A Mundane Moment Before a Conversation.

I drove to Michael's. I hadn't been there before and only vaguely knew the address. I was keeping an eye out for him on the stoop of one of the houses on the street I thought I was supposed to be on. I was keeping my fingers crossed.

Chapel Avenue. Home to a generous amount of equestrian art galleries, a hospital, and the Piss Lab. I drove slow, holding up traffic. Halfway into town, just far enough to begin to think I had missed it, I saw Michael. A skeletal stoop kid man-boy dressed in a Hollywood cowboys shirt, and cutoff brown shorts. He stood up as he saw my car approaching.

I waved and pulled up.

He pointed to an empty spot on the other side of the road where I should park, despite the fact that I was already comfortably (but apparently illegally) stopped in front of his apartment.

"Okay, okay," I said.

He gave me a thumbs up and walked back to his stoop. I imagined some old maid staring out of her window, ankle deep in cats and lost years, seeing Michael and myself and thinking, "Damn kids." But, she would be wrong. Michael was twenty-four. I was twenty-seven. Damn adults? No, we weren't that. Damn twenty-somethings? Maybe. That was closer. Damn idiots was probably the most accurate.

I parked, got out, opened the back door and grabbed my bag. I closed the doors and locked up.

"Hello sir," I said, waving.

He nodded, and waved back. "Hello."

His building was nice. All brick. Victorian. Wonderful shape. It looked like it may have been a duplex, but probably a four-way split. Two up, two down. I walked across the road, up onto the sidewalk, and to the stoop where Michael appeared nearly royal on his concrete throne of steps.

"It's much nicer than I imagined," I said.

He looked behind himself and smiled a little. "Yeah, I really lucked out."

"You have roommates?"

"Yeah, four. Steven, he makes this really weird folk music. My friend Emily, her boyfriend Mark, who's kind of a, I don't know, a dick, and Lenny. He's all right."

I looked up at the windows. If there were five people in there, hopefully it was a duplex.

"You want to go in? Check it out?" Michael asked.

"Sure."

He stood up, brushed some invisible dust off of his pants, and opened the door. Inside was a large staircase, with two doors at the bottom, and two on top. We walked upstairs and he opened the door on the right. It had a great old wood smell and a century and a half of secrets that swept around you, filling your lungs and hinting of something beautiful and long forgotten.

Michael motioned to the first door (all of the doors were on the right). "Lenny."

I nodded though Michael didn't see.

He motioned for the second door. It was open and there was a fairly attractive girl sitting on the floor. I involuntarily smiled my crooked smile and nodded. She returned it, and as she did, another head peered around the door. A guy.

"This is my friend James," Michael said to them. "James, Emily and Mark."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"You too," she said.

We moved on. The next door was closed and Michael opened it. "This is me." He walked in and sat in a computer chair across the room. I went in and looked around.

The room was small. Barely larger than the average walk in closet, but it was a room I would be comfortable in. Bed without a frame. Computer set up for recording music. Books fucking everywhere. Nothing else.

"It isn't much," Michael said.

"All you need."

"Yeah, that's true."

I looked over his book shelf. Standard fare. Bukowski, LaVey, a novelization of a mildly successful television show from the early 90's.

"That book's terrible," he said.

"Which?"

"The Twin Peaks book. I just sort of had to have it, you know?"

"Yeah."

A tall heavy guy came into the room. "Hey guys," he said.

"Hey, James, this is my other roommate, Steven."

I shook his hand. He looked familiar. "I think we've met before."

"We did, you're right. It was a few months ago. You just played a show. I'm surprised you remember at all," he said.

I laughed. "Well sir, booze. I'll try harder to remember this time."

He held out a small plastic bag. "You guys want some honey roasted cracker sticks?"

"Sure," I said, and took a few. I ate the first hesitantly, and then the rest quicker. "They taste like all the best parts of peanuts."

"Yeah," Steven said, "without all that stupid peanut shit."

I laughed.

"So what are you guys up to?" he asked.

"No idea, really," Michael said. "I think we might go get a drink or something later."

"Nice," Steven said.

The three of us were silent for a moment.

"Well, let's go then," I said.

"You coming Steven?" Michael asked.

"Oh, no thanks. I had to be at work a few hours ago."

"Okay, I'll see you later then."

"Okay. James it was nice to meet you again."

"You too sir."

Steven left.

"Let me just get some shit together," Michael said, getting out of the chair. He dug around in his closet, pulled out a bag, looked into, and put it over his shoulder. "Okay."

We walked out onto the street.

"Wine?" I asked.

"Did you want to do that instead of going to a bar?"

The sun was hot and the sidewalk was littered with sand. We moved through it at a fair pace, but the heat was bordering oppressive. Our bags bounced at our backs and I hoped no one passing mistook it for a fashion statement. Men with large bags.

"Yeah," I said. "I don't really have much money. Where is there a wine store?"

"Right down town. Near my work," he said. "Hey, that reminds me. This job thing that you interviewed for, what was it?"

"Installing cable. Driving around. That sort of thing."

"Do you want to do that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, if you had a choice."

"I do have a choice. I mean, I could work there or not."

"I mean, fuck. Listen, one of the guys where I work sucks, and it looks like he might get fired. Would you be interested in taking his place, if and when the spot opens up?"

"Where do you work?"

"Seasons," Michael said.

"Seasons? What is that?"

"It's a health food store slash restaurant thing. I cook."

"What would I be doing?"

"Prep work and shit. Basically we'd be working together."

"What's the pay?"

"About ten bucks an hour. What do you get paid at the cable place?"

"Same," I said."

"So...?"

"Yeah, I don't see what it would hurt."

"Cool," Michael said. "We should swing by and fill out an application today. You know basically everyone that works there. You are pretty much a shoe-in."

"Cool. Let's do that then. What do you want to do about this wine?"

"I don't know."

"I have my trusted water bottle. Is there somewhere we can go enjoy it?"

"I guess we can go to the park."

So that became the plan. I was going to go apply for a job at a health food store and get drunk in a public park. The job intrigued me. I was feeling less and less like I wanted anything even resembling a career, and more and more like it didn't matter what I do, so long as I could pay my bills and make Marie happy. Installing cable was a big deal, with a lot of responsibilities and a 401k and a million benefits. I wasn't sure I wanted that. I wanted to write. I wanted to paint. To drink wine, and fuck. I wanted to be young and happy. I wanted to grow old and be free of worries about my mortgage or middle-management advancement. My entire life I have never cared for or about money, but something about this summer, quitting my job, spending all of my time on the beach, thinking, thinking, thinking, the more I realized, I didn't need it at all. I was young, and I was going to take advantage of it. I was going to be eighty-five years old, broke, and living on government assistance (if in a country that offered it), and say to myself, "wow, I had a really good time. I created a lot of things. I smiled a lot." That was my goal, and the more I thought about the job at Seasons, the more appropriate it seemed. A pointless, dead end job, surrounded by friends and people of my ilk. Even if for only a brief moment in time, it was what I wanted.

We walked down Chapel Avenue and hit the main strip of Springer. People everywhere. Springer, if I haven't told you, is a major horse racing town. In the summer it becomes choked with upper class assholes in white linen and their families. Dead-eyed cunt wives. Date-raping sons. And their daughters. They, in their skirts, were forgivable.

Main Street in Springer is nothing less than a canyon, with walls made of brick and stucco, shooting five, six, seven stories into the sky. Windows and yuppie shop doors everywhere. A coffee shop every fourteen paces, and fucking horse statues every twenty. It sickened me, but there was life here. There was activity. Much more than in Spier Falls. I could walk outside in Springer at three in the morning on a Tuesday and be greeted by a thousand people having a great time. Idiots or not, it was life, and it was beautiful. Mostly at three in the morning. In the afternoon, it almost seemed grating.

We walked on.

"It'd be cool to work together," Michael said. "We could set up our schedules for rehearsals and shows. It would work out great."

"Yeah, that's true." He would, as we drifted among the upper class, bring it up. I could only think about wine, and how much I didn't want to install cable for a living. It seemed like such a life move. A solid job (perhaps still not a career though). One of those jobs that eventually becomes your life. You never see your family. Your only friends are from work. You don't know what to do on your occasional days off. It seemed like a step backward, but I would need a paycheck soon. We turned down onto Philo Street.

Philo was home to a softer variety of shops than what was on the main strip. A used book store, a comic store, a magic shop, and Seasons, the health food store.

"Okay, when we go in, you know, smile," Michael said, "and look for Mary. I'll point her out to you. Just, you know, don't act like an asshole. And take your sunglasses off."

"I know how to get a job."

"Okay."

We got to Seasons, and went inside. It was crowded with shelves and air conditioned. The smell of wheat and self-importance flooded the air. The temperature difference made me feel a little light headed.

"Hey guys." I turned and our mutual friend Dominic was standing next to us, stocking a shelf.

"Hey man," Michael said. "Have you seen Mary?"

"She's somewhere in the back. Why? Are you quitting?"

"No, I'm trying to get James a job here."

Dominic smiled. "Excellent. Yeah, She's back there. Good luck."

"Thanks," I said. "Give me a good reference, because I am going to put your name down."

"All right man, of course." He went back to stocking shelves.

We passed the counter and a cute semi-Asian girl was ringing out a small line of customers.

"Hey Anna," Michael said.

She nodded back to him, and went about her business. When we were out of earshot, Michael whispered to me; "I want to fuck her so bad."

"So fuck her."

"No, her boyfriend could kill me. He's huge, and a dick."

"Fair enough."

"There's Mary. Stay here."

I stayed there and looked over some shit on the shelves. Prices of dried something or other. I shuffled my weight on my feet. Tried to look like a customer. I would be a terrible mystery shopper.

"Mary, this is James," I heard Michael say.

I turned around, and they were standing next to me. "Hello," I said, extending my hand.

"Hello James," She said, and shook my hand. "So, you want a job?"

"Actually, yes. I always liked this place, I know a few of the people here, and I have a fair amount of restaurant experience. I think I would be good here."

She nodded, smiling. "Well, let's get you an application. follow me."

She walked up to the counter. Anna looked, like she might have been doing something she wasn't supposed to have been. Mary reached under the counter and took out an application. "Take this to the restaurant, and fill it out, then when you're done, just leave it here with Anna, and with any luck, you'll be back there working in no time."

"Thank you very much. I hope so." I took the application. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too James." Mary walked off.

"Where's the restaurant?" I asked Michael.

"Follow me."

We walked around the counter, toward the front, and then took a sharp left past a few shelves of god knows what and Dominic, and down a small flight of stairs. The air got colder, and soon, we were in a dining area. One of the walls was all windows, looking out onto the busy summer sidewalk. Beautiful women and undeserving men walked all along, enjoying the heat and life. I sat at a table.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked Michael.

"Yeah, I'll get you one. Hold on." He went into the back, and came out again, and handed me a pen. "Let me know when you are all set, so we can get out of here."

"Okay."

The application was basic. Name, job history. References. Nothing out of the ordinary. I wrote in (as references) all of the people I knew that worked there. Six, in total. A girl walked by the window in tight white booty shorts and high heels. I took a short break from the application, and then returned to it. I signed my name, clicked the pen closed, and got up. I made my way upstairs, and set the application on the counter. Anna looked at me.

"Could you just see that Mary gets this?" I asked her.

"Sure," she said, smiling.

"Thanks." I walked back down stairs to retrieve Michael. He was standing in front of the windows, watching.

"Ready?" I asked.

He turned around. "You finished?"

"Yes."

"Let's go then."

We left Seasons and the air conditioning and the windows and Anna, and headed out into the heat, and the crowd, and the light, and the life. I liked the idea of working at Seasons. I dreaded cable even more now.

Half a Cup's Worth.

I got gas, and slipped back onto the interstate. I was feeling good. I had the job and there was no worry left (well, besides the starting-a-new-job worry). Steering with my knee, I sent Marie a text.

"Got the job. Have to take a drug test now."

I went back to the road. I rolled the windows down, pulled the tie out of my hair, and turned the stereo up. David Bowie was young, I was successful in my task, and the sun was high. The wind smashed itself against me, and I smiled. Life was okay right now. I could already feel the strain and anxiety of the past few years melting away from me, little by little. My phone vibrated. It was a return text from Marie.

"Good job baby! I knew you would! Drink lots of water."

I replied; "Will do. Have to go home and get changed first. I feel like a fucking moron."

I set the phone into the center console, and resumed my glory drive. The exits seemed much closer together now. The heat, almost bearable. Goddamn, Ziggy is truly a brilliant album. Tapping my fingers against the wheel, careening and flowing between the lanes and down the interstate, I let the sun roll over me, let myself feel good.

My drug test was only a block away from Michael's new apartment. I dug out my phone and sent him a text.

"Have to take a drug test near your house. What are you up to today?"

My house was a few exits north of Piss Lab and Michael's. I drove past his exit, and kept going. My phone came to life again.

Michael: "Nothing. Want to get a drink?"

Me: "Yes."

Another vibrate. Marie: "So, what are you doing after the drug test?"

Me: "Don't know. Hanging out with Michael. Possibly getting a drink."

Michael: "Okay. Call me when you get to town."

Marie: "Okay. Do it for free. We're broke."

Me (to Marie): "Okay."

Me (to Michael): "Okay."

I set the phone down, and let my knee relax after all of that steering. How have I not been pulled over for this yet? I wondered.

I smiled. "Starman" has the most ridiculous lyrics. My exit came up, and I pulled off, back into the seizure inducing mess of roadwork orange and dust everywhere. I turned right and hoped I wouldn't end up in a ditch. A half hour passed before I got to the end of it, and now I was drenched in sweat and the euphoria had worn off, leaving me in a state of drained hostility. I pulled into my driveway, bounded up my stairs, unlocked my door and headed into the one air conditioned room in my house, my bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed, and wriggled my way out of my clothes, letting the cold air cover me and slowly dry the wet parts. Few things feel as good as the breeze from an A.C. on a swampy no man's land.

After a few minutes, I got up, dug around for what has apparently become my one pair of pants and a tee shirt. I got dressed, found my messenger bag, and filled it with all the things a clear evening may call for. Bathing suit, sunscreen, voice recorder, Hemingway, and an empty water bottle (we'll get to this part later).

I checked my phone. Nothing. I put it in my pocket, checked over my hair, put on my sunglasses and left. The windows of the car had been left rolled down, so as to make it less like an oven and more like a sauna. I threw my bag in the back, and headed out on my way, my brakes and rotors squealing pleads to my entire neighborhood to have them fixed. Fuck you brakes and rotors. This is our business. Comfortably dressed, I drove out, and back toward the road work.

I didn't have to piss at all, and I should have drank water or something at the house, but I didn't. I hoped that the place could test piss dust, because that was about all that I was prepared to offer. Piss rebel.

Back through the roadwork, back into the heat. Back to the interstate. I couldn't have looked forward to that drink more.

After a little while, I took the exit into Springer (the town all of this was to occur), and slowly worked my way through the traffic. Now away from the screaming breeze of interstate travel, I rolled my windows back up and let the A.C. attempt to do something. Sitting at a red light outside the hospital, and only a few blocks from Piss Lab, two girls in short skirts walked by and distracted me from the searing heat for a little while. I am very much a leg man. Well, I suppose I am also a breast man. Also, an ass man. And a face man. Point is, it isn't difficult for me to find something worthwhile.

I watched the backs of thighs and the bell curves of bodies walk off around a corner, and realized the light had turned green at some point. I drove on.

Piss Lab was just over a bridge spanning nothing but a dust ditch (which was always disappointing), and down a hill, in a medical complex. All brick buildings with large single digits adorning each doorway. I drove around the cul de sac searching for "6".

It sat in the center of the complex. I parked in the lot adjacent to it, looked at my hair in the mirror (terrible, fuck it), and turned the car off. As soon as the A.C. ceased, sweat pored over me as I became smothered by heat. I burst open my door and found no relief. The air was a million arms, holding me back, pushing me away from wherever I was going. I tucked my hair behind my ears, wiped sweat from my face, and crawled toward the 6. The Man in Black fled across the desert, and I followed.

Days had passed, or so it seemed, by the time I got inside the building. A great sterile hall, capable of being a lobby to some old theater, all painted in serene shades of blue and white. Glass and chrome everywhere. A sign in front of me pointed to Piss Lab. I followed it, went through to large double doors, and came to a much more modest waiting room. The bottoms of the walls were made of something that they were trying to pass off as wood. The tops, the same calming light blue as the Great Lobby. Four or five people were situated almost strategically around it. Offering varying levels of comfort to whatever seat I chose to wait in.

I walked up to the counter, where a woman with a nest of curled blonde hair typed angrily into a decade old computer. I stood there for a few minutes before she noticed me, or acknowledged me.

"Yes?" She asked.

"Hi. My name is James Martin. I have to take a drug test."

"For?"

"Drugs?"

"No," she said, "Court? Work?"

"Oh, work. I just left an interview. Trying to get a job."

"Pre-employment. Did they give you a sheet?"

Fuck. "Yeah, they did, but I lost it." I think it may have been back at the house. I couldn't remember.

She looked terribly annoyed with me. "You lost it?"

"Yes ma'am. The wind. Went over a bridge."

She glared at me. Her hair looking more reptilian than before, I was sure.

"Okay," she finally said. "For where?"

I told her and she went back to her computer. I felt like an asshole. A childish, irresponsible asshole. She typed something, then picked up her phone and dialed. She glared at me again.

"Yes," she said into her phone. "My name is Lorraine. I'm calling from Lab Solutions. I have James Martin here, he says he needs to get a pre-employment drug screening, but he has lost his information sheet. Okay. Yes. I just need your company code and contact please?" She tapped her pen against the desk, and looked at me again.

"Sorry," I mouthed silently at her.

She gave me a half-frown and looked away. I felt better when she wasn't looking at me. She wrote something down. "Okay, thank you," She said. "You too." She looked back up at me. "You can have a seat Mr. Martin. Someone will be right with you."

"Thank you." I took the seat by the door closest to the actual labs, furthest from the reception area. An old Asian man was looking at me and smiled. I smiled back and put my eyes to the floor. I tapped my feet to the beat of some song that I wasn't sure I had heard, or if I wanted to write, and waited. The waiting room was so cold, I almost wanted to be outside, in the sun, the light, the warmth. I am impossible.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. "Mr. Martin?"

I looked up. A large black woman stood there, smiling at me. I suddenly realized that in my black skinny jeans, my v-neck tight tee shirt, my wild hair, and my cool-guy shades, I totally looked like someone who takes drugs.

I stood up. "That's me."

"Follow me." She disappeared back through the door, and I went after her.

She stood in front of a terminal about three feet from the door and I almost walked directly into her.

"Take a cup from the drawer and remove the bag from inside," she said without looking up. She thought I was on drugs. I could feel it.

"What?" I asked.

"That drawer there," she said, pointing to a drawer right next to her. "Take a cup from it."

I opened the drawer, and took a cup out.

"Now take the bag out from inside of it."

I did.

"Now set it down."

"Okay." I did.

"Now, empty your pockets, remove everything. Place it all on the counter."

"Okay." Briefly I imagined that she didn't work her and this was all an elaborate plan to steal my fucking wallet, but then I thought that that might be racist and decided against it. Thinking the thought that is. Fucking white guilt.

I took out my wallet and set it down. Then my lighter, guitar pick, a quarter, a Chinese fortune ("Keep your secrets secret for now"), and Marie's credit card. I set them all on the counter. "You aren't going to steal them, are you?" I asked.

"No," she said, not looking at me, only typing. "Go around the corner and wash your hands."

I looked around the corner and there was a sink with automatic accessories. I wasn't sure what that meant. Did people sneak others piss dust in on their skin to pass off as there own? Was there a way to fake a drug test with filthy hands? Probably. Probably something obvious, but I am an idiot.

I washed my hands, dried them, and came back around the corner.

"Now take the cup, go in the bathroom, and fill it halfway." She pointed to the halfway mark on the cup. "You have five minutes."

I didn't have to piss even a little. I went into the bathroom, which was next to the sink, and closed the door. I put the cup on the back of the toilet. There was a sign above the toilet that read: "DO NOT FLUSH THE TOILET" and then directly below that, something scribbled in Japanese (?).

I undid my pants and pulled out my piss-less partner. Well, I thought at it, let's go sir.

We looked at the cup, and at each other. I tried coaching it. I tried scowling. Nothing was working. Finally, I put him directly into the cup. Go, you bastard.

A drip.

My hopes rose.

Another drip.

Another. Stream! Nope. Just a few drips in close proximity.

I moved the cup away. I had filled it just below the quarter line.

There was nothing that was going to be coming out of me anytime soon. Did it have to be halfway? Would I fail if it wasn't? Would the woman be pissed at me? Hit me with a cup of piss? She had given me an order, I had not delivered. I was a piss failure. I decided to take whatever punishment was coming my way, zipped up, closed up the cup and went out of the room.

"Yeah, halfway just isn't going to happen. If you want, I can wait a while. Maybe drink some water?"

I handed her the cup. She looked it over, carefully.

"No, we got a temperature. This will have to do." She began to write thing on a pad of paper.

"Can I was my hands?"

She looked up and stared at me. "No." She went back to filling out paperwork.

I couldn't tell if she was fucking with me, but I was too scared to ask again. Keep this up, and I could fill forty of these cups lady.

A few minutes of her doodling on shit later, and she tells me I can wash my hands. I had been keeping them held out in the air, not because I worried about having pissed on them, I didn't, but because if she was going to make me feel like an idiot, I may as well look like one. I went over to the sink and washed my hands. When I came back, she handed me a sheet of paper.

"That's yours. Go ahead and collect your things. You're all set." Then she turned around and left.

I felt a little used, but I gathered up my things, looked around for her, waiting to pop out and scream at me. Holding out a little cup to catch my fear and test it, but she was gone. I left the lab, the waiting room, the Great Lobby, and headed to the car.

I sent Marie a text. "I'm a piss failure."

I sent Michael a text. "I'm on my way."

Michael: "I'll meet you outside."

Marie: "You failed!?!?!"

Me (to Marie): "No, I just didn't have to. They got dribbles."

Me (to Michael): "I think we should get a bottle of wine and head to the park."

Marie: "Oh. Okay."

Michael: "Oh. Okay."

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

The next morning, I had an interview. The man on the phone told me to "dress for success". I wasn't sure what the exact parameters of that were, so I just dressed like I was going to court. Dress shirt, tie, dress pants, dress shoes. The issue was that I had forgotten that in the last six months I had lost a good forty pounds, and that perhaps some of my lesser-used clothes wouldn't fit. The pants didn't fit even remotely, however, being a "dress for success" sort of occasion, I had no choice. I worried that I looked like I was wearing Dad's clothes.

I pulled my hair back, trimmed my beard, and kissed Marie.

"Good luck," she said, with nothing less than worry in her tone.

"Thanks baby. I love you."

"I love you too."

I went out to the car, making sure to grab a pen first. You always need a pen in these situations. I got in, set the G.P.S., and drove off. I had twenty minutes to get thirty-five miles. "I can do this," I thought.

After fighting my way through endless roadwork in town, I made it to the interstate. Eighty miles an hour, thirty miles to my destination, ten minutes until my interview, 1/32nd a tank of gas. The odds were not in my favor. At every exit I debated which was more important, making it to the interview on time, or making it to the interview at all. My gas gauge screamed bright orange and flashing at me. My clock droned on and on, sympathetic not at all.

"Fuck."

With each exit, I chose punctuality. "I can do this. I can do this," I said. If the gas held out, my G.P.S. told me I would arrive three minutes late. Not ideal, but tolerable. I kept the windows rolled up so as not to blow my fucking hair everywhere, but the weak a.c. was having a difficult time fighting off 94 degrees outside. I had a film of sweat on me, and hoped that the building would be nice and cool and I could sit for ten or fifteen minutes before anyone would see me.

Minutes flew by, gas burned away, sweat poured down. I found my exit, took it, and drove three more miles, keeping a watchful eye for gas stations nearby. I found the road, the number, the parking lot, and pulled in. It was a large warehouse-type building with a "we're not really a warehouse, we're a business!" facade. I parked and got out. In the reflection of the hyper-waxed S.U.V. next to me, I looked again at my hot-air-business-wear. The pants billowed around me. I felt like a fool. I wanted to get right back in the car, drive home, and hide. A weird moment for a grown man, worrying about his outfit that much.

I walked to the front of the building. A man was walking out.

"Good afternoon," he said, and gave the guy-nod.

"Good afternoon."

I wondered what he thought as he was walking to his car. Did he know I had an interview? Did he know I was over-dressed in a gargantuan outfit for a job that at best required a polo shirt and khakis? Did he think I was someone imp0ortant? A corporate auditor, perhaps? Upper management?

No, I doubt he did.

I walked in and the building was air conditioned. The sudden blast of cool air seemed to make the sweat pour faster off of my head. Now, I just needed some time to myself to cool down.

The girl behind the desk was on the phone. It seemed like she was explaining something very simple that was giving someone else the most difficult time. It reminded me of something, but I couldn't place it. She nodded at me, and motioned toward a sign-in sheet. I signed in, and sat down in a chair while she navigated a very detailed conversation. I looked at the clock on the wall. I was seven minutes late. I hoped they wouldn't notice. That they were so busy all the time that they were more like a medical office in that regard. Then, I realized I didn't want a job where I was that busy, and didn't know what to hope for.

A few minutes passed while I stared at the light blue walls. Reading over this branches achievements, framed and hung, over and over.

A man came out. He was short. His hair feathered but trim. he looked like he might have an older brother named Rick, and his name would be...

"Hi, I'm Terry."

Terry it was then.

"You must be James?" He asked.

"Yes sir." I stood up, and shook his hand. "Good to meet you."

"You too. Just, uh, follow me, and we'll get this going, and hopefully have you out of here enjoying your day in no time."

"Sounds like a plan."

We walked through the labyrinthine office. Corridors and staircases, dimensions and realities all passed by, and I wondered if Terry's name was actually Virgil, and if I wrote about this, I might change his name to Virgil. We came to what absolutely must have been the back of the building, and into a faux-wood paneled room. There were two steel desks inside it, making it look more like a courtroom, and my outfit suddenly seemed more appropriate. He. had a chair set up for me at one of the desks.

"Have a seat," he said.

I sat, and he went around to his side and sat.

"Okay," he said, "let's get started."

He asked all the normal interview questions. Why would I be a good fit? How did I hear about this job? What are my strengths, weaknesses? I noticed my fly was down, and I could see skin. I hoped no one else had noticed. I took the first opportunity to zip up and carry on. Do I know anything about the job? Any special skills? What do I like to do in my free time?

"Well James," he said after an eternity in the lost room, "if I were to offer you the job today, would you take it?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, well, we just have to get you to take a drug test." He handed me a sheet of paper with an address on it. "Can you get there today?"

The address was actually a block away from where I planned on going next. "Yes sir."

"Excellent." He stood up, and so did I. "Well, as long as that works out, we look forward to having you join our team."

"Thank you so much Terry. I look forward to it."

We shook, and Virgil, I mean, Terry, guided me up through the circles and pits to the light blue lobby.

"So, after we get the results," Terry said at the front desk, "we'll call you and give you all the details."

"Okay, well, then I'll see you soon."

"Have a good day, James."

"You too Terry."

I walked out, into the sunlight and heat. I won. I was late and sweaty, my pants were ridiculously big, and my dick had almost made an appearance, but I won. I got to the car, and in the reflection, I saw my pants blowing out around me like a cape, and I felt not super at all. I had to go home and change. There was drinking to do.

Fresh Start

I quit my fucking job. I had been dreaming about it for the better part of a year, but my creeping adulthood had kept me bent over and taking it. I was bored, under-paid, under-appreciated, and constantly held accountable for everyone else's actions, despite my entry level position. I took two weeks off in July, thinking it would calm me, numb me, prepare me for a few more months, at least.

It didn't. I spent the entire time thinking how nice it would be to be able to spend all my time on the beach, writing, drinking wine, and and watching the women walk by. I dreamed, and tanned, and spent every cent I had, telling myself "In a year, I will write professionally." So, I got it in my head that there was a better life for me, and I was going to go and claim it. I didn't prepare myself at all for my return to work.

When the morning finally came, I woke, got dressed, and climbed in the car, feeling very much like I was betraying myself by even going back. But I went. I was a grown man, and I had no business acting like a fucking child. I worked, put up with all of the same nonsense, and after thirteen tedious (if not murderous) hours, came home. I bitched about my day to Marie. The same things she had been hearing for a year. I added my new found bohemian philosophies, and she said "as long as you can pay your part of the bills, do what you want."

The problem is, the things I want to do aren't very lucrative, and mostly expensive. I went online, and filed a bunch of applications, and crossed my fingers. I didn't expect anything beyond sucking it up and wasting away in the same job. I just couldn't bring myself to quit because I was unhappy at my job. "Isn't everyone unhappy? Who the fuck am I to think that justifies me?" I thought.

I went to work the next day, checked my email, and found an interesting message. It told me that someone from the state had deemed it necessary to deduct some funds from my check. I was already scraping by. I called the payroll department and had them figure out how much I would then be taking home. It wasn't a lot. Less than my cell phone bill alone. My only option, was to look for another job, so, I called my manager (whom I had no real issues with, and felt sort of sorry for), and explained the situation. I offered to finish my shift, but told her I couldn't work another day there. My time was more valuable elsewhere. I quit. And felt weird about it. Like I had acted poorly. Like I had done something wrong. Like I had only quit because I was unhappy. But that wasn't the case, and now, instead of the measly amount I would have gotten if I continued to work, I would get nothing at all. I had bills. A wife. Sweat beaded. Despite my dreaming of a better life, despite my serendipitous exit, I was panicking.

"What the fuck do I do now?"

I began calling friends. Asking if their jobs needed anyone. I began following up on all of the online applications I filled out, getting nowhere.

Marie was worried.

I was worried.

Finally, a friend emailed me, and said that her job had an opening. Forty hours a week. Better pay than my last job. In the same field. Then, I got a phone call. One of the online applications I filled out went through. A cable-man position. $50,000 a year, company vehicle, gas card, great benefits. But it required that I sometimes travel for up to a week at a time away from Marie.

I didn't like the idea of continuing work in the same field that I was leaving, and I didn't like the idea of being away from Marie that long, but I couldn't help but think that the events were forcing me into a better life. I was miserable, and I was forced to quit my job. I was jobless, and two decent prospects fell into my lap.

It had to mean something.

I could be happy. I could live the dream. This was a fresh start.

So, I set up interviews, and away I went. In search of the great American... whatever.

An Outlet

It's easy to be optimistic when everything is going your way. It's no problem at all to say "hang in there, it will get better." To dream incredible dreams, and to smile despite the rain. It's easy as hell when everything is going your way.

But, when you lose that job unexpectedly, when your kids don't want to be around you anymore, when your spouse leaves you, when you owe so much debt, the only salvation is hoping you can get away with a bank heist, then what? Then, do you look at the skies, and think to yourself "Oh, what a beautiful life this is! Oh, how lucky I am to be alive, even though sometimes bad things happen!" Do you still feel optimistic when the crushing reality of jail time over unpaid bills is staring you in the face? When the IRS wants to just speak with you about some questions they had about your last few returns? When you see the woman who used to be yours, out happier with another man than she ever was with you? What then, I ask you? How easy it then?

Most of these things aren't in my life (at the moment), and for that I am thankful. I am guilty of being someone who seems to let everything roll right off my tail feathers, who's always "looking on the bright side". I've been called "Mr. Zen", "Silver Lining", and a few others, but there is something people don't realize about folks like you and me. Sometimes, we collapse for no real good reason.

We spend all of our time smiling, searching out optimism, and then, one lone thought, one sideways look, and we spiral off into the deep end.

Right now, in my life, I am working toward, and mostly succeeding at, a few things that make me happy. I am a healthy male in one of the most powerful countries in the world, who can read, write, eat and sleep in peace. I own two cars, and I have a comfortable home. I have lots of cool stuff, a beautiful wife, two great kids, and talent in some fields. I am truly lucky, and I know it. Even if you pick just two of those things I just mentioned, you are lucky. Sometimes though, I fail to see that. Sometimes, I get a phone call, or it can even be as small as a missed call from a number I don't want to see, and it's all over. I avoid the call. I focus solely on how terrible the outcome of it is going to be. I think about it for days and tell myself it doesn't matter. The fucked up thing is, it usually doesn't. After a few days of feeling bad about it, feeling defeated, I pick my balls up, and call back. It's usually nothing. It's usually something easily handled. I always feel better afterward. So, why do I get all worked up about it in the first place?

Panic, I suppose. The other day, my bank account went into overdraft by quite a bit, for a .92 charge. Ninety-two cents. I panicked. I didn't have the money until I got paid in a week and a half, and by then, the overdraft fee would be more than my paycheck, and who knows what then. My chest was heavy, I couldn't think straight, I was the shittiest person alive, in my opinion. I mean, who can't keep their fucking bank account balanced? What kind of asshole?

But, what good does that do?

So, I called the bank. I told them it was ninety-two cents, I could cover it easily, and asked them if they would remove the charge, and just like that, they did. Problem solved. I could have just called myself an asshole all day, and been fucked, but instead I took action, and solved the problem.

Still though, not all problems are solved that easily. Sometimes you can't fix shit with a phonecall. Sometimes you will lose. Sometimes you will suffer. Sometimes you need an outlet.

Like music, or art. Or writing.

I feel better all ready.

A Summer Day in Upstate New York

1.

Lake Henry spread out wide in front of me. Marie and I were sitting on a grassy hill above the sand, baking away in the July sun. The beach seemed to have been divided between two types of people. On one side, Families, and the other, the Young & Beautiful. All of them tourists. The mix of clouds and open sky was perfect. A long stretch of skin bronzing sun, three minutes of cloud cover relief. Repeat.

I had poison ivy. I wasn't sure where I picked it up, but I assumed I must have drunkenly brushed against it on the Fourth, somewhere. Now I was paying for it. It had covered the lower half of my right arm, and just this morning showed up on my upper thigh. An area you absolutely don't want poison ivy. I thought about pouring alcohol on it and setting it ablaze before it spread any further. A week of healing from a burn would be much less tedious than the unknown amount of time my fucking crotch would be itching and scabbing.

There was a young girl, about seven, standing near us. Her head was all shaved, except for a ponytail in the back. I couldn't figure out why her seemingly normal middle-American parents would do that to her, but she looked happy. I wondered briefly if that's what I needed. The ponytail, that is.

We were sitting on the family half of the beach, but my eyes kept wandering to the other side. Bikinis and bodies.

"Have you noticed the beach is divided into halves?" I asked Marie.

She looked up from her book. "What?"

"On one side, you have families, and over there, the young and beautiful."

She looked around and nodded. "Hmm. Why are we over here?"

"This is where you sat down."

She scanned the area again.

"We could move," I said.

"No. Fuck it."

"Better scenery over there," I said.

Marie put her eyes back to her book. I tried to keep mine forward. Perhaps on a better day she would have agreed, we would have ogled together, and we would have seen what happened., but she had both a sunburn and poison ivy for the first time in her life, so nothing sexy was in the cards today.

John was supposed to be getting a hold of us. The plan was (loosely) that we were going to meet up sometime, somewhere, and go somewhere else, preferably for swimming. I kept waiting for my phone to ring, but it wasn't. The sun was drying my poison ivy, so either way, I figured I was ahead.

I went back to my book. A few Americans in Europe, enjoying bullfights and drinking. One of many lives I longed for.

A dog yelped in the water, having the best day of his summer, I imagined. My phone lit up. It was John.

"Hello John," I said.

"Hey. Where are you guys?"

"We're at the poor people beach."

"In Lake Henry though, right?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"We're in town, so just meet us on the beach road."

"When?" I asked.

"As soon as you get there."

"Okay. Bye." I hung up. I hate waiting for the other person to say goodbye. It seems pretentious to me somehow.

"Well?" asked Marie.

I put my book in my back pack. "We're going to meet them on the beach road."

"When?"

"Now."

"Okay."

We stood up, and began to pack our things up. Sunblock, tanning oil, towels, blanket, books, shirts, shoes...

We strapped ourselves up with our bags, climbed up the rest of the hill, and went out onto the road. The beach road itself was about a quarter mile away.

"You all right baby?" I asked Marie as we walked.

"Yeah. Fucking poison ivy sucks. And my sunburn. I just can't win today."

"I know honey. I have to admit though, I'm kind of glad you get to understand what the rest of us have to go through."

"Why?"

"Well, you went on and on about never getting sunburnt, and being immune to poison ivy, so whenever I got burnt, or had poison ivy, you never really understood how fucking bad it is. Sunburns aren't too bad. They hurt for a day or two, but poison ivy, it just gets worse and worse and lasts forever."

"Great," she said.

We walked on. In front of us were two girls. One was in cut off jean shorts and a bikini top. The other, I don't remember. I had to keep trying to look at the ground. I always felt a little guilty when Marie wasn't in the mood, even though she has always said she doesn't care. They were nice shorts, though.

When we got to the beach road, John and his girlfriend Kris were already there, rearranging the shit in their truck, making room for us.

Kris waved. "Hey guys!"

We waved back.

"So, where are we going?" Kris asked.

"I don't know," Marie said. "Where do you want to go?"

The four of us looked around at each other.

"Buttermilk?" John asked.

We all agreed, and Marie and I started to get our bags tied down in the back of the truck. "You want shotgun?" I asked her.

"No, it's okay. Me and Kris will sit in the back. Let the men have the front."

I smiled. "Okay."

We walked around to the front of the truck, and it seemed that John and Kris had come up with the same plan as Kris had already stuffed herself into the tiny back seat that this truck had. Marie climbed in, her sun-burnt cheeks making an appearance as she did, and I set the seat back, climbed in, shut the door and buckled up.

"Okay. Let's go," I said.


2.

Lake Henry (the actual lake, not the town), is about twenty miles long, and in some spots as wide as five miles. The town is situated on the southwest side. Buttermilk was about ten miles north, on an unpaved, single lane, ridiculously curved road in the middle of nowhere, on the upper east side. About an hour's drive. Pain in the ass as it was to get there, it was astounding once you did. Large, smooth rock ledges, cliffs, and islands. Mostly isolated. Great trails, and no lifeguards or regulations, all with the most incredible lake view. Say what you will about the residents of this area, the scenery was perfect, and we were lucky to live there.

John drove like a fucking maniac. He always does.

We left the town through the back, where traffic was minimal, and drove out along Rte 9L. Long stretches of trees, summer camps, and not much else. Fairly beautiful really, if it weren't for the skill of our driver. The road twisted and careened around large rock walls, and every once in a while, we would pass an Adirondack themed steakhouse or seafood place. Full parking lots, and I wondered how they got any business at all out here. I guess that's why I don't own a restaurant.

"We should stop at the first store we see. I need a drink, and we'll probably want food," Marie said.

"Yeah. I need to pee, too," said Kris.

Eventually, we came to a small mom & pop type general store, with a parking lot oddly full of BMW's and Mercedes'. "Tourists," John said, not without a hint of disdain.

We parked and went inside. Looking around at the customers, I noticed an odd amount of boating loafers and unbuttoned white linen shirts. The air pressure must have risen a good thirty percent, what with all of the self-righteous Manhattan dickhead in it. I walked to the cooler, and grabbed a six pack of Coors Light cans.

"Coors, huh?" John said.

"I know. It's cheap though."

Marie was in the chip aisle, giving the decision much more thought than I ever had. I walked over to her. "You want cheese doodles."

She looked at me. "No. I don't think I do."

"You do. I had a dream last night that you wanted cheese doodles. So, get cheese doodles."

"Do you want cheese doodles?" She asked.

"No." I walked up to the counter, and set the beer down. The clerk was trying to give directions to a man in a floppy white hat, white linen shirt, white boating shorts, and loafers. He was pointing, and trying to give lefts and rights. The tourist kept watching where he was pointing, as if he could see past the solid brick wall in front of them.

I waited.

"So, I go down 9L, take a left onto Sweetwater, go straight for a while, take a right onto, what'd you say?"

"Culligan."

"Culligan, right. Take a right onto Culligan, head down there for a good fifteen minutes or so, look for the dirt road..."

I waited.

There was some direction toward the end that the Tourist wasn't quite getting. I noticed he wasn't writing any of it down. The Clerk looked frustrated, as if he had driven it every day for the last twenty years, and it was the easiest thing in the world to him.

"No, no," said the Clerk, "You..."

"Excuse me." I said. "Can I just get rung out really quick?"

The two men stopped and looked at me.

"Sure," said the Clerk, friendly enough. He came over, and the Tourist looked astonished that he would step aside from bullshit for business. "Sorry about that. Will that be all?"

"That's it."

He scanned the beer. "I.D.?"

I dug around for my wallet, found it, and handed over my drivers license. He looked it over and handed it back. "Thank you," he said, "that'll be Six forty two."

I handed him a ten, he rang it up and gave me my change. "Have a good day," the Clerk said.

"Thanks, you too." I took the beer and looked for Marie. I didn't see the Tourist. I figured he must have given up.

Marie was still deciding on chips.

"I'll be out by the truck," I said.

"Okay."

I walked outside, from the air conditioning to the searing ninety-five degree parking lot. I went to the truck, and put the beer behind my sit. Marie could move it when she got in.

"Hey fuckface," someone said behind me.

I turned around and the Tourist was walking up to me. "What the fuck is your problem man?" he asked.

"What?"

"Don't what me." He was in my face now. I don't do well with people in my face.

"Get the fuck away from me man."

He got closer. "You're from here right? A local boy? A good ol' boy? Well, let me tell you..."

"Listen man, I said, it's hot, and I don't think either of us really want our days ruined. Let's just relax. You want to have a beer with me?"

"No I don't want your shitty fucking beer." His face was getting red.

"Sir, calm down."

"Calm down? Me? You fucking calm down!" He spit on my shoes.

I looked down. Amazed. "Why did you spit on my shoes?" The situation was becoming humorous.

"Because you don't cut people off when their in the middle of a conversation!"

"Okay. But I mean, I thought you were going to hit me, or something, and you spit on my shoes. Just weird to me."

"You want me to hit you? Is that what you want?" He didn't find any of this funny.

John, Kris and Marie were coming out of the store, but stopped to watch the scene. I waved. Marie gave me a puzzled look.

"Listen man, I don't want to fight. I just want to enjoy my day. Sorry I cut you off. How can I make it up to you?"

"Fuck you you fucking yokel," he said, and walked away. He looked up at the other three, but kept walking. They came up to the truck.

"What the fuck was that? Marie asked.

"Dude called me a yokel," I said.

We got back in the truck, and headed off to Buttermilk. With any luck, that was the height of negativity for the day.


3.

It wasn't, though. We got to the beginning off Buttermilk Road, and were nearing the end of the paved section, preparing for a good ten miles of rocks, dirt, and bumps. We came around the first blind corner, and saw a large white cargo van swerving around into our lane. "Shit!" John said, and cranked the wheel, as I felt all four of us collectively death grip everything in sight. As the van passed us, a loud POP! exploded all around us.

"What the fuck was that?" Marie said.

"Sounded like a rock hit the car," John said.

I looked around, and saw it. "Yes sir, it did. Look at your windshield."

"Fuck," John said. The rock had hit the windshield, and cracked it, creating a shatter with the diameter of about a quarter. As We looked at it, one of the cracks grew, and then stopped.

"That sucks," Marie said.

"Fuck," John said again. "Good thing I have glass insurance. Best five bucks I spend every month."

"That was really loud," Kris said.

As we drove, John kept saying "Fuck" under his breath. I told him there's nothing he can do about it now, and he might as well let it go. He can worry about it later. Today, we were determined to have fun.

I was watching the sun and the shadows and the trees as we passed by. All the shapes and shades, looking for animals, or anything out of the ordinary. I saw nothing, though that isn't to say that I didn't enjoy and find a beauty in the trees and shadows, I did. We crept on at a solid twenty miles an hour, listening to the radio, and looking forward to the water.

"John, you need to slow down," Marie said. "I think I am going to throw up."

"Okay. You want me to pull over?"

"No, not yet. I might be fine, just take it easier on the bumps."

I reached my hand back behind the seat for Marie to hold. She gripped it. I rubbed my thumb on hers. We drove on a few more minutes.

"Okay, you need to pull over now."

Without hesitation, John pulled over, I popped open my door, got out, and moved the seat for Marie. "You okay Honey?"

"I just need air for a second."

I took her hand and helped her out. We walked over to the tree line, and she knelt down. I held her hair, just in case, and rubbed her back. She moaned, and took deep breaths. "I think you need to sit in the back," she said.

"Okay." A minute or two later, and Marie had collected herself. We switched seats, and drove on, me in the back, Marie with her head out the window.

"You okay?" Kris asked.

"Yeah," said Marie. "Just too bumpy back there."

We came around a corner, and the road had since turned into a one lane road, and came to a small bridge, blocked by some sort of service truck. I looked around Marie's seat to see what was going on.

"Go tell them to fucking move," I said to John.

"You."

"I'm in the back, and Marie is sick. I can't get out yet."

We sat there, staring at them as they poked along, doing whatever they were doing. The sun beat down hotter now, even under cover of trees. Finally, they moved. Inside, I cheered.

We drove on, and Marie was right, it was bumpy back there. I could feel my own stomach start to churn. We passed a few pull offs, each of which I thought about suggesting we use, just so I could get out of the fucking truck, but hung in instead.

We came to the end of the road, and parked. The shore was just down a short trail. Marie got out, stretched her legs, and took a few deep breaths. I did the same. "How was it back there?" She asked.

"Awful."

"Told you. I wasn't just being whiny."

"I didn't think you were baby." I kissed her forehead.

We unloaded our bags and strapped them on. "It might be crowded down here," I said, taking note of the four or five other vehicles around us. "Let's hope we get a decent spot, without too many assholes around." Buttermilk was notorious for bringing in the drunk and rowdy crowd on occasion. I grabbed the beer from the truck.

John led the way down the trail, and I followed. Behind us, Kris and Marie took it slow.

"We should have brought chicken. And a grill," I said.

"Yeah. Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't you? I brought beer."

"Six."

"Six you won't be having."

"Aww," He said.

We got to the bottom of the hill, and from where we were standing we could see the lake through the trees. The sound of motor boats in the distance. The smell of a campfire burning somewhere nearby. People laughing. There are few things better in this life than a day on the lake.

"Wait up guys. Damn," Marie called from behind. "You guys are racing ahead."

"No," I said, "You're just poky."

"You're pokey," She said, catching up.

"So where are we going guys?" Kris asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Let's just follow the trail until we see somewhere."

We walked on, and the campfire smell grew stronger. I could see the smoke. It didn't look right.

"I think that's a fire," I said nodding.

"People have camp fires down here," Marie said.

"No, look. I mean, a fire fire. A forest fire."

We picked up our pace, and sure enough, a section of woods about ten feet wide, and twenty feet deep was black and smoldering on the water's side of the path.

"Oh shit," Marie said.

John walked around it looking for flames to stomp out.

"What do we do?" Kris asked.

"Let's get some water, I guess. If we have service, call the fire department and let them know," Marie said.

"Okay," I said.

I went a little ways past the fire, found a nice place to set our things down at, and looked out at the water, to see two fire department boats, and the Lake Henry Water Patrol coming around the corner. I waved and pointed in the direction of the fire, and went back to the group.

"Fire department's already here," I said. "Also, found a great spot to swim."


4.

We stretched our blankets out across the large rock shelf. It was long and sloping. On one side of it, a tall cliff with a trail leading up it, perfect for jumping off of. On the other side, a relatively enclosed section where the water just pooled up around three feet deep. Something for everyone. I did wish we brought chicken and a grill. I took a beer, and set the rest down in a circular hole in the rocks. Hoping the water there would keep them cool, and they wouldn't wash away. I peeled off my shirt and shoes, and everyone else did the same. I cracked open the beer, and sat down at the edge of the rock, the water lapping up around my waist while I sipped and watched the fire department shoot large bursts of water from their boat up onto the shore. What a weird day it had been so far, I thought.

I remembered I had my phone in my pocket. "Shit!" I said. I jumped up out of the water, fished around in my pocket and took out my phone. It was dripping wet.

Marie had been watching from the towel. "You idiot."

"This sucks," I said.

"That's what you get."

"Yeah. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now. You coming in?"

"In a minute."

I went back to the water, and slid in (carefully as not to fill my can with water). Now, phoneless and fancy-free, I was able to really... relax. I put my beer on the rock behind me, closed my eyes, and slid under the water. The cool sensation engulfed my body, and I opened my eyes to the shimmering greens, blues, and golds all around me. Maybe it's a womb thing, maybe it's a weightlessness thing, but something about just floating in a body of water makes everything else fade away. No more did I worry that my vacation from that job I detested was ending, no more did I care that my bank account was three hundred dollars overdrawn. No more did I worry, care, or think, I was just there. Existing.

I came up out of the water, and took my beer off of the rock. I sat myself on a ledge under the water, and stared out at the lake. A pontoon boat floated by a few hundred yards away, watching the firemen spray the shore near us. I waved. A woman in the back waved back. It made me smile.

Marie slid in next to me and kissed me on the cheek. "Hey good lookin'," she said.

"Hey good lookin' yourself."

"The water is perfect."

"It is indeed baby."

The sun was high. The beer was cold. My woman was beautiful, and I was young. My friends were around me, smiling, and somewhere, I hoped the Tourist was burning alive as his Mercedes blazed away at the bottom of a tree. Everything was beautiful.

The Greatest Thing about Total Self-Doubt, is Not Caring at All if You Fail

I sit in an empty lounge, hunched over a small notebook, finishing off a glass of the driest wine I have ever had, and facing that timeless struggle.

I've got two hundred or so pages of my first attempt at a novel sitting next to me. Staring me down. It's been there for the better part of this year, stagnant and hopeless. It doesn't know what it is, and neither do I. I could finish it. I could whip up another couple hundred pages, whittle it down to a cool two-fifty, and call it a day. I could.

But I don't.

Instead, I write entry after entry here, in my online toilet. Senseless musings of an ill-informed bottom rung twenty-nothing.

Last year, I wrote short story after short story. Endless amounts of fictional universe seemed to stream out of me at will. Now, I drip them out, only to have to mix them into my real life. Change some names, some places. Add a dash of fantasy and hope for the best.

I'll never get any where like this. I have to finish that fucking novel. It has to be good. No, no no, it has to be great. It has to be a staggering work of genius. But, who the fuck am I to assume I could write such majesty? Who am I to assume that because I can read brilliant work, I can create it?

Am I a narcissist to think I am capable? To feel like I can? Or, am I just too down on myself to think I can't? I know I will never get anywhere if I don't try. If I don't finish that fucking novel, then it stands absolutely no chance of being anything. But what if I do? What if I do finish it, and to me, it is brilliant. But I try to sell it. To get it out, and it comes back across the board as pure garbage. Then what have I earned? The accomplishment of finishing a novel, I suppose, but at the same time I have also lost some credibility with myself. Some confidence, right?

Well, are these things that all writers go through? All creators? Everyone?

Oh this struggle. This fear. Do I, don't I?

You know what?

I'm going to finish this book. It may turn out completely different from what it used to be, and it may be a pile of shit, but I am going to go for it, and if you don't like it, you can suck my dick.

Waiter! More wine!


(Audio version: The Greatest Thing about Total Self-Doubt, is Not Caring at All if You Fail by AsaMorris )

Four Things I Never Finished.

1. How I became Atheist.

A friend recently told me he thinks I should write a rant on religion. I'm up for the challenge, but I doubt it will turn out to be what was hoped for.

Perhaps some background first?

I was raised Catholic. Went to church every Sunday, every Christian holiday. Went to Sunday School (or Catechism, depending on what town you were in and how traditional they were). I accepted the ideology as fact. I had no qualms with it. It was just what everybody did, and the stories behind it all were beautiful. So why wouldn't I walk right in to it all?

At one point (perhaps as a first communion gift), someone gave me a "children's bible" full of easy to understand stories, and full beautiful paintings. I read it all the time. Not because I was so hardcore about my religion, but because it was so cool to me. The history, the heroes, the ideas that came out of it (I truly hoped I was a David). This little children's bible may be the catalyst in what became a future of staunch atheism. You see, in it, there was the story of Christs birth, complete with a little background on the Virgin Mary.

Basically it went like this; the "Virgin" Mary was a good girl who loved God her whole life. She was the only human being who had never sinned. Because of this, God gave her her son, Jesus Christ. They lived happily ever after.

Okay, fair enough (even though the lesser known version of the tale also includes Christ's siblings, some of whom were older...). This was an idea I swallowed just as easily. I mean, Why not? God exists, so he can do what he wants. There have been billions of people who have lived, so there must have been one that didn't sin (SIDS babies excluded, apparently), it all made sense to my seven year old mind. Wait for it...

UNTIL

A little under a year later, I was trying to earn a religious Boy Scout pin. I forget what all of the requirements for it were, but at least one of them was that I had to have an in depth conference with the Priest, Father Gaffigan. We discussed all manner of our faith. Apostles, teachings, pre-Christianity (when God was an angry fellow), and finally SIN.

Father Gaffigan said to me; "Everyone sins."

"No," I said, having been reading my children's bible for a year.

"Yes, Asa, everyone. Everyone who has ever lived, and who ever will live, has sinned."

"Not the Virgin Mary."

I remember watching his face smooth over, and then he smiled at me. "Well, that's true, but that's a different story."

"Why?"

"Because she was Jesus' mother."

"But not before she had him."

"It was always in God's plan that she would be, though. God kept her pure so she could be Jesus' mother."

"Then why can't God keep everyone pure?"

"Because he want's us to try to keep ourselves pure."

I didn't understand. First, it seemed to me like Mary, for whatever reason, got a free ride.


2. Behind a Bar.

"I think we should fuck." I said. "You know, eventually."

She nodded. "Sure."

She was wearing a tight black dress. Red heels. Her figure perfectly accentuated. Her calves thick and full of life. Begging to be grabbed and raised up to my shoulders. Her hair black and long. Her face pale and beautiful.

"When?" She asked.

"I don't know." I was stumbling through my fourth Steel Reserve in twenty minutes, and barely able to keep my spine up, much less my dick. "When I see you next."

We were standing in the back parking lot of a bar. Long time friends. Well, acquaintances, I suppose. We had only hung out a few times, but we had always got along. I think most of that stemmed from the completely unforgiving stirring she gave my tenders.

"Who knows when that will be." She said. "Why not now?"

I smiled. "Well, beautiful, if you haven't noticed, I'm about a breath away from alcohol poisoning."

"I could nurse you back to health." She said, coming in close to me, wrapping her arm around my side.

"You could try." I said.

She tightened her arm around my waist and leaned in to kiss me. I pecked at her lips. "Baby, it just isn't going to happen." I hated myself as soon as I said it. I've wanted it to happen for years. The very idea of it had been the ruin of many a towel and tee shirt.


3. Suicide.

Sometimes, when I look at someone, their sad shuffling, their stretched out sweatpants, their frown, I wonder "Why haven't you killed yourself yet?"

Then, I wonder if anyone has ever thought that about me. A moment of panic sneaks through me and I wonder if I should kill myself. You know, just to be safe.

Of course, I never do. But it's funny to me that it's a thought that can pass so easily. That the idea that I'm not living up to what someone else might consider "the life" is enough to snuff out whatever meek existence I've created. Goddamn, I'm a fucking idiot. A living idiot, but an idiot none the less.

Now, I'm not one of those people who is going to condemn suicide. I have known suicides. I have seen the effects. I have seen the causes. I have strongly considered (as any rational person probably has, regardless of what they tell you) it myself. As someone who knows both sides, I can sympathize.

4. Making Trouble for Myself.

Sometimes, I find myself writing about shit that needs no place recorded. Some opinion, memory, or fantasy.

The Fourth of July with Marie.

"Your hair is really pretty. I like your pretty orange hair." Marie turned to me as we weaved our way through the crowd. "I want pretty orange hair." She looked back to find the Orange-haired Girl, but she was gone. "I want pretty orange hair."

It was the Fourth of July in Lake Henry, a summer tourist town built by mobsters of the twenties and thirties on the remains of a revolutionary war site. Thousands of people swept up and down the sidewalk in tides all around us, filling shops and emptying wallets. Marie was good and drunk and I had to keep a firm grip on her arm so as not to lose her to the crowd. Or the ground.

We had spent the previous hours at the park, under a tree, drinking a couple of bottles worth of wine out of sports bottles, reading Hemingway and wondering where all of the local Indian people had come from recently (besides India). When the wine ran out, we needed to get more, of course, and headed up to the main strip of town.

It was here that it must have hit Marie. The wine. Somewhere in that half-mile stretch. I didn't notice it until the Orange-haired Girl.

"We'll get you orange hair," I said, "come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To get more booze."

"Okay."

We shoved through the sweaty mass of tourists and scene-picking locals.

"Nice tits." Marie said.

I turned to her. "What?"

"That girl. She had nice tits. I told her she had nice tits."

"Okay."

"Douche bag."

I stopped. "Did you just call me a douche bag?"

"No." She turned and pointed. "I called that douche bag a fucking douche bag. Just look at that douche bag."

He was less than ten feet from us and pretending he wasn't listening. I pulled Marie into the doorway of a shop.

"Listen," I said. "You can't do that."

"I think I'm drunk."

"Yes, that's true, and that's fine, but you can't insult people okay?"

"Why?"

"Because if I get in a fight because of you, I'm leaving you here."

Marie frowned at me.

"You can compliment people," I said, "but not insult them. Is that fair?"

"Yes. I guess."

I thought it over for a minute. "Not dudes though. Ignore dudes all together. Compliment girls."

"Okay." She smiled, and looked at the passing crowd. "Nice butt."

I looked. It was. We moved on.

"I'm hungry." She said.

"What do you want to eat?"

"I don't know." She looked around. "I can't read the signs. I think I'm drunk."

"I think you're right." I looked around, across the street. "There's pizza, Indian..."

"Pizza. I want some fucking pizza. Do you want pizza?"

"Sure baby."

I took her hand and we walked up to the crosswalk. A group of about thirty were standing around waiting for the light to change despite the complete lack of traffic. We went across. Hesitantly, the group followed against all pleading of the big orange hand flashing above them on the screen. I thought of the Pied Piper. Rats. The Plague. I was losing my buzz.

On the other side, Marie began to storm into the pizza place, despite a line flowing out of the door.

"Baby, hold on." I said. "There's a line."

"Gay."

"I know." We walked to the end of the line, behind a couple of girls just barely old enough to buy me more wine.

"Hello." Marie said to them.

One of them (a blonde) turned and smiled. The other (brunette) said, "Hello."

"You're very pretty." Marie told the brunette. Then to the blonde; "You too. You're both very pretty."

"Thanks," said the blonde. "You are too." She smiled and I thought I picked up a hint of flirtation, but what the fuck do I know?

Marie pulled in close to me. "They're pretty. I complimented them."

"You did. It was nice of you."

"They're grabbing each others butts."

I looked, and they were.

"It's an invitation." I said.

Marie was looking at the blonde girls ass intently and pointed her finger at it. Then slowly pushed it into the left cheek, and pulled it away. The blonde girl looked over her shoulder and smiled, then squeezed her friends ass again. Images of sweaty four person piles played in my head. I had to remember my jeans were tight, and I thought about the dishes I had to do at home. Marie poked the blonde's ass again.

"You have a nice butt."

The blonde turned around. "Thanks." She peered around Marie's back, and poked. "You too."

Marie giggled. The girls went in and ordered their pizza.

"Was hoping that was going somewhere." I said.

"I bet you were."

We went inside, and Marie kept resting her head on my shoulder. She handed me her credit card and said "You have to do this. I don't see."

"Okay. What do you want? Slice of pepperoni?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"And a garlic knot."

"Okay."

The cook took my order, ran the card and handed me three scalding paper plates, already transparent with grease. "Go outside," I said to Marie.

We went outside, and I told Marie to sit on the curb. The ass-Girls were eating down the street a bit. Marie sat down, and I set the plates down next to her. "It's hot."

I picked up my slice, and in a few bites finished it. Marie just watched me,waiting for hers to cool. "You're done already?"

"I am." I said.

"I can't pick that up ." She said, pointing at the mess of pizza spread across the plate. I picked up her slice, and folded it up neatly, doing my best to keep it from spilling hot grease all over my hand. The cheese kept sliding out and the front of the crust was soaking. "That's gross." She said.

"What is?"

"That wet part."

I ate it.

"Thank you." She said, and I handed her the rest of it. She ate it and the garlic knot, and I asked her; "Do you feel better?"

"A little. I think I feel sick."

"So, not better."

"No. Not better."

"Let's sit for a while then." I said.

"No." She said, getting up. "I want to walk. Let's walk."

"Okay. But if you need to rest, we rest, okay?"

"Okay."

We crossed the street again and headed down toward the beach. Bikinis and shorts were everywhere and I kept expecting more "compliments" and molestation, but Marie had moved past that stage.

"I thought we were more booze?" She said.

"No, we are going to relax for a while."

"Okay. I can't stand." Marie sat down on the sidewalk. I sat down next to her and pointed out at nothing on the lake, pretending that we were just noticing something beautiful in the distance, and not drunk and falling down on the sidewalk. I mouthed nothing in particular, and helped her get back up. We walked over to a nearby bench, and sat. Marie put her head back on my shoulder.

"I love you." She said.

"I love you too honey."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being too drunk."

"Don't be baby. Happens to the best of us. I got you."

"I know. I love you."

"I love you too."

"I have to pee."

"Want to find a bathroom?" I asked.

"No." Marie peeled off her shorts, revealing her bathing suit, stood up, and walked across the beach into the lake and sat down. A few second later, she got back up. I walked over to her.

"Better?" I asked.

"Yes." She put her shorts back on.

Night was rolling in. The fireworks would be starting soon.

"Want to find a place to sit and watch the fireworks?" I asked.

"Okay honey."

We walked up the sidewalk, and found an empty spot on a grassy hill near the town bandstand. The darkness wrapped up around us as the town came together for Americana at its best, and we laid embracing on the hill.

I'm not a fan of fireworks, but being with Marie makes everything beautiful. I kissed the top of her head.

"I love you baby," she said.

Twenty Something Panic.

Is there some sort of civil war inside my head that I don't realize?

FINANCE versus FUN.

FAIRYTALE versus REALITY.

SMILES versus SECURITY.

I often take the side of the lackadaisical, the easy going. The live for today, damn the torpedoes, before the devil, way of thinking. But that doesn't mean that I don't see the other side. That I don't understand certain urgencies and emergencies. Yes, someday I won't be young and good looking and cool. Someday I'll be just another ghost in the forest. Someday, in some crooked realization, I'll say to myself, "I wish I worked harder when I was young. I wish I saved more money. I wish I bought a house." Maybe. It's likely, at the very least.

But on the other hand, I have worked hard (although saving money seems to be nearly impossible) for a long time. I find myself making the same argument for my outlook time and time again. That when I am old, and dying in some pastel hospital room, surrounded by nothing but a lifetime of memories, do I want them to be memories of good times, smiles, laughing, and happiness, or the 124,800 hours of work I spent in my life. In case your Googling is weak, that's 14.2 (ish) years of your life straight working. Not sleeping, eating, or anything else. FOURTEEN FUCKING YEARS that you will devote to being miserable. You might say; "Well, I can afford fourteen years, that's not too long." But you'd be a fucking mad man to believe that.

How long are you alive? 60+ years, hopefully. Do you think that when you are breathing in for the last time. When you are seeing the last fucking thing your brain will ever recognize, when the blackness sweeps over you, do you think you might wish you could have had those fourteen years back. To do as you please. Do you think that you might think to yourself; "A lot of that might have been bullshit..."

Maybe.

Dying terrifies me. I happen to enjoy living, as tedious and difficult as it often is. Wasting time terrifies me. I want to be out. Doing shit people aren't comfortable with doing. Because I can. Because why the fuck not? I want to learn everything. I want to see everything. I want to do everything. And spending the best years of my life locked up in misery, working towards shit I don't really care about, some of it things I am vehemently against, well, I'm sorry, that boat won't float. I just can't.

BUT.

I want to be able to eat. I want to be able to pay my bills. Give my children happy lives. I want to be able to afford the things I want to do.

So where is the line? Do I work more to save the money and miss out on a million opportunities (mostly completely not lucrative at all, financially)? Or, do I throw caution to the wind, do my thing, and live that brilliant romantic existence portrayed in our heads by the starving artists of New York, or Paris. The wind surfing drifters of Australia. The eternally young and beautiful. Both seem like lifestyles unsustainable to me. I will work myself into misery, dreaming of the sea. Or, I will live that boundless freedom, only to realize in a few years, maybe longer, that I am a fucking idiot, who didn't know anything.

How do I not waste my life?

I can't fucking win.

Let's Drink Some Wine and Talk about Love.

The worst human experience is unrequited love. Why do you think there are so many poems, films, books, and songs about it?

"I love you, you don't love me."

(actually, I think I may have just made a case for it being the most inspiring, and therefore positive human experience.)

I believed for a long time that I was a member of the Mass Loveless. That all of the emotion I had stored up in my chest vault was all for naught. That I pined and hoped against hope that I would be loved as I loved. That weight above your lungs. That hole. You look in the mirror and all you can see is the absence of the target of your desires. The void. The loneliness. Call it whatever you want. If you know the sheer hell of it, you need no specific name. If you have known it and moved past it, you probably don't need a reminder.

For me, the worst part was looking in the eyes of the girl I loved. You look at their body, and you are able to justify your craving as something primal. Sexual. Easily explainable. But when I looked in her eyes, I could see so much more. I could see outside of time and even what I thought of as reality. A future. A wild, passionate, endless romance. I saw embraces among fireflies. Caresses as I awoke. I saw family thanksgivings thirty years down the line. And the end of life, as we were old and looking back on decades of life together. A beautiful life, unacheivable by any other means.

But, at the same time, I saw a life without. A life alone. Where will I end up without you? Will anything mean anything if you aren't there to share it with me? Why live, if I cannot live with you? This, understandably, sounds childish. Adolescent at best, but if you have ever had that pull for someone, that knowledge, then you know that immaturity has no place there. Insanity, maybe, but a wholly adult insanity. For example, if you are with someone now, and you have not considered whether or not life may not be worth living without them, then you don't love them. I'm sorry. It's true. Love is reckless, crazy, divide-by-zero madness. Against all reason and science. If you don't understand that, then you are yet to truly fall in love. And I am both happy and sad for you.

Hence, the pain.

You see, while love can kill a man otherwise invincible, while love can reduce a kingdom to ashes, a life to memories, a dream to despair, it can also breathe miracles. It can explode your life with a color and vibrancy previously unknown to you. Unknowable, in fact. A level ONLY achieved through love. Love can lift a man beyond all reasonable limits, all limitations. Love can take a broken, empty man, fill him with life, hand him dreams, and change the fucking world. There is no better reason to make something of your day than hearing your partner whisper in your ear "I'm proud of you." Than to know you are loved. Than to know you are desired and needed above all other things. To be looked upon with such passion and compassion. Love is truly unexplainable with words. Both the benefits and risks, but let me try now:

Avoid love at all costs. Unless you can't.

(Audio Version: Let's Drink Some Wine and Talk about Love. by AsaMorris )