addiction – pseudo lou

JULIA FROM THE VILLE II

God, I hope it’s not Jules.

He can still see that man-made pond with its pumping fountain. It’s so strange to have to run out to the suburbs for a bartending job like this in the first place. Paul is city-folk. He lucked out in having come from the ‘burbs in the first place. Comfortable beginnings like that should more commonly end up in self-sabotage and wild behavior from kids like Paul running out of 20 in at least two ways.

There’s no cigarette in Paul’s hand to burn for him to really pantomime ponderment. Do we use the water? That’s the only reason there should be a man made pond like that, taking up so much space. You wouldn’t have dug a hole like that, and fill it with estranged water with no purpose besides to admire it. Everyone’s in a car trying to get to these chain restaurants lofted on what is likely another man-made hill.

It takes something totally off-center and useless to gather innocent focus in Paulie. He’s quite apt, he’s talented, he’s a good hang — he’s aware of this — but he’s not keen on using any of those abilities for good; for others. Ask Julia.

Julia’s one of the bartenders at the other bar/restaurant located on this strip mall-atop-a-hill. Thankfully, it’s not a courtyard situation; both venues are situated on the same line, divided by a breezeway, a yoga studio, and a for lease space. It takes about 60 seconds to get from Paul’s job to this one and about 15 minutes to get back. They are always busy, and the bartenders there never ever give Paul anything for free. Paul feels like no one respects the Fucking Code any more, but there’s no where else to achieve homeostasis they way Paul does it.

At times, half of the evening’s haul goes directly to Julia, Brock, or David.

Presence makes a rare appearance within this sterile watering hole. The fountain just goes and goes. There is a faint memory about Julia as he woke up this morning. It was easily disregarded. “I will find out when I find out,” Paul said as he noted how white his tongue appeared in the mirror. “That’s probably not good.”

Easy fix.

Never the water, though. Perhaps it was the regular dehydration making this pond particularly delicious tonight. Paul’s need for quick-access pockets filled with drugs (both for sale and for Paul), cigarettes, keys, wallet, phone, sunglasses outweighed the discomfort he’d feel in this soggy summer heat. It was is if restaurant’s grease covered every clean molecule. Sweating in his black denim he admires with a white noise wonderment — so beautiful this structure of Man!

You could just dive in it?!

Give it purpose tonight??!

To be honest: It feels like Julia is working today.

He short of the window that will solve this riddle and huffs once more to the pond. Maybe he would have a cigarette and ponder this thing. He fishes once again in his pockets, this time coming up with a reward. A 100 mm cigarette, “for more thorough conversations,” he likes to say. White lighter, because people say it is bad luck. It is clever to him and that is technically what counts in this life.

He dials and holds the phone to his ear, wondering how long he’s already been gone. His shift probably started by now. He could check the time but doesn’t. Instead, he turns back to the “for lease” window and focuses away from the empty space to see his reflection waiting for a pickup.

A couple of satisfactory vessels, whaddya say. He winks but the reflection is just standing there in sunglasses and a beer belly. This appearance does 15-20%. The suburbs can take it or leave it.

The ringing halts.

“…”

“Yo, Jessie. What is up dude?”

“Paul? — everything OK?” Jessie, hesitant.

“Yeah, man. All good — you know those ponds that they used to have in Canterbury? Like all over where we would ride bikes back home?” Paul, on task. A family walking by notes the uniform, and gives Paul a feeling that he should recognize them. “Ope, go ahead … See ya in there!”

“Paul. What are you doing, where are you?” Jessie’s curiosity hollowing.

“Sorry dude, I’m at work,” Paul, re-lights his cigarette. “You know those ponds though?”

“That’s at work? At the bar?”

“Yea. Well, no,” Paul’s talking to his reflection in the “For Lease” window again. Behind him, the empty space with the grass and the fountain pond are a photogenic backdrop, but every time Paul has tried to take that selfie, the sky just looks dark and most of the photo reveals too much of the empty space inside. Some contractor tools left behind.

Jessie’s curiosity wasn’t there to begin, but Paul is sometimes slightly, briefly entertaining. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to Paul if he finds something to do. He empties his dishwasher in a different area code while he waits for more. He weighs whether or not he’ll venmo forty dollars over again like he promised he wouldn’t.

Paul’s actually not thinking about money at the moment. Got ponds’ on the mind.

“It’s across from work. There’s a Pond like those Canterbury Ponds right below the parking lot here,” Paul hears clanging through the earpiece. “What’s that?”

“I’m doing dishes,” Jessie says. “I remember the ponds. Are you calling me about ponds right now dude, what the fuck?” It sounds like it comes from a smile. Jessie surprises Paul with an audible laugh through his nose. Couldn’t help it.

“Yes I’m calling you about fucking ponds!” Paul could just drive into the sunset, hearing Jessie’s temperament lighten. Any permanent fixture that continues to laugh with Paulie is a gift.

Paul propels: “You are, you’re like a water guy — a environmental guy, right?”

“Yes, Paul, I am ‘a environmental’ guy.’ I’m an Ecologist, you drunk idiot,” Jessie jabs. “A scientist.”

“A scientist! That is even moreso impressive Jessie, amazing work. Goods for you,” Paul is now pacing the sidewalk in front of the strip, working a fantasy audience. “Good for you, and good for me also, because I just so happen to have an E-Coli-Jistical question for you. Right this moment. Just for you.”

“Wow, man. Thank you so much,” Jessie jeered, dishes clanging in concert with his sarcasm. His own audience, perhaps. “Suddenly the student debt is worth it, if only for this moment.”

“You are very welcome, Doctor,” Paul flicks the butt pondward. “So these ponds…”

“So these ponds,” Jessie’s dishwasher dishwasher closes in the background.

“…are they not just a huge waste of water?” Paul straightens up, a political mimicry. “This is white people shit, right?”

Jessie’s trying to figure out the angle, “It’s actually not wasteful, white people shit.” He allows himself to smile, shaking his head as he dries his hands. “People have figured out what naturally-occurring bodies of water do for the environment and then recreate that in places like Canterbury. Or wherever you’re talking about.

“Since the land gets disturbed by development, or doesn’t have the means to be comfortably inhabited, we figure out how to make it livable. It’s one of our more responsible efforts — even though it’s usually just to balance out the bad…”

Paul’s spelling out W-Y-P-I-P-O in his head when he hears his turn come around and lets it go by this time.

Jessie continues: “So you’ll have a place to catch rain water that naturally filters toxic attributes before it heads back into the ground. You remember the water cycle?”

“I do — I know exactly that much.” Paul has wondered completely down the parking lot, unconcerned about his visibility to either restaurant. “If a house or a shop went there, would a natural disaster strike us down?”

“Not really. Or not quickly. It might sink into itself if that’s the spot where all the rain naturally gathered in the first place —,” Jessie, literally an Ecologist, likes what he does. Paul notes this if he ever wants to hold onto Jessie’s company — or anybody for that matter.

Paul’s uncle said you could get your foot in the door just about anywhere by asking them for 30 minutes to learn about what they do. He said, People love to talk about what they do. Especially in zero-stakes. That said, Paul was also strangely interested in the ponds. It was effective use of time — though he’d likely have to mention an in-progress family emergency to account for his tardiness. Especially since he showed up on time.

Jessie continues long enough for Paul to re-rail his thought-train:” — I think they’re actually called pond experts. You exaggerate what’s naturally there, then build draining systems to redirect the auxiliary rainfall from other, distant collection spots.

That way, everything that’s supposed to be supported by the dirt around it stays put.” Jessie finished. Feels good to educate.

“I guess I figured everything was going into one big trash pipe that boils the trash water clean again,” Paul contributes.

“No.” says, Jessie. “You want trash water to remain that way. You wouldn’t bathe in toilet water.”

“Is the dirty part about toilet water not the toilet itself?” Paul advocates for toilets and The Devil.

“Well, yeah, actually that’s true,” Jessie was impressed at the hip-fire hit. “It’s all the same filtration, but the toilet water sits there in pipes, in the tank, in the bowl. Tap water is in motion, so it’s safer to drink”

Paul is satisfied, but has lit another cigarette, fairly certain someone has yelled for Paul, but he’s a safe 40 yards away somewhere in the parking lot. His move is a no-look one-second finger to the air, since, for some reason, his co-workers never take it any further than peeking out the door to yell across the cars at him while he’s on his occasional “calls.” At least I’m not at the bar, guys – work with me here.

Paul: “So are we drinkin’ pond water then? Is that comin’ out our guns?”

“Noooo, dude.”

“So we are drinking the trash water?” Paul resumes his impression of a comedian.

“I believe you are drinking the trash water, Paulie.”

Jessie laughs again as chills run across Paul’s body.

CALLED OUT

I’m going to re-engage on this endeavor.

I was pawing my pink cloud like a cat toy upon the first couple of entries (now deleted) sometime in early 2022. Let’s see, I was prepping to spend a couple days in Minerva County for a (comparatively) gentle bottoming-out, I was figuring out how to prove I could go do things alone, I was scrambling to utilize a then-and-now-defunct degree.

I was holding onto outdated items that involved focus, like journalistic pursuits — doused in harsh language, loads of edge! — and the impressive feats I yanked out of myself in the past life.

I fell in love with the glamor of drink, and it ate me up. Then I found that cocaine would make me harder to ingest. Until it, too, unhinged its jaw upon me.

When I returned from my introduction to ‘getting right,’ I wanted all my stuff back.

Surface priority one was material. And I don’t know that that will ever stop; I don’t want to imagine yet another bottoming out to achieve that discovery. Stuff, in that sense, makes me happy. I like pants, and shirts, rings and chains and music and tattoos and vanity so help me God. And I wasn’t afflicted by brothers and sisters so I really enjoyed those fruits. I leaned into Only Child Syndrome just to beat anyone slightly observant to the punch.

I put in enough time to start to realize that wasn’t the stuff I was actually concerned about. That my soul was recoiled for a thousand reasons beyond being a mid-bottom addict. Most of it was because I let natural gifts, ones which I was told and reinforced and celebrated all of my life, drown in arrogance and disregard.

I was the self-proclaimed writer — nay, I still am the self-proclaimed ‘talented’ writer who never writes! My elegant, professional paradox. How would all these potential employers ever know what they were missing without having a word to overlook.

I was a musician! I composer, a collaborator and — I now realize– a catalyst in the projects I was a part of… until I was apart from. At a point I became so infatuated with ‘landing the plane’ (as we lovingly referred to it), I caught myself stammering when I told anyone what band I was in.

We ain’t playin’ no shows. We’re doing coke in our party house, missing the trashcans and arguing over how this sloppy 30 minute riff should go. GB of space being eaten up by leaving record on for nothing of note.

The stuff I lost was effort, and curiosity, and inspiration, and motivation. Drive! I took all the built-in gear for granted, and I took it fiercely. The output I was capable of as fun turned into maintenance is uncanny.

My late father said to me, fresh out of rehab, that I was just real late to the race. And that’s just that. In no way or form am I speeding up to catch you rule-followers. I love the rules now too… It doesn’t stress me anymore that I’m gonna also be late to the finish line. Mostly because we’re all galloping to the same one.

Dad did a ton for me, and now I work on passing down that fortune to anyone else who’s anxious for it. It’s the only way to be spoiled.

And in building new relationships that have to do with giving time and energy and developing patience, recovery-based or out in the world, I had the same discovery as everyone else: life is bright, and vivid, and reciprocal. Here in this section I was about to get sarcastic; consider that fear of vulnerability redacted.

My life is easy. And it’s loaded with the advise of so many powerful, brilliant people. They were always all around me; I had made it a point to stay the hell away from the help for the better part of a decade. IYKYK.

This advisory board grows. It began with my uncle and psuedo-namesake ‘Louis,’ someone who I hadn’t realized was looking out for me quite some time, they’ll be ‘Frank,’ MA and Dad. My Band of Boys. My House of Decided Brothers and Sisters.

Frank‘s word in my ear and on my eyes sounds like its a triple-dog-dare right off the bad. This is fortunate and frustrating. The stunted, lonely child in me must compete to impress against this newfound sibling.

They said, “why don’t you write. it’s easy, just do it like songs” I don’t know if that deserves quotes but that’s what I retained.

Some god voice tells me I can’t say no.

So I recalled an initial conversation with Uncle ‘Louis’ about doing something like this under a fake name and letting it rip. However, my ravenous EGO slid in and suddenly there’s my name, my image, my identity all over this thing; hilariously to be then shared on social media. Narcissist!

(I can say it, my best friend’s a narcissist)

If you subscribed to that spew early on, congrats it’s me as you remember! Our little barely kept secret. But to anyone who tags along here on out, I am a recovering alcoholic and drug addict named Lou Mercy.

LOU for my uncle’s alter-ego Louis; the demon that runs your house when you’re no longer home. Also the nickname for a someone with which things never quite lined up just right romantically.

Hi Lou, you probably don’t remember doing this: but thanks for being the voice that said “You gotta stop” at just the perfect time.

MERCY for what I been shown; and for any of you deserve at your worst.

Especially dickheads.

(I can say it, my best friend’s a dickhead)

I’ve removed all the photographs and mentions of who I am Out There. The voice is likely going to be a give away and the stories ensuing, pending on what comes out of me… It’s no matter.

I‘m a character as it is. But here, I’m going divulge my insanity and confusion via Lou Mercy. I’m just separate enough through the pseudonym to view two versions of myself. No more pictures and artful direction, besides my decided sister’s art, not-so-ironically chosen due to its alcoholic medium.

This oughta double as an about page. The colbrus are cleared, time to get spiritually fit. Life goes.

xx decadence,

Lou

LOVE LETTER

Hi, Sweets:

I caught myself picturing you nestled in the embrace of a friend I’m told not to worry about. I never do. I’m just glad you have someone to keep you company, since I’ll be away for the unforeseeable (that’s a lie) future. I feel no jealousy as he uncaps your fuzzy warmth and takes in your kiss.

This dismays and excites me and I miss you.

I miss fooling around in the dark, and eventually in the light… constantly fumbling all over each other. Shit would smash and scatter over that which was previously smashed and scattered from the night before.

We were half-filled cups of flagrant optimism that looked toward the over-flowing trash receptacles just to confirm we really were living abundantly. Together, you and I’d knock loose the plaster walls with my fists and other parts flailing. The next morning I’d dismiss it and massage my knuckles and remove the drying blood. Victimless crime, sweets.

We’d have another go or two at each other to prepare for that day, then step out into the boorish sun, cracking lighters in the headwind as if to applaud the mortally wounded cigarettes we were trying to light.

They’d function nicely once ablaze, just not as well as they’re supposed to.

Time soared, didn’t it? Every week we’d watch each other reload the cylinder, spin it, catch it and take aim clumsily. My buffering motor skills played God as they decided whether my drives would be feigned, maligned or simply shot for the day.

I’d shake with vulnerability in your absence. It sickened me those times when you’d depart in the grip of someone else. But those resentments for you never really lasted. No point in stressing when I knew you’d be around come morning time.

I’d to shake them jitters out before closing my porcelain crown and starting out the door to meet you for another one of our ceremonious breakfasts. Because meeting you before work, before play, before anything made life that much more doable to me.

Eventually, I told myself, I’d have the means to keep you in my home all the time — at least through an entire night. But I couldn’t keep up. Knowing I was never keen on finances, you’d always run out at some point while I was blissfully rapt in revelry.

Our mutual respect for the thrill of the chase — and danger, and risk, and spontaneity, and etc. — was understood just enough to maintain a ‘healthy’ relationship, as grown people do.

Anyway, that was a while ago… I know I’m rambling.

I also know that I swore —to you, and quite a few others honestly — I wasn’t going to be corresponding with you any more. I made sure to enunciate clearly that we were done-done mostly because we all know any silly little boy can go on a break.

But you and I both know me to be a ‘silly little boy.’. So in the gesture of radical honesty, I imagine we’re bound to run into each other sometime down the road, perhaps in an intimate way. It’s just not going to mean anything like it used to.

Writing this little note here is as treacherous a step toward you as I’m trying to make. That being said, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that you aren’t the first good thing I’ve ruined for myself.

So: not my first rodeo in some respects.

Lately, I can sense when you think about me. And it comes to me more and more as the days go on. As often as I wander through your alertness, I thought it might become exhausting on my end.

But it hasn’t. It charms me, if I may be so inclined to be a dick about it.

See: I like that it’s me running around on you for once. And while most romantic endeavors aren’t as half-full as you and I used to make it, I can still tell you’re aware something’s changed. Aware enough to be bothered . Maybe even perturbed, but I’m not sure you care about anything enough to become perturbed [I’ve been reading a lot lately].

Speaking of perturbed, I’ve befriended a few wounded soldiers left adrift in your wake. They’re quick to reminisce on the good times, choking and crying from belly laughs until one of them remembers you’re still dead to us.

I raise my pink and white paws to dry the corners of my eyes and show prove myself tothe gang: ‘Yeah. I don’t miss it. I don’t love her no more.’

Though I’m one of that pack, it’s hard to forget such a punishing caress, such a reckless joy. Your calming capability was finite, I’d discover. You aggressively presented the back of your hand, but to soothe. You generously presented open palms, but to slap.

You’re the nervously gripped pepper spray to my unassuming eyeballs, sugar-face.

But I digress; and ‘I don’t love her no more’ just isn’t ever going to be rigorously honest. It’s a mantra in infancy. Because you really do make such an impression on people, everywhere you go. Hell, even the friends that I’ve known for years are taking me aside to gauge whether or not it’s cool to ‘holler at’ you.

What kind of dickhead would I be to say any of you is mine and mine alone?

I don’t have a blessing to grant anyway. You almost broke up ‘the band’ on several occasions [redacted Yoko bit here followed by ‘sorry’ in parentheses]. It’s nothing I’m not used to; you throwing yourself all over my pals, night after night. And, don’t you dare be bothered by my newfound voyeurism. Because I’m just gonna say it.

Everybody looks. How can you not look after what we’ve done to each other?

See: without you, I can’t really be as selfish as I once was, not without reason.

Thanks to you, I flex my personality in areas that could use that type of excitement, that type of entertainment. However, without your incessant ego-boosting, I can read a room for what it actually is.

I practice couth, have tact and sometimes say “sorry” quickly after saying things like “fuck” [sorry].

To my surprise, plenty of things still remain the same. See: I’ve always been incredibly clever, quick-witted, resourceful, fun and the like.

But now —especially now — what I’m telling you now has the potential to be true(!) and is occasionally confirmed by outside sources. Plus, I don’t have to apologize anymore [eh, as much] for being so damn fun and clever like everybody says!

You’ve given me veracious, room-shaking laughs, vivacious conversations with strangers who’ve since become friends, unique moments of unexpected compassion, so much…

But then you stopped giving.

Once you realized I liked you as much as I did, you just stopped. You stood still. Then I started giving, and you took. You took until you eventually stole. You borrowed (and never returned) my ambitions, my fellowship, my emotions, my drives… It was impressive, really.

What type of being can be so selfish and ungrateful after being worshiped by so many? And by so many, you’ve brought me to a point where I’m inevitably referring to just Me and Me only! And there wasn’t anybody else any more. Just Me proper and the new things you granted Me; My torrential ego, My insatiable ungratefulness and deflated self-efficacy. You made Me into My very own God and yet it’s YOU that called every shot. I thought I was the show runner, baby, but it was actually YOU. Not Me!

And still it’s you that weighs heavily on my [is it mine?] mind…

Phew.

My mother never liked you for me, by the way.

So, yeah. I guess I was just thinking about you and wanted to drop you a line… that’s the end of this figurative breakup note. Perhaps this will be of the few remaining feats of silly shit [sorry] you inspire me to do. Just something a little fun and harmless — kind of like how our relationship began, eh?

I suppose I’ll wish you well — against my better judgment, and I apologize if the message became convoluted or, like, over the top missing-the-point; I’m simply jotting ideas as they come to me [he claimed, several drafts later].

Go easy on ‘em out there, decadence… I’ll see you around, I’m sure.

xx,

Louis