Saturday, March 17, 2012

It Makes Sense

                  "He's Irish, he can deal with something being wrong the rest of his life. 
                   But it doesn't mean he likes it."
                                                                                    --New Irish Celtic

As he sat in front of his laptop with the external 23 inch monitor plugged into it giving him another screen, he felt the leather of his office chair give him no comfort. Well, a little comfort.
It was St. Patrick's day after all.

The Day of Irish Pride, celebrated world round, even South Korea. As Paco De Lucia played on and strummed, he reflected on a great night at work. For once, the hounds of stress had subsided and not barked, growled and barged into the building, or at the very least, the departments he found himself working in that night. He was smiling, laughing even, getting along with others. Even smoking wasn't so depressing.

But when on break in that large, vast, parking lot with a cigarette and the bright white football field lights--he thought of her. . . Like she herself said, "I spend all day, thinking of you, when I'll talk to you next. . ." Right now? Was she still? How could she, look at him. . . Truth was he felt embarrassed. Disgusted. Hated himself even. How he could have taken something so grand, so eventful, so. . . And tore it to pieces, all by being himself. It had happened so fast, like the flash of light, or the tick of a clock hand. Compounding his previous mistakes with new ones.

How far from grace had he really fell?

Scratching the itch underneath his thumb. . . He felt nothing else there. It was gone, whatever it was, it wasn't now.

He thought of his new job, as a writer, a real writer, two pieces up already, he had a Skype conference with the site admin this weekend, they would discuss the details of his employ, and what he could do to better the site. The first step on a resume that could lead to something, something else? More pristine?

He sat, eating fruit-at-the-bottom strawberry yogurt, thinking of his friend in Miami, she wanted the book as well. After a trip to the office of post, he could have sent it to her also. Hell, he'd written her into the damned thing.. (Hopefully the first trip was money well spent and now a "Return To Sender" with a chemical bomb inside it.)  Eva. . . He missed her, the days they had together with all the there's were so long ago, a faded memory that gave way to the days of adulthood. Such simpler times back then, when getting high, getting drunk, skipping class and driving fast staying out late that night were all that mattered.

As he sat, knowing he should be cooking food, bacon, scrambled eggs, and southern style (squares) hashbrowns (with light amounts of cracked black pepper ans very little sea salt applied to all), with Orange Juice, toast, and some milk (chocolate of course), he typed. He Typed. He typed.

And he typed.

And He

And He

And He. . . Was over.

That was a time of things beautiful and lively. Spirited and lovely. Things he had squandered. Like a degenerate gambler. How just a few nights ago the words of sweet rapture and lovely bliss were slipping off the tip of her tongue and pouring into his ear like sweet milk. Silk audio. Those words of delicacy were long gone now, not from memory, but from sound. No signal, no report, nothing on the horizon, no traces. The darkness and mystery would hold him tight now. And he would embrace it's familiar feel, he'd remain that way, and chase no ghosts. For it was only his fault, and the fault of his own.

As he sat in the black leather chair, pushing back the time he had to get to work and cut cases open, staking them furiously onto the shelf, he rubbed over his face. His post-modern, (a little Phoenician) perma-five o'clock was now thicker than it should be. What did it matter? Who gave a fuck?

The parkside water, palms, grass and flowers wouldn't turn him away. Tomorrow morning he told himself, he would sit there, and sit there, and stand there, and smoke there. And take his ten steps, eyes closed, on the edge of the water there. And breath in deeply there, that crisp morning air with the scent that only that hour provided.

Maybe he would build a boat there, out of palms and grass needles and fallen dead wood, and find a vollyball and hand-print blood onto it.

Maybe he would throw his cell phone and wallet into the water and scream triumphantly.

Maybe he would sail away with only his knife, his cigarettes and the clothes on his back. Taking Lake Tarpon all the way until it fed him into Tampa Bay. And then from that beautiful backdrop of downtown eventually out into the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe he would do this valiantly, maybe he would feel brave, maybe he would Jack Sparrow his adventure into Tortuga and drink with merry men and loose women, maybe he'd become one. "What do you do with a drunken Pirate?"

Maybe he would find his own island, stranding himself on purpose.

Maybe then, he could be happy, alone, away, no more. No more.

No  more bills, no more can-be-stocked, no more cardboard and plastic wrap trash, no more long meetings that took away from work, no huge beer tabs and equally big tips, no more excitement when she called him, or smiling when he saw her orange icon pop up for a text. No more driving in bad traffic. No more court date. No more writing and selling books. No more making it and really getting published. No more blogging. No more aspirations. No more film loving. No more coffee (damn). No more flirting. No more strange ass. No more friendships. No more parents. No more job. No more World Center Marriott. No more future. No more making-love-for-the-first-time. No more life.

No more

No more.

No more.

Just. . .

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