A great song

I've had a song caught in my head all day:

I walked into a conversation, I walked into a minefield
And underneath my feet were hair triggers, hair triggers
I danced from foot to foot, and honey we danced cheek to cheek
And all you told me was to move quicker, move quicker

I know the best is over
I know the worst has come and gone
It's been colder
And further till the dawn
I don't like it either
But it's the best, it's the best, it's the best I can do
It ain't good, it ain't good, it ain't good enough for you.

Excellent song, called It Ain't Good by Alex Radus. Go buy his new CD, it rocks.

More important to me, though, is why is this particular song in my head? Yea, I've loved the song since the first time I heard it last year; and it's got a great sound, catch in the good-way, and just feels real. But... I don't know; I can understand when like a Beach Boys song gets stuck and won't go away, but a singer-songwriter tune?

Maybe it's because I haven't slept in like days.

portriat of the night

I saw a shooting star tonight. I watched it fly right through the Big Dipper.

I only had to walk four blocks to get back to the bus stop, and it was a very calm, silent walk. The old, full trees, with the street lights above, dotted the sidewalks with dark pits of black shadows. I couldn't bring myself to walk through them, so I walked down the middle of the street, the only spot that was consistently lit.

I got to the bus stop, and checked the schedule. The next bus wasn't due for another 20 minutes. I thought about walking to the next stop, but decided I'd had enough walking in strange neighborhoods at night through dark shadows, so I would wait.

The house on the corner had a sprinkler going. With only the occasional car driving by, the ratcheting tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler took center stage. The water made a thin, sharp sound as it slapped the side of the brick house. I wondered why they didn't adjust it so it didn't hit the house.

Just up the block, I could make out the figure of a man walking. He looked to be around my age, and was walking very slowly. He was stopping every few steps and doing something with his hands. It wasn't until he was almost at the corner across from me that I saw what he was doing: he was eating a pint of ice cream. As he got down to the bottom of the container, he had to keep stopping as he tilted the container up in a vain attempt to get his spoon all the way down. It must have been melting by now, as the last few bites he took he had the container up to his mouth like it was a glass, using the spoon in his left hand to push the remainder of the ice cream into his mouth. He must be left-handed.

The sprinkler had stopped by then. I never saw anyone come out of the house, so it must have been on a timer. When the man was done with his ice cream, he placed the spoon in the container, and then very carefully balanced the empty container on a rock at the corner of the yard. He turned, wiped his hands on his shirt, and staggered up the hill towards who knows where. After about 20 yards he stopped under a street light, and almost fell over as he tilted his right wrist to see his watch. It's funny that as he was eating the ice cream he didn't seem to stagger at all, but when it was gone it was obvious he was rather drunk.

As he passed a driveway, I saw something move just beyond the shadow. At first I thought maybe I had imagined it, but it moved again so I knew something was there. I couldn't tell whether it was a cat, or a raccoon, but I eventually saw a cat nose out of the dark around the fence, and take off up the street.

After that, I looked up in the sky, right at the Big Dipper looming low in the summer sky. Only a second or two after I looked up, I saw a streak of light fly from the far eastern sky, directly towards the bowl of the Dipper, and flew right through it. It was so odd, as I had been standing there for about ten minutes and had not once looked towards the sky. Yet I looked up just in time to see a very large, very bright shooting star, almost as if it had been waiting all night for me to look up.

4 years ago

Four years ago today, I had my last taste of alcohol. It was a 16 ounce can of Budweiser, bought from the corner store with nickels, dimes, and pennies (no quarters – I had exhausted my supply of quarters the previous day). I drank it the morning my dad was flying out to Seattle to help me pack my life up and come back to New Jersey.

I had been drinking non-stop for about four months, and quite heavily for months leading up to this, minus two short breaks while I was in detox ( I drank shortly after leaving both of them – one within a couple weeks and the last one within 6 hours). I’m still not sure how I was able to keep my job without arousing any suspicions (maybe I did, I don’t know). I smoked enough cigarettes, I remember thinking, that the smell of smoke would probably mask any other scents (like the alcohol that was pouring out of me, or the pot that I always had on me).

One of the oddest things I did was faked a suicide attempt. I had gone to a detox, and needed an excuse for work. I remember phoning my HR person and telling her I was in the hospital and would be for a few days, and that I couldn’t explain any more (I didn’t have a lie ready, so I needed some time to come up with one; also I figured I could leave it at that and they wouldn’t pry into my private life – which they didn’t, God bless them). The day I got out was actually the day before my last day of work, so I would have to go in to tie up some loose ends, and say some goodbyes.

That night, after stopping at a few bars for a few drinks, I went to the Walgreens and got some gauze and medical tape. The next morning, when it came time to get ready for work, I placed a large rectangle of gauze long-way from my wrist to about halfway up my forearm, and gave it a good taping. All of my workmates knew I was in the hospital, but that’s all they knew. And I hoped when they saw the bandage that they wouldn’t ask any questions. Yes, I was trying to make it look like I had slit my wrist so that I could avoid answering questions about my detox stay. Brilliant, dude, just brilliant.

It’s amazing how far I was willing to go out of my way to avoid the humiliation that I thought would come from admitting an alcohol problem. Somehow, suicide just seemed like it would somehow paint me in a much better light than drinking. I’ve always had this fantasy of myself as some “tortured artist” or something, and this suicide-act fit right into the fantasy world I had for how I wanted others to see me. If they asked, I had an answer prepared: “it was an accident.” And that’s it.

I remember that last day at work, and saying goodbye to people, and telling at least four people “it was an accident,” but most of all, I remember how much I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there so I could start drinking. I was going to be unemployed for about 3 months, collecting unemployment checks, and spending most of my time doing what I would rather be doing more than anything in the world: drinking.

That lasted for not even three weeks, when my father decided he was going to fly to Seattle to bring me back to New Jersey before I got killed. And during those three weeks, I spent every waking hour drunk, or hung over planning my next drink, or unconscious somewhere. It was during those three weeks that I cracked my rib (don’t ask how, because I honestly don’t remember), I fell into some bushes and cut up my face and my legs, I lost my bicycle (though it may have been stolen, but I’m pretty sure I just lost it)… I was doing all of this, I swore to myself, because I was so upset and depressed that She broke up with me – this wonderful woman who I was ready to move to Maine to be with, but she broke up with me while I was in detox.
At the time, I guess I needed an excuse.

busride: snapshot

I can't believe he's actually reading that, I said to myself.

A tall man with a scraggly, dark gray beard, his features made me believe he's one of the many Native Americans who live in Seattle. Besides the shape of his face, he had a couple of silver and beaded bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. I thought I noticed an embroidered pattern on the back of his leather vest, but I can't be sure. He actually reminded me of a regular at a bar I used to frequent, who would have 10 or 12 pints of Bud and then say he was going home to get drunk.

I watched him get on the bus and sit down right in front of me. I watched as, with only a little difficulty, he steadied his crutches against the pole in front of him, while holding a container of granola in his left hand. Once he steadied the crutches, he slipped his backpack off and onto the seat next to him.

Some may consider it impolite to stare at a man on crutches as he hobbles onto the bus. I don't, only because I hide my eyes comfortably behind my mirrored shades, confident no one knows where I'm actually looking.

Once situated, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a book: The Flame and the Flower, by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The cover is pink, and has a picture of a very muscular man with his shirt half off, about to kiss a dark haired woman, wind blowing their hair and billowing their clothing. Not only is this a romance novel, The Flame and the Flower is typically credited for being thee romance novel, setting the trend for paperback romances. Harlequin may hold the current distinction, but back in the 70's it was Avon who pushed the trashy paperback tales of lust and love into drugstores everywhere.

I drifted off a bit, hypnotized by the rhythms of the bus and crunching granola.

What's this dude reading a trashy romance novel for, I wondered, all-too-cognizant of the atrocious grammar of my thought-life. I did admire him, though; not for his taste in literature, but for the fact that he flaunted his atypical reading choice for the entire world to see. "Yea, that's right," this simple act says, "I'm a guy, I ain't gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), and I read romance novels because I like them."

Something hits my ankle and brings me back to reality. "Here you go," I say, as I hand the guy the half-empty water bottle that fell out of his backpack. He starts digging around in his bag for something, and not two seconds after I hand him the bottle, he lifts the pack up just enough so the container of granola falls out, opens, and spills all over the seats and the floor.

I'm torn: I'm typically more than happy to help someone out if they drop something, but this… I don't know. What do you do, offer to scoop handfuls of granola off the worn vinyl seats? What do you do with it after you pick it up? He already closed the container to keep the rest of the granola safe. The guy is on crutches, too, which makes me even more sympathetic. I mean – if he had dropped a bottle of medicine, or a folder of papers, or a bag of apples, I'd have no problem helping him gather it up. Somehow, granola is in a different category. There are about five of us in the front of the bus who watched this happen, and we're all doing our best to pretend we didn't see anything.

He turns and looks at the girl sitting next to me, and asks, "How long 'till we get to downtown?"

"We actually just came from downtown," she says.

"Oh. Where does this one go?"

"This goes through the U-District and up towards Lake City. If you wanna get downtown you should get off at the next stop, cross the street and catch one of those buses." She says this in such a kind, helpful way. I'm glad he didn't ask me, because I was still stuck on the romance novel and how this guy didn't know we weren't headed downtown, that I probably would have sounded condescending.

As he puts on his backpack, he twists in the side-facing seat so that he's almost facing front. His left arm misses the strap a couple times, but he gets it on the fourth try. As he's grabbing his crutches with his right arm, his left hand is pushing the granola in between the cracks of the seat, like a child trying to hide the cookie crumbs he spilled all over the sofa.

I watch him hop off the bus and shuffle towards the crosswalk. I turned towards the girl sitting next to me and ask, "Didn't he get on when we were downtown?"

"Yea," she says, "I was kinda confused by that too."

The Commute

I got to the bus stop earlier than usual. I normally work from home a bit in the morning, and then take a later bus to work. I hate dealing with crowded buses and traffic jams on 520. This morning, though, I was up early and decided to just head in.

As I expected, the bus was crowded. I felt lucky to find a seat in the back row, though, where we sat leg-to-leg, 5 across. Listening to NPR on my sanDisk, I was riding in my own little world, looking out at the birds on Lake Washington, oblivious to those around me. Commuting is weird like that: 100 people on a bus, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, each in a little bubble of existence; earbuds firmly in place, nose buried in a book, traveling in their own customized version of Life.

Then, I see her.

She was sitting in the seat just behind the rear door, the seat with the plexiglass in front of it that shields the rider from the wind and rain that invariably seems to leak through the cracks in the door. The plexiglass also acts as a mirror, if something dark is in front of it, like someone wearing a brown jacket. Like today. Soft, rounded cheeks, eyes darting back and forth as they stared out the window, lips curling every now and then into a gentle smile. I wondered what she was smiling about. She's one of the few with no earbuds, no book open; she's riding along, taking in life, or caught up in her daydreams or memories. Apparently she doesn't need outside assistance to customize her commute.

"Wow," I thought almost out loud, "she's gorgeous." I wonder why I had not seen her before. Sure, there are lots of commuters, but Seattle is a small enough city that you start recognizing people around town. Especially on the commute to the Eastside, and especially attractive women. I know I hadn't seen her before, but I was immediately captivated. More so than I usually am when my gaze can't seem to wander away from a gorgeous woman. There's something about her, something ethereal and mysterious, that though I can't put my finger on it; it's there, it's visceral, and it's god damned enthralling!

I stared for another few minutes. I was fascinated. Her expressions kept changing; she's got something major going through her mind. I want in. All of the sudden, she stared forward, into the plexiglass mirror, and looked right at me. Jolts of electricity shot through my heart and my head. I looked away, but couldn't help but look back from time to time throughout the rest of the commute. And she seemed to do the same thing. Was she catching me looking at her, wondering who that freak in the back of the bus is? Or was she feeling excited and nervous like me, thinking that I was catching her staring at me?

When the bus stopped, the long line of Microsofties filed out the front of the bus. She got off ahead of me, and walked the opposite direction I was going. When I got off, I moved out of the way of others exiting, leaned against the bus shelter, and just gazed towards her. When she looked over her shoulder, I waved and gave a little "hello" smile. She grinned, and walked back towards me.

"What's the deal?" she said as she came up to me. "Sorry, I know this stuff only happens in Hollywood, but your eyes sent sparks through me. I've only met a couple women who have done that to me, and they turned out to be very important in my life."

She smiled, and reached out her hand. "I'm Allison," she said