I walked most of the way home and stopped to stand in front of "The Hill." It rose fifteen feet above the even earth nearby in Kroeger's sand pit. As teenagers we would battle for rights to the top. Me, Teddy, and whoever else wanted to play. It was like we were preparing for the war that would be the rest of our lives in a playful manner. We somehow knew that life would be a struggle. We would have to be strong and push for supremacy or roll down the hill with shame imprinted on our faces in the form of loose orange sand. For many this game would teach the importance of being on top. We never wanted that though, we just wanted to have fun. If one of our friends knocked us off, we were fine with it. We carried the lessons we learned on that hill with us the rest of our lives. We were innocent then. I sat on top watching the sky turn red and purple. I watched the sun sink low behind the pale pine trees. Life seems to be much more real in the dark. Don't ask me to explain it, it just is.
Under the street light out front of my house, there was a puddle that had formed from our neighbor's sprinkler system. I caught a glimpse of myself and didn't recognize the face looking back at me. It was hollow, as if my body was merely a shell. I had lost the features that many had admired. People always told me that I had a way of brightening a room just by smiling. It just didn't seem like it was there anymore. It may have been the lack of food or the immense depression but I was losing myself in something much deeper then any addiction. I was being consumed by grief. It didn't sit well in my stomach. I've been put at these crossroads, knowing that neither path shall lead to a center. I can go right or I can go left and add some wear to each path. I chose to stand still. I would sit at the fork and wait for something better to find me instead of going out and finding it. Was this what I was becoming? Ultimately, the answer was Yes. I was becoming misled by grief.
I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I needed an escape. I needed to get out. I needed to be with other human beings. I needed social interaction. So I left, feeling optimistic for the first time in a week. In hope to find freedom. To rid myself of these chains that had been put on my wrists by a supreme being. I'm not blaming God for everything that's gone wrong with my life. I would like to think that I have some sort of free will to decide my own fate. I'm just blaming him for taking my brother away from me. He didn't have to. He could have brought him back. What happened to three strikes you're out. What about nine lives? What about second chances? You couldn't be lenient for once? That's my only qualm. Usually in life you're given a warning by a parent, teacher, or superior before you're severely punished. No warnings were given at all. It was just *poof*, he's gone.
It was raining by the time I got halfway to my destination. A small storm passing through the County, a slight drizzle, gusts of light wind, wind shield wipers and headlights. There was a chance. A chance I could meet you. Hydro-plane and head straight into a guard rail. If only it would be granted to me. I am not to be so lucky. I arrived at Seven Tavern, a small bar at the edge of town. Some say the infamous Stagger Lee once walked through there but we all doubted it. Nothing ever happens in our dead end town. The place that you live is never that exciting, it's everyone else's territory that seems exciting because its new and fresh. Even with that insight, I never really learned from it. Anyway, Seven Tavern is a bar that a lot of the locals visit during the weekend. I didn't really want to see any of the locals but I wanted to just be near them. I wanted to absorb some of their vibrancy, their life. I hoped that somehow it would make me feel better to know that someone on this earth was happy. If only I could somehow slip in unrecognized and find an open booth and just listen to the house band and order a coke I'd be fine.
Marching through the front door is always a hassle. Even though I'm twenty-two I look like I'm ten. The Bartender, an old friend I went to high school with, recognized me and came to my aid. "He's alright boy's." He told the bouncers with a grin. "Not breaking that fine line you walk are you? Not resorting to the bottle? I would hate to hear that, although it puts money in my pocket."
"No, Just give me a coke when you have time. I just want to be alone with my thoughts. I'll stop by down the line and we'll catch up." A bartender might as well have a dual profession. He's a psychiatrist that prescribes you bourbon, scotch, or beer.
He nods and as I try to slip him five bucks for his trouble he places his hand out to stop me from insulting his hospitality any further. "This one's on me." I shot him my best attempt at a smile and went to a booth in a dim lit corner and sat by myself. It was so loud that I could barely hear myself think. If the band wasn't playing people were chattering away. They were laughing, enjoying the spirit of the room. I found that I wasn't absorbing their lust for life. Their exuberance, there joy. I had nothing. Nothing left to give. Not now. Not Ever? I just continued to sit and take in the world.
I sat for an hour in my corner, nursing my third coke. Not moving. Not acknowledging the lives around me. I was contently insignificant at the moment. Yet it was all soiled by the massive pile of wasted potential who had had one too many lager bombs. It was Todd Johnson. Our high-school's quarterback who blew his chances at a Scholarship to a bigger University to play football because he was caught taking steroids and kicked off the team before his Senior year. You know the type, the real cocky typical jock who finds himself abusing a bottle of self tanner and decided that he would wear beaters all year round, regardless of temperature. He was one of those guys. Since the steroid scandal, Todd has been a patron to local bars since he was old enough to drink. He works long days doing carpentry but ends his days down at the patron saint of spirits cathedral praying for his youth back.
I watched slowly as he strolled, or more like stumbled, his way over to where I was sitting and addressed me. "Aren't you that kid I went to high school with." Yea, I was one of the 750 of our graduating class. I merely nodded so as to not encourage his antics. He then continued on, "How about you buy an old friend a drink."
"I think you have had enough to drink." I said. I wasn't trying to be facetious, It was obvious that if he had anymore he was going to pass out and choke on his own vomit. As much as I didn't like Todd, I didn't want to be responsible for another man's death. I didn't want to be responsible for feeding his addiction. I was standing my ground.
"I'll tell you when I've had enough, unlike your brother. I heard he couldn't just say when. He wasn't like me, I have a strong will. By the way, how's your brother doing? Worms keeping him company?" Every ounce of hate boiled beneath my skin. At that moment I wanted to hit him. Not just hit him, destroy him. I wanted to hit him until he stopped moving and even then I'd only stop when I was punching nothing but floor. I wanted to make sure that it was a close casket funeral. I wanted to snap every bone in his body with my own two hands. Make him suffer and pray that hell come take him. I wanted to slowly cut through his fingertips and take each one piece by piece. I wanted to soil the earth with his blood, his tears. I wanted him to beg for his life at my hands. Every ounce of pain mounted into a full fledged attack. Quicker then I could reason I was up from my seat swinging for the fences. One strong shot left him on the floor but his friends were different stories. For the next five minutes in all the commotion I managed to get hit once in the face and land on the floor. I was kicked in the ribcage, back, and legs multiple times. All I could do was curl my forearms over my face to protect it from any blows that came toward my head. It was broken up by security and the police were called. I was interrogated and when both parties decided that they didn't want to press charges we were all sent home with warnings.
I had enough with being home. I had enough with being real. I left to go back to school. I packed my things and went to a place where I could be only with myself. I kissed my parents goodbye and told them that I needed to get back to school to finish some schoolwork. They understood that, that wasn't the reason but they sent me off anyway. They didn't notice the black eye that was slowly starting to form over my eye. The drive back was the longest ride I've ever taken. It was warm so I left the window down. The sound of traffic buzzing by was a comfort.
I started to think and came up with the following conjecture: With every fleeting moment, we lose our innocence. We rot a little more from the inside. Our bodies are the same as fruit. They age, become tainted, get bruised, and sooner or later the world throws us out. I want to believe that we're more then just an infestation on the earth but I'm not too sure that we aren't.
Cat Power was playing low as I pulled up to the stop light right before my apartment. The buzz from the transformer was heard in the background. Everything was working but no one seemed to be alive. Is this bliss or damnation. I may never know. I was sitting there focusing on the world beyond the physical and visual. A car honked it's horn from behind me. I returned from the alternative universe that I had become entrenched in. The light was green.
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