Friday, April 30, 2010

Wake-Up Call

Fuck*. What the fuck was I thinking? It took me more than a minute to ask that simple question of myself, but it made a world of difference.

The phone rang. And rang. It was on vibrate, so the sound was minimal but I could feel it through the sheets. I’d fallen asleep in the fetal position thinking as some last crazed idea, “It has enough battery to last the night. I’ll charge it tomorrow.” Didn’t matter either way, but I still thought it. Forty minutes later I was vibrated awake by some phone call. My eyes, too blurry to read the name, focused on the photo. A girl, early twenties, bright red lipstick, drunk as shit, smiling. Someone I met weeks, or maybe months before. She meant nothing to me. Never had. I hit the button for answer.

“Hello?” Hello. What a word. I could see the picture and not the name so why was I really answering the fucking phone? Because an adventure was, well, an adventure. In whatever form.

“Hey ***, you awake?” She didn’t call me Keith. She knew me as something else, something cuter. How could I not say yes?

“Yeah I’m watchin’ TV.” I lied. Maybe it’s the years in an industry where my purpose is to tell people what they want to hear, or maybe it was because in that delirious stupor I didn’t know if I was or wasn’t watching TV.

“Can you pick me up from Metroplex?” Her voice sounded high. Stoned. Far away.

“The movie theater?” What the hell else would be named that, I mean, really? And didn’t this girl move to Houston shortly after we started hanging out? I live in central Texas. Literally 3 hours away.

“No, the hospital. The emergency one near Fort Hood? You know where it is. Can you come get me? They won’t release me since I had morphine.”

“Oh. Yeah sure. Give me 5 minutes.” If you asked me then I’d have no answer as to why I said yes except I recently watched Yes Man and the idea struck me as valid. Just do it. Even if you’re not into it. Just. Say. Yes.

So I gathered my clothes. A pair of shorts, top button missing but fancy belt adorned. A wife beater. A neato little $5 in Europe sports jacket made of some nonsense material. Felt more like canvas than cotton. Like business than style. No worries.
Jumped in my car, threw some tunes on, and started laughing. And why wouldn’t I? Band of Skulls started playing a track called Friends. And if anything, it is the antithesis of my adventures. Advocating staying with familiarity, locality, and friendship, as opposed to adventure, mystery, and creativity. But I love the song anyway. Enough to turn it up to about 80% volume. Windows down. System up.

I pulled into the Metroplex parking lot after an interesting ride. My car, swerving side to side in a singular lane, would have been a cop’s wet dream at midnight on a Tuesday. Drunks tend to stick to nighttime and weekend schedules. Every now and then I like to mix it up with a good daytime drunk. But this was different. I couldn’t stay straight on the road because my eyes kept closing at the mundane indifference I felt towards helping this girl out. I mean, if everyone I know knows you as “Super Skank”, then you’re probably not the best character to rescue.

I got as far as the window before I realized I should have paid more attention to the last text message sent to me. “***, come to the emergency room and ask for Michelle *******. They’ll move to you me.”

Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? At nighttime the front desk isn’t open. No one is bringing in children for fucking pediatrics. Only drunks, crazed folk and legitimate accidents make it to the emergency room. All of those and Michelle, of course.

Earlier, on the phone, she’d tried to explain what it was had been ailing her. As best I could understand she was in pain. I relocated my car into a useful parking spot and walked straight to the attendant dressed in military camouflage despite his civilian job. I mentioned nothing of the strange style he had chosen and instead said, “I’m here to pick up Michelle *******.” He clicked a few times on his computer and granted me access into a more medical world.

“Follow me,” he mumbled while getting up from his chair. “And meet me in the hallway.”
What the fuck? You want me to follow you and meet you somewhere else? Okay…My movement was punctuated by indecision rather than neglect. Should I move right or juke left? I moved right, took a left, and could have tackled the desk clerk if I was jogging. We walked through a hallway to a security keypad where he diligently smashed the numbers 433751 on the pad. Remember I thought. This could benefit you in need of an escape, or a re-entry. Later, I’d wonder why that of all numbers seemed important. Much later I’d realize it wasn’t important at all. But I still remembered.

We went in, and suddenly a slurred voice from my past piped up. “Hey ***…Let’s go!” I ignored her and focused on the nurse. She seemed to hate us both.

“You need to sign here, here, and here,” random nurse lady instructed Michelle. After asking what each signature was she informed the nurse that she wouldn’t be eating any of the pills given to her. Like the nurse gave a shit.
Michelle kept informing me that the doctors and nurses (collectively) had been conspiring against her because they fucked up originally and couldn’t keep it together. Being of course a friendly person, I admitted yes! They’d done the same to me. Since I didn’t even know the hospital was named Metroplex, I’m surprised she didn’t pick up on my obvious lie. Well, she isn’t the brightest.

Ten minutes later we were walking out. Someone said a muffled ‘goodbye’, a muffled word of advice. We ignored it. Fifteen meters out of the doors I gave Michelle a hug, said her perfume smelled nice, and wished her good luck. She, eyes dilating madly from the drugs and possible brain hemorrhages, said I looked cuter than she remembered and promised not to crash her car. I walked away, figuring that in-so-much as karma rewarded me for waking up and helping someone out, I’d be equally punished for releasing her evil ass unto society behind the wheel of a car. Kind of like Frankenstein. He made the monster for good, but it all turned out so evil...

Not to mention, all I was doing was balancing what I had been presented with. What sounded like an adventure at the start had turned into a cruel joke. And it made me laugh. Even if just sadly.

A week later she’d message me thanking me. My response? Just give me those drugs you won’t eat. I haven’t seen her since.

*I drove into my house and recorded all of this on tape. I have not listened to a word of it since that night. Either my memory is incredibly sound, or my imagination runs rampant. Strange choices. Also, this was written two weeks ago and has been sitting in the hands of my “editor” ever since. I gave up on her. Melanie, you’re fired. Let run rampant the errors.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Rolling Stone

Beat. Step. Beat. Step. Beat. Step. Chorus. Step. My steps were in synch with the music. Green headphones I found through trial and error ignored the sweat dripping into their little musical ports and continued to pump out the melodies I mouthed or shouted during my trek. Schoolchildren clad in red shirts and khaki shorts scattered from my path as I continued to jog, run and sprint. The beat helped me find my pace, helped me find my path, helped me think. And my thoughts were random and crazy. Concrete and asphalt paved the train of thoughts which came and went.

Future plans falling in place to the beat of the run. Post military activities formed a little layout in my head. Each step hammered down another point of focus. Another stage in my plan. Beat. I would travel to New York for a week. Step. I would move to Dallas. Step. I’ll complete personal trainer certification and the Texas Alcohol Bureau Certification exam. Beat. My move to San Diego will come shortly after. Yes. Chorus.

Faster and slower, ebbing and flowing my own tide, I passed things of no consequence. Discarded bottles hidden in tall blades of grass. Hundreds traveling to unknown destinations. Bird and sun and wind and sky. Everything I passed was insignificant. Meaningless. Trivial in comparison to my own thoughts.

The running wasn’t what helped level things though. It was motion. Movement. Travel. All of it brought a sense of euphoria. It always has. The simplest drive through directionless streets left me feeling alive and refreshed. Cross continent flights and last minute tactical landings forced a grin onto my face unparalleled by any conventional means. A long distance run in a giant loop? Same effect. I just chose the activity that coupled exercise with decision making. And it worked. My future perfect lay in a simple track, piece by piece.

Step by step. Just a matter of time until I ran out its course. The first stage of which will come in but only a few days. My legal, and no longer contractual, separation of service from the Active Duty military. T - 6. And counting. Beat by beat.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Waking up in Austin.

I woke with a shudder. Memories from the night before rushed back in waves of clutter and confusion. The usual drinks. The meaningless conversations. The feeling that everyone in Texas is suffering from some sort of pretentious delusion that the 28th state, and themselves by residency, are better simply because of land mass. Vague and blurred images of bars, cabs, and a house party. Purchasing a pint of vodka because it fit into my jeans pocket. Meeting a news producer at a trendy bar I was too under-dressed for. Screaming at a cab driver. Apologizing. Scores of police waiting for the chance to arrest anyone of interest.

And it left a bad taste in my mouth. The sullen realization that these people, these places, all of them were unfitting of who I was. I didn't wake loving the things I did the night prior. I didn't wake with a smile. I woke with a massive hangover. I woke $200 poorer. And I woke wondering why.

As the liquor waited to process through my liver, it further reminded me of the foolish choices and ideas I continually pursue. What benefit was my acquisition of phone numbers from girls I never plan on calling. Or my consumption of terrible tasting liquor. The slamming of beers. Shots of absinthe. Irish car bombs. Double fisting a double gin and tonic with a stream of red headed sluts.

The scalding hotel hand towel wiped the dirt from my face but did nothing to alleviate the morning buzz- the type that demands you either push the envelope or call it a day. Sure, you can try and sober up like a functional member of society, but what benefit would that serve in helping find adventures. Excitement. Things worth noting. So I grabbed the liter of Smirnoff standing guard in the freezer and took a pull. Woke my companions. Escaped the hotel with its "courtyard" vista and semen stains. Chased the adventures I knew I'd one day have.

It was somewhere before stopping for Elk at an overpriced jerky cart but somewhere after swigging vodka in the mall parking lot that the epiphany hit me. It struck me floating along the Colorado River in a kayak that I am letting potential wither away. And potential-potential is a word I loathe. Potential is perpetually a backhanded compliment. It arises in conversation to inform you that yes, you're wasting time. Your time, my time, all time.

But the word wormed its way into my mind's eye. And lazily spinning in a circle, I realized that I'm better than this constant debauchery. As a child, you're told you can do anything you want when you grow up. But as an adult, you realize you've already eliminated so many options that failure isn't even a choice. It's a reality. But potential doesn't have to be spent on lofty goals or socially acceptable job paths. You can use it anyway you want. And my potential? I'll be using it left and right to obtain whatever I desire. What that is, I'm not sure yet. But I'm ready to start the journey of finding out.

And sitting there in water and hardened plastic I realized that I didn't hate the people and places, the acts and events. I hated myself for being so inundated with them. I hated myself for wasting my own time. My spite was self-directed and externally manifested. And completely pointless.

So I paddled back and stopped waiting for life to come find me. I set off to find my own adventure. To make my own adventure. Because this place? It isn't big enough to hold me. Because soon the things I'm going to be doing are going to be bigger than Texas.