This story is a work of fiction...
...for the lost souls trying to figure it out.
TUESDAY
The sun penetrated through the broken blinds on my motel room window like Big Birch used to ram asses back in the county jail. It hurt my eyes and I moaned as I rolled over onto the rolling tray next to me. Tobacco got all over me and stuck to my clothes. I wonder what Big Birch was up to now. For a sick sonofabitch he always treated me well, he never came at me like he did the other guys in jail. Maybe he just saw that look in my eyes and knew I was too much of a sick bastard for him to have a way with. I’d bite a dick right the fuck off of somebody before I let a sick motherfucker try to make me his bitch.
I usually didn’t drink on Tuesdays. I usually didn’t sit around either. An old neighbor of mine, Ed Kiel, ran the biggest mulch yard in Hoboken just about a mile from my place that sold that shit wholesale. So, every Tuesday morning, I was supposed to wake up fresh and motivated to work, and then I was to head down to Kiel’s yard and wait in line. Ed always chose me as long as I would show up on time. This morning instead of waking up “fresh” and “motivated”, I woke up drunk and in despair, only to drink some more.
I got up and went to the bathroom, sick as a dog, I relieved myself. I came out of the bathroom and poured myself some whiskey and raised the blinds. It was sunny as shit and I quickly closed them. I could feel the paleness of my skin. I drank a nice double whiskey for breakfast and then decided I ought to go out and grab the paper, and maybe another drink too. I walked down Washington St. and watched a group of chinks stare at me like Albert Einstein would stare at a BMW M3 coupe; flabbergasted. My clothes were ripped all over and soon enough my toes would start showing through my shoes. Quite honestly, I didn’t give a damn if any of these idiots in town saw me like this. I walked into the bodega and grabbed a tall boy of Budweiser out of the refrigerator, and started toward the counter to buy a few shooters of Evan Williams. Good ol’ Evan. I feel like him and I really would’ve got along. I probably had no business buying Budweiser considering how broke I was but, God dammit I wanted to drink a good beer. Is that too much for a guy to ask?
The bodega smelled like old cheese and sweaty balls. Right there in front of me on the floor was a little cat laying on its back. It was purring quite loudly. I bent down and gave it a little tummy rub. It purred and ran its head against my wrist, then it scratched me. Must’ve smelt my stench.
“Watch it you little fuck!,” I snapped at it. I stood back up and approached the counter to be greeted by my buddy.
“My friend, you told me you were done drinking last week” said the man at the counter. I always forgot the guy’s fucking name. I think it was Ravi, but I didn’t want to fuck it up. The guy liked me.
I slammed my wallet down on the counter. It was being held together by a few threads, and soon enough, it would be in two pieces.
“Well bud,” I said. “Anyone who starts drinking knows, you’ll never stop until you either run out of liquor or until the liquor kills ya” I told him. “I’m going for the second option.” I pointed at the shooters of Evan Williams behind the counter and began counting out the usual $4.21 cents I’d give him for the three drinks.
He looked at me like I was a fucking mad man. But, I didn’t care because I really was a mad man. I used to really get on myself for what these people thought about me. But, as you grow older, you learn more. And once you learn more, you think more, and once you start thinking a lot, you really start to see the world for how fake it is. It’s a fucking game--a big club. A big club, that you and I aren’t welcome in. I made the transaction, and walked out of the bodega. Ravi, or Kavi, or whatever the fuck his name is didn’t have anything else to say to me, and I didn’t have anymore to say to him. I immediately devoured two shooters leaving the third for lunch time. After walking a few blocks I realized that I got too enticed by the liquor that I totally forgot to buy what I left the house for, the paper.
I got back to my room around two. I had made a wrong turn on my way back to the bodega to get the paper and ended up inside of some shitty little dive bar. The bartender seemed to want to fuck me, but she was old and fat. Sometimes I can lower my standards to have some fun but, I couldn’t find it in myself to make an exception for her, she was hideous. She had on red lipstick that would drive any sane man away, and not to mention, the extra make up all over her forehead and under her eyes to hide her wrinkles just made her look like a beat up clown. I never appreciated a woman who over did her make up. Make-up in my opinion, was fucking stupid. It was as if everyone went and got afraid of growing old like it wasn’t apart of life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pretty boy myself, but my smooth words and swagger make up for my beer belly and my crooked nose. I sure wasn’t perfect.
I had a new voicemail; this was a big deal considering I usually never got calls from anyone unless somebody died or I owed someone money. It was Bianca, a woman I used to mess around with a few months back. She was a Puerto Rican chick I met at a dive one night and shacked up with for a few months. She was definitely a gem. Gorgeous ass, nice legs, and a heart of gold. I mean, the woman used to bring me breakfast in bed for Christ’s sake. She really never did anything wrong, but hiding the fact that I was unemployed and homeless from her started to become too much of a chore. She was too good for me, so I had to break it off. What a shame it is when a man makes a decision with the head of his dick rather than with his actual head. When I was younger, my father told me to stay away from Latinas for this same reason.
But, unfortunately, I didn’t listen. I made the mistake, and now this bitch was stuck on me like a fucking tick--sucking the life and blood out of me even though there wasn’t much left to begin with. She wanted to come by and see me. Says she “misses me”. I could hear the tears being held back in her voice. Fuck. I really wanted to see her, but half of me had no desire. I couldn’t let her see me like this. You may think she’d turn around and run away, but she had that kind of heart where she’d probably take me back to her place and begin to bathe and feed me. I couldn’t bear that embarrassment, so I left her a message inviting her over at 7pm. Little did she know I wouldn’t be at my room when she arrived, instead I’d be annihilated in a pool hall or bar somewhere. Maybe getting into a fist fight or meeting some bitch. I was terrified of that kindness Bianca had. It made me think that I was being set up, and through all the amazing moments and memories one day I’d wake up and she’d be gone.
I really had a fucking problem on my hands. I was a fucked up man--a fucked up man with vices. There are a lot of people like me, and the only thing that separates me from them, is that they got a lot of money and I’m broke. Being a degenerate isn’t frowned upon as much when you can support your habits and keep the ship afloat. It was now a quarter to three, the liquor was starting to make me tired. I decided I’d take a nap. I set my alarm for 6:30pm, that way I’d have a full half hour to get out of my room before Bianca came by.
Bianca knocked on my door at 7pm, and for ten minutes she probably stood there expecting me to answer, only to be brought to disappointment. I was such an asshole, but it was necessary. I was in no position to have any type of serious relationship nor begin a family, and I knew that’s what she was looking for. She was looking for it in the wrong man. I was a few miles away, walking to the bar. I checked out of the room as soon as I woke up from my nap. I decided it was time to move, I needed a change of scenery. On my way to the bar, after about a few blocks, something in me made me change my mind about going there. I didn’t feel like sitting in there looking at all the sorry sons of bitches like myself drink and complain like a bunch of whiny fucking pricks. Fuck them. I decided a nice fifth of Evan and some beers by the river would do me fine. The sun was starting to set in the west, and although I was facing east, the view was still nice, and there was a tree stump near the edge of the water calling my name. I took a load off and took a hit of the Evan, then I cracked open a beer and took in the view. The towering skyscrapers in the city seemed to wave at me, but I didn’t wave back.
I remember one time during dinner when I was about sixteen years old, my younger brother, Terry mentioned that he witnessed the most beautiful sunset while throwing the football around at the beach with a few of his buddies, and my father shot him down right away.
“If you weren’t throwing no football around, I’d think you were a damn queer. Only pussies and queers got time to waste watching the damn sunset,” my father said to him.
“No man is wasting his time doing that. It happens everyday, it ain’t nothing special”
I remember Terry sitting at the table holding tears back and just staring into his lap. He hated my father. I never got it as bad as he did, but even when I did, I wouldn’t take my father’s shit. I’d stand my ground. Dad never said anything about before he died, but I think deep down, he appreciated it, and respected it.
To me, the sunset was just a reminder that no matter how shitty your day was, you got a fresh start waitin’ for you in the morning. It was the last beautiful thing you’d see until the darkness came. Then, it was time to sin. Something about this particular sunset was special, though. It was colorful, and more vibrant than usual. It was probably because of the heavy rain that ensued the past two days. The oranges and yellows in the sky bounced off the windows of the skyscrapers and made them all appear as if they were glowing gold. Figures, the big buildings downtown on Wall Street were glowing gold. I sat on the stump, drunk, staring out into the sky, thinking of a simpler time when I lived out a more “normal” life.
I had a son named Robert, and a wife named Trish. I was happy, and I was content. The complacency was my downfall. I was painting full time while Trish worked for a law firm. I had met her a few years prior at an art show in SoHo. She was still in law school at Columbia, and I was the typical knee-jerk liberal artist trying to change the world. She was fascinated by one of the portraits hanging on the wall. She asked me questions about it and then eventually noticed that it was mine. We hit it off, and a quick year later, I married her. We had Robert only two years after. I was doing well for a freelancer, I had money coming in every month, and with her salary we lived comfortably in a little house right in the North Jersey suburbs. I had it all. And just when you have it all, it’s time for you to lose, you can’t win forever. I began painting less and less, then I took up a new art; drinking. I’d drink all day while she worked, and all night while she slept. I’d throw fits when she disagreed we, and I’d constantly threaten her.
Then, one day, I woke up to an empty house. No Trish. No Robert. Just emptiness. Empty bottles, Empty drawers, and my empty heart. I started considering getting my shit back together and then winning her over, but my vices got the best of me. The two of them were somewhere living out their lives now, and I’d never again be apart of it. Money stopped coming in. Eventually I lost the house too, and I was okay with it. I finished my beer and decided right then and there that I’d move to Manhattan. It wouldn’t cost much to get there considering I lived across the Hudson, and I figured if I could survive with little to nothing here in Hoboken, then I’d do just fine in the big apple. It was full of bums like me. New York, New York, I thought to myself. The decision only made me feel more confident about sunsets. It was the one time during the day I felt I could make decision without second guessing myself.
WEDNESDAY
I woke up to the sound of water crashing up against the concrete walkway and the little bit of grass in front of me. I slept with my face in the ground. My wallet wasn’t in my pocket;instead in it’s place was $22 dollars. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Some cocksucker really went through the trouble of stealing my wallet from me in my drunken stupor and then had the balls to take it all and leave $22 dollars? I even imagined him doing it and thinking to himself, ya know I’m already stealing every single dollar to this sorry sons of bitches’ name, I might as well leave him a few bucks to get a meal and train ticket. What a piece of shit.
Isn’t it funny how our emotions work? One day, I’m on top of the world, fucking, drinking, smoking, and living. And then another day I’m deep in my sorrows. I’m still fucking, drinking, smoking, and living, but not happily. I never thought I’d leave New Jersey again for the rest of my life, but just like that I was ready to go. I sat on the stump and for a quick second, debated jumping into the water and drowning myself since the majority of my money was stolen, but I figured it would be best to give New York City a try. If all else failed and there was no path in line for me, then I could just venture up to the top of a skyscraper, close my eyes and “fall” off, that way I could go with some dignity and experience something that’s one of a kind.
My birthday was coming up in a few weeks and there were only two things I wanted; to find my purpose, and to paint again. If you asked me what my purpose was a year ago, I’d tell you that it was to drink myself to death in style. But now, I couldn’t tell you. Maybe I’m supposed to give people advice, but not like a therapist or a teacher in a school, no, that’s not for me. I’d rather explore the world and talk to people. I’d go around and talk to bums and lost souls who got no fucking clue what they’re doing and I’d give them some guidance. But, while that sounds good and all, it got me thinking, who the fuck would take advice from me? I’m a no good, rotten degenerate, or at least that’s what society makes me out to be. For the majority of my life I’ve felt separated from people, that was until Trish and Robert came into my life. But even once they left, as I met more and more people, and had more experiences, I found that so many people are liars. They chase these superficial things like money, or fame, and lie to themselves that it’ll fix everything only to find out that they’ll either never attain it or they’ll get what they want and still have an empty hole inside of them. Once I figured that out, I became immortal. I stripped myself of all expectations, and I was never disappointed ever again.
I sat there and continued to retrospect. There was another a woman in my life before Trish named, Emily. Should I have just married that crazy bitch, Emily, I thought? She loved me, she really did--or would I have been just as miserable as I am now? Fuck. The game of life sure loves throwing curveballs at you. Only difference it has from Baseball is it’s one strike, you’re out, rather than three. I threw the empty Evan bottle into the Hudson and I watched it float at the top of the water for a little while. It was drifting and swaying beautifully, back and forth. I became frozen in time as I kept staring at it.
“Hey, asshole. I should make you jump in and get that” said a voice behind me. It was a security guard. What a fucking chump, I thought. He had on a baggy uniform, and a smug look on his ugly face. I couldn’t tell if he reeked of booze, or if it was just me. Ha, he’s more miserable than me and he at least has a job, and a house I assume. Scumbag.
“I mean, I was planning on jumping in soon to drown myself, will that work, buddy?” I smirked.
“Get the fuck out of here. Go to the city, there’s plenty of places you can throw your shit around there” he pointed at Manhattan as he walked off. I felt like following him and kicking the everlasting shit out of him, but I figured I might as well get on the train. That was God’s signal to me. Funny, I didn’t even believe in God, but I took it as his signal. I laughed at myself, and began walking toward the station.
Hoboken was a really beautiful place. So many people were obsessed with New York City, and although I wasn’t a frequent visitor, if I was rich enough, I’d live in Hoboken over Manhattan or Brooklyn. Hoboken gave you a city feel, but just a lot smaller, nice, and quiet. I had a cousin that lived in a nice little brownstone on Bloomfield St. It was the most perfect and ideal home to have a few kids, and a beautiful wife waiting for you after work. About a year and a half ago, I visited him. I had only just become homeless and he kept begging for me to live there with him and his family, but I was stubborn. I hated the feeling of taking a handout and living there rent-free. As broke as I was, I refused to be a freeloader. There’s no pride in that, in my opinion.
I figured that I’d spend all my money before I got to New York, that way I could start fresh. After grabbing breakfast, and some extra food that I could keep with me just in case I lived on the streets for the first few days, I spent the last of my money on a one-way path train ticket. I walked onto the train broke, and fresh, ready for new and humble beginnings. Next stop, 33rd St Manhattan.
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