Let's face it: crime is simply a matter of geography, nationality and stated intent. There are no radical absolutes. A crime at one longitude and latitude is dismissed as an inconsequential act at another. Once we realize this we realize there's nothing to get upset about. Strawberry fields forever!
First off, lets change the longitude and latitude of an American random shooting to say, Bhakkar, Pakistan. Feeling better already ain't we? No more wailing and gnashing of teeth. Ain't no bullets from Pakistan gonna reach us! Shit happens, dude.
Now let's change the victims names from Johnny, Suzie and Ashley to Achmed, Kassim and Abdul. Don't even seem like real people no more do they?? I know I sure don't know anyone with those names. Non-American = non-person. They don't love their families over there like we do. It's just...different, you know. I can see your eyes glazing over!
Who are you compared to a national insecurity drone strike, kid?
OK, so maybe you have some lingering trace anguish but I know how to resolve that too - and then some! Let's pretend that President Jesus had special secret knowledge that only HE can know and a terrorist suspect was in the audience! Gotta zap him right then and everyone around him! Innocent people gotta die! It's the new hip: everyone's smart enough now to determine who should live and who should die by summary execution.
Yeehaw!
So admit it! You ain't feelin' bad no more, is ya? In fact, I bet you feel pretty damn edgy and "with it" to be so hip, you kewl killer dude you!
"...in my false brother awakened an evil nature, and my trust, like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was, which had, indeed, no limit, A confidence sans bound..."
- The Tempest, 1.2
You may now resume your regularly scheduled concerns: Apathy and TomKat snark!
if i stop or slow down i lose the sun and slip into darkness
if i don't stop to rest i die anyway
what do i do?
where can i go to live??
- nightly nightmare
"This is stupid," muttered Margaret, only half realizing she'd even spoken aloud. However stupid, she never for a second considered changing the channel in her vacuous Plano home as the flat screen blared its babble.
"I can't believe they got away, Lieutenant. Those two fucking punks rape a nun and never see a day behind bars. And your dumb ass still wants to tell me there's a God?"
"They didn't get get away. They're unconfessed. There's no escape until then."
"That's just stupid. Those two spics are back in Mexico, free as birds. No way we'll ever see them again. And you know what? They're going to do it again. I feel it in my bones. Tell me more about your God."
"I see you agree with me."
"What? Agree with you nothin'!"
"You agree they'll keep doing it until they confess. They have to confess or they'll never be free. One thing I can tell you is you have to be free."
"You know, Lieutenant, sometimes I wonder why you ever became a cop."
Click. Margaret was beyond annoyed, without knowing why. In insecure moments like this she did what she always did: she reviewed her clients' real estate listings online. However empty it ultimately made her feel, she clung to this routine, a worldly success she could point to as indisputable proof of the rightness of her life choices. It was most important to her to prove that point since her soul cried out otherwise.
No new emails. No bids. Nothing. She hoped against hope she'd get a bite any second. But it was late in the evening. People were busy. The world was turning. Margaret was anchored to her starving monitor, its light the only thing between her and the enclosing darkness. She perused a couple of news aggregate sites. Slim pickings there. She rummaged through her mind for something productive to do. She'd already done everything. End of the road.
"Being a nun is dumb." Her mind traced back to the TV show and the uncomfortable feeling it gave her. If she'd had an email to answer or any sort of retail activity to conclude she could have pushed off that feeling for another day. So how to feel good?
"All it is is running away from life. That raped nun didn't forgive those boys like she said. She only got harder inside, steeling herself against her feelings. She'll be horribly dry and rigid when she gets older. I should write about that and expose it to the world."
Running away from life, steeling herself against her feelings, Margaret followed the ancient axiom of writing what you know about. She imagined herself as an Enlightened Being talking to a Lost Nun, setting her straight.
"This isn't dedicating your life to God hiding yourself away like this. We're supposed to live!"
"This is my life," insists the nun who believes that being willing to die for her beliefs means she is willing to die for God, mistaking stubbornness for faith. "I can only hope God gives you the same fulfillment I have found."
Margaret had been sent to Catholic school as a child and hated it. They were always lording over her their greater piety, gloating on how they'd been saved as she herself yearned to find her way. Most of all she remembered the uttered lines that brought stinging guilt that she now channeled into her own nun's character. Bitch!
"Jesus didn't die for our sins like you say. We murdered him for no reason! Whore of Babylon!"
She turned off the monitor, disgusted with people who make stupid choices. Margaret feared the night, the dreaded Recurring Dream looming, waiting for her to doze off so it could attack. In her half-life as a real estate novelist, no matter which side of the fence she was on, the other side was always greener. Some things cannot be bought. Never could she shake the dream of becoming a successful writer. All the gold in the world couldn't make that to happen.
But in half-life, Margaret was successful. She made good money as a realtor, had a knack (if not a passion) for it, and she led a very comfortable lifestyle. She also did writing she hid from home visitors and, most of all, her clients. She even denied an interest in literature during business time all the while she floated away during presentations, notating her clients' characteristics and working them into her grand and glorious unseen novel. Then she'd squint her eyes hard as she could.
I'm getting money. I'm doing writing. I'm a successful writer!
To keep the fantasy alive, she refused any romantic entanglements. Then she'd have to explain herself and all the bad choices in her life. Complete isolation was required to keep the half-life vision alive. But no soul however unclean or pure escapes the thorns of the world. Margaret's agency was bought out by a national chain, steeped in the disease of corporate culture.
"From now on," read the memo, "every realtor shall start his or her day writing 100 times 'I love being a realtor!' This will create a positive environment to promote sales as well as be an excellent team building exercise. Our iconic orange beanies are to be worn when showing a home or conversing with a client in person. Each day will end with the 'Jig Of Joy', hopping on one foot from side to side until your supervisor deems it sufficient time. We must be right. We have a billion dollars in cash."
"Just because you have cash doesn't mean you're a success!" stormed Margaret, ripping the memo to shreds. But her horrors were only beginning. She alone among her co-workers was outraged. To them, this was simply part of the deal of keeping their luxurious lifestyles. Tino actually said he'd wear a clown outfit if they told him to, "Makes no difference." As the only one with an identity - or half-identity - outside of work, Margaret felt the ice melting under her feet.
But I don't love being a realtor. It's just a way of getting money. This is beyond humiliating. I can't lie like this. My life is over. If I lose my money I won't be a successful writer anymore. This cup is too bitter to drink.
That night she retreated to her online novel, the one place where she could feel good of her own volition outside worldly thorns. Where I go to feel alive I can't make a living. Where I go to make a living I can't feel alive. Then her own words rushed back to haunt her: Just because you have cash doesn't mean you're a success! Stunned, she staggered to her bed sticking her head under the pillow, her muffled words only she could hear.
"I'm a total failure and a fool! How do you like your phony success now? I can't wear that stupid goddam beanie! Real authors are laughing at me. I don't ever want to write another word. Life has no point! I'm just like those lost nuns trying to buy a stairway to heaven. I'm being punished for living a lie. You have your revenge, God. I'll quit pretending to be a writer and let my book be just like its title: Gone With The Wind."
You fucking asshole! I can't believe what you did! What kind of person are you? You really liked her and now she hates your guts, wanting you dead. Fucking prick. You must be the biggest jerk in the world. All this time you spend ranting about the world and everyone else - well look at you!
"I want to die...I want to die..."
Why should she have to pay because you screwed up your life? Isn't that what you always bitch about, how you pay for the sins of others? You're no fucking better, douche bag.
"I was out of my head. I wanted to be with her so badly. What could I do? Ask her back to my hellhole? I have nothing legitimate to offer. It all just started coming out. How will I ever live with this?"
Nobody likes you. Nobody has ever liked you. She's going to figure out you had feelings for her. If that happens she'll come looking for you and that will be the end of you, you fucking piece of shit who deserves feelings for no one. Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
"My life is hell upon hell. I deserve to die, I know. I won't fight it anymore. If God were truly merciful my life would be taken as I walk down this street."
But Karl's life was not taken. After suffering a total moral collapse he refused to speak as much as possible. He spent four days eating nothing but a honey bun and a fruit pie, hoping to off himself. He kept wondering why God didn't take his life already. It was obvious he was never going to have a life. And it was even more obvious the more he liked someone the less he could trust himself. Before this he never realized how urgent it was Judas hang.
*****
Karla wasn't lying when she said she wasn't rich. Anyone showered and wearing a nice outfit was rich in Karl's eyes but she was stuck in a retail clothing job she hated. But she was determined to be "responsible" and be regarded as a good person. Her burning envy of her boyfriend having an actual career had been the true driving element behind their spat that night. And where did that lead her? Into being kidnapped!
If only it hadn't happened. Karla felt the trajectory of her life permanently altered. It was her own failings that put her into that trap. She felt a new emptiness she hadn't known before. As if helplessly caught in a whirlpool she was being sucked into an abyss she could not fight. How would she find her way home?
Of all the days she needed a pleasant day at work, this was it. But the universe conspired otherwise, sensing the void in her life. Today would be her worst possible.
"Jimmy's out today so I need you in back doing all the stocking."
"But that's not my job! I'm not a stocker."
"Your job is to do what I tell you to do whether you like it or not."
Karla physically stumbled backwards, stunned to hear the same words spoken all over again. Falling, falling falling. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Every fiber of her being told her to flee, to be free of this. But where was out?
Where is out? How can I be asking myself this again? It's like I'm still trapped in that warehouse. This can't be happening!
Karla wanted to cry but she feared the tears too much. An emotional wreck, she was glad to be hiding in back not facing the public. Little did she realize this was the beginning of the end.
The falling sensation only got stronger. Try as she might, Karla could not escape the feeling she was still kidnapped, her asshole boss the new Karl. When her friends complained of their asshole bosses and shitty jobs it seemed the whole world had gone mad. But wasn't this the same world as before? Why is it just now she noticed?
I hate feeling used!
God damn that Karl. That feeling of outrage he awoke in her did not leave when he left. "Karls" were everywhere! And that same helpless feeling shackled her. Who could she run to? Where could she go? Was she damned to drink her life away in denial? When she experienced her first "black out" night it scared her what she was becoming. Then she heard Angry Aaron at work the next day.
"Look at this fucking bullshit. "Ninety percent insured!" and a picture of that smiling cocksucker gloating like he's done something. That son-of-a-bitch is worse than any plantation owner. For the rest of my fucking life I gotta carry this shit on my back. "Where's your card, comrade?" So fucking what if I have insurance. If anything goes wrong I'm still fucked! Any of you got 4,000 dollars for my deductible? Don't I have to fucking eat and pay rent? Do I exist to make that psycho happy? And even if I do make more money that just means I pay more to the insurance thieves! And these people are writing this shit like it's a good thing. Well, fuck you assholes! Don't piss on me and tell me it's raining!"
Karl was speaking to her still, channeling himself through Aaron's voice. Karla was transported back to the warehouse and this time she knew she'd never leave. She really was Karl's for life.
This can't be happening! This can't be real! It's like I never left! I'm so angry I can't stand it! I don't know what to do with all this rage seeping out of every pore. It makes me want to...
*****
Karl never saw Karla come back to the warehouse with or without the police or a vengeful gun. He imagined the worst, of how he'd damaged her for life, left a walking zombie in world she now knows she can't trust. Like a moth to a flame he returned to the scene of the crime, squatting and staring for hours in silence. There is nothing. I am nothing. There can be nothing. As surely the most unfavored child of God he awaited his doom. And Karl suspected that returning here would facilitate that.
Slowly the door opened but Karl did not move. The angel of death had come at last. What possible protest could he mount? Time to die.
"I've got just one question for you," spoke a new and different Karla. Her eyes were focused with a sense of resolve rarely seen in a world drowning in guilt and shame.
Karl cowered, frozen in fear. As Karla before, he too wanted to cry but too much feared the tears to let them fall. Of all the things to flash back to at this moment of death Karl remembered the suited man talking on his cell phone in his black BMW stopped at an intersection on a miserable rainy day. Outside and wet, Karl had never felt so lost seeing he who was his opposite: successful, purposeful, a winner. The clicks of the recently unemployed Karla's heels echoed louder as she approached.
"I've got just one question for you," she repeated, then smiled in what normally Karl would call a warm dream. "Who do we kidnap next?"
"Your life is devoted to satisfying me or I'll leave you to hump your hand and join the army."
Karl was a collector. In a world where it's claimed manhood can be obtained in a pill Karl just had to believe there was a place for his unvalued life outside of that officially deemed valuable. He loved to rummage for "pieces of discarded life" (even as he often kicked dumpsters yelling, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"). Then he'd take his loot back to whatever abandoned building where he was hiding at the time and somehow try to feed off them. Somewhere somehow there had to be a scrap of dignity outside the norm.
Spotting Karla in her party dress storming off from her boyfriend in the 7-11 parking lot one night, Karl at last put all the pieces together. Karl didn't know where she was headed to or what she was thinking on how she'd get home, his only concern was she stay in a dark area long enough for him to pull his gun. And that she did and that he did.
"Run and I'll shoot!" Karla started to run anyway. Karl fired a shot into the air, Karla started begging for her life. "Just do what I say, bitch!"
Karl had swiped the gun from a pickup cab, too embarrassed to buy bullets he had only the three left in the revolver. But she didn't know that. Frightened by his desperate face and homeless garb, Karla's social instincts kicked in knowing what wrath a disenfranchised soul might hold. She was infuriated with herself to find she was yet drawn to his plight and curious as to his possible grievances. No time for that now, you fool!
Karl continually plied her with threats on the walk back to his hideout. He himself did not know if he'd shoot or not. This was a new experience for him having something real to lose. Easy to speak of the greed and selfishness of others while wandering his desolate life, but now Karl knew a new fear. Once having this sweet taste in his mouth, how much more difficult to go back to nothingness! No wonder everyone is acting like animals to keep what they have. It was then Karl first realized he was not alone in leading a desperate life.
"Get over there, rich bitch!"
"I'm not rich! What are going to do to me?"
"Stick your hand and feet in there or I'll shoot your foot off and you'll never walk again."
God knows the story behind a BDSM set of stocks thrown out behind a sex shop but Karl was drawn to it as an object of desire. Seeing her hands in feet writhing in its hold finally brought that object to life. What ecstasy! He slipped off her heeled shoes.
"I've always liked feet. Yours are so pretty! I must tickle them!"
Karla squealed in agony at the top of her lungs, partly from the torture and partly to raise an alarm. She had no way of knowing Karl had anticipated this and made their isolation was complete. He was excited like he'd never been before: a real live party girl all of his own!
"Oh, God, you look so hot in that skirt! Those bare legs are gorgeous!"
Karl lowered his pants to show his appreciation, helplessly stroking his satisfaction. Karla did not appreciate his appreciation of her sexy attire.
"You're sick! That's disgusting! What kind of a man are you?"
"The kind that doesn't need viagra!" exploded Karl. He zipped up his pants in abused relief. "Dear God Jesus where did you get those legs?"
"Touch me and I'll kill you! Let me go you bastard! Let me go right now!"
"Shut up! Your job is to do what I tell you to do whether you like it or not."
Karl was unconcerned by Karla's continued trite ranting. He knew it was her job to find any chink his armor she could exploit. But his only thought was now that he'd achieved paradise where did he go from here. He couldn't keep her and her wonderful legs forever. Afterwards he'd be back to where he was before: hopelessly outside alone. Shit! never thought about having success before. He'd have to play it by ear.
Suddenly drained, Karl crawled into his makeshift bed to sleep. Karla kept up her protests until she too was drained. In the morning light she found Karl sucking her toe. "I fucking hate you," she hissed, then surrendered to the soothing sensation. She needed to see nothing but evil in him.
"Want some breakfast?"
"No!"
"OK, suit yourself. I'll be going out. Try your hardest to escape. You are a vision in the morning sun!"
"Go fuck yourself. I can't wait until your bitch ass gets raped in prison. You'll get ten years for kidnapping!"
"I'm already doing life."
Karl went to make his usual rounds. If she was still there when he got back then he'd know he made the stocks escape-proof. He also knew the longer he kept her the more attached he'd be. Karl had a lifetime of hunger stored up inside and she was just what the doctor ordered.
How wonderful to have someone to come home to! Doors that once seemed impossibly locked to him weren't so impregnable. Why not give them a try? Why not see if he can open them? What had he been waiting on all these years? One pretty party girl made all the difference; to step out of the shadows at last.
Karl reflected on the lost time in his life, something he rarely did. The gradual descent into the streets, unable to cope with the reality of pointless jobs and the mirage of money. He needed to breathe and for that he was given no quarter in a dying realm. Hope existed as a carrot he can never reach, mocking him during the day as it called to him forlornly at night. Having Karla changed all that.
She was still there when he got back but Karla was certainly not his.
"Let me out! Let me out, you sick son-of-a-bitch!"
"I will never let you go. You're mine now. I'm never going back to the life I led before. And your body is magnificent!"
"Don't you touch me! This is insane. You have to let me go!"
"You have no say! Welcome to my world. Now I'm going to run my hands all over your legs."
Karla wailed and wiggled, nearly losing consciousness in revulsion. But felt death enveloping her. I hate feeling used!
When Karl finally stopped, he was desperate to speak in a normal manner. "Let me know when you're hungry." He figured she'd spit in his face,
"I'm starving," honestly spoke Karla, trying a different tack.
"OK, first you have to say something. You have to say it before every meal or I'll let you starve to death. With no food you'll not even have the energy to escape and you'll just sleep all the time trapped here forever. Trust me, I know what happens when you eat no food."
"What is it then?" asked a suspicious Karla.
"Tell me you want to suck my dick."
"Fuck you!"
"No, not that. Just suck my dick."
"I'll go ahead and starve."
"Brave words now. I'll be back with a cheeseburger. I almost never eat out but today is a special occasion!"
"No wonder you're homeless, you sick fuck. You're a fucking freak! You don't belong in any part of a civilized society."
"We'll find out when when we have one," replied Karl as he departed. He waited several hours to soften her up for the food.
"Still not willing to say it?"
"Am I supposed to say or do it?"
"I said to say it."
"I don't want to."
"Suit yourself." Karl's cheeseburger was sliced in half. He hungrily dove into his half.
"Wait a minute."
"You want to say something?"
"No, but.." Karl kept eating. Soon he would be eating her half. "It's just that...do I really have to say it? This is ridiculous. Come on!" Karl finished his half, then picked up hers. "Wait! Just wait, OK?" Karl waited. "I want to...s*** y*** d***."
"What? I didn't get that."
"I want to suck your dick, you fucking asshole!"
"See that wasn't hard, was it? And guess what? You'll only have to say it for the rest of your life every time you want to eat! Hahahaha!"
"This is a nightmare. This can't be happening to me. What did I do to deserve this? It makes no sense! Who are you?"
Karl scoffed. "I say that every day of my life. I'd tell you you'll get used to it but you won't. You'll just grow old before your time."
"This is hell..." Karla nodded off to sleep.
Karl also used his other weapon: isolation. Leaving her alone for hours at a time withered her into submission to accepting his company. As with him, their time together was all she had to look forward to. But Karl wanted revenge on the world as much as he wanted Karla.
"Now I want you to tell me it's raining."
"OK, it's raining."
"Not yet! When I tell you!"
Karl stepped behind her and unzipped his pants. Karla immediately protested as she knew what was coming. She screamed for him to stop urinating to no avail.
"Say it! Say it now!"
"It's raining! It's raining!"
Karl zipped up his pants as Karla sat in a pool of piss; broken, defeated, and suicidal. Whatever relationship she thought she'd forged with him vanished. This man could not be bargained with, could not be reasoned with. Her appeals fell on deaf ears. She lived at the mercy of a beast. She shut her eyes to pray for death, but death would not come.
When Karla woke up she was free of the binding stocks. Karl had vanished. At first she wondered if it had been a dream. Then waves of shame crashed over her and she knew she had to get out, get cleaned up, and cover up before anyone found out her humiliating weekend. That night in bed, feeling safer, waves of anger replaced the shame.
"I want to kill that bastard! I want him beaten to a pulp! I'll cut off his dick and throw it in the sewer where he belongs. God damn him! I'll get him if I have to die..."
Legendary Dallas Morning News columnist Steve Blow is a fountain of wisdom and sage advice in these confusing times. If one were to follow his guidance one's life would never stray from the enlightened path in this dark and darkening world. Thank God for this beacon of sanity! A recent illustration of this man's moral superiority to the average Joe can be seen in his wonderfully titled column "Obeying police instruction is easy first step to avoiding tragedy". Hear, hear!
Weak-kneed and awestruck I read this tutelage for proper behavior in a modern society. I even created a new acronym for my life: WWSBD (What would Steve Blow do?). Following this man's code for conscientious conduct I was able to construct just what it would would be like if our fabled hero were to have a police encounter of the third kind. Even in the most trying of circumstances, we see a man who comes out unscathed and undaunted. Who could hope for more?
*****
"Pull over, you white cunt!"
"Why yes, officer. Good idea! How may this white cunt help you?"
"You know why I pulled your sorry ass over?"
"I'm sure it was for a good reason and for the betterment of society."
"Cause I hate your white bitch ass. That's why."
"Why thank you for the enlightenment! I'm looking at this as a true learning experience."
"Now get out of the car and put your pussy Plano hands on the roof, peckerhead."
"A wise precaution! Take no chances and trust no one! That's life on the streets, eh, officer?"
"Fact is I don't trust no white bread fucker driving a '86 Volvo. You ain't had an original thought in your life, has you? Now spread 'em so I can feel your private parts even if they is the size of a scared sausage."
"The thoroughness of your police training shines through. God, I'm proud to be frisked by you!"
"After a while you'll learn to enjoy the penetration
and become a good citizen like I am."
"Now, I want your punk ass to start squealing like a pig right here on the open highway."
"Obeying police instruction is an easy first step to avoiding tragedy!"
"Louder, piggie!"
"Yes, officer, sir! My, you certainly are a mean and surly one. I like that in a cop!"
"Who cares what your idiot ass likes? You're here to please me. You exist for my benefit. You got that, cracker?"
"Loud and clear! Loud and clear! May I lick your fine black shoes, officer?"
"Damn right, you better! If I find one spot on them afters I'll tase your ass!"
"And deservedly so! I just want to go on the record to verify I don't need any pesky constitutional rights. I spit on them and everyone who dies for them!"
"Only rights you got is what I give you."
"I can think of nothing more just!"
"What I outta do is arrest you for assaulting me with that tongue on my shoe and leave your virgin ass in jail until you are humiliated into hanging yourself."
"Now that's the thin blue line I keep talking about!"
"You such a pathetic worm it takes all the fun out of oppressing your booty bitch butt."
"I sincerely and deeply apologize, officer. Pathetic worm am I! The way you protect us from thugs and deviltry fills me with quivering respect. If only each of us would take on the responsibility to worship and pledge complete obsequiousness to our men in blue the world would be a fantastical paradise in which to live."
"Responsible members of society apologize for being black."
"OK, I think I heard enough outta you. I got a whole lot better use for that mouth of yours. Now you gonna get an up close and personal look at a Alabama black snake that you gonna make happy."
"Why, thank you, officer! An honor and a privilege to serve the police in any way I can! Frankly, I was hoping you would allow me to perform a service for you even though I was mistakenly thinking more along the lines of a bake sale."
"Yeah, I know. Every one of you conservative cunts is just dying for a black man to show you the ropes. No wonder you keep us outta your country clubs. You too afraid your desire to be the eighteenth hole would show up."
"A keen and astute insight! I hope I was satisfactory in my servicing you today. I cannot wait to continue driving down the road covered in your respect. You have no idea what this means to me and I cannot wait to do a grammatically correct column on it!"
"That don't mean nothin' to me. All you gotta know is who's in charge and who's the child."
"Well played, sir. Too many immature citizens insist on a dangerous and anarchic sense of self-respect that simply cannot be abided in today's society. Back the men in blue and everything they do!"
Trying to guide our future through a one-size-fits-all world isn't easy.
We were a foursome: Jeremy and Jennifer, along with Jun and I, Jolene. We were the "Four J's". Jeremy worked for the Treasury Department chasing counterfeiters. Jennifer was a rising administrative assistant at a downtown skyscraper. Jun was a freelance artist with a carefree spirit (and for that I loved him madly). And I am still a high school counselor, the most infuriating, rewarding job you can ask for. Of the four of us, I am the only one still alive.
Jeremy was uptight but a "good" drunk. He got more sociable, more open and sometimes actually funny (but he thought every time he was funny). As for Jennifer, I don't care how good she was at her job, it was her her style I wanted! A burlap sack would look good on her. My Jun was an exotic breath of fresh air. I never did get to the bottom of it. Would I have loved him as much without his fascinating Chinese ancestry? And everyone agreed I had the job most unwanted by the other three - which was their way of paying me a compliment.
This is hard to write. I cry when I think back to that night at our old watering hole.
Jeremy was bragging on busting a counterfeiter ring which naturally forced Jun to pop his bubble any way he could. Jun had no use for "the so-called real world."
"What do you mean you caught some goofball counterfeiters - "
"They weren't goofballs! It was a sophisticated operation in over seven states!" Jeremy never learned not to take
Jun's bait.
"Anyone jacking off with slips of paper is a goofball! Money doesn't exist. It's an illusion, all in your freaking bonehead!"
"For an illusion you sure do seem to want your share of it!" Jun had touched a sore point and that tickled him to no end. He could not match Jeremy's worldly success - nor could Jeremy match Jun's spiritual success. Jennifer and I looked at each other with sly smiles. Jun had his fish on the hook and no way was he going to let go.
"Weren't you the one bitchin' that my Chinese money doesn't even look real?"
Mao say dung!
"It doesn't! It's all hieroglyphics and scribbling and no-good Commies on there. Real money shouldn't look like that."
"You only say that because you're brainwashed. What about you with your crazy pyramid with an eye on it??" Jun was having a glorious time. He craved these sort of conversations that most people - especially "straights" as he called them - would never let him have. The idea of even questioning the concept of money is too disconcerting or too ridiculous or, frankly, too embarrassing for just about anyone else to consider. Jun admired Jeremy for even allowing the argument. I'm not sure Jeremy ever got that.
"I'm not brainwashed. People's lives are at stake. How would you like to be paid in fake money?"
"Fine by me. I'd sell them a fake painting!"
"Oh, he already does that!" I had to interject. That seemed to break a tension I was beginning to feel.
Jun stopped a passing waiter asking for a sheet of paper from his notepad. He was on a roll. "Here, let me show you. I write on here 1,000,000,000, draw a picture of my handsome Commie profile, then I'll do a castle instead of a pyramid and boom! I'm a billionaire."
"That's just stupid," sighed Jeremy.
"Stupid, huh? Well, I'm going to frame this tomorrow in my gallery and I bet I get some of your so-called real money for my money!" We all thought that was a wickedly funny thought - but Jeremy erupted.
"You better not, dammit!" It was like a gavel hit the table silencing us. As Jennifer tried to calm him down I remembered a conversation she and I had I never could shake. She called Jeremy a "runaway".
Most people bemoan not telling their parents - or whomever - that they love them before passing away. Jeremy's situation was the opposite. He'd pretended to love his father all his life only to have his father die before telling him he hated him. Jeremy despised the man as a fraud and a phony. "Everything he did was a lie," he confessed to Jennifer one night. She wondered how deep a price he'd pay for that unconfessed part of his life.
As a counselor I know it can be fatal. I said nothing. I don't want to bring my psychological aspects into the daily lives of my friends. I see now I should have expressed my reservations, pointing out Jeremy could be sitting on a time bomb. Jun had a point. Jeremy sought the artificial world as sanctuary. By not confessing his feelings he lived a lie just as his father before him. One never knows how deeply that can fester. I knew in a heartbeat that Jeremy's snapping at Jun's taunting that night meant he really did feel like he was a failure, the spitting image of his father. I decided to break my rule and have a talk with Jeremy to root this out.
I never got that chance.
I left early with end of quarter paperwork hounding me back to the house. But that feeling I had walking out I'll never forget! I felt I was being ripped in two, voices screaming at me for no logical reason. The ride home was surreal, nearly starting to cry seeing a bad accident on the other side of the highway divide. The one thing I hate more than any other is to be accused of over-reacting or sensationalizing my emotions. It stings me and burns me, ultimately scarring me. Yet here I was feeling that burn by not sensationalizing my feelings, remaining "logical" and doing the "so-called" practical thing.
At 6:33 AM on a cloudless Sunday morn I got the news from a loft neighbor of Jun's. All three had gone off the Calatrava bridge in a one car accident. All I said was "Thank you," and hung up. I was dispossessed of my body. I didn't ask why or cry out. My eyes were glued wide open. I could see the entire universe with its flowing colors and vibrant joy. Had I retreated into sorrow I'd have never made it out of that hole. Why in that moment the universe did not want me to die I do not know. I know I sure wanted to (and sometimes still do).
Each came to me in a dream. First Jun. The first two times I cried out in pain at the cruelty of believing he was alive while I was asleep only to have him die on me all over again in the morning. By the third time I understood. He wants me to know he still exists somewhere! Oh, thank everything in the universe for that! My tears are not in vain. We are together though apart.
It was after that I allowed his art to be sold. Hanging on to his art was not the same as hanging on to what we had. The world should know what I know of him. He smiles with every smile his creations bring.
Jennifer came to bring me an understanding hug. I didn't know I needed it until she gave it to me. Yes, I realized, I had been secretly recriminating myself. For leaving, for not saying more, for living. Sisters of a different mother we'd always said of ourselves. I was afraid I'd lost that too.
Was a long time before Jeremy came. I thought perhaps even in the afterlife he might still choose to run away. I didn't judge him but I didn't respect him. Then I found out why he waited. It wasn't just that he had been drunk driving, killing two of the most important people in his life. It was what happened after they hit the water. The cold sobered him up and in a mad panic tried to save Jennifer and Jun. In that he made honest efforts but it was too late. Then he was faced with a choice.
Something inside of him snapped. He gave up. Jeremy could have made it to the surface but reversed course to drown. He'd have to face the law. He'd have to face two families he wrecked. He'd have to face me. And he'd have to face up to living a lie and being no better than his father. This was his "out." A runaway.
*****
It has taken me over two years to write about this. Strange, but in all this time I had not realized I'd never spoken about the wreck out loud. Sure seemed to me like I had but when everyone started congratulating me for coming to terms with this "at last" I was a bit shocked but soon realized what it must have seemed from their perspective. A season for all things.
What prompted this writing, though, was late night TV. Bored and unable to sleep I saw the opening credits to "Leave It To Beaver". That caused a flashback that made me laugh. All through high school Jeremy had called Jun "June Cleaver". It was funny, at first.
Nobu stood perplexed at the precipice of life in the early morning fog. Which road leads to life and which to death? He'd found heaven under the sun - but was the sun his to claim?
*****
At long last Nobu had freedom from the suffocating samurai structure which had imprisoned him since birth. His creative impulses, his vision, his ever active imagination acted as tormenting demons in his daily life, struggling against a corrupt authoritarian regime he couldn't help but taunt as he himself felt. It was a case of damned if he did and damned if he didn't.
"Why me?" Nobu wondered in the middle of night. What annoyed him most - when he let go in his most private moments - was the irrepressible feeling of optimism that would bubble up. An exciting truth lingered just below the surface, that if it ever got free would change the world. I am instrument of Destiny!
"Baka!" he'd reprimand his dreaming soul in self-mutilation. Samurai were servants, their fate determined at birth to be no less or more than objects in a feudal society. Anything outside of that had no place in their strict code of conduct. The simple wallowed in this like muddy pigs, thugs relished it in bullying delight, and those of rare intelligence either became ambitious or torn apart like Nobu. Now, he lived on the other side of that fence - the price to live on the run.
Life on the run after his famously - and infamously - done gesture of rebuke of the samurai way breathed even more life into his impossibly secret dream. More excited than ever, it waited for the inevitable moments when his guard dropped, Nobu losing his human will. But this ambiguous nebulous cloud of hope never quite came into focus. Stop getting so excited for no damn reason! It was like grasping to touch a rainbow.
Emiko changed all that.
It wasn't until he met her did Nobu realize he'd been praying to meet her his entire life. Like finding a long lost childhood friend he knew her life story the minute he saw her smile and explored her deep, gathering eyes. They were two of a kind walking upright in a world that crawled on all fours. Or, at least, with her Nobu walked upright.
It's true the specter of doom dogged his every step but his world reversed with her, as the dream seemed more true than an illusion of hunted reality. This is something real. I feel I've given birth to a flower of light at last! Never before faced with this sort of spotlight of self-illumination, the samurai who'd been forced to live his life in his head shivered with a fear no mere sword could ever arouse. Yet there was no denying he craved this with a lifelong thirst.
Emiko had also found her missing piece. She fancied poetry and the arts like a Heian princess of the ancient court which prized wit and culture above all, contributing to a poetry chain as important as military prowess. Her husband had recently died of sudden disease and she walked in the dark shadows of grief seeing neither the moon nor stars nor sun. As so often happens in times of crisis, the swell of emotion overflowed into art. Her haiku were so painful she could not bear to read them afterwards.
Had he stayed in his samurai rut Nobu would never have met a soul like Emiko. In the never ceasing questioning of himself if he made the right decision to go on the run, surely this was irrefutable evidence of vindication! Side by side they made love with calligraphy, feeling a deeper intimacy than either had known before. This unspoken jubilation struck each soul as having proven their previous paths in life had not been what they'd pretended to be.
Most touching of all for Nobu was for his Thoughts He Could Not Defend. The role of science was squelched in Japan in the 18th century (which made for a volcanic scientific blossoming when the samurai era ended) but Nobu was gifted with the imagination of an inventor, foreseeing a world of splendor. His crucifixion to the Japanese gulag of misplaced vanity of a perfectly ordered society buried him under a mountain of frustration. He was bitter not only for himself but also for his beloved Japans cheating herself with this willful ignorance. "It's not just me who pays!" he cried to the wilderness of the deaf.
Emiko, however, had ears. She was a life-saving oasis in a desert of monotonous weeds. She could understand his visions which cannot be explained. In this, a thousand poking demons died in the night replaced by a chorus of angels. Maybe the Maker of all was not such a cruel beast. Nobu had never experienced such a feeling - never suspecting it was even possible! This starburst of joy humbled him and confounded him. Like Moses before the burning bush he knelt in awe of this gift that surely only the most pure deserve.
Her latest poem shattered him further:
"The falling leaf does not hate the wind."
He nearly cried at the sentiment, she expressing no self-pity at the sudden taking of her beloved husband. Her calligraphic style was clean and exquisite, for how one wrote was as important as what one wrote. Nobu realized what a selfish and self-centered existence he'd led - even if the insulated world of the samurai encouraged that. Emiko showed that was no excuse not to rise above. Her beautiful surrendering to Nature made him feel as lacking as a child in an adult's world.
What the self-doubting Nobu failed to face was that his presence to her was as much a part of her realizing that sentiment as any efforts of her own.
Nobu still had one demon to overcome, his strongest and most feared: the Guilt Monster. For every ounce of joy he received with Emiko an equal amount of brutalization was wrought by the monster. He'd yet to tell her of his checkered past. He'd yet to tell her he was on the run, a notorious fugitive of the Shogunate. He'd yet to tell her that her life was in danger if she were deemed by authorities to have helped him. How can you do this, you sorry dog! She gives you life and you repay her like this? If she saw the real you she'd disown you!
Tears streamed down his face in the hot, sticky air of the dusty hut. This Sorrow For The Ages was the final betrayal by the universe. Helpless to be with her as he was to take his next breath his only choice was to drive her away. He pretended scorn of her writing, crushing her to the core as his previously doubtless belief in her had rekindled her waning creative spirit she was finally beginning to fully nurture. Too painful to go on, not believing her horrified eyes, giving him chance after chance, she left never to return. She wrote no more.
The Guilt Monster congratulated Nobu on his suicidal sacrifice, for having crawled back into his samurai saga of pity's martyrdom. Did you think someone as wonderful as she deserves to die because of you? She's better off now!
"I know. I know. But I shouldn't have lied to her. I'm blind! I'm blind! I can't see what to do!"
You were deceiving her all along. It was never real.
"I'm going to die without her, this I know."
See? That proves your love! You gave your life for her!
"But I can't help to believe I should have come clean no matter what. If I did the right thing why am I in this living hell?"
What were you going to do? Ask her to die for you? What an asshole, you selfish prick! She has a right to a happy life.
"But our love is dead. The flower of light taken away. The darkness is twice as black as before."
Stop kidding yourself, she can get that from anyone. What did you ever have to offer? You must hold onto your integrity and answer yourself this question: What would she have answered if you'd asked her to give her life to stay in your company? Who are you anyway? Do you even dare to know? Tell me what her answer would have been!
*****
Nobu's life on the run went into permanent decline. The ice melting under his feet, his betrayal of love hounded him night and day as he was seized by savage sweat-inducing nightmares of his life falling into the cold hands of revenging samurai; a life rent by the thorns of the world with his having forsaken heaven in the clouds. Later, in the afterlife, he finally posed the question to Emiko if she would have given her life to be with him.
"There was no life without you. Separation was the real danger."
It was true there was no way out once he went on the run but Nobu could have died with love instead of without. For all eternity, he howled in pain at what he'd lost.
"I can see you're hurting, something is bothering you."
"My life is a living hell!"
"You need to talk about it. Open up!"
"It won't make any difference."
"There you go being negative! When you share things you feel better."
"No, it only makes things worse."
"Put your trust in the universe. It is conspiring to help you!"
"Well, bully for it. But that's no help either."
"You can't just shut yourself off."
"It's the way of the world."
"Not true! Give love and you will get love in return."
"Love doesn't help."
"Of course love helps. God is love. Remember: God doesn't give us any more than we can handle."
"That's a vile and vicious thing to say."
"How can you possibly say that?"
"That's just another way of turning your back on people needing help."
"But you must believe in the power of prayer!"
"Can I pray you'll leave me alone?"
"God can do anything. I'm here to remind you of that."
"God is the one bringing my killing stress."
"You should do something wonderful today. Treat yourself! Go for a fine walk in the park."
"Jesus fucking Christ. You don't understand a damn thing, do you, if you think that's some sort of fucking solution to anything?"
"Make me understand!"
"Make yourself understand."
"I can't if you don't tell me."
"It's really not any of your business."
"We're all in this together! One person's problem is every person's problem! Don't put yourself on an island. United we stand, divided we fall."
"Nobody believes that. It's every man for himself."
"Brother, I'm here today to prove you wrong. I bring you the Word of salvation and the cup of human kindness. The world is what we make of it. You need to stop doing this to yourself!"
"You're just not going to stop being a busybody, are you?"
"Never! I'm with you all the way, down the line and to the end. The fires of hell can't stop me. I am devotion itself."
"Sheesh...OK, do you really want to know?"
"Yes!"
"I mean, do you REALLY want to know? You want to know this to your dying fucking day never to escape?"
"Wild horses couldn't drag me away. Speak! Speak and set yourself free!"
"I can't pay my rent."
"Oh!...well...hmmmm...uh, well...I gotta go. See ya! I'm sure you'll be fine."
Why is it every time I speak of the universe people speak of paying the rent, and when I speak of paying the rent people speak of the universe?
[The lights are glitzy and glowing on a downtown Dallas night as a sharp dressed man steps out of a black BMW on an obscure side street. As those on Main street revel and roar he strides purposefully to an unknown destination. He's out of sync with the nightlife with his razor sharp focus. Perhaps no one else alive at that moment has such a clear sense of direction in his life. Then it snaps.]
"You're an idiot! They're using you!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"They're just using you. They put the blood on your hands and you take the risks."
"I don't have time for this. Not fucking now!"
"You're a fool! Wasting your time for theirs."
"Jesus! Be quiet! I can't be having this now!"
"Why even do this?"
"Why the fuck not? Get out of my head!"
Opportunity in life never comes when it's convenient. In fact, it's just the opposite: when it hits you, it hits you. Like it did me walking on the city sidewalk on the way to a contract. The whole of my existence struck me as absurd. Clear as day I saw myself. I wasn't being clever. I hadn't been clever. I was a chump to do someone else's dirty work, soiling my soul. How humiliating. A $12,000 suit can't cover that. No amount of paper can.
"Turn around, walk away! It's not worth it."
"Of course it's fucking worth it. What the hell else am I going to do?"
"No idea but this is what this is: total and utter bullshit."
"Don't give me that. People kill for money every day. No one thinks twice about someone dying from a lack of funds. I'm just being more direct."
"They're fools too! Want to join them? You always say you're smarter than they."
"I am, dammit! I am!"
But was I? I'd suddenly lost the ability to lie to myself right at the worst fucking time. Every life reaches that point. How you react to it determines which side wins out: smart or stupid. My precious vanity of believing I was Smarter was in mortal danger. I really was just another working stiff after all: paid more because I was used more. They're using you, man, just like the coal miner getting black lung. You're no fucking different.
I had to hide, step into a side alley away from prying eyes. Of all the fucking times to come to this realization! I'm on the hook for this. This is a BIG contract. Run away from this and they will find you. They'll send hit men after me for leaving them so critically vulnerable. Goddam. Why couldn't this have hit me between contracts instead of at my most crucial one yet?
Think you're not a killer? Think again.
I crouched behind a dumpster. I had no desire to move. Ever. I was tugged equally in two different directions. It's about what You want, man. But I want my fine clothes and Maserati and uptown townhouse. Most of all I want out of the fucking rat race. You want to be one of them Blue Bell fuckers? Letting assholes determine your life?
The same old rage came over me when I read about workers who'd spent their entire working lives at Blue Bell ice cream only to have the rug ripped out from under them when listeria was found and they had to shut down all three plants. They'd done nothing wrong. Been honest workers. And what do they get? THE SHAFT! Happens all time where people are thrown out in the street regardless of their own efforts. Fucking animals.
"That's not going to be me. I'm going to shoot this guy and walk away as I see fit. I'm stuck in this jungle and if I'm going to die I'm going to die on my own fucking terms. There's no fucking reason not to."
"Because you don't want to."
"That's it? That's all you got? Since when does what I fucking want mean a FUCKING GODDAM THING in this world? You want me to do what I want then fucking fund me. What do you say to that?"
Silence.
"That's what I fucking thought."
Still, much to my annoyance, I could not escape my hidden crouch. A thousand arguments to execute the contract and only one to walk away: what I wanted.
"What the fuck else am I going to do? This isn't some freaking movie. I'm supposed to become a cab driver or something? That's no life. Don't I deserve to live too? What's in it for me? Homelessness?"
More silence.
"Jesus, give me a freaking answer! I can't see! I can't see!"
There was no getting around it: I didn't want to do this hit - or any hits - ever again. Just the thought of freedom infected me like a wildfire, feeding my desire to live. But must I sacrifice my life to the thorns of the world? What to do? What to do?
I already got the only answer I was going to get.
"This is insanity! This is nuts! I'm crouching down here behind a dumpster on a warm spring night listening to people on the streets laugh, leggy woman flashing their wares, parties going on. What's happening to me? Why am I even considering not doing this job? Those party assholes are corrupted up the ass just like I am."
OK, well, not everyone. Not...
Shit, man. I can't be like she. That's asking way too much. I so much want to be a part of that world, I do. It seems so far away. Untouchable. Like her. Shit. I make this hit and I'm fucking myself out of where I want to be. Goddam it, this sucks.
Just fucking do it and leave all this existential crap for the morning, OK?
Remember all the other times where you didn't do what you wanted? Remember how that could have changed your life, given you a way out? You got yourself into this mess.
Refused
"No! It's not me!"
Suit yourself. Keep on going where you're going and see where it gets you.
"Couldn't be any worse than where I already am: total fucking shit. I'm going to shoot this fucker and then maybe I'll consider this bullshit conversation. Sure, I need to change. But not fucking now! You want me dead?"
No answer.
"Well, fuck you, then. I sure as hell hope God likes dead bodies because that fucker's going to get a whole planet full of them! We're all stuck and fucked and all the lectures in the world won't pay my damn bills. Since I don't know what to do I'll just keep on doing what I've been doing and goddam God can sort it out later."
I got up, smoothing out the wrinkles. Back in the real world, smelling the restaurant flavors, giving myself to the moist evening air filling my lungs, hearing an unexpected song in my heart. Shit, why am I so high? Looking around at the sidewalk cafes, I could be anybody. Damn, what a thought! Can I just ride this feeling and get away with it? Can it possibly be life is that good?
I walked passed the building I was supposed to enter. I started to smile. Hey, I do feel smart! Motherfucker! I'll be damned.
"Turn around. These feelings aren't real! You're just kidding yourself. You know you're no better than a selfish dog. Best to be honest with yourself than be a fool before all the world!"
I'd heard that before. It's what kept me from doing what I'd wanted. It's what got me into this mess to begin with, isn't it? Only question now: is it too late?
I kept walking but I'd be lying if the tug to go back and execute the hit wasn't pulling at me hard, out of habit if nothing else. I was breaking off a part of myself I know. How smart was that, really? It was strange, though. Whatever path I was on, the other road that seemed the smarter. I was a fool to walk away from the hit. I was a fool to do it. Blind faith, I hate you.
Hard as it was, I knew I had to go all the way, forcing myself to play it down the line one hundred percent. "Don't waver! That's the bit that will trip you up." I left my car, everything. Got a bus ticket out of the city. My first time on a bus. Something told me not to follow my normal routines. A clean break. I have to admit, though, sitting on that foul beast it was hard to make the argument I was smart.
A million thoughts raged through my mind on that bus seat. I was permanently altering my life and for what? My imagination? It was shitty scenes like this that got me into the business. Dear God, I can't live the rest of my life riding buses. Frankly, I should be way more upset than what I am. Surely I will come to see this as a horribly stupid decision later when I sober up.
I felt smart anyway.
*****
The morning sunshine at the diner the next morning was glorious, like when I was a child. Good to spend some time in a rural place as a change of pace. Maybe doors I thought were shut weren't so shut after all. Can't believe I'm having these thoughts! Not that I didn't have many nagging woes bringing me down. Don't confuse hope of getting out with actually being out. Life is really, really fucking hard.
Bored, I asked if I could read the communal paper left on the counter. It was from Dallas which I thought was funny. Times here in Podunk are to slow to write about. But the headline was the real shocker.
"Dumb fucking luck!"
Turns out the job had been double booked. Also turns out it had been a set up all along! "Hit Man Arrested In Police Sting". I shuddered and nearly broke down. I've been walking deeper into a mine field all this time!
I staggered out. If they knew about the other guy they most likely knew about me. Personal integrity. This was the one fucking time in my life I showed any - and it saved my life by the skin of my teeth. Now I had proof. Now I had answers. But unless I keep acting this way, I'll never make it out of this mine field alive. Jesus!
The sponge holder was out of alignment with the edge of the granite countertop. He fixed it. Surveying the rest of his apartment with a practiced and keen eye he found no other maladjustments needing remedying. Pure, blissful sterility. Surely no emperor in the passage of time had it as good as he, the Company Man.
By remote, the stereo oozed classical "non-music" as he called it. Pounding, passionate music disturbed the void he so desperately sought to maintain. His corporate soul he kept locked away, its release the destruction of the empire he'd built over many long years. He was not the king, but smarter than that. Like a wily woman, he left the decisions - along with their weight and publicity - to the one anointed. But in his hands he held the power of the ruler's might with all its resources in back of it.
The stunning view from his window looked over the halls of power as his own backyard. Wide-eyed tourists, school children and the great unwashed looked upon these monuments with awe. Even foreign dignitaries or brigadier generals or governors of state could look upon them only as outsiders. But he, the Company Man, was on the inside, deep inside safe from the scrutiny of prying eyes. In fact, the prying eyes were on his side.
A student of history, he fancied himself a modern member of the Praetorian Guard, the inner circle to the seat of power. Yet even as Caesar was murdered in broad daylight, nowhere is it recorded of the killing of his bodyguards. Rulers pass but the institution must carry on. To this institution he was married heart and body. The next ruler - and all those to follow - would see that he and his kind were preserved. These were the thoughts that passed through his mind at the edge of nightfall.
Not that he wouldn't give his life for his master. He found something to die (and kill) for and thus to live for. This freed him from petty obligations of the masses toiling in futile labor, unknowing their fates already decided by suited men in secret rooms. He laughed to read of misspent conspiracies clogging the blogs and byways . With so much noise, even those with correct insight were drowned out by the static. Yes indeed, the Company Man stood invincible and inviolate atop the world.
What worked against the ordinary life worked for him. Greed and corruption, chaos and warfare, uncertainty and fear - these were his true employers. Since the beginning of history, the Company Men had stood the test of time. In war he found peace. His only true fear was a world of prosperity and harmony, one of justice and accord working towards the final betterment of mankind. Just rulers in a just world need no guards or deeds done in the still of the night.
He hated "Poser Presidents" who refused the naked grab for power he knew they craved as if they were above it. To die for one of them would leave a bitter taste in his mouth. To die protecting a true man of power, now that would be glorious! He'd go down in history as a hero even if all the while he'd been an assassin. He didn't have to know who he killed. He didn't have to care. The Company Man was simply the blameless instrument of policy. That lie very much excited him.
His sex he kept in perfect agony. The guilt of denial hounded him into hell as he literally cried out for help in the dark. But when he read of agents caught red-handed with prostitutes he knew he'd chosen the right path in the ultimate safety of denial even as he begged to be spanked by hot teenage girls whom he spied behind his stoic dark glasses. Yes, he knew he was a hypocrite of the highest order, but the fact no one else spotted it proved he sank as a hypocrite in a sea of hypocrites.
The Company Man looked down to the street at the aftermath of a car accident. He heard the phrase "no fucking insurance" and let out a wry smile. Life of the little people, always one human error away from permanent damage. Who would want to live like that? Why didn't everyone try to be a Company Man? Fools and idiots all! "God has given you one face, and you make yourself another." Their fate and pain meant nothing to him - just as his fate and pain meant nothing to them - or to himself.
I have a problem with lying. Or maybe I should say with wanting to lie. I'm more comfortable when I lie. That's why it seems I tell the truth when I lie and lie when I tell the truth. Part of this, certainly, is living in a world that deserves little trust to handle truth. But I lie even when I can trust. It's a common trait for those who grow up in dysfunctional homes and mine was certainly a nightmare of epic proportions.
Considering all the lying going on, mine was not unique. At some point the lying children are put in charge and it becomes institutionalized. Suddenly, it's responsible to lie. Truth is slandered as the enemy that hurts people's feelings. 'Tis a mixed-up, crazy world out there! And we each silently fret what's to come of it. For that is the truest mirror of all. What will you see in that mirror?
And laughable though it may be, we hope to influence that time of revelation with lies beforehand. "You see, Wally, you gotta make everyone believe you're great even when you're awful. That's when you have it made!" But in the end what "everyone thinks" will make no difference. As the pressure mounts and time slips through our fingers, bolder and bolder expand the lies until parody itself is dead. Let's look at some examples.
"Iraq War". We hear that phrase all the time but there was no Iraq War. What there was was our Iraq Invasion. Now just imagine if you heard over and over again about our Iraq Invasion. The word "war" implies a certain helplessness, as if we were forced into it. But there's less ambiguity to "invasion". We invaded of our own free will, no provocation required. The fact we deceived ourselves as to a motive is only more condemning.
The Liar Deniers will attempt to spin "war" and "invasion" as a difference without a distinction knowing that argument plays to the willfully ignorant masses. What they won't do, however, is put their money where their mouth is and start actually saying Iraq Invasion (and why not if there's no difference??) Uh-huh. It's for the same reason we call Obamacare heath care reform instead of what it is: health insurance reform. In both these cases we took a sad song and made it sadder.
In continuing our stage play of pretended life is the great perfidy of alleged poverty. Look at the world around you, there's enough here to feed, clothe and house every person alive. Folks, back in the bad old days when the crops failed and that's all there was now that's poverty. What we've got now is a failure to remunerate. Take the story of two islands.
On the first island is ten banana trees and the ten people on the island pool their output so if one tree fails the rest make up for it. That's how mutual survival go. But the second island is without faith, making up an idol called shizzfarts, mandating only those with shizzfarts be allowed to eat! (I know, it sounds insane but it makes perfect sense to them). Everyone hated the rule but it promised a free ride to those who held the shizzfarts and by this they were corrupted. On that island, one guy got really fat, two more ate well and the rest starved in "poverty" - only both islands had the same amount of food.
Corruption breeds self-contempt and that breeds many, many "isms". The list is endless so we'll stick with the fashionable one of racism. So we hate each other for the differing colors of our skin, eh? Well, what if the whole world were blind? Would racism go away then? Not one whit. I can tell you Dr. King's pleas for justice would be just as painful to a Southern oppressor with or without his sight and the urge to silence that voice just the same. All hate starts with self-hate. Love first, ask questions later.
The biggest laugh to me is to hear the second islanders speak of "preserving" civilization. Uh, come again? With their invasion of the first island to take its resources only so the fat can get fatter and mandating shizzfarts as if it were a law of nature and the inevitable collapse corruption always brings, what civilization? Civilization is a state that has yet to be achieved. But we all like to lie and pretend our family is really better than what it is. But there's no hope in lying.
