After a long day of painkillers and whiskey I deserve a fucking suicide.
A sheep is hiding in wolf’s clothing. One recognizes it by its tail between its legs.
Just the last day I saw a girl post a photo and a caption: “I like mirrors. You never know who’s gonna look back at you.” I always know who’s gonna look back at me. It’s gonna be this sorry mug, with hair parted to the side and a big crooked nose, an occasional zit and a beard that you can’t really call a beard. Or maybe she had some metaphysical idea in her mind that I’m just unable to grasp. I doubt it though. Barbie wisdom.
Chicken needs no further explanation.
A knock on the door. Jack starts to open his tired eyes. He swings his hand above his head as if trying to swat away a fly. He grunts. A louder knock just leads to more of his grunting.
"Go away!" he says, while wawing his hand in the air. His face still slobbing all over the pillow. The knocking doesn’t stop. It continues in intervals of three knocks. Then a pause, then again. Jack’s head is hurting. He lifts himself up with the utmost difficulty. He then moves his legs so they reach the floor, now he’s sitting on the bed, head between his hands.
He gets up, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Looking through the peephole he notices the person standing in front of his door is her. The reason for this throbbing pain in his head. The room was a mess.There was evidence of a drunken night on the bedside cabinet. A more-than-half drunk bottle of the cheapest whiskey from the Indian liqour store on the corner, with the always suspective, cross eyed seller.
The mission clean the room in less than 1 minute now started. He started throwing every piece of clothing he could find on the bed or on the floor directly into the nearest closet. He did the same with the bottle of whiskey. He left the cigarettes in the ash tray, as they were before. The glass of whiskey also still decorated the cabinet. It was a perfect decadent still life image. He reflected for a second on that image. Then went to the mirror and tryed to fix himself as best as he could in those 2 seconds. “I’m coming,” he kept on repeating, so she wouldn’t leave him again. With a swift move he fixed his hair in place than almost ran to the door to receive the most beautiful gift a man could get in the morning.
Wearing nothing but boxers he opened the door. “Hey. What are you doing here so early?”, he said. He opened the door wider and stood sideways until she walked in.
"I brought coffee," she said, "black. Just the way you like it." Jack responded with a simple "I can see that. Thank you." He was not feeling tip top at this point, but seeing her helped a lot. She wore a casual combination of jeans with a grey printed t-shirt. Her knees were exposed and her skin radiantly glew when touched by the sun rays that pierced through the blinds. They sat down at the table.
They sat there across from each other nothing but an ashtray full of last night’s cigarettes and undeniable tension between them. The silence was broken only by the loud sips that each took of their coffee. Eyes locked and focused the whole time.
Jack reached behind him, rocking in the chair for a second and brought forth a pack of cigarettes. He casually tapped the back of the box and took out the fag that slipped the farthest. “Want one?” he offered to Mary. “No, thanks. I quit.” she responded. “Yeah, me too. Several times.” said Jack.
Jack leaned forward and placed both of his elbows on the table. The right hand held a cigarette, which was now placed on his lips and a second later it was casually burning it’s short life away caught between the index and the middle finger.
"Not that I mind you being here, but what are you doing here exactly?" he asked.
"I don’t know. I needed to see you."
"All right. Now that you’ve seen me, what’s next?" he asked as he blew the smoke into the air.
She stood up and slowly started walking around the table, carefully sliding one of her left hand fingers on the table, seducing Jack with every step she took. He sat there mesmerized, mouth slighty open, he knew what was coming. A tornado of lust. Code red. Run for your lives. Those 2 seconds felt like an eternity. Could he fight it?
"Oh what the hell!" he exlaimed. threw the cigarette on the floor and reached for those curves. He grabbed them gently and then firmly pulled them closer, and closer, untill he was breathing her exhales. He felt her warm breath on his cheeks and he felt her firm body in his palms. They sat in that chair, Mary in Jack’s lap, forehead against forehead. Just looking at eachother and breathing. And looking and breathing..
Who am I? I’m just a mixture, a bundle, a combination of different impressions, expressions, words, thoughts, mimics, songs, brands, visions, pictures, feelings. Influenced by the Harley Davidson’s, the Brady Bunch, the Britney Spears, the Prada’s. A complex brew, yet tasteless. A copy of a copy of a copy. Just another model in the series. An updated version of the programme. Many before me, more to come. Serial product from the factory of unlimited productivity. Eat, drink, buy shit, reproduce.
I was a young boy back then, no more than 7 or 8 years old, and we lived in a small house just outside the town. The house stood near the centre of a small hill which in those days I used as my personal playground. That tarmac holds many of my accidents and also small victories. I remember riding my skateboard down that narrow road past our house, losing control and crashing by the side of the road. There’s my blood and sweat on that street. It extends itself past my house and onwards to the home of my first love. She counts the same age as me and we still keep in touch from time to time and reminisce about our pure, childish affections towards one another. Her house, much bigger than ours, with yellow painted walls, enveloping the echoes of childish laughter, stands proudly on the top of the hill, overlooking the neighbourhood. A queen of sorts, watching over her kingdom with the kindest of manners.
My childhood was a very normal one. No special hurts or losses. I was born in a stable family, with my mother working her way up as a teacher, and father feeding our hungry mouths on a salary of a “computer genius”. Our neighbours, save my girl, were mostly elders. I remember one demented old man who tried for all he could to prevent me from making noise with my skateboard on the street. Then there was his wife. One of the nicest old ladies I have ever met. She was a spitting image, the personification of a woman of her time. She was the traditional, rural woman. She always wore an apron and when she got together with her friends on certain occasions, they discussed the gossip each of them acquired over the week. I bet my name also came up from time to time. I was a do-no -good-er back then, a rebel without a cause, spitting image of my alcoholic uncle, the main prankster in the family. Many a reckless thoughts past through my mind and most of them probably saw the light of day. I can’t imagine all of the bad things I did as a stupid brat, but some were pretty horrific, yet, the very precious old lady, in spite all my faults, always greeted me with the loveliest of smiles and from time to time with a delicious sweet to go with that smiling wrinkled face of hers.
I remember coming home from school one afternoon and finding my mother in a pool of tears on the couch bearing the news that the lady just across the fence was no more. She got ran over by a reckless driver trying to cross to the other side of the road with her rusty pink bicycle. The tears didn’t flow from my eyes like from my mothers and it’s not that I was too young to understand or too young to love, I just didn’t feel anything. I still don’t feel a thing looking back. There’s an image in my head of me standing on our terrace looking over the fence at the destructed family shortly after the incident. I remember the frantic female voice, that of the daughter of the deceased, screaming: “Why, god? Why?” and then imploring me “who will now provide the candy and the ice creams to you?” I had no answer, there was just a thought resounding in my head: “I’ll manage somehow.” I was aware that there were different ways to get candy and ice cream.
Our house is now different. It is newly populated, freshly painted with a pinkish hue, its faults are corrected, and that hill is now a reason for some other kid’s bruises and triumphs, and my sweetheart’s house still decorates the very top of the hill, dominating everything bellow it. Sometimes I still pass the house, since it is not so far away, and can’t happen but to think of the times spent in it. The times I cried, when I got my first beating, the basketball games just in front, slippery driveway in the winter, when we had to push the small Kia by hand… It all suddenly comes back.
I’ve been a bit inactive for quite some time now, but i’ll use this wretched thing to vent. Mostly written word. Enjoy it. Or don’t. I don’t care.
I sat there in silence, bent just above the bar, with my two hands holding tightly onto the glass, as if clinging for dear life. I was running out. I called out to the bartender: “Make it double this time.” He put down the rag that he was using to polish the glasses and brought the bottle over the bar. “Tell me when to stop.” “Stop,” I replied, just as the golden brown liquid reached the very top. “That oughta do it, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, “and don’t worry, I’ll still charge it as a double.”
“Thank you,” I said and lifted the glass to salute the man who just save my life. Doing so, I spilled a good fourth of the drink on the bar and myself. “Fuck, I’ll clean it up.” I started licking my shirt to get every bit of the spilled part into my system. I needed it. The bartender just laughed and threw me a towel then got back to the polishing of the glasses. He gave them a real nice spitshine, I could see my whole reflection clearly in them. My poor miserable mug.
My phone lay dead on the counter and I was desperately waiting for it to beep or make a hissing noise or whatever it does for quite some time now. Any second now, I said to myself. She’ll call. She has to. I sat beaten, drinking that whiskey and in wait. I played it all in my mind backwards and forwards, till I had nowhere to go. To the point where I started contemplating my own sanity. Has the time for me to give up my sanity finally arrived? And what for, for a woman? Stop it man. What’s the point? It’s done. Finito. Basta. Give it up. She’s gone. You’re here and this bottle of whiskey. I hate it when they tell me maybe it’s for the best. How is everything that goes wrong for the best? And let me assure you, there’ s a lot that went and will still go wrong in my life. I could accept the fact that it’s not meant to be. But it’s not for the best. The best would be to hold her, to whisper nice things in her ear and gently lay her on the bed and kiss her from head to toe. That would be for the best. This is the worst. I get to do none of those things. I get to wait by the phone to see if she still has some sympathy or any other emotion left. Just another entry in the neverending journal of my failures. That’s where you belong now. That’s where you name stands. And a short poem that I wrote a while ago, next to it. And I want to write more but just can’t find the words. And it’s raining outside. And I’m a lonely man. And still no call, no text, no nothing. Just a bunch of nos. There’s this song going through my head “She’s a kind hearted woman, studies evil all the time.” And I got the blues too. But you’re no kind hearted woman, you’re a witch. We used to burn those or let them drown. There’s no test for you. You get to do what you want. You stomp like a monster and destroy every inch of beauty under you. But I’m still drawn to you. To those green eyes that riek of deception. To them thin, conniving, pink lips. To those hips, which I used to use as a resting stop, while you would twirl and twirl around. Just hold a gun to my head and pull the trigger. C’mon mister bartender, do me the honours. I’ll die like a fucking Romeo in this tale. A broken down Romeo, a pitiful, hopeless Romeo, who gave all he could and it still wasn’t enough. Lover boy they’ll call me, sarcastically. Puns intended. Salut to all of you fuckers. Drink up mateys, laugh at my heartbreak. Call me a pussy. I’ll take it all. Pistol range. Boom. Who cares. Down in one. Let it burn the throat. You sweet sensation of a drink. Make me forget that the phone doesn’t ring and that those love songs are just not meant for me. No happy endings. Somebody has to be the black sheep. Might as well play the part. Play the song. Kindhearted woman, studies evil all the time. God damn wrenches. They are all the same.
“Another one, edge worthy!” , I said. Without a word he just grabbed the bottle and tilted it just above my glass so that golden brown liquid somehow slid into it and made it full again. The glass is always half empty in my world. A cynic. A pessimist. No room for optimists in this world. It’s just a lie after a lie. History is written by the winners.
Beep goes the phone. Also a little rattle on the bar, from the way the vibrating piece of plastic hit the wood. Just a short rattle, no more than a second. Buzz and gone. I put down my drink and my thoughts with it. I press the button. “We kindly inform you of our new option FOREIGN. Send text FOREIGN to 4040 and receive unlimited calls and data transfer for just 3,95eu per day.”