Enough is enough. I’m using the abacus again. I’m on two.
Humans talk because that’s how they express things. A little help here? Not today. Why? I’m busy. Doing what? This is typical. This is how people talk to me.
And what’s the story? Well I wish I was younger but I’m not. This is what happened. Here’s the information…
So I like the night. That’s when people sleep. I’m not a person. I’m everyone’s errand boy. Case and Point:
When you’re a writer (this probably goes for everything and all social actors) especially when you’re an unknown and poor writer/editor/publisher/idiot often people think you’re free to do whatever it is they need you to do. Change breaks/mow lawns/rake sand/clean basements/walk dogs/move general society things around. They don’t know that I work ten hours for them and then ten hours on the words man, just words…
They don’t know. They just see the man who is still a boy. They say things like how’s the job hunt. I say things under my breath like go to hell. But I don’t hate them. I like them. I’m just tired. They think I’m stronger than I am. Actually they don’t think about me, they just see me. I don’t care. I feel so sorry for them. Sometimes I can’t look.
They always think I’m just sitting around or something. I was. Earlier after a nap I’m sitting in the park reading, hey, can you give me a hand, sure, and four hours later I get a thanks and no dollars and then I go drink a Bloody Mary and pass out under a tree.
Feeling something bad I was going to read some more but my eyes didn’t work. The lake was nice, it’s bat weather the end of august in Michigan, and holy smokes you rift raft, you can’t sleep outside because that means you’re a bum. Oh no. A reading bum. Oh the humanity…so I’m sorry I don’t have a boat. Oh no. A writing bum. Call the cops. No. Wait. I’m sorry. I should leave. I’m ashamed so I go home and I sleep a little more. Peace. Darkness. My pillow covers my face. Darkness. Peace. Snooze…
Two hours later it’s 7 pm. I usually sleep til 9 pm. Not tonight because The phone rings, YEAH WHAT OK YEAH DAMN MAN SURE SOUNDS BAD RIGHT NOW YES I GUESS DAMN…
Sometimes I yell. I don’t even know what’s going on and you’re my nightmare. I’m not trying to but I get mad when people wake me up.
Hey, something sounds wrong with my breaks, there’s a rattling sound. Can you come look at them? Great. What? Be there in fifteen.
I just fixed these things. I walk over there, I’m angry and slow and I know that I have to edit and finish my damn novel and then think about those new kinds of business aspects of my… “business”. I need to make money…soon.
Chowing down a sandwich and I brought a glass of milk with me. I’m walking down alleys and cutting through old people homes. I’m Dipping some cookies and I’m bleeding because for some reason there was glass on my desk. I swept it off with my hand. The whole experience happened so fast. It felt like a nail going through skin. Great. A blood spout. Paper towel works just fine.
Walking. Blocks and trees and it’s hot. I think about nothing. Some time later I get there. They go inside. I hear them watching America’s funniest home videos. Nobody even has a camcorder anymore. Damn. I get under the car. Tire off. It all looks fine. Wires tight and nothing is hanging down.
A small conquest for a writer so I drink a swell of gin. Cheers. The break job was a job well done for twenty two dollars and here hang on, here’s a buy one get one burger coupon, no cheese no exceptions, void where prohibited and only these locations, just and only… burger.
Thanks. This is what I’ll say. Oh and let’s not forget the I.O.U. Many people have given me these metaphysical I.O.Us. They forgot and then some time later they say I owe them, and for what? Money. And do I? Sometimes. But what about my I.O.U? I guess somebody else took that off their hands.
Most of the people I know are like banks. They smile and ask you for things, they’re always five minutes away from total breakdown, they say we love you and thank you so much for banking with us, but then, they come for you because you owe them ten bucks from a year ago when you borrowed it so you could get a cheeseburger…just never mind…
Be right back I say. They don’t listen. They’re laughing. It’s absurd how funny they think those videos are. What’s wrong with this species. This is a very big question. Luckily I don’t think too long about it because right then I see a big moth on the ground. American Instinct said kill it. I didn’t. It looked like me.
I could just steal this car and drive. I wonder when I would run out of gas. This is what I’m thinking about…just before…and alright…
Getting in the car I drive it around the block, and yeah, something is rattling so I stop the car. I pop the hood.
Shining a flash light down well… damn, I see the problem. Somehow I dropped a wrench into the car. It was there for almost three months.
Moral of the story. There is none.
Adventures In American Writing 