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.
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