Life and death of Ethan Ride chp 0 and 1

Chapter 0

"This is a video to my psychiatrist, my shrink, my supposedly calm and logical side to my life in this world. Yes, this is a video made just for you.
"I just wanted you to know that, as of right now, around twenty-two and twenty-five hours in the day, you're fired, and out of my life.
"I just figured that I'll send you a video on DVD just to be different, because too many people just use the phone.
"I want to be original.
"I want to stop being a hack.
"As of right now, I'm not returning to your cramped little office, not only because it smells of your stale farts, but also because I'm sick of your explanations about why I'm sick mentally and need to pay you a hundred and fifty dollars an hour just to lie down on the couch and tell you a vivid story of myself, of why I'm like this, of why I've become this little failure in the big picture of a failed world.
"I may be a failure, but at least I match the palette colors of this failed world.
"I may be a failure, but at least I'm not you.
"All in all, no matter what I tell you, I'm sure I'll never be as perfect to you as yourself.
"You may tell me that I'm getting better, but I'm sure that's just my check not bouncing talking, because I'm sure that if I don't get out now, I'll just end up having to pay you that hysterical fee for the rest of my life, tied up to your clownish lies about how I grew up like this, and that every little emotion I have is tied up to some dysfunction in my brain, some drug I should be taking, some change in my life that I need to do.
"Well, you know what? I am changing something in my life, and I'm going to use that saved money to go out and check out the world while I'm young.
"This is a video to my psychiatrist, because he's a total cock.
"This is a video for you."
And with my middle finger raised, I approached the camera, and with one last disgusted look at the camera, the face of the young fucker muddling up my mind, I gave him my last speech.
"Fuck you."

Chapter 1

"Hello, my name is Ethan Ride, and I'm an alcoholic."
"Hello, Ethan." The reply from the group was scattered, not as unanimous as the Hollywood movies and TV shows makes them sound, the sounds and voices overlapping one another until it really doesn't sound as anything else but senseless babble.
“I’m not from around here, but I hope that doesn’t really change your opinion from me, I’m not a tourist checking around for the most fun thing to do in town just so that I can blow away wads of cash that I hardly make.” I continued, as you can see. “I am just passing through, on my way to the other side of the country, and I just happen to find information for this meeting by accident.”
The mixed group of all races and ages, from as young as nineteen to as old as sixty-five, looked at each other or would just doze off as I went on, I don’t think anybody cared, and if they did, they sure didn’t seem to mind that I was talking my head off on nothing and everything at the same time. I didn’t like my voice at all, sometimes too whiny and sometimes too rough, and the amplification of it through the loudspeakers of the small gym didn’t help at all either.
“I started drinking when I was five,” the feedback from the loudspeakers made me cringe a bit as my shoulders lifted themselves up involuntarily to try to block the sound out of my eardrums. “Well, I should say I had my first taste when I was five.
“For you see, my grandpa, my dad’s dad, was a farmer who would drink from sunrise to sunset. He even had this little drink carrier made out of a fruit back in Taiwan.”
Oh, yeah, did I forget to mention I’m an Asian? Yes, I know, the name Nathan Ride doesn’t exactly scream Chinese. But I am. So are my little brother and family. Our parents just named us different from their own family names.
When I was born, my parents were on their way to America, their applications for a green card already in and almost ready to go. They didn’t want a name that would stick out as Oriental when they went, or so, that’s what they told me. They could have just been lying and decided to name us with the last name of ‘Ride’ instead of ‘Huang’ for the sake of screwing our heritage and racial identity up. Because, you know, some parents are cocks like that.
“I have to say that, maybe I’m just a social drinker.” I continued my supposedly short introduction. “But then again, because I’m always socially out, I tend to drink more than I really want to.
“You know those mornings in where you wake up with a horrible hangover, your stomach heavy and dense, your brain screaming for air in the loudest pain ever? And then you try to swear off drinking forever, because everything felt so bad, so horrible, that it doesn’t seem like any fun and party is really worth all that hurt? Yeah, that’s me every morning, but like everyone else, that whole philosophical goal goes away once you feel normal again, and you go out and commit the same mistake, over and over again.”
I don’t even know where I’m going with this. And I’m sure somebody in the group must have realized this by now. Someone needs to cut me off.
But like every group, you have people who sympathize with you, maybe because they did it themselves, or maybe because they just feel sorry for you. And those people were shouting in agreement now, going “Hell, yeah” and “Oh, fucking yeah”, or, well, you get the idea.
Standing in the front of the group behind the podium, I felt totally exposed to the rest of them, and maybe that’s why I’m telling them all these weird thoughts that should have never seen the light of the day, because I don’t know any other way to distract them from the ugly nakedness that I am. Let them think of something else, distract them with a shiny penny, anything from letting them see who you really are.
I think that’s how stand-up comedians started back in the day. When? I don’t really know exactly.
But even I get bored of just coming up with one thing after another, entertaining the crowd with witty or just plain strange tales of myself, so with a simple “I look forward to working with you all”, I excuse myself, and lower myself into the mush pit of green metal folding chairs and mingle with the rest of the freaks who are just as fucked as myself.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been to an AAA meeting before. I accompanied a friend of mine to one a few months ago. We were all at this party, thrown by another faceless and nameless host that shall remain lost to my memory, and went out with our friend, whose name should just remain as “Charles” in this little petite memoir, to grab more beer and supplies at the local supermarket since we were running out of it.
The car ended up being hit by a bus, as they sped up and tried to run through an intersection with stop signs. Charles died in the accident, since the bus hit on his side. My friend ended up in jail for driving under influence and involuntary manslaughter (Since Charles’ family was furious at this).
In the end, who knows whose fault it was, but he took the butt of it all.
In my own guilt, I went with him to the AAA, in another state, even though it was still as depressing as this one.
If being drunk was as depressing as these meetings, being sober and clean of drugs would be the hippest thing in the world.
My shrink said that alcohol and caffeine and all those drugs screws up your sleep schedule and brain cycles, or something like that, and that all those screwed up things, poison, he calls it, are what’s driving me through insomnia.
I always thought it was because I had too many thoughts in my mind, but what do I know? I don’t have a PhD in bullshit.
When I went back to the road again and started driving, I started thinking about Ralph, my psychiatrist, who was the reason why I went on this aimless drive in the first place.
Picking up my cell phone, I gave him a call.
“Hello?” He sounded sleepy, since it was two in the morning.
“Hey, Ralph, don’t tell me you’re asleep already?”
He groaned, sounding like a dog clearing his throat after choking too much water down its nose. “Hi, Ethan.”
“Hey, dude, I just went to an AAA meeting to check out the scenery of the town.”
“Ethan, is it possible for you to call me in a normal hour?”
“Not really, I’m usually too busy in a normal hour. Plus, you got work too? How you going to answer the phone when you’re listening to another psycho babble out their insanities to you?”
“Ethan, I’m really tired, I need to sleep. Not all of us can just sleep three hours a day like you do and keep themselves awake like you do.”
“Hey, did you get that DVD I sent ya?”
“Yeah, I did, very funny.”
“No, I’m serious about it, I’m really firing you and am actually now hundreds of miles away from Los Angeles.”
Sigh, and more sigh. “Why are you calling me, Ethan?”
“Don’t know, just thought I’d give you a call and thank you for screwing me up so much that I had to drive away from the city just to give myself a sane mind.”
“I doubt I had anything to do with it. You would have done something like that anyway.”
“Oh, maybe.” I scratched the back of my head, the road as black and empty as the night itself. “But you are definitely the catalyst of it.”
“Ethan, you need to grip yourself with reality here. You can’t run away forever.”
“Oh, but I’m not running away at all.”
Silence, although I can imagine him just rubbing himself in the eyes and shaking his head in disbelief. “Okay,” pause. “Then what are you doing now, driving hundreds of miles away from your home, Ethan.”
“Oh, but Los Angeles isn’t my home, Ralph, you should know this by now.” I smiled. “I’m heading back to my real home, the permanent one that I can always go back to.”
Well, that wasn’t my intention at first, but now that I said it, it sounded more and more enticing with every passing second.
“Really? And where’s that?” He asked, although I’m sure he already knows the answer.
“I’m heading back to Ohio, Ralph.” I replied. “I’m heading back and away from you.”