Wind keeps me alive. Or awake. Whichever. Two chapped-yet-surprisingly supple lips hang wide, letting air flow to the tippy tips of my toes. My plum sports coat flaps like a deflated dream. Cars blur in a sparkly facade. Who knows if they have actually been enriched, but they have certainly become shinier.
The twinkle from overpriced cars mixes with the chemical hue seeping from perfectly sculpted yards. An endless row of towering oaks keeps away outsiders and stops deserters. There is a different atmosphere in my neighborhood. At first breath it feels fresher. Then your lungs start to tickle. It can’t be the diet: we eat only natural, free-range, organic, super-calcium cows here. It can’t be the medical care. Obama didn’t fuck that up for us, he just made it more expensive. Nor the water, only Fiji is drunk in these parts.
That leaves the air. Tricky bastard. You felt so real and nourishing. I felt special for breathing you. You whipped up a blast of glossy plastic, hair polish and synthetic serotonin, you’re eating me from the inside! Eventually I won’t be more than a bag of bones cased in smooth skin and designer clothes. Only my dick and vocal chords will work. Halfheartedly at that.
Every morning I am forced to inhale the fumes of dead ancestors. A sort of penance our god seems fit to impose, while I try to make the scooter thing look intentional. But it is hard. Too small of a neighborhood. Full of moms, who have never worked, just waiting to open the windows of their Q-7’s and smell secreted booze as it pours out of my neck and face.
I’m running thirty minutes late. But it’s fine. The scooter is not shaking any more than usual, and I already threw up. It is all good. The owner is at the Windermere location, and the florist working today has been trying to fuck me since I was seventeen. S’ good.
A weird dynamic. We both know the other to be unhealthily out of touch with reality. Yet we keep using and being used symbiotically. It doesn’t really matter anyways; the mornings here are pretty slow. The whole day is pretty slow. Might as well grab Cindy a bagel and make it forty-five.
I shouldn’t even be working here, should be like my so called friends, intern at a law firm or financial institution. Mother tossed about a few good options; a business broker who owed her a favor was the most promising. Lord knows it takes a favor these days. Everything but buying drugs and sleeping with people takes one. Favor here, favor there; I am the un-killable cat of favors—much more than nine, biblical jujitsu nine—nine times nine which really equals infinity.
But you are capable Thomas. So capable—armed with Jack Sparrow’s compass and a proclivity for subtle masochism. No, not like whips and sex swings ending in sodomy, more like playing chess to lose. See, winning would be oh—too simple. Bred to win. Fuck. It’s actually impressive how hard I have to work at losing.
My life is not some quest to bring purity to pornography. Don’t fool yourself; you are no more refined for reading this than the African without internet. You’re just whiter or benefited by those dastardly white folk. Whatever, this is neither a quest of art nor spirit. Heroism doesn’t get done off of trust fundies’ titties for the sake of nobility.
This is not a rebellion against society or some deep philosophical understanding of nihilism, or any other faux cause posers cry about on make believe coke binges. Not a fraudulent act of desperado to garnish buzz on Instagram, nor a beacon call for an apologetic tribe. I am simply attempting to continue breathing.
I am a mere vessel, sails erect and waiting on the winds of desire to blow me in whatever direction she so decrees. I get high, cheat on the love of my life, self-sabotage a very expensive education, and destroy a carefully created character because I fucking want to. Anybody that tries to tell you anything different has never fucked a back-page whore on their daddy’s dime after kissing the one they love, more than life itself, goodnight. And anyone who hasn’t done that on a Tuesday before a Wednesday interview, an interview ninety-nine point nine percent of the world could never land, isn’t worth the ink or spittle it costs to bring the thought.
Fuck it. I’ll intern next year. University is forcing another year anyways thanks to an ungodly attendance policy. Jesus, I will probably end up at a plus twenty law school because of five absences.
“Extra-large iced coffee with caramel. A bacon, egg and cheese on an asiago. Toasted. Actually make that two of everything.”
As the glass door swings open I’m greeted with a familiar—Ba-ding.
“You’re late.”
“But I brought bagels, Cindy.”
“Late night?” She acts like that was a question. Please, the only real question is whether I could get drunk enough to fuck you. She looks younger now that her cheeks have melted into salmon cakes and her slightly crooked front teeth have slipped through dim lips. Her eyes are green though. Like enough green to see she used to have it. I wink to them and sit behind a soggy, wooden desk.
Thank God for Patea Lite. The lure of her comforting touch kept me from ramming into the back of one of those stupid, lifted trucks. I guzzle a few gulps out the blue bottle then plug my juul into the desktop. Phone on thirty, full mango pod and THC cartridge, no need to panic. Last night starts to whisk in like condolences after your controversial uncle dies. It had been kept at bay by my morning routine. The questions of who and where I am being much bigger than what happened the night before. Unfortunately, those questions only take a few seconds to answer. Then panic sets in. Once Steve Job relays how late we are, there is no time for anything but a different button up and an air shower. Most mornings are spent like that: confusion, panic, fuck-its, self-realization.
Relax. This is not even a real job. Just another favor to Mother. So they can hide me until I overdose or get it.
Whichever.
The only question of importance remaining is Xanax, Adderall or both? The florist is pretending to work, while I continuously bounce between puffs of THC Vapor and Nicotine Salts. My heart pumps and rests seemingly at random. Time feels warped, moving too fast then stalling right along with my cardiovascular system. Cindy’s desire to talk is heavily floating in the air to an almost awkward fulcrum. A few more puffs and I’ll be ready.
Xanax it is.
“That is not going to help.”
“Believe me Cindy. It’s all that helps.” My tongue drags against the bottom of my front teeth as it tries to shake the bitters out. I try to drown the taste in iced coffee and shake back into a smile the world can believe in.
We both pretend to work. I just want to know where the fuck yesterday went. Better yet, how did it start? It ended with me in Samantha’s bed. She was already gone for class when I woke this morning. Left without a note or text of well wish. Rollin’s girls. All that remains are floozy memories of us at Porch, downtown, a frat house—which for Rollin’s kids is just a nice five-bedroom house on Lake Osceola, her friend’s apartment to do more ketamine, and then her bed. Did we even have se—
Ba-ding.
Customer.
“Welcome to Winter Park Florist, my name is Thomas, how may I help you?”
“Well isn’t he a treat? Just here to pick up honey.”
“Miss…”
“Mrs. Henderson, terribly sharp name, but what can a girl do?” Her spray tan and boob job are better than average. She is wearing one of those ridiculous Lilly Pulitzer tennis dresses, yet clearly has not played and judging by her foundation and lipstick, is not playing tennis today. Not that her flower arrangement, a rather pale mix of lilies and hydrangeas in a contemporary vase and pale, pink ribbon, could alert the day’s true intentions.
My job is pretty standard. Apart from answering the occasional call, getting high and printing delivery routes; I walk flowers out to expensive cars and let moms hit on me. Sometimes letting them fuck me. Sometimes not.
“Thank you so much…”
“Thomas. Ma’am.”
“Lord please don’t call me that! I already feel old enough.”
“Twenty-nine is not old. Ma’am.”
“So it is true. You are trouble. Hush up now before a girl shows her age.”
We have stopped walking. The Florida heat contorts and bends into the glossy paint before beaming back to the ozone—a giant fuck you to the climate doomsday dweebs. A wedding banded hand finds my forearms to remind me why I do it all. Shit, she does look good for her age.
Ba-ding.
Cindy looks busy for no reason.
“She seemed nice.”
“Cindy, all I did was walk the flowers out to her car, as my job req—”
“You to take her phone number?”
Okay, the Xanax is losing to the hangover. Obvious solution: lavish lunch with Garret and Michael.
“Cindy?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to get office supplies and… lunch.” She frowns. Truth be told, this part of the day bums me out as well. But my car was totaled a few weeks ago. It totally was not my fault. But, it cost Father fifty grand just to avoid the DUI. Which leaves me a tad nervous to ask for a replacement right now. On the upswing the inebriation kept me loose enough to escape major injury. Really, all things considered, no harm done. So, until term starts, scooting will have to do. However, scooting will not do with these two douche bags.
“Really Thomas?”
“Come on Cindy, I’ll fill it up and bring you something back.”
Of my six-hour work day, I average about three. Cindy is a god-send. Jesus, her Nissan Versa is like climbing into a Styrofoam clown car. I can taste sweat by the time the car cools and my phone pairs.
Fuck. Eleanor is calling.
“Where are you?”
“Work. Why ba—”
“Then why… is your location going towards the Village?”
“Office supplies… How was—”
“Shut up. You forgot again. You always forget.”
“Babe I di—” “Stop. Just stop Thomas. You don’t even know what you forgot.” Don’t try to reason that one out. Total waste of time.
“That is not true.”
“Really? What is today then…? Huh? Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyways. Just please don’t be late to dinner tonight. Luma’s, at seven, pastry table. My Dad and brothers are coming.”
“I know that babe. I love y—”
Bitch. Tonight is going to blow. At least she had the sense to warn me well in advance. Last time the men in her life hung out, I was on way too much acid. My steak kept wiggling and begging not to be eaten, and her brother wanted to know about my fraternity experiences. God, that was awful.
I valet the car and strut into Shinto. The sushi here blows. Another half a xan and an order of white wine later, and I am still waiting for my compadres while wasting away on Instagram.
They arrive halfway into the bottle of wine. Douchers the lot. Tall, athletic and one-percenty; I hate them. Everybody hates them. God I hope my walk does not look like theirs, even though it must. How could it not? We learn to walk from our fathers and brothers, and all our fathers and brothers walk the fucking same.
“Tomski!”
“Jackaroni!”
“Gentlemen. You are late.” They have already been sucked back into their phones and juuls. Their frowns grow as the wine gives way. A pretty attendant has another on standby. This foresight almost generates a thank you.
“What is everyone doing tonight? Garret asks.
“I am tied up till at least eleven.” Four eyebrows meet Michael’s claim. “I have to see a movie with Angie and her folks.”
“That blows.”
“I am out of pocket for a while too. It’s Eleanor’s last night in town before she leaves for summer C.”
“She still at—”
“Yeah. It works though. I really only have to boyfriend six weeks a year.”
Ba-ding.
Only a two-hour lunch break.
I had to take the Adderall. Right after lunch. Three glasses of wine, three milligrams of Alprazolam and an untold amount of THC rips were loosening even the great Thomas Jackson Jr too wide too early.
Cindy pretends me invisible as I slink back to work. Must be busy with the important job of mixing and matching flowers. Plus, one of the delivery boys is swooning over her. A total tool. Like all delivery boys, worth is rapidly fleeing their fate while mine stubbornly refuses retreat. I would throw me menacing looks as well.
Fuck a nap would hit. Or maybe a doobie and truffle fries by the pool. Dinner is going to really suck. The mere idea has ruined the whole fucking day. I could barely think of anything else during lunch. Honestly, lunch is gone. The glaring prospect of Eleanor’s disappointed father and brothers is all that remains.
I am skipping, half sleazy and totally skunked: hit the dabber one too many ole times, took too many a more bite o’ Xanax. I am out! Officially ejected. It goes like this, pretty much every day: Wake-panic, scramble-panic, settle down-disgust AND panic, height-sagacity. Elevated above the rest of the world as they meaninglessly slap me by. Those poor bastards have only been able to find release in exhaustion. They toil and toil until their awareness is broken. Simply too tired to think anymore, they accept life as it comes, hard and dry.
This is not condemnation, quite the opposite. I am really one of the few to truly see their value. They are actually the most important ingredient in this toxic concoction. We herd them into a sweaty ball, roll them about into a sort of lumpy sphere, a tumor ridden breast, something we loosely term ‘world’. A world that white men like me get to spin at will for our own amusement. Yet, we are the unhappiest of the hole steamy lot for we know the awful truth: whether you roll or get rolled, it all sucks. It all fucking sucks. At least you have hope. Hope, that one day you will find peace and posture in this world. Me? I have nothing. And I know there will never be something. The mere idea of something is a lie created to increase productivity and extend profits.
I am not sheepish but disgusted. Fuck. If only last night was clear. I think it might have even been fun, or I was fun. Whichever. Before Sabrina’s, no Samantha’s—a pool, no a lake! Yes! I was at Will’s drinking White Russians and doing copious amounts of cocaine with his father. Great guy. Those winners ventured to a strip club, and I scootered onto campus and ruined a Vineyard Vine button up.
“Thomas?”
“What?”
“A client is here…”
My God, forgive me.
She
Is
Truly beautiful.
“Are you going to make me wait all day?”
She might have just sucked all addiction and mental anguish out. Never in all these days of shambling, gambling, fornicating, boozing and sloozing has the desire to be a better man taken root. The mere constructs of ‘man’ and ‘better’ laughable. The world a sludge-bomb full of slick preachers. Only the preachers have traded divine dogma for twitter and twatter. I, as always, with sun and moon to my back, have risen like a phoenix from ash above such tom foolery. Seen this world for what it is: a pig pen fucked a wasp nest and produced primates with thumbs, language, and sex drive. All that really matters is hot, gaseous air commanded by fierce spittle after the perfect number of overpriced drinks bred with psychotropics, narcotics and psychedelics to create a torrent of steam that un-hinges cosmos and unzips dresses.
Four glasses of Glenlivet—neat, two lines of sass—less than 100 M.gs, a tiny speck of LSD—perhaps a hundred U.Gs, and a half pack of cigarettes—bold. That’s, that’s all there is. And good service.
And maybe,
Just
Maybe—her.
She makes me believe god to be an old, bearded man who trifles in human’s daily affairs by delivering golden, shimmering decrees to long haired men in shawls of Judaism feasting on locust honey.
Maybe this divinity breaks the earth, shatters temples, opens heavens and hells for a good old fashioned scrap. A tumble to prove might. To show that good always wins. Open the damn box a little. Let hope and hate come out to play. To truly know the sun, it takes a rainy day. Right? Fuck logic. Don’t apply it here, it will do you no service. It has been raining for years now, and God has finally thrown me an umbrella. I can stop wondering if the sun will ever come. It is fucking here.
She is my angel. Beamed down by Heaven’s Gate to ensure my ways cease and my consciousness streams onward. She is the perfect wife. Molded from my very skeleton. Here to make sure I dye my hair, adopt a mortgage, pass my genes into a 401k or IRA. I will finally be good enough for Mother. Finally fucking responsible enough to be present. This is how the sausage gets made! An esoteric key that dissolves the mystery of how to take the blunt of society without killing myself. Finally, the future holds age enough for me to watch my own kids flirt with suicide and heroin, like what Netflix series to binge.
But what to say? How to communicate to her that she has ripped open my soul and consumed my spirit? That we are soulmates?
She is amused. She knows! Knows me to be speechless yet a man of speech. Nothing has ever shocked me, not a damn thing. Not Santa being a hoax or when I found out the Indians were ravished by the cowboys and that literally everyone is having a fucking affair. Nothing.
For I am the best and the worst that the world has to offer in one silky squeeze. The split of an atom, the manipulation of markets at the expense of third rate countries for an extra half of a percent on the Yen, the poverty blanket that smothers continents so that we can have our drugs tested and slave labor. When the dust settles and the baby starves on spoiled cat milk: I am also the sunset through prison wire. A super-duper Disney come back, the make a wish kid whose wish was to see a hockey game and that hockey game was the fucking miracle on ice, the sportsmanship so inspiring I beat the shit out of cancer, got tons of tail to celly and then went on to discover the fucking cure. In this world I am six foot one with a decent sized pecker, not too big but solid, and by God can I eat some pussy.
So why can’t I speak?
Could she be more? No, could she be enough? It is windowless but the sun is blinding. Shit, it is shining like it has never shined before. Dull wood has become celestial objects twirling about in earnest space. Space that I not only want to inhabit but learn about. Where it ends, begins, what is our relation to it? Are we but specks, the only things in it?
It is her. The great gift the Gipper promised all red blooded, white males was coming after our tax cuts and voodoo economics transmuted society from a godless, crack smoking Phenom into a glistening, sepia mirage full of blondes drinking Johnny Rockets’ milk shakes and eating apple pies baked by Quentin Tarantino. Can you believe he was just an actor?
“On my God, you don’t remember me Thomas? We met last night at Fid’s… I’m Samantha’s friend.”
The sun has been eclipsed, the splendor and twinkle from moments before is completely gone. Her face has lost originality and sheen and melted into a booze-stained collage full of watered down memories and one night stands.
“We literally spent two hours together last night. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, can you take the flowers out to my car please?”
