and I don't know whether he's the main character or just one of them
but I see him going to middle school in ragged clothes, carrying an ancient backpack on his frail shoulders
As if especially to look more like a fragment ripped from a folk tale he carries bread crumbs in his pockets and takes a fistful and tosses it to the pigeons as he passes by the park
pauses
stares at the birds for a minute or two
and the birds stare back
and he resumes his unhurried pace, this time with the faintest of smiles on his face
"His mother died four years ago," the muse tells me. "Another drunk driving incident not different from the rest. She just came home from work and crossed the street when one of God's drunkest drivers hit her and didn't even stop to check. Now the boy spends his days in grief. He'll never know that the same driver who murdered his mother is the man who participated in giving him life and raised him. It's... a weird story."
"Damn," I say. "Must you always be so needlessly dark?"
"I forgot to add that he's getting bullied every day in school and thinks of leaving this world entirely even more than his father does. Unlike the old man, he hadn't yet discovered alcohol so that kinda explains a lot."
"Eh, I don't know," I say. "I'm not in the mood for another tragedy. Don't we have enough depressing stories?"
"There's never enough depressing stories, silly."
"I know, but... I mean, I'm not saying to quit them altogether. Just take a break and, you know, write something else for a change."
"Disgusting," she says. "I don't appreciate the taste of other stories. You wanna write about sunshine and rainbows like all the others?"
"I must tend to the balance."
"The what?"
"You know what I mean... I can't let the madness weigh too much. Gotta add a bit of mass to the other side as well."
"Pff, look, if you're gonna be soft with me, I'm leaving."
She left
For now
And I stopped by the park benches and sat on one and the pigeons surrounded me with eyes full of want
and I had no breadcrumbs or anything to give them
so I just watched them
and perhaps my eyes featured even more want than theirs
because eventually they turned around and left
It's good to be completely alone for once in the while
he was so sure of himself behind the wheel you'd think he could pass the damn truck through the eye of a needle
And I sat on the passenger seat and just listened to his stories
man, he had a lot of 'em
and most were about his wife who was 19 years younger than him
He used to tell me that she's complexed by the fact that one of her breasts is significantly larger than the other
that she drinks too many energy drinks
can't have sex without background music
never learned how to drive
had an abortion at 17 but is pro life now
cooks eggs in the air fryer
wants a pet dog one day and changes her mind the next day
can pee standing up
and many, many other things
I didn't learn so many intimate things about my own girlfriend
and the way he'd talk about his woman made you feel like you were the one living with her
he'd talk about it so much and with such openness that at the end of the shift you'd think you don't even need a woman in your own life anymore You're good with hearing so much about his
So it's no wonder that I miss working with the guy so much
I really meant it when I said he was the best driver in the world
He didn't just drive better than other people walked but he drove better drunk than most people sober
And that's the thing with him
He drove drunk a lot
If everyone was as good at drunk driving it would've been legal
But nope, we do not live in an ideal world
The law didn't care that he never made a mistake while driving like that
So he was left without his license and that left him without the job and it was over
he wasn't much good at anything else
and what's even worse He got put into prison
The man just wouldn't give up driving drunk and with no license
they caught him once twice and I guess the third time they had to stop him for good
Well, they did
and I head he doesn't have it good behind the bars
"He got a big tattoo of that woman of his all across his back," said the guy who replaced him and now drove his truck, "An' problem is she a pretty one. You know why that's a problem when you're going to prison?"
"I can imagine," I said
"Yeah, better just imagine it and leave it at that..."
Poor guy his problem was that he lived too happily in a sad, angry world and the world sought to do away with him
It appears that the world has won this battle
but after all that time spent with him in the truck I know him too well
The world might have won the fight but not the war
it’s a new world every time you step outside of your room
every time you leave home
every time you get out of your mind
Happened to him about two days ago
he barely cared enough to remember
all he knew now was that he hadn’t been outside for at least two straight days and nights and hadn’t breathed fresh air
and the only thing pushing him to emerge was the lack of alcohol in his system and in all rooms of the house. All three of them indeed
alcohol was a good enough substitute for company
Alcohol and just a dash of good music. Never loud
He’d been replacing company with alcohol and music and dreams for two straight days and nights
Why do lovers just get up and leave? he wonders now
What happened to trying to fix things?
When did giving up become the only solution?
Eh, questions for another day, another time
a less sober time maybe
for now he leaves the apartment building behind and relearns how to walk as he makes his way towards the grocery store
the sight of a couple of trash cans around the corner reminds him that he would’ve taken the trash out
he stops a bit
considers whether he should turn back or keep going
the impact of fresh air and soberness makes him dizzy
for a heartbeat he thinks he’s hearing voices
but no he’s not gone that far yet
the voices are as real as he is
coming from behind the trash cans
saying, “This one. I could eat this candy bar for the rest of my life. I could eat a villion of ‘em!”
“You don’t even know what it tastes like.”
“But look how cool it looks. It’s out of this world!”
“I bet it’s crazy expensive, too.”
“I seen a wrapper in the can once.”
Just two street urchins drooling over the crumpled, faded pages of a food magazine
He made the briefest eye contact with them
continued on his way
The grocery store was unchanged. Beer was still in the beer aisle. Fruits still in the fruit aisle. Oh, and candy bars. Close by. The ones those kids were talking about
What in the hell was this supposed to be?
A kind of sign?
Those two kids probably never ate a candy bar in their lives
What if he actually got them some? How would that change their lives?
He began feeling like the protagonist of a goddamned family movie where Christmas miracles happen or some shit like that
Well what the hell? There was no law stating that movies and reality can’t cross each other a bit
Why not allow a tiny fraction of magical realism in existence?
He bought four of the damned candy bars along with a six pack of the cheapest brand of beer
paid
got out of the store and said, “Well, fuck.” when he came to the trash cans and the two kids were no longer there
Yeah. Fuck magical realism and divine intervention and Deus ex Machina or whatever the fuck they call it these days
the universe god whatever doesn’t work like that
nothing in this world ever fucking works the way human mind intends for it to
Not. A damn. Thing. Ever.
That’s why we have stories and movies to keep us entertained
The only way to control reality is to build another one, a model of it. A fake one that imitates the real thing and works based on a script
man cannot control what he did not create for he too is but a creation
The only way is to give up
Let the world be what it will be and don’t interfere
He threw the candy bars into the trash cans one in each and went back home
There aren’t a lot of people in the streets and I seem to be the tallest one around
“Bet you feel quite safe from your vantage point,” she says inside my head
And I respond, “Life ain’t about feeling safe.”
“Oh? And what’s it about then?”
“Poetry?”
“Haha! I… can’t tell if you’re being pretentious on purpose in an attempt to be funny or…”
“Or what?”
“C’mon, boy, revel in your blessings a bit. The lord had made you tall and slim. Imagine how many people can only dream of having that. You have long bones and quite the ribcage, no?”
“The ribcage?”
“Yeah. You have a big rib cage that makes your belly look small, flat, perfect. Remember when you crossed the lake just floating on your back. That’s insane lung capacity. It’s a cool thing to have.”
“It is?”
“Hell ye. C’mon, fill it up! Show it to the world. Show ‘em you got one huge ribcage, a big, big protruding chest like a rooster. Would be a sin not to show off when you truly have something to show off, don’t you find?”
“I’m against showing off.”
“Oh, there you go. More pretentiousness.”
“That’s being humble.”
“No, it’s being pretentious.”
“Whatever.”
“C’moooon! Let’s do it together. One biiiiig inhale to puff up that chest real good right now.”
I’ll be damned. I actually did it
while walking
Dragged a huge in-breath and filled my lungs with…
rotten air
I didn’t notice I was passing by the damn dumpster and there was something or many things dead and rotting in there
rotten to the point of having flies and maggots in the browned, gooey flesh
and I forcefully gathered all that miasma into my lungs
I gagged, my face wrinkling, the guts in me twisting
I had to spit lest I vomited
Dammit…
What the hell was that?
Had I been…
pranked?
By one of my hallucinations?
Oh well, what else could I do but laugh along and move along?
I have to stop pretending that I’m a writer (or at least a good enough one) and leave the house and go to work
I make myself get away from the keyboard and get my backpack and put my shoes on and that’s all I need
I get out and walk around the building and see him by the alley benches
I can smell him too
He’s soiled his pants again
It happens at least once a week and eventually his wife comes out and handles things somehow
But I know it’s not easy. I see it
It was easy some six or seven years ago before he had the accident
I don’t even know how to put it in medical terms. All I know is that the guy had some brain infection that ate away at his sanity
and it happened slowly and painfully
And it continues to happen
and the wife is regarded as this hero, this saint, the martyr of the neighborhood for not leaving his side even though she’s only in her early thirties
He makes eye contact with me as I pass him and starts nodding and a slim string of saliva dangles like a jellyfish tentacle as it hangs from his chin
I nod at him and acknowledge that he’s had better days on this Earth and I’m sure he’s thinking precisely the same about me
Then I look up at the gods and wonder that they’re thinking of our future because I honestly do not know
Daydreaming as a profession 