Have you ever just sat in a chair and thought about sand? You don’t really have to sit in a chair to think about it. I like to think in the shower. Or when I’m driving. Or in a chair. I also like to pee in the shower, but I don’t pee when I’m driving. Or in a chair. Sand is interesting. There is so much of it. It has no life span. It is either exposed to the Sun, submerged in water, or buried underneath hundreds of trillions of other little pieces of sand. They say that no two snowflakes are identical. Is it the same for sand? I wonder. They say that no two palms are the same. Is it the same for people? I wonder. It can’t be true. They say that no two psalms are the same, but I’ve never read, so I wouldn’t know.
I really hate the sand. You can’t get rid of the shit.
In this part of my story I will introduce you to my brother. I have other family members, but he is the only one you will ever meet. More on him later. I duped Suzanne into loving me. Fucking right, I did.
Everyone has that relative. That aunt or cousin or grandparent that sends you a sweater every Christmas, and every year you do the same thing with that sweater. You hang it up and put it all the way in the back of your closet because you know you will never wear it. You probably wind up calling the relative to thank them for the kind gesture at some point, but there is a very selfish feeling that you suppress. You wonder why they even wasted their time on such a stupid gift. It’s fucked up to feel that way and of course you don’t have the heart to tell them your thoughts, because no matter how you look at it, that person took time out of their busy day to go to the mall, spend money on that sweater, and then package it up and send it hundreds of miles to your doorstep, not caring if you ever actually wear the sweater. They just want you to be happy.
They just want you to be happy. There is nothing quite like the philanthropic family member. Transfixed on their own cataleptic state of charity. It is not even limited to family. Friends or acquaintances can fill out this application as well. It is the act of giving which is usually reserved for the colder portion of the year. Or warmer, depending on which hemisphere you live in. And because you are very quick to identify errors, you will say “But Thomas, the Western countries are the only ones civilized enough to celebrate the act of giving, the birth of Christ. Or the lighting of the Menorah, depending on your beliefs.” I would like to personally thank all proprietors for being politically correct and enhancing the holiday experience. Happy Holidays in substitute of Merry Christmas. The 21st century is a sensitive one.
In response to your Western Civilization bias, I say you are an asshole. You are no better than any Eastern native that prays and gives thanks to Allah or Buddha or Mohammed. We only believe what we believe. The radicals are few. The casual are many. It seems to be only a Western practice to forcibly spread the thought of Christianity or Democracy. Such force insinuates that other beliefs and ideals are wrong. That is what we told the “Redman” or “Savages” while we burned their villages and raped their women. Corrupting two races of young minds in the process and the saga continues. Sometimes I think that these radicals are the reason that Eastern fundamentalists hate us. A radical living in a cave built into a mountain hates me because people that look and talk like me are fools. If given the chance he would kill me and my family and himself in the process. “Your people fear what my people embrace.”
But they don’t just hate the West and our ideals. They hate each other. That is what the media wants us to believe. The rivalries they supposedly share are a fabrication of an elaborate imagination. An imagination funded by the government. The government that infuses our media with propaganda and lies. The media that tortures the citizens with images of fear and hatred and sympathy and a tightly wound ball of emotions. The government that young boys die in protection of. The media that is fueled by the organs and blood of these young boys. They die to protect us. Our safety rests on the trigger fingers of well trained American boys. And more recently, girls. They are as American as apple pie. Or the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Or 34th Street. As American as those coping with PTSD. Or those on medication for illnesses that may or may not be real and may or may not be caused by the PV pill packs that soldiers were required to take in the event of a chemical attack.
I’d like to know when the hatred started. It’s hard for me to imagine that in 1850 there was a Taliban leader hiding in the mountains saying “Mother fuck America.” Did they even know we were here? Did we know they were there? When was the exact day? These are the questions that I need answered. Now the children are stuck in the sand. And you can’t get rid of it.
My name is Thomas and I like to go by Thomas. Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am upset. Sometimes I am not. I feel a lot of different things, but I mostly feel nothing. You have met me before. The first time I was hopelessly in love. The second time I was full of vengeance. Nothing I write is necessarily in chronological order. I don’t hide from my mistakes. You are lucky, because today I am calm and serene. The same way the ocean is after the storm. There is no promise that another storm will never pass. There will be more storms. But for now we are alone. The candles are lit. The music is playing. I am writing this hoping that you will read it.
Jekyll and Hyde has already been written and read. Most of the time I wish I had been that author.
My mood right now is somber. I am serious but not quite melancholy. I am lacking a certain light but I am not dark. I am sober. I am not intoxicated or under the influence of any drug, although I am not opposed to that concept. In this moment no one is missing me or thinking about me. Not even Suzanne, and even if she is I could care less. I wish Renee was. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t go back. She left me figuratively. So I returned the favor literally.
This installment is different than the rest. I have introduced you to my brother although I have not yet told you his name. I am not writing about the old man or his old wife. I am not writing about Suzanne or Jim. I am not writing about Renee. Not right now, anyway.
They say the family that prays together, stays together. I don’t know. My family never prayed together but we’ve manage to stay undivided. I realize that the majority of what I’ve just written is useless to most of you. No one cares about my opinions on political issues or religious matters. I like to present them to you on occasion for my own benefit.
The morning after Suzanne and I had sex for the first time I skipped town. Our actions had consequences. I had sex with my friends wife. I could only assume she would leave him in hopes of starting over with me. That was unrealistic. If she was unfaithful to Jim then I presume that she would commit similar acts of infidelity in the future. As I said before, I didn’t love her and I never will. If there were no strings attached I would enjoy continuing the sexual aspect of our friendship, even if it was at the expense of my unfaithful friend and the inevitable destruction of his marriage.
I wanted to go see my brother. He lived only a few hours away from where I lived. He was younger than me by three years. He had a beautiful wife. I did not and will not ever covet her. He is my brother not my neighbor. My brother was very successful. We were very close, making me feel equally successful. I left early in the morning, just as the Sun was rising. It was all I could see as I got on the interstate and once again left this God-awful fucking town or city or whatever you want to call it. The rats in the sewers and on the subway tracks. The skyscrapers. The bodegas. Everything about it was just distasteful. I drove and drove.
I got caught up in some rush-hour traffic. Thousands of men and women embarking on their daily early morning commute to the lonely island of tedious office work and half an hour lunch breaks with the guy that doesn’t appreciate the value of silence. I think to myself that whoever designed the highway system in America was not very intelligent. I can’t think of a more chaotic scheme in the world. Thousands upon thousands of cars trying to merge and squeeze and bump and honk their way into a space that is not fit for this amount of volume. I guess when the roads were built the baby boomer generation was not anticipated. Who could have foreseen that type of population increase?
I am surrounded by an equal amount of American made automobiles and foreign vehicles. I am driving a Honda Civic. “Buy American” lost it’s luster when American jobs started mysteriously disappearing across various ponds and borders. I try to be patient in this mess of metal and multi-colored machines. Manufacturing geniuses. For miles I see nothing but the glaring red of brake lights. There are assorted state license plates furthering the melting pot mentality. I go through a couple of tolls, wishing the whole time I had an EZ pass. The radio station I have on is starting to fade to static. Instead of struggling to find something aesthetically pleasing I turn it off. After a few hours of stops and starts that remind me of children playing “Red Light, Green Light” I break out of the monotony. Every few miles I see Exit signs for towns that I will never have the pleasure of visiting, although I can only assume that they are mostly the same. Working class. Maybe poverty stricken. I wonder what GM plants are closing in their town. Did unions destroy your economy as well?
I see various billboards owned by Clear Channel that are intended to get my attention, but very few of them do. Thus far I think I’ve seen 6 or 7 Snickers brand billboards with comedic phrases on them like “Patrick Chewing” or “Dehungerize.” I am repeatedly informed about the amazing deals at the local car dealerships and when I can see whatever new, boring, sitcom is playing on ABC or CBS or NBC. Sometimes a city will pop up and I try and make comparisons to mine just based on the short glimpse I take of them. I rarely change lanes and rarely speed. I hum to myself and eventually turn the radio back on to further explore the standard verses and choruses that are polluting the Clear Channel airwaves.
I stop to get gas and my interaction with the ordinary cashier is strange. In some odd way of appearing hip or cool she said to me “What do you need?"
For these types of situations I usually have a built in response that I administer typically without any thought. For as far back as I can remember, every time I’ve entered a convenience store or gas station the cashier has said “Hi, how are you etc. etc.” to which I respond “I’m fine, how are you?”
Not expecting this young girl to throw a stick in between the spokes of my proverbial social wheel, which had previously been rotating just fine, I replied to her with “I’m fine, how are you?”
Seconds after reciting my orthodox and pre-prepared response I realized that we were operating on two different wave lengths. I abruptly told her that I needed 25 dollars on pump 11. As I was walking out the door she said “Don’t you remember me?”
I said, “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t. But I don’t remember much.”
I filled up and merged back on to the interstate. Once again I noticed signs advertising upcoming rest stops with fast food restaurant logos on them trying to convince me to make a quick stop. I was uninterested in these pathetic multi colored pleas for business. I often wondered what it must feel like to be the subject of someone’s poetry or lyrics. As the lonely sounds of top 40 radio pulsated out of my speakers like unwanted sewage I thought about this. Renee often told me about how she tried her hand at poetry or story telling. I wonder how many times, if any, I was the subject in question. I hope I was. I wonder if I was the hero or the villain? I can imagine that I am now the villain plaguing her once romantic sheets of notebook paper. That is not what I intended. I continued on my way.
Young and full of running, tell me where’s that taken me? Just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity. My reaction to this was visceral. I was used to running, but not like this. I had been on the road for roughly three hours at this point. I had two tolls and two hours left. I allotted myself very little time for reflection. It was better if I just shut all of it out. You will not gain any insight, the best you can do is assume. At random moments I considered dialing her number. Or changing direction and going back to her. That is not how it will be. I continued on my way.
I came half an eyelash away from crashing a few times. After these few times where my heart rate increased I would sigh and thank the charm resting in a compartment underneath my steering wheel. Lord, give me grace and dancing feet. Just get me to that house. It only took nine words to get me on that path, “He’s done a lot for you. You know that.” And that was the dead-ass truth. I didn’t expect much this time. I continued on my way.
I was only about 15 exits away from my brothers house. I’m not telling you his name on purpose. As I came closer I started to recognize the scenery. Empty outlets, forsaken boardwalks, lost chicken wire. I was driving on roads that lead to nowhere, to nothing. I saw farm houses scattered throughout miles of flat land like they were accidental snowflakes that fell for no reason. Although I was still on the highway, the road was now desolate and my radio began to lose signal once more. I took the exit.
As I drove down the exit ramp I saw the usual corner store and gas station. I was here now. This wasn’t my home, but it was my family’s home. These people were not like me, but then again, nobody was really “like me.” I hadn’t told my brother I was coming and I didn’t pack for an extended stay. A few hours ago it seemed like the only woman I could love was dressed in a black asphalt dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. And I rode her. I don’t think I feel any different. To get away from Renee I had to use more extreme measures… the road ran out so I had to look to the sky. For story telling purposes I do not indulge in plain speaking. I do not apologize for that and hopefully you can keep up.
My phone’s battery had expired and I chose not to bring the charger with me. I can imagine that once I turned it on I would have several missed calls and voice messages from Suzanne. I wasn’t concerned in the least bit. It was around noon now and normally my brother would be at work, but today is Saturday, so I drove directly to his house. It was cloudy. His porch lights were on.
It feels like the city never changes. Who is out there? I don’t know, I don’t think anyone is. I am out here. It’s me. What happens when you do it to yourself? What happens when I am the product? I am the cause and the effect… now what? I don’t care about anyone but myself. I don’t care about my friends. I don’t care about Renee. I don’t care, I just run. That is what I do. I run. Do you care about your family? I care about my family. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s your brother. You can stay as long as you want, yea. Come inside, let me take your jacket. I wasn’t going to come inside… I, I, I don’t even know why I came this was stupid. No, I won’t stay long. Please, just stay. I don’t want to go back. You have everything. Who cares what they think? What do they think? She’s asleep? I’m proud of you. You don’t have to. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s me. Let me take your jacket. Sit down… do you want something to drink? Eat? No? I should have just stayed in the car. I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t like taking things. Just stop, just relax, it’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. I fucking coveted her. She left me. I came back, that’s why. It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re okay now. It’s alright. Stay as long as you need. I won’t stay long. I know you won’t. It’s alright. It's alright. Thank you. It's me. I'm here.
It only took six words to get me on that path. “This is what we’re fighting for.”
To be continued...
William Wallace
