Good Riddance

GOOD RIDDANCE

by Severitus



Jan 5th,

I feel silly. Really, what reason do I have to keep a journal? I'm not lonely. I've got friends to talk to over a beer if I want, even if I don't get out much. I don't have any great big secrets that I desperately need to record, purely to keep my sanity. That always seems to be what journals are for in the movies, anyway. The big bad villain writes down his most secret, diabolical plans or hidden desires in a little black book, which the soon-to-be damsel in distress discovers, only to be imprisoned and later rescued by the Brawny-man in a cape. Well, I'm no super-villain and I'm certainly not the Brawny man. I don't even know how much I can bench-press anymore. Do I even still have my weights? I'll have to hunt through the closet later.

You're supposed to talk about your day in these things, right? Act as if it's a person? Tell all about how cruel everyone was to you and what a crappy day you had? Or rant about the hot little blonde working at the coffee shop that snubbed you that morning? Well, the day wasn't half-bad and there certainly wasn't a hot little blonde at the coffee shop. There's not even a coffee shop, really, just a donut place with glue-thick caffeinated crap in thin paper cups.

I did the usual. Got up at eight, to work by nine, and home by half to six. Bagel for breakfast, meatball sub for lunch, and re-heated microwave chicken-pot-pie for dinner. The office is always the same. Carl invited me to his brother's bachelor party on Friday, but I told him I had plans. He asked me if she was pretty, and I smiled and hoped he'd leave me alone. Does smiling count as lying?

This is going nowhere. How can people fill up pages talking about their day when there's nothing to talk about? Do they go into detail about every little thing? "-and the boss was wearing a brown stripped tie, while Jenny in cubicle three wore a navy blue blah blah." I've heard there's even classes on 'Life Journaling to a Happy, Healthy Future.' How can anyone be happy and healthy if they spend all their time forking their brains over into a little spiral-bound book? Enough about that.

I've got a Doctor's appointment on Thursday. Damn pain in my back still hasn't let up, and Aspirin isn't quite doing the trick. Maybe I should try the old whiskey cure.... No, the headache wouldn't be worth it. Remember 3P.M., Dr. Kelly's office, Sixth and Bachman Rd. Maybe the wait will be less than two hours this time.

How am I supposed to end this thing? Sincerely? Cordially? Adieu? The End? Well, I suppose as I'm making the rest of this up as I go....


Good Riddance!
-J.D.





Jan. 7

Oh, what the hell....Dear Journal,

There's a bird sitting on my windowsill. A Grackle, I think they're called. He's a funny little black bird that makes this odd 'chittering' sound when he thinks no one's watching. I saw his girl sitting in the tree down by the street, prowling the branches as if searching for just the right spot for an afternoon nap. She's not much to look at, that's how you can tell with birds, and he's a real pretty boy. He keeps puffing up his feathers and smoothing his wings, probably to show all the other female Grackles what they're missing out on.

I don't know why I'm going on about birds. Probably because he's there and there's nothing else to do around here (did I mention there's nothing on T.V?) and I'm still getting a feel for this Journaling thing. Maybe I am lonely, after all. I need a girlfriend. I forgot to write yesterday. Further proof of my dedication, right? Can't say I'm not trying, though.

Today was a pretty good day, I guess. I left the office early to go to the Doctor's office, and I only had to wait for one hour this time. I got a good way through last June's National Geographic before they called my name and took me through the usual drill in the back room. Stand on the scale, sit on the table, roll up your sleeves, and be a patient patient while we make you wait another half hour. The world will be pleased to know that my blood pressure is fine, and my heart's tip top. I do run on weekends. I always thought it felt like flying, and never really cared if it was good for me or not. Dr. Kelly took a look at my back, but wasn't really sure what to tell me. The tissues are swollen and the muscles are strained, and he thinks there might be some fluid buildup. He prescribed be some sort of horse pills for the pain and inflammation, and warned me to take it easy. I think the consultation lasted a whole five minutes, before I was shooed on my way and the next patient led in. They might as well just install a drive-through at the office, take your complaints at the speaker-menu, and take your money and insurance card at the window. It'd be less of a wait with just as much service, at least.

I got home about five minutes ago. Dinner tonight is courtesy of Burger King. Damn pills are making me dizzy, but at least the pain's gone. There are six messages on my answering machine, and the caller ID says that my mother called at about five. I could call her back, but I really don't feel like hearing about how wonderful my brother's doing managing a restaurant, or how beautiful his girlfriend is. "And why don't you have a girlfriend, Jay?" she'd ask, or, "Why haven't you got a promotion yet, Jay?" I always hold the phone away from my ear and let her go on and on, 'hmm'-ing and 'oh'-ing when appropriate. She refuses to visit because my apartment's so small, but what do you expect for a low income in New York? For once, I'm glad to be cramped.

The Grackle's flown away. I suppose he lost interest in my humble abode, or perhaps he was hoping for one of my soggy French fries. I admit I'm a bit jealous of him. No mother-bird calling him on the telephone, asking why he doesn't have a bigger nest. No horse-pills and nine-to-five for Mr. Grackle.


Good Riddance but still trying,
-J.D.






Jan. 8th

Dear Journal,

I got an eviction notice today. Damn thing was slipped under my door, as if the super was too...too something to confront me directly. They're tearing the building down, apparently. Going to replace our little square of heaven with a high-rise condo with a pool and a putting green on top. At least I've got something to really write about today, ha ha. Apparently we've got a month to find new places to live and clear out. It was hard enough find this place three years ago, I don't know how in the hell I'm going to find some place cheap enough, and close enough to the office in that amount of time. And to top it off, whatever's wrong with my back is getting worse.

The horse-pills aren't working much, anymore. They take the sting off the pain, but they can't touch the deep throbbing I can feel every time I move. Feels really stiff too, almost difficult to move my arms. I wonder if the Doctor would let me have an x-ray taken if I specifically asked for one? Maybe I should just throw myself out the window and break a few bones. That would get me a proper visit to the Doc. Or more likely a mental ward, but everything sounds wonderful in the planning, right?

My mother called again. My brother's getting married, and she gushed all over the answering machine just how proud she was, and how I should just see what my brother's done for himself. I feel like a bad dog in obedience school. "Sit! No, no Jay...watch Rover! See? Just like that! Sit!" As soon as I find a new place I'll spend some time around town, see if I can't get a date. It'd at least get my mother off my back and give me someone to take to my brother's wedding. Or maybe I should just hire a girl to meet my family, and to lie really, really well about how wonderful I am. She'd tell mom how we met in Times Square on New Years, and how I swept her off her feet and gifted her with compliments over fine Italian fare. I don't really care for Italian, but I doubt 'He told me I was pretty over a Big-Mac and fries' would go over nearly as well.

To end on something less depressing, the Grackle was back today. He sat on the sill for a good half-hour, blinking through the glass and preening his feathers. I thought perhaps that he was waiting for his girl, but she was down in the tree, arranging bits of string around the beginnings of a nest. The male had a long piece of frayed twine clutched in one foot, as if he'd just decided to stop by and say hello on his way home for the night. Maybe I should think of a name for him.


Good Riddance,
-J.D.




Jan. 9th


Dear Journal,

Called in sick today. I made another appointment with Dr. Kelly and unplugged the phone. If I hadn't left the journal by the bed last night I wouldn't be writing at all. I feel like I've been mugged or lost a prizefight, or something. I can't move my arms more than a few inches today without nearly screaming. I think I'm just going to lay in bed, and maybe watch a few of the daytime talk shows, maybe even a soap opera. It's been months since I've seen one, but it takes that long to resolve the storylines anyway. Whoever was cheating on whomever back in July will still be doing it now, most likely with a stolen baby and a long lost sibling thrown in for color.

Well, I suppose I'd better stop for the day. My elbow's going numb from leaning on it, and I really don't have much to ramble about today.


Good Riddance,
-J.D




Jan. 11

Dear Journal,

You're not going to believe me. Shit, you've not going to believe this! I woke up this morning screaming like the devil himself was ripping my soul out through my spine. I remember feeling like something punched me in the back, then hearing a sound like the shredding of wet paper. When I came to again, you want to know what I found?

Wings. Great black feathered monstrosities sticking right out of my back, as if my mother got a bit too friendly with a crow and surprise surprise! Look what the stork brought! On the bright side the pain is gone, even if my sheets are a bloody, feathered mess. It looks like I killed a pillow with a butcher knife.

Wings...how the hell did I suddenly sprout wings? This is just the sort of thing you read about in the dime-store tabloids, with things like 'Alien baby leads Astronauts to Martian Metropolis' or 'Man with Three Arms Joins Major League.' I could just see it now...'New York Clerk Angel in Disguise!' Shit...how am I supposed to go into work like this? The damn things are almost bigger than I am, there's no way to hide them short of a sheet or a trench coat from the Big N' Tall shop.

I've been pacing my apartment all day long trying to figure out what I should do. I didn't bother to call in sick, so hopefully they'll just assume I'm still out of it from yesterday. Of course, I also didn't bother to plug in the phone again, so they could be trying to call and fire me. Honestly, considering the morning I've had, I think that's the least of my worries.

I've considered cutting them off. Dosing up on alcohol and pain pills and then sawing them off like dead tree limbs, or even wrapping a string around them like a Doberman's tail. Logistically, at least, it would never work, and I'd probably bleed to death halfway through. I also considered driving to the doctor's office to see if he could do it, but the logistics of sitting in the front seat of a Dodge Neon with wings the size of two small people isn't much better.

I could also just go about business as normal, and hope people just think they're hallucinating rather than comment. It's almost tempting to try...just to see how many people on the street would stare, and how many would look away and whisper behind their hands.

The Grackle's back again. I suppose I've really given him something to stare at this time. After all, how many apartment windows can there be with winged men inside? I wonder if it confuses him, to see a human with wings, or if he just sees and accepts without question. He doesn't seem to linger any longer than normal, or spend a strange amount of time looking in the window. He's probably just carrying about as normal, oblivious...maybe thinking about the nest he and his girl are building stick by stick and string by string.

Wings...I still can't goddamn believe it. Yet here I am, sitting on my squeaky stool at the kitchen table, wings folded at my back as if they'd always been there, and I still don't have any idea as to why. Maybe I'm going crazy, and maybe I'm not. Maybe the horse-pills are making me hallucinate, but I haven't taken any since yesterday and the bottle only warned of dizziness. Or maybe my mother did get friendly with a bird....But I really don't want to know the answer to that.


Good Riddance,
-J.D.




Jan. 13th

Dear Journal,

I suppose it's ironic that I've finally gotten the hang of this journal thing, only for this to be my last entry. I've decided what I'm going to do. I made my mind up early this morning.

My mother called about an hour ago. I admit, I wasn't quite myself. She thinks I'm crazy now, and I didn't argue with her. I told her that I had to move out of my apartment, and that I'd grown wings. I said it almost exactly like that too, wondering what she'd make of the simple statement. She was silent for a bit, and then asked me if I was on drugs or had taken anything strange. Had I had too much to drink? Did I hit my head? She knew a brilliant psychologist if I needed the number. I assured her that everything was fine, and asked her to give my brother my best wishes and congratulations. I hadn't planned on going to his wedding anyway, but I really did wish him well. It wasn't his fault that Mother thought I should use him as a study guide for my life. Well, none of that matters anymore.

I called my boss today. I was touched my his concern, even though I knew he was just short-handed around the office and wondered when I'd be back to start bringing him his morning coffee again. I told him I quit. It felt much better than I thought it would to suddenly be unemployed. Of course, it could have been the Gin, but I wasn't going to argue with a good feeling. I've left a note for the Superintendent. Taped it straight across from the door, written in big, bold red letters. I've left all my belongings to the other tenants to sell in case they need some fast cash. All I'm taking with me is a backpack with a change of clothes, my wallet, a compass, and an old pocket watch that never worked quite right but I could never bring myself to trade off.

I won't leave until after dark. I'm not even sure where I'll be going, exactly. West, probably. I've seen a bit too much of the east coast for one lifetime. Maybe I'll head to Hollywood. Somebody's got to need a winged man for a movie, right? And who needs special effects when you've got the real thing?

I opened the window a few hours ago. The Grackle came by like normal, and hopped around on sill for a few moments, as if he couldn't decide to come inside or not. I'll be leaving the journal on the kitchen table. I suppose it'll intrigue somebody, at least. Maybe my mother will cry over it, moaning about her poor, insane son, who tried his best but slipped off the deep end. Perhaps she'll surprise me and believe me, and claim oh, how she always knew her son was an angel! She knew he'd do great things, after all! I almost wish I could see it, just to solve my curiosity. I'm sure they'll put something in the paper at least, and I'll get a hint of her reaction through one tear-jerking interview or another.

This is it, then. Time to give these wings a try, and hope to heaven or hell that I don't crash face-first into the pavement. It can't be that hard, right? Glide and flap? It's too late to change my mind now, at any rate. I guess this is goodbye then, Journal. Perhaps we'll meet again someday.


Good Riddance,
-J. D.