Written Feb-Mar 2007
Amended April 2012
(An OLD MAN dodders onto the stage. He is dressed in an overused tweed jacket, blown-out corduroy pants, and a porkpie hat. About halfway to CENTER STAGE he sees and acknowledges the crowd, a smile blooms on his face. He begins to ham it up, does a simple soft-shoe routine that looks well-rehearsed, and ends in a big flourish. Whatever the audience's reaction, he continues:)
OLD MAN: Ahhh... If this was 50 years ago, you'd be rollin' in the aisles! Bah!...
(He moves over to a chair at CENTER STAGE and sits down.)
OLD MAN: Oh, that was a long time ago. I can still remember like it was yesterday. I've played bars, nightclubs, subways, Vegas resorts. First show I did was like the first woman I ever made love to. But better. Nothing more intoxicating than that. Beloved Fortuna, as the Medievals called her. The love of the crowd. Oh, but she's a harsh mistress. Worst of the bunch. Chew you up and spit you out, she will. But you love every minute of it.
Started out as a song-and-dance man. Worked the burlesque circuit. Gin joints and dive bars all around Chicago. Dancing girls and rowdy crowds, smoky rooms. Played the violin. Other guy danced a jig, took a couple of girlies and galloped around the stage. Stood in a corner and played Stravinsky, a little soft shoe. Did that two shows a night, three nights a week. Fun life. (He laughs.) Yeah. First couple months. Do a hundred shows of the same crap, see how you feel. Got fed up. One night in Berwyn, had my fill. Old guy's foppin' around the barroom floor. Lookin' like Harold Lloyd in drag. Idiot. Stopped playin' the Stravinsky. Called him a bastard. Dances like a frilly litle monkey in heat. Audience roared. And I saw her. Fortuna! That's when Fortuna came into my life. After that show, people came up by the bushel. Gig after gig, people offerin' me jobs. Put down the violin and talked. I became a bona-fide star!
Fortuna came in and seduced my life. Moved up from working gin joints to hotels and night clubs. People loved sittin' around listenin' to me talk about crap. Fortuna, she plucked me out like an orphan from a rainstorm. Placed me in the public eye. Got a job playing vaudeville houses. Professional heckler. Show would come on the stage, two guys juggling fire or a woman with an elephant or some whatnot. I'd come in, sit down near the stage. Start throwin' things at 'em. Call 'em crap. Boo 'em, hiss 'em. Ushers try to grab me, I'd get outta their way. Cross aisles. Put on some other guy's hat. Lead 'em on a chase in and ou of the theater. Like that Scooby-Doo nonsense. Did that the whole show. End up on stage. Spotlight would hit me. Emcee says, “Ladies and gentlemen, The Heckler!” Standing ovations. Every time. Every town. Toured the Midwest circuit, Chitlin circuit, Appalacian circuit, every stinkin' circuit they had. Fortuna with me every step of the way. Every show. I played more and more gigs. Met more people. Wined and dined. I remember one year, Kansas City, my birthday. Fortuna treated me like a king. After shows were over, she escorted me to a casino. Played the slots all night. Gourmet dinner. Then saw this blues musician on stage. Fabulous show. Great time. Didn't cost me a dime. Then there was the Dells. Played one a' them huge resorts in the Wisconsin Dells. Packed house, thousands of people. Afterwards, escorted to my room by the seductive Ms. Fortuna. That night, was sittin' in one a' them hot spring pools outside. Cold January night, snow was sprinklin' off the roofs. Water was nice, beautiful and warm. Glass of champagne in my hand. Looked up at that glistenin' sky, raised my foggy glass. Knew at that point, was livin' the life made for kings and fakers. This was Shangri-la. And I owed it all to my beloved Fortuna.
Kept performin' that way, 10 years. All around the country. Canada, too. Same theaters, same crowds, same act. Killed 'em every time. But that Fortuna... ooh, she got ornery. Tryin' to tell me to move on. Get a new racket. Feh. Square peg inna round hole. I'm a heckler. I heckle. Damn good at it, too. Ain't broke, don't fix it. Damn bitch got on my nerves. Naggin' little voice in my head. “You're gonna burn out.” “One-trick pony.” “Has-been.” Pah. She never done show business. Thinks she's queen 'cause she's popular. Bullcrap. Don't need her. Don't need her fancy resorts and casino passes. Don't need nothin'. Can do it on my own. Got myself up here, I can take off from here. Screw her. Screw everyone.
So I kept doin' it. Ten years. Did my biggest show in fronta Kennedy. Twenty thousand people at the Lincoln Memorial, and I call ol' Honest Abe a nutbag. Heh. Audience roared. Kennedy, kid called me a National Treasure. Then, poor man got shot. Johnson didn't care. Nixon didn't care. Soon, nobody care. Years later, could hardly pack a room. Had people yankin' my coat in the crowd, pushin' me in the seats. Hecklin' me. Heh. Hecklin' the heckler. Copycats started sproutin' up. Workin' a dead show in Memphis, some guy stealin' my act in Minnesota. I'm dyin' in Houston, some heckler's killin' in Charlotte. In Cleveland. Chicago. Some bastard in Chicago's getting' bigger laughs with my act. My hometown. Bullcrap.
So I went back. Had to start all over again. Dirty jokes 'n too much gin. Had some doozies, too. Feh. Gin joints get tough audiences. Rough. Throwin' stuff at me. Bottles. Chairs. Tore lamps off the roof 'n threw them. Stopped doin' shows. Couldn't play a street corner. Everywhere I go, somebody gotta be funny. Rip my sleeve. Steal my hat. Knock me down 'n call me names. Buncha savages in this town.
Gin joints, heh. Took the gin part home with me. Went home, found a bottle, crawled inside, twenty years. No calls. No visits. Nothin'. For performer, loneliest sound in the world is a phone that never rings. Like that tree fallin' in the forest. You got talent 'n no one's interested, does it matter? Heh. Still waitin' for the answer.
Every day that goes by, still think about her. Can't stop. She was the greatest part of my life. Exciting. Passionate. 'Course, she's the biggest bitch in my life. Bossy. Manipulative. (laughs.) Yep. She's a firecracker. Amazing. Still remember that first time I saw her. Fortuna. I'm on stage takin' the piss outta my partner. And I see her. Walkin' down the main aisle. Sleek, smooth, voluptuous vixen, slinkin' through the seats. Skin pale and delicate as cigarette smoke. Hair, velvety 'n aromatic as whiskey spirits. She was magnetic, intoxicating. She was a vision, a goddess as she floated all the way from the back of the house to the orchestra pit. All eyes were on her. Her eyes were on me. Then she bounded over 'n join me up on stage, stood in my spot. Then, all eyes were on me. (Beat.) Oh, if I could just have one last day with her. Just one hour. Just to talk. Swear I'll never leave again. You were right. You were right. (looks at the audience.) You were right. Had my best interests at heart. Love you, baby. Need you, baby. Come back to me. Swear I'll treat you good this time, swear I'll treat you good.
(Beat. Another Beat. OLD MAN looks off into the audience, and a smile reblooms across his face. He gets up from his chair, starts to do another soft-shoe routine, ends with another big flourish. Whatever the response from the audience, he then pulls a flask out from his jacket and takes a big swig.)
OLD MAN: Bastards.
(The OLD MAN exits Stage Right. Lights fade out.)
07 April 2012
06 July 2010
Moving...
...again.
And it's all too weirdly familiar.
Friend called me out of the blue this past Saturday. Knows the bombshelter. A mutual friend sharing a room at her pad doesn't use it much anymore. Lease is up August 1. Rent's cheaper here, though digital cable and utilities kinda even it out. Gotta kitchen, though, straight-on 1960s nostalgia complete with dual-oven range, but there's a full-size fridge, dishwasher, and room enough to seat 5 at the breakfast table. In fact, the whole place's palatial. I remember moving them in. I remember helping her girlfriend deliver their new bed. It's got the longest hallway I've ever seen in an apartment. On-site laundry, a luxury I've lived without since Evanston. And two dogs who have known me for six years already. I've crashed at that place. It's closer to the highway. Met up with many friends there. It comes with pre-packaged ghosts.
Last time I was invited by friends to live with them was sophomore year, college.
Last time I lived in a multi-room apartment was 5 years ago, Ukranian Village, Chicago.
Last time I lived above ground was 2 years ago, Villas at Rob Roy, Prospect Heights.
...
Where can one go but up from a bombshelter?
September 1 begins a completely different chapter for me.
...just need to keep feeding the feeling that this is the greatest gift in the world.
Although, in ways, it feels like a step back, like reverting to college life, like reverting to 20-something finding-yourself-all-over-again-ism,... hell, I liked life more during those times. And I liked myself more.
Off-street parking's a total bitch, though. :)
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - Start Again
And it's all too weirdly familiar.
Friend called me out of the blue this past Saturday. Knows the bombshelter. A mutual friend sharing a room at her pad doesn't use it much anymore. Lease is up August 1. Rent's cheaper here, though digital cable and utilities kinda even it out. Gotta kitchen, though, straight-on 1960s nostalgia complete with dual-oven range, but there's a full-size fridge, dishwasher, and room enough to seat 5 at the breakfast table. In fact, the whole place's palatial. I remember moving them in. I remember helping her girlfriend deliver their new bed. It's got the longest hallway I've ever seen in an apartment. On-site laundry, a luxury I've lived without since Evanston. And two dogs who have known me for six years already. I've crashed at that place. It's closer to the highway. Met up with many friends there. It comes with pre-packaged ghosts.
Last time I was invited by friends to live with them was sophomore year, college.
Last time I lived in a multi-room apartment was 5 years ago, Ukranian Village, Chicago.
Last time I lived above ground was 2 years ago, Villas at Rob Roy, Prospect Heights.
...
Where can one go but up from a bombshelter?
September 1 begins a completely different chapter for me.
...just need to keep feeding the feeling that this is the greatest gift in the world.
Although, in ways, it feels like a step back, like reverting to college life, like reverting to 20-something finding-yourself-all-over-again-ism,... hell, I liked life more during those times. And I liked myself more.
Off-street parking's a total bitch, though. :)
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - Start Again
27 June 2010
Hard to Find
A friend at work was cheering me up the other day. She told me, "Good men are hard to find."
Damn right we are.
I'd go as far to say I'm one of the better men.
And sometimes, I'm the only man.
:)
Damn right we are.
I'd go as far to say I'm one of the better men.
And sometimes, I'm the only man.
:)
24 June 2010
M.B.
I miss you. So much. It's hard to believe it's only been so long since I fell crazy in love with you.
And now here we are. And I'm still crazy in love. And I don't want to leave...
Bet that's probably a bit much coming from me. Probably not. I was like that from the start. You didn't expect any of this, you told me so. But I won you over. And it was great. We felt really good together. You made me feel gooey. Like, gooey. I've been with lots of girls, and not many make me feel gooey anymore. Oh, I craved it. Any chance I could, I would want to be with you. The sex was great (what you got should be bottled and sold on the black market), but I really just loved being with you. The more I learned about you, the more I wanted to learn. And we're so different! There's so much to explore! I felt like I was given the greatest Christmas present ever. And I thought you were feeling the same thing.
Maybe you were. I do believe it. But I know I couldn't give time to it. My life went out the window when I took that second job. But I needed to. I needed to take responsibility for myself. And things are working out, barely. But I never see you. And when I do I'm burnt out. And that's not the way things are supposed to be. I have been trying very hard to accommodate you for us, but you refuse. And then you leave. And then you lie. And I wish you didn't. I wish you could trust me. I don't know why you don't. I guess I'm a fool for doing what I do. I already called myself out as Mr. Rebound, even though you shusshed me on that. In fact, you're the one who's pulling this along. Why? Why are you holding on to me? And why won't you hold onto me tighter?
I get so confused lately. I really don't know how to act around you anymore. All I know to do that does well is to continue to love you. And forgive you. Because I can't have this fall apart like everything else does. And when you look at me, I still see some hope. And for once, I want to ride that wave more than anything. So, this may be the only way I can communicate my true feelings for you. On a blog you don't care about. Where I can say my heart's desire and not fuck everything up. And where I can maintain some control again and ride out this global pattern until it comes around again.
Is this emo? Nah, not bloody enough...
You say I try too hard. Well, wouldn't it be nice if all of us tried just a little bit harder?
Om Mani Padme Hung
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - You Can Do Better Than Me
And now here we are. And I'm still crazy in love. And I don't want to leave...
Bet that's probably a bit much coming from me. Probably not. I was like that from the start. You didn't expect any of this, you told me so. But I won you over. And it was great. We felt really good together. You made me feel gooey. Like, gooey. I've been with lots of girls, and not many make me feel gooey anymore. Oh, I craved it. Any chance I could, I would want to be with you. The sex was great (what you got should be bottled and sold on the black market), but I really just loved being with you. The more I learned about you, the more I wanted to learn. And we're so different! There's so much to explore! I felt like I was given the greatest Christmas present ever. And I thought you were feeling the same thing.
Maybe you were. I do believe it. But I know I couldn't give time to it. My life went out the window when I took that second job. But I needed to. I needed to take responsibility for myself. And things are working out, barely. But I never see you. And when I do I'm burnt out. And that's not the way things are supposed to be. I have been trying very hard to accommodate you for us, but you refuse. And then you leave. And then you lie. And I wish you didn't. I wish you could trust me. I don't know why you don't. I guess I'm a fool for doing what I do. I already called myself out as Mr. Rebound, even though you shusshed me on that. In fact, you're the one who's pulling this along. Why? Why are you holding on to me? And why won't you hold onto me tighter?
I get so confused lately. I really don't know how to act around you anymore. All I know to do that does well is to continue to love you. And forgive you. Because I can't have this fall apart like everything else does. And when you look at me, I still see some hope. And for once, I want to ride that wave more than anything. So, this may be the only way I can communicate my true feelings for you. On a blog you don't care about. Where I can say my heart's desire and not fuck everything up. And where I can maintain some control again and ride out this global pattern until it comes around again.
Is this emo? Nah, not bloody enough...
You say I try too hard. Well, wouldn't it be nice if all of us tried just a little bit harder?
Om Mani Padme Hung
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - You Can Do Better Than Me
17 June 2010
Mental Health Day
Nope.
No way am I setting foot inside work today.
Mm-mmm.
The results would be disastrous.
For everyone.
I need this.
Today.
Friday I can't.
Now or never.
Just one day.
I can afford it.
'Cause if I don't...
...
Thanks. I needed that.
----------------
Now playing: Thelonious Monk - Straight, No Chaser
No way am I setting foot inside work today.
Mm-mmm.
The results would be disastrous.
For everyone.
I need this.
Today.
Friday I can't.
Now or never.
Just one day.
I can afford it.
'Cause if I don't...
...
Thanks. I needed that.
----------------
Now playing: Thelonious Monk - Straight, No Chaser
12 June 2010
New June Moon
I have lost sight of who I am.
This past New Year I wished to have a brand new everything.
Wasn't specific, just new everything.
And I think I may have gotten just that.
My career, it echoes the old but reeks of new
New duties, new stress, new headaches
My second job, it's recycled, now a different beast
Less responsibilites, more hustle
My car, once my King and best investment, has become a zombie
Prone to dying anywhere, controlled by its own whim
My bombshelter, once novelty, has become a relic
Static, stoic, dependable but staid
My friends, so exciting years ago, are now de rigueur
Dependable but monotone, a place to get lost
My artistic life, like my spiritual life, is all but gone
No shows, no walks, no spark, no go
My current girlfriend, whom I adore, touches me like only few can
Three or four before have done it
And she follows suit
Even up to the gritty end
But is it the end?
?
She says its not
But then, why am I stuck in reruns?
New Years is one of my favorite holidays, and I wanted every day this year to be a Happy New Year.
So let's start all over again.
With this New Moon, the last New Moon of the first half of the year, may familiarity and control re-enter my life
May I use the lessons of the past to navigate the future
May I accept the opportunities that life flings at me
May I once again realize that all things happen for a reason
May I live up to the birthright I fought so hard to earn
And may I learn to count my blessings before my failures
I deserve the best. I work too damn hard to accept otherwise. And it's time to collect.
If you do spend some time sending good vibes to others, please send a thought or two my way. I could use it.
I promise to spend more time thinking of you.
And I swear, things get better from here.
They have to.
Happy New Moon, everyone.
----------------
Now playing: Jimmy Eat World - Sweetness
This past New Year I wished to have a brand new everything.
Wasn't specific, just new everything.
And I think I may have gotten just that.
My career, it echoes the old but reeks of new
New duties, new stress, new headaches
My second job, it's recycled, now a different beast
Less responsibilites, more hustle
My car, once my King and best investment, has become a zombie
Prone to dying anywhere, controlled by its own whim
My bombshelter, once novelty, has become a relic
Static, stoic, dependable but staid
My friends, so exciting years ago, are now de rigueur
Dependable but monotone, a place to get lost
My artistic life, like my spiritual life, is all but gone
No shows, no walks, no spark, no go
My current girlfriend, whom I adore, touches me like only few can
Three or four before have done it
And she follows suit
Even up to the gritty end
But is it the end?
?
She says its not
But then, why am I stuck in reruns?
New Years is one of my favorite holidays, and I wanted every day this year to be a Happy New Year.
So let's start all over again.
With this New Moon, the last New Moon of the first half of the year, may familiarity and control re-enter my life
May I use the lessons of the past to navigate the future
May I accept the opportunities that life flings at me
May I once again realize that all things happen for a reason
May I live up to the birthright I fought so hard to earn
And may I learn to count my blessings before my failures
I deserve the best. I work too damn hard to accept otherwise. And it's time to collect.
If you do spend some time sending good vibes to others, please send a thought or two my way. I could use it.
I promise to spend more time thinking of you.
And I swear, things get better from here.
They have to.
Happy New Moon, everyone.
----------------
Now playing: Jimmy Eat World - Sweetness
01 June 2010
Sonnet
They say I am the nicest guy they know
A perfect gent, the near-extinct "great catch"
Some lucky girls who took me for a ride
Will gush, "He's such a crush! Damn, what a match!"
They say I rule the turf, a righteous dude
Who cruises smoothly 'round without a trace
He's sly, he's wry, an intellect'al prude
Who speaks eloquence right into your face
They say I play some game, a master quilt
I weave and pull directly o'er your eyes
They say some stunt I pulled went full atilt
They say they know me; still there's no surprise
Well, I don't know 'bout them, but you'll agree:
Our moment merely makes it up for me
A perfect gent, the near-extinct "great catch"
Some lucky girls who took me for a ride
Will gush, "He's such a crush! Damn, what a match!"
They say I rule the turf, a righteous dude
Who cruises smoothly 'round without a trace
He's sly, he's wry, an intellect'al prude
Who speaks eloquence right into your face
They say I play some game, a master quilt
I weave and pull directly o'er your eyes
They say some stunt I pulled went full atilt
They say they know me; still there's no surprise
Well, I don't know 'bout them, but you'll agree:
Our moment merely makes it up for me
Sonnet
This time, this time, no more the dreaded thoughts,
No ghastly synapses shall haunt the brain
No fear, no doubt, no dank depressive droughts
Shall ever darken this bright soul again
Why does the mighty soul trap its own foot
Or find blockades when only freedom 'bounds?
Why burn your bridge before you've set your boot
Or mourn your luck whene'er the trumpet sounds?
This fear, this doubt, 'tis fables made of bile
And wo'ry a lie spun by a loaded tail
This beast, this wraith, this oily, dripping smile
Unsummon thee, thy most miniscule scale!
Don't taunt the raging boil; cast it 'neath
Its spite brings might, a white-hot knight unsheathed
No ghastly synapses shall haunt the brain
No fear, no doubt, no dank depressive droughts
Shall ever darken this bright soul again
Why does the mighty soul trap its own foot
Or find blockades when only freedom 'bounds?
Why burn your bridge before you've set your boot
Or mourn your luck whene'er the trumpet sounds?
This fear, this doubt, 'tis fables made of bile
And wo'ry a lie spun by a loaded tail
This beast, this wraith, this oily, dripping smile
Unsummon thee, thy most miniscule scale!
Don't taunt the raging boil; cast it 'neath
Its spite brings might, a white-hot knight unsheathed
30 May 2010
Sonnet
for Melissa
No tutored soul could ready me for this,
A girl with whom I partake great delights
This myth, this creature fills my mortal bliss
With endless days and ever-ready nights
But myth alone fills thimbles of desire,
A thready light meant to make life complete
Our playful tale begins and ends with fire,
A burning want, yet burned twice in defeat
I've held her in my arms, I know her touch;
A dream from which I never want to wake
To offer her, though seems I haven't much,
Mere men mess up the miracles I make
My love, you leave, and when you leave, know true:
Though myth to some, I trust in all that's you.
No tutored soul could ready me for this,
A girl with whom I partake great delights
This myth, this creature fills my mortal bliss
With endless days and ever-ready nights
But myth alone fills thimbles of desire,
A thready light meant to make life complete
Our playful tale begins and ends with fire,
A burning want, yet burned twice in defeat
I've held her in my arms, I know her touch;
A dream from which I never want to wake
To offer her, though seems I haven't much,
Mere men mess up the miracles I make
My love, you leave, and when you leave, know true:
Though myth to some, I trust in all that's you.
03 October 2009
No New Tale To Tell
If anyone believes that life doesn't move in circles, I gladly buy you a drink and prove you wrong.
In the midst of this struggling economy I've been able to score a new career. Actually, an old career with a new face. I've been accepted for a position as a Psychiatric Case Worker at a long-term care facility in Evanston, mere blocks from where I live. It's a step up from any Psych position I've had before, in that I'll be directly in charge of the treatment plans of 30 residents, leading groups in therapy, holding office hours. It's a nice combo of the University of Iowa Hospitals and Mental Health and Deafness, all in one position. Plus, the pay is equitable to my old positions, with opportunities for job advancement and/or grad school.
I kinda sorta feel, at this point, that my life's been given back to me. That one point in October 2000, 9 years ago, when everything fell apart and unraveled into bedlam, has now had its foundations restored. Like then, I was living in the basement of retired people on the outskirts of a Big 10 college town, immersed in my Psych career and wishing of being a writer. Instead of a tenuous relationship with an estranged artistic girlfriend, I maintain a tentative schedule with an obscure art museum; I find I love them equally dearly. But now I am older, wiser, armed with journeyman experience. Things returned to center, but they can only get better from here.
If anyone believes that life isn't circular, I will gladly buy you a drink and prove you wrong.
----------------
Now playing: Indigo Girls - Least Complicated
In the midst of this struggling economy I've been able to score a new career. Actually, an old career with a new face. I've been accepted for a position as a Psychiatric Case Worker at a long-term care facility in Evanston, mere blocks from where I live. It's a step up from any Psych position I've had before, in that I'll be directly in charge of the treatment plans of 30 residents, leading groups in therapy, holding office hours. It's a nice combo of the University of Iowa Hospitals and Mental Health and Deafness, all in one position. Plus, the pay is equitable to my old positions, with opportunities for job advancement and/or grad school.
I kinda sorta feel, at this point, that my life's been given back to me. That one point in October 2000, 9 years ago, when everything fell apart and unraveled into bedlam, has now had its foundations restored. Like then, I was living in the basement of retired people on the outskirts of a Big 10 college town, immersed in my Psych career and wishing of being a writer. Instead of a tenuous relationship with an estranged artistic girlfriend, I maintain a tentative schedule with an obscure art museum; I find I love them equally dearly. But now I am older, wiser, armed with journeyman experience. Things returned to center, but they can only get better from here.
If anyone believes that life isn't circular, I will gladly buy you a drink and prove you wrong.
----------------
Now playing: Indigo Girls - Least Complicated
02 October 2009
Re-tired
When was it? Tuesday night, September 29th... Went to help a friend from Starbucks move to his new apartment. As I left my place to get there, a black cat crossed the path of my car. Now, I'm a brighter bulb than most, and I know fact from superstition, but damn if the coincidence of it didn't linger with me. Kept me a bit more hyperaware, especially in his new neighborhood. Devon and Western is a bit more ghetto than most. We get done and he invites me in to chill. There's no parking for blocks around, so he allows me to park in the building's space, this gated-in little piece of driveway instead of the dozens of tiny garages that line the alleyway. As I maneuver Hermann in to the cramped gated nook, my tire catches the iron latches and digs them right into this minute tear in my sidewall, puncturing and deflating my rear driver side tire with a quick, classic PFFFFFT!
As bad as that was, I was able to chuckle it off, which is good because things got worse before better.
Marcos, my buddy, and his roommates came out to help with the tire, but none of us could get it off. First, the jack was not cooperating with the ground beneath it, its handle jamming into stones every second revolution. Once a replacement jack was found and Herman lifted, no one could get the lug nuts off. They had rusted on too tight. I attempted to call a tow truck but the dude couldn't speak English well enough, so I balked. The guys allowed me to crash there that evening and we'd deal with it in the morning.
It's funny; the things I'll do for weed when I can't afford it.
After a lopsided night on a folded futon, the morning went better than expected. There was an auto mechanic nearby, two blocks away via alleys, so I could take my time and not block traffic while riding my rim at 2 miles an hour. Even with a torque gun the tire was nigh-impossible to get off, but with some lube, a half-hour wait, and $20 later the spare sat comfortably on the rear axle. I was an hour late than I was scheduled at the Block Museum, but I volunteered to come in on my day off to cover hours, so it ended up being win-win. 6 extra hours of pay, and I was able to explain my new job situation and scheduling issues in person. I believe they will make concessions for me. Then off to Peter Pan rehearsal, mindful to steer clear of expressways, and nailed dance practice so well they changed choreography to accomodate me.
Crisi-tunity incarnate.
I think that was probably the best outcome to that situation.
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight
As bad as that was, I was able to chuckle it off, which is good because things got worse before better.
Marcos, my buddy, and his roommates came out to help with the tire, but none of us could get it off. First, the jack was not cooperating with the ground beneath it, its handle jamming into stones every second revolution. Once a replacement jack was found and Herman lifted, no one could get the lug nuts off. They had rusted on too tight. I attempted to call a tow truck but the dude couldn't speak English well enough, so I balked. The guys allowed me to crash there that evening and we'd deal with it in the morning.
It's funny; the things I'll do for weed when I can't afford it.
After a lopsided night on a folded futon, the morning went better than expected. There was an auto mechanic nearby, two blocks away via alleys, so I could take my time and not block traffic while riding my rim at 2 miles an hour. Even with a torque gun the tire was nigh-impossible to get off, but with some lube, a half-hour wait, and $20 later the spare sat comfortably on the rear axle. I was an hour late than I was scheduled at the Block Museum, but I volunteered to come in on my day off to cover hours, so it ended up being win-win. 6 extra hours of pay, and I was able to explain my new job situation and scheduling issues in person. I believe they will make concessions for me. Then off to Peter Pan rehearsal, mindful to steer clear of expressways, and nailed dance practice so well they changed choreography to accomodate me.
Crisi-tunity incarnate.
I think that was probably the best outcome to that situation.
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight
07 September 2009
Citation Needed?
I did something that needed to be done.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
24 August 2009
Year of the Hangover
I haven't seen the movie Kids since college when it was first released. Still haven't seent it since, but I remember the last line of the film. It's always resonated with me.
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
23 June 2009
Right Now...
My life has changed drastically in the past few weeks.
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
01 June 2009
Blackout
I was meeting a friend for lunch. The weekend with Melissa was a bust. So glad that's over. Sorta been skipping out on this friend for months, so I thought I'd finally man up and chat with him. We were headed to the Yard House, patio, nice sunny Sunday. After he arrived and the waitress started paying attention (Mmmm... a tall, thready blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a cute swagger), we started in on the first of a good half-dozen pints, after only four in did we add on Jim Beam shots. This is good, I thought, as I was still murky from the weekend's hangover, a twelve pack of Amstel Light Melissa and I shared. Mostly me. The alcohol unhazed and loosened up everything. Dude and I teared through a stacked-up California roll, let the stories drip from our tongues, and sweet-talked every waitress we could (who all turned out to be lesbians; amazing how a guy can do that to a girl). I was feeling no pain and no worry. Why should I? Got a $50 in my wallet to pay the bill and 10 singles for a fresh pack of smokes. We got there at 2 and I remember checking the clock at some point and seeing we had been there for 4 hours. Dude had a basketball game to go to, but he chose to stick around. We had to step away from the patio to smoke and end up making our scene at the fire hydrant outside the movie theaters. Little Miss Thready Sharp-Tongued Blonde starts telling us that the giraffe we were hanging around actually got run over by some driver before. It's hot but it's breezy and I don't wear my hat in the shade, sorta counterintuitive I guess, but I like the way my bald head fee-
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
28 May 2009
End of the Honeymoon
A rumpled red construction paper cutout of a heart
Dotted with glue and dusted with sparkles
Adorned with five crayon letters:
I-L-V-Y-U
Held aloft between index and thumb nails
And with a single match
Burned in effigy
Your feet are too cold
That joke isn't funny anymore
You've had a headache for two months now
I never liked your pot roast
You used to be so much fun
Why are you staying out so late?
Don't start that again
Pick up your own dry cleaning
Mother said you were bad news
Whose hair is this?
I'm too old for this shit.
Dotted with glue and dusted with sparkles
Adorned with five crayon letters:
I-L-V-Y-U
Held aloft between index and thumb nails
And with a single match
Burned in effigy
Your feet are too cold
That joke isn't funny anymore
You've had a headache for two months now
I never liked your pot roast
You used to be so much fun
Why are you staying out so late?
Don't start that again
Pick up your own dry cleaning
Mother said you were bad news
Whose hair is this?
I'm too old for this shit.
05 May 2009
First Chakra: Work
De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de...
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
24 March 2009
Last Rites
When my spirit leaves my body,
I want as much as possible to be given up for organ donation.
Then I would prefer the remainder to be given to science, to be used as a gross anatomy cadaver or for organ biopsies.
Then I should like my skeleton to hang in a pathology lab, or in a magic store, or get blown up by Mythbusters. Or any museum's BodyWorks exhibit.
Whatever is left, please cremate and spread in the River Trails Woods in Mt. Prospect, IL, or the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Chinese Gardens in Vancouver, BC, Canada, or on the Japanese Island in the Chicago Botanic Gardens, or along the Left Bank of the Iowa River in Iowa City, IA, or perhaps a touch in all four.
If you think of it, sprinkle a little bit if you're ever near la Cathedrale de Notre-Dame in Paris.
Aw hell, I'll probably end up going out like Donny.
Just don't get too much of me on The Dude's face.
I want as much as possible to be given up for organ donation.
Then I would prefer the remainder to be given to science, to be used as a gross anatomy cadaver or for organ biopsies.
Then I should like my skeleton to hang in a pathology lab, or in a magic store, or get blown up by Mythbusters. Or any museum's BodyWorks exhibit.
Whatever is left, please cremate and spread in the River Trails Woods in Mt. Prospect, IL, or the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Chinese Gardens in Vancouver, BC, Canada, or on the Japanese Island in the Chicago Botanic Gardens, or along the Left Bank of the Iowa River in Iowa City, IA, or perhaps a touch in all four.
If you think of it, sprinkle a little bit if you're ever near la Cathedrale de Notre-Dame in Paris.
Aw hell, I'll probably end up going out like Donny.
Just don't get too much of me on The Dude's face.
15 March 2009
First Chakra: My Room
If ever you get lost, here is where you always end up.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow
Green
Yellow
Green
Yellowgreenyellowgreen
The straining stirs of the remote clicking channels down the hall, sports, news, sitcoms, so quiet you can only make out the canned laughter, filter into the room like thready fog, the only light in the whole downstairs coming from the television as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling watching the walls spin around me, green, yellow, green, yellow, each wall painted a Hallmark-y pastel version of the primary:
Green: Orchard Pear
Yellow: Pale Plantain
Green: Lilypad
Yellow: Butter Creme
...and Roenick takes the puck around the net...
...fair and cloudy with a high of 45...
...what'chyoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?...
This room used to be ours, then it was hers and I moved next door and it was hers forever, then it was no one's, now it's mine again, her color scheme still attached, I haven't slept here since 2nd, 3rd grade, my stuff feels clumsy in here, had to fight with the outlets to get everything placed right, underneath the two transom-like windows which look out ground-level with our driveway sits my altar, a small bit of nothingness which I barely sit at, and then assorted appliances and lights circling the perimeter with my bed facing away from the hallway, using the wall as a headboard, both sides of the bed away from any other walls which I've never done with a bed before, floating like an island, untethered and spinning like a turd circling the drain...
Green
sweet pea
Yellow
...can be yours for 3 easy installments of $49.95...
autumn sunrise
Green
irish spring
...things you can say to your dog but not your girlfriend...
Yellow
golden shower
Green
...shot at the buzzerrrrrrraaaaand IT'S NO GOOD!...
leprechaun puke
Yellow
stale urine
...six were killed in the brutal fire. More to follow...
I am waiting, I am waiting for my father to go to sleep, waiting for him to turn off the TV and go upstairs to bed so I can sneak out to the patio and smoke a cigarette or a bowl or finish my drink or all three, usually all three, my feet hanging over the side shuffle about and hit the spent beer and wine bottles underneath me, my hand shifts under the pillow and knocks into the well-used lube and cock pump, the wallet jutting out of my back pocket with a razor blade digging into my ass, I can't get to sleep yet all I dream about is grade school and weird stories with people I haven't known in years, and her, always her, every hour, awake or not, always reviewing the events of last year, what happened, why, how could I have been different, better, perfect for her, why wasn't I perfect for her, how did it all go wrong, life was so perfect so perfect everything was going to work perfectly but it didnt why didnt it why why why cant i get it out of my head why cant she see her mistake why did i lose everything why did i end up back here why isnt she going through the same shit why do i have to do this all on my own why
...USA Up! All Night...
green biting envy
...starts tomorrow everywhere...
yellow crippling jaundice
...sponsored in part by...
green rotting carrion
...Act now!...
yellow sebaceous pus
...fair and cloudy with a--
*click*
Or maybe it's not like that.
Maybe the TV's off, been off for hours. Maybe I drifted off already, stirring out of an alpha-wave nap. Maybe I had a real busy day, worked a double-shift or hit the gym for an hour or two afterwards; couple miles on the elliptical, kicking ass on the rowing machine, some weights, abs. Maybe I kept myself to less than 5 cigarettes today and passed up the liquor store on my way home. Maybe I meditated to stave off the jonesing and fell into a trance. Maybe I sat up waiting and fell asleep of my own accord. Maybe I can drift back off with no provocation, without the thoughts, and get a natural night's sleep so I can start tomorrow with a fresh new beginning.
Maybe.
It doesn't really matter.
Since it's still now I walk out to the kitchen downstairs, find my father's hidden bourbon bottle, pour myself a healthy glass and pour water into the bottle. I tell myself I am helping him. No lights on but I don't bump into anything, a practiced swerve, as I move to the sliding glass door, unlatch it, and flow out onto the patio. Over to the seldom-used gardening hutch, open a drawer, and pluck out the half-filled bowl. And then it's me and the patio. I look out over the prairie land stretching beyond and beneath the developing subdivisions and golf courses. And I think about what it might have been once, the busy street bordering our backyard like some tributary of the Mississippi. And I'll venture onto the lawn, littered with cigarette butts like mutant snowflakes. And I lay down staring up. And I bellow and scream. Drink way too much. Recite π to 45 places, the alphabet backwards, my own poetry. Break bottles. Hurl lighters. Curse the world and everyone on it. Sometimes I go up the stairs. On the deck. It's just a short hop to the roof. And I'm on. Every inch of it. Fixing the dent in the chimney. Dancing right above my sleeping parents. Jut right against the edge like Stallone in Cliffhanger. Blearily looking out onto the crisp clearness, the night so beautiful it sucks everything in and never says a word.
But only sometimes.
Usually I just sit silently on the steps rocking. And I think. And wonder.
Why.
Her.
Why
why why
for hours.
Just like leaving Iowa.
I'm so strung out.
My circadian rhythm's gone to shit.
I'll be hungover bad tomorrow for work.
Probably still drunk.
The staff'll know.
So will the kids.
This becomes what I look forward to every day.
I'll come to base my schedule around it.
When I've had my fill outside I'll come inside the patio doors and cool down in the living room watching some TV. The only television in the house with cable is downstairs, and I used to spend childhood evenings waiting for my Dad to go to sleep so I could surf the channels after hours. I would grab the cable guide right when it came in the mail and search the movie listings in back for anything marked Brief Nudity, Nudity, or Strong Sexual Content. Then I'd stay up until 3 in the morning waiting for flashes of boobs or soft-core grinding, and exploring myself. But always wary, always anxious, thumb forever circling the Power button, ready to strike at the slightest sound of a floorboard creak upstairs. At any second Mom or Dad could come down those stairs. "Kevin, honey, is that you?" Heavy breathing, flesh on-screen, me holding parts of myself; how could I explain that? So, every time, the volume hovering over nothing, blanket strategically in place, ready to shut off at the slightest sound.
Even though I know better.
Back in high school I was playing with a candle late at night when I threw a spent match into my garbage can and set it on fire. In a panic I tried to bring water from the bathroom down the hall to put it out but it just got bigger, so I brought the garbage can to the bathroom. Smoke alarm goes off. I extinguish the flame and cut my finger snapping the 9-volt battery out of the casing. Then I shoved the can in my closet and sat, rocking, shuddering, wondering what I was going to say to my parents when they arrived. But they never did. Nor did my sister sleeping next door. Didn't mention anything the next morning, either.
Every day since, whether I'm getting blitzed under the deck, dancing on the rooftops, or touching myself in the living room, the same thought pops into mind:
Thank God they sleep like logs.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow
Green
Yellow
Green
Yellowgreenyellowgreen
The straining stirs of the remote clicking channels down the hall, sports, news, sitcoms, so quiet you can only make out the canned laughter, filter into the room like thready fog, the only light in the whole downstairs coming from the television as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling watching the walls spin around me, green, yellow, green, yellow, each wall painted a Hallmark-y pastel version of the primary:
Green: Orchard Pear
Yellow: Pale Plantain
Green: Lilypad
Yellow: Butter Creme
...and Roenick takes the puck around the net...
...fair and cloudy with a high of 45...
...what'chyoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?...
This room used to be ours, then it was hers and I moved next door and it was hers forever, then it was no one's, now it's mine again, her color scheme still attached, I haven't slept here since 2nd, 3rd grade, my stuff feels clumsy in here, had to fight with the outlets to get everything placed right, underneath the two transom-like windows which look out ground-level with our driveway sits my altar, a small bit of nothingness which I barely sit at, and then assorted appliances and lights circling the perimeter with my bed facing away from the hallway, using the wall as a headboard, both sides of the bed away from any other walls which I've never done with a bed before, floating like an island, untethered and spinning like a turd circling the drain...
Green
sweet pea
Yellow
...can be yours for 3 easy installments of $49.95...
autumn sunrise
Green
irish spring
...things you can say to your dog but not your girlfriend...
Yellow
golden shower
Green
...shot at the buzzerrrrrrraaaaand IT'S NO GOOD!...
leprechaun puke
Yellow
stale urine
...six were killed in the brutal fire. More to follow...
I am waiting, I am waiting for my father to go to sleep, waiting for him to turn off the TV and go upstairs to bed so I can sneak out to the patio and smoke a cigarette or a bowl or finish my drink or all three, usually all three, my feet hanging over the side shuffle about and hit the spent beer and wine bottles underneath me, my hand shifts under the pillow and knocks into the well-used lube and cock pump, the wallet jutting out of my back pocket with a razor blade digging into my ass, I can't get to sleep yet all I dream about is grade school and weird stories with people I haven't known in years, and her, always her, every hour, awake or not, always reviewing the events of last year, what happened, why, how could I have been different, better, perfect for her, why wasn't I perfect for her, how did it all go wrong, life was so perfect so perfect everything was going to work perfectly but it didnt why didnt it why why why cant i get it out of my head why cant she see her mistake why did i lose everything why did i end up back here why isnt she going through the same shit why do i have to do this all on my own why
...USA Up! All Night...
green biting envy
...starts tomorrow everywhere...
yellow crippling jaundice
...sponsored in part by...
green rotting carrion
...Act now!...
yellow sebaceous pus
...fair and cloudy with a--
*click*
Or maybe it's not like that.
Maybe the TV's off, been off for hours. Maybe I drifted off already, stirring out of an alpha-wave nap. Maybe I had a real busy day, worked a double-shift or hit the gym for an hour or two afterwards; couple miles on the elliptical, kicking ass on the rowing machine, some weights, abs. Maybe I kept myself to less than 5 cigarettes today and passed up the liquor store on my way home. Maybe I meditated to stave off the jonesing and fell into a trance. Maybe I sat up waiting and fell asleep of my own accord. Maybe I can drift back off with no provocation, without the thoughts, and get a natural night's sleep so I can start tomorrow with a fresh new beginning.
Maybe.
It doesn't really matter.
Since it's still now I walk out to the kitchen downstairs, find my father's hidden bourbon bottle, pour myself a healthy glass and pour water into the bottle. I tell myself I am helping him. No lights on but I don't bump into anything, a practiced swerve, as I move to the sliding glass door, unlatch it, and flow out onto the patio. Over to the seldom-used gardening hutch, open a drawer, and pluck out the half-filled bowl. And then it's me and the patio. I look out over the prairie land stretching beyond and beneath the developing subdivisions and golf courses. And I think about what it might have been once, the busy street bordering our backyard like some tributary of the Mississippi. And I'll venture onto the lawn, littered with cigarette butts like mutant snowflakes. And I lay down staring up. And I bellow and scream. Drink way too much. Recite π to 45 places, the alphabet backwards, my own poetry. Break bottles. Hurl lighters. Curse the world and everyone on it. Sometimes I go up the stairs. On the deck. It's just a short hop to the roof. And I'm on. Every inch of it. Fixing the dent in the chimney. Dancing right above my sleeping parents. Jut right against the edge like Stallone in Cliffhanger. Blearily looking out onto the crisp clearness, the night so beautiful it sucks everything in and never says a word.
But only sometimes.
Usually I just sit silently on the steps rocking. And I think. And wonder.
Why.
Her.
Why
why why
for hours.
Just like leaving Iowa.
I'm so strung out.
My circadian rhythm's gone to shit.
I'll be hungover bad tomorrow for work.
Probably still drunk.
The staff'll know.
So will the kids.
This becomes what I look forward to every day.
I'll come to base my schedule around it.
When I've had my fill outside I'll come inside the patio doors and cool down in the living room watching some TV. The only television in the house with cable is downstairs, and I used to spend childhood evenings waiting for my Dad to go to sleep so I could surf the channels after hours. I would grab the cable guide right when it came in the mail and search the movie listings in back for anything marked Brief Nudity, Nudity, or Strong Sexual Content. Then I'd stay up until 3 in the morning waiting for flashes of boobs or soft-core grinding, and exploring myself. But always wary, always anxious, thumb forever circling the Power button, ready to strike at the slightest sound of a floorboard creak upstairs. At any second Mom or Dad could come down those stairs. "Kevin, honey, is that you?" Heavy breathing, flesh on-screen, me holding parts of myself; how could I explain that? So, every time, the volume hovering over nothing, blanket strategically in place, ready to shut off at the slightest sound.
Even though I know better.
Back in high school I was playing with a candle late at night when I threw a spent match into my garbage can and set it on fire. In a panic I tried to bring water from the bathroom down the hall to put it out but it just got bigger, so I brought the garbage can to the bathroom. Smoke alarm goes off. I extinguish the flame and cut my finger snapping the 9-volt battery out of the casing. Then I shoved the can in my closet and sat, rocking, shuddering, wondering what I was going to say to my parents when they arrived. But they never did. Nor did my sister sleeping next door. Didn't mention anything the next morning, either.
Every day since, whether I'm getting blitzed under the deck, dancing on the rooftops, or touching myself in the living room, the same thought pops into mind:
Thank God they sleep like logs.
14 February 2009
[untitled]
Compulsive thoughts enter my head
Of sliver-thin silver strips
Sharpened to a point and scratched across skin
A crimson trail left in its wake and a sucking gasp
of peace released
No admission of fraility but a boast of virility
A vermillion victory stripe
A tribal tattoo of tenacity
Severed skin shows my strength
These thoughts enter
Again and again and again
And my face just ends in a grin
Theoretical thoughts put to practice
Transplanted from the danger zone to further on top
My shoulder is a tangle of scar tissue slits
Aiming every which way
Too bad I heal fast, for my fair skin turns them phantom
Too fast
Of sliver-thin silver strips
Sharpened to a point and scratched across skin
A crimson trail left in its wake and a sucking gasp
of peace released
No admission of fraility but a boast of virility
A vermillion victory stripe
A tribal tattoo of tenacity
Severed skin shows my strength
These thoughts enter
Again and again and again
And my face just ends in a grin
Theoretical thoughts put to practice
Transplanted from the danger zone to further on top
My shoulder is a tangle of scar tissue slits
Aiming every which way
Too bad I heal fast, for my fair skin turns them phantom
Too fast
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