I spent many days doing absolutely nothing, not even going outside. It wasn't long before I lost track of days. Some days I'd get lost on TV. On a very rare occasion where I had energy, I'd take a bus to the library and spend the day there. Otherwise, I was just a child.
..........
By 2004, finally realizing that at the age of 24 if my life didn't already amount to something it never was going to, I gave in and decided to go to the University of New Orleans. Maybe it was that realization; maybe it was boredom and stagnation.
On my 24th birthday I baked myself a cake. Nothing special, just a box cake. I cut myself a generous piece and sat in front of the TV. I fell asleep before long, only to wake up when my mama got home from work.
"Mama?"
"Hey baby, what's up?"
"I'm gonna go to UNO."
"That's nice, sweety. You get some sleep now, ya hear?"
The next day I took a bus to the library and printed out all the paperwork I needed and applied for financial aid. I browsed through scholarships too, but it didn't seem like many applied to me.
It seemed an obvious choice to major in English. Maybe I could make something out of this writing gig after all.
Having something to do every day made me feel human again, eventhough I hadn't realized until then I had lost my humanity. The simple act of doing something brought me to life again. Maybe that's why my mama worked so much. She too needed to feel alive.
The first semester went by easily, although it was a little awkward at first being six years older than everyone else. But life went on. I adjusted. I lived. No, for the first time in my life I thrived.
I was still young enough to fit in, but despite this, I was having trouble making friends. Of course, I'm not one to start up a conversation. I mostly just keep to myself. There's a nice little tree where I like to sit and eat my lunch. It almost feels like nobody had discovered that spot yet except for the birds. It was really soothing.
Of course, good things never lasted long. I started to skip classes. I mean, I stayed caught up with my class work and all, but just sometimes I didn't have it in me to go to class. I started sleeping alot more, and before I new it, reading assignments were piling up. But luckily I was smart enough, and when I did go to class, I was able to get by just fine. I was mainly a B student, but hey, that's pretty good I think. I never was no Einstein, but you know, if it were a common thing, genius wouldn't be named after one man.
My hair was getting shaggy, and my mama kept pestering me to get it cut. One afternoon she was home, and went went to the John Jay salon on Robert E. Lee. I liked it. The students there knew to give me a nice haircut instead of an old man cut.
"I don't go into work til five, what do you say we go to Metairie and get you some new clothes? Maybe it'll make you feel better."
"I feel fine."
"Well I feel like driving somewhere. It's a nice day. We can go get some ice cream after. You always used to like your ice cream."
"Mama, I'm not a kid."
"You still need clothes."
The rest of our drive was in silence. She drove out to the Target at the Clearview Mall. I tried on some clothes. I was pretty boney back then, and everything billowed like a tent on me. I got three plaid shirts and two pairs of jeans. My mama wanted me to get a nice pair of pants too, "in case I meet someone pretty."
I felt kinda lame, in my early twenties, living with my mother, and I've never had a for real girl friend, and I've still never had sex. I went on a few dates with this girl in high school named Chrissann, but nothing ever came of it. It's funny looking back at myself at that time thinking I'd always be alone. If only I knew what I knew now. Ha. I have a feeling I'd always be saying that. It's as if my entire life was one big regret after another.
After Target, we stopped at a Baskin Robbins for ice cream. Mama was right, with the new haircut, the new clothes, and the ice cream, I did start to feel better, for both of us. I saw my mama smile, like, a real smile--not one of those fake ones she puts on when she gets home.
And that's what did it. That's what cause "six is not enough." I did not want to go back to the monotony. I wanted to end it on a high note. I was probably fucking up school more than I thought by missing so much. I didn't have any friends. I didn't have a job. I'm pretty sure my mama would be better off without me leeching onto her like a baby with its umbilical cord still attached.
After she left for work, I rifled through her medicine cabinet. I found a bottle of Valium that she had gotten a while back when she injured her back. There were six left in the bottle.
I sat in my bed staring down at the six blue pills sitting in my palm. There's no being poetic about it. They were not moons or orbs or mirrors. They were pills. And they were meant to kill me.
I wanted to cry so badly but couldn't. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to do something. Anything. But all I did was sit and stare. Sit and stare. Sit and stare. My heat beat loudly in my chest. bu-bum bu-bum bu-bum. The clock on the wall was ticking the seconds by. Tik tik tik tik tik tik. I heard cars on the street. whooooooooooosh. A siren. WROO-WROO-WROO-WROO-WROO! tik tik tik tik tik. bu-bum bu-bum bu-bum bu-bum. whoooosh. tik tik tik tik. WROO-WROO-WROO-WROO! bu-bum bu-bum bu-bum. tik tik tik. whoooosh beeep! WROO-WROO-WROO!
Then I did it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. tik tik tik tik tik. I laid down, brought the covers up close, and went to sleep...
Only to wake up the next day. Another failure to add to my list. Another burden to add to my pile. I just tried to kill myself. What kind of person am I? Why did I do that?
I started seeing the campus counselor, Miss Elaine Cousin (koo-zan), but I didn’t tell anyone about it. She’d always tell me that I had nothing to be ashamed of, but I was still ashamed. For one, she couldn’t have been more than a couple a years older than me. How could she possibly know what she was doing? But she was kind and honest (I’m pretty sure she was lying through her teeth).
-------
My mama died during a sweaty night in June. I woke up and saw her on the couch sleeping yet still. She shoulda been at work. I tried waking her by shaking her shoulder. It felt cold and hard. Something was wrong; I just knew it. I stepped back, and my mind played out what to do. I called an ambulance, but when they got there, it was too late. In fact, by the time I saw her, it’d already been a few hours too late. My mama was dead. I felt like I should feel sad, but for some unknown reason, I didn’t feel a thing.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Chapter 2 Part 3
My year went by, and neither my mama nor I seemed to notice. And neither was I any closer to achieving my goal of being a professional writer. Every time I managed to save any money something would come up, and oops, there it went.
Isaiah Eddison comes over every Sunday to pick up Jeremy for their ongoing Dungeons and Dragons game. Isaiah is approximately six foot twelve with ample abdomen and tree trunks for legs. He has ebony skin and thick glasses. Many people are intimidated by looking at him, but he's really just a nerdy goofball. Sometimes he comes by and plays video games with Jeremy. They go to Tulane together, and I became accustomed to seeing him around even if he and I didn't interact much.
One day I come home from work to see Isaiah and Jeremy watching Deep Space Nine.
"Hey man, how's it going?" Isaiah jovially asked.
"Hey."
I walk past them, and Jeremy calls at me, "There's some chicken in the fridge."
I go into the kitchen. I open the fridge and see the Popeye's box. I peek it open but decide I'm not that hungry just yet. I poured myself so root beer, though I headed to my room. I took a sip and set the cup on my nightstand. I laid down on my bed and ended up falling asleep eventhough the sun has yet to set.
When I awoke, my room was dark and my soda flat. I turned on my bedside lamp. The air conditioner send waves of cool air over me. I lifted myself, fully awake and walked out into the kitchen. I pulled a chicken leg out of the box and bit into it. They skin had become a bit soggy, and the cold meat was extra sinewy. All the lights in the place were off except a floor lamp in the living room and the television. Jeremy was sitting in the couch with a textbook open and writing in a notebook. The TV was playing some kind of monster movie with special effects that were obviously computer generated.
I sit in the chair next to the couch. We both sat in silence. A large, green computer generated tentacle came out of the water and computer generatedly shook a man and threw him at a computer generated background before going for a screaming woman who was not quite looking exactly in the direction of the monster.
Jeremy initiated conversation, which is something I rarely do.
"So how was your day?"
"Fine, I guess. Same as any other day."
"Cool."
"So how about you?"
"It was good. Nothing much happened. Our Civics class got cancelled, and Isaiah and I came here and watched TV. But I got to get my homework done because I'm sure Dr. Trotter is still going to have the exam on Thursday anyway."
"Oh. Yeah."
And that was that. Jeremy went back to his school work, and I finished watching the movie. Turns out computer generated tentacle monsters can die by a flame thrower. Who knew?
After a couple of hours, Jeremy went to bed, but I stayed up and watched television. A computer generated bug monster terrorized Los Angeles. Computer generated aliens traumatized New York City, Paris, London, and Tokyo specifically. And then the silent films began with their overacting and heavily applied make-up.
Some vamp was seducing a man when the first rosy fingers of morn fumbled through the window shades. Still wide awake I went back to my room where I laid down and pretended to sleep until sleep eventually came.
MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP!
My alarm went off for me to get ready for work. Being too drowsy to even open my eyes completely, I called in sick.
"Are you sure that you want to call in sick today?"
"I'm just not feeling well. I was up all night with what I think was food poisoning."
"When you come in Saturday, we are going to have a talk."
See, the thing is I've been taking alot of days off of work lately. I've been too tired and getting stomach aches in the mornings which would usually disappear before noon, but it was already after I'd called off.
Saturday came, and I met with my boss, Beth.
She told me, "If you can't take your job seriously, then perhaps you aren't the best person for our company."
And just like that I was fired.
I went straight home and laid in bed until Jeremy got home. I told him the bad news.
"What the fuck, man!"
"Sorry, I..."
"How are you going to pay your portion of the rent now? And you owe me half the electric bill too. What's wrong with you?"
"I think I'm going to move out."
"Fuck, man. Thanks for giving a dude some warning. Rent is due in a week. Are you going to be able to pay that?"
I moved back in with my mama. Uncle Ernie let us borrow his van, and we packed everything up and moved in a day. I didn't have much, and the largest thing was my bed.
My mama was glad to have me back. She said it just got so lonely coming home to an empty house every day. I quickly began to know what she meant. She picked up extra shifts at the hospital, probably just for something to do. I felt as lonely as she did most of the time.
I'd make dinner every day. I never was a good cook, but if it came in a box I could figure it out. I never knew when my mama would come from work, so I'd always just put her portion on a plate and cover it in aluminum foil and place it in the fridge.
She never made me get a job, because it wasn't much more of an expense to have me here, and she was just happy to have her boy home. She told me this often. I usually occupied my days by doing chores around the house: washing dishes, vacuuming, laundry, and I'd take the bus to make groceries. I would mow the lawn once a week at night. It's too hot to mow during the day.
I'd like to say I became more productive with my writing, but I wasn't. The most I'd ever do was write a snippet of some idea on a sheet of paper, but as soon as I try to develop the idea my mind would blank. How could I ever be a writer like this?
Isaiah Eddison comes over every Sunday to pick up Jeremy for their ongoing Dungeons and Dragons game. Isaiah is approximately six foot twelve with ample abdomen and tree trunks for legs. He has ebony skin and thick glasses. Many people are intimidated by looking at him, but he's really just a nerdy goofball. Sometimes he comes by and plays video games with Jeremy. They go to Tulane together, and I became accustomed to seeing him around even if he and I didn't interact much.
One day I come home from work to see Isaiah and Jeremy watching Deep Space Nine.
"Hey man, how's it going?" Isaiah jovially asked.
"Hey."
I walk past them, and Jeremy calls at me, "There's some chicken in the fridge."
I go into the kitchen. I open the fridge and see the Popeye's box. I peek it open but decide I'm not that hungry just yet. I poured myself so root beer, though I headed to my room. I took a sip and set the cup on my nightstand. I laid down on my bed and ended up falling asleep eventhough the sun has yet to set.
When I awoke, my room was dark and my soda flat. I turned on my bedside lamp. The air conditioner send waves of cool air over me. I lifted myself, fully awake and walked out into the kitchen. I pulled a chicken leg out of the box and bit into it. They skin had become a bit soggy, and the cold meat was extra sinewy. All the lights in the place were off except a floor lamp in the living room and the television. Jeremy was sitting in the couch with a textbook open and writing in a notebook. The TV was playing some kind of monster movie with special effects that were obviously computer generated.
I sit in the chair next to the couch. We both sat in silence. A large, green computer generated tentacle came out of the water and computer generatedly shook a man and threw him at a computer generated background before going for a screaming woman who was not quite looking exactly in the direction of the monster.
Jeremy initiated conversation, which is something I rarely do.
"So how was your day?"
"Fine, I guess. Same as any other day."
"Cool."
"So how about you?"
"It was good. Nothing much happened. Our Civics class got cancelled, and Isaiah and I came here and watched TV. But I got to get my homework done because I'm sure Dr. Trotter is still going to have the exam on Thursday anyway."
"Oh. Yeah."
And that was that. Jeremy went back to his school work, and I finished watching the movie. Turns out computer generated tentacle monsters can die by a flame thrower. Who knew?
After a couple of hours, Jeremy went to bed, but I stayed up and watched television. A computer generated bug monster terrorized Los Angeles. Computer generated aliens traumatized New York City, Paris, London, and Tokyo specifically. And then the silent films began with their overacting and heavily applied make-up.
Some vamp was seducing a man when the first rosy fingers of morn fumbled through the window shades. Still wide awake I went back to my room where I laid down and pretended to sleep until sleep eventually came.
MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP! MEEP!
My alarm went off for me to get ready for work. Being too drowsy to even open my eyes completely, I called in sick.
"Are you sure that you want to call in sick today?"
"I'm just not feeling well. I was up all night with what I think was food poisoning."
"When you come in Saturday, we are going to have a talk."
See, the thing is I've been taking alot of days off of work lately. I've been too tired and getting stomach aches in the mornings which would usually disappear before noon, but it was already after I'd called off.
Saturday came, and I met with my boss, Beth.
She told me, "If you can't take your job seriously, then perhaps you aren't the best person for our company."
And just like that I was fired.
I went straight home and laid in bed until Jeremy got home. I told him the bad news.
"What the fuck, man!"
"Sorry, I..."
"How are you going to pay your portion of the rent now? And you owe me half the electric bill too. What's wrong with you?"
"I think I'm going to move out."
"Fuck, man. Thanks for giving a dude some warning. Rent is due in a week. Are you going to be able to pay that?"
I moved back in with my mama. Uncle Ernie let us borrow his van, and we packed everything up and moved in a day. I didn't have much, and the largest thing was my bed.
My mama was glad to have me back. She said it just got so lonely coming home to an empty house every day. I quickly began to know what she meant. She picked up extra shifts at the hospital, probably just for something to do. I felt as lonely as she did most of the time.
I'd make dinner every day. I never was a good cook, but if it came in a box I could figure it out. I never knew when my mama would come from work, so I'd always just put her portion on a plate and cover it in aluminum foil and place it in the fridge.
She never made me get a job, because it wasn't much more of an expense to have me here, and she was just happy to have her boy home. She told me this often. I usually occupied my days by doing chores around the house: washing dishes, vacuuming, laundry, and I'd take the bus to make groceries. I would mow the lawn once a week at night. It's too hot to mow during the day.
I'd like to say I became more productive with my writing, but I wasn't. The most I'd ever do was write a snippet of some idea on a sheet of paper, but as soon as I try to develop the idea my mind would blank. How could I ever be a writer like this?
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Edit with description of Jeremy Gautier
I moved into a shitty Uptown apartment with a friend from school named Jeremy Gautier (go-shay). Jeremy was slender, and he never had to worry about his pants being hemmed. His fair mostly hairless skin draped smoothly over his musculature. He had golden blond hair that was always coifed gentlemanly. He was the epitome of charm and charisma. Standing next to him, I felt like he was Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, and I was his impish sidekick LeFou.
He went to Tulane whereas I got a job as a stock clerk at Langenstein’s grocery on Arabella.
He went to Tulane whereas I got a job as a stock clerk at Langenstein’s grocery on Arabella.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Chapter 2 Part 2
I could tell she was getting lonely, but what was I supposed to do? I did for a bit contemplate moving back in with her. It would help me save money. But then, I also had to prove something. I had to prove I was an adult.
I did finally come up with an idea for a book though. See, I often just sit in public places and watch people. Sometimes I make stories up about them, who they are and why they're there. What if I wrote these stories down? A Hundred Fake Stories About A Hundred Real People. I might be able to make a little sketch of the person, though I'm not very good at drawing.
After work one day, I went to Walmart to buy a notebook, just a simple composition book. I started carrying it around all the time, and eventually I filled it a few small snippets about people.
Stephanie
Stephanie was the kind of girl who would order a pint of Guiness and sit at the bar reading
a trashy paperback novel. She preferred to be left alone. Not that she didn't have friends,
she did, and though few they were, they were the most important people in her life. But
there's something about the hubbub of the busy bar that was soothing, calming. Maybe it
was because her job as a receptionist was kinda slow this time of year.
Stephanie abhorred a shortening of her name, and would always scowl at people who
called her Steph, and she's down right nasty to those who would give her one of those
temporary feminine nick-names like baby, honey, or sugar. Here, in this bar, though, she
was on a first name basis with the entire staff.
Back when she was in her early twenties she was dragged from night club to night club
with "friends" she's had since high school. It would be another five years before she found
what real friends were like. One night she walked off on her own and found this charming
spot on St. Peters, and she's been coming here ever since.
Warren
Warren didn't come to this Uptown coffee shop much. He was meeting Gideon for the first
time. They met online. Warren didn't have much luck with meeting people online. He was
often stood up, and no matter how often it happens you never get used to it. He sipped his
chai latte slowly, making it last as long as he could, not wanting to have completed a drink
by the time Gideon arrived. He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But this is
New Orleans where we have the New Orleans minutes which is the exact opposite of the
New York minute.
Warren checks his phone every few minutes. He smiles and looks around. Maybe Gideon
is sitting here somewhere, and neither of them recognized the other. He looks around and
doesn't see any man sitting alone other than himself.
Another ten minutes pass, and Warren finishes his tea. He sighs and looks towards the
door. It's been half an hour. Thinking that it happened yet again, Warren rises from his
seat, shoulders slumped, and heads for the door. As he's about to reach it, it opens.
Warren's face brightens up... but it's not Gideon. A happy couple walks in, mocking his
sadness. He glances back at the now empty table he was sitting at and contemplates for a
moment if he should stay longer. He then checks the time on his phone, sighs one last
time before leaving.
David
The rain came down suddenly. David rushed into the store quickly. You never know about
storms here. Sometimes it only lasts five minutes; sometimes it lasts all day. He stood by
the store just staring through the glass at the storm. He had no intention today of actually
shopping. Much to his chagrin, not only was the storm getting worse, but the store was a
grocery store--which he didn't need to go to any time soon. However, after a few minutes,
seeing no slack in the rain, he moseyed around. He picked up a bottle of apple juice and
seeing the price, quickly returned it to the shelf. Oh boy. And he looked around sudden;y
very judgmental of the people actually purchasing things here.
David walked all the aisles. Some of the older customers would glance at him like he didn't
belong there. The store was full of elderly women who poofed their hair out to no end, and
there was David, forty-three and male. The rain slacked down into a drizzle. Not to be a
nuasance for no reason, he picked up a candy bar (god damn, it's three dollars!) and
quickly pair for it before heading on back home.
Though like many projects I start, I was barely a third of the way through before I quit. No reason to quit actually. I just... well, I let life get in the way again. If someone were writing a story about me, that's how it'd go.
Edgar
He always lets life get in the way.
I did finally come up with an idea for a book though. See, I often just sit in public places and watch people. Sometimes I make stories up about them, who they are and why they're there. What if I wrote these stories down? A Hundred Fake Stories About A Hundred Real People. I might be able to make a little sketch of the person, though I'm not very good at drawing.
After work one day, I went to Walmart to buy a notebook, just a simple composition book. I started carrying it around all the time, and eventually I filled it a few small snippets about people.
Stephanie
Stephanie was the kind of girl who would order a pint of Guiness and sit at the bar reading
a trashy paperback novel. She preferred to be left alone. Not that she didn't have friends,
she did, and though few they were, they were the most important people in her life. But
there's something about the hubbub of the busy bar that was soothing, calming. Maybe it
was because her job as a receptionist was kinda slow this time of year.
Stephanie abhorred a shortening of her name, and would always scowl at people who
called her Steph, and she's down right nasty to those who would give her one of those
temporary feminine nick-names like baby, honey, or sugar. Here, in this bar, though, she
was on a first name basis with the entire staff.
Back when she was in her early twenties she was dragged from night club to night club
with "friends" she's had since high school. It would be another five years before she found
what real friends were like. One night she walked off on her own and found this charming
spot on St. Peters, and she's been coming here ever since.
Warren
Warren didn't come to this Uptown coffee shop much. He was meeting Gideon for the first
time. They met online. Warren didn't have much luck with meeting people online. He was
often stood up, and no matter how often it happens you never get used to it. He sipped his
chai latte slowly, making it last as long as he could, not wanting to have completed a drink
by the time Gideon arrived. He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But this is
New Orleans where we have the New Orleans minutes which is the exact opposite of the
New York minute.
Warren checks his phone every few minutes. He smiles and looks around. Maybe Gideon
is sitting here somewhere, and neither of them recognized the other. He looks around and
doesn't see any man sitting alone other than himself.
Another ten minutes pass, and Warren finishes his tea. He sighs and looks towards the
door. It's been half an hour. Thinking that it happened yet again, Warren rises from his
seat, shoulders slumped, and heads for the door. As he's about to reach it, it opens.
Warren's face brightens up... but it's not Gideon. A happy couple walks in, mocking his
sadness. He glances back at the now empty table he was sitting at and contemplates for a
moment if he should stay longer. He then checks the time on his phone, sighs one last
time before leaving.
David
The rain came down suddenly. David rushed into the store quickly. You never know about
storms here. Sometimes it only lasts five minutes; sometimes it lasts all day. He stood by
the store just staring through the glass at the storm. He had no intention today of actually
shopping. Much to his chagrin, not only was the storm getting worse, but the store was a
grocery store--which he didn't need to go to any time soon. However, after a few minutes,
seeing no slack in the rain, he moseyed around. He picked up a bottle of apple juice and
seeing the price, quickly returned it to the shelf. Oh boy. And he looked around sudden;y
very judgmental of the people actually purchasing things here.
David walked all the aisles. Some of the older customers would glance at him like he didn't
belong there. The store was full of elderly women who poofed their hair out to no end, and
there was David, forty-three and male. The rain slacked down into a drizzle. Not to be a
nuasance for no reason, he picked up a candy bar (god damn, it's three dollars!) and
quickly pair for it before heading on back home.
Though like many projects I start, I was barely a third of the way through before I quit. No reason to quit actually. I just... well, I let life get in the way again. If someone were writing a story about me, that's how it'd go.
Edgar
He always lets life get in the way.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Home On Deranged Chapter 2 Part 1
My mama stopped living long before she died.
It started back in 1993 when my daddy left us for no good reason. My mama simply said he found hisself a better life somewhere else. I knew she meant to add, “… that didn’t involve us, “but she never actually said that part out loud.
She worked long hours as a registered nurse at Touro (tur-ro). I was only 13, and I often had to manage for myself with ramen noodles, but dat’s fine.
It was the rare occasion that my mama and I’d go to City Park, or a museum, or the zoo. Even as a teenager I’d find these places magical, but my mama always seemed to be far away in her mind, and just getting up seemed like a chore sometimes. By 1995, we pretty much stopped going anywhere.
Most every day of my teenage years was about the same: I’d go to school, come home, make my ramen, sit in front of the television and watch cartoons meant for someone nearly half my age, take a nap, do my homework, read something ‘til mama got home—usually early early in the mornin’, and watch her sprawl out on the couch, turn the TV on, and usually fall asleep within five minutes.
We lived in a crusty old shotgun on South Genois (gen-oyce). It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but it wasn’t a good one either. I remember once seeing on the news someone got shot on D’Hemecourt (dee hemmy court), just a block away from our place. But that don’t bother me. You can’t be bothered by stuff like that. Shit happens anywhere you go.
By 1998, I graduated high school. I decided I didn't want to go to college. At first my mama and I argued about it. She said that I'd never make something of myself. I just didn't feel college was really necessary. I wanted to be a writer. I had compiled a bunch of short stories I had done in high school, and I had even got a few published. I was part of the literary club in school, and I felt like I could do this. We finally agreed that I could have a year to see how far I could go on my own, and if I managed to not be able to do it myself, then I had to go to college.
I moved into a shitty Uptown apartment with a friend from school named Jeremy Gautier (go-shay), and I got a job as a stock clerk at Langenstein’s grocery on Arabella. It’s a small, overpriced grocery store mostly patronized by rich elderly white folk who been comin’ there since 1922—or at least who looked old enough to have been. They were all set in their ways, always getting the same things, always acting like they’s the only customer in the store, always expecting us to stop what we doin’ and bring their groceries to their cars where if we were lucky we’d be given a shiny nickel.
I figured I could save up money working there, and then maybe I could hire myself a literary agent. I was hell bent on this writing thing. Unfortunately, I didn't know just how much life would get in the way. I wrote some poems here and there, but that's about it. I tried here and there to write a story, but every time I'd get lost in my own mind, unable to focus and create something new.
Like a good son, I’d make sure to visit my mama on my days off, usually bringing her a gift of some sort of meat that’d they’d give me at a discount because it’d expire soon. One Sunday I was frying up some boudin (boo-dan) on her old gas stove when I heard from the other room a loud sigh. I went to go check on her. The TV was blaring the WWL news, and Hoda Kotb was telling about how some little girl was trying to start a recycling program at her school. But it wasn’t that story that was makin’ my mama sigh. Though she looked in the direction of the TV, her stare was empty. That sigh was her soul leaving her body.
She leaned back in the ratty old couch which has been in the family since 1985. Its cushions shifted a bit under her weight. Right before me she turned into an old woman. Lines were sprouted all around her eyes, which were now sunken deep into their sockets. Her skin looked a bit loose and translucent, and it was a shade paler than normal. She kicked off her white clogs, they made a loud klompen noise when they met the floor. Her body seemed to move in slow motion, and her breathing seemed to take so much effort.
“Mama, you ‘right?”
Her face transforms into a smiling mask, “Yeah baby, I’m good. I got some Zatarain’s in the pantry. Why don’t you fix that up with your sausage?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say quietly as I slide back into the kitchen.
From that day on, she acted like she was plagued with some debilitating disease. Maybe she was. Maybe she had a cancer of living.
It started back in 1993 when my daddy left us for no good reason. My mama simply said he found hisself a better life somewhere else. I knew she meant to add, “… that didn’t involve us, “but she never actually said that part out loud.
She worked long hours as a registered nurse at Touro (tur-ro). I was only 13, and I often had to manage for myself with ramen noodles, but dat’s fine.
It was the rare occasion that my mama and I’d go to City Park, or a museum, or the zoo. Even as a teenager I’d find these places magical, but my mama always seemed to be far away in her mind, and just getting up seemed like a chore sometimes. By 1995, we pretty much stopped going anywhere.
Most every day of my teenage years was about the same: I’d go to school, come home, make my ramen, sit in front of the television and watch cartoons meant for someone nearly half my age, take a nap, do my homework, read something ‘til mama got home—usually early early in the mornin’, and watch her sprawl out on the couch, turn the TV on, and usually fall asleep within five minutes.
We lived in a crusty old shotgun on South Genois (gen-oyce). It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but it wasn’t a good one either. I remember once seeing on the news someone got shot on D’Hemecourt (dee hemmy court), just a block away from our place. But that don’t bother me. You can’t be bothered by stuff like that. Shit happens anywhere you go.
By 1998, I graduated high school. I decided I didn't want to go to college. At first my mama and I argued about it. She said that I'd never make something of myself. I just didn't feel college was really necessary. I wanted to be a writer. I had compiled a bunch of short stories I had done in high school, and I had even got a few published. I was part of the literary club in school, and I felt like I could do this. We finally agreed that I could have a year to see how far I could go on my own, and if I managed to not be able to do it myself, then I had to go to college.
I moved into a shitty Uptown apartment with a friend from school named Jeremy Gautier (go-shay), and I got a job as a stock clerk at Langenstein’s grocery on Arabella. It’s a small, overpriced grocery store mostly patronized by rich elderly white folk who been comin’ there since 1922—or at least who looked old enough to have been. They were all set in their ways, always getting the same things, always acting like they’s the only customer in the store, always expecting us to stop what we doin’ and bring their groceries to their cars where if we were lucky we’d be given a shiny nickel.
I figured I could save up money working there, and then maybe I could hire myself a literary agent. I was hell bent on this writing thing. Unfortunately, I didn't know just how much life would get in the way. I wrote some poems here and there, but that's about it. I tried here and there to write a story, but every time I'd get lost in my own mind, unable to focus and create something new.
Like a good son, I’d make sure to visit my mama on my days off, usually bringing her a gift of some sort of meat that’d they’d give me at a discount because it’d expire soon. One Sunday I was frying up some boudin (boo-dan) on her old gas stove when I heard from the other room a loud sigh. I went to go check on her. The TV was blaring the WWL news, and Hoda Kotb was telling about how some little girl was trying to start a recycling program at her school. But it wasn’t that story that was makin’ my mama sigh. Though she looked in the direction of the TV, her stare was empty. That sigh was her soul leaving her body.
She leaned back in the ratty old couch which has been in the family since 1985. Its cushions shifted a bit under her weight. Right before me she turned into an old woman. Lines were sprouted all around her eyes, which were now sunken deep into their sockets. Her skin looked a bit loose and translucent, and it was a shade paler than normal. She kicked off her white clogs, they made a loud klompen noise when they met the floor. Her body seemed to move in slow motion, and her breathing seemed to take so much effort.
“Mama, you ‘right?”
Her face transforms into a smiling mask, “Yeah baby, I’m good. I got some Zatarain’s in the pantry. Why don’t you fix that up with your sausage?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say quietly as I slide back into the kitchen.
From that day on, she acted like she was plagued with some debilitating disease. Maybe she was. Maybe she had a cancer of living.
Monday, August 11, 2014
EmPathetic Chapter 1 Part 4
My neighbor's yard is abloom with jasmine. The smell of jasmine brings to mind an odd sort of nostalgia, not of something from my own past, but rather further than that. I feel the sultry sweaty jazz club, ebony skinned flappers swaying hips to the tunes of Satchmo. Of course, this is fairly historically inaccurate, but this is my story, and I can do whatever I want with it.
But even this thought doesn't lift my spirits as it should. I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. It's cool inside almost to the point of unearthly with a severe lack of coziness. I settle down into a chair and pull my laptop upon me. I putz around on the Internet. That's where all my friends live. I don't have any real life friends that I hang out with and see all the time. Real life doesn't work that way. There's Isaiah, but I mean, come on. Most of my friends are from college. I don't see them anymore because I don't live there anymore. They don't know the horrors of my life, only the sad little mask I expose to the world wide web. We've all just dwindled down to words on a screen. It's hard to remember that there are people behind it all.
I quickly get bored and decide to lie in bed. I jerk off to women in my imagination. Some of them are real. The girl I saw at the busstop. The girl who came into the shop today and bought lavendar soap. The girl in line at Walgreens. There's that movie, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." It has a line, "Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?" Well, why do I? Am I that desperately alone? I am alone. Always alone. I hate being alone. That's when the wicked things come out.
I ponder my thoughts. Hush. Be quiet! Won't you just shut up! You are worthless. You don't even have control of your own mind. You know what would do it. Do you dare? Do you really dare? It's just for attention. How's it just for attention? Who will pay attention? Who is there? Is anyone there? No one is there.
I take my meds. The ramblings turn to murmurs. The murmurs turn to whispers. The whispers turn to sleep. Peaceful, lovely sleep. Sleep is where the hours go.
.......
Dreams are just random firings in the brain. Immediately upon waking, your brain tries to stitch those bits and pieces into a story, because that's what brains do. But ultimately, dreams are meaningless.
I had a dream last night that being a drag queen was illegal, and I was part of some sort of underground railroad to get them to Canada. What does it mean? Nothing. And thinking back on the dream, and being honest about it, you begin to realize that it is perhaps a tad less coherent than my summary would have you believe. Something about rubber-band powered go-carts. Something about a float school burning down in a swamp. The feeling of falling. Red gardenias. They're all just bits and pieces or random things, and my mind just did its job.
Unfortunately in my lucid life, my mind is not the best at doing its job. Every day is the same mundane reminder that I'm not able to make something of myself. My alarm goes off a good four or five times every morning. I slide out of bed like a Slinky that climbs down only one stair and stops. It aches to stand. It aches to walk. It even aches to see. I clamber into some rumbled clothes off the floor. I hobble to the bathroom to take a piss and swallow a pill--the giant orange on in the morning. I slide like sludge into my morning... or my afternoon... or sometimes my evening depending on the day of the week. If I don't have to work, I may not leave the bed. I'll plan to. I just... don't. And I hate myself for it. My mind has created an barbwire blanket with weights in the corners that it used to tuck me in at night. Every day it is like I'm swimming through quicksand while every else is walking with such ease. And the worst part is, no one else can see the quicksand. To them you are standing on concrete.
I'm lucky to make it to work on time. Sometimes I don't eat because that is too much effort. Checking the mail is a major triumph. But it's difficult to tell my story. No one believes me. They all think I'm crazy. Every day I fight off monsters and demons that though they only live in my mind, they are 100% totally and completely real.
But you are here to hear my story, aren't you. You've trudged through these words to find out who I am. I must warn you, you may not like what you find. And lastly, when you ask someone from New Orleans to tell a story, we start all the way from the beginning.
But even this thought doesn't lift my spirits as it should. I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. It's cool inside almost to the point of unearthly with a severe lack of coziness. I settle down into a chair and pull my laptop upon me. I putz around on the Internet. That's where all my friends live. I don't have any real life friends that I hang out with and see all the time. Real life doesn't work that way. There's Isaiah, but I mean, come on. Most of my friends are from college. I don't see them anymore because I don't live there anymore. They don't know the horrors of my life, only the sad little mask I expose to the world wide web. We've all just dwindled down to words on a screen. It's hard to remember that there are people behind it all.
I quickly get bored and decide to lie in bed. I jerk off to women in my imagination. Some of them are real. The girl I saw at the busstop. The girl who came into the shop today and bought lavendar soap. The girl in line at Walgreens. There's that movie, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." It has a line, "Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?" Well, why do I? Am I that desperately alone? I am alone. Always alone. I hate being alone. That's when the wicked things come out.
I ponder my thoughts. Hush. Be quiet! Won't you just shut up! You are worthless. You don't even have control of your own mind. You know what would do it. Do you dare? Do you really dare? It's just for attention. How's it just for attention? Who will pay attention? Who is there? Is anyone there? No one is there.
I take my meds. The ramblings turn to murmurs. The murmurs turn to whispers. The whispers turn to sleep. Peaceful, lovely sleep. Sleep is where the hours go.
.......
Dreams are just random firings in the brain. Immediately upon waking, your brain tries to stitch those bits and pieces into a story, because that's what brains do. But ultimately, dreams are meaningless.
I had a dream last night that being a drag queen was illegal, and I was part of some sort of underground railroad to get them to Canada. What does it mean? Nothing. And thinking back on the dream, and being honest about it, you begin to realize that it is perhaps a tad less coherent than my summary would have you believe. Something about rubber-band powered go-carts. Something about a float school burning down in a swamp. The feeling of falling. Red gardenias. They're all just bits and pieces or random things, and my mind just did its job.
Unfortunately in my lucid life, my mind is not the best at doing its job. Every day is the same mundane reminder that I'm not able to make something of myself. My alarm goes off a good four or five times every morning. I slide out of bed like a Slinky that climbs down only one stair and stops. It aches to stand. It aches to walk. It even aches to see. I clamber into some rumbled clothes off the floor. I hobble to the bathroom to take a piss and swallow a pill--the giant orange on in the morning. I slide like sludge into my morning... or my afternoon... or sometimes my evening depending on the day of the week. If I don't have to work, I may not leave the bed. I'll plan to. I just... don't. And I hate myself for it. My mind has created an barbwire blanket with weights in the corners that it used to tuck me in at night. Every day it is like I'm swimming through quicksand while every else is walking with such ease. And the worst part is, no one else can see the quicksand. To them you are standing on concrete.
I'm lucky to make it to work on time. Sometimes I don't eat because that is too much effort. Checking the mail is a major triumph. But it's difficult to tell my story. No one believes me. They all think I'm crazy. Every day I fight off monsters and demons that though they only live in my mind, they are 100% totally and completely real.
But you are here to hear my story, aren't you. You've trudged through these words to find out who I am. I must warn you, you may not like what you find. And lastly, when you ask someone from New Orleans to tell a story, we start all the way from the beginning.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
EmPathetic Chapter 1 Part 3
We ate quietly. Mr. Frants wasn't one to talk much, and I was fine with that. It's actually moments like this I find most enjoyable in life--those moments where you just join together in space without the need to fill the void with babble, even if this particular moment is with an elderly racist homophobic prik.
We finished our touchups, and Mr. Frants dropped me off at home. There's a package on the porch, I glance at it and see it has my address, but atop it instead of my name, Edgar Alvaro, it says Patrick Oppenheimer. I set it back down and go about my business. The next day, it's still there, the package being about the size of a DVD but flaccid, slightly curved in the middle. I wonder what it is.
Day after day it glares at me when I arrive home, when I leave my apartment, when I take out the trash. Every day, it's there, getting more schlumped and nestled in its lonely little corner of the porch. One day, a Wednesday I think, I pick it up again. Its been here for over a week now. No one here has claimed it. I know it's against the law, but I might as well open it. I mean, no one else is taking it, so what will it do?
I don't open it. I carry it very personally under my arm down the hall, up the flight of stairs, and into my apartment. I lay it on my coffee table. I sit and stare at it. It stares back. What kind of man is Patrick Oppenheimer? I doubt he was a physicist. Maybe he is. He's probably a tallish man, good build, short cropped ashy blond hair, two reced curves on either side of his ever expanding forehead, thin lips, a charming always innocent boyish smile, a dimple on one side, oh shit, I'm describing Patrick Wilson.
The package watches me contemplate its future. It'd be two more days until I open it. It watches me sleep at night. It waits for me patiently each day. Sometimes I hear it whisper my name in a language only known to paper products.
I shouldn't do this. I know I shouldn't. Okay, just get it over with quickly. With eyes clenched shut... *rriiiiiiiiiipp*... that's it, it's done. Inside, the contents were unimpressive. I torn piece of journal paper scribed with "Happy Birthday Pat." and the barely legible signature at the bottom, "Zack." And the floppy item was a paperback: j. g. ballard - crash / a novel--typed all in lower case just like that. The words, "Happy Birthday" fill me with sudden remorse. This unknowable Patrick Oppenheimer will never recieve his birthday gift. This other man, known simply as Zack will think Patrick, or Pat rather, is an ass for not mentioning the book. But then really how good of friends are that that Zack did not know Pat's newest address? Zack probably once commented something about the book and suggested Pat read it, so he bought it and gifted it simply to boost his own ego. Furthermore, Zack only spent two dollars on the book according to the price sticker. A bargain for sure. Probably cost less than the shipping.
But then maybe I'm just justifying committing a federal offense. The book, laden with guilt, feels heavy in my hands. I hold it not in a way one holds a book, but more like when someone hands you a baby for the first time, and you're like, now what do I do with it, and a gaggle of overly matronly women must instruct you on the proper way to hold an infant. For a moment I am frozen. What do I do now? I open it to the begining of its prose.
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death
in many crashes, but this was his only true accident.
I slam it shut as if a terrible revelation came to me. Zack, the harbinger of death has brought me this message. I do not believe in signs of god, nor do I believe in god, but this is a sign of god. Don't be silly. Of course it's not. Then how does it know I will die? It doesn't. When you want a sign, you see a sign. You take the most insignificant thing and make it a sign. This is just a book. These are just pages. They are cut and pressed wood pulp with carefully patterned pigmented oil-based product smashed into it to become a legible piece of literature. It is nothing. It is unimportant, even to Patrick Oppenheimer.
I contemplate throwing the book away, but it isn't mine to throw away, so I keep it hidden behind other books on a shelf so that one day in the future, and will refind it, and relive all the horrors it brought me, I'm sure.
.....
Not too distant bells peale the six o'clock hour. The gray sky echoed back with a hungry stomach thunder. I stroll down Chartres (Charters), avoiding the shakey slate sidewalk tiles. I just got off work at Lather and Lace, the soap shop. In the distance there is a man wearing an impressive costume which is likely his daily wear. From top to bottom he is clad in a black pork pie cocked to the side, a teal paisley shirt, black pinstripe trousers, and candy apple snakeskin shoes. Most impressive, though, is his golden handlebar mustache in the middle of his face. He walks with such confidence and fervor that I am inclined to be envious. As he passes me, he flashes a friendly smile that says, "look at this happy and healthy young man," but his eyes betray him. His eyes are my eyes. At this moment I know all his secrets.
I turn down Iberville because I plan on stopping by Walgreens for a cold drink. I pass Dixie Divas. A plump woman stands in the doorway meaning to tempt me in. Her breasts hang loosely in her thin clothes, unsupported by a bra, like jellyfish washed up on a beach. Outside the Walgreens is a man smoking a cigarette--one of those brown ones that smell good. He wears black and white striped pants, a white chef's shirt, and a black bandanna on his head, and he's leaning against the terracotta-painted wall, looking at me with his yellowed eyes with neither interest nor disdain.
After purchasing a bottle of juice, and I head to the streetcar stop to head home. In only a few minutes it arrives, and I walk on. I sat on the back bench whose windows run parallel to the seat. I watch people get on. The doors close, but just before leaving, they reopen for a woman hailing down the streetcar from across the street. She bends her arms at ninety-degree angles, sways them quickly in wide arcs, and shuffles her legs in small but quick steps. She is still going no faster than when she was simply walking, but she manages the illusion of running.
The streetcar takes off, and I open my novel I brought with me to work. The words would flow into me in spurts and then in jumbles almost as if I had ADD and was reading French.
Just after passing One Shell Square, the sky broke open with a downpour, as tends to happen this time of year. Then began the cacophony of people rushing to down their windows *Klklklklklklklklklklklklklkl!* Mine stayed up. First there was spittle upon the back of my neck like the gentle touch that no one can give you just right. Mere moments later, cold dots penetrated the back of my shirt. By Lee Circle, my back was soaked, and the water began to drop down into my ass crack. It was soothing, and in contrast, the front of my body now felt feverish. A few small specks made their way to the now abandoned pages in front of me, leaving tiny waves upon the paper. I took off my hat and set it onto my lap. I leaned my head back against the edge of the raised window and hunched my back through so the wind would more easily lay its cooling hands upon me. I closed my eyes, but it was only a mere moment before my reverie was broken.
“Do you mind shutting your window?”
I turned to see sitting next to me the soft-bodied Madonna with the Long Neck whose timid voice asked me the question.
“Yes, I do mind.” I looked and saw that every bench meant for two was occupied by only one person. “There are plenty of empty seats with closed windows.”
She stood up along with a young man next to her. He was probably her boyfriend, or worse, he her fiancé. They just stood in the aisle grabbing the pole. The Madonna with the Long Neck looked at me sideways, large obvious spots of moisture temporarily marring her light blue maxi dress made of t-shirt material, whose empire waist didn’t quite fit right around her boobs. A couple of blocks later, someone got off, and they quickly shuffled past to slide in that seat. Of course, by this point, we were at Washington, and the rain had stopped. Slowly, people began to realize this, and intermittently the *klklklklklklklklklklklklklklklkl* began again, and it wasn’t long before the couple, who had given up their spot by my open window had then opened a window of their own.
My stop had come, and I waltzed off wearing my skunk’s back proudly. My only regret is that the rain had ceased, and I would not complete my rejuvenation on this night.
We finished our touchups, and Mr. Frants dropped me off at home. There's a package on the porch, I glance at it and see it has my address, but atop it instead of my name, Edgar Alvaro, it says Patrick Oppenheimer. I set it back down and go about my business. The next day, it's still there, the package being about the size of a DVD but flaccid, slightly curved in the middle. I wonder what it is.
Day after day it glares at me when I arrive home, when I leave my apartment, when I take out the trash. Every day, it's there, getting more schlumped and nestled in its lonely little corner of the porch. One day, a Wednesday I think, I pick it up again. Its been here for over a week now. No one here has claimed it. I know it's against the law, but I might as well open it. I mean, no one else is taking it, so what will it do?
I don't open it. I carry it very personally under my arm down the hall, up the flight of stairs, and into my apartment. I lay it on my coffee table. I sit and stare at it. It stares back. What kind of man is Patrick Oppenheimer? I doubt he was a physicist. Maybe he is. He's probably a tallish man, good build, short cropped ashy blond hair, two reced curves on either side of his ever expanding forehead, thin lips, a charming always innocent boyish smile, a dimple on one side, oh shit, I'm describing Patrick Wilson.
The package watches me contemplate its future. It'd be two more days until I open it. It watches me sleep at night. It waits for me patiently each day. Sometimes I hear it whisper my name in a language only known to paper products.
I shouldn't do this. I know I shouldn't. Okay, just get it over with quickly. With eyes clenched shut... *rriiiiiiiiiipp*... that's it, it's done. Inside, the contents were unimpressive. I torn piece of journal paper scribed with "Happy Birthday Pat." and the barely legible signature at the bottom, "Zack." And the floppy item was a paperback: j. g. ballard - crash / a novel--typed all in lower case just like that. The words, "Happy Birthday" fill me with sudden remorse. This unknowable Patrick Oppenheimer will never recieve his birthday gift. This other man, known simply as Zack will think Patrick, or Pat rather, is an ass for not mentioning the book. But then really how good of friends are that that Zack did not know Pat's newest address? Zack probably once commented something about the book and suggested Pat read it, so he bought it and gifted it simply to boost his own ego. Furthermore, Zack only spent two dollars on the book according to the price sticker. A bargain for sure. Probably cost less than the shipping.
But then maybe I'm just justifying committing a federal offense. The book, laden with guilt, feels heavy in my hands. I hold it not in a way one holds a book, but more like when someone hands you a baby for the first time, and you're like, now what do I do with it, and a gaggle of overly matronly women must instruct you on the proper way to hold an infant. For a moment I am frozen. What do I do now? I open it to the begining of its prose.
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death
in many crashes, but this was his only true accident.
I slam it shut as if a terrible revelation came to me. Zack, the harbinger of death has brought me this message. I do not believe in signs of god, nor do I believe in god, but this is a sign of god. Don't be silly. Of course it's not. Then how does it know I will die? It doesn't. When you want a sign, you see a sign. You take the most insignificant thing and make it a sign. This is just a book. These are just pages. They are cut and pressed wood pulp with carefully patterned pigmented oil-based product smashed into it to become a legible piece of literature. It is nothing. It is unimportant, even to Patrick Oppenheimer.
I contemplate throwing the book away, but it isn't mine to throw away, so I keep it hidden behind other books on a shelf so that one day in the future, and will refind it, and relive all the horrors it brought me, I'm sure.
.....
Not too distant bells peale the six o'clock hour. The gray sky echoed back with a hungry stomach thunder. I stroll down Chartres (Charters), avoiding the shakey slate sidewalk tiles. I just got off work at Lather and Lace, the soap shop. In the distance there is a man wearing an impressive costume which is likely his daily wear. From top to bottom he is clad in a black pork pie cocked to the side, a teal paisley shirt, black pinstripe trousers, and candy apple snakeskin shoes. Most impressive, though, is his golden handlebar mustache in the middle of his face. He walks with such confidence and fervor that I am inclined to be envious. As he passes me, he flashes a friendly smile that says, "look at this happy and healthy young man," but his eyes betray him. His eyes are my eyes. At this moment I know all his secrets.
I turn down Iberville because I plan on stopping by Walgreens for a cold drink. I pass Dixie Divas. A plump woman stands in the doorway meaning to tempt me in. Her breasts hang loosely in her thin clothes, unsupported by a bra, like jellyfish washed up on a beach. Outside the Walgreens is a man smoking a cigarette--one of those brown ones that smell good. He wears black and white striped pants, a white chef's shirt, and a black bandanna on his head, and he's leaning against the terracotta-painted wall, looking at me with his yellowed eyes with neither interest nor disdain.
After purchasing a bottle of juice, and I head to the streetcar stop to head home. In only a few minutes it arrives, and I walk on. I sat on the back bench whose windows run parallel to the seat. I watch people get on. The doors close, but just before leaving, they reopen for a woman hailing down the streetcar from across the street. She bends her arms at ninety-degree angles, sways them quickly in wide arcs, and shuffles her legs in small but quick steps. She is still going no faster than when she was simply walking, but she manages the illusion of running.
The streetcar takes off, and I open my novel I brought with me to work. The words would flow into me in spurts and then in jumbles almost as if I had ADD and was reading French.
Just after passing One Shell Square, the sky broke open with a downpour, as tends to happen this time of year. Then began the cacophony of people rushing to down their windows *Klklklklklklklklklklklklklkl!* Mine stayed up. First there was spittle upon the back of my neck like the gentle touch that no one can give you just right. Mere moments later, cold dots penetrated the back of my shirt. By Lee Circle, my back was soaked, and the water began to drop down into my ass crack. It was soothing, and in contrast, the front of my body now felt feverish. A few small specks made their way to the now abandoned pages in front of me, leaving tiny waves upon the paper. I took off my hat and set it onto my lap. I leaned my head back against the edge of the raised window and hunched my back through so the wind would more easily lay its cooling hands upon me. I closed my eyes, but it was only a mere moment before my reverie was broken.
“Do you mind shutting your window?”
I turned to see sitting next to me the soft-bodied Madonna with the Long Neck whose timid voice asked me the question.
“Yes, I do mind.” I looked and saw that every bench meant for two was occupied by only one person. “There are plenty of empty seats with closed windows.”
She stood up along with a young man next to her. He was probably her boyfriend, or worse, he her fiancé. They just stood in the aisle grabbing the pole. The Madonna with the Long Neck looked at me sideways, large obvious spots of moisture temporarily marring her light blue maxi dress made of t-shirt material, whose empire waist didn’t quite fit right around her boobs. A couple of blocks later, someone got off, and they quickly shuffled past to slide in that seat. Of course, by this point, we were at Washington, and the rain had stopped. Slowly, people began to realize this, and intermittently the *klklklklklklklklklklklklklklklkl* began again, and it wasn’t long before the couple, who had given up their spot by my open window had then opened a window of their own.
My stop had come, and I waltzed off wearing my skunk’s back proudly. My only regret is that the rain had ceased, and I would not complete my rejuvenation on this night.
Friday, August 8, 2014
EmPathetic Chapter 1 Part 2
I've been on disability for 2 years now. It's not nearly enough to pay for everything. but luckily my landlord lets me do odd jobs for him for reduced rent, and I work part time at a soap shop in the Quarter where they pay me cash under the table.
It's just too much stress working for the public. Everybody is horrible. I would often lose my shit, and then I'd be fired. disability was the better option. I don't want to be without a job. Jobs make you feel human again, but for those who think one can hold his own faculties when you have a mental disorder, you are mistaken. They are called a disorder because nothing is in order.
Mr. Frants is my landlord. It's not like the country, it's like more than one frant. He's an eighty-something year old rich white man who is the kindest most generous most loving person as long as you aren't black, hispanic, middle eastern, or female. Mrs. Frants is a former model, and she keeps all her favorite outfits on individual mannequins in a large room in their giant house. They live on Audubon Place--a turnt-up-nose gated community--right next door to Harry Connick Sr.
I've never been one to wake up early on my own, and my meds make it more and more difficult to do so, but when the sun is barely peaking over the trees, my phone goes off with a call from Mr. Frants. Someone had moved out of an apartment of his, and I've been helping him every day clean it and get it ready to rent. Today we were going to paint it.
I get some old clothes on, and he picks my up in his white truck about twenty minutes later. We stop by The Home Depot to get some paint. It was called something like buttercream mist, but it was just off white.
We go then to a double shotgun in Midcity, much like the one my mama lived in. So much in fact that the first time we came here I had a panic attack and locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. But Mr. Frants didn't seem to notice. I know he did, but he just ignored stuff like that just like how he ignores his wife's alzheimers. If you asked him about it, he'd say, "You can't be worryin' about things like that, son. They ain't nothin' you can do about it, so you just keep livin' life around it until it's all done."
We each have our own paint tray and roller, and he started in the front room painting, and I started in the back. The whole house the same color. He said he used to paint the rooms different colors, but it got to be too expensive, and aint nobody going to like every color anyway.
I love the smell of fresh paint, and the moist sound of the rollers rubbing against the wall was pleasing too. The up and down movement of the roller was a bit meditiative, and before I knew it, we were almost done. Mr. Frants left to go buy us lunch while I went with a brush and did all the edges. He brought back Popeye's chicken and mashed potatoes. We sat on two ten gallon paint buckets and used an ice chest as a table.
It's just too much stress working for the public. Everybody is horrible. I would often lose my shit, and then I'd be fired. disability was the better option. I don't want to be without a job. Jobs make you feel human again, but for those who think one can hold his own faculties when you have a mental disorder, you are mistaken. They are called a disorder because nothing is in order.
Mr. Frants is my landlord. It's not like the country, it's like more than one frant. He's an eighty-something year old rich white man who is the kindest most generous most loving person as long as you aren't black, hispanic, middle eastern, or female. Mrs. Frants is a former model, and she keeps all her favorite outfits on individual mannequins in a large room in their giant house. They live on Audubon Place--a turnt-up-nose gated community--right next door to Harry Connick Sr.
I've never been one to wake up early on my own, and my meds make it more and more difficult to do so, but when the sun is barely peaking over the trees, my phone goes off with a call from Mr. Frants. Someone had moved out of an apartment of his, and I've been helping him every day clean it and get it ready to rent. Today we were going to paint it.
I get some old clothes on, and he picks my up in his white truck about twenty minutes later. We stop by The Home Depot to get some paint. It was called something like buttercream mist, but it was just off white.
We go then to a double shotgun in Midcity, much like the one my mama lived in. So much in fact that the first time we came here I had a panic attack and locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. But Mr. Frants didn't seem to notice. I know he did, but he just ignored stuff like that just like how he ignores his wife's alzheimers. If you asked him about it, he'd say, "You can't be worryin' about things like that, son. They ain't nothin' you can do about it, so you just keep livin' life around it until it's all done."
We each have our own paint tray and roller, and he started in the front room painting, and I started in the back. The whole house the same color. He said he used to paint the rooms different colors, but it got to be too expensive, and aint nobody going to like every color anyway.
I love the smell of fresh paint, and the moist sound of the rollers rubbing against the wall was pleasing too. The up and down movement of the roller was a bit meditiative, and before I knew it, we were almost done. Mr. Frants left to go buy us lunch while I went with a brush and did all the edges. He brought back Popeye's chicken and mashed potatoes. We sat on two ten gallon paint buckets and used an ice chest as a table.
Friday, August 1, 2014
EmPathetic. Chapter 1 Part 1
Six is not enough.
These words flit through my head like a fly in an empty room. I try to pretend I don’t know what they mean. I’m afraid, so terribly afraid that if I admit it to myself that the peering eyes of the sky will look down upon my and emblazon those words on my forehead for the world to see. Eyes are always watching. People always know. The truth needs to get itself out of my head. So For this moment I shall be brave and share a single, simple fact with you: I tried to kill myself three times.
“Six is not enough” was attempt number one. Six valium is not enough to kill a boy like me.
I wish so badly that that time of my life never existed. I was too empty at that time to have any trinket of that life be worth anything. I’m better now. Of course, when I say that, people assume I’m completely fine. I’m far from it (and it feels I get farther from it every day). A better way to say it, a better phrase would be, “I’m less worse.” I am less worse. I know in the back of my head that that is true, but as I think about it right now, it feels like a lie (most things from my head feel like a lie).
Why am I thinking about this while I’m waiting for a streetcar after dinner at Camellia Grill? Well, to be honest, I think of everything all the time. I live the past and present and future of my life simultaneously. Every moment I’ve ever had happens all at once. My brain whirrs with the entire universe of one person. It never stops… except when I take my meds that help it stop at night so I can sleep.
The Mississippi River breeze washes by bringing with it some distant gardenias. I stand on the corner of St. Charles and Carrollton. Behind me is a gas station whose unnatural light makes me feel like I’m not alone. Any minute someone will come by, I’m sure of it. I look around. I look down—my feet pigeon-toed on the pavement, recently wet from a sudden but short storm (they happen more and more this time of year). I like the smell of wet pavement.
Six peasoup-hued streetcars pass by like a parade, all going the opposite direction I need to. Only the St. Charles cars seem to do this. All the time. Is it really that difficult to keep them evenly spaced and on schedule?
The breeze makes me feel (general positive emotion). I went too long feeling nothing that now I do feel things, I’m not sure how to classify emotions when I feel ‘em. I pretty much say they are positive, negative, mixed, or confused. I figured I could leave a blank, and you would fill it in. You know about emotions better than I do anyways. Maybe something good? The gardenias reminding me of my mama’s house back when my parents were still around?
To my right the lights of a daiquiri shop, a tattoo parlor, and a bit of hubbub at Cooter Brown’s giving the false sense of security. To my left two blocks down at another stop is and impatient gaggle of Hawaiian shirts, khaki shorts, polo shirts, plaid shorts, tank tops, and jeans looking at a map trying to figure out how to get to Bourbon Street all the while wondering when the street car closes for the night (it doesn’t). Several blocks down, the faint but distinctive lights of five street cars turn down Jeannette St. to go to rest in the barn for the evening, only one makes its way towards me, the last in the line of course.
Above me the sky is violet and orange—the ominous hot-weather color. Faster than expected, the streetcar’s noises abruptly enter my personal space. The now open orange doors reveal a tall slender grey machine and behind that a blue-shirted black man at the helm. I carefully step onto the small platform that hinges down, it squeaking under my weight. I slip my coinage into the machine, walk past wooden benches and bored faces, each wondering “Why are you here?”
I take my seat—right side, somewhere in the middle, bit closer to the back, slide all the way to the window. The rumbly bumpy car moves before I fully get down—jolt! The hundred-year-old street car stammers, aches, and screams its way through the corner turning onto St. Charles. The lights flicker like eyelashes when one awakes. I then lean my head quietly against the glass window, partially open, and I see the other me staring back out the corners of our eyes. I put my arm on the sill—cold breeze caresses it like they are lovers.
I watch the backs of people’s heads and wonder what is in them. An old couple, first time here, they just ate at O’Henry’s, he’s a bit tired but wont bitch about it just yet, she wants to go to Royal Street because she heard there was a concert there, of course not knowing it ended three hours ago.
They sit next to eachother, not even touching. Isn’t 46 years of touching worth having a break now… until we die?
Guy, ‘bout 20. Goes to Tulane University, backpack in his lap, headphones sticking out the unzipped top—earbud headphones, I hate those. With iPhone in hand, he texts his girlfriend as well as his best friend whose apartment on Willow Street he just left. They smoked pot and talked about the artsy fartsy film they saw at the Prytania Theatre last week. This girl Geannine was there. She has pretty eyes and sweet tats of Beardsley art on her left arm. The guy touched her hand once, her fingernails painted a red sparkle. Now he sits in the streetcar, texting his girlfriend about how he’ll come visit her next weekend. They went to high school together, now he goes to Tulane; she goes to LSU. He brushes his artfully unkempt hair out of his face, sniffles a bit, presses away on the buttonless buttons of his phone.
One Hispanic woman and her child stay quiet, waiting to get off on Felicity. With daughter in lap, she stares blankly out the window across from her. They’re in the seat reserved for the elderly. It goes longways, it’s bigger-good for her two totes overflowing with the errands of the day, and it’s by the door—easiness counts when you have a child in hand. She plans out the rest of her evening in her head: go home, put Marina to bed, clean livingroom, vacuum (can only vacuum at night because Marina’s afraid of the loud noise), I have some cookies hidden in the top of the pantry, maybe snack on those afterward, no, maybe I shouldn’t. The daughter wiggles and fusses a bit. The woman breaks from her trance and softly murmurs something in Spanish to her. I could hear it plainly but don’t know what it was since it wasn’t “¡hola!” or “uno, dos, tres,” but it pacified the child long enough for the ride home.
The streetcar screeches like a knife attacking a woman in a shower. Several adults ready for a night out bumble on, and one lollipop-shaped man pays for their passage. Through its evening journey past mansions I could never afford, men and women come and go (talking of Michelangelo). They laugh, they yell, they sing, they rub their backs against the ancient wooden seats. I sat alone.
I am very observant. I see people. People are predictable. People are mostly the same as other people. I can tell you the whats and wheres of everyone. I understand the how. I don’t understand the why. Many people confuse the two and think I understand people very well. I took classes in biology, anatomy, psychology, sociology, and physiology. I can tell you the ins and outs of everyone, yet I still do don’t understand people. It seems the more I know about them, the less I know about them. It’s a shame John Kennedy Toole died. I feel we may relate to people in the same way. I would very much have liked to have talked with him after reading Confederacy of Dunces.
My stop comes. I pull the string. I amble home through the soupy night air and screaming nightbugs. Once home, I turn on the bathroom light and look at myself, shirtless, in the mirror. My forest of a chest, not fit not fat Shiva-like torso, bland face, and “olive” skin stare back at me. Olive? I'd never eat an olive the color of my skin. I'm kinda racially ambiguous. My daddy's family is Sicilian. His grandparents were fresh off the boat. My mama's family is French and Choctaw, and my Maw Maw Irma is creole. I get asked alot if I'm either middle eastern or Greek or latino.
I lean in. My undereyes are blue like bruises. Small wrinkles caress the lower lids of my eyes. Large black eyebrows make me forever serious. I turn my head slightly then snap it back forward as soon as I got a glance at my nose in profile. It’s fine when looked at straight on, but is a terrible shark-fin of a nose in profile. Every time a baby is born in our family, the first thing everyone wonders in terror is “Does it have an Alvaro nose?”
I rub my fingers across my black stubble. I hate shaving, but despite this, I grab my brush and soap and get the water running for a shave. I sigh and stare at myself a little too long… my eyes, endless wormholes in which it’s easy to get lost and never found. Steam rises up from the sink and starts to fog the mirror. Shaken from my glare, I stand up, make a lather, and put it on my face. The suds instantly turn cool upon contact with my skin.
I pick up the cold metal razor and place it against my face. Its triple blade action quickly departs hair from face. Of course, not without the terrible sound almost like velcro being ripped apart. I run my hands across my face to feel for hidden hairs, running after them with the razor. After rinsing my face, I stand back to look at the prize under all the facial hair. Surprise! It’s red, blotchy, irritated skin!
I run water for a shower. I step in, ready for the experience. Showers are not just to clean oneself, they are meditation. I often get lost in the moment as warm water pulses against my skin and through my thick hair. The superficial neurons fire with each kiss of a droplet. My sinuses become open and enlarged, wafting in ounce after ounce of moisture-heavy air which cleanses my mind from the inside out. I stand still, water courses down my body, flicking through body hair, and I am an ancient fountain, constantly renewed with new water and new life. I sit on the smooth fiberglass floor of the batthtub, the hot shower water bursting onto me, clattering on my head with the sound of popcorn and soft applause. It's my own personal tropical storm, the thing is, it has nothing to do with the water. The storm lives in my mind.
Eventually, I remember my intent, to clean. The trance is ended. I grab a well-used disc of soap and spread it over my body and scrub clean with a washcloth. With this simple action I return to the mundane and menial world. I cold wave of emptiness surrounds me, almost as if the hot water stopped. I turn the knobs, grab the towel, and scrub dry, pinking my skin.
I fall into my bed, spreading my legs out like the Colossus of Rhodes. The ceiling fan air cools my crotch. It feels good. Before I know it, I’m wafting into sleep. Too lazy to get up again, I decide that I don’t need my medicine this night. I turn onto my side, slide my hands beneath my pillow, and leave this world for one more fantastic.
These words flit through my head like a fly in an empty room. I try to pretend I don’t know what they mean. I’m afraid, so terribly afraid that if I admit it to myself that the peering eyes of the sky will look down upon my and emblazon those words on my forehead for the world to see. Eyes are always watching. People always know. The truth needs to get itself out of my head. So For this moment I shall be brave and share a single, simple fact with you: I tried to kill myself three times.
“Six is not enough” was attempt number one. Six valium is not enough to kill a boy like me.
I wish so badly that that time of my life never existed. I was too empty at that time to have any trinket of that life be worth anything. I’m better now. Of course, when I say that, people assume I’m completely fine. I’m far from it (and it feels I get farther from it every day). A better way to say it, a better phrase would be, “I’m less worse.” I am less worse. I know in the back of my head that that is true, but as I think about it right now, it feels like a lie (most things from my head feel like a lie).
Why am I thinking about this while I’m waiting for a streetcar after dinner at Camellia Grill? Well, to be honest, I think of everything all the time. I live the past and present and future of my life simultaneously. Every moment I’ve ever had happens all at once. My brain whirrs with the entire universe of one person. It never stops… except when I take my meds that help it stop at night so I can sleep.
The Mississippi River breeze washes by bringing with it some distant gardenias. I stand on the corner of St. Charles and Carrollton. Behind me is a gas station whose unnatural light makes me feel like I’m not alone. Any minute someone will come by, I’m sure of it. I look around. I look down—my feet pigeon-toed on the pavement, recently wet from a sudden but short storm (they happen more and more this time of year). I like the smell of wet pavement.
Six peasoup-hued streetcars pass by like a parade, all going the opposite direction I need to. Only the St. Charles cars seem to do this. All the time. Is it really that difficult to keep them evenly spaced and on schedule?
The breeze makes me feel (general positive emotion). I went too long feeling nothing that now I do feel things, I’m not sure how to classify emotions when I feel ‘em. I pretty much say they are positive, negative, mixed, or confused. I figured I could leave a blank, and you would fill it in. You know about emotions better than I do anyways. Maybe something good? The gardenias reminding me of my mama’s house back when my parents were still around?
To my right the lights of a daiquiri shop, a tattoo parlor, and a bit of hubbub at Cooter Brown’s giving the false sense of security. To my left two blocks down at another stop is and impatient gaggle of Hawaiian shirts, khaki shorts, polo shirts, plaid shorts, tank tops, and jeans looking at a map trying to figure out how to get to Bourbon Street all the while wondering when the street car closes for the night (it doesn’t). Several blocks down, the faint but distinctive lights of five street cars turn down Jeannette St. to go to rest in the barn for the evening, only one makes its way towards me, the last in the line of course.
Above me the sky is violet and orange—the ominous hot-weather color. Faster than expected, the streetcar’s noises abruptly enter my personal space. The now open orange doors reveal a tall slender grey machine and behind that a blue-shirted black man at the helm. I carefully step onto the small platform that hinges down, it squeaking under my weight. I slip my coinage into the machine, walk past wooden benches and bored faces, each wondering “Why are you here?”
I take my seat—right side, somewhere in the middle, bit closer to the back, slide all the way to the window. The rumbly bumpy car moves before I fully get down—jolt! The hundred-year-old street car stammers, aches, and screams its way through the corner turning onto St. Charles. The lights flicker like eyelashes when one awakes. I then lean my head quietly against the glass window, partially open, and I see the other me staring back out the corners of our eyes. I put my arm on the sill—cold breeze caresses it like they are lovers.
I watch the backs of people’s heads and wonder what is in them. An old couple, first time here, they just ate at O’Henry’s, he’s a bit tired but wont bitch about it just yet, she wants to go to Royal Street because she heard there was a concert there, of course not knowing it ended three hours ago.
They sit next to eachother, not even touching. Isn’t 46 years of touching worth having a break now… until we die?
Guy, ‘bout 20. Goes to Tulane University, backpack in his lap, headphones sticking out the unzipped top—earbud headphones, I hate those. With iPhone in hand, he texts his girlfriend as well as his best friend whose apartment on Willow Street he just left. They smoked pot and talked about the artsy fartsy film they saw at the Prytania Theatre last week. This girl Geannine was there. She has pretty eyes and sweet tats of Beardsley art on her left arm. The guy touched her hand once, her fingernails painted a red sparkle. Now he sits in the streetcar, texting his girlfriend about how he’ll come visit her next weekend. They went to high school together, now he goes to Tulane; she goes to LSU. He brushes his artfully unkempt hair out of his face, sniffles a bit, presses away on the buttonless buttons of his phone.
One Hispanic woman and her child stay quiet, waiting to get off on Felicity. With daughter in lap, she stares blankly out the window across from her. They’re in the seat reserved for the elderly. It goes longways, it’s bigger-good for her two totes overflowing with the errands of the day, and it’s by the door—easiness counts when you have a child in hand. She plans out the rest of her evening in her head: go home, put Marina to bed, clean livingroom, vacuum (can only vacuum at night because Marina’s afraid of the loud noise), I have some cookies hidden in the top of the pantry, maybe snack on those afterward, no, maybe I shouldn’t. The daughter wiggles and fusses a bit. The woman breaks from her trance and softly murmurs something in Spanish to her. I could hear it plainly but don’t know what it was since it wasn’t “¡hola!” or “uno, dos, tres,” but it pacified the child long enough for the ride home.
The streetcar screeches like a knife attacking a woman in a shower. Several adults ready for a night out bumble on, and one lollipop-shaped man pays for their passage. Through its evening journey past mansions I could never afford, men and women come and go (talking of Michelangelo). They laugh, they yell, they sing, they rub their backs against the ancient wooden seats. I sat alone.
I am very observant. I see people. People are predictable. People are mostly the same as other people. I can tell you the whats and wheres of everyone. I understand the how. I don’t understand the why. Many people confuse the two and think I understand people very well. I took classes in biology, anatomy, psychology, sociology, and physiology. I can tell you the ins and outs of everyone, yet I still do don’t understand people. It seems the more I know about them, the less I know about them. It’s a shame John Kennedy Toole died. I feel we may relate to people in the same way. I would very much have liked to have talked with him after reading Confederacy of Dunces.
My stop comes. I pull the string. I amble home through the soupy night air and screaming nightbugs. Once home, I turn on the bathroom light and look at myself, shirtless, in the mirror. My forest of a chest, not fit not fat Shiva-like torso, bland face, and “olive” skin stare back at me. Olive? I'd never eat an olive the color of my skin. I'm kinda racially ambiguous. My daddy's family is Sicilian. His grandparents were fresh off the boat. My mama's family is French and Choctaw, and my Maw Maw Irma is creole. I get asked alot if I'm either middle eastern or Greek or latino.
I lean in. My undereyes are blue like bruises. Small wrinkles caress the lower lids of my eyes. Large black eyebrows make me forever serious. I turn my head slightly then snap it back forward as soon as I got a glance at my nose in profile. It’s fine when looked at straight on, but is a terrible shark-fin of a nose in profile. Every time a baby is born in our family, the first thing everyone wonders in terror is “Does it have an Alvaro nose?”
I rub my fingers across my black stubble. I hate shaving, but despite this, I grab my brush and soap and get the water running for a shave. I sigh and stare at myself a little too long… my eyes, endless wormholes in which it’s easy to get lost and never found. Steam rises up from the sink and starts to fog the mirror. Shaken from my glare, I stand up, make a lather, and put it on my face. The suds instantly turn cool upon contact with my skin.
I pick up the cold metal razor and place it against my face. Its triple blade action quickly departs hair from face. Of course, not without the terrible sound almost like velcro being ripped apart. I run my hands across my face to feel for hidden hairs, running after them with the razor. After rinsing my face, I stand back to look at the prize under all the facial hair. Surprise! It’s red, blotchy, irritated skin!
I run water for a shower. I step in, ready for the experience. Showers are not just to clean oneself, they are meditation. I often get lost in the moment as warm water pulses against my skin and through my thick hair. The superficial neurons fire with each kiss of a droplet. My sinuses become open and enlarged, wafting in ounce after ounce of moisture-heavy air which cleanses my mind from the inside out. I stand still, water courses down my body, flicking through body hair, and I am an ancient fountain, constantly renewed with new water and new life. I sit on the smooth fiberglass floor of the batthtub, the hot shower water bursting onto me, clattering on my head with the sound of popcorn and soft applause. It's my own personal tropical storm, the thing is, it has nothing to do with the water. The storm lives in my mind.
Eventually, I remember my intent, to clean. The trance is ended. I grab a well-used disc of soap and spread it over my body and scrub clean with a washcloth. With this simple action I return to the mundane and menial world. I cold wave of emptiness surrounds me, almost as if the hot water stopped. I turn the knobs, grab the towel, and scrub dry, pinking my skin.
I fall into my bed, spreading my legs out like the Colossus of Rhodes. The ceiling fan air cools my crotch. It feels good. Before I know it, I’m wafting into sleep. Too lazy to get up again, I decide that I don’t need my medicine this night. I turn onto my side, slide my hands beneath my pillow, and leave this world for one more fantastic.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Disclaimer (This Clamor)
I am not a disease.
The disease is what’s in my brain.
I know at times it seems like I am a disease, even from my point of view, but what it is is something wrong with my brain.
There is nothing wrong with me.
And the brain, as magnificent as it is, is still just an organ. It’s allowed to have something wrong with it.
The disease is what’s in my brain.
I know at times it seems like I am a disease, even from my point of view, but what it is is something wrong with my brain.
There is nothing wrong with me.
And the brain, as magnificent as it is, is still just an organ. It’s allowed to have something wrong with it.
Greetings
Hello, my name is Lucien Magnus Alexandre. This is my place where I will be posting my novel February 30th in all of its raw, unedited glory. I figured if I had people reading it and waiting for more, I'd be more encouraged to work on it. My goal is to finish it by the end of this year. So sit back, relax, and enjoy February 30th.
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