candy. There is nothing more pleasurable to the mouth than the licking and caressing of sweet, fresh candy. It felt so warm, so fresh, sticky, moist with momentum.
Where have I been?
After tasting every nook and cranny of the sweet, cooing goodness, she whispered an invitation: “I want you in me.”
The heart skipped. The slightest touch would cause an uncontrollable eruption of finality. Protection would solve the sensitivity problem, and protect the Cap...me from...not sure what, anymore.
“I should wrap this candy,” I answered, embarrassed.
“I want you in me,” she whispered more forcefully, pulling me toward her.
“But it’s been a while, and the slightest touch...”
“That’s okay. I want you in me.”
With her request, I granted the mixing of sweet and sour. I dipped hard candy into warm sticky sweetness and felt...and felt...and...felt. There are no words to describe the meaning of life for a man.
To be truly alive you must live. Existence is for those afraid of being alive. It is good to be living again...okay, sooooooo goooooood!
The trivialization of another day is the only way to describe the routine of head down day-in day-out work, but I must retain my footing within civilized society to be visible and viable again. I want to be visible. I want to taste the sweetness of glory when good trumps evil. I want to seize the opportunity...I want to seize.
While going through the motions behind the counter of coffee bitterness, a young man whose dreams were tattooed on his body walked into the shop. People tried not to stare, as he was human, but he was clearly different, and the body ink advertized he wanted all to know.
The young man — let’s call him Stu (short for toilet stew) — entered the establishment of overpriced lattes and gave everyone who looked him in the eyes a challenging, rabid mutt stare until they sheepishly looked away as he walked to the cash register, where he picked up the tip jar. This was not acceptable. Something stirred within as I tried to make eye contact.
Knowing this could not be allowed to happen without good intervening, I prepared...to do...something...pausing...not sure what...he...I...something.
“I know that dude,” a voice said from behind.
Everyone looked to the young man who uttered those simple insightful words with indifference.
“Huh?” the gathering asked in stare.
“I went to school with that guy. He’s a total douche. What a ‘tard.” the young man proclaimed, resuming his work.
The manager called the city’s badged and uniformed clean-up crew. The police came, took a report and said it was a “done deal”, thanks to the young man who could positively identify Stu. A nice tender cut of juicy justice, on the surface, but the fact that Stu and his Stuish friends exist gives pause. The fact that I gave pause, gives pause.
Standing behind the counter I watched, saying nothing. That did not, does not feel good — let alone great, and greatness shares a page with grandness and glory. I cannot accept inaction while the Stus are on the move, acting! How much justice can be done behind the bar of a coffee house?! Especially when one is so unprepared...
NOTE: Chemical agents of decency should be available as drink additives at all times.
“Do you know where he lies?” I forced myself to ask the young inadvertent doer of good.
“Lies? Huh?”
“Rest his ugly ignorant skull? Sleeps? Lives?”
“Oh. Yeah, kinda.”
Having seen the car, “kinda” is sufficient. I thank the young man and return to the espresso machine. A thick, young, fleshy co-working candy offers another promising smile.
Here. In a box. Wearing an apron. I do justice for only me. But that must be enough right now. I must regain my strength, my footing. I am still visiting the dark side by stealing a house. Who am I to judge?
Judge? Judge! I must judge! Even if erroneous, I along with the rest who perceive the possibility of goodness must cast stones, even upon ourselves, in pursuit of something viable; goodness. To not judge is to excuse one’s own cowardice.
“Want to come by for dinner tonight?”
“Huh?” I responded coyly to the oozing honey.
“Dinner? Tonight? My place?”
At a loss for substantive words to succumb to this youthful insurrection, I nod my head in agreement.
“Okay,” she answers, again turning her lips up in invitation.
Candy! Sweet, sticky film of goodness! Daddy issues, shmabby issues, the Cap...I am going to taste the sweet goodness of being alive...or at least a good meal...or at least not being in a stolen house...or...it’s all good.
Purpose courses through the veins. Coming to life awakens the soul, the passion of many purposes. The black box of existence has cracked and the color of life is seeping in...slowly...beautifully...perfectly.
Stu will die and I will be reborn. Stu gives me life. Each day, the heart beats stronger, and a dose of sticky sweetness will pound the chest into purposeful serenitized existence!
Wait...candy...do I know how to enjoy such dark, sweet treats...can’t...shhhhh...enjoy...you are alive.
While going through the motions behind the counter of coffee bitterness, a young man whose dreams were tattooed on his body walked into the shop. People tried not to stare, as he was human, but he was clearly different, and the body ink advertized he wanted all to know.
The young man — let’s call him Stu (short for toilet stew) — entered the establishment of overpriced lattes and gave everyone who looked him in the eyes a challenging, rabid mutt stare until they sheepishly looked away as he walked to the cash register, where he picked up the tip jar. This was not acceptable. Something stirred within as I tried to make eye contact.
Knowing this could not be allowed to happen without good intervening, I prepared...to do...something...pausing...not sure what...he...I...something.
“I know that dude,” a voice said from behind.
Everyone looked to the young man who uttered those simple insightful words with indifference.
“Huh?” the gathering asked in stare.
“I went to school with that guy. He’s a total douche. What a ‘tard.” the young man proclaimed, resuming his work.
The manager called the city’s badged and uniformed clean-up crew. The police came, took a report and said it was a “done deal”, thanks to the young man who could positively identify Stu. A nice tender cut of juicy justice, on the surface, but the fact that Stu and his Stuish friends exist gives pause. The fact that I gave pause, gives pause.
Standing behind the counter I watched, saying nothing. That did not, does not feel good — let alone great, and greatness shares a page with grandness and glory. I cannot accept inaction while the Stus are on the move, acting! How much justice can be done behind the bar of a coffee house?! Especially when one is so unprepared...
NOTE: Chemical agents of decency should be available as drink additives at all times.
“Do you know where he lies?” I forced myself to ask the young inadvertent doer of good.
“Lies? Huh?”
“Rest his ugly ignorant skull? Sleeps? Lives?”
“Oh. Yeah, kinda.”
Having seen the car, “kinda” is sufficient. I thank the young man and return to the espresso machine. A thick, young, fleshy co-working candy offers another promising smile.
Here. In a box. Wearing an apron. I do justice for only me. But that must be enough right now. I must regain my strength, my footing. I am still visiting the dark side by stealing a house. Who am I to judge?
Judge? Judge! I must judge! Even if erroneous, I along with the rest who perceive the possibility of goodness must cast stones, even upon ourselves, in pursuit of something viable; goodness. To not judge is to excuse one’s own cowardice.
“Want to come by for dinner tonight?”
“Huh?” I responded coyly to the oozing honey.
“Dinner? Tonight? My place?”
At a loss for substantive words to succumb to this youthful insurrection, I nod my head in agreement.
“Okay,” she answers, again turning her lips up in invitation.
Candy! Sweet, sticky film of goodness! Daddy issues, shmabby issues, the Cap...I am going to taste the sweet goodness of being alive...or at least a good meal...or at least not being in a stolen house...or...it’s all good.
Purpose courses through the veins. Coming to life awakens the soul, the passion of many purposes. The black box of existence has cracked and the color of life is seeping in...slowly...beautifully...perfectly.
Stu will die and I will be reborn. Stu gives me life. Each day, the heart beats stronger, and a dose of sticky sweetness will pound the chest into purposeful serenitized existence!
Wait...candy...do I know how to enjoy such dark, sweet treats...can’t...shhhhh...enjoy...you are alive.
It is hard to believe I have an assigned job. It feels strange, as if I have been placed here by accident. I try to complete my assignments as detailed. If I do the assignments long enough, I will be able to reclaim my strength and purpose, giving rise to the phoenix of he within thee.
One would expect a doer of good, a justice righter, to be proud and strong at all times. This is a fair expectation, but one cannot do goodness upon the greater whole when one is not whole themselves. To care for the citizenry, I must be made whole again...I must make myself whole again.
“Is this your coffee sitting in the corner?” the brusk voice of a firm and youthful woman asked.
“Yes,” I answered, avoiding eye contact with her as I have avoided it with customers — it is too intimate when you have been a ghost for so long.
“Soy and stevia? You aren’t going to energize your man juices with that routine.”
“Huh?” was the response designed not to offend.
“Not sure those are the things that get a man’s testosterone pumping,” she answered, exclamating with a wink.
Those were her words, but when looking at her round, full, youthful face, it was clear she was saying I had a shot. Clearly, she was letting me know that if I were to man up with a bit of milk and honey, I could enjoy all of the sweetness she has to offer. Clearly. Milk? Honey? No problemo.
It must be cruel, anyhow, the way the extract milk from an innocent soybean.
She winked again.
I’m back! I’m back in the game.
Too intense. I step up to the espresso machine and make the order on the pending cup.
I might be alive again...someday...maybe...sweetness...sticky.
I can be in the game. All I need is the sweet stickiness brought by milk and honey.
One would expect a doer of good, a justice righter, to be proud and strong at all times. This is a fair expectation, but one cannot do goodness upon the greater whole when one is not whole themselves. To care for the citizenry, I must be made whole again...I must make myself whole again.
“Is this your coffee sitting in the corner?” the brusk voice of a firm and youthful woman asked.
“Yes,” I answered, avoiding eye contact with her as I have avoided it with customers — it is too intimate when you have been a ghost for so long.
“Soy and stevia? You aren’t going to energize your man juices with that routine.”
“Huh?” was the response designed not to offend.
“Not sure those are the things that get a man’s testosterone pumping,” she answered, exclamating with a wink.
Those were her words, but when looking at her round, full, youthful face, it was clear she was saying I had a shot. Clearly, she was letting me know that if I were to man up with a bit of milk and honey, I could enjoy all of the sweetness she has to offer. Clearly. Milk? Honey? No problemo.
It must be cruel, anyhow, the way the extract milk from an innocent soybean.
She winked again.
I’m back! I’m back in the game.
Too intense. I step up to the espresso machine and make the order on the pending cup.
I might be alive again...someday...maybe...sweetness...sticky.
I can be in the game. All I need is the sweet stickiness brought by milk and honey.
After limping pathetically for a couple of hours under the rescue of pain killing in a bottle, I took a bus going as far from the big city buzz as possible. Fell asleep for a moment’s respite. When jolted awake, found myself within reach of the suburbs, a convenient opportunity to exit the flatulent funk conveyer.
NOTE: Bus riding is the perfect way to travel unseen; no one makes eye contact on a bus.
Though the ankle swollen, I managed to walk a distance and found a clean, nice, new and articulate neighborhood. Once deep into the ‘hood, I knew I had only a short time before someone called the uniformed escort service on my mottled presence.
Finding an abandoned house was easier than anticipated. Unkempt lawn, drawn shades, no personal trinkets or toys out front, were all markers of polite and proper abandonment. If a house had all of the identifiers and “FOR SALE” signage that had “FORECLOSURE” or “BANK REPO!” splashed across the face, doubt was eliminated...though some probably had pre-packed ex-owners waiting for the final eviction and others may have illegal renters or other squatters. Abandoned, power and running water was the full of the scavenger hunt.
There were many to choose from. Most seemed to have one of 3 realtors, which meant they probably had ins in the neighborhood and were being watched. Taking a corner, limping in pain, a smallish house with an uncommon realtor’s sign and in disrepair sat tired and disheveled. A porch light was on, but the heavy dust on the walkway indicated no one had been there in a long time. To be safe, it was necessary to knock on the door, look in the window and see if there was furniture or other indications of life.
No answer. Nothing apparent inside.
Slipping under the overgrowth that kept the gate from opening, the hidden back was visited. There was nothing growing where a lawn once rested and a giant hole in the ground with rebar jutting, clearly a pool started long ago and abandoned. Before entering — classified as a crime for the betterment of a man — I sat on the single piece of furniture in the yard, an old lounge chair.
Exhaling, relaxation visited for a moment. It was no longer necessary to ignore the pain in my ankle, so acknowledged the throbbing pain. My tattered shoe and sock could not contain the swollen mass. I took off the disgusting footwear of necessity — Have you seen how the shoeless are treated? Even those practicing the art of good! — and was taken aback by the stench of what only a podiatrist would call feet. I don’t know when the last time the fresh air kissed flesh of these gunky, junky feet. It felt so refreshing, like the final savoring of sweet candy. The cool breeze peeled the stench of my foul skin fresh.
Within a few minutes, without intent, sleep captured the mind and I was resting without having to be on alert for some bum trying to steal my stuff or attack me because of their misperception of who I may have been. Sleep. Relaxed, deep, peaceful sleep. Did not awaken until the new day cracked dawn.
Years. Hard to fathom, but it has been years since slumber so fully molested my whole. I felt twenty years younger; with the energy of possibility. It was time to act, as the rest of the world clung to the comfort they felt rightfully theirs.
A broken window. In. Empty house. Appliances seem to have been hastily ripped out. Bathroom. Enter. Lock. No lights, it is bright enough and no need to attract attention. Undressed, clothes in a small pile. Catch awkward reflection in large, cracked mirror.
Who is that stranger? Skin hanging where it once wrapped tightly muscles of purpose. Grime so deeply imbedded the skin look permastained. The scraggly hair and beard affirmed the homeless man stereotype. And that was who was in the mirror, not a man of purpose or possibility but a stereotype incapable of being anything more than a misperception. The Captain would not, could not be caught wearing the broken cliché so perfectly framed in the cracked mirror. The man in the mirror was not alive, he existed.
When you go without a shower for years, you forget how wonderfully sensual they are, and you wish you could take them for granted again. I stood for what seemed like an hour, watching the grime run off — the easy, uncommitted grime. When the easy was done, the bar of soap was roughly applied — who knew you could use a full size bar of soap in a single showering, but as the last bit crumbled, I accepted I was as clean as I was going to be. The hair and beard were all that was left. After 4 rinse and repeat cleansings of the hairiness, I was done...almost.
Hair puts people off. Too much speaks too loudly. Dirty hair makes a defiant statement. Too much dirty hair is a declaration. Sitting on the shower floor so as to not mess the bathroom, I took the scissors so generously provided and began to cut my goldless locks. Pulling the hair up between the fingers, I cut across the top of my hand. Enough cuts and the entire head was about 3/4” long, a respectable length that says little. I trimmed the beard as close to the face as possible, then used the razor. It was too much for the shower drain, so I put the pile of hair — enough so it looked like a large cat — into the toilet, but I was not going to flush until it was time to leave, to avoid the noise and possible backup. I returned to the shower, turned it on and washed my hair again. I had to look into the mirror anew.
The mirror could not lie. The man reflected was not so easily dismissed, not so readily defined. The man in the mirror would be more than he appeared. Tired, unnecessarily emotional tears began to well. This was an opportunity...probably the last chance for a man who could be.
Pain from the ankle shot up the leg and caused a slight buckle. Looking at the swollen ankle, the man who would be had a simple command: “You don’t get to be injured today. Not today.”
Looking back at the man in the mirror, I understood who the man in the mirror would become was up to me, not as he but as thee. To avoid being nothing again, he would have to do something, be something. He would have to be.
NOTE: Bus riding is the perfect way to travel unseen; no one makes eye contact on a bus.
Though the ankle swollen, I managed to walk a distance and found a clean, nice, new and articulate neighborhood. Once deep into the ‘hood, I knew I had only a short time before someone called the uniformed escort service on my mottled presence.
Finding an abandoned house was easier than anticipated. Unkempt lawn, drawn shades, no personal trinkets or toys out front, were all markers of polite and proper abandonment. If a house had all of the identifiers and “FOR SALE” signage that had “FORECLOSURE” or “BANK REPO!” splashed across the face, doubt was eliminated...though some probably had pre-packed ex-owners waiting for the final eviction and others may have illegal renters or other squatters. Abandoned, power and running water was the full of the scavenger hunt.
There were many to choose from. Most seemed to have one of 3 realtors, which meant they probably had ins in the neighborhood and were being watched. Taking a corner, limping in pain, a smallish house with an uncommon realtor’s sign and in disrepair sat tired and disheveled. A porch light was on, but the heavy dust on the walkway indicated no one had been there in a long time. To be safe, it was necessary to knock on the door, look in the window and see if there was furniture or other indications of life.
No answer. Nothing apparent inside.
Slipping under the overgrowth that kept the gate from opening, the hidden back was visited. There was nothing growing where a lawn once rested and a giant hole in the ground with rebar jutting, clearly a pool started long ago and abandoned. Before entering — classified as a crime for the betterment of a man — I sat on the single piece of furniture in the yard, an old lounge chair.
Exhaling, relaxation visited for a moment. It was no longer necessary to ignore the pain in my ankle, so acknowledged the throbbing pain. My tattered shoe and sock could not contain the swollen mass. I took off the disgusting footwear of necessity — Have you seen how the shoeless are treated? Even those practicing the art of good! — and was taken aback by the stench of what only a podiatrist would call feet. I don’t know when the last time the fresh air kissed flesh of these gunky, junky feet. It felt so refreshing, like the final savoring of sweet candy. The cool breeze peeled the stench of my foul skin fresh.
Within a few minutes, without intent, sleep captured the mind and I was resting without having to be on alert for some bum trying to steal my stuff or attack me because of their misperception of who I may have been. Sleep. Relaxed, deep, peaceful sleep. Did not awaken until the new day cracked dawn.
Years. Hard to fathom, but it has been years since slumber so fully molested my whole. I felt twenty years younger; with the energy of possibility. It was time to act, as the rest of the world clung to the comfort they felt rightfully theirs.
A broken window. In. Empty house. Appliances seem to have been hastily ripped out. Bathroom. Enter. Lock. No lights, it is bright enough and no need to attract attention. Undressed, clothes in a small pile. Catch awkward reflection in large, cracked mirror.
Who is that stranger? Skin hanging where it once wrapped tightly muscles of purpose. Grime so deeply imbedded the skin look permastained. The scraggly hair and beard affirmed the homeless man stereotype. And that was who was in the mirror, not a man of purpose or possibility but a stereotype incapable of being anything more than a misperception. The Captain would not, could not be caught wearing the broken cliché so perfectly framed in the cracked mirror. The man in the mirror was not alive, he existed.
When you go without a shower for years, you forget how wonderfully sensual they are, and you wish you could take them for granted again. I stood for what seemed like an hour, watching the grime run off — the easy, uncommitted grime. When the easy was done, the bar of soap was roughly applied — who knew you could use a full size bar of soap in a single showering, but as the last bit crumbled, I accepted I was as clean as I was going to be. The hair and beard were all that was left. After 4 rinse and repeat cleansings of the hairiness, I was done...almost.
Hair puts people off. Too much speaks too loudly. Dirty hair makes a defiant statement. Too much dirty hair is a declaration. Sitting on the shower floor so as to not mess the bathroom, I took the scissors so generously provided and began to cut my goldless locks. Pulling the hair up between the fingers, I cut across the top of my hand. Enough cuts and the entire head was about 3/4” long, a respectable length that says little. I trimmed the beard as close to the face as possible, then used the razor. It was too much for the shower drain, so I put the pile of hair — enough so it looked like a large cat — into the toilet, but I was not going to flush until it was time to leave, to avoid the noise and possible backup. I returned to the shower, turned it on and washed my hair again. I had to look into the mirror anew.
The mirror could not lie. The man reflected was not so easily dismissed, not so readily defined. The man in the mirror would be more than he appeared. Tired, unnecessarily emotional tears began to well. This was an opportunity...probably the last chance for a man who could be.
Pain from the ankle shot up the leg and caused a slight buckle. Looking at the swollen ankle, the man who would be had a simple command: “You don’t get to be injured today. Not today.”
Looking back at the man in the mirror, I understood who the man in the mirror would become was up to me, not as he but as thee. To avoid being nothing again, he would have to do something, be something. He would have to be.
It seems like forever, but only a couple of weeks have passed, which means there is too much I choose not to remember as my past is disappearing if forever is two weeks ago. I have watched the ankle turn into an official sized softball that sends a sharp pain through my broken body then slowly return to near normal size with less pain. The rotgut alcohol around ignored piece of terra firma has been a good night medication on occasion, otherwise sleep would not have been possible, and as beautiful as all of those stars up there in the sky can be, a man requires rest. I am recovering, if one can recover in these conditions.
The days are getting longer and warmer. It seems every place I hobble to reinforces the stories I have heard about the plight of men. More and more came, despondent, hopeless, having left families behind because they are unable to pay the bills and feel they have become a burden, and the government is more prone to help a mother abandoned. Having destroyed the families of good and proud in the black community, apparently the doers of “good intentions” in the governing operation will not be satisfied until they have achieved their actioned goal: the destruction of the family. And I hide here, licking my wounds...this cannot suffice.
Moving amongst the new men who are unsure how they have found themselves without in this nation of stated greatness, I ask, prodding to understand. I can give no suggestions, for I have found myself living like this for years, but as one of the first to be out of character in this environment, I must, will, be one of the first to excise myself from this dead end zombie camp...but how...when...
I must change my surroundings. With all of these men having lost their homes, there must be many empty homes. A razor, some running water and I can cleanup and reenter the world. I must. I cannot hide him any longer, no matter how I feel about myself. Moving in a direction, out, that is all I need to do. It is the dawn of a new day of delights, so why not now...there does not have to be an excuse today.
Beginning my exit, I leave the ruin of the shantytown in an unclaimed lot and begin to walk. There is pain, but the future is ahead, and I must go. I no longer look down as I walk, but into the eyes of my citizenry to let them know of my return, of the return of goodness. Every man and woman had the same response; they looked away, still preferring I did not exist, unable able to see the he within me.
After 40 minutes down the road to a new beginning, I caught the eyes of a young and vibrant beauty. She did not look away but smiled and said hello. It is she that calls for the return of he. And as I turned my head to make a mental note of goodness to be dataed while forging ahead, I stepped in a pothole on the sidewalk, causing my good ankle to fold like a cheap, thin paperback. I was on the ground, hands and knees bleeding before I realized what was happening.
This is greatness? Goodness? Impotence. Tears come to my eyes. I just wish to fade away. What evil has caused my ruin, when we are the creators of our own evil? Tears. I just want to slowly fade away. But that is not he who resides in me. I don’t have to stay down.
The mind begins to work at overcoming the creeping weakness assaulting my ambition. If I stay down, the new bad ankle will swell and I go nowhere. Epiphany whispers in my ear, “You can’t leave me. You are a member of my village. You can’t leave. Come back, your cardboard bedroom is still there and you can rest until your ankles are better. You don’t have to stay for long, just till you feel better, then you can go and take on the new world.” I do need to rest that ankle, but Epiphany is such an easy whore. Once you accept you belong in her bosom you may never leave, because she will lie to you and tell you every lie you know as truth and can embrace, yet when you get her in her naked perfection, truth is undeniable. She calls me back, to heal, which is perfectly reasonable.
“I’ve got you,” a young man’s voice offers as he helps lift my slowly rising body.
“Thank you,” I offer automatically resurrecting instilled good graces, then get a look in his face. The young man has deep blue eyes and a smile that is pure and generous. The smile is a gift. He sees me. He helps me. No judgment, just concern. I smile back, feeling elevated. He within me feels the hand of fate good trying to intercede. “Thank you,” I offer again, enveloped in his goodness, warmed by the fact he was still touching me, not drawing his hands back in repulsion after being erected.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes I am. Thank you, young man.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need help getting anywhere or anything?”
“No. Thank you, but...no. You have been a true gentleman.”
“Anything else?”
Whether it was the generous smile or the warm eyes or the desperation of nothingness but possibility, I felt comfortable asking. “I need work, a job,” I whispered, trying to hide the obvious desperation.
“I don’t know what I can do. I work at that coffee shop over there. They are always hiring. You should put in an application.”
Looking at my appearance, my clearly desperate, smelly presence and know how such an application would go, just like it did every other time. “Thank you, son. Thank you, but this does not go over as well as you might think,” I answer with a guilt relieving smile.
Without hesitation, the young man guided me into the giant store of pharmaceutical dispensing. Limping, I followed without question, an article of faith or curiosity. He grabbed a hand basket and took me to the personal hygiene products. Into his basket he threw a disposable razor, shampoo, soap, scissors, a nail clipper and some deodorant. As we were leaving the area he spotted some protein health bars and threw a few of those into the basket. He then took me to the clothing department and selected a shirt, pants and shoes, each costing less than a cup of coffee at his place of employ. He then went to the register.
“This should do it. Put these on after you clean up and I am sure you can get a job, as long as you are a hard worker?”
I nodded, assuring him I was not a bum, just without.
“Nope,” he said, looking into his basket.
He exited the checkout line. I was sure he was going to take everything back. I feared he had changed his mind or was an evildoer who just wanted to taunt the less fortunate. The panic was desperation, hope fading. He was taking it back. He did not. He went and picked up a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a small bottle of mouthwash. “Our manager has a thing about breath. If you have bad breath, you don’t get hired.”
“Thank you for the warming,” I said meekly, dependent, unsure of how to react to a man who was trying to change my life for a few dollars.
“You should get these also,” he said, picking up a bottle of aspirin. “It will help keep the swelling down.”
The pain was there, but I was ignoring the anchor of misery as this young man gave me more hope than I dared to consider after so many years of simply surviving. He did not see what I had become but who I had been and could be again.
“Thank you,” I offered again. Then again at checkout. Then again outside the building. And again as he walked away toward his work, encouraging me to apply but demanding nothing.
Standing alone with a bag of taken for granted basics held tightly with both hands, I wondered why, and what I must do to make the most of this opportunity. It was now up to me to give purpose to his actions.
Naked and perfect, Epiphany returned. She smiled, letting me know that I was welcome to return and that it would be easy, but that I would never leave, because to leave means to have moved beyond just trying to survive. As perfect as she was, she showed me truth and I limped away, with her comforts of nothing at my back.
Protein, pills and safety at my back, I limped away. I needed to find an abandoned house, something, to take a shower and get cleaned up. I think I might have a shot at a job.
Wherever I go, I cannot go back, back to the place where I have held myself hostage for years. Epiphany’s naked beauty has shown me truth...I can hold myself hostage anytime.
The days are getting longer and warmer. It seems every place I hobble to reinforces the stories I have heard about the plight of men. More and more came, despondent, hopeless, having left families behind because they are unable to pay the bills and feel they have become a burden, and the government is more prone to help a mother abandoned. Having destroyed the families of good and proud in the black community, apparently the doers of “good intentions” in the governing operation will not be satisfied until they have achieved their actioned goal: the destruction of the family. And I hide here, licking my wounds...this cannot suffice.
Moving amongst the new men who are unsure how they have found themselves without in this nation of stated greatness, I ask, prodding to understand. I can give no suggestions, for I have found myself living like this for years, but as one of the first to be out of character in this environment, I must, will, be one of the first to excise myself from this dead end zombie camp...but how...when...
I must change my surroundings. With all of these men having lost their homes, there must be many empty homes. A razor, some running water and I can cleanup and reenter the world. I must. I cannot hide him any longer, no matter how I feel about myself. Moving in a direction, out, that is all I need to do. It is the dawn of a new day of delights, so why not now...there does not have to be an excuse today.
Beginning my exit, I leave the ruin of the shantytown in an unclaimed lot and begin to walk. There is pain, but the future is ahead, and I must go. I no longer look down as I walk, but into the eyes of my citizenry to let them know of my return, of the return of goodness. Every man and woman had the same response; they looked away, still preferring I did not exist, unable able to see the he within me.
After 40 minutes down the road to a new beginning, I caught the eyes of a young and vibrant beauty. She did not look away but smiled and said hello. It is she that calls for the return of he. And as I turned my head to make a mental note of goodness to be dataed while forging ahead, I stepped in a pothole on the sidewalk, causing my good ankle to fold like a cheap, thin paperback. I was on the ground, hands and knees bleeding before I realized what was happening.
This is greatness? Goodness? Impotence. Tears come to my eyes. I just wish to fade away. What evil has caused my ruin, when we are the creators of our own evil? Tears. I just want to slowly fade away. But that is not he who resides in me. I don’t have to stay down.
The mind begins to work at overcoming the creeping weakness assaulting my ambition. If I stay down, the new bad ankle will swell and I go nowhere. Epiphany whispers in my ear, “You can’t leave me. You are a member of my village. You can’t leave. Come back, your cardboard bedroom is still there and you can rest until your ankles are better. You don’t have to stay for long, just till you feel better, then you can go and take on the new world.” I do need to rest that ankle, but Epiphany is such an easy whore. Once you accept you belong in her bosom you may never leave, because she will lie to you and tell you every lie you know as truth and can embrace, yet when you get her in her naked perfection, truth is undeniable. She calls me back, to heal, which is perfectly reasonable.
“I’ve got you,” a young man’s voice offers as he helps lift my slowly rising body.
“Thank you,” I offer automatically resurrecting instilled good graces, then get a look in his face. The young man has deep blue eyes and a smile that is pure and generous. The smile is a gift. He sees me. He helps me. No judgment, just concern. I smile back, feeling elevated. He within me feels the hand of fate good trying to intercede. “Thank you,” I offer again, enveloped in his goodness, warmed by the fact he was still touching me, not drawing his hands back in repulsion after being erected.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes I am. Thank you, young man.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need help getting anywhere or anything?”
“No. Thank you, but...no. You have been a true gentleman.”
“Anything else?”
Whether it was the generous smile or the warm eyes or the desperation of nothingness but possibility, I felt comfortable asking. “I need work, a job,” I whispered, trying to hide the obvious desperation.
“I don’t know what I can do. I work at that coffee shop over there. They are always hiring. You should put in an application.”
Looking at my appearance, my clearly desperate, smelly presence and know how such an application would go, just like it did every other time. “Thank you, son. Thank you, but this does not go over as well as you might think,” I answer with a guilt relieving smile.
Without hesitation, the young man guided me into the giant store of pharmaceutical dispensing. Limping, I followed without question, an article of faith or curiosity. He grabbed a hand basket and took me to the personal hygiene products. Into his basket he threw a disposable razor, shampoo, soap, scissors, a nail clipper and some deodorant. As we were leaving the area he spotted some protein health bars and threw a few of those into the basket. He then took me to the clothing department and selected a shirt, pants and shoes, each costing less than a cup of coffee at his place of employ. He then went to the register.
“This should do it. Put these on after you clean up and I am sure you can get a job, as long as you are a hard worker?”
I nodded, assuring him I was not a bum, just without.
“Nope,” he said, looking into his basket.
He exited the checkout line. I was sure he was going to take everything back. I feared he had changed his mind or was an evildoer who just wanted to taunt the less fortunate. The panic was desperation, hope fading. He was taking it back. He did not. He went and picked up a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a small bottle of mouthwash. “Our manager has a thing about breath. If you have bad breath, you don’t get hired.”
“Thank you for the warming,” I said meekly, dependent, unsure of how to react to a man who was trying to change my life for a few dollars.
“You should get these also,” he said, picking up a bottle of aspirin. “It will help keep the swelling down.”
The pain was there, but I was ignoring the anchor of misery as this young man gave me more hope than I dared to consider after so many years of simply surviving. He did not see what I had become but who I had been and could be again.
“Thank you,” I offered again. Then again at checkout. Then again outside the building. And again as he walked away toward his work, encouraging me to apply but demanding nothing.
Standing alone with a bag of taken for granted basics held tightly with both hands, I wondered why, and what I must do to make the most of this opportunity. It was now up to me to give purpose to his actions.
Naked and perfect, Epiphany returned. She smiled, letting me know that I was welcome to return and that it would be easy, but that I would never leave, because to leave means to have moved beyond just trying to survive. As perfect as she was, she showed me truth and I limped away, with her comforts of nothing at my back.
Protein, pills and safety at my back, I limped away. I needed to find an abandoned house, something, to take a shower and get cleaned up. I think I might have a shot at a job.
Wherever I go, I cannot go back, back to the place where I have held myself hostage for years. Epiphany’s naked beauty has shown me truth...I can hold myself hostage anytime.
I do not know the why or what for. Time passes, slowly sucking the limited life out of my tired and sore presence. I need to move. I am stuck, like a dented and damaged workhorse of a car abandoned on the side of a busy, neglected highway. Forget that I am living amongst those without homes of their own, watching and sponging up the hopelessness they ooze each day. The numbers grow. And here I am.
There was a plan, well laid. I was to exercise the he within to give birth again to the strength that wishes to spread its wings and flap madly. I could not simply stand around or sit by and watch the citizenry each day and expect to make progress. I had to move so he could come forth again.
Plan: Exercise. (Start simple, walk.)
Seemed like a good plan, simple with purpose of complex forethought. Your body becomes weathered and worn when you live outside like an old canoe in the desert. You must ask for it to forgive your sloth and use it again to bear a better man. So I walked. And walked. And walked. It was working. I was felling better about he who was I and he who was within thee. Appetite improved. Scrounging became more successful. Even with the rain and overcast of too often sunless days, I knew I was ready to escape this dilapidated definition of my physical presence. I needed to push harder.
Not too far from this small piece of land some feel comfort in calling a park and others call out of necessity a home is a hill, a steep hill that leads into a very nice neighborhood — is there any other kind of neighborhood the receives ornately colored sidewalks? The hill was steep and without a doubt an exercisable challenge. And to become you must be.
The first time the hill was challenged, death swung its harsh scythe and nearly reaped another soul. Tightness in the chest, lungs screaming for oxygen, I paused. What can you prove if you do not live another day to fight the good fight, especially when it was not fight that took away another day? What do you prove when you die proving nothing? Pause. Paaaaaaause! Eventually the heart slowed its panic and the lungs filled with enough air to get the system working somewhat properly again. Not a quarter way up the hill, it was time to turn around and contemplate a return.
Near the bottom of the steep hill, unnoticed on the sidewalk, was a piece of concrete jutting up. Pushing up and breaking the concrete was a tree root trying to escape its artificially defined allocated space.
The jut brought tears of pain and misery. Stepping on the piece of concrete pointing toward the surviving goodness caused the ankle of exercise to fold like a flimsy school book in an illiterate third world country run by a dictator who believed he was benevolent and kept the curtains closed. Without hesitation, the body collapsed to save the ankle an all of the smelly manness of an outdoor resident came crushing down. The hands went out to keep the concrete from kissing the face coarsely, so the palms had the tender skin ripped back to reveal the rich beauty of a mammal’s flowing vibrant color oxidated. The tears poured, the pain immediate with the promise of more to come.
There was no doubt that to remain a heap piled on the ground, the ankle would swell and stiffen rapidly, and there are places where those without an assigned structure are tolerated, nice neighborhoods not amongst those places, which is why so many are encased by walls. It was imperative that I gained erection and returned to the dark and damp place all men of pending intent felt comfortable. Stroking away the tears, I quickly stood tall, hardening myself for the task ahead.
It took quite a while to limp back to the place where my ilk were accepted, but I did, and here I have been for a month, without exercising. So hopeful and energetic, throbbing with life, and I am barely mobile, moving just enough to sustain. One step forward, two steps back, but that is not the rule, simply a momentary circumstance.
The ankle went from softball to baseball and now sits as a maquette for a ping-pong ball. The body’s power of renewal are quite amazing. After only a month of sitting under a tarp under grey and overcast skies and wet, cold nights, a twisted ankle is almost as good as a slightly abused ankle...clean living probably played a role, but not clean as in shower...when was the last shower...but clean of manipulants,,,you do not get to experience the full of the heal altered...but a painkiller is enticing...clean...clear...goodness...return.
Soon, perhaps in a week, I will begin to challenge the physical presence again. In the meantime, a question must be considered: As I have spent another month with those without whose numbers are growing, what is happening to the men who have tinkered with this economic engine?
This place is being overrun with able bodied men who are complaining about not being able to find work. Usually, the men around here — it is a man’s place — are complaining, but not about the inability to find work, more likely there would have been a complaint about work finding them, but times are a changing. Perhaps there are others like me who have been crushed by the weight of digital imbalances in the ether unpaid and been told to go outside. Something is going on. These men could use a bit of hope, and in me is the answer from he.
Perhaps I need to accept that the world seeks good, that the world is coming to my universe. I would have said that they are coming to my universe because I am here, but that is I as he and he is still in the fire, yet unable to rise. I will say they are here because that is where they belong...and I am here to show them the way...out?
I am here because it is where I belong...but at some point a shower and a couch and a roof would be nice...when it is meant to be, but not by sitting on the worn and thinning rump of goodness will anything change.
There was a plan, well laid. I was to exercise the he within to give birth again to the strength that wishes to spread its wings and flap madly. I could not simply stand around or sit by and watch the citizenry each day and expect to make progress. I had to move so he could come forth again.
Plan: Exercise. (Start simple, walk.)
Seemed like a good plan, simple with purpose of complex forethought. Your body becomes weathered and worn when you live outside like an old canoe in the desert. You must ask for it to forgive your sloth and use it again to bear a better man. So I walked. And walked. And walked. It was working. I was felling better about he who was I and he who was within thee. Appetite improved. Scrounging became more successful. Even with the rain and overcast of too often sunless days, I knew I was ready to escape this dilapidated definition of my physical presence. I needed to push harder.
Not too far from this small piece of land some feel comfort in calling a park and others call out of necessity a home is a hill, a steep hill that leads into a very nice neighborhood — is there any other kind of neighborhood the receives ornately colored sidewalks? The hill was steep and without a doubt an exercisable challenge. And to become you must be.
The first time the hill was challenged, death swung its harsh scythe and nearly reaped another soul. Tightness in the chest, lungs screaming for oxygen, I paused. What can you prove if you do not live another day to fight the good fight, especially when it was not fight that took away another day? What do you prove when you die proving nothing? Pause. Paaaaaaause! Eventually the heart slowed its panic and the lungs filled with enough air to get the system working somewhat properly again. Not a quarter way up the hill, it was time to turn around and contemplate a return.
Near the bottom of the steep hill, unnoticed on the sidewalk, was a piece of concrete jutting up. Pushing up and breaking the concrete was a tree root trying to escape its artificially defined allocated space.
The jut brought tears of pain and misery. Stepping on the piece of concrete pointing toward the surviving goodness caused the ankle of exercise to fold like a flimsy school book in an illiterate third world country run by a dictator who believed he was benevolent and kept the curtains closed. Without hesitation, the body collapsed to save the ankle an all of the smelly manness of an outdoor resident came crushing down. The hands went out to keep the concrete from kissing the face coarsely, so the palms had the tender skin ripped back to reveal the rich beauty of a mammal’s flowing vibrant color oxidated. The tears poured, the pain immediate with the promise of more to come.
There was no doubt that to remain a heap piled on the ground, the ankle would swell and stiffen rapidly, and there are places where those without an assigned structure are tolerated, nice neighborhoods not amongst those places, which is why so many are encased by walls. It was imperative that I gained erection and returned to the dark and damp place all men of pending intent felt comfortable. Stroking away the tears, I quickly stood tall, hardening myself for the task ahead.
It took quite a while to limp back to the place where my ilk were accepted, but I did, and here I have been for a month, without exercising. So hopeful and energetic, throbbing with life, and I am barely mobile, moving just enough to sustain. One step forward, two steps back, but that is not the rule, simply a momentary circumstance.
The ankle went from softball to baseball and now sits as a maquette for a ping-pong ball. The body’s power of renewal are quite amazing. After only a month of sitting under a tarp under grey and overcast skies and wet, cold nights, a twisted ankle is almost as good as a slightly abused ankle...clean living probably played a role, but not clean as in shower...when was the last shower...but clean of manipulants,,,you do not get to experience the full of the heal altered...but a painkiller is enticing...clean...clear...goodness...return.
Soon, perhaps in a week, I will begin to challenge the physical presence again. In the meantime, a question must be considered: As I have spent another month with those without whose numbers are growing, what is happening to the men who have tinkered with this economic engine?
This place is being overrun with able bodied men who are complaining about not being able to find work. Usually, the men around here — it is a man’s place — are complaining, but not about the inability to find work, more likely there would have been a complaint about work finding them, but times are a changing. Perhaps there are others like me who have been crushed by the weight of digital imbalances in the ether unpaid and been told to go outside. Something is going on. These men could use a bit of hope, and in me is the answer from he.
Perhaps I need to accept that the world seeks good, that the world is coming to my universe. I would have said that they are coming to my universe because I am here, but that is I as he and he is still in the fire, yet unable to rise. I will say they are here because that is where they belong...and I am here to show them the way...out?
I am here because it is where I belong...but at some point a shower and a couch and a roof would be nice...when it is meant to be, but not by sitting on the worn and thinning rump of goodness will anything change.
The weather turns hard. It is cold and getting colder. We stand around a pile of broken furniture and trash set alight. The smoke is probably not healthy, which is why I have placed myself upwind. The other guys do not seem to care — not sure why I do. I know it is Sunday because there is a small hand-held radio on and we are all feigning great interest in a football game, as if we had something beyond limp loyalty to wager. Christmas is near, the decorations the city has lined the streets of the shopping district with indicate. They did not decorate this shantytown hiding behind abandoned buildings and rubbish — Matilda did, hanging a wreath she stole off of the front door of a fancy pet store attached to the front of her shopping cart. As cheery as that may be, it is cold and getting colder.
Rubbing the hands of once greatness together, flames stretching to lick the flesh, I shook my head, again in self-disgust. I know things must change. I know I must do something. But what? How? Where is the energy, the passion for goodness when the day grinds you into the ground? When you are crushed by exhaustion in the course of accomplishing nothing, what is left to do something — especially when the something is as rewarding to those who are helped as it is to the soul, but does nothing to help put a roof over your head, and roofs are nice is something learned when they are absent. (I always took roofs for granted, thinking they were just another example of man’s growing softness, until I began living without one and felt nature’s relentless coarse caress.)
I take a deep breath. The air is thick, so much so that I feel I can chew what I am breathing — but who wants to chew the putrid stench of nature’s recycling decay? Perhaps breathing the heavy soot coming off of the burning pile is not such a bad idea.
“Nah,” I grunt, passing on the bottle making its rounds.
“Here,” Du grunts back.
I may not want to drink this time, but I still need to pass the bottle along. Taking the bottle, I prepare to pass it along, but Geez cannot take it from my hand. He tries, but something righteous within will not let it go.
The alcohol in this bottle, it is doing no good. What would happen with these men, with me, if we stopped numbing ourselves to the day, causing all days to become a giant blur? Something to consider, to discuss perhaps, except that before the conversation can occur, Geez tugs with all of his might, using both hands, and pulls the bottle from my hand. Only he did not have control of it himself and it fell to the ground. Three men diving to save the bottle were not quick enough. The bottle bounced off of its edge. The fire sniffed the alcohol and swallowed it quickly, providing a rush of warmth. All were stunned, staring at the grimy face of one once glowing goodness.
It might have been a good time to discuss what we were doing using alcohol to escape any purpose in life, but they were not in a mood to talk. En masse, they rushed my gentle and generous soul and began to punch and kick me as they insulted me incoherently. I did not feel threatened by the feeble, barely pulsing men, so simply absorbed the hits into my frailing body. Coming from the other side of the building I heard carolers singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” I am not sure if I actually heard the last words or finished it myself, as I was struck in the head with a blunt object — a brick — and knocked beyond subconscious.
My head is killing me. The bump is sore, tender. No one seems to know who threw the brick. No one really cares where anarchy rules. They seem really pissed about the booze. Did I have a hand in doing a little good? In reducing the severity of inebriation? In giving them one day not numbed? Does it matter? Do I care any more than they care?
What I do know is I am alive and I want to live. Not like this, this is not living. I know that this is not where I belong. Checking my pockets I find nothing. I remember the emergency money in my small change pocket: $32, folded tight and small. It’s a start.
The breath of another day is a start, and all any of us needs is a start.
A start. We need only to begin to succeed.
Rubbing the hands of once greatness together, flames stretching to lick the flesh, I shook my head, again in self-disgust. I know things must change. I know I must do something. But what? How? Where is the energy, the passion for goodness when the day grinds you into the ground? When you are crushed by exhaustion in the course of accomplishing nothing, what is left to do something — especially when the something is as rewarding to those who are helped as it is to the soul, but does nothing to help put a roof over your head, and roofs are nice is something learned when they are absent. (I always took roofs for granted, thinking they were just another example of man’s growing softness, until I began living without one and felt nature’s relentless coarse caress.)
I take a deep breath. The air is thick, so much so that I feel I can chew what I am breathing — but who wants to chew the putrid stench of nature’s recycling decay? Perhaps breathing the heavy soot coming off of the burning pile is not such a bad idea.
“Nah,” I grunt, passing on the bottle making its rounds.
“Here,” Du grunts back.
I may not want to drink this time, but I still need to pass the bottle along. Taking the bottle, I prepare to pass it along, but Geez cannot take it from my hand. He tries, but something righteous within will not let it go.
The alcohol in this bottle, it is doing no good. What would happen with these men, with me, if we stopped numbing ourselves to the day, causing all days to become a giant blur? Something to consider, to discuss perhaps, except that before the conversation can occur, Geez tugs with all of his might, using both hands, and pulls the bottle from my hand. Only he did not have control of it himself and it fell to the ground. Three men diving to save the bottle were not quick enough. The bottle bounced off of its edge. The fire sniffed the alcohol and swallowed it quickly, providing a rush of warmth. All were stunned, staring at the grimy face of one once glowing goodness.
It might have been a good time to discuss what we were doing using alcohol to escape any purpose in life, but they were not in a mood to talk. En masse, they rushed my gentle and generous soul and began to punch and kick me as they insulted me incoherently. I did not feel threatened by the feeble, barely pulsing men, so simply absorbed the hits into my frailing body. Coming from the other side of the building I heard carolers singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” I am not sure if I actually heard the last words or finished it myself, as I was struck in the head with a blunt object — a brick — and knocked beyond subconscious.
My head is killing me. The bump is sore, tender. No one seems to know who threw the brick. No one really cares where anarchy rules. They seem really pissed about the booze. Did I have a hand in doing a little good? In reducing the severity of inebriation? In giving them one day not numbed? Does it matter? Do I care any more than they care?
What I do know is I am alive and I want to live. Not like this, this is not living. I know that this is not where I belong. Checking my pockets I find nothing. I remember the emergency money in my small change pocket: $32, folded tight and small. It’s a start.
The breath of another day is a start, and all any of us needs is a start.
A start. We need only to begin to succeed.
