Saturday, May 2, 2009

I'm an M-80. (Day 148)

This is the second short story I ever wrote, and it's one that honestly...when I wrote it, I think I finally found where it was I wanted to take this writing direction.

It's called twentyvolVe, and it's....one of the things I'm most proud of in my life. Not because I think it's the greatest thing ever written, it's just one of the most honest. It was the first time I made something out of nothing. It was the first time I was happy with how something turned out.

I really hope you like it. I do. I honestly do.

Have a safe Saturday.

-Aaron Hale.

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TwentyvolVe.

By Aaron Hale

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"Happy Birthday, Darling." said Michelle, from sleep ridden eyes, as she turned to hit the snooze button. Mumbled good mornings, avoided kisses, morning breath and all. Wake up, shower. Eat. Eat something nutritious, and well balanced. I should really get into shape, I'm getting to the age where its all going to catch up to me. Back to the bathroom. I brush my teeth this time around, I don't usually like to do it before I eat, the toothpaste residue really mucks up the whole flavor of burnt toast, and nearly-expired Orange juice. Really mucks it all up. Really.

I take a look into the mirror. Its not something I make a regular practice of, which might explain why I always look like hell. I've got bags under my eyes, packed with hours of lost sleep, and too many shots of bourbon. Oh. My. God. Its only Tuesday.

I'm 20 today. I don't feel 20. These gray hairs are a testament to that. Whatever. I'm not in high school, I don't have to impress anyone. I hear Michelle call from the doorway.

"Babe, where do you want to eat when I get off of work? Want me to make reservations, or anything?"

In my ear, theres a strange buzzing noise. I never pictured there to be a moment in my life, where I would be discussing reservations. How does life come to that? The buzzing grows louder, more defined, more high-pitched. I mumble off some reply, but apparently its sufficient.

"Love you babe. Catch you at four, birthday boy."

I don't feel like going to work. Its not that work is all that hard, or even that undesirable, I just DON'T. FEEL. LIKE. GOING. I'm not even dressed. Remarkable wardrobe of an old cotton black jacket, shirt I slept in, and underwear.

I flip on the television, inevitably, scouring the news. Bombing in a plaza, somewhere in some Eastern country. Women wailing, US troops marching off to war, finding something noble to die for. War. Theres a preacher being interviewed, dressed better than God himself, with more money on his wrist and fingers, than in my whole apartment, caustically providing a captive T.V audience with scriptures misquoted, or perverted. They eat it up, I've had enough.

I turn the channel to that one channel. You know that channel, don't you? The one with b-list celebrities being interviewed by hip, young nobodies. That heiress lady, you know the one, her name escapes my tongue...Shes on the tube. Shes hocking some fake smile. She looks. Like. Shes. Made. Of. Plastic, and the product of too many hours spent spritzing herself with tanning lotion. Shes condemning the paparazzi, and making sex tapes on the side.

That's enough television. Anymore entertainment, and I might just blow my brains out, and save the people at the newspaper some ink for my obituary.

I think I'm numb and tired enough for the working day now. I get dressed.

I don't drive. I don't see the point. Just another heartache, just another bill, just another emission cloud to deplete the sky from protection. Why not commute. I see the hypocrisy. Whatever.

I sit next to this kid, who smells like gasoline, and looks like he just attempted to fight the bus hes now riding. Did I forget to lock my door? Oh well. Not too much to steal. Maybe the idiot box, maybe my stereo, maybe Michelle's fancy shoes, and jewelry. Mistakes are made, police files are reported, life goes on.

This kid, hes listening to some abrasive metal band. Hes wearing a shirt from Led Zeppelin, and his jacket has a patch, for decoration and style, not for practicality. That's fine. I study his patches more, and read the list of bands names off--one strikes me in particular: REO Speedwagon. The two E's in Speedwagon are worn off. Is this the desired effect for irony, or something relevant to this kids genetic culture, his proverbial make-up? I could careless.

At the next stop, this older man with a brown bag of groceries gets on the bus. No one up front offers him a seat, and the bus drivers growing impatient, ready to hit the gas. Hes ready to fulfill his appointed schedule, and he'll be damned if this old guys gonna mess that up. Time. Is. Money.

Its kind of an edgy moment, at least for me. The old man approaches my aisle, and grasps diligently to the worn leather rung above him. Almost sensing the old man touch the rung, the pissed bus driver throws the bus into motion, off-setting the frail vertigo of the old man. He almost falls, and drops his bag of groceries. Apples, and oranges roll about, and the kid next to me snickers. I've had enough. I stand up and persist that the elderly man sit down, while I fumble on the God-forsaken floor trying to round up the rogue fruits. One of the apples is completely done for, as its covered in dirt, oil, what appears to be (and smells like) dog shit. Maybe its human shit. I've seen some really gross things happen on this bus. I dust off the fruits for the old man, and apologize. Where at the next stop, and a bunch of kids are about to board the bus.

To hell with this.

I get off the bus in a flash, as the old man says his gracious thanks. Much obliged, old man. Much obliged.

I'm only about a quarter of a mile to work now. Might as well walk it.

While I'm walking to work, I pass this school yard. I don't ever, In my entire time of having lived here, remember seeing this school yard. I check Michelle's cell phone for the time. I don't have a cell phone, and she insists I use hers. She has two, and I completely think that's over kill. I've got another forty minutes to be at work. I sit on a bus bench, and watch the kids playing in the play ground.

Theres this kid who stands out. Its hard for kids to really stand out, when they are young, because they all kind of the same, unless they're your own, you know? But this kid, he stands out. Hes playing basketball, well, rather, trying. Every time he shoots, he hits the underside of the rim, and it reverberates throughout the small playground. Its okay, he keeps trying. The thing I like about his playing--the thing I like about basketball in general, is that he keeps moving, and most of the time, passes the ball to other kids. Hes going to be under appreciated his entire life, because he passes the ball.

I get up and go into a near by convenience store. Four bucks for a gallon of Milk? Real fucking convenient. I should pick some up on the way home. I get an energy drink, they're my newest vice. Oh well. As I'm walking out, there's this gal pumping gas into her black Suburban. Shes a soccer mom in training, if shes not one already. I wonder if that's whats in store for Michelle. I shudder at the thought of Mortgages, picket fences, 2 kids, a Labrador, and an SUV. I don't know why. I wonder if she knows this yet.

As I walk in through the door of work, I'm greeted with a few coy smiles, birthday wishes, and a list of duties to do for the day. I crack open the energy drink, and get lost for hours in writing reports, and make sure numbers match up. Production is high, morale is way low. Periodically, I glance at a music site I occasionally write for. Not much has been updated, but I re-read old reviews.

Its 2:45. Its time to go home. Somehow I still have most of the energy drink remaining in its now room temperature can. I don't like to waste things, so I take it with me. As I'm nearly out the door, I'm wished a few more birthday quotes. Its all garbage, celebrating a day of birth, really.

Back on the bus. I don't even remember getting on it, or waiting for it, for that matter. I sit the energy drink on my knee, and mildly glance at the advertisements posted on the bus. Theres a sign, that always, for some unknown reason, irritates me. Maybe you know the one I'm talking about, its the one that says, "Smile, your on camera". Something about that is so horribly condescending, it grates my last nerve. Also, I think its bullshit, because they'd catch the filthy person(s) letting there dogs, or themselves, shitting on the public transportation. Whatever.

I look at the window, and there's that school. That kids sitting out front, alone. Hes looking at this little girl, who you can tell is going to be a knock-out one day. She doesn't notice him, but you can tell she doesn't mean to be callous, she just doesn't notice him. You can tell hes hurt by it too. Hes going to be under appreciated all of his life, because he passes the ball.

I've been lost in thought for a couple of minutes now, when something rolls, and hits my foot. I look down, and its that same apple, and it has seen better days.

I get off at my stop, and make it back home. Before I enter the door, I check the mail. Theres a few cards in there, some junk, something that Michelle ordered off some website, and probably a cell phone bill or two. It depresses me to no end, so I leave it there. I check the time. 3:48.

I get inside, and immediately set the energy drink in the fridge. Theres a blinking light on the telephone, probably a few missed calls. I'm not in any mood to facilitate a recorded version of people I know. I pop in a mix Cd, and lay down on the couch. I just stare at the ceiling, for what feels like hours, and for some reason, I'm comfortable with that. Watching the paint dry.

Michelle walks in. Shes utterly, and devastatingly beautiful. Perspiration beading from her forehead slightly, thumbing through the mail I left in the box, as her hair falls into her eyes. Devastatingly. BEAUTIFUL. Am I aroused, I don't know. Do I want to be? Maybe, but I know whats coming up next.

"Baby...did you check the mail when you got home."

I mumble off the truth.

"Well, I mean, goddamn, David, I meant...God damn. Why just leave it out there, you know people might steal it. And anyways, you got some birthday cards, here's one from my Aunt Rose, here's one from your parents, and one from my mom and dad. Maybe you got some loot."

I shrug.

"Okay...well, shit, leave your attitude out there with YOUR mail, my mail order perfume came in today. Do you know how much this costs? David? Look at me. I'm trying to tell you that the reason we have a mail box, is for the convenience of having the mail delivered at home, instead of messing with that whole sticky mess at the post office. Dianne was down there last month, and she nearly got mugged on the way inside by some loser begging for change. Is that what you want to put up with?"

Shes anal. Very anal. There are two ways that this conversation could go--I could rationally explain to her that the mail gets delivered at ten in the morning, and both of us are at work, leaving our precious mail cargo unprotected from the sanctity of our rental, or I could fumble a haphazard apology, and let her finish rubbing my nose in it. I choose, wisely, the latter. Truthfully, Id rather take my chances with the mugger, than her.

She can be pretentious, she can be funny, she can be charming, and she can be unruly. I don't really know what to think about it all. Its a little heavy, in all honesty. I make my way to the bathroom, to take a shower. Maybe a bath. Maybe forget it all, and just read.

While I'm in there, I hear her play the messages on the phone. All of a sudden I hear her walking down the hall, a woman possessed. My ex girlfriend has left me a message on the phone, and now, I'm going to pay. I'm fully dressed in my birthday suit, and I turn off the shower, desperately trying to grab a towel. She walks in, and berates me about the whole situation.

She then realizes I'm stark nude. Some how, testicles and an exposed buttocks diffuse the situation, as water is still beaded on me.

We make love for an hour. During the course of it all, I stand above her, behind her, lay beneath her, her beneath me, and bite my lip. She is devastatingly beautiful, and right now, completely uninhibited.

Shes done. I'm done. I just want to lay face down on the bed, floor, whatevers closest, and close my eyes. Fat chance, its time to rush to get ready for some birthday bash, at some restaurant. We have reservations.

Dinner in a dark room. Its as pretentious as Michelle could be. Its quiet. And...God...its so dark in here. I order some chicken concoction, and prepare to over pay, for some burnt bird. Darkened as they call it.

"Don't you just love it here David? God, the ambiance of it, the serenity...much better than that dirty taco place you frequent. You know, you and I could benefit from eating a little better. God knows we're not about to get any younger.

My sentiments exactly, darling. She orders some sushi, a bottle of wine, and a salad. She also ordered me a salad.

We eat dinner, and converse about work. Shes in love with our situations. Working all day, coming home and watching some stupid sit-com. We used to watch interesting movies, watch amazing bands, and play video games. We don't anymore.

"David. I want to ask you something. You know how we used to go to that one place, next to the church, to watch those bands?"

I'm interested. Maybe we'll be getting out a little bit, at least out of this stuffy place.

"Well, I was thinking--" She pauses, and bites her lower lip. I know whats next. She smiles, theres love in her smile, there's love, and commitment in her eyes. "Would that church be an ideal place..." she trails off. Its like watching some mixed up, slow motion disaster, because in my guts, I know whats next. I know it, and I almost hate her for it.

She pulls out that box, that one from mail order earlier. The wheels are turning in my head, and I can almost mouth the words. Its unnatural, the reversed order of this.

She takes a sip of wine, and removes two rings, and places on on her ring finger, and then takes my hand. That ringings back, and the wine just hit me hard.

"Will you marry me."

The waiter delivers the salad. Thank God for that.

Shes on a mission, and holds my hand tighter, to regain my attention.

I think about swallowing my tongue. Biting part of it off, and swallowing my tongue. I just..nod, and somehow say yes. I hate it.

Its a swirl. The rest of the night.

The next moment I can grasp, I'm laying in bed. Michelle is facing me, and kisses my shoulder. Her breasts are exposed, and I have a sinking feeling that we fucked, and I don't even know it. Shes devastating.

"Good night again baby, and happy birthday David, I love you very, very, very much" She kissed my lips, and turns off the lamp.

The time is 10. I was born at 11:46 in the evening. Its not even my birthday yet.

That when I take out a pen, and a pad. Thats how you're reading this now.

Look at it this way...I'm writing this by the iridescent glow of the street lights below. We live in a second story rental of a duplex apartment. The basics, what do you want to know? I write this with a shakey mind, and low confidence, clinging to the last hour and forty-six moments of my teenage life. Sadly, this is the only life I've ever been cognizant of.

A life, that one, in my mind, stands to reason that was very memorable, if not for the pain, and past, is now complete.

I write this to you, with no knowledge of the present time before me, basically no knowledge at all, armed with fleeting hope, and vague contempt mixed for the future, and for humanity as a whole. Maybe as humans we're susceptible to frantic kicks, flailing arms, and shallow breaths, holding onto the past memories we've accrued, desperately trying to stay above the surface with them, if only for a brief interval, we're too tired to continue.

I've got this theory that I recently adopted. Our lives, do in fact have meaning, thats almost irrevocably undeniable. However, I think collectively, we've got time limits make meaning, to do so. Very. Short. Microscopic intervals.

Twenty. Thats the key. Its the key to all things relevant, and also irrelevant as well.

Here for instance, is what I suggest in its fullest: They say that a song has twenty seconds of instrumentation before the vocals kick in. Before the average listener, to the average pop song, loses interests in the melody beforehand.

You get twenty seconds of sound clips, in the news media. Twenty seconds of ideas, or quotes from the most prominent figures of our society, to digest, to formulate an opinion off of.

A movie has about twenty critical minutes to formulate a satisfying plot before the viewer walks out.

Sponsorship of your average television show, the half hour show...The sponsorship takes up an average of ten minutes of the programing.

It takes twenty years for a new generation to arrive.

My theory is this: You live your life in twenty year periods, increments, and at the end of those twenty years, you effectively die. Then you resurrect, you evolve into something radically different.

It brings me back to the beginning of it all. What would you ever want to know about me, if anything at all, that you couldn't conclude from your own observations? Would I ever be able to do myself justice?

Truth is. I wouldn't tell you if I could. The absolute truth is...I COULDN'T tell you. I'll be dead in an hour and forty six minutes.




*Editors note* This was written on October 10th, 2006. I just wanted you to know that for some reason.

-Until tomorrow.

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