Suburban Loser - Chapter 5 - Morning Descent into Reality

Fuck.

I force myself to fall back asleep, but my body won't comply, fitfully tossing, searching for a way to rest comfortably. I stretch out, the bed is finally my own, the woman and dog long gone, yet I still can't get back to the dream.

I don't remember what it was, but it was definitely better than this, somewhere better than here, even if it was an illusion concocted by my subconscious. Probably some everyday circumstance, too lowkey to recall, to differentiate from the mundane, but with just enough fantasy to make it significantly more tolerable than reality.

Fuck it.

I tossed aside the covers and swung my legs off the side of the bed. I rubbed the back of my head, running my fingers through my hair smoothing out my pillow mowhawk bedhead. I kept my eyes closed, basking in the final moments of unconsciousness, before slowly raising them up. I came face to face with the lying alarm clock.

It read 1:37 PM, but I knew that I set it forty something minutes ahead so I'd wake up for work during the week. So, just about 1 PM on a Saturday, kind of a record for me. Ugh. I guess I can get a headstart on the day and maybe try and get something done. I need to get started on this screenplay. Today's the day.

I shuffle off to the bathroom, and I don't want to brush my teeth, but I must. My mouth is like dusty sludge. I brush aggressively and feel a tinge of pain on my back teeth on the right side. I shove my forefinger back there and push around a bit. Feels sort of loose. I can't afford the dentist, even with my benefits from work. Useless health insurance.

Yanking open the fridge, I grab the OJ to find it just about done. I down what's left, barely a swig, and put the empty container back in. Let her deal with it. The dirty dishes are still there glaring at me, and for a moment I think about doing them. But I have a whole day of nothing ahead of me, so later it is.

I drop into my papasan in the living room. I look around for the remotes, and can't seem to find them. Why can't these goddamn things stay in the same place? I heft my body up and flip over the pillows on the couch, check on either side of it, before finally finding them over by the table next to the television. Why put the remotes right next to the damn thing? They're remotes for a reason.

Remotes in hand, one for the tv, one for the surround sound, one for the new DVD player I got, I redrop into my seat. Balls. I forgot to put the DVD in. Dammit. I go to my pile of Hong Kong discs I ordered online, select the appropriate one, a low budget sci-fi, kung fu fantasy epic, and pop open the tray. Carefully, I slip it into place, and push it closed. I know you're supposed to press the button to close it, but I never do.

Again I fall back into my chair, only to realize I forgot the most important aspect of this, my holiest of rituals. Another heave gets me back up, I go to the drawer of my computer desk, grab my bowl and the bag of weed. I pull out a hunk and stuff it in. Grab the lighter and take a huge hit of marijuana.

Plop into my coccoon of safety, the giant catcher's mitt chair of mine, positioned directly before the 32 inch screen, the speaker volume set at optimal awesomeness, I pressed play and the movie began. Anti-piracy laws in Chinese flicker on the screen before I get to a section with three options. From experience I know these to be PLAY MOVIE, AUDIO SETUP, and either BONUS FEATURES or some sort of randomness.

I started the movie and my mind began to drift immediately. I thought of several great ideas for stories, movies I should write, and the credits had just begun to roll. I kept myself thinking of guns, and fists, mid-air flips as weapons are fired and cars smash into buildings. Hone in on the action.

But it drifted back to her. She who lay in my bed, held me tight on the deck, smiled at me at a show last night. All three female auras aligned and suddenly every girl was one girl.

Beside me, asleep, she dreamed of dogs wagging tails and silly whale songs, simplicity at is finest. Hoping ghosts lingered about her, scared at the unseen horror, sexually charged by the vulnerability, her mind filled with imagined cardboard and crayon creations. A ducky, dancing in his pants, with a hat on.

Idiot. Goddamned simpleton. She was the dumbest creature he could imagine. Completely incapable of higher thought. No plumbing the depths here, good sir, there is only vacant acres of puddles. A rippling mirage of yourself, that's all you'll find here.

In slow motion, Chow Yun Fat leaps over a skidding motorcycle, cocks his shotgun as he flies through the air, then fires blowing away a nameless thug dressed in black leather. The gas tank explodes, a grenade is thrown, a car explodes, close up gunshot, a man's chest explodes.

What was I saying?

Oh right, her. She never saw a kung fu flick before. She watched black and white movies, classic Hollywood stuff, romances and gangster films, fedoras and runningboards, dames in pencil skirts. First movie we saw together, her pick, Citizen Kane. Pinnacle of Western Civilization Cinema, or perhaps the world.

Second date was my choice. We plopped down on that couch in my apartment over in Park Slope, bottle of wine and blanket, and I flipped on Fight Club. It's as good a place as any to start a girl on the enjoyment of men hitting men. Fine acting, hard abs, and it also warns them of my schizophrenic, Christ Complex obsession.

Three years later, we just got to watching 36th Chamber of Shaolin; total masculine enlightenment. She played me Breakfast at Tiffany's, admitting it was her guiltiest pleasure, saving it for when she could trust me not to betray her artsnob candy coating. I agreed, and I asked her to marry me; she said yes.

Whoa. Wait, shit, am I still sleeping? I may've dozed off as when I look up I see credits rolling. I missed the shootout at the hospital, when Chow Yun Fat leaps out the window with the baby in his arms as the entire wing explodes. I guess I've seen this movie enough times. I eject it, my legs feeling a bit wobbly, I stumble a wee bit.

I pop in the next movie without really looking and ease myself into the chair again. The old familiar green cushion holding me, comforting me, telling me its going to be alright. But it won't be. Not anytime soon. Things have been bad for ages, comfortable pains that it was easy to live with.

I'm only 25, I shouldn't hurt this bad after a show. Granted, I don't drink much anymore, but I think it was the dancing that did me in. Whipping my body about with reckless abandon, swinging my arms about, trying to keep to the rhythm; I open my eyes for a moment and she hits me.

Someone fell back against me with a bloody nose, the moshers all threw their arms wide, holding back the crowd, opening up the pit. A pint-sized, ponytailed terrorist, a wifebeater bearing boxer of a girl, thin jeans and with checkered vans on her tiny feet. Eyes closed, fists clenched, she thrashed about with pure abandonment.

I loved her instantly. I don't know what it was. Her joy? Utter lack of concern for others? A composite of all the female traits I loved, black hair, tattoos, and piercings. A baby face that's seen more than I will ever know. Her eyes popped open as I stood before her, dazed as I marveled at all that she was, all I imagined her to be.
She cocked back her arm and the smallest fist, on thin arms that smelled of cocoa butter, cracked across my jaw. My head shot to the side, rolling with the blow, which didn't seem to hurt as much as shock me. When I looked back, I returned to those eyes, that gaze that changed my life.

Fuck man, don't think about that shit. It'll just depress you. Regrets are regretful, it is true, but that's where it ends. You're living with too many alternate realities in your head. Every what if and what could be, you have to let them go. You're only capable of what you're capable of. And for some reason, this is it.

Through tears, I lifted my eyes towards the screen. I watched as a man took a drill and pressed it into his temple. Years of staring into the sun, following the spiral of fractals, the processing of formulas and calculations had driven him mad. The unknown factor drives men to madness.

Forget her.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 4 - Never Wake Up

We weave down a twisting road beset with autumn trees, scorched orange leaves dangling, brown crispy ones that have fallen lining the barely paved road. A quick turn down a dirt road leads us to a cabin at the top of a small hill, a wide open lake lies just beyond it.

Drifting through the walls we come across a group of people all talking, drinking, dancing as the record player spins on. I'm holding a wine glass and sporting a mild beard as I sit upon the battered couch. The fireplace is blazing and everyone is smiling, toasty warm in good company.

"So I started this new painting series, all from images that I gathered from my dreams.", she says as she leans in towards me, a smile wriggling across her face.

"Really? My dreams always seem to be just memories I haven't, or perhaps never will, experience." I take a sip of the white wine and cross my legs.

"That's interesting. You never lucid dream?" She furrows her brow as if to say she feels sorry for me.

"Never. I hardly even remember my dreams, let alone fly or truly embrace them." My eyes wander across the room.

Friends are laughing so hard they can barely maintain their balance. A guy dips his girl and they stumble back, nearly falling atop me. Someone I know very well is in the kitchen, preparing a meal for us all. We make eye contact and look away embarrassed, unable to control our grins. In my peripheral vision I take in her smile.

"I can't help but lucid dream.", she continues. "It's like being god within your own mind."

"Mine are more like skinny dipping in the collective unconscious." I down the rest of my wine, and excuse myself.

I stand, defying my wobbly legs, and take a few steps forward. I can see an old friend on the back deck strumming an acoustic guitar as his wife sits upon the railing, her head thrown back, soaking in the sun as the Fall wind tosses her hair about. They look at each other and she blows him a kiss. I envy their love.

An older man I don't know, who's had what was left of the brandy, rests his hand upon my shoulder as he passes me in the doorway to the kitchen. He tries to tell me something about destiny and my great fortune, but all I pick up is the booze on his breath. He smiles, knowing he's sloshed and incoherent, and neither one of us minds at all.

In the kitchen the girl with the smile is listening as an older woman passes on some worldly advice. She continues chopping up potatoes and the woman pauses only to sip her cocktail. I find the bottle of wine and refill my glass. I pop the cork back in and take a moment to reflect upon the cabinet of knick knacks, collectible spoons and porcelain statuettes of children and cherubs.

I slowly turn and lean back against the counter. I watch the knife in her hand as it chops and slices, the delicate flick of her wrist. I feel as if I had something to say to her, a nagging compulsion to continue a conversation I had with her once, a long time ago. I can't see her face from here, yet I recognize something about her.

"So, you really should come take my pottery class down at the college. It's not just for students looking for an easy A or flaky old folks." The older woman stubs out a cigarette and blows smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

"Maybe I will.", my girl replies. "I have always wanted to do something...organic like that. I love photography but all that lab work...it's just so sterile sometimes."

Her voice, like a stream churning rocks in its path, a car tire turning on loose gravel. The accent was from another world, her own universe, where every sentence sounded like jazz. It rang with hot tenacity and smoothed out with a country twang. Every word was for me, her vocal chords strumming my song.

"Okay", she dumps the chopped potatoes from the cutting board, guiding them with the edge of the blade, splashing down into the pot of boiling water. "Can you keep an eye on things for me here?"

"Of course, dear. You get yourself another drink, I'll be here." With that the old woman gives me a wink, followed by a nod.

I reach behind me absently and took hold of the bottle of wine. I walk it over as the girl wipes her hands off on the apron. I follow the checkered pattern of it up along the rolled up sleeves of her billowy cream colored blouse, to the vanilla skin of her neckline. Her thick, brown hair falls off her shoulder as if embarrassed, covering the nape of her neck from my view.

She slow motion twirls towards me, a smile leading the charge, eyes hung low, before rising to meet my own. She reaches up for her glasses, which sit at the front of her hair, and lowers them down upon the bridge of her nose, pushing them back with her forefinger.

"Thanks.", she sang to me, as an empty wine glass rose between us, hovering within her gentle grip.

I pulled out the cork, and carefully watch over the wine as it fills her glass halfway. I could feel her watching me, pressing that warm smile down upon me as I diligently poured. I shove the cork back in and rest the bottle on the counter.

"Of course." She took my hand and led me out the back door.

The wind whips up as we step outside, the breeze carrying with it a blast of apples from her hair, a whiff of incense, and the loveliest tinge of photography chemicals. I knew this smell, overloaded with sense memory as I passed through it, as it washed over me. It smelled honest.

She leans over the railing taking in the fresh air, gazing out over the still lake, while I run my eyes down her body. The blouse, partially untucked from her tight jeans, the ones she's had since she was sixteen, bought especially for that Aerosmith concert. She was barefoot, and on her tippytoes as she leans even further, taking in a huge breath.

"Hey lovebirds." My friend, arms rested on his guitar, smiles slyly at me. His wife dangles her feet back and forth beside him.

I look over at him and her, as she runs her fingers through his hair absently, as if loving him was so natural to her that of course she would express it subconsciously, letting her touch say all it needed to. Their relationship was crystal clear and invulnerable, a flowing charge of pure, tender mutual affection between them.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. I knew this girl with apple hair, a photographer who listened to classic rock, cooked despite not being all that good at it. She lived in San Francisco, spent time in Iceland, and moved up here to teach. I knew the curve of her back, the feel of her breasts, the pulse of her kiss, those lips, small and simple, pressed against mine.

As I look back at her, she's turning towards me, I reach out and take hold of her. My right hand slid behind her the small of her back, pulling her closer, the other, glides up her arm, over her shoulder, up her neck, cradling the back of her head. My fingers tuck themselves up into the thickness of her hair. I brought her into me.

Our foreheads pressed together lightly, our faces so close that we breathed each others breath, so close our vision blurs, and so, close our eyes. My mind melts into hers, absorbing my thoughts and emotions as I embrace hers. Her hands came up my back and she pulls me in even closer.

"God, this feels like a dream."

We kiss.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 3 - The Morning After

I slink into the bedroom, ripping my remaining sock off with my bare foot, as I traipse across the carpet. I see the shape of her body as it lays curled up under the comforter. There's a draft from the window above the headboard, so I lift the blanket and carefully place myself under the sheets.

I make sure to displace my weight, spreading the shifts of my body so as to not move the mattress in any way. If I were to wake her she'd no doubt lash out at me in fierce grumpiness, wanting to know where I was, why I had stayed out so long, how come I didn't do the dishes before I went out.

The dog presses its paws into my side, scratching my ribs with its claws as it stretches, making itself more comfortable, spreading out across my bed. I'd say it was her bed, but it's the one piece of furniture I contributed to this apartment. The one thing that came with me from my parents' house.

She had claimed it back then, deciding that she needed to not live at her own parents' house, and, against my own parents' wishes, took up permanent residence with me in my room, in their house. It didn't last too long, sneaking around, and as oblivious and laid back as my parents were, eventually we got kicked out.

We bought all new things for the apartment, with my money from my office job. Not that I had much to begin with, but other than a garbage bag of clothes, a crate of action movies on VHS, and a backpack full of sci-fi books, everything else from my childhood was trashed or given away, sold for pennies at a garage sale.

Now I had surrendered the bed at last, giving up a good portion to the dog she now loved more than anyone. I'd heard of jealous dads, envious of their wife's undivided attention towards their child, I grew up with one after all, more an older brother than a father figure. Here I was, man's best friend swooping in to steal away my girl. Same old.

Not that I minded much. I knew she'd prefer a blindly obedient male that she could dote on, would love her unconditionally, and couldn't talk back. Not that I talked back. Ever. I just would sit there, silent, staring at her, thinking of bashing her head in with a brick.

Then I'd turn that hostility in on myself, smash my self with that metaphoric brick, for fear that, in a moment of insane frustration, find a real brick, and commit a heinous act of violence. Besides, it wasn't her fault that I loathed her, in fact, I didn't hate her at all. I hated myself. I could get up, walk out the door right now and be halfway to the city before she even woke up.

But I can't. I don't know why, but I can't. I shouldn't, or couldn't, but staring at the back of her head lying on her pillow, dog breath pumping up into my face, my fists tightened, my jaw clenched, teeth grinding themselves down into nothingness, I was unable to think of a reason to stay.

I suppose I'm a masochist, and thinking that calmed me down. If I liked pain and anguish, then this is me at my happiest then. I ran from the scary, unknown adventure last night set before me, and instead am perched on the edge of what was once my bed, disgraced and replaced by a dog, incapable of making myself happy.

Glancing at the alarm clock, I knew her alarm would go off soon. I'd best try and sleep before she wakes up, I thought. I thought about a story I was thinking of for a sci-fi movie I wanted to write one day. I'd have to really flesh it out in my head first, and it always helped me to think fictional before dreaming.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 2 - The Son Rises

I drive home, sliding along the Southern State, racing towards the rising sun, orange glow slowly replacing the dark blue hue of last night. The dawn is moments away, and I really should be in bed, asleep, or pretending to be asleep, beside her.

I don't want to go home, not now, not ever. I don't want to have to fake another moment of my "life", a happy drive-thru grin stuck to my face. Smile as she berates me for not doing the dishes, for not cleaning up the dog piss, ignoring the silent anger she beams at me for sitting around, watching movies and smoking weed in the dark, alone.

My foot eases off the gas pedal, the speedometer drops, my heart sinks. Last night is over, the morning is here, and I am fucked. The adrenaline drains away and I watch as the alternate reality my life should have been dissipates as bursts of sunlight stream down the parkway through the trees on the horizon eradicating any proof of last night's existence.

I push my right wrist out of my jacket sleeve a bit, and the paper band stuck tight around my wrist pops free. Proof that I was of drinking age, proof that I overpaid to see a band, proof that last night happened. It'd have to be good enough for now.

Pulling up outside the house, I was myself again. A twenty five year old going through a mid-life crisis. Guess that means I only have til fifty before it all ends. I'm not sure I can go through this routine for another moment, but, as I turn the keys, shut off the car, flip off the headlights, I know that I can.

I shuffle up the driveway, reach over the fence, gently lift the mechanism that keeps the gate closed, and slip inside, lowering the mechanism in one swift and practiced maneuver. I have my door key ready in my free hand, it's point jutting out of my pocket. I slide the metal into the lock, and with the slowest twist possible, I unlock the door, angry at the dull thud of the lock retracting.

Turning, then lifting the door by the knob, pushing it forward a millimeter at a time, the draft dodger behind the door swooshing across the tiles, I open it just enough to slide in. The key's jagged edge bumps its way free, the keys drop into my pocket, and holding the knob on the inside, lift the door, turning the knob, switching hands, I close the door.

Slip out of my sneakers, jacket placed upon the rack besides my girlfriend's faux fur trimmed fall coat. Her brown, elegant, yet animal friendly fashion clashes with my ratty, beat up and broken in black leather. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let myself die inside.

My heart pounds as I tip toe across the kitchen, but feel the safety, the sanctuary of the bathroom. I, too frantically, close the door, unintentionally making a bit too much noise in my rush to get inside. Once I'm there though, I really don't care. A bit of last night has changed me.

Turn the faucet and let the water run. The pipes squeak and squelch as I dip my hands into the stream, lean over, and splash my face. I run my palm down my face, tugging my eyebrows down, pulling my eyelids open, smooshing my cheeks, pressing down the tip of my nose, molding my mouth into an 'O' shape, and run my thumb and forefinger down my jawline.

I look up into the mirror. Not the same guy. Never going to be different. Just a lie. Now I, have to look this guy in the face and tell him, reveal to him once and for all that everything he's ever wanted is going to have to be replaced with all he has now, and that nothing will ever change.

"You goddamn spineless, sniveling, mama's boy, can't even get this right, too afraid of...", I mumbled to myself, staring myself down, losing a staring game to myself, a final indignity before bed.

I didn't brush my teeth. I'd swig some orange soda from the fridge before bed and some orange juice when I woke up. Who needs teeth, really? For the first time in my life, I began to get cavities. I inspected them in the mirror, pushed on the bad ones, somehow satisfied that I'd poisoned my perfect choppers that never needed braces, nor fillings.

Besides, she always told me to brush my teeth. It irked her that I didn't. Disgusted her I hoped. I opened the door, glanced over at the dishes in the sink and chuckled. I won't do them. In some sort of instant karma, I nearly slipped and broke my neck in dog piss. Thankfully I just slammed my wrist into the counter.

I pulled off my sock, dripping with dog urine, and let it drop into the yellow puddle. I sauntered into the living room, feeling a bit more ballsy suddenly. If this was the life I was stuck with, and seeing as how I done broke the rules already, coming home just after sun up, well, may as well misbehave to the bitter end.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 1 - Screaming At the Wind

The ding-ding-ding of the open car door provides the backbeat as I reach to turn up the volume on the stereo. The band whines and wails my pain, and I squeeze the bridge of my nose to fight off my headache. I step out of the car and fish around in my jacket pockets as I look around the desolate gas station.

Just me and the guy nodding off behind the counter. The wind whips down the empty parkway and slams itself against me. I pull out my pack of smokes, flip it open, and stare long and hard at the last one left sitting alone in the crumpled box. I pull it out, pop it in my mouth, cup my hand and light it up with my zippo.

It's moments like this that I'm glad I smoke. Sometimes you just need a vice to fall back on when everything else is gone. I took a drag and leaned back on the hood. The engine's still warm, helping me fight off the chill. I release the smoke from my lungs and close my eyes. Nicotine rush makes my legs wobbly.

The music roars, pumping from out of the blown speakers, that slight vibrating tick of the soundwaves reverberating the broken pieces. I've never been much to pay attention to lyrics, but something about sadness, doomed relationships, emotional trauma, wraps itself around me. I feel less alone.

Somewhere out in this godforsaken reality lies a promised land, an urban utopia, a metropolitan mecca to experience, where kids just like me are living it up and creating something, anything at all to express themselves, having fun, getting laid and partying til dawn.

But that's beyond me. My time's passed. I'm stuck just on the other side of that impenetrable veil, despite the Long Island Railroad and a few bucks being able to get me there, that life was not to be mine. I was not made for New York City, it would chew me up and spit me out. No way would I survive out there, alone.

I finish my cigarette, flicking it towards the gas pumps, and hop onto my bumper. I walk up onto the hood, denting the metal, not giving a shit, I turn towards the red flashing stoplight and glare angrily out upon the empty streets. I thought about how in an hour or two, the sun would rise, and cars would be rushing about as if these people's lives mattered. As if mine mattered.

I reach deep down inside, take a huge, gasping breath, arch my back, then throw my body forward and scream for all I'm worth. I scream at my family, I scream at my friends, I scream at my girlfriend, I scream at nothing at all.

The music dies down and I collapse on the hood, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I cry at what a pathetic loser I am.