There are flies on the television screen that is broadcasting the news. I can barely hear the jabber as it is being filtered through buzzing, outside music and sirens. The cat sleeps at my feet, snoring. I have trained my ear to hear that snoring sound through all the other noise because it is a comforting sound. He is a paranoid cat and I know that if he is sleeping, I can relax. But I can never relax because there is always noise and light. I have this grand ability to throw myself to the ground by just thinking about falling. I can mentally push myself down the stairs. I can imagine dumping a beer on my head with such detail that I go crazy and can't settle down until I dump a beer on my head, satisfying the desire, then sit on the couch and feel cold suds drip down my face while I watch flies eat the news. Some days I want to throw myself into traffic because I can image what it feels like to get hit by a car but that itch beneath my skin, in my bones won't leave me alone until I feel that steel break my spine, my head breaking that windshield...I don't know how to fake that feeling. Punching myself and running into walls doesn't cut it.
Sometimes I don't want to leave my apartment because I might have to walk past another human being. If I see someone three blocks away on one side of the street, I cross and walk on the other side of the street. When there is a line at the convenience store to buy lottery tickets and all I want is some beef jerky, I fall into a trance staring at all the canned beans. Then someone yells at me "next!" and I forget why I was in line, so I buy lottery tickets.
I walk to the bus stop and wait. I stand next to an automobile body repair shop. I breathe in fumes and listen to the cheap FM radio that seems to be programmed to the "Steve Winwood" channel. Whatever channel that is. But I've heard "Valerie" and "Higher Love" too many times while standing on that corner waiting for a bus to take me to work.
Once I stood on the corner with 20 Indian people, each with a child. It seemed strange. Why here? I mean there are worse places but why this random corner. Then I realize that while I was dreaming, the world moved in.
It took him awhile but eventually after three beers and two Long Islands he exposed himself, no, not his cock, why he was here or anywhere. He was a tough looking black guy, had a twisted beard that went down for about a foot. Built. He could kill me. But I've been in this business for long enough to know, that I want to die.
"Been a long day," he says and buys another Heinekein. "Yeah, doing what?" I ask. "Working on a screenplay," he says. "Well, learning how to sell one, actually."
He tells me about his movie ideas and I understand why he's alone and looking for some blow and a hooker.
He starts talking to this guy at the bar who managed to con his way into enough conversations garnering him enough free drinks that he's had several Glenlivets, period. Now the screenplay guy is face to face with this cheap asshole guy and as it turns out, they were both in the armed services. One in the Navy, one in the Army. And they trade stories about wanting to fuck women in foreign countries but you know they both have the newspaper articles in the drawer somewhere, the tiny headline is the same "American Rapes..." Take away the "n"...America rapes...
And so an old friend walks into the bar and tells me that this guy we both know has been sharing heroin needles and "has it all"and "he thought losing his hair was a problem, he'll be dead in a week."
"You need a drink? " I ask, "Dan, I'm so fucking high I've hit the bottom side of the sidewalk six times tonight. I just came in to tell you that your friend is going to die soon." She left.
I turned out the lights.
"Who is going to sell cigarettes and gas at that time of night?" I thought about my friend. "There are plenty of dumb assholes," I thought, "Don't worry."
"No last call?!" everyone yelled.
"Last call," I whispered and poured Sunday night final vodka tonics and scotches on ice and "I won't call it because you'll charge me more" well bourbon and gingers. I opened up a few more bottles of beers and got invited to the grand party that only exists in the minds of those that had too many.
I've had...several, in my time.
"Thanks, but I can't party here." I responded politely.
"Where are you going?" he asked. Damn. I saw him put his wedding ring in his pocket and he looked like he was panting.
"Away." I said and he got it quickly, thankfully.
I cleared the room and shut out the lights. I watched the donut shop across the street. Drunk assholes. Homeless assholes. Hungry assholes. Assholes, everyone.
I started to cash out. I opened my register. Outside, a fat girl lifted her shirt up and pressed her waterbag tits up against the glass. Then she motioned to the money in my hand and pointed to her vagina. "Stick it in!" I could barely hear her through the glass.
I didn't flinch. I just needed to get out. I dropped the money, took mine, bought some beer from the convenience store and and got a cab to take me home.
I got home and turned on the TV. It woke up the flies. They started buzzing again and eating the news channel. I couldn't find the remote control so I just kept popping beers and staring at the flies.
The cat was snoring and in my ears I could hear air raid sirens. I could feel the walls explode and bash my skull and tear at my skin. I could feel the heat. I could feel it, it was so real that my heart pumped and I sweat. I could feel glass explode behind me and tear at my scalp and shoot it forward and pin it on the wall before everything burst into flames.
Then I grabbed another beer and the cat snored and the world wasn't scorched.
Because it was so real in my mind, I felt let down, in some way. I passed out and nightmared about punching in. Here, there, anywhere. There is and will never be any comfort in my mind.
