1) I need to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
My situation is dire.
Of course, with my luck, the rabbit will be fucking dead.
2) I recently learned that deep breathing temporarily relieves anxiety.
As a consequence, I also learned that, at my level of dysfunction, hyperventilation results.
Johnny Dinklethwaite took a job in a library.
Part Time. Two days a week.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. First of all, he needed the money, paltry as it is. Sad but true. The burden of old age unplanned for.
More importantly, Johnny loved to read. He loved books. That was enough of a justification for him to bullshit his way into the job. He thought that's all there was to it.
In the beginning, it wasn't too bad. Checking books in, checking books out - not much to it. And he got to shoot the shit with fellow readers - his people - people who read and read and read. For whom books are a religion. He had as much affinity with them as he does with drinkers. So it was a kind of sin and redemption thing - sinning with the drinkers, salvation with the readers.
In the beginning there was turnover. The director left. The assistant left. This was even better because he didn't have tyrants looking over his shoulder. It was a small, local library so there were long periods of quiet. Thirty people was a big day and cause for celebration.
Johnny enjoyed long stretches alone, when he could read, daydream, or search for better part time jobs online, jobs that paid $50/hour and required little effort and even less customer contact. That job has still not materialized but Johnny remains optimistic.
Then a new director came on board. And another assistant. Things picked up because the director wanted to make her mark. Who could blame her.
Suddenly there were four or five book clubs. Book clubs that met five feet away from Johnny's desk and spent an hour or two talking about the book. Actually, 20% of the gathering was spent on the book; 80% was spent gossiping and whining and dissecting life's mysteries.
Suddenly there was a summer reading program for miniature humans, which required Johnny to actually have to interact with these kids. Stamping schedules, handing out cheap toys, distributing gift certificates. He had a college education, for Christ sake - this was how he spent his time? Stamping smiley faces for Little Bobby?
Suddenly there was a Mah Jongg group that met on the afternoon of one of Johnny's days - every week. Two to two and a half hours of ten or twelve people meeting five feet away from Johnny's desk, rattling Mah Jongg bones, talking, yakking, loudly and indiscriminately.
The job Johnny Dinklethwaite took expecting peace and reflection, became tumultuous, irritating, and downright insanity-provoking.
When he was alone in the building, which was rare, he would pound his fist on the desk, yelling Fuck This Shit.
It was unprofessional.
He began drinking in the morning on work days. And sneaking nips into the library for bracers later on in the day.
One day a young kid came in with his Mommy and his reading program tracking sheet. Johnny was broken and a little drunk. He said "How'd you do, Little Bobby? How the fuck did you do?, you little shit. Did you read all your stupid little kid books? You want me to give you a cheap, plastic toy? Will that make your life worthwhile, you little asshole?"
The kid cried. The Mommy complained. Johnny was fired on the spot.
Johnny Dinklethwaite moved to West Virginia and took a job in a coal mine. He figured it was healthier for him than working in a local library.
It was a crafty move.
I am working on not beating myself up so much.
It's a worthy goal.
My body is covered in bruises, cuts, black and blue skin, and dried blood. When I go out in public, women shriek, kids cry, the insensitive laugh. Some point, some look away. Cars pile up, one into another.
The extra-sensitive, vomit.
I want to get to the point where I can walk around and wave the way Queen Elizabeth II did, and be met in return by benign smiles.
Reading a book set in California - the Pacific Coast Highway is mentioned a lot.
100 years ago, in one of the many bizarre situations of my life, I was in California on business and got to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway.
Bizarre in the sense that I have bounced from one improbable situation to another in my life. My brother once bailed me out when I was kicking around between jobs, bewildered and uninspired. He got me a job working for the company he worked for, no questions asked - generous and appreciated. Eventually I got kicked out of that job as a result of nefarious, practically criminal, activity on his part. I was then bailed out by a friend of mine - Nelson - who gave me a job with his company.
Nelson and I were in California on said business trip. After surviving a meeting, we cruised the PCH - Nelson driving, me marveling. Beautiful weather, beautiful scenery, iconic road. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant, overlooking the ocean. That day is burned into my memory. Because I was where I'm meant to be. I was me.
I live in the wrong place. Winter ain't for me and, frankly, I don't care all that much about the changing seasons. I want, I need, warmth. Lots and lots of warmth. So when I am in a place that resonates with my soul, it makes an impression.
We were only out there for a few days. We did not Cruise the PCH that much, but it left an impression. So much so that as I read this book, my mind drifts back and contentment washes over me.
For the record, I live in the wrong time period too. I need soul. The 21st century is soulless. 20th century wasn't all that great either, but parts of it were a hell of a lot better than today. Strange thoughts abounded, like hope, and determination to change things for the better. Now all we have is reality TV, game shows, and bullshit.
But I digress.
It's good to have memories. It's good to have thoughts that rise up occasionally to inspire warm feelings. It's how you survive.
And if that's all you have, well, I guess it's better than nothing.
John stood on his front porch looking out over his yard.
The porch was sagging and in need of a good staining; the grass could use a haircut. His car sat idly in the driveway; a 1993 Subaru hatchback - a little rust, a few dents, a lot of miles.
Smoke drifted from his cigarette as a slight breeze comforted him. He shook his head. Been doing that a lot lately.
He was tired. The kind of tired that was as much psychological as it was physical. It didn't matter though; he knew he could get up the initiative to deal with anything he had to. Nobody gets 8 hours of sleep, and everybody is fucked in the head. Still, everybody keeps moving.
That's just the way it is. Life is not glamorous. Lately John's been wondering if it is the gift everyone says it is. Doesn't feel that way very much.
Rusty, his dog and precious friend, nudges John's hand. He looks down and smiles. Rusty has been a source of so much comfort and love over the years, with many more to come. He is a warrior. John believes Rusty keeps him alive. What a gift.
John drops his cigarette to the porch and rubs it out with his work boot. He sits quietly with Rusty, enjoying the evening, appreciative of the bond they share.
Eventually he gets up and says "Come on, old boy, let's go in and watch some TV." Rusty happily trots by John's side.
He pours himself a short whiskey and slides into the recliner; Rusty lies next to him on the floor. The chair's a little worn, a few cracks; it's broke in just right.
He turns the TV on and dials up Wheel of Fortune while looking forward to Jeopardy. Jeopardy makes him feel stupid more often than not, but when he gets a few right, he feels proud.
He drops his hand down to scratch Rusty behind the ears. Gonna be a quiet night.
John doesn't mind.
After I re-check my failed scratch ticket, hours later, and confirm that it is indeed a loser.............I rip it up before I toss it into the trash.
That way the trash dude cannot swipe it from the barrel and cash in my million if I, God forbid, overlooked the winning number.
