Merry Christmas pt 1     I expose myself to the porcelain. To my satisfaction, it doesn't spare me a second glance; and so it is with but a single awkward nod to the stranger I pass that I walk out, damp yet clean hands held away from my pants as is my wont. It would not do to show moisture in my fabrics, the child inside me advises, for otherwise you'll have tacitly admitted to wetting yourself.

    A lobby stretches before me, colorful patterns of carpet tracing faux strategems for me to do battle with the crowds already in play; only a few notice I've added my efforts to the struggle. Their gaze slips away quickly; they've dismissed me as the obvious amateur I am.
    A firm shrug settles my jacket around my shoulders more completely and I stride forth, head down, with apparent purpose.

    Later: Aimless I, casting about for ideas. Aimless eyes find none for the moment. The thin plastic straps suspend my few purchases above the floor in a hammok of polyvinyl and cut into my hand uncomfortably. Fingers, you still there? Good. Let's make the most of this.

    I move to pass by a door, which opens to admit the arguing couple with their dirty faced child, who stomps the snow off her pretty little boots. The eyes of the child meet mine and I find kindred sentiment in our shared annoyance and low-level suffering. I nod, and her little eyes grow wide. She darts a glance up at mom, who notices neither me nor her child in favor of debating the father's evident lack of parking prowess.

    At that moment I miss my wife and daughter; all together we make the mirror opposite of this bickering duo and this quiet, resigned waif.
At that moment I decide I am done Christmas shopping, done with the aggravation and stress and the world's insistance on playing Nat King Cole decades after he lost all relevance. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow? Shush, dead man.

    I brush rudely past the little family, ignoring the father's startled protest, and I charge into the relative freedom of the cold, gray parkinglot. Relatively free except for the mandatory tip for the mandatory valet man. Get my car, I'm going home.  ¶ 11:12 AM 0 Comments

  The Thrill of Alive     There was a time when I anticipated a thrill from being the one who continued after the others fell by the wayside. Survival, right? Survival is the same experience your average testosterone addled adolescent seeks moth to a flame, from reckless driving, through aggressive sport, even silly roller coasters. From survival, I thought, I would forever extract one of only a handful of thrills I craved. Fantasized about.
    But to truly be thrilled by my own survival, I needed an event to throw it in relief. Roller coasters could trick my raw and stupid system into sensing peril that isn't, but I knew the difference. I felt cheapened and dirty from the hardly visceral feel of such faux risk. I needed to see evidence that my survival was genuine, that there was a chance that this really wasn't my story at all. That someone else might be the one walking away from....this.
    The pain I felt was...yes, my leg. Fog and sharp sparks, real or imagined, informed my world. My left arm, free of whatever soft, heavy, wet thing pinned my right, moved to explore what soon resolved itself as metal and wood, scraps of my pants and a wetness I almost hoped was my urine. I made time to think on my urine.
    Such a mundane concern, but it seems obvious to me now. Wouldn't it have made more sense to have satisfied such a basic need before what I knew was coming? Frustrated, I frittered away another moment pining for a rewind button to give me the opportunity to rectify my stupid oversight. The possibility that I would walk away soaked in piss was unacceptable. My own waters would be a humiliating distraction from my survival.
    But...walk...
    At first gently, but then more urgently, I shoved at the rigid tangle separating the world of my torso from the world of my feet. My toes were astronauts exploring a great unknown, while I was bound to the Earthly world of hot weight holding me down, and relegated my right hand to a similar void. It didn't give! I... it won't move. I stop, and shake my head gently. I hear some voices, murmuring and shouting, like the pussies in the choir can't make up their mind what gay ballad they want to sing. There are other noises as well, some kind of creaking and a rushing sound like I'm falling. A drip on my ear, and another, and...I try to move my head to avoid the next drip as I feel the liquid running into my ear canal.
    A sensation approached, and I briefly anticipated that this would be the thrill I sought. It tasted wrong, but I reached for it and stoked its flames anyway. Decaying, the smoke of feel dispersed throughout my soul and revealed it for what it really was. Fear.
    It wasn't working, it wasn't. A twisted answer to my secret prayers, here was the evidence that this really wasn't my story at all. That someone else might be the one to walk away and leave me as proof that they had dodged the gun. If you don't have a body, how do you know there really was a bullet? You need flesh to catch it and show it to you; you dodge NONE of the bullets you can't find. That didn't make sense.....
    The sounds of voices grew a little louder, and I felt the wrecked wood, metal and hopefully-bepissed desk shift ever so slightly. I allowed myself to consider it a promising development, but sharp, searing pain jumped up and down my thigh and I was forced to concede that the desk had moved the wrong way, and my leg was unable to make room.
    The heavy, wet thing on my right arm rolled towards me, and resolved itself tactilely to my right cheek as being covered in a soft, damp fabric. It smelled of Old Spice, and was quite still despite its movement. Tears were welling in my eyes, and my heart raced. Wanted to push the thing off, but discovered my free hand had independently began scrabbling at the desk pushing pushing pushing into the meat of my thigh. I marshaled it, fingers shaking violently, balling them into a make-shift fist, and pushed at the fabric.
    Light! My hand felt the mass fall away and bright lights stabbed my corneas and the voices at once became an unbearable cacophony. My exhausted, searching hand collapsed atop my freed right, which began its inevitable cascade of pinpricks and heat as circulation reclaimed the momentarily abandoned flesh. Other hands clutched at mine, and pulled.
    I called out a wordless interjection as my legs resisted the movement my assailants were attempting to impart upon me. They noticed, thank God, and let me free while more hands worked at the desk pieces.
    Words..."Christ, look at his leg..."
    More words... "Better than Steve...shit..."
    Steve. A name. The Old Spice, the flannel, the still weight, resolved itself in my mind to the face of the smiling, big fellow who sat in front of me. We'd played....Euchre...or was it Wist?...yesterday. He'd given me a ride once, I thought he was nice. Hollow, echoes Steve.
    "Dan!"
      My name.
    "Dan, we're getting you out, OK? You hear me?"
      I did.
    "Dan, you hear me?"
      I did! Oh....I nodded.
    "OK. Hold tight."
    I lolled my head, oggling my surroundings as my eyes grew accustomed to the light. I could see out the windows, through their vacant frames and jagged teeth of glass, and the ceiling, rumpled slightly, bowed above me. I looked to my right and....Steve. No, I won't look at him yet.
    I screamed, spitting and knocking my head onto the linoleum as the desk shifted a final time and a man's voice called out
    "Free! Get him out! Tie it off!"
More hands, snaking under my shoulders and into my damp arm-pits, pulled me past Steve and I looked down at my dangling foot.
    Foot. Not feet.
    My eye fell from the information I couldn't accept to the information I thought I wanted.
    Steve was not smiling. I was not walking. This was my story, though.
    "Steve...sorry."  ¶ 11:45 AM 0 Comments