Cold Night

Recovered: Date Unknown
[Relax. I have since been visited by a team of psychologists. I have papers. Seriously.]


I remember one night that was cold, very cold…but aggravated by the fact that I was lying prone in the bed of a compact pickup truck that was speeding through the foothills of the Appalachians in Northern Georgia under a full moon and misty skies, stars peeking between sheets of gossamer while the driver, passenger, and occasionally myself screamed and cackled aloud as we drove towards our target, and nowhere in particular. My face was numbed and my cheeks were blazing red, my body’s desperate attempt to get blood close to the surface where it may be warmed, though a rat had a better chance of living a fruitful life in a tampon factory than I did of obtaining warmth from such a harsh night with winds traveling roughly 50 miles per hour…not by coincidence the average speed of the Toyota Tacoma I rode in the back of, over hills that would make a roller coaster fanatic puke from not the G’s, but the likelihood of death if not saved from physics by capture and prosecution as I was tossed from side to side by turns hideous enough to distract one from not How we didn’t wreck, but Why. It seemed I was accompanying something to be dumped somewhere awkward, but it may have just been the only seat left on a ride to shoot at something that offended no one but ourselves…but I do not remember. Like a Harley, it was not the Destination that counted…but the Ride There. I was Happy, as I only am during a high-speed chase with White Zombie blazing in stereo, or a good piano concerto while sitting and enjoying a Good Cigar in Near Darkness.

Rides like that were not uncommon then. I was so desperate to get in trouble that the skies had no limit, gossamer clouded, clear, or shit-pounding rain, but none of it was my fault because I Didn’t Care, and It Wasn’t My Intention. While the latter made it amusing, it was the former that made those days so goddamn dangerous.

I think of these days and speak of them because only recently, have I thought of them with any longing. And that, quite naturally, Alarms my New Rational Mind. Why do I look back with a smile now, instead of the more appropriate shudder that I had so wisely adopted? What is Bothering me again in a similar, but more Rational way? So many thoughts, so many names.

I am completely content at Home. Business? Is that it? The Job? Dissatisfaction again? The Union? Was I not doing enough? The Return of the Prodigal Sister, and the Special Needs God Son/Nephew? My Moral War with the Son of a Bitch of the Earth, Bob Corker and his impending senatorial race that I felt some personal connection with, however repugnant it may be? The constant Battle of the Deadbeat Dad within me as I try to raise a son so many hours from my home? I do not know.

I only know that there is, after a three year reign of Peace…Tension again. “Something horrible is happening inside me…and I don't know why.” I say this because I worry that once again…my mask of Sanity is about to slip.

____________


It’s cold in the Mornings. That’s what reminded me of the trip in the bed of the Tacoma. I also miss my friend that was Driving. We shared the Same Brain he and I, and the connection is somewhat strained by distance and life. It is my fault, but it’s like the first and worst suicide I ever worked; what killed that man was worse than Love Gone Bad, Liver Disease, Cancer, or Car Wrecks: it was Loneliness, pure and simple. Now. we’re still friends, the Driver and I, make no mistake…we’re just far apart. My aforementioned Suicide Victim was a chemical engineer…he called 911, told the clerk that he was planning to kill himself, and that he wanted ‘us’ to know so that he wouldn’t foul the apartment and therefore offend his distant family. He then laid the phone down, and as the clerk repeated the word ‘Sir?’ over and over again, he heard a single shot. And then sent Me.

When I got there, I saw two horrible things. The first was a man in his mid-50’s with a scorched gunshot wound to his forehead; the other was an apartment that hadn’t seen the touch of a woman in twenty years, if ever.

First, of course, there was no TV in the living room. Only stacks of yellowed books and magazines, all technical in nature. From the living room that contained My Man in his easy chair, forever relaxing, I could see the dining room table. It was covered in canned goods, the type no woman would ever look at, much less purchase, much less consume. Then, there was dust. Everywhere. Books, furniture, floors…a consummate Bachelor’s Pad.

I did two things after determining his lifelessness: I found a note near an open strong-box which told investigators/me the whereabouts of his next of kin and financial status, and then I took my ball-point pen and removed his right index finger from the trigger of the semi-automatic pistol he had used to end his life before rigor caused a second and even more inexplicable gunshot wound to his already ruined head.

What bothered me was not the gore…but the Environment. The man was a retired chemical engineer and he died of not natural causes…but Loneliness. Pure and Simple. Since that day, I have seen over one hundred forms of death (count some time; I challenge you to think of twenty)…but his still plagues me the most. He was in good health, financially well off, and simply tired of being Alive.

______________


Is this what it is to grow old? There are two new additions to my Human Condition as of late: Two Grey Hairs grow from my right sideburn. It is common to most, but not My Clan. My father approaches 70 years of age, and has but a smattering of grey in the same area amidst a full head of jet black hair. It is Not Our Way to Age. My family dies in spectacular fits of fire; one in a house, one consumed by the wreckage of a fat-rendering truck and a fire that filled his car and the four corners beyond that left only two foot-filled shoes to show he was ever there... Yet here we are.


I ride in a car alone, take reports alone, deal with Significant Problems and Simple Ones alike as such, and arrive home to the same feeling…and with No Reason.


I think to times in the back of that pickup truck, squealing and not caring and full of relief for such, only feeling solace when I am on the edge and over, and then I think of my Chemical Engineer, and where I am now. And again, I know…that something Horrible is happening inside me…and I don't know why.

It’s not a matter of meeting for a few drinks and ‘talking about it’. It’s not a matter of anything but my taking a figurative knife between my teeth, and crawling around in some unpleasant, pulpy darkness, and stalking what it is that is causing this again, and upon such, having the Steel to take said knife and stab and slash and CUT the culprit to ribbons again no matter the slickness of the blood and the screams of the target until they are Quiet again, and I can REST for God’s sake.

Because else not…and worse, else regardless…this might be what the Rest of my Life is Like. And being halfway there, this is now Plausible. And being plausible…it is Not Acceptable. So I must Fight. And thus renew the cycle. Horrible, eh? But that is how it is to feel like a Slave, I suspect. The future is sealed off, leaving you to grovel, to wait…unless you are willing to wallow in the filth and the sinew and the stink where you are willing to wrestle it to the floor and choke it out as its own hands grasp your neck and seed it with piercing nails and try to fill your lungs with rotting muck and despair and sadness…that is what it is to be a Slave. To anything, really.

Perhaps I’ll try to rest again.


It is, after all, cool again outside.