An Exodus of Sorts

The sun was beginning to set the last time I saw her. Felt oddly fitting, symbolically reflecting that instant in my life with perfect clarity; so much so that it was at that very moment that I decided not to allow this to happen again, that I never wanted to feel this way a second time. But even as I resolved not to see her anymore, I was overwhelmed by a desire to see her front door haphazardly flung upon before she burst forth from the darkness of her repressive Christian home to run down the crooked walk overgrown with fledgling weeds and grasses, to shout and wave and cry after my car whereupon I would promptly go to her, heedless of any and all traffic laws, and embrace her tightly, kissing her fervently, no doubt as it began to rain and distant violins could be heard reaching a crescendo. The past wouldn’t matter and we could love each other for who we are on the inside. It would be glorious, but life isn’t like the movies; and that’s maybe the hardest lesson to learn. Very little actually works out and, if it does, it’s mostly through sheer luck, not merit or skill or fairness. Watch the Biography Channel sometime (assuming it is a channel) because more often than not a story like, “Yeah, Brad Pitt was about to give up acting completely and undoubtedly do the raunchiest gay porn of all time before he spilled coffee on who turned out to be the writer of the screenplay of Fight Club” or some shit will be the gist of it.

Not everyone can enter a stock broking internship as a single father living in hotels and sleeping in train station bathrooms with their afro-sporting son and end up a millionaire, owning their own business. Men don’t always choose the right girl. Cancer rarely goes into remission before Christmas. Lots of fathers and sons die in wholly inglorious wars far away from their loved ones. And many people just die, completely alone. My life was no different because, as I drove away, she didn’t come, I didn’t go, and there was no reconciliation or happy ending; just me driving into the sunset, markedly un-triumphant and wiping minuscule tears off of my face with the cuff of my black Oxford shirt.

At the time she hadn’t lived more than a four minute drive away from my house. I’m not really positive where she lives now. Despite the shortness of the drive, I found myself wishing it was an even briefer moment in my life as my car is sadly without any shred of window tint and, currently, and Tom, Dick and Harry could look into my cockpit and witness my decidedly unmanly behavior out of context, making me look like a little bitch to the casual passerby which made me hate myself and the situation all the more. I couldn’t get home fast enough so I resorted to facing straight ahead, immovable gaze fixed upon the half mile long stretch of road to my house, average suburbs to my right and Lockeed Martin’s aeronautics facility or manufacturing plant or whatever it is they do there to the left.

The light peeking through the trees at forty-five miles per hour creates a strobe effect of UV and shade, intermittently blinding me and causing me to squint which made me look even less put together than I had previously thought possible. The me steadily vibrating in the old, rickety rear view mirror seemed damaged. It made me want to hurt someone. To equalize the pain I was feeling, manifest some kind of justice; make it all better, I don’t know. That line of thought probably wasn’t productive. And I’m too pretty for prison. Not to mention that I haven’t been raised to handle problems in that manner; better to bottle it all down in some dark, primordial place where it could be rendered (hopefully) inert with more hits of simply anything. Some people think it’s unhealthy. I think it’s better than being overwhelmed all the time and crying. I have to change my mind, let it wander some like a nude old man at the mall.

I wish I had more midget friends. Although I couldn’t call them that, I guess. Midget was good enough for Verve Villechaize, so I don’t really see the problem with it. For the young’uns, he was Tattoo on Fantasy Island. Also, he painted like a motherfucker. But that’s not to suggest that his ability to paint is surprising because he’s a midget, rather that painting is difficult enough; without the ability to make broad, confident strokes, it is likely much harder. I suppose I’d want one for the wrong reasons; that is, I’d likely employ him/her as my primary wing(wo)man and utilize the irresistible nature of their size to attract women, especially since I have a leg up on the competition inherently and feel pretty sure I could best him/her in single combat for the woman in question relatively easily.

Wingmanning with midgets reminds me of my single status, though, and that’s contrary to progress. I wonder briefly instead if I’m a good person. Everyone likes to think they are, religious people especially (although that’s not to say that loads of secularists aren’t raging assholes, too), but I think that wondering if I’m a good person/thinking I am one instantly disqualifies me from actually being one. Knowing I did something good cheapens the goodness of it, like when I comment to myself, “Way to go, man. You just gave three dollars to the Salvation Army. That was nice.” And I immediately think that my acknowledgement of the goodness of my actions discounts the goodness itself, like it wasn’t about the effect of my actions on others for their sake (e.g. giving money to the Salvation Army altruistically because I empathize with orphans or Darfur; I’m not entirely sure what the Salvation Army does, I guess); rather it becomes some self-serving ego masturbation wherein I effect goodness for the sake of my own conscience or public perception (e.g. giving money to the Salvation Army for the express purpose of either a) making myself feel better for some unrelated guilt by enacting some form of goodness into the world, or b) enhancing my standing in others’ eyes by donating money in front of them). But then, even with my selfishness, a good act is probably still good, at the very least in the larger sense I contributed to a charitable organization that in turn contributes to the goodness and morality of the world by helping people in need (presumably). However, just like the world continues when I close my eyes, the Salvation Army and its good continues whether or not it receives my pitiful benevolence. And if the good occurs regardless of my actions, the bad must follow similar (if not equal) rules of engagement, rendering my involvement in the matter a moot point. The world is the world is the world with or without me and my floundering attempts at being right in it. And sometimes maybe I wish I was religious, or even religious to start. Because then maybe I’d have a firmer grasp on things of this nature. I’d study scripture and lost texts and whatever needed studying to learn to make myself right in this world. Failing that, maybe at least I’d feel the love all the zealots talk about and I would have an anchor in my life to throw myself upon when life became difficult. Maybe I’d always feel like something loved me. But I guess I just wasn’t built with the necessary parts, which would ordinarily sadden me; am I defective? Probably, but most assuredly I am not the only one. Comforting. Misery loves company. I suppose that means misery begets misery; miserable people want to damage one another to justify things, to create more misery.

I had thought myself into a corner, thinking that I could be miserable, to myself in my room, having successfully detached from the mortifying spectacle of me crying in broad daylight, alone in my car. If I’m fated to it, I might as well allow free reign. And, wallowing in my misery at the end, I remembered the beginning like I was supposed to and laughed at my naivety:

Each phase of my life is typically labeled under a different girl’s name, meaning that instead of years of months I measure time in increments of girl. Not 2004, pre-Christinian era to the end of The Era of Good Fannies (merely examples, of course, for there was a relationship with two Christinas, neither of which occurred in 2004; similarly, I have never dated anyone with the name of Fannie, nor bestowed any girl with the nickname of “Fannie”, rather, I had recently heard the term “The Era of Good Feelings” and wished to somehow include it at the earliest possible convenience, and so I apologize for the somewhat esoteric reference). And so it was approximately fifteen minutes following the dissolution of the Alexian Aeon that I unknowingly entered the Age of the Pregnant Angel. I think it must have been in the afternoon that day because I distinctly recall the feeling of the sun on my face as I inhaled deeply in triumph and optimism while disregarding her sidewalk to childishly traipse about her finely manicured lawn on the way back to my car after she had just broken up with me. I had waited a long time for her to do so and felt very fortunate to have the whole rest of the day to bend to my unbridled diabolical designs. At that time, there resided within my car a portable toiletries bag, stored in a hollow in between my radio and A/C controls, that contained four joints, machine rolled to resemble cigarettes, a couple of hydrocodones and a few meager handfuls of something I had been informed was “marijuana candy”. However, due to my unfortunate propensity for losing lighters everywhere I go, it became painfully apparent that I would have to procure another for the umpteenth time that week. I pulled into an Exxon-Mobil, I think, on Cross Timbers or Deep Forest or Something Tree-Related Drive, which served as Flower Mound’s kind of main street, well at least it was MY main street as it was my primary avenue of escape, eventually morphing into-I want to say- FM 1171 (Farm  Road 1171). I parked in front of the mini mart because I didn’t need gas badly enough to suck any dick (this vulgar statement is owed to the fact that it refers to back when the nationwide price of gasoline per gallon was above three dollars, which is confusing to say the least because at the time of this writing I can remember seeing three dollar a gallon gas within the last week; so I suppose, I should say back during post-Alexian Aeon: Three Dollar Gas Spike, but I won’t since that is the suck and I am hella gutter). Inside I knew I didn’t want to trifle with the immense and intimidating wall labeled cool beverages with its promises of fizzy joy on this warm summer? (I have no idea when precisely this was; it was kind of warm, so summer for descriptions’ sake) day, so I resolved to grab a lighter at the register while I yell at the jockey to fetch my Black N Milds (wine, wood-tipped; I’m a ballaholic), which he does after realizing that no one in Flower Mound buys them but there is a case in the back. I am alone. Bullshit elevator music. I wonder if the girl from Impanema is a millionaire. I admire the gum. Bazooka Joe. Bubbalicious. Fucking Dentyne Ice which I hate because it’s like a menthol mouth rape but don’t mind chewing now and again because it reminds me of road trips with my grandparents when I would be asleep in the backseat with the yellow lab and I would hear the crinkle of that damn foil perforate my rest and force me to look at the scenery I was missing. No sooner than he had left and I remember her entering, kind of breezing through the doorway to stand behind me in line. Our line, now. Young and small and blonde and very pregnant. She was stunning. I don’t really know what love is but if I could have fallen in it with anyone, it would have been her in that moment. God, was she pregnant. Her eyes were red and kind of puffy like she had been crying but her make-up wasn’t smudged in the slightest; recently applied, I reasoned. Now, as a rule, I never interfere in the affairs of strangers, opting most of the time to appear to be ignoring them altogether. Once in a blue moon, I break this rule, as I did that day, by making smalltalk before introducing my agenda, in this case being my curiosity about her status as a (hopefully) single mother. I ask about her pregnancy and she begins to cry, overwhelmed both by her situation and the third trimester hormones flooding her blood, infesting her every cell with their irrationality; she stains my shirt with her tears when I offer my feeble, man’s attempt at comfort (mostly shhh-ing and rubbing/patting their back, maybe getting a little circular motion going with my wrist[patent pending]). After a time, I held her at arm’s length and brushed away some tears with my thumb and made eye contact with her over my glasses while I told her everything was going to be alright, knowing all the while that it wasn’t and probably wouldn’t be again. She nodded, her blue eyes reflecting the same realization before noticing the return of the pimple-faced cashier monkey and she attempted to regain her composure. Black N Milds in hand, I turned to leave, sparing one last glance at her that she blushed and shied away from. I’m out the door before I’m tempted to flirt anymore, although it could be argued that I never, in fact, began flirting her and that’s fine either way because I had no intention of flirting now, considering a) if I did “continue” then I am a douchebag for laying my Game down so flat for a crying pregnant girl (however angelic she may have been) and b) assuming I did begin flirting following the crying, then I must seem a stranger individual still, complete with sexual fantasies of sobbing, knocked-up fellatio. And so I left, lighting up my Black N Mild as I stepped off the curb to my car, inhaling a liberal amount of that thick smoke and feeling it swirl about in my lungs; I could almost feel the tar accumulating in splotches inside my chest. I coughed involuntarily. Dainty fingers gingerly tapped my left shoulder and I spun around to find the object of my desires (a subtle way that English subverts the feminist movement by referring to women as objects in a way they find romantic). I uttered a couple choice swearwords at myself as I frantically bumbled to put my cancer tube (Black N Milds are not sticks) out, burning myself on the wrist in the ensuing commotion. She giggles and my heart flutters a bit as she criticizes how my tie doesn’t match the other clothes I was wearing. I ask if it’s ironic. No? Colorblindness! My cones and rods have been damaged irreparably in whatever way damages their ability to perceive color. She said that she hadn’t seen me around here; I desperately hoped that she had no idea who’s house I had just come from. I decided not to mention it and instead respond that I live, but was not born, in White Settlement, where dreams come true and teenagers hang out at the QT and gypsies are aplentiful. She giggles again and she said she had recently moved to an apartment on Hulen street with her sister and would I give her a ride? How did she know I wasn’t a rapist? She didn’t but her friends from the highly recommended Flower Mound High School were highly intoxicated, but if she texted them my license plate number, it’d be alright. I believed her when she said it’d be alright, but I speculated that that may have been the fault of the several pieces of marijuana candy I had eaten about fifteen minutes prior to entering the breakup establishment casually referred to earlier. Which, I think, must have been an hour, or a Shelby Graves (a brief relationship lasting for approximately an afternoon during daycare wherein we held hands and introduced each other to people; we told everyone we were involved even though I would ask my mother what involved meant after I told her first that it was what we were), from the moment I swallowed that candy to the moment I incredulously agreed to allow the baffling and adorable pregnant teen into my humble chariot. Would you like to know how I know you won’t murder me and defile my body and bury the pieces of me under a fifty year old oak tree, she asked. I supposed I did. You have kind eyes, she said. That’s funny because a good friend of mine who is no longer a good friend of mine because I am an asshole said that my eyes looked black one day, I said before adding, like those of a shark. She laughed and it was quickly becoming my favorite sound, like catching someone watching pornography at an inappropriate time of the day and the subsequent AHA! I shout. Rap music, as always, was steady grooving on my sub par factory system, delivering unto us vintage Jay-Z, The Physics, MF Doom, and Aceyalone while she told me about her pregnancy; she fell in love with her high school sweetheart (she was still in high school so anyone she’d date would be her sweetheart; she was always clever with words so as not to make herself look bad), they had sex and he slipped one past the goalie-so to speak-and offered to pay for half of the abortion (because, as he put it, it wasn’t just his dick alone out there) but couldn’t give her a ride because of football practice and because if he wasn’t there when it happened, he could deny knowledge of the abortion should his Protestant parents ever learn the truth (I sent them a letter months later). In summation, my parents ostracized me and I moved in with my liberal civil rights lawyer of a sister and fuck whatever he wants. We had a lot in common, I found that out on the 40 minute drive back to Fort Worth; old school Playstation, root beer, overcast days, menthol cigarettes, sometimes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. But the drive ended, passed by too quickly in the intoxicating phase of initial attraction (despite my best efforts to remain respectful and find her repulsive), and I helped her waddle into a lakeside apartment on the second floor of a complex just off Hulen street. I stayed for a time, eating popcorn and watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force on DVD on her sister’s black micro suede couch amidst the trappings of upper middle class filling the dwelling. It got late. I had business elsewhere. And making out with a pregnant girl is fantastic but doesn’t exactly make me feel clean. I said, I know your circumstances are wonky and everything and what I’m about to say is probably the last thing you want to hear but I would hate myself for fucking ever if I didn’t tell you how beautiful and sweet you are and how you’re the bee’s knees and how I’d like very much to see you again and you don’t have to say anything but here (at that point I proceeded to lift her shirt over her belly and, with a Sharpie I kept in my back right pocket for basically this exact purpose, I wrote my cell phone number on her stomach)…call me whenever you want. And I left, for my debauchery with my main man who I refer to as Thug Nasty.

Now, I’m still not sure where I expected that to go; I guess I though that I could help her, be right in some way. But perhaps it was just to feed my ego, do a good deed and save the damsel in distress because no one else would. Goodness is goodness with or without me and my bullshit assuming it is goodness that would be committed eventually, in some way, by some one other than myself. But goodness that would go undone save for my interference? Even with my selfishness that must count for something. But counting isn’t the point. Helping her was. And I think, that’s alright, then.

A selfish good deed is better than no good deed at all.