Seven A.M., Halloween Morning.

It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011. I was supposed to be up for work an hour ago, but plans changed and now I am just up. I took two diet pills and am on my third cup of coffee, sitting alone in my dark living room, typing furiously and deleting doubly so while I wait for Marie to wake up. I'm trying to catch the dream state before it disappears entirely. There's a cloud in my head and it's filled with all of those thoughts I swear I think, all of the perfectly articulated stories, characters, plans, plots, and places. It's bursting with life, world, and mind changing ideas, my cloud.

So I try to catch it. Hope to write some of it down. Leave behind some record of dawning eureka.

What about the diet pills? The coffee? Shouldn't I ease up on the caffeine if I am trying to catch some waking dream by the tail? Probably. But I didn't.

The original plan was to eat better, lose a little weight (starting today, of course), sip my coffee in bed next to Marie and read some Hem shorts. It wasn't until halfway through "Fifty Grand" and three cups of coffee that I realized what brilliant blur of colors and moods, faces and words were whipping through me, being sucked out of me with each passing moment. I haven't had a drink in a week. I need every chance I can get.

I spilled my fucking coffee down the front of me as I burst out of bed.

"Shut up," Marie said from under her pillow as I clamored over the bed frame and through to the door.

I had to get to the computer. This was a typing situation.

But now, here I am. Staring at the screen, eyes burning, heart beating, thinking to myself: Well, what now? It's Halloween. I should write something with a chill to it, right? Or is that too expected? Maybe I should write about what I did this week? Well, fuck. I have been doing that all year. Well, then what?

I realize I lost the Cloud. It moved on, back over the desert of my subconscious, waiting for alcohol or sleep, or a mid-day thunderstorm inconveniently exploding to life while I am driving or calling the I.R.S. or fucking. The Cloud has moved on and I read back all of the words on my screen.

"It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011..."

Fuck.

Bistro Chair.

I had just finished playing a show and had already had much more to drink than I should have. That's one of the perks of being in a popular band: people are more than happy to help you make an asshole of yourself.

The night was warm and Michael and I were sitting outside of the bustling club, under a tent at one of a few bistro tables scattered around. The show had ended about twenty minutes before and already I had had a line of drinks set up around me that people had brought over. I began to count them. Six shots of whiskey. Two glasses, two cans, and one bottle of various beers, and a glass of red wine. A girl had brought that over, instantly becoming my favorite person so far in the evening. Most nights people bought us a few drinks, but tonight was a flood and for that I was thankful, because I was desperately trying to keep calm.

Across the parking lot, in front of the doors of the club, sat a fellow I had been waiting to run into for the better half of a decade. A fellow who had stepped on my toes, who had stolen my dance, who had pissed me off.

Michael was talking. I wasn't listening.

Someone gave me another glass of wine. Another girl.

"Good show," she said, and kept on talking.

I smiled and said thank you. I tried to be grateful and kind, but I couldn't bring myself to back down. I drank her glass.

"You know if you ever want..." she said.

I didn't. All I wanted, all I could dream of, all in my universe of stars and fire and chaos and endless limitless abyss, was the sound of my bistro chair as it broke teeth, eye sockets, skull, vertebrae. As it tore and smashed, ripped and crushed, over and over and over and over...

My eyes burned. The girl was gone. I took two of the shots.

The fucker.

The mongrel.

The cunt.

"James."

My muscles were booze soaked and bursting.

"James."

The scales between my revenge and my reputation were tipping with each drink. My need to behave began to diminish. I drank two more shots.

"James. What the fuck?" Michael.

I looked at him. "You see that guy?"

"What guy?"

I nodded in the direction.

"In the scarf?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"That's him," I said. "Alex." My body burned. Even sitting, my balance was faltering.

"Alex?"

"The guy I told you about the other day."

"The toe stepper?"

"Is that what I said?"

"Yeah."

"I guess so then," I said.

Alex looked at me, then away, and back to me. I could see him realize who I was.

"You going to be all right?" Michael asked.

"I'm going to kill him."

"He's not worth the trouble."

I drank the last two shots. "No, maybe not. But a man doesn't let someone get away with that shit."

"A man let's it go," Michael said.

I couldn't.

Michael stood up. "Before you do anything, come with me."

"To where?"

"Just come with me." He began walking back into the club. "Come on."

I got up, took two of the beers with me, and followed. Alex kept his eyes on me as I walked. I was still together enough to try to fight the urge, so I looked forward, smiled, and faked a conversation with Michael as we passed.

We moved through the crowd and the dark. A DJ was on stage. The smell of sweat and gallons of perfume filled the air. I saw a couple of guys with popped collars and wondered who did that still. A girl in tiny white shorts, choking a beautiful ass.

Michael pulled me aside, into the bathroom. "Look in the mirror," he said.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

I did. "So?"

"Take some deep breaths. Splash some water on your face."

"I'm fine."

"Just..."

"For fuck's sake!" I turned on the faucet and let it run into my hands before throwing it at my face. See?! Fucking fine!"

Michael smiled, holding a laugh. "You look retarded. Just relax man. It's not worth getting arrested over."

I looked back into the mirror. My hair was a mess, my shirt drenched with sweat, beer, and now water. My eyes looked sunken. "You don't understand."

"I know man. The guy's a scumbag. The things he did were unforgivable. You have every right to want to kill him, and no one would ever think other wise, but you can't. You aren't that guy. You're better than that. You know it and I know it."

I took the deep breaths. "I think I have to get out of here."

"Okay man."

"Can you and Grant grab my gear when you leave?"

"Sure. Come one. Come to the bar first. Let's have one more, and then we'll walk you to your car."

"Okay."

We left the bathroom and out into the S.T.D. pool. Despite my anger and my opinion on the young, rich, and carefree, I can't help but stare at small shorts or tight dresses. It numbs the hostility for a second.

I take a stool at the bar. Michael sits next to me.

"What do you want?" He asks.

"Whatever the next girl buys me."

He laughs. "Wouldn't Marie be pissed if she knew girls were buying you drinks?"

"No. I'm saving a ton of cash and being a complete asshole to them. She'd be proud."

"You're probably right," he said. "Until then though, how about a whiskey?"

"Okay. Double. Neat."

He flagged the bartender over. "Can of PBR for me. Whiskey double for my friend. Neat."

The bartender nods and hands him his beer. A few seconds later, me my whiskey. I swallow it fast. No bullshit.

"I'm just so fucking angry," I said.

"I know man. Let it go. You'll be happy you did in the morning."

"I know. You're right."

He finishs his beer and we order another round. I'm smiling. Feeling good. Some of the other musicians from the night come over and buy me drinks. An hour goes by as I laugh, drink, and watch legs and asses sway. Life is beautiful. Even in the midst of all you despise, it can be beautiful.

I start to feel weak. I have officially passed my limit. "Time to go," I tell Michael.

"To your car?"

"Yeah."

"You okay to drive?"

"Not right now, but by the time we walk across this fucking town to it I will be."

"Okay."

We stand up. Say our goodbyes. Finish our drinks. Everything had turned out fine. We pass through the crowd again, and by the door I spy a poster for the show with us at top billing. It makes me feel good, as little as it actually means.

We step outside and in a chair, Alex sits by the gate.

My brain lights up. "Hey! Asshole!"

He looks at me like he doesn't recognize me.

"You know who I am!" I say I stamped over to him.

"Nope."

"Fuck you!" I kick the back of his chair, just behind his shoulder. The chair falls over and he spills out onto the pavement.

"James!" Michael grabs my arm.

I barely hear him, and don't give a shit.

Alex begins to get up and people are shouting around me.

"You fucking asshole," he says.

I could only see him. Pinpoint focus. I am fire. I am a black hole. I am Hell itself. I can't speak.

Before he can get to his feet I run up and kick him under his chin. Something cracks. He hits the pavement again and spits out blood. Bent over, grabbing his side, he says; "James..."

"James!" Michael says.

I barely hear either.

"James! I'm sorry!"

Fuck him. Fuck his apologies. Alcohol raged through me like gasoline. I kickhis face hard with my heel.

"I warned you!" I say. "I fucking warned you!"

Alex rolls onto his back. I look around me. Watching for bouncers. A thousand onlookers, no bouncers. I wonder if Alex was the shittiest fucking bouncer. I see a bistro chair and grab it.

I pick up the chair. "Get up."

Alex just looks at me.

"Get up!"

"I'm sorry."

"Get the fuck up."

He comes to his knees, then stands. "Just please, let's talk."

"James! Stop!" Michael is yelling behind me.

I swing the chair. It hits Alex across his face. Without resistance, like empty clothes, he falls to the ground again. He doesn't move.

I drop the chair, and walk out the gate, drunk, vindicated, and immediately wishing I had listened to Michael.

A Mother's Air

I walked along beside the road, crunching dried orange leaves littering the sidewalk. Evening was coming but it was already dark. A storm could have been waiting. The air was cold and sharp and when I breathed it in it was fresh. Not clouded with barbecues, or laughs, or thick with heat and freedom. No, it was restricting and comforting all at once. A mother's air.

My hair knocked around in the breeze. A long tattered parachute, filling and emptying with each stride, each passing car.

I had been sitting at my empty house all day, filling out paperwork and staring out the window. Over the past few weeks I had begun to feel more and more like a shut in. The neighborhood recluse. Shuffling patterns into the carpet and keeping the hours of some Lovecraftian mad man. But I played no cosmic nightmare anywhere other than in my head. I was beginning to go mad alone and unnoticed. Locked up in the wood paneling of my living room, illuminated by the glow of blank pages on my computer screen. Things were fine. I wasn't.

So, I decided I needed to get the fuck out of the house.

I dug my coat out of the closet, put head phones in my ears, and let a sad man sing me sad songs while I tried to cheer myself up.

The trees were baring. Little by little their oranges and yellows and reds were falling away revealing only thin grey skeletons. People always saw leaves, never trees.

The street lamps hadn't come on yet. It left the world in a state similar to abandonment. There were no cars. No people on porches. Only myself, and the air around me. I stared up at the sky. The peaks of roofs scraping gently against it. It's clouds were motionless, grey and white, thick and endless. I loved autumn, but it was never any good for me. As I walked I thought about the weight it placed on my chest every year. The inescapable sadness. I tried to figure it out. Sure, there were things in my life that had happened in the fall, but I didn't think it was that. There had been plenty of shit in other seasons. Perhaps it was the death of everything. The dying leaves. The dying summer. The dying carelessness. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I had walked almost a mile, and came to a bench. As I approached it, I flipped a coin in my head. Sit, or walk.

I sat.

The bench was cold against the back of my pants, but it was nice to sit and let the air settle around me. Together, we stared out at the skyline of the town and wondered if there was love in those windows. Or regret. Or indifference, perhaps the saddest of them all. The Air and I looked out at our world and I thought: I am okay.

You are, the Air thought back to me.

I sat on the bench until my hands went numb, and then the Air escorted me home in silence, patting my back every once in a while, letting me know that it was always there, I wasn't alone.

Prelude to Massachusetts

The alarm went off at quarter to five. I was leaving at seven, but I had begun to set it early enough back to be able to hit the snooze button as many times as possible. It went off, and I woke up. I hit the button, and lied back down, staring into the darkness. I wanted to go back to sleep. I was having a particularly nice dream about Marie, a tight red dress and a mystery woman. I couldn't though. I just lied there, dreading. Dreading the nine minutes until the alarm went off again. Dreading the hour until I had to actually get out of bed, and dreading the two hours and fifteen minutes until I was to officially start my day.

I hadn't been able to actually speak to Marie since yesterday morning, when she happened to be up pissing when I left. I wondered if I would be able to convince here to start waking up with me so we might be able to see each other.

I pulled my body closer to hers. Her back rose and fell with each gentle breath. Heat wafted off of her and called me. 'Closer James. Come closer.' I did. Her skin was soft, smooth, flawless. I ran my fingers slowly down her side, from shoulder to thigh, and back up around the front. Up her stomach, to her breast. I wrapped my arm tight around her, and pulled her in.

The darkness. The heat. The woman I love. Three reasons to stay buried here in bed, this perfect adult womb.

Three reasons to drag my ass out into the world, to sustain it.

The alarm continued to go off every nine minutes, and I hit the snooze button each time, until 5:45. Then, with a deep sigh, a heavy heart, and a crushing sense of responsibility and honor, I sat up, turned off the alarm, and turned on the light.

It was a needle to my eyes. I shut them quick, and slowly opened them again in increments. When they adjusted, I stood up, and walked to the bathroom to piss.

I took my shower, got dressed in a uniform I was already resenting (I was not allowed to show tattoos, which I had, and therefore had to wear long sleeves each day, regardless of temperature), and had my coffee alone at the dining room table, staring out through the window at the cold black morning, and waited for Justin and the morning light.

Eventually they both came. One more welcome than the other.

I remembered to bring two water bottles with me. The green one, and a steel one. I left the house, walked down my driveway, and climbed up into Justin's company van.

"Good morning," I said, buckling.

"Morning. Ready to work?"

"I suppose so. Where are we today?"

He motioned for the clipboard on the dash. "Check the paperwork."

"You can't say?"

"I want you to get used to the paperwork."

"Okay." I checked the paper work. It was simple enough to understand. Look for the addresses in the top left corner. We had four sheets. In Massachusetts.

"Mass?" I asked.

"Yes sir. Going to be a long day."

"Great."

I leaned back and watched the world wake up as we drove in two hours of silence to our first job.

The Floor and Everything After

I woke up on the floor. My phone was buzzing somewhere across the room. It was dark. I tried to stand but tripped and fell into the bannister.

"Fuck!" I wanted to say.

"Flgurph..." is what came out.

I could see the light from my phone flashing excitedly on the table. I stumbled over to it.

Marie.

I tried to answer, but my thumbs wouldn't cooperate, and she hung up. It was the fourth missed call.

The world was a shifting, dizzying haze of color and weight, all in the dark.

How the fuck did I end up on the floor?

I remembered. Too much wine, too fast. I called Marie back.

It rang and rang and split my skull open.

"Where the fuck are you?" She asked.

"Hon. Home," was all I could manage to get out.

"What the hell, James?!"

"I'm sorr... I fell sleep."

"Fuck you," she said.

"Honey..." She had already hung up. I looked at the clock. I was supposed to pick her up from work an hour ago.

"Fughxck."

I couldn't understand how I slept so long, or why I had been on the goddamned floor. I kept trying to think about it, but my brain swam in my head and it was no use. I was still drunk. I had to get Marie.

I grabbed my keys off of the table and ran outside. I got in the car, backed out and raced off to her. Now, I know this is how accidents happen. Criminal negligence. I know and I am not condoning it, but as any drunk will tell you in the moment: drinking and driving is easy.

I flew across town. Cars streaked by. Huge orange cones of street lamp light dotted the road. The radio was so loud.

I saw Marie walking down the road with our laundry in hand. She had done it at work. Goddamn it I am a piece of shit. I drove past her to turn around. She glared at me with full arms.

I turned around and rolled up to her. "Hey. Get in," I said through the open window.

"Fuck you."

"Just get the fuck in."

She threw the laundry in through the window, hitting me, causing my foot to hit the gas and I jerked the wheel, bursting off a little to the left. I slammed the brake. "What the hell?!"

"Are you seriously driving drunk?!"

"I was doing fine until you threw the fucking laundry at me!"

She tore open the door and got in. "Don't fucking kill us."

I pulled up to the light. Looked left, right, left again. Used my blinker, and slowly turned. We coasted down the street at a smooth thirty, braking and accelerating completely by the book.

"So, what the fuck happened?" She asked.

"I fell asleep."

"You mean you passed out."

"I guess. I just fell asleep."

"And you didn't hear your phone?"

"It's on vibrate, and it was across the room."

"Then you decided you'd make me happy by driving drunk LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT and telling me to get the fuck in?!"

I didn't know what to say.

We got home and I stumbled out of the car.

"Asshole," Marie said.

I got up to the front door and realizes I had left it open. I went in hoping Marie didn't notice.

She followed me in. "Go to bed."

"Why? I want to be with you."

"No. I don't want to see you."

"I'm sorry hon. It won't hap again."

"No," she said. "I don't want to be near you at all. You're all fucking slurring and drunk. Just get the fuck away from me. Go to fucking bed."

She wouldn't look me in the eyes. That meant she wasn't just pissed off, she was hurt. I was an asshole.

I went to the bedroom, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.

In the dark, with a gut full of cheap wine, I should have passed out immediately. Me eyes were heavy, my body weak, but my heart, my heart and my head were alive and not so well.

I'm such an asshole. She just wanted a ride home from work. She did our laundry. She always does. She probably had a long day, and just wanted to come home and lie down with me, but I decided to get drunk in the middle of the day until I passed out on the fucking floor, not even thinking about driving to get her later. I am a huge, selfish prick.

I lay there, and I just wanted her to know how sorry I was. How much I loved her. How it would never happen again. But I knew I shouldn't go out there. She didn't want to see me. It would only make things worse.

I got up.

Stumbling through the obstacle room, I got up to the door, opened it and found my way to the living room. Marie was on the couch. She looked over at me.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I want to be near you.

She sighed, and slid back against the couch, making room. "Come on."

I walked over and laid down in my lady's arms. She held me.

"This never happens again."

"I know," I said.

"I love you, but I am really, really pissed at you."

"I love you too."

I fell asleep as she watched a show about meth cooks.

Basements

It was my second day in the field. Justin was talking to me again, acting as if we didn't spend the whole day before in awkward silence over something so petty. I carried on conversations with him and tried to pretend I didn't think him a self-important cunt. I imagined he was doing the same.

We were in Albany again. Something that apparently rarely happens. I was in the basement of a two story duplex watching Justin's drill bit bore through the floor into the basement making small one inch holes every ten feet, or every bedroom. I had the job of feeding wire up to him. He drilled and would call down "All right, feed the wire up. The one in the box." Every time. There was only one box of wire down here. I wondered if he was trying to agitate me. The whole fucking job agitated me. It was the second hundred degree day in a row outside, and in the sweltering basement, worse. I had been watching Justin. I had been paying attention (mostly) in class, but it wasn't sinking in. We had four stops that day, and apparently two of them were big jobs. I asked Justin in the van that morning what time we might be home. "Assume bedtime," he had said. We had left at seven in the morning.

I was tired. Irritated. Covered in sweat and I had forgotten to bring any water. All I wanted to do was go home.

"Feed the wire up. It's in that box!"

I glared at the floor above me. "What?"

"The wire! Feed it up!"

"Where is it?" If he was going to be a cunt, then so was I.

"It's in that box next to you!"

"The wire box?"

"Yes!"

"How much?"

"Until I tell you to stop!"

"Okay. The wire box, right?"

"God damn it!"

I heard something hit the floor above me, and then the stomping of his work boots. He was coming down to do it for me. Good, I thought. Fuck him.

He stormed down the stairs. "Right there. Behind you. The wire in the box." He walked up to me, behind me, and yanked the wire. It spun on it's plastic spindle and tore the cardboard around it. He looked for his fresh hole, found it, and jammed the wire into it. He shoved more and more in there, and I watched with a raised eyebrow. I wondered if I was taking my hostility for the job out on him.

"Don't be a god damned idiot!" He said.

Well, I was doing that.

Later that evening, I was sitting in the van while Justin waited on hold with the corporate office to approve activation of our third job for the day. We had been on the scene for six hours and the customers were beginning to be a little short with us.

I had been trying to hold back my sarcasm and general shit-headedness after the issue in the basement. The job didn't seem hard, by any means, but for whatever reason, I just couldn't wrap my head around it. The connection types. The box types. The paperwork. None of it was making any sense to me, but I was determined to do this job. I was determined to show all of those cavemen in my class that I was the best of them. I was determined to make Marie realize I wasn't a massive shit. So, I was doing my best to keep my mouth shut, and hope that Justin knew how to train me.

The hold music was a ten second loop of an electric organ playing the first twenty or so notes of what sounded a lot like the theme to Sesame Street. The speaker on the phone was broken and the music was coming out was distorted and sharp. Over and over. The sun was setting. The air cooling. I looked at the clock on the dash. I had ten minutes until I had been on the clock for twelve hours, and we still had one job left.

"What's the next job?" I asked.

"Just a service call a few blocks over. With any luck, we should be in and out."

"Cool." I went back to staring dully out of the van, wishing I was home. Over and over, the I had no idea how to get to Sesame Street.

I wondered what Marie was doing right then. Was she at work? Had she come home yet? I wanted to text her but my phone battery had died a few hours ago. I missed her. I was thirsty. Exhausted from the heat.

Justin's call went through, and we left to the final job. After re-wiring the entire basement and installing all new boxes, we were in and out, in two and a half hours.

Justin dropped me off at eleven. Marie was already asleep. I took off my boots, peeled off my clothes layered with dried sweat, pissed, got three long drinks of water, set the alarm for five, and lay down in the dark. I curled up next to Marie.

Only one day left in the week.

Writers

I have a lot of favorite stories about writers.

Ernest Hemingway telling a reporter it takes about a "half inch" of whiskey to finish a paragraph.

Charles Bukowski telling his publicist that when he writes the stories, he gets to not be the drunken asshole on the plane.

Roald Dahl nearly beating a man to death in a Swedish airport.

Okay, that last one may have been a lie, but regardless, writers are beautiful. Lunatics. History makers. Story tellers. Drinkers.

They are your favorite uncle. Your tribe historian. The men (and women, yes) responsible for the emotion of a group. The memory. The folks who gather you around the fire, and through smoke and mystery, tell you how it was. It doesn't matter if it is accurate or not, they send the heroes on their quests. They bring the loves together. They lull you to sleep and keep you awake with excitement.

Just one more page, you say. One more story.

Fuck, without writers, we'd have no history. No Alexander the Great, who conquered the world, and claimed its most beautiful woman as his prize. No Shakespeare, no matter who or what he really was. No Christ. Imagine that. No Christ. No Buddha, no Mohammed, No Christ. Perhaps I've begun to make an argument for the world better without writers.

Shit.

Let me backtrack.

Writers are madmen. Dreamers of immeasurable depth, unbeatable loneliness, and incomprehensible brilliance. You see, they don't just write those pretty words, strung into tolerable sentences, with any luck left in your brain and heart for decades to come, no. They also think about it. They see the world around them and say 'this should be recorded, somehow. This is my world, and it should be known.' They see more value in their world, in your world, than anyone else. They are the reason you speak your language. The reason your country has history. The reason you can read this. And with any luck, the reason you can think now of your favorite quote, passage, or story.

Writers are the invisible girders holding this cunt of a world together. They are the spokes in the wheel. The grapes in the wine. They are your perception. Whether you like it or not.

Someday, I hope to be one.