3 Years To Realize, Reconcile, Release

June 5, 2015

 

 

He got Hillsboroed. Straight up Century Highed. However they address their problems in the west suburbs is how he got his penance.

What part of this woman thinks that upending his life is ok? What possible retribution does she get with him suffering this way? How does one reason with her actions to justify making his life a dumb cliché as she pursues this mad union with one of his best friends? Now a towering and painful awkwardness that permeates both his social and professional life. Purely wondering.

If she had immediately jumped into a relationship with some random guy it would have definitely been hard for him to handle. But it would have been palatable. If she had immediately jumped into a relationship with a guy he knew, that also would have hurt but he would have dealt with it. If she had immediately jumped into a relationship with his friend, yes, that would have sucked. His closest friend, however, is a step over the line. His closest friend whom he hung with daily side by side. They had pulled one of the most awful maneuvers people do to each other. The oldest trick in the damn book.

Not only could he hardly swallow the fact that she was already in a relationship 10 minutes before theirs “ended”, he now has lost the friend he would be leaning on during a time like this. Whatever those two have right now is born from his misery so it’s assured that it likely won’t be a smooth ride. There is only one person in this world she could’ve bedded that would have been worse than his best friend: His father.

His personality is gone. He is now short-sighted and straight jawed, sad and silent. His boisterous character is all he has and all he’s ever had. Almost seems like she sought to exact some twisted vengeance by hurting him in the most basic of ways and it’s turned him into a sullen, downward man, a tearful, angry, lost man. He is now a man who has to look at the guy who was one of his best friends and confidant who now is bedding the woman he had loved so much. Loved enough to know that things were hard, too hard to continue. Loved enough to evidently know that she would eventually become the beautiful bomb that comes screaming from the sky dressed in wicked devastation.

The powers that be asked him what was wrong with his demeanor of late. He didn’t know what to say. They asked him why he wasn’t his normal exuberant self, if there was something wrong, was he feeling ok? He didn’t know what to say. They asked him if he wanted to hurt someone, or hurt himself. He still had nothing to say. They asked him if he needed to talk to someone. He just didn’t have any words. He was just quiet and seething.

If he ran into her on the street he would have no clue as to how to act. Never in his life has he been a sullen and downtrodden man, never had he not known what to say, or at least known what to do. His character has been decimated, his identity has been stolen, it’s the deepest of attacks, the core of who he is now questioning itself and it’s apparent to the outside world. Everyone who thinks they know him now sees him weak and suffering. Anyone who actually knows him knows this is his wide awake nightmare: Not being able to hide who he really is in front of people, not being able to perform the act that lets him slip by the crowd so he can be comfortably alone with his thoughts. Now his personal life is becoming fuel and fodder for the cruel and hungry gossip monsters.

They took that. Those two took those things away from him. It’s a betrayal beyond words.

While he’s being assimilated.

The ridiculous suspenders. The dry cleaning. The same job. The girlfriend WIFE. It was all him a year ago! So weird. Like a terrible sci-fi story, soon they’ll be going by his middle name and learning how to drive without running into things.

It’s like hating the homeless person that goes through your recycling and finds a half full bottle of whiskey that you put out there because you knew you shouldn’t be drinking. But you really love that particular whiskey so not only does he swipe it, he follows you every day at and drinks it in front of you.

Glug glug.

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Letting Go, Hanging On, As Long As You’re In The Game

So many talks with the dead, even see their faces in cars, walking on sidewalks, sometimes blatantly in the person in front of me. 

Too many memorials, wakes, midnight phone calls, strangers by one degree telling me in the street some dark news about someone I love, hardening these veins like concrete in my hands. 

Every day, Every year, these bones become more and more invincible.

Juan Go Out With Me?

Desperate for a date for a funeral. That specific moment where you’re strikingly alone in a room full of humans, it’s like a frightening dagger through the roof of your hand. Standing, seeming foolish yet no one even realizes you’re there in the rain. Hate coming to burials alone, heavy-footed with dark, downward eyes, mouth wishing to be wordless for the rest of the day. Small talk with distant acquaintances torture my soul unless I’ve someone by my side. Whaddya say?

(666) ALL-GONE

there are no marathon nights to fill the divde that lies between us like a moat.

there are barely enough sips of whiskey to keep us from going down each other’s throat

regardless of what was spoke.

there are only a few minutes left to fight a savage tiger or a darkly driven goat.

there are beasts foraging on the corner for blankets, steaks, salads and coke

it’s a zoo and we’re all so broke…

The Bianchi and The Giant

Riley was 22 when he first met Greg. Introduced by a wild blonde named Emma who had great legs and who was an equally great kisser. Greg was older, wiry and lean, dark featured with a sharp beak and narrow teeth covered by a thick mustache. He was a wily street creature, rising from some small town muck with a conniving smile and selfish intent. He was Riley’s first foray into Scotch whisky, homemade videos and crystal methamphetamine, all while inside an apartment on SE 162nd and Stark. Emma, who also frequented the sparse, dark cheaply built flat, had also recently felt the subtle grip of street living and hard drugs on the throat of her youth. They both explored, suffered, learned and though only one of them eventually got out, they both never forgot the sibling-like romance they shared with each other.

The Bianchi was a late ’80’s road bike, simple yet state-of-the-art, and newly painted flat black with a rattle can by Greg behind the apartment complex. The fresh paint was like an alarm, or more accurately, like a disguise. Riley had stayed the night the evening before and had a hundred-dollar bill stolen out of his shoe while he slept (never made that silly mistake of hiding cash in a damn shoe again). He was sure it was Greg but had no evidence and all he heard were the pleas of innocence from the half dozen dope heads and dirty squatters around him. There was an older lady who actually lived there, a fat, spandex wrapped meth queen, middle-aged, strangely sexy like Roseanne Barr but saggy jowled like Jabba the Hut, hauntingly attractive to a boy with no mother but on the surface she was shockingly vile. She may have been not only the culprit but likely one who orchestrated the late night larceny alongside Greg. Riley was quite upset when he woke and found his shoes empty but was too soft of a young man to really do anything about it. Later that afternoon Greg then showed Riley the bicycle hoping to ease the tension.
“Go ahead, take it. It’s yours,” he said slyly.
“Take it? Like, it’s mine? Really?” Riley truly was just a boy, attention spanned stretched thin, barely enough to soak in owning a new bicycle. He was however, experienced enough to know why it smelled like fresh black Krylon spray paint but was awed at how it looked totally bad ass. Flat black on black on black. Riley had that bike for the summer and put hundreds of miles on it. He eventually then broke the rear part of the frame by drunkenly smashing it into a curb one hot September night. Lost a tooth and an important chunk of metal that held the wheel hub in place. Luckily, he had a friend who was handy with a welder, so he still has the bike to this day, stronger than ever, healed with hell of a bead.

Riley also loved mountain bike riding during this time. He loved Powell Butte with its quick, winding single tracks and close proximity to his East side neighborhood. The days he bombed down the hills nestled in the big, grassy watershed, he escaped the relentless loneliness of school and the brutal detachment of his immediate family. Grinding up the hill, breathless, driven and exhausted towards the peak to then be able to rocket down the other side, barely staying on the trail, the front suspension bouncng as he held on for dear life, wide-eyed and loving it. One of the dirtball kids in the neighborhood who rode the butte sold him a silver Giant mountain bike with front end hydraulic forks for $100. It was worth 5 times that and Riley rode that bike as much as the Bianchi but the Giant was cursed. Plagued with the air of being stolen and Riley knew it. It hung over him for the two years he owned it. Riley then outgrew it and while working as a waiter the first big purchase he ever made (paid for with a stack of 5’s, 10’s and 20’s) was a Kona mountain bike. With rad high-end suspension and disc brakes, it rode like how a girl felt and was as fast as any wild animal Riley could ever imagine.

A few months later, Riley rode to the little corner store and slipped in for a six-pack of Fat Tire beer. A straight walk directly to the cooler along the back wall and then back up to the check stand. Not even 60 seconds. Not even 60 seconds for him to come out to no bicycle. Gone. Had he thought he would have been in the store for more than 2 minutes he would have locked it. Holding a six-pack in the doorway of a tiny quiet store, just him and the guy behind the counter and no bicycle. A bunch of beer with a picture of a bicycle on it but no bicycle. He sat down on the curb, opened a beer, and learned to let go of it all.

Weapon Of Choice: Purchasing Power

there is rain on the window sill, a little puddle forming on the inside. the grey has been a weighty slab of flesh dampening the color of these trees and hills, a seemingly unending year of a thick, bland sky. the reluctance to reach out, text or call is indicative of my apathy and it’s only a moment more that will determine whether i leave this house or crawl into bed.

opt to leave, little man.

and bring your checkbook.