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the deep end
October 18, 2005
three across, and two down.
he started upper right, chosen, actually, in the car, as soon as he left the gas station. he had looked through the glass into the humming refrigerated cases at the better quality stuff, but the concept of deciding on taste and appreciating nuance was, at the time, lost to him. accordingly, he chose lone star.
so, the orientation of the six-pack was more of a matter of how he placed it before him, in front of the chaise lounge on which he sat, beside the pool. the gas station attendant had stuffed the fried pecan pie into the six pack, next to the handle, an amazingly perfect fit. he pulled it open and carefully metered the pecan pie to the beer intake.
outside the pool area, his car sat and cooled. he had punched the glass doors of the gym when he left, the door slamming back against the windows. there was no crash. he screamed "fuck" repeatedly, but he couldn't seem to yell it enough to push everything he felt out of him, or even to rip his throat out completely.
inside, during the end of the game, he had sat on the bench, watching helplessly, which seemed so familiar. a game. a basketball game. people wouldn't understand. he slammed his elbow two, three, four times into the cinder block wall behind him, a little physical and violent mantra of pain, hoping to hear and feel a break, the bone, and maybe something going with it, maybe the anger and pain and memory giving way, too.
he pulled the beer on the left, dropped the cap in the hole, had another bite of the fried pie, drank deeply.
he saw the little dark blue minitruck come through the apartment complex's gates, saw it back carefully into one of the visitor spots, cheerfully marked "future resident parking." she sat in the cab and he saw her look at him. he looked back down at the four caps staring up at him.
he had chatted with her before. she was old enough to be the mother, and then some, of the spoiled and ill-behaved frat boys and paris-hilton wannabes that careened through the parking garage in their range rovers and bmw's at 3:00am, stereos bumping the latest tunes that were being fed to them. he felt for her.
when he had gotten to his car on leaving the gym, the yelling hadn't helped. on the bench, he had known something had to give. he wanted to leave, but had just enough reserve to not want to leave his friends and teammates behind. his mind sought frantically for some canvas on which to expel the things he felt, to paint the ugliness. he saw his car in his head as the answer, and to that extent, it was premeditated, although this time, he couldn't seem to stop it.
he had not wanted to play in the game, really. he had felt the anger increasing unchecked in him lately. the imagination was working overtime again, and ugly, violent scenarios grew from the smallest perceived slights on the highway, in the grocery store, in the basketball game.
but he played, and he played inside, under the basket, guarding the big man he had known for seasons on end, a nice guy, really. but the other team was desperate to get the win against the once-superior team.
soon, the old feelings came back. he was being pushed, shoved, and he couldn't control things. suddenly, as before, he was back in seventh grade, the locker room, the two-high, grated-front lockers, painted red, all around the room, lined with people, some standing on benches, his supposed teammates, cheering, laughing, as shannon pollock pummelled him in a corner, and all he did was shrink back and take the blows.
there had been no reason. it was just a chance for shannon pollock to be shannon pollock, and for a mob to be a mob.
later, he'd find his glasses and coat in the urinal.
when the rage came to him, his sight was always overlaid with the visual memory of that day in the locker room. it was just one day of many, but that became the image that summed it all up, that contained and conjured fear and shame. it was the iconic moment for torment, and for his own cowardice, and for his own failure to be the hero he always wanted to be, and for his failure to be liked. just to be liked.
so, tonight, in the game, he raged. he pushed back, played dirty, fought, just finally, for once, he fucking fought. it still wasn't courage, but just desperation, and the curious will that accompanies finally not caring what happened to him. he just had to not be pushed around.
and when all that failed, he was walking alone into the gas station, looking down in the flourescent glare into the dented and beaten corner of the hood of his car, smeared clean of the dust that covered the rest of it, but the surface reflecting a twisted and damaged world, and a shamed self, back up at him.
he had kept himself in the game when he knew he had nothing to contribute but his own hubris, and his team probably lost because of it. he was selfish, wanting only to slay dragons of continuing failure, that had grown more fearsome and dark and powerful over the course of a lifetime.
a job growing more pointless by the day. his own ineptness making money a constant embarassing issue. dating just a string of comedy and tragedy and stupidity.
later, his roommate would find him in the dark, banging away at the notebook computer, typing the story, typing this. she asked him, "what's wrong," and he told her. she asked him, "what is the good?" he told her the good was beer, and chili cheese fritos, and fried pies, all the tools of distraction and denial, all little different from anything else in life.
earlier, at the pool, he placed number two back in its slot, pulled out the one in the center, as the security guard finally got out of her truck and walked up a few feet away. the water, lit from below was so blue, and so smooth, the only motion just the perfectly smooth curves on the impossibly, beautifully perfect surface.
"sir, the pool is closed, and you can't have glass out here."
he sighed. 45 minutes earlier, he had screamed, and then beaten in one corner of the hood of his car with his fist. 30 minutes earlier, at the gas station, he wanted someone to say hello, so he could tell them to go fuck themselves. and 15 minutes ago, he wanted a frat to come by so he could start a fight, and either get pummelled, or beat the guy to death. either would have been fine.
now, though, beer and time had begun to take the edge off. he didn't look at her. he picked up his beer and took another slug.
"ma'am, no offense, but i'm a 36 year-old attorney. every night, i listen to these spoiled, arrogant rich kids screech through the garage, then scream and plod past my window, which faces the parking garage and, even with the blinds closed, glows all night like it's an hour after sunrise. right now, there's nowhere else for me to be, and nothing else for me to do, than to sit right here and quietly drink these beers.
"there is nothing else."
silence. he heard one soft-soled, security guard black shoe shift slightly, and he heard her say quietly, maternally, "you have a good night."
Posted by Rob at October 18, 2005 10:41 PM