Plates post...have I posted this one yet?
The beginning, as it were (Wednesday)
The Sun. A line drawn between shadow and light on my face. I'm awake. What time is it? This is no early morning sun. This is that sharp and angry late morning sun. Move, roll over, go back to dreaming. The strength to move, barely. Moving away from the encroaching daylight, deeper into the shadows. Closer to being trapped. The day will have me, soon enough, not yet, though. Not yet. Still to sleep, to rest, to dream.
Awake, again. The sun methodically chasing me farther and farther to the wall beside my bed. I know it's time to rise when the day's light is just about to crest, when I can move no farther.
Trapped between my wall and the light cascading in through the cracked Venetian blinds. Only then does the escape become possible. At daylight's peak can I finally get out of bed. Only then, when I know the day is receding back into darkness can I muster the strength to rise. Only then.
I think today is Wednesday. I think. Not a special day except for the fact that tonight, in just a few hours I'll be less alone. I'll be with friends, soon to embark on that long last chapter of this thing. But, the day, it begins like any other. It really began, or rather, it's been going on like this for months now. One day bleeding into the next.
How many months has this been going on? How long has this day lasted? The ebb and flow of a static life. How long?
It's cold in my apartment. But still it seems stuffy, so I open the window above my bed. The cold air rushes in, greets me. I like to sit and watch my little town move and breath without me. I'll sit there, on many mornings, or on many days, when finally I have risen, and sit cross legged, smoking a cigarette, my face weary and rough. Sitting and watching the town rock gently to and fro. I'll be sitting there, like now, and catch a glimpse of who I have become in the mirror opposite my bed. I look, and am startled, I know not that person any more.
I'll sit there, and let the cigarette dangle from my mouth like James Dean, and crack my hands, my neck, my back, and my knees. What a miserable routine I've made for myself. But, I am in the depths of it. I am stuck, trapped, here. Seems like forever. I finally look at my watch. And remember that it stopped working a couple of weeks ago. It doesn't matter. I guess it's somewhere after two. The first school busses are starting to crawl up and down Main St. Kids, so full of life are sitting in plastic desks, squirming, just waiting, itching to get out of school to make the most of the little sunlight that they get to play in. It is March. But, the trees, still bare, the air, still frigid. And the light wasted on people like me. To sleep through most of it, and to curse it when finally forced to face it.
I smoke my cigarette down to the butt. I don't want to waste it. I keep sucking at the thing until I can taste that horrible burnt plastic taste of the filter. It's about all I have the money for these days. A pack a day and a couple a beers at night. What little I eat is charity from my mom or a meal here and there bummed from Pat or Francis. I am hungry, but my addictions are more important. Hell, I'm something like two months overdue on rent. I've been living off of Francis' half of the rent and utilities. Bargaining and begging my way through the last few months. Some how, I still have a home, and friends, and cable and a phone. Some how.
My head hurts. Am I hungover. No. Maybe a tumor. Man, that'd be good. No. Ignore those thoughts. I pad through the empty apartment, shadowed by my lonely little dog. Stand there in the kitchen. What am I looking for. None of this food is mine. Francis wouldn't mind if I took some. But, I can't. Don't want to without asking. Take the only thing in the fridge that belongs to me, a half empty, flat bottle of diet coke. No glass, no ice, just drink it out of the bottle.
Log on to the computer. Looking for salvation in my email. Look for inspiration. Find none. Go to the inevitable last stop. Porn.
The television tells me it's now four. I should shower. Should put some kind of face on for my friends tonight. Francis will be home in about an hour. Be a little bit alive.
Half past four. Take the dog out. Walk past the bike shop. The guys are beginning to assemble for an early season training ride. I should join them. No, too out of shape. Tell them, yeah, I've been training all winter inside. Gonna be stronger this year than ever before. At least I look it. Have lost nearly twenty pounds since last season. Tell them that I'll be there on the next ride, but not today, have things to do.
Poke my head out of the window after I'm back inside. Making sure that the guys are gone from in front of the bike shop. Hurry to the 7-11 for a pack of smokes and another two liter of diet coke. See Francis pulling his little red car into the still snow covered parking lot behind the apartment. Waving and grinning, I am glad to not be alone, now. Glad to see a friend, a friend more like family than my real blood.
`How was the old salt mine today?' As I light another cigarette.
`Not bad, not bad. Gimme' a hand with this stuff huh?'
He's got his sleeping supplies. His ever present beige duffle bag. His fan. His pillows. And a box of booze. Yeah, he technically lives with me here in the apartment on Main St. but, in all reality he spends his time in three places. His Dad's house, his girlfriend's, and here. I think here, more than anything as a favor to me, or some kind of one last time gesture. Without him, I probably would've been evicted by now. He's been keeping me alive. In so many ways. Always has.
We climb the rickety ice covered stairs in behind the building. Both, with arms full. Entering the back door to the apartment, through the kitchen, the dog so excited that we've not abandoned her she pees on the floor. I just took her out. Oh well. Francis gives her some love, I just glare at her. Not having the heart to punish her. I know. He takes his stuff to the closet he calls his room. I clean up her mess and give her a treat. Glad, that she is there. Small things, to get through the day.
He calls Pat, talks about food. Asks me if I'm hungry. I say no. (A lie.) Says Pat'll be down in a little bit and that they'll be making ramen noodles and beans and rice and that there will be plenty extra in case I get hungry. I appreciate the offer but know that I will take none of their food and that they will finish it with or without me.
Pat arrives at about 6. He comes bearing gifts. Food and beer. The beer I will accept. The food I will not. While they prepare their beggar's feast I slip out of the apartment and back to the 7-11 for two dollars worth of snack cakes. This will be my food for the day. I feel guilty about it. I don't really have any money to spend. But, I know someone will pick up my drinks tonight.
I smell the incense before I reenter the apartment from outside in the hallway. I know what they're doing. Back into the living room, scattered with books, magazines, beer bottles and two pots of cheap carbohydrates. They pass back and forth the pretty glass. Inhaling deeply between mouthfuls of food. They offer me a hit. No. Thanks, I am fine. I want to. But, the last thing I need is to get down into that kind of state. I will never reemerge. Not, tonight, at least.
A little before 8 now. Moving from beer to liquor. Francis playing bartender. Thanks. I feel a little looser. A little lighter. A good thing. Yes. I mute the television and put on some music. A tap, tap at the door and Francis' girlfriend and some of his college friends greet us with hopeful smiles. I let them in and the night begins.
Draper
Posted by thynkhard
at 2:33 AM EST
Updated: Tuesday, 3 February 2004 2:34 AM EST
Like Bismarck, Bush sees domestic politics as a means to an end - the end being political survival and the continuation of his foreign policy. Bismarck enacted the world's first