After working sixty hours again for what reason

By Bob Hicok

The best job I had was moving a stone
from one side of the road to the other.
This required a permit which required
a bribe. The bribe took all my salary.
Yet because I hadn't finished the job
I had no salary, and to pay the bribe
I took a job moving the stone
the other way. Because the official
wanted his bribe, he gave me a permit
for the second job. When I pointed out
that the work would be best completed
if I did nothing, he complimented
my brain and wrote a letter
to my employer suggesting promotion
on stationery bearing the wings
of a raptor spread in flight
over a mountain smaller than the bird.
My boss, fearing my intelligence,
paid me to sleep on the sofa
and take lunch with the official
who required a bribe to keep anything
from being done. When I told my parents,
they wrote my brother to come home
from university to be slapped
on the back of the head. Dutifully,
he arrived and bowed to receive
his instruction, at which point
sense entered his body and he asked
what I could do by way of a job.
I pointed out there were stones
everywhere trying not to move,
All it took was a little gumption
to be the man who didn't move them.
It was harder to explain the intricacies
of not obtaining a permit to not
do this. Just yesterday he got up
at dawn and shaved, as if the lack
of hair on his face has anything
to do with the appearance of food
on an empty table.

Three

When I told my roommate Sarah that I just had my first threesome, she said it was cute. I thought that was an odd word to associate with such a sexually deviant act – even if she was referring to the fact that I’m 39 years old and am only now having my first menage a trois. We were driving back from working on the farm, and had some time to kill, so I continued to tell her the story…

It happened when I was visiting my friend Rob. We had been partying all night and this girl - let’s call her Erica – was all over him. I was a little a jealous. One, because here I was visiting one of my best friends that I hadn’t seen for years, and she was going after all his attention. Two, because I wouldn’t have mined if she was going after my attention. Rob gets all the girls.

Anyway, after closing the bars down, we made our way back to Rob’s place. By now there was a group of us and the party was getting kind of crazy - mostly Rob throwing bottles against the brick wall and dancing on the piano. He was in rare form. Erica was attracted to his rebel attitude and that brought it out in him even more – like a positive reinforcement loop of destruction. Apparently it worked, because by 4AM, he was kicking everybody out and taking her upstairs. That left me downstairs - drunk, horny, and alone. And now I was going to have to listen to those two moan and groan all night. I wasn’t looking forward to that. I figured I could go through that misery or I could do something about it. What did I have to lose? So, I walked up the stairs, opened the door, and said, “You mind if I join in?” Erica reached out her hand out in a way that seemed more sweet than sexy and said, “Sure honey, come on over here.” Weeeheeew! I rushed over beside the bed like an excited puppy and stripped my clothes off as fast as I could.

I’ll spare you the details, but it was hot. Very hot. We went at it till noon the next morning and then she had to head home.

It was so hot, we almost did it again later that day. After Erica left, I realized I forgot my backpack in her car. So I called her. “I’ll bring it by later tonight,” she said. The first thought that went through my head was - “Could it happen again?” but I didn’t say anything. When I told Rob she was coming by his immediate response was, “I wonder if she’ll do it again?” We were on the same wavelength.

So she brought my backpack over. The situation was a little uncomfortable at first. I mean, we had just had this crazy sexual experience and we hardly knew each other. But we dealt with it. She sat close to me and I could feel my body wanting hers - bodies have memory too. We talked about the night before:
“That was crazy,” Erica said putting her hand up to her head and shaking it, “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed. It felt pretty natural to me,” I said.
She didn’t seem to be going anywhere fast, but it was pretty obvious she was torn between what she ought to do and what she wanted to do. I touched her occasionally, even kissed her once. But none of us really knew what to do now that the booze had worn off and there were other obligations. “I should get going,” she said after while.
“You can’t go,” I replied jokingly and put my leg on her lap to gently hold her back. She didn’t fight against it. In fact, she even started brushing her hand along my leg.
“We were hoping you’d go with us upstairs again,” Rob finally said.
She looked down and you could tell she really wanted to, “I was thinking about that, but Jeff is down at the video store waiting for me. I can’t.”

Yeah, I didn’t tell you about that part - Erica’s married. And what’s worse is that her husband had to know she slept with Rob. He was partying with us at first – the night before. It was him, Erica, Rob, and me. We had been drinking all day, and by the time we were at the last bar, Erica was starting to come on to Rob. It’s not like she was making out with him or anything, but it was pretty obvious she was interested. Jeff was up at the bar sitting by himself. He had gotten really quiet and his eyes were closed. I knew what he was doing - he was tuning into the music, tuning out of where we were. I mean, who wants to watch their wife hit on another guy? I tried to cheer him up. I walked up to him put my arm around him and said, “come on Jeff, let’s party.” But he didn’t even open his eyes. He just gently shoved me away. He wasn’t violent or aggressive about it, but he obviously wanted to be left alone. So that’s how I left him. I felt pretty bad for him and even said something to Rob. “I’m not doing anything. She’s the one hitting on me,” he said. Which was true I guess.

Then we all went up to Rob’s place. Rob and I caught a ride with Darin. Jeff and Erica were heading home, supposedly. But a little while later, there she was at the party - without Jeff. In the morning, she told me the story. They were in the parking lot at the grocery store and arguing in the car. Jeff didn’t want to go up to Rob’s - no kidding – and she did. Finally, she said, “well I’m going,” and he said, “I’m not.” Then he got out of the car and started walking home. Then she doesn’t come home till noon the next day. Jeff couldn’t know she slept with the both of us, but he had to know she slept with Rob.

Anyway, back on the couch, Erica was thinking about doing it again, but she couldn’t. And eventually she left :(

I thought about it – it’s not surprising that she wanted to do it again. I had spent that whole next day laying on the couch, reading. I was so hung-over and exhausted there wasn’t much else I could do. But I couldn’t focus on the book. My eyes passed over the words, but my brain wouldn’t absorb them. It was too busy reliving the night before – positions, scenes, sounds - I couldn’t think of anything else. I was obsessed and I was getting all worked-up again in the process.

Apparently, Rob was going through the same thing upstairs in his bed while watching TV. “No kidding, I’m fucking horny,” he said when I told him about what I was going through.

When I called Erica for my backpack, she told me she was laying in bed. I figured she was busy recovering. And now that I think about it, she was probably obsessing about the night before too. Just like us. Sex, it’s the most intoxicating and addicting elixir there is...

Sarah and I were wheeling-up I-5 toward home when I finished telling my tale. Then Sarah said, “That was an awesome story. You should post it on your blog.” So I did.

Empire

It all depends how you look at it (Part II)

This is the 2nd of two parts. Click here for Part I.

Milton was staying-up late at night reading books on ecological collapse, the inevitable oil shortage, and war. During the day, he wrote articles, spoke at rallies, and organized teach-ins. He saw the end of the world was near and he was consumed by it. He wanted to rain down on the people with his message of truth and have them follow, but they weren’t listening. So, he got angry. He blamed them all - the corrupt politicians, the greedy corporate executives, and the ignorant masses. He was deeply disappointed in humanity. He had a grand vision for it, and it was failing him.

Where Milton had hardened over the years, Josh had softened. He knew the politicians were corrupt, the corporate execs greedy, and the masses ignorant; and he hated it. But who was he to say what was right and what was wrong? He still had his ideals and he lived up to them. He just simply gave-up expecting everyone else to do the same. That was the problem with the world: everyone had their idea of truth and tried to force it on everybody else.

Besides, Josh figured, everything dies eventually. The Earth, the sun, the human race – our time will come regardless. Nothing goes on forever except life and death itself. Food, soil, cloth, wood – all of it came from other living things; other living things that died. And in their death, other things were able to live on. Life is based on death, just as death is based on life. Josh doubted this cycle was unique to the Earth. As he saw it, life and death were one in the same – the one Universal Law. They go on to infinity.

Sipping from his cup of coffee, Josh contemplated all of this – his raincoat, his friend, life, death, the fate of the human race. He could feel the energy of deep thought and caffeine run through his body and couldn’t sit still any longer. He had to move. Would he call Milton and pick-up his raincoat today? No, what was one more day in the scheme of things. He finished off the coffee, put Hemingway in his backpack, and headed out the door.

Outside a constant drizzle fell upon the earth from the thick layer of grey clouds above. Josh pulled his black hoody over his head to block the rain from his eyes. The raincoat would’ve done a much better job, but that wasn’t really an option now. He unlocked his bike, hoped on, and pedaled away from the curb. Suddenly, out of nowhere he heard the skidding of a large, heavy object come toward him, and felt the impact of metal crush into his bones and hurl him up on to the cold, hard surface of the sidewalk.

He lay there taking short, quick breaths. It hurt. It hurt a lot. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Like a thousand knives poking into his torso and legs. People with big eyes and worried looks on their faces crowded around him. Their mouths were moving, making strange shapes, but he couldn’t make out the words. All he felt was pain - sharp, excruciating pain. Was this it? Had everything in his life been leading up to this one final, unglorious moment? Where was the meaning? Where was the purpose? It didn't seem fair. His vision began to fade. First the horrified faces of the people disappeared, then the grey folds of the sky above. If only...

It all depends how you look at it (Part I)

Josh was sitting in his favorite diner drinking his 75-cent cup of coffee. He didn’t believe in buying those $3 cups of foo-foo vanilla and hazelnut. What a waste of money. What snobbery. There was nothing he hated worse than snobbery. For him, good old-fashioned, black coffee was good enough.

As he drank from the cup and read Hemingway, his mind wandered. He was thinking of his raincoat and his old friend Milton. The rainy season was coming and his raincoat was at Milton’s house. Josh had already been pushing off getting it for days. He just didn’t feel like dealing with his old friend. At one time they were comrades in arms. They viewed the world through the same eyes – it was a corrupt, fucked-up, manmade mess – and they were willing to do whatever it took to change it. They dedicated their lives to “the cause”, but even back then Milton could be too much.

There were the times they’d ride their bikes home from the weekly Citizen’s for a Healthy Planet meetings. Josh and Milton would reach the point where their paths diverged – Josh’s home in one direction, Milton’s in the opposite – and they would stop to say good-bye. Josh wanted to say it quickly and be on his way home to his girlfriend and his life. Milton didn’t. He didn’t have a girlfriend, and beyond activism, he didn’t have much of a life. He had nothing to go home to. So, he wanted to talk, and talk is what he could do. For hours. Josh was always too polite in those situations. He didn’t want to be rude or hurt Milton’s feelings. So, he would listen for a while and wait. He’d wait for a break in Milton’s monologue, so he could say good-bye and move on. But that break never came soon enough. Milton could talk to infinity given the time and a willing ear. Unfortunately, Josh was the willing ear.

Eventually, Josh would find his moment. “OK, well I better get going,” he’d say. Milton would acknowledge it with a nod or an, “OK,” but inevitably he’d start back up again and Josh would have to wait till the next break. This would go on for a while. Josh knew it took an average of three I-better-get-going’s to actually pry himself away. And once he was back on his bike, pedaling toward home (and away from Milton), a feeling of relief would always wash over him. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t care what Milton had to say. The problem was that he already knew what Milton was going to say. Milton was preaching to the choir, and Josh was sick of being the choir.

So even way back then Josh was reluctant when it came to spending time with Milton. But now, years later, it was worse.

Continued in Part II.

Birthday Note

By Joan Murray

Coming home at night after drinking too much
with friends you hardly know, you see from the road
the light you left to be somebody's warning.
Now all its wattage falls on you -
with the weight of all the questions you assigned:
Who are you? Just where do you think you're going?
And what do you intend to do?
You squirm under its glare, fumble
for the key and shut the door behind you.

But there's the mirror - like a mother who's been waiting up.
You look into her face. She's been imagining the worst,
and asks, "What's happened to you?"
She's so ridiculous (of course), you splash some water
on your eyes to make her go away,
but she refuses to go - until she's seen through all your lies -
and nothing heals the wounded look she gives you.
Even as you're straining to maintain your most
appealing smile, she slips a look of weariness and age:
the punishments you thought you could escape.

You make your way to bed - and there unwrap the book
an old friend's sent, inscribed with something snide
to suit the day. But now it's night - your brain is dry -
and every nerve in your sense of humor starts to ache.
You flop back on the pillow and read a poem so incoherent,
you're sure it's language school or you're asleep -
but it's Yeats and you're awake, and as you turn the page,
the light spilling from the book-light shade,
illuminates your hand and makes you see:
the veins! -- the lines! -- the pores! --
the signs of what you've just let in the door.

In the morning, extending that hand, even the brightest
sunlight, gives no hint of what it pulled the night before-
there's only pale translucency, the usual
flexibility, the familiar crescent scar.
So you clank your breakfast dishes in the sink,
and let the water trickle down your fingers -
then blithely flick the droplets to the air,
but it can't be shaken off so lightly -
not after it had you sitting up for hours, scribbling lists
of resolutions based on privileged information
it had grossly distorted and abused.
And though, early in the morning, you tore them into bits,
you suspect there were some bits of truth.

Now you go through the motions of the day,
knowing your good right hand
is in rebellion. Whatever use you put it to -
whether you tell it to write - to type - or doodle in the margin
while you wait for something meaningful to come -
whether you try to distract it, or trap it in your pocket,
and even though you've seen its long fulfillment of its roles
(and concede its manifiest assistance with your goals)
and its admirable self-control since you woke up,
your once-reliable hand has shown too much.

And your face in the mirror, which you've carefully
avoided since you rose, catches you in an unguarded moment
at the sink (where it knew you'd finally come around).
You make up with it now - and see it for the dear, rare friend
you've managed to maintain so many years.
Nothing looks changed, you think. But you know
that something's come between you.
Last night you had too much to drink,
and you can't remember exactly
what you said to her. And you're right to expect
you can't completely trust her anymore.

Coffee Shop Ramblings

Tucked away in the busy café, the humm of rain on the rooftop mixes with the recorded notes of soft jazz, and the buzz of conversation from my fellow evacuees. Come on down rain. You can’t touch me. Ha!

The dampness of my pants against my thighs and puddles that surround my chair-thrown jacket tell me otherwise. I’ve already been touched. Saturated. Water from the sky falls and falls and falls, and it won’t stop. Seventeen hours and it’s still coming down - a steady sheet of wet over everything.

How am I going to get to Beth’s? To Jan’s? I’m going to get soaked, that’s how. The consequences of a car free existence. A price I’m more than willing to pay.

Welcome Oregon Winter. How I’ve missed you. The coziness of a warm, roof-covered moment, sheltered from your lonely tears. The smell of wet leaves and asphalt in the air. The naked trees reaching outward with their crooked arms and fingers, forever. “Surface area is the key to survival,” a biology professor once told me over and over again. He was talking about more than trees. The more you touch, the more you breathe.

I find myself in a familiar place. Not the coffee shop, but a state of being - sipping from a warm cup of green tea, rambling from paper to pen, and nothing to do for hours. I’m free.

And so the next chapter in my life begins – post Sarah and Andrew, post bike messenger, post structure, post stability, post regular job, post home to call my own. I’m homeless and unemployed and I welcome it. I still have a roof over my head – Beth’s roof, Jan’s roof, various roofs in Portland. And I have a couple temporary jobs – working on a farm and going door to door for a local politician. What am I going to do after that? I don’t know. I’ll put my faith in friends, in humanity, in the whole scheme of things. I want to believe that no matter what it’s all going to work out. I guess I’ll find out.

Good-bye

My last night at the Madison St. house. The house is empty save me, my sleeping bag, and necessary devices of distraction (walkman, journal, book). The house has no carpet, no furniture, no pictures hanging on the wall. In some ways it's just a maze of empty chambers. But just as sounds echo through these walls, the memories of the last nine months will echo-on through me. This house is more than a roof, walls, and a floor. It's a place in time.

I put all my things on the hard wood living room floor, in front of the unlit fireplace. It still has an odd sense of warmth to it. I open the curtains slightly to let the glow of neon from the nearby porno shop in - 24 hour sex - blink, blink, blink. Speak to me neighborhood; say your good-byes, because tonight is our last.

I strip off my layers of clothes and crawl into my mummy bag. I’m too tired to start a fire. Too tired to listen to music. Too tired to drink or smoke – the way I envisioned saying good-bye. Maybe it’s better this way.

I drift off to sleep thinking of all the people that have passed through those doors and through my life during my time here. Sometimes I just want to grab onto everything and everyone around me and never let go. Leaving this place makes me feel like that.

Not quite asleep, sirens rush by and bring me back to consciousness - "weeeuw, weeeuw, weeeuw" - the sounds of Whitaker. Later I hear someone yelling,”fuck all of you,” - a disillusioned drunk. God, how I’m going to miss this place.

Blackout

I’m not sure when I passed that threshold. I never do. But at some point, my memory starts to resemble Swiss Cheese. We started off the afternoon drinking and smoking in Brett’s shop. Brett is Jack’s older brother and Jack knew he had some smoke. When we first pulled-up, Brett was walking in and out of his shop with a can of beer in his hand that had one of those Styrofoam holders wrapped around it.

“You guys want a beer?”. Of course, we did.

Brett had huge 24 packs of cheap, domestic beer everywhere. There were two in the fridge, one on the floor, and three more in the plastic covered bed of his big, red pick-up truck. He was obviously a drinker.

We drank a few beers, smoked a little, and bullshitted the afternoon away. Then we decided to move onto a local bar. The room was long and narrow with only enough room for the bar, several tables, and a pool table. The walls were a drab yellow, covered by years of cigarettes and hard luck. Three people sat up at the bar wearing flannel shirts, T-shirts, blue jeans, and baseball caps. We were in blue collar territory.

We went up to the bar and ordered three beers. After a couple rounds of that, we were getting kind of bored. So, we moved over to the pool table. “Have a beer,” Brett said as he poured one. OK, I guess now we’re onto pitchers.

Pretty soon the pitchers weren’t enough. That’s how it is sometimes. You just gotta have more. More booze, more drugs, more sex, more money, more happiness, more, more, more. So, we went out to Brett’s pick-up truck, pulled out a bottle of Jack, and passed that around. By the time we came in, I was buzzing pretty good. It was then I started drinking faster. I don’t know why. Part of it is my family. Some people inherit property, others inherit wealth, we inherit drinking. And part of it is who I am. I want to lose control. I want to find out what’s the worse that could happen. I guess I want to know if I can take it.

Jack was joking around at one point, “we’re going to leave you here Wes – right in the middle of Pontiac.” “I don’t care,” I replied, “I got my ID, a little cash, and my ATM card. I can survive anywhere.” I meant it - part of me actually hoped for it.

After playing a few rounds of some sloppy pool, we decided on another Whiskey injection. I slammed a pint of beer down in about 5 seconds on the way out. Beer goes down like water after while.

From there on it all gets a bit hazy. I remember continuing to play pool – not very well – and watching the game on TV. It was game 4 of the American League Championship, and if Detroit pulled it out, they’d be on their way to the World Series for the first time in over 20 years. The score was 3-3 in the 8th.

Lenny Kravitz was on the juke box – Are You Gonna Go My Way was playing. Jack and I were really getting into it. Music is awesome all the time, but it takes on a whole new meaning when you’re fucked-up. It becomes everything. Nothing else matters.

I fell down at some point. I don’t remember if I was wrestling around with Jack or Brett and one of them pushed me, or if I just fell out of drunken stupidity. It was at this point that Jack and Brett realized what I already knew – I was wasted. Brett didn’t ask me to drive anymore. Before he had been saying that he didn’t want his little brother driving home drunk, so I’d have to. I guess that wasn’t an issue now. But, when we got back to Jack’s car, Jack said, “you’re going to drive Wes.”
“OK,” I replied.
“What?!? I can’t believe you’d drive in this condition.” He had no idea. I was willing to go to the end of the Earth if I had to.

On the way home Jack got a call about his daughter being in the hospital. She was having problems breathing. He had to get me home and then head back. But I kept forgetting. I’d say something like, “you got more beer at your place?”
“I told you. I’ve gotta go to the hospital,” he’d say all frustrated. And I felt real bad about it. His daughter’s in the hospital and I keep forgetting. Remember it. Remember it. I would tell myself.

We stopped at his house first. I’m not sure why. Maybe he wanted to sober up. We were only there for a little while and he decided it was time to move on, but somehow I was in the way. I’m not sure what I was doing – probably being too drunk and slow. I just remember the emotions - Jack getting pissed off at me, me getting pissed off Jack. So I said, fine, I don’t need a ride home, I’ll walk. It’s no big deal really. I’ve done it many times. I put on my headphones and walk through the woods that Jack and I and all the other messed-up kids that grew-up around here raised hell in. I usually enjoy that final walk back to my mom’s place, but not this time. I started thinking about Jack’s daughter and what was going on and how upset I’d be if something serious happened. Jack has good kids and I really like them. I’d be heart broke if something bad happened.

When I got home, I phoned him. “Sorry for being an obstacle to what you had to do.”
“Thanks.”
“How is she?”
“She’s OK. They’re doing tests to find out the cause.”
“Well I’m glad she’s OK. Because I’d be real upset if something happened,” I said and I started getting all choked-up, “cause those kids mean more to me than you know Jack.”
“OK. Well, I gotta get inside,” he said and hung up. He didn’t want to deal with all that drunk emotion.

The next morning I woke-up searching through my stuff to see what I might have lost. That’s one of the worse things about waking-up the morning after tying one on – realizing you lost something and have no idea where it could be. It’s not so much the loss of the item itself, as it is feeling like an idiot for getting so drunk that you can’t keep track of your own stuff. Add to that feeling like an asshole for what you did or may have done, and you’re on pretty shaky ground. Maybe that’s what I was after - rock bottom. I don’t know. My camera case and Nalgene water bottle were missing. Shit.

Later my Aunt Karen called. “That was some game,” she said. My Aunt, the hard-working, successful school administrator, was wanting to talk to me about one of the biggest moments in Detroit history and I couldn’t even remember it. Great. How am I going to deal with this? I could try bluffing, but I didn’t even know who won. “Yeah, some game,” I said hoping for a change in subject.
“And what about that finish? Wasn’t it amazing?” She wasn’t going to let it drop. Fuck it. “Yeah, but I really don’t remember the end,” I replied.
“What?” she kind of laughed thinking it was a joke.
I laughed along, because it is kind of funny if you look at it from the right frame of mind, “Well I was at a bar in Pontiac, I had a few beers too many, and I don’t really remember the end of the game.”
“You’re kidding,” she was still laughing, still thinking it was a joke.
“No, I’m serious. Who won?”
Silence. She didn’t know what to say. Then finally, “You really don’t remember?”
“No.”
More silence. Then with heartfelt sympathy she said, “Oh, honey,” sounding like I had just told her I have heart disease. We talked for a short time after that, trying to change the subject, but it hung in the air like a dark cloud over everything.

When she hung-up, I had time to process that whole interaction. Great, now my aunt thinks I’m a chronic alcoholic. As if I’m not beating myself up enough already, I need her to kick me even more. I do get drunk like that occasionally. More than some, less than others. But I don’t intend to make it my lifestyle. I don’t like doing anything all the time – including getting hammered. There’s a lot of other things I enjoy doing and getting drunk all the time would get in the way. So what if my aunt thinks I’m a chronic alcoholic. I know I’m not. And fuck what other people think of me in general. I know the truth. I like who I am. Maybe in some drunken, zen kind of way, that’s what I’m after – faith in myself.