something I wrote awhile ago - Writers Forum

aedeos · 03-28-2005, 09:53 PM

Quote:

I don’t have a perverse mind. Well, not that perverse. Compared to a child rapist or a bondage fan, I’m a downright priest. But not one of those freaky rapist ones. I just have a sense of humor; there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?
Life has never come easy for me. Born in the Children’s Hospital to a mother who was twenty days from death and a father who thought the only thing more important than me was crank (and everything else in the world), I was always alone. I guess my mother was always incredibly caring. That is what my uncle told me at least. He took care of me from ages four to seventeen. After that, I decided that I was too good for his shit and took off on my own. Before all that I was in an orphanage.
Out on my own was a big thing. I had some friends who were able to afford a shitty house on Capital Hill because of some less than legal practices. They developed a good rapport with the land owner and coincidently developed a hidden room under the garage to be able to produce a small amount of drugs to supply a decent number of steady customers.
The two story house was probably twenty or thirty years old, and was a deep red when it had been painted. Now the paint has faded to a chipped, dull brown. Time slowly destroying one more accomplishment of humankind—even the mighty empire of Alexander toppled. This house was still my sanctuary.
The three bedrooms in the house served as tiny worlds, each one inhabited by the personalities and pasts of the person who sleeps there. My room was the mellowest of the lot, with a simple box spring bed in one corner, a dresser, bedside table, bookcase and a desk along the walls. Fading white walls, some minor stains, a ceiling fan, a single picture of my parents, and a smattering of literature strewn about finished off the décor.
The next room down the hall on the second story belonged to John, who had been my friend ever since grade four. He was your atypical stoner. His small bed was always neatly made every morning, all his clothes folded neatly in the dresser or hung in the closet. Nothing laid on the floor. If it weren’t for the large amount of drug paraphernalia neatly lining the headboard of his bed, someone could easily see him as one of the most anal people that walked the Earth. The walls were always shining cleanly, the windows spotless, the rug vacuumed. The room was an anomaly when taken in with the rest of the house, but at the same time it fit so perfectly. Life is weird like that.
The final bedroom belonged to Seth, whom we both met in middle school. He was what led us down the path of mediocrity, and we thank him every chance we get. If Seth hadn’t stepped into the picture, I might have stayed a straight-A student and gone off to college and ended up in some dead-end job and hated punks like me who didn’t do anything with their lives. I couldn’t stand hating me.
Seth’s room was always dark. He had the windows covered over so no one could see in from outside. He was the one who really was into developing the drugs. He never did any, but he could sell them without any discomfort. It was always an interesting trip into his psychology when someone pressed him on that.
“So why don’t you ever use your meth if it is as good as you claim?”
“Are you crazy? That shit will fuck you up. I don’t touch it anymore. I was young and foolish once, but not anymore. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Then why the hell do you push it?”
“Everyone needs to be happy. I provide a little bit of happiness. When it comes down to it, we all die, so if some junkie wants some meth to get him through the day, I say let him have it. He doesn’t hurt anyone in that cracked out buzz, and it is one more happy person. You can’t say that much for your average desk jockey down in the high rises. Shit, so many highly successful people commit suicide all the time, and you know why? Because they aren’t happy! Yea, they have the money, the cars, the nice house, but their life is their work. Now, look at me. I do what I love. I go visit the outdoors, I fish, I relax, and that is because I make more time to do what makes me happy instead of work. If being happy and keeping myself—or your everyday junkie—from putting a bullet through my brain is a bad thing, then fuck it, life is too short anyway.”
“Why don’t you just build a water park or some shit then? Same outcome, no addiction.”
“Oh, fuck you and your addiction bullshit. You know as well as me that anything can be addictive.”
On and on it went, almost the same speech every time. It was almost like a game we played with each other; only there were no winners, no losers, and we never passed go. Later he would talk about how his aunt Marge was addicted to vanilla wafers. Went through a box a day, couldn’t have a meal without finishing it with wafers. And those things had nothing in them. Still later we would hear how we were ourselves addicts to this or that; we never really paid attention at that point.
His room was stark. A simple mattress on the floor, some clothes piled in one corner, shoved in a dresser in the other. Random pornographic materials and magazines on cars scattered the floor. He put what money he earned in the closet, meeting upper-middle-class standards to everyone but the IRS. He always kept the door closed as a favor to John, who almost died whenever he saw the mess in the room.
There were two other rooms on the top floor. The one in between John and my room was the bathroom, a converging storm of our personalities. John usually kept the bathroom downstairs for himself. The one Seth and I used was scattered with personal hygiene products in some areas, random magazines in the others. The shower was about as clean as a German shiza flick. Only without all the shit.
The room next to Seth’s was our study. We all kept that room as neat as we could. It was the only way we could make any semblance of what was before us. Contained in that fourteen by fourteen square were three piles of boxes, one for each of us. Inside each were our lives to this point. It wasn’t quite packrat, but it wasn’t a simple let go of the common things we came across. If we came across something, anything really, that had some form of meaning to us, something that reminded us of a part of life, we boxed it. It was our promise we made when we were young so that we would never forget. We never really decided what it was we were trying to remember so well, but we wouldn’t let it go.
Off in the residential district, we have a storage garage. It is the same way, stacked with box after box of our stuff, three neat sections. Our lives are catalogued, neatly divided, and ready for whoever wishes to chronicle our histories. It is only a matter of time before the book deals come in, I’m sure.
In the study right now are boxes covering the last half year. The piles are around five feet high, and in each box are items in a small plastic bag, a piece of paper describing the importance of the object in our lives taped to it. Maybe we are packrats.
Once every six months or so we would get a large truck and just make trips back and forth from the garage. While there, we would neatly rearrange the boxes so that they were sorted in an order we found fitting. I’ve chosen chronological, as has Seth. But John, being the person he is, has set it up from best years to worst in his life. His sophomore year of high school has always sat as number one on his list. I don’t think I’ll ever see it set to number two, either. Sometimes a year is just that perfect for a person.
It was never really said out loud, but there was always a group consensus that the boxes would never be opened until we felt the time was exactly right. Every time we closed one up, it was locking away all the bad things that had happened over that period. Every strip of tape across a box signified a new beginning. All the bad that was in that box was in the past and out of our minds. The good was remembered, but put away in the box as well, so when they were opened, the bad and good would cancel to become distant memories, just a story of the past.
The downstairs was roomier. The kitchen was well kept; we always had a thing for cooking for some reason. I was the dessert expert (cheesecake specialty), Seth was good at baking, and John was an amazing cleaner. John also surprised us every now and then with odd culinary treats. He didn’t cook often, but when he did it was the best taste in the city.
The house wasn’t a nice house aesthetically in any way. But the kitchen was a temple. If we wanted to splurge, we splurged on the kitchen. It rivaled John’s room in terms of cleanliness. We had the nicest cutlery, appliances, and our serving ware was fit for royalty. Meals were one of the few times where we felt like we mattered in the world. If someone could be eating food as good as was cooked in our kitchen, then their status in life must be sky-high.
The rest of the first floor was a living room, offices, and a dining room. We never used much of those, sticking to our rooms, or out of the house. We had a TV, a nice collection of DVDs, and the stereo with plenty of CDs, but those were usually used later at night. The day belonged to the city. Being home during the day meant wasting part of our life we could never get back.
Our neighborhood was simple; there were houses similar to ours, but each had their own personality. It was none of these new developments, where each house is the same, down to the family (divorced mother, two and a half children, dog). Walking down the block was like reading an anthology of stories, each house having chapters printed in their minute details.
Some days we would just walk the neighborhood, stopping to look at houses every now and then, guessing their stories. More often than not, we’d bring a tape recorder. If someone has a really good story, in the box it goes. We had special boxes for house stories; they were in the office downstairs. We don’t keep those sealed, however. We might retell a house’s story otherwise. There is also a map on the wall for marking off houses that have been completed. It is getting closer and closer to covered. Maybe we are packrats.
We were always somewhat popular with the neighbors. Some came to Seth for a fix; others came to socialize about whatever was on their mind and to eat whatever we were cooking. Backyard barbeques were something that we enjoyed on occasion, and quite a few people showed. It was our way of being sociable in the neighborhood, making what friends we could.
Other days, we would head into the city. The feel of buildings rising above you is punishing. When viewed just as objects, they can’t help but make me insignificant. But to imagine that people have achieved the ability to harness nature—to take raw materials and sculpt them as they wish—that has always been magical. The power is intoxicating for me, I could stand staring up into the buildings for hours if I so wished, a collision of fear and awe.
Set against a backdrop of such rugged country, I feel the same intermingling, the power of nature colliding with the ever-present push of humankind. The way that designers try to effortlessly blend the two in a jolt of reality: this was once wild country.
Many will call cities jungles; they are not. A jungle is a living being, a single entity that has many small parts that co-exist to form one. The city is dead.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the city.
The rock of the streets doesn’t harbor life however. No seeds will sprout into trees here. The buildings sit lifelessly, the cars move when controlled. Without the people, this place would be dead. No people means no life, plant, animal or otherwise. Being such an integral part in a world makes me feel powerful. I like that.
The reason I come to the city isn’t for the shopping. I don’t need some shoes that cost more than most parking tickets. I don’t need expensive dinner plates. I don’t like kitschy stuff. I come for the people. They are what drive the city. Each person has a story, interesting little tidbits to shock and amaze. Even the most mundane will be able to surprise you with their regales.
That business man over there, the tall one. He takes almost all his money and spends it on charities. The homeless person on the corner, she once saved an entire platoon from being destroyed by Viet Cong. That person standing next to you? Why she is simply a child abuser. Too bad they aren’t her kids she beats. Every story could be written and become best sellers if the time was taken. But it never is. That is why I visit the city: to take the time. Finding a person to just sit and talk to, it is beautiful.
Many people get defensive when I ask them to tell me their life story, which is understandable. Really, I would rather have no one know my life. My story could be the most interesting thing out there, but it would be just fine if know one knew. Then I get poked, prodded, analyzed, and critiqued by those who don’t know me, don’t know my motivation. In seclusion I am able to believe I am still a good person.
I think fear is what motivates me. Some people will have fears that paralyze them. A single spider will set a cold sweat upon them, movement becomes impossible, synapses stop firing.
My fear is different. I can’t stop, I can’t let go, I can’t slow down. I fear that if I don’t know something, I will miss out. Life will pass me and it will be wasted. If I learn everything, talk to everyone, I will come out of this okay. My fear pushes me so hard, and I run faster and faster to keep from being hit by the tidal wave.

Mornings were always an interesting time in our house. When I was working, I wouldn’t have to be in until around mid-day. One of the nice things about working as a janitor at Ballard High School was the later hours. I rarely did anything in the night outside of the home as it was, so it didn’t matter too much that I worked late. More often than not, I would stay up late doing things in my room, then sleep would take over. It was a set pattern.
However, Seth was quite the opposite. Being the anal-retentive prick he was, he always had to have things clean. I couldn’t leave CD cases scattered around the music and movie room. And they would always have to be 1) in alphabetical order, and 2) subcategorized by the year each band put out an album.
The mornings were no different. As soon as he was awake, there was cleaning to do. He would make his bed, dust his room, and light up a bowl. There was nothing better than cleaning while stoned for him. To each his or her own I guess.
But the noise. He would vacuum the carpet, the pictures, everything. Every day. Every morning. At eight. It wouldn’t have bothered me as much maybe if we had a nice vacuum. We didn’t. It was old, shitty, and you could probably hear it down the street at the right hour of night.
Every morning at eight that is what would awaken me. Sleep would probably be ruined for the day. Every day at eight thirty the vacuum would go off. Normally I would try to go back to sleep for forty-five minutes. This would be followed with cereal: Special K with two scoops of sugar.
I guess all the intrigue in my life started on a day like that. I had to go be a janitor later that night. Forget the exact date. But there was that vacuum again. I remember that morning already being different. I couldn’t explain to you why, but I was annoyed. Maybe I should have gone to bed earlier last night (this morning). Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed so quickly, just gone to routine. Forty-five minutes of trying to fall asleep would have done me good I’m sure. If I had done it.
No, instead I had an epiphany. This epiphany said I should be really pissed at John. Man, I thought it was the best idea ever.
To make the assumption that I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed would be an understatement. To say that I built up all my rage over life and decided it was time to vent it would be closer to home. To say John deserved none of it would be right on target.
Why the fuck must you be such a prick everyday I said.
I am so fucking sick of you I said.
He said nothing.
To say I was being the prick was an understatement. The look of shock on his face was evident. The loathing in my voice apparent.
I doubt that it was the sanest of images to view. Me in my boxers (plaid) screaming at John in his neatly ironed khakis (tan) and polo (striped; yellow/white), all the while a look of utter terror etches across his face. To say that I failed in my role as friend would be right on target.
I don’t know if he cried after that. He seemed about to. The way he knotted up, slamming his eyes closed, blotting out the world, it seemed certain. All I know is his rejection of everything around him only made me angrier. He stood there; I stormed off.
I don’t remember much of what I did after leaving the house. I just remember ending up downtown. I might have walked. Might have even ran. Chances are I took a cab. I don’t know how much it cost. I have no clue how much I tipped.
All I knew is I was on the corner of Fifth and Pine and that John was a piece of shit. Yea, it wasn’t his fault he was so anal. But he should at least work with my time schedule. A few extra hours of sleep every once in a while didn’t seem like too much to ask for.
It was odd waking up in the metro area, if you can call it waking up. I wasn’t asleep as far as sleep goes, but I certainly don’t remember anything that happened in between point A and point B. For all I know, I could have hit points C, H, 7, and Canada during that time. I really hope I didn’t take a cab actually. Poor driver.
I know that no days passed, so that eliminates points H and Canada. Well, I could have made point Canada, but it was unlikely. Point H was too far out of the way. But C and 7, those seemed somewhat likely. I guess it is all moot though. All that mattered was John never being able to compromise, the selfish fuck he was, and I was standing under Nordstrom’s.

I wrote this junior year of high school over a 2 night period, and then I never really worked on it again. I've always kept it though because I think it has a lot of options. I just don't have any idea where I want to take it. The dialog in it is also horrible (I wrote this when I was on a legalize drugs kick), and it jumps around a little too much for my liking. But maybe a fresh perspective is all I need.

aedeos · 03-28-2005, 09:59 PM

whoa, just realized I change character names mid-story. Seth somehow magically becomes John. That's what happens when you put off writing for 6 months. This is a rough, rough draft...