Tuesday, March 9, 2004

The Great Gig in the Sky

Just the beginning of the piece. . .

I'll tell you right now. I'm writing pretty closely to my actual self in this piece. I have plans for it. I think I could easily make this a novel if I just kept going on and on and adding things about me in there often.

Read this like reading into my life. It's mundane, it's not, it's whatever it is.

A lot of the things described are things I am describing that are true to their description. Especially my car in this sense.

Anyway. Here's a sneak peek. It's far from done. I feel I could write more right now. But I need to sleep soon, sadly. Damn school. Damne everything. I just want to write. What can you do.

---

"Whatever."

The alarm. Beep beep beep. It's talking. Eyes open. My tired eyes. It's Monday morning, 7:00, and I don't want to get up out of bed. Why can't I just lie here? Why can't I just be.

I shove off my covers, a man abandoning his cover, going to where he has to go. The alarm's so loud. I wish it wouldn't wake me up?wish it wouldn't tell me the day, full-fledged, has begun. I wish it wouldn't tell me anything. I wish it didn't exist.

My hands on the side. Turning off the alarm. It stops its beeping. I stand there, wearing only boxers, and stretch. These arms can't reach the sky. You stretch them to their full length, they don't even reach the ceiling.

My schoolbooks lay scattered. From the party last night. It was a fun party. Let me tell you. It was a real bash. Three hours of homework done during it. Any man would be proud. Sure would.

I scavenge around and pick it all up, putting each book in my backpack. There's Geometry. There's Chemistry. There's English. There's US History. In the bag it all goes. I put them in there without any thought. I don't put them in a certain way. Don't even look at which book I grab. I just put it all in there, get it on its way.

My jeans lie on the floor, prostrate. I pick those up, hold them in my hand. I find a shirt from my clothes rack. I put that in my hand. Walk upstairs.

In the bathroom. Turn on the light, start the shower. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. I put it on the side of the shower. I put my hand in the shower water.

Hot. Burning. Scathing.

I turn the round knob. Feel in again. There, that's good. It's hot, but not too hot. Good enough.

I take off my boxers. I look at myself in the mirror. Do I even look good? Is that even me? A strange face stares back at me. Same face I've always seen. Same old.

Body's same. Skinny, lanky, but with no muscles. With no strength. I turn around and look at my buttocks. Looks decent. I look at my chest. Looks fine.

Into the shower. The water torrents on me. Feels like rain. I don't care. There's little time to enjoy it. I grab the shampoo and put it on my palm. Lather it in my hair. Wash it away. Down the drain it goes. Into its mouth. Sucked down, washed down, flushed away.

I smell the scent of berries. A dull scent emanating from my hair.

I grab the bar of soap. White, and flaky. I let it flow in the water, getting it wet, easy to work with. I put it over my legs, my feet, my genitals, my face. Wash it all off. Watch it go down the drain, into its mouth. Good-bye. See you soon. Go where you're going. Have fun.

I do my back, my buttocks, the back of my arms. I lather it on. Wash it away. Down again.

My toothpaste still lies on the side. I grab it and put some toothpaste on it. A small-sized serving of it. The toothbrush in my mouth. The bristles on my teeth, my gums. The mint flavor. I spit out the toothpaste accumulating in my mouth Watch it go down the drain. The water torrents on. Like rain. There's little time to enjoy it. Have to get going.

Done brushing my teeth, I turn off the water. The round knob goes down. Water stops coming. No more torrents of water. No more.

I dry off with the towel, dripping wet. Feel the water leave me. I go all around my body. Then my hair. Then I hang back up the towel. I put on my boxers, looking in the mirror. Put on my shirt, then my jeans.

Go downstairs. To my room. Get out socks, white ones. Put them on. Then my black shoes. Put those on.

Upstairs. The kitchen.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

He sits in the chair. Eats his cereal. Reads the paper. Same as always. Same.

I open the cabinet. I grab the cereal. Frosted Mini-Wheats. Cheap kind. Not the well-known brand

Shut the cabinet. Go to a different one. Open it. Grab a white bowl, made of glass. Shut that cabinet. Go to the fridge. Milk's on the side arm. Grab it.

The cereal pours out into the bowl. Clinks on the glass in sound and movement. He cranes his neck over at me.

"You still can't pour the cereal right." I keep pouring.

"You don't hold it that close. The way you do it you get it all over." I finish.

"Pick up the ones that fell on the floor and on the counter." I do so.

The milk goes in the bowl, white. I go to the drawer. Open it. Take out a large spoon. In it I can see my face reflected. A tired, uninterested face. The metal spoon is cold in my hand.

I sit down on the table, left side of him. My spoon swirls around in the bowl. The milk reflects light and shimmers. The square pieces of mini-wheats move with the force of my spoon.

He gets up. Puts his cereal in the sink. I grab the newspaper. Stare at the front page. I don't care what it says. Same garbage. Same. Always the same. Nothing new.

Nothing ever new.

The cereal goes mechanically in my mouth. I'm a big monster made of steel, craning over, creaking in use. Crunch crunch. Chew chew. In my mouth, down my esophagus. Into my stomach. Mechanical. I'm a mechanical animal doing what I do.

I finish the cereal. The last mini-wheat is hiding, but I find it. I put it in my mouth. Chew chew. The rough wheat wanders in my mouth. Then I swallow.

I'm done eating. My dad's just out the door, I can hear it shutting. No goodbyes. Just the afterimage of him leaving, going. I can hear his car groaning to a start. Can hear the engine flare. I can see him backing out, the garage closing, whirring. That's what I hear. The garage.

He's gone. Prompt at 7:30, per usual. What's new.

I get up, put my bowl in the sink. I gaze out the window by the sink. It's into our backyard. I can see the accumulation of snow. The white is blinding to my tired eyes. I don't care about the snow. All it does is get in the way. Just sit there on the ground. Without purpose.

The sink water runs cold on my hand. I feel it and move my hand away. The cold is biting and numb. I wash out my bowl. What's left of the cereal goes down the drain, down the hole. Goes to where the pipes lead.

I look at the digital read on our oven. 7:45. It's time to go. School starts in a while. Might as well get there earlier, so I can go on the library's computers.

Over to the clothes hanger. I grab my leather coat, and my backpack. The backpack's heavy but I don't care. All my books are in it. I haven't used my locker all year.

They say the heaviness messes with the back. At least it gives my muscles a workout. I never exercise them. It makes up for it.

I check the pockets of my leather coat. I shake the pockets. I hear the jingle-jingle of keys. Good. I have the keys to my car. Now my jean pocket. Do I have a pencil? Yes. I'm set to go.

Outside.

Outside the wind is a bitch. A cold, self-centered, heartless wailing wall. I can feel it pushing against me with its wall. Its invisible wall. If only I could grab it by its throat. Choke the breath from its pallid lips. But I can't. Wind's the same. Can't touch something that's not alive, and doesn't do anything but what it does. You can't do more than what reality gives you. The same is the same, the different is the different, but still the same. And the amazing is the amazing, but still the same. The same. That's all it comes down to. Same.

I approach my car. It's parked on the side of the driveway, away from the garage. In a nook of its own where it fits. My eyes don't give it a time of day. It's dirty, grime covers its mustard-colored outside. It doesn't matter. I don't care. It's only a car.

Some value cars. Even more than people. Even more than breathing, living humans. Others purchase extravagant cars, ones that cost them money each month in order to pay for it. Pay for it with their lack of funds.

There is no point to it. Why own something more than you need to own? Why waste money when you could save it, since you don't need the car? Why even worry about having a nice car? Why not buy a junk heap one, use that, make sure it gets maintenance now and then. Save money. Buy something worth the while.

It's only car.

That's what it comes down to.

My windows are layered with frost. I hate frost on windows. Hate having to chip away at it. What a waste of time. I hate cars. Useless.

I unlock the car. Open the door. A creak as it opens. Inside my wheel protrudes out. The seats are a dull color. Pop cans cesspool all around. Diet Coke. 7-Up. Mountain Dew. Coca-Cola. A water bottle, drips of water on its sides. Dr. Pepper. It's all on the floor. Sits there in my car. I don't care to pick them up. I see no reason to. It's just a car.

On the dash there's a sticker of a dragon. It came from a 50 cent sticker machine. Been there ever since. It sparkles in the light, dazzles of colors.

There's a crucifix on the rearview mirror. My mom put it there. Been there ever since. I don't care to take it down. I don't believe in Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior. I believe he was a good man, and I believe many things he says. But I do not believe in him and what he said of God. What I believe in is dignity. I believe in that. That's where Jesus and I agree on a general level.

On the back window of my car there's a torn and weathered sticker. I put it there long ago. When I was just in Journalism 1 last year. I was a 10th grader then. It seems ages ago. The sticker says JOURNALISM, KANSAS on it. It promotes some school in Kansas that is considered one of the most prestigious colleges for Journalism out there. I could care less. I do not enjoy Journalism.

I enjoy writing columns. That is all.

In my car, I take my keys from the door. I put them in the ignition. Slamming the door closed, I place my foot on the pedal. Push it down with force. Then I ignite the engine, hear it struggle to work. It's cold. It's having trouble starting. Stupid thing. Just start. I don't have time to do this. It's cold and I want to be at school so it can be over with.

My foot goes harder on the gas pedal. There's a struggle. Loud noises. The car fights to start. And I'm the one making it.

Finally. It starts to run. Then stalls. Stops. The engine dies again. I start over, push hard on the gas as I can. There it goes again. Good. Now stay started stupid thing. It stalls again. I ignite again. It starts this time. And stays.

That took long enough.

Still have to chip off the frost. I take my scraper. Go out. I hate the noise the scraper makes. It's like nine inch nails on chalkboard. What a scathing noise. The entire prospect of scarping is a monotonous one. A hasty process that needs to be over as soon as it is started. Or else it runs on too long.
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