There’s some nasty woman with awful teeth sipping a bright morning cocktail across the bright resin countertop. Feels like she is looking at me.
I honor the rumors I’ve heard of this ugly, dishonorable woman today; that she was disowned by her hyper-wealthy family. Her surname is planted upon the important buildings and venues of a divine nearby campus, bumping shoulder with buildings carrying another wealthy surname so filthy rich that it came up when a famous pedophile was captured and… whatever you believe about that, it doesn’t matter.
What’s important to me, and to you, is that this woman makes me think og pedophiles. I break our engagement to watch the hair stand up on my arm as the hum of morning drink licks my soul, and tunes me in. Everywhere smells like acetone.
“What are you about to do that you’re doing that to yourself right now?” She asks.
She must know how repulsive she is. Perhaps I am making her feel not so repulsive, if she in fact knows how repulsive she is. At least to me. She must know how re –.
“I’m going to work. And this is the way I must do to myself if I am going to work,” I replied, suddenly Victorian. She is drinking too, probably. I don’t care what’s in her cup, judgmental bitch. She is disowned. By a family of wealthy kid-fuckers. I know I heard this from somewhere. Someone I know knows. The repulsive bitch.
Work is a breeze. Also a waste of my time. Also a joke. I work here because I am great at what I do. It’s easy to do what I do. So I don’t have to try. I’ve no designs on moving up. Save my energy. Why would I want to move up in this restaurant industry? Nothing hospitable about any of this practice.
This is just what I do to be able to live like I do. Life is brutal; have a good time. I just happen to have a great time. Nobody can tell me about it, either. I know what I’m into, I know it sounds like how my Uncle Lou used to do, Dad. I got it.
Anyway;
I’m thankful today that I was behind the bar, and guest where indulging in the liqour just out of our security cameras. I was cured within a lunch rush. I took the cash tips straight to the caddy-cornered gay bar, post-shift, posthaste.
I woke from a disco nap. Or was that Sleep? I dunno.
I do know: I feel it coming up quickly. I minimize movements as I well up with the lubricating spit from my depths, spilling ever so slightly on the way to the bowl. I wretch and wretch. I see stars. The pressure ignites. My adrenaline kickstarts my go-go-go-ism. I like how I can go-go-go. Nobody is like me.
Nobody can keep this up like me.
In the mirror, I stand in the angle to disappear the imperfections. I am true grit; and embellishment; and disgusted with the early disappointments of today. A miserable existence. But I am resilience.
And discipline:
I don’t puke, I wretch.
I don’t break, I bounce.
I will not miss out on this money, because I am the hardest working man who ever lived.
…But why must I work at all? This world is only facade, and my understanding is complete. My ability, not God-given. More-than. My gifts, wasted because they will not come to see me. They did not meet me at any point, and therefore it is they who failed. They chose not to see me. I am here to be found. Discover these unique abilities, in charisma, and intellect, charm and leadership! Lift me.
But no! I am this, because they gave me no opportunity. I come to be here, and they missed ME.
It is the same pants from every day this year, no matter the month or the year. It is the same jacket with compressed, splintered, unsmokeable cigarettes. I fear nothing, I am too talented. These heavily sanitized, dehydrated hands are callused from this endless tedium. Each knuckle swollen and scarred from the studs I express my anger upon, in an apartment paid for by handouts…
And yet I’m going to just randomly – nay, mercilessly — be quietly scrutinized by this woman who does no thing but take up space. I’m going to work, what the fuck do you have to do for everyday of your wasteful existence? She has it all. Even more than me. I’m roaming this rock contributing something besides shit, little comments. She’s here to bother young, attractive party people like me.
I am stealing from the till because they are going to make much more tonight than I was able to make amongst these children servers for the lunch shift. I am wondering if the are keeping track of the Red Bulls. I am masturbating in the bathroom to stay awake.
No one catches me, so nothing is noteworthy as far as how the shift was. A manager pulls me aside to ask if everything’s alright. I ask if it’s about something I did. She says I seem a way. I tell her I am just like that. I leave.
There is a gay bar near, and in there are gay men, mostly. They pour the drinks in a better way like some of you might already know. But if you don’t: Are you afraid? Oh wait are you gay? They’re not going to pin you down and –.
I have several and it is better. I am sad, but this, too, feels better. Everything smells like acetone. Now I feel good.
One of them just asked me about my goals or what I do or what I wish I did. It angers me to my core.
I wake up in bed with boots on. I smell my feet through those old beat up boots. I smell me. I smell stale.
Better than acetone.
I am thankful, briefly, to be here, but outside it’s missing again. I stand. I stay unreasonably still to see if it comes up again. It does not. I stand even more still to listen for voices and movement from roommates. There is none. It must be late. I hope it’s not. But late enough for them to be asleep. I don’t wanna answer to nobody.
It can’t be too late, for our sake. Where is my phone? Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, ope. Found it: it’s not too late!
This is joy!
Our bliss hums in us on the way to A Little More. A couple one mores if we know who’s working, yes. And I am vivid with stories after a little hmmmmm scrounged from the innards of a hot sticky vial The card is going through so we buy fresh cigarettes and return to solitude among the people. I am challenged over something I’m not sure of; and thus dismissed.
I wake up in bed with boots on. Wretch wretch wretch. Shower. Maintenance with what I may be able to scrape from the fridge or my roommate’s special drawer all the way in his bedroom with the door closed in a specific way so I close it exactly back that way then Uber to where I roughly remember the car: near yesterday’s gay bar.
“…And how are we doing today?” bartender inquires instead of pouring.
“Landing the plane, left my car here I think,” questioning him, really.
“You accosted a guest and screamed at my bartender while you were here yesterday,” he continued, not pouring.
“Oh,” I would be able to help out if –, “was having a day I guess, sorry, really.” Not really as sorry as if I could get right. Asshole.
“I can’t have you doing things like that making my bar unsafe.”
It’s four dollars for practically a pint of whiskey. I wonder fleetingly how safety is a principle here; how am I the unsafe item. Probably because I’m straight. That guy yesterday. Probably tried to pick me up and I said no. Gonna need a lot more gear to win this boy over. I’ll just leave. Like, 12 different versions of this place on the way home, once I find it.
Praying the prayers I pray when I can’t find it. When I’m barely certain. So, uncertain I guess. Red Accord, red Accord. With the scrapes. Like my hand. Strong, broken, bloodied knuckles. Not from people anymore; I don’t do that. It was a mistake breaking my roommates jaw. And I had told him say one more thing, but we were both– don’t matter, we’re cool now. It won’t happen again.
I’m looking for a red Accord. Red Accord. As if I might forget.
I think of all the other cars I’ve been given; that I wrecked or got stolen — or reported stolen. Or filed a police report and insurance claim for hit and run successfully. Ford Escape, Hyundai Santa Fe, Honda Pilot, Kia Something, Honda CRV. All those cars are cars that my father gave to me. Because he thinks of me in a way that no one else does. Probably because he is being lied to. And gullible; and perhaps knows what is going on but is easily swayed. Soft. His words. He says he is too soft on me, and worried because that’s what parents do.
And that makes for more cars.
And more stuff.
I wouldn’t be soft if I was him. I don’t think he understands me. But I don’t make the effort to be understood, it would take too long to explain how different I am compared to everyone else. I know what I want from this life, and it is impossibly unconventional. I cannot be happy, unless I have more. Without more I can’t possibly be expected to achieve anything and I’m not going to do anything I don’t feel like, I’m not going to end up just like –
There it is. What a rush that is. Natural dopamine. Beautiful. And I won’t have to worry about that today. Because I’m off. Which means I’m free to go to one of two places. But one place, I think I may have left a tab. We don’t care to find out. I’m free to go to the other one though. Easy peasy. Plus, my best pal bartends there.
I arrive and we each take one in us. Because they are slow. And – because they are slow — we have time to catch up on the details of our many acquaintances in the scene. They seem to be really fucking up. At least the ones we glance over on the social docket. What a mess everyone is. We get it. We have it in our palms. And when we don’t — well, we catch that quicker than most. We survive and hustle and gratify. Our presence is not included. We work hard; play hard; entertain hard; want hard; deserve hard; earn hard; hurt hard; live hard; because life’s hard and that goes especially for ours. Ours is hard. Don’t matter who you are. And them? They are doing the best they can, we’ll offer them that. But none will figure it out like us, expedited and brilliant practically always.
We’re lucky we see things the way we do. It’s always been us verses you. See: we divide time between the two places. One is a Bar and the other is a Bar with a patio. Well maybe there’s like 5 places. Another is cheap cash only and another is cheap but takes card but is far to drive. And we will drive, baby. I dunno why we never get booze to drink together in one of our houses. Especially with our folks pay rent for. I suppose we have the extre money laying around since the rent is paid for. Business since, plus we work to hard to not decompress like this.
Anyway, vastly different crowds made up of different variations of the same exact people depending on the time of day filter in and out as we observe and make merry; us being a part of the same rotating cast. It makes sense, if you know. If you’re not in then you are in our house. See, I am a regular; which means I’ll have my drink poured as they see me through the window. I’ll also get prioritized in a crowd.
I used to be a regular at one of the trendier spots downtown. A room at max-capacity would be split when I entered. Realer than the sea, in my opinon. Across what is easily a hundred or so people, I would catch eyes with another one of my oldest pals who bartends there and immediately get handed, over the envious civilian heads, my good drink.
A regular. A member. Important. More than. These are some of the only people in this society that see ME. I’m given that little bit of recognition I ask for within reason. I feel it is there, that the outsider’s revelation sets in:
“Who’s that being handed his flowers?”
I’m a celebrity. It stays slow. We take more in us. It gets busy and I get no more for free. I leave.
There’s a spore or a mushroom thing that floats into the brain of insects and controls it from that point into its death. Then it moves on.
pseudo lou 