Oh God, I did it. I finally did it. I mean, don’t get me
wrong. I’ve done a lot of crazy shit in my day. And I’ve
probably got a few more lunatic acts yet to be staged but I
like to think they followed some pattern. That in my own
fucked up way, there was a line in the sand that I would never
cross. Well, just throw all the shit out the window. God damn.
I’m shaking.
(Draws on smoke.)
I can’t think when I’m like this. God!
(Shakes hand as if to snap
nervousness out.)
This is as traumatic as the first time I had sex. Actually
this wasn’t traumatic. I have no reaction at all. I wonder
what no reaction means. Instead of having a reaction to deal
with, all my time is spent studying my non-reaction and
wondering at it. This usually triggers a reaction. At which
point I KNOW I’m overreacting. And it goes around and
around.
(Draws.)
Now that I think about it, the sex wasn’t that traumatic
either. It was pretty great actually. His name was. . . Nick.
It’s stress like this that has driven me to drink. I
mean, if you can’t rely on your medulla to keep your ass out
of trouble, I’m going to keep mine pickled and let the id
run the show. I figure my chances for survival are the same.
I don’t recommend the long underwear though. It tends to
distract. We slept on the floor as he didn’t own a bed. It
was kinda like fucking in a warehouse. A heated warehouse, but
a warehouse nonetheless. With all the boxes, you’d think
Nick’d just moved in but he’d lived there for over a year.
He never bothered to unpack. And didn’t the entire time I
knew him.
(Draws.)
At the moment of "little death" I hear glass
shattering. I’m desperately convincing myself that breaking
glass is just a variation on the "Earth moved."
It wasn’t. And it wasn’t like we were making so much
noise that we shattered the glass. Nick was never a rocket
scientist and multi-tasking is something that he will never
master. He couldn’t break his concentration to yell"Oh
baby oh." And he was way too busy dealing with my
editorial comments to be yelling anything.
(Draws.)
The bitter truth is that some fucker was breaking into my
mom’s car. Here I’m in an undeniable high point in my
monochromatic existence and this punk ass chose my mom’s car
to drive a lead pipe into, reducing the passenger windows to
tiny cubes.
I still remember standing in the rain soaked street under a
single street light which made the fragments of glass look
like diamonds spilling over the seat and onto the pavement.
Nick’s got an arm around me, to calm my involuntary
shaking. I know Mom’s not going to believe I was at the
library. And I can’t stop shaking.
(Snaps hand again.)
It was years before having sex didn’t make me think of
broken glass. It was the sort of reaction I was expecting this
time.
But to experience betrayal and by oneself no less, to be
sitting in that office and have the guy say, "will you
consent to a background check?" And I’m thinking,
"Fuck you. I wouldn’t piss in a jar for that Mexican
place and I sure as hell won’t let you do a background check
on me." And then to sit there and watch idly as my big
mouth opens and out comes, "Sure. No problem."
And I’m wondering who said that? It was so easy to lay my
life open to examination. I don’t even look a at my own life
and here I’m letting some stranger look in. What’s he
going to think? Can he see all the reasons I fucked up or does
it look like a series of random mistakes culminating into one
great disaster. And do the clerical errors and marginal
comments of some other dumbass hold sway with this stranger. I’m
not sure that there’s a lot of room in the margins. I’ve
lived most of my life there. I see all their comments going
right down the center of the sheet of this mimeographed paper.
(Takes drag.)
What’s even more screwed up is that I passed. Now I’m a
security guard. At a lumber mill. I’m not sure if I get
redemption points for doing it for food. It’s almost as if
committing the sin unsinned it. It’s no big deal. And this
is what really scares me. I might be capable of anything. Even
full time work.
But here I am laying open my life to examination. It make
me wonder what it looks like to a stranger looking in. Is just
completely fucked up or if onlookers can see all the reason
for why it is as messed up as it seems. Or if it is just a
mess. God, why didn’t she just go home like she told her
mother she would.
Or are those little pithy nuances missing. Is it just a
series of statistics like every other sheet of paper they look
over.
I’ve submitted to a background check. Now some stranger
is pouring over my life, staring at clerical errors and
comments some other dumbass made in the margins. I’m not
sure there’s a lot of room there tho’. I’ve lived most
of my life in the margin.
It’s kinda being denied looking at the ticker tape of
your life while those three pull it out, measure it, and sever
your life giggling at the future without letting you take a
peak it.
(Takes a Drag.)
What’s stranger still is that I passed. Now I’m a
security guard. At a lumber mill. I’m not sure any more if
it’s remotely redeeming that I did it for food. It’s
almost as if committing the sin unsinned it. It’s no big
deal. And this is what really scares me. I might be capable of
anything. May be even full time work.
