Originally posted: November 18, 2004
Man, right now I’m in the middle of one of those productive phases. Busy as hell at work, and knowing that there’s no relief in the near future, as my upcoming weekends will consist of non-stop computing on my laptop. Basically, this month is nothing more than 4 weeks of having my nose crammed against a monitor. It’s times like this where all I can think about is my next free weekend, where I can bask in the warm glow of a neon beer sign, inhale the delicious fragrances of a smokey, booze-drenched bar, and feel my ass fall asleep on the barstool while I throw bill after bill at the bartender as if I didn’t have real shit I needed to buy. Yeah, these are the thoughts that keep me smiling through the responsible times.
And, sadly, it seems the responsible times occur on a much greater frequency than the self-abusive, loud, irresponsible ones.
I have a lot of fun on my free weekends, and a lot of hangovers. But the other five days of the week I’m a complete bore. A lame-ass, responsible bastard. I spend a long day at work, come home, run a couple miles, eat a shitty dinner, pay my house/car/school loan/internet/gas/power/water/phone/etc bills and build shit on my computer. I go to bed and sleep about 6 or so hours and do it all again. An unfortunate cycle of normalcy. That’s all fine and good, but I gotta admit I’m more proud of a gut-wrenching hangover following a night of drunken comedy than I am a good credit rating. And it’s these long weeks of responsibility without the much-needed two-day brain-refreshing bender that get me really thinking. Do I really enjoy being being responsible? Hmm, ah, maybe not so much.
Maybe I should become a drifter. It would be hard to be productive without a house/car/job/computer. But it would be all shits and giggles spending the day trying to score a pint of rotgut whiskey and then polishing it off it with my fellow dirtbags. We’d all sit around behind some deserted diner, passing around the bottle, telling tales of old, and pissing ourselves. That sounds pleasant enough.
And it’s nice to think that it’s always a possibility.
Hmmm…
I could sell my house, sell all my furniture, sell my laptop (sorry, buddy, we’ll meet again one day), sell my car, and pocket the profits and station myself in some shitball hotel room just outside the city. I could spend the first couple of weeks getting power-canned in the dim room, listening to some terrible tunes wheezing out of a staticy clock-radio. I could eat dry Ramen noodles straight out of the packet cause I have no way of boiling water. I could cry. I could smoke cigarettes in bed. I could fall asleep with a can of beer in my hand, wake up wet, and not know if I passed out before finishing my beer or if I dreamed I was standing over a toilet. I could scrape together a couple of nickels, buy a styrophone cup of Sanka from some jerk in a cart, sit at a bus stop bench, and shiver.
Sooner or later I’d realize that something needs to change. It would be time to grasp that golden ring. So, I’d spend the next month or so bellied up to the bar at some nightspot where the older ladies hang out. I’d buy drinks for middle-aged divorcees, spend the night chatting with them, impressing them with my youthful vigor, only to watch them leave with some balding asshole wearing a chain on the outside of his shirt.
Eventually I’d meet a 71 year old old-wealth widow with a penchant for top shelf Vodka. We’d talk it up for about 4 or 7 drinks, then exit the bar, ceremoniously. We’d spend the rest of the night in her expensive city-view Condo, getting to know each other better. A camera would be involved. The photos I’d never see, nor would I know where they ended up. The thought of those missing pictures would haunt me for the rest of my days. But I digress.
The following morning I would move in with my sugar momma. I’d soon discover that she uses her old-wealth cache for charitable causes – also known as expensive parties full of other old-wealth elderlies each with their own charitable cause and their own excuse for throwing expensive parties full of other old-wealth elderlies.
Soon, I’d learn that living with my sugar momma isn’t everything I’d hoped it would be. The 71 year old old-wealth widow would have a reputation as a philanthroper to upkeep, and while we’d have our share of late night and early morning laughs, having a young drunken drifter boytoy lurking around at her charity parties would be destructive, at best. So, she’d command me to remain secluded in the bedroom upstairs anytime her fellow elderies were over to drink expensive wine and talk shit about the elderies that weren’t present. At first, this wouldn’t be a problem. The old-wealth widow would keep me sedated on a steady diet of martinis and Vicadin, and it would take me weeks before I would discover that I had somehow become a virtual prisoner to this blurred, distant reality.
Finally, on a warm spring afternoon, the 71 year old old-wealth widow will have forgotten to replenish her/my Vicadin prescription, and I’ll find myself experiencing a foreign sensation – thought. The martinis will still be flowing like water, but without the Vicadin keeping me permanently smiling, I’ll rediscover the old familiar friend that is a straight gin buzz. And with this rediscovery, the stars will re-align. I’ll understand that I’ve allowed myself to sink so far that I’m no longer just a man-whore drinking for free, but a stoned puppet controlled by an old, evil woman with yellow fingers. And enough will be enough.
Gin-drunk, I’ll throw open the bedroom doors and march down the stairs, right into the middle of the charity party full of elderies who’ve got nothing better to do. Everyone will stop and stare at the red-eyed trophy in the white tennis shorts with the martini in hand. The 71 year old old-wealth widow will snarl in fury, march forward, grab me by the wrist and yank me up the stairs. The contents of my martini will splash onto the hardwoods.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she’ll scream. “You are FORBIDDEN to come downstairs during my charity events!”
“I’ve had enough,” I’ll reply. “This is not the way things were supposed to turn out! This is not a relationship! A relationship is built on respect…”
“Respect?”
“…and trust, and unrequited love!”
“Unrequited Love???” Her dentures will nearly fly from her gaping jaw. “Love? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t think you respect me.”
“Of course I don’t respect you! You’re a 30 year old drunk who’s hanging around the house of a 71 year old woman so you can drink her gin for free!”
“You mean,” I’ll stutter, “that you feel nothing for me?”
That furious burn in her old gray eyes will return. “Don’t you dare start that shit with me, drunk! Don’t think I don’t know about you and the Pool Girl!”
“But…”
“And the Mail Woman…”
“But…”
“And the Yoga Instructor!”
“Now waitaminute! The Yoga Instructor? That was just role-playing! It’s almost like it wasn’t me! That doesn’t count!”
An awkward silence will commence.
“Out!” She’ll break the silence with her shrill cry. “Get out of my house. You’re no longer welcome.”
And so that will be it. I’ll sigh, turn and walk out the bedroom door. I’ll head down the stairs into the foyer. The guests will have all left. And so will I.
Back on the streets. The money I’d made from selling all my possessions will be long gone. I’ll be back to scraping nickels out of Coke Machines to save up for a pint of Rotgut. I’ll long for the days of top-shelf gin. The depression will sink in. Everything will be hopeless. I’ll wish I’d been a little more conservative with the Vicadin. I’ll reminisece on the days of laying out by the pool, gin-drunk and sedated, occasionally getting up to walk sexy in my Speedo in view of the Pool Girl.
Eventually, I’ll hook up with a group of middle-aged and soon-to-die drifters. We’ll spend our nights in alleys, silently staring at the sores on our hands and the shit in our fingernails. One day a visitor will arrive – a young kid, couldn’t be older than 19, wearing a ripped pair of designer jeans. A newbie. He hasn’t been on the streets for long. Probably hasn’t even coughed blood yet. I’ll welcome him into the group. He’ll sit down, nervous. I’ll ask him his story…
This youngster will have once been a bright young college student, full of aspiration and plans. But he couldn’t handle the same ole’ same ole’. There has to be something better, he’ll have believed. A life on the streets would be the perfect opportunity to discover himself. At least that’s what he’ll have thought. He’d soon find out how wrong he was. The streets are no place for a fresh-faced kid. And I’ll be able to tell in his eyes that the streets have been anything but a friend to him.
“So, why not go home?” I’ll ask.
“It’s too late,” he’ll reply. Forlorn.
Too late? This will strike me as the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Too late? It’s never too late, I’ll realize! There’s always time for something better! Life is short, but there’s always time!
“C’mon,” I’ll say.
“Where are we going?”
“YOU’RE going home…”
Dr. Anderson will receive a knock at his door. It’s a little late for visitors, he’ll think, but he’ll answer it anyway. Standing in the doorway will be two dirty drifters – one, a Whiskey-soaked ex-Vicadin addict with the slight ember of a once dazzling glow in his eye. The other, his son…
Father and son will embrace. Father and son reunited. Dr. Anderson will look up to gratefully thank the stranger who brought his only son home. But I’ll have already disappeared…
As I’ll walk alone through the streets I’ll think about what I said to the youngster. Life is short, but there’s always time. Always time to turn it around. And with that, I’ll turn around.
The 71-year old old-wealth widow will receive a knock on her door. She’ll open it up to see the one person she wasn’t expecting to ever see again. Me. Shaven and clean. The smell of rotgut whiskey masked by the Old Spice cologne I traded for a pair of gloves with the fingers cut off.
“What do you want?” she’ll snarl.
“I want money.”
She’ll attempt to slam the door, but I’ll block it with my boot.
“No. I want to do it right this time. I want a job.”
She’ll stare at me for a moment. Distrust will slowly dissolve as she looks into my eyes and understands that I mean it. For once, the concept of charity will become something more to this old wench than just another party.
She’ll open the door. I’ll walk in. She’ll close it behind me.
And from that point on, I’ll learn to appreciate the value of responsibility. I’ll start back from square one, working long days as a mail-clerk at the 71-year old old-wealth widow’s philanthropic institute. Tirelessly I’ll toil, eventually being promoted to head mail clerk. Within 7 or 8 years, I’ll have progressed up the corporate ladder into the technical department of the corporation. A middle-aged man by now, I’ll proudly show up to work early in my pressed pants and collared shirt, looking forward to another productive day of writing computer programs for my once-benefactor, now boss.
And soon I’ll find myself sitting in front of my laptop at home after a marathon session at work, banging away on the keys, anxiously awaiting the weekend where I can take a break from this productivity to go pound my brain with booze in some smoky bar. I’ll realize that after all these years of back-breaking responsibility, I’ve managed to return my credit rating to it’s original high score. And I’ll find myself more impressed by that massive hangover I had last weekend. And I’ll wonder if maybe there’s something better out there…
Maybe I should become a drifter, I’ll think…
