Say you don’t ride your bike to work. And like, because you think it’s too cold or too dangerous or whatever, say instead you take the El: the red line to the brown line, coming home from work.
So you’re sitting on the red line (you actually got a seat today), and – oh yeah, it’s five minutes past five, which means you tore ass out of your office to be here in five minutes, and also it’s Tuesday, the worst day of the week. You’re sitting there dully, only to discover that the batteries in your fucking Kindle are dead. Didn’t even know those things had batteries. You shove it back in your brown leather musset bag and, so like, whatever, you look around. You make eye contact with the homeless guy sitting across from you but you instinctively divert your gaze so as to minimize contact with another human being. But, joke’s on you, because you sweep your head in the other direction and pay attention just long enough to notice that the homeless guy is staring at you. There’s no decency in that, of course. You know that. You look left.
You glance up but shoot your eyes down just as quick to avoid making eye contact with the pregnant woman standing two paces from you. Now, she’s not staring at you, but you feel that she is. You feel that everyone is staring at you: get up you bum, this woman is creating life in her fucking belly, what did you do today? But no one can make you, cuz you tore ass to get here right now. Somebody else totally should. That homeless guy should move the bags off of his seat for her. I mean, what the fuck, his bags are holding more bags. It’s like a homeless Russian doll. Besides, whatever, you’re getting off at the next stop, Belmont so… it’ll be fine. You could stare at your phone for a little while, but… but, yeah, you stare at your phone a bit – I don’t know, reading old texts and shit. Belmont arrives. You squeeze through the masses, trying not to touch anybody.
You stand on the platform, staring south down the tracks. You’re freezing and you’re bored. One purple line and two red lines come before a single brown line comes. If they make this thing run express, you’re gonna kill somebody.
They don’t, lucky you. You only have two stops to go, to the dandyish Paulina. Blocks from your shitty studio apartment, which you never envisioned yourself living in as a 30-year-old.
You walk a block to the convenient store of your life. Haven’t decided yet if it’s gonna be Hormel beef stew or cottage cheese and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. About to enter, you hear out of the corner of your conciousness: ^Hey – ‘scuse me. Buy me some liquor, porn and cigarettes?
You look over only to find your underage minor within: No.
^C’mon man, don’t be a drag. You remember what it was like to be underage.
This little fucker is gonna guilt you into doing this, and it’ll work, because secretly you want this little pricks approval. You want him to think you’re cool. You want to oblige him for something you could never do, would never do cuz you don’t have the balls. Alright, but no cigarettes. Anything in particular?
^yeah, man, boone’s farm
You’re gonna make me look like an asshole.
^and just the raunchiest shit they got
I’m not gonna do that, I’ll get you something tasteful.
^what the fuck, man, just do it
No, I don’t want you to grow up with perverse ideals of what relationships should be. I mean, sex. I want you to grow up respecting women – that’s something to be proud of.
^whatever man. just promise me i’ll get to see some vas deferens.
What? No. How do you even know what that is?
You go inside the convenient store of your life, look around. The cashier is watching a small TV behind the counter, doesn’t even acknowledge you exist. You pick up a few items “and, I guess, a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Strawberry.” When you say this, the cashier looks out the window. The kid wasn’t in sight, so it’s fine.
Your self-respect finishes checking you out: Boone’s Farm, Playboy, Slim Jim, and, oh yeah, you went with the Cheetos and cottage cheese. Congratulations.
You walk outside and hand a bag to the kid. Uhh… it’s like twelve dollars.
^i don’t have any money. here. have this.
He hands you a small amount of weed. You’re silently thrilled. You don’t smoke – haven’t really since college, but your resources are all dried up. You couldn’t score weed now even if you tried. He’s basically gone and forgets about you even before you think to say thanks.
But you’re anxious now. You’re sitting there with your “dinner” and think about how much you must have fucked up to get to where you’re at right now. You don’t have a bad life – it’s pretty privileged, in fact. But you never really fucking FREAKED OUT! You never really cut loose. You were always pretty controlled, and now you’ve got a pretty controlled life. God, kids these days… I need to be more confident.
So luckily your anxiety has an outlet in this weed the kid just gave you. There’s a head shop right around the corner – seriously, that’s convenient. You buy a little pipe – it’s expensive though, there’s a lot you could be doing with that money.
You don’t really have anybody to smoke with. They’ve all got wives and mortgages now. The thought of going back to your apartment to smoke alone depresses you. Instead you go to the park. It’s not a true park – it’s an extra wide boulevard tucked into the neighborhood. You’re cold but the sky is a violent lavender-orange firestorm. You take a hit from the pipe and you’re just silent. You take a larger breath of fresh air – even larger than the breath before. Silent.
You could work it out in your head, but that would only make it worse. (should I have done that? why wasn’t I more wild as a kid? does that kid really grow up to be me?)
Alone, you think about the last relationship you were in. God, I loved that woman. Why couldn’t I make it work? You think about the sex, all the confusion. God, I hope I did everything in my power to make it right. I hope I treated her the way she deserved to be treated.
That’s something I could be proud of.
