"What did you do?", he says, and the hint of excitement in his tone betrays the ever-so-pissed façade he's trying to adopt.
"Just some guy. Just some piece of shit started talking about this and that, about shit I don't wanna have to listen to. He riled me up, man."
"Why didn't you walk away?"
"I did. That's exactly what I did, is I walked away. I got up, and I walked to the bathroom, and this son of a bitch follows me in. I'm taking a piss, Phil, and this guy is still waxing idiotic in my earhole, like I wasn't standing there holding my sex, man."
"Is he dead?"
I don't know, is what I'm thinking, but I don't say. I mean it's seven years, man, I could be in need of an oiling. I'm maybe not as ruthless as I used to be, back in the day, back in the heady fucking neon-lit confines of my addiction.
I put my hand to the son of a bitch's wrist, ignoring the fake Rolex under his blood-caked sleeve. I'm feeling, but there's nothing.
And I'm thinking of Sarah, man, I'm thinking of that look of bewilderment on her face when I call her from a cell and relate this fucked-up carry-on. I'm thinking of the hurt she's gonna feel, how all that work, man, you just rumbled it around your guts and shat it out over the road. All that work. All that fucking weeping.
Phil doesn't know what to do. No, he knows what to do, but he doesn't know what to tell me to do. What Phil would do, would be to get the hell out of there as quick as was humanly possible, but that'd be morally stinking, is what, and he don't wanna head off down that road towards dishonourable abandon once more.
"You have to tell someone", he says.
"I am. I'm telling you."
"You have to tell someone who's there. You have to tell another guest or something. Get the guy to a hospital."
I'm looking down at the side of this unfortunate fuckwit's face, and I'm thinking about ain't no hospital this side of the equator gonna do this fella a lick of worthwhile.
I sigh, like as if my soul finally accepted defeat, finally threw its hypothetical hands in the air and said, "Well, I tried, man. Seven years I tried."
The phone falls to the floor and I slide down the wall of the cubicle, kicking the door shut, the other guy wrapped around the rim of the toilet. I feel dirty, sleazy, irredeemable, like when you run around all day with an erection and then when you finally relieve yourself you just feel disgusting for giving in to it. Those base obsessions. Those things Prosaic was invented for to keep a check on. Those things Oprah wants to talk about in the afternoon.
Article comments
1 - Chris Kent
Interesting and brave. When using profanity, sometimes less is more. After a while, one feels pounded over the head, and the profanity no longer has shock value. This is an angry post, though the reins need to be pulled in......
And that and a dime gets ya a cup of jack squat....:)
2 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
Chris, thanks for the comments man. And i agree, profanity can get really tiring really quickly, although to be honest, i think other things i've posted on here really do get on my nerves more than this does.
The Derren Brown post, for example, just made me want to weep, is what. I almost quit posting after that, and yet noone else noticed.
But yeah, i get what your saying man, and thanks a lot for the advice.
I kinda like this, although that line about the sandbags seems really clumsy, but once things are on here, bar spelling and what not, i usually let them go, by which i dont mean im being lazy, but i just think it would be cheating, and its best to move on and do better next time. Which, thanks to good folks like yourself, i get to do with a bit of advice which i happen to regard rather highly.
Thanks man.
3 - boomcrashbaby
A couple of questions.
7 years of what down the tube? You tried 7 years for what? Did I miss it?
And during the time it took to bash the guy, you got 7 phone calls? Are you a dealer?
What exactly could some stranger talk about that would get such a visceral reaction?
The grammar/slang is difficult to read, when it's not spoken by the characters but is actually within the narrative itself. Other than that, I like the story and am interested in knowing the details that led up to it as well as what happened after.
4 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
Boom, thanks for the comments man but shit, lol, don't get The Duke confused with the fictional narrator of this tomfoolery. heh
The "seven years" thing refers to seven years of support therapy this fella has had for to combat his addiction, being, an addiction to, well, the kind of nonsense he did just now. By fucking someone up so bad, he's just had a major lapse in sobriety, which, to him, renders all those groups, all those talks, all that hard-work to keep on the straight and narrow, renders it all meaningless, cause now he has to start over, if he CAN. Which is why he refers to the unfortunate victim of his outburst in such a vulgar, derisory manner. He sees that because this fella provoked him (what did he say? who knows?) it's the victims fault. "If only he hadn't made me go and get all barbaric" kinda thing. Like, i dunno, if a recovering drug addict ends up getting high after 7 years of NA. Maybe someone offered that pill, but you didn't have to take it, man. But at the same time, the guilt and utter worthlessness one feels after such a relapse is not to be shrugged off with a mere "well, you obviously weren't trying awful hard. go screw yourself."
In support groups, phone calls are rather important. If he had answered them, maybe just one person would have said something that would have calmed the old testosterone. But he didn't answer. Again, it's his own fault, but what can he do but blame someone else? He already feels defeated enough without admitting to all that as well.
Hope this clears it up a tad. Thank you for the kind words, also. Honest to God, that kind of stuff means a lot. Thank you.