A Glimpse Into My Mind

Smile

         As she hands me the whiskey-sour, she flashes that smile all bartenders have trained themselves.  It’s the smile that convinces you to tip an extra dollar; the smile that makes you fall in love. And sure enough, before I’ve taken my first drink, I’m reaching into my pocket through a few wadded-up bills.

                Tip: Have your wallet in hand when ordering a drink. Bartenders pay more attention to you.

                I’m here on a dare. On a Zen quest to become Tyler Durden. Watching the tension between every girl and guy in the room, listening to the chatter of gossip and drunken slurs, I’m here because if I sit at home for another hour I’ll bash my head into a wall. Whatever the reason, here I am leaning against the table with a drink in my hand and slightly moving to the dance beat. Another drink and I won’t care how awkward I look. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, because no one here seems to know what to do. Two guys stand with their beers, eyeing every pretty girl with cleavage and a short skirt. A few girls pass by the lookers trying not to make eye contact, but take the path that nearly brushes against them. At the table to my left, the girls eagerly watch for something to happen on the dance floor, while the only guy with them urges for more shots. The only one here that makes any sense is the dude dancing wildly by himself. His moves are comical and he’s slightly over-weight, but he’s smiling.

                So I smile, because well, it’s genuine at this second.

                Tip: Smile when you want to be attractive. Everyone pays more attention to you.

                He’s still dancing, even as the people surrounding the dance floor giggle and make jokes. No one else is dancing, but I’m sure they all envy his courage. I sure as hell do. And then it happens. The bartender, the one all the men have now fallen in love with, she joins the man. I’ve rarely witnessed so many expressions at once. The men all glare at him, sizing up how they all deserve her instead. The girls all glare at her, wishing for someone to grab their hands and pull them out to the floor. Our lovely bartender smiles with a vibe of utter confidence and happiness. My man hasn’t seem to notice: he’s found joy in the beat.

                So I smile again, because well, these two are currently my heroes. Three drinks later, long after my man has left, I’ve convinced half the room to dance along with me. Including the bartender. For the night, she is my partner.

                Tip: Never wait for a genuine smile to find you on its own accord. Happiness pays more attention when you tip the extra dollar.

Redial

                No one is honking their horns. Tires screeching as I slide between traffic and still nothing. No sirens or screams as cars clash and collide. Nothing like the catastrophe fantasy that my imagination can’t let go of. I want a car chase. I want to crush the passenger side of my car against a wall and lose control.  I want chaos.

                The phone’s ringer reaches the voicemail again.                               

                “No. No. No.”                    

                Redial.

                ~~~

                A spasm in my leg awakens my senses. The blankets now feeling too heavy and my skin too warm.  Does the sun have nothing better to do then shine through my blinds?

                I want to lay here forever.  Dream until I wither away.     

                I want to be up and living, soaking in that damn sunlight.

                Instead my body lays limply beneath the blankets as I bounce between sleep and consciousness.

                The voicemail message awakens my senses.      

                Redial.

                ~~~

                Click.     
               
                Each step is more painful than the last. My grip on the cane is firm, but my balance is wavering. I want to be healed, but the concept of walking freely has eluded me. When I close my eyes I imagine walking with a limp. When I see characters on a television show, I wonder why they are walking without that limp. It’s like I’ve been swimming all day long, and that phantom pressure of waves drifting my body about won’t leave.

                Click.

                Regardless, this is going as planned. My list of details has filled the page. I’ve written down all the lovely descriptions of the lake that are easy enough to imagine sitting at home. The reflections on the water. The dim glow of the streetlights and homes surrounding me. The trees with leaves dropping to the grass. Bright moon. No stars. Moaning of the cars driving by.

                Click.

                All is needed now is someone to validate my ideas. Tell me I’m on to something; that I’m clever. Someone to see for once into these moments where I am utterly alone, and share an experience that will otherwise stay hidden in my mind and heart for years. Instead, I hear an answering machine.

                Redial.

Wasn’t That Silly?

I often fear that I hold the capacity to become a highly adequate liar. Manipulator. Thief. All it takes is the right state of mind. A little understanding of sociology and psychology to get the details straight. A desired outcome and motivation can get you a long ways. I pass my fingers through the rows of jeans until I find a pair my size. Since I’m skinny, there’s a particular fitting that I am drawn to that manages to keep me from appearing anorexic. But more importantly: it comes with a belt.

I nod to the security-guy creeping through the aisles. I smile at just about every employee I pass.  “Hello, fellow travelers. Don’t worry, your shift is nearly over and you can go back to drinking and complaining about work to your friends.”

“How many?”

“Just this.”

“Go ahead,” she says, handing over a plastic label with the number “one” painted on it. I smile and nod again to the lovely young girl. Why is everyone that works here my age? As a habit I find the largest and furthest dressing closet. Dressing stall? Whatever-the-fuck-they’re-called. For someone that generally avoids these things, I’ve developed quite a few routines to once I am in them. Hang jeans on empty hanger. Take out cell phone and rest it on the bench. Remove belt. However, that’s where my pattern ends.

This is where it gets silly and your opinion of me becomes comical.

My belt, a few years old and recently nonfunctional, fits naturally in the stores pair of pants. (Of course it does, it’s a damn belt.) I slip their belt into my loop and tighten it. Ta-da. New belt. I want to laugh at myself, but instead I am running justifications through my mind. I‘ve spent enough money on clothes this week that all cost more than they should. It’s just a belt that comes for free. I didn’t exactly leave them empty handed. It’s my first time stealing anything, ever.

“Didn’t want them?” the pretty girl asks, hanging the pants on the “un-wanted”hanger.

The fear of becoming comfortable with lying seeps its way back to the forefront of my mind and I just smile. I nod at the creeping security-guy on my way out. The remarkable thing to me is my lack of guilt. If the security-guy actually stopped me I would shrug, laugh a little, and say “wasn’t that silly.”

Blink

Thump…Thump…

At this point I cannot discern whether the trembling of my hands is my own imagination or not. Like a character in my stories, I feel I am an unreliable narrator. I wince at the last sip, setting it beside an empty bottle of wine and the previous energy drink. Drink half a bottle every half day reads the label. Do not mix with alcohol reads the label. I take a deep breath, basking in the glow of the computer’s screen. The blinking curser, that placeholder at the end of my sentence,  taunts me. If not for the surge of energy pumping through every vein, it’s perpetual blinking would leave me catatonic…mesmerized…entranced…confined in the web of my mind, fighting to tear free like bug trapped in a spider’s silk.  Yes, this is good. Let your thoughts flow and drift onto the page.

2:35 a.m.

The click of the keys seems to match the pace of my heartbeat, but I cannot determine whether I am aware of myself or not. My thoughts blend into each next idea as I type them on the document and they have taken me captive. If I blink I may open my eyes to find myself in the midst of the story. Some eerie, distant land where ideas become reality and tragedy is the driving force between each scene. Creation pours from my fingertips like a God breathing life into existence. Breathe. Blink. Be focused enough to stay awake.

3:45 a.m.

Thump, thump, thump.

Save. Open new document. Begin.

Approximately five hours remaining and one story to re-write. Over twenty-four hours since I last slept. Eight hours since I did anything other than focus on my writing. Three hours since I last moved from this chair.

I place my hand over my chest, frightened at the speed of my heartbeat. Each beat pounds with a heavier blow, almost ready break through my ribs and tear itself free of its cage. Inhaling with caution and ease I release my hand from my chest. If I blink I may find myself one beat too far, fallen to the floor in a seizure. Some sad, tangled position where tragedy becomes reality, leaving me catatonic and desperate to break free like a man buried alive six feet below. Yes, let these thoughts burst out and cling to the page.

Thump!

Breathe.

Blink.

I’ll Be Okay

All I see is the glimmer of tears floating in her eyes. My body is aching at every muscle, but her smile is a gentle reassurance. You’ll be okay.  Perhaps she needs this as much as I do.

*

“I slept for twenty-four hours straight the other day,” I say, with my hands tightened on the wheel.  Nathan attempts a soft laugh, but the noise sounds more like a “humph”. It seems the street posts and cold breeze are the only things keeping either of us awake. I sneak my eyes from the road and see an expression that mirrors how I feel; a slackened face, too weary to show emotion, and eyes struggling to hold themselves open.  “I guess I felt I had no decent reason to wake up. Dreams were more rewarding.”

 “I can’t stand it. I feel nothing. What did you call it?” he asks minutes later.

“Depersonalization,” I answer.

“Each day passes and I feel nothing. I need to get out of here for awhile.”

*

I feel safe. Five-hundred miles from home and in a city foreign to me, sitting in a car with people I will see only this one night and I feel safe. Their bodies are twisted to face me as I strum away at my guitar. The metal against my fingertips is a comforting pain. The weight of the wooden body against my chest reminds me to breathe. Each note bleeds into the next with a cadence I have dreamed of as a musician. I’m not playing the song, it is playing me. I feel a pang at my heart with each chord change as if it is tied to a string; the melody pulling lightly at the other end. Their silence has created a synchronization of emotions, but her eyes are pulling me into her and her alone.

*

“Eighty-five…Ninety…Ninety-five…Annnd…One-Hundred!”

“Woooooh!” Nathan yells out his window to the semis as we fly pass them. “Fuuuuuckkkkk yoooouuuu!”

“Pass me another!” I demand, turning the music louder and pointing at the back seat. Nathan launches himself over his chair and rummages through a mess of supplies. After finding the cooler he opens an energy drink and hands it to me. A pile of empty cans sits at his feet, covered in candy wrappers and random items for traveling. I turn on the headlights, screaming to the music. The double-bass and guitars make me want to driver even faster, but my car has topped off at a hundred. We rush by a sign that reads “San Francisco: 350 miles”.

*

A tear escapes her lashes and trickles down her cheek. I will never see her again. Her sympathetic smile and dark skin will remain a part of this beautiful memory. A simple hour at the right time. I play the last chord, allowing it to ring as long as possible, but the moment is over. We sit in silence in a synchronized train of thought: We’ll be okay.

Try This Sometime

I am certain there exists a word in this cesspool of a language to describe this. Artist. Conman. Flagellator. These all come to mind. I sink my head to my knees and run my fingers through my hair. I shut my eyes while biting my lip. I breathe slowly.

Try this sometime: imagine the most pain you have ever felt. Soak in every reason you were hurting and let that moment embrace you. Don’t move a muscle. Sit in silence until you feel nothing but emptiness. Now, what is the first thought that crosses your mind? Dwell on that thought. Let it seize you and roam unrestrained in your mind. At the peak of its control over you let it out.

“He was so young,” I hear through soft sobs behind me.

“Wasn’t she beautiful?” a woman asks minutes later.

The roaring of a car’s engine speeding by breaks my concentration.  Welcome back to reality my senses seem to tell me. You smell that mixture of grass, dirt and burnt rubber? How about the dry taste in your mouth or the breeze against your skin? That’s been here the entire time. I blink to remove the creases in my contacts and stretch my fingers.  At each movement my body cracks in a new place. Families nearby glance towards me then back to the ground. They should be enjoying this day in the warmth and comfort of loved ones, my heart seems to say. What a depressing way to spend your Christmas afternoon.

Try this sometime: isolate yourself where no one will find you. Somewhere that is full of meaning and sentiment to you. Go there at a moment when you are weak and everyone else in your life is joyful. Do not ask for them to join you. Do not cry out. Let that anguish fill you. When it is nearly overflowing release it.

This is not why I came here, but like the addict, I cannot contain myself.  The first words write themselves.  They are simple.  They are minimalistic. I feel as if nothing more need to be written, but in seconds my fingers are working against my will and saying more.  Artist. Conman. Flagellator.  Are you satisfied, my mind seems to tell me. Have you squeezed every drop of agony you can from this moment?

I glance down at the grave and sigh. My intents were noble. Continue the tradition of spending the holidays together. Provide a friend when everyone else would be otherwise busy. Be there. Instead I touch my fingertips on the keys and start a new stanza. I tell myself excuses as I write. Life is tragedy, but art makes it bearable. For my own mental health, this is a perfect escape. Coping comes in different styles. My heart says  I am here for you, but my mind tells me this is strong material.

Try this sometime: be completely honest with yourself. Honest with others. So often we hide our thoughts, intents and desires that we lose ourselves in who we are pretending to be. I am certain there exist a word in this cesspool of a language to describe those who wear those masks to hide themselves. This is happy. This is misery. This is who I should be. This is who you want me to be. Artist. Conman. Flagellator. These words all come to mind.

Alternative Reality

This much blood should terrify me, but as I step forward my heart is pounding. I am the eager one. I am the one wide-eyed and full of curiosity. This far surpasses my expectations.

“What do you see?” our beautiful host asks.

The others inch in, hesitant and nervous, while I take her question as an invitation to roam freely. Apart from a few “gasps” the room is silent. The smell of iron lingers in the cold air. Goosebumps scatter along my arms. What do I see? I see mirrors with letters drawn upon them in blood, forming a dome around a dentist’s chair. Two spotlights hanging above the chair—likely an interrogation tactic. Nails drilled in the arm rest where your hands fall and duct tape to hold a body still. Blood surrounding the nails. Blood at the neck rest and dripping along the back of the chair. Pools at the base and in the seat. Slouching behind the chair, I imagine I am the victim. What do they see?

“These letters, what do they mean?” someone asks.

“A message of some sort. It seems our killer expected this room to be found.” the host adds, looking my direction. She draws closer and follows my gaze to the mirrors. They reflect off one another from every direction, the image of her standing beside me repeating a thousand times from differing angles. Her skin is smooth and hair silky blond. Her smile is a reassurance I am on the right track. To me, she resembles all of the most beautiful actresses. Fair. Tranquil. Slender. A stark contrast to our surroundings. I reach for the notepad in my back pocket and write the letters visible from the victim’s perspective. “S”. A backwards “L” reflecting from the mirror behind me. Two backwards “E”s reflecting from the left to the right. She nods and says softly “Seems you don’t need my help.”

“The number of nails might mean something.”

“Why a dentist’s chair? Perhaps that is the killer’s profession?”

“Weird…” another adds, pointing up.

On a mirror above the chair is our last clue.  The lemniscate. An infinity symbol smeared in blood. I add it to my list of all the letters written on the mirrors. My notepad full of re-arrangements to form something coherent of them. This should disturb me, yet the only sentiment crossing my mind is that I am impressed. The effort they put forward to create a convincing illusion; an alternative reality. Whatever this is, it is much grander than a spectator’s event. An Easter-egg for fans. Whatever it is, I am sold. I want to be involved and finish this to the end. I can be the great detective. The film noir anti-hero. The Sherlock Holmes. Minutes pass re-arranging the letters until I find it; the words spelling the phrase “Sleep Superbly.”

“Very good,” she says as I reveal my discovery. “You’ve unraveled the first hint to the chase.”

Fugitive

Once again the pace has picked up and I find myself straggling behind. Each step falls like a boulder on the asphalt. I can hear my voice begin to wheeze. This is the wrong direction, I want to shout.  We are going west. I say nothing, of course.  We were raised in this city. There isn’t an inch of uncharted territory. As the porch lights flicker on and dogs howl, I count the number of friends whom live in this neighborhood. In their beds, lights out and sleeping serenely.  Here I am, out of breath and ducking at every headlight from cars driving by. Keep running. Keep breathing. Keep playing the game.

For the first time in months I’m not overwhelmed with concerns. Will they accept my application? How will I afford insurance this month? Why have I become so numb to everyday life? No. All of my thoughts are in the moment. My arm is clenching my sides from a healthy pain and every car is studied with suspicion. Black van. One of them drove a black van. By now the hunt is on. At least twenty-five minutes have passed with us jig sawing through the city. Sadly, only about a mile has been covered on foot. With our landmark drawing further away while we run the opposite direction, I assume we have approximately three more miles ahead.  What a strange turn of events.               

This is the game: Don’t get caught. You meet up at a desired location and break into two teams. The bulk of players—twelve in our case—run at whatever pace, in whichever direction, they chose. So long as they are heading towards the agreed landmark; in our case the McDonalds at the other end of town.  Simply stay within fifteen feet of any road. The remaining players wait ten minutes ‘til the hunt; after that they hop in their cars and roam to city to find us. If they do, they immediately jump out of the car and chase us down. Once tagged you become part of their team. If you make it to the landmark before them, well, you get it.  It’s city-wide tag. Cops and Robbers on a large scale. We are the pieces and the world is our game-board. To think an hour ago I was staring at an empty screen, reflecting on how dull my day was.  Those headlights are awfully bright.               

“That’s them! SPLIT!”

And suddenly our group of four is dismantled. Now more than thirty feet behind, I dive behind a bush. Just maybe I wasn’t spotted. The van rushes past me, screeching to a stop in the middle of the road. A few front door lights brighten up as two players slide open the van door. One unlucky fugitive is soon tackled to the ground. Another is giggling as he displays his obviously superior agility, spinning out of reach and running circles around our captors. The last fugitive is long gone. I imagine the neighborhood residents already dialing the real cops in confusion. Yes, sir. Black Van with tinted windows. Mid twenties. I’d say around 5’10, 180 pounds. All black, sir. What a comical scene that would lead to. No officer, you don’t understand, I have to make it to McDonalds before they catch me.              

A captor is walking directly towards me at this point. How exciting it would be for him to be an actual officer. I blink and pretend he was.             

“You hid well.”              

“I did.”               

“Why?”               

“Because I am a fugitive.”               

“This isn’t just a game?”

“It’s always a game. Don’t you remember?”

Vantage

A soft spot in the roof’s shingles crumbles beneath my shoe.  With my arms stretched out at my sides, teeter-totting for balance, a playful smile and chuckle escapes me. The chatter of birds fills the air. The sun feels closer. Reachable.  For now, this simple moment is all I need. From this vantage point,  a mere fifteen or so feet above the ground, I feel like a new man. Somehow, more connected to the world.  The trees may still reach higher than I, but here I stand amongst them; not at the trunks of these voiceless giants.  The birds glide passed me, not above. From here I see a collection of homes. Not just the neighbors close by. Cars driving in the distance appear to move slowly, predictable in their destination.  It seems childish, but on rooftops I am calm.

The power lines dangle from their post, torn from the roof. Those wires, wrapped around a fallen tree, rest in the dirt. Down below I hear my father telling a story to the owner of the house.

“A few weeks ago, not far from here actually, a similar thing happened. Tree fell over, ripping the lines from the box. Except after hearing a “boom” the family ran outside and were hit with the lines. Three people died.”

“No shit?”

“At any time anywhere around 10,000 volts of electricity runs through these Edison lines. Doesn’t take much to kill a person.”

“When I heard the crash I barely stepped outside. I wasn’t gunna’ go near one of those wires.”

“Smart move…How’s it look up there, Wes?” he shouts.

Wonderful, I think.  Peaceful.  The breeze flows through the leaves of the trees as the branches sway side to side. The roar of passing cars is less intrusive, more like a hum. The birds continue singing to another and everything blends together with a cadence that is almost musical. But as I glance down I see them staring up at me. My father’s expression is familiar; “let’s finish this and get on with the next job”. The customer’s gaze of concern asks “When can I go back to living my normal life with electricity?” At my feet is the exposed wire, ripped in half. The shingles are broken and shattered, the metal pipe bent and distorted. An inch in the wrong direction and the whole house could have caught fire.  

 “Pretty bad,” I respond.

Not Today Alright? Wake Up.

It is what I have come to call the “collapsing point”. As I reach out for the envelope, I feel that distinctive tug at my mind. A familiar pinch at my will to concentrate. The effect is collective, my awareness elevating as time progresses—sometimes faster than others—until I reach the pinnacle of my consciousness; until I am as alert as I am in reality. At this point, it is only a matter of seconds before everything vanishes. Understanding that you are in two separate places at once is a task my mind is capable of maintaining for but a moment. Usually.

Grab the envelope, I think to myself. Just grab the envelope. We wait in my doorway, immobilized by my fading sub-conscious. The setting sun seems to be flowing in reverse as the skies become brighter and I feel the weight of my paralyzed body. In waking reality that is. Here, for now I am here. But the attempt fails. I am not certain where here is anymore. The warmth of my blankets and the morning sunlight presses against my skin. Where am I? Vague flashes of friends gathered together laughing teases my mind. Nathan cooking. Kevin and Laithe frozen like mannequins. Anastasia with a Smirnoff in hand. All split-second images. The more I attempt to remember, the more I feel the bed-sheet against my cheek. I wonder what time it is? No, not yet. I grab the envelope, with the world disappearing around us. I smile as I see the words “Dear Lucius” written on the front. As I open the envelope my eyes finally open.

The house is silent. There are two ways that I wake up. This is the preferred way: calm, casually and by the sun light. The second, whenever it is abrupt, leaves me gasping for air—as if someone just saved me from drowning. I reach for my phone, staring blankly at the screen. Any detail? Where? What? Who? I struggle to find a memory somewhere of the previous dream. If I have time, that is the first five minutes of any morning. Regardless of how lucid my nights are, how vivid the dreams become, the first minutes of waking are almost always in a state of amnesia. But they creep back. Piece by piece the image is painted. I sigh as the envelope returns to my mind. I wonder what it said. We are supposed to be incapable of reading in dreams, but I have before. Hell, I just did. I pull the phone’s screen inches from my face—without contacts this is the only way I can read—and follow the routine. Five FaceBook messages. I click the first comment still contemplating what the letter entailed.

“Not today alright? Wake up.”