When my granddad died, I received a
check for a thousand dollars. I
went to the mall and bought a new pair of sneakers and a video game.
I still wear the sneakers when we
play basketball. I play poorly and
comfortably. On the court we talk
of pretty girls and sports stars.
I strongly believe that none of us will succeed in the real world. We slowly apply a comfortable
disillusionment cushioned by a large bowl of popcorn placed on the table in
front of the latest George Clooney movie.
My beliefs in the future are not
meant to be taken as concepts of sag-shouldered failure, but more as cultivated
acceptance that there is little room for anyone else in the already crowded
elevator heading north towards financial success. I am scared of crowded places; lets take the steps. I want to utilize. I want to make crucial life decisions. I want to make a compass out of a
pinecone. I want to just scrape by, I want to listen to bluegrass songs and
wish they were talking about me. I
want a lot of things. When I was
younger I wanted to lie between my parents while cartoons played at the foot of
their bed. Later, I wanted to tell
my teachers to fuck off. After
that I wanted to kiss Sarah Atkins with my eyes closed. Now, at the pivotal age of 21, I just
want to go to outer space. I want
to man the laser cannon and barely make it through the asteroid field. I want to curl up into a ball and spin
around. I want to play classical
music and do back flips. I want to
be held down by a seatbelt and push very important buttons. I want to look down at the earth and
wave as if my mom could see me. I
want to extend my arms and welcome in billions of miles of unexplored twilight.
I mop the floor at a bar. At the end of the night, as I push the
vomit into a small pile before sprinkling it with sawdust and sweeping it into
a garbage bag, I often wish that I was Future-Biff from Back to the Future
2. In the background the late-night
Sportscenter plays on mute and classic rock churns from the radio. This all melts atop my sweaty brow and
bleeds through the membrane of my imagination. Oh what I would do if I had the sports almanac from the
future. I would be wealthy beyond
all others. I would be the guy who
is banned from Las Vegas casinos due to my mysterious gambling divinity. I would buy my friends a round of
drinks and say, “To the good life.”
I would purchase two jet skis so we could race. I would wear large breasted women like
linebackers wear shoulder pads. I
would go on long drawn out binges only to later pay someone at some sort of
medical center to rejuvenate my abused insides. I would wear sunglasses and hair grease in the backyard of
celebrities. Oh this would be
grand. Give me the upper hand so I
can exploit it out the yin-yang.
I haven’t paid my electric bill in
two months. It sits in front of me
chanting nonsense involving responsibility and prudence. I turn up the music and dance. Seeing my tattered bed sheets as a
complex origami labyrinth, I spring from my floor to my bed. There is little time left to
procrastinate, it must be utilized through lock-n-key idiocy. No one will discover my actions… I will shine behind walls as others
position toupees and apply eye shadow.
I will laugh at my jokes when no one else does. I will reposition the stickers on a
rubix cube, then show off. I will
dance, I will stare at others dancing making them feel uncomfortable, then
dance some more. Who has time to
accomplish when such bubbly intricacies bury motivation underneath
bright-colored ash that tastes like distraction?
I never saw my Granddad without a
tie and blazer on. I have a vivid
image of him in a pastel sports coat with matching slacks and a tie. He would walk slowly, waiting to reach
something he could balance his tall rickety body upon. He would sit down, cross-legged, and
seem pleased when I told him about recent accomplishments in my life. His wrinkled eyes undoubtedly
remembering his ancient childhood, while his arthritic hands struggled to grip
his cocktail. The carpet at his
house was always very clean.
When my Grandfather died, it
brought the whole family close together.
It went beyond hugging and closing our eyes while he was lowered into
the ground. There was some odd
calibration under our roof— the patriarch had passed on. Someone asked me the other day if I was
more afraid of death or dying. I
think that is an outlandish and foolhardy question. I’m afraid of being trapped underwater, unable to breath…
the slow imagining of all the things I will never accomplish, my lungs afire
and my eyes bulging in reply to the dreadful taste of salt water. I suppose that is dying. I am more afraid of dying.
