Suburban Loser - Chapter 9 - The Long Goodbye

I tossed my backpack on the passenger side, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. The noise of the slam, or the silence inside, one or the other, made me realize I had nowhere to go, made me realize what I had done.

I could go back in and apologize, beg for her to let this go just as I let every insulting and emasculating thing go. I didn't get mad when she scolded me in front of her family over dinner. Or when she constantly tuned me out, talking over me while I told her about my ideas or worse, my feelings.

None of those things bothered me. Which usually, I say that, but don't mean it. But now, I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. Something definitely cracked inside me, because whatever kept me here, unhappy and unsatisfied, it was gone now. So fuck apologizing.

I had my car, enough clothes and supplies to last a few days, a good amount of cash and thirty eight hours until I had to be at work on Monday. Saturday night lay before me, open and chock full of potential. It felt weird. I had all the freedom I could ask for, subconsciously burning bridges behind me, there was no retreat, no surrender.

But where to go? What to do? It was still early enough in the evening, I guess I'll swing by friends' apartments (what friends I had left), and see what they're up to. I felt so old, not knowing what bar to go to, which music venue to check out. Was there even a nightlife in the suburbs?

I could drive into the city. I mean, it's early enough that I could get a parking spot, I think. Shit, that sounds so frightening that my stomach churns, but somewhere down where my balls once were, a part of me was screaming for adventure.

I started up the car, strapped my seat belt on, and hit the gas. No going back now, this is what I wanted, not subservience to a girl that never cared about me, who was so selfish she never could be who or what I needed. No, it was best to make this clean like this. Just leave. Don't go back and make things worse, all for the sake of drama.

Music, I needed new music for a journey like this. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the mix CD I finished this afternoon. Just over an hour's worth of songs that all spoke to me directly. A calculated flight plan for my consciousness. Sliding the CD in, I turned up the volume, and reached into my pocket, pulling out my smokes.

Sigur Ros' "Vaka" came on as I lit up the cigarette. I inhaled as the music rose slowly, small chimes and vague male singing, an angelic cacophony squeezing my soul out the top of my skull. The nicotine flooded my bloodstream, light-headed at the red light.

I spun by Jim's parent's house as it was just a few blocks away, but his car wasn't there. Probably out in Queens with his girlfriend. Or out with his friends from the bookstore, a scene I never could penetrate. Nor was I invited to. It was a secular community, and they didn't like outsiders in their inbred, drama worklife.

That's fine. The last time I had seen Jim, I was trying to drag him out into the driveway at one of the bookstore parties and reenact Fight Club. Just to have his blood on my knuckles, to smash a fist down across his face as he stumbles about, trying feebly to maintain his balance. I dream about it.

From there I cruised down the block, passing Greg's house. Manny had an apartment in their basement, where he sat with his guitars and amps, depression and pills, and wrote full length albums no one would hear. Greg you couldn't help but hear. He wailed away on his instruments, but drove anyone who played with him away.

I could stop in and see how they were, spend hours listening to them talk about things I'd never understand about music, chastise myself for never developing a talent with music, hate on myself, and them, as we all did nothing with our lives. Who's worse off, me, with no gift, or them, gifted yet doing nothing with it? Today, it feels like them.

I turned onto Hicksville Road, and headed down closer to where I grew up, where my parents' house was. The Chicken Holiday, that used to be a Taco Bell. The Italian Restaurant that used to be a pizza joint. The best bagel store in the world. The old roller skating rink still looks exactly the same. Gaudy and childish.

The Toadies' "Tyler" came on and a chill ran through my body. I listened to this album non-stop senior year, I had just gotten my car, and so we just drove around and listened to tapes, wasting gas up and down Hempstead Turnpike, calling out to girls in passing cars.

I drove around near the high school, turned down the block where my oldest friend Dean lived, the last friend I had up to about six months ago. Him and his fiancee came to the Halloween party we were throwing at our apartment, and all they wanted to do was watch the World Series.

This wouldn't have bothered me, as I pretty much hated the anxiety of Halloween, let alone parties, but I hate sports even more, and when he turned to wail me in the arm for no good reason, well that was about all I needed to not speak to him again. When it was me and him, we'd laugh like the old days, mountain biking on the trails. In front of people though, he'd insult or attack me.

Suppose that was about normal for friends of mine though. They all seemed to enjoy tearing me down in public. Find ways to make me look stupid, or harp on something I mispronounced, talk about my mom as a MILF, whatever they could think of to bring me low.

So fuck Dean, fuck my friends, fuck this whole fucking island. Fuck my girlfriend, our apartment, and the goddamn dog. I hate everything familiar right now, and I might possibly be fed up enough to do something drastic.

'Back in Black' by AC/DC pumped through my stereo, as I made a u-turn and headed for the parkway.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 8 - Fight The End

My stomach is in knots, shoulders tensed, body ridged as the front door swooshes open in the other room. I can tell her walk, know which boots she wears, as she storms into the apartment. The dog barrels in beside her, it's claws clack-clacking on the tiles.

I never know what the right move is here, and this time it's doubly worse. We had been fighting pretty bad for a long time til suddenly we both just stopped. I think I may've gotten apathetic to the rules and regulations, the courtroom procedure of it all, and just mmmhmmm-ed her to death.

This method, of course, angered her more than yelling at her, calling her names, breaking things. The only other thing that really got her goat, which I saved for desperate battles, was to laugh at her. Just guffaw at the whole epic, stupid ballet of pride, and show that she is the one making me crazy. That was the Doomsday Weapon.

I instinctively lowered the volume on the surround sound before she even entered, and rearranged my immediate surroundings so as to interact with her as little as possible. Hid away the weed, fanned the air to disperse the smell, lit another incense for good measure.

Looking at the dirty bowl that sat on the snack tray before me, I wished I'd had enough time to get it into the sink. I could just hear it now, as she turns the corner into the living room to see me sitting there, still undressed and unmotivated, as she instantly begins to demean and scold me.

But first, the dog ran in, tail whipping around, front paws scratching my legs as it tried to leap up onto my lap, while I thrust my elbow in its face, not hitting it per se, but smacking it enough that it should get the point; it doesn't. I shove it with both hands and it stumbles backwards as she enters the room.

"What the fuck...? Is there something wrong with you?" Her eyes are wide, mouth agape, horror on her face as if she's just walked in on me beating the animal to death with a baseball bat.

I didn't even think before I responded, "There's something wrong with that fucking dog!"

Insult her, her family (living or dead) or anyone she's ever known, but don't talk shit about the dog. Thems the rules. Everyone knows that. When I bought this dog with her, it changed her life. She was a mommy all of a sudden, and her furry fucking child was a major pain in the ass for me.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She hadn't moved.

I thought about how to retreat from this, how to placate the situation, apologize and make good with the fucking canine in question, but seriously, fuck it. I don't know what it was that made me do what I did, and part of me definitely regrets it. In hindsight I saw that the dog didn't deserve that. It was a dumb ass dog after all.

"Fuck it." I stood up, looked her in the eye, let my gaze drift away from her as I glared down at the beast between us.

My leg reared back and I let loose a solid kick to its midsection. It yelped and ran off into the bedroom. I honestly didn't feel anything in that moment. Well, that's not true, I felt a sense on contentment that I'd never known before. My life as I knew it was over. That's why I did it.

I looked back up at her. I gave her the face that said, what are you going to do about it? My aggression was mirrored in her look of utter disbelief and shock. I wanted to hit her. I should have hit her. I only hit a girl once in my life and it was her. More of a smack really, but either way, I had to.

It was New Year's Eve and we were with all her guy friends, you know all the guys that were friends with her ex-boyfriend. The one that cheated on her endlessly over their four years together. And so, New Years Eve, end of the century, drunk and getting drunker with each shot, this is when she needed to see this ex, watch him operate as he flirted with every girl there as his current girlfriend was out of town.

Moments later, I feel a fist smash across my jaw, the car skidding across the ice on Sunrise Highway, my glasses flying from my face, the foot smashing out at me as she begins to scream her throat raw at me. I somehow get her back into my parents' house, and into my room. I barricade the door with my body as she continues to pummel me.

Bleeding, I stand up, as just about enough is enough. I look at her pathetic, unadulterated, incoherent madness and decide it's time to do something. I throw my arm wide and slap my palm against her face as hard as I possibly can, hoping that it knocks her unconscious. It doesn't. She hits me more.

I eventually let her leave to go drive her car into a brick wall, hoping she'll just die and leave me alone, but my mom and sister woke up from the noise and calmed her down. I don't even acknowledge anything and go right to sleep. The next day she's super pleasant but suddenly so sick she can't leave the bed.

A natural born fucking sucker, that's me. Two weeks of her invalid status makes me feel bad for her just enough to let the whole thing slide. But it never did slide did it. It more like crumbled everything inside me and now the whole fucking thing was coming down in an avalanche of aggression.

I was done being a fool.

"Go ahead, hit me." She knew; I knew she felt guilt about it, but never could acknowledge it.

I walked into the bedroom and grabbed my backpack. I threw a few white t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, some socks and boxers, and some paperbacks into it, zipped it up. In the other room I grabbed the weed, tucked it into the front pocket and threw it over my shoulder.

She still hadn't moved, but with a start she suddenly dashes to the bedroom, most likely to check on the one creature she loved on this planet. I got my toothbrush, whatever food I could take with me, and snatched up my laptop. I leaned towards the bedroom, listening to hear what she was doing in there.

I didn't hear anything.

"Go fuck yourself. And your little dog too."

Suburban Loser - Chapter 7 - Suffering A Soy Dinner Solo

I was starving so I ate a cold sliver of pizza crust as I grabbed a can of soup from the cabinet. I slapped the handle of the can opener down and let the gear grip the edge of the can as the blade punctured its top, slicing along the rim.

No dog came running up expecting to be fed, thank god. I love that stupid dog, but honestly, I can do without him in my life. I can't imagine hurting a living being, but sometimes, sometimes a certain being can get on your last nerve, and you're looking them in the eyes and you know it's go time.

The can pops free and I toss the broth, noodles, vegetables, and chicken cubes into a pot. I flick on the burner and pull out the drawer, grab a spoon. I stir the soup and pick out the chicken chunks, tossing them back into the empty can. Gotta keep being vegetarian. Been so long now.

I don't even miss meat. I always was squeamish as I gnawed on a chicken drumstick, or cutting fat from a steak, forget about eating fish or ribs. I thought of the animal, how it suffered before having its carcass slaughtered and manhandled, battered then deep fried. It probably screamed.

Once my girlfriend showed me those videos of what they have to endure and how much they suffer before they are killed. The conditions they are raised in, cages just bigger than their bodies in overcrowded factories filled with filth and treated like their lives mean nothing by those handling them, and really, they don't. Once I saw that, I stopped eating meat.

Well, it took awhile. It was hard giving up Wendy's, especially their Spicy Chicken Sandwich and the Chicken Nuggets. Once I saw the baby chicks all tossed into a pile about to be ground into nuggets, well that was what threw the switch. The next time I chewed on gristle at the food court at the mall, I was done.

Three years later, of eating pasta and rice, fast food with the meat taken out, tons of pizza, and of course, chicken noodle soup with the chicken plucked out, and I'm still sticking to it. Sorta. I mean I know this is chicken broth. It had chicken pieces sitting in it for as long as it was on the shelf, and before that.

I tried the vegetarian soups, and they're so bland. I mean, not bad but something about the chicken noodle, or chicken and rice, or chickarina, Italian wedding, chicken dumpling, chunky stew, it was all so good god dammit. At least I didn't eat burgers anymore.

I went to the freezer and pulled out a Grillers Prime frozen patty from Morningstar Farms, the best, grade A, non-meat that tastes just like a hamburger yet made of tofu-soy-something, fake burger you can get. I tossed it into the toaster over and got out a bun. I'd let it toast after I wrap up the soup and just before the burger finished cooking. It was a system. A routine.

I dumped the boiling soup into the bowl, dropped the spoon in it, rinsed out the pot and left it atop the dirty dishes in the sink. Ripped off a paper towel, scooped up the bowl, and brought it into the living room. I placed it into the center of the tv tray, and went back for a glass of orange soda.

The prime was just about done cooking, so I place the bun inside, letting it get a bit warm and toasty, and got the ketchup, cheese and pickles. I open the cheese first and place it on the sizzling patty. It melts just a tad as I carefully pop the two halves of the bun onto a paper plate, spatula the un-cheeseburger onto it, then decorate the yellow canvas with green ridged, dill circles, and a red spiral of condiment.

I close it up, run back into the living room and dive in. I try the soup first even though it's too hot every time. The spoon scalds my tongue a bit. I take a sip of orange refreshment and then start in on the cheeseburger. I finish the burger completely before allowing myself another sip of soup, but by now its cooled down enough to scarf down.

I lay back and close my eyes for a bit. It's so good, so familiar, I don't even need to think about dinner anymore. I buy a few cans of soup, a couple of boxes of frozen fake meat patties, and a batch of rolls. If I feel fancy I'll get some Italian ices from Uncle Louie G's down the block.

But I don't feel like going outside, and for right now anyway, I'm satisfied. I watched a few of the new movies I bought online, smoked a bowl, wrote a chunk of words. Yeah, a pretty good day considering I didn't get any sleep last night. I really didn't sleep much at all, and after all that dancing too.

The aches and pains came back; I tried to force the fullness of my meal to keep the goodness spinning round my body, but no luck. I really did feel worn out. I hadn't danced that much in forever, it was such a release. I felt like I stopped pushing a rock up a hill, but now it's rolled back over me, ran me down.

I could read a comic, or finish up my third re-read of Catcher in the Rye. It was slightly harder to get through this time. Maybe listen to some Doors and chill out for awhile. A hot shower would be good, but that'll put me to sleep. Hmmm.

My ears perked up as I head the gate hinge squeak, and then drop back into place with a rattling slam. The dog was huffing and puffing as its claws tapped on the concrete. Her keys jingled and her shoes clacked as she came down the steps. She was home, with that fucking dog.

Suburban Loser - Chapter 6 - Afternoon Man of Action

I sat down with my laptop and checked my email. I downloaded a song from Napster that I had stuck in my head all last night. Added it to a mix CD I was making for my next road trip, whenever that would be. Looked up some new about upcoming movies, watched a trailer, checked movie times.

Ugh. Okay, fine. I opened up Word, started a new document, and typed 'A' with a space after it. Needed a noun next. Guy? He's got guns, another guy is shooting at him, he slows down time, the bullets whiz by him. Cool! The good guy forces his way through chronal friction, speeding up and sidekicking the killer through the wall.

I was on a roll. I just thought about what scenes I saw in my head and detailed them out in words. What other cool shit did I want to see? Leaping from a moving hotrod as it plows into a truck and both explode excessively loud and slow as the hero prepares to duck into a roll and skid to a halt.

Gun in hand, he stalks towards the wreckage, the blaze bashing in the dull whites of his eyes. He scans for movement as he steps forward, feeling the flames licking him up and pushing him back. His hair shifted sideways in the wind, eyes narrowed, his hand shot up and fired.

He blasted round after round into the carnage, debris shifting and smashing as he tugged on the trigger. The enemy stood up, brushed itself off, and strode towards us. Bullets flicked off his chest like fruitflies, barely acknowledging them even as they struck his face.

Great an invincible baddie. Now what? I got a dude who's cool and shoots two guns while flipping, and then this fucker who can't get hurt. Alright, so really, I just need someone he can hit and while it might not hurt him, some combination of brawn-and-brainy way to apply them is needed.

It was kind of fun spending a Saturday indoors creating a story for myself. I don't need to really think about life, and when I just can't watch another movie I can at least tell myself a story. Pretend that part of my consciousness is somewhere else and in the end, I've got a final product.

A few pages worth of words that, when read, gives you information, sets a scene, let's you get in someone else's head, see their motivation, but be unable to alter it. You're surrendering yourself to the story, seeing it through to its conclusion regardless of what you may want.

I read it to myself and it's really cool. Offbeat and cliche in parts, but word choices, turns of phrase, ideas brought up, they spark something in me. I try to think about myself as I wrote those words, where my mind was, how I chose them. It doesn't feel like I wrote them, more like I thought about what would be cool, and my brain made my fingers press keys.

Years of schooling taught me to process things, ideas, concepts, break them down into words, told me that shapes were representations of sound. Every letter was chosen in a millisecond, knowing each word that was necessary to paint a picture, to give me an idea of what was in store for my future.

A chick! That's what the story is missing. There's gotta be someone he needs to protect, to make sure there's something worth fighting for, because otherwise he just really likes hitting other guys. Especially ones that are tougher than he is. Crap, is he a masochist? He wants to take a beating? Hmmm...

Whatever, she's got a leather jacket and rides a motorcycle, carries a sword on her back, and studied with the same kung fu master as our hero. He's done with his life of killing, wants her to give up hers too, ride off into the sunset, clinging to his back as they disappear together.

But he won't let them. He hates everything about the hero; his sense of honor or natural ability at kicking ass maybe. He loves chaos, knows that his only skill is at causing mayhem, at reigning destruction down upon whomsoever crosses his path. It's not a fight he's looking for, it's whoever can beat him, stop his rampage, tell him he's wrong, discipline him.

A strong, noble, moral badass that doesn't give a fuck, who falls for a shitkicking babe with a mohawk, and together they fight the psychopathic madman. The worse the depravity of this indestructible villain, the more just and honest our vulnerable hero must be. She holds the other half of his masculinity and watches his back, as he uses her femininity to defeat him.

Yin-yang, the forces are equal and in harmony. Yeah, cool, he should totally have a yin-yang tattoo across his whole back, long hair, and a sleeveless leather jacket. Maybe a shoulder pad, just one, and a dog beside him, a snarling mutt with a bad eye. An eyepatch?

I wish I could draw, then I'd have an image to go off of. I guess I could just write it out, but sometimes, well I guess a picture is worth a thousand words. But let's see pictures keep up with this pace. I just keep writing and writing, reminding myself that if I stop, then it'll be for good.

I won't come back to this story. I'll never decide where to take it, if I am even good enough to write anything, to figure out what ingenuity a hero would need to turn the tables on someone stronger than them. What were the motivations of any of them, did he really just hate him or did he love him in his own way? Was she even capable of loving a man like him?

I mean he was perfect. You're supposed to be loved for your flaws, and no one's perfect anyway, so what're the chances that there's two perfect people? Twice as unlikely. You couldn't love them, you didn't love yourself, you were fucked up and probably more the frightened villain of this story.

Shit. I left it off after what looked like a decent sized paragraph which sat atop page 6 of a Word document. Couldn't even end it at the end of the damn page. I changed the font to American Typewriter, then Helvetica, then back to Times New Roman. Lowered the spacing between lines, and it jumped back to a mere 5 pages.

At least it was nearly one coherent scene, or so it seemed immediately upon puking it out of my fingertips. I'd have to read it later and marvel at my genius then. Now, I hit FILE, scrolled to SAVE AS, typed in the title ACTION-SCENE-69 and let it rest in the folder in MY DOCUMENTS named WRITING.

68 other scenes, all opening up some epic story, sit, taking up nearly no space in that oft-looked over digital creative side of my life.