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.
"To live, is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde
Sadness grows teeth as you get older.
From the day you realize that the life you are living is foreign to your nature, a seed is planted. A sensation awakens in your mind, a mild unease that makes you uncomfortable. But not panicked. Not yet.
This is not the life you want, but you are an intelligent person - you will figure out which path is the right path, and you will course correct. You feel a little better knowing this.
But you have not accounted for the speed with which life moves, and you have not accounted for life's insidious ability to trap you in place subtly, quietly, without your awareness.
You move on, at least in time, but not in self-actualization. The sensation in your mind has moved on from unease, to profound sadness. There is a reality there, either that life has tricked you, or that you have sabotaged your own future. Either way, that reality is poisonous - it hollows out your insides.
You find yourself standing at the window for extended, mindless, moments - seeing nothing. No flowers, no birds, no sunshine, no beauty, no life. A blank stare that reveals nothing but hopelessness and despair. The excruciating realization of the most consequential missed opportunity.
It's frightening.
I buy a $20 scratch ticket hoping to win retirement money.
I scratch it. I don't win anything, not even a dollar.
I check it five times. Then I set it aside so I can check it later, just in case I missed my million dollar opportunity.
This is called desperation.
It is a waste of time to feel sorry for yourself. It invites condescension.
Better to invite tragedy into your life and allow others to feel sorry for you.
From the first moment you understand reality, you feel empty. Wanting. Frustrated. Uninspired. Afraid.
It is not unrealistic to be pessimistic about life. Let's face it - if you are a small human (defined by a small bank account) - you really don't stand a chance. Limited funds limit your life.
Hamsters on a wheel scurrying madly in place, exerting maximum energy, without ever moving forward. Getting more and more fatigued, slowing down, torturing optimism to death, leaving only resignation and disbelief. Looking forward and seeing the same distance ahead of you as you saw decades ago.
This is how society works. Holding out an imaginary carrot, spouting baseless cliches designed to inspire false hope, outright lying about the reality of rewards - happiness, retirement, peace of mind - just to keep those feet padding along.
Once you climb on to that wheel, it is all over. And for most of us, for the great majority of us, the die is cast at birth. The first step you take will be the last time you make progress.
"Is that all there is? If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing. Let's break out the booze and have a ball. If that's all there is."
(Life wisdom sung perfectly by Peggy Lee; the song - Is That All There Is? - written by Lieber and Stoller.)
Yesterday, I paid $5 for 1 nip of WhistlePig. 1 and 1/2 ounces of whiskey for $5. Can you believe it?
It was devine.
Running around doing errands on a 100 degree day, doing the average things of an average life. I needed that shit that cleans wax out of your ears, I had to pick up a prescription for "crazy man" medication, I had to pick up some potato hamburger rolls (gourmet meal last night).
In the morning, before I went out on errands, I failed at saving my life, so I was pretty wound up already.
Can't take my job no more. Jesus Christ, putting stickers on sheets of paper for kids participating in the summer reading challenge. What is the point of encouraging them to read? They're all gonna grow up to be criminals and drug addicts anyway. Or billionaires, which is essentially in the same category.
So I'm looking for salvation. Need a job that does not obliterate my soul, and pays enough money to get by, with just a little extra to pad the savings account.
My essence is on life support - I can hear it wheezing, sucking desperately for life-giving oxygen, fighting to stay alive. Against all odds.
WhistlePig is rich man's whiskey. Those with fat bank accounts get to enjoy indulgently, while the rest of us suck down Seagram's 7 or, worse, Canadian Hunter. Canadian Hunter is the type of rotgut that melts your liver as you are drinking it. Smoke actually floats out of your mouth as you grimace the fluid down to your poor stomach.
It was July 3, I was feeling set upon, I was doing menial errands - I deserved a $5 shot. Please don't tell Carol. She hates it when I do that AND I was driving her car. Not that I can't handle one fucking shot - shit, man - shots of whiskey to me are like formula to a baby - life sustaining.
I am continually lectured to be grateful, so I can more calmly navigate my life.
I am grateful for WhistlePig - even at $5 a shot.
Came a knock at the door. Caught me off guard because I have a doorbell. Who wouldn't choose to use a doorbell over knocking on the door?
A gruff looking man stood there with a canvas bag dangling from his left hand.
"Can I help you?" I asked. He said "I have the answer to all of your problems." I let him into the house immediately.
"What problems do I have?" I asked. "For one thing, you are old and vulnerable", he said. "You have very little money and no options to get your hands on any. Soon, you will be sick. The expenses will ruin you. You will lose your house."
I said "Sounds about right. What's in the bag?" "Your salvation", he replied. "$250,000. All you gotta do is kill the elderly lady two doors down."
I asked "Why does she deserve to die?" He said "None of your business." I said "Show me the money."
He loosened the drawstring to reveal stacks and stacks of $100 bills. I was impressed. "How will I kill her?", I asked. "With this gun" he said as he drew it out of the back waistband of his pants. I told him I had never killed anyone before. He told me it was easy - just point and shoot.
"Do we have a deal?" he asked. "Sure", I replied. He dropped the bag on my kitchen floor, handed me the gun, turned and walked out my door.
I downed a shot of whiskey, then strolled two doors down. I knocked on the door, even though she has a doorbell. "Mrs. Storkowski, it's Joe, your neighbor." She knows me because I sometimes pick up her medications for her.
She came to the door. "Hi, Joe - how are you?" "I came here to kill you", I replied. She gasped, then began to cry as I pushed her into the living room. When she saw the gun she began to beg for her life, which really pissed me off because it was so weak. So I shot her.
The next day I was driving a new Lincoln, and sporting my new Movado. They both looked good on me.
They made me feel younger and less vulnerable.
"I'm just a man, I ain't no superman, just a man, doin' the best I can
Love you, baby, with all my heart, and give you baby everything, everything that you want, I'm just a man, baby, just a man
I just want to be your hero, your knight in shining armor, oh, and wherever we go, baby, I would defend your honor.................
So many times I've let you down, you really need me, I should have been around, oh baby, shouldn't have had you worrying about me, oh, and I'm only flesh and blood, baby, you see I ain't made of steel, and I can't hold back a flood now, oh but my love, my love for you is real...........................
And if I could see the future, baby, nobody would ever harm you, but I'm just a man, baby, that's all I am, but I'm a good man.......................
But I'm just a man, I ain't no superman, just a man doin' the best I can, the best I can
I'm just a man, baby"
From Just A Man, by Tommy Castro
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end, to be stuck inside of Belmont with the Austin blues again.
P.S. - This very well could be the story they tell about me when I die:
"Grandpa died last week and now he's buried in the rocks, but everybody still talks about how badly they were shocked.
But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he'd lost control, when he built a fire on Main Street, and shot it full of holes"
From Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again, by Bob Dylan
There are 8 days left in June. At the end of the month, 2026 will be half way dead.
I have not yet earned a million dollars this year.
I have not yet won a million dollars this year.
No one has given me a million dollars.
My weekly paycheck is $47.54, of which Carol spends $47 weekly on gaudy costume jewelry.
Got myself in quite a pickle here.
When you are far enough down the road of life, and you know you gotta make a change, when you cannot survive NOT making a change - when it is a choice between breathing and suffocating, you cannot afford the luxury of one step at a time. Putting one foot in front of the other just ain't gonna cut it. It's too late, baby.
Everything you do has to be a 100 yard dash. Every change, every improvement, every adjustment - 100 yard dash. 10 seconds vs six months.
Of course, physically, that is demanding. Shit, my back hurts crawling out of the recliner. But you gotta swallow the pain. The pain of change, of changing direction, the pain of embarrassment resulting from a lifetime of procrastination tip toeing you right to the edge of your grave.
"Pain is weakness leaving the body." A stupid cliche, but I kind of like it. If you are old enough, weakness is a mountain and pain is relentless.
But, what the fuck - you gotta try.
Not one person cared about what he said. Not one. Ever.
It was subtle, not overtly rude, but impossible to miss. People interrupted him without hesitation, talked right over him, ignoring him when he talked over them until he just stopped talking.
It was a matter of respect. A matter of disrespect, actually. He had no gravitas, was not taken seriously as a person, someone who had something worthwhile to say. Apparently he had not earned the right.
He wasn't sure how this happened or why it happened, but it definitely happened. And it hurt.
He was lying in bed, procrastinating about getting up to begin the process of getting ready for work. It was a complicated process because it was as much psychological as it was physical. Beyond going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, grabbing a bowl of Wheaties and getting dressed, he had to psyche himself up to do battle with every person he was forced to deal with throughout the day.
Jesus Christ, communication was so fucking hard. Because he lacked the confidence, because people don't listen, because people are selfish, because people have agendas that don't include his personal welfare. And when you work with others you are forced to communicate. You gotta give them information, they gotta give you information, you gotta ask questions, they gotta ask questions.
His ex-wife used to joke that the perfect job for him was one where he sat in a corner by himself, a job that requires no human contact whatsoever. It wasn't really a joke.
Still, lately, this awareness of nothingness in his human interactions, the feeling that he was not recognized, appreciated or respected, had taken on a crushing weight. He felt himself slipping away.
It was an odd feeling. There was no vibrancy to his life. No excitement, nothing to look forward to. The numbness he felt was simultaneously depressing and relieving. Depressing because, what was the point of being alive? Relieving because when you are completely numb, everything bounces off you. You just don't fucking care.
Every day he felt more and more invisible. Not here, not there, just existing in a weird imitation of life devoid of feelings. Just breathing. For no apparent reason.
He thought he was dying but he knew he wasn't sick. Still, he put a little more distance between reality and whatever it was he was living, every day. Every day ended with less of him and more of a void.
He decided to get out of bed to prepare to do battle. But something was different. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but something had tragically, drastically changed. Laughing to himself, he thought about those movies where people were not aware they had died. Was he dead? He didn't think so.
As he moved around the house it was strangely obvious that his cat was ignoring him. This really hurt because he loved her so much and she was ordinarily deeply affectionate with him. Instead she slept soundly on the footstool.
He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face, walked into the kitchen and realized he wasn't hungry. He loved breakfast, sometimes treating himself to omelettes that he was so good at cooking. But even Wheaties were a treat for him, especially when they got soggy. Today he felt nothing. In fact, the thought of eating repulsed him. Suddenly, it hit him.
He was gone. Not dead, just gone. He had retreated from life little by little over so many decades that he didn't notice the distance he was putting between life and him. Until right now.
He was not dead. He was just gone. He had faded away.
Nobody noticed.
