Alright. So it’s me again. It’s weird now. Things are weird now. Or weirder, I guess I should say. I don’t really expect anyone to have any sympathy for me. I don’t want any sympathy. But I don’t think I have very much for other people, either. I’m still sort of sitting here wondering where it all went. Visits with doctors, missed phone calls, long drives. Where did all of this come from?
I still fantasize about the CITY. The city. Yes. The CITY. I fantasize about giving all of this up. Just giving up everything I have and moving to the city. I won’t have a name or identity. I will be a small speck on a big apple. A piece of dust in the wind. I would just blend in. No family. No attachments. But I wouldn’t just exist there. I would live without consequences. I would start dealing drugs. Cocaine or heroin. I would work my way up from a runner to a King. I would use my intelligence to outsmart any opposition. I would drive fancy, foreign automobiles. I would have parties in the finest penthouses, but money is not what would draw people to me. No. I would have a gorgeous woman with me because of my natural charisma and charm. A different one every night. At first. Then I would find a young girl, innocent and impressionable with the same charisma and undeniable charm. At first she would be frightened, maybe even confused by me. Eventually she would become curious. She would see me out with friends. She would see how I walked the streets and how I interacted with people. The curiosity would grow to interest and I would go see her. I would take her out to a nice restaurant but I wouldn’t engage her sexually. I would take her some places. I would never, ever, show her my business, but I would take her out with me to show her things. Things and places she would have otherwise never seen. I would show her how I could walk with the aristocrats and never lose a step and then take the subway into the most poverty stricken neighborhoods and never even take a second look. I would show her how I could speed down any Avenue or Boulevard running red lights and stop signs. I would show her designer clothes after hours. I would amaze her by the way I would command respect. She would be intrigued by how I would take over a crowded room and then drift into the background. I would show her how I could have VIP access to the most exclusive nightclubs just by saying the words “I’m Thomas Burr.” The name would garner the attention in itself. Thomas Burr. Cold, unforgiving. Kind, loving. I would make her my wife and we would live like royalty in this CITY. No one would even know I existed outside of the limits, but I would run that fucking city. But I would do this without any arrogance or cockiness, she would see how unassuming I was. How I could do all of this and not even be aware that I was doing it. She would be madly in love with me. I fantasize about it. I’ve given her a name already. Alice Austen. Thomas Burr and Alice Austen riding around the most extravagant place on Earth with no enemies and all of our friends.
But that’s not who I am.
This is who I am. I sometimes hope everyone is proud, but then I stop.
It’s unfortunate that the last installment was so erratic. My thoughts were scrambled. Her letter threw me for a loop and I just didn’t know what to think. I still don’t know what to think. Based on what I’ve experienced all I know is that your old friends forget about you and your new friends are likely to dissipate at some point, but your family is what you have when the Sun goes down. No price tag is too high for that. No price can be named for that. And I know that life is temporary but if we have photographs and stories we can pretend that we will always exist here. And letters too. If we have letters we can stay the same. Sometimes it’s just exhausting when you’re something that you’re not.
But that’s not who I am. This is who I am. You can wear clothes with horses stitched on… you can dress upper class but you know where you came from. You can drive through the neighborhoods. See the American flags flying, the men mowing their own yards, raking their own leaves, cleaning their own cars, drinking the beer that they worked for. The type of people that didn’t need a terrorist to remind them about what it means to be patriotic. The type of men that would die for their families. The working class heroes that surround me.
Anyway, welcome to the city where your friends won’t visit your parents. The city where they make excuses not to hang out with each other. The city where no body celebrates your 21st birthday. The city… the house that protects you like a womb. The familiar footsteps and voices that resonate off of the different shades of tan. The Christmas lights on the bushes in the front yard. The backyard with the birdbath and a holly tree on each side. The spigot that we used to drink out of that was right next to the family room windows. There was that awkward green mat that lined the front steps. The patio that would get unbearably hot had the chair that I liked to spin around in. The train set down stairs. The accolades. The holidays. The handrails. This history. Yea, this is it. The city where everything stays the same, I guess. I guess it stays the same, but you can’t believe that because look at how different everything has become. And I guess that I guess about it because I’m not sure and when you’re not sure you consider the options and guess. I consider the options. I compare and contrast. I’m confident. Supremely. It’s not me I doubt. What’s the point?
So now I’m laying in my bed and the speakers are doing what they are told and they are speaking to me…
They say we don’t have heart but it’s pounding more now than ever…
And I’m just laying here thinking…
I find it humorous that for all those years I found it hard to listen.
I’m finding now that failure hurts; I’m failure fleeting.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
And here I am, my phone lighting up with a text message from a girl and I don’t even care about it. What a boring conversation we are having. This is too easy. And another girl supposedly sent a letter in the mail, but I consider not even reading it. In fact, I’ll never read it because it’s not on it’s way. It’s not coming and I know it isn’t. And my speakers keep speaking to me and this time I am the therapist and not the patient. My phone lights up again and I don’t even respond to it. This is too easy.
I think back to when me and my best friend stood on a stoop in the middle of a bustling city… the giant city. There were vendors and men handing out pamphlets riddled with conspiracies that I’m not sure they believed in as much as they believed in the almighty dollar that is so hard to come by. Streaks of yellow pass by transporting other tourists and nomads looking for answers. There is not much to look at; we could barely see over the fence that lined the area. It was a feeling or a sense that let us know what this was. We could smell it. It was a mixture of trash, and people, and afternoon hot dogs, and cold. I could smell the cold. It was barely the early evening but the Sun was already going down. The walls told me to post no bills but I did anyway. Women walked by with heavy perfume on and men walked by in pea-coats and they were so numb but I can imagine that they pass this every day and the effects have worn off. I couldn’t stare at this forever. As we looked down at a vast emptiness, a giant hole, he said “this is what we’re fighting for.” Is it? Again, I’m not sure so I guess he’s right.
But fuck, man, fuck.
Did you know fuck was actually an acronym? It originated in the Middle Ages when religion was law. The citizens of the kingdom had to get permission from the King to have a child, so they put a sign in front of their homes that said “Fornication Under Consent of the King” or “Fornication Under Cardinal Knowledge.” Fuck.
There’s this riddle that I know and I want to take a second to see if you can figure it out. There is a green glass door and you have to figure out what is behind it. Here are some clues: There is no water, but there is a flood. There is no alcohol, but there is beer. There are no leaves or branches, but there are trees. There is no fruit, but there are apples. There is no orange, but there is yellow. There are no beds, but there are pillows and sheets. You can’t swim in a lake, but you can swim in a pool. You can’t swim, but you can go swimming. There are no buildings, but there are schools. You can’t taste, but you can smell. There are no losers, only winners. You can’t have everything, but you can have it all. That’s enough clues. Do you know what is behind the green glass door?
When I left my brothers home I noticed how much he’d aged without getting any older, but I let him know he’s not a man yet so he still has something to work for. I got back on that dreadful highway and endured. My engine was the Metal Moses and the rubber tires were following him. Anyway, welcome back to the city where your best friends are your family and your family are your best friends. And you spent years trying to think of reasons to leave but you’re still scared to death at the airport by yourself, trying to convince yourself that it’s not that long but you don’t even know what’s going to happen in two hours. You think things will stay the same but you’ve been gone for less than one day and things are already so different. It’s been a fucked up year so I guess we should just assume next year will be fucked up too.
“I’m the shit because I don’t even miss her.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m beating a dead horse with all of this. I’ll sit in here in this bed and write for a while, sometimes only a few minutes, but for how long can you just type and delete and type and delete? Type and delete. Type and delete. Type and delete. Like a hamster in a wheel or Algernon trying to find his cheese. Or a CD that will only play to a certain second, so you just keep starting over and starting over, but the song is the same every time. So you know what? I don’t even miss her. And why should I? Did she earn that? No.
So yes, I am the shit. I’m not a pessimist. Sometimes I reminisce, but that’s what we do when we’re bored. I don’t for long though because do they reminisce about me? Who fucking cares. It really makes no difference. You’re either with me or not, but I’m going forward either way. I try to apologize to Jimmy but he doesn’t want to hear it, so fuck him. Fuck him for not visiting our family in my absence. And fuck Suzanne for cheating on my best friend. And fuck Renee for every missed phone call and unsent letter. Fuck all of their unreliability. Fuck them for being occupied when I wasn’t. What’s the use of hiding anything behind a quill and some coffee stained parchment? That’s how old this is… my thrice told story. Thrice told stories. Yeah, that’s right, knock ‘em down for the Gold Medal Kids and fuck them to hell. You heard me. Fuck them. That’s the only way I can get anyone’s attention? So yeah, I mean that. Fuck all of you. I created it so I can do what I want with it. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future girlfriends will know everything about me.
Let’s keep going like this.
Couldn’t you feel the chemistry? We were practically building nuclear bombs and now I’ve got them stockpiled in my fingertips. I think most of what you believe is bullshit. I’ve had this fairytale built up in my mind. I’ve been trying to create the balance of the city and my home. At least I can admit that it’s fantasy. You think what you have is reality. It was just another dance to you, wasn’t it? That’s all it ever was. Just a fairytale. A movie role you could play until you got bored. But it seems the film ran out unusually quick, even for you. Not very surprising and extraordinarily predictable. But you have got to be fucking kidding me. That’s the best you could do? It was a poor performance. Not even a letter. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future boyfriends will know absolutely nothing about me.
Enough of this.
Have you ever looked at coins lined up? Take a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and a penny place them in a line. Do you notice that three of the coins are a lighter color and one is dark? The copper is dark. Do you notice that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin D. Roosevelt are all facing the left and Abraham Lincoln is facing right? It’s like the other three are turning their backs on him because they are ashamed. It’s a subliminal message. Is it a coincidence that the coin Abraham Lincoln graces is practically worthless? He freed the slaves and it’s a secret subliminal message.
There are a few things I believe in. I believe in family, country, and God. But I also believe that letters are the most intimate form of communication and that every powerful man should wear a watch, an attractive watch. A watch that describes the man. My brother may have gotten qualities such as intelligence and talent, but he did not get the relentless nature that I have. The extremism. However, his intelligence and talent transfer easily into society, whereas my relentless nature only exists on a blank tablet or when I feel like expressing it.
How am I different than anyone else, though? I’m trying to tell you my story but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. I hope maybe this gives you some insight into my psyche. I don’t know if it will though because I’m so void of details. Okay lets see, I’m looking back into time and the last you saw of me I was leaving my brothers house. When I got home I had a letter in the mail from Renee and it really bugged me for some reason. The envelope was business like and the writing on the front was obviously hers. My heart was like a skier performing aerials in an avalanche. I placed it on my coffee table and stared at it for hours. Eventually I started listening to some music and I did some laundry. I forgot about it, which was strange because I’d being dying for some form of communication. Correction: I was living for it. I opened the letter a few days later after I had walked past the beasts lined up. They were so incomplete here, you could just tell by looking at them. Some of them had survived many wars but here they sat, alone and slightly relevant. I walk outside and start making my way towards them. The Sun is usually just rising in whatever direction that takes place. The asphalt still smells like rain. There’s always a puddle to my right and the rising Sun shimmers off of it like fire. The birds are singing their morning song. The jack rabbits are brushing the morning dew out of their eyes. It’s unusually warm for this hour and beads of sweat drip off of my forehead like a leaky faucet. I can feel my lower back start to moisten and it’s becoming uncomfortable. I imagine that if my body experienced this type of dampness on a beach or at a pool it would be much more pleasing. I walk past a building that is undergoing treatment for a flood that I didn’t have a chance to witness. And then another building with strange hallways that elevate and sink in place of the regular straightness. The parking lot I walk through is littered with gravel and potholes. The stones are just as displaced as everything else. The Sun glints and gleams off of chrome tires and bumpers and the flatness of the area provides a pleasant view of the sky. There are people coming to work and leaving work at the same time. There is an absence of wildlife and an abundance of steel. I start to feel their warmth. They have been domesticated but they are still warm from their years of life. The morning heat reverberates off of their midsections and brings an extra warmth to the area. The hearts have been dormant for years but if you listen close you can still hear traces of the distant hum. I come around the corner and there they are, clear as day. And there they are. There they are… what was I saying? The letter, let’s get back to the letter.
Back to the letter. Here is what it said:
Dear Thomas,
I’m not really sure why I’m writing this… I actually can’t believe that I’ve sent it off but if you’re reading this then I obviously did. We haven’t really had a chance to talk, but the way you just disappeared really hurt me. You never really let me in so how was I supposed to know how you really felt? This is all just very confusing to me. Sometimes I wish you had never left. Sometimes I wish you were dead. Other times I don’t even care. I really hated you. But I’m sure you also hated me. I know it wasn’t right, maybe we should have never even started. It was all really stupid. It was never going to happen. You probably think that what you’re doing is so amazing, but nobody cares. Your friends don’t care, the people you used to know don’t care, and I don’t care. I’m sorry because that sounds awful, but it’s the truth. And I really have no place to tell you that because I’m not doing anything amazing, either. What am I even saying? Of course I care. Come back, Thomas. I want you to come back so I can see you. I don’t want things to be like this, but I know they can never be the same. I guess I should tell you that I’m with someone right now and he doesn’t know much about you. He doesn’t know that I wrote this or that I want you to come back . I swear to you if you came back I would leave him in a second. Do you have anyone? How is your family? How are you?
The letter you left at the library… I didn’t how to respond to it which is why this took so long. But this isn’t a response, this is a new conversation. I don’t know what any of this even means. Come save the city from the fire.
I want to know how you are doing. What have you been up to? I want you to write back so I know you received this. I miss you. I’ll just keep this short because I’m sure you are busy.
Renee
Was it shocking? Yes. How did I feel about it? I’m not really sure. I put it in my folder and carried it around with me. I started writing drafts that would hopefully be some sort of response, but not much of them made any sense. It sort of brought me back to that little town and me losing my fucking mind trying to impress her with a story. But like I said, things are different now. So I wrote something back and I’m not sure if it’s impressive. In fact, I know it’s not impressive, but you have to believe when I say that it took every ounce of confidence to mark it with postage. I didn’t rush it. I actually intentionally waited several weeks to send it even though I wrote the final version maybe 5 or 6 days after I read Renee’s letter. I just wanted it to marinate a little bit. Even from a few thousand miles away you don’t want to seem too desperate or urgent. But this story will take place at a later date.
I walk outside and all I hear is arguments:
“What the fuck is a thousand millions? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“How does that not make sense… a thousand millions is one billion. You’re an idiot.”
--
“Just fucking ask him man, I don’t understand why you’re being an asshole.”
“This is funny to me. I’m going to sit here until you go up and ask.”
--
“How do you not understand this? You came over here, took my shit, and now you want to pay? Do you go to Foot Locker and pay after you wear the shoes? No, you don’t, that’s backwards.”
“Relax man, I’m just trying to have a good time.”
--
I hear the arguments but I just keep walking. I reach a place where I can think and I decide that after many stops and starts and re-do’s and undo’s I want to go back a few months. I left you in an awkward position. I never really told you how I got here. I think you would be interested where the cynical side of my writing comes from. You see how sarcastic and vicious I can be? But then I turn it around into a moderate and restrained style just within a few words. Sometimes I feel like I hold back, however moderation is important in writing because I can’t just tell you everything. Something has to be left to the imagination… I think I’ve said that before. You have to leave something to be desired. I think one of biggest problems in literature is that people that write do things and they don’t even know why they’re doing it. It’s like there are unwritten rules you have to follow and there might have been a reason for the rules many years ago, but there‘s no point to them now. It reminds of the “monkeys in a cage” concept. You could take ten monkeys and put them in a cage with a basket of bananas and every time one of them got close you could spray them with a fire hose. At first they would keep trying to get to the bananas because monkeys like bananas, if you haven’t noticed. After some time, though, they wouldn’t try anymore. If you took five of those monkeys out of the cage and put five new ones in and the new ones tried to eat the bananas, the older monkeys would beat the new ones every time they got close to the basket until they didn’t want the bananas, either. If you took out the older monkeys and put five newer monkeys in, the other five monkeys would beat the new monkeys until they didn’t want the bananas. The cycle would perpetually continue, but now there’s no fire hose, so why can’t they have the bananas? It doesn’t make any sense at this point. I don’t know how to make this specific and vague at the same time. I haven’t found a way yet. I promise you I’m trying to figure it all out. This is just what I’ve come up with so far. I guess I can begin at the airport. No, no. That’s not right. I’ll begin at the beginning. This is has to start in a kitchen. A kitchen in a house. It’s not as clear as used it to be, but all the cutlery was placed appropriately.
I promise this is only the beginning…
William BraveHeart Wallace
I bid you adieu.
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